Forbidden fruit has never tasted sweeter than when it belongs to your rival's daughter. Aerion Targaryen, Ferrari's brilliant and brooding star, has spent his entire career despising everything about the Mercedes empire, except for you. When he boldly approaches you in the heart of enemy territory, he sets off a chain of events that forces him to balance his ruthless ambition on track with a devotion off it that shocks everyone, including himself. Because Aerion Targaryen has met his matchâand she wears silver.
Warnings: Mercedes disrespect đ (no offence to any merc lovers guys I'm merc 4 life I promise), Bealor as Ferrari principle and Maekar as the vise principle
Valarr Version: Out tmr
F1Driver!Aerion x Rival Principle's Daughter!Reader
F1Driver!Aerion who couldn't care less if you were Toto Wolff's daughter. His world was painted in the scarlet red of Ferrari, a colour that represented passion, history, and victory. The silver arrows of Mercedes were merely the enemy, a collection of soulless machines and drivers he was born to defeat. But then he saw you, and his entire world shifted on its axis, the crimson bleeding into a new, dizzying shade. The colour of your eyes became more important than the colour of his car. The sound of your laughter became more vital than the roar of an engine. He had spent his entire life hating everything about your father's empire, and yet the moment he laid eyes on you, he understood that he had been fighting the wrong war.
F1Driver!Aerion who first approached you not with a line, but with a declaration. You were in the Mercedes garage, a familiar face but one he'd never truly seen until that day. The air was thick with the smell of fuel and the tense energy of a post-qualifying debrief. He'd just snatched pole by two-hundredths of a second, a feat of sheer brilliance. Fuelled by adrenaline and a sudden, breathtaking realization, he strode into enemy territory, past startled mechanics and engineers, until he stood before you. He didn't smile. He simply looked down at you, his presence filling the space around him.
"You," he said, his voice low and sure. "You are the only reason I do not wish for this team to be swallowed by a sinkhole." He said it with such earnest, matter-of-fact intensity that you were utterly speechless. He then turned on his heel and walked away, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake. The next day, a single, perfect red rose was delivered to your hotel room. No note was needed.
F1Driver!Aerion who is consumed by his feelings for you. It's a wildfire in his chest, a potent mix of raw desire and possessive pride. He hates the very air your father breathes, the silver liveries his team fields, and the mere sound of their engine note. He will spend the entire pre-race briefing grumbling about "the deceitful silver arrows" and "their treacherous drivers." But the moment you walk into the paddock, his entire demeanour softens. His eyes, usually sharp and predatory, become almost tender. He will find an excuse to be near you, to have his hand on the small of your back, to hear your voice. He absolutely despises your father, but he knows a kindred spirit in him for creating something so utterly perfect as you.
F1Driver!Aerion who has to physically restrain himself from climbing over the barrier every time Toto Wolff so much as looks at you disaprovingly . The first time Toto approached you both in the paddock, his face a mask of polite but steely disapproval, Aerion's entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle jumping in his cheek. His hand found the small of your back, a possessive, grounding gesture. When Toto said, "Aerion. A word about my daughter," it took every ounce of his considerable willpower not to snap back with something scathing. Instead, he took a breath, his eyes never leaving Toto's, and said in a voice like honed steel, "I am always civil, Toto. For her." He emphasized the last two words, making it abundantly clear that his civility was a gift given to you, not earned by the man standing before him. He would then steer you away, his hand pressing just a little firmer into your back, whispering against your ear, "I am being a saint. A martyr. You owe me."
F1Driver!Aerion who has developed a legendary, almost supernatural ability to bite his tongue. In team principals' meetings, when Toto would make a comment about Ferrari's reliability or question their strategy, Aerion would see red. He'd grip the edge of the table, his knuckles white, a retort burning on his tongue. But then he'd picture your face, the way you'd look at him with that mixture of amusement and gentle reproach, and he'd force himself to stay silent. He'd take a sip of water, his eyes fixed on a point in the distance, and let his own team principal, Baelor, handle the verbal sparring. Later, in the privacy of his driver's room, he would vent to Maekar. "I could have told him his pit wall strategy has the intellectual depth of a puddle," he'd growl, pacing like a caged dragon. "I could have reminded him that his drivers haven't won a championship since they started relying on a computer to tell them when to breathe. But I didn't. I was civil. Do you have any idea how much that costs me?" He says it with such theatrical agony that Maekar can't help but laugh.
F1Driver!Aerion who, when Toto publicly questioned the longevity of their relationship, responded in the most Aerion way possible. A journalist had cornered Toto, asking for his thoughts on his daughter dating the Ferrari driver. Toto had given a diplomatic but cool response, saying, "These things are often fleeting at this age. The pressures of the sport..." Aerion heard about the interview within minutes. He didn't storm over to the Mercedes garage. Instead, he waited until the next race, the cameras rolling, and when asked about his own thoughts on the matter, he looked directly into the lens and said, "Fleeting? I have been in love with her for longer than most of these drivers have had a super license. My feelings are not fleeting. They are eternal. They are carved into the very foundation of who I am." He paused, his gaze shifting to where Toto stood, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "The only thing fleeting around here will be the Mercedes constructors' championship lead." He said it with a wicked grin, the perfect blend of romantic declaration and professional challenge. The internet exploded.
F1Driver!Aerion whose hatred for the rival team is now a carefully curated performance. He still makes his feelings known, but he does it with a theatrical flourish that borders on camp. He'll walk through the paddock, past the gleaming silver motor homes, and dramatically shield his eyes as if the sight of them offends his very soul. He'll mutter loud enough for everyone to hear, "Ugly cars. Ugly colours. Ugly... everything." But then he'll catch your eye from across the way, and his entire expression will soften. He'll give you a tiny, private smile that says, "This is all for show. You know I only have eyes for you." He has transformed his rivalry into a performance, a grand opera of disdain where you are the only genuine thing in the entire production.
F1Driver!Aerion who would continue to denigrate the rival team in public, but always with a compliment for you. He'd be doing a post-race interview, having just beaten the Mercedes into second place. He'd say, "Their strategy was a mess, their pace was abysmal, and their drivers are overpaid and under-skilled. The only truly excellent thing to come out of that garage is their team principal's daughter." He says it without a flicker of irony, his gaze then finding you in the crowd with a look that could melt steel. The media is left spluttering, unsure if they're hearing an unthinkable insult or a shockingly romantic confession.
F1Driver!Aerion who would react to media questioning your relationship with a chilling silence and a knife-sharp focus. The first journalist who dared to ask, "Aerion, given your⊠professional rivalry, what is the nature of your relationship with Y/N?" would be met with a long, terrifying pause. Aerion would lean in close to the microphone, his expression unreadable. "My personal life," he would say, his voice dropping to a whisper that still manages to carry, "is a continent you will never have a map to. If I hear her name fall from your lips in a derogatory manner, I will ensure you are assigned to cover Formula E for the next decade. Am I understood?" He wouldn't shout. He wouldn't threaten. He would simply make a statement of fact, the weight of it crushing the air out of the room.
F1Driver!Aerion who, when asked by a particularly brave reporter about the "irony" of dating his rival's daughter, gave an answer that became legendary. The reporter, a young woman who clearly hadn't learned to fear him yet, asked, "Aren't you worried that this is all just a little... ironic? Or that her father's opinion will eventually complicate things?" Aerion leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light. "The only irony," he said, his voice low and precise, "is that he has spent his entire career trying to beat me, and he has inadvertently handed me the greatest victory of my life." He paused, letting the words sink in. "As for his opinion? It matters to me as much as a wet paper bag in a hurricane. She is not his property. She is not a trophy to be won or a position to be negotiated. She is my home. And I will not let anyone, not even her father, tell me where I am permitted to find peace." He sat back, a small, satisfied smile on his face. The reporter was speechless. The interview went viral. And somewhere, in the Mercedes garage, Toto Wolff felt a sudden, inexplicable headache coming on.
F1Driver!Aerion who has Maekar shaking his head in amused disbelief. Maekar, the wise, retired driver made vice principal, had watched Aerion grow from a fiery, unpredictable rookie into the formidable driver he was today. He had seen him charm princesses and supermodels, and he had seen him treat them all with the same detached, fleeting interest. When Aerion first mentioned you, Maekar had raised an eyebrow, expecting another passing fancy. But then he saw the change. He saw the way Aerion's eyes would follow you across the paddock, the way his entire posture would relax in your presence, the way he would actually listen to someone else for once. One evening, Maekar pulled Aerion aside, a knowing smirk on his weathered face. "Of all the women in the world," he said, his voice rich with amusement, "you had to fall for the daughter of our greatest enemy. You couldn't have found a nice, quiet girl from a neutral country? Perhaps a Swiss banker's daughter?" Aerion had simply smiled, a rare, unguarded expression. "She is not the daughter of my enemy," he'd replied, his voice soft. "She is the woman who makes me forget I have enemies." Maekar had clapped him on the back, his laughter echoing through the garage. "Well, then. I suppose we'll just have to win both the championship and the Wolff girl, won't we?"
F1Driver!Aerion who has been noticeably absent from the infamous Monaco yachts since he met you. Before you, he was a fixture of the post-race party scene, a silver-haired dragon surrounded by a glittering court of models and socialites. The tabloids loved him. The photos of him on some billionaire's yacht, a glass of champagne in hand and a beautiful woman on each arm, were legendary. But not anymore. Now, when the Monaco Grand Prix weekend arrives, Aerion is nowhere to be found near the harbour. He's in a quiet, private restaurant with you, or on a secluded balcony overlooking the Mediterranean, his arm wrapped around your shoulder. When a journalist finally had the courage to ask him about the change, Aerion had simply looked at him with that signature piercing gaze and said, "Why would I want to be on a crowded boat with people who don't know me, when I could be on solid ground with the only person who does?" He'd then turned and walked away, leaving the journalist to pick his jaw up off the floor. The rumours of his legendary partying had been replaced by a new, even more potent rumour: that Aerion Targaryen, the wildest man in Formula 1, was utterly, completely, and irrevocably tamed.
F1Driver!Aerion whose driving style is a beautiful, terrifying contradiction. He's a throwback to the old guard, a driver who feels the car through his very bones. His qualifying pace is ferocious, a single, blinding lap where he wrestles the Ferrari into submission, finding grip where there is none and dancing on the very edge of disaster. In the race, his style is one of calculated aggression. He doesn't just defend a position; he owns it, using the entirety of the track, moving his car with a balletic grace that belies the immense force he's commanding. He sees the race not as a series of laps, but as a grand, flowing symphony, and he is the conductor. His wheel-to-wheel skills are legendary; he can place his car in impossibly tight spaces, his racecraft so pristine that even his rivals, while cursing his name, can't help but admire the artistry. He views a driver who relies solely on DRS as "a crude brute who wouldn't know a racing line if it kissed him on the nose."
F1Driver!Aerion who is a storm in the media pen. He is notoriously difficult, viewing most journalists as vultures who failed to understand the sheer, unadulterated soul of racing. He gives curt, monosyllabic answers to questions he deems stupid, and will often correct a journalist's technical terminology with a withering glare. He has a habit of staring them down, his pale violet eyes unsettlingly intense. He doesn't do "PR-friendly." He does "honest," and his honesty is often brutally blunt. However, when a journalist asks a genuinely insightful question about car philosophy or a specific historical race, he can become unexpectedly animated, his voice gaining a passionate, almost lyrical quality as he dissects the intricacies of the sport.
F1Driver!Aerion who is utterly transformed in the paddock. Away from the media, he's a different man. He moves through the sea of engineers and celebrities with a focused intensity, his eyes always scanning, always searching. He acknowledges his crew with curt nods and the occasional gruff word of encouragement, but there's a restlessness to him, an impatience that only one person seems to soothe. He's known for his intimidating presence, for the way he can silence a room simply by entering it. But there's a crack in that armor, a vulnerability he guards fiercely, and it's a crack that only you have ever been able to find.
Notes:
F1Driver!Aerion you have my heart đ Massive thank you to the Anon who suggested this and the others who helped brainstorm ily all <33
Also ik the merc slander is ironic given how atrocious Ferraris strategy has been these past few years but letâs pretend itâs not for the sake of the fic đ
gdgw valarr vs tt aerion when it comes to holding LS purse/bag, looking after her drink, letting her put makeup on them etc.?
These were so fun to do, I would honestly be open to doing more of these if anyone wanted to know anything else! I love domestic stuff heehee. Truly the holy trinity of "how whipped are you, actually?"
holding your purse / bag
gdgw!valarr
Takes it before you even ask. You're reaching for your coat and your bag is already on his shoulder, strap adjusted, held like it's a portfolio he's been carrying between meetings his entire life. There's no performance to it, no reluctance. Valarr has a net worth that would make anyone's eyes water and an MBA and he carries your leather tote through the lobby with the exact same posture he carries his own briefcase. Comfortably.
He doesn't joke about it. Or do the thing where men hold a woman's bag at arm's length like it's radioactive. He hooks it over his shoulder and keeps talking to whoever he's talking to and if anyone looks at him (they don't, because no one who knows Valarr is stupid enough to comment) his expression wouldn't change. The bag is yours. You are his. Therefore the bag is his. Transitive property.
The one time Matarys made a crack about it ("nice colour on you, brother"), Valarr looked at him with that patient, flat, brown-and-blue stare and said, "It's Dornish leather, actually. She has good taste," and went back to his phone. Matarys, to his credit, looked highly amused.
What he actually likes about it (the part he would never say out loud) is the intimacy of the contents. Your lipstick rolling against his hip. Your keys, your wallet, the little tin of mints you keep. The weight of your daily life pressed against his body. He has catalogued every item in that bag without ever opening it, just from the sounds and shapes of things shifting. He knows when you've added something new. He always knows.
He adjusts the strap sometimes. He doesn't just sling it over his shoulder. He settles it, shifts the weight, finds the balance point the way you do. You watched him do this once in a hotel lobby in Pentos, absent-mindedly correcting the way the strap sat across his chest while he read something on his phone, and your heart did that stupid little kick. He handles your things with the same care he handles you: attentively, like damage is unthinkable.
He'll hand it back to you when you need it (never rummaging, never opening) and sometimes his fingers brush yours on the strap and linger there a half-second longer than necessary. It's not accidental. Nothing Valarr does is ever accidental.
Once, you left your bag in his car overnight. He brought it up to the apartment and set it on the counter next to his keys, your bag and his keys side by side, and something about the image (the domesticity of it, the settled permanence, his keys your bag their counter) hit you in the sternum. He saw you looking. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The corner of his mouth said it for him: this is what I want every morning. Your things next to my things. Your life inside my life. Stay, stay, stay.
tt!aerion
The first time you tried to hand him your bag (a crossbody you'd slung off because your shoulder was sore from hauling boxes at the estate) he looked at it, looked at you, and said, "What am I, your fuckin' valet?"
He took it anyway. Held it in one fist by the strap, not on his shoulder, dangling at his side like a gym bag. He looked ridiculous. He knew he looked ridiculous, too. He also didn't care, because you'd asked, and you asking him for anything (even something this stupid) lights something up behind his ribs that he would rather die than name.
Aerion will never offer. That's the difference. Valarr takes the bag before you ask. Aerion waits to be asked, bitches about it, and then holds it like he's guarding evidence at a crime scene. If anyone on his crew looked at him sideways he'd stare them down with those pale eyes until they found somewhere else to be.
But (and this is the thing) if you tried to take it back too soon, his grip would tighten. Just slightly. Not enough that you couldn't pull it free, but enough that you'd notice. Enough that you'd understand: I've got it. I said I've got it. Leave it.
Once, at a gas station, you went inside to pay and left your bag with him in the truck. You came back out and he'd moved it from the seat to his lap. Both hands resting on it. Thumbs hooked in the strap. Not looking at it, looking at the gas station, jaw set, smoking with one hand. Your bag in his lap like a dog he was minding. You didn't mention it. You climbed back in and he passed it over without a word, and the cab smelled like cigarettes and his soap and something private moved between you that didn't need language.
The worst part (for him) is that it becomes habit. He stops needing to be asked. You'll be climbing out of the truck and your bag will catch on the gearshift and before you can untangle it his hand is there, lifting the strap free, slinging it over his own shoulder without breaking conversation. He does it once in front of Travis and one of the other guys from the crew and doesn't even notice he's done it until he catches Travis's expression (half grin, half raised eyebrow) and his jaw sets and his ears go red at the tips and he does not, pointedly, put the bag down. Because putting it down now would be admitting it means something. Keeping it is defiance. He is, somehow, defiant about carrying your purse. Only Aerion could make holding a woman's bag look like a threat.
looking after your drink
gdgw!valarr
This isn't a favour Valarr does. It's a protocol he runs. He tracks your glass the way a good security detail tracks exits. Constantly, without appearing to. You set your drink down at a gala, you walk away, you come back: it's exactly where you left it, and Valarr has not physically moved it, but he's been watching it the entire time with the peripheral awareness of a man who's decided that the things that belong to you are extensions of you and therefore fall under his jurisdiction.
He doesn't let strangers near your glass. This is not performed, not the kind of thing anyone else at the event would clock. It's the way he'll shift (just slightly, that elegant lateral drift he does) to put himself between your unattended drink and a passing tray, or a stray hand, or a waiter who's reaching to clear. Your glass stays where it is. People move around it like water around a stone. They don't know why. Valarr knows why.
If you're drinking wine, he knows when you're running low before you do. A fresh glass will appear at your elbow (the same vintage, the same pour) via a bartender who got a quiet word from Valarr three minutes ago. You'll look at him across the room and he'll be mid-conversation with someone important, not looking at you, but the corner of his mouth will be doing that thing. That barely-there curve. Caught me.
He tastes your drink sometimes. Not to check it (or maybe to check it, you can never tell with him) but because he likes the intimacy of your mouth on the rim and then his. He does it without asking, takes a sip, sets it back down, and you stopped objecting in month two because the way he does it is so natural it feels like you've been sharing glasses your whole life.
The thing you don't realise until much later is that Valarr has never once let you finish a drink you didn't watch get poured. Not once. You don't notice because he never says anything, never makes it a conversation. He just... manages it. If you come back to a glass that's been sitting unwatched too long, a fresh one appears and the old one vanishes and he's already moved on.
You pieced it together at a benefit in year two, when you set your champagne down, got pulled into a twenty-minute conversation with his uncle, came back, and the glass on the table was full but the condensation was wrong. Fresh, not warmed. He'd swapped it. He'd been across the room the entire time. You looked at him and he looked back at you with an expression that said nothing and everything: I'm always, always paying attention. And I'll always, always keep you safe.
tt!aerion
Aerion's version of watching your drink is standing in front of it with his body like a wall and glaring at anyone who comes within three feet. Subtle, he's not. He's got the posture of a man who's been in enough bars to know exactly how easy it is to drop something into an unattended glass, and the protectiveness that comes off him in these moments isn't tender. It's territorial. It's the energy of a dog standing over a bowl and growling.
You went to the bathroom once at some dive off the county road and when you came back, a guy was chatting up the space where you'd been sitting. Your drink was in Aerion's hand. He'd picked it up the moment you stood, hadn't set it down since, and when the guy glanced at the glass and then at Aerion, whatever he saw in Aerion's face ended the conversation without a word being exchanged.
He doesn't get you refills. He's not Valarr; he's not anticipating your needs three moves ahead like a chess game. But if you say "I'm empty," he'll take your glass, go to the bar, and come back with exactly what you were having without asking what it was. Because he knows. He always knows what you're drinking, what you're wearing, what you're feeling, because Aerion's attention (when it's fixed on you) is total and consuming, borderline terrifying in its precision. Even if he couldn't articulate a single one of those observations if you put a gun to his head.
Once, at a bonfire at one of the crew's places, you were drinking cheap beer and you left it on a cooler and he picked it up and held it against his thigh, two fingers hooked in the neck of the bottle, and drank from his own beer with the other hand. Just standing there, loose-hipped, watching the fire, holding your beer and his. When you came back and reached for it, his fingers brushed the inside of your wrist as he passed it over, and the look he gave you (brief, hot, proprietary) said I had it. It was mine while you were gone. Like everything else of yours.
He drinks from your glass. Constantly. Doesn't ask. You'll be mid-sentence, gesturing with one hand, and he'll reach over and take your drink and sip from it and set it back down like it's his. The first time you said, "That's mine," and he looked at you, dead-eyed, and said, "And?" â and you didn't have a response because the and was the whole point. He doesn't want his own. He wants yours. He wants the taste of your lipstick on the rim and the knowledge that his mouth is where yours just was. He wants to consume the evidence of you. To have you in his mouth, constantly. He'd drink the dregs of your coffee from the morning if you left it on the counter and he'll never, ever admit that to anyone, including himself.
There's also this: he once smacked a drink out of a guy's hand when the guy tried to pass you something at a house party. Didn't explain. Didn't apologise. Just smack, beer on the floor, Aerion's hand already at the small of your back steering you elsewhere. You said, "I'm not a child." He said, "No. You're mine. Worse." And you hated how much that curled around your heart like a fist.
letting you put makeup on them
gdgw!valarr
The first time, you're getting ready for something (one of those Targaryen fundraisers his family throws every quarter) and he's sitting on the bathroom counter watching you do your makeup because watching you do anything is, at this point, one of his preferred activities. You're blending something at your cheekbone and you catch his eye in the mirror and you get the impulse the way you get all your impulses with him: sudden, certain, a little mean.
"Come here. Sit still."
Valarr sits still. He sits so still you'd think he'd been trained for it, which (in a way) he has. By you. He closes his eyes when you tell him to. His lashes are long and dark and they fan across his cheekbone and you take a moment to just look at him. This absurd man. This beautiful, controlled creature who's given you the keys to every locked room inside him and is currently sitting on imported marble with his eyes shut and his chin tilted up and his whole body saying do whatever you want to me.
You put concealer under his eyes, because he's been sleeping badly and you can see it. You dust something sheer and luminous across his cheekbones. You line his eyes (just a little, just enough) and the brown eye and the blue eye stare back at you from beneath the wing you've drawn and you feel your breath catch because he looks devastating. He looks like a painting. He looks like something that should be behind glass.
He looks in the mirror and studies himself with that quiet, cataloguing focus. He doesn't laugh, doesn't deflect. "You're good at this," he says genuinely.
"I know."
He doesn't wash it off before the event. He walks into that fundraiser with your eyeliner on and your lipstick kiss at his jaw and dares anyone alive to say a word about it. No one does. He gets three compliments from women who think he's wearing it ironically. He's not wearing it ironically. He's wearing it because you put it on him and he would wear anything you put on him, anywhere, in front of anyone.
It becomes a thing. Not every time, but sometimes. You'll be doing your face and he'll settle in next to you, expectant, offering his face like a canvas. It's worship in a language he's fluent in by now: use me, shape me, make me yours in a way everyone can see.
He buys you a specific brush set (Valyrian steel handles, because he's Valarr and even your makeup tools have to be investment-grade) and you find them in the bathroom one morning without comment, without note, just slotted into the holder next to your existing ones. You use them on him that night. The bristles are obscenely soft. He watches you unbox them with that quiet, satisfied look he gets when a project has been executed to his exact specifications. The project, in this case, is you having everything you need to do this to him whenever you want.
He has a favourite. He'll never say so, but you know. It's the moment right before you start. When you've told him to close his eyes and he has, and your hand is at his jaw, tilting him toward the light, and he's just waiting. Open. Trusting. The lashes against his cheekbones. The white streak bright at his temple. The whole gorgeous shape of him gone still beneath your fingers. He likes the before more than the product. He likes being held in the moment of your intention.
tt!aerion
Absolutely not. Absolutely fucking not. That is his position and he holds it for approximately ninety seconds!
You're sitting cross-legged on his bed (the sheets smell like cigarettes and laundry detergent) and you're doing your eyes in a compact mirror because his bathroom light is busted and you've learned not to ask when things around here will get fixed. He's behind you, shirtless, the faded dragon tattoo stretching across his ribs, and he's watching you with that lizard-still focus he gets sometimes. You can feel his eyes on the back of your neck like a heat lamp.
"Stop staring."
"What? Lookin' a crime now?"
You turn around. You watch him for a beat. Then hold up the eyeliner pencil. His eyes narrow. "No."
"One eye."
"Absolutely not."
"Scared?"
That's the word that does it, every time. You have identified and weaponised his inability to back down from a challenge and you deploy it without mercy. Aerion's jaw goes tight. His nostrils flare. You watch the war happen behind his eyes. Pride versus the fact that telling you no about something this inconsequential means admitting it threatens him, which it can't, because nothing threatens him, because he's Aerionâ
"Fine. One eye. You tell anyone and I'llâ"
"You'll what?"
He doesn't finish the threat. He sits in front of you and his knee is bouncing and his hands are fists on his thighs and he looks like a man about to get a tattoo he's already regretting. You cradle his jaw and he goes still. That specific, held-breath still he does when you touch his face, the one he can't control, the one that tells you everything he won't. You line his left eye, slow and careful.
The sound he makes when you blow gently on the lid to dry it is obscene. Low, involuntary, caught in the back of his throat. His hands come up to your hips, automatic, grabbing, and you push them back down. "I said sit still."
He sits still. He's breathing through his mouth. You're aware (fully, viscerally, in a way that makes your own pulse kick) that this is doing something to him that has nothing to do with makeup and everything to do with you touching his face and telling him what to do and him letting you.
You do the other eye because he doesn't stop you. You do his mouth (just a stain, something sheer and dark) because he really doesn't stop you, and by the time you're done his pupils are blown and his breathing is ragged and he looks wrecked. Not pretty the way Valarr looks pretty. Feral. Mouth bitten-dark, eyes sharp and lined, platinum hair falling across the kohl like a knife's edge.
He looks in the compact mirror. He doesn't say anything for a long time.
Then: "I look like a fucking dragon."
"You look like my dragon."
The sound he makes at that (half-growl, pleased) ends with your back on the mattress and his lined eyes above you and neither of you makes it out of the apartment for another two hours.
He washes it off afterwards, roughly, with hand soap and a washcloth. But the stain stays at the corners of his eyes for the rest of the night and he doesn't try very hard to get it, and when one of his crew asks the next morning if he's got a black eye, Aerion smiles (slow, private, dangerous) and drawls, "Something like that."
The second time, you don't have to say scared. You're getting ready at his place again and you pull out the eyeliner and he just sits down. Doesn't say a word. Sets his jaw, puts his hands on his thighs, stares straight ahead like a man awaiting sentencing. You don't comment on it. You know better. You just tilt his chin up with two fingers and start, and his eyes flutter shut on their own this time, and the breath he lets out is long and shaking and you file it somewhere deep and permanent in you: he wants this. He wants this and he'll never ask for it and he'll let you take it from him only if you never, ever make him say so.
He will deny this to his grave. If you ever brought it up outside that room (even vaguely, even as a joke) something behind his eyes would close and it would take weeks to get back in. This is the contract. You can do this to him. You cannot talk about it. You can line his eyes and paint his mouth and turn him into something beautiful and dangerous under your hands. But it lives only in the space between his sheets and your fingers, and the price of entry is silence.
summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you donât have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and Youâre Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes readerâs family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger iâm sorry iâve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If youâd like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, âperfectâ intern. Robbyâs newest addition to his growing list of âwork-wards.â
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that youâre not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isnât the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isnât even the first time youâve been removed from a case. Itâs not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and itâs certainly not the first time youâve made a mistake.
Youâre an intern. Itâs your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. Thatâs what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. Theyâd ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasnât meant for you, but hell if you donât say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. Youâre stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isnât dead. Despite your mistakes, they didnât die. Thereâs really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasnât terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern whoâs drilled sterile protocol into her head until itâs muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. Thereâs no time to re-scrub, so there wasnât a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if youâd focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until âyou get your head back in the game.â
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who canât handle some criticism and correction. Youâre a hard worker. Youâre good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
Youâve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
Youâre just so upset with yourself. Youâre better than this. You know you are. Youâve proven that you are. You donât drop scalpels. You donât break the sterile field. You donât rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day youâll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just donât get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. Youâre on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robbyâs respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You canât be burning out, right? Thatâs not how burn out works. Thereâs like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but thatâs because you work in medicine. And youâre an intern. Youâre supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe youâre not? You do enjoy your work, and itâs exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this canât be burn out. You donât burn out. Thatâs not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you donât quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet âOh.â thatâs mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you werenât just crying on the ground.
âDr. Abbot! Iâm so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise Iâm still working on itââ
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
âJust needed some four by fours, kid.â
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
ââŠThose are three by threes.â
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
âRight,â You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. âIâll just get out of your way. Sorry.â
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
âLook,â Dr. Abbot starts. âYouâre one of Robbyâs adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?â
âThat is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.â
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You donât know what to do. Heâs looking at you. Your boss doesnât fluster you. Youâre chill. Youâre normal. Youâre cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
âRobby doesnât adopt interns lightly. Donât let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.â
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
âWhat, it doesnât happen to you?â
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. âNo! Of course it happens to me, I didnât mean to imply that Iâm like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at allââ
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. Youâre a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. Heâs got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldnât be hot, but heâs got his hand on your shoulder and youâre having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
âUsually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you donât get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesnât mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.â
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost donât notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. âAnd I didnât stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.â
âBut I ripped the purse strings,â You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, âLike an idiot.â
âYou ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.â
âI practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didnât happen!â
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. âDid you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?â
ââŠNo?â
He snorts. âExactly. Dr. Garcia probably wonât hold it against you. Sheâll give you shit for it, but itâs not like sheâs never going to give you another chance.â
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbotâs reassurances echoing in your head.
âThank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I donât usually do that.â
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. âWouldnât judge you if you did, kid.â
â
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because heâs always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now heâs an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didnât sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasnât him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jackâs stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasnât tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didnât actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shiftâs conclusions. Heâs picked up a very special language of gauging what heâs getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest internâ a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. Heâd heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
Heâd watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because itâd fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks âOh.â
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks âWell, thereâs something to do.â
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how youâd looked at him when heâd assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that heâs just going to keep an eye on you. For Robbyâs sake. Heâd do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, youâre clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where youâre diligently filling out a chart.
âThat one yours, then?â
Jack shakes his head. âItâs not like that. You make me sound like a creep.â
Another raised eyebrow. âSure it isnât.â
âSheâs Robbyâs intern.â
âMhm.â
âSheâs way too young.â
Parker shrugs. âSheâs good.â
âShe is.â
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. âThink sheâll burn out?â
âMaybe.â
Parker crosses his arms. âAre you gonna let it happen?â
âSheâs not my intern.â
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
âItâs an HR nightmare.â
Parker shrugs. âYou just said sheâs not your intern.â
He narrows his eyes. âYou know what I meant.â
âDo I? Itâs been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.â
âParker.â
âJack.â
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. âYouâre the worst.â
Parker just laughs. âSure I am.â
To your credit, he doesnât find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesnât last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isnât far enough to account how youâre shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what heâs not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second heâs in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
âExcuse me, what the fuck is going on here?â
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
âI said I want a real doctor, not this fuckingââ
âGet the fuck out of my hospital.â
Shen peaks his head in. âSecurityâs on their way.â
Jack reaches behind him to where youâre still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jackâs never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled âIâm fine, really, he just surprised me.â
Thankfully, security doesnât take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, heâs out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before heâs beelining for it.
When he opens the door, youâre sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like youâve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
âDr. Abbot!â
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics donât lend to much mobility and heâs too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, thereâs a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
âCan IâŠ?â Jackâs voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble thatâs seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
âHe had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didnât really notice until I got here.â
âParker and Shen didnât notice?â
You look at your lap. âI told them I was fine⊠And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. Itâs just a little cut.â
Jackâs fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesnât look that bad either.
But thereâs still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesnât think heâs going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
âIf I leave you here so I can get supplies,â He starts, voice a little rough, âCan I trust that youâll stay here and not do anything stupid?â
âUh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?â
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. âThatâd be preferable.â
Later, when heâs at home in his bed, heâll assure himself that the night shift wasnât truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while heâs busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack whoâs got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. Itâs something heâs generally very good at âwhich is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at allâ but youâre looking up at him and thereâs something really dangerous in the air and it mustâve gotten into your blood stream or something cause itâs swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. Youâre an intern. Robbyâs intern. So what if youâre bleeding all over the break room? Jackâs just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. Thatâs all.
âTilt your head up.â
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so thereâs no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he canât get the sound of the slap out of his head and itâs all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like youâre burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
âDid you walk to work today?â
You wince. âMy car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didnât just leave my car in the middle of the road.â
He blinks.
âYour car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didnât tell anybody?â
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
âYeah? I carry a knife and Iâve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.â
Thereâs⊠a lot to unpack in your answer.
âKid,â He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, âWhat was your plan to get home?â
âWalk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so Iâm probably going to text her.â
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didnât think to let your boss know that your car broke down and youâd be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
âItâs really fine though,â You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. âMy place isnât that far, and itâs not the first time my carâs died. The batteryâs kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and itâs like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. Iâve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.â
He wishes youâd stop talking so heâd stop hearing things that make him want to do things he canât and shouldnât do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
âIâll drive you home. If youâre fine with that.â
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
âOh no, you really donât have to. I promise Iâmââ
âPlease stop saying you're fine,â He begs, âYou donât have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think youâre coming down with something.â
The smile thatâs seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
âWell,â You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, âThings certainly arenât⊠great, but Iâll survive. Iâm not like, incapable, or anything.â
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. âIs that what you think? That I or someone else here will think youâre not competent or that youâre weak if you take a break or ask for help?â
Your face falters again. âNo, no, of course not I just⊠I donât know. Iâm an intern. Itâs my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just donât want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I needâ internships are competitive. Theyâre competitions, really. And I want to win.â
Jack Abbot knows what itâs like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that youâre capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
âYouâre a smart kid,â He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, âAnd youâre going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.â
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. âThis industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you donât take care of yourself. I get it. Weâre doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. Itâs okay to⊠not be okay for a minute.â
You huff a watery laugh. âIsnât that what energy drinks are for?â
He shakes his head. âWhat, trying to die faster?â
âAnything to shake those student loans. Canât be in debt if youâre dead.â
âDonât they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?â
âI donât think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think itâll hold up in court.â
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isnât sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
âI gotta get back out there,â He jams his thumb towards the door, âBut feel free to take five. No oneâs judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, Iâm telling you to take a break.â
You roll your eyes. âWhatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For theâŠâ
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. ââŠAnd for the advice.â
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasnât become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesnât matter, like heâs just doing his job.
âOffer for the rideâs still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.â
And with that, heâs out the door.
Itâs the end of shift, and youâre staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
Youâre not exactly rushing out the door.
Youâre clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that itâs been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
âStill raining out there?â
âYep. Looks worse now.â
âNot great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.â
âMhm.â
âDid you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?â
âNo. I didnât want to wake her up.â
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
âCome on, kid.â
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesnât think itâs awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
Heâd been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and itâs only thanks to Sabrina Carpenterâs voice that you donât feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
ââI get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guyââ
ââTreating me like youâre supposed to do, tears run down my thighsââ
By the time youâve realized that perhaps this isnât the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and whoâs car youâre currently riding in, the words âI get wetâ have already left your mouth so thereâs no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. Youâre considering changing the radio station because god.
âSo,â You start, just to say anything that drowns out âknee-deep in the passenger seat and youâre eating me out, is it casual now?â, âDid you⊠have a good shift?â
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. âShouldnât I be asking you that question?â
Ah. Right. The Incident.
âI told you Iâmââ
âDidnât I tell you to stop saying that?â
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. âFine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didnât leave a mark, thatâs still shitty.â
âHave you been hit by a patient before?â
He huffs. âHell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. Itâll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.â
âSorry you had to step in. Iâve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.â
âOh yeah?â
You nod. âIt was during my Pedes rotation, actually. Iâve always known working with kids probably wasnât going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.â
âWhat, did she slap you too?â
âNope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.â
âFucking hell, kid. Whatâd you do?â
You shrug. âKept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.â
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. âAlways the patients you least expect.â
âThe importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.â
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesnât take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you donât remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
âWhat?â You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: âWhamfgh?â
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. Youâre absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
âOh,â You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. âHow long have I been asleep?â
âLittle over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.â
âIt doesnât take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.â
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
âDid you just⊠park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?â
He just shrugs. âLike I said. You looked like you needed it.â
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
âSorry. You didnât have to wait.â
âIf I didnât want to, I wouldnât have.â
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isnât nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet âheyâ you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
Itâs a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbotâs. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. Itâs nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an internâs budget.
âFor the next time your car dies,â He clarifies, as if the jacketâs purpose is the thing thatâs stupefied you, not the fact that heâs the one giving it to you, âIn case of rain.â
âYou really donât have to,â your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, âI mean, I can just buy my ownââ
âFirst of all,â He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, âDo I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I donât want to? And second of allâŠâ
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. âAre you really going to buy one for yourself?â
Your mouth goes dry.
âI was planning on looking onlineââ
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. âNow you donât have to.â
Like itâs that easy. Does he want it to be?
âDr. Abbot, Iââ
âJack.â
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
âJack,â you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. âI can take care of myself. You donât need to give me your jacket. Iâve been doing just fine on my own.â
âKidââ
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
âDonât call me kid like Iâm stupid.â
Dr. Abbâ Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
âI donât call you kid because I think youâre stupid. I donât think youâre stupid. Youâd know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. âKidâ is aâŠâ He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, ââŠNickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but itâs not derogatory.â
Jack holds up a second finger.
âYou have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldnât have a low grade fever, and you wouldâve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. Youâve been surviving. Thereâs a difference.â
Shame burns white hot through youâ all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
âDonât beat yourself up about it. Itâd be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents donât do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?â
âThat depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âExactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesnât actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.â
He nudges the jacket on your lap. âSo just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.â
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
âYou worry about me?â
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
âI worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.â
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. Itâs not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jackâs car.
âWell. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.â
âNo problem, kid.â
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, thatâs no oneâs business but yours.
â
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether itâs something heâs doing on purpose or youâve just developed a heightened sense to his whereaboutsâ it doesnât matter. Sometimes itâs a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didnât choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, heâs there.
Youâre being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isnât horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jackâs solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, youâre quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe itâs the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) Itâs probably both of those things.
But there isnât really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
Youâre distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
âHey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have⊠bled through.â
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
âFuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,â You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. âRight. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.â
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
âTo tie around your waist,â He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You donât actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you donât particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldnât be working here. Robby wouldnât let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this timeâ a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
âBad shift?â
âBad life,â You grumble. âDr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesnât know what pad sizes are for.â
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. âHe asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and heâs a doctor.â
âHere here,â You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. âHow did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?â
âWeâve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,â
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. âBut to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasnât an option. Which. Probably isnât helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something thatâs nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so itâs just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?â
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasnât Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various⊠situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldnât be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like youâre going to explode and die if you donât have someone to confide in right this very second. You havenât heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
âMel,â You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, âCan I tell you a secret?â
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. âUm. Sure?â
âHave you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?â
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. âIs this about Dr.ââ
âI have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think itâs ruining my life.â
The words burst out of you all at once, and Melâs expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
âAh,â She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. âUm. Well I personally donât have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.â
You bury your face into your hands and groan. âItâs awful. Itâs so cliche. Itâs so fucking Greyâs Anatomy.â
âIâve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.â
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
âHave you⊠acted on it?â
âNo!â You snap your head up. âI mean. No, I havenât. Iâm not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. Heâs an attending and Iâm an intern.â
She leans in. âButâŠ?â
âBut sometimes⊠I wonder? I donât know. Iâm probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, thatâs normal, right?â
Mel nods. âFrâ Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we donât. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?â
âRight. Yeah.â
She takes the pretzel bag back. âIs there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?â
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
âHe gave me his rain jacket. To keep.â
âOh.â
âYeah.â
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
âIâm honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. Iâve been told I can be⊠dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.â
You shrug. âYouâre a great listener, and you havenât steered me wrong in the past.â
She brightens. âThatâs good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your⊠particular situation.â
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. âIâll let Robby know youâre taking ten, so donât worry about someone looking for you while youâre changing.â
âYouâre the best. I love you.â
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
â
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? âHey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?â
Additionally, sheâs kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohanâs work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
âHey!â She jogs up to you as youâre walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
âSorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?â
âRight!â You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think youâre capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like sheâs the only expert around. âYes. That. Itâs a really normal question, you know.â
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. âUh, sure?â
Thereâs a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
âThis is about Abbot, isnât it?â
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. âAm I that obvious?â
She laughs goodnaturedly. âNo. Probably not. Youâre just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.â
âHeâs so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like Iâm dying.â
She makes a noise of sympathy. âHe is. Itâs fucking annoying, at a certain point.â
âThank you!â You shout, âLike itâs just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead Iâm just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.â
âHave you ever seen Greyâsââ
âYes. I know. I canât be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?â
Mohan purses her lips. âWell. You did just say you felt like you were dying.â
âI know,â You sigh. âIt makes me feel⊠shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.â
âIt canât be that bad.â
âOn my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.â
She winces. âOh. Thatâs not⊠great.â
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. âHe found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.â
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. âWell, if itâs any consolation, Iâve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think itâs a right of passage. And as for that second partâŠâ
She shrugs. âAbbot gives credit where credit is due, but he wonât coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.â
âThatâs what he said. It just didnât really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.â
Mohan actually looks taken back.
âOkay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?â
âWhenever I have a spare twenty dollars.â
She grins. âI happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?â
âYes please.â
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samiraâs is much more enjoyable than you expectedâ considering the fact that youâre an intern and sheâs a resident. She confides that she doesnât have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have âreal girl-timeâ.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
â
Everything is not okay.
Youâre now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, youâve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. âSupportive as ever, Dr. Santos.â
âI try.â
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesnât help much.
Thereâs a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because youâre still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and itâs one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
Youâre just⊠having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. Itâs the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while youâre awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. Youâre describing taking a week off work. Itâs comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, youâre the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while youâre charting.
âYouâre flagging.â
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. âIâm fine. I just need a Redbull or something.â
He slides the tablet out of your hands. âPart of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Canât be a good doctor if youâre falling asleep during the exam, right?â
âI would never fall asleep during an exam.â
He shrugs. âIâve seen it happen.â
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. âTake five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.â
âYes sir.â
He rolls his eyes. âGet going.â
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patientâs doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. Itâs honestly a miracle you survived. Youâre exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, itâs fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, itâs dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
âFuck,â you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that heâs already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And thatâs just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samiraâs contact through blurry eyes. When you think youâve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and youâre about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
âHello?â
Itâs not Samira who answers. Itâs Jack.
You sniffle. âWhy are you answering Samiraâs phone?â
âI didnât. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?â
âOh,â You decide to ignore his question, âI meant to call Samira. Sorry.â
âWait,â Jackâs voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, âAnswer the question. Are you okay?â
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
âThe powerâs out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power wonât be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but itâs cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever wonât go away.â
âDo you have a place to stay?â
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he canât see it. âI was supposed to call Samira and see if sheâd let me sleep on her couch.â
âI have a guest bedroom.â
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jackâs encouraging advice, Jackâs steady presence, Jackâs warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
âJack?â
âYes?â
âWhatâs your address?â
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. Itâs just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jackâs apartment as directed.
Itâs⊠fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isnât very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so itâs not exactly surprising that Jackâs apartment is the penthouse. Itâs just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt youâve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesnât hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldnât have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
âOh, you poor thing. Come here,â
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying âcome insideâ but the dam breaks the moment he says âpoor thingâ and you donât have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than âJack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then youâre crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesnât react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe youâve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
âPoor girl,â he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, âThey been running you ragged?â
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut openâ like youâve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you canât stop it.
âIâm so tired.â You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything thatâs happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you donât talk about that happened before.
âI know sweetheart, I know,â Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. âHow about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?â
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
âSorry,â You say, voice barely above a whisper. âI think I got snot on your shirt.â
âTrust me kid, itâs seen worse.â
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
Itâs nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesnât, actually, look the inside of a dentistâs office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctorâs office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when youâre a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
Thereâs a feeling under your skin you canât place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light youâre watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if heâs got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But thatâs a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack isâ inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
âBy the way,â Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? âI have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably wonât come near you, but be warned, heâs an asshole when he wants to be.â
âOh, thatâs fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.â
âThat explains a lot of things.â
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you donât care to parse through at the moment.
âUm,â You start, feeling a bit unsteady, âIsâ Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel⊠grimy. Your apartment seems clean and Iâd hate to get my hospital grime on anything.â
Jack just chuckles. âOne, I wouldnât care if you got âhospital grimeâ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?â
âI mightâve forgotten to grab those.â
Another huffy laugh. âThatâs fine. You can borrow some of mine. Iâll leave them on the bed.â
Thatâs like. Wow. Yeah. Youâre just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. Youâre going to shower in Jackâs shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
âI already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?â
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
âYeah,â You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, âYeah thatâs fine. Thank you.â
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. Youâre not sure if thereâs an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. Thereâs a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and itâs not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe thatâs your problem. You havenât felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jackâs water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholicâs is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you donât feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. Youâd read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But heâs dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon heâs stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
âFeeling better after your shower?â
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
âIsnât it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?â
He shrugs. âItâs dinner for us. Or, well, me. Iâm not sure your body knows what meal it is.â
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. âAny word from your landlord?â
âNo. Sorry for⊠all of this. I know youâre tired.â
âI wish youâd stop apologizing for things I donât mind doing for you.â
You donât really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. âI can call Samira whenever. Sheâd probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Donât feel likeâ I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.â
âDo you want to leave?â
You wish heâd stop asking questions you donât want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robbyâs kid, through and through.
âWell, I canât have you getting sick of me. Youâre the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesnât pan out.â
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. âWho said Iâd get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.â
âDo you?â
You ask the question before youâre aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But youâve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesnât look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like heâs disappointed that you had to ask.
âHave I given you any reason to think otherwise?â
âI donât know,â You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, âI donât want to assume anything.â
âYouâve already assumed quite a bit.â
You scrunch your face. âThatâs different. Those are safe assumptions.â
âAre they?â
âObviously, itâs safer to assume that you donât want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do Iâll bother you and I want you toââ
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. Itâs not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then heâs rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him ânever turn you back, never let your guard downâ and then heâs standing in front of you, over you, and youâre not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
Itâs pathetic. Itâs embarrassing. Itâs impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you donât, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
Itâs cleaning the cut from the slap, itâs a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, thereâs no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
Itâs just you and Jack, in Jackâs apartment, wearing Jackâs clothes, and pretty soon youâre going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and youâd make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesnât. He starts talking.
âI like knowing that youâre safe. That youâre taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because Iâm the one making sure of it.â
Your breath hitches in your chest.
âThatâs kind of a lot of work, though.â
He hums. âIt is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.â
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so itâs not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything heâs been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
âYou donât have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. Iâll do whatever you want.â
Thereâs the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you donât have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you donât do something youâre going to be sick with everything thatâs swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jackâs perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldnât it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jackâs back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesnât talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like heâs making sure youâre still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so thereâs no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
Thereâs a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
âIâm sorry,â You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. âIâm sorry, I donât know why Iâmâ I donât know. I donât know.â
Youâre hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasnât been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
âIâll do whatever you want.â
âHey, hey hey hey, shhh,â Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isnât Jack. âYouâre okay, youâre safe, youâre okay, I got you.â
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesnât tell you to stop, or to calm down, or youâre being too much too fast.
âYouâre okay, youâre gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âIâm not going anywhere.â
â
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jackâs bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. Thereâs the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of whatâs around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jackâs handwriting on it.
Kid-
Iâll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably wonât leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. Itâs not ideal, but youâre wrung out and donât have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what youâve heard, Langdon isnât really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isnât too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdonâs general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
âThere are more of you here then thereâs supposed to be,â You grumble, scrubbing at your face. âWhy are you all here?â
Mel is the first to speak.
âIt was Frank actually!â Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, âHe figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didnât tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!â
Wow, okay, thatâs. A Lot.
You squint. âThat doesnât explain why youâre all here. I mean it does, but only like, why youâre here physically.â
Robby frowns. âWe heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.â
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like heâs about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. âWe care about you. Weâ I donât want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.â
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. âJee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.â
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
â
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
â
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are youâ I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortableâ"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
Summary: After nearly getting killed by Russians, interdimensional dogs, and one particularly pissed off telekinetic child, you and Steve are supposed to be taking a break. A normal, monster free break.
Warnings: spoiler-free!, based amidst season 2 and 3, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, cuddling, domestic chaos, babysitting kids, mild language, humor, sweet tension, late-night conversations, sleep deprivation, protective behavior, playful teasing, mentions of nightmares, didnât add Will because Joyce is one protective mother :)
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Fem!reader
Words: 12.1k
The thing about surviving the end of the world, multiple times, is that nobody really talks about the after part.
Not the big, dramatic after. Not the hospital visits or the government cover-ups or the NDAs you had to sign while still picking interdimensional goo out of your hair. Not the way the news reported it as a âmall fireâ and everyone just⊠went along with it, because what else were they supposed to do?
No, itâs the small after that gets you.
The way you canât sleep in your own bed anymore because itâs too quiet, too still, and your brain keeps insisting somethingâs about to crawl out of your closet. The way the Fourth of July fireworks made you hit the ground in the middle of the street, hands over your ears, while everyone around you cheered and you tried not to throw up. The way grocery stores feel too bright and too loud, and you have to leave your cart in the middle of the cereal aisle because some kid popped a balloon three rows over, and suddenly youâre back in Starcourt, back in the tunnels, back inâŠ
Yeah.
That after.
Hawkins looks normal.
Hawkins is not normal.
It hasnât been normal since Will Byers came back from the dead in â83, and it sure as hell isnât normal now.
But everyone pretends. Thatâs what you do here. You pretend the mall fire was just a mall fire. You pretend the town curfew is just a precaution. You pretend youâre fine.
Youâre all so good at pretending.
So when Steve Harrington, in all his exhausted, bat-wielding, self-appointed babysitter glory, suggested that maybe you guys should stick together for a while, just until things felt less weird, youâd said yes.
Not because you needed him.
Obviously not.
But because the kids needed supervision, and Steveâs house was bigger than yours, and his parents were never around anyway, and it made logical sense.
Thatâs what you told yourself.
Thatâs what youâd been telling yourself for three weeks now.
Three weeks of falling asleep on his couch, of midnight conversations that felt too honest and too raw, of Steve circling the house with a flashlight at 2 AM like some kind of paranoid guard dog. Three weeks of pretending this was temporary, that youâd go back to your normal life any day now.
Any day.
Just⊠not today.
You woke up on Steveâs couch on a Saturday morning in mid-September, and your first thought was that your neck was going to hurt for the rest of your life.
Your second thought was that you really, really needed to invest in a chiropractor.
Your third thought, the one that actually got you to open your eyes, was that the house was too quiet.
The living room looked like a tornado had torn through a nerd convention. Blankets everywhere, tangled and bunched up in weird formations. Empty Coke cans forming a small, sticky pyramid on the coffee table that you were definitely going to make the kids clean up later. A half-finished bag of Doritos spilled across the floor. Someoneâs jacket, Mikeâs probably, crumpled in the corner.
And the kids.
God, the kids.
Dustin was drooling on a Dragonâs Lair manual, one arm flung dramatically over his face as if heâd died in a Shakespeare play. His hat had fallen off at some point in the night, and his curls were plastered to his forehead. Max was half inside a sleeping bag, only her mess of red hair visible, one pale hand hanging out and resting on Lucasâs shoulder. Lucas had somehow wedged himself between the couch and the wall, which looked deeply uncomfortable, but he was snoring anyway, so apparently it was fine.
Mike was flat on his back in the middle of the floor, mouth hanging open, looking literally dead. Youâd checked on him twice last night just to make sure he was still breathing because he slept like a corpse.
And ElâEl was the only one who looked peaceful. She was curled up in the armchair, her head resting on a pillow, still wearing Mikeâs jacket over her shoulders like a blanket. Her face was relaxed in a way it so rarely was when she was awake, and something about that made your chest hurt a little.
These kids.
These stupid, brave, impossible kids whoâd saved the world and were now just sleeping in a pile on Steve Harringtonâs living room floor like this was a completely normal slumber party.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to orient yourself.
The VCR clock on the TV said 6:47 AM, the red numbers glowing faintly in the dim room. The curtains were still drawn, but you could see daylight starting to creep in around the edges, that soft grey early-morning light that meant the sun was thinking about rising but hadnât committed yet.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Thatâs what had woken you up, you realized. Not a noiseâthe absence of noise.
Because Steve was always awake before you. Always. And usually, you could hear him moving around. The coffee pot gurgling in the kitchen. The creak of floorboards as he did his rounds. The soft click of locks being checked, windows being tested, doors being rattled just to make absolutely sure they were secure.
But right now?
Nothing.
You sat up slowly, your spine crackling in protest, and looked around.
Thatâs when you saw him.
Steve was in the other armchair, the one directly facing the front door, and he was awake. Completely, utterly awake. Still wearing the same clothes from yesterday: jeans that had seen better days, his old Hawkins High sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, white socks with a hole forming near the toe that he kept meaning to throw out but never did.
His hair was a disaster, sticking up in about seven different directions, and there were dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises.
But thatâs not what made you freeze.
It was the way he was sitting.
Perched on the edge of the chair, spine rigid, shoulders tense. His hands were gripping his knees, knuckles white. And his eyesâhis eyes were locked on the front door with the kind of intensity usually reserved for horror movie protagonists who know somethingâs coming but donât know when.
The bat was propped against his knee.
The bat.
That nail-studded baseball bat that had become Steveâs security blanket, his weapon of choice, the thing he kept within armâs reach at all times now. Youâd tried to get him to put it away last week, said it was making the kids nervous, but heâd just looked at you with those hollow eyes and said, âWhat if something happens and I donât have it?â
And you hadnât brought it up again.
Because you got it.
You really, really got it.
âSteve,â you whispered, your voice rough with sleep.
He flinched. Like, actually flinched, his whole body jerking before his head snapped toward you. For just a secondâless than a secondâyou saw something wild in his face. Something cornered and afraid.
Then it smoothed out.
Like a mask sliding into place.
âOh,â he said quietly, and his voice sounded like gravel, like heâd been awake for hours and hadnât said a single word until now. âHey. Didnât know you were up.â
You stared at him.
He stared back.
âSteve,â you said again, softer this time. âWhat are you doing?â
âNothing. JustâŠâ He gestured vaguely at the door, then seemed to realize how that looked and dropped his hand. âCouldnât sleep. Thought Iâd just, you know. Keep watch.â
âKeep watch,â you repeated.
âYeah.â
âFor what?â
His jaw tightened. âJust⊠in case.â
âIn case of what?â
âI donât know, okay?â It came out sharper than he probably meant it to, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair and making it even worse. âI justâI thought I heard something. Earlier. Like three hours ago. And I checked, and it was nothing, but then I couldnât stop thinking about what if it wasnât nothing, what if I missed something, what ifââ
He cut himself off.
Took a breath.
âSorry,â he muttered. âIâm fine. Itâs fine.â
But his hand was shaking where it rested on his knee, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against denim, and his leg was bouncing in that way it did when he was trying really hard to hold it together and failing.
You knew that feeling.
God, did you know that feeling.
âSteve,â you said, and you pushed yourself up off the couch, careful not to step on anyone as you crossed the living room. Your legs were stiff, protesting the movement, but you made it to his chair and crouched down in front of him so you were eye level. âYou didnât hear anything.â
âYou donât know that.â
âI do, actually. Because I was awake too.â
His eyes snapped to yours, and you saw the moment he processed that. The guilt that flashed across his face.
âYou were awake?â he asked.
âYeah.â
âWhy didnât you say something?â
âBecause you need to sleep, Steve.â
âSo do you.â
âWell, neither of us are very good at it, so.â You shrugged, trying for lightness and probably missing by a mile. âGuess weâre both disasters.â
His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
âYeah,â he said quietly. âGuess so.â
You looked at himâreally looked at him. At the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The way his shoulders were hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. The white-knuckle grip he still had on his knees, like if he let go heâd just float away.
This was the guy whoâd fought a Demogorgon with a nail bat and won. Whoâd taken a beating from Billy Hargrove and kept getting back up. Whoâd been tortured by actual Russian soldiers and still managed to crack jokes while his face was still bleeding.
Steve Harrington, Hawkins Highâs former king, the guy who threw parties and broke hearts and made it look easy.
Except none of that was who he actually was.
Not anymore.
Maybe not ever.
âCome on,â you said, standing up and holding out your hand. âIf youâre not gonna sleep, you might as well make yourself useful.â
He blinked at you. âUseful how?â
âCoffee. Youâre making coffee.â
âItâs six in the morning.â
âYeah, and weâre both awake, so we might as well commit to the bit.â
He stared at your outstretched hand for a long moment, and you could practically see him thinking about arguing. About insisting he was fine, heâd just sit here and keep watching the door, just in case.
But then he sighed.
And took your hand.
His palm was warm and calloused and steady, and for just a second, you let yourself hold on tighter than necessary before pulling him to his feet.
He grabbed the bat automatically, his other hand still wrapped around yours, and you didnât comment on it.
You just led him into the kitchen.
Steveâs kitchen was weirdly homey in the early morning light.
It was something youâd noticed over the past few weeks, spending so much time here. During the day, with the kids running around and the TV blaring and chaos in every corner, it was easy to see this place as just Steveâs house. Big and empty and a little cold, the kind of house that was built to impress people at dinner parties, not to actually live in.
But in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and the sun was barely up and everything was quiet?
It felt different.
Softer.
The counters were clean. Steve was weirdly meticulous about that, always wiping things down, putting dishes away immediately, like he was trying to maintain some sense of control in a life that had spun completely out of it. There was a little stack of mail by the toaster, bills and flyers that heâd sorted through, and a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet that said âHawkins Hardware.â
And the Polaroids.
God, the Polaroids.
They were scattered across the fridge door, held up with magnets, a collage of moments from the past few months. Dustin in his Thinking Cap, grinning like heâd just solved world peace. Max mid-skateboard trick, red hair flying, mouth open in a laugh. Lucas and Mike arguing over something, probably D&D. El holding up a waffle like it was a trophy, her face so serious it was adorable.
There was one of you and Robin at Bennyâs Burgers, both of you mid-laugh, and you didnât remember Steve taking it but there it was.
And then, tucked in the corner, half-hidden behind a pizza coupon, there was one of all of you.
You, Steve, Robin, and the kids, crammed into a booth that was way too small, all grinning at the camera. Dustin had taken it. You remembered because heâd been so proud of himself, insisting it was âfor posterityâ and that one day youâd all look back on this and be grateful he documented it.
At the time, youâd rolled your eyes.
Now, looking at it, you felt something twist in your chest.
Because you all looked happy.
Tired, sure. A little roughed up. Steve had a fading bruise on his jaw in that photo, and your arm was still in a sling from where youâd dislocated your shoulder in the tunnels.
But you were smiling.
All of you.
And Steve had kept the photo.
Heâd put it on his fridge.
âYou gonna stare at my fridge all morning, or are we doing this coffee thing?â
You jumped, spinning around to find Steve leaning against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The bat was propped in the corner now, within reach but not in his hands, which felt like progress.
âI wasnât staring,â you said.
âYou were definitely staring.â
âI was observing.â
âThatâs the same thing.â
âItâs really not.â
His mouth twitched again, that almost-smile that you were starting to recognize as Steveâs version of actually smiling when he was too tired to commit to it fully.
âOkay,â he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward the coffee maker. âObserving what, exactly?â
You shrugged, trying to look casual and probably failing. âJust⊠you have a lot of pictures.â
âYeah, well.â He pulled the coffee tin down from the cupboard, popping the lid off and scooping grounds into the filter with the kind of precise focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. âTurns out when you almost die a bunch of times, you start wanting to remember the times you didnât.â
He said it so simply.
Like it was obvious.
Like it wasnât the most devastating thing youâd heard all week.
âSteveâŠâ
âDonât.â He held up a hand, not looking at you, still focused on the coffee like it was the most important task in the world. âSeriously, donât. Itâs too early for⊠whatever that face is.â
âWhat face?â
âThe face youâre making right now. The âoh no, Steve has feelingsâ face.â
âIâm not making a face.â
âYouâre absolutely making a face.â
âYouâre not even looking at me.â
âI can feel you making the face.â
You bit back a laugh, and he mustâve heard it because his shoulders relaxed a little.
The coffee maker started gurgling and hissing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell that was starting to feel like home.
When had that happened?
When had Steveâs kitchen started feeling like home?
âSo,â Steve said, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms again. He looked more settled now, less like he was going to bolt at any second. âYou wanna talk about why you were awake at three in the morning?â
âNot particularly.â
âCool. Me neither.â
âGreat.â
âAwesome.â
You stared at each other.
âNightmares?â he asked quietly.
You hesitated.
Then nodded.
âYeah,â you admitted. âYou?â
âYeah.â
Of course. Of course he had nightmares. You all did. How could you not, after everything?
The coffee pot beeped, and Steve turned to pour two mugs, handing one to you without asking if you wanted any. You wrapped your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your palms, and took a sip.
It was perfect.
Of course it was.
Steve made annoyingly perfect coffee, which was unfair because he was already good at too many things and he didnât need this too.
âYour coffeeâs better than mine,â you said.
âI know.â
âYou donât have to sound so smug about it.â
âIâm not smug, Iâm just correct.â
âThatâs literally the same thing.â
âItâs really not.â
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and so was heâan actual smile this time, small but real.
And for just a moment, standing in Steve Harringtonâs kitchen at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, holding a mug of coffee that was too hot and probably too strong, you felt something that almost resembled peace.
Almost.
Then Dustinâs voice came from the living room, loud and sleep-rough and way too energetic for this hour: âIS THAT COFFEE? ARE YOU MAKING COFFEE WITHOUT ME?â
Steveâs eyes went wide. âOh shitâŠâ
âBETRAYAL!â Dustin shrieked. âTREASON!â
âItâs six in the morning!â Steve called back.
âI DONâT CARE! COFFEE IS COFFEE!â
âYouâre fourteen, you canât have coffee!â
âTHATâS AGEISM!â
You were laughing now, actually laughing, and Steve looked at you like you were insane.
âThis is your fault,â he said.
âHow is this my fault?â
âYou made me make coffee! Now heâs awake!â
âPretty sure Dustin was going to wake up anyway.â
âHe sleeps like the dead!â
âNot anymore, apparently.â
Dustin stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, one sock missing, looking like heâd been recently electrocuted. âCoffee,â he demanded, making grabby hands.
âAbsolutely not,â Steve said.
âSteve. Buddy. Pal. Friend of mine.â
âYouâre not getting coffee.â
âI saved the world.â
âThat doesnât meanââ
âI saved the world multiple times.â
âDustinââ
âI was tortured by Russians.â
Steveâs face did something complicated. âThatâs⊠you canât just⊠thatâs not fair.â
âLifeâs not fair. Coffee. Now.â
You snorted into your mug, and Steve shot you a betrayed look.
âYouâre not helping,â he said.
âIâm not trying to help.â
âClearly.â
He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and poured Dustin half a mug of coffee, which Dustin accepted like heâd just won the lottery.
âYouâre the best babysitter ever,â Dustin said, taking a sip and immediately making a face. âOh my god, this is disgusting.â
âThen donât drink it!â Steve said.
âNo, no, Iâm committed now.â Another sip. Another face. âThis is like⊠bitter sadness in a cup.â
âThatâs what coffee is, dude.â
âHow do adults drink this?â
âVery tiredly,â you said.
Dustin looked at you, then at Steve, then back at you, and something shifted in his expression. Something calculating.
Oh no.
âSo,â he said slowly, that dangerous tone creeping into his voice. âYou two are up early.â
âYeah,â Steve said warily. âSo?â
âTogether.â
âWeâre in the same house, Henderson. Kind of hard to be up separately.â
âIn the kitchen. Alone. Drinking coffee.â
âAgain, same house.â
âItâs very domestic.â
âIâm going to pour your coffee down the sink.â
âYou wouldnât dare.â
Steve reached for the mug.
Dustin yelped and danced backward, clutching it to his chest. âThis is abuse! This is babysitter abuse!â
âYouâre not even supposed to have coffee!â
âAnd yet here we are!â
The commotion mustâve woken the others because suddenly Max appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. âWhy are you all yelling?â
âSteveâs trying to steal my coffee,â Dustin said.
âSteve made you coffee?â Max looked genuinely surprised.
âNo!â Steve said. âI meanâyes, butâhe guilted me into it!â
âI used facts and logic.â
âYou used emotional manipulation!â
âSame thing.â
Max looked at you. âIs it too early to go back to sleep?â
âProbably,â you said.
âDamn.â
Lucas appeared next, then Mike, both of them looking disoriented and confused. El was the last one up, still wrapped in Mikeâs jacket, her hair a mess around her face.
And just like that, the kitchen was full.
Full of kids and noise and chaos and life, and Steve immediately shifted into crisis management modeâtelling Mike to stop leaning on the fridge, asking Lucas if he wanted toast, reminding Max that there was orange juice if she wanted it.
He was good at this.
Really good at this.
The whole mom-friend thing that everyone gave him shit for, it wasnât a joke. It was just who he was. Who heâd become, maybe, after everything.
Someone who kept people safe.
Someone who made sure everyone ate breakfast.
Someone who put pictures on his fridge and made coffee at 6 AM and checked the locks twice because he couldnât stand the thought of missing something, of failing, of losing anyone else.
You watched him move around the kitchen, handing out food and drinks, and felt that thing in your chest again.
That dangerous, terrifying thing that youâd been trying really hard not to think about.
âHey.â
You blinked.
El was standing next to you, looking up with those big, serious eyes.
âHi,â you said.
âYou okay?â
The question caught you off guard. Coming from El, whoâd been through more than any of them, whoâd lost more than any of them, it felt heavier somehow.
âYeah,â you said softly. âIâm okay. You?â
She considered this, tilting her head slightly. Then nodded.
âBetter now,â she said simply.
And something about that, the simplicity of it, the honesty, made you want to cry.
Because yeah.
You were better now too.
Not fixed. Not healed. Probably not even okay, not really.
But better.
And maybe that was enough.
Breakfast devolved into the usual chaosâDustin and Mike arguing about whether Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi was better (a debate that had been raging for weeks now with no end in sight), Max trying to convince Lucas that skateboarding was a legitimate sport, El quietly eating her Eggos and watching everyone with that small smile she got sometimes.
Steve made toast.
You helped.
Well, you tried to help, but mostly you just stood next to him at the counter and stole bites of his toast when he wasnât looking, which made him swat at you with the butter knife.
âYou have your own toast,â he said.
âYeah, but yours tastes better.â
âItâs literally the same toast.â
âNo, see, yours has that special Steve Harrington magic.â
âThatâs not a thing.â
âItâs absolutely a thing.â
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and when you stole another bite he didnât stop you.
This was nice.
God, this was so nice.
Just⊠normal. Easy. The kind of morning that felt like it belonged in someone elseâs life, someone who hadnât seen the things youâd seen, someone who got to just exist without checking over their shoulder every five seconds.
But youâd take it.
Youâd take every single moment of this, for as long as it lasted.
Which, apparently, was about another ten minutes.
Because thatâs when Dustin stood up on his chairâbecause of course he didâand announced: âOkay. Everyone shut up. I have an idea.â
The room went quiet.
Well, relatively quiet. Mike was still mid-sentence about Ewoks, but Max elbowed him, and he shut up.
âThis better be good, Henderson,â Steve said, crossing his arms.
âOh, itâs good. Itâs so good.â Dustinâs grin was absolutely diabolical. âWeâve been here for three weeks, right? And itâs been fine. Great, even. Butââ
âOh no,â Lucas muttered.
âWeâre bored.â
âWeâre not bored,â Mike said.
âWeâre extremely bored,â Max corrected.
âThank you, Max. Weâre extremely bored. And you know what bored teenagers need?â
âTherapy?â you suggested.
Dustin ignored you. âA competition.â
Steveâs eyes narrowed. âWhat kind of competition?â
âA babysitter competition.â
Silence.
Then Steve laughed. âThatâs the dumbest thing Iâve ever heard.â
âIs it though?â Dustin said. âIs it really? Because I think whatâs dumb is that weâve been sitting around pretending that youââhe pointed at Steveââare the best babysitter, when clearly sheââhe pointed at youââhas been pulling equal weight.â
âI never said I was the best babysitter,â Steve protested.
âYou literally call yourself the babysitter,â Mike said.
âThatâs different!â
âHow?â
âIt just is!â
You were trying not to laugh. You were failing.
âSo hereâs what Iâm thinking,â Dustin continued, really getting into it now, pacing back and forth like he was presenting a thesis. âWe come up with challenges. You both compete. We judge. And at the end, we crown the Supreme Babysitter.â
âSupreme Babysitter,â Steve repeated flatly.
âWeâll make a crown and everything.â
âA crown.â
âOut of pizza boxes, probably.â
Steve looked at you.
You looked at Steve.
âThis is insane,â you said.
âCompletely insane,â he agreed.
Dustin was practically vibrating with glee. âOh my god. This is happening. This is actually happening.â
Max high-fived Lucas.
Mike looked at El. âThis is going to be hilarious.â
El nodded seriously. âGood.â
And just like that, you were committed.
You and Steve, staring at each other across his kitchen, both of you too competitive for your own good, both of you absolutely not backing down.
âHope youâre ready to lose, Harrington,â you said.
His grin was sharp and bright and absolutely infuriating. âHope youâre ready to get destroyed.â
âBring it.â
âOh, Iâll bring it.â
âCool.â
âGreat.â
âAwesome.â
Dustin clapped his hands together. âOkay! First challenge starts in twenty minutes. Everyone to the living room. This is going to be legendary.â
The kids scattered immediately, already whispering and planning and scheming, and you were left standing in the kitchen with Steve.
Still staring at each other.
Still grinning like idiots.
âThis is so stupid,â you said.
âThe stupidest,â he agreed.
âWeâre gonna do it anyway, arenât we?â
âOh, absolutely.â
You shook your head, laughing, and started to head toward the living room.
But then Steveâs voice stopped you.
âHey.â
You turned back.
He was standing there, backlit by the morning sun coming through the window, his hair a disaster and his smile soft and real and so, so dangerous to your carefully maintained emotional distance.
âYeah?â you said.
âJust so you know,â he said quietly, âIâm glad youâre here. Like⊠here. Not just for this weekend. For all of it.â
Your chest did something complicated.
Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.
âYeah,â you managed. âMe too.â
He nodded.
You nodded.
And then Dustin yelled, âARE YOU TWO COMING OR WHAT?â and the moment shattered, but you held onto it anyway.
Twenty minutes later, the living room had been transformed.
And by âtransformed,â you meant it looked like a game show had exploded.
The kids had pushed all the furniture to the walls, creating an open space in the center. Someone, probably Max, had strung up a bedsheet between two lamps like a makeshift curtain. El had made a sign using notebook paper and way too many markers that said âSUPREME BABYSITTER CHALLENGEâ in big, slightly wobbly letters, and sheâd decorated it with little drawings of what you thought were supposed to be crowns but looked more like deformed triangles.
It was chaotic and ridiculous and kind of perfect.
Dustin stood in the middle of the room, holding a clipboard.
A clipboard.
âWhere did you even get that?â Steve asked.
âI came prepared,â Dustin said ominously.
âYouâve been planning this.â
âIâve been planning this since Tuesday.â
âThatâsâactually, you know what, Iâm not even surprised.â
âYou shouldnât be.â Dustin clicked his pen, because of course he had a pen too, and looked down at his clipboard with the seriousness of a judge presiding over a murder trial. âOkay. Letâs go over the rules.â
âThere are rules?â you asked.
âObviously, there are rules. What kind of competition doesnât have rules?â
âThe fun kind?â Steve tried.
âWrong. The fun kind has rules, structure, and a clear points system.â Dustin adjusted his hat. âOver the whole dayââ
âThe whole day?â Steve interrupted.
âDid I stutter?â
âI justâit seems like a lot.â
âSteve. Buddy. We have been cooped up in this house with nothing to do but watch you two make weird eyes at each other for three weeks. Weâve earned a day of entertainment.â
Your face went hot. âWe donât make weird eyes.â
âYou absolutely make weird eyes,â Max said from her spot on the couch.
âLike, constantly,â Lucas added.
âItâs honestly painful to watch,â Mike muttered.
El just nodded.
Steveâs ears were bright red. âCan we please justâcan we focus on the competition?â
âGreat idea,â Dustin said, grinning like the cat that got the canary. âAs I was saying. One day. Multiple challenges. Each challenge is worth points. Whoever has the most points at the end wins the title of Supreme Babysitter, plus this.â He gestured dramatically at the crown El was holding.
It was made of pipe cleaners twisted together, covered in aluminum foil, with what looked like bottle caps glued to it as jewels.
It was hideous.
You wanted it immediately.
âI love it, El,â Steve said desperately. âItâs perfect. Iâm going to treasure it forever when I win.â
âWhen you win?â you repeated.
âYeah. When.â
âYou mean if.â
âI meant what I said.â
Dustin cleared his throat loudly. âAre we done? Can I continue explaining the rules that I worked very hard on?â
âPlease do,â Max said, looking way too entertained by all of this.
âThank you, Max. Youâre my favorite.â Dustin consulted his clipboard. âChallenge categories include: crisis management, snack preparation, emotional support, creative problem-solving, and, this is important, general vibes.â
âGeneral vibes?â Steve repeated.
âYeah, like, who has better babysitter energy.â
âThatâs completely subjective!â
âAll of this is subjective, Steve. Weâre the judges. Thatâs how judging works.â
Lucas raised his hand. âI have a question.â
âYes, Lucas.â
âAre we allowed to sabotage them?â
âNo!â you and Steve said in unison.
Dustin considered this. âMild sabotage is acceptable.â
âDustin!â
âWhat? It makes it more interesting!â
âIt makes it unfair!â
âLife is unfair. Also, you both literally saved the world multiple times. I think you can handle some fourteen-year-olds messing with you.â
He had a point.
You hated that he had a point.
âFine,â you said. âBut if anyone tries to sabotage me, Iâm sabotaging back.â
âSame,â Steve said.
âThatâs the spirit!â Dustin made a note on his clipboard. âOkay, any other questions before we begin?â
Mike raised his hand.
âYes, Mike.â
âWhat do we get if we help the winner win?â
Dustinâs eyes lit up. âIâm so glad you asked. Weâre splitting into teams. Team Steveââ Max, Lucas, and Mike immediately groaned. ââand Team, uhâŠâ He looked at you. âDo you have a cool nickname?â
âNo.â
âYou should get a cool nickname.â
âIâm not getting a cool nickname in the next thirty seconds, Dustin.â
âFine. Team Her. Weâll workshop it. Anyway, winning team gets to pick the movie for the next three movie nights AND gets out of dish duty for a week.â
âSold,â Max said immediately, standing up and walking over to you. âIâm Team Her.â
âTraitor!â Steve gasped.
âYou made me do the dishes last night even though it was Mikeâs turn.â
âBecause Mike was asleep!â
âNot my problem.â
Lucas stood up too, hesitating for a second before joining Max. âSorry, Steve. But sheâs right. Youâre weird about dishes.â
âIâm not weird about dishes! Iâm responsible about dishes! Thereâs a difference!â
Mike looked between you and Steve, clearly torn. Then El tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear.
He sighed. âEl says we should be on your team.â
âYes!â Steve pumped his fist.
âBut Iâm only doing this because El asked,â Mike added quickly. âNot because I think youâre going to win.â
âIâll take it.â
Dustin checked his clipboard. âOkay, so teams are set. Max and Lucas are Team Herâweâre still workshopping the nameâand Mike and El are Team Steve. Iâll be the neutral judge and scorekeeper because Iâm the only one with organizational skills.â
âYou literally lost your retainer twice last week,â Lucas pointed out.
âThatâs different. Thatâs an object. This is a system.â Dustin clicked his pen again. âNow. Letâs begin with Challenge One: The Snack Preparation Challenge.â
He said it with such gravity that you almost laughed.
âYou have twenty minutes,â Dustin continued, pulling out an actual timer from his pocketâbecause of course he had a timerââto prepare the best after-school snack you can manage with the ingredients available in Steveâs kitchen. Youâll be judged on taste, presentation, creativity, and whether or not anyone gets food poisoning.â
âThat last one seems important,â you said.
âItâs happened before,â Dustin said darkly.
Steveâs head whipped toward him. âWhen?!â
âSummer of â84. We donât talk about it.â
âYou canât just say that and not explain!â
âNo time! The challenge startsâŠâ He held up the timer dramatically. âNow!â
And then chaos erupted.
You and Steve both bolted for the kitchen at the same time, nearly colliding in the doorway.
âMove!â Steve said.
âYou move!â you shot back.
âI live here!â
âThat doesnât give you special kitchen privileges during a competition!â
You hip-checked him out of the way and made it to the fridge first, yanking it open and scanning the contents. Okay. Okay, you could work with this. There was cheese, some deli meat, apples, peanut butter, jelly, breadâstandard stuff.
Behind you, you could hear Steve rummaging through the cabinets, muttering under his breath.
Max appeared in the doorway. âNeed any help?â
âArenât you supposed to stay out of this?â you asked, pulling out the peanut butter and apples.
âDustin said mild sabotage was allowed. He didnât say anything about mild assistance.â
You grinned. âWhatâs Steve making?â
Max peered around the corner. âLooks like⊠sandwiches? Really boring sandwiches.â
âPerfect.â
Your mind was already racing. Okay, if Steve was going traditional, you needed to go creative. Something that looked impressive but was still actually edible, because knowing these kids, theyâd revolt if you made anything too healthy or weird.
Apples. Peanut butter. You could work with that.
You started slicing apples quickly, arranging them on a plate in a fan pattern. Then you grabbed the peanut butter and a spoon, creating a small bowl in the center for dipping. That was too simple, though. You needed more.
âMax, what else is in the pantry?â
âUh⊠pretzels, chocolate chips, some granolaââ
âGrab the chocolate chips and pretzels.â
She darted off and returned thirty seconds later with both. You scattered them around the plate artfully, creating a little dessert charcuterie situation. It looked good. Really good, actually.
âShit,â you heard Steve mutter from the other side of the kitchen.
You glanced over. He was making what looked like fancy grilled cheeseânot a bad choice, actually. The bread was already in the pan, butter sizzling, and he was layering cheese with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
Competitive Steve was kind of hot.
No. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.
You turned back to your plate, adding a few more touchesâsome granola for texture, a strategic drizzle of honey you found in the back of the cabinet.
âThirty seconds!â Dustin called from the living room.
âShit!â Steve flipped his sandwiches frantically.
You stepped back, surveying your work. It looked like something out of a Pinterest board. The apples were arranged in a perfect circle, the peanut butter bowl was centered, the chocolate chips and pretzels created visual interestâ
âTime!â Dustin yelled.
You grabbed your plate.
Steve grabbed hisâand immediately dropped it because it was too hot.
âFuck!â He juggled the plate, nearly sending sandwiches flying, before managing to secure them. His face was red. âIâm fine! Itâs fine! Everythingâs fine!â
âReal professional, Harrington,â you said sweetly.
âShut up.â
You both carried your creations into the living room, where the kids had arranged themselves on the couch like judges on a reality show. Dustin had his clipboard. El had produced a notebook from somewhere and was holding a crayon, ready to take notes.
This was absurd.
This was the most absurd thing youâd done in weeks.
You were having so much fun.
âPresent your snacks,â Dustin announced.
Steve went first, setting down his plate with a flourish. âGrilled cheese sandwiches. But not just any grilled cheese sandwiches. These are made with three types of cheeseâcheddar, swiss, and mozzarellaâon sourdough bread with butter. Theyâre golden brown, perfectly crispy, and scientifically proven to be delicious.â
âScientifically proven?â Lucas repeated skeptically.
âI watched a cooking show once.â
âThatâs not how science works.â
âItâs food science!â
Mike picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened. âOh shit. Thatâs actually really good.â
âLanguage,â Steve said automatically.
âYou literally just said âfuckâ in the kitchen.â
âThat was different. That was a crisis situation.â
El tried a bite next, chewing thoughtfully. Then she nodded. âGood,â she said simply, which from El was high praise.
Your turn.
You set down your plate, and there was an immediate reaction.
âWhoa,â Max said.
âThat looks fancy,â Lucas added.
âItâs not fancy,â you said. âItâs an apple snack plate. Youâve got sliced apples for dipping in peanut butter, chocolate chips and pretzels for variety, and a little granola and honey for extra flavor. Itâs healthy-ish but still fun, and nobody has to turn on the stove.â
âThe stove is not a problem!â Steve protested.
âYou literally burned yourself just now.â
âOn the plate! Not the stove!â
Max grabbed an apple slice, dragged it through the peanut butter, added a chocolate chip, and took a bite. âOh my god.â
âGood?â you asked hopefully.
âReally good. Like, really, really good.â
Lucas tried it next, then made the same face. âSteve, Iâm sorry, but sheâs winning this round.â
âWhat?! My grilled cheese is perfect!â
âYour grilled cheese is great,â Mike said diplomatically. âBut this is like⊠I donât know, it feels less like babysitter food and more like mom friend food.â
âThatâs the same thing!â
âItâs really not.â
Dustin was scribbling notes furiously. âOkay, scores. For taste: Steve gets an 8, she gets a 9. For presentation: Steve gets a 7, she gets a 10. For creativity: Steve gets a 6, she gets a 9. For avoiding food poisoning: both get a 10 because nobodyâs dying yet.â
âYet?â Steve repeated.
âItâs only been two minutes. Give it time.â Dustin tallied up the scores. âFinal score for Challenge One: Steve, 31 points. Her, 38 points. She wins!â
âYes!â You pumped your fist while Max and Lucas cheered.
Steve stared at his grilled cheese like it had personally betrayed him. âI canât believe I lost to apples.â
âNot just apples,â you said smugly. âApples with presentation.â
âI hate this. I hate this competition.â
âYouâre just mad because youâre losing.â
âIâm not mad, Iâm motivated. Thereâs a difference.â
âSure there is.â
He pointed at you with a spatula that he was still holding for some reason. âNext challenge. Iâm coming for you.â
âBring it, Harrington.â
âOh, I will.â
âGood.â
âGreat.â
Dustin interrupted your stare-down by clearing his throat. âOkay, lovebirds, save it for the next challenge. Weâre moving on to Challenge Two: Crisis Management.â
âLovebirds?â you and Steve said simultaneously.
âDid I stutter?â Dustin checked his clipboard. âThis oneâs going to be fun. Hereâs the scenario: Mike just called from the Wheeler house. Heâs locked himself in the bathroom, thereâs a spider the size of a dinner plate, and heâs crying. What do you do?â
Mikeâs jaw dropped. âI would neverââ
âItâs hypothetical, Mike.â
âItâs character assassination!â
âDo you want to be on Steveâs team or not?â
Mike crossed his arms and slumped back on the couch, muttering something about defamation.
Dustin continued: âYou have five minutes to talk through your crisis management approach. Judges will score based on practicality, speed, empathy, and overall effectiveness. Steve, youâre up first.â
Steve set down his spatulaâfinallyâand crossed his arms, getting into what you were starting to recognize as his Problem-Solving Stance. âOkay. First, Iâd call him back and tell him to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.â
âThen Iâd tell him to breathe anyway. Slowly.â
âThe spider is moving toward him.â
âThen Iâd tell him to throw a towel over it.â
âHeâs in the bathroom. He canât reach the towels without getting closer to the spider.â
âThenâŠâ Steve paused, thinking. âThen Iâd tell him to use toilet paper. Bunch it up, trap the spider, flush it.â
âInteresting approach,â Dustin made a note. âPros: practical, uses available materials. Cons: requires Mike to get very close to the spider, which given his current panic state seems unlikely. Also, possible plumbing issues.â
âOkay, fine. Then Iâd get in my car and drive to his house.â
âItâs a fifteen-minute drive.â
âThen Iâd drive really fast.â
âThatâs illegal.â
âHopperâs not going to pull me over for saving Mike from a spider!â
âHopper absolutely would pull you over.â
Steve dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. âFine. Then Iâd call Mrs. Wheeler and ask her to help.â
âSheâs not home. No oneâs home except Mike.â
âThis is an impossible scenario!â
âThatâs the point. Itâs crisis management.â Dustin turned to you, grinning. âYour turn.â
You thought about it for a second. âOkay, first, Iâd stay on the phone with him the whole time. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.â
âGood start,â Dustin said.
âThen Iâd ask him what the spiderâs doing. Is it moving? Is it just sitting there?â
âItâs sitting there,â Mike supplied, now invested. âOn the wall. Above the door.â
âPerfect. So itâs not an immediate threat. Iâd tell him that most spiders are more scared of us than we are of them, and this one probably just wants to be left alone.â
âHeâs still crying,â Dustin said.
âThen Iâd tell him a joke. Or ask him about the campaign heâs working on. Something to get his mind off it.â
âWhile heâs trapped in a bathroom?â
âHeâs not trapped. He can leave anytime. The spiderâs above the door, not blocking it. So Iâd walk him through itâcount to three, open the door fast, duck under where the spider is, and get out.â
Max nodded. âThatâs actually pretty smart.â
âAnd if the spider moves?â Dustin pressed.
You shrugged. âThen I tell him itâs okay if he needs to wait until someone gets home. Iâd stay on the phone with him. Put on a movie at the same time so weâre watching together. Make it feel less scary.â
âYou told him to calm down while he was crying. Thatâs literally what not to do.â
âIâokay, fair.â
âHer turn.â Dustin tallied the numbers. âPracticality 8, speed 7, empathy 10, overall effectiveness 9. Total: 34. She wins again!â
âYes!â Max and Lucas high-fived.
Steve looked genuinely stunned. âHow are you winning everything?â
âBecause Iâm better at this than you.â
âYou are not.â
âScoreboard says otherwise, Harrington.â
He stepped closer, that competitive fire sparking in his eyes again. âThis isnât over.â
âIt really isnât,â you agreed. âBecause youâre still losing.â
âChallenge Three!â Dustin announced. âStarting in ten minutes. This oneâs going to be good.â
The third challenge was âEmotional Support,â which sounded ominous and was somehow worse than it sounded.
âScenario,â Dustin said, reading from his clipboard with way too much glee. âLucas and Max just had a fight. Theyâre not talking to each other. Lucas is sulking in the basement, Max is rage-skateboarding in the driveway, and the rest of us are stuck in the middle. How do you fix it?â
Lucas and Max immediately started protesting.
âWe donât fight that much!â Lucas said.
âYes we do,â Max said.
âOkay, yes we do, but we donât need a scenario about it!â
âItâs for educational purposes,â Dustin said primly.
âItâs for humiliation purposes,â Max muttered, but she was smiling a little.
Steve went first again, and you could tell he was taking this one more seriously. He sat down on the coffee table, hands clasped, and actually thought about it.
âOkay,â he said slowly. âFirst, Iâd talk to them separately. Give them space to vent without making it worse.â
âGood start,â Dustin said.
âIâd ask Lucas what happened from his perspective. Let him explain. Not take sides, just listen.â
âAnd then?â
âThen Iâd do the same with Max. Hear her side.â
âAnd if their stories completely contradict each other?â
Steve hesitated. âThen⊠then Iâd point out that theyâre both probably right, from their own perspectives. And that itâs okay to see things differently.â
Mike was nodding. âThatâs actually decent advice.â
âThen Iâdââ Steve paused, looking uncomfortable. âIâd probably tell them that fighting happens. It sucks, but itâs normal. And that theyâre both too stubborn to stay mad at each other for long anyway.â
âWould you make them apologize?â Dustin asked.
âNot right away. Iâd let them cool off first. Maybe put on a movie, order pizza, let them sit on opposite sides of the couch until they naturally gravitate back together.â He shrugged. âThey always do.â
It was sweet.
It was genuinely sweet, and from the look on Max and Lucasâs faces, it was also accurate.
Dustin made notes. âOkay. Solid approach. Your turn.â
You took a breath, thinking about all the times youâd played mediator with the kids over the past few weeks. âIâd start the same wayâtalk to them separately. But Iâd also ask them what they think would help. Like, what do they need from each other right now? An apology? Space? A do-over of the conversation?â
âGiving them agency,â Dustin said. âInteresting.â
âYeah. Because sometimes people donât want you to fix it, they just want to be heard. So Iâd validate their feelingsâtell Lucas itâs okay to be hurt, tell Max itâs okay to be angry. And then Iâd ask if they want help talking it out, or if theyâd rather work through it on their own.â
âAnd if they want help?â
âThen Iâd sit with both of them and let them talk. Keep it from escalating. Remind them that they care about each other when they start forgetting that.â
El was watching you with those intense eyes of hers. âThatâs what you did. When Mike and I fought.â
You blinked. âWhenâoh. Yeah. I guess I did.â
âIt helped,â she said simply.
Your chest did that warm, tight thing again.
Dustin was tallying scores. âSteve: 28 points. Her: 35 points. Sheâs still winning!â
Steve dropped his head into his hands. âI canât believe this.â
âBelieve it,â you said, trying not to sound too smug and definitely failing.
âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â
âIâm enjoying it exactly the right amount.â
He looked up, and despite the competitive frustration written all over his face, he was smiling. Really smiling. âOkay. Okay, fine. Youâre good at this.â
âI know.â
âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â
âChallenge Four!â Dustin interrupted. âAnd this oneâs the big one. The tiebreaker, if you will.â
âItâs not a tiebreaker if sheâs winning,â Steve pointed out.
âItâs a dramatic reveal. Work with me here.â Dustin straightened his shoulders. âChallenge Four: General Vibes. Also known as the popularity contest.â
âOh no,â you said.
âOh yes. Each team gets to explain why their babysitter is the best. You two canât say anything in your own defense. This is all about what we think.â He looked at Max and Lucas. âTeam Herâweâre still workshopping the nameâyouâre up first.â
Max stood up like she was about to give a speech at the UN. âOkay, hereâs the thing about her.â She gestured at you. âShe doesnât try too hard. Like, Steveâs greatââ
âThanks?â Steve said.
ââbut heâs always in Dad Mode. Always worrying, always checking on us, always acting like weâre going to die if weâre out of his sight for five minutes.â
âBecause you might!â Steve protested.
âLet her finish,â Dustin said.
Max continued: âBut sheâs different. She worries too, but she also treats us like actual people. She asks our opinions. She doesnât freak out when we want to do something slightly dangerousââ
âDefine âslightly dangerous,ââ you interrupted nervously.
ââand sheâs funny. Like, genuinely funny, not just dad-joke funny.â
âMy jokes are funny!â Steve said.
âYour jokes are painful,â Lucas said, standing up to join Max. âBut yeah, sheâs cool. She doesnât make a big deal out of stuff. And sheâs not always trying to be the hero, you know? She just⊠is.â
Your face was hot. You hadnât expected this to feel so sincere.
âAlso,â Max added, âshe always takes my side when Iâm arguing with the boys.â
âThatâs blatant favoritism!â Mike called out.
âItâs called having good taste!â Max shot back.
Dustin made notes, nodding. âCompelling arguments. Team Steve, your turn.â
Mike stood up reluctantly, dragging El with him. âOkay, look. Steveâs annoying.â
âGreat start, Mike,â Steve said flatly.
âBut he cares. Like, really cares. Heâs driven into literal hell multiple times to save us. Heâs taken beatings for us. Heâsââ Mikeâs voice cracked slightly. âHeâs always there. Even when weâre being annoying or ungrateful or whatever. He doesnât give up on us.â
Steveâs expression softened.
El spoke up next, her voice quiet but steady. âSteve makes me feel safe. When things are scary, heâs there. He protects us.â She looked at Steve directly. âYouâre a good friend.â
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Dustin cleared his throat, looking suspiciously emotional. âOkay. Scores for Challenge FourâŠâ He scribbled some numbers. âThis oneâs close. Really close.â
âHow close?â Steve asked.
âSheâs still winning overall, but you pulled ahead in this round.â Dustin looked up. âFinal scores: Steve, 95 points. Her, 107 points. Sheâs the Supreme Babysitter!â
The room erupted.
Max and Lucas were cheering, shouting about their victory. Mike was arguing that the scoring system was flawed. El was watching everything with that small smile. And Steveâ
Steve was looking at you with this expression you couldnât quite read. Pride, maybe? Amusement? Something softer underneath it all?
âCongratulations,â he said, holding out his hand.
You shook it, his palm warm and solid against yours. âThanks. You put up a good fight.â
âNot good enough, apparently.â
âHey, you got âgood friendâ from El. Thatâs basically worth more than any crown.â
His smile went crooked. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
Dustin thrust the hideous pipe cleaner crown at you. âYour prize, Supreme Babysitter!â
You took it, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.
You loved it.
After dinner, after the kids had been wrangled into cleaning up (with minimal complaining because youâd invoked your Supreme Babysitter privileges), after the dishwasher was loaded and the counters were wiped down and someone had spilled juice on the floor and cleaned it up, everyone migrated back to the living room.
Movie night was a sacred tradition now.
It took twenty minutes to agree on a movieâThe Goonies, finally, because it was the only thing that didnât have someone vetoing itâand then another ten minutes to get everyone settled with blankets and pillows and optimal seating arrangements.
You ended up on the couch next to Steve, because of course you did.
The kids were sprawled on the floor in their usual nest formation, already yelling at the TV even though the movie had barely started.
âThis is the best part!â Dustin announced as the opening credits rolled.
âThe movie just started,â Lucas said.
âYeah, and itâs already the best part!â
âThat doesnât make any sense!â
âYou donât make any sense!â
Steve leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours. âTheyâre gonna argue through the whole movie, arenât they?â
âAbsolutely,â you whispered back.
âAnd weâre just gonna let them.â
âObviously.â
His smile was soft in the flickering TV light. âGood.â
You shouldâve moved away. Put some distance between you. The couch was big enough that you didnât need to be sitting this close, your thighs touching, his arm warm against yours.
But you didnât move.
And neither did he.
The movie played on, and gradually, the kids started to settle down. The arguments faded into occasional commentary, then into sleepy silence. One by one, they started to doze offâDustin first, always the first to fall asleep during movies, then Lucas, then Mike.
Max lasted longer, fighting it, but eventually her head drooped onto Lucasâs shoulder.
El was the last one awake, but even she was fading, curled up against Mike.
âOut like lights,â Steve murmured.
âEvery time.â
âYouâd think theyâd learn to pace themselves.â
âThey never do.â
You were both whispering now, careful not to wake anyone. The movie was still playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore.
âSo,â Steve said quietly. âSupreme Babysitter.â
âI know. Itâs a lot of responsibility.â
âHow are you handling the power?â
âWith grace and humility.â
He snorted softly. âRight. Thatâs exactly what Iâd call you. Humble.â
âIâm humble! Iâm the most humble person youâve ever met.â
âThatâs not how humility works.â
âSounds like something a sore loser would say.â
He turned to look at you, and suddenly he was very close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes, see the little flecks of gold in his brown eyes, notice the tiny scar on his chin from god knows what fight or accident or brush with death.
âIâm not a sore loser,â he said.
âYou kind of are.â
âOkay, maybe a little.â
Your breath caught. âSteveââ
âYou were really good today,â he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. âWith the kids. Youâre always good with them.â
âSo are you.â
âItâs different. You make it look easy.â
âItâs not easy. Nothing about this is easy.â
âI know. But you make it look like it is. And thatâsââ He stopped, swallowed. âThatâs really something.â
You didnât know what to say to that.
The TV cast blue-grey light across his face, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. How easy it would be to just lean in a little more. Close that gap.
How much you wanted to.
âSteve,â you said again, softer this time.
He was looking at your mouth.
You were definitely looking at his.
This was happening. This was really happening. After weeks of dancing around it, of pretending you werenât feeling what you were feeling, of late night conversations and shared looks and moments that felt too big to fit in your chestâ
Dustin snored. Loud and sudden and completely momentum-killing.
You both jumped apart like youâd been electrocuted.
Steve cleared his throat. âI shouldâwe should probably get them to bed.â
âRight. Yeah. Definitely.â
âBefore they wake up with neck injuries.â
âGood thinking.â
But neither of you moved for a long moment, just sitting there in the TV light, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Then Steve stood up, running a hand through his hair, and started the process of waking up kids and herding them toward sleeping bags and blankets and whatever makeshift beds theyâd claimed.
You helped, of course.
And if your hands brushed when you were both tucking a blanket around El, neither of you mentioned it.
You woke up on the couch again the next morning, the pipe cleaner crown somehow still on your head, digging into your scalp at an uncomfortable angle.
The house was quiet. Properly quiet this time, the kind that meant everyone was actually still asleep and it was genuinely early.
You sat up slowly, your neck protesting, and squinted at the VCR clock. 6:23 AM.
Great. Your body had apparently decided that six-something in the morning was just your wake-up time now, regardless of how late youâd stayed up or how little sleep youâd gotten.
You pulled the crown off, setting it carefully on the coffee tableâyouâd won that thing fair and square, you werenât about to crush itâand looked around.
The living room was a disaster zone. Again. Blankets everywhere, empty popcorn bowls, someoneâs shoes in the middle of the floor. Dustin was drooling on Mikeâs shoulder. Max was somehow upside down in her sleeping bag. Lucas had migrated halfway under the couch, which seemed both uncomfortable and structurally impressive.
El was sitting up in the armchair, wide awake, watching you.
You jumped about a foot in the air, pressing a hand to your chest. âJesusâEl. How long have you been awake?â
âA while,â she said simply.
âWhy didnât you say something?â
She shrugged. âYou looked tired.â
That was⊠actually really sweet.
You rubbed your eyes, trying to force your brain into something resembling consciousness. âCanât sleep?â
âBad dreams,â El said quietly.
Your heart clenched. âYou want to talk about it?â
She considered this, tilting her head in that way she did when she was thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head. âNot yet.â
âOkay. But if you do want to talk, Iâm here. You know that, right?â
âI know.â She paused. âYouâre good at that. Listening.â
âThanks, kiddo.â
âThatâs why you won yesterday.â
You smiled. âI donât know about that. I think I just got lucky.â
âNo.â El was very serious now, looking at you with those intense eyes that always felt like they were seeing more than they should. âYou won because you care. And you donât try to fix everything. You just⊠stay.â
Something about that hit harder than it should have.
âYeah, well,â you said, your voice coming out rougher than intended. âYou guys make it pretty easy to stay.â
El smiledâsmall and genuineâand then turned her attention back to the sleeping pile of kids. âSteve was awake too. Earlier.â
âWas he?â
âHe checked the doors. Three times.â
Of course he did.
âIs he asleep now?â you asked.
El nodded. âIn the kitchen. At the table.â
You sighed. That sounded about right. Steve probably couldnât make it back to his actual bedroom, so heâd just⊠passed out at the kitchen table like some kind of exhausted dad who fell asleep doing the bills.
âIâm gonna go check on him,â you said, standing up and stretching. Your spine made concerning cracking sounds. âYou good here?â
âYes.â
El was right.
Steve was slumped over the kitchen table, one arm pillowed under his head, the other hanging limply at his side. He was still wearing yesterdayâs clothesâjeans and that Hawkins High sweatshirt, now even more rumpled than before. His hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every possible direction.
The nail bat was leaning against his chair.
Of course it was.
For a moment, you just stood there, looking at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, visible even in sleep. At the tension that never quite left his shoulders. At the way his hand was curled into a loose fist, like even unconscious he was ready to fight something.
Steve Harrington, Hawkinsâ reluctant hero, currently drooling slightly on his own kitchen table at six thirty in the morning.
Your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.
You were so screwed.
âSteve,â you said softly, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. âHey. Wake up.â
He jerked awake with a sharp inhale, his hand immediately going for the bat before his eyes were even fully open.
âWhoa, whoa!â You stepped back, hands up. âItâs just me!â
Steve blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself, his chest heaving. Then recognition dawned, and his whole body sagged. âShit. Sorry. Iâsorry.â
âItâs okay.â
âI couldâve hit you.â
âBut you didnât.â
âBut I couldâveââ
âSteve.â You moved closer again, keeping your voice gentle. âItâs okay. You didnât. Iâm fine.â
He dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked up at you, he looked so tired. Bone-deep, exhausted tired. âWhat time is it?â
âEarly. Six thirty-ish.â
âWhy are you awake?â
âWhy are you asleep at the kitchen table?â
He looked around like he was just now realizing where he was. âI was⊠I was checking the perimeter. Mustâve sat down for a second.â
âSteve, you canât keep doing this.â
âDoing what?â
âThis.â You gestured at him, at the bat, at the whole situation. âNot sleeping. Staying up all night checking doors and windows. Running yourself into the ground.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre not fine. You just tried to hit me with a bat.â
âI didnât actuallyââ
âSteve.â
He went quiet, jaw working like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.
You pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. âWhenâs the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept. More than a couple hours.â
âI sleep.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âI sleep enough.â
âAlso not an answer.â
He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands on the table. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: âI canât.â
âCanât what?â
âCanât sleep. Not really. I try, and I justâŠâ He made a frustrated gesture. âI see it all again. The tunnels, the Russians, theâeverything. And then Iâm awake and I canât stop thinking about what if something happens while Iâm sleeping? What if something gets in and I donât wake up in time? What ifââ
He cut himself off, his hand curling into a fist on the table.
You reached out slowly, carefully, and put your hand over his. âNothingâs going to happen.â
âYou donât know that.â
âYouâre right. I donât. But Steveâyou canât protect everyone all the time. You canât stay awake forever.â
âI can try.â
âYouâre going to kill yourself trying.â
The words came out harsher than you meant them to, but they were true and you both knew it.
Steveâs jaw tightened. âIâm not going toââ
âYou fell asleep at the kitchen table. With a nail bat. After checking the doors three times.â You squeezed his hand. âSteve, thatâs not sustainable. Thatâs not⊠you canât live like this.â
âWhat else am I supposed to do?â
âLet someone else help. Let me help.â
He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were so raw it hurt. âYouâre already helping. Youâre here. Thatâsâthatâs more thanââ
His voice cracked, and he looked away quickly, like he was embarrassed.
âHey.â You waited until he looked back. âYou donât have to do this alone. You know that, right? Youâre notâweâre in this together. All of us. Me, Robin, the kids. Youâre not the only one whoâs responsible for keeping everyone safe.â
âFeels like I am sometimes.â
âWell, youâre not. And Iâm not gonna let you burn out because you think you have to be some kind of solo superhero.â You stood up, tugging on his hand. âCome on.â
âWhatâwhere are we going?â
âYouâre going to bed. Your actual bed. Not the couch, not the kitchen table. Your bed.â
âI canât justââ
âYou absolutely can. The kids are asleep. Iâm awake. Iâll keep watch.â
He started to protest, then stopped, something shifting in his expression. âYouâll stay?â
âIâll stay.â
âAnd if somethingââ
âThen Iâll wake you up. But nothingâs going to happen, Steve. Itâs Sunday morning in Hawkins. The most dangerous thing happening right now is Dustinâs snoring.â
That got a small smile out of him. Tiny, but there.
âOkay,â he said finally. âOkay, but just for a couple hours.â
âHowever long you need.â
âA couple hours,â he insisted.
âSure, Steve. A couple hours.â
You both knew that was a lie, but he let you pull him to his feet anyway.
Steveâs bedroom was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with family photos that looked staged and impersonal. His room was surprisingly normalâa double bed with navy blue sheets that were actually made, a desk with homework heâd probably never finished scattered across it, a dresser with cologne and loose change on top. Posters on the walls: a couple of bands, a sports car, a Risky Business poster that made you snort.
âDonât,â Steve said.
âI didnât say anything.â
âYouâre thinking it really loud.â
âIâm just thinking that you have very interesting taste in movies.â
âEveryone loves that movie.â
âEveryone loves that scene from that movie. Thereâs a difference.â
He was too tired to argue, which was probably for the best. He just kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, face-first into the pillow.
âYouâre not even going to get under the covers?â you asked.
âToo much effort,â came his muffled response.
You rolled your eyes, grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, and threw it over him. He made a sound that mightâve been âthanksâ or mightâve been just general exhaustion.
âIâm setting an alarm,â he mumbled. âTwo hours.â
âYouâre not setting an alarm.â
âYes I am.â
âSteve, you can barely move.â
ââM fineâŠâ His words were already slurring. âJust⊠couple hoursâŠâ
You sat down on the edge of the bed, and his hand found yours in that automatic way that was becoming familiar. His fingers threaded through yours, holding on even as his breathing started to even out.
âStay?â he asked, barely conscious now.
âIâm staying.â
âGood. Thatâs⊠thatâs goodâŠâ
And then he was out.
Like actually, completely unconscious in the way only truly exhausted people can be. His face relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders, his hand still holding yours but looser now.
You shouldâve left. Shouldâve gone back downstairs, kept an eye on the kids, let Steve sleep without you sitting here like some kind of creepy sentinel.
But you stayed.
Because heâd asked you to. Because he looked so peaceful like this, more peaceful than youâd seen him in weeks. Because some part of you needed to make sure he was okay, even though you knew that was ridiculous.
So you sat on the edge of Steve Harringtonâs bed, holding his hand, watching the morning light creep through his window, and thought about how completely and utterly screwed you were.
You meant to stay for just a few minutes.
You really did.
But Steveâs bed was comfortable, and his hand was warm in yours, and you were so tired, and it had been such a long few weeks, and before you knew it you were listing sideways, then lying down on top of the covers next to him, and thenâ
You woke up to whispering.
Very loud, very obvious whispering that was clearly meant to be quiet but was failing spectacularly.
âOh my god.â
âDustin, shut upââ
âAre theyâtheyâre totallyââ
âIf you wake them up, Iâm going to kill you.â
âMax, we need photographic evidenceââ
Your eyes flew open.
Five kids were standing in Steveâs bedroom doorway, various expressions of delight, shock, and smugness on their faces. Dustin had a camera. Max was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Lucas looked vaguely uncomfortable. Mike seemed caught between amusement and horror. El just looked pleased.
It took you a second to remember where you were.
Steveâs bed. You were in Steveâs bed. Still on top of the covers, still fully clothed, but definitely, undeniably in Steveâs bed.
And Steveâ
Steve was pressed against your back, one arm slung over your waist, his face buried in your hair, still completely dead to the world.
Youâd fallen asleep.
Youâd both fallen asleep.
Cuddling.
âOh my god,â you whispered.
The camera flashed.
âDUSTIN!â
Steve jerked awake with a startled âWhatââ and immediately tried to sit up, which just resulted in him rolling off the bed and landing on the floor with a solid thud.
âOw. Fuck. Whatââ He was blinking rapidly, hair sticking up in every direction, looking completely disoriented. Then he saw the kids. âWhat the hell are you all doing in my room?â
âBearing witness,â Dustin said solemnly.
âWitnessing what?â
âYour feelings,â Max said, like it was obvious.
Steve looked at you, still lying on his bed. You looked back at Steve, currently on his floor. Both of you were blushing so hard you probably looked sunburned.
âThis isnât what it looks like,â Steve tried.
âIt looks like you two were cuddling,â Lucas said.
âWe werenâtâwe were justâshe wasââ
âI was making sure he slept,â you said, finally finding your voice and sitting up. âThatâs it. He hasnât been sleeping, so I made sure he actually slept for once.â
âBy cuddling,â Dustin said.
âBy staying in the roomââ
âWhile cuddling.â
âWe werenât cuddling!â
âYou literally had your arm around her, Steve,â Mike pointed out.
Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. âI was asleep! I didnât knowâI wasnât consciouslyââ
âSo you unconsciously cuddled,â Max said. âThatâs actually even better. That means itâs instinct.â
âOh my god,â you said, dropping your face into your hands.
âOh my god,â Steve echoed, still on the floor.
El stepped forward from the group, and everyone went quiet. When El wanted to say something, people listened.
She looked at Steve, then at you, then back at Steve.
âItâs okay,â she said simply. âWe already knew.â
âKnew what?â Steve asked warily.
âThat you like each other.â
âWe donâtââ you started.
âYou do,â El said, with the kind of certainty only El could have. âItâs obvious. Youâre always together. You look at each other a lot. Steve makes you coffee the way you like it without asking. You fixed his jacket collar on Tuesday. Mike does the same thing with me.â
Mikeâs face went red. âElââ
âItâs nice,â El continued, ignoring him. âYou should just tell each other.â
The room went silent.
You were pretty sure youâd stopped breathing.
Steve was staring at El like sheâd just announced she could read mindsâwhich, honestly, maybe she could. You wouldnât put it past her at this point.
âIââ Steve started, then seemed to lose all his words.
You werenât doing much better. Your brain had just completely shut down. Blue-screened. Error 404, thoughts not found.
Dustin cleared his throat. âSo, uh, just to confirm for the records: are you two dating orâŠ?â
âNo!â you and Steve said simultaneously.
âBut you want to be,â Max said. It wasnât a question.
More silence.
Lucas whispered to Dustin: âI think we broke them.â
âOkay!â you said, suddenly finding the ability to move again and standing up from the bed. âOkay, this has been a delightful morning ambush, but I think itâs time for everyone to go back downstairs. Now.â
âButââ Dustin started.
âNow, Henderson.â
âFine, but this conversation isnât over!â he said as Max physically dragged him out of the room.
Lucas and Mike followed, Mike still looking embarrassed but unable to hide his smile. El was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back at both of you.
âItâs okay to be happy,â she said quietly. âYou both deserve that.â
And then she was gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Leaving you and Steve alone.
In his bedroom.
After youâd been caught cuddling.
After El had basically announced to everyone that you had feelings for each other.
âSo,â Steve said from the floor.
âSo,â you echoed.
âThat happened.â
âYep.â
âEl might be psychic.â
âThat would explain a lot, actually.â
He laughedâsharp and surprisedâand then pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. âIâm sorry. I didnât mean toâI was asleep, I didnât know Iââ
âSteve, itâs fine.â
âItâs not fine, you were just trying to help and I made it weirdââ
âYou didnât make it weird.â
âI literally cuddled you in my sleep!â
âUnconscious cuddling doesnât count!â
âHow does unconscious cuddling not count?!â
âBecauseââ You stopped, took a breath. This was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous. âBecause I didnât mind.â
Steve froze. âYou⊠didnât?â
âNo. I didnât.â Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. âDid you?â
âDid I what?â
âMind. Would you have minded? If youâd been awake?â
He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched his expression shift through about seven different emotions before landing on something that looked like determination.
âNo,â he said finally. âI wouldnât have minded.â
Oh.
Oh.
âOkay,â you said.
âOkay?â
âYeah. Okay.â
You were standing in the middle of Steveâs bedroom, the morning sun streaming through the window, kids probably eavesdropping on the other side of the door, having the most awkward conversation of your entire life.
And somehow, it was perfect.
âSo,â Steve said, taking a step closer. âEl thinks we like each other.â
âApparently.â
âAnd that we should tell each other.â
âThatâs what she said.â
âAnd you didnât disagree with her.â
Your mouth went dry. âNeither did you.â
He took another step closer, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his eyes again, close enough that you could count the moles on his neck, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.
âI really want to kiss you right now,â he said, voice low and rough and honest.
Your breath caught. âYeah?â
âYeah. But I also really donât want our first kiss to happen right after I fell off a bed and got ambushed by teenagers, soââ
You kissed him.
Just leaned up and closed the distance and pressed your mouth to his, cutting off his rambling in the best possible way.
For half a second, he froze, surprised. Then he made this small sound in the back of his throat and kissed you back, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure and perfect.
It was soft. Careful. A little bit awkward because all first kisses were a little bit awkward, but also somehow exactly right.
When you pulled back, Steveâs eyes were still closed, his lips curved into a smile.
âOkay,â he breathed. âOkay, that wasââ
âYeah.â
âWe should probablyââ
âYeah.â
âBut later, right? We can talk about this later?â
âDefinitely later.â
His smile widened, and then he kissed you again, quick and sweet, before stepping back. âOkay. Okay, cool. That happened.â
âIt did.â
âAnd youâreâyouâre okay with that?â
âSteve, I literally just kissed you. Yes, Iâm okay with that.â
âRight. Yeah. Okay.â He was grinning like an idiot now, and it was possibly the cutest thing youâd ever seen. âWe should probably go deal with the kids before they break something.â
Summary: Johnny Storm was many things. Hot headed, shameless flirt, and your bosses younger brother. But, what happens when you realize there is more lurking beneath the baby blues and charisma? Someone intelligent, thoughtful and maybe even a bit bashful... (No use of y/n)
Warnings: lonliness, tooth rotting fluff, Johnny is that perfect blend of soft/uncertain/scoundarl, office sex, desk breaking, don't get to blow a load but I think it's better this way...
Word Count: 25,000+ (I got carried away...)
Author's Note: Couldn't help myself after seeing it a second time for my birthday. You are getting Johnny round two. Loosely inspired by the vibes of Hozier's "that you are", because I was feeling soft and slow and easing one's self into love. Enjoy folks.
How could someone be so utterly wrong about another person?
Perhaps it wasnât all intentional. Bias was unavoidable to a degree. Woven into human nature as certain at times as our hair color or eye color. We built our opinions from scraps of known information, shaped by learned behavior and the neat little patterns our brains insisted on seeing. It was biology to use that information in order to protect oneself from harm. And it certainly didnât help that the temporary promotion came with a gentle but pointed warning from Mrs. Richards herselfâŠ
âI need to warn you about something that comes along with the territory the next few monthsââ
âI think Iâm prepared to handle the jobâs tasks,â she interjected, aiming for a mix of humility and quiet confidence in her abilities.
âOh, itâs nothing to do with your skills,â Sue assured, though her pause lingered a fraction too long. Ever the diplomat, she weighed each word with care, as if balancing her professionalism against the instincts of an older sister.
âJohnny isâŠâ Sueâs eyes softened, but there was something underneath. An almost imperceptible flicker of concern. âA handful.â The warning hung in the air, far heavier than the casual delivery suggested. A handful could mean many things. Immature. Demanding. Reckless. Charming in that dangerous sort of way. And yet, no amount of quiet bracing could have prepared her for the moment he actually walked in.
The door swung open like it had been waiting for his entrance, and if his sisterâs comment had summoned him. The faint scent of motor oil and something faintly burnt drifted in with him. He wore the grin of someone whoâd never been told no. A confidence in his step that made it feel like he knew the entire world stopped and stared at him alone. âHey, Sueââ his gaze slid, easy and unhurried, until it caught on her.Â
Sue gestured between them. âJohnny, this isââ
âThe temporary assistant,â he finished for her, stepping forward without hesitation. âIâve heard plenty about you.â His handshake was warm, literally, and he held it for half a beat too long, grin deepening like he wanted to see what it would take to make her blush.
âI hope it was all relevant to the job,â she replied, meeting his eyes with the same measured steadiness sheâd use in a boardroom. Her tone wasnât cold, but not open either; it was precise, like every word had passed inspection before leaving her mouth.
Johnny tilted his head, studying her. âGuess weâll find out.â
She withdrew her hand, smoothing the edge of her clipboard against her palm. âIf thereâs anything you need work-related, you can go through me. Otherwise, Iâll be coordinating with Mrs. Richards directly.â
âOh, I think weâll be talking plenty,â he said with an easy wink. It was the kind of gesture most people would let linger in the air. She didnât.
âAs much as the job requires, Mr. Storm.â Her nod was crisp, professional.
âPlease, call me Johnny.â
âI prefer to keep things professional in the workplace,â she said evenly. âIt helps maintain clarity.â
âYeah, see, thatâs not going to work for me,â he said, grin leaning more boyish at that moment.
Sue stayed quiet, her expression unreadable. As if deliberately letting the moment stand. It was both proof of the warning sheâd given moments ago and a silent test to see how her new assistant would handle the man in question. Luckily, the charms of the Human Torch seemingly missed. Without missing a beat she replied, âThen weâll just have to disagree on the matter until you give me a real reason to adjust to informality.â
Johnnyâs eyebrows lifted, and for the briefest moment, amusement and curiosity sparked in his eyes like a struck match. âWell,â he said, leaning back just enough to suggest heâd conceded without actually conceding, âguess Iâll just have to earn the downgrade to âJohnny.ââ
âHighly unlikely, given this arrangement is only through the duration of Mrs. Jonesâs maternity leave,â she replied, tone even. âHowever, I canât dictate how you choose to spend your time, Mr. Storm.â
âA challenge.â His grin sharpened, all boyish confidence. âI like that.â
âOkay, Johnny,â Sue cut in, her voice edged with older-sister authority. âThatâs enough harassing the poor girl.â
âI reject that. Iâm not harassing.â He scoffed, looking at the woman mouthing can you believe her, only to be met with an unamused shrug.Â
âGo.â Sueâs tone was flat, firm. It was the kind that brooked no argument.
âLeaving.â He tipped his head toward her in mock salute, then glanced back at the assistant. âPleasure meeting you, Sweetheart. Iâll see you around.â And with that, heâd left as casually as heâd arrived, like the interruption had been nothing more than a warm-up act.
Thus began a steady procession of small, unavoidable run-ins with the man. The first came during her opening week on the job. Sue suggested a short trip back across town to the Baxter Building. Something small to act as a private celebration before Tabithaâs send-off to bed rest ahead of her little oneâs arrival. Just the three of them, some bakery pastries, and coffee spread across the couch in the quiet living area.
The peace lasted all of ten minutes.
âAlright,â came a voice from the elevator, carrying the particular brand of mischief that seemed to announce him before he actually appeared. âI return the galactically powered menace to your watchful eye. After letting him skip nap time and pumping him full of sugar.â A blond head poked its head into the living space, eyes lighting up as they saw her. âOh, speaking of sugarâŠâ
Johnny strolled in like he owned the floor beneath him, Franklin perched easily in his arms. The toddlerâs little sneakers bounced against Johnnyâs side with every step, the boy practically vibrating from whatever sugar-laced adventure theyâd just had. Judging by the spark in Johnnyâs eyes, he himself was in a similar state.
âJohnny,â Sue scoffed, already sensing the trouble before it unfolded.
âWhat?â He grinned, all innocence that didnât fool anyone. âI gotta beat Ben at being the Funcle.â
âHowâs my favorite non robotic assistant?â heâs eyes darted to Sueâs regularly staffed assistant who looked at him unamused. âNo offense Tabby,â He told her as she rolled her eyes, hands settling on her swollen belly.
âGood afternoon, Mr. Storm,â Sueâs newest charge replied evenly, offering him the same professional nod she had the first time theyâd met.
Johnny grinned, as if her resistance was the best thing that had happened to him all week. âYâknow, most people wouldâve cracked by now. Youâre starting to make me nervous.â When she didnât respond to his comment he continued. âGuess Iâll just have to find another way to win you over. Maybe Franklin can help.â
At the sound of his name, Franklin beamed at her and held out a tiny hand. She reached forward and shook it gently, the faintest smile touching her lips. âSee that? He likes you already,â Johnny said, shifting his hold on the toddler. âAnd the kidâs got great instincts.â Sue made a quiet, knowing sound from her corner of the couch, and Tabitha sipped her coffee to hide a grin.
The assistant straightened, folding her hands neatly in her lap. âInstincts aside, Iâm sure Franklinâs affections are much easier to earn than mine.â
Johnnyâs brows were lifted in a mock challenge. âWeâll see about that.â
Sue cut in, her voice warm but pointed. âJohnnyâŠâ
âWhat? Iâm just talking,â Johnny said innocently, bouncing Franklin on his hip with practiced ease. The toddler let out another gleeful squeal, arms flailing in delight. Johnny's eyes, however, lingered on the young woman next to him on the sofa. That ever-present smirk playing at his lips never wavering. âWeâve got months, Sweetheart,â he added, voice dropping just slightly, just enough. âIâm a patient guy.â
His gaze flicked toward the coffee table. Years of living with Sue had trained him not to ask before grabbing what he assumed was fair game. Especially with a toddler in the mix. In the Baxter Building, "what's mine is yours" was practically law between the Storm siblings. So, without a second thought, he reached out and snagged the to-go cup resting beside a stack of picture books and spare pacifiers. He popped the lid, took a confident sip... and immediately regretted it.
Instead of the lightly sweetened, milky, vanilla thing Sue usually drank, he was hit with a full blast of unadulterated espresso: jet black, no sugar, extra strong. He paused mid-sip, visibly tensing like someone whoâd just been punched in the taste buds.
Sue caught sight of him and let out a sharp breath. âJohnnyââ
He grimaced, forced the liquid down with theatrical suffering, then stuck his tongue out like a scolded child. âWho drinks this willingly?â he rasped, eyes watering. âThis isnât coffee, itâs punishment in a cup.â
Setting the drink down with exaggerated caution, he glanced back at the woman, her amusement clearly growing behind her smirk. Something ignited in his stomach watching as her less than rigid act came at his displeasure. The first time sheâd let down the professional act even for a moment.
Johnny leaned in, tilting his head, his grin finding new life. âYou know,â he said, voice smooth now, âa girl who drinks coffee like that... probably needs a little sweetness in her life.â He let the words hang, just long enough to be felt before flashing her the kind of grin that usually came with a warning label. âLucky for you, Iâm happy to provide...â
âOut.â Sueâs voice cut through the air, firm and unforgiving as she extended her arms toward Franklin. Her expression left no room for argument, just the steady authority of an older sister whoâd long since run out of patience for Johnnyâs antics. Johnny raised his hands in surrender, already backing toward the door, mischief practically radiating off him. But as he stepped away, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, eyes locking onto the woman again.
With a wink and that signature smirk, he added, âRain check on the Sweetness. Donât think youâre getting out of it. Iâll wear you down eventually.â
He hadnât been entirely wrong, either. Because it wasnât long after that moment that he surprised her. Not with another joke, or a ridiculous stunt, but with something far more disarming.
Three days. Thatâs all it had taken. Three days into managing the carefully coordinated chaos of Sue Stormâs professional life, and she was already debating whether or not she should fake her own death and vanish into the mountains. Tabitha had officially left for maternity leave and the mess left behind had fallen squarely into her lap. She was doing her best not to buckle under the pressure, holed up in the adjoining office, a fortress of to-do lists, unanswered messages, and too many events to cram into someone elseâs schedule. Sue Storm really was Mrs. Fantastic, if she managed this much on a normal basis.Â
A vinyl record spinning low in the corner, some vintage jazz number meant to soothe her fraying nerves. It almost worked. Until the faint murmur of voices in the hallway reached her. It was barely noticeable over the gentle crackle of the record, but enough to prick her ears. Then: a knock. Polite. A beat too casual. Followed by the door opening anyway. She didnât look up, figuring it was Sue, back early from her meeting. But the footsteps were too light, too familiar in their rhythm. Then a voice.
âMan, you look tense, Doll.â
She blinked, then raised her head. Johnny Storm stood next to her desk, grinning like heâd just stumbled upon something far more interesting than whatever his day had originally held. Her glasses were crooked. Hair a mess from her anxious fingers running through it all morning. She knew she looked a wreck. Not the kind of way anyone wants to be caught in, and especially not in front of him. But then again, he was just her bossâs younger brother. Still, the sting of his observation made her wince.
âWay to make a lady feel great about herself, Mr. Storm,â she said, voice dry as paper. The apology started to form on her lips, soft and automatic. âIâmââ
But he laughed. A real, unpolished sound that came from somewhere deep in his chest. It hit the walls of the office and filled the space entirely, as it worked to clear out the tension just a little. âNo, no, youâre right,â he grinned, holding up his hands in theatrical surrender as perched himself on the only empty corner of her cluttered desk. âI mean, Iâve been waiting to see a crack in that ironclad wall of yours,â he said, head tilted as he looked down at her, not with judgment, but with curiosity. âGotta say, I like it.â
âNot much in here that lets me know more about you,â he said after a beat, voice thoughtful. âI thought Iâd come do some recon, but looks like all you dragged up here was some music.â He gestured toward the corner, where the record player spun something low and moody. All smoke and soft brass, filling the spaces where words mightâve been too much.
She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of his comment. For once there hadnât been teasing. Just⊠genuine curiosity. Still, she shrugged, returning to her screen without really seeing it. âThereâs not much to know,â she said lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. âJust a girl trying not to drown in Sue Richardâs impossibly packed schedule.â
In her tone she tried to push off the soft, dismissive, nature with her practiced kind of armor. She wasnât sure if she wanted to be known. Not here. Not by him. But Johnny didnât push. Instead, he sat something onto the desk beside her keyboard with a quiet thunk. A to-go cup.
Her eyes flicked to it, then to him. He nodded to it without a word, his eyes effectively saying for you. Sheâd been expecting, instinctively, something saccharine and ridiculous. A caramel swirl monstrosity with six sugars and whipped cream, and enough milk to supply a whole maternity ward. A callback to his over-sweetened preferences, that time heâd drank from her cup when heâd assumed it Sueâs.
But the cup was plain. The aroma sharp. She lifted it slowly, cautious and took a sip. Dark. Strong. Bitter. Exactly the way she drank it. Her brows lifted, just slightly, and for once, words didnât come easily. She glanced at him, surprised, and found him watching her with a small, satisfied smirk. Not smug. Just⊠pleased. âDidnât think Iâd get it right?â he asked, a playful edge to his voice, though his posture hadnât shifted.
She blinked once, then set the cup down gently, fingers lingering on the warmth. âHonestly?â she said, glancing back at him. âNo.â
âWell,â Johnny leaned back slightly, bracing his hands behind him on the edge of her desk, his posture relaxed, but his grin anything but. âWhat can I say? Iâm full of surprises.â
And damn him, he was. His words tugged at something in her chest. Something small and inconvenient and far too easily stirred. She hated that it caught her off guard, hated more that he didnât seem to notice the ripple his presence left behind. His gaze had already shifted, roaming over the cluttered corners of her office again with idle interest, like he was seeing it for the first time.
âYou know,â he added casually, âyou should really make this space yours. At least for now. Studies say people work better when their environment actually feels like them.â
She huffed a small breath through her nose. âIâll bear that in mind.â
Johnny straightened then, clapping his hand lightly against the desk as he stood. âAnyway. Iâm off. Some charity golf thing. Sunshine, cameras, pretending I know what a nine iron is. You know how it is.â
She offered him a glance, amused, maybe even a little reluctant to see him go, but it was brief. Controlled. âThank you,â she said softly, fingers curling around the warm cup still nestled beside her keyboard. âFor the coffee, Mr. Storm.â
He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair as he turned toward the door. âOne of these days,â he tossed over his shoulder, âit better be just Johnny.â And with that, he disappeared, leaving behind the faint scent of his cologne, the lingering heat of the espresso, and an absence she suddenly wasnât sure she was thrilled to notice.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
Saturdays were sacred. Or at least they were supposed to be. A quiet little corner carved out of her week, untouched by phones ringing or emergency scheduling changes. No Sue, no international crisis, no chaos in superhero suits. Just her and the worn spines of old books, the scent of paper and dust, the ritual comfort of a place that didnât expect her to perform.
The shop was tucked away. Not the sleek chain store down the block, but a tiny, tucked-in independent with uneven floors and the kind of silence that invited exhale. She came here often enough that the owner, a soft-spoken man with thick glasses and a deep love for Victorian ghost stories, knew her name. She was halfway down the second-floor fiction aisle, a stack of paperbacks already under one arm, when a voice spoke from just behind her. âDidnât peg you for a poetry girl.â
She froze. Turned. And there he was. Johnny Storm, of all people, standing a few feet away, sunglasses pushed into his hair making it look disheveled, a to-go coffee cup in hand, and the most unbothered expression sheâd ever seen him wear. He was in jeans. A white shirt. Some kind of casual jacket. Not the polished charm of his media persona, not the gleam of a man trying to impress. Just⊠a guy. In a bookstore. On a Saturday morning before most of the city bothered to be awake.
She blinked at him. âYouâre kidding.â
âWhat, because I know the British romantics?" he grinned, stepping closer and casually leaning against the shelf. âGive me a little credit. I read things. I went to college. I suffered through English class. Birds and mountains, all that jazz.â
âI bet you pretended to read them. Or got some girl in your class to give you the bullet points ahead of class with that charming smile.â
He laughed and held up a hand in mock defeat. âGuilty. But seriously, Rime of the Ancient Mariner?â he nodded at the book in her hand. âYou into seriously ruining the vibes of a wedding?â
âIâm into the classics,â she said, slipping it into her stack.
âWell,â he said, with a half-smile, âguess Iâve been categorizing you under the wrong genre.â
She raised a brow, skeptical. âWhat genre did you have me under?â
He sipped his coffee, thinking for a beat. âNon-fiction,â he said finally. âSharp, efficient. All structure, no fluff. Certainly not poetry.â
She snorted before she could help it, and regretted it instantly when his smile brightened like heâd just won a bet with himself. âI try to be professional,â she said, mostly to herself.
âAnd youâre great at it,â Johnny replied, surprising her with the sincerity behind the words. âBut Iâd like to assume thereâs more to you than lists and calendar reminders.â
Her arms tightened around her books, something about his tone striking too close to something she hadnât let herself think about in months. That sheâd built her entire life around being useful. Efficient. The calm in someone elseâs storm, and somewhere along the way lost a bit of the things she found enjoyable. It was hard to have a life when the majority of your working life revolved around keeping someone else afloat. âShouldnât you be at some event?â she asked, shifting the subject, her voice steady again. âShaking hands, lighting things on fire for charity?â
He shrugged. âNeeded a reset. My therapist says I have to find quiet places that don't come with a camera pointed at me.â
That surprised her. Enough that she glanced up from the shelves of gently loved books in front of her. âYou have a therapist?â
âWhy does everyone sound so shocked when I say that?â he laughed. âIâve seen things. Fought things. Spend quite a bit of time on fire. That can mess with the mind Iâll admit. Sue cried the day I voluntarily booked my first session.â
She laughed, and he smiled like that had been the goal all along. Then he held out the coffee in his hand. âTrade you. You recommend a book Iâll pretend Iâll finish, and Iâll give you this, on the condition I get something that doesnât taste like battery acid in return.â
She eyed the cup with suspicion. âWhat is it?â
âStraight espresso,â he said, lifting it like a dare. âNo sugar, no cream. Iâm branching out. Figured if you drink enough of this stuff to kill a man, it must be worth the risk. Spoiler alert: itâs not. It's still crime in a cup.â
She brought the cup to her lips again, pretending not to notice how easily he left it behind in her hands, like it was second nature to share. Like the fact that his mouth had touched it before hers wasnât worth remarking on. Not that it mattered. Sheâd drunk after him once before. This just felt⊠different.
Her eyes followed him as he drifted toward the shelves, one hand brushing the spines like they might give him the answer to some quiet question. No rush. No bravado. Just a guy wandering a bookstore like the world outside wasnât made of crime, gossip columns and headlines. Then she recalled his request. Something for him to read.Â
Johnny Storm didnât strike her as the kind of man who read often, and certainly not by choice. There was too much velocity in him, too much need for movement and distraction. She imagined him more of a fan of the cinemas than novels. There was strong doubt he sat still long enough to fall into a story unless the pages were filled with action or something lude. And so, she'd never quite assigned him a literary genre in her mind. No tidy label. No easy shelf to place him on.
Something accessible seemed safer, palatable, maybe even charming in its simplicity. So by the time he returned, a faint grin curving his mouth, one hand cradling a new cup of something more suited to his taste, the other tucked coyly behind his back like it contained a secret, she already had a book waiting in her hands.
She wasnât entirely sure what made her reach for that particular one. Maybe it was a quiet rebellion against his reputation. A subconscious test, curious to see how he'd handle a story that offered less escape and more reflection. One with a title that might resemble a mirror. Maybe she simply liked the way it looked, worn and quietly tragic among the glossier titles. Whatever the reason, she held it out between them.
The Beautiful and Damned. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. âThis isnât some cryptic signal for me to back off, is it?â
She shook her head, lips twitching. âNot unless it needs to be, Mr. Storm.â
Johnny turned the book over in his hands, scanning the blurb with a surprisingly thoughtful glance. âRead Gatsby a while back. Liked it more than I thought I would. Iâm sure itâs good. Thanks for the recommendation.â Then, without missing a beat, âWhich brings me to my much more superior suggestion for you.â
She tilted her head. âWhat do you mean, your suggestion for me?â
âIâm giving you a book rec. Equal exchange. A little literary diplomacy if you will. We read, we reconvene, we give each other another and so on.â Something about that phrasing caught her off-guard. We reconvene. Casual, natural. Like it wasnât strange at all. Like they were just two friends with overlapping routines and not⊠whatever this was. It wasnât quite friendship, was it? And it certainly wasnât nothing.
A quiet discomfort flickered at the edge of her thoughts. It was all a little too casual, too familiar. Too easy. She worked for his sister, after all. There were boundaries, werenât there? Unspoken, maybe, but understood. Sue had never forbidden anything, never drawn a line in the sand. Her only warnings had been gently pragmatic: that Johnny could be a lot. Loud. Reckless. The type who flirted with beautiful women because he didnât know how not to.
But sheâd never said stay away.
Before she could dwell on it too long, Johnny was already extending the book toward her with something like pride glittering in his eyes. The Blazing World, by Margaret Cavendish. Her brows lifted slightly, surprised by the choice. A name she didnât recognize. A curious blend of science fiction, philosophy, poetry and in ambitious prose. Strange and brilliant in ways that rarely showed up on casual reading lists, and even fell through the cracks of scholarly work.
She took it slowly, fingers brushing his as they passed the slim volume between them. His skin was warm, unsurprisingly, given he carried the sunâs power in his body. She let her thumb skim the edge of the pages, not yet opening it. Her voice came quiet, more contemplative than she'd expected. âYouâve read this?â
âIâve attempted to read it,â he said, a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. âDidnât get far. But I liked the idea of it. Worlds colliding. A woman building her own Empire. Seemed like something youâd appreciate more than I could.â The comment caught her off guard. Not because it was simply flattering, but because it wasâŠobservant. It showed his understanding of her tastes, given the little information he had on her, and provided a thoughtful recommendation. It almost made her feel sheepish, given sheâd picked something off best sellers lists to pass along to him, where heâd put in more effort.
She glanced up at him, studying the way he leaned back slightly, letting her set the tone. No teasing. No firework smile. Just him, standing there, strangely sincere beneath all that practiced bravado. âIt seems weird,â she said finally, thumbing the cover. âBut brilliant. The kind of thing Iâd stumble upon.â
He grinned again. âSounds like I provided a better suggestion,.â
She tried not to laugh but didnât quite succeed, and he looked far too pleased with himself. They stood there a moment longer than necessary, the space between them a breath too close, books cradled like offerings in their hands. Then, casually he said, âSo. Same time next week? For the post-mortem?â
She blinked. âYouâre seriously going to read it?â
He shrugged, but there was something steady in his eyes. âI said Iâd try. BesidesâŠâ He nodded toward The Beautiful and Damned in his hand. âFeels like the kind of deal you donât back out of.â
She smiled. It was small, restrained, but real. âSame time,â she said softly before she could overthink how unprofessional it was to be seeing her bossâs brother on a familiar basis. It was the kind of thing sheâd scold herself for⊠later.Â
He offered a mock salute before turning to leave. He didnât bother her after passing a few bills to the owner. Didn't even turn back around. She could hear the bell above the door jangling as he stepped out into the late afternoon light. She watched him go, unsure what it meant. If it meant anything at all. But with the book still clutched in her hands, she tried not to dwell. And when she finally cracked open the cover, she found herself smiling.
Not because of the words on the page. But because, against every reasonable assumption, Johnny Storm had just surprised her.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
The office lights were too bright when she came back in. The kind of artificial white that bleached out time and made everything feel faintly unreal. Her meeting had run over, leaving her with a dull headache and the vague sense that sheâd forgotten something important, though she couldn't name what. She set her folder down with a muted thud, shrugging off her coat before freezing mid-motion.
There was something on her desk. Not just something. A book. She recognized it immediately. The worn, wine-colored cover. The familiar weight of it in her memory. The Beautiful and Damned. Only, this copy wasnât hers. Hers had never been dog-eared like that, the spine a little more cracked now than before, the corners softened as if handled too often in too short a time. She stared at it, unmoving. A note mightâve made it easier. An explanation. Even a dumb sticky note with Told you Iâd finish it in his cocky handwriting wouldâve fit the narrative sheâd built for him in her head. But there was no note. Just the book, left deliberately.
Slowly, she pulled out her chair and sat down. The silence of the office folded around her. When she opened the cover, her breath caught. The margins were full of ink. Not dense, frantic scribbles or anything that suggested pretense. Just... notes. Small, blocky handwriting in black pen. He hadnât annotated passages with inherent rhyme or reason or filled every blank space. Heâd written where it seemed to strike his fancy.
She flipped to a random page.
âThis guy's self-pity could power the city grid.â
âDoes Gloria actually like him or is she just bored?â
âThis part⊠hits harder than I wanted it to.â
She turned another page. Then another. Every few leaves, thereâd be another brief line in the margins. Some funny. Some startlingly intelligent. Some⊠vulnerable in a way that made her heart trip a little in her chest. Not because they were bold confessions, but because they werenât. They were insights. Real glimpses into how his mind worked. Heâd read it. Not skimmed, but truly read it. In a matter of days. And heâd thought about it. Enough to leave pieces of his perspective tucked between the lines.Â
She wasn't sure what she had expected from him on Saturday. Maybe a careless toss of the book back into her hands, some joke about the slow downfall of rich people, a sarcastic rating. But not this. Not a thoughtful connection with the literature. Not ink on paper. Not something left behind, with no need for acknowledgement or using it as an excuse to harass her at work. Just a quiet answer to a question she hadnât realized sheâd been asking.
There was more to Johnny Storm than he truly let on.Â
Her eyes drifted back to the desk. Nothing else was left with it. But there was something in the way the book had been placed deliberately there without spectacle. Like he wanted her to find it. Like he wanted her to notice. But he didnât want to be around when she flipped through it. The realization was almost endearing in a way. Perhaps he wasnât fully confident with the situation after all.
She leaned back in her chair, the book still open in her lap. The office buzzed faintly around her, but she didnât hear it. Instead, she felt the weight of those pages, of everything between the lines. And for the first time in a long while, she didnât know what to do with that kind of sincerity.
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The bookstore was quieter than usual. No light filtered through the front windows, not with the snow falling outside. And the cold shift in weather seemingly kept everyone away. A coffee grinder rumbled briefly before dying into stillness. The smell of cinnamon and old pages curled in the air. She was already in the same aisle when he found her, pretending to browse, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a book she wasnât reading.
âHey,â came his voice, softer than usual.
She looked up. Johnny stood a few steps away, hair slightly windblown, coffee in one hand, the other shoved casually into the pocket of his jacket. He didnât look like someone who set things on fire for a living. Here, he just looked... a little uncertain. Maybe even a little hopeful. He nodded toward her, then toward the shelves. âSo. Did you finish it?â
It took her a beat to register the question. She gave a small nod, folding her arms. âI did.â
A pause. He took it in stride, stepping closer, careful not to get too close. âAnd?â
She tilted her head, fingers still resting on that forgotten book beside her. âIt was strange,â she said finally. âDense. Messy. Ahead of its time. Kind of brilliant. Kind of exhausting.â
A small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. âSo... you loved it.â
âI didnât say that.â
âYou didnât have to.â
She rolled her eyes, but softly. âWhat made you pick it?â
He shrugged. âI remembered the title from an old lecture back in college. Seemed like itâd match your energy. A woman building her Empire and all, with that dramatic energy of hers.â
That pulled a laugh from her, and she tried not to internally scold herself for the involuntary nature of it. âYou think I have dramatic energy?â
âI think you build your own world,â he said, too quickly, before glancing away like he hadnât meant to say it aloud. âOr, you know. Something like that.â
The silence that followed wasnât uncomfortable. Just... charged. She watched the way he sipped his coffee, how his fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed something sure to ground himself in the moment. âI liked the annotations,â she said after a moment. âYou are actually funny when you arenât trying too hard.â
âI canât say I get that a lot,â he said, but the smile was modest. No fireworks. No bravado. He looked at her then and for a second she didnât feel like she was standing in a bookstore at all. Just suspended, caught between the margin of something she hadnât named yet and something he wasnât forcing her to.
He gestured toward a nearby display. âOkay. Your turn.â
âFor what?â
âNew picks,â he said. âIâm clearly on a streak. Iâll try not to ruin it.â
She raised an eyebrow. âIs this becoming a regular thing now?â
He gave a half-shrug, half-smile. âOnly if you want it to be.â
The words hung in the space between them, casual on the surface, but landing somewhere far less casual inside her. He said it with the same ease he said most things, like nothing mattered too much, like no moment was ever heavy enough to be held too tightly. But now, with him standing just behind her, following her lead as she turned down a quieter aisle, she couldnât quite ignore the way her thoughts tangled around the simplicity of it.
Only if you want it to be.
What did she want it to be?
She let her fingers trail the shelves, touching covers she didnât read, spines she didnât care about. Searching. A book for him, that was the task. Another title. Another exchange. Something witty or unexpected. Something that said I see more in you without actually saying anything at all.
And yet her mind refused to focus. Because now, the game felt different. Slightly altered in its stakes. It had been harmless, hadnât it? Originally just a test to see what he was made of. Now it could be a flirtation wrapped in pages and margins, passed between them like a secret handshake. Now it felt like she was making choices with weight. Choosing a book meant choosing how much to show. What version of herself she wanted him to hold in his hands. How much of her growing appreciation for him sheâd let on.
Behind her, she could hear the subtle shift of his footsteps as he paused somewhere down the aisle. Not crowding her. Not pushing. Just⊠waiting. As if he knew better than to fill the silence too soon. She pulled a title from the shelf, turned it over, and put it back. Too grim. Another. Too ridiculous. Another. Too transparent.
How did you find the perfect book for someone who was suddenly no longer a passing curiosity? What does he see when he looks at me? The question slipped in before she could stop it. It wasnât that she needed an answer. But lately, the way he watched her when he thought she wasnât paying attention, it was quieter than the Johnny Storm sheâd been warned about. No charming remarks. No obvious lines. Just these brief, disarming glances. Like he was trying to understand her.
And now here she was, stalling in front of the fiction section. Like what she picked for him could open or close a door she hadnât even decided she wanted to walk through. She glanced sideways, found him leaning lightly against the end of the shelf, idly flipping through something he hadnât really chosen. He looked relaxed. At ease. He was watching her, eyes lifting from the pages every so often to her, then back down. Not like he was even particularly curious about the outcome. Just... present. There. Noticing. She turned back to the shelves, pulse ticking louder than it shouldâve. Eventually, her fingers settled on a slim paperback. One she remembered liking years ago but hadnât thought about since. She turned, holding it out to him before her mind could make her lose the nerve.Â
Johnny took it, thumb brushing the edge of the cover, then flipping through a few pages like he was testing the weight of it. âFrom the Earth to the Moon, huh? Any particular reason?â
She hesitated, then lifted a shoulder. âSue mentioned once that you liked space. Said it was your first love. Probably would be your last.â
That pulled a faint smile from him, the crooked and boyish kind, but something flickered behind it. He leaned into the shelf beside him, posture casual but gaze a little more focused now, the book still resting open in his hand. âAsking my sister about me,â he said, voice lighter than the look he gave her. âNow thatâs unexpectedly personal.â
âI wasnât asking about you,â she replied, too quickly, too defensively. âShe mentioned it, and I simply cataloged the information.â Her voice was clipped, her posture a touch too stiff. Like sheâd said more than she meant to and was trying to shrink it back into something neutral.
But he didnât tease her for it. Didnât grin or throw out some easy line the way she expected. He just watched her. Not with judgment, but with something far more subtle. Curiosity, maybe. Or understanding. She couldn't tell. He flipped the book closed with one hand, the soft sound of the pages coming together. âWell,â he said at last, eyes flicking to the cover, âitâs a good pick. Youâre not wrong, by the way. About space.â
She raised an eyebrow, surprised he was still on that thought. âI used to memorize the constellations,â he continued, more to the book than to her. âCould name them all before I hit eight. Used to think the stars made more sense than people did.â
That last line hung there, a small piece of himself that was unguarded. Like it had slipped past his usual filter of flirtation. She didnât say anything right away. Just watched the way he shifted his weight, his free hand sliding into the pocket of his jacket, like maybe he regretted the truth of it.
âYou donât think that anymore?â she asked, carefully.
âI think,â he said, glancing up again, âthat the older you get, the harder it is to look up. So much happening around you, all the responsibility of being an adult, it leaves little room for those daydreams of distant stars.â He said it like it wasnât profound. Like it didnât carry a weight that caught her off guard.
Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, aching to fidget, to ground herself in something tangible. Instead, she said, âThatâs why I picked the book. Thought maybe you could use a reminder of simpler times.â
That made him smile again. âIâll read it,â he said, voice low. âPromise.â She gave a small nod, unsure what else to do with the weight of him looking at her like that. Like she wasnât just a person passing through his orbit, but something fixed. A point of gravity. Then, thankfully, he broke the moment. âAlright,â he said, tucking the book under his arm. âI owe you one now. You want to cry, laugh, or question the futility of existence?â
She smirked faintly, relief bleeding into the expression. âDealerâs choice.â
âOkay,â he said, a little breathless, like he was admitting something that might cost him. âIâll confess, I did some research before today. So this isnât just a spur-of-the-moment pick. I mightâve also called ahead to make sure they had something in stock.â He didnât wait for her reaction. Just pressed the book gently into her hands before she could protest. She looked down.
John Clare.
A collected volume. Thick, matte-bound, the kind of edition usually found in academic libraries or quietly aging on secondhand shelves. It wasnât a single title, not a curated selection by the poet himself, but a posthumous compilation. Normally, she avoided those. They always felt like someone elseâs hands had been too involved. Like the purity of the authorâs voice had been filtered through other intentions.
But this time, she didnât move to hand it back. Not when he stood there, a little hopeful. Like he knew it wasnât flashy, and certainly was off the beaten path, and had still chosen it anyway. She traced a thumb lightly along the edge of the pages. The spine cracked faintly under her grip, and she could already feel the density of it. The weight of someoneâs entire lifetime of work captured in the binding.
âYou called ahead,â she repeated softly, not quite a question.
He shrugged, half-apologetic. âDidnât want to wing it. Figured if I was gonna bring you poetry, it should be something thought out a bit more than your Frosts of the world."
That answer surprised her more than the book itself. She opened to the first page, letting the weight of it settle in her hands. The paper was thinner than she liked. The font, a little too small. But there was something in it that made her pause. A sort of stillness she hadnât expected. âClareâs not one of the poets Iâm largely familiar with, but I know of him. A bit more accessible than most,â she said.
âYea,â he agreed. âI read a few of the shorter ones. There was this one about a field, or maybe it was a tree? Either way, it didnât sound like much. But then halfway through one of them just⊠it made sense in a way I didnât expect.â
She blinked. That wasnât the kind of reaction she expected him to admit. Especially not about a 19th-century poet who wrote about hedgerows and abandonment in the same breath. âSo you picked this for me,â she said slowly, âbecause⊠it got under your skin?â
âI picked it,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck, âbecause it felt honest. Messy. Kind of sad, but not in a showy way. Thought maybe youâd like that. I thought breaking up the rich academics with a man who spent time in an asylum or living amongst paupers would have a genuine nature youâd enjoy. You donât seem to like flashy things.â
She didnât answer right away. Instead, she looked down at the cover again, the faint embossed lettering of Clareâs name. Something inside of her shifted. Like a door opening somewhere she hadnât noticed was locked. Normally, she wouldâve dismissed the book. Too long. Too curated. But heâd gone looking for it. For her. With intentionality. And that changed everything. She didnât say thank you. Not because she wasnât grateful, but because the words felt too shallow for what heâd just handed her. Not the book itself, but the thought behind it. So instead, she just held it. And that seemed to be enough for him.
She hesitated, then followed. Neither of them said anything as they settled into the space. He placed his drink down, she set the book beside hers, and for a while, the only sounds were the low murmur of voices across the store and the soft shuffle of pages turning somewhere nearby. She watched him over the rim of her cup. Heâd leaned back in his chair, eyes scanning the shelves across from them as if thinking through something he didnât want to name. His fingers tapped an idle rhythm against the wood, quiet and patient.
Finally, she reached for the book again. Her thumb flipped through the first few pages. The introduction. The publication note. The timeline of Clareâs life, compressed into neat paragraphs. Born poor. Largely self-taught. Obsessive. Unwell. Brilliant. Forgotten.
She landed on a random poem.
âI am! Yet what I am, none cares or knows.â
Her breath caught, just slightly. It was the kind of line that didnât require understanding. It simply existed with profound truth. Like someone had written down a thought that had once lived, wordless, at the back of her own mind. And now here it was, plain and devastating and true. She didnât look up right away. Didnât want him to see the way the words had impacted her. But he mustâve noticed something. Because after a beat, his voice cut in, quiet.
âThat one stayed with me, too.â
Her eyes lifted slowly to his. He didnât smile. Didnât try to soften the weight of it. He just looked at her like he knew. And it wasnât the intensity that got to her, it was the ease. The way he let silence exist between them without rushing to fill it. He was simply present.
She closed the book carefully, ran a finger once along the edge of the pages, and asked, suddenly needing to know, âWhy are you doing this?â Johnny blinked, caught off guard by the directness of it. âThis,â she said again, motioning vaguely between them. âThe books. The effort. Poetry, for Godâs sake. I know youâre not doing this just to cure some momentary boredom. Iâm sure you could find much better company for that.â
There was no accusation in her tone, just quiet curiosity, laced with something more hesitant underneath. A softness mixing with caution. He leaned back in his chair, exhaled once through his nose, and ran a hand across the back of his neck. âHonestly?â he said. âIâm not totally sure.â
He gave a short, humorless laugh, more reflex than anything else, and looked down at the table like the words might be hiding there. âBut when Iâm around you,â he continued, slower now, âitâs like I donât have to keep being whoever everyone thinks I am. I donât have to try so hard to be entertaining. Or clever. Or whatever version of me people are used to.â
His eyes lifted to hers again. âYou donât look at me like Iâm supposed to prove something. Thatâs⊠rare.â
She didnât speak, but she didnât look away either. âAnd I think thereâs something about you,â he went on, quieter now, almost hesitant. âSomething still. Like, thereâs this kind of loneliness to you, but not the sad kind. More like you made peace with being on your own. I donât exactly like to just sit with myself and my own thoughts if I can avoid it.â
That made her inhale a little too sharply. His expression softened, but he didnât apologize for saying it. âI guess I just like being around that,â he said. âIt feels safe. Real. I donât know. Maybe that sounds selfish.â
âIt doesnât,â she said, almost before he finished.
He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. âItâs not about impressing you. If it was, Iâd be doing a way worse job, trust me. Iâve got a knack for putting people off at a point when the âcharmingâ nature no longer seems, well, charming. I think I just⊠want to know what itâs like to be seen by someone who doesnât already have an idea of me in their head.â
She held his gaze, heart ticking too loudly in her chest. She felt guilty. Just because she hadnât made the thoughts known, she did have ideas in her head. Ones that were constructed from Sueâs warning. From the articles she tried to avoid. Small giggled conversations on her walk home from young women calling the billboard of him half exposed dreamy. The only contradiction to those being from the sparse moments heâd shown her since those flirty interactions at the beginning.
This version of him â stripped of bravado, all the golden-boy confidence gone â felt startlingly close to something she hadnât realized she missed in the company of people. A kind of honesty that didnât ask for anything back. She looked down at the book again, ran a thumb along its frayed edge. âWell,â she murmured, her voice soft but not without a hint of dry amusement, âyouâve shown me a few sides I didnât expect to experience, Mr. Storm.â
The use of his name was deliberately formal, but not cold. More playful than professional now. A tease, laced with familiarity. The kind of formality that invited contradiction. He caught it immediately. His grin flickered to life. âCareful,â he said, eyes narrowing slightly in mock warning. âThat almost sounded like a compliment.â
She raised an eyebrow. âDonât let it go to your head.â
âToo late.â He tapped a knuckle gently against his temple. âItâs already in there.â
She rolled her eyes, but it lacked any real bite. The weight of the moment hadnât lifted entirely. It lingered beneath their words, steady and quiet, but this, the soft return to banter, felt like exhale. Like an acknowledgment that they could hold both things at once: the intimacy, and the distance. The honesty, and the pretense. Johnny took another sip of his coffee which had long since gone cold, but he didnât seem to care. His gaze drifted back to the book in her hands, then to her. For a moment, something uncertain passed through his expression. Almost as if he wasnât quite sure what to do next now that the conversation had settled, now that silence had taken root between them again.Â
He looked away, toward the front windows of the shop. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. What had started earlier as a quiet flurry had built slowly into something more committed. The light from the streetlamps cast soft halos through the drifting flakes, and the sidewalks were turning from gray slush to something closer to white. âHuh,â Johnny murmured, more to the window than to her. âComing down harder now.â
She followed his gaze. People passed by in heavy coats, shoulders hunched, breath visible in short bursts of steam. The kind of cold that made your bones feel thinner. âI could walk you home,â he offered, lightly.Â
The words were casual. He tried to make them sound that way, at least. But there was a quiet earnestness underneath. She looked at him for a second too long. Long enough that his confidence wavered just slightly, a flicker behind his eyes. âAre you planning to set yourself on fire for warmth if I say yes?â she asked, deadpan.
He grinned, his shoulders loosening with the shift in tone. âI mean, I wasnât planning to, but I could probably manage it if things got desperate.â
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched despite herself. She stood, the book still in hand. âFine,â she said, slipping her coat on. âBut if you turn this into some dramatic chivalry act, Iâm leaving you.â
âNoted,â he said, reaching for his jacket. âSubtle heroism only. Got it.â
They paid for the books without conversation. Just silently ringing up, bags wrapped tightly around the precious cargo so it wouldnât get damp. Then they stepped out into the street together. The snow greeted them in silence. Clinging to their hair and eyelashes as they walked side by side down the sidewalk. The city felt smaller in the snow. The world reduced to a few feet ahead of them, the hush of their footsteps, and the occasional flicker of streetlight through the white.
They were halfway down the block when the wind came slicing between the buildings, sharp and sudden. It cut through the wool of her coat like it wasnât even there. She flinched at the cold and instinctively curled in on herself, shoulders tucking tighter, hands disappearing deeper into her pockets. A shiver worked its way through her before she could stop it.
Johnny noticed. He glanced sideways at her, brow lifting just slightly, like he was trying to decide how much trouble he'd be in for what he was about to do. Then, without a word, he reached across the space between them and tugged her gently into his side. One arm slung easily over her shoulders, like it had happened a thousand times before. Effortless. âPretty sure Sue would kill me if I let her assistant freeze to death on the street,â he said, casually. Light on the surface.Â
But his arm stayed where it was. Solid. Warm. Unmoving. Her steps faltered for a half-second. Less from the physical shift and more from the fact that it felt... Natural. Not like something he was doing to be charming. Not to get a reaction. Just a kind gesture to keep her warm.
She glanced up at him, lips parted slightly like she might object on principle. But he was staring ahead, focused on the snow, pretending like he hadnât just closed the distance between them with no ceremony whatsoever. âYou really think Sue would care that much?â she asked, tone deliberately flat.
âOh, sheâd absolutely care,â he said. âShe really likes you. Warns me pretty repeatedly not to run you off.â
She let out a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. And then, surprising even herself, she didnât move away. His warmth radiated through the fabric of her coat. The snow was still falling, heavier now, and the sidewalks were turning slick with a fine sheen of frost, but beside him, tucked neatly into his side, she didnât feel quite as brittle in the cold. They kept walking like that. No big moment. No shift in the world around them. Just his arm around her shoulders. And her letting it stay there. Which, for both of them, felt quietly remarkable.
They rounded the final corner before her building, the familiar stoop materializing out of the haze. She slowed her steps, and so did he. âThis is me,â she said quietly, pausing at the foot of the stairs.
He stopped with her, but didnât pull away just yet. His arm stayed where it was for a second longer than necessary before he let it drop. The absence of it made the cold return too quickly. He looked at the building, then at her. Snow clung to the edges of her coat, melted on the curve of her collar. She didnât meet his eyes right away.
âYou warm enough now?â he asked, tone light.
She nodded. âMore or less.â
He gave a slow exhale, breath fogging in the space between them. Then, almost as if to explain the gesture retroactively, he added, âDidnât want Sue to kill me for letting her assistant freeze to death on a Brooklyn sidewalk.â
She huffed a quiet sound that wasnât quite a laugh, but close. âHow noble of you.â
âI have my moments.â
She glanced up at him then, finally meeting his gaze. Snow was caught in his lashes, and melted into the blond fringe over his forehead. There was nothing performative in his face now. No smug smile, no raised brow. Just a softness she didnât quite know how to answer.
âWell,â she said, adjusting the book under her arm. âThanks for the escort, Mr. Storm.â
He gave a slow nod, as if there were words he wanted to say but chose to hold back. Then, with a small, familiar tilt of his head, he said, âAnytime.â Stepping back from the stoop, he added, âIâll see you Monday.â
The reminder settled between them. Sueâs schedule, the foundation ceremony for their late mother, with Johnny needing to be there for part of it. She nodded, the thought grounding her. Theyâd see each other again in less than forty-eight hours.
âGoodnight, Mr. Storm,â she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips as she started up the steps. She didnât look back, but her fingers curled tighter around the book she carried. Eager to lose herself in its pages. In something that made her feel seen in a way she hadnât in years.
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She didnât see him on Monday. Not because heâd flaked. Johnny was many things â sometimes reckless, often loud, and rarely on time â but never unreliable when it counted. Especially when it was related to his family.Â
She didnât see him because she never made it to work at all.
Sunday night had slipped into a quiet blur, the kind of fatigue that wasnât cause for alarm. But morning came with a harsh jolt. A fever burning through her, a stuffy nose that wouldnât clear, muscles aching in a dull, persistent throb. The flu had claimed her completely. She spent the day wrapped in blankets, while she drifted in and out of restless sleep. Outside, the world moved on, but inside her house, everything felt still. Except the steady, frustrating pulse of illness.
Sue had told her to stay home. The call had gone through that morning. Franklin crying in the background, muffled sounds of bickering between Ben and Johnny over cereal and Sueâs gentle insistence and no-nonsense warning. âYou need to rest. Youâre not permitted in the office until you feel better. Thatâs an order.â
She had reluctantly agreed, lips pressed tight, even as guilt settled heavy in her chest. Missing work felt like failure. Like letting Sue down. Letting Johnny down, especially since the foundation was in memory of their parents, stung especially hard given their recent⊠breakthrough. But the fever that had clawed its way into her bones didnât care about guilt. It demanded surrender. And so she surrendered, curling deeper into tangled sheets, the weight of the blankets somehow both comforting and suffocating.
The hours passed in a strange blur. Outside, daylight faded from pale to gray, then sank into the muted shadows of early evening. The cityâs usual hum dulled to a low, distant thrum. The apartment felt hollow. Sheâd never put much effort into updating the place. Where most clung to sleek, modern trends, she preferred the warmth of older things: a four-poster bed, a worn chestnut wardrobe, faded floral wallpaper, candle holders still half-used. It had a quiet kind of charm. A lived-in elegance, even if she rarely spent time there. Her fever-glossed eyes drifted over the room. Past the quilted blanket draped over the plush chair in the corner, the wooden record player and vinyl stack beside it, the shelf overflowing with books, titles spilling onto the floor like fallen soldiers.
And there, on the nightstand, lay the book Johnny had given her. Still unopened.
She closed her eyes again. The television murmured in the background, turned low, more ambient noise than entertainment. The stillness was a comfort.
Until it wasnât. A knock. Hesitant. Unexpected. She froze. The room seemed to shrink around her. Another knock came, firmer this time, breaking the fragile calm. Her pulse fluttered. Who could it be? Friends? She didnât have many in the city. Family? Even fewer. Maybe the fever was playing tricks on her. When the knocks didnât come again, she sighed and sank back into the pillows. Probably someone at the wrong door. A delivery. A mix-up. She was too sick to care.
But then, light. Not the flicker of the television, but something warmer. Like a fireplace glow. Thatâs nice, she thought hazily. Fireplaces are nice. A small, delirious smile tugged at her lips as she buried herself deeper under the covers.
Another knock. Not from the front door this time. From her bedroom window. She sat up, breath catching, sheets clinging to her overheated skin. Panic lanced through her, briefly, until she registered the source of the flickering light outside the glass. She stumbled toward the window, ignoring the fever-sweat clinging to her back, the weakness in her knees. Fumbling with the latch, her fingers finally managed to pry it open. A blast of cold winter air rushed in, stealing the breath from her lungs and chasing heat from her cheeks.
And there he was. Hovering just above the fire escape, flames curling lazily around his shoulders and hands, casting flickering light across the snow-dusted ledge behind him. Johnny Storm. âI thought I had the wrong window for a second,â he said, grinning, though his voice held something gentler than his usual swagger. A thread of concern tugged behind the humor.
She blinked, dazed, gripping the windowsill like it might keep her upright. âYouâre here?â
âUh... yes? Is that a question?â he replied, one brow arching in that familiar, teasing way.
âJust... fever,â she mumbled, her gaze drifting past him, toward the soft mess of her room. The nest of blankets, the tissues, the half-empty mug of cold tea on her nightstand. âWasnât sure I was hallucinating.â
He didnât laugh. Not really. Instead, he stepped closer, the flames fading from his skin until only the natural warmth of him remained, haloed in faint light. Then, before she could even process it, his hand reached forward. Back of his dexterous fingers, cool and gentle against her forehead. âOh, doll⊠youâre burning up,â he murmured, brow furrowing.
She turned her face slightly, attempting a weak smile. âBit ironic coming from the Human Torch.â That led to a chuckle, short-lived though it was, as it dissolved into a sudden coughing fit. She braced herself against the window frame, chest heaving, head spinning.
Johnnyâs hand hovered, uncertain, ready to steady her if she swayed too far. âEasy. Iâm not worth laughing to death over, yeah?â
She gave him a look, still half-glazed from the fever. âDo you... need me to come down and unlock the front door?â
Johnny tilted his head, a spark returning to his grin. âWhat? And ruin the moment? Iâm Prince Charming, Sweetheart. I can crawl through the window like Romeo.â
Despite herself, a breathy laugh escaped her lips. She stepped back, giving him room. âJust donât fall, Hotshot.â
âOh, I never fall,â he said smoothly, one foot swinging over the windowsill. âI fly.â With practiced ease, he climbed inside, landing softly on the hardwood floor beside her bed. The moment he was in, she noticed the bag slung over one shoulder. Navy blue backpack, slightly beat-up, and obviously full.
Her brows furrowed. âWhatâs in the bag?â
âSupplies,â he said matter-of-factly, already setting it down on the floor. âSoup. Electrolites. Cold meds. Every single cough drop the corner store had. A thermometer shaped like a dinosaur, donât ask, and your favorite cookies. Which, for the record, I had to bribe someone to get the last pack of.â
âYou really came all the way here... just to bring me cold supplies?â
He shrugged, kicking off his sneakers. âSue said you were sick, and when you didnât show up today, I figured Iâd do what any irresistible fire-powered hero would do.â
âYou broke into my room.â
âI entered with style,â he corrected, âHuge difference.â
She sat on the corner of the bed, the warmth in her cheeks no longer just from the fever. âYouâre ridiculous.â
Johnny pulled out the soup can, shaking it gently. âAnd yet, here I am. Ridiculous with a side of chicken noodle.â She watched him move around her space like he belonged there. Like it wasnât weird at all that a literal superhero had just flown into her bedroom window in the middle of a winter night. Or that her bossâs brother, Jonathan Storm himself, was standing in her room with a bag and concern written all over his face. Like taking care of her was just something he did now.
Almost as if he could sense the direction her thoughts had drifted, Johnnyâs gaze wandered across the space. His expression shifted. She followed his line of sight, bracing herself. It wasnât the Baxter Building. Not even close. He lived among glass walls and touchscreens, floors that practically cleaned themselves, and a fridge that probably told you the weather and your mood. Her apartment, in comparison, felt like it belonged in another century. The kind of place with creaky floorboards and mismatched furniture passed down, not bought.
Framed photos lined her dresser. A school portrait from second grade with pigtails. A blurry snapshot of her with a chocolate-covered mouth at a birthday party. Trinkets from forgotten vacations. A chipped ceramic dish that held earrings and loose change. The floral wallpaper had peeled in places, but she hadnât bothered to fix it.
And then⊠the books. He turned toward the far wall, stopping short. âWhoa.â Her eyes followed his. Three narrow shelves were mounted unevenly, packed end to end with novels. Classics, sci-fi, romance, history. Some stacked sideways, others crammed on top of one another like a game of bookish Tetris. And that wasnât counting the ones on the floor. Piles of them leaned against the wall, curling at the corners, some clearly re-read until the spines cracked.
âYou⊠uh,â Johnny said, gesturing at the organized chaos. âYou ever think about getting an actual bookcase?â
She blinked. âThe shelves work fine.â
âTheyâre working overtime,â he replied, stepping closer. âYouâre one sneeze away from a paperback avalanche.â
Despite herself, she smiled. âTheyâve survived this long.â
âI think we oughta ban you from the bookstore until you figure out a better way to display this incredibly large collection of yours,â he teased, eyeing the leaning towers of novels like they might collapse at any moment.
âThatâs only about a third of it,â she admitted, voice raspy with exhaustion. âIâve got boxes tucked in closets. Bit of a hoarder when it comes to booksâŠâ
âYeah, I can tell,â Johnny said, still grinning. Then, after a beat, his expression softened. âSorry, I shouldnât be making you talk this much. You sound like youâve been gargling gravel.â He glanced around the room again, his gaze landing on a small door just to the right of her bed. âBathroom?â he asked, nodding toward it.
She nodded. Without another word, he made his way over and opened the door. She frowned slightly when it didnât close behind him, her curiosity rising, until she heard the faucet turn on.
The sound of running water filled the room, followed by the creak of a cabinet and the soft clatter of what she guessed was a soap dish. He emerged a moment later, brushing his hands together. âAlright. Got the water running. Not too hot, not too cold. Just enough to ease the pain.â
She blinked at him. âYou drew me a bath?â
He shrugged, casual. âBetter you try it while someoneâs here to make sure you donât drown or fall and hurt yourself.â
She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half disbelief. âWow. Thatâs⊠unexpected.â
âIâm full of surprises, sweetheart.â He turned, walking back toward the window like he might be heading out. But then he stopped and looked back at her with a more serious expression. âIâll wait downstairs. Unless you want me to go?â His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something unsure beneath it. His eyes dropped to his sock-covered feet, as if she might suddenly ask him to grab his sneakers, climb back out the window, and forget this ever happened.
For a moment, she said nothing, just watched him, feeling the warmth behind her ribs outweigh the fever in her skin. âYou can stay,â she said softly. His head came back up at that, relief flickering across his features. âBut,â she added, clearing her throat, âno making fun of Mr. Bear or anything else mildly embarrassing you may come across. Iâm too fevered to fight back right now.â
He gave a low chuckle, hand already over his heart. âScoutâs honor. Iâll be on my best behavior. And Iâd never mock⊠Mr. Bear,â he paused, testing the word as his eyes settled on the little brown teddy bear on her bed.Â
She rose unsteadily from the bed, and for a second, he instinctively stepped forward, attempting to steady her but she waved him off gently, managing her way to the bathroom door. Just before disappearing inside, she glanced back over her shoulder.
âHey Jonathan?â
âYeah?â Hearing his full name, not the one he went by, was a step in the right direction, but still felt entirely too formal for his liking. Still, he fought the grin threatening to take over his face at the small concession sheâd offered.
âThank you,â
His mouth opened like he had something clever to say, but what came out was softer. âAnytime, Doll.â
She lingered just a moment more after the door clicked shut, listening faintly as his socked footsteps padded away from her bedroom. A second later, the soft creak of the floorboards in the hall told her he was far enough to respect her privacy. She exhaled slowly and turned toward the bathroom. Warm steam curled gently around the frame as she stepped inside. The tub was already filling, the water swirling with just enough heat to soothe without scalding. But what stopped her wasnât the bath. It was the candles.
Three of them. Set along the edge of the sink and the corner of the tub, flickering softly. Matchbook she kept in the drawer absent. Heâd lit them. So she wouldnât have to use the bright overhead light. Her chest tightened. Just a little. She didnât dwell on it. A few minutes later, she sank into the water, the warmth pulling a shaky sigh from her lips. It didnât erase the ache in her bones, but it helped. The low flicker of candlelight danced across the tile. Johnny Storm. Lighting candles. Drawing baths. She smiled faintly to herself.Â
Ten minutes. That was all she could manage before the fatigue started tugging her under. She climbed out carefully, dried off, slipped into fresh clothes. Sweats, thick socks, and the hoodie she usually reserved for laundry days. It smelled like clean cotton and fabric softener. Damp but brushed hair soaking through the material, she padded down the stairs slowly, gripping the rail for balance.
Her apartment hummed. Soft record on the turnstyle, Elvis it sounded like, and the occasional soft clink of metal against ceramic. When she turned the corner into the kitchen, she saw him. Johnny was standing at the stove, stirring a pot of soup with focused intensity. Heâd found one of her oversized mugs and had clearly decided it doubled as a bowl. He hadnât noticed her yet.
She leaned against the doorway, watching him. This was... new. Unexpected. And honestly? Kind of nice. She couldnât recall the last time someone had gone out of their way to take care of her. âDidnât burn the place down, did you?â she rasped, voice still rough but lighter than before.
Johnny turned, surprise flickering across his face before it gave way to something softer. âThere she is,â he said, voice low, dramatic in that way television hosts announced the mundane like it was breaking coverage. âLooking a little more alive.â
She moved slowly, cautiously, into the kitchen. Her legs were still shaky, but the bath had cleared some of the fog in her head. âIâd say it smells good, but I currently canât smell much,â she murmured, eyeing the oversized mug he was ladling soup into.
âI didnât screw it up, or go snooping while I waited,â Johnny said.Â
She slid into one of the kitchen chairs. The wood was cold, grounding. âThank you,â she said simply.
He set the mug down in front of her, along with a spoon, then sat across from her, forearms resting on the table. For a moment, there was only the sound of the spoon clinking against ceramic as she stirred the soup, letting the steam warm her face. She felt the weight of his gaze but didnât look up. âYou didnât have to stay,â she said eventually.
âI know,â he replied. âDidnât really feel like leaving.â
She glanced up at him then. His hair was still tousled from the wind, his cheeks faintly pink from the cold. He looked almost out of place in her old kitchen, like a snapshot from someone elseâs life. âYou couldâve just dropped the stuff off,â she said.
âYeah, well,â he shrugged, âI donât know. I just, wanted to be sure you were okay.â
She broke eye contact, focusing on the soup instead. âThis is a lot of effort for someone who is simply your sisterâs overglorified secretary.â
Johnny smiled faintly. âI stopped seeing you as just âSueâs assistant.â a long time ago.â
She went still at that. He didnât push it. She took a slow sip of soup, Let it warm her from the inside out. He waited patiently, watching her without hovering. âThis is good,â she said after a beat, voice low.
âNot much of a cook, but Iâm good at heating things up,â he said. âItâs kind of my thing.â That got a small smile from her, the first real one since she sat down.
Johnny stood slowly, the chair legs scraping softly against the tile. For a second, she thought he might walk off, give her space again. But instead, he circled the table and lowered himself into the chair beside her. She turned slightly, eyes following him, uncertain. He didnât speak, just reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her forehead. His palm was cool, fingers steady. She leaned into it without thinking.
Still too warm. His brow twitched. His touch moved gently, sliding from her forehead to the side of her face, then drifting into the damp strands of her hair. He paused there, fingers tangled loosely in it. âYouâre soaked,â he murmured finally, barely above a whisper. âItâs going to keep you sick.â
Her breath caught, at the quiet concern in his voice, at how close he was now, at the way his fingers held more tenderness than she was used to. Before she could say anything, he pulled back slightly. Palm smooth over her head, and then: Warmth.
Not fever-warm, but something softer. A slow, radiating heat that started at the base of her skull and traveled through the heavy strands of her hair. She could feel it shift, lifting dampness, drying gently. It was careful, completely in control, and absent of the heat she knew him capable of. She closed her eyes. When it faded, her hair was dry. Still tousled and messy, sure, but no longer soaking through her sweater. No longer clinging to her skin.
She opened her eyes and looked at him. Johnnyâs hand dropped, resting lightly on his thigh. He didnât meet her gaze right away. His eyes were on the floor, like he hadnât meant to do it. Like he wasnât sure if heâd crossed a line. She didnât say anything. Just reached for the spoon again, when she noticed his other hand resting near it. She brushed their fingers together intentionally. His head turned toward her at that. Her voice, when it came, was quiet. âThanks.â
He only nodded. But he didnât move away. âOur mom used to get on Sue about going to bed with wet hair,â he said quietly, his voice a little rough at the edges now. âSheâd lecture her every time, like it was some cardinal sin.â A faint smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, even as exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. Johnny glanced at her again, then down at where her hand was still resting on his. âSorry,â he said. âI shouldâve asked first.â
She shook her head. âJohnny, itâs okay.â The name slipped out too easily, too naturally. Her eyes widened slightly at the sound of it. So did his.
âYou called me Johnny,â he said, turning more fully toward her now.
âYes,â she murmured, suddenly self-conscious, âbutââ
âNo âMr. Storm.â No âJonathan.â I admit, I kind of thought youâd take that to your grave.â
She gave a tired, almost embarrassed laugh. âBlame the fever.â
He didnât smile this time, just looked at her a beat too long. âYou donât have to pretend with me right now. You donât have to be professional. I sought you out, remember? After hours.â
Her fingers shifted slightly against his. âYouâre my bossâs brother,â she said, though it came out thinner than she intended. The old lines sheâd drawn between them felt faded now, like chalk in the rain.
âAnd youâre not at work,â Johnny replied, his voice softer than sheâd ever heard it. âYouâre sick, and alone, and Iâm not here because anyone asked me to be. Iâm here because I want to be.â
She looked down again. Not at their hands, but somewhere past them. âI donât⊠let people see me like this,â she admitted.Â
âI noticed,â he said gently. That pulled her gaze back to him, an almost startled kind of glance. He held it. âI mean, you are practically apologizing every time you cough. Got those apologetic eyes,â he added, more lightly, but the warmth in his tone didnât waver.
She let out a soft breath. Not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. âI guess I thought if I stayed professional enough, youâd stop looking at me like I wasâŠâ
âWhat?â he asked.
âLike you are right now,â she whispered, too worn down to keep the words in.
Johnnyâs brow furrowed slightly. âI donât think I could stop looking at you like this if I tried.â
The words hung in the space between them. They were irritatingly sincere. Something about the way he said it made her throat tighten. Her chest rose and fell, slow and steady, like she was grounding herself. She didnât respond. Couldnât. The moment felt too fragile. Heavy with something she wasnât sure she had the clarity to unpack just yet. Not tonight. Not like this, bleary-eyed and fever-warm, emotions unguarded and closer to the surface than they usually were.
But what struck her most was that he didnât push. He didnât follow it up with another line or ask her what she was thinking. He didnât move closer or lean in. He just⊠gave her room to sit with it. And that, more than anything, made her exhale a quiet, breath of relief. Because the truth was, she didnât trust herself right now. Not with her head foggy and her heart aching and all these new emotions rising like steam off hot pavement. She couldnât tell yet if they were real or just fever-drunk fiction. And she needed space to know the difference.
âAlright,â he said, pushing his chair back with an exaggerated sigh. âMoving on before I say something less than charming and ruin the whole mood. If youâre done with thatâ he nodded to her soup, âIâll take care of it while you go lay back down.â
She blinked. âI canââ
âNope,â he cut in. âYour only job right now is not fainting on your way to the couch. Iâll handle the rest.â She watched him collect her mug and spoon with an ease that made the whole thing feel normal. Like heâd done this before. Like taking care of her wasnât some burden or performance. He turned back, halfway to the sink. âAlso, I put on something actually worth watching. Whatâs the point of being sick if youâre stuck with the news? You need something comforting.â
She narrowed her eyes faintly, wary. âLike what?â
âLike something you enjoy,â he said over his shoulder, rinsing out the mug and tossing the rest of the soup.
She wandered toward the television, feet dragging softly across the floor. She hardly watched anything these days, but her fingers moved on instinct, flipping to the one channel she remembered always airing the reruns that brought her a strange kind of comfort.
By the time he returned and dropped onto the couch beside her, she had already sunk into the cushions, blanket pulled around her shoulders, the black-and-white with intro music drifting through the room. He raised a brow, surprised. âThe Twilight Zone?â
âWhatâs wrong with it?â she asked, glancing over.
âNothing,â he said quickly. âI just wouldnât have guessed you were a Serling girl.â
âItâs my favorite,â she said, voice low but sincere.
Johnny leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing top-secret intel. âCan I let you in on a secret?â She arched a brow, waiting. âItâs my favorite too.â
A soft scoff escaped her lips before she gently shoved his shoulder, surprising even herself with the casual contact. âYou are such a liar, Jonathan Storm.â
He grinned, relaxed and unbothered. âIâm not. You can ask Susie. I still make her watch them with me, though she claims I just like how dramatic the opening theme is.â
She gave him a sideways look. âThat does sound like you.â
He turned back to the screen, his expression growing briefly more thoughtful. âI really like that one with the World War I pilot. Yâknow, the guy who disappears through the cloud and ends up going back to save his comrade.â
Her eyes flicked over to him, a little surprised at the depth of the reference. âThatâs a good one,â she murmured, tucking her legs up beneath her. âKind of poetic, actually.â
She tried not to unpack the notions under his favorite episode. The idea he saved lives for a living, and he seemingly understood what standing oneâs ground to save others meant. It was a sad thought. One day he may do the same to save his family or a civilian.Â
He smiled, oblivious to her internal thoughts, and said nothing else. For a moment, the show filled the room with that strange mix of eerie music and philosophical narration. The light flickered gently on both of their faces, shadows shifting as they sat in silence. Then Johnny glanced over at her and frowned. âYouâre shivering.â
âIâm fine,â she said quickly, though her hands were balled beneath the blanket and her skin was noticeably pale.
âYouâve got chills,â he said, already sliding closer. âYou should be under like, six blankets right now.â
âIâve got one,â she pointed out, feebly. He didnât say anything, just reached for the other end of the blanket she had half-draped over herself and scooted closer until he could pull it around both of them. She went rigid. âJohnny, donât. I donât want you to get sick.â
He gave a short, soft laugh. âSweetheart, cosmically altered DNA makes it nearly impossible to get sickâ
âBut stillââ
He turned slightly to face her, his expression gentler now. âHey,â he said, voice low. âLet me take care of you.â
She looked at him for a long second. Her guard almost rose again, but didnât. Maybe it was the fever. Maybe it was the warmth he gave off, literally and otherwise. Or maybe she was just too tired to keep pretending she didnât want him close. So she nodded, and leaned, just slightly, into the space between them. And Johnny, in his own quiet way, shifted to make room. Pulled her in.
He was warm. But it wasnât harsh. It was like curling up beside a sunlit window, steady and soft, and she couldnât remember the last time anyone had held her without expecting something in return. Actually, the last time was the night he walked her home. She rested her head against his shoulder, her body finally beginning to settle, her muscles less tense, her breathing slower. âSee?â he murmured, voice close to her ear.Â
She huffed out a faint laugh. âYouâre very proud of yourself, arenât you?â
âUnbelievably.â
The episode played on, but she barely registered it, her body finally relaxing into the pull of warmth and fatigue. Every now and then, she felt Johnnyâs fingers shift where they rested along her arm, just light, absentminded motions.Â
âYou really donât do this much, do you?â he asked after a quiet minute. She didnât answer right away. âLet people take care of you,â he clarified gently, as if afraid to spook her.
âI donât really know how,â she admitted. âI got used to being the person who handles things. Who keeps the wheels turning.â
Johnny nodded, not teasing now, not performing. âI see that.â
âBeing vulnerable,â she added, âit never felt safe. Even when it was.â
There was a beat of quiet between them. âYou donât owe anyone softness,â he said, voice low and even. âBut you deserve to have it. When you want it.â
That made her blink. Not because it was overly sweet or romantic, but because it was⊠kind. Thoughtful. Honest. And completely unexpected coming from someone the world painted as a hotshot. âThanks,â she said, and meant it.
âFor what?â
âFor being much more than I originally thought you were. Youâre, well for a lack of better words, kind.â
Johnny chuckled at that, his hand brushing over her blanket-covered arm in a casual motion. âThat might be the nicest thing anyoneâs ever said to me.â
âDonât get used to it,â she murmured, her voice already starting to drift with sleep.
âNoted.â Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, and Johnny didnât move, just adjusted slightly to let her rest more comfortably, eyes flicking back toward the screen but not really watching. Outside, the city moved on. Cars in the distance, and the hum of nightlife. But in that little pocket of warmth and television static, she was finally still.
And Johnny, for once, was content to be quiet.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
She was back at work. Back to pressed collars and polite emails, back to the soft echo of her heels against the polished floors. Her desk was where sheâd left it. The schedule just as full. Sue had barely let her finish âIâm fine, reallyâ before sweeping her into two meetings and asking for three updates. It was easier, in a way: Slipping back into routine. No vulnerability required. No warmth, no weight, just structure and the quiet comfort of being needed.
And yet. Her fingers paused on the keyboard.Her mind drifted back to that night. To the TV flickering in her living room, the glow of black-and-white episodes washing over her walls. To Johnnyâs arm around her, steady and warm. He hadnât stayed. At some point, long after sheâd fallen asleep, heâd moved her upstairs to bed. She hadnât even stirred. Just woke the next morning under her own blankets, still flushed with the remains of fever and confusion, the TV off, a note on the counter in barely-legible handwriting:
Didnât want to wake you. Get some rest, and Iâll check in later. â Your own personal Prince Charming aka Johnny Storm
She hadnât told anyone. Not even Sue. Not because it was a secret, but because the words werenât easy to find. Something had shifted, but she didnât know what name to give it yet.
Not a romance, not exactly. But something more than familiarity. Something quiet. Unrushed. She rubbed her temple absently, eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bottom corner of her monitor. A little past three. The week had crawled and sprinted all at once, especially after returning on Tuesday. Her gaze drifted toward the tote bag tucked under her desk. Sheâd brought the book with her. The one Johnny had picked out.Â
John Clare had been a delightful surprise. There was something raw and untamed about his work, brilliant and aching in a way that clung to her long after sheâd set the book down. He wasnât polished like the other Romantics. His verses didnât care for perfection. They bled loneliness and dirt and madness, and somehow, they still made her feel seen. Clare was a laborer, a man of the earth, not the universities. His longing was not performative, but primal. Honest. It had struck a chord she hadnât expected.Â
She still had a day left before Saturday. What had started as a casual coincidence now felt like something... A rhythm. A tether to something outside her routines. It wasnât grand, or loud, or public. But it was theirs. And she was looking forward to it. More than she wanted to admit. Not just for the books. Not even for the quiet comfort of thumbing through dusty spines in side-by-side silence.
But because she was genuinely eager to hear his thoughts on Verne. His take on the moral gray areas, the invention of impossible machines, the way he always seemed to latch onto the underdog character no one else noticed. She wanted to talk about what sheâd read. Wanted to see the way his eyes lit up when he made a point, or how he interrupted himself when he got too excited. She wanted to know what heâd pick next for her. She wanted to sit next to him andâ
God. Those eyes. That particular shade of crystalline blue that somehow still felt warm. The bashful smile he sometimes slipped into when he was proud of something and didnât want to say so. The way it curved gently at the edge of his full lips like a secret.Â
She blinked hard, realizing she was staring at her monitor, her browser still open to a tab she hadnât meant to click. With a quiet sigh, she closed it. Her fingers returned to the keyboard, but the page in front of her looked like static.
Focus? Long gone.
It was as if Johnny Storm â brash, ridiculous, too-handsome Johnny Storm â had shown up with that ridiculous navy blue backpack and cracked something open in her. Not with grand gestures. Not with fire and flair. But with soup. With gentle whispers into her damp hair. With the quiet, unexpected way heâd tucked her in and left without needing to be thanked.
And that was the part she couldnât shake. Johnny Storm was kind. Truly. In a way people didnât give him credit for. He was the type to pay attention when no one thought he was looking. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee. Who lit candles so the light wouldnât hurt your eyes when you were sick.
He was careful with her. Considerate. Like she was something delicate and worth handling gently, not because she was fragile, but because she deserved the opportunity to be if she chose it. Thatâs what he said. Said she deserved the choice of being soft. And somehow, that made her head pound worse than any flu ever could.
The quiet hum of her thoughts was broken by the subtle ping of the pager clipped to her waistband.
SUE RICHARDS : OFFICE. ASAP.
She sighed, already pushing back her chair, straightening her blouse in the reflection of her black screen. Back to business. Back to the part of her life where everything made sense, where emotion had its place. Boxed and filed neatly beneath efficiency. But as she reached for the doorknob to close the door behind her, something stopped her. Soft yellow and crooked at the corner, a sticky note clung to the wood just above eye level. She stared for a beat before plucking it off.
"Hope your day is fantastic. See what I did there? Fantastic. Anyways, Johnny"
There was a tiny doodle of a winking face next to his name. Also a little doodle of their team's logo next to the word fantastic. Of course there was.
Her lips twitched. And then, despite every effort not to, she smiled. It was ridiculous. The handwriting was awful, and the joke barely qualified as a pun. But it was so very him. Playful, charming, and still, somehow, thoughtful. He hadnât made it into a performance. Just a small note, as if to be respectful of her packed schedule with the lost days this week. Meant for her, and no one else. She pressed it flat between her fingers for a moment, then carefully tucked it into the side pocket of her planner before heading down the hall toward Sueâs office, still smiling.Â
Saturday needed to hurry up.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
Saturday morning came quietly, sunlight sifting through gauzy curtains in pale ribbons. The kind of morning that felt like a breath held just a little longer than usual. She put on music while getting dressed. Something light and old. The kind of record that made the apartment feel like it belonged to a version of her she hadnât let exist in a long time. Normally, Saturday meant comfort. Casual. Efficient. But todayâŠToday, she hesitated over her wardrobe.
No T-shirt. A sweater instead: soft blue and warm against her skin. A nicer pair of jeans. The nail lacquer sheâd brushed on the night before had dried into a muted burgundy that made her feel quietly elegant. Her makeup was subtle, but thoughtful. Deliberate. She didnât think too hard about the why. Not yet. Maybe for once, she didnât need to analyze or compartmentalize what this was. Maybe she could just let it be. It wasnât a confession or a declaration. It was a choice. To feel something. To want something. To allow herself to be soft.Â
A lightness threaded through her chest as she smoothed down the hem of her sweater. Something weightless and unfamiliar, like the feeling of stepping outside just before a storm breaks and realizing, for once, you donât mind if it rained.
A knock at the door. Startled, she blinked and glanced at the clock. He wasnât supposed to meet her at the shop for another thirty minutes. Curious, she jogged down the narrow staircase of her townhouse, feet against the old wood, and pulled open the front door, only to be met withâŠWood. A solid wall of it.
She stepped back instinctively, eyes adjusting to the unexpected sight. It wasnât a wall. It was furniture. A bookcase. A towering, beautifully worn, dark walnut bookshelf stood on her porch like some kind of offering from the gods of literature themselves. And behind it, peeking over the top, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, was Johnny Storm. âSurprise!â
Her eyes widened. âWhat in the worldâ?â
âI know we said bookstore,â he said, edging the bookshelf forward with careful steps, âbut I figured if Iâm going to keep enabling your addiction, you need somewhere to put your hoard.â
âMy collection,â she corrected, stunned, still standing in the open doorway.
âMy mistake,â he said solemnly, stepping into full view. His hair was wind-tousled, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows. He looked infuriatingly handsome. Like heâd just stepped out of an autumn-themed magazine spread. âI rescued it from a junk shop down in Brooklyn,â he added. âHad to sweet-talk the guy to part with it. Said it belonged to some ex-college professor who chain-smoked and read philosophy aloud to his cats.â
She blinked at him. Then at the bookcase. Then back at him. âYou⊠dragged a whole bookcase to my house?â
âI carried it,â he corrected proudly, setting it down with a grunt just inside the threshold. âDidnât trust a delivery service not to damage it. Plus, dramatic entrances are kind of my thing.â
She stared for another breath. Then, without fully meaning to, she laughed. Not a polite chuckle. Not a tight-lipped smile. But a genuine, bubbling laugh that warmed the air between them. Johnnyâs grin softened at the edges as he looked at her. âI figured if weâre going to hang out in bookstores every Saturday, you need a place to keep the spoils.â
She shook her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âIâve been called worse.â But he didnât step back. Not yet. Just stood in her doorway like he belonged there, looking pleased with himself and, at the same time, strangely... hopeful. She rested a hand lightly on the edge of the bookshelf, fingers grazing the worn wood. It was beautiful. Not new. Not modern. But solid. Thoughtful. Like heâd really looked for something that would suit her, not just fill a space.
âI love it,â she said quietly. And she meant it.
âI saw it and immediately thought of you,â he admitted. She looked up at him then, brows faintly lifted. âNot in a weird way,â he added quickly, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. âJust⊠it felt like something solid. Not some new modern thing that doesnât fit the vibe of your place, but something that would last a couple generations.â
She nodded once, slow. âItâs perfect.â
He didnât answer right away. Just looked at her. Eyes soft, the usual spark of mischief dimmed down to a low, steady glow. She was still in the sweater sheâd picked carefully that morning, her hair half-tucked behind her ears, eyes brighter than theyâd been in days.
âYou feeling better?â he asked finally.
âGetting there,â she said.
âGood.â He leaned slightly against the bookshelf, arms crossing. âBecause I was hoping maybe we could still do the bookstore. Unless you want to stay in. I can take down those poor shelves and set up this bad boy. Promise Iâll try not to set anything ablaze if I get frustrated.â
She laughed, âI think the bookstoreâs still on the table,â she said, then glanced at the shelf again. âBut maybe we move this first? I donât want it sitting in the doorway all day, reminding the neighbors how weird I am.â
Johnny grinned. âYou mean how classy and well-read you are?â
âI mean how Iâve let a man deliver furniture to my door like some Regency-era courtship ritual.â
He smirked. âIf this is a courtship ritual, Iâm definitely doing it wrong. I shouldâve brought flowers.â
She stepped aside, opening the door wider. âNext time, maybe.â
He arched a brow. âSo youâre saying thereâll be a next time?â
She gave him a mock-serious look. âGet the bookcase in the door first, Romeo.â With a dramatic sigh and an over-the-top bow, Johnny lifted the bookshelf again and carried it inside, the wood groaning slightly as he maneuvered it through the narrow entryway. She closed the door behind him, warmth curling at the edges of her stomach as she watched him start up the stairs without being told what to do.Â
Johnny Storm had been in her home before. Enough to feel comfortable navigating it on his own. Something that shouldâve felt more disarming than it did. She followed behind him. He knocked her bedroom door ajar with his foot and stepped in, mindful of the pair of shoes sheâd been planning to wear before he showed up unannounced. Glancing around her tidy room he smiled as he looked at her made bed. A grin tugged at his mouth. âWell, well. If it isnât Mr. Bear. Survived the great fever of the century, huh?â
She rolled her eyes but couldnât help the faint smile. âI thought we had a no-teasing agreement about Mr. Bear.â
âWe did,â he said, already walking toward the corner where the old wall shelves sagged under the weight of her books. âBut it was provisional, and frankly, Iâm reconsidering the terms.â
She scoffed softly, leaning against the doorframe as he set the bookcase down with care. He was already sizing up the room, scanning for a suitable spot. âDo you happen to have much in the way of tools?â
Her nose wrinkled with a grimace. âSparse would be generous. I have a sad little drill I found at a pawn shop in Harlem. Missing most of the bits. Pretty sure it gave its dying breath the last time I tried to hang a curtain rod.â
Johnny winced in playful sympathy. âLet me take a look. Maybe I can coax it back to life.â
She raised a brow. âSince when do you fix power tools?â
He glanced over at her, feigning offense. âI do have an engineering degree, you know. I wasnât just invited to the Baxter Building for my charming smile or last name.â
Her lips twitched. âCouldâve fooled me.â
He grinned, that easy, spark-in-his-eyes grin. âI actually worked. Built things. Ran simulations. Helped Reed maintain the ship before everything went sideways. Just because I light on fire doesnât mean I forgot my mechanics classes.â
She nodded, quiet again. Another layer. One more thing about him that didnât come through in headlines or swaggering entrances. It wasnât loud or performative, it was subtle. Quietly competent. Jonathan Storm was kind. He was loyal in a way that wrapped around the people he cared about without asking for anything in return. And, frustratingly, he was smart. Not just clever, but sharp. Capable.
It was borderline infuriating to watch him revive the half-dead drill with a few taps and a muttered, âCome on, donât embarrass me now,â and then methodically take apart the sagging old shelves. He moved with a purpose, placing the new bookcase against the wall like he already knew exactly how sheâd want it.
Sheâd meant to help. Maybe even offer to hold a side steady or hand him screws. But sheâd ended up sitting there instead, caught in the tangle of her own thoughts, watching him work like he belonged there. And then he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his warmth brushing against her skin. âSomething wrong?â he asked, voice soft.
She hesitated, then let out a breath. âJust thinking.â
He nudged her knee gently with his own. âAbout...?â
âYou.â
He turned his head to look at her fully. âWhat about me?â
She swallowed, gaze fixed somewhere near the floorboards. âI just⊠I was wrong about you. In so many ways.â
There was a pause.âHow so?â he asked quietly.
She exhaled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before meeting his eyes. âYou told me you liked that I didnât have this idea of you in my head. And maybe it looked that way from the outside. But Sue warned me before I ever took this job what Iâd be dealing with. And I donât live under a rock, Johnny. Your face is everywhere: News outlets, gossip blogs, billboards. Youâre a public figure, and people talk.â
He didnât flinch, just listened. âI didnât want to make assumptions. But... It's human nature, isnât it? You take what youâve seen, what people tell you, and whether you mean to or not, you start to build a version of someone in your head.â
She laughed softly, almost bitterly, and looked away. âBut then you showed up. You took care of me when I had no one else around. You noticed I didnât have a bookcase and carried one across the city for me like it was nothing. Youâve been thoughtful. Selfless. And every time you do something like that, it makes me feel guilty. For getting you so incredibly wrong.â
He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was low but steady.
âI donât think thereâs anything wrong with being careful,â he said. âAnd yeah... people do look for patterns in others. We make snap judgments to protect ourselves. Iâve done it, too.â
He shifted, glancing down at his hands before meeting her gaze again. âBut when I said I liked that you didnât have an idea of me in your head, I meant that you didnât treat me like I was just the Human Torch. You didnât flirt, or flatter, or try to get something out of me.â
She blinked, surprised. âI had a wall up.â
He smiled faintly. âExactly. It was all business. No games. And for some reason⊠that was comforting. Honest. You didnât pretend to like me.â
âI didnât know you.â
âAnd now you do?â
A beat. Her voice dropped. âIâm starting to.â
Johnnyâs expression softened, but he didnât push. He sat with it for a moment, then gave a half-smile. âWell⊠I guess itâs my job now to keep getting to know you without screwing it up somehow, huh?â
She didnât respond. Her eyes drifted to the bookcase again. The dark wood, worn at the edges, like it had lived another life before finding its way to her room. âWhy me?â she asked quietly.
He blinked. âWhat do you mean? I feel like I justââ
âNo, not really,â she cut in gently. âYouâve said pieces. But I still canât quite wrap my head around it. You could be anywhere. With anyone. And somehow, youâve ended up⊠here. Sitting on my bed. Moving furniture. Talking like this. With your sisterâs assistant.â He opened his mouth, but she kept going, voice tightening just a bit. âAnd before you say it, yes, I am Sueâs assistant. Thatâs how you know me. Thatâs the reason weâve spoken at all. But why go past that? Why become⊠familiar? Why keep showing up?â
Her eyes met his, searching for something. Johnny sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He didnât answer right away. âWhen I first met you,â he said slowly, âyou treated me like I was just another guy getting in the way of your schedule. You barely looked at me. You were busy. Focused. Unimpressed.â
She tilted her head, arms crossed, but her expression had softened.
âAnd yeah, maybe I thought it was funny,â he admitted. âThe Human Torch getting iced out by someone who literally booked my schedule the day before. But it didnât feel like a joke. It felt⊠refreshing.â
His gaze found hers, steadier now. âYou werenât trying to be liked. You werenât interested in some version of me that other people expect. You were honest. Blunt. Professional to a fault, honestly. And then, little by little, I started noticing things.â
âLike?â
He smiled faintly. âLike how you hum when youâre trying to multitask. Or how you pretend you donât care about your desk plants dying but secretly bring in new ones every time. Or how you never ask for help, even when you obviously need it.â Her brows lifted, surprised. âI noticed, because I started caring. And I didnât mean to, not at first. But the more I paid attention, the more I realized you were someone who listens more than she speaks. Someone who takes care of everyone else and doesnât let anyone take care of her.â
He paused. âAnd I guess I just wanted to show up. Because not many people do, for you. And you sure as hell wonât ask. I canât wrap my mind around someone whoâs so selfless, so good to Suzie and Franklin, scheduling down time for Reed so heâll take it, or can make Ben smile, being all alone in this city.â
The room was quiet again. Still. Then, her voice came, softer than before. âYou make it hard not to care back, you know.â Johnnyâs eyes flicked up, a little stunned by the honesty in her tone. She gave a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh, shaking her head. âI donât even know when it changed. One minute you were just this... constant distraction. Loud, dramatic, always two steps from setting something on fireââ
âThree steps,â he said automatically, lips quirking.
She shot him a look, but didnât lose her thread. âAnd then it just⊠shifted. Somewhere along the line, I started looking forward to seeing you come around. You brought me coffee and I started enjoying your nonsense. The teasing. Even the interruptions.â She glanced down at her hands, picking at her sleeve absently. She looked up again, meeting his eyes. âI guess I realized I liked you a lot more than I thought. That I liked having you around. More than I wanted to admit.â
Johnny blinked, then gave a quiet smile. But there was something softer behind it now. Something grateful. Like hearing it from her was something he'd wanted, but hadnât expected. âDo you have any idea,â he murmured, âhow rare it is for me to feel... understood? At least by people who arenât family. Itâs easier to be that version of myself so people donât go digging.â
She shrugged a little. âYouâre not that hard to understand, Johnny. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be more than what people out there know you for. And you are. Youâre so much more.â
The space between them had shrunk without either of them noticing. They werenât touching, not yet, but the distance was gone. It was just them now, the air thick with everything they hadnât said until now. He reached out, not to grab her hand, but to rest his fingers near hers. âYou donât have to decide anything today,â he said quietly. âBut if you ever wonder why itâs you, itâs because I feel more like myself around you than I do anywhere else.â
Her hand turned slightly, brushing against his. âI already decided,â she said. That made him still. âI donât know what it means yet,â she added, voice barely audible, âbut I decided the day you brought soup and took care of me.â
He grinned wide and disbelieving. âThat was your moment?â
She gave a soft, shy smile. âYeah. That was it.â
A beat. âCan I kiss you now, or would that ruin everything?â
She didnât speak right away. But her smile deepened just a little. Her eyes met his, steady and warm. âIt wouldnât ruin anything,â she said.
And that was all it took. Johnny leaned in. Not rushed, not cocky, not the flirty bravado he used to wear like armor, but careful, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. His hand hovered at her cheek, giving her the space to stop him if she wanted to. But she didnât. When their lips met, it wasnât fireworks or sparks, it was something softer. The kind of kiss that didnât feel like a beginning or an ending, but like something already known.
She felt him exhale through his nose, slow and steady, like even he couldnât believe it was finally happening. His hand brushed her jaw, thumb resting lightly at her cheekbone as he pulled back only slightly, their foreheads touching now. âYou taste like coffee,â he murmured.
She laughed under her breath. âYou taste like smug satisfaction.â
He grinned, eyes still closed. âCanât help it. Been wanting to do that since the day you sternly called me Mr. Storm like some old librarian."
âThat was literally the first thing I ever said to you.â
âExactly.â
She shook her head, forehead still pressed to his. âThis is probably a terrible idea.â
He opened his eyes, just barely. âYeah. Probably.â And then she kissed him again, because if this was a bad idea, it was already too late.
A few minutes later, theyâd migrated back to the pillows, not in a rush of passion, but a slow sprawl of limbs and conversation. The bookcase stood quietly against the far wall, half-filled with the books Johnny had started placing before everything spiraled into confessions and kisses. She lay on her side, head resting in her palm as she watched him stretch out beside her, one arm slung over his stomach.
âDoes Sue know youâre here?â she asked, teasing.
Johnny snorted. âShe knows Iâm with you. Doesnât know exactly whatâs going on, beyond a shared appreciation for literature, but sheâs definitely suspicious.â
âSheâs not wrong.â
âShe is usually right,â he said with a grin.
Her fingers drifted lazily across the edge of his sleeve, brushing the fabric like she was trying to memorize the feel of it. âHey Johnny⊠This... whatever this is between us, it doesnât have to be some big, dramatic thing.â
He turned to her, the grin fading into something quieter. âNo. It doesnât. But itâs something. And Iâm not going to pretend itâs not.â
She nodded once. âGood. Because Iâm done pretending, too.â
There was a stillness after that. Not awkward, but content. Comfortable. Then Johnny tilted his head, a slow smirk playing at his mouth. âSo... will you let me take you out sometime? Go steady, as the youths say these days?â
She rolled her eyes and nudged his shoulder. âPlease donât say âgo steady.ââ
He caught her hand before it fell away, bringing it to his lips in a way that felt effortless. Familiar. âThatâs not a no,â he murmured.
She smiled, soft and certain. âItâs a yes. Iâd love to let you take me out.â
âPerfect.â He glanced around the room, then back at her with a mischievous glint. âCan we still go to the bookstore?â
She let out a laugh, surprised by how easy it was to imagine. The two of them wandering between shelves, arguing over paperbacks, drinking coffee. Theyâd done it already but now instead of tiptoeing around one another, theyâd be pretending they werenât quietly obsessed with each other. Pressing kissing in quiet corners of the store when no one was lookingâŠ
âYes, Johnny. We can still do the bookstore.â
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
One month laterâŠÂ
If someone had asked her back when they first met, she never wouldâve paired the word gentleman with Johnny Storm. Not in a million years.
New Yorkâs most famously charming rake? Absolutely. A flirt with a face made for magazine covers and a reputation to match? That checked out. Maybe, at some point, he had lived up to that image. She wasnât there for all of it. Maybe he was that guy once.
But not now. Not with her.
Not since that quiet Saturday with shared kisses in her bedroom, hands brushing in the bookstore, smiles traded like secrets. Since then, Johnny had been something else entirely.Â
Yes, he was still unmistakably Johnny, goofy when he thought he could get away with it, always ready with a smart remark and a ridiculous grin, but there was a kind of intention behind everything now. His coat slung over her shoulders without her asking, just because the air turned sharp in the evening. Kisses that rarely wandered beyond knuckles or the curve of her cheek in public, like he wanted to keep something about it just theirs. Doors held open. Seats pulled out. And the truly indecent comments? They were now whispered low and slow, right against her ear, where only she could hear them and usually accompanied by a devilish smile that made her want to roll her eyes and kiss him all at once.
It was strange, really. She hadnât expected this version of him. But maybe what surprised her more was how much she liked it. How much she liked him.
Not the version plastered across gossip columns or paparazzi photos, shirt half-unbuttoned, sunglasses at night, the so-called hotshot of the Fantastic Four. But this version. The one who sent her pager âIâm proud of youâ after a long day she hadnât even mentioned was weary. The one who was slowly making his way through all her books, writing notes in the margins, just so she could read them later. The one who showed up to the office unprompted with a coffee in each hand and no real reason to be there other than the fact that he wanted to be.
It scared her sometimes, how easily he slipped into her life like he belonged there. And it surprised her even more how little resistance sheâd put up when he did. Sue had taken the news with an almost alarming amount of grace. No lectures, no big-sister glares, no stern âdonât-hurt-herâ speeches from the kitchen table. Just a knowing smile.
âSheâs good for you,â sheâd told Johnny one morning over breakfast. Heâd tried to play it cool, said something like, âDonât start planning the wedding just yet, Suzie,â but she could tell how much it meant to him.
And later, Sue had pulled her aside and said, âHeâs steadier with you around. Not dull. Just⊠softer.â
That had stayed with her. Softer. Because thatâs how he made her feel, too. He didnât dim things down. He didnât take up all the space in the room. He just fit into it, into her world, like heâd always been there, waiting for her to notice. And now, a month in, it still didnât feel loud or chaotic or fast. It just felt real.
With the territory of being his girl came a quiet shift in her world. A soft deviation from the life sheâd been living, subtle at first, then all at once. What used to be long nights at the office, microwaved leftovers eaten in silence, and waking up to do it all over again had become something warmer. Cozier. Messier, in the best possible way.
Now there were dinners at the Baxter Building, where laughter bounced off the high-tech walls and a giggling toddler often ended up curled in her lap, sticky-fingered and beaming. There were double dates with Ben and his sweet-natured schoolteacher girlfriend, Rachel, who always brought homemade dessert and insisted they share it, no matter how full they were. There were evenings where Johnny roped her into ridiculous experiments with H.E.R.B.I.E., and she caught herself scratching the robot's âheadâ without thinking, just like Johnny always did.
She started keeping an extra box of that absurdly sugary marshmallow cereal in her pantry, because Johnny was prone to munching throughout the evening even after he swore he was full. Somehow, a drawer in her dresser had emptied itself without her even meaning to, only to slowly fill with worn t-shirts that smelled like smoke and soap and him. A second toothbrush had appeared in her bathroom. He didnât even mention it, just left it there like it belonged. Hair gel. Cologne. A familiar hoodie draped over the back of her couch. Socks in the laundry she hadnât bought. These werenât big declarations. They werenât moving boxes or dramatic speeches.
They were small signs that he wasnât just passing through. That somehow, somewhere between the bookstore and those soft, sleepy mornings in her bed, Johnny Storm had started taking up space in her life. Not loudly. Not recklessly. Just⊠genuinely. And the wildest part? She liked it. All of it.
Even the cereal.
She hadnât really noticed when it happened. There was no hard line or sudden declaration. No âso⊠are we dating now?â moment whispered over takeout. It was gradual. Now she saw him more days than she didnât. He had a key, though neither of them had ever said the words âhere, take this.â It had just appeared on his keyring one day, nestled between the fob to the garage at the Baxter Building and a tiny glow-in-the-dark Saturn âFranklinâ had given him. He slept over. She stayed at his. There were goodnight chats that turned into âIâm already outsideâ calls. Sunday mornings with his head buried in her pillow and one arm curled around her waist like he didnât intend to let go.
But. Despite the closeness. Despite the sleepy mornings and stolen glances and passionate kisses that left her breathless, nothing had happened in that arena. Theyâd slept in the same bed more times than she could count. Curled together beneath blankets, his body warm and familiar beside hers. Sheâd felt the tension. She knew he had too. The way his breath would catch sometimes, the way his hands would still on her waist, gripping like he was afraid to want more. And it wasnât that he didnât want her. That much was clear in the way he kissed her when no one else was around. Deep, slow, full of heat and intent, like he was memorizing every inch of her mouth.
But Johnny always stopped short. Sometimes with a soft groan into her neck, sometimes with a sheepish laugh, sometimes with nothing more than a lingering touch and a whispered, âNot tonight.â At first, sheâd wondered if it was nerves. If he was afraid to push. Then she thought maybe it was a phase, a slow burn he wanted to savor.
But as the weeks passed and the boundaries held, close but never quite crossing, she started to realize something else. He was waiting. Not out of fear or disinterest, but⊠respect. Control. Maybe even intention. For a man so famously impulsive, Johnny had been anything but with her. There was restraint in the way he handled her. Not cold. Not distant. But reverent. As if what they were building was fragile in the best kind of way.
And she couldnât lie. It made her fall even harder. He couldâve had anyone. That was never the question. But heâd chosen to go slow. With her. To let this unfold without pressure or expectation. To give her time, or maybe give them time, for whatever it was they were growing into. And the way he looked at her when she caught him watching, full of something she couldnât quite name yet but felt like the beginnings of forever, made her wonder if, somehow, he already knew what they were becoming. Maybe he was just waiting for her to catch up.
That didnât mean it wasnât increasingly growing a bit⊠frustrating in a physical sense. Because for all of Johnnyâs patience, his gentlemanly restraint, his whispered goodnights and feather-light touches, there were moments when she found herself staring at the ceiling in the dark, aching. The way his hands fit around her waist, the way his mouth moved against hers when he stopped holding back just long enough to make her dizzy, it was maddening. A kind of slow, controlled burn that curled low in her spine and settled in her chest, tightening every time he pulled away with a kiss to her shoulder and a barely-there âGoodnight.â
She wasnât inexperienced. She knew what it meant to want someone. But this wasnât simple want, it was suspended tension. It was nights where his breath would stutter against her skin and heâd press his forehead to hers like he was grounding himself. It was those long pauses in between kisses when her hands found the hem of his shirt and he caught her wrists, kissing her palms instead.
She wasnât sure if it was nobility or torture. And it wasnât like she didnât want more. She did. God, she did. There were times when she nearly said it aloud, nearly asked him why they were still dancing around the line. But the truth was⊠some part of her liked that he didnât expect it. That he hadnât made a move even when she had, in not-so-subtle ways, invited him to.
He didnât push. Didnât ask. Didnât turn her desire into an obligation. It felt⊠safe. Unusual, in the best way. But she couldnât deny how much it meant. That, for once, someone wanted her, not just her body. That he could spend the night tangled up beside her and still walk away in the morning with nothing more than a sleepy smile and a joke about the way she hogged the blankets.
And yet, underneath all that comfort and affection, there was this hum of anticipation. An unspoken current that ran just below the surface. She felt it in the way his hands lingered on her back a little longer each time. The way his voice dipped when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he was imagining all the things he wasnât doing. And it made her wonder. How long could they keep this up? Because love was growing. So was want. And somewhere between soft restraint and quiet intimacy, she knew they were on a path.
That didnât make the waiting any easier. Especially not when she seemed to be the one feeling it most. That quiet ache followed her even when Johnny wasnât around. It snuck in during the quiet moments: brushing her teeth at night, folding his hoodie heâd left behind again, slipping into bed alone and finding his scent still clinging to the pillow beside hers. She hated how often she caught herself imagining him there, not just beside her, but with her. Close. Pressed against her in the dark, mouth warm and purposeful, his voice gone hoarse from saying her name.
Sheâd never needed someone before, not like this. Not in that bone-deep, restless way where just the thought of him adjusting his sleeves or raking a hand through his hair made her chest feel too tight. Worse still, it crept into her daydreams. Mid-meeting thoughts where sheâd suddenly imagine his mouth on her neck, or what it might feel like to wake up to more than just his arm slung across her waist. Sheâd snap out of it, cheeks warm, flustered by fantasies that came entirely uninvited.
Heâd ruined her. And he didnât even know it. Or maybe⊠maybe he did. Maybe that was the point. Maybe he was waiting, not because he didnât feel it too, but because he wanted her to be the one to say it first. To ask. To choose. And part of her hated how much she wanted to. But the other part? The other part was already starting to plan what she might say the next time they were tangled up in each otherâs arms, all breathless laughter and too-close proximity. The next time his lips paused just beneath her ear, and his voice dipped low enough to make her stomach twist.
The next time it would be her who didnât allow them to stop.
âââââ ââ ââ â âââââ
The office lights had long since dimmed to half-power, casting a quiet glow across the Building's upper floor. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, but her desk was still a pool of light and blue screens, surrounded by open folders, highlighted notes, and a half-empty coffee cup gone cold. Sue had tried to coax her out earlier: twice, actually. Once with gentle persuasion, and again with a sharper edge when persuasion didnât work.
"Youâre going to burn yourself out," Sue had warned, arms crossed in the doorway. "Itâs just a press conference."
"Itâs not just a press conference," sheâd countered, fingers flying over her keyboard. "Itâs the first time weâve invited press into the building since the Latveria incident. If this doesnât go smoothly, Reedâs going to spiral, and the boardâs going to blame you, and you know it."
Sue had sighed, muttered something about overachievers, and finally left her to it. Now, the halls were quiet. The only sound was the soft clack of her keys and the occasional hum of the cooling vents. She didnât even notice the elevator chime at first, or the soft, familiar footsteps that followed. Johnny leaned casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His hair was a little windblown, probably from flying, and he had that infuriatingly relaxed aura about him, like showing up uninvited at 11 p.m. was perfectly normal. âYou know,â he drawled, âmost people go home when the sun goes down.â
She didnât look up from her screen. âMost people donât have to prep four departments and write a twenty-minute speech for a room full of skeptical reporters tomorrow.â
âMm.â He stepped inside, slow and deliberate. âWell, most people also donât look this good in computer lighting, so youâve already got a head start.â
âJohnny.â
âJust saying.â He moved behind her chair and leaned down, arms bracing either side of the desk, voice dipping near her ear. âCome home.â
She tensed, eyes still locked on the screen, though her fingers had paused on the keys. âI canât,â she said quietly. âNot yet. Itâs got to be perfect.â
âItâs already perfect.â His nose brushed lightly against her hairline, his breath warm as he spoke. âYou know how I know that? Because you wrote it.â
Despite herself, she smiled faintly, gaze still fixed ahead. âFlattery doesnât change anything.â
âNo,â he agreed, lips brushing her temple, âbut maybe a little light kidnapping would.â
She let out a soft laugh, finally turning toward him. He stood over her, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him, but he didnât touch her beyond the way his hand rested casually on the back of her chair. âJohnny, Iâm serious.â
âSo am I,â he said, quieter now, eyes locked on hers.
And there it was again, that shift. The playful spark hadnât gone anywhere, but something heavier sat just beneath it. That restraint. That way he looked at her like he wanted more, but was holding himself back from asking.
She swallowed. âYou always do this.â
âDo what?â
âGet close. And then stop. Like weâre both standing at the edge of something and you keep waiting for me to jump first.â
He didnât deny it. Just watched her. âYou said you wanted slow,â he said softly.
âI said I wanted real,â she replied. âAnd this, us, it is. But that doesnât mean I donât feel things. That I donât want more than justââ She stopped herself. Heat bloomed in her chest and her face.
Johnnyâs brow creased. âYou think I donât feel that too?â
âYou never let it show. You always stop.â
He exhaled, hand dragging through his hair as he leaned back slightly. âBecause if I donât stop⊠I donât think Iâll be able to.â Her heart stuttered. He stepped closer, slower now, until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed against her jaw, his voice barely above a whisper. âI want everything with you. But I didnât want you to think thatâs all I wanted.â
She didnât speak. Couldnât. Because that was it, wasnât it? The thing she couldnât name. The thing that made her both ache and hesitate. He hadnât been holding back because he didnât feel it. Heâd been holding back because he did. She stood slowly, rising from the chair so they were eye to eye. âYouâre not just some guy Iâm passing time with,â she said quietly. âIâm not here for casual.â
He reached for her then, not pulling her in, just⊠grounding her. Fingers grazing her waist. âNeither am I.â The air between them shifted: Warmer, denser, laced with something neither of them could ignore much longer. This time, when she leaned in to kiss him, he didnât pull away.Â
His mouth met hers like it always did, a familiar rhythm, but something had shifted. There was more behind it now. More intention. More heat. The kind that curled low in her belly and made her press in closer without thinking. His hands found her hips, steady, warm, fingers flexing but he didnât pull away.
It wasnât frantic or messy. It was deep. That kind of kiss that quieted everything around them and filled the room with nothing but breath and skin and want. Her fingers curled in the collar of his shirt, and for once, he didnât stop her. Didnât deflect with a joke or pull back with a whispered âNot tonight.â
His lips just moved with hers, hungrier now. More certain. Then, just as she started to slip her hands beneath the hem of his shirt, he froze. Not pulled away. Just⊠paused. She felt it immediately. That subtle change in pressure. That catch of breath. That moment when his self-control kicked back in, like a hand on the brake.
âWaitââ he said, his forehead resting against hers now, his voice low and strained. âAre we really about to do this in the office?â
She blinked, lips swollen and breathless. The glowing screens cast long shadows along the walls. It wasnât romantic. Wasnât planned. But somehow, none of that mattered. âNo oneâs here,â she whispered, touching his cheek. âItâs almost midnight. Everyoneâs gone.â
His hands still rested at her waist, but he wasnât moving. Not yet. âI justââ he exhaled, eyes closed. âI donât want this to feel like something itâs not. You deserve⊠more than some desk and low lighting.â
Her voice was soft but firm. âIâm tired of waiting, Johnny.â He opened his eyes, searching hers. She continued, quieter now. âDo you really think itâs going to mean less because itâs here? Do you think Iâll look back and regret it? Because I wonât. Itâs not the location that matters.â Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently. âItâs you. Being with you is the part that matters.â
Something in him broke loose at that. The last of his hesitation slipped through his fingers like water, and when he kissed her again, there was no more holding back. No more careful restraint. Just months of slow-burning tension finally unraveling. And it didnât matter that it wasnât a bed with candles or soft music. It didnât matter that the desk was cluttered or that she still had her heels on.
In fact, the heels were helpful.
Johnny wasnât absurdly tall, but he had enough height on her that the added inches made things smoother, more aligned, as they stumbled in tandem, laughter and heat tangled between them. The edge of the desk bumped the backs of her thighs, and with one sweeping motion, papers went flying to the floor, coffee tipping sideways in a startled arc. Johnny barely broke rhythm. With one hand still bracing her waist, he flicked his other toward the spill, steam hissed as the liquid vanished in an instant, evaporated before it could touch a single document.
And then she was on the desk, perched firmly as he stepped between her knees. âGod, I love these little skirts,â he murmured against her skin, the words half-laugh, half-groan as his lips traced down the curve of her neck. âYou have no idea.â
She did, in fact, have some idea, judging by the reverent way his hands slid along her thighs, fingertips pressing in like he was discovering her body for the first time. His mouth dipped to the hollow of her throat, and he nipped there, just enough to make her breath hitch, leaving heat pooling under her skin.
Her hands moved with growing urgency, untucking his shirt with practiced ease as his own fingers toyed at the waistband of her skirt. That same slow-burning control was there in every movement, but this time there was no pulling back. No hesitation. Just the rising intensity of months of reined-in desire finally breaking surface. âYou're stillââ she tried to say, voice catching as he dragged his lips along her collarbone, ââobnoxiously overdressed.â
He laughed again, husky and breathless, forehead pressing to hers for a second. âYou started it. And I could say the same to you,â
âJohnny.â
âOkay, okay.â
But there was no teasing now, not really. His grin softened as he looked down at her, hands stilling just long enough to give her one more chance. One last out. She leaned forward instead, brushing her mouth against his, slower now. More certain. âI want this,â she whispered. âI want you.â
He answered her without words. Just action: swift, sure, and full of intent. He leaned back, fingers gripping the hem of his shirt before tugging it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric landed in her desk chair without a second thought. Then he was back, sliding between her knees again like he belonged there.
His hands found the edge of her blouse, tugging it free from where it was tucked neatly into her skirt. The buttons gave beneath his fingers one by one, slow at first, then with a quiet urgency, like heâd been holding back for too long and couldnât stand the wait anymore. âYou always look so put-together,â he murmured, eyes flicking up to meet hers as he worked the last button. âDrives me crazy.â
His palms pushed the material off her shoulders, leaving the fabric of her bra as the only thing covering her from the waist up. Low lighting, darker now that the computer had kicked into reserve power, he still glanced at her longingly. Blue eyes tracing the exposure without hesitation. Her breath hitched, goosebumps racing along her skin as his palms slid over her sides, memorizing her shape like he needed it etched into memory. He smiled against the skin of her shoulder, pressing a kiss there. âYou ruin me. You know that, right?â
She pulled him back to her by the waistband of his jeans, kissing him hard enough to answer. Her fingers fumbled with the latch of his infamously tight chinos, cursing under her breath as the fabric refused to budge. The effort alone made her laugh, a soft burst of amusement she couldnât hold in. Johnny leaned back with a mock-offended look, a smirk already tugging at the corners of his mouth. âNot exactly a confidence boost when your girl starts laughing mid-strip.â
She rolled her eyes, still grinning. âIâm not laughing at you. Iâm laughing at these pants. Theyâre a crime against movement.â
He arched an eyebrow and wiggled them for good measure. âTheyâre flame-retardant. Functional and fashionable.â
âTheyâre a straightjacket for your legs,â she muttered, tugging again, this time with both hands. âSeriously, how do you even get into these things without a shoehorn and divine intervention?â
Johnny laughed, the sound low and warm in his chest. âWhat can I say? I make insanity look sexy.â With one final tug, the pants finally gave in, sliding down over his hips in defeat. She leaned back, victorious, breathless from the effort, and maybe a little from the view.
He stood there with all the smugness of a man who knew he looked good half-undressed, his hands resting casually on his hips. âSee? That wasnât so hard.â
She shot him a look. âIâd argue that it is quite hardâŠâ
His voice dropped an octave, softer now but still edged with mischief. âThey always say itâs the quiet ones you gotta watch out for,â He stepped closer, heat radiating off him, literally. A faint warmth always clung to his skin, like the sun had taken a special liking to him and never quite let go. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, slow and deliberate. âI wear them because I always hope youâll end up taking them off.â
She looked around at the dark office, her shirt and his tossed to the side, now his pants removed. Only her bra on her top half but completely dressed from the waist down from where she sat perched on her desk: nylon, skirt, undergarments, heels. Johnny seemed to notice this fact as well as his fingers traced the outside of her thighs and his eyes darkened. âSpeaking of taking things offâŠâ he gestured to her tights.Â
She only had it in her to nod, allowing his large hands to work their way under her skirt. Scooting to the edge of the desk to make it easier she lifted herself for a moment as he tugged them from her waist, leaving her skirt bunched up as he then pulled them down the length of her legs. Kitten heels knocked off, tights gone, but skirt still remaining, she looked at him expectantly.Â
"You know," Johnny murmured, his voice thick with amusement, "I wonât lie, this is some view. Not at all like the fantasy I had the first time I stepped into your officeâŠâ came sarcasm dribbling into his tone. He chuckled against her skin, lips brushing the curve of her neck as he leaned in. The warmth of his breath sent a ripple down her spine. One of his hands slid upward, finding the pin tucked into her hair. With a gentle tug, the twist unraveled, and her hair tumbled free across her shoulders, soft waves catching the dim light like silk. Johnny pulled back just enough to take her in, one brow lifted. âHmm⊠thatâs an improvement.â
She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding the flush that bloomed across her chest and up her neck. âDo you say that to all the women you undress on desks?â
âOnly the ones who make power skirts look sexier than lingerie.â His hands were already at her waist again, thumbs brushing over the exposed edge of her skin, just above the waistband of her skirt.
She laughed, but it faltered slightly when he leaned in again, lips ghosting over her collarbone, slow and deliberate. Every brush of contact was heat and patience and promise. âYou always flirt this much when youâre half-naked in someone elseâs workplace?â she managed, fingers threading into his hair.
His grin was pure trouble. âOnly when Iâm with my girl. What can I say? She brings out a side of meâŠâ Then his hands slid lower, anchoring at the backs of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the desk, their bodies aligned, breath mingling. For a heartbeat, the teasing stilled. âI donât think I can look at this office the same again,â he murmured, voice soft now, more confession than joke.
She gave him a slow smile, her forehead nearly touching his. âYeah me eitherâ
âMind if I try something?â he asked, voice uncertain for the first crack in his bravado since this had escalated. She nodded, and he brought his hands to her waist, tugging her until she stood in front of him. He knelt, reaching back up her pencil skirt until he found her panties, eyebrow raised for permission as she nodded, holding his shoulder lightly for balance. He tugged them free, tossing them on top of the growing pile of clothes and standing once more.Â
Gently, he turned her to face the desk, the warmth of his hands a steady guide. She heard the soft rustle of fabric behind them, and when she glanced down, she saw his briefs pooled around their feet: quiet evidence of just how far they'd already gone. Fingers, deft and unhurried, brushed her hair to one side, exposing the line of her neck. His mouth followed, lips grazing her skin before he caught her earlobe between his teeth, just enough to make her inhale sharply. âIâve gotta say,â he murmured, voice husky with laughter, âthe skirt staying on? Kind of doing it for meâŠâ
She smiled, lips parting around a breath. âYeah?â
âOh, definitely.â He tugged her back against him, the length of his body fitting to hers. âJust picture it. You laid out across your deskâŠâ As he spoke, his hands slid over her waist, guiding her down with gentle pressure. Her stomach met the cool surface of the desk, the contrast sending a ripple up her spine. She turned her head to the side, hair spilling like a curtain as she felt his palms move over the bare skin just above her hips. âGod,â he whispered, almost to himself, fingers tracing the line where her skirt ended. âYou have no idea what you do to me.â
His touch never rushed. Each pass of his hands over her body was like a promise, one he fully intended to keep. Her eyes drifted down from his face to see all of him. Exposed, standing behind her. His manhood stood at attention, already flushed and solid. A bit larger than sheâd honestly have expected. Either way, the anticipation and long month of having it restrained behind his sweatpants and pulsing on her backside as he slept made her desperate to finally experience it all. Widening her stance she looked at him with a nod, hands seeking the edge of the desk to brace herself.Â
âYeah much better than just a fantasy,â he muttered, stepping closer. She felt him tug her waist up as much as possible, fingers darting down to see how far along sheâd gotten. His fingertips, glistening with arousal when he pulled away.Â
Johnny didnât ask as he lined himself up, bunching the skirt around her waist in the process. He didn't ask permission as he pushed his way inside either, grunt filling her office as he bottomed out relatively easily. He did, however, pause and ask permission before moving. âWow, thatâs, are youââ
âPlease move,â she whined, hands braced on the desk as she glanced over her shoulder at him.Â
âYes Maâam,â and thatâs all it took. From one bashful, always stopping advances man, to fucking her right and raw against the desk. The wood groaning, the smacking of skin filling her silent office. After all that time waiting, heavenly.Â
âOh, Johnny,â she gasped, the sound escaping her like breath sheâd been holding for far too long. Every thrust was a sweet, relentless ache. Stretching, filling, claiming. He moved with purpose, no hesitation, only the kind of need born from restraint finally shattered.
âYeahâŠâ he breathed out, the word barely more than a hiss, forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder. His breath was hot against her skin, uneven and desperate, syncing with the rhythm of his hips as he drove into her.
The desk beneath her creaked with every movement, sharp staccato echoes of skin meeting skin reverberating through the quiet office. What she'd once imagined might be slow and tender like the nights theyâd shared in secret, had unraveled into something far more primal. And God, it was perfect. All those nights of looking. Waiting. Wanting. Theyâd simmered into this: a moment neither of them could pull back from.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the desk, knuckles white, trying to hold onto something solid while her body threatened to dissolve around him. âJohnnyââ her voice was a broken moan now, thick with need. âDonât stop.â
âNot planning on it,â he gritted, one hand splaying across her hip, grounding himself. The other slid up her back, slow and reverent, tracing the curve of her spine through the mess of lace bunched fabric from her bra. He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. âYou feel, fuck, you feel like heaven.â
She couldnât answer, too far gone in the rush of sensation. Her world had narrowed to the heat of him, the sound of their skin meeting, and the tension spiraling through her with every breath. That was when she heard it: a groan. Not hers. The desk.
âJohnnyââ she warned breathlessly, voice half-laugh, half-panic. But he didnât hear her, or didnât care. One more thrust, rough and deep, andâCRACK. The desk gave with a sharp, splintering snap, the legs buckling beneath them in dramatic betrayal. Papers flew. An empty coffee mug that survived his initial clearing hit the floor and shattered. And they dropped, a chaotic tangle of limbs and laughter.
She landed with a thud, his weight half on top of her, half braced by what was left of the desk. Wide-eyed, she blinked up at the ceiling, catching her breath.
âWell,â Johnny said, completely unbothered, voice muffled slightly as he pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, âI guess weâre filing this under workplace hazard.â
She burst out laughing, hand coming up to shove his chest lightly. âYou broke my desk!â
He grinned, eyes glittering with mischief and no small amount of pride. âTechnically, we broke it. I believe in equal rights, Doll, and it takes two to tango.â
She stared up at him, wide-eyed, flushed, and breathless. âHow am I supposed to explain this to Sue?â
That earned a groan, low and drawn out, as he dropped his head briefly against her shoulder. âOkay, please donât mention my sister while Iâm still inside you.â
She let out a breathless laugh, one hand covering her face. âRight. Sorry..â
âThank you.â He lifted his head again, brushing a few strands of her hair out of her face. âNow letâs go back to the part where I was making you see stars.â
She raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the wreckage of her desk underneath them. âPretty bold of you to assume I stopped seeing them.â
His grin widened. âOh? So I am that good.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âAnd yet, you still let me wreck your office furniture.â
âI didnât let you,â she scoffed, rolling off the ruins of the desk and onto the floor with a dramatic sigh. âYou did that all on your own.â
Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, watching her with an unrepentant smile. âExcuse me, you were the one begging me to stop holding back and finally ravish you.â
She shot him a glare over her shoulder. âI did not say ravish.â
âYou didnât have to. I read between the lines,â he said with a wink. âHere I was, planning to be a gentleman. Take you out to dinner, light some candles, go slow, make it all romanticâŠâ
âAnd instead, you went full âraunchy office scandal,â like this was some bad porno,â she deadpanned.
He sprawled out on his back, arms folded behind his head like heâd just been awarded a medal for outstanding contribution to office destruction. âYou encouraged it. Donât go rewriting history now.â
She groaned, tossing a crumpled folder at his bare chest. âGod, I really am a cheap date. Letting you defile me on a desk without even springing for dinner first.â
Johnny caught the folder against his ribs, grinning. âI can still buy you dinner, Doll. Late-night takeout, your place. Then Iâll run you a bath, light a candle or two, do this the right way.â He gave a lazy, suggestive wave between their tangled bodies. âThe desk was just the⊠prologue.â
She raised a brow, tugging her blazer tighter around her chest. âYou better not break my bed, Jonathan Storm.â
He barked a laugh, sitting up and running a hand through his wild hair. âNo promises.â
âIâm serious,â she warned, a playful glint in her eye. âItâs an antique.â
âIâll be gentle.â
She rolled her eyes, but the grin stayed, soft and lingering. âYouâre unbelievable.â
âAnd youâre irresistible,â he shot back, tugging his pants up with that same effortless swagger. âNow come on, I wanna do this properly.â
She stood with a quiet laugh, brushing off imaginary dust and tugging her skirt back into place, still slightly rumpled but beyond the point of caring. Around them, the remnants of chaos â cracked wood, scattered papers, the occasional button â told a story neither of them would ever live down. But somehow, in the aftermath, it all felt worth it. They dressed in a comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional smirk or lingering glance exchanged across the room. Johnny, shirt still half-buttoned and hair a charming disaster, held the door open for her with an exaggerated bow.
âAfter you, Miss Desk Slayer.â She rolled her eyes but stepped through, her fingers brushing his as she passed.
And later, after the food had gone cold on the coffee table and the city lights flickered softly outside her townhouse window, he touched her like he had all the time in the world. No rush. No games. Just quiet, deliberate care. The kind that only comes after you stop pretending thereâs nothing to lose. His hands moved over her like he was memorizing her, like he wanted to know every breath, every shiver, every unspoken truth. And she let him, opened herself to him fully, as though their bodies could speak the words of a now familiar language.
When it was over, when they lay tangled in sheets and each other, her head resting on his chest and their fingers still laced together, the room felt suspended in a place as vast as space and timeless as infinity. She broke the silence first, voice barely above a whisper. âYou didnât have to come find me tonight.â
He turned his head, pressing a slow kiss to her hair. âI didnât want to be anywhere else.â
She tilted her face toward him, eyes searching his. âYou say that now.â
Johnnyâs voice was soft. Softer than sheâd ever heard it. âNo. I mean it. Wherever you are... thatâs where I wanna be.â
Her breath caught. She smiled then, fingers tightening just a little in his. âYouâre such a sap.â
âOnly for you,â he murmured, already slipping into sleep, his arm pulling her in tighter. And as the night settled in around them, warm and still, she realized something she hadnât let herself admit until now.
jax is THE "obsessed with his girl when she wears sundresses or those slip nightgowns" like theres a CRIMINAL lack of fanfic around him going bark bark awooga over that shit do u agree with me
Sundress.
itâs sundress season. jax canât keep his hands to himself.
pairing - jax teller x female reader
warnings - smut. cursing. jax is a terror.
word count - 1.5/2k maybe? iâll check later.
authors note - youâre so right. that man is not surviving sundress season.
masterlist. inbox.
You felt it as soon as he walked in.
Thereâs always an atmosphere between you and Jax. A tension thatâs alive, crackling, buzzing with anticipation of itself.
Youâve been waiting for the honeymoon phase to wear off for years. It never has.
All evening, heâs been watching you.
Careful, concentrated blue eyes repeatedly raking over your figure. Up and down. Up and down. Up and down.
Eventually, itâs making it too hard to work. You ask one of the girls to take over the bar and stride across the space, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him into the back room.
âOkay baby, I like it when you-â
âCut it out.â
He stops in his tracks, slightly taken aback.
âHuh?â
âYou heard me, Jax. Cut it the fuck out.â
He leans against the wall, cool as ever, eyes still wandering.
âCut what out?â
âThat!â you scold, smacking his chest. âThe eye fucking. Iâm trying to work.â
âIâm just looking at you.â
âYou are not just looking at me. You look like youâre going to bend me over the bar at any given moment. Stop it.â
âI canât help it, darlinâ.â
He takes a step forward, sliding his hands across your hips and pulling you into him.
âYou look so fuckinâ pretty in this dress. Itâs takinâ everything in me to not rip it off you.â
You try to stand your ground, but his warm body pressing into yours is making it difficult.
âYou can do whatever you want to me when we get home,â you tease, leaning up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. âWhen we get home.â
âThat a promise?â
âIt is if you can cool it with the stares. Youâre scaring people.â
âGood.â
He kisses you roughly, hands migrating down to palm at your ass. You moan into his mouth, arms wrapping around his neck to stay steady.
âJax,â you hiss as you pull away. âEveryoneâs gonna think weâre fucking back here. Behave.â
âI like it when you tell me to behave,â he smirks, smoothing out the skirt of your dress.
âBehave,â you repeat, tugging his hair roughly. His eyes close in bliss and for a moment, you debate just letting him have you now.
Remembering the entire reason for this conversation, you slap his cheek lightly.
âBest behaviour until the end of my shift. You hear me, Jackson?â
âYes maâam.â
He mock salutes you before stealing a quick kiss. Opening the door for you, he smacks your ass as you walk by, laughing when you turn around to glare at him.
âI mean it.â
âOh I know, baby.â
To his credit, he reels it in. Slightly.
Heâs still watching your every move, but with a little less intensity than before. You catch his eyes occasionally, winking as you grin. He shakes his head, beaming smile on his face telling you everything you need to know.
As the night comes to a close, people start to vacate the bar and make their way home, drunk and merry. Jax sticks around, arm slung over the back of the booth as he watches you clean.
âYou two gonna be alright?â
âYeah, Chibs, weâre good. Iâll see you tomorrow.â
He gives you a kiss on the cheek before leaving, as you hear his bike roar to life.
As soon as Jax has confirmation heâs gone, heâs getting up, sauntering over to where youâre wiping down the bar top.
âWhatâs my prize?â
âHmm?â
You look up at him with big doe eyes and he almost melts, leaning across the wood towards you.
âWhatâs my prize? For behaving myself?â
âYouâre insufferable,â you laugh. âYouâre supposed to behave yourself.â
âWhereâs the fun in that?â
You shake your head and lean down to throw the rag under the sink. When you stand up, Jax is pressed against you, body warm and firm.
âHi.â
âHi.â
His big hands cradle your face, rough and gun calloused.
âYou look so fuckinâ pretty.â
You flush, heat rising across your chest. Jax lunges in, smashing his lips to yours and pushing you up against the bar. The lip of the wood is digging into your back as he presses you into it further, rocking his hips into yours as he kisses you.
You gasp as he bites down on your lip, so he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. He tastes like beer and cigarettes and the gum he chews because he knows you like it. You tangle your fingers into his hair, trying to plaster yourself to him.
Jax leans down and presses open mouthed kisses to your ear, your neck, your collarbones, your chest. No skin goes left untouched as you tilt your head to give him more access. He smirks at how quickly youâve relented.
âI know you wanted this,â he murmurs against your throat. âWanted it just as bad as me, didnât you?â
When you donât respond, he snakes a hand around your neck, squeezing just enough.
âYes,â you gasp. âYes, Jax. Please.â
He presses his lips into the junction of your shoulder as his hand slips underneath your dress. He traces you over your underwear, cupping you as he chuckles.
âFilthy girl. So fuckinâ wet.â
You drop your head forward into his chest, trying to take deep breaths so you donât pass out.
âCanât take my time with you like I want to,â he murmurs. âDonât want anyone walking in and seeing you like this.â
In the blink of an eye heâs spinning you around, hand on your shoulder blades to push you down onto the bar top. He flips the skirt of your dress up, bunching it around your waist.
âBeen thinkinâ about this all day. Pretty fuckinâ girl.â
Jax pulls your underwear to the side as he fumbles with his jeans, pushing them down just enough. You feel the warmth of him behind you, sliding through your wet heat with ease.
âPlease,â you whine. âDonât tease.â
âNeedy baby.â
His tone is so patronising, so condescending, that on any other day youâd slap him. But in this current moment, the only thing you can thing about how is how you might die if he doesnât fuck you soon.
âOkay, honey. Iâll give you what you want. Only because you look so fuckinâ gorgeous in this dress.â
He slides himself home as both of you groan. You rest your head on your folded arms on the bar as his hands find your hips, setting a brutal pace instantly.
His rhythm is consistent, deep thrusts reverberating through the core of you. Your knees threaten to give out as he knocks your entire body forward, his hips smacking into yours.
His mouth is running constantly, spewing filth right into your ear as he breathes down your neck.
âPrettiest fuckinâ girl Iâve ever seen. This goddamn dress. Drivinâ me insane.â
âYeah darlinâ, just like that. Fuck, baby. Sâgood.â
âYou feel like heaven, fuck. Atta girl.â
âGood girl. Good fuckinâ girl. Thatâs it, there we go.â
You canât do anything but take it, babbling nonsense right back at him. He chuckles, snaking his hand around your front to circle your clit.
His fingers are your undoing, clenching around him like a vice as your legs give out. All you can do is whine his name, all high pitched and breathy.
âFuck, baby.â
Jax comes as soon as he feels you, groaning as he rests his head on your back. He squeezes your hips a couple of times, kissing across your skin.
Youâre both revelling in your post orgasm bliss when the door flies open, hitting the wall and startling you both.
âOh, shit. Sorry, lovebirds.â
Chibs is grinning, laughing as he looks around the booth where he was sitting. He finds his keys on the floor, holding them up as he shakes his head at the two of you.
Jax pulls out of you and buttons himself up, smoothing your dress down to preserve your decency. You hide your face in his chest as he chuckles, the sound rumbling through the both of you.
âSee ya tomorrow!â the Scotsman yells as he leaves, stupid smile on his face.
âWhat did I tell you about behaving?â
Jax canât help but laugh at you, pulling you in to press a kiss to your head.
âLetâs go home, pretty girl. Wanna fuck you in this dress a couple more times.â
heartbreak on tour is something Iâve once wrote 2 years back (which is crazy to think abt). I know itâs been awhile since Iâve last posted, and honestly itâs cause I didnât really like it so I lost motivation to continue writing and publishingâs however it isnât something Iâve completely given up. if there is a high demand for it to be continued again, I will gladly do so however with my own pace and time. I hope this makes sense!đ€
summary: 4 months after the quiet end of something too big to name, Y/N L/N â pop superstar, tabloid headline, everyoneâs darling â turns twenty-five in the hills above Bel Air. Cameras flash, friends sing in three languages, a cake towers in sugared white chocolate. But the driveway stays empty, and she canât help wishing for the one person who isnât coming back. A story of rose-gold balloons, burned chocolate cake, a folded note in a purse, and the way some absences shine brighter than a spotlight.
allyâs radio đ»: first lando ficc and ofc itâs angst. heavily inspired by âparty 4 uâ by charli xcxđ€ 8.2k words. likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated. enjoy, my darlings.
The hills above Bel Air were lit in a thousand shades of blush and rose gold, the sky still warm with the last breath of August.
A thousand pink balloons floated lazily across the marble deck, drifting against the shimmer of the infinity pool, their ribbons tangling in the breeze. Beyond the glass balcony, Los Angeles glittered like it had dressed up just for her.
Y/n L/n had everything tonight: the party of the year, whispered about in every group chat and gossip site before the first flute of champagne had even been poured. A-list faces sheâd grown up watching on TV mingled beside her, the clink of crystal glasses and laughter drowning out the beat of her own thoughts.
Yet she couldnât stop staring at the driveway.
She couldnât stop listening for the sound of an engine she knew by heart.
Her dress was custom Valentino: champagne silk that clung to her like it had been poured over bare skin, delicate pearl beading catching the warm glow of sunset. The fabric whispered around her legs with every step, the slit revealing a flash of sun-kissed skin. Around her neck, diamonds cool against her collarbones; on her wrist, a vintage Cartier that felt heavy with memory.
She smelled of vanilla orchid and something sweeter â pink champagne fizzing against the rim of a crystal flute. Beneath it all, a nervous sweat prickled her skin, hidden under shimmer powder and perfect makeup.
She should have been happy.
The laughter around her felt like it belonged to someone else â a different girl with the same face, same hair pinned in soft waves, same lips painted rose. Cameras flashed; she turned her head just so, the perfect practiced smile curving lips that felt too heavy to lift.
Yet she couldnât stop staring at the driveway.
Couldnât stop listening for the low growl of an engine she knew by heart.
âHappy birthday, hermosa!â Carlos called, breaking through her daze, glass raised high.
âThank you,â she managed, voice soft, a little breathless.
Beside him, Charles offered a grin that almost reached his eyes, Oscar leaned against the bar, watching her carefully â like he knew.
She looked away, eyes drifting over velvet ropes and crystal chandeliers. Her gaze kept pulling back, like a tide, to the driveway. The place where, last year, heâd stepped out of his car carrying a single white peony, grinning like he had the moon cupped in his hands.
Last year.
Italy. Theyâd flown in quietly, just the two of them, tucked into first class behind hats and sunglasses. Outside, the city glittered with wealth; inside, they barely noticed, lost in shared headphone wires and soft, secret smiles.
The villa was Landoâs idea. White stone walls draped in bougainvillea, windows flung open to let in salt air and birdsong. It smelled of lemon oil on old wood and sea breeze, and in the quiet hours of dawn, of fresh coffee and him.
It wasnât big â three rooms and a sunlit terrace â but it felt like a kingdom.
Their kingdom.
The night before her birthday, heâd watched her brush her hair by the window, city lights winking across the harbor. Barefoot, legs tucked under her on the wide stone sill, she wore nothing but his black hoodie â the one heâd stolen from his own suitcase because she always claimed it smelled âmost like him.â
And it did: warm cedar, sea spray, a hint of something sharper beneath â aftershave and adrenaline and him.
Outside, the marina glimmered under moonlight, yachts rocking gently on dark water. But he only watched her, chin propped on his hand, half-smiling.
âWhat?â she asked, heat rising to her cheeks.
âYou,â heâd murmured. âYou look so fucking pretty, it actually hurts.â
Sheâd thrown the hairbrush at him, laughing, and he caught it one-handed, grin breaking wide and boyish.
On the morning of her birthday, she woke to the scent of burnt chocolate and panic.
Padding into the kitchen, hair a tangled mess, she found him shirtless at the counter, dark curls sticking to his forehead, cake batter smudged across his jaw.
âDonât laugh,â he warned, voice already cracking into laughter himself.
âIâm not,â she lied, biting her lip, the giggle spilling anyway.
The cake was⊠tragic. Lopsided, chocolate smears across the plate, frosting dripping like wax. But heâd done it â and when he cut her a messy slice, the taste was perfect, sugared with effort and affection.
She swore it was the best cake sheâd ever had. He didnât believe her, but kissed her anyway: sugar and chocolate on his lips, soft laughter caught between them.
Later, they lay on the sun-warmed balcony tiles, side by side, limbs tangled like vines. Her head rested on his chest, the soft thud of his heartbeat under her cheek. His fingers traced shapes on her bare arm: circles, letters, question marks he never finished.
The sea stretched out before them in endless blue, breeze ruffling his curls.
The world felt hushed, just for them.
âTwenty-four,â he whispered, voice low, like he was telling a secret.
âOld lady now,â she teased.
He laughed, soft and unguarded, the sound rolling through his chest. Then quieter: âTwenty-four looks so fucking beautiful on you.â
That night, as moonlight spilled across tangled sheets, he pressed a folded note into her palm. Crumpled at the edges, his handwriting jagged and messy.
my love, always.
She still kept it. Hidden even from herself, tucked into the lining of her purse, worn soft from being unfolded too many times. A relic of a promise neither of them kept.
Inside, the air shimmered with perfume and laughter, a sweet, dizzy cocktail of roses, sweat, and the burnt sugar scent of birthday cake waiting on silver platters.
Pink spotlights spilled across silk tablecloths, catching on crystal glasses and the sequined hems of designer gowns. Conversations swirled around her, half-heard fragments of celebrity gossip and careful compliments.
You look incredible tonight.
This place is unreal.
Whenâs your next single dropping?
Questions she answered on autopilot, lips parting in the practiced curl of a smile that felt like borrowed velvet â soft, expensive, and not quite hers.
She shifted the weight of her dress, pearl-beaded fabric brushing against her thighs. The diamonds at her throat felt heavier with every breath. Sweat beaded at the nape of her neck, hidden under careful curls. Her pulse fluttered in her wrist where the Cartier watch pressed tight.
Every minute that passed felt carved into her ribs: he hadnât come.
Charles approached from across the room, glass of champagne in hand, tie loosened just enough to look rakish. He smiled, gentle, quiet.
âBonne fĂȘte, ma belle,â he murmured over the music, his French accent softening the words.
âMerci,â she replied, voice catching in her throat.
He tilted his head, studying her face the way only someone who cared enough would. The way only someone whoâd seen her on good days and the ones where mascara ran down her cheeks in silent hotel rooms.
âDonât,â she whispered, almost laughing. âDonât look at me like that.â
He lifted his glass, knocking it lightly against hers. âThen look at the rest of us. Weâre all here for you, you know.â
âI know,â she lied. And hated that it was a lie.
Oscar drifted closer, tall, loose-limbed in an unbuttoned white shirt and a grin that never quite reached his eyes tonight.
âHey, birthday girl.â His voice was softer than usual, careful.
She caught the faintest flick of his gaze toward the driveway â the same silent question that had been pounding in her own chest all night.
She forced another smile, bright and brittle. âStill nothing?â
Oscar hesitated, then shook his head, curls brushing his forehead. âDoesnât look like it.â
She swallowed, throat tight, and tipped back the last of her champagne. The sweetness felt sharp on her tongue, bubbles biting at the corners of her mouth.
âHey,â Oscar added, voice dropping, teasing despite it all. âYou know heâd probably have been late anyway. Man can barely show up on time for a formation lap.â
She laughed. It came out too loud, cracked at the edges. But it was a laugh.
Somewhere nearby, Danielâs laughter boomed, impossible to ignore, and Max raised an eyebrow at something Carlos had said. The sight â of all of them here, familiar faces in a crowd of strangers â should have warmed her.
Instead, it made the empty space beside her feel colder.
The music changed â softer now, a slow, bass-heavy track that curled around the marble pillars like smoke. She let herself drift away from them, away from clinking glasses and cameras held just out of sight.
She stepped into the powder room: gilt mirrors catching fragments of silk and diamonds, a marble counter scattered with perfume bottles and half-empty flutes. The scent of gardenias rose around her, cloying and sweet.
She locked the door. Exhaled.
The silence felt violent after the noise. Her ears rang with ghosted bass, heartbeats echoing in her ribs.
She pressed her hands to the counter, head bowed. Mascara still perfect. Lipstick still flawless. But the mask was slipping beneath it all.
Her breath fogged the mirror for a moment before clearing, revealing her own reflection: wide eyes, shoulders too tense, mouth twitching at the corners.
Happy birthday, she thought bitterly.
Slowly, fingers trembling, she opened her purse â a tiny satin clutch that barely fit more than a phone, a lipstick, and it.
The note had been folded and unfolded so many times its edges had gone soft, the crease feathered thin. His handwriting â quick, uneven, ink smudged from where her thumb had pressed too long the first night sheâd read it.
my love, always.
She traced each letter with the pad of her finger. The memory of his voice reading those words aloud flickered in her mind, soft as candlelight.
It had felt so certain, then. Unshakeable.
And now: a relic. Something dead she carried anyway, like a bruise she kept pressing just to feel it again.
A knock at the door jolted her back.
âYou okay in there?â Carlosâs voice, soft through the heavy wood. Not teasing â just there.
She inhaled, once, twice, folding the note back into its hidden pocket. Blinked away the sheen in her eyes. Pressed lipstick back into shape.
âYeah,â she called, voice steady. âJust fixing my hair.â
She unlocked the door. Carlos stood waiting, jacket open, shirt sleeves rolled, his gaze kind in a way that cut her to the bone.
âYou donât have to be okay tonight,â he murmured, too low for anyone else to hear.
She swallowed the words that nearly spilled â But I want to be. But I canât be.
Instead, she hooked her arm through his, letting him lead her back into the noise.Â
The hotel suite felt too quiet when the door closed behind them.
The walls were cream and gold, floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the soft glow of Monacoâs marina into the room. Outside, the water glittered in midnight blue, yachts bobbing like lazy ghosts. Inside, the silence stretched tight and brittle.
She stood by the minibar, clutching the sleeve of his hoodie pulled over her dress. His scent still clung to the fabric: cedar, clean sweat, the faintest echo of engine oil and adrenaline from earlier that day.
He dropped his suitcase by the door with a dull thud, shoulders slumped, curls falling messily across his forehead. His eyes â normally warm, teasing, alive â looked dimmed, ringed with exhaustion that went deeper than the weekendâs race.
Neither spoke.
The hum of the minibar felt loud.
Somewhere in the marina, a horn sounded, low and mournful.
She broke first.
âSay something,â she whispered, voice cracking.
He swallowed, Adamâs apple bobbing. His gaze dropped to the floor, then back to her face. âI donât know what to say.â
You know. The words burned behind her teeth. You always know what to say.
Instead, she took a step closer. âThen tell me itâs not over.â
His breath caught â she heard it, felt it, like a thread snapping.
He lifted his hand, like he meant to reach for her cheek, but let it drop.
âI⊠canât,â he murmured, voice low, raw.
The ache in her chest flared sharp, hot. âLandoââ
âI love you,â he said quickly, voice cracking, as if the words were escaping before he could swallow them back. âGod, I love you, but⊠weâre not the same anymore.â
His shoulders sagged under the confession, like it cost him something to say.
Tears blurred her vision, diamond earrings catching the light as her head dropped.
âIâm still me,â she whispered.
âAnd Iâm still me,â he replied, softer now. âBut maybe thatâs the problem.â
His accent curled around the words, familiar and devastating.
She stepped closer, until she could smell the salt of his skin, the lingering cologne, the faint shampoo scent from hair still damp after a shower. Close enough that if she leaned in, her forehead would brush his.
âWe could fix this,â she pleaded, voice shaking. âWe always fix it.â
His jaw tightened. âWe canât keep fixing it by pretending nothingâs broken.â
For a moment, neither moved. The city glittered outside, silent witness to the wreckage of something once so whole.
She remembered mornings tangled in hotel sheets, his laugh against her throat. Remembered the way he used to trace hearts on her hip when he thought she was asleep.
Remembered, most painfully, the night heâd pressed a note into her hand and promised always.
She reached for him anyway. âThen lie to me,â she begged, voice splintering. âJust tonight. Tell me weâre okay.â
His breath caught, ragged. For a heartbeat, she saw it â the part of him that wanted to. The part of him that almost did.
Instead, he stepped back.
âI canât,â he whispered.
Her vision blurred, tears spilling hot over lashes, tracking down cheeks flushed with shame and heartbreak. Her fingers curled uselessly at her sides, nails biting into skin.
A single tear slid down his cheek too, catching on stubble. He didnât wipe it away.
âI donât want to let you go,â he choked out.
âThen donât,â she rasped, voice barely a sound.
His silence was the answer.
She felt the moment it ended: not with a door slammed or a curse shouted, but with the quiet surrender in his eyes.
The weight of goodbye pressed the air from her lungs. Her heart felt too big for her chest, a raw bruise beating against bone.
She turned away first.
The marble floor felt cold under bare feet as she stepped toward her suitcase, mind numb, body shaking. She grabbed it by reflex, hands trembling so hard she could barely close the zipper.
From behind, his breathing hitched, uneven, as if he was fighting himself.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped.
âI know,â she whispered, voice breaking. âI know.â
At the door, she paused, hand on the handle. The city lights painted his face in fractured gold and silver. Her gaze fell to the note peeking from the pocket of her purse â my love, always.
She didnât dare look at him again.
âY/n/n,â he called, so softly it was almost lost under the distant marina sounds.
She stopped, shoulders stiff, but didnât turn.
âPlease⊠donât hate me.â
A sob tore at her throat, but she swallowed it down. And then she stepped into the hallway, letting the door close gently behind her.
The music softened, dipping low, as servers wheeled out the cake: a towering masterpiece of sugared peonies, white chocolate ribbons curling like petals under soft pink spotlights. Candles flickered along the top, their tiny flames swaying with every breath of the warm night air.
The crowd shifted closer, glasses raised, laughter softening into smiles as the first notes of the birthday song began.
She let herself see it then â really see.
Carlos and Charles at the front, grinning, shoulders pressed together like overgrown boys caught in childhood nostalgia. Charles began in French, voice warm, a little teasing. Carlos joined in Spanish, words rolling quick and bright off his tongue, hands clapping out a syncopated beat. Their voices tangled, melted, rose over the marble deck.
Oscar and Max, half a step behind them, phones lifted to record. Oscarâs eyes crinkled with real joy as he focused the camera on her, his thumb brushing against the record button like he knew this mattered. Max, quieter, still smiling, mouth curved with that soft, rare fondness he saved for moments like this.
Beyond them: Dua Lipa, her summer travel partner and fellow midnight confessor, hair swept up in an effortless knot, singing softly along in her low, smoky alto. Madison Beer, the friend whoâd once shared a single bed with her on a sticky summer tour bus, now mouthing happy birthday with tears bright at the corners of her eyes.
Ariana Grande beside them, petite in silver sequins, her arm wrapped gently around Y/Nâs waist, the familiar vanilla-rose perfume settling warmly in the night air. Ariâs eyes sparkled, voice sweet and sure, every note a reminder of quiet studio nights and whispered secrets between choruses.
Even her vocal coach was there, the one whoâd seen her break down at three a.m., voice cracked and spirit raw. He watched from behind the cake, hands folded, a small, proud smile.
They were all here.
Famous faces, yes â but more than that:Â hers. The people who had held her hair back after heartbreak, shared cramped flights and stolen beach sunsets, written verses beside her in messy notebooks, whispered truths sheâd been too scared to say out loud.
The music wrapped around her like silk and sunlight. For a breath â a real, trembling breath â she let herself feel it: the warmth, the love, the messy, complicated enoughness of being seen.
But the moment she blinked, her gaze cut to the driveway.
Out past the glittering pool, where security lights traced the sweep of the asphalt drive, curving behind the trimmed cypress hedges.
Still empty.
The candles flickered, wax pooling at the base of the wicks. The scent of vanilla buttercream rose sweet and thick.
Charles gave a small nod, gentle, almost fatherly:Â Make a wish.
Her chest tightened, breath caught. God, she thought, donât.
But the wish came anyway, helpless, hopeless:
Please. Just let him come. Let him be here, even if he wonât stay.
She swallowed, blinked back tears until the cake blurred, pink and white fading into shimmering gold.
Then, gently, she leaned in and blew.
Cheers broke around her like a wave: glasses clinking, laughter bursting bright into the night. Confetti cannons cracked open, spilling rose-gold foil that caught in her hair, on her bare shoulders, along the sweep of her gown.
Oscarâs phone stayed lifted, catching every second. Dua laughed beside her, tucking a curl behind her ear. Madison pressed a kiss to her temple, scent of warm amber and sweetness trailing close.
Carlos reached over, ruffling her hair like a big brother. Charles squeezed her shoulder, palm warm, grounding.
And still, past the clatter of celebration, past the sugar-sweet air and shimmer of city lights â the driveway stayed silent.
No engine.
No dark curls, no crooked grin, no soft apology mouthed over the roar of a crowd.
She caught herself wishing for the sound: that low, throaty growl of his McLarenâs engine, pitched just enough to know it was his. For the squeal of tires when heâd take the corner too fast, always too fast, before stepping out and smoothing a hand over rumpled curls.
For him to stand there, maybe in a suit heâd forgotten to iron, maybe in the black hoodie sheâd worn so many nights, and look at her like he used to: like the world quieted just for her.
Instead: silence.
The party roared on, sparkling, perfumed, wrapped in warmth she couldnât quite touch.
She let them pull her close â Madisonâs hand at her waist, Dua looping an arm around her shoulders, Ari resting her cheek lightly against hers.
The cameras caught everything: the perfect smile, the glow of candlelight on tear-glossed eyes, the champagne sparkle of her dress.
Happy birthday to me, she thought, the words hollow and echoing against her ribs.
Twenty-five candles burned down to wax and smoke. Twenty-five wishes sheâd made before.
Summary: Max has always been a playboy, fast cars, faster flings. Youâve always been his best friend. Falling for him was risky⊠but loving him? Thatâs where it gets dangerous. Because what if youâre just the next chapter in a story that always ends the same?
12.1k words / Masterlist
You didnât mean to fall in love with him.
In fact you had tried for most of your life really hard not to.
Because Max Verstappen was the kind of boy mothers warned you about, fast cars and faster flings, cocky grins and charming stories. He lived like he raced, pedal down, never looking back, always chasing the next high. Everyone knew what Max was like off-track. He was beautiful, reckless, magnetic. The kind of man who could have anyone, and often did.
The kind of man who didnât pause to consider consequences, only cared about momentum. About the next thrill, the next win, the next warm body to fall asleep beside and leave before dawn.
There was always someone new.
Models, influencers, heiresses, youâd seen them all. Blonde, brunette, redheads, tall, short, sultry, polished. Faces blurred together after a while, barely distinguishable from one another in the parade of photo ops and club exits. They came and went like pit stops, momentary distractions before the real race resumed. They wore his hoodie for a week, posted cryptic captions with champagne emojis, and disappeared just as quickly. You knew the pattern. You watched it play out like clockwork.
Headlines followed him like smoke, inevitable, choking, impossible to ignore. Paparazzi shots of him slipping into back doors of nightclubs, lip-locked with someone whoâd be labeled a âmystery womanâ for twelve hours until internet sleuths figured it out. Tabloids loved him. âF1âs Wild Child.â âHeartbreaker Verstappen Strikes Again.â And he never denied it. Never corrected the record. In interviews he wore that playboy reputation like armour. Let them believe what they wanted. Flashed that sly, sideways grin and shrugged when asked about the girl from the weekend before.
âJust friends,â heâd say. Or, âI donât remember,â with that maddening smirk that made people want to slap him or kiss him or both.
He walked into a room and the air changed. People noticed him. Women wanted him. Men envied him. He didnât have to try, and maybe that was the most dangerous part he never had to try. He craved connection the same way he craved speed, intense and immediate, but never built to last.
He broke hearts without meaning to. Gave people memories theyâd replay for years while he forgot their names. He wasnât malicious. Just... restless. Always moving. Always wanting. Always leaving.
And still, people fell for him. Hard. Like you did.
Even when you swore you wouldnât.
You saw it all up close in the shadows of his chaos, tucked just behind the cameras and the curated smiles. The one he called when things inevitably crashed and burned. When the sparkle wore off and the girls realised they were nothing more than another fleeting thrill. The one who waited outside hotel rooms, keys in hand, while he cleaned up another mistake with tired eyes and a muttered, âCan we go now?â
You knew the rhythm. You lived it. The cycle. The drama. The aftermath. You told yourself it didnât hurt. That being the best friend was better than being temporary.
But Max made it hard. He always made it hard.
With you there was no performance, no pretending. With you he was real. Raw. Honest in ways he never showed anyone else. You saw it in the quiet moments, when the world wasnât watching. The nights in his Monaco apartment when the lights were low and his voice went soft. When you asked each other questions about things no one else cared to know, dreams, fears, family. When he looked at you like you mattered.
He learned your moods, your silences, your tells and knew exactly when to make you laugh or when to sit beside you and say nothing at all. Once when you got sick he flew back as quick as could and stocked your freezer with your favourite soup and sat on the floor of your apartment watching old movies with you, refusing to leave until you promised you felt better.
He laughed with you in a way he didnât with anyone else, loud, unguarded, tears in his eyes as he doubled over at some stupid inside joke that wouldâve made no sense to anyone else. He remembered the names of your cousins. Your favourite flower. The way you always tapped your fingers twice before answering a hardi question.
It happened slowly, then all at once.
One smile at a time. One stupid smirk, one inside joke, one sleepy âgoodnightâ over the phone. Until one day you looked at him and realised you were completely and utterly ruined. Heart gone.
You buried it deep with sharp-edged sarcasm and playful teasing. You clapped for him on podiums, rolled your eyes at his bravado, kept your late-night talks locked up tight like something fragile.
Lately however, itâs been harder to breathe around him. Harder to ignore the way his hand lingers when he touches you. The way his voice dips low when he says your name. The way he looks at you like he knows. Like heâs been watching you just as long, and heâs finally seeing it too.
Still, you donât let yourself believe.
Because you remember the girls. The flings. The ones who thought they were different. You remember the rumours, the morning-afters, the hungover apologies. You donât want to be another girl on a list he swears he never made. You don't want to become just another story Max forgets when the next race comes.
You want to matter, and thatâs the scariest part of all.
It happens one rainy night in Monaco.
The rain taps gently against Maxâs floor-to-ceiling windows, streaking down the glass like itâs too tired to fall properly. The world outside is blurred, soft around the edges like maybe even Monaco is holding its breath.
Youâre curled up on the corner of his massive sectional, legs tucked beneath you, his hoodie swallowing you whole. It smells like him, something sharp and expensive and faintly like motor oil. Familiar in a way that hurts if you think too hard about it.
Max moves through the space like he owns it, barefoot on hardwood, quiet in a way he rarely is. He hands you a drink without asking, the same one he makes you every time you're here. Like clockwork. Like ritual. He settles in beside you with a soft exhale, the kind he only lets out when itâs late and you're the only person in the room. He doesnât sit on the other end, he never does, he sits close and his thigh brushing yours.
âYouâve been quiet lately,â he says, low and careful, like heâs easing into a conversation heâs rehearsed in his head a hundred times and still isnât sure heâs brave enough to have.
You keep your eyes on the rain. âIâm just tired.â
He doesnât respond right away. Just lets the silence stretch, broken only by the steady hum of the storm outside and the soft clink of ice in your glass.
Then, flat and certain. âBullshit.â
You blink. Look at him.
Heâs already watching you with that frown he only gets when somethingâs wrong, but this oneâs different, more confused.
You force a shrug, weak and defensive. âYouâve been busy too. With your⊠dates.â
It comes out sharper than you meant. You hate the way it sounds, like an accusation, betraying how much it hurts.
You sip your drink quickly, like maybe that can swallow the truth down before he notices it.
âI havenât been seeing anyone,â he says eventually, and thereâs a strange tension in his voice, as if the words are uncomfortable on his tongue. Not because theyâre a lie, but because theyâre heavier than he expected them to be once said aloud.
You scoff before you can stop yourself. âSince when?â
He doesnât answer right away.
You glance over, prepared to catch him in some vague half-truth, but heâs not squirming or flinching. Heâs just⊠still. Heâs choosing his next words carefully, whatever he says next matters more than he knows how to explain.
âFor a while now.â He swallows, eyes fixed ahead. âSince I realised no one else is you.â
You blink.
âI donât know the exact moment,â he says slowly. âIt wasnât one thing.â
He turns toward you, gaze steady despite the nerves thrumming beneath the surface.
âI think it started after that night in Austin,â he murmurs.
You blink. âWhat night?â
âYou donât remember? We stayed up talking until 4 a.m. You were ranting about FIA inconsistencies, and Iââ He cuts himself off, smiling faintly. âI looked at you and for some reason, it hit me like a fucking truck. That none one else has ever made me feel the way you do. Like you always do⊠without even trying.â
He shakes his head, almost like heâs embarrassed. âEvery room I walked into I was just looking for you. Every conversation I had Iâd compare their laugh to yours, their eyes, their timing. And it never matched. Nothing does.â
Your heart stutters. Just once, but enough to make you feel dizzy. You blink down at your glass like maybe the answerâs there, maybe if you hold still enough this moment will pass.
âDonât,â you whisper. âDonât do this, Max.â
âThis isnât a joke.â His voice is steady now. âIâm not drunk or confused. Iâm just⊠done pretending.â
âYouâve always pretended,â you say, retreating emotionally even though your body hasnât moved an inch. âThatâs your thing. Fast flings, fast cars, fast goodbyes. You know exactly how to make someone feel wanted⊠for a night. For a weekend. And then itâs over.â
Maxâs jaw tightens, but he doesnât interrupt.
âYouâre good at it,â you add, voice brittle. âYou donât even look twice Max. You never have. One weekend, one story, and then itâs on to the next.â
You breathe out shakily, eyes falling to your lap. âIâm sorry if Iâm being harsh, but thatâs what Iâve always seen.â
âThatâs who I was,â he corrects, and now thereâs something sharp in his voice. Not angry but wounded. âI didnât know what I wanted. Not really. So I kept trying to fill the gap with anything else, with people. With things that didnât mean anything, I was... trying to outrun something.â
Your voice shakes. âAnd what were you running from?â
He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. âYou.â
Silence crackles between you like static.
âYouâre it,â he says, softer now, the words catching on the edge of his breath. âEvery race. Every late-night call. And IâI never saw it until I couldnât not see it. I didnât know how to look at you and not want more, and then it was everywhere. You were everywhere.â
âIâve ignored it for years, I shoved it down so deep I forgot where Iâd buried it. I told myself I didnât need you like that. That I couldnât afford to need anyone like that, but I canât do it anymore. I donât want to spend another day without you.â
âMaxâŠâ Your voice breaks on his name.
âIâm in love with you.â
He says it like it costs him something. Like itâs been sitting just behind his teeth for years and this is the first time heâs let it out.
You meet his eyes and itâs a mistake, it always is, because heâs not guarded. Not this time. Heâs wide open, bare, like heâs laid every version of himself on the table and is just waiting for you to decide whether heâs enough.
Your voice is a whisper. Shaking. âYou donât mean that.â
âI do.â
âYou think you do,â you say quickly, desperate to stop the ground from shifting beneath you. âBut this, this is just timing Max. Itâs proximity, youâre lonely and Iâm here, and weâre comfortable, and youâreââ
âNo.â His voice cuts clean through your spiral. Itâs sharp, but not cruel. âThatâs not what this is.â
He leans forward slightly, and you can feel the heat off his body now. Heâs close enough to touch, but he doesnât. He doesnât push.
âDonât do that,â he says, quieter now. âDonât make it smaller than it is just so you can walk away without feeling guilty.â
You inhale sharply, chest tight, vision blurring just a little at the edges, because he knows. Of course he knows. He always sees straight through you.
You look away, blinking hard, willing the tears not to come. âYouâve never looked at a girl twice,â you murmur. âI canâtâI wonât be the next one you get bored of.â
The moment the words leave your mouth, his whole body tenses. His jaw clenches like youâve struck something soft inside him.
âIs that really what you think of me?â he asks, and this time the hurt is impossible to miss. It lingers between syllables, bruised and bleeding.
You swallow. âNo. Itâs what I think of your history Max.â
And then the words tumble out faster than you can stop them. Words youâve been biting down on for years.
âIâve seen it. Iâve lived it. Iâve watched you stumble out of beds with girls whose names you couldnât remember. Iâve sat outside hotel rooms while you cleaned up your mess. Iâve looked them in the eye and told them they were going to be okay when they were clearly not.â
You shake your head. âSo no itâs not just me being insecure. Itâs me knowing exactly how this story ends.â
Max drops his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers roughly through his hair like he wants to tear the frustration out by the roots.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers threading through his hair in frustration. âI was a fucking idiot alright? I didnât know how to handle the one thing I actually wanted and so thatâs what I did instead. I kept hooking up with girls I didnât care about, letting them believe I did just to keep myself from thinking about you. It wasnât fair to them. I know that. They didnât deserve to be placeholders.â He shakes his head, almost to himself. âBut I couldnât open up to them even if I tried, because deep down I knew none of them would ever be you.â
Max shifts toward you again, slower this time, gentler, like one wrong move might send you bolting for the door.
âI would never hurt you,â he says softly.
This time, it isnât just a promise, itâs a plea. A desperate truth pulled straight from the core of him.
Thereâs no bravado in his voice, no charm.
You close your eyes. âYou canât be sure of that.â
âI am sure,â he replies instantly. âIâve never been more sure of anything in my life.â
You open your eyes slowly.
âIâm done pretending I donât need you,â he continues. âI do. I need you like air, and Iâm tired of suffocating.â
âI donât want to be a phase,â you whisper, eyes burning. âI donât want to be something you look back on one day and realise was just a detour. A lesson. Some girl you had to lose to grow up.â
âYouâre not a mistake,â he says, voice hoarse. âAnd youâll never be a lesson.â
You try to look away, but his hand follows, gently guiding your face back to his. Heâs so close now, and yet everything in you feels like itâs bracing for impact.
âIâve messed up a lot,â he continues, breath unsteady. âIâve hurt people. I've pushed away every good thing that came near me. But this, you, I swear to God, Iâve never wanted anything like this before.â
You say nothing, but your silence isnât empty. Itâs heavy. Itâs waiting.
Max swallows hard, his thumb brushing just below your jaw as his forehead tips to yours.
âGive me a chance,â he breathes. âPlease.â
Itâs not loud. Itâs not dramatic. Itâs quiet. Honest. The sound of a man whoâs never begged before, but would drop to his knees if you asked.
He cups your jaw gently, his palm warm and steady against your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. Like heâs trying to soothe a bruise that hasnât even formed.
âYouâre it for me,â he says.
His voice falters at the end, not from doubt, but emotion. Like the confession is still too big for his chest. Like heâs still surprised he got it out at all.
Thereâs a beat. A heartbeat.
Then slowly, cautiously, you lean forward. Just enough to bridge the space between you, to show him youâre not running. That the weight of everything heâs said hasnât crushed you. That youâre still here.
Your lips brush his, tentative and trembling, and it feels like exhaling after years of holding your breath.
The kiss is soft and shaky. Full of everything youâve both been holding back. Regret. Hope. Love thatâs been simmering quietly for years beneath shared laughter and almosts.
For a moment, the world stills.
Even the rain outside seems to hush.
He doesnât move at first stunned that youâre actually here, kissing him back, but then something shifts in him.
Whens he kisses you back, really kisses you, it feels like the one thing heâs been waiting for his whole damn life. His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you in with a confidence that makes your chest ache. His mouth moves slowly, carefully, but with the urgency of someone who finally knows what he wants and is terrified it might slip away.
When you finally pull apart, barely inches away, you stay close. Foreheads almost touching. Breathing the same air.
Your voice comes out as little more than a breath. âIf you break my heart MaxâŠâ
He doesn't hesitate.
âI wonât,â he whispers.
In this moment you believe him, because this doesnât feel like a game it feels like a beginning.
You donât tell anyone at first.
Not because youâre hiding, but because thereâs something special about having him to yourself. Something about the way Max looks at you when no one else is around, the quiet awe, the unguarded affection, that makes it feel like a secret too precious to share.
The world knows him in noise. In flashes. In fire and fury and front pages. But you get the quiet version. The early-morning version. The one who kisses your shoulder before youâre even awake. The one who rests his palm on your stomach at night like he needs to feel you breathing to sleep properly.
He holds your hand under the table at dinner with friends, thumb tracing gentle circles against your skin. He presses kisses into your hair when you lean into him, murmurs little things under his breath just for you, things that make you smile when youâre supposed to be paying attention to someone else talking.
And he looks at you.
God, he looks at you like youâre the only person in the room. Like everything else is just background noise. Like heâs memorising your face in case he ever wakes up and finds this was all a dream.
Heâs softer with you now.
Gentler than the world gives him credit for. He still moves like a storm, still yells at the TV during football matches, still throws his gloves down when a race weekend doesnât go to plan, still mutters sharp Dutch curses under his breath when the sim doesnât respond the way he wants it to, but when youâre nearby something in him eases.
Itâs like youâre the only thing that quiets his engine.
You start noticing the smaller things. The way he brings you your drink in your favourite mug, even though itâs chipped. The way he pulls you onto his lap during movie nights, hands on your waist like he just needs you close. The way he checks to make sure youâre covered by the blanket before he lets himself fall asleep.
One morning you wake up tangled in his sheets, your leg draped over his hip, his arm slung heavy around your waist. The sun is just beginning to spill into the room, pale and sleepy.
You blink yourself awake and find him already watching you, head propped lazily on one arm, his other hand tracing light shapes into your spine.
âWhat?â you mumble, voice hoarse and sleepy.
He grins, slow and fond. âYou drool.â
You slap his chest, groaning through a laugh. âAsshole.â
But he just laughs quietly, eyes still on you like you hung the stars. âYeah, but Iâm your asshole.â
He tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then your jaw. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.
âStill cute though.â
Thatâs when it hits you, how simple it is being loved by him in moments like this. How all the noise of the world disappears when itâs just him and you, and the warmth of something real.
Three weeks later and youâre perched on his kitchen counter in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, bare legs swinging, a half-eaten punnet of strawberries in your lap. The sleeves hang past your hands, stained faintly with syrup from earlier, but Max doesnât mind. If anything, he looks at you like that hoodie belongs there.
Heâs standing by the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand, barefoot and half-distracted, the other hand sweeping his hair back off his forehead.
âDid you just flip that pancake with your fingers?â you ask, incredulous.
Max shrugs without looking, unbothered. âHands of a champion.â
You snort, grinning as you reach forward and steal one before it even hits the plate.
He narrows his eyes, swats at you with the spatula. âThief.â
You just giggle and take a dramatic bite, swinging your legs like youâre immune to consequences.
When he slides the final plate in front of you, he leans in and kisses your temple, soft, instinctive, and then he leans back against the counter with a sigh.
âI donât think Iâve ever had breakfast with someone before you,â he says quietly.
You blink, looking up from your fork. âSeriously?â
He nods, eyes distant for a second. âThey never stayed the night. Or if they did I left before the sun came up.â
âOh,â you say, and itâs small, because youâve seen that version of him. The messy morning-afters. The goodbyes he never struggled to say. But then he glances back at you.
âIâm glad itâs you.â
The air stills, and you know he doesnât just mean in his bed or in the morning. He means in his life. You didnât come and go. You didnât stay for the night and disappear with the morning light. Youâre still here, you always were.
You look down, heart thudding. âWell⊠Iâm not planning on going anywhere.â
Max steps closer. His hand lifts to tilt your chin up with quiet care, and when he looks at you, thereâs nothing left to doubt.
âI love you,â he says.
Your smile is soft. âGood, because Iâm in love with you too.â
Early next month he kisses you in the garage, quick, sharp, just behind a monitor while no oneâs looking. Itâs reckless and brief and completely perfect.
You barely have time to catch your breath before Christian walks past, giving Max a suspicious glance.
Without missing a beat, Max blurts something about, âtyre strategyâ with the panic of someone whoâs just been caught stealing state secrets. You double over laughing, one hand on your stomach, the other covering your mouth. âYou are the worst liar.â
âI panicked!â
âAm I gonna get you fined?â You tease, pulling him in again.
He grins, smug. âWorth it.â
You roll your eyes and steal one more kiss before shoving him back toward the car. âNow go get that win.â
He winks over his shoulder. âSee you at the podium.â
When he lifts the trophy that afternoon, face flushed with adrenaline and champagne, he doesnât look at the crowd. He looks for you.
Two months in and itâs raining again in Monaco, lazy, unhurried raindrops tapping against the windows as Max drops his keys on the kitchen counter and kicks off his shoes.
âLetâs just stay in,â he mutters, stretching like a cat. âOrder pizza, Iâll pretend to care about rom-coms.â
You snort. âYou love rom-coms.â
He squints. âI tolerate rom-coms.â
âMax you cried during The Notebook.â
He collapses beside you on the couch with a groan. Youâre both laughing by the time youâve curled into each other, limbs tangled, your hand lazily threading through his hair while his arm wraps around your waist like a promise.
âI like this,â you whisper into the quiet. âUs.â
He hums in agreement, forehead pressed to yours. âMe too.â
Later that week youâre brushing your teeth in his bathroom, bare feet against the cool tile, sleep still clinging to your skin.
He appears behind you in the mirror, sleep-mussed and shirtless, one hand rubbing at his eyes. He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, presses a kiss to the back of your neck.
âYou knowâŠâ he mumbles, voice still gravel-rough from sleep, âYou can leave a toothbrush here⊠permanently I mean.â
You turn in his arms, brushing your nose against his. âYou sure?â
His eyes are heavy-lidded but clear.
âIâm sure,â he says.
And when you smile at him, he smiles back like itâs the easiest thing in the world, because loving each other is.
You fall in love with Max again and again in the quiet moments. Not during the grand gestures or the champagne-soaked victories, but in the stillness. The ones that arenât meant to be romantic but somehow end up that way because heâs in them.
When he rolls over in the middle of the night, still half-asleep, and starts rubbing your back with slow, lazy circles like his body just knows where to find you, even in his dreams.
When he texts you âHow you feeling?â before every race, like youâre the one about to climb into the car. Like your nerves matter more than his own. Like his day doesnât fully start until he hears from you.
When he sends you voice notes while traveling, some mundane, some ridiculous, just because he wants to hear you laugh at them later. Youâll be alone in your kitchen, earbuds in, grinning like an idiot because heâs making some terrible impression of some influencer he met in the paddock just to make you smile.
You never knew this version of him existed.
Not fully.
The Max you knew was fast and loud and untouchable. Reckless, impatient, always moving. But this Max, this one is quiet. Present. Soft in a way the world never gets to see. He lets you in without even realising heâs doing it. A hand on your thigh while heâs on a call. A glance across the room that says there you are. A small smile when you walk through the door, like the storm in his chest settles just from seeing you.
Thatâs what scares you most, because this kind of love, this steady, real, fragile kind, it feels too good. Too rare.
You know somewhere deep down in that quiet anxious part of your mind that happiness like this usually doesnât come without cost, but you let yourself fall anyway. Over and over again.
The first crack doesnât shatter.
It hums. Soft. Subtle. A tremor beneath the surface. A splinter in glass you donât notice until the light hits it just right and suddenly itâs everywhere.
It starts after Silverstone.
Nothing dramatic. Just a silence.
He doesnât text you goodnight after press. Doesnât call when he lands back in Monaco. Doesnât tell you heâs safe, or tired, or that the car felt like shit in the corners today.
You only find out heâs home when you see a blurry photo on Twitter, sunglasses on, walking alone.
Your stomach knots because he always calls. Even if itâs just a two-minute check-in. Even if heâs exhausted.
You wait.
Tell yourself not to spiral. Heâs probably tired. Jet lagged. Burned out from the media.
But the second day passes.
And the third.
And the fourth.
Your texts go unread.
And you feel it, the ache creeping in through the cracks. That old fear, the one you buried deep under love and laughter and whispered confessions in the dark. The fear that this was always too good to be true.
When you finally show up at his apartment, heart hammering, throat dry, he looks⊠surprised.
Not angry.
Not guilty.
âHey,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck. âDidnât expect you.â
You force a smile that feels too tight. âYeah. I kinda figured.â
The apartment is a mess.
Not Max-messy. Not the usual clutter of a man who lives in fast lanes and hotel rooms. This is off. Empty Red Bull cans crowding the counter. Dishes in the sink. His sim rig sits abandoned, paused mid-race, one corner frozen on-screen like he just walked away.
Everything looks⊠unfinished.
You glance around. Then back at him.
He wonât meet your eyes.
âAre you okay?â you ask softly.
His jaw tightens. âIâm fine.â
You sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, his couch. Your usual spot, but somehow it feels different now, like you donât belong in it anymore.
âI didnât hear from you,â you say after a long silence. The words are gentle. Not accusatory. Quiet enough that they tremble a little in the air.
Max exhales hard, standing a few feet away, arms folded tightly across his chest. âYeah. I just⊠I needed some space.â
You donât react right away because the words take a second to land. You nod slowly, swallowing hard. âOkay.â
He still wonât look at you.
You glance down at your hands. âDo you not want me here?â
That finally makes him look up.
Thereâs something in his eyes, something fractured. Regret? Fear? Shame? You donât know. You canât tell anymore.
âItâs not that.â
âThen what is it?â
Max paces a little, dragging a hand through his hair like itâs suddenly too heavy on his head. âI donât know alright? Itâs just been⊠a lot latley. The races. The press. Everythingâs moving so fast, you, usâŠâ
He says the last part quieter. Barely audible.
You flinch, chest tightening. âDo you regret it? Us?â
âNo.â His answer is immediate. Too quick, almost. âGod, no. I just⊠I didnât think it would feel like this.â
âFeel like what?â you whisper.
Max looks at you, finally, really looks, and the fear there knocks the wind out of you.
âLike I could lose you.â
That silences you for a beat, but you still angry at his silence.
âSo your solution to that is pushing me away?â
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting away. âI know it makes no sense. I know I sound like an asshole. I just⊠I needed space to figures things out.â
You laugh bitterly. âOf course.â
âIâm scared,â he chokes. âI donât know what Iâm doing. I justâI panickedâ
You stare at him, your throat raw. âIâm scared too,â you whisper. âBut I didnât run, I didnât shut you out, I chose to trust you.â
Max blinks hard, tears slipping out despite his best efforts. âI donât know what to do. I just⊠Iâm confused, I fucked it up.â
You nod, chest heaving, the ache in your throat threatening to choke you, and maybe thatâs what finally makes the decision for you, because he still hasnât apologised. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way you need.
You take a shaky breath and step back, and for the first time since this started he doesnât stop you from walking toward the door.
You try to move past it.
You tell yourself it was just a bad week. A rough patch. Pressure from the championship. Jet lag. Burnout. Anything but what it really was, him pulling away.
So you adjust.
You stop staying over every night. You give him space like he asked for. You sleep in your own bed again, wake up alone again, try not to flinch when you roll over in the morning and your phone is still empty.
You keep texting. Short things. Safe things. "Good luck tomorrow." "Need anything from the store?" You try to keep it light. Try not to ask for too much. Try not to make him feel cornered, and for a while, you convince yourself itâs working.
But things donât go back to normal.
He doesnât touch you the same way, doesnât reach for your hand when youâre walking side by side. Doesnât lean in to kiss your cheek at red lights anymore. He still holds you when youâre in his bed, but it feels different now.
He misses your cousinâs birthday dinner and when you finally ask him to come with you to a wedding one of your best friendâs, someone whoâs known him for years, he hesitates.
âDo I have to?â
You freeze. The question knocks the breath from your chest like a slap.
âYou donât have to do anything,â you say slowly. âBut I thought youâd want to.â
Max sighs, rubbing at his jaw like the conversation is hurting him. âItâs just⊠a lot. Weddings. People. All the questions.â
You frown. âWhat questions?â
He hesitates.
âYou know people will assume things,â he says not looking up.
You blink. âLike what?â
âThat weâre serious.â he says too quickly.
Your heart stutters. âWeâre not?â
He looks up at you now, and you watch the realisation of what heâs said dawns on his face.
âFuck, thatâs not. Thatâs not what I meantââ
âNo,â you cut in, voice tight. âI think it is.â
You step back without meaning to. Just a few inches, but it feels like miles.
âYou love me,â you whisper. âBut you donât want people to know weâre serious?â
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. âIâm just scared alright? Iâve never done this before. Iâve never been this with anyone. I donât know the rules.â
âIâm not asking for rules,â you say, trying so hard not to cry. âIâm not asking for perfection. Iâm asking you to show up. To stand next to me and let people know I matter to you.â
âYou do matterââ
âThen why are you acting like being with me is something to hide?â
He doesnât answer. He looks down, jaw clenched, shoulders tight.
âSo what?â you ask, voice cracking. âIâm just supposed to wait until you figure it out? Until you decide if Iâm worth claiming in daylight?â
He flinches like the word physically hits him.
âThatâs not fairââ he starts, voice rough, eyes red.
âAnd you think all of this is. I told you I was scared too,â you whisper, your hands now clenched tightly in your lap. âI told you from the beginning I didnât want to be another girl you hurt.â
âYouâre notââ
âBut you are hurting me, Max.â Your voice shatters, and you hate the way it sounds. Like begging. Like heartbreak. âYou said you wouldnât do this to me. You promised you wouldnât.â
He winces, stepping toward you, voice cracking. âI didnât mean toââ
âYou promised,â you cry. âYou said, âI would never hurt you. Give me a chance.â And I did. I gave you everything. And now youâre backing off because itâs real? Because it scares you?â
He looks wrecked. Eyes glassy, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for you but knows he has no right. Silence falls between you, sharp and immediate. A pause that drags one second too long.
Thatâs all it takes to know.
âI need time,â he says again.
It sounds like a door clicking shut.
You nod, barely holding yourself together. âThen take it.â
You grab your bag off the floor, your fingers numb, your throat burning.
He doesnât stop you.
You donât speak for two weeks.
When he finally texts, itâs short.
Can we talk?
You type three different responses before you settle on:
I donât know else there is to say.
No reply.
Two days later he shows up at your door and youâre still not sure if it was the right decision to let him up. You see his shadow before you see his face. The shape of him through the peephole. The weight of him in your hallway.
You donât open it right away. Instead you press your forehead against the door, eyes shut, your hand hovering near the handle, heart thudding painfully against your ribs. Then softly, almost broken, he says,
âPlease.â
You open it.
He looks like hell. His hoodie is wrinkled, like heâs been sleeping in it for days. There are shadows under his eyes that no amount of good lighting could hide. His posture is all wrong slumped, guarded, but still reaching, like guilt has wrapped itself around him like a second skin.
He looks at you like he doesnât deserve to be standing there and he knows it.
âIâm sorry,â he says, voice hoarse. âIâm so sorry.â
You nod once, swallowing around the lump in your throat. âFor what?â
âFor freezing. For being a coward. For everything.â
You step aside, wordless, and let him in.
He paces at first, back and forth like heâs trying to burn off nerves he canât outrun. You donât speak.
âI didnât know how to hold onto something I was so terrified to lose,â he says finally. His voice is uneven.
You sink onto the edge of the couch, arms wrapped tightly around your knees. âYou made me feel like I was too much.â
His eyes snap to yours. âYou arenât.â
âYou arenât,â he says again. âYouâre everything. I know that. I knew it then too, but I was so fucking scared. I thought if I kept you at a distance⊠if I didnât let myself want it too much⊠then maybe it wouldnât hurt if it ended.â
His voice breaks, just slightly. âI know the logic is messed up. I know itâs selfish. But I didnât know how to get out of my own head and all I did was ruin the best thing Iâve ever had anyway.â
You turn your head slowly. âAnd what do we have now?â
Max hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap.
âI guess it depends,â he says quietly.
âOn what?â
He meets your eyes. âOn if you can give me another chance.â
Heâs not hiding now. Thereâs no mask, no ego. Just Max. Completely exposed. Heart on his sleeve. Hands trembling slightly like heâs terrified of your answer.
âMaxâŠâ you whisper.
âI love you,â he says, voice low and trembling. âI love you more than I know how to say. More than I ever thought I could. And I knowââ he swallows hard, eyes glassy, âI know I fucked up. I know I shut you out, and I hurt you when you trusted me not to. Thatâs on me. All of it.â
He takes a step closer, hands shaking slightly at his sides. âBut you have to know it was never because I didnât care. It was the opposite. You scare the hell out of me. What I feltâwhat I feel itâs real in a way nothing else has ever been, and I didnât know how to handle that. I panicked. I pushed you away because I thought that would make the risk of losing you hurt less.â
His voice cracks then, and he looks down, like he canât bear to see your face.
âI was wrong about everything. Because I canâtââ he looks back up, desperate now. âI canât do this without you. Youâre the only thing thatâs ever made any of this make sense.â
He takes a breath like heâs steadying himself before the fall.
âI donât deserve to ask I know that, but Iâm asking anyway, because if thereâs even the smallest part of you that still believes in me, still wants us, then I swear I will spend every single day proving how much I love you. Not just in words. In every way I know how. Please... give me a chance again.â
Your heart splinters all over again.
Because it hurts to love someone whoâs scared of loving you back properly.
Because that first chance was already hard enough to give.
And you donât know if you can survive handing him your heart again.
âI canât⊠at least not now⊠I need to think,â you say, voice cracking like glass.
He nods.
âIâll wait,â he whispers. âAs long as you need.â
Then he leaves and this time, youâre the one who doesnât stop him.
The days bleed into weeks.
You keep telling people you're fine, you say it so often it almost sounds believable.
You go to work. You answer texts. You show up to dinners and birthdays and work events you wish you could cancel. You smile in the right places. Laugh at the right jokes. Drink just enough to dull the ache but not enough to let the truth spill out.
But youâre not living, youâre just existing.
Floating. Fragile. Half-hollow.
He texts you still. Cautiously. One or two spaced out over days like heâs testing the water. Then more. Theyâre never demanding. Never pushy. Just⊠him.
Hope you had a good day today.
I saw your favourite cafe changed owners. Made me sad.
Youâd laugh if you saw what I cooked for dinner. Burned half of it. Still ate it.
Do you remember the time we got lost in Belgium and you swore Google Maps was gaslighting us?
I miss you.
I miss us.
Each one lands like a pebble in your chest, small, but shifting everything underneath.
You donât respond. You canât. Because replying would mean reopening the door, and after everything, staying broken feels safer than risking being shattered all over again.
Still, he keeps trying.
He sends you flowers, simple, beautiful, no name on the card, but you know. Of course you know. A few days later, his friend drops off one of his hoodies. Clean. Folded. The faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to the fabric. You hold it in your hands longer than you mean to. Almost bring it to your face. Almost give in.
Then comes the book, your favourite book. You find it on your doorstep, wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, the page is dog-eared to your favourite quote. You sit on the floor of your hallway and nearly cry. Not because itâs romantic, but because it hurts, because you know he remembers, because a part of you wants to let him back in.
But you donât.
Not yet.
Meanwhile, Max is not fine.
He tells the world heâs focused. Locked in. Gearing up for the next race.
But the truth is uglier.
He doesnât go out. Doesnât answer most calls. He cancels plans with with his friends, ignores texts from his engineers. He spends hours in the sim, running the same laps on the same track until the lines blur and his fingers ache from gripping the wheel too tight.
He stays up past 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, heart racing from things that have nothing to do with speed. Replaying everything he said to you. Everything he didnât.
He keeps your contact pinned at the top of his messages. Reads the last thing you ever sent him on a loop like maybe if he stares hard enough, youâll text him back.
Christian asks whatâs wrong.
Lando asks if heâs dying.
Even Helmut frowns and tells him to "sort it out before he drives like that again."
Heâs so tired. Tired of the silence. Tired of the way his apartment still smells faintly like you even after heâs finally changed the sheets.
Heâs tired of being without you.
Two weeks before Zandvoort, Max does an interview.
The reporter asks about his mindset. His focus. How heâs changed over the last few months. He hesitates. Then, for once, he lets a little truth slip through the cracks.
âI think real connection can change the way you drive,â he says softly. âMakes you sharper. Calmer. When youâve got something real to come home to.â
The quote goes viral.
People call it poetic. A sign of maturity.
Your fingers hover over your phone for nearly an hour after you see it.
You type a reply.
Delete it.
Type it again.
Delete it again.
In the end you say nothing because youâre still not sure if wanting him back is the same as trusting him again, and love, youâre learning, isnât always enough.
Then it happens.
It gets worse before it gets better.
The photo.
Youâre scrolling idly one afternoon, trying to feel normal, trying to feel anything and then suddenly there it is.
Blurry, looks like itâs been taken from the inside of a car, somewhere in Monaco. Probably by a fan who didnât realise they were about to ruin your entire day. Max, outside a restaurant. Laughing. With a girl.
You freeze mid-scroll. Your body goes still before your mind can catch up. Your breath catches, sharp and ugly in your throat, and your stomach twists into something dark and acidic, nausea rising fast.
Sheâs beautiful. Of course she is. Sheâs touching him. One hand on his arm, casually, she looks comfortable. You swear sheâs wearing his jacket. The one that used to smell like you. The one that used to be folded on your side of the bed.
You blink. Once. Twice. But the image doesnât change. If anything, it burns itself in deeper.
You click it open. Then you open Twitter. Then Instagram.
Itâs all there.
The girl posted something on her story, nothing blatant, nothing tagging him, but it doesnât need to be. A selfie, smiley and sun-kissed, and in the blurred background there he is. Max. In the corner of the frame. Head turned, not looking at the camera, but itâs him. Clear as day. Clear enough to hurt.
Your phone slips from your hands and hits the floor with a dull, lifeless thud.
You donât move to pick it up.
You donât cry.
You donât scream.
You donât call a friend or throw something or give into the heartbreak clawing at your ribs.
You just sit there.
Staring at nothing.
Frozen in place like your body doesnât know how to function now that your heartâs short-circuited.
You lie in bed, eyes wide open, the ceiling a blur as your mind replays every word he ever said to you in that low, steady voice that used to sound like safety. âYouâre it for me.â âIâd never hurt you.â âIâll wait.â
He didnât wait. Of course he didnât. Of course he went back to what was easy. What was familiar.
Maybe thatâs what hurts the most, knowing deep down in the quietest part of you that this was always going to happen. That you knew. That something in your gut warned you, and you still believed, still hoped anyway.
When Max texts the next morning, your heart stutters in that horrible, traitorous way it always does when his name lights up your screen.
Can I see you today? Iâve got something for you itâs stupid but I think youâll smile.
You read it three times in disbelief.
You see the photo again in your head, her hand on his arm and something in you snaps. Your hands are shaking as you type back, but your fingers donât hesitate.
Donât bother.
I saw the photos.
You donât have to lie.
I donât want to hear from you anymore.
Thereâs a full minute of silence.
Thenâ
What are you talking about?
Almost a minute passes.
Then a second message.
Please let me explain.
You can see the dots, heâs typing, but you donât wait to read the rest.
You block his number.
And this time, you do cry.
Not just because he hurt you. Not just because you lost him. Not even because it hurts to know he moved on so easily, but because deep down youâre terrified that you never really had him at all.
You donât get out of bed for two days.
The curtains stay drawn, your room dim even in the middle of the afternoon, like the light itself knows it isnât welcome. Your phone sits face-down on your dresser, untouched except for the few times you glance at it, only to glance away again. The hoodie Max returned lies at the foot of your bed, folded too neatly, as if it doesnât belong to the chaos he left behind. You tell yourself youâll throw it out. Burn it, maybe. But instead, you bring it to your nose, just once, just to see and when it still smells like him, like cologne and warmth and the memory of every quiet morning you spent wrapped up in his arms, you hate yourself a little for checking.
The world, predictably, keeps spinning. Cars pass by outside. The neighbourâs dog barks. On Monday you go to work because your boss would notice if you didnât. You lie to your friends on autopilot, tell them youâre just âtired,â just âburned out,â that workâs been âcrazy,â and no, youâre fine, you swear.
You donât mention the photo. You donât mention the way it knocked the air out of your lungs or the way your stomach twisted so hard you had to sit down or the way you still see it in your mind every time you close your eyes.
You try not to look at the tab you left open. âMax Verstappen Monaco mystery girl.â
You donât click any links. You donât read the comments. You donât want to know what people are saying about him, or about her, or think about the way your chest still aches like a bruise that wonât heal.
Still, the images play on an endless loop in your mind.
Your best friend shows up three days later, uninvited but not unwelcome, letting herself into your apartment with the spare key you gave her years ago for emergencies. Youâre curled up on your couch, legs under a blanket, the TV playing something youâre not even pretending to watch. You havenât told her anything, but she just⊠knows.
âWhat happened?â she asks gently, lowering herself onto the couch beside you.
You donât answer right away. You donât look at her either. Youâre too tired to lie, too hollow to make it sound okay. So instead, you pick up your phone for the first time in hours. You unlock it and hand it to her.
The photo.
The messages.
The last thing you sent him before you blocked his number.
She reads it in silence. Once. Then again. Her brows pull together. She lets out a slow exhale.
âOkay,â she says carefully, âbut⊠this doesnât make sense.â
You blink. âWhat?â
âI meanâIâm not saying he didnât fuck up, Iâm on your side. But this girl? Iâve seen her around. Sheâs one of those Monaco hanger-ons. She posted that same selfie with like five other drivers. Always around the âhot-spotsâ. Always tagging locations, trying to be seen.â
You shift on the couch. âSo?â
âSo⊠maybe you saw what you thought was happening. Not what actually was.â
You shake your head, heart pounding. âShe was wearing his jacket. She had her hand on him.â
âAnd? Max lends stuff out all the time, maybe he lent it to her outside like the gentleman he weirdly is sometimes. Maybe it was someone elseâs and it looked similar. Maybe she grabbed his arm for two seconds and the photo caught it at the worst possible moment. You donât know.â
You sit up straighter. âBut he didnât deny it.â
She looks at you then. Really looks.
âTo be fair,â she says slowly, âyou blocked him before he could.â
You go quiet. The guilt creeps in like cold water seeping through cracks in the floor.
âWhat if I didnât want to hear his explanation?â you whisper.
She gives you a look thatâs too knowing to be comfortable. âThen you have to ask yourself something.â
You already know what sheâs going to say. You hear it before she even says it.
âDo you want to stay angry or do you still love him?â
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you want to say it doesnât matter. That youâre done. That itâs too late.
But the truth is louder than your pride.
You still love him.
You always have.
Meanwhile Max is pacing like a storm in a bottle. Restless energy coiled in his spine, unspooling with every step across the hardwood floor. His phone is clutched in his hand like it might break if he squeezes any harder, his face flushed not just with frustration but with something closer to panic.
âShe blocked me,â he says again, like saying it aloud will make it sound less insane. âShe actually blocked me. I was on my way to surprise her with her favourite flowers and that stupid stuffed koala she laughs at in the airport gift shop every time we see it and then boom gone. Just cut off.â
Lando is sitting on the edge of Maxâs sofa, legs spread, elbows on his knees, watching his friend spiral with the wide-eyed expression of someone whoâs been dropped in the middle of a house fire with a plastic spoon. âAlright. Breathe. Start from the beginning. What happened?â
Max swipes angrily at his phone, pulls up the blurry photo thatâs been circulating for the past few days. âThatâs Julia,â he snaps. âSheâs my trainerâs girlfriendâs friend or something. I barely even know her. She showed up out of nowhere while I was grabbing lunch with him, said she was meeting someone else, asked if she could wait there for a minute. She sat down, we made small talk, and then hug goodbye. Five minutes. Tops. Flash of a camera.â
He runs both hands through his hair, yanking the roots like he could force the shame out of his head. âI didnât even see the camera it looks, it looks bad. The jacket, the arm, itâs the worst possible moment.â
Daniel, who had arrived five minutes ago and already regrets it, scrolls through the messages Max had sent in the days before everything blew up. He lets out a low whistle, his face pinched in sympathy. âShit. These are⊠a lot.â
Max grabs the phone back. âShe thinks Iâm lying. She thinks I went back to being that guy. The one who says what he needs to get what he wants and then disappears when it gets real. She thinks everything I said was just noise.â
âAnd do you blame her?â Daniel says carefully. âI mean, not to kick you when youâre already bleeding out here, but⊠you did disappear on her for a while.â
Max looks like heâs been slapped. âI know that. I know. I handled it like a fucking coward and Iâve been trying to make it right ever since.â
Lando leans back on the couch. âSo what now? You just sit around and mope?â
Max glares at him. âWhat do you want me to do, force it? I already made her feel like shit. The last thing she needs is me showing up uninvited.â
âMaybe,â Daniel says. âBut she also needs to see that you care. That youâre not just sending sad little texts and hoping she forgets.â
âIâve been trying!â Max snaps. Then lowers his voice. âIâve been trying. But everything I do feels too late.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Daniel tilts his head. âWhat about her best friend?â
Max looks up. âWhat about her?â
âTalk to her,â Daniel says. âNot to get the friend to do your dirty work, just⊠find out if thereâs anything you can do that wouldnât make things worse, or maybe she can suggest a way in, wouldnât hurt to try and get someone in her corner to understand your side.â
Max hesitates.
Lando shrugs. âItâs better than sitting here waiting for her to magically unblock you.â
Max nods slowly, like something clicks into place. âAlright Iâll try. Iâm not giving up on this. On her.â
Daniel smirks. âGood. Because itâs about time you started acting like it.â
The next morning Max makes a call heâs been dreading. Itâs awkward as hell, and the conversation doesnât go the way he practiced in his head, but he owns it. He tells the truth.
And somehow, itâs enough.
Because a day later heâs standing outside your building in the shadows of early evening, hoodie pulled tight, cap low, heart pounding harder than it ever has behind the wheel of an F1 car.
Your best friend lets him up without a word and then disappears.
You donât even know sheâs done it until you hear the knock, three quiet raps against your door, hesitant, almost like heâs not sure he deserves to be heard. When you open it, heâs standing there, his eyes are bloodshot and his hair is a mess, flattened from the cap. His mouth opens, then closes again before he finally finds the words.
âBefore you slam the door,â he says, voice shaking, âjust let me explain. Please.â
You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the edge of the door. You donât move, donât speak, but you donât close it.
So he keeps going.
âSheâs not someone Iâm seeing,â he blurts, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. âI barely know her. Sheâs my trainerâs girlfriendâs friend, I didnât invite her, I didnât ask her to sit with us. She showed up at the restaurant, said she was waiting for someone else. We made awkward small talk for five minutes. I didnât even realise how close she was sitting until I saw the photo. And the jacketââ He pauses, swallows hard. âShe said she was cold. It was draped over the back of my chair. I didnât think. I justââ His voice cracks. âI was trying to be nice.â
You blink at him, vision going blurry. âThen why didnât you say something? Why didnât you come here earlier?â
âBecause you blocked me, and I didnât think you wanted to see me.â he says softly.
âI thought you gave up,â you say, arms folding over your chest to keep from falling apart. âI thought you moved on. That it was just easy for you.â
âI would never,â Max says, and itâs not a plea, itâs a vow. He steps forward, carefully, like heâs afraid to spook you. âYou have no idea how hard it was not to show up every day. How many times I sat in the car ready to drive here, wondering if I had any right to knock. I only stayed away because you asked me to, because I thought you needed time.â
âI did.â
âAnd I wanted to to give that to you,â he says. âBut itâs been killing me.â
His voice cracks on the last word. Heâs not holding it together anymore. Not even close.
âI didnât want anyone else,â he whispers, voice hoarse. âI donât want anyone else. Not now. Not ever. Youâre it. You always were.â
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the flood building behind your eyes. âYou promised you wouldnât hurt me.â
âI know.â His voice is barely above a whisper now, cracked and shaking as tears trail slowly down his cheeks. âI know I hurt you. I let the fear win. I let my past, my pride, my bullshit get louder than everything we had, and Iâll hate myself for that until the day I die.â
He swallows hard. âBut if you gave me another shot⊠if you ever could I would spend every single day earning it. Proving Iâm not the same coward who let you walk away. Iâd show you what I shouldâve from the beginning. That Iâm in this. That I meant every word I ever said to you, even the ones I was too much of a mess to back up.â
Max steps forward slightly, like heâs bracing for rejection but canât help chasing hope anyway.
âI donât know how else to ask. I keep trying to think of the right thing to say but none of it feels like enough, but this, you, youâre everything, and Iâll take whatever version of us youâre willing to give me, even if itâs just the chance to try.â
His voice breaks completely then. âPlease. Give me a chance.â
It breaks something in you.
Because you do love him. Even now. Even after all the silence, all the distance, all the aching disappointment. Your heart still beats louder when heâs near. But love isnât enough, not when youâre still bleeding from the wounds he left behind.
âI canât,â you say, and your voice shakes.
Maxâs face crumples like heâd prepared for this but prayed against it anyway. He nods, slow and steady, like each movement hurts.
âI understand.â
He nods. Once. Twice. Each movement slower than the last, like gravityâs working harder on him now.
âYeah,â he breathes, barely audible. âI thought maybe I could earn it back.â
His eyes are red, glistening, but he doesnât wipe them. Doesnât hide. He just stands there, hollowed out. âI knew that coming here was a long shot. I just hopedâŠâ
He steps back, nodding again like he needs to convince his body to move.
âIâm sorry,â he says, voice tight. âFor everything.â
He steps back and turns away, but just before he disappears down the hall, your voice breaks through the silence, shaky, quiet, but impossible not to hear.
âI never stopped loving you.â
He halts mid-step. Stiffens. For a long moment, he just stands there, back to you, head bowed like the weight of your words physically hit him.
His shoulders rise and fall with a breath that sounds like it hurts to take.
âMe neither.â
A pause. The kind that stretches forever.
âNot for a single second.â
Then he walks away, with the same realisation youâve been battling for weeks, that love alone was never going to be enough.
Itâs been two months since you closed the door on him.
Max hasnât called. Hasnât texted. Not once. He hasnât tried to push, hasnât knocked at the door or slipped another note under it, and in a strange, cruel way, it hurts. It means he heard you. It means he listened, heâs respecting your boundaries. But it also means heâs gone.
And yet, heâs everywhere.
You still find pieces of him buried in the quiet corners of your days, like ghosts youâre too tired to chase away. His name doesnât appear on your screen, but his voice plays in your head when you drive past the petrol station where he used to stop for your favourite gum. His laugh echoes in the back of your mind when you open Spotify and the playlist you made for him starts and somehow it still knows which songs make your throat close.
He's there when you open the fridge and automatically reach for the orange juice he always used to keep on the top shelf so he could tease you about not being able to reach and then act all macho when he got it down for you. Heâs in your dreams when sleep forgets youâre supposed to be angry and lets him back into your arms. Heâs in the ache just beneath your ribs when someone asks, âAre you okay?â and you smile and nod and hope they donât hear the lie rattling behind your teeth.
But today⊠today you canât do it anymore.
You canât keep carrying the silence like a shield when all itâs done is cut you off from the one person who ever made you feel that kind of love. Youâve tried the distance. Youâve tried the pretending. Youâve tried to be fine.
You donât know what youâre going to say.
You donât know if itâll come out as forgiveness or fire, or if youâll be able to speak at all when you see him again.
You do know this, nothing hurts more than this in-between. Nothing is worse than wondering what mightâve happened if youâd just tried one more time. Maybe youâll get hurt again. Maybe heâll break your heart all over. But what you had was rare, and that kind of love? That kind of connection? Itâs worth the risk. Itâs a chance youâre willing to take, for how special you were together. If thereâs still a chance, you have to take it, you have to try.
Because waiting might protect your heart.
But not giving the two of you another chance, not finding out what this couldâve been.
Thatâs the kind of regret that would haunt you forever.
Itâs late.
Almost midnight, Monaco quiet, rain threatening the cobblestones. You take the steps to his apartment two at a time, heart pounding so hard you can hear it echoing in your ears.
When you reach his door, you hesitate.
Then you knock.
It only takes a few seconds.
The door swings open.
Heâs there. Hair tousled, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, barefoot, eyes wide like he thought maybe he was dreaming.
Youâre both frozen.
Then you whisper, âHi.â
âYouâre here,â Max says, voice wrecked.
His eyes are wide, disbelieving. He looks thinner than you remember, tired in a way sleep canât fix. One hand grips the doorframe like itâs the only thing keeping him upright.
âI didnât think youâd everââ He breaks off, breath catching. âI never thoughtâŠâ
You shift your weight, arms folded tightly across your chest. You want to say something comforting, but instead, what comes out is honest.
âYou hurt me so badly, Max.â
His shoulders drop. âI know,â he says immediately, his voice cracking at the edges. âAnd Iâll never stop being sorry.â
You look away, just for a second, long enough to stop yourself from crying. âI wasnât asking you to be the perfect boyfriend. I never expected you to be anyone but yourself. I just needed you to show up for me. I needed you to stay. To choose me, even when it wasnât easy. Especially then.â
âI know,â he says again, more desperate this time, stepping forward without thinking. âI thought I was doing the right thing, pulling back, then trying not to mess it up more. I was scared. Scared of what it meant to need someone like I needed you. I thought pushing you away would protect us, but all it did was destroy what we had.â
His eyes are glassy, voice trembling. âYou were everything I ever wanted and I handled it like someone who didnât deserve you.â
You take a breath and step past him, into the apartment.
It still smells like him.
Still feels like home, in the way a bruise still hums beneath your skin, aching when you press it, reminding you of everything that came before. You look around, and your voice is soft when you say, âI told myself I was done. That I deserved better. That I shouldnât come back.â
His breath catches.
âAnd I still donât know whatâs right,â you admit. âBut I know this, waiting didnât make it hurt any less. Pretending not to love you didnât help, and maybe Iâll regret this. Maybe weâll fuck it all up again, but I would rather risk everything than spend one more night wondering what mightâve happened if Iâd just given you that second chance.â
Max is crying openly now, but heâs smiling, too, this broken, beautiful kind of smile that only comes from relief so overwhelming it knocks the breath from your lungs.
âYou still want this?â he asks hoarsely. âYou still want me?â
You nod, stepping into his arms. âI want us. I want messy and real and worth it. But only if you choose me this time. Every time. No more halfway.â
He pulls you into him like he might never let go again, his whole body trembling. âI choose you,â he breathes against your temple. âForever. I swear to God, Iâm all in. I donât want a life where youâre not mine.â
Without any warning you're crashing into him like waves that have waited too long, too long to break, too long to finally come home.
Thereâs no pause, no hesitation, no careful approach just your body folding into his, arms winding tight around his neck, his wrapped around your waist like heâs terrified youâll disappear if he lets go. Youâre both trembling, not from cold but from the sheer weight of it all, weeks of silence, of pain, of love held back like a dam on the verge of breaking.
Your forehead presses against his as your fingers twist into the familiar fabric of his hoodie, breath caught in your throat, tears slipping hot and silent down your cheeks.
âI missed you,â you sob, the words cracking in your chest as they leave your mouth.
Max lets out a sound like something inside him is breaking open. âI missed you every fucking second,â he says, voice thick with desperation and relief, like heâs been holding that sentence inside his lungs and can finally exhale.
Then his lips are on yours, messy, raw, and a little too hard, but you donât care because itâs not careful, not poised, not the kind of kiss you save for clean slates or picture-perfect moments.
Itâs real. Itâs everything.
All the love, all the grief, all the fear and the hope and the need youâve both been swallowing since the second things first cracked, it's all there, spilling out between your mouths in gasps and saltwater tears.
He kisses you like heâs starving.
Like his heart has been aching for this one small miracle.
When he finally pulls away, your chests are heaving, noses still brushing, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs swiping away your tears, his fingers trembling against your skin like he still canât believe youâre here.
âIâll do it right this time,â he whispers, voice breaking like glass in the quiet. âWhatever it takes. Iâm yours, completely, stupidly, yours. As long as youâll have me.â
You donât answer with words.
You kiss him again instead, slower this time, deeper. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just full of everything you couldnât say before. Then you rest your forehead against his, eyes closed, tears still drying on your cheeks as you both stand there in the silence, in the safety of each otherâs arms.
Itâs steady.
Sure.
Home.
Later, when the adrenaline has settled into something softer, when the tears have dried but the weight of everything still clings to your bones, you lie curled up beside him, limbs tangled beneath the duvet, the room dim and hushed, like the universe itself is catching its breath.
His arms are around you and your head rests on his chest, rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. The same heart that's trying truly, desperately to piece you back together again.
You tilt your face up toward him, your voice quiet but steady, raw from crying, scraped from truth.
âIt meant a lot that you waited,â you whisper, your fingers drawing soft shapes along his ribs like you're still trying to memorise the feeling of being this close again.
Max looks down at you, and thereâs something different in his eyes now, not panic, not fear. Just presence. Just him. A boy whoâs made mistakes. A man whoâs trying to do better. Someone who is choosing you, fully and without flinching.
He reaches up and brushes a tear from your cheek with his thumb, gentle.
âI hoped every day youâd walk through that door,â he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours like theyâre the only truth he knows. âI swore I didnât care if it was weeks, or years⊠or never⊠I wouldâve still waited.â
You donât speak. You just kiss him.
Itâs hope.
Itâs trust.
Itâs the belief that maybe, just maybe, love can survive the storm and still be true.
And for the first time in weeks, in months, in what feels like lifetimes, you both finally believe, truly believe, this will last.
summary: In which y/n and charles invite vogue into their monaco home
allyâs radio đ»: hello my lovelies, its been a while⊠this is eventually gonna be apart a series Iâm working on but for now its a standalone. if you guys enjoy it, send in request for other blurbsđ€
EXCLUSIVE: Y/n L/n & Charles Leclercâs Love StoryâA Home, A Forever, A Dream.Â
A Drive into Luxury
Monacoâs streets glisten in the early afternoon light, the air thick with the scent of sea salt and citrus. The road leading up to Y/N L/N and Charles Leclercâs home is lined with palm trees, their shadows swaying gently over the sleek pavement. As I pull into their driveway, I take a moment to absorb the scene before meâan array of luxury cars neatly parked in front of the house, each a testament to Charlesâ love for speed and precision. A cherry-red Ferrari, unmistakably his, sits beside a blacked-out Mercedes G-Wagon, which I suspect belongs to Y/N. Beside them, a vintage Porscheâcream-colored, classic, and timeless, much like the couple themselves. Â
The house before me is nothing short of breathtaking. White stone, modern yet inviting, with floor-to-ceiling windows that reflect the sapphire hues of the Mediterranean behind it. Itâs grand, certainly, but not in a way that feels cold or impersonal. Even from the outside, the home exudes warmthâjust like the woman who greets me at the door. Â
A Warm Welcome
Y/N L/N stands in the doorway, barefoot, wearing a soft cashmere sweater in the perfect shade of off-white and a pair of delicate gold hoop earrings that catch the sunlight. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, a few strands framing her face. Sheâs effortlessly beautiful, yet itâs not just her appearance that captivatesâitâs the way she carries herself, the way her smile reaches her eyes, the way she radiates an easy, natural warmth. Â
"Hi! You must be Ally, itâs so nice to meet you," she says, her voice smooth and welcoming. She extends her hand, and as we shake, I canât help but notice the sparkling engagement ring on her fingerâthe ring that has sent the world into a frenzy. Â
She gestures for me to step inside, the scent of fresh peonies and something warmâvanilla, perhapsâfilling the air. The entryway is spacious but cozy, with soft lighting, neutral tones, and delicate personal touches. A candle flickers on a marble side table, and a framed photo of her and Charles, mid-laughter, sits beside it. Â
"Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, wineâit's never too early for wine in Monaco," she jokes, leading me further inside. Â
I opt for a coffee, and she nods, already making her way toward the open kitchen, which is a stunning combination of modern design and lived-in comfort. Copper pans hang above the marble island, and a basket of freshly baked croissants sits on the counter. She moves effortlessly, making me feel less like an interviewer and more like an old friend. Â
A Glimpse Into Their HomeÂ
Before we settle in, Y/N insists on giving me a small tour. We move through the house at a leisurely pace, and she speaks about their home with genuine affection. Â
"Charles and I wanted something that felt like usâelegant but not over-the-top. A place where we could truly unwind. Where we could have friends over, but also where we could just⊠be."
The living room is a perfect reflection of that sentiment. A grand yet inviting space, with a massive cream-colored sectional adorned with soft blankets and an array of books scattered across the coffee table. The glass doors open onto a terrace overlooking the sea, the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance. Â
And speaking of their dogâLeo, a mini golden dachshund, comes trotting into the room, tail wagging furiously. He greets me as if weâve known each other forever, before curling up at Y/Nâs feet. Â
"Heâs a menace,"she laughs, scratching behind his ears. "But we adore him."
She leads me back to the living room, where we settle onto the plush sofa. Thereâs still no sign of Charles, but Y/N doesnât seem concerned. Instead, she leans back, taking a slow sip of her coffee, and I take the opportunity to shift the conversation toward her latest project. Â
Heartache & Healing: The Story Behind the Album
"Your new album has been described as a journey through heartbreak and finding love again," I begin. "Can you tell us what inspired it?"Â Â
Y/N exhales softly, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. Â
"It was⊠personal," she admits. "My last relationship wasâwell, it wasnât healthy. It was a cycle of highs and lows, of leaving and coming back when I knew I shouldnât. I think a lot of people have been in relationships like that, where you convince yourself things will change. But eventually, I realized I had to leave, and thatâs when everything started to shift for me."Â
"Thereâs a track on the albumânumber 16âsimply titled âCharles Leclerc.â
She smiles, a different kind of light in her eyes now. "It wasnât planned," she says. "We were finishing up the album, and I was in the studio one night, just reflecting. I started humming this melody, and the words just⊠came out. It was a love note, really. Just a simple way of capturing what he means to me."
Before I can ask more, the front door swings open, and in walks Charles Leclerc, his presence filling the space effortlessly. Dressed in a fitted navy sweater and tailored trousers, he carries two grocery bags in one hand and, in the other, a bouquet so large it nearly obscures his face. Â
"Mon amour, I got your favorite pastries," he announces, setting the bags down before walking over to Y/N and pressing a lingering kiss to her temple. Â
She takes the flowers with a soft laugh. "You didnât have to do that."
"I always have to do that," he counters, before turning to me with an easy grin. "Welcome to our home. I hope Y/N hasnât told you too many embarrassing stories about me yet."
The Proposal: A Moment Meant to Last Forever
As Charles settles in beside Y/N, I ask him about the proposalâone of the most talked-about moments of the year. Â
"You chose Monaco, a rooftop, andâsurpriseâLando Norris as the secret photographer?" I tease. Â
Charles chuckles, shaking his head. "I needed someone to capture the moment, and Lando has a good eye for that kind of thing. But really, I wanted it to be perfect. Y/N deserves nothing less."
"What made you choose that moment to propose?"
His gaze softens as he turns toward Y/N.
"A few months ago, we did a perfume campaign together. The concept was this idealized lifeâa home, a family, this perfect love story. And I remember looking at her during the shoot, holding this little boyâs hand, and I thought⊠I donât want this to be pretend. I want it to be real. I want to come home to her, to have Sunday mornings and family dinners and late-night talks about absolutely nothing. I wanted it allâwith her. And once I knew that, there was no reason to wait."
Y/N squeezes his hand, her eyes glistening. Â
"And now you have it," I say, smiling. Â
Charles nods. "Now I have everything."
An Outpouring of LoveâAnd Flowers
As soon as the engagement was announced, Y/N and Charles were flooded with well-wishes, not just from fans, but from some of the most iconic names in Hollywood, music, and sports. Their Monaco home was quickly transformed into something of a botanical wonderland.
Pedro Pascal had red and yellow tulips delivered with a note that simply said, "Love wins. Cheers to you both."
Chris Evans sent a classic bouquet of red roses, playfully signing off, "Now, donât let him drive too fast, okay?"
Theo James and Aubrey Plaza, her White Lotus co-stars, gifted wildflowers and eucalyptus, with a note from Aubrey that read, "If he ever pisses you off, just remember⊠we know where to find him."
Jacob Elordi, her Priscilla co-star, sent Australian nativesâbanksias and proteas, writing, "A queen deserves flowers fit for a queen."
Zendaya and Tom Holland surprised her with an entire indoor citrus tree, symbolizing growth and prosperity.
Harry Styles had peonies and hydrangeas delivered, with a simple yet heartfelt, "Love to you both."
And, of course, Max Verstappen, Charlesâ friend and fellow F1 driver, sent sunflowers with a note that read, "Because Charles is going to need something bright to look at when he gets overtaken."
Fast Laps & Slow Mornings
"Charles, how do you balance racing at such an intense level while also making time for your personal life?"
"Itâs not easy," he admits. "F1 is demanding, and there are weeks where I barely see home. But Y/N understands that. Sheâs been there for me through it allâwhether itâs waking up at 4 AM to watch a race or flying across the world just to spend a day together. And when I do get time off, I make sure itâs meaningful. Like todayâI picked up her favorite pastries, and weâre going to spend the rest of the afternoon doing absolutely nothing together. Watching Abbot Elementary, her favorite show."
Y/N smiles. "The perfect day."
An Unexpected Delivery
As the conversation flows effortlessly between Y/N and Charles, our interview is briefly interrupted by the sound of the doorbell echoing through their Monaco home.Â
Y/N furrows her brows, exchanging a glance with Charles before getting up.
"I wasnât expecting anything today," she murmurs, padding barefoot toward the door.
A few moments later, she returns, holding an unmistakably elegant black velvet box with gold detailingâand a letter.
She places it on the coffee table, her fingers hovering over the envelope before she lets out a small laugh. "This is⊠unexpected."
Charles, sipping his espresso, raises an eyebrow. "Whoâs it from?"
Y/N flips the envelope over, and for the first time during our interview, she looks genuinely stunned.
"Itâs from Zayn."
Thereâs a pause. A noticeable one. Zayn Malikâher first public boyfriend, her first real love. Not the other relationship she references in her album, but the one that introduced her to the world of high-profile romance. They had dated years ago, young and in love, their breakup amicable, though heavily scrutinized by the media.
"Open it," Charles encourages, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. Thereâs no jealousy, only curiosity.
She carefully unfolds the letter, her eyes scanning the words before she reads them aloud.
âY/N,
Love changes, but real love never fades. It evolves, it grows, it finds its way into different forms. You taught me that.
Iâm so damn happy for you. Seeing you glow the way you do nowâitâs exactly what you deserve. Youâve always deserved a love like this.
No matter where life takes us, Iâll always be rooting for you.
Wishing you and Charles a lifetime of happiness.
-Zâ
Silence lingers for a moment before Y/N exhales softly, a small, touched smile on her lips.
"That was really sweet," she says, setting the letter down carefully.
Charles reaches for her hand, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. "You really do have the whole world rooting for you, donât you?"
Y/N chuckles, shaking her head. "I guess so."
She finally lifts the lid of the black velvet box, revealing a delicate gold charm braceletâelegant, understated, and timeless. Each charm tells a story: a music note for her career, a tiny Monaco Grand Prix trophy for Charles, a small vintage microphone, and a crescent moon, a nod to the nickname Zayn used to call her in their younger years.
"Wow," she murmurs, gently running her fingers over the charms.
"You going to keep it?" I ask.
Y/N glances at Charles, who simply shrugs. "Itâs a memory," he says easily. "And memories deserve their place."
She smiles at him, then fastens the bracelet around her wrist.
"Yeah," she says, her voice soft but certain. "I think I will."
Looking Ahead
As the sun dips lower in the sky, casting golden light through their home, I ask them both the final question.
"Whatâs next?"
Y/N glances at Charles. "Marriage. Love. Life."
Charles nods. "And maybe a few more interludes."
Y/N laughs, squeezing his hand. "Maybe."
And with that, itâs clearâtheir love story is only just beginning.
àłàż SAVAGE BONDS part I ă feyd rautha x atreides!reader ă
summary: destined to one another since conception, your very life belongs to feyd rautha. as a token of good will you are sent to the strange planet of giedi prime a week before your wedding ceremony, only to learn that it is far more hostile than you imagined it would be. a failed assassination attempt has tempers flaring and sparks flying when it is decided to be safer to sleep alongside feyd. you hate to admit it, but he has played the part of a "protector" better than the guards who were tasked to watch over you. whilst you have been dreading this union all of your life, feyd has been anticipating it. meeting you as children had left him awe-struck. . . and a bit obsessed.
warnings: !SMUT HEAVY IN FUTURE PARTS!, feyd is super overprotective in this fic and kills multiple people in your honor, blood and gore, it's a dark romance folks, political marriage, forced proximity, temporary unrequited love, a lil dubious consent in some scenes, there's a lot of talk about breeding, enemies to lovers (in your mind, not his), there's a "who did this to you" scene, knife play, blood kink, breeding kink heavy, lots of scent marking/marking. (needs to be edited, so please excuse any temporary errors!)
word count: 5.3k
The ancient walls of Castle Caladan were a fortress, the long winding halls a labyrinth to those unfamiliar with its layout. You had tried feigning sleep when you had been made aware of the surprise guestâs arrival, a one âreverend motherâ- as your mother referred to her. The cool air from the hallway nipped at your exposed arm, which currently hung limply over the side of the bed.Â
âSheâs even smaller than your son, Jessica.â The voice sounded more like a wheeze- and it certainly didnât belong to anyone you had ever met before.Â
âAs Iâve already said, the Atreides are slow to grow.â Your motherâs tone didnât hold even a semblance of a bite to it, not like you expected. She was usually fiercely protective of you and your brother.Â
Your finger twitched, causing the woman to stifle whatever disapproving comment she was about to make. Being caught eavesdropping like this certainly wasnât ideal, but you found it impossible not to be curious.Â
âShe really is just like her brother,â More like he was more like you. Youâd always been the rowdy one of the two. Paul must have been listening in as well, and you imagined that he was more insulted at the comments of his lack of height and muscle than you were. âThe little rascals.âÂ
There was a beat of silence before the woman began to crone again. This time you opened your eyes just a sliver, staring into the dark abyss of your room so that you could make out the shapes of your mother and the stranger.Â
âRest now. Both you and your brother need to be prepared to meet my Gom Jabbar.â The reason couldnât be pinpointed, but there was something about her tone that filled you with dread.
Your mother woke you up the next morning, bright and early.Â
Not even the breathing exercises that your mother had taught you had been able to calm you down last night. The darkness had swallowed you whole, which resulted in a dreamless sleep that left you feeling just as unrested as you had felt the night before. Your mother noticed your hesitations, the skirts of her dress dragging against the stone floor as she moved in the direction of your closet. The dress that she picked out for you was one of your more official garments, the red hawk of the Atreides crest proudly sewn onto the right breast.Â
âDid you sleep well?â She questioned as she laid the dress neatly onto the edge of the bed, urging you to stand once her hands were free.Â
You blinked at her, nervously brushing your hands along the soft cotton of your nightdress. Your voice felt stuck in your throat, but you still managed to lie.Â
âYes, of course.â Your tone was flat, and for once she didnât question you on the reasoning. She knew exactly what had you feeling so uncomfortable in your own home.Â
Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar. Gom Jabbar.Â
What exactly did the old woman want from your family? Lady Jessica was a Bene Gesserit, which could only mean that this woman was a higher up, sent to pay you and your brother a visit. You knew nothing about any âcoming of ageâ rituals.Â
Paul barged into the room, dressed in his finer clothes as well. He leaned against the wall of your room, lips pursed as if he was deep in thought. You tilted your head to the side, leveling him a worried glance. He simply shook his head, and you knew at once that he wasnât trying to dismiss your worries.Â
âNot here. Later.â His expression told you, and for once you obeyed.Â
âThe reverend mother is waiting on the both of you. Paul, get out of your sisterâs room so she can get ready.â She commanded, her tone leaving no room for whining or disobedience.Â
He groaned, pushing himself off of the wall so that he could head back out and into the hall. You shrugged out of your dress quickly at the hurried insistence of your mother, allowing her to do up the clasps of the dress for you.Â
âWho is she?â You asked simply, brushing your hair to the side so that she could get a better grasp of the dress.Â
âShe was my teacher at the Bene Gesserit school and now she is the Emperorâs Truthsayer.â Your mother sighed out your name, turning you quickly so that you were facing her. âYou need to do exactly as she says. There is no room to be prideful today, do you understand?â Her eyes were pleading, and you knew that she had your best interests in mind.Â
You and your mother walked wordlessly out into the hall, catching up with your brother who was busy running his fingers along the uneven stone walls. You flashed a quick look at your mother before jogging to catch up with Paul, taking the hem of his sleeve into your hand.Â
âWhat do you know?â You whispered, turning your head so that you could look at your mother. Much to your surprise she seemed to be in no hurry to separate the two of you.Â
âIâve had dreams about her before,â He whispered, and you had to pick up your pace to keep up with his strides. âAnd mother told me this morning that I have to tell her about my visions.âÂ
Your mouth went a bit dry at the realization that this woman truly was here just for you and your brother. What is the Gom Jabbar and what did it entail? There was no telling.Â
âSheâs in my morning room, you two.â She called out after you.Â
Jessica caught up, leveling the both of you a disapproving motherly look that had the two of you slowing your strides to match hers. She seemed a bit hesitant, eyes flickering between you and your brother and the closed door.Â
The âreverend motherâ sat in one of the tapestried chairs, her arms perched on either side of the armrests as she watched the three of you come in. The view behind her was beautiful, the sprawling, green farmlands of the Atreides family holding on full display through the large windows behind her. You glanced at your brother, eyes widening when you realized that he was already looking at you. He bowed in her direction and you followed his lead.Â
âThey are a cautious bundle, arenât they?â The witch-like woman croaked, looking between the two of you.Â
âAs they have been taught, your reverence.âÂ
In this room, here in front of this woman, Jessica was no longer the Dukeâs concubine nor your mother. She was reduced to that of a pupil in the face of her teacher. You kept yourself from fidgeting, clasping your hands in front of you. You fought the urge to reach out and grab your brotherâs hand, as the two of you so often did when faced with anxiety as children. Fear hadnât regressed you to that of a blubbering child in years.Â
Your mother also seemed to fear the woman before her. There was something in her tone that led you to believe that whatever she was here for, it surely wasnât a pleasantry. Your brother was tense at your motherâs other side, jaw tense as he stared the reverend mother down.Â
âTeaching is one thing, but there are some things that cannot simply be taught,â Paulâs eyebrows furrowed as she spoke, and as if she was dismissing a servant of the castle, she waved your mother off with a flick of her wrist. âYou and your daughter leave us. It will be her turn soon.âÂ
For the first time that morning your mother hesitated, eyes softened as she looked upon her son.
âYour reverence, I-â She began, but was cut off before she could finish whatever it is she was going to say. Surely it was meant to be an objection.Â
âJessica, you know that this must be done.â Her voice held a tone of finality. There was no room for your mother to try and wiggle the both of you two out of this trap.
âYes. . . of course.â Your mother straightened, turning towards both of you.Â
âThis test. . . Itâs very important to me, you two.â She spoke in a hushed voice, eyes still fearful.Â
âTest?â The two of you questioned at the same time, looking at one another in concern. You were confused, even more so than you were before.Â
âRemember that youâre the dukeâs son.â And with that your mother was grabbing your arm, pulling you in the direction of the door.Â
âI suppose that it is my turn?â Your voice shook with anger as you practically tore the door off of its hinges, anxious to take your brotherâs place. His cries and whimpers did not go unheard, even with the thick wood separating the two of you.Â
Looking at him now, his right arm still shaking from the pain, was like being slapped across the face.Â
âRight you are, girl. Jessica, please escort your son out of the room.â There was a silvery glint in her bright eyes- a challenge. She could sense it in you.Â
Your mother didnât interrupt this time, and without any words exchanged the door closed. Your brother was too shaken up by whatever had taken place in that room to fully comprehend that the same thing was going to happen to you. He tossed a terrified glance over his shoulder at you just before the heavy doors closed. The sound of it echoed around the room, pulsing in your chest as you tried to steady the adrenaline pumping through your veins.Â
âYour future. . . do you know what is expected of you?âÂ
You eyed the black box that sat next to her as you began closing the distance between the two of you. The question she had asked. . . it was a touchy subject with you. Of course you knew. A day didnât go by that you werenât mortified by the prospect of your future. You only had three short years to live and enjoy before you would be forced to abandon your family to join hands with another one.Â
âOf course I do. It is my duty to marry.â Your voice had a bite to it, your eyes unwavering as you stared her veiled face down.Â
âIt is your duty to marry a Harkonnen. It is an honor to be the only reason that these two great Houses are allies. Your heirs will be powerful beyond comprehension.â The way she spoke. . . she truly believed the shit she was spouting.Â
It was impossible to consider marrying Feyd an honor. It was an ever-present looming threat.Â
âPut your right hand in the box.â She commanded, nodding her head in itâs direction.Â
It seemed harmless enough, nothing more than a metal box. You bent your head ever-so-slightly, trying to have a look inside. It appeared to be a pitch black, endless void. No beginning or end in sight.Â
You did as you were told, biting the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from muttering anything too disrespectful under your breath. If Paulâs screams were anything to go off of then this was going to be painful. Still, you were shocked by how cold the box was. You wiggled your fingers a few times, feeling the metal encasing them. Slowly a tingling sensation began, almost as if they were falling asleep.Â
âYouâve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? Thereâs an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.âÂ
The tingling sensation somehow melded into. . . heat. No, not heat. Burning. It felt as though you had your hand held up to a bright flame. You flinched, but froze when you finally noticed that the reverend mother was holding something against your neck. Your eyes flickered the best that they could to her hand, not wanting to turn your head.Â
âWhat I hold at your neck is the Gom Jabbar. The tip of the needle is dipped in poison. Remove your hand from the box and I will plunge it into your neck.âÂ
The palm of your free hand began to sweat, the gravity of the situation finally landing on your shoulders. You would be forced to endure the pain and there was nothing that anyone outside of the doors could do. No guards had come to protect your brother when it was his turn, and no matter how emotional your mother had gotten whilst hearing his screams she still hadnât rushed in after him. You could truly die here in this room.Â
âWhy are you doing this?â You urged, wincing again as the burning continued to worsen.Â
Now it felt as though you were almost touching a flame, fingers dancing dangerously close. It wasnât just uncomfortable now but painful.Â
âTo determine if youâre human. Now be silent.â
Meant for greatness, yet stifled before her prime.Â
It was impossible for your clipped wings to take flight. The Bene Gesserit had instilled in you your purpose from a very young age, letting it be known that you were little more than cattle to be sold off to breed. The whole arrangement was dehumanizing, but this was the way of galactic high society. Every House had been developed by the close, watchful eye of the Bene Gesserit. Your mere existence was a result of a centuries long breeding program, so how could you ever expect for your own life to be any different?Â
Every child, especially in their naive youth, dreams of greatness. There was a point in time where you had hoped to mean something. There were differences to be made, rules to be broken, wars to be raged- but you would never be at the helm of any of it. But Paul. . . Paul was different.Â
âYou know something that I donât.â You werenât asking Paul, rather telling him what you already knew.Â
Where you were used to your brother pulling no punches, he had been overly cautious with his treatment of you during training today. For a second he just stared ahead blankly at the wall, and you wondered whether he would try to lie. The older youâve gotten, the stranger other peopleâs treatment of you has become. Women were little more than something to be owned. It was a hard lesson to learn and was one you were still grappling with.Â
Your femininity were the chains that bound you. And what of your ambition? It was currently acting as the flames licking at your boot heels. Soon you feared that it would fully engulf you; become your undoing.Â
âTell me.â Your lovely features crumpled, and as childish as it was you found yourself giving his arm a slap.Â
He jumped at the sudden contact, eyes widening as he turned to face you after what felt like an eternity of prolonged silence between the two of you. The hard flooring felt cool beneath your legs as you stretched them out beneath you, and for a second you found it hard to keep yourself up in a sitting position. The world felt unsteady beneath you, both literally and figuratively.Â
Paul didnât have to say anything at all. You looked, you saw, you felt, you understood. Your shared connection had nothing to do with your genes, rather it had to do with your likeness. Two bodies, two minds, but one soul. Your twinâs features crumpled, mirroring that of your own as he pushed a few strands of dark hair away from his face.Â
âSo there is nothing I can do? My fate is sealed.â Your lips felt numb as you spoke.Â
Your brotherâs visions were more frequent than they had ever been before. âHorrorsâ, heâd described them.
âIf there was something I could do. . .â He started, turning quickly to face you, tucking one leg beneath himself. âMy hands are tied. Mother and fatherâs hands are as well.âÂ
Hiding you away or knowingly allowing you to escape your duties would be seen as an act of treason. Youâd be putting your parents and their status in danger, and no matter how desperate you were to get out of any sort of marriage pact, it was far too late. Since the very moment you were conceived, this was what you were meant for.Â
âWhen will the orders come down, you think?â You pulled your legs up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them tightly.Â
You wished that you could stay like this forever, protected from the rest of the world. If only you hadnât been born as twins at all. You wanted so badly to be like Paul.Â
But the galaxy didnât work like that. You were not fortunate enough to get what you wanted.Â
âSoon.âÂ
You felt comforted by the hand that he placed on your shoulder, and even more so when he kept it there until you felt as though you were able to stand up.Â
You were to marry into House Harkonnen. That was your purpose; to unite the feuding houses and birth powerful offspring. You had met Feyd once before, but only for a fleeting moment. It hadnât been awkward- no, back then the two of you hadnât cared enough to pay any mind to the looming threat that was your betrothal. Youâd been too young back then to fully grasp the severity of the situation.Â
You remembered being shocked by his size. He towered over Paul, appearing to be years older than he really was. His hair had been dark back then, thick and slightly curly.Â
He had only just been taken under his uncleâs wing at the time. The environment of Giedi Prime had yet to fully sink into the young boy. The Harkonnenâs looks had always been startling to you, no matter how many times youâd been exposed to it. They were dark creatures, brooding, hairless with skin as pale as milk- not to mention violent.Â
The desperate way that Paul had clung to you was not lost on you. You let him squeeze you as tightly as he needed, your arms locking around his back. This meeting would change everything. In a matter of moments your life as you knew it would be taking a drastic turn, and not for the better.Â
Youâd made that very same trek to the parlor room a million times. This was your ancestral home- had been in your family longer than you thought was conceivable, and yet this felt new to you. Wrong. The shadows from the windows were casting strange lights on the wall beside you, and your footsteps sounded muffled in your ears as your pounding heart nearly deafened you. Your fatherâs hand brushed against your palm a few times, his attempt at showing you physical comfort without causing any sort of scene. You knew that this was Feyd-Rauthaâs right.Â
You were Feyd-Rauthaâs right. That simple fact alone was enough to send you reeling, that morning's breakfast churning in your stomach.Â
âIt will be fine.â Your motherâs fingers shaped the words at her side, a comforting and silent presence.Â
Your parents had always protected you. They had taught you well in all aspects of life. She was right. You had to trust yourself just as much as you trusted them. This will be fine. You will survive.Â
But god, you wanted to live.Â
Your worst fear was being locked up like a caged animal, only taken out to be played with or paraded around. You didnât want to be somebody's little wife; you were no homemaker or bed warmer.Â
âI am better than this.â You thought to yourself, your hands balling into fists at your sides.Â
As the double doors began creeping open, you felt the sudden urge to run the opposite direction, your parents be damned. The feud between House Atreides and House Harkonnen would surely become deadly if you were to turn your back on the promise now, and that was the only thing that steeled your feet. You stood, back straight and hands clasped tightly at your front.Â
You looked to be a pillar of strength, but oh- you were so close to crumbling. Your father took a step past the threshold, eyes hard as he bowed his head respectfully in the Baronâs direction. There was still time to turn around. The door was right there, and you were sure that you could commandeer a ship. Youâd piloted a few times before in your life, and while you werenât the best, you were certain you could get yourself the hell off of Caladan. You shuffled your feet, eyes wide as you looked up and caught your motherâs gaze. Her lips were parted, and you could tell that she was trying to decipher your expression.Â
âWhat are you doing?â Her hand moved quickly at her side, the flowy gauze-like material of her skirts hiding her frantic movements from the visitorâs view.Â
Nothing. You were doing nothing. There were no options yet. If you fled then the insubordination would fall back on your parents. If you downright refused then the outcome would be the same. There was nothing you could do but keep your mouth shut and try not to show the Harkonnen even a semblance of vulnerability.Â
Disdain rolled off of you in waves as you breezed into the parlor, eyes locked on the side of your fatherâs face as he conversed with the baron. Tensions were high, even now. No pleasantries were being exchanged, that you were sure of. The Harkonnenâs stark black attire was a startling contrast to their pale skin. There, in the middle of two other men, whom you were sure were present for reasons of protection, was Feyd.Â
He looked the same as the rest of them. Hairless, blue eyes dripping with something that could only be described as malice. Gone was the curly haired child that you remembered. In his place stood someone unrecognizable to you. You wanted to question what the Baron had done to Feyd, but you already knew. Perfection was expected on Geidi Prime.Â
He had shaped Feyd into the very likeness of perfection. The once dark haired boy was now a walking, talking machine; not even a dead leaf echo of the boy you met all those years ago.Â
You tried to map out every single one of his microexpressions, searching desperately for any sign that he might disapprove of the predicament the both of you had found yourselves in. He tilted his head to the side, observing you with a horrifying level of concentration. The Baron began to speak, saying something that you didnât care enough to listen to. You were too distracted by the terrifying man before you.Â
âShe will come back home to Geidi Prime with us. No objections, correct?âÂ
You were marrying him out of an obligation, this he was already privy to. He had seen the reluctance written plain across your face as youâd entered the room. Youâd wanted to run. Away from him, away from your responsibilities- and he could not blame you for it. His understanding stopped there though, simply because this proposal wasnât going against his own wishes.Â
âThe wedding isnât taking place for another week.â The Duke didnât seem to like the idea of his unwed daughter leaving his side.Â
Feyd fought back a smile, having known that the Baronâs sudden request would have this effect on the Atreides family. He watched you squirm like a bug under a magnifying glass, your hand moving at your hip. For a second he thought that you might be tugging at the seam of your dress, writing it off as nothing but a nervous tick- but then he saw the way your motherâs eyes followed those movements.Â
The two of you were communicating.Â
âThat may be so, however I think that it is only right that your daughter,â Baron Vladimir motioned in your direction. âBecomes better acquainted with Feyd. You donât agree?âÂ
His uncle decided that it was best to test the boundaries of this alliance. He was pushing the Duke, seeing how far he could get. Letoâs lips twitched, his eyes flickering thoughtfully towards you. Feyd was finding it hard to pay attention to anyone else other than you in the room. Heâd spent years imagining what you would look like as an adult- dreamt about it. Heâd eagerly been awaiting this moment, counting the days that he could finally be reunited with you.Â
It wasnât just because he had been promised powerful heirs. It was the thought that someone was fated to marry him. Since before he was even conceived, you had always been promised to him. That idea had been put into his head since childhood. You were the constant topic in his mind, a person that was unavoidably meant to be in his life for the rest of his days.Â
In a strange way he had loved you since he was but a child.Â
Seeing you for that first time had been better than he had anticipated. You were a beautiful little girl, but now? The child that he had met all those years ago did not hold a candle to the grace and brilliance of the woman that stood before him. Nobody else could ever compare. You didnât have to fall for him right now, he was content with that. Hell, you didnât even have to tolerate him.Â
He would find pleasure in wearing you down. He was going to make you love him.
I must not fear. Fear is the mind killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.Â
The adrenaline had run its way out of your system, leaving you cold and alone on a planet that was so incredibly alien to you, you werenât sure how youâd ever be expected to adjust. Even the oxygen felt different in your lungs- the sweet, acrid smell of chemicals tinging the air around you. It was nothing like your home on Caladan. Your home was a stone castle, but this? This was a cold, black fortress.Â
You werenât sure if it was meant to keep people out. . . or in.Â
You thought back to that fateful day with the reverend mother.Â
âYouâve heard of animals chewing off a leg to escape a trap? Thereâs an animal kind of trick. A human would remain in the trap, endure the pain, feigning death that he might kill the trapper and remove a threat to his kind.âÂ
You couldnât chew your leg off to be free of this. No, you had to lay in wait. Only then could you strike if the situation called for it.Â
âStrikingâ could wait until tomorrow though. For now you wanted to rid yourself of the anxiety. Sleep was the only cure you could think of.Â
âIs the room to your liking?â That husky voice of his was already grating on your nerves.Â
Feyd had only attempted to speak to you a few times and already you were sick and tired of his presence. He was a constant reminder that you would never know what it was like to be free. Then again, was anybody in the galaxy truly free? Feyd sure seemed to be carefree in his current position.Â
His tone felt off, like he was toying with you.Â
âI would be far more pleased about my new living quarters if you were to leave.â You said simply, pulling the slate gray blanket up and over your chin.Â
You werenât sure if it was due to his ill-breeding, but he didnât seem to care that you were in nothing but your night dress. He walked into the room in long-legged strikes, letting the door shut behind him. Never before had the two of you been alone together, not since you were children at least. If you were back in your family home you would feel safer during a moment like this.Â
You were in his territory now, meaning he had full reign over everything. Your father and family name couldnât protect you on Geidi Prime.Â
âYouâre in quite the rush to be rid of me,â He didnât falter for even a second as he moved to sit down on the edge of the bed, leaning back against the plush mattress with a small sigh. âIf I didnât know any better, I would think that you didnât like me.â He didnât seem upset at the notion of you disliking him. In fact, there was a glint in his eyes. That same sort of silvery glint youâd seen in the reverend motherâs eyes all those years ago: a challenge.Â
This was nothing but a challenge to him. You were a conquest, and you detested that. Your stomach soured, your face becoming pinched as you glared at him. This was all too much too fast. You were in the comfort of your own home not even four hours ago, and now you were expected to make small talk with the source of your life-long discontent. Â
âAnd what of your concubines? Could you not pester them tonight and give me a moment's peace?âÂ
âI dismissed them from their duties, permanently, weeks ago.â He said simply, his fingers running along the cotton of the comforter.Â
âWhat?â Youâd never heard of such a thing.Â
âSpending time with them would be a waste.â His blue eyes flickered up to meet your eyes. âAcquiring concubines had just been a show of status.âÂ
It took you a few moments to process what he was saying, the burning hatred you had felt just moments ago flickering out into a dull flame.Â
âWhy would spending time with them be a waste? Am I expected to spend that much time with you?â A horror, truly. You had hoped that youâd be able to get away with spending a night or two a week with him, if only to achieve the Bene Gesseritâs goal of siring an heir.Â
âA waste of time. A waste of seed,â He looked at you pointedly, his lip pulling up into a smile that revealed more of his black teeth. âAnd both of those things are important to me.âÂ
Your stomach hollowed out as you were once again reminded of what was expected of you. You had a week to prepare mentally for your wedding night, which you werenât sure was enough.Â
âAnd what happened to the concubines? Are they still being housed here?âÂ
âWhy? Are you jealous?â He was smiling even wider than he was before.Â
A shiver ran through you as you noticed how predatory his body language was- you felt like prey under his haughty gaze. It was hard to believe that Feyd had been administered the Gom Jabbar test and passed.Â
This man was no human. He was an animal, that you were certain.Â
âWickedly.â Your tone was flat and noncommittal. Even now, you never saw Feyd as a potential lover.Â
The man that was your so-called âdestinyâ was also your jailer.Â
âWell then youâll be happy to know that they no longer live here. . . or anywhere, for that matter.â He sat up, rolling his shoulders back to stretch his broad muscles.
The blood drained from your face as you stared up at him from your spot on the bed. He must have felt the weight of your gaze and turned his head, his eyes alight with. . . pleasure. Violence was as ingrained in him as breathing was. It was his life. Standing before you was the prince of death- pale, striking and terrifying.Â
Animal, indeed.Â
I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.Â
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A/N: this chapter was plot heavy, I know, however it was crucial to give you guys some background information so that I can better build tension. the beautiful dividers were created by @ kitsunecafe!
