it was supposed to be a fun founders gala. unfortunately, everyone is acting weird tonight.. you wonder why.
cw: toxic bsf dynamic, extreme manipulation, isolation tactics, extreme possessiveness, unhinged jealousy, rafe false claiming/lying about a relationship, marking territory, threats of violence.
pairing: dark!bsf!rafe x gentle!oblivious!reader
more of friendzoned ! series here
a/n: just clearing out my drafts here. ill do your requests later!
ㅤㅤ its the annual figure eight founders gala.
youre wearing a stunning silk floor-length gown that hugs your curves perfectly. hair tangled up in a bun. sweet vanilla-something lingers the air, emanating from you. either way, you look fancy tonight.
rafe is in a tailored, black suit that fills his broad shoulders. hair was slicked back with pomade, a few loose strands fell over his forehead. he carried himself with a quiet confidence.
the second you stepped in, rafe hasnt left your side.
he doesnt just walk next to you, his massive hand never leaves your lower hip. every time you stop and talk to someone, he shifts his weight so hes standing slightly in front of you.
you spot your two friends standing by the champagne tower. you smile, walking over to them. “hey guys! you look so pretty!”
usually, they would squeal or hug you. instead, one of your friends stiffens slightly. your other friend glares at you and takes a step back.
“hi! you look.. really nice.” something is off. your friend even barely looks at you in the eye, avoiding gaze.
“whoa, you guys okay? youre acting weird tonight.”
your friend who glares sighs, “we are fine.” she grips her champagne flute too hard. “just.. tired.” she looks away from you.
“theyre just boring tonight.” rafe drawls smoothly, pulling you flush against his side. “lets grab a drink. have fun standing here in silence.” he looks at your friends.
you let him lead you away, looking over your shoulder at your friends with a sad pout. oblivious that he glared at your friends, a silent threat when you talked to your friends.
the two of you are standing near the edge of the ballroom. you take a small sip of the expensive champagne a waiter handed you, gagging and pulling the glass away from your mouth.
“jesus christ, that is foul.”
you dont go to find a waiter. you dont put it on the table. without even looking, you just shoved the glass on his chest.
he instinctively takes the glass from your hand, fingers brushing. he downs the rest of your rejected champagne in one swallow like its water.
“you drink like a twelve year old.” he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. setting the empty flute on a passing tray.
“i just want the sweet one,” you complain. “that tasted like a rubbing alcohol.” you lean into his side.
“i know.” he sighs, raising two fingers to flag down a bartender across the room, to get the sparkling cider you actually drink. “i got it.”
he anticipates your needs before you tell him, and you know hes gonna do it without asking anyway.
while waiting for the drink, rafe looks down at you. his gaze heavy, staring at your face. you noticed that. you looked up at him, a small grin escaping. “what? do i look weird?”
“you look pretty. like always.” his fingers soothe you by rubbing them against your waist.
of course, his eyes drops. down to your collarbone, then cleavage. it lingers for a long time.
“hold still,” he commands.
“hm?”
“your necklace is backwards. you look like a mess.” he reaches his hands up to your throat. his thick fingers brush against the bare skin of your nape, finding the tiny clasp of your diamond necklace.
broad chest of his brushing your silk dress. heavy, musky cologne pierces your nostrils. you tilt your chin up to give him better access.
“youre such a control freak.” you whisper playfully, letting him adjust it.
“yeah, but i keep you looking expensive, so youre welcome.” his thumbs lingering on your collarbone for a second too long, before he drops his hands. at this point, he looked like a boyfriend making sure his girl looks perfect.
you turn to see his face, “thanks.” smoothing down your dress. “ill go to the restroom for a bit. wait here.” you started to walk away.
“ill come with you.” you pause, staring at rafe with a confused face. “no, just—wait here, okay? ill be fine.” the tone coming through your sentences is soft, just so he didnt secretly follow you into the restroom. it has happened alot of times.
rafe’s jaw tightens, scoffing before dropping his head back with a sharp breath. “fine. three minutes. youre not back out here in three, im walking through that fucking door.”
“o-okay.” you gulp, slowly walking away from him. hes so intense sometimes. but youll always love him.
kelce and topper wanders over, holding their own drinks as they spot their friend.
rafe looks at kelce, then at topper. he rolls his eyes, thinking theyre both absolute fucking losers. but, theyre useful for keeping up appearances.
“its a founders gala, kelce. what the fuck did you expect? a keg stand?”
“you been glued to your bestfriend all night. where is she?” topper looks around the room, before drifting back to rafe. he makes sure to emphasize the word, bestfriend.
kelce snorts, elbowing rafe. “seriously. whats the deal with you two? did you finally hit that?”
rafe pauses for a second.
he doesnt get defensive, he doesnt laugh it off. he looks at his friends with a blank stare, seeing a golden opportunity to mark his territory. that way, nobody else will touch you.
“are you blind, kelce?” his voice drops in a dark possession. “obviously were hooking up.” he lies smoothly. they dont know how bad rafe wants you to just atleast have sex with him, or that he jerks off to the smallest things of you. pathetic.
“wait, what? since when? you never said shit.” topper’s eyebrow raised.
“few weeks ago.” rafe lies smoothly. “we keepin’ it quiet cause her dad would have a fucking stroke if he knew i was sleeping in her bed. but yeah, shes mine.”
kelce let out a low whisper, shaking his head. “damn, bro. good for ya. i was wonderin’ why she shot braden down last week.”
“she shot him down cause she knows what happens if she wastes her time with other guys,” rafe looks between the two of them, glaring.
“and keep your mouths shut. a rumor gets out, im breaking both of your fucking jaws. clear?”
the casual smirk fades from topper’s face. kelce nodding up so fast, terrified of his friend.
“chill, man. we get it. lips are sealed.” topper swallows hard.
at that exact moment, you walk back over from the hallway. your makeup looks freshly done. oblivious to whatever these guys are talking about.
“hey!” you smile, stepping close to rafe, resting your hands flat against his chest. “are we ready to go? im so bored.”
kelce and topper immediately stiffen up. every single innocent thing you suddenly looks sexual and intimate to them, after what rafe had said. the way you touch his chest, the way you lean into him, and the way he slides his hand barely on top of your ass.
they buy the lie one hundred-percent.
“uh, we were just leaving.” kelce stammers, backing away. “see you guys later.” topper follows up.
you watch them sprint away, frowning in confusion. you look up at rafe. “why are they acting so weird?”
he just smirks, hand tightening on your body, guiding you out. “no idea. lets go home, baby.”
but you look over your shoulder, watching kelce and topper going out of sight. first, it was your friends. now, his friends? whats with their deal of acting all scaredy cat?
“everyone is super weird tonight..” you groan, leaning your head on his shoulder.
“everyone here is a fucking loser. good thing you have me entertained, right? lets go.”
SUMMARY: Y/N has known Lando Norris since they were children, which would be sweet if she hadn’t spent half her life trying not to fall in love with him.
Unfortunately, Lando has never had the same problem.
She convinced herself that enough time, enough distance, and a life far away from him would eventually make him nothing more than a memory.
It would have been easier to believe that if Lando Norris had ever actually stopped loving her.
WORD COUNT: 15K
masterlist - lando's masterlist
It’s strange how much the same person can change depending on who’s telling the story.
I suppose we all end up becoming a collection of other people’s versions of us. None of them are entirely true, and yet each one holds a piece of the truth. People rarely remember who you are; they remember who you were to them, how you made them feel, or the version of you they happened to know before they walked away.
In the end, the same person can be a hero, a disaster, or a complete stranger without ever really changing.
Lando Norris was the best example of that I’d ever known.
To the gossip forums, he was a womanizer.
To his fans, a brilliant driver.
To the women he dated, probably a bad decision.
To my best friend, the brother she’d lost far too soon.
To me… well, to me, he’d always been a problem long before he became any of those things.
We were only eight and ten years old when he looked me straight in the eyes and, with the unwavering seriousness that had always defined him, declared,
“When we grow up, we’re going to get married. We’ll have a baby, and I’ll give you everything you could ever ask for.”
All I could do was gasp. My heartbeat quickened, my eyes widened, and my palms grew damp. I couldn’t find a single word to answer because his sister Lucy’s firm, almost chilling voice sliced through the moment like a knife.
“That is never going to happen.”
Lando’s face immediately flushed with outrage.
“Why not?”
“Because she’s my best friend and you’re my brother. Besides, she’s two years older than you. The two of you can never be together.” The certainty in her hurried explanation left no room for argument.
She grabbed my hand and dragged me toward her bedroom, practically fuming with indignation.
“Promise me you’ll never marry my brother,” she pleaded, her voice breaking into quiet sobs.
“No, of course I won’t,” I answered quickly, desperate to calm her down.
“Swear it.” The words came out almost as a shout.
“I swear.” To make it official, I traced a small cross over my heart.
Lucy wiped her face with the palm of her hand, and the two of us clumsily wrapped each other in a hug.
The girl I was back then had no idea how serious that promise would eventually become… or how much it would cost me to keep it.
The years that followed arrived with the whirlwind of emotions that so often defines adolescence.
By the time we were sixteen, Lucy and I were still best friends, despite being complete opposites in almost every way. I was pretty enough, painfully shy, and about as low-maintenance as a person could be. I loved quiet afternoons, sleeping in, and spending entire days at home. Though, if Lucy caught me in the right mood, I could occasionally be convinced to go to one of the parties she seemed determined to drag me to.
Lucy, on the other hand, had grown into someone breathtaking. She was fearless, outgoing, and carried a rebellious streak that gave her parents endless headaches. She loved parties, sneaking out after dark, and kissing boys who usually had trouble written all over them.
Lando had changed just as much. He’d become incredibly disciplined when it came to the racing career he was building. Sure, he could still be cocky—sometimes even a little insufferable—but around me, he remained the same kind, gentle boy he’d always been.
He went out of his way to make me feel comfortable, and whenever Lucy wasn’t around, he’d slip me the occasional compliment that usually left me laughing. He had an almost effortless way of making my cheeks burn and my heart flutter, but I also knew nothing could ever happen between us.
Not then.
Not ever.
Not only because of the promise I’d made to Lucy, but because everything inside the Norris household had become so much more complicated after their parents’ divorce. Back then, I thought Lando had taken the hardest hit. After all, he was the one spending less and less time at home, burying himself almost entirely in karting, growing up far too quickly for someone his age.
It took me years to realize that the person who was truly falling apart was Lucy. She’d developed an almost irrational fear of being left behind. She clung desperately to anything that still remained constant in her life, and for reasons I didn’t understand then, I’d somehow become the center of that fragile little universe she was trying so desperately to hold together.
It wasn’t obvious at first, it showed itself in little things. She’d get upset if I canceled plans with her, insist that I go out even when I wanted nothing more than to stay home, and make an absurdly big deal out of having to share my attention with anyone else.
Especially if that someone was Lando.
At the time, I convinced myself it was just a phase—a consequence of the divorce, teenage hormones, and everything that came with growing up. I never imagined the three of us were sitting on top of a ticking time bomb.
Of course, none of us knew that yet. To us, it was just another Friday night, another party thrown by one of Lucy’s friends, another evening that had me wondering why I’d ever agreed to leave my house in the first place.
That question was answered the second I walked through the front door and spotted Bryce Smith from behind. He’d been my crush for months, and until that moment, I’d been almost certain he felt the same way.
I didn’t rush over to say hello—I didn’t want to look desperate—so I stopped to chat with a few girls from school instead. After a while, Lucy disappeared, which wasn’t unusual. She was probably somewhere flirting with a boy she’d met five minutes earlier just to keep herself entertained.
Someone handed me a beer, which I sipped far more slowly than everyone else seemed to. I danced with the girls for a while, wandered through the house, and by the time nearly an hour had passed without seeing Lucy, I decided to go look for her outside. By the time I stepped into the backyard, the music had faded into little more than a distant hum. Groups of people lingered around, others stood near the wooden fence, passing around cigarettes, while a couple of pairs hid between the trees, convinced no one could see them.
I scanned the yard until I spotted Lucy’s blonde hair a few yards away. She had her back to me.
Bryce was standing in front of her, smiling.
I didn’t think much of it. Lucy was friends with half the school, and Bryce seemed to know just about everyone. I was about to walk over when I heard her laugh softly.
“And what about her?” Lucy asked.
Bryce let out a quiet chuckle that made my blood run cold.
“She’s cute… but she never really grew out of being a sweet little kid.”
Every muscle in my body locked into place.
“I figured.” Lucy laughed again, shaking her head.
Bryce stepped closer.
“Besides…” His eyes never left hers. “You’ve always been the interesting one.” He lifted a hand, brushed a strand of hair behind Lucy’s ear, and kissed her as though he’d been wanting to do it for days.
I didn’t wait to see anything else. I took a careful step backward, so quietly that I didn’t even realize I’d been holding my breath. A painful knot tightened in my throat, and tears blurred my vision before I could convince myself not to cry.
I turned around and left before either of them realized I’d been there. I just needed to get out of that backyard before my heart embarrassed me in front of anyone else. I wandered into the woods, crying like the foolish girl I was.
Years later, I realized that night had never really been about Bryce Smith. For a long time, I convinced myself it had all been nothing more than an unfortunate coincidence. That Lucy and I had simply fallen for the same boy, and that, by chance, he’d chosen her instead.
It was a comforting explanation, but it was also a lie. The truth was much harder to face.
Lucy wasn’t in love with Bryce.
Lucy was terrified.
Her parents’ divorce had planted a quiet fear of abandonment inside her—one that, at sixteen years old, I was far too young to recognize. Anyone who seemed to get too close to me stopped being just another person and became, in her eyes, a threat. Not because she wanted to hurt me, but because there was always the possibility that one day I’d choose them over her. And Lucy dealt with threats the only way she knew how: She got rid of them before they ever had the chance to exist.
The tears were still falling by the time I turned onto my street. I barely looked up before I noticed someone leaning against a bicycle in front of my house.
Lando.
The moment he saw me, he straightened immediately.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head without slowing down.
I tried to walk past him, but he was quicker. He reached out and gently caught my wrist.
“Don’t lie to me.” The calm in his voice disappeared the second he saw my face. “You’ve been crying.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
I let out a shaky breath, unable to keep looking at him. He studied me for a few quiet seconds before pointing toward the small wooden bench across from the neighborhood park.
“Sit down.”
“Lando…”
“Please.” There was something in the way he said it that made arguing feel impossible.
We sat side by side, neither of us spoke at first. He waited, because he knew me well enough to understand that if he pushed too hard, I wouldn’t say a single word.
Eventually, I gave in. I told him about Bryce, how I’d liked him for months, how I’d found him kissing Lucy. I didn’t cry while I spoke, that somehow made it worse. The words came out hollow, stripped of every emotion, as though saying them aloud might convince me they didn’t hurt as much as they actually did. When I finished, silence settled between us.
I turned my head just enough to look at him. His jaw was clenched so tightly I could see the muscle twitch beneath his skin.
“That bastard…” He shot to his feet. “I’m going to kill him.”
“Lando…”
“And Lucy?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “What the hell was she thinking?” He started walking back toward the party.
“Wait.”
He didn’t.
“Lando!” I hurried after him and grabbed his arm, but he barely slowed.
“I’m going to talk to them.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do.”
"No." I grabbed his arm tighter.
He tried to gently pull away.
“Y/N…”
“I don’t want you making a scene.”
“I don’t care.”
“Well, I do!”
He took another step. At that point I didn’t even think, not even for a second, I just did the first thing that came to mind.
I cupped his face in both hands and kissed him.
The world stopped, the kiss was brief, awkward and desperate. When I pulled away, my hands were still cradling his face.
Lando didn’t move, he didn’t even blink. He just stared at me with an expression suspended somewhere between disbelief and something far deeper. As though I’d just given him the one thing he’d been waiting years to receive, and he still couldn’t quite believe it had actually happened.
Then he smiled, not just any smile. The kind that begins quietly in someone’s eyes before it lights up their entire face.
My stomach dropped. I’d only wanted to stop him, I hadn’t meant to do… this. All at once, I understood. To him, that kiss meant far more than it had meant to me in that frantic, desperate moment.
Panic hit me all at once.
I took a step back.
“Y/N…”
I shook my head before he could say another word, then I turned around and ran. I left Lando standing alone beneath the amber glow of the streetlights, wearing an expression that would haunt me for many years to come.
(…)
For the next few days after that revealing night, I did everything I could to avoid the Norris siblings.
Lucy practically blew up my phone with endless calls and kept showing up at my house, hoping I’d finally agree to talk to her.
Lando wasn’t much better. He texted me constantly and, every now and then, I’d catch him lingering outside my house, hoping for even the briefest glimpse of me through my bedroom window.
It got so out of hand that my mother finally confronted me and begged me to put an end to my little tantrum once and for all.
Lando was the first one I faced. My heart was lodged somewhere in my throat, every nerve in my body on edge, as I apologized for confusing him with that desperate kiss. He protested, exactly as I’d expected him to, but in the end, he accepted my insistence that what had happened between us had been nothing more than a reckless, impulsive mistake. At least, that’s what his words said. I knew Lando far too well to believe he’d actually given up on me.
Then came Lucy, and honestly, I expected that conversation to be much harder than it turned out to be. With tears in her eyes, she told me Lando had confronted her and confessed he'd told her that I had seen everything. In her defense, she said she’d always known Bryce was an idiot and had only wanted to prove that he had never intended to take me seriously. In the end, I believed her. I forgave her because, at the time, forgiveness was the easier choice.
We hugged, silently agreeing to leave everything behind, while Lando watched from several feet away with unmistakable disapproval written all over his face.
The next five years brought changes none of us could have imagined.
Lucy and I moved to London to start university, while Lando threw himself completely into the world of motorsport. For a long time, I convinced myself he’d finally decided to forget about me. It wasn’t an unreasonable conclusion.
He stopped showing up beneath my window, stopped finding excuses to text me every day, and our conversations slowly became limited to family gatherings or the occasional weekend when we happened to cross paths at the Norris house.
Years later, I realized that wasn’t the whole story either.
Lando had never stopped loving me, he had simply stopped chasing me. He understood that persistence wasn’t going to change my answer, so he poured all of that energy into something else instead. If he couldn’t convince me with words, he’d do it by becoming the man he’d always believed I deserved.
And no one could ever accuse Lando Norris of doing anything halfway.
He trained harder than ever, accepted sacrifices that very few people his age would have been willing to make, missed birthdays, holidays, and most of what should have been his teenage years while chasing a dream that, as he’d confess to me many years later, had stopped belonging solely to him.
He wanted to make it to Formula One.
He wanted to become someone I could be proud of.
At nineteen years old, all of that hard work finally paid off.
Lando Norris made his Formula One debut.
I remember that first race like it had happened yesterday. The Norris family planned the trip with the same excitement most people reserve for a wedding. Lucy and I skipped classes, her parents cried practically the entire weekend, and I… I realized it was impossible to watch someone you’d loved for so many years achieve their greatest dream without feeling like a small piece of that victory somehow belonged to you too.
A couple of weeks after that milestone, Lucy decided to throw a party at the apartment we shared in London. She promised me it would be a small gathering. I should have known she was lying.
A few hours after it had started, the apartment was already an absolute disaster. By that point, all I wanted was to crawl into bed, but I knew that wasn’t happening with Lucy glued to my side all night.
Instead, I escaped to the kitchen. It was practically empty. Only a few abandoned glasses sat on the island alongside a couple of half-empty bottles. I poured myself a glass of water and, for the first time that night, found myself grateful to be somewhere the music sounded like nothing more than a distant thump.
“So this is where you disappeared to.”
I nearly dropped my glass. I spun around to find Lando leaning casually against the doorway, smiling like appearing out of nowhere was a skill he’d spent years perfecting.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that your way of saying you’re happy to see me?”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“Lucy told me you weren’t coming.”
“Exactly.” He stepped closer until he was standing right in front of me. “I wanted to surprise her.”
I just shook my head.
A few minutes later, we were laughing about nothing in particular when the unmistakable sound of Lucy's voice reached the kitchen. Rachel's laughter followed almost immediately after, and before either of us could react, Lando's expression changed completely.
“I’m sure I left another bottle in here!”
Lando’s eyes widened.
“Hide.”
“What?”
“They can’t see me.”
Before I had the chance to argue, he yanked open the narrow pantry door and practically shoved me inside.
“Lando, there’s no way we’ll fit…”
“Move over.”
He slipped in behind me and pulled the door shut just as the kitchen filled with voices again.
The space was absurdly small. My back pressed against the shelves while Lando barely had enough room to stand without ending up on top of me. We both held our breath.
The kitchen door opened.
“There it is,” Lucy said.
She wasn’t alone. I recognized Rachel’s voice immediately. We’d become pretty close since starting university together.
“Where’s Y/N?” Rachel asked.
Lucy laughed.
“No idea. She’s probably hiding in some corner, waiting for someone to come rescue her.”
“Don’t be mean.” Rachel let out an awkward little laugh.
“I’m not being mean. I’m just telling the truth.”
I felt my stomach begin to tighten as Lucy kept rummaging through the cabinets.
“I adore her, but sometimes she’s exhausting.”
“Exhausting?”
“Yeah. It’s like she doesn’t know how to do anything on her own. If we go to a party, I have to introduce her to everyone. If she meets someone new, five minutes later she’s looking for me again. Whenever we go out, she spends the entire night glued to my side. It’s like she lives through me.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
“I don’t think it’s that bad…”
“Trust me, it is.” Lucy laughed again. “Some days it feels like I have a daughter my own age.”
My eyes began to sting.
“Sometimes I wonder what she’d do if I wasn’t around anymore.”
“She’d probably learn to manage on her own,” Rachel answered almost immediately.
“I’m not so sure.” Lucy grabbed the bottle before adding, with a casualness that hurt far more than if she’d shouted it, “Honestly, I’m a little afraid she’ll end up finding a boyfriend someday.”
I frowned, my eyes instinctively searching for Lando’s face in the darkness. I could barely make him out, but I had a feeling we were wearing the exact same expression.
“Why?”
“Because then some poor guy would have to put up with her twenty-four hours a day.”
They both laughed.
Both of them.
I couldn’t decide which laugh hurt more.
Part of me waited for Lucy to say she’d been exaggerating, to smile and admit she was only joking. She never did. Instead, she moved on to another topic with the same ease someone might use to comment on the weather.
Inside the pantry, the silence became unbearable. I didn’t even realize I was crying until a tear landed on my wrist.
Lando turned his head toward me. I could barely make out his features in the darkness, but even then I could see his jaw tighten. Carefully, he reached for my hand and gave it a single, gentle squeeze. It was his way of telling me not to believe a single word I’d just heard.
We waited until their voices had completely faded before Lando slowly opened the pantry door.
I stepped out first.
My chest felt so unbearably heavy that even breathing had started to hurt.
Lando came out behind me. He didn’t say a word. He simply looked at me with a mixture of anger and helplessness I’d never seen in his eyes before.
The next morning, I left the apartment before Lucy woke up.
I didn’t leave a note on the table or make up an excuse over text. I simply stuffed a couple of changes of clothes into a backpack, took the train, and went back to my parents’ house with the absurd hope that putting miles between us might also put some distance between me and everything I’d overheard the night before.
It didn’t.
Because there’s something profoundly cruel about discovering a truth that has been hiding in plain sight for years. Once I’d seen it, I couldn’t unsee it. During the drive home, my mind began piecing together memories I’d always interpreted from the wrong perspective. Bryce. The classmates I’d quietly drifted away from without ever understanding why. Every time Lucy got upset because I’d canceled plans with her to spend time with someone else. The countless occasions I’d ended up apologizing for things that had never really been my fault.
Even the promise she’d made me swear when we were just little girls stopped feeling like childish nonsense and became the very first piece of a puzzle I’d spent far too long pretending wasn’t there.
The worst part wasn’t realizing Lucy was capable of being selfish.
The worst part was realizing I’d learned how to exist in the way that was most convenient for her.
Little by little, I’d made my world smaller, convinced it had been my own choice. I stopped letting people get too close because somehow it always ended up becoming a problem. I learned to measure my words, to ask permission before taking up space, to apologize for having feelings that might inconvenience someone else. And the longer I thought about it, the harder it became to tell where Lucy’s wants ended and mine began.
My mother found me sitting on the garden swing, the same mug of coffee still cradled in my hands nearly an hour later.
“You have a visitor.”
I didn’t have to ask who it was.
Lando was standing by the white gate at the front of the house, his hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, a faint crease between his brows. There was something in his expression that told me he had no intention of leaving until we’d talked.
We walked for several minutes without any particular destination in mind, neither of us seemed eager to break the silence. Somehow, almost without thinking, we found ourselves standing in front of the Norris house, as though our feet still remembered the way even while our minds were too preoccupied to choose where to go.
“No one’s home,” he said as he unlocked the front door. “Dad left early this morning.”
I followed him upstairs.
His room looked almost exactly the same. The trophies still lined the same shelf, the old desk remained cluttered with photographs and karting parts, and the bed still sat beneath the window where we’d spent so many afternoons together.
I sat down on the edge of the mattress, unsure what to do with my hands.
Lando remained standing for a few moments, watching me in silence.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about you since last night.”
“I’m sorry.” I gave him a sad smile.
He slowly shook his head.
“Do you realize every important conversation you have starts with an apology?”
I lowered my eyes.
“It’s a habit.”
“No.” His voice softened. “It’s a punishment.”
Those words made me look back up at him.
He crouched down until we were at eye level.
“You’ve spent years believing your existence is an inconvenience to everyone around you. You apologize when you cry, when you need help, when you fall in love, when someone hurts you… even now, after everything Lucy said last night, the first words out of your mouth are ‘I’m sorry.’”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Maybe she’s right,” I whispered, so quietly I almost couldn’t hear myself. “What if I really am a burden? What if I’ve spent all these years living through her because I never learned how to stand on my own?”
I’ll never forget the look on his face.
It was anger.
But not directed at me.
It was the helpless anger of someone who’d spent years watching the person he loved slowly convince herself she was worth far less than she truly was.
He sat down beside me.
“Listen to me carefully, because I’m never going to say this again.” His voice was quiet, but every word felt deliberate. “I’ve been in love with you since I was eight years old. Eight, Y/N. Not since you grew into yourself. Not since we got older. Not since I started racing. Since you were the little girl who shared your lunch with me because I always forgot mine. Since I realized that every time you walked into a room, everything somehow felt a little less difficult.”
Tears slipped silently down my cheeks.
He kept going.
“And do you know what the hardest part about loving you has been? Watching you stop seeing yourself the way I’ve always seen you. I watched you walk away from opportunities because you thought someone else deserved them more. I watched you make yourself smaller and smaller just so everyone else could be comfortable. And every time I tried to get closer, you found another reason to convince yourself I’d end up hurting you too.”
I swallowed hard.
“Because you could have.”
“Of course I could have.” He didn’t deny it. “I could crash my car every time I go out on track, and I still climb back into it. Loving someone always means accepting that one day they might break your heart. The only thing I never understood was why you decided that risk was worth taking with everyone else… except me.”
The silence that followed unraveled me completely. I looked at him for a long time before I finally found the courage to answer.
“Because if you broke my heart… I wouldn’t just lose you, I’d lose Lucy too. And I wasn’t ready to survive losing both of you at the same time.”
His expression changed instantly, all the hardness disappeared. With infinite tenderness, he reached up and brushed away the tear that had just fallen down my cheek.
“You’ve spent so long trying not to lose anyone…” he murmured. ”…that you never realized the only person you’ve been losing all this time was yourself.”
I don’t know who moved first.
All I remember is feeling his forehead rest gently against mine, our breaths trembling together in the tiny space that still separated us.
When his lips finally found mine, there was no urgency, no desperation. The kiss was slow, almost reverent, as though we were saying goodbye to more than a decade of fear. He gave me every opportunity to pull away, to change my mind, to hide once again behind every excuse I’d spent years clinging to.
I didn’t.
My hands found his face almost instinctively, and he wrapped an arm around my waist with a tenderness that finally brought down everything I’d spent years struggling to hold together.
The rest unfolded with the same quiet certainty as a storm finally passing once it had spent all its strength.
The bedroom where an eight-year-old boy had once promised he was going to marry me someday became, many years later, the place where we finally stopped pretending that what we’d always felt for each other could still be called friendship.
The next morning, I woke up to the sun shining directly into my face.
For a few seconds, I couldn’t remember where I was. Then the room’s familiar scent did the work for me. The old wood, Lando’s cologne lingering on the pillow, and the perfectly organized chaos that had always defined his bedroom slowly pulled me back to reality. I turned my head instinctively, looking for him, but his side of the bed was already empty. In its place, neatly folded on the pillow, was a sheet of paper with my name written in the corner.
I picked it up with a smile before I’d even read a single word.
“Had to leave early. Training in London. I tried waking you up twice, but you looked far too happy asleep, and I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
His handwriting grew messier as the letter went on.
“I love you. And I hope this won’t be the last time I have the privilege of waking up knowing that, just a few hours earlier, I got to make love to you.”
“P.S. Promise me you won’t run away from me this time.”
I don’t know how long I sat there with the letter in my hands. I only remember thinking that, for the first time in years, the future didn’t scare me. I still had no idea how I was going to face Lucy or what any of this really meant for us, but those questions weren’t enough to overshadow my happiness.
I went back to the apartment that same day holding that piece of paper against my chest like it was a secret.
I headed straight to my room, dropped my backpack onto the floor, and stepped into the shower, trying to make sense of everything that had happened in less than twenty-four hours. The hot water ran down my spine, my mind drifting back to what had happened with Lando. No one had ever loved me with that kind of intention before. No one had ever made me feel, even for a moment, that maybe existing wasn’t an inconvenience to the person standing in front of me.
I stepped out of the bathroom still wrapped in a towel, absentmindedly drying my hair.
Then the world stopped all over again.
Lucy was sitting on my bed.
The letter lay open in her hands.
She didn’t look up when I walked in. She finished reading the last line with a calmness so unnatural that the silence began to hurt before she even spoke.
“And I hope this won’t be the last time I have the privilege of waking up knowing that, just a few hours earlier, I got to make love to you.”
“Lucy…” The air left my lungs.
She folded the letter with agonizing slowness before finally lifting her eyes to meet mine. I’d never seen her look at me like that before.
There was no sadness.
No disappointment.
Only a coldness that made me feel like I was standing in front of a complete stranger.
“You slept with my brother?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but my silence was answer enough. Lucy let out a short, disbelieving laugh and shook her head several times as she stood up.
“God, I was so stupid.”
“What?” I frowned.
“I spent years worrying about keeping people from hurting you, and in the end, the very first person who managed to convince you to spread your legs was my own brother.”
I’m pretty sure a slap would have hurt less.
“Don’t talk like that…”
“Like what? Like I’m telling the truth?” Her voice rose a little with every sentence. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve done to protect you from this? How many times I tried to make you understand that Lando was never going to be a good idea? But of course… he says a few pretty words, and suddenly you forget everything.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Then what did happen?”
I took a step toward her, but I couldn’t find a single answer.
Lucy let out a bitter laugh.
“Look at you. You can’t even defend him.”
I closed my eyes for a moment.
“I love him.”
She laughed again. This time, it sounded almost cruel.
“Of course you do. Just like Rachel did.”
I felt my heart stop.
“Rachel?”
My friend Rachel?
For a split second, my mind went back to that night in our kitchen. Suddenly, the way Lando had rushed us into that pantry made perfect sense. I'd thought he was trying to hide us from Lucy. It had never occurred to me that he'd been trying to avoid Rachel too.
Lucy smiled with a composure that was almost frightening.
“He didn’t tell you?”
I slowly shook my head.
“That’s surprising. I thought before sleeping with you, he would’ve told you that part too.” She folded her arms. “Before you, there was Rachel. They slept together too. He swore she was different too. They spent hours locked away in his room, convinced they were in love too.”
Every word unraveled the fragile sense of certainty I’d managed to build since the night before.
“No…”
“No what? You don’t believe me?” She stepped closer until less than a yard separated us. “Do you honestly think you’re different? That somehow you’re going to be the woman who finally makes Lando Norris stop being Lando Norris?”
I didn’t answer. Because for the first time since reading that letter, doubt found its way inside me.
Lucy noticed. She’d always known the exact moment I started falling apart. Her entire expression changed, the hardness melted away, replaced by a softness I knew far too well.
It was the same she always used whenever she wanted to convince me to do what she wanted. The same one she’d spent years using to soothe every one of my insecurities… after helping plant them in the first place.
She took my hands in hers.
“Look at me.”
I did.
“I’m not angry because you fell in love. I’m angry because you did what you always do, you trusted the wrong person.” She slowly traced her thumb across my knuckles. “Men always leave, Y/N. They always find someone better, someone more interesting, someone who excites them more. You still don’t understand that because you’ve always needed to believe love can fix people.”
She paused.
“I’ve spent my whole life watching how that story ends.”
I felt tears sliding down my face again.
“I would never do that to you, I’ll never get tired of you, I’ll never replace you with someone else. Because I’m the one who truly knows who you are.” She tightened her grip on my hands. “I forgive you.”
Those three words shattered me completely. Not because I needed to hear them, but because somehow, she’d managed to make me feel like I was the one who had betrayed her.
“Just promise me one thing.”
I nodded almost automatically.
“Don’t ever put your happiness in someone else’s hands. Especially not my brother’s, because when he decides he doesn’t love you anymore and believe me that day will come, I’ll be the only person still here to pick up the pieces.”
That night, my phone vibrated just a few minutes before midnight. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who it was.
I’d spent hours sitting there with my phone in my hands, rereading the letter he’d left on the pillow over and over again, wondering how long it would take before I became exactly the kind of person I’d always sworn I’d never be.
LANDO: Can we talk?
It took me several minutes to reply.
ME: I don’t think we should.
LANDO: What happened?
I stared at the message for so long that my screen eventually went dark. When I unlocked my phone again, I still had no idea how to explain something I didn’t fully understand myself.
ME: We can’t do this.
This time, his reply took a little longer.
LANDO: Do what?
A knot tightened in my throat. Because that was the very question I’d spent years avoiding.
ME: What happened last night.
LANDO: Nothing bad happened last night.
ME: Not to us. To Lucy.
LANDO: We’re not hurting anyone by loving each other.
I read that sentence over and over again.
I wanted to believe it, I really did. But Lucy’s voice was still echoing far too loudly inside my head.
ME: She’s my best friend.
LANDO: She’s my sister too.
ME: You don’t understand.
LANDO: No. I think you’re the one who’s spent far too long carrying responsibilities that were never yours to begin with.
I felt the tears start falling again.
ME: I can’t betray her.
Several minutes passed before my phone vibrated again.
LANDO: But you can betray yourself?
I froze.
It was such a simple question.
That was exactly why it hurt so much.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard for nearly a full minute before I typed the only answer I knew.
ME: I’m sorry.
This time, the typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. As though he were writing something much longer, as though he kept deleting it. In the end, only one message came through.
LANDO: I hope that one day you’ll stop apologizing for things you never chose to feel.
He didn’t text me again, that was the part that frightened me the most. Not the silence, but the feeling that, the silence had started to feel far too much like distance.
(…)
The next seven years passed with the deceptive speed that always seems to define the chapters of our lives we’d rather forget.
There was no dramatic goodbye between Lando and me. No final conversation. No explosive argument that could justify the silence that followed. We simply stopped texting as often, stopped looking for each other with the same determination, and little by little, we became the kind of people who know everything about each other’s lives without actually being part of them.
I suppose that’s how most important losses begin.
Not with a slammed door.
With habit.
Lando kept doing exactly what he’d always done best: driving. While the rest of us were figuring out how to survive adulthood, he seemed like he’d been born for it. He climbed through Formula One with an ease that only made sense once you remembered everything he’d sacrificed since he was a child.
By twenty-five, he wasn’t just one of the most beloved drivers in the paddock anymore; he was a genuine World Championship contender, the face of international advertising campaigns, the cover of magazines, and one of the most recognizable athletes on the planet.
With that fame came the version of Lando the world seemed to enjoy the most.
The man who could never stay with the same woman for very long.
Every few weeks, another photograph surfaced. A different model stepping off a yacht beside him. An influencer walking hand in hand with him into a restaurant in Monaco. An actress spending a weekend with him somewhere along the Mediterranean coast. Social media treated his love life like a betting pool, guessing how long the next relationship would last, while headlines repeated the same word with almost obsessive persistence:
Womanizer.
I never knew how much of that image was actually true and I never found the courage to ask him.
Lucy and I changed too.
We no longer shared an apartment or woke up under the same roof every morning, but distance was never enough to undo the dynamic we’d spent half our lives building. She still called me several times a day, showed up at my apartment without warning, and planned my weekends with the effortless confidence of someone who assumed she’d always have a permanent place in my schedule.
The difference was that, over the years, she stopped disguising her possessiveness as concern. She became bolder, more impulsive, and dangerously aware of everything that came with being Lando Norris’s sister. Money, fame, and the way the world seemed to open every door for her only reinforced the belief that she rarely had to accept the word no.
I, on the other hand, did exactly the opposite. While they learned to live beneath the spotlight, I discovered there was something profoundly comforting about the shadows.
I found a job I genuinely loved, rented a small apartment filled with plants I constantly forgot to water, and slowly built a quiet life—one so predictable it was occasionally boring, but stable enough that no one had the power to tear it apart overnight.
I stopped falling in love. Or at least, I stopped allowing myself the possibility. Dates came and went before they could become anything serious. I never let anyone get close enough to see the parts of me that were still broken. It was a small life, maybe even a cowardly one, but I’d learned that bubbles could keep you alive.
And for a long time surviving felt like enough.
Lando Norris finally became World Champion.
The invitation had landed on my phone almost two weeks before the Grand Prix. It wasn’t particularly long.
“I know you’ll probably come up with an excuse. I just wanted you to know that if I decide to look up into the grandstands after I cross the finish line… I’d like to find you there.”
I never replied.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Simply because I couldn’t find a way to justify my presence in a place where I no longer felt I belonged. It had been seven years since I’d truly been part of his life—at least not in the way I once had been. That celebration belonged to his family, his team, the people who had stood beside him while he chased a dream that had cost him nearly his entire life. I was nothing more than an unfinished story that had walked away long before he started accomplishing every dream he’d once shared with me while we lay on the floor of his bedroom.
So I stayed home. I watched the race from the couch in my apartment, a mug of coffee resting between my hands that had gone completely cold before lap twenty.
When he crossed the finish line, I muted the television. Not because I didn’t want to hear it, because the look on his face said far more than any commentator ever could.
I watched him scream over the radio, his voice completely breaking. I watched his race engineer try—and fail—to congratulate him because neither of them could stop crying. I watched Zak wrap him in a hug the moment he climbed out of the car, his mechanics lifting him onto their shoulders, and Lucy running toward him with a British flag clutched tightly in her hands.
Then came the photographs, the videos, the interviews.
The paddock transformed into one enormous celebration.
Social media flooded with images of the man who had finally achieved the dream he’d been chasing since before he was old enough to drive.
I watched all of it through the screen of my phone. Like a stranger watching the life of someone she once believed she knew.
Three days later, I got a phone call. It was almost two in the morning and I was about to let it ring until it stopped, but the name on the screen made my finger move before I had the chance to think twice.
“Hello?”
On the other end, all I could hear was laughter, music, and voices blending together.
“I knew you’d answer.” Lando sounded exhausted, and at the same time unbelievably happy.
I smiled before I even realized I was doing it.
“You’re still celebrating.”
“I think I’ve been celebrating since Sunday.”
A brief silence settled between us. Then he spoke again, this time, much more quietly.
“Do you know the only thing that was missing?”
A knot tightened in my stomach.
I didn’t answer.
“You.”
I closed my eyes.
Somewhere in the background, someone shouted his name, but he ignored it.
“I’ve spent my whole life imagining that moment.” He let out a quiet laugh. “I thought that when I won the championship, I’d finally feel like nothing was missing anymore.”
He fell silent again.
“Turns out I crossed the finish line… lifted the trophy… watched everyone around me cry… and the only thing I could think about was that you weren’t there.”
“Lando…” The words caught in my throat.
“Just let me finish.” His voice no longer carried any trace of celebration, it sounded painfully honest. “Everyone keeps asking me what it feels like to be World Champion. And I have no idea how to explain that it feels incredible… but incomplete.”
He laughed again, this time without any real humor.
“Don’t say that.” I let out a shaky breath.
“It’s the truth. Do you know what the problem is?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve spent years chasing the wrong dream. I thought that if I won races… if I made it to Formula One… if one day I lifted that trophy… everything else would stop mattering.”
He went quiet for a few seconds. My heart started pounding.
“It didn’t, because the only person I wanted to share that moment with decided to stay home.”
Tears rolled silently down my cheeks before I could stop them.
“Lando…”
“I don’t think I’ll ever feel happiness as overwhelming as what I felt on Sunday.” He paused. “But I’m completely certain that the day you finally stop running away from me... that’s the day I’ll understand what it really feels like to be a World Champion.”
I couldn’t answer.
I heard movement on the other end of the call, then a completely different voice.
“Give me that phone, you idiot!” There was a brief struggle, one of Lando’s halfhearted protests, and several bursts of laughter. Finally, someone else spoke.
“Y/N?”
“Yes…”
“Sorry about this. It’s Max.” His voice was warm, though there was a hint of exhaustion beneath it—the kind that comes from looking after a friend who’s been celebrating for several days straight. “He’s had more champagne than any human being should be allowed to drink, and for the past two nights he’s been calling everyone who’s ever mattered to him just to tell them he loves them. He shouldn’t have bothered you.”
I wanted to tell him it was okay, but no sound came out.
“I’m really sorry. I’m taking the phone away now.” The call ended a few seconds later.
I remained sitting alone in the darkness of my apartment, my phone still pressed against my ear.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t even bring myself to look at the unread messages waiting on my screen.
I simply stared at the wall, trying to understand how it was possible that the man who had just conquered the world still spoke like something was missing.
It was hard to admit, but I was afraid that something was still me.
(...)
There are people you find again because you go looking for them.
It never worked that way with Lando.
Life seemed determined to throw us back into each other’s paths at the exact moment I’d finally convinced myself that seeing him again wouldn’t hurt quite so much.
That morning, the museum was closed to the public. A prestigious watchmaker had rented one of the main galleries to unveil its newest collection, and as part of the team organizing the event, I’d spent nearly a month buried beneath endless checklists, unreliable vendors, and meetings that never seemed to end. It was exactly the kind of work I loved: quiet, meticulous, and discreet enough that no one paid much attention to my existence.
Until I read through the schedule one last time.
Special Guest: Lando Norris.
For a moment, I considered asking one of my coworkers to switch assignments with me.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t keep running from one person all my life. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself until the moment I watched him walk through the museum’s front doors.
Time has a particularly cruel way of treating some people. It leaves wrinkles, gray hair, and tired expressions.
With Lando, it had only amplified everything that had always been there. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who’d spent years growing accustomed to hundreds of eyes following his every move, yet he’d never lost that pretty smile I’d known since we were children. The only difference was that now the entire world had discovered what I’d learned when I was ten years old: He was extraordinarily difficult not to look at.
It only took him a few seconds to find me in the crowd.
He didn’t smile immediately. First, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, like he needed to make sure it was really me.
Then it happened. That smile, the same one I’d read between the lines of his letter, the same one I’d spent more than half of my life trying to forget.
The rest of the event passed beneath a quiet tension that only the two of us seemed to notice. We crossed paths in the hallways pretending we were strangers connected only by professional courtesy, but he always found a reason to look for me whenever an interview ended or the photographers finally gave him a few moments to breathe. And against all logic, I always found myself holding his gaze a second longer than I should have.
He was the one who found me after everything was over.
I was gathering a stack of folders on the museum terrace, enjoying the first real moment of silence I’d had all day.
“Do you still hide whenever you’re tired?”
I slowly looked up. There was something profoundly unfair about the fact that his voice still made me feel exactly the way it always had.
“I’m not hiding.”
“No.” A faint smile tugged at his lips. “You just happened to choose the only place you knew no one else would come.”
I didn’t answer, because he was right.
We stood beside the railing for several long minutes without saying a word. The river flowed quietly below us while the wind carried the distant sounds of the city through the air. It was strange to realize that, after all those years, silence still felt more comfortable beside him than it ever had with anyone else.
“Do you know what I thought when I saw you this afternoon?” he asked suddenly.
I shook my head.
“That ever since the championship, I'd imagined this moment over and over, rehearsing everything I'd say if I ever saw you again. And now that you’re here…” He smiled to himself. “I can’t remember a single word.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
He laughed too, and there was something almost tragic about how familiar it felt. Years had passed, entire lives had unfolded in the space between us, and yet one stupid joke was still enough to make it feel like we had simply picked up a conversation we'd paused the day before. It scared me how easily we found our way back to each other. Maybe because it proved that time had never really been the problem.
He looked at the river instead of at me.
“I had speeches.”
I frowned.
“Plural?”
“Oh, hundreds of them.” He laughed quietly to himself. “Some were angry. Some were dramatic. Some were so unbearably romantic that I'm actually embarrassed I ever came up with them.” He shook his head. “Turns out none of them survived actually seeing you again.”
“And what are you thinking now?”
He turned to me.
“That I'm still in love with you, that I meant every word I said that night.” There wasn't a trace of hesitation in his voice.
No grand gesture, no attempt to make the moment bigger than it already was. He said it with the quiet certainty of someone admitting a fact he'd stopped trying to fight years ago.
“I don't think I've ever stopped,” he continued, almost absentmindedly. “I tried to convince myself I had. God knows I tried. But every version of my future that didn't have you in it always felt like I was settling for a life that belonged to someone else.”
I lowered my eyes because suddenly looking at him felt unbearably intimate.
“You make it sound so easy.”
“No.” He smiled sadly. “I make it sound simple.” There was a difference.
I took a slow breath before saying the words I'd been carrying around for months.
“My fears changed Lando. They're not just about Lucy anymore.”
“I know.” His expression softened.
“No, you don't.” I shook my head. The words came out slower than I expected, each one heavier than the last. “For years I was terrified that choosing you meant losing her. But then I spent seven years watching the world fall in love with a version of you I didn't even recognize.”
I forced myself to meet his eyes.
“You became a Formula 1 driver, and after that it felt like the world developed an opinion about you overnight. Every few weeks there was another photograph, another rumour, another article explaining who Lando Norris supposedly was. I kept telling myself not to care because I knew you. But eventually... I wasn't so sure anymore.” I swallowed hard. “That's the cruel thing about hearing the same story often enough. One day you wake up and realize you've stopped asking whether it's true. You only wonder why you're the only person who still refuses to believe it.”
My smile was small and tired.
“And I started thinking that maybe Lucy wasn't the reason I'd been running all those years. Maybe I was running because, deep down, I was scared of you, and the version everyone else had figured it out before I ever did.”
Something flickered across his face. Not anger, not disappointment, hurt. He looked away for a long moment before speaking.
“Do you know what the media loves more than a happy story? A simple one.” He rested both hands on the railing. “A driver who can't commit. A guy who falls in love every other weekend. A womanizer.”
He smiled without humour.
“It's much easier to sell than the truth. The truth is pathetic.”
Silence stretched between us.
“Lando...” I frowned.
“No, it is.” He laughed quietly. “Because the truth is that every time something ended, everyone assumed I was already looking for the next girl.” He glanced at me. “I wasn't.”
His voice dropped.
“I was looking for a reason to stop looking for you. I dated people because everyone kept telling me that eventually I'd meet someone who would make me forget you. They said that's how life worked. That someday I'd wake up and realize you'd become a memory instead of a possibility.” He shook his head slowly. “It never happened.”
His eyes found mine again.
“Do you know what all those women had in common? They weren't you.” He let out a slow breath. “And after a while... I stopped correcting people. I hid behind that reputation because it was easier than admitting I was still waiting, I hurt people because it was easier than being honest.”
“Why?”
“Because I'd rather let the world think I was incapable of commitment than admit I'd spent years in love with someone who had already chosen a life without me.”
The words settled somewhere deep inside me. They hurt because they sounded true, because I could suddenly picture him doing exactly that. Smiling for photographs, holding hands with women whose names he'd probably forgotten by now. Pretending he had moved on because it was easier than admitting he hadn't.
“I don't need you to forget everything you've read about me,” he said softly. “I don't even need you to trust me today. I know trust isn't built with speeches.” He took one careful step closer, his eyes never leaving mine. “I just need you to stop believing that the worst version of me is more real than the one who's standing in front of you.”
I looked at him for what felt like forever.
“I don't know if I'm brave enough.”
“I know.”
“What if I panic again?”
“You probably will.”
“What if I ruin this?”
“You will.” A smile spread slowly across his face.
“That's a terrible answer.” A surprised laugh escaped me.
“No.” He took my hands into his, his thumbs brushing softly over my knuckles. “It's an honest one.”
He stayed quiet for a moment, studying my face with an affection so familiar it almost hurt.
“You've spent your whole life carrying every decision on your shoulders,” he murmured. “Every choice has felt like something that could destroy the people you love. You keep waiting until you're absolutely certain before allowing yourself to be happy.”
I nodded without meaning to.
“So let's not do that this time.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
His grin appeared slowly, mischievous in the way only Lando's ever could.
“I mean I'm tired of asking permission.”
“What?” I blinked.
“You heard me.” He squeezed my hands once. “Be my girlfriend.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. He watched me struggle for exactly two seconds before shaking his head.
“No.” Confusion spread across my face. “No more impossible decisions. We're doing this differently.” He leaned forward until our foreheads were almost touching, smiling with the quiet confidence of someone who had finally run out of patience after waiting most of his life.
“You're my girlfriend now.”
“Lando...” I stared at him.
“No negotiations.” A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “No overthinking.”
“You can't just decide that.” I couldn't help laughing.
“I absolutely can.” He looked impossibly pleased with himself. “I've waited long enough.”
I shook my head, laughing through tears that refused to fall.
“This is ridiculous.”
“It is.”
“And completely unfair.”
“I know.”
Another laugh escaped me.
“So... what happens if I say no?”
His smile softened until every trace of teasing disappeared.
“You won't.” The certainty in his voice should have annoyed me.
Instead, it broke something open inside my chest. Because for the first time in my life, someone wasn't asking me to be fearless before choosing me. He had simply chosen me first. I closed the tiny distance between us and kissed him before I could think myself out of it. Against his lips, between laughter and tears, I heard him mumble with unmistakable satisfaction—
“See? Told you.”
And, for reasons I couldn't quite explain, letting him make that decision for both of us felt less like losing control and more like finally being allowed to rest.
(...)
The months that followed that afternoon at the museum were one long contradiction.
During the day, we lived hiding from the world. At night, whenever we finally managed to be alone, I found it hard to remember I’d ever doubted him in the first place. Lando had an almost infuriating way of loving someone. He was attentive without ever becoming overbearing, patient without making me feel like a burden, and remarkably good at finding time where, objectively, there wasn’t any. He could land in London after a Grand Prix, drive two hours just to have dinner with me, then head straight back to the airport before sunrise to catch a promotional event in another country. He never complained, he never kept score over who was giving more to the relationship, he simply showed up.
And I was beginning to understand that was exactly the problem.
I’d spent my entire life believing love was supposed to be difficult. That it meant sacrifice. That you had to keep proving, over and over again, that you were worth staying for. Lando, on the other hand, loved me with an ease that sometimes felt impossible to understand. Some days, I managed to believe him. Other days, all it took was opening social media for the old fear to settle back inside me. Old pictures with other women. Headlines still calling him a womanizer even after he’d become World Champion. Comments insisting it was only a matter of time before someone new came along.
I tried to ignore them, I truly did. But Lucy’s words had a particularly cruel way of surviving inside my head. It didn’t matter how many times Lando told me he loved me; eventually, that voice would always come back, asking how long it would take before he changed his mind.
The first time that fear found its way between us happened during a dinner hosted by one of his sponsors.
As expected, no one knew I was his girlfriend. We arrived separately, pretended to be little more than acquaintances, and only found quiet moments together whenever the cameras stopped following him. We’d become so good at it that, sometimes, keeping our relationship a secret stopped feeling like a sacrifice and started feeling like a game only the two of us knew how to play.
Then she walked in. She was an ambassador for one of the brands sponsoring the event. Beautiful in an almost intimidating way, funny, effortlessly confident, and, judging by the way they greeted each other, someone who knew Lando quite well. She threw her arms around him in an enthusiastic hug, and he returned it with exactly the same warmth.
For the next fifteen minutes, I watched them talk like two people who’d spent years collecting private jokes. Every time she laughed, her hand found his arm. At one point, she absentmindedly straightened the collar of his jacket without ever interrupting the conversation, like the gesture belonged to her by habit.
Lando didn’t do anything; he didn’t move her hand away, didn’t step back, didn’t create any distance between them. And even though, rationally, I knew nothing had probably happened at all, part of me stopped seeing the moment for what it was and started looking at it through every fear I’d spent years trying to bury.
The rest of the evening became an exhausting performance. I smiled whenever someone spoke to me, I raised my glass during the toasts, I laughed, I even managed to hold a conversation about contemporary art without remembering a single word I’d said. All the while, my mind remained trapped in that corner of the room.
When we finally left the event, silence stayed with us for almost the entire drive. Lando was the first to break it.
“You’ve barely said a word since we left.”
I looked out the window for a few seconds before answering.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Then tell me.” A faint smile crossed his face.
“The woman you were talking to…”
I watched him frown slightly.
“What about her?”
“She made me uncomfortable.”
I expected him to ask why, to try to understand. Instead, he let out a quiet breath through his nose and rested his head against the seat for a brief moment.
“Y/N…” I knew immediately this wasn’t going to end well.
“I’m just telling you how I felt.”
“But what did I do?”
“I’m not saying you did anything.”
“Then I don’t understand.”
I turned to face him.
“Lando, she kept touching you. She was practically all over you, and you…”
“And I what?” His tone wasn’t the same anymore. “What was I supposed to do? Push her away in front of everyone?”
“No.”
“Ignore her? Be rude to someone who works with one of my sponsors?”
“That’s not what I said.” I shook my head quickly.
“It’s exactly what you’re implying.”
“I’m not attacking you.” I felt frustration rising inside me. “I’m just telling you it hurt.”
He stayed quiet for a few seconds, when he slowly shook his head.
“The problem is… no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough.”
The words cut through my heart.
“Don’t say that.”
“Then tell me what you want me to do, Y/N. Because I’ve spent months trying to show you that this is real, and all it takes is one woman saying hello at an event for us to end up right back where we started.”
“It’s not about her.” I lowered my eyes. “It’s everything else.”
He sighed, unable to hide his frustration.
“It’s always everything else. Lucy, the internet, the newspapers, my past. It’s never me, it’s never something I’ve actually done and somehow I’m always the one paying for it.”
“You have no idea how hard I try to silence that voice.” I felt tears gathering in my eyes.
“I do.” His answer came immediately. “But I also need you to start believing me more than you believe her.”
Silence filled the car once again. For several long minutes, neither of us spoke. I stared down at my own hands, unable to explain something I didn’t fully understand myself. When I finally broke the silence, my voice was barely above a whisper.
“I think we need a few days.”
Lando slowly turned his head toward me. The disappointment in his eyes hurt infinitely more than if he’d shouted.
“Is this what you do whenever you’re afraid?”
“I need to think.” I felt a knot tighten in my throat.
He stayed perfectly still for a few seconds that felt impossibly long, then he looked back at the road and nodded once. He didn’t argue, he didn’t try to change my mind, he simply withdrew the hand that had been resting over mine the entire drive.
The days that followed felt strange. We didn’t break up but we weren’t exactly together either. It was like we’d both agreed to live in a kind of limbo where no conversation was deep enough to fix what had happened, yet none of them were cold enough to truly break it either.
Lando respected the distance I’d asked for.
At least as much as he could. He still texted me good morning almost every day and good night whenever the race schedule allowed it. Sometimes he’d send me a meme he knew would make me laugh, or a photo of whatever hotel breakfast he was eating with the caption, “Still worse than the coffee you make.”
I always replied, but our conversations had become dangerously careful. Neither of us ever mentioned the argument again, neither of us talked about the future. It was like we were both waiting for the other to figure out how to fix something neither of us truly knew how to repair.
I spent those days thinking far too much.
Thinking about Lucy, about Lando, about how easily I believed everyone else before I believed the man who had spent his entire life showing me that he loved me.
I was beginning to suspect that Lando had never really been the problem. The problem was that I was still looking at our relationship through eyes Lucy had spent far too many years training to distrust.
It was Lucy herself who showed up at my apartment the following Friday.
“Get dressed.”
“Why?” I looked up at her from the couch.
“Because we’re going out to dinner.”
“I’m really not in the mood.” I frowned.
Lucy rolled her eyes.
“Exactly.” She didn’t take no for an answer.
Two hours later, we were walking into one of London’s most popular restaurants. I knew something was wrong the moment I saw two men getting to their feet to greet us.
One of them was a friend of Lucy’s, the other I’d never met before.
I turned to my best friend.
“What is this?”
“A double date.” She smiled with infuriating ease.
“Lucy…”
“Relax.” She gave me a gentle shove between my shoulder blades. “You haven’t been out with anyone in years.”
I didn’t even have the chance to protest. Dinner was already underway before I could come up with an excuse to leave.
The guy was nice, he kept trying to make conversation, asking about my job, cracking jokes, smiling every time he managed to get more than a one-word answer out of me. I could barely bring myself to look at him. Every time he shifted his chair a little closer or accidentally brushed against my hand while reaching for a glass, an uncomfortable feeling settled deeper inside me—one I couldn’t even explain.
It wasn’t his fault, he was simply occupying a place that already belonged to someone else.
Halfway through dinner, Lucy’s phone began to ring. She glanced at the screen and smiled.
“It’s Lando.”
My heart stopped for a second. She answered without leaving the table.
“Hi!” I could only make out a few muffled words from the other end. “No, I’m still at the restaurant.” Lucy laughed. “…Yeah, with Y/N.” She paused. Then, completely carefree, she added, “I brought her on a double date. I figured it was about time she met someone normal.”
The blood drained from my face. An irrational urge to snatch the phone out of her hand surged through me. But I couldn’t, I couldn’t tell her not to, I couldn’t explain why.
Lucy talked for another few seconds before hanging up. Then she slipped her phone back into her purse as though she hadn’t just detonated a bomb.
Dinner ended shortly afterward. I let out a quiet breath of relief as we finally stepped outside, the cold night air hit my face all at once. I thought the worst was over.
Then I saw him.
Lando was leaning against his car on the other side of the parking lot. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, his hands were buried deep inside his jeans pockets, his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the tension even from where I stood. He started walking toward us with a determination that made me stop breathing.
He didn’t greet Lucy.
He didn’t greet me.
He stopped a few feet away and simply looked at me, like he was trying to figure out who the woman standing in front of him really was.
“What the hell is this?”
Lucy was the first to speak.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m talking to her.” He didn’t even look at her.
A chill ran down my spine.
“Lando…”
“No.” He slowly shook his head. “Don’t start with my name. Start by explaining why I just found out my girlfriend is on a date with another man.” The words hung in the air.
“Your girlfriend?” Lucy frowned immediately.
But neither of us heard her.
“It wasn’t a date.” I tried to step closer.
He took one step back. It hurt me more than I expected.
“Wasn’t it?” He let out a humorless laugh. “Because I’ve spent the entire night trying to convince myself Lucy must’ve gotten it wrong. That maybe she was exaggerating, that there had to be another explanation.”
He paused, then glanced toward the man still standing beside me.
“Turns out there really was another guy waiting for you.” His eyes found mine again. “So tell me… what exactly did I misunderstand?”
The words caught in my throat.
“Lucy set this up without telling me. I didn’t know, I swear.”
Something in his expression softened for the briefest moment, but the damage had already been done.
“Then why didn’t you leave?”
“I…” The question shattered me.
“Why did you stay?” His voice remained calm. “You could’ve walked away from that table, you could’ve called me, you could’ve done anything, but you stayed.”
I took a slow breath.
“Because Lucy was there.”
“Of course.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Lucy, always Lucy.”
“I think we all need to calm down a little…” The other man finally stepped forward, visibly uncomfortable.
Lando turned toward him so quickly that even I flinched.
“Stay out of this.”
The stranger raised both hands in defense.
“I’m just saying she already explained that—”
“No.” Lando cut him off immediately. “You don’t know a damn thing about what’s happening here and quite frankly, you have no right to have an opinion.”
The man frowned.
"Hey, watch your tone."
Lando's jaw tightened instantly.
"Excuse me?"
"There's no need to talk to her like that in front of everyone."
Lando took another step toward him, not aggressively. But enough to make the man instinctively step back.
"You're going to lecture me about how to treat my girlfriend after spending the last two hours flirting with her right in front of me?"
"I didn't know she was your girlfriend."
"Exactly." His voice cracked for the first time. "Because she's the one who asked me to keep her a secret."
"Lando..." My chest began to ache.
He looked back at me, every trace of anger he'd shown the other man had disappeared, leaving behind nothing but unbearable sadness.
"Do you know what the first thing I thought was when Lucy called me?"
I slowly shook my head.
"I thought you'd found someone else."
"I never thought that." My heart broke cleanly in two.
"I did." He dragged both hands over his face, utterly exhausted. "Because I've spent the last week watching you pull away from me, and then my sister calls, laughing, to tell me you're having dinner with another guy. What was I supposed to think? What did you expect me to feel?"
No one spoke, not Lucy, not the other two men, not me.
The only sound was Lando's uneven breathing, he looked terrified.
I took two slow steps until I was standing right in front of him. Gently, I slipped my hand into his. He didn't pull away.
"I'm leaving with you."
He closed his eyes. It was the smallest gesture, but it was enough for every ounce of tension to slowly leave his body. When he opened them again, the anger was gone.
He nodded once.
"Let's go."
Behind us, no one moved. Lucy remained frozen where she stood, watching us like she'd just realized she'd spent her entire life fighting something far bigger than a simple love story.
Because the problem had never been that Lando was in love with me.
The problem was that I was in love with him too.
(...)
By the time we reached Lando's apartment, neither of us had said much.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable anymore. It was exhausted.
We argued first. Not loudly. Neither of us had enough strength left for shouting. We simply sat on opposite ends of his sofa, picking apart every wound we'd managed to reopen over the last few days. I told him how seeing that woman had made every fear I'd buried crawl back to the surface. He admitted that watching me walk out of that restaurant with another man had terrified him in ways he hadn't known were still possible. Somewhere in the middle of that conversation we both stopped trying to win and started trying to understand, and I think that's when I realized that maybe love wasn't measured by how rarely two people hurt each other, but by how willing they were to stay after the hurt had already happened.
By the time we crawled into bed, there was nothing left to defend.
He kissed me the same way he'd done the first time we'd found ourselves there, patiently, as though every touch carried the quiet promise that I was free to stop him whenever I wanted. I never did. Years of fear, longing, resentment and restraint dissolved beneath gentle hands and whispered apologies that no longer sounded like guilt, but like forgiveness. When everything finally became still again, I rested my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat until his breathing grew slow and even.
For the first time in years, I understood what people meant when they talked about peace.
It didn't last.
Sleep refused to come.
I lay there staring at the ceiling for what must have been an hour, my mind circling the same inevitable thought over and over again.
Lucy.
I had postponed that conversation for almost my entire life.
There would never be a better moment.
Very carefully, I slipped out of bed without waking Lando, wrapped one of his hoodies around myself and stepped onto the balcony. London was unusually quiet. The city stretched beneath me in thousands of tiny lights, indifferent to the fact that my entire life was about to change.
My thumb hovered over her name for several seconds before I pressed call.
She answered on the second ring.
"So you finally remembered you have a phone."
I closed my eyes.
"Hi, Lucy."
"Oh, don't 'Hi, Lucy' me." Her laugh was short and sharp. "Do you have any idea what kind of scene your boyfriend made tonight? Honestly, congratulations. You've turned my brother into a complete psychopath."
I let her speak.
"You embarrassed me, you embarrassed yourself. I cannot believe you would choose him over me after everything I've done for you."
There it was.
Not concern, not anger, ownership.
I felt something inside me instinctively preparing to apologize. The words climbed all the way to the back of my throat.
I'm sorry.
The sentence I'd spent half my life saying, the sentence that had shaped every important decision I'd ever made. But It never came out. Instead, I heard myself ask a question I should have asked years ago.
"What exactly have you done for me, Lucy?"
The silence on the other end was immediate.
"...Excuse me?"
"You keep saying you've spent your life protecting me." My voice trembled, but for the first time it wasn't trembling because I was afraid of her. "Protecting me from what?"
"From people who would've hurt you."
"No." I slowly shook my head. "You protected me from everyone."
"Oh my God. Is this coming from Lando?" She laughed.
"No."
"Because it certainly doesn't sound like you."
That sentence hurt more than it should have. Because she was right, for years it hadn't sounded like me. I'd repeated her opinions so often that eventually they had become my own.
"You know what?" she continued. "This is exactly what I was afraid of. One relationship, and suddenly you think you don't need me anymore."
I looked out over the city.
"No."
"No?"
"I think..." My voice broke for a second before I managed to continue. "I think I never learned who I was without you deciding it first."
"Listen to yourself, you're being ridiculous." She scoffed.
"I don't think I am."
"You've always needed someone to tell you what to do." Then she delivered the sentence she'd been using for years. "I've always known what's best for you."
"No." I surprised myself with how calm I sounded. "You've always known what was best for you."
The air seemed to disappear from the line.
"How dare you."
"I spent years believing I was difficult to love because that's how you made me feel every time someone got close to me. Bryce. My classmates. Every person I slowly stopped talking to because somehow it always upset you. You convinced me that disappearing was kindness."
"I never—"
"You did."
"No."
"You did."
She started talking over me. She listed every birthday she'd spent with me, every time she'd defended me at school, every sleepover, every holiday, every secret. As though love could be measured like a receipt, as though doing beautiful things for someone erased the ugly ones.
"You would've been completely alone without me."
Maybe once, that sentence would've destroyed me. Tonight... it only made me unbearably sad.
"I know you believe that."
"I don't believe it, I know it. That's the difference between us."
I smiled through tears she couldn't see. When she finally spoke again, her voice had softened into something painfully familiar.
"Come home, we'll talk tomorrow."
"No." My chest tightened.
"I'll forgive you." Those words almost made me laugh. Not because they were funny, but because, I understood how absurd they really were.
"I don't need you to forgive me."
"You don't mean that."
"I do."
"You'll regret this, you'll come back like you always do."
"Maybe."
I looked down at the ring resting against my thumb.
Maybe I always had, until now.
"I love you, Lucy. I always will."
Hope crept into her voice.
"I know."
"But I can't keep abandoning myself so you never have to feel abandoned."
The silence that followed felt endless. I waited, part of me kept hoping she'd finally say it. That she'd tell me she was scared, that she'd admit she'd been wrong, that she'd apologize. But she never did. Instead, she said, quietly,
"So you're choosing him."
"No." I closed my eyes. "I'm choosing me." I ended the call before she could answer.
For several seconds I simply stood there staring at the black screen in my hand. Then my legs gave out, I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the cold balcony floor, and everything I'd spent years holding inside finally came apart.
I cried for the little girl who'd sworn a promise she was too young to understand, for the teenager who'd believed she had to become smaller to deserve love, for the woman who had spent seven years watching someone she loved from a distance because she'd been too frightened to choose herself.
I cried until breathing became difficult, until my chest hurt, until I wasn't even sure what I was grieving anymore.
I didn't hear the balcony door open. The only warning I had was the warmth of a blanket settling over my shoulders.
Lando crouched beside me without saying a single word, he didn't ask what had happened, he didn't ask whether she'd apologized, he simply opened his arms.
That was enough. I collapsed against him so completely that I wasn't sure where my body ended and his began. My fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt as sob after sob tore its way out of me, years of fear leaving my body with a violence I hadn't known I was capable of surviving. He held me the way people hold someone who has just survived something no one else can see.
One hand buried gently in my hair, the other rubbing slow circles against my back. Every now and then, he pressed a kiss against my forehead, not to silence my crying. To tell me it was finally safe to.
"I've got you," he whispered.
Three simple words, no promises about forever, no attempts to fix what couldn't be fixed. Just permission.
Permission to fall apart.
And for the first time in my entire life... I did.
(...)
People like to say that weddings are the happiest day of your life.
I don't think that's true.
Happiness had never arrived all at once for me. It hadn't been waiting at the end of an aisle or hidden inside a white dress. It had come much more quietly than that, stitched together by ordinary mornings, by learning that love didn't have to be earned every single day, by discovering that peace could exist without guilt attached to it.
The happiest day of my life hadn't been today.
It had been the first morning I woke up and realized I no longer felt afraid of being loved.
Today was simply the day I got to celebrate it.
The ceremony had already started by the time my father offered me his arm.
The music floated softly through the gardens, guests rose from their seats one after another, and somewhere ahead, hidden behind rows of flowers and familiar faces, Lando was waiting for me.
Twenty years.
Twenty years separated the little boy who had once looked at me with absolute certainty and declared that one day we would get married from the man standing at the end of that aisle.
Back then I'd laughed because children were allowed to believe impossible things. Now I understood that sometimes they simply hadn't learned which dreams the world considered unreasonable.
As I began walking, I found myself looking at the people gathered around us.
My parents, his parents, friends who had watched us spend years orbiting around each other without ever quite finding the courage to stay and Lucy.
She smiled when our eyes met. It wasn't the smile of someone who had finally won, nor the smile of someone who had finally lost. It was quieter than that.
Time had done what neither of us had been capable of doing alone. It had taught us that love without boundaries eventually becomes possession, and possession, no matter how well intentioned, always ends up looking a little too much like fear.
We still spoke, not every day. Not because one of us needed permission to breathe. We had learned, painfully and imperfectly, that loving someone didn't require living inside them. For the first time since we were children, we were simply two women choosing to remain in each other's lives. Nothing more, nothing less.
By the time I reached the altar, Lando was already looking at me with tears threatening to spill over.
I laughed under my breath.
"You promised yourself you weren't going to cry."
"I lied." His voice cracked immediately. "I've been lying to myself all morning."
All I could do was laugh.
By the time we reached the vows, Lando took a deep breath before unfolding the piece of paper he'd spent weeks pretending not to care about. I knew him well enough to recognize the dozens of crossed-out sentences scattered across the page. He looked at them once, then folded it again.
"I don't need this."
A soft laugh rippled through the guests.
"When I was eight years old, I looked you in the eyes and made you a promise with the kind of confidence only children are capable of having. I told you we were going to get married. That we'd have a baby. That I'd spend the rest of my life giving you everything you asked for."
He smiled to himself.
"Everyone laughed."
Another small laugh spread through the garden.
"They should've." His eyes met mine again. "Because children don't know how difficult life can become. They don't know that people leave, that fear can be louder than love, or that sometimes two people can spend years standing only a few steps away from each other without finding the courage to close the distance."
His voice softened.
"But children also don't know how to lie to themselves and that little boy loved you with a certainty I've spent the last twenty years trying to live up to." He paused just long enough for the silence to settle. "I used to think that promise was about getting here. I was wrong."
His fingers tightened gently around mine.
"It was never about today. It was about every ordinary day that comes after this one. The mornings when one of us is impossible to wake up, the arguments we'll eventually have because I forgot to empty the dishwasher." A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The nights when one of us will come home convinced we've failed at something. I don't want to promise you a perfect life, I've learned we're not particularly good at perfect. What I can promise is this..."
His voice dropped, almost as though the rest of the world had disappeared.
"There will never come a day when you have to wonder whether I've chosen you. I made that decision a very long time ago." His eyes glistened. A smile, impossibly tender, crossed his face. "And if I have anything to say about it... I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving that the eight-year-old version of me was right."
"So..." He laughed softly through his tears. "I guess what I'm really trying to say is...I finally get to keep the first promise I ever made. And I don't think I've ever been prouder of anything in my life."
By the end of it, I was already crying, along with half the guests.
I barely heard any of the rest of the ceremony, because all I could think about was how strange life was. For years I had believed that loving Lando Norris would be the bravest thing I would ever do.
It wasn't.
The bravest thing I had ever done was choosing myself, loving him had only become possible after that.
Sure, I still catch myself apologizing and doubting myself, but healing is never a linear process, so I take it one day at a time.
When the officiant finally pronounced us husband and wife, Lando kissed me before anyone had the chance to tell him he could.
The guests laughed.
Someone whistled.
I heard Lucy groan dramatically somewhere in the front row.
"Seriously?" she called out. "You couldn't wait five more seconds?"
Lando pulled away just enough to grin at her.
"I've already waited twenty years."
Later that night, after the music had quieted and most of our guests had drifted toward the dance floor, I slipped away to the edge of the gardens for a moment of silence.
The stars looked exactly the same as they always had. The difference was me, I used to think people became a collection of versions told by everyone around them.
Maybe that was true.
To the gossip magazines, Lando Norris would probably always be the reformed womanizer who had finally settled down.
To the Formula One world, he would always be a World Champion.
To Lucy, he would always be the little brother she had spent far too long trying to protect from growing up.
And to me... He would always be the boy who had looked me in the eyes at eight years old and made a promise so ridiculous that it somehow survived two decades, countless mistakes and every version of ourselves we had to become before finally finding our way back.
As for me, for years I had let other people decide who I was.
The difficult girl, the shy girl, the loyal friend, the burden, the one who apologized before speaking, the one who always chose everyone else.
Tonight, standing beneath a sky that had witnessed every version of my life, I realized something so simple that I almost laughed.
None of those people had been telling our story, they had only been telling the part of it that belonged to them.
The rest, the most important part had always been ours.
taglist: @itschanelbtx @gothmagik (If you'd like to be added to my general taglist or to the taglist for a specific driver, you can leave a comment or send me a message.)
Note: Hi! Thank you so much for making it this far. This story is loosely inspired by a movie I absolutely loved when I was a kid, and I've always wanted to recreate it in my own style, haha. The past few days have been a little difficult for me, which is why I took a short break before posting again. I also wanted to post a story with Charles, but I've been feeling a bit under the weather, so it'll probably take a few more days.
Thank you all so much for your continued support. If you get the chance, I hope you'll check out my other stories as well ❤️
SUMMARY: Y/N just got out of a four-year relationship with a man who taught her everything love wasn't supposed to feel like.
So, in hindsight, Charles Leclerc was never supposed to be anything more than a distraction for her.
No feelings. No jealousy. No expectations.
The problem was that feelings don't care about agreements. Rules are meant to be broken—and some men are impossible to keep casual.
WORD COUNT: 13k
masterlist - charles’s masterlist
There are many ways to find out your boyfriend has stopped loving you.
Catching him cheating is one.
Hearing him explain, over dinner, exactly why he thinks you’re lucky he hasn’t cheated more is another.
I suppose everyone has their own preferred method.
Mine was the last one.
Adrián had spent years becoming an expert at making me feel like asking for the bare minimum was asking for too much.
Cheating had stopped being a possibility a long time ago; by then, it was practically a defining feature of our relationship.
The first time, I cried. The second time, I screamed. By the third, I had reached a point where I didn’t even want to know who it had been with.
I forgave him every single time.
Not because it didn’t hurt. It hurt like hell. There had been nights when I stayed awake wondering what was wrong with me that he needed to look for something in other women that he was supposedly finding with me.
I had spent months comparing myself to women whose names I didn’t even want to remember. I had learned to hate photographs of complete strangers.
And still, I went back to him.
I suppose there’s a certain kind of humiliation that, after a while, stops feeling like a blow and starts feeling like exhaustion.
That night, though, something was different.
We were sitting around a long table, surrounded by people from the paddock, couples, friends, and enough glasses of champagne to make everyone seem much more pleasant than they actually were.
I had spent most of dinner trying to keep a neutral expression while Adrián behaved as though sitting beside me were some kind of sacrifice he expected everyone to appreciate.
I was already tired before the evening had even begun. Tired of his looks, his comments, and the need to calculate every word I said so I wouldn’t start an argument.
Most of all, I was tired of feeling like I was constantly trying to convince someone to love me.
Adrián leaned toward me and commented that I was being unusually quiet.
I looked at him.
“You told me it’s one of my best qualities.”
He didn’t laugh, but I did. It was a short, automatic laugh. The kind I used when I wanted to avoid crying.
He kept talking.
That I had changed. That lately, I was impossible to be around. That I was always looking for problems where there weren’t any.
I barely listened. I had heard it all so many times that I could predict his next argument before it even left his mouth.
Until he said I should be grateful.
I don’t know if it was his tone or the way he said it, but something inside me tightened.
Adrián kept talking, becoming increasingly convinced that he was right. He said any other man would have left after everything I had done. That I expected too much. That I was difficult to please.
And then he said the sentence that finally did it.
“You’re lucky I still love you. You’re not exactly the kind of woman a man fights to stay for.”
The silence was immediate.
Not the awkward silence of a conversation stopping for a few seconds. The kind of silence that made everyone at the table know exactly what had just happened—something that should never have been said.
I looked at Adrián and waited to feel angry.
But it never came.
I waited to feel ashamed.
Nothing.
I only felt an overwhelming sadness, but not because of what he had just said.
Because of me.
Because of how many times I had allowed that man to make me feel small and then gone back to him as if nothing had happened.
For all the times I had confused forgiveness with simply putting up with it.
For all the times I had thought that maybe, if I were more patient, more understanding, or simply a better girlfriend, he would become the man I had fallen in love with again.
And suddenly, I felt sorry.
Not for him.
For me.
I felt sorry that it had taken me so long to understand something that, in that moment, seemed ridiculously simple.
I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to fix it. I didn’t want another apology, another promise, another chance.
I didn’t want to know if he was going to change. I didn’t want to wait and find out if he would ever become the man I had once known again.
Because even if he did someday, I no longer wanted to be there to see it.
I picked up my napkin and placed it on the table, then I stood up.
Adrián looked at me, finally realizing that he had gone too far.
“Where are you going?”
I looked at him for a second.
“Home.” It wasn’t true. I still didn’t know where I was going.
I only knew I wasn’t going back to him.
I walked down one of the hallways of the house, not really knowing where I was going. I opened the first door I found unlocked and stepped inside.
It was fairly small. It looked like a reading room.
I closed the door behind me and leaned against one of the walls, letting out a long, tired sigh.
The music from the party reached me faintly from the other side of the hallway. I could hear voices, laughter, the sound of glasses clinking together. Everything was still exactly the same as it had been a few minutes ago.
Except I wasn’t.
I was a little surprised to realize I wasn’t crying. After all, I had cried over Adrián so many times that, at some point, I had assumed that night would simply be another one of them. But I didn’t feel like crying.
I felt deeply tired, but strangely calm.
I had spent too much time trying to understand how someone who claimed to love me could make me feel so unloved. And maybe that had been my mistake.
Maybe there had never been anything to understand.
I had seen it.
I had forgiven him.
I had seen it again.
And I had forgiven him again.
Eventually, I reached a point where it no longer hurt that Adrián was like that.
It hurt that I had accepted him being that way.
I closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before I heard footsteps approaching down the hallway. The door opened a few seconds later.
When I opened them again, I found myself looking into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Charles Leclerc.
I had known him for years, although our relationship had never been more than one of those strange familiarities that develop in the paddock. We had crossed paths at enough races, dinners, and events to recognize each other perfectly, even though we had rarely had a real conversation.
Sometimes we said hello.
Occasionally, we’d end up in the same elevator or standing near the hospitality area.
And every once in a while, there was something more.
Small things I had never considered important.
Charles had a habit of smiling at me whenever our eyes met. Not a big smile, just the slightest curve at the corner of his lips that disappeared almost immediately. Sometimes, when he was talking to other people, I could feel his eyes on me, and when I turned around, I’d find him already looking at me.
And sometimes, much less often than the other things, I’d noticed something else.
When I spoke, his eyes would occasionally drop briefly to my lips before meeting mine again.
I had never thought too much about it.
Or rather, I had thought it was better not to.
Now he was standing in the doorway of that little room, looking at me with an expression I had never seen before.
“Sorry,” he said. “I thought it was empty.”
“Don’t worry. I was just about to leave.” I pushed myself away from the wall, making a move toward the door.
“No, don’t worry. I’m the one invading your space. I should leave.” He took a step back toward the doorway.
“How about we both stay?” I offered with a smile, leaning against the wall again.
Charles let out a small laugh and nodded.
“I heard what happened.”
I looked up at him, meeting his eyes.
“I think everyone did.” I laughed without any humor behind it.
“I think Max was paying way too much attention to his glass of whiskey to notice.”
I laughed again, and he joined me.
When we stopped laughing, the silence between us lasted for a few minutes before we started talking about other things. The dinner. The people who were there. How absurd the paddock was, where someone could know what you’d done three months ago without you even knowing their last name.
“What?” I asked after noticing his eyes fixed on me.
“Nothing.”
I looked at him for a few seconds.
“You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?” He gave me one of those smiles that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Looking at me.”
His smile became a little more noticeable.
“I didn’t know it bothered you.”
“I didn’t say it bothered me.” The answer came out before I could think about it.
Charles kept looking at me.
And this time, he didn’t look away. There was something different in his expression. Something that suddenly made all those little things I’d ignored for years seem much less innocent.
His eyes dropped to my lips, then back to mine, and I understood. Not everything, but enough.
“Charles…” My voice came out quieter than I expected.
He leaned slightly toward me, but he didn’t touch me.
He waited.
It was a silent pause, an opportunity for either of us to decide that this was a terrible idea.
I knew it was.
I had just ended a four-year relationship. I was in a house full of people we both knew, and Charles was probably the last person I should have done something like this with.
But I was also tired of doing the right thing for someone who had never done the same for me.
So I moved closer.
The kiss was soft at first, almost uncertain. When we pulled apart, only a few inches between us, I looked at him. Neither of us said anything, so I kissed him again.
And this time, it was different.
More certain.
As if we’d both stopped pretending we didn’t know where this was going.
Charles’s hands settled on my waist, and without breaking the kiss, he started walking until my back met one of the walls of the tiny room.
Our kiss deepened until breathing itself seemed unnecessary. His hands slipped from my waist and traveled down my body, disappearing beneath the skirt of my dress.
With one quick movement, he pulled my panties halfway down my thighs. His kisses left my lips and moved down my neck. One of his hands slipped the strap holding my dress over my right shoulder, exposing my nipple, which he immediately took between his swollen, wet lips.
His hands tightened around my ass, squeezing hard as he pushed me forward until I could feel just how hard and firm he was beneath his trousers. For a moment, he released my nipple and brought his mouth to my ear, whispering,
“Your ass gets me this fucking hard. God, you have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed about having it between my hands every time I saw you shaking it around the paddock.”
All I could do was moan and arch my back slightly as a shiver ran through me at the sound of his voice.
His mouth returned to my nipple. He gave it a couple of licks and then sucked hard, almost as if he was nursing from it, before continuing down my body.
He dropped to his knees in front of me and, with one firm tug, pulled my panties down to my ankles. I finished the job myself, kicking them completely off.
Charles lifted the skirt of my dress and slipped his head underneath it. He adjusted my legs, spreading them a little wider, and without saying another word, his hot, wet tongue found my clit.
“Fuck,” was all that escaped my mouth when I felt his rhythmic movements.
His tongue worked against my clit, making me completely wet, and every so often his lips joined in, sucking hard.
The desire and adrenaline of being locked inside a tiny room, getting fucked by someone who knew my boyfriend while he was only a short distance away, were so overwhelming that my mind stopped rationalizing. I had become Charles’s prisoner, surrendering to the hot way he was eating my pussy, and I was perfectly happy serving my sentence.
His licking became so intense that I could feel my orgasm building. My eyes rolled back with pleasure, nothing but moans escaping my mouth, while my hand desperately searched for the back of his head so I could pull him closer.
I was right on the edge of my orgasm when Charles suddenly stopped.
He stood up, as I slowly came down from the high that had taken over my body.
“I don’t want you coming without me.” He flashed me a mischievous smile.
There was no trace of that sad-eyed boy left in his expression. Only a spark of pleasure and the hunger to swallow me whole.
I didn’t wait for him to tell me what to do. I simply mirrored his earlier movement and dropped to my knees in front of him.
I looked up at him as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his cock, completely hard and flushed from arousal.
I stroked him with my hand for a moment before tentatively taking the head of his cock into my mouth. Charles’s expression twisted as pleasure coursed through him.
Little by little, I took more of him into my mouth. With controlled movements, I started giving him a blowjob. As time passed, my movements grew faster and more intense, until every thrust brought him against the back of my throat.
Small moans were all that came from Charles as his right hand tangled in my hair and began guiding my movements.
“Wait, wait.” He suddenly stopped me. “I’m about to come.”
I stood up while he took several deep breaths, trying to regain control. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and took a condom from it.
I could only stare at him, one eyebrow raised, an incredulous smile on my face.
Men.
“What? I have to be prepared.” He laughed when he saw my expression.
I let out a small laugh.
Charles turned me around and positioned me at just the right angle, leaving my hands pressed against the wall and my ass completely exposed to him.
I heard him tear open the condom wrapper. Judging by the few seconds of hesitation before he gave me a hard slap on the ass, I assumed he had put the condom on.
“Seeing your ass up close is like seeing one of the Seven Wonders of the World for the first time.”
“What?” I laughed incredulously.
Charles answered by pushing inside me.
A moan tore itself from the deepest part of my body, mixing with the one that escaped Charles.
For the first few minutes, his thrusts were slow, controlled, and deep. His hands guided my hips, making our movements meet halfway. As he picked up the pace, one hand found my hair and gathered it into a ponytail. He used it for leverage, making his thrusts faster and harder.
I bit down on my lips, trying to keep any more moans from escaping. I was completely lost in the sensation, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I was still aware that I was being fucked at an event where the man who was still my boyfriend was only a few feet away.
Charles stopped for a moment and turned me around. He lifted me by my legs, and my arms immediately wrapped around his neck for support.
He thrust into me again, this time harder, effortlessly finding his rhythm once more.
His movements became almost erratic. His eyes were nearly closed, and watching him like that finally sent me over the edge.
“Oh fuck, fuck me harder” I whispered as the strongest orgasm I’d had in years tore through me.
My legs began trembling around him, and after a few more thrusts, he came with a muffled groan.
After a few seconds, he carefully lowered me back onto my feet, and we both leaned against the wall, trying not to collapse from the aftermath of the orgasm we had just shared.
“It’s been a long time since someone fucked me that well,” I said breathlessly, my gaze fixed somewhere across the room.
“Whenever you want, I’ll come back and do it again,” he replied with a laugh.
I laughed with him, but not because I thought it would happen again.
Quite the opposite.
There was no fucking way this was ever happening again.
A few minutes later, we pulled ourselves together. I straightened my dress while Charles adjusted his suit.
I was about to pick up my panties and put them back on, but Charles was faster. He grabbed them before I could.
“These are staying with me,” he said with a grin, slipping them into his trouser pocket.
What happened that night stayed between the two of us.
At least, that was what I thought.
Because when I walked out of that room that night, I was certain of three things.
I was going to end things with Adrian.
I was never going to fuck Charles Leclerc again.
And whatever had happened between us would never become anything more than one very bad decision.
(…)
“Adrián, I don’t really know what else there is left to say after last night.
I think I’ve spent so much time trying to make excuses for you that I forgot I didn’t actually have to.
I loved you. I really did. And I think, in some way, I probably always will love the person you were when we first met. But I’ve had to learn, the hard way, that relationships aren’t about how someone makes you feel in the beginning. They’re about what they continue to show you once all of that is over.
And you’ve shown me who you are for a long time now.
I kept forgiving you because I thought the person I fell in love with was still somewhere underneath all of it. I kept thinking that if I loved you enough, or if I was patient enough, you’d eventually become that person again.
But I don’t want to keep getting hurt by the man you’ve become just because I’m still in love with the man you used to be.
And what you said… I think that was the first time I realized I wasn’t even angry anymore. I just felt sorry for myself for staying this long.
You don’t get to make me feel lucky that you chose me when I’ve spent years choosing you.
So I’m done.
I hope you find your way back to the man I fell in love with.
But I won’t be there to wait for him.
Goodbye and go fuck yourself, Adrián.”
I listened to the voice message I had left Adrián one more time before finally blocking him once and for all.
I went on Instagram and did the same thing there. I also deleted every picture we had together, including the highlights.
I knew that after this, rumors about our breakup would spread everywhere, which didn’t bother me. If anything, I was glad I could save myself the trouble of making a public statement.
Not because I was a public figure, but because Adrián was.
At one point, he had been a Formula 1 driver, more because of connections than actual talent, if I was being honest. These days, he was a reserve driver, something that was soon going to end too, because his team had decided there were better prospects out there than him.
Even though his skills weren’t exactly impressive, he had a huge following, especially among women, because—and I had to be brutally honest about this—the man looked like a fucking Greek god, and he was charismatic enough to make even the most bitter person you could think of laugh.
I suppose that had ultimately worked against us, because he was so desirable to men and women alike that resisting temptation had apparently been nearly impossible for him.
Luckily, as of the night before, all of that was in my past.
There was no way I was ever going back to him. Especially now that I had confirmed there was no love left in me for him.
I was fiercely loyal by nature, and, as I’d already proven, I was capable of forgiving almost anything if it meant staying with the person I loved. That didn’t exactly make me proud, but it did prove the first part.
Which was why, if I had ended up in Charles Leclerc’s arms, it was because there was nothing left in me anymore.
No love.
No respect.
No loyalty.
So there was no point in going back.
Over the next few days, Adrián tried to contact me through every possible means. Every attempt was met with nothing but my indifference.
As for me, I threw half my wardrobe into a couple of suitcases and went off to spend a dream summer with my friend Valentino along the Mediterranean coast.
Those days, we danced like never before, drank until we could barely stand, and saw more sunrises than I had seen even during my running era.
I was sitting at a bar, drinking an Aperol Spritz, when my phone vibrated with a notification.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: That dress makes you look even more beautiful than you are.
Attached to the message was a picture. It was me, sitting exactly where I was.
I frowned and let out a small, disbelieving laugh. I looked up and started scanning the area from where the picture had been taken.
It only took a few seconds for my eyes to meet Charles’s.
He was already looking at me with an amused smile.
ME: Where did you get my number?
CHARLES: I have my connections 😉
ME: I’m going to need you to pass them along so they can help me get Paul Mescal’s number.
CHARLES: Isn’t he caught up in some love triangle?
ME: Who cares? We can make it a square.
CHARLES: And here I was thinking we had something special 😪
ME: In your dreams.
CHARLES: I dreamed you gave me a blowjob and then fucked me, and then it actually happened, so I think it’s fair game.
I nearly choked on my drink. I looked up, and Charles was laughing. He looked at me for a moment before turning his attention back to his phone.
CHARLES: Wanna sneak away for a while?
ME: Where to?
CHARLES: In search of happiness.
I looked up again.
Charles gave me a smile before tilting his head toward the exit of the beach club we were at.
I bit my lip, trying to hide the smile threatening to take over my entire face.
ME: You’re lucky the drinks taste like sex today. Wait for me outside.
CHARLES: 🫡
Discreetly, I watched as Charles said goodbye to the people he was with before leaving the club.
I finished what was left of my drink and turned toward Valentino, who was having a heated conversation with another one of our friends.
“How do I look?” I asked, fixing my hair and adjusting my boobs inside the light-blue dress I was wearing that day.
“Hot and ready to get fucked,” he replied, biting his lip.
“Perfect, because that’s exactly what’s about to happen.” I grabbed my little purse and stood up.
“Wait, what?” The change in Valentino’s expression was so dramatic that I burst out laughing.
During the internal monologue I’d been having with myself over the past few weeks, I had sworn I would never get involved with a driver again.
In my defense, having casual sex with one technically didn’t count.
(…)
The weeks following that night flew by in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, I was back in my reality, back home in Nice.
The summer had been exhausting, but in every good way possible.
The most memorable part, aside from all the parties I had attended and all the yachts I had been on, had been my encounter with Charles.
It was the cherry on top, a little adventure to add some extra spice to my vacation.
Or at least, that was the excuse I gave myself every time I started feeling a little guilty about falling into yet another situation that clearly proved I hadn’t learned a damn thing from my previous experiences. The important thing was that this time, I was determined not to let it happen again.
All that willpower went straight out the window when Charles texted me again one Friday morning.
CHARLES: How’s your day going? Where are you today?
ME: Hiiii, I’m home hahaha.
CHARLES: Monaco?
ME: Nice. I don’t have a millionaire boyfriend anymore, so I no longer live there 🤣
CHARLES: Hahahaha.
CHARLES: You’re still close, though. I was wondering if you wanted to hang out? I can arrange a helicopter to come get you, if you want, of course.
I stared at the message for a couple of minutes, debating what to reply. The sensible thing would have been to say no, but there was something inside me screaming at me to say yes.
I had spent so long deprived of love, deprived of affection and tenderness, that I felt like I needed this to finally heal.
I knew it wasn’t healthy for me to depend on that, but come on. I’d been cheated on like fifty fucking times. I was doing the best I could with what I had, and besides, the healing process wasn’t the same for everyone.
Some people needed therapy.
Others needed a spiritual retreat.
Me?
I needed a sad-eyed boy to fuck me hard enough to make my eyes roll back and my toes curl with pleasure.
And nobody could fucking judge me for that. So I ended up making the decision that felt right at the time.
ME: I’d love to.
The only thing I can say is that, over the next two days, there wasn’t a single corner of Charles’s apartment that didn’t hear my moans and the sound of his balls slapping against my ass.
The following two months became a sort of routine that neither of us really bothered to question.
Charles appeared on my phone with alarming ease.
Sometimes it was a text.
Sometimes an invitation.
Sometimes just a location and a time, as if we’d both decided we didn’t need much explanation anymore.
We saw each other whenever we could. In Monaco, in Nice, during a free weekend or after a race. Sometimes two weeks would go by without seeing each other, and other times we’d end up spending several days together.
And the worst part was how easy it was becoming.
I didn’t have to think too much when I was with him. Charles never asked too many questions, and neither did I. It was simple, comfortable, and convenient.
That’s why, after a few weeks, I decided we needed to talk.
Not because I wanted to stop.
Quite the opposite.
We needed to talk precisely because I was starting to suspect this was going to become a recurring thing, and I wasn’t willing to make the same mistake twice.
We were at Charles’s apartment after spending the afternoon together. I was sitting on the couch, absentmindedly playing with one of my bracelets while he looked at something on his phone.
“We need to talk about this.”
Charles looked up.
“About what?”
“About us.”
“Us?” A small smile appeared on his face.
“Don’t get excited.”
He laughed while I tried to keep a straight face.
“I want to make something clear. This isn’t a relationship. I’m not looking for a boyfriend, and I definitely don’t want to get emotionally involved with someone from the paddock again.”
Charles set his phone aside.
“Perfect.”
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Perfect?”
“Perfectly fine by me.” He shrugged. “I’m not looking for a relationship either.”
Lie or not, I believed him in that moment. Maybe because it was exactly what I needed to hear.
“Then we’re on the same page.”
“We’re on the same page.”
I looked at him for a few more seconds.
“Just sex. No expectations.”
“No expectations.”
“No jealousy.”
Charles smiled.
“No jealousy.”
“And if either of us starts wanting something more, we say it.”
There was a barely perceptible pause.
“Deal.”
I shook his hand as if we’d just closed the most important business deal of our lives.
And that’s how the stupidest agreement I’d made in a long time came about.
Because over the following months, Charles and I became experts at pretending this was casual.
He pretended he wasn’t looking for any excuse to see me.
I pretended I wasn’t waiting for his messages.
He pretended he didn’t know exactly which days I was available.
I pretended I didn’t like it when he kissed me after sex.
We convinced ourselves that as long as neither of us said the word relationship, technically, there wasn’t one.
And it worked.
For a while.
At least for me, because I had learned to recognize the danger of falling in love, and I was determined not to make the same mistake again.
Charles, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy with our arrangement, or so I thought.
The first sign that things weren’t going quite as well for him came on an ordinary day.
Valentino’s birthday was coming up, and he decided to celebrate with brunch, which I obviously attended.
While I was there, I ran into several old friends and met a few new ones. One of them was an Italian guy who played padel, and we clicked from the moment we met.
We talked for most of the afternoon, jumping from music to movies, travel, food, and whatever other stupid thing came to mind. The mimosas definitely helped keep the conversation flowing, although it didn’t really need much help. He was funny, spontaneous, and had that effortless ability to make you feel comfortable within minutes.
When the party ended, we followed each other on Instagram and exchanged numbers. I didn’t think anything would come of it, but as a friend, he seemed like a great guy.
A few hours later, I got an Instagram notification saying he’d tagged me in a story. It was a picture of the two of us that someone else at the party had taken, with the caption: One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen 🥰
I had to admit, I blushed a little, and with a ridiculous little giggle, I reposted the story.
Fifteen minutes later, my phone rang again.
When I looked at it, I saw a message from Charles. I opened it, never imagining our conversation would go the way it did.
CHARLES: Where were you today?
I frowned, slightly confused by how dry the question was.
ME: I went to a friend’s birthday. What did you do?
CHARLES: Mm. Is that the guy you’re in the picture with on your Instagram story?
ME: No, that’s a guy I met. He’s pretty nice.
CHARLES: I see. Seems like he likes you too.
I stared at the message in surprise and couldn’t help letting out an incredulous laugh.
ME: Yeah, I think so.
Charles didn’t reply after that.
A couple of days later, we saw each other again in Monaco.
We were lying together after one of our marathon sessions. He was playing with one of my strands of hair while I had my eyes closed, simply enjoying the post-sex relaxation.
“You should come to one of the races.” His voice was barely above a whisper.
I opened my eyes and turned to look at him. As usual, he was already watching me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I immediately saw the slight change in his expression. Not much, but enough for me to notice. Charles nodded and turned his attention toward something else in the room.
A feeling of guilt settled in my chest, and I immediately tried to make up for upsetting him.
“Hey, I appreciate the invitation, but I don’t want to get caught up in speculation. Even though I’m not with Adrián anymore, you know what gossip is like, and I don’t want you to get dragged into it.”
One of my hands touched his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned further into my touch, letting out a small sigh before opening them again.
“I know you have your reasons.” He kissed my hand gently. He smiled afterward, but it never quite reached his eyes.
And then I did something that, in hindsight, was probably my first major mistake.
“I promise I’ll come to a race later. Okay?”
The difference was immediate. His eyes lit up, and that small smile finally turned into a genuine one.
“Okay.”
I leaned in to kiss him, thinking the matter was settled.
It wasn’t.
A few days later, the italian guy invited Valentino and me to one of his matches. I’d never been to one before, so it wasn’t difficult to convince me.
The three of us had a lovely morning. After the match, we had lunch and grabbed coffee, talked until there was nothing left to say, and eventually said goodbye.
Later that afternoon, the guy posted some pictures from our day. Without thinking too much about it, I reposted them too.
The next day, I was trying to call Charles to ask when he’d have some time off. I knew his schedule gave him a few days free, and I wanted to see him.
He answered after several rings.
“Hello.” His voice sounded cold. Not distant exactly, cold.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
I frowned a little.
“Are you busy?”
“No.”
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
I waited for a second before speaking again.
“Well, that sounds exciting.”
He didn’t laugh, so I just sighed quietly
“Okay. I was actually calling because I was thinking we could see each other sometime in the next few days.”
The line went silent for a few seconds. The only thing I could hear was his breathing.
“Now you can?”
“What?”
“You said you were busy.”
“I never said I was busy.”
“You said you couldn’t come to my race.”
“Charles…” I frowned, genuinely confused by the direction this conversation had suddenly taken.
“It’s fine.”
“It clearly isn’t.”
This time, he was the one who let out a sigh.
“I’m not mad.”
“You sound mad.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound like you want to kill me.”
That finally got a reaction. A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, but it disappeared almost immediately.
“I’m just saying.”
“Saying what?”
He was quiet for a few seconds.
Then, finally:
“You said you couldn’t come to one of my races, but you could go to that guy’s match.”
Ah.
So that was what this was about.
“Charles, it was a padel match.”
“I know what it was.”
“Then what exactly are we arguing about?”
“We’re not arguing.”
“Right.”
“I’m just pointing out that you had time to go watch him play.”
I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me.
“Valentino was there. I wasn’t exactly sneaking off to some secret date.”
“I didn’t say it was a date.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He made another pause on the other side of the line.
“I’m not saying you can’t see other people,” he said eventually. “You can do whatever you want. We’re not a couple, remember?”
There it was.
The words were technically harmless. The bitterness behind them wasn't.
I pressed my lips together, trying not to smile. Not because I found his jealousy particularly funny, but because the image of Charles Leclerc—the Charles Leclerc—sounding genuinely annoyed because I had gone to watch another man play padel was simply too absurd.
“Nothing happened with him,” I said, softer this time. “He's just a guy I met. I like him, but I'm not dating him.”
“I know.”
“And I’m not going to date every man who happens to appear in an Instagram picture with me.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
“I’m not acting like anything.”
I let out a little laugh.
“You’re being jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“You absolutely are. You sound jealous.”
“I’m really not.” He was quiet for a moment. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Charles…” I couldn't help smiling.
“What?”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.” The tension in his voice had finally started to disappear.
“I promised I’d come to one of your races,” I reminded him. “And I meant it. I’m going to keep that promise.”
He didn't answer immediately.
“Really?”
“Really.”
He made a small pause.
“Okay.” Just like that, the irritation in his voice faded almost completely.
When I hung up, I stared at my phone for a few seconds, finally understanding what I’d just done.
I shouldn’t have calmed him down.
I shouldn’t have promised him anything.
And, most importantly, I shouldn’t have felt responsible for reassuring his jealousy. Because that wasn’t part of our agreement.
And yet, I’d just done exactly what a girlfriend would do. I’d noticed Charles was upset, figured out how to reassure him, and ended up promising him something just to make him feel better.
After that realization, the logical next step should have been obvious: end whatever it was we had.
But there was something inside me that felt deeply unsettled at the mere thought of it.
I didn’t want to admit it, but Charles had become a constant in my life, and I didn’t want him to stop being one.
Not even if that meant breaking part of our agreement.
(…)
The Miami Grand Prix was the setting Charles chose to fulfill my promise.
By that point, we’d already been stuck in our strange relationship-not-relationship for several months. I tried not to think about it too much, but sometimes it was impossible.
I felt like the white girl in horror movies who knew perfectly well something terrible was about to happen and still kept moving forward instead of turning around and running away. You know, the one who eventually becomes the victim of her own stupidity.
Anyway, Charles took care of absolutely everything, from the flights and hotel to the paddock passes. He planned everything with meticulous care.
So much so that my pass listed me as his teammate Lewis’s guest instead.
I have to admit, I laughed a little at how ridiculous the whole situation was.
I only attended the race on Sunday so I wouldn’t draw too much attention to myself. Even then, no one could really question my reasons for being there. I’d been part of that world for four years; it wasn’t exactly unreasonable that I’d grown attached to it.
I spent most of the morning walking around the paddock, greeting people I’d known from previous years and trying to act as though I wasn’t looking for Charles every five minutes.
Which, of course, meant I was looking for Charles every five minutes.
I saw him several times from a distance. Once, walking into the hospitality area. Another time, talking to some members of the team. And again when he headed toward the garage and our eyes met for just a few seconds.
He smiled at me, and I smiled back. It was enough to give me that little rush of satisfaction that was starting to worry me.
I kept walking.
And then I saw him, that little piece of shit.
Adrián was inside RedBull's hospitality area.
I stopped for a fraction of a second.
Not because I was surprised to find him there. Considering he’d spent years moving around that world, it made sense that he still had connections. What I hadn’t expected was to run into him precisely when I was there.
I tried to keep walking, but it was too late. He had seen me.
“Y/N.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
Perfect.
I slowly turned around.
Adrián approached with an expression I knew far too well. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t anger. It was indignation.
The indignation of someone who still believed he had the right to demand something from me.
“What are you doing here? We need to talk.”
“We don’t need to do anything and what am I doing here is none of your fucking business.” I tried to keep walking, but he stepped in front of me.
“You just left me out of nowhere.” His jaw tightened.
I let out a short laugh.
“No, Adrián. I left you after four years.”
He held my gaze.
“After everything we went through, you owe me an explanation.”
I felt my patience beginning to run out.
“I already gave you one.”
“You left me a voice message.”
“Which was pretty fucking clear.”
“You can’t end a four-year relationship like that.”
I looked at him for a few seconds.
“You couldn’t humiliate me in front of everyone and expect me to still be your girlfriend the next day.”
His expression changed.
“I was angry.”
“You’re always angry when you do something you shouldn’t.”
For the first time, he seemed to have no idea what to say. I took a deep breath and adjusted my bag on my shoulder.
“Look, I don’t want to fight with you. I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to talk about our relationship anymore. It’s over.”
“And that’s it? You don’t feel anything?”
That question made me stop.
“I do. I feel sorry for myself. For taking so long to finally dump you.”
“You’re unbelievable.” His expression hardened.
“Probably.” I walked past him. “Now, if you don’t mind, I want to watch the fucking race.” I didn’t wait for his answer. I just kept walking without looking back.
After the race ended, I went back to the hotel to wait for Charles. I didn’t tell him about my unfortunate encounter with Adrián because it felt like a thing of the past, and going back to it felt almost like putting myself through it all over again.
Charles had a few weeks off before his next race, so he took me to the Bahamas for a few days.
Without exaggerating, I have to say I had some of the best days of my life with him. We laughed, we drank, and, as usual, we gave ourselves over to the reckless passion between us.
Sometimes I thought there was so much sexual tension between us that sparks could start flying at any moment. There were moments when I looked into his eyes and felt so completely lost in them that I could barely breathe.
At some point, little caterpillars in my stomach had gone through a metamorphosis and turned into butterflies, and with every moment I spent with Charles, they seemed to learn how to flap their wings harder.
I was fucked.
And the only consolation I could give myself was that Charles seemed to be just as fucked as I was.
(…)
While I was slowly beginning to accept what I was feeling, Adrián seemed determined to remind me that he still existed.
The first call came four days after I returned from the Bahamas. I was at home, sprawled out on the couch with absolutely zero intention of doing anything productive, when my phone started ringing. The number wasn’t saved, so I answered, assuming it could be anything.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Y/N.” I immediately recognized the raspy voice.
“For fuck’s sake, what the hell do you want?”
“Please. I need to talk to you.”
“And I need a lot of things, Adrián. One of them is for you to respect the fact that I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
“I just want to see you for ten minutes, please. I just want to explain a few things.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your explanations.” I hung up and blocked him. Again.
I thought that would be the end of it, but it clearly wasn’t.
Five days later, I received a call from another unknown number. This time, I knew better and decided not to answer.
A little while later, a message came through.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: It’s me. I need to talk to you.
I stared at the screen for a few seconds.
ME: What the fuck do you want?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I’m not trying to bother you, I just want to see you.
ME: The answer is still no.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Give me ten minutes.
ME: No.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Five.
I stared at the screen.
ME: Are you negotiating with me?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Yes.
ME: I never thought you’d reach this level of desperation.
I blocked him. Again.
By then, I was starting to feel like blocking phone numbers was a skill I’d developed unnecessarily late in life.
Some weeks passed before he showed up again. This time, it wasn’t a call or a text.
I received an email, a freaking email.
The subject simply said: Please.
I opened it more out of curiosity than anything else.
Adrián Solís <[email protected]> I just want to talk to you. I’m not going to argue. I’m not going to try to convince you of anything. I just need to see you one last time.
I stared at the screen. The rational part of my brain told me to ignore it. The other part of me was simply tired of receiving messages, calls, and emails from different numbers.
So I replied.
Y/N <[email protected]> Adrián, I’ve already told you I don’t want to talk to you.
His response came almost immediately.
Adrián Solís <[email protected]> Just ten minutes, please. I just want one chance.
I sighed, closing my eyes in exasperation.
I didn’t want to see him. That much was clear. But I also didn’t want to keep having this conversation for the next six months. So, after a few minutes, I finally typed:
Y/N <[email protected]> Don’t thank me yet. This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, that I want to get back together with you, or that I’m interested in hearing some declaration of love. And if you try to turn this into a reconciliation, I’m leaving. You pick the place.
I put my phone down on the table and stared into the distance.
I had agreed to see him. Not because I wanted him back. Not because I was still in love with him, and definitely not because I believed that conversation was going to change anything.
I just wanted Adrián to understand, once and for all, that it was over. And maybe, after that, he’d finally leave me alone.
Two days later, we met at a café in Nice. I arrived about five minutes earlier than we had planned, and he was already waiting for me. We greeted each other politely and both ordered a coffee. Once the waitress walked away, we sat in silence for a few seconds.
Finally, he broke it.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us.” His eyes stopped wandering around the room and settled on me.
“Oh, really?” I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.
“I mean it. I think we both made mistakes.”
“We? You made mistakes. I’m not going to take responsibility for things I did not do.” I knew the disbelief on my face was obvious.
“Yes, Y/N. We both made mistakes.” He didn’t take it back.
“You know what? You’re right. I made the mistake of continuing to forgive you even after it was painfully obvious that you were a shitty partner.” I could feel my breathing getting faster, and I was doing everything I could not to lose the little composure I still had left.
“Look, I don’t want us to fall into the same cycle again. I just want to tell you that I understand now.” His hand settled over mine on the table.
I immediately pulled it away, a deep frown settling across my face.
“Understand what?”
“I understand your point. I know I acted badly that night. You can drop this whole independent-woman act now and we can get back together. I know you were hurt and you were trying to convince yourself that you didn’t love me anymore.”
With every word that came out of his mouth, mine opened wider in a mixture of disbelief and outrage.
This fucking asshole genuinely believed I’d just been playing games with him. Suddenly, the whole thing seemed so fucking ridiculous that I could only start laughing.
It wasn’t a subtle laugh.
It was loud, uncontrollable laughter that shook my entire body, to the point where I had to cover my mouth so he wouldn’t see all my teeth.
“Adrián, I know you’re way too egotistical to acknowledge that someone might actually stop loving you, but this isn’t a tantrum.” I wiped away the couple of tears that had escaped from laughing so hard. “My decision wasn’t made overnight. Yes, I waited until the final straw broke the camel’s back, but I’d been leaving you for months.”
Adrián simply stared at me in silence.
The waitress came over and placed our orders on the table. I picked up my coffee and took a small sip before continuing with the final part of my speech.
“All I have to say to you is that I genuinely hope you find someone you love and respect enough that you never do to her what you did to me.”
I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. I simply stood up, grabbed my bag, and walked out of the café.
I knew perfectly well that I hadn’t managed to make him understand. But honestly, I no longer felt any responsibility for what he thought.
And that was liberating.
The next morning, I woke up to the relentless vibration of my phone. Still half asleep, I grabbed it to see what was going on.
If I had a thousand notifications, I think I’d be understating it. I opened the first one that appeared, and it took me to an Instagram post I’d been tagged in.
I shot upright when I saw what it was.
There was a series of pictures of Adrián and me from the day before at the café.
In one of them, we were sitting together at the table. In another, Adrián’s hand was resting on mine while he stared intently at me. Then there was one where I was laughing.
Clearly, every single picture had been taken completely out of context. They made it look like we’d had some intimate conversation between two people who were still in love with each other, when the reality couldn’t have been more different.
As I went through the other notifications, I found an article posted by a gossip blog.
RECONCILIATION ON THE HORIZON? 👀 Adrián Solís and his ex-girlfriend Y/N spotted sharing an intimate moment.
Several months after the breakup of one of the paddock’s most well-known couples, we’re seeing them together again, looking incredibly close with each other amid speculation of a possible reconciliation.
This encounter comes after they were spotted together at the Miami Grand Prix a few months ago, where they were also seen sharing some intense moments.
Attached to the article were the pictures from the café, along with some photos of Adrián and me in the Miami paddock.
“What the fuck has this idiot dragged me into?” I ran a hand over my face, frustrated.
Just when I thought everything that was wrong couldn’t possibly get any worse, a message from Charles came through.
CHARLES: Good morning. Did you have fun yesterday?
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I let my head fall back onto the pillow.
ME: Good morning. What are you talking about?
CHARLES: About what everyone is talking about online. I assume you’ve seen it already.
ME: Yes. Nothing that’s being speculated is actually happening. We’re not back together.
CHARLES: Then why did you meet with him?
ME: Because he wouldn’t stop insisting, and that was the only way to make him stop.
CHARLES: Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen him in the paddock?
ME: I didn’t think it was important.
CHARLES: Clearly it was, because people are speculating that you got back together based on that.
I stared at the message for a couple of minutes, not knowing what to do or say. I could understand his frustration to a certain extent, but at the same time, I felt like he had just crossed another line.
And this time, fear took over, and I acted accordingly.
ME: Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t think it was important. At the end of the day, you and I aren’t a couple.
My heart wouldn’t stop pounding, and my hands were trembling as I typed the message. Five minutes passed without a response, and I was starting to break out in a cold sweat when his message finally came through.
CHARLES: I know that. But I think it wouldn’t kill you to have a little emotional responsibility and give me a heads-up before leaving me hanging, because regardless of the agreement between us, I’m still a human being, not your fucking sex toy.
I closed my eyes as my face grew hot with embarrassment. I’d acted exactly the way Adrián would have acted in a similar situation, and I wasn’t even remotely proud of it.
I’d fucked up.
And the worst part was, I still had no idea just how badly.
(…)
Charles Leclerc had never needed to hide behind a name that wasn’t his own.
It was one of the few advantages of having been famous for years: when he said something, the world knew exactly who had said it. He didn’t need faceless profiles, fake names, or email accounts created five minutes earlier.
That night, he did all three.
He switched his phone to dark mode because, after a couple of hours of arguing across different social media platforms, his eyes were starting to ache.
He was scrolling through a news article about the whole Y/N-and-Adrián situation when a notification popped up saying someone had replied to one of his comments on X.
adrianapologist It’s obvious they’re back together. I don’t understand what the fucking problem is with admitting it. They’re made for each other, and it’s always been obvious that they’re—
A surge of fury went through Charles’s body, and he immediately fired back.
charlesandyn16 You don’t know a fucking thing. Adrian is an asshole and Y/N is way too good for someone like him. It’s obvious she knows that, and all of this is nothing more than that idiot’s desperate attempt to get her back.
adrianapologist You say I don’t know a fucking thing, but you don’t know shit either. You don’t know either of them. Unlike you, I base my opinion on FACTS, and the FACTS are that they’ve loved each other for four years, and they’re not going to stop loving each other just because they’ve been apart for a few months, and because charlesandyn16 say it 😘
Before Charles could reply, the account blocked him.
A scream tore from his throat. He grabbed his pillow, pressed it against his face, and let out another one. He’d been robbed of the satisfaction of continuing the argument.
At that point, he should have simply turned off his phone and gone to sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, he saw the pictures of Y/N and Adrián, and he would jolt awake all over again.
So he decided to get a glass of water from the kitchen and keep fighting the battle on social media from behind his anonymity.
gr63princesss unpopular opinion but Adrian and Y/N kinda look good together idc
charlesandyn16 objectively false
f1brainrot Y/N and Adrian together again??? girl stand UP 😭
charlesandyn16 maybe they’re just talking???
f1brainrot babe they’re literally holding hands
charlesandyn16 SHE IS NOT HOLDING HIS HAND. HE IS HOLDING HERS.
lec4ever I knew they weren’t actually over. You don’t date someone for four years and just stop loving them overnight.
charlesandyn16 yes you absolutely can, actually
charlesology wait wasn’t Y/N spotted with an italian padel player before this?
kimisgf4ev girl everyone is spotted with that man. he’s a social butterfly
charlesology not like THAT
charlesandyn16 what does “like THAT” mean
charlesology idk 👀
charlesandyn16 then don’t say it
adriansupremacist08 I don’t care what anyone says, Adrian clearly still loves her. Look at the way he’s looking at her
charlesandyn16 He looks constipated and you’re delusional
adriansupremacist08 Babe you run a shipping account for Y/N and Charles. there’s nothing more delusional than that 😭
Charles couldn’t come up with a response to that because, as much as it pained him to admit it, they were right. There was absolutely nothing between him and Y/N.
Yes, they had sex regularly, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything of real value. Which, after a lot of introspection and overthinking, he had finally admitted to himself was something that bothered him deeply.
From the first time he’d seen Y/N in the paddock, she’d caught his attention. He’d thought she was an incredibly beautiful and intelligent woman who was wasting her life with a miserable asshole like Adrián. That’s why, when he finally got the chance to be with her in any capacity, he went for it without a second thought.
Sometimes he wondered whether it had been a sensible decision, because once he had her within his grasp, he lost his fucking mind. Everything about her drove him insane. He felt like he was floating on a cloud whenever they were together, and he knew that no matter how badly he wanted to run from those feelings, there was no escaping them.
There was no saving him.
That’s why, in the middle of his desperation, he decided to make one more mistake. One that, despite all the madness unfolding inside him, he made knowingly.
He searched Instagram for several gossip accounts dedicated to F1, picked the one with the biggest reach he could find, and, from his fake account, typed out the message.
Everyone says Y/N is dating Adrian again. The reality is that she’s seeing someone currently on the grid. They’ve been together for months and no one has noticed.
Nothing else.
No exact dates.
No proof.
Just enough for the internet to do the rest.
For a moment, he considered deleting the message.
He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then hit Send.
It took the page less than five minutes to confirm that they’d received the message.
Charles leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter and let out a dry laugh, the kind that held absolutely nothing funny in it.
“What a fucking idiot you are…” he muttered to himself.
Because yes. He was. No sane person leaked the biggest secret of their own relationship.
No one… except someone who had spent far too long waiting for the world to stop imagining her in the arms of another man.
Early the next morning, the bomb had already exploded, and with the excitement of a child on Christmas morning, Charles opened social media again to see all the theories linking Y/N to him.
f1wagsdaily Okay, everyone calm down. If Y/N is actually dating someone from the current grid, who are we thinking?
papayarulls Lando. 100%.
lewisjamonilton I don’t think it’s Lando because Y/N would have killed him by now.
papayarulls Why?
lewisjamonilton Since everything that happened with Adrian she has a very specific level of tolerance for bullshit and Lando would test it daily.
colapintos3rdwife Could be Pierre.
alpinehatewatcher Why Pierre?
colapintos3rdwife French.
alpinehatewatcher She’s French?
colapintos3rdwife No.
alpinehatewatcher Then what the fuck does that mean😭
fastlanefairy63 What about Max?
maxsattorney01 Max can’t even keep his own schedule a secret, let alone a relationship. Also, Y/N would kill him by Tuesday
leclercism What if it’s Charles?
leclercsangel No, because Y/N was literally in Miami as Lewis’s guest.
leclercism That doesn’t mean anything.
leclercsangel It means Ferrari wouldn’t be stupid enough to put her on Lewis’s guest list if she was secretly dating Charles.
leclercism Ferrari has done dumber things.
leclercsangel okay fair.
alexology Nobody is talking about Arvid.
russellinigr63 Because why would we?
alexology Exactly. That’s why I’m suspicious.
russellinigr63 You just accused a man of dating Y/N because nobody accused him.
alexology I’m connecting the dots.
russellini123 You ain't connecting shit😭
op81publicdefender I’m sorry but Charles is the most obvious answer.
sharls1997 Which is exactly why it’s not him.
op81publicdefender Explain.
sharls1997 If Charles had been secretly sleeping with Y/N for months, we would’ve found out by now.
op81publicdefender How?
sharls1997 He would look at her once in public and we’d know.
talibanellli I actually think Kimi is a strong candidate.
antonellifiles KIMI???
silverarrowww12 my good friend Andrea Kimi Antonelli???
talibanellli Nobody would suspect him.
perronaspetronas Exactly. That's why it’s him.
antonellifiles you people have watched too many murder documentaries
perronaspetronas Baby this is f1, that’s the same fucking thing
leclercsangel Honestly, I don’t think it’s Charles, but if it were, I’d be screaming.
lostandfoundleclerc Why?
leclercsangel Because Y/N deserves someone who actually adores her.
That last comment made something warm bloom inside him.
He couldn’t have agreed more.
Y/N needed someone who would love and adore her so much that he’d be willing to kiss the ground she walked on. Someone like him, for example.
He kept reading the other theories, but the more he read, the more desperate he became.
The theory that the two of them might be together was practically buried beneath the theory that Y/N and Lando were a thing. As the hours went by, it was becoming something people were practically taking for granted.
Charles threw his phone onto the couch harder than necessary.
It was ridiculous.
He had been the one who’d started the fucking rumor.
Him.
Why the hell weren’t they talking about the two of them?
Charles was just about to throw another tantrum when his phone vibrated with an incoming message. He checked it more out of habit than because he actually wanted to talk to anyone.
The moment he saw Y/N’s name, his mood did a complete 180.
Y/N: I’m in Monaco. Can we talk?
Of course Charles agreed immediately.
About half an hour later, Y/N stepped through the elevator doors, and Charles’s heart could do nothing but pound wildly. His palms started sweating, and his legs felt unsteady. That was the effect that woman had on him.
They both sat down on the couch, ready to get the conversation over with as quickly as possible.
“First of all, I want to apologize,” Y/N began. “I never meant to make you feel like an object I only use. You really are someone I care about a lot, and I don’t want you to think that your presence in my life is limited to sex.”
“Don’t worry, Y/N. I understand that. I also know it wasn’t appropriate for me to act as if I had any kind of claim over you. I want to apologize too. I didn’t mean to say that. I know you’re not that kind of person.” Charles was quick to make her feel better.
“Thank you, Charles. I also wanted to apologize for the mess that had blown up on social media this morning.” Y/N let out a long sigh, closing her eyes and shaking her head as if the whole situation were overwhelming her.
Charles immediately tensed, although he did everything he could not to let it show.
“I don’t know who could know about us. I think we’ve been pretty careful.” Y/N looked genuinely annoyed, and Charles started feeling like absolute shit.
“At the end of the day, it’s just gossip. Maybe whoever started it had no proof at all and spread it anyway just to cause trouble.” Charles let out a nervous little laugh, scratching his ear.
Y/N looked at him for a few seconds.
“I guess it’s something I can’t avoid.” She sighed.
The guilt hit him again. She was sitting there, trusting him, while he knew exactly where that rumor had come from.
“Are we okay?” Y/N asked after a few seconds.
Charles looked up.
“We’re okay.”
“I’m glad.” She smiled slightly and placed a hand on his arm.
Neither of them said anything for a few seconds.
Charles’s eyes dropped to her lips.
Y/N noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.” A small smile appeared on her lips.
“I know.”
She let out a laugh and shook her head, but she didn’t move away when Charles leaned toward her. The kiss was soft at first, almost as if they both needed to make sure that whatever existed between them was still there after everything that had happened.
The rest happened naturally.
A couple of hours later, they were lying in bed when Y/N spoke again.
“I think we should give each other a little space.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“What?” Charles felt all the blood drain from his face.
“Just for a few days, while everything dies down, so no one gets suspicious.” Y/N quickly tried to reassure him.
“I don’t think anyone will. At the end of the day, it’s just internet gossip.” Charles searched her eyes almost desperately.
“I know, but there are going to be people paying closer attention to what I do and don’t do, trying to figure out whether it’s true. And like I told you before, I don’t want you to get dragged into all of this.” Y/N’s hand settled over his left pectoral, right above his racing heart. “It’ll only be a few days,” she assured him again.
“Okay.” It was the only thing Charles could say before turning his gaze toward the ceiling.
He couldn’t believe his own impulsiveness had backfired on him.
He’d shot himself in the fucking foot.
(…)
The days that followed that night were a little different.
We didn’t stop seeing each other, but we did start doing it less often. Between his commitments, mine, and how careful we both had to be around the people in our lives, it became harder to find moments when we could be alone.
And somehow, that made everything feel more intense.
It had been almost a year since that first night in that little room, and although it was difficult to admit even to myself, I couldn’t keep pretending that this was exactly the same as it had been in the beginning.
Charles was needy.
Not for sex.
For me.
I could tell by the way he looked for me, by how he tried to make every moment we had together last a little longer, and, most of all, by the way he looked at me whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
And the worst part was that I was the same.
For months, I’d tried to convince myself that I could keep this within perfectly manageable boundaries, but the truth was much simpler and far more terrifying.
I had fallen in love with Charles.
I didn’t want to admit it.
But I couldn’t deny it anymore.
That day was Friday, and Kika had invited me to dinner so we could catch up on everything that had been going on in our lives.
There were several of the girls from the paddock, a few couples, and some friends. Pierre was there too and, as expected, Charles had shown up with him.
When I arrived, Charles gave me a look that lasted just a few seconds longer than necessary.
I smiled.
He smiled too.
And then we both pretended nothing had happened.
Dinner went smoothly for a while, until Kika, with the kind of effortless innocence that only comes from being completely unaware of how dangerous your question is, decided to bring it up.
“By the way, did you ever figure out who that famous driver you were supposedly dating was?”
I nearly choked on my wine.
“I’m not dating anyone.”
“Come on,” another one of the girls chimed in. “The internet has already decided you are.”
“The internet also decided I was getting back together with Adrián.”
Everyone laughed.
Everyone except Charles.
I watched him take a sip of his drink and place his glass back on the table with far too much precision.
“And you don’t even have a suspicion?” Kika asked.
“Not one.”
“Not even Lando?”
I looked up.
“What about Lando?”
Charles stopped eating. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but I knew him far too well not to notice.
“Well,” Kika continued, “after all those rumors, don’t you think he’s attractive? I mean, he texted you afterward, right?”
“Yeah, of course Lando is attractive. But he only texted me to make sure I was okay after everything they made up.” I let out a nervous little laugh.
I immediately noticed Charles’s jaw tighten.
Pierre glanced at him too.
“And he’s funny,” I added.
“Very.”
Charles picked up his glass again.
“Can we talk about something else?” he asked with a smile that didn’t really look like a smile.
“Why? We’re talking about possibilities.” Kika didn’t even seem to notice the change in Charles.
Charles let out a small laugh through his nose.
“There is no possibility.”
I looked at him.
“And how do you know?”
His eyes met mine.
“I don’t.”
“You seem pretty sure.”
“I’m just saying I don’t think it’s going to happen.” He tried to focus on his food again, but he wasn’t really participating in the conversation anymore.
His shoulders were tense, and every time someone mentioned Lando’s name, his expression hardened a little more.
Kika, completely oblivious to the danger, continued.
“Well, I think they’d make a good couple.”
Charles looked up.
“Really?”
“Yeah. They’re both good-looking, they get along…”
“Such solid arguments,” he muttered.
“Relax, Charles.” Pierre laughed.
“I’m relaxed.” But it was obvious he wasn’t.
I could tell perfectly well.
Kika looked at me.
“If Lando asked you out, would you say yes?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could, Charles slammed his cutlery down onto his plate.
“I am not going to sit here and listen to you talk about another man when we’ve been fucking each other for almost a year.”
Absolute silence settled over the table.
I felt all the blood drain from my face.
Kika’s eyes widened.
Pierre went completely still.
Charles seemed to realize what he’d just done too.
But there was no taking it back now.
“Charles…”
“No,” he said, looking directly at me. “I’m not going to keep pretending I don’t care.” He stood up from the table and walked away.
No one said a word.
And I just sat there, completely frozen, watching him leave. Because he’d just said out loud the thing we’d both been avoiding admitting for a very long time.
After a full minute of shock, I apologized to everyone and went after Charles. Thankfully, he’d decided to stay in his car instead of leaving.
I opened the passenger door and climbed in.
“What the fuck was that, Charles?”
Charles’s chest was rising and falling heavily, clearly struggling to calm himself down. After a minute, he tore his gaze away from the windshield and turned to look at me.
“What was that? That was my way of saying I’m fucking sick of this situation. I’m sick of people linking you to other men. I’m sick of not being able to go out in public because of what people are going to say. I’m sick of this agreement, and I’m sick of pretending that what we have is just sex.” Charles’s breathing was erratic, and his face was flushed with anger.
“What…” The words caught in my throat, and I couldn’t say anything else.
I was pretty sure my face was a complete picture of shock.
“Y/N, I love you,” he blurted out suddenly. “And I want you to love me back. I don’t want you to see me as something casual. I want us to be together. I want us to be a couple, live together, get married. I don’t want to settle for the bare minimum when the reality is that I want everything with you.”
“Charles…” The words still wouldn’t come out. I was in such a state of shock that I felt like I was struggling just to breathe.
“You have no idea what desperation made me do.” His gaze turned toward the windshield again, and he ran his hands over his face and through his hair before continuing.
“I was the one who spread the rumor that you were dating someone on the grid. I know I was a fucking asshole for doing it, but jealousy got the better of me. I didn’t want people to keep associating you with Adrián, and I lost control.” Charles turned his gaze back toward me, his characteristic sad eyes carefully studying my reaction. “I know I was a coward for doing it, and I genuinely regret it, but…”
Charles raised his hand and gently caressed my cheek.
“I don’t regret doing everything I could to keep you from slipping through my fingers.”
We were silent for a couple of minutes after that. Charles waited for my reaction, watching for even the slightest change in my expression.
I was trying to process everything he’d just said. There were so many things happening at once that I felt like I was about to short-circuit.
After about five minutes, the only thing I could do was burst out laughing.
Charles looked at me with concern and a hint of amusement he was trying desperately to hide, just in case I suddenly decided that nothing about this was funny anymore.
“You’re such a fucking asshole.” It was the first thing that came out of my mouth once I finally calmed down.
“I admit I deserve that.” Charles raised his hands in surrender.
“Why the hell did you do something like that instead of talking to me?” The complaints started pouring out of my mouth.
“Because we had that little disagreement over text and I got scared. It’s not an excuse, but all of that, combined with the theories going around online, completely messed with my head.” Charles scratched the back of his neck with a slightly uncomfortable grimace.
“You’re an idiot. Do you know what it’s like to have people pair me up with fucking Fernando?”
Charles couldn’t help laughing, earning a smack on the arm from me.
“Ow.” He rubbed his arm.
“Don’t laugh. It’s a disturbing mental image.”
“I’m sorry, okay?”
“Sorry doesn’t fix what you did. You acted like a spoiled fucking child instead of being a man and handling the situation like an adult.”
“I already told you I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want to fix this, okay?”
I looked toward the windshield, resting my back against the seat.
“You know something…” I spoke after a minute of silence and reflection.
Charles turned his full attention toward me.
“Maybe if you’d talked to me about it properly, we could have saved ourselves all of this.” My voice had almost dropped to a whisper.
“What?” This time, it was Charles’s turn to be completely speechless.
“I love you too, Charles. And I’ve known that for months. It was just difficult to admit it. I didn’t want to go through something like what I went through with Adrián all over again.”
“Y/N, you know I’m not like him. You know me.”
“I know. But it’s not easy to just hand your feelings over to someone again after going through what I went through.”
“I understand. But I’m willing to prove that it’s worth doing it for us, as long as you forgive me and decide that what we have is worth giving a chance.”
I turned to look at Charles.
He was looking at me with a whole mess of restrained emotions behind his eyes, patiently waiting for my answer.
I’d spent almost a year running from this exact moment.
But sitting there, with Charles beside me, looking at me as though my answer could change his life, I suddenly realized there was no point in continuing to run from something that had already taken hold of me a long time ago.
I’d been so afraid of making the wrong choice again, of trusting someone and losing myself in the process, that I hadn’t stopped to consider that Charles wasn’t asking me to forget what I’d been through. He was asking me to trust what we could build together.
(…)
A few weeks after we finally decided to stop hiding, I discovered something Charles had conveniently neglected to tell me.
We were at his apartment, and he was in the kitchen while I was looking for a movie to watch on Netflix on his tablet.
I was typing the title of a movie when I accidentally tapped on a notification that had just come through from X.
I knew I should have closed it and minded my own business, but I was surprised to see a ridiculous number of posts on his feed that I never would have expected to find on the profile of a public figure like him.
It was strange enough that I went to his profile.
And you can imagine my surprise when I found a username I never in a million years would have expected to belong to Charles.
charlesandyn16
I frowned and started scrolling through his reposts and replies.
There hadn’t been any recent activity, but months earlier, the account had accumulated a frankly concerning amount of it.
I kept scrolling, reading the comments one by one.
I sat there in silence, processing everything I was seeing.
“What the fuck…” I burst out laughing. “No fucking way.”
“What?” I heard Charles call from the kitchen.
I didn’t answer.
There were arguments with people defending Adrián, theories about Lando, Kimi, Oscar, George, and practically every man who had breathed within a five-mile radius of me during the previous year.
And the same account had been behind every single one of those arguments.
Charles’s account.
I had to sit down on the couch.
Charles appeared in the living room carrying two plates.
“What happened?”
I slowly looked up at him.
“Who is charlesandyn16?”
He froze, literally froze.
I watched him process the situation.
Then he looked at his tablet.
Then at me.
Then back at the tablet.
“I don’t know.”
“Charles.”
“It could be anyone.”
“Charles, it literally says Charles and Y/N, and this account was arguing with anyone who had a theory that you and I weren’t together.”
He went silent.
“That does sound a little like me.”
I burst out laughing again.
“You argued with strangers on X because of me?”
“They were saying stupid shit.”
“You were the one saying stupid shit.”
“I had some pretty solid arguments, okay?”
I looked at him, trying to hold back my laughter.
“You’re an idiot.”
Charles smiled and walked over, wrapping an arm around my waist.
“I was upset,” he said defensively.
“You were completely fucking unhinged.”
“I was in love, frustrated, and had no idea what to do with any of it.”
My laughter slowly faded.
Because underneath all that stupidity, there was something strangely sweet about it.
He had been in love with me long before I was ready to admit that I felt the same way. And apparently, his way of dealing with it had been to argue with random strangers on the internet.
“You’re such a fool.”
“A fool who’s in love with you.”
“You’re so cheesy.”
He kissed me before I could say anything else.
As his arms tightened around me, I started thinking that, honestly, after everything we’d been through, finding out that my boyfriend had spent months fighting half of Twitter from a fake account seemed like a pretty fitting ending for us.
NOTE: Hi everyone! As promised, here is my second story with Charles. Honestly, it was so much fun to write, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for all the support 🫶🏽
English isn’t my first language, so I apologize if there are any mistakes.
taglist: @itschanelbtx @gothmagik (If you'd like to be added to my general taglist or to the taglist for a specific driver, you can leave a comment or send me a message.)
summary: you and your soulmate are stuck in a time loop on the day you first meet until you figure out you're soulmates, and you're getting fucking tired of this race day.
contains: soulmate au, time loop, journalist!reader, cursing, crack, angst (this has it all fr), george goes fucking insane in this truly, 2019 rookies moments
word count: 5.7k
playlist: black hole fantasy — the crane wives; my moon my man — feist; dear fellow traveller — sea wolf; snow on the beach — taylor swift feat. lana del rey
a/n: this took........ so long and i'm SO sorry!!!!!! it's also not one of my best works but it's like. it's fine. i enjoyed it. i hope you guys do too!!! reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3 also special thanks for @lyricsandvenom for being my lovely amazing beta-reader as usual
ALSO DISCLAIMER i know this is not accurate to how the championships standings actually are HOWEVER i started writing it by. february or something? and i just couldn't be bothered to change it so. bear with me.
series masterlist! ◦ masterlist!
As usual, George wakes up right on time.
His alarm rings at 6am sharp. He gets up on the first ring. He puts on his clothes.
He eats a light breakfast prepared by his personal chef — nutritious enough to get him through the morning, but not too rich, never too rich on race days. His manager checks up on him, and he texts back immediately, like he always does.
George never gets excited about his home races. Yes, his family and friends are there, yes, he loves his country, yes, it's really nice to stay at his own house and not at a random hotel.
George is on pole. If he doesn't win, he'll have lost from pole on his home race during one of Mercedes' best seasons in years while being on the lead for both the Drivers' and the Constructors' Championships.
He has his schedule laid out in front of him. He has some media duties in the morning, per usual. He'll probably eat a very plain sandwich for lunch, discuss technicalities with his team, stretch, and then get into his car. Hopefully he'll win, so then he'll have many more media duties, and then he'll probably go to a club to celebrate with his team and friends, and then he'll go home, and then he'll wake up on Monday and start working on getting ready for the next race.
George has it all laid out in front of him. If he stays on track, everything will be fine.
So he stays on track.
He tells an interviewer that he's comfortable and confident in the car, and that he believes they can hold on to pole as long as they have a good strategy. His sandwich has chicken and lettuce in it. He stays by his engineers' side until he's almost dragged into the car.
George is staying on track. He's on track. He'll be fine.
He's not fine.
The pit wall notices it on the first lap. George isn't one to hold back, and the car is performing as it should, and everything is perfect.
But he's stuck on the hungry eyes of the crowd, on the way every single engineer and media outlet has been talking about his predicted home race win for days. He's stuck on his family waiting for him back at the paddock, at how his dad clapped his back and told him to bring it home before the race started. He's stuck on the championship lead, on the expectations, on that sure look on Toto's face.
George has never truly fought for the World Drivers' Championship before. He never thought of himself as someone who could collapse from pressure.
"George, you're holding back on the turns. Are you okay? Norris is getting closer."
Are you okay? He doesn't have an answer. He should be. Instead, he's freaking out inside the cockpit of his perfect, brilliant car, losing precious time through every lap because, for some fucking reason, he just can't pull himself together.
When he crosses the finish line, he's P6. P6. From pole.
He can barely look Toto in the eye. He hates the pitying look some of the other drivers give him. He hates the questions he gets from the interviewers, the way they feel stupidly condescending even when they aren't — how do you feel? Do you think this is a setback for the championship as a whole? You said the car was great, what happened? It didn't seem like a strategy issue, what happened? Do you think this race will determine your racing for the rest of the year? Do you think you'll be able to recover from this in time to do better at Spa?
George wants to drive his car into a lake.
Since he can't drive his car into a lake, he finishes up his media duties as quickly as possible and goes home. His parents invite him out to dinner and he makes up a lie about having a bad headache, says they can reschedule it for Monday night. They don't insist because they know he's sulking in his room, beating himself up over what was meant to be a perfect, easily-won race.
He doesn't cry and, if he does, no one needs to know. He's an F1 driver, for fuck's sake — he's supposed to be more mature than this.
But the frustration is hard to swallow. It keeps getting stuck in his throat, scratching his tongue.
George falls into a fitful sleep. He wakes up countless times throughout the night, eyes sticky and swollen from tears and exhaustion. Time stretches, bends, keeps him up, and, when he finally manages to rest, it feels wrong, tired, undeserved. He hates every second of it.
His alarm rings at 6am sharp. He slaps his phone away and turns around in his bed, closing his eyes tightly, wondering if he can will the disappointment away.
It takes all but 10 minutes before his phone starts ringing again. The sound of it is different, though — not his alarm, but a call. Someone with the fucking nerve to bother him at 6am in the morning after the most depressing race of his life must have guts, at the very least, and he lets out an annoyed curse as he reaches out for his phone.
George picks it up angrily without even bothering to check who it is, feeling way more well-rested than he should.
"What the fuck is it?"
"Woah, someone woke up in the wrong side of the bed."
His eyebrows furrow in annoyance, taking the phone away from his face to check if it's really his manager. It is. He brings it back to his ear.
"Of course I did," he answers, clearly irritated, "what is it? I told everyone I wanted the day off."
His manager laughs. The sound is fucking grating.
"What are you on about, mate? You're on pole in your home race, at least try to be in a good mood."
George blinks.
What?
That's—what?
"What?" He says it out loud, and he can almost see the puzzled look on his manager's face from the tone of his voice.
"Are you okay, mate? Did you hit your head during quali yesterday and didn't tell us? I just called because you didn't answer my text."
His heart hammers inside his chest. For a second, George can't fucking breathe.
Oh, this is not happening. No fucking way. Not with this fucking day out of all days.
"It's Monday," he tries to inject his voice with as much certainty as possible, but a hint of doubt creeps in.
Maybe they're just making fun of him? Maybe this is a prank to lighten his mood after his awful race? That must be it. It's a little cruel, sure, but that must be it. Alex and Lando are probably in on it, too. Yeah. It has to be a little prank.
"No, George," his manager says slowly, almost sounding like he's talking to an angry child, clearly confused as hell, "it's Sunday. It's race day. Are you sure you didn't hit your head? Maybe you just had a weird dream."
George scrambles to pull his phone away again, heart racing faster than his car did yesterday as he looks at the date.
Sure enough, it's fucking Sunday.
He hears his manager calling to him on the other side of the line, but George just stares down at the screen, trying to figure out how he should react to this. Is there a right way to react to this?
Everyone knows about soulmate time loops. You meet your soulmate, and you're stuck in a time loop until you figure out who it is, and George has been waiting for this day for years, ever since he was a little boy asking for his parents to repeat the story of their time loop again and again.
But, oh, it can't be today. Not today. Not on a race day, when he meets thousands of new people, when he speaks to more journalists and fans and race workers than anyone can keep track of.
If it's today, he'll have to relive the worst race of his life time and again until he finds a needle in a haystack.
"Are you fucking with me? Did you mess with my phone?" The words leave his mouth as soon as he brings phone close to his face again, growing more desperate each second.
"No? Mate, are you okay? Do you need to see the team medic?"
Oh. Oh, fuck.
You wake up late.
When you finally do, you text your boss that your alarm didn't ring, even though you're pretty sure it did and that your subconscious was just so scared it turned it off before you could fully wake.
You're excited. You're terrified.
You've wanted to cover F1 for years now, ever since you started working with sports journalism, interviewing karting champions and regional tennis players. Now, here you are — preparing to interview F1 drivers and to cover one of the biggest races in the calendar. You've been on the track since Friday, mostly talking to the crowd, but today you'll actually be on the paddock.
You can't wait. You're going to throw up.
It takes you only a few minutes to get ready, running through your apartment like a hurricane while you try to make sure you have everything you need — your phone, your purse, your journalist pass, your wallet. You thought you'd be able to do everything slowly, calmly, but it's fine. This is fine.
This is incredible. And horrifying.
You leave your place soon after, body trembling with nerves.
"You're late," are the first words out of your cameraman's mouth, looking up from his phone to shoot you an amused look when you finally arrive to the paddock, packed with journalists and cameras, hungry for any scrap they can get before the race.
You've known James for quite a few years — you've worked together since forever, back when you were scrambling for a spot at any sort of sports coverage. When you were told he'd be the one with you for this, you cried out of relief and out of this very particular kind of gratitude that you got to do this with the same person you did your first ever interview with.
"I'm almost late," you correct, positioning yourself next to him, your right foot tapping wildly against the floor, "I didn't run 2 red lights for you to say I'm late."
He barks a laugh at that, putting the camera away. "How do you feel?"
"Like this is a dream. Also, like I'm going to pass out."
"That's the spirit."
You chuckle, looking around the buzzing paddock while tingles run through your body. "What about you? Excited?"
"I threw up as soon as I got here."
Your nose turns in disgust as you move your head to shoot him a glare. "Ew. I don't want to know about that."
"You literally asked!"
"Yeah, but I asked in a fun, thrilling way. Your answer was horrible."
Time passes by so quick you can barely feel it. You manage a few interviews with a couple of McLaren engineers before the race, running around the paddock like a child in a candy shop, James trailing after you. By the time the race starts, your anxiety has given way to full blown exhilaration, and the entire day almost feels like a fairy tale, a dream come true.
You're an F1 journalist. You can taste the victory of it on your tongue.
The best part comes after the checkered flag. Your first driver interview is with none other than Alex Albon, and he smiles brightly while you keep from squealing out of pure excitement, managing to hold yourself together as you ask questions about the race, the car, his performance.
You go through the paddock with a bright smile and intelligent questions — Gabi Bortoleto, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz. You even manage a very short interview with George Russell, the main title contender, and you're so delighted by the entire day you don't even mind his clipped answers, knowing he's probably upset over his underwhelming results.
When the bright afternoon turns into quiet evening, you feel that sort of happy tiredness that makes you grin to yourself while you drive back to your apartment. You sing along to whatever's playing on the radio, and, when you get home, you giggle at the pictures James took of you throughout the day. You open a bottle of wine as soon as you get out of your shower, more than ready to celebrate with a glass and a nice movie and to talk about everything nonstop with your coworkers on the next morning.
You drink your wine. You watch Uptown Girls. You go to bed with a smile on your lips, sighing happily as you fall into a deep, easy slumber. It's been a lovely day, you did a great job, and the door you stared longingly at for years has finally been opened.
You actually manage to wake up on time the next day. Your body feels light like a feather, and you take your time stretching and getting ready before you leave for the office. It's supposed to be a calm day — you plan to review the footage from this race weekend, to write down notes, to prepare questions for next time. There has to be a next time.
The city is quite busy, probably from the leftover movement after the race. Either way, you get to the office building a little earlier than you usually would, your good mood emanating from you in waves.
You give your coworkers a happy good morning as you open the door. Before they can react, your boss is basically on top of you, eyes wide with terror.
"What are you doing here?" She all but screeches, attracting stares from everyone else inside the office.
You look at her with a confused expression, eyebrows furrowing.
"I've… come to work?"
"Are you insane?" You can see her hands trembling. "This is a joke, right? You've come to prank me, and now you're going to find a way to teleport to the race track."
Your eyebrows furrow further. "To the race track? What?"
"You're kidding me. You're joking. It's race day. You're supposed to be there. Did you fucking forget?"
"What?" You immediately grab your phone from your pocket, feeling slightly dizzy with surprise and the building anxiety inside your chest. "It's Monday. I—"
You stare down at the screen. 5 missed calls from James. In the corner, the tiny words are clear and unmistakable — Sunday, July 5th.
"Oh." You choke on the words, heart picking up and ramming against your rib cage like a wild animal. "Oh, fuck."
George decides that the best way to deal with this is to go through his day exactly as he did the first time and hope that, somehow, he'll just know his soulmate the moment he sees them.
They're also stuck in the time loop, so they'll be looking for him. Maybe that will change something and he'll figure it out.
It's easy in theory. Not that easy in practice.
He can't tell if there's someone missing from the crowd, can't tell if there's something wrong, if there's someone he talked to before that isn't here now. He curses himself for not paying more attention to his surroundings, to every single person around him, even though he knows that's impossible, even though he knows that he couldn't possibly know.
The day goes by as normal. He's still P6. He can't help but think even with a do-over he manages to fuck it up.
When he wakes up on Sunday again, he decides he needs to be less passive about this.
A few hours later, George locks the door to his motorhome as Alex and Lando get in, hair messy from running his hands through it, eyes flying around the room.
Lando's the first to speak, crossing his arms, clearly amused. "Okay, we're here. Do you want a hug or something? The race will be fine."
"The race won't be fine, but that's not my problem."
His friends exchange a sideways look, probably thinking he sounds a little insane right now. He knows he does. He feels insane.
"How would you know that the race won't be fine? You need to be more—"
"Alex, shut up. I'm— it's the third time I'm living through this day."
There's a very, very long beat of silence. And then they're both talking at the same time.
"Holy shit—"
"You're on your soulmate loop?!"
"Is this the first time you're telling us about this?"
"Who wins the race?"
"Alright, alright," George interrupts the torrent of questions, arms flailing around to stop them, "yeah, I'm in the fucking soulmate loop. Yeah, it's the first time I'm telling you about this — it's only my second repeat, remember? And fucking Lando wins the race."
Lando whistles at the information, eyes glinting with delight before Alex elbows his side, leading him to focus back on the matter at hand.
"Right, sorry. So, how do you want to go about this?"
"I'm not sure," George admits, hands coming back to his hair, pulling anxiously, "I just—I need this day to be over, okay? Really over. It sucked the first two times around, and I don't want to keep doing it again and again."
"I thought you'd be more excited about this," Alex counters, frowning slightly, "you've said you were excited about finding your soulmate before."
"I know, I know, I am," he sighs, "I guess I just wish it happened on a different day. It just sucks."
It really, really sucks. Losing his home race. Seeing the disappointment in everybody's eyes. Hearing the pity in his parents' voices. It was awful the first time around, and maybe even worse during the second. He doesn't think the third time will be the charm.
"Well, don't worry, mate," Lando says with a smile, hand clapping George's shoulder. "We'll find your soulmate in absolutely no time. Maybe we can make a new record for less repeats needed to find your soulmate."
"That's impossible, the record is one repeat, and he's already in his second."
"Albono, just—shut up and roll with it."
Despite his frustration, George smiles.
"Do you think it could be that pretty girl who gave us coffee after lunch?"
"I'm not sure, I haven't gotten to that part of the day yet. You're the only one who remembers the previous repeats, genius."
"Not the only one. It's me and my soulmate."
"Yeah, you and that poor soul."
You shove James' shoulder, walking side by side through the paddock as he chuckles.
"Stop it," but there's no bite to your tone, "we need a game plan, okay? How are we gonna find them?"
"I don't know. Maybe you could go by elimination? It's definitely not me, so that's one."
"Wow, thanks. That helps a lot," you roll your eyes, "maybe we could go see if the coffee girl is still there after lunch?"
Coffee girl is definitely there, still giving out coffee after lunch. When you greet her, she responds exactly how she did the way before, no hint of recognition or of any sort of hidden knowledge. She's not searching for you.
You think maybe that's what you should be looking for. Anyone who speaks or wanders or walks with a searching look on their face, anyone who might be trying to find their soulmate.
But everyone else seems to be living their day as normal. The coffee girl, that cute McLaren engineer, that yelling fan. Their answers to your questions are the same as they were the day before, and it seems like time hasn't stopped and restarted for any of them.
And then you interview Alex Albon.
You're not sure what it is. His answers are also the same, but there's something about him. His eyes wander across the crowd, his posture is slightly tenser. You notice because he was your first interviewee and you know it went a little more smoothly the first time around.
But your soulmate can't be Alex Albon, because it is public knowledge that his fiancée is his soulmate. Still, you can feel something changed, and that's your first clue.
When you do your quick interview with George Russell, who came P6 again, he's also weird. He seemed stressed and anxious when you interviewed him for the first time, probably due to the race, but now he's even worse. He can barely answer your questions, mind elsewhere, clearly distracted and frustrated and annoyed. The brief interview is even briefer, and you come to a staggering conclusion.
Your soulmate is on the move, looking for you, and, somehow, they're stressing out F1 drivers on the process. Your stomach flutters with excitement at the thought.
"They are probably team staff," James points out while he walks you to your car when the day is over, "maybe we can focus on that tomorrow."
"Today, you mean."
James lets out a sigh, eyes rolling with amusement.
"What if you announced you were on your soulmate loop?" Lando's voice carries through the motor home, his eyebrows furrowed.
It's his eleventh repeat. At this point, the failure of the race feels like part of his personality.
"Announced it? To the media, you mean?"
"Yeah, why not? Maybe your soulmate would come forward."
"No, that wouldn't work," Alex shakes his head, "a lot of people would jump at the opportunity to declare themselves an F1 driver's soulmate."
"Well, maybe his soulmate would do it on the following repeat. Then he would know."
"That's not the worst idea you've ever had," George shrugs, mulling it over in his head. "That could work. I could do it at the end of the day and just wait for some sort of contact from them."
Alex crosses his arms. George can tell he's considering it.
"If you wait to get contacted tomorrow—well, today—, there's no risk of there being any fakes. Everyone else will have forgotten about your announcement, including us."
Lando nods intensely. "Exactly."
George claps his hands together, a spark of hope burning in his chest.
"Okay," he says somewhat giddily, "I'll do it."
He doesn't stop to think about the fact that announcing it at the end of the day means you're getting ready to leave while he speaks it into a microphone, loudly declaring he's looking for his soulmate and that he can't bear to live through this day again. Doesn't think about the fact you're so tired from running around after him you don't check your phone when you get home, anxious to go to sleep and try again. Doesn't think about the fact the time loop is getting to you too, even though you were quite excited about it at first.
You're exhausted. You're still looking for him through the engineers, social media managers, physiotherapists, assistants. You're not looking up at TV screens — you're looking around the staff restaurant. Because what's the probability, really, that your soulmate would be a fucking F1 driver? None. That's a different world to yours. You work a 9 to 5. You pay rent. You drive a very used and well-loved car. It doesn't even cross your mind.
And George — he hopes until the very last second. He lingers around the paddock after the race on the following repeat (P6, P6 again, P6 every single time, P6 on twelve different repeats now), knuckles white while he waits, waits, waits. You don't come.
It shouldn't be that hurtful, but it is. Do you not want him? Is part of you disappointed? Is part of you so disgusted by his performance on this stupid race that you don't even want to find him? Even if you know who he is, the loop doesn't stop until he knows who you are as well. Would you rather repeat this day forever instead of accepting him as your soulmate?
Rationally, he knows he's projecting. He knows there are a billion reasons why you haven't found each other. Still, the thoughts repeat in his head the same way this day does: incessantly, annoyingly, mercilessly.
Maybe you just don't want a fucking loser.
"Did you see Russell didn't show up for the race today? Guy got sick or something," is whispered across the paddock on your thirteenth repeat, followed by a conspiringly loud, "can you believe it?!"
Your head snaps so fast your neck hurts, eyes widening comically. "What?"
"'What' what?" James doesn't mind the gossip, looking down at his camera, checking the little footage you've shot up until now. You've been going through the repeats as normal, making sure you'll still have your job when it all stops.
"That's different," you twist your body towards the whispers, trying to catch any more information, "that's different. He was here the other times."
James finally looks up.
"What?"
"Russell," your heartbeat picks up dangerously, "people are saying he didn't show up for the race. But he's shown up in every other repeat."
James blinks.
"What, you think George Russell is your soulmate? Mercedes F1 driver, drivers' championship leader, world known celebrity, that George Russell?"
Your face burns slightly. "Okay, maybe not George Russell, but someone that has something to do with him? Maybe they're sending me a sign?"
"Are you sure he showed up on the other repeats? Maybe you're misremembering."
"I'm absolutely sure. I even interviewed him almost every time."
Hope courses through you like electricity. It was fine at first, repeating your first day as an F1 journalist, getting better and better at it until you could conduct all your interviews flawlessly, words bouncing off you easily and naturally.
13 repeats is a lot, though.
You're tired. You want to have a normal day at the office. You want to eat lunch at a different place. You want it to stop, truly, maybe even more than you want to find your soulmate. Is this how this works? The time loop tires you out and then you're so relieved when you figure out who it is that you just resign yourself to them no matter what? Well, that sucks. This sucks. You want it to be over.
It's disheartening. Disheartening, and anxiety inducing. Will you be stuck here forever? Will you ever find your soulmate, whoever they are? Are you destined to repeat the same interviews over and over for months, years, decades? You're not sure you can do it. It's one of the best days of your life, but you've gone over it so many times it's starting to feel mundane. Boring. Repetitive. You want to go home, to hang out with your friends, to have a nice, relaxing day, without having to worry about searching for your soulmate in every corner and not finding them anywhere.
And if your soulmate is George Russell, can you even blame him for staying home? The guy is probably fed up after finishing P6 for 12 days straight. If points were being counted, he'd have lost the championship by now.
James notices the way you fall silent while the two of you walk through the paddock.
You've managed to get an interview with George Russell on basically every other repeat. If he shows up on the next, you can say something to him. You can say anything, you can give him a little hint, you can throw him a clue.
There's a very low probability George Russell is your soulmate. It seems, however, to be higher than none. Either way, if it's not him, the day will restart and no one will remember your silly mistake. It's fine. Yeah. You can do that.
The tiredness gives way to giddy excitement. You can do that.
You don't tell James about it. It's stupid. What's the probability, really, that your soulmate would be a fucking F1 driver? Microscopical. Still, you have nothing to lose.
On repeat 14, George decides he's fucking done with this bullshit.
He elected to stay home the day before and gather his thoughts. He cried a little. He ignored every single call from his team, his manager, and Toto, as well as every knock on the door from his family. He needed a day off, and he fucking took it, because it doesn't matter. It's Sunday again by the time he wakes up, and it's eating away at him.
The last few repeats he's stayed awake until midnight, staring obsessively at his phone screen until the clock goes from Sunday, July 5th, 23:59, to Sunday, July 5th, 00:00. The sight is unnatural and dreadful, and it makes him panic every time. The moment the numbers change, there's this feeling — like he can physically sense the way time warps, rewinds, restarts, all so he can live through the worst race of his career again. That sucks. This sucks.
So, on repeat 14, George decides he's fucking done with this bullshit. He's not gonna find his soulmate any time soon, so he decides he'll worry about something else.
Something else being the damn race.
When he gets to the paddock, he doesn't say anything to anyone. He doesn't even tell Alex and Lando about his predicament this time around. He eats his breakfast. He eats his lettuce and chicken sandwich. He stretches. He strategizes with his engineers on the pit wall. He prepares and focuses with a vengeance, and decides that, after going through it 12 different times, he can probably manage this stupid race.
And maybe if he wins once, just once, he'll no longer be tormented by his own thoughts. Maybe you'll change your mind about him.
He doesn't hold back on the turns. He trusts this car with his life, and he isn't afraid to push, even in moments when he would usually be a little more careful.
"You're doing amazing," his radio engineer tells him, voice coated in awe. He barely listens, and he doesn't respond. He's fucking tired of letting himself get beat over and over again by both himself and others. He's a Mercedes driver. If he can't win, he can at least give it his best shot, which he hasn't really done the previous times, not with all the expectations chewing away at his fingertips.
The laps go by as quickly as the hours back to midnight on every repeat have. George doesn't know if he's P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, or P6 again. His engineer must've told him but he didn't pay any attention. He just wants to get over it. He just wants to beat the fear and anxiety once, just once.
He wouldn't say he pulls himself together, not really. He still feels like a mess. He's been stuck, as if the time loop meant he had to do all the same things again, repeating and repeating and repeating until, magically, you can find each other. Maybe that's the problem.
Maybe he needs to stop taking the time loop as a prison. Maybe he needs to take it as an opportunity to do a little better than last time — to be a little nicer, to speak a little softer, to work a little harder. To make himself worthy of you. Maybe he needs to be a little better until you can meet each other in some sort of middle.
Maybe he needs to take it as a chance to win. For you, sure, for his family, his fans, his team. Mainly for himself. Maybe he needs to take it as a chance to have his goddamn first home race win. His chance to transform a shit day into a good one.
When he crosses the finish line, he's P1.
"So, how do you feel after your first home race win?"
"Oh, it feels absolutely incredible," his face is sweaty, his eyes burn bright, and, even though he's just had the worst 13 Sundays of his life, on this one, he feels ecstatic.
He feels like he's gone back time and changed the past for the better, and he doesn't care if it takes him 100 more repeats to find his soulmate. He'll keep looking and having a better day each time until you find each other. You'll find each other, and it's fine. Maybe he needed to go through all of it so many times. He had to remember that life isn't estatic, that he's not some still character. This is his time loop, and he can make it into whatever he wants.
"I've been dreaming of this ever since I joined F1. I can't express how happy I am, or how grateful I am for this car, for the team, for my family and friends, for everything. It's truly been an amazing opportunity to be here, racing again and again, and winning at this track. I'm beyond happy, truly."
"It's a long way from P6, isn't it?"
George looks at you. He's been looking at you ever since you found him for your brief, very brief interview, but now he really looks. Straight into your eyes, studying your face, gaze lingering on the very excited, very hopeful smirk on your lips. He notices all the little things about you — how your hand grips the microphone so tight your knuckles turn white, how your expression is a mix of overwhelming hope and desperate fear. After so many interviews, you feel almost familiar. Were you familiar from the start? Or did the time loop manage to get you acquainted to each other without either of you even noticing?
Meanwhile, your mind twists, whispers in your ear, keeps you alert. He doesn't answer for a few seconds, and your heart thumps against your ears. You lean forward slightly, almost trying to nudge him into speaking, into saying something, anything, into asking you why you'd say that.
George looks at you.
And then, slowly, as if he has all the time in the whole wide world, he grins.
Sunday, July 5th, 23:58
Sunday, July 5th, 23:59
Sunday, July 5th, 23:59
Sunday, July 5th, 23:59
Monday, July 6th, 00:00
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it's summer when lando norris moves in opposite you. you remember because it'd been 35 degrees celcius that day, you'd already been pissed, and he'd knocked on your door and had the nerve to stare at your tits.
ever since then, you haven't been able to get rid of him. he teases you in the hallway, calls you pet names, brings girls home at two in the morning.
you don't like lando norris. but it doesn't erase the fact that he's right across the hall, and he likes you.
includes — fem!reader, cocky, arrogant, obsessed lando norris, neighbours, unrealistic/inaccurate f1 calender, bad first impressions, slowish burn, pining, tension, eventual smut, p in v, LOTS of flirting, nicknames (baby, gorgeous, etc.), max fewtrell + pietra pilao appearances, misunderstandings, lando's incredibly bad at expressing his feelings, mild angst, alcohol usage
radio check — first post in about a millenia but it's finally here!! i seriously had so much fun writing this one, thank you guys so much for waiting <3
word count — 15k
MONACO IS STUPIDLY HOT IN SUMMER.
It’s the one thing you’d quickly learnt after moving here years ago, after realising your French lessons from high school would not help you at all.
You’re in a halter neck, strings tied around the back of your neck, shorts stopping just before midthigh. You’d never wear it out in public of course, considering it’d probably make the nearest Monegasque auntie faint, but you were safe in your apartment, where the only other apartment opposite you was empty.
The TV in your living room is playing some soap opera, background noise as you try figure out how the new blender you bought works in the kitchen. The buttons are all in French, incredibly unhelpful considering the fact this was supposed to be one of your first steps to ‘self-improvement’.
“Eat healthy,” one of your friends had told you a couple days ago. “Or drink healthy. Helps with stress.”
She’d downed a shot of vodka a second later, so you weren’t sure why you’d taken her up on her advice.
Maybe it’s because you were getting desperate. Moving to Monaco was supposed to unlock new opportunities, especially considering the fact you’d scored a contract with one of top modeling agencies in Europe. Your family and friends thought you were doing well—if your Ferrari sitting downstairs in the underground car park wasn’t indication enough, and in financial terms, sure.
But you were stressed, loosing any kind of love you had for your career, and currently really wanted to figure out how to work this stupid, overpriced blender.
A fresh wave of mediterranean air breezes in through the open window. You frown, blindly reaching across the kitchen counter for the instructions again as if it’ll magically appear in english. It won’t. You know it won’t, but the same desperate delusion that’s taken over your life makes you reach for it anyway.
Your gaze is still on the blender, hand blindly searching through the mess on the marble countertop. The lid, perched dangerously close to the edge, makes contact with your arm, tumbling to the herringbone floor with a loud clatter.
“Fuck me,” you mutter, running your hands through your hair. The TV is still playing—you think the lead has just confessed her love to the love interest, her voice high and whiney and dramatic. Hastily, you switch it onto the next channel, a news outlet with monotone speech and dull colouring.
“I think the word for it is burnt out.”
That’s what your agent, Emilie, had told you over the phone a couple days ago. You wanted to scoff at it now—throw the stupid remote on the floor too as a petty release for your frustration.
Burnt out. You wouldn’t be burnt out if the entire universe seemed completely set on your demise.
Just as you’re about to snatch the lid back up from the ground, a sharp knock pierces through your apartment. You rise halfway, gaze snapping to the door, motionless like you’re trying to figure out if this is your mind playing tricks on you.
A minute later, there’s another knock, a little louder, one you do when you don’t think anyone is home.
Immediately, you drop everything else in your hands, ecstatic at the excuse to leave the blender behind and shove it away in the back of your cupboard.
You smooth out your shorts, trying to make them look a reasonable length, fiddling with the strap of your top. Probably another delivery guy, you think, delivering yet another impulsive purchase you’d made to make yourself feel better.
You swing the door open.
Fuck.
“Hey.”
There’s a man standing there, someone who isn’t in the typical delivery guy getup like you’re expecting. He looks your age, relaxed, familiar. Familiar in the way you knowyou’ve seen him somewhere, maybe passing by on the street, on an advertisement, maybe. He looked like he could model too.
You tilt your head, leaning against the doorframe.
Yeah, he could definitely fucking model.
“Need something?” you ask, and your voice comes out harsh, still not over the shitty day you’re having. It doesn’t click in your head that he’s a new face, standing on your apartment floor that only has one other, unoccupied, apartment on it.
“No—yeah,” he blinks, and you let your gaze stray, surveying his plain, white shirt, the grey joggers. “Was just saying hi.”
You look up at his face again. He’s got tan skin, brunette, curly hair, a small scar on the bridge of his nose.
He looks really fucking good, but you’re too annoyed to care.
“Why?” you ask, frowning. You see him give you a once over too, eyes dragging up from your thighs, all the way up to your face again. “Bit creepy, no?”
“I was just—” he moves aside, and that’s when it clicks. You see the luggage, the open apartment door with boxes strewn about inside. “We’re neighbours now. There’s only two apartments on every floor. Probably going to see a lot of each other.”
Some of the annoyance simmers, realisation taking its place.
“Oh,” you say, and he smiles. “Right.”
“Lando,” he says, offering his hand. “Norris. Lando Norris.”
“Have we met?” you ask, shaking his hand. “I know you from somewhere.”
“Probably work.”
“What do you do?”
“Cars,” he shrugs, and you shift on the spot, head tilting. “I work with cars.”
It's a vague answer. Everyone you asked in Monaco 'worked with cars'. It's how you managed to get your Ferrari in the first place.
You watch his gaze stray again. You watch it stray to your chest.
“I—”
“Are you staring at my fucking tits?”
He freezes, eyes snapping back up to your face.
“Well—”
“Seriously?”
“They’re right there.”
“What?!”
“How do you expect me not look? You’re hot, and you’re in shorts and a freakin’—”
“Have some decency!” you say, already moving to walk back inside your apartment. “Jesus.”
“No, wait,” he catches your wrist, pulling you back. “C’mon. I’m sorry. What’s your name?”
“I’m not telling you. Not after that.”
“Then what do you want me to call you?” you tug out of his hold, and he grins, like this is the funniest thing in the world. “Baby? Gorgeous? Prettiest girl I’ve ever—”
You slam the door shut.
He doesn't don’t retreat for a good few seconds, though you hear a low laugh before he does. It’s silent after that. Silent enough you could pretend that some ignorant, asshole hasn’t just moved in opposite you.
You glance at the TV, face flushed red, hands slack at your sides.
“On the topic of sport—Mclaren move up in the constructor standings with another win from their golden boy, Lando Norris.”
There’s a faint ringing in your ears, a mix of horror and disbelief.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding.
That’s where you know him from. Lando Norris. A fucking Formula 1 driver, who’s picture you’ve probably passed countless times on the street. You hear him now, in an interview, that same laugh filling your apartment.
“I mean, that’s life. Almost costed me a win but I guess I'm just that good.”
You look at the TV, the door behind you, at the blender lid that’s still on the ground, and decide your life really couldn’t get worse than this.
The next time you run into Lando is in the elevator, at 12 in the morning.
You’re in heels, a short minidress, head buzzing with alcohol from a post-shoot dinner. The strap around the back of your ankle digs into your skin, the minidress keeps falling and you’re so tired you’re half-inclined to let it.
The elevator doors open with a quiet ding.
Lando’s leaned against the wall, phone in hand when you walk in. You see him see you. You see his gaze drag over the hem of your dress, your sides, then back up to your face. He’s in jeans and a plain hoodie. You look like polar opposites.
Heat prickles at the back of your neck as you stop next to him, pointedly staring straight ahead.
“Hey,” he says, and you hear the smug grin in his voice. “How are you?”
“Good,” you answer, short, sinking further back against the wall. “You?”
“You’re not angry anymore?”
“At you? Yes. I am.”
“For what? Staring at your tits?” he crosses his arms, frowning. “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“I don’t give a shit.”
He laughs again, the slight rasp in his voice sending something fluttering down your stomach.
“Where’d you go?” he asks, and you glance at the elevator panel. You and him lived on the 17th floor, one you’d specifically chosen because of the gorgeous view. You were regretting it now though, more every second as you feel his gaze burning into your skin. “You look good.”
“Just out,” you choose to ignore the compliment. “Why do you care?”
“I’m curious.”
“Why are you out this late? Don’t you have some kind of strict, training regime to stick to?”
His eyebrows raise in a way that makes you want to take back the words.
“So you know who I am.”
“Hard not to. Monaco loves cars.”
“And what do you think?”
“About what?”
“Living next to a Formula 1 driver. A good Formula 1 driver. A hot one.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “You’re not that good.”
“Yeah? Who won the last race?”
“How would I know?”
“Don’t lie to me, babe,” he grins, hand tapping against the metal railing around the elevator. “You’re a bad liar.”
You hate the way the nickname makes your skin prickle, the way it makes heat crawl up your neck. Like he senses it, he moves closer.
“You never told me your name. What else am I supposed to call you?” he says, amused. “No, that’s a lie. I asked the girl down at reception.”
“You what?” you frown, turning to look up at him. “Surely that’s got to be illegal or something.”
“Not when you promise her an autograph,” he shrugs. “Easy work.”
“You’re a prick.”
“Am I?”
The doors open with a quiet ding, and you rush to walk out, heels clicking on the marble flooring beneath you.
“But seriously, where’d you go?”
“I said out,” you fumble for your keys. “Dinner.”
“You’ve been drinking,” he observes, leaning against the wall. “Are you drunk?”
“Get inside your apartment, Norris,” you say, sliding your key into the lock. “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”
“Mm,” he hums. “No.”
You look up at him again, just before you open your door.
He’s smiling. Of course he’s fucking smiling. He smells like cologne, probably that Ralph Lauren one—you passed his advertisement on the way home for it. You’ve been noticing him everywhere now. Advertisements, posters, his last win replaying on screens.
“Fine,” he says, pushing off of the wall, moving to his own door. “Night, gorgeous.”
You scoff out a laugh, turning the key and slipping into your apartment.
The door shuts, sending one last draft of cold air and cologne past. You don’t listen to him go this time. You drop your bag on the kitchen counter, kicking off your heels in the living room, before falling straight onto the couch in exhaustion.
The silence aches. You stare up at the ceiling, gaze tracing the ornate plaster moulded in the edges. The aperol from an hour ago is dull, barley buzzing anymore.
You hate silence. It’s one of those things you career had conditioned—the fast paced model environment since your teenage years. There was always the click of a camera, the shouting of a director, the house music that for some reason seemed mandatory for every shoot you went to.
Silence was uncomfortable.
You shift your head to look at the door again, barely visible above the back of the couch.
Maybe that was why coming home had always felt bittersweet. You’d finally get some rest at the cost of pure silence. Now though, Lando had moved in—loud, insufferable, Lando, and for some reason, it felt like something pivotal. Something incredibly major.
“Morning.”
You’ve dragged yourself through another night of endless doomscrolling, of fixed routine. Sun seeps into your apartment building’s hall, the silver numbers on your door glinting.
You pause for a beat at the door, still not quite released from the grasp of sleep, staring ahead of you.
Lando’s shirtless.
His tan skin is bare, toned, disappearing beneath the prominent lines peeking above his joggers. Like usual, he’s got a protein shake in one hand, looking completely refreshed like he’s been up for hours already.
“Sleep well?” he asks, watching you chuck something into the rubbish chute near both of your doors. “Looks like it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask, dusting off your hands. You glance over at him, eyes narrowing. “Why are you even out here? Do you just listen and wait for me?”
“I’m not that obsessed,” he smiles, taking a sip of his drink. “Do you wish I was?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
You look past, at his open apartment door. It looks well furnished for the short amount of time he’d spent living there. You catch a glimpse of marble countertops like your own, a pictureframe off to one side of a Formula 1 car, clothes lazily thrown over the back of the couch. Cleaner than you expected for a cocky, millionaire-status athlete.
“Wanna come in?” he opens the door wider, voice teasing. “I see you staring.”
“I’d rather drink acid.”
“Liar,” he calls when you turn away again. “You know what we should do? Go out or something. Get to know each other."
“Why would I ever do that?”
“I’ll give you an autograph.”
“That doesn’t work on me,” you glare. “Go bribe the receptionist downstairs.”
“I’m not offering because you’re hot, sexy, and gorgeous,” he says, making you stop at the threshold of your door. “I’m asking because you’re my neighbour. I don’t plan to move anytime soon and I don’t think you do either.”
“Are you calling me hot, sexy, and gorgeous?”
“You are,” he says, then he smirks. “And I can say that without looking at your tits. I’m a changed man.”
The laugh that comes out of you is real. Slightly startled. Lando smiles wider at that, his hand mindlessly sliding up to rub at his shoulderblades.
“I can’t,” you say, and his smile falters slightly. “I’ve got work.”
“Work?” he frowns, like he’d forgotten it existed. “Right. What do you do?”
“That’s personal.”
“Oh c’mon,” he says, dragging out the syllables. “That’s unfair. You know what I do.”
“Everyone in the world knows what you do, Norris.”
“So?” he steps closer, hand falling back to his side. “I’ll guess. Surely it’s something big if you can afford an apartment like this.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Finance? Daddy’s money?”
You scoff, leaning against your doorframe.
“Modeling.”
“Oh?” he says. “Go figure.”
He cocks his head, taking another sip of his protein shake and glancing over you like he’s observing, “You’re probably the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Makes sense you model.”
You’ve gotten the compliment thousands of times before. It sounds no different coming from him, and yet you’re instinctively standing straighter, thank you on the tip of your tongue.
Lando shifts too, tongue poking at the side of his cheek, a slow grin taking over his features.
You’d found yourself watching his interviews last night. He’s got a tendency to smile when things he says anything remotely personal. To laugh, scoff, redirect the conversation into something comedic. It makes you think it isn’t just a one-liner. Maybe he really does think you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
But you know better than that.
He opens his mouth, about to say something you know will be incredibly idiotic.
“Are you being serious? Or do you just want to have sex with me?”
Lando blinks, mouth closing, words dying in his throat.
“Well—you can’t—” he lets out an exasperated noise. “Obviously I want to have sex with you. But I swear I’m—”
“Unbelievable.”
“Baby, c’mon.”
“I’m going to be late.”
You turn away, and he lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh.
“When will you admit you like me?” he calls, hand gripping your door to keep it open. You’ve got one hand on the door handle, giving it an experimental nudge. It doesn’t move an inch.
“Lando.”
He grins, slowly letting go. “Have a good day, gorgeous.”
You smile back, saccharine, before slamming the door shut in his face.
It’s been three days.
Three days of Lando accidentally showing up in the hallway whenever you do. Three days of his teasing, his faux pleading to make you like him. You hear him at four in the morning, that low voice of his followed by someone else. A girl.
You weren’t jealous. Why would you be? You were more so annoyed at the fact it’d been four in the morning, and they weren’t exactly being quiet. She was nowhere to be seen the morning after, but he’d been there. In his doorway, shirtless, with a protein bar in his hand and a half-assed apology about the noise.
The elevator opens and you sigh, making your way down the hallway. Your clothes feel like they’re sticking to your skin, the leftover photoshoot makeup on your face is uncomfortable.
Fucking Monaco heat.
Lando, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen for once.
You glance in your bag as you walk, sifting through for your keys. The bag—your first ever designer you’d bought with your own money, is full of items that have no business accompanying you to a photoshoot. There’s a sim card from France, an empty box of matches, a forgotten hotel room keycard from your last stay in Italy. More evidence that your life is currently a complete and utter mess.
Your fingers close around your keys just as you make it to your door. There’s no welcome mat outside, just plain, boring marble. You’d never bothered, considering the fact that it’d just been you coming home and you’d felt weird greeting occasional hookups with a fucking welcome sign at the door.
You slide your key into the lock, turning it, hand instinctively already heading in the direction of the light switch. You’re a creature of habit. Of routine. Of the belief that there’s not a mat outside the door, but you’re heel catches on something there anyway.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, glancing down at the marble floor. It’s not a doormat. It’s a thick, glossy magazine, a note on the top and a paperclip marking a specific page.
You snatch it up, the shiny cover smooth against your fingertips.
You snort, plucking the note off of the cover.
Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?
He’s smiling in the picture, trophy clutched against him, champagne in his free hand. His race suit is half off, tugged down to show the black fireproofs below clinging to his skin. He looks smug, egotistical, like he’s saying I’m better than you even though the camera is looking over him.
You look at every inch of the cover, studying it, gaze greedy though your fingers are already sliding between the pages to the one he’d marked.
Finally, you flick it open. Another podium picture takes up the entire page. It’s softer. His head is tilted back in pure relief, the smile on his face relaxed, eyes shut.
You skim-read the article beside it. The words compassionate and caring making a few appearances, followed by ‘what’s not to like?’. It talks about his rookie year, his home race win, the generic career-oriented stuff, but there’s a specific section towards the end that catches your eye.
“How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?”
“First off,” Lando laughs, looking away. “I have to admit I don’t think I’m too good at relationships in the first place. I’m much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text—a weakness of mine, actually.”
He looks flustered to admit it, a slip in the usual playful person we see out in the paddock.
I ask, “Then what’s your ideal type in a person? Someone equally as bad at replying to text messages?”
Again, he laughs, “Sure. I guess. Probably someone who can even put up with me in the first place. Someone who doesn’t just let me get away with everything all the time. Maybe bullies me a little. Also ideally someone who doesn’t know the first thing about racing—I wanna come home and not talk about freakin’ cars all the time, you know? ”
“I see. And, I apologise if this is intrusive, have you found that person?”
He smiles, leans back in his cushioned chair. It’s more of a smirk.
“No. Not yet. I—”
You stop there, at the end of the page, itching to flip over and finish the section. Instead, your gaze snags on the picture again. It’s perfect, really. His smile, the expression on his face. Probably would’ve fooled you if you didn’t know him.
“Asshole,” you mutter, shoving the magazine in your bag and hastily stepping into your apartment. You throw it onto the coffee table in the living room, tucked away like all your other problems. It doesn’t make a reappearance until a few hours later, when you’re in the kitchen, attempting to make one of those ‘nutritious, protein-filled’ meals off of social media that’s probably a sham.
Your phone buzzes on the countertop. Mindlessly, you swipe it off the surface, lazily throwing in more pepper into the pot on the stove. It wasn’t like you were too focused on cooking anyway. There was a 90% chance you’d give up and order takeout.
Unknown number —
like the gift?
You slam the pepper back onto the counter before you've even read the last word.
You —
why the fuck do you have my number?
Unknown number —
guess
jfc that girl at the reception is incredibly easy to convince
should really learn her name
The pot hisses, spitting boiling hot water against your arm, throwing a tantrum you’re not paying attention to it. You curse and turn it off all together.
You —
i need to file something against her
what’d you bargain this time?
Unknown number —
another autograph
and a picture this time
You —
you’re insane
strangely obsessed
Norris —
but did you like the gift?
thought it was a really good article if i’m being honest
i look fuckin mint
You —
sure
Norris —
don’t tell me i didn’t look hot
did you stare at it?
for how long?
You —
two seconds max
Norris —
haha
still a bad liar babe
are you home?
You —
might be
why do you care?
Norris —
just curious
fewtrell and his gf just landed in monaco
i’m waiting in the airport rn
You aren’t sure why he’s telling you that. It seemed too personal, like an update you’d tell your friend for no reason at all.
You —
right
are they staying with you?
Norris —
for a week
gonna stream
you should watch
You —
i’m busy
Norris —
boooo
fine
You chew the inside of your cheek, liking the message, before putting your phone face down on the counter.
He gets home an hour later. You hear another British accent, suitcases against marble, a feminine voice before it disappears into the apartment. Lando laughs, loud, making a joke with a very audible shut up in response.
It makes you glance up from the couch at the door. There are boxes of takeout scattered on the coffee table in front of you, half eaten and waiting to be packed into the fridge. A bottle of wine is leaned against your side. Your laptop is open with a new campaign proposal, something to do with a Euro Summer, all prestigious exclusivity.
Your gaze strays again to the hardwood coffee table, the magazine sitting there among the mess of takeout.
Lando Norris — Formula 1’s sweetheart?
His perfect face, that trophy in his hand, the glint of pure happiness in his eyes.
You blame that smile when you open up Twitch on your laptop, half an hour later. You blame the wine, the stress that isn’t making you rational. You blame Lando Norris’ frustrating likeability.
He’s already live when you search his name.
As soon as you click onto it, his voice fills your living room. You can see his apartment clearer now, his office by the looks of it. He’s got helmets lined up on one of the shelves, racing sim behind him, trophies scattered here and there like he doesn’t know whether to display them or not. ‘Fewtrell’ is sitting beside him, whispering something that makes Lando let out a loud laugh you think you can hear through the walls of your apartment.
It sinks in then.
You’re watching Lando Norris live, when he’s quite literally right next to you.
“Is this a new setup?” Lando reads from the chat, leaning back into his chair. He smiles, and it isn’t the smile from the magazine. It’s the one he uses in the interviews. “Yes. Yes it is. Moved recently.”
“That’s why it looks so much cleaner,” his friend cuts in. “Cause you haven’t even fully unpacked yet.”
“Fuck you,” Lando scoffs, nudging him in the side. “I’ve unpacked plenty. Everyone tell Max to shut up.”
You mindlessly click onto your phone, the live still playing on your laptop.
Norris —
gonna stream
you should watch
Your fingers ghost over the keyboard.
You —
its been a week since you moved in
should really unpack
He leans back in his chair, stretching his arms up, a silver of tan skin revealed beneath his hoodie before he snatches up his phone. You watch as he reads the message, eyes flickering to stare straight at the camera, before he starts typing.
Your phone buzzes again.
Norris —
knew you weren’t busy
how long have you been watching?
“What’re you smiling about?” Max asks, and Lando shrugs, muttering ‘mind your business’.
You —
barely a minute
don’t get cocky
Norris —
never
could come over yknow
i should introduce everyone to my gorgeously sexy stunning model neighbour
You glance at the live again. He’s smiling wider now, turned to the side like he’s hiding his phone.
“Lando, mate, can you focus?”
“I am focused.”
“No, you’re texting your freakin’ girlfriend or whatever.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Sure looks like it.”
Lando scoffs, quickly typing something else before sliding his phone into his pocket.
Norris —
girlfriend, huh?
Your fingers clench around your phone, heart slamming against your ribs.
“You’re washed,” Max says, and you slowly glance to the screen. “So fucking washed.”
“I haven’t played this in like, a year,” Lando answers, dragging his chair closer to the table. He glances at the camera, smiling. It’s triumphant, like he knows you’re sitting there, flushed pink, unable to come up with a reply.
You slam your laptop shut, his voice cutting off mid sentence. The wine bottle beside you tilts, almost falls, until the world decides you’ve been through too much today and lets it perch on the edge instead.
“Fuck,” you say, and it comes out breathy and dry, barely making a sound. There’s a muffled shout from his apartment, a bark of laughter. Clearly, he wasn’t affected as you were.
The thought makes the heat sink into your chest. It makes you snatch up the bottle of wine, turn on the TV to drown out the noise, and throw your phone somewhere else. Somewhere far out of reach.
Everything goes quiet two hours later. You hear his apartment door open, footsteps, the rubbish chute opening and closing, a pause just as he passes by your door.
His door slams shut. Yours doesn't open. Your agent texts you about another project, and you hate how you’re disappointed by the fact it isn’t him.
It’s nine-thirty in the morning, you’ve got a campaign to shoot in an hour and a half, and you’re sitting at a table across from Lando Norris for fucking breakfast.
He’s in jeans, a loose, button up shirt, the top few undone to show perfect tan skin. There are sunglasses resting on the top of his head, colorful fan-made bracelets stacked on one wrist, pink Richard Mille on the other. He cocks his head as he flicks through the menu, tongue darting out every now and then to lick his lips.
He looks unbelievably good.
You shift on your chair, rustic iron scraping on the brick, outdoor flooring. Port Hercule sits right nearby—you see yachts pulling out of the dock already, a sign of Monte Carlo waking up. There’s french chatter, the occasional rumble of a sports car.
You’ve been pretending to look through the menu for the last five minutes. You know what you want already: the usual iced coffee and light meal you get before every shoot, but still pretend nonetheless.
“You’re staring.”
His voice still has the rasp of sleep at the end of it, and when you focus on his face again, he isn’t even looking at you.
“How would you know that?”
“I can sense it,” he says, letting the menu fall back onto the table with a quiet thud. He grins, cocky like he always is, “You know I look good.”
You snort, settling back into your chair.
Egotistical, arrogant, idiotic.
Those three words you’ve been repeating to yourself are fading by the minute.
“You look hot. What shoot do you have to be at today?”
“Some campaign,” you sigh, also setting aside the menu. “Clothing thing.”
“I could probably get you into some F1 promo.”
“And end up in the same magazine you were in? I think not.”
His smile widens, and he leans forward.
“Did you keep it?”
“Keep what?”
“The magazine. With my face on the cover.”
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep any blush from creeping onto your face. The magazine is still sitting where you left it on the coffee table, like an accusation, like something so pointed that you don’t want to address.
“You kept it.”
“Would be a waste of money if I threw it out,” you lie. “And it matches the colour scheme of my apartment anyway.”
“When am I ever going to see your apartment?”
“Never.”
“You’ve seen mine.”
“I’ve seen the door and the hallway.”
“And the office,” he adds, eyes glinting with amusement. “Remember?”
You clear your throat, glancing over at the port. He laughs, his chair scraping back as he settles into it again.
“I’m not trying to tease you. This is supposed to be a fresh start, remember?”
“Is it?”
“I’m trying,” his face turns serious when you look back at him. “I’m formally apologizing for staring at your tits the day we met. It’ll never happen again. Unless you let me.”
You suddenly understand why people let Lando get away with being him. You’ve seen his interviews online—the ones post-race where he’s cocky, high off a win, grinning with sweat glistening down his neck. You’ve seen how he says the most arrogant lines, makes inappropriate jokes, and no one ever seems to reprimand him for it.
He picks up the menu again, only to thumb at the corner of the card, still staring at you.
“Can we start over?” he asks. “Properly. Disregard everything you know about me—pretend I met you yesterday and asked you out.”
A small smile tugs at your lips, “Was this your plan? To lure me out under the ruse of an apology, then turn it into a date midway?”
He grins, and you laugh despite yourself, reaching for your glass again.
Maybe if you’d met him earlier—maybe if he’d knocked on your door a mere ten minutes before he did, things would play out different. Maybe he would’ve actually complimented you and asked you out normally. You weren’t sure if Lando Norris was capable of asking a girl out politely, but just for now, you were choosing to believe he could.
“So,” you set down your glass, looking at him. “Lando, was it?”
The look on his face is nothing short of delight, and he leans forward, forearms braced on the table.
“Right,” he answers. “Lando Norris.”
“And what do you do for work?”
“I drive cars.”
You smile, “What kind?”
“Formula 1 cars.”
The waiter comes back around with your food. Lando leans back, eyes still on you, relaxed like he’s just taking you in. You don’t snap at him this time. You let him stare like you’d let someone you were dating, you let him appreciate the fact that you’d even agreed to come out with him in the first place.
The rest of your ‘date’ goes by quickly. He’s likeable. You’d learnt that a while ago, but just refused to let yourself believe it. You find out he’s leading the championship, that Max is his best friend from childhood, that he thinks you’re the hottest person he’s ever laid eyes on.
“I could drop you off, if you wanted.”
You don’t even realise you’ve been scraping your fork at nothing for the past ten minutes, subconsciously dragging out the conversation. His own plate is empty too, and his arms are crossed, another smile on his face.
“To my shoot?”
“Yeah,” he answers, glancing further behind you at his car. It’s obnoxious. A McLaren P1, jet-black, the number plate a combination of LN and a bunch of fours. It screams ‘this car belongs to Lando Norris’, and the amount of stares it had gotten as he’d driven past only proved that further.
“It’s only a ten minute walk.”
“You’re in heels.”
“Barely.”
He frowns, like he’s genuinely offended, “I’m not letting you walk in heels. What kind of date would I be?”
“You’re saying you’re one of those guys who’d carry me if my feet got sore?”
“Of course,” he reaches for his glass of water, glancing over it at you. “You don’t believe I’d be a good boyfriend?”
You raise your eyebrows at him, “I never mentioned anything about boyfriends.”
“Still,” he sets the glass down again. “You don’t think I would?”
You’ve, reluctantly, been stalking his past relationships. You know the last two have been Portugese—both models, both the kind of gorgeous that seemed gifted by Aphrodite herself, and every single break-up addressment had said the same thing: praise and the stereotypical “we just want different things”. He seemed like a good boyfriend, but you weren’t sure if that was the PR talking or not.
“I don’t know,” you answer, truthful. “I’d give you about a six out of ten for offering to drop me off.”
He lets out a laugh, laced with surprise, “A six out of ten?”
“Point-five if you walk me in too.”
“Seriously?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’m kidding. You don’t need to drop me off.”
He sighs, heavily, and you hear the scrape of his chair before you register him moving to stand.
“What’s the address?”
“Lando,” you start, but he reaches out a hand, holding it in the space between you.
We’re still on a date, he seems to silently say, keep pretending you like me.
You haven’t been pretending. Not for the past hour. You feel like you should tell him—reassure him maybe, but then he’d tease you about it for the next month.
“Knew you’d cave,” he says when you let him help you stand. His hand trails to your waist, voice smooth in your ear. “You know, I think we’d be good together.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you say as he guides you past the various tables, briefly stopping at the front counter to tap his card. “This is a one time thing.”
His grip tightens, thumb grazing the skin of your waist.
“Sure,” he says.
There’s a feeling in your gut that this’ll be far from a one time thing. You know that he knows it too.
Lando’s halfway through your Instagram feed when there’s a sharp bang on his door.
He pauses, thumb hovering over a picture from about two years ago, dragging his attention to hallway. He’s leaned against his kitchen counter shirtless, cereal half-eaten next to him. Max and Pietra had left for their early flight an hour or two ago. His own empty luggage he’s meant to be packing for the next few races lays strewn around his living room.
It’s silent. Slowly, he glances back at his phone.
There’s another bang, louder, someone knocking impatiently, then—
“Lando! Open the fucking door!”
Ah, fuck.
He drops his phone on the counter, stretching as he makes his way to the hallway.
“Morning,” he says when he swings open the door. He leans against the doorframe, smiling, trying to blink away the sleep from his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
You glare at him, phone in one hand, hair slightly messy like you’d just gotten up too.
“What the fuck is this?”
He glances at your phone, at the picture sitting there.
It’s the two of you, his hand around your waist, you glancing up with your eyes slightly wide. It looks strangely intimate, actually. Lando saw it about twenty minutes ago on his own Instagram feed.
“Was hoping you wouldn’t see that,” he admits, taking your phone and swiping through the rest of the pictures. There’s more of the two of you at the cafe, some in his car, photographed perfectly so the angle makes it look like you’re closer than you are. “If it makes you feel better, I had no clue.”
“No, that doesn’t make me feel better.”
He grins, handing it back and turning to walk inside his apartment. The door is left open like an invitation, and you follow him, glaring.
“Lando.”
“It’ll blow off within a couple of days,” he answers, returning to the kitchen counter. He picks up the spoon from his bowl of cereal. “I promise. Don’t stress your pretty little head about it.”
“I’m not stressed. I’m pissed. You—”
“Isn’t it your job to be photographed?”
“Not while I’m having breakfast with an athlete.”
“A hot athlete.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He huffs out a laugh, muffled by the spoon in his mouth. Your anger wears off a little when you tear your attention off of him.
It’s the first time you’ve ever been in his apartment, you realise.
It looks the same as yours—the same layout, marble countertops, herringbone flooring. It’s messier though, more photographs on the walls, trinkets he’d presumably gotten from fans. His apartment looks more lived in than yours, though he’s only been here for a couple weeks. It smells like him too—cologne, linen, a hint burnt toast like he’d failed at cooking breakfast this morning.
“Where are you going?” you ask when you catch sight of the suitcases. “Moving again?”
“You wish,” he says, still eating his cereal. “Nah. Race this week.”
“You’re gone for a week?”
“Three. Triple-header and I’ll be in London for conveniency. Closer to MTC.”
You don’t understand a word he’s saying, apart from the fact he’s gone for three weeks. Three.
“Oh,” you manage, and he stops, spoon pausing in his bowl. “Right.”
“Gonna miss me?”
Probably.
The thought isn’t as startling as you thought it’d be. You’d gotten used to him recently—relied on him in fact, to fill the silence you’d dealt with every time you came home. You wouldn’t tell him that though, of course.
“No,” you say, and he smiles like he sees right through you. He pats the countertop, and you move without realising, pulling back the stool opposite him. “Might have some peace and quiet for a little.”
“You’re gonna miss me.”
You don’t agree or deny it this time. He finishes off his cereal, chucking his dishes in the sink before facing you again. You try ignore the fact that the sight of his back muscles moving sends a flush of pink crawling up your neck.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask. “Yesterday. That you were leaving.“
“Didn’t think you’d care that much,” he shrugs, resting his forearms on the counter. “Plus it’s only three weeks. You’ve lived without me for, what? Few years?”
You don’t answer, and he stands up straighter, head tilting.
“I’m only gone for a little bit.”
“I know.”
“You seem—” he stops, eyebrows furrowing. “You seem like you actually care.”
“Do you think I hate you?”
“Sure looks like it.”
“I don’t,” you say. “Hate you. I don’t love you, that’s for sure, but I don’t hate you.”
His head is still tilted at you, fingers mindlessly tapping on the marble countertop.
“Will you watch?”
You blink up at him. He chews at the inside of his cheek, fingers still tapping, restless.
“Do you want me to watch?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yeah. Obviously.”
His voice is softer than usual—careful, like he’s holding something in. You want to answer him, make a sharp comment that’ll ease the tension. Instead, you stay quiet, leaning forward the slightest inch without even meaning to. His gaze flickers to your neck, the thin strap of your top, stopping at where the counter blocks off the rest of you.
“You look good.”
A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
“I just woke up.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t waiting in the hall this morning.”
“It isn’t eight-thirty yet.”
The time you’re usually out in the hallway. Even you didn’t know that about yourself.
“I should go.”
“Stay.”
“I’ve got work.”
You push back your chair, and he’s instantly moving, trailing after you.
“Not even for another few minutes?”
“I’m already off schedule.”
You pass by a framed picture of a car—his Formula 1 car. There’s a shelf next to it, one full of what looks like a bunch of magazines and decorative pieces. There are photos too, polaroids of his friends, a girl that you don’t recognize.
He catches your wrist just as you continue past it, almost at the threshold of the front door.
“Is there some kind of limit on how much you let yourself near me everyday?”
“An hour. Max.”
“It’s barely been ten minutes.”
“More time for later, then.”
His grip tightens, and you swear you feel his thumb graze over your skin.
“My flight is in two hours.”
He looks desperate now, his voice still soft, reasoning.
“More time for when you get back, then,” you say, glancing at his hand. “In three weeks.”
Again, his thumb traces over your wrist. You swallow, an attempt at regaining any sense of rationality. His cologne is intoxicating now, and when you look up at him, his hand trails to your waist instead.
“You’re in my apartment,” he says, more to himself. “Jesus.”
“I know that.”
“Do you always look this good?”
You’ve learnt to stop expecting him to stay on a single thought. It’s like he says whatever crosses his mind first, without a care in the world about an answer.
His other hand settles at the small of your back, tugging you close. You can feel the heat radiating off of him—the tension, the intensity of him standing there.
“Lando.”
He hums in response, somehow not focused yet entirely fixated on you.
You make the mistake of glancing away—glancing down, at his bare torso. At the defined lines disappearing beneath his joggers. When you look up again, a single thought runs through your head.
You want to kiss him.
You want to know how his skin feels, how he tastes, if his stupid, cocky exterior followed into his sex life. He lets his gaze roam too, and you know the same exact thoughts are circulating in his head.
Just at you move closer the slightest inch, he lets go.
“I think I’ll miss you,” he says, arrogance returning in full force. You’re still breathless, lips parted, heart pounding in your chest, but he’s already smirking, hands sliding into his pockets. “You and your gorgeous face.”
It’s silent for a few beats. He raises his eyebrows, standing there in all his infuriating glory, like he hasn’t just baited you into almost kissing him.
You can’t fucking believe him.
“Fuck you.”
“I’ll dedicate a win to you.”
You turn away, wrenching open his front door and storming out of his apartment. He follows, leisurely, stopping at the doorframe.
“Promise you’ll watch?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
You slam your door shut, letting it ring in the hallway. It’s the last time you see him in a month.
Dates before hook-ups had never really been your thing.
Some people liked it—the whole package, being wined and dined before ultimately back to a hotel just to fuck. You liked getting it over and done with as quick as possible.
It sounded sad, and only after your friend from home had told you so, you’d decided to trythe entire process for once instead.
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re beautiful?”
You glance down at the man beneath you.
He’s got dark hair, dark features, the typical Monegasque, billionaire look. You think his name starts with an M.
“Sometimes,” you smile, hands trailing up his chest. You resist the urge to look at your bedroom door, at the wall like you can see the apartment right across your own. You’d sat through an entire, boring dinner for this moment. You refused to let yourself get distracted.
It’s been three weeks since Lando left for his races in Europe.
You’ve settled back into normalcy. Routine. No one bothers you every morning in the hall, no one nags you with questions in the elevator. Your phone remains silent—your entire apartment floor remains silent.
It’s weird.
Theoretically, it shouldn’t be weird. It should be the opposite of weird. You should be relieved, actually. Instead, you’ve been filling his absence with hookups, with the same impulsive purchases prior to him moving in, with races playing on your stupidly large TV.
He’d won in the Netherlands. You’d wanted to text him then—to tell him you’d watched, that you were so happy you’d spilt a glass of wine as he’d crossed the checkered flag. But you hadn’t, and your last messages were still from when you’d scheduled that breakfast together a month ago.
You don’t realise your gaze has already strayed away from the man in your bed. He’s been talking this entire time, more compliments, probably.
“Hello?”
You snap your head back to him, blinking. He’s got an irritated look on his face, and he sits up, making you fall onto the bed beside him.
“Am I too boring for you?”
“What?”
“Clearly, I am, considering the fact a fucking wall holds your attention better.”
He stands, snatching up his discarded clothing around your bedroom. You sigh, heavily, watching him from your bed. You’re still in lingerie, a pale blue lace set, dainty, and something you probably shouldn't be wasting on a random hookup.
“I knew you were entitled. An entitled, spoiled brat with an apartment she probably doesn’t even pay for herself.”
The man is still talking, and you roll your eyes, sliding off the bed when he walks out of your bedroom.
“You’re wasting an entire night, by the way,” you say, following him to the door. It wasn’t like you wanted to have sex with him anymore, but you did want an orgasm. You could probably shut your eyes and pretend it was someone else, and that was enough for you.
“I don’t care,” he says, and you stop at your front door, watching him tug on his shoes. “You’re a bitch.”
You don’t answer that, stepping aside to let him pass.
“Spoiled fucking—” he mutters something else in French, shaking his head as he continues down the hall. You watch him, resting your head against your doorframe, still in your lingerie.
“Night,” you call, and just before he can press the button for the elevator, the doors open.
You freeze, blood turning cold.
Fuck.
Lando steps out of the elevator as the man steps in, suitcase and bag dragged next to him, hood thrown over his head like he’d just gotten off a flight.
“Already called someone to replace me?” your hookup says, and you shut your eyes, sighing again. You want to die. You want to sink into the wall and disappear. “Real fucking classy.”
“Shut up and go home,” you answer, and the elevator doors close.
The hallway goes silent.
You open your eyes again, and Lando is by his own apartment door, barely a meter away from you.
“Hi,” he says, and his voice makes something inside of you flutter. One hand is around the handle of his suitcase, the other slack by his side. He looks exhausted. You think there might be circles beneath his eyes.
“Hi,” you answer, suddenly too aware that you’re still in fucking lingerie. “You’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“And, um—” you gesture in his general direction. “Yeah.”
“Who was that?”
You wince, looking away again.
“No one.”
“Didn’t seem to like you very much.”
“I know. I zoned out when we were about to have sex.”
Lando laughs, and it’s raspy, tired—hot.
“Do you wear that for every hookup you have?” he asks. “Or did you know I was coming home tonight?”
“I’m not wearing this for you,” you scoff, fixing the strap of your bra. “Do you wish I was?”
“Obviously.”
“Five minutes in and you’re already flirting.”
“Negative,” he says. “You’re in a fucking lace set.”
A cold draft of air flits past, and you mindlessly wrap your arms around you. He tracks the movement, jaw flexing.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Would you be jealous if I said yes?”
He releases his hold on his suitcase, stepping closer to you.
This is what you’re used to now—what you’ve been missing for the past three months.
You know what you probably look like. The flush from earlier hasn’t exactly worn off yet, your hair is probably messy from hands tangling themselves in them, you’re in lace that you know makes you look good.
Lando smiles. It’s one of his cocky, smug, smiles.
“Congratulations on your win,” you say, but it comes out breathier than you meant it to, softer. “And second place. Twice.”
His smile falters a little.
“You watched.”
“You asked me to watch.”
“I know—I just—” he stops, glances at the strap of your bra, then turns away back to his suitcase. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
When he turns back around, he’s got a shirt in his hands.
“Can’t focus when you’re dressed like that,” he admits, handing it to you. “Not that I don’t like it. Just wanna have a proper chat.”
It’s his Mclaren jersey, four clear on the back, black and orange. You thumb over the material for a second, before shrugging it on.
Lando jaw flexes when you look at him again.
“Suits you.”
“I knew you’d say that.”
He scoffs, head tilting towards his apartment.
“When did you land in Monaco?” you say, following him inside. “Couldn’t you have texted me?”
“We haven’t texted for a month, gorgeous.”
“I know, I just—” his door shuts behind you, leaving you still flushed, standing in the hall of his apartment. He throws his keys on the wooden console table by the door, lazily resting his suitcase against the wall. “Give me a heads up or something. So I don’t have a fucking hookup when you get back.”
He pauses, glancing back at you.
“You missed me,” he smiles. “Didn’t you?”
“I—”
“I missed you too.”
He moves closer, and it gives you a rush of familiarity. The blush on your neck must’ve spread to your face, because he lets out a soft laugh, hands settling on your waist.
“I thought about you a lot. On the plane home, on the podium,” one hand slides beneath his jersey, resting on your skin. “In my hotel at night.”
You try not to focus on his face too much. Ultimately, it doesn’t work, and you find yourself studying it instead. He looks exhausted, shoulders tense, his voice lower than usual.
“What’d you think about?” you ask, but the words sound distant in your own head. “Coming home and tormenting me again?”
“I thought about your pretty face,” he corrects. “The way you looked in my apartment before I left.”
“When you baited me?”
He smiles, palm warm on your waist, “I never baited you.”
“Sure felt like it.”
You’re still mad at him for it. Mad that he hadn’t finished what he’d started.
“Did you want me to kiss you then leave you for a month?” He says. “Would you have rather fucked and then lived through a month in silence?”
“We wouldn’t have fucked.”
He laughs at that. It’s short and incredulous, so insufferably sure in himself it makes you want to slap him.
“Don’t kid yourself, baby.”
“Fuck you.”
“Is that your natural response whenever I know you’re lying?”
“It’s my response when you’re being arrogant,” you answer. “You can’t just start something and not—”
“You think I don’t want to finish this?” he says, still amused. “I want to kiss you more than anything—I’ve wanted to kiss you the second you opened the door two months ago. I want to fuck you and have you wear that set for me. Not some shitty fucking hookup you don’t even know the name of.”
You throat is dry, heart stuttering in your chest at the words. Heat spreads through you, through your thighs, still bare but covered by his jersey.
“Then why don’t you?” you ask, and it comes out softer than you intended. “Instead of waiting when you know it’ll happen?”
“You deserve better than that,” he answers, and one of his hands move to your face instead, fixing your hair behind your ear. “You deserve to be obsessed over. Not to be taken out to dinner once just for the part that comes after.”
He pulls away, both hand sliding into his pockets. You take a step back, just to breathe, tearing your gaze away. His apartment looks untouched from a month ago,
When you finally have the courage to look at him again, he’s smirking.
“I missed you,” he repeats. “I missed you a lot.”
Your fingers curl at your sides.
“Congratulations on your win,” you end up on, reaching for the door. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t stop you. He stands there, relaxed in his ownapartment, gaze flickering to your thighs knowingly.
“Goodnight, gorgeous.”
Lando hates being mature.
He hates making actual, rational decisions, ones that make him wait instead of giving things to him instantly. For example: not fucking kissing you when he’d had the chance. Twice.
He winces every time he thinks about it, sighs when he passes by the entry of his apartment. The image of you in his jersey, the pale blue set beneath it, continues to randomly flash in his head. Tormenting him. Except it feels less like torment and more like unshakable regret.
The stack of magazines in his living room seem to stare at him everytime he brushes past. Most are ones of himself, things he plans on planting outside your apartment with stupid notes attached.
The other half of the stack is magazines you’d sent him, back when everything had been fine. Magazines with you on the cover, so, incredibly gorgeous that he’d always stopped in his tracks when he’d picked them up. One of them is of Oscar. His teammate. Your own hand written note still attached: the better mclaren driver x, and he remembered immediately knocking on your door and playing hurt about it.
It was a joke. He knew it was a joke, but it didn’t stop the flare of jealousy that’d sparked inside of him anyway.
His gaze strays from the stack, to the white box on the table next to it.
It’s lingerie. Lacy, light pink, gorgeous, inside an equally as delicate box. It’d probably be even prettier on you—the whole reason he’d bought the damn thing anyway. It sits there like a shadow, like a guilty secret, waiting for the right moment he can give it to you and play it off like another fucking joke when you both knew it wasn’t.
He wants you. Badly. And yet he was holding himself back for some Godforsaken reason.
He hasn’t seen or spoken to you for the past two weeks. The rhythm the two of you had settled into feels tense, throwing every possible interaction out of sync.
It feels like you’re avoiding him—it probably feels like he’s avoiding you. He’s not. He, for once in his life, just doesn’t know what to do or say.
It doesn’t help that another week later, you’re not even in Monaco.
He hears you leave, the sound of suitcases on marble, unfamiliar voices and laughter. Another two hours and, like some deranged, obsessed admirer, he finds out through your friend’s Instagram stories that you’re on a private jet halfway to Mykonos, Greece.
When he drags himself through the rest of the day, through to the next morning, you’ve posted in a nightclub that he’s been to before. He studies the picture, the group you’re with, the men specifically. One of them is looking at you, but your eyes are closed, smiling, too caught up dancing with your friends to notice. Lando can’t tell if the man is staring at you in a casual, passing glance way, or a I wanna have sex with you way.
As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he tosses his phone out of reach, and decides he really needs to keep himself distracted for the rest of the time you aren’t here.
He does. Well, he tries.
He focuses on the upcoming triple header. He focuses on fulfilling every single one of Jon’s insane, training requests. He lets himself scroll on Instagram for a maximum of ten minutes everyday, as if he owes it to himself.
You post from clubs, from hotels, from yachts. Your skin glows, you look more carefree than he’s ever seen you. He’s never been so mesmerized in his life.
It’s five days into your absence when you post the picture he’d subconsciously been waiting for.
You’re leaned against a man.
Lando’s fingers hover over the picture, hood pulled over his head, sitting on one of the benches of his gym. There’s a drink in your hand—champagne, and you’re leaning back, the man’s arms draped over your shoulders. The coastline of Mykonos beautiful in the background, the kind of picture that unintentionally makes you feel inferior. The kind of picture he’d sometimes post, albeit without holding a girl against him.
He shuts his phone, shoving it into his bag, restarting his reps with a newfound sense of determination to get you out of his head.
You get back a week later There’s no laughter or conversation this time. Just your suitcase, your keys, the quiet shutting of your apartment door.
His heart is instantly slamming in his chest again, and yet for another excruciating seven days, he doesn’t see you.
“Fuck,” he mutters, tilting his head back against his couch.
He feels like shit.
For the entirety of this past month, he's felt like shit. He knows he should just knock—just talk to you, but he's gone so long without that he thinks he doesn't know how.
His apartment is awfully quiet for ten o’clock at night, silent apart from his nagging thoughts of regret.
He wants you to be the girl he’s spotted with in headlines. The girl people speculate about, instead of some random model he’d danced with at a club in Ibiza. He wants you with him on yachts, on planes, standing in parc ferme after a win. He’s wanted you since he’d stared at your fucking tits almost half a year ago.
It’s then that he realises he needs to do something. Something that doesn’t consist of sulking about you, thinking about you, or frankly, anything to do with you. Maybe an evening run, or a session on his sim. Maybe he could call up Max despite it probably being about two in the morning over in London.
Or, maybe, he could just knock on your door, kiss you, and see what happened from there.
He glances at the white box on the coffee table, the magazines beside it.
The media had always called him blessed. Mclaren’s golden boy. Incredibly, miraculously lucky. As he finally stands, slipping out of his apartment, he thinks it might be true.
Jimmy’z is as loud as it always is.
He’d called up Carlos, asking what he was doing and where he was, and it’d led him here. To the most exclusive club in Monte Carlo. It smelt like alcohol, like intoxicating perfume, the music pulsing so loud in his head he can’t think.
“What’s got you so worked up?” Carlos asks him at the bar, waiting for their drinks. “Surely can’t be the championship. You’re leading by a mile.”
“No—it’s not,” Lando answers, staring ahead of him. “Something else. Personal.”
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
He winces, glancing over, “Seriously?”
“Two months, then.”
“Fuck you.”
Carlos laughs, taking their shots from the bartender and sliding one across to Lando. He downs it instantly, savouring the burn in his throat and praying it’s enough to ease his tension.
“How about—” Carlos’s hands are on his shoulder, steering him to look in the direction of a girl. “Her. Blonde on your left.”
“I’m not doing this, Carlos.”
“No?” he surveys the crowd, before steering him again. “Her?”
Lando freezes. Carlos, too busy with his ongoing bit of listing random women, doesn’t notice.
You’re standing there, in a dress that glints beneath the strobing lights, drink in your hand, a carefree smile on your face as you talk to a group of your friends.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuck—
Lando’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears it drowns out the music.
You look beautiful.
It's the first time he's seen you in almost a month, but that's all that's running through his head.
He can see the way you’re talking, using your hands, more animated than he’s ever seen you before. Just as he can even choose to tear his gaze away, for both your sakes, someone’s approaching you.
He’s tall, blonde, frame nudging past people with the clear goal of getting to you. When he does, you blink, smiling and shaking his hand.
It’s nothing like the first time you and Lando met. It plays out perfect—the man makes you laugh, complimenting you by the looks of it, and you’re already pulling your phone out of your purse.
Something sparks deep inside of him. Jealousy. A pang of something possessive when he knows it isn't fair. Still, he’s moving, cutting Carlos off mid sentence.
“Where are y—”
“I’ll be back.”
He reaches you in under twenty seconds, managing to catch the ends of your conversation.
“Did you want another drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be—”
The man steps aside just as Lando stops in front of you. He watches your attention shift, watches the recognition flash across your features.
“Lando?”
The man blinks, head snapping towards him. You’re frozen on the spot, gaze darting between the two of them.
“Sorry, man,” he says, and Lando straightens. “Kinda busy h—”
“Leave.”
The command comes out short. Rude, but Lando can’t bring himself to care.
“I’m sorry?”
“Leave,” he repeats, and you’re silent, hands lowering to your sides. “Now.”
“Excuse m—”
“Get the fuck out,” he says, stepping closer. You tense, but stay quiet. “Do I have to make you?”
The man scoffs, muttering something and disappearing into the crowd.
It leaves you and Lando silent again.
“What the fuck are you—”
“Not here,” he says, grabbing your wrist to lead you out the back. “Fuck.”
You stumble outside, glass still in one hand, a glare on your face. The heavy door slams shut, and Lando releases his hold.
“What the fuck was that?”
“I dont—”
“What gives you the fucking right?” you say, voice raising. “You think you can dictate who I talk to just because we live opposite each other?!"
“No, fuck, baby—”
“You’re a fucking dick, Norris.”
“I know.”
“You’re arrogant, cocky, egotistical—” you shove him, and he doesn’t resist, staggering back. “You ignore me for a month and this is the first thing you fucking do?!”
He winces, rubbing his shoulder. You’re breathless, face flushed pink, looking at him with disdain.
“I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Fuck you.”
“I wasn’t,” he repeats, moving closer. You step back, and he doesn't try again. “I was just—I didn’t know what to—”
“Is this a game to you? Am I a game? Are you testing to see how long you can keep me waiting for and how long I’ll keep letting it happen?”
He shakes his head, and you lean against the wall, exhaling.
“Were you…” he starts, and you look at him. “Planning on fucking him? And the guy in Greece—”
“You’re unbelievable."
“Were you?”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes. A lot.”
“Tell me why.”
Because I’m in love with you.
“Because you’re out of his league.”
“Lando,” you laugh, disbelieving. “Don’t fucking lie.”
“Were you hoping I’d say something else?” he grins, then immediately curses himself. What the fuck was he doing? “That I’d say because I want to fuck you?”
“Don’t you?”
His smile falters.
“What?”
“We’re unfinished, remember?” you say. “What happened to wanting to kiss me? To fuck me more than anything? No, I wasn’t planning on have sex with him, or anyone, but God I sh—”
He’s moving before you even finish the last word, hands fitting around your waist, lips crashing against yours with six months worth of want. Of need. One hand slides up from your waist to your jaw, the other sliding beneath your dress, warm on your skin.
You smell so good, like vanilla and lip gloss and champagne. Like everything he’s ever been searching for. It’s overwhelming. Filling his head until all he can think about is your lips, your tongue against his. He feels you chasing him back—nails digging into his shoulder, head tilting, lips parting so easily for him.
It’s better than any other kiss he’s had in his life.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.”
You let out something between a whine and a moan, quiet, probably accidental. He feels your hands tangle in his hair, the warmth of your body as you arch against him. Impulsive, his hand trails down again, skimming beneath the waistband of your panties. You whimper then, hand catching his wrist to keep it still.
“Lan—” you start, eyes shutting as his lips trail down to your jaw, teeth grazing beneath your ear. You find his lips again, and there’s a sense of desperation, urgency. “I—fuck. Just—”
He abruptly pulls away, breathless, stumbling.
You stay still, face flushed pink, dress, creased from his roaming hands. He knows he probably looks the same, maybe worse. It’s silent, apart from the sound of ragged breathing and muffled bass from the club.
“Fuck. Sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. “I…”
Your eyes are wide and startled, watching as he presses his fingers to his mouth, lowers them, then covers his face.
“Lando—”
“I’ve got a triple header this week,” he bursts out. “U.S, Mexico, Brazil. I leave tomorrow morning.”
You’re still panting, motionless, processing the words.
His heart is racing, fingers clenching and unclenching by his sides. Before you get to even open your mouth, he reaches for you again. You’re not even surprised, kissing him back with the same exact intensity. It feels different from the first two. It feels like another promise, one that he knows he’ll keep, one that says when I get back, you and me are real.
“I'm not waiting for you any longer.”
“I know,” he mutters, thumb grazing against your cheek. “I know that. I promise.”
He steps back again, and you’re already moving to your apartment door, pausing just as you turn the door handle. You aren’t smiling at him. Your lips are parted, blush dusted across your skin. When he forces himself away, you stop him.
“Lando.”
“Yeah?”
You smile then—pefect, fucking angelic, and he almost reaches for you again.
“I missed you.”
Fuck.
You’re not sure when you realised you might be in love with Lando Norris.
As far as you remembered, he’d always been the same. He’d run into you in the hall every morning, in the elevator, on the way in and out of the building. He’d make the same shitty jokes, flirt in the most arrogant way possible, slide his hand around your waist when you’d sift through your mailbox.
It’s hard to tell, because Lando is so, undeniably, him.
You don’t know whether a shitty pick up line means something else. You don’t know if the small graze of his thumb on your skin is accidental or pointed. He calls you gorgeous, baby, a smile on his face that seems all too knowing, then you open your phone the next day to an article titled ‘Lando Norris spotted with model in Ibiza’.
You think you might’ve realised after that night in his apartment. It’d sat at the back of your mind like a shadow, a constant reminder that the two of you were ‘unfinished’. Whatever the hell that meant.
Or maybe it’d been the silence that came after, the month of tension, of absence that’d felt like torture. You’d hated it so much you’d left for Greece in hopes you’d return home to normalcy.
Mykono’s had been dreamlike. The coastline was gorgeous, you’d spent your days on yachts and nights in clubs. You’d met a guy called Elias—Greek perfection, and that had been it. You’d only met him. You hadn’t gotten his number, had sex, gone any deeper than knowing his name and age and the name of his dog.
All you could think about was home. Of your apartment and Lando, right across from it. You thought about his shitty pick up lines, his touch, the magazines always tossed outside your door. You thought about him, staring at the sea like you could see Monaco, and when you’d arrived home, he hadn’t been there waiting.
Naturally, you’d done the only thing you knew how whenever your life was thrown into disarray. You’d gone to Jimmy’z, with the sole purpose of getting wasted, but the universe, as you’d established almost six months ago when he’d moved in, absolutely hated you and you’d run into him anyway.
You remember being so, unbelievably frustrated. Frustrated at the sheer audacity of him, the shitty greeting after a month of pure silence.
But then he’d kissed you. You still couldn’t get the feeling out of your head—his hands on your waist, sliding up the planes of your stomach, your jaw, slipping down briefly to dip at the waistband of your panties.
Then he’d fucking left. Again. Without another word. Leaving only another promise and a white box outside your door.
It’s been five days since the kiss. Four since he'd left, leaving another promise in his wake. Four since you’d opened that perfectly wrapped box he'd left outside your door.
Lingerie. Light pink, dainty, lingerie.
You were sure you were reading into it too much. This was Lando, after all. Someone who jumped at the opportunity to make things amusing when they got too personal—but the thought of it. The thought of him seeing the set and thinking of you.
You tear your gaze away from the box, over to the screen instead, the Grand Prix in Austin on lap 55. Lando’s leading, like you’ve discovered he usually is. When he crosses the line in first, you’re not even looking. Your gaze has slid over to the box again.
It’s then you decide you’re going to something completely and utterly stupid.
You —
[ 1 image attached ]
congrats on the win
A wave of regret washes over you the moment you hit send.
The picture stares back at you on your phone: you, on your fucking knees on the plush, duvet of your bed, the pink lace flush against your skin. It’s a good picture. A really good picture, and yet you want to throw your phone off the balcony despite it.
He doesn’t answer for ten minutes. An hour. Two.
You swipe onto the messages again, debating whether to delete everything and block his contact, curled up in bed with the set still on, when—
Lando —
fuck
fuckfuckfuck what the fuck
baby
baby what the fuck
The torrent of messages makes you sit up, thighs pressing together, blush already making its way up your neck.
Lando —
no you can’t do this
not while i’m away for another two weeks
i’ll book a flight back to monaco right now i’m not even fucking joking
You —
be patient norris
Lando —
are you still wearing it??
You shift slightly, debating on whether to send him another picture.
You —
[ 1 image attached ]
Lando —
oh fuck
you’re gonna kill me
You —
what took you so long to answer earlier?
Lando —
post race celebration debrief whatever the hell
knew i should’ve checked my phone sooner
You —
where are you?
Lando —
hotel
im meant to go out with everyone in twenty minutes
fuck
You can imagine him in his room, his face tinted crimson. You can imagine his voice, picture his touch you so badly craved.
Your phone lights up again.
Lando —
if i win all three of my races
you wear that set for me when i get home
Your fingers clench around your phone.
You —
deal
Then you slide your phone onto your bedside table, silent, like it’ll soothe your racing heart.
The day of the Brazil Grand Prix, two weeks later, you’re curled up on the couch, anxiously biting the pad of your thumb as you watch. You’d found yourself watching the recent races with more attention than any other. Probably because of the looming shadow of the deal you’d made with him, growing closer with every lap he spent in P1. He’d won Mexico last week with a 25 second gap, Austin with 10, but this one was different. It held more weight.
The commentator raises his voice, saying words that have no meaning to you, until—
“Lando Norris wins the Brazilian Grand Prix!”
You can’t breathe. Your body rushes with adrenaline, with anticipation, heart thundering against your ribs.
An hour later, you get the text.
Lando —
i’ll be back on monday
The day Lando Norris had moved in across the hall, you knew your life would change.
Did you think it’d change this much? No. But you knew it’d change, and the revelation gave you a sense of unexplainable comfort.
He gets home on Monday, eight pm. You’d spent the entire day pacing, then attempting to be productive, then pacing again. The lingerie had stared at you from its spot on your chair, accusationally, waiting for the moment you reached for it again.
You hear him walk into his apartment. You count the minutes until he comes out again, until he knocks.
Lando’s already smiling when you open the door.
He’s in joggers, a cotton tee, backwards cap. He looks how he usually would on a regular day. One where he didn’t have a very blatant deal to have sex with you.
“Hi,” he says, and it comes out quiet. “Miss me?”
You drag your gaze up to his face, taking a step closer. It’s silent for a few seconds, weighted silence, before you give in.
“Yeah,” you breathe, and he’s already moving, hands on your hips to press you against him.
He kisses you soft.
You sink into him, lips against his, letting him guide you. His tongue licks into your mouth—not desperate like the first time, but slow. Savouring. The surface of your door is cold against your back, and you blindly reach for the handle, turning it and sending the two of you stumbling inside.
He doesn’t comment on the interior, the stack of magazines, the box still on the couch. He just keeps kissing you, hands roaming idly, beneath your shirt and brushing against the lace of your bra.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes when he feels it, pulling away to catch his breath. “You wore it.”
“That was the deal, wasn’t it?”
He groans, muttering, “you’re killing me, baby”, hand sliding to your jaw.
Your hands reach up to his hair when he leans again, tossing his cap off to the side, tangling in the soft curls. A helpless moan escapes you when his hips move against yours. You can feel how hard he is, the pent up frustration and longing. You wonder if he’s been like this since Brazil, since his flight, and the thought sends heat pooling at your core.
“Bedroom,” you say between kisses, though you make no move to stop. “On the left.”
You don’t register the length between the door and your room. You don’t register him nudging you onto your bed either, only the warmth of him on top of you, his hand tugging your shirt off.
He pulls away again, just to take you in. His gaze surveys every inch of you, roaming freely, turning you inside out though he hasn’t said a word. He looks dishevelled—awestruck, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
“You’re—” he blinks, like he can’t believe he’s even here. “Gorgeous. So fucking gorgeous—”
“Off,” you say, and your voice sounds so far away. You lean forward, pulling at his shirt. “Take it off.”
He immediately shrugs it off, and you scramble to tug your own shorts off too, about to reach for his joggers until he does it for you. You let yourself be greedy, taking in the sight of his tan skin, the curve of his muscles, the lines that disappear beneath his boxers.
“Please,” you say, quiet. You don’t know what you’re saying please for. It might be please kiss me, please fuck me, please don’t keep me waiting any longer. Probably a combination of all three. “Lando.”
His palm skims up your thighs, tugging you effortlessly closer. You can see how hard he is now—the prominent outline of him against his boxers. It makes you clench around nothing, fingers curling in your bedsheets.
“What do you want?” he asks, and you whine, his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties. “Tell me.”
“I want you.”
“Where?”
Everywhere, you want to say, thighs pressing together when he tugs the lace down. His hands push them apart again with a small murmur of stay still for me, and you think you might come right then and there.
“Lando,” you whine when he moves away, sliding up the planes of your back to the clasp of your bra. “Just touch me. Anywhere. Fuck me.”
He laughs then, low, his touch so gentle and only adding to your desperation.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, then he’s back to your thighs, tracing idly. His fingers—finally, graze over your clit, and you immediately arch into him. “So wet and I’ve barely touched you.”
He circles it, featherlight, making you gasp. His fingers move quicker at the noise, slipping down to your folds.
“Is this what you’ve been thinking about?” he asks, leaning down to trail kisses at your jaw. “These past three weeks—past few months?”
His finger slides inside of you, barely, but it makes you moan, hips jerking in an attempt to pull him in deeper.
“I know you have, baby,” he says, slowly pulling out, just to fuck in deeper. “Fuck.”
He moves swifter, thumb pressing against your clit, slipping in a second finger. It feels overwhelming already—too much, and yet you want even more. He curls his fingers perfectly, like he’s already learnt you. You already feel so full, his thick fingers quickening when he feels you tense.
“Lan,” you say, and he groans at the name. “Please—”
You come abruptly, hard, body trembling. He fucks you through it, murmuring praise in your ear, even as tears spring at your eyes in overstimulation.
You whimper when he slowly pulls his fingers out again. Wordlessly, he taps the side of your cheek, and you open your mouth instinctively.
“Jesus,” he rasps when you take his fingers into your mouth. You open your eyes to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, and he looks devastated. Utterly ruined at the sight of you. “You’re perfect.”
You keep your eyes on him, still slightly shaking, licking over his fingers and tasting yourself on your tongue.
His next movements are a blur. You watch him tug his boxers down, cock hard and leaking. It’s big. So fucking big and all it does it make you impatient. He grins when you try move closer, stopping you halfway.
“Relax for me,” he says, and you’re falling back onto the mattress, head hitting the plush pillows. He reaches over, grabs a condom from God knows where, rolling it on and settling between your thighs. Your eyes are wide, lips parted, but you relax, letting him guide you exactly where he wants. “That’s it, baby.”
He nudges against you, gentle, and you both tense.
“Breathe,” he says, but it comes out strained, like he’s holding himself back. He pushes in, slow, stopping at just the tip. “Fuck. Oh, fuck.”
You whimper, hands fisting in the sheets, head tilting back when he eases in deeper.
“You okay?” he asks, stopping to brush your hair out of your face. “You look—insane. So fucking unreal.”
“I’m fine,” you gasp, one hand moving to tangle in his hair. He leans forward, kissing you, reassuring. “Move. Please move.”
His hands settle on your waist when he slides all the way in, and you both groan at the feeling. You turn your head to bury it in the pillows, but he immediately tilts it back towards him.
“Let me hear you,” he murmurs, starting to thrust in and out. “It’s just us. C’mon, gorgeous.”
You moan at that, and he pushes in harder, deeper, hitting all the right spots inside you.
You can hear his ragged breathing, your own name on his lips. He sets a rhythm, steady, the bed frame knocking against the wall with every moment. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his back, and he groans, thrusts turning rougher.
“You take me so well, baby,” he says, and he sounds breathless, hoarse. “So fucking well.”
“I can’t—” you clench around him, overstimulated. “Lan—I can’t—”
“You can,” he breathes, sinking impossible deeper, filling you perfectly. “Come for me. I know you can.”
It feels so good, like heaven, like the world really only consisted of the two of you. He moves your leg higher, and you let him, pliant, overwhelmed with pleasure. You’re sure your nails have left scratches, deep marks, but it only seems to encourage him more.
“Feels good, huh?” he says, and he’s grinning. You roll your hips against his in response, and the flash of confidence shatters, turning into something that sounds like a whine. “You’re so good—you’re so fucking good to me.”
He ghosts his lips over your neck, and you turn your head to kiss him. It’s messy, hungry, his tongue against yours and his cock relentless inside you.
The second time you come feels euphoric—dizzying, knocking all the air out of your lungs. All you can think about is Lando, his name, his touch, the months of craving of him all for this exact moment.
He shudders a second later, hips stuttering, grip bruising on your skin.
“Fuck,” he groans when he comes, panting. He thrusts in again, rhythm faltering, his face pressed against your neck. “Fuck—I think I’m in love with you.”
Then he collapses, gasping, flushed a pretty shade of pink. You lay there, chest rising and falling, eyes half lidded, not yet processing his words.
You’re not sure how long you stay there, trying to regain your breath. You whine quietly at him pulling out, barely sensing him moving to toss out the condom.
“Everything okay?” he asks, quietly. You’re too spent to answer, so you move towards him, letting him press kisses on your forehead, your neck, down your shoulder.
He looks completely wrecked, hair tousled and messy. When he turns away again to presumably find tissues, you see the marks on his back, the indents of your nails. You’re sure you don’t look much better, but you know if you asked he’d say you were the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
I think I’m in love with you.
“Lando,” you say, softly. He blinks, glancing back at you, concern in his eyes. “Did you meant that?”
He cocks his head, like he’s trying to figure out what you mean. You see when it clicks, when the blush deepens into crimson.
“Yeah,” he says, and you sit up, flinching at the ache in your muscles. “I mean—I think so. You’re all I ever think about. Ever since I moved in.”
You study his face, the expression on it. He’s studying you back, looking for a reaction, a response in your eyes.
“I think I might be in love with you too,” you answer, and his shoulders physically relax. He falls back onto the bed, on top of you, face burying in your neck. “Even though you’re a cocky, arrogant, piece of shit.”
“Thanks,” he mutters. “I try.”
You laugh and feel him smile into your skin.
“Stay tonight,” you tell him, gently running your fingers through his hair. “If you want.”
“If I want,” he repeats, grinning. “Right.”
You scoff, settling back into the pillows. He kisses you, muttering something about finding a towel, and you let him go.
You wonder if all those months ago, if you’d opened the door to him in a better mood, if he hadn’t fucking stared at your tits, you would’ve had this sooner. Maybe you would’ve kissed him the first time you’d had the chance to, maybe you would’ve said yes to every single date he’d asked you on, and almost 10 months of wait would turn into one.
But it didn’t matter now. It didn’t matter because now, you finally had him.
It’s summer in Monaco, three months later, and there’s a magazine outside your apartment door.
The glossy cover is smooth on your fingertips, there’s a note stuck to the front, and a paperclip marks a specific page. You smile, leaning against the doorframe, plucking the note off and staring at the cover.
It’s you.
Well, not just you. It’s the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, it’s Lando in his race suit, it’s the two of you kissing after he’d just won the championship.
You’re crying—you remembered crying, but hadn’t realised how obvious it’d actually been. There are tears streaks trailing down your face, his hand is resting on your jaw to tilt your face towards him.
Lando Norris — An Interview with Formula 1’s newest World Champion
Though the championship has been the center of attention for Lando Norris, it isn’t the only thing people have been talking about. We sat the British F1 driver down almost a year ago with the question: How do you handle relationships when you’re living such a public life?
Back then, he’d responded with his usual, boyish charm—claiming he thinks he’s ‘much better at driving a car at 300 kilometres an hour than replying a text’. But now, after the events of his championship-winning Grand Prix, it seems as though that wasn’t entirely true.
“You said in a previous interview you wanted someone who can put up with you—who doesn’t let you get away with everything. You also said you hadn’t found them yet. What about now?”
We ask Lando, fresh off his championship win and the reveal of his girlfriend.
“Now? Yeah. I’ve found her.”
“And is she ticking all your boxes?”
“Every single one. She puts up with me—she has since we met a year ago, actually. She doesn’t know a thing about Formula 1. She’s hot, sexy, and gorgeous—ticks all my boxes.”
“And how did you meet?”
Lando smiles at the question, blushing.
“I mean—fuck, I wish I could say we met somewhere romantic, but no, it was quite the opposite,” his smile grows. “No further comment.”
“Alright. Final question: Any messages for her? For anyone?”
“No. She’ll get a message when she reads this interview anyway.”
You close the magazine, glancing at the note he’d attached on top.
Make the hot nerd Clark Kent your boyfriend? Check. Next step is to get him to actually admit that you're dating.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Nerd!Clark Kent x Popular F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Hints of explicit written implicitly (mature rating), little hurt/comfort, miscommunication
▸ A/N: felt a lil cliché!! just two goobers dating in secret and dealing with what that means :) wrote this so long ago but finally posting!
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The last thing you anticipated when you started dating Clark Kent was for him to keep you a secret. A dirty little secret. Like a stain in Clark’s perfect, good-boy-next-door, straight-A’s, teacher’s pet record.
He has personally never made you feel as such, not when you’re so head over heels with this man who’s six-four of pure mush and fluff. He says “golly” when you surprise him with something sweet and blushes into a ripe tomato when you tease him with something spicy. His glasses slip when you kiss him too long, fog up when you get him two degrees hotter under your fingertips.
You’re obsessed with him.
However, you let doubt shroud the clarity of your judgment and his feelings towards you when things like this happen.
When he swings open his dorm room door to find you standing in the hallway with the biggest, happiest grin on your face, he immediately panics and pulls you in. He sticks his head out into the hallway to check if anyone saw you. His eyes dart around every nook and cranny in search of probing gazes. It is only when he is satisfied with the quiet that he closes the door behind him with a deep sigh.
“Baby, calm down,” you laugh, dropping your bag onto the floor before coming up to him and pressing him up against his door.
“I am calm,” he says nervously and nudges his glasses up on his face again. His eyes fall to meet yours first, then drop to your lips — glossed up shiny the way he likes it, before lifting back up.
Your lips curl into an amused smirk at how red he has gotten. “Nobody saw me, Clark. Don’t worry, I’m still your dirty little secret.”
His brows furrow at your words and, before he can respond, you’re sliding your hands up his broad chest and around his neck to tug him down to meet your lips. You chase after him hungrily, eager to taste the familiar kick of bubblegum on his tongue. Clark groans into your mouth as he picks you up, your legs immediately wrapping around his torso.
You giggle when he stumbles back onto his bed, and you’re scrambling to climb and straddle his lap. He tastes as good as always. His hair is slightly damp from his fresh shower, based on his text only minutes ago when he confirmed you’re good to come over. He smells like that lavender shampoo you love, the one you left once at his place and he never returned. His skin is warm and soft, tender underneath your delicate fingertips as you trace up his arm.
Times like these, the voices in your head quiet down. You’re not two kids from two different social circles. It’s only you and Clark, and Clark and you.
Clark spends his time with people who have 4.0s and are out there ready to change the world — if not already working towards it. They are future Nobel Peace Prize winners, the kind that do not have to buy them with daddy’s money. Revolutionaries. You hear them in classrooms, answering questions in rapid fire and challenging professors with words you can barely grasp.
You, on the other hand, are surrounded by people who host tailgates and Greek parties, who are inebriated more than sober throughout the week, and have abysmal class attendance to the point of surrender from most teachers. You love them, you absolutely do, but you also understand that they aren’t ones to care about changing the world — making money and networking, sure, but not so much about the other good stuff.
The two of you might as well live on different planes of existence.
Part of it is your personal insecurity (that’s something to deal with in therapy!), but another part of you is sincerely concerned that Clark doesn’t feel as strongly about you as you do him. Sometimes, when the worries get too much, when they occupy too much space in your brain, you let the words roll off your tongue.
“Why are we still doing all this in secret, Clark?” The moan that leaves your lips is caught between both petulance and desire as Clark drags his lips down your neck, sucking little love bites onto your skin. You’ve learned that, even if he is relatively secretive of you, he loves marking his territory. Typical men.
“Dunno what you mean,” he mumbles lazily against your skin, clearly too distracted to be having this conversation. Drunk off your smell, your warmth, your skin.
You giggle when his breath tickles your skin. He slowly makes his way back up, slanting his lips over yours and nibbling on your pout. “Come on, we’ve been hiding our relationship for months. I want to go on dates with you. I could take you to parties, you said you wanted to meet more people — and, even if I don’t understand half the presentations you do on thermonuclear dynamics, I’ll still sit in the audience to support you.”
You’re fully taking advantage of the fact that Clark is distracted by the wet drag of your mouth down the column of his throat, his throat bobbing as his heart rate picks up. You’re coaxing him to give you permission with soft kisses along his jaw while he mutters incoherently, his usually big and brilliant brain taking a little more time to compute your words.
It’s satisfying, you have to admit. To have someone as big, as handsome, as smart as Clark putty in your hands. You smile quietly into his neck as you shift your hips just right, just enough to have him let out a little whine.
“If we were out in the open, I could kiss you anywhere you want. Remind everyone that you’re mine,” you hum, pleased.
“Honey,” he breathes out in a near whimper.
“So tell me, hm, what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours? Why won’t you let us go public?” You press up against him and ensure every inch of you is touching every inch of him. All you need is a teensy yes. One word from him to allow you to share this with all your friends.
For someone who shares everything with their best friends, keeping this relationship a secret has been an impossible feat. Nights you sneak away from your shared apartment. Days spent dodging questions about your whereabouts. Lying to your friends. It’s not you.
It’s not Clark’s fault. The two of you agreed to this early on; well, Clark mentioned the desire to keep it hush-hush, and you — like he is now — were too caught up in him and immediately agreed to his terms and conditions. You should’ve known better, should’ve read all the stipulations.
“Please,” he pleads, lungs devoid of any capacity for oxygen.
But please isn’t an answer. Not really. That silence is louder than anything. Your chest tightens as another fear sinks and takes root in the stiffness of your muscles. “Are you embarrassed by me?” Your voice is a tad quieter this time, a tremor in your fingers as you draw away from him.
Clark looks at you through hazy eyes, his usually bright sapphire irises clouded over into a murky blue. Confusion tugs at his brows. “Honey,” he says again.
Still not an answer.
With a heavy heart, you decide that it's best if you leave now — while you still can, while your pride is still semi-intact. Self-awareness has always been your strong suit, but self-restraint balances on the precarious line of your greatest strength and your fatal flaw. This time, you remind yourself that you know better. So you rewind your movements, reluctantly peeling yourself off him and getting to your feet.
His eyes follow you, wide and bewildered, as you gather your bag. You avoid his prying gaze. It’s easier to focus on the rough fabric of your backpack and the cool metallic touch of the doorknob on your palm. Just as you’re about to twist the door open, a hand settles against the door beside your head.
A shudder wracks through you when his lips ghost the back of your neck. His lips hover, never quite touching. “Stay,” he murmurs quietly.
Resolve, you remind yourself. You have some of that left. “I should go,” you say, with none of it.
“Stay,” he urges once again. For a man who usually babbles nonstop about whatever topic is plaguing his mind, he is a man of few words today.
“I can’t do this, Clark. I don’t want to keep hiding like this. If you’re ashamed of me—” your throat tightens, “—then maybe you should find someone who makes more sense for you.”
“Makes more sense for me,” he repeats, numb.
Before you can step away, his hands tighten on your shoulders to turn you around. Your head immediately ducks, eschewing the expression on his face that will undoubtedly be your undoing. Your resolution crumbles like sand when he uses his fingers to gently tip your chin up to face him.
Clark watches the slight quiver of your lips and searches your eyes. “Honey,” he murmurs, voice frayed, “what’s going on? Why now?”
“I don’t know, I just— I don’t understand. If you don’t want to be seen with me, why see me at all?” The words tumble clumsily from your lips as you struggle to form the syllables on your tongue.
“What makes you think I don’t want to be seen with you?” His tone is soft, almost patronizing if you didn’t know Clark any better, but you know his question comes from a point of curiosity, confusion.
Your lips twist in displeasure as you scowl up at him. His gaze smooths around the edges. “Why do you think?” There are no teeth to your words. Even when you try to protect yourself, you’ve never been able to be cruel to Clark Kent.
Clark’s lips part again, another explanation — or excuse — on his tongue.
“Don’t,” you cut in, sharper now, though your voice wavers, “I don’t want to hear it. Just… let me leave with a little pride left. If you— if you don’t want to be with me, then I don’t want this either. I deserve better than this.”
His expression splinters and shifts between confusion and hurt, and a touch of what you may mistake as love. His gaze cracks as he leans down again to capture your lips with his. He swallows your little protests, weak ones that carry no weight, and lifts you again to plant you on his desk. Relentlessly chasing after you, your love, your lips. His mouth trails fire across your skin and you are only human.
“Clark,” you exhale sharply when he kisses a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. “Hold on. We need to— oh fuck.”
“That mouth of yours,” he mutters and steals another kiss. “I know. We need to talk. Can’t help myself when I’m with you.” The weight of his unwillingness to be apart from you is heavy in the air as you make every effort to regain control of your breathing.
“We need to talk.” It’s your turn to echo him, mostly for your own sanity.
“I love you.” The words that leave Clark’s mouth come out in such a rush that you almost get whiplash. You’re not even entirely sure that you heard him right. Judging by the flush that spreads quickly up his neck, across his cheeks, to the tips of his ears, your listening skills may be better than you think.
However, your brain is still struggling to connect the dots. There are so many questions circling through your mind, one a far cry from the next. You don’t know if this is him pulling a get-out-of-jail-free card, an easy phrase to tame the wildfires spreading in your brain.
“What?” is the only response you can muster, and it comes out as a squeak.
“I love you,” he repeats, firmer this time. He says it again and again, punctuating each word with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your nose, your jaw. He says it like a prayer, a promise.
“W-where is this coming from?”
Clark only grins down at you, boyish in a way that makes your heart stutter against your ribs. “Think I’ve always known. I just… never found the right time to say it.”
“How is this— what are you talking about?”
“I was never ashamed of you. Never even crossed my mind.”
“Then why all the secrecy?”
Clark scratches his cheek as pink tints it again. “Well, funny you mention it,” he starts, voice dripping with apprehension. “You’re going to think it’s silly, but I never wanted you to be ashamed of me.”
“Ashamed of you?”
“You’re… really cool. Like really cool. You’re completely out of my league and every day I question why you’re even seeing me,” Clark swallows thickly, “I keep waiting for the day you realize that you deserve better and I thought we were doing both of us a favor if you want to end things clean. No mess, no fuss since nobody would know about us in the first place.”
“Clark,” you scold as your brows pucker disapprovingly.
He ducks his head and presses his temple against yours, closing his eyes as his chest rises with a deep inhale. “I love you, I do. I realize now that I’ve been stupid for making you feel that way, because that’s the last thing I want you to feel. Never want you to doubt my feelings for you.”
Tilting his head, he kisses you — swift and chaste. Sweet, just like him. “I guess we’ve both been incredibly silly then,” you laugh against his lips.
Clark picks you up again, easily, for that matter. His strength sends a shiver up your spine. He brings you back to his bed and lets you fall back, limbs sprawled comfortably across his mattress. The sight of you just like this, exposed but not vulnerable, has molten lava traveling through his veins.
He traces his fingers up your stomach, revealed from where your shirt has ridden up, towards your sternum, over the hem of the lace clinging onto your body like second skin. Clark proceeds to spend the next thirty minutes or so — he doesn’t quite know, time is abstract when he’s with you — worshipping every single inch of you.
Distracted by everything that is you, he misses the door swinging open until he hears a cry that immediately has him faltering, his large frame covering every exposed piece of you. You don’t seem frazzled, instead looking over his shoulder with an amused quirk of your lips.
Lex has a hand slapped over his eyes, blindly grabbing around his desk before his fingers catch the corner of his laptop. They immediately latch onto it and drag it towards him. “Fucking hell, Clark, warn a man,” he snaps as he shoves his laptop against his chest.
“I thought you had calc at this time!”
Lex smartly chooses not to respond, instead reaching for the door on his way out. “Next time, put a sock on the door!”
Color spreads quickly across his face and you can’t help but drink in how pretty he looks all red. “Think Lex will tell anyone?” You muse, more entertained than anything.
Clark rolls his eyes with a grin, leaning down to capture your lips again. “Can’t care less. Now, where were we?”
♡ — when jim spills coffee on your
blouse and your lacey bra peeks through..
warnings : suggestive language, mentions of protected sex and oral (f. receiving), jim is sooo awkward lol
every friday you made it a mission to wake up two hours earlier in order to make everyone’s coffee orders at home and still make it to the office early enough to greet everyone with a pretty smile and a pink-sleeved cup with their name on it; jim’s cup being the only one with a little heart drawn next to the scribbled writing. speaking of.. the man himself was well familiar with your weekly ritual and took it upon himself to get to the office earlier as well since it spared you two some alone time before everyone came filing in after one another. this morning, however, jim wasn’t at his usual spot waiting outside the front doors in order to help you carry up all the drinks.
pouting, you sighed through your nose before walking into the elevator, your kitten heels clicking against the flooring as you adjusted the purse on your shoulder. humming along to the music spilling out of the speakers, you kept your eyes trained on the assortment of drinks in your hands as the signature ding! went off, signaling your arrival to the office floor. just as you walked out of the double doors, your steps came to a crashing halt once you turned the corner and ran straight into jim who was rushing over to help you. you gasped at the impact, a mix of hot and cold liquids completely drenching you from head to toe. “oh, my god!” jim held onto your arms in order to keep you from falling back, his own outfit also doused in coffee and caramel syrup.
“are you okay?!” immediately jim took the drink carrier containers from you, his eyes wide with concern as he moved his hands from your elbows to your shoulders. “holy shit, i’m so sorry.” he breathed out heavily, wiping some whipped cream from your cheek. you stood there stunned, not completely registering what just happened until jim guided you to the office, a string of curses and apologies falling from his lips. “i had gotten here before you with some donuts so i thought i’d come up here first and put them in the break room before going back down to carry the drinks for you but i didn’t see you when i turned the corner and—” your giggle stopped him mid-rant, his eyes falling down to the small smile adorning your mouth.
jim started laughing, his head shaking as he walked ahead of you. “let me get you some napkins.” he jogged over to the break room, grabbing as many paper towels as he could before meeting you back at the receptionist desk. by this time, you had already placed your purse down, the man in front of you helping to take off your scarf and your shrug. cheeks flushing red, jim blinked awkwardly as you unbuttoned your shirt, your lacey bra now on full display through the stained fabric. “as much as i hate to do this, i think i’ll need to go back home and freshen up, the thought of staying in coffee soaked heels isn’t very exciting..” you dabbed a napkin at your chest, jim’s eyes unable to tear away from the soft swells of your breasts.
his brain was urging him to look away; to look at anything else except your pretty tits in that god forsaken bra, but he just couldn’t do it— no matter how hard he tried. you continued talking to yourself, completely clueless towards the mental battle jim was currently going to war between. his brain was reeling, the sensible part of him telling himself to look away and keep all filthy thoughts tamed. “jim, did you hear me?” you looked up, your cheeks heating once you spotted his eyes flicker back up to your face. knowing he was busted, he sucked in a breath, his mouth opening as if he was going to say something. you watched as jim tripped over his words, the adam’s apple in his throat bobbing as he looked away frantically.
“uhm— i’m sorry, no. what did you say?” he was fighting for his life when you started laughing, the sight of your chest and the supple skin there moving in tandem with the fall and rise of your shoulders suddenly had jim’s pants feeling tight. “i said i’m going to go home to freshen up, and that i should be back here in an hour.” you repeated yourself, buttoning back up your top. catching a small glimpse of jim’s frontside, it was your turn to keep your filthy thoughts at bay once you saw just how bad he was struggling to keep his composure. “yeah! yeah, that’s fine,” he nodded, clearing his throat before uncomfortably leaning over the receptionist desk. conjuring up the courage, you spoke before you could overthink yourself out of asking.
“wanna come with? we could throw your clothes in the washer.” you swallowed thickly, watching as jim rubbed his hand across his forehead. “no, it’s okay, really. i wouldn’t want to impose, plus it’s my fault the coffees got everywhere and—” once again, stopping him mid-rant, you walked around your desk and place a gentle hand on his elbow. lowering your face so you two were eye-level with one another, you clarified your intentions. “i’m asking you to come back to my place with an hour to spare, jim.” at this, he whipped his head up to meet your gaze, a look of hesitation gracing his features. “are you sure?” he stood upright, his frame towering over your own. grabbing your purse, you didn’t say a word as you walked out of the office, sparing him a single glance before you disappeared.
jim knew following you out to your car would change everything between you two, but the thought of passing this opportunity up was something he would never be able to stop thinking the ‘what if?’ about. licking his lips, jim cursed under his breath before he slipped on his coat, meeting you inside the elevator. the silence between you two was deafening, the tension in the small space thick and heavy with the anticipation of what was to come.. literally. by the time the hour had passed and you two were walking back into the office— fresh clothes and a fresh shower, you were both dazed for the rest of the day with memories and flashbacks from this morning.
the desperate kisses from months worth of desire, jim’s voice in your ear as he fucked into you at the perfect angle and pace, the way you pulled the soft tufts of his hair as his mouth worked between your thighs, the dull ache in your flesh from jim’s fingers digging into your skin before he came— to say you had been knocked off your axis would be an understatement. as for jim, there was absolutely nothing that could take his mind off of you— not even dwight who insisted on being insufferable alongside michael. all he envisioned as he worked on his computer was the way his name rolled off of your tongue when a particular snap of his hips sent you crying out, the vanilla scent of your perfume as he buried his face in your neck, and the way you squeezed around him so fucking tight he saw stars behind his eyes.
shifting in his chair, jim adjusted himself under his desk as a sexually frustrated sigh fell from his lips. there was no way jim was going to be able to go on about his days without you occupying his headspace. looking in your direction, jim screwed his eyes shut when some icing from the donut you were eating fell onto your skin, your pretty manicured finger bringing the glob of sweetness to your lips just before making eye contact with him, your lips wrapping around your digit as you licked it clean. shaking his head, his fingers trembled ever so lightly as he typed up an email.
jim panicked, his eyes widening before he scrambled to close out your chat bubbles. knowing how this office ran, the last thing jim wanted was for everyone to know about what you two did and make a huge spectacle out of it. coughing into his fist, you giggled at his frantic state before he met your eyes over his computer. mouthing a ‘yes’ jim nodded slowly, a smile finding its way to his face once he saw you bite your lip the way you usually did when you were giddy about something.
summary: in which the first man who doesn’t throw himself at you makes you go insane. (or; you’re not as nonchalant as people might think)
fc: cindy kimberly
a/n: r is basically lando in female form tbh and I aspire to be her:)) there’s a bit of slut shaming in here so be warned! I had sm fun putting this together, I hope you enjoy🍀
yourusername
yourusername this is what you missed;)
view all comments…
yourfriend THE BITCHES ARE BACK
user anyone else think the caption is deliberate ?
-> user yea fs for lando cause he didn’t go out with them
user she’s so awesome 😩😩
user no lando??
-> user chill she doesnt revolve around him
user not a YN post without alcohol and some form of dancing
user YOURE A DIRECTIONER??? Just when I thought you couldn’t be any cooler
user how does it feel to live my dream life😔😔
lando.jpg
lando.jpg 🎰
view all comments…
user wth is YN doing LMAO
yourusername oh hell no lando I told you not to post that
-> lando.jpg I’m sorry but you’re not scary love
-> user LOVE QUESTION MARK EXCLAMATION MARK
-> user UH HELLOOOOOOO
-> yourusername I’ll show you scary
-> user oh hell they’re flirting again
user absolutely feral for this man
maxfewtrell 😎
user he remembered his password!!
user YN really has to be in every one of his posts
user atp it’s confirmed lando and YN are at least hooking up right ?
-> user I think we should leave them alone but each their own ig
deuxmoi
deuxmoi model YN LN spotted leaving a club with actor Harris Dickinson. The pair allegedly had a wild night at the club before going home together. Do you think the model has finally settled, or is the actor just another one of her victims?
view all comments…
user jesus fucking christ what a slut
user framing her as some kind of villain for sleeping with a lot of men is crazy in the big year of 2026
user YN you know ball
user she really just jumps from man to man; lando, elordi, harris the list goes on forever🙄🙄
user this is so weird wtf
user I don't think that woman will ever settle, we will see her with another man soon enough
user I don’t know who is luckier in this moment
user I thought she’s with lando now?
user not this again wasn’t she seen with jacob like two weeks ago??
user when lando is seen with alix and literally runs from the paparazzi it’s ’a man in his twenties’ but when YN does it she’s a slut come on guys I thought we were over this
user can’t you guys leave a girl alone FFS
yourusername
yourusername thought I’d update the fans
view all comments…
user yep she definitely saw the paparazzi shots😬😬
user she’s so bold I love her for it
user no media training in sight LMAO
user YN really went ‘oh you wanna know? here’s a picture of the morning after’
yourfriend should’ve asked them if they wanted the tape as well liked by author
-> user UM YES PLEASE
user I hope whoever called her a slvt is crying in some corner bc they’re so lonely
user YN is so brat but make it pink
user oh I know pr hates her
replies to your close friends story:
yourfriend woman you are fucked
yourfriend also yes to the thirst trap
lando don’t you dare YN
yoursister OMG WHO
alexconsani a man out of all things, really?
replies to your story:
lando you are the devil I hope you know that
yourfriend WOWOWOW
yourfriend did it work???
-> yourusername idk girl he just viewed it
randomguy your so sexy wanna ft?
randomguy2 are you in monaco rn by chance?
user UHHH I WASNT READY FOR THAT
user u r so hot please marry me
user okay who is this for girly
deuxmoi
deuxmoi model YN LN and f1 driver Oscar Piastri getting cosy at a party. the clip was posted on TikTok by a friend of YN’s and has since been removed, presumably because the couple did not want it to be public
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user types ‘the couple did not want it to be public’ and then proceeds to post a deleted clip smh
user she really can’t keep her fingers to herself huh
user told you she wouldn't stay with Harris for long
user that could be anyone tho
-> user nah I saw the clip, it was pretty obviously YN and Oscar
user NOT OSCAR STAY AWAY WITCH
user guys YN is known for hooking up with every guy that she meets it’s nothing calm down
-> user is she know for that or is that the narrative that the media has made up around her bc it sells well? I’m honestly so fed up with this shit let her live her life she is IN HER TWENTIES
user am I the only one who kind of likes the idea of them?
user why is she sleeping herself through landos friend group? can’t get him so she’ll be with anyone else?
-> user she’s literally only ever been seen with Oscar from Lando’s friend group, calm tf down
user the question is; is this serious or just another one of her flings?
celebsinthepeddock
celebsinthepeddock YN LN sighted watching the Miami Grand Prix from the Paddock Club. This marks the second time the model has attended a race this season, after her first appearance in Melbourne. It is speculated that she was invited by a member of McLaren
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user can these clueless celebs just piss off
user why are we acting surprised? she's friends with lando?
-> user but wouldn’t she be in landos garage if he invited her?
-> user there is actually a clip of her in the garage so maybe she just wanted to get the full fan experience🤷
user shes so pretty wow
user the camera panned to her three fucking times
user why does she look so concerned LMAO
user I want lando and her to be together so bad can you IMAGINE?? they look so good together
-> user idk I think they are too similar
yourusername
yourusername another weekend watching orange car go fast, thanks for the invite @.oscarpiastri
view all comments…
oscarpiastri glad you had fun liked by author
-> user they are such an odd pairing but I'm here for it ig
-> user NOOOO RUN WHILE YOU STILL CAN OSCAR
-> user he is so fed up with her i can tell
-> user he literally invited her? how is he fed up?
user heck yeah I love miami
yourfriend the most gorgeous girl alive
user OSCAR INVITED HER??????
user landoscar podium!!!! we prayed for times like these
lando it’s papaya
-> yourusername 🤓☝️it’s papaya🤓☝️
user tagging him on main is BOLD
user supporting your two boyfriends like a true wag
user fast is a funny word when they dnsed 50% of the races so far
user that jacket is sick
user I don’t think I have ever seen her be so desperate for a man what is going on??
-> user I 100% get her have you seen that man??
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri 👍🏆🌴
view all comments…
user what the fuck is in the air in miami
user this man drives me INSANE BRO I’m actually gnawing at my arm
yourusername congratulations oscar! glad to have been there
-> user ????? she like never does that
-> user who are you and what have you done to YN
-> user LMAO SHE WANTS THAT MAN SO BAD
-> user she really is just one of us
-> user girl GET UP
user WHAT A DRIVE
user oscodium lets gooooo!!!!
lando you have never looked smaller mate
-> user not the size kink again
user the emojis are killing me can’t you just be normal 😭
user holy thirst trap
user he is so cutie patootie look at him
yourusername
yourusername think we kissed but I forgot?
view all comments...
user LAST FRIDAY NIGHT 🕺
user *insert lego batman mesmerized meme*
alexconsani you just had to have been there liked by author
user oh to go to one of YNs parties one day
user this vibe is so sick
user she’s actually the hottest woman I’ve ever seen
yourfriend FUCK YEAH😫
user allegedly oscar was at the party AGAIN
-> user source?
-> user a friend of lando’s posted a story and it looks like oscar is in the background… could honestly also be any other average white guy but let a girl dream
replies to your close friends stories:
yoursister OMG GIRL WHAT THE HELL
yoursister WHEN TF DID THAT HAPPEN??
-> yourusername it’s so confusing honestly I flirted with him so openly and he seemed so disinterested I honestly thought he hated my guts😭😭 but I drank too much at the party and got a little too bold🤭
yourfriend I got a video of you kissing u want it??😛😛
-> yourusername um idk do i look hot ?
lando IS THAT OSCAR?
lando how did this happen???????
a few months later...
yourusername
yourusername only threw the party 4 you
view all comments...
user thank you YN for gracing us with an oscback pic🙂↕️🙂↕️
user oscar jack piastri made a lover out of a party girl who would've thought
-> user rip partygirl!YN you’ll be missed
-> yourusername you can take the girl out of the party but not the party out of the girl dw guys
oscarpiastri I know you did
-> yourusername confident much?
-> user HFJWISINDBF THEY ARE SO FUCKING HOT
-> yourfriend @.lando call the cops they’re publicly flirting again
user never would’ve thought I’d come around to the idea of them but they r actually the otp
user why is no one talking about the fact that they rewatch f1 races together??
lando knew you had an alterior motive when you asked me to invite him specifically
-> yourusername stop exposing me you twat I have a reputation to uphold
-> yourfriend girly we all know u r a loser for your bf
-> user WAIT are they talking about YN's party that Oscar attended back in April???
user I wonder what oscar thinks of her dressing like that🙄
-> yourusername he’s literally obsessed with it😋😋
-> oscarpiastri ⬆️
user the way everyone switched up on them now is crazy
hattiepiastri still a mystery to me how he bagged you
-Rafe finds out his friends are arguing on who can get with you first. based on this
-warnings: jealousy, possession kink, oral (F. receiving), rough sex, p in v, hair pulling, face grabbing.
-masterlist
It started as the only question that gets collage boys to sit straighter and actually think using their nonexistent brains, 'smash or pass'. The minute you get brought up, everyone starts betting on who can get you in bed and how they would do that, what they think you would like and basically everything regarding your sexual preferences, but the biggest concern was the question: "how they would get you in bed?" because they have tried, most of them have and they ended up with a bruised ego and face flushed from humiliation. You weren't easy, not stupid enough to waste your time with a frat bro who forgets your name the second you tell him, however you would never pass down the opportunity to lead them on and then randomly switch to humiliating them before they have a chance to ask you to go upstairs. Some of your friends say you take it too far, telling you you're going to a reputation for being bitchy, people already say how you are actually hard to get, but they just overcomplicate it. You aren't hard to get, you just need someone of your level.
Rafe Cameron stood quietly amongst the conversation, no one pointed it out because they guessed he wouldn't sleep with you because of your on going rivalry, but they were far from right, Rafe is closer then any of them could get in a 100 years from now. He acted like a boyfriend in private, stranger in public and with casual sex involved. It was perfect, enough attention for you but not too much to make you suffocate.
He was hearing enough, enough of what these lowlifes think would make you happy, but really they didn't give a shit about that, they were just listing their own desires and mixing you in there. He was losing his patience, didn't know what was worse, hearing them be extremely wrong or some actually listing stuff that you did enjoy. That's where he started worrying, what if you gave a chance to the guys that would know what to do with you? What if you forget about him then? What if you would happier with them? His palm was sweating, his leg was shaking up and down, he was running a hand through his hair, it falling back perfectly just above his eyes. He needed to see you now, forget about this, show you who can really handle you, pleasure you, be perfect for you. Rafe quickly got up, muttering some excuse about having to run errands while those degenerates kept blabbering about levels they cant reach. It infuriated him, knowing you could drop him for one of them anytime. He knows you would never, because whether you like it or not, you are his and he will prove it.
You hear a loud bang on your door, followed by other rapid ones, you roll your eyes, you were finally alone, thought you can catch up on studying. You open the door, Rafes tall figure filling your doorstep. He looks at you, eyeing up and down at your body while he has the most angry look on his face. His nostrils flare as he breathes heavily, still not saying a word, looking only at your eyes now. You groan impatiently, waiting long enough for him to talk.
"What?!" You say, annoyance filling your voice. He rolls his eyes, always unhappy with your attitude.
"Shut up." he says before stepping into your bedroom, cupping your face and locking his lips with yours, you immediately kiss him back, the action being familiar now. Without breaking this kiss he turns you around, closing your door as he pushes you onto the hard surface. He brings his hands to your thighs, hoisting you up as you straddle him. He walks to your bedroom and practically throws you onto your bed, making your brows furrow, he's being rough even before he starts and you are very much turned on by it, already feeling the heat in your stomach. He pulls his shirt off, kneeling on the bed and hovering over you to bring you into a kiss again, this time rougher, harsher, biting your bottom lips, making you let out a whimper.You can tell he was mad about something, and excitement filled you knowing he was going to take it out on you. He breaks the kiss to strip you only to your bra and underwear, placing a open mouthed kiss at your neck, trailing it down until he reached the hem of your underwear. He smirks at your flushed face and rapid breathing, but he wasn't going to give you what you want so easily, he reached lower, tilting his face to leave hickeys on your thighs, nose occasionally brushing your entrance, making your breath hitch.
"Rafe please.." you huff, patience gone. He breathes out a laugh, deciding to save the teasing for later. He lifts his head up, pulling your underwear down and removing them entirely, hovering now over your bare but very wet pussy. He pulls your thighs apart with his hands, holding you down. He licks up a trail from your entrance to your clit, then placing a open mouthed kiss, locking it down on your clit as he sucks, hard. You let out a loud moan, the sensations making your hips jump and subconsciously grind yourself onto him. He groans at your neediness, the vibrations making your hips jolt. Your shaking, hand reaching to grip the bedsheets as he eats you out like a starved man, tongue drawing circles on your clit as he continues sucking, your tensing, knowing your close and to no surprise he lifts his head up, noticing how your core slightly shaking and your breathing becoming more rapid. He climbs to you, bringing your lips into a sloppy kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue as your wetness from his chin drops onto yours. He removes his remaining pieces of clothing, unclasping your bra in the meantime.
He traces your curves with his palm, bringing it back up to place it on your neck, distracting you with a kiss as he teases his flushed tip at your entrance. You whine, trying to push your hips against his, but he chuckles and he pulls back, deciding to tease you further
"Be patient." He says sternly, but you couldn't wait, he denied your orgasm and you needed another one now. You twist your in face in anger before an idea hits you, in one smooth motion, you wrap your legs around his, grabbing his forearms and turning him around so your straddling him, his hard dick rubbing perfectly on your entrance. Before he can process, you sink down to him entirely, the stretch and length making you moan in pleasure. Your hands are still pinning his forearms down as you start moving your hips up and down, slowly picking up the speed. He was confused, turned on and also kind of impressed on how you manage to flip his body around like that. Rafe groaned when you started moving faster, the sound of skin slapping and your moans filling the room. You laughed, rolling your hips when your sink down completely making him leave out a soft groan, still having him pinned.
"Look at you, ah fuck, who's in control now?" you laugh in his face, your mocking and attitude not amusing him on this particular day, your hips keep moving in a steady pace, before he overpowers you, freeing himself from your grip on his arms, grabbing you by your hips and flipping you around, moving you again and placing you on your stomach, ass up in the hair and face down to the pillow, a steady hand on your neck keeping you in place. Hes the one laughing now.
"Look at you, who's in control now?" He mocks and as soon as you open your mouth to insult him, he enters in you, burying himself to the hilt as he stars moving, hips going back almost entirely before slamming into you again, the pillow underneath you muffling out your moan. He repeats the same pace, slamming into you with slow hard strokes, teasing you. Your moans are barley audible, he moves the hand from your neck and grabs a fist full of hair, pulling you forward as your back hits his chest. He lowers his head, chin brushing your shoulder.
"I want to hear you."
He holds you flush against him as he moves, the short distance between you making him change his pace, going faster and deeper. The sounds of heavy breathing, moaning and skin slapping fills the room as he hits your sweet spot that makes you see stars. "R-Rafe I'm close.." You manage to let out in between thrusts and he hums in response, hips moving faster as yours do the same, grinding on him and matching his pace. In a few seconds you finally feel that wave rush over you, mouth dropping open and limbs shaking, you tighten around him, and that's the part when he always loses his control, his pace going uncontrolled and sloppier, forehead dropping on yours as he continues thrusting inside you, riding your orgasms.
You come down, panting, gasping when he pulls out ever so slowly, you flop on the bed , turning on your back to face him. He hovers over you, elbows propped on the bed, forehead against yours.
"I swear,- he says in between pants,- if you let anyone else ruin you, ill fucking kill them, got it?" You twist your face in confusion, his possessiveness becoming more frequent these days. He grabs your jaw with one hand, making you gasp as he hovers lower, lips inches away.
older brother bsf!rafe cameron x sweetheart!kook!reader
an: this is a mix of this & this but each willl develop (by age) but also with it's own events !! miss the time when i used to write 7k+ word fics need to bring it back 🥺
the first time you saw rafe, you was stunned that topper even had friends that looked like that. even at six years old, you could recognise handsome. rafe was only two years older than you, but still. every single time topper would have him over, there was not a single shameful bone in your body that would stare. he was gorgeous. at ten, rafe had already mastered the cameron look. slightly smouldering & puberty was oncoming, you could tell. you, at eight, was already admiring him from afar.
"stop staring." topper scowled at you when he had rafe over, who was cluelessy rummaging in the fridge for juice.
"i'm not." you hissed back, having to physically adjust yourself so you was looking at the TV instead. but you snagged a look at the back of rafe as you did.
rafe quickly grew into your family as the son they never had. your mother adored him: soon it became normal that whenever topper would talk about plans with friends, everyone understood rafe would be there. your father always gave rafe the potatoes during family dinner & actually talked to him, always going with topper and him to play some golf. and though your brother would never admit it to your face at age, already being best friends with rafe for two years, he loved him more than anyone.
and then there was you. you knew that for a very long time, rafe would only ever look at you as a younger sister, that you was foolish to see it as anything else. the first time you got reminded of this was when topper slapped your feet away & rafe scowled at him. "don't be mean."
"dude, the whole table's gonna be dirty because of her."
for a second, you thought rafe was going to profess his undying love for you like you had seen in countless movies. but what he said next made you want to bawl into a bubblering mess and die.
"she's only young."
that phrase alone confirmed everything you had ever feared. that rafe probably only saw you as a convenience & probably something to pity.
the second time was when you was twelve & he fourteen. by now, topper had been teasing you endlessley. as much as you hated your brother sometimes, he wasn't blind either. he wasn't blind to the way whenever rafe hugged you, you hugged him back a little too tight. or the way you sneaked glances at him whenever he was around, or the smile that was a bit too big whenever he gave food to you.
"hey." topper poked you with his foot as you both were laying on your bed after he tackled you. "did you hear about rafe?"
suddenley you was listening a little too keen. "what?"
"he's going out with some girl called sofia..." as soon as he said that, your entire face went blank. topper saw it as much as you felt it. he tried to make the situation seem softer than it was, but you understood it. oh, you understood it too well.
when rafe came over several hours later, he saw how red & puffy your eyes were to the point you could barely see. pulling topper aside on the excuse he needed something, rafe grabbed topper's shoulders, "top, why's your sister crying?"
"dude, i don't fucking know! maybe allergies or something."
"your sister doesn't have allergies. why do i know her better than you & i'm not even in the same family?"
"fine! it's because i told her you and sofia were going out."
rafe wasn't much of an aggressive person then, or in general, but the urge to punch topper in was so strong he ran a hand down his face, which left red marks. after silence, he asked quietly, "and she cried over that?"
"no, her eyes are just red for no reason." topper snarked back.
"don't get like that with me when it's your fault." rafe snapped. "jesus christ, top, what even was the point?"
rafe would never know, because your mother popped around the corner, making the pair jump, "are you two coming down for dinner?" she glared pointedly at topper. "your sister needs to use the bathroom. again."
rafe would always remember that night & how you didn't look at him once. didn't smile at him when he tried some jokes that he knew were shitty but that you normally still laughed at. didn't throw your arms around him when he persuaded topper (who was still being an asshole about it ) to let you watch your recommended movie that night. nothing, and he himself was trying so hard not to cry at your state that he got up halfway through the movie and just walked home.
a week later, topper told you that they had broken up. when you asked why, topper shrugged. "just cause. sofia's a pogue, anyways." but you noticed how rafe never spoke about girls anymore & always expressed disinterest whenever topper would bring up girls.
when they were at 16 & you fourteen, there was this one time when topper was trying to convince rafe to go out with some girl called ruthie.
"bro, i swear, she's really -"
"i don't care." you tried to ignore the flush up your cheeks when rafe glanced at you for a millisecond. "i'm not interested into dating anyone."
topper seemed to notice that glance & fell silent. he never mentioned any girl ever again.
the first time you went to a party was at fifteen. you weren't even supposed to be there. your whole family had gone on a trip that you weren't "of age for" or whatever so you promised kiara that you'd go out with her.
except you actually got drunk, and not even slightly tipsy. just genuienely out of your mind drunk, to the point that when kie made john b call rafe to pick you up, you didn't even notice it was him as you slammed straight into him.
"ow! do you watch where you're going?" you slurred, holding onto strong arms that were already wrapping around you.
"you let her get this drunk?" rafe practically growled at john b.
"kie left her alone for two minutes, in my defence." he protested weakly.
"whatever." rafe muttered, before hoisting you up. "hey. what's your name?" you only muttered the two letters before saying some random shit. rafe sighed at how wasted you was. "topper's gonna kill me."
it didn't stop him for calling a cab & stopping near the shop near your house to buy you some water. he had you piggybacked on him the entire walk as he entered the store and you winced at the flourescent lights from the shop.
"burns." you grumbled with your vodka breath.
"your throat or your eyes?" rafe said immediately, turning straight to look at you.
"both."
rafe cursed under his breath before slamming down a water bottle infront of the machine and swatting his card before propping you down on the sidewalk, kneeling infront of you. "here, drink."
you rested your head in your hands. "no."
"you want me to call topper?"
"no."
"then drink." rafe undid the bottle cap for you, watching you quietly as you missed several times to get it to your mouth. he squatted forward and helped you drink, tilting your head back softly.
later, when you would ask, they would tell you that john b & pope took you home. but what everyone else wouldn't know, including yourself, is that rafe took you home, using the spare key that your mother gave him. no one would know that he set you in your bed and stayed up all night to make sure you wouldn't vomit in your sleep. thank god you didn't, he wouldn't know what to do if he did.
that same year is when rafe fell in love with you instead of just crushing on you. you didn't know that then, still under the assumption he only viewed you platonically, as his "baby sister" as topper always liked to taunt.
that valentines day, everyone in your family but you got flowers for valentines. your parents were celebrating, rafe came over with sarah who topper had gotten flowers for, & you tried to make it not a big deal that you hadn't. who cared anyways? you kept trying to convince yourself. you're fifteen, there's plenty of time.
rafe caught your eye over the family lunch, & the next day he turned up with a bouqet of flowers. lillies, your favourite, which you had said ages ago when you were eleven on a game on what your dream person was. (both you & rafe had been listening intently to each other the whole time.)
as you took the flowers, you hugged rafe so tightly he couldn't breathe. & when he hugged you back tightly too, to which your father coughed a bit too much when it lasted too long, you realised even if you waited forever, unrequited, you would always love him.
because of that promise, you didn't date anyone. didn't matter when you began to grow out of your years of being a teenager, didn't matter how many boys asked you out (to which rafe would always tense when you bought it up in passing). you wanted rafe. and every year, when he would give you your lillies on valentines day, it would only further deepen your love more.
sometimes you would bring home boys out of spite. however it was like your whole family just knew. your father would shake hands politely but watch tv after a few hours, & your mother always found them boring. topper only found it hilarious, which was a polar opposite to rafe, who did not.
"is she dating that guy?" rafe asked topper one time you had a boy called chandler over who didn't even say much to your parents. you were sitting by him on the couch, but it didn't seem like you two were interacting much.
"not yet, why?"
"not yet?" rafe repeated. "he looks way too older for her."
"you're nineteen."
"so? i wouldn't hurt her."
topper raised his eyebrows, "trust me bro, we know."
it was kinda subconscious, the way rafe pressed chandler the following day. you was passing by to get some juice when you heard the whole interrogation.
"what's her middle name?" rafe didn't even give chandler a chance. "favourite color? favourite tv series? flavor? does she —"
"jesus, i don't fucking know. do you wanna date her?" chandler scowled. "leave me alone, man, i only met her like two days ago."
since then, at parties, at bonfires, you noticed every single time when you would be talking to a guy — kook or pogue — rafe would be watching. & not even possessively, like he wanted to grab you away, but softly like he was just wistful.
"bro you're staring." kelce said one night.
rafe dropped his eyes. "i'm not."
"you like her, don't you?"
"shut up, man. i'm not —"
"topper wouldn't get mad."
"yeah." rafe said, getting up and wiping the back of his mouth. "that's the problem."
later that night, while rafe was driving you home once again with topper in the backseat & your sound asleep in the passenger, topper asked, "you like her, don't you, cameron?"
rafe knew a conversation like this was inevitable. his fingers clenched on the wheel. "kelce told you?"
"i'm not blind. it's been eight years."
"i didn't want you to —"
"i'm not mad. i just don't want you to keep stringing her along, you know?"
"stringing her along?"
"are you in love with her?"
"topper —"
"are you in love with her?"
rafe sighed, exchanging a look at you. "yes."
"then tell her. i'm sick of watching the two people i love just being blind."
"fine. when the time's right."
the silence descended over the car, but they both didn't know that you was awake the entire time.
A quick fluffy, spicy, crackdrabble with Bucky discovering make up sex, trying to cause tiny little arguments under the guise of needing make up afterwards. He's just doing anything and everything at this point so he can participate but it's a lot harder than it looks. He'll try his hardest though.
Like eating the last of your favourite cookie (and by last, he really just took a bite and then asked if you wanted to rest). Unfortunately for him, you didn't bat an eye, too sweet and loving, just adding it to the grocery list for next time.
Or bumping into you while you're in the middle of making dinner, just being a large nuisance in the kitchen making it hard for you to do anything (he didn't actually want to be a nuisance, that would be rude, so all he did was linger at the edge of the kitchen island, helping cut vegetables).
He'd try talking in the middle of the movie (that would be annoying, so he stayed quiet).
Nothing was working so far.
He'd have to play dirty.
Do the laundry but hide one sock so you think it's missing.
"Bucky, did you see my other sock when you took the clothes out of the dryer?" You held a fluffy one up for him to see, not noticing his eyes light up with joy. He can hardly contain his excitement, you noticed, the bait worked.
Of course you noticed the missing sock but how could he say no to your cute little face, he didn't want one of your feet to be cold (as if you didn't have 100 other pairs). His body moves before his mouth, pulling out your sock from his jean pocket. He's up and off planning a new idea before you can ask why the hell he had it in his pocket in the first place.
His next idea is as diabolical.
Borderline unacceptable.
He decides to forget a grocery item on purpose. Well maybe not forget. Definitely screw up though. You asked for plums. 5 to be exact. He decides to buy 7. He's very content with himself as he hauls the bags in, watching you take everything out.
"By the way, I forgot you asked for five plums"
"That's okay, I can grab them tomorrow-" You shrug, frowning when you see a full bag of them, "wait, you got them"
"Yeah, I got two more than you asked for" That'll do it. This is it. "Guess I'll have to go back and return them" He makes a show of huffing and puffing, hoping to pull you back to the non issue you've clearly moved on from.
"It's fine Buck, we can just eat them and the rest I can use for the pie"
"Aren't you mad?" What he did was such an inconvenience, buying two whole extra of his favourite fruit.
"No?" Your face twists in confusion while Bucky shuffles on his feet.
"But I messed up!" He's really grasping at straws now while you stop unpacking the groceries to look at your slightly unhinged boyfriend,
"and we need to make up!” he pouted at your amused expression.
“Why do we need to make up-
"And have make up sex!"
"Huh"
“C’mon y/n, we’re still in the middle of fighting!”
"Is this why you've been acting so strangely this past week, you goof" You shake your head, cupping his scruffy cheeks in your hand while he shrugs. "I thought it was weird you ate the last cookie, you don't even like those"
"I'm terrible at this" Bucky says with a pout, disappointed in his ability to ignite your wrath, to lay a path of destruction and repair it with the power of his cock-
You sighed. Dork.
"Alright" Your boyfriends pitiful face got the best of you, his cheeks pink, twitching fingers eager to hold you close one way or another. "C'mon big guy, make it up to me" You bit back a giggle, yelping when you were tossed over his shoulder mere seconds later.
"Gonna make it up to your gorgeous" He grins from ear to ear thinking about all the things he's ready to be sorry for, "Starting with the cookies"
hello!!!! <3 may i request my favorite angsty trope where stevie, 4 whatever reason, doesnt realize how much reader means to him (like he likes nancy or is just a meanie or something) until reader like…. almost dies
hello lovely!!
thank you so much for this request because apparently you looked at steve harrington and thought "what if we psychologically tortured him until he understood his own feelings" and i respect that enormously 😭
i LOVE this trope, especially with the upside down involved because nothing says emotional clarity quite like watching the person you've spent years pretending not to love nearly die in front of you!!
mwahahah, enjoy <3
what fear makes of us
Steve Harrington x reader
Summary: Steve has spent years convincing himself that keeping you at arm's length is the safest thing he can do. It takes watching the Upside Down nearly kill you for him to understand exactly what he's been trying so hard not to lose.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, angst, enemies-ish to lovers, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, horror imagery, blood/injury, arguing, steve being unnecessarily mean, reader calling him on his bullshit, mutual pining, idiots in love, fluff (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 4.7k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
If you want to be added to my taglist, leave a comment to lmk!
Steve Harrington has been mean to you for three years.
Not spectacularly mean. That would almost be easier.
There has never been one catastrophic argument you can point towards, no unforgivable sentence that neatly explains why the two of you exist in a permanent state of low-level hostility. He has never told you he hates you, never deliberately embarrassed you in front of everybody, never done anything awful enough that you could comfortably decide he is simply a terrible person and be done with him.
Instead, Steve is mean in increments.
Small enough that everybody else seems to think the two of you simply enjoy winding each other up; small enough that, whenever you try to explain why being around him exhausts you, the evidence sounds petty even to your own ears.
He rolls his eyes when you speak for too long. Complains whenever you're assigned to his car, despite somehow always being the person who drives you home afterwards. He'll spend twenty minutes arguing with you over something completely inconsequential and then remember, without being asked, that you hate the heating turned too high. He calls your ideas stupid before inevitably helping you execute them. If you touch his arm unexpectedly, he recoils as though you've burned him; if somebody else makes you uncomfortable, he appears beside you with such immediate ferocity that you'd think protecting you was the only job he'd ever been given.
It would be considerably easier to hate Steve Harrington if he could commit to being an arsehole.
Unfortunately, you've been in love with him since you were seventeen.
Which is humiliating.
"You know," Robin tells you one evening, watching Steve argue with Dustin across the Family Video counter, "I've developed a theory."
You don't look up from the tapes you're sorting. "That sounds dangerous."
"I think Steve likes you."
Your hand stops against the plastic case in your palm, though only briefly, before you force it back into motion and slide another tape into place.
"I think you've finally inhaled too much carpet cleaner."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Robin leans against the counter, lowering her voice despite Steve being far too preoccupied with explaining why fourteen-year-olds cannot borrow his car to overhear you. "You guys are weird."
"We don't like each other."
"You don't like him?"
You turn slowly.
Robin grins.
"Shut up."
"Oh my God."
"Robin."
"You totally like him."
"I will kill you."
"You've got that face."
"What face?"
"The face people get when they're hopelessly in love with my extremely annoying best friend."
You shove a VHS tape into her hands. "Alphabetise something."
Robin is still laughing when Steve finally wanders back over, muttering something about Dustin being the reason he'll have a heart attack before thirty. He stops when he notices the two of you looking at him, suspicion immediately narrowing his eyes.
"What?"
"Nothing," you say too quickly.
Robin's grin widens. "Absolutely nothing."
Steve looks between you, then fixes his attention on Robin. “What did you say?”
“Why do you assume I said something?”
“Because you’ve got that look in your eye you get right before you make my life significantly worse.”
You snort before you can stop yourself, and Steve’s gaze shifts towards you at the sound. Something strange happens to his expression then, the familiar annoyance loosening for half a second as though your laughter has caught him unprepared, and for one brief, dangerous moment he looks at you with something so close to fondness that your chest aches.
Then Robin, incapable of leaving anything alone, says, “I was just telling her my theory.”
Steve’s face changes. You feel the shift before he even speaks, the softness retreating so quickly it is almost violent. “What theory?”
“That maybe all this-” Robin gestures vaguely between the two of you. “-isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
“Robin,” you warn.
Steve’s eyes flick towards you again. You can practically see the panic moving behind them, his mind racing towards whatever conclusion he is most desperate to avoid. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Robin says, apparently delighted by the danger, “that sometimes people are mean to somebody because they don’t know how to act around them.”
The silence that follows is brief, but not brief enough.
Steve laughs. It is not a kind sound.
“Right,” he says, shaking his head as he moves behind the counter. “Or maybe I’m mean to her because she’s annoying.”
Robin’s smile vanishes.
Your fingers tighten around the tape in your hand.
Steve notices. You see the precise moment he does - the tiny falter in his movement, the colour draining from his expression - but whatever instinct might have prompted a normal person to apologise is immediately smothered beneath his embarrassment.
You should leave it there. You know you should.
Instead, because humiliation has already begun burning through your chest and anger has always been easier to carry than hurt, you say, “You know, nobody’s forcing you to be around me.”
“I’m aware.”
“Could’ve fooled me, considering you follow me around correcting everything I do.”
“I don’t follow you around.”
“No, of course not. You just mysteriously happen to be standing over my shoulder every time I breathe incorrectly.”
Steve exhales sharply. “See? This is exactly what I mean.”
“What, that I answer back when you treat me like shit?”
“That you turn everything into a whole fucking thing.”
Robin looks between you. “Okay. Maybe we should all-”
“No,” you interrupt, eyes still fixed on Steve. “Go on. Tell me what else is so unbearable about me. You’ve clearly been keeping a list.”
His jaw tightens. He should stop. Even Steve knows he should stop, but fear has already curled itself around his ribs, vicious and irrational, because Robin’s theory is hanging there between you and the possibility that you might look at him and realise it is true feels more dangerous than any argument.
So he reaches for the cruelest thing available.
“You want the truth?” he asks. “You’re always there.”
The words fall heavily between you.
You stare at him.
Steve hears them properly only after they have left his mouth, and the regret is instant, sharp enough to hollow his expression. He knows what they sound like. He knows exactly which private insecurity he has just found and pressed his thumb into.
But you are already nodding, once, your face settling into an awful, composed blankness. “Right.”
“That’s not-”
“No, I understand.”
“You don’t.”
“I said I understand, Steve.”
You place the tape down with extraordinary care, because if you move too quickly you think your hands might start shaking, then step out from behind the counter.
Robin says your name softly.
“I’m taking my break.”
“You took it twenty minutes ago,” Steve says, because apparently some diseased part of his brain is still committed to making everything worse.
You stop beside him. When you look up, your expression is calm enough to frighten him. “Then take it out of my pay cheque.”
You walk away before either of them can answer, disappearing through the staff door without once looking back.
Silence settles over the shop.
Robin turns towards Steve. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Steve stares at the closed door. Too many answers rise immediately, none of them remotely good enough. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How exactly did you mean it?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Robin’s expression hardens. “She looked like she was about to cry.”
The shame in Steve’s stomach turns nauseating. “I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” Robin lowers her voice, though there is nobody nearby to overhear them. “You don’t get to keep acting like she’s some massive inconvenience and then lose your mind every time somebody else upsets her. Pick one.”
Steve drags both hands through his hair, staring at the door as though he might somehow reverse the last thirty seconds by looking hard enough. “I screwed up.”
“Yeah. You did.”
He considers following you.
The urge is immediate, almost painful. He pictures finding you in the back room, sees himself apologising, imagines what might happen if you ask him why he cares enough to be sorry.
Fear closes around his throat.
Steve looks away. “I’ll talk to her later.”
Robin studies him with open disgust. “Sure you will.”
He does not.
Later becomes the following day, and then the day after that, every missed opportunity making the apology feel larger and more impossible until the two of you settle back into the same brittle pattern as before - except now, whenever Steve complains that you are in his car or standing too close or talking too much, he watches the memory of his words shutter behind your eyes.
And every time, he hates himself a little more.
The worst part is that you stop seeking him out.
You no longer sit beside him unless there are no other seats. You stop lingering at Family Video after Robin’s shifts finish. When everybody gathers at somebody’s house, you choose whichever side of the room places the greatest distance between you and him, and if Steve drives you home, you thank him politely before leaving without the old argument about his music or the teasing complaint that he takes corners too fast.
He wanted distance.
Now that you have finally given it to him, he discovers it feels remarkably like grief.
Still, he says nothing.
Because Steve Harrington has spent years convincing himself that wanting you is dangerous, and cowardice, when practised for long enough, can begin to resemble restraint.
The Upside Down does not care about complicated feelings.
It doesn't care that Steve has spent three years pretending your laugh irritates him when he could identify it across a crowded room. It doesn't care that you once cried in your car after he told you to stop following him around, or that Steve spent the entire night afterwards staring at his bedroom ceiling feeling so violently ashamed of himself that he nearly drove to your house at three in the morning.
It doesn't care that every cruel thing Steve has ever said to you has been followed by the same sick feeling in his stomach.
Most importantly, it doesn't care that Steve Harrington has convinced himself distance can keep you safe.
The Upside Down has never been particularly interested in keeping anybody safe.
"Stay close."
Steve's voice cuts through the oppressive silence as the group moves deeper into the woods, torchlight trembling over blackened trunks and creeping vines. The air is thick enough to taste, damp particles floating everywhere like diseased snow, and somewhere beyond the reach of the light comes a distant, wet clicking noise that nobody acknowledges.
You glance at Steve. "Wasn't planning on sightseeing."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
His jaw tightens. "Could you, for once in your life, just listen?"
There it is.
You look away. "Yeah. Sure."
Something in your voice makes Robin glance between you.
Steve hears it too. Of course he does.
His grip tightens around the nail-studded bat.
He should apologise.
Instead, because Steve has apparently never met an opportunity for emotional self-sabotage he couldn't enthusiastically embrace, he mutters, "Jesus Christ."
You stop walking. "What?"
"Nothing."
"No. Go ahead."
"We don't have time for this."
"For what? You treating me like I'm some fucking inconvenience again?"
Nancy turns around several feet ahead. "Guys."
Steve exhales sharply. "Can we not do this here?"
You laugh, but there's absolutely nothing amused about it. "You started it."
"I told you to stay close."
"And I said I would."
"Then why do you have to argue about everything?"
"Because you speak to me like I'm an idiot."
"I didn't say you're an idiot."
"You don't have to."
"Guys," Nancy repeats, firmer this time.
You stare at Steve for another second before shaking your head and walking past him.
His stomach twists.
Robin waits until you've moved ahead before stepping beside him.
"Nice."
"Don't."
"You're an asshole."
"I know."
"No, seriously. What is wrong with you?"
Steve watches you disappear into the darkness beside Nancy.
Too many answers rise immediately. He settles for the easiest one. "Nothing."
Robin looks at him as though she'd quite like to introduce his skull to a tree. "You're gonna figure your shit out eventually, right?"
Steve adjusts his grip on the bat. "There's nothing to figure out."
Even here, surrounded by decay and monsters and the remnants of a world trying to kill them, Robin manages an extraordinary eye roll. "Sure."
Steve ignores her.
He has become exceptionally good at ignoring things.
Unfortunately, the Upside Down is about to make that impossible.
It happens too quickly.
Later, Steve will replay those few seconds so many times that they become something separate from memory, worn smooth around the edges from constant handling.
A sound behind him. Nancy shouting. Robin screaming your name.
Steve turns.
And you're gone.
Not entirely. That's worse.
You're still there, except the ground beneath your feet isn't.
The earth has split open where you'd been standing, a rotten section of root and soil collapsing into a fissure hidden beneath the vines. Your torch hits the ground first, spinning wildly as its beam cuts frantic circles through the darkness, and Steve catches one impossible glimpse of your face before you disappear over the edge.
He doesn't think.
He runs.
Your name tears itself out of him so violently that his throat hurts.
Steve hits the ground on his knees at the edge of the fissure and looks down.
For one terrible second, he can't see you.
Then the torch settles.
Twenty feet below, tangled amongst a writhing mass of vines, is your body.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit."
You're moving.
Thank God.
Steve is already lowering himself towards the edge when Nancy grabs the back of his jacket.
"Steve."
"Let go."
"We don't know what's down there."
"She's down there."
"I know, but-"
"She's down there."
Something in his voice makes Nancy release him.
Steve climbs.
He barely remembers doing it. Roots tear beneath his hands, dirt crumbles beneath his shoes, somebody is shouting instructions from above, but all he can hear is the blood pounding behind his ears and the horrible, strangled sound of you trying to breathe.
Because the vines are moving.
One is wrapped around your ankle. Another coils across your waist. A third has found your throat.
"No."
Steve drops the final few feet hard enough that pain shoots through his ankle.
He doesn't feel it.
Your fingers are clawing desperately beneath the vine around your neck, eyes wide and terrified as it tightens.
Steve swings the bat. Once. Twice.
The vine recoils with an inhuman shriek, black fluid spraying across his arms.
"Steve-" Your voice is barely sound.
"I've got you." He swings again. "I've got you."
Another vine lashes towards him. He barely ducks before driving the nails through it, wrenching the bat free and turning back towards you.
Your face is changing colour.
"No, no, no." The words tumble out without permission.
Steve drops the bat and grabs the vine with both hands. It's warm. Alive. It pulses beneath his palms.
He pulls. Nothing.
"Come on!"
The vine tightens.
Your eyes find his.
And there it is. The moment that ruins him.
Because you're frightened.
Not monster frightened. Not the familiar terror all of you have learned to carry through impossible places.
You're dying.
Steve sees you understand it.
Your struggling begins to weaken. Your hand slips from the vine.
And something inside Steve Harrington simply ceases to exist.
Every excuse. Every carefully constructed reason. Every stupid, cowardly lie he has spent years telling himself about why keeping you away was better.
Gone.
There is only you.
Your laugh. Your stupid arguments. The way you always steal the cherries from his milkshakes because you know he doesn't like them. The little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating. The sound of your voice saying his name.
The possibility that he might never hear it again.
Steve pulls until his palms tear.
"Don't." His voice breaks.
The vine doesn't care.
"Don't you fucking do this."
Your eyes flutter.
Steve feels something close to hysteria claw its way up his throat.
"Look at me."
You barely manage it.
"Look at me. Come on."
He wedges both hands beneath the vine.
"I need you to stay with me."
Your lips move. He can't hear you.
"What?"
Another whisper.
Steve leans closer.
"Steve."
His name. That's all.
It nearly destroys him.
"I'm here." His vision blurs. "I'm right here."
Then Nancy lands beside him. Robin follows.
The next thirty seconds become violence.
Nancy hacks at the vines with an axe while Robin drags at the one around your ankle, and Steve keeps both hands wedged between your throat and the thing trying to crush it. When it finally gives, splitting beneath Nancy's blade with a wet, hideous snap, your entire body collapses forward.
Steve catches you.
You don't breathe.
One second passes. Then another.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"No."
He lowers you onto the ground.
"Hey."
Your head lolls against his arm.
"Come on."
Somebody says his name. He doesn't know who.
Steve presses trembling fingers against your neck.
Nothing.
Or maybe his hands are shaking too badly.
He can't tell.
"No, no, no, no-"
Then you gasp.
The sound is horrible. Wet and ragged and painful.
It is also the most beautiful thing Steve has ever heard.
Your whole body jerks as air finally tears its way back into your lungs, and Steve folds over you so quickly he nearly crushes you himself.
"Oh my God."
His hand cups the back of your head.
"Oh my God."
You're coughing against his chest.
Alive.
Alive.
Alive.
Steve presses his face into your hair.
And for the first time, with your heartbeat fluttering weakly against his palm, he allows himself to understand exactly what losing you would mean.
Everything. It would mean everything.
When you wake properly, the first thing you notice is pain.
Your throat feels scraped raw from the inside. Every breath aches. Your ribs protest when you move, and something beneath your shoulder blade feels as though somebody has driven a railway spike through it.
The second thing you notice is Steve.
He's sitting beside the bed. Of course he is.
You recognise the Wheelers' basement slowly around him, a lamp glowing faintly in the far corner, a glass of water and several bottles of painkillers cluttering the bedside table. Someone has thrown a blanket around Steve's shoulders, though he's barely wearing it properly. His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped so tightly together that his knuckles have gone white.
There's dried blood beneath his fingernails.
You remember why.
"Hey."
His head snaps up.
The relief that crosses his face is so naked that you almost don't recognise him.
"Hey." His voice cracks.
You swallow painfully. "How long?"
"Few hours."
"Everyone okay?"
"Yeah."
"Robin?"
"Fine."
"Nancy?"
"Fine."
You nod.
Silence.
Steve looks awful.
His hair is filthy, his shirt streaked with black blood and earth, a bruise blooming along his jaw that you don't remember him getting. His eyes are red.
You look away.
"Why are you here?"
The question hits exactly where you intend it to.
Steve's mouth opens. Closes.
"I wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I'm okay."
"I know."
"So you can go."
He flinches.
Good.
You hate yourself immediately for thinking it.
Steve looks down at his hands. "Can we talk?"
A humourless laugh scrapes painfully against your throat. "Now you want to talk?"
"I deserve that."
"You deserve considerably worse."
"I know."
Something about the lack of argument makes your anger sharpen.
For years, you've imagined this conversation. Imagined finally telling Steve exactly what he'd done to you, exactly how many times you'd gone home after one of his comments and wondered what was so fundamentally irritating about your existence that simply being around you seemed to put him in a bad mood.
You'd never imagined having it with bruises around your throat.
"What do you want, Steve?"
He looks at you.
And for once, there is nowhere for him to hide.
"I thought you were dead."
Your anger falters. Only slightly.
"But I'm not."
"I know."
"So?"
His jaw tightens. "So I thought you were dead, and I..." He stops, staring at the floor. "There was this second where you weren't breathing."
You remember his hands.
His voice.
Look at me.
"I know."
"And I knew."
Your brow furrows. "Knew what?"
Steve laughs once, miserably. "Everything."
You stare at him.
He rubs both hands over his face before pushing himself upright, restless energy carrying him halfway across the room before he turns back.
"I love you."
Silence.
The words you've wanted for years enter the room and somehow manage to feel like a slap.
Steve watches your expression change.
His face falls.
You laugh. You can't help it. It hurts your throat, but you laugh anyway.
"You're unbelievable."
"I know."
"No, you don't." You push yourself higher against the pillows despite the pain. "You don't get to do that."
"I know."
"Stop saying you know!"
He goes silent.
"You've treated me like shit for years."
"I know."
"Steve."
"Sorry." His voice breaks. "Sorry."
You stare at him, furious tears burning behind your eyes.
"I loved you."
His face crumples.
You hate that too.
"I loved you when we were seventeen. I loved you when you were still obsessed with Nancy. I loved you when you started driving everybody around and pretending you hated it. I loved you through every stupid haircut and every shitty job and every time you made me feel like the most annoying person you'd ever met."
"I never thought that."
"You made me think it."
Steve closes his eyes.
That lands. Good.
"You were cruel to me."
"I was."
"And now I nearly die and suddenly you love me?"
"No." His answer is immediate.
You stare at him.
"No," he repeats, quieter. "I didn't start loving you down there."
"Then what?"
"I stopped being able to lie about it."
The room stills.
Steve's eyes are wet now. He doesn't wipe them.
"I've loved you for..." He laughs shakily. "Jesus, I don't even know. That's the pathetic part."
"Then why?"
There it is. The question that has lived inside you for years.
"Why were you so horrible to me?"
Steve looks down.
For several seconds, you think he isn't going to answer.
Then, "Because I fuck things up."
Your anger stutters. "What?"
"I fuck things up." His voice is quieter now. "People. Relationships. I say the wrong thing, or I don't say anything, or I try too hard and make everything worse. And you..." He finally looks at you. "You mattered too much."
Your eyes burn. "That's bullshit."
"I know it is."
"Then don't dress it up like you were protecting me."
"I'm not." Steve moves closer, then seems to think better of it. "I thought I was."
You stare at him.
"I thought if I didn't let myself get too close, then I couldn't screw it up. Couldn't hurt you. Couldn't..." He swallows. "Couldn't lose you because of something I did."
A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.
"You still hurt me."
Steve nods. "Yeah."
"You idiot."
"I know."
"Stop-"
"Sorry."
Despite everything, something dangerously close to laughter catches in your chest.
Steve notices. A tiny, devastated smile appears.
You glare at him. "Don't."
"I'm not."
"You're smiling."
"I'm really trying not to."
"You're an arsehole."
"I'm pretty sure that's established."
You look away because, infuriatingly, you almost smile too.
Then Steve speaks again.
"I was scared."
The humour disappears.
"I know that doesn't excuse it. Nothing does. I made you feel unwanted because I was terrified of how badly I wanted you, and that's..." He shakes his head. "That's mine. You didn't deserve any of it."
You look back at him. "I can't just forget it."
"I'm not asking you to."
"You can't say you love me and expect everything to be fixed."
"I don't."
"And if you're only saying this because you watched me nearly die-"
"I'm saying it because watching you nearly die made me realise I could spend the rest of my life being scared, or I could stop making that fear your problem."
Silence.
Steve takes one cautious step closer. "I don't expect you to forgive me today." Another. "I don't expect you to believe me because I finally figured out how to say the right thing." He stops beside the bed. "But I'm done punishing you for something you never did."
Your throat tightens for an entirely different reason.
"And I'm done pretending I don't love you."
You stare at him for a long time.
Then, quietly, "You really are an idiot."
Steve exhales something halfway between a laugh and a sob. "Yeah."
"The biggest idiot I've ever met."
"Probably."
"You have a lot to make up for."
"I know."
This time, you let him say it.
"And you're not allowed to be mean to me anymore."
"Never again."
"That's unrealistic."
"Okay." His mouth twitches. "I'll probably still tell you when you're being annoying."
"Steve."
"But affectionately."
You roll your eyes.
He smiles. And there he is. The Steve you've always known existed somewhere beneath all that armour. The one you caught glimpses of whenever he forgot he was supposed to be pushing you away.
You hold out your hand.
Steve stares at it. Then at you.
"Don't make me regret this."
His fingers close around yours with extraordinary care. "I won't."
"You probably will."
"Okay, I probably will at some point, but I'll apologise immediately."
"I've got twenty years of habit to undo. Give me a minute."
You shake your head. But you don't let go. Neither does he.
For a while, that's enough.
Then Steve's gaze drops briefly towards your mouth before snapping back to your eyes.
You notice. Obviously.
"Are you seriously thinking about kissing me right now?"
His ears turn pink. "No."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I've had a rough night."
"So have I."
"Yeah, yours was probably worse."
"Probably?"
"Definitely. Way worse."
You look at him.
Three years.
Three years of wanting him and resenting him and wondering whether the tenderness you occasionally glimpsed was something you'd invented because you wanted so desperately for it to be there.
Now he's standing beside your bed looking terrified to touch you.
You tug gently on his hand.
Steve steps closer. "Can I?"
You let him wait for half a second.
Perhaps that's cruel. Perhaps he's earned it.
Then you nod. "Yeah."
Steve kisses you like somebody who has finally understood that wanting something and deserving it are not the same thing.
Carefully.
No desperation. No attempt to turn the moment into something it isn't. One hand settles lightly against your cheek, avoiding the bruising around your throat, and his mouth brushes yours with such impossible gentleness that your anger doesn't disappear so much as make room for something else beside it.
When he pulls away, he doesn't go far. His forehead rests carefully against yours.
"Still mad at me?"
"Furious."
"Okay."
"I might be furious for a while."
"That's fair."
"You'll have to work for it."
"I will."
You study his face. "Steve?"
"Yeah?"
"If you ever decide to protect me by making me hate you again, I will personally send you back into the Upside Down."
A breath of laughter escapes him. "Got it."
"Alone."
"Okay."
"Without the bat."
"Jesus."
You smile despite yourself.
And Steve, still holding your hand as though the memory of almost losing it has been carved permanently into him, smiles back.
For years, he'd believed loving you meant staying far enough away that he could never hurt you.
It had taken almost losing you to understand the obvious flaw in that logic.
Distance had never kept either of you safe.
It had only made you lonely.
So when you shift carefully across the mattress and Steve settles into the chair beside you, your fingers remaining intertwined in the narrow space between, neither of you pretends everything has been magically repaired.
Tomorrow, there will be apologies to repeat and wounds that take longer to heal than the bruises around your throat. There will be years of hurt to unpick, habits to relearn, trust to rebuild slowly enough that it actually means something.
But tonight, when sleep finally begins pulling you under and Steve's thumb moves unconsciously across your knuckles, you don't have to wonder whether he'll still be there when you wake.
For once, Steve Harrington isn't running from the thing he's most afraid to lose.
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem! reader
About: Clark Kent has pined over you since the moment you walked into the Daily Planet. There's a glaring problem once everything finally goes right—you're dating someone else.
Warnings: misunderstanding, a few cuss words, possibly ooc or inconsistent writing because this was written over the span of a year
Word Count: 10.4k
A/N: super special thank you to @yinny-roma for beta reading this fic and being so kind when i was struggling through the last little bit. I am soo excited about sharing this one with you guys and I hope you enjoy it!! reblogs, comments, and asks are always welcome!
Clark Kent loves being your friend.
He likes the smile you shoot him each time you come into the office, the way you look for him and find his eyes already pliant and waiting, nice lips upturned since the moment he heard you greet Manny the doorman twelve floors down.
Clark Kent loves being your friend but wants so badly to be your more. To be Yours with a capital Y and a squeeze of your hand.
Lois had seen it the moment you'd walked in the very first time. You’d breezed through the elevator and past Clark's desk in a burgundy dress with alabaster buttons, cardboard box in your arms, and dropped a pen next to his chair.
When he'd caught your gaze, your fancy gold pen in his fingers and his lips already curved, his eyes had shone like he was looking at the sun.
You'd said hello and he'd stumbled through something similar, and at some point, nervous surface small talk had morphed into you sitting at his desk to bother him because he thoroughly enjoyed it and you liked seeing him smile.
Yes, Lois had known for months, and, more pertinently, had been inexplicably (well. Not so inexplicably to most people) frustrated for the same amount of time.
"Clark Kent," you start ominously, brows set and fists on your hips. "What the hell is this?"
Clark glances up at the sound of your voice, features softening despite your stern tone. He says your name back and it sounds so lovely in his voice, you think briefly that he must do something special to it. He takes the paper you show him and hums.
"It seems to be one of my old articles."
You mock him in a squeaky voice and cross your arms. "That is your very first article, Clark. Can you share with the class what those little numbers are there at the bottom?" You point at them with your index and use that same hand to gesture flippantly the at coworkers around you. Only Jimmy is paying half attention.
"Page numbers," he announces.
"It's today!" you exclaim, turning to Jimmy with wide eyes. He shares your look, obviously less distressed but enthusiastic about it. You turn back to Clark with brows raised cartoonishly high. "Three years ago exactly. Can you explain this, please?"
"Yes," he says sorrowfully, sounding genuinely sorry. "You see, Earth takes these trips around the sun—"
You reach over his desk to tug at his ear. He yelps, too pink for you to think it hurt or even startled him. He laughs, half avoiding your gaze and half drawn to it.
"Clark," you say, softer. Your voice rises and falls fondly. "It's your debutaversary! This is a cause for celebration. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I never got my anniversary celebrated," Jimmy says.
"It's not a big deal," Clark shrugs.
"You got me a cake for my first article, Clark! I wasn't here for yours, but I am here exactly three years later, and I will take full advantage of this."
"What does that mean?"
You grin. "It means," you reach behind you to pull out two tickets and set them under his pen, "that we are going to the planetarium tomorrow. And maybe we'll even get pie from that place you like."
"I never got pie," Jimmy says. Lois looks up to send him a look.
"That's so sweet," Cat pipes in, hopping up to sit on Lois' desk, chin cocked. "You guys are finally going on that date."
You and Clark immediately warm, but where Clark stutters and quails because he's pathetic, you laugh, only a tinge awkward because you're slightly less. "Not a date, but a commemoration," you say diplomatically. "But you're right, it is very overdue."
"How is it overdue? It's day of?" Clark asks, leaning back in his chair.
"Because it's the first time I've done it in the three years you've been here."
"Because you have been here less than one of those years. Sad, by the way. We're all very upset about it."
"That's true," Lois chimes, nodding very earnestly with a piece of red licorice between her teeth. "Though I think some of us are especially upset." She glances at Clark, who clears his throat jerkily.
"He best be," you say plainly, looking over your nails.
Clark laughs, unease gone. He both appreciates and finds it wildly perplexing how you manage to take your coworkers' comments on the chin. He half wishes you'd feel as nervous as he does.
"Not gonna deny it," he says. No lilting tone or funny edge, raw honey truth that slows the mechanisms of your mind, makes your thoughts stutter.
Lois squints at him and Jimmy pauses.
"I'm going to take this as a yes." You tap the tickets, face still warm and fighting for normalcy as you push one over the paper he's working on, a hopeful smile on your face that you try to curve into sure. "Please?"
"Oh god," Lois groans.
You roll your eyes good-naturedly. Clark had silently—and unprompted, you feel you should add—committed to saying yes to anything and everything you'd asked since you stepped foot into the building. Your please was just for show. Just to pull that pink hue you enjoyed so much up to his nose, the soft, pliant blue shift of his eyes. You knew that, but did Lois have to?
"Okay," Clark says, dimples deep and pretty as he plucks the ticket up and looks at it. "F'course."
"Of course," Lois mutters. She glances up at Jimmy and says, quietly, "Of course!" Cat sighs dreamily.
"Will you guys go back to work?" you say. "I already have your presents picked out, but they could always mysteriously disappear. It's an odd world we live in."
They fall into begrudging silence, and you turn back to Clark, lips parting to say more when you stop yourself, hopping off his desk to pull him up and into the break room.
"That room is not safe to speak in. Nosy little ears everywhere," you tell him, stepping through the door he opens without a single stuttered step. He laughs, following after you toward the cupboards.
"I got Jimmy a new camera. Well. New to him, it's one of those old ones. I found out Manny's a huge camera buff and he likes going to that big market on Sundays, so I convinced him to take me last month and we struck gold last week." You shake your head in satisfaction. "Man, I almost wish I was right when I told you Jimmy hated me, because this would've won him over."
"Yeah, it's too bad everyone loves you the second they meet you."
"You're such a suck up. You're just riding the free museum trip high." You move toward the little box near the coffeemaker, going to make your tea when you realize he's still holding your hand.
His fingers are warm, nails clean and cut short; very, very kind as they graze the seams of your fingers. Your hands aren't small, but his sure make them look it.
He notices your attention and moves his hand away to to rub the back of his neck. You blink, your fingers going cold.
"Um." You force out a laugh, tingling arm dropping to your side. You make a fist and then stretch your fingers as far as they'll go. "Uh, I was thinking I'd pick you up at five." Another fist, another stretch. "Is that okay?"
Clark nods quickly. "Yup. Sounds great." He pauses. "Wait, no, I'll pick you up."
You shake your head like the notion is ridiculous, putting your mug under the coffee machine and pressing the button for hot water. "I invited you out."
"Exactly."
You stop as you reach for a bag of tea, rolling off your tiptoes to look at him. "What? What are you—what are you doing?"
He reaches past you to grab your tea, grabbing a little chick-shaped jar full of sugar and setting it next to your mug. "Getting your tea."
"No. No, you're doing that thing again. Manipulation with your small town charm."
"I'm not manipulating you!" He sounds horrified.
"You do this thing," you start, watching the coffee machine sputter out swirls of smoke and empty bubbles of hot water. "I don't know, it's like something between a lie and being confused. And then, suddenly you've paid for my meal when I was the one that invited you out."
"Because you invited me out."
"Like I did you a kindness," you scoff. His brows furrow. "Either way, you pay when you invite me out. It’s a catch twenty-two."
He purses his lips.
"I want to do nice things for you too. Let me do nice things for you, Clark. It's my constitutional right."
"You do plenty of nice things for me." He takes your mug and gets to making your tea, measuring out three domed spoonfuls of sugar. You're furious.
"Look at yourself!"
He does, pausing only briefly to stare down at his hands. "Well, this can burn you. It won't burn me."
"You're too nice to me, Clark." And evidently too trusting, but you are prudent enough not to point this out in the same room as Loose-lips Lewis, who's somehow walked in and slumped into a chair two feet away. Ixnay on the Superman…ay. You've (kind of) said this too many times to count.
"There's no such thing." He says things like this so simply, like it's a fact but you're not silly for not knowing it. You think it must hurt to be as good as he is.
You sigh big and defeated, none of the sting plucking at your chest. Sometimes, when Clark looks at you like you hung the stars and laughs at your stupid jokes and does vexing things like this; making your tea, smoothing down your collar, you feel your heart thrum in your chest, fight to escape your ribcage and fall into his palms like it knows he'll keep it safer than you ever could—and you think, really, truly consider forcing your fingers into the spaces between your ribs to let it.
Like he can read your mind and thinks you just need a little push, he spoons honey into your mug to top it all off and looks up at you, teeth digging into his bottom lip. His eyes are hesitant but earnest, sincere as they always are. "Please?" Using your own words against you. As if he needs to.
He hands you your mug and smiles, dimples like someone's reached up to press their thumbs into his cheeks. You try to ignore the image, your fingers twitching. You're frowning when you take it, and his smile goes wider. You're only glad Lois can't see you relent, though you're quite sure she doesn't have to bear witness to know very well that you are at Clark's mercy just as much as he is at yours.
"Pick me up at five. Okay?" You're irate when you taste your tea. It's perfect. You tell him a solemn thank you and leave the kitchen.
"I'll be there at four-fifty." He says, and then pauses. "But I won't knock until five!"
-
Jimmy hops off his chair the moment you come back into the bullpen, scurrying off to the kitchen where Clark is beginning to step out, pushing him back in with an expectant look on his face.
Similarly but much less kindly, Lois is watching you like a hawk, following you over to your desk.
"What was that?" she asks.
"What was what?"
"Don't," she says, steel eyes a warning. "You're better than that. Kent isn't, but you definitely are."
You blink up at her. "I'm afraid I have no idea—"
Her face changes, sharp features softening and eyes going doe. She flutters her lashes at you and smiles keenly. "Please?"
You warm immediately.
She drops the face, her voice going normal and suspicious again. "And the date-not-date?"
"It's not a date. No asides."
"Yes," she groans your name, "Because it is a date and you both want it to be, and you both know it should be—”
“Oh, we do? If it were a date we both wanted, we’d have been on one by now.”
She squints at you. “Yeah. Yeah, you’d think, wouldn’t you? But no, Clark is just soooo nice, it doesn’t mean anything, right?”
You stare at her, unamused at her impression of you.
“He’s a nice guy, he is. But he pampers you. And he has been! I mean, you thought Olsen despised you because you’d been spoiled by Clark since the moment you came in.” She rubs her temple and moans your name. “It’s a date. But you won't call it that because you are both so—"
"Remember to be kind," you say. She sends you a tired glare.
"I don't even know what word to use. Hardheaded, oblivious—you've left me speechless. I have no speech."
"And yet," you mumble.
Jimmy corners Clark inside the break room, sending an awkward smile to Lewis before pushing at Clark excitedly. "Dude! Are you guys finally going out?"
Clark winces. "No. It's not like that, we're just going as friends. But it'll be great! She got me tickets and we're gonna get pie."
"Okay.” Jimmy sucks his teeth. ”Well, I'm not going to lie, man, that kind of sounds like a date. That kind of sounds like your ideal date."
Clark rubs at his eyes, voice high. "Please don't say that. I really don't need that right now."
"Okay, Clark, I need you to take a pause and think about what that woman just told you. Look at the tickets in your hands. Look at them, seriously."
Clark raises them to his eyeline. Your name is printed in pixelated block letters, but you've handwritten his name right above. FOR CLARK! :) There are little stars and planets in white gel pen. He recalls the image of you this morning, with a small, quixotic curl to your lips as you said Good morning, Clark, breezing past him to the copy room and then to your desk, where you'd plucked a pen from your mess of papers and scribbled madly.
He's reminded of a late night where he'd told you how much he liked physical tokens of memories, the box under his childhood bed where he'd tucked every carnival ticket and movie stub he'd ever used back in Smallville.
"Did you look at them?"
"Yes."
"Okay. Can you tell me with any honesty at all that you think there is a possibility she would say no if you asked her out?"
"Yes."
Jimmy winces as if Clark's one-word answer left a physical impact. Lewis frowns at his salad. "Clark."
"I don't want to be pretentious and assume."
"You—you aren't. Just be honest. Honesty is key. You say that all the time."
Clark tries to recall a single one of those times as Jimmy grasps his shoulders tightly, forcing him to pay attention.
"Look, man, tomorrow’s the night. For real this time. It's perfect, it's what you've been saying you wanted and she just handed it to you on a silver platter. You can go to the planetarium, buy her a souvenir, get some churros at Centennial and eat them under a tree or something. It’s Saturday, so that guy with the cart will be there for sure. Then, you tell her she has some sugar on her cheek and once you've brushed it away, you move in."
"I move in," Clark echoes. "I ask her out."
"Yes! You ask if she wants to go to that super fancy restaurant that's impossible to get into—"
"Velvet Vine," they say simultaneously.
"And when she asks how you'll ever get a reservation, you tell her you'll take care of it because you've got a guy that knows a guy."
"You," Clark says.
"And my guy is good. She'll get you a good table. I told her about you two and she's been set for months. You have her number, right? Stevie M."
Clark waves his phone. "Yes, on speed dial right below my parents."
"Of course. Tell me what you’ll say.”
"Do you want to have dinner with me at Velvet Vine and maybe take a walk downtown after?" Clark practices. Jimmy gives him an enthusiastic thumbs up.
"And she says yes."
Clark nods, trying to convince himself. "And she says yes. Okay. Okay, yeah. Under the stars." He scratches the back of his neck. "Maybe I can get some roses from that vendor near the playground. Or I could get some sunflowers from the florist on the corner… somehow."
"Yeah, yeah! That sounds perfect, Clark. You just have to go for it. Tomorrow. I believe in you, man."
Thoroughly revved up, Clark grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Jimmy joins him excitedly. "You're gonna get the girl, dude!"
"She's gonna say yes, Clark," Lewis cheers from his table.
Clark and Jimmy give him tight smiles and send him a thumbs up before moving to leave. Cat's at the door when they pull it open, eyeing them suspiciously with a practiced smile, but she lets them through without questions.
"Expecting good news on Monday," Jimmy says quietly as they head back to their desks, fist bumping discreetly as they part.
Clark sinks into his chair with a shaky sigh, granting himself a glance at you across the bullpen.
You're leaning on Lois' desk, nose scrunched and brows furrowed in response to something she's said, foot smacking her ankle. You take advantage of her concentration when she starts on another tangent to meet his eyes, lips quirking up when you notice his attention. You turn toward Lois discreetly, angling your brows and pinching the edges of your eyes, as if you're saying 'Can you believe her?"
Clark shakes his head solemnly. 'No. Unbelievable.'
You grin at him, the moment short and just for him before you turn back to Lois, tamping down your smile.
The warmth he feels in his chest is something Clark thinks would be evidence of Jimmy's certainty. It's not the first time he's thought he could do it, but it is the first time he grabs onto it and holds on to it tight.
Jimmy's expecting good news. Clark's starting to think he'll be able to give him that.
-
Clark arrives at your door fifteen minutes early with big, soft-petaled lilies in his hands and regrets every move he’s made up until then. He stands in front of your doormat, gaze tracing over an image of Snoopy saying hello, and tries to force the little voice from his mind. It’s a little much, Clark, save it for the actual date. This is technically just a thing between friends. You know, what you are.
Snoopy stares back unhelpfully, and Clark glances feebly at the lilies. They’re your favorite. He brings you flowers every time he comes over, but lilies are for special occasions, they always have been. Birthdays and congratulations and I haven’t seen you in a whiles. But this is special, right? He’s never felt they were needed more, but you aren’t exactly aware.
He ponders over this for a few minutes, finding a crease on his collar and a button in the wrong hole, and he’s nearly panting, flowers in the crease of his elbow, neck angled awkwardly to avoid crumpling the petals as he wonders what the hell is wrong with him.
You open your door ten minutes before six and find him downright sorrowful, dark brows pinched and bright eyes stressed at their edges as they look down at a beautiful bouquet, his other hand smoothing down his button-down.
You frown. “What’s wrong?”
“I have a stain on my shirt,” he says, an odd tilt to his voice.
You wrap a gentle hand around his wrist and pull him into the warmth of your apartment, all nice, complementing colors and soft things. You push him into his usual stool and take the flowers with one hand, dipping your nose within the petals and humming happily.
“These are beautiful, Clark,” you say, a gentle finger thumbing at a petal before you carefully put them into a vase. “Where’s this stain? I really doubt the stars will notice, but I can assure you we can fix this.”
“I… it’s…” Clark looks down at himself and finds his shirt pristine. You look over him and shift on your feet, looking at him in concern. He groans, rubbing at his temple. “Did I forget to tell you? I’m seeing things now.”
You offer him the reprieve of a laugh, fingers dancing up his arm in comfort. “What’s wrong? You looked freaked when I opened the door. Are you okay?”
He nods. “Sorry. I’m excited. This was really nice of you and I wanted to look nice.”
You pout. “Clark, you always look nice. Really, sometimes I sit at my desk and think about exactly that.”
He laughs, scratching at his warm jaw like it’ll chase the heat away. “Thank you.”
“And you look so great today! C’mon, stand up.” You step back and make a twirling motion with your finger. He follows your directions because of course he does, his blush crawling faster up his neck when you ooh and ahh. This excuse was a mistake. “Incredible. The stars themselves will be jealous, Kent. You’ll see.”
Clark groans into his hand, fondly embarrassed. Satisfied with your work, you pat at his shoulder and move deeper into the kitchen.
“I got you something,” you say.
“Something else? You didn’t have to do that—” Clark says.
“Oh, stop it. When has that ever deterred me? Or you, for that matter?”
Clark shakes his head and looks at you, looking thoroughly pleased and hiding something behind your back.
“What’cha got there?” Clark asks, catching a peek of yellow.
“Sunflowers,” you say, pulling them out from behind you to present them to him. “I was thinking about how Superman gets flowers all the time, but I didn’t know if Clark Kent did. And Clark Kent deserves flowers.”
Clark stares at the bouquet, flowers within kraft paper with scalloped edges. The sunflowers are big and bright, smiling up at him between little pops of pinks and blues and perfect green leaves. His heart drops into his stomach. He wishes he’d gotten two bouquets. Maybe even three.
You take his silence as something else, smile faltering as you pull the flowers in a little closer. “It’s a little silly. You don’t have to take them, I just—”
“I’ve never gotten flowers before,” he says, grinning down at you. He takes them from you gingerly, bringing them to his face. The petals brush lightly at his chin and tickle his nose and he’s never felt warmer in his life. “Thank you.”
You, to his credit, look flustered. You stammer through a smile, tight but wanting desperately to be bigger. “It’s no biggie. You can, you can leave them here and take them home at the end of the night? If you want to. I’m—just in case you don’t want to carry them around.”
“I’d love to carry them around everywhere, but I think you’re right.” He steps to a familiar cabinet and crouches down to pull out another vase, angling the flowers away from his chest so they don’t get crushed. “Here,” he says, filling it up with water. “I’ll put them right next to yours.” He does as he says, adjusting so the tips of his yellow petals graze the lilies’. You feel your heart in your throat and briefly, truly, believe he wants you dead right now.
“Yeah,” you croak, because you’re really not sure you could get anything else out right now. You clear your throat and nod madly. “Yep. Right. I’m gonna get my purse.”
You disappear into your room and take three deep breaths. Clark does the same outside.
-
Clark is a very sneaky half-boy, half-nerve in the planetarium, always enjoying his time with you and your little jests and vexing flattery. He can’t stop looking at you as you glide along starry floors, asking him questions you probably already know the answers to because he tells you every new fact he knows. His mouth is not a fortress, not to you.
“Now this can’t be true,” you say a few feet away, the exhibit you’re looking at like a halo. “Apparently all the planets in our solar system can fit in between the earth and the moon.”
Clark steps up next to you. “Technically, yes, depending on the moon’s orbit.”
You pitch up one of your brows, smile smug. “My own little Clark Kent is smarter than the museum.” You bring your palm up to your chin, fingers brushing the soft of your cheek as you lean against the wall. You flutter your lashes. “Tell me more.”
He laughs. “The moon's orbit is elliptical, so we’re further away at the apogee and closer at the the perigee. They’re probably talking about the apogee. And they’re using the averages, of course.”
You pause, voice hushed when you speak again. “So, technically, you could go up there and confirm or deny? Without that pesky margin of error?”
The edges of Clark’s eyes crease in thought. “I’d need a really big ruler.”
You nod seriously. “I’ll get to work on it.” He squeezes the slope of your shoulder in thanks.
It’s a few seconds before Clark speaks up again. “Look at that, humans are made of stardust.”
You read through the exhibit, chin cocked. “I’m just a bag,” you murmur.
“A bag of stardust? Actually, I’d say the bag itself would also be stardust in this scenario.”
“It’s not a scenario, Clark,” you tell him, guiding him into a hallway. “It’s reality. But I guess if I have to be a bag, I’d like to carry stardust.”
“I don’t like this metaphor, why can’t you be…” he blinks, following you into another room. “Stardust.”
“Original,” you snort, pausing when you see what he’s looking at.
You’re met with him when you turn, his real nose and chin in flat cardboard. A life-sized cutout of Superman stands up next to a new exhibit, hands at his hips in typical superhero fashion. His smile, as you’ve always thought, is identical to Clark's, dimple just as sweet and the curve of his lips just as genuine. There’s another cutout across from you, only this Superman has his arm outstretched like he’s flying.
KRYPTON is splayed in inquisitive letters across the new exhibit banner.
“Oh,” you say.
There isn’t a lot of information. The gist is, basically, Superman is from here. Here’s what Superman can do. There’s a little section on kryptonite, on the history Clark has explained countless times, but it’s just about what you know from his mouth, barring the obvious personal details.
Clark looks over it, his expression unreadable. “They… they asked last year, but—I didn’t think they…”
He brings a hand up to an illustration of modern-looking skyscrapers and a blueprint of the pod he was sent in. “Did you give them this?” you ask, looking through sketches.
He swallows, shifting a little closer. “They asked me if I could get in touch with Superman, if he’d be willing to share anything… I told them yes. It wasn’t much, I didn’t think they’d have enough for anything.”
You look over some schematics, the vague details, a picture of Superman’s first sighting, and think of the baby pictures you’ve seen of him. “You were just a baby,” you say quietly. “The extent of what you know was what you brought with you.”
Clark nods, the movement half pained. “It’s…” he sighs. “Krypton has a… complicated history. Kara doesn’t talk about it much anymore, but when we were younger, she’d tell me stories. We, they were peaceful. Not perfect at all, but—” He purses his lips, turning to you. “She’d tell me about the sunsets. Krypton’s star had only been red for her, but it hadn’t always been. Elders would say beautiful sunsets were the only kindness the death of a planet brought.”
He huffs softly, looking down.
“The death was slow at first, but they sped it up. They—most didn’t even realize until it was too late.” His jaw clenches, glancing at the brief summary of his parents. It’s short and honest, refusing to expand or theorize. He’s thankful for that. “She said that last sunset was the most magical one she’d ever seen.”
“I’m sorry, Clark,” you say, eyes so earnest it sends a pang through his chest. You wrap your fingers around his and squeeze twice, like you’re trying to force your remorse through touch. He smiles at you in a silent thank you.
“Krypto was just as big of a mess back there,” he says lightly. “The red sun really just made him safer against his will.”
You laugh, your olive branch to his trying to bring up the mood again. “So, he didn’t arrive here and discover he could be a menace, he’s just always been, huh?”
“Kara’s said once or twice that it’s a skill."
“I can see that. I don’t think I could be that destructive even if I really, really tried. Like set my mind on it.”
“I think you could,” Clark says dutifully.
“You’ve always been my number one supporter, Clark. I think if I told you I didn’t think I could fly, you’d tell me, but maybe…” You pitch your voice and make a face Clark thinks is a poor imitation (but you think he doesn’t have much ground to stand on if when he can recognize which one you’re simulating).
“Forgive me for believing in you,” he huffs.
“I will do no such thing,” you say, pulling out your phone. You brighten, pulling at his arm. “Clark, I have another surprise for you. But this one is really the museum’s, I’m just kind of hijacking it.”
He looks at you suspiciously. “If you got me something else, I’m going to buy you a house.”
You roll your eyes. “I did not get you anything else. You’re such a drama queen, come on.”
You lead him down the hallway and in front of a set of closed doors, red velvet ropes hung up in front of them. You push him behind you almost in an attempt to hide him, surreptitiously looking both ways.
“What are we doing?” Clark whispers.
“You’d be a great partner in crime, Clark, you’re so perceptive. I’m glad you’re using your talents for good,” you tell him in the same hushed tone. You look back at him and smile wide, moving away the ropes. “To answer your question, we’re committing a crime.”
Clark’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop you as you pull a key from your purse to open the door. “What?”
“It’s not really a crime, I mean, I don’t think they’d really throw us in jail for this.” You snort, opening the door and gesturing him inside. “Can you imagine us in jail? Oh my god.”
Clark rushes into pitch darkness, worse when you close the door. You shine a thin little light and move somewhere else, clanking following you.
“Maybe museum jail. Like mall jail? I can picture us there. I can really picture you there. But sorry, it’s not a crime. You know how I like my one liners. It’s just something we technically shouldn’t really be doing.”
“Then why are we—”
You make a little aha and suddenly the entire room lights up in a rolling galaxy. Clark’s breath stops, watching intricate swirls and undulating stars pass him by like he’s in the midst. “Holy cow,” he says.
You laugh softly behind him, coming up next to him. He can feel your eyes on him for a few seconds before you turn your attention to the manmade sky around you.
“This room isn’t technically open yet. But I called in a favor and one of the attendants passed me a key. It’s ours for now.” You smile dreamily as bright, scintillating colors slowly flash past. “Isn’t it pretty? I know you’ve probably seen the real thing up close, but—”
“It’s beautiful,” he says. “It’s… wow.”
You bump his shoulder. “I try.”
The both of you stay silent for a few minutes, watching the stars brighten and dim. His fingers stretch out in search, slipping his hand into yours when he finds it.
“Thank you for trusting me with that. With Krypton,” you say quietly. “I know you probably did your big grand trust gesture when you told me who you were—which was, is still insane, by the way.” He feels your hair shift against his arm when you shake your head in disbelief. “You’d known me for a month, Clark. Who does that?”
You laugh, looking up at him in the midst of it. Your eyes shine with stars but are the softest thing he’s ever seen.
“But thank you,” you continue, squeezing his hand. “I don’t think that could have been very easy.”
Clark thinks briefly—certainly—that everything seems easy with you. He’s caught off guard by how honest the notion is, how even this daunting prospect that’s been tying his stomach in knots seems easy right now. How could it not be with you looking up at him like that?
“I hope you know that—”
“Do you want to go out with me? Please?" he blurts.
Clark had wanted roses and chocolates and perhaps a big green willow as a backdrop, but he thinks twinkling simulated stars and a low voice droning on about Saturn will do if you say yes.
You blink at him, eyes glittery. He's terrified for a second, your lips caught on a word.
"I'm really sorry for cutting you off—"
"Yes." You look intense, eyes teeming desperate before your face breaks out into a smile, chin bobbing giddily. "Yes! Of course! Are you joking? Please don't be joking."
"I'm not joking," he says. "I really want to take you out. On a date."
"Thank you for clarifying," you say softly, a nervous slip on pure delight. Your eyes are expectant and shiny now, fingers shaking. "I really want you to take me out. On that date."
“Tomorrow?” Clark asks.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, trying and failing to tamp down your smile. “Where and when? I’ll be there.”
“I’ll pick you up at six.”
- In hindsight, you should have insisted on rescheduling when your phone rings five minutes before Clark said he’d pick you up.
He says “I’m sorry,” immediately after you pick up, halfway through like he’s been muttering it for a while.
“Clark?” you say.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again, out of breath. “I’m gonna be late.”
“Oh.”
“I just—I told the Justice Gang I needed the evening off, and they agreed but Guy was all ‘well, evening starts at 6.’ And then—“ There’s a distant grunt and then dead air for a few seconds before he says “Whoops. That’s my bad—“
You blink at your counter and dive for your remote control. “Clark, what are you doing right now?”
“Just finishing some things up,” he says, a little strained. “I’ll be at your apartment to walk you to the restaurant in ten minutes, okay? We might be a minute or twenty late, but—“
Your TV flickers on to Metropolis News, where Superman—Your Superman—is flying dizzying circles around what appears to be a neon dragon. He makes a small, startled noise through the phone just as it shoots a sharp line of fire at him.
“Clark! What the hell? You’re fighting a fairy tale villain and you’re—for the love of—“
“I’m going to be there. I can do this, I just didn’t want to be late and not call. Jimmy’s contact said she could hold a reservation for twenty minutes, so we’ll be—“
“Clark, we can go to another restaurant. We can go another day, I really think a fire-breathing dragon is up there with good excuses.”
“I’ll be there. You already got ready, our perfect table is all set up—this is really not as bad as it looks.”
You take a deep breath and watch Superman do a complicated series of maneuvers on the television screen so fast your eyes can barely keep up.
“Okay,” you say. “How about this? I’ll head over to make sure we keep our reservation and maybe I can start ordering the appetizers, so they’ll be out and warm when you come by?”
You can hear Clark hesitate.
“It’s a nice night out for a walk,” you say.
Clark sounds pained when he says, “I know.”
“I think the walk back home from a date is way better, anyway. And it’ll be real easy to get past the awkward small talk stage.”
Clark hums. “You’re right. You’re always right.”
“I am,” you say solemnly, attention catching on the bouquet he’d brought you the day before, rearranged in a square little table in your living room. There’s an older bouquet of tulips in the kitchen. “You should quit arguing with me so much.”
“I do not argue with—”
“What’s this combative tone I hear?” you ask accusingly.
“Not combative,” he says, careful. There’s a quick whoosh and a startled, otherworldly sound. “Inquisitive.”
“Inquisitive my ass, Clark,” you snort, reaching across the kitchen stools to grab your bag. It goes with your outfit, a good-sized bag with refined little pockets in a miraculously matching color.
“That is so rude,” he mutters.
“I’ll leave you to your dragon. I imagine it’s the sort of thing that requires your full attention,” you say, locking your door. A smiling metal frog swings from your keyring, smacking straight into a clay duck in a flower hat that Clark had bought you at a market.
“Not at all,” he says, a little strained. “I had all these talking points picked out. Besides, he’s actually pretty nice once you get to know him.”
You hum. “You don’t hear that very much about dragons.”
“I guess I’m just lucky like that.” There’s a distant roar.
“It’s the least you could be,” you muse, reaching the elevator and pressing the down button. It glows lightly in the empty hall as you lean against the wall next to it. “You know, being Superman and all.”
Clark makes a noise like he disagrees, but then he says, “Uh oh.” A series of noises follow.
You straighten. “Clark?”
There’s a distant “I’m okay!” And then a lot of static. You step inside the elevator when it opens, slipping the phone from the crook of your neck to quickly type in 'superman news’ and frantically clicking the LEVEL button.
“Clark?” you call, scrolling through the articles for a warning word. “Superman?”
There’s a quiet second where you watch the numbers slowly blink smaller, your bag slipping down your shoulder. There’s a second of tense silence where you look at your reflection and imagine what it would be like to have him next to you instead of on the phone. He’d take your bag and smile at you in that funny way he does.
“Superman?” you say again, edging desperate this time.
“The dragon is down,” He says. “On the ground. Asleep.”
Your laugh comes out half chuckle and half relieved sigh. The doors parts and you step out, gulping in a big breath of air like you were underwater.
“I’m sorry,” he says, so painfully sincere it makes your heart hurt. You shake your head, sending a small smile to the doorman as you step outside.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” you tell him.
“I have to stay here for a few minutes to make sure he stays down. The Justice Gang’s supposed to take him…”
“That’s okay. I’ll be at the restaurant soon! Ish. Our reservation will remain intact.”
There’s a second of silence. “What are you going to order?”
You laugh. “What?”
He says your name. “Come on, I know you studied up. You can still agonize over the menu for a few minutes and sigh like you’re not quite sure yet. I’ll play along.”
“Summer mushroom truffle risotto. It really gets better with every word.”
“Yeah? Do you have any appetizer in mind?”
“The calamari. Annie Camargo said it was ‘exquisite’ on her visit here three months ago.” You pause. “Sorry, the ‘calamari fritti,’” you say in a careful accent. “But I have backups. I will not embarrass us.”
Clark wants to tell you that you won’t, that you probably can’t embarrass him at all because you’re you and he’s he. But he’s caught on your us. It sounds different, feels nicer.
“The restaurant owners are named Victoria and Martha Sangiovese. Like the grape.” You continue, pushing open the main door. You’re greeted with a gentle wind and the smell of summer. “They sell this ridiculous wine that Stan Martin, twenty-eighteen, loved. We are not getting that wine.”
“Yes, ma’am. Do you have any recommendations for me?”
You press your lips together as you nod even though he can’t see it. “Yes, actually. Spezzatino di Manzo,” you tell him slowly, lips pulled like you’re embarrassed. “It’s like the Italian version of beef bourguignon.”
“My favorite,” he says.
"I know. It’s supposed to be good, but don’t be too hard on it if it’s not like your mom’s.“
Clark grows warm at your memory. “It would be unfair to compare. Someone brought it to a school Thanksgiving and they wouldn’t tell her how to make it, so she worked at the recipe until she got it just right. I think I had it every day for two weeks and I never got sick of it once.”
“She sounds wonderful. I love hearing about how much they love you.” You walk in silence for a moment, pulling your jacket tighter around you. It was supposed to be a strategic move, just warm enough for the walk there but not quite for the walk back. “I want to meet her so badly, but I think I’d get starstruck with how much I know of her secondhand.”
Clark laughs. “Ma’s never been called a celebrity. She’ll like you even more when I tell her that.”
You hum, keen. “You’re gonna tell your mom about me?”
Clark blushes on the other side of the line and knows somehow you can tell. “C’mon. You know I already do.”
“I might have had an inkling.”
“Was it the apple pie she sent you with the note? Or the loaf of bread she made just for you?”
“I like to think I have a touch of telepathy, actually.”
Clark laughs. “That adds up.”
“Oh, come on. As if that would be the weirdest thing to happen. Aren’t you dressed in spandex right now? Flying?”
There’s noises of him shifting. “What am I thinking now?”
There’s a soft mechanical woosh in the background, and you make a big show of humming in thought. “You’re thinking Hawkgirl and them are nearly there for handoff and you’ll be here in five. I think I’ll just about beat you.”
There’s the crunch of dirt. “Oh man. Geez, I really don’t know how you did that, but I swear I won’t say a word about your telepathy again.”
“Maybe one word. The Justice Gang may need me.”
“You’re very funny,” he says. As if he’d let Hal within a mile of you. “I’ll be there sooner than you think.”
You hang up in time to see the restaurant two blocks away. It’s nice and just the appropriate amount of pretentious, balanced out by drooling plants wrapped around the patio deck. There are bright little red flowers like stars against the green. Groups of people lean against the decks, mostly couples whispering between themselves.
“Hello,” you say when you get to the hostess, giving her your best smile. “Um. I believe a reservation for Clark Kent?”
Her eyebrows shoot up and she steps back. “No way. He actually did it this time? Jimmy didn’t say anything.”
You blink at her. “I… I’m sorry?”
“Jimmy has me set aside a table, like, every week. You guys never show up.” She grabs a pair of menus and tsks as she looks behind you. “Well, I guess you guys didn’t this time, either. But you’re here, and I hear that’s the important part.” She waves you inside.
“So, how many times exactly have you held a table for us?”
She makes a scoffing noise. “Oh my god, I couldn’t even tell you. Jimmy’s always like, ‘He said this is the night. I swear this is the night, Stevie, just one more time,‘ and then it never is.” She presents a little table booth in the corner, secluded by an arrangement of plants.
“Oh wow,” you say, stroking a petal as she sets down the menus and utensils.
She turns to you thoughtfully before letting you sit down. “You know, I’ve heard a lot about you guys. Jimmy’s had to convince me to hold a table for a really long time, so I kind of feel like I’m in there with you.”
You chuckle.
“I guess I’m trying to say, both for the sake of my job and, well, you guys, is that I’m glad he finally got the guts to ask you out.”
“And that I said yes?” you ask.
She gives you a look and moves aside to let you in. “As if you’d say no.”
You sit down with a stilted smile and thank her, looking around at the plants. Just when you reach for the menu, you notice Clark being led in by another waitress. He’s dressed in a suit, his tie a little haphazard and his curls windswept in the way you like. He’s also holding a new bouquet of flowers, even nicer than the ones he’d gotten you the day before.
You think briefly that they would look lovely at your entrance.
(Clark’s own bouquet is positioned very deliberately in a gentle beam of sun that hits his counter for the majority of the day. He bought flower nutrients on his last visit with Tracy, who’d looked at him with an expression that reminded him of Lois.)
You move to rise when he meets your eye, but he starts walking a little quicker, nudging his thick frames up his nose while he reaches you.
“Clark,” you say, at the same time he says, “You look beautiful.”
You laugh, feeling yourself flush as he pulls you into a hug. “You look beautiful, too,” you tell him, a little muffled against his shoulder. He smells like smoke and his fancy-schmancy cologne his mom sent him for special occasions. For a second, you’re at the Metropolis gala, just a month into knowing him in a glittery gown and just as nervous.
“Gosh, you’re just saying that,” he says, giving you one last squeeze before he steps back. You grin up at him, eyes bright and crinkled. You always look nice, and he means it when he says it, but you’re beaming today, so happy he can see it. It makes him warm all over, wondering briefly if you can see it on him, too. "You look very nice. Beautiful."
You smile. "You already said that," you say, quiet like it's a secret.
Clark reddens, shaking his head. "Been a minute. Still beautiful."
You roll your eyes abashedly, practically melting into the chair he pulls out for you with a tricky little motion. You want to scream, he looks so handsome.
You thank him and hold the bouquet to your chest as the both of you sit, eyeing the lettuce-hemmed scabiosas and wide-petaled lilies. “I think you are single-handedly keeping a florist afloat,” you tell him, the delight in your eyes when you sink your nose into the flowers ensuring Tracy another month open. “But we can meet without a gift. I swear.”
He laughs, watching you carefully place the bouquet in your purse so the flowers won’t be crushed. “My mom says you should always have flowers.”
“Oh, me specifically,” you tease, adjusting the flowers. “Gosh, well, you’re fair game, but I can’t argue with her.”
Clark cocks his chin. “I thought you’d be nicer on a date.”
“As if you’d want me to be nice,” you challenge. You lean forward a little. “C’mon, Clark. You like me a little mean.”
Clark goes pink immediately.
You snort. “You have to learn how to take it if you’re gonna dish it out, Kent.”
He runs a hand over his face and sighs. “I know,” he groans. “It’s hot in here. Isn’t it hot in here?”
“Do you want me to flirt or would that make it worse?”
Clark exhales. “What do you think?”
“My gosh, Clark. Our first date and I can’t tease, I can’t flirt, what are we supposed to do for fun?”
“Give me a second to catch up. I swear I’ll knock your socks off on our third date."
You gasp playfully. “How very presumptuous. Third date.”
“Don’t.”
“That’s my bad, force of habit.”
Clark bites back a grin as he shakes his head, reaching for the menu when his phone buzzes once, twice, three times in increasingly quick succession.
You quirk a brow. “Jimmy?”
“My folks,” Clark says sheepishly, pulling it out of his pocket. “They’re not good at texting, so I taught her and Pa about gifs last time I went over, and. Well.” He shows you the screen, a wall of good luck gifs varying in absurdity playing simultaneously. He rubs at the back of his neck when you laugh. “They know I’m a little nervous.”
You look at a little dancing cartoon his mom sends in next and look up at Clark. “I didn’t tell Lois, either,” you admit, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I kind of wanted it to be just our night. No outside influences.” You trace a finger down the side of his phone and smile cheekily at him. “With some obvious necessary exceptions. What did they tell you?”
Clark flushes a deep, tantalizing pink. “The basics.” He glances up at your ceiling and tries to make it look normal. “There’s pie waiting for you back at my apartment.”
Your brows jump. “Forward, Kent. I’m impressed, we haven’t even ordered appetizers.”
Clark’s eyes go wide. “Aw, man, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m teasing,” you say lightly, patting his arm. “Not like you’d need the pie to lure me in, but it certainly helps.”
Clark flusters so deeply, you see it written in his face, blinking fast at you. “We should order,” he blurts.
You lean back and shake your head. "No, I want to look over the menu for a little bit and do my whole," you breathe out the biggest sigh he's ever heard and pitch up your voice, "'My god, I just can't decide!' thing." You meet his eye and purse your lips. “You promised, Clark.”
He laughs, putting his hands up in surrender. “Yes ma’am.”
There’s sudden chatter throughout the restaurant, and your attention is pulled over to the little television one of the waitresses has turned on. BREAKING NEWS flashes in a red banner at the bottom of the screen, where a reporter looks distraught. There’s a little picture of Lex Luthor at the top right and a video of citizens running away from a massive fire right below it. The Justice Gang is already there, fighting a slim metallic thing that seems to disappear and reappear.
The restaurant goes silent and tense as the reporter speaks. “—don’t quite know what it is, but the damage caused is—” There’s an explosion that cuts off his words and makes him flinch. “The situation seems to be contained to the warehouse in Suicide Slum, but there are only neighborhoods nearby when it expands.”
You finally peel your attention away to look at Clark, who’s eyes are already contrite and on you.
“Go,” you say quietly, hoping your nod will mask your disappointment. “Save the world.”
He clenches his jaw as he moves to stand, but stops when he notices you grabbing your purse.
"Wait," he says, knees knocking against the table. His Adam's apple bobs as he cants toward you. "Please wait. I'll come back as soon as I can and we can finish our date."
"We can do this another time, Clark. I get it—I'm not upset."
"I don't want to do this another time," he says, wide eyes searching your face. "I've been waiting—been waiting so long, and now you're finally—we're finally—" He sighs. "Wait? Please? I'll be be back soon. So soon. I swear." His hands are strained white on top of the tablecloth, an upset wrinkle between dark brows.
"Okay," you say gently, reaching out to hold his hand. "I'll wait. I'll wait here for you."
Clark's sigh takes his whole body with it, shoulders slowly dropping back down to their normal height. He squeezes your hand, nodding resolutely. "I'll come back soon."
You smile at him as he stands, quickly folding up his cloth napkin and setting it near his fork. "Be safe," you tell him, as surreptitiously as you can afford in the middle of the restaurant. He catches it even as he leaves, shooting you one more glance before he pushes a side door open and leaves.
-
You order a lot of bread.
The waitress won't even give you dirty looks each time she refills your water; a tight, pitiful smile on her face when she offers you an appetizer on the house once you've gotten your third bread basket. She's added two little cups of butter and not bothered with thin slices this time.
She brings you a plate of calamari with a shake of her head ten minutes later. "Asshole. You look gorgeous, honey."
You're not quite sure what to say to her. It's not like that, he's out saving Metropolitans from imminent danger? So you tell her thank you and leave her a sizeable tip an hour later.
You quietly slip out the restaurant door and hook your purse on your shoulder, a little sad and more than a little disappointed that you're under the night sky alone. You step off to the side next to a bucket of magnolias and check your phone, just in case Clark has texted in the minute you’ve taken to leave the restaurant, but he’s still radio silent.
You gently pull your flowers out of your bag and start your way back home, searching for any news mentioning Superman with your other hand. There are the usual pet rescues and sightings earlier in the day and at the very top, a solemn update to the attack. You shudder and slip your phone back into your purse, shoulders up to your ears and keys in hand.
It's supposed to be a fifteen-minute walk back to your apartment, but it feels longer under the stars. You’d made your way to the restaurant illusioned with the promise of going back arm in arm with Clark.
You’re careful and attentive walking back, even if you’re sulking. You can practically hear Clark reminding you to periodically check for shadows as you walk under a streetlight. Pulling your purse a little closer to your side, you contemplate sending Clark a message but think against it. You'll let him know if he asks, once you're certain he's safe and you’re splayed out at home.
You pass into a darker part of the street and start to grow uneasy. Just when you start feeling ready to admit you’re feeling watched, a gust of wind pushes you a foot back. You squeeze your eyes shut and start to scramble for the Superman Panic Button (trademarked by Mister Terrific) hooked on your keychain, but promptly stop when you manage to force your eyes open.
Clark's walking toward you. Well, Superman, but you can't really tell the difference when he looks at you like this—so sorry he looks small.
It's moments like these when you truly can't believe that you ever missed the fact that Superman was your same coworker one desk over. It's a different face, but he's got that same smile, the same guilty crease between his brows. Your lips start to make out the first shapes of his name when you catch yourself.
"Superman," you say, eyes twinkling.
The name lifts his shoulders only a little, lips setting in a reticent line. You smile. You haven't gotten to see him in his getup so close in a while and you'd missed his face—his real face, lovely and upset as it is right now. It doesn't fit him.
"Miss," he says guiltily, taking a tentative step toward you.. You remember the first time you grimaced at Ma'am. "Er—I noticed you walking home alone."
"I'm not anymore," you chime, crossing the distance between you in two quick steps to grab onto his arm. "You're gonna walk with me, yeah?"
He looks at you and can't help the shame. You look beautiful. You'd looked beautiful for your date and now it's gone by without him. "I'm sorry," he tells you quietly, watching your brows contort in confusion. "I'm so sorry."
"What?" Your smile begins to melt into confusion.
"I didn't come back. I told you I would, but when I got to the restaurant, the waitress just gave me a dirty look and told me I was a dog. And I am! I'm so sorry—"
"Clark," you say, quiet. You lift your hands up to his face, gently holding his jaw. "I don't understand."
"I stood you up," he says, wincing like it physically hurts. You feel a little muscle in his jaw stretch and contract. "I was really looking forward to our date," he confesses. "And you got all dressed up and I just left you there."
"You didn't just leave me there," you tell him incredulously. "Metropolis was in danger. People were in danger. You saw that somebody needed help and you went to help them. That's not the same thing."
He still looks so sad. It breaks your heart.
"And you asked me to stay becayse you thought you'd make it. You wanted to make it." You squeeze him lightly for emphasis, wanting it to seep into his skin how much you mean it. Your voice falls into something steadier. "But it's okay that you couldn't. You're here now and in one whole piece. I'm happy."
His eyebrows "I'm still sorry I messed up our first date."
"You didn't mess anything up," you promise. "But I forgive you anyway, okay? Really." At his first indulgent nod, you squeeze lightly at his shoulder, hooking your arm through his again. "Besides. Metropolis is nearly devastated like, twice a week. I was prepared for this possibility. We'll try again. What's one more week?"
Clark pauses. "One more week," you hear him mumble from behind you, and then he pulls you, careful, to turn you around. He has the nerve to look a little sheepish. "I don't really want to wait one more hour."
You’re gearing up to say something about patience being a virtue when he takes your face in his hands and kisses you. He’s kind about it, which you expected, craned over you so you don’t have to tiptoe and loose in his hold so you can back away, like you’d ever. He gasps a little when you get over your surprise to kiss him back, eagerly running your hands up his arms to rub at his jaw. After a few seconds, a light flickers like a reminder that you need to come up for air.
You can’t help your laugh when you pull away, fully dazed and a little unsteady on your feet. Luckily, Clark’s hands have drifted down to your waist, where he holds you firmly and keeps you from tilting over. He’s looking at you, eyes sparkling as he nudges your nose with his.
“Well, then,” you say weakly. And then, because for once, you’re lost for words. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to wait.”
-
You can already feel a shift in the air when you step through the entrance of the Daily Planet and find Clark in front of the elevators.
“Hello, Clark Kent,” you say with a smile. His entire face lights up when he sees you, adjusting his glasses as he murmurs your name. He takes your bag from you and hooks it on his shoulder. “How very sweet of you.”
“You look nice,” he tells you, thumb ghosting at the hem of your blouse when the elevator doors open. You feel his hand graze the small of your back as he helps you inside, the warmth of his palm staying even after he’s moved it back to his side. You watch the numbers slowly blink higher and look down at his hand, fingers stretching out and curling back in.
“You can’t just tell me stuff like that anymore, you know. I’m involved,” you say. “And he’d mess you up.”
He turns toward you, amused. “I think I’ll take the risk.” You let him step closer and stoop down to press a kiss to your lips.
“Jimmy’s gonna freak,” he says quietly when you pull away. You step away from him and adjust his collar.
“Maybe let’s not talk about Jimmy right now?”
Clark cringes. “I’m sorry. I was being so cool about it, too.”
You bite your cheek to stop from laughing, leaning against the elevator railing. “The coolest.”
“Don’t make fun of me! You’re telling me you haven’t thought about Lois’ reaction?”
You giggle, stepping out of the elevator at the chime. “I don’t know! I haven’t really thought about it. I figure I’ll just—”
The moment you walk onto your floor, it goes silent. Every eye in the office is on you. Your words trail off as you fall into step with Clark.
“Okay,” you whisper. “Did I come in naked?”
“No?” he whispers back, brows furrowing when he hears the whispers.
“I heard he was going to ask her out, like, the day they got found out. It's so sad. He didn't even know." To his utter bewilderment, Shauna from Cooking gives him a pitying look.
Lois and Jimmy stomp over to you when you get to the bullpen, eyes wide. “You’re dating Superman?”
“What?”
They shove a phone into your hands, where an article reads MISSUS SUPERMAN? And right underneath, a photo of you and Superman locking lips from the night before. HERO PHOTOGRAPHED GETTING COZY WITH JOURNALIST AFTER FIRE CRISIS LEAVES TWO INJURED. A picture of you when you started at the Daily Planet points to the half of your face seen.
꒰ wc ꒱ 20k words
꒰ summary꒱ bucky barnes can handle almost anything except the way you make him feel chosen one moment and disposable the next. loving you would be simple, if you weren’t so fucking confusing.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), college au, situationship, bucky pov, avoidant!reader, lovesick!bucky, mutual pining, asshole!bucky miscommunication, commitment issues, yearning!bucky, toxic relationship, reader is emotionally avoidant, alcohol and weed use, unprotected piv sex, drunk sex, oral sex (f receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, rough sex, dirty talk, jealousy, bucky goes through ittt,
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
it has been such an honour being apart of this collab. i love it so much. thank you so much to @iamthatonefangirl and @barnesonly for hosting this beautiful cutesy collab, and putting all this effort and thought in, love you bwabies. on another note this fic has also been the bane of my existence. literally created this fic for one scene in mind, only to not add it because i didnt have time, im actually devastated.
anyway enjoy my loves <3
BWAT MASTERLIST — MASTERLIST
divider by my bby @barnesonly
The night was going perfectly until you walked in.
Bucky had a sweating bottle of beer hooked between two fingers, the label curling pink under his damp thumb.
Sam was pressed against his side, yelling something loudly idiotic directly into his ear; something about a bet, or a dare, or a girl whose name Bucky would forget by morning. He caught none of it.
The kitchen was chanting his name. The sound bounced off the sticky counters and the sweat-slick walls, a drunk, gleeful roar for a drinking game he didn’t remember starting, let alone winning.
He bared his teeth in a grin, let the noise wash over him like a wave of approval he was too buzzed to question.
Some girl he couldn’t name had dragged her glitter-dusted fingers across his cheekbone an hour ago, leaving a streak of lime-green that caught the strobe light like a neon sign against his skin.
Steve had been pretending not to laugh about it for the last twenty minutes, mouth tight, eyes bright with amusement every time he caught Bucky working the room with a fresh smear of sparkle on his face.
The whole house smelled like it was sweating out its own wild heart; weed smoke curling thick through the pulsing lights, cheap perfume wrestling with spilled beer and tequila, the sour-sweet musk of bodies pressed too close for too long.
It smelled like a night everyone would be pretending not to regret by the time the sun burned through the blinds.
A girl from Tony’s econ class—Eden… or Edith, he couldn’t remember—had her fingers locked around his wrist, tugging him toward the hallway where the bass bled into something slower, heavier.
The lights back there flickered green, pulsing like a heartbeat under the floorboards. She was pulling him toward the dark, and her lips were parted, and she was saying something he didn’t need to hear to understand.
Bucky let himself be pulled.
One step. Part of a grin. His thumb dragging across her knuckles in a promise he had made to a hundred girls before her. He was already opening his mouth, ready to offer something charming and perfectly hollow.
Then the front door opened.
He didn’t hear it. Not over the bass that was rattling the drywall. Not over Sam’s drunken cackle. Not over the sharp crash of glass shattering somewhere behind him, Thor probably, baptising another piece of the house with whatever expensive bottle he’d smuggled in from Norway. The kitchen cheered.
But Bucky’s head turned anyway.
Like gravity had taken the decision out of his hands.
You stepped in behind Natasha, Gamora a quiet shadow at your shoulder, and you were already laughing, hand pressed to Natasha’s forearm, mouth shaped around a sound the party swallowed whole.
You hadn’t seen him yet.
That, he thought, was always the worst part. Those few seconds where he got to want you without having to hide it. Where he could let the grin slide off his face and just look at you.
Let himself want, openly, stupidly, while the party roared on around him and his hand was still wrapped around some other girl’s wrist.
He must have gone still. Must have stopped grinning, because Sam followed the line of his stare like a bloodhound catching scent.
Sam groaned, and slapped a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder.
“Oh, here we fucking go.”
He felt like an impatient puppy, and he hated it, hated the way his pulse had picked up, the way his palm had gone clammy around the bottle, the way he couldn’t stop tracking the curve of your ass as you drifted through the crowd.
Eden/Edith was still talking. Her fingers were sliding up his forearm, nails scraping lightly, trying to reclaim the heat she’d had a lock on before the front door opened.
She didn’t know it yet, but she had absolutely no chance.
Bucky let her touch linger for a beat longer than polite, just long enough to make her think she was still in the running, then he let his gaze drift past her face like she’d already become background noise.
She was still talking, something about a quieter room, a better view from the upstairs balcony, but her words were just shapes in the air, meaningless vibrations against the bass.
He waited. Watched you, Natasha and Gamora carve out a corner of the living room, claiming a sagging couch and a half-empty bottle of something pink. You settled into the cushions like you owned them, one leg tucked under you, head tilted toward Gamora as she said something that made you smile.
And then Scott Lang appeared, as if summoned by the scent of a female audience, already gesturing wildly with both hands, launching into a story that was probably 80% fabrication.
The girl from econ was still talking. Bucky shrugged her hand off his arm and walked away mid-sentence.
He crossed the room with the lazy, unhurried confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going and knew he’d be welcome when he got there. Scott was still going, his voice rising in pitch as he reached the climax of whatever tall tale he was spinning now.
“—and I swear to God, Hope looked me dead in the eye and said, ‘If you can’t fit it through the door, it’s not coming home with us.’ And I said, ‘Watch me.’”
“That did not happen, Lang,” Natasha cut in, shaking her head, but the smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
“On Hope’s life it did,” Scott insisted, pressing a hand to his chest. “Would I lie to you girls?”
The three of you exchanged a look. It was skeptical, humoured, a shared hum that was more mocking than affirming. Scott opened his mouth to continue, but Bucky was already moving into the gap.
“Ladies,” he said, drawling the word like it was a gift he was bestowing. He smiled, a little lopsided, the lime-green glitter catching the light as he shouldered his way into the space between you and Gamora on the couch.
“For fuck’s sake, Barnes,” Gamora muttered, but she shifted, grudgingly making room. Bucky’s focus was already locked on you, his body angled toward yours like a compass needle finding north.
He settled in, his thigh pressing against yours, the heat of him bleeding through the thin fabric of your jeans. He slung an arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling just behind your shoulder, claiming the space around you like it was his by right.
“Party started at nine,” he said, his voice already slurred with alcohol and the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was the best thing in the room. He was grinning, his pupils blown wide in the dim light. “It’s almost twelve. What’s your excuse?”
You laughed, and the sound of it hit him somewhere low in his chest. “You’ve never heard of fashionably late, Buck?”
He rolled his eyes, the gesture exaggerated and fond. “Whatever, doll.”
The word hung between you, before your hand moved almost on instinct. Your thumb came up to his cheek, pressing gently against the glitter clinging to his skin. The green flecks caught the dim light, and your touch was featherlight, curious, your brow arching as you rubbed at the shimmer.
“And where is this from?” you asked, your voice carrying that edge of playful interrogation he knew too well.
Bucky’s brain short-circuited. The warmth of your palm against his cheek, the way your fingers lingered just a second too long ,it was enough to make him forget his own name, let alone the girl whose hands had been all over him an hour ago. He blinked, swallowed, and the lie came easy.
“Barton.” He said it flatly, like it was obvious. “Got bored. Started throwing glitter at people. You know how he gets.”
He held your gaze, hoping the alcohol flush hid the flicker of guilt. He didn’t want to say some girl blonde chick whose face he’d already forgotten. Didn’t want to see that hint of something—jealousy? disappointment?—cross your features. Even if he wasn’t sure it would.
Before you could press further, his hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist. His fingers were warm, slightly sticky from condensation and beer, and he tugged gently, an insistent pull that was more plea than demand.
“Come with me.”
You didn’t move. Your grin was still in place, but your body stayed rooted, and you tilted your head, giving him your best scolding look, the one that made his stomach twist because it meant you were about to say no.
“I just got here, Buck. Don’t be rude.”
He huffed, the sound escaping him like an impatient child denied a treat. His jaw tightened, and he turned his head, addressing the two women lounging beside you with exaggerated politeness that was almost ridiculous given his disheveled state.
“May I steal your friend for a few moments? Please?” He even tacked on a smile, though it came out a little strained.
Gamora didn’t bother hiding her irritation. She shot him a look that could curdle milk, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like dumbass.
It was Natasha who answered, her eyes flickering between the two of you with an amusement that made Bucky feel like a specimen under a microscope.
“Just bring her back in one piece,” Natasha said, raising her glass in a lazy toast. “Preferably still clothed.”
Bucky’s mouth opened, but no words came out. He didn’t have time to form a response, because you were already opening your mouth to protest, and he wasn’t about to give you the chance.
He tugged. Harder this time. You stumbled forward, a surprised laugh escaping your lips as he pulled you off the couch and into the crowd. His hand stayed wrapped around your wrist, a warm anchor as he weaved through bodies and noise, dragging you behind him like a prize he’d won.
“Where are you taking me, Bucky?” you called over the music, your voice half-laughing, half-breathless.
“You’ll see,” he shouted back, not bothering to turn around. His eyes scanned ahead, spotting the staircase, the path clear for now. He felt your wrist shift against his grip, and without thinking, he slid his hand down, interlacing your fingers with his.
Behind him, across the room, Edith/Eden was still watching. Her glare burned against the back of his neck, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything except the warmth of your palm pressed against his, the sound of your laughter cutting through the bass, and the need to get you alone.
By the time the door slammed shut behind them, the bass from downstairs was just a dull throb through the walls, a welcome relief from the chaos of the party.
Bucky’s room was a disaster; clothes spilling out of an open drawer, the sour tang of old beer cans mingling with the familiar musk of his cologne, a single lamp casting a weak amber glow over the wreckage.
He didn’t spare it a second glance, making a beeline for his dresser like a man on a mission.
You lingered by the door, arms crossed, taking in the scene with a slow, deliberate sweep of your eyes. “Jesus Christ, Bucky,” you said, your voice flat and deeply amused. “You’re a pig.”
Bucky snorted, a low, warm sound that vibrated through his chest. He didn’t bother turning around. His fingers dug through the wreckage of his top drawer, pushing aside a crumpled pack of cigarettes and a stray condom wrapper that had seen better days.
“Crash here tonight,” he tossed over his shoulder, the words slurring just a little around the edges, “and you can be my maid of honour. Organise my sock drawer. Judge my questionable life choices.”
His fingers finally closed around the small metal tin hidden at the very back. He pulled it out like a trophy, turning just in time to catch the affronted scoff that escaped your lips.
“You wish, Barnes.”
Your voice was sharp, dismissive, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
Bucky held your gaze for a beat too long, something hot and unguarded flickering in his chest. His mouth moved before his brain caught up. “Yeah,” he murmured, turning to his desk to hide the sudden heat creeping up his neck. “Sweetheart, I wish every damn night.”
He busied himself with the familiar ritual of rolling; paper, weed, a careful distribution; refusing to look back, refusing to see if your expression shifted.
A beat of silence. Then your voice came again, softer now, laced with amusement. “You know, you’re cute when your brain-to-mouth filter is busted.”
He snorted, ducking his head to hide the grin spreading across his face. “Shut up.”
He was methodical despite the drink swimming in his veins, surprisingly steady. He sprinkled the weed, spread it even, and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger with a practiced ease that came from plenty of late nights just like this one.
His tongue darted out to wet the edge of the paper, sealing it shut with a final, satisfied press.
When he turned around, holding the blunt up between his fingers like a prize, his grin was crooked. “Look what I got.”
You had perched yourself on the edge of his bed, hands planted behind you, legs crossed. The springs creaked under your weight. That same infuriating, amused smile was painted across your face, like he was a puppet and you were the one pulling the strings.
Like his entire purpose in the universe was to make you laugh, to make you roll your eyes, to make you look at him with that perfect mix of exasperation and warmth.
And God help him, he’d take it. He’d take every scrap of attention you threw his way.
“On a scale of one to ‘I’m about to make a terrible decision’,” you asked, tilting your head, “where exactly are you right now, Bucky?”
He crossed the room in a few long strides, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of you. The blunt hung loose between his fingers.
“Enough that I know exactly how bad of an idea this is, sweetheart.” His hand shot out, wrapping around your wrist, fingers warm and calloused. He pulled you to your feet before you could brace yourself.
You stumbled into him, palms flat against his chest, the blunt pressed gently between your bodies for a fleeting second. “And I’m doing it anyway.”
He didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his hand down, threading his fingers through yours, and tugged you toward the window, the one that led to the fire escape.
“C’mon. Let’s get high.”
Fifteen minutes dissolved into a warm, syrupy haze where time stopped mattering and the only gravity left in the universe was the curve of your body against his.
Bucky was laughing; a low, breathless, almost giddy sound; right against your open mouth. The space between you had surrendered completely, chest to chest, your thighs brushing his, the bitter-sweet taste of the blunt lacing every shared exhale.
He’d stopped passing the joint a while ago. Now it was just a prop, a thin ember burning slowly between his fingers while he held it up to your lips like he was feeding you something sacred. You took a drag without him asking, lips parting automatically, eyes never leaving his.
“That was my last,” you murmured as you pulled back, the smoke curling from your lips in a lazy ribbon.
You didn’t bother aiming it away from him. He wished you’d blow it directly into his mouth so he could taste you.
“No such thing as ‘last’ with me, sweetheart.” His words were slow, syrup-thick, drunk on you more than the alchol in his system. “You started this. Gotta finish what you started.”
He brought the blunt back to your lips before you could argue, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You took another hit, holding his gaze like a challenge.
“You’re such a bad influence on me, Barnes.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, shaking his head, the dopey grin on his face mirroring yours. “I’m the bad influence?”
He leaned closer, his nose brushing the shell of your ear, voice dropping to a rough, amused murmur. “Baby, I’m just following your lead. You walked into that party looking like a full-course meal. You climbed out my window. You’re the one keeping me out here, freezing my ass off, just to watch you smoke my weed and smile at me like I’m your favourite toy.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted.
“If anyone’s the devil here, sweetheart… it’s definitely you.”
Your dopey smile stretched wider, pushing up your cheeks, eyes crinkling at the corners. He almost groaned at the sight. The way you looked at him; like he was a puzzle you were enjoying taking apart, piece by piece.
“Shut up,” you said, your voice soft, fond, dismissive.
The words were barely a whisper before his came, immediate and rough.
“Make me.”
The air between you snapped taut. Your smile faded into something heavier, something that made his pulse skip and slam double-time. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He just stared you down, waiting, daring you, his arm tightening around your waist like he was ready to hold you there forever if that’s what it took.
Your eyes dropped to his lips.
Yes. Yes. Close the distance. Kiss me. Let me feel those lips against mine.
He watched you watch him. Watched the hesitation flicker behind your hooded eyes. Watched the want and the caution war inside you. He wanted to beg. Wanted to grab your jaw and bridge the gap himself.
But he held still, letting you make the call, letting you feel the weight of the choice hanging between you.
Instead, you broke the spell with a grin, that same infuriating, playful grin, and shoved him square in the chest.
“As fun as this is, watching you turn into a lovesick mess, Nat’s gonna send a search party if I’m gone much longer.”
You didn’t wait for an answer. You twisted out of his grip, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to flash the smooth skin of your lower back as you climbed back through the window.
Bucky bit back a groan so sharp it almost hurt. He dragged a hand down his face, letting out a frustrated breath that fogged in the cool air. His entire body was humming, wired, aching.
He didn’t give himself time to think. He followed you on your heels, dropping through the window and landing in the mess of his room just as your feet hit the floor. His hand shot out, catching your wrist, spinning you gently but firmly back to face him.
“You’re gonna pay for that, you know.”
Your eyebrows lifted, amused. “Pay for what?”
“Leaving a man hanging.” His voice was lower now, rougher, stripped of the playful buzz. “Making me follow you around like some puppy. Dangling yourself in front of me and then slipping away.”
You tilted your head, that infuriating smile still playing at your lips. “Poor Bucky. Must be so hard, wanting something you can’t just charm your way into.”
His jaw tightened. There was no malice in your voice; just teasing, still wrapped in that same playful edge that had been driving him up the wall all night.
But something in him snagged on it anyway.
Maybe it was the weed, loosening the screws in his head. Maybe it was the beer, sticky and warm in his bloodstream.
Maybe it was the simple, agonising fact that you were standing in his room with your mouth still soft and swollen from smiling at him, your wrist warm and alive under his thumb, acting like he was insane for wanting the very thing you kept placing just out of reach.
Bucky’s thumb pressed into the delicate skin over your pulse. He felt it skip. Felt the flutter of it beneath his touch, like a bird trapped in a cage of bone and breath.
“Maybe I’m not trying to charm my way into it.”
Your smile didn’t fall all at once. That would’ve been merciful.
It faded slowly, like a candle snuffed from across the room, a gradual dimming that left shadows in its wake. Your brows pulled together, the teasing tilt of your head softening into something careful. As if you were reading the fine print of a contract you hadn’t agreed to.
Bucky should’ve stopped there.
He knew he should’ve. He could feel the edge of it under his feet, that familiar precipice where the air changed and you started looking for the nearest exit without ever moving toward the door. Your eyes flickered, just once. Toward escape.
But he was drunk. He was high. And he was so goddamn tired of wanting you like a dog waiting under a dinner table for scraps, hungry and patient, and always left with nothing.
So he kept going.
“Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you want from me.”
Your eyes searched his face, hunting for the joke, the punchline, the easy way out.
For one second, you looked almost wounded. Like he had reached past the game and touched something raw without asking first. Your lips parted, and something flickered behind your eyes.
Then you blinked, and it was gone. Wiped clean like a slate.
“Bucky.”
He hated the way you said his name then. Soft. Gentle. Like a warning whispered to a child on the verge of a tantrum. Like you were trying to calm something down before it made a mess.
“What?” he asked, though his voice had already lost its bite, gone flat and hollow.
“You’re drunk.”
He laughed once, short and humourless, the sound scraping out of his throat. “Yeah, you said that already.”
“And high.”
“And still not stupid.” His voice cracked on the last word, betraying him.
Your lips pressed together into a thin, unreadable line.
There it was. The wall. Not slammed up, not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but Bucky felt it like a physical shift in the air. Your wrist went still in his hand, no longer warm, no longer responsive. Your shoulders drew back half an inch, a subtle retreat.
Your gaze flicked past him, toward the door, toward the party, toward anything that was not this room and the thing he had just dragged into the light.
His stomach dropped before you even spoke.
“I should go back downstairs.”
Of course.
Bucky let go of your wrist like it had burned him. His hand fell to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist, the ghost of your pulse still tingling against his palm.
“Right.”
Your expression shifted. Something tight and wounded flickered across your features before you smoothed it over.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.” You gestured vaguely at his face, at the flatness in his eyes, the bitter set of his jaw. “Act like I did something.”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, swallowed by the bass that kicked harder for a few seconds, rattling an empty beer can on his desk. The sound skittered across the wood like a nervous heartbeat.
Bucky dragged his tongue across his teeth, tasting smoke and bitterness. He nodded once, like he had just figured something out. Like the pieces had finally clicked into place, and the picture wasn’t pretty.
“You didn’t,” he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended. “That’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”
Something flashed across your face.
Hurt, maybe. Guilt. A flicker of recognition at the truth buried under his words.
Or maybe he was making things up again because he wanted so badly for there to be something underneath all that pretty nothing you kept giving him. Wanted it like a bruise he couldn’t stop pressing.
Your voice was quieter when you said, “I was just joking with you.”
“Yeah,” he said, forcing a smile that felt wrong on his mouth. “You’re good at that.”
The air stalled between you.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood there in the weak amber light of his disaster of a room, the glow spilling from the desk lamp casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.
Close enough that he could still smell smoke on your breath, mixed with something sweet, your lip gloss, maybe, or the conditioner you used. Far enough that he knew if he reached for you again, you would probably let him.
That was the worst part.
You would let him.
You would let him touch your waist, pull you into him by the hand. You would sigh against his mouth like you had been waiting for it. You would make him feel like he had finally cracked through every wall you built.
And then tomorrow, in front of everyone, you would smile at him like none of it had happened. Like he was just another face in the crowd.
Bucky swallowed. His throat clicked dryly.
“Go on, then,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Nat’s waiting, right?”
Your eyes lifted to his.
He could tell you didn’t like that. Could tell by the tiny pinch between your brows, the way your mouth parted around a response you didn’t seem to have ready. He had pushed too hard, and now you were scrambling for solid ground.
But you still went.
You brushed past him, shoulder grazing his chest, and he hated himself for noticing the contact, the warmth of you through the thin fabric of your top. Hated himself more for wanting to turn his head and follow the line of your back as you moved away.
At the door, your hand closed around the knob. The metal turned with a soft click.
Then you paused.
“Buck?”
He looked at you because he always looked when you said his name like that.
You seemed to regret calling for him the second he did. Your face softened, and for one stupid, awful second, he thought you might come back. He thought you might say sorry. He thought you might say anything real enough for him to hold onto.
Instead, you gave him a small smile.
“Don’t sulk too much.”
Then you slipped out, leaving the door half-open behind you. The hallway light bled across the floor, carrying muffled voices and the thrum of music.
Bucky stood there for a few seconds, heart punching slow and heavy against his ribs, listening to the party swallow you back whole.
Then he laughed under his breath,low and mean and mostly at himself. The sound scraped out of his chest and died in the empty air.
“Yeah,” he muttered to the cluttered room. “Sure.”
Bucky hated spring festivals.
That was a lie.
Usually, he loved this shit. Loved the noise, the way the quad swarmed with bodies in a heat that felt almost reckless for April, the sun bleaching the grass and pavement into something too bright, too clean.
Loved the cheap beer poured into plastic cups and hidden inside soda cans, the shameless excuse to get drunk in broad daylight and call it school spirit.
Usually, he would have walked in like he owned the whole fucking place.
Today, he trailed Sam and Steve through the crowd with his hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and a mood that sat heavy in his chest; sour, curdled, thick enough to spoil the entire afternoon.
Sam was talking. Steve was answering. The two of them had been at it for at least five minutes about something Bucky couldn’t muster the energy to care about.
Something about whether Clint could legally enter the pie-eating contest twice if he changed his shirt between rounds.
“He wore a wig, man,” Sam was saying, his voice threaded with genuine affront. “Like that was supposed to make people forget he’s still Clint fucking Barton.”
Steve exhaled a short, tired laugh. “The volunteer was a freshman. She panicked.”
“She panicked because he called himself Clara Barta.”
Bucky stared past them at a girl in a neon-green cowboy hat trying to scale someone’s shoulders and nearly eating shit in the grass.
He wasn’t hearing any of it properly.
His eyes kept drifting before he could stop them. Over the food trucks. Across the knot of bodies near the makeshift stage. Past the sorority booth selling overpriced lime slushies.
Toward every flash of gold jewelry, every laugh that pitched too close to yours, every figure moving beside a redhead or a girl with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
He was not looking for you.
He wasn’t.
He had told himself that before they even left the house. Had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dragging his toothbrush across his teeth with too much force, and decided it with a mouthful of mint and stubbornness.
He did not care if you were there. He did not care if you saw him.
He cared, specifically and deeply, about not caring if you didn’t.
If you came up to him, he would be normal. Worse than normal. He would be casual. Cold, even. Polite in a way designed to make you feel stupid for once.
He would not give you that pathetic, eager opening you always seemed to find in him, the one you could press your fingers into until he forgot every reason he had to be angry.
No.
This time, if you wanted his attention, you could fucking work for it.
“You good?” Steve asked.
Bucky blinked.
The question cut through the static in his head like a blade he hadn’t realised was already buried there. Sam and Steve had both stopped walking.
They were looking at him now. Sam with one brow arched high enough to belong on its own zip code, Steve wearing that careful, irritating brand of concern that made Bucky want to throw something soft and harmless directly at his face.
The sun was hot on the back of his neck. The breeze carried the scent of grilled meat and spilled soda, and somewhere a group of girls screamed with laughter over the loudspeaker.
“What?”
Sam’s mouth twisted into a grin that was half amusement, half disbelief. “He lives.”
“I’m good,” Bucky said, the words flat and dismissive.
“You sure?” Steve pressed, his voice quieter now.
“Christ, Rogers, I said I’m good.”
Sam lifted both hands in surrender, palms out. “Nobody said you weren’t. You just looked like you were trying to blow up a lemonade stand with your mind.”
Bucky looked over.
Sure enough, he had been glaring in the vague direction of a table draped in yellow streamers, a handwritten sign propped crooked against a stack of plastic cups reading FRESH LEMONADE $3.
The freshman behind the table, a blonde in a floral sundress, met his stare for half a second before quickly dropping her gaze to the pitcher, her shoulders hitching like she’d been caught stealing.
Great. Perfect.
Now he was terrorising citrus vendors because some girl with pretty eyes and a talent for emotional warfare had ruined his entire fucking week.
“I’m getting a drink,” he muttered.
“From the lemonade stand?” Sam asked.
“Fuck off.”
Steve sighed, a long, tired exhale that Bucky knew too well, but by then he was already walking.
The festival sprawled across the quad in every direction, bright and loud and obnoxiously alive.
Someone had draped green streamers from the trees, their edges curling in the afternoon breeze. The grass was littered with crushed cups and abandoned flyers and bodies lounging in the sun.
A group of guys from the rowing team were shouting around the dunk tank, already shirtless, already sunburnt to a shade of pink that had to hurt. Music pulsed from the stage where some sophomore with a guitar was butchering a song Bucky vaguely recognised.
Normally, it would have been easy.
Smile. Drink. Flirt. Win something stupid from one of the booths while the crowd cheered like it mattered.
Let a girl press herself against his side, her fingers trailing his arm, while Sam heckled him from the sidelines and Steve pretended he wasn’t entertained by the whole spectacle.
That was what pissed him off most.
Everything used to be so fucking easy before you.
Bucky grabbed a red plastic cup from one of the coolers near the fraternity table, the ice water sloshing over his fingers, and took a long drink without bothering to ask what was in it.
Too sweet. Sharp underneath, a chemical bite that tried to singe the back of his throat. Probably spiked by Thor, judging by the way it burned all the way down.
Good.
He drank again, letting the cold settle in his chest like armor.
“Bucky!”
He turned, half out of reflex.
A girl from his psych lecture waved at him from beside the ring toss booth, her hair catching the sun, her smile too eager.
She was wearing a tiny green top that probably would have interested him three months ago, or three weeks ago, or any other version of himself that had not become clinically insane over a girl who called him needy like she knew exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it would take to make him explode.
Her name was Mia.
Maybe. Maya? No. Mia.
Bucky smiled anyway.
There. Easy. He could do easy. He’d been doing easy his whole damn life.
“Hey,” he said, walking over with the lazy confidence that still fit him when he remembered how to wear it, “You runnin’ this scam?”
She laughed immediately, like he had given her something better than the joke deserved. Her eyes roamed his chest, his arms, the casual way he held his cup. “It’s not a scam. You’re just bad at aiming.”
“That’s hurtful. I’m great at aiming.”
“Prove it, then.”
Bucky leaned one hip against the edge of the booth, letting his grin widen. Behind him, he could practically feel Sam and Steve watching from somewhere near the food trucks, probably exchanging some kind of wordless commentary with their eyebrows.
Mia handed him three plastic rings, her fingers brushing his palm. She let them linger a second longer than necessary, her smile softening into something intentional.
Bucky noticed.
He also noticed that he felt nothing.
Not nothing exactly. He felt the dull satisfaction of being wanted. The little ego-stroke of someone looking at him and deciding he was worth the chase.
He felt the shape of his old self settle over him for a second, familiar as a jacket he had left hanging in his closet, still fitting, still comfortable.
But underneath it, his attention kept pulling elsewhere.
He threw the first ring.
The plastic sailed wide, skimming the neck of a glass bottle before spinning uselessly into the trampled grass.
Mia laughed, bright and sharp. “Great at aiming, huh?”
“Wind interference,” he said, already reaching for the next one.
“There is no wind.” She laughed again, softer this time, her fingers finding the bare skin of his forearm.
“Spiritual wind, then.”
Bucky made himself look at her. Really look. He cataloged the curve of her mouth, the warm spread of her smile, the little glitter sticker pressed beneath one eye.
She was pretty. Genuinely pretty. Warm and open and offering him something he didn’t have to work for.
He should have wanted that.
He wanted to want that. He wanted to feel the familiar heat of being chosen, the lazy satisfaction of a girl deciding he was worth her time.
But the wanting felt hollow. A reflex without the fire behind it. His body was here. His mind was already somewhere else, straining toward a frequency he couldn’t stop chasing.
Then, somewhere behind him, a laugh cut through the noise.
Nat’s laugh, recognisable even in the middle of a crowd.
It wasn’t yours. He knew the difference better than he wanted to. Yours was quieter, wryer, often aimed at him rather than with him. But Natasha was the anchor of your little constellation, and where she was…
Bucky’s whole body went tight.
The casual slouch of his shoulders hardened into something rigid. The easy smile on his mouth faltered at the edges, cracking just barely before he caught it.
He hated himself before he even turned his head. Hated how transparent he was.
Slowly he glanced over his shoulder.
And there you were.
By the slushie booth, standing in the loose triangle you always formed with Natasha and Gamora. Sunlight was threading through your hair, setting the edges of you on fire. A lime-green cup was balanced in your hand, the crushed ice inside melting into a watery gradient against the plastic.
You were listening to something Natasha was saying, your head tilted at that familiar angle, your mouth curved into the shape of a smile that didn’t quite touch your eyes.
You looked beautiful. You looked miles away. You looked exactly the way you always looked when you were present but not entirely there.
Bucky went still. Like a fucking idiot.
After that, Mia became background noise.
Pretty background noise, sure. The kind that came with a sugar-sweet laugh and a glitter sticker catching the late-afternoon sun beneath one eye. Smiling background noise with soft fingers that kept finding excuses to graze his wrist every time she handed him another plastic ring, letting her touch linger a beat longer than necessary.
But background noise all the same.
Bucky tried. He really fucking tried.
He let his weight shift onto one hip, leaning against the edge of the ring-toss booth with practiced ease. He laughed when she laughed, let his eyes drop to her mouth once because that was the sort of thing he used to do without thinking, a reflex he’d honed over years of easy conquests.
He even let her fix the collar of his jacket when she reached for it. Her knuckles grazed the side of his throat, a brief pressure against the warm skin just above his collarbone.
It should have sparked something smug and familiar in him, a pleasant shiver of being wanted.
Nothing.
Worse than nothing.
Because the whole time she was talking all he could think was that her laugh was too bright. Too clean. Too eager to please. It didn’t catch him under the ribs the way yours did, didn’t hook into something raw and leave him breathless.
Her teasing landed too soft. Too safe. Not sharp enough to make him want to chase it, to earn it, to prove himself.
She touched him like she knew he wanted to be touched, generous and open and unquestioning.
And he hated that too, because you never gave him anything that simply.
You made him work for scraps and then looked surprised when he started starving.
Mia said something. He missed it entirely.
“Right,” Bucky said, because it sounded safe enough.
Her brows lifted, “You have no idea what I just said.”
He smiled, charming and empty, a reflex that had never failed him. “I was distracted by your beauty.”
She laughed, pleased despite herself, and shoved lightly at his arm. Easy. So fucking easy.
His gaze still slid over her shoulder.
You were still by the slushie booth, one elbow propped on the counter, the heel of your palm digging into the wood. Your head was tilted toward Natasha, who was gesturing emphatically about something.
Gamora stood half a step behind you with her arms crossed, like campus security hired by hell itself. You had a lime-green straw between your fingers, the plastic bent near the top from where you kept worrying it with your thumb.
You were not looking at him.
Good. Fine.
Bucky turned back to Mia and threw another ring. It sailed in a shallow arc, bounced uselessly off the neck of a bottle, and dropped onto the trampled grass at the base of the booth.
Mia made a sympathetic noise, her lips pursing. “Spiritual wind again?”
“Violent spiritual wind.” He grabbed another ring, testing its weight in his palm.
“You’re terrible at this.” Her hand landed on his bicep when she laughed, staying there a little too long.
Bucky let it.
He let it because maybe you would look over and see it. Maybe you would see her hand on his arm, see her leaning into his space, see him not pulling away. Maybe you would realise he had options. Lots of them.
Girls who laughed easily and touched without hesitation and made him feel like he was winning instead of losing.
He did not need you.
He didn’t.
He had never needed any girl to want him. That was the whole point. Girls liked him. Girls came easy. Girls wanted to be chosen by him, and he had always been good at choosing, at taking what was offered, at moving on before anyone could get too attached.
So maybe you should see that.
Maybe you should watch someone else touch him, watch someone else laugh at his jokes, watch someone else look at him like he was something worth having.
Maybe you should feel even half as stupid as he had felt standing in his room after you left, the silence still ringing in his ears.
Your eyes moved.
Just once.
A quick glance over Natasha’s shoulder, brief enough that anyone else would have missed it. A flicker of movement, a shift in focus. You looked at him and then away again.
Bucky should have felt triumphant.
He should have felt vindicated. Relieved, maybe. Like he had finally managed to press one finger into the soft place beneath all your careful indifference and prove there was something there.
Instead, his stomach twisted into a knot that sat heavy and cold.
Because you did not look angry.
You looked away too fast for him to understand anything at all.
And that was worse.
Mia was still smiling up at him when he turned back, her head tilted just enough to catch the tail end of the afternoon light across her cheekbone.
Her mouth was parted, ready to laugh at whatever he said next.
“You want to try again?”
No.
The word cut through him clean and fast.
He wanted to walk across the quad. He wanted to cross the trampled grass and the careful, deliberate distance you had carved between you like a border he wasn’t allowed to cross.
He wanted to stand in front of you and ask why you had looked at him like that—like he was the one doing something wrong just by existing, just by letting someone else’s hand rest on his arm.
He wanted to grab your stupid green cup out of your hand and press his mouth to the plastic rim, taste whatever sugar-sour thing you had been nursing all afternoon, because, for a reason that made him feel deeply, disgustingly pathetic, he wanted his lips to touch where yours had been.
He wanted to ask why the fuck you got to look wounded when he was the one bleeding out all over the place.
He set the last plastic ring down on the counter.
“You know what?” His voice came out easier than he felt, smooth and practiced. “I’m gonna quit while I still have some dignity.”
Mia laughed, “You had dignity?”
“Once. Briefly.” He dragged a hand through his hair, let his mouth curve into something rueful and self-deprecating. “Freshman year, I think. It was a Tuesday. I peaked early.”
She shifted closer, the toe of her sneaker brushing against his. Her fingers grazed his wrist again. He could feel the opening there, easy, the way girls always were.
All he had to do was lean into it. Let the conversation carry. Let his hand find her waist. Let himself get lost in something simple for once.
Instead, he stepped back.
“See you around, Mia.”
Her face flickered. The smile didn’t drop, but something behind it cooled. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a slight press of her lips.
“Maya,” she corrected.
Fuck.
Bucky blinked.
He smiled anyway, because what else was he supposed to do?
“Right. Maya.” He let the apology bleed into his voice. “Sorry.”
Her smile thinned.
Bucky deserved that too.
He turned and walked away before he could make it worse.
For the next two hours, Bucky made a point of being seen and not approaching.
He let Sam drag him toward the food trucks, let himself be pulled through the thick crowd of students and families and drunk upperclassmen.
He let Steve talk him into watching Clint get disqualified from the pie-eating contest. Thor had stood up from the judges’ table, pointed a finger the size of a hot dog, and loudly accused Clint of being “the same small blond criminal in a wig.”
The crowd erupted. Clint flipped him off with a mouthful of whipped cream. Steve laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky laughed too. He did. It came out at the right time, in the right pitch, convincing enough.
He stood by the dunk tank while Rhodey heckled Tony into climbing onto the seat. Tony was wearing a linen shirt that probably cost more than Bucky’s entire closet, and he looked profoundly uncomfortable with the idea of getting wet.
He kept his distance. But never so much distance that he could not see you.
That was the pathetic part.
His body moved on its own, tracking you like a compass needle finding north. He always arranged himself somewhere with a clear line of sight. Near the stage when you drifted toward the booths.
By the food trucks when you wandered toward the grass, your silhouette cutting through the golden haze.
Close to Steve when Steve decided to talk to Natasha, because then Bucky had an excuse to stand twenty feet from you and pretend it wasn’t intentional, pretend he was just hanging with his friend while he watched your every move.
But every time your face turned away, his mood soured. Every time you smiled at someone else, he wondered what they had said, what they had done to earn that warmth that he couldn’t seem to coax from you.
He was exhausting.
But he couldn’t stop.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the science building, turning the quad warm and gold at the edges. The light slanted long across the grass, casting everything in a honeyed haze.
The air smelled like fried dough, cut grass, spilled beer, and the sharp chemical sweetness of the slushie machine that had been running too hard all day, its motor grinding low and tired.
Bucky had finally lost sight of you.
At first, he told himself it was a relief.
Good.
Great.
Maybe you had left. Maybe you had gone back to your dorm. Maybe the festival could go back to being a festival instead of a slow, public study in how little self-respect James Buchanan Barnes apparently had left.
He lasted thirty seconds.
Then his eyes were moving again, dragging across the quad like a searchlight. Toward the drink stands. Over the line at the food trucks, scanning faces. Past the stage, where the band was packing up their equipment.
Back toward the slushie booth, where Natasha was now talking to Wanda, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.
You were not beside her.
Gamora was there, though, standing with her arms crossed in that way she had. Her eyes cut toward him like she had known exactly where he would be looking.
Bucky looked away immediately.
His pulse hammered in his throat.
Fuck.
He shoved both hands into his jacket pockets and turned in the opposite direction, jaw tight, pulse irritated beneath his skin. He was not looking for you. He was not going to walk around this whole fucking festival like a lost dog because you had vanished for five minutes.
“Hey.”
Bucky turned too fast.
And there you were.
Standing behind him. Sunlight soft around your shoulders, spilling through the gaps in the trees behind you, catching the faint sheen of condensation on the clear plastic cups in your hands. Two iced coffees.
For one stupid second, he forgot to be angry.
The feeling arrived in his chest before he could stop it. A loosening. A warmth. The same stupid, gravitational pull he had been fighting all day, undoing him with a single glance.
Then you smiled at him.
Not the teasing, knowing curl of your mouth that made him want to grab you by the waist and pull you into somewhere quiet. This one was smaller. Softer. Almost shy. The corners of your lips lifted slowly, like you were testing whether it was safe to show him that part of yourself.
He did not trust himself to name it.
“They messed up my order,” you said, lifting one of the cups a little. The ice shifted inside, a soft, crystalline sound against the plastic. “Gave me hazelnut instead of caramel.”
Bucky stared at you. He could smell the coffee now, faintly bitter, cut with something sweet.
You held the cup out toward him.
“I remembered hazelnut’s your favourite.”
That was all.
One sentence.
One stupid fucking coffee.
And Bucky felt every cruel, petty thing he had been rehearsing all day loosen in his hands. They slid through his fingers like water, leaving nothing but the raw, embarrassing truth beneath.
He was supposed to be cold. He had planned it. If you came over he was going to look at you the way you looked at him in dayligh; casual, polite, with nothing owed. He was going to make you work for his attention. Make you feel the distance.
Instead, he took the coffee.
His fingers brushed yours around the damp cup. Your skin was cool and wet from the condensation, and the contact was brief but electric. He felt it in his fingertips, up his wrist, settling somewhere low in his chest.
“Thanks,” he said.
The word came out awful. Pathetic. Barely even mean. It was soft when he had wanted it hard. Grateful when he had wanted indifferent.
Your eyes searched his face, careful and quiet. There was something watchful in the way you looked at him, like you were reading a line of text you had read before but were trying to understand differently this time.
“You haven’t talked to me all day.”
Bucky gave a shrug. The motion was stiff, defensive. He brought the straw to his mouth and wrapped his lips around it, buying himself a second.
“Been busy.”
“I saw.”
The straw stopped against his lips.
There it was. Not an accusation exactly. Not jealousy either. Just two words, soft enough to slide under his skin. They found the tender places, the ones he had been trying to protect, and settled there.
He took a sip to give himself something to do.
Hazelnut. Sweet. A little bitter underneath. Warm on his tongue despite the ice.
Of course you remembered.
He lowered the cup. The plastic was slick in his grip.
“Did you?”
Your mouth tightened slightly. A small, almost imperceptible press of your lips that told him the words had landed where he meant them to.
“Bucky.”
He hated that too. The softness. The warning.
“What?” he asked, and even to his own ears it came out harder than he intended.
“You’re being weird.”
He let out a short laugh. It was hollow, barely more than a breath. “I’m being weird?”
Your eyes dropped to the coffee in your hand. The condensation had started to pool between your fingers, and you shifted your grip, watching the water trail down the plastic.
That should have helped him. That should have given him something solid to stay angry with. He wanted you to roll your eyes. He wanted you to smirk, to toss some sharp little joke at his feet and dare him to pick it up. He wanted you to give him a reason.
But you did not.
You just stood there, looking smaller somehow in the middle of all that noise. The festival kept spinning around you and you were still. Quiet. Waiting.
Then you said, “Are you mad at me?”
He was finished.
He hated that he was finished before he even opened his mouth. Hated that the question undid him so completely, that it found the lock and turned it without effort. Hated that you could stand there with a small, uncertain crack in your voice, and he would fold every single time.
Bucky looked away. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting coffee and bitterness and something that felt too much like surrender.
He brought the coffee to his lips again. Just to have something to do with his hands. Just to keep from saying something he could not take back.
“Why would I be mad?” he asked, because apparently he had decided to be a dick anyway.
You did not answer immediately.
The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and Bucky watched the shape of your mouth as it hovered around words you weren’t ready to say.
When he looked back at you, your face had gone still in that careful way he was beginning to recognise. The muscles around your eyes had softened, your lips parted just slightly, and there was a patience in your expression that felt heavier than any accusation.
“I don’t know,” you said, and your voice was thinner now. “I thought maybe the other night…”
You trailed off.
The sentence hung in the air, unfinished, fragile. The kind of opening that could be filled with anything; with hope, with blame, with the truth neither of you had been brave enough to say aloud.
Bucky’s grip tightened around the coffee cup. The other night. So you did remember. You weren’t pretending it hadn’t happened, weren’t going to let it dissolve into the haze of party noise and cheap beer.
“You thought maybe what?”
Your lashes lifted. Your eyes met his, and there was no deflection in them now. No clever sidestep.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel stupid.”
The words went straight through him.
Clean through the ribs, past the armour he had spent the last three days layering over his chest, settling somewhere deep and tender. It was meaner than anything cruel would have been.
Because that was it. That was the thing he had been carrying around and dressing up as anger, because anger looked better on him than humiliation. You had made him feel stupid. Stupid for wanting you.
And now you were standing in front of him with hazelnut coffee and remorse in your eyes, saying the one thing he had not known he needed to hear.
His anger lost its shape.
It did not vanish. He could still feel it, somewhere under his breastbone, hot and sore, a bruise that had not finished healing. But it had nothing to hold onto now.
Bucky swallowed. The motion was dry, his throat tight.
“You didn’t,” he lied.
Your brows pinched. The disbelief was immediate, a small furrow forming between your eyes that told him you had seen right through the denial.
He sighed, hating himself, hating you a little, hating the way his body was already angling toward yours like it had forgiven you without consulting him.
“Fine,” he muttered, the word scraping past his teeth. “Maybe a little.”
Your mouth softened. The corners of your lips turned down in a way that was not quite a frown, more like a quiet admission of guilt.
“I’m sorry.”
There it was again. Another scrap. Barely enough. Two words that should not have been enough to undo the knot in his chest, but somehow they were.
Bucky looked down at the coffee in his hand. The ice had melted more now, the water pooling at the bottom of the clear plastic. Then he looked back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted despite himself.
“You always apologise with beverages?”
“Only when I’m feeling generous.”
“Dangerous habit.” He tilted his head, letting the smirk settle into something more real. “I’m very bribable.”
Your smile came back slowly. It started in your eyes first, a flicker of warmth that spread to your lips, and God, there he went. There he fucking went.
All that resolve, all that careful, bitter distance, folding inside him like wet paper because you looked at him with warmth again.
“You’re cheap,” you said.
“Not cheap.” He shook his head, the coffee cup swinging in his grip. “Accessible.”
“That’s worse.”
“You say that like you’re not standing here trying to buy my forgiveness with six dollars of iced coffee.”
“Seven fifty,” you corrected, and there was a spark of humour in your voice now. “Campus pricing is criminal.”
He laughed before he could stop himself. The sound came out rough and surprised. But there it was, and it loosened something between you, closed the last of the distance.
Your smile widened at the sound, and something in his chest went soft and stupid and loyal.
Across the quad, Sam caught his eye from beside the food trucks. He was standing with a paper tray of fries halfway to his mouth, staring at Bucky over the top of them with an expression flat with disbelief.
His eyebrows were raised, his head tilted in a slow, accusatory shake.
Bucky ignored him.
He looked back at you, and the festival noise swelled around you again, but it felt distant now. Muffled. He nodded toward the far end of the festival where the temporary rides had been set up near the parking lot.
A cheap spinning thing with hanging seats was creaking in slow circles, its lights flickering green and white even though the sun had not fully gone down yet.
Nearby, a smaller ferris wheel groaned every time it moved, looking only slightly safer than a lawsuit.
“You wanna go on a ride?”
You glanced over, your gaze following his nod. Your brows lifted, a flicker of amusement crossing your face.
“With you?”
“Don’t sound so horrified.”
“I’m not horrified.” You turned back to him, and there was a glint in your eye now. “I’m considering the risk.”
Bucky tilted his head, trying for careless and landing somewhere much softer. The words came out before he could stop them, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let me be a bad influence.”
You looked at him for a second too long.
Then you stepped closer, just enough that your shoulder brushed his arm as you moved past him.
“Fine,” you said, the word carrying a reluctant smile. “But if I die, I’m haunting you.”
Bucky followed immediately, coffee in hand, heart gone embarrassingly light.
“Good,” he said, “Then at least you’d be consistent.”
For the last three years at NYU, Tony Stark had treated the end of spring semester like a religious holiday.
A very expensive, deeply obnoxious holiday that involved a beach house weekend at his parents’ sprawling Malibu mansion, that forced you to acknowledge how much money some people had just by existing in its shadow.
First-class flights for anyone he deemed entertaining enough to invite, which was a broad and chaotic metric.
Enough alcohol to poison a small country, and a guest list he described as “intimate” in the same way someone might call a riot “spirited,” given that it usually hovered somewhere around fifty people.
Closest and dearest friends, Tony called it.
Which, for Tony, meant anyone he had laughed with more than twice, anyone who looked good in bikinis, anyone who owed him money, anyone he owed money, and at least three people he claimed were “essential to the ecosystem” despite no one else being entirely sure who they were.
Bucky had always loved it.
How could he not?
It was a weekend designed for him to love. Sun-warm skin and salt-crusted hair, the sharp iodine scent of the Pacific mixing with expensive cologne. Music vibrating through the glass walls deep into the night, until the floors hummed under his feet.
Top-shelf liquor sloshing into cheap red cups because Tony loved the visual dissonance of it, the clash of refinement and raucous excess. People half-dressed and fully drunk before the sun had even properly set.
Bodies, careless and comfortable, everywhere, draped over pool chairs, melting into leather couches, disappearing into guest rooms with sheets that cost more than his tuition.
And this year was supposed to be the best one.
Senior year.
The final spring before reality politely asked everyone to grow up. Before the forced enthusiasm about internships, leases, and entry-level jobs that paid barely enough to justify the commute.
Before the slow, quiet humiliation of being twenty-two and realizing the world had never promised to stay exactly how it was.
The last Malibu trip had a gravity to it, even if no one wanted to say that out loud. Everyone could feel it pressing down on their shoulders.
Steve said it once on the plane, because of course he did.
Mid-flight, with the Pacific stretching blue and endless beneath them, he said something earnest and quietly devastating about how strange it was that they would probably never have this much time together again.
Sam threw a pretzel at his forehead with surgical precision. ”Stop making the trip sad, Rogers. You’re gonna manifest a bad vibe.”
Bucky had laughed along with everyone else.
He was good at that. Keeping things light. Acting like the future was just some vague concept waiting politely far away from him, instead of a door already clicking shut in slow motion while they weren’t looking.
Besides, he had more pressing things to occupy his head.
Like the fact that you were coming.
Not that he was thinking about that. Not obsessively. He hadn’t checked the group chat four times to see if Natasha had confirmed the flight details. He hadn’t hovered near the baggage claim exit a little too long, pretending to stretch his shoulders out, stomach tightening every time the automatic doors slid open.
He hadn’t carefully packed the black shirt, the one you had touched once, months ago, fingers smoothing the collar, your smile going slow and private in a way that he had replayed more times than he’d ever admit.
He was just excited for the trip.
That was all.
The house came into view just as the car turned up the long private drive, a ridiculous sprawl of glass and white stone sitting above the water like it had been dropped there by God specifically to make poor people feel unwelcome.
The Pacific flashed blue beyond it, bright enough to hurt, the sun catching the surface in a million tiny explosions of light. Palm trees leaned over the road, their fronds swaying lazily in the salt-warm breeze.
The afternoon sun poured itself across everything, turning the windows gold and the pool a hard, glittering turquoise, the kind of color that looked fake in photographs but was somehow real here.
Tony stood out front in linen trousers and sunglasses, arms spread wide like a cult leader welcoming his congregation home.
“My children,” he called as soon as the car doors opened. “You made it.”
Sam stepped out first, stretching his arms over his head, his spine cracking in a way that made Steve wince sympathetically. “You say that like we survived war and not a six-hour flight where you slept through turbulence.”
“I survived being seated beside Barton,” Tony said, pulling his sunglasses down his nose just enough to make eye contact. “Which is worse.”
Clint, emerging from the next car with his hair flattened on one side. “I heard that, Stark.”
“You were meant to.”
Bucky climbed out after Steve, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, the warm Malibu air hitting him all at once. The air was different here. Thicker. Slower. It made you want to breathe deeper.
Somewhere inside the house, music was already playing, a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the glass walls. Someone had arrived before them and started early, because of course they had. Tony’s parties never waited for the host.
Bucky looked toward the road before he could stop himself, his gaze dragging along the curve of the driveway.
No other car yet.
He looked away immediately, his jaw tightening.
Sam, because he was a terrible person and a worse friend, noticed.
“Subtle,” he said, the word drawn out.
Bucky frowned. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam’s grin widened, but he didn’t push further. He knew better than to push Bucky when he was already coiled tight.
Steve had the decency to say nothing, but his mouth did that thing where it pressed flat at the corners, the kind of silent judgment that was almost worse than Sam’s teasing.
Bucky shoved past both of them, his duffel bag thumping against his hip, and grabbed his bag from the trunk before anyone else could offer to help.
“I’m getting a room before all the good ones are gone.”
Tony scoffed. “Please. Your rooms are assigned. I’m not running a hostel.”
Sam paused mid-step, his duffel slung over one shoulder. “You assigned rooms?”
“Obviously.” Tony turned on his heel, leading the way inside. “I’m not having a repeat of the Cabo incident. Some people don’t know how to handle free choice sleeping arrangements.”
Clint, trailing behind, muttered, “That was one time.”
“It was twice,” Tony shot back, not looking back.
The inside of the mansion was already half-chaos. Suitcases abandoned in the entryway, a pair of heels kicked off and left under a marble console table, a half-empty bottle of champagne sweating on the counter of the kitchen island.
A bowl of limes sat on the kitchen island, untouched and decorative for now, though Bucky gave it six hours before Thor tried to bite into one whole.
Bucky followed Tony upstairs with Sam and Steve, his bag slung over one shoulder, his footsteps padding on the wide wooden staircase. He tried very hard not to wonder where you would sleep.
Tried and failed.
Which room would you get? Would you be on the same floor as him? Across the hall? At the other end of the house, where he’d have to walk past a dozen doors just to catch a glimpse of you?
Tony stopped at the end of the hall and pointed at a door like a bored hotel concierge, his hand a lazy gesture. “Rogers, Wilson, Barnes. Try not to destroy anything structural.”
Sam pushed open the door and whistled low, the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged room. “Damn.”
Steve stepped into it after him, his gaze sweeping across the king-sized bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the balcony that jutted out over the lawn. “This is excessive.”
“That’s the family motto,” Tony said, already turning away, his phone buzzing in his pocket. “There’s food in the kitchen. Drinks on the terrace. Don’t break the bed, I’ll know.”
Bucky went in last. Ocean-facing, because Tony was an asshole who pretended not to be thoughtful.
The room was huge, the bed draped in white sheets that looked impossibly soft, the glass doors slid open to let the breeze in. The water was visible beyond the slant of the lawn, a deep, endless blue that seemed to go on forever.
He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked to the balcony, his hands gripping the railing.
The ocean stretched out before him, vast and indifferent, and he let himself breathe for a moment, let the salt air fill his lungs and loosen the knot in his chest.
He dropped his bag on the floor by the bed and walked straight to the balcony doors, sliding them open.
The warm Malibu air hit him again, thicker now. The sound of the party drifted up to meet him, carried on the breeze; the low thrum of music from inside the house, the clatter of ice in glass.
Down below, the patio had already started filling.
Someone was carrying crates of alcohol toward the outdoor bar, bottles clinking with every step. Rhodey was arguing with Tony about speaker placement, his hands moving in broad, frustrated arcs while Tony gestured at the pool like he was explaining architecture to a child.
A few girls Bucky vaguely recognised from campus were stretched near the pool on lounge chairs, their sunglasses pushed up into their hair, laughing too loudly at something Thor said while he stood at the edge of the water, gesturing broadly.
Still no you.
He let his gaze sweep the patio once, just once, the way you might check a clock you already knew the answer to.
Fine.
He had time.
He could get settled. He could take a shower, let the hot water loosen the knot wedged between his shoulder blades.
Behind him, Sam appeared in the open doorway of the balcony, his silhouette filling the frame.
“Don’t start,” Bucky said, not turning around.
Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “I just came to tell you Tony’s making drinks downstairs.”
“Great.”
“And to remind you that this is supposed to be a fun weekend.” Sam’s voice was light, conversational, but the words had edges.
Bucky turned from the balcony then, the ocean falling away behind him. The breeze caught his hair, pushing it across his forehead. “I know how to have fun, Sam.”
“Historically, yes.”
Before Bucky could respond, Steve appeared behind Sam in the doorway, his shoulder brushing the frame as he stepped up.
He looked between them with that resigned expression, the one that said he had walked into the middle of something and would now be forced to participate, like it or not. “What are we talking about?”
“Nothing,” Bucky said.
“His disease,” Sam said at the same time.
Bucky stared at him. “My what?”
Sam held up a hand, ticking off fingers. “Symptoms include staring at doors. Emotional constipation. And abandoning perfectly nice girls mid-conversation when a certain someone walks into a room.”
Steve sighed. “Sam.”
“What? He needs medical attention.”
Bucky grabbed one of the pillows from the bed behind him and threw it at Sam’s head. Sam caught it easily, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself.
“See? Irritability. Another symptom.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but heat crawled up the back of his neck anyway. “I’m not doing this all weekend.”
“Good.” Sam’s voice dropped then, the grin fading around the edges, “Don’t.”
It was said lightly, but not entirely.
Bucky looked at him. For a second, the room shifted into something less like sparring and more like concern.
Sam’s shoulders loosened, the humor bleeding out of his face just enough to show the worry underneath, the part of him that had watched Bucky turn himself inside out over you for months and did not find all of it funny anymore.
Steve stepped forward, his voice gentler now. “Just... don’t spend the whole trip waiting for her to decide your mood.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple jumped.
He wanted to tell them they were wrong. He wanted to say you did not decide anything. That he was fine.
But the words sat heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t force them out.
So he said nothing.
From downstairs, Tony’s voice carried up through the open doors, bouncing off the glass and the stone. “First round is ready, you ungrateful peasants!”
Sam clapped his hands once. “Saved by alcoholism.”
Steve gave Bucky one last look then turned and disappeared toward the hall.
Bucky followed, because staying behind would look pathetic, and he had already met his quota for the day.
Downstairs, the house had grown louder. More people had arrived while he was up there. Bags piled by the stairs, sandals kicked off near the sliding doors, laughter spilling in from the patio in overlapping waves.
Tony was behind the outdoor bar in sunglasses, pouring something violently green into a row of cups while Pepper stood beside him looking like she had already accepted God’s plan for her evening.
Bucky took a cup the second Tony handed him one.
It tasted like lime, expensive vodka, and exactly what he needed. The alcohol burned a clean path down his throat and settled warm in his chest.
Perfect.
He tipped his head back and drank half of it.
By eleven, Bucky was absolutely, spectacularly shitfaced.
The whole mansion seemed to tilt and breathe around him, swaying on its foundations in slow waves of green pool light, salt-scrubbed air, and the sweet, cloying scent of expensive liquor bleeding from every glass.
Someone had thrown all the glass doors to the patio wide open, letting the party spill out of the house and down toward the pool, toward the dark strip of beach below, toward the ocean rolling black and endless under a crescent moon.
Bucky was having the time of his fucking life.
He had spent the last hour ricocheting between Sam’s shoulder and Steve’s long-suffering presence, laughing so hard his ribs ached and his vision blurred.
Tony had climbed onto the kitchen island at some point to deliver a toast no one had asked for, sloshing amber liquid onto the pristine marble. Bruce had lost a sandal. Rhodey had found it in the freezer, holding it up like a trophy.
Thor had challenged half the house to a drinking competition and laid them out, one by one, a trail of empty glasses and ruined egos stretching behind him like a battlefield.
Bucky, because he was an idiot and because the liquor had convinced him he was invincible, had tried to take him on.
Thor drank like he had been weaned on kerosene and raised by wolves. Bucky had made it three rounds before Sam materialised at his elbow and physically removed the cup from his hand.
“Too pretty to die on Tony Stark’s imported marble,” Sam had said.
Bucky had laughed in his face.
Then his heel caught on nothing and he nearly pitched headfirst into a decorative fern the size of a small car, catching himself on the wall at the last second.
And you had seen it.
You had seen him almost eat shit beside a fern, and instead of looking unimpressed, instead of giving him that careful, distant smile he had grown to hate, you had laughed.
Your head tipped back, the long column of your throat exposed, one hand pressed to your mouth as your shoulders shook. Natasha leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and you laughed harder, nodding.
It was the best sound he had heard all night. The best thing he had seen all month.
You weren’t ignoring him tonight. Not even a little. He had been braced for it, waiting for the familiar wall to go up, but it never came. Since the moment you arrived, you had been sweet. Warm. Present in a way that made his chest feel too tight and his hands itch to reach for you.
Honey, he kept thinking, the word a stupid, syrupy refrain in the back of his mind.
You were warm like honey tonight, golden and thick and spilling over everything. He was a fly caught in it, too far gone to care.
And fuck, you looked good.
That was the other problem, the one pressing insistently against the front of his jeans with every glance you threw his way.
You were trying to kill him. There was no other explanation for the top you had chosen. Thin and tight, clinging to the curve of your torso like it had been made specifically to undo him.
The fabric shifted with every breath, catching the light, and the neckline dipped just low enough to make his mouth go dry. Every time you lifted your arms, your boobs shifted and threatened to spill out entirely.
A possessive, animal part of him wanted to cup them in his palms, slide his thumbs over the soft swell, tuck them back in himself and never let them go.
Your shorts were no better. Sitting high on your thighs, hugging the flare of your hips, leaving acres of bare skin on display. He kept wondering how you had managed to squeeze into them and whether he was going to survive watching you walk away in them one more time.
He was not proud of himself. He wanted to pounce on you right there, in front of everyone, sink his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, taste the salt and sugar on your skin.
He wanted to haul you against him and find out if you felt as soft as you looked.
You wandered back to him sometime after Tony’s third terrible toast, barefoot now, your sandals abandoned somewhere by the pool. In your hands, you held two little glass shot glasses, the liquid inside them a violent, fluorescent pink that glowed under the patio lights like a dare.
Bucky looked at the shots, then at you.
“No.”
You blinked at him, a pout already forming on your lips. “No?”
“I challenged Thor,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m cut off. Sam declared a moratorium on my alcohol intake for the sake of my liver and the integrity of the marble flooring.”
“That was stupid,” you said, but your eyes were warm, amused.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I’m acutely aware.”
Your smile widened. God, there it was. That specific, dangerous curve of your mouth that made the bottom drop out of his stomach every single time.
You stepped closer, close enough that the cold plastic rim of one shot glass pressed lightly against his chest, just over his heart. “Come on, Buck,” you said, your voice soft and honeyed beneath the thrum of the bass. “One more. Just for me.”
He should have said no. He had every intention of saying no.
Then your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Just the tips of them, hooking into the fabric, not enough to pull him toward you, just enough to hold him there.
“Fine,” he heard himself say, the word a complete and total surrender. He was weak and you were evil and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
The two of you clinked the plastic cups together and threw them back.
The liquid hit his tongue. Sugar first, cloying and thick. Then vodka, sharp and medicinal. And something aggressively sour that made his jaw clench and his eyes water.
You made a face immediately, your nose scrunching up, your eyes squeezed shut, a soft sound of disgust escaping your throat.
Bucky laughed so hard he had to brace one hand against the edge of the counter behind him. “Awful, right?”
“Awful,” you croaked, coughing once into your fist.
“You brought it to me,” he pointed out, still grinning.
“I wanted you to suffer with me,” you murmured, your voice hoarse from the liquor.
“Romantic. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“Too late.” The words came out rougher than he meant them.
He was already excited. Had been excited since you walked through the door in that top, looking like everything he had ever wanted and had no right to touch.
You leaned your shoulder into his side, just for a second. Maybe for balance. Maybe because you wanted to. The weight of you pressing into him, fitting too perfectly into the curve of his body.
Bucky looked down at you. Your mouth was wet from the shot, shining under the dim glow of the patio lights. Your eyes were heavy-lidded, warm, fixed on his mouth.
He didn’t think about it. His hand found your waist, fingers spreading over the bare skin exposed by the crop of your top. You were soft and warm and solid under his palm, and the contact sent a shiver of heat up his arm.
“You’re drunk,” you murmured, your breath brushing his collarbone.
“So are you,” he countered, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on the dip of your hip.
“Mm. Maybe.” You didn’t pull away.
“Definitely.”
“You always this handsy when you’re drunk, Barnes?” The question was velvet over steel, a challenge wrapped in silk. But you leaned into him instead.
Bucky’s thumb shifted against your waist, sliding higher, tracing the edge of your ribcage through the thin fabric of your top.
He felt the soft intake of your breath, the way your stomach tightened under his touch. “No,” he said, the word dropping an octave, sliding under the bass of the music, rougher than before. “Just when you’re dressed like that.”
You sighed against him, warm and tipsy, your cheek brushing his shoulder as if you had every right to be there.
“I think I need to call it a night.”
Bucky’s head snapped down so fast the room tilted with him.
“No.” The word came out instantly, offended and pathetic. Then again, worse. “No, no, no.”
You laughed, and he felt it more than heard it, the soft shake of your body against his side. He had one arm locked around your waist, fingers splayed over the exposed strip of skin where your tank had ridden up.
“It’s only eleven,” he protested, tightening his grip like you might dissolve into the party if he let you breathe too freely. “Party’s gonna go on for another couple of hours.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Don’t leave me alone.”
Your smile curved against his neck. “There’s like forty other people here, Buck. I’m sure you won’t be that lonely.”
He made a wounded noise into the crown of your head. “None of them are you.”
The words came out before he could dress them up as a joke, before he could hide them behind a grin or a roll of his eyes.
You went quiet for half a second.
Then you tilted your face up to him, eyes glassy-bright from alcohol and the green spill of party lights. “I wanna explore Malibu tomorrow. I’m not wasting the whole day hungover because you need attention.”
“You’re so boring,” he groaned, dropping his forehead briefly to your temple.
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he repeated, the words heavy, loaded, full of everything he couldn’t say.
“I’ll let you take me to my room, then.”
Bucky pretended to consider it. Really sold it too, eyes narrowed, mouth pursed like this was a difficult sacrifice and not the only thing he wanted in the world. “If that’s the only way to keep you with me.”
“It is.”
“Well.” He pulled you closer, his hand sliding more securely around your waist, his fingers pressing into the warm skin of your hip. “Who am I to deny a lady?”
“Oh God.”
You laughed again, the sound soft and breathless, and Bucky started walking before you could change your mind.
Or tried to.
The first few steps were a test of faith. The floor seemed to tilt and roll beneath him like the deck of a ship, and the hallway stretched and contracted in confusing rhythms.
You pressed tighter against his side, your arm sliding around his waist to steady both of you, and every time your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, Bucky had to remind himself that he was escorting you to bed, not dragging you into his mouth.
The mansion blurred around him. He passed a painting of a sailboat. Then another painting of a sailboat. He definitely took a wrong turn past a large, ugly vase.
Behind him, Sam called out something that got swallowed by the bass. Someone else whistled, low and knowing.
Bucky ignored all of it.
All he cared about was the feel of you tucked under his arm, the soft drag of your breath on his neck, the way your hip bumped against his thigh with every stumbling step. The air through the open windows smelled like jasmine and salt and the faint, clean scent of your perfume mixing with the liquor in his veins.
“Is this even the right way?” you asked as he led you past a framed painting of something expensive and ugly.
“Yes.”
“You’re lost.”
“I’m exploring Malibu.”
“That is not what that means.”
He shushed you, then immediately turned down the wrong hallway.
By the time he found the staircase, both of you were laughing too hard to move quietly. You clung to his shirt as he guided you up the stairs, your body shaking against his, and every time your fingers curled against his chest, Bucky’s pulse kicked harder.
He opened the door with the confidence of a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing.
The room was dark except for the moonlight spilling through the balcony doors, silver and heavy, painting everything in soft shadows.
The bed was massive, white sheets tangled from where he had thrown his duffel earlier. His shirt hung off the back of a chair. His shoes kicked carelessly near the dresser. The balcony doors were open a crack, letting in the sound of the waves and the cool night air.
You stepped in beside him, looked around for one long second, then burst into laughter.
“This is not my room, Buck.”
Bucky blinked.
Looked at the bed. Looked at his duffel on the floor. Looked at you.
“Oh.”
He turned back to you, trying very hard to arrange his face into something less guilty.
“Oops.”
You laughed harder, your head tipping back, your hand pressing to your stomach like this was the funniest thing that had happened all night. And maybe it was. The sound was bright and unguarded, and Bucky wanted to bottle it.
“I cannot believe you,” you said.
“Honest mistake. Tragic, really. Very confusing architecture in this house.”
“Sure.”
You should have turned around.
You should have made him find the right room. Should have rolled your eyes and dragged him back into the hallway before he could get any more ideas, before Bucky remembered exactly how little space there was between want and stupidity.
Instead, you walked farther in.
Then you collapsed backward onto his bed.
You fell into the mattress with a soft, breathless sound, the white sheets whispering beneath you. Your hair spilled loose across his pillow. The tank top had ridden up from the fall, baring the soft curve of your belly, the delicate jut of your hipbone just above the line of your shorts.
The moonlight sliced silver across your thighs, caught the damp shine of your lips, traced the lines of your body and turned your skin to shadow and glow.
You looked obscene.
You looked perfect.
Like you had been poured into his bed by some cruel, generous god.
Bucky stayed frozen at the foot of the bed. His hand was still on the doorknob, a solid point in his grip, the only thing keeping him upright. His blood was too loud in his ears. He was wrecked.
Thrown off.
Completely, catastrophically fucked.
“You’re in my bed,” he said, the words scraping out of him rough and disbelieving, a rasp that barely carried over the sound of his own pounding heart.
You stretched one arm over your head, a slow motion that arched your spine against the sheets and made the fabric of your top strain across your chest. Your ribs lifted. Your shorts shifted. You looked soft, drunk, a problem he wanted to have forever.
“So I am.”
Bucky swallowed, his throat clicking audibly in the quiet hush of the room.
The alcohol was a warm, syrupy fog settled deep in his skull, blurring his edges and dulling his sense, but some sliver of awareness remained, sharp enough to recognise the disaster unfolding in front of him.
He tried to keep the mood light, to sound like the version of himself that could laugh this off and walk away.
He let out a breathy, unconvincing laugh.
“C’mon, get up. Let me take you to your room.”
“Mhm-mhm,” you hummed, a sound so lazy and content it made his stomach clench.
You closed your eyes and arched your neck, baring the long vulnerable line of your throat to the mercury glow of the moon. Your pulse beat visibly just beneath your skin, a delicate, rhythmic flutter that made his mouth water.
Fuck, he wanted to sink his teeth into that skin. To taste your heartbeat on his tongue. To mark you. “But I’m so comfortable here, Buck.”
His mouth was sandpaper. He tried to swallow again and failed, the motion scraping against his dry throat.
“You gonna get me in trouble, honey.” The words came out rough, a warning wrapped in something that sounded almost like a plea. Please don’t make me do this. Please don’t let me do this.
You lifted your head from the pillow, your hair spilling across his sheets and gave him a slow smile. It was the smile of someone who knew exactly what she was doing.
“Yeah?” you murmured, your voice turning syrupy. “How?”
You weren’t just looking at him. You were fucking him with your eyes, taking him apart piece by piece without lifting a finger.
“For fuck’s sake,” he heard himself mutter.
He felt the last thread of his self-control snap. The sensible part of his brain went entirely offline, leaving nothing behind but pure, aching, consuming want.
He pounced on you, covering your body with his, the mattress groaning under his sudden weight. You met him halfway, surging up to meet him, your hands fisting in the front of his shirt and yanking him down into your mouth.
The first taste of you was sweet, fucking relief.
Expensive vodka, the lingering sugar of your lip gloss, the faint salt of your skin, and something purely you. It flooded every empty space inside him, drowning out every doubt, every hesitation.
He groaned loudly into your mouth, a raw, animal sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours.
He couldn’t get enough. He forced your mouth open wider with his tongue, sliding inside, tasting. Shit, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to stop.
Every rational thought dissolved into static, overwhelmed by the wet heat of your mouth, the soft give of your body beneath him, the way you kissed him back like you wanted to devour him too.
He wrenched his mouth away, just far enough to pant against your lips, his forehead pressing to yours. His breath came in ragged, desperate heaves.
“We’re drunk,” he breathed, the words scraping out of him like a confession he didn’t want to make. “We... we shouldn’t do this.”
And then he felt it.
One of your legs slid up, the smooth, warm skin of your thigh brushing his hip before your calf hooked around his waist, locking him firmly against you. There was no escape now. You had him trapped.
Your hand came up, your palm cupping his jaw, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You pulled his mouth back to yours, your lips brushing his as you spoke.
“But I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Don’t you?”
Bucky never claimed to have any strength. He had never pretended to have a strong will. Not when it came to you.
He dove back into your mouth like a man starving, like a man drowning who had finally found oxygen. His hands were everywhere now, making up for every moment he had held back.
They roamed down your sides, feeling the heat and softness of your body beneath. Down to your waist, gripping the bare skin where the fabric had ridden up. Lower still, over the flare of your hip, the silky expanse of your thighs.
And then your ass. Fuck. Perfect and full, fitting into his palms like it was made for them. He grabbed handfuls of it, squeezing, kneading, pulling you harder against him as he ground his hips into yours.
The moan you let out was muffled against his mouth, a broken, breathy sound that vibrated through his entire body and went straight to his cock.
His hips rolled forward in a rough, involuntary thrust, grinding his aching hardness against the heat of your cunt, the friction electric even through the thin layers of fabric separating you.
A guttural groan tore from deep in his chest, swallowed by your mouth as he kept moving against you.
Your moans were muffled against his mouth, your fingers twisted in his hair, holding him to you like you were afraid he’d disappear. The world had narrowed to the slide of his tongue against yours, the damp heat of your breath mingling with his.
But he couldn’t get enough. Every taste made him hungrier. Every sound you made drove him further past the edge of reason.
He broke the kiss with a ragged gasp, pushing himself upright, his chest heaving. Your hands followed him immediately, desperate fingers catching at his shirt, trying to pull him back down, trying to keep his mouth on yours.
“Sit tight, honey,” he breathed.
His hands were already moving, clumsy and urgent, fumbling at the button of your denim shorts. The thin metal slipped through his fingers once, twice, before he got it free.
His eyes met yours, dark and serious despite the haze of alcohol.
“Tell me to stop, baby.” The words came out low, a last gasp of something that might have been conscience. “Tell me to fucking stop.”
You shook your head hard, the motion fierce and immediate. Your hips lifted off the mattress as you shoved at the waistband of your shorts, helping him drag them down your legs along with your panties.
“Please don’t stop, Bucky.” Your voice cracked, “Please. I’ll die.”
The raw desperation in your voice hit him like a punch to the sternum. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, and he had to bite back a groan, had to clench his jaw to keep from spilling right there like a fucking teenager. Christ.
But first, he needed to see you.
He settled back on his heels, his hands braced on your thighs, and let his gaze travel down the length of your body. His eyes traced the curve of your hips, the soft swell of your belly, and finally, finally, to the place he had been dreaming about for months.
He stared.
It felt like the air left the room. His mouth went dry, then flooded with saliva.
She was beautiful. Perfect. Pretty and glistening, the soft folds glistening with your arousal, the little hooded pearl peeking out like she was waiting for him. He felt like he was going to drool.
A sharp shove hit his shoulder, rocking him back.
“Bucky.” Your voice was a whine, “Stop staring. You’re making me shy.”
He let out a laugh, shaking his head slowly. Shy. After everything, you were shy.
He lowered himself, pressing his mouth to the inside of your thigh. Then higher. Another kiss, closer. His lips dragged along your skin, following the sensitive line of your inner thigh.
“M’sorry, sweetheart.” His voice was a murmur against your flesh, “She’s just so pretty. Been dreaming about her.”
You sighed above him, the sound dreamy and soft. “Really?”
He didn’t answer with words. He pressed his mouth to your clit, a single, gentle kiss. You gasped, your hips twitching.
Then he went for the kill.
He dragged his tongue up in a long, slow stripe, from your entrance to your clit, savouring the taste of you; salty and sweet and everything. And then he closed his lips around that little pearl and sucked. Hard.
Your moan was loud, broken, spilling out of you like you couldn’t hold it back. It hit him straight in the gut, a jolt of electricity that traveled down to his cock, making him grind helplessly against the mattress, seeking any friction he could find.
He didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He buried his face in your cunt like a man starved, his tongue sliding through your folds, dipping inside you, then back up to circle your clit. He ate you out with messy, desperate strokes, his moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh.
He fucked you with his tongue, pushing inside you, tasting your heat, your want, your need.
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him harder against you, and he went willingly, eagerly, lost completely in the taste and the sound and the feel of you falling apart under his mouth.
You moaned at the intrusion, a broken, breathless sound that vibrated around his knuckles as he sank his middle finger deep into your slick heat.
You didn’t need the encouragement, your hips were already rolling, riding his hand with a desperate, frantic rhythm that made the mattress creak beneath you.
He could feel it building in the way your walls fluttered and clamped around him, chasing that peak with a single-minded hunger that made his mouth water.
“Want another one, sweetheart?” His voice was honey and gravel, the pad of his thumb dragging a lazy, torturous circle over your clit.
You glared down at him from above, your frown sharp and impatient. “Stop fucking with me, Bucky.”
He grinned, and pushed a second finger into you without breaking eye contact. The stretch pulled a sharp gasp from your parted lips, and he started thrusting harder, deeper, the wet, obscene sound of it filling the quiet room. “Don’t wanna fuck with you, baby. I wanna fuck you.”
He felt you clench around his fingers immediately, a violent, fluttering grip that sent a tremor up his arm. A loud, broken moan tore out of you as you came, your body shuddering against his hand, your slick coating his palm and dripping down his wrist.
Fuck. He stared down at the way you pulsed around him, and his brain short-circuited. If this was how you came on his fingers, his cock was going to be absolutely fucking suffocated inside you.
He didn’t give you a second to recover.
He pulled his fingers out and brought them to his mouth, stuffing them past his lips, tasting you. He sucked them clean, groaning around the flavour of you, before he was crawling up your body, dragging his chest over your damp, trembling skin.
He thrust his tongue into your mouth without warning, sharing the taste of yourself with you. You opened for him eagerly, moaning into the kiss, your hands tangling in his hair and pulling him deeper.
Your fingers found his belt, the buckle clicking open under your quick, determined hands. He heard the rough rasp of his zipper, felt your palms push his jeans down over his ass, and you paused just long enough to squeeze, an appreciative grip that made him groan against your lips.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. He was about to fuck you. Actually, really, truly, about to fuck you.
He had to contain his excitement, had to focus on his breathing, or he was going to spill like a goddamn virgin before he even got close to being inside you.
And then your hands were flat on his shoulders, shoving.
He pulled back, frowning, ready to ask what was wrong, but the look on your face stopped him cold. You were grinning up at him, wicked and beautiful.
“Let me suck your cock.”
You didn’t give him a chance to respond. You shoved him sideways, trying to climb on top of him, trying to get your mouth on him, and the thought of your lips closing around him almost made his vision go white.
“No, no, no, no.” He caught your hips, tried to wrestle you back down onto your back. “No, sweetheart, just—stay—let me—”
You were laughing, light and playful, but he was deadly serious.
“If you even breathe on my cock, I’ll cum on the spot. I promise.” His eyes met yours, desperate and honest. “Please. Not tonight. Just let me have you. I’ve been waiting for this—waiting for you.”
You paused on his lap, considering. The laughter faded from your face, replaced by something softer, something thoughtful that made his chest ache.
He had to close his eyes. He had to focus on his breath.
Because your cunt was right there. Right on top of his dick. The heat of you seeping through his skin, the dampness of you threatening to coat his aching length.
He could feel every inch of your weight pressing down over him, and if he looked, if he moved, if he so much as twitched his hips, he was going to lose his entire fucking mind.
And then you began to slowly rock up and down his dick, the friction of your slick heat dragging against him like a live wire. You looked down at him with that small, knowing smile, the one that made his chest ache and his cock throb.
“You’re really that desperate for me?”
Bucky nodded, his jaw tight, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Painfully. Desperately. A confession without words.
You leaned down, your lips brushing his in a kiss so quick and soft it was almost cruel. “Okay, baby.”
He let out a shuddering sigh of relief, of gratitude… and then his eyes flew wide.
Because you were rising. Rising off his lap. Reaching down between your bodies. Taking hold of his dick in your warm hand, and positioning it exactly where you wanted it.
He was hypnotised. Transfixed. The sight of his own flushed tip nudging against your soaking, glistening entrance made his brain short-circuit.
He felt a drop of saliva escape the corner of his mouth, rolling down his chin, and he couldn’t even muster the shame to wipe it away.
Jesus fucking Christ.
You were so tight. The first inch of him sliding into you felt like being wrapped in molten silk, searing and perfect. His eyes flicked up to your face, and he found yours squeezed shut, your lips parted, your breath catching in broken little gasps as you fed yourself his cock inch by agonising inch.
It felt like an eternity before your hips met his, before he was buried to the hilt inside you, and the sight of his cock disappearing completely into your body made his vision haze.
Your thighs settled flat against his, skin to skin, and he gripped your waist so hard he knew he’d leave bruises.
“Don’t move,” he rasped, his voice ragged. “Stay still for me. Just… keep still.”
You clenched around him involuntarily, a soft, reflexive squeeze that made him groan deep in his chest.
“Don’t do that. Don’t do that.”
You pouted, your bottom lip jutting out, eyes still hazy with pleasure. “I can’t help it, Bucky.”
And then you clenched again. Accidentally. Deliberately. He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He tried to think of other things. Disgusting things. Anything to keep from spilling inside you like a goddamn teenager.
Cut toenails. Moldy fruit. Steve’s ass. None of it was working. Not when your heat was wrapped around him, not when you were sitting there looking so soft and sweet and patient, waiting for his permission.
He gave a strained nod, his voice barely a whisper. “Okay. Go ahead, baby.”
You smiled and then you rose. Rose until only the tip of him remained inside you. And then you dropped.
Violently. All the way down, slamming into his hips, the force of it knocking the air from his lungs and making him grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. And then you were bouncing, riding him like he was a fairy pony, your pace frantic and relentless, your walls gripping him with every upward stroke.
All he could do was try to keep up. He dug his fingers into your hips, his hands guiding your rhythm, and began to fuck up into you matching your wild tempo, chasing the heat pooling at the base of his spine.
Bucky was pretty sure if his heart gave out right now; if he dropped dead beneath you, buried to the hilt, watching you fall apart on his cock, he’d die the happiest man alive.
This was heaven. You were heaven. The way you moved on top of him, taking everything he had, stealing his breath, his sanity, every coherent thought he’d ever had.
And then he realised.
You were still wearing that top.
The thin fabric clung to your skin, damp with sweat, hiding the one thing he needed to see more than his next breath.
Concealing the soft bounce of your tits with every roll of your hips. He reached up with both hands, fisting the hem, and you didn’t even notice, too busy fucking yourself on him, too lost in the rhythm to pay attention to anything else.
Until the violent shrrrip of cotton splitting in two cracked through the air like a gunshot.
Your eyes flew open, head jerking back. “Bucky!”
“’M sorry.”
The apology came out wrecked, and completely insincere. There was zero remorse in his voice, none in the greedy way his hands immediately found your bare chest, cupping the soft, heavy weight of your tits, his thumbs dragging over the stiff peaks of your nipples.
The moan that slipped past your lips was immediate.
“Needed to see them,” he rasped, watching the way they filled his palms, the way your back arched into his touch. “Needed to feel them.”
A breathless laugh escaped you, a soft shake of your head as you planted your hands flat on his chest and steadied yourself. And then you were bouncing harder, riding him like he was made for this, like you were trying to wring every last drop of sanity from his bones.
But he needed more.
The angle wasn’t deep enough. He couldn’t get close enough. Couldn’t be buried deep enough inside you.
Gathering every ounce of strength he had left, his hands locked onto your waist.
In one fluid, powerful motion, he used his hips to wrench you off balance and flipped you onto your back, twisting your bodies until he was hovering over you, and never once did he slip out of the slick, perfect heat of your body.
A delighted, breathless cry tore from your throat at the sudden shift in power. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, pulling him deeper.
He reached up, one hand curling around the wooden slats of the headboard. The frame groaned under his grip as he pulled back and snapped his hips forward. Harder. Deeper. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room mixing with your ragged breaths and the desperate groans rumbling in his chest.
Bending down, he pressed his mouth to the sweat-slicked curve of your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, to feel your pulse flutter against his lips. “I need you to cum,” he grunted against your skin. “Please, baby. Need it.”
“Huh?” The word came out dazed, strangled. You hadn’t heard him. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lips parted, completely lost in the relentless rhythm of him pounding into you, too far gone to process anything beyond the next wave of pleasure building in your core.
“Cum now,” he grunted, the words ripped from somewhere deep in his chest. “Shit… now.”
He drove into you harder, each thrust a desperate, punishing demand. The headboard groaned against the wall, the frame shuddering with every brutal snap of his hips.
Your nails raked down his back, sharp, frantic lines of fire that he felt all the way down to his bones. And then he heard it; a choked sob that broke past your lips. Not pain. Release.
There. He’d found it.
“Right there, Bucky—right there—”
The cry was wrecked, broken, a plea that sexed through him like a current. He zeroed in on that spot, that deep, swollen place inside you that made your voice crack and your back arch off the mattress.
He bullied it with his cock, over and over, relentless, until your moans dissolved into something shattered and raw.
Then you broke.
He felt it in the way you clenched around him first; a sudden, violent flutter that turned into a pulsing grip, suffocating his cock, milking him with wave after wave of your release.
Your nails dug into the meat of his shoulders, your thighs locking around his waist, and the sound you made, a broken, keening gasp, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.
It was enough to push him over.
Bucky let go.
His balls drew up tight, a hot rush of pressure building at the base of his spine, and then he was coming… violently, uncontrollably, his hips stuttering as he emptied himself into you with a guttural groan that sounded more animal than human.
He stayed buried deep, pumping into you through the aftershocks, his body trembling above yours, every nerve electric and raw.
For a long, suspended moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing and the slick, wet press of skin against skin.
Then his body went lax.
He collapsed onto his elbows, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his weight pinning you into the mattress as he tried to remember how to breathe. The high was liquid and warm, a blanket of bliss settling over his bones.
And then—
“You’re not gonna be weird about this, are you?”
The words came soft. Disarmingly soft. That was the cruelest part of it.
You pressed them into his skin, your cheek turned against his hair, your voice a low, sleepy murmur. One hand rested loose at the nape of his neck, thumb tracing an idle, almost tender path across the damp skin there.
Like you hadn’t just carved something out of him.
Bucky went still.
He forced his lungs to keep moving. Forced the tension in his shoulders to dissolve before you could feel it. His face was still buried in the curve of your shoulder, his mouth hot and wet against your collarbone, his body a weighted, useless thing draped over yours.
The room smelled of them. Sweat and salt and the crushed-flower sweetness of your perfume, tangled with the raw musk of sex that clung to the sheets.
Below, the house was still alive. The bass was a distant heartbeat through the floor, the drone of voices rising and falling like surf against stone.
Ten seconds ago, he had been floating in it.
Ten seconds ago, he had felt stupidly, dangerously complete.
The whole night had collapsed into this single moment; this bed, this room, the slick, fluttering grip of your body around his, your fingers knotted in his hair, holding him at the center of something that felt, for one perfect, delusional instant, like it mattered.
He had let himself think—
No.
He didn’t get to finish that thought.
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he laughed, a short, easy sound that he shaped into exactly the right shape.
“Weird?” He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. “Me?”
Your mouth curved, “Yeah. You.”
He gave you the grin. The practiced one. The one that had saved him from worse than this.
“Sweetheart, I’m the most normal guy you know.”
A beat. “That is deeply untrue.”
You laughed then, and the sound hooked into his ribs. He let himself feel it, just for a second. There. It’s fine. Keep it light.
He could do this. He could keep the room warm if he didn’t push. He could lie here, tangled in you, and pretend the words hadn’t hit him like a fist.
Slowly he shifted his weight and pulled out of you. The sound was wet, obscene in the quiet, and it twisted something low in his gut. The heat he had been drowning in vanished the second he was empty.
The chill that replaced it crept up his spine and settled cold in his chest.
Still, he didn’t move away.
His arm stayed heavy across your waist, palm spread flat against the curve of your hip. His thumb began a slow, lazy stroke against your skin, a betrayal of every intention he had to act unaffected.
Bucky swallowed the bitterness climbing his throat and ducked his head, pressing his mouth to the warm skin just under your jaw. Not quite a kiss. Soft enough to deny.
“Relax,” he murmured against you, the words a low vibration. “I’m not gonna propose before breakfast.”
Your fingers paused against his cheek. For one terrible second, he thought he had said the wrong thing.
Then you huffed a laugh, thinner than before. “Good.”
Good.
Bucky smiled anyway, pressing it into your skin.
“Would’ve been a nice proposal, though.” He said it like a joke, because apparently he couldn’t stop picking at the bruise. “Real romantic. Me, you, Tony’s guest room, half the house tanked downstairs.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, lifting his head to look at you properly. “Probably.”
Your smile flickered.
There it was. That tiny break in you, so fast he would have missed it if he hadn’t spent months training himself to read your face. Your eyes searched his, and for a breath, he thought you might take it back.
Thought you might pull him down and kiss him until the hollow ache in his chest stopped screaming.
Instead, your gaze dropped first.
“I just don’t want things to get complicated.”
Bucky stared at you.
Complicated.
You were in his bed. Your body was still warm and pliant beneath his hand. You were still wet with him. The scratches from your nails were still raised and stinging on his back. His heart was beating so hard it felt exposed, shameful.
And you were talking about complicated like it was something waiting outside the door, not something you had already dragged in by the throat.
He nodded once. “Right.”
Your eyes flicked back to him. “Buck—”
“No, I get it.”
He didn’t get it, yet he got it perfectly.
Both were true. It was becoming a theme with you.
He pulled the blanket up over your hip because some stupid, aching part of him noticed you shiver. Then he settled back beside you, close enough for your shoulder to press against his chest, close enough to pretend nothing had shifted if he tried hard enough.
And he did try. God, he tried.
He let his lips graze your temple. Let his hand find yours under the sheet. Let himself feel the way your fingers curled, briefly, around his before loosening again.
Downstairs, someone screamed with laughter, a bright, drunken shriek that cut through the bass like glass.
The music kicked louder, the walls shuddering with it, the whole house groaning under the weight of bodies and noise.
You closed your eyes.
Bucky stayed awake, watching the ceiling blur above him.
Your warmth was pressed all along his side, your thigh hooked loosely over his, the damp glide of your skin against his making it impossible to forget where they had been ten minutes ago.
And your words were still lodged cold beneath his ribs, sharp as swallowed glass.
Not weird. Not complicated. Not a thing.
He turned his head and looked at you anyway, because he was weak, because he was stupid, because he had apparently decided that dignity was optional where you were concerned.
Your face had softened into sleep. Lashes dark against your cheeks, lips parted just enough to let the slow rhythm of your breath slip through.
You looked younger like this. Softer. Less like the girl who could walk into a crowded room and tilt his whole goddamn world sideways without breaking stride.
He hated you a little then.
The thought came sudden and ugly, rising from his chest like bile.
He hated you.
Hated the way you could lie here, still slick with him, your body still marked from his hands, and ask him not to make it mean anything.
Hated the way you took his wanting like it was expected, like it was easy, like he hadn’t spent months carving pieces of himself off and pressing them into your palm while you barely noticed.
Selfish, he thought.
And yet his arm tightened around you anyway.
Selfish fucking brat.
You take and you take and then you get scared it might mean something, so you push it away before it can push back.
The words burned through him. He imagined saying them. Imagined the way your mouth would part, the little furrow between your brows, the wounded look you would try to hide.
Good, some cruel part of him whispered. Let it hurt. Let you feel stupid for once. Let you feel even half of what I feel right now.
He wanted that. For one vicious, starving second, he wanted to hurt you exactly where you had hurt him.
Then you shifted in your sleep. Barely a breath of movement, a sigh, the slow curl of your fingers against his chest, your palm pressing flat over his heartbeat.
And Bucky melted.
He looked down at your hand resting over his heart and felt the anger lose its teeth.
Not disappear,it stayed there, sore and simmering beneath his ribs, but it had nowhere to go when you were tucked against him like this, soft and warm and trusting him with your sleeping body even while you refused to trust him with your heart.
His throat tightened.
“You’re so fucking confusing,” he whispered, the words barely a vibration against your hair.
He turned carefully onto his side, gathering you closer despite every reasonable part of him screaming to pull away.
His arm slid around your waist, his palm spread wide against the dip of your back, and you came easily, your forehead finding the hollow beneath his jaw as if your body knew where to belong.
The party roared on beneath them. Drunk and careless and alive. The whole house shaking with it.
And Bucky lay there, holding you, feeling like someone had cracked his chest open and left it that way.
He should have moved away. Should have rolled onto his back and let the cold settle between them, let it harden into the shape you had asked for.
Should have protected himself before morning came and you slipped back into whatever version of yourself could smile at him over breakfast like he hadn’t been inside you, like you hadn’t held his face in your hands and asked him not to love you.
Instead, he held you tighter.
Because this was still more than he had before.
Because despite everything, you had become the shape of his world.
His want began and ended with you. His mood rose and fell on the sound of your laugh, the lift of your eyes, the careless brush of your fingers against his.
You made him desperate and angry and embarrassingly alive. You made him feel chosen. You made him feel disposable. You made him feel completely insane.
And he would take it. Every scrap. Every confusing, contradictory piece.
He would take it because he didn’t know how to stop.
Bucky closed his eyes, his jaw tight enough to ache, his arms locked around you like holding on hard enough could keep the morning from coming.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured into your hair, almost mean with the tenderness bleeding through it. “I won’t be weird.”
a/n | my initial plan was after the smut reader avoids, and then bucky freaks out and screams at her during another party and lays out all his frustrations that steve and sam have to physically remove him. three months pass without contact until you two see each other again and we finally get a look at what’s going through reader’s mind and ends with hurt/comfort and hopeful ending
Ever since you were a small kid, you've liked Oscar, your heart melts when you see him, you dream of him in your sleep. You try to show him your feelings, he deflects, and he can't tell you why, but maybe someday, he will, that is if he's not too late.
➳ PAIRING : BBF!Oscar Piastri x Female Norris!Reader
➳ INCLUDES (TAGS / WARNINGS) : non-f1 au, brother's best friend trope, slow burn (?), fluff, childhood crushes, pining, light angst (this has a happy ending, I promise), implied smut, heavy confessions, crying, alcohol use, eventual romance, talk/thoughts of marriage, talk/thoughts of having kids, talk/thoughts about hardships and different economic status. inaccurate information about engineering and med-allied studies. Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie mentioned multiple times. Pictures from pinterest.
➳ WORD COUNT : 6.3K
➳ RENATA HERE ! : This has been sitting in my drafts for too long, since before I created a tumblr account and initially planned to post it on ao3 or wattpad. I finally had the opportunity, boost, and motivation to edit and finish it, so here you go. Enjoy and happy reading!
+ I am working on your guys' requests, I just need to work a little harder on them so they'll come out nice. I'm sorry for the delays :(
When I was trying to finish this I couldn't help but think of stupid song by Olivia, and before that came out, I was thinking of the promise by When In Rome. Now, I'm thinking of both xD
— requests are open !
The first time you ever truly noticed Oscar Piastri, you were five years old, and he was seven, and the late afternoon sun was filtering through the oak trees in your parents' garden in a way that made everything look gilded and enchanted.
You had been following Lando and him around the perimeter of the garden for the better part of an hour, your small legs working furiously to keep pace with their longer strides, your white sundress catching on the brambles that lined the fence.
They were discussing something terribly important—perhaps paper airplanes—and you were simply trying to be included, to be seen, to be anything other than the little sister who was tolerated but never truly invited.
"Go away," Lando had said, not unkindly, when you tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. "We're doing big kid stuff."
You had felt your lower lip tremble, and had been on the verge of retreating to the sanctuary of the kitchen where your mother was baking something with cinnamon, when Oscar turned around. He had been a skinny thing then, all elbows and knees and freckles scattered across his nose like someone had flicked a paintbrush at him. His eyes, even at seven, held a gravity that seemed misplaced in a child's face, a seriousness that made him seem older, more substantial than the other boys Lando brought home from school.
"She can stay," Oscar had said, and his voice was soft, almost gentle in a way that made you go still. "She's not bothering anyone."
Lando had rolled his eyes but acquiesced, and you had spent the rest of that afternoon sitting on the grass at Oscar's feet, watching him fold paper into intricate shapes, occasionally glancing down at you to make sure you were still there, still following. When he smiled at you—a real smile, not the patronizing ones adults gave children—it felt like the sun had decided to shine only on you.
That was the beginning, though you didn't know it then. You only knew that when Oscar was in the room, the air felt different—charged, electric, filled with possibility. You followed him and Lando everywhere, became the proverbial shadow, the little sister who was always underfoot, always listening, always watching.
Your childhood was filled with you learning the cadence of Oscar's laughter before you understood what humor was. You memorized the way he pushed his hair back from his forehead when he was concentrating, the particular furrow that appeared between his eyebrows when he was solving a problem, the way his whole face transformed when he was truly happy.
By the time you were twelve and he was fourteen, the nature of your admiration had shifted into something more dangerous, more precarious.
You were old enough to recognize the flutter in your chest when he entered a room, the way your palms went damp when he said your name, the peculiar ache that settled behind your ribs when you watched him date other girls—girls his age, girls with developed figures and sophisticated conversations about things you didn't yet understand.
You were old enough to know that what you felt was not sisterly affection, not platonic adoration, but something sharp and hungry and terrifying in its intensity.
You told Alex about it one rainy afternoon in her bedroom, the two of you sprawled on her canopy bed surrounded by magazines and the detritus of early adolescence. Alexandra had been your best friend since primary school, fierce and loyal and terrifyingly perceptive, and she had listened to your confession with wide brown eyes before declaring, with the absolute certainty of a twelve-year-old who had read too many romance novels, that you were in love, capital L, and that it was both tragic and beautiful.
"He's too old for you," she had said, not unkindly, braiding your hair with nimble fingers. "And he's Lando's best friend. That's like... forbidden. Epic. Like Romeo and Juliet, but with less poison."
"He's not too old," you had protested, though of course he was (somehow). Two years was an eternity when you were twelve and he was fourteen. It was the distance between childhood and adolescence, between training bras and real ones, between thinking boys had cooties and desperately wanting one particular boy to notice you existed as something other than his best friend's annoying little sister.
But time, as it tends to do, marched forward with relentless indifference. You grew. The gap between you narrowed in significance even as it remained mathematically constant.
By the time you were sixteen and navigating the treacherous waters of sixth form, Oscar and Lando were both eighteen and in their first year at university, studying engineering. They had moved into a flat together, a cramped but charming place that smelled perpetually of microwave ramen and solder flux, and you visited often under the pretense of wanting to see your brother, though everyone—Lando, Oscar, even your parents—knew that you were really there for him.
Oscar had grown into himself in the intervening years. The gangly teenager had been replaced by a young man with broad shoulders and a quiet confidence that made him magnetic. He wore glasses now, thick-rimmed and serious, that made him look like an intellectual from a period drama. He was studying mechanical engineering with a focus on sustainable design, and he spoke about carbon-neutral technologies with a passion that made your chest tighten with pride and longing.
You were eighteen when you decided to stop being subtle. Subtlety had gotten you nowhere—eighteen years of glances and sighs and carefully orchestrated proximity, and Oscar still treated you with the same gentle, distant affection he had when you were five. He still ruffled your hair when he saw you, still called you by the childhood nickname he had coined when you were small, still looked at you with eyes that were fond but infuriatingly platonic.
So you changed tactics. You started wearing dresses that showed off the legs you had spent years running and swimming into shape. You learned how to do your makeup, not the heavy-handed attempts of your early teens but something softer, more sophisticated. You asked for advice from your friends, Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie—your university friends who were studying medicine and biomedical engineering respectively and who found your pining both hilarious and tragic.
"You've got to just tell him," Kimi had advised over coffee one afternoon, his dark eyes serious behind his own glasses. "From your and Alex's stories about Oscar, he sounds like a really good guy. He won't freak out. Probably."
"He's going to freak out," Ollie had countered, ever the pragmatist. "He's known her since she was in nappies. That's a lot of history to overcome."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," you had muttered, but you knew Ollie was right.
The history was the problem. To Oscar, you were frozen in amber as Lando's little sister, the girl who used to steal his action figures and cry during thunderstorms. He didn't see the woman you had become, or if he did, he didn't know how to reconcile her with the child he remembered.
But you tried anyway. You flirted with the desperation of the young and in love, which is to say: constantly, shamelessly, and with a complete lack of subtlety. You found reasons to touch him—brushing lint from his shoulder, adjusting his collar, letting your fingers linger on his arm when he made you laugh.
You complimented him in ways that were clearly not sisterly, telling him he looked handsome, that he smelled good, that you liked the way his shirts fit his shoulders. You stayed up late texting him under the covers, sending him songs that made you think of him, memes that were just excuses to start conversations, questions about his day that went on for hours.
And Oscar... Oscar deflected. He responded to your texts with polite enthusiasm, answered your compliments with "thanks, kiddo," tolerated your touches with a patience that felt almost parental.
He never reciprocated, never crossed the line you were desperately trying to erase, but he also never rejected you outright.
He existed in a liminal space of gentle ambiguity, always kind, always just out of reach, always looking at you with eyes that held something you couldn't quite name but that never blossomed into the words you wanted to hear.
"Maybe he just doesn't like you like that," Alexandra had suggested gently one night, the two of you drinking wine in your shared flat near campus. You were studying Psychology, drawn to the profession by some combination of genuine desire to help and figure out what people are thinking and having a hard time of by their behaviour, and yet, you can't seem to figure out Oscar. "Maybe he's being nice because he doesn't want to hurt your feelings."
"He likes me," you had insisted—maybe you've gone delusional—though the certainty was beginning to fray at the edges. "I know he does. I can feel it. He's just... I don't know. Scared? Obligated to Lando? Something."
But as the months stretched into years, as you turned nineteen and then twenty, the excuses began to wear thin.
Oscar graduated with first-class honors, a brilliant young engineer with job offers from three major firms. He and Lando moved to a better flat, one with actual natural light and a better view. You visited less frequently, stung by Oscar's continued distance, by the way he would hug you hello and goodbye with the same brotherly affection, by the way he never seemed to notice when you wore your best dress or styled your hair just so.
And then, gradually, he began to disappear.
It started small. He stopped coming to Sunday dinners at your parents' house, citing work deadlines. He stopped joining you and Lando at the pub on Fridays, saying he was too tired.
The texts became less frequent, the responses slower, until you were lucky to get a reply within a week. When you did see him, at birthdays and holidays, he seemed distracted, distant, his mind clearly elsewhere even when he was physically present. He had taken a position with a startup focused on renewable energy infrastructure, and he threw himself into it with the intensity that characterized everything he did.
"He's just busy," Lando would say when you asked, concern evident in your brother's voice. "You know how he gets. Obsessive. He wants to prove himself."
"Prove what?" you had asked, but Lando only shrugged.
"He's always felt like he had something to prove. You know his background—scholarships, state schools, the whole thing. He thinks he has to work twice as hard to be considered half as good."
You did know. Oscar had grown up differently than you and Lando, in a modest house in the suburbs with parents who worked long hours to give him opportunities they never had. He had come here on academic scholarships, had worked part-time jobs throughout university to supplement his loans, and had never taken a single thing for granted.
You understood, intellectually, that his drive came from a place of insecurity, of fear that he would somehow lose everything he had worked for if he paused for even a moment.
But understanding didn't stop the hurt. When he missed your twentieth birthday party, sending only a bouquet of flowers and a brief text, you cried in the bathroom for twenty minutes before plastering on a smile and returning to your guests.
When he didn't respond to your messages for three weeks, then four, you began to understand that he was not just busy—he was avoiding you. The realization felt like a physical wound, a hollow space opening in your chest where hope had once resided.
So you did what heartbroken girls have done since time immemorial: you tried to forget him.
You threw yourself into your studies with renewed vigor, determined to excel in your program, to become someone worthy of your own respect if not his affection. You went on dates—so many dates—with boys who were safe, boys who were interested, boys who didn't make you feel like you were constantly trying to measure up to some impossible standard.
There was Tom from your anatomy class, sweet and earnest and utterly devoid of chemistry. There was Marcus from the climbing gym, handsome and athletic and boring in bed. There was Julian, a medical student with brilliant prospects and a personality like wet cardboard.
You went to parties and clubs and pubs with Alexandra and Kimi and Ollie, drinking too much and dancing until your feet ached, laughing loudly at jokes that weren't funny, pretending that you were having the time of your life. You posted photos on social media—carefully curated images of you smiling, surrounded by friends, living your best life—hoping that somewhere, Oscar would see them and feel a flicker of regret, a moment of wondering what he was missing.
But the truth, which you confessed only to Alexandra in the small hours of the morning when the wine had stopped working, was that no one measured up. No one made your heart race the way Oscar did with a single glance. No one understood your references, your humor, the particular way your mind worked. No one felt like home, and you began to suspect that no one ever would.
Two years passed in this manner—two years of dating and forgetting and failing to forget, of watching Oscar's life from a distance through Lando's updates and social media posts. You learned that he had been promoted, that he was traveling for work, that he had bought a flat of his own in a trendy neighborhood east of the city. You learned these things the way one learns about distant relatives or former classmates—with a sense of detachment that masked profound grief.
And then, finally, you graduated.
It was a humid day in July, the sky threatening rain that never came, and you stood in your cap and gown with Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie, your family beaming from the audience, your heart lighter than it had been in years despite the persistent ache that had become background noise.
You were done.
You had your degree, your pin, your future stretching before you like an open road. You were turning twenty-two years old, an adult by any measure, and you were determined to start this new chapter with your head held high.
Lando had insisted on throwing you a party. He had rented out the private room of a gastro-pub, invited everyone you knew, decorated the space with fairy lights and photographs from your childhood that made you alternately laugh and cringe. Your best friends were there, proud and slightly tipsy. Some of your classmates, your internship friends where you had done your practicals with. It was supposed to be a celebration of you, of your achievements, of the woman you had become.
You had not expected Oscar to come. He had RSVP'd maybe, citing a work conflict, and you had prepared yourself for his absence, had told yourself that it didn't matter, that you were over him, that his presence or lack thereof was irrelevant to your happiness.
But he came.
You saw him before he saw you, standing in the doorway of the private room with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a gift bag in the other. He was wearing a navy suit that fit him perfectly, his hair styled in the way that made him look both professional and approachable, his glasses catching the light from the fairy lights. He looked older, somehow, though it had only been two years. There were lines around his eyes that hadn't been there before, a weariness in his posture that suggested sleepless nights and too much coffee.
Your heart, the traitorous thing that it was, stopped. Then started again at double speed.
He saw you then, and his expression shifted into something soft and complicated—pride, you thought, and something else, something that looked almost like pain. He crossed the room to where you were standing with Alexandra, and before you could prepare yourself, he pulled you into a hug.
"Congratulations," he said, his voice low and warm against your ear, and you smelled his cologne—something woodsy and clean, the same scent he had worn since university—and felt your knees go weak. "You did it. I'm so proud of you."
"Thanks," you managed, pulling back, hoping he couldn't see the flush on your cheeks. "I didn't think you'd make it."
"I wouldn't have missed it," he said, and there was something in his eyes, some intensity that hadn't been there before, that made you look away.
The party progressed in a blur of congratulations and champagne. You moved from group to group, accepting praise and advice and promises of future collaborations, but your attention kept drifting back to Oscar.
He was talking to some of your friends that approached him, charming them unconsciously, then to Lando, the two of them laughing about some shared memory. He caught you looking at him once and held your gaze for a long moment before smiling—a real smile, the kind that reached his eyes—and raising his glass in a silent toast.
You drank too much. You knew it even as you were doing it, topping off your glass again and again, accepting shots from Kimi and Ollie, dancing with Alexandra until the room spun. You were trying to drown the feelings that had resurfaced with violent intensity, trying to convince yourself that you were fine, that you were happy, that Oscar Piastri was just a man and not the center of your gravitational pull.
By midnight, you were thoroughly, impossibly drunk. The room had developed a pleasant blur around the edges, and your voice felt too loud in your own ears. You remembered talking to Alexandra, who had looked concerned and suggested you slow down. You remembered dancing with Lando, who had spun you around until you stumbled. You remembered standing at the bar, ordering another drink, and then—
And then Oscar was there, his hand on your elbow, his voice cutting through the fog.
"Hey," he said gently. "Hey, I think you've had enough."
"Oscar," you slurred, turning to face him, and the room tilted dangerously. "Oscar, you're here. You're really here."
"I'm here," he confirmed, steadying you with a hand on your waist. "Come on. Let's get you some water."
"I don't want water," you announced, though you allowed him to guide you away from the bar. "I want... I want to tell you something."
"Okay," he said, patient as always. "Tell me."
But the words were jumbled, tangled up in alcohol and years of suppressed emotion. You told him he was beautiful. You told him you had missed him. You told him that no one else had ever made you feel the way he did, that you had tried to forget him but it was impossible, that you were still in love with him, had always been in love with him, would love him until the stars burned out.
You were crying by then, you realized dimly, tears tracking down your face as Oscar stared at you with an expression you couldn't decipher. You said something else—something about him being the man of your dreams, about wanting him to see you, really see you, not as Lando's little sister but as a woman who loved him.
And then, mercifully, the alcohol pulled you under. The last thing you remembered was Oscar's arms around you, lifting you, the sensation of movement, the distant sound of him saying goodbye to someone—Lando, probably—and then nothing.
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by the worst headache of your life and a mouth that felt like it had been stuffed with cotton.
You were in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, wearing a t-shirt that was definitely not yours. Panic surged through you until you recognized the space—minimalist, masculine, with a view of tranquility. Oscar's flat.
You sat up too quickly, and the room spun. Groaning, you collapsed back against the pillows, noticing for the first time the glass of water and bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. There was a note in Oscar's neat handwriting: "Take two. I'll be in the kitchen when you're ready."
You took the pills, drank the entire glass of water, and lay back down, trying to piece together the previous night. Fragments came back to you—your confession, your tears, Oscar's face as you poured out years of longing. Mortification washed over you in waves. You had told him everything. You had cried on him. You had probably drooled on him. You were never going to live this down.
But you couldn't hide in his spare bedroom forever. Eventually, you forced yourself upright, found your dress—newly washed, you could smell, you couldn't help but think if you had vomited, because that's embarrassing, and in front of Oscar, too—folded neatly on a chair with your shoes beneath it, and stumbled to the bathroom to assess the damage.
You looked like death warmed over—mascara smudged under your eyes, hair a tangled mess, skin pale and clammy. You splashed water on your face, rinsed your mouth, and tried to smooth your hair into something resembling respectability.
When you emerged, Oscar was in the kitchen as promised, wearing sweatpants and a faded university t-shirt, looking unfairly good for someone who had presumably spent the night caring for a drunk, crying woman. He was making coffee, the rich scent filling the flat, and he turned when he heard you enter.
"Morning," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I died," you croaked. "Oscar, I'm so sorry. I don't even remember everything I said, but I'm sure it was mortifying, and I—"
"Sit down," he interrupted, gesturing to the breakfast bar. "Drink this." He pushed a mug of coffee toward you, black with a splash of milk, exactly how you liked it. You hadn't realized he knew that.
You sat, wrapping your hands around the warm ceramic, suddenly aware of how little you were wearing. His t-shirt hit you mid-thigh, and you were acutely conscious of your bare legs, your lack of makeup, your vulnerability in this space that was so intimately his.
"About last night," Oscar began, and your stomach dropped. Here it came—the gentle letdown, the "I care about you as a friend" speech, the careful extraction from the mess you had made.
"You don't have to say anything," you rushed to fill the silence. "I was drunk, I didn't mean to burden you with all of that, I know you don't feel the same way, and I'm sorry for making things awkward. I'll just... I'll get dressed and go, and we can pretend this never happened."
"Stop," Oscar said, and there was a note of command in his voice that made you go still. He set down his own coffee and turned to face you fully, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. He looked nervous, you realized. Oscar, who was always so composed, so in control, was wringing his hands and avoiding your eyes.
"I need to tell you something," he said. "And I need you to let me finish before you say anything, because I've been practicing this speech for a long time, and if I don't get it out now, I never will."
Your heart was hammering against your ribs. "Okay," you whispered.
Oscar took a breath. "When you were eighteen," he began, "and you started flirting with me, I thought it was a phase. A crush. Something you would grow out of when you went to university and met boys your own age, boys who weren't your brother's best friend, boys who had less... baggage."
He paused, running a hand through his hair. "But you didn't grow out of it. And I realized that I didn't want you to. I realized that when you walked into a room, I looked for you first. I memorized your class schedule so I would know when you might visit.”
You were staring at him, your coffee forgotten, your headache suddenly irrelevant. "What?"
"Let me finish," he said, his voice strained. "I fell in love with you. I think that was when you told me a joke about penguins.” He laughs, but then clears his throat, retracing his purpose.
“If I'm honest, but I really fell when you came to that dinner party wearing that blue dress, and you talked about your program with such compassion, and I realized that you weren't a little girl anymore. You were this incredible woman, and I was completely unprepared for how much I wanted you."
"But," you said, because there was clearly a but coming.
"But," Oscar confirmed, his expression twisting. "I had nothing to offer you. I was twenty-two, buried in student debt, living in a flat that I couldn't thank Lando enough for paying the rent, working a job that paid barely enough to cover my loans. And you...you were raised in comfort. Your parents paid for your education. You had never known what it was like to worry about money, to wonder if you could afford groceries. I couldn't ask you to be with me when I was so...small. When I had no security to give you, no stability, no guarantee that I wouldn't fail and drag you down with me.”
"Oscar—" you started, but he held up a hand.
"So I did the only thing I could think of," he continued, his voice rough. "I distanced myself. I threw myself into work, hoping that if I built something, if I became someone worth having, I could come back to you. I told myself I was being noble, giving you space to live your life, to find someone better. But the truth is, I was terrified. Terrified that if I told you how I felt and you rejected me, I wouldn't survive it. Terrified that if I told you and you accepted, I would eventually disappoint you."
He finally looked at you, and his eyes were bright, wet. "Last night, when you told me you loved me, I wanted to tell you everything. But you were drunk, and it would have been wrong to confess while you were vulnerable, while you might not remember. So I brought you here, and I waited for morning."
He pushed off from the counter and took a step toward you, then another, until he was standing close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and you could smell the sleep and coffee on his skin.
"I bought this flat six months ago," he said quietly. "Paid off my loans. Built the career I dreamed of. And every step of the way, you were the ghost at the edge of my vision, the reason I was working so hard. Not to prove anything to the world, but to prove to myself that I could be worthy of you."
"Oscar," you breathed, tears pricking your eyes again, but this time from hope, from joy.
"I love you," he said simply. "I have loved you. I was just too stupid and scared to say it. And I know I've hurt you by disappearing, and I will spend the rest of my life making that up to you if you'll let me. I-I don't know if you have someone, so I might be making a fool of myself right now—”
You laughed, a wet, broken sound, and set down your coffee so you could reach for him. "No," you said, your hands finding his waist, pulling him closer. "There's no one else. There never was. I tried, God knows I tried, but no one was you."
Oscar closed his eyes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "Thank God," he whispered, then laughed softly, relieved.
He kissed you then, and it was everything you had imagined and nothing like it at all. It was soft and tentative at first, a question asked and answered, and then deeper, hungrier, his hands coming up to cup your face as if you were something precious and fragile.
You melted into him, into the heat and solidity of him, into the taste of coffee and mint and Oscar. Years of longing crystallized into this moment, this touch, this man who had been the center of your universe for as long as you could remember.
When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing hard, Oscar rested his forehead against yours again, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
"Marry me," he said.
You blinked, certain you had misheard. "What?"
"Marry me," he repeated, his voice steady despite the wildness in his eyes. "I know we haven't even dated, I know this is insane, but I've wasted so much time, and I don't want to waste another second. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up every morning with you, in a bed we made, a home we built, I want to be in your life. I want to build a future with you, have children with you, grow old with you. I know I should ask you to be my girlfriend first, to date me, to let me court you properly, but I already know I want forever with you.”
You stared at him, your mind reeling. It was crazy. It was too fast. It was everything you had ever wanted.
"You never even let me be your girlfriend," you said, your voice trembling with laughter and tears. "We skipped right over dating, and flirting as adults, and meeting each other's friends properly. We went from childhood friends to... engagement?"
"I can do the whole thing properly if you want," Oscar said, his lips quivering in a smile that made your heart flutter. "I can take you on dates. I can bring you flowers and write you love letters and meet your friends and your parents as your boyfriend. But at the end of it, I'm still going to ask you to marry me. Because I don't want to be your boyfriend. I want to be your husband."
You thought about it—really thought about it. The years of pining, the heartbreak of his absence, the way no one else had ever compared. You thought about waking up next to him every morning, about building a life together, about the children you would have who would inherit his intelligence and your stubbornness.
"I don't have a ring," Oscar said, suddenly uncertain. "I didn't plan this, I just... I couldn't wait anymore. I can get one, though. Any ring you want. Or we can pick it out together."
"I don't care about a ring," you said, and you meant it. "I care about you. I care that you love me. I care that you finally see me."
"I see you," he promised, his voice fierce. "I've always seen you. I was just too blind to understand what I was looking at."
You kissed him again, soft and slow, and when you pulled back, you were smiling. "Yes," you said. "Yes, I'll marry you. But you have to promise me something."
"Anything."
"Promise me you won't disappear again. Promise me that when things get hard, or scary, or uncertain, you'll talk to me instead of running. Promise me that you'll let me love you even when you feel like you have nothing to offer, because you are everything I want, Oscar. You.”
Oscar's eyes closed, and a single tear tracked down his cheek. "I promise," he said, his voice breaking. "I promise, my love. I'm never leaving you again."
You spent the rest of the morning in his bed—not the spare room, but his room, with its wide windows and minimalist furniture and the bed that smelled like him. You talked for hours, filling in the gaps you had spent apart.
He told you about his work, about the renewable energy projects he was passionate about, about the struggles and triumphs of the past twenty-four months. You told him about the three clinics who offered you jobs, about the patients who had touched your heart during your internship, about Alexandra, Kimi, and Ollie and how they had kept you sane during your darkest moments.
You made love slowly, reverently, discovering each other with hands and mouths and whispered words. It was awkward in places—he knocked his glasses askew, you laughed when he tickled your ribs—but it was perfect because it was real, because it was you and Oscar finally, finally coming together as you were always meant to.
When you finally emerged from his bedroom in the late afternoon, showered and dressed in one of his shirts and a pair of his boxers because your dress was too wrinkled to wear, you found your phone on the kitchen counter where he had left it. There were twenty-three missed calls from Lando, and a text from Alexandra that simply read: "Did you die? Did you sleep with Oscar? TELL ME EVERYTHING.”
You laughed, showing Oscar the message, and he smiled that smile that had captivated you since childhood.
"We should probably tell your brother," he said, wrapping his arms around you from behind. "Before he files a missing persons report."
"Yeah," you agreed, leaning back against him. "He's going to freak out."
You turned in his arms, looking up at him—at the man you had loved for years, who had finally become yours. "I can't believe I'm going to marry you," you said wonderingly. "I spent so long dreaming about this, and now it's real, and I'm almost scared to believe it."
Oscar kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips. "Believe it," he murmured. "I'm yours.”
And as you stood there in his arms, in his flat, you realized that some dreams were worth waiting for.
That love, real love, was not always easy or straightforward or timely.
That sometimes it required patience, and sacrifice, and the courage to risk everything for the chance at happiness.
You thought about the little girl you had been, following two boys around a garden, her heart already given to one of them even if she didn't know it yet.
You thought about the teenager, watching from doorways, writing initials in notebooks, dreaming of a future that seemed impossibly far away.
You thought about the young woman, flirting and hoping and eventually despairing, convinced that her love was unrequited.
And you thought about now—about the ringless proposal and the promises made, about the man holding you like you were the most precious thing in his world, about the lifetime stretching before you filled with possibility.
"Hey," Oscar said, tilting your chin up to look at him. "What are you thinking about?”
You smiled, bright and true and full of joy. "I'm thinking," you said, "that you're the man of my dreams. And that I finally get to keep you."
He laughed, that rich, warm sound that had been the soundtrack of your life, and kissed you until you were breathless, until the past dissolved and the future shone bright and certain before you.
And in that moment, in that kitchen, in that love, you knew that you had finally come home.
The engagement ring on your finger caught the afternoon light as you unpacked boxes in the new house you and Oscar had found together—a place with enough room for both of your things, with a spare bedroom that you were already calling "the nursery" in your private thoughts, though you hadn't told Oscar yet. He knew, though. He always knew what you were thinking, sometimes before you knew it yourself.
Your phone buzzed with a message from Lando: "Dinner tonight? Bring your fiancé. I still can't believe I'm saying that."
You smiled, typing back a confirmation. Lando had taken the news better than expected—there had been a week of protective older brother interrogation, demands that Oscar treat you right or face consequences, but eventually he had settled into the role of enthusiastic supporter.
Another buzz, this time from Alexandra: "Final fitting for the dress tomorrow. Don't you dare be late or I will murder you.”
You laughed, sending back a string of emojis promising punctuality. The wedding was three months away, small and intimate, exactly what you both wanted. No grand spectacle, just the people who mattered, vows written in your own words, and a honeymoon somewhere warm where you could finally relax after the chaos of planning.
Oscar came home then, loosening his tie as he entered, his face lighting up when he saw you. He crossed the room in three strides and kissed you thoroughly, tasting of the London rain and the coffee he had undoubtedly consumed too much of.
"How was your day?" he asked, wrapping his arms around you, his chin resting on your head.
"Perfect," you said, because it was. Because every day with him was perfect, even the difficult ones, even the ones where you argued about whose turn it was to do dishes or what color to paint the bedroom. Because you were together, finally, completely, and that was all that had ever mattered.
"Mine too," he said. "I closed the deal on the new project. The one in Scotland."
"The wind farm?"
"The wind farm," he confirmed, his pride evident. "We're going to power half the Highlands with renewable energy. And I thought... maybe we could look at properties up there. For weekends. A cottage, maybe. Somewhere to escape."
You looked up at him, at the man who had built himself from determination and brilliance, who had made himself worthy not because he needed to, but because he had wanted to give you everything. "I'd love that," you said softly.
He kissed you again, slow and sweet, and you thought about the journey that had brought you here—from a garden in your childhood home to this moment, in this home, in this love that had been a long journey in the making.
And as the sun set over London, painting the sky in hues of gold and rose, you stood together in the home you were building, the life you were creating, the love that had finally found its way home.
The man of your dreams, no longer a dream at all, but real and warm and yours, forever.
➳ RENATA HERE ! : Guys, I actually cried while writing Oscar's confession 😭
dr. dennis whitaker x bombshell!nurse!reader who he thinks is making fun of him ✿ 1.5k words
summary: you keep giving dennis compliments, and he's sure you're making fun of him. the worst part is, your words don't exactly help with this little crush on you he's been trying to get rid of
cw: fem!nurse!reader, bombshell!reader, reader is described as being well put together with great hair and makeup, dennis is self-sabotaging, angst with a positive ending
the pitt masterlist
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Dennis knows better.
He really does. He’s seen how situations like this can get out of control, spiraling to the point of no return. HR visits, switched schedules, unnecessary drama that he doesn’t want to have swirling around his already overwhelming life in the ER.
But when he looks at you, it’s like suddenly he doesn’t care about any of that. His mind and heart decide that rules and boundaries can just get thrown out of the window.
You, with your perfectly styled hair and beautifully done makeup everyday, while the rest of them show up looking like they haven’t showered in a week. You, with the sweetest voice and the perfect laugh that has his knees feeling weak and his brain short-circuiting.
You, who, when meeting Dennis for the first time, said with a full chest and bright eyes, “Wow! You’re so pretty!”
Santos had laughed for days. She actually laughed in his face and called him ‘pretty-boy’ until she’d found something new to tease him about. And even then, the nickname seemed to stick and become an alternative for “huckleberry”, randomly mentioned and always transporting him back to the day he met you. He can still feel the way his entire body had tensed, the way his heart had threatened to stop beating in his chest.
He has a crush on you. A nurse, his coworker. The prettiest woman he’s ever seen in his life.
Its horrible.
And he knows better, that’s the thing! He’s told himself time and time and time again that he would never do that. He’s seen coworkers’ relationships get fucked up and fail miserably. He’s seen cases of unrequited love that end in HR meetings and night shift swaps. All his crush will do cause drama and chaos in a place that is already too full of drama and chaos.
And yet...
Dennis’ heart starts to pound wildly before he even fully registered that it’s you that is walking up to him. It’s like his body responds to you without him even meaning to, orbiting you like a planet to a sun every time you’re in his vicinity.
“Hi!” You greet happily, setting your tablet down and leaning against the counter as you look at him. Your smile is beautiful, and Dennis wishes he could sear the image of you into the backs of his eyelids.
“Hi.”
“Your hair looks nice today,” Dennis blinks at your words, his brain stumbling and struggling over every syllable that leaves your mouth. It’s like his entire capacity for thinking vanishes the moment you lay your eyes on him.
“What?”
Your laugh is like a sound from heaven, and your hand falls onto his arm as you lean into the motion. His skin burns where yours touches it. “I said your hair looks nice. Why do you look so shocked?”
Well, shit. He feels as a blush flourishes over the skin of his face and neck. He’d bet money even the tips of his ears are bright red. You pull your hand away from his arm to tuck some hair behind your ear and he has to swallow back a sound that threatens to escape him at the loss of your touch.
“I… I uh…” He shakes his head, no coherent thoughts able to form or produce themselves as words. “I washed it…”
You laugh again, even sweeter and more boisterous this time.
If Dennis wasn’t… himself, he’d been sure you were trying to flirt with him. Instead, he feels like maybe you’re joking and he just doesn’t get it.
“Oh, Dr. Whitaker…” Your laugh turn into a fit of giggles that seem to have a hard time going away. “You’re so cute.”
Oh, you definitely have to be fucking with him again. There’s no way you aren’t laughing at him, that he isn’t the butt of some joke.
You notice the moment his face falls. Yours does too, your smile slowly fading into a look of concern he’s really only ever seen directed at patients. It makes him feel exposed in a way that he hates, knowing you can read him so well, that he’s so obvious.
“What’s wrong?”
He wants to laugh. And cry. His stomach is in knots and he feels like he might puke. You’re making fun of him. Never once in his life has a girl like you given him attention, and there’s absolutely no way that you’re serious. The feeling gets under his skin, urgent and familiar.
“You can give it up now.” Your eyebrows furrow even further together at his words, and especially at the tone of them. “It’s not funny anymore, okay?”
“What are you talking about?” Your eyes dart quickly over different parts of his face, like you might somehow discover the answer there.
Dennis purses his lips, and lowers his voice and his gaze. “I really wish you’d stop making fun of me.”
Something shifts in your expression, your face a mosaic of all sorts of things he can’t possibly know. It settles on something between hurt and pity. “Dennis, what are you talking about?”
He hardly notices the use of his first name, his tongue digging into the inside of his cheek as his gaze bounces around nervously to make sure no one is close enough to hear the two of you. He’d pull you aside into the stairwell if it wouldn’t be absolutely devastating to his already bruised and battered ego. “You keep saying things like that. But it’s not funny. Not to me.”
“Why do you think I’m joking?” You lean away from him, voice lower than he’s ever heard it. You look… devastated, if he’s being honest with himself. “Do you think I’m making fun of you?”
“Aren’t you?” The words leave his lips faster and more broken than he would ever admit. You don’t respond. Instead, you grab his wrist, and you lead him to the stairwell, away from prying eyes and ears.
When you finally turn back to him, there’s a pain in your eyes that only makes him feel worse. “Do you really think I’m making fun of you?”
Dennis falters. Of course you’re making fun of him, you have to be. Because if you aren’t…
He can’t let his mind go down that route. He needs to squash this crush he has on you and any indication that you even find him tolerable would make his life a thousand times more difficult.
You speak up again before he can muster up any kind of answer. “Do you really think I’m that cruel?”
“You have to be.” The words aren’t purposeful, but he says them all the same. You blink, emotions swirling in your irises, and he stutters out another, “B-Because otherwise that… that means you mean it.”
“I do mean it.” Somehow, your words hit even harder than his, and the entire world stills, everything gone but you and him. You reach out for his hand and Dennis feels like he might keel over. “I really mean it, I’m sorry if you thought I was making fun of you.”
Dennis squeezes his eyes shut, his palm probably sweaty where it presses against your own. His stomach is in knots, his jaw clenches so hard he knows it’ll ache in the morning, but his heart feels lighter. Somehow, something about your admission makes him feel better despite it making the situation astronomically worse.
“I’m sorry…” Is what he manages to choke out. “I shouldn’t have- I know you aren’t mean, I just…” His voice trails off when he meets your gaze again. He wonders what he looks like: bloodshot, puffy eyes, bright red nose, messy hair. And you, beautiful, perfect you, softly tilt your head, eyes still shining despite everything as you blink slowly. It makes his throat dry and he can’t find any more words.
You seem to realize he isn’t going to finish, and purse your lips. Your fingers twiddle mindlessly together, hands clasped in front of you. “I mean it.” You finally say again, confidently reaching a hand up to push a piece of his hair back into place. “Your hair does look nice. And you are cute.”
Dennis thinks he might die. Like actually, truly might have a heart attack and die. “Th-Thanks.”
You brighten, and if he hadn’t just been personally subjected to the previous upset in your expression, he would have never known you’d been upset at all.
“I have some patients to check on.” Your hands gesture toward the stairwell door behind you, and Dennis gives you a dumbfounded nod. You turn to leave, but pause, steel your shoulders, and turn back to face him again.
“Dr. Whitaker?”
“Yeah?”
“Would you want to go out for dinner after your shift?”
