Summary: You Had Always Loved Him, Would Always Do, However, Did The Oldest Bridgerton Brother Still

Summary: You had always loved him, would always do, however, did the oldest Bridgerton brother still like you after all that had happened between you? Are there any feelings that come back to the surface, after not seeing each other for years? Was the love truly unrequited?

Unrequited

Part 5

“Hmm..”, you had begun. “I think Daphne is going to marry a Duke someday. I just have a hunch.”, you had continued as you had leaned towards Anthony

“A Duke?”, Anthony had spat out. You had only raised your eyebrows in amusement. “What exactly is wrong about a Duke?”

Anthony had just shaken his head. “Just that every Duke I know is not a respectful man.”, Anthony had stated.

“I think the son of the Duke of Hastings is. He’s going to be one some day. And he’s quite hands-“

Anthony had rammed his elbow into your stomach, trying to silence you and looking at you in annoyance.

“What?”, you had laughed. “I think he’d be an excellent choice for your sister.”, you had grinned.

“Oh! And what about Lord Toussaint! He’s going to be a Duke someday, too. Oh I bet he’d be a nice husband.”, you had added, enjoying the way Anthony’s jaw clenched.

“None of them are going to marry Daphne, I assure you.”, Anthony had answered.

“Oh, come on! I’d marry one of them and Daphne would and we’d both be Duchesses.”

Anthony’s eyes had widened, turning to you with a stern look on his face. “Absolutely not. You are not going to marry Francois.”

You had leaned your head on Anthony’s shoulder, feeling more than safe when you had inhaled his scent. “Well, a Viscount wouldn’t be so bad, would he.”, you had mumbled, before your eyes had closed. You had been tired the whole day and feeling Anthony near you had brought you immediate comfort.

Anthony had needed a second to process what you had just said, and when he had, you had already drifted off into sleep.

And he had sat there, with you sleeping on his shoulders and a stupid love-struck grin plastered onto his face.

“And, did the Duke find a wife yet?”, you asked Francois, focusing on his shiny blonde hair rather than the stage.

You were avoiding it as long as you could, you would only be looking when the opera began, keeping your eyes on Francois as long as you could.

“He did not, unfortunately.”, Francois smiled at you. “I haven’t found the right one yet.”, he added quietly.

“You’re marrying for love?”, you rose your eyebrows, clearly surprised. Many men, such as Dukes, married only to seal an heir, a mere business arrangement.

“Mais, bien sûr! Of course! I’m a hopeless romantic.”, Francois laughed a little, his eyes sparkled when he did.

“I’m happy I met at least one man that believes in it.”, you grinned at him. “Why exactly though?”

Francois did not even take a second to answer. “I think love is the reason for our lives. We love to find love, to experience the feeling of it as it consumes your whole body and mind. We love to feel that pang in our chest, to feel our breath being taken away, to feel our heart beat quicken. I mean why else are we living? I wouldn’t want to have a wife who I don’t love, who doesn’t love me.”

You held your breath as Francois talked, thinking of Anthony the whole time he did. How he took your breath away, how your heart beat when he was near you, how your hands grew sweatier. “You’re very sweet, Francois.”

You could hear as the people grew quieter, the curtain slowly opening. You took a long breath, adverting your eyes from Francois to the scene in front of you.

You admired all the golden details admist the read of the opera, you admired that the Duke had his own box in there, assuming he was visiting the opera quiet often.

And when a beautiful young woman stepped into the stage, having brown curly hair and wearing a white shining dress, your breathing abruptly stopped.

Siena Rosso was beyond gorgeous, her hair shinier than yours, her eyes brighter than yours could ever be, her dress more beautiful than any you owned.

It was not only her appearance, it was the way she moved her hand so elegantly, the way she began singing and made it sound like a sweet poem whispered into your ear.

It seemed like she was everything you weren’t. The thing that hurt the most was not about how she looked, but that she had the thing that you wanted the most.

She had won the heart of Anthony Bridgerton.

When Francois caught on your distraught, he moved his hand over to yours, silently asking you for permission.

You looked down at your hands on your lap, before you nodded. Francois slowly took your hand into his, intertwining your fingers.

It brought you comfort, the way his hand was so warm, the way he slowly stroked it with his thumb. He wanted to help and you gladly accepted it.

“You know what my mother always told me?”, he whispered quietly, not expecting an answer.

“S'ils ne voient pas que l'amour fait partie de leur vie, alors ils ne méritent pas d'en faire l'expérience.”

You looked up at him, the words sounding more poetic than Sienna’s singing. Francois’ voice was so soothing, sounding absolutely beautiful to you.

“And what does it mean?”, you murmured, fascinated by the French language.

“If they don’t see that love is a part of their lives, then they don’t deserve to experience it.”

“It’s beautiful.”, you let out a shaky small laugh. “If he doesn’t see that love is a part of his life, he doesn’t get to experience love with you, ever.”, Francois explained to you, his thumb still stroking your skin.

You nodded at the man. “You’re right, my Lord.” Francois shook his head. “You can just call me Francois.”

“Thank you Francois.”

The two of you left your seats after everyone else, spending more time in catching up on your lives and talking than listening to the singers.

However, you knew that Siena had been a great singer, that her voice was beyond description beautiful.

So, as the two of you slandered along the seats, watching everything in awe, Francois took your hand and led you to the opera singers at the front.

You were lucky everyone had left, Francois taking your hand would be beyond scandalous. Nevertheless, the opera singers did not care.

“Bonsoir, Ladies.”, Francois smiled at them. “It was delighted to see you all, your performance was exceptional.”

You carefully watched as Siena scanned the both of you, looking between you suspiciously. “Your voice is truly a wonder.”, you addressed to her.

Siena turned to you and as much as you wanted to hate her, you couldn’t. It was not her fault in the slightest, she probably did not even know about your existence.

And when she offered you a small smile, you knew that she was just a woman like you, who had fallen in love with the undeniable charm and sweetness of Anthony Bridgerton- or former sweetness that is. ”You are flattering me.”, the brown-haired woman grinned.

You smiled back at her, Francois‘ hand squeezing yours in a sort of comfort. “I’ve never seen you around, are you new hear, my Lady?”

You shook her head. “I was living in the countryside for a few years. I must say, none of the opera singers their are even half as good as you all are.”

Siena grinned at Francois. “I already like her.”, she whispered as your eyes swiftly wandered around the opera, now empty and without the eyes of the ton on you.

“Thank you. And I guess you two-“, Siena brought your attention back, looking at your intertwined hands, then at your face and Francois’.

“Oh, no, we-“, you began, but Francois beat you to talking. “Not yet. I might have to prove my dancing skills to her and Lady Danbury to even be considered as a suitor.”, Francois looked down at you, his eyes shining with adoration.

You bit your lip, your cheeks getting warm as you looked at your feat, trying to hide your blush from both Siena and Francois.

“Well, I only wish you the best. Future Duke and Duchess.”, Siena winked at you, excusing herself in a rather rush as she walked to the changing rooms.

You furrowed your eyebrows, but brushed it off as you nodded at Francois to get going.

You shouldn’t have looked back one last time. You should have just walked out, without sparing the opera one last look.

You should have kept your attention on the man next to you, should have had a evening without any overthinking, without thoughts plaguing your mind the whole night.

However, something inside you had told you to look at it one last time, to let go and understand that Anthony Bridgerton could never be your man.

And when you saw the familiar brown hair, even if only the back, you felt quite literally like someone tried to push a dagger into your chest, trying to reach your heart.

Nonetheless, only when you let your thoughts wander even more, seeing as Anthony moved to the direction of the stage, quite possibly wanting to go behind them, your mind seemed to fully comprehend the situation.

He was walking into the same direction Siena had just rushed to. The dagger in your chest pushed harder until it finally did reach your heart.

Anthony was going to see Siena, their relationship was not an old one like you had hoped the whole time, Siena was still his mistress, his lover, the one who got to know the feeling of his soft lips on her, the taste of his lips, the feeling of his hands on her waist, of her hands in his, she could-

Siena was able to get to know what Anthony’s love felt like, because she was the one receiving it.

When Anthony entered the living room with sweat dripping down his forehead, a frown spread across his face and hair standing everywhere but where it should, Eloise and Benedict quickly hid the newest Lady Whistledown behind their backs, knowing exactly that if Anthony would read it, his state would only worsen.

“What is it?”, Anthony asked, stalking forward. Eloise’s eyes widened as she looked at Benedict, silently asking who should run away with the paper.

Before either of them could even stand up, the paper was snatched away from their hands, Anthony’s eyes scanning it carefully.

Eloise only watched as his jaw clenched, his fists balled. The oldest Bridgerton shook his head, mouth slightly agape as he spared Benedict Bridgerton a look.

Tears were already evident in his eyes, but he would never dear to shed them in front of his siblings.

Benedict shot him an apologetic look, trying to offer him a smile. Anthony just bit his lip and crunched the paper in his palm, throwing it as far away from his as he could, before stalking out the room with heavy steps.

Violet Bridgerton furrowed her eyebrows, picking up the paper and trying to unfold it, before reading what had made Anthony as mad.

And as it appears, dear readers, the Duke of Florence, Lord Toussaint, has finally set his eyes on a beautiful Lady, old childhood friend of his and without doubt the best choice for a new Duchess. Lord Toussaint was seen with her at the opera just yesterday, both of them leaning into each other a little bit too close for friends, whispering things without listening. However, as the author was not in the same box as them, I can only assume that their talking was surely not about the beautiful singing. I can only wish this to be the next love marriage this season.

“Well, I guess we have to invite Lord Toussaint for dinner tomorrow, too.”

@summer-children @starlightofsolaria @lawstudentbydayfangirlbynight @jeyramarie @shinyanchorface @berrnuu @justifymyfeelings @sunnyteume @mightiestheroes @amber-lilly @bigpoppajessie-blog-blog @spideyswebshooters @odilevonbrekker @kazbekkarluvbot @saintmagx @austynparksandpizza @rexit-mo @spwinkles @ifilwtmfc @thecraziestcrayon @unknownmissgurl @fangirling-galore @coltonthekanima @icebabe2045-blog @magical-spit @itscheybaby @jade10077 @freyathehuntress @okkulta @freyathehuntress @valdensreadinglist @di-essere-amato @heyyitsreign @littleboysmile @ourheartsofsteel @queensgirl718 @rayisthehoe @valdensreadinglist

Hey! Can you write something like the reader loves Nick, but it's one sided cause he loves Noah but they'd never work out in the future.

Ending can be Happy or Sad.

Love your work btw ❤️

It's always been you. - N. L.

hi nonnie, I am very glad that you like my work, thank u so much for reading it and I also hope you enjoy this. <3

Pairing: Nick Leister x Reader.

TW: Angst but fluff at the end.

Summary: Nick and you were best friends, but you fell in love with him, he felt in love with Noah, or that's what you thought.

Words count:

You and Nick met early in high school and have been inseparable ever since. From what you saw him go through all of his relationships, including the one he had with his stepsister, Noah.

You realized you had a crush on him at high school graduation but decided to keep it to yourself so you wouldn't ruin anything.

And when you were about to tell him how in love you were with him he decided to start a kind of strange relationship with his seventeen year old stepsister.

For several nights and days you wondered what he had seen in her that you didn't have. The whole time you compared yourself to her, making you feel bad.

The last straw was the pool party that Noah's boyfriend had attended. You were sitting at a table that was outside in the garden while Jenna and Lion dried the boy who apparently was called Dan. Jenna noticed you were in a bad moment and moved closer to you.

"What is it, queen?" she questioned sitting next to you and looked towards the direction in which you were looking. "I see."

"I'm leaving." You got up feeling completely ignored by your best friend and took your things.

"Wait..." Jenna exclaimed trying to stop you but Lion stopped her.

"Calm down, she'll be fine."

On your way to the main entrance you ran into Noah's mother, you offered her a gentle smile since she had never received you badly or anything like that, she smiled back with some doubt about your sudden departure.

And finally you left.

On the other hand, with Noah and Nick, they were still kissing between the inflatables for water when Rafaella called the black-haired man.

"Nicholas!" Nick held up his hand to get her attention and let her know he was still there. She broke away from Noah and swam toward the shore where Rafaella was.

"What's happening?" he asked with a smile on his face from the interaction with Noah from a few seconds ago.

"y/n left." She crossed her arms looking at him and the smile faded from Nick's face.

"What?" He quickly got out of the pool.

"What you heard, she's gone."

"Why? Hasn't she told you anything?" And he ran towards the entrance of the house without waiting for the woman's answer.

When he left, he saw how your car was leaving the house, he rushed to go to his cell phone and call you being received by voicemail.

"Fuck!" He cursed under his breath as he entered the house. Noah, seeing his condition, walked towards him.

"Are you okay? What's wrong?" she asked worriedly and he denied without looking at her.

"Nothing, forget it."

"Okay, do you want to go to your room or to the pool?" Noah questioned placing his hands on his cheeks, and he nodded. "Okay, let's go."

"Precious, what's wrong, hmm?" Jenna asked seeing you just move the food around on your plate. You had both agreed to go out to eat after what happened at Nick's house.

"I'm in love with him, Jen." you sighed, letting your fork rest on the plate to look at her.

"Ay mi chiquita." He looked at you understandingly and you sighed resting your chin in the palm of your hand.

"I don't even know why I fell in love with him knowing how he is and the arrival of Noah in his life didn't help much." You took a sip of your peach juice and she took your free hand.

"Are you going to tell him?"

"Maybe one day if I'm not a coward." You wrinkled your nose at the thought of even ruining what you had.

"You are not a coward." she denied with a gentle smile. "You only fell in love with your best friend."

"Ugh, that sounds worse." you joked and you both laughed finishing eating.

You both returned to Nick's house where Lion was still there. When Jenna saw him, she approached him to greet him with a kiss and Nick approached you.

"Hey." you greeted barely arranging your bag on your shoulder.

"Why you left?" he asked looking at you intently, you sighed and looked at the guys, giving Jen a significant look, which she understood instantly. You were going to confess your feelings for him.

"Okay, we're leaving, bye Nick, bye y/n."

"Bye..." you muttered looking how they left.

"I wasn't going to take another second of watching the guy I've loved half my life making out with another girl he just met." you admitted, leaving him speechless, he opened and closed his mouth to speak but didn't know what to say. Never in his life would he have imagined that you would feel something for him.

"I..." Once again, he didn't know what to say.

"Don't worry, leave it like that, I knew this would happen." You started walking towards your car. But his voice stopped you.

"I've always loved you." it took you a few seconds but you finally turned around to look at him in disbelief.

"Really?" You stayed still in your place and he came closer to you.

"Yeah, I realized that things weren't going to work out with Noah, because she wasn't you." He put his hand on your cheek and you still looked at him without believing it.

"Seriously?" He laughed nodding leaning little by little towards you. "But you..."

"Shut up." He sentenced and then kissed you slowly.

Finally you separated and he looked into your eyes with intensity.

"It's always been you."

Make your requests.

just a little bit of your heart

─── i heard a little love is better than none

pairing: pierre gasly x fem!reader warnings: google translate french; profanity

There is a bit of comfortability in the love you share with Pierre. It’s simple, it’s cohesive, it just works. Though it does beg the question of how? How does it work so well? Better yet: why does it work so well? He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city, continent to continent, while you stay just outside of Paris wrapped up in your own work. How can you love a man who spends more time away from you than in your arms?

You don’t have an answer, just that it does.

It works because he calls you every night to hear about your day. He sends selfies and photos of the world he sees, and buys you snowglobes because he knows how much you love to collect them. He calls you beautiful, tells the world he’s the luckiest guy in the world to be loved by an ‘ange comme toi’. Tu es mon ange, he says. Always calling you angel, his angel. He had his way of making you feel so wanted and loved, even from a thousand miles away. 

In the quiet time between race weekends, Pierre always finds his way back to you. It was always on a Tuesday when he’d let himself in with his spare key, dropping his bags in the hallway by the door. He would call out for you and you’d come running. His smile was always wide, crinkled by his eyes as he held his arms out ready to catch you. And when you’re finally in them, god did it feel like home.  

He’d hold your hand when he drives you into Paris, taking you to your favorite restaurant. He orders for you because he knows what you like. He lets you drink as much white wine as you’d like, even if he knows he’d have to carry you up the stairs when you get home. But he doesn’t mind, because when he’s holding you up you like to touch his face. You pepper wet kisses along his jaw and make him laugh when you give him grief for not growing out his mustache. You make his heart warm when you touch him sweetly. 

Pierre knows your nighttime routine like the back of his hand. He sits you by the sink, hand securely resting on your hip to steady you. He knows to use the cleansing balm first, and then after taking off all your makeup, he picks the serums in the order you usually use them in. He knows nothing of the names, but the different sizes and colored labels are enough to help him figure it out. You’ll have your arms slung over his shoulders lazily as he gently rubs your moisturizer into your skin. You smile lazily, eyes hooded with alcohol as you hum softly.

"Tu m'aimes?" You slur. You love me?

He smiles, nodding. "Bien sûr que je t'aime." Of course I love you.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

"Je t'aime, mon ange." I love you angel. 

He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

Tuesdays grow to be your favorite day, because that means he comes home. It means that sometime in the afternoon, there would be an echo of him throughout your home. The familiar smell of his Valiant cologne would fill the air, it will wrap you up, and once again you’ll feel complete. 

You sit on the couch and you wait. The hours tick by, the afternoon comes and goes, and soon the sun is setting and the sky shifts to pitch black. 

Pierre arrives at eleven that night, bag dropping onto the floor and far too preoccupied on his phone to announce that he’s home. You hear his steps, heart anticipating his voice calling out for you. But instead you watch him walk into the room, eyes glued to his screen, stopping by you on the other side of the couch. He types and types and types, while you patiently wait for his attention. You can’t deny the way your heart aches, this overwhelming feeling of self-pity that takes over you as you keep your eyes on the man you love with every part of you. You’ve never felt more pathetic. 

But he finally looks back at you, and those blue eyes convince you to forget that he was late, convince you not to ask him where he’d been, and to be happy he showed up at all.

The past Sunday doesn’t end how either of you would hope, with Pierre having to retire with only five laps to go. You were sitting at home the whole time, throw pillow clutched to your chest as you watched your boyfriend climb from P13 to P5, only to have all that hard work shattered by a collision with a Williams. You send him a text, reminding him how much you love him and how sorry you are that the race turned out the way it did. He doesn’t respond, but you chuck it to media duties and post-race meetings. You expect a response before you to go to bed, maybe even in the form of a phone call. But it was radio silent. Not a peep, not an update. One second he was in the car and just over forty-eight hours later, he’s standing before you. 

At least he’s here, right? 

“Pourquoi n'as-tu pas appelé?” Why didn’t you call?

He sighs softly, taking the hand that was just reaching out to you to rub his face– clearly frustrated. 

“J'étais occupé mon amour.” I was busy, love.

Mon amour rolls off his tongue like it tasted bitter. It hurt. 

His phone pings and Pierre is quick to unlock and read whatever it is that is on his screen. You watch the way his face breaks out into a grin, the way his fingers are quick to type a response, lip tucked between his teeth. You wonder if he ever looks at his phone like when you text him. 

“Qu'est-ce?” Who is it?

“Personne. Qu'y a-t-il pour le dîner?” No one. What’s for dinner?

You sit with him at the dinner table while he eats, and he pays no mind to you. He stares at his phone, taking call after call from his team, and answering texts close to his chest. You watch Pierre like a movie, one you seemed to not be a part of. Insecurity is a weed, flourishes without needing to be nurtured and can only be rid of with proper care. But no one seems to care, not even you. You sit patiently, letting vines of self-doubt bury you while you hope the man before you would notice.

But he doesn’t. He never seems to notice you these days, too occupied with his phone and the car. He’d leave with a chaste kiss to your cheek and then he’s rushing out the door. No more invites to see him drive, no more plans of grandeur spent together. More Tuesdays are spent alone in your apartment, while you hold yourself and believe the lies that he’d be coming soon. You watch Pierre’s life unfold through a screen, no longer a part of his story even if you considered yourself to be. 

You grow to hate Tuesdays. It means he’s home, that there would be an echo of him moving about your space. Tuesday means it’s the restart of a game you play with yourself. The one where you swear you’re done, that you’ll leave, that you deserve better. And when you think you find the courage to do so, he’s waltzing through the door and planting a kiss on your forehead. Nevermind the lack of twinkle and adoration in his ocean blue eyes when he sees you, nevermind that he kisses you and retreats to the bedroom. The smell of his Valiant cologne suffocates you, drowns in you in a false sense of hope that at least he came home to you. 

This Tuesday comes like it does, with your chest puffed out and chin tilted to the sky until you see him and he gives you a passive smile you mistaken for affection. You let him hold your face as he presses a brief kiss against your lips before walking into the bedroom. You follow in his footsteps, leaning against the doorframe and watch as Pierre sets his phone down next to him– screen down. He looks up at you with a questioning stare. 

“Allons dîner. Nous n'avons pas été à notre place depuis un moment.” Let's go to dinner. We haven't been to our spot in a while.

“Je ne sais pas... Je me sens fatigué.” I don’t know… I’m feeling tired.

You frown, a lump in your throat suddenly growing as you find it in you to beg him for just a piece of his time– time that seemed too precious to share with you.

“S'il te plaît? Tu me manques.” Please? I miss you.

He sighs, like he’d been burdened with something. Tears begin to gloss over your eyes, shaking your head. 

“Pas grave. C'est stupide.” Nevermind. It’s stupid.

You walk away, shielding yourself and frailty, hiding your tears as you scurry down the hall to the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the ache in your chest. You try to forget that look on your boyfriend’s face, the rejection given in the form of a frustrated stare. Running water hides his footsteps to you, you don’t hear him shuffling behind you. You don’t even realize he’s in the room until you look up from the sink and see him behind you in the mirror. 

“Ne sois pas en colère contre moi mon ange. Je suis vraiment fatigué.” Don't be upset with me angel. I’m just really tired.

No words, just a slow nod. 

“Je t'emmènerai demain. Nous irons à Paris. D'accord?” I'll take you tomorrow. We'll drive into Paris. Okay?

You nod again, this time hard enough for a tear to fall onto your cheek. Pierre’s expression falls, a sad exhale coming from him as he takes a step closer to you, wrapping his arms around your frame as he leans down to press a kiss against your cheek. He whispers in your ear, asking you not to cry. Repeats his promise of taking you into the city and to your favorite spot. You want to ask him if he still loves you, asking him to say it to you over and over again ‘til you believe it. 

But you were afraid of the answer.

So you take his affections for love. You allow it to mend the ache in your heart even if you know deep down it’s temporary. 

He keeps his promise, he drives you into Paris. He takes you to his favorite restaurant, and you’re seated in the same spot you sit at since you both started coming here. He orders for you, because he knows what you like. But you eat in silence. He taps away on his phone while you nurse glass after glass, until the white wine has your head swirling. Your cheeks feel hot, and the room seems to tip left to right ever so slightly. 

“​​Ralentir.” Slow down.

Pierre’s request makes you feel guilty. It makes you put the nearly empty glass down and eat your dinner quietly. You watch as he smiles at his screen, twirling pasta in his fork with no intention of eating it. It’s busy work, doing what he can to pass the time. 

You’ve developed a sort of jealousy to the world around you, most especially to the phone in his hand. You envy the smile it gets, one you hadn’t seen directed to you in god only knows how long. You wonder who is so lucky to see it, to receive its warmth. 

He doesn’t hold your hand on the ride back, doesn’t carry you up the stairs like he used to. He walks several steps ahead of you, only gracious enough to hold the door open for you. You flop onto the bed, undoing your jewelry and slipping off your shoes. You watch Pierre do the same, trading the dressier ensemble for jeans and a t-shirt.

“Où vas-tu?” Where are you going?

“Je vais rencontrer des amis. N'attendez pas, d'accord?” Going to meet some friends. Don't wait up, okay?

You nod wordlessly, watching as he slips his shoes back on before he walks back over to you and presses a kiss on your forehead. It lacks a spark, a warmth that you used to feel. 

"Tu m'aimes?"  You love me?

He stops in the doorway of the room, looking back at you with a soft sigh.

"Bien sur que oui." Of course I do.

"Dis-le." Say it. 

The air is thick. You wait for him to say it, for sweet words to reassure you the way they used to. 

“Tu sais que je fais. Pourquoi dois-je le dire?” You know I do. Why do I have to say it?

You nod, gaze moving down to your lap. He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

“D'accord. Fais attention. Je te verrai plus tard.” Okay. Be safe. I'll see you later.

You watch him walk out, listen to his footsteps move further and further away from you until they disappear behind the front door shutting. When you’re sure he’s gone, you pull yourself off the bed and stumble into the kitchen to grab a half empty bottle of wine. You don’t bother with a glass, making your way back to bed as you turn on the TV and drink straight from the bottle.

Some time in the night, the wine lulls you to sleep. It’s dreamless. Your body feels heavy, sinking into the mattress. The alcohol numbs you, helps you forget the impending despair and self-loathing waiting to settle in your bones when Pierre comes home– if he comes home. 

He does, the door slamming shut, pulling you from your sleep. You take a quick peek at the time. 3:08am. You squeeze your eyes shut when his footsteps come closer, and the door to the bedroom squeaks open. Your heart beats quickly, listening to Pierre attempt to move quietly around the small room. Rustling, padded footsteps, fabric falling to the floor. It isn’t long until the bed is dipping behind you, and you can feel his body heat against you. But you don’t feel his arms, no kiss, no form of affection. It’s cold as he slips into bed with you, facing the wall instead of you. His soft snores fill the space in no time, and you allow yourself to open your eyes. You quietly slip out of bed, eyes scanning the now messy bedroom. Clothes are strewn across the floor, shoes kicked against the wall. You shuffle quietly, cleaning up after him as he sleeps in your bed.

It’s when you pick up his shirt do you catch a whiff of a sweet rose scent that’s not yours. You hate the smell of roses. 

You spend the rest of the night on the floor of your bathroom, his shirt balled in your fist as you cry angrily but quietly.

There’s a bit of fear in leaving the only love you truly ever known. A fear in confronting the fact he was no longer yours alone, and that he had likely found someone else. How do you choose to tiptoe around him, to allow yourself to fall into a false sense of security time and time again? How can you love a man who has fallen for another? How does loving him work? 

He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city anyway. He was never truly there to begin with, even on your best day. Maybe your love never truly worked to begin with.

But you both stay, even if you know how much it breaks you. 

It’s complicated. An age-old term to describe the limbo between friends and something more, between I love you and I’m sorry, between love and its end. It’s used to describe two stubborn people unwilling to let go of the other out of their own selfishness. Because that’s the truth. You stay, selfishly taking what he has to offer as enough, lie to yourself and say the very little he gives is enough to sustain your heart even as it cracks under your chest. You both lie through your teeth when you say you’re happy together, when you face friends and family who see the loveless stares you exchange at the dinner table. But no one has the heart to call you on it. They take a page from your book, and stand idly by. They watch quietly as you lose pieces of yourself everytime Pierre walks out the door without you. 

The fact of the matter is that neither of you wanted to be alone. You’d rather sit in a room with ‘complicated’ than to be alone. But you love him, you really do. And you think that maybe he does too, because why else would he stay… right? There was at least a bit of comfort in the fact that a bit of love exists in the space. And sometimes a little love is better than none. 

NOTE: i kinda fast tracked this one bc i got a surge of inspiration. so sorry if it doesn't make any sense. i tried to proof read it but im a dud when it comes to my own work. yes, sorta almost based off 'just a little bit of your heart' by ariana grande. hope u like this one & as always, feedback is always greatly appreciated.

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tightrope. 09

Pairing: Carlos Sainz x Original Female Character Warning: Mature content. Word Count: ~11K

If you gaze into the void for too long, you will quickly realize that it seems to grow. The sight of the sea at night, both mesmerizing and frightening, is the perfect demonstration of this. There's nothing. It’s nothing. Just an endless void, a vast expanse of blackness that seems ready to swallow you whole.

The boat was moored and the sea danced under and around us. Carlos breathed quietly against my neck and his arms, warm and heavy, were wrapped around me. His gentle breathing and the lazy waves against the yacht lulled me into a half-waking state, where I felt myself float through the boundaries of sleep and wakefulness.

My body was anchored there, but my mind drifted away.

What were we doing? What was I doing?

I shouted these questions into my conscience, and the only answer I got was the warm feeling of being held, the bliss of feeling his breath against my skin, and our scents fused into one.

It was good. It was right. I had no doubts about that.

But what was next? What was going to happen after this?

I had spent the last few years looking back, wanting to go back, and now I couldn't face the future. Old habits die hard, Nonno always says. Despite feeling the present in my skin, my mind was stuck in the past, on the unpleasant goodbyes and the unanswered calls. The hard reality we had to face.

I had to face.

Alone.

A nagging ache ran from the small of my back to the curve of my hip, jolting me back to the moment. Sharp pain. I moved slightly, and Carlos pressed me closer.

I tapped his arm slightly. “You’re squishing me,” I whispered, my voice shaky and tired.

A soft moan escaped his mouth when I got out of his arms. Immediately, as I stood up, the soft breeze became a cold wind, and my whole skin turned to goosebumps. Naked and cold, and under his attentive gaze, I walked to my dress and, after sliding it over my head, I put on my sweater.

When I looked back, Carlos was already up, sliding up his trunks.

“Oh, that face…” he said huskily, walking towards me. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Reality hit me in small waves as I took in his request, and felt the words start lining up in my throat, pricking me like thorns.

“Do you want me to be honest?” I asked.

“Always.”

“You’re gonna hate me for this,” I said in a whisper so low I thought he didn't hear it, but he just shook his head. “I can’t help but think we messed up. I can’t help but feel this…” I paused, not sure how to put into words what I'd been saving inside. One of my hands hovered above my chest. “This…hole in my chest…In less than 48 hours, I'll be back in Madrid, and real life will just do its thing, and…” I looked up. “You know how it goes.”

He nodded, gentle, almost imperceptible. But there it was, a hint of insecurity and vulnerability in his eyes, peeking through a thick wall of self-assurance and confidence. His gaze swept across my face, eyes taking in every one of my features like he was trying to memorize them. I felt trapped there, between his eyes (for the first time not so full of hope) and my restless mind.

He buried his hand in the nape of my neck, navigating to my hair. His scent intoxicated me, nullifying the pain in my throat. My mind was taken by radio silence when our mouths collided.

From then on, every touch, every kiss, every time our eyes met felt like a desperate attempt to imprint each other onto our memories. Deep down, I suspected he felt the same I was feeling. Perhaps he knew exactly what was going through my mind; There was a time I truly believed he knew and understood me even better than I knew myself; maybe that time was coming back.

Or maybe his intense gaze could truly read my thoughts.

For a fleeting moment, as our lips parted for the last time, it felt like a goodbye. But then, as we gazed into each other's eyes, gasping for air and trying to contain the intensity of our emotions, I realized it couldn't possibly be the end.

“Does this feel wrong?” he asked, his nose touching mine. “Does this feel like a mistake?”

I shook my head in response, unable to form words.

“Does it, for you?” I asked, searching his somber eyes.

“No, Eva," he replied, his hand still cradling my neck.

The sadness and sincerity in his voice, when he spoke my name, sent shivers down my spine. The way he pronounced it—with a sweet blend of his deep Spanish accent and a light Italian twist, and with a subtle movement of his lips, tugging up in what seemed like a smile… I wondered if it was just the particular way his lips moved naturally, or if just saying my name made him smile.

“And even if it was,” Carlos broke the silence, again, “the only way I’d wish I hadn’t done it, would be just so I could experience it again for the first time.” His words etched themselves into my skin like a tattoo. I could feel the weight of them settling inside me. “How…" he hesitated, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "How could this be a mistake?"

My fingers wrapped around his fist, feeling the frantic beat of his heart against my skin. I slid my fingers up to his palm, taking his hand in mine, and pulled it away from my lips.

“Because it's you," I murmured, feeling the weight of his hand on mine. "I searched for you everywhere. In every man, every… race… every city I visited.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “I thought about you all the time. I wondered if you thought of me, too. I just wanted that, you know?" I slowly looked up, almost afraid of meeting his eyes. He wasn't frowning, he was patiently listening. "I—”

"Eva—"

"No, let me..." I interrupted him before he had the chance to speak, or the words I was desperately trying to find disappeared from my mind. "You showed up when I thought I was okay with you not being in my life. And you shifted everything. Both literally and figuratively. Rio is leaving. My team is gone. And for the first time in what seems like forever, I'm seeing a version of me I forgot existed. Every time you look at me, I feel like I'm being seen differently. And that doesn't make any sense, I know," I rushed to say, "but that's what your presence makes me feel. You make me remember why I loved waking up at 6 am on Sundays to go karting in the pouring rain until my hands went numb and my lips turned blue."

"And isn't that good?"

"That's so good," I said, exhaling. A hint of a smile showed up on his lips. "But I don't feel like... I mean—I need to be this person. I need to see this version of me when I’m alone. I'm so afraid of going back home and losing all this hope you awakened. I don't want to stop seeing the person you make me want to be the second I find myself alone just because you're no longer around.”

Carlos frowned. "I'm not going anywhere."

"No, that's..." I took a deep breath, and both my hands held his, almost like I needed to be reminded that he was still there. "Rio is leaving and I can't trust you to stay. And now there's no way I can pretend I can deal with the idea of not having or not feeling you again. So, yes, this could have been a mistake."

"You can't trust me to stay?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

"A week isn't remotely enough to heal whatever is going on inside me. This... this didn't help."

"Did it make it worse?"

"No," for some reason, I felt sort of defeated. I took a small break, trying to sort the thoughts rushing inside my mind. "It's just that now, more than ever, I understood I can't fight this."

Carlos looked down, and a quiet chortle came through as he took a small step back. My hands didn't leave his. My eyes followed his face, looking for his gaze. The moonlight brought a new colour to his eyes and softened the shadows on his face. Vulnerability spread over his features.

"We've done that before, Eva. We've done that for years. Fighting this, pushing each other away.” This time, it was him who needed a break, to take a deep breath. I waited. There was fear and pain in my blood, and I was not sure why that was. “Eva, if you knew how many times I wanted to act on this, how many times I waited in front of your door, gaining the courage to ask you out." He paused. "That damn dinner, taking you out for dinner, driving you around the town, making fun of Rio because that's the only way I wouldn't freak out for being out with you alone for the first time…"

I only noticed I chuckled when he did it too.

"You knew it then?" I asked him.

"That I wanted to be with you? That you were just not a friend? Yes, I did."

"And why didn't you act on it?"

He took a deep breath before answering. "Because I was scared. The same fear you're experiencing right now, I felt back then. Our friendship was too important, and I was afraid that if I told you, it would ruin everything. And… my career, your career… And Rio… Then, you started dating someone from your class, and I thought you could never see me in the same way that I saw you. Even when you were single and before I moved away, I didn't have the courage to act on my feelings. I fucked up. Then I moved away, and I was thankful for a while. But I quickly realise there’s not a place in the world that would make me forget about you. And from that realization to realizing that I couldn't force you to settle for less than what you deserved… It happened too quickly. I tried so hard to push those feelings away that I ended up pushing you away.”

"And why now? Why did you show up now?"

"I—I realised I couldn't wait any longer," he said softly.

His voice was barely audible, but it made my heart race. I could feel my pulse beating in my chest, and a mix of resentment and longing filled me.

“I was a coward before,” he continued. “I didn't act on my feelings for you, and I didn't ask you about yours. I thought that you would be better off without me and that I couldn't make you happy. I believed that pushing you away was the right thing to do, but now I know I was wrong. So, I will ask you now: What do you want? What do you need from me?”

Once again, I looked down at his hand, which I was holding tightly. It was what I needed—him. Anywhere in the world, at any given time. To know he will see in me what the dense fog hides inside my being.

“I don't know,” I said, shaking my head. “I really don't know.”

“Love, you can't just leave it at that. You have to give me something to work with here.”

Love.

I could use some of that too.

"Just—" I looked up and met his gaze, and for a moment, I lost myself in the depth of his eyes. They were like diamonds on a dark night. "I just need to know that you still have hope in me. No matter where we are, I just need to know you believe in me. I can’t ask for more.”

Without any hesitation, Carlos pulled me closer and wrapped his arms around me.

"I have all the hope in the world in you,” he whispered into my ear. “There are amazing things waiting for you. And I've lost enough of them."

                                                        * 

With a low thrum of the engine and the sound of glass clinking, we turned back towards the shore. The shoreline emerged in front of us, and the lights along it grew brighter and larger until the mass of light patterns on the dark ground became an array of perfect lines, perfectly arranged in the cliffs.

As we approached, the house that had once been just a blur of light out at sea slowly materialized into a perfect drawing. The engine died down, and the sea breeze mingled with the scent of pine and freshly cut grass. Strong Hispanic and Italian accents, along with the sounds of laughter and banter, wafted down to us with the wind.

It was like something out of a movie scene.

The lights. The sounds of nature and men. The man by my side.

I couldn't take my eyes off him.

Any other day, I would be capable of drawing his face from memory, but that night it all felt so new. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way his nose scrunched up when he laughed, and the way his lips curved when he spoke certain words. My name, especially. The way his hand always finds the perfect spot on the small of my back, like it was meant to be there.

As we climbed the steps, one after another, our friends' laughter and voices became more distinct. They were sitting around the table, plates and glasses of wine scattered all around; candles and fairy lights flickering in the darkness. As we emerged from the stairwell, all heads turned to us.

"Oh! Look who decided to join us!" My brother's voice rang out. "Getting bored out there?"

As we approached the dinner table, Carlos's hand remained on my back, sending shivers down my spine. I could feel the warmth of his palm through the fabric of my clothes.

"Just very cold, mate," Carlos replied, giving me a subtle caress before letting go of me and landing the basket on one of the chairs.

"The sunset looked amazing from here," Ana said, her eyes darting between Carlos and me. "It must have been even more amazing out there."

"Yeah, it was beautiful," I said, stepping closer to the dinner table and reaching out for a slice of bread. "But Jesus it was so cold—I'm still shivering. I really need to change out of these clothes before I freeze."

"Go on," Marjorie said. "I think we'll stay home for the night. You've got time."

"Movie night or—?"

"God, no," my brother interrupted me. "Poker. I'll get the chips. Chili, go get the Brandy."

"Ana, can you take care of that?" Carlos asked his sister, motioning to the house with his head. "I need a shower and to rest. I’ll pass tonight.”

"No problem," Ana replied with a nod before she stood and stretched. "What about you, Evita?”

I exchanged a look with Carlos, as subtle as I could. “I think I’m going to pass, too. I need to enjoy one last night of peace. Heard we’re going clubbing tomorrow.”

“Damn yes, we are!” Marjorie exclaimed from her place. “For your information,” her finger traced a line over the men around the table. “No boys allowed, tomorrow.”

Carlos’ thumb moved on my back, pulling my attention to him. One last look and he gave a small nod. “Yeah, we’ll see you guys tomorrow. Have fun.”

“And behave with the drinks,” I completed. “G’night.”

As we turned to head back into the house, I could feel the eyes of our friends following us. The silence became a melody of messy whispers, getting louder as we entered the house. I couldn’t help but wonder what they were thinking, what they were saying.

We'd been dancing around each other for our whole years, and even if we were not totally aware of that, they were.

The inside of the house was quiet in comparison to the boisterous atmosphere outside. After I took the first step up the stairs, I turned to Carlos, walking two steps in front.

"What do you think they think we did out there?"

He stopped for a second, brows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. Just… trying to prepare for what to expect, I guess."

"Well, nobody can really know what happened," he said, resuming his walk. "But they probably think we did exactly what we did out there."

“Even my brother?”

“Especially your brother.” I stopped in my tracks, and Carlos, who was a few steps ahead of me, turned around to face me. “Does that change something?”

“I don’t know. Especially my brother? What does that even mean?”

Carlos shrugged. “He’s your brother. He knows you. And he knows me, probably even better than my own sisters. Does that bother you?”

I rested my hand on the railing and leaned my body against it. “It’s not that it bothers me, but…” Carlos nodded, giving me his undivided attention. “It’s just that the expectations… He’s going to work with you. Also…. He’s your best friend. I’m his sister. Don’t you guys have a code for that stuff?”

“I don’t think he cares about that code, Eva,” his lips were trying to suppress a smile. “And even if he does, he’ll just have to suck it up.”

“Right. What about the rest?”

“The rest?”

“Your sisters… Marjorie—”

“I think they noticed I’ve been spending the last few days staring at the office door,” he said softly, extending his hand in my direction. “What if they know?”

“You didn’t know, certainly.”

Carlos chuckled and led me up the stairs, walking in front of me. When we reached the first floor, he let me walk ahead of him. As I looked over my shoulder and caught him still standing near the stairs, he spoke again.

“I didn’t think I deserved it just yet,” he said, walking over to me. “But I can’t say I didn’t think about it.” The confession sent shivers down my neck. “Now go take a shower before I make sure that no one has doubts about anything tomorrow.”

My heart skipped a beat and I turned to face him; his lips were slightly parted and his eyes big and dark. A shower was the last thing on his mind, and suddenly all my worries and concerns dissipated too. I opened my mouth to say something, probably some incoherent mumbling that would get me nowhere, but before I could, his lips crashed onto mine.

And just like the first time, it was desperate.

His hands were everywhere, pulling me closer, pressing me against him. It was passionate and intense. That strange feeling of longing for someone who was right there.

“I really need my shower,” I whispered, trying to pull away from his hands, to no avail. His hands only grabbed me closer.

“Is that some sort of invitation? Do you need help dressing your pyjamas?”

“No,” I giggled. “I can do it alone, you know? I’m not like a certain someone.”

“Certain someone? I wonder who.”

I laughed. “Though night, the other day. I really thought I would have to carry the three of you upstairs.”

“Well, I would have loved to see you try,” Carlos stepped back, crossing his hands over his chest. “But curious about your pyjamas. Do they still have unicorns on them?”

“Negative. Corgis.”

“Corgis?”

“Aham,” I nodded. “Any problem with that?”

“Eva DiMaggio,” he paused. “Will you ever get less weird?”

I rolled my eyes. “Says the guy finding excuses to see me naked. It’s not been an hour. Are you that needy?" I teased him.

Carlos chuckled. “Maybe,” he said with a smirk. “But it’s not like you’re complaining.”

I couldn’t help but smile at that. He was right, I wasn’t complaining. In fact, I was enjoying every moment we had together, even if it was just stolen moments like this.

“Go on,” he said, motioning towards the door. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

"No," I said, just as he was about to turn around and enter his room. "Feel free to visit in about 20 minutes. To see the pyjamas."

Carlos' smirk grew wider as he turned back to face me. "I might just take you up on that offer."

My pyjamas were neatly folded and placed under the pillow. As I approached the bed, the calming scent of lavender filled my senses. Few things have the power to soothe me as lavender does—yoga, music, the roar of a V12 and my recent rekindling of Carlos' presence are the other things on that list.

A tingling sensation hits my skin as I’m enveloped by the soft, freshly laundered fabric of my pyjamas.

I felt comfortable, at peace. Body and soul.

It was an odd feeling. Too strange to ignore.

When I entered the bathroom, the reflection staring back at me looked almost as perplexed as I felt. The slight redness in my cheeks, probably caused by the alcohol or the sun, popped up when a knock on the door cut through the silence.

“In here!” I called out.

The sound of the door opening and closing and slow, lazy steps followed. In a matter of seconds, Carlos joined me, standing beside me in the mirror, leaning against the bathroom door. The fluorescent light from above illuminated his chiselled abs. I couldn't help but notice how revealing his sweatpants were.

"Are you going to stare at me all night?" I said, my mouth full of toothpaste, focusing my gaze on his, through the mirror.

He smirked, his eyes flicking down to my shorts. "Not at you. At the corgis. Adorable.”

I scoffed, spitting out toothpaste into the sink. “Very smooth, Sainz, very smooth.”

The sound of water hitting the sink filled the room, and Carlos's laugh mingled with the sound. I just smiled and splashed the cold water over my skin while he watched me intently, analyzing every gesture of mine. As I picked up my cleanser and pumped the foam into my hands, his eyes and hands travelled to the small array of bottles on the sink.

“These are all for your face?” he asked, intrigued.

“Almost all of them, yes,” I replied.

“At once? All of this?”

I nodded, laying my finger on top of my toner. “This one always comes before any of these,” I explained, as my finger made a circular motion over all of my serums and oils. Carlos nodded, intrigued by the information. “These have rules. More complicated, but… They don’t matter. In the end, always, moisturizer.”

“And this one?” he reached out and touched my face, taking out a bit of the foam from my cleanser.

“Just some cleanser,” I said, giggling. He nodded, but the expression of a confused golden retriever didn’t leave his face. I could feel myself melting. “Just to clean the skin,” I completed. “Wanna try?”

Carlos extended both hands towards me, and soon both of our hands were filled with foam. We turned to the mirror, each one focusing on our own task. As he closed his eyes in pleasure, I couldn't help but watch him. His full lips were parted, and the way his long fingers lathered and moved over his face was so gentle. My fight-or-flight response was about to kick in. A siren blared in my mind. I wasn't ready for this. I didn't want to get to this point: lowering my walls and welcoming him inside. And yet, I found myself doing just that, each time allowing him to go further and stay longer.

As he opened his eyes again, he caught my eye in the mirror, and I could tell he noticed my look. He raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile forming on his lips.

"You like what you see?" he teased.

“Yes, I can’t resist men who do skincare, especially if they’re half-naked in my bathroom,” I picked up my serum. “It’s my weak spot.”

Carlos laughed, the sound deep and rich. “Good to know,” he said, rinsing off the foam from his face. “Maybe I’ll have to make this a regular thing.”

I shook my head, trying to hide the smile on my face. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

He chuckled. “It’s a bit too late for that.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn't deny the warmth that spread through me at his words. Maybe I was getting too comfortable, but that thought was pushed aside as I focused on the familiar routine of my skincare. Carlos let go of the towel he was using and leaned against the counter, looking at me. There was a mischievous glint in his eye, and I knew he was up to something.

"What now?" I asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Can I try some of that too?" he asked, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Ahm…” I wasn't sure where that sudden interest came from, but I couldn't deny such a request. “Yeah. Sure. Why not? Sit down.”

He complied, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. I squirted some serum into my fingers and walked towards him. As I got closer, he opened his legs inviting me to stand between them.

“This one is for fine lines and wrinkles. You don’t actually need this,” I said, bringing my fingers to his cheeks.

Once again, he closed his eyes. “I think I do. My face is an important asset, you know?”

“More important than skill, these days,” I teased.

He chuckled. “Like you would know.”

“I’m still a fan.” I paused. My thumbs massaged his forehead, tracing a line above his eyebrows. I couldn’t help but notice the line of his eyelashes, casting a shadow under his eyes, the curve of his lips shaping a tender smile. “And I’m on social media. I know what people say.”

He opened his eyes, his gaze meeting mine. “Oh, if half my followers knew what I’m doing right now.”

I smiled. “Half of them would probably be jealous.”

He chuckled. “Well, yeah. To compensate for half that would think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Balance, right?”

He nodded, smiling. I could feel the warmth of his breath on my belly through the buttons of my shirt. It felt oddly intimate but comfortable and familiar. I had barely any more product to massage into his skin, but the softness of his cheeks kept me hostage. He had a strong presence. Masculine features, and strong lines on his face, yet he had the prettiest eyelashes and lips any girl would die for. He was pretty.

So pretty.

"So, how does it feel?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"Amazing," he replied, his voice low and husky. “You’re good at this.”

The silence grew deeper, and with it, the need to fill the air with mindless chatter slowly disappeared. His presence alone was enough to calm me down. I reached for the moisturizer from the counter and squirted a dollop into my hands. As I began applying it to his face, I could feel the tension in his forehead begin to ease. His breathing had evened out, and his skin glowed under the soft bathroom light.

"You're all done. Ready for bed," I said, breaking the peaceful silence.

"Not yet," he replied softly, standing up to grab the moisturizer from my hand. "Let me return the favour," he added, motioning towards the seat I had just occupied.

I couldn't refuse his offer, as my body moved on its own accord. The sense of intimacy and tranquillity was overpowering any other emotion rushing through me. As I sat down and leaned my head back, I watched him pick up the tube and squirt the product in his hands. He smelled good, fresh and warm, and I closed my eyes as his fingers touched my skin. With a sigh, I let go of any tension.

"You need to be cared for too," he said, his voice low and gentle, running his fingers over my cheekbones.

His touch felt like feathers, so soft and gentle. As he neared my lips with his thumb, he stopped, and I opened my eyes. I knew that feeling too well. The weight of his thumb near my chin, slowly approaching my lips. Tempting.

"Can I kiss you goodnight?" he asked in a whisper.

A nod was all I could manage. "Please do," I replied.

Satisfaction and relief flashed in her eyes, and her lips curved into a smile. God, this man had me in the palm of his hand. How could he think I would say no? How could I say no when his kisses taste and feel like a storm fading over the horizon, like waves inside ceasing existence, emptying the tide and revealing parts of me I wouldn't previously claim as my own?

We stood there in silence for a moment, the tension between us palpable until Carlos cleared his throat and pulled away from me.

"I think it’s time I let you sleep," he said, his voice a little rough. But instead of letting me go, he held me closer. "You're joining us for golf tomorrow, right?"

"To days in a row?" I protested. But then again, when had Carlos ever not gotten what he wanted? He gave me that special look of his and suddenly I found myself nodding. "I'll bring my Kindle."

"You wouldn’t dare,” he stepped forward once more, just to kiss my forehead. “I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight then," I said, barely above a whisper.

"Goodnight," he replied, giving me a small smile before turning and walking away.

The silence of the room was almost deafening, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness as I collapsed onto the bed.

I reached for my phone, and before I knew it, I was scrolling through social media, mindlessly absorbing every post and photo that came my way. It wasn't until my phone vibrated with a message that I looked up from the screen.

My dad.

We will talk once you’re in Madrid.

And then it was all back.

                                                        * 

As I moved my head, the refreshing breeze greeted me, relieving my eyes of the tangled locks of hair that had been obstructing my view. The day was relatively cooler than the previous ones, and the sky was painted with a mix of grey and white clouds. It seemed like the island was getting ready to say goodbye. Even though, the sight of the lush green grass of the course stretching out before me, with its scattered sand traps and water hazards, composed a breathtaking view.

I looked around once more, taking it all in. I was not ready to let the sunshine go.

On my right, Carlos was getting ready to take his last shot. The morning had been pleasant. Rio and Marjorie were now to the side, distracting one another. Marjorie was a pile of anxiety, that morning. She missed her kids and the kids missed her.

I never saw Olivia cry as much as she did when we called my mother during breakfast. Not even Rio’s antics made the little kid smile. That had put a toll on Marjorie’s mood for the whole morning.

My dad had put one on me with the text he had sent me the night before and the conversation he had that morning. The conversation didn’t move on from the “We’ll talk later, enjoy the time out.”

My mind was elsewhere, clearly.

Anxiety resided in my gut, craving a huge hole in my stomach. Surprisingly, golf had helped.

Carlos swung his club, the hush it made cutting through the air and the mutated thumb of it meeting the ball made me turn to him once more. Gracefully, the ball curved in the air, landing not too far from the hole. It would be my job to seal the deal.

"Ah," he grunted, holding his club loosely. "Nearly missed it.”

“It looks nice,” I remarked, walking towards the cart and expecting him to follow me. However, Carlos didn’t respond, his attention diverted elsewhere. "You’ll get your hole-in-one next time—Are you listening?"

"Sorry,” he turned to me. “I'm just—Can you see that?" he asked, pointing towards the horizon.

Following the path from his index to the horizon, I approached him. Nothing. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out what he was referring to. “What, exactly?”

"There's something there. Moving," he replied, his excitement palpable.

I followed him down the hill, holding my club. "A mole?"

"Probably," he said, his strides becoming longer as he approached the hole. Peeking its head out of the hole, we saw a tiny ball of dark brown fur, looking up at us with its beady black eyes. It seemed out of place amidst the immaculate green grass, as if it had crawled from a completely different world. I couldn't resist taking out my phone and snapping a quick photo.

"Look at it," Carlos said, grinning widely. Adorable. How can a grown-ass man be this adorable? "It's so cute!"

He took out his phone as well, and I sat down on the grass, watching him. Wide grin, big eyes, the long hair curving over the brim of his hat… a kid. And then, his voice—that goofy voice I hadn't heard in years.

"Hello there, Mr. Mole," he said, looking at me over his shoulder. I couldn't help but laugh as he carried on a one-sided conversation with the tiny animal. "Welcome to the golf course! Do you like it here? Are you planning on staying?"

I giggled, shaking my head as I leaned back on my arms. "I can’t believe I’m witnessing this. You're ridiculous."

"Don't listen to her, Mr. Mole.” He grinned at me, pocketing his phone, and then turned his attention back to the mole. “She's just jealous of your adorable little nose."

“Should I be offended by that?”

“Eh…” he leaned his head, shrugging. “I would pick my battles better if I were you.”

I chuckled, feeling the tension of my worries slowly dissipating. The moment of lightheartedness made me momentarily forget about my concerns. It was nice there. Easy. And yet, he never stopped being an enigma to me, even having known him since we were kids. There were moments when he seemed like a completely different person.

Like now.

He looked so intense, so focused. His eyes never left mine, and I found myself struggling to maintain eye contact.

“Are you okay?” he asked, sitting down near the hole.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, averting my gaze and focusing on the little animal, already hidden in the dirt, only its bottom visible. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You tell me,” he replied, the corner of his lips curling up in a small smile. “You’ve been distant all morning. Not a good look on you.”

People always tell me I’m not a great liar—something about my too-bright eyes and how easy they are to read. Carlos was one of those people. He had a way of seeing right through me, even when I didn’t want him to.

“Too many long nights in a row. I need a good night of sleep,” he didn’t seem convinced by my excuse. Carlos licked his lips and got up, offering me a hand. As soon as we were standing in front of one another, he raised his eyebrow. “And my dad,” I admitted. “He’s been… strange.”

“Strange how?”

“You know how he is. Lately, he’s been worse. More distant. And I don’t know if I'm imagining things or—” I trailed off. “The point is that he’s being weird and making me anxious.”

“Is this about the email from last night? The one Rio mentioned?”

I nodded. “Yup. Racing stuff.”

Carlos tried to hide his smile, but a fragment of it lay on his lips, tainting his eyes and making them shine. “What racing stuff?”

“A meeting with Deborah Mayer,” this time, his grin expanded wide. “Don’t get your hopes high, Sainz. Just a talk. And I don’t know if I’ll get it.”

“I’m just happy to see you acting on it. The idea of you in an office doesn’t make sense to me,” he shrugged, walking towards the ball. “Racing shouldn’t be a hobby.” He pointed his club to me. “Not for you, at least.”

“Let’s finish this hole, shall we?” I mumbled, taking my stance and aligning my club with the ball. “Can’t fail this one. I rather eat the ball than lose to those two.”

Carlos looked up towards the hill, where Marjorie and Rio waited by the cart. I felt the weight of his gaze when he looked back at me.

“Yesterday you told me I make you want to be better,” he closed the distance between us and stood in front of me. His fist grabbed his club with a strength that didn’t reflect itself in the light and adoring gaze of his eyes. God. I wanted to fill them with pride. “Let me help you do it.”

“No—” I shook my head, raising my hand and shaking it too. “No. Don’t—I don’t need that.”

“Don’t be so proud.”

“It’s not pride. Or stubbornness, before you go that way,” I tilted my head to the side. “I’ve done it alone until here, I can do it from here.”

“But you don’t need to. You’re not alone.”

Silence.

Three seconds of peace and utter tranquillity, and then anxiety hit me in the chest, like the waves against the shoreline. A feeling way too familiar. Way too powerful to ignore. My heart hammered in my chest, my blood rushed in my ears.

I glanced at him for a second, he was looking at me. Waiting.

What did he want me to say?

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t focus if you keep talking.”

“And I can’t help you if you keep ignoring me,” his voice was soft and soothing. Like a music box winding down.

I looked up. His shadow covered me almost completely.

“I forgot how fucking annoying you are.” Carlos offered me a smile but his gaze remained serious. “Can we finish this up and talk after lunch?”

The shadow over me didn’t move, and Carlos didn’t make any sound until I heard a long exhale and the ruffle of his sneakers walking over the green.

“Sure. Go ahead.” Deafet and tired, he walked to my right. “Easy on those wrists,” After repositioning my hands, I looked up for approval. He was smirking, “I know I test your patience, but we don’t need that kind of strength right now.”

"Is that so?"

"The hole is less than 10 meters away,” Carlos pointed like it was obvious and I couldn’t not chuckle at his answer.

“I was talking about the I know I test your patience part.”

It would have been hard not to smile at him at that moment. His eyes were wide and pleading, although a small curve of his lips suggested that he wanted to smile as well. It was impossible not to smile when Carlos Sainz smiled at you with such genuine affection in his eyes and his heart that you might even believe that he would do anything for you.

“Go ahead, Eva. Hit it. We’ll talk later.”

“As you say, professor,” I said, swinging my club and hitting the ball towards the hole. The ball rolled slowly across the grass, falling into the hole with a soft plunk. "See?! This is what happens when you don't bother me about emails or my posture.”

"Eh! Come on..." He moved his hands dramatically and it was clear that he was spending too much time with my brother lately. "If I hadn't, you wouldn't have been able to hole this one out."

"Admit it," I said, moving forward in mock indignation. "It was all an excuse to grab my hips.” I winked at him coyly. “I won't judge."

“Always a flirt, aren’t you?”

“Look at you,” I said, leaning on my club, again. “Can you blame me?”

There was a thing about Carlos Sainz I'd completely forgotten. How easily his expression shifts. A small shift can change the atmosphere around him. The dark strands of hair that fall over his eyes make them seem impossibly deep, the perfect setting for a pair of long lashes to rest against. His eyebrows are slightly uneven, but they fit with the rest of his face perfectly. As if he's been sculpted out of clay and left to stand beside me like a sculpture in some museum garden. It takes as much time for him to take a step and blink as it does for my heart to go out of rhythm.

And that's exactly what happened there. I could feel the tension grow inside and around me, my chest imploding at the same time.

But with a shake of his head, it all went away — his face softened and he shook his head before picking up the ball from the hole and sliding it into his pocket, "You're a bad influence," he joked, before extending his hand to me and signalling to follow him. "Let's go distract them."

Under the slim shadow cast by a palm tree, Marjorie observed her husband. Rio was a couple of steps away, ready to teed his back and take his last shot. Carlos sat down on the driver’s seat of our cart and attentively observed my brother. The ball flew off down in an awkward arc. Before it even hit the green, a dissatisfied grunt was heard.

“You can start celebrating,” he said, walking back to us. “Fucking wind.”

                                                        * 

The afternoon and the night flew by as if they were minutes and the clock had no patience to wait for us to find time to be alone. That day, Marjorie and Rio joined us in our snorkelling attempt and later that night, Ana did not take no for an answer when it came to going clubbing. With each passing second, the reminder I would leave soon and the bubble would burst.

Nevertheless, he was always around.

His gaze was on me when I was cooking lunch with the girls. His arms protectively wrapped around me as we rode the jetskis around the house, almost like he was begging me to not leave. On that night, his eyes lingered on mine one more second than necessary before I got up off the couch and headed to the club with his sisters and Marjorie.

I wanted him, just one last time before reality hit, and reality was a couple of hours away.

Just a night of sleep, breakfast and a short ride to the airport away.

So, I fell asleep thinking of him and tracing with my fingertips all the places he had kissed and adored, replaying his tender touch in my mind, wishing for him to be there when I opened my eyes, to take over and replace my desperate caresses with his passionate touch. The memories blended into a dream and a restful, peaceful sleep.

Like all mornings in Costa Del Pins, my room was taken by the sunlight when I woke up.

The expectation was that this time, I was awakened by the yellow hue of the Mediterranean summer, not the ring of my alarm. I remembered dreaming about Carlos. I remembered the too many glasses of sangria and all the shots Ana had brought to the table.

I had missed this. This was summer just like I remembered it.

Wine and laughter and long dinners by the sea, that stretch until the night and the sleep take the best out of us. Ana and her darling smile. The sun and the salt and the sweat.

The thin white sheets were twisted around my legs, holding me in place. I stared at the white ceiling, enjoying the shadows of the waving curtains drawn on it—the movements as soft as the sea waves. I didn’t want to leave.

Everything seemed to work in the same way in Mallorca. Everyone seemed to vibe at the same frequency. And Carlos was there. He wouldn’t be in Madrid.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand. I kicked off the sheets, trying to pry them from my legs.

“come here when you wake up”

And despite not wanting to leave the bed, my limbs moved alone. My bare feet touched the cold floor when they slid to the floor, barely touching down as I rose from bed. And still drowsy from sleep, and feeling in my body everything that had happened the day before, I walked over across the hall.

His door was slightly open. All the other doors of the hallway were closed.

I knocked, nonetheless.

“Hi,” I whispered, entering his room.

Laying in bed, he gave me a lazy smile. It was impossible to not feel my entire self melting at the view. Arm underneath his head. Puffy eyes. The stubble. The hazy morning light accentuated his features, making them ascend to the category of a classic painting.

“Morning,” he replied, slowly sitting up.

The sheet crumbled at his waist, revealing his naked torso. I sat at the foot of his bed. My silk shorts contrasted against the white bed linen.

“No morning run today?”

“No…” He shook his head and then yawned. “I mean—yes. I was waiting for you, but I think I fell asleep waiting for your alarm.”

“You hear my alarm from here?” He nodded, dragging his hands over his face, stopping to rub his eyes. “That’s why you leave the door open?” Once again, he nodded. “I turned it off, today. I needed to sleep.”

His hardened body softened as he eyed me up with a faint smile grazing across his lips.

“At what time is the flight?”

“Around four.”

He nodded. “And when will I see you again?”

“I don’t know…” I crossed my legs and tilted my head. “Monza? I’ll be there, for sure.”

Instantly, the man in front of me shook his head. “Monza? That’s in almost a month.”

“I know. I mean—” I paused. “We can try to meet before, but you have your stuff, too. Monza is the only promise I can make.”

“Zandvoort,” he suggested. “For my birthday.”

His birthday. The 1st of September. Amanda’s event was in September, around that date if I was not mistaken. Carlos squinted his eyes, probably because I was already giving him a negative answer with my expression.

“I think I have a work thing. In Berlin.”

“Berlin is not that far…” He raised his eyebrow, the corner of his lips tugging up. His pretty face was on the verge of making me give in. “Come ooon... You can get from one city to another in less than two hours.”

I dropped my shoulders. God, this man.

“But I can’t promi—”

“I don’t need you to promise me anything,” he interrupted me. And then, his voice softened. “I need you to try.”

Fighting him had no use when he smiled that way.

“Fine. I’ll try.”

“See?” He smiled and called me closer with his hands. “That’s all I need to hear.”

Crawling over the sheets, still warm from his body heat and smelling like him, I made my way closer. The aroma of his skin lingered in the air and my nostrils flared as I took it all in. I could live in his embrace forever. I could live wrapped in one of these sheets. His arm wrapped around me, pulling me closer and mitigating the gap between us.

Inches apart, his eyes locked onto mine. My heart pounded against my chest—a reminder that I hadn’t yet learned how to deal with this man’s antics. Deep down, I wished to never get used to it.

“Here’s another thing…” he said, in a soft whisper.

I brought my hands to his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath he took. “What?”

“I’ll be flying over Europe. And so will you. Madrid, Maranello, Milan… and for the races. Tell me where you are, and I’ll get to you.” He paused. “I once expected you to be the one to drop everything and follow me around. It was not fair," he admitted with a sincerity that caught me off guard. "But now, I know what not to do. I can drop my stuff off once in a while and go to you. And you’ll need to let me do it. Okay?"

With those big brown eyes staring back at me, all I could do was nod. "Okay," I managed to whisper.

“And that’s something I want you to promise.”

“What?”

“That you will let me get closer.” Carlos leaned in, his lips hovering over mine. “Physically, mentally, emotionally.”

Breaths mingling, hot and heavy, tension building between us. I closed my eyes and succumbed to the moment, letting his lips capture mine.

Sleepy. Slow. Kinda sloppy.

“I can promise to try,” I said, eyes closed to savour the sensation of his lips down my jaw.

“Good enough for now,” he murmured; his hands roamed over my body, tracing the curves and lines of my skin. Every touch felt electric, sending shivers down my spine.

I moaned softly against his lips, feeling his smile against mine.

“We need to stop,” I put both my hands on his chest. “I need to go pack.”

He let out a low groan, his hands still roaming over my body. “Right,” he said, his voice husky. “We need. But because we're going out for breakfast. Go get dressed before my sister catches you awake and steals you away once more.”

                                                        * 

The melody of the waves washed over my senses the second he opened the car door, carried by a tiny breeze that made my hair dance against my neck. Before moving away from the car, he looked back at me, his sleepy eyes squinting to battle the bright sun. We were parked not too far from the market and I could sense the aroma of fruits and flowers.

We walked together, feeling the morning sun warming up our skin, the rhythm of our feet pounding against the pavement in perfect unison. The world around us began to blur, and all that was left was the sound of our voices and the rhythm of our conversation, light and carefree, about rocks, flowers and the two wild cats sleeping on a bench.

Reality seemed a foreign concept when he was involved.

Eventually, our steps brought us to the bakery. Two clay pots with brightly coloured flowers were placed outside, on both sides of the door. As we stepped through, we were met with a cosy atmosphere, with three families sitting around, enjoying their breakfast and a lazy dog snoozing away underneath the fan. On the counter, near the register, were three carton boxes with familiar purple ribbons.

The bakery. The croissants.

“Do you wanna sit, or—” he asked me, looking over his shoulder.

“We can sit,” I didn’t let him finish the question. “I appreciate the air conditioning.”

He chuckled, turning back to me and placing his hand on the small of my back. I walked to a booth in the corner of the bakery, sitting on the sofa facing the window. The view was breathtaking—the sea was a bright blue that expanded itself until the tenuous line on the horizon. Sharp cliffs surrounded the beach in front, framing the crowded sand. I moved my eyes to Carlos when he sat in front of me, a smile being automatically drawn on my lips as he took off his hat and passed his fingers through the sweaty strands of his hair.

“It’s terrible, no?” He asked, making me immediately frown. “I just cut it before France.”

“And it was an absolute crime,” my words came wrapped in a small laugh.

“Do you like it long?” Once again, he passed his hands on his hair, the locks easily followed the lines his fingers were drawing.

“I do,” I nodded. “And I like your beard, too. It’s a shame you shaved it today.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind for the next time we meet,” he said, his eyes meeting mine.

From my right, the figure of a round lady appeared. Her silver-grey hair was meticulously braided over her shoulder and tied with a delicate purple elastic at the end, a perfect contrast to the vibrant blue and yellow tie-dye apron that draped over her beautiful floral print dress. When she spotted Carlos, her face lit up in recognition and a warm smile spread across her lips. Her hands clasped together in front of her chest, beaming with joy as he turned to her.

“Buenos dias,” her voice was gentle, kind and inviting. “What should I get for you two?” She asked. “Despite the croissants Carlitos usually chooses of course.”

Carlos gazed at the woman expectantly, and asked, "What would you like?" He added with a hopeful smile, "The cinnamon rolls I brought you the other day were good too, no?"

The woman nodded thoughtfully, her heavy gaze studying me. “It’s a new recipe,” she said, her voice full of anticipation. “I’m still trying to perfect it.”

“Oh, I—” my gaze shifted from one to the other, both of them looking at me expectantly. “I loved them, I wouldn’t change a thing. You can bring me one for now, actually. And an espresso, por favor.”

The woman nodded, her eyes glistening with pride from my compliment. “And you for? The same thing?”

He smiled and shook his head. "Yes, that can be. Just bring me a water bottle, too."

The woman nodded and made her way to the kitchen, humming a melody under her breath. Carlos and I exchanged a smile, and soon the scent of freshly made croissants and cinnamon rolls filled the air.

“Rupert is gonna kick your ass when he finds out how much sugar you’ve been eating,” I said, my fingers fidgeting with the napkin.

He chuckled, his eyes still on the kitchen door. "Maybe," he said, his voice low and almost inaudible. "But I think I'm allowed one last splurge before I head back home."

“One last splurge? You’ll spend, at least, five more days in here.”

Carlos leaned back in his seat, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar pack while he looked at me. “My dad can be a bit controlling. He says I won’t fit my seat, otherwise.”

“Well, if you keep eating croissants for breakfast, I’m afraid he’s not wrong.”

Carlos laughed, his gaze flickering out the window before returning to me. “Well, then I guess I’ll have to make the most of it while I can.”

I leaned back on the sofa, feeling the cool air of the air conditioning caress my skin. “You know, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live in a place like this. No worries, just the sea and the sun.”

Carlos leaned forward, his eyes intense as they bore into mine. “That sounds too easy for you. You would get bored.”

It was not a lie. I would get bored. I needed the challenge, the compressibility but... These last few days? The bubble we had constructed without noticing? I needed a bit of that, too—the slow living I never thought would be a fit for me.

“Don’t you wish for this, sometimes? I know you love your job and everything it implies but… don’t you wish to be home, sometimes?”

“Of course,” the woman returned with our drinks and pastries, placing them on the table with a gentle smile. Carlos broke his sentence to thank her, and then his attention diverted to me, again. “Of course, I want to be home. I love Italy and I feel welcome in Maranello, but it’s not home.”

“And Ferrari?” I heard a confused “hm?” coming from his lips. I moved in my seat until I felt the words lining up correctly in my throat. “How do you know you’ve made the right choice? At first, how did you know it was right to join McLaren?”

He looked at me, surprised by my sudden question, and then back at the croissant he was pinching “I didn’t have much choice, to be honest.”

“Okay,” I paused. “What about Ferrari?”

"It was my dream," he said quietly. Right. "You will never know, Eva," he said, his gaze meeting mine briefly before his expression became unreadable again. "I guess you just have to trust your gut. There’s no right or wrong, and you can think a certain team is right for you and your goals, you can dream about that team for years, but you can never be sure if you are stepping into a dream or a nightmare until you are too deep into it."

My grandmother used to often tell me that condemnations can be disguised as blessings, and I couldn't help but think of her words at that moment. No matter how much you plan, God has already something sorted out for you.

"You know what they say," he said. "The only way to know is to take a leap of faith."

I nodded, the words resonating deep in my core. I let out a deep breath, my gaze fixed on the passing landscape, the big stain of blue appearing interrupted between the branches of the trees planted between us and the sea.

“But why the sudden doubt?” Carlos asked. I turned my head to him. “You seemed excited yesterday, talking about Mayer.”

“All this wait is making me second guess myself," I said, the words coming out almost involuntarily. "I mean, what if it’s not the right move?"

Carlos shook his head. "You can't do that…. Second guess yourself like that," he said. "Iron Dames is an excellent fit for you. Explore the field, try new stuff, meet new people. Test things.” He paused for a second. “If it’s not right for you, you step out.”

“Okay, but—” I could see his forehead crease and he slowly tilted his head. “Won’t I be losing a year if it’s not right?”

“No, you will still learn something.” I relaxed my body against the comfortable seat; Carlos kept going. “But if it’s right and you run away from it because you’re afraid? It’s just a lost opportunity.”

For a brief moment, the bakery seemed to go silent, his words lingered inside, ricocheting on the walls and meeting me. “Thank you.”

He smiled. “No need to thank me.” I couldn't help but smile back, the warmth of his presence acting like an elixir and calming my nerves.

We kept talking about the possibilities, about faith and about trusting our guts. Carlos filled me up on the things I had missed, brief stories about race weekends and vacations I did not witness with him.

He was eager to share.

To fit me in his stories.

Carlos told every story with a tenacity I hadn’t felt in a while, sharing even the smallest detail, as if he wanted to bring me there, to take in the sights and sounds of the journeys. Even though I appreciated it, and it brought me joy to hear him talk, it filled me with a longing for the days I used to be able to witness it firsthand.

The thrill of the race weekend, the tensions of the hours before the race and the joyful hugs at the end. The smell of his cologne mingled with the rubber. The vision of his sweaty hair moulded by the helmet. The way his arms tightly wrapped around me in a hug after the race, like since the moment we last saw each other in the garage for a quick goodbye, he had been scared that he would never be able to do it again.

It didn't surprise me when he mentioned golf at least three times, and Lando even more times than that. He told me about his burgers and the ongoing competition amongst Team 55, the people in Maranello and how I could actually be a good help to bring some life into his apartment.

I told him about my recurrent work trips to London and Milan, the amazing trip my family had done to Scotland and how excited I was about going to Fuji with WEC, just a few weeks from then.

Between all that, the thought that I wished I had met him differently, or that we could just be different people.

Two strangers in London. Or Madrid. Two strangers who bump into each other on a street or a crowded bar, find each other in a city where the cobblestone streets are lined with pubs and cafés and double-decker buses drive by. See our reflections shining against the wet asphalt. Kiss him in a crowded bar and dance with him under the frenetic lights. To be as anonymous as anyone else dancing around. To feel the earth rumble under our feet as we walk down dark alleys, taking a shortcut under the cover of darkness.

To go through all the motions and emotions and fall in love again, in slow motion, slow enough to take in every detail I let go of.

And, this time, to not let go.

So, I'm baaaack! I'm alive! I really want to apologize for the time it took me to post this one, but the last weeks were really difficult. I'm going better, now, but I can't promise to be back next with with another chapter. I'm so sorry for the wait. Hope you still remember me. All the love! 🤍

⋆⋆✵ Perfect Imperfections ✵⋆⋆

Chapter 1

Genre : Arranged Marriage AU! Angst! Explicit Sexual Content.

Rating : 21+

Warnings : Ableism , Chronic disability. OC has limited use of her left leg, Emotional infidelity? Mild Cheating ( nothing very physical.. a kiss or so )

Summary : Marrying Jungkook is a mistake. Falling in love with him? Definitely the worst exercise in masochism .

~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter 2

No one tells you how easy it is to imagine yourself in love with a beautiful man. Especially when you don’t have a clear understanding of what love actually is. 

When I met Jungkook, even knowing he was in love with my sister hadn’t done much to douse the flames of hope and attraction. He was a lot of things that other men in my life weren’t. Kind without being pitying. Concerned without being overbearing. He took care of me without making me feel helpless. And there was always such a thin line between these things that I found myself impressed by his ability to toe the line so well.

Jungkook took care of me without making me feel like a burden and I suppose, some part of me had assumed that this could, in due time turn into love. But I was clearly wrong.

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