I Said I Was A Fan Of Lando…. I Never Said I Was A Lando Fan….

goodnight lb. sleep tight, remember the wise words

“why you so mad. it’s only game”

i’m going to read that one knies fic that’s been at the top of matthew knies x reader for forever and then i’m gonna find the saddest woll fic and read that.

was fun while it lasted 🫡

Waiting for the bus simulator

bus due in 5 mins

bus due in 4 mins

bus due in 3 mins

bus due in 2 mins

bus due in 1 mins

bus due in 0 mins

Whoops we forgot to send the bus again

bus due in 30 mins

THIS IS SO GOOD I CAN'T AHAHAHHAHAHAH

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

let’s play 🏒

hello world (tumblr),

this is my first proper post on here and i have decided to use this as a little blog for myself!!

now, i do have interests. so here are the lists of things you WILL find me yapping about:

matt rempe (don’t get me startedddd bro!)

utah hockey club i suppose, NOT cause im in love with miachel kesselring (i am but that’s beside the point) but because utah!

f1 (fav drivers are lando norris and i have new found love for gabriel bortoleto)

mick schumacher. i am in love with him. we are actually married, he just doesn’t know it yet 🥰

f1 academy (fav drivers are chloe chambers (🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🦅🦅🦅) and lia block! and tina hausman (but in like a i admire her greatly type way))

unfortunately that is the extent of my hyper fixations as of late, however i may use this as a book log so i talk about what books im reading atm!

to my two mutuals who follow me just cause i stalk their accounts; i love both of you and your work so much!!!

- 47chickens (i had chickens when i made this and i love mick)

tears ARE being shed

women in motorsport + text posts (3/?)

gasped out loud when i saw this posted

perv | pt. 2 | s. crosby

after being called out for his perverted actions, he gets a taste of his own medicine.

warnings: smut (18+ ONLY MDNI, piv, oral, for visual purposes only), sidney being a perv,

retired!sidney crosby x younger!fem reader

read pt. 1 here

"i was wondering, if you'd wanna see the real thing?"

sidney was sure he was in a dream. how did he end up here? how did he get himself in this promiscuous situation? oh, right. he was being a perv, that's how.

he was frozen in time. his mouth slightly agape as he was stuck, watching her- the stunning young woman in front of him take her bikini top off. the top strings come undone, gravity making them fall and unfold on top of her stomach. god, he feels like a teenager again, remembering what it felt like looking at a playboy magazine for the very first time. hard. painfully hard.

then she reaches around her back, pulling at the delicate bow that sidney had politely tied for her. then, it falls.

she steps closer to him, reaching for his hand. inside she's freaking out a little bit- why hasn't he said anything? but she pushes the thoughts aside and takes his hand, forcing him to palm her breast. he breathes in sharply, biting his lip.

"y'know sidney, i've heard rumors about hockey players," she whispers, leaning into his touch as his hand plays with her breast.

"probably all bad," he chokes out. he takes his other hand and rests it on her back, pulling her closer to him while he squeezes lightly on her round flesh.

"just mostly, that hockey players only care about themselves in bed," he hums, "they only have one setting when they're fucking women," he raises his eyebrow.

"and what might that be?" he teases, the tip of his nose just centimeters away from hers.

"rough. hard, fast," she runs her hands up his chest, she can feel the toned but soft muscles that are underneath his soft t shirt. she feels his breath pattern change, his eyes have grown a little bit darker by now. "i've even heard that they can't even make a woman cum." he grins, "is that true, sidney?"

by now, his hands have started to play with the strings on the bottom pice of her bikini. he's lightly playing with the bows that are holding it together, teasing to pull them apart.

"partially," he grips her hips, pulling her close to him as he starts to walk backwards into a hallway. "what part is not true?" she responds.

he opens the door to his bedroom. he backs her up to the bed, the back of her knees hitting the mattress and forcing her to sit on the bed. he stands in front of her, taking off his shirt to reveal his broad, tan chest. she takes in a deep breath.

"not true? that i can't make women cum," he takes her legs in his hands, spreading them as wide as she would let them go for him. she bites her lip while feeling his rough hands smooth over her soft thighs. she lays back on her elbows as he sinks to his knees, putting her legs over his shoulders.

he stares at the bright red, thin material that's been keeping him from getting the good stuff this whole time- it's been taunting him. he presses his nose up against her clothed cunt, taking in a deep inhale of her scent. she doesn't know whether to be turned on or turned off, but the feeling of his nose pressed up against her clit is heavenly. he mouths at her pussy a couple times, his teeth grazing against her clit draws a moan from her. he chuckles.

"you sure you wanna keep going?" he asks.

"now you're asking for consent? after taking pictures of me, groping my breasts, and putting your nose in my pussy?" she laughs, untying her bottom piece and shimmying to get it off, tossing it onto the floor. "get to work sidney, show me you're not lying about that rough and fast part."

he takes a rough grip on her thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs there's going to be bruises in the morning. he doesn't care, she asked for it to be rough. he spits on her pussy, taking his tongue and pressing it flat against her clit, shaking his head side to side.

out of pure physical response she spreads her legs wider, arching her back off the mattress. she moans, feeling the hot, wet friction against her clit. sidney pulls back to get a breath, kissing the inside of her thigh just briefly before sucking at her folds. inserting his tongue into her hole, then licking up a stripe along her wet cunt.

she's giggling out of pleasure, gripping the sheets and moaning into the air. she takes a hand and stuffs it into his salt and pepper hair, gripping tightly, as if she is holding him in place. "don' stop," she breathed out, grinding her cunt up against his mouth. she feels him smile against her, what a dirty dog.

he starts to lap up her juices, licking fat stripes up and down her cunt. she's giving him the loudest moans he's ever gotten, letting out a string of curses with his name mixed in with it.

"please," she inhales sharply when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks harshly, "ohmygod- fuck i'm cumming sidney!" she shrieks, gripping onto his hair he thinks she might pull some of it out.

with just a few short hard sucks, she cums on his tongue just like he wanted her to. squeezing her thighs around his head, his ears ring just a little bit before he spreads them with his hands. one more lick to her cunt, getting every last drop on his tongue, he swallows everything she just gave him. dirty.

she sits up, brushing her hair back with her fingers and reaching for the waist band of his shorts. she pulls his hard cock out, grinning at how big he is. that gets his ego going.

she licks her hand, jacking him while looking deep in his eyes. this girl is going to kill him- and they only met twenty minutes ago.

"goddamn- lay back again. all the way on the bed," sidney climbs on the bed with her, keeping her legs spread as he stood on his knees in between them. he picked her up by the back of her thighs, pulling her against him to line his dick up with her aching hole.

he took his thumb, pressing it against her clit as he drug his tip through her folds. he got a kick out of watching her facial expressions, her eyes screwing shut as he teased her pussy. "ohmy- please put it in sidney-"

she let out a sharp gasp as he started to press inside of her, hearing him moan as he slipped inside her tight hole. "suckin me in baby," he pressed the palms of his hands on either side of her head, inching in all the way in her cunt until he couldn't go any further.

he saw tears brimming her eyes, for a second he felt bad but then he felt her thighs squeeze around him, pulling him forward as close as he could get. "it hurts so good," she breathed out, dragging her nails down his chest.

"yeah? you like your hole stuffed full of cock don't you?" she nodded her head while he started to thrust. starting off slowly, grinding into her in and out, in and out, in..and...out.

"keep going," she arched her back and moaned, locking her hands around his neck to try and bring him closer but he isn't budging. he wants to stay above her, to watch, to analyze. see how she's reacting to his big and bad attitude.

he hasn't picked up his pace, he's stayed slow and steady for at least a minute. it's driving her crazy, he can tell. and he loves it.

"c'monnnn sidney, is that all you got?" she whines, nails scraping down his shoulders, trying to get him to do something. "thought you were s'posed to be...fuckin' rough..or something," she whined in between thrusts from sidney.

"you want rough?" she nodded eagerly, "yeah baby?" he pulled out just halfway.

then suddenly he pushed back in, and started to push her halfway off the bed. the only part of her on the mattress were just her hips and nothing else. "fuckin' take it then," he said through gritted teeth.

holding onto her hips with an iron grip he fucked her hard, rough, and fast. just like she asked. the bed was creaking with every thrust he made and she was moaning and whining with every deep thrust she made, hitting her g spot every time.

he was deep inside of her, and she was so overwhelmed with pleasure. she shrieked again when she felt her orgasm coming along fast, her hands gripping onto the carpet underneath her while she felt him abuse her cunt with every snap of his hips.

"fuckin' cum baby, cum hard for me please-" that was all he had to say before she was screaming his name in pleasure, her orgasm coming like a tidal wave over her body. she felt her arms give, before she was going to fall completely sidney held onto her legs, using his strength to pull her up and face him again.

still inside of her, he kindly brushed hair out of her face and brushed his hands along her flushed cheeks.

"was that enough for you? or you want more?" he teased, both of his hands gripping her ass hard to keep her in place.

she's still catching her breath, but she lets out a light laugh, "give me all you got, captain."

feedback | masterlist

love you like i mean it ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

alex is always going to be someone that you want; you have too many years between you. (or: you, alex, and the devastating situationship that reshapes your friendship.)

ꔮ starring: alex albon x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, friendship, light angst with a happy ending. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. friends with benefits, idiots in love, the reader pines… so much…, carlos as a plot device. heavily inspired by & shamelessly references spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was initially supposed to be inspired by chappell roan’s casual, but i listened to too much lizzy mcalpine and ended up with *gestures vaguely* this. the fic got away from me at some point hence the 10k (lol). i was supposed to give up on it, but i pushed through because i owe @cinnamorussell some alex before the month ends. please enjoy my first ever alex long fic!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ modigliani, lucy dacus. the bolter, taylor swift. right side of my neck, faye webster. touching toes, olivia dean. ode to a conversation stuck in your throat, del water gap. do you love me?, georgia parker.

Alex calls you late, the way he always does when he’s just lonely enough to admit it.

Your phone screen lights up with a sepia-toned photo from your shared childhood, featuring you and him sharing a comically large lollipop. His contact name is his initials. AAA. It puts him on the top of your list, which honestly feels like a cruelty in the grand scheme of things.

You answer his call anyway.

His hotel room in Tokyo is all muted beige and filtered city light, the kind that makes everything look like a memory. He’s in a white tank top, hair wet from a shower, collarbone shining faintly with leftover steam. He looks tired. He looks beautiful. You hate that.

“Come to Suzuka,” he says, not bothering with hello.

You smile without showing your teeth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not,” he complains, flopping back down against his pillows. You itch to reach through the screen and trace all the parts of him you’ve come to know and love. “You didn’t even come to Melbourne for the start of the season. What’s the last race you were at?” 

You know the answer. Still, you feign like you’re thinking. “Abu Dhabi,” you say after deciding Alex has squirmed just enough. Last year’s season-ender. 

Alex winces like the truth physically hurts. “That’s criminal.”

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?” 

His voice is so small, so soft. You adjust your grip on your phone, desperate not to fall into this cycle, this pattern. Coming, taking, giving, leaving. “Work has been a lot,” you grit out. “I’ve texted you about it.” 

“Don’t do that.”

He sits forward. The screen tilts. A flash of his knee, the edge of a pillow. You’ve seen that bed before. You’ve been in it, legs tangled, laughing into his shoulder while the world outside blurred into something manageable. “I’m not doing anything,” you lie.

Alex blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Then I’ll just tell you. The helmet. The special one for Japan. It’s—it has you in it. Well, not you you. But something that’s about you.” 

Your stomach pulls. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I want you there. Because maybe it’ll make you come.”

You have half the mind to accuse him of trapping you. Of having nefarious intentions or whatever bullshit you can spew to get Alex to stop doing all this. Instead, a sigh rattles out of your chest and you say, “Fine. I’ll go.” 

His smile is quick and boyish, and it kills you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You end the call before you can say anything stupid, like I wish you didn’t do that or this isn’t fair or I want you so bad, I’d go back on the things I believe. You sit in the dark, phone face down, trying to remember how this ever felt simple.

Alex moved to Suffolk during the summer your bike had a flat tire. His family settled three houses down, in the white one with the peonies that never bloomed. He wore a school jumper too big for his frame and didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with a sharpness that made you listen.

You found each other in the way quiet children do. At the edges of playgrounds, in the hush before rain, somewhere between a shared silence and a dare. He let you ride his scooter once. You gave him half your sandwich. You became the kind of childhood friends they croon about in indie songs. 

By eight, he was already racing. Karting on weekends in places with names you couldn’t spell. You’d sit on a folding chair, hands sticky from petrol-slick air and melting sweets, watching him blur through corners. He never looked at the stands, never waved. But afterwards, helmet in hand, he’d find you first.

“Did you see that overtake?” he’d ask, grinning, teeth crooked and proud.

You always said yes, even when you hadn’t. He trusted you with his joy before anyone else, placing it in your hands time and time again. Who were you to drop it?

You grew up like parallel lines—close, steady, never touching. Until you did.

Three years ago, it had been raining in London. You’d both had too much wine and not enough food, and he had to race Silverstone in two days. His hotel room smelled like wet wool and expensive soap. You were laughing. About something stupid, a memory, one of the many things only the two of you remembered exactly the same way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even hesitant. It was just there, sudden and sure, the way you’d always known it would be if it ever happened. Fate, you thought, you prayed. 

You hoped that would be the start of it all. The shift, the change, the inevitable. Instead, he had pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Still friends?”

You were so dumbstruck that all you could say was yes. Yes, even though your heart clenched when he breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, because it meant Alex could comfortably lean in for a second kiss. A third. A fourth. 

You kept saying yes. Every time he reached for you in the dark. Every time he flew you out and touched you like something sacred and temporary. Every time you watched him leave in the morning, shoulders lit by the sun and never once looking back.

Still friends.

Yes.

It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.

The suitcase lies open on your bed, half-stuffed with clothes that still smell like dust mites. You fold things with more care than necessary, pressing your palms flat over each cotton shirt like you’re trying to smooth out a thought.

Your mother hovers in the doorway. Not saying much. Just watching. “Japan this time,” she says matter-of-factly. 

You nod. “You know how it is.”

She walks in, slow and quiet. Treading light. Her hand brushes over the edge of your suitcase, the one she’d gotten you when you first started taking these jet-setting trips to visit Alex wherever he was racing. It wasn’t frequent, but it was enough to rake up a significant amount of miles.

“You’ve been going less lately,” your mother says.

You don’t look up. “Been busy.”

A silence stretches between you, gentle and persistent. “You were always thick as thieves, you and Alex,” she says. “Even when he moved away, you’d look at the calendar all the time. Count down the days until he came back.”

You smile faintly. You remember that. For the longest time, you had scribbled in the race calendars into the Saturdays and Sundays, taking note of the time differences. It was a little quirk you stopped doing last year. “We grew up,” you say vaguely, but your mother is relentless. 

“Sometimes growing up just means getting better at hiding things,” she hums. 

You stop folding. Your mother sits beside you. Her fingers find a loose thread on your jumper, twist it once, then let go. “I won’t ask,” she says carefully. “It’s not mine to ask.”

You’re grateful and aching all at once. That mothers know best, that your love for Alex is so blindingly obvious to everyone but him. 

“Just—be careful,” she warns, and you nod. That’s all you can do.

She pats your knee, stands, and leaves the room with the soft efficiency only mothers have. You finish packing in silence. It feels like preparing for something other than a race.

By the time you’re flying out, you can only focus on the imminent promise of Alex’s hands cataloguing all the changes since you last saw each other. 

Fourteen hours in the air does something to your bones. Your spine feels longer, your limbs looser, like you’ve been pulled apart by altitude. The Narita airport lighting is too clean, too kind. It reveals every wrinkle in your clothes, every bruise of fatigue under your eyes.

And then there’s Alex.

Grinning like it’s spring and not just the arrivals gate. Ball cap low, hoodie creased, holding a bouquet of jet-lagged daisies and baby’s breath like he bought them because they looked sort of like you.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so simple, yet it undoes you.

“Hi.”

He pulls you into a hug without warning, arms looping around your shoulders like they’ve been missing their purpose. He smells like travel and the aftershave you teased him for when he first bought it. You let your forehead rest on his collarbone for half a second longer than you should.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out,” you murmur.

“You flew fourteen hours. I can drive forty-five minutes.”

He says it like it’s math, like it adds up, like there’s logic to the way he always tries too hard when you’re about to slip through his fingers. You pull back. "Flowers, though?"

Alex shrugs. “Figured you’d like them. The lady at the stand said they were sweet. Like you.” 

Your laugh is dry. He takes your carry-on like he always does, hand brushing yours for a second that buzzes longer than it should. You walk in step without trying. An old habit that never bothered to leave.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long.”

“Sleep at all?”

You shake your head. “Tried. Kept dreaming about missing the gate.”

He smiles sideways. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m right here.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he is right here, and he doesn’t see it—the weight of three years pressed into every beat of silence, every time he looks at you like nothing has changed.

You want to scream. You want to hold his hand.

Instead, you follow him into the soft Japanese evening, suitcase wheels humming against tile, the daisies wilting in your arms. 

You’re not surprised when there’s only one hotel key card.

Alex doesn’t say anything as he hands it over, just gives you that familiar look, half sheepish, half expectant, like this is just how things are. Like you wouldn’t have come otherwise. 

The room smells faintly of cedar and lavender, the kind of scent pumped through vents by hotels that cost more than you’d care to admit. There’s a single bed, king-sized and already turned down. The lights are low. Evening has softened the edges of everything—the city beyond the glass, the echo of jet lag in your bones, the sharpness of what goes unspoken.

Alex drops your bag by the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket. He stretches like a cat. Arms high, shirt lifting just enough to show the skin at his waist. You look away before he catches you. You’ve memorized the lines of his back in hotel mirrors, the way his shoulder blades rise when he’s tired.

“You hungry?” he asks. “Could order something. Or just raid the minibar like we’re twelve again.”

You smile, toeing off your shoes. “Minibar dinner sounds appropriately tragic.”

He laughs, pleased. “Perfect. I’ll get the world’s saddest sparkling water. Maybe some mystery peanuts.”

You sit at the edge of the bed while he rummages, pulling out a half-sleeve of biscuits and something that might once have been chocolate. He tosses them on the duvet with the flair of a magician, then flops beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

The room settles around you in the way shared spaces do. His charger, already plugged in on your side; your toothpaste, beside his in the glass. He pads over after brushing nighttime routine, hair damp from a quick shower, shirt loose and collar stretched.

There’s something about him in these moments. Unguarded, tender. Like the world forgets to ask too much of him for once. And in that forgetting, he remembers how to exist soft with you.

He pulls you in like muscle memory. His hand on your waist, his breath near your temple.

You go unquestioningly.

The kiss is slow. Familiar. Less heat, more gravity. He touches you like you’re fragile but necessary, like this is the only part of the weekend that makes sense. He murmurs something against your skin—your name, maybe. Or just the word please. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an apology.

You let him press you back onto the mattress, the sheets cold for half a second before his warmth fills the space. His touch is gentle, reverent, like he thinks this is how you say thank you. You hold him, nails digging into his back, trying not to hurt him more than necessary. 

Later, you lie tangled in the hush, his head on your shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. You think about what it would mean to let go.

It’s just a thought, though. 

The next morning, you wake to an absence.

The sheets beside you are still warm, faintly creased from where Alex’s body had been. But his pillow is abandoned, and there’s no sound but the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. For a second—just one clean, heart-punched second—you panic.

Then you hear the shower running.

Relief and resentment wash through you at the same time.

You sink back against the pillows, pressing your palms to your face. Your throat feels tight in that half-awake way that makes you wish you dreamed less vividly. The room smells like steam and his shampoo. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft hiss of air.

Alex steps out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and curling against his temples. He’s grinning already, eyes catching yours across the room. “Could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Water pressure’s phenomenal. Would’ve saved time.”

You groan into the pillow. “Pervert.”

He laughs, padding barefoot across the room, steam trailing behind him. “You love it,” he says cheekily. 

You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, and the sound of your shared laughter feels almost like the old days. Before things blurred at the edges, before kisses replaced inside jokes and you started sleeping with your memories.

“Go put some clothes on, you menace,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He gives you a mock salute and turns back to the bathroom. “Yes, captain.”

You head for your toiletries, feeling the day tug at your skin already. In the mirror, your face looks quieter than it feels. Your mouth remembers his. Your hands remember where he pulled you close. But what you remember most is how easy it is to fall into him—how friendship once felt like enough.

You used to be best friends. Before everything. Before late nights and shared beds and pretending it meant nothing.

And some days, like now, you still are. Best friends, that is.

You wonder if it will ever be enough again.

You ride to the paddock in the backseat of a tinted car, shoulder pressed lightly to Alex’s. The morning is golden and forgiving. 

Suzuka blurs past the windows—red lanterns still swaying from the night before, cherry blossoms beginning their slow fall, the air touched with the delicate scent of fried batter and spring. Alex hums along to something playing faintly on the radio. He taps your knee with his fingers in time to the beat. 

Just once, then again. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands if they’re not touching you.

The air between you is easy. Intimate in the quiet way that friendship can be when layered over something else. A liminal space neither of you names.

He steals your sunglasses and you let him. He makes a show of adjusting them on his nose, eyebrows raised. “Do I look cooler already?” he asks, grinning. You roll your eyes and try not to stare at his mouth.

He offers you a sip of his energy drink and you make a face but take it anyway. He wipes something from your cheek with his thumb and doesn’t comment on it, just lets his hand hover there for a beat too long. The silence fills up with old knowing, soft and dangerous.

Almost enough to fool you.

Almost.

The driver pulls up at the paddock entrance, and you’re met with the orchestral chaos of race day in its early rhythms. Media crews already swarming, engineers in fireproofs wheeling gear past, the crackle of radios and the distant whine of a power unit being tested. The scent of burnt rubber and fresh coffee threads through the breeze. Alex walks beside you, hand skimming your back once, twice, as though to anchor you.

You’ve done this before. Many times. But there’s something about being here again, together, that presses a quiet ache into your sternum. Like returning to a childhood bedroom that’s been rearranged without your permission.

The Williams motorhome appears like a cathedral in blue and white. You’re recognized immediately. A few engineers smile and nod. One of the comms girls hugs you tightly, laughing something into your shoulder about how long it’s been. Someone presses a coffee into your hand, just the way you like it. Two sugars, no milk. It’s a strange kind of comfort, this small network of familiarity in a world that moves too fast.

Then—

“Carlos,” Alex says, reaching to clap the shoulder of his new teammate, who stands just outside the motorhome in full kit. “This is my best friend.”

You turn to meet Carlos’s gaze. He’s charming, polite, smiling in that open, easy way that says he’s used to being liked. He extends a hand, firm but not overdone. You’re sure he’s a good guy, but you’re too hung up on the introduction to care about anything else. 

Best friend.

You shake Carlos’s hand and hope your face doesn’t flinch. You know the role. You’ve played it well for years. Smiled through it. Laughed through it. Shared hotel rooms and winter holidays and the softest versions of yourself, all under the umbrella of that phrase.

Something about hearing it aloud, in this place, in front of someone new—it lands different. It presses cold fingers against your chest.

Alex is already moving on, ushering Carlos toward a PR meeting, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you after. Don’t disappear.”

You smile back, lips curving with practiced ease. Of course you do.

You take a long sip of your coffee. It’s too hot. It burns going down.

You swallow anyway. 

Alex finds you later, just as he promised, in the quiet hours between press and briefing. Afternoon light slants through the windows of the hospitality suite, dust catches like static in the air. You’re tucked into a corner seat with your knees drawn up, phone unread in your palm. 

“Got something to show you,” Alex says, voice low.

You glance up. He’s already smiling, hair a little damp at the nape, lanyard tangled around his fingers. There’s a kind of eagerness to him, the kind he used to have before kart races, before it all got louder.

You follow him without speaking.

The room he leads you to is cooler, quieter. A storage space, maybe, or a converted engineering nook—lined with crates and spare parts, the stale tang of tyre rubber hanging faintly in the air. And there, propped on a cloth-draped workbench, is the helmet.

You pause.

It’s not what you expected. Not flashy. Not loud. It’s soft. White matte base with brushed, almost watercolour swathes of indigo and lavender bleeding toward the edges, like dusk spilling into night. On the side, near the visor hinge, is a single motif: a swallow in flight.

“It’s not finished,” Alex says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still needs clear coat. But... yeah.”

You take a step closer. Fingers don’t touch, but hover. The paint looks hand-done. Imperfect. Beautiful.

“Swallows are your favourite, right?” he adds. “You said once they’re always coming home.”

“Yeah. That was years ago.”

“I remember.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you with the kind of expression that unravels things. Eyes searching. Mouth set.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. Then, quieter: “Why me?”

He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Homecoming,” he answers, plain and simple and absolutely gut-wrenching. 

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just wide. You think of the years, the way he always made space beside him without asking if you wanted to stay. You think of how easily you did.

Your throat feels dry. “You know,” you say slowly, because the thought has been on your mind since this morning, “he thinks I’m just your friend. Carlos.”

Alex winces. Fucking winces. He glances away, jaw ticking a bit, like you’re not about to head back to the same hotel room later and fuck in the shower.

A beat. Alex doesn’t say anything to your accusation.

You don’t ask him to. You only step closer, the helmet between you like a talisman. “Thank you,” you say, and this time, you do touch the helmet—just briefly, your fingers grazing the painted sky.

He watches you do it. And then, quietly, almost laughing to himself, he says, “Figured if I crashed, at least it’d be wearing something that reminds me of you.”

You shake your head. But you’re smiling, and it hurts. “Idiot,” you chide.

He grins. “Your idiot.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too close to what you want—and too far from what you have.

Alex doesn’t crash.

He finishes P9.

A number that used to feel like clawing victory. Like a miracle wrung from a midfield car held together by tape and tenacity. And now—it just feels steady. Not easy, but earned. There’s something clean in the way he crossed the finish line today, a quiet defiance. The kind of performance that leaves no bruises, only breathlessness.

You watch from the back of the garage, arms crossed tight against your chest. Headphones clamped over your ears. The final laps passed like a dream.  One where the world narrows to telemetry and engine whine, the flicker of sector times on a screen. When the checkered flag waved, your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.

Now, the paddock is in chaos. Post-race buzz. Cameras flashing like static. Someone’s shouting in Italian. Mechanics high-five. There’s champagne somewhere, but you can’t see it. Just the press of bodies and the smear of victory across the asphalt.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes scanning until they find you. He doesn’t wait for an opening. Doesn’t care about the line of journalists trailing behind him or the media handler trying to tug him toward the pen. He walks straight to you, cutting through everything.

You take a step back. Instinct, maybe. Habit.

He pulls you in anyway.

The cameras catch it. You know they do. The embrace, the way his arms wrap around your shoulders like they belong there. You stiffen, palms flat against his chest. You’ve been labeled Alex’s childhood best friend, have been subject to speculation of various rabid fans and gossip sites. 

“Alex,” you hiss, low. “People are—”

“Let them,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from radio calls and engine growl, but it’s soft now. Just for you.

You shake your head, and your hands find the hem of his fireproofs, fingers curling there like they might ground you. “You’re ridiculous,” you grumble. 

“P9,” he says, like it explains everything.

Maybe it does, because he’s beaming. Not with the sharp joy of a podium or the reckless rush of a win, but something gentler. Like he’s proud. Like he’s content. Like you’re a part of it, maybe, and that’s why he’s with you instead of everybody else. 

The cameras flash again. Somewhere, someone’s calling his name.

In this moment, though, it’s just you and him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a second. He smells like sweat and rubber and the faint sweetness of whatever hydration drink he refuses to stop using.

“I’m happy for you,” you say.

His hand curls at the back of your neck. “Come with me?”

You want to ask where, but the question feels too fragile. Too close to breaking something.

So you nod.

And when he takes your hand, you let him.

He leads you down the corridor with his fingers wrapped around your wrist, still sticky from the gloves, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. The world outside—flashing bulbs, echoing interviews, the scream of celebration—falls away, muffled by white walls and the hush of engineered insulation.

His driver room is barely bigger than a closet. Spare. A bench, a chair, his race suit unzipped and hanging like shed skin. There’s a bottle of water half-finished on the counter. A towel draped over the back of a folding chair. Everything stripped to function.

But when he turns to face you, the room holds its breath. What’s about to happen is far from functional. 

His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Before you can ask what the hell any of it means. This morning, the helmet, the P9, the arms around you in front of half the paddock. His hands frame your jaw, a little too firm, a little too desperate. You taste the salt of him, the heat, the care.

He kisses like he’s still racing. Like the throttle’s still open and the finish line is somewhere in the shape of your mouth.

You melt. Of course you do.

Because you remember every version of him—mud-caked knees and scraped palms from karting days, late-night phone calls from airport lounges, sleepy secrets across hotel pillows—and this is all of them, distilled. This is every inch of history pressed into your spine as he backs you into the wall and exhales against your neck.

You want to say his name. You want to ask. What are we now? What does any of it mean? Do I get to keep you, or just these seconds?

But your hands slide beneath the hem of his fireproofs, and your fingers learn again the familiar slope of his waist, and he breathes your name like an answer. “My favorite part,” he murmurs absentmindedly into the crook of your neck. “This ‘s my favorite part.” 

And it should be enough.

It isn’t. 

Regardless, you let him kiss you again. You let him take you, hand over your mouth to keep your sounds muffled. You let him finish, let him bring you to that same peak, let him piece you back together after taking you apart. 

Your shirt ends up inside out.

Alex points it out between fits of laughter, eyes crinkled, bare feet padding across the linoleum floor as he tosses you your jacket. He’s flushed from the high of it all. He buttons the top of his race suit with fumbling fingers, grinning like he hasn’t done that exact thing a hundred times before.

“You look like you’ve been caught in a wind tunnel,” he says, smoothing your hair with both hands, thumbs pressing briefly at your temples. “A cute one, though.”

You try to smile. You do. But there’s a hollowness under your ribs, something heavy and low and familiar. Like something’s rotting sweet in your chest. He doesn’t see it.

He’s still beaming, tugging at a wrinkle in your sleeve. “There. Perfect.”

And you almost say it then. Almost let the words fall out: What are we doing? 

I can’t keep doing this, Alex. 

But he looks so happy. So golden in the overhead light, still caught in the orbit of something good. Something that feels like hope. You can’t ruin it. Not yet.

So you reach for his hand. His fingers slot through yours like habit, like home.

You nod toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “They can wait.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob, if it tipped the wrong way.

I’ll tell you next time, you think, as you follow him back into the noise.

Next time, when he’s not smiling like that.

Next time, when it won’t feel like stealing joy just to be honest.

Next time.

Just—

Not now.

The timing is never right.

Saudi Arabia. P9 again.

He dances you around the hotel room with his hands still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, laughing into the inside of your thigh as if nothing else exists. His joy is unfiltered, real. You think, maybe, you’ll tell him then.

But then he kisses you like you’re part of the celebration, like you’re champagne on his lips, and you can’t find the words in your mouth. Not when his hands know every part of you better than your voice knows how to form the truth.

In Miami, it’s P5.

He lifts you off your feet in the hallway outside his suite, spinning you once like a man who’s just won something permanent. He smells like the sun, his cheeks pink from the heat. “Did you see?” he asks, breathless, giddy. “Did you see how I held off Antonelli?”

“Of course I did,” you say, and you kiss him because it’s easier than telling him what you really mean. Because it would be cruel to take this moment away from him.

Italy is the same. Another P5.

Another night in a borrowed room, you pressed against the cool tile of a motorhome bathroom while he moans your name like it’s the only thing that exists beneath his ribs.

And still, you don’t speak.

You let him take. Let him thread his fingers through your hair and guide your mouth to his. Let him find comfort in your skin, in the shape of you, in the softness that greets him after every race. It feels like penance. Like proof that this is the version of you he wants, so long as it stays unspoken.

Each night, you lie awake beside him, the sheets tangled at your ankles, sweat cooling on your bare shoulders. You study the slope of his nose, the twitch in his fingers as he dreams.

You try to remember the sound of your own voice before it forgot how to say no.

In Miami, after the noise, after the warmth, after the sex that feels too much like lovemaking to just be chalked up to something primal—he falls asleep with his head on your chest. One arm draped across your ribs like a promise he never made. You don’t move. You barely breathe. The room hums with the air conditioner and your unspoken ache. 

You stare at the ceiling and try not to count how many ways you’ve chosen him over yourself.

You lose count before morning.

By the time Monaco comes around, you fake a migraine. A vague stomach ache. Something that sounds gentle enough to pass as believable, but just real enough to keep Alex from pressing.

He calls you from his hotel balcony, sun caught in the lighter parts of his hair. He frowns at the screen, concerned. Or at least something close to it.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. “Want me to send anything?”

You shake your head. Smile faintly, let your voice come out soft, strained. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

He nods. Looks off-screen for a moment, distracted by something—someone. Then back to you. “Rest, yeah? I’ll call you again later.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Good luck.”

He hangs up. You stare at the empty screen until it darkens and your reflection blinks back at you. He doesn’t call, and you don’t fault him for it. 

The article finds you by accident.

One of those sidebars that pop up when you’re checking the weather. You almost scroll past it, until the name catches your eye, buried in the speculation. A tabloid photo, bright and cruel: Alex on a golf course, sunglasses perched low, grinning across the green at a pretty girl whose name is Lily and whose swing is better than yours. Professional, the article notes. 

They look good together.

You tap the images, one by one, like touching them might change what they show. In the last one, he’s laughing. Head thrown back. Free. He laughs like that, too, when you’re showering after sex or trading stories over dinners. Often in private, never anywhere someone else can see. 

You stare at that one photo until your throat closes. Until you can no longer remember what it felt like to be looked at that way.

Your mother finds you like that. Curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone abandoned on the floor, eyes wide and glassy.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Just sits beside you, wraps an arm around your back, tucks your head beneath her chin like she used to when you were small. “I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper.

“I think you do,” she murmurs. Her hand strokes your arm, slow, steady. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”

You nod, brokenly.

“I wanted to be enough,” you say.

“I know,” she says. 

You cry until you have no more tears. Until your breath evens out against her shoulder. Until the ache becomes a dull, familiar thing.

She holds you through it all. By the time she’s getting up to make you one of your comfort meals, you already know what you have to do. 

You stop answering.

Not suddenly. Not all at once. Just the way a tide recedes—softly, so softly, you wonder if he even notices at first. He texts the morning after the Monaco GP. 

AAA [8:20 AM]: Morning. How’re you feeling now? You missed the best post-race sushi of my life.

You don’t reply. Not because you want to hurt him, but because you don’t trust what you might say if you open the door even a crack. Later, another text:

AAA [5:39 PM]: Mum says hi, by the way. I told her you were under the weather. She’s making soup just in case, and it should be sent over. 

You see it. You say nothing.

Spain comes. He finishes P10.

Barely. You watch from a stream muted low, the sound drowned beneath your own breathing. He looks tired. He still smiles into the cameras. And when he texts—probably stolen in between media obligations—it feels a lot like a man who’s bargaining. 

AAA [4:43 PM]: You watching? Hope you’re proud. Even if it’s just one point.

He calls the same night. You let it ring.

Canada is worse. Outside the points.

His face is closed off in the post-race interviews. The text comes later. 

AAA [11:10 PM]: Did I do something wrong?

Then:

AAA [11:53 PM]: I miss you.

At three in the morning, a voicemail. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey. I know you’re probably busy. Or just… done. I don’t know. You never said. But I—fuck, I don’t know. You usually tell me when you’re busy. If this is about—that stupid tabloid, or whatever? It was just a golfing lesson. Anyway. You have no reason to be… jealous. Or whatever. Just… call me, okay? Please.”

You don’t.

Austria. He doesn’t even start. DNS.

Technical issue, they say. The look on his face when he climbs out of the car—grief and rage and something dangerously close to despair—it unspools you.

Another voicemail, sent somewhere between him disappearing after media interviews and showing back up in front of the journalists with a tight-lipped grin.

“You’re avoiding me. I know you are. You didn’t even tell my mum you were alright, and she’s been worried sick. I had my dad check if your family was okay and even he said you’ve gone quiet. What’s going on? Just tell me.” A pause. Then, wretched, almost like a sigh of defeat: “You don’t get to ghost me. Not after everything. Not you.” 

You sit in the dark with the phone pressed to your chest like it might warm the place where he used to live inside you.

You still don’t call.

There are some things you can’t avoid, though. Silverstone comes like a tide.

The roads fill with flags and Ferris wheels and cardboard cutouts. Your village pub sets out Union Jack bunting again. Your father makes some dry comment about the national holiday Formula One has become. And you know. You know you can't hide anymore.

You get the first text Monday morning:

AAA [1:43 PM]: I’m flying in. Can we talk?

You don’t answer. You clean the kitchen instead. Scrub the countertops, wipe down the windows. As if clean glass could clarify anything at all. He doubles down. 

AAA [5:28 PM]: I’ll come to yours. Just want to see you. I’ll bring the bad flowers from Tesco, if that helps.

A voicemail, later that evening, tentative and thinly veiled: “Hey. I know it’s been a while. You’re probably still mad. Or sad. Or both. I don’t know. I just—I’ll be there tomorrow. Even if it’s just to see you across the street. Even that would be better than this.”

True to his word, by tomorrow afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. Not loud. Just three gentle raps, like he’s afraid your mother might answer.

You open it anyway.

He’s there, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus from the supermarket down the lane. His hair’s damp with mist, lashes clumped. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept right in weeks.

You don’t speak.

He clears his throat. “They were out of sunflowers.”

You step aside wordlessly.

He walks in like a memory. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Shoes off by the mat, flowers passed into your hand, eyes scanning the room like he expects to see a version of himself still here. The silence is soft, but full. You boil water out of habit. He lingers by the doorway, unsure.

“You’re not going to yell at me?” he asks, almost sarcastic. 

You shrug, trying to be noncommittal about it all. “What would be the point?”

He swallows. His jaw twitches. You leave the tea half-made, walk upstairs. You don’t say anything. Just know—somehow—that he’ll follow.

And he does.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into your room that still smells like dust and the lavender you leave under your pillow. He stands in the doorway, taking in the fact that the air is thick with expectation.

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” he asks.

You say nothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don’t know if he wants to hear it, or if he only wants what he can still take.

And so you don’t answer his question. Not directly. Instead, you ask, “How was Spain?”

Alex hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hot. P10.”

You nod, like that’s all there is to say. “And Canada?”

He shifts, arms folding. “Slippery. Out of the points.”

“Austria?”

“DNS.”

You offer a small sound of sympathy, but it’s hollow, transparent. A stall tactic. He sees it. He knows you. Knows you’ve watched all the races you’re asking about, knows you’re trying to delay the same way you dragged out this arrangement for much longer than necessary. 

He steps forward, voice low but strained. “Are we going to keep talking about races? Or are you ever going to get to the point?”

Again, you don’t answer. You get to your feet. You cross the room to where he is.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not a reunion. It’s blunt, desperate, pleading. A distraction dressed in affection. And for a moment—just a moment—he kisses you back like he needs it to survive. Like this is what’s been missing from his string of ill-fated races. His hands slide into your hair, his body molding against yours as if it never learned to be apart.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You tug.

He pulls away abruptly.

“Wait.”

You blink, breath catching. “What?”

He doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t come closer either. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. “I still want to know,” he manages. “I deserve to know.”

“Alex…”

He shakes his head, slow and quiet. “You disappeared. I thought you were sick. Hurt. I thought I did something wrong. And now you want to pick up where we left off like it never happened?”

You stare at him. He’s flushed. Hair mussed from your hands. Lips swollen. Still panting a little from the heat of the kiss.

But his eyes are hurt. 

You stand there, inches apart, in the middle of your childhood bedroom. The silence is deafening. You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, like you’re on the edge of something neither of you can name.

You’re still catching your breath when the words crawl out of your throat.

“I love you.”

Alex freezes. Like the words are a crash, not a confession. Like they’ve splintered the floor beneath him. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—gaze gentle, shoulders locked—like you’re something he almost recognizes but can’t quite name. Then, quietly, “I love you too.”

You close your eyes. That should be enough. It should be everything.

But it isn’t. “Not like that, Alex,” you sigh. 

His brow furrows.

You try again. “Not like… what you mean. Not in the way you mean it.”

Silence. The kind that leaves room for heartbreak.

He draws back a step. “What do you mean?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s helpless. “I mean I’ve been in love with you since before all this.” You gesture vaguely, between the two of you, between what the kids nowadays call a situationship. Personally, you call it an undoing. An unraveling. 

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks gutted not what he finally understands what you’re getting at, now that you’ve used the word in love. 

“How long?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than breath.

You look at him. “Years,” you say, thinking back to the boy in the kart, the teenager next door, the man in front of you now. You’ve loved all of them. Your voice cracks as you repeat, “Years, Alex.”

He crumples under the weight of your words. At the fact he’d asked, in the first place, and you spent the past three years of your life letting all of it wash over you. 

“God,” he mutters. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—fuck. I thought you were okay with it. I thought we were okay.”

“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I let you think that. I let myself think that.”

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can scrub the guilt away. “You should’ve told me.”

You tilt your head. “Would it have changed anything?”

Alex looks at you, helpless. Desperate. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost panicked. He knows it’s not the right answer, not the answer that you want. 

You step toward him. You touch his hand, gently. “It’s okay,” you manage, even though it’s not. “Really, Alex, it’s alright.” 

Somehow, you manage to tell him. Truths so tender and close to the heart that to relay them verbatim would be a crime.

You tell Alex you’re grateful to have had him, even if it were just like this. Even if it was just bits and pieces. Even if it was casual. 

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you like he’s trying to piece it all together. The silence stretches again. His eyes flick to the bed, then to the door. He doesn’t move. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or walk away.

Alex leaves anyway.

He says he’s sorry, eyes flicking between your face and the floor like he can’t quite decide where the damage is worse. You repeat that it’s okay, which is the kindest lie you know how to give. And then he’s gone—hood up, shoulders shaking, not looking back.

You don’t watch him leave. You sit on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, palms pressed together like prayer and surrender. 

It should’ve been a clean break.

Three years of blurred lines and soft touches that always stopped just short of real. He’d kiss you like it mattered, then laugh about it an hour later. You let him. Again and again. You think that’s the end of it. You try to believe it is. It’s easier to hate an absence when it’s permanent.

But the day before the race, your phone rings. His name lights up the screen like a wound reopening.

You let it go once. Twice. You’re letting him back out, but he doesn’t buck. The third time the phone rings, you answer.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ve got a paddock pass with your name on it.”

You pause. Not out of surprise, but because you’re waiting to feel something. You don’t.

“Silverstone,” he adds, as if you could forget.

You picture the pass in his hand—laminated, official, hollow. A gesture more ceremonial than sincere. “I can’t go,” you say evenly.

A beat.

“You busy?”

“No.”

Another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

You hear the static of his breath on the line. The shuffle of something—maybe his hand in his hair, maybe guilt settling in his bones.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” 

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry at this performance of care, offered like a consolation prize. This is probably an olive branch, but you know you still need some time. You need to be furious. You need to be hurt. You need to hate him and what he’s made of you before you can even consider loving him again. 

“I should go,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

But he lingers. You almost say something. Almost tell him not to call again unless it means something. Unless he means it. 

You don’t. You just let him sit there in the quiet with you, not speaking, not hanging up.

And then finally—too late, too long—he does.

You end up seeing it on the news.

P4 at Silverstone.

Just short of champagne and cameras, but still something to be proud of. Still something you would’ve teased him about. You might have told him he was allergic to podiums, just to watch him roll his eyes and smirk like you’d said something stupid but sweet. And maybe he’d kiss you, again, in his driver room, waxing British slang to tease you, all the while driving you crazy with the way he can grope and squeeze. 

You almost text him. A good job. A thumbs up emoji. A dot, even. Something weightless. Something he could pretend didn’t matter if it made things worse.

You hold back. 

You brush your teeth instead. Crawl into bed. Turn off the lamp. The room folds in around you like silence is a kind of blanket. You almost get away with sleeping until your phone rings.

You don’t even have to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end. Laughter, glass clinking, music with too much bass. “You didn’t watch,” he slurs, like that’s just hitting him now.

“I told you I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t say why.”

You sigh. “Did I need to?”

He goes quiet, but the noise behind him doesn’t. It presses in, distorted and joyless. Celebration without clarity. Then, softer, garbled: “You’re the post-race celebration I miss the most.”

You sit up. “Alex—”

But he’s crying now. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just little, broken sounds, like something leaking out of him slow and unwilling. “It didn’t feel as good,” he sobs. “Didn’t feel as good to win—without you there.” 

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against one hand. “I’ll come get you,” you say.

He sniffles. “You don’t have to.”

You stand. Already pulling on jeans. Grabbing your keys. Not sure of anything but this: he can’t stay lost like this, not tonight.

“I know,” you say, and then you’re hanging up to book yourself a proper cab at two in the goddamn morning. 

The speakeasy isn’t marked, not really. Just a nondescript door off a narrow alley, guarded by a bored-looking man with an earpiece and a clipboard. But when you give your name, his expression changes. Softens.

“He’s in the back,” the man says solemnly, nodding you through.

Inside, the music is velvet-loud, low, and pulsing. Everything glows amber, lights like melted gold dripping down the walls. People in team polos and sharp jackets toast to something that sounds like victory, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

They all know who you are.

Someone from comms gives you a tight smile and gestures toward the hallway behind the bar. “In there,” she says, like she doesn’t need to explain further. Like you’re the inevitable ending to his night.

You find Alex hunched over a sink in the men's bathroom, one hand braced on the cold porcelain, the other trembling around the rim like even that is too much to hold. He doesn’t hear you come in. Or maybe he does, but pretends not to.

“Jesus, Alex,” you say, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He lifts his head, barely. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes rimmed red. Not from the alcohol, but from whatever came after.

“You came,” he breathes, like it’s a miracle. Like he’s seeing something holy.

You step forward and crouch beside him, grabbing paper towels, wetting one with cold water. “Of course I came.”

He laughs, ragged and too loud in the tiled echo. “Didn’t think you would. Thought I fucked it.”

“You did,” you say, matter-of-fact, blotting sweat from his forehead. “You absolutely did.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why’re you here?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer. Because you do. And it’s the kind that costs you something every time you say it out loud.

“Because you called.”

He leans into your touch like it’s a lifeline. “You always come when I call.”

You help him sit back, guide him to the floor with his back against the wall. The tiles are cold. He shivers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Alex rests his head on your shoulder, the weight of him more familiar than foreign. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he whimpers.

You exhale, slow. “That’s not true. You just didn’t want anyone else.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. He’s too out of it to try and deny the fact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you can tell by the quiver in his voice that he means it. 

You brush your fingers through his hair once, twice. You let the silence speak for you, and then you help him up. “Let’s get you home,” you say. 

The night air cuts through the alcohol-stained warmth of the bar as you step outside, Alex’s weight slung over your shoulder. He’s steadier now, upright at least, but still leaning into you like gravity is playing favorites.

You settle on the curb, one arm braced around his waist. The air smells like rain on asphalt, smoke, and the faint trace of spilled gin. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs too loud. London doesn’t sleep for long.

You’re waiting for a cab when Carlos finds you.

He approaches quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a fitted jacket, eyes scanning Alex the way someone might glance at a closed book. Worn, familiar, unreadable. “He okay?” Alex’s co-driver asks. 

You nod. “Drunk. Sick. Stubborn,” you answer, not bothering to play nice when Alex is dead on his feet and half-asleep already. 

Carlos huffs a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You’re the best friend.”

It still stings, still pricks. You keep your expression perfectly controlled as you give a small sound of affirmation, arms still focused on holding Alex upright. 

“Mm.” Carlos watches you for a second too long. “Doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story.”

“What does it feel like, then?”

Carlos shifts his weight. Looks away, then back. He glances at Alex to check if the man is listening, and then, Carlos confides as if it’s a secret: “It’s like you are his entire heart, and he’s just too scared to admit it.”

The words land like a bird flapping its wings across the Atlantic. No thunder, no accusation. Just something still and sudden.

You almost want to ask him to repeat it, to explain—but the cab pulls up before you can decide whether to believe him.

You help Alex into the back seat. He slumps immediately against you, arms curling around your middle without thought, face buried in your shoulder. His breath is warm and even, his fingers wound tight into your shirt like muscle memory.

You rest your cheek on the top of his head.

The cab pulls away from the curb. Carlos’s words echo, sage and unfinished. You don’t know what to do with them yet. So for now, you let Alex hold you.

You don’t think about it too hard. Just tell the cab driver your address, press your fingers against your temple, and watch the city blur by. Alex stirs once or twice, murmurs something incoherent against your collarbone, but otherwise stays folded into you.

By the time you reach your house, it’s well past four. You fumble with the keys. He sways a little when you guide him inside.

You don’t take him to your bed.

It feels too loaded, too intimate in the wrong kind of way. Instead, you settle him on the couch, pull a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and start toward the kitchen to get him some water. Before you can take more than a few steps, he reaches out.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice hoarse.

You turn back. “I’m just getting you a glass.”

He tugs gently on your hand. Not enough to stop you, just enough to anchor you. You kneel beside the couch. He’s watching you, eyes glassy but sharp in the ways that count.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says.

Here’s the terrible, terrible thing: You wouldn’t mind. You miss it sorely. The kisses, the touch. You’re convinced you’ll be dreadfully happy with the scraps of it all, but you figure the two of you have the right to make informed decisions. “You’re drunk,” you point out. 

“I know.” Alex exhales. “I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. Want the next one to be right.”

Your throat tightens. “You think there’s going to be a next one?”

His smile is impossibly sad. “Hope so.”

And then—because he’s Alex, and because this is how he breaks you—he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, just beneath your eye. Then one at the edge of your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose. All of them clumsy and warm and deliberate. None of them where you want them most.

You don’t stop him. You don’t move. There’s too much in your chest—years of it—and not enough space to lay it all down.

When he finally sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut again, his fingers remain curled around your wrist. Loose. Trusting.

You don’t move for a long time. 

The next morning, Alex is gone without so much as a goodbye. You half-expected it. Still, the hollow space where his body had been feels louder than anything else in the room.

No note. No message. No follow-up call.

You wait. A day. Then two.

By the third, you stop checking your phone so often.

When the knock comes, it’s gentle enough to be mistaken for wind. You almost don’t answer it. There’s no one at the door when you open it. Just a small brown paper bag, plain and unassuming, sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

You bring it inside, hands careful. There’s something fragile about it that you can’t quite name. Inside: a bundle of crocheted sunflowers, yellow and gold and clumsily perfect, like someone tried very hard to make them right even with hands that don’t quite know how.

Beneath them, a makeshift paddock pass—laminated, hole-punched, strung with navy-blue lanyard cord. Your name is written in all caps. There’s a photo of you from when you were kids. Grinning, windblown, your arm slung casually over Alex’s shoulder.

Underneath the photo, in bold handwriting: PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

The letter is tucked in a simple envelope, sealed with a strip of duct tape.

You open it with shaking hands.

I’m not expecting anything from you right now, his scratchy script leads with.

I get it. I know I’ve made this messy. I know I said too much too late. I still wanted you to have this, because you’ve always belonged next to me on race day. Not just as my best friend. Not just as something halfway. But for real. Something proper.

That’s why I made you this paddock pass. It’s stupid and I probably got the fonts all wrong. You don’t have to use it. If you ever want to, though, it’s yours. I don’t think anybody else is ever going to have that title. 

Also: the sunflowers. They’re not real, obviously. I wish I could give you fresh ones every time I leave, but I’m not good at that kind of thing. And they run out so often. So I made these. Or tried to. They took forever. I watched so many YouTube videos. I pricked my fingers like five times. Hope that counts for something.

I’ll let you have your space now.

I just want you to know that—given the chance, I want to love you like I mean it. 

Always and forever, Your Alexander Albon Ansusinha

The checkered flag waves.

P4.

Not a podium, but it feels like one.

Alex exhales, lungs finally catching up to the rest of him, the engine cutting to silence beneath him. His radio crackles with static and shouts, voices overlapping in celebration. The team is ecstatic. He lets out a whoop, punching the air from the cockpit, heart rattling against his ribs like it wants to break out and sprint down the pit lane.

“Brilliant job, Alex. Another P4. You nailed Sector 3.”

He laughs, breathless. “That was insane. The car felt so good. Thank you, everyone. Honestly. Thank you. Thank you.”

His gloves are damp with sweat. The world outside the cockpit is heatwaves and motion, but inside his helmet, he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

And then—a new voice cuts through the radio.

“Nice work, Albono. Kinda makes me want to crochet you a trophy.”

Everything inside him stills. 

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Part comfort, part ache.

It’s a record scratch, a public declaration, everything he’s been dreaming of for the past couple of months. Voice shaking with unrestrained joy, Alex only manages a disbelieving, “Is that—?”

There’s laughter on the other end, muffled and alive. The team doesn’t answer. They don’t have to.

Alex is yelling again, louder than before. Whooping into the mic, a sound that isn’t filtered through performance or professionalism. A sound from the core of him. There’s something raw in the chant of yes, yes, yes, something uncontained. 

The P4 doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Just that voice, soft and close and impossibly real.

You’re laughing, too, as you step back from the engineer’s radio rig, nearly breathless yourself. Your palms are still slightly damp with nerves, your chest still tight with something like disbelief. 

The Williams team surrounds you in a bubble of warmth—claps on the back, someone handing you a bottle of water with a grin, another looping you into a half-hug. “Told you he’d freak,” someone says.

You nod, cheeks aching from the smile that just won’t leave. Around your neck, your proper paddock pass swings with each breath. It’s glossy, official. But next to it hangs another—rougher, laminated at home, edges slightly frayed. The homemade one Alex had sent you months ago. The one that says PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

You touch it lightly, fingers brushing over the faded corner. It's worn, like something loved too hard.

You hadn’t been sure. You’d hesitated at the airport. Almost turned around at the gate. But the truth is: you missed him. And you were tired of pretending otherwise.

The garage is alive now—busy with celebration and noise. Mechanics moving in sync, voices rising in overlapping bursts, the scent of warm carbon, oil, and sweat curling into the air. The low whir of cooling fans. The scrape of tires on concrete.

You hear the car before you see it, the soft growl of the engine rolling into the lane. The screech of tires settling into stillness.

Alex climbs out.

Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His hands are trembling, still wired with adrenaline and something else—something unspoken and urgent. 

He tosses his gloves toward someone without looking.

Then he turns.

And he sees you.

For the longest time, you had doubted this would mean something. You worried that you’d waited too long. That all your silence had turned into something irreversible. That the distance you asked for had hardened into fact.

Time doesn’t stop. It just slows, enough for you to catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders drop, the way his mouth forms your name like it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

You don’t move.

You don’t have to.

Alex is already running right back to you. ⛐

fun fact for the lb, i live in florida. there will be more fucking annoying people in THESE FUCK ASS wife beater jerseys that the sell. i can’t i can’t.