KillianLandon -Twisted Desires

You are Enough - Maxiel

Daniel thinks he’s not good enough for Max. but Max disagrees

Not just on bad days. Not just after a rough race or a brutal media day. It's a belief that's etched into his bones now—quiet and constant, like background noise he can't quite mute no matter how loud he turns up the music.

He doesn’t say it out loud, not to anyone, not even to himself most of the time.

But he feels it. In every stumble, in every misstep, in every look from the paddock that lingers just a little too long with pity.

The world reminds him of it daily.

He opens his phone and the comments are waiting for him like vultures. Max deserves better.

Why is he still with Daniel?

He’s just a washed-up has-been clinging to a golden boy’s coattails.

Some are cruel, some are subtle, but they all sink their claws into the same bleeding spot inside him. His failures are on public record—every DNF, every broken contract, every gamble that didn’t pay off. And even when he smiles, even when he pretends it doesn’t bother him, there’s a part of him that agrees. That maybe they’re right.

Because Max is Max.

Fast, ruthless, brilliant. The reigning champion, the name etched in record books, the face splashed across every screen and billboard. Everything about Max screams excellence. A machine on track. A phenomenon. A living legend before thirty.

And Daniel? Daniel is the joke people whisper when they talk about comebacks that never quite came true. He’s the punchline in too many think-pieces about missed opportunities and faded stars. He tried to carve out something more, something lasting—but the glitter faded, the cameras moved on, and he was left in the shadows with nothing but a grin stretched too wide to hide the cracks.

So he asks himself, every damn day, why is Max still here?

It doesn’t make sense. Not in any logical, sane way.

And yet—

Max looks at him like Daniel hung the moon. Like he’s the one who built the world Max stands on. There’s no hesitation in Max’s gaze, no second-guessing. Just that same quiet intensity, that same infuriating, grounding certainty that Daniel used to carry himself—back when he still believed he was someone worth believing in.

Max holds his hand when they’re alone, and more importantly, when they’re not. He kisses him soft and slow, like they have all the time in the world. He smiles at him across rooms crowded with cameras, in garages humming with tension, like none of the noise matters. Like all that matters is Daniel.

And when Daniel falls apart—because sometimes he does, silently, in the dark, in the moments when his breath catches and his insecurities press down on his chest like a weight he can’t lift—Max is there.

No lectures. No fixing. Just presence.

He touches Daniel like he’s something fragile but not broken. He whispers into his skin,

"You’re more than enough. You always have been."

He says it like it’s fact, like it’s gravity, like it’s so obvious he can’t imagine why Daniel would think otherwise.

And that’s the thing.

Daniel wants to believe it. He wants to hold onto those words and build something around them—some kind of safety, some kind of truth. But the doubt is insidious. It's not loud, it's not sharp—it’s slow. It’s a creeping, sinking thing. Years of public failure, of watching others rise while he stalled, of standing beside Max and wondering if he looks like a mistake.

And yet, somehow, Max makes him forget it.

At least for a moment. When Max cups his face and presses their foreheads together, when he brushes tears from Daniel’s cheek like they’re nothing to be ashamed of, Daniel thinks—maybe. Maybe I am enough. For him.

It’s terrifying.

To let someone love you when you’re not sure you love yourself anymore. To be seen—truly seen—and not run.

But Daniel stays. He stays because Max keeps choosing him, over and over, in the quiet ways that matter. And one day, maybe Daniel will be able to choose himself the same way.

But until then, Max’s belief is enough to keep him breathing.

To keep him hoping.

To keep him alive.

......

The hotel room is quiet. Dim light spills through the half-drawn curtains, catching on the edge of the bed where Daniel sits, hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands gripping his own hair like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. He steps inside gently, the door clicking softly shut behind him. No shoes, no words, just the sound of his socked feet padding across the carpet.

Daniel doesn’t look up.

His shoulders are shaking.

Max’s heart squeezes in his chest.

He crosses the room slowly, crouching in front of Daniel, lowering himself until he’s eye-level. Still, Daniel doesn’t lift his gaze. Max reaches forward and gently pries one hand from Daniel’s head, lacing their fingers together, grounding him.

“Hey,” Max says, voice low and careful. “Talk to me, liefje.”

Daniel huffs out a bitter laugh, one that cracks halfway through and turns into something else—something broken. “What’s there to say?”

“You’re upset,” Max says simply. “So I want to hear.”

Daniel finally looks at him. His eyes are red-rimmed, lashes clumped together with the remnants of unshed tears. His lips part like he’s going to speak, but nothing comes out. Just another shuddering breath.

“I just…” Daniel whispers, looking away again. “I feel like I’m dragging you down. Like you could be—like you should be with someone who shines like you do.”

Max frowns. Not angry. Not upset. Just hurt that Daniel could even think that. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Daniel’s knuckles, slow and deliberate.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” Max asks.

Daniel doesn’t answer, but he leans in, just a little.

“I see the man who taught me how to laugh during the worst years of my life. Who believed in me before anyone else did. I see the driver who fought like hell on track, even when the world kept stacking the odds against him. I see the person I love.”

Daniel’s breath catches, and he blinks fast.

“I don’t care about the noise,” Max continues, cupping Daniel’s cheek with his free hand. “I don’t care about stupid fans or journalists who think they know us. I care about you. You, Dan.”

Daniel’s eyes flutter shut at the sound of his name in Max’s voice. It’s so rare—Max always calls him other things: “mate,” “babe,” “liefje.” But Dan feels raw. Real. Intimate in a different way.

“I know it’s hard,” Max says. “I know you hear them. But I need you to hear me more.”

Daniel leans into Max’s touch, his forehead pressing against Max’s. “It’s just… exhausting, you know? Pretending I don’t care. Pretending I still have it together.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Max murmurs. “Not ever.”

There’s a long silence.

Then Daniel crumbles.

Quietly, but completely.

Max pulls him in without hesitation, wrapping his arms around Daniel and tugging him off the bed and into his lap on the floor. Daniel clings to him, face buried in Max’s shoulder, breath hitching against his neck. Max rocks them gently, one hand stroking up and down Daniel’s back, the other still wrapped around his hand.

They sit like that for a long time, Max humming something under his breath, fingers tracing circles over Daniel’s spine. Just presence. Just comfort. No expectations.

When Daniel’s breathing finally evens out, Max presses a kiss to the side of his head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “Always.”

And Daniel believes him.

Not because the noise stops. Not because the doubts are gone.

But because when Max holds him like this, like he’s something precious—not a mistake, not a burden—it’s the only truth that matters.

....

It starts on a podium.

Daniel’s not even racing that weekend—he’s just there, part of the team, part of Max’s world. He keeps a low profile, tries to melt into the background even though the cameras always find him anyway. The whispers are constant, same as always.

“What’s Daniel doing here?” “Does Max really need the distraction?” “Why is he still hanging on?”

Daniel hears them, even if Max doesn’t.

And Max… he’s done pretending not to notice.

So when the race ends, and Max wins (because of course he does—he’s Max), he takes the usual path up to the top step. Trophy raised. Anthem played. Champagne sprayed.

But this time, as the photographers crowd the front of the podium and the interviewers line up with their mics and questions, Max does something else.

He takes off his cap, runs a hand through his hair, and glances past the crowd—eyes scanning until he finds Daniel, standing off to the side in the team gear, clapping, smiling that soft, quiet smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Max steps forward.

Down from the podium. Off the stage.

Straight toward Daniel.

And before anyone can process what’s happening, Max reaches for him.

One arm around his waist. One hand cradling the side of Daniel’s neck. A soft, sure look in his eyes.

Then Max kisses him.

Not a peck. Not a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it thing.

A real kiss. A statement.

And for the first time, the crowd falls silent.

The cameras flash. Dozens, hundreds, a thousand lenses pointed at them—but Max doesn’t care. He leans in like the world isn’t watching, like he’s doing it just for Daniel, but everyone sees.

Daniel freezes, overwhelmed, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. When Max pulls back just a little, eyes still on his, he whispers, low and sure:

“Let them talk.”

Daniel blinks, stunned.

“They don’t know a damn thing,” Max continues. “I love you. That's what matters.”

It’s not just the kiss. It’s everything after.

Max answers every press question with Daniel’s name spoken like it’s sacred. He posts a photo later that night: just Daniel, curled into his side, captioned simply: My win, every day. He brushes off reporters who try to bait him into controversy. “He’s not a distraction. He’s my peace.”

And it works.

Not because the world suddenly becomes kind.

But because Max doesn’t flinch.

Because he keeps holding Daniel’s hand on the grid. Keeps pulling him into frame for photos. Keeps choosing him, again and again, in front of the world.

It doesn’t fix everything overnight. The noise is still there. But it starts to shift. A few headlines soften. A few fans change their tone. A few of them finally see.

And Daniel?

For the first time in a long time, he believes it.

Because Max didn’t just say it in the dark, with no one around to hear.

He said it in the light.

Where it mattered most.

Where the world had to watch—and listen.

...................

Hiiiiii guys!!!

This fic is something really close to my heart. “You Are Enough” isn’t just a story about Max comforting Daniel ...... it’s also a little love letter to you. Whoever you are, wherever you are in life right now… I want you to know this:

You are more than enough. Even on the days you feel like you’re not. Even when the world feels too heavy. Even when your heart feels tired. You are still enough — just as you are.

Thank you for reading this story, for letting these boys hold your heart for a little while. And if this fic gave you a moment of softness, comfort, or just a breath of peace.....I’m really, really glad.

Take care of yourself. Drink water. Get some rest. Be gentle with yourself.

You are loved. You are wanted. You are enough.

With all my love, Ria <3

.........................................................

Check out my other works in:

Unexpected Cupid – George x Max ft. Kimi Antonelli

Fake love -Lestappen

Paper rings - Maxiel

The world is too real, too sharp at the edges, A place of rusted dreams and half-written apologies. I wake to the weight of another gray day, Where love is a whisper that drifts far away.

I trace my own shadow on cold, empty streets, No grand devotion, no desperate cries, Just fading echoes and hollow goodbyes.

But in a book, love is a fever that burns, A name on the lips with every page that turns. They'd search for me, fight, bleed, and break, Swearing my heart is the one thing they’d take.

No silence between us, no distance, no doubt, Just a love so loud it drowns the world out. To be wanted so fiercely, to never feel small, To forget what it was to live without love at all.

Yet here I remain, where love is a ghost, A flicker, a shadow, a half-hearted toast. If only I could slip between ink and time, To a world where someone says, "You're mine."

Vaughn Morozov x Remington Astor - God of Despair

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62137246/chapters/158938864

Eli King x Killian Carson - God of Wreck

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61493053

NikoBran – Preschool nightmare ft. Leigh Sokolov-King

Nikolai stood in the doorway of his daughter's room, arms crossed, lips pressed into a tight line. His heart was breaking. Shattering into a million irreparable pieces.

His little princess, his Leigh, his baby, stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the straps of her tiny blue backpack, completely unaware of the absolute devastation she was causing her father.

Nikolai turned to Brandon, his traitorous husband, and hissed, “She’s too young for this.”

Bran, who had been through this emotional meltdown all morning, sighed. “She’s five, Niko.”

Nikolai’s eye twitched. “And?”

“She needs to start school.”

“She needs to stay home.” Niko crossed his arms, glaring at the abomination of a uniform their daughter had to wear.

Bran rubbed his temples. “It’s literally pre-school.”

“You don’t understand, Brandon. She’s leaving me.”

Bran groaned, but Leigh finally turned around, her little pigtails bouncing, her bright eyes full of pure excitement. “Dada, do I look pretty?”

Oh. Oh.

Nikolai felt his entire soul collapse. His baby was so happy, so excited—so completely unaware of the absolute hell he was going through. Didn’t she know she was supposed to stay small forever?

“You look…” His throat clenched. He couldn’t do this. He blinked furiously, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You look too grown-up, Leigh. Noooooo….Take it off. You’re not going.”

Leigh giggled, completely unaffected by his suffering. “Dada, you’re so silly!”

Silly? Silly? He was grieving. This was a tragedy.

Bran, ever the heartless one, placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s still young, Niko.”

No, she wasn’t. This was only the beginning.

First, it was school. Then, she’d be reading books without his help. Then, she’d be talking about some little punk she had a crush on—some worthless brat who wouldn’t be good enough for her, no matter what.

Then it would be prom—a date—then college. And then, one day, she’d come home and tell him she was getting married to some useless brat who thought he was worthy of her.

No. No. No.

“She’s leaving me,” Nikolai whispered, traumatized by the future playing out in his head.

Bran sighed deeply, running a hand down his face. “She’s going to pre-school, not getting married.”

Same thing.

Leigh, oblivious to the emotional hurricane her father was experiencing, clapped her little hands. “Dada, let’s gooo! I wanna see my class!”

Nikolai turned his wounded gaze to Bran, betrayal written all over his face. “I will never forgive you for allowing this.”

Bran rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Niko.”

But it was too late. Nikolai ,the ruthless, untouchable mafia leader, had officially lost his little girl to the cruel, unforgiving passage of time.

………………..

Nikolai stood by the preschool gate, arms crossed, radiating pure doom and gloom. If anyone didn’t know him, they’d assume he was here to kill someone—not to pick up his five-year-old daughter.

Bran sighed beside him, hands in his pockets, watching their daughter’s classroom door with an amused smile. “You look like you’re waiting to shake down a teacher, Niko.”

“I might.” Nikolai scowled. It had been four hours. Four long, painful, excruciating hours. “She’s too young for this, Brandon.”

Bran groaned. “Again with this?”

Nikolai didn’t respond. He was suffering in silence. His baby—his perfect, innocent baby—had been away from him for an entire morning, thrown into a world of tiny, sticky-fingered heathens he didn’t trust.

Just as Bran opened his mouth to no doubt scold him for being a dramatic, overprotective idiot, the preschool door burst open.

And there she was. Leigh.

Their little girl came skipping out, her tiny backpack bouncing behind her, her face beaming with happiness.

Bran smiled warmly. “See? She had fun.”

But Nikolai was still brooding. Fun? Or was she traumatized and hiding it? What if she had been bullied? Forced to share her toys? What if she had cried, and he hadn’t been there to pick her up immediately?

Bran crouched down to her level, ruffling her pigtails. “How was school, princess?”

Leigh grinned. “I had lots of fun with the boys!”

Silence.

Nikolai’s soul left his body. His stomach plummeted to hell. His worst nightmare was coming true.

He turned his betrayed, horrified gaze to Bran. “See? I told you!”

Bran groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Niko—”

But then Leigh turned to Nikolai, tilted her head like a little menace, and grinned wider. “But, Dada, you told me to punch dumb boys, right?”

Bran froze.

Nikolai blinked.

Leigh clapped her tiny hands together. “It was really fun!”

For a second, there was complete silence.

Then—

Nikolai burst into booming, delighted laughter.

“Now that is my little princess!” Niko declared, pride shining in his eyes.

Bran rubbed his temples. “I officially put both of you up for adoption.”

But Nikolai was too busy beaming at his perfect daughter. He scooped her up into his arms, spinning her in the air as she shrieked with laughter. “You know what, princess?” He kissed her cheek. “I’m getting you that tiny blue bike you asked for.”

Leigh gasped, eyes lighting up like fireworks. “Really?”

Niko nodded solemnly, pressing a hand to his chest. “You have made me the proudest father in the world today.”

Bran groaned. “She assaulted a kid.”

“She assaulted a dumb kid.” Niko corrected, grinning like an idiot.

Leigh nodded proudly. “He tried to steal my crayons, Dada. So I made him cry.”

Bran nearly choked. “Jesus Christ.”

Niko wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I raised a warrior.”

Bran shook his head and turned away, done with both of them. “I swear, I am the only adult in this family.”

But Leigh was giggling in Niko’s arms, cheeks red with joy, and for once—just for once—Bran let himself smile.

Babysitter Diaries - Maxiel(Part 1)

Summary:

Max agrees to let Lando's friend babysit his son on race weekends and (Un)fortunately the babysitter happens to be his ex-teammate Daniel Ricciardo. And well lets add a sprinkle of love and matchmaker Brandon and you have Maxiel

CHAPTER 1

The thing about having a three-year-old no one knew about—aside from your closest circle—was that Max had to be careful. Very careful.

It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the world with Brandon. He just didn’t trust the world for Brandon.

The kid deserved more than flashing cameras and tabloids wondering if Max Verstappen had finally “settled down.” He wasn’t a scandal, wasn’t an accident. He was just a wrinkly, wide-eyed surprise dropped on Max’s doorstep on a rainy Tuesday with a note that said “He’s yours. I can’t do this.”

Max hadn’t blinked. Not once.

Now, Brandon was three and sharp like a knife—clever, stubborn, with his father’s frown and his own kind of sunshine tucked behind baby curls and blue eyes. He was the reason Max woke up smiling and passed out exhausted every single day.

But Max's sister—his rock through the early months of diapers and midnight crying—was expecting her second baby now, and her hands were full. She’d offered to keep helping, eyes full of guilt, but Max had shaken his head and told her gently, “I’ve got it.”

He didn’t, though. Not entirely.

So, now, he was pacing around his Monaco apartment, floor spotless, toys half-hidden behind the couch, and Brandon currently napping with a stuffed lion tucked under his chin. And Max? He was waiting.

Because Lando—fucking Lando—had said, “I’ve got a friend who’s good with kids. You know him, actually. He’s in town. I’ll send him your way.”

Max hadn’t asked questions. He should’ve.

Because now it was nearly four o'clock, and the doorbell rang, and Max wasn’t prepared for the way his stomach dropped.

He opened the door.

And standing there in faded jeans, sunglasses in his curls, a grin that hadn’t aged a day since the last time they’d shared a garage, was Daniel fucking Ricciardo.

“Hey, Maxi,” Daniel said, bright as ever. “Heard you’re looking for a babysitter.”

…..

Daniel – A few hours earlier

He hadn’t expected much from his Tuesday. The weather in Monaco was too hot, the espresso too bitter, and the silence in his apartment? Way too loud.

Retirement—or whatever this limbo phase was—had its perks, sure. He didn’t miss the interviews, the pressure, the back-to-back flights. But the buzz, the people, him—yeah, he missed that.

So when his phone rang and Lando’s name popped up, Daniel answered without thinking twice.

“Please tell me you’re calling to say we’re getting matching tattoos.”

Lando snorted. “Better. I’ve got a job for you.”

Daniel blinked. “What, like... a real one? Because I’ve gotta tell you, mate, my résumé’s mostly just me being hot and yelling at engineers.”

“Babysitting.”

That got a pause.

“You want me to babysit you?”

Lando groaned. “Not me, you idiot. Max.”

Daniel sat up straighter. “Max?”

“Yeah. He needs someone to watch his kid. Don’t ask too many questions. Just—he trusts me, I trust you, and you’ve been doing literally nothing lately, so…”

Daniel leaned back into his couch, suddenly very, very awake.

Max had a kid?

“I—wait, what? Since when does Max have a kid?”

Lando hesitated just long enough for Daniel to know he wasn’t getting the full story. “It’s… complicated. Just go, yeah? I told him I’d send someone and he said he’s cool with it.”

Daniel twirled his keys in his hand, staring at the ceiling.

Max had a kid. And Lando thought he of all people should watch him.

Part of him wanted to laugh. Another part—deeper, quieter, older—felt something clench in his chest. It had been a while since he’d seen Max. Too long.

“…Alright,” Daniel said softly. “Send me the address.”

Because maybe this wasn’t just about babysitting. Maybe it was about seeing an old friend.

One he’d never really stopped missing.

…

Max’s apartment hadn’t changed much. Sleek, minimal, expensive taste. Same cold grey walls, same view of the harbor. But there were little things now—tiny shoes by the door, a toy firetruck half-tucked under the coffee table, a sippy cup forgotten on the kitchen counter.

And standing dead center in all that soft domestic chaos?

Max Verstappen.

Arms crossed. Eyebrows doing that thing. Glare sharp enough to cut granite.

Daniel smiled anyway, because that’s what he did.

“Hey, Maxi.”

Max didn’t blink. “What are you doing here?”

Daniel raised both hands in mock surrender. “Relax, I come in peace. Lando sent me.”

“For what?” Max deadpanned.

“Uh…” Daniel rubbed the back of his neck. “The babysitter interview?”

Max looked him up and down like he was inspecting a car crash in real time.

“You steal candy from children.”

Daniel gasped. “Once! And that kid was being a little gremlin—he bit me first!”

“You’re proud of that story.”

“I’m just saying, it built character—for both of us.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Just stared at him like Daniel was some kind of poorly wrapped Amazon package he didn’t remember ordering.

“I need someone responsible,” Max said flatly.

“And I’ve kept myself alive for thirty-four years. That counts for something.”

“You once tripped over your own shoelaces and fell into a pool.”

“I was testing gravity!”

Max's mouth twitched. Barely. A flicker of something dangerously close to amusement.

Daniel pointed at him. “There. That’s the beginning of a smile. Admit it, you missed me.”

Max turned around. “I’m going to check if Brandon’s still asleep.”

Daniel grinned as Max walked away, muttering something in Dutch under his breath.

“Admit it, Verstappen!” Daniel called after him. “I’m the best candidate you’ve got!”

“You’re the only candidate I’ve got,” Max muttered from the hallway.

Daniel just plopped onto the couch, pleased as hell.

This was going to be fun.

.......

See Early chapter Updates in Stck.me[Chapter 1-5] : https://riavolkov.stck.me/story/934059/Babysitter-Diaries-Maxiel

The Day Nikolai caught Baby fever

If anyone had asked Nikolai Sokolov a year ago whether his cousin Killian Carson was capable of taking care of a baby, he would have laughed so hard he’d choke on his vodka.

Killian? With a baby?

The man could barely take care of himself without causing chaos, breaking laws, or dissecting something. If left to his own devices, he’d probably misplace the baby and remember it three hours later with a casual "Oh, right."

And yet.

Yet.

Here Nikolai stood, in Killian’s disaster zone of a living room, watching something he never imagined he would see: Killian Carson—Bratva’s resident emotionless weirdo, criminal lawyer who is a criminal himself, and his absolute menace of a cousin—completely destroyed by fatherhood.

Killian stood near the sofa, looking half-alive, the dark circles under his eyes so deep they could be used as evidence of war crimes. His usually sharp, calculating gaze was dull and unfocused, his normally immaculate appearance was rumpled and chaotic, and his posture was so slumped that Nikolai almost felt bad.

Almost.

Earlier, when Killian had called saying, "It’s an emergency," Nikolai had dropped everything.

He had rushed here, expecting blood, gore, maybe a kidnapping attempt—something life-threatening.

Instead, he walked in to find his terrifying cousin holding a screaming, wailing, tiny human being—Theo.

And before Nikolai could even process the situation, Killian had walked up, dropped the crying demon into his arms, muttered a hoarse "Your problem now," and collapsed onto the sofa, dead asleep.

Just. Like. That.

Nikolai stared down at the tiny, wrinkly, red-faced demon wailing in his arms.

What the fuck.

He had not signed up for this.

He was a feared Bratva enforcer, a man who could make grown men cry with just a stare, not a damn babysitter.

But before he could even think about shoving the baby back into Killian’s arms, something strange happened.

Theo stopped crying.

His big, round blue eyes—the same icy blue as Killian’s—stared up at Nikolai.

And then… the tiny thing reached out with his chubby little fingers, grasping at the tattoos on Nikolai’s forearm.

Drooling.

Drooling.

All over him.

Nikolai froze.

The little gremlin actually looked… fascinated.

His tiny fingers traced over the ink, his mouth parting in awe, and for some inexplicable reason, Nikolai felt something weird in his chest.

Not heartburn.

Not nausea.

Something worse.

Affection.

Oh. No.

This was bad.

Very, very bad.

Nikolai looked at Theo, then at Killian, then back at Theo, who was still staring at him like he was the best thing he’d ever seen.

God help him, but he was falling for this tiny, wrinkly, drooly little demon.

He held Theo closer, suddenly feeling protective over the tiny human in his arms.

And then it hit him.

He was getting baby fever.

A full-blown, raging case of baby fever.

Oh, fuck.

He was going home and demanding a baby from Brandon. Today. They are gonna get a surrogate or they are gonna adopt one.

Killian had fucked up his entire life.

NikoBran – Friend ❌Boyfriend ✅

Brandon King had always known that Nikolai Sokolov was it for him. There was no question in his mind, no hesitation in his heart. Nikolai had ruined him for anyone else. There would be no other, no alternative, no second choice—just Nikolai, with his sharp grin, easy laughter, and eyes that saw straight through him.

But Brandon was a coward.

He had never once said it aloud. Not the way he should. Not with the kind of conviction that Nikolai deserved. Instead, he had let the words rot inside his chest, let them fester beneath the weight of his own fears.

So he kept Nikolai in the shadows.

He pretended not to notice the flash of hurt in Nikolai’s eyes when he said, “Pretend you don’t know me in public.”

He convinced himself that Nikolai’s goofiness afterward meant he was fine, that he didn’t mind, that he understood why Brandon needed to keep them a secret.

He ignored how Nikolai would practically light up when someone casually asked, “Are you two together?” only for that light to die the second Brandon laughed and brushed it off with a, “We’re just friends.”

He acted like he didn’t see the way Nikolai’s shoulders slumped whenever he pulled his hand away in public, as if being seen with Nikolai was some kind of sin.

But he did see.

Brandon saw it all.

It was in the quiet moments, when no one was around, that the weight of his actions pressed down on him the hardest. When they were alone in his apartment, tangled up in sheets and silence, Nikolai would look at him like he was the most precious thing in the world, like he was Brandon’s, and Brandon was his, and that nothing else mattered.

Brandon knew he had that look too, the one that told the truth even when his mouth spewed lies.

He knew because Nikolai wasn’t stupid.

And that was what made it all worse.

Nikolai knew. He had to know. Because he stayed. He stayed even though Brandon treated him like a dirty secret. He stayed even though Brandon denied him in public. He stayed even though he deserved better.

And Brandon?

Brandon was selfish enough to let him.

It wasn’t until one night, when Nikolai was sleeping beside him, his face soft in the dim glow of the city lights, that the realization hit Brandon like a fist to the gut.

If he lost him—if one day, Nikolai decided he was done waiting, done hoping, done pretending that it didn’t hurt—Brandon would break. He would shatter into something unfixable. Because this wasn’t just some passing thing. This wasn’t just love.

This was forever.

And Brandon was the one ruining it.

The idea of losing Nikolai?

That was the one thing that terrified him.

It wasn’t enough to love him in the quiet.

It wasn’t enough to keep him behind closed doors.

Because love wasn’t meant to be hidden. It wasn’t meant to be whispered in the dark and ignored in the light.

And if Brandon didn’t do something—if he didn’t fix this—he was going to lose the one thing in this world he could never replace.

The question was: did he have the courage to fight for it?

Or would he let his fear be the thing that destroyed them?

…………………

Nikolai has always known that Brandon King was a coward.

A beautiful, brilliant, maddening coward.

And yet, Nikolai would wait. He would wait forever if he had to.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t see it—the hesitation in Brandon’s eyes before he pulled away, the way his laughter sounded just a little too forced when he denied their relationship in public, the way his fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long before slipping out of Nikolai’s grasp as if being seen with him was a sin. Nikolai wasn’t a fool. He saw it all. He felt it all.

But he never said a word.

Because for every moment of hesitation, there was another where Brandon looked at him like he was the only thing that made sense in this world. There were the nights where they lay tangled together, where Bran kissed him like he would die without him, where he whispered "mine" against Nikolai’s lips like it was a prayer. And wasn’t that enough? Wasn’t that real?

But then morning would come. And Brandon would step back into the perfect little world of the Kings, and Nikolai would once again become the secret. The unsaid.

"We’re just friends."

Brandon would laugh, easy and careless, whenever someone asked.

And Nikolai would feel something inside him crack—sharp and painful—before he forced a grin, matching Bran’s energy, as if it didn’t fucking hurt. As if his heart didn’t splinter every time.

But still, he stayed.

Because Brandon was the only person who had ever felt like home. The only person he had ever loved with the full, unrelenting force of himself. And if waiting was the price to pay, if being hidden was the cost, then so be it.

He would endure. He would be patient.

Because one day, Bran would wake up and realize.

One day, Bran would see that Nikolai wasn’t just some secret to be kept.

He was the forever that Brandon was too afraid to claim.

And Nikolai? He would wait for that day. He would wait forever.

……………….

Nikolai had dragged Brandon to this café, like always, because he was craving something sweet. Like always.

Bran had just rolled his eyes, muttering something about Niko’s addiction to sugar, but still followed without complaint. Because, really, when had he ever denied Nikolai anything?

The scent of freshly baked pastries filled the air as they settled into a corner booth. Nikolai, as usual, was already eyeing the dessert menu like it held the secrets of the universe.

A few minutes later, the waiter—a bright-eyed girl with bouncing energy—came to take their order.

Nikolai was halfway through debating between a chocolate lava cake and a strawberry shortcake when she suddenly squealed.

"Oh my God! You guys are a couple, right? You look so cute together!"

Nikolai stilled.

His heart clenched, his fingers tightening around the menu, but he didn’t look up. He knew what came next. He always did.

"We’re just frie—"

Except, the words never came.

Instead, he felt something warm—solid, grounding—enclosing his hand. Brandon’s hand.

"Yeah," Bran said, voice casual, but there was something in it—something steady, unshakable. "He’s my boyfriend."

Nikolai snapped his head toward him so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

What.

He must’ve misheard. Right?

But no—there was Bran, completely relaxed, fingers laced through his like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like this wasn’t the first time he had ever acknowledged Nikolai as his.

The waiter exploded into fangirling, gushing about how adorable they were, how she knew it the moment she saw them, how they totally gave off soulmate energy.

Nikolai didn’t hear any of it.

He was too busy short-circuiting.

Because—Brandon King just called him his boyfriend. In public. With actual witnesses.

Nikolai was still frozen even after their desserts arrived, still blinking at Bran in stunned silence

From the moment the words left his mouth—"Yeah, he’s my boyfriend"—Brandon knew there was no going back.

And maybe he should’ve done this a long time ago.

Because seeing Nikolai’s usual confident, playful smirk wiped off his face—replaced with genuine shock, awe, and the softest pink dusting his cheeks—was something Bran knew he would remember forever.

But the best part?

He wasn’t done yet.

The entire day, Bran made sure Nikolai knew exactly what he meant by those words.

It started small.

Then, when they walked out of the café, Bran interwined their fingers like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Nikolai? The Nikolai Sokolov?

Tripped over his own feet.

Bran caught him easily, biting back a smirk. "Careful, baby."

Niko choked.

The rest of the day was even worse.

Bran held his hand whenever he got the chance. Opened doors for him. Tugged him close.

When they stopped by a street vendor, he casually fed Niko a bite of his crepe, not even thinking twice about it.

Nikolai, on the other hand, was not okay.

"You—you—you’re doing this on purpose," Niko accused, looking like his brain had fully short-circuited.

Bran tilted his head. "Doing what?"

"This! The—" Niko waved his hands in the air, as if trying to capture whatever sorcery Bran was pulling. "The boyfriend treatment!"

Bran pretended to think about it. Then, he smirked. "Isn't that what you wanted?"

Niko opened his mouth, then closed it. His ears were so red now, they could rival a fire truck.

Bran leaned in, voice dropping into a soft murmur. "You’ve waited long enough, haven’t you, Niko?"

And for the first time ever, Nikolai Sokolov was left speechless.

Creighton x Mikhail - Riding Lessons (ft. Traumatised Dad Aiden)

The clink of cutlery echoed through Aiden King’s grand dining hall as Landon shoveled another forkful of pasta into his mouth. The pasta was... questionable—courtesy of Aunt Elsa, whose cooking skills were the stuff of whispered family horror stories—but Landon was nothing if not brave. Or maybe just really hungry.

"So then I told him," Landon said, mid-chew, sauce splattering slightly, "if you think—"

"Swallow before you speak," Aiden cut in, voice flat, glaring at Landon like he’d personally offended the entire King bloodline.

Landon grinned, mouth still half-full, because pissing off Uncle Aiden was his favorite sport. He took a giant, exaggerated swallow and waved his fork around. “You know, Uncle Aiden, you really should try relaxing. Might help with the wrinkles.”

Aiden’s jaw clenched, but before he could fire back, the doors creaked open.

Landon didn’t notice at first—too busy gesturing dramatically about some nonsense story—but then he felt it. The shift in the room. The tension.

He turned his head.

What the hell?.

Mikhail Orlov. Mafia heir. Russian. Creighton’s boyfriend. Aka: the walking death wish.

Landon nearly choked on the pasta, eyes bulging. Oh my god. Mikhail’s here. He’s here. Uncle Aiden is going to murder him. I’m about to witness a mafia bloodbath, and it’s not even dessert yet.

He subtly inched his phone closer. I need to record this.

Mikhail, looking far too relaxed for someone seconds away from death, walked straight up to Aiden and stuck out his hand. “Mr. King,” he greeted with that same infuriatingly smooth grin.

Landon froze. Oh, he’s dead. So dead.

Aiden didn’t stand up. Didn’t even scowl. He just... reached out and shook Mikhail’s hand with a small nod. “Mikhail. Creighton’s upstairs,” he said simply, jerking his head toward the staircase like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Landon’s jaw hit the table. What the actual—?!

Mikhail, still grinning, gave a polite, “Thank you,” before striding confidently up the stairs.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Landon blinked at Aiden. “Uh... who was that?” He tried to sound casual, but his voice came out a pitch too high.

Aiden, already reaching for his wine glass, replied without missing a beat, “Creighton’s riding tutor. Here to pick Creighton for practice”

Landon promptly choked on the pasta. Aunt Elsa patted his back helpfully—a bit too hard, Aunt!—while Landon coughed and spluttered, tears forming in his eyes.

Riding tutor? Oh, he’s teaching Creighton how to ride, alright—just not on any horse.

Landon bit his cheek to stop himself from bursting out laughing. This is gold. He could say something now—spill the whole truth—but where was the fun in that? No, it’d be so much better when it all exploded naturally. He could practically see it: Aiden discovering the truth, Mikhail probably smirking through it, Creighton turning bright red... Oh, this is going to be epic.

He cleared his throat and stabbed another bite of pasta, a wicked grin stretching across his face. “Well... I’m sure Creighton’s learning a lot.”

Aiden didn’t catch the double meaning and just nodded. “He better be.”

Landon barely held back his laughter, his mind already plotting how to make this blow up in the most dramatic way possible.

Let the chaos brew.

……………………………………………………………………

The conversation was flowing brightly, as it usually did during King family dinners. Landon was pushing the food around on his plate, occasionally kicking Brandon under the table to keep himself entertained.

Just as Landon was about to make a snarky comment, the front door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed through the hall. All heads turned as Mikhail Orlov walked into the dining room, wearing a black button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and that signature cocky grin on his face.

Landon almost spit out his drink. He showed up again? This was about to be so good.

Mikhail casually stepped forward, hands in his pockets. “Evening,” he greeted, eyes flickering to Creighton for a split second before turning to the family.

Jonathan King raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Before Mikhail could speak, Aiden cut in smoothly, completely unbothered, “This is Mikhail Orlov. Creighton’s riding tutor.”

Landon almost fell out of his chair. He’s still going with that?

Jonathan’s frown deepened. “Riding tutor? Since when does Creighton ride horses?”

Aiden cleared his throat, trying to look composed. “Royal Elite University and King’s University are hosting a horse race next month. Creighton’s contesting.” Aiden glanced at Creighton, who was sitting quietly, sipping water like none of this chaos involved him. “He usually doesn’t like people, but he... tolerates Mikhail, so I hired him.”

Landon snorted into his glass. Tolerates? Brandon nudged Landon under the table, grinning, before leaning closer and whispering, “I’m pretty sure Creighton more than tolerates Mikhail.”

Landon barely managed to contain his laughter.

Levi, who had been silently observing, suddenly turned to his sons, his voice booming. “And why aren’t you two participating in this horse race?”

Landon and Brandon both choked on their drinks at the same time.

“W-what?” Landon sputtered.

“Dad, we don’t—” Brandon began, but Levi was already waving them off.

“You two have grown lazy. Mikhail,” Levi called out, gesturing for Mikhail to come over.

Mikhail strolled over, completely unfazed, standing right next to Levi, who gave him an approving nod. “You’re Creighton’s tutor, right? Find someone good for my sons. I want them both in this race.”

Landon’s brain short-circuited. Seriously dad??

But Mikhail, the audacious devil, only smirked. “Of course. I know just the people.”

“Oh?” Levi asked, intrigued.

“For Landon, I can recommend Jeremy. He’s excellent with teaching,” Mikhail said with a perfectly innocent expression, though Landon caught the wicked glint in his eyes.

Glyndon choked nearby.

“And for Brandon,” Mikhail continued smoothly, “Nikolai. He’s... very experienced.”

Brandon looked stunned, trying not to look as panicked as Landon.

Levi, however, nodded approvingly. “Good. Set it up.”

Meanwhile, Landon and Brandon exchanged wide-eyed looks across the table, mentally screaming. Mikhail just handed us over to our boyfriends under Dad’s nose.

Landon leaned over to Brandon and whispered, “This is going to blow up so hard.”

Brandon, still trying to breathe, nodded. “And I can’t wait.”

……………………………………………………………………

Aiden decided to come to the island to watch his son’s race.

As he neared Creighton’s door, he heard voices inside—specifically Mikhail’s deep, accented tone.

“Yeah, just like that… ride, ride exactly like that.”

Aiden froze mid-step, brow furrowing. Wait, what?

He tilted his head. Is he teaching Creighton indoors? Weird, but maybe it’s some advanced technique? Aiden, with his infinite dad wisdom, reasoned it out. But curiosity got the better of him.

Without knocking, he pushed open the door.

And promptly wished he hadn’t.

There was no horse. Not even a saddle. Just Mikhail sprawled across Creighton’s bed, shirt halfway undone, with Creighton—his baby—riding him. Not in the equestrian sense. Nope.

Aiden’s brain did a full blue-screen crash.

His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish, but no words came out.

Creighton yelped, scrambling off Mikhail, dragging the sheets up to his face in horror. “DAD!” he screamed, mortified.

Mikhail, the audacious Russian devil, barely flinched. He just smirked lazily, stretching as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

Aiden’s eye twitched. He opened his mouth, intending to yell, but nothing coherent came out. Instead, he just… turned around. Like a malfunctioning robot.

He walked—no, stumbled—downstairs, each step heavier than the last. When he reached the living room, he sat down on the pristine white couch, hands folded in his lap, staring into the void. His mind was empty. Completely blank.

His son. His innocent, precious baby… riding. But not horses. Not horses at all.

Minutes passed in awkward, soul-crushing silence before footsteps echoed from the stairs. A red-faced Creighton walked down, avoiding all eye contact, looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. Beside him, Mikhail descended casually, hands in his pockets, smirking. Like the devil he was.

Aiden’s eye twitched again as they approached.

He snapped out of his daze just enough to glare at Mikhail. “You… lied to me.”

Mikhail tilted his head, all faux innocence. “I didn’t lie. I told you I was giving Creighton riding lessons.” He shrugged. “I never specified what kind.”

That was it.

Aiden’s brain rebooted just enough for him to stand, fists clenched. Before Mikhail could react, Aiden swung—his punch connecting right with Mikhail’s smirking face.

BAM.

Mikhail stumbled back, still grinning, wiping blood off his lip. “Good hit, sir,” he chuckled.

Creighton, still hiding behind his hands, groaned. “Dad! Stop!”

But Aiden was too far gone, his entire life flashing before his eyes. “There was no horse!” he bellowed, pointing wildly.

Mikhail, with the gall of someone who clearly didn’t care about self-preservation, smiled wider. “Don’t worry. He rode just fine without one.”

Creighton let out a strangled noise. Aiden lunged again.

Chaos ensued.

In the end, it took Creighton pulling Mikhail out of the room while Aiden shouted after them, swearing about “never looking at a horse the same way again.”

As they left, Mikhail leaned toward Creighton, whispering with a grin, “Think he’ll still sponsor our next riding session?”

Creighton groaned, pulling his hoodie over his head. “You’re the worst.”

Mikhail’s smirk grew. “And yet, you still ride me.”

NikoBran & JerLan - “Can I have your son for the rest of my life?”

Brandon was having an exceptional day, one of those rare stretches of uninterrupted peace and focus. His latest canvas, an impressionist vision of Nikolai with that usual mix of shadowed wild charm, was coming together perfectly. He smiled to himself, dabbing a bit more paint to capture the angle of Nikolai’s jaw, a touch of light for the smirk that, to him, was pure art. His muse. His Heathen Peasant. Really, if he were to be honest, Nikolai was as good as a prince himself—but it was fun, calling him his Peasant. After all, didn’t Niko call him his Prince Charming?

Lost in his work, he barely noticed the sound of footsteps until the door slammed open behind him. He turned just as his twin, Landon, stormed in, his phone clutched in his hand, looking like he was about to deliver some dire news. Brandon raised a brow, unfazed, and continued to blend colors on his palette. What now?

“Have you seen Jeremy and Nikolai’s story?” Landon asked, his voice sharp with barely-contained annoyance.

Brandon shook his head, shrugging as he wiped his hands off. “Not yet. What’s so urgent?” he asked casually, though he snatched the phone from Landon with practiced ease.

The screen lit up with an image of Jeremy and Nikolai mid-soccer game, both flexing their arms with ridiculous grins, muscles on full display, jerseys clinging from the sweat. It was practically designed to be a thirst trap, and Brandon felt his eye twitch at the sight of them looking like they were on the cover of a sports magazine. Soccer? His mind reeled for a second as he thought aloud, “Why soccer of all things?”

He barely had a moment to process before Eli sauntered in, phone in hand, looking far too amused. “Ah, so you saw it too?” he said with a chuckle, nodding towards the story as Brandon continued staring, his annoyance only growing. “Guess I should explain. Last time I visited Killian, Jeremy and Nikolai were tagging along, as usual. I might have mentioned that Uncle Levi, was a bit of a soccer star in his prime. Thought it would be funny if they used that fact to ‘charm’ the future in-law,” Eli grinned, shrugging. “Didn’t think they’d actually take it this far.”

Landon crossed his arms, shaking his head. “You’re telling me that you planted this insane idea in their heads, and they just ran with it?”

Eli’s grin only widened as he shrugged. “What can I say? They seemed… interested. They said they wanted to get Uncle Levi’s approval.”

Brandon groaned, rubbing his temples, but he couldn’t help the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, of course, they’re using my dad’s ancient soccer past as an excuse to post thirst traps. This is practically bait. As if Dad would be okay with anyone dating us..Dad thinks we are still kids.,” he muttered, exasperated but amused.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Ilya grumbled under his breath, feeling like he’d been assigned to the most ridiculous mission of his life. He was a hardened mafia guard, for heaven's sake, not some influencer’s cameraman! Yet here he was, jogging across a grassy field with his phone clutched tightly, running after two self-obsessed troublemakers as they posed and flexed in front of the camera. It was like watching a pair of overgrown children, except that these overgrown children were supposed to be the “fearsome” leaders of their respective places in Bartva.

Jeremy struck another dramatic pose, arms flexed, grinning with a perfect smile. Meanwhile, Nikolai kicked an imaginary ball, trying to make the whole thing look at least a little authentic. “Ilya, angle it from lower!” Nikolai barked, pointing downwards with an exaggerated motion. “You’re making us look short!”

Ilya rolled his eyes, adjusting the phone reluctantly. Making them look short? He thought to himself.—how much lower did they need him to go?

Jeremy and Nikolai reviewed the picture and immediately groaned in unison. “Ugh, no. We look ridiculous. Try it again!” Jeremy declared, putting his hands on his hips. “We need to look like the type of future sons-in-law who could make a retired soccer player proud. What would Levi think of that one?”

Ilya sighed heavily, rolling his eyes. “Look, I can tell you what he’d think,” he muttered. “He’d think you’re both insane.”

But the two weren’t paying him any attention. Jeremy was too busy readjusting his hair, slicking back some stray strands that had come loose. Meanwhile, Nikolai tried a new pose, hands on his knees like he’d just scored a game-winning goal.

“Come on, Ilya! Capture the spirit, the intensity! Make it look like we’re professionals,” Jeremy insisted, gesturing with that trademark confidence of his that could either make a person feel like a million dollars or make them want to throttle him.

“Professional what?” Ilya muttered under his breath. “Professional pains in my—”

“Did you say something?” Nikolai asked, eyebrows raised.

“Nothing,” Ilya grumbled louder this time, raising the phone again. “Just hoping no one comes by to see this madness.”

The two posed dramatically, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, staring off into the distance as though contemplating their destiny. They were fully committed, completely unfazed by how utterly absurd they looked.

After a dozen more failed shots and several changes in angle, they finally settled on one they deemed acceptable. Ilya breathed a sigh of relief, ready to reclaim his dignity as a serious bodyguard—but, of course, his relief was short-lived.

“Alright, now off to the art studio,” Nikolai announced with a grin, completely unaware of the suffering he was causing. “If we’re gonna win over Brandon and Landon’s mom, we need her to know we’re more than just pretty faces and sports studs.” He winked at Jeremy, who smirked back.

Ilya groaned as the two trotted off toward the mansion’s art studio like it was some grand adventure. He trailed behind, reluctant but helpless, resigned to the fate that being their bodyguard—and, apparently, their personal photographer—was his life now.

When they got to the studio, Jeremy immediately went to the paint supplies and smeared a few colors on a palette. Nikolai changed to a spare hoodie like he was prepping for the biggest art show of his life, eyeing himself in the mirror and adjusting his hair.

“What are you doing?” Ilya finally asked, unable to hold back any longer. “This is getting embarrassing. No one’s going to take you seriously if word about this gets out, you know.”

Nikolai laughed, as if that was the most absurd thing he’d ever heard. “No one will know, Ilya. That’s the point of having a loyal, trustworthy guard.” He winked, entirely too cheeky for someone who had just spent the last hour meticulously arranging his poses for Instagram stories.

Jeremy was even worse. He dipped a brush into a bucket of dark red paint, flicking it around on the canvas with the dramatic flair of a true artist, clearly enjoying himself far too much. “Just a few more shots, Ilya,” he said, grinning as he smeared paint on his cheek with his thumb. “Make sure I look soulful, you know, like I’ve got depth.”

Depth? Ilya couldn’t help but wonder what depths these two had beyond the ridiculousness he’d been forced to endure all afternoon. Still, he raised the phone and clicked another photo, this time capturing Jeremy looking “deep and thoughtful” with his paint-smeared face and Nikolai gazing intensely at his “masterpiece” on the canvas.

The two reviewed the photo, nodding approvingly, clearly impressed with their own efforts. “Oh, this one is perfect,” Nikolai said with a proud smile, patting Ilya on the back as if he were some award-winning photographer.

Ilya muttered under his breath, casting a wary glance toward the studio entrance, just in case anyone came in. The last thing he needed was for someone else in the mafia to see him in this compromising position, photographing Jeremy and Nikolai pretending to be artists. He’d never hear the end of it.

Ilya clicked off the shot, shaking his head in disbelief. “This… this is a new low,” he said, but Nikolai just laughed, wrapping an arm around Jeremy’s shoulder as they reviewed the clip, fully satisfied.

“Well, we’re off to charm the in-laws,” Jeremy said with a grin, giving Ilya a thumbs up. “Thanks for all the hard work today, Ilya. You’re a real gem.”

Ilya groaned, fully intending to take the next two days off to recover from the utter humiliation of being their camera-wielding sidekick.

……………………………………………………………………………………….

Levi sat at his desk, his phone in hand, scrolling through the barrage of photos and videos sent by those two hooligans, Jeremy and Nikolai. Each shot was more ridiculous than the last—images of Jeremy flexing and grinning like a wolf, Nikolai attempting to look “soulful” while smearing paint on a canvas, and, of course, the final pièce de résistance: a slow-motion video of them “playing” soccer, all dramatic lighting and ridiculous poses.

He shook his head, muttering under his breath. “What am I looking at? Did they… did they even kick the ball once?” He squinted at one of the pictures, which featured Jeremy with his arm around Nikolai, both gazing dramatically into the distance .

“Who do they think they’re fooling?” Levi mumbled to himself, rolling his eyes. “They probably don’t know the first thing about soccer. They’re just trying to butter me up.” He rubbed a hand over his face, sighing as he came to grips with the fact that these two were very likely going to be his sons-in-law.

Astrid breezed by, catching a glimpse of the photos over his shoulder. She laughed, taking the phone from him to get a closer look. “Oh, that’s adorable! Look how hard they’re trying,” she said, scrolling to the picture where Jeremy was staring off into the horizon with paint smudged on his cheek. “They’re doing this to impress you, you know.”

“Impress me?” Levi huffed. “By making themselves look like fools? If they wanted to impress me, they’d stay out of trouble and keep their little mafia nonsense to themselves. But no, my sons have to fall for the most dangerous mafia boys.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow. “You’re just mad because they’re flaunting how much they adore our sons.”

Levi grumbled as she handed him back the phone. “I’m mad because they think this’ll win me over. Look at them—posing like a couple of overgrown schoolboys!.”

Astrid shook her head with a smile. “Oh, Levi. They’re in love. And those two hooligans will do whatever it takes to show you they’re serious about Brandon and Landon.”

Levi scrolled “What do Brandon and Landon even see in these idiots?” he muttered, though there was a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

Astrid smiled, amused. “Oh, you know exactly what they see. What I saw in you. Love. Protection and a bit of madness .”

playing pretend rather than have a serious conversation with me.”

Astrid shook her head, still smiling, as she went to pour herself a cup of tea. Levi watched her for a moment, then turned his attention back to his phone, smirking despite himself at the ridiculousness of the whole thing.

Levi let out a sigh of grudging acceptance. “Well, I suppose I could be stuck with worse. At least they’re entertaining.” He gave one last look at the ridiculous soccer photo, muttering with a half-smile, “But they’d better be ready to prove themselves, because winning over this father-in-law will take a hell of a lot more than paint and muscle flexing.”

......

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