Work Text:
February 7th, Milton Keynes
The plane landed with a jolt that made my teeth click together.
I stared out the window as we taxied, watching the sleet hit the glass in thin, diagonal lines. Grey skies. Low-hanging clouds. Cold, wet nothingness everywhere. Welcome back to England.
It always amazes me how a place can feel so indifferent to your mood, and yet perfectly match it. Like the world doesn’t care that your chest feels like it’s folding in on itself, but it still gives you fog, and rain, and silence. As if to say: fine, then. Let’s match.
It had been sunny in Monaco when I left. I could still feel the warmth of Charles’ hand on my neck when we said goodbye. Could still hear his voice in my ear, telling me to breathe, to take care, to call him later. And I did call him, of course. I always do. Even when I’m the one that can’t breathe.
I didn’t expect the pit in my stomach to grow the moment the wheels hit the tarmac. But it did. Like a slow leak had turned into something sharp and aching.
By the time I got to Milton Keynes, I was already running on fumes. I barely felt the cold when I stepped out of the car and into the wind. The factory stood there in front of me like a monument: familiar, imposing, sterile.
Hannah and Christian were waiting near the entrance, trying not to look too concerned. Failing.
“Long trip?” Hannah asked, her voice light, careful.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
Christian gave me a small smile and a pat on the back that landed too gently. They were both tiptoeing around me, and I hated it.
The day blurred from there.
Meetings. Technical debriefs. Simulator sessions that felt like running in place. The whole time, I was on autopilot. Answering questions, nodding, writing notes. Performing normal. My jaw hurt. My shoulders hurt. Everything I didn’t say sat heavy between my ribs.
Charles had sent me a voice message during lunch. Just him humming, the sound of his piano in the background. It made my throat close.
I didn’t respond. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew if I heard his voice, really heard it, I might not make it through the rest of the day. I might just fall apart in the middle of the sim room, and I couldn’t let that happen. Not here. Not now.
By the time the last meeting wrapped up, it was dark outside. I stood up slowly, my legs stiff, my back aching from sitting too long. The engineers filtered out with tired smiles and casual goodnights. I gave them what I could, a nod, a half-lifted hand. That was all I had left.
Christian was waiting just outside the room again.
He walked with me down the hallway, and I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye. Like he wanted to say something, wasn’t sure if he should.
“You’ve been on all day,” he said finally. “Come have dinner with me. Just something simple.”
I shook my head. “I’m okay.”
He kept walking, quiet for a beat.
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m just tired.”
“That’s not tired, Max.”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. He wasn’t wrong, but he also wasn’t someone I could explain this to. Not fully. Not honestly. How do you say: It’s not just the media. It’s the way they look at me. Like I’m a liar. Like I’ve fooled everyone. And worst of all, they’ve dragged Charles into it. And Kelly. And Alex. And maybe I deserve it, but they don’t. And I can’t stop it. I can’t fix it. And I can’t even breathe when I think about how much this might be hurting him.
We reached the exit.
The rain was still falling, fine and misty now, clinging to the pavement and shining under the floodlights.
Christian hesitated. “You sure?”
I nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He gave me a look. Not disapproving. Just… sad.
I stepped out into the cold without waiting for anything else.
The door shut behind me with a soft, final click , and the silence hit me like a wave.
I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands deep into my pockets, and walked into the dark.
The apartment was cold when I stepped inside.
Not physically, not really. The heating had kicked on earlier with the timer, the air was warm enough. But it felt cold. Empty. Quiet in that way that makes your skin itch.
I didn’t bother with the lights, just kicked off my shoes, dropped my bag by the door, and made my way to the kitchen on muscle memory. I wasn’t hungry. I wasn’t even thirsty. I just didn’t know what else to do.
The silence pressed in, thick and stale. I reached for my phone like a reflex.
I shouldn’t have.
I knew I shouldn’t have.
But the second the screen lit up, I opened the news app.
And there they were.
The headlines. Again.
VERSTAPPEN-LECLERC LIE EXPOSED?
THE SECRET YEARS: HOW LONG HAVE THEY REALLY BEEN TOGETHER?
CHEATING, COVER-UPS, AND COMPLICITY—THE F1 LOVE STORY THAT'S TURNED SOUR.
One after the other. All of them shouting in bold font, lined with grainy photos from paddocks and parties and podiums. Photos of me looking at Charles, of Charles with his hand on my back, of the two of us smiling or laughing or standing too close. Photos from 2022, 2021, even 2020. Like they’d built a case out of scraps. Like we were criminals caught mid-crime, caught mid-feeling.
“They’ve been lying for years.”
“Poor Kelly. Poor Alex.”
“This isn’t about being gay. It's about betrayal.”
My chest ached, hollow and deep.
I locked my phone and set it face-down on the counter. Tried to breathe.
It wasn’t that I hadn’t expected it. It wasn’t even the first time I’d read something vile or twisted or deliberately cruel. But this felt different. Because it wasn’t just about me anymore.
It was about Charles. And Alex. And Kelly.
And none of them had signed up for this.
Charles hadn’t asked to be dissected on page six of a tabloid next to photos from five years ago. He hadn’t asked to be turned into someone’s fantasy, someone else’s weapon.
Alex hadn’t asked to have her character questioned, her timeline charted like she was a footnote in some conspiracy theory.
And Kelly… fuck. Kelly deserved none of it.
This storm had my name on it. But it hit all of them too.
I dragged my fingers through my hair and leaned forward on the counter, forehead resting against the cool granite. My eyes burned.
I didn’t cry.
I don’t think I can, not really. It’s like that part of me doesn’t work the way it should.
But if it did, this would’ve been the moment.
After a while, I turned on the radio.
Just for background noise, I told myself. Just to hear something other than the thoughts screaming in my head.
Static at first. Then a soft voice. A DJ, casual and tired.
Then the first notes hit. Slow, haunting, familiar.
And I froze.
No one knows what it's like… to be the bad man… to be the sad man… behind blue eyes…
The laugh that escaped me wasn’t a real one. More like a breath twisted sideways.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
The universe had jokes, apparently.
I sank onto the couch slowly, one leg curled under me, the other planted flat on the floor. I stared at nothing as the song played on, every lyric slicing through me like it had been written last night, tailored to fit the hollowness sitting under my ribs.
No one bites back as hard on their anger… none of my pain and woe can show through…
It was stupid. I knew that. It was just a song. Just a coincidence.
But right then, it didn’t feel like one.
It felt like someone, somewhere, had ripped me open and put the pieces to music.
And I didn’t even have the energy to fight it.
I just sat there, listening, breathing shallow, hands curled into the edge of my hoodie.
I missed Charles so much it made my teeth hurt.
I missed the way his fingers brushed mine when he passed me coffee in the morning. The way his eyes softened when he was tired. The quiet weight of him asleep next to me, grounding me even in the middle of a nightmare.
And now we were apart. Under fire. Pulled through the mud.
And I couldn’t protect him.
I couldn’t protect anyone.
I closed my eyes.
The song kept playing.
I didn’t eat.
I made the effort, stood in front of the fridge for a while, staring at the neat row of pre-packed meals my trainer had left for the week. Pulled one out, something with rice and chicken, peeled the film back, and shoved it into the microwave. Watched it turn slowly, my reflection dull and distorted in the glass.
But the second the plate hit the counter, I knew I couldn’t do it.
It wasn’t even nausea. It was emptiness. Like hunger had packed its bags and left days ago. Like my body had stopped asking.
I left it there, untouched.
Went to the bedroom, pulled off my hoodie, dropped it onto the chair. Changed into a shirt that smelled faintly of Monaco. Of home. Of Charles.
The clock said 22:14.
Too early to call it a night. Too late to start anything new. My limbs felt like lead and my head wouldn’t stop spinning, wouldn’t stop replaying headlines and comments and ugly truths I hadn’t asked for.
I lay down anyway.
I stared at the ceiling. The silence was unbearable.
So I did the one thing I knew I shouldn’t.
I called him.
It only rang once.
“Mon amour,” Charles’ voice was soft, warm, barely there. Like he’d been waiting.
“Hey,” I murmured.
“You okay?”
I paused. “No. But… I will be.”
There was a beat of quiet. Then, “Want me to stay on the line?”
“Yes.” The word cracked a little on its way out.
He shifted, and I could hear it, faint rustling of sheets, the distant whine of one of the cats meowing before settling down again. His breathing, close to the mic now. A steady rhythm.
“Did you eat?” he asked.
“No.”
“Mm. Me neither,” he said. “I couldn’t.”
Another silence, but this one wasn’t heavy. It was familiar. Safe.
“What are you wearing?” he asked after a beat, voice low with a teasing edge.
I huffed a laugh, barely. “Your t-shirt. The one from Spa. You left it in my drawer.”
“You always steal my stuff.”
“You like it.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
We talked a little after that. Nothing important. Nothing heavy. Just soft things, shared moments, a memory of a race in Baku, the way New York smelled like hot concrete in July, a joke about Carlos’ terrible taste in wine.
And then we stopped talking. But neither of us hung up.
I turned on my side, phone resting next to my pillow. I could hear everything. His breathing, the occasional shift in the sheets, the little sighs he made when he got comfortable.
I closed my eyes and tried to pretend we were in the same room.
It almost worked.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Eventually, I heard his breath change, deeper now, slower. Asleep.
I didn’t say anything at first.
Just listened.
The only thing grounding me was the sound of him, real and close and alive.
And then, like a secret I couldn’t hold anymore, I whispered:
“I love you, schatje.”
It came out rough. Like it had been sitting in my chest too long.
“I’m so fucking sorry.”
He didn’t respond, already deep in sleep.
But I kept talking. Barely audible.
“I’d burn all of it down if it meant you didn’t have to go through this. I know they think I’m the villain. I know you’re the one paying for it.”
I swallowed, the ache tightening in my throat.
“But you’re still here. You didn’t run.”
Another long pause.
“I don’t deserve you.”
His breathing stayed steady. Peaceful.
And in that silence, with nothing but the sound of Charles sleeping in my ear, I let myself close my eyes.
I didn’t sleep.
But I stayed.
And for a little while, it was enough.
It had been three days.
Three days of the same rhythm repeating itself until everything blurred together. Wake up, if I’d even slept at all. Down half a can of Red Bull before switching on the lights. Shower. Dress. Head to the factory without a word. I kept my hood up more often than not, head down as I walked through the entrance. I nodded at the receptionist, said nothing.
The days passed in a haze of meetings, sim sessions, technical briefs. I pushed through them without pause, without breath, without letting anyone in. I didn’t eat, not really. I opened a few containers left by my trainer, stared at the food, closed them again. Most nights, I lived off caffeine and adrenaline and pure habit.
The engineers tried with me. I heard my name more than once, questions tossed gently into the air like fishing lines. I gave short answers. Functional, nothing more. No jokes, no small talk. I didn’t snap. I didn’t flare. I just… wasn’t there. Not really.
Everyone noticed. No one said anything.
I wondered, constantly, what they were thinking. If they believed the things being written. If they were whispering behind my back about what kind of person I really was. If they thought Charles and I had lied. If they pitied Kelly. Pitied Alexandra. If they looked at me and saw a manipulator, a fraud. I used to trust the people here. Now I wasn’t so sure.
That song haunted me.
Behind Blue Eyes .
I hadn’t been able to shake it since that first night. The lines circled my head like vultures, picking at every soft place I tried to protect.
No one knows what it’s like / To be the bad man / To be the sad man.
It felt like the universe had a cruel sense of humor. Playing my confession over and over on invisible speakers I couldn’t turn off.
Nights were worse. The silence in this apartment felt different than in Monte Carlo. Colder. More pointed. Like it knew I didn’t belong here alone.
I called Charles every evening. As soon as I shut the door behind me, before I even took off my jacket.
He always answered.
At first, we talked. He told me about training, about new melodies he was writing. About the cats fighting over the same spot on the couch. I told him about the car. Wind tunnel updates. Session times. Useless things, just to fill the space. But as the hours passed, the words faded. We’d fall into silence, just… breathing together. The sound of him steadying me without trying.
Eventually, he’d fall asleep. I always heard the moment it happened. His breathing would change, slow, deepen. I never hung up.
I’d lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, phone warm beside me, and whisper things I didn’t know how to say when he was awake.
“I love you, schatje.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I hate being here without you.”
The ache didn’t go away. Not when I worked. Not when I lay in the dark listening to him sleep. But somehow, just hearing him there, peaceful, real, made it survivable.
Even if the rest of the world kept painting us as villains, at least I still had this. Him.
It started with a sound, a laughter.
Not even cruel. Not even loud. Just distant and muffled, somewhere down the hall from the sim room. But in my head, it exploded.
I couldn’t tell if they were laughing at me. I couldn’t not tell, either.
My chest locked. My hands went cold. My heart, too fast. Too hard. It was like something inside me snapped tight and wouldn’t let go. The world narrowed, and I couldn’t fucking breathe.
I got up. Fast. Left the sim room before I could think. I barely made it to the stairwell. Metal door slamming behind me. Cement under my shoes. Cold air. No cameras. No eyes. No one.
I sank down against the wall like gravity had won.
Don’t cry.
Don’t fucking cry.
My breath came in short, ugly bursts. My fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. I pressed my fists into my thighs so hard it hurt. That was good. At least it was real.“No one knows what it’s like… to be the bad man…”
That fucking song. Still stuck in my head, playing on repeat like a curse. Like the universe was in on the joke.
I didn’t hear the door open again. But I heard him.
“Max.”
GP’s voice, quiet. Firm.
I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t lift my head.
He stepped closer, then crouched in front of me. Not pushing. Just… there.
“Max,” he said again, gently this time. “Breathe for me, alright?”
“I can’t.” My voice cracked. “I… I’m trying.”
“I know. Just follow my voice. In and out.”
He did it with me. Slow. Steady. Once, twice, three times.
Eventually my heartbeat stopped pounding like a hammer in my skull. The edges of the world came back into focus. I was still shaking, but I could breathe again. Sort of.
I leaned back against the wall, my eyes shut, and said nothing for a long time.
“I’m not fine,” I whispered. “I’m really not fine.”
Still, he waited.
“They’re right,” I said, breath hitching. “The tabloids. All of them. Or at least they’re not completely wrong.”
GP didn’t move. Just let me say it.
“I was in love with him,” I went on. “Way before all of this. Way before we got together, before we even knew what this was supposed to be. I just… I buried it. Pretended it didn’t mean anything. And now all this shit is everywhere, and Charles is getting torn apart, and Kelly and Alex are in the middle of it too, and it’s my fault. All of it.”
I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek. “Yes.. technically, we didn’t cheat on anyone but… If I’d been honest years ago, if I hadn’t been such a fucking coward, none of this would’ve happened. We wouldn’t have lied. We wouldn’t have hurt people. He wouldn’t be getting dragged through the mud because of me.”
GP stayed quiet, but I could feel his attention like a steady pulse.
“He was my first kiss,” I said. “Did you know that? Charles. We were like… kids. Stupid, scared kids. I kissed him after a karting race. And I’ve been running from it ever since.”
My throat burned. “He’s always been there. Always. And me? I just… kept hiding. Kept choosing safety. Or winning. Or pretending it wasn’t real.”
The shame curled hot in my chest.
“I think I broke his heart, again and again. And now I get to say I love him and post pictures and hold his hand and act like I’m brave… now, when it’s easy. But where the fuck was I when it mattered?”
My voice cracked. “Maybe I am the villain. Maybe I’m the bad man.”
GP let out a breath and ran a hand down his face, quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, softly, “Max… I’ve always known Charles was different. The way you talk about him. The way you don’t talk about him. I didn’t need a headline to see it.”
I lowered my head, breathing through my teeth. “Doesn’t change anything.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But I need you to hear this: you are not the villain of this story.”
I almost laughed, bitter, sharp, but he cut me off before I could speak.
“Look. You made mistakes. Maybe you waited too long. Maybe you tried to protect yourself and others in ways that ended up hurting them anyway. That’s life, Max. It’s messy. It’s complicated. But you didn’t deceive anyone. You weren’t malicious. You weren’t cruel. And Charles... ” he paused, looking at me straight on, “he’s not a victim.”
My chest tightened again, but this time in a different way.
“Charles is a fighter,” GP said. “You think he’s sitting around waiting for someone to save him? You think he’s some delicate thing who needs you to shield him from the world?”
I swallowed hard.
“He’s right there with you. In this. Taking the punches. Throwing them back.”
I looked away, throat burning.
“He’s made of the same stuff you are,” GP said. “That fire, that stubbornness, that loyalty? He’s you, in another body. Maybe you took the long way around to find each other, but you didn’t lie. You didn’t set out to hurt anyone. You’ve been honest in the ways you could be, in the moments that counted. And Charles… he’s still here. Because he knows who you are.”
I pressed my hands to my face again, but I was listening now.
“And yeah,” GP added, more gently, “he’s always been there. You’re not wrong about that. But that’s because he’s it for you, Max.”
I looked up at him then. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something warm in his expression. Solid. Steady. Familiar.
“You’ve got something most people never get,” he said. “Don’t waste it. Don’t push him away trying to punish yourself.”
I couldn’t say anything. Not yet.
We sat there in the quiet. My head resting against the wall. GP’s hands loosely folded over his knees. I didn’t cry. But I came close.
GP didn’t say anything for a moment. Just looked at me, like he was waiting to see if I’d collapse or run or break in two.
I did none of those things.
I just stood there. Quiet, exhausted, wrung out, and when he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug, I didn’t resist.
It wasn’t a quick, awkward pat on the back. It was solid. Firm. Familiar. The kind of hug you don’t realize you need until it’s already happening.
I closed my eyes.
“You’re not alone, Max,” he said, voice low. “You’ve never been. Even when you try your damn hardest to be.”
I felt my throat tighten again, but I didn’t cry.
Not this time.
I just stood there, letting his words settle into me like warmth in a cold room.
Eventually, I pulled back, just a bit, and nodded.
“Thanks,” I said. My voice was hoarse. “I don’t really deserve it.”
GP scoffed, gently cuffing the back of my head. “That’s not your call to make.”
I huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
We didn’t say much else. Didn’t need to.
But when I left the building that night, shoulders still heavy, but just a little straighter, I turned my phone on and opened Charles’ contact.
I didn’t call. Just sent a message.
“Still with me, schatje?”
The reply came a few seconds later.
“Always.”
It was Friday morning, February 14th.
Valentine’s Day.
Not that I was the type to care. Normally, I wouldn’t have even remembered the date. But that morning, when I opened the blinds and saw the same grey sky, the same quiet streets, the same bitter air pressing against the glass… I felt it in my chest.
I was tired. Not just the physical kind of tired that even sleep couldn’t fix anymore. The other kind. The kind that made my bones feel heavy and my patience feel thinner with every passing hour.
I’d made it through another three days of simulators, meetings, briefings, fake smiles. I’d been polite. Silent, mostly. Focused.
But this morning, I couldn’t do it anymore.
So after the 9 a.m. debrief, I walked straight into Christian’s office.
He looked up from his screen, surprised to see me, especially so early.
“Everything alright?”
“I’m going home this afternoon,” I said simply. No excuses. No explanations.
His eyebrows lifted just slightly. “I thought you were staying until tomorrow.”
“I know,” I said. “But I’m not. I want to go home today.”
Christian leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, lips tugging upward in a knowing, slightly smug smile.
“Let me guess,” he said. “It’s Valentine's Day. You’ve got someone waiting for you in Monaco.”
I didn’t answer right away. Just held his gaze.
He blinked once, straightened a little. “...Wait. Are you not even going to deny it?”
I shrugged. “Why would I?”
That made him laugh. A soft, surprised kind of laugh. “You’re a romantic, Verstappen. Who would’ve thought.”
I didn’t smile. But I didn’t look away either.
Because he was right.
I didn’t care about the chocolates or the hearts or the cheesy commercials on TV.
But I cared about Charles.
And I needed to go home.
Not because it was Valentine’s Day.
But because it had been seven days.
And that was long enough.
The moment we touched down in Nice, my chest tightened.
It had nothing to do with the flight and everything to do with the storm that was still waiting… out there in the world, in the headlines, in the silence between words that no one dared say to my face. It followed me. Clung to me like static. But at least now I was closer to the only thing that made it bearable.
My bag was over my shoulder before the seatbelt sign even blinked off. I barely nodded at the airport staff, just kept walking, fast. No stopping. No distractions. I knew where I was going.
The RS6 was right where I’d left it. Familiar, quiet, solid. I dropped the bag in the passenger seat and slid in behind the wheel, the hum of the engine grounding me more than I wanted to admit.
Monaco was only one hour away, but it felt like a lifetime.
Seven days. One week apart.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this… like a part of me had been missing. Like I’d been holding my breath the whole time.
But it did.
We’d spent months practically glued together. From training camps to flights, to couches, hotel rooms, mornings, nights. There wasn’t a version of my day that didn’t include him. Until this week.
And now? Now the empty space in bed felt like a fucking canyon. I’d wake up reaching across the mattress like a reflex, only to be met with cold sheets and silence.
There was no plan. No gift. Just a Friday I wasn’t supposed to be free on, and a flight I wasn’t supposed to take.
No Valentine’s dinner.
No grand gesture.
Just the car eating up the highway, my hands tight on the wheel, and this raw, desperate need to get home.
To him.
But I wasn’t showing up empty-handed.
About thirty minutes outside of Monaco, I pulled over at a small flower shop tucked along the coastal road. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of place, but charming in the way that felt right. The air was thick with the scent of roses and jasmine the second I stepped out of the car. It was late afternoon, the sky overcast, but the shop glowed warm through the windows like it belonged to another world.
Inside, it was chaos in bloom. Buckets overflowing, petals everywhere, a riot of color and perfume. It reminded me of him, something alive and unapologetically beautiful, soft and chaotic all at once.
The florist looked up from behind the counter. Middle-aged, warm eyes, smile that said she knew exactly what this was. She didn’t say my name, thank God. She just gave me a nod and asked, "What can I do for you?"
I looked around for a moment, pretending to consider, but I’d seen them the second I walked in. A bouquet of perfect red roses: classic, bold, honest. Like a heartbeat you could hold in your hands.
I pointed. "These."
She wrapped them with practiced hands, not too fussy, just enough. A little white paper, a red ribbon. “Excellent choice.” She nodded with approval, then said with a soft smirk,
"The person receiving these roses is a very lucky man."
I felt the smile tug at my mouth before I could stop it. Something gentle, something that surprised me. I shook my head and reached for my wallet.
"No." My voice came out quiet, steady.
My heart wasn’t.
"I’m the lucky one."
She tilted her head, tucking the ribbon in place.
"That’s true as well."
I left the shop with the bouquet in one hand and my car keys in the other, the scent of the roses curling around me like a promise.
By the time I pulled up outside the house, the sky had slipped into that deep, velvety blue that only happens just after sunset. Everything was still. The kind of quiet that settles on a place you call home. Lights glowed gently behind the windows, golden and soft, like the house had been waiting for me.
My heart was already climbing up my throat, but I didn’t expect the sound that greeted me when I stepped inside.
The piano.
I stopped in my tracks, keys still in my hand. The door clicked softly behind me, but Charles didn’t notice.
He was playing, completely immersed, fingers dancing like the notes were pulling him forward, not the other way around. Soft, aching chords drifting through the air, wrapping around the silence like silk. I felt it hit me in the chest. Not sharp, but deep. Resonant.
I didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe.
There’s something about Charles at the piano that undoes me every time. It’s not just talent, it’s that the music becomes him. There’s no separation. No mask. Just this raw, beautiful honesty in every movement, every breath between notes. Like he’s telling a story only the keys can hold.
God, I could stand there forever.
I must’ve shifted, some subtle movement I didn’t even register, because suddenly, he stopped. Fingers suspended over the keys, head turning toward me. His eyes widened, catching the shape of me in the dim light, and the bouquet in my hand.
"Max?" His voice was soft, disoriented like he hadn’t expected me to be real. Then something shifted, a slow melt in his expression. "You’re home…"
I stepped forward, heart pounding but steady now. The smirk came unbidden, crooked and full of something that felt like relief.
"Happy Valentine’s Day, schatje."
His gaze dropped to the roses, lips parting just slightly, then back to me with that look… the one that always undoes me. Warm, disbelieving. A little shy, somehow.
"You’re here."
"Of course I’m here."
He let out this small laugh... quiet, breathy, a little like a sigh.
"You didn’t say you were coming early."
I shrugged, closing the last steps between us. The scent of roses lingered between us now, mixing with whatever cologne he’d put on and the faint citrus of the soap he liked. Home.
"Didn’t want to spend tonight without you."
He opened his mouth, probably to say something clever, maybe to scold me for not giving him a heads-up, but I didn’t let him.
I leaned in and kissed him.
He made a sound, small and surprised, before he melted into it like gravity had pulled him into me. His fingers twisted into the fabric of my hoodie, desperate and grounding, and I clutched the back of his neck like if I let go, he’d disappear.
I kissed him like I hadn’t breathed in days.
Because I hadn’t. Not really.
When we pulled back, our foreheads pressed together, I could still feel him, every inch of him, close and real and safe.
"I missed you." My voice cracked, just a little.
His fingers ghosted along my neck, soft and slow. "Me too."
I tilted my head, brushing my lips against the corner of his mouth, just one more, because I could.
No extravagant plans. No reservations or gifts or spotlights.
Just this. Just him. Just home.