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standbyric · 1 year

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[PART I]

06: Red Bull 1-2

Pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x Female!Driver OC x Pierre Gasly Premise: Formula One, Female Racing Driver Rating: 18+; Mature themes (explicit language, death, trauma innuendos, motorsport accident, mentions of sex) Timeline: Back and forth Word Count: 6.3k Sum: But was she guilty? Ogling her eyes out for Pierre Gasly, yet keeping Daniel close? Trigger warning: Mentions of period and female genitals.

⬅️ Chapter 05 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 07➡️

Sochi Autodrom, Russia, 2014. Flashback to Zea’s debut race.

She felt grim.

Bleak.

Her insides churned like the wheels kneading milk to butter; only the bitterness—not the savoury—tanged her tongue.

She’d qualify at 13th for tomorrow’s race, her debut race. Not ideal, but enough to give her a shot at fighting for points.

She sat herself beside Max Chilton, Jules’ former teammate, now hers. The chatters around the spacious conference room had long been on mute as her mind replayed Jules’ radio, over and over again, like a reeled-back tape, when the accident swallowed him not even a week ago.

She was a witness.

Yet another helpless bystander.

The muffled scream, the static afterwards, and the pitter-patter of the rain. The echo of his engine as it delved into the crane at 92Gs, the immediate silence. And then, she was face-to-face with the barely recognisable chassis—or whatever was left of the car.

It had been doing things to her mind. Weird things.

One moment she was working on the car with the other Marussia mechanics. The other instant, she was lost, momentarily placing herself in the late Frenchman’s position, thinking how unfair it had been for his family.

At the same time, an understanding of her father registered. Clearer. Almost like an awakening. The realisation that came faster than a bolt of lightning—the realisation that papa must’ve had it worse.

That was when Charlie Whiting took the centre chair on the dais, opening the briefing session, snapping her back to reality.

Nothing more than a greenhorn, fresher than a daisy.

Zea understood that better than everyone else.

The fact that even her teammate hadn’t exactly shown interest in chewing the rags with her, and most of the other drivers not even approaching her, dismissing her like a ghost, was enough indication that she was less than a cursory visitor.

Hopefully, it wasn’t because she had ‘stolen’ Jules’ seat.

Because although her heart had been mourning gravely for him, she wasn’t going to be the hypocrite, refusing to exploit this opportunity. Jules was nothing short of sweet to her. Never giving her a side look, respecting her like he would every other driver on the grid. Wouldn’t then dedicating her performance to him be the rightful courtesy he deserved?

But right now, it stood that she was nothing more than a greenhorn.

Which has a professional translation as sit still and shut your yap because your opinion is not welcomed. Yet all this back and forth on better cockpit safety triggered her knowledge.

She’d shake her feet, restlessly biting the bottom of her lips to prevent words from accidentally slipping out.

Because the answer had been hanging in front of them this whole time, cordially saying ‘hello’.

Yet in the name of preserving the ‘danger element’ and Formula One being the epitome of open-wheel racing itself had long dictated no to closed cockpits. But Zea claimed this was no time to be bothered about that. At least not her. Jules’ casualty only extended her reasons.

“Listen, Zea…? Was it?” Zea nodded politely to Charlie. Clearly losing the battle against the temptation of staying still. Her raised hand betrayed her muscles, and her voice cheated her mind as her degree-backed opinions poured fluently off her mouth when the thirty-minute debate kept going around in circles. And she couldn’t take it anymore. Why everyone was surprised as if her mask would impair her ability to talk baffled her somehow.

“Bianchi’s accident was unfortunate, but a closed cockpit is not an option. We dismissed that long ago because then it’d be more difficult for drivers to get out in case of fatal accidents.” And to that statement, most drivers nodded in agreement, presuming her so-called ‘advice’ to be outdated.

Zea stifled a sigh. “No, sir, I never said closed cockpit. I said, a structure that could almost hover above the cockpit, acting like a barrier. Still an open cockpit.”

“Then you will need three legs for it to ‘hover’. One must be right in front of the driver, which will disrupt their vision. You’re only increasing the probability of accidents,” said the FIA chap whose name and position Zea forgot—assumed important since he was sitting next to Charlie on the dais.

What followed was sneers, not covert enough for her to dismiss. Or maybe that was the intention. And Max Chilton nudging her arm, reminding her not to get into any argument.

Zea glanced at the section where each team’s head engineers were seated. They were silent, eyebrows crooked, slightly nodding like bobblehead dolls. Must be because they knew she wasn’t spewing nonsense, yet too prided in admitting. Her calm and composed tone perhaps made the idea even more unfriendly, no matter how fitting it could be.

“I reckon it’d be an excellent investment if we start exploring the idea. You said it was crucial for us to find the solution. And besides, on the issue of peripheral vision—“

“—I’ve taken enough notes.” Zea bit her lips behind her mask as Charlie cut her off. The eerie glances from the entire room made her nauseous. As if her audacity was undue.

“Right. Of course.”

Felipe Massa was the only one who offered some form of support after the pack was dismissed. Tapping her shoulder and affirming her opinion was not less valid. Perhaps from the sense of shared-flag sentiments. Or perhaps from hands-on experience, having encountered flying debris over his head, cockpit safety issues became more prominent to him.

But she’d gladly take it—the sentiment, she meant.

Not that she needed the assurance that the grid accepted her, but she was still keen to take any form of goodwill.

So when she’d finished fourth on the Sunday race, relief rushed over her.

Yes, she had benefited from inheriting positions over well-timed undercuts, but it didn’t mean her chiselled driving was absent from the fight. But more than anything, she hoped it was enough to pay her respect to Jules.

Almost instinctive, as soon as she lifted her helmet, she went down to check the flooring of her car. The rattling had been bothering her the whole cool-down lap, almost like a game of daredevil of who was going to combust first—the car; or her anxiety of combusting in a car that combusted. And the prospect of dying there and then wasn’t so appealing.

Came Sebastian Vettel in the navy Red Bull suit.

He stood there, confused. Angling his head at the bizarreness of whatever was taking place. Because his intention was simple: to congratulate the rookie who started from thirteenth, dropped to fifteenth, and then shot up to fourth. In a Marussia. Everyone knew the only race that car could par in was one with Koala bears. Hell, even Koala bears were quick on the ground.

But when everyone else was busy completing their parc ferme, well-done wishes exchanged, the rookie girl in front of him was going down on her car. Literally.

“Um, hello…? Excuse me?”

Her little head popped up over the body of the car. Eyes wide open at Sebastian, hands seemed to struggle to pull something from underneath her car. “…Are you talking to me?” she said in between grunts.

Took Sebastian a couple of seconds of silence before replying. “…What are you doing?”

She stopped her pulling. Faltering as she immediately stood up, brushing herself off. “Right! Sorry! This was—is—was? This is part of my job back in the garage, sorry! Am I—am I not supposed to do that here? Oh God—I’m not supposed to, am I—?!“

Sebastian’s laugh cut her off. Why she had to say sorry while stumbling over her words was confusing in a funny way to him.

“It’s okay, I’m not a blabbermouth, I won’t tell the stewards. And besides, I just want to say congratulations on finishing fourth in your debut race.”

Silence. And Sebastian couldn’t even make her expression because of the mask. Fearing his light joke might’ve somehow offended her, he shuffled his feet.

“…Oh! Thank you!” Her gratefulness freed him from that thought. “Oh, and trust me, I’m smiling right now.” Perhaps that was her means of soothing the German driver when she noticed his perplexed look. That was enough to gauge the smile back on Sebastian.

“Thank you,” Zea reaffirmed her gratitude as she took off her gloves. Her tone was warm and hospitable. “You’re about the only person who’s talked to me this weekend—I mean, except Massa and Chilton, obviously. Thank you.”

Sepang International Circuit, Selangor, Malaysia, 2016. Back to the Present.

What a weird day to remember Sochi, Zea thought.

Mainly because the two circuits were fundamentally different. But maybe, because Seb’s interview was being broadcasted on the big screen, and the Ferrari driver said he was looking forward to seeing her make-up positions from the back of the pack.

Which she was, too. Honestly. Having to shoulder a pit-lane penalty for her new power unit.

And that bit of nostalgia was something she needed, too, to distract herself from her conniving mind, which, for the past 30 minutes or so, had been busily entangling itself from the many loose ends of delusion that would probably be the rope she’d hang herself with.

Because if the Malaysia sun was murder on her skin, the fiery pit of hell wouldn’t be a good thing.

He was not a prostitute, she reminded herself, trying to stop any further dirty thoughts—or actions—her brain was beyond willing to conjure up.

Maybe blame the hormone and the shit Elijah declared before she was due to jump in the car. When Pierre kept licking his lips—seductively, or perhaps that was just her indecent thoughts, she was having difficulty differentiating—chatting with Antonio as they walked past the Audi garage about how terribly hot Malaysia had been. Clearly, he was referring to the country’s temperature.

“Oooh… I wonder what else that tongue can do.”

Zea had gasped, pausing to fully express her horror at Elijah’s statement. But the arse smirked like the devil he was, focusing instead on prepping her neck muscles before the race.

Well, fuck her mind because now she couldn’t stop thinking (thirsting) about it.

And as far as reasons go, the stars must’ve been perfectly aligned for Irza and Elijah because those two were fated to co-own hell. Which made all the more sense now, considering we’d established the twin sister would be a resident of that very hell.

Because, while it was perfectly normal to find the man irresistible—she was positive there were enough women and men alike affected to guarantee a support hotline—she should be feeling friendship. Camaraderie. Nakama. Shit like that. Getting all hot and bothered was not helpful or conducive, especially considering that on his side of the road, all he felt was probably nothing. And especially considering she had a race due.

“That fucker.” Zea’s murmur startled Vishal, who was adjusting her belt. “Did you just curse at me?” her mechanic staggered backwards.

“Wh—No!” Her objection was quick. “I—I was talking to myself….” Perhaps now was about the right time to pick up the shovel and dig deeper into the hole, bury herself or something.

Only after some miracle and serious slap on both cheeks to brush off the remnants of Elijah’s hypnosis could she force herself to gear the race-ready Ace.

Because you don’t have time for that.

That became her mantra for the day.

Already two Virtual Safety Cars (VSC) were launched within the first ten laps of the Malaysian Grand Prix. Vettel retired after the first, and the second wave was Gutierrez squeezing Magnussen against the inside kerb—and Kvyat hitting the back of the Renault.

The midfield came to be disturbed, picking its way through the carnage, allowing Ocon a route through to tenth ahead of Alonso, and for Zea to have somehow shimmied her way to twelfth from the back row, her instincts, as ever, uncanny as she took the wide outside line past the traffic jam on the inside, then jinked through the Vettel mess.

Red Bull had a dilemma of its own to solve mid-race. It looked like the earlier VSC gamble—Max pitting while Daniel stayed out—would play in Max’s favour.

But Daniel had a knack for these Pirellis. In tune with their messages, could coordinate his throttle and steering inputs accordingly and tease stint lengths from them without slowing as much as the others.

Lap forty-four, and Hamilton’s engine blew!

No warning, nothing, just poof, clouded in a foggy smoke. And Hamilton was forced to relinquish his lead to Ricciardo, which the Brit didn’t handle with much appreciation as he brought his Mercedes to a halt, ushered by his roaring rage over the radio, triggering another VSC.

The final sprint was a prompted Bulls’ fight at the front line.

Verstappen supposedly had the lady luck with him in a fresher set of softs than his teammate Ricciardo. If only he could get to within the DRS range… Instead, he locked up his fronts slightly on turn 15 and lit up the rears in wheel spin.

That was all it took.

Ricciardo was home free, Verstappen accepted second, Rosberg fought for third, and Raikkonen a riled-up fourth. Stevens, in fifth, beating his Audi teammate, did a superb job of making his one-stop work, defeating Alonso and Hulkenberg. And Zea’s eighth was a fantastic result from the back of the grid, harvesting good points for the team.

“P8, Zea! Shame? Or brilliant? What do you say?”

The mess of sweat smothered her vision as she attempted to even her breath. “Um, considering I started from the pit lane, brilliant? I guess? Good points for the team.”

“It must’ve been very challenging, yes? All the other drivers said it was boiling in the car. Must’ve been tough to concentrate?”

“Nah, I wouldn’t say it was difficult to concentrate—it’s the other way around for me. ‘Cause I’m actually on my period right now, so all that extra heat in the car helped numb the pain. I’d say the heat actually helped me focus better.”

“…Period…?”

Zea mimicked the reporter as he twisted his head, too confused to follow up. “Yes, darling. Period. Bleeding. From my vagina?”

A harsh sigh escaped Margareth, landing her hand on her forehead upon hearing Zea’s elucidation. Her driver even pointed brazenly to her crotch area.

She swiftly yanked Zea’s shoulder, a preppy smile on her face to dismiss the interview. Fortunately, the man had enough faculty to end her session without slipping into awkwardness.

“Really? Period? Vagina?” Marge’s exasperation was met with Zea’s huge grin.

And Daniel almost choked on his drink when he passed the Audis as they shuffled turns in the media pen. He threw Anne, his PR manager, a surprised look. “Did she just say… Vagina?”

Anne chuckled as she shook her head. “A handful, that one. I honestly feel bad for Margareth. You better behave.”

A muffled laugh from Daniel as he tuned in to Zea protesting.

“—No, ‘cause what on earth confused him? And why was he so surprised? It’s a biological cycle that literally happens every month. This is not even my first race being on my period. Or was I supposed to say oh, I’m in that part of the female mammal’s menstrual cycle where I bleed like a waterfall from my vagina, so I crave heat?”

He meant to be discreet, but his chortle at her graphic description slipstreamed right off his mouth.

Right. Why had it slipped his mind at all? She’d been a woman this entire time. He even remembered vividly how his sister would be every time Aunt Flo came around, which begs the question—how the fuck did she race in that condition?!

“What? Are you begging to be congratulated for winning?” She met his eyes, crossing her arms. “Well, congratulations, P1.”

“Hi, P5.” His cocky grin made two dimples pop on his cheeks. And Zea gasped.

“What?” Her hand daintily rested on her chest while an adequate amount of shock flashed across her face. And Anne nudged Daniel by the shoulder. “Stevens finished fifth. Zea eighth.”

“Oh shi—“

“—You totally did that on purpose.”

Daniel tried to deny it with all of his body. His head wiped around so fast Zea was surprised it didn’t pop or something. His eyes wide from shock. Or joy. It was a coin toss. But either way, the milk had been spilt. Or, in their case, oil? Because the Red Bull boy seemed to revel in playing with fire.

Because while Zea dismissed it with a broad smiley face, her insides were burning. Didn’t matter if he wasn’t actually deliberate; Mr Wide Grin didn’t need to rub it on her face like birthday cake now because she’d rather have popcorn.

She still managed to throw a chuckle, taking the ‘joke’ like a big girl, before walking away with P1’s I-really-didn’t-know shout bellowing in the background.

Now that only added to her annoyance. Because him really not knowing only meant their gap was bigger than the Atlantic Ocean.

Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration.

But in between pain screaming in her lower back and knots massing in her head, his little jab did nothing to improve her mood. Not that he was obliged to, anyway.

“Period and vagina, huh?” Katey Ash slipped her arm around Zea. “How scandalous.”

“Kitty!” Relief flowed through Zea with Katey’s belated appearance. “I thought you were with Adrian.”

“Oh, I left him. There’s no way I’m staying there, smiling like his accessory while he talks business.”

Zea chuckled, shaking her head. “You know he’d never think of you that way.”

“Him, no. The journos behind the lens with an acute disease of believing their own press? Yes.” Being in love with Adrian was one thing, but other than that, Katey had absolutely no interest in his family business and all the bullshit that stemmed from that. It was as straightforward as the long straights in Baku to Zea. Especially ever since her best friend fell victim to media slander, her double titles downplayed simply for dating a hotshot of the business world.

Life of women in sports where equilibrium is heavy on the testosterone side.

“Now real talk: was that even allowed?”

Zea shrugged leaning to Katey. “It’s my mouth. I can say whatever I want?” And Marge glared at Zea, hoping her subliminal messages of please-act-normal were through. Which probably didn’t because Zea sported another grin.

Marge sighed. “Briefing in 30 minutes, now I will assume Katey you’re the more normal out of the two, so make sure she’s not late. And make sure she’s on her best behaviour.”

Oh, how wrong she was.

“Of course, Marge,” Katey elbowed Zea softly when she noticed her friend’s real struggle to suppress a laugh. “You have nothing to worry about. She’ll be there in thirty minutes. Tip-top shape.” And when Marge left the two alone for her meeting, Zea’s laugh ruptured. “You? The more normal one?”

“Come on, girlfriend. Normal has a broad definition.”

Zea’s laugh got louder.

Of course. Just about right with Katey. The girl responsible for ‘tainting’ Zea with the otherworldly version of ‘normal’.

Zea’s giggling came to a halt when she felt someone tap her shoulder.

“What a march.” Pierre slipped his shades down the bridge of his nose, peeking over the lenses. And every single muscle of Zea’s body seized at the sound of his voice.

Do not look at his lips.

Not his chest, either.

Sweet baby Jesus. Malaysia was hot enough. Pierre had no business challenging that.

“Heyyyy, hot stuff.” She was hoping she didn’t salivate more than one of Pavlov’s dogs.

“Hey, Princess.”

But the man was killing her.

Killing her. With somersaults in her tummy might as well help her cross the ocean. But maybe that was just her period pain.

Their game wasn’t new. This whole charade was her idea—or supposedly—ever since Hungary, and he was just playing along. At least, that was what she had deluded herself with—denying the possibility that maybe Mr Hot Stuff had the steering wheel all along.

“You were driving like a madman. How many positions was that?”

Oh, him and his compliments.

“Psh, I know. I am great, amazing, magnífica.” If only she were a stranger with his habit of throwing compliments like Hallmark threw out Christmas cards, she would’ve swooned—not that she didn’t either way. Besides, she liked his little ayayay that followed every time she big-headed after his compliments. Like he just did. “Still better than your P11. Did Antonio take the win?”

Pierre tsk in faux annoyance. “What a bad habit, princess. Is that how you return a favour? ”

“Heyy, you know that’s not what I mean. I mean, it’s okay for you to chillax a little; there is still one more race. You haven’t lost yet; you can still win the championship.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, wasn’t really feeling the car today.”

“Exactly. It’s just one of those days. And besides, you are still recovering. How are you feeling, by the way?” Now her concerns were real. Pierre was still recovering from spinal injury since Silverstone, a road accident that unfortunately left his mom in the hospital.

“Well, as you can see, I’m still good-looking. Still the hot stuff.”

“Oh my God.” Zea punched him lightly, ignoring how the sturdiness felt good on her fist. But at least that meant he was much better if he could joke about it.

“So, to what exactly do I owe your imminent visit, then? Are you just here to help me inflate my ego? Make me feel better?” Because if he were, then thank you. After a certain someone—whether intentionally or not—decided today was a good day to smoulder her morale, Pierre was doing a good job doing the opposite.

“Actually, yes.” He rummaged for something from his pocket while Zea’s eyes widened, didn’t think Pierre was taking her joke seriously. “Here. They’re warm now.”

Imagine Zea’s surprise as Pierre casually took her hand and placed the familiar items there. “Are these heat packs?”

Pierre shrugged.

Zea gasped, exchanging looks with Katey as she put them on top of her stomach area. “You’re being sweet…” Warmth spread through her chest.

“I am sweet. What’s with that look.”

“You’re beginning to make me think you want something from me. Alright. Spill it, hot stuff. What do you want?”

His chuckle rumbled as his hand landed on her head, shuffling her hair. “Stop being so cynical about my intention. I gotta run back to the garage. See you around?”

“…Yeah.” Fortunately, Zea had enough consciousness left to return him a fist bump. And the hot stuff left.

“Shut. Up.” Zea gave Katey an ultimatum even before she had the chance to say anything. The billiard girl was gasping, fanning her face and whimpering in one breath it was a miracle she had enough air.

“You were flirting.”

“I was thanking and cheering him up.”

“You know he’s interested.” Katey’s voice lowered, and Zea wasn’t sure if she was being discreet or about to activate her nosy DNA.

“I have boobs and a pulse, Kitty. Of course he’s interested.” Zea rolled her eyes, her distrust of men whose 9-to-5 was driving cars that could cost ordinary people arms and legs—literally, even—around in circles poking through her nose.

“But he is your type. I know your type.”

“My womb is in pain. I just finished in eighth. Dead tired. And a certain arse totally rubbed that on my face. Can we focus on that instead?”

Katey snickered. “Okay. We can elaborate on hot stuff later.”

“Wh—No!” Zea almost had a conniption at Katey’s suggestion. “No later. This is done. The end.”

The two ladies’ laughter sounded bittersweet in Daniel’s ears, who had inadvertently bore witness to an upcoming rom-com series. Or was it a tragic love story between a princess and her hot stuff? Nah, the latter smelled more like an insect called spite. And he wondered, since when had his hearing been this good?

One thing was for sure; he messed up—albeit unintentionally. He’d genuinely thought Zea’s car was the higher-sitting Audi because that was how it usually was. It was wrong of him to assume.

He’d pissed her off, and now making it up to her was at the top of his list. And he knew with her current mood-flow, she wasn’t going to let him off easy. But how? He didn’t know. Yet.

But letting her pissed-off door close with Pierre being the one who lifted her spirit back up didn’t sit right with him. Because it had to be him. Talk about taking responsibility, right?

“Stop staring at it.”

While Pierre’s heat pack bribery—yeah, she was going to call it that to shamelessly flatter herself—was one thing, Daniel’s flannel shirt was another thing. The only thing they had in common was the degree of headache they cause Zea.

Night had fallen in Malaysia. But alas, the cool wind from the open balcony of her suite did nothing to cool her head.

The scattered papers over the table, the graphs on her laptop, namely her second means of distraction—the first being attempted mind control, which unsurprisingly didn’t work—in the form of comparative analysis between the top five teams on the grid was equally futile.

Not when the flannel shirt hung neatly across, and the out-of-commission heat packs stacked next to her laptop had the willpower of three hundred spartans pulling her focus away.

“You have no power here.” King Theoden’s tone when he reacted to Gandalf’s futile attempt at undoing the mind-control spell that Grima had casted on him spilled out of Zea as her index pointed alternatively to the red flannel and the stack of bribes.

She was double positive she’d lost her mind.

She was about to return to typing furiously when her hotel room was knocked. And after checking briefly from the keyhole, her fingers fumbled quickly to open the door.

Fuck the three hundred spartans. The Grima Wormtongue to her mind control stood with Irza’s arm slung over his shoulder. While her twin carolled his sorry attempt at Mariah Carey’s Christmas hit, Grima Ricciardo smiled, raising both eyebrows to greet her, oblivious to his own magic spells.

And the smell of alcohol slapped her like the salty breeze of the ocean, only this one unpleasant.

So she slid back without a word, letting Daniel carry the sluggish limbs of her twin inside, a look of shock painted still on her face. Irza had excused himself to join the Bulls in celebrating their long-overdue 1-2, but it seemed like he over-partied himself. Where was the surprise, though?

She stared at her sprawled-over womb-sharer on the bed, crossing her arms. “What the fuck did he booze himself with? Moonshine?”

Daniel chuckled, pushing himself off the bed to join Zea scrutinising the wasted Irza after carefully tossing him onto the soft mattress.

“He needs to learn self-control, I swear to God. Look at him, he’s toasted—“ Irza’s loud burp cut her off.

Daniel’s laugh roared.

Zea pinched the empty space between her brows. Embarrassed and disgusted at the same time.

“Oh, he’s disgusting. I am so sorry you have to see and smell that.”

“Come on, woman, it’s fine.”

“And I bet he sang the whole journey here.”

Daniel giggled lightly. “I—well, I sang along.”

Zea looked over at him. Horrified.

“We’re best buddies now.”

“Oh, trust me, I can tell—“

“—Z! I know you’re there!” Irza’s sudden yell was almost as if he had a third eye for people talking shit about him.

“I’m here. What do you want.”

“Good. Take me somewhere. I wanna puke.” How he was still able to deliver proper sentences impressed Zea. His eagerness to move, not. He rolled from the bed, not giving enough time for the two drivers to catch him when he fell and hit the ground face-first. The groan was next; Zea and Daniel froze in place like they’d been hit by Hermione’s stupefying charm.

“Thank you. I’ll puke now.”

“Wh—NO! You’re not somewhere yet—IRZA!”

It was a disaster in the making.

Zea wished she had boosts up her arms, yet Daniel was the one with quick thinking, uncannily moving like he was accustomed to the situation. “Phew, his puking timing is exactly like Michael,” he chuckled after sliding an empty tray, so Irza’s puke didn’t sully the carpet flooring.

“N-nice save!” The relief on Zea’s face was genuine. Her reflex was thankfully quick enough to hold Irza’s head, preventing her twin from duking into the pool of puke. “And I’m sorry to ask, but can you please put him back on the bed? While I clean that and get him a change of clothes.”

“Got it.” Daniel shot Zea a wink, hoping to give her the assurance that he didn’t mind. She mumbled her thanks.

Quickly, Zea flushed the barf off, mulling her gratefulness that Daniel was there to help with Irza’s shenanigan. Really, that boy needed to learn self-control.

When she came back with spare clothes, Daniel was already unlacing Irza’s shoes while her twin snore his shamelessness away.

“Geez, thanks. You didn’t have to.”

Daniel shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t. Come on, make a man feel useful.” He pouted for the extra points. Zea’s eyes narrowed before bursting into a delicious giggle.

“Thank you.” She was so appreciative that the warmth it gave shook his whole body. Maybe it was guilt? Because clearly, she wasn’t happy with him during the day.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted without thinking. “I didn’t mean to piss you off. I really thought you were—“ Zea’s laugh swallowed the rest of his sentence.

“Whaaaat?” her voice hitch was back. “Oh, please, stop! I’m not that petty—okay, maybe I could be, but not for that. You did piss me off, but not enough for me to hold it against you.”

Daniel scratched his head. He couldn’t read her. Her downplaying could mean he was insignificant and she didn’t want to waste her avenue thinking about it. That bothered him even more.

“Don’t say that. You were in pain everywhere, and your hormones must’ve been spiralling out of control. I really should’ve been more careful.”

Zea stared at him. “Hormo—how did you know? How did you know I’m in my…”

“Jesus, woman. You literally broadcasted your period to the whole world.”

The realisation hit her like hot water. “Oh, right—OH SHIT.” Because she hadn’t exactly talked to her team principal after the broadcast, and from Marge’s body language after getting his call, pleased wasn’t what Alby felt. “Alby is gonna kill me.” It was a declaration to acquiesce her wrongdoing.

“Anyway.” She tapped his shoulder, deciding Alby’s wrath was a given whether she thought about it or not. “I have forgiven thee,” Zea said with a faux British accent, her little giggle making Daniel laugh in response.

“Why don’t you stay a bit? I’ll make some matcha tea. It’s good for hangover.”

And Daniel froze.

Between Irza’s amplified snore and his heartbeat tap-dancing its way out of his chest, it was difficult to make out who was going to win the war of being louder.

Zea had leaned closer to sniff all over him, her nose dangerously close to his lips. “I can smell it from you, too, you know. The smell of tomorrow morning’s hangover.”

She’s just extending her gratitude, he reminded himself. But it was difficult to brush off the cajole of being seduced when she smirked at him like that.

So he shook his head, shutting down whatever adrenaline rushing to write unnecessary scenarios in his head like maybe she was hinting a green light? On that note, he wasn’t a very good writer either, although his efforts of keeping his manners and not launching himself to her deserve a medal of valour.

And while Daniel decided Malaysia’s night breeze could probably cool the hot mess down south, Zea shot herself to the kitchen. Her relief when she realised Daniel didn’t follow was probably bigger than she intended.

“Have some integrity, young lady,” she snapped her finger to herself while waiting for the water to boil. Maybe, she should stop her habit of sniffing things. At least not to people. Because their lips were so close, all she had to do was reach up and kiss him, consequences to be thought of later. And while she was tempted to do so, her rationality attacked her like the Colossal Titan wreaked havoc on Wall Maria.

Now she had to brace herself and pretend that the intensity they’d just shared was nothing more than her imagination. Because hey, wasn’t being an actress her retirement plan?

Zea placed the cup of perfectly brewed matcha on the small table next to where Daniel was standing. He was leaning on the balcony, the moonlight illuminating his sculpted jawline, making him a contender for a place in an art gallery. If Pierre was unripened fruit hot, then Daniel was the ripe hot, in all its sweet and juicy glory. About time she admitted that.

But clearly, whatever fervour had taken place a couple of minutes ago had no effect on him whatsoever, or so Zea thought.

“Taste.” The equivocality of her word was obvious even to her. She mentally slapped herself.

Get ahold of yourself, hormones.

Sure. Blame the hormones.

She tipped the cup of liquid greenery toward him. “The secret is to pour the water before it hits boiling point.”

“Wow, that is really good.” His tongue seductively slid across his lips, collecting the remnants. “And yeah, that’s different from the one in Maccas.”

“Mmm.” Zea took a sip from her own glass. Not sure if her moan was because her tea was good, or because Daniel enjoyed it, so it came out automatically. In her defence, it was 2 AM, and maybe the doctor association should do research if intoxication was infectious. Or maybe it was a twin thing.

“And please,” she collected herself. “That’s like comparing a pair of Adidas with Christian Louboutin. Yeah, sure, both are meant to be worn on your feet, but one is handy while the other one is a work of art.”

He laughed. “Well, I don’t think Christian Louboutin has my size, so…”

No, maybe she should start the research on her own and then present it to the doctor association. How his voice sounded euphoric, like his mouth was made of endorphins, might be one piece of evidence.

“You’re right. This is really good for hangovers. And it gives me the edge.” He drank all of it, placing the cup back on the small table. He didn’t specify what edge he meant, or why he was looking at her so intently, so Zea cleared her throat.

“M-mom’s know-how. She loves matcha. And I just, you know, am really thankful you didn’t ditch Irza somewhere in the bushes and took your time to bring him back here, sang along with him. I mean, you were supposed to be enjoying your party but—“

Oh. My. God.

The rest of the sentence, she swallowed as his lips crashed hers, his tongue teasing against her mouth as she stood there, cup on hand, unable to move.

It was a runaway train she had no chance of stopping; her elbow instinctively taking control, clocking him right in the gut.

Spills of hot matcha poured on his chest. Thank goodness he moved quickly enough to prevent himself from being completely showered.

Her lips tingled from the residue of his lips, her hand flying to her mouth as her eyes widened.

“Fuck.” He laughed as he pulled away. “That didn’t go how I’d planned it.” He shook the matcha spilled off his hand.

“I didn’t expect you to kiss me,” Zea huffed out, her lungs feeling like they needed to re-learn how to regulate air.

She was horrified.

Completely disgusted.

Not that he’d kissed her. Please, if Zeus would have given herself half a chance she’d have threaded her hands through his hair and fused her lips to his mouth. But he’d taken her by surprise, and her martial arts reflexes must’ve been ingrained deeper in her than she thought, completely screwing herself out of the opportunity.

Shit.

“Yeah, I guess the element of surprise didn’t go so well.” He chuckled, rubbing his gut lightly. “I just, didn’t want you to go out of your way to thank me so much.”

Zea shook her head. “I’m sorry, I was just surprised.”

Guilt, and maybe a hint of regret, laced her voice. He was definitely never again going to get any closer without cladding himself in a hockey mask and a chest protector. And honestly, who would blame him? It’s not every day you kiss a girl and get an elbow strike as your reward. Thank Jesus, or the Viking Gods, whichever was present first, he hadn’t done the deal in the living room where she had access to her spiky purse. It was as much a statement of fashion as it was a weapon. She’d have probably maimed him and left the poor guy partially immobile.

Hey, the world was never a friendly place for women to stroll alone. Especially in the middle of the night.

“I should—we should call it a day. I should probably leave. And uh, thanks for the matcha.”

“I—I’ll call you…?” Zea’s lips twitched as she waited for Daniel to answer.

But he didn’t say anything. He threw her a simple smile and wished her goodnight before disappearing from the front door.

And she sagged against the wall. Her breathing yet to regain its composure, the taste of his lips lingered.

Which brought her to the realisation that she hadn’t even had his number.

Perfect.

⬅️ Chapter 05 | MASTERLIST | Chapter 07 ➡️

Okay so, I actually had a lot of fun writing this chapter. I hope it translates to the writings! Do share, like, reblog, whichever you prefer. I appreciate it so much! I don't have a beta reader so everything I write is never proofread HAHA. I'm sorry for any mistakes.

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