Chapter 1: Edmund Hale
Chapter Text
“ He’s being called the most eligible bachelor in London—and apparently the internet’s newest obsession. ”
The morning news anchor’s polished voice floated over footage of Edmund Hale stepping out of a sleek black car, sharp suit catching the flash of cameras.
He didn’t smile—he rarely did—atleast in public but that seemed to add fuel to the fire. A caption at the bottom of the screen read:
‘#HaleFever: Billionaire CEO goes viral on TikTok.’
The screen behind the anchor lit up with looping clips: Edmund stepping out of a car in a tailored suit, shaking hands at a charity gala, caught off guard by paparazzi flashes. But the viral clip — the one that really set it off — was grainier, filmed from a phone during one of his company’s port visits.
Edmund had been laughing at something a dock worker said, head tipped back, sunlight hitting his face just right.
Someone had edited sparkles around him and overlaid dramatic orchestral music.
Another version, already at millions of views, paired it with a slowed-down pop ballad.
The anchor continued, “The twenty-six-year-old businessman has sparked a frenzy online, with Gen-Z users editing clips of him into movie-style trailers and fan-made TikToks. Some call him the ‘real-life Darcy,’ others say he’s—quote—‘the main character London didn’t know it needed.’”
A quick cut showed a viral edit: flashing text that read ‘Edmund Hale: God’s strongest soldier (but make it business),’ synced perfectly to a trending audio.
The segment ended with the anchor chuckling, “And while Mr. Hale has yet to comment, the internet doesn’t seem likely to calm down anytime soon.”
The screen cut to another story.
—
The knock came before the sun had fully pushed its way into the city. It was steady, practiced, the kind of knock Edmund Hale couldn’t ignore.
“Sir. Wake up. You’re about to be late enough to trend for that too.”
Edmund groaned into his pillow as Samuel, his personal assistant-slash-secretary-slash-professional nuisance-slash close friend, yanked open the curtains.
Blinding light streamed across the minimalist bedroom.
“Samuel,” Edmund muttered, voice muffled, “if you open those curtains one more time without permission, I’ll deduct it from your salary.”
“You don’t pay me enough to care,” Samuel said cheerfully, tossing a perfectly tailored blazer onto the bed.
“Now up. You’ve got a board meeting with the agricultural partners in an hour, and I refuse to let you walk in with bed hair. We can’t have the internet making edits of that. ”
Edmund cracked an eye open. “They’d do it anyway. Probably slap a moody soundtrack over it and call it ‘CEO with depression arc.’”
Samuel smirked. “Already saw one like that, actually. Two million views.”
“Of course you did,” Edmund muttered, sitting up reluctantly. His hair was a mess, his shirt half-untucked from sleep, but somehow he still managed that frustrating, sharp-edged handsomeness that cameras loved.
Not that he cared. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.
His apartment was a glass-and-marble fortress high above London’s skyline. Morning light stretched across the Thames, flooding through his floor-to-ceiling windows.
Edmund sat at the edge of the bed, hair a mess, expression unreadable, until Samuel laid a tablet and a steaming espresso on the table.
“You’ve got the agriculture board at nine,” Samuel said, immaculate in his gray suit.
“Notes are prepped. You’ll want the second page.”
Edmund rubbed at his eyes. “You’re wasted as my secretary, you know that?”
Hinting his amusement again with the position he first offered to Samuel
“I value my sanity, sir. The second page,” Samuel reminded.
The water was quick and cold, enough to shake him fully awake. By the time Edmund came downstairs, dressed in a crisp navy suit, his mask of composure was already in place.
The espresso on the kitchen counter was still steaming. He grabbed it, glanced at his notes, and shoved them under one arm.
On paper, Edmund Hale’s life was flawless. Twenty-six years old.
CEO of Hale Maritime and Agriculture Group.
Net worth in the billions.
Sharp, decisive, with a mind that rarely missed a detail.
And yet, beneath the polish, there was that familiar emptiness—something that no number, no deal, no yacht or penthouse could ever fill. He never spoke of it, not even to his closest and loved ones, but it haunted him like a shadow.
The boardroom smelled faintly of polished wood and coffee. Edmund leaned back in his chair, black pen in hand, gaze sharp on the presentation slides about new farming equipment subsidies. The executives droned, but he was listening— really listening. He had a way of slicing through jargon with one well-placed question.
“So,” Edmund interrupted smoothly, “you’re suggesting we scale distribution to the northern counties first, but your cost projection doesn’t account for the freight bottleneck at Dover. What’s your contingency plan when the shipments delay?”
The presenter faltered, flipping hastily through papers. Edmund arched a brow. He didn’t raise his voice—he didn’t need to. His words cut enough on their own.
“And if you don’t have one,” Edmund continued, tapping the pen against his notepad, “then we’re gambling millions on wishful thinking. Which—don’t get me wrong—is adorable. But perhaps not our strongest strategy.”
A ripple of nervous laughter broke out. Edmund’s lips twitched into a faint, sharp smile.
Sassy, yes. But effective.
By the end of the meeting, deals were signed, solutions hashed out, and Edmund stood, sliding his jacket back on with fluid ease. “Good work, everyone,” he said. “Try not to make me go viral for yelling at you. My PR team has enough nightmares as it is.”
——
Afternoon came.
The salle smelled faintly of resin and polished wood, the kind of clean sharpness Edmund had always found grounding.
He stood in front of the mirror-lined wall, mask tucked under his arm, foil resting loosely in his hand.
The world outside his life was all sharp suits, numbers, meetings, and decisions that moved millions, but here—just for an hour—it was distilled into footwork and steel.
The blade fit in his grip like it had been waiting for him since before he was born.
He flexed his wrist once, twice, testing the balance, and then slid the mask over his face. The noise of the world muted. He exhaled. The air inside the mask was warm, close, and oddly comforting.
“Ready?” his coach asked.
Edmund only gave a short nod before sliding into en garde, one foot forward, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. And then he moved.
The thing was, fencing wasn’t just something he did —it was something his body already seemed to know . The first time he’d picked up a blade as a boy, he hadn’t needed instruction so much as reminding.
Parry, riposte, lunge—it had felt like instinct, like muscle memory he hadn’t earned. Even now, at twenty-six, with a hundred other demands pulling at his time, fencing was the only thing that could still him.
The coach lunged, blade flashing silver under the lights. Edmund parried almost before he registered the strike, the clang of metal ringing bright in his ears. His counterattack was sharp, precise, and landed clean.
“Point.”
He barely heard it.
His chest was light, his pulse quick in a way that wasn’t nerves but something closer to joy.
A strange kind of freedom.
Another bout.
This time he pressed the attack, his feet moving in perfect rhythm across the piste. Advance, retreat, feint. His body carried him forward as though it had rehearsed these patterns long before he was born.
He caught himself smiling, hidden behind the mask, when his blade slid neatly past his opponent’s guard.
It never made sense, not really, why he loved it this much. There were hobbies he picked up and dropped, sports he tried and abandoned, but fencing—fencing clung to him, or maybe he clung to it.
Every time he lifted the foil, it felt like reaching for something just out of memory. Something familiar, half-forgotten, and maddeningly warm.
When the coach called a break, Edmund pulled his mask off, damp hair sticking to his forehead. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—sharp-eyed, flushed, grinning faintly despite himself.
“Good work,” his coach said, a little breathless.
Edmund gave a small shrug, spinning the blade lazily in his hand. “You say that every time. Either I’m talented, or you’re terribly easy to impress.”
His coach rolled his eyes, but Edmund smirked, slipping into that low, dry humor he reserved for people who earned it. He didn’t give much of himself to many people, but when he did, it came out like this—sharp-edged but warm underneath.
As he rested, he leaned on the foil like a cane, his chest still rising and falling quickly.
He didn’t want to admit it out loud, but this— this —was the closest he ever felt to whole.
Not on yachts, not in boardrooms, not in penthouses.
Here.
With a blade in hand, as though some invisible thread tied him to something he couldn’t name.
And for a fleeting second, he thought— strange, isn’t it, how some things fit you better than life itself?
——
By evening, freshly showered and sprawled across his penthouse couch, Edmund’s phone lit up.
Lucas Morgans . His childhood friend.
Edmund answered on speaker. “Lucas.”
“Edmund bloody Hale,” came the voice on the other end—smooth, charismatic, annoyingly cheerful. “You’re back in London, and you didn’t tell me? What am I, chopped liver?”
Edmund leaned back on the couch, smirking. “Didn’t know I needed your royal blessing to enter the city.”
Lucas scoffed. “Don’t play smart with me. You realize you’ve gone viral, right? Again? You smile one time and the internet’s ready to crown you Prince Charming.”
Edmund groaned. “Not you too.”
“Oh, especially me,” Lucas said gleefully.
“I’ve saved at least six edits to my phone already. Thinking of setting one as my ringtone.”
Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose, chuckling despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, you love me. Now, dinner. Tonight. My treat. Don’t make me come drag you out.”
“You sound desperate,” Edmund teased.
“I am. For gossip. And maybe steak.” Lucas’s voice softened, mischievous. “Come on, Hale. Live a little. You’re already the internet’s favorite stoic heartthrob—might as well let your best friend enjoy it too.”
Edmund let out an actual laugh, low and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re buying the wine,” Lucas shot back. “See you in an hour.”
The line clicked off, leaving Edmund in the quiet hum of the city night. He leaned back, phone still in hand, and for a fleeting moment, something stirred deep in his chest.
A strange feeling he could never name.
Chapter 2: A Quiet Saturday
Chapter Text
Morning came and for once, Edmund Hale didn’t wake to Samuel banging on his bedroom door, reminding him of an early meeting.
No phones buzzing relentlessly with board members chasing his time.
No headlines about the “young billionaire who rarely smiles.” which for him is ridiculous because he actually smiles just of course, in places suited for it.
Just the sound of rain trickling against the wide glass windows of his flat in Kensington.
Saturday. A rare, unclaimed Saturday.
Maybe it’s because of the few wines he shared with Lucas last night but he thought he's maybe a changed man, cause you know, he could woke up all by himself, not with an alarm or Samuel barging in, so early in the morning.
He smiled and thought of his day of freedom.
By mid-morning, Edmund slipped into a dark coat, hands shoved in his pockets as he walked through the damp streets. London still smelled of rain—stone and wet asphalt mixed with faint hints of coffee drifting from corner cafés. He didn’t really plan where to go.
Days off weren’t something he knew how to manage properly. But his feet, almost instinctively, led him to that one place.
The antique store–turned–café sat tucked between a florist and a nearly forgotten record shop. From the outside it looked like a relic, wooden beams slightly crooked, the bell above the door threatening to fall off with every push.
The hand-painted sign read Allan’s Antiquities & Café.
Edmund had stumbled on it 2 years ago during another rainy afternoon, ducking inside purely to escape the storm.
He’d found himself staying for hours. Since then, it had become a quiet sanctuary—coffee, old books, and shelves filled with things that looked as though they carried forgotten stories.
The moment he pushed the door open, the bell gave its usual stubborn clang. Normally, there were only three or four customers scattered about, heads bent into books or laptops.
But today, the café buzzed more than usual.
The tables were mostly full, young people clutching lattes, a few older faces peering curiously at the antique shelves.
Edmund paused at the entrance, eyebrows rising just slightly.
Strange.
The place looks almost alive today.
“All these years and finally the shop’s fashionable,” a deep voice said from the counter.
Edmund turned, and there was Allan, wiping down a mug with the kind of patience only older men had. Allan was in his sixties, with kind eyes that always seemed to know more than he let on. His white hair was neatly tied back, his clothes simple but tidy.
Something about him carried a weight, a calm presence that was strangely… grounding.
“You’re late,” Allan teased as Edmund crossed the room. “I almost sold your chair.”
“My chair?” Edmund arched a brow. “You mean the one by the window I practically keep this place alive with?”
Allan chuckled, setting the mug down. “Your usual? Black coffee, no sugar. And don’t tell me you’ll eat later.”
“You read my mind.” Edmund allowed himself a half-smile, slipping into the corner seat by the window—the one Allan always saved for him, though neither said it outright.
Minutes later, Allan appeared with the coffee, setting it down gently. Edmund wrapped his hands around the cup, savoring the warmth, then let his gaze wander toward the shelves. He liked this store because it was quiet.
A pocket of stillness in a world that demanded too much of him.
But today, quiet was scarce. A group of customers passed by his table, chatting animatedly.Two men in their twenties, jackets still damp from the weather. Edmund couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.
“…and the race’s back in Silverstone this coming week. Can you imagine? Tickets are going to sell out—”
“Already looking online, mate. Once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing.”
Their voices drifted off as they moved toward the counter. Edmund’s brow furrowed almost without him realizing.
Racing. The name of the track clung to him oddly, but he was just curious with all of the buzz today.
“You’ve got that look.”
Edmund glanced up. Allan was leaning on the counter, watching him with that half-smile of his.
“What look?” Edmund sipped his coffee, trying to feign disinterest.
“The one you get when you’re pretending not to be curious,” Allan said. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly into racing.”
Edmund let out a soft chuckle. “Hardly. Can’t imagine myself behind the wheel of one of those things. The closest I’ve ever gotten to anything like that…” He paused, searching his memory. “Would be horseback riding.”
He expected to move on, but the words hung strangely in the air.
Horseback riding.
His voice faltered halfway through, and he frowned to himself. He hadn’t ridden in years, not since he was a teenager.
Yet the moment he said it, he felt an odd tug in his chest—as though the memory was larger, heavier than what his mind could grasp.
For a second, he swore he could almost hear the pounding of hooves, taste the wind rushing past him.
Edmund shook his head slightly and leaned back in his chair. “Weird,” he muttered under his breath.
Allan, who was still watching him closely, didn’t comment right away. Instead, he smiled gently. “Perhaps some memories stay with us, even when we don’t expect them.”
Edmund blinked at him, confused for a fraction of a second, but brushed it off with a wry smirk. “That sounded awfully wise for a coffee shop owner.”
Allan chuckled and moved back toward the counter, leaving Edmund with his thoughts.
He took another sip of coffee, trying to shake the strange weight in his chest. Whatever it was, it was probably nothing.
Just a trick of memory.
Still, the word lingered. Horseback.
——
The voices of the two customers drifted away as they moved deeper into the café, their laughter blending with the low hum of chatter and the clink of coffee cups.
Edmund let his gaze linger on the shelves nearest him—rows of spines worn smooth from years of being handled. He had come here enough times to know the layout by memory: the nautical section near the window, history tucked into the alcove near the counter, and a small but carefully curated poetry corner that he rarely admitted to looking through.
“All right, Edmund,” Allan’s voice came warm and grounded, pulling him back to the moment.
The old man had shuffled out from behind the counter, carrying a book that looked as though it had been waiting for this exact moment. “This one’s been on my mind since last week. Thought you might like it.”
Edmund accepted it, brushing his thumb over the cover. Voyages Beyond the Horizon, the title read in faded gold letters.
A travelogue, old but not forgotten, its edges fraying. He couldn’t help the wry curve of his lips. “You’re going to ruin me with these,” he said lightly, though his voice held a strange fondness.
“One of these days, my entire office is just going to be filled with your recommendations.”
Allan chuckled, eyes crinkling in a way that made Edmund’s chest feel oddly calm. “There are worse fates.” He leaned closer, as if passing a secret.
“Besides, you’ve got that look. Like you’re searching for something you don’t even have a name for. Books have a way of showing you things you didn’t know you needed.”
Edmund didn’t answer right away. Instead, he traced the spine of the book, his thumb pressing into the rough texture. Searching—for what, though? He had built a life that most people would envy, crafted every piece of it with precision.
And yet…
He nodded once, quietly, before slipping the book under his arm. “I’ll take it.”
Allan gave him that knowing smile, the kind that felt both comforting and unnerving. “Of course you will.”
——
Edmund stayed longer than usual that afternoon, stretched out in one of the mismatched armchairs tucked by the window.
Rain tapped gently at the glass, soft and steady, as he read. Words blurred now and then when his thoughts drifted—his mind snagging on things he couldn’t quite place.
He closed the book for a moment and looked outside, watching droplets run down the glass like threads unraveling. There was no reason for the sudden heaviness in his chest, but it was there nonetheless.
Strange. Everything fits. And yet…
With a quiet exhale, he gathered himself, packed up, and said his farewells to Allan, who merely nodded in that same patient way, as though he understood more than Edmund himself did.
——
By the evening, Edmund had traded the quiet hush of the café for the sharp clarity of the fencing hall.
The familiar sound of steel ringing against steel filled the space, clean and precise, echoing against the high ceilings.
He adjusted his mask, settled into stance, and felt it—the ease, the instinct that lived in his muscles.
He lunged, parried, riposted, each movement flowing faster than thought. The instructor had once told him his body moved like it remembered something it shouldn’t, and Edmund had laughed it off.
But he knew what they meant.
Here, with a blade in his hand, the vague weight that followed him most days lifted.
Each thrust and turn stripped the noise from his head, leaving only rhythm and clarity.
His opponent pressed forward, and Edmund countered with a quick flick of his wrist, disarming with a precision that drew a whistle from the sidelines.
“Show-off,” someone muttered, though there was no malice in it.
Edmund raised his mask just enough to flash a grin—crooked, a little sassy, a little too sharp. “It’s not my fault if you give me openings.”
Laughter rippled through the room, and he allowed himself one, too—brief but genuine. He didn’t laugh often, not in the way people expected. But here, blade in hand and the world narrowed to movement and timing, he felt alive in a way he couldn’t explain.
And yet, even as he laughed, even as sweat slid down his temple and his chest rose with exhilaration, there was that hollow space at the center of him.
A space no victory seemed to fill.
——
Later that night, Edmund walked home with the city lights washing over him. The streets pulsed with life, strangers passing with purpose, neon signs flickering against the dark.
His phone buzzed with a message—Lucas again, sending some absurd meme about “Lord Hale, the fencing prodigy.” Edmund shook his head, smiling despite himself, and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
He was fine.
He was more than fine.
But when he finally pushed open the door to his penthouse and stepped into the silence, the fine cracked, just slightly. He set the book from Allan on his desk, fingertips lingering on the cover, then turned away before the weight in his chest could grow.
Tomorrow, the cycle would start again. Work. Meetings. Training. Smiles for the cameras, sharp words for those who dared underestimate him, and the quiet hours where something inside him ached for what he couldn’t name.
For now, he showered, poured a glass of water, and stood by the window, looking out over London’s glittering skyline. His reflection stared back at him, poised and composed, the world’s idea of a man who had it all.
Edmund exhaled softly, resting his forehead against the glass. “Strange,” he murmured to himself. “I should feel complete.”
But he didn’t.
Chapter 3: Welcome to Silverstone
Chapter Text
Edmund Hale woke up on his own.
That alone was a miracle. Again.
No Samuel barging in with his annoyingly chipper voice, no endless buzzing from his alarm app, no half-coherent calls from Lucas reminding him to stop being a vampire and join the daylight.
Just silence, a thin stream of London light sneaking in past his curtains, and the very rare sense of having beaten the morning for once.
He blinked at the clock. 7:45 a.m.
For most people, that wasn’t early.
For Edmund Hale, who thrived on late nights and carried the soul of someone older than his twenty-six years, it felt practically saintly.
He almost smiled at the thought of telling Samuel later—see, I can do it if I want to.
By nine, Edmund was already dressed, coffee in hand, and sliding into the back of his car.
The city rolled past, gray skies threatening rain, but Edmund was in an uncharacteristically good mood.
He had no meetings until the afternoon, but habit pulled him to the office anyway.
Then his good mood cracked the moment he stepped into the lobby of Hale Maritime.
There was Samuel. Waiting.
Worse: Samuel wasn’t just waiting. He was standing next to a sleek black car that wasn’t Edmund’s usual one, fidgeting with the cuff of his blazer like a schoolboy caught sneaking biscuits.
Edmund’s eyebrows shot up. “What did you do?”
Samuel straightened, offered a guilty little smile, and didn’t answer.
Instead, he stepped forward, muttered a too-fast “Sorry, boss,” and before Edmund could blink, grabbed his arm.
“Excuse me?” Edmund barked, but before he could twist out of Samuel’s grip, another hand clamped onto his other arm.
He turned.
“Luna,” Edmund said flatly.
His cousin, Luna Hale, beamed up at him, all bright eyes and mischief, the same look she’d worn since childhood whenever she was about to drag him into trouble. “Morning, sunshine! Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“I was having a beautiful day,” Edmund deadpanned. “Then I walked into this ambush.”
Luna ignored him and tugged on his arm. “Come on, cousin dearest. You’re going to love this.”
“No, I’m not,” Edmund said instantly, digging his heels in. “Samuel, what the hell is happening?”
Samuel looked like he’d rather melt into the floor. “It’s… it’s not my fault. She threatened to—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Luna warned, tightening her grip on Edmund. “You promised, Sammy.”
“Sammy?” Edmund repeated, incredulous. “Oh, this keeps getting better. First my secretary betrays me, now I find out he’s on pet-name terms with my cousin—”
“Into the car,” Luna sang, tugging harder. “We’ve got passes, we’re going to be late.”
“Late for what?” Edmund snapped.
“Silverstone!” Luna said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Formula One practice sessions start today, and you’re coming with me.”
Edmund blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t think I did, because it sounded like you said you’re kidnapping me to a racetrack.”
“That’s exactly what I said.” Luna grinned.
“Luna—” Edmund’s voice was sharp now. “I have an empire to run. Ships, farms, meetings—important things. I don’t spend my Wednesdays watching cars drive in circles.”
“They don’t drive in circles, they race,” Luna shot back, indignant. “And besides, you work too much. You’re either in your office, your fencing gym, or that old café with the creepy owl statue—don’t look at me like that, Allan gives me chills. You need to live a little.”
Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose. “So your solution was abduction?”
“Exactly.”
“Samuel,” Edmund growled, “I pay you six figures a year. This is how you repay me?”
Samuel shrugged helplessly, still holding Edmund’s arm. “She had the passes, sir. And honestly, you could use a break.”
“Oh, perfect. Mutiny. Lovely. I’m surrounded by traitors.” Edmund tried to wrench free, but Luna was deceptively strong, and Samuel clearly wasn’t letting go either. “This is absurd. This is illegal.”
“This,” Luna said triumphantly, shoving him toward the open car door, “is family.”
Against his will, Edmund was bundled into the backseat.
The door shut. The car pulled away.
Edmund sat there, arms folded, glowering at both of them. “You realize I will never forgive this.”
“Yes, you will,” Luna said sweetly, already scrolling through her phone. “Wait until you see the track. The roar of the engines, the smell of the tires—ugh, it’s heaven.”
“I can smell tires in the company garage,” Edmund muttered.
Samuel snorted under his breath, and Edmund shot him a look sharp enough to kill. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Maybe a little,” Samuel admitted.
Luna nudged Edmund’s shoulder like she had when they were kids. “You’ll thank me later. You always do.”
Edmund huffed, gaze fixed on the passing motorway, but somewhere beneath his irritation, there was the faintest twitch of a smile.
Chapter 4: Paddock Noise
Notes:
I did some changes to this chapter cause I didn't notice I posted the unfinished version 😭. Again, imma make this a romcom cause I swear to God, they're sad as hell
Chapter Text
If Edmund had thought the crowd outside Silverstone was overwhelming, the inside was its own kind of circus.
Security gates, bustling fans, cameras flashing every few seconds, and the unmistakable hum of machinery echoed from every direction.
Luna was bouncing beside him, her Silverstone pass clipped neatly to her jacket.
She was practically glowing. She tugged Edmund along, pointing out the media zone where reporters hustled with cameras, and the paddock where sleek cars rested under tents like caged beasts.
Edmund, however, was being dragged along like a very unimpressed cat.
At this point, he don't care anymore what news outlet will released his face as he damn knows, a lot of cameras has been flashing and one of those, most likely captured atleast his face.
He just decided to accept his fate again.
“Over there—see? That’s the media pen. Drivers get swarmed there after practice sessions,” Luna explained, grinning like a child at Christmas.
“And that’s the hospitality suite—don’t even try getting in without the right pass. And oh! That’s the paddock entrance! We’re going there next.”
Edmund adjusted the sunglasses she had shoved on him earlier—for disguised, which is ridiculously obvious.
“You kidnapped me, threw me in a car, dragged me through a crowd, and now you’re parading me through some glorified garage.” He tilted his head toward her. “I hope you’re proud.”
“Very.” Luna beamed. “You needed this.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You sound like you’re sending me to therapy.”
“Who says I’m not?”
That earned a reluctant twitch of his lips.
The paddock was alive—mechanics rushing about, journalists carrying cameras larger than Edmund’s head, fans hovering in hopes of glimpsing a driver.
For someone who prided himself on appearing detached, Edmund couldn’t help but notice heads turning toward him.
A couple of girls whispered furiously, phones raised, trying to confirm if it was really him.
“This,” Luna announced dramatically, “is where all the action happens.”
Edmund arched a brow at a mechanic currently buried under the hood of a car. “Fascinating. A man with a wrench.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
She ignored him completely, tugging him toward a restricted-looking area where media people swarmed.
Edmund kept pace, his expression sliding between boredom and faint amusement as they passed by rows of cars being tinkered with, camera crews hustling, and pit crew members in branded gear.
The cars shot past in blurs of color, engines screaming, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Edmund’s arms folded across his chest as he tried not to look impressed, but the truth was in the widening of his eyes.
“They’re really... fast,” he admitted reluctantly.
Luna clapped her hands. “See? You’re converted already!”
“I didn’t say that,” Edmund replied dryly, though his gaze stayed fixed on the cars.
“But I can respect anyone willing to strap themselves into a missile and drive straight into a corner at that speed. That’s... bold.”
Luna beamed, already launching into a detailed explanation of tire compounds, DRS zones, and track limits.
Edmund only half-listened, nodding politely while thinking the cars were impressive enough without understanding every technicality.
Then, mid-session, one of the cars suddenly lost grip and slid violently into the gravel, spraying dirt and smoke.
The crowd gasped as marshals scrambled. Edmund leaned forward instinctively, eyes narrowing.
“That looked dangerous,” he muttered.
“It’s okay,” Luna said quickly, watching closely but not alarmed. “It happens a lot in practice. He’s fine—look.”
The driver climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under his arm, brushing gravel from his suit. He crouched down to check the tires, gesturing at a mechanic who had run over.
Edmund tilted his head, curiosity flickering.
He couldn’t see the man clearly from this distance, only the broad shape of him and the way he moved with an ease that seemed practiced.
Something about it struck him, but the moment passed as another car screamed by, distracting the crowd.
He straightened eventually, slipping his hands back into his pockets.
“So. Cars go fast, car goes boom, man climbs out. And you willingly watch this for fun.”
Luna laughed, relieved at his return to sarcasm. “You’re enjoying this, admit it.”
“Mm. I’ll admit it’s not boring,” he said, eyes still flicking once more toward the man by the gravel trap before turning away.
——
Luna continued her enthusiastic commentary, explaining yellow flags and safety procedures, but Edmund only nodded absently.
By the time practice ended, the three of them moved down toward the garages, flashing the passes Luna had proudly secured.
The atmosphere here was different—quieter but tense, mechanics moving like clockwork, journalists buzzing in clusters, and the drivers slipping in and out of their team areas.
As they walked, more people began to recognize Edmund.
A couple of fans called out his name. Others pulled out their phones. Edmund gave a polite smile to one or two, then leaned toward Luna with a dry laugh.
“Your sunglasses disguise is failing.”
“Shh. Just keep them on,” Luna insisted.
“They’re useless.”
“Maybe, but you look good in them.”
Samuel stifled another laugh. “She has a point.”
Edmund rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as Luna kept pulling him along.
Inside the garage area, Luna was unstoppable, pointing out everything she knew about the cars, the teams, the engineers, and dragging Edmund from one spot to another like a tour guide on caffeine.
Edmund listened with half his patience and half his sarcasm, but even Samuel noted the small smirk tugging at his lips—he wasn’t miserable.
Eventually, Edmund excused himself, asking for directions to the restroom. Luna gestured toward the corridor, still mid-explanation about pit stops.
The quiet was a relief. Edmund washed his hands, fixed his shirt, and sighed at his reflection. “Day off, Hale. And this is what you’re doing with it.”
When he returned, however, Luna and Samuel were nowhere in sight.
The crowd had shifted, people moving quickly around the garages. He tried calling Luna’s phone—no signal. Samuel’s went unanswered too.
And then it happened—fans spotted him again. A couple approached with phones out. Edmund offered a polite smile, muttering a “hello” as he tried to move past. But more faces turned, more people noticing.
Oh no.
He picked up his pace, nodding at one or two but trying not to engage. The crowd thickened, and soon he could hear his name being called, phones flashing.
“Brilliant,” he muttered under his breath.
When the group behind him grew too large, he swore softly and broke into a run. He darted left, then right, slipping past a pair of journalists, nearly colliding with a mechanic.
His shoes echoed against the concrete as the sound of chasing footsteps followed.
Heart racing, he spotted a door ahead. He tried the handle—locked.
“Damn it.”
He rushed to the next one, yanking it open without hesitation, and slipped inside, slamming it shut behind him. Breathing hard, he leaned against the door, listening for a moment.
Silence.
Finally, he let out a sharp exhale, pushing a hand through his hair. He turned to take in the room—and froze.
There was someone there.
A man, standing a few paces away, looking at him with calm curiosity.
“Hi,” the man said simply.
Edmund blinked, still catching his breath.
“...Hi.”
Chapter 5: The Stranger in the Room
Notes:
Sorry yall, I got busy cause I got fucking bitten by a mouse and I had to take a vaccine for it just incase, and got busy with work where I just fucking cried my god. Anyway, here are the chapters hope you enjoy! And please do continue to comment, I love reading your thoughts about the story so far.
Chapter Text
“Hi.”
The voice carried a trace of amusement, warm but edged with curiosity.
Edmund froze, shoulders still braced against the door.
His eyes landed on the man across the room—the driver.
Helmet resting on the counter beside him, black hair slightly damp, sharp lines softened only by the easy set of his mouth.
He looked as though he had stepped straight out of the chaos of the track and into this quiet, dimly lit space.
The stranger tilted his head, studying him. “You look breathless. Lost?”
Edmund exhaled, half a laugh, half nerves.
“Something like that.” He pushed himself away from the door and offered the faintest, sheepish smile.
“Sorry for barging in. I didn’t realize—well, I realized too late. I was just hoping to hide here for a few minutes. It seems half the paddock decided to chase me.”
The man chuckled, low and unbothered, leaning back against the counter. “Yeah. I know why.”
That caught Edmund off guard. He blinked, suspicion flickering across his face. “Do you?”
“Of course.” The man’s grin widened. “You’re Edmund Hale.”
Edmund’s shoulders relaxed at once, relief spilling out of him. “Good. For a moment, I thought you’d mistake me for some lunatic stalker. That would’ve been awkward.”
The man laughed, a real laugh this time, rich enough to fill the quiet room. Edmund found himself almost smiling too, despite the ridiculousness of his situation.
They might’ve gone on—Edmund had half a retort perched on his tongue—when his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He fished it out, already wincing.
“Luna,” he muttered, then pressed the call.
The speaker nearly blasted his ear off.
“ED! WHERE DID YOU GO? WE’VE BEEN LOOKING EVERYWHERE!” Luna’s voice was shrill, the background noise swallowing half her words. The garage was alive with engines again, the roar of machinery bleeding through the call.
Edmund pulled the phone back, grimacing. “I can’t hear you,” he said loudly into the receiver.
“WHAT?!”
“I said I—never mind.” He sighed, massaging his temple. “I’ll come find you. Just… stay where you are.”
The line crackled, her voice sharp again, then cut. Edmund lowered the phone, slid it back into his pocket, and shook his head with a faint groan.
“Family,” he muttered by way of explanation.
The man cleared his throat, a polite gesture. “Need help getting back?”
Edmund glanced up at him, caught the steady gaze, and gave a small smile.
“No, I’ll manage. Thank you, though. And… for letting me stay here. Genuinely saved me from being flattened against a wall of camera lenses.”
He moved toward the door, listening for footsteps or voices outside.
It seemed like the corridor was quieter now, the tide of the crowd having drifted elsewhere.
He let out a breath of relief.
Just as he reached for the handle, something settled onto his head.
Edmund froze, then looked up slightly.
A cap.
A racing cap, worn in but still sharp, brim shading his face instantly.
He turned, caught the faintest glimmer of mischief in the man’s eyes.
“You’ll blend better,” the stranger said simply, nodding his head like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Edmund adjusted the cap, the brim tugging lower across his forehead.
It could help, annoyingly enough. He gave a short laugh, half genuine, half exasperated.
“Thanks. I’ll return it when I can.”
The man shook his head, still smiling, still that easy calm. “Keep it. Or not. Doesn’t matter.”
Edmund lingered for just a second, the absurdity of the moment not lost on him.
Hiding in a stranger’s room, borrowing his cap, chased by crowds he hadn’t asked for.
It was surreal, and yet—there was something oddly grounding in the man’s presence.
But Edmund only nodded once, briskly. “Well. Thanks again.”
And with that, he slipped out into the hall, cap pulled low, stride purposeful. The corridor was mercifully clear, and within moments he disappeared back into the current of Silverstone, leaving behind the quiet room and the man who had, without knowing it, just shifted the course of his day.
——
The hallway was blessedly quiet. Edmund tugged the brim of the borrowed cap lower, testing the way it shaded his face.
It was strange—just a piece of fabric, really—but it gave him an odd sense of cover, like he’d slipped into some temporary disguise.
He exhaled, shoulders loosening as he started down the corridor.
It was ridiculous when he thought about it: ducking into a stranger’s room, nearly making a fool of himself, only to end up having a perfectly civil conversation with the man.
Not just civil—strangely easy. Most people either looked at him with thinly veiled curiosity, or with that eager, too-bright gleam that said they already had their own idea of who “Edmund Hale” was.
But that man—whoever he was—hadn’t seemed unsettled.
Had laughed, actually laughed.
The sound still lingered in Edmund’s ears, low and unhurried, like he’d been amused rather than bothered.
And then there was the cap—the thing now sitting on his head.
Edmund reached up and brushed a hand over the stitching again. It wasn’t like the cheap ones being hawked at every corner of the circuit.
This one was heavier, the inside lining carried a faint signature stitched in silver thread—something he hadn’t noticed until the man had dropped it on his head without a second thought.
On the front, in sharp embroidery, gleamed the silver Mercedes-AMG Petronas emblem.
Even Edmund recognized the word Mercedes, though not its full weight in this world.
It was probably a merch piece reserved for people in the paddock, not for those pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the grandstands.
But Edmund, oblivious to its weight, treated it like any other cap: a convenient shield from eyes that didn’t belong on him.
“Keep it. Or not.”
The words rang again. Casual, careless. As though the thing wasn’t worth half the attention Edmund now suspected it might draw.
He shook his head, almost laughing at himself. If it turned out to be something collectors fought tooth and nail for, he’d look like the world’s worst impostor.
By the time he spotted the familiar flash of Luna’s hair near the garage entrance, the knot in his chest had eased slightly. She was pacing, phone in hand, waving it around as though trying to get better signal.
Samuel stood beside her, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, the picture of long-suffering patience.
——
The second Luna caught sight of him, she exploded.
“Edmund Hale!” She stomped forward, jabbing a finger at him. “Where on earth did you go? Do you have any idea—” Her tirade cut off as her eyes snagged on the cap pulled low on his head. Her jaw dropped. “Is that… no. No way.”
Samuel’s brows rose, his usual composure cracking into something close to surprise. “Hold on—Ed, Why are you wearing that?"
Edmund blinked, thrown. “A cap? From some man who saved me from the crowd. Why?”
Luna gaped at him, hands flying into her hair. “Not just ‘a cap.’ That’s a Mercedes team cap. And not the fan merch they sell out there—the actual driver’s issue. Only the drivers, their inner circle, or someone they personally give it to wears those. They’re like… impossible to get.”
She gestured at the silver emblem, her voice pitched somewhere between reverence and disbelief. “Mercedes isn’t just any team. They’ve dominated Formula 1 for the last decade—record-breaking championships, the most iconic drivers on the grid. People worship this logo. It’s practically holy in the paddock.”
Samuel let out a low whistle. “And you’re just… strolling around in one. Do you have any idea how many people here would sell their souls for that?”
Edmund frowned, tugging at the brim again as though the thing might suddenly transform into something else. “How was I supposed to know? He just shoved it on my head and told me to keep it. I didn’t even catch his name.”
Luna groaned, somewhere between exasperated and horrified. “Do you realize what people are going to think, seeing you in that? They’ll assume you’re—” She cut herself off, waving a hand wildly. “Ugh! I can’t believe this. Of all the people to stumble into…”
Edmund deadpanned, “Forgive me for not studying Formula One cap etiquette before coming here.”
That earned a laugh out of Samuel, though Luna was still glaring holes through him. She shook her head, muttering under her breath as she turned back toward the garage.
Edmund followed, falling into step beside his cousin. The roar of engines echoed louder now, the scent of fuel and rubber hanging thick in the air.
Around them, the Silverstone crowd pulsed with excitement, but Edmund found his thoughts straying back to the quiet room, the amused voice, and the cap resting on his head.
He had no idea who the man was. No clue that by taking the cap, he’d just walked into something larger than himself.
The whole day felt stranger than it should have. And somehow, he knew it was only the beginning.
Luna leaned closer, lowering her voice like the thought itself was dangerous. “Ed, whoever gave you that has to be someone seriously high up in Mercedes. Like… either a driver or someone running the team.”
Edmund just gave a half-shrug, like the weight of her words slipped right past him. “All I know is he let me catch my breath for a moment. That’s good enough.”
Chapter 6: The Weight of a Day
Chapter Text
By the time the car rolled back into the city, the sun had already sunk low, leaving only a faint orange haze against the horizon.
The neon lights of shopfronts and streetlamps bled into the night as traffic hummed around them.
Luna had been talking a mile a minute since they left Silverstone, still buzzing with leftover adrenaline, but at some point—somewhere between laughing at Samuel’s teasing and recalling for the third time how Edmund’s face looked when he was mobbed—she’d burned out completely.
Now, curled up in the backseat with her head leaning against the window, she was out cold.
“Guess the commentary finally got too exhausting,” Samuel muttered from behind the wheel, amused.
Edmund glanced over his shoulder. Her sunglasses were still lopsided in her hand, clutched like some prize she’d forgotten to put down before dozing off. He couldn’t help but smile.
“She gave it her all. Silverstone ought to pay her for her services. Personal guide, translator, and race explainer rolled into one.”
“You’re not wrong,” Samuel said, shaking his head.
He chuckled under his breath. “You’d think she was the one who ran the race.”
The traffic lights washed the inside of the car in red and gold, but she didn’t stir. By the time they reached his building, Edmund knew there was no chance she’d make it home on her own.
With a resigned sigh, he rounded the car, unbuckled her seatbelt.
When they finally pulled up outside Edmund’s apartment, Samuel offered to help with Luna, but Edmund waved him off.
“She’s light. I’ve got her. Go home and thanks for today”
Samuel nodded and smiled “Told you, you’ll enjoy it”
Edmund just shook his head smiled.
Carrying Luna in his arms, Edmund headed to his penthouse.
The staff nodded at him, smiling, greeting him, Like this is something that they’re used to seeing.
When the elevator came, Luna muttered something incoherent against his shoulder but didn’t wake.
Edmund smirked. “Light as a feather until you’re dead asleep. Then it’s like hauling a sack of bricks.”
The lift ride was quiet except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors opened onto his floor, he shifted her weight and nudged his apartment door open with his foot.
Inside, the familiar scent of coffee and books greeted him, a welcome calm after the chaos of the day.
He carried Luna straight to the guest room—her room, technically, since she’d stayed there enough times that she might as well claim it.
Gently, he laid her down on the bed, tugging a blanket over her.
For a moment he just stood there, watching her chest rise and fall, her brow smooth and peaceful.
“You wore yourself out,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Figures.”
Leaving the door cracked, he padded back to the living room. He tossed his keys on the coffee table, flopped onto the couch, and pulled out his phone.
There was one person he knew would be waiting to hear from him.
The call connected after a single ring.
“Edmund?” came the voice—smooth, warm, like velvet in the quiet of his apartment.
His aunt.
He smiled instinctively, exhaustion easing at the sound.
“Evening, Aunt Marianne. Thought I’d let you know Luna’s here with me. She practically kidnapped me today.” He let himself fall deeper into the couch cushions, one arm draped over his eyes.
Her laugh, soft and familiar, filled the line.
“That sounds exactly like her. Did she at least behave?”
“Depends how you define behave,” Edmund said dryly.
“Dragged me through half of Silverstone, narrated every car that moved, and almost got me trampled by a crowd. I’ve never been more convinced she was swapped at birth.”
His aunt chuckled, the kind of laugh that made his chest ache with fondness. “You’re good to her. Always have been.”
He could picture her smile, even without seeing it.
For a moment, silence stretched—comfortable, but heavy.
Then her voice lowered, softer, threading through the quiet.
“You know I love you like my own, Edmund. And your mother would’ve been so proud of the man you’ve become.”
His throat tightened, the ache sharp and sudden.
Images of two faces—fuzzy with time yet permanent in his heart—flickered before him.
He swallowed hard, blinking at the ceiling lights until they blurred. The words caught him off guard, tightening his throat. It had been years since anyone had spoken of his parents with that kind of warmth.
He’d been four when the plane went down. Too young to remember much beyond blurred faces and laughter that still echoed in dreams he could never quite hold on to.
Marianne had been there ever since—his mother’s twin, stepping in without hesitation to raise him as her own alongside Luna.
“I know,” he whispered, voice rough. “Both of you saved me when I had nothing. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
“Oh you silly child,” Marianne murmured.
He swallowed hard and managed a smile she couldn’t see. “Thank you. For everything. I love you too, you know.”
“I know.” Her voice was steady, though he thought he heard the faintest tremor beneath it.
“Now, don’t wear yourself out. You’ve always carried too much on your shoulders.”
He laughed lightly, easing the moment before it cracked open into something heavier.
“You make it sound like I’ve had some tragic day. It was just cars and crowds, Aunt. Nothing life-changing.”
“Mm. Somehow, I doubt that.”
They talked for a while longer—little things, easy things. She asked about work and how come most people seem to make him like he’s a person who does not smile, he just laughed and assured her that atleast his family, friends, and employees known him more.
He teased her about the endless garden projects she was obsessed with, and in return, she scolded him for not eating properly.
Eventually, the hour caught up with them.
“I’ll send Luna back home tomorrow,” Edmund promised, stretching his legs across the couch.
That earned him another laugh, bright and fond. “Good luck waking her.”
When the call ended, Edmund stayed still for a while, letting silence settle over him.
His chest felt heavy, but in a good way, like a reminder that he was still tethered to something.
Eventually, he pushed himself upright with a sigh.
He was bone-tired, but a reluctant smile curved on his lips. For all the chaos and panic, for all the exhaustion, he had to admit… he’d enjoyed himself.
Mostly. The crowd-chasing bit, less so.
He rubbed his face with both hands, ready to sink into the silence of sleep, when his phone buzzed again.
The moment he opened it, he nearly groaned aloud.
Lucas sent him an article.
There was a picture—him in the Mercedes cap and Luna’s sunglasses, half-hidden, looking like someone who had no business pretending to blend in at Silverstone.
The another text was sent to him: Really? F1?
Edmund buried his face in his hands. “Bloody hell.”
But when he peeked through his fingers, he found himself laughing.
Soft, tired, but real.
What a day.
——
That same day just an hour earlier, not far away from Edmund, another man had his phone open with the trending page glowing across the screen.
The headline read:
“Edmund Hale in Mercedes Cap Sparks F1 Speculation.”
The man leaned back in his chair, chuckling under his breath.
“Internet really is crazy.”
He scrolled further, seeing clips and screenshots of Edmund wandering through Silverstone, sunglasses tilted just enough to hide his face, the unmistakable black Mercedes-AMG cap sitting on his head like it belonged.
People had slowed down the videos, zoomed in, analyzing every little detail.
He shook his head, still amused, when a voice came from the doorway.
“Ten,” one of the staff members said—it was their coach, leaning on the doorframe with crossed arms. “Isn’t that your cap?”
Ten glanced up, still grinning faintly. “Yeah. I lent it to him.”
The coach raised a brow. “You don’t lend your caps though, especially that one. Thought it was one of your lucky caps.”
Ten shrugged, spinning his phone once on the desk before letting it clatter softly. “He looked like he needed it more than I did.”
The coach gave him a look, somewhere between curious and skeptical, but said nothing more. After a beat, he pushed off the doorframe.
“Internet’s gonna eat that alive, more so compare to your little crash from earlier in the practice session” he muttered on his way out.
Ten just leaned back further in his chair, gaze returning to the ceiling for a moment before he reached over and closed the trending feed.
Crazy or not, the thought of that man—Edmund, was it?—somehow winding up in the middle of this world made him chuckle again.
And then, as quickly as the thought came, he shook it off.
After all, it was just a cap. Just an encounter today.
Nothing more.
Chapter 7: Echoes in Snow
Chapter Text
The dream came without warning.
It began with warmth.
Green stretched endlessly before him, an ocean of pastures swaying under a soft wind.
The air smelled of pine and damp earth, alive with the distant chatter of birds hidden in the treeline.
It felt like the start of a summer morning, and Edmund couldn’t tell if he was standing, or floating, or simply existing inside this scene.
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then something shoved him.
Hard.
His body pitched forward before his mind could catch up. The grass disappeared. His knees slammed into something solid and cold.
He hissed soundlessly and looked down—snow.
A thick, endless blanket of white. His breath fogged against the air, sharp and biting, though he hadn’t felt the transition.
Just seconds ago, he was surrounded by life and color, now he was drowning in silence.
He blinked. The treeline was gone. No birds. No wind. Only white—under his knees, under his hands, across the horizon, folding him into a void that looked like a world scrubbed clean of warmth.
His throat worked, but no sound came out.
He tried again, jaw straining, and nothing. It was as if something had stolen his voice.
His chest tightened.
He tried to speak, to demand what was happening, but no sound came out. His lips moved; his throat strained.
Nothing.
Then he heard it.
His name.
Edmund.
This time it wasn’t just his name.
There was crying.
The sound was broken, muffled sobs woven into words he couldn’t catch. The harder he tried to listen, the farther they slipped from him, like water leaking through his fingers.
His pulse quickened.
The cries turned into gasps, sharp, desperate, as if whoever they belonged to was reaching for him but drowning at the same time.
He pressed his palms into the snow. His nails dug in, stinging from the cold. He wanted to shout back, to demand who was calling him, but the air tore nothing from his throat.
A crack ran through the ground beneath him.
Snow split open in jagged lines like shattered glass.
The cries grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of voices—male, female, young, old—all broken, all calling his name.
He wanted to cover his ears, but he couldn’t move.
He was frozen, trapped.
Then the snow gave way.
He fell into nothing.
Edmund jolted upright with a gasp, heart hammering.
His sheets tangled around his legs, damp with sweat.
The air in his room was too warm, too real, yet he couldn’t shake the sensation of snow biting into his knees.
His throat felt raw, like he had been shouting. He pressed a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly.
The red glow of the clock on his nightstand mocked him: 6:03 a.m.
The ceiling of his apartment blurred into focus. His chest rose and fell too quickly, sheets twisted around his legs.
He dragged in a breath, then another, pressing a palm to his sternum as if to ground himself.
“Great,” he muttered, voice rasping.
Sleep wasn’t coming back, not after that.
He swung his legs out of bed and shoved his feet into running shoes.
If his brain wouldn’t let him rest, he’d at least try to outrun whatever ghosts it had decided to throw at him.
Sleep was pointless now.
——
By the time he laced up his shoes and hit the pavement, the city was yawning awake.
The streets were tinted gold, the sun climbing steadily, soft light catching glass windows and throwing long shadows.
A few other joggers passed him, earbuds in, some cyclists weaving by. Edmund moved at his own pace, letting the cool air burn the last of the dream fog out of his head.
And yet—it clung. The snow. The voices.
Winter had always sat wrong with him.
Not in a “cold-weather-is-annoying” way.
No, it unsettled him.
Since childhood, snow had felt like something he couldn’t quite trust, a warning more than a season.
He’d laugh about it sometimes when friends teased him for hating ski trips, but deep down it wasn’t a joke.
It made him feel like he was being watched, as if the air itself was waiting to swallow him whole.
Danger.
That was the word.
Winter always felt like danger.
The city was barely awake when Edmund stepped outside.
The air had that faint morning chill that clung just before the sun claimed the streets. His breath puffed lightly as he set into a jog, his hoodie pulled up.
The sky shifted as he ran—deep gray softening into pale orange, streaks of light bleeding across the rooftops. The streets were quieter than usual, only the occasional car humming past, or an old man dragging crates in front of a bakery.
Edmund liked mornings like this. It felt like the world hadn’t remembered itself yet, and he could move through it unseen.
He pushed his pace harder, as if he could shake the fragments of his dream loose with every step.
Pastures.
Snow.
Voices. None of it made sense, but the panic it left clung stubbornly in his chest.
Eventually, his route curved him toward Allan’s corner shop. The shutters were half up, the neon sign flickering lazily to life. Allan himself was inside, fussing with a coffee machine.
Edmund slowed, caught his breath, and slipped inside. The bell above the door gave a tired little ring.
“You’re too early,” Allan said without looking up, though there was no bite in his voice. “Shop barely opened five minutes ago.”
“And yet the smell of caffeine dragged me here like fate,” Edmund replied, leaning against the counter.
Now Allan glanced up, squinting at him. “You look like you wrestled with a ghost and lost.”
Edmund chuckled softly. “Close enough.”
“Rough night?”
He shrugged, not eager to explain that his brain had decided to dump him into some snowfield of screaming voices. “Just couldn’t sleep.”
Allan grunted, pouring coffee into a paper cup and handing it over. “This one’s on the house. You look like you need it.”
Allan gave a snort and pushed the door open. “Get inside”
Edmund caught the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Allan smirked. “Yeah, I better be. Don’t get used to it though. Next one’s full price.”
Edmund laughed properly this time, shaking his head as he took a sip. The bitterness cut through the last remnants of his nightmare.
He stood there a moment, just watching the sun inch higher through the shop window. People were beginning to stir outside—joggers, dog walkers, early commuters. The city was waking up.
For a moment, Edmund let himself breathe. The dream still clung to him in flashes—snow under his hands, voices calling his name—but here, with hot coffee burning against his tongue and the hum of life creeping back into the streets, he almost felt steady again.
Almost.
Edmund had just settled into his first sip when his phone started buzzing across the table. Six, seven, eight notifications in a row.
Chats.
Mentions.
Articles.
He frowned, ignoring it for another drink—until the screen lit up with Luna.
He sighed, thumb sliding across. “Hello?”
“WHOSE CAP IS IT?” Luna’s voice blasted so loudly he had to pull the phone away.
“Good morning to you too,” Edmund muttered.
“Don’t dodge me! I asked you the other day, you said you didn’t know, but I know you know! Is it Hamilton’s? Russell’s? Tell me it’s Toto’s, oh my god, if it’s Toto’s—”
“I don’t know who those people are,” Edmund deadpanned, earning himself a glare from Allan who had definitely overheard.
Luna gasped dramatically. “You don’t know Lewis Hamilton? You don’t know George Russell? You—” She broke into a groan. “Samuel was right, you live under a rock.”
“I told you,” Edmund said, rubbing his temple, “someone gave it to me when I got caught in the crowd. That’s it.”
She wasn’t buying it. “What did he look like? Tall? Dark hair? Blue eyes? Oh wait—was he one of the drivers? Was he a coach? Oh my god, what if it was—”
“Luna,” Edmund cut in, exasperated, “I was trying not to suffocate in a mob, I didn’t exactly take notes.”
On the other end, his cousin groaned like it was a personal tragedy. “You’re impossible.”
“Glad we’ve established that,” he said, leaning back in his chair, though a small smile tugged at his mouth.
Her voice dropped lower, muttering almost to herself. “Still unfair. You get handed a Mercedes cap and I don’t.”
Then, muffled but audible, came his aunt’s voice in the background: “Luna, stop shouting at your cousin at six in the morning.”
Their aunt’s voice came closer now, calm and amused. “Sorry for the noise, dear. I told her if it ended up in your hands, then perhaps it’s yours now.”
Edmund grinned at that, even as Luna continued whining in the background. The call ended with more playful screeches and promises from Luna to “uncover the truth herself.”
——
Later that afternoon, after a meeting wrapped and Samuel started rambling about lunch options, Edmund felt the itch again.
The dream hadn’t left him, not really.
Snow clung to the edges of his thoughts like frost on glass.
Without warning, he said, “Let’s go fencing.”
Samuel blinked. “Fencing? As in swords?”
“Yes, swords. You’ve got a brain, use it,” Edmund said, already heading for the door.
“I’m in work shoes!” Samuel protested, jogging to keep up.
“That’s your problem.”
As soon as they came in the hall, the instructor raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest.
Within minutes, Edmund was dancing across the floor in a blur of clean, sharp movements.
Samuel, meanwhile, looked like a man trying to swat a fly with a broom.
“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Samuel panted, staggering back as Edmund tapped him cleanly on the chest.
“You agreed to lunch,” Edmund said, grinning. “This is my version of an appetizer.”
Samuel groaned, “Is this your payback for Silverstone?”
but Edmund caught the twitch of amusement on his friend’s face.
The fencing hall was cool and quiet, faint echoes of clashing blades filling the space.
Edmund slid into it like muscle memory, the world narrowing the moment he put on the mask.
Samuel, on the other hand, shuffled awkwardly in borrowed gear, clearly regretting ever being friends with him.
“You look ridiculous,” Edmund commented.
Samuel spread his arms. “At least I showed up.”
Their blades touched, the bout began, and for a while Edmund let instinct take over—thrust, parry, retreat.
The rhythm steadied him, each clash stripping away fragments of unease. Yet, in the back of his mind, snow still lingered.
When they finally collapsed onto the benches, Samuel sweating buckets, Edmund only smirked faintly. “You lasted longer than I expected.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Samuel panted.
——
By evening, Edmund was back in his office. The city outside dimmed into night as he drowned in paperwork, stacks of reports keeping him company.
He meant to go home.
Instead, exhaustion dragged him under, head resting on folded arms.
And although he was reluctant in the quiet, sleep reclaimed him once more.
lemonsbubble on Chapter 3 Sun 31 Aug 2025 03:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
MultiFandom15 on Chapter 4 Wed 03 Sep 2025 04:05AM UTC
Comment Actions