When you’re in love with a racing driver, you learn there are different kinds of speed. There’s the calculated velocity of a perfect qualifying lap, and then there’s the terrifying montum of Ivy Hunt storming into her trailer like she’s about to commit a murder.
I’m sitting on the king-sized bed, phone still warm in my palm from frantically texting her that I have no idea who Nickismyhusbando was in real life. The door crashes open with enough force to rattle the expensive bottles of moisturizer on her vanity. Ivy stands silhouetted in the doorway, her purple-streaked hair wild around her face, chest heaving like she sprinted all the way from the dia center.
“You’re fucking lying to ,” she snarls, kicking the door shut behind her with a thunderous slam. “I watched your entire stream.”
My stomach drops through the floor. “Ivy, I swear…”
“Don’t.” She holds up one finger, the gesture sohow more threatening than if she’d brandished a knife. “Don’t you dare lie to , Nick.”
“She’s just been my mod for three years. That’s as much as I know about her.”
She stalks toward , each step deliberate, predatory. The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, crawling forward until she’s hovering over , her purple eyes burning with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
“Three years,” she whispers, her voice dangerously soft. “Three years she’s been moderating your streams. Three years of inside jokes and little heart emojis. Three years of her calling herself your ‘husbando’ while you act like you barely know her.”
“Wait, husbando just ans ‘friend’ in internet slang,” I stamr, my voice cracking with panic. “That’s literally what she told when I asked her about the userna a couple years ago.”
Ivy pulls back slightly, her expression shifting from rage to sothing almost pitying. The look she gives is so condescending that heat rushes to my face, it’s the sa expression you’d give a child who still believes in Santa Claus well into their teens.
“Oh, Nick,” she says, her voice softening dangerously. “You sweet, naive idiot. Husbando ans she considers you her fictional husband. She’s been openly claiming you as hers for three years while you just... what? Thought she was being friendly?”
“Are you sure that’s what it ans?” I ask, my voice small as the implications start sinking in. My mind races through years of interactions, searching for signs I might have missed.
“Of course I’m sure,” Ivy says with absolute certainty, her eyes narrowing. “I googled it on the way over here. It’s ani terminology. It’s weeb shit, Nick.”
“Oh.” The single syllable falls from my lips like a stone. “I... I had no idea. She’s always only been friendly with . Professional, even.”
In one fluid motion, Ivy grabs my wrists and pins them above my head, her body pressing mine into the mattress. Her face hovers inches from mine, teeth bared in a feral smile.
“She’s a fucking simp, Nick,” she growls, her breath hot against my face. “She’s been obsessing over you for years while you’ve been oblivious. And now she’s trying to manipulate you when you’re vulnerable.”
“She’s only ever been friendly with ,” I protest, trying to wiggle my wrists free from Ivy’s iron grip. “In all these years, she’s never once asked to et up or suggested anything beyond our strear-mod relationship.”
Ivy’s grip tightens, her knuckles whitening as she leans closer, her purple eyes burning into mine. “You’re being stupid. Tell you what, make a mod. I’ll show you how a woman acts when she doesn’t have ulterior motives.”
“You want to be my mod?” I blink in surprise, montarily forgetting the precariousness of my position. “Aren’t you too busy for that? Ivy, your ti is way too valuable to be moderating so gaming stream when you’re literally a world champion…”
“Don’t tell what my ti is worth,” she cuts off, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. She releases one of my wrists to press her index finger against my lips. “I decide what deserves my attention, and right now, that’s making sure this internet stalker understands exactly who you belong to.”
“Ivy,” I say, eting her intense gaze, “you can be a mod if you want, but there are conditions. You can’t scare away my viewers, and you absolutely cannot just ban Husbando. She’s been to helpful. That’s non-negotiable.”
Her eyes widen slightly, that dangerous fire still burning in them as she stares down at . After a mont, she releases a dramatic sigh that seems to deflate her entire body.
“Do you know,” she says, her voice softer now, “that you’re literally the only person in the whole world I make concessions for?”
The admission hangs between us, surprisingly vulnerable coming from soone who bulldozes through life taking exactly what she wants.
“That’s what love is,” I reply with a small smile. “Compromise.”
She feigns a disappointed frown, but I can see the corners of her mouth fighting not to turn upward.
“Fine,” she mutters. “I just hope this little arrangent doesn’t affect my performance on race day.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” I say quickly, a familiar anxiety tightening my chest. “I don’t believe in much, but I’m ridiculously superstitious when it cos to the track.”
Her expression softens as she studies my face. Her hands tighten around my wrists, not painfully but possessively, grounding to her.
“Good,” she whispers, leaning down until her lips brush against my ear. “Stay hungry for , Nick. I love that about you.”
The tension in her body shifts from anger to sothing else entirely. Her teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers down my spine.
“Also,” Ivy adds, pulling back slightly with a mischievous glint in her eyes, “I’d like to discuss your driving technique on that oval. Your line was atrocious.”
I laugh nervously, the sound hollow even to my own ears. She shifts her weight, sitting up straighter as her expression transforms into sothing analytical and critical.
“Your entry into turn one was consistently too early,” she continues, her voice taking on that clinical precision I’ve heard her use with engineers. “And you were braking way too soon before the apex. No wonder you couldn’t maintain speed through the exit.”
My smile falters as mories flood back, sitting in the family garage while my mother lood over lissa, dissecting every lap, every turn, every millisecond lost. The sa cold, clinical tone. The sa ruthless assessnt.
“You need to trust the downforce more,” Ivy continues, gesturing with her hands now. “Even in a simulation, physics still apply. If you commit to the speed, the aerodynamics will keep you planted. Your problem is hesitation.”
I feel my chest tightening, that familiar suffocating sensation creeping in. lissa’s defeated expression flashes before my eyes, thirteen years old and being told she’d never make it if she couldn’t nail that racing line.
“Um, can we not do this?” I interrupt, my voice smaller than intended. “It’s just... this is bringing back so pretty awful childhood mories.”
Ivy freezes mid-sentence, her analytical expression lting into sothing softer, more concerned. “What do you an?”
“My mom,” I explain, looking away from her intense gaze. “She used to tear lissa apart like this after every practice session. Sa tone, sa criticism. I’d sit there watching my sister slowly crumble under the weight of it all.”
“And it wasn’t just during the criticism sessions,” I continue, the mories flooding back with uncomfortable clarity. “If lissa perford poorly at a race, Mom would spend the entire day radiating anger at everyone in her path, snapping at Dad for his cooking, yelling at for breathing too loudly, even screaming at restaurant servers. But sohow, it always circled back to lissa being the ultimate disappointnt.”
I rub my face with my free hand, suddenly exhausted. “I just wanted to enjoy the stream tonight, you know? Racing gas are supposed to be fun for . I’m not trying to beco the next virtual you or whatever. I don’t want the pressure of perfection hanging over .”
Ivy’s weight shifts on the bed as she releases my other wrist, her expression softening into sothing I rarely see, genuine concern mixed with understanding. She moves to sit beside rather than over .
Suddenly, Ivy’s arms wrap around , pulling into a fierce embrace that catches off guard. Her warmth envelops completely, her face buried in the crook of my neck.
“If I ever et your mother,” she whispsers against my skin, her voice vibrating with barely contained rage, “I swear I’m going to beat the shit out of her. No one gets to treat my boyfriend like that.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, unexpected but genuine. There’s sothing darkly comforting about having a three-ti world champion threatening bodily harm to my mother on my behalf. I return her embrace, arms tightening around her athletic fra.
“If you do et my mom,” I say, still chuckling, “could you maybe not commit assault? Just... try to be civil?”
Ivy pulls back slightly, her purple eyes narrowed as she considers my request. “Maybe,” she concedes, though her tone suggests she’s making no promises. “I’ll attempt diplomacy first.”
“And what about lissa?” I press, suddenly concerned about the inevitable eting between my sister and my new girlfriend. “When you et her, please don’t imdiately go into attack mode. She’s been through enough.”
Ivy’s lips curl into that predatory smile I’ve co to both fear and adore. “No promises there, Nick. If she’s anything like Blair on track, my competitive instincts might kick in.”
I sigh deeply, resigning myself to the chaos that will inevitably ensue when these worlds collide. Ivy responds by pulling down onto the bed beside her, her body molding against mine as she nuzzles into my chest like a particularly dangerous housecat.
“I love you,” she whispers, the words still new enough between us to send a shiver down my spine. “Every broken, hesitant, too-kind part of you.”
My heart swells painfully in my chest. “Yes, yes, I love you too,” I reply, the repetition betraying my lingering disbelief that soone like Ivy Hunt could possibly love soone like .
We lie there in comfortable silence for several minutes, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest. The warmth of her body and the steady rhythm of her breathing gradually unwind the tension that had built up during the stream.
“I can’t believe you thought ‘husbando’ ant ‘friend,’” she murmurs suddenly, amusent coloring her voice. “That’s so dumb, it has the word husband in it, Nick.”
“Okay.”
She smiles wide as she pulls impossibly closer.
“My little bimbo.”
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