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 momentum 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 media center.
"You're fucking lying to me," 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 somehow more threatening than if she'd brandished a knife. "Don't you dare lie to me, Nick."
"She's just been my mod for three years. That's as much as I know about her."
She stalks toward me, each step deliberate, predatory. The mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed, crawling forward until she's hovering over me, 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 means 'friend' in internet slang," I stammer, my voice cracking with panic. "That's literally what she told me when I asked her about the username a couple years ago."
Ivy pulls back slightly, her expression shifting from rage to something almost pitying. The look she gives me is so condescending that heat rushes to my face, it's the same 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 means 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 means?" 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 anime 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 me. 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 me," I protest, trying to wiggle my wrists free from Ivy's iron grip. "In all these years, she's never once asked to meet up or suggested anything beyond our streamer-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 me 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, momentarily forgetting the precariousness of my position. "Aren't you too busy for that? Ivy, your time is way too valuable to be moderating some gaming stream when you're literally a world champion…"
"Don't tell me what my time is worth," she cuts me 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, meeting 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 me. After a moment, 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 someone 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 arrangement 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 comes to the track."
Her expression softens as she studies my face. Her hands tighten around my wrists, not painfully but possessively, grounding me to her.
"Good," she whispers, leaning down until her lips brush against my ear. "Stay hungry for me, Nick. I love that about you."
The tension in her body shifts from anger to something 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 something 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 memories flood back, sitting in the family garage while my mother loomed over Melissa, dissecting every lap, every turn, every millisecond lost. The same cold, clinical tone. The same ruthless assessment.
"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. Melissa'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 some pretty awful childhood memories."
Ivy freezes mid-sentence, her analytical expression melting into something softer, more concerned. "What do you mean?"
"My mom," I explain, looking away from her intense gaze. "She used to tear Melissa apart like this after every practice session. Same tone, same 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 memories flooding back with uncomfortable clarity. "If Melissa performed 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 me for breathing too loudly, even screaming at restaurant servers. But somehow, it always circled back to Melissa being the ultimate disappointment."
I rub my face with my free hand, suddenly exhausted. "I just wanted to enjoy the stream tonight, you know? Racing games are supposed to be fun for me. I'm not trying to become the next virtual you or whatever. I don't want the pressure of perfection hanging over me."
Ivy's weight shifts on the bed as she releases my other wrist, her expression softening into something I rarely see, genuine concern mixed with understanding. She moves to sit beside me rather than over me.
Suddenly, Ivy's arms wrap around me, pulling me into a fierce embrace that catches me off guard. Her warmth envelops me completely, her face buried in the crook of my neck.
"If I ever meet 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 something darkly comforting about having a three-time world champion threatening bodily harm to my mother on my behalf. I return her embrace, arms tightening around her athletic frame.
"If you do meet 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 Melissa?" I press, suddenly concerned about the inevitable meeting between my sister and my new girlfriend. "When you meet her, please don't immediately go into attack mode. She's been through enough."
Ivy's lips curl into that predatory smile I've come 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 me 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 someone like Ivy Hunt could possibly love someone like me.
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' meant 'friend,'" she murmurs suddenly, amusement coloring her voice. "That's so dumb, it has the word husband in it, Nick."
"Okay."
She smiles wide as she pulls me impossibly closer.
"My little bimbo."