Chapter 12: The Truck Confession
The truck door closed with a heavy, metallic thunk that shut out the world. Inside, it was dim, quiet. The only light came from the dash, casting a soft green glow on Y/n’s hands as they settled on the steering wheel. The air smelled of old leather, pine-scented air freshener that had long since given up, and the faint, honest scent of drywall dust and sweat.
Margot let out a long, shaking breath, the adrenaline seeping out of her. She ran a hand over the cracked vinyl of the seat. “God, I think this leather is older than I am.”
“It’s broken in,” Y/n said, the engine rumbling to life with a loyal growl. “Like a good boot. More reliable than any of those plastic spaceships you usually ride in.”
“It smells like a hardware store.”
“It smells like work.” Y/n glanced over, a faint smile touching her lips. “Better than fake cherry and desperation.”
As they pulled away from the curb, leaving the shimmering venue shrinking in the rearview, Margot’s hand drifted from her own lap to rest on Y/n’s thigh. The dense muscle there was solid under the fine wool of the suit pants. She felt it flex slightly as Y/n shifted gears. It was the most calming thing she’d ever touched.
They drove in silence for a while, the city blurring past. Margot watched the streetlights streak across Y/n’s profile—the strong line of her nose, the focused set of her jaw. She wasn’t just driving; she was piloting them away, creating a moving bubble of safety.
“Where are we going?” Margot finally asked, her voice small.
“Away from that,” Y/n said simply. “Just for a minute.”
She turned off the main thoroughfare, navigating a maze of quieter streets until she pulled into a deserted parking lot overlooking a stretch of the river. The water was black, dotted with the reflected lights of warehouses on the opposite bank. She cut the engine.
The sudden quiet was immense. It pressed in on them, full of all the things left unsaid on the red carpet.
Margot stared at her own hands, now trembling slightly in her lap. “I’ve been so scared,” she whispered. The confession was torn from her. “Not of the questions. Not really. But of… of having something real and watching them try to turn it into a stunt. A headline. A controversy. I’ve watched them chew people up and spit them out for less.”
Y/n listened, her gaze fixed on the dark water.
“But tonight,” Margot continued, turning to look at her. “When you were just standing there? You didn’t look like you were waiting for their permission to exist. You just did. And for a second, I felt it too. I felt invincible.”
At that, Y/n moved. She unclipped her seatbelt with a sharp click and turned in her seat. She reached out, her work-roughened hands surprisingly gentle as they cupped Margot’s face, her thumbs brushing away tears Margot hadn’t even felt falling.
“Hey,” Y/n said, her voice a low rumble in the confined space. “You don’t have to be invincible. Not with me. You just have to be yourself. Even if that’s scared. Especially if that’s scared.”
The words unspooled the last tight coil of tension in Margot’s chest. She leaned into the touch, closing her eyes. “Just myself,” she repeated, a broken little laugh escaping her. “I’m not even sure who that is most days.”
“I know who she is,” Y/n said. “She’s the woman who makes terrible coffee and great eggs. Who talks to my dog like he’s a person. Who laughs so hard she snorts. Who felt like sunshine in my shitty apartment.” She leaned closer, her forehead almost touching Margot’s. “That’s who I showed up for. Not the one in the silver dress.”
Margot opened her eyes then, and the look she gave Y/n was stripped completely bare. No celebrity smile, no practiced charm. Just raw, grateful need. She closed the distance between them.
The kiss started slow, a soft exploration of relief. Y/n’s lips were chapped, her taste familiar—spearmint gum and the aftertaste of cheap champagne. But then Margot’s hands came up, sliding into Y/n’s short curls, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepened, turned urgent. It was a silent conversation, a transfer of all the fear and the longing and the stunning, electric certainty that had begun on the carpet.
Y/n’s hands left her face, one sliding down to the nape of Margot’s neck, the other finding the curve of her waist over the cool silk of the gown. Her touch was possessive, grounding. Margot melted into it, a soft sound escaping her throat.
When Y/n’s fingers found the slit in the side of the dress, hiking the fabric up slightly to trace the delicate lace edge of Margot’s underwear, Margot gasped into her mouth.
“Y/n,” she breathed, not a protest but a plea.
“Is this okay?” Y/n murmured against her lips, her finger still tracing that maddening line, a whisper of touch over her hip.
“God, yes. Please.”
Permission given, Y/n’s touch grew bolder. Her hand slid under the lace, palm warm against Margot’s skin. Her touch was firm, knowing, mapping the rise of her hip, the dip of her waist, as if committing it to memory. Every callus, every scar on those strong hands was a point of exquisite friction against Margot’s feverish skin.
The windows were fogging over, sealing them in their own private, humid world. The silver gown was a crumpled pool around Margot’s waist, Y/n’s suit jacket still hanging from her shoulders. The contrast was absurd, glorious. Here, in this old truck that smelled of manual labor, Margot Robbie was being unraveled by the steadfast, gentle hands of a construction worker, and it felt more right than any award she’d ever held.
Y/n broke the kiss, her breath coming in short, hot bursts against Margot’s throat. She rested her forehead against Margot’s shoulder, her hand stilling, just holding her. “We should go,” she said, the words strained. “This is… a really uncomfortable seat for what I want to do to you.”
Margot laughed, the sound breathless and wild. “What do you want to do?”
Y/n lifted her head. In the fog-muted light, her grey-blue eyes were dark, blazing with an intensity that made Margot’s stomach flip. “I want to take you home. I want to take this dress off you properly. I want to see you in my bed. I want to make you forget your own name.”
A thrill shot straight through Margot. “That’s a lot of wants.”
“I’m a patient woman,” Y/n said, slowly withdrawing her hand and smoothing down Margot’s dress with a tenderness that belied her words. “But I’m not a saint.”
She straightened up, grabbing her jacket from Margot’s shoulders and tossing it into the back seat with her hard hat. She started the truck again, the heater fan blowing cool air onto the foggy windshield, slowly clearing a porthole to the world.
As they pulled back onto the road, heading toward their building, toward home, Margot reached over and put her hand back on Y/n’s thigh. This time, Y/n covered it with her own, lacing their fingers together on the worn denim of her jeans she’d changed into before leaving her apartment, the suit pants neatly folded in the toolbox in the back.
The city lights streamed by, but Margot only saw the road ahead. She was done being scared. The woman beside her had walked onto a red carpet and faced down a thousand flashing lights without flinching. The least Margot could do was face the quiet, beautiful future waiting for them in the dark, just a few blocks away.