Laura 🤍

You stare at your manager, Elena, certain you've misheard her. "I'm sorry, what?"

"A PR relationship," she repeats, sliding a glossy folder across the mahogany table. "With Carlos Alcaraz. The tennis player."

Your stomach drops. You know exactly who Carlos Alcaraz is—the golden boy of tennis, with his megawatt smile plastered across every sports magazine and billboard from Madrid to Miami. And that's precisely the problem.

"Elena, I'm an actress. A nobody actress who's had exactly three speaking roles in indie films no one's seen. Why would someone like him need—"

"You're not a nobody anymore." Elena's perfectly manicured finger taps the folder. "That Netflix series you just wrapped? They're predicting it's going to be huge. You're about to become very visible, very quickly. And Carlos's team wants to soften his image, make him more relatable to a broader audience. Sports fans are loyal, but they want him to cross over into mainstream celebrity. Dating a rising actress? Perfect narrative."

The word "dating" makes your skin crawl. You've spent your entire career—short as it's been—trying to let your work speak for itself. You're shy by nature, the kind of person who breaks into a cold sweat at premieres and award shows. The thought of fabricating a relationship, of having to hold hands and smile for cameras, of lying to the entire world...

"I can't do this," you whisper.

"You signed a contract," Elena reminds you gently but firmly. "The studio has approval over your public image for the next eighteen months. They think this is good for you. Good for the show."

You want to scream. You want to flip the table. Instead, you do what you always do—you swallow your anger, let it burn quietly in your chest, and nod.

The first meeting is arranged at a private restaurant in Beverly Hills, the kind of place where celebrities go to be seen while pretending they don't want to be seen. You arrive fifteen minutes early because you're always early, your anxiety making punctuality a survival mechanism.

Carlos arrives exactly on time.

He's taller than you expected, broader through the shoulders, with that same easy smile you've seen in countless interviews. He's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, somehow making casual look effortless in a way you never could.

"You must be the lucky girl," he says in accented English, extending his hand.

The condescension in his tone—intentional or not—makes your jaw tighten. "And you must be the tennis player who needs an actress to make him interesting."

His smile falters for just a second. Good.

You shake his hand briefly, then pull away, sliding into the booth. This is going to be a disaster.

The first month is excruciating.

You're contractually obligated to be seen together at least twice a week. Coffee dates in West Hollywood where paparazzi just happen to be waiting. Walks along the beach in Malibu where photographers lurk in the dunes. A courtside appearance at one of his matches where you have to wear his spare shirt and smile like you understand tennis.

You don't understand tennis. You don't understand Carlos.

He's always performing, always "on." Every interaction feels calculated, from the way he holds your hand (firm enough to look real, loose enough to drop quickly when the cameras disappear) to the way he laughs at things that aren't funny. You catch him checking his phone during dinner, probably reading what people are saying about you online.

"This is so fake," you mutter one evening as you leave a restaurant, his arm around your waist for the cameras.

"That's literally the point," he replies once you're in the car, his arm immediately dropping. "Why are you making this so difficult?"

"Because I didn't want this!" The words burst out before you can stop them. "I wanted to be known for my work, not for who I'm pretending to date!"

"You think I wanted this?" His eyes flash. "You think I need this? I'm number one in the world. I sell out stadiums. My team thought this would be good for my brand, but honestly? You're making it miserable."

The words sting more than they should. You turn away, blinking back tears you refuse to let him see.

The rest of the ride passes in silence.

The shift begins so gradually you almost don't notice it.

It's week six, and you're at his place in Alicante—a "romantic getaway" that's really just more content for the tabloids. You're sitting on his terrace, watching the sunset over the Mediterranean, both of you scrolling through your phones in silence.

"Do you actually like acting?" he asks suddenly.

You look up, surprised. It's the first personal question he's asked that wasn't scripted by your teams.

"Yes," you say carefully. "It's the only thing I've ever been good at. I was so shy as a kid I could barely speak in class, but put me in a play, give me someone else's words, someone else's life? I could do that."

He nods slowly, setting his phone down. "I understand that. Tennis is... it's the only place I feel completely myself. Like everything makes sense."

It's the first real thing he's said to you. The first glimpse beneath the performance.

"Why did you agree to this?" you ask. "Really?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "My team said it would help me connect with people outside of sports. But honestly? I think I was lonely. I thought maybe having someone around, even if it was fake, would be better than going to events alone." He laughs, but it sounds hollow. "Stupid, right?"

"No," you say softly. "Not stupid."

Something shifts between you. Not much, but enough.

The next few weeks are different.

You still do the scheduled appearances, still hold hands for the cameras, but the spaces in between become less hostile. He starts asking about your auditions, actually listening when you talk about the craft of acting. You start watching his matches, beginning to understand the strategy and athleticism involved.

One evening, you're at his place again—it's become easier to meet there, away from LA's constant scrutiny—and he's teaching you to play tennis on his private court.

"No, no, you're holding the racket all wrong," he laughs, coming up behind you. His hands cover yours, adjusting your grip. "Like this. Firm but flexible."

You're acutely aware of his chest against your back, his breath warm on your neck. When did his touch start feeling less like an obligation and more like something you don't want to end?

"Now swing," he murmurs.

You do, and the ball actually goes over the net. You spin around in excitement, finding his face inches from yours. His eyes drop to your lips for just a second before he steps back.

"Good," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That was good."

Your heart is racing, and it has nothing to do with the exercise.

It happens at a charity gala in Monaco.

You're wearing a dress your stylist chose, something elegant and understated that makes you feel almost beautiful. Carlos hasn't stopped looking at you all evening, and not in the performative way he did those first weeks. This is different. Heated. Real.

You're on the balcony, escaping the crowd inside, when he finds you.

"You okay?" he asks, joining you at the railing.

"Just needed air. Too many people."

He nods, understanding. He's learned your tells over these months—the way you fidget with your bracelet when you're anxious, how you need quiet spaces to recharge.

"You look beautiful tonight," he says quietly. "I know I'm supposed to say that for the cameras, but there are no cameras here. And you look beautiful."

Your breath catches. "Carlos..."

"I know this was supposed to be fake," he continues, turning to face you fully. "I know we're supposed to be pretending. But I'm not pretending anymore. I don't think I have been for weeks."

Your heart is thundering in your chest. "I don't know how to do this," you whisper. "I don't know how to tell what's real and what's for show anymore."

He reaches out, cupping your face gently. "This is real. What I feel when you laugh at my terrible jokes? Real. The way I look for you in the crowd at my matches now, because playing better when you're watching? Real. The fact that I can't stop thinking about you, even when we're not scheduled to see each other? So fucking real."

He kisses you then, soft and questioning, and you kiss him back with months of confusion and frustration and unexpected feeling pouring out of you. This isn't for cameras. This isn't for contracts. This is just you and him, and it's terrifying and perfect.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathless.

"What do we do now?" you ask.

"I don't know," he admits, laughing softly. "I've never fallen in love during a fake relationship before."

Love. The word should scare you. Instead, it feels right.

"Me neither," you whisper, and kiss him again.

You don't tell anyone at first.

The relationship is still "PR" on paper, but everything between you has changed. The hand-holding isn't for show anymore. The way he pulls you close at events is because he wants you near. The photos of you laughing together are real moments, captured and sold, but real nonetheless.

You still haven't told him about the epilepsy.

It's been controlled for years with medication, your seizures rare and usually triggered only by extreme stress or strobing lights. You've been careful, so careful, to avoid triggers. Your team knows, the production insurance knows, but you've kept it private otherwise. The thought of telling Carlos, of seeing pity or fear in his eyes, makes you want to hide.

But you know you need to tell him. Especially now that this is real.

You plan to do it one quiet evening at your place. You've rehearsed the words a dozen times, trying to find the right way to explain without making it seem like a bigger deal than it is.

But life, as it tends to do, has other plans.

You're in New York for fashion week—another obligation, another appearance. Carlos has a break in his tournament schedule and flew in to surprise you. The gesture made your heart swell; the old Carlos would never have done something so spontaneous, so romantic.

You're walking through SoHo after dinner, his hand warm in yours, talking about everything and nothing. You're happy. Genuinely, surprisingly happy.

Then you turn a corner, and they're there.

Paparazzi. At least a dozen of them, maybe more. They must have been tipped off about your location.

The flashes start immediately, a strobe-light effect of white bursts that hit you like physical blows. You freeze, your hand tightening on Carlos's.

"Smile, baby!" one of them shouts.

"Carlos, is it true you're moving to LA for her?"

"Are you two engaged?"

More flashes. Faster now, overlapping, a disorienting cascade of light and sound.

You feel it starting—the aura, the strange sensation that precedes a seizure. Your vision starts to fragment at the edges.

"Carlos," you manage, your voice tight with panic. "The lights—"

He doesn't understand at first. "It's okay, we'll just—"

"No, the lights, I need—" Your words are slurring now. You can feel yourself starting to disconnect.

And then his arm is around you, solid and sure, and he's shouting.

"STOP! STOP THE FUCKING CAMERAS!"

His voice is so loud, so commanding, that some of them actually pause.

"Turn off the flashes! NOW!" He's pulling you against his chest, one hand cradling your head, trying to shield you. "The lights are triggering seizures! Turn them the fuck off!"

Some comply immediately. Others keep shooting, because of course they do—this is the story now, the drama they've been waiting for.

Carlos turns his back to them, curling his body around yours, making himself a human shield. "I've got you," he murmurs against your hair. "I've got you, mi amor. Just breathe. Focus on my voice."

You're shaking, teetering on the edge, but his voice anchors you. His heartbeat against your cheek, steady and strong. The warmth of his arms.

"Someone call a fucking ambulance!" he shouts over his shoulder. Then, softer, just for you: "Stay with me. Please stay with me."

The aura begins to recede slowly, agonizingly. You're not going to seize—not this time. But it was close. So close.

"I'm okay," you finally whisper. "I'm okay."

He doesn't let go. If anything, he holds you tighter.

Security arrives—his team, alerted by the commotion. They push the photographers back, creating a barrier. Carlos lifts you easily, carrying you to the waiting car despite your weak protests that you can walk.

He doesn't speak during the ride to your hotel, just holds you against him, his jaw tight with residual anger and fear.

In your hotel room, he finally sets you down on the bed, then immediately kneels in front of you, taking your hands.

"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice cracks. "Why didn't you tell me you have epilepsy?"

"I was going to," you say, tears finally spilling over. "I was planning to tell you. I just... I didn't want you to see me differently. Didn't want you to treat me like I'm fragile."

"Fragile?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You're the strongest person I know. You think having epilepsy makes you weak? You think I would think that?"

"I don't know! We've only been really together for a few weeks, and I didn't know how you'd react, and I was scared—"

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. It's desperate and fierce and tastes like salt from both your tears.

"I love you," he says when he pulls back. "I love you, and nothing about your health changes that. But I need you to tell me these things. I need to know how to keep you safe."

"The flashing lights are the main trigger," you explain, wiping your eyes. "Stress, lack of sleep, but mostly strobing lights. I take medication daily. I haven't had a full seizure in three years."

He nods, absorbing this. "Okay. Okay. So no more paparazzi ambushes. We'll have security scout ahead. And I'll carry your medication with me, just in case. What else? What else do I need to know?"

The fact that he's asking, that he wants to understand rather than run, makes you fall even more in love with him.

You spend the next hour talking about it—really talking. You explain your diagnosis, your treatment plan, your fears. He listens to everything, asking questions, holding your hand the entire time.

"I'm sorry I shouted at the photographers," he says eventually. "I know you like to keep things private."

"Are you kidding? That was the hottest thing anyone's ever done for me." You laugh, and it feels good. "My hero, yelling at paparazzi."

He grins, some of the tension finally leaving his shoulders. "I would do anything for you. Yell at photographers, fight off bears, learn to act in one of your indie films—"

"Let's not get crazy."

He laughs, pulling you into his arms. You curl against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling safe in a way you haven't in years.

"This is going to be all over the internet by morning," you murmur.

"I don't care. Let them write whatever they want. The only story that matters is ours."

You tilt your head up to look at him. "And what's our story?"

"Two people who were supposed to be pretending," he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Who accidentally fell in love for real. Who are going to figure this out together, one day at a time."

"I like that story."

"Me too." He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. "Me too."

The next morning, you wake up to your phone exploding with notifications.

The photos are everywhere—Carlos shouting at the paparazzi, his body curved protectively around yours. The headlines range from sympathetic ("Carlos Alcaraz Protects Girlfriend During Medical Emergency") to exploitative ("Tennis Star's Girlfriend's Secret Health Battle Revealed").

You're reading through them, anxiety building, when Carlos emerges from the bathroom, hair damp from the shower.

"Stop looking at those," he says, plucking the phone from your hands.

"They're saying—"

"I don't care what they're saying. How are you feeling? Any residual effects from last night?"

The fact that his first concern is your health, not the PR nightmare, makes your chest tight with emotion.

"I'm okay. A little tired, but okay."

He nods, sitting beside you on the bed. "I talked to my team this morning. And yours. We're releasing a joint statement."

"Carlos, you don't have to—"

"It says that you have epilepsy, that it's well-managed, and that we're asking for privacy and for photographers to be mindful of using flash photography around you. It also says that anyone who doesn't comply will be dealing with my lawyers."

You stare at him. "You're really going to war with the paparazzi for me?"

"I'm really going to war with anyone who puts you at risk." He takes your hand. "I know you wanted to keep this private. But it's out now, and we can either let them control the narrative or we can be honest. Your choice."

You think about it. About spending years hiding, managing your condition in secret, always afraid of being exposed. And then you think about Carlos last night, shouting at the cameras, choosing your safety over optics.

"Okay," you say. "Let's release the statement."

He kisses you softly. "Okay."

The response is overwhelming.

For every cruel comment, there are dozens of supportive ones. People sharing their own experiences with epilepsy. Fans praising Carlos for his protectiveness. Photographers' associations actually issuing guidelines about flash photography around you.

Your Netflix series premieres two weeks later, and it is, as Elena predicted, huge. But the interviews aren't just about the show—they're about your epilepsy, about raising awareness, about your relationship with Carlos.

You're nervous before your first talk show appearance, but Carlos flies in to be in the audience. You can see him in the front row, giving you a thumbs up, and it steadies you.

"So," the host says with a warm smile, "you and Carlos Alcaraz. That's quite a love story."

You laugh. "It really is. We were set up by our teams, actually. A PR relationship."

The audience gasps, delighted by the gossip.

"But somewhere along the way," you continue, finding Carlos's eyes in the crowd, "it stopped being PR and started being real. He's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

The audience awws. Carlos is grinning, looking slightly embarrassed but pleased.

"And he's been incredibly supportive about your epilepsy," the host prompts gently.

"He has. He's been amazing. The night the paparazzi incident happened, he didn't hesitate. He just... protected me. And he's been educating himself, making sure he knows how to help if I ever have a seizure. It means everything."

After the show, Carlos meets you backstage, pulling you into a tight hug.

"You were perfect," he murmurs into your hair.

"I was terrified."

The thing about falling in love with Lando Norris is that it happens in increments so small you don't realize you're drowning until you're already under.

It starts with the little things. The way he insists on walking you home every single time, even when you tell him it's unnecessary, that you've walked these Monaco streets a hundred times before, that you'll be fine. He just shakes his head with that boyish smile and says, "I know you will be, but I want to." And then his hand finds yours in the dark, fingers lacing together like they were designed to fit that way, and suddenly the ten-minute walk becomes the best part of your night.

Or the pet names. God, the pet names. You'd never been one for them before—they always felt forced, saccharine, like something people did because they thought they were supposed to. But when Lando calls you "angel" in that soft voice of his, usually right before he kisses you goodbye, or "bee" when you're buzzing around his apartment tidying things he's left scattered about, or "pretty girl" whispered against your temple when he pulls you close—it doesn't feel forced at all. It feels like he's seeing something in you that you've never seen in yourself.

You've been together for a few months now. Not long enough that you've stopped feeling butterflies when his name lights up your phone. Long enough that you've started keeping a toothbrush at his place, that he knows how you take your coffee, that comfortable silences have become just as precious as conversation.

Long enough that you've fallen completely, irrevocably in love with him.

And that's the problem, isn't it? Because somewhere between the late-night walks and the way he absentmindedly plays with your fingers when you're watching movies and the sound of his laugh echoing through his apartment, you've given him the power to absolutely destroy you.

The thought sits in your chest like a stone, growing heavier each day.

You try not to think about it. You try to just be present, to enjoy what you have while you have it. But then you'll be scrolling through your phone and see another comment—‘She's cute but let's be real, how long will this one last?’ or ‘Another month, maybe two. He gets bored easily’ or worse, the ones that pick apart your appearance, your ordinariness, the way you're so obviously not model-gorgeous or Instagram-perfect or whatever it is they think Lando Norris should be dating.

You know you shouldn't read them. Lando's told you as much, has cupped your face in his hands and said, "They don't know you, angel. They don't know us." But the words burrow under your skin anyway, feeding the fear that's already there.

Because what if they're right? What if one day he wakes up and realizes he could have anyone—someone more exciting, more beautiful, and you're just the girl he dated for a few months before he figured that out?

The thought makes you feel sick.

Tonight, you're at his place for dinner. Nothing fancy—he'd ordered from that Italian place you both love, the one that makes the carbonara he's obsessed with. The Monaco sun is setting through his floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything in shades of amber and rose gold, and Lando is sitting across from you at his dining table, gesturing animatedly as he tells you a story about Oscar.

"—and I swear, he just looked at me with that completely straight face and said, 'Mate, that's a bin, not a toilet,' and I was like, 'I know that, I'm not an idiot,' but honestly, bee, I was so tired I genuinely wasn't sure for a second—"

You should be laughing. It's a funny story, and he's doing his Oscar impression, which is always terrible and always makes you giggle. His eyes are bright with amusement, his hair still damp from the shower he'd taken before you arrived, wearing that soft grey hoodie you love because it makes him look cozy and touchable and yours.

Yours.

Except he's not, is he? Not really. Not in any permanent way. Not in any way that means he won't wake up one day and decide this has run its course.

The realization hits you like a physical blow—not a new thought, but the weight of it suddenly unbearable. If you lost him, if he left, if this ended, it would break you. Completely. Irreparably. You've never felt this way about anyone, never been so consumed by another person that the thought of their absence feels like losing a limb.

And he's sitting there, beautiful and bright and entirely unaware that you're falling apart, telling you about Oscar and the bin, and suddenly you can't breathe properly because how did you let this happen? How did you let yourself fall this hard for someone who could leave at any moment?

You feel it before you can stop it—the hot sting of tears, the way your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to force it back, but it's too late. A single tear spills over, tracking down your cheek.

Lando stops mid-sentence.

"Hey." His voice changes instantly, all the laughter draining out of it. "Hey, what's wrong?"

You shake your head, swiping quickly at your face. "Nothing, I'm fine. Sorry, keep going—"

But he's already moving, his chair scraping against the floor as he pushes back from the table. In two strides he's beside you, and then he's kneeling—actually kneeling on the floor beside your chair—and his hands are reaching for yours.

"Angel." His voice is so soft it makes your chest ache. "Talk to me. What happened?"

His thumbs are stroking over your knuckles, and you can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne—something clean and cedar-like that you've come to associate with safety. You can't look at him. If you look at him, you'll completely fall apart.

"It's stupid," you manage, your voice thick.

"If it's making you cry, it's not stupid." He squeezes your hands gently. "Come on, honey. Tell me."

There's something about the way he says it—patient and concerned and so genuinely worried—that cracks something open inside you. You take a shaky breath, then another, trying to find the words.

"I just—" Your voice breaks. You try again. "I was listening to you talk, and you were so happy, and I just... I realized that if I ever lost you, I don't know what I'd do."

His hands tighten on yours. "Lost me? What do you mean?"

"I mean when you—" You have to stop, swallow hard against the lump in your throat. "When you get bored. When you realize you could do better. When this ends."

"When this—" He sounds genuinely confused. "Why would you think this is going to end?"

And that's when it all comes spilling out, messy and incoherent and probably pathetic, but you can't stop it now that it's started.

"Because it always does, doesn't it? And I know what people say online, I know I shouldn't read it but I do, and they're always talking about how I'm just another girlfriend, how you'll move on eventually, and maybe they're right because look at you—" You finally meet his eyes, and the concern in them almost undoes you completely. "Look at you, Lando. You're you. And I'm just... me. And I like you so much—I think I might even be more, and that terrifies me because what happens when you wake up one day and realize I'm not special enough or interesting enough or pretty enough—"

"Stop." His voice is firm, but not harsh. He releases one of your hands to cup your face, his thumb catching the tears still falling. "Stop, please."

You try to look away but he won't let you, his hand gentle but insistent on your jaw.

"Is that really what you think?" he asks quietly. "That I'm going to leave you?"

You can't speak, so you just nod.

Something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or frustration, or both. He takes a breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer.

"Come here."

He stands, gently pulling you up with him, and then his arms are around you and he's holding you so tightly you can feel his heartbeat against your cheek. One hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and he just holds you like that for a long moment, letting you cry into his hoodie.

"I'm sorry," you mumble against his chest. "I'm sorry, this is so stupid—"

"It's not stupid." His voice rumbles through his chest. "If you've been feeling like this, it's not stupid at all. I just—" He pulls back slightly, enough to look down at you, his hand moving to cup your face again. His eyes are so green in the fading light, searching yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. "I hate that you've been scared. I hate that I didn't realize."

"It's not your fault—"

"Let me finish." His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, so tender it makes you want to cry all over again. "Those people online? They don't know anything about us. About you. They see what they want to see, and they make up stories because that's what people do. But they're wrong."

"Lando—"

"They're wrong," he repeats, more firmly. "Because I'm not going anywhere. And you're not just 'another girlfriend.' You're—" He stops, seeming to struggle for words, and you can see something shift in his expression. A decision being made. "You're everything."

Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.

"I've never felt like this about anyone," he continues, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. "Never. And it scares me too, if I'm being honest, because I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong, but it doesn't. It just keeps getting better. You keep getting better. Every day I learn something new about you and it just makes me—"

He stops again, and this time when he looks at you, there's something raw and vulnerable in his eyes that you've never seen before.

"I love you."

The world stops.

You forget how to breathe.

"What?"

"I love you," he says again, and his voice is steady now, sure. "I'm in love with you. I have been for weeks, probably, but I didn't want to scare you off by saying it too soon. But if you're sitting here thinking I'm going to leave, thinking you're not enough—" His other hand comes up so he's cradling your face in both palms, and his eyes are so intense you feel pinned in place. "Then I need you to know. I love you. Not just like you, not just care about you—I'm completely, stupidly in love with you."

You can't speak. Can't think. Can't do anything but stare at him as his words sink in, rearranging everything you thought you knew.

"You love me?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

"So much it's actually kind of terrifying," he admits with a shaky laugh. "I think about you constantly. When I'm at the track, when I'm doing media stuff, when I'm supposed to be focusing on literally anything else. I see something funny and my first thought is 'I need to tell her about this.' I can't sleep properly when you're not here. And those walks home?" His thumb brushes across your lips, so gentle it's almost reverent. "I insist on them because it means I get ten more minutes with you. Because I'm not ready to say goodnight yet. Because holding your hand in the dark is genuinely one of my favorite things."

A sob catches in your throat, but this time it's not from fear.

"I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner," he continues. "I'm sorry I let you doubt this, doubt us. But I need you to understand something, okay?" He waits until you nod before continuing. "I'm not going anywhere. This isn't temporary for me. You're not temporary for me. And I know I can't control what people say online, but I can promise you that they're wrong. You're not just enough—you're everything I didn't know I was looking for."

"Lando." His name comes out broken, and then you're crying again, but it's different this time. Relief and joy and overwhelming love all tangled together.

"I love you too," you manage. "I love you so much."

His smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You laugh through your tears. "I was so scared to say it. So scared that if I admitted it out loud, it would make it real, and then it would hurt more when—"

"When nothing," he interrupts gently. "There's no when. There's just us, okay? For as long as you'll have me."

"That might be a really long time," you warn him, and he grins.

"Good. I'm counting on it."

And then he's kissing you, soft and sweet and tasting like salt from your tears, and you're kissing him back with everything you have. His hands slide from your face to your waist, pulling you closer, and you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair the way you know he likes.

When you finally break apart, both slightly breathless, he rests his forehead against yours.

"No more doubting," he murmurs. "No more being scared. If you ever feel like that again, you tell me immediately, okay? Because I can't fix it if I don't know."

"Okay," you whisper.

"And for the record?" He pulls back just enough to look at you properly, his eyes soft. "You are special. You're interesting. And you're so beautiful it actually distracts me sometimes, which is really inconvenient when I'm trying to do important things like drive at 200 miles per hour."

You laugh, swatting his chest. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"I'm being honest." He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "I love your laugh. I love the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating. I love that you always steal my hoodies and then pretend you didn't. I love how you remember little things I tell you, like how I don't like mushrooms or how I'm superstitious about my left sock going on first. I love—" He stops, shaking his head with a smile. "I could keep going but we'll be here all night."

"I wouldn't mind that," you say softly.

"No?" His smile turns playful. "Not even though our dinner's probably cold now?"

You glance over at the table, at the forgotten pasta and the wine you'd barely touched. "We can reheat it."

"Or," he says, his arms tightening around your waist, "we could order something else later. Much later."

"What did you have in mind for now?"

Instead of answering, he just kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, and you let yourself sink into it. Let yourself believe it. That he loves you. That he's not going anywhere. That this beautiful, bright, wonderful person has chosen you, and keeps choosing you, and will continue choosing you.

When he eventually pulls back, he's smiling that soft smile that's just for you, the one that makes him look younger and impossibly sweet.

"I really do love you, you know," he says quietly. "In case that wasn't clear."

"It was pretty clear," you assure him, your own smile so wide it almost hurts. "But I wouldn't mind hearing it again."

"I love you, angel."

"I love you too."

He kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again, quick and playful. "Come on. Let's go reheat dinner and you can tell me all the other things you've been worried about so I can systematically prove them all wrong."

"That might take a while."

"Like I said—" He takes your hand, lacing your fingers together the way he always does, and leads you toward the kitchen. "I've got time. All the time in the world."

And looking at him, at the way he's smiling at you like you hung the moon, at the way his thumb is tracing absent patterns on the back of your hand, you finally let yourself believe it. This isn't temporary. This isn't something that's going to end the moment you let your guard down.

This is real.

Later, after you've reheated the pasta and eaten it curled up together on his couch, after he's told you he loves you approximately seventeen more times like he's making up for lost time, after you've kissed him until you're both dizzy with it—you find yourself tucked against his side, his arm around your shoulders, your head on his chest.

"Hey, bee?" he says softly, his fingers playing with your hair.

"Mm?"

"Thank you for telling me. About being scared. I know that couldn't have been easy."

You tilt your head to look up at him. "Thank you for... everything else. For saying what you said. For meaning it."

"Always going to mean it," he promises. "You're stuck with me now."

"Good," you whisper, settling back against his chest. "That's exactly where I want to be."

His arms tighten around you, and you can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks. "Me too, pretty girl. Me too."

And for the first time in months, the fear that's been sitting in your chest like a stone finally dissolves. Because he loves you. He actually loves you. And maybe, just maybe, that's enough to believe in.

No—not maybe.

Definitely.

Outside, Monaco glitters in the darkness, the same streets you've walked together dozens of times. Tomorrow, he'll probably insist on walking you home again, even though you're likely going to end up staying the night. He'll hold your hand in the dark and call you angel and kiss you goodnight like you're something precious.

And you'll let him, because you finally understand what you have.

Something rare. Something special.