Favorite BTS Fanfics

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you. 

ABU DHABI GRAND PRIX 2023 "I can't believe this... I can't fucking believe this."

Joshua’s voice comes through the radio so soft, it’s barely audible over the roar of his engine. Your instinct is to keep your eyes on the screen, confirm that your driver’s tires are fine, fuel levels okay, no other car on his ass. But it’s useless because Joshua is seconds from the finish line with no chance for anyone else to take it and no time penalties to serve.

“Believe it, Shua,” you say into your mic as you swivel your chair around and away from your monitor. Your eyes immediately find the signature papaya orange MCL60 approaching the checkered flag like a bullet. “You did it.”

The words are bittersweet, and if this had been last season, you would’ve been jumping up and down with the rest of the team, screaming into Joshua’s earpiece and losing your goddamn mind. Today, though, you stay glued to your seat. Even when the wind of Joshua crossing the finish line right before your eyes whips at your face, even when the world explodes around you in a vivacious spray of confetti and champagne, even when Joshua Hong becomes a two-time F1 world champion—you stay seated. 

“We did it,” he corrects, sounding as calm as you feel. You wonder if you sound it, though—if you sound lonely too, because you are. “And that’s not what I can’t believe.”

You watch as his car starts to slow across the track. “Oh yeah? Always knew you were going to bag another title, did you?” you joke. He doesn’t laugh. You clear your throat and sigh, knowing you’ve been skirting around the devastation of this all. “What can’t you believe, Shua?”

Silence. His car feels impossibly far from you even though it’s only been seconds. You think the irony is cruel. You wait a few more moments for his response, and when you receive none, you assume he’s already disconnected from the radio. Just before you take your headset off, he answers you. “I can’t believe that you’re really leaving me.”

Your stomach twists painfully. He makes his way back, pulling into the pit lane, where he parks next to the first place sign meant for him. Immediately, staff members are already swarming the car—some to tend to the car, some to offer him water, some to scream and cry and congratulate. But still, he stays inside his vehicle, and he stays connected to you. There are a multitude of things you want to tell him. 

You want to tell him you aren’t leaving him because you want to; you’re sparing both of your careers from the scrutiny that would inevitably come if you stayed. You want to tell him he’s currently the best driver on the grid. Your absence isn’t going to change that, especially when he’s so seasoned, that most of what you do now is just play music for him and inform him how many seconds he has until he reaches the next car. You want to tell him this is the right thing to do, no matter how horrible it feels.

Above all, you just want to tell him you love him—that although you only found out a few months ago, you think you fell in love with him the moment you both turned your radios on the first time you raced together—and that’s why you have to go. That’s why you can’t be his race engineer a second longer. In the end, “I can’t either” is what you settle on. I’m so sorry rings loudly in your head but never leaves your mouth.

“So this is it, huh?” His breath comes out shaky and you know him well enough to know it’s not from the adrenaline of winning another world title.

“This is it,” you confirm, a knot forming in your throat.

“It was a good run, L/N.” You think you hear a knot in his too.

“The best run, Hong.” You can’t help your voice from cracking when you add: “The best of my life.”

“Mine too,” he says with no hesitation, though his voice sounds watery now. You feel your heart break. 

“Shua,” you croak. 

“Hm?”

“Thank you. For the past five years, for genuinely believing I could get you here, for… being my… my friend.” The word hurts you in unimaginable ways. “The best friend. Thanks.”

“You don’t need to thank me. It was easy,” he responds. “You made everything easy—all of it. I should thank you… you… you make this sport worthwhile.” You press your lips together to keep from breaking out into uncontrollable sobs, nodding to yourself as you try to wrap your mind around this being your last real moment with Joshua. He sighs deeply, another brief silence engulfing the two of you before he speaks again. “I’ll see you out there?”

You hum because you can’t bring yourself to tell him he won’t. As you take your headphones off, the first of your tears fall and you let them; it’s the one time you can without being judged for being too emotional or too feminine. Every grown man on Team McLaren is bawling right now, anyway. You slide off your seat and watch from the pit wall as Joshua exits his vehicle a few moments later and waves at the deafening crowd. For five years, you’ve guided Joshua through every F1 track in the world, you weathered countless storms—literal and figurative—together, and you’ve made him a world champion twice. 

But for almost ten years, since the time you started as a low-ranking mechanic at McLaren, you also endured misogynistic slights from the more old-school members of your team, comments that it doesn’t take much to do your job when Joshua Hong is the driver, and teasing that you were only in this to snag a rich husband off the grid. You persevered. You clawed your way up the ranks. You earned the respect you wanted so badly, and as much as you want to say fuck it and just stay, you can’t. Because being around Joshua when you’re knowingly in love with him feels impossible. And if you can’t hide it, then you’ll have to say it. And if you say it, your career will be over, and you can’t let it be tarnished now—not when it’s at its peak. Not when Joshua is at his either. Loving him will ruin everything you worked for. Loving him will not only cut you at the knees, but every woman after you who vies for this position. And it’s not going to happen.

Joshua doesn’t see you out there. You leave long before he even gets off the track and long before his time is freed up post photo ops and interviews. You can’t stay and confront the betrayal that’s been dancing in his eyes for weeks, even though he swore up and down that he was happy you found something new and exciting. You can’t let him wrap his arms around you one last time while he whispers heartfelt thank yous for an amazing season—an amazing five seasons—into your ear, confetti raining down and champagne soaking the both of you through to your bones. You can’t do any of it because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve and you’ll stay.

And you can’t. You have a flight to catch and the best F1 driver in the world to forget about.

Abu Dhabi two years ago was the last time you saw or heard from Joshua. A small part of you hoped he would reach out, but you knew that was a selfish thing to want; after all, you were the one that ran off without a proper goodbye after a five-year career together. Still, there were a lot of days you looked at your phone and wished he would send one of his silly memes or just ask how the job was going. Conversely, though, you never texted either. Not when he bombed his very next season, and not when he lost this season’s title by a hair. But now… now feels like as good a time as any to text.

The computer lab is in an uproar as your current class of female drivers stop what they’re doing to leap out of their seats and crowd around the massive flat screen television mounted on the back wall, gaping at it. You gape from your desk at the front of the classroom.

“Whoa, didn’t you work with him, Mickie?” For McLaren—a nickname that kind of irritated you at first but have grown accustomed to.

“She was his race engineer!”

“He’s crazy!”

Saki, who had been at your desk to ask a question when you noticed Joshua on the TV and immediately unmuted it, speaks softly—surely not meant to be heard amongst the other girls’ shouting. “He did seem tired.”

You tear your eyes off Joshua to frown at the student. You’re unsure if she was talking to you or to herself, but the observation shakes you to your core anyway. You would never admit it, but you watched every single race of his since you left. Before this, you don’t know that you would describe him as tired, but now, you’re not sure if you managed to miss something your student saw. You choose not to respond, finding your way back to your ex-driver’s face.

“There’s no way he’s serious! Is he serious?” 

“Why wouldn’t he be serious? His career has been tanking.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s because his race engineers haven’t been as good as Mick.”

“Maybe it’s time to get ahead of it and just retire while people still like him.”

“Shut up, Sophia!”

“Don’t talk to each other like that,” you mumble half-heartedly, too distracted by the TV to really reinforce the reprimand.

“He’s a legend! He had one bad season—” 

“Two,” someone says.

“Well, that’s not fair, he did pretty well this season.”

“—and now no one will give him a break.”

“Girl. He’s giving himself a break,” another voice chimes in.

“Anything other than first place is for losers.”

“This isn’t a break, this is career suici—”

“Okay!” a voice cuts sharply into the noise. You don’t flinch the way the girls do, eyes glued to the screen as Joshua patiently answers questions. The unmistakable clacking of the CEO’s heels striking the floor have all the girls straightening their posture. “Crazy news, I know.”

The TV turns off and you fight the urge to whine alongside the girls. You turn to look at Park Jihyo, who puts the remote back down on the edge of your desk where she found it.

“I know you’re all excited to be here together, but the season starts in just three months, and we’re hitting the ground running,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest and looking every driver in the eye. “And you aren’t going to let news about the millionth man in F1 derail your chances at getting into a major team, now are you, ladies?”

There’s a chorus of nos as Jihyo nods once and claps her hands before making a shooing motion. 

“Good. Because there’s no room for distractions when you’re a woman,” she reminds them. It’s something you’ve heard nonstop since coming to F1 Academy as a technical executive and instructor. Most of the time, you felt like it was being drilled into your head, not the girls’. “Now get back to working on… whatever engineering thing Y/N has you working on.” You snort. “You’re due at the gym for cardiovascular training in two hours and I don’t want to hear that a single one of you was late, understood?”

“Understood!” a bunch of girls chirp as they hurriedly turn back to their respective computers. You sigh, ready to get back to guiding and teaching them, when Jihyo steps into your path. She smiles mischievously. 

“What…?” you ask slowly, subconsciously slinking away from her as she leans forward.

“Got a minute?”

You want to say no, but as close as you personally are to Jihyo, she’s still your boss and you refuse to show her any sort of disrespect in front of the students, whether or not it’s a joke.

“Sure,” you say, nodding for her to enter your office ahead of you before turning back to the girls. “Listen up. You feel something off in your steering—slight pull to the right, but there’s no warning on the dash. You’re in the points with 10 laps to go. Give me a few minutes with CEO Park and when I’m back, I want to hear what you’re telling your engineer and what your game plan is.”

The girls don’t bother responding, immediately turning back to their notebooks or computers and parsing out their thoughts. You follow Jihyo into the office attached to your classroom, closing the door behind you. She takes the seat at your desk across from your own, obviously expecting you to sit there. Instead, you plop onto the couch face down, making your boss roll her eyes at you.

“So,” she starts slowly and awkwardly, “how are you feeling…?”

You stare at her blankly, cheek pressed into the fabric of the sofa. “Fine?”

“Pfft.” She kicks her heels off before she sinks lower in her seat, making herself just as comfortable as you. “Joshua Hong just announced a sabbatical and you’re ‘fine’?”

The words are surreal. You just watched a news broadcast of his announcement and the subsequent press conference, and still, your brain wants to convince you Jihyo is lying. The sabbatical is one thing—that was becoming a more normalized event in the sport as drivers started to focus on their families and their mental health. But Joshua’s own words during the interview was another.

Joshua, what does this sabbatical mean for your career? Do you plan on returning to to the track?

I’m not sure at the moment what it means. Maybe it’s time for me to rest and get my head back in the game for next season. Maybe it’s the beginning of an early retirement. I don’t know. I just know it’s needed and I’m grateful McLaren is working with me to make it happen.

No hesitation. The words “early retirement” really came out of Joshua “I’m Going to Be Buried in an MCL60” Hong’s stupid, pretty mouth. You never thought you’d see the day.

“Why would Joshua Hong’s career decisions affect me?” you ask stubbornly, knowing you’re being purposefully daft. “We don’t work together anymore.” You throw a hand up to gesture lazily at your office. “Obviously. You poached me.”

Jihyo lets out a single bark of laughter. “HA! Poached! That’s funny considering you had your foot halfway out of McLaren when I reached out to you. Why was that again?” she asks with fake forgetfulness. “Oh, right! You fell in love with your driver.”

“Every day I regret telling you anything about myself.”

“You didn’t tell me. Drunk you did.”

You wave your hand at her in a silent “whatever.”

“Well, if you’re so ‘fine,’ I have a favor to ask of you.” 

“Okay?” you sigh, feeling very much like the teenage girls outside of your office right now. It’s crazy what a man can do to your mood even two years after completely abandoning him. “You need me to look over more designs for this season?”

Jihyo scoffs like she’s about to say no before stopping herself. “Actually, yes, I do, but that’s not what my favor is. Especially because that’s not a favor, that’s your job.” You try not to laugh. “I need you to poach someone for me.”

You immediately tense. She doesn’t continue, letting the words really sink in. You scramble up onto your knees from where you were sprawled across the couch. “What the hell are you saying right now?”

“I’m saying that the best driver on the grid is on sabbatical a measly 2-hour flight from here, for who knows how long, and these girls could benefit from learning from the best of the absolute fucking best.”

“Joshua wants to rest,” you immediately argue. “And frankly, he needs it! The man has been behind some kind of wheel for an ungodly amount of years!”

“And you don’t think going from his schedule at McLaren to a schedule teaching girls here won’t be a significant change of pace for him?” she asks incredulously. “Please! Tell me that the transition didn’t feel like a full-on retirement, even for you.”

Jihyo isn’t wrong. Being a race engineer was deceptively tiring. A lot of people reduced it to sitting at a monitor for two hours, but your days were long and grueling and a lot more demanding than just race days. You were involved in what felt like countless hours of engineering debriefs, research and development, spreadsheets (god, the spreadsheets), and not to mention, Joshua made you somewhat of his personal therapist, begging you to follow him around the facility when he was in for practice sessions or training. If you stood your ground and refused, you’d find him following you around. Not to mention the traveling. Or the actual race days.

Coming to F1 Academy was a breath of fresh air. Sure, you came feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you, but that had more to do with leaving Joshua than anything else. F1 Academy slowed life down for you. The schedule wasn’t completely less forgiving; you were still on a race schedule, but instead of traveling to 21 different countries and having 24 different races over the course of nine months, you only had to attend 7 races in 6 different countries in roughly the same amount of time. On top of that, you weren’t a superstar driver’s race engineer. You weren’t anybody’s engineer; all you had to do was supervise and step in if someone was struggling with a student driver. Compared to F1, it practically felt like vacation. And even more than that, it felt meaningful, cultivating the careers of aspiring female drivers and giving them a path into a male-dominated sport. You know better than anyone else that Joshua would absolutely love it.

“I think this would be good for Hong, and I think this would be good for you,” she tells you. 

You try not to balk at her. “Do you hear yourself? You think it would be good for your technical executive and head engineering instructor to work with the man she left her last position for? You said it yourself! I was in love with him!” You ignore the way Jihyo very obviously tries to keep from rolling her eyes at your use of the word “was.”

“You can deny it all you want but I know there is something very… unresolved there,” she says, lip curling in mock disgust at the sheer thought of emotions. “And even if it’s not romantic—”

“What do you mean?!” you laugh incredulously. “It should not be romantic if we’re going to be working here together! You should actually be discouraging that as my boss.”

“Pfft,” she waves a hand. “I’m not in HR. That is not my job. If I want to ship two of my employees—”

“He’s not even an employee yet.”

“—then I will ship two of my employees.”

“You are so ridiculous.”

“Besides, you didn’t even let me finish,” she pouts at you. You nod in defeat and let her continue. “Like I was saying, even if it’s not romantic—and I’ll proudly be the first to admit I hope it’s romantic!” she says the disclaimer quickly and in one breath, “I’d still love to see you fix your friendship with him. I know it mattered a lot to both of you.”

Your relationship to Jihyo changed overnight. One day, she was your funny, albeit intimidating boss, and then with the help of several bottles of soju and an Academy staff karaoke night, she was suddenly visiting your office at least twice a day, you were constantly hanging out outside of work, and you knew everything about each other. Including how much you cherished Joshua, not as someone you were in love with, but as a human being you loved, period.

“But I won’t pretend this is selfless,” she sighs. “We’re three seasons into the Academy, going on four, and we have yet to see any of our graduates enter F1.” You fidget uncomfortably. It’s a stress point for the entire organization and something you’re reminded of in what feels like every meeting. “I don’t need to remind you what little time we have to prove this program a success.”

Three more seasons after this next one. 

When the program was conceived, F1 agreed to see what the Academy could achieve in seven seasons. They wanted at least two female drivers in F1 by then, but the stretch goal was to have the winning graduate from every season on a team, even as reserve drivers. That didn’t happen, but they could still get two girls in there; it would just mean having to do it very, very soon.

“No…” you shake your head. “You don’t need to remind me.”

You sit on your couch properly and stare at Jihyo, who refuses to continue speaking. She’s letting you stew in your thoughts, well aware your overactive brain will be better at convincing you than she ever will. 

Finally, you groan. She doesn’t even have the decency to wait for you to agree that Joshua is the best answer before she’s clapping excitedly. She’s infuriating but she’s right. It would be mutually beneficial; the girls would inherit a wealth of knowledge from a driver like him, and he would see what you get to every day: how easy it is to make a difference when your life isn’t solely on the track. And you don’t know why he’s taken this break, but you have a nagging feeling that’s exactly what he needs.

“Okay, okay, relax,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “How do we even do this? McLaren would’ve had him sign an ironclad agreement that guarantees his return to the team from sabbatical… unless he decides to retire.” You feel your stomach lurch at the idea.

Jihyo waves a hand like the legalities of Joshua’s employment don’t matter to her. “You don’t worry your beautiful, little head about that. While you were all busy screaming at the TV like banshees, I was already on the phone convincing the big guy to let us at him.”

“You asked the CEO of McLaren? And he agreed to you stealing Joshua during his sabbatical…?” 

It doesn’t sound anything like the staunch businessman you came to know over the decade you spent at his organization. He was nice enough, but he was also incredibly greedy—in all the ways that rich men always are. But there was nothing he was greedier about than talent. When he liked a driver—and more importantly, when a driver delivered wins, and therefore money—he kept him forever. Even if that meant convoluted contracts with tricky fine prints. You doubt that has changed.

“No,” she says, smirking and looking incredibly pleased with herself, “I did not ask. I bartered. I already had a leg up since that tangerine orange eyesore of a company of yours is our biggest proponent.”

“Papaya.”

“Whatever.” If McLaren’s CEO’s greed was good for one thing, it was that he wanted the best of the best, and that absolutely included women. As such, he’s been the only CEO very enthusiastically circling the Academy looking for his next star. “I told him if he gave me Hong during his sabbatical, he could have first pick from our litter of talented ladies during any one season he’s interested in,” Jihyo informs you.

You stare blankly at her. “Like the NBA draft…?”

“Girl, I only know cars. I don’t know what that means.”

“Right,” you nod, opting to move on instead of explain. “What if that girl doesn’t want to sign with McLaren?”

Jihyo scoffs. “Then she doesn’t sign with McLaren! I’m not the devil, Y/N; I’m not selling souls here. I’m just giving him the first chance to meet and talk to a driver of his choice before any of the other neanderthals. Convincing her he’s good enough to sign with him is all on him.”

You hum in understanding. “Okay, so why can’t he just tell Joshua himself?”

“So that’s my hiccup,” she groans. “He said he’s all ours if he says yes, but he seems convinced that this is the last thing Hong would want to do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Okay… well then, he doesn’t know him at all. This is the exact kind of thing he’d want to do.” You know because he invited you to enough non-profit events he supported in the off season to volunteer with him, join him on a panel about F1, or just show face. This is exactly up his alley.

Jihyo shrugs. “He says, ‘The boy has lost his spark,’” she imitates him in an exaggeratedly deep and hoarse voice. “Even if that’s true, I have the perfect person to give him that spark right back!” She grins widely, blinking her eyes rapidly at you.

“Your faith in me is astronomical.”

“No, your doubt in yourself is astronomical,” she corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m willing to bet $100,000 that even two years after quitting each other cold turkey, Joshua Hong is still willing to bend over backwards for you.”

You wince at the wording. You don’t like the idea that you quit him because it wasn’t like that. You quit the chance to stay in love with him. 

“He has never bent over backwards for me.” In fact, you’d argue the roles were reversed. It was kind of in your job description as his race engineer: bend over backwards to make sure your driver becomes a renowned champion.

“Oh, Y/N,” she sighs, smiling softly. “My naive child.” You glare. “No bet?” she asks innocently before shrugging. “Okay, smart move for you, honestly. You would’ve been out a pretty penny.” She starts slipping her feet back into her heels, obviously ready to go off to whatever her next endeavor is. Probably plotting what other ways she can complicate your life. “Look,” she sighs, slapping her hands against her lap when she finished putting her shoes on, “if he doesn’t want to do it, then he doesn’t want to do it and I’ll just have to take no for an answer. It would suck because I’d still have to hold up my end of the bargain with McLaren either way, but we obviously can’t force the guy to do anything. It would just be a nice plus for not only the girls, but for you. I know it.”

You don’t bother trying to deny it, not because you agree; you actually vehemently disagree, and you have the evidence to prove it would not be good for you. 

Exhibit A: in the months following your realization you were in love with Joshua Hong, you were a nauseating mix of absolutely miserable and absolutely thrilled any time you were with him (almost all the time). It was exhausting and it sucked the life out of you. 

Exhibit B: you were always distracted. Maybe never during a race because your only focus was making sure your driver won and that he won safely. But every other moment of the day, you were thinking about Joshua, talking to Joshua, listening to Joshua, trying not to scream while Joshua followed you around everywhere, watching Joshua, averting your eyes when Joshua looked up, talking to Wonwoo about Joshua, studying Joshua’s stats, debriefing Joshua’s last race, wondering if you’d see Joshua, daydreaming about Joshua, getting hopelessly lovesick over Joshua—Joshua, Joshua, Joshua!!!

None of that can be good for you.

You don’t deny that it would be good for you because you agree with her; you just don’t have the energy to confront the questions that would require denying it. The main question being: would any of that even be a problem if you’re not in love with him anymore? Because wasn’t that the point of leaving McLaren? To stop being in love? And if you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried about having to be in his proximity?

You take a deep breath as Jihyo stands. “When do I go?” you ask, looking up at her as she walks to the door of your office. She looks back at you and smiles.

“I have the company plane ready for you at Heathrow. Wheels up in an hour.” Your mouth drops in shock. She turns to leave before seeming to remember something. “Oh, and your sub is standing in the hall ready to take over for the girls.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Wrong. I’m efficient.”

SPANISH GRAND PRIX 2023“I can’t lose again, Y/N. Not this one.” “You’re not going to. I won’t let you.”

There was something about racing Spain that made Joshua more on edge than any other race—more than Abu Dhabi, even. He was typically a cool and level-headed driver; he never cursed, never told you to shut up the way other drivers told their engineers to, and he always took your advice seriously, never steamrolling your suggestions, at least not without some semblance of a discussion first. 

He was good at tamping down his hunger for the podium; it’s what made him an outstanding driver. But every time he set foot in Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, he became voracious. It started your second year with him, and you’re not sure why. He usually had a healthy enough lead in points by the time they got to Barcelona that winning wasn’t as high stakes as he made it feel. On top of that, it wasn’t even the native Angeleno’s home track, at least not technically. His third year in F1, he picked everything up and moved to Barcelona. When he told you he planned to, you just gawked at him.

“You’re moving for a circuit?”

“I’m moving for my favorite circuit,” he said cheekily.

You couldn’t blame him. Racers did more extreme things for less. This is his favorite track, and in the five years you’ve worked together, he’s only lost it once—last year. And since then, his intensity over it has been cranked up, and if he loses again this year, you know you’ll never hear the end of it. You’ll also never sleep again because at this point, Joshua and you feel like one. If he loses this, it’s a massive loss for you too. You want this for him just as badly.

“So then let me do something!” he shouts, voice laced with frustration you aren’t used to but also aren’t fazed by. This is your job, calming your driver down enough to make him see what you do. Right now, you see a clear way to first. “He’s killing my race!” he yells. “Let me send it! I can take him.”

A few of the guys on the pit wall throw incredulous looks at you upon hearing the transmission, and you know it’s because they have no idea why the driver with the most points on the grid right now is asking a woman permission for anything. 

“You send it now and clip a wing, the weekend is over, Shua,” you remind him, voice even. “You’re better, you’re faster, and you’re smarter.” You run over the numbers on your monitor. “There’s a way in. We’re going to take P3 in the next few and we’re going to do it in a way that keeps the spot. I need you to trust me.”

He says your name with thinning patience. “I’m not sitting behind this fucker for even one more lap, do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?”

You clench your jaw to bite back the remark on the tip of your tongue just as the head engineer freezes beside you, side-eyeing you to gauge your reaction. You don’t bother holding back your glare when you turn to your boss, muting your mic and letting him have your irritation instead of Joshua. “And what are you looking at, Jeon?”

“Literally just the monitor,” Wonwoo mumbles, making a show of leaning far too forward for someone with glasses on and watching it intently. You’re lucky your boss has also become your friend or you’re sure you would’ve been thrown right off the wall.

You take a deep breath before you unmute. “I get it, Shua, I promise I do,” you soothe him. “I want you to win just as badly. I’m right here with you. A loss for you is a loss for me too. But right now, winning means you’re going to have to trust me and listen to me. It’s been five years and I have never led you astray. I would literally lay down and die before I do something that’s not in your best interest. Do you understand?”

There’s a beat of silence as his car erratically swerves again, Ferrari defending aggressively enough to warrant a time penalty if, god forbid, Joshua did attempt an overtake and ended up running off the track. “Copy,” he finally says. You release a breath.

“Plan 2 minus 1 confirmed,” you announce to the team radio, praying to whatever god is listening that Ferrari’s pit wall is tuned into and eavesdropping on your channel. “Be patient with me, Shua,” you add, already beginning to sell your bluff. “We’ll get him after, okay?”

“I’m trusting you.”

Everyone’s eyes slide to you as you point at the pit crew and nod. They jump into action, bringing out the lollipop, jack, tires, fuel, and everything else they need for a pit stop. Except Joshua’s not taking a pit stop but no one needs to know that.

“Think they’re watching?” you mutter to Wonwoo, who’s the only one who knows about the silly name you and Joshua gave this plan. You were both bored on a rare, uneventful day and thinking up random race scenarios in the head engineer’s garage when it was born. 

Wonwoo doesn’t even turn to look at the other team’s pit wall. “Oh yeah,” he says, leaning back and smirking. “Trust me, they’re watching.”

“You can’t fucking pit him right now,” a strategist suddenly stands from his seat and shouts at you from down the row. “It’s too early to pit and he’ll get caught behind the cars in the lane right now! You’re going to screw him over!”

“Sit your fucking ass down,” Wonwoo cuts in, glaring at him. “You’ll talk to Joshua Hong’s race engineer with some fucking respect or you’re off the wall.” You feel your face warm a bit at being called Joshua Hong’s anything. “We’re a team! You should be embarrassed letting anyone else see you yell at a teammate like that.”

The strategist turns a furious shade of red before sitting back down, not bothering to apologize.

“It’s okay,” you mutter under your breath so no one aside from Wonwoo can hear. “Makes it more believable.” He scoffs but doesn’t respond. “Box this lap, Shua,” you say clearly into your mic, completely ignoring the other men on the wall.

“Fucking ridiculous,” you hear the strategist mumble, a few others agreeing with him. Really, the only people who have any trust in you are Joshua and Wonwoo, and they’re the only ones that count for anything anyway.

“Are you sure?” your driver asks, but his voice lacks any of the frustration it had just a moment ago. You want to call him a bad actor but you know to anyone else who doesn’t know him as intimately, it passes well enough as doubt. “It’s too early. My tires can hang on.”

“Positive. Box this lap. We’re undercutting him and taking P3 on the next one.”

Wonwoo swivels in his chair to watch the track, subtly side-eyeing the other walls for a brief moment before averting his eyes. “Ferrari’s taking the bait. Their pit is setting up. How do you even know they’ll defend the undercut?”

You watch unblinkingly as the two drivers get closer to the pit lane. “Joshua’s been on his ass for the last 7 laps without letting up. That’s gotta do something to a driver’s nerves. Even if P3 can go a few more without swapping tires, I’m banking on Ferrari being nervous enough to defend anything they think Joshua is doing just for the sake of it.”

Wonwoo whistles and says something you don’t register because the cars are arriving. And they’re doing exactly what you hoped they would. You watch as the Ferrari driver ahead of McLaren defends an undercut that Joshua won’t be taking. He pulls into the pit lane to take the early stop he didn’t even need and you just baited him into, effectively stuck behind the cars the strategist was so worried about.

Wonwoo grins as you shake a silent fist in the air, trying to refrain from shouting a FUCK YEAH into the team channel.

“You with me, Shua?” your voice borders on shouting as you stand from excitement.

“Oh, I’m with you, baby!” Joshua whoops and laughs as he starts pushing, his speed reaching upwards of 205 mph now. 

You look over your shoulder just as the Ferrari pit wall watches Joshua completely blow past the pit lane, some looking absolutely baffled, most glaring over at you and your retreating pit crew, realizing immediately it was a fake out. You refrain from waving and turn back to the monitor instead.

“You sneaky, sneaky girl,” Joshua breathes between laughter.

You smirk, noticing the mouthy strategist’s head is now conveniently buried in his work. “Glad you remembered 2 minus 1.” You note you’ll have to change the name of the plan now. “Push hard. Gap to P2 is 0.6. P1, 1 second.”

“You want me attacking?”

You look at the strategist directly to Wonwoo’s right. He nods. “Both P2 and 1 are on old rubber,” he informs you. “They’ll both have to box soon… and it’ll be the fourth pit stop for both of them.”

“The fourth?!” you ask incredulously. 

You’re on lap 40 out of 66. The circuit has some of the roughest turns in F1 and is known to eat at tires faster than any other, so it’s common for drivers to take three, sometimes four stops total at the Spanish Grand Prix. The fact that the drivers are already going on their fourth with more than a quarter of the race to go tells you they’re maxing their laps too hard, and if they keep it up, they’ll be pushing five pit stops.

“That leaves more than enough laps for them to wear their tires out again and box a fifth time before the race is even over.”

“That’s only if they continue driving the way they have been,” another strategist notes. You point at him and nod.

“Yes. And we can bet that they will because when we get Joshua to P1, they’ll be panicking and driving even more recklessly than they already are, and they’ll be forced to box.” No one has an argument for that. “So we run Joshua for several more laps until we can’t anymore, and he’ll only need to box that one time before he takes the win.”

You look to the performance engineer for confirmation and he gives you a thumbs up. “He’s good to wait. That works. He goes once, the other two go two more times; they won’t be able to catch up.”

The strategist tilts his head and winces a little. “But you do have Kim Mingyu in P1, so all bets are off.”

You heave an irritated sigh. The Red Bull driver is known for being reckless and risky in the name of winning. You wouldn’t put it past him to forego a pit stop entirely even if a blown tire—or worse—was likely. But like you said, Joshua is better, faster, and smarter. He trusted you to get him to P3; it’s time for you to return the favor.

“Shua,” you say, sitting back in your seat as you watch the feed. “P2 is staying center but leaving room on the outside going into turns.”

He hears the order you don’t give loud and clear. “Easy enough,” he huffs, breathing hard. 

You watch as he takes the information you’ve given him and uses it to easily overtake Kim Mingyu’s teammate, going wide on the turn and pulling ahead. You look over at the Red Bull pit wall, and when you watch multiple strategists throw their hands in the air or grab fistfuls of their own hair, you can’t help but smile. The smile just grows wider when you hear Joshua’s adrenaline-fueled shouting in your ear.

“Woo!” he yells as he guns it toward Mingyu. “That’s what I’m talking about! This is my track!”

You roll your eyes but laugh all the same. “P1 is due for a pit stop any lap now,” you inform him, shaking your head at his antics. “Leave him some space and keep it steady.”

If it were anyone else, you’d let him try and take it, but with Mingyu’s track record of causing accidents with his uncompromising—and usually illegal—defense, you’re not going to risk Joshua’s safety for a few seconds on Red Bull. 

“You got it,” he agrees without challenge, easing up on the accelerator. 

You review numbers with the strategists in the meantime, Joshua’s entire team keeping track of Red Bull’s channel for whenever they decide to box Mingyu. After a few moments, his voice comes through your headset again.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You hum distractedly as a strategist runs numbers on your own monitor. “What is it?” you ask when he doesn’t respond.

“Sorry, by the way.”

You frown, holding a finger up to the strategist, who immediately returns to his seat. “For what?”

“Losing my cool with you.”

“Pfft,” you laugh. “That was you losing your cool?”

From the way he speaks, you know he’s smiling. “Yeah… what, was it not mean enough for you?”

“Hardly,” you snicker. “Mildly annoying but not mean.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” he says, grunting a little from the force of taking a turn. “You’re right. Five years in and you still haven’t let me down.”

You nod to yourself, a funny feeling settling at the bottom of your stomach. You wanted to please Joshua from the start; it was the opportunity of a lifetime being a race engineer for such a prolific team, and you were determined to do a damn good job at it, regardless of who your driver was—better than any man they could’ve and wanted to put in your place. But then you met your rookie, and he was kind and trusting and so receptive to your ideas and strategies, and most importantly of all, he never ever doubted you just because you were a woman. Your ambition multiplied tenfold after meeting him, and you really didn’t think that was possible. He just made it so easy to want to do anything to ensure his victory. He didn’t cringe at being the only driver in McLaren history with a female engineer; it was a fact he was proud of, and a fact he brought up at every single post-race interview without fail.

“Y/N is the brains behind the wheel. I’m just the guy that follows directions.”

“I don’t know, you should ask Y/N. She knows better than I do, honestly. I’m not sure why she doesn’t join me on these things.”

“I couldn’t have done this without my race engineer. She’s the best of the best and I’m lucky to have a woman like her on my team.”

His advocacy of you actually made you a regularly viral topic on F1 forums and broadcasts and had invites to interviews consistently coming in, so of all the drivers you could’ve been dropped into the lap of, you’re endlessly grateful it was Joshua’s. You don’t care that they only gave you to him because he was a rookie and they had reservations about the both of you. Five years later and neither of you have let the other down.

“Yup, and I’m not starting tonight,” you say, smiling.

“Me neither. Don’t plan on ever starting.”

The strategist you were just working with taps you on the shoulder and nods in the general direction of Red Bull’s pit wall. You nod a silent thank you before warning Joshua, “They’re boxing P1 in the next few laps, Shua, get ready.”

“Copy.”

You turn to the performance engineer. “Can he max out once P1 pulls off?”

He blows out air as he studies his monitor. “Temp’s rising and tires are fading. I’d say he can go for one. Two max. If he goes for two, we’ll have to box him sooner—maybe even the lap right after.”

“And if we max for one?”

“We can put off a stop for… maybe five more laps if we’re being safe.”

“Shua, once he pulls in, push it,” you decide in that split second. “One lap, then hold it steady.”

“One? I can go—”

“One.” 

“One. Copy,” he repeats, huffing an amused laugh. Your nerves are wound too tight to ask him what’s so funny.

You watch as Red Bull pulls into the pit lane, their crew in a frenzy as Joshua floors right past, the roar of his engine shaking your bones and the wind of his speed slicing at your face. Lap after lap, you never get tired of that feeling. 

Mingyu’s team finishes faster than you’d like, and even with the few seconds it takes his lollipop man to safely clear him for departure, the driver is speeding away what feels like a millisecond after he stopped. 

“Alright, Shua, he’s got fresh tires.” You glance at the strategists for a number. “He’ll be on you in 1.7.”

“And he’ll stay behind me,” he says confidently.

“Right… until we box you,” you remind him. 

He snorts. “Won’t matter.”

You roll your eyes. “Lap’s almost up,” you tell Joshua when he approaches the pit lane again. “I want you easing up even if it means you give him P1.”

Surprisingly, Joshua doesn’t argue, and it feels more like the driver you work with on any other circuit aside from Barcelona. “Copy.”

When he finishes the lap, he follows directions, relaxing on the gas while managing to hold Red Bull off. “Stay clean!” you practically bark at him when he defends an attempt at an overtake a little too aggressively. “A time penalty at this point will kill us. Keep it cute, Hong.”

He laughs, knowing the last name only comes out when his driving is making you nervous. “Cute. Got it, L/N.”

He and Mingyu do their little dance for two more laps, Joshua never giving an inch, before it’s time to box your driver. “Nice job keeping him at bay,” you tell him. “Time to swap. P2 will pull ahead, but you should be in and out of here before P3 catches up. We’ll get you P1 back.”

“Counting on it,” he says as he pulls into the pit lane. 

He swaps his tires and refuels with no issues, back on the track exactly where you told him he’d be: at P2, a healthy distance from P3, chasing Mingyu. You watch them closely as the race gets nearer and nearer to its end, the laps winding down and down until there are only five left. You’re sweating through your clothes and it isn’t because of the glaring sun.

It’s because Kim Mingyu was due for a pit stop seven laps ago and he hasn’t taken it, nor does he show any sign of taking it.

“What is he fucking doing?” the performance engineer mutters. 

“Fuck if I know!” you shout in frustration. You point at a strategist. “Tune into Red Bull.” 

You don’t like to listen in on other teams because you’re paranoid that what you did to Ferrari earlier will happen to you, but you need Joshua to win first place today. You watch as they find Red Bull’s channel, their brows furrowed as they listen to the transmission. 

“They’re telling him it’s wisest to box this lap but they’re leaving the call up to him. He says he can hold Hong off and finish it without stopping.”

“Shua,” you immediately call out to him. 

“His tires have to be fucked,” Joshua says through gritted teeth. He hardly ever curses so you know his newfound patience is quickly dissipating again. “Why isn’t he fucking boxing?”

“He’s refusing,” you relay the information to him. “He’s going to finish this on dead tires.”

“Is that what he calls strategy? What the fuck is Red Bull snorting? I’m gon—” You turn Joshua’s volume on your headset down as someone waves for your attention.

“He’s not going to finish at all because the tires are going to blow,” Wonwoo corrects you. “He probably thinks he’s fine because the right side is fine, but the left side has to be completely degraded by now.”

The circuit’s rough turns and abrasive track meant that the left side’s tires were constantly wearing faster than the right’s. 

“Then what the fuck?” you ask dumbly, turning Joshua’s volume back up to find him still droning on. You simply tune him out, trying not to think about how his rant will absolutely go viral on social media later.

“His team is just enabling him,” the eavesdropping strategist says. 

The performance engineer nods. “With the natural degradation of his tires and the sun, he has to be pushing at least… 105? 110 Celsius?”

You look over at the Red Bull pit, and although a few of the strategists are visibly frantic, their team principal and head engineer look largely unbothered, and it disgusts you. Their desperation for a few points can kill Mingyu. It can kill Joshua.

“They’re reporting his left side at 150,” your eavesdropper says, stunned. “They’re finally telling him to box now. He’s still refusing.”

Your veins run cold. “Oh my god. He’s not only stupid, he’s fucking crazy,” you murmur to yourself. “He’s fucking crazy!” you shout and before anyone can respond, you’re talking to your driver again, interrupting his rant.

“—and another thing! Kim Mingyu is—”

 “Joshua, back off.”

“Whoa, ‘Joshua’? Getting real serious in here,” he finds it in himself to joke. 

“Shut up and put some fucking distance between you and P1 now!” you snap.

“Ope, yeah, actually getting serious…” he grumbles to himself. He eases up the tiniest bit, probably thinking that will appease you but he’s still too close for comfort. “What’s going on? I’m not giving this asshole any more space than this.” You watch with dread as they approach turn 10, the toughest turn on the circuit because of how hard drivers have to brake. If Mingyu’s tire is going to give out, it’s going to be here. “We only have three laps left and—”

“He’s overcooking!” Something in your voice must signal how distraught you feel to Joshua because you watch as his car slows another fraction of a second. “His team is reporting his left tires at 150! He’s going to let—”

“FUCK!”

It’s the last thing you hear from your driver before Mingyu’s front left tire explodes as he takes the turn with little deceleration. The sound reaches you even at the pit wall, sounding like a gunshot ringing through the circuit, making you flinch so hard, you accidentally step back into Wonwoo. A huge cloud of smoke immediately covers the car you’re responsible for, so opaque, you can no longer see even a sliver of McLaren’s color.

Your heart feels like it’s stopping. Both Red Bull and McLaren’s walls mirror each other now—every person on their feet, every pair of eyes on the black RB19 as it fishtails violently across the track, cutting through the racing line like an unruly blade. You want to scream Joshua’s name—beg him to tell you what’s happening—but you know it will only pull his focus. Instead, you turn his volume all the way up and endure the roar of his engine and the sound of Mingyu’s car screeching across the track. Mingyu’s right side crashes into the barrier, sending him completely off course, where he spins twice before coming to a rest what feels like years later. The car is still intact, smoke rising but no sign of fire.  

You want to run out onto the asphalt. You swear your worry for Joshua can bring you there faster than any of these stupid fucking race cars can right now. But as a yellow flag emerges from the flag post closest to them, you remember you were hired to do a job, and as far as you know, you’re still on that job until you see or hear otherwise.

“Teams, be aware, yellow flags,” the steward announces over the radio. “Turn 10, car 9, front left tire failure. Driver is out of the car and uninjured. Marshals on site. Proceed with caution.”

“Only car 9,” Wonwoo breathes. “They would’ve included Joshua if—”

Just then, papaya orange cuts through the smoke, the cloud dispersing around Joshua’s car as he makes it out of the accident, going half the speed he was when it happened. You exhale so hard, it comes out as a groan, and suddenly everyone’s hands are on you, on each other, slapping backs and pulling in for hugs.

“Joshua,” you breathe into your mic, relieved.

“There we go again with the ‘Joshua,’” he says playfully. You shake your head but revel in the ounce of normalcy in what you think might’ve been the scariest moment of your life. “Is he okay?” he asks, voice serious now.

“He’s okay,” you assure him. “He’s out of the car and uninjured. He’s fine.”

Joshua clears his throat. “Okay, good. Let’s finish this then.”

After Joshua wins, after he’s thoroughly checked for smoke inhalation, and after he celebrates in the first place spot on the podium, he doesn’t pose for photos or sign autographs or take questions like he usually does—like the CEO wants him to. Instead, the first thing the driver does is head to the garage, right to you. He has his racing suit unzipped and peeled off his upper body, the sleeves of it tied around his waist and his toned, Barcelona-tanned arms on full display under his tank. You have only a moment to feel flustered by them before those same arms are pulling you in and squeezing you tightly. He’s drenched in sweat and he smells like smoke and grease and like… boy (not in the good way), but you melt into him all the same. He embraces you after every race. It’s always a hug, a thank you, and a reminder that you’re the best. Today, it’s different.

He clings to you for far longer than usual, and every time you think he must finally be pulling away, he doesn’t. He speaks right into your hair. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you. You warned me with just enough time. I only avoided crashing right into him because of you.”

“Because of the team,” you correct.

“No,” he says simply, like it’s an actual fact. “No. No one on the team—no one in my life—is ever going to have my back the way you do. Thank you.”

You tighten your own hold on him against your will, and you just force yourself to nod and accept it. “I’ll always have your back.”

Joshua leans back but keeps his hands on your shoulders. He’s smiling that beautiful smile—wide and unbridled and all-consuming. The one that reaches his eyes and creates those endearing lines at the corners of them. “Let’s eat. Just you and me. My treat.”

You two have had dinner together countless times, whether with other team members or alone. Tonight, it feels worlds different, and it only takes you half a moment—as you watch him stare down at you like you’re his biggest blessing—to realize why. Half a moment to realize something you’re sure your heart has already known for years.

You’re in love with Joshua Hong.

In retrospect, you should’ve absolutely denied that dinner you had the last time Joshua raced Barcelona—at least the last time he raced with you as his engineer. You didn’t.

He took you to a restaurant he frequented on the off season. He claimed it had the best paella, and it was good, but you really didn’t know enough about paella to say it was the best. He waxed poetic about how much he loved Barcelona without ever really telling you anything substantial about it, just droning on and on about the architecture and the food and the music and Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, laughing and nodding when you casually mentioned Spain’s bad habit of colonizing countries. 

“You’re right,” he sighed. “I guess it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Well, you live here and you love it. I suppose I’ll also try to love it. At least for tonight.”

You never told him but you did love it. For that one night, you loved Spain and Barcelona and even the stupid circuit, and you think it was the one and only night you allowed yourself to feel your love for him too. When dinner was over, he seemed eager to keep the night going, so you did. Then, somehow you were in his home, just minutes from the circuit, drunk off wine he swore was also the best, and you watched as his eyes progressively got heavier and heavier, until he was asleep on the floor next to you, and you confronted the horrifying feelings stirring in your chest. You didn’t tell Joshua for another few months, but you decided right then that it was your last season with McLaren. With him. 

You should’ve just left Spain for the next location like you always did, and maybe you’d still be his race engineer, and he would have two more titles under his belt by now. Or maybe falling in love was inevitable and you were always meant to be exactly where you are. 

You land in Barcelona a measly three hours after your conversation with Jihyo, and you don’t know how she does it, but the woman manages to have a driver ready for you, already knowing exactly where to go. His home.

His press conference ended hours ago, and you’d watched the rest of it on your phone on the drive over to try and curb your growing anxiety as you started to recognize the streets leading to his majestic, obnoxiously priced home. It didn’t help much, his words only making you more nervous and infinitely sweatier.

“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver announces even though you don’t need him to. It looks exactly the way it did the first and last time you were here—even better now with the sunset serving as the backdrop.

“Thank you,” you say shakily, undoing your seatbelt and getting out with your purse, the only thing you brought with you. “I’ll, um…”

“Miss Park instructed I wait for you as long as you need,” he supplies, turning back to you and smiling brightly.

“Perfect. Thank you,” you repeat, closing the door and turning toward the house. You shake your head and whisper to yourself, “This is fucking insane.”

The car pulls away and out of the driveway, parking on the street to give you some illusion of privacy as you have a meltdown in your head. The entire plane ride here, all you did was watch and rewatch Joshua’s press conference, trying to find signs of why he was taking his sabbatical or which way he was leaning toward: rest or retirement. Of course, you had no idea because you can’t tell that kind of information by just staring at the way he smiles or nods and listens attentively or the way his jaw clenches when he’s asked a question about last season.

But it was a nice distraction from the fact that you were about to face someone you loved so wholly but were never supposed to fall in love with in the first place. And it stopped you from asking yourself if you still love him even now—even two years later with zero contact during that time. Without that distraction, you feel your brain maxing out. 

“This is fucking insane,” you repeat. 

Will he hate me for how I left? you wonder. What if he just slams the door in my face? What if I cry?! 

The last thought has you panicking because the idea of crying in front of Joshua right now makes you want to beg the driver to take you back to the airport. So before you can psych yourself out, you walk forward. You walk forward until you’re at his door, until your finger is pressed against his doorbell, until you’re sure you’ll pass out from holding your breath in anticipation. Until the door finally opens.

And although he’s a little more tired and a little more worn down by life, Joshua is just as beautiful as you always knew him to be.

He’s the same in a lot of ways. His hair is still dark and long enough to have to be styled away from his face during races. He wears all the same, plain silver hoops and studs in all the piercings in his ears. His arms are fighting against the confines of his T-shirt, as threatening as ever. He’s wearing the pair of glasses he wore whenever he wasn’t racing or doing some media event. But you spot the little changes too. You notice his skin has become a little paler, a little duller. The space under his eyes is just a shade darker than they used to be. His posture isn’t as straight and proper—not as careful as he had always been about it. You wonder if he sees the sameness in you too. You wonder what differences he sees, if he spots any at all.

His eyes widen for a moment before his brows immediately pull down into a confused frown, and if you weren’t so terrified, you would laugh at the way he looks behind him into his own home, then behind you like he’s waiting for someone to pop out and scream, “Got you! It was a prank!” in his face. Several seconds pass and when that doesn’t happen, he starts stammering.

“I… wh—? What… wh—I… you—what?”

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes you. “Hi,” you say softly. “I’m sorry to drop by so unexpectedly.” His frown deepens like he’s even more confused you’re actually real and speaking. “I was in the neighborhood,” you say before scoffing at yourself. “That’s a dumb joke. I wasn’t. You don’t even have a neighborhood—you just… own all this land.” You frown a little at the fact that you’re just now realizing Joshua’s nearest neighbors are at the bottom of the hill. “I was not in the neighborhood. I flew here. From London,” you clarify. “Okay, anyway. I saw your announcement today, and I was—oof!”

You grunt as all however many pounds of Joshua’s pure muscle slam into you, his arms immediately wrapping around you like they never forgot what it was like to have you there in the first place. You try not to audibly sigh, but you know he feels it when the tension in your shoulders dissolves and you sag against him, your own hands coming up to rub his back. The last time he hugged you in Barcelona, he smelled disgusting. Today, he smells fresh, clean, and… woody. He smells like he always did when he used to follow you around the McLaren facility instead of practicing or working out.

“Hi,” you murmur against his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says, voice deep and raspy. You always loved hearing it directly in your ear like this. This is better though; you feel the vibrations of it against your own chest. “I missed you.”

You want to go back to the Academy and throttle Jihyo in the face. You don’t know why on earth she thought you coming over here to convince Joshua to go back with you was a good idea. Two years did absolutely nothing to help you forget and move on. All it took was Joshua telling you he missed you, and you were right there again, in the McLaren garage on Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, realizing you were in love with the man in your arms. You were there, at the McLaren Technology Center, meeting your rookie driver for the first time. In Vegas, trying slot machines and tilting your heads in confusion because neither of you understood the point. In Silverstone, where he first received the question of whether or not the rumors that you two were dating were true. In Abu Dhabi. Leaving him for London.

Your fingers clench around the back of his shirt against your will, but he doesn’t pull away or complain, instead pulling you in even tighter. It’s only been a handful of seconds and already, you have the answer to your question.

If you’re not in love with him anymore, then why are you so worried? Well, because two years apparently wasn’t enough. After a few moments, you find the courage to say, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t” is all he says back. So you don’t. It feels like ages have passed when you pull away, but when you do, you feel a little lighter and a little less terrified. He lets his arms fall to his side but he doesn’t step away. “I assume we have a long conversation ahead of us?” he asks, smiling tiredly. 

You nod. “I think so.”

“Come on in then.”

It’s not as awkward as you thought it was going to be and that’s probably because of Joshua himself. Without missing a beat, he falls right into the same rhythm the two of you used to have. 

He asks you something simple like how your day is going. You answer mindlessly. 

“It’s fine.” 

He nudges you with his elbow but says nothing else. You immediately give into him. 

“It’s going really well; Wonwoo liked my presentation.” (He celebrates you with a hug and all kinds of praise that make your heart thunder). 

“It’s literally just… fine. Nothing remarkable, nothing bad.” (“Okay, then let’s make it remarkable starting now.”)

“It’s shit and I don’t want to talk about it.” (“Alright, we won’t talk about it. Can we… eat about it?”)

But today is a little less like that. Today, your answer is: “Who the fuck cares about me right now? What do you mean you’re taking a sabbatical?”

He snorts before sighing. “Can I offer you a water? Juice? I have wine?”

You glare at him. “Joshua.”

“Two years without a peep from you and the first thing you say to me is my government name,” he whines. “Harsh.”

The reminder that the two years you spent apart is your fault has you pausing and biting your cheek to keep from pushing even harder. He doesn’t notice the turmoil on your face though as he turns to grab two water bottles from his fridge before leading you to his backyard. You didn’t get to see it since it was the middle of the night the one and only time you visited, but in the light of the sunset, it’s truly majestic. Joshua could’ve just shown you a photo of his backyard and you would’ve immediately understood why he loves Barcelona so much. It’s not surprising that he has a sprawling view, seeing as his home sits at the top of a hill, but that’s not what impresses you most. It’s not even the massive pool or its waterfall or the outdoor bar or the half-court basketball court or the McLaren go-kart in the corner that has you slack jawed. It’s the ambiance. 

It’s the infinite stringed lighting hung over the space and dappling the entire backyard with a soft, warm glow. It’s the firepit he already has going and the book he has open, face down on his outdoor sectional, spine battered and cracked. It’s the opened bottle of wine and the singular glass next to it, half full. It’s the slow, jazzy music he has playing over his installed outdoor speaker system. It’s the fact that this is the most Joshua space you’ve ever seen. It’s the fact that you can tell he’s trying his best to self-soothe right now.

“Wow.”

He looks over at you and once he sees the awe on your face, he gives you your first favorite smile of this trip. It’s close-lipped this time, but his eyes still crinkle in the corners, sparkling even more under these lights. “You like it?” he asks, sitting down where he was obviously lounging before you came barging in. 

He pats the space next to him even though the sectional is more than big enough for you to choose any other seat. You don’t have the willpower to sit anywhere other than right next to him, though. He hands you the water bottle he retrieved for you, setting his own on the side table next to his wine. When he’s done settling in, Joshua turns toward you, one arm propped up on the back of the sectional, and stares at you like he’s waiting for you to speak. You don’t, simply staring back. He laughs a little as he averts his gaze, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with his knuckle.

You don’t ask again and he doesn’t wait for you to. He takes a deep breath before meeting your gaze once more.

“I’m just tired, Y/N,” he states plainly. And he sounds it. He sounds more tired now than he ever did on a schedule that had him racing in 21 different countries a majority of his year—training the rest of it. You can’t believe Saki, a student who’s never even spoken a word to this man, clocked it before you did.

“Tired of what, Shua?” you ask, not meaning your voice to come out in the whisper it does. He smiles at the nickname and you feel your heart beat a little harder for him. 

“Racing,” he answers like it’s obvious, and in some ways, it is, but he’s still the last person you expect to say that. Your immediate frown makes him chuckle. 

“How are you laughing?” you ask incredulously. “What do you mean you’re tired of racing?”

“Come on, don’t pretend like you don’t understand,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes playfully. “You’re still in this world. I know the Academy is at seven of the circuits the same weekends we are.” 

You feel your cheeks warming at the unspoken accusation: your girls would race my tracks on my weekends and you still didn’t come find me. You still didn’t bother talking to me. Joshua would never say that, and even if he did, he would never deliver it so callously, but that’s almost why you feel like you have to do it on his behalf. You get a sinking feeling he won’t blame you for anything and that somehow feels worse than punishment.

“Even if you didn’t see it with your own eyes, I know you know how bad my first season without you was. Is it so surprising I’ve grown tired?” he makes his point. “And yeah, this past one wasn’t as terrible—”

“You placed third in points,” you interrupt. “That’s fantastic, Shua.”

He pauses, watching you carefully. You aren’t sure what he’s studying on your face—if maybe he thinks you’re only saying that to spare his feelings. Just as you’re about to assure him you’re not, he says, “It’s not about placement.”

You refrain from raising one eyebrow at him skeptically. You nod slowly, trying to understand because as far as you know, it’s only about placement to these men. To you, it’s about building and fixing cars, studying numbers you find fascinating, solving problems for Joshua. For the drivers? Nothing matters aside from winning. 

“I… don’t follow,” you finally admit. He looks down and exhales slowly through his nose, not impatiently but heavily—under an obvious weight he’s shouldering on his own. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” you force the words out of your mouth. They’re not the words you want to say. What you really want is to violently shake the truth out of him. 

“I just… realized a lot about myself this season,” he finally says. “I did a lot better than I did last year, so you’d think I’d be happy my career isn’t over and that 2024 was just a fluke, but I… I didn’t really care.” You don’t voice any of the surprise you feel, not wanting to interrupt his train of thought as he picks at nonexistent lint on his pants. “You remember how I feel about the circuit here,” he states it more than he asks. You nod anyway. “The one time I lost it, I was in a bad mood for weeks.”

“That’s generous,” you interject. “You were in a bad mood until you raced and won it the next season.”

He rolls his eyes and suppresses a smile as he shakes his head and finally looks away from his own lap and back at you. “Yeah, well,” he sighs, smile fading. “I lost so many races in 2024, including Catalunya, and I didn’t give a shit.” Your eyebrows rise at the declaration. “I didn’t feel mad or frustrated or panicked or embarrassed. For the first time in my life, I truly just… did not care.”

“Oh,” you manage to squeak. It’s not what you were expecting when you came here.

You’re not sure what you were expecting. Maybe you thought you’d come here and have to convince Joshua he was still the best driver on the grid regardless of two less-than-stellar seasons. Maybe you thought you would just find Joshua resting, already equipped with a game plan for how to tackle his next year with McLaren. Or maybe—and probably most likely—you thought you’d come here and not get a chance to say or hear anything at all. Maybe you expected a door slammed in your face. What you didn’t expect was for Joshua Hong to not care. He cared entirely too much. 

He was always a little too involved in the design and build of the cars, disagreeing with engineers on matters he sometimes didn’t even fully understand. He was, to the designers’ dismay, right most of the time (and you like to think it was because he was unconsciously absorbing your unsolicited lectures) but it was considered annoying for a driver to be so involved. He didn’t let anyone outside of you and Wonwoo touch his helmet pre-race (something about how it wiped away the good luck), and the one time someone did, he insisted on an entirely different helmet, one he had hidden away in the paddock in case someone did touch his original one. You were in charge of keeping emergency good luck helmets after that. Every call, every decision, every penalty—anything that happened on the track—was something that could make or break his entire month. He was infinitely better than other drivers at keeping his cool and checking his temper before it even culminated into words, but if something bad happened during a race, no matter how small, his vexation with himself showed easily. It was evident in his intense obsession with running strategies with you and Wonwoo, in his insistence he perform the same simulations over and over again until he was sure he wouldn’t make the same mistakes, in the way he’d restlessly fidget with his hands before the next race as he wondered aloud if it would be better this time.

All of that was normal to you. Easy. Joshua not caring is not easy.

“I imagine whatever you’re feeling that’s making your face do that is how I should feel,” he mutters, smirking.

You clear your throat and school your face into a neutral expression. “What was my face doing?”

“You looked horrified,” he informs you, reaching for his wine glass. He offers it to you first and when you decline, he brings it to his lips, tilting his head back for a sip. Your eyes can’t help but go down to his neck, where you watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “I thought a sabbatical would horrify me too,” he says, breaking you out of your daze and sucking air through his teeth briefly before smacking his lips a few times. You have no idea why wine drinkers do that but you don’t bother wasting a question on something so trivial.

“So… you’re retiring…?”

“No,” he says, setting his glass back on the table.

“Oh. Good.”

“But I might.”

You frown. “Oh…” Not good.

He shrugs far too nonchalantly for your liking. “I don’t know yet. I guess we’ll see after this. My sabbatical will last throughout the 2026 season, then I’ll be back at the drawing table.”

“You’ll be back on the track,” you say resolutely. He raises his eyebrows in amusement at you. “You will, Shua. There isn’t a world where you’re not racing. That’s… that’s weird!”

“Oh, is that what it is,” he snorts. “Weird? And what’s so weird about it?” he asks, obviously unconvinced. Just the fact that he has to ask what’s weird is weird. The real Joshua Hong would know why the idea of him retiring from racing so early on in his career is weird.

“What is happening?” you ask yourself under your breath instead of dignifying him with an answer. Louder, you tell him, “Look, you had a hard two seasons—I get it, you got stuck with an engineer that wasn’t ready—”

“He was ready,” he says, smiling tightly. “He was great—said and did all the right things, made all the right calls, seemed to have been receptive to whatever you told him about me because he was prepared for everything. He was fine, Y/N.”

You falter. This entire time, you attributed his bad season to the struggle of acclimating to a new partner, and maybe that was just your ego talking, but if that wasn’t the reason for it, then Joshua isn’t mistaken and he isn’t lying to you. He really does not care.

“I do feel bad for him. He lost the spot because of my performance; McLaren thought it wasn’t working, so he got demoted back to wherever he came from. I’m not sure, I didn’t talk to him much.”

Every sentence out of the McLaren star’s mouth is sending you reeling. After your first meeting, you and Joshua could probably easily win a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? style game based on each other’s lives. And after your first race, you knew you two were going to be attached at the hip. You can’t imagine spending an entire season not talking to your assigned driver, least of all Joshua.

“So when I got my next engineer this year, I did better so I wouldn’t lose sleep over messing up someone else’s career,” he informs you. “But… it was honestly soul-crushing—having to pretend to care… having to try. For the first time in my life, this felt like work, Y/N. Like… actual work. It felt like a fucking 9-5 I was dragging myself to every day.”

You try not to react to his cursing. It’s something you always wanted him to do more of because you have the mouth of a sailor, but hearing it like this—alongside the fact that he doesn’t care—feels wrong. You suddenly see why McLaren’s CEO was convinced Joshua wouldn’t want anything to do with the Academy. He really did lose his spark. The thought is devastating. You two practically started your careers together—everything you both ever worked for culminated in the five years you spent together. When you think of racing, you think of Joshua. When you think of the most fun and exhilarating times of your life, you only see memories stained with him. And now, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t find joy in it, and he’s seriously entertaining the idea of completely leaving it behind. It feels like he’s leaving you behind. As soon as you think it, you hate yourself for letting it even enter your brain. You’re the one that left first. To make it worse, he’s just trying to escape something that’s robbing him of joy; you went out of your way to escape him. You silently shake your head to yourself.

“I… I’m sorry,” you find yourself saying as if he could hear your thoughts and you needed to apologize for it.

“For what?” he laughs.

“I don’t even know,” you tell him honestly, slouching against his couch in defeat. He looks down at you curiously as you slide down even further. He mimics your movement until you’re shoulder to shoulder. “I guess… for leaving for starters.”

“I told you,” he says, looking away immediately and clearing his throat. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I do,” you argue, turning away and watching the flames dance in his fire pit. “It was kind of sudden—the decision, I mean. I didn’t really give anyone time to process it… not you, not Wonwoo.” You stop there because those are the only people you really care about inconveniencing. “And then that last race, I—”

“I really don’t want to talk about Abu Dhabi, Y/N,” he interrupts without looking at you. You glance at him and find his eyes on the fire too. When he doesn’t expand on why he’d rather not talk about it, you look away once more.

“Okay,” you agree slowly. “I won’t talk about it. Just know I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” he parrots back. You try not to wince, knowing that’s as much of an acceptance you’re going to get… so not an acceptance at all, really. “Are we done talking about all this BS now?” he asks, pushing his shoulder against yours. He nudges but doesn’t pull away after, keeping his bicep pressed to yours. “I mean, you’re here… in Barcelona, with me!”

The excitement in his voice is so palpable, you want to slide all the way down until you’re sprawled across the floor, kicking and giggling. You look up to find him already looking down at you, a soft smile on his wine-stained lips. You wish you could reach up and just kiss him—that you could run your fingers through his long hair and see if it’s as silky as it always looks.

You smile, forcing yourself to look away. “Yeah, I’m here. With you.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” he starts, “because I’m really happy you’re here and you’re always welcome.” Your heart screams. “But why are you here?”

The easy answer is that Park Jihyo, the most power-hungry, stubborn, and arguably sadistic CEO in all of F1, manipulated you into kidnapping Joshua by any means necessary. The honest answer—the one you only realize is the actual answer at this very moment—is that you’re going to make Abu Dhabi up to Joshua. If he can’t find it in himself to forgive you, that’s fine and you respect it. You can live with that, but you can’t live with the idea of him quitting on something he loves as much as racing. You’re not only going to bring those girls at the Academy an absolute legend of a driver; you’re also going to revive his love for the sport while you’re at it. You’re going to be his engineer again, and this time, the checkered flag is going to be at the starting line of the 2027 season. Jihyo is wrong; you will not be taking no for an answer, and you will be forcing this man to go back to London with you if you have to. 

Your heart starts beating erratically, adrenaline suddenly pumping through your system the way it used to when you two were still partners preparing for a race. You abruptly push yourself up on the couch, jostling and startling Joshua since he was leaning on your shoulder. He sits up too.

“I am here,” you start with renewed ambition, turning so that you’re fully facing him. He mirrors you, eyes widening a little at your sudden burst of energy. “Because Jihyo and I have a lovely offer for you.”

“Park Jihyo,” he says. “Your CEO.”

You nod, glad he already knows who she is. “Yes! My boss. We saw the news of your sabbatical and she asked if I would come speak with you.”

He seems to deflate a little, brows furrowing together in what you perceive as perplexity. “Oh. Sure. What do you need to speak with me about then?”

“Keep an open mind, okay, Shua?”

One corner of his mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Okay, Y/N.”

“We’d love for you to come work with us at F1 Academy as a mentor for the current class of drivers.”

It takes a startling amount of energy to refrain from shrieking this at him now that you have absolutely zero doubt about how badly Joshua needs to be at the Academy with you. 

“Wh—”

“The girls are great, Joshua,” your words are tumbling out of you now, very clearly desperate for a yes from the man. “They’re young and green and hungry and bright! Oh my god, they’re so fucking bright!” The bewildered expression on Joshua’s face settles into a soft, amused smile, and you take it as encouragement that you’re already on your way to convincing him. “They’re such a talented bunch this season—I mean, they have been every single season! It’s like they were born to do this. Every time they get out on the track, I think of you.”

You’re a little mortified at how truthful you’re being, but you know better than anyone how to get Joshua to where he needs to be. Your honesty and vulnerability over the radio always warmed him up to your suggestions, and if that’s what will make him come back to London with you, you’ll allow him to have it.

“Me?” he asks dubiously even though it’s obvious he’s pleased. 

“Yes, you.” He smiles and shakes his head at you like you’re being silly but you don’t care. “Granted, they’re much slower—they are in F4 cars, after all,” you continue, “but when I watch them on the asphalt… when I see the way they drive like it’s the last time they’re ever going to be on the track because it might actually be, I think to myself, this must have been what you were like just before we met at McLaren. And it feels so special, y’know? To watch such talented people and know that some of them can possibly become the next Joshua Hong.”

You pause to glance at him, a little surprised to find his face unnervingly close to yours with an expression you don’t think you’ve ever seen on it. He almost looks like he’s frowning—like you’ve confused him so much, he’s no longer comprehending what you’re saying. It’s his eyes that give him away, though. They’ve always been his tell. He watches you carefully, eyes glassy, unmoving, and trained on you. His gaze is full of warmth and tenderness and affection, and it steals your breath to be on the receiving end of it.

“They’re, um,” you stumble over your words, having lost your train of thought. 

“Yeah?” he encourages you quietly when you don’t continue, blinking rapidly. He’s close enough that you feel his breath on your lips when he speaks.

“Wh… what?”

He glances down briefly before looking back up at your eyes. Did he just look at my lips? “They’re…?”

Right. The Academy. “Uh, yes, yeah. The girls—they… they’re—” 

You clear your throat uncomfortably, forcing yourself to break his eye contact and turn back toward the fire. You’ll never be able to speak otherwise. He inhales deeply as you find the words you were trying to say, following your lead and turning away as well.

“They have so much potential, Shua,” you say, all your previous energy gone now. You feel something more invasive seeping into its place. You feel the self-consciousness, the doubt, the discomfort, the excitement of being near someone you’re in love with again. “They already have the talent and the resources. They just need a little something to push them over the top. They need someone to teach them what being a driver—a good, respectable driver—really means.”

You see his head turn toward you in your peripherals but you don’t meet his eyes this time; you don’t want to risk every thought flying out of your already near-empty head again.

“And the current staff is great, don’t get me wrong, but…” you sigh, shaking your head, “the lead racing instructor has been out of the sport for decades, and as kind and well-meaning as he is, he doesn’t know the first thing about empowering young women.”

“I don’t either, Y/N,” he says like he thinks he’s reminding you of a fact. 

You scoff. “Of course you do.” You take the risk and look at him now. You’re relieved to see that he’s no longer looking at you as intensely as before. Instead, he seems genuinely baffled this time. “Shua… you don’t actually believe you don’t know how to empower women, do you?” you ask, clearly amused. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. “What on earth makes you think I know how to do that? I’ve literally been surrounded by a sea of men my entire life. You’re literally the only woman I know other than my mom.” You laugh loudly at that, feeling some of the wound up nerves in you loosen a little. “What are you laughing at?” he deadpans, glaring at you even though you know he’s equally amused. Always the eyes. “I’m being 1,000 percent serious.”

“I know,” you say, your laughter dwindling down to a satisfied sigh. You know his mother well and you don’t know how it isn’t abundantly clear to him where he learned how to treat women so well. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

He doesn’t respond, turning back to the fire and staring at it hard like you’ve just given him a calculus problem to solve. You smile and admire his profile for a moment before speaking, the orange glow of the flames dancing across his smooth, tan skin.

“Shua, did you know my contract with McLaren was only supposed to last a year?” you ask him even though you know the answer. 

“What?”

“Your race engineer was supposed to be a man named Min Yoongi,” you inform him. “The year you debuted, Wonwoo told me that there would be an open slot for a new race engineer and that he was putting my name in the ring. I was told the position was as good as mine. But then the CEO brought him Yoongi’s resume. He was an external candidate from some aerospace engineering company.”

“But they chose you,” Joshua says, sounding happy that it turned out that way. 

“No,” you correct him, shaking your head. “They chose Yoongi.”

His head snaps toward you like you just said the most offensive thing. “What? No… it was you.”

You suppress a laugh at the fact that he’s trying to rewrite your own history for you. “No, it was Yoongi. He was not only a very qualified engineer, he was also the CEO’s nephew.”

“Not the fucking nepotism,” he groans, throwing his head back onto the sectional. Joshua was one of very few F1 drivers that came into the sport from absolutely nothing, so you know why he’s irritated. 

You sigh. “The only people who know about this are the CEO, Wonwoo, and me. Now you,” you tell him. “I know it’s not but I sometimes feel like it’s embarrassing for me to share this because I like to think I earned the spot—and I did. Later on. But initially, that spot only really became mine because I begged for it.”

“What?” he asks a third time, this one with a bit of bite. He lifts his head up off the sectional once more, narrowing his eyes at you. “What the fuck do you mean you begged?”

“Exactly that. I barged into the CEO’s office with Wonwoo and a 32-slide Powerpoint presentation, and I showed him every reason why I deserved the spot while Wonwoo practically held him hostage for me,” you recall, smirking. Joshua doesn’t look the least bit entertained, though.

It felt so humiliating and demeaning back then, but it just makes you laugh now—only because it turned out fine. The thought of any of your girls going through that makes you want to tear your hair out, though.

“In the end, he agreed to a 1-year contract. He told me he would give me a chance with his new rookie, and if I performed well, he would give me a ‘real’ contract.” Joshua’s mouth drops open the tiniest bit. “I knew how he felt about talent,” you say. “I knew that all that mattered was how much we won, but I underestimated how badly he wanted McLaren to be a family business. So even though we had a wildly successful debut, and even though you literally turned F1 on its head—” Joshua snorts in faux modesty. “—Wonwoo warned me about halfway through the season that the CEO was going to give the role to Yoongi and that I would return to my old position.”

“So… what happened…?”

You smile widely. “You happened. Instead of talking about your background and your upbringing and your talent, you spent every single interview that season talking about me. Crediting me. Praising me.”

He frowns. “Okay… I don’t get it…?”

You sigh. “I forget that at the end of the day, you’re just a man.”

He huffs out a single laugh. “Forgive me for being born this way.”

“I forgive you, I guess,” you shrug dramatically. He rolls his eyes but smiles all the same. “See, you empowered me without even realizing it,” you point out. “By the time the season was over, we were being touted as F1’s dream team. I was reached out to so many times for interviews that McLaren’s comms team assigned me my own PR manager. The CEO was forced to turn his nephew away and give me a real contract, unless he wanted to lose out on all the media attention and risk messing with our chemistry, and therefore messing with your success.”

One of Joshua’s eyebrows twitches at that.

“Our on-track chemistry,” you mumble your correction quickly, face burning.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat and doing a horrible job of concealing a smirk. 

“Anyway, my point is… your advocacy of my work literally saved my career. Even with F1 Academy—when Jihyo approached me, she told me I was her first choice because the coverage on my career was inspiring to girls trying to get into the sport.” Pride blooms in your chest when Joshua reaches over to squeeze your hand quickly at that bit before pulling away. It’s nothing new; his victory had always been yours, and yours his. “So if you were able to be such a strong ally to me and my career without even knowing it,” you say, hoping this will push you across the finish line, “what do you think you’ll be able to do with these students when you’re actually trying?”

“Ah,” he says, nodding as he finally sees where your story was going. He narrows his eyes at you all of a sudden. “Whoa, you’re really good at that.”

You smirk. “I know. I did convince the CEO of McLaren to give me that first contract.”

He laughs. “Convincing woman, indeed.” He pauses, biting his lip in thought before scooting closer and leaning his shoulder into you once more. You try not to stiffen at the contact. “I’m sorry you had to beg. I hate hearing that. You deserved it. I would’ve never won those titles without you.”

“Yes yo—”

“No, I wouldn’t have,” he says with a calm certainty, so much so that something stops you from arguing with him. He looks down at you and smiles your favorite smile, this time with all his teeth showing. “We really were the dream team, huh?”

You grin back, leaning right back into his shoulder subconsciously. “We were.”

“Think we’ll become the dream team of the Academy too?”

Your smile drops right off your face as you search his face for any signs that he’s joking with you. The crinkles around his eyes just deepen. 

“When’s our flight to London?”

LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX 2018 “You doing anything after this?” “I don’t know. Sleeping?” “Weird question, but would you want to meet my mom?”

It’s an uphill battle to keep from stammering in surprise as the eyes of every strategist on the pit wall who’s tuned into Joshua’s channel slide to you. The driver grunts on a tighter turn before speaking again. 

“Hello?”

Wonwoo clears his throat then turns to the others, demanding bits of random information about the drivers just ahead and behind Joshua in a thinly veiled attempt to distract them.

“Your mom?” you repeat. “Clear to take him.”

“Yup,” he responds through gritted teeth as he overtakes P5. “She flew in from LA last night to watch. She’s in the paddock right now. I’m taking her to dinner at the buffet at the Wynn if you want to join us. I ma—nice try, buddy,” he says, defending an attack from the driver he just stole P5 from.

Your mouth waters at the mere mention of a buffet. It’s the one thing you make time to do every year when F1 comes to the city, whether it’s with Wonwoo, another coworker you can stomach, or even by yourself (you’re not above eating at a buffet on your own, especially not a Vegas buffet). 

“Oh, that’s a good one,” you comment. Your favorite, actually. “Have you been?”

“Nope. You can show me and my mom your favorites.”

You can’t deny you’re incredibly curious about the woman who raised this year’s star rookie all by herself without the riches it usually requires drivers to participate in the sport. You shouldn’t be so surprised; you and Joshua had become fast friends, spending almost all your time together since both of your lives were run by McLaren. Meeting his mom would be fun! So why does it make you want to throw up then run right off the pit wall and head into the first salon that will take you for a last minute hair, nail, brow, everything appointment?

“She wants to meet you,” Joshua adds, not-at-all helping the nerves.

Your eyebrows rise. “And why is that? Gap to P4 is 0.8.”

“Copy.” He drives the city easily and calmly—far calmer than a lot of other drivers are about being on their home track. “Something about you being the only woman I’ll ever have the time to talk to so she might as well befriend you.”

Even with how focused you’re trying to be on the race, you laugh suddenly at that. “That’s kind of sad.”

“I don’t think so!” he says lightheartedly. “You’re my best friend at this point.”

Your laugh settles into a soft smile as you nod. “You’re within DRS. Take him on the next straight, bestie.” He chuckles at that before obeying, his car pulling ahead and taking P4 from Mercedes. “I’ll come,” you decide. “But only if you snag us podium.”

He scoffs. “Don’t insult me. I’ll get you first.”

His confidence is well-placed because he delivers, standing right in the middle of the podium when the race is over, and sure enough, a few hours later, you’re seated across from him and right next to his mother at the buffet, her hand wrapped around yours as you both cackle at stories she’s sharing about her son and your driver. And Joshua, endearingly, doesn’t complain or blush in embarrassment; he just watches the two of you contentedly, absentmindedly picking at the scraps of his food he’s too full to finish. There’s a soft smile on his lips that reach up into his eyes, and you can tell he’s happy in a way he isn’t usually. So when the laughter dies down to giggles and his mom sighs, you vocalize an observation. 

“You two are really close, huh?” Joshua’s eyes were already on you, and once he hears your question, his eyebrows rise a little. His mom hums and tilts her head, a lot like the way he does when he thinks.

“Yes, I always wanted to be a mother who could also be best friends with my child,” she says, nodding with her eyes still trained on the ceiling as she seemingly thinks aloud. “I suppose the fact that it was always only the two of us helped push us even closer together.” Her gaze comes back down to her son. “Hm, Josh?”

It’s virtually the only fact about Joshua you knew before meeting him. If there’s anything F1 had a hard-on for, it was a Cinderella story, and Joshua certainly had one of those. They’re rare to come by in the sport, with families easily spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to give their child a chance—not even a guarantee they’ll make it. And even though the details of his Cinderella story are still a closely held secret, everyone knew McLaren’s newest driver was the child of a single immigrant mother who worked several jobs and went into severe debt to get him into F1.

He averts his eyes from yours, suddenly finding the tiny bits of his steak that were too well done for him to enjoy more interesting. He nods as he pushes them around with his fork. “Mhm, right, eomma.” 

“I sometimes felt guilty when he was growing up—”

“Eomma,” Joshua sighs the word like a warning. Like he doesn’t want to hear whatever she’s about to say for the millionth time. His exasperation barely passes as so, though. He still says it so politely, it doesn’t deter the woman next to you at all.

“Why is that?” you ask, too curious for your own good. Joshua throws you a withering look and you have the shame to offer a small, embarrassed smile.

“Well, I had to work multiple jobs for practically all of Joshua’s childhood. Money was never steady or guaranteed. He was alone for a lot of it,” she says, turning to you when Joshua refuses to look up at her. 

You can tell so clearly where the driver gets his charming, expressive eyes from. You can see everything she’s telling you right there, in her eyes. The days she worked as a cleaner, the nights she labored as an overnight caretaker, and the weekends she “took it easy” as a part-time cashier at a gas station. You see how little money it still brought in and how she cried on the hardest days because she just sorely missed her son—her son, who had to get ready for school by himself, feed himself, put himself to bed. You see the panic in her eyes from when Joshua started getting into trouble in his late teens. Street racing. 

“Street racing?” you ask incredulously. “But you were in the McLaren development program! They would’ve never taken on a street racer!”

“That’s why we don’t share that information freely, eomma,” Joshua deadpans, trying to glare at his mom. He fails when his lips immediately begin to quirk up into a smile.

She scoffs and waves a hand at him. “She’s your engineer! She’s the one who wants what’s best for you most in this world! After me, of course.” She winks at you. 

You grin. It’s nice to feel like you’re a part of this small club—this small club of people responsible for Joshua Hong’s safety, success, and happiness. The small club of people he allows to get close.

“I won’t tell anyone, Shua,” you assure him. He spares you a brief smile that churns the obscene amount of food in your stomach before his eyes slide back to his mom. “I’m honestly just… surprised.”

“That a good boy like him was speeding around the city avoiding the LAPD every night?” his mom asks, glaring right back at her son. Hers is a lot more convincing and he looks back at you to avoid it. 

That’s exactly it. Those big, shiny eyes. His obnoxiously pink lips, constantly curled into a delicate smile. His exceedingly gentle nature (off the track at least). This man was illegally racing on the streets of Los Angeles as a teenager?

“Yeah, I was surprised too,” his mom sighs, shaking her head and clicking her tongue at him. 

You laugh. “Nope, cannot imagine that.”

“Well, he was,” she huffs, obviously remembering the grey hairs it got her. “And the only reason I found out was because it was one of the times I got let off work early, and I caught him coming back in. This boy can’t lie for shit. He practically told me everything before I could even finish asking where he’d been.”

You laugh gleefully at that as Joshua groans, cheeks turning a touch redder. You find it hilarious he’s more embarrassed about this than he was about his mom recalling how he cried so hard saying bye to her on his first day of kindergarten, he peed his pants and had to go home.

“I wanted to do better than my parents did,” she says contemplatively when you both stop laughing at him. “They were so… set in their ways and so hard on me. And if it had been them, Joshua would’ve been black and blue by morning.” He looks up at his mom with such fierce love, protectiveness, and respect, it makes you feel like you shouldn’t be here. It makes you feel like you’re witnessing something special that was never meant for you. “But I always told myself I’d do better, even if it was just a little bit. Because then, he’d be better, and maybe if he had kids later on, they’d be even better too. Little by little… each of us doing better than the ones before.”

“You were better, eomma,” Joshua says resolutely. “Are better.”

She smiles softly at him before looking back at you. “I took a few days to think about everything before figuring out what to do with him and his reckless behavior—” She shoots him another scathing look that he chuckles at. “—and the man who hired me to take care of his elderly father during the night… when he heard about why I was so distraught, he told me about a program I could look into for Joshua. For karting, then if he was good enough, eventually—”

“Formula One,” you both say. She nods, grinning.

“He was in the development driver program two years later,” she informs you, filled to the brim with pride. 

“And competing in Formula four years after that,” you mutter as you try to recall the stats you read on Joshua what felt like eons ago now. “And now debuting in F1.”

If you sound like you’re in awe of him, it’s because you are. The odds were stacked against him in every way possible, and you already knew that, but hearing that he was practically plucked off the streets and dropped into McLaren is astounding to you. Most drivers spent their entire lives karting before breaking into a team, and it couldn’t have been easy for him to not only compete against that caliber, but on top of that, have to navigate the transition from racing a street car to a kart. Suddenly, his even temperament and intense dedication to kindness is even more impressive to you. 

“Wow, Shua, I had no idea,” you breathe. He shrugs one shoulder as he finally sets his fork down and sits back, throwing an arm over the empty chair next to him and crossing his legs. 

“It’s not something I dwell on too much,” he states, and you can tell he’s not just saying it to be modest. 

If the commentators of F1 weren’t dedicated to mentioning Joshua was raised by a single mother with little money every single race, you’d have no idea. He has the same air of self-assuredness and poise his wealthy and nepo baby counterparts do. And after getting to know his mom, you know that confidence has everything to do with how he was raised.

“You did a really good job with him,” you say quietly.

His mom, who never once let go of your hand since you both finished eating, squeezes you and sighs happily, resting her head against yours. You smile and lean right back into her, trying not to think about how you never had this—how you might have traded your privileged upbringing for the struggles Joshua experienced if it meant that you at least had this kind of love.

“Thank you,” she says just as quietly, patting your hand with her free one. “The guilt has subsided for the most part. It seems silly to think about it too long when it was obviously worth it. Right, Josh?”

She asks it like she needs the reassurance that sacrificing her time with her child to provide a better life for him was worth it—like she needs the forgiveness. Joshua stands and slides himself into the space on the other side of his mom, his arms snaking around her. He even includes you, his arm reaching across her back and his hand hooking around the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder.

“Of course, eomma,” he says. “Look at my life. Everything is thanks to you. I won’t ever be able to thank you enough for all the sacrifices you made.”

Later, after you’ve said your goodbyes and have made promises to keep in touch via the numbers you exchanged, Joshua will walk you back to your hotel and you’ll think about how maybe his hunger to win isn’t driven by the thrill of the race the way the other drivers’ are. Maybe it’s driven by his duty to his mother. You’ll understand him a little bit more, and your own need to get him to the podium as many times as possible will increase exponentially.

“Oh my god!” 

The screams are shrill and grating and have been going for a minute straight nonstop, but you can’t help the face-splitting grin as you watch your girls swarm an immediately flustered Joshua Hong.

“I can’t believe this!”

“I have your poster in my bedroom back home!”

“Oh my god!”

“My dad took me to see you at Silverstone in 2021! It was insane! You made podium that day!”

“Aw, that’s—” Whatever he was about to say is cut off by another piercing screech. He tries not to flinch and you try not to cackle.

“You’re my idol!”

“Oh my god!”

“You’re even more handsome in person!” Joshua throws you the most helpless look as some of the girls start to ooo and ahh at his face.

“Soooo handsome!”

“What’s your skincare routine?”

“Oh my god!”

“You look unreal! ML!” Eunchae, a younger student, looks back at you from where she’s sandwiched between two other girls pushing to get near the driver. “ML, isn’t he so pretty?!” She wags her eyebrows at you and your smile immediately drops as you glare at her. She simply giggles.

“Okay, girls!” you call, clapping your hands loudly. “Let’s maybe give the super duper pretty F1 legend some room, yes?” There’s another round of shrieks and laughing as Joshua rolls his eyes. “Take a seat, please.”

You never need to raise your voice with them; the students at the Academy are always respectful every season, and being one of the younger staff members, a lot of them treat you like some kind of revered older sister. The girls scramble to their seats and Joshua is finally able to fully enter the classroom, joining you where you’re leaning up against your desk at the front. He gives you a bewildered look.

“You hold so much power,” he mutters, smiling a little. You snort before gesturing to him.

“I don’t know if you guys know him, but this is Joshua Hong,” you say sarcastically, inspiring a new round of giggles. “He’s going to be spending time with us this season.”

There’s a chorus of excited gasps and whisper-shrieking at the news, the girls straightening up in their seats like they’re trying their best not to fully stand up in their elation. You know this was the last thing they expected after watching the news of Joshua’s sabbatical two days ago.

“Is this where you’ve been, ML?!” Sophia screeches, referring to your sudden departure to get Joshua, plus the full day you missed yesterday trying to get him situated at the Academy since a certain CEO insisted he begin immediately. A full day that included unceremoniously sending the current driving instructor off on a mandated vacation—not that the near 70-year-old minded at all.

“Oh my god,” Megan gasps again, face turning pale. “Are you going back to being his engineer after his sabbatical, Mick?” The others look horrified at the mere thought. She turns to the driver now, having zero issues with glaring at the two-time world champion. “Are you stealing Mickie back?! Because you can’t have her!”

“Yeah!” Eunchae throws her support behind her. “ML is my favorite instructor!”

“Okay, well you’re not special, she’s mine too!” someone shouts.

“Who do you think you are!” Joshua balks at that one.

“She’s probably contracted,” Saki points out quietly. The girls within her vicinity nod in agreement but she mostly goes unheard by the other more raucous students.

“I am not stealing… Mickie…?” Joshua asks, turning to you with one eyebrow raised in question. You shake your head and mutter you’ll explain later. “Not that I could. She’s made it very clear how much she loves it here.” The entire room seems to sag with relief, straightened postures all gone now.

You smile. “Though I will say, I am flattered by how fiercely you all feel about me,” you say. “But no, I’m not going anywhere. Now if you would all be quiet and let the man introduce himself, maybe we’ll be able to tell you what he’s doing here.” There isn’t a single noise from the girls as they all stare up at the two of you with wide, expectant eyes.

“Hi,” Joshua greets them with a chuckle, raising his hand in a small wave. “I’m Joshua. You can call me Josh or just Hong.” 

Some students start whispering, probably about how crazy it is to be told they can call the best driver on the grid by a nickname, regardless of how basic it is. You’d react the same if you were told the same by any of the drivers you admired at their age.

“I am currently on sabbatical from F1, as you…” he gestures to Megan who looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“Megan,” she informs him.

He nods. “Ah, yes. I’m on a break right now, as Megan so generously reminded everyone,” he says, smiling. Both of you laugh a little when she sinks in her seat, blushing as she mouths a silent apology. “And I’m actually here to help with instructing you this season.”

If you thought the screaming was loud before, you were obviously sorely mistaken. The students jump out of their seats, all shouting over the other as they immediately begin dreaming up fantasies about being Joshua Hong’s singular prodigy F1 Academy class. You laugh as you let them revel in the joy and excitement of the moment, knowing the next few months are going to be incredibly rough on them physically and mentally in comparison. Plus, it will be a fond memory for them no matter where in Formula they end up. 

Joshua grins at you as you both wait for their energy to simmer back down; you know from experience it could be a while. “They’re so funny.”

You return his smile, shaking your head as you do. “Definitely a bunch of characters this season,” you agree. “Don’t tell any other graduating class, but I’ve had the most fun with this group so far and all we’ve done is prep.”

Both of you watch as Megan bounces over to Saki, who has remained in her seat the entire time, excitedly grabbing her shoulders and shaking violently as she shouts nonsense. Saki lets her, simply smiling up at her though she makes no move to get up or make even a fraction of the same noise.

He snickers. “Reminds me of high school.”

“It basically is high school except if you gave all the teen girls a 1,200-pound car and let them drive up to 165 miles per hour,” you say nonchalantly.

“Fun,” he says just as the girls finally begin to take their seats once more. You wave your hands to quiet down the last few shouting students.

“Like CEO Park said, the season is only three months away,” you remind them. “We’re incredibly lucky to have Joshua—” ever the complainer, the driver coughs loudly at your use of his full name. “—here with us,” you say, frowning at him briefly for the interruption, “but even with how early we have him, we’re already behind if we’re going to get you a proper curriculum.”

“How behind?” someone in the back asks.

“How long have you been here again?” you ask, feigning ignorance. “However long that is. That’s how behind we are.”

“What?! We’ve been here for two months!”

You nod. “Yeah, and that’s two, whole months of learning from someone who isn’t Joshua Hong… a.k.a. your teacher.”

“Right…” Sophia breathes. “We’ve just been learning from a random grandpa…”

“Sophia!” the girl next to her shoves her. 

“What?!”

You try to ignore their antics and continue. “Your original driving instructor is on vacation—”

“Did you guys fire him?!”

“I mean, if it was for Joshua Hong, then I’m fine with it.”

“Well, let’s not start rumors,” Joshua laughs nervously.

“How will he feed his family?!”

“His family is grown,” Megan scoffs. “Also, he’s a millionaire, hello?”

“Right,” Sophia says again.

“Girls, please. He’s not fired. He’s on vacation,” you sigh, squeezing the bridge of your nose. There are a few apologies as you try to get your train of thought back on track. “Joshua—”

He coughs again, louder and more openly in your face this time. You try not to curl your lip at him in disgust in front of the girls, so you instead glare at him for a moment. 

“Aw, you guys really are best friends!” Your head whips toward the students to find Eunchae smiling widely. The observation takes you by surprise because of course he is, but after two years, you’re not sure that’s something he’d want to call you anymore.

“How can you tell? They’re just… standing there,” another student deadpans.

“How can you not? They’re doing the whole glaring and giggling and silent communicating thing!” You and Joshua frown at each other. “See!”

“We’re never going to hear what Mickie has to say,” Saki sighs, this time loud and clear. She isn’t annoyed or exasperated; she says it the way she says most things. As fact. 

“Okay, okay!” Megan nods. “Everybody shut up now. For real.”

“Please stop telling each other to shut up,” you remind them. You’ve been reminding them since they first came together in your classroom two months ago. You glance at the clock. “You menaces have wasted so much time today. Gym is already in 15 minutes and all we did was discuss the morning simulation and scream over a man.”

“Once again, sorry I was born this way,” he mutters to you.

“Inside jokes! Bestie behavior!” Eunchae accuses.

“Be quiet!” Megan whispers.

“Look, we’re obviously not going to get through anything else today,” you say, glaring at the clock. “But before I release you to swarm Joshua—”

“Sorry, what?”

“—I want us all to be on the same page. Joshua is going to shadow me for the rest of this week, just so he can gain his footing and learn all of you menaces’ names. Then first thing next week, you’ll be hitting the simulators to show him what he’s working with.” There’s a hum of nervous murmuring. “You’ll each be running five laps on Silverstone so he can assess what he needs to do with each of you,” you inform them. 

“Five?!” Sophia exclaims. “That’s it?!”

These girls might lack decorum but they don’t lack confidence. If they’re nervous, you know it’s because they fear they’ll choke in front of Joshua and lose the chance to make up for it in time. 

“Yup,” Joshua says casually, making you smile at the fact that he’s comfortable enough to answer questions himself. “A lot can happen in five laps. I’ll honestly be able to tell a lot about your driving style, reaction times, and emotion regulation within the first two.”

“And the other three…?” Megan asks, raising an eyebrow.

“To see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching,” you answer. It shuts everyone up even though Joshua laughs and shakes his head.

“She’s kidding,” he assures the wide-eyed girls as you mouth that you aren’t. “It’s just to confirm whatever I take note of.”

You shrug a shoulder. “Okay, well then it’s for me to see how well you do under the pressure of a world-renowned driver watching, and trust me, I will be using what I learn about you in class.” The girls look just as horrified at that, and you don’t bother trying to assuage the nerves; it’ll be a million times worse when the season starts. “Once the simulations are done and we have all the proper data, from there… well…” You look over at Joshua, whose eyes are on you, following your lead. You sigh. “We get you ready to kick ass by the time the season starts.”

“I have a question!”

“If it has nothing to do with the curriculum, no.” Eunchae’s hand immediately goes down, making you smirk. “Okay, go ahead and spend your last ten minutes annoying your new teacher all your non-curriculum related questions.”

Joshua barely has a word of protest out before he’s surrounded by aspiring female drivers and dozens of questions. He throws you a few helpless looks, but you just stand off to the side, smiling at the image of a flustered Joshua Hong bombarded by the class that the Academy’s very first F1 driver will graduate from. 

This season is going to be the season, and you’re sure of it.

“Your CEO seriously scares me.”

You look up from the several new car designs scattered across your desk to find Joshua leaning against the frame of your open office door. You smile, leaning back in your chair and letting your neck and shoulder muscles relax for the first time in two hours.

“She definitely knows what she wants and she will not hesitate to steam roll everyone in her way,” you agree. “But I’ve grown to admire it… or else the fear will eat me alive.”

He laughs and fakes a shudder. “I’ll have nightmares.” You shake your head at him but laugh along anyway. “Hey,” he says when his laughs peter off, looking like he just remembered something. “Why do the students call you Mickie and ML?”

“Take a wild guess.” He tilts his head, and when he doesn’t come up with an answer, you nod at the McLaren poster on your wall. “Ah,” he nods. “McLaren.”

“Mhm,” you hum affirmatively. “They won’t let me forget.”

“Do you want to forget?”

He keeps his face carefully blank, but it’s clear what he’s asking. It’s easy for you to immediately shake your head. “Never. Don’t tell them because I pretend to make a fuss over it sometimes, but I love the nickname.”

He smiles softly, leaning his head against the frame in exhaustion. He’s spent this entire first day being pulled in every direction by students, by staff, by you, signing all kinds of forms, completing random trainings, and introducing himself to everyone (though absolutely no one actually needed a legitimate introduction to Joshua Hong). You know he’s, at best, in dire need of a nap and at worst, rethinking all his choices. Although if it were the latter, he would never tell you.

He doesn’t say anything initially, simply staring at you from where he uses the doorframe as a vertical makeshift bed. You got used to this a long time ago; Joshua was constantly going quiet and the staring apparently came hand in hand with that. You asked him once what he was thinking about whenever that happened, and he said he was taking time to just enjoy the moment. It was a sentiment you could appreciate, especially with how fast-paced his life was. You were used to it, but you couldn’t help the way it still made your heart beat violently in your chest. It seems you’re constantly stuck in a battle between wanting Joshua’s attention on you and wanting to be invisible to him.

“I like it here,” he says eventually.

“Do you?” you ask, unable to keep the excitement from seeping into your question.

He smiles a little wider and nods against the frame. “Yeah. I do.”

You look down at your designs. Your final choice is due to Jihyo in the morning, but right now, you care more about making Joshua feel welcome, especially since you were the one who forced him to be here. You look back up at him. “Want to come over and eat some dinner? Tell me more about how much you love it here—”

“Like,” he corrects. You ignore it.

“How much you love it here, and maybe help me with all this crap?” You gesture weakly to the papers covering every last inch of your desk.

He lifts his head as his eyes lazily drop to the surface. His eyebrows rise. “Designs?” You nod. He grins. “Hell yeah.”

You smile. “Thought so.”

It’s nice to know that even though everything feels like it’s changed, it seems this is one of the things about Joshua that hasn’t: his near-neurotic need to be thoroughly involved in every single decision made around his car. Though this isn’t his car, he will be teaching the girls the best way to race them, and you know he’s going to want his frustratingly big, talented (veiny) hands all over anything having to do with it.

It doesn’t take you long to pack up, say bye to Jihyo, and lead Joshua through the public transportation system of London, to your favorite burger spot, and to your apartment. And as you’re putting the key in your door, you’re horrified to realize this will be the first time Joshua is in your home, and it will only be the second time (save for your recruitment two days ago) hanging out knowing that you’re head over heels in love with him. 

You get brief visions of Joshua cringing in disgust at whatever horrors lie behind this door, and you shudder. Obviously, you didn’t quite think this through.

“Mmm, is everything okay?” Joshua asks, looking at you with curious eyes when you don’t turn your key in the lock. “Your precious smashburgers are going to get cold.”

You throw an irritated glare at him before shaking your head. “I just… um, I’m suddenly remembering that I’m not sure when the last time I cleaned my apartment was…?” You roll your lips in between your teeth in embarrassment.

He gives you one of his big, crinkly smiles. “Oh my god, who cares?” You stare at him blankly and blink once. He rolls his eyes and sighs. “You do. Of course you do. Okay, fine.” He presses his back against the wall opposite your door and cocks an eyebrow at you. “How long do you want?”

You smile bashfully. “Give me five minutes?”

“Three,” he deadpans, lifting the brown paper bag he’s carrying so that it’s in line with his head. “Cold burgers were not part of the deal, L/N.”

“You make a good point, Hong,” you mutter, quickly turning your lock and opening your door just enough to squeeze through without letting the man see anything inside. “Three it is!”

You slam the door and let your backpack and laptop case fall to the floor as you assess the damage. You wince. 

Three bras hanging on the backs of your breakfast stools, air dried from when you did laundry last week. Spreadsheets, driver profiles, and contracts you printed out because you were getting a migraine staring at your laptop until three in the morning over the weekend—all strewn across your entire dining table, some even on the floor. The incomplete LEGO McLaren F1 MCL60 on your coffee table that you foolishly started the night before the girls arrived at the Academy and still haven’t continued (you’re sure there are several blocks missing by now). Your yoga mat rolled out in front of the TV from when you told yourself you’d find a video online to walk you through a workout but ended up falling asleep on the floor instead. A mug, a glass, and a small pan from when you drank your coffee and ate your pancakes straight out of the pan this morning, rushing to get to the Academy before Joshua did. You succeeded but at what cost? Now you have to figure out what to prioritize cleaning in the three measly minutes you have.

You figure the LEGO set will take too long to set aside and you don’t want to risk losing any more blocks than you possibly already have. The bras are a no-brainer and are already in your hands, being thrown into your bedroom haphazardly with the door quickly shut behind them as you decide the dishes need to go too. You wash and scrub like a madman, and you thank god for the wildly expensive nonstick set Jihyo got you as a housewarming gift when she saw your sad 12-year-old pan because everything cleans easily and quickly. You manage to get your yoga mat rolled up and thrown into your spare bedroom and are in the middle of organizing your dining table when Joshua knocks once. He doesn’t bother waiting, simply opening the door and yelling, “Burger time! I’m coming in!”

You smile. “It’s fine, come in. I just don’t want to hear about how messy it is in here, okay? I am barely home and when I am, I only really sleep and—” 

“I love it,” he says as the door clicks shut behind him. You roll your eyes and are about to make an exaggerated quip about his beautiful Barcelona mansion when you look up at him.

As always, it’s in the eyes that you clearly see he’s being absolutely genuine as he looks around, smiling at every little thing in here—the art of circuits and cars you have on the walls, awards you received throughout your career, books on the shelves that you read ages ago and haven’t touched since. He looks through everything like they’re all the most important things he’ll ever lay eyes on.

You try not to stammer as you pile your spreadsheets together. “Oh. Thanks.”

“It’s so you. I love it. Feels like a home. It’s not messy at all,” he assures you, putting the burgers on your kitchen counter before walking over to your coffee table. You could’ve guessed that would be the first thing he’d notice, and maybe you subconsciously chose to keep the LEGO set out because of that. He points at it and gasps. “This is sick! I have a friend who loves putting these kinds of things together. Didn’t realize F1 had LEGO builds.”

You nod as you decide the dining table is tidy enough to eat at without getting the crumbs and grease of your dinner on your work. “Yeah, it’s the MCL60. The—”

“The last car we raced together,” he finishes, glancing at you and smiling. It somehow hurts more to see how happy that makes him than it would if he was just angry at you for everything that happened the last day you both raced the MCL60. “This is awesome.”

You set the table as you let him absentmindedly work on your car. When you finish and he doesn’t seem like he plans on doing anything else, you ditch the table and bring the plates, napkins, and burgers to him on the couch.

“Thank you,” he says distractedly as you set his burger next to the car. He places three more blocks before reaching for his plate and leaning back into the couch. He laughs when he notices you’re already several bites into your burger. “Good?”

You nod, cheeks too full to say anything. He takes his first bite and his eyes get so wide, you have to try your best to keep from choking as you start laughing. “See,” you say when you’re sure you’re not going to die. “Good!”

“Amazing,” he insists, shaking his head. “This just made me realize I haven’t had a good burger since, like, May.”

You frown, thinking back to what race he had in May. “Miami? Why not Austin or Vegas?”

He snorts. “BBQ for Austin, buffet for Vegas, Miami for everything else I miss from the States.”

You smile. “And now you’re having an amazing burger in London.”

He shakes his head regretfully as he takes another massive bite and shamelessly talks with his mouth full—another thing you got used to a long time ago. “Feels like cheating.”

“Kinda does, huh?” you giggle.

He watches you in amusement, chewing through his insane bites. You both eat in comfortable silence, smiling or laughing a little for no reason whenever you make eye contact. When you’re both done, you go to collect his plate but he refuses, collecting yours instead and washing both plates for you. You’re glad you decided on cleaning the dishes over the LEGO set.

“You can keep building the car if you want,” you say as you go to lay out the designs you brought home from work on the dining table, effectively replacing one work mess with another. “I think I can settle on the final tweaks pretty fast.”

“How about I help you with designs because I might actually lose my mind not getting a say in them,” he starts, making you snort, “and then I finish your car for you since knowing you, you will never get back to it.”

You stop to look up and you find him drying his hands on your towel, smiling to himself. It’s been two years and the smallest things still take your breath away. Like the fact that he knows your life is almost entirely run by your career—that having a LEGO set to finish is just a part of a fantasy where you do cutesy things like that to unwind. Or the fact that he’ll finish it for you at all. Even now, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut just watching him dry his hands. His profile, the way his lips constantly look like they’re keeping a secret, the strands of hair that have fallen away from the rest and brush against his forehead. Your gaze follows his arms down. His large hands, adorned with silver rings—all of them always changing except the pinkie ring on his right hand. From head to toe, there isn’t a part of him that doesn’t make you feel like you’re incapable of speaking—like you’ve never even known a single word in the English language to begin with. 

He finishes drying his hands and looks up. You quickly avert your eyes back to the papers before you, and you sit down abruptly, barely noticing the way your chair screeches against the floor because of how loud your thoughts are.

“So what are we working with?” he asks, taking the seat next to you instead of across. You try not to stiffen when he reaches into your space to pick up one of the designs.

You clear your throat and force yourself to explain where you’re at: almost completely done, just running through some last tweaks that your team of engineers have suggested, each of them coming up with several solutions you need to sift through and pick. And as you continue talking, your nerves settle and you both get into a familiar flow you didn’t realize you sorely missed until now. There’s no one else you can talk like this with and be assured they’re having just as good a time as you are. You walk him through each decision made for the current iteration of the car and why it was made. You even answer questions about the cars from past seasons and the issues you faced before, and you’re pleased to find that although he still doesn’t know a lot of the technical things—as all people with no background in engineering wouldn’t—his opinions and input are just as valuable as they always were when you were still at McLaren. He gives you the most valuable perspective to have: the driver’s itself.

Hours pass and even when you both have final decisions made to present to Jihyo in the morning, he insists on helping you get through the rest of the work he noticed despite your frantic three-minute tidying. And when that’s done, he also insists on finishing the LEGO set, though you do more watching and bossing around than actual helping (“So typical of a race engineer,” according to Joshua). 

You’re not sure when either of you fall asleep. The last thing you remember is laying on your stomach on the couch, watching him look for the correct blocks through heavy lids, and the next thing you know, you’re in your bed, waking up in the same clothes from the night before, your nightstand clock reading 5:01 a.m. And when you walk out to your living room in a confused daze, wrapped in your blanket, you find Joshua draped across your couch. He’s far too big to be sleeping on it. You can’t help but pout a little at his sleeping form under the jacket he was wearing last night—in place of a blanket he didn’t bother waking you up for. He’s on his side facing the TV, one arm tucked under the throw pillow under his head and the other hanging off the couch, along with one leg. He’s practically half off the sofa. You gently remove his jacket and slip your blanket off your shoulders, placing it on him instead. He stirs under it but stays asleep, readjusting and immediately bunching the blanket under his chin with his fists. You try hard not to, but you can’t help when your hand reaches out and brushes the strands of hair on his forehead back. His lips twitch a little and he exhales through his nose.

You retreat back into your room, quietly showering and getting ready for work before coming back out to cook breakfast (and wash the dishes immediately after). Joshua doesn’t wake up during the entirety of it, so you set his plate on the coffee table in front of him next to the now finished MCL60, and yours across from him. You take your seat on the floor facing him, enjoying being able to openly stare at him without being scared you’ll get caught. Then, when you know you’re both about 30 minutes from officially running late for work, you wake him up.

“Shua,” you start softly as you begin cutting into your pancake. “Shuaaaaa.” He groans in his sleep and you smile around your fork. “Shua, I made pancaaaakes,” you sing-song gently in between bites. “They’re yummyyyyy. I even made eggs and bacooooon.”

He doesn’t stir. You roll your eyes.

“Joshua Hong,” you say a little louder.

“‘S not my name,” he mutters sleepily.

“Okay, I’ll call you Shua… but only if you wake up.” Nothing again. A moment later he snores once and you sigh. “Joshua, we’re going to be late.” 

A whiny groan escapes him. “Five minutes, baby,” he breathes. “‘M tired.”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Shua,” you call a little more sharply.

“Mmm,” he hums, turning on his side so that his back is to you like that will help drown your voice out.

“Joshua!” your voice escalates to a shout as the panic of him calling you a pet name in his sleep starts to take you in its grasp. “Wake the fuck up!” you practically screech as you take your house slipper and throw it at his head. “I made you breakfast, you idiot!”

“Ungh!” he grunts, turning over, sitting up on his elbows, and looking around with barely open eyes, a deep frown etched on his face. You momentarily forget what he just called you as you suppress a giggle at how disheveled and disoriented he looks. “What…?”

You point at his plate with your fork. His gaze follows before going back up to your face. You smile tightly and squeak, “Breakfast!” 

“Mmph.” He runs a hand over his face and groans as he turns over on his stomach, wraps the blanket around him more tightly, and squishes his cheek against the couch. You think he’s fallen back asleep until he mumbles, “Feed me.”

You scoff. “I already cooked for you and you want me to spoonfeed you too?”

“I carried you to bed and tucked you in last night, you monster,” he grumbles, mouth barely forming around the words as he drifts back to a half-asleep state. “Feed me.”

Your cheeks get hot at the information, and when you think about the three bras you threw into your room and had to step over numerous times this morning, you start to feel like your face is on fire.

“Food,” he demands when you say and do nothing. You glare at him as you wonder if it’s too late to tell Jihyo you regret all of this and you both need to fire him and send him back to Spain immediately.

“The nerve,” you complain under your breath as you set your own fork down and scoot to his side of the coffee table. “Helpless, little driver needs his race engineer to do everything for him.”

You glare harder when you notice traces of amusement on his mouth. You begin cutting his pancake, and when you bring it up to his lips and he smells the sweetness of the syrup right under his nose, he lifts his head just enough to be able to open his mouth. You feed him, wincing when his lips close around the fork with his eyes still shut. They’re a little chapped from sleeping in the coldness of your living room, but you still desperately want to press your lips to them. 

“S’good,” he mumbles, nodding as he lets his head fall back against the fabric. You sigh when a light snore immediately follows.

You call Jihyo and let her know both of you will be a little late for the morning meeting, and you ignore the way she cackles at the fact that Joshua very clearly spent the night at your place. He doesn’t wake up until the plates are empty, cleaned, and in the drying rack, and you finally (and violently) yank the blanket off him and return it to your room. By the time you’ve both stopped by his hotel room and gotten him a change of clothes, you’re nearly an hour late. And when you can’t escape the smirks Jihyo throws at you during your design presentation (and throughout the entire day), you have zero qualms about blaming Joshua.

AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX 2018 FP3 “Radio check.” “Sunday morning, rain is falling.” “Okay, okay, enough.”

You roll your eyes as you shake your head at the driver’s surprisingly amazing singing. Your boss suppresses his own smile as he watches over your shoulder, supervising your last practice run of the weekend with the McLaren rookie. You’ve already spent an insane amount of time with Joshua since meeting him. From the jump, both of you were on the same page about needing to get along well to create the best possible conditions for racing—conditions founded on trust. Day in and day out, you two were working together, taking breaks together, eating together, napping in Wonwoo’s office together, and following each other around the McLaren facility every moment in between, just getting to know each other.

You’re confident the two of you will work just fine; you’re confident the chemistry and compatibility will translate onto the track. Still, ever since you secured this position, this weekend has been keeping you up at night, worried that something will go wrong and your already frail one-year contract will be torn to shreds right in front of you. 

“Enough with the singing or the song?” Joshua asks, breaking you out of your thoughts as he takes what would be his formation lap if he makes it to the race tomorrow—when he makes it to the race tomorrow.

“Yes,” you answer.

“Wow,” he sighs. “My mom tells me I could’ve been an idol in another life and you don’t even want to hear?”

“Your mom has to be nice to you.”

There are a few beats of silence before he reluctantly says, “Fair.”

You snort. “I’m kidding. You actually have a really nice voice,” you assure him as you watch his stats on your monitor. “I’m just… a little nervous. Especially because a man named Wonwoo is breathing down my neck.”

He immediately steps away and drops into the seat next to you, glaring at you before turning to his own monitor. You grin. “Sounds like a micromanager.”

“Watch it,” Wonwoo cuts into the line. He sounds intimidating, but you’ve worked with him long enough to know he’s a good sport, and Joshua has already hung out with the man a few times outside of work.

“Ope,” your driver squeaks. “Sorry.” Wonwoo smiles but doesn’t respond, and the line falls silent again. A moment later, Joshua asks, “Why are you nervous? We’re just practicing.”

You know that he knows it’s not just practicing. This weekend is his debut into F1, and this is Free Practice 3, his last practice before he goes into qualifying later today. The first two practice sessions were largely about fine-tuning the car to his needs and making sure he felt comfortable. This last session is going to be the biggest indicator of where Joshua will fall for qualifying because it’s the one that will focus on his timing. “Just practicing,” you repeat with a scoff. “Why am I more nervous than you?”

He laughs easily and you do your best to stifle the sudden urge to strangle him and his easygoing attitude. “I’m saving my nerves for tomorrow.”

“We need to get through qualifying first.”

“We will,” he says it with so much conviction, that if he left it there, it would be enough. 

Even with the stress of having such a temporary contract (that Joshua doesn’t even know about), you would accept it and believe him. Because in the short time you’ve been working with him, you know he wouldn’t lead you astray. He doesn’t stop there, though.

“I trust you. You trust me,” he states, not even needing to ask you to confirm that you do. You’re glad he doesn’t. “And that’s going to be enough. Okay?”

You exhale slowly and nod more to yourself than anybody else. “Okay.”

“Okay!” he shouts suddenly, making you flinch. The man hardly ever raises his voice; in fact, he’s so softspoken, you had your volume turned up fairly high. Wonwoo snorts and turns it down on the monitor for you. “Where do you want me, boss?”

You look over at the performance strategist, who quickly rattles off numbers at you. When he’s done, you ask Joshua, “Everything’s feeling good?”

“Yup,” he answers, popping the p. “Drives like a dream.”

“Then you’re ready to go,” you tell him. “We’ll begin taking your time when you cross the starting line—about four seconds out.”

“Copy.” His voice comes out lower and with a bit of an edge to it, and you realize this is what it sounds like when Joshua Hong is locking in. It gives you a bit of a thrill. “What are we aiming for?”

He would need at least a 1:16 lap to safely pass qualifying later, and 1:14—his average time for this track on the simulator—would be entirely too fast. It would actually be a record-breaking pace for this track, and it would show your cards to the other teams too early in the season. You have to sandbag it at least a little, no matter how badly you want to see him full send.

“Let’s give it 95%,” you decide. That would put him at around a 1:17 lap—enough to be in the middle of the pack while keeping how fast the car really is a secret. 

“You got it.”

Joshua crosses the starting line and becomes a different person. He becomes one with his car, flying with it, turning with it, groaning with it, and ultimately forgetting anyone else around him exists. His breathing is more labored and his communication on the line is more clipped, brief, and straightforward. He doesn’t make conversation the way some of the other drivers do, so you don’t either, following his lead and giving him what he needs to concentrate. He finishes the first lap at 1:18:32.

“You can afford to shave half a second,” you tell him. He confirms his understanding before going for his next lap.

“Big guy said to send him at 90% his regular speed,” Wonwoo reminds you offline. 

“And I say 95,” you shoot back, smiling sweetly at him. He sighs deeply through his nose. 

“You should be doing whatever you can to extend your contract. That includes listening to the CEO. Y’know, the dude in charge of said contract?”

You scoff and put yourself on mute. “Wonwoo, sending Joshua at 90% his full power would put him at almost two minutes a lap. The longest this track takes is a minute and a half! Do you really think I’m going to let him come in last a full 30 seconds after everyone else?” Wonwoo winces. “Exactly! It was a ridiculous thing to demand in the first place!”

“It’s your job on the line,” he reminds you.

“Yeah, well, it’s his too,” you say. “Those drivers are already writing him off as an underdog rookie that’s not good enough to be here, and even worse to them, not rich enough to be here,” you point out. You’ve overheard enough of them talk about Joshua to know he has no friends on that track right now—not even in his own teammate. “Those assholes are always going to think he’s beneath them. I’ll sandbag it and make him seem average but I’m not going to make him the laughing stock of this weekend just because ‘the big guy’ said so.” 

Wonwoo has nothing to respond to that with. He just nods, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he turns back to his monitor, allowing you to work. You unmute yourself and continue to do your job. The trash talk isn’t even something that bothers Joshua; he’s so focused on himself and his own growth that he doesn’t find it interesting enough to tune in to what the other drivers are saying about him on his downtime. But it bothers you. Because that’s your driver for the next year, and he’s your friend now too. Plus, you refuse to let people think you’re the race engineer for a loser. This race is going to be the last time anyone has anything stupid to say about Joshua Hong. His next lap comes in at 1:17:52, and though it fluctuates each time by anywhere from a quarter of a second to a half second, he averages just under 1:17:30 across all 13 laps he takes, and you’re more than pleased with his performance.

It turns out, though, that McLaren’s CEO is not. As soon as Joshua is back in the garage cooling down as the engineers check his vehicle and debrief, the tall, daunting man is at your side, giving you a tight smile—the one that tells you he’s trying not to make  a scene right now—asking to speak with you privately.

“I thought we agreed we’d start Joshua at 90% power during FP3,” he states once you’re alone.

“I made a call to put him at 95,” you say, fighting to keep your voice from wavering. As stubborn as you are, you’re still human and you’re still afraid he’ll rip this opportunity away from you. “He finished with an average time that put him at P16. I think that’s still sufficient as far as sandbagging goes, and we don’t have to humiliate him in the process. The other driver got P5. I don’t see why it would matter where Joshua lands after that.”

He stares at you hard before he smirks and shrugs. “Well, if the first year race engineer says it’s sufficient, then it must be,” he says, snorting. “You’ve got spunk and I can appreciate it—I’ll give you that.” His expression turns serious again. “But come qualifying, I don't want any surprises. Hong can finish any place you want him, except for first. He doesn’t get pole position.”

You fight to refrain from glaring. You don’t have to ask why; you know it’s because he wants the other McLaren driver there. CEOs are here for one thing, and that’s to secure the constructor’s championship, and right now they’re putting all their hopes into Joshua’s teammate. You should technically align your goals with theirs, and up until a few months ago, you were. But Joshua is the kind of person who’s hard not to prioritize, and you decided long ago without even knowing it that you will be prioritizing him. Winning him a driver’s championship is a lot more important to you than where McLaren lands at the end of the season.

“Are we clear?” your CEO asks.

“Crystal.” 

“Perfect. Good job today.” He dismisses you.

You leave with a genuine smile on your face because in a handful of minutes, the man annihilated any trace of nervousness you had about this weekend. You couldn’t give less of a shit about qualifying or pole position. You’re getting Joshua on the podium, and you’ll laugh in the CEO’s face when you point out that you were told to stay away from pole position, but he didn’t say anything about winning the race. Joshua trusts you, and you’re going to deliver.

You watch the girls stretch with each other as they all wait to start their five laps on the simulator. Joshua stands next to you, tilting his head back and forth too, like he’s warming his own neck up for a race. You smile but don’t point out the habit.

“You remember my debut race?” he asks, a McLaren cap pulled down so low over his face, you can barely see his eyes. You give up trying to and turn back to the students.

“Of course,” you answer. “It almost lost me my job before I even really started.”

Joshua shakes his head. “Now that I know your contract was so… temporary, I don’t understand why you took the risk getting me to the podium.”

You think about the day of that race. You had Joshua stay back for qualifying, snagging an easy P11—a nice, safe middle-of-the-pack position that would gain the attention of absolutely no one. Come race time, no one was prepared for the random driver who placed so low to dominate most of the race. Then, he brought it home, and he became the first-ever rookie to win his debut race. His teammate placed P4, booted off the podium because of Joshua. And you reveled in it. A first place trophy for your driver, and you got to piss everyone off while you were at it. Even when the CEO was screaming in your face and Wonwoo was freaking out over your position, you were high off the feeling of everyone looking at Joshua the way they did that day—like he was a god amongst men. And no one could stay mad at you either; within a week, Joshua had several interviews and appearances lined up, and F1 was immediately obsessed with his rags to riches story. After a few races, even the CEO was putting all his resources behind Joshua too. And sure, he tried to give the star rookie to his nepo baby nephew at one point, but he didn’t. Because at the end of the day, Joshua became a star with you backing him. 

Looking back at it now, you’re not sure how you didn’t realize how much you loved him sooner. Back then, you told yourself it was your pride. Or that it was your intense need to win. To prove to the world you and Joshua weren’t a pair to skip over. But now, you see it for what it is: even as early as it was, you loved him too much to let anyone make a mockery of him—to let anyone be a priority over him.

“I needed you on the podium,” you say simply. It’s as honest as you can be without having to sacrifice a more important, more sacred truth. “You deserved it and the world needed to see it. And they did.”

He smiles bashfully as he nudges your elbow with his. You know it’s his shy smile because it shows none of his teeth and the corners turn down a little in a weak attempt to suppress his happiness. “Are you only being nice to me so I don’t go too hard on your students?” he jokes.

“Yes,” you answer immediately, making him laugh. You grin at the sound, and you’re thankful for the segue. “You ready to become a teacher?”

He exhales through his mouth then claps and rubs his hands together. “Absolutely. I’m going to make legends out of the girlies.” 

Joshua hasn’t even been here a full week and he’s already picking up random phrases and lingo from the students and using it every moment he can. You roll your eyes but smile anyway.

“Alright!” you call across the room at the girls. “Any volunteers to go first? If not, we’ll just go in random order.”

“Actually,” Joshua cuts in, surprising you. He quietly asks if he can change things up and you motion for him to take it away before you step aside, all-too-willing—as always—to give him the driver’s seat. “I came up with an order I want to see. So we’re going to have Sophia go first.”

The student perks up from where she’s seated on the ground, immediately untangling herself from the stretch she’s in as she stands and grins at her new driving teacher. “Good choice!” she says, glossy lips turning into her signature smirk as she looks over her shoulder at her classmates. “Watch and learn, girlies.”

You sigh but don’t say anything, allowing Joshua to handle his class however he wants to. And he just smiles good-naturedly like he always does. The other girls scoff and roll their eyes, though most of them are smiling too because they’ve lived with Sophia for two months now; they know she’s too confident for her own good and incredibly full of herself, but they also know she’d lay down on the track in the middle of a grand prix before she let anyone or anything hurt any of them.

“Ready?” Joshua asks, motioning to the simulator. Sophia climbs up the rig like she and the other students have several times before.

“Born ready,” she says as she settles into the chair and starts strapping herself in. 

The simulator is probably the most expensive thing the Academy has. It’s a top tier, state-of-the-art system that boasts a 360 ultra high definition screen, perfectly mimics the F4 car the girls will be driving, and recreates the conditions of every track in the world to the last crack and pebble. It’s in a dark, concrete room, and it reminds you of playing video games until the sun rises—thrilling but also kind of depressing. 

“Okay, the rest of you, go watch in the waiting room,”Joshua orders. There are TVs that will show both Sophia in the rig and what she’s seeing on the screen waiting for the girls in there.

The students file out and when it’s just the three of you left, Joshua nods. “Alright, we’ll go into the control room and I’ll evaluate you from in there while Y/N—ML works with you.” You smirk at how bad he is at referring to you by your Academy nicknames.  

“Got it, Josh!” Sophia chirps, making you shake your head in amusement. 

“Good luck, kid,” you call as the two of you exit into the neighboring control room—a space with one wall entirely made up of screens showing Sophia at different angles, the simulation itself, and her stats. It’s usually full of engineers tapping away on their monitors on an official evaluation day, but today, it’s just you and Joshua.

You take a seat at one of the many computers and put your headphones on as the driver plops down next to you.

“So why Sophia?” you ask as you pull up what you need on your monitor. 

“I think you’ll get it when we’re done,” Joshua says without looking away from the screens.

You turn away from your computer to make fun of him for being so mysterious, but when you look at him, you’re thrust into one of those moments that leaves you shellshocked and breathless. He’s not doing anything special. Actually, he’s slouched in his seat, half manspreading, and his arms are crossed as he frowns at the screen in concentration, so really, it’s the opposite of special because you imagine this is what he looked like as a moody, street-racing teenager. But his hat is pulled down low, and for once, you can’t tell what he’s thinking because you can’t see his eyes, and you’re forced to take in everything else about him. His lips and the way they part slightly when he seems to mentally take note of something. A jawline that could cut glass. His Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows nothing. How thick his neck is from years of training it to handle the G-force of F1. The way his long hair pokes out the back of his hat, slightly curling up against the nape of his neck like they can’t bear to be apart from him for a second. You almost scoff at his hair. Is this rock bottom? Being jealous of his hair?

“Ready, Sophia?” he asks into a microphone that feeds into both her headset and the waiting room.

“Yup!” she shouts, making you wince. You turn down her volume and Joshua laughs.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry for all the times I shouted into my mic,” he says, tilting his head up a tiny bit so he can see you better from under the lid of his hat. The apology makes you realize it’s the first time he’s ever seen you actually do your job.

“You should be,” you joke. “You should be especially sorry for how loudly and how often you sang Maroon 5.”

Joshua grins mischievously at that. “Never.”

You roll your eyes as you unmute yourself and speak to Sophia. “Okay, we’ll take a formation lap, then your evaluation begins,” you tell her.

“Got it.”

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘copy,’” you correct her. Joshua laughs, probably thinking of all the lingo he had to learn too.

“Right, right. Copy.”

Sophia’s evaluation starts not long after that, and her first lap goes smoothly, aside from all the gloating she does to no one but herself. At any other stage of your life, it might have annoyed you, but you just smile at it now, a little fond of all the random bursts that include: “I’m the gnarliest bitch on this track,” “I’m the shit!” and your personal favorite, “I am Sophia La-motherfuckin’-forteza!” Though as a teacher, you do have to tell her to stop cursing. On her third lap, just when you can tell she’s starting to get a little too comfortable, Joshua leans forward and changes a few settings on his own monitor. You raise an eyebrow when the system processes his commands, and Sophia’s computer-run teammate flanks her.

“Tell her to let them through.”

Both your eyebrows rise now. “You want Sophia to give up her position. To her teammate.”

He looks at you and smirks. “Yes, that’s exactly what I want Sophia to do.”

You think back to the times Joshua has been told to give up his spot. Once, during his debut race. He was more than willing, but he was committed to listening to you. And you told him to hold his position so he could secure the podium.The second time was the grand prix immediately following that one, when the CEO wanted you to bend to his will as a lesson. You did, but only because you had already proven your point. Joshua still ended up in the points, and laughably enough, ahead of his teammate, who got a DNF because he took a turn too fast and crashed into the barrier. Both times, your driver never questioned the order. He trusted you to know what the best choices for him were.

You shrug. “Your funeral.” You speak to Sophia now. “Team order: let them pass.”

“What?!” she shrieks. Thankfully, you’re well into her evaluation now that you know the perfect volume to have her at. “What do you mean team order? There’s no team!”

You snort. “I’m not sure if you were ever informed of this, but Formula One is comprised fully of teams, Sophia,” you say sarcastically. “And yours is ordering you to let them pass.”

“But why?!” she whines just as Joshua leans forward and makes the car tailing her a touch more aggressive. She swerves dangerously to block it.

“Strategy. Let them through, and keep it clean,” you say, reciting exactly what you would tell Joshua if it were him, “I promise you there will be opportunities to prove yourself later. I’ll make sure of it. Move aside. We gotta let them have this one.”

“No,” she says through gritted teeth. You exhale through your nose slowly, and you can tell from the way he tries hard to refrain from staring, that it fascinates Joshua to see you on this side of the track. “I only have a lap and a half left!”

“Sophia—”

“I’m faster!” she shouts. “It doesn’t make sense!” She grunts as she blocks another attempt for her teammate to pass her up.

“Keep it clean, Laforteza!” you bark at her. Joshua shudders. You frown at him and he shrugs.

“PTSD,” he mutters and you roll your eyes at him.

“Tell them to back off!” she pleads. “I’ve got this! I—god, get off my ass!” 

You groan as her defense sends the car off track. “That’s a penalty,” you grumble.

“I don’t care! I’m not moving!”

Joshua smirks and shakes his head, leaning forward and pressing a single button. The simulator shuts down. He stands as he speaks into the mic. “Yeah, because you just failed.”

Reviews happen with all the other girls, and when Sophia emerges from the simulator room, she’s red and sweaty and angry, but she remains silent, simply choosing to stand in front of you and Joshua to receive her marks. The other students watch with huge eyes.

“Any idea why I chose you first?” Joshua asks. Sophia shakes her head. “A girl like you—confident on the verge of being arrogant… I don’t want to see the first time you get shaken to be on the track during a race, when it matters the most,” he explains. “I needed to lay the pressure on thick.” Sophia closes her eyes briefly like she knows she lost the race before she even started. “And I’ll give it to you,” Joshua continues, nodding, “you weren’t nervous under the regular pressures of the race. But no race is ‘regular.’ I wanted to see how good you are when you’re emotional. I wanted to see how you treat your engineer when you don’t agree. I wanted to see how well you listen.”

You suppress the urge to tell him how impressed you are; his read on her is scarily accurate.

“You failed this evaluation, but you’re not a failure, Sophia,” he reminds her. “This isn’t just an exercise in knocking your confidence because frankly, you’re going to need every ounce of it when you’re a female driver surrounded by men. I’m not interested in doing that; the rest of F1 will be eager to do it themselves.” The girls all wince but it’s a truth they need to hear.

You glance at him, and though they’re in the shadow of his hat, from this angle, you see his eyes. It makes you fall in love even harder seeing how genuine he is. 

“This season, I want you working on how to reign in that confidence so that it works for you. I want you to be confident that your engineer has your best interest at heart, and confident that you’re always going to perform your best despite the times this sport feels anything but fair. Okay?”

“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Got it, Mr. Hong.”

You laugh. “Mr. Hong?”

“Turn on teacher mode for ten minutes and they don’t want to call me by my name anymore,” Joshua huffs in a faux complaint. He turns to you. “Any feedback?”

You nod. “It’s okay to disagree with calls,” you tell her. “I mean, that’s probably debatable person to person actually—” Joshua grins. “—but a good engineer and a good driver will find a way to compromise. There’s a reason why this evaluation is a joint effort, and it’s not just because Joshua’s been shadowing me.”

“Or because you’re best friends?” Eunchae asks. You glare at her and she immediately pretends to be preoccupied with the wall.

“It’s because,” you say emphatically at Eunchae before turning back to Sophia, “you can’t win without the other. You’re a team—probably more than your actual F1 team will ever be a team to you.” Your ex-driver nods pensively. 

“A driver is only as good as their engineer,” Joshua states. Sophia nods. “Any questions?” he asks. She shakes her head, obviously completely depleted of anger. She just looks exhausted now. “Okay, good job otherwise, Laforteza. Fantastic reflexes and even better trash talk.”

You grin as Sophia finally smiles. “Thanks.”

“But stop cussing,” Joshua adds, making the room laugh. Before he can announce the next student’s turn, Eunchae raises her hand. 

“If this has nothing to do with evaluations—”

She interrupts you. “No, it does! Well, kinda. But it definitely has to do with what Josh just said! Promise!” You narrow your eyes at her and she stares at you with her huge, puppy eyes. You finally nod at her to continue. “How do you build trust with an engineer? What if they suck? Wasn’t your engineer after ML really bad? How did you build trust after ML left?”

You inhale sharply and Joshua coughs in surprise at the bluntness of her question. Eunchae doesn’t seem to understand how personal of a question she just asked—why would she? 

“Uh…” he stammers, stumped for the first time since he’s gotten to the Academy. “That’s a good question…” he says, trying to buy himself some time. “Y/N—ML—no sorry, you know what? I can’t keep calling her that. Or Mickie. It’s weird.”

The girls mostly laugh but you don’t miss the wicked, little twinkle in Eunchae’s eyes and the small, matching smile that accompanies it. You know she’s just bookmarking everything that happens as evidence for her little “best friend” agenda. 

“I built trust with Y/N before we ever even raced together. I don’t think you necessarily need to be best friends with your engineer—”

“But you two are, right,” Eunchae states more than asks. “Best friends?”

“Of course,” Joshua says easily, and you can’t help the way your eyes widen a little at that. He doesn’t notice the way your gaze snaps to him, searching for signs that he’s lying or that it was a mistake and he misheard her. But he just continues with his train of thought, ignorant to how the two words just tilted your world on its axis. “She’s my best friend, but again, not everyone needs to be. In fact, it’s probably going to be rarer that you do become best friends with your engineer,” he says.

You never stopped thinking of him as your best friend, but after everything, he still considers you his too. Present tense. You strain to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears.

“But either way, get to know them. Learn how to communicate with each other. The more you know about each other, the easier it is to trust the other and see how compatible you are as partners.”

“And you’re compatible? As partners? You and ML? More than the next engineers you had after her?” Eunchae asks. 

You only realize at this very moment that your student is a master actress. She really had the whole big, innocent eyes thing going for her—really fooled you into thinking she had a “Joshua and Y/N” are the cutest besties agenda—but it’s now, as she barely contains her excitement with every new question, that you remember at the end of the day, she’s still just a teenage girl. And teenage girls gain their life force from two things: terrorizing adults and shipping anyone with a pulse together. You narrow your eyes at her and sensing that you’re onto whatever she’s doing, Eunchae immediately sits back in her seat and her face drops all signs of mischief. 

“I…” Joshua seems to be at a loss for words, searching for the right way to phrase his thoughts. He briefly meets your eyes, and he isn’t shy about holding your gaze for a few moments like he’ll find the answer somewhere on your faces. He gives you a small, sheepish smile before he turns back to Eunchae. When he continues, he tells her, “I wouldn’t say that I wasn’t compatible with the engineers that came after. I just wasn’t as willing to try to be, and you can clearly see where that got me.” The girls nod regretfully. “So take that as a lesson that your relationship with your engineer can make or break you.”

The words leave you feeling a little hollow.

“Okay, next one: Megan. Let’s go.”

Evaluations last the rest of the academic day, mostly without a hitch. Joshua noticed Megan’s almost neurotic need to study theory excessively, and correctly predicted her approach would be entirely too clinical. He tested Eunchae on her eagerness (a trait that often led to sheer recklessness), and she ended up crashing before the five laps were up. The only person he couldn’t peg was Saki, and you couldn’t blame him. She was an enigma, and she hardly spoke, but you knew what she was like as a driver so you weren’t surprised when she took every one of the F1 driver’s tests and elegantly crushed them. Suffice it to say, Joshua proved to be a fantastic, natural-born teacher.

You tell him as much at the end of the day, when everyone has left the Academy, the girls are back at their dorms, and the two of you are in your office, debriefing each performance.

“And you were worried you wouldn’t know how to do this,” you scoff as you both finish up your discussion. You gather your respective notes and leave them in two neat piles on your desk but make no move to get up. “You were born for this.”

His smile is lopsided as he shakes his head. “I think you just have too high an opinion of me.”

“Two things can be true at the same time.”

He laughs as you both slump in your seats, thoroughly exhausted from the day. You enjoy a brief and comfortable silence before he nudges your foot under the desk with his. You, as always (at least ever since your annoying epiphany at the 2023 Spanish Grand Prix), fight not to flinch. “Y’know, I think you were born for this,” he says like he’s thought about it. “As amazing as you were at McLaren, I think you’re exactly what these girls need.”

“And what is that?”

“Someone to look up to and show them it’s possible. Someone that will keep it real with them but believe in them fiercely.” The words have your heart thundering in your chest. “Huh,” he mutters like he’s just now realizing something, “I guess you are to them what you’ve always been to me.”

You snort at that and look at him incredulously. “What?”

He smiles softly, almost like he’s too tired to give you a smile any wider. “Don’t play dumb; we both know you’re the only reason my career has been as successful as it has. Even Eunchae knows it. She’s a nosy, little thing, huh?” You both snicker at that.

“Stop attributing all your success to me,” you groan. “It wasn’t me. You did absolutely fine this past season—even better than some of our seasons together.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“So what do you mean?”

He straightens up and leans forward, forearms resting on your desk as he stares at you intently. You sit up a little, feeling self-conscious all of a sudden. “I mean, you made it all feel… fun and worth it, and… I don’t know.” He shrugs. “You made anything we did together feel like… everything. It’s the only reason I worked so hard. It’s also the reason these girls work so hard. You make this all feel like it’s the best thing anyone can be doing.”

You’re not sure if Joshua understands what his words are coming across to you as. Your naive heart—the one that still belongs to him—wants to believe this is him realizing how special the bond you shared was. This is him catching up to what you knew two years ago. This is him telling you he’s always loved you just as much, and he’s always felt all the things you’ve felt too. But you know that’s not what he’s saying. You know that Joshua has always worn his heart on his sleeve, and that he’s never shied away from telling you everything that was on his mind. This is him appreciating your friendship. 

“I could say the same about you,” you sigh, trying not to put so much weight in either of your words. “You’ve only been here a week, and it’s already been such a big reminder of how fun it is to work with you.”

“Work? Just work?” he scoffs. “You’re my best friend and we hang out every day, but the best you can come up with is I’m fun at work?”

You roll your eyes. “Sure, yeah, I guess the other stuff’s fun too.” 

He glares at you before his smile wins out. “I meant it, by the way. You are my best friend. Even though so much has changed… you never stopped being my best friend.”

The confirmation that what he told Eunchae wasn’t just for optics or just a reflexive answer to her probing question is balm to your anxieties. After everything—after what you did in Abu Dhabi, he still considers you part of that special group. The one that consists of you and his mom. The one he trusts to love him and keep him safe. But still, neither of you have talked about that night, and as determined as he is to bury the fact that it ever even happened, you know it’s something you want to properly apologize for.

“You’re mine too,” you say before mustering up the courage to ask, “Should we talk about it?” 

Joshua winces. “Sorry, I know how that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean to make it about… that.” He can’t even say it. He can’t even say that you left.

“It’s okay, I think we should talk about it at some point. Clear the air,” you say. “Best friends should be able to talk about hard things, right?”

He takes a beat to respond but he eventually nods. “Right. Okay then…” he starts hesitantly. “Should we get comfy?” He motions to your sofa and you nod.

You sit side-by-side, with no space between you, every bit of you from your shoulders down to your feet pressed up against Joshua like he thinks if the two of you are close enough, talking about this won’t hurt as much. There’s a pregnant pause of silence as you both try to figure out where you should even start. You would’ve guessed that he’d dance around the topic from the way he’s asked you to refrain from talking about this. You would’ve guessed wrong.

“Why’d you do it?” he asks quietly. It somehow still feels like he’s shouting the question at the top of his lungs. “Why’d you leave without saying goodbye?”

“I already had,” you say. “Or, I thought I already had.”

“That’s a copout,” he accuses you in the most polite way. He keeps his tone respectful and even though his words cut, his eyes stay kind. “Our last conversation wasn’t a goodbye. Even if it was, it wasn’t the goodbye our relationship deserved.” You know what he means by relationship—you know that being friends and coworkers to the degree you were constituted as a type of relationship. That doesn’t keep your heart from racing at the word.

“I know,” you agree. “And I’m sorry. I really did think it was our goodbye; it felt final enough to be one. But I see now that I was just… sad.” Joshua’s gaze is heavy and unrelenting, and you try not to squirm. “I was sad to leave, and I was scared I wasn’t making the right choice, and most of all… I knew if I had to say goodbye while looking you in the eye… I’d chicken out and stay.”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” he claims quickly and resolutely. “This was the chance of a lifetime for you. I never would’ve let you stay.”

You don’t tell him that the idea of that would’ve hurt just as much—that his refusal to keep you would’ve hurt you. There wasn’t a scenario that would’ve left you unscathed, so you tell him part of the truth. 

“I just didn’t want to have to face you,” you admit. “I felt like I was betraying you by leaving you. I felt like I was ruining everything for you. I told myself it was a good enough goodbye, but I know it was just a way to make it easier on myself. I should’ve known leaving like that was a betrayal on its own.”

Joshua nods but doesn’t immediately say anything, simply processing the words. When he does speak, he doesn’t mince his words or try to hide his feelings, and you think this must be why he didn’t want to talk about it back in Barcelona; maybe he wanted to spare your feelings. Maybe he knew his honesty would be a lot for you. 

“It should’ve been the happiest night of my life, and instead…” he shakes his head to himself. “I got off the podium, I finished my interviews, and I went to look for you just like I always do, and all I found was Wonwoo. He didn’t even have to say anything. He just had this… this look of pity on his face, and I knew you were gone. And now every time someone mentions that I’m a two-time world champion, or they even say ‘Abu Dhabi’… I think, ‘God, that was the worst night of my life.’”

The sharp inhale you take is involuntary, and you’re horrified to find your eyes immediately welling with tears already. 

“Can you believe that? I was the youngest driver to win two championships, and I can’t stand to talk about the night it happened.”

“Shua, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he says, shoulder pressing firmly against yours in an attempt to comfort you. Because that’s the epitome of who Joshua Hong is—a man who comforts you when you’re the one who hurt him. “I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty. Like you said, it’s best we clear the air, and… I guess I just need you to know how badly it hurt.”

You nod, blinking rapidly and willing your tears to stay where they are. The last thing you want to do right now is make Joshua have to comfort you even more when it should be the other way around.

“After five years—five years closer to you than anyone else I’ve ever been in my life… the way it ended, with me alone on the track… it hurt,” he says, clearing his throat before continuing. “I didn’t think you betrayed me. I was sad to see you go, but all of your wins are my wins. We always said that, right? It was always going to be hard because any day without you is hard. But I was always going to be happy for you no matter what.”

You find the courage to look up at him then, and he turns to meet your gaze too. He smiles, reaching up to wipe at your eyes with a thumb before letting his hand fall on top of yours. He squeezes and doesn’t let go.

“I just wish I got the chance to tell you I was happy for you, I was proud of you, and I would always be there for you,” he says, sighing. “But I guess telling you now is better than nothing.”

“Shua,” you sniffle, shaking your head and laughing a little at how pathetically easy it is to make you cry when it comes to him. “If I could redo it…”

There are a lot of things you want to say. If I could redo it, I’d find a way to stay and love you without it ruining our careers. If I could redo it, I would’ve at least told you before I left. I would’ve told you I loved you, I’ll always love you, and that’s why I’m leaving.

“If I could redo it,” you repeat, voice a little shaky, “I would be brave and I would wait. And I would be there in the garage, waiting like I always did. You deserved a proper bye. I’m sorry I took that away from you.”

Joshua threads his fingers through yours properly now, eyes on your hands like he’s studying the way they fit. He squeezes again before nodding. “Thank you. I accept your apology.” You sigh slowly, smiling a little when you realize how badly you needed that. He doesn’t stop there, though. “And I’m sorry I didn’t text or call for the last two years. I thought I was bigger than that, but… seems like at the end of the day I’m still just a man—” you laugh at his imitation of your voice. “—and I let my pride keep me from checking in.”

“I could’ve checked in too,” you say. “But let’s not dwell on that. You’re here, we’re okay, and we know better now.”

He nods. “No Irish goodbyes please.”

“Never again.”

“Good,” he says, grinning. You sigh, leaning your head against his shoulder and willing your heart to shut up and let you have a quiet moment with your best friend. 

“I’m really glad you came back with me, Shua,” you say after a few seconds. “It feels like you belong here.”

He hums. “Maybe I just belong wherever you are.”

The first thing your brain does upon hearing those words is curse Joshua Hong’s mother for raising the sweetest, most earnest man on planet Earth. The second thing it does is try to convince you to throw caution to the wind and just kiss his face senseless. Kiss his face senseless and confess everything you ran away from when you left him two years ago.

“Ew, cheesy,” you force yourself to say instead, as you lift your head up and take your hand back from his. He laughs when you get up from the couch to put space between yourselves. “Get up, cornball. Let’s get food.”

“I want tacos.”

“I don’t care,” you say defiantly as he laughs harder, like he knows why you’re suddenly being a brat. “You’ll eat whatever I decide we’re getting.”

“Fine. You’re the boss.”

“And don’t forget it.”

a/n: i'll be posting weekly! we're looking at three parts and an epilogue right now :) if you want to be on the tag list, plsplspls comment here because the initial tag list is from cam&em, and they will not be tagging you in each part! i'll be tagging you if you were on that list, but if you don't want to be, just send me a quick ask or message—no hard feelings at all! thanks for reading and hope you'll check out everyone else's work :)

you’re not used to this.

the flashing lights, the screams, the chaotic elegance of fashion week in paris. sure, you’ve done premieres and panels before. your netflix series blew up way more than anyone expected, and suddenly your face was everywhere. streaming numbers through the roof. interviews. magazine covers. your face on a billboard near times square.

but this? this is dior.

they flew you out. they dressed you like a dream. they made you sit front row. you smiled, you posed, you pretended you weren't internally freaking out.

because deep down, you still feel like that girl who watched fashion shows at 2am, dreaming about stuff like this. and maybe you’re still that girl. just with better eyeliner and a driver waiting outside.

you make it through the show without tripping or passing out. success.

then someone mentions the afterparty and you’re like... okay. sure. why not. you’ll go. stay twenty minutes. do your duty. leave with grace and dignity and maybe a tiny dessert in your purse.

it’s crowded. obviously. but beautiful. soft lighting. velvet everything. a lot of cheek kisses and air-sipping cocktails. the kind of party where people look bored on purpose.

you’re standing near the back, halfway through a glass of something sparkling and expensive, when you see him. and by “see him,” you mean feel the atoms in the room shift slightly.

he walks in like it’s no big deal. which maybe it isn’t, to him. he’s mingyu. people know him. tall and glossy and casually perfect. wearing something you’re sure costs more than your rent, but it doesn’t even look like he’s trying. you’re not even a hardcore carat, but you’ve seen enough seventeen content to know that he’s funny and clumsy and surprisingly shy for someone that handsome.

you glance. once. okay, maybe twice.

you tell yourself that’s it.

until someone says, “oh, mingyu! this is y/n.”

and your heart tries to climb out of your chest.

he smiles like it’s easy. like he does this all the time. “hi,” he says. “i watched your show.”

you blink. “seriously?”

“yeah,” he says, sipping something clear. “i binged it on a flight.”

you weren’t expecting that. “you watched my show on a plane?”

he shrugs, almost sheepish. “i needed something good. ended up watching the whole thing.”

your mouth opens slightly, like your brain’s buffering.

“that’s… wild,” you say finally. “you watched me act while trapped at thirty thousand feet.”

he laughs. “and liked it.”

you manage to hold eye contact, just barely. “thank you.”

he nods. “you were great. the whole cast was. but yeah, you stood out.”

you try not to smile too much, but it slips through anyway.

“well,” you say, “i’m a fan of yours too.”

he tilts his head a little, amused. “really?”

“really,” you nod. “you’re very good at what you do.”

his gaze softens, just slightly. “thanks.”

he laughs. it’s nice. warm. and you feel oddly calm now. like maybe this is just two people who exist in the same strange world, chatting for a second.

it doesn’t last long. someone pulls him away. someone else tries to talk to you. and just like that, he’s across the room again, surrounded by people who look like they were born on red carpets.

but later, when you’re waiting for your car outside and the air is a little too cold for your dress, you catch him looking at you. just once. a glance. maybe nothing.

but you feel it.

you don’t expect the internet to feel it too.

the next morning, your name is trending.

you think: oh god, what did i say? did someone post a bad angle of me? did i spill something?

but no.

it’s a blurry pic. you and mingyu. standing close. talking. both smiling. someone zoomed in so much that it’s pixelated like a renaissance painting, but the caption says:

“what are they cooking”

another post:

“mingyu looking at her like she hung the stars HELP”

and then:

“she literally said she was a fan of him a few months ago and now they’re at the same party this is my roman empire”

you want to scream. or hide. or laugh. you do all three, kind of.

your dms are unhinged. your friend sends you a tiktok of someone doing a powerpoint presentation titled “why mingyu and y/n would make sense actually.” you text back: i talked to him for thirty seconds.

but it doesn’t matter.

people see what they want to see.

you try to ignore it. let it pass. the internet always moves on eventually, right?

you post a normal picture the next day. a croissant. the eiffel tower in the background. very chill. very “look at me being unbothered in paris.” comments are not chill.

“where is mingyu” “blink twice if it’s real” “what did you talk about PLEASE I BEG”

you don’t reply.

you just keep scrolling. wondering if maybe he saw all this too.

and then, a few nights later, it happens.

your phone lights up. unknown number.

hey. this is mingyu. i hope it’s okay i got your number from someone at the party. just saw the chaos online and thought i should say hi officially.

you sit with that for a full five minutes. you reread it like he might have changed his mind and deleted the message. but it’s still there.

you type.

hi lol yeah the internet’s kinda having a moment huh

he replies almost instantly.

mingyu i forgot how people pay that much attention to who i stand next to lol

you smile. because yeah. same.

you the internet’s wild. last week someone made a thread about how i hold my coffee cup “suspiciously”

he sends a laugh emoji.

mingyu suspicious how

you apparently i grip it like i’m about to throw it at someone

mingyu honestly that’s a power move

you both stop texting for a few minutes. maybe he’s busy. maybe you are. you don’t expect more. but then:

mingyu anyway, sorry if that’s random just made me think of it and you seemed cool

you read that twice. you seemed cool.

you don’t know why it hits the way it does, but it does. quiet, lowkey, easy.

you not random i get it you seemed cool too weirdly calm for someone being chased by cameras

mingyu lol it’s a skill built over time and mild panic

you smile, thumb hovering over your screen. you don’t ask anything else. don’t push.

later that night, when you're brushing your teeth in a hotel bathroom that smells faintly like roses and money, you check your phone one last time.

a final message from him.

mingyu just saw someone on twitter say we have “suspiciously good timing”

you what does that even mean

mingyu like every time one of us posts, the other one’s online

you we’re not special. we’re just addicted to our phones

mingyu they also said we probably have a secret handshake

you we should

mingyu something dramatic lots of finger snaps maybe a spin

you followed by complete denial that we know each other

mingyu of course professionalism

you pause for a second, then type:

you you know this only makes them worse

mingyu yeah isn’t it kind of fun though

you a little

mingyu we should give them just enough to stay confused

you like posting the same sky photo 6 minutes apart

mingyu or both pretending we love the same very specific fruit

you papaya?

mingyu chaos...

you grin at your phone.

neither of you says anything else for a while.

but you don’t leave the chat.

and neither does he.

—-----------------

you wake up to sunlight spilling through gauzy curtains and the sound of distant traffic humming under your window. your phone is on the nightstand, buzzing once with a notification, then going quiet again.

you don’t check it right away.

instead, you stretch. take your time. the sheets are soft, the kind of hotel-soft that feels too luxurious to be real. you think, briefly, about how weird this week has been. fashion week. dior. mingyu.

you smile a little. not because of him, exactly. just... the whole thing. how surreal it all feels.

you finally grab your phone. one unread message.

mingyu walked past a bakery on the way back to the hotel smelled really good made me think this city is unfairly good at mornings

you snort, already smiling.

you i haven’t even left the room yet and now i feel like i’m missing out thanks

mingyu no pressure just reporting the vibes

you noted very responsible of you

mingyu it’s a public service

you should i be worried you’re turning into a pastry influencer

mingyu depends do you think that title comes with free samples

you 100% but only if you post aesthetic overhead shots

mingyu i’ll practice with my leftover croissant though i did already take a bite i was weak

you toss your phone on the bed and head to the shower. you tell yourself you’re not thinking about whether it might buzz while you’re in there.

it’s just texting. it’s just paris. it’s fine.

when you come back out, towel in your hair, your screen lights up.

mingyu do you think the eiffel tower ever gets tired of being perceived

you deeply needs a break maybe a vacation

mingyu it should visit new york blend in for once

you take photos pretending it’s never seen a bagel

mingyu “omg first time in the big city”

you laugh out loud.

you stop i can see the caption

mingyu all lowercase. subtle filter. very aesthetic

you towercore

mingyu #tbt even though it’s live

you laugh. then leave the room and disappear into the paris streets.

you walk with no real plan. you pass tourists, locals, little dogs in sweaters, a couple arguing quietly outside a tabac. the kind of scenes that would look too scripted in any film but feel perfectly normal here.

you get spotted near the river by a girl who looks like she just stepped out of your show’s fan edits. she freezes, eyes wide, then gasps like she can't believe it's actually you.

“no way. i literally watched the entire season in two days,” she says, voice shaking slightly. “i cried. like, real tears. three times.”

you smile, surprised and touched. “that’s so sweet. thank you.”

she hesitates, then blurts, “can i hug you? i’m sorry, i just...”

you laugh softly. “yeah, of course.”

she hugs you tight. not long, but full of emotion. and when she pulls back, her eyes are glassy.

“you’re even cooler in real life,” she says.

“you’re gonna make me cry now,” you reply, still smiling.

when she’s gone, you stand there a moment longer, letting it settle. feeling a little lighter, like the day just got warmer.

how strange it is to be recognized. how stranger it is to feel... okay with it.

you’ve been walking without direction. coffee in hand, sunglasses on, trying not to overthink how quiet your phone’s been.

then, finally, you text him:

you paris keeps looking like something important is about to happen

mingyu like a plot twist?

you or a confession maybe a chase scene

mingyu i could see you in a slow-motion chase

you i’d trip over a baguette

mingyu and i’d walk past like “sorry can’t get involved”

you very realistic

mingyu very french

you pause at the edge of a crosswalk, watching the way the light turns everything peach and soft.

you every corner here feels like it has backstory

mingyu i walked past a florist this morning and got emotional

you was it the flowers

mingyu the font on the sign

you powerful

mingyu might write a song about it

you can’t wait for “bouquet in d minor”

you keep walking, grinning into your coffee, phone still in hand.

--------------------------

you have dinner plans that night but cancel.

you stay in instead. order room service. eat fries from a silver tray while sitting cross-legged on the bed in the hotel robe. on tv, a french reality show plays with no subtitles. you make up the plot as you go.

your phone lights up again around ten-thirty.

mingyu is it lame if i say tonight’s the first time i’ve actually rested all week

you extremely but also same

mingyu i feel like i’ve been smiling for cameras since tuesday

you i forgot how to blink correctly in photos pretty sure i look mildly haunted in half of them

mingyu new aesthetic unlocked

you what about you how’s your night off

mingyu very quiet i’m pretending i’m in an artsy indie movie nothing happens but the music is good

you mine’s more “girl orders crème brûlée at midnight and judges everyone on tv without knowing the language”

mingyu: i’d watch that

you: it’s a limited series moody lighting no plot

mingyu i play your mysterious neighbor with three lines

you you play the guy at the bakery who always gets the last croissant before me

mingyu oh no i’m the villain

you obviously

the next morning, you get a message from someone on the dior team. there’s a private dinner that night. low-key, mostly creatives, no press. they say you don’t have to go, but they’d love to have you there. you say yes. mostly because you’re curious. maybe also because you wonder if he’ll be there.

you don’t ask.

you show up in a long dark dress and a tired smile. the room is warm, lit low, buzzing softly. the kind of gathering where you don’t have to be anything other than yourself.

he’s already there.

you spot him across the room, leaning against a marble fireplace, listening quietly. his jacket fits perfectly. he looks like he belongs here, but like he’d rather be somewhere else.

you think he sees you at the same time you see him. he gives a small nod.

you return it.

you don’t talk during dinner. you’re seated apart, close but not close enough to chat easily. he laughs once at something someone says, and you smile without meaning to.

after dessert, people drift toward the windows, champagne flutes in hand. the city lights glow softly below.

you stand near a window, watching the blur of lights over the seine. he walks over, close enough to speak quietly.

“still holding your champagne suspiciously?” he jokes.

you glance at your glass. “yeah, it feels important. like a tiny glass trophy.”

“paris does that to everything.”

“even small talk,” you say, smirking.

he laughs. “this view makes everything feel staged, like we’re extras in a film.”

“the city’s the real star.”

“exactly.”

a pause.

“people still can’t stop spinning stories about us.”

you laugh softly. “maybe we should take a picture together. just to make things more interesting.”

he grins. “caption it ‘just met’ or something mysterious.”

“‘totally random encounter,’” you add, smiling.

“internet loses it instantly.”

“and then fifty new theories start.”

“guess we’re good at this.”

you both look out over the city, quiet between you.

“you’re easier to talk to than most here,” he says.

you glance at him. “is that a compliment?”

“just an honest observation.”

“i’ll take it.”

you share a small smile.

after a moment, you quietly say goodbye and slip out, the city’s soft hum following you.

when you get back to the hotel, there’s a message.

mingyu you disappeared like a spy no dramatic storm-off or slow-motion slap. i’m disappointed

you the lighting wasn’t right i’ll save it for the sequel

mingyu you looked nice tonight not saying that to be weird just. you did

you thank you you too

mingyu safe to say we survived paris?

you not over yet but yeah mostly intact

mingyu mostly

you don’t know what to call this.

not a crush. not a friendship. not really anything you need to label. just this... quiet, mutual thing. something that makes a strange city feel less distant. something that doesn’t ask for more than it gives.

on your last night in paris, you stay up late with the window cracked open.

the sounds of the street rise and fall, soft voices, a motorbike passing, the clink of a bottle in the distance. you sit on the bed with your legs pulled to your chest, phone in hand, but no new messages.

you open your notes app and type without thinking:

things i want to remember:

the bakery smell at 8:10am

the girl who hugged me near the river

the music in the car on the way to the dinner

the way no one rushed anything

the quiet

how he said i was easy to talk to

how i felt okay

you leave it there.

you close the app.

you sleep lightly.

in the morning, just before your car arrives to take you to the airport, your phone buzzes one last time.

mingyu i’m thinking of posting that pic of us. don’t forget to keep the mystery alive when you get back.

you smile.

you always you too

mingyu safe flight talk soon?

a pause.

you yeah. talk soon.

you don’t know what’s going to happen.

but you’re not waiting for it.

you’re just letting it be.

whatever it is.

and it started here.

in paris.

you’ve met kim mingyu four times.

the first: when your bosses scheduled two meetings at the exact same time in the same conference room and you both had to play rock-paper-scissors in front of the ceo to decide who got it. (he won. with scissors. a rookie mistake. you never forgave yourself.)

the second: in the elevator. he spilled half a latte on your shoes and said “at least they’re not suede...” like that was helpful.

the third: when you accidentally replied-all to an internal memo about performance evaluations, calling your boss “a capitalist goblin with a caffeine addiction.” he just replied "bold of you to speak truth in this economy. solidarity."

the fourth: now. every day. too often. always.

the thing is: you don’t work together. not really. you work adjacent. which is worse.

he’s the assistant to ms. seo, who runs strategy like she’s planning war. sharp heels, sharper tone, and a calendar color-coded within an inch of its life. mingyu walks two steps behind her like a loyal retriever, clipboard in one hand, existential dread in the other. he smiles too much for someone who gets cc’d on every meltdown in the building.

you, on the other hand, work for mr. yoon. a man with a god complex, a phobia of silence, and a diet that consists almost exclusively of espresso and the souls of junior staff. he once called your lunch “visually distracting” because it had “too much sauce”. you haven’t forgiven him either.

and because the two of them (ms. seo and mr. yoon) are in constant, competitive collaboration, it means you and mingyu are stuck in a never-ending tug-of-war of email threads, late-night reschedules, and passive-aggressive calendar invites.

the dynamic?

you’re the ghostwriter of your boss’s bad ideas. he’s the translator of his boss’s mood swings.

you text each other more than you text your actual friends. and you’re not sure if you hate him or if he just reminds you of your own job too much.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just moved lunch to 1 mine is fasting for "clarity of mind" so i'll be dying quietly in the corner

you clarity of mind is wild for someone who screamed at a stapler last tuesday

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] she said it was "threatening her aura"

you i'm scared it might've been right

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] justice for the stapler

by week three of back-to-back “urgent” requests, you’ve memorized the way he sighs through his nose when ms. seo cancels a meeting thirty seconds before it starts. you’ve also learned that he eats lunch in exactly four minutes and always forgets a fork. you’ve stopped offering him one. mostly out of principle.

“you’re not a real person.” you tell him one thursday. “you’re like a mirage. a corporate hallucination.”

he blinks. “thanks?”

“not a compliment.”

but he’s already scrolling through his phone, completely unfazed.

“you realize we’ve been yelled at by our bosses for the exact same meeting reschedule like, four times now.” he says. “at some point they’re gonna think we’re doing this on purpose.”

you sigh. “i wish we were. at least then it’d be satisfying.”

he throws his head back dramatically, groaning. “i’m too pretty to get fired.”

"you’re too clumsy,” you correct. “and you owe me a new pair of shoes.”

the idea comes after the fifth minor disaster of the week: a double-booked call, a vegan lunch delivery sent to a man who once called kale “a scam”, and a particularly pointed all-caps message from ms. seo.

you’re both slumped in the break room. the vending machine, as usual, has betrayed him. again.

he’s chewing your emergency chocolate like it’s keeping him alive.

“i’m just saying...” he starts, mouth half full. “if they were hooking up, maybe they’d stop using us as pawns in their weird power game.”

you blink at him.

“you’re not saying that.” you say. “you’re not actually suggesting this.”

“yoon and seo.” he says, nodding. “they have tension. it’s weird. disgusting. undeniable.”

“no.”

“hear me out.”

“no!” you repeat, louder this time. “are you insane? what part of this place makes you think romance is the solution?”

he blinks, caught off guard.

“do you even understand where we work?“ you go on. “we work for emotionally repressed narcissists with god complexes and matching calendars. this isn’t a rom-com, mingyu. this is hell.”

he opens his mouth, but you cut him off again.

“and you...” you say, jabbing a finger in his direction, “you think you're clever because you smile through the misery, but you’re just as trapped as me. stop pretending this is some cute little team-up.”

he’s quiet for a moment. you expect him to bite back, but he just tilts his head a little, watching you with something unreadable in his face.

“okay.” he says softly. “message received.”

you leave before you say something worse.

twelve minutes later, your phone rings. your boss's name lights up your screen.

“my office. now.”

you barely have time to close your tabs before you're in his doorway, arms crossed.

he doesn't look up from his monitor.

"you sent this?” he asks, pointing to a printed email. yes. printed.

“yes, sir.”

he reads a sentence aloud like it personally offended him. “‘apologies for the mix-up — i’ve reattached the correct file for your convenience.’”

“yes,” you say again. “because the original pdf had a broken...”

“this.” he interrupts, stabbing the paper with his finger. “is passive-aggressive.”

you blink. “it’s standard wording.”

“your tone” he says, “undermines my authority. and by extension, yours. if you ever want to be taken seriously in this industry, you need to learn how to communicate without sounding like you’re rolling your eyes.”

he leans back in his chair.

“do you think you’re indispensable?”

you don’t answer.

“because you’re not. you’re efficient, but so is every other assistant here. i could replace you by monday.”

he lets that sit for a beat.

then gestures to the door. “that’s all.”

you walk out of the office with a tight jaw and something sharp curling in your chest.

you sit back at your desk. your screen is full of open tabs, blinking messages, a reminder to pick up dry cleaning you can’t afford and a google search for “can stress cause actual brain damage.”

your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] so the plan's back on, yeah? just checking.

you don’t look up. not right away. you type slowly.

you if i say yes it's not because i believe in it it's because i want peace

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] peace is valid so is revenge

you i still think it's a terrible idea

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] perfect now it feels balanced again

the plan doesn’t take shape immediately. it starts as a joke.

you’re both in the supply closet, pretending to look for toner while avoiding being assigned yet another last-minute revision to the joint quarterly review deck.

he leans against the shelf like it’s a bar counter.

“okay, hypothetically...” he starts, “if we were to interfere with the romantic fates of our bosses, how would we do it?”

you snort. “we wouldn’t.”

“but if.”

you sigh, and, against your better judgment, answer.

“it’d have to feel natural. like a coincidence. accidental. you know. a narrative beat.”

he raises an eyebrow. “you’re disturbingly good at this.”

you ignore him. “it can’t be too obvious. no weird setups. no ‘i booked the same table for two’ bullshit.”

“agreed.” he says. “they’d see through that.”

there’s a pause.

then, you both say it at the same time:

“coffee.”

you blink.

“no way.”

“you said coffee too.” he says, pointing.

you groan. “i hate this...”

he’s already typing into his phone. “they both get coffee, right?”

“dude, we can’t make them run into each other...” you say. “it has to be a cliché.”

he grins like that’s the best thing he’s heard all week. “a cliché.”

you nod. “every great romance starts with one.”

“so what?” he says. “we drop a folder? one of them bends down to pick it up? brushes hands? instant chemistry?”

“too forced.”

“they reach for the same croissant?”

“getting warmer.”

“they both complain about us at the same time in the same line and bond over how ungrateful we are?”

you raise your eyebrows. “you think they’d do that?”

“they already do…” he mutters.

you roll your eyes. “okay. listen. we know their orders. their schedules. their routes. if we can time it just right…”

he finishes your sentence: “...they’ll think it’s fate.”

later that day, you’re back at your desk, scrolling through mr. yoon’s calendar like a bored private investigator.

he’s consistent. pathologically so.

coffee at 10:15. always the same place. same corner seat. same cappuccino. sometimes with extra foam. depending on his mood.

you open the app and look up ms. seo’s location history. mingyu already gave you access. you're not sure how. you don’t ask.

“they’ve been in the same place five times in the last two weeks” he whispers from behind your chair.

you jump. “jesus. do you materialize now?”

“only for dramatic effect.”

you look back at the screen. “five times.”

“and they didn’t notice each other once.”

“so what we’re saying is... we know them better than they know themselves.”

“yup.”

“that’s bleak.”

“deeply.”

he leans over your shoulder. “so. next tuesday. 10:15. table near the window.”

“you handle ms. seo.”

“you handle yoon.”

“if this backfires...”

“we were never here.”

you shake your head and open a new tab.

you’re not proud of it.

but you google “best pastries for accidental eye contact.”

tuesday arrives like a slow-moving disaster. you wake up late, spill coffee on your shirt, and have to switch to your “i’m pretending to be calm” blouse. the one that’s too stiff at the collar and makes you look like a very tired lawyer. 

but none of that matters, because today is operation cliché. 

phase one: coffee collision. 

the location? a minimalistic café on the first floor of the neighboring building, where all the tables are identical and everything smells like lavender and oat milk. it’s the kind of place that sells banana bread for twelve dollars and calls it “seasonal.”

you arrive at the café twelve minutes early. mingyu's already there, sitting in the corner like he’s a spy. you slide into the seat across from him. “what's the plan again?”

he doesn’t look up right away. just nods once like he’s been waiting for this briefing all his life.

“simple.” he says. “they both come here every tuesday. always between ten and ten fifteen. always order the same thing. they never notice each other because they’re too busy speed-reading emails and being vaguely terrifying.”

you raise an eyebrow. “go on.”

“so,” he continues, “i called ahead. asked the barista to delay both orders until exactly ten seventeen. give or take thirty seconds.”

“and then?”

“and then,” he says, leaning in slightly, “they both get called up at the same time. same tray. same awkward pause. eye contact. emotional disarmament. destiny.”

you blink. “you’ve really thought this through.”

“of course i have” he says. “i’m deeply invested in my own survival.”

“and you think this will work?”

he shrugs. “every great romance starts with an inconvenient beverage.”

you snort into your cup. you hate how much sense that makes.

ms. seo arrives exactly on time. she doesn’t wait in line, she orders like she owns the place and claims her table with one glance. mr. yoon enters two minutes later, slightly out of breath and already annoyed by the background music. he hates piano jazz. you know this. 

you both sink lower in your seats. 

“this is so dumb...” you whisper. “they’re not even-”

“wait for it.” he mutters. 

there’s a pause. 

a blink. 

the barista calls both names at once. 

they reach for the same tray. 

your breath catches. 

and then:

“oh...” mr. yoon says, taking a step back. “didn’t see you there.” 

ms. seo raises an eyebrow. “you never do.” 

and for one moment the tiniest moment they smile. 

smile. 

mingyu looks at you like he just saw god. 

“we’re geniuses” he whispers. 

“don’t jinx it.” 

you watch them sit. not together, but closer than usual. angled slightly toward each other. enough to talk, if they want to. enough to notice. 

“they’re talking...” mingyu says. 

“this is happening.” you nod, stunned. 

you don't say it out loud, but it does feel like a movie. you don't believe in fate. but maybe you believe in timing. and coffee. and croissants that carry plot.

they leave separately.

she goes first. phone in hand, shoulders back, the way she always walks when she’s thinking. he waits thirty seconds, then follows, not too close. but closer than usual.

you and mingyu don’t move.

you just sit there, two overcaffeinated employees hiding behind an aggressive fern, watching your bosses walk away like characters from the end of act one.

“okay." you say. “that was... weirdly successful.”

“i’m scared” he says.

“same.”

you finally stand. his drink is empty. your croissant is gone. neither of you remember eating it.

outside, the air smells like too much perfume and half a dozen corporate regrets. you stop at the corner.

“so what now?” you ask.

he grins. “phase two.”

you roll your eyes. “of course there’s a phase two.”

“come on” he says, already walking backward toward the building. “we made them smile. that’s practically engagement.”

“don’t say engagement.”

“too late.”

you don’t see him again until after lunch.

mr. yoon pulls you into three back-to-back meetings, one of which is just him ranting about fonts. you think he’s in a good mood. or at least a neutral one. it’s hard to tell.

by the time you get back to your desk, your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] you owe me a thank you croissant that was art they both reached for the tray like it was scripted

you you ate my croissant i'm the one who deserves a thank you

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] fine i'll meet you halfway supply closet in 15 bring no expectations, only snacks and your most chaotic ideas

you you're unbelievable

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] and yet deeply necessary

you stare at the screen for a beat too long. and then, before you can stop yourself, you type:

you make it 10 minutes i have a very dumb idea

the supply closet is barely a closet.

more of a broom-sized purgatory. it smells like dry erase markers. someone left a sad motivational sticker on the inside of the door that says you’ve got this! and it feels like a threat.

you’re already there when he arrives.

he knocks twice, unnecessarily, before slipping in and closing the door behind him with too much ceremony.

“you’re late” you say.

“you said ten minutes. i gave you eleven. that’s generosity.”

“that’s procrastination.”

he holds up a granola bar like it’s a peace treaty. “i come bearing carbs.”

you take it, mostly because you’re hungry, but also because the wrapper says crunchy with a hint of sea salt and you feel vaguely called out.

“so...” he says, leaning against a shelf of printer paper like he’s hosting a TED talk. “what’s your dumb idea?”

“you go first” you say.

“you told me to come because you had the idea.”

“and now i don’t trust it.”

“why not?”

“because you’re looking at me like you already love it.”

“i do love it. i just don’t know what it is yet.”

you sigh and break the granola bar in half, handing him a piece.

“okay.” you start, mouth full. “we can’t do another run-in. it’ll look too convenient.”

“agreed.” he says, through granola. “we need escalation.”

“we need... a shared cause.”

he blinks. “like... activism?”

“like fake activism” you clarify. “a team-building initiative. professional development. something they can co-lead.”

he nods slowly. “a task that forces prolonged contact. good. close proximity. subtle emotional vulnerability.”

“something high-pressure, low-stakes.”

“something where they think they’re in control.”

you both pause.

and then, at the exact same time:

“leadership retreat.”

you stare at each other in horror.

“that’s...”

“terrible.” he finishes. “dangerous. complicated.”

“they’ll kill us.”

“...we have to do it.”

you groan and slide down the wall until you’re sitting on the floor between two boxes of branded mugs.

he lowers himself beside you.

“okay.” he says. “if we pitch it right... this can work.”

“how do we pitch it?”

he pulls out his phone, opens a notes app already titled operation chicle, and starts typing.

you lean in without realizing.

your shoulders brush. neither of you move.

mingyu taps at his phone, brow furrowed in mock concentration.

“okay, proposal: joint leadership off-site to boost collaboration. location… somewhere with bad wifi and strong coffee. schedule: two-hour brainstorm, four-hour tension.”

you tilt your head. “you mean four hours of suppressed resentment disguised as productivity.”

“exactly!” he says, not looking up. “it’s authentic.”

you lean in slightly, peeking at his screen. “add ‘quiet team bonding’ and ‘organic interpersonal growth’. make it sound like we read a book about it.”

he types obediently, nodding. “love that. very linkedin-core.”

then he pauses. “should we make a deck?”

you snap your head toward him.

“if you make a deck” you say, deadly calm, “i’ll kill you.”

he grins, not even pretending to be sorry. “you say the sweetest things.”

you try not to smile. you fail. just a little.

you don’t leave the closet together.

but as you step back into the hallway, you realize your hand still smells like granola and printer ink. and that he didn’t mock your idea. and that, somehow, sitting on a dusty floor with him felt more peaceful than your own desk.

thursday morning.

you’re in the small conference room, the one with flickering lights and a very aggressive print of a lighthouse on the wall, watching mingyu adjust the brightness on his laptop for the sixth time.

“stop it.” you mutter. “it’s fine.”

“it’s washed out.” he says. “the slides have to pop. we’re selling transformation.”

“we’re selling emotional manipulation in a power suit.” you correct. “no one’s buying.”

“not with that attitude.”

he clicks through the deck one last time. every slide is a masterpiece of corporate nonsense: gradient backgrounds, buzzwords in bold, and fake statistics like “teams who bond off-site are 63% less likely to initiate passive-aggressive email chains.”

you sigh. “we’re going to hell for this.”

“it’s fine” he grins. “we’ll carpool.”

the pitch goes disturbingly well.

ms. seo barely blinks. she nods halfway through slide two and says, “this could be efficient.” which, from her, is basically a standing ovation.

mr. yoon interrupts twice to talk about thought leadership and uses the phrase “executive synergy” like it’s a personality trait.

when you finish, there’s a pause.

then:

“you two will run it.” ms. seo says.

“what?” you blink.

“i’ll be in singapore next week,” she says, already opening her phone. “you’ll facilitate on our behalf.”

you turn to mr. yoon, desperate. “sir?”

he waves a hand. “sounds like a perfect opportunity for growth. report back with a summary. keep the receipts.”

you open your mouth.

close it.

then open it again, for good measure.

mingyu says nothing. absolutely nothing.

you both leave the room in silence. outside the conference room, you stop walking.

he stops too.

you stare at him.

“you ruined my life.” you say calmly.

“technically, they approved the plan.”

“technically, you were the one who said leadership retreat like it was a good thing.”

“you said it at the same time!”

“and i regret it.”

he lifts both hands, grinning. “look, it’s fine. we’ll run a few workshops, do some trust falls, eat a buffet dinner, and be back in three days.”

“do not say trust falls like it’s a fun concept.”

“do you want me to start a shared document?”

“i want you to get hit by a metaphorical bus.”

“great” he says. “i’ll add that to the parking lot.”

you walk away before you start laughing.

later that afternoon, your phone buzzes.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] new plan: we fake food poisoning or burn down the lodge or both

you i knew this was a bad idea i KNEW mingyu you've doomed us you've condemned us to team-building hell there will be icebreakers there will be name tags we will be forced to share feelings

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] can’t wait to see you cry during trust circle

you if i disappear tell people i died doing what i hated: corporate bonding

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] should i pack snacks?

you pack dignity you’ll need it

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] never had it to begin with

you close the chat with a groan.

three days to the retreat. no bosses. no escape. just you. him. and four hours of scheduled “guided reflection.”

god help you both.

the corporate retreat center looks exactly like you imagined it would.

a beige lodge in the middle of nowhere, flanked by pine trees and suspiciously cheerful signage. there's a wooden welcome board near the entrance that says “unlock your inner leader!” in three fonts too many.

“i already hate it.” you mutter, dragging your suitcase over a gravel path that definitely wasn’t meant for heels.

“look on the bright side,” mingyu says, way too cheerful for someone carrying a duffel bag that looks like it holds gym trauma. “bad wi-fi. no bosses. and apparently a breakfast buffet.”

“if you make this sound fun one more time i’m leaving you in the woods.”

he grins. “you say that now, but wait till you see the lanyards.”

you check in at the front desk.

the woman behind the counter gives you your room key and a chirpy, “we went ahead and upgraded you two to the executive suite! hope that’s alright!”

you blink. “we’re not...”

“thanks!” mingyu cuts in, snatching the key. “very alright. super alright.”

you narrow your eyes. “what did you do?”

“nothing.” he says. “probably.”

the room is… cozy.

too cozy.

small fireplace. two mugs on a tray. mood lighting that tries too hard. and one large bed in the center of the room.

you stop in the doorway.

mingyu walks in, drops his bag, looks around once, then turns to you.

“what?” he says innocently. “you said it yourself.”

you stare at him.

“every great romance...” he quotes, smug. “starts with a cliché.”

you blink. once. twice.

“i hope you die.”

“listen, it’s fine. we’ll pillow-wall it.”

“we’re not pillow-walling anything.”

he flops onto the bed with too much confidence. “you can have the blanket majority. i’ll sleep on the floor like a gentleman.”

“you’ll sleep on the floor because you brought this on yourself.”

you find a yoga mat in the closet and throw it at his head. he catches it midair like a reflex, then sighs dramatically.

“pray for me.” he says. “i have fragile joints.”

later that night, you sit side by side on the bed, legs barely touching, a bag of overpriced mini bar chips open between you. the room smells like lavender pillow spray and artificial air freshener, and the fireplace crackles in the most suspiciously cozy way imaginable.

mingyu has the printed retreat schedule unfolded across his lap like it’s a classified document.

he clears his throat.

“7 a.m. sunrise meditation,” he reads aloud. “8 a.m. partner walk. 9 a.m. circle of trust. 10 a.m...” he pauses for dramatic effect. “feelings breakout.”

you make a noise of pure disbelief. “are they trying to kill us? circle of trust sounds like a cult.”

“circle of trust is a cult.” he says. “i’ve seen documentaries.”

you take a chip. crunch thoughtfully. 

“do you think if we hold hands and run, we can make it to the road before they catch us?” he says, head tipping toward you just slightly.

“only if you leave the yoga mat behind.” you add. “it’ll slow you down.”

he sighs, deeply. “cruel. but fair.”

the chips rustle between you. somewhere outside, a tree creaks. inside, it’s quiet enough that you can hear the soft shift of his sleeve when he leans back against the headboard.

you don’t say anything for a while. neither does he.

but you don’t move apart, either.

and that, somehow, says enough.

the next day feels like a slow-motion trial.

you wake up to the faint sound of birds and the less-faint sound of mingyu already moving around, getting ready like he’s preparing for some kind of emotional boot camp.

breakfast is painfully organized. you share a table, not by design but because every other seat is taken. he slides you the salt shaker without looking, and you catch his fingers brushing yours for a split second.

the morning starts with the sunrise meditation. you try to focus on your breath, but mingyu is the only one who manages to stay still. mostly because he fell asleep sitting up, chin resting on his chest, looking like an angel who didn’t get the memo.

later, during the partner walk, you find yourselves naturally walking side by side, matching pace without planning it. the trail winds through pines and sun-dappled clearings, the air fresh and cool.

he makes a dumb joke about how this is “nature’s way of making us confess our feelings,” and you pretend not to laugh. but you do.

the circle of trust comes next, exactly as terrifying as it sounds. when it’s your turn, he looks at you like you’re both in on the joke, and you mumble something about “trust falls being a trap.”

he catches your eye and shrugs. “at least we don’t have to actually fall.”

the afternoon is a blur of workshops, icebreakers, and group exercises where everyone is trying (and failing) not to make it awkward.

when the sun starts to set and the temperature drops, mingyu notices you shivering and without a word, pulls his hoodie off and drapes it over your shoulders.

you don’t say anything. you just let it hang there, the fabric warm between you, the silence saying everything.

it’s ridiculous. it’s perfect. and you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

the evening settles in with the kind of hush that only happens after a day of mandatory bonding and dried-out protein bars. everyone else has disappeared to their rooms, leaving behind half-finished mugs of herbal tea and the lingering scent of essential oils.

you and mingyu are still awake.

he’s on the floor, stretching like someone who read about mindfulness once and committed to the bit. you’re on the edge of the bed, aimlessly scrolling through your phone, pretending not to watch him try (and fail) to touch his toes.

“you’re gonna pull something.” you say.

“i’m increasing my hip mobility” he replies, completely serious. “for leadership.”

“of course.”

he glances up at you, grinning. “jealous?”

“of your hamstrings? wildly.”

he pushes himself upright with a groan and collapses onto the bed beside you, dramatically boneless.

“okay...” he sighs, “real talk. are we actually gonna sleep at a normal time or…”

you glance at the clock. 10:12 p.m.

“...or what?” you ask.

he shrugs. “i don’t know. talk about our feelings. play two truths and a lie. make a series of increasingly bad decisions.”

“tempting” you say. “but i think i’m out of feelings.”

“you sure?” he asks, turning toward you, head propped on his hand. “because earlier, during the circle of trust, i definitely saw emotion in your eyes.”

“that was rage.”

“i find rage very sexy.”

you roll your eyes. “you find everything sexy.”

he pauses. “not true. powerpoint presentations. deeply unsexy.”

you laugh. a real one, loud and sudden and he looks pleased with himself.

“what?” you say, noticing.

“nothing,” he says. “just thinking.”

“about?”

“how weird it is that we ended up here.”

you raise a brow. “in a romantic cult lodge?”

“in the same room. same bed. same… whatever this is.”

he’s closer now. not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the warmth radiating off his skin. your knees bump. neither of you pulls away.

“well, you set this up.”

“yeah, i know. but still...”

you tilt your head. “do you regret it?”

“not even a little.”

he looks at you for a long second, like he’s trying to decide something. then his eyes drop.

“you’re in my hoodie.” he says.

“wow. thank you for the update, captain obvious.”

“no, i mean…” he pauses. “you’re still in my hoodie.”

you glance down at the sleeves, bunched around your hands. “is this a problem?”

he shakes his head. “no. just… you should probably know it looks better on you than it ever did on me.”

your mouth opens, ready to hit back with some flirty insult but the words don’t come. instead, you look at him a beat too long.

“you always talk this much when you’re nervous?” you say finally, voice quieter now.

“only when i think i’m about to do something stupid.”

“like?”

he doesn’t answer. just keeps looking at you like the answer’s obvious.

your fingers tighten around the hem of the hoodie. his knee presses into yours again, this time deliberate.

“like kiss you.” he says.

you go still. “are you going to?”

his smile flickers, slower this time. “i’d like to.”

“then maybe stop talking and do it.”

so he does.

it’s not rushed. not urgent. just intentional. like he’s been thinking about this since the first time you told him off in a staff meeting, and now that it’s happening, he wants to get it exactly right.

he kisses like he speaks. confident, a little playful, always testing the edges. his hand finds your waist. yours fists in the front of his sweatshirt. there’s no hesitation in the way your mouths move, just heat and muscle memory that shouldn’t exist, but does.

after a moment, you pull back just enough to look at him, eyes glinting with something playful.

“you know,” you say, voice low and teasing, “i’ve always wanted to do this.”

he grins, a slow, knowing smile. “really? all this time, i thought that cold shoulder, the eye rolls, the ‘i’m-so-over-you’ attitude was just you being tough.”

“oh please...” you scoff, but you’re smiling. “that was all hate.”

“hate?” he raises an eyebrow, mock offended. “i always suspected it was just repressed attraction.”

“yeah, sure.” you say, nudging him with your knee. “keep telling yourself that.”

he leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “honestly? i think you’ve been into me since day one. all that ‘hate’ was just a cover-up for the fact that you thought i was too cool for you.”

you laugh softly, shaking your head. “too cool for me? i was the one who threw the first punch.”

“exactly” he says, “which is code for ‘i’m interested, but i’m also awkward.’”

you bite your lip, thinking how ridiculous yet kind of cute this all feels.

then your fingers find the hem of his hoodie, tugging gently.

“off” you say, barely a whisper.

he looks down at your hand, then back up at you, a mischievous sparkle lighting his eyes. “was that an order?”

“definitely.”

he smirks, sitting up a bit. “well, then… say please.”

you roll your eyes, but the smile never leaves your face. “please.”

he laughs quietly, pulling the hoodie off over his head like a trophy.

you sit up just enough to look at him in the low firelight. his hair’s a little messy, his chest rising and falling, eyes bright.

you touch his chest. lightly, tracing a line from his collarbone to just below his ribs. he twitches under your hand.

“ticklish?” you tease.

“no” he lies. “i’m just emotionally overwhelmed.”

you laugh again, but it catches in your throat when he leans down and kisses your neck. not soft, not featherlight, but with purpose. like he wants to leave a thought behind.

his hands are everywhere. exploring. mapping. learning. he touches you like a puzzle he’s been waiting to solve, like every button undone is a secret, every sigh a new language.

when your shirt’s gone and his jeans are halfway off and you’re both out of breath, you look up at him. flushed, disheveled, ridiculous. and say, “this is a terrible idea.”

“yeah” he breathes, eyes dark. “do you want to stop?”

you pull him down by the front of his waistband.

“that’s what i thought.”

what happens next is messy and slow and fun. it’s not cinematic. it’s not even that graceful. he accidentally knees you in the thigh. you tug his sock off too hard and it hits the wall. at one point he tries to say something sexy and chokes on his own breath.

but it’s good. so good.

he kisses like he’s memorizing you. like he wants to make you laugh and make you beg. your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly, and he shudders. not from pain, but from surprise.

he touches your thigh, then higher, watching your face the whole time. you arch into him, your name falling from his mouth like a promise.

and when it finally happens, when all the ridiculous tension finally snaps, it’s not explosive.

it’s intimate.

his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard, still smiling even as you fall apart together.

after, you lie tangled in the sheets, his hoodie now lost somewhere under the bed, your leg over his hip and his fingers drawing circles on your stomach like he doesn’t want the moment to end.

you stare at the ceiling.

“we are absolutely not talking about this at work” you say.

“agreed.”

“no weird glances across the copy machine.”

“never.”

a pause.

“but” he adds, “we can maybe do it again sometime?”

you glance at him.

he’s grinning.

“i’ll think about it.” you say.

but you’re already smiling too.

day three begins with the kind of awkward optimism only a mandatory leadership retreat can inspire.

you wake up tangled in mingyu’s hoodie, which now smells like campfire and him. it’s too warm, slightly bunched around your hips, but you don’t take it off.

you find him in the kitchenette, making coffee like it’s a lab experiment. precise measurements, silent concentration, a grim kind of determination.

“morning” you say, sliding in beside him, pretending this is normal.

he hands you a mug without looking. “you look like you slept on a bed of spreadsheets.”

“i feel like i did” you mutter, taking a sip. “you?”

“dreamt i was being chased by performance reviews” he says. “woke up in a cold sweat.”

“how corporate trauma of you.”

he snorts into his mug. “don’t diagnose me before coffee.”

you both sip in silence for a few seconds. his arm brushes yours when he lowers the mug, and he doesn’t move away.

you nudge his hip with yours. “so, uh… about last night.”

he raises a brow. “which part? the part where you insulted my hamstrings? or the part where you kissed me first?”

“okay, bold of you to rewrite history like that.”

“what can i say...” he grins. “i’m a storyteller.”

you shake your head, laughing into your coffee.

later, on the partner walk, you fall into step without thinking. the trail winds through pine trees and patches of sunlight, and every now and then he reaches out to steady you. like when you nearly trip on a root, or when a bee flies too close and you squeal louder than you'd like to admit.

“you know” he says, “for someone who claims to be outdoorsy on their dating profile, you’re doing a lot of swatting and stumbling.”

“for someone who can’t touch his toes, you’re awfully smug.”

he grins. “that’s because you find it charming.”

you open your mouth to argue but... fine. maybe you do.

he points at a squirrel making off with someone’s granola bar and mutters, “even the wildlife here is stressed.”

“at least it’s honest,” you say.

he glances over at you, and this time when your shoulders bump, he leans just a little closer. not obviously. just enough that it feels like a secret.

you keep walking.

the workshops in the afternoon feel less painful than usual. maybe it’s the sleep deprivation. maybe it’s mingyu passing you a sticky note with a terrible drawing of your retreat leader mid-lecture. maybe it’s the way you keep catching each other’s eyes and trying not to laugh.

he offers to be your “accountability buddy” during the trust-building activity and then immediately betrays you in a group exercise. you pretend to be outraged. he apologizes with gummy bears and a dramatic bow.

when your hands brush reaching for the same marker, he says, “careful. i bite.”

you roll your eyes and say “noted” but don’t move away.

by the time evening rolls around, it’s cold enough that sharing a blanket on the couch feels justifiable. he drapes it over your laps casually and doesn’t say a word when you lean against his side.

the fire flickers, casting golden shadows over his profile.

“did you know that i can’t actually sing ‘kumbaya’?”

you grin. “i was hoping you couldn’t.”

a pause.

your eyes lock. again.

he kisses you. again.

slower this time. a little longer. like he’s learning the shape of you, one brush of lips at a time.

you smile into it. and when you finally pull away, he rests his forehead against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“still team-building” he murmurs.

“i’ll allow it.”

on the last day of the retreat, there’s a closing circle.

the room smells like whiteboard markers and lemon disinfectant. someone’s playing a spotify playlist called reflect & renew. the volume is too low to be inspiring, but just loud enough to be annoying.

everyone’s handed a blank feedback form and a final question:

what did you learn about yourself this week?

you write: i can survive on granola bars and passive aggression and turn it in without a second thought.

mingyu doesn’t.

he stays behind, pen tapping against his clipboard, brows furrowed in concentration like the question matters more than it should.

you don’t ask, not right away.

but later, on the shuttle ride home, when the trees blur past and the windows fog with soft breath and leftover heat, he says it.

softly. like he’s not sure he means to say it out loud.

“i wrote your name.”

you turn to him.

he’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the seat in front of him.

“on the form. under what i learned.”

you blink.

your chest does something weird and slow.

you want to say something clever. or funny. or soft. maybe all three. but your throat’s too full of whatever this is.

so instead, you just let your shoulder fall against his. let his hand drift close enough that your pinkies touch.

and leave it there.

returning to the office is like stepping into a parallel universe.

the emails are worse. the coffee is worse. the printer is somehow worse.

but everything’s different.

you see it in the way he lingers by your desk instead of breezing past.

in the way your conversations drift. less complaints, more curiosity.

and when he texts at 12:31 p.m. asking “lunch?”, you don’t even pretend to hesitate.

at first, it’s casual.

shared takeout at the back of the break room. eating out of the same box without acknowledging it. him stealing your last dumpling like it’s tradition. you letting him.

then it becomes routine.

tuesday: curry. thursday: overpriced poke. friday: him remembering you don’t like cilantro. you pretending not to notice that he remembered.

the others don’t question it.

you’re assistants. you’re allowed to coordinate.

no one asks why he walks you out some nights.

or why your lipstick keeps fading around 4 p.m.

the supply closet becomes your shared religion.

there’s something hilariously undignified about kissing someone between boxes of toner and spare lanyards. but that’s where it happens most. tucked into the corner, his clipboard jammed under his arm, your breath catching before you even close the door.

it’s never dramatic.

it’s always sudden.

like gravity just... tips.

his hand finds your jaw. yours fists in his shirt. you both laugh too much after. you both leave with your heart doing that thing it’s not supposed to do during work hours.

sometimes he texts you while you’re ten feet away.

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] your boss just called his 47-slide deck "visionary" thoughts?

you immediate prison

mingyu [work enemy adjacent] same cell or separate?

you supply closet. ten minutes. no witnesses.

your boss seems pleased lately.

“your tone’s changed” he tells you one morning. “you’re more solution-oriented. less... sharp.”

he thinks it’s the retreat. thinks you came back wiser. calmer. aligned.

maybe he’s not wrong.

but he doesn’t know that the thing that changed isn’t you.

it’s that now, when the workday gets unbearable, when the chaos piles up and the caffeine runs out, there’s someone waiting by the copier with a smirk and a post-it that says:

“lunch?” “you look like you need a minute.” “i’m stealing you. don’t argue.”

and maybe that’s all it takes.

maybe the retreat didn’t fix your job. maybe it didn’t fix your boss.

but it gave you something else.

something stupid and ridiculous and kind of beautiful.

you only meant it as a joke.

a throwaway comment. a spiral on tiktok. then suddenly you’re both sitting on the floor of your living room, legs tangled, laughing over nothing, and comparing hand sizes like it’s a valid form of flirting.

"wow" you mutter, holding your palm up to his. "your hand is, like… stupid big."

vernon doesn’t flinch. he just watches you, fingers spreading slightly to match yours.

“thanks?”

“no, i mean. it’s kind of disturbing. are you even real?”

he laughs. soft and low. the kind of laugh that makes your stomach clench a little.

"you're the one who wanted to compare." he says.

"because you kept knocking things over with those damn paws..." you tease, pushing his hand lightly. "i needed to see the science."

"the science..." he repeats, dry. you nod. very serious.

"yeah. dino said something about your feet too, so… it’s for research."

a beat. he blinks at you. once. twice.

“you know what they say about guys with big hands and big feet.” he says, voice neutral, like he’s just mentioning the weather.

you narrow your eyes.

“i’m not giving you the satisfaction.”

“i didn’t say anything.”

“you were thinking it.”

he smiles. slow and dangerous. “were you?”

you hate him. a little. mostly because he’s right.

because his hand is still half over yours, and it’s warm, and your brain is now absolutely not thinking about hands anymore. it’s thinking about what he could do with them. how careful he might be. how thorough.

“shut up...” you mutter. he leans closer.

“make me.”

your heart skips. your breath catches. and somehow it’s the stupid hand thing that pushes you over the edge. the way his thumb slides gently across the back of your palm, like he’s memorizing it. like he likes the size difference.

“you’re so annoying!” you say. but you don’t move away.

his fingers curl slightly, catching yours.

“you gonna let me show you, then?” he asks, almost too soft. “what these hands can do?”

you don’t answer. not out loud.

you just lean in, slow enough to give him time to pull back. he doesn’t. his eyes drop to your mouth like it’s instinct. like he’s been waiting for this.

the kiss is lazy at first. warm and curious, the kind that doesn’t need to rush. his lips part slightly, and yours follow, until it’s more heat than breath, more tongue than teasing.

his hand is still over yours, even as the other comes up to your jaw, tilting your face just right. he’s gentle. way more gentle than he should be, considering how fast your heart’s beating.

“so...” he murmurs against your mouth, between kisses. “how am i doing so far?”

“you’re fine” you breathe. he smiles. cocky this time.

“just fine?”

you tug him closer by the collar of his hoodie. “shut up and touch me.”

he listens.

his hand slides down, grazing the curve of your waist, then under the hem of your shirt. his palm is huge. warm and certain, spanning more skin than you thought possible. it makes you shiver.

he kisses you again, slower this time, as his fingers slip beneath your waistband. you gasp when he touches you properly. light at first, then more deliberate, like he’s feeling out the exact kind of pressure that makes your knees weak.

“you’re already wet…” he murmurs, like it’s something he’s proud of. like he earned it.

his thumb brushes over you once, just to feel how soft and warm you are there, and he exhales. slow, like he’s steadying himself.

then he sinks to his knees in front of you.

tugs your shorts down with both hands, slow and teasing, mouthing at the inside of your thigh as he goes, like he has nowhere else to be.

his hands settle on your hips. wide, certain, like he’s claiming something. you. the moment. all of it.

“you’re so pretty like this” he says, more to himself than to you.

he kisses up your thigh, closer and closer, until you feel his breath where you need him most. your whole body tenses, but he just smiles, nuzzling the crease of your leg.

he licks once, flat and slow and then does it again, softer.

you gasp, hips twitching.

and then he’s really eating you out. slow, steady, deliberate. like he wants to make it last.

his mouth is warm and wet and so fucking confident. his tongue flicks at your clit in soft, lazy circles, like he’s savoring the taste. like he knows exactly what he’s doing and wants you to know it too.

and then his fingers come in. two, thick and smooth, easing inside you like you were made for this. like your body was already waiting for him.

you cry out, clutching at his hair.

he groans into you, low and guttural, like the way you tighten around him turns him on just as much as it ruins you.

his palm presses against your stomach, grounding you, keeping you in place.

he works his fingers slow at first. dragging them in and out, curling just right while his mouth never stops moving. he alternates between soft suckling and firm, perfect pressure, until your thighs are shaking around his shoulders.

“fuck...” you whisper, breath catching. “vernon—”

he hums in response, and the vibration goes straight through you.

you pull harder on his hair. he moans again, just for that.

you lose track of time. of language. of anything except the slick, obscene sound of his fingers moving in and out of you, the way his tongue circles you like it’s muscle memory, the wet heat of his mouth, the stretch of your body opening up under his touch.

you feel it build slow. like heat in your spine, like pressure under your skin, like something about to snap.

“vernon...” you breathe, voice thin, barely there. “i’m—”

he looks up, lips glossy, eyes dark and wrecked.

“i know” he says, thumb now flicking your clit while his fingers stay buried deep. “come on, babe. let go for me.”

and you do.

it hits hard. wave after wave, curling you inward, stretching you out. your thighs clench around his head, your fingers dig into his arm, your back arches as your orgasm crashes through you with dizzying heat.

he doesn’t stop. just slows down, eases you through it. his tongue soothes, his fingers still moving inside you gently, like he’s helping you land again.

by the time he pulls away, his lips are swollen, chin slick, hand glistening and he’s smiling like he just won something.

you cover your face with your hands, still trying to breathe.

he looks up at you with a grin, boyish and way too proud of himself.

“still just fine?”

you blink at him, dazed, chest rising and falling.

then you glance down.

his hoodie’s bunched up at the hem. the outline in his sweats is obvious. and honestly?

you’re impressed.

you hum thoughtfully, head tilting.

“you know” you murmur, voice still breathless, “for all that talk about big hands and big feet…”

his brow arches, playful.

“yeah?”

“still haven’t seen the evidence.”

he huffs a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “so now you want proof?”

you smirk.

“just saying, if you’re gonna brag, might as well commit to the bit.”

his eyes darken, just a little. he shifts forward, palms on either side of your thighs, and leans in until his mouth is by your ear.

“careful.” he whispers. “you ask nicely, i might let you hold it for size.”

you laugh, half scandalized, half tempted.

SEOKJIN:

When you’d woken up in Jin’s bed you were alone, it wasn’t a big deal. You’d been friends for years there’d been many times in the past when you would share a bed together only this time…you were naked. Jin was downstairs, you could hear him moving around the kitchen so you decided to get up and join him wondering if he remembered anything from the niht before. 

You perched on the edge of Jin’s pristine sofa, trying not to scream. You weren’t sure what had happened, who had kissed who first and what Jin remembered. Did he want you to leave? Did he regret any of it happening? More importantly where the FUCK was your underwear? You’d searched the bedroom high and low but it was like they’d upped and vanished. 

You were lost in thought as you felt around under the sofa for the thin piece of material.

“Hey,” Jin said way too casually, poking his head into the living room from the kitchen door,  “you like eggs, right? Let me cook for you. Take your time.” You noticed the way his eyes watched you and you instantly knew how your underwear had gone.

You narrowed your eyes before following him into the kitchen, his back to you as he focussed on the food in the pan.

 “Jin…” You trailed his name out and watched him, “Where are my panties?” He froze while flipping the omelette, his shoulders turned tense and you knew instantly it was him.

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He mumbled and you watched him, looking at the apron he was wearing before gasping. Sitting in the pocket, just poking out with the black thong you’d worn the night before,

“Seriously?!” You gasped, grabbing it and pulling it from him,

“I panicked!” he whined out. “You were gonna run, and I couldn’t let you go before I told you that last night wasn’t a mistake for me!”

You rolled your eyes… and stayed for eggs.

YOONGI:

The quiet tension in the room made your skin crawl. Yoongi sat at the table sipping coffee like he hadn’t just slept with his best friend of ten years. Like you hadn’t just woken up naked in his bed, curled up with one another and covered in love bites. God, you could still feel him inside of you, the way you were sore made your heart race.

You glanced around at the mess. Your clothes were all over the apartment, your jeans were in the porch, your shirt in the kitchen, it was clear you hadn’t just had sex once but all over his apartment. But there was one thought in your mind, your underwear was still missing.

You were sitting at the table with yoongi in nothing but one of his shirts since you hadn’t been able to find your panties. 

 “Have you seen my—”

“Nope,” he said fast…a little too fast. You looked up from the floor to him and narrowed your eyes. Yoongi never answered anything that quickly.

“Hmm, funny.” You whisper, watching him closer than before.

Five minutes later, you spotted a flash of lace sticking out of his hoodie pocket as he reached bent down to pick something up from the floor.

“Yoongi!” You hiss out as soon as you saw them.

“L-Listen! I didn’t want you to leave before I could talk. I didn’t know what to say, so I stalled.” He groans looking at the panties as he pulls them from his pocket and you snatched them back, whining as you hide them under your ass on the seat,

“With my panties?!” You squeal a little and he met your gaze, a serious expression on his face now,.

“I think I’ve been in love with you for years. I just didn’t want to lose you over one stupid night...I wanted us to talk properly before you ran..”

“So talk to me, don’t steal my panties like some perv,” You laugh a little and inch your chair closer to his, sipping on your drink as he nods and smiles, his cheeks turning bright pink.

HOSEOK:

“I was thinking of ordering breakfast, what do you think?” Hoseok asked as he walked toward the bedroom door, you hummed softly. Your head was buzzing from the hangover not to mention you weren’t sure if Hoseok was pretending last night never happened or if he was going along like it was normal.

“Or I can cook, I have food in.” He suggest, you nod and look around for your clothes. Sliding into one of Hoseok’s shirts like you usually did before you got up and stretched,

“Cook, ordering will take too long.” You hummed, and he nodded sliding out of the room and you continued to look around for your phone.

“Where the fuck, is it?” You grumble running your hands under the pillows on the bed when you found your panties.

“…What the actual hell, Hobi?!” Your voice carried all the way through to the kitchen where Hoseok winced, his shoulders practically up to his ears as you came running into the kitchen holding the panties he’d tried to hide. 

“Okay, wait, before you judge me—”

“Why were they under your pillow?! Were you gonna sniff them?!” You yell between laughter, you couldn’t help but find it funny at the thought of Hoseok hiding your underwear from you,

“W-What?! No! No! I’m not- T-That’s not-” He stutters and sighs, taking in a deep breath as he shook his head, taking the pan off the heat and turning to look at you. 

“I thought if you couldn’t find them, you’d stay long enough for us to talk…For me to tell you how in love with you I am.”

You stared at him, your heart was two seconds away from leaping from your chest and into his waiting hands.

“I’m an idiot,” he said, walking over to you with that devastatingly soft smile. His hand cupped your cheek and he ran his thumb along your bottom lip 

“But I’m a sincere idiot who’s been head over heels for you since last summer.” You bit back a smirk before tossing your panties in his direction,

“You could’ve just told me that instead of kidnapping my panties.” 

“I panicked!” he yelled out as you kissed him softly.

NAMJOON:

The night before came rushing back to you as you laid in the bed staring at the ceiling. Namjoon was snoring beside you but the night came back to you in glimpses - almost like a movie - the way Namjoon had hungrily pinned you to the wall after you’d flirted with him for most of the night. Heart pounding you raced to get out of the bed, grabbing your things and heading out of the room. 

You were almost at the bedroom door when you realized something was missing. Dress? Check. Phone? Check. Dignity? Questionable. Underwear? …Not check. Where the fuck was your underwear?!

Namjoon cleared his throat awkwardly behind you and you slowly turned to face him. Your heart was practically coming out of your chest as you felt your stomach roll,

“Looking for something?” he chuckles, nodding his head in the direction of his book case.

You turned, catching the edge of a pale pink waistband peeking from between a worn copy of The Art of War and a Nietzsche collection on his bookshelf and your jaw dropped. He’d stashed your underwear!?

“…Are my panties in your library, Namjoon?” You scoffed walking over to the shelf and sliding them out from the books, shaking your head at the creativity of hiding them.

He winced. “Okay, yes, but hear me out—I panicked. You were gonna leave and I—I didn’t know how to say don’t go.” You blinked at him as you made your way toward the bed, sitting beside him and arching a brow. 

“So you hid my underwear… with philosophy?”

“I thought it was poetic,” he mumbled, reaching out to hold your hands as he gently ran his fingers over your knuckles as he peeked up at you. “Also, I think I might be in love with you.”

“I think I might be in love with you too,” you whisper back to him, smiling shyly before squealing as he pulls you into the bed, peppering you with kisses all over your face.

JIMIN:

The two of you had woken up almost two hours ago and you’d been hunting for your underwear high and low. It was starting to feel as though your best friend had stashed the panties away on purpose.

“Okay, seriously. Where are they?” You quizzed, standing in front of him with your hands on your hips and raising your eyebrow at him. Jimin blinked innocently, giving you that soft smile he always gave someone when he was trying to get out of something. 

“Where’s what?” He asked, playing dumb but you gave him a flat look and folded your arms across your chest. It was that simple look from you that could make any of the boys fold. It was the one they told you was your “mum look”.

“D-Don’t give me that look…I have no idea-” He sighed as he stopped himself short, he knew he had no way out of this without admitting the truth. He’d woken up before you and stole your panties so he would have the chance to speak with you alone. Slowly reached into his hoodie pocket… and pulled out your panties.

“…Are you KIDDING me?” You laughed, stealing them from his hands and sliding them on under your shirt.

“I panicked!” he said, face going red, stammering over his words as he tried to justify what he’d done. “I thought you’d leave before we could talk and I just—It was dumb, I know, I’m sorry!”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh right in his face as you shook your head.

“I didn’t want last night to be just a one time thing...Okay?” He shook his head, he knew how stupid it must have seemed but it had been a long time since he’d had his crush on you.

“I’ve liked you forever, and I was worried that if I didn’t say it today then I never would.” You dropped yourself down beside him on the sofa and laid your head on his shoulder, 

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” You tell him, cuddling up to him as he smiles in relief, wrapping one arm around your shoulder and tugging you closer.

“I know,” 

TAEHYUNG:

“We should watch a film.” Was all Taehyung had said to you when the two of you woke up naked together. He didn’t say anything about it, he put the movie on and that should have been your first clue something was going on in his mind. He’d picked love rosie…a film about two friends eventually coming together in a relationship.

Was this his way of hinting at you?

Shaking your head you decided to ask him about it later and you tried to get closer to him. You were curled up in a blanket,trying not to make things weirder than him ignoring the blatant obvious of you two sleeping together but when you shifted and felt something lumpy in Taehyung’s pocket.

“Don’t.” He whispers but it was too late you’d already reached into his pocket sliding out the black lace panty and smirking to yourself as you saw them.

“…Taehyung.” You said slowly, his cheeks were already the colour of strawberries as he swallowed thickly.

 “Y-Yes?” He asked, glancing at you and you waved the panties in front of his face,

“Why are my panties in your pocket?” He looked at you, opening his mouth like he was goin to speak but he quickly closed it before looking at them. He knew he had to tell you the truth but he was also going to look like a weirdo about it.

“I love you?” he offered, smiling way too confidently for someone caught red-handed. You gawked at him, throwing them at his chest making him laugh as he caught them and smirked at you.

“Okay, it was also because I panicked. But mostly the love thing.” He grins bringing you into his chest as he squeezes you softly.

“You’re a fucking menace.” You hiss at him,

“You still love me though,” he winked.

JUNGKOOK:

Jungkook woke up long before you, remembering every single second he had you in his arms and he instantly knew what he was going to do. It was the only way he was going to be able to get you to stay long enough to talk to him about the night before. He practically shot out of the bed, planning on hiding just your jeans but he couldn’t find them. 

“Shit, shit shit.” He hisses before he spots the underwear at the bottom of the bed, he ripped them away and dropped beside the bed, not noticing as you began to stir.

“Hmm, Jungkook?” You whined, turning over and freezing when you caught him mid-squat by the bed, trying to sneak your underwear underneath it. Jungkook could have sworn he could hear every single sound in the house, the faint ticking of a clock, the water dripping from the tap as he waited for you to say something.

“Jungkook. What are you doing?” You grumbled, sitting up and clutching the bedsheets around your naked chest. He jumped, smacked his head on the underside of the bedframe, and stood with a guilty look and your panties balled in his fist.

“I—I didn’t want you to leave without talking to me first!” he rushed out so quickly you could barely get a word of what he said.

“Last night meant a lot and I was scared you’d just… go. So I—uh—detained you.”

“With underwear theft?!” You quizzed, staring at the underwear still in his hand. He rubbed the back of his neck with his other free hand and he gave you a sheepish grin.

 “...Yes?” The nervous chuckle fell from his lips but that was all it took for you to burst out laughing, holding your stomach as you shook your head.

“So you’re not mad?” He whispers as he sits on the edge of the bed, you smirk and look over at him,

“Well…That depends,” you said, crawling toward him and stealing your panties back from him. “You gonna talk or hide my bra next?”

Where/When:

a crowded contemporary art gallery opening in Seoul

he invited you to join him

as his "muse of metaphors"

Why You Faint:

sensory overload

= strobe lights in an installation, stuffy room, skipped lunch because "art feeds the soul"

Catalyst:

a violently flickering piece titled "Capitalist Dystopia Dreamscape" 

HOW IT HAPPENS

you’re debating the symbolism of a melted clock sculpture when your vision tunnels

you grip his arm

slurring

“Joon-ah… floors… tilting...”

His First Thought

"Did I bore her? Oh god, was my Nietzsche reference too pretentious?"

you collapse backward like a felled tree

HIS REACTION

Physical

drops his exhibition pamphlet

lunges too fast, knocking over a champagne flute

“SHIT!”

catches your head just before impact

scraping his elbow on the floor

Verbal

voice shifts from booming panic  to hushed urgency against your ear

“EVERYONE BACK UP! SHE NEEDS AIR!” “Stay with me. Breathe in… 4, 7, 8… like we practiced.”

Actions

cradles your head in his lap

frantically loosening your scarf (knots it in his stress)

presses two fingers to your wrist

counts beats like a metronome

texts Jin: “Gallery 3. Fainted. Bring sugar and car. NOW.”

 INTERNAL MONOLOGUE (During Crisis)

“Idiot. You knew she looked pale by the Basquiat rip-off. Should’ve forced her to eat that muffin. Was it the lights? The existential dread radiating from that taxidermy duck? Focus. Pulse weak but steady. Elbow bleeding? Irrelevant. Why is everyone staring? Should’ve rented the private viewing...”

AFTERMATH

At the Hospital (Waiting Room)

paces like a caged bear

reciting Sylvia Plath under his breath

buys 3 protein bars from a vending machine

“Eat this. I won’t discuss Kant until you do.”

Guilty Confession

“I curated this exhibit. The strobes… they were supposed to challenge comfort. Not hurt you.”

At His Apartment

sets up a nest of blankets and poetry books on his couch the same night

plays “moonchild” on low volume

“The bassline regulates heartbeats. Scientific fact.”

Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)

researches “sensory processing disorders” until sunrise

finds a study linking strobe lights to syncope

emails the gallery director a 10-point safety manifesto

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

next morning

hands you noise-canceling headphones

“For galleries or grocery stores. Your sanctuary.”

handwritten note:

“Art shouldn’t demand sacrifice.

Next exhibition: botanical gardens.

No clocks. No ducks. Just us and quiet trees.

(And I packed sandwiches).

– Joon”

KIM SEOKJIN (JIN)

“BIRTHDAY RESCUE OPERATION”

“My heart can’t take encore scares. Eat the damn rice.”

Where/When:

his extravagant birthday dinner at a Michelin-starred hanwoo restaurant

you helped plan it for weeks

Why You Faint: 

exhaustion (coordinating surprises)

low blood sugar (forgot lunch)

claustrophobia (overcrowded VIP section

Catalyst:

the 7th round of soju toasts

heat from the tabletop grill

HOW IT HAPPENS

you’re clapping as staff bring his “birthday crown” 

the room spins

you grip his chair

“Jin-ah… too loud...”

His First Thought

“Is she drunk? No, she only had water. Did Hobi drag her into dance practice again?!”

you slump sideways into the grill tray

HIS REACTION

Physical

slams crown down

sends kimchi flying

leaps up, catches you milliseconds before your arm hits the grill

 “YAH! MOVE!” 

shoves a waiter aside

Verbal

booming Panic

“SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE! And cancel the cake... PRIORITIES!”

hushed Urgency

cradling your face

“Hey. Look at Oppa. If you die, I’ll revive you just to kill you myself.”

Actions

fails to undo your jeogori tie

rips it with a frustrated growl

forces sugar water between your lip

“Swallow or I’ll sing ‘Super Tuna’ in your ear.”

texts Manager:

“VIP room NOW. She fainted. Bring IV drip or peach juice. FIGHTING.”

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

“Idiot. Why did I let her organize everything? Saw her skip breakfast. Should’ve force-fed her like that trainee in 2014. Is she breathing? Yes... shallow. Grill’s off... good. Why is Tae filming? I’LL MURDER... Focus. Pulse? Weak. Cake can wait. Her lips are blue. NEVER AGAIN.”

AFTERMATH

At the Hospital (Waiting Room)

paces in his beef-stained designer shirt

ranting to Yoongi

“If the doctor says ‘stress,’ I’m deleting her work emails!”

buys all vending machine snacks

dumps them on your lap

“Protein bars are energy grenades. Pull pin with teeth.”

Guilty Confession

“This birthday was perfect… until you dropped like a drama heroine. Next year: just us and instant noodles. I’ll cook.”

At His Apartment (That Night)

builds a “recovery fortress” on his couch

= silk blankets, Squishmallows, and Dragon Ball DVDs

plays “Epiphany” on loop

“This song cures 78% of ailments. My scientific thesis.”

Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)

googles “how to make someone immortal”

rewatches your fainting moment (from Tae’s video)

cries secretly

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

next morning, he serves seaweed soup with a “survival kit”

custom air-horn: “Blast if dizzy. I’ll hear it from Mars.”

embroidered headband: “World’s Okayest Planner”

handwritten note:

“New Birthday Rule: you eat with me, no surprises (except my face), if tired? SCREAM... P.S. I rehearse bridal carries now. -Your (Handsome) Lifeguard”

His Final Thought

“Best gifts aren’t beef. It’s her rolling her eyes at me… alive.”

MIN YOONGI (SUGA)

“SILENT ALARMS”

“You hid it. I see it now. Never again.”

Where/When: 

his private studio

3 AM

you brought him coffee

claiming you "couldn’t sleep"

truth: migraines for 3 days, hidden behind painkillers

Why You Collapse:

overdosed on otc pain meds

chronic pain flare-up

(later) reminding him of his own years of silent suffering)

Catalyst: 

reaching to adjust his monitor = a wave of dizziness hits

HOW IT HAPPENS

you sway mid-sentence about his new track

“Yoongi, the bassline is... spinning...”

His First Thought:

“Sleep-deprivation. Or lying. Her pupils are too wide.”

you crumple against his synth rack

HIS REACTION

Physical

slams laptop shut

lunges, catching your waist before your head strikes the desk edge

lowers you to the floor

cushioning your neck with his hoodie

Verbal

Biting Calm

“Look at me. Did you take pills? How many?” 

his voice is like ice

Hushed Urgency (on phone)

“Studio. Now. Bring a blanket. She’s cold.”

Actions

checks pulse, pupils, breathing

hid hands tremble

finds empty painkiller pack in your pocket

crushes it in his fist

texts Manager: 

“No hospital. Call Dr. Kim. Discretion.”

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

“Fool. Both of us. Saw her flinch when I hugged her yesterday. Let it go. Like I let my shoulder go until it snapped. Pulse 110. Shallow breaths. How many pills? Two? Six? Should’ve thrown mine out years ago. Stupid. Stupid. Her skin’s gray. Not again. NOT AGAIN.”

AFTERMATH

At His Apartment (Couch Vigil)

wipes your face with a cold cloth

repeats: “Idiot,” but his thumb brushes your cheek

forces honey-water between your lips

“Swallow. Or I’ll dissect your playlist.”

Guilty Confession

“I knew. When you rubbed your temples for 20 minutes yesterday. I... walked away. My fault.”

3 AM Breakdown (Alone in Kitchen)

smashes his own painkillers in the sink

researches “chronic pain management”

books migraine specialist appointment for you

watches you sleep

replaying his injury in his head

“Shoulder gave out mid-concert. Hid it. Couldn’t lift my arm for months. You watched me. Now I watch you.”

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

leaves a few things for you =

replaced painkillers

herbal tinctures, CBD oil in labeled jars

burner phone

= pre-programmed with his number

texts: “PAIN? → CALL.”

Handwritten note:

"No pills alone. I dose you. Pain? Tell me. IMMEDIATELY. My studio? Your bed now. P.S. I’ll compose your agony into something beautiful. – Yoongi”

His Final Thought

“We break in silence. No more.”

JUNG HOSEOK (J-HOPE)

“SUNSHINE BLACKOUT”

“If my passion dims your light, I’ll dance in the dark forever.”

Where/When

11 PM in the Big Hit practice room

he stayed late to drill a new MAMA-level choreo

you secretly returned after he left

determined to master the combo he sighed over earlier

Why You Faint

dehydration

overexertion (3 hours non-stop)

hidden ankle sprain from tripping earlier

Catalyst:

720º spin move

he’d muttered “needs sharper angles” 

= the exact moment your vision whited out

HOW IT HAPPENS

you’re mid-spin when the mirrors kaleidoscope

you crumple against the sound system

“Hobi… can’t… lock it...”

His First Thought:

he’d actually returned for his headphones

“Why’s she...? I TOLD her to go home! Was my sigh that loud? Shit. SHIT!”

your head cracks against the speaker

...silence

HIS REACTION

Physical

drops his duffle

slides across polished floors like a base-runner

cradles your lolling head

pressing his hoodie to the bleeding temple

“NO NO NO... LOOK AT ME! SUNSHINE, STAY WITH ME!” 

his voice cracks

Verbal

Booming Panic

“YOONGI-HYUNG! 4TH FLOOR! EMERGENCY!”

his voice echoes down halls

Hushed Urgency

“Breathe, baby. In… 2, 3… Out… 2, 3… My count. Only mine.” 

tears dripping on your cheek

Actions

fumbles phone

drops it twice trying to call 119

attempts CPR compressions

aborts after realizing you’re breathing

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

“Idiot. I’m the idiot. Saw her ankle wobble at 7PM. Should’ve carried her to the dorms. My frustration poisoned her. That sigh, it wasn’t at her. It was at me. Why does she always… Shibal... Pulse? Thready. Blood on my hoodie. Not her face. Never her face. Ambulance coming? Why aren’t they HERE? If she... No. Dance is joy. I made it a weapon.”

AFTERMATH

At the Hospital (Waiting Room)

paces in blood-stained dance pants

vibrating with adrenaline

forces coffee into Jimin’s hands

“Drink it. For her. Positive energy transfers!”

buys every teddy in the gift shop

arranges them around your bed like shrine offerings

Guilty Confession:

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My face… it lies when I’m stressed. You were perfect. I’m the one who failed you.” 

forehead pressed to your IV-taped hand

At the Dorm

builds a “healing nest” in his bunk

heated blanket, ARMY Bomb nightlight, Chicken Noodle Soup merch plushie

plays “Blue Side” on repeat

“The bass is a heartbeat. Sync yours to it. Please.”

Quiet Breakdown (3 AM)

watches security footage of your fall

sobs into pillow

researches “dance pedagogy trauma”

drafts a 10-Step Kindness Curriculum for trainees

lists 100 Things I Love About Her Dancing in his Notes app

#76: “The way her pinky lifts like a bird taking flight.”

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

at dawn, he kneels by your bed

brings “Sunshine First Aid Kit”

= glittery electrolyte packs, ankle brace (purple), lucky Hope World headband

handwritten note:

“New Practice Rules: Hydrate OR I water-gun you. Ankle pain means piggyback rides. My sighs and side eyes are MINE to fix. P.S. The combo? You owned it before you fell. - HOBI"

His Final Thought

“Real MVPs don’t break their bodies to mend my pride.”

PARK JIMIN

“THE WEIGHT OF WORTH”

“My love isn’t measured in grams. It’s the universe.”

Where/When:

late-night dance practice for his solo comeback

you stayed to support him

Why You Faint

mimicking his old habit

sipping water for 48 hours to “match idols discipline.”

Catalyst

complex floor spin sequence

heat, exhaustion, emptiness = collapse

HOW IT HAPPENS

you’re taking notes in the corner as he drills a move 17 times

he turns, then sees you swaying

“Jimin-ah… stars…”

His First Thought

“The lights are dim? No... her. That sway… I know that sway. FUCK.”

you crumple mid-step toward the mirror

HIS REACTION

Physical

dives across the studio

sliding on knees

tearing his designer sweats

catches your temple inches from the mirrored wall

“DON’T YOU DARE!” 

voice raw, cracking

Verbal

screams

“YOONGI-HYUNG! GLUCOSE! NOW!” 

echoes in empty studio

whispers, cradling you

“I’ll kidnap you to a bakery. Just breathe, jagiya.

Actions

unzips his hoodie, then wraps you like a cocoon

“Cold? I’m here.”

texts group chat:

“EMERGENCY. Practice room. Bring, banana milk, warm blankets, my will to live if she doesn’t wake up.”

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

“Stupid. Stupid. Saw her water bottle all day. Saw the hollow cheeks. I KNEW... why didn’t I stop her? Hyung would’ve stopped me. Is her pulse there? Please. Not like back then... Not her. Never her. If she dies, I burn this studio down.”

AFTERMATH

At the Hospital (Waiting Room)

rocks in plastic chair

your hand crushed in his

ignores his bleeding knees

Guilty Confession

“This is my fault. My… sickness. You thought starving was love? This is love...” 

presses your palm to his tear-soaked cheek

At His Apartment (That Night)

builds a “healing nest” in his bed

= weighted blanket, heated pads

plays “Save me” on loop

“Hear the pain? That’s past-me. Don’t be past-me.”

Quiet Breakdown

googles “calories in tears”

sobs harder.

cooks

sits cross-legged force-feeding you

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

gifts you embroidered hoodie = “Jimin’s Heartbeat” 

handwritten note:

“New Rules... we eat like kings. My past pain isn’t your bible. If hungry? STEAL MY LUNCH. P.S. I dance better with you fed..."

His Final Thought

“Her weight in my arms was light. The weight of her worth? Infinite. That’s my truth.”

KIM TAEHYUNG (V)

“STAIRWAY TO THE STARS (AND SCARS)”

“Fights are fireflies; bright then gone. But your pain? That’s a constellation I never want to see.”

Where/When:

his vintage loft after a heated debate about his "impulsive" solo trip to Morocco

Why You Fall

you slipped rushing down the spiral staircase post-argument

still shaking

Catalyst:

worn velvet carpet edge

and tear-blurred vision

HOW IT HAPPENS

Argument:

you shout

“You’re always chasing dreams! What about us?” 

he turns away, his voice icy

“If my dreams suffocate you, the door’s right there."

you flee toward the stairs

he hears you gasp

then thud-thud-CRACK 

your ankle hitting wrought iron

your choked sob, before you faint from pain

His First Thought

“...Was that her? No. No. Please be a dropped sculpture. Please.”

HIS REACTION

Physical

drops antique camera, the lens shatters

leaps over the sofa in 3 strides

sliding to your side

“DON’T MOVE!” 

hands hovering, terrified to touch, then realising you fainted

Verbal

Raw Panic

“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I DIDN’T MEAN IT!” 

repeating like a prayer

Hushed Urgency

presses forehead to yours

“Breathe, baby. Breathe for TaeTae."

Actions

wraps you in his Gucci scarf

soaking blood from your brow

texts Jimin:

“LOFT. STAIRS. BROKEN. HELP.” 

forgets to send

cradles your ankle after you came back

“Did the stars kiss you too hard? I’ll scold them.”

INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

“Idiot. KING IDIOT. Saw her crying. Should’ve hugged her. Now she’s bleeding. Her ankle, is it bent? Don’t puke. Focus. Jimin’s not answering. Call 119? Can’t remember numbers. Her skin’s cold. Did I kill us? Please no. I’ll sell the camera. Burn my passport. Just let her be okay.”

AFTERMATH

At the Hospital (ER)

paces in socked feet

forgot shoes at home

clutching your purse like a teddy bear

buys all your favourite snacks and a teddy bear from the gift shop

builds a pyramid of Pocky on your cast 

“Food is mortar. Heals bones.”

Guilty Confession:

“The Morocco trip… I booked it for us. Wanted to surprise you under the desert stars. Now the stars hate me.”

At the Loft (That Night)

transforms the living room into a “healing galaxy”

= fairy lights, Van Gogh projections, velvet pillow moat

plays “Winter Bear” on vinyl

lips trembling

“This song has 9,000 healing Hz.”

Quiet Breakdown

stares at the bloodstained stair

paints it gold “to trap the pain”

drowns in guilt

texts you 57 times (unsent): 

“Can you ever forgive me?”

"EYE-OPENER" REALIZATION

brings a custom ankle brace 

painted with clouds and a tiny door labeled “Tae’s Heart”