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And that was how he found himself sitting in a conference room in London, arms crossed over his chest, a deep scowl on his face, as they told him that the best solution to his problem was to pretend to be in love with a woman he had never met in his life.

Charlotte Hayes.

The name didn’t mean much to him, but the story did. A professional equestrian, from a family with a strong tradition in the sport, with a clean and promising public image. She had faced her own share of controversies—a footballer ex-boyfriend with too many scandals to his name—but unlike Lando, she had managed to restore her reputation. And now, if everything went according to plan, she would do the same for him.

But this agreement wasn’t just for Lando’s benefit.

For Lottie, being associated with someone like him meant more than just controlled damage. Formula 1 wasn’t just a sport with millions of fans worldwide—it had one of the strongest young fan bases on social media, capable of skyrocketing her public image. More visibility meant more sponsorships, more opportunities both within and beyond equestrian sports, and a definitive way to leave behind the shadow of her past relationship.

The agreement was clear. They would fake their relationship until the end of the season. They would be seen together in public, attend sponsor events, she would make occasional appearances in the paddock, and he would show up at some of her competitions. They would smile for the cameras, blur the lines between reality and fiction, and make people believe whatever they needed to believe.

It was a clean deal. Simple. No emotional complications.

At least, in theory.

Because fame wasn’t just a wild animal. It was unpredictable. And once you stepped into its game, you could never really know how things would unfold.

Lando had spent the past hour looking for a way out.

It wasn’t the first time his team had put a contract in front of him and expected him to sign without question. But this? This was ridiculous. Pretending to be in a relationship with a stranger just to smooth things over with sponsors? It was humiliating. Unnecessary.

And yet, here he was, sitting in a sleek London office, with his PR team on one side of the conference table and Charlotte Hayes—his supposed fake girlfriend—on the other.

She wasn’t alone.

Her own PR manager sat beside her, a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper tone when she spoke. If Lando’s team was desperate to get him under control, hers was just as invested in making sure this arrangement benefited Lottie.

Because that was the truth of it—this wasn’t just about fixing Lando’s public image. It was a mutually beneficial deal. His reputation got a necessary clean-up, and Lottie? Well, she got a fast track to an even bigger audience. Formula 1 was a marketing machine, and a name like Lando Norris, whether she liked it or not, came with global reach.

Not that she seemed fazed by any of it.

Lottie sat with one leg crossed over the other, scanning the contract with the same calm focus someone might use while reviewing their grocery list. Her long fingers drummed idly against the table, her posture relaxed, her expression unreadable.

Meanwhile, Lando was radiating I don’t want to fucking be here energy, and everyone in the room could tell.

"Lando, this is the best course of action, mate," one of his PR reps finally said, exhaling as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to repeat it.

Lando scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "No, the best course of action would be to let people talk their shit and move on, just like we always do."

"Except we aren’t moving on. The rumors are getting worse, and sponsors are—"

"Yeah, yeah, they’re unhappy. I got the memo."

Across the table, Lottie flicked her gaze up from the contract, eyebrows raised slightly at his tone. "They do have a point, you know. This will help you."

Lando’s jaw tensed. He didn’t like the way she said it—like she was stating a fact rather than trying to convince him. "And you? What do you get out of this?"

Before Lottie could answer, her PR manager spoke for her, voice crisp and professional. "Increased media presence. New sponsorship opportunities. A stronger connection to younger audiences, particularly through social media engagement."

"Ah, right. The noble quest for clout."

Lottie didn’t even blink. "Says the guy who’s been in half the tabloids this month for allegedly dating six women in one night."

The room went silent.

Lando’s gaze snapped to her, sharp and disbelieving. There was no hostility in her voice, no sharp edge of annoyance. Just a perfectly neutral observation, like she was reading a headline aloud. And that only pissed him off more.

"Bold of you to bring up fake relationships when you were dumb enough to date a walking scandal, Hayes."

His PR team collectively inhaled.

Lottie’s manager frowned.

Lottie herself? She just let out a soft breath, a hint of amusement flickering in her expression, but nothing more.

"Touché."

And that was it. No anger, no embarrassment. Just one word, calm and measured, before she turned the page in her contract as if he hadn’t just insulted her choice in men in front of a room full of professionals.

Lando hated that. He wanted her to get pissed. He wanted her to roll her eyes, throw the contract back at his team, and call the whole thing off so he wouldn’t have to. But she didn’t. She just waited.

"We need to move forward with this, Lando," his manager cut in, sensing his growing frustration.

Lottie tapped a perfectly manicured nail against the table, looking at him expectantly. "Are you going to keep whining about it, or are you going to sign?"

Lando clenched his jaw.

Fucking hell.

With an irritated sigh, he grabbed the pen, flipped to the last page, and scribbled his signature.

Lottie, still cool and unbothered, signed her own name right after.

Then, as she capped her pen, she glanced at him with the smallest, most infuriating smirk. "Welcome to the relationship, babe."

Lando was going to hate every second of this.

Lando adjusted his jacket for the third time, resisting the urge to tug at the collar. The café was warm—too warm, or maybe it was just him. Outside, the London drizzle painted the windows in shifting streaks of grey, blurring the figures that lingered on the street. He could feel them, even if he didn’t look. The quiet anticipation. The not-so-subtle presence of cameras, some hidden behind the glass, others held up brazenly by people passing by.

He hated this.

The performance. The expectation. The weight of eyes that didn’t belong to him, of opinions forming before he had even said a word.

Across from him, Lottie stirred her tea with deliberate ease. She didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked almost bored—like a woman indulging in an afternoon routine rather than sitting through the first act of a meticulously staged fiction.

Lando envied that.

She had chosen the table, one with just enough privacy to allow conversation, yet positioned well enough to guarantee they’d be seen. Everything was calculated—the placement of their drinks, the slow, natural rhythm of their conversation. They had to sell this. Make it seem real.

"You’re staring," Lottie remarked, not looking up from her cup.

"I’m processing," Lando muttered. "Trying to understand how you’re so relaxed about this."

"Because I came prepared." She finally met his gaze, unbothered. "Unlike you, apparently."

Lando scoffed, leaning back. "Sorry, I don’t have a manual on how to fake-date a stranger for PR points."

"Shame. I hear it’s a best-seller."

Despite himself, Lando huffed a small laugh, shaking his head.

"Right," she continued, placing her spoon down. "Let’s get the basics out of the way. We should have a story, something simple. Mutual friends?"

"Sure."

"And a timeline—when did we supposedly meet?"

"Couple of months ago?"

"Too soon. Feels rushed."

"Fine. Six months."

"Better."

Lando exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "This feels like an interview."

"It kind of is." Lottie tilted her head. "Though you’re terrible at answering questions. No wonder you get into trouble with the media."

"Wow. Thanks."

"Just an observation."

Lando narrowed his eyes. "Fine. You want questions? Let's switch it up. Since we’re dating, I should know something about you."

"By all means," Lottie gestured. "Impress me with your curiosity."

He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Favourite food?"

"Easy. Pasta."

"Boring."

"Says the guy who survives on toasties and Monster."

"Fine, what’s your biggest fear?"

"The Daily Mail."

Lando snorted. "Valid."

Lottie smirked, taking a sip of her tea. "What about you?"

"Oh, we’re making this mutual now?"

"Obviously. It’s only fair."

Lando pretended to think. "Losing a race by milliseconds. Or getting stuck in an elevator with someone who chews loudly."

"Fascinating depth of character, Norris."

"Thanks, I try."

Lottie shook her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "God, you really do sound like you’re in an interview. 'Yeah, no, obviously, it’s just great to be here, the team did an amazing job—'"

Lando groaned. "Oh, shut up."

"’At the end of the day, we gave it our all, and that’s what matters—’"

"Charlotte."

"’We keep pushing, onto the next one—’"

"I swear to God."

The moment the first flash went off, the spell was broken.

Lottie pulled back instinctively, her laughter dying on her lips as reality set in. Across from her, Lando stiffened, his easy grin vanishing as he exhaled sharply through his nose. Neither of them turned immediately, but they didn’t have to. The sound of hurried whispers, the unmistakable shuffle of someone pretending not to take a photo—it was enough.

They’d been caught.

Of course, they had known this would happen. The meeting had been carefully orchestrated, a casual café in the heart of London, just enough visibility to invite speculation without being obvious. They had prepared for it, planned every detail down to what they should wear, where they should sit.

But still, feeling watched—actually living the moment—was different.

Lottie exhaled quietly, reaching for her coffee to give herself something to do. "Well, that’s our cue to leave," she murmured, taking a slow sip.

Lando’s jaw tensed. "Yeah. Before we end up on every gossip page in the next twenty minutes."

She refrained from pointing out that they already would.

They moved with practiced ease, keeping their pace natural as they slipped out of the café and onto the street. The cool London air hit immediately, but Lottie barely registered it—she was too focused on the shifting energy around them, the occasional glances from passersby, the girl a few feet away already typing furiously on her phone.

Lando walked beside her, hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture the perfect blend of relaxed and detached.

They made it a block before he spoke. "So, how long do you think until the internet tears this apart?"

Lottie hummed, tilting her head. "I’d say... fifteen minutes? Maybe ten if we really underestimate them."

Lando scoffed. "Fantastic."

And as soon as he got home, he sat on his couch, phone in hand, already regretting opening Twitter.

The photos had spread like wildfire. There they were—walking out of the café, sitting across from each other, that one moment where Lottie had laughed and leaned slightly toward him. If he hadn’t been in the situation, he might have thought they looked... believable.

The internet, however, was not convinced.

PR stunt, obviously.They look like they’re negotiating a business merger.Maybe they’re just friends?Why does Lando look like he’s being forced to be there at gunpoint?No way this is real. No one flirts like that.

Lando groaned, tossing his phone onto the table before dragging a hand over his face.

This was not going well.

Somewhere across the city, Lottie was probably reading the same comments, except she was probably laughing. She had taken this whole thing with the kind of casual indifference that should have made things easier, except it only highlighted how utterly useless he was at this.

And the worst part?

This was only the beginning.

Lando barely had time to process the disaster unfolding on social media before his phone buzzed aggressively on the table.

His manager.

He groaned, already knowing exactly what was coming.

"Yeah?" he answered, sinking further into his couch.

"Are you actually incapable of looking like you enjoy someone’s company?" Mark’s voice was sharp, cutting straight to the point.

Lando exhaled slowly. "Nice to hear from you too."

"Mate, I am getting calls." There was a pause, followed by a rustling sound—papers, maybe, or the sound of Mark rubbing his temples in frustration. "Do you have any idea how bad it looks when people are debating whether or not you even like her as a person?"

Lando pinched the bridge of his nose. "I thought we agreed we weren’t rushing into anything too intense. You know, slow build-up, natural progression, all that bullshit."

"Yeah, well, ‘slow build-up’ only works if people believe it’s actually leading somewhere. Right now, they think you were having a business meeting with your accountant."

Lando let his head fall back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling. Fantastic.

"So what do you want me to do?"

"Next time, I don’t know—smile, Norris. Maybe look at her like she’s a human woman and not a tax consultant."

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but Mark steamrolled right over him.

"And fix it fast, because I can guarantee her team is just as unimpressed as I am. They’ll probably want another public sighting soon. This time, try to act like you don’t want to die, yeah?"

With that, the call ended.

Lando scowled at his phone. "Brilliant."

He was about to toss it onto the table when another notification popped up—this time, a message from an unknown number.

[Unknown Number]: Heard you’re not a fan of tax consultants. 👀

Lando frowned. Before he could process that, another message came through—a screenshot from Twitter.

It was a meme. A side-by-side comparison of their café photo and a painfully awkward stock image of two businessmen shaking hands. The caption?

"Tell me this isn’t a corporate merger meeting."

Lando blinked. Then, before he could stop himself—before he could think—he let out a laugh.

Another message popped up.

[Unknown Number]: At least I look good in this one. You, however… yikes.

Lando didn’t need to ask who it was. He already knew.

Lottie.

Lando stared at the message for a second, debating whether to engage.

On one hand, he could ignore it. Pretend he was already asleep. Maintain some semblance of control in a situation where he clearly had none.

On the other hand... Well, Mark was right—this whole thing was a disaster. And if he was going to be stuck in it, he might as well make it slightly less painful.

His thumbs moved before his brain fully caught up.

[Lando]: Wow, cheers. Great to know my suffering is at least entertaining for you.

Three dots appeared immediately.

[Lottie]: Of course. If I have to put up with this, I at least deserve some entertainment.

[Lando]: Nice to know where we stand.

[Lottie]: You did look like you were in the middle of a hostage negotiation.

Lando huffed a laugh. He stretched out on his couch, feeling the conversation ease some of the irritation left behind by Mark’s call.

[Lando]: Not my fault I wasn’t born an actor.

[Lottie]: Not asking for DiCaprio, mate. Just try not to look like you’re planning your escape next time.

A pause. Then—

[Lottie]: Speaking of, where is next time? Or are we just going to wait until PR locks us in a room again?

Lando rubbed a hand over his jaw, considering.

The easy thing would be to let their teams handle it. Wait until some official plan was in place. But that had gone so well last time…

So instead, before he could second-guess himself, he typed—

[Lando]: Your turn to pick. Somewhere that doesn’t make me look like I’m being held at gunpoint.

It took all of five seconds for a reply.

[Lottie]: Got it. See you soon, finance bro.

Lando rolled his eyes. Brilliant.

Hyde Park, late afternoon.

Golden sunlight filtered through the bare branches, stretching long shadows across the gravel path. The crisp bite of early spring lingered in the air, mixing with the distant hum of the city. Joggers wove between tourists, families pushed prams along the walkways, and somewhere nearby, a street musician plucked at a guitar. It was peaceful. Unassuming.

And yet, Lando knew better.

There was always someone watching.

That fact alone made the entire situation unbearable. But if that wasn’t enough, there was also the dog.

A whirlwind of fur and energy, bounding ahead with a tail that moved like it had a mind of its own, panting happily as if every scent, every patch of grass, every floating leaf was the most exciting thing in the world.

Lando eyed the dog warily. "So… this is why you picked Hyde Park," he muttered.

"What, you thought I just liked scenic walks with fake boyfriends?" Lottie shot back, smirking. "Caesar needed his exercise. Might as well kill two birds with one stone."

"Caesar," Lando repeated, watching as the dog enthusiastically sniffed a nearby bush. "Of course he’s called something ridiculous."

"Technically, it’s Caesar von Woofenstein," she corrected. "But we keep it informal."

Lando snorted despite himself. "That might be the most pretentious dog name I’ve ever heard."

"He’s a rescue mutt. Mostly Border Collie, maybe some German Shepherd. Bit of a menace, but he means well," Lottie said, just as Caesar abruptly turned and flung himself onto Lando’s feet, rolling onto his back in the universal demand for belly rubs.

Lando stared down at him. Then back at Lottie.

"You mean to tell me I’ve been suffering through this entire ordeal, and I could’ve just been hanging out with him instead?" he muttered, crouching to scratch the dog's stomach.

"I’ll be sure to let PR know you’d prefer to date Caesar instead," Lottie deadpanned.

Lando grinned. "At least he wouldn’t drag me into this mess."

"No, but he would steal your food and ruin your furniture. Pick your battles, Norris."

With a final pat, Lando straightened, dusting off his hands as they resumed walking. Caesar trotted between them, completely unaware of the tension his owner was trying (and failing) to ignore.

Lottie broke the silence first. "Alright, small talk. Let’s make this look natural."

Lando groaned. "Again with this?"

"Yes, again with this. We’re supposed to be a couple, Lando. Couples talk. Casually. Like normal people."

"Right, normal," he muttered. "Because everything about this is normal."

Lottie ignored him. "Okay—music. What are you listening to right now?"

He shot her a look. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. Humor me."

He exhaled, thinking for a second. "I don’t know. Arctic Monkeys, probably."

Lottie hummed. "Predictable."

"Excuse me?"

"You give off strong ‘I Bet You Look Good on the Dancefloor’ energy."

Lando frowned. "And that means what, exactly?"

"Exactly what it sounds like."

Despite himself, Lando let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, your turn. Favorite artist?"

Lottie tilted her head. "Fleetwood Mac, I think."

Lando shot her a sideways glance. "Fleetwood Mac? Bit old school, isn’t it?"

"Says the guy clinging to his 2013 indie phase."

"Fair point."

The conversation lulled into something easy, their footsteps syncing as the city moved around them. Lottie’s grip on Caesar’s leash loosened, and the dog took full advantage—darting toward a pigeon, sending it flapping into the sky.

Lando grinned. "Menace, huh?"

"Oh, don’t act like you’re not obsessed with him already," Lottie said. "I saw your face when he rolled over for belly rubs."

"I mean… he’s alright, I guess."

"I’ll take that as a win."

For a moment, the weight of their fake relationship faded into the background. The cameras, the speculation, the absurdity of the entire situation—it didn’t feel so suffocating when there was something as simple as a dog trotting between them.

Then—Lottie grabbed his hand.

Lando stiffened. "What—"

"Relax," she muttered. "Two o’clock. Someone’s already got their phone up."

Right.

He exhaled slowly, forcing himself not to react. Their fingers didn’t interlock—just a light press of palms, casual enough to seem natural, deliberate enough to be caught on camera.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

"This is commitment," Lottie corrected.

"You’re enjoying this way too much."

"Absolutely."

And then—she laughed.

Bright, unrestrained. Like she’d just heard something genuinely funny.

Lando blinked. "What?"

"It’s your face," she said, breathless between laughs. "You look like you’re being held hostage."

"I do not."

"You really do."

Lando opened his mouth to argue—

—and then the camera shutter clicked.

Their eyes met.

The moment shattered, and just like that, reality came rushing back.

They weren’t two people, walking through the park, talking about music and careers.

They were Lando Norris and Charlotte Hayes.

And the internet was about to lose its mind.

The click of the camera was unmistakable—sharp, invasive, a reminder that they weren’t alone.

But Lottie didn’t let go.

Instead, she tightened her grip just slightly, grounding the moment before it spiraled into awkwardness.

Lando felt the shift, the deliberate ease with which she handled the situation. No stiffness, no hesitation—just a perfectly timed adjustment, as if she was actually comfortable walking through Hyde Park with him, hand in hand.

She wasn’t, obviously.

But she was better at faking it.

Lando exhaled slowly, keeping his expression neutral as they continued walking. Caesar trotted ahead, blissfully unaware of the media circus about to erupt online.

Lottie reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a bright yellow tennis ball.

"Alright, enough about me," she said, rolling the ball between her fingers. "Tell me something about F1. Something interesting."

Lando arched a brow. "That’s vague."

"Fine, I’ll narrow it down." She gave the ball a light toss in her palm. "What’s the hardest part?"

Lando scoffed. "Everything."

Lottie shot him a look. "I feel like I should be offended on behalf of your entire profession."

"I mean it," he said. "It’s not just driving fast. You have to know how to manage tires, fuel loads, track conditions. You’re constantly adjusting, constantly calculating. And that’s before you factor in other drivers, team strategy, weather—"

Lottie hummed thoughtfully. "Sounds like a headache."

"More like a hundred headaches per race."

She nodded, considering, then suddenly wound back her arm and launched the tennis ball across the grass.

Caesar exploded forward, a blur of black and white fur, tearing after it with single-minded determination.

Lando watched him go, vaguely envious. Must be nice—having one simple goal and just going for it.

"Alright, next question," Lottie said, dusting off her hands. "Biggest misconception about F1 drivers?"

Lando smirked. "That we only turn left."

Lottie blinked. "Wait. Do people actually think that?"

"Americans do."

Lottie laughed, shaking her head. "Alright, now I feel bad for underestimating your job."

"You should," Lando said solemnly. "It’s very hard being me."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

Caesar came sprinting back, ball clenched triumphantly in his teeth. He skidded to a stop at Lottie’s feet, tail wagging furiously.

"Good boy," she cooed, ruffling his fur before prying the ball from his mouth.

Lando watched, mildly fascinated. He wasn’t particularly bad with dogs, but there was something effortless about the way Lottie handled Caesar—like they understood each other in a way that didn’t require words.

She caught him staring.

"What?"

Lando shrugged. "Nothing."

She arched a brow but let it go, tossing the ball again. Caesar bolted after it without hesitation.

The wind picked up slightly, ruffling the edges of Lottie’s coat, brushing stray strands of hair across her face.

Lando glanced down at their joined hands—still together.

It should’ve felt weird. It did feel weird.

But maybe… slightly less weird than before.

The breeze carried the sound of laughter—distant, fleeting, swallowed by the open space of Hyde Park. A couple passed them, a man with a pushchair and a woman with a takeaway coffee, barely sparing them a glance. Lando had to remind himself that, to most people, they were just another couple out for a walk.

Which, in a way, was exactly the point.

He tightened his grip on Lottie’s hand—not dramatically, not enough to be noticeable in any pictures, but just enough to reinforce the illusion.

She didn't react, simply watched as Caesar disappeared into the distance, chasing his ball like his life depended on it.

"Alright," Lando said, shifting the focus. "Enough about me. Your turn."

Lottie gave him a side glance. "You want to hear about dressage and cross-country courses? I didn’t think you cared."

"I don’t." He grinned when she scoffed, then shrugged. "But I figure I should know a little more about the person I’m supposed to be madly in love with."

Lottie rolled her eyes but played along. "Fine. What do you want to know?"

Lando thought for a second. "Biggest misconception about your sport?"

"That it’s not a sport," she said instantly. "That the horse does all the work."

Lando snorted. "Do people actually believe that?"

"All the time," Lottie said. "There’s this idea that riding is just sitting there, looking pretty, while the horse magically does everything for you. But the reality is that you need insane core strength, leg control, precision. And trust—because no matter how good you are, you're still riding an animal with its own mind. One bad decision and you’re eating dirt."

Lando hummed. "Sounds like a headache."

Lottie arched a brow. "Did you just recycle my words?"

"Might’ve."

She shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Alright, next question."

Lando hesitated, then went for something lighter. "What do you do when you’re not taming wild beasts or dodging paparazzi?"

Lottie tilted her head, considering. "Depends. If I’m not training or competing, I like quiet things. Reading, movies, hiking. Cooking, if I’m in the mood."

"Cooking?" Lando looked at her, amused. "That surprises me."

"Why?"

"You don’t seem like the ‘domestic’ type."

Lottie scoffed. "What does that even mean?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "You just have that ‘raised by nannies, never had to chop an onion’ energy."

Lottie gasped in mock offense. "Excuse you—I can chop an onion. I just choose not to."

Lando laughed, genuinely, and for a brief moment, the whole situation—the cameras, the pretending, the contract—faded into the background.

But then—click. Again.

Fuck it.

Lando felt the weight of the charade press down on him, a subtle but constant reminder of the performance they were putting on for the cameras. He looked at their joined hands—his fingers slowly loosening their grip on hers, the fleeting warmth from her skin now distant.

"Alright," he said, his voice breaking the stillness between them. "I think that's enough for today."

Lottie glanced at him, her expression unreadable, but there was something in the way she tilted her head that made him feel like she knew exactly what he meant.

"It was… nice," he added, trying to soften the abruptness of his words. "The walk, the conversation. But I've got stuff to do."

Lottie nodded once, a small movement, her lips pressed together in something like acknowledgment. She didn’t push for more. She just stood there, hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, looking at him with that same cool composure.

"Right," she said simply. "See you later."

And just like that, the air between them shifted, the artificial ease of the moment slipping away, leaving them standing at the edge of something neither of them had fully understood. Without another word, Lottie turned, her steps brisk as she walked in the direction of the park’s exit.

Lando watched her go for a moment, a mix of thoughts swirling in his mind. Then, with a quiet exhale, he turned on his heel and walked in the opposite direction. The sound of Caesar’s distant bark was the last thing he heard as the distance between them grew, until all that was left was the quiet hum of the city around him.

Lando had been to equestrian events before. Not many, but enough to navigate the showgrounds with ease. His sister, Flo, competed in show jumping—not eventing like Lottie—but it was close enough that he wasn’t completely out of his depth.

Still, there was a world of difference between watching his sister at a local event and standing here, at the prestigious Burghley Horse Trials, one of the most important competitions in the eventing calendar. This was the ultimate test for Lottie, with her place on the British Olympic team for Paris 2024 on the line. The pressure was palpable, and Lando felt it more than he expected as he watched Lottie prepare for her round, the cameras tracking his every move, waiting for his reaction.

He tugged the brim of his cap lower, shading his eyes, and slid his sunglasses up his nose.

This was the latest move in his PR team’s strategy. Their last public appearance, the walk in Hyde Park, had drawn mixed reactions from fans—some skeptical, but overall, the response had been positive. Both teams had agreed it was time to solidify things, to reinforce the image. This was the moment to take things further.

So here he was, dressed down in a hoodie and jacket, doing his best impression of a supportive boyfriend.

Except, Lottie was actually impressive.

Show jumping was more complex than he'd given it credit for. He had always thought it was about clearing fences without knocking them down, but now he saw that there was so much more—pace, timing, rhythm, the delicate balance between power and control.

And Lottie made it look effortless.

Her horse, a powerful dark bay, trotted around the warm-up area, each stride smooth and fluid. Lottie sat tall in the saddle, her posture perfect, her gaze intense as she prepared for her round. The arena around her buzzed with activity, but she was a picture of focus, the noise of the crowd, the shuffling of horses, and the calls of the event staff all falling into the background.

She was in her element.

When her name was announced over the loudspeaker, the crowd erupted in applause, their cheers carrying across the arena. Lando felt it in his chest, that electric surge of energy that reminded him of race weekends. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.

Lottie barely reacted. She squeezed her horse forward, entering the arena with calm precision, her eyes locked on the first fence ahead. Her movements were measured, controlled, as she guided her horse with practiced ease.

The first few fences were textbook. Clean, precise, no hesitation. Lando found himself on the edge of his seat, watching her maneuver through the course. The jumps came quickly, and her control never wavered.

As the course grew more demanding, Lando could feel the intensity building. He knew enough to recognize the risks—the way each stride counted, the critical split-second decisions that could make or break the round.

Lottie rode with unshakable focus. She urged her horse forward, pushing him for speed without sacrificing form. It was a delicate dance of speed, timing, and trust, and Lottie was executing it flawlessly.

When they cleared the final fence, the clock stopped.

A perfect round.

The crowd erupted into cheers, the sound like a wave crashing around him.

Without thinking, Lando stood and clapped, the excitement of the moment taking over. For a brief second, he forgot the cameras, the PR strategy, the pressure. He just watched Lottie, as she slowed her horse and came to a stop, her expression unreadable beneath the shadow of her helmet.

Then, as if she could feel his gaze, she turned her head.

Their eyes met.

And Lottie—stoic, professional Lottie—smirked at him.

A small, knowing thing, barely there before she turned away.

Lando exhaled sharply, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The weight of that smile settled over him, and for a moment, everything else—the cameras, the contract, the whole PR game—seemed to fade into the background.

He blinked, suddenly aware of the cameras still trained on him. He hadn’t meant to stand up so eagerly, hadn’t meant to clap so loud. He was supposed to be playing the part of the supportive boyfriend, not the starstruck spectator. But Lottie had earned it.

Before he could retreat back into his seat, he found himself already making his way out of the grandstands, the crowd parting for him as they recognized who he was. He barely registered the smiles, the camera flashes—just enough to see the social media posts that would pop up in a few minutes. Lottie’s PR team would love that he was in the stables now, not just in the stands. His PR team would too.

He was walking toward the stables before he even realized it, his mind racing ahead of him, but when he reached the barn doors, the world around him seemed to still.

Lottie was there, bent over her horse, speaking to one of the stablehands, the horse’s head nuzzling her shoulder. The moment felt completely different—no cameras, no crowds. Just the faint smell of hay, the hum of the horses in their stalls, and the quiet intimacy of the space.

Lando didn’t know what to do. He had imagined this moment, sure, but the reality of it was a bit more daunting. He had no role here, no script to follow. It was just him and Lottie—and her horse, of course.

For a few seconds, he just stood there, watching her in silence, unsure of his place in all of this.

Finally, Lottie turned, catching his gaze. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker in her eyes, something that softened the hard edge she always wore when she was in public.

"You’ve really been following me all the way out here, huh?" she said with a teasing tilt to her voice, as though she were surprised to see him.

Lando cleared his throat, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. "Yeah, I, uh, figured I’d check in. You know... make sure you didn’t get lost in the whole... victory thing." He gestured vaguely toward the arena, trying to play it off cool.

Lottie raised an eyebrow, and then a small, smug smile tugged at her lips. "You mean 'make sure I’m not too busy for you,' right?"

Lando smirked, but it felt more like he was stumbling. "Something like that." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Anyway... You were... incredible out there."

Her smirk widened, though there was no real arrogance in it, just a playful recognition. "You’re not too bad at this, Norris," she teased. "Getting all sentimental over a horse show."

Lando chuckled, a little nervous but enjoying the banter despite himself. "I didn’t think I’d be clapping that hard for someone jumping over fences."

Lottie rolled her eyes, the warmth in her smile softening her usual sharpness. "You’re lucky you don’t have to do it yourself. This thing’s got more math involved than you’d think."

"I thought the horse did all the work," Lando shot back, remembering their earlier conversation, his grin widening.

Her laugh was quick, genuine. "Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention. You really should try it someday."

Lando shrugged, the moment of awkwardness beginning to ebb away. "I think I’ll leave it to the professionals."

They stood there for a beat, the easy banter flowing between them again. The tension from earlier, from all the weirdness of their fake relationship, had dissipated a little. It didn’t feel completely normal, but it was a start.

Lottie leaned against the stable door, her attention back on her horse. "So," she said, her tone turning slightly more casual, "what now? You just gonna stand there, or do you actually want to help me untack him?"

Lando blinked, momentarily thrown by the question. He cleared his throat. "I... wasn’t sure if I was allowed to get involved," he admitted, his voice a bit sheepish. "You seem like you’ve got it all under control."

Lottie chuckled, a low sound that seemed to fill the space between them. "Yeah, well, you’re not here to just watch me work. Come on, hold the reins for a second."

Lando stepped forward, taking the reins she offered, but his hands were a bit unsure as he adjusted his grip. "I’m not sure how much help I’ll be," he muttered, looking at the horse with a degree of caution. "This isn’t really my area of expertise."

Lottie smirked, her gaze drifting back to the horse. "I figured. But hey, it's not like you have to do anything complicated. Just stand there and make sure he doesn’t decide to wander off."

Lando gave a slight nod, trying to act natural. "Yeah, just stand here and look like I know what I’m doing, right?"

She shot him a teasing glance, her tone softening a little. "Basically. Don’t worry, he’s pretty easygoing. He’s more interested in snacks than anything else."

Lando relaxed slightly at that, but then caught the way Lottie was moving—how she worked with her horse so confidently, as if every movement was ingrained. There was something mesmerizing about it. He took a breath, unsure how to keep the conversation going.

"So, uh... how does it feel, you know, being this close to the Olympics?" He winced inwardly, wishing the question didn’t sound so... forced.

Lottie’s hands stilled for a moment, and she looked up at him, her expression guarded. "It’s not something I think about all the time," she said slowly, the words deliberate. "If I focus too much on it, I’ll start psyching myself out. But yeah, it’s kind of always there, hanging over you."

"Must be a lot of pressure," Lando said, feeling a sudden sympathy for her. He had his own kind of pressure—just in a completely different world. "I mean, with everything else going on, the media, the competition... I don’t know how you do it."

Lottie gave a small shrug, her face softening a little. "You just do. You can’t let it break you, or else what’s the point?"

Lando nodded, feeling a surprising respect for her resilience. "I get that. In my world, it’s the same. But I guess that’s why I’m here, right?" He glanced down at the reins in his hands, then back at her. "To make sure you don’t break under the pressure."

Lottie’s lips twitched into a smile, but it was brief. "Oh, so that’s your role here? The unofficial pressure manager?"

He gave a half-smile. "I can manage that."

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, returning her attention to the horse. "Just don’t expect me to thank you when I make it to the Olympics. I’m not that sentimental."

Lando chuckled, leaning back slightly. "I’ll take what I can get."

For a brief moment, the awkwardness between them seemed to fade, replaced by the kind of easy banter that, for whatever reason, seemed to come naturally. Lottie continued working, and Lando stayed quietly by her side, holding the reins and trying to act like he belonged here.

As the last of the gear was removed from the horse, Lottie finally turned to face him again. "Thanks for the... moral support," she said dryly. "Now, go on. You’ve done your part."

Lando raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? I thought I was supposed to be the hero in this scenario."

Lottie smirked, glancing at him sideways. "Yeah, well, you’re not quite there yet, Norris."

As Lottie finished up with her horse, she gave him one last pat on the neck before stepping away. “Alright, Norris,” she said, wiping her hands on her breeches. “You’ve done your good deed for the day. You can go back to whatever it is you do when you’re not being dragged into the equestrian world.”

Lando huffed a laugh, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “You say that like you’re getting rid of me.”

Lottie smirked. “Aren’t I?”

He didn’t have a real answer to that, because truthfully, he wasn’t in a hurry to leave. And somehow, instead of heading for the exit, he fell into step beside her as she made her way back toward the event grounds.  The competition was still in full swing, but many spectators had drifted toward the sponsor booths, the food stalls, or the shaded VIP areas.

Lottie walked with an easy confidence, the same way she rode—with control, purpose. Lando, on the other hand, was just along for the ride, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, his cap pulled low over his forehead.

They were almost past a group of young women chatting near one of the merchandise tents when Lottie heard an excited gasp.

“Oh my god, that’s Charlotte Hayes!”

She barely had time to react before the group turned toward her, faces lighting up with recognition.

“You were incredible out there!” one of them gushed.

“We’ve been following you all season—you’re seriously insane on cross-country.”

“Can we get a picture with you?”

Lottie blinked, a little taken aback. She was used to attention at equestrian events, but she wasn’t used to fans being quite this enthusiastic.

Before she could answer, Lando—who had been standing beside her, entirely unnoticed—cleared his throat dramatically. “Well, this is new,” he said, smirking. “People actually ignoring me for once.”

The girls turned at the sound of his voice, their excitement doubling when they recognized him.

“Wait—Lando?”

“Oh my god, I didn’t even see you there!”

“I had no idea you were into horses.”

Lando gave a dramatic sigh. “Yeah, well. She’s making me a proper equestrian, one event at a time.”

Lottie rolled her eyes. “Don’t let him fool you. He still thinks the horse does all the work.”

The group laughed, and one of the girls held up her phone. “Lottie, can we—?”

“Of course,” Lottie said, already reaching for the phone.

But before she could take it, Lando snatched it from her hands with a grin. “I got it,” he said. “I’ll be the photographer today.”

The girls practically melted on the spot.

“That’s adorable.”

“He’s so boyfriend-coded.”

Lottie shot Lando a look, but he was already positioning himself, phone in hand. “Alright, ladies,” he said, squinting at the screen. “Make sure to smile—this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

Lottie groaned. “Oh, shut up and take the picture.”

He did. A few, actually. By the time he handed the phone back, the girls were giddy.

“You guys are actually, like… the cutest couple,” one of them said.

Lottie let out a laugh, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Too late,” Lando said, flashing a smug grin.

They said their goodbyes, the girls walking away in a flurry of excitement, undoubtedly uploading the pictures as they spoke.

Lando fell back into step beside her, nudging her lightly with his elbow. “See? You’re famous.”

Lottie scoffed. “You’re just upset they didn’t ask for a picture with you.”

Lando placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. “I’m secure enough to let you have the spotlight.”

She arched a brow. “Really?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I’ll survive.”

Lottie shook her head, amused despite herself. But as they continued walking, Lando noticed something—she was smiling. Not for the cameras, not for PR.

Just for herself.

And for some reason, he really, really liked seeing it.

The Miami heat was already oppressive, pressing down on the tinted windows of the car as they rolled through the paddock gates. Outside, the usual chaos of a race weekend was in full swing—fans gathered behind barriers, cameras flashing, media personnel darting around like they were on a mission.

Inside the car, Lottie was acutely aware of the fact that they were being watched.

She had seen the madness surrounding Formula 1 drivers before, but this was the first time she was in it. And it wasn’t just Lando they were looking at—it was her.

"They’re already taking pictures," she muttered, staring out at the sea of fans through her sunglasses.

Lando, sitting comfortably beside her in the passenger seat, let out a chuckle. "Yeah, get used to that."

She shot him a look. "Easy for you to say. You signed up for this."

"So did you," he pointed out with a smirk. "Technically."

Lottie huffed, leaning back against the leather seat. "I signed up to fix my PR. I didn’t sign up for... that." She nodded toward a group of girls holding up their phones, faces lighting up the moment they spotted them.

Lando followed her gaze, then smirked again. "Welcome to the world of the WAGs."

She turned to him, frowning. "The what?"

"WAGs," he repeated. "Wives and Girlfriends."

She snorted. "That’s a thing?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it’s a thing. The fans love them. Some people treat them like celebrities. Others act like they personally offended them just by existing. It’s all a bit... intense."

Lottie stared at him, processing that information. "So, what you’re saying is... there’s an entire part of your fanbase that’s obsessed with who you’re dating?"

"Yup."

"And some of them hate me just because I’m standing next to you?"

"Basically."

She scoffed. "That’s ridiculous."

"Welcome to Formula 1."

Lottie exhaled sharply, adjusting the sunglasses on her face. "Great. Can’t wait to be publicly analyzed and torn apart by strangers."

Lando grinned, nudging her playfully. "Just smile and wave, Little. Smile and wave."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smirk tugging at her lips.

Outside, the fans were practically buzzing with excitement as the car rolled to a stop.

Lando turned to her just before reaching for the door handle. "Ready?"

Lottie took a deep breath. "Not even a little bit."

"Perfect," he said, his grin widening. "Let’s go."

And with that, they stepped out into the Miami heat, into the cameras, into the madness.

Fans were already gathering, some chanting Lando’s name, others snapping pictures as they caught sight of him and Lottie. The loud hum of the paddock, the smell of the fresh tires, the mechanical sounds—everything seemed heightened for Lottie. She could feel herself stiffening at all the attention.

Lando, noticing the subtle change in her posture, immediately slowed his pace, instinctively staying close to her. He didn’t want to make her feel isolated in this sea of excitement.

Instead of rushing off to greet the fans, Lando subtly guided her toward the entrance, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back, a quiet gesture of reassurance. His touch was firm but gentle, keeping her close as he navigated them through the crowds.

As a few fans called out for pictures, Lottie was about to step back, not wanting to be the center of attention. But before she could, Lando leaned in slightly, giving her a reassuring glance, his hand still resting on her back. “We’ll do this together,” he said through his actions, offering her the chance to stick with him as he engaged with the fans for a moment.

When the fans asked for photos, Lando didn’t hesitate to take the lead, not stepping too far away from her, making sure to always keep her within arm’s reach. He made a few jokes with them, but his focus was still on Lottie, ensuring that she never felt left out or uncomfortable.

As they continued walking, Lottie noticed how little he was engaging with the crowd compared to his usual self. Normally, Lando would stop for autographs or selfies at every opportunity, but today, he kept moving, his attention always returning to her. His hand never left her back, guiding her through the noise of the paddock.

“Lando,” she said quietly, glancing up at him, “You don’t have to do this, you know. You can talk to the fans. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t look at her, but his thumb made small, soothing circles on the back of her shirt as they walked. “I’m not doing it because I have to,” he replied softly. “I want to. Besides, I’m not letting you get lost in the crowd.”

Lottie felt a knot she hadn’t realized was there slowly unravel. She didn’t say anything more, but her posture softened, and she stayed right beside him. She was beginning to realize just how thoughtful Lando was—how much care he was putting into making sure she felt at ease.

As they walked deeper into the paddock, Lando started introducing her to people from his team, pointing out familiar faces to help her feel more comfortable. His gestures were small but meaningful: a gentle nudge to the side, a soft, “This is Jane, she’s in charge of our PR, and that’s Tom, he handles our data,” always making sure she wasn’t left in the shadows.

Lottie didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she watched him, taking in every small movement: the way he always made sure she was within his line of sight, the way he’d subtly check if she was okay whenever the crowd grew too loud. He never overdid it, never drew attention to it. It was just... him looking out for her, even when she didn’t ask for it.

They reached a quieter part of the paddock, away from the main traffic. Lottie took a breath, finally feeling like she could relax a little, and turned to him.

“Thanks,” she said quietly, her words almost lost in the noise of the paddock. She wasn’t sure if he heard her at first, but when he glanced at her, she could see the quiet acknowledgment in his eyes.

“No need to thank me,” he replied with a smile, though his eyes softened when he looked at her. “I’m just doing my job.”

Lottie chuckled softly, but there was a warmth in her expression now that hadn’t been there earlier. She wasn’t used to people looking out for her this way—so naturally, so without expecting anything in return.

But here was Lando, offering that kindness without hesitation, without ever drawing attention to it. She wasn’t sure what to make of it yet, but for the first time since stepping into the paddock, she felt like maybe she could actually enjoy this, after all.

The day had been a whirlwind. The noise, the constant movement, and the flashing cameras felt like they’d been part of their lives for hours. But as they finally found a quiet moment later in the evening, something was different between them. It wasn’t awkward—no, it wasn’t that. But there was a subtle shift in the air, something unspoken, like the calm before a storm, except there was no storm coming. It was just... different. Neither of them could pinpoint it, but there was a softness between them now that hadn’t been there before.

They chose to ignore it for the time being, pushing aside the strange tension in favor of the noise and chaos of the weekend. They weren’t sure how to navigate it, and so they didn’t.

That night, Lottie found herself sprawled out on her bed, still in her pajamas, replaying one of her past competitions. The footage was old, but it was comforting. Watching herself perform, even when she hadn’t been at her best, helped her focus, bringing a sense of peace to her mind after the chaos of the day. The low volume of the TV and the dim light created a calm atmosphere in the room, and she sunk deeper into the soft comfort of the bed.

But the peace didn’t last long. There was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar, playful voice.

“Room service,” Lando called, his voice making her smile despite herself. She had half-expected him to show up—he had been unusually thoughtful all day, checking in on her, introducing her to people in the paddock, and now it seemed he wasn’t going to let her end the day without at least a little more of his attention.

Lottie hesitated for just a moment, wondering what exactly he was up to, before pushing herself up from the bed and making her way to the door. When she opened it, she was greeted with a tower of takeout boxes, burgers, fries, and some of the most indulgent comfort food imaginable. Lando smiled at her, clearly proud of his delivery.

“I figured you were probably starving,” he said with a raised brow, playful as ever. “You didn’t seem all that keen on the paddock snacks today.”

Lottie couldn’t help but laugh. “You do know I’m not a child, right? You didn’t have to go all out like this.” Her eyes scanned the takeout boxes, each one more tempting than the last.

“Yeah, well, it’s not every day I get to spoil someone like this,” Lando teased, winking as he set the food down on the small table by the window. His movements were relaxed, natural, like he belonged here, in this space with her, despite the high-energy atmosphere of the paddock just hours before.

She raised an eyebrow at him, clearly amused. “Spoil me? I think you’re just trying to make sure I don’t get mad at you for dragging me into your chaotic world.”

Lando chuckled, collapsing onto the bed beside her with an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Not true. I just thought we could have a quiet night for once. You know, just food, no cameras, no crazy crowds.”

Lottie glanced at him, and for a moment, their eyes lingered, the shift from earlier hanging between them. The way they could just be in the same space, without any of the external noise or expectations, was oddly comforting.

“You’re right,” she said softly, her voice quieter now. “It’s kind of nice to have a normal night for a change.”

Lando grinned, his expression carrying something more genuine than the usual playful exterior. “It’s not perfect, but it’s... better than nothing, right?”

They dug into the food, the tension that had been there before starting to fade. Lottie couldn’t help but let out a satisfied sigh as she bit into a burger.

“So, what’s it like?” she asked after a moment, glancing at him. “The whole paddock thing, I mean. The chaos, the pressure... Do you ever get used to it?”

Lando shrugged, chewing slowly before answering. “Not really. It’s a lot of pressure, yeah. But you just sort of... get into the rhythm of it. And it helps when you’re surrounded by people who’ve been doing it for years. They make it look easier than it is.”

Lottie nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "Must be a weird kind of pressure," she muttered, her gaze drifting to her fries. “I mean, I have my own pressures with competitions and everything, but this... this is next level.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that’s the difference between being part of the team and being the one everyone’s watching, huh?”

The conversation shifted into comfortable silence as they ate. There were no rushed words or forced small talk, just the simplicity of being together in the same space, enjoying the quiet.

Lottie shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “I think you’re right, though. It’s kind of nice not to be in the spotlight for a change.”

Lando met her gaze, his smile softening. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “it is.”

Lando leaned back in his chair, tossing a fry into his mouth with a playful glint in his eyes. “So, I was thinking... if you ever make it to the Olympics, we should totally get matching tracksuits. You know, like a power couple thing.”

Lottie burst out laughing, rolling her eyes. “A matching tracksuit? You’d be the only person in the world who’d actually want to wear that with me.”

Lando grinned. “I’m serious! It’d be iconic. We could make it a thing for every major event—show up, match, and make the headlines.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we could make it work for your major events, but I’ll pass on the Olympics tracksuit idea, thanks.” She smirked, then her expression softened. “But honestly, I’m not sure what’s scarier: actually going or the pressure to not mess up once I’m there.”

Lando’s grin faded, and he looked at her more seriously. “It’s normal to feel that way. I mean, every race, every qualifying, I feel that weight too. But sometimes, the pressure is what drives you to be better. At least, that’s what I tell myself when I can’t sleep at night.”

Lottie tilted her head, her gaze steady on him. “I get it. But with the Olympics... it feels like this one shot. And if you mess it up, it’s not just one race—it’s everything. The years of work, the people who’ve supported you. And there’s me, wondering if I’m even good enough for it.”

Lando’s tone softened, his eyes locking with hers. “You are good enough. I don’t think anyone doubts that.”

Lottie gave a small, almost bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised. Sometimes it’s not even about how good you are. It’s the other stuff—the media, the expectations. It’s exhausting.”

“I get that,” Lando said quietly. “In F1, it’s all about the performance. But everyone’s watching, critiquing every little thing you do. It’s like you’re never allowed to just... be human.”

Lottie met his gaze, a slight frown on her face. “Yeah. You can’t just make a mistake, because that mistake will follow you around forever.”

For a moment, silence filled the room, but it was different this time. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just understanding. Lottie shifted uncomfortably before speaking again, her voice quieter.

“You know, I used to think I had to handle everything on my own. I mean, I have to, right? But... it’s weird, having someone else who gets it. Who doesn’t just brush it off like it’s no big deal.”

Lando met her gaze, his expression softer now. “I get it. It’s not easy, and yeah... I guess I’m here if you need someone to talk to about it.”

Lottie didn’t look away this time. “I know. I appreciate that, Lando. More than you think.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds, and for the first time in a long time, the weight of their respective pressures felt a little less heavy. For the first time in a while, they didn’t have to carry it alone.

Finally, Lottie broke the silence with a playful grin. “But seriously, no matching tracksuits. Ever.”

Lando couldn’t help but laugh, relieved to lighten the mood. “Alright, alright. No tracksuits. I’ll settle for just being your number-one fan instead.”

Lottie smirked. “That’s more like it.”

The morning light filtered softly through the hotel curtains, casting long golden streaks across the room. Lottie blinked awake, her body heavy with sleep, the exhaustion of the weekend settling deep in her bones. Instinctively, she reached for her phone, scrolling through the usual flood of notifications, skimming mindlessly—until one email stopped her cold.

British Olympic Committee - Selection Confirmation

Her heart stumbled.

With shaking fingers, she tapped it open, her breath hitching as she read the words that would change everything.

"Dear Miss Hayes, we are pleased to confirm your selection for the British Eventing Team for the Paris 2024 Olympic Games..."

A sharp inhale. Her vision blurred, the letters swimming as the weight of it all came crashing down on her.

She covered her mouth with her hand as the first tears spilled over, hot and uncontrollable. Her whole body trembled. Years of training, every fall, every broken bone, every grueling hour spent chasing a dream that had always felt just out of reach—until now. She was in. She was going to the Olympics.

A small, breathless laugh escaped her, equal parts disbelief and sheer, overwhelming joy. She wanted to scream, to call someone, to—

But no.

Not today.

Today wasn’t about her. Today was Lando’s race. And as much as she ached to tell him, to share this impossible, life-changing moment, she knew better. He had enough pressure on his shoulders without her dropping this on him hours before he got into the car.

So she wiped her tears, steadied her breath, and tucked the secret away for later.

Later, the McLaren garage buzzed with a nervous, electric energy, every person within it tuned into the same frequency of anticipation. Mechanics darted back and forth, engineers murmured into headsets, and the screens flickered with the ever-changing numbers of a race that was unfolding at breakneck speed.

Lottie didn’t have to fake anything.

Every time Lando made an overtake, she felt her pulse jump, her stomach twisting in that awful, addictive way that only live competition could bring. The cameras caught her reactions, but for once, she barely noticed. She was too caught up in the moment.

And then came the final lap.

Lando was leading.

The entire garage held its breath.

The roar that erupted when he crossed the line was deafening. The sheer force of celebration was enough to shake the walls as the McLaren crew erupted into cheers, throwing their arms around each other, jumping, screaming. Lottie felt it all at once—a rush of relief, excitement, pride so intense it made her dizzy.

She didn’t hesitate. She ran with them, pushing through the chaos toward parc fermé, the euphoria carrying her forward.

He celebrated, shouting into the sea of orange, hugging engineers, mechanics, anyone in reach. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her. Lottie. Standing just beyond the McLaren team, watching him with the brightest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen on her face. She wasn’t faking it for the cameras, wasn’t playing along for the sake of their contract. She was just… happy. For him.

And suddenly, he had to go to her.

Lando pushed through the crowd, still buzzing with euphoria, and reached her just as she was laughing, shaking her head in disbelief. “You did it!” she shouted over the noise, breathless, laughing, not caring about anything else. “You actually fucking did it!”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still shaking from the adrenaline. “Hell yeah, I did!”

She nodded, and then, almost without thinking, she blurted it out—because what better moment was there than this? "I made it."

Lando frowned for half a second, still catching his breath. "Made what?"

Her smile wobbled slightly, her hands gripping his forearms like she needed to steady herself. "I got the email this morning. I’m in. The Olympic team. I—Lando, I’m going to the Olympics."

His world, which had already been spinning from the win, somehow tilted even more. His hands moved on instinct, gripping her shoulders, grounding them both in the chaos. "What?"

“I got the email this morning.” Her voice wavered, but her smile didn’t falter. “I made the team, Lando. I’m going to Paris.”

For a split second, everything around them disappeared. The noise, the cameras, the flashing lights—it all faded into the background as he just looked at her.

And then, without thinking, without planning, without hesitation—Lando kissed her.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t passionate. Just a brief, fleeting press of lips, quick and instinctive, like an exclamation point to a moment too big for words.

But it was enough. Enough to make both of them freeze in the aftermath, their faces inches apart, wide-eyed and breathless. Enough for the world around them to catch it, cameras flashing, thousands of eyes capturing something neither of them had expected.

Lottie swallowed hard.

Lando blinked, as if realizing what he’d just done.

Oh.

The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric. Lottie could still feel the ghost of Lando’s lips on hers, barely there, but somehow lingering.

They just stared at each other, breathless, caught in something they didn’t have time to untangle—because before either of them could say a word, McLaren’s team swarmed in.

Lando was yanked away in a blur of orange, lost in a chaos of arms slung around his shoulders, cheers, shouts, hands thumping his back, shaking him, pulling him into the celebration. He was gone in an instant, absorbed by the frenzy of victory.

Lottie remained frozen in place, watching.

Her heart was still pounding, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the race, from the sheer overwhelming euphoria of the moment—or from that. From the fact that, for the first time since they’d agreed to this whole thing, something had happened that wasn’t scripted.

A kiss wasn’t in the contract.

It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t been necessary.

So why had he done it?

Why had she let him?

Lottie swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe as she stood there, the noise of the celebrations ringing in her ears. She tried to convince herself it didn’t mean anything, that it was just the adrenaline, the heat of the moment, a natural reaction to winning.

But a small, unwelcome thought curled in the back of her mind.

Have we just crossed a line?

After the podium, the celebrations carried on in the McLaren garage, thick with champagne, music, and the high of victory. Lando was in the center of it all, surrounded by his team, his friends, people who had worked for this just as much as he had. He was laughing, grinning so wide his face ached, letting the euphoria consume him.

But even through the haze of it all, he kept catching glimpses of her.

Lottie, standing at the edge of the room, drink in hand, smiling at something one of the engineers had said. But not fully present. Not quite there.

Something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach.

So he slipped away, weaving through the crowd until he reached her side.

“Hey.”

She turned, surprised, as if she hadn’t expected him to seek her out. “Hey, champ.”

Lando let out a breathless laugh, still high on everything, but suddenly feeling way too aware of himself. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, hesitating for a second before blurting out—

“I didn’t mean to kiss you.”

Lottie blinked. Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Lando exhaled sharply. “I mean—I didn’t plan to. It just... happened. I thought it would look good for the cameras, and I—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I should’ve asked. I’m sorry if I—”

“It’s okay.”

Her voice was quiet but certain.

Lando studied her face, trying to gauge if she really meant that, or if she was just saying it to make things easier.

And for a moment, they just looked at each other.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t empty. It was full of unspoken questions, things neither of them dared to say.

Did it mean something to you?

Because I think it meant something to me.

Lottie cleared her throat, breaking the moment. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We’re fine.” She offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Lando nodded, pretending that was enough.

But as the party carried on around them, as the noise swallowed them up again, neither of them could shake the feeling that something had shifted. That maybe, just maybe, this was the beginning of something they weren’t ready for.

The night split them in two.

Lando, wrapped up in the whirlwind of celebration, surrounded by his team, other drivers, friends—anyone who wanted to drown in the euphoria of victory with him. The energy of the night was electric, pulsing through the city, through the people, through the drinks passed from hand to hand in the dim glow of club lights.

Lottie, on the other hand, chose something quieter.

“I think I’ll head back,” she told him when the chaos started to spill out of the McLaren garage, into the night. “I need to call my parents, tell them about—” She hesitated for just a second, then smiled. “About the Olympics.”

Lando blinked, like he’d almost forgotten that massive piece of news in the mess of everything else. “Right.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.”

She could see the question forming in his mind before he even said it.

“Are we—” He stopped, shifted on his feet. “We’re good, right?”

Lottie tilted her head, watching him carefully. “Good?”

His jaw tensed, and she could tell he was choosing his words. “With everything. With us. I just—I don’t want things to be weird after—”

“They’re not,” she interrupted, soft but firm. She didn’t let him finish. “We’re fine.”

And maybe it was the way she said it so certainly, the way she met his eyes without hesitation, but Lando believed her.

Still, something inside him felt unsteady.

She leaned in, pressing a quick, warm kiss to his cheek. “Go celebrate,” she murmured.

Lando barely had time to process it before the cameras around them clicked, a frenzy of flashes capturing the moment. A sweet, calculated moment. One that did exactly what it was supposed to—sent the message loud and clear: Charlotte Hayes and Lando Norris are stronger than ever.

Lottie pulled away, sending him one last small smile before stepping back, disappearing into the night, leaving Lando standing there, watching her go.

And then, he let himself get swept away.

The morning hit like a freight train.

Lottie wasn’t even fully awake when she reached for her phone, still hazy from sleep, her body aching from the long weekend. But the second she saw the notifications, her brain jolted awake.

Her screen was flooded.

Headlines. Twitter threads. Photos. Speculation.

Lando Norris partying the night away after victory—who’s the mystery woman?

A few hours after celebrating with his girlfriend, Lando Norris was spotted leaving a hotel that wasn’t his own.

Has Lando Norris already moved on from Charlotte Hayes?

Lottie sat up so fast she nearly got whiplash.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she clicked on the photos, one by one, each image sharper than the last.

Lando in the club, drink in hand, a dark-haired woman pressed close, his head tipped toward her ear.

Lando laughing, his hand resting on the small of her back.

Lando walking out of a hotel at sunrise, looking wrecked, his hoodie pulled low over his face.

The rage hit her fast.

Hot, violent, immediate.

It clawed up her throat, burned behind her ribs.

Because it wasn’t just about the rumors. It wasn’t just about what the press was saying.

It was the fact that he had done this.

After last night. After everything.

Lottie squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her thumb and forefinger against the bridge of her nose, trying to breathe through the anger simmering under her skin.

She wasn’t stupid. She knew what kind of person Lando was. She knew what she had signed up for.

But this?

This was humiliating.

And Charlotte Hayes didn’t do humiliation.

Lottie didn’t think.

She moved on pure, unfiltered rage.

Barefoot, still in her sleep shorts and hoodie, she stormed down the hallway of the hotel, barely aware of the pounding of her own footsteps. The anger was a living, breathing thing inside her, tightening its grip with every step.

She didn’t knock. Didn’t hesitate.

Just shoved the door open with enough force to make it slam against the wall.

Lando was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands, looking like absolute shit. His hair was a mess, his hoodie wrinkled like he had slept in it—if he had even slept at all. The dim light of the room cast shadows across his face, making the exhaustion in his eyes even more obvious.

The second he looked up and saw her, his eyes widened. “Lottie—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Her voice was sharp, slicing through the heavy morning air.

Lando winced, dragging a hand over his face. “Listen—”

“No. You listen.” She took a step closer, fury radiating off her in waves. “I wake up this morning to see the entire world debating whether or not you’ve cheated on me. Do you have any idea what this looks like?”

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I didn’t do anything, Lottie. I swear. Yeah, I was drunk, and yeah, she was—close, but I didn’t—”

“I don’t care.” Lottie’s voice was deadly quiet now. “It doesn’t matter what actually happened. It matters what people think happened. And right now, the entire internet is convinced that you just made a fucking fool out of me.”

Lando ran a hand through his curls, frustration evident in every tense muscle of his body. “It’s not like I took her to my room! Those photos—Jesus, I was literally leaving my friends’ hotel. That’s it. That’s the whole fucking story.”

Lottie let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And what, you think people are going to believe that? You think the fans, the media, the sponsors, are going to take the time to fact-check before they start writing the next big headline?” She shook her head, stepping even closer. “This isn’t about truth, Lando. It’s about perception. That’s all a PR relationship is, and you just made it look like I’m the pathetic girlfriend getting cheated on.”

Lando’s jaw clenched. “You’re not my girlfriend.”

She laughed. A sharp, bitter sound. “No, I’m not! And thank fuck for that, because at least I don’t have to actually deal with your bullshit!”

He stood up then, closing the space between them. “What do you want me to do, Lottie?” His voice was lower now, but the frustration was still there. “I can’t change it. I can’t go back and undo it.”

Her breath came fast, her heart pounding. “You want to fix it? Fine. Handle it.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Clean up your own fucking mess.”

Lando swallowed hard, his hands flexing at his sides. “Lottie—”

“Don’t.”

She stepped back, shaking her head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. If you have something to say, tell my team. I’ll be busy—I don’t have time to be dealing with your shit when I have the Olympics to focus on.”

His brows pulled together, his expression unreadable. “That’s it? You’re just gonna cut me off?”

“No, Lando.” Her voice was steady. “I’m just reminding you that this isn’t real. You do whatever the fuck you want—I’m done cleaning up after you.”

She turned before he could say another word, slamming the door behind her, leaving him standing there in the wreckage.

Weeks go by. The headlines cool down. His PR team works damage control, pushing a new narrative—"misunderstanding," "taken out of context," "no trouble in paradise." They make sure Lottie and Lando are seen together again, and soon, the internet forgets.

But Lottie doesn’t.

She’s too busy winning. Training harder than ever, pouring all of her focus into the Olympics. And if there’s something fierce in the way she throws herself into it, something angry—well, she doesn’t think too much about that.

Then, their PR teams drop a bomb on them.

"Vacation."

Together.

"To keep up appearances," their managers explain. "To make sure everyone knows things are fine."

Lottie is livid. She wants to refuse, wants to tell them all to go to hell—but she can’t. This is what she signed up for. And if she has to suffer through another week with Lando Norris, she’s going to do it her way.

So, she picks the location.

Her family's estate. A sprawling, old-money English countryside estate—complete with horses, etiquette-dinner expectations, and the poshest group of people Lando has ever encountered in his life.

If she has to deal with him, then he has to deal with this.

And that?

That’s where the real fun begins.

Lando has been thrown into hell. Or at least, that’s what it feels like.

The estate is massive, straight out of a period drama, with towering trees lining the driveway and an overwhelming sense of old money oozing from every brick. The kind of place where history isn’t just remembered—it’s lived in. The house itself is ridiculous—high ceilings, chandeliers, endless hallways leading to even more endless rooms. Every surface gleams, polished to perfection, and the whole place smells faintly of expensive wood polish and fresh flowers.

Lottie is clearly thriving.

She doesn’t even try to ease him into it. If anything, she seems delighted by his suffering.

“Oh, did I forget to mention?” she says sweetly their first morning there, leading him into the grand dining room for breakfast. “We have a dress code for meals.”

Lando looks down at his hoodie and sweatpants, then back up at her. “You’re joking.”

She isn’t.

He doesn’t change. Not for breakfast, not for dinner, not ever. He shows up every morning in his McLaren hoodie, every evening in his cargo shorts, and every time he catches Lottie’s mother glancing at his outfit, he just smiles and takes another bite of whatever very expensive meal they’re eating.

It’s a battle of wills. And Lando? He likes winning.

But even though he’s standing his ground on the clothing front, there’s one battle he’s losing—the absolute zoo of animals in this house.

Caesar, at least, is familiar. The big German Shepherd recognizes Lando immediately, tail wagging as he trots up to him like they’re old friends. Lando crouches to scratch behind his ears, muttering, “At least you don’t hate me.”

But then come the others.

Three other dogs.

One of them—a scruffy little terrier mix—steals his shoes every time he takes them off. Another, a massive black Labrador, insists on sitting directly on his feet whenever Lando is standing still. And the third, a tiny white ball of fluff, just stares at him. Silent. Judging.

Then there are the cats. So many cats. Lando has no idea how many there actually are—every time he turns a corner, there’s another one. On the stairs. On the windowsills. Watching him from the bookshelves like tiny, furry spies.

“I feel like I’m being monitored,” he tells Lottie one afternoon, eyeing a particularly fluffy orange tabby that hasn’t blinked in minutes.

Lottie just hums, flipping a page in her book. “You probably are.”

Then there are her brothers, the twins. They don’t hate him. They don’t even intimidate him. But they do make him uncomfortable.

Because for the first two days, they just watch him. Always there, just slightly in the background. Lando will be sitting in the lounge, and suddenly, he’ll realize they’re behind the couch. Not saying anything. Just observing.

Or he’ll walk into a room and they’ll already be there, speaking in low voices, only to stop immediately when he enters.

At one point, he catches them sitting across from each other in the drawing room, both drinking tea, both looking at him with the exact same neutral expression.

“You two are terrifying,” he says flatly.

One of them blinks. “Thank you.”

But then, on the third day, something changes.

They’ve just finished dinner, and Lando is mentally preparing himself for another round of polite-yet-unsettling observation from Lottie’s twin brothers when one of them—Oliver? Nate? No clue—leans forward, elbows on the table.

“Do you play FIFA?”

Lando pauses, thrown by the sudden normalcy of the question. “Uh. Yeah?”

The twins exchange a glance.

“Come with us.”

It sounds less like an invitation and more like a summoning, but Lando follows them anyway, intrigued. They lead him through the house, down a hallway, and into what can only be described as a shrine to sports and gaming. A massive flat-screen TV, shelves lined with games, beanbags strewn about, and a top-of-the-line gaming console already set up.

They settle in, and within minutes, they’re locked in battle.

It turns out the twins are good. But Lando is better.

By the time he scores his third goal in a row, he can practically hear their egos fracturing.

“Jesus,” one of them mutters, scowling at the screen.

“You’re a Formula 1 driver,” the other points out. “How the hell are you this good? Do you really have time to play games?”

Lando just smirks, lounging back into the couch. “Hand-eye coordination, mate.”

For the first time since he arrived, the tension eases. The twins stop analyzing him like some strange foreign specimen and start treating him like a competitor, someone worth their time.

They play for hours, their competitive streaks fueling each other, and by the time they finally call it quits, Lando almost forgets that, technically, he’s supposed to be suffering on this trip.

Almost.

The next afternoon, Lottie and her parents sit outside, having tea at a shaded table on the terrace. The estate stretches out before them—rolling fields, neatly kept gardens, and, at the far end of the property, a large, open field.

It’s there that the twins have dragged Lando, a football at their feet.

“He’s definitely better than them,” Lottie remarks, watching as Lando effortlessly weaves through her brothers, making them look ridiculous in the process.

Her father hums, sipping his tea. “They need to be humbled from time to time.”

Her mother sighs. “I am starting to like him.”

Lottie grins, eyes fixed on the game. She can hear them shouting at each other—frustrated, determined, cursing when Lando scores yet again.

And then, something unexpected happens.

Lando looks up from the field, his eyes searching. And when they find her—when he finds her—he grins. Wide, smug, bright with victory and mischief.

Lottie rolls her eyes, pretending not to care.

But she feels it.

That warmth creeping in, that quiet, dangerous thought—maybe this isn't fake at all.

And then, it starts subtly.

Lottie notices it in small gestures, little shifts in body language that would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t her.

Her mother, for example, stops looking at Lando like he’s a particularly loud guest overstaying his welcome. Instead, she starts noticing things.

The way he always greets her politely in the morning, even when he’s barely awake. The way he thanks the staff every time they serve a meal. The way he lets Caesar jump onto his lap, even though he’s wearing one of his expensive hoodies and will absolutely leave covered in dog hair.

But the real moment of change comes one evening when they’re all gathered in the sitting room. It’s been a long day—Lottie had spent the afternoon training, Lando had been dragged into yet another ridiculous scheme by her brothers, and now, finally, there’s a lull in the chaos.

Lottie’s mother is knitting, a quiet habit of hers that keeps her hands busy while she listens to the conversation around her.

And then—without a word—she sets down her knitting, stands up, and disappears into the hallway.

Lottie barely notices, until she returns a moment later with a folded blanket in her hands.

She walks straight over to where Lando is slumped in an armchair, clearly exhausted but still trying to follow the conversation. He blinks up at her, confused, as she unfolds the blanket and drapes it over his shoulders.

"There," she says, smoothing it down as if he’s one of her children. "You looked cold."

Lando just stares at her. Lottie stares at her.

Her mother doesn’t say anything else—just pats his shoulder lightly and goes back to her seat, picking up her knitting again like nothing happened.

Lottie’s brothers immediately start teasing him for it.

Lando, dazed, just pulls the blanket tighter around himself.

He’s in.

Her father takes longer.

Not because he’s particularly cold—Lottie’s father isn’t unkind, just reserved. Measured. He was never one for overly warm welcomes, always preferring to keep his distance until someone proved themselves worth the effort.

But he watches Lando.

Watches him joke with the twins, watches the way Caesar follows him around, watches how he doesn’t complain about any of it—the formality, the expectation, the centuries-old family traditions he clearly doesn’t understand but still respects.

And then, one evening, as they’re all gathered in the sitting room after dinner, he finally speaks directly to him.

"You’re a racing driver, but are you into cars?"

Lando, caught mid-sip of his drink, swallows quickly. "Uh—yeah."

Her father hums, thoughtful. "I rebuilt an old Aston Martin years ago. Did it myself. Took months."

Lottie stares.

Her father never talks about that.

Lando, however, lights up. "No way. What model?"

And just like that, they’re talking. Really talking—about engines, about restoration work, about classic cars versus modern builds. Lottie watches as her father, the same man who barely tolerated Lando’s existence a few days ago, nods along, asking questions, engaging in a way that he rarely does with people outside their world.

It’s… unexpected.

And then—

"You should stay for the hunting weekend," her father says casually, sipping his brandy.

Lando blinks. "The what now?"

Lottie groans, dragging a hand over her face. "Oh, God. Don’t encourage him."

Her father just chuckles. "It’s tradition."

And that? That’s acceptance.

Lottie sees all of it.

Sees her mother treating Lando with the same quiet care she gives her own children. Sees her father warming to him in his own quiet, begrudging way. Sees the twins, who were dead set on making his life miserable, inviting him to play, to join, to be part of it.

She watches as Lando stops acting like he’s just tolerating it, and starts enjoying it.

And worst of all?

She watches herself let it happen.

It starts with curiosity.

Lando had never paid much attention to horses before—never needed to. His world had always been fast cars, roaring engines, and sleek designs built for speed. The idea of an animal being an athlete in its own right was… foreign.

But then there’s Lottie.

And Lottie is magic on a horse.

He watches her every morning, perched on the edge of the fence as she takes Vermento through his paces, guiding him through intricate dressage routines, moving as if they share the same mind. He watches her during jumping sessions, the sound of hooves hitting the ground in rhythmic beats, her focus razor-sharp, her body a study in control and precision.

Some days, she disappears into the cross-country course—a winding, forested path with water jumps, fallen logs, and sharp turns that demand both trust and instinct.

That’s when Lando gets bored. And a bored Lando is a reckless Lando.

Which is how he ends up on a bike.

The twins had found it for him, laughing their asses off as they presented the ancient, half-rusted bicycle that had probably been sitting in one of the estate’s storage sheds for decades.

But Lando? Lando sees a challenge.

So the next morning, when Lottie heads toward the cross-country course, he grabs the bike and pedals after her.

She doesn’t notice at first, too focused on guiding Vermento over the jumps, but when she finally turns her head and sees him—legs pumping furiously, struggling to keep up—she nearly falls off her horse from laughing.

“What the hell are you doing?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Winning,” he shouts back, even though he’s absolutely not.

He lasts about ten minutes before his legs burn like hell and he nearly crashes into a bush. Lottie watches, still laughing, as he slows to a stop, hands on his knees, gasping for breath.

Vermento trots back toward him, ears flicking curiously. Lottie, still grinning, leans forward in the saddle. “Not as easy as it looks, huh?”

Lando glares up at her. “Shut up.”

But the next morning, he does it again.

And the next.

And the next.

Then there are the photos.

It’s part of the reason they’re here, after all—damage control, reassurance for the fans. So they take pictures together, post casual stories of their “vacation” online.

A blurry shot of Caesar flopped on Lando’s lap, captioned: Officially Lando’s dog now. Sorry, Lottie.

A picture of Lottie sitting on the fence, sipping coffee, watching Lando struggle to clean Vermento’s hooves under the supervision of one of the grooms.

A short video of Lando trying—and failing—to keep up with her on the bike, her laughter in the background as she zooms past him on horseback.

They’re easy, effortless.

And the internet eats them up.

Fans flood the comments—he’s obsessed with her, they look so happy, look at the way he looks at her.

And Lando doesn’t read them.

Not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t need to.

Because he knows how he looks at her.

He knows that he’s spent hours watching her train, noticing things he shouldn’t—like the way her expression softens when she talks to Vermento, or the way her hair slips loose from its tie when she’s too focused to fix it, or the way she bites her lip when she’s planning her next move.

He knows that the way he feels when she smiles at him, really smiles, is different from how he’s ever felt before.

He knows.

And that?

That’s terrifying.

The house is empty.

Lottie doesn’t notice at first—too busy going through her post-training routine, stretching out muscles that burn from the morning’s work. She assumes the usual background noise of the estate will fill the space soon enough—her brothers causing chaos, her mother calling for dinner, her father reading in his study. But the house stays quiet.

No staff. No family.

Just her.

And Lando.

She finds him in the sitting room, sprawled out on one of the massive couches, flipping absently through a book he definitely isn’t reading. His McLaren hoodie looks ridiculous in the setting—old paintings, antique furniture, crystal chandeliers—but he doesn’t seem to care.

He glances up when she walks in.

“You realize we’re alone?” he asks.

Lottie arches an eyebrow. “What, scared?”

Lando scoffs. “Terrified.”

She smirks, crossing the room to sit with him, curling her legs up beneath her. For a moment, there’s silence—calm, easy. But then Lando shifts, sets the book down, and his expression changes.

It’s subtle—the way his jaw tightens, the way his hands curl slightly against his knees.

Lottie knows that look. He’s about to say something.

And then he does.

“I’m sorry.”

Lottie stills. “…For what?”

“For Miami.”

The weight of his words settles between them, heavier than she expects. Lando leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s been holding this in for too long.

“I fucked up,” he continues. “I didn’t think. I—” He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I was stupid, and I didn’t think about you. About how it would look, about the contract, about—everything.” His eyes flick up to hers, and something about the way he looks at her now makes her throat tighten. “And I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I was pissed, but that’s not an excuse.”

Lottie watches him, heartbeat steady but heavy.

She swallows.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

Lando exhales, nodding.

And then—

“I was angry,” she admits, voice softer now. “But… it wasn’t just about you. I mean, it was, obviously, but—” She stops, pressing her lips together for a second before continuing. “It felt like him again.”

Lando doesn’t need to ask who.

He already knows.

“My ex—” She exhales sharply, shaking her head. “He was always in the papers. Not for good reasons. And I was always in them with him, whether I wanted to be or not. The drinking, the fighting, the—” She cuts herself off, biting the inside of her cheek.

Lando stays silent, waiting.

Lottie glances at him, then away.

“I was stupid,” she mutters. “I thought I could make it work. I thought I could fix it. But it just kept getting worse, and worse, and worse, and suddenly I wasn’t just Charlotte Hayes, the equestrian—I was Charlotte Hayes, the girlfriend of the asshole footballer who can’t keep himself out of trouble.”

Lando’s expression hardens.

“I hated it,” she continues. “I hated him, by the end of it. Hated how he made me feel—like I was just an accessory, something he could drag into whatever shit he got himself into. I hated waking up and not knowing what headline would be waiting for me that day.”

She exhales.

“And then Miami happened.”

Lando rubs his hands together, gaze never leaving her.

“I get it now,” he murmurs. “Why you reacted the way you did.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

There’s another silence—longer, deeper.

And then—

“The kiss.”

Lottie’s breath catches.

Lando watches her closely.

“After the race,” he clarifies. “That was… real, right?”

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Doesn’t know how to.

But then she remembers the way it felt—the rush of it, the warmth, the absolute lack of hesitation.

“Yes,” she says.

A beat.

Lando’s gaze flicks down—to her lips, to the slight shift of her hands against her lap—then back up.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I thought so.”

Lando doesn’t move back.

And neither does Lottie.

They're close—closer than they’ve ever been without an audience watching, without a script to follow. It should be strange, unsettling even, to have the space between them collapse like this. But it’s not.

It feels inevitable.

Lottie’s heart beats steadily beneath her ribs, not frantic or panicked but slow, deep—aware.

She doesn’t drop his gaze.

Lando swallows. “I think about it.”

Her fingers twitch against her lap. “Think about what?”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair before letting it drop. “You. Us. The kiss. That stupid fucking contract.” He scoffs, shaking his head. “I tell myself it’s fake. That it’s just job. That none of this should mean anything.”

Lottie listens, hands still, spine straight.

Lando lets out a breath.

“But it does.”

It’s quiet. Honest.

Her pulse trips.

He leans back slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, shaking his head as if he’s just said something completely ridiculous.

“I don’t even know when it stopped being fake,” he mutters, like he’s trying to figure it out himself. “Maybe it was Miami. Maybe it was before that. Maybe it was that fucking dog of yours sitting on me like he owns me.” He chuckles softly. “I don’t know. But I stopped pretending a while ago.”

Lottie feels like the air has been knocked out of her lungs.

Lando Norris—the boy who fought this arrangement like it was the worst possible punishment, the boy who complained and sulked and refused to even try in the beginning—is looking at her now like she’s the only thing in the world that makes sense.

And maybe she’s been fooling herself.

Maybe she’s been pretending, too—pretending that she doesn’t notice the way her chest gets warm when he looks at her, the way his voice settles in her stomach, the way her body always seems to find him, whether it’s a shoulder bump, a hand on his arm, a touch that lingers too long.

Her throat is dry.

“Lando—”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “I just—” He sighs, glancing up at her. “I just needed you to know.”

Lottie swallows, fingers tightening in the fabric of her leggings.

And then she hears herself say—

“I think about it, too.”

Lando goes completely still.

Her voice is quieter than his, softer, but just as steady. “I don’t know when it stopped being fake either. I just know that… it doesn’t feel fake now. It didn’t feel fake when I saw those photos of you and that woman, when all I felt was jealousy.”

He looks at her.

She looks at him.

And suddenly, the space between them feels laughable.

Lando moves first.

Or maybe she does.

It’s impossible to tell, because one second they’re sitting across from each other, and the next, his hand is cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing over her cheek, her fingers grasping at the fabric of his hoodie, pulling—

And then his lips are on hers.

It’s not hesitant.

It’s not careful.

It’s certain.

It’s the kind of kiss that makes her forget where they are, the kind that makes her stomach tighten and her hands pull him closer, the kind that answers every unspoken question between them.

Lando breathes her in, deep and slow, tilting his head to deepen the kiss, to feel her, to lose himself in the way she tastes.

And Lottie lets him.

Lets herself.

Because this? This isn’t for anyone else.

It’s not for cameras, not for headlines, not for the PR team that bound them together in the first place.

This is real.

And neither of them want to stop.

The room feels different when they break apart. Not in a bad way.

Just—different.

Like something invisible has shifted. Like the air is thicker, charged with something unsaid but understood.

Lando stays close, forehead nearly brushing hers, breath warm against her skin. His hand is still on her jaw, his thumb ghosting over the curve of her cheek like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

Lottie doesn’t move either. Because she doesn’t want to.

Her heart isn’t pounding, her breath isn’t shaky—there’s no frantic rush of adrenaline, no sudden panic. Just a slow, deep certainty settling in her bones.

Lando swallows, his eyes flickering over her face, searching for something.

Lottie already knows what he’s looking for.

And she gives it to him. She smiles.

Small, at first—barely there. But then it grows, stretching across her lips, warm and real.

And Lando—Lando laughs.

Not a nervous laugh. Not an awkward one. A relieved one.

A breathless, head-tilted-back, holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-we-just-did-that laugh.

Lottie shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from laughing too.

It doesn’t work.

He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, running his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s still tasting her.

“You’re smiling,” he points out, smug.

“So are you,” she retorts.

Lando shrugs. “Well, yeah. You are a pretty great kisser.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet—” He gestures vaguely between them. “You kissed me back.”

She huffs, shaking her head, but her face is warm, and she knows she’s not fooling anyone.

Lando watches her in silence for a moment, as if he’s still processing everything. Then, he tilts his head slightly.

“So what now?”

Lottie blinks.

The question should make her panic. It should make her overthink, replay every clause of their contract, think about the press, the consequences.

But it doesn’t. Because this—him—feels easy.

And when has anything in her life ever been easy?

Lottie exhales, tilting her head. “Well, I was planning on going riding before dinner.”

Lando lets out a scoff. “That’s not what I meant.”

She smirks. “I know.”

A beat of silence.

Then, Lottie drops her gaze to her lap, tracing the seam of her leggings with her fingers. When she speaks, her voice is softer but just as firm.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending.”

Lando watches her, and something in his expression shifts.

He nods, slowly, thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

That’s it.

No dramatic speeches. No complicated plans.

Just—okay.

And somehow, it’s exactly what she needs.

Lottie exhales, a small, satisfied sigh, and pushes herself up, stretching her arms over her head. Lando’s eyes follow the movement, dropping instinctively when her shirt lifts just slightly. And Lottie knows he’s thinking about the kiss again.

She grins, playful. “You coming?”

Lando blinks. “What?”

“To ride.”

“Oh.” Lando clears his throat, straightening. “For a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

Lottie raises an eyebrow. “Thought what?”

Lando presses his lips together, crossing his arms. “Thought you meant something else,” he finally admits, his tone casual, but his eyes—his eyes are something else.

Lottie blinks once.

Twice.

And then she laughs.

A real, genuine, completely entertained laugh. Lando watches her with mock indignation, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his gaze.

“Come on, city boy,” Lottie says, patting his shoulder before heading for the door. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Lando groans, but he follows anyway, muttering something about how much he’s going to regret this.

But when she smiles over her shoulder at him and he feels the warmth still lingering in his chest—

He knows he won’t.

At first, nothing changes. Not really.

Lando still races every weekend, still chases milliseconds and podiums, still stands under bright lights answering the same questions over and over again. Lottie still spends long days in the saddle, pushing herself harder, training for the biggest moment of her career. They still show up where they’re supposed to, still play their roles, still exist under the constant hum of cameras flashing, fans speculating.

But something shifts. Slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

Maybe it’s the way Lottie reaches for his hand without thinking, fingers slipping between his like it’s second nature. Maybe it’s the way Lando starts looking for her in the crowd, his eyes finding her before they find the checkered flag. Maybe it’s the way the obligations don’t feel like obligations anymore, the way their time together no longer feels like something arranged but something inevitable.

One night, after a race—after a victory—Lottie is driving them back to their hotel. Lando is slumped in the passenger seat, his body loose with exhaustion and alcohol, the adrenaline of the night finally fading. He’s still wearing his team polo, though it’s wrinkled now, untucked, the top buttons undone. There’s a stupid little grin on his face, one that hasn’t left since the champagne was sprayed.

Lottie glances at him briefly. “You good over there?”

Lando hums, his head lolling against the seat as he turns to look at her. His pupils are a little blown, his cheeks flushed. “Mhm,” he says. Then, after a beat, his voice a little quieter, a little sleepier: “I think I like you.”

Lottie’s hands tighten slightly around the wheel. She flicks her eyes toward him again, taking in the way he’s watching her—not searching for a reaction, not trying to gauge her expression. Just saying it, like it’s a passing thought that slipped past the filter in his brain.

She exhales a quiet laugh. “You sure it’s not the tequila talking?”

Lando’s grin widens, lazy and content. “Maybe. Maybe not.” His head tilts slightly. “But I do think I like you.”

Lottie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now. “That’s nice, Lando.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, keeping her eyes on the road. “I think I like you too.”

Lando hums again, as if he’s just won another race, and lets his eyes slip shut.

Maybe it’s not about a single moment, not about some grand realization or dramatic confession. Maybe it’s about all the little things, the ones no one else sees.

Like the way Lando always waits for her after an event, even when he doesn’t have to, even when it would be easier to slip away unnoticed. Or the way Lottie starts spending more and more weekends at his races, standing in the back of the garage, her presence as steady as the roar of the engines.

Like the morning after a race when Lottie wakes up to find Lando cooking breakfast in her kitchen, hair still a mess from hours of travel, moving around like he’s been doing it forever.

“You’re in my kitchen,” she says, still half-asleep, leaning against the doorway.

Lando smirks, flipping a pancake. “And?”

“And I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s because I have a key,” he says simply, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You gave it to me, remember?”

She blinks, a memory flickering in the back of her mind—of tossing her spare key at him in a rush one day when she was late for an event, barely thinking about it. She hadn’t even realized he’d kept it.

Lando plates a pancake and sets it in front of her. “If you want it back, you’ll have to fight me for it.”

Lottie looks at him, at the way he’s standing there like he belongs, and she smiles.

“I think you can keep it.”

By the time the Olympics arrive, the lines between real and pretend are long gone. They don’t talk about it—not directly—but it’s there, in every shared look and every quiet moment. In the way Lando texts her good luck before every qualifier. In the way Lottie wears his hoodie on cold mornings at the stables.

What they have is no longer just a story for the media. It’s theirs.

Still, she doesn’t expect him to be there. Not really.

But when she rides into the arena for her final round, when she hears the crowd roar and the unmistakable, ridiculous sound of a vuvuzela echoing through the stadium, she looks up—and there he is.

Lando, standing at the front of the crowd, wearing a Union Jack bucket hat and sunglasses far too large for his face. He is surrounded by his childhood friends and a couple of other drivers she recognizes even from this distance. Russell is wearing a stupid shirt with Great Britain’s colours and her face all over it. She doesn’t want to ask who convinced Verstappen and Piastri—none of them british—to paint his face with the Union Jack. Still, they are all chanting for her.

There’s a banner the size of a small country with her face on it—two, actually. One reads "GO LOTTIE GO" in massive glitter letters. The other has a blown-up photo of her from her most awkward teenage competition, helmet askew, braces on full display. Classic Lando.

And just behind them, regal as ever, are her parents—elegant, composed, but unmistakably proud. Her mother has tears in her eyes. Her father’s clapping like a man possessed.

Lottie doesn’t have time to react. Because the bell rings, and the round begins. She breathes, just once, and lets instinct take over.

But for Lando, everything slows down.

The moment she takes the first jump, the world tilts. It’s like watching a memory unfold in real time—except it’s happening right now, and it’s everything.

He sees her laughing in the hotel corridor, towel around her neck, cheeks flushed from a workout. He sees her pressed against him in the rain after a paparazzi ambush, their hands linked tight. He remembers the smell of her shampoo, the scratch of her voice when she’s tired, the way she whispers his name like it’s a secret only they share.

He thinks about mornings in her kitchen, the stupid key he never gave back, the hoodie she stole and never returned. He thinks about how she cheers louder than anyone when he races, how she knows exactly when to squeeze his hand before a big day, how she never pretends to be anything she’s not.

And in that moment, Lando realizes he’s completely, utterly gone for her.

He is so, so in love that it's ridiculous. It’s not even a feeling anymore—it’s just a fact, steady and true, like gravity.

And when she clears the final jump, when the scoreboard flashes GOLD FOR GREAT BRITAIN, it snaps him back to reality.

He’s already moving. Vaulting the barrier without a second thought, weaving through the chaos. He barely hears the cheers, the announcers, the pounding in his own chest.

Lottie reins her horse, Vermento, to a slow trot, trying to breathe, trying to believe what just happened.

And then she sees him.

Lando, running toward the arena. The horse sees him too—ears flicking forward, recognizing him in an instant. To everyone’s amazement, the horse trots toward him, calm and curious. Lando lifts a hand instinctively, and without hesitation, reaches for the reins as if he's done it a hundred times.

He steadies the horse, eyes never leaving Lottie. She’s still catching her breath, still wide-eyed with adrenaline and disbelief. He lifts one hand, silently offering to help her down.

She doesn’t speak—doesn’t need to. She takes his hand, and he helps her dismount, his other hand still gently on the reins.

It’s a stupid little gesture. A small, quiet thing. But it says everything.

“You absolute maniac,” she breathes, barely standing still, laughing as she lands on solid ground. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes are bright, full of something bigger than pride. “You really thought I’d miss this?”

“You didn’t even tell me,” she says, half-laughing, half-crying.

“Wanted to surprise you. And, you know,”—he gestures toward the ridiculous crowd of friends behind him—“make a scene.”

“You definitely did that.”

Lando grins, but then his expression softens.

He leans in, voice low and steady. "You know, I used to think winning was the best feeling in the world."

Lottie raises an eyebrow, breath still catching.

"But then you started showing up. And suddenly... the best part was who I got to share it with." He pauses, smile tugging at his lips. "Even if you do keep stealing my hoodies."

She looks at him, really looks at him—at the mess of curls under the stupid hat, the stupid sunglasses pushed onto his forehead, the softness in his eyes.

“I know,” she whispers.

“I mean it, Lottie. I’m in this. For real. I want—God, I want all of it. The chaos and the quiet and the early mornings in your kitchen and even the horses that kind of scare me.”

Her laugh breaks on a sob.

“I want you,” he says simply.

And this time, she doesn’t hesitate.

She kisses him, right there in front of everyone—in front of the cameras, the crowd, her parents, the entire world.

It’s messy and joyful and a little breathless. And it feels, finally, like the start of something real.

Their friends erupt into cheers. Someone sets off a confetti cannon. Lottie’s dad starts filming, and her mum is openly weeping.

But all she can feel is Lando’s arms around her, grounding her, anchoring her to this exact moment.

Home, she thinks.

He feels like home.

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

From the first time he had visited, he had known the place belonged to him. It had become an unbreakable routine: every time he returned from a race, he would take the stairs down from his apartment—the café was right below—and sit at the same table by the window. He ordered the same thing, read, reviewed data, or simply watched people pass by.

And then, there was the cat.

A large, speckled feline with the air of an undisputed king of the place. It would appear out of nowhere, climbing onto his lap or table uninvited. At first, Oscar had tried to ignore it. It hadn’t worked. The cat had adopted him without asking permission, and he, resigned, had eventually accepted it.

Everything had been perfect.

Until the calm had been shattered.

First, the door swung open abruptly, making the bell jingle with an overly enthusiastic chime. Then, the sound of hurried paws against the wooden floor.

The cat bolted from his lap.

Oscar blinked, surprised by the sudden abandonment, and then he heard her.

"Bon matin, mes amis! You missed me, didn’t you?"

Her voice filled the café—clear and energetic—as if it belonged as much to the place as the brick walls.

Oscar didn’t need to look up to know that everyone in the café knew her. He heard the sound of her scarf sliding off her neck, the tapping of her boots as she crossed the room without hesitation. She greeted the customers one by one, as naturally as if she had done it all her life.

"Marcel, are you still losing at dominoes, or did they finally let you win?"

"Today, I’m winning, chérie, I swear!"

"Liar." She laughed, giving him a pat on the shoulder before moving on. "André, that beret is new. Very stylish."

"My daughter gave it to me, but don’t think I’m going to buy you breakfast just for the compliment."

"So stingy."

Oscar heard more laughter. It was obvious that everyone knew her, that they welcomed her with familiarity, as if she were part of the café’s furniture.

The cat—the same one that ignored everyone except him—was now in her arms, purring like a satisfied engine.

"Finally! Someone greets me with enthusiasm!" she exclaimed, rubbing her nose against the cat’s head before gently setting it down.

By this point, Oscar had already returned his focus to his book. Or at least, he was trying to.

"I’ll have a hot chocolate," she said when she reached the counter, leaning over it shamelessly.

The barista—her brother, Oscar deduced from the patience in his expression—sighed.

"Aren’t you tired of so much sugar?"

"I never get tired of the good stuff."

He scoffed but started preparing the drink.

Oscar turned the page. Hopefully, the café would regain its usual silence.

Then, he felt it.

The imperceptible shift in the air when someone was staring at him.

Instinctively, he knew what was coming.

Footsteps approached.

"I haven’t seen you here before."

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back a sigh.

"Hmm."

"That’s all you’re going to say?"

"I’m busy."

She let out a small laugh.

"Of course, you are."

And with that, she plopped down in the chair across from him.

Oscar shut his book with a snap.

She smiled.

"Now you’re looking at me."

She didn’t say it as a question but as a fact, as if she knew exactly what to do to pull someone out of their bubble.

Oscar looked at her for the first time, assessing. She was young, cheerful, with a mischievous glint in her eyes. She recognized him, sure, but there was no typical astonishment, no urge to mention it.

"Do you always insert yourself where you’re not wanted?" he asked, hoping she’d take the hint.

"Are you always this grumpy?" she shot back, unfazed.

Oscar felt a headache forming.

Something told him his peace had just ended.

He blinked, analyzing her tone, her expression. There was no mockery in her gaze, only amusement, as if finding him there was an entertaining discovery, but not particularly extraordinary.

"I recognize you, obviously," she said with a shrug. "But don’t worry, I’m not going to ask for a photo or an autograph. I’m sure your ego doesn’t need more inflating."

Oscar narrowed his eyes, trying to figure out whether that was an insult or just an observation.

He had no response.

She, on the other hand, laughed, as if his silence was the best part of the conversation. She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with an irritatingly carefree attitude, then glanced down at the book still in his hands.

"Are you seriously reading this?"

Oscar looked at the cover. It was a dense historical biography, written with an almost obsessive level of detail.

"What’s wrong with it?" he asked, his tone dry.

She tilted her head, as if evaluating him.

"Nothing, I guess. If you like books that feel like punishments."

Oscar snapped the book shut, again, a little harder than necessary.

She laughed again.

"You don’t have a comeback for that, do you?"

Oscar clenched his jaw.

He hated her. No, he hated her boldness, her persistence, the way she pulled him out of his bubble without permission.

And he hated even more that he didn’t know how to shut her down.

"Stop bothering the customers."

Her brother’s voice came from behind the counter, exasperated, like he had seen this scene too many times before.

She turned her head, pouting exaggeratedly.

"I’m not bothering him. We’re just having a conversation, right?"

Oscar stared at her, unblinking.

"No."

She let out a delighted laugh.

"See? He adores me."

Her brother sighed and nodded toward the counter.

"Your hot chocolate is ready. Leave him alone."

"Tss, such a killjoy," she muttered, standing up with obvious reluctance.

The cat, as if perfectly in sync with her, jumped off the table and trotted after her, sticking close to her heels. She scratched its head fondly, as if she didn’t even notice how naturally the feline followed her.

Just before walking away completely, she turned to look at Oscar one last time.

"By the way," she said, tilting her head slightly. "My name’s Elaine."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She simply smiled, spun on her heel, and left, leaving behind a trail of lighthearted energy that didn’t fit at all with the café’s usual tranquility.

Oscar watched her go for a moment, his book still closed on the table, the echo of her laughter ringing in his ears.

He exhaled slowly.

His peace was definitely over.

And yet, Oscar couldn’t stop coming to the café.

The drinks were too good, the atmosphere was perfect, and most of the time, he could focus without anyone bothering him.

Except on the days when he had the dubious pleasure of running into Elaine.

She appeared without warning, like a storm no one had predicted in the forecast.

And somehow, she always found a way to get under his skin.

Sometimes, she simply stopped by to chat with the regulars, exchanging jokes with the old men playing dominoes or greeting lost tourists as if they were old friends. Other times, she slipped behind the counter to help her brother, though it was obvious she did it more to annoy him than out of any real necessity. She also played with the cat, which followed her with unwavering devotion, or settled at the table closest to Oscar’s, surrounded by a mess of books and scattered notes.

He had no idea what she was studying, but if he had to guess, he would have said something chaotic. Something that matched her boundless energy and her ability to talk passionately about just about anything. It wasn’t until much later that he found out she was studying History.

And, of course, there were days when it seemed like her sole mission in life was to get on his nerves.

She sat at his table without asking, drummed her fingers against the surface just to see how long it would take for him to look at her, made offhanded comments about how serious he was or how he needed to learn to socialize.

Oscar tried to ignore her. He really did.

But Elaine wasn’t someone who could be ignored.

One day, she simply sat across from him uninvited and asked, “Do you have friends?”

Oscar blinked, his eyes still on his laptop screen. “What?”

“I mean, besides your teammates and the people you work with. Because you’re always alone.”

He huffed, trying to ignore her. “That’s none of your business.”

“So, that’s a no.”

Elaine grinned, satisfied with her own conclusion, and rested her chin on her hand, watching him.

“Have you realized you have the charisma of a rock?”

Oscar closed his eyes for a second, holding back the response he actually wanted to give her.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah, yeah, reviewing data, looking at numbers… how thrilling.” She yawned dramatically. “It must be so much fun being you.”

By the time he finally looked up, she was already laughing, standing up to return to her brother.

Oscar let out a heavy sigh and turned back to his screen, but just when he thought the torment was over, he felt an extra weight on his jacket.

The cat.

The little traitor had sprawled out on it, curling up comfortably.

Great.

And then, another day.

Oscar was analyzing replays of his last race on his laptop when a shadow fell over the screen.

“Do you like watching yourself drive?”

He didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“It’s not about liking it. I’m analyzing my performance.”

“Oh, of course. A deep analysis of ‘oh, look how fast I am’ and ‘oh, look how well I take that turn.’”

This time, he did look up, fixing her with a flat stare.

“Do you really have nothing better to do?”

Elaine smiled, clearly entertained. “Annoying you is more fun.”

And as if summoned, the cat appeared out of nowhere and flopped onto his laptop keyboard. The screen instantly went black as one of its paws landed squarely on the power button.

Elaine propped her chin on her hand. “Even he thinks you need a break.”

Oscar exhaled slowly.

This was becoming a damn habit.

Different day, same problem.

Oscar had spent the afternoon working, completely absorbed in his own bubble of concentration. But when he finally closed his laptop and reached for his jacket, he found a now-familiar obstacle: the cat, sleeping soundly on top of it.

He tried nudging it gently. Nothing. The stubborn little thing didn’t even stir.

From behind the counter, Elaine watched him with her arms crossed.

“You’re not going to win.”

“It’s a cat.”

“A cat with a lot of character.”

Oscar sighed, resigned, and dropped back into his chair. Ten minutes later, the cat was still snoring on his jacket, and he no longer felt in any rush to leave.

When Elaine returned with a steaming mug, she set it in front of him without a word.

Oscar glanced at her sideways. “I didn’t order another coffee.”

Elaine simply shrugged. “It’s my compensation for the hostage situation. Sir Reginald Fluffington III tends to take captives…”

At the absurd name, Oscar frowned. “Why ‘the third’?”

With complete nonchalance, Elaine gestured toward the framed photos behind the counter. They were black-and-white portraits of other cats, each with a small plaque beneath them: Sir Reginald Fluffington I and Sir Reginald Fluffington II.

“Line of succession,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “When one leaves, the next takes the throne.”

Oscar blinked. “Is this a café or a feline monarchy?”

Elaine shrugged. “House rules.”

Meanwhile, Sir Reginald Fluffington III kept snoring atop his jacket, as if it were his throne.

One evening, Elaine did something completely unexpected.

She sat down at his table—nothing new there—but instead of launching straight into her usual teasing, she rested her chin on her hand and asked,

“So, tell me about the car.”

Oscar barely looked up. “What?”

“The car. The one you drive. How does it actually work?”

That caught him off guard. Normally, if she mentioned Formula 1 at all, it was to make some sarcastic remark about how it was “just guys driving in circles really fast.” But now she was looking at him, genuinely curious, like she actually wanted to know.

He hesitated, wary of a potential joke at his expense, but when she didn’t say anything else, he found himself answering before he could stop himself.

“Well, it’s an open-wheel, single-seater with a hybrid turbocharged engine,” he started, setting his coffee aside. “It runs on a combination of internal combustion and electrical energy, and we have an ERS system that recovers energy under braking and redeploys it for extra power.”

Elaine nodded as if she understood, but then tilted her head. “And that energy recovery thing—how does that actually help you while driving?”

Oscar blinked. Most people didn’t ask that. They just nodded and moved on. But she was still looking at him, genuinely waiting for an answer.

So he gave her one.

Somewhere along the way, he found himself leaning forward, gesturing as he explained how ERS deployment could make the difference in overtakes, how managing tire degradation was crucial, how the aerodynamics of the car could dictate whether a driver fought for pole or got stuck in the midfield.

Elaine listened. Really listened.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t crack a joke. Just asked question after question, and every time she did, Oscar answered without thinking, because it wasn’t often that someone outside his world wanted to understand, to actually hear him talk about the thing he had dedicated his life to.

At some point, he realized he had been talking for nearly twenty minutes straight.

He sat back abruptly, fingers tightening around his cup.

Elaine didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease him for going on and on like he expected her to.

Instead, she simply smiled, stirring her hot chocolate absentmindedly.

“You really love it, don’t you?” she mused.

Oscar hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”

Elaine exhaled through her nose, a soft laugh under her breath. “It’s nice, hearing you actually talk.”

He should have rolled his eyes. Should have given some dry remark about how she talks more than enough for both of them.

But instead, he just hummed, taking another sip of his coffee.

For once, Elaine let the silence linger. And, for once, Oscar didn’t mind.

Elaine didn’t change after that conversation.

She still sat at his table without asking. Still poked at his patience with teasing remarks. Still found a way to make herself present in his otherwise quiet café routine.

But something shifted in Oscar.

Before, he had dismissed her as just another overly social, overly energetic person who didn’t know how to leave people alone. But now… he noticed things.

Like how she greeted every regular in the café by name, asking about their families or their work as if she had known them for years (which, considering her family owned the place, she probably had). Or how she always made sure to slide an extra plate of biscuits toward the old men playing dominos in the corner, even though her brother claimed they ate too much and never actually ordered anything.

How her fingers were constantly moving—tapping, fidgeting, stirring her drink absentmindedly as if her body didn’t know how to stay still.

How she always, always smelled faintly of cinnamon and coffee beans.

And, somehow, how he started looking forward to the moments when she would wander over to his table, even if it was just to make some smart remark about his eternally serious expression.

One day, she leaned against his table, watching as he scrolled through data on his laptop. “Do you ever smile, or would that compromise your entire personality?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was close. “Depends on the day.”

Elaine squinted at him suspiciously. “Was that a joke?”

He merely shrugged, clicking through his data sheets.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but she was grinning.

Another day, he caught himself staring—not at her, but at the way she tucked her hair behind her ear while reading, the way her brows furrowed slightly when she was deep in thought.

He shook his head, taking a long sip of his coffee, as if the bitterness could pull him back into reality.

But reality had started to change.

The café didn’t feel the same anymore. It was no longer just a place to escape the noise of the world. It had a heartbeat now, a pulse that thumped along to the rhythm of Elaine’s laughter, to the lazy stretch of Sir Reginald Fluffington III as he curled up in the sun, to the quiet conversations and clinking of porcelain.

And Oscar found himself sinking into it, letting it wrap around him like a warmth he hadn’t realized he needed.

Elaine was still a menace. But maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t so bad after all.

Oscar entered the café at his usual time, the familiar chime of the doorbell ringing through the quiet space. He had his routine down to a science—order his coffee, sit at his table, ignore whatever nonsense Elaine threw at him, and get some actual work done.

Except today, he was the one throwing things off course.

He walked straight up to her table, where she was lazily flipping through a book, and without preamble, said, “Why history?”

Elaine blinked up at him, looking uncharacteristically confused. “What?”

“Why do you study history?”

Her lips parted slightly, as if her brain needed a second to reboot. Then, slowly, her expression shifted into something downright suspicious. She squinted at him, tapping her fingers against the table.

“Okay. Who are you, and what have you done with Oscar Piastri?”

Behind the counter, her brother snorted, shaking his head as he wiped down some cups.

Oscar exhaled sharply, already regretting this. “You asked me about Formula 1 the other day. I figured—” He gestured vaguely. “Returning the favor.”

Elaine leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You want me to believe that you—Mr. ‘I’d Rather Sit in Silence Than Engage with Human Beings’—are voluntarily making conversation?”

Oscar’s eye twitched.

“I’m rescinding the question.”

“No, no,” she said quickly, straightening up with a wide grin. “I’m just shocked. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Sir Reginald Fluffington III chose that moment to make his grand entrance, leaping onto Elaine’s chair and then promptly squeezing himself between them like a self-appointed mediator. Elaine, as always, started scratching behind his ears without thinking.

Oscar tried not to acknowledge the cat but failed when a furry head nudged insistently against his arm. With a sigh, he gave in, resting a hand on its back.

From the counter, Elaine’s brother watched the exchange with a smirk. He stacked the last cup, shaking his head.

Huh. So that’s how it starts.

Elaine tilted her head, studying Oscar like he was some sort of rare specimen that had just done something completely out of character. Which, to be fair, he had.

“Alright,” she said finally, tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the table. “I’ll bite.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You were going to answer anyway.”

“True,” she admitted, flashing him a grin. “But I like pretending I have a choice.”

She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on one hand while the other continued idly scratching Sir Reginald Fluffington III behind the ears. The cat stretched lazily, his purring a soft vibration against the wooden surface of the table.

“History is just one big, messy story,” she began, her voice lighter now, as if she hadn’t just been caught off guard by the question. “And I like stories. But more than that, I like knowing why things happen. Why people make the choices they do, why entire civilizations rise and fall, why the world is the way it is.”

Oscar watched as her fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her coffee cup, the light catching on the silver ring she always wore on her thumb. Her expression shifted as she spoke, as if she were seeing the past play out in real time, as if the weight of a thousand untold stories lived just behind her eyes.

She shrugged. “It’s like a puzzle, but all the pieces are scattered across centuries, and half of them are missing, and some historian a hundred years ago probably put the wrong ones together and convinced everyone they were right.”

Oscar found himself listening more intently than he expected, more than he ever did when people rambled about things he didn’t particularly care about.

Elaine smirked, noticing. “You’re taking this very seriously.”

“You’re actually answering seriously,” he pointed out.

“Because it’s important,” she said simply. “People always act like history is just a bunch of dates and names, but it’s not. It’s people. People being brilliant, and terrible, and reckless. And the best part?” Her eyes gleamed with amusement. “We never learn. We keep making the same mistakes over and over again. It’s both hilarious and deeply depressing.”

Oscar huffed out a quiet laugh before he could stop himself.

Elaine’s grin widened. “There it is. A real reaction.”

He rolled his eyes, but there wasn’t much heat behind it.

Sir Reginald, sensing the moment, shifted just enough to nudge Oscar’s arm again. Without thinking, he started absentmindedly running his fingers through the cat’s fur, feeling the softness beneath his fingertips. The café smelled like roasted coffee beans and vanilla, the warm scent wrapping around them like a quiet invitation to stay just a little longer.

At some point, Elaine’s brother must have come over because there were two fresh drinks sitting in front of them—his usual coffee and what looked like hot chocolate for Elaine. Oscar hadn’t even noticed when they arrived, too caught up in the conversation, too distracted by the way Elaine’s voice lilted with enthusiasm when she spoke about something she loved.

Elaine, oblivious or simply choosing to ignore her brother’s knowing expression from behind the counter, continued. “Anyway, history is fun. And frustrating. And completely ridiculous at times. But mostly, it’s fascinating.”

Oscar considered that. Considered her, for that matter.

She had a way of making everything sound interesting, even when she was being insufferable.

And somehow, without him realizing it, she was starting to feel less like a nuisance.

And more like a habit.

That day, the café felt… different.

Oscar couldn’t quite put his finger on it at first. He sat at his usual table, opened his laptop, and took a sip of his coffee. Everything was the same—same warm lighting, same familiar hum of conversation, same Sir Reginald Fluffington III eyeing his jacket like prime real estate for a nap.

And yet…

He realized it after about fifteen minutes of actual focus. No one had interrupted him. No one had made a single offhand comment about his posture or his facial expressions or his apparent lack of joy in life. No one had sat down uninvited, poked at his patience, or asked if he had friends.

Elaine wasn’t there.

Oscar exhaled, shaking off the thought. Good. That meant he could get work done without—

"You're frowning."

Oscar glanced up. Elaine’s brother stood behind the counter, drying a cup with a knowing smirk.

"I'm not frowning."

"You are. You look about two seconds away from being deeply annoyed by something," he said, setting the cup down. "Let me guess. The coffee’s not good today?"

Oscar rolled his eyes and took another sip. Perfect as always.

Casually—completely, totally casually—he asked, “Where’s Elaine?”

Her brother raised an eyebrow, clearly amused.

Oscar huffed. “Just wondering. It’s… quieter.”

“She’s in class. Probably annoying one of her professors instead.”

Oscar nodded, taking another drink to mask the way his jaw tightened. He told himself it wasn’t disappointment—he was just surprised. That’s all.

Her brother, however, had clearly caught something in his expression, because he grinned.

“I’ve got to say it, mate,” he mused, leaning against the counter. “For someone who complains about her so much, you sure seem bothered when she’s not around.”

Oscar’s eye twitched. “I’m not—”

“Fastidious,” he interrupted, eyes alight with amusement. “That’s the word you’re looking for, right? Bothered. Irritated. Peeved. Just… missing one specific source of those emotions.”

Oscar scowled, but it had no effect. Elaine’s brother just chuckled, shaking his head.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” he said, turning away. “Other than Elaine’s presence, of course.”

Oscar refused to dignify that with a response. Instead, he set his jaw, returned to his laptop, and pretended he wasn’t glancing toward the door every now and then.

Not because he wanted her to walk in. Obviously.

Just… if she did, he’d have a few words for her about being a menace. That was all.

Oscar was busy.

Too busy to think about insignificant things.

Training, meetings, simulator sessions—his schedule had been packed, every moment accounted for. He barely had time to breathe, let alone sit in a café waiting for some loud, insufferable presence to barge into his day.

And yet, the past couple of weeks had felt… off.

He hadn’t been at the café much, too caught up in work to indulge in his usual routine. On the rare occasions he did stop by, it was always a quick in-and-out, barely enough time to finish a coffee before he had to rush off. He didn’t even have the time to be annoyed by Elaine.

Not that he’d noticed her absence.

Not at all.

So when he caught sight of her at the local market on a rare free afternoon, it was almost too much—too jarring, too unexpected.

She was standing at one of the stalls, inspecting a bundle of fresh herbs with the same level of scrutiny he reserved for race telemetry. Her brows were furrowed, lips pursed in thought, and she hadn’t noticed him yet.

Which meant Oscar could—should—walk away.

Instead, his feet remained stubbornly in place.

It wasn’t just seeing her that got to him. It was the fact that, somehow, he’d felt her first. The way the market’s usual noise—vendors calling out deals, the chatter of locals—had blurred into the background the second he spotted her. The way a part of his brain had instantly clicked into place, like something missing had been restored.

That realization alone was enough to irritate him.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he took a step closer.

Elaine still hadn’t noticed him, too focused on haggling with the vendor.

"Come on, Monsieur Bernard," she cajoled, resting an elbow on the stall. "I’m practically family. Don’t you have a special discount for charming regulars?"

The older man behind the stall gave her an unimpressed look. "You tried this same trick last time."

"Yes, but I was less charming then."

Oscar let out a sharp exhale—not a laugh, definitely not—and that’s when she turned, eyes widening slightly in surprise.

For a moment, she just stared, as if confirming he was real. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, turning fully to face him. "If it isn’t Mr. ‘I Have No Time for Social Interaction’ himself. Fancy meeting you here."

Oscar crossed his arms. "Fancy that."

She tilted her head, assessing him. "You look…" A pause, and then, teasingly, "…unmoored. Have you been lost without my constant interruptions?"

"Not remotely," he deadpanned.

Elaine gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Lies. You missed me."

Oscar gave her a flat look. "I was busy."

She waved a dismissive hand. "So was I. Exams."

That caught his attention. "Oh."

She raised an eyebrow. "That’s it? Just ‘oh’?"

"Did you pass?"

Elaine scoffed. "Of course I passed. I’m a genius."

Oscar rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

A beat passed, and then—

"So," Elaine said, leaning in slightly. "Are you going to admit it?"

"Admit what?"

"That you missed me."

He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, without breaking eye contact, he plucked the bundle of herbs straight out of her hand, examining them with faux interest.

"Hmm. Unremarkable. Much like your presence."

Elaine gaped at him. "You—you absolute—"

Behind the stall, Monsieur Bernard sighed, muttering something about young people before handing Elaine another bundle.

Oscar smirked. Maybe he had missed this. Just a little.

Without thinking about it, they started walking together.

It wasn’t intentional—at least, Oscar was fairly certain it wasn’t. He had no reason to follow Elaine anywhere. And yet, when she moved toward the next stall, he found himself falling into step beside her.

She didn’t comment on it, just gave him a brief, knowing glance before turning her attention to the produce in front of her.

“Tomatoes,” she muttered to herself, picking up a ripe one and turning it over in her hand. “Do I need tomatoes?”

Oscar arched an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what you’re buying?”

Elaine shrugged. “I improvise.”

He exhaled sharply, grabbing a small bag and tossing a few into it with actual purpose. Elaine mimicked his actions—except she kept adding more and more until Oscar gave her a flat look.

“You’re not feeding an army.”

“You don’t know that,” she said airily. “Maybe I’m part of a secret underground resistance.”

Oscar bit back a smirk, shaking his head as he handed his own bag to the vendor. Elaine did the same, and once they had their purchases, they moved on.

To another stall.

And another.

At some point, Elaine started following him—when he paused at a bakery stand, her interest was suddenly piqued.

“Buying bread?” she asked, peering at the selection.

He gave her a sideways glance. “What does it look like?”

“Huh.” She grabbed a small loaf for herself, then eyed the pastries. “You’re not getting anything sweet?”

“No.”

Elaine hummed. “Boring.”

Still, she grabbed two pain au chocolat instead of one.

When Oscar gave her a questioning look, she just waggled her eyebrows. “You never know.”

He didn’t respond, but later—when she wordlessly handed him the second pastry while they were walking—he took it.

It kept happening. A few more stalls, a few more purchases. Some things they needed, some they didn’t. They talked more than they probably should have, walked longer than they intended.

It wasn’t until Elaine tried shifting her bags to one arm—struggling slightly—that she finally paused and frowned.

“Hold on.” She glanced down. “Why do I have so much stuff?”

Oscar blinked at his own bags, as if only now realizing how full they were.

They stared at each other for a beat.

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “Did you just trick me into running errands with you?”

Oscar scoffed. “You tricked me.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “Lies! This is sabotage!”

Oscar just shook his head, exhaling through his nose as he adjusted the bags in his hands.

And they parted ways—or at least, they tried to.

Elaine turned left. Oscar turned left.

Neither of them noticed at first, too occupied with adjusting their bags. But as they kept walking, side by side, it became… noticeable.

Elaine slowed her pace slightly, giving him a sidelong glance.

Oscar did the same.

They walked a few more meters in silence.

Then Elaine stopped abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, brows furrowing in suspicion. “Are you following me?”

Oscar, who had also stopped, gave her a blank stare. “You’re the one going my way.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Or you’re going mine.”

Oscar sighed, adjusting the weight of his bags. “I live nearby.”

Elaine huffed. “I live nearby.”

They eyed each other for a moment, a realization beginning to dawn.

Then, with an unspoken agreement, they resumed walking.

Turned a corner.

Kept going.

Another turn.

When they both reached the café’s entrance, Elaine halted once again.

“Wait.” Her voice was laced with dawning horror. “You live here?”

Oscar blinked. “You live above the café?”

Elaine opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “You’re kidding.”

He exhaled sharply, barely suppressing a smirk at her distress. “Why would I joke about this?”

Elaine let out something between a groan and a laugh, running a hand down her face. “You mean to tell me… we’ve been neighbors this whole time?”

Oscar simply shrugged. “Apparently.”

Elaine groaned again, then gave him a long look—one that was probably meant to be annoyed, but somehow, she just looked amused.

Oscar didn’t know why, but he felt it too—something light, something ridiculous.

And before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing—

He smirked.

Just a little.

Elaine’s eyes widened, like she had just seen a unicorn.

Then, with unrestrained glee, she pointed at him.

“A-ha!”

Oscar blinked. “What?”

“You almost smiled!”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

Elaine practically vibrated with excitement. “This is it. This is a breakthrough. I knew you had a sense of humor somewhere in there.”

Oscar huffed, stepping past her toward the stairs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ohhh, but I do.” Elaine grinned, falling into step behind him as they both climbed toward their apartments. “I’ll get a full smile out of you someday. Just you wait.”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

But somehow… somehow, the thought didn’t sound so bad.

Either way, as they stepped onto the landing, an odd silence settled between them.

Elaine adjusted her grip on the paper bag in her arms, rocking back slightly on her heels. Oscar wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. He should just say goodbye, unlock his door, and go about his evening. But he hesitated.

Which was weird.

Even weirder was the fact that Elaine was hesitating, too.

She glanced at his bag, then up at him, eyes squinting slightly in thought.

“Tell me you’re planning to have a healthy and balanced dinner, and not just some bread and cheese.”

Oscar frowned. “It’s efficient.”

Elaine let out a sharp laugh, like she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.

“You’re hopeless.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And?”

She sighed, then tilted her head toward her door. “Look, I accidentally bought enough food for an entire army, and you clearly need a proper meal. So… you in?”

Oscar hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. That was the problem. He wanted to.

His routine was simple, predictable. There was comfort in that. And yet, here was Elaine, throwing a wrench into everything—like she always did. But instead of annoying him, it felt… different this time.

It felt warm.

Elaine watched him, waiting. A little too smug, as if she already knew his answer.

“Okay,” he said. “Sure.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly, like she hadn’t expected him to agree so quickly. Then she grinned, turning to unlock her door.

“Hope you like chaos.”

Oscar stepped inside without thinking twice. And for the first time in a long time, breaking his routine didn’t seem like such a bad thing.

Elaine’s apartment was exactly what Oscar had expected—lived-in, cluttered in a way that felt intentional, full of books stacked in odd places and little trinkets on the shelves. There were post-it notes stuck to the fridge, reminders scrawled in messy handwriting, and an open notebook on the small dining table with half-finished notes scribbled in the margins.

It was the complete opposite of his own place, which was neat, sparsely decorated, and painfully impersonal.

She kicked the door shut behind them, dumping her groceries onto the counter before stretching her arms overhead. “Alright, let’s see what we’re working with.”

Oscar set his own bag beside hers and leaned against the counter, watching as she started unpacking.

“You actually cook?” he asked, skeptical.

Elaine shot him a look over her shoulder. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just don’t seem like the type.”

She gasped, placing a hand over her heart in mock offense. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know I make an excellent—” She paused, staring at the items in front of her. Then, slowly, she deflated. “Okay, I may have gone overboard.”

Oscar peered over at the spread of vegetables, cheese, pasta, some kind of fresh herbs, and an absurd amount of tomatoes.

“You had a plan when you bought all this, right?”

Elaine waved a hand dismissively. “Cooking isn’t about rigid planning. It’s about intuition, improvisation, going with the flow—”

Oscar picked up a tomato and raised an eyebrow. “So, no plan.”

She snatched the tomato from his hand and placed it back down, scowling. “Fine, Mr. Meal Prep, what would you have bought?”

He shrugged. “Something simple. Something that makes sense together.”

Elaine scoffed. “Boring.”

“You say that, but you still invited me to eat whatever mess you come up with.”

“Because I am a generous and forgiving person.”

Oscar let out a breath of amusement, shaking his head.

Despite her apparent lack of a plan, Elaine moved around the kitchen with ease, pulling out a cutting board, a pan, and a few spices. Oscar found himself watching, noting the way she hummed under her breath, how she scrunched her nose slightly when she was thinking, how she talked through each step even though she didn’t need to.

“Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help?” she asked without looking up.

Oscar blinked, caught off guard. “Help?”

“Yes, you know, participate in the process?” She pointed a knife at him. “Or do you only operate a steering wheel?”

He rolled his eyes but stepped closer, taking the knife from her. “Alright. Just don’t blame me if this goes wrong.”

“Oh, I fully intend to.”

She grinned as he started slicing, and for a while, they just… cooked.

It was strangely easy. They fell into a rhythm—Elaine throwing in too much of something, Oscar fixing it with something else, her laughing every time he muttered something under his breath about efficiency and proper ratios.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III appeared, hopping onto a chair and watching them like a tiny, judgmental supervisor. She then explained that when the café was closed, she took the cat upstairs with her, everyday.

Elaine, while talking and without thinking, reached down to scratch behind his ears. And Oscar, without thinking, did the same.

Neither of them acknowledged it.

By the time the food was ready, the apartment smelled warm and rich, and Oscar had to begrudgingly admit—it actually looked good.

Elaine beamed, sliding into her chair as she set down their plates. “See? Cooking with intuition.”

Oscar sat across from her, eyeing the dish. “This could still be a disaster.”

She took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then grinned. “Nope. It’s amazing.”

Hesitant, Oscar finally tried his own. And—damn it. It was.

He kept his expression neutral, but Elaine saw right through him.

“You like it.”

“It’s edible.”

“You love it.”

Oscar sighed. “I tolerate it.”

Elaine laughed, kicking him lightly under the table.

And as they ate, talked, and bickered over who had done most of the work, Oscar realized something.

For the first time in weeks, he wasn’t thinking about the races ahead, the pressure, the expectations.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t in a rush to leave.

As the meal stretched on, the conversation drifted, weaving in and out of topics with an ease that Oscar wasn’t used to. Elaine had a way of making silence feel optional, of filling the space with whatever thought popped into her head—sometimes ridiculous, sometimes insightful, always entertaining.

She talked about the weirdest things: a documentary she’d watched about medieval bread laws, an argument she’d overheard on the bus about the best way to peel an orange, the time she accidentally joined a book club just for the free snacks and ended up stuck in it for six months.

Oscar, against all odds, found himself enjoying it.

It was so different from the world he was used to—where everything was structured, precise, driven by logic and efficiency. Elaine, on the other hand, lived in tangents, in spontaneous decisions, in a constant state of curiosity.

And somehow, he wasn’t annoyed by it.

If anything, he was listening. Actually listening.

At some point, Sir Reginald Fluffington III jumped onto the table, eyeing their plates with a level of entitlement only a cat could muster.

Elaine absentmindedly scratched his chin. “Don’t even think about it, Reg.”

The cat meowed, offended by the accusation.

Elaine smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Oscar watched as she continued to pet him without really looking, fingers moving automatically through his fur. It was such a small, unconscious thing, but something about it made his chest feel… warm.

He cleared his throat, shaking the thought away.

Elaine, oblivious, leaned back in her chair, stretching. “Alright, I’ll admit it. You were actually useful in the kitchen.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “High praise.”

“You should feel honored.”

“I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

She grinned. “Good. Because next time, I’m making dessert, and I expect you to assist.”

Next time.

Oscar didn’t know why those words stood out to him, why they lodged themselves in his brain like something solid and undeniable.

It wasn’t a question, wasn’t a suggestion.

It was just a fact.

As if this—whatever this was—wasn’t a one-time thing.

As Elaine stretched lazily in her chair, she watched Oscar stand and, to her utter shock, start gathering the plates. She blinked, then narrowed her eyes.

“Wait. Are you actually—”

“Helping,” he said flatly, carrying the dishes to the sink.

She let out a slow, exaggerated gasp. “Oh my God. You’re one of them.”

Oscar frowned. “One of what?”

“A man written by a woman.”

He gave her a blank stare. “What?”

“You know, like in books or movies. The kind of guy who—” She gestured at him, as if that explained everything. “Quiet but secretly sweet. Competent but unassuming. Willing to do the dishes without being asked. It’s rare.”

Oscar let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he turned on the tap. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

But he was smiling. And then, suddenly—he was laughing.

Not just a scoff, not a quiet huff of amusement, but actual, genuine laughter.

Elaine had never seen that before.

She went completely still, watching him as he stood there in her tiny kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hands in soapy water, head tilted slightly downward as he chuckled to himself.

And for the first time since she met him, she didn’t have anything to say.

Because, somehow, watching Oscar Piastri laugh—really laugh—was enough to leave her speechless.

It happened gradually, in a way neither of them fully acknowledged at first. One day, Elaine casually mentioned she was watching a documentary that Oscar "absolutely had to see," and before he knew it, he was sitting on her couch with a bowl of popcorn, being force-fed historical facts he never asked for.

“You’re not even watching,” Elaine accused, nudging his arm when she noticed his eyes drifting to his phone.

“I am,” Oscar protested, but she shot him a look.

“Fine. Pop quiz. What year did this take place?”

“…The past.”

Elaine gasped, scandalized, and smacked his shoulder. “Disrespectful.”

The next time, it was Oscar’s turn. “If I had to watch your documentaries, you have to watch this.”

Elaine frowned at his laptop screen as a highlight reel from the 2011 Formula 1 season played. “Let me guess,” she said flatly. “Someone overtakes someone else. And then someone else overtakes that someone. And then—oh, look—another overtake.”

Oscar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have the attention span of a squirrel.”

“And you have the hobbies of a dad.”

He turned to her, unimpressed. “It’s literally my job.”

Elaine hummed, clearly unbothered, as she stuffed a handful of chips into her mouth. “Then I’m just keeping you humble.”

Outside of their self-imposed cultural exchange nights, they started seeing each other more in ways that felt unplanned, unintentional—except that it kept happening. Oscar would be heading to the store for something quick, only to find Elaine standing in the same aisle, studying a jar of pasta sauce like it held the secrets of the universe.

“Oh, great,” he deadpanned. “You again.”

Elaine smirked. “Missed me, didn’t you?”

“Not in the slightest.”

And yet, somehow, they always ended up walking back home together.

Then there were the times he went out for a run along the coast, only to spot a familiar figure cruising past on a bike, feet lazily pedaling as she enjoyed the sea breeze. She never failed to call out to him, sometimes ringing a ridiculous little bike bell just to be annoying.

“Move it, slowpoke!”

Oscar, ever the competitive one, picked up his pace. “Race me, then!”

“Against a literal athlete?” she scoffed. “Pass.”

Yet, moments later, she’d kick off, trying to pass him, laughing breathlessly when he shot her an unimpressed look. She never won—he made sure of that—but that never seemed to bother her.

Sometimes, they just walked together. No reason, no plan. Just two people who somehow kept ending up in the same place, at the same time, as if the universe was nudging them closer. It wasn’t something either of them talked about, but they both felt it—the gradual shift from tolerating each other to seeking each other out.

And Oscar, despite himself, started to wonder when exactly that had happened.

When Oscar pushed open the door to the café that morning, he wasn’t alone.

Lando followed beside him, stretching his arms over his head as they stepped inside. “Mate, I’m telling you, I need real coffee,” he groaned. “Not that lukewarm excuse they serve at some places here.”

Oscar huffed a quiet laugh. “You literally live in Monaco.”

“Yeah, but you know Monaco.” Lando shot him a look. “I trust your judgment.”

That was how, without much thought, Oscar had ended up bringing Lando here—his café.

It wasn’t his café, obviously. It just… happened to be the place he always went to. The place that had somehow worked itself into his routine. The place where—

Elaine.

She was behind the counter, laughing at something her brother was saying as she wiped down the espresso machine. She hadn’t seen them yet, but when she did, Oscar caught the flicker of surprise in her expression. It was brief—quickly replaced by her usual smirk—but he still noticed it.

And for some reason, that did something weird to his chest.

“Well, well,” she drawled, placing her hands on her hips. “Didn’t know you were the ‘bring a date to your favorite spot’ type, Piastri.”

Oscar sighed. “Don’t start.”

Lando, clearly intrigued, leaned on the counter with an easy grin. “Oh, I like you.”

Elaine grinned back. “Flatterer.”

Oscar shot him a look. “Lando.”

“What?” Lando glanced between them, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve been hiding this place—and her—from me. I feel betrayed.”

Oscar groaned. “I am never bringing you anywhere again.”

Elaine just chuckled, tapping her fingers against the counter as she looked at Oscar. “Usual for you?”

He nodded, and she got to work, moving with the practiced ease of someone who knew her way around a coffee machine.

Lando watched for a moment before nudging Oscar. “So,” he said under his breath. “Who is she?”

Oscar frowned. “Elaine.”

“Yes, I got that,” Lando muttered. “But, like. Who is she?”

Oscar took a slow breath. “She works here.”

Lando raised a brow. “And you two just happen to know each other well enough that she openly mocks you the second we walk in?”

Oscar didn’t answer.

Lando’s grin widened. “You like her.”

“I don’t.”

“Mmhmm.”

Before Oscar could tell him to shut up, Sir Reginald Fluffington III leaped onto the counter, settling himself between them like a self-appointed judge of character.

Lando’s eyes lit up. “Oh, hell yeah, a cat!”

He reached out to pet him, only for Sir Reginald to give him a slow, unimpressed blink before immediately turning toward Oscar instead, rubbing his face against his arm.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me? I didn’t even do anything.”

Elaine grinned. “Congratulations, you’ve been deemed unworthy.”

Oscar, meanwhile, absently scratched behind the cat’s ears, looking far too smug for Lando’s liking.

Lando squinted at him. “Alright, you know what? Maybe you do belong here.”

Elaine slid their drinks onto the counter. “Alright, boys, let’s see if this place lives up to your ridiculous standards.”

Lando took a sip, then paused, eyes widening slightly. “Damn. Okay, I see why you come here.”

Elaine leaned on the counter, looking pleased. “Told you I take it seriously.”

Lando shot a pointed look at Oscar. “You didn’t tell me she was a coffee genius.”

Oscar took his own cup, murmuring a quiet, “It’s why I come here.”

Elaine blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She recovered quickly, but Oscar saw it—that tiny pause, the brief flicker of something softer in her expression before she smirked again.

“Well,” she said, crossing her arms. “Guess that means I’ll be seeing more of you, Norris.”

Lando grinned. “If it means more coffee like this? Absolutely.”

Oscar just shook his head, already regretting the chaos he had unleashed. But beneath all of that, there was something else—a barely-there flicker of something unnamed, something strange, something he wasn’t quite ready to think about.

Because Lando had flirted with Elaine just to get a reaction. And Oscar had reacted.

And, somehow, what started with just Lando, turned into all of them.

At first, it was just the occasional visit—Lando tagging along whenever he felt like it, grinning at Elaine over the counter like he was in on some great secret. But then Max showed up one day, apparently intrigued after Lando wouldn’t shut up about the place. And when Max came, Charles wasn’t far behind. And then George, who they bumped into on the way and who figured, why not?

Before Oscar really processed how it happened, the café had become a regular spot for them.

Elaine handled it well, effortlessly juggling orders while throwing in her usual snark, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes whenever she met Oscar’s gaze—like she knew exactly what had happened, exactly how this little invasion had come to be.

He ignored it.

Some days, it was just him and Lando. Others, it was half the grid, sprawled across tables, talking about races, cars, travel schedules—just a mess of conversations overlapping.

Elaine saw Oscar from a distance sometimes, laughing at something Max had said, or gesturing animatedly as he explained some technical nuance to Charles. It was… different, seeing him like that. More open, more relaxed.

It was easy to forget, sometimes, that he wasn’t just Oscar, the guy who put up with her nonsense. He was Oscar Piastri, Formula 1 driver, future world champion if the world made any sense.

And yet, when he got up to grab another round of drinks, weaving his way to the counter, none of that seemed to matter.

Elaine smirked as he approached. “Back for more?”

“Apparently,” Oscar sighed, leaning on the counter.

“Is this your way of keeping me too busy to bother you?”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Across the room, Lando nudged Charles. “Look at that.”

Charles followed his gaze, watching as Oscar—Oscar, who barely tolerated human interaction—stood at the counter, casually talking to Elaine, something close to amusement flickering in his expression.

“Mon dieu,” Charles murmured. “He has a favorite barista.”

Lando grinned. “And he doesn’t even deny it.”

Max snorted. “Poor guy doesn’t even realize.”

Back at the counter, Oscar rolled his eyes as Elaine flicked a sugar packet at him. “For energy,” she said, looking innocent.

Oscar shook his head, taking the drinks without further comment. But as he turned back toward the table, he caught the way his friends were looking at him.

And for some reason, it made something twist in his chest.

And the it started as a joke. At least, Elaine thought it was a joke.

They had all been lounging at the café, their usual spot now, when Lando—because of course it was Lando—offhandedly mentioned something about bringing Elaine to a Grand Prix.

“You should come to Zandvoort,” he said, stirring his coffee.

Elaine, standing nearby, scoffed. “Oh, sure. Let me just hop on a plane with the entire Formula 1 circus. That sounds completely normal.”

Charles, ever the agent of chaos, grinned. “Why not? Oscar can take you.”

Oscar, who had been mid-sip, nearly choked. He shot Charles a look, but before he could protest, Max—who had been scrolling through his phone, unbothered—added, “Yeah, good race to start with. Orange everywhere. Chaos. You’d like it.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “You guys just want to see me suffer, don’t you?”

Lando smirked. “A little.”

She snorted. “Very funny.”

The conversation moved on.

But apparently, Oscar hadn’t.

Because the next day, when Elaine opened her apartment door, she found him standing there, a familiar expression of mild exasperation on his face, a small envelope in his hand.

Elaine wasn’t a morning person.

It took her brain a few extra seconds to register things before she could properly function—something Oscar had learned through unfortunate trial and error at the café.

So, when she opened her door that morning, her hair still a mess from sleep, wearing a hoodie that looked two sizes too big for her, she needed a solid moment to process what was happening.

Oscar. Standing there. On her doorstep. Holding an envelope. Looking as impassive as ever, but with a certain stiffness in his posture that meant he wasn’t here for something casual.

She blinked, still groggy. “Uh. Morning?”

“Morning,” he said, then immediately shoved the envelope into her hands like he wanted to be done with it.

Elaine squinted down at it. The paper was thick, expensive, like the kind you got for serious events. The kind of envelope that felt important. And Oscar was just standing there, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, watching her expectantly.

She glanced up at him. “You’re not serving me legal papers, are you?”

Oscar sighed. “Just open it.”

So she did.

At first, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Plane tickets. A familiar three-letter airport code. And—

Her eyes landed on the brightly colored paddock passes, printed with the words Formula 1 Heineken Dutch Grand Prix 2025.

Elaine blinked. Then blinked again.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze back to Oscar, still not fully awake, still not fully grasping what was happening. “Did you—” Her mouth opened, then closed. She shook the envelope a little, as if that would change its contents. “Oscar. What the hell is this?”

“Tickets,” he said, like it was obvious.

“For Zandvoort.”

“Yep.”

She held them up, waving them slightly. “You actually did it?”

“You thought I wouldn’t?”

“Yes!” she said, exasperated. “You barely put effort into text messages. And yet you—” She stopped mid-sentence, rifling through the envelope, and then something else caught her eye.

Separate from the paddock passes were additional tickets. Printed reservations. Museum entries.

Elaine pulled them out, scanning the names. The Rijksmuseum. The Van Gogh Museum. Anne Frank House.

She looked back at Oscar, expression stunned.

He exhaled, shifting his weight slightly. “If you’re making me sit through an entire weekend of you mocking my job, I figured I should get something out of it.”

Elaine just… stared at him.

Then, slowly, a grin spread across her face.

“Did you just bribe me with museums?”

Oscar’s lips twitched, but he fought the smile. “Is it working?”

Elaine didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him—really studied him. The way he was standing there, a little too stiff, like he wasn’t sure if she was going to say yes. The way he had clearly thought about this, planned it out, even included things she would enjoy.

Her chest felt strangely warm.

“You know,” she said, stepping aside and gesturing for him to come in, “I was going to take it easy on you in Zandvoort.”

Oscar stepped inside, glancing at her skeptically. “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Elaine’s grin turned mischievous as she shut the door behind him. “Oh, I definitely won’t now. You’re doomed, Piastri.”

Oscar had never walked so much in his life.

He was used to long training sessions, hours in the gym, and races that pushed his endurance to the limit—but this? This was a different kind of exhaustion. The kind that came from spending an entire day trailing after Elaine as she took him through what she called "a proper introduction to Amsterdam."

It had started with the museums. First the Rijksmuseum, where she dragged him from painting to painting, rattling off facts with a kind of enthusiasm that almost made him interested. Almost.

“I get that these are masterpieces,” he admitted at one point, hands shoved into his pockets as he stared at The Night Watch, “but you’d think someone would’ve told them to use better lighting.”

Elaine gasped. “Blasphemy.”

“I’m just saying. Look at it.” He gestured vaguely. “It’s so dark. Maybe that’s why everyone’s standing around—it’s taking them a while to figure out what they’re looking at.”

She groaned, rubbing her temples. “I am this close to abandoning you in this museum.”

But she didn’t. Instead, she spent another three hours leading him through hallways lined with art, maps, and relics. She talked. He listened. And, to his own quiet surprise, he actually retained some of it.

Then came the canal walk.

Elaine insisted it was the only way to properly take in the city. Oscar wasn’t convinced, but he followed her anyway, hands in his pockets as she strolled beside him, pointing out historical buildings, telling him stories about Amsterdam’s past.

For a while, he just listened.

And then, after a particularly dramatic tale about the city’s trading history, he smirked.

“You know,” he mused, “I think I finally understand why you like history so much.”

Elaine raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You like drama.”

She gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dare you.”

Oscar chuckled, the sound low and warm, and bumped his shoulder against hers. “You do. All these betrayals, wars, political schemes—you eat it up.”

Elaine pouted. “I was going to say something profound about how history connects us to the past and helps us understand the present, but sure. Let’s go with ‘Elaine likes drama.’”

“Hey, I get it,” he said with a smirk. “It’s like racing. Strategy, risks, the occasional backstabbing—same thing, different century.”

She shot him a look. “Remind me never to let you explain history to children.”

Oscar grinned.

They continued walking, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows along the canals. The air smelled of fresh bread from a nearby bakery, mingling with the crispness of the water. A couple of cyclists zipped past, bells ringing, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician played something soft and familiar.

Elaine sighed, tucking her hands into her coat pockets. “Alright, I dragged you through museums all day. What do you want to do now?”

Oscar considered. Then—“Dinner.”

Elaine blinked. “That’s it? No ‘let’s find the nearest simulator’ or ‘let’s analyze tire degradation charts over drinks’?”

He rolled his eyes. “I do normal things too, you know.”

“Debatable,” she muttered.

He nudged her with his elbow. “Come on, historian. You picked everything today. I get to pick dinner.”

She gave him a mock-serious look. “Fine. But if you choose some sad hotel restaurant, I’m revoking your privileges.”

Oscar smirked. “Relax. I know a place.”

And so they walked. Through the streets of Amsterdam, through the easy conversation and quiet moments in between, through the slow, unspoken shift in the space between them.

Neither of them mentioned it.

Neither of them needed to.

Dinner had been good. Simple, but good.

Oscar had picked a restaurant close to the hotel, one that wasn’t too fancy but had just enough of a warm, cozy atmosphere that Elaine immediately launched into a monologue about how Dutch cafés were vastly superior to anywhere else in Europe.

Oscar had listened, half-distracted by his food, half-focused on her usual theatrics.

She talked about the charm of old Dutch architecture, the history behind certain dishes, and—somehow—ended up explaining how the country’s trade routes influenced the spread of different spices across Europe.

Oscar had tuned out a little by that point, but it wasn’t like he minded.

She liked to talk. He liked to listen.

It worked.

By the time they made it back to the hotel, Elaine was still going, her words slowing down only slightly as the day caught up with her.

“Did you know,” she began as they stepped out of the elevator, “that the Dutch—”

“Elaine,” Oscar said, dryly. “That’s the tenth time you’ve started a sentence like that today.”

She ignored him, pushing ahead as if he hadn’t spoken. “—had such a monopoly on certain trades that entire economies were built around their influence?”

Oscar hummed noncommittally as he swiped his keycard, opening his door.

It was supposed to be the end of the conversation. They both had separate rooms—he had made sure of that. The plan was simple: go to sleep, wake up, and start fresh the next day.

Instead, Elaine just… walked in after him.

He blinked. “What—?”

“Anyway,” she continued, dropping onto his bed like it was hers, “what was I saying?”

Oscar sighed, rubbing his temples. “Dutch monopoly. Trade. Some economic thing.”

Elaine snapped her fingers. “Right! So—”

And that was how he found himself standing in his own hotel room, watching her lie back against the pillows, one arm flung behind her head, completely at home in his space.

He considered kicking her out.

Then he considered how much energy that would take.

Then he considered that nothing short of physically dragging her out would probably work.

So, with a resigned sigh, he grabbed his toiletry bag and headed for the bathroom.

By the time he came back, freshly showered and in his usual sleepwear, Elaine had somehow fully settled in.

Not only was she still sprawled across his bed, but she had also stolen his hoodie at some point, pulling it on over her t-shirt like she belonged in it.

She was still talking—something about Dutch colonialism now—but her words were starting to slur slightly, her eyelids drooping as sleep crept in.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. “Elaine, you have your own room.”

“Mmhm,” she hummed, eyes half-closed.

“You should go.”

Silence.

Then: the softest sound of her breathing, slow and even.

Oscar let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair.

Right.

Well.

That settled that, then.

Shaking his head, he grabbed an extra blanket from the closet, draped it over her, and shut off the main light.

Then, instead of trying to wrestle for space, he took the armchair by the window, grabbed his phone, and settled in for the night.

It wasn’t the most comfortable setup. But somehow, he didn’t really mind.

That is, until Oscar woke up to the sound of someone shifting around. A second later, a hand lightly smacked his leg.

“What the hell are you doing?” Elaine’s voice was groggy, thick with sleep but still laced with amusement.

Oscar blinked, trying to reorient himself. The dim glow of the city lights seeped in through the curtains, casting the hotel room in soft shadows. His neck ached. His back felt horrible. His arm—folded awkwardly beneath him—was completely numb.

Right. The armchair.

Elaine smacked his leg again, gentler this time. “You look like a pretzel.”

Oscar let out a low grunt. “You’re in my bed.”

“And?” She propped herself up on one elbow, squinting at him through the darkness. “I would literally rather be arrested than sleep in one of those horrible hotel pull-out couches.”

“It’s not a pull-out couch.”

“Whatever, it looks uncomfortable.”

Oscar exhaled slowly, rubbing his face. He was too tired to argue.

Elaine, apparently, was not.

“I’m not gonna call the cops if you get in bed, you know,” she added, her voice teasing. “I could, just to be dramatic, but I won’t.”

Oscar dragged a hand down his face. “Generous.”

“I am,” she agreed. Then, after a moment, her voice softened—less playful, more… genuine. “Seriously, though. Stop being weird. Just get in.”

Oscar hesitated.

Then, because the dull ache in his spine was getting unbearable, he finally gave in.

Wordlessly, he pushed himself up from the chair, stretched his arms over his head, and shuffled toward the bed.

Elaine scooted over without needing to be asked, making space for him. The bed wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that they didn’t have to be in each other’s space.

Still, as he settled under the covers, he felt the warmth of her presence beside him, her steady breathing filling the silence.

Elaine let out a satisfied hum. “See? Way better than suffering in that stupid chair.”

Oscar didn’t answer, already too close to sleep to form a proper response.

Elaine chuckled under her breath. “Goodnight, roomie.”

Oscar barely had the energy to sigh. “Go to sleep, Elaine.”

For a moment, Oscar thought he would be able to sleep.

The bed was undeniably more comfortable than the chair, and exhaustion pulled at him in waves. But the problem—the real problem—was that he was suddenly too aware of Elaine.

He could feel the warmth of her body beside him, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing. Every time she shifted, the blankets moved, the mattress dipped, and his entire body went rigid with hyper-awareness.

It was ridiculous. She wasn’t even touching him. There was a good few inches of space between them, and yet, Oscar still felt like she was everywhere.

He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling.

Maybe if he just stayed perfectly still—

Elaine shifted again, turning onto her side to face him. He could feel her gaze on him before she even spoke.

“Oscar,” she murmured.

He closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

“I know you’re awake.”

Damn it.

Oscar sighed, cracking one eye open. “What?”

“You’re so tense it’s making me nervous.”

“I’m fine.”

Elaine huffed. “You’re about as ‘fine’ as a cat stuck in a bathtub.”

Oscar pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to acknowledge how stiff his body felt, how tightly wound he was just from lying here.

Elaine, ever perceptive, saw straight through him.

“Okay,” she murmured, shifting again. “Hang on.”

He barely had time to process her movements before she reached out, resting a hand lightly on his arm.

Oscar froze.

Her touch was gentle, barely there, the pads of her fingers tracing slow, soothing lines against his skin.

“Relax,” she mumbled, voice already thick with sleep. “It’s just me.”

That’s the problem, Oscar wanted to say.

His pulse jumped, his entire body locking up. His instinct was to pull away, to escape the unfamiliarity of it—but before he could, Elaine’s touch changed.

She wasn’t teasing him this time.

Her fingertips glided over his forearm in slow, repetitive motions, tracing thoughtless patterns, featherlight and warm. The kind of touch that required no thought, no effort.

Oscar swallowed.

It was nice.

That was the worst part.

Slowly, hesitantly, he let himself breathe.

His shoulders loosened, his body sinking slightly into the mattress.

Elaine didn’t say anything else. She just kept drawing soft, absentminded shapes against his skin, like it was second nature.

Eventually, her movements slowed.

Then, they stilled entirely.

Her breathing evened out, deep and steady, as she finally drifted off.

Oscar exhaled, staring up at the ceiling again.

He was still wide awake.

The next day felt… different.

Not outwardly, not in any way that would be obvious to an outsider. Oscar and Elaine still bickered, still teased, still moved through the city with their usual dynamic—him rolling his eyes at her dramatic historical retellings, her making increasingly absurd claims just to get a reaction out of him.

But something had shifted.

Maybe it was the way Elaine’s hand brushed his when she passed him a museum ticket—fingers grazing against his palm just a second too long.

Maybe it was the way she stood closer than usual, their arms occasionally bumping as they walked.

Maybe it was the way she leaned into him—actually leaned into him—when she pointed out some obscure detail in a centuries-old painting, her shoulder pressing into his, her voice low near his ear.

Or maybe—maybe—it was the way they both noticed all of it.

Because for the first time, Oscar wasn’t just aware of Elaine’s presence—he was hyperaware. Of every glance, every touch, every moment that felt like it should be nothing but wasn’t.

Like now.

They were sitting on the steps of a canal bridge, finishing off the last of their coffees. The city moved around them—bikes whizzing past, boats drifting lazily through the water—but all Oscar could focus on was the fact that Elaine had kicked off her shoes, stretching her legs out beside his.

And that, at some point, her knee had come to rest against his.

It wasn’t intentional. Probably.

She didn’t seem to notice, at least not at first.

But then, a few minutes later, she shifted slightly, adjusting the way she sat—and didn’t move away.

Oscar didn’t either.

He should have. It would’ve been easy—just a small shift to the side, just an inch of space.

But neither of them moved.

The warmth of her knee against his felt… casual. Natural. Like it belonged there.

And Oscar should not be thinking about it this much.

Elaine turned to him, eyes bright. “Okay,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “What’s next on the itinerary, tour guide?”

Oscar forced his brain to catch up, to focus on something other than the warmth of her skin against his.

He cleared his throat. “There’s still the Anne Frank House,” he said, glancing at her. “Unless you’d rather find a café and keep giving me unsolicited history lessons.”

Elaine grinned. “Bold of you to assume I need another coffee for that.”

He snorted, shaking his head, but when he stood, he instinctively reached down to offer her a hand.

And when she took it—her fingers slipping easily into his, her grip warm and steady—Oscar realized two things.

One: he liked the way her hand fit in his.

And two: he was completely, utterly screwed.

And when night came, Elaine was doing it again.

Following him to his room like it was the most natural thing in the world, as if she belonged there.

Except tonight, she wasn’t talking.

The television played quietly in the background, some Dutch news channel filling the room with a low hum of voices neither of them paid attention to. Oscar moved around, going through his usual nighttime routine—checking his phone, answering a quick call from a McLaren team member, confirming a schedule for media duties on Thursday.

Elaine sat cross-legged on the bed, absentmindedly flipping through a travel guide she’d picked up earlier. She wasn’t reading it, though. Not really.

Oscar didn’t say anything about it.

He grabbed some clothes from his suitcase, disappearing into the bathroom for a quick shower. When he emerged, towel drying his hair, Elaine was still there.

Still silent.

Still watching.

Something about the way her eyes followed him felt… different.

He ignored it, tossing the towel aside as he started organizing a few things in his suitcase. He folded a shirt, straightened out a pair of socks. He was fully aware of how unnecessary it was—he didn’t need to be tidying up right now—but keeping his hands busy felt safer than acknowledging the weight of Elaine’s gaze.

She was looking at him like she was seeing something new.

Something she hadn’t noticed before.

Something she liked.

And that was dangerous.

Oscar cleared his throat, not looking at her. “So,” he said, keeping his voice casual. “Are you just going to stay here again until you fall asleep mid-sentence?”

Elaine smirked, but it was softer than usual. “Tempting,” she admitted, stretching her legs out. “But I think I’ll actually leave before I make myself too comfortable this time.”

Oscar snorted. “Unlikely.”

But then she stood, padding toward the door in her socks.

For a second, he almost thought she’d just leave.

But she paused.

Turned back.

And before he could react, she reached out, running her fingers through his damp hair—just a quick, slow drag of her hand, like she was testing the texture.

Her touch sent something electric down his spine.

“You should do your hair like this more often,” she murmured, like it was just a passing comment.

But it wasn’t just a comment.

Not when her fingers lingered for a second too long. Not when her voice had that particular softness to it.

Not when Oscar was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was.

His throat felt dry. “Yeah?”

Elaine’s lips twitched, her hand dropping back to her side. “Yeah.”

And then, just like that, she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving Oscar standing there, heart beating a little too fast, hair still wet, and very much aware that something had just shifted between them.

Elaine had seen bits of it on TV before, the sleek garages, the bustling pit lane, the media swarming around like bees. But experiencing it in person? That was something else entirely.

She had no idea where to go, who to talk to, or what to do with herself. She barely even recognized anyone—except for the handful of drivers who had started frequenting the café. Everyone else? Just a blur of branded team uniforms and important-looking people rushing past like they had somewhere critical to be.

And so, naturally, she stuck to Oscar like a lost puppy.

At first, she tried to play it cool—walking beside him at a respectable distance, pretending to know exactly where she was going. But then they entered the McLaren hospitality suite, where engineers, media personnel, and team executives moved with swift efficiency, talking strategy, making notes, exchanging glances that said we have five million things to do before the weekend even starts.

Elaine hesitated. Paused mid-step. And before she knew it, she was trailing behind Oscar, practically stepping on his heels.

Oscar, of course, noticed immediately.

He glanced back at her, amused. “What are you doing?”

Elaine huffed. “I don’t know where to go.”

“You have a paddock pass.”

“Yes, but what does that mean?” she said dramatically. “Do I just… exist? Lurk in corners? Am I supposed to talk to people? Do I get free food?”

Oscar smirked, handing his bag off to a team member before crossing his arms. “I mean, I assume you can talk to people, but you don’t have to.*”

“I don’t know anyone.”

“You know Lando.”

Elaine rolled her eyes. “Yeah, because you brought him to my café, not because I have a subscription to the ‘Who’s Who in F1’ club.” She looked around, frowning. “Where is he, anyway?”

Oscar checked his watch. “Media duties.”

“Ah. And you’re not doing that because?”

“Because I actually have things to do.”

“Rude.”

He smirked again, already turning towards the garage. Elaine made the mistake of hesitating, and suddenly he was ahead of her, navigating the chaos with practiced ease while she scrambled to keep up.

For the next twenty minutes, she followed him like a shadow—through the garage, past engineers, down the paddock lane. It didn’t go unnoticed. More than once, someone glanced at her, curious.

She felt ridiculous.

“I look like a stray dog,” she muttered under her breath.

Oscar snorted.

Elaine groaned, rubbing her temples. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do?”

Oscar finally stopped walking, turned to her, and let out a laugh. A real laugh. “You look so uncomfortable.”

“Because I am uncomfortable!” she whispered harshly. “I’m a history nerd at a motorsport event, Oscar! This is like throwing a fish into the desert!”

Oscar tilted his head. “That’s dramatic.”

Elaine narrowed her eyes. “You invited me. Fix it.”

He hummed, pretending to think. Then, with an infuriatingly casual shrug, he said, “Figure it out,” and kept walking.

Elaine groaned, dragging a hand down her face before jogging after him. Maybe being a stray dog wasn’t that bad.

She was learning.

By the time Friday’s practice sessions rolled around, she had figured out a few things:

Free food? Absolutely a thing. (Oscar had neglected to mention this, the menace.)

No one actually cared what she was doing as long as she wasn’t in the way.

Every time Oscar put his helmet on and got into the car, something in her stomach twisted—just a little.

That last part was not ideal.

She had spent the first free practice watching from the McLaren garage, trying not to look completely out of place as engineers muttered things about tire degradation and setup tweaks. Oscar had barely spared her a glance, too focused on whatever pre-session routine he had, and once he was in the car, she had expected him to be gone, mentally checked out.

Except—he had looked for her.

Just once. A brief flick of his eyes in her direction before the visor came down and he drove off.

And Elaine? She had no idea why her heart stuttered at that.

She spent the rest of the session in the garage, wearing a headset she barely understood, and when Oscar’s voice crackled through the radio—calm, measured, completely in his element—she felt something. Pride? Fascination? She wasn’t sure.

She distracted herself by making unnecessary notes in a small pocket journal she had brought, sketching out the circuit layout and writing down completely useless historical facts about the Netherlands. (Zandvoort was originally a fishing village. In 1955, the track had to be modified to reduce wind sensitivity.)

Oscar later found her curled up in the corner of the hospitality suite, scribbling away like an academic lost in a war zone.

He squinted at her notebook. “Are you taking—actual notes?”

Elaine didn’t look up. “Your tires suck.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Not my fault.”

“Isn’t it, though?” she teased.

He sighed, stealing a bite of whatever snack she had in front of her.

And just like that, the weekend blurred forward—brief exchanges, subtle touches, and something unspoken simmering beneath the surface.

By the time Saturday passed by, Elaine realized just how fast Oscar was.

She hadn’t fully understood how much until she watched qualifying from the McLaren pit wall. Seeing the cars live, watching him weave through corners with pinpoint precision—it was different from seeing it on a screen.

And then came that moment.

When Oscar set a lap quick enough to push into Q3, the McLaren garage erupted. Cheers, high-fives, engineers nodding in approval. Elaine, caught up in the energy, grinned and turned—just as Oscar walked in, removing his helmet, shaking out his damp hair.

Their eyes met.

Elaine barely registered that she had started moving until she was right there, standing closer than she had any reason to be.

His breath was still heavy from exertion, his racing suit clinging to his frame. There was sweat at his temple, and for some stupid reason, her gaze flickered to his lips before snapping back up.

Oscar smirked.

She immediately took a step back.

“Good job,” she muttered, arms crossing.

“Thanks.” His voice was lower, rougher.

Something flickered between them—charged, weighty. Elaine hated it. (She didn’t hate it at all.)

Before she could dig herself into a deeper hole, Lando appeared, clapping Oscar on the back and breaking the spell.

Elaine exhaled. Crisis averted.

That night, a group naturally formed at the hotel bar. It wasn’t planned—just a product of circumstance, of familiar faces gravitating toward one another after a long day.

Lando was there, of course, along with a few other drivers—Verstappen, Russell, Leclerc. A couple of engineers. A few partners who had tagged along for the weekend. It was casual, low-key, everyone nursing drinks and unwinding.

Elaine had somehow ended up next to Oscar, which wasn’t surprising. It was instinct at this point.

What was surprising was how everyone else seemed to notice.

It wasn’t like they were doing anything out of the ordinary. They weren’t even touching. But their dynamic was so them—full of quiet familiarity, an ease that stood out amidst the rest of the group.

Oscar would grab his drink, and without thinking, Elaine would shift his phone closer so he wouldn’t knock it over.

Elaine would huff about something Lando said, and Oscar would shoot her a subtle, knowing smirk, like he already knew the exact way she’d react before she even did.

At one point, Elaine reached for something on the table—a stray napkin, a drink menu, something unimportant—and Oscar, mid-conversation, simply handed it to her without missing a beat.

The others noticed.

They didn’t say anything. But glances were exchanged, smirks barely hidden behind glasses.

Russell leaned back, watching with an amused tilt of his head. Max, swirling his drink lazily, flicked his gaze between them before raising a brow at Lando. Charles, seated across from Oscar, let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking his head to himself.

Then, as if to cement whatever silent conclusion they had all reached, Elaine accidentally knocked her phone off the table.

With a sigh, she slipped off her stool to grab it before it slid further away. As she ducked under the table, Oscar—without even looking—simply reached out and covered the sharp edge of the table with his hand, shielding it.

Elaine, entirely unaware, grabbed her phone and straightened, sliding back into her seat. She had no idea she had just avoided smacking her temple against the corner of the table.

But the others had definitely seen. Lando, Max, George, Charles. God, even the waiter passing by.

Lando exhaled sharply, shaking his head in disbelief. George took a slow sip of his drink, eyes gleaming with silent amusement. Max pressed his lips together, barely suppressing a knowing smirk. Charles let out a quiet chuckle, exchanging a look with Lando.

And no one said anything.

No teasing remark, no pointed comment. They didn’t need to.

Oscar, still half-listening to a conversation on his other side, finally turned his head, sensing the shift in the air.

His gaze swept over the group, eyes narrowing slightly. “What?”

Silence.

George took another sip of his drink, looking far too entertained. Lando just pressed his lips together, like he was physically holding back a laugh. Max and Charles shared a look, one that said no need to state the obvious.

Elaine, oblivious to the silent exchange happening around her, just frowned. "God, you’re all weird," she muttered, settling back into her seat.

Oscar, still confused but unbothered, just shook his head and turned back to his drink.

And yet, despite everything, the glances, the smirks, the knowing, didn’t fade.

Still, no one said anything.

No need.

It was only a matter of time.

Everything was a blur.

The moment Oscar crossed the finish line, the world erupted around him. The radio crackled with overlapping voices—his engineer shouting, Zak laughing, Lando’s excitement cutting through the chaos. The garage exploded on the broadcast screens, a wave of orange jumping and cheering, arms flung around shoulders. Champagne had already been cracked open before he had even stepped out of the car.

P2. A podium.

He should have been overwhelmed—the sheer scale of the moment, the deafening roar of the crowd, the weight of it pressing against his chest. But beneath the rush of adrenaline, something steadier, something quieter, was pulling at him.

Elaine.

Somewhere in that sea of orange, gripping the team radio headset like her own personal lifeline. Somewhere on the pit wall, tracking his every move. Watching him.

And for some inexplicable reason, that meant more than anything else.

The podium ceremony passed in a haze of flashing cameras and sticky-sweet champagne. His fireproofs clung to his skin, his pulse still thrummed from the race. Standing there on the second step, trophy in hand, he should have been drinking in the moment. He should have been lost in it.

But all he could think about was getting down. Getting to her.

The second he was free from the cameras, his feet carried him forward before his mind had even fully caught up. Through the paddock, past the endless congratulations, through the crowd of McLaren mechanics still celebrating.

And then—

There she was.

Standing just inside the garage, shifting on her feet, eyes flickering across the room like she was searching for something. Searching for him.

His legs carried him faster. The next thing he knew, his arms were around her, pulling her in, holding her tightly against him.

She let out a startled yelp, hands pressing against his chest. “Oh my god, you’re drenched.” Her voice was half-groan, half-laugh, warm against his shoulder. “Oscar, this is disgusting.”

He only held her tighter, grinning against her hair. “Don’t care.”

She made a dramatic noise of protest but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled slightly in the damp fabric of his fireproofs, and slowly—almost reluctantly—she melted into him.

He could feel her breath, quick and light, against his collarbone. The warmth of her body pressed into his, grounding him in a way nothing else could. For a moment, he forgot about the crowd, the noise, the cameras. There was only her—her voice, her laugh, her heartbeat against his ribs.

Her hand slid up to his shoulder, fingers brushing against his skin, gentle and unhurried. “You were incredible,” she murmured, so quietly that he barely caught it over the noise.

His chest tightened.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes bright, expression raw with something too big to name. The way she was looking at him—it made his pulse stutter, made everything else feel small.

Her gaze flickered downward, just for a second.

Then she leaned in, tilting her head, clearly aiming for his cheek—

Someone called his name. Without thinking, he turned.

Their lips brushed.

The world stilled.

Elaine barely had time to react.

Her breath hitched, eyes widening as the realization of what had just happened crashed over her. Their lips had touched. It had been brief, accidental, nothing more than a brush—but the warmth of it lingered, tingling, refusing to fade.

She pulled back an inch, blinking fast. “Oh—shit, I—”

She never got to finish.

Oscar’s hand moved before he could think, fingers sliding up to cup the back of her neck, his grip firm but careful, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on. His thumb brushed against her skin, just below her ear, and Elaine’s breath hitched again—just for a second—before he closed the distance.

This time, it wasn’t an accident.

The moment their lips met again, the rest of the world melted away.

Elaine let out a soft, surprised noise against his mouth, but she didn’t hesitate. Her hands found his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as she pulled him closer—like he wasn’t already pressed against her, like there was still space left between them that needed to be closed.

Oscar responded in kind. His other arm tightened around her back, his grip firm, almost desperate, as if he could somehow hold onto the moment forever. She was warm against him, grounding in a way nothing else was, her lips soft and sure against his own. And when she sighed quietly into the kiss, something in his chest turned over, twisting in a way he didn’t quite understand.

Then—

The garage erupted.

The cheers hit all at once, loud and gleeful, laughter and whistles and the unmistakable sound of someone slapping the nearest hard surface in excitement.

Elaine barely had time to process it before—

“FUCKING FINALLY!” Lando’s voice, unmistakable, rang out over the noise, dripping with exasperated glee. Someone else whooped. Someone else actually clapped.

Elaine broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, face burning, eyes wide.

Oscar barely pulled away—just enough to look at her, to take in the stunned expression, the way her breath came uneven, the way her fingers were still tangled in his hair like she had no intention of letting go.

He huffed a laugh, breathless, forehead still so close to hers that she could feel the warmth of it.

Elaine swallowed. “So, uh… does this mean you like me?”

His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her just a little closer, even though there was no space left between them to begin with.

“Jesus, Elaine.”

She grinned, dazed but teasing, her voice lighter than air. “I mean, you could’ve just told me. Would’ve saved us months of slow-burning bullshit.”

Oscar groaned, dropping his head slightly, and she could feel the soft huff of his laugh against her skin.

“Shut up.”

Then she smirked. “Make me.”

So he did.

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He can’t stop looking. Something inside him stirs, as if a dark thought is trying to make its way through, but Carlos suppresses it. He clenches his jaw, forces a long exhale, and walks toward the assistance vehicle. He isn’t hurt. Not a scratch. He should be fine.

But he isn’t.

In the following nights, the accident returns to him in sporadic bursts, fragmented images that wake him in the middle of the night. It's not exactly fear, but something inside him trembles when he remembers the moment he lost control. On the track, he’s supposed to be in charge, to decide every movement with surgical precision. But there, in those seconds when his car became a missile with no direction, he felt something he doesn’t want to admit: vulnerability.

The following races are strange. There’s something in the way he drives that has changed, and although no one directly mentions it, he knows they notice. He’s not slower, but he’s not the same. He becomes more methodical, more cautious in certain maneuvers. His braking is a little longer, his overtakes less aggressive. Sometimes, when he’s alone in his hotel room after a Grand Prix, he remembers the exact moment his car crashed, and for some reason, he feels the air catch in his throat.

It bothers him. It shouldn’t affect him like this. It’s not the first time he’s crashed a car, and he knows it won’t be the last. But this time, there’s something different. Maybe because it wasn’t his mistake. Maybe because, for the first time in his career, he wondered if it could’ve turned out worse. If, in another circumstance, he might not have walked away.

The interviews become an awkward formality. The press asks what’s wrong, why he seems more serious, more quiet. He responds with empty phrases, with that neutrality he’s perfected over the years. But inside Ferrari, within the team, the glances persist. His engineer remains patient. Some mechanics try to joke with him as usual, but there’s something in the air, a lingering discomfort. And then there’s Vasseur.

Vasseur notices it. He says nothing at first, but Carlos sees the way he watches him during meetings, the way his eyes harden every time they review the data and see those small changes in his driving style. He’s not alarmed yet, but he’s attentive. And Carlos knows he can’t afford that kind of attention.

Then comes the conversation.

“Talk to Dr. Silvia Costa. I worked with her years ago, and she’s very good at what she does,” Vasseur says, with his usual pragmatic tone, straightforward, no room for discussion.

Carlos frowns, crossing his arms. “I don’t need a therapist.”

“Oh?,” Vasseur doesn’t flinch. He leans back in his chair, fingers interlaced on the table. “Then tell me, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Carlos responds too quickly, and they both know it. Vasseur watches him in silence, giving him space to correct himself and Carlos looks away. “I’m just… adjusting. It’s normal after an accident.”

“What’s not normal is that you’re still ‘adjusting’ so long after,” Vasseur rests his elbows on the table. “Look, Carlos, I’m not here to waste your time. But I’ve been in this business for years, and I know what happens when a driver starts to doubt. It doesn’t fix itself.”

Carlos exhales slowly, annoyed. “I’m not doubting.”

“Yes, you are.” Vasseur’s tone is direct, but not cruel. “I’m not saying you’re slower, or that you’ve lost your talent. But you’re driving differently. More cautious. With more margin than you usually give yourself. And that margin, sooner or later, is going to cost you positions. Do you know who else is going to notice? The people who make decisions in this team.”

Carlos grits his teeth. He hated when Vasseur was right.

“I’m not saying you’re going to lose your seat,” Vasseur continues, “but if this keeps up, we’re going to have a problem. And I’d rather avoid it now than too late.”

Carlos taps his fingers on the table, resisting. The thought of sitting in a room and talking to a stranger about whatever it is he’s feeling repulses him. He’s not like that. He doesn’t work that way.

“Listen,” Vasseur says, calmer now. “Do it. One session. If after that you still think it’s a waste of time, I won’t insist. But I doubt that’ll be the case.”

Carlos takes his time to respond. But deep down, he knows Vasseur isn’t giving him a real choice. And the worst part is that he is right.

“Fine,” he finally concedes, his voice tinged with resignation. “One session.”

“Good.” Vasseur nods with a slight smile. “I’m sure it’ll be worth it.”

Carlos isn’t so sure.

Silvia Costa’s office isn’t what he expected. There’s no couch, no pristine white walls. Instead, there are shelves filled with books, a warm light, and a chair that feels far too comfortable for someone who doesn’t want to be there. Carlos feels out of place, with the sense that he should be anywhere else. Preferably inside a race car, at full speed, far from this room where the air is too calm.

Silvia smiles at him naturally as he enters, no trace of pity or judgment on her face. “Carlos, come in. You can sit wherever you feel most comfortable.”

He merely nods and sits in the armchair across from her, though comfortable is not the word he’d use. He crosses his arms and fixes his gaze on an indeterminate point on the table. He doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened.

“I guess you’re here because Vasseur insisted,” she says in a light tone, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Carlos lets out a brief, humorless laugh. “How’d you guess?”

“Because almost everyone comes in like that,” she replies calmly. There’s no pressure in her voice, no rush to make him speak. She just leaves the space there, available.

Carlos nods, not knowing what to say. Silvia doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t fill the uncomfortable silence with empty words. She just waits. And somehow, that’s more unsettling than any question.

He feels the urge to stand up and leave. To pretend this never happened. But something in the way Silvia looks at him, with that mix of understanding and patience, keeps him in his seat.

Carlos exhales slowly, feeling the weight of the silence between them. He doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s used to conversations having a clear purpose, to people wanting something from him: answers, statements, justifications. But Silvia just watches him, not judging, not expecting anything specific, and that throws him off.

“Tell me about the accident,” she says, finally. Her tone is neutral, with no trace of pity or morbid curiosity. As if she were asking about any other day in his life.

Carlos clenches his jaw. His first instinct is to respond with a dry “there’s nothing to tell,” but he knows that won’t work. He’s here now. It’s best to get it over with quickly.

“It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary,” he says, shrugging. “I lost the car in a corner, ended up against the barriers. End of story.”

“Did you get hurt?”

“No.” He forces himself to sound indifferent, but his answer comes out too blunt.

Silvia nods lightly, not questioning him.

“And what happened after?”

Carlos frowns.

“Nothing. I got out of the car. Walked to the assistance vehicle. Watched them remove my car, then went back to the paddock.”

“How did you feel?”

He presses his lips together, a subtle irritation flaring up in his chest.

“Fine.”

Silvia tilts her head slightly, as if analyzing his response.

“Really?”

Carlos exhales with frustration, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Look, I know where you’re going,” he says, not hiding his impatience. “But I’m not the first driver to crash into the barriers. It’s no big deal. It’s just part of the job.”

“I know.” Her voice remains calm, but not placating. “So why are you here?”

Carlos tenses.

“Because they’re making me.”

Silvia smiles faintly, without a hint of mockery.

“You already said that. But if everything was really fine, if it really wasn’t ‘no big deal,’ do you think Vasseur would’ve asked you to come here?”

Carlos feels the discomfort knot in his chest. He doesn’t want to admit it. He doesn’t want to admit there’s something still chasing him when he closes his eyes at night, something he can’t shake when he’s in the car.

He looks away, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, as his only concession.

Silvia doesn’t press. She just nods, as if that small crack in his defense is enough for today.

“That’s fine,” she says, her voice calm. “You don’t have to know right now.”

Carlos blinks. He expected her to insist, to try and get more out of him. But she doesn’t.

“We’ll leave it here for today,” she adds. “If you decide to come back, we can keep talking.”

Carlos doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either. He just stands up, feeling a slight pressure in his chest that wasn’t there when he arrived.

And as he walks away from the office, Silvia’s words echo in his mind.

“If everything was really fine… why are you here?”

The simulator shouldn’t feel this real.

Carlos knows that. It’s a machine, a set of data and algorithms designed to mimic reality—but without the weight of true speed, without the roar of the engine vibrating in his chest. And yet, when his hands close around the steering wheel and the virtual track unfolds before him, his body reacts as if he were really there. As if everything truly depended on every turn, every brake.

He settles into the seat, adjusting everything without thinking too much about it. The simulator's cockpit is dark, enclosed, only the screens and projected data in his peripheral vision. One of the engineers says something over the radio, but Carlos just nods, letting the voice blend into the background noise. His focus is on the track. On the stopwatch.

First stint.

The virtual tires are cold on the first lap, but that doesn’t worry him. The simulator is fine-tuned to the millimeter, and Carlos knows every detail of the circuit. He has memorized it in his skin, in his muscles. Every braking point, every apex. His body acts before his mind, automated by years of repetition.

He releases the brake into turn four, letting the car settle on the front-left tire before opening the throttle. Precise. Fast. As always.

But then he reaches that turn.

It’s not the same one from the accident. He knows that. The incline is different, the angle less aggressive. But something about the way the car moves as he enters, at the exact point where he should release the brake and trust the grip, triggers an instinctive reaction.

A slight hesitation on the wheel.

A millisecond of doubt.

Not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but he feels it.

It’s not the first time he’s gone through this turn. It’s part of today’s test program. And yet, this time, something is different. An echo of the crash slipping through the cold data of the simulation, through the precise calculation of the steering angle and brake distribution.

Carlos frowns, his jaw tight. No. It doesn’t make sense.

He presses the throttle more firmly on the next lap, forcing himself to ignore the feeling.

But there it is again.

His foot moves just a fraction of a second earlier before braking, anticipating something that doesn’t exist. His body reacts as if it’s expecting the impact, as if, deep down in his subconscious, that turn means danger.

The simulator engineer’s voice comes through the radio.

“All good, Carlitos?”

The question sounds casual, but Carlos knows he noticed the difference. The telemetry doesn’t lie.

He presses his lips together, jaw clenched. Everything is fine. It’s just that his heart is beating a little faster than usual.

“Yeah. Small mistake. Let’s go again.”

He tries again. And again. And again.

Every time he reaches that turn, his foot hesitates just before braking. It shouldn’t happen. Not in a simulator. Not when there are no real consequences.

But his body doesn’t seem to have received the message.

And the worst part is that the more he tries, the stronger the feeling becomes. He can’t ignore it. It’s there, like interference in a signal that used to be clear. An empty space between instinct and execution.

When the session ends, he steps out of the cockpit, frowning, discomfort knotting in his chest. He doesn’t like this. He doesn’t like that his own instinct—the one he has refined for years to react in fractions of a second—is failing him.

He feels restless, his skin stretched too tight over his muscles.

He walks down the hallway aimlessly, not even stopping to talk to the team. He doesn’t want to review the telemetry. He doesn’t want to confirm it in cold, precise data.

Carlos enters the locker room and leans against the wall, letting the silence wrap around him.

When he looks at himself in the mirror, what he sees in his reflection isn’t fatigue or simple frustration. It’s something deeper. Something that won’t go away, no matter how much he tries to ignore it.

Before he can think too much about it, he pulls out his phone and dials a number he knows by heart.

It only rings once before the call is answered.

“Son,” his father says, with that unshakable calm he has always had. “How are you?”

Carlos wets his lips. His usual response—fine, all good—gets stuck in his throat.

“I had a session in the simulator,” he says instead.

There’s no rush in his father’s voice. No impatient “And? How was it?” Just silence, giving him space.

Carlos exhales.

“There was a turn that… I don’t know, it reminded me of that crash from months ago. It shouldn’t matter, but every time I got there, I braked early. A millisecond. But I felt it.”

On the other end of the line, his father sighs.

“That happens because you’re human, Carlos.”

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be human. He wants to be infallible.

“You crashed too,” he says, almost defiantly. “This didn’t happen to you.”

His father laughs, but not mockingly. It’s the kind of laugh that comes with understanding, with years of experience.

“And how do you know that?” he asks, calmly. “Because I didn’t say it in interviews? Because it didn’t show up in the telemetry?”

Carlos doesn’t answer. He doesn’t want to think about that.

“The important thing isn’t whether you feel fear, son. The important thing is what you do with it.”

The knot in his chest tightens a little more.

“Did you go see the psychologist Vasseur recommended?”

He clenches his jaw. “I went once.”

“And?”

“Nothing. It was… weird. She didn’t push too hard.”

His father lets out a soft chuckle.

“Smart move. Now you’re the one who can’t stop thinking about going back.”

Carlos tilts his head back, lightly knocking it against the wall. He hates him a little for saying that. Because it’s true.

“Listen, Carlos,” his father continues, his voice patient. “If you have a tool at your disposal, use it. There’s no point in fighting alone if there’s someone who can help you understand what’s happening.”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, his breathing slower now.

“I don’t know.”

“You do know.” His father doesn’t let him escape. “The question isn’t if you know. It’s if you’re going to do something about it.”

Silence.

Carlos closes his eyes for a moment. He hates himself a little for what he’s about to say next.

“…I’ll call her tomorrow.”

His father smiles on the other end of the line.

“Good decision.”

Carlos hangs up. He stays there for a moment, phone in hand, head resting against the wall.

Then, he lets out a brief, humorless laugh.

If only everything in life could be solved as easily as turning a steering wheel.

Carlos lowers his phone and places it on the locker room bench, next to his helmet and the gloves he still hasn’t put in his bag. He should feel better. The call with his father should have relieved some of that pressure in his chest, given him the certainty that what he’s going through is normal, that he’s not losing his mind. But it doesn’t.

The weight is still there, settled in his stomach like an anchor. It’s nothing. It shouldn’t be anything. But the more he tries to convince himself, the more obvious the one truth he’s been avoiding becomes.

No, he’s not okay.

And if he knows it now, if he’s already reached that conclusion—why wait?

He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. Then he reaches out and picks up his phone again, unlocking the screen and finding his chat with Vasseur. It’s there, in their conversation from days ago. A number, accompanied by a brief message.

"For when you’re ready. Call her."

Carlos exhales sharply, as if he needs to brace himself. His thumb hesitates over the screen for just a second before tapping the number.

The tone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

A click on the other end. And then, a voice, husky from interrupted sleep.

“Mmm… yes?”

Carlos blinks.

It’s not a receptionist. Not an answering machine.

It’s Silvia herself.

Shit.

He freezes for a second—long enough for Silvia to make a quiet sound, shifting, as if sitting up in bed.

“…Carlos?” she asks, still drowsy but not surprised.

Carlos blinks again, his brain stuttering to start.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he blurts out, too fast. “I thought this was your office. I didn’t mean—”

Silvia chuckles softly, cutting off his apology. Her voice still carries the lazy notes of sleep.

“It’s okay,” she says, a smile almost audible in her tone. “No problem. Though I’ll admit, I didn’t expect you to call at this hour.”

Carlos pulls the phone away from his ear for a second and checks the screen.

00:37.

Fuck.

He closes his eyes briefly, cursing himself in silence. Of course, Vasseur wouldn’t give him a reception number. He gave him her personal one. And in his brilliant moment of clarity, he just called her in the middle of the night.

“Seriously, I’m sorry,” he says, running a hand down his face. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Silvia laughs again, softer this time.

“Carlos.” Her voice is patient, free of any irritation. “Breathe.”

And the worst part is—he does. Without thinking, he exhales in a long sigh.

“Good,” Silvia says, still relaxed. “Now tell me, did you call by mistake, or did you actually want to talk to me?”

Carlos swallows. A reflex of pride, of discomfort, tells him to hang up now and pretend this never happened. But it’s too late for that.

And more importantly… he doesn’t want to hang up.

He clenches his jaw, hating what he’s about to admit.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Silvia doesn’t tease him, doesn’t try to soften it with kind words. She simply gives him space to continue.

Carlos licks his lips, staring at the screen as if it might show him the right way to explain. He doesn’t know why this is so difficult. He’s done hundreds of interviews, talked to engineers about incredibly complex mechanical issues, spent hours breaking down every detail of his race performance. But saying out loud that something isn’t right? That gets stuck in his throat.

Silvia waits. She doesn’t rush him and somehow, that makes it easier to talk.

“Today in the simulator,” he starts, rubbing his thumb against his eyebrow, “there was a corner that… I don’t know. Something about it reminded me of the crash. It’s not the same, but the feeling was there. And I braked earlier than I should have.”

There’s a second of silence. Then, Silvia responds, as calm as ever.

“And that worried you?”

Carlos tilts his head back, staring at the locker room ceiling.

“What worries me is that I don’t know how to make it stop.”

It sounds more honest than he expected.

Silvia doesn’t tell him she understands. She doesn’t tell him it’s normal. She just responds with something that throws him off more than anything else.

“Then let’s talk about it.”

Carlos blinks. “Now?”

“You don’t have to do it right this second,” Silvia replies, “but if you’ve already taken the step of calling me, why wait?”

Carlos presses his lips together. Exactly.

Why wait?

Silvia lets him think. She doesn’t push. She lets him decide.

And Carlos, for the first time in a long time, chooses not to run.

“Okay.”

“Good.” Silvia sounds more awake now, and her voice carries something almost like satisfaction. “I’m guessing you’re not in Monaco right now. When you’re around, stop by my office, and I’ll make time for you. You’ve taken the first step already—don’t back out now.”

Carlos exhales.

“Yeah. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Perfect. Get some rest, Carlos.”

She hangs up before he can change his mind.

Carlos stays there, phone still in his hand, staring at the dark screen.

The pressure in his chest is still there, but for the first time, it doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.

The hallway felt longer than he remembered. Or maybe it was just that he was walking slower, carrying the weight of someone unsure if they really wanted to reach their destination.

Carlos adjusted the sleeves of his sweatshirt, feeling the slight tremor in his fingers. Not cold, not exactly fear, but something close to a restless unease he couldn’t shake.

He had barely slept. Another night spent tossing and turning, his mind trapped in a loop of thoughts that led nowhere. It had been like this for weeks—months, even—but it was getting harder to hide it. The exhaustion clung to him like an extra weight he couldn’t shrug off.

He sighed before pushing the door open and stepping into Silvia’s office.

The same room. The same scent of coffee and paper. The soft light filtering through the blinds. And Silvia, sitting behind her desk, wearing that same calm expression as always.

It should have felt familiar. After all, this wasn’t the first time he had walked into this office. But Carlos felt the same nervousness he had in their first session. Something about this space disarmed him, stripped him of his defenses before Silvia had even spoken a single word.

It was not a comfortable feeling.

He let himself drop into the chair with a heavy exhale, fixing his gaze on a random spot on Silvia’s desk.

"Alright. I’m not okay," he admitted, no pretense, no embellishment. "I can’t sleep properly, my foot shakes on the throttle in fast corners, and last night, I found myself watching a documentary about avocado farming at three in the morning."

Silvia glanced up from her notebook, raising an eyebrow.

"Avocados?"

"Don’t ask. It was just… hypnotic."

She gave a small, amused smile but didn’t say anything. She simply let him continue, and that unsettled Carlos more than if she had asked him something difficult. He cleared his throat and drummed his fingers on the chair’s armrest, as if trying to organize his thoughts.

"I realized that if I keep going like this, I’ll end up with a farm in the middle of nowhere instead of on the starting grid. And as tempting as that sounds, I don’t think people would be too thrilled to see me milking cows instead of driving a Ferrari."

Silvia tilted her head slightly, studying him with that gaze of hers that made him feel too exposed. Too transparent.

"It’s not just the accident, is it?"

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but Silvia spoke first.

"It’s the pressure of carrying your last name. The shadow of everything your father achieved. The obligation to live up to it. It’s what it means to drive for Ferrari, what it means to be Leclerc’s teammate, the uncertainty of not having a secured seat for next year. Nothing is guaranteed, and the accident was just the final drop that made all of this feel even heavier."

Carlos felt the air catch in his lungs. He froze, too still, as if any sudden movement would make Silvia’s words even more real.

He didn’t know what hit him harder—hearing out loud what he had never put into words or the fact that Silvia had broken him down so effortlessly.

Something inside him tensed. Was he really that obvious? That easy to read?

He looked at Silvia, caught between disbelief and something deeper, something he couldn’t immediately name.

"Wow," he muttered, half incredulous, half uneasy. "I don’t know if I should congratulate you or be worried that you can read me so easily."

Silvia rested her elbows on the desk, lacing her fingers together, her gaze unwavering.

"It’s not that you’re easy to read, Carlos. It’s that you’ve been trying to ignore it for too long."

A faint shiver ran down his spine. He ran a hand over his jaw, averting his eyes to the floor. He didn’t want to admit it. He didn’t want to acknowledge how much those words had hit the mark.

Because that would mean accepting that all this time, he had been running.

From his name. From Ferrari. From the toxic competitiveness. From the uncertain future.

From himself.

For the first time in months, it felt like someone was putting order to the chaos inside him.

And that scared him more than any high-speed corner.

Carlos let out a slow sigh, as if hoping to exhale some of the weight pressing down on him. It didn’t work.

He ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes before letting his arms drop onto his lap.

"Alright, let’s say you’re right…" His voice was lower, rougher, more tired than he would’ve liked. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

Silvia looked at him with patience, as if she had been expecting that question.

"For starters, stop pretending everything is fine."

Carlos let out a humorless chuckle.

"Great, I’ll squeeze that in between ‘improving quali times’ and ‘not losing my mind over Ferrari’s strategy calls.’"

Silvia allowed a small smile, but she didn’t let him deflect with sarcasm.

"Carlos… I know you think it’s all about driving faster, about just pushing through as if nothing’s wrong. But how much longer do you think you can keep this up?"

Carlos narrowed his eyes, feeling a sharp pang in his chest because, as much as he hated to admit it, that was the question he feared the most.

"I don’t know," he murmured, staring at the floor. "I don’t know how much longer I can last."

And there it was. It had slipped out before he could think twice. A truth he hadn’t even allowed himself to acknowledge.

Silvia didn’t respond right away. She gave him space, let him breathe.

The silence in the room felt heavy, but for the first time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the kind of silence that demanded immediate answers—it was the kind that gave him permission to process.

Finally, Silvia took a deep breath and said, with that quiet certainty that always disarmed him:

"Then let’s start there."

Carlos met her eyes, with something that looked like surrender—but maybe, just maybe, it was the first step toward something different.

"Alright."

And this time, he meant it.

The weeks began to blur into a routine that, although intense, gradually stopped feeling like a burden for Carlos. Between endless simulations, training sessions that pushed his body to the limit, and races that demanded every ounce of his focus, there was always a spot in his schedule for his sessions with Silvia.

At first, he went out of obligation. It was what Vasseur expected of him. It was what, deep down, he knew he had to do, even if he hated to admit it. But over time, without realizing it, he started anticipating them in a different way. Not with reluctance, not with the feeling that he was walking into some kind of emotional interrogation, but with a strange curiosity.

Because Silvia had the patience of a saint. She never pressured him, but she never let him escape either. She knew exactly when to let silence do the talking and when to strike at just the right moment to make him see what he refused to acknowledge. As if she had a map of his mind that he hadn’t even been able to draw himself.

Slowly, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. His fear didn’t just come from the accident. It had been there long before. The fact that, despite all his achievements, his seat in Formula 1 never seemed fully secure.

And between sessions, travels, and races, something else found its way into his routine: humor. He discovered that Silvia shared the same dry sarcasm he did. That she had an almost unsettling ability to fire back at him with comebacks so quick they left him speechless. That somehow, in the midst of all those conversations about fears and anxieties, there was always a moment when they ended up laughing at something absurd.

Carlos hated to admit it, but he did. One afternoon, leaning back against the couch in his office, arms crossed with an expression of feigned indifference, he casually let it slip.

“Don’t get too excited, but therapy might be one of the best decisions I’ve made.”

Silvia merely raised an amused eyebrow. “Was that a compliment?”

Carlos tilted his head as if considering it. “I don’t know. Don’t get used to it.”

But deep down, they both knew the truth.

The weeks continued passing, marked by a whirlwind of flights, training sessions, and races that took him all over the world. However, between the adrenaline of the circuits and the constant pressure to prove himself, one thing remained constant: his messages with Silvia.

It wasn’t something he had planned, nor something he even stopped to analyze. At first, they were just reminders about their sessions, the occasional comment about his progress. But before he knew it, the texts became more natural, more frequent. A joke between races. A “Try not to crash” that always arrived before qualifying. A “You did well” after a podium finish—one that Carlos pretended not to care about but, for some reason, always made him smile.

And when he came home, exhausted after days of travel, Silvia was there. Not physically, but in that small corner of his routine that now belonged to her. In her office, with her notebook full of notes, with that gaze that seemed to see right through him, with the coffee that, at some point, she had started preparing exactly how he liked it.

“How do you know?” he asked one day, raising his cup with curiosity.

“Observing is part of my job,” Silvia replied simply, shrugging.

Carlos couldn’t help but smile. Because yes, Silvia observed him. More than he sometimes observed himself.

And the same happened in reverse. Because, without meaning to, Carlos started noticing things about her. Small details that lodged themselves in his mind without permission. That she always ordered her coffee from the same café. That at the end of the day, she had a habit of pulling her feet up on the couch while reviewing her notes. That when she was deep in thought, she absentmindedly twirled her pen between her fingers.

And that she liked jazz.

She had mentioned it once, offhandedly, while they talked about ways to unwind. Carlos hadn’t said anything at the time, but weeks later, when he stumbled upon an old vinyl in a tucked-away shop in Madrid, he bought it without thinking too much.

“For you,” he said, handing it to her.

Silvia looked at him in surprise, holding it in her hands as if it weighed more than it actually did.

“You bought this for me?”

Carlos shrugged, feigning indifference. “I don’t know. I saw it and thought of you.”

Not much else was said. But when he returned the following week, the vinyl was playing in her office. And Silvia, with a book in her hands and a steaming cup of coffee on the table, looked up at him with a small smile.

“Good taste, Sainz.”

Carlos just let out a quiet laugh.

It was strange, how the boundaries between them had begun to blur. How, without meaning to, Silvia had become more than just his psychologist. She had become someone with whom he could share comfortable silences, someone with whom he could laugh at life’s absurdities.

And, without realizing it, someone he wanted to impress.

On the other hand, Silvia had always been good at keeping her distance.

Over the years, she had learned to build invisible barriers between herself and her patients. Not out of coldness, but out of necessity. Getting too involved meant losing perspective, and losing perspective meant not being able to help them in the right way.

But with Carlos… with him, those barriers didn’t always seem so solid.

She hadn’t noticed it at first, but little by little, the space between them had become less rigid. Their sessions were no longer just a process of analysis and therapy; they had turned into conversations where humor surfaced naturally, where Carlos lowered his guard, and where she found herself, unintentionally, doing the same.

And it was in a moment like that when everything became a little more complicated.

Carlos had just made a sarcastic remark—one of those that usually made her roll her eyes, but that lately, had been drawing genuine laughter from her instead.

"It must be exhausting for you to be this perceptive all the time," he had said, a lopsided grin on his face.

Silvia played along, responding with a joke of her own.

"Oh, absolutely. Every morning I wake up thinking, ‘How lucky am I? Another day of understanding the human psyche better than everyone else.’"

Carlos let out a laugh. But when Silvia looked at him again, something in her chest tightened without warning.

Because he wasn’t just laughing with his mouth—he was laughing with his eyes.

Because, without realizing it, Silvia was looking too much.

And the worst part was that she didn’t want to look away.

Carlos had the kind of laugh that made everything seem easier, lighter. It was real, untouched by the pressure of cameras, free from any need to put on a front. And for a fleeting moment, for just a single second, Silvia allowed herself to simply look at him, as if there were no reason to hold back.

But then Carlos turned his head, and their eyes met.

It lasted only a second. A brief moment, seemingly insignificant.

But Silvia felt it.

Because the way he was looking at her wasn’t casual.

It lingered just a little longer. Held just a little more weight. As if, for that one moment, he was seeing her differently too. As if he had noticed something in her expression that she hadn’t been quick enough to hide.

Her chest tightened. The feeling was so strong that Silvia almost frowned, as if the weight inside her was something tangible she could shake off.

No. No. Not this.

She looked away quickly, pretending to focus on her notebook, though she knew there was no point in writing anything now.

"Right, back to the topic…" she said, trying to steer the conversation back on track, but her own voice sounded different.

Carlos didn’t respond immediately.

She felt him shift on the couch, probably leaning forward slightly. She didn’t look at him, but she could imagine the expression on his face. That mix of curiosity and something else she wasn’t sure she wanted to name.

But in the end, he said nothing.

And she forced herself to do the same.

Because nothing had happened. Nothing she couldn’t ignore. Nothing she couldn’t lock away in the same corner of her mind where she kept all the things she wasn’t supposed to feel.

And yet, when Carlos said goodbye and left through the door, when the office was left in complete silence, Silvia allowed herself to close her eyes and let out a sigh.

Because maybe—just maybe—she had just crossed a line from which there was no turning back.

Silvia finds out about the news like everyone else: with the headline flashing on her phone screen.

Carlos Sainz signs with Williams for 2025.

She knows it’s real even before opening the article. The weeks of rumors, speculation, and uncertainty are over. It’s official. And before she can stop it, a wave of relief and pride washes over her.

It shouldn’t feel personal. She shouldn’t feel this way. But she does.

Because she’s seen Carlos at his most vulnerable. She’s been in the room with him when the pressure made him doubt himself, when fear seeped into his voice in ways even he didn’t recognize. And now, here he is. With a secured future, with an opportunity he had been so afraid he wouldn’t get.

The first thing she does is smile. The second is buying a bottle of champagne.

It’s not a clinical or professional gesture, but she doesn’t think too much about it. She’s spent months watching Carlos carry the weight of uncertainty, and today, for the first time in a long while, she can picture him breathing a little more freely. She wants to celebrate that. She wants him to celebrate that.

Carlos, for his part, should feel lighter. The contract is signed, his future is secure, and for the first time in months, no one is asking him what he’s going to do next year. But when he steps into the office and sees the bottle of champagne on the table, something inside him cracks just a little.

Silvia is smiling. Not with the measured politeness of a professional, but with genuine happiness, with a sparkle in her eyes that leaves him disarmed. She’s happy for him. And that, for some reason, is what undoes him completely.

“Congratulations,” she says, a small smile on her lips as she raises a glass. “You did it.”

Carlos doesn’t respond right away. He closes the door behind him but doesn’t move past that. His eyes remain fixed on the unopened bottle, on the way the light reflects off the glass. His throat bobs with a dry swallow. Suddenly, the relief he should be feeling turns into something heavy, something difficult to process.

“Come on, sit down,” Silvia tries, her tone light, steering the conversation forward. “This calls for a celebration.”

Carlos lets out a short, rough laugh.

“Did you really buy champagne?” His voice holds a hint of disbelief, like he can’t decide whether to tease her or thank her.

“Of course,” Silvia replies with mock indignation. “It’s not every day you land a Formula 1 contract. And I wanted to see if you finally have good taste or if you’re still ordering white wine like a British tourist in Ibiza.”

Carlos shakes his head, a ghost of a smile forming. But it doesn’t last. Because then, he feels the sting in his eyes. And before he can stop it, Silvia sees it too.

The tears.

Not sobs, not ragged breaths. Just a silent trail, tracing a path from his eyes down to his jaw.

Silvia feels her body tense. For a second, just one, she hesitates. Because she knows what it means to take a step closer. She knows what she’s supposed to do, and what she shouldn’t do. But then she looks at him again, and the answer is clear.

She moves. Slowly. Wordlessly.

When she places a hand on his arm, Carlos doesn’t pull away. When the other slides to his back, he closes his eyes and lets his forehead rest gently against her shoulder. His breathing is uneven, caught between restraint and collapse, and Silvia holds him.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Not the office, not the contract, not the lines they aren’t supposed to cross. Just this. Just him.

And in the midst of it all, in the trembling of his chest, Carlos has a realization as clear as day: what he feels for Silvia isn’t going anywhere. It can’t. Because this is what they are. This is what they’re supposed to be. And yet, here he is, burying his face in her shoulder like nothing else in the world matters.

When Carlos finally pulls away, when he looks up and their eyes meet, they understand.

What this means.

What comes next.

And neither of them moves to step back.

Silvia is the first to speak. Her voice is low, careful.

“Carlos… what’s wrong?”

He blinks, like he’s suddenly remembering where they are, like he’s realizing that Silvia is still looking at him with that patient, disarming gaze of hers. He rubs a hand over his face, as if he can wipe away what just happened, as if he can rewind to before crossing that line.

But he can’t.

And lying to Silvia… that has never been an option.

Because she always knows. Sometimes even before he does. But telling her the truth makes no sense either. What for? To tell her that he cares for her? That seeing her this happy for him shatters him a little? That the news of his contract feels distant, insignificant, when she smiles at him like that? For him?

Carlos swallows and lowers his gaze. He can’t say it. He shouldn’t say it. But he can’t find a lie that holds either.

So he just murmurs,

“I don’t know.”

And Silvia, with that damn patience, with that effortless understanding that strips him bare, nods like she gets it anyway.

And in that silence, in everything they don’t say, Silvia understands it all.

She realizes that the champagne was a mistake.

She realizes that pushing her own limits was a mistake.

She realizes that seeing Carlos cry was a mistake.

Because now, that tightness in her chest, that warmth when she looks at him, has a name.

And the worst part is—Carlos has just realized it too.

Carlos lets out a short laugh, a fragile sound that barely settles in his chest. He runs a hand down his face, rubbing his eyes with an open palm before letting it drop to his thigh.

“Well… that was dramatic.”

His voice is still a little raw, but he tries to mask it with lightness.

Silvia blinks, caught off guard by how quickly he’s trying to pull himself together, and lets out a small laugh. It’s instinctive, soft—an attempt to bring them both back to the normality they so desperately need.

“A little, yeah,” she admits, offering a half-smile.

Carlos exhales and sinks into the chair, dropping his head back, staring at the ceiling for a second before sighing again.

“I haven’t even started working with Williams yet, and I’m already crying about it. I’m going to be a mess.”

Silvia leans back against the desk and, absentmindedly, nudges the champagne bottle slightly to the side. Now, it feels out of place—like a joke told at the wrong time.

“If you cry every time someone congratulates you, then yeah, that could be a problem,” she teases, trying to lift the mood. “Maybe I should’ve brought tissues instead of glasses.”

Carlos drops his head to the side, giving her that signature look of exasperation that comes so naturally to him.

“Or maybe just never celebrate anything with me ever again. Clearly, I don’t handle it well.”

“I’ll keep that in mind for future reference.”

He laughs. A real one this time. But when he looks up, when his eyes meet Silvia’s, the sound catches in his throat.

Because she’s smiling too—but there’s something else there. Something in the way she looks at him, in the almost imperceptible pause before she looks away. Something Carlos feels like a weight in his chest, like an invisible thread pulling him toward her.

Silvia realizes instantly that she’s held his gaze for too long. She blinks, clears her throat, and straightens slightly in her seat.

“Well,” she says, like she’s trying to put an end to whatever this moment was, “should we pretend you didn’t just get emotional and start the session?”

Carlos sits up, adjusting in his chair, clinging to the opportunity to regain control.

“Yes. Good idea. Let’s pretend I’m a functioning adult and not someone who falls apart over a job contract.”

“Exactly. And I’ll pretend this wasn’t the cutest thing I’ve ever seen you do.”

The silence that follows is devastating.

Carlos blinks. Once, twice. His breath catches, and it’s as if the air in the room has changed density. As if, all of a sudden, he doesn’t know where to place his hands, how to hold himself in this confined space.

Silvia feels it too. She sees it in the way Carlos looks at her, in the tension along his jaw, in the slight flare of his nostrils. And the worst part is, she can’t pretend she didn’t say it. She can’t take it back. She can’t make it so it never happened.

Because it did.

That thread between them, the one they had been stretching for months, has just snapped.

Silvia feels her own breath turn shallow, the skin at the nape of her neck tingling with the absolute awareness of what she has just done. The words still linger in the air, as if they haven’t quite settled, as if they’re waiting for one of them to deny them.

"I'm sorry," she says, too quickly. Too nervously.

Carlos doesn’t answer. Not because he doesn’t want to, but because he doesn’t know how. His mind is a whirlwind of tangled thoughts, none clear enough to hold on to. Just moments ago, he had been dealing with the weight of his new contract, the relief of securing his future, the vulnerability of having cried in front of her. And now, this.

Too much.

"I didn’t mean it like that," Silvia tries, running a hand over her forehead, as if she could erase the comment with a single gesture. "It was… I don’t know. Inappropriate."

Carlos swallows. He can’t look at her. Not yet. Not when his body is still reacting in ways he doesn’t understand, when his skin is still on high alert, when his heart is still racing for reasons that no longer have anything to do with Williams or his contract.

Silvia takes a breath and straightens her shoulders. She needs to pull herself together. She needs to put things back in their place.

"We can…" she starts, but the words die in her throat.

Carlos finally looks up, and when their eyes meet, there’s something there. Something big. Something impossible to ignore.

Silvia sees it. Carlos knows it.

But neither of them is ready to face it.

So she looks away, picks up the champagne bottle, and sets it aside.

"Do you want to start the session?" she asks, as if nothing happened.

Carlos nods once, slowly.

"Yeah," he says. His voice is lower than usual, as if he’s still wading through everything that just unfolded. "Yeah, let’s start."

And they do. They pretend everything is the same.

But they both know nothing is.

Silvia had been feeling the weight of this decision for days before she typed out the message.

Ever since that session, from the exact moment she crossed a line she never should have crossed, she knew this couldn’t continue. But knowing it and accepting it were two different things.

Because the thought of not seeing him anymore, of no longer being the person Carlos turned to in his most vulnerable moments, twisted her stomach in a way she didn’t want to analyze too deeply.

She had tried to lie to herself, to rationalize it. It was just an impulsive comment. Nothing more. But every time she thought back to the silence that followed, to the way Carlos had looked at her, to the way her own chest had tightened upon realizing what she had done...

No. She couldn’t keep ignoring it.

That’s why, when Carlos stood on the podium in Austin, when she saw him with that spark in his eyes, with the satisfaction of a job well done, she knew it was time. Because he was moving forward, rebuilding himself after months of uncertainty. And she couldn’t be the obstacle in his way.

Her hands trembled as she typed the message. She stared at the screen for too long, rereading every word, wondering if there was any way to say it without it hurting.

There wasn’t.

Pressing her lips together, she took a deep breath, and with a final pang in her chest, she hit send.

Then, she placed her phone face down on the table, rested her elbows on her knees, and buried her face in her hands.

She had just done the right thing.

So why did it feel like she had just made an irreparable mistake?

Champagne still soaks his race suit as Carlos steps into the motorhome room and collapses onto the couch. His body is exhausted, but the adrenaline from the Austin GP is still coursing through his veins.

A second place. Another podium in his career. And for the first time in months, the feeling that things are finally falling into place.

He grabs his phone with the intention of texting Silvia. It’s a habit he doesn’t even think about—just a simple "Did you see that?" or "You owe me a session just to talk about how good I was today."

She always replies quickly, with a dry but knowing remark. "Not bad for someone who still brakes earlier than necessary." Or, "Don’t let it go to your head, Sainz."

But this time, when he unlocks the screen, something is waiting for him.

A long message.

Silvia Costa:

"Carlos, I’ve been thinking about this a lot. About our last session, about how I acted. About what I said. And I know we can’t keep ignoring it.

Please don’t misunderstand this. It has nothing to do with you or with whatever it is that you feel. But I am your psychologist, and I crossed a boundary I should not have crossed. I don’t want this to affect your career, my job, or what we’ve built over these past months. What we’re doing is not sustainable. It’s not professional. And the most honest, the fairest thing for both of us, is to end this here.

If you want to continue therapy, I’ll help you find another professional who follows my methods, someone I trust. I know you don’t like opening up to just anyone, and I know it has been a privilege that you trusted me enough to do so.

And I also know this won’t be easy. But it’s the right thing to do.

-Silvia."

Carlos reads the message once. Then again.

The tingling of celebration, the weight of the trophy in his hands, the euphoria of having driven a flawless race... it all vanishes.

All that remains is the sudden emptiness of what he’s just lost.

His first instinct is to deny it. His fingers are already moving, ready to type something, to call her, to tell her she’s overreacting, that this doesn’t have to mean what she thinks it does.

But then, the image hits him like a punch: Silvia, sitting in her apartment, phone in hand, hesitating, torn, realizing there is no other way out. That she has spent days thinking about this, that it has weighed on her just as much as it has on him.

And that’s when Carlos understands exactly what Silvia must have felt when she sent that message.

Because he feels it too—the crushing sense that he’s just lost something he can’t get back.

Carlos still has his phone in his hand when the door of the motorhome swings open.

"Carlos!"

Vasseur’s voice fills the room before he even has time to react. The team principal strides in, a wide grin on his face, enthusiasm radiating from every word.

"What a race, mate! Seriously, that was incredible."

Carlos looks up, blinking as if suddenly trying to remember where he is.

"Ah... thanks."

Vasseur drops into the seat across from him, still riding the high of watching both of his drivers deliver a spectacular result.

"Not just the race," he adds, pointing at him. "You look different. More solid, more confident. It shows in how you handle battles, how you keep a cool head."

Carlos tries to nod, tries to smile. But his mind is still trapped in the message. In Silvia. In what just happened.

And then, Vasseur says her name.

"You have to thank Dr. Costa for that, huh? I told you, didn’t I? Best decision you could’ve made."

Carlos feels the hit straight to his chest.

Silvia.

His throat tightens, his stomach churns. Suddenly, the room feels too small, the air too dense.

He doesn’t know what to do with his face, with his body. Should he nod? Should he lie? Should he laugh and say yes, that she’s been the key to everything? Because up until a few minutes ago, before he read that damn message, he would have said it without hesitation.

But now…

Now he doesn’t know what to say.

The only thing he does know is that he’s screwed.

Because out of all the people in the world, out of all the women he’s ever met, he had to fall for his psychologist.

The irony almost makes him laugh.

"Yeah," he manages to say, though his voice doesn’t sound quite like his own. "She’s been a huge help."

Vasseur nods, satisfied, oblivious to the storm raging inside Carlos.

"Well, keep this up, Sainz. This is the driver I want to see. This is the Carlos that wins races."

He claps him on the shoulder before getting up, still glowing with pride.

Carlos barely feels it.

All he can think about is the fact that, for the first time since he started working with Silvia, he’s going to have to do it without her.

The return to Monaco feels different this time.

It's not the first time Carlos has come home after an exhausting race, but he's never felt this restless before. There was always a rhythm to his post-Grand Prix routine—training, reviewing data, resting. And at some point during the week, a session with Silvia.

Now, that space is empty.

At first, he tries to ignore it. He convinces himself it's just a matter of time, of getting used to a new rhythm without her. He throws himself into training, into meetings with Ferrari, into preparations for his move to Williams. But no matter how hard he tries, there are moments when her absence slips into his day uninvited.

Like when he comes back to his apartment after a run and instinctively checks his phone for a message from Silvia. Or when, in the middle of a conversation with his engineer, he feels the urge to joke about what she would say to him at that moment.

Or when he sits on the couch after dinner, and without realizing it, his mind plays tricks on him—What is Silvia doing right now?

And that’s when he starts questioning everything.

Why does he feel this way?

Is it because Silvia was his psychologist and, for the first time in his life, he had someone who truly listened to him? Someone who didn’t just see him as a driver, as Carlos Sainz Sr.'s son, but as a human being with fears, doubts, vulnerabilities no one else knew?

Is that what he misses? The way she understood him, how she anticipated what he felt before he even realized it himself?

Or is it Silvia?

The woman, the person beyond her role.

Because if it were just about therapy, he would have found another psychologist by now. He would have moved on.

But he hasn’t.

Because no one else is her.

And then, amidst that tangle of thoughts, comes an even worse doubt.

What about Silvia?

Was it just work for her?

Was she simply good at what she did, and he made the mistake of confusing professionalism with something more?

Was everything he felt real, or was she just doing her job?

That thought sticks like a thorn in his mind.

And when he arrives in Mexico, about to race one of his last Grands Prix with Ferrari, he can’t stop wondering—If Silvia were here, if she were watching him, would she feel any of this? Or would she just see another driver, another patient?

He tries not to think too much. He focuses on the car, on the strategy, on doing his job. And for a while, it works.

Qualifying is solid, the start is clean, the race is intense. He has to fight for every lap, every corner, every strategic decision. And when he crosses the finish line in first place, when he hears his name chanted by thousands of Mexican fans, he should feel complete.

He should feel invincible.

But the moment he gets out of the car, as the initial euphoria settles into his exhausted body, his first instinct is to reach for his phone.

To text Silvia.

To say, “Did you see that?”

To read, “Took you long enough, Sainz.”

To hear her voice, even if just for a few seconds.

But he can’t.

Because Silvia is no longer on the other side of the line.

And so, as the press surrounds him, as the mechanics embrace him, as the Mexican crowd idolizes him like one of their own, Carlos feels something unexpected.

Loneliness.

It’s absurd, unfair, selfish. He’s surrounded by people who care about him, in one of the best moments of his career, and yet, as the red and green confetti explodes into the air and the crowd roars his name, all he can think about is what’s missing.

Who's missing.

How none of this feels the same without her.

Carlos holds on as long as he can.

He gets through the interviews, the photos, the congratulations. He endures the hugs from his mechanics, the cheers of the fans, the pats on the back from his father. He withstands the lights, the noise, the overwhelming energy of everyone around him.

But the moment he sees an opportunity, he slips away.

His team is still celebrating, the paddock is a chaos of people coming and going, journalists chasing statements, assistants rushing from one place to another. No one notices when he sneaks off, when he steps into a quieter hallway, when he opens the door to an empty room and closes it behind him.

His breathing is faster than normal. Not because of the race. Not because of the adrenaline.

Because of what he’s about to do.

Carlos holds his phone between his fingers, turning it absentmindedly in his hand as the echoes of the celebration still vibrate through the paddock. In the distance, he hears the laughter of the Ferrari crew, the sound of champagne bottles popping open again and again. The euphoria is still in the air, and yet, he feels completely detached from it all.

Winning in Mexico should have been one of the happiest moments of his career. He should be smiling, enjoying it, letting himself be carried away by the thrill of victory. But all he feels is a persistent emptiness.

And he knows exactly why.

He exhales slowly and unlocks his phone. His thumb scrolls through his contacts until it lands on the name he’s been trying not to search for these past few days.

Silvia Costa.

For a few seconds, he just stares at the screen, hesitating. For what? What does he expect her to say? But before his brain can convince him not to, his finger has already tapped the number.

The dial tone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

When the line finally opens, Carlos feels something tighten in his chest.

“…Carlos.”

She doesn’t ask why he’s calling. She doesn’t sound surprised. Just tired.

Carlos swallows and runs a hand down his face.

“I won.”

Silence. Long. Heavy.

Then, a barely audible exhale.

“I know.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“It doesn’t feel the same without you.”

Silvia doesn’t answer right away. And in that silence, he understands everything.

It’s not that she has nothing to say. It’s that she doesn’t know how to say it.

“Carlos…” she murmurs finally, and he closes his eyes, because he already knows what’s coming.

“Don’t tell me I shouldn’t have called you,” he interrupts, his voice low. “Don’t do that.”

Silvia lets out a shaky breath.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Carlos runs a hand through his hair, feeling the dried champagne clinging to his skin.

“I don’t know. Just… tell me the truth.”

Silvia stays quiet.

Carlos wets his lips, inhaling deeply before voicing the question that has been eating away at him since he got her message.

“Is this real for you? Do you feel the same way I do, or are you just ridiculously good at your job and I’ve been fooling myself all along?”

Silvia closes her eyes on the other end of the line.

Carlos feels it. He doesn’t need to see her to know he just hit exactly where it hurts.

Silvia exhales shakily, and Carlos can hear the hesitation in her silence. He doesn’t push, even though everything inside him is screaming for her to just say something.

And then, finally—

“Carlos,” she says, her voice quieter now, almost resigned. “You have to understand that this isn’t just about what we feel.”

Carlos clenches his jaw.

“But it is,” he insists. “That’s the only thing that should matter.”

Silvia lets out a breath, and he can picture her running a hand through her hair, just like she does when she’s trying to find the right words.

“I wish it were that simple,” she murmurs. “I wish we could just… pretend like none of the rest matters. But it does. It has to.”

Carlos exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why?”

Silvia hesitates.

“Because if this goes wrong, Carlos, it’s not just about us. It’s about my career, my credibility. You know what world we live in. People talk, they assume things, they twist narratives.”

Carlos swallows, staring down at the floor.

“You think they’ll say you took advantage of me?” he asks, voice quieter now, like the thought physically pains him.

Silvia shakes her head, even though he can’t see her.

“No,” she whispers. “I think they’ll say you took the risk, and I let it happen. That I blurred the line. That I became unprofessional. And then, what? Who’s going to trust me after that? Every athlete I work with knows someone in this world. You know how connected everything is.”

Carlos stays quiet, because as much as he wants to fight her on this, he knows she’s right.

Silvia exhales, softer this time.

“And it’s not just that.” Her voice wavers slightly. “I spent so much time convincing myself that this wasn’t real, that it was just… proximity, circumstance. And maybe at first, I even believed that.” She pauses, like she’s bracing herself for what comes next. “But I don’t anymore.”

Carlos closes his eyes.

“Then why are we even having this conversation?”

Silvia lets out a small, breathless laugh, like she can’t believe he doesn’t see it.

“Because knowing that doesn’t make it easier.” Her voice cracks slightly, and Carlos’ chest tightens. “Because it scares the hell out of me.”

Carlos’ grip on the phone tightens.

“Silvia…”

“I don’t get to just feel things, Carlos. Not like you do. Not when it could cost me everything I’ve worked for.”

Carlos exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

For the first time since this conversation started, he understands.

Not just what she’s saying, but what it means.

She’s not pushing him away because she doesn’t want him. She’s pushing him away because she does. Because she feels it just as much as he does, and that feeling is a risk neither of them knows how to navigate.

Carlos leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“I hear you,” he murmurs, and Silvia goes silent, like she wasn’t expecting that. “I don’t like it. I don’t agree with it. But I hear you.”

Silvia exhales, something unreadable in the sound.

Carlos waits a moment, then speaks again, softer now.

“But we don’t have to figure everything out tonight.”

Silvia stays quiet, and he takes that as permission to keep going.

“I know you’re scared of what this could mean for you, for your career, for everything you’ve built. And I’m not asking you to risk all of that overnight.” He swallows, steadying himself. “But I am asking you to try.”

Silvia lets out a shaky breath.

Carlos grips his phone a little tighter.

“We can take it slow,” he continues. “We don’t have to tell anyone. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Just… let yourself have this. Let us have this.”

Silvia swallows audibly.

“Carlos…”

He closes his eyes for a brief moment, then opens them again, looking straight ahead as if she were in front of him.

“No one else gets to decide what this is except us.” His voice is firmer now, like he’s trying to anchor her to something solid. “We don’t have to make a statement. We don’t have to be reckless. We don’t even have to put a name to it yet.”

Silvia presses her lips together, thinking. He can tell she’s torn, that her brain is still trying to find a reason to say no.

Carlos softens.

“But we get to choose what this is,” he murmurs. “Not them. Not the media. Not the paddock. Us.”

Silvia closes her eyes, and for the first time in weeks, she lets herself imagine it.

A version of this that isn’t terrifying. A version where she doesn’t feel like she’s about to lose something. A version where it’s just them, learning how to be together without the weight of the world pressing in.

It’s dangerous. It’s a risk.

But so is not trying.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the bigger mistake.

She lets out a breath.

Slow. Quiet. Just them.

“…Okay.”

Carlos straightens slightly, his fingers tightening around the phone.

“Okay?”

Silvia swallows.

“Yes,” she says, firmer now. “But slow. And private.”

Carlos’ lips twitch into a small, almost relieved smile.

“As private as it gets when I’m in a garage full of mechanics who have nothing better to do than gossip.”

Silvia groans, and Carlos laughs, warmth spreading through his chest for the first time in weeks.

And then, before she can start overthinking it again, before she can try to convince herself that this is a mistake, Carlos speaks again, his voice quieter, softer—almost pleading.

“Just let yourself be loved, Silvia.”

Silvia lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

It won’t be perfect. It won’t be easy.

But it’s theirs.

And for now, that’s enough.

Carlos had never been this impatient to get home.

The moment his plane touched down in Monaco, his mind was already ahead of him—tracing the familiar drive back to his apartment, picturing Silvia walking through his door. It had only been a few days since their call, since she agreed to try, but those days had stretched unbearably long.

Carlos checks the time again.

Five minutes.

He exhales, running a hand down his face, forcing himself to calm the restless energy in his body. It’s ridiculous—he’s been in countless high-pressure situations, faced the scrutiny of the world, handled races where milliseconds determined everything. And yet, standing in his own home, waiting for Silvia to arrive, he feels nervous.

Excited, but nervous.

The apartment is ready. He made sure of that the moment he got back from the race. Everything is set exactly the way he wants it—soft candlelight flickering on the table and along the shelves, filling the air with warm hints of vanilla and sandalwood. The kind of scent that lingers, that wraps around you like something familiar, something safe.

The kind of scent he hopes she’ll associate with him.

His stomach twists slightly at the thought, at the weight of what tonight means.

Because this isn’t just dinner. It’s the beginning of something neither of them knows how to define yet.

And then, the doorbell rings.

Carlos inhales sharply, running his palms down his jeans before moving to the door. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t give himself time to overthink. He just opens it.

And then he forgets how to breathe.

Silvia stands there, clutching her purse a little tighter than necessary, her weight shifting from one foot to the other. Her hair falls over her shoulders in soft waves, catching the golden glow of the hallway lights. And God—she looks breathtaking. Not in the way that models on magazine covers do, but in the way that matters. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, that leaves you completely disarmed.

Carlos’ lips part slightly, but for a moment, no words come out.

Then—

"Joder."

Silvia blinks, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice.

Carlos shakes his head, exhaling a soft laugh as his eyes sweep over her again.

"You are beautiful."

Silvia lets out a nervous breath, her lips twitching.

“Carlos.”

It’s a quiet chiding, but there’s no real complaint behind it.

Carlos leans against the doorframe, eyes still fixed on her like he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“No, really,” he insists. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this.”

Silvia raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms in a half-hearted defense.

“Like what?”

Carlos tilts his head, his gaze softer now.

“Like you actually tried to impress me.”

Silvia exhales a breathy laugh, glancing to the side as if embarrassed.

“Maybe I did.”

Carlos’ stomach flips. He grips the edge of the door tighter.

“Well,” he murmurs, voice lower now, steadier. “It’s working.”

Silvia meets his gaze again, and something unspoken settles between them. Something new. Something electric.

For a brief second, neither of them moves.

Then, Silvia clears her throat, shifting slightly on her feet.

“So… are you going to invite me in, or are we just going to stand here while you stare at me?”

Carlos grins, stepping aside with an easy shrug.

“Oh, I’m definitely going to keep staring,” he admits, voice full of warmth. “Just from a more comfortable position.”

Silvia rolls her eyes, but the smile that curves her lips is undeniable. She steps past him, and as she crosses the threshold, something shifts.

The moment she enters his home, she realizes—

It doesn’t feel unfamiliar.

It doesn’t feel like stepping into someone else’s life.

It feels like she’s been here before, like she’s walked through this door a hundred times, even though this is the first.

The scent of vanilla and sandalwood lingers in the air, the candlelight casting soft shadows along the walls, the space so unmistakably Carlos—but somehow, not foreign to her at all.

Carlos watches as she takes it all in, the way her shoulders slowly relax, the tension in her grip on her purse easing.

And just like that, the nerves that had been tightening in his chest finally fade.

Because she’s here.

And it fits.

She fits.

He closes the door behind her, and when Silvia turns to face him, there’s something in her eyes—something hesitant, but sure all at once.

Carlos lets out a slow breath, smiling.

This is theirs.

The scent of garlic and simmering spices fills the kitchen while soft jazz hums in the background, wrapping around them like something tangible, something intimate.

Carlos moves around the stove with ease, occasionally bumping into Silvia as they navigate the space together. It’s effortless, like they’ve been doing this for years instead of for the first time.

They talk about everything and nothing.

Silvia tells him how she learned to cook at eight years old, not out of passion but out of necessity—because, according to her parents, “no daughter of ours is going to be a disgrace to Italian cuisine.”

Carlos laughs, shaking his head. Eight? He tells her that, by that age, he could barely make a sandwich. He learned how to control a clutch before he learned how to properly run. He grew up with the smell of gasoline instead of home-cooked meals, with long weekends at the karting track instead of lazy mornings in the kitchen.

Silvia listens, slicing vegetables with steady hands, occasionally stealing glances at him. He tells her about Mónaco, about Madrid, about how circuits feel like home to him—strange, considering they are nothing more than strips of asphalt in different places.

Silvia teases him for his predictable answer.

Carlos smirks. “I’m a simple man, Costa.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

The conversation flows, easy and unfiltered. She talks about the places she loves—Florence, because it looks like a painting; the ocean, because it always calls her back.

Carlos listens. Really listens.

And then, somewhere between the soft sizzle of the pan and the quiet melody playing through the speakers, he turns to her.

"Do you dance?"

Silvia blinks, caught off guard.

"What?"

Carlos gestures toward the music, the smooth rhythm of a saxophone weaving through the air.

"Do you dance?" he repeats, voice softer this time.

Silvia hesitates, fingers still curled around the knife handle.

"Here?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Carlos shrugs, stepping closer, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

"Why not?"

Silvia exhales a quiet laugh, shaking her head, but she doesn’t say no.

Carlos takes the knife from her hand, sets it down on the counter, and offers his own hand instead. A warm glow flickers in her eyes as she hesitates for just a second—then, slowly, she slips her fingers into his.

The music sways around them, rich and smooth, curling into the small spaces between their bodies. Carlos leads them away from the counter with an easy pull, guiding her into the center of the kitchen.

There’s no rush, no urgency.

Just slow, deliberate movement.

Silvia’s free hand settles lightly on his shoulder; his drifts to the small of her back, barely pressing, just resting. They step in time with the music, close but not desperate, fitting together as if they’ve always known how.

Carlos has danced before—at parties, at family gatherings, in the middle of celebrations with his team. But never like this. Never in a kitchen filled with candlelight, with a woman who looks at him like she belongs there.

Silvia’s hair brushes against his cheek as she tilts her head slightly, adjusting to the rhythm. Her forehead is just at the right height—the perfect height—for him to press a kiss there without thought, without hesitation.

So he does.

Soft.

Barely there.

Silvia stills, just for a second. A breath caught between them.

But she doesn’t pull away.

Carlos closes his eyes briefly, letting himself memorize this—the warmth of her against him, the way she feels right in his arms. There’s no desperation in the way they hold each other. No frantic need, no urgency.

Just stillness.

Calm.

Something that settles between them, steady and unshaken.

Silvia exhales, her fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulder.

Carlos keeps leading.

The jazz plays on.

And then—

A sharp sizzle.

A crackle.

A burning smell.

Silvia stiffens. Carlos’ eyes snap open.

The pan.

The food.

The goddamn stove.

“Shit.”

Silvia barely has time to react before Carlos spins away from her, lunging toward the kitchen counter. A thin column of smoke curls toward the ceiling, the once-promising meal now a charred, unrecognizable mess.

She presses a hand to her mouth, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Carlos, gripping the handle of the pan, turns to her with an expression somewhere between devastation and disbelief.

“DO NOT LAUGH!” He looks back at the pan, the smell making him gag. And with a resigned look on his face, he turns again back to Silvia. “What do you think about ordering sushi?”

The months pass in quiet certainty.

Their relationship is private, but not a secret. They never make a grand announcement, never feel the need to define things for the world. They simply exist together, moving in and out of each other’s lives with an ease that feels both inevitable and right.

And the world—their world—accepts it without question.

The paddock, a place where rumors spread faster than race strategy updates, doesn’t treat it as a scandal. There are no whispers of controversy, no raised eyebrows. If anything, there’s an unspoken understanding, a silent approval from those who have seen the change in Carlos firsthand.

Because every time Silvia is there, he is different.

Lighter.

Happier.

His team notices it first. The way his shoulders aren’t weighed down by pressure the same way they used to be. The way he walks into the garage with a quiet kind of confidence, his mind clear, his focus sharper. The way he looks toward the paddock entrance before every session, waiting, searching—

And then, the moment he sees her, his entire face changes.

It becomes impossible to ignore.

The cameras catch it. The fans notice it.

Every race weekend she attends, Carlos carries an extra spark—something undeniable, something warm. His radio messages are lighter, his post-session interviews filled with effortless smiles. Even on the tougher weekends, when things don’t go his way, there’s a steadiness to him that wasn’t there before.

And the fans—oh, the fans—they adore Silvia.

Not just because she’s with him, but because she doesn’t just stand in his world—she belongs in it.

She walks through the paddock with quiet confidence, not needing to prove herself. She chats with the engineers, with the mechanics, with the media personnel who remember her from before. When fans recognize her and approach, she meets them with the same warmth she’s always had, taking pictures, sharing inside jokes.

Carlos is fiercely protective of her, but it turns out he doesn’t need to be.

Because the world has already decided: Silvia Costa is one of theirs now.

And then, of course, there’s Vasseur.

If anyone thought Fred Vasseur wouldn’t take full credit for their relationship, they were very wrong.

Every time Carlos or Silvia posts something—an innocuous photo from a race weekend, a picture of Carlos’ hand resting near Silvia’s on a dinner table, even just a candid shot from the paddock where they’re caught laughing together—

Vasseur is there.

In the comments.

Fred Vasseur: “You’re welcome.”

or—

Fred Vasseur: “I will be expecting my invitation.”

or, Carlos’ personal favorite—

Fred Vasseur: “All great love stories start with therapy. Shakespeare said that.”

(Silvia is pretty sure Shakespeare did not say that, but she lets it slide.)

Carlos never replies.

Silvia, on the other hand, always does.

Silvia Costa: “I am raising your rates, Fred.”

But for all the teasing, for all the public amusement, the best moments are the ones that belong only to them.

The quiet mornings in Monaco, where Carlos wakes up to find Silvia curled into his side, her hair spread across his pillow, the first rays of sunlight filtering through the curtains. The lazy afternoons where they cook together, where Silvia tries (and fails) to get Carlos to tolerate more than the mildest amount of spice.

The race weekends where Carlos, exhausted but glowing from another podium, finds her waiting for him in the motorhome, her arms already open.

The stolen moments between flights, between commitments, between the noise of the world—where it’s just them.

Because the truth is, everything in Carlos’ life makes sense when she’s there.

Everything fits when Silvia is beside him.

And for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel like he’s chasing something just out of reach.

He has already found it.

And he’s not letting go.

@smoooothoperator @anayaverse @gold66loveblog @freyathehuntress

The problem was, now he couldn’t stop.

The first time he saw her in her new role was at the pre-season press conference in Bahrain. She stood beside Carlos, wearing a striking red Ferrari dress, arms crossed, expression neutral as she listened to reporters fire off their questions. She didn’t force a smile, didn’t try to seem approachable. She was just there—assessing, calculating. Watching them all. Watching him.

Oscar kept his composure, as always. But when their eyes met, a sharp jolt of electricity ran down his spine.

Later, he made the comment without thinking too much about it.

"Since when do you have a personal assistant?"

Carlos, scrolling through something on his phone, didn’t even look up.

"She’s not my assistant."

"Oh, right, my bad." Oscar rolled his eyes with exaggerated dramatics. "What’s the correct term now? Trusted advisor?"

"Manager."

The voice wasn’t Carlos’.

Oscar turned just in time to see her approaching at a measured pace. Elena Sainz stopped beside them, offering him a half-smile that was anything but friendly.

"Elena Sainz, by the way." She extended her hand effortlessly. "But if you need to call me something else, I can give you a few suggestions."

It took Oscar a second to react before he shook her hand. Her skin was cold from the water bottle she held in the other, but her grip was firm. Confident. Irritatingly confident.

"How generous."

"They say it’s one of my best qualities." Elena tilted her head slightly, her expression composed but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "That, and my ability to stay one step ahead."

Carlos clicked his tongue, clearly entertained.

"Give it a month, Piastri. Once you see how she works, you’ll be terrified."

"Oh, I already know." Oscar let go of Elena’s hand with practiced ease, as if he had felt absolutely nothing. As if his brain wasn’t still processing the intensity of her gaze. "I’m just surprised she didn’t put ‘master strategist’ on her business card."

Elena leaned against the table and shrugged.

"I figured ‘Carlos Sainz’s manager’ was enough to make it clear what I’m made of."

Oscar held her gaze a second longer than he should have.

Carlos cleared his throat.

"Alright, children. I’d rather not have my own manager fired on her first day."

Elena let out a quiet laugh before straightening up.

"Don’t worry, Carlos. I can handle it."

She met Oscar’s eyes once more before turning away, walking off with the same confidence she had arrived with.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and looked back at Carlos.

"I don’t like her."

Carlos smirked over the rim of his water bottle.

"Sure you don’t."

Oscar took a slow sip of his own drink, watching Elena’s figure on the other side of the room.

The problem was, he also couldn’t stop looking at her.

Oscar thought it would pass.

That the irritation Elena Sainz stirred in him would fade with time, like the foam on a beer after a toast. That her presence in the paddock would blend into the background, just another familiar face in a sea of them.

He was wrong.

Elena wasn’t like the other newcomers to Formula 1—the ones who arrived tentatively, trying to fit into the finely tuned machinery of a team. No. She was already fitted in. She already belonged.

The worst part was, she knew it.

Oscar saw it in the way she moved through the Ferrari garage, in how effortlessly she spoke to engineers, mechanics, and executives. In how Carlos barely had to glance at her for her to know exactly what he needed.

But most of all, he saw it in the way she looked at him.

It was a game. And he wasn’t sure when, exactly, it had started.

Maybe it was in Jeddah, when they crossed paths in a narrow hallway and she slipped past him with a barely audible whisper:

"Do you always walk that stiffly, or is it just when I’m around?"

Or in Melbourne, when he passed by the hospitality area and saw her leaning against a railing, sipping coffee with infuriating ease. When their eyes met, she raised an eyebrow and mused, just loud enough over the ambient noise:

"You don’t seem like a coffee person. I’d say hot chocolate. With marshmallows, maybe?"

Oscar frowned, not understanding why that threw him off so much.

Or perhaps it was in Japan, at one of those post-race parties where the noise and lights made everything feel a little more unreal. She was on the other side of the room, laughing at something someone had said, and then—without warning—she looked right at him. Champagne glass in hand, wearing that enigmatic half-smile that made him want to cut through the crowd just to see if, up close, she would smile at him the same way.

It was subtle. Insidious.

And Oscar was losing.

Because for every comment she made, he had a response ready on the tip of his tongue. Because every time she looked at him with that glint of mischief, he found himself searching for her in a room, waiting to see how long it would take for her to provoke him again.

Because, no matter how much he denied it, he loved the damn game.

Then came China.

It was no secret that Ferrari and McLaren were locked in a tight battle in the championship. Carlos, Leclerc, and Lando were fighting for points race after race, and Oscar, of course, was right in the middle of it all.

The weekend had been tense. During the press conference, Oscar tossed a casual remark at Carlos as they settled into their seats.

"Careful tomorrow, Sainz. I’d hate to see you in a wall just for the sake of tradition."

Carlos rolled his eyes, but it was the quiet laugh to his right that really caught his attention.

Elena stood with her arms crossed, expression neutral but with that glint in her eyes. As Oscar walked past her after the interviews, she glanced sideways at him.

Elena tilted her head, somewhere between amused and analytical.

"Interesting. I wonder if your confidence is real, or if you’re just used to faking it."

Oscar didn’t blink.

"I wonder the same about you."

Elena smiled, making no effort to deny anything.

"I suppose we’ll both find out."

Oscar held her gaze a moment longer before letting out a quiet laugh.

"I hope you won’t be disappointed by mine."

"I hope the same." She shrugged before turning on her heel. "Though, if I am… I’ll be sure to let you know."

And with that, she walked away.

Oscar exhaled, realizing too late that he had been holding his breath.

He was definitely losing.

This year, Miami had a different kind of energy.

Maybe it was the atmosphere—the sticky heat creeping under clothes, the constant mix of music and engines in the air. Maybe it was the tension in the championship, the ever-tightening battle, the sense that every race mattered more than the last.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.

Elena had been at every Grand Prix since the season started. But this weekend, for some reason, her presence felt heavier.

And then came Saturday night.

And the elevator.

The entire hotel was asleep.

Miami was a city of excess, of bright lights and incessant noise, but at that moment, inside the luxury skyscraper, everything was calm.

The only signs of life were a couple of employees walking silently down the hallways, and the two of them, waiting for the elevator in the lobby.

Oscar couldn't sleep. He had spent the last hour wandering around the hotel, without any particular destination, hoping that fatigue would hit him suddenly and send him to bed. It didn't work.

Elena, on the other hand, had just closed her laptop after losing track of time at the bar, going over a couple of public relations matters for Carlos. The glass of wine she’d been sipping on was still evident in the slight flush on her cheeks and the languid way she held her purse.

Neither of them said anything when they saw each other.

The tension from the past few weeks still hung in the air, like a storm that never quite broke. Oscar gave her a brief nod, and she did the same, but the silence between them felt heavier than usual.

The elevator was taking too long.

Oscar couldn’t help but glance sideways at Elena, noticing the subtle movement of her fingers on the strap of her purse. Impatient.

“Working late?” he finally asked, his voice low, just to fill the void.

She turned her head slightly, sizing him up before responding.

“Not everyone has the luxury of walking around the hotel when they can’t sleep.”

Oscar gave a wry smile.

“Yeah, well. Not everyone has the need to manage their brother’s public image every weekend.”

Elena squinted at him.

“It’s an easier job than you think.”

“Of course. Carlos never says anything out of line, never stirs controversy, never gets into trouble.”

“Exactly.”

Oscar let out a brief laugh through his nose, but the sound quickly died when the elevator finally arrived, its doors opening with a soft “ding.”

They stepped inside together.

The doors closed. The elevator shut with a soft click and began to move as normal.

Oscar leaned his back against the padded wall and let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. Elena did the same in front of him, though with more grace. She held her purse with both hands in front of her, as if she needed something to hold onto.

The silence was so thick that the faint hum of the elevator’s motor seemed deafening.

Oscar felt the weight of the day accumulating on his shoulders, in his breathing. He wasn’t sure why insomnia was worse tonight, why his body refused to rest. Or rather, he knew why, but he wasn’t in the mood to admit it. Not when the reason was standing right in front of him.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped abruptly.

There was no jolt, no harsh shake, just a sharp stop, accompanied by a momentary blackout in the control buttons.

 Elena straightened immediately.

“What the hell...?”

Oscar looked at the panel, hoping the light for the floor they were heading to would turn back on. It didn’t.

He didn’t feel the elevator moving again either.

Elena pressed a button. Then another. Then several, more insistently.

Nothing.

She turned her head toward Oscar, and he could see the exact moment she realized the situation.

“No.” She shook her head, almost as if she could reverse it. “No way.”

Oscar blinked slowly.

“I think we’re stuck.”

Elena closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

“No shit, Sherlock. How did you deduce that?”

He smiled because it came naturally, because there was something almost amusing about seeing her flustered.

“Calm down. It won’t be for long.”

Elena didn’t respond. She just pressed her lips together in a tense line and went back to pressing the buttons, as if the elevator would give in to her persistence.

The panel didn’t even beep.

She sighed and pressed the emergency button.

The speaker crackled with static before a sleepy voice responded:

“Yes?”

Elena leaned toward the microphone urgently.

“We’re stuck in the elevator.”

There was a pause. Then, a yawn.

“Oh. Okay.”

Elena frowned.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. It’s probably a temporary glitch. These things happen when the system resets in the early hours.”

Oscar and Elena exchanged a look.

“How long until it works again?” Oscar asked.

“Mmm… a few minutes. Half an hour at most.”

Elena threw her head back and closed her eyes, as if she needed all the patience in the world not to explode.

“Great.”

The intercom voice came through again.

“If it still doesn’t respond in a while, we’ll call maintenance. Don’t worry.”

There was a click, and then, just silence.

Oscar watched Elena cautiously, waiting for her reaction.

She looked back at him.

Then, she exhaled a long sigh before slowly sliding down the wall of the elevator until she was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and her head resting against the padded panel.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“Giving up that easily?”

“No. I’m just adapting.”

Oscar watched her for a second longer, then shrugged and did the same.

It didn’t make sense to stay standing, after all.

The elevator was dim, lit only by the faint emergency light. It was late. Almost no one was awake in the hotel. There was no sound beyond the static hum of the machinery and their own breathing. The air was thick, charged with something neither of them knew how to handle.

Elena pulled out her phone, checking it out of habit, though she didn’t expect to find anything.

"No signal." Her voice was low, almost as if she didn’t want to break the silence between them.

"Perfect. Now you have no excuse to be watching nonsense on TikTok."

Elena narrowed her eyes, smiling faintly, but the mockery in his tone didn’t go unnoticed.

"And what are you going to do? Philosophize about life in the dark?"

Oscar looked at her, clearly amused. The sarcasm in her voice had vanished, replaced by something... closer. Something more intense.

"Maybe." He replied, still holding onto his attitude. But that spark of playfulness was there, a touch of complicity that was growing stronger, more palpable.

Elena didn’t say anything else. She remained silent for a few seconds, fiddling with her phone in her hands while the elevator stayed still.

Oscar watched how the soft light reflected on her face. Every small movement she made was a reminder of how close she was to him, of how their bodies seemed to be drawing closer without either of them planning it. It was hard not to notice how the proximity between them was increasing, how the electricity between their skins seemed to grow more intense with every passing second.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"You’ve never been very subtle, have you, Piastri?"

He smiled, but the smile wasn’t mocking. It was different, like he was recognizing her in some way.

"I don’t like wasting time."

Elena looked at him with something more than amusement in her eyes, as though she was evaluating every word, every reaction. Her legs shifted slowly, and without thinking, she let her knee brush against his. A soft touch, almost imperceptible, but close enough for both of them to feel it.

Oscar swallowed, his chest tightening with that rapid heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. The tension between them was almost tangible, a weight neither of them could shake off.

She leaned slightly towards him, not breaking eye contact, and their voices softened further, becoming more intimate, more personal.

"You know," she said quietly. "I wonder how much longer you’re going to keep denying it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Because he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the raw energy between them, that insistent attraction that grew with every held glance, every accidental touch, every provocation disguised as indifference.

Because he knew she knew it too.

Elena raised an eyebrow, waiting. Challenging.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

He took a deep breath.

But when he opened them again, Elena was even closer.

He could see every detail of her face. He could count the centimeters between them. Every freckle that adorned her tan skin. He could hear her breath, feel her warm breath grazing his skin, the hint of wine lingering from the glass she must’ve had earlier at the hotel bar.

It was a trap. And he knew it.

But he didn’t move.

Because, damn it, he didn’t want to move.

Elena’s fingers grazed his forearm, just a touch, an experiment.

Oscar felt his skin light up instantly.

"This is a fucking terrible idea," he muttered.

"Yeah?" Elena tilted her head slightly, letting the tension pull them together like an invisible thread. "Then tell me you don’t want it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he did want it.

He wanted it with an absurd intensity, with an urgency that had been consuming him from the moment he saw her in the paddock at the start of the season.

But he shouldn’t.

The elevator beeped and came to life with a jolt.

Oscar reacted immediately, like a spring releasing. He stood up quickly, not thinking. The muscles in his legs tensed, and his torso straightened abruptly. A rushed, almost desperate movement, as if escaping the situation was the only way out.

Elena stayed on the floor of the elevator, watching him with that half-mocking, half-challenging smile, not moving. The position she was in, her knees bent, her eyes fixed on him, gave her a sense of power and control that bordered on indecent. Every inch of her body seemed to dare him to give in.

Oscar tried to look away, but his eyes inevitably returned to her. He knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t give in to what he wanted, to what his body was asking for, but... Elena was there, so close, so willing, and he was about to lose it all.

With a sharp movement, he tried to step towards the exit, distancing himself from her, avoiding any contact. He shouldn’t look at her anymore, shouldn’t think about it anymore.

But the damage was done. His mind was filled with images of her, from the most innocent to the most lewd thing he could have ever imagined.

Oscar quickly turned, as if the mere act of looking at her one more second would lead him to ruin. He walked towards the elevator’s exit, his pace quickening, and once he crossed the threshold, he breathed deeply, as if trying to expel all the accumulated tension from his body.

Elena didn’t say anything. She made no move. She stayed there, on the floor of the elevator, watching him walk away with a barely visible smile on her lips.

Oscar took a few steps, stopping at the end of the hallway before turning back, looking at her again, feeling the magnetism drawing him toward her. His body was begging to return, begging for more. But he stood firm.

In the end, he didn’t turn back.

But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.

By the time Oscar reached his room, he felt like he was about to throw up everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. What had just happened? Had he just dreamed all that?

He collapsed onto the bed, his mind spinning while the darkness of the room enveloped him. Tomorrow he had a race, but in that moment, all he could think about was Elena. That damn kiss. What had just happened, and what he still didn’t understand.

The clock read three in the morning. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, uncomfortable. The heat was still there, weighing on his chest, and the memory of her lewd smile wouldn’t leave him alone.

Suddenly, the sound of a knock on the door made him jump. Oscar frowned. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?

He sprang up and approached the door still drowsy, scratching his head, and opened it almost without thinking.

And there she was.

Elena.

Her slender, defined figure stood in the doorway, the hallway light partially illuminating her face, which held a serious expression but with that playful spark in her eyes.

"Am I interrupting?" she said, her tone both cheeky and innocent at the same time.

Oscar stood frozen for a moment, speechless. He couldn’t believe it.

"What are you doing here? How the hell do you know what room I’m in?" he asked, the exhaustion in his voice mixed with a clear sense of bewilderment.

"I speak five languages and I have charisma," she replied, leaning against the door.

Oscar should make a sarcastic comment, something sharp to break the tension, but he can't. Not when he still feels the ghost of her breath trapped between them in that elevator, the images he has tried to push deep into his mind now resurfacing at the worst possible moment.

Elena doesn't say anything. She just looks at him.

Oscar feels the weight of her gaze on every nerve ending.

"Tell me this isn't a bad idea," she whispers, though her tone says she already knows the answer.

Oscar could say many things.

He could remind her who she is. He could tell her that they hate each other, that they don't get along, that they're incompatible. He could remind her who her brother is.

But she steps closer.

And Oscar feels like he's drowning.

It's slow. It's unbearably slow. The ground seems to tilt beneath him as Elena moves a little closer, with the same determination she uses to negotiate contracts and manipulate press conferences. And Oscar, for the first time, has nothing to say.

Because he wants this.

He wants it so much it hurts.

"Tell me to stop," she whispers, but they're already too close, and the air between them is suffocating, electric, sharp like a summer storm.

Oscar says nothing.

And then, finally, he kisses her.

It's soft at first, as if they're still testing the boundaries of something too big to contain. But Elena responds with the same repressed intensity, her nails sliding down his neck, a small gasp smothered against his lips, and then everything crashes, like a snowball tumbling down a cliff.

No more doubts.

No more lines.

Just them.

The room is too small for everything they're feeling.

Oscar pulls her against him with more force than he should. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's nothing like it should be. But Elena doesn't want that either. Her hands search for him with the same silent desperation, the same urgency of someone who's been holding back for too long.

Her jacket falls to the floor in one swift motion.

Oscar's hands trace her back, outline the curve of her waist, and when their lips part for just a second, just enough to take a breath, they look at each other like they've just jumped into the void.

No one says anything.

Because there's nothing to say.

Elena grabs his shirt tightly, as if holding onto something. As if she can pretend this isn't tearing everything apart.

And Oscar... Oscar feels like he can finally breathe.

Because this isn't a mistake.

It can't be. It can’t feel this good.

When he kisses her again, Elena moans against his mouth and he feels something inside him break.

And there's no going back.

Clothes disappear somewhere between their broken kisses and the clumsy steps toward the bed. There are no pauses, no space for thought. Only the sound of their ragged breaths and the weight of the inevitable.

Elena is fire in his hands, in his mouth, in the way she touches him like she's discovering something that's always been there, something she's denied for too long. And Oscar... Oscar surrenders.

There's no rivalry, no fear, no one else in the world but her.

When their bodies finally meet, it's a perfect mess. A mix of need and awkwardness, muffled moans and nails marking skin. There are no doubts, no barriers. Just them, consuming each other in the darkness of a hotel room in Miami, not thinking about tomorrow.

Because right now, nothing else matters.

Dawn finds them tangled in the sheets, breaths still ragged, skin warm from what they've just done. Neither of them speaks. There is no room for words in the aftermath they've just unleashed.

Oscar feels the weight of the silence between them, but it's not uncomfortable. Not yet. Elena lies next to him, her face turned toward the ceiling, her hair messy on the pillow. She seems lost in her thoughts, but when Oscar moves his hand, barely grazing her arm, she doesn't pull away.

They shouldn't be here.

They shouldn't have crossed that line.

But they have. And the worst part is that instead of regretting it, Oscar only thinks about doing it again.

"Let's not talk about this, okay?" Elena says, finally breaking the silence.

Her voice is soft, measured, as if she’s testing the waters.

Oscar glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to say anything that will shatter this moment, make it more real than it already is.

"I don’t see what there is to say," he replies, because it’s the truth.

Elena lets out a low, almost ironic laugh and turns toward him, resting her head on her hand. Her eyes scan him with that intensity that drives him crazy, the kind that turns him into a damn fool every time he runs into her in the paddock.

"This doesn’t change anything," she says, with a certainty Oscar doesn’t know whether to envy or fear.

And maybe he should agree. Maybe he should nod, pretend that this was just a bad idea, a momentary mistake they can laugh off later.

But when Elena leans in and gently bites his lower lip before pulling away with a smile that’s pure poison, Oscar knows he’s screwed.

Because this changes everything.

The next morning, Oscar wakes up with the feeling that it was all a dream.

But the lingering warmth on his skin and the slight pressure of the mattress beside him tell him otherwise.

He blinks, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and the first thing he sees is Elena’s profile, sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting the cuff of her blouse. Her hair is still tangled, her neck bearing traces of his mouth, and the sunlight of Miami filters its golden light through the curtains, making her look almost unreal.

She’s fucking beautiful.

And she’s also Carlos Sainz’ sister.

Oscar closes his eyes and curses under his breath.

He feels like he should say something, but his mind is still caught in the image of the night before. How Elena had surrendered to him with the same ferocity with which she looks at him in the paddock. How the tension that had been choking them both for months finally erupted into something neither of them could control.

And now, she’s there. Getting dressed. Preparing to leave.

As if nothing had happened.

As if they hadn’t spent the night devouring each other.

"So, not even a 'good morning' after everything we did last night?" he says, his voice still a little rough from sleep.

Elena doesn't even bother to turn around, though he notices the brief pause in her movements before she slips on her heels.

"Why drag out the inevitable?" she replies, shrugging.

Oscar lets out a low, incredulous laugh.

"The inevitable?"

"That we'll go on with our lives as if this never happened." She finally turns, resting a hand on her hip with that air of superiority that drives him crazy. "I know you can do it, Piastri. If you can keep a poker face after Lando closes you out on track, this shouldn't be a problem."

Oscar watches her closely, looking for any hint of doubt in her expression. He doesn't find any.

"Wow, what an elegant way to say it was a mistake."

Elena gives him a half-smile, as sharp as ever.

"I didn't say it was a mistake. I just said it’s not going to happen again."

Oscar narrows his eyes.

"So this is how we're going to play it?"

"This is how we're going to play it," she replies, with a certainty he knows is just a façade.

Oscar exhales and falls back onto the pillow, running a hand over his face.

"Well, I guess it was a pleasure doing business with you, Sainz."

Elena laughs softly, and that frustrates him more because it sounds genuinely amused, like this is just a simple game she has full control over.

"Take care, Piastri," she says finally, before turning and walking out of the room.

Oscar stares at the ceiling, feeling the echo of her perfume in the air.

Of course. Because this is perfectly normal.

Because he's definitely not about to lose his mind.

And because, evidently, this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Oscar should have known that "it’s not going to happen again" was the biggest lie of the century.

Because it happens again.

And again.

And again.

In hidden rooms in the paddock, in hotels around the world, in deserted elevators and offices with the door slightly ajar. In any corner where there’s enough shadow for no one to see them, and just enough risk to make their hearts pound in their chests.

The first time he breaks his supposed resolution is at the next Grand Prix, in Ferrari’s hospitality entrance.

Elena is standing with her arms crossed, arguing with Carlos about something related to his race strategy. She’s wearing a fitted black dress with a blazer on top, and Oscar is trying to concentrate on his coffee when she gives him a fleeting glance, barely a second of eye contact that shouldn’t mean anything.

But his spine stiffens instantly.

And when she disappears down the back hall, he knows he’s going to follow her before he even thinks about it.

"I don’t even know why I bother pretending to be strong with you," he murmurs, closing the door behind him just a second before Elena pushes him against the wall and kisses him with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.

"Because you’re proud, Piastri." Her smile is lethal against his lips.

"And you’re a liar," he replies, sliding his hands under her blazer and pressing her against him.

"Yeah?"

"'It’s not going to happen again,'" he mocks, exaggerating her tone.

Elena laughs against his skin, right on the line of his jaw, before whispering in his ear:

"Well, sometimes I say things I don’t mean."

And Oscar, of course, is completely screwed.

After that, things escalate as fast as a Formula 1 car on a straight.

The hotel elevator in Monaco, where they barely manage to pull apart in time when the door opens into the lobby.

The engineers’ room in Canada, where he almost kisses her right next to the menu mural, and she laughs in his face when he stops at the last second.

The back corridor of the paddock in Spain, where he slides his hand across her backside when no one’s looking, and she spends the rest of the day with her skin burning.

"This is a really bad idea," Oscar says that same afternoon, just before he pushes her against the wall of his hotel room and kisses her like his life depends on it.

"A horrible idea," Elena agrees, between gasps.

"We can’t keep doing this."

"Never again."

"Last time."

"Last time," she repeats, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Obviously, they’re doomed.

The problem with saying "last time" is that they never follow through.

Oscar should be worried. Not just because this is getting out of control, but because it’s becoming more reckless with each time. At least in the beginning, they tried to keep it professional during the day and only let themselves go in the privacy of a hotel room at midnight. But now...

Now Elena holds his gaze a little too long in meetings. Now they cross paths in the paddock, and she brushes her fingers against his arm as she passes. Now he sees her sitting next to Carlos in Ferrari’s hospitality, and all he can think about is the way she moaned his name the night before.

It’s a miracle no one has discovered them.

"You’re playing with fire," Lando tells him in Silverstone, after catching Oscar looking toward Elena for the fifth time in half an hour.

Oscar feigns ignorance.

"Sorry?"

"I don’t know what’s going on there, but whatever it is, Carlos is going to kill you."

Oscar scoffs, but something inside him tightens.

Because that’s the other thing: the risk. Not just for his career, not just because if anyone at McLaren finds out, it could be a scandal, but because Carlos Sainz still sees him as a rival, and if he finds out that Oscar is tangled up with his sister, he’ll probably strangle him with his bare hands.

But it’s hard to care about that when she keeps sneaking into his hotel room at midnight.

When she keeps leaving marks on his skin that he has to hide before he puts on his racing suit.

When she smiles at him from across the paddock with that damn expression of "I know exactly what you’re thinking," and Oscar has to bite his tongue to keep from dragging her somewhere private.

It’s not just attraction. It’s something worse.

And the bomb finally explodes in Hungary.

The Hungarian GP should be the best day of his life.

He should be celebrating his first Formula 1 victory, savoring the champagne on the podium, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

But it’s all overshadowed by the controversy, by McLaren’s terrible strategy.

Oscar shouldn’t feel guilty for winning, but he does.

People are hugging him, patting him on the back, congratulating him like nothing happened. Lando is professional in front of the cameras, but in the garage, his expression is tense. He wanted that win. He deserved it. But the strategy benefited Oscar, and now it’s impossible to enjoy it.

He hasn’t seen Elena since he stepped off the podium.

Maybe he should be glad about that. After all, this is what they had agreed on: a game with no feelings, no strings attached, no complications.

When he arrives at the hotel, his room is completely dark.

Oscar closes the door behind him and stands in the middle of the room, not turning on the light, not moving.

He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He should be happy. Euphoric. Victorious. But all that’s in his chest is an indescribable weight, something that suffocates him, that tangles his thoughts until he doesn't know what to feel.

He clenches his fists. The adrenaline of the day still pulses in his veins, mixed with exhaustion and frustration. He shouldn't feel this way. Not after winning.

The door opens again.

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s her.

Elena enters silently, not turning on the light, saying nothing. She just closes the door and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge with the same ease with which she’s been invading his life from the start.

Oscar exhales a trembling sigh.

He doesn’t know what pushes him to move, but suddenly his legs give away and he falls to his knees in front of her, his head bowed, his arms powerless at his sides.

And then, he’s resting his forehead on her lap.

Elena doesn’t say anything.

She just runs a hand through his hair with a softness that disarms him.

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. And he doesn’t know why, but he's crying.

Tears fall without permission, without control, without him being able to stop them.

He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t shake, he doesn’t make any noise. He just feels the heat on his cheeks, the pressure in his chest, his breath ragged.

Elena’s fingers continue in his hair, tracing slow lines, calming him without haste.

“You deserve this,” she whispers, so quietly it almost feels like a secret. “Don’t doubt for a second that this victory is yours. And no one else’s.”

Oscar closes his eyes.

He clings to those words.

To her.

Elena leans over him, her hand tangling in his hair with the same delicacy someone would use to pet a wounded animal.

Oscar feels her breath above his head, warm and steady.

“Look at me,” she says, but he can’t.

Not yet.

He stays there, with his forehead resting on her lap, his hands clenched on her pants, trying to contain something he doesn’t even understand.

“Oscar,” Elena repeats, softer this time, and runs her fingers down his neck. “You deserve this. No matter what anyone else says. No matter what anyone else thinks.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

“They handed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice broken. “It’s not a real victory.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she cuts him off without hesitation, but her tone remains sweet, still Elena. “Of course it’s real. You were faster than everyone out there. You didn’t stop fighting. You didn’t stop proving you deserve every second of that podium.”

Oscar swallows hard.

“But Lando…”

“But Lando nothing,” she interrupts him. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. You don’t have to feel guilty for winning.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Oscar,” she insists, and this time she takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his head.

Their eyes meet in the dim light of the room.

“Don’t let anyone make you doubt what you are,” she says, and her voice is an anchor, it’s fire, it’s a reminder that she’s here, with him, holding him when he feels like everything else is falling apart. “Today, you won. And you did it.”

Oscar looks at her.

Something inside him breaks, but not in the way he’s felt broken all day.

It’s something else.

Something deeper. Something that scares him.

Because until now, it had been easy to convince himself that what he had with Elena was just physical. A game. Something neither of them would take too seriously.

But here she is, holding him, seeing him, telling him what he needs to hear at the exact moment he needs to hear it.

And Oscar knows he’s fucked.

Elena keeps holding his face, her touch firm and sure, as if with just her contact she could return the stability he feels crumbling inside him.

Oscar wants to speak. He wants to say something that will lighten the weight in his chest. But all he does is inhale, deeply and brokenly, clinging to the feeling of her hands on his skin.

“Breathe,” Elena tells him, with a sweetness that’s almost his undoing.

So, he does.

He forces himself to fill his lungs with air and let it out slowly, as if with every exhale, he could release the knot in his throat, the doubt, the resentment towards himself.

Elena slides her thumbs over his cheeks, with a tenderness that’s almost unfamiliar to him.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “That’s better.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, she’s still there, watching him with that intensity that always disarms him.

And it’s in that moment when he realizes.

How fucking easy it would be to fall in love with her.

Because if Elena can see him like this, completely undone, and still look at him like he’s the same confident and determined driver everyone thinks he is… what else is she seeing in him that he himself can’t even recognize?

The thought terrifies him. Terrifies him a lot.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he straightens up, pulls away, rebuilds the distance he’s been ignoring between them since this started.

Elena lets him do it, but her eyes follow him with a look of understanding that unsettles him.

The silence between them is thick, heavy with something Oscar can no longer ignore. He has pulled away, tried to regain his composure, but it’s useless. He can still feel her touch on his skin, still hear her voice in his head, still see those eyes piercing through him as if they had always known the exact point to strike to bring him down.

"This isn’t just physical, is it?" His own voice sounds foreign, low, and almost trembling. As if, by saying it out loud, he’s admitting to something far greater.

Elena doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back away. There’s no fear or uncertainty in her expression, only the same certainty that has driven him insane from the very start.

"It never was."

Oscar swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with something he can’t tell if it’s relief or terror. Or both at the same time.

"From the moment I saw you in the paddock," she continues, her voice calm, steady, "I knew I was going to fall for you. It was inevitable. And when you looked at me for the first time, I knew you were going to fall, too."

Oscar blinks, surprised by how easily she says it. As if it’s a simple truth, an undeniable fact. And maybe it was. Maybe this was never in his control.

Somehow, that makes him laugh. He drops his head, a rough, resigned chuckle escaping his lips, because of course Elena knew before he did. Of course she had already figured it out while he was busy pretending it wasn’t happening.

When he looks at her again, it’s with different eyes. With the eyes of someone who knows he’s lost, that there’s no turning back.

"You’re unbearable," he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face.

Elena smiles too. And Oscar knows, with terrifying certainty, that he’s screwed. Completely, irreversibly screwed.

Oscar still stands before her, in the dim light of the room. His hands, still clenched into fists, gradually relax. Elena remains seated at the edge of the bed, her posture at ease but her gaze intense, fixed on him, as if she already knows what he’s going to do before he does.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, his voice low, as if speaking in a space that belongs only to the two of them.

Elena leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The soft light of the room traces the curve of her face, her collarbone, the golden sheen of her skin still warm from the Hungarian summer. Oscar swallows.

"We could keep pretending nothing’s happening," she suggests, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Oscar scoffs, glancing down at his own hands before refocusing on her. "Great idea. That’s worked brilliantly so far."

Elena lets out a soft laugh, a low sound that skims over his skin. Then, with the same tranquility as always, she straightens up and rests her hands on the mattress, tilting her head in thought.

"We keep it a secret a little longer," she finally says. "We explore… this."

Oscar frowns, his pulse still erratic from everything they’ve just admitted.

"This?"

"Whatever is happening between us," she explains, her hand making a subtle gesture between them. "No pressure, no expectations. Just… letting it grow."

Oscar feels his breathing deepen slightly, as if his body is trying to absorb the calm in Elena’s voice. He doesn’t know what he expected her to say, but now that he hears it, he realizes this is the only thing that makes sense.

"Improvising?" he asks, his tone lighter, though something still lingers in his chest.

Elena nods slowly. "Improvising."

Oscar sinks back onto his knees, closer this time, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, just inches from hers. The room seems to shrink, narrowing down to the proximity of their bodies, to the warm, settled tension between them.

He looks at her and, instead of doubt, all he sees in her is certainty. As if she has known from the start that this was the only possible outcome.

"We’re screwed, aren’t we?" he murmurs, almost smiling.

Elena tilts her head, her fingers barely brushing against Oscar’s on the bed. A small, fleeting contact, but one that electrifies the space between them.

"Up to our necks."

Oscar exhales slowly and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as if he might find some kind of answer there. But there are no answers—only the undeniable reality that, for the first time, they are acknowledging what’s between them without pretending it doesn’t exist.

Elena shifts on the bed and pats the mattress beside her, a silent invitation. There’s no ulterior motive in the gesture, no expectation, and maybe that’s what makes Oscar surrender so easily. He lies down beside her, his head resting on the pillow, leaving a small space between them.

And for the first time since this began, there’s no urgency, no hands exploring skin, no breath-stealing kisses. They’re just there, sharing the same air, seeing each other without the barrier of immediate desire.

They talk.

At first, about absurd things. Silly habits, likes they’ve never admitted to each other. Elena sleeps with socks on, even in the summer, and Oscar looks at her in horror when she says it. He has a specific routine for putting on his gloves before getting in the car, and she laughs because her brother does the same.

Then come childhood stories, dreams they once had and those they still chase. Elena tells him she wanted to be an astronaut as a child but got too dizzy in space simulators. Oscar confesses he’s still not entirely used to fame, that sometimes he misses being anonymous.

As the night stretches on and the conversation slows, words tangling with sleepiness, Oscar turns on his side and watches her.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks quietly.

Elena blinks slowly and smiles, with that air of confidence that undoes him.

"I knew the moment you saw me in the paddock."

Oscar scoffs, half amused, half resigned. "How convenient."

"Not my fault you’re so predictable."

Oscar laughs and covers his face with his hand for a moment before rolling onto his back again.

"I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but… I think I like that about you."

Elena glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her smile needing no words to be understood.

And just like that, without realizing it, they fall asleep.

The break doesn’t last long.

During the Belgian Grand Prix, everything appears to be the same: the same fleeting touches when no one is looking, the same encounters in empty hallways, the same tension whenever they’re too close. But now, there’s something more. Something in the way Oscar looks for her before getting into the car, in the way Elena lingers a second too long when fixing the collar of the shirt she so boldly ripped off his body just ten minutes ago. Something in the way their fingers brush when she hands him a bottle of water right after, in the way they look at each other when they think no one is watching.

And when Oscar crosses the finish line, knowing he’ll be on the podium again, his first instinct isn’t to celebrate—it’s to find her. Standing on the podium, adrenaline still rushing through his body and the trophy in his hand, his eyes scan the crowd until they lock onto Elena’s. And when she smiles at him, he feels like he could live in that moment forever.

That night at the hotel feels different again. Instead of immediately losing themselves in each other, they collapse onto the bed to watch the race replay. And when the camera shows Oscar on the podium, smiling with pure happiness, eyes bright and expression open, Elena can’t hold back. She lets out a laugh so loud it echoes through the room.

Oscar, confused, turns to her with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

Elena, trying to hold back her laughter, points at the screen. “Your lovesick puppy face.”

Oscar follows the direction of her finger, and then he sees it. Sees himself. And he can’t do anything but laugh, because it’s true. The camera caught the exact moment he found Elena in the crowd, and the expression on his face leaves no room for doubt.

“I do not have a lovesick puppy face,” he protests, but his own laughter betrays any attempt at indignation.

Elena turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar, darling. Let’s just pray no one else notices, because it would be hard to deny the accusations.”

And with that, they laugh until tears stream down their faces, until they’re breathless, until Oscar, with his head resting on Elena’s stomach, feels something dangerously close to the simplest, purest kind of happiness.

Because for the second time, they don’t need to hide in passion, in desire. For the second time, they enjoy each other’s company without sex getting in the way.

Just them.

Elena wakes up to the weight of an arm draped over her waist and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the hotel window. She blinks, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her back, of the slow, steady breath against her neck.

Oscar.

Recognition comes at the same time as reality—the grayish dawn light in Belgium, the distant hum of traffic, the calendar marking the end of a weekend that has changed everything.

And the certainty that in less than two hours, she’ll be on a plane back to Madrid.

She sighs, shifting slightly under Oscar’s arm. He grumbles in protest, tightening his hold on her, as if his subconscious understands what’s about to happen before he does.

“I have to go,” she whispers, though she doesn’t move.

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. His breath is heavy against her shoulder, still half-asleep, and when he finally mumbles something, his voice is rough.

“Five more minutes.”

Elena smiles softly, but she knows she can’t give in.

“Carlos is waiting for me downstairs. If I take too long, he’s coming up to get me.”

Oscar sighs and, at last, loosens his arm. When she turns to face him, she finds his face buried in the pillow, brows furrowed, hair a complete mess. He looks like a grumpy little kid refusing to start the day.

“Don’t make that face,” she teases, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.

Oscar lifts his head just enough to squint at her.

“What face?”

“That one. The ‘I’m going to be a martyr because the girl I like is leaving me in a hotel’ face.”

He clicks his tongue and flops back onto the pillow with dramatic flair.

“Slander.”

Elena lets out a quiet laugh as she ties her laces. Then, unhurriedly, she leans toward him, pressing a hand into the mattress as her lips brush his cheek.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Oscar doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at her. But there’s something in his expression—in the way he watches her, in how his hand grips the edge of the sheet like he’s about to say something else—that makes her hesitate.

Because for the first time since this started, they realize they’ve never gone this long without seeing each other.

And they don’t know what that will feel like.

Elena should stand up and leave. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets her gaze trace over his face, memorizing every detail. Oscar looks back at her just as intently, and then, without thinking too much, she leans in and kisses him.

It’s brief, but not rushed. There’s no desperation, no urgency—just the certainty that she wants him. That even if they go in opposite directions, even if weeks pass without seeing each other, what they have won’t fade with distance.

When they pull apart, Oscar watches her with a mix of surprise and something else—something she doesn’t want to analyze too closely right now.

“That was unfair,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep.

Elena smiles.

“You’ll survive.”

And before he can argue, she gets to her feet, grabs her bag, and walks out the door.

It clicks shut.

And Oscar is alone.

For a few seconds, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, the warmth of Elena’s kiss still lingering on his lips.

It’s not the first time he’s watched her leave. They’ve had plenty of quiet goodbyes—in hotel hallways, in elevators, in hidden corners of the paddock where no one was looking. But this one feels different. Heavier.

He sighs, running a hand over his face before forcing himself to get up.

The room still smells like her. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but he does—when he moves, when he picks up his clothes from the floor, when he starts stuffing them into the open suitcase beside the bed. There’s something mechanical about the act of folding t-shirts and layering them over piles of laundry, of zipping up the suitcase with a sharp click, of mentally checking if he’s forgotten anything.

For some reason, it annoys him.

He’s supposed to be looking forward to the summer break. Four weeks with no races, no flights every other day, no endless motorhome meetings. It’s what he’s been waiting for.

But now that it’s here—now that the door has closed and Elena is gone—it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Oscar picks it up without thinking, expecting a message from his mother or the team. But no.

Elena: I hope you’ve at least gotten out of bed. Don’t blame me when you realize you’re running late for the airport.

He exhales a small laugh, leaning against the desk. Of course Elena is the first to text. She always seems one step ahead of him.

Oscar: Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me first thing in the morning?

It takes less than ten seconds for a reply.

Elena: I have an hour-long drive ahead of me. Consider this an act of charity.

Oscar shakes his head, barely noticing the way a smile tugs at his lips.

After a moment, his fingers slide over the screen again.

Oscar: Do you miss me already?

This time, the reply takes a little longer. As if Elena is actually thinking about it.

Finally, his screen lights up.

Elena: Keep dreaming.

Oscar sets the phone back down on the nightstand, still smiling faintly, but the feeling in his chest doesn’t fade.

Because, deep down, he already misses her.

He has barely stepped into the terminal when he spots his mother.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, a knowing little smirk on her face—like she knows something he doesn’t. Or worse: like she knows something he thinks he’s hidden well.

And then he sees it.

The phone in her hand. The screen lit up.

And a crystal-clear image of his own face on the Belgian Grand Prix podium, wearing the most obvious, irrefutable, damning expression he’s ever had in his life.

That damn photo.

Oscar stops dead in his tracks, the exhaustion from the flight hitting him all at once, mixed with pure, knee-jerk denial.

“No.”

His mother doesn’t even blink.

“Yes.”

“I don’t make that face.”

“Oh, darling…” she sighs, holding the screen closer to him, as if that was necessary. “You have exactly that face.”

Oscar grimaces, shifting his gaze to anything else—the people walking by, the luggage carts, the absurdly patterned airport carpet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mother raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, really?” She swipes across the screen and shows him another image, this time a video capturing the exact moment his face changes when he spots Elena in the crowd. “And what’s this, then?”

Oscar clenches his jaw, cursing internally at the cameraman who managed to capture that moment so precisely.

“I was…” He trails off, desperately searching for an excuse. But there isn’t one. Because he knows exactly why he had that expression. He knows exactly who he was looking at. And he knows that his mother knows, too.

She waits, patient, with that look that has been disarming him since childhood.

Oscar exhales, defeated.

“Can I at least get a coffee before the interrogation?”

His mother smirks, turning toward the exit.

“Oh, of course. But don’t think you’re getting away with this, darling. We have a lot to talk about.”

For Elena, summers at home have always had their own rhythm, a routine shaped by the heat, sports, and family. And she enjoys it. She needs it, even. After months of airports, race tracks, and frantic schedules, there’s something comforting about returning to familiar sounds—the echo of footsteps on stone floors, the rustling leaves stirred by the wind, the laughter of her sisters in the garden.

But this summer is different.

Because, for the first time, there’s something—someone—outside of this world occupying her mind more than it should.

She tells herself it’s absurd, that it’s not like they’re going years without seeing each other. It’s just a month. Four weeks. Thirty days.

And yet, every night, as the rest of the house sleeps, she feels the buzz of her phone under her pillow, and her heart skips a beat.

Oscar.

Oscar: What is Carlos Sainz’s favorite sister doing on a random Tuesday?

Elena: Trying not to get caught texting you. And you?

Oscar: Counting the days until I can see you roll your eyes at me in person again.

Elena bites her lip, hiding a smile in the darkness.

Elena: I’d love to say I don’t miss you at all.

Oscar: But you can’t.

No. She can’t.

And it’s ridiculous because she keeps herself busy. She wakes up early to go hiking with her father and Carlos. She plays football with her cousins in the garden. She joins Carlos and his friends on their cycling routes, challenging each other to climb the mountain passes faster, both acting more like kids than fully grown adults.

And in the middle of it all, she always finds a moment.

A stolen minute under the shade of a secluded tree to call him. A quick text while changing shoes. A picture of Carlos falling off his bike, his foot still clipped to the pedal, captioned: I miss you, but this makes up for it a little.

Oscar’s reply comes instantly.

Oscar: You’re lucky I like you this much.

Elena chuckles softly, leaning her head back against the tree trunk.

She knows this is dangerous. The more they get used to this, the harder it will be to go back to their respective lives, each on opposite ends of the globe.

But right now, she doesn’t care.

It’s the middle of the night, and she’s been asleep for a couple of hours when the vibration of her phone pulls her from sleep.

Elena blinks into the darkness of her room, disoriented, her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest. She reaches blindly toward her nightstand, fumbling until her fingers find the device.

The screen lights up the dim room.

Oscar.

It’s four in the morning in Madrid. Two in the afternoon in Melbourne.

She presses her lips together before swiping to accept the call, bringing the phone to her ear as she sinks into her pillow.

“Do you know what time it is?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper from sleep.

On the other end, Oscar lets out a quiet laugh.

“I knew you were awake.”

Elena closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

“I wasn’t. Until you decided to call me.”

“Well, if you answered, that means you don’t hate me that much,” he teases.

Elena doesn’t respond right away. She turns onto her side, hugging her pillow as she focuses on the sound of his voice.

“How are you?” she finally asks, calmer now.

“Tired,” Oscar admits. “It’s weird being back here.”

She understands. They’ve both returned to the normalcy of their own lives, but nothing feels normal. Miami, Silverstone, Budapest, Spa… all those weekends together feel like a world apart. And now, here they are, separated by thousands of miles, pretending everything is the same.

“What about you?” he asks.

Elena burrows a little deeper under the blankets, a small smile on her lips.

“I did a brutal cycling route with Carlos today. Nearly died by the time we reached the mountain pass, and Carlos laughed at me.”

Oscar chuckles.

“I find that hard to believe.”

"That I almost died or that I made it to the summit?"

"That you almost died," he replies casually. "You're stronger than Carlos, and you know it."

Elena feels the warmth spreading in her chest but ignores it.

"Tell him that. He called me a 'rookie.'"

"That’s just his wounded pride talking."

She smiles, letting herself get carried away by the familiarity of the conversation. They talk about everything and nothing. He tells her about his mother’s cooking and how his dog has decided to ignore him for being away so long. She tells him how her father spent the afternoon teaching Rebecca to drive on dirt roads, with Carlos and her yelling from the back seat.

The conversation flows easily, without awkward pauses. Every time silence threatens to settle in, one of them finds something else to say. But at some point, the conversation shifts. It becomes quieter.

"I miss you," Oscar says suddenly, with a sincerity that disarms her.

Elena doesn’t answer right away. Not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she feels too much.

"I miss you too," she murmurs at last, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" he continues. "Not seeing you every day."

Elena exhales.

"Yeah."

Another silence. This time, neither of them fills it.

Until Oscar breaks it with an idea that shouldn’t sound as crazy as it does.

"What if we meet up?"

Elena blinks, suddenly wide awake.

"What?"

"Let’s run away. Just for a few days. Just us."

She stays still, her heart pounding faster.

"That’s insane."

"A little insanity wouldn’t hurt us," he reasons. His voice is calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes her picture him with that lopsided grin, eyes squinting slightly under the Melbourne afternoon sun. "Tell me you don’t want to."

Elena bites her lip. She can’t.

She doesn’t want to.

"I can give you five days. That’s all the time Carlos will let me go without hiring a private investigator," she finally says.

Oscar smiles on the other end of the line.

"Five days."

And the next morning, Elena drops the bomb at the breakfast table. If she wants to get away with it, she has to act naturally—with the confidence of someone who has nothing to hide.

So, as she sets her plate in the sink after breakfast, she announces casually, "I’m leaving for a few days."

She knows she has everyone’s attention in less than a second.

Carlos, sitting across the table, frowns with his mouth full of toast. Their mother, standing by the coffee machine, turns with interest.

"Where to?" Carlos asks, still chewing.

Elena leans against the counter, phone in hand.

"A friend’s house on the coast."

Carlos gives her a skeptical look.

"What friend?"

"Clara."

She’s the first name that comes to mind. Their mother nods, as if that makes it all perfectly logical, but Carlos keeps staring at her with the same doubtful expression.

"Since when are you and Clara such good friends?"

Elena rolls her eyes.

"Carlos, we went to school together for ten years."

"And you haven’t seen her in four."

"Exactly. We caught up recently, and she invited me to stay for a few days."

Carlos doesn’t look convinced.

"And you’re just leaving, out of nowhere."

"Why not? It’s the summer break, I don’t have to stay here the whole time."

Carlos crosses his arms.

"Hmm."

Their mother, on the other hand, just smiles.

"Well, darling, if you want to go, go."

Carlos looks at her like he can’t believe she’s accepting the explanation so easily.

"Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?"

"Carlos, please," their mother says, shaking her head in amusement. "It’s summer. Can’t your sister go to the beach for a few days without you interrogating her like she’s planning a heist?"

Elena smirks at Carlos before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Exactly. Thanks, Mom."

Carlos huffs but seems to give in.

"When are you leaving?"

"Early tomorrow morning."

"Uh-huh."

Carlos keeps watching her, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to read between the lines. Elena ignores him, picking up her cup and heading for the door.

Her phone vibrates in her hand.

A message from Oscar.

"Mission accomplished?"

Elena smiles before replying.

"Obviously. Who do you think I am?"

Elena doesn’t know exactly when she realizes that this—whatever it is they’re doing—is a disaster waiting to happen.

Maybe it’s when she opens her eyes that first morning in Croatia and finds Oscar already awake, his head resting in his palm, just watching her.

Or when, after spending the afternoon exploring the town, they step into a small market to buy groceries for dinner and end up arguing—far too seriously—about which kind of pasta is better.

Or maybe it’s when, without thinking too much about it, she tosses a towel at his face after her shower, and instead of complaining, he pulls it away slowly and grins like an idiot. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something they’ll regret sooner or later.

But they don’t think about that. Or rather, they pretend not to.

The town is perfect. A hidden corner on the Croatian coast, with whitewashed stone houses, cobbled streets, and the sea glistening under the August sun. No one knows them here. No one watches them. Here, they can walk without looking over their shoulders, without worrying about cameras or curious eyes.

And so they do.

They walk along the shore, sandals in hand, letting the foam of the waves soak their ankles. They eat at a small restaurant where the owner treats them like locals. They spend the afternoon at a secluded cove, where Oscar splashes her unexpectedly, and Elena lunges at him without a second thought, sending them both crashing into the water, laughing.

They don’t talk much about what this means.

They don’t say out loud that they’re playing with fire.

They just exist.

For the first time since this all began, they are together without the pressure of the paddock, without the weight of the forbidden. They wake up tangled in white sheets, have slow breakfasts on the terrace, Oscar cooks while Elena sits on the counter, stealing bites of whatever he’s making.

It’s ridiculously domestic.

Ridiculously easy.