luna

It’s barely 9 AM in the morning and you’re already near an orgasm, which says a lot about how long the two of you have been running on empty. Weeks upon weeks of missed windows—him streaming until 2 AM, you responding to your loyal fans on Twitter—have left you both starved for each other. Now that you finally have a slow morning with no schedule, he’d wasted no time in rolling you onto your back the moment your eyes fluttered open.

You’re embarrassingly wet, your juices leaking onto the thick sheets beneath you. Frankly, you’ve been wet since the moment he pressed his lips to your jaw upon waking, voice thick with slumber and raspy. You had whimpered in response and that had been that. 

“Feels so fucking good, baby,” he whines against your neck, hips bucking into yours wildly, hiking your legs higher up on his waist as they slip off with each frantic motion. “Missed this pussy so much, you have no idea.”

“Oh, Koo,” is all you can respond, his nickname dissolving into a gasp as he shifts his angle to reach your g-spot, one arm reaching out to grip onto the headboard as the mattress scrapes across your wooden floor. 

“Yeah?” he gasps, pulling back to look at your swollen lips and morning hair. “That good, honey? You like how desperate I am for you this morning?”

You nod wildly, teeth clamped onto your bottom lip to try and restrain some of the moans that threaten to fall off your lips. “Don’t—fuuck—stop, don’t fucking stop.” Grabbing the back of his neck, you pull him down to your mouth, giving him a sloppy kiss that’s half tongue and saliva, but it’s everything you needed. 

Jungkook laughs against your lips. His expensive silver chain swings with each thrust, cool metal slapping against your chin and collarbone. For some reason, it gets you even more worked up and really, it worries you how even the small things this man does turns you into a feral animal. 

You reach up and curl your fingers around the chain, tugging him toward you until his nose is touching yours. “Fuck,” he grunts, pace faltering briefly. “Do that again, baby, and I swear to—”

You tug again, enough for another filthy kiss against his lips. 

He should know better than to test you. 

His hand travels down to your sopping clit, slowly rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves. You jolt backwards, head practically slamming into the headboard, but none of it matters, nothing at all. “I love you,” he moans, “I fucking love you so much, been needing you for weeks.”

“Me too,” you whimper. Your body trembles underneath him, the pads of his fingers driving you closer and closer to the brink of your orgasm. “God, me too, I’ve been so—”

“Needy?” he teases. The sound of your pussy milking his cock fills the room, and you can tell he’s close, been riding the edge for minutes. “Noticed that, baby. You kept pressing that ass against my cock all night.”

Sue a girl for being horny. “Shut up.” You push his shoulder and he snorts, his pace quickening on your clit. 

”Why? It’s hot.” He punctuates his observation with a thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. “So hot knowing you want me that bad.”

Your walls clench around him in retaliation and he groans, arms coming down to bracket your head, and you really can’t think of anything else but your dizzying, deafening need to cum with something other than your vibrator. 

“Close,” you moan, nails raking down his broad shoulders, “Koo, I’m so close—”

“Me too,” he groans, “Me fucking too. Gonna fucking cum inside you, maybe fill you up with my seed. That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Make you all plump and round with my baby?”

Fuck, that sounds amazing, sounds so perfect, sounds just like what you want and need from him this morning. “Please give it to me, Koo, want you to cum inside me.”

Your walls flutter around his cock, a telltale sign to him you’re about to cum, and god, you’re so close, so goddamn close, you can almost taste it…

The bedroom door slams open. 

Jungkook’s cock is yanked out of you so quickly that you hiss. The duvet is being hauled over the two of you, bodies tangled beneath it as you scramble upright against the headboard that was just being used as Jungkook’s prop a mere minute ago. 

Standing in the doorway, pigtails lopsided, in her little cloud pajamas, is Jeon Jiwon. Her cheeks are pink with sleep, eyes blinking slowly to make sense of the sight in front of her. Bun Bun, her trusty stuffed bunny, dangles from her fist by one floppy ear. 

What the fuck. 

If anyone asks, you will say you love your daughter. You do. God, you really, really do. Jeon Jiwon is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you. She is your angel, your miracle, your mini me. She is your greatest adventure. 

She is, and you mean this with every maternal bone in your body, the best thing you and Jungkook have ever done.

But for one singular, shameful moment, you fondly remember what life looked like before her. 

It passes so fast that it barely qualifies as a thought. So fast, in fact, that God would have to subpoena the surveillance footage to prove it happened at all.

Bun Bun swings from her grip, a pitiful pout painted across her mouth. Her doe eyes, criminally identical to her fathers’s, go glassy, bottom lip wobbling. She has deployed her greatest tactic: the upset toddler. 

“Dada.”

“Baby,” Jungkook softly exhales. In real time, you watch the entire thing unfold—the horniness leaving his body, his body adjusting to accommodate his little girl. The duvet pools at his waist, arms opening and inviting. “Come here, bug.”

Jiwon doesn’t dare waste a moment. She waddles across the room, Bun Bun dragging along on the floor behind her, and hits the side of the bed. She knows very well she’s too small to climb up on her own, but alas, that has never once stopped her. Her arms outstretch toward her father, making grabby hands, and she is picked up without another word.

Jungkook’s hands hook underneath her arms and lift her onto the bed, where she makes herself comfortable against his warm body. Her puffy cheek is pressed flat against his chest, Bun Bun smooshed up against him as well, and lets out a long sigh. The girl acts like she was deployed into war and has just now returned from her journey. 

You wonder where she gets her penchant for the melodramatic from. 

(Spoiler alert: you don’t need to look too far.) 

Your daughter is equally a mix of you and Jungkook. When you grew her in the womb, your heart also expanded to accommodate the extra adoration. You love Jeon Jiwon with your whole entire heart. 

And Jeon Jiwon, with that whole entire heart you gave her, loves her father more.

It’s not even a subtle thing. The girl exited your birth canal and looked around the room, locking eyes with her father and deciding he was the chosen one. You know you’re loved, obviously. You are mama, you are comfort, you are the person she wants when she’s sick or scared or the world feels too big. But Jungkook, your sweet husband, is the sun. Jungkook gets the biggest smiles, the most unprompted I love yous, the dramatic running-across-the-room hugs. Jungkook gets Bun Bun pressed against his face as a gift. You get Bun Bun thrown at your shin.

But now, your daughter has crossed a line. Now, Jeon Jiwon is taking your orgasms. 

You really thought this morning would be it. The stars had aligned, Jiwon had gone to bed early the night before, you both had woken up before her, it was a weekend, and you’d thought finally, finally, finally—

Your daughter is burritoed against your sexy husband’s chest, her mascot, Bun Bun, staring at you with his little beady eyes. You pull the duvet even higher, up to your chin, trying to swallow back your sorrows as Jungkook strokes Jiwon’s pigtails. 

“Hi, bug,” Jungkook’s voice is soft, a complete 180 to the man moaning and groaning in your ear moments ago. He tucks her closer, presses a long kiss to the top of her head, right where her hair parts. “Why are you up so early, hm? Did you sleep okay?”

“Bun Bun was cold,” she mutters. 

“Oh god,” he gasps in mock sympathy. “We can’t have that happening.”

You’re going to strangle Bun Bun while she’s sleeping. 

She nods in agreement, sniffling. Jungkook pulls the duvet higher, ensuring his daughter and Bun Bun are warm. “Good thing you came to find us then.”

Jiwon seems satisfied with that answer. She tucks her face back against him and closes her eyes, and Jungkook looks down at her with a fond expression, and normally, it would melt you completely, but you’re too busy stewing in your own frustration.

You know it is wrong to want to gently relocate your 2 year old back to her own bedroom so that her father can finish what he started. You know this. The self-awareness is there. 

(It does not help even a little bit.)

Jiwon finally turns to look at you, big brown eyes blinking, and your heart softens at the edges. Foolishly, you think she’s going to say good morning, mama or I missed you or literally anything that makes the last five minutes feel worth it.

“Mama,” Jiwon begins, and you eagerly nod. “I hungry.”

You deadpan. 

“Hungryyyy,” she adds, in case you missed it the first time, and rubs her little fist against her stomach for emphasis.

“Is that so?” you ask, and Jungkook snorts. 

“Make breffast?” she asks, and it’s so cute that you debate getting up and making her unicorn shaped pancakes, but you refuse to give in. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of Jeon Jiwon. She blows up the best sex you’ve had in weeks, burrows into your spot, steals your husband, and now she’s outsourcing breakfast.

Jungkook stares at you, lips sealed tight as so to protect his honor. He’s never any help. When she brings home a man in 16 years, you’ll remember this moment and he’ll rue this day. 

“You’re kicking mama out of the bed?” you gape at her. 

“Mama,” Jiwon repeats, tapping your arm with two fingers. “Breffast.”

“Jeon Jiwon.” You peer down at your daughter. Your beautiful, healthy, thriving, rude daughter. “Where did you learn that it was okay to just walk into people’s rooms and demand things?”

Your daughter pauses to consider, then raises her little finger to point at Jungkook. Your husband has the nerve to look away, inspect a dust mite on his bedside table. 

“Fascinating stuff,” you roll your eyes. “Jiwon, you know we can’t demand things. What do we say when we want something?”

Jiwon owlishly blinks. Then, like it is an enormous personal sacrifice: “Pease.”

“There," Jungkook says, clapping his hands. “She said please. That’s our girl. A polite angel.”

You scoff. “I would argue that was hardly a please—”

“For our baby, though,” Jungkook interrupts, slowly rocking Jiwon back and forth in his arms. She grins at you. The little devil knows she’s got him wrapped around her petite finger. “We can’t let her starve.”

“Mama.” Jiwon leans forward, places her small, warm hand flat on your cheek and turns your face toward hers. “Breffast pease.”

From the very bottom of your soul, you sigh. You clamber out of bed, struggling to keep your naked body hidden as you bend to the floor to pick up your discarded nightgown. A remnant of the sex you almost had. “I want it on the record,” you announce as you tug the silky fabric over your head, “that I am being removed from my own bedroom, from my own bed, from my own situation, to go make breakfast. Note that.”

“Noted,” Jungkook gravely replies, knowing he’ll pay for it later 

“Noted,” Jiwon smiles. She’ll repeat anything right now. 

You hate everything about this morning. You hate how horny you still are. But even with the resounding hate lingering inside you, you also love them both so much you could combust.

“Give dada a kiss before breakfast?” Jungkook feebly asks, and you cock an eyebrow as you turn to look at him. 

“Oh no, no.” You crawl back onto the bed, hovering over your husband’s lips. “No. Dada doesn’t even get to touch Mama for all he’s done this morning.” Your lips ghost over his, enough to send a shudder down his spine. You kiss Jiwon’s forehead instead and she giggles, but it’s not enough to thaw Jungkook’s icy glare. 

He swallows thickly. “Not even a little?”

You turn to exit the bedroom, hips swaying back and forth to accentuate your ass, knowing very well that he’s watching. At the threshold of the door, you spin around, a sinister smile curled upon your lips. “You know, I was so, so close this morning. Guess I’ll just have to finish myself off later…”

You pause. 

Luckily, Jiwon’s too enthralled with Bun Bun’s floppy ears to listen to your final line. 

“You’re welcome to watch though.”

With one last smile, you disappear down the hallway. The strangled noise that follows you out is the best thing you’ve heard all morning. 

Some would say arguably better than what you’d been chasing before a two year old with a stuffed bunny blew your whole life up.

“You’re impossible,” you shake your head.

“Leader duties,” he smiled at you softly.

“You need to take care of yourself, Chan, you’re taking too much stress.” You sighed.

“Well…” he said softly, his voice was rough with exhaustion, “you are here to take care of me.”

Your hands stilled. 

It’s dangerous, the way he says things. Dangerous because he’s warm in ways he doesn’t even realize. This is just who he is — gentle, respectful, attentive and impossibly kind. He treats everyone well, but sometimes it feels different with you. Different because it's the way he texts to make sure you got home safe. In the way he saves you a seat without thinking about it, like of course there’s always supposed to be a place for you beside him. In the way his eyes find yours first whenever he laughs, like your reaction is the one he’s waiting for. 

And maybe none of it means anything, and your heart is selfish enough to want to believe it means more, because he smiles at everyone like that. He always makes everyone feel a little chosen anyway.

But then when the room empties out, the noise fades, and he looks at you with an unbearably tender gaze that feels lingering and far too intimate to be called innocent.

And that’s the cruelest part of all. Not your feelings for him. Not the uncertainty. Not even the fear of rejection. But the quiet, devastating truth that he already belongs to someone else.

Everyone in the SKZ team knows about the relationship. It’s not publicly known, but enough people in the industry whisper about it. A female idol from another group. Beautiful, talented, sweet from what you’ve heard. 

You want to hate her. God, you want to hate her so bad… but you can’t. 

Because she makes him happy, there’s a softness in him whenever he talks about her that makes it painfully obvious how deeply he cares. And maybe that’s what destroys you most of all, that she’s good to him. That she makes him happy in ways you never could. 

They are perfect for each other because they belong in the same industry and live the same K-pop idol life. They go through the same exhausting schedules, the same pressure, the same understanding of what it means to live under constant scrutiny. She understands parts of him you never could. You’re just a girl trying to make it through the month without falling behind on bills. Quietly ordinary in every possible way. While she’s everything dazzling, like truly, she’s the kind of girl loved by millions. The kind of girl cameras adore, the kind of girl songs are written about.

And standing beside her, you’ve never felt smaller.

So instead of being jealous of her, you do the only thing you can. You stand there quietly as SKZ’s makeup artist, smile when you’re supposed to, and let yourself break a little more each day.

******************************************

“Hyung,” Changbin called from across the room, “your girlfriend sent coffee again.”

The entire dressing room erupted into teasing.

Chan laughs, cheeks pink as he accepted the drink carrier from staff. “She said I sounded tired.”

“Whipped,” Hyunjin said immediately.

“Disgustingly whipped,” Seungmin added.

You kept your head down, pretending to organize brushes. You think you’re hiding it well, but Chan noticed the shift in your mood immediately — he always noticed.

“You didn’t have your morning coffee yet,” Chan said suddenly, walking and holding out the cup toward you. “Take mine.”

Your throat tightened. “It’s okay.”

“I can share.”

You finally looked at him, and that was your mistake, because there it is again… that gaze. That quiet, lingering fondness he always carries in his eyes, like looking at you is the most important thing in the world. 

And for one horrible, stupid second, you let yourself imagine this isn’t borrowed affection. That maybe, just maybe, the way he looks at you means something more and it wasn’t just in your head. 

Then his phone lit up.

my girl <3

The screen flashed with a new message.

Miss you already.

And just like that, reality crashed back so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You stepped away before anyone noticed the crack in your expression.

“I need to clean the other station,” you lied.

Chan watched you go.

That was the day you decided you needed to set strict boundaries with him. He was taken and you would never be a homewrecker. If you continued staying close to him, it would only get worse. Your feelings would deepen, settle in places you wouldn’t be able to scrape out later. 

God, you felt pathetic. Like why would you even let yourself think like this in the first place for a taken man. You were the problem.

So, you made a decision, you would avoid him. Not completely, of course. You still had a job to do. You still powdered his face before performances, still fixed his hair between takes, still smiled politely when the camera was around and when it wasn’t. 

But you stopped lingering and letting conversations stretch beyond what was necessary. You stopped replying to his jokes the way you used to, instead you kept your eyes on your work, hands busy, focused elsewhere, like anywhere but him.

And whenever he tried to pull you into ease, into familiarity, you didn’t follow.

You could tell it was getting to him.

The way his smiles didn’t come as easily around you anymore. The way his gaze lingered a second longer, like he was trying to figure out what changed and when he stopped being allowed to reach you the way he used to.

But it had to be this way, because if he knew, if he ever found out what you were really feeling — it wouldn’t just be messy. It would ruin everything. The team, the trust, the easy comfort that had always existed between you.

And worse than all of that… he would look at you differently, maybe with disappointment or even disgust, for daring to feel something like this when he already loved someone else.

So you swallowed it down, all of it, and strictly kept your distance.

It kept going for weeks, until one evening after rehearsal, he cornered you near the backstage hallway while everyone else packed up.

“Did I do something wrong?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You’ve been distant lately.”

“I’ve just been busy—”

“You’re lying,” his voice was sharp when he cut you off.

You busy yourself stuffing products into your kit. “Chan—”

“Did someone say something to you?” he asks. “Are you uncomfortable working with us?”

“No! God, no.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

Because I’m in love with you.

Because every time you smile at me I forget you’re not mine.

Because hearing your girlfriend call during touch-ups feels like swallowing glass.

Instead, you forced out, “You’re overthinking.”

Chan stared at you for a long moment, then quietly asked, “Am I?”

You couldn’t answer that, not when he’s looking at you like that.

His gaze didn’t move away from you.

“It doesn’t feel like I am,” he said sadly.

“I’m just focused on work,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Right,” he said, after a pause, but it didn't sound like he was convinced. “Just work.”

He studied you for a moment longer, like he’s trying to pull an answer out of you without words.

“Just…” he started, frustration creeping into his voice. “Just tell me what I did wrong.” 

You shook your head immediately. 

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But you don’t elaborate further, you just let the heavy and suffocating silence stretch.

Then his phone lit up and her name flashes across the screen.

Neither of you move at first.

His eyes flick down to it, then back to you — like he’s still waiting for the ringtone to stop, like he’s desperately trying to hold this conversation.

You swallowed hard.

“You should answer her,” you said softly. “I should go. I’ll… catch you later.”

Before he can respond, before he can stop you, you turn away quickly and leave, forcing your feet to keep moving, not daring to look back.

Behind you, he exhaled faintly. Chan looked at the screen for a long moment before sighing, his thumb hovered over the call and then he declined it.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, but he didn't move right away. He was too exhausted and too overwhelmed to move, so he just stood there staring at the ceiling, his eyes stinging as tears built up. 

******************************************

He tried again and then again the next day. And the day after that.

But it was always the same now. You found a reason before the conversation could even begin — work, schedules, something urgent that couldn’t wait. Anything that kept things contained and professional.

At first, he still tried to reach you through the gaps. Small questions and lingering glances. He showed quiet patience that seemed like it could stretch forever.

But slowly, even that faded.

Chan stopped trying to close the distance.

He stopped looking for you the way he used to between takes. He completely stopped waiting near your station after rehearsals and stopped turning casual moments into something more just by the way he stayed a little longer than necessary.

Now, when he spoke to you, it was strictly about work. He spoke in a way that was polite and detached, like there had never been anything softer between you to begin with.

It was what you wanted.

You kept telling yourself that.

That this was better. That you had done the right thing before anything could spiral into something messy and irreversible.

But still, the quiet that followed didn’t feel like relief. It felt more like an absence and you didn’t know what to do with that.

It went on for four days.

Four days of careful distance, professional exchanges and pretending that nothing had shifted, when everything clearly had.

And then the day before the weekend finally arrived. At the end of your shift, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

At least you could rest for a couple of days, and you wouldn’t have to keep pretending tomorrow. At least there would be space to breathe without having to carefully measure every interaction, every glance or every word.

You gathered your things a little quicker than usual, already thinking ahead to the quiet of your room, the comfort of shutting the world out for a while.

As you made your way toward the bus stand, the evening air felt softer than usual. The streets were busy, but not overwhelming. People were heading home, just like you, wrapped up in their own routines, and somehow, in that quiet in-between, your mind drifted again… to him.

You kept recalling the past and how it used to be easier. Chan would sometimes stay back after his schedules ended, casually offering you a ride home as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You used to laugh it off, decline politely, insist you were fine taking the bus. But you never won the argument and he’d always end up driving you home anyway. 

And somewhere along the way, those rides became something more than just a way to get back. Sometimes you’d make spontaneous stops at an ice-cream place, sitting in his car with the engine off, talking for hours about nothing and everything, ending up laughing over the smallest things. You’d make him try flavours his typical indecisive Libra self would never choose on his own, teasing him until he finally gave in, only to decide he actually liked them. And somehow, between shared scoops and easy conversation, it always turned into something warm, light, and effortlessly fun, like the world outside didn’t exist at all. 

Other times, he would buy you hotteok from a small roadside stall, that felt warm in your hands against the night air. He always preferred the ones filled with red bean paste, insisting they tasted better that way, while you argued the cinnamon sugar ones were superior.

Sometimes he would park his car in front of the Han River, the city lights stretching across the water in quiet reflections while everything else slowed down around you. You’d sit side by side, sharing snacks his mom sent him from Australia, unwrapping them carefully like they were something precious. He’d always insist you try first, watching your reaction with that small, expectant dimpled smile of his. And then he’d talk about his childhood back in Australia, the streets he grew up on, the sun that felt different there, the way home used to sound and smell. He spoke about it casually, but there was always a hint of softer nostalgia underneath.

You’d listen without interrupting, occasionally asking questions when his voice trailed off, while the river moved quietly outside the windshield like it had all the time in the world.

And in those moments, it never felt like anything complicated. It was just him and you, and a car full of borrowed stories, shared snacks, and a kind of peace you didn’t realize you’d start holding onto.

It was simple and mundane, easy in a way you didn’t realize you’d start missing until it was gone. Now, the memory sat differently in your chest. He doesn’t do that anymore and it’s your fault.

You swallow hard, pushing the thought down as quickly as it rises.

You ruined a good thing, you recall sadly. You lost a great friendship, all because you couldn’t control your damn feelings. In hindsight, you realized that feeling had always been there, quietly building in the spaces between conversations and shared silence.

Oh if only you had understood your own feelings back then.

By the time you understood you were in love with him, he already started falling for someone else. Or maybe even if you had realized and confessed back then, he would’ve rejected you anyway, because you were no match for him, his feelings for you were always platonic for sure. The thought settles heavily, but you don’t fight it this time, because it feels like the truth you’ve been avoiding. 

The bus arrives with a low hiss of brakes.

You step onto the bus, letting the doors close behind you with a soft mechanical sigh that feels louder than it should. The world outside is cut off in an instant, replaced by the dim, familiar interior of late evening travel.

You move down the aisle and take the seat at the very end of the row, near the window. From here, the city stretches out like a moving painting — streets glowing with gold and white lights, brake lamps bleeding into soft red streaks, buildings dissolving into blurred shapes as the bus pulls forward.

Everything keeps moving.

The hum of the engine fills the space around you, steady and low, vibrating faintly through the seat and into your bones. It should be comforting in its predictability, something to anchor you, something to keep your mind from drifting where it shouldn’t.

But it doesn’t work tonight. You lean your head against the cool glass beside you, letting the slight chill press into your skin. The movement of the bus rocks you gently, almost like it’s trying to lull you into stillness. Your body feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion, and everything to do with carrying too much you don’t know where to put.

You slip your headphones on without thinking, more out of habit than intention, and let your playlist begin on its own.

At first, it’s nothing more than background noise. Familiar songs pass through your ears without meaning, soft melodies that don’t ask anything of you, that don’t require attention or emotion. They drift in one side and out the other, barely registering.

And then everything changes when you hear his voice.

Eternity by Bang Chan starts playing.

It hits you so suddenly that your entire body stills, like something inside you has paused without permission. It feels almost unreal at first, like your mind is playing a trick on you, like it shouldn’t be possible for him to exist here — in something so ordinary, so mundane, so far removed from where he actually is.

But he does.

He fills the space inside your headphones completely, as if there is no room for anything else. As if the world outside the bus, the people sitting around you, even your own thoughts, have all been pushed aside just to make space for him.

You remember adding this song. When he talked about his pet dog, Berry, and how much he missed her. A breath caught in your throat before you can stop it, small and unsteady, followed by another that you try to control but fail to steady. Your fingers curl slightly in your lap, pressing into your palms as if grounding yourself physically could stop what’s happening internally.

But it doesn’t.

The lyrics don’t simply play. They settle. They sink in slowly, deliberately, as if they’ve been waiting for you specifically. Each line feels heavier than the last, threading through every carefully built barrier you’ve spent weeks putting up, slipping through the cracks you thought you had sealed tightly enough.

Memories rise without warning, uninvited and sharp at the edges—quiet laughter during late schedules, shared silence that never felt uncomfortable, the easy comfort of sitting beside him without overthinking what it meant. And then, more recently, the distance. The careful politeness. The way everything between you shifted without either of you saying it out loud. 

You turn your face slightly toward the window, pressing your forehead more firmly against the glass. The cold against your skin is sharp enough to ground you for a second, to remind you where you are, to remind you that this is just a bus ride home and nothing more.

Outside, life continues in fragments. People get on, people get off, conversations begin and end without meaning to linger. No one looks long enough to notice anything beyond the surface. No one sees the way your expression tightens, the way something inside you quietly starts to break apart without sound.

You swallow hard, forcing your breathing into something steady, something controlled. But it doesn’t matter how still you sit, how tightly you hold yourself together, or how carefully you try to look away from what you’re feeling.

Because it’s already there and the tear slips anyway. 

God, you just want to go home and sleep.

******************************************

Award show season becomes torture.

You stand backstage adjusting the clasp of Chan’s in-ear monitors when she arrives.

She’s even more breathtaking in person. The kind of beauty cameras never fully capture. And Chan’s entire face lit up when he saw her.

Not polite, it was just pure admiration. Deeply in love kinda gaze. 

“Baby,” he breathed.

Your chest caved in.

She wrapped her arms around his waist carefully, mindful of his outfit. “You look so handsome.”

“And you look so beautiful, baby,” he said quietly, eyes softening as if the world around them had faded out.

“I missed you.” She said cupping his face.

The intimacy of it felt private. You shouldn’t be standing here witnessing this. 

You step back immediately. “I’ll go check the others.”

Neither of them notice you leaving. Like you didn’t even exist and that hurt more than it should.

That night, after the performance, Chan finds you alone on the rooftop of the venue parking structure.

Cold wind whipped past as you stared over the city lights below.

“You disappeared.”

You didn’t turn around. “Needed air.”

A silence settled between you. 

“Did seeing her upset you?”

Your heart stopped. Slowly, you looked at him.

Chan’s expression was unreadable. He looked hesitant.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

You laugh weakly. “Chan—”

“You look at me like your heart’s breaking.”

The words shattered something inside you.

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t say things like that.”

His brows pull together. “Why not? Isn’t that the truth?”

“No,” you whispered, finally meeting his eyes, “it’s not.”

The wind felt freezing now. Chan stepped closer, way too close. You stepped back immediately and he held your wrist to stop you.

“Stop running away from me, dammit,” he snapped, though his voice betrayed a slight shake.

“Chan, it’s… let’s not talk about it, please.” You sighed sadly, “my heart can’t handle this conversation.”

“I just…” he started, then stopped, like the sentence didn’t know where to go.

His eyes flicked away from yours. And when he spoke again, it was quieter, carefully stripped of anything that sounded too honest.

“I just don’t like when things feel different between us.”

“I’m sorry. I was just bu—”

“Busy with work,” he cut you off immediately, a faint edge slipping through before he could stop it. “Yeah. You said that.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face. 

“I know,” he said finally, quieter now. “I know you’re busy.”

The silence stretched.

You took a step back. “Chan, just… let it go, okay? This is getting too much.”

At that, something in his expression flickered, he looked pissed at this point.

“I’m not trying to make it ‘too much,’” he said, making air quotes around the word.

You swallowed. “Chan, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Then don’t say things like that.”

You frowned slightly. “Like what?”

His jaw tightened.

“Like you can’t handle talking to me,” he said, slower now. “Like I’m something you have to escape from.”

That landed heavier than it should’ve.

“I wasn’t trying to!” you said defensively. “I’m here minding my own business. You’re the one trying to make an issue out of a situation that’s nothing!”

“Oh yeah?” His voice snapped sharper now. “Stop lying.”

“I am not lying! I’m just doing my job. I’m giving you space. That’s all it is.”

His breath came out sharper this time.

“So it is space.”

“It’s not—”

“Then what is it?” he interrupted, frustration finally breaking through the restraint. “Because it feels like I’m being erased from your life one interaction at a time.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. For a second, neither of you moved.

And then his voice dropped, “I’m not okay with this.”

That was all he gave you. Just the raw and unfiltered truth. Your throat tightened.

“Chan…”

“Being not around you is making me lose my mind, can’t you see that?” He said shakily.

You froze slightly. “What… why does it matter?”

His breath came out uneven now, like he hated that he’d said it.

“Because I care about you,” he said, voice breaking at the edges. “I don’t know how to deal with losing you.”

And there it is, the worst part, because you know he does. Chan loves deeply and fiercely. He gives pieces of himself to everyone he treasures. But not the way you ache for him, his one was purely platonic for you.

So you smile sadly and say the only thing that will save you both. 

“I know.” 

His face fell slightly. 

“You should go back to her,” you continue softly. “She’s probably waiting.” 

For a second, something flickers in his expression, it looked like a mix of conflict, guilt, longing. It’s gone almost immediately. 

Chan looked away first. 

“…Yeah.” 

That one word nearly killed you. He hesitates before leaving. Like he wanted to say more. 

But in the end, he walks away. And you let him, because loving him means accepting that sometimes someone can give you tenderness, trust, late-night conversations, lingering looks, just a little bit of their heart, while the rest belongs to somebody else. The one they truly want. 

------------------------

Permanent Taglist 1:

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn’t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. “I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

Soulmates were just another distraction in a world full of them. To pursue your dreams, to want something bigger, you couldn't believe in fairytales fed to you by the delusional. It didn't stop Max's 18th birthday from rolling around anyway, waiting with baited breath for some sign, some magic name on the inside of his wrist, anything. It took a few days for his soul mark to be spotted on the back of his right shoulder, over his shoulder blade. It took a few days after that for Jos to notice and to continue his rants on the distractions of love in the path of greatness. 

After that, after everything his father put him through, everything Max did to earn his love, he stopped caring about soulmates. He'd meet the love of his life someday, surely, even with his soul mark bandaged, hidden from flashing cameras. It was through his fame Max realized how right his father was, of those attempting anything to copy his soulmate to pretend to be his love, a warning straight out of whatever textbook his father used to learn how to raise his children. If it was still in publication, Max was pretty sure he'd pay good money to have every copy burned. Soulmates, magical connections, they were just another distraction. He didn't want someone loving him because of a mark, because of how fast he went around a track and how much money he made, he wanted something real. Someone to look at him and think that he was meant to be theirs for no other reason than Max himself. 

It didn't stop the whole thing from getting to Max every so often, when someone close to him found their supposed one true love, when it made the headlines. Tonight, it was some bartender seeing colour for the first time, their soulmate a patron. The whole bar exploded with drunken excitement for them, forcing Max out into the night air because there were some things even a man as strong as him couldn't stand. 

"-and don't fucking follow me!" A man calls, slamming the door to a cab as it rips off into the hot Monaco night, and Max finds that the words are not directed at him, but rather you, sitting on the curb, looking entirely unenthused. 

Without thinking much of it, Max finds his place beside you. "Trouble in paradise?" He finds himself saying, scrubbing his hands over his face. Just because people were soulmates didn't mean it mattered, didn't mean it would last, didn't make both parties nice. 

"I wish," You breath out softly, "They're not my soulmate. Just a date." 

"A date?" Max echoes, sparing a glance your way. In the mixture of moonlight and streetlights, there's a sort of warmth from you that has Max wonder why you'd go on a date with someone who isn't your soulmate, even if he understands it perfectly well. 

"Surprising, isn't it?" You muse, sparing a glance up at the night sky. "Dating someone who isn't your soulmate, how terrible." 

"No, no." Max is quick to correct. "I understand." 

And then, in the middle of the heated Monaco night, you lock eyes with him for the first time, and if it were meant to be something, Max would feel something. Instead, he takes in someone pretty, warm from the night, flushed softly, probably from the drinks at the bar. He takes in someone who went on a date without their soulmate, and he feels a little bit less alone in this strange, awful world. Your eyes are slow to part from his, only breaking his stare when a car drives by too fast. "My soulmate passed away, I think." You admit quietly, almost hidden under the dragging noise of the car as it passes. "It's not worth being alone the rest of your life because you missed out on the perfect match. I'll settle for second best." Then, with a soft laugh, "Third, even." 

"I have a soulmate." Max says, and you turn to look at him again, that softness slowly slipping away. "And I don't want them. Don't know who they are." 

"So you're leaving some poor soul all alone for nothing?" Max shakes his head, trying not to think of whatever 'poor soul' matches with him. It was always a selfish thing to try and explain, but that was how Max was raised to think, and some habits die hard. 

"I want someone to want me for me." He says then, the words so often unspoken. He'd rarely talked about this to any of his teammates, and to admit it to a stranger somehow felt better. Your soulmate had passed; there was no threat of a matching symbol. You would just understand what it was like to be alone, to be othered and date anyway. "Not because I'm supposed to be a soulmate, or for some random choice that we don't even understand. For no real reason." 

You don't answer immediately, just staring at him intently, before you nod slowly. "You want someone to fall in love with you for the sake of loving you." 

"I don't want to hurt my 'soulmate' in the process," He says with air quotes, "But them loving me for a mark is just not what I want, in the end." He doesn't tell you about how he also doesn't want someone to fall in love with him for the fame, and he realizes only in this moment, it's because you could fall in love with him. 

For him. 

Your soulmate had passed, you were already going on dates. You could get to know him for no other reason than to know him, and he could make it work. The warmth he gets when he looks at you isn't magical: it's something realistic. "And how has that gone so far?" 

"Haven't got a single date." Max jokes, but it's the truth. No one wants to date a random stranger when their soulmate might be out there. "For obvious reasons. And you?" 

"They don't last." You say quietly, "Like I'm a stepping stone before they find who they want." Then, because that's not the kind of thing to admit to a stranger, you duck your head with a soft blush, and Max scoots closer, leaning to nudge his shoulder with yours. 

"You're the finish line for someone out there." He says, an unfortunate race reference he doesn't think about until later. 

"Thought you didn't believe in soulmates," You answer back softly, rocking your shoulder into his, and Max finds himself grinning down at you. 

He didn't believe in soulmates, he believed in this. Real connection, with real people, no magical, mystical interference necessary. "Didn't say that person had to be your soulmate. Could be anyone." His eyes flicker down your dress, stuck on the open back of it, the perfect curve of your spine, and he has to take a slow breath. "Some stranger on the street." 

You turn to look at Max with something so close to hope that he can't think too much about it, or he'll start to fall sooner than he can prepare for the landing. He just wants proof that he can love, and be loved, without needing a soulmate or matching mark. He doesn't need you to be the answer to all of his problems; he just wants a chance. "You're really sweet." You say, that look of hope flickering, "But I'm only here a week." 

"And?" He rises off the curb and extends a hand to help you up. "Doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves while you're here." 

"You're not a tourist?" Your hand slips into his, and if you were his soulmate, if they were real, it would be something magical. Every story has the first touch being something so important, the final connection of a soul bond, but when your soft skin glides against his, nothing remotely fantastical happens, and Max loves it all the more for it. 

"I'm a veterinarian here," He answers, the first fake profession he could think of as he helps you up. Might make the fact that he owns three cats more normal. He lets your hand drop, a terrible thing, and he gestures for you to follow him on the sidewalk. "I can take you for a midnight tour of Monaco if you like?" 

"You know, this is typically how people end up kidnapped or dead, or something." Without much thinking, Max pulls his wallet from his pocket and hands it to you, and you blink up at him. "What?" 

"If I was going to do something to you, why would I give you my wallet? It's got all my identification in there." You open the wallet, staring down at his driver's licence and flipping through the few cards he keeps in there, more out of curiosity, he thinks, than scrutiny. 

You spare a glance up at him, folding the wallet up and tucking it into your purse. "Now it feels like I'm robbing you, Max." 

"Well, I'd rather you take advantage of me than the other way around." You saying his name trips him up in a way he didn't expect, sounding so nice in your voice. It's just Max, he knows, but still. 

It does something to his heart that he didn't realize it could do. "You're one of the strangest people I've ever met." 

"Welcome to Monaco?" You laugh, another beautiful sound that has Max realizing he's more screwed than humanly possible. A week, he tries to remind himself, but with you by his side in that dress, it's hard to think of anything but the present. 

-

You're not sure how you end up on the beach with Max, heels in hand, but it's a pleasant change of pace. If it hadn't already screwed you over, you'd say it's fate, to be here with him, but that wasn't possible. Not when whoever bore your matching soul mark had faded out, or at least the soulmark had, splotchy and scratched out in a way you could only imagine meant death. 

It had happened so young, too, that it had never felt like you were able to pursue love or a soulmate seriously. Sure, there were online groups for widows, though you didn't consider yourself really a widow at this age. So, instead, you focused on all the other great things in your life, hoping for that miracle to come someday, and currently, it was in the form of a Dutch veterinarian in Monaco. 

Not how you expected your night to go. "They're named after clubs?" 

"Jimmy and Sassy are, but Donatello is not." Max answers very seriously, sparing a small grin your way, and you try to think what kind of experience he must have gone through to not want his soulmate, to want love from anyone, just for being him. You understand the thought of not wanting someone to just automatically stick with you for the sake of being a soulmate, but Max had so much to offer. You kept trying to find faults, but all you found were cats and a sweet tooth. "What would you have named them?" 

"Three cats? You should give them all names with the same first letter, like Jessica, James, and John." A laugh bubbles out of Max at the suggestion, a bright thing that has you blushing, luckily hidden in the dim light of Monaco's nights. 

"I am not naming a cat Jessica. Or James." 

"But John works?" You tease, stopping to stare up at a crystal clear night that, even with the light pollution, reveals a sky littered with stars. Max comes to stop at your side, saying nothing for a moment as the two of you just stare out into the night, and your hand brushes his. 

It shouldn't be this electrifying. Shouldn't be something so intense from a stranger, some truly random man you met in the night, but it was the sort of adventure you wouldn't mind pursuing. You only had a week here, but maybe you wouldn't mind spending that week with Max. "For the right cat," Max finally continues, still happily enthralled with the cat conversation, "John would work." 

"Do you think the water would be nice?" You ask, stepping closer to the shore. The water barely reaches your toes, and without much consideration for his pants, Max pulls his shoes and socks off, and wades in shin-deep. You laugh, watching him practically stomp around, and there's an evil glint in his eye that has him charging at you. You don't even try to run, letting him grab you by the waist and haul you into the water, spinning you around and sending water flying around with it. Your hands brace against his shoulders, and for working with so many different animals, he'd have to be strong for that, surely. 

Or maybe he just likes to work out in his free time, your hands smoothing against his biceps as he sets you down into the water, a pleasant thought you tuck away for later. "Does that answer your question?" 

"You are ridiculous." Then, you realize Max hadn't let go of your waist, and you hadn't let go of his arms, wrapped up together and standing in the water like it was normal. 

Because it could be. 

This could be your future, if you really think of it. Love was something worth pursuing, even if it wasn't the perfect match set out for you from the universe. You had spent so long mourning your soulmate you hadn't stopped to realize that maybe, just maybe, there were other people out there for you. 

That there could be a Max, after it all. And you could kiss him, if you wanted, looking up at him in the moonlit night, on a random beach, but fear stirs in your stomach too quickly to let you. There was little evidence this could ever be more than a pleasant night, that it would last, and Max notices your hesitation, very gently letting your waist go. "We, uh, don't have towels." You say, trying to direct the conversation away from your spiralling thoughts. "We're going to have wet feet." 

"Well, I might have wet feet." Max makes his way back to his shoes, using his socks to wipe off his feet before putting his sneakers on, and then he finds you at the edge of the shore, and holds out his arms. "But I could carry you?" 

"Carry me?" You echo, blush rising to your cheeks, and you realize Max is waiting for permission. "I mean, I might be heavy, I-" 

"Oh, heavy!" Max then proceeds to scoop you up, bridal style, like it's nothing. He marches up to where the beach meets a cobblestone road, and gently sets you on the low stone fence seperating the two. 

And then, like it's normal, like it's something people do, he squats down without a word and helps put your heels on, a Cinderella moment that has you considering if maybe he really was your long-lost soulmate. 

You'd never asked what his trait was, never got to see what it could be. Maybe you had matching, scratched-out marks. Maybe he got into an accident that damaged it. Maybe, by the way he's looking up at you, it didn't matter. "What brings you to Monaco?"  Max continues, as if he didn't just do the sweetest thing anyone has for you in a long, long time. 

"A break from it all." Max leads you down the street toward your hotel, and you don't want the night to end, both for your enjoyment, and the concern that it all might be over tomorrow.

Max doesn't realize you'd stopped infront of your hotel, sparing a glance to your side and then doing a small spin to face you again, lopsided smile revealed in the streetlight above him. "You should come back," He says, coming to lean on the wall of the hotel beside you. "I'm not sure I can show you all you need to see in just a week." 

"I might need more convincing than that." You joke, and Max smiles down at you, a sight that has your stomach flipping, and this time, before you let your emotions truly get in the way, you lean up on the tips of your toes and press a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. "Thank you for all this, Max. It really means a lot." 

Max's hand hovers over his cheek, shock plain on his face from the kiss, and you're worried you've overstepped before he's blushing deeply, a perfect pink colour picked up in the lights of the hotel. It's a view you could get used to. "Oh," He breathes out softly, a small, giddy smile breaking out across his face. "You're most certainly welcome."

You take a step up the hotel stairs and Max calls after you, making you pause above him, and he stuffs his hands in his pockets, as if some kind of non-chalant defense for whatever he's about to say next.

"Think I could convince you to give me your number?" You half-heartedly roll your eyes, coming back down the stairs to put your number in his phone. You send off a test text, and you hope it's enough to make him want you tomorrow, because the more time you spend with him, the more you try not to get your hopes up. 

He's not your soulmate, and this isn't fate, but god, do you want it to be. 

You move back up the stairs and step into the hotel, leaving the door open to look back at Max, and you know you can't invite him up, can't jump through that many stages yet, and Max respectfully waits on the sidewalk, that stupid smile still on his face. "Goodnight, Max." 

"Goodnight," He says, along with some word in what you assume to be Dutch. You try to figure out what he possibly could have said when Max waves a hand, ushering you toward the elevator. "Forget it, it's Dutch. Go get some sleep." 

It's only when you get to your room do you realize you still have his wallet.

-

Max awakes to the sound of his phone buzzing. Glancing at the screen, since he came home and crashed, he's missed a handful of texts.

unknown 

hey! i still have your wallet

Then, about half an hour later, 

unknown

I really needed that tonight, thank you 

Maybe you can give me a tour sometime?

Then, this morning, 

unknown

me again, if this is the wrong number, can you let me know?

Glancing at the time, Max realizes he's slept in until noon. With a curse, he drags himself out of bed and quickly tries to type out a response that doesn't make him seem like a degenerate. 

max 

sorry, I passed out after I got home 

not used to staying out that late 

i could give you that tour in return for the wallet today? 

Your answer is almost instantaneous. 

unknown

that sounds wonderful 

sorry for keeping you up late

max

it was worth it

unknown 

I'm on a run currently, do you want me to pick you up some breakfast to start our tour?

max

you are perfect

and waffles?

And it was the start of something perfect. 

Without really putting too much thought into it, partially because it's early, partially because if he does, he'll start to crack into a million little pieces, he sends his address, and spends the next twenty minutes furiously cleaning everything he can. It's only once there's a knock on his door and he answers that he realizes he hasn't changed out of his pyjamas, left standing before you in an oversized t-shirt and boxers.

Somehow, though, it's not quite embarrassing. You just smile up at him, shaking your head with your arms full of take out boxes, his wallet balanced on top. "Give me a minute, and I'll get changed." He says, taking the boxes from you and setting them down on the counter, and you take in his space, almost presentable now with his frantic tidying. 

He disappears into his bedroom, trying not to think too hard about whatever outfit he throws together, something nice and casual, nothing to get him noticed in the streets. Considering you had his wallet, and knew his name, there's a chance you might have searched him, which ruins the whole fame aspect of this, but for some reason, he has faith. 

He steps back out to the kitchen to find you sitting on the ground, Donatello in your lap, and Max has to pause to take in the moment. It's so deeply domestic, of you curled up with his cats, boxes of waffles left open on the counter above you. He couldn't remember the last time he shared breakfast with someone outside of work, let someone into his space, like it was normal.

If he had his phone on him, he'd take a photo to remember the moment, but then you're looking up at him and smiling, and the memory will be better than any photo could be. "Who's this one?" 

"Donatello, or Donut." Max moves to the counter and gathers up the boxes of waffles and watches you struggle to pick Donatello up to join him, but the cat just lets you awkwardly cradle it like a baby. "He likes you," Max admits as he falls onto his couch and promptly tears into one of the boxes of chocolate waffles. "He doesn't let me hold him like that." 

"You're a vet!" You exclaim, coming to sit beside him, like this was normal, like you had always shared mornings, like it was meant to be, even if it never was. "Shouldn't you be an expert at this stuff?" 

"It's not about me, it's about the animal." He extends his arms to try and take Donatello, who leaps off his lap and disappears somewhere into the house. "See?" 

"Maybe that's what you get for naming him Donatello." You take one of the boxes, cutting up some crepe thing with a plastic knife and fork as Max takes his first bites of food. "Are you a car guy?" 

Max's heart stutters in his chest before you gesture to his shelf, where some replica cars and car books stand out, glaringly obvious. "Oh, yeah. My dad's a big racing fan. Do you know anything about cars?" 

"Not really, no." You answer truthfully, taking a bite. He waits for you to finish eating to continue asking questions, but then you're gesturing to his waffles. "Are they any good?" 

"Want a piece?" Without another word, you cut some crepe and give it to him as he offers up a piece of the waffle, trading like it's nothing, and Max finds that he doesn't really care if you figure out who he is, because so far, you've treated him perfectly normal. You're curled up on the couch, by his side, trading pieces of fruit and breakfast, an unspoken thing that you do the entire morning. 

When he slowly extends an arm over the back of the couch, letting you lean into him, you do, and you talk about the night before like it's nothing. 

Because it was nothing. It wasn't some big, meaningful thing, some soulmate bond, it was just you and him. You don't ask to see his soul mark, and he doesn't ask to see yours. You just sit in each other's company, laughing over the cats being idiots, and Max unfortunately realizes that he could really, really get used to this. 

A week wouldn't be long enough, so mentally, he decides to pull out every stop. Yachts, restaurants, hikes, anything that might convince you to stay, or at least stay with him. 

Anything to convince Max that something like this could last, and that it could be love. 

-

"What's your favourite colour?" You ask Max, taking your time as you wander through the Japanese-style garden he'd brought you to. For a veterinarian, he somehow had access to some of the best places in Monaco, apparently due to all the wealthy people whose pets are his patients. 

"Blue, I think." Max answers absent-mindedly, stopping to study a bush of flowers intently. "Here, come look." 

"What did you say in Dutch, the other day? Sounded like cat something." You join Max's side to see a butterfly perfectly perched on a flower, and distracted, you don't see how red Max gets at your question. 

"Nothing," He repeats softly, his hand gently brushing against yours. Without much thought, you link your fingers together, and walk the rest of the garden like that. "Just means good night." 

-

You are currently lounging on Max's yacht in a blue one-piece bathing suit, and Max has never struggled to look at a person more. It's sort of the opposite, really, that he wants to stare at you, to keep looking at the way your curves lay out perfectly on the blanket he provided, that you might have bought that suit for him, because it's his favourite colour. 

"You know," Max says before he can stop himself, "Wearing a blue bathing suit can be dangerous. You might not be spotted in the water." 

"What?" You say, rolling over to look at him, and Max has to stare intently down at the book he's trying to read to not look in your direction. "But I've worn this for years, no one ever said anything." 

I've worn this for years. 

His shade of blue, like it was meant to be, but it wasn't, because this was just something real, something two people could share without anything else influencing it. "I can take you shopping for something brighter? Just in case." 

"You just want to see me try on bathing suits, that's what this is." You tease, and Max flushes red. Then, to his surprise, you rise, coming to sit on the end of his lounger in the shade, and he ever so carefully looks up, so that he only looks at your face. "Do you need any sunscreen? You're getting pretty red." 

"It's not the sun." Max blurts, before quickly trying to return to his book. Then, your hand comes to pull the book down from his face, and the joy in your expression is something evil. 

"You really do like blue, hm?" Max tosses his book to the side, uncaring where it lands before he's picking you up. "Wait, Max, Max! Not the water, not the water!" 

"Perfect day for a swim, no?" He teases, and you smack his chest. 

"I thought you said people couldn't see me if I was in blue." You do have a point there. Without letting you go, Max settles back into his lounger, you in his lap, and without needing any instructions, you happily bury your face into the crook of his neck, letting Max hold you there. 

At some point, your breathing evens out, and in the only chance Max has, he gently presses a kiss to your forehead and lets himself fall asleep too. 

-

The last day doesn't quite feel real. Max had gotten you dinner reservations at a Michelin star restaurant, and you had tried to teach him yoga in the morning, and somewhere in between, you'd gone for a hike and gotten gelato, and Max had fallen into what he realized now might be love. 

"You know," He finds himself saying, watching as you curl up in his side, Donatello in your lap and his suit jacket around your shoulders, "I think Donut might miss you more than me." 

It was a perfect mirror to your first morning here. You had come back from dinner, not even thinking about returning to Max's apartment instead of your hotel. At this point, he should've told you to bring your suitcase, to spend the week here, but there were some boundaries you had yet to cross. "I can't say the same for Jimmy or Sassy," You say up to him, both cats nowhere to be found. They'd always been more territorial over Max anyway. You shift further into his side on the couch, hand reaching up to adjust his jacket before remembering that you had to give it back, and before remembering that you had to go. 

Max watches both thoughts occur to you in real time, the smile slowly fading from your features. "I suppose this is it." He says softly above you. Neither of you had talked about what this was, what it meant, and frankly, Max was terrified to bring it up on his own. 

He loved you. It was a strange conclusion to come to in only a week, but you were living, breathing proof that someone could care for him without a mark, without the fame, his identity perfectly tucked away the whole time. You could've searched him up, could've done a lot of things, but he's not sure you ever did. 

"Can I ask a question?" Max asks, hand coming up to gently brush some loose hair away from your face, a domestic moment that might haunt him forever. "Did you ever search me? My name, in the wallet?" 

"What, Max Verstappen?" His full name haunts him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn't seem to come. "No, I didn't. Should I have?" 

"I'm not a veterinarian." He answers softly, and the confusion on your face morphs into something closer to fear, and very gently, Max finally admits what he's been keeping from you. "Another reason I don't want to pursue a soulmate is because I am a Formula One driver, and enough people have pretended to love me for that. That's why there's so much car stuff." 

"Max," You breath out softly, shifting up to look at him more directly, "I know why you didn't, but you could have told me." 

"You are proof enough that I was right, though." You were here, curled up in his home like it was yours, with no strings attached. He trusted you when you said you didn't know his identity, because he trusted you entirely. "I don't need a mark or money to make someone love me." Your eyes widen, and Max realizes rather quickly what he just said aloud, scrapping all the progress he made to drop that word on you after only a week. "I didn't mean, as in I thought, after the week, I-" 

"Wait, Max-" 

"I'm sorry, I didn't think of-" 

"Max." You sit up properly now, facing him, and if this were another fantasy, Max would drag you into his lap, hold you there for a while, but now, he lets his hands ball up into useless fists at his side, waiting for you to tear a strip off of him for saying that you loved him after a week. Instead of the coming anger he expects, however, there's a softness as you gently place a hand on his chest, smoothing down his tie. "I don't think either of us can call this love yet." You say, and Max tries to get something out before you can continue. "But you're right. You don't need a soulmark or money to make someone love you, because I have spent the most incredible week with you, and the only thing I've cared about is needing to get to know you more. Not more about your soulmark, or about your secret identity, I just wanted you." 

You just wanted him. 

God, this could be love. It's all Max can think as he leans in, kissing you before he can stop himself. It starts out as a soft, simple thing, but Max could never truly describe himself as soft, if not maybe only for you. His hands find your waist, pulling you into him, and you deepen the kiss as your arms wrap around his neck, slotting together like you were always meant to be here, even if you weren't. You pull apart for a breath, staring up at Max with so much knowing in your eyes that Max can't help but immediately loosen his tie, flinging it off to some far corner of his apartment before continuing. 

He doesn't want to rush you, doesn't need to rush this, but god, all he can think is that this could be love, and all the ways he might be able to make you stay, to make you his. He doesn't care how many jets he has to charter, how many rules he had to bend, because you cared for him, the closest thing he's ever known to love. 

Your hands begin to undo his dress shirt, beating him to his own game, and he practically rips it off himself to get to you, and your hand smooths over the bandage on his shoulder, and you still.

Desperately, Max wants to ignore it. He wants this moment to be his, he wants you to be his, and for this all to disappear. 

But that's not how life works, unfortunately. That's not what Jos allowed. Someday, he'll have to talk about it, and as you slowly pull away, Max swallows thickly, trying to think of how he could tell you all that he did, all that he's done, to get rid of this damned mark. To make his father proud. To be the driver he needed to be. 

"You don't have to show me," You say, somehow unexpected. Throughout this whole week, you had never rushed him, never tried to make him talk about soulmates again. Still, with this much tension between you, with that damned bandage under your hand, he didn't expect you to happily ignore it. "We don't have to talk about it." 

"It's ugly," Max says quietly, leaning back to press a hand to his eyes, the other still holding onto your waist, gentle but firm. "Shouldn't be seen anyway." 

"No soulmark is ugly," You answer, a knowing to your voice. "I would never judge you for it." 

"I scrubbed it off." The words hang in the air, a quiet admission that Max had never dared to tell another soul. 

That after the hundredth race belittled by his father, tormented by this stupid mark, by a love that served no one, Max had found some solvent invented to get rid of soulmarks, and to the best of his ability, he scrubbed it off. It hurt like hell, the scar worse than the soulmark was itself, but Max got rid of it. "What?" Your confusion answers everything Max needed to know, slowly leaning back to put distance between the two of you. 

"I was raised in a household where soulmarks didn't work. The universe didn't pick lovers, it just didn't...they didn't...work. And because I was determined to race, I was convinced love would get in the way. Didn't help that everyone kept throwing themselves at me, faking marks to try and convince me they were my partner. I scrubbed it off permanently, and I don't regret it." 

He does. 

It probably hurt his soulmate. It probably tortured him more than he needed at his age. You pull back even farther, a mix of emotions that Max can't read as you stare at him. Disgust, he's pretty sure. That he would do that to someone else. "That's why real partnerships matter to me. Not soulmarks that can be burned off." 

"God, I'm sorry Max." The apology comes easily, despite Max's experience that it should be difficult. No one ever apologized to him sincerely, but it came to you like breathing. "I'm so sorry anyone ever made you feel like you had to get rid of that to succeed. I'm so sorry they convinced you it wasn't worth it." 

"That doesn't matter now." 

"Doesn't matter now? Of course it does, Max." Your hand smooths over the bandage on his shoulder. "If I'm the proof you need that love doesn't need to be scrubbed away, then so be it. Soulmarks be damned, you are so worthy, Max. You never should have felt the need to do...to do all that." 

The tears come in waves that Max isn't used to, normally fighting them with all his might, but right now, he couldn't care as he lets them fall, your hands gently coming up to wipe them away. He was worthy. 

That was all he was ever waiting to hear, he thinks. "I'm sorry," He says as he presses his face into your neck, your hand gently sliding into his hair, soothingly parting his hair this way and that. "That you never got to meet your soulmate. They were one lucky, lucky person." 

"I got to meet you, didn't I?" You weren't his soulmate, he knows. But it was still a nice admission that has Max laughing sadly into your collarbone. "I never have to see your mark if you don't want, but never feel the need to hide it from me." 

Without much thought, Max leans back and awkwardly reaches over his shoulder, tearing off the bandage in one clean rip, but he doesn't let you see right away. Instead, he finds himself stuck, staring at you through slowing tears as you begin to pull your dress over your head, a shock that has Max's eyes squeezing shut tight. "Wait, wait, you don't have to-" 

"If you want to show me yours, I can show you mine." Max's eyes flutter open, and he never thought he'd be more distracted by a mark than by you, in your underwear, in his lap. 

But he is, because it's his. 

There, tucked on your ribs is his mark, the little lion-looking head, a symbol Max carried for years in homage to the one he scrubbed off. It's a matching scar, more faded now, but it's his, and instantly, his hand clamps over it to hide it from his sight. 

You're his soulmate. 

All that fighting, trying so hard to not need a soulmark to fall in love, and you were still his. "What, Max?" 

"Don't move." Max manages to say under his breath, the next round of tears coming. "Please, god-" 

Your hand smooths over his shoulder, fingers gently tracing over his scar, and once you make the full way around, you freeze, because of course you'd recognize a matching scar. All this time, you thought your soulmate had died because Max had scrubbed off his soulmark, making it look like he'd passed. "But I...I never felt the bond." 

"I told you," He answers through gritted teeth, "I scrubbed it off. It must have broke the bond." 

"Max." God, you should be so angry at him. He expects a tantrum, a fight, you storming out and ending this perfect week with all of Max's terribleness. 

Because if the universe was right, you were his soulmate, and he'd ruined it all for you. You and him had fit so perfectly, and he had just fucked everything up to a degree that even he didn't know how to fix. "Changes how you think of me, huh?" He jokes softly, unable to meet your eyes, and to his surprise, you gently take his head in your hands and press a kiss to his forehead. 

"Just confirms my suspicions, actually." You answer as Max's eyes flicker open, looking up to see you smiling at him. 

Smiling. "What?" 

"You might have destroyed our soul bond, but we still fell in love." You gently pat his chest as you lean back, taking a deep breath. "We were perfectly capable of falling in love with strangers, but something in me knew we were more than just...strangers." 

"You're not mad?" 

"This wasn't your fault." Oh. "You made some very, very poor decisions, but this...I couldn't blame you for this. I found my way back, didn't I?" 

Oh. 

Max pulls you into the tightest hug he can manage, holding you perfectly still as he finally comes to terms with the fact that once upon a time, you were his soulmate. He'd hurt you, scrubbed the mark and bond and made you believe he was dead, and you kept going. You kept trying to find love, and you found him, and maybe it all wasn't real. 

Maybe it wasn't the universe. Maybe it wasn't fate. Maybe it wasn't soulmates. The bond had broken, after all, and you had both proven you were able to love each other without needing an inch of proof of forever. You just needed him now, and Max has to fight the tears he'd had built up inside him since he was eighteen. 

He's not sure how long he holds you there, but it's long enough for him to be sure that you're going to miss your flight tomorrow, and long enough for him to be sure that no matter what this is, no matter what connects you, it's real. 

And that's all he ever needed it to be.

-

-

-

"So you're not soulmates?" One of Max's mechanics ask, stood beside you infront of the monitor. You almost don't hear them with your headphones on, but the words have been said enough times to get the essence of it. 

How could you possibly date someone who isn't supposed to be yours in the eyes of the universe? It was a hard thing to explain, that Max was your soulmate, but he had severed the bond, and you had repaired it anyway. You decided to keep all that from the world however, soulmarks tucked away to only be shared between the two of you. What the world didn't know wouldn't hurt them. "We don't have a soul bond, no." 

"But don't you think about your soulmates?" The final laps approach, Max having a fair advantage as you watch his car whip around the track. "Finding someone better?" 

"Better?" The best possible option was right here, shining in the night like he was meant to. You wouldn't lie and say that it didn't hurt, knowing that Max had purposefully tried to break the bond, but that didn't dampen your feelings for him. You were children back then, and he was hurting, and he thought this was the best way forward. 

Maybe, if he had kept the soulmark, you'd have found each other somehow, in some way, but that's not the love story you needed. Your love story started on the streets of Monaco in the middle of the night, falling for a man for no other reason than he was Max, and he was yours, and it was perfect. 

"Soulmates are not the be-all end-all. There is other love out there for us, and it's no better or worse." The only thing this could be was love, you think, soulmarks be damned. You believed, deep down, that something more than just coincidence connected you and Max, but what you had was built on a foundation of your own making, not the universe's. "Max is the best partner I could ask for, whether he was my soulmate or not."

The mechanic doesn't have time to question it further, because Max crosses the finish line, and your heart begins beating so fast that it has to be love. It was meant to be, even if at one point, it wasn't. You were meant to be here, and on that street with Max, and in his arms, and with his cats, and in each other's lives, and there was no explanation needed for why. 

It was love, when you rushed down toward the parc ferme, past all the garages and the flashing lights, that you were here for him. The headlines hadn't known what to do with you, and Max hadn't bothered to indulge their rumours. You were his, and he was yours, and nothing would come between that. 

Because you were soulmates. 

It wasn't a fact you let yourself indulge in too often, considering what you had wasn't built on the assumption of loving someone, but the growth of learning how to do it.

But, once upon a time, you were soulmates, destined to be here, and it felt like something finally clicked into place as Max meets you at the barrier, helmet and sleeve ripped off to kiss you senseless, because this is what you built, together. 

It was something real, no magical, mystical interference needed. 

You were healing each other in the ways only you could, and as you pull away, you find yourself picturing the young Max, who went through so much torment to be here, to be with you. To think this wasn't an option was impossible. "I'm so proud of you." You say, the few words that you knew Max needed to hear. 

That he was worth it, that he was loved, that there were other things in this world besides racing to devote yourself to. If you were somewhere more private, Max might let you know how he really feels about it, but instead, he gently cradles the back of your head as he presses a kiss to your forehead. "I told you," He says softly, "You'll be the finish line for someone." 

"Didn't realize you meant that literally." Sometime later, when the crowds disperse and the interviews stop and the night slows, you and Max drive away into the night for the hundredth time and end up back at the hotel, where a glimpse of his soulmark confirms your suspicions.

And, sometime later, after the room service gets delivered and the adrenaline of the day slows, you fall asleep on Max for the hundredth time, and as you shift in your sleep, he gets a glimpse of your soulmark as the shirt you'd stolen from him rides up on your chest.

Repaired, unscarred, and perfectly whole.

And, for the first time, in a long time,

Max starts to believe in soulmates again.

⸻

The first time you get really fixated on something in the paddock, it’s not a flashy overtake or a pit stop—it’s the way Oscar’s engineers huddle around the front wing like it’s a sacred artifact.

You catch a few words—“trimming the flap,” “compensating in sector two,” “shift the balance forward”—and you have no idea what most of it means. But you will. That’s what your little notebook is for. You jot it all down, alongside the times on the garage clock when you noticed changes in his lap times.

A lap where he’s purple in the first sector but drops three-tenths in the third? Noted. You don’t know the why yet, but the pattern is starting to take shape in your head.

When Oscar finally climbs out of the car, the air in the garage shifts. His helmet is under his arm, fireproofs still clinging to his skin, a soft flush from the heat in his cheeks. His eyes find yours instantly.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm despite the noise of the garage. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Sushi for dinner? Or do you want Italian? There’s a place here Lando swears by, but considering it’s Lando—”

You blink up at him, torn between asking what happened in turn 12 after the rear wing adjustment and answering his dinner question. “…Uh, sushi’s fine.”

He grins, peeling his gloves off. “Perfect. Oh—did I tell you Jules is here this weekend? Saw her near the paddock entrance earlier. You should go say hi before Sunday. Also, Lando told me this morning he’s thinking of starting a YouTube series called ‘Cooking With Norris.’ I give it a week before he sets his kitchen on fire.”

You laugh, even though your brain is still questioning why was the car quicker on the straights after they touched the front wing?

Oscar nudges you gently with his elbow. “You okay? You’re kinda staring into space.”

You shake your head quickly. “Yeah—sorry. Just thinking.”

“About food?” he teases. “Same. I’m starving.”

You hum, glancing toward the car as the engineers start plugging in laptops. “Do you… feel a big difference when they adjust stuff? Like… during the session?”

He blinks, clearly not catching on that you’re fishing for specifics. “Mm, yeah, a little. It’s just part of practice, you know? Tweaks here and there.” He shrugs, as if “tweaks” didn’t involve twenty different aerodynamic changes and real-time data analysis. “Why?”

“No reason,” you lie, scribbling down another note before you forget.

He tilts his head, curiosity flickering for a moment before he smiles again. “Alright, no more car talk. You’re here to have fun, not get dragged into my homework. C’mon, let’s go find you some water before you melt.”

You follow him out of the garage, but your thoughts stay behind—circling the machine that just helped him carve magic into the asphalt, and the quiet hunger to understand exactly how.

⸻

By the next race weekend, you’ve developed a little reputation—not official, but definitely real.

You always get caught staring.

At the car. At the setup changes. At the quiet ballet of the crew swapping parts like it’s second nature.

This time, instead of hovering awkwardly near the garage door with your notebook, you drift closer to the tire racks. The tire guys notice.

One of them grins and tilts a head toward you. “You ever feel the difference between compounds?”

Your brows shoot up. “Can I?”

Before you know it, you’re standing beside stacks of Pirellis, running your fingers over slick surfaces that look identical to the untrained eye but feel worlds apart. One is soft and tacky, another stiffer and cooler. They tell you how each reacts to track temps, how the grip fades, how Oscar’s driving style suits one better than the other. You file every detail away in your head, adding mental footnotes for later Googling.

You’re so engrossed that you don’t hear Oscar coming—just feel a quick kiss to the crown of your head and the low rumble of his voice.

“Having fun?”

You glance up at him, guilty and smiling. “Yeah. Actually, yeah.”

He looks pleased, like your answer is the only one he wanted. “Good. My mom’s on her way over to keep you company, so you won’t get bored.”

You grin automatically—because you love his mom, truly—but your brain does a quick calculation: Nicole arriving = end of sneaky paddock questions.

“Right,” you say with a nod, though you give the tire stack one last longing glance.

She arrives a few minutes later, warm as always, pulling you into a hug before the conversation flows easy. And before long, you’ve forgotten your disappointment entirely—because she starts telling stories.

“…and there was this one time, he was about six, fast asleep on the drive to practice. I thought he was out for good, but as soon as we pulled into the track, his eyes popped open and he was strapping his own helmet on before I could even park.” She shakes her head with a fond smile.

You laugh. “That sounds exactly like him now—quiet until it’s time to drive, and then it’s like a switch flips.”

“Oh, exactly. And he’s always been competitive. Even in our driveway, he’d lean into corners like he was already in Monaco.”

“That’s adorable.” You grin. “Did he win a lot back then?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Let’s just say… he hated losing more than he loved winning. So yes, but only because he’d practice until I had to drag him home.”

You glance toward the garage, where Oscar is in deep conversation with an engineer. “That explains a lot.”

She follows your gaze and pats your hand. “It’s good for him, you know. Having someone who sees him and not just the driver.”

Your chest warms at that. “I like seeing both,” you admit softly.

She smiles like she knows exactly what you mean, and for the rest of the afternoon, the garage fades behind you as she fills your head with memories of a boy who grew into the man you get to come home to.

⸻

Lando’s apartment is pure gamer chaos—half-empty mugs on the coffee table, snack wrappers on the floor, and the sound of tires squealing through surround sound as Twitch chat spams emotes.

You’re curled up on the couch, sipping your drink and watching Oscar and Lando trade the simulator seat like it’s the championship trophy. Their focus is razor-sharp—hands flicking over paddle shifters, knees bouncing with concentration.

You can’t stop watching the way they place the car, how early they brake, how much they turn in.

Then someone overshoots a corner and sails into the gravel. Twitch chat explodes.

And buried in the flood of comments:

ngl i think osc’s girlfriend could beat that time

You laugh softly. “That’s definitely not true.”

Lando’s head swivels. “Ohhh, we’re testing that.”

Before you can protest, Oscar’s holding out his hand to pull you up. “One quick race. No pressure.”

The seat’s warm from Lando. You grip the wheel, heart thumping. Lights out—and immediately, you’re too hot into turn one. You recover, but by lap three you’re rattled, and then it happens:

A high-speed corner, you’re turning in, and the back end suddenly twitches. The wheel feels light, the car sliding sideways—your first taste of oversteer. Your stomach drops, hands flailing for a second before you overcorrect and plow into the runoff.

You finish the race dead last.

When you climb out, you give Oscar a weak smile. “That… was awful.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, tugging you into a hug. “It’s harder than it looks. And you did great.”

You rest your chin on his chest. “I just… I want to know why I went off there—at the apex? Like… shouldn’t that have been fine?”

Oscar smiles softly. “We’ll go over it sometime. But for now, let’s just hang out, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re already filing questions away in your head.

⸻

That night, you make a new Twitch account. Something generic—no way they’d guess it’s you.

The next time Lando streams, you wait until he’s mid-practice lap. Then you type:

hey, what’s the best line for turn 6 on this track? my… friend keeps going off there

“Turn 6?” Lando says between breaths. “You’ve gotta brake earlier than you think. People turn in late and the rear gets light—bam, oversteer city. Hug the inside curb, short-shift on exit. Keeps the car stable.”

You type again, feigning ignorance:

so… if you do get oversteer there, what’s the fix?

“Catch it early, don’t yank the wheel,” he answers instantly. “Ease off throttle, little bit of countersteer—smooth. Panic and you’re toast.”

Your cheeks heat.

cool, thanks

Lando chuckles at the screen. “Man, chat’s really into driving tips tonight.”

You lean back in your chair, grinning to yourself. Next time Oscar leaves you alone with his sim, you’ll be ready—and hopefully, you’ll keep the rear end pointed in the right direction

⸻

Qualifying makes your heart race almost as much as it does Oscar’s.

You’re standing in the garage, tucked just far enough out of the way to avoid being part of the chaos, but close enough to see every flicker of movement in the pit lane. The crew swarms the car like clockwork—jacks, tires, fuel flow—and you thumb your phone’s stopwatch the second the front wheels come off.

2.4 seconds.

The next one? 2.6.

A bobble at the rear right—maybe half a second lost. You jot it down in the margin of your notebook with a little asterisk. Not to judge—just to know.

By the race, you’re settled into your spot in the garage, back pressed against the wall, eyes flicking between the TV feed and the men in papaya jumping into action.

Oscar’s running P8 when the radio chatter changes. You can’t hear all of it, but you catch enough:

Overcut. Undercut.

You immediately pull out your phone under the table like you’re texting—when really you’re frantically Googling “overcut vs undercut F1 explained.” The diagrams make your head spin, but the gist clicks into place: undercut = stop earlier for fresh tires, overcut = stay out longer to leapfrog.

When you hear the engineers start debating again, you lean forward in your chair like you might actually be able to influence the decision.

Eventually, you decide to try something new—sliding quietly into a seat just behind the engineers’ cluster. You’re not trying to eavesdrop, exactly… but if you happen to hear split times, tire degradation updates, or which lap they think the undercut window opens, well—knowledge is knowledge.

You keep your phone in your lap, stopwatch ready for the next stop. The moment the race strategist stands, you know the pit crew’s about to move, and you make a mental note to watch the rear gunner this time.

You don’t say a word the whole race. But by the time the checkered flag falls, you’ve got a full page of scribbled notes—pit stop deltas, tire compounds, stint lengths, and a tiny little doodle of Oscar’s car with arrows pointing to “things to learn later.”

From the outside, you’re just his girlfriend quietly enjoying the race.

From your seat? You’re running your own mini operation.

⸻

It’s quiet in the driver’s room after the race—too quiet.

Oscar’s still in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist, undershirt damp and clinging to his skin. He sits on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s replaying every lap in his head.

You cross the room, dropping into the seat beside him until your knee brushes his. “Hey,” you murmur, your hand finding the back of his neck. “Rough one.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah.” It’s clipped, but not sharp. Just tired.

You rub slow circles into his shoulder, trying to ease the tension you can feel there. “The second pit stop… they put you on hards instead of mediums?”

He glances sideways, a faint crease in his brow. “Yeah. Mediums wouldn’t have lasted to the end. At least… that’s what they thought.”

You nod, filing it away. “And the radio message about engine temps—was that just precaution?”

“Yeah,” he says again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I had to lift in sector two to keep them down. Lost time there.”

You hesitate before the next one. “So… when you went a bit wide in turn four—”

His mouth twitches. “Missed the braking point by about a metre. Too deep.”

The answers come, but they’re getting shorter. You can feel his patience thinning, like a rope fraying strand by strand.

Still, the big question is burning in your chest. “And… what about the lock-up on the last lap? The one that—”

“Can we not?” The words are sharp, louder than anything he’s said since you walked in. His jaw tightens instantly, eyes closing as if he wants to take it back. “I just… I don’t want to think about the race anymore.”

The sting lands in your chest—not because you think he’s angry at you, but because he’s just slammed a door you’ve been trying to open all season.

You force your voice to stay light. “Okay. No race talk.”

Oscar drags a hand down his face, looking miserable now. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—” He shakes his head. “It’s not you. I’m just frustrated and… I don’t want to keep replaying it. Not tonight.”

You give a small smile. “I get it.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, but his shoulders are sagging now, his whole posture screaming exhaustion. “Can we just… go back to the hotel and dive in bed?”

You agree, even though your brain is still running the reel of that lock-up—tires smoking, lap time gone, lead vanished. The part of you that’s been quietly studying his every race aches for the answers you didn’t get. But you swallow it down.

Back at the hotel, you both shower and climb into bed. Oscar curls into you instantly, head resting against your chest, one arm flung over your stomach like a tether.

The room glows faintly from the TV, a movie playing you’re both barely watching. His breathing slows first, heavy with sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, your fingers tracing idle lines over his back. Your mind drifts to brake temps, tire wear, track surface—anything that could explain that lock-up.

You sigh quietly and kiss the top of his head. Another day, you promise yourself.

For now, you hold him close and let the questions wait until morning.

⸻

Oscar didn’t think much of it at first—just another conversation in the garage after practice.

Until his engineer handed him a battered, carbon fiber endplate like it was a gift.

“Here,” the guy said. “Take this home for your girl. She’ll probably want to see where it failed.”

Oscar blinked, holding the piece awkwardly. “…Why would she want this?”

The engineer tilted his head like it was obvious. “Because she’s been learning. You didn’t know?”

“Learning… what?”

“Mate,” he said, chuckling, “she’s been asking half the crew questions. Taking notes. Timing pit stops. Asking about tire deg. Honestly, I thought you’d put her up to it. Girl’s got an eye for detail—writes things down like she’s studying for an exam. I figured she’d want a bit of context for the notes.”

Oscar just stared for a moment, his mind playing back every time he’d caught you tucked in the corner of the garage with your phone or notebook, every quiet look toward the engineers, every moment you’d smiled and said “just watching” when he asked what you were up to.

And he’d thought you were just… passing time.

⸻

That night, he found you curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed over your hands. He set the carbon piece on the coffee table in front of you.

You looked at it, eyes widening. “…Oh.”

“Oh?” His voice was half amusement, half demand. “Care to explain why my engineer thought I should bring you a broken part of my car?”

You bit your lip, looking almost guilty. “I, um… I’ve been trying to learn. Like… as much as they’ll tell me. And Google the rest. My search history’s basically just car setup, aero balance, and pit stop strategy at this point.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked.

“You’ve been studying?” His voice was softer now, tinged with awe.

You gave a little shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you. You already have so much going on during race weekends. I figured… I’d just pick things up from other people, you know? The engineers, the tire guys, even your crew chief once when he wasn’t busy.”

He sat down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor for a second before looking back at you with something bright in his eyes. “You’ve been doing all this on your own?”

“Yeah.” You felt your cheeks warm. “I just… I think it’s incredible what you do. And the more I watch, the more I want to understand how it all fits together.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips—small at first, then wider, until it turned into the kind of grin you didn’t see on him often outside of a podium. “God, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because, babe, you’re asking the right questions. You’re not just watching for fun—you’re noticing sector times, pit windows, tire wear… do you have any idea how much I love that?” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You could never bother me with this. I’d kill for someone to care enough to want the details.”

He leaned back, still looking at you like he was piecing together a puzzle. “I’m seriously impressed. Like, really impressed.”

The warmth in your chest at his words nearly overwhelmed you. “You mean that?”

“I mean it.” His tone left no room for doubt. “So… hit me with it.”

You tilted your head. “Hit you with…?”

“Questions. Everything you’ve been dying to know. No filter. Go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “Okay—brake bias. How much can you change during a lap? And that little dial on your steering wheel—what’s that do? How many engine maps do you have? And—oh—how do you know when to use engine braking instead of just lifting?”

His grin widened with each one, his voice animated as he explained. He mimed turning dials, shifting balance, describing how it feels in the car. He didn’t just answer—he painted the picture.

The night spilled away in the hum of conversation, and eventually he pulled you into the sim room.

“You’re not leaving this flat without trying the proper setup,” he insisted.

Three races later, you crossed the line P3.

Oscar actually whooped, spinning your chair toward him. “Podium! That’s my girl!”

You laughed, breathless. “Guess I had a good teacher.”

He crouched in front of you, still buzzing. “You have no idea how proud that makes me.”

You hesitated then, nerves nibbling at you. “So… speaking of learning… could you maybe… introduce me to Ruth Buscombe sometime? At a race?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Ruth? From the broadcast team?”

You nodded quickly, shy but determined. “I love when she talks about strategy on the broadcast before the race. She’s just… so smart. I’d love to ask her questions. If… if that’s not weird.”

Oscar’s face lit up again, pure and warm. “It’s not weird at all. I think she’d love you.”

You smiled, a little blush creeping in. “I might be too starstruck to say anything.”

He squeezed your knee. “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you get the chance. You’ve earned it.”

And the way he said it made you feel like, in his eyes, you were already part of the team.

⸻

The paddock was already buzzing when Oscar took your hand and tugged you toward the hospitality area.

“You ready?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“For what?” you asked, trying not to trip over a coil of cables on the ground.

He smirked. “To meet some of the smartest people I know.”

You caught sight of Ruth Buscombe first, standing near a monitor bank with her arms crossed, eyes scanning the screens. Just beside her was James Hinchcliffe, animatedly chatting with one of the broadcast crew.

Oscar squeezed your hand before you could freeze up. “Ruth! Hinch!”

They both looked over, smiling as Oscar steered you into the conversation. “This is my girlfriend,” he said, and then—oh no—he went full proud boyfriend mode. “She’s been quietly teaching herself about the car all season. Pit strategies, tire data, setup changes… she’s probably the most observant person in this paddock who doesn’t actually work here.”

You wanted to shrink into the floor, but Ruth’s face lit up. “Really?”

You nodded shyly. “I… just like understanding how it all works.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said warmly, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Here—give me your number. If you ever have a question, text me. Don’t let anyone make you think this stuff is too complicated to learn.”

Your jaw nearly dropped as you typed your name into Ruth Buscombe’s phone. “Thank you so much. I promise I won’t bug you—”

“I want you to,” Ruth interrupted with a wink. “Curiosity is the best skill you can have in this job.”

Before you could recover, James grinned and stuck out his hand. “James Hinchcliffe. Heard you’re on a motorsport crash course?”

“Trying to be,” you laughed.

“Ever watch INDYCAR?”

You shook your head, and he leaned in like he was about to tell you a secret. “Think F1, but the cars are heavier, less dependent on aero, and you can actually bang wheels without the floor falling off. We run road courses and ovals, and the setup changes drastically between them. For an oval, you’ll see asymmetric suspension—right side stiffer, left side softer—so the car naturally wants to turn left at 200 mph. Road courses? Totally different beast. You’re balancing grip at both ends for tighter, more varied corners.”

Your eyes went wide. “That’s… insane. I didn’t even think about setting a car up to turn itself.”

James chuckled. “That’s the fun part—every track needs a new approach. You’d love the engineering side of it.”

By now, you were practically leaning forward, soaking up every word. “Okay, I’m officially obsessed. Tell me more about the difference in tire strategy—”

Oscar’s hand squeezed your shoulder. “I’m gonna head to the garage to prep,” he said with a smile. “I think you’re in good hands.”

“You go,” Ruth said, waving him off. “We’ll keep her entertained.”

Entertained was an understatement. You spent the next forty minutes ping-ponging questions between Ruth and James—how weather changes affect downforce, how an INDYCAR pit stop differs from F1, what role software plays in each.

By the time Oscar returned, you were grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, notebook already full of scribbles.

“How was it?” he asked.

You glanced at Ruth and James, then back at him. “I think I just signed myself up for a whole new motorsport degree.”

Oscar laughed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Knew you would.”

And as you tucked Ruth’s number into your phone and promised James you’d watch his old races, you felt that familiar, electric pull—the same one that had you timing pit stops on your phone months ago. Only now, you weren’t learning alone.

⸻

It was Saturday morning, and the race weekend buzz felt different from your couch. You had the broadcast on low volume, a mug of coffee in one hand, your phone in the other.

A new text pinged.

👑 Ruth : You watching FP3?

You: Yep. Track looks grippy today.

👑 Ruth: 👀 Okay, test time. If Oscar starts P8, mediums at the start… What's your instinct on the first stop?

Your heart skipped. She was quizzing you.

You: Probably push a bit longer than the soft runners to get track position? Overcut if the times hold up?

Three dots blinked.

👑 Ruth: Correct! You’ve been paying attention. Proud of you!!

You grinned into your coffee.

You: Does that mean I’m allowed to guess the actual lap?

👑 Ruth: Go on.

You thought about track temps, tire wear from yesterday’s data, how much Oscar could extend the stint without losing too much pace.

You: Lap 21?

There was a pause. Then—

👑 Ruth: 👏 If they pit him on 21 I’ll owe you a coffee next race.

When the race came the next day, you sat forward on the couch as Oscar’s lap counter ticked closer.

Lap 20… still out.

Lap 21… pit stop.

Your phone lit up instantly.

👑 Ruth: Coffee’s on me! Good work 😁

You laughed out loud, already typing back.

You: Does this mean I’m officially your apprentice now?

👑 Ruth: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves 😉 But you’re getting there.

And you sat back with your coffee, feeling that same spark of pride you’d felt the first time you’d timed a pit stop in the garage—only now, you weren’t just learning from the sidelines. You were in the conversation.

⸻

You hadn’t expected your birthday to involve this.

You’d woken up to Oscar and Lando grinning like they’d been sitting on a secret for months, which—apparently—they had. By mid-morning, you were walking into a private karting facility, and the first thing you saw was a rolling rack with a fire suit and helmet in your favorite colors waiting for you.

“Happy birthday,” Lando said, handing you the helmet like it was a crown.

“Custom colors,” Oscar added with a proud little smile. “You’re official now.”

You ran your hand over the glossy finish, trying not to grin too hard. “This is insane.”

It got better.

Before you even set foot in a kart, the boys had agreed to do the entire set up briefing with you. They discussed gearing, seat positioning, and even steering sensitivity like you were about to qualify for a championship.

Oscar caught Lando raising an eyebrow at how seriously you were taking it. “Let her enjoy it,” he murmured. “It’s her birthday.”

When it was finally time to get on track, the mood shifted instantly—because between Lando and Oscar, everything was a competition. They chirped at each other over who’d have the fastest lap before you even made it to pit lane.

But Oscar’s entire demeanor changed the moment you rolled onto the circuit. Watching from the wall, he looked less like a rival and more like a dad whose kid had just learned to ride a bike—half beaming, half one bad corner away from sprinting onto the track to rescue you.

“She’s fine, mate,” Lando teased after a few laps.

“I know she’s fine,” Oscar muttered, eyes never leaving you, “but if she bins it, you’re the one explaining it to her mum.”

By the end of the session, you were flushed, sweaty, and buzzing from adrenaline. Both boys patted your back and fussed over you like you’d just finished your first Grand Prix.

And then, because they couldn’t help themselves, they made you a deal.

“If you can beat—” Lando checked his phone “—forty-eight-point-five, we’ll see if we can get you into one of our cars on an off weekend,” he promised.

Oscar nodded. “Full setup walk-through. Every dial, every button.”

Your eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Oscar said, smiling. “You’ve earned it.”

Later that night, Oscar posted a photo on Instagram:

All three of you standing in your fire suits at the kart track, helmets tucked under your arms, grins wide.

oscarpiastri: Birthday laps for the birthday girl 🏎️🧡 Keep this up and she’ll be beating us soon!

It didn’t take long for the comments to start flooding in—none louder than his mum’s:

nicolepiastri: Officially terrified I’m getting my first grandchild in a car or kart far too soon for my comfort 😅 Oscar Jack Piastri you better keep her safe!

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink when you saw it.

By the time you climbed into bed that night—sore in the best way, still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber—you felt more than celebrated. You felt seen.

Not just as Oscar’s girlfriend, but as someone they truly believed belonged in the paddock right alongside them.

The call failed again. He tried multiple times. Then he typed out frantic messages that he knew you’d not reply, but he texted you anyway.

Future Mrs. Bahng 💋

Baby, please answer me

I know I don’t deserve it but please just let me explain

I’m sorry, please give me one last chance.

I’m begging you

Chan started crying again for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. When he felt his legs beginning to numb, only then he stood up and sat on the edge of the bed you once shared, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Every memory attacked him at once—your smile when he came home exhausted, the way you stole his hoodies so they smelled like you, the quiet nights where you held him when the world felt too loud.

He had protected his idol image with iron walls, but he had never protected you and now you were gone.

He called again and again. And again. All of the calls went straight to voicemail.

At some point, desperation replaced dignity, so he got out of both of your shared apartment and started his car. He drove to your sister’s place first, but she was confused as to what happened, Chan couldn’t tell her due to the shame. Then he drove to your best friend’s apartment. 

“She doesn’t want to see you,” your friend said firmly, arms crossed in the doorway. “And honestly? You should respect that.”

The door closed before he could answer.

For the first time in years, Chan cried in public—head bowed, shoulders shaking, because the world finally knew what you had always carried quietly.

When he returned home, the apartment was darker than before. He went to your shared bedroom and then finally picked up the ring with trembling fingers, his chest tightened and his knees gave out. He sank to the floor, clutching the ring like it might disintegrate if he held it too tightly. Every apology he had practiced felt useless now. 

Inside his head, all he could hear was the echo of the door slamming shut. You had truly left him and this time, no amount of begging could bring you back.

Three days passed and when Chan still didn’t show up at the studio, his members grew worried. 

At first, the members assumed he was sick or maybe he just needed rest because Chan had missed studios before—rarely, but it happened. But three days with no calls returned, no texts read, no late-night voice memo explaining himself?

That wasn’t Chan.

Minho was the first to say it out loud.

“He’s not answering,” he muttered, phone pressed to his ear for the fifth time. “This isn’t normal.”

Changbin frowned. “He hasn’t even sent revisions. Hyung doesn’t disappear like this.”

Hyunjin hovered nearby, worry etched into his face. “Should we go check on him?”

Minho didn’t hesitate. “I’m driving.”

They drove to his place in silence. Minho unlocked the door with the spare key, already calling out for Chan. “Hyung?”

The smell of stale alcohol, unwashed clothes, something sour and heavy in the air hit them first. The living room was a mess. Empty bottles littered the floor and coffee table. Clothes were strewn everywhere. The curtains were drawn shut, trapping the dim light inside like the apartment hadn’t seen daylight in days.

Then they saw him.

Chan was sitting on the floor, back against the couch, shoulders hunched. Photographs were scattered around him—printed pictures, old polaroids, ones he must have dug out from drawers he hadn’t opened in years.

Pictures of you, pictures of you with him. He clutched one to his chest like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

Minho froze. “What the hell happened here?”

Chan looked up slowly, like it took effort just to register their presence. His eyes were red and swollen, his face blotchy from crying. His lip trembled, and suddenly the words spilled out in a broken rush.

“I messed up,” he sobbed. “I messed up big. Please—please help me.”

Changbin crouched down instinctively, panic flashing across his face. “Hyung, what did you do?”

Hyunjin placed a hand on Chan’s shoulder. “Hyung… talk to us.”

It took a long time before Chan could say it. And when he finally did, his voice was barely recognizable.

“I don’t deserve— I don’t—” He sucked in a breath that sounded painful. “I cheated.”

The room went cold.

Minho straightened immediately, his expression hardening in a way Changbin rarely saw. Changbin’s face fell, disbelief quickly giving way to something sharper—something disappointed. Hyunjin’s hand dropped from Chan’s shoulder.

“You did what?” Minho asked quietly.

Chan covered his face with his hands, shaking. “I ruined everything. I lost her. She won’t even look at me anymore.”

Minho’s jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek. “You cheated,” he repeated flatly. “On your fiancée.”

Chan swallowed, eyes glossy. “After the LA show, remember how we all went to grab a few drinks?”

They all nodded quietly.

“I was drunk and out of my mind. She was one of the venue staff and it just… it just happened. I thought I could bury it. Pretend it never existed.” His voice cracked again. “But she… she reached out and told me that she’s… pregnant.”

Silence swallowed the room.

Chan dragged a hand down his face, tears slipping free. “She brought me back to the hotel. I don’t even remember getting there. I don’t remember that night at all.” His shoulders trembled. “I woke up the next morning and she was there beside me, and that’s when it hit me. What I’d done.” He let out a broken laugh that sounded more like a sob. “I panicked. I told her to leave. I kicked her out and just—” His chest heaved. “I sat there and cried. I couldn’t believe I ruined everything.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widened slowly, pieces falling into place.“That’s why…” he said quietly. “That’s why you were off and snappy for the rest of the North American tour.”

Chan didn’t look up. He only nodded, shame weighing heavier than anything else.

Changbin stood up.

“I need air,” he said, voice tight. He didn’t look at Chan when he spoke again. “I didn’t think you were capable of that.”

Minho stared down at Chan, eyes unreadable. “Do you have any idea,” he said quietly, “how much she loved you?”

Chan sobbed harder.

“She stayed hidden for you,” Hyunjin said sharply. “And you humiliated her in front of the world.”

That was worse than shouting.

They left soon after. They didn’t offer any hugs or reassurances. Just a lingering look of disappointment that weighed heavier than anger ever could.

By the next day, the others knew.

No one said it outright during practice. There was no confrontation, neither any dramatic explosion, there was just distance.

Chan arrived late, his eyes were hollow and movements slower than usual. He tried to greet once but the sound died awkwardly in the room. 

Minho focused on stretching. Changbin kept his replies clipped. Hyunjin avoided eye contact entirely. Han spoke only when necessary. Felix’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Seungmin ignored his existence all together and Jeongin didn’t ask for his help with the lines, instead he went to Changbin.

The band practiced. They corrected formations. They spoke only when work demanded it. And for the first time since becoming their leader, Chan stood among them feeling utterly alone.

He deserved it. He knew that. But knowing didn’t make the silence hurt any less.

A whole week passed like that. Practice became mechanical. Conversations stayed short and strictly professional. No jokes. No late-night talks. No checking in.

On the other hand, all his attempts to contact you seemed to go in vain. His calls went unanswered. Messages stayed unread and the apologies piled up in the chat box, long paragraphs turning into single, desperate lines—please, just talk to me, I need you—until even those stopped. You gave him nothing.

No reply. No acknowledgment. No space in your life anymore.

You were staying over at your best friend’s place. Luckily, she had an empty room and had been looking for another roommate. You grabbed the opportunity immediately. It felt as if the universe was gently telling you that Chan’s chapter in your life was finally over.

He came over a few more times after that. Each time, he argued with your friend, trying to get her to let him in, but he always failed. She stood her ground firmly and you were so grateful for her. You really did not want to see him anymore, even the thought of him twisted your heart painfully, so seeing him will make you crumble, you knew that. You still loved him very much, so all you wanted was to cry all day, eat unhealthy snacks, and lose yourself in dumb rom-coms. But you had a job, and in a strange way, it became a blessing. Work distracted you, gave you something else to focus on, even if only for a few hours.

The nights were the worst though. They felt heavy and endless. You cried yourself to sleep, over and over again, still struggling to believe that Chan had cheated. He had always been so loyal. It felt completely out of character—so unlike the person you thought you knew. You never imagined he could hurt you like this.

*********************

Every day had started to blur into the next.

The same routine consisting of endless writing lyrics, choreography, deadlines, late-night practices. The same rooms filled with people who no longer looked at him the same way.

And you… you had taken the “never existed in each other’s lives” so seriously it terrified him. 

No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins. Like he had been erased.

All he wanted was to talk to you. Just once. To explain and to make you understand that he had never looked at another person like that. Not once, not ever! The very idea of another person, another touch, another smile meant for him, instead it made his stomach turn.

He had been drunk out of his mind that dreadful night, disgustingly so. He hated himself for it. Hated that he drank too much, also hated that he was even out with his team that night. Hated that one reckless, blurred moment had cost him the most important person in his life.

If he could rip that night out of existence, he would. God, he so wished he could do that.

He didn’t even feel like eating nowadays, but he still forced himself to the kitchen, hands moving on autopilot as he made a plain tuna sandwich. He didn’t even put any seasoning, it was a total no effort sandwich, just something to quiet the ache for a few minutes.

He ate standing up, silently, staring at nothing.

The house felt cold, big and too quiet. He could almost hear his own blood rushing in his ears.

The ringtone cut through the silence like a blade.

Chan stared at his phone for a long moment before answering, already exhausted, already hollow.

“Mom?”

Her voice was warm. “Baby, are you and y/nie coming this weekend? It’s almost time for our monthly dinner. I was thinking of making her favorite—”

His breath hitched. The word her shattered something inside him.

“Chan-ah?” his mom’s voice came through the phone again, gentle now. Worried. “Are you okay, baby?”

His throat closed.

He swallowed hard. “Mom… we’re not coming.”

There was a pause. “What do you mean?”

“Y/N and I…” His voice cracked despite his effort. “We’re not together anymore.”

Silence.

Her tone changed instantly. “What? No, what? When did this happen?”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I messed up. I hurt her. And now she won’t even talk to me.”

“Oh, Chan-ah…” his mom said softly, she was speechless hearing the news.

The dam broke. He couldn’t stop the sob that tore out of his chest, sharp and ugly, the kind that startled even him. He pressed the phone closer, shaking.

“Mom,” he sobbed. “Please… can you come over? I need you.”

There was no hesitation. “I’m on my way.”

His mom arrived less than an hour later.

The moment she stepped inside his apartment, her face fell. She took in the mess—the bottles, the darkness, the way her son looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten properly in days. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“Oh, my baby…” she whispered, rushing to him.

But when he collapsed into her arms, sobbing like a child, she felt something was deeply, terribly wrong.

“Tell me,” she said, stroking his hair. “Whatever it is, tell me.”

He pulled away, shame carving his face apart.

“Chan-ah,” she whispered. “What happened?”

They sat across from each other, and he told her everything—his voice cracking, his head bowed in shame. The cheating. The drinking. The pregnancy. The way you had looked at him before you left.

When he finished, the room was silent.

His mother didn’t yell and that hurt more.

She stood slowly, eyes glistening with tears, but not of anger, but of heartbreak.

“How could you do this?” she asked quietly. “To her? To yourself?”

Chan let out a sob.

“You cheated,” she said, almost to herself. “On the girl who called me ‘mom’ before we were even engaged. On the only girl your father and I approved of from the very beginning.”

He sobbed harder. “I know… and I hate myself for this. Please—please don’t hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” she whispered, tears falling freely now. “That would be easier.”

She pressed a hand to her chest like it physically hurt.

“She trusted you,” his mom said softly. “And she loved you unconditionally, but you failed her.”

He broke down again and dropped to his knees. He crawled toward her desperately. 

“Please, Mom,” he begged. “She loves you so much. Please—please tell her to come back to me. I can’t do this without her.”

His mother knelt too, gripping his shoulders firmly.

“No,” she said, voice steady despite the tears falling. “She is like my daughter. And she deserves better than a man who would betray her and then beg for forgiveness only after losing her.”

Chan cried openly, uncontrollably, “Please mom, just do this one thing for me. I swear I’ll never ask anything from you ever again. Please just… talk to her. Tell her to come back. I’ll do anything. I’ll fix it.”

“No.” His mom said sharply.

The word felt final. She knelt in front of him, holding his face gently.

“I love you,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “But loving you does not mean defending what you did.”

The words cut deeper than anything his members had said. She left not long after.

And while she drove home, she called you.

You answered hesitantly.

But when you heard her voice, warm and trembling, “My sweet girl…” 

You broke down. All the strength you’d been forcing yourself to hold onto collapsed as you cried openly, grief pouring out of you. She didn’t rush you. She didn’t defend him. She just listened. You apologized through tears even though you had nothing to apologize for.

“I loved him so much,” you whispered. “I tried so hard.”

“I know,” she said, voice thick. “I saw it every time you looked at him.”

She didn’t ask you to forgive him. She didn’t ask you to go back.

She just said, “Please don’t disappear from my life. Call me. Visit me. Let me still love you.”

That made you cry harder.

“You will always be my daughter,” she continued gently. “No matter what happens with my son.”

You nodded even though she couldn’t see you. “I promise.”

In the end, she said quietly, “I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

After you hung up, a strange lightness settled over your chest. It wasn’t the kind of relief that erased the pain but it did feel like a small thread of warmth weaving itself into the emptiness.

You hadn’t told your own family about the breakup yet, because how could you? How could you even begin to explain that the person you had imagined your whole life with, the person you trusted completely, had shattered everything in one drunken mistake?

But talking to his mom—hearing her voice, feeling her concern, and knowing she still saw you as part of the family in her heart—felt like the virtual hug you didn’t realize you had been craving. 

So, for the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself cry without guilt. Let yourself be comforted, even from a distance, by someone who had loved both of you deeply and wanted the best for you.

*********************

After his mom left, the apartment felt emptier than before. Chan sat alone in the silence when his phone buzzed again.

A new message from the other woman.

Gemma

I’ve decided I’m keeping the child. I think we should meet and talk.

His stomach twisted violently.

He typed back immediately.

Chan

No, I don't want this.

Please don't contact me again.

His hands shook as he set the phone down. Inside, his thoughts spiraled.

If it’s not Y/N, he thought bitterly, I’ll never be a father.

He couldn’t imagine holding a child that wasn’t born from love. From you. He couldn’t imagine a future that didn’t have your laugh in it, your warmth, your presence.

Without you, everything felt wrong.

But Gemma didn’t stop. She kept calling and texting and finally he gave in because he was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of thinking, tired of waking up every morning with your absence sitting heavier than his own guilt.

“Come to my place,” he told her over the phone, voice flat. “I don’t want paparazzi seeing us again. We’ll talk and that’s it.”

He didn’t even wait for her response before hanging up.

When she arrived, Chan barely looked at her as he opened the door. He kept his distance, arms crossed, shoulders rigid, like he was bracing himself for impact.

They sat on opposite ends of the couch. The silence stretched.

Then she smiled at him, trying to ease the tension in the room. “So… what are we going to do?”

Chan exhaled slowly. “I don’t want this child.”

Her smile faltered.

“You can keep it if you want,” he continued, forcing the words out like they were poison. “I’ll cover everything. Hospital bills. Living expenses. Whatever you need financially. I can meet the child occasionally—every other weekend, maybe. That’s all I can do.”

Her face hardened instantly.

“So that’s it?” she snapped. “Did I ask to get pregnant, Bang Chan?”

He didn’t answer or defend himself. He just stared at the floor, already defeated.

“That’s not fair,” she continued sharply, standing up now. “You think money fixes everything? You think I want to do this alone?”

Still nothing from him. That silence made her angrier.

“You’re going to support me,” she said coldly. “All of it. Doctor visits. Appointments. Delivery. Or I will ruin you.”

Chan laughed bitterly, finally looking up at her. “You already ruined me. What else do you want?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You have a band to protect.”

That stopped him.

For the first time, something like fear flickered across his face, not for himself, but for the people who had nothing to do with his mistake.

“You don’t get to threaten them,” he snapped, standing up. “Don’t make me involve lawyers.”

The word seemed to sober her.

She hesitated, then scoffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. No lawyers. But I want your full support during the pregnancy.”

Chan closed his eyes.

“Fine,” he said quietly. “But you’ll meet with my managers at JYPE. There will be documents and some NDA’s. Everything in writing.”

She studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.”

She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.

Chan followed a few steps behind, exhausted, numb until movement on the other side of the door made his heart stop.

The lock turned and the door opened. There you were, key still halfway in your hand. You looked at him with widening eyes. Your breath caught somewhere between surprise and pain.

“Oh,” you said softly. “I thought you weren’t home.”

Your gaze shifted and then you took her in, standing there beside him, close enough to look intentional.

Chan’s world collapsed all over again.

“No—wait,” he said immediately, panic flooding his voice as he stepped toward you. “It’s not what it looks like—”

But the damage was already done. You looked at them sadly, he saw the flicker of disappointment in your gaze.

“I was just leaving,” the woman said quickly, slipping her shoes on, eyes flicking between the two of you.

You nodded once, polite, distant. “Yeah, me too.”

You stepped back, ready to turn away. That was when Chan grabbed your wrist.

“Please,” he said, voice breaking. “Just—come inside. Please. I can’t have you misunderstand this more.”

You froze, but not because you wanted to stay. No, because you knew what a scene outside would cost him.

Slowly, you pulled your hand from his grip. “Five minutes,” you said flatly.

Inside, the apartment felt like a stranger’s home now.

Nothing screamed you anymore.

The woman lingered awkwardly near the door as Chan turned to face you, panic etched into every line of his face. She quickly left without another word.

“I didn’t invite her here like that,” he started quickly. “She just came to talk—”

“Stop,” you said harshly.

He swallowed.

“We’re not together anymore,” you continued calmly. “So you don’t owe me explanations. You can do whatever you want.”

He felt his heart twisting. 

He shook his head, stepping closer. “It’s not like that. I don’t want her. I don’t want this—”

“That doesn’t matter,” you replied. “What you want stopped mattering the moment you slept with someone else.”

You cleared your throat. “I was just here to get the rest of my stuff, I’ll be quick.”

You turned away from him, walking toward what used to be your bedroom. The room where you had fallen asleep tangled in his arms, where you’d whispered plans about the future, about kids, about growing old together. Now it felt like a stranger’s space.

“No wait,” Chan whispered.

You stopped, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag, then turned back. 

Chan stood there completely undone. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, shoulders shaking like he was holding himself together with sheer will. He looked smaller somehow, like the man you loved had been hollowed out and left behind.

“Y/N… how can I fix this?” he asked desperately. “Please. Just tell me what to do.”

“There’s no way,” you said softly.

The finality in your tone made his breath stutter.

“Please—” he tried again, stepping closer, reaching for you before stopping himself, hands curling into fists instead.

“You didn’t make one mistake,” you continued gently. “You made a choice. And some choices don’t get undone.”

You picked up your bag.

“I hope you heal,” you added, meeting his eyes one last time. “But I can’t be part of your life anymore.”

Something in him broke completely. You walked past him making your way to the bedroom. 

“She’s going to keep the baby,” he said suddenly.

You stopped in your tracks, your hand tightening around your bag, heart betraying you by stuttering at the mention of the baby.

“I’ll be there financially. I’ll do what I have to.”

“I hope you do,” you replied calmly. “That child didn’t ask for any of this.”

He nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact as he looked down.

Silence filled the apartment again.

“Can we… try again?” he asked quietly. “Y/N, you know me. I would never cheat. I was drunk. I lost control.” His voice broke. “Please… forgive me.”

Your heart clenched painfully, but it didn’t waver.

“No,” you said gently.

The softness didn’t make it easier.

His breath shook as he exhaled, hands gripping the wall nearby like they were the only things keeping him upright.

“You always wanted to be a father,” you continued, voice steady despite the ache spreading through your chest. “Raise the child properly. Be present. Be better.”

He shook his head immediately, desperation flooding his expression. “No. I wanted to be the father of your child. Not anyone else’s.”

That was when the tears came.

You looked away before he could see them fully, blinking hard as your vision blurred. “I guess destiny had other plans,” you said quietly.

The words tasted bitter, but they were true.

You both stood there in that truth, the apartment heavy with everything you had been and everything you would never be. The walls felt like they were listening — like they remembered your laughter, your arguments, your late-night confessions whispered under dim lights.

“I’ll always love you,” he said softly, barely louder than a breath.

“I know,” you whispered. “And I hope you’re happy someday.”

You lifted your bag, pausing for half a second like your body was fighting your decision even though your heart already knew.

“I’ll send my friend another day to grab the rest of my stuff,” you said quietly. “It’s better if I leave now.”

Chan’s jaw tightened, eyes shining, but he said nothing.

You took a step back, then another. “Goodbye, Chan.”

He looked up at you like he was trying to memorize every detail of your face. The curve of your lips. The moles around your face. Like this might be the last time he was allowed to see you like this.

You looked at him one last time too.

And in that silent apartment, both of you quietly mourned not just each other but the life you had believed in with everything you had.

You let out a sigh before turning towards the main door.

He didn’t reach for you, even though he wanted to. But he knew he lost that right, so he just watched you leave, tears blurring his vision.

Every step you took toward the door felt like you were carrying a piece of him away and leaving pieces of yourself behind in the quiet apartment that had once been your home.

When your hand wrapped around the doorknob, you hesitated and just for a moment his heart felt hopeful but it quickly turned hopeless when you opened the door and stepped out.

The click of it closing behind you echoed through the apartment.

Chan stayed where he was long after you left, staring at the empty space you had occupied, chest aching with a pain so deep he didn’t think it would ever leave.

*********************

Two months later, your life felt different. You were still aching but no longer suffocating, and that was a huge progress.

Changbin showed up on a rare free afternoon, a grocery bag in one hand and his familiar grin on his face like he was trying to remind you of something you’d forgotten. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said as he stepped inside. “I brought snacks. I’m a guest, not a therapist.”

You laughed despite yourself, the sound surprising you both.

You spent the afternoon sprawled on the couch, music playing softly in the background, talking about everything and nothing—tour stories, silly arguments between the members, the weird dreams Changbin kept having lately. It felt easy and comforting like it always did with him.

At some point, the laughter faded into quiet.

Changbin glanced at you, his expression gentler now. “You okay?”

You nodded automatically. Then shook your head just as quickly as the tears came without warning.

He didn’t say anything, he just opened his arms, and you folded into him and cried into his chest, fingers clutching his hoodie, grief finally spilling out now that it had somewhere to land.

“It hurts,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back. “You don’t have to be strong around us. Ever.”

When you finally pulled away, wiping your face, you let out a shaky breath. “How is he?”

Changbin hesitated just a second too long.

“Miserable,” he said honestly.

You sighed, sadness blooming quietly in your chest, but not with relief or satisfaction. Just grief for what had been. “I figured.”

The room fell silent again, comfortable but heavy.

Then Changbin tilted his head, eyes lighting up with a mischievous spark. “So. I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s never good,” you said weakly.

He chuckled. “YAH! So rude. But listen… my friend Kim Mingyu?”

You blinked. “Kim Mingyu of Seventeen?”

“Yes, that Mingyu,” Changbin said, nodding. “And before you freak out—no pressure. I’m not setting you up tomorrow or anything.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“He’s… a total green flag,” Changbin continued earnestly. “Respectful. Gentle. Good listener. And he’s been single for a while now.”

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Bin, I’m barely functioning. You think I’m ready to even think about someone like him?”

“I think,” Changbin said softly, “that you deserve someone who won’t hurt you. And I think it wouldn’t hurt to remember that good people still exist.”

The room grew quiet again.

You hugged a pillow to your chest, eyes unfocused. “I’m not saying yes...”

“I didn’t ask for yes,” Changbin replied with a grin. “I asked for maybe someday.”

You glanced at him, something fragile but hopeful flickering in your expression.

“Maybe someday,” you echoed.

And Changbin smiled, knowing that for now, that was enough.

*********************

Chan kept tabs on you.

It was harder than he expected though, because you were never someone who lived online. You barely posted. So he had nothing for him to cling to.

So he did the only thing he could.

He watched your friends’, cousins’ and colleagues’ accounts. Any tagged photos he could find. Any glimpse that proved you still existed in a world that no longer included him.

And when he found them—small, accidental moments—he saw that you were glowing.

You were healthier, brighter and alive in a way you hadn’t been in months.

He noticed the way people still surrounded you.

Your family hosted game nights almost every week now — laughter spilling through the photos, proof that you were still held and still loved dearly. 

He noticed how his members reached out to you quietly and carefully. They never took any sides, not out loud at least. Once, late at night in the studio, he overheard Seungmin on the phone in the hallway. Seungmin’s voice was low and soft in a way Chan rarely heard.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” Seungmin had said.

Chan stayed where he was, frozen, listening to only one side of the conversation, trying to imagine your replies. Wondering if you sounded tired. If you still laughed the same. If you mentioned his name or avoided it completely.

Even his parents still spoke of you like you were family.

His mom called you regularly. His dad asked about you over dinner like it was the most natural thing in the world. They used your name fondly. One afternoon, as he passed by his sister's room, meaning to grab a charger. Her phone buzzed on the bed. He wasn’t trying to look but your name lit up the screen: Y/N 💗

His breath caught painfully and he stopped walking.

For a split second, his heart betrayed him, he smiled softly seeing your name before reality settled in. You weren’t texting him. You hadn’t in months.

His sister smiled at the notification, fingers already moving to reply. “She’s sending me pictures from game night,” she said casually, not noticing the way Chan’s face had gone pale. “She looks happier.”

He nodded stiffly, forcing a small smile, and walked away before she could say anything else. His chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the house anymore.

Everyone still had access to you. Everyone except him.

You existed everywhere in his life — in conversations, in laughter, in phones lighting up with your name — just close enough for him to see, but forever out of reach.

You were not alone, and that knowledge both comforted and devastated him. At least he hadn’t destroyed you completely. At least you were healing, even if it was far away from him.

The guilt never left. He had broken the one person who had loved him without conditions, without expectations, without fear. He lost you, the love of his life, and he was forced to carry that bitter truth for the rest of his life.

It was like you left and took away all the light. His members still spoke to him, but it was different now. It was polite and professional. The warmth was gone, replaced by distance that no amount of time seemed to fix. His parents were disappointed in him in a way that cut deeper than anger. His siblings barely hid their disapproval, their voices careful whenever your name almost slipped into conversation.

And then there was… Gemma.

She lingered, she was always around and always was finding excuses to text him, to check in, to suggest coffee or dinner like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t watched his life fall apart and decided it was an opportunity.

Chan wanted nothing to do with her.

The idea of dating—of touching someone else, of pretending he could move on—made his stomach turn. He would rather be alone for the rest of his life than replace you with anyone else.

You weren’t replaceable. And he knew, with painful clarity, that the version of you he loved so desperately was gone from his life forever and it was his own fault.

*********************

Chan sat stiffly in the JYPE office, the sterile fluorescent lights above reflecting off the polished table. His hands were gripping the edge so hard his knuckles were white. The envelope with the DNA results lay in front of him like a loaded gun.

“Not the father,” the manager said quietly, sliding the paper toward him.

Chan’s chest tightened. His stomach lurched. He blinked, as if the words themselves were an insult.

“What… what do you mean I’m not the father?” he demanded, voice low and sharp.

The authorities, present to mediate, explained gently but firmly. “We conducted the test. The child is not biologically yours.”

Gemma, sitting stiffly across the table, looked utterly confused, her words fumbling. “Wait… maybe it’s… the other guy? I don’t understand…”

Chan’s fists slammed down on the table, rattling the pens and paperwork. “Other guy? You—are you kidding me?!” His voice cracked, sharp and dangerous, the kind that made the room freeze.

His managers immediately held up their hands, keeping their tone calm. “Chan… breathe. Please. Just breathe. Sit down.”

He finally sank into the chair, shoulders hunched, rage and relief fighting in his chest. His legs shook. The adrenaline of fury and the exhaustion of months of guilt and anxiety left him trembling.

One of the managers placed a bottle of water in front of him. “Chan… just drink and calm down first. We’ll handle the rest.”

He stared at the bottle, trembling so badly it spilled a few drops onto the desk. He grabbed it anyway, chugging it down like it might wash away the storm inside him, but of course it didn’t.

His mind raced with betrayal, anger, frustration and everything that had been bottled for months exploded all at once. Gemma’s carelessness, the deception, the false hope… and yet, deep down, there was relief. Relief that it wasn’t his child. Relief that he could never make the mistake of raising someone else’s child when his heart—and the part of him that truly mattered—forever belonged to you only.

He leaned back, trying to control his breathing, fists still clenched. The room was quiet, except for the soft hum of the air conditioner. Even the managers were careful, letting him have the moment.

Chan finally whispered, almost to himself: “I… I can’t believe she… all this time… what the hell…”

The managers nodded silently, letting him process the whirlwind. Tension clung to the air as they watched Chan. He looked as though he was fighting the urge to destroy everything.

----------------------------

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