When Colten and his brother joined Bullet Club Gold it wasn't a surprise. They fit very well into it, especially with their tag team name. But it still caught you off guard since Jay seemed to be trying to get close to you before he recruited them.

He was slick. Always catching you alone and away from prying eyes. Colten had no idea you even talked to Jay before he joined his club. It was your little secret.

Every time he touched you, it felt like your skin burned. Sometimes it was a small caress over your bare abdomen as you passed next to each other. He didn't even look at you or say a word.

Then you began imagining him when you were mounted over Colten in bed. Your head thrown back in ecstasy as you moaned. Fingersnails digging into his chest while you bit your lip to not scream out the wrong name.

Jay knew what he was doing to you. He smirked as you watched on the sides while they filmed an interview backstage. After Colten came toward you, pecking your lips and giving you a hug. Behind him Jay walked closer giving you a wink as he left.

Austin wanted to go out and have some drinks with his brother. A thing they did every few weeks just the two of them. You said your goodbyes and went your separate ways. A traitorous thought in your mind made you go the same way Jay headed off to.

He had his own dressing room with his name in big bold letters on the door. It almost felt like a warning sign, not to go in there, but you knocked anyway. A second later, he opened the door as if expecting you and knowing Jay he probably did. He had the confidence of a man who looked like sex.

"Hey," he said, leaning against the open door.

"Can I come in?" You asked, confidence in your voice despite the nerves thrumming through your body.

He watched you for a long moment. You did your best not to shift under his unwavering stare as if he could read your every thought. Slowly, he moved aside to let you into his space and shut the door behind you.

"Do you want something to drink?" He offered you a selection of champagne and whiskey he had on a table. Probably the perks of being Jay White since the best The Gunns ever got was beer when they won the tag team championships.

"Whiskey," you replied, sitting down at the big leather couch next his leather jacket.

He had set it on the arm rest and wore his switchblade t-shirt, his hair dripping wet from showering after his match earlier. Jay walked back to you and passed you a drink. You took a long sip as he continued watching you quietly.

"Slow down, I might start to think you're nervous being around me," he had an amused smirk on his face and you wondered if it was a permanent feature.

"Why would I be nervous?"

He shrugged, "Maybe because Colten doesn't know you're here?"

"How do you know he doesn't know I'm here?"

"Because Austin just texted the group chat that they were having bros night and asked Juice and I to meet them at the strip club." He waited to see if he got a reaction out of you but it hardly bothered you.

Colten never told you about these outings but it wasn't hard to assume when he sometimes came smelling of perfume and glitter on his pants.

"Does that bother you? Colten being around other women when he could be with you right now?"

"Not at the moment."

"Why?"

"Because I'm with someone else too," you looked at him and took another sip of whiskey. This time you licked your lips after and kept your eyes on him as he watched you.

"You know if I were him," he stood in front of you crossing his arms, his muscles straining his shirt and distracting you. "I'd rather be here with you."

"Well, you are here with me," you uncrossed your legs and spread them apart slowly as you leaned forward showing a bit of your cleavage.

"And what do you want me to do?" He grinned, standing in front of you.

"I want you to show me," you spoke slowly as you reached your hands to the seam of his pants. "What the leader of the bang bang gang could do with a woman like me."

He cuffed your neck with his strong hand and made you look up at him. Your wide lustful eyes met his as your hands stayed at his waist. He lent forward to meet your lips in a seductive kiss that had you moan into his mouth. Jay had managed to steal whatever thought you still had about Colten away and replace it with him.

"Careful," he said lowly. "Colten might lose his girl and you won't ever be the same after me."

"I'm counting on it," you smirked as you slowly dropped down to your knees in front of him with his hand still around your neck, making it clear you belonged to him now.

This time you were following Mox and Claudio. Marina Shafir was on the other side of you, just a few steps away, but you didn't know what to make of her yet.

Mox stopped ahead of the truck while the rest jumped into the tailgate and you went up front with Claudio. He didn't say a word to you as he started the car. Mox finished his speech to the camera and jumped into the back with Wheeler and Marina.

You actually didn't say a word to anyone until you were back in the hotel. Laying on your back and staring at the ceiling with your hand lazily thrown over your abdomen.

In the background, you heard Wheeler turn off the showerhead. More time must had passed because he was settling down next to you in his sweats. You were still staring thoughtfully at the ceiling to chastise him for laying on the bed with his hair wet again.

It was a constant argument between you two, but it didn't seem important now.

"You haven't said a word since we left the arena." His words sounded gentle in the quietness of the room. "Are you...?"

He trailed off, but you understood what he meant.

"No."

You both went quiet for a minute.

"I haven't felt," you paused. "I haven't felt this alive in a long time."

Wheeler didn't respond, but touched your hand that was outstretched beside you. He smoothly rubbed his fingers over the inside of your hand and you found it comforting.

Those same hands that had put a plastic bag over your mentor's head and asphyxiated him hours ago. The blisters on his palm felt rough over your skin and you wondered what else his hands could do.

You turned your body toward him and reached your hand over to touch his cheek. His eyes shut briefly as you ran your fingers through his beard that had grown over the last few weeks.

His grief over the destruction of the group had caused him a lot of anguish. Even now you were sure he felt guilt over destroying the last moments of his mentor's career. He and Mox couldn't even look at Claudio stomping over Bryan's neck.

But not you. You helped set him in a position for the conchairto. Felt a sense of justification for what he did. He put Bryan out of his misery because it was his path.

"You know you did good out there," you told him, in case there was any lingering doubt in his mind.

"Yeah," he said, looking down at your clasped hands. "I did."

You turned over to face him then and wrapped your arms around his waist, placing your head on his chest.

"Just think we're just getting started."

We're just getting started.

“C’mon, Matty,” Bo says, giving him a supportive, captain-like thump on the back. “He’s a winner. We need this. This is good.”

“’Good’ is not the word I’d use for the bag-skate I’m already having in my nightmares,” Mat says. He’s jittery. He hates this stuff. The corporate meet-and-greet. He just wants to get on the ice. He’s all nervous energy, tapping his fingers against his glass of club soda. He’s the star, the $9-million-dollar man. He’s supposed to be the confident one. But that is Patrick Roy.

He scans the room again, logging faces. Management. Staff. A few wives. And then ... he stops.

His fingers go still on the glass.

Near the back wall, partially hidden by a structural pillar, is you.

You’re not talking to anyone. You’re holding a phone, but you’re not looking at it. Your eyes are scanning the room. Not in a lost, “I don’t know anyone” way. No. This is a cold, professional assessment. You’re looking at the room the way a goalie reads a 3-on-2. You’re looking at everything.

You’re wearing a black blazer, sharp shoulders, and underneath, something silky and simple. Your hair is pulled back, but a few strands have escaped, framing a face that is ... wow. He can’t ... wow. It’s a face that looks like it’s never been impressed by anything, ever.

“... and I just think,” Bo is saying, “if we buy into the system early, he’ll respect the …”

“Who’s that?” Mat asks.

Bo and Dobson stop. They follow his gaze.

You, in that moment, lift your chin. Someone must have said something you disagree with, even from across the room. Your mouth thins into a line.

“Dunno,” Noah says. “New PR? She looks ... intense.”

“She looks …” Mat says, but he doesn’t finish. He can’t. He’s watching you push off the wall. You move with an athlete’s economy. No wasted motion. You head, not for the bar, not for the door, but straight for the eye of the storm.

You walk right up to Patrick Roy.

The coach turns. His face, severe and focused while talking to Lou, breaks into a genuine, broad smile. He claps you on the shoulder, pulling you into a one-armed hug. You laugh, a short, sharp sound that Mat can’t hear, but he sees it. You say something. Roy laughs, too.

You have the same eyes. The same intensity. The same look.

Mat feels his stomach drop through the floor.

“Oh,” Bo says, his voice full of sudden, profound understanding. “Oh, no. Matty. No.”

“What?” Mat says, his voice too high.

“That’s his daughter,” Noah breathes, looking horrified. “That’s Y/N Roy. I read about her. She’s ... she’s a goalie. Like, a nutso goalie. Like, broke-her-stick-on-the-crossbar-in-college goalie.”

“No,” Mat says, but it’s a prayer.

“Dude. Don’t,” Bo says, low and urgent. “Do not. That is ... that is the Marianas Trench of bad ideas. That is career-suicide-by-coach.”

“I’m not doing anything,” Mat says, trying to tear his eyes away. He can’t. “I’m just looking. She’s ... you know. She’s here.”

“She’s his daughter,” Bo repeats, as if Mat is a very small, very stupid child. “His only daughter. The one he’s famously protective of. The one who also plays goal.”

“Slightly crazy goalie whose father would definitely kill me,” Mat murmurs, almost to himself.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just ... I gotta ... I need another club soda.”

He shoves his glass at Bo and starts moving.

“Mat. Mat!” Bo hisses. “Where are you going? The bar is the other way!”

But Mat doesn’t listen. He’s just walking. He’s navigating the clusters of people, offering tight smiles and nods, but his eyes are locked. You’ve broken off from your father, who is now trapped by the analytics department. You’re back by the wall, phone in hand. You look bored to tears.

He’s three feet away. Your back is mostly to him.

This is it. This is the moment. He’s Mat Barzal. He’s got this. He’s charm. He’s speed.

He opens his mouth.

“These things are brutal, right?”

You turn.

The full force of your “I am not impressed” look hits him like a cross-check. You’re not hostile. You’re not defensive. You’re just observing him. Calculating. Your eyes are ... Jesus, they’re your dad’s eyes.

“It’s a mandatory ’welcome the new coach’ party,” you say. Your voice is lower than he expected. A little rough, like you’ve been yelling. Or maybe you’re just tired. “The fun is just assumed. It’s not actually present.”

He laughs. A real one. It just barks out of him. “Okay, yeah. That’s ... that’s exactly it. The fun is assumed. I’m Mat Barzal.”

He holds out a hand.

You look at his hand. You just look at it. You don’t take it. After a beat that lasts about four years, he awkwardly drops it.

“I know who you are,” you say. You’re not trying to be a jerk. It’s just a fact. “You’re the fast one. The one who does all the ... spinny things.”

“Spinny things,” Mat repeats. “Yeah. That’s ... that’s me. The spinny guy.”

“Right.” You glance back at your phone, a clear, brutal dismissal.

He should leave. Bo is watching him from across the room with an expression of pure, unadulterated panic. He should leave.

He leans against the wall, a few feet away. Not too close.

“So. You’re his daughter.”

You sigh, a tiny, impatient sound. You pocket your phone. “That’s the rumour. Yes.”

“Tough gig?” He asks. “Being ... you know. Her. At one of these?”

You turn your head to look at him fully. Your arms are crossed. It’s a closed-off stance, but your eyes are working. You’re scanning his face, his suit, his hair. He suddenly feels like his hair is stupid.

“Tougher gig? Being his new player,” you counter. Your voice is dry, no humour in it. “He watches tape. A lot of tape. Hope your back-check is clean, Barzal.”

A jolt of actual, professional fear goes through him. “It’s, uh, it’s a work in progress? I’m, you know. Improving.”

“Right.” You almost smile. It’s just the corner of your mouth, and it’s gone before it even registers. “Well. Good luck with that.”

You nod once. The “conversation over” nod. You make to move away.

“Wait!”

It’s too loud. He cringes at himself.

You stop. You turn back, one eyebrow slightly raised.

“You ... you play, right?” He says, scrambling. “I heard. I think I read something. You’re a goalie.”

This gets him somewhere.

Your posture, which was all sharp angles and ’go away,’ softens. Just a fraction, but it’s there. The crossed arms loosen.

“I play,” you say. Your voice is different. Warier, maybe.

“That’s unreal. Seriously. I mean ... learning from him?” He gestures vaguely toward your dad.

You scoff. A real, audible scoff this time. “Learning from him. Yeah. That’s one way to put it. It was mostly him standing behind the glass at my 6 AM practices, yelling ’Cover the damn post!’ until I was twelve.”

“But, I mean ... it worked, right?”

“I won a few championships,” you say. You say it like it’s nothing. Like you’re mentioning you bought milk.

“A few. Right. Just a casual few.” Mat is leaning in. He can’t help it. The “love at first sight” thing from across the room was ... that was just proximity. This is different. This is ... oh.

“You guys look terrified,” you observe, your eyes flicking over his shoulder to where Bo and Noah are now failing to pretend they’re not staring. “You. Horvat. Dobson. You’re all vibrating. It’s weird.”

“He’s Patrick Roy,” Mat says, as if this explains everything. Which it does. “It’s like ... it’s like having a legend walk in and be your boss. A legend who can, and will, bag-skate us until we actually puke.”

“He will,” you confirm, no hesitation. “Oh, one hundred percent. The first time you guys get lazy in the neutral zone? You’re all dead. He’ll smoke you. He loves a teaching practice.”

“Jesus. Thanks for the pep talk. Really  inspiring.”

“You want a pep talk, go talk to the PR team. They’re great at it.” You nod toward them. “You want the truth, I’m standing right here. He’s not here to make friends, Mat. He’s here because he thinks you guys can win, and you’re not. And that ... it just pisses him off.”

The bluntness is freezing. And it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard. He is in such, such deep trouble.

“So,” Mat says, regrouping. He needs to get his balance here. He’s the charmer. He’s the guy who talks. “You’re a goalie. And I’m a ... well, I’m a shoot-first, second, and third, and then maybe pass kind of guy.”

“An over-handler,” you correct him.

“... Okay, wow. But my point is: we’re natural enemies. By definition.”

You almost smile. He knows you almost smiled. “You’re the kind of guy I’d ’accidentally’ high-stick in a scrimmage.”

“Knew it!” He says, grinning. “I knew it. You’ve got the look.”

“What look?” You ask. The sharpness is back. Defensive.

“The ’I will literally end you and then sleep like a baby tonight’ look. It’s the Goalie Look. My buddy Ilya has it. Varly’s got it. You ... you’ve got it in spades.”

You uncross your arms. “It’s because we’re the only sane ones on the ice. Everyone else is just chaos. Running around. Hitting each other. We’re the stop. We’re the logical conclusion.”

“And my job,” Mat says, leaning a little closer, “is to be the chaos. My job is to make the logical conclusion illogical. This is a fundamental conflict of interest, us talking."

“Seems so,” you say. But you’re not moving away. You’re staying.

“So ... what’s your deal?” He asks. He tries to make his voice casual. “You live here? On the Island?”

“God, no,” you say, looking around the room with a faint expression of distaste. “No offense. It’s ... nice. But no. I’m just here to get him settled. I’m the Apartment and Utilities person. I’m here until he finds a place he doesn’t hate and learns how to use the cable."

“And then?”

“Then I go home. Colorado.”

“Playing?” He asks.

“Coaching.” You say it with a hint of ... pride? Maybe. “Goalie coach. U18s. They’re all demons. It’s a nightmare. I love it.”

Mat’s brain just short-circuits. “U18s? You’re a much braver person than I am. I remember me at 17. I was ... a lot.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you were like," you say, and now the smile ... it’s small, but it’s real. It’s a tiny, razor-sharp thing. “All flash. All toe-drags. Probably drove your coaches completely insane. Am I wrong?”

He just stares at you. "How did you know that?"

“I just told you. I coach forty of you. You’re just the one who made it.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation,” you say. “You made it despite yourself. You’re so skilled that it masked the bad habits. But in the playoffs? In a Game 7? Against a team that’s structured and mean? Those habits get you killed.”

He’s speechless. This is the most honest, brutal, and accurate scouting report he’s ever gotten. And he’s getting it at a cocktail party from the coach’s daughter.

“Wow,” he says. “Okay. So are you, like, always on? Can you just turn off the coach brain, and, you know. Be at a party? Have a shrimp puff?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Can you? You’ve been scanning the exits since you got here. You’re cataloging where Lou is, where my dad is, where your teammates are. You’re a center. You are always on. Don’t lie to me, Barzal.”

He’s so busted. He can’t help it, he laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. Fine. Guilty. But I’m not not analyzing everyone’s, I don’t know, back-checking.”

“You’re not? You clocked Bo before he even started walking over here. I saw you.”

“... Okay, Bo’s an open book,” Mat deflects.

“And I’m not?”

The question hangs in the air. It’s a test. He knows it.

“I ... I dunno,” he says, being honest. “I think you want to be an open book, but it’s, like, it’s written in goalie. It’s a different language. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

Your expression flickers. That landed. He can tell. You didn’t expect that.

“You’re weird,” you say. But it’s not an insult. It’s an observation.

“I get that a lot,” he says, his confidence starting to trickle back. “So ... your dad. Does he call you for advice? ‘Hey, Y/N, what’s wrong with the power play?’”

You snort. “He calls me to complain about the power play. There’s a very big difference. He doesn’t ask for advice. He vents. He yells into the phone for twenty minutes about, I don’t know, a defenseman’s gap control. And I listen. And then I say, ‘Yeah, but your goalie dropped his glove too early on the entry.’ And then he hangs up.”

“See!” Mat says, pointing at you. “You are coaching him. That’s amazing.”

“It’s just, we speak the same language,” you say, shrugging. You finally lean against the wall, mirroring his posture. A thaw. “It’s boring, mostly. To other people. We’ll just ... we’ll sit and watch a game from, like, 1998. And just yell at the TV about a winger’s lazy line change.”

“That is not boring,” Mat says, and his voice is low. He’s entranced. “That’s my entire life. But nobody, you know, gets it. Not really. My family, they’re supportive, but they don’t see it. Not the details. Not like that.”

“And you do,” he finishes, a soft realization.

You look at him. Really look at him. Your goalie-assessment eyes are scanning him again, but it’s not cold this time. It’s ... curious.

“You’re fast,” you say, out of nowhere.

“Uh ... yeah? Thanks?”

“No, I mean you’re generationally fast,” you clarify. “But you over-handle. You know you’re fast, so you try to beat the first guy, and the second, and the third guy. And the trailer is wide open, screaming for a one-timer, and you just don’t see him. You’re trying to be the hero.”

He blinks. “You watch my tape?”

“I watch hockey. You’re on it. It’s not rocket science,” you say, flushing slightly. “It’s just ... you want to beat three guys. It’s flashy. It’s a little stupid.”

“It works sometimes,” he says, feeling weirdly defensive.

“’It works sometimes,’” you mock, and your voice is light. “That right there. That phrase is going to be the death of my father. He is going to have a literal aneurysm on the bench. I hope you know that. He hates ‘it works sometimes.’ He wants ‘it works.’ Period.”

“So you’re his scout, too.”

“I’m his daughter,” you say, as if it’s a burden. “It’s a package deal. You get the Hall of Famer ... you get the psycho goalie daughter who analyzes your zone entries for fun. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Mat says, and his voice is sincere, earnest. “Don’t. That’s the best news I’ve had all night.”

Your head tilts. “That I think your puck-handling is stupid?”

“That you watch,” he says. “That you care. That you ... see it.”

A beat of silence. It just hangs between them. It’s warm. It’s charged. The rest of the noisy, stupid room just fades into a dull buzz. This is the oh moment. He can feel it. He’s pretty sure you can, too.

You’re the first to break. You clear your throat, looking away. “So.”

“So,” he echoes. He can’t stop smiling. He feels like an idiot. “You’re in town ... how long? You said a week?”

“A week. Maybe. Until he’s settled. Until he stops yelling at the hotel TV because the remote is ‘too complicated.’ So, yeah. A week.”

“A week. Okay. Okay. That’s ... time.”

Your eyes snap back to his. “Time for what, Barzal? For you to work on that back-check?”

“That,” he says, pushing off the wall. He’s standing in front of you now. “And, maybe, I dunno. Maybe you could show me. What I’m doing wrong.”

You look amused. Genuinely amused. “You want me to break down your tape? You’re crazy. I’m not on staff. That’s weird.”

“No!” He says, too fast. “No. Not tape. I mean dinner. Or coffee. Coffee’s better. Less pressure. And you can just yell at me. About my over-handling. And my spinny things.”

You’re staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “You want to buy me coffee just to have me insult your game?”

“Absolutely,” Mat says, with zero hesitation. His heart is hammering, but his voice is steady. “One hundred percent. It sounds, like, profoundly helpful. And awesome.”

You try to hide a smile. You fail. It’s a quick, small, reluctant thing, but it lights up your whole face. Mat’s heart does a stupid, unnecessary kick-flip.

“You’re an idiot,” you say.

“A fast idiot,” he counters. “With questionable puck management. Who really wants to buy you coffee.”

You look over his shoulder, at your dad. He’s still trapped. Then you look back at Mat. The humour fades.

“My dad would kill you,” you say. It’s not a joke. It’s not a threat. It’s a simple, calm statement of fact.

“Oh, I know,” Mat says, and his grin returns, wide and bright and maybe a little manic. “He would murder me. He would put me on waivers. He’d trade me to Columbus for a bag of pucks. And you know what?”

“What?” you breathe.

“Totally worth it.”

“You keep saying that,” you whisper.

“I keep meaning it.”

The moment stretches. It’s warm. It’s quiet, even in the loud room. They’ve built a little bubble.

And then the bubble pops.

“Y/N.”

The voice is a gravel-road bark.

Mat freezes. He actually, physically freezes. He doesn’t even have to turn around. The temperature in their little bubble just dropped fifty degrees.

You don’t flinch. You brace. Mat watches your whole body just ... lock. You turn.

“Hey, Dad.”

Patrick Roy is standing there. He’s not looking at you. His eyes are on Mat.

It’s not an angry look. It’s not a “get away from my daughter” look. It’s worse. It’s the look he gave the Red Wings. It’s the look he gave the Devils. It’s an assessment. It’s a cold, calculating, predator’s look, sizing Mat up, weighing him, and ... finding him wanting.

“Coach,” Mat says. His voice cracks. It cracks. He wants to die.

“Barzal,” Roy nods. Just the one. Sharp. “You know my daughter.”

It is not a question.

“Just met,” Mat squeaks. He clears his throat. “Just, uh, met. Yes, sir. Welcoming her to the team. The organization. You know.”

Smooth, Mat. Real smooth. You sound like a moron.

You, to your absolute, eternal credit, don’t miss a beat. You step half-a-foot to the side, so you’re standing with Mat, not opposite him. It’s a teammate move.

“Mat was just telling me how excited he is,” you say. Your voice is calm, even. “About the new system.”

Mat turns to you, his eyes wide.

You don’t look at him. Your focus is pure goalie, locked on your father.

“He’s very receptive,” you continue. “To the structured approach. We were talking about puck management.”

Patrick Roy’s legendary eyes slide from Mat, to you, then back to Mat. An eternity passes. Mat is pretty sure he’s stopped breathing. He can see Bo in his periphery, and Bo looks like he’s witnessing a car crash.

“Is that right, Barzal?” Roy asks. His voice is quiet.

“Yes, sir,” Mat says, finding his voice. “One hundred percent. Structure is ... that’s what we need. Structure. And back-checking. Lots of, uh, of that. Can’t wait. To learn.”

Roy just stares. He stares for another five seconds. Ten. Mat is about to faint.

“Good,” Roy says finally. “Practice. 9 AM. Be early.”

“Yes, sir. I will be.”

Roy claps a hand on your shoulder. The gesture is pure, uncomplicated affection. It makes Mat’s stomach hurt. “I’m leaving. Lou’s driving me. You need a ride?”

“I got an Uber,” you say. “I’m right behind you.”

“Good.” He nods at Mat again. A dismissal. “Barzal.”

And he’s gone.

He walks away, parting the crowd like a shark.

Mat exhales so hard he almost whistles. He sags against the wall. “I think I just died. I think I am—I’m dead right now. That was—woah."

You’re watching your father’s back as he leaves. You look tired.

“You’re not dead,” you say, turning back to him. Your face is unreadable.

“You totally saved me,” he says, bewildered. “You did that. Why?”

“You looked like you were going to faint,” you say, matter-of-fact. “It was embarrassing. Can’t have the star center passing out on night one. It’s bad for morale.”

“Right. Morale. That’s, yeah.” He’s scrambling. He just can’t get his balance around you. He’s spinning out.

“So,” you say.

You pull out your phone. You start typing something.

Mat’s heart hammers. This is it. She’s bailing. She’s texting her dad to trade me.

You stop typing. You look up.

“The coffee thing.”

“Yeah?” He whispers.

“Seven-thirty,” you say. “There’s a place called The SPoT in Garden City. It’s ... fine. It’s close to the rink.”

“7:30. Yeah. Okay. Great.”

“And don’t wear team gear,” you add. “It’s tacky.”

You hold your phone out. “Number.”

He scrambles for his own. “Oh. Yeah. Right. It’s, uh ...” He tells you.

A second later, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out.

A new text. From a number he doesn’t know.

Just an address. Don’t be late. And don’t be a weirdo.

He looks up from the text, beaming. A wide, stupid, kilowatt grin. “I won’t. I—this is great. 7:30. I’ll be early. Earlier than practice.”

“You better be,” you say. “I’m not a morning person. Until I’ve had coffee. Then I’m still not a morning person. But I’m caffeinated.”

You nod, that same sharp, definitive nod. You start to walk away, heading for the door.

“Hey!” He calls after you.

You stop. You turn. You look back over your shoulder.

That is the look.

That’s the one. The one that’s half-annoyed, half-intrigued. The one that’s a challenge and a question. It’s the look that just completely, utterly rewrote his entire season.

“Seriously,” he says, trying to sound cool, failing miserably. “High-risk. High-reward. I’m worth the risk. I promise.”

You look at him for a long, long time. The corner of your mouth twitches.

“We’ll see, Barzal,” you say. “We’ll see. Now go talk to your friends. They look like their dog just died.”

You turn and walk out.

Mat watches you go. He stays leaning against the wall for a full minute, just staring at the empty doorway.

Bo and Noah materialize at his elbows, like they teleported.

“Dude,” Noah says, his voice full of pure, unadulterated awe. “You’re alive.”

“And ...” Bo says, squinting at the door you just left through. “Was she smiling? I think she was smiling. Was that ... a smile?”

Mat just stands there. He looks down at his phone. Just an address.

A slow, idiotic, unstoppable grin spreads across his face. He feels like he just won a Game 7 in overtime.

“Guys,” Mat says, pushing off the wall, his energy suddenly back, vibrating at a thousand watts. “I am in so much trouble.”

He sounds absolutely thrilled about it.

***

The Islanders locker room smells of sweat, tape, and the low-grade, simmering anxiety emanating from Mat.

He’s the only one in a suit.

It’s a charcoal Tom Ford number that cost more than a month’s rent on his first apartment. The knot of his tie feels like a hangman’s noose. He’s pacing a small, worn patch of the team-logo carpet between the stalls, his polished dress shoes squeaking faintly.

The rest of the team is in various states of post-practice disarray. Towels, jerseys, sliders. Bo is meticulously organizing his gear, but his eyes are tracking Mat’s frantic laps. Noah is leaning back in his stall, a phone held loosely in his hand, a look of profound, clinical interest on his face, like he’s watching a nature documentary about a particularly stupid gazelle.

“Okay, so the will is updated,” Mat says, stopping his pacing to point a finger at Bo. “It’s in the top drawer of my desk. My lawyer’s number is on the fridge.”

“I’m not calling your lawyer, Barzy,” Bo says, not looking up. “You’re going to dinner.”

“It’s not dinner, Bo. It’s The Hague. It’s a war crimes tribunal where I am the only defendant.” He resumes pacing. “Okay, okay. Funeral arrangements. Dobber, you’re in charge of the music.”

Dobson perks up. “Oh, sick. Can I play that one sad rap song?”

“No sad rap songs,” Mat snaps. “Something classy. Something instrumental. Something that says, ‘He was fast, he had great hands, and he died a hero, probably mauled by a bear.’”

“He’s not a bear, Mat,” Scott Mayfield says from across the room, pulling a hoodie over his head. “He’s just a very intense hockey coach.”

“A bear would be less scary,” Mat counters, his voice rising. “A bear doesn’t have a forty-five-minute pre-scout on your personal-life defensive-zone turnovers. A bear doesn’t have … the stare.”

A collective, knowing shudder seems to pass through the room. Everyone knows the stare.

“The eulogy,” Mat continues, his eyes landing on Jean-Gabriel Pageau. “Pags. You’re up. You’re good with words. You’re small, you’re feisty, people trust you. You just gotta get up there and say some stuff.”

Pageau, who had been quietly taping a new stick, looks up. “What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know, man, make it good!” Mat throws his hands up in exasperation. “Say that I was a good teammate. That my zone entries were, more often than not, successful. That I loved my family, my team, and … and her. You gotta mention Y/N. Say that it was all worth it. Make it sound romantic. The girls will cry. It’ll be great.”

“You are so dramatic,” Noah says, shaking his head with a grin. “He’s just gonna, like, grill you. Ask you about your intentions. It’s what dads do.”

“Your dad sells insurance,” Mat retorts. “Your dad didn’t win four Stanley Cups by systematically destroying the confidence of every forward who came within ten feet of his crease. This is a different species of dad.”

He collapses onto the bench next to Bo’s stall, head in his hands. “This is a mistake. This is a massive, tactical error. We should’ve just, I don’t know. Eloped. Sent him a postcard from Vegas. ‘Having a great time, I married your daughter, please don’t trade me to Buffalo for future considerations.’”

“She would never agree to that,” Bo says calmly. “You know that. She’s not afraid of him.”

“She’s not afraid of anything,” Mat groans. “She’s a Roy. She probably thinks this is, like, a fun Tuesday. A nice little bloodsport before the game tomorrow. I’m the entertainment.” He lifts his head. “You know what she told me on the phone last night? She said, ‘Just be yourself.’ Worst advice anyone has ever given me in my entire life. ’Myself’ is a jittery, over-caffeinated man-child who likes sneakers and video games. Patrick Roy eats people like me for a light snack.”

Ilya Sorokin glides over. He has a placid, almost unnerving calm about him at all times. He places a hand on Mat’s shoulder.

“Matty,” he says, his Russian accent thick and soothing. “In goal … you see puck. You see shooter. You do not see bear. You do not see ghost. You see only what is real. Tonight, you are goalie. He is shooter. See him. Do not see ghost.”

Mat stares at him. “Ilya, with all the love in my heart, that is terrifying. You just made it so much worse.”

Ilya shrugs, a faint smile on his face, and glides away.

“This is insane,” Mat mutters, fixing his tie for the tenth time. “Four months. Four months of sneaking around like I’m some kind of secret agent. FaceTime calls at two in the morning because she’s in a different time zone. Flying to Denver on an off day just to have breakfast with her. I flew five hours for pancakes, Bo. Just so I could see her for three hours. And now I’m going to get murdered in a steakhouse.”

“But they were good pancakes, right?” Noah asks.

“They were the best pancakes of my life,” Mat admits, a stupid, lovesick smile momentarily breaking through his panic. “She steals my bacon. It’s infuriating. I love it.” He shakes his head, the panic returning full-force. “And now he’s gonna find out. He thinks he’s meeting, I don’t know, Derek. A nice, stable accountant named Derek who played a little club-level lacrosse in college. He’s not expecting his first-line, over-handling, spinny-thing-doing center to walk in.”

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He freezes. The entire room seems to go quiet, watching him. Slowly, he pulls it out.

It’s you.

Almost there. Don’t look so scared, I can feel your anxiety from the Uber.

Mat’s face pales. “She knows. She can sense fear. It’s a goalie thing. A Roy thing. It’s a Roy-goalie thing. Oh, God. It’s the ultimate predator.”

How do you feel? He types back, his thumbs shaking.

The reply is instantaneous.

Like I’m about to watch a car crash in very slow motion. It’s fascinating.

He shows the phone to Bo. Bo reads it and winces sympathetically.

“Okay,” Mat says, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. This is it. I’m going in. If I’m not at practice tomorrow, scatter my ashes in the home-team crease. It’s what I would have wanted.”

“You got this, Barzy,” Bo says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Just … don’t talk about your contract. Or his.”

“Don’t show him the photos of your sneaker collection on your phone,” Dobson adds.

“Do not mention the 1993 playoffs,” Pageau advises gravely.

“Just … be Derek,” Mat whispers to himself. He starts for the door. He pauses, hand on the handle, and turns back to his teammates, a look of profound, sincere terror in his eyes. “I love you guys.”

And then he’s gone.

There’s a beat of silence in the room.

“So … fifty bucks says he dies,” Dobson says.

“No bet,” says Bo.

***

The restaurant is quiet. Too quiet. It’s the kind of expensive place where the silence is a status symbol, broken only by the clink of heavy silverware and the murmur of people discussing mergers. Mat sits at a corner booth, a glass of water sweating onto a pristine white coaster in front of him. He arrived twenty-five minutes early. He has mentally rehearsed seventeen different opening lines, and he has concluded that all of them are terrible.

He’s fiddling with the edge of his cuff when he sees you.

You walk through the door, and the entire dull, muted room seems to snap into focus. You’re wearing a dark green dress that’s simple and elegant and makes him forget every single one of his terrible opening lines. The hostess starts toward you, but you just nod toward his booth, your eyes already locked on his.

The knot of fear in his stomach loosens, replaced by that dumb, soaring feeling he only ever gets with you.

You slide into the booth opposite him. You don’t say anything for a moment. You just look at him, a tiny, amused smile playing on your lips.

“Wow,” you say, your voice a low, teasing murmur. “You actually wore the tie I like.”

“I’m trying to accumulate as many meaningless bonus points as I can before the main event,” he says, his voice shaky but grateful. “You look, I mean … wow. Just. You look wow.”

“You said that already,” you say, but you’re pleased. He can tell. You reach across the table and straighten his already-perfect tie. Your fingers graze his neck, and the touch calms him more than a thousand of Bo’s pep talks could. “You look like you’re about to be executed.”

“That feels like an accurate assessment of the situation,” he says. He takes your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. “On a scale of one to ten, one being a casual chat and ten being the time he fought the entire Red Wings bench … what are we looking at tonight?”

“Probably a solid seven,” you say, squeezing his hand. “With the potential to escalate to a nine if you say something stupid.”

“The chances of me saying something stupid are hovering around one hundred and ten percent,” he whispers. “This is a catastrophic mistake. We should leave. We can go to that taco place you like. We can call him from the car. We can say I got food poisoning. It’s believable. I look like I have food poisoning.”

“We’re not leaving,” you say, your voice firm but your eyes soft. “And you don’t look like you have food poisoning. You look handsome. And terrified. It’s a weird combo, but it works on you.” You lean forward. “Hey. Look at me.”

He does. He gets lost in your eyes, the same intense, intelligent eyes as your father’s, but softened with an affection that is reserved entirely for him.

“I’m here,” you say. “Okay? I’m not going to let him eat you. He might … wound you. Emotionally. But you’ll live.”

“You promise?” he asks, his voice small.

“I promise.” You lean in and give him a quick, soft kiss. It tastes like hope. “Now sit up straight. You’re slouching. He hates slouching. It shows a lack of core strength.”

Mat sits up so fast he almost pulls a muscle. He’s taking a sip of water, trying to project an aura of a calm, composed Derek, when the temperature in the room drops.

Patrick Roy is here.

He doesn’t just enter a room, he conquers it. People stop talking. Waiters stand a little straighter. He scans the restaurant, his eyes sharp and dismissive, until they land on your booth. He starts walking toward you.

And then he sees Mat.

It happens in slow motion. His eyes are on you, a rare, soft smile on his face. Then his gaze slides to the man holding your hand across the table. His smile doesn’t vanish, it freezes. It becomes something else entirely, a brittle mask of polite neutrality. The recognition clicks into place. The stare — the legendary, soul-reading, goalie stare — locks onto Mat like a heat-seeking missile.

Mat feels the water glass tremble in his hand. He puts it down.

“Dad,” you say, your voice bright and even. You don’t let go of Mat’s hand. “You’re here. Good.”

Patrick doesn’t look at you. His eyes are still boring into Mat. He stops at the table. An eon of silence passes.

“Barzal,” he says. The name comes out flat. A statement of fact. Not a greeting.

“Coach,” Mat says, his voice a dry rasp. He makes to stand up, but Roy waves him down with a sharp, impatient gesture.

Patrick slides into the booth next to you. The three of you are now enclosed in the most tension-filled pocket of space in the entire state of New York.

“So,” your father says, picking up his menu, his focus entirely on the printed card. He doesn’t look at Mat. He doesn’t look at you. “This is the new boyfriend.”

“It is,” you say, your voice unwavering. “Dad, this is Mat. Mat, this is my dad.”

“We’ve met,” Roy says, still scanning the appetizers. “I see him five days a week. Mostly his back, as he skates away from his defensive responsibilities.”

Mat flinches. It’s a joke. It has to be a joke. But it lands like a bodycheck.

“I’m working on that, Coach,” Mat manages to say. “The 200-foot game.”

“Good,” Roy says, snapping the menu shut. “The steak here is decent. Don’t get the fish. It’s soft.” He looks at the waiter who has materialized out of thin air. “Three steaks. Medium rare. And a bottle of your best cabernet.”

The waiter vanishes. Your father turns his full attention to Mat. The stare is back, now at point-blank range. It’s like looking into a deep, frozen lake.

“So. My daughter tells me you’re serious,” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Mat says. He squeezes your hand under the table. You squeeze back. “Very.”

“’Serious’ is a word people use. It’s like ‘try.’ Trying isn’t doing. ‘Serious’ isn’t committed.” He leans back. “You understand commitment, Barzal? It’s not a feeling. It’s a decision. It’s blocking a shot in the final minute when you’re up by one. It’s a Tuesday practice in February when your body is screaming and you still finish every drill. That’s commitment.”

“I understand, sir,” Mat says. And he does. He’s speaking his language now.

“Do you?” Roy’s voice is soft, dangerous. “You’re a skill player. A finesse player. Commitment … that’s for grinders. That’s for the guys who kill penalties. What do you know about it?”

“Dad,” you cut in, your voice sharp. “Stop.”

“I’m having a conversation with your boyfriend,” he says, not taking his eyes off Mat. “I want to know who he is. You’re a star, Barzal. Stars get comfortable. They get lazy. They fall in love with their own press clippings. They start thinking about their brand. Their … sneaker collections.”

Mat’s blood runs cold. He knows about the sneakers.

“They get distracted,” Roy finishes.

The word hangs in the air. Distracted. It’s an accusation. And you are the distraction he’s referring to.

Before Mat can say anything, you speak. “I am not a distraction.”

Your voice is ice. Your father finally turns to look at you. The intensity of their combined stares is enough to melt steel.

“He had his best month, statistically, since we started talking,” you state, as if reading from a scouting report. “His plus-minus is up. His turnovers in the neutral zone are down by twelve percent. I checked.”

Roy looks at you, then back to Mat, a flicker of something — surprise? respect? — in his eyes. “You checked.”

“Of course I checked,” you say. “You think I’d date a guy with bad analytics?”

For the first time all night, the corner of Patrick Roy’s mouth twitches. It’s not a smile, but it’s the hint of one. Mat feels like he can breathe again. Just a little.

The steaks arrive, a welcome interruption. For a few minutes, the only sound is the cutting of meat. The silence is heavy, but the acute, life-threatening tension has eased. Slightly.

“You love the game,” Roy says suddenly, pointing his fork at Mat. It’s not a question.

“More than anything,” Mat says honestly.

“Good. That’s a start.” He takes a bite of steak. “She’s the same. She sees things. The details. The angles. The way a defenseman holds his stick on a 2-on-1. She sees the weakness.” He looks at you with a deep, bottomless well of fatherly pride. “She got that from me.”

“I got it from watching you,” you correct him gently. “From you yelling at the TV for seventeen straight years.”

“It’s the same thing,” he grunts. He turns back to Mat. “So you talk about the game.”

“All the time,” Mat says, feeling a surge of confidence. This is his ice. He knows this. “We break down shifts. She’ll text me between periods sometimes.”

Roy’s eyebrow goes up. “She what?”

“Just observations,” Mat says quickly. “Like ‘the goalie’s dropping early on your high-slot shots,’ or ‘stop trying to go through all three of them on the zone entry, the trailer is open.’”

Your father looks at you. You just shrug, a perfect imitation of teenage nonchalance. “He’s a bad influence. He makes me watch Islanders games.”

The ghost of a smile returns to Roy’s face. He looks back at Mat. The stare is different now. It’s less of an interrogation and more of a measurement. He’s re-evaluating.

“That trailer,” he says to Mat. “Palmieri. He’s always open. He’s got one of the quickest releases on the team. You never hit him.”

“I know,” Mat says, chagrined. “I try to do too much sometimes. I hold onto it for too long.”

“You do,” Roy agrees, with brutal honesty. “You’re trying to make the perfect play. You’re trying to make the highlight reel. The game isn’t about the perfect play. It’s about the right play. The simple play. The winning play. You pass to Palmieri, he scores, you win. That’s it. That’s the whole game.”

“I know,” Mat repeats softly. “Y/N says the same thing.”

Roy looks at you again. “Good. At least one of you is paying attention.” He takes a long sip of wine. He sets the glass down. “So. You fly to Denver for pancakes.”

Mat freezes, fork halfway to his mouth.

“How …”

“I have eyes,” Roy says dryly. “And a daughter who is a terrible liar. You think I don’t know?” He leans forward, his voice dropping. “I’ve known for two months, Barzal. I was waiting to see when you’d have the guts to do this.”

Mat is speechless. He looks at you. You have the decency to look slightly guilty.

“You knew?” Mat stammers.

“You’re not subtle,” Roy says. “You look at her during practice when you’re supposed to be stretching. You play better when she’s in the building. You think I don’t notice these things? It’s my job to notice these things.” He pins Mat with a look. “My only question was whether you were a coward or not.”

“And?” You ask, leaning forward, your chin resting in your hand. “What’s the verdict?”

Patrick looks at Mat. He looks at his expensive suit and his nervous energy. He looks at the way Mat’s hand is still holding yours on the table. He looks at him for a long, silent, calculating minute.

“The jury is still out,” he says finally. But there’s no heat in it. “But he showed up. That’s something.” He focuses on Mat again. “This isn’t easy. Her … or the game. To be great at it. It takes everything. You understand? If you hurt her … if you let this distract you from the ultimate goal … you won’t just have to deal with me as a coach. You’ll have to deal with me as a father.”

The distinction is terrifyingly clear.

And in that moment, something inside Mat clicks. The fear is still there, but it’s joined by something else. A certainty. A commitment. The kind your father was talking about.

He meets the stare. He doesn’t flinch. He is the goalie. This is the shooter.

“I understand, Coach,” Mat says, and his voice is clear and steady. “But with all due respect … you’ve got it backwards.” He tightens his grip on your hand. “She’s not a distraction. She’s the opposite. She makes the game simpler. She makes me better. When I’m on the ice, I’m not thinking about sneakers, or contracts, or anything else. I’m just … I’m trying to make the right play. Because I know she’s watching. And I don’t want to disappoint her.” He takes a breath. “I love your daughter. And I love this game. And I am one hundred percent committed to winning. With both.”

The silence that follows is absolute.

Mat’s heart is hammering. He just gave the biggest speech of his life to Patrick freaking Roy.

You are beaming. Your eyes are shining with a pride that makes Mat feel ten feet tall.

Your father just stares. He holds Mat’s gaze for a solid thirty seconds. He’s searching for a lie, for a weakness, for a crack in the foundation. He doesn’t find one.

Slowly, deliberately, he picks up his wine glass. He raises it an inch off the table. He nods, once. A short, sharp, definitive nod.

“8 AM tomorrow,” he says to Mat. “You, me, and the video coach. We’re breaking down every single one of your power-play shifts from the last month.” He takes a sip of wine. “Don’t be late.”

Then he turns to you. “He’s still an idiot. But he’s got a good heart.” He pushes his chair back. “I’m leaving. Pay the bill, Barzal. It’s the least you can do.”

And with that, he stands up and walks away, leaving a trail of stunned silence in his wake.

You and Mat sit there for a moment, the echo of the encounter hanging in the air. Then, you both start to laugh. It starts as a quiet chuckle, then builds into a full, breathless, relieved laugh.

“I cannot believe that just happened,” Mat says, wiping a tear from his eye. “He … he invited me to watch tape with him. Is that good? Is that a dad thing? Is he adopting me?”

“That’s the Patrick Roy equivalent of a hug and a key to the city,” you say, your voice full of laughter and love. “It means he’s not going to kill you. He’s just going to work you to death. Welcome to the family.”

Mat shakes his head, looking down at your intertwined hands on the table. He feels exhausted and exhilarated, like he just survived a triple-overtime Game 7.

“So,” you say, your voice soft now. “Not getting traded to Columbus, then?”

He looks up at you, at your beautiful, smiling face. The fear is gone. The anxiety is gone. All that’s left is an overwhelming sense of rightness.

He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles.

“Totally worth it,” he says.

Carlos stood by the large window of his office, the city's skyline shimmering in the distance, but his thoughts were far from the beautiful view. His hands were tucked deep into his pockets, his shoulders tense. The room was silent, except for the occasional ticking of a clock on the wall, yet the quiet only made his thoughts louder. It had been days since the incident with Emanuel, but the image of you protecting his son while narrowly escaping harm still gnawed at him.

He had yelled at you. Blown up in a way that wasn't just harsh but cruel, completely disregarding your health and emotions. Even though he'd apologized, you hadn't been the same since.

Your name echoed in his mind now with every moment of your absence. You had become like a shadow in the house, moving through the halls quietly, barely speaking unless spoken to. You said you'd forgiven him, but he knew better than anyone that forgiveness didn't chase away the hurt.

He hated seeing you like this.

The guilt was worse than any business deal gone wrong, and betrayal he'd experienced before. Carlos had learned to control his emotions over the years, to never let weakness show. But when it came to you, that control seemed to crumble. He found himself thinking about the way your eyes darted away from him now, the way your voice grew smaller, quieter whenever he entered a room.

Even now, you were upstairs with Emanuel. Carlos could hear his son's laughter faintly echoing through the walls. You'd always had a way with Emanuel, a deep connection with him and it filled Carlos with both gratitude and envy. 

Emanuel was naturally drawn to you like no one else, not even to Carlos himself. Your gentleness, your quiet strength, those were qualities Carlos admired, qualities he'd hoped Emanuel would learn from you among others.

He pushed himself away from the window and walked toward the door. This needed to change. He needed to change it.

Upstairs, You sat on the floor with Emanuel playing with his toy cars. His giggles were infectious, and you couldn't help but smile softly, even though your heart still ached with the memory of the incident. Emanuel was your light in the house, the one constant that made everything else bearable.

"Vroom!" Emanuel zoomed a car across the bedspread, his dark hair falling into his eyes reminding you of his father. He glanced up at you. "y/n are you okay?" he asked. 

Your heart warmed at his caring personality, always attentive, gentle, and sweet. You smoothed a hand over his hair. "I'm fine, Manu. Just thinking that's all."

"You think a lot," he said innocently, his big brown eyes watching you just like his dads. "Daddy thinks a lot, too," he commented as he slid the car around. 

At the mention of Carlos, your stomach tightened. The memory of his anger after the incident still felt fresh, even though you knew he hadn't meant to lash out like that. He was protective of Emanuel, fiercely so, and in his world, the dangerous world that he lived in, fear often manifested as anger. But that didn't make the actions hurt any less.

Emanuel climbed into your lap, his little arms wrapping around you. You hugged him tightly, inhaling the familiar scent of his shampoo. You had been with him since he was just a baby, through every milestone. He was more than just your charge. He was like your own child, in some ways.

"Daddy's sorry, you know," Emanuel mumbled against your shoulder as if he could read my thoughts. "He told me."

You felt a pang in your chest. "I know, Manu." I kissed the top of his head. But knowing something wasn't the same as feeling it.

Carlos lingered in the hallway, just outside Emanuel's room. He could hear his son talking to you, and a pang of jealousy stirred within him. Emanuel was so open with you. There was something about the way you nurtured him, soothed him, that often made Carlos feel inadequate as a father.

He hadn't meant to overhear the conversation, but once he did, it was impossible to ignore the tightening in his throat. Emanuel was defending him, telling you that he was sorry. A child shouldn't have to do that. Carlos had to fix this now.

He knocked softly on the door before stepping inside. Emanuel beamed when he saw him.

"Daddy! Look! I made a race track!" he cheered excitedly. 

Carlos smiled, though his attention was more on you, who had quickly averted your eyes and stood, gently easing Emanuel off your lap.

"That's a great track, buddy," Carlos said, ruffling his son's hair. His tone was light, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, trying to gauge your reaction. 

You were quick to busy yourself by tidying up Emanuel's toys, your movements quiet and careful, as though your were trying to avoid him entirely.

"Y/n," Carlos called you, but you didn't meet his eyes.

"I'll give you two some time," You murmured, already heading toward the door.

Carlos's jaw tightened. He hated this distance, the way you were slipping away from him. The connection that had only just begun to get deeper it felt like it was fading. 

Before he could say anything else, you were gone, leaving him alone with Emanuel.

The next few days passed in a blur of careful avoidance. You were always around, tending to Emanuel, fulfilling your duties with the same love you always had. But with Carlos, you were different. 

You kept your distance, your words short and polite. It felt like a wall had been built between them, and every time Carlos tried to break through it, you retreated further.

But he didn't give up.

Little by little, he tried showing you how much you meant to him not with grand gestures, but with small, thoughtful acts. 

For example, one morning, he noticed you hadn't eaten breakfast before tending to Emanuel, so he left your favorite pastry on the kitchen counter, along with a note that simply read: 

For you. 

Love, Carlos. 

You hadn't said anything, but he saw the way your eyes softened just a little when you saw it.

Another time, he made sure to leave a fresh bouquet of flowers on the small table by the door you always passed when coming in from your afternoon walks with Emanuel. The flowers were the same kind you had mentioned in passing once, months ago, when you were cuddling together late at night, talking about nothing in particular. He remembered every detail.

Slowly, he began to break through. 

One evening, as the sun began to set, Carlos found you in the garden with Emanuel. The boy was chasing butterflies, his laughter filling the air. You sat on a bench, your gaze following Emanuel with that same tender smile that always seemed to grace your face when you were with him.

Carlos approached quietly, sitting beside you. You initially stiffened for a moment but didn't move away. A small victory Carlos thought.

"Y/n " he began softly. "I miss you."

Her hands stilled in her lap, her eyes fixed on Emanuel. "I'm here."

"You're here," he agreed, his voice low. "But not with me. Not like before."

You didn't answer right away. The silence stretched between you, heavy and charged. Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. "I guess I was more hurt than I let on, Carlos. When you yelled at me like that... I was terrified, wracked with guilt and I guess I expected... I expected a little comfort from you as well."

Carlos clenched his fists, the weight of his guilt settling over him like a suffocating blanket. "I know. I'm sorry. More than you know."

For the first time in days, you turned to look at him. His brown eyes were full of pain, but there was something else there too, something softer, more vulnerable. 

"It's not just about the yelling Carlos. It's about what it means. I care about Emanuel more than anything in this world, I wouldn't do anything to put him in harm's way intentionally and I would give my own life to protect him...and I thought you... trusted me."

"I do trust you," he said, his voice urgent. "With my life. With Emanuel's life. What happened... it just scared me. I reacted badly, but it wasn't because I didn't trust you. I panicked when I saw the scratch on Emanuel's head, when I saw you on the floor, I...I let fear take over."

Your expression softened slightly, though the tension in your posture remained. You studied him momentarily, your gaze searching his face for something, truth, perhaps. Understanding. Maybe both.

"I hate this," Carlos said quietly. "I hate seeing you like this. I hate that I hurt you. I don't want us to be like this. I need you back."

Your eyes shimmered, a ray of sun hitting your eyes perfectly as the sunset, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a crack in the wall you had started building around yourself.

"I don't want that either," you admitted softly.

He reached out then, gently taking your hand in his, locking his fingers with yours. You didn't pull away, and the warmth of your skin against his felt like home.

"I'm not good at this," he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "But I want to be better, for you. For Emanuel. I care about you. More than I've let you know."

Your breath hitched slightly, your eyes widening. "Carlos..."

He squeezed your hand, his voice soft but firm. "I mean it. I love you."

For a moment, you just looked at him, your heart beating at lightning speed at his words. Then, slowly, she nodded. "Me too."

It was just two words, but to Carlos, it felt like everything.

There was laughter, a round of drinks. Y/n raised a brow. "As in, formula 1 Charles Leclerc?" And smirked when Sally nodded. She tilted her head. She hates it when someone tells her she cannot do something.

“I don't need your money. I could do it with my eyes closed.”

Y/N didn’t know Charles personally. Only as a name in a sport she loved, Only knew his face from the covers of magazines, his calm confidence, the precision in the way he carried himself. He was magnetic in a way most people couldn’t touch. He seemed untouchable.

That was the appeal.

...

Charles always loved sunny days and warm weathers, basking in the sun and swimming around was one of his favorite things to do, but this week, Silverstone Grand Prix was upon him. And the UK was always rainy, or the weather was doing this in spite of him.

As he waited for his hotel keys, he looked around in the large hotel he was staying at. Beautiful ceilings, paintings decorating the walls and the lights dimmed, creating a comforting atmosphere as the rain outside hit the windows.

He thanked the receptionist and took the keys, grabbing the bags that he had put on the floor, trying to gather everything in his arms, denying with a smile when he was offered help.

Stopping in front of the elevator, huffing as he put the bags down again, he heard footsteps coming and whipped around when the person talked.

"You dropped this."

She's holding out his room keys, hair and skin damp from the rain, nails painted dark red, big black coat over her shoulders. He noticed a bit of black smudged under her eyes, likely the rain washing down her makeup.

His hand slowly comes up and gently takes the keys. "Thank you."

She just nods. "You should be more careful. You look like the type who loses things often." And turns around.

His eyes followed her as she walked up to a door with a sign.

"INT. TRANSLATION CONFERENCE. PLEASE KEEP QUIET."

She opens the door, and walks in. The elevator behind him dings as the doors slide open. Picking up his bags as he clutches the keys a little tighter, he presses the last floor.

...

Charles steps into the quiet lobby, hands in his pockets, head slightly down. It's been a long day, press, debriefs, social things he didn’t feel like attending. He’s waiting for the elevator when he notices her.

She’s standing in front of a small conference room door, squinting at the sign taped crookedly to the glass.

“INT. TRANSLATION CONFERENCE – CLOSED SESSION”

She exhales sharply, mutters something in French, perfect French. It surprises him. And he says, without thinking:

“Your accent’s better than mine.”

She glances over her shoulder, dark eyes landing on him like she’s sizing him up in under a second. Something shifts in her eyes, he doesn't know what. “That’s not hard.”

Her tone is dry, not unfriendly but not interested, either. Charles lets out a small, surprised laugh. “You work in translation?”

She raises a brow, turns fully to face him now. “I am a translator.”

“Really?” His interest sharpens. “So how many languages?”

She tilts her head, considering him for a moment like she’s trying to decide if he deserves the truth. He's already interested, eh?

“Seven.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”

“That’s what my examiner says.” She turns back to the door, about to leave him with that.

But then, something in her pauses. She looks at him again.

“And you?” she asks. “What do you do?”

Charles hesitates. Then smiles. “Something with engines.”

She smirks, just barely, and nods. “Sounds noisy.”

“It is.”

They stand there in a comfortable kind of silence, the moment oddly private in the middle of a public space. She reaches for the door.

“Good luck with your engines.”

“Good luck with your... seven languages.” He grins. “You never told me your name.”

She doesn’t answer. Just pushes the door open with a soft chuckle and disappears inside.

He watches the door close behind her, then finally heads to the elevator, already wondering when he’ll see her again.

...

She steps out of her room quietly, barefoot, wearing a hoodie that clearly isn’t hers, sleeves too long, hood bunched up around her neck. In her hand, a book. She was just going to sit somewhere quiet and read, clear her head.

But when she turns the corner near the little lounge at the end of the hallway, she finds someone already there, curled up in the armchair by the window, staring at the streetlights below.

He hears her footsteps and looks over.

“Oh, hello. Can’t sleep either?”

She pauses. Nods, one hand still on the corner wall. “No. Didn’t think anyone else would be up.”

He shifts, making room. “It’s all yours if you want the seat.”

She crosses the floor slowly, eyes flicking to the view, then to him.

“We can share.”

She sits, not too close, but enough that their shoulders are angled toward each other.

A few seconds pass in silence.

“You read before bed?”

She glances at the book. “It helps. When my mind won’t shut up.”

He smiles faintly, eyes back on the window. “I drive when that happens. Not ideal at midnight, though.”

She hums. “No. Probably not.”

They sit like that for a while. It’s quiet, but not awkward. The city lights paint soft shapes on their faces. Eventually, he glances at her again.

“You’re quieter than I expected.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And what exactly did you expect?”

He shrugs, barely grinning. “I’m not sure. But not this.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“You didn’t.”

He says it gently, without teasing. She blinks at him, almost caught off guard.

“Well,” she murmurs, “you’re not what I expected either.”

“No?”

She tilts her head. “You talk less than I thought. That’s a good thing.”

A small laugh escapes him, quiet, tired, sincere.

“Maybe that’s why we’re both here.”

She leans her head against the back of the couch, gazing at him sideways. He falls into the black hole that is her eyes.

“Maybe.”

A pause.

“Or maybe we’re both just bad at being alone.”

Something shifts, just slightly. A softness.

Charles quietly murmurs. “Maybe.”

She tucks her legs up into the chair, the book still resting in her lap, forgotten. Charles leans back as well, their bodies now mirroring one another without meaning to. A quiet comfort settles over them. The kind that only happens when the world is asleep and no one is watching.

The city is blurred below them. Their reflections hover faintly in the glass.

"Do you ever wonder how many people are out there, also avoiding something?"

She considers that.

“All the time. I think people are always trying to run from something.”

He nods. “What about you?”

“I’m not running.” She says it quickly, maybe too quickly. “Just... delaying.”

He turns to face her slightly, intrigued. “Delaying what?”

She opens her mouth, then closes it. “That’s a bit personal for someone I just met.”

Her tone is light, teasing but the edge is there. Charles raises a hand in surrender.

“Fair enough.”

A beat.

Then she adds, quieter. “What about you? What are you delaying?”

He doesn't answer right away. His gaze drops to the floor, fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.

"Letting someone get close again."

That surprises her. Her head tilts, just a little.

She doesn’t tease this time. Doesn’t fill the space with commentary. Just.

“Fair enough.”

A long silence follows one of those silences that says more than speaking ever could. And eventually, when she stretches out her legs and her knee brushes his, neither of them moves away.

She glances over at him, then back to the view.

“If I fall asleep here, you’ll wake me, right?”

"sure, yeah."

She doesn’t answer. She just leans her head against the back cushion again, eyes fluttering shut.

A few minutes pass. Maybe more. The city below sparkles like a quiet secret. Her breathing evens out just slightly, not asleep, but teetering on the edge of it.

Charles watches her in the reflection of the glass before daring to glance at her directly.

She's still hugging her knees, but looser now. The book has slid halfway off her lap.

He speaks, barely above a whisper. “Don't fall asleep.”

It hangs there.

She doesn’t open her eyes, but something shifts in her posture.

Still, she keeps her face turned away from his. And maybe that’s why he dares to go on.

“You never told me your name.”

A smile ghosts across her lips. Not the amused kind. The tired kind. Like something inside her is so excited. But he doesn't see it so.

“You’d want to know it?”

Charles leans in slightly, voice steady.

“Yeah. I’d want to know everything.”

Silence again. She bites her lower lip, opens her eyes slowly and turns her head, just a bit, enough to meet his gaze.

Then softly, almost like she’s handing him a weapon, whispers out her name.

He doesn’t react right away. Just studies her face, like he’s committing it to memory now that he knows. Then, simply.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n. Charles. Charles Leclerc."

And she says nothing.

...

It was practice day and Charles runs down to the first floor early in the morning, he liked arriving at the paddock when only a few people were there, but the weather had other plans.

It was pouring and his driver was late, texting him that there was a holdup on the road thanks to the horrible weather, he pocketed his phone again and leaned on the big pillars outside, looking out at the rain.

A sigh next to him broke him out of the trance, glancing at his right - it's her again.

She's looking down at her phone, writing something angrily, fingers quickly swiping over the screen, and equally angrily drops the device in her bag, crossing her arms.

He tries looking away, to not make this awkward, but he was intrigued.

"y/n"

Her head turned towards him, straightening up when she saw him.

"Hi."

She blinked. "You're the guy who looses things." She smirked slightly. "Did you sleep well last night?"

He chuckled lightly, awkwardly fidgeting with his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, um, thank you for-"

"-Oh finally."

He shifts his weight, runs a hand through his hair as she runs to the car

“Hey,” he calls out. She turns around to face him again.

“I don’t want that to be the last time I see you. I mean, I hope it isn’t.”

She raises an eyebrow, watching him now.

He pushes on, a little nervous but determined. “Could I... maybe get your number?”

She studies him for a moment. Not coy, careful.

Then she holds out her hand, palm up. “Phone.”

He blinks, then fumbles for it, unlocking the screen and handing it over.

She types something in, then hands it back.

“I don’t answer unknown numbers,” she warns.

He looks down. There it is. Y/n.

“I won’t be unknown for long,” he says, maybe a little smug.

She gives him one last glance.

“We’ll see.”

And then she’s gone.

But he looks down at the name in his phone again and smiles.

...

They run into each other again.

Not by chance, he asked the hotel concierge if she was still checked in, then lingered downstairs under the pretense of waiting for someone. He didn’t expect it to work.

But there she is, emerging from the elevator, files in hand, other hand wrapped around a coffee cup.

She pauses when she sees him. Her gaze flicks down, then up again.

“Twice in two days,” she says. “Starting to think you’re following me.”

He smiles, soft and sheepish. “If I say yes, will you call security?”

She takes a sip of her drink, pretending to think. “Depends. What’s your angle?”

Charles hesitates, then gestures toward the lobby café. “A question and a croissant?”

She raises an eyebrow. “What kind of question?”

“The kind you ask before a first date.”

She exhales a quiet laugh. It surprises her more than it should. “That was... smooth.”

“It really wasn’t,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

A pause.

He adds, gentler this time.

“I don’t know what it was last night. But I liked it. You. And if you let me, I’d like to keep finding out.”

She looks at him for a long moment. No teasing now. Just quiet appraisal.

She nods slowly.

“Alright then,” she murmurs. “Croissant first.”

He smiles, and it’s the kind that reaches his eyes.

And she walks past him toward the café, fully aware he’s following now. This time, on purpose.

They take the corner table by the window, quiet, a little tucked away. She sits across from him, pulling her coffee closer as he orders them two croissants, one plain and one chocolate. He doesn’t even ask which she’d prefer. She notices that.

The silence is comfortable at first. A kind of echo from the night before.

Then she speaks.

“So. The question.”

Charles looks up, eyes warm. “Right. You remember.”

“Hard to forget when a croissant was promised.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Okay.” He leans forward slightly. “Will you go out with me?”

She blinks. “That’s it?”

“That’s the question.”

She watches him. Eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out if he’s joking - or if he’s actually serious.

“Do you always ask girls you don’t know out over breakfast?”

“Only the ones I spend the night talking to and still want to see in daylight.”

That gets her. She shifts in her seat, caught off guard. “You’re not at all what I expected.”

“And you are exactly what I hoped you wouldn’t be.”

She arches a brow.

“Unnerving,” he clarifies. “In a good way.”

The croissants arrive. He breaks a piece of his and passes her the chocolate one, like he knew.

She stares at him for a long second. Like she’s giving him one last chance to change his mind.

Then, finally, she nods.

“Alright.”

He blinks. “Alright?”

“I’ll go out with you.”

And there it is. A slow smile that spreads across his face, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe.

Neither of them says anything after that.

They just eat their croissants in silence, sharing one morning like it could be the first of many.

Victory bells.

...

...

...

Charles shifts on his feet outside her door, rubbing his palms together once before sliding them into the pockets of his coat. He tells himself to relax, that it’s just dinner. Just conversation. He doesn't know why he's nervous, it's not like it's his first date. He rubs his palms on his trousers and knocked twice - gently.

The door opens.

And all the air leaves his lungs.

She stands there in a long black coat, fitted at the waist, the collar turned up slightly. Her hair is tucked behind one ear, a glint of silver at her lobe. The lipstick is deep, dramatic. The look is effortless, and devastating.

His mouth opens, then closes.

She lifts an eyebrow. “You forget how to speak, Leclerc?"

“No,” he says finally, recovering with a smile. “I just wasn’t ready.”

“For?”

“That.”

He gestures vaguely, like the word gorgeous might be too much, too soon.

She glances down at herself, then back up with a smirk. “You’ve seen me in a hoodie.”

“And I thought about that hoodie all week.”

She laughs, a low sound, half-genuine, half-disbelieving.

“Well,” she says, locking her door behind her, “try to keep it together.”

“No promises,” he murmurs, falling into step beside her.

And she knows, without looking, that he’s still watching her from the corner of his eye the whole way to the elevator.

...

She’s halfway through telling him about a conference in Geneva, something about a panel that went sideways when someone tried to improvise in Russian, when Charles leans in, elbows resting on the table, chin propped in his palm.

"Wait," he interrupts gently, grinning. "You travel that much for work?"

She nods, sipping her wine. "When they need me, yeah. Depends where the crisis is."

He arches a brow. “So where’s home base? Or do you just live on planes?”

“Monaco,” she says casually, setting her glass down.

His smile lingers, but there’s a beat of surprise behind it. “Monaco?”

“Mhm.”

He sits back slightly, lets out a low laugh. “This just keeps getting better.”

She raises an eyebrow, amused. “Does it?”

“You’re fluent in seven languages, calm under pressure, and apparently my neighbor,” he says, shaking his head like he’s only just processing it all.

Her lips curl, but she hides it behind her glass. “You make it sound like a résumé.”

Charles tips his head, eyes still on her. “It’s impressive. I mean it.”

She shrugs, a little bashful despite herself. “I just do my job.”

“Most people don’t do it in seven languages,” he counters, smiling softer now. “That’s not nothing.”

She meets his gaze for a moment, the air between them going quiet, but not uncomfortable. Just… aware.

Then she leans forward slightly, elbow on the table, mirroring him. “So what, you’re suddenly into translators now?”

Charles grins. “I think I might be.”

She laughs.

“You didn’t strike me as the type to be charmed by grammar rules and diplomatic syntax,” she teases.

“Maybe I’m discovering new things about myself,” he replies easily. “You’re a good influence.”

She lifts her brow. “Too soon to say that.”

“Maybe,” he says. Then, after a pause, gentler. “But I like where this is going.”

And this time, she doesn’t tease. Just looks at him for a beat too long, and nods.

“Me too.”

Bingo indeed.

She twirls the stem of her glass thoughtfully, then lifts her gaze again. “And what about you?” she asks. “You’ve been politely dodging questions about your job all evening.”

Charles smiles, but there’s a flicker of something sheepish in his expression. “I haven’t been dodging.”

“You have,” she says, amused. “Artfully. With compliments and curiosity deflection tactics.”

He chuckles. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

He exhales, then sits up straighter. “Well, I drive.”

“For work?"

He nods. “Professionally.”

She tilts her head, not quite connecting the dots. “Like… logistics? Or—”

“Formula One.”

There’s a beat. Then she blinks.

“Oh,” she says, slowly. “Like actual Formula One.”

He tries not to laugh. “Yeah. That one.”

“You’re a Formula One driver.”

“I am.”

She stares for a second, eyebrows rising. “And here I thought I was the cool one at the table.”

“You are,” he says quickly, leaning in again. “But I get to look smug now, right?”

She leans back, still processing. “That explains a lot, actually.”

“Like?”

“The neck tan. The posture. The slight air of someone who’s crashed something expensive before.”

Charles laughs, warm and unfiltered. “Only a few times.”

She smirks. “Do I need to be worried about the ride home?”

“I’m an excellent driver,” he says, mock offended.

“You’re a fast driver.”

“There’s a difference?”

She hums. “You tell me.”

He grins, hands folding on the table. “Let’s just say—next time, I’ll drive you around Monaco's best places and you be the judge."

She lifts her glass again, eyes sparkling. “Deal.”

And somehow, dinner feels even easier after that.

...

The car ride back is quieter.

Not in a tense way, more like neither of them want to break whatever’s been building all evening. The kind of silence that hums, charged and contemplative, as the city lights drift past outside the window.

Charles glances over at her once. She’s looking out, her reflection clear in the glass. Her lipstick’s faded a little. She hasn’t noticed.

He thinks she’s even more beautiful like that—undone just slightly, real in the soft blur of the night.

When they pull up to the hotel, he steps out first, moving quickly to her side. Their hands brush as he opens the door, and something lingers in that small touch.

She doesn’t say anything as they enter the lobby, but her pace slows beside him.

The elevator ride is a quiet thing too. Close. Comfortable.

When it dings at her floor, she turns to him, half a step outside already, and he thinks maybe this is the moment to say goodnight.

Instead, she looks at him and murmurs, “You coming up?”

He meets her gaze. Reads the stillness in her face, the slight tremble of something unspoken behind her eyes. She’s not asking him to start anything. Just... not to leave yet.

He nods once. “Yeah. I’ll walk you up.”

Her room isn’t far. They stop outside her door, and she pulls the keycard from her coat pocket, but doesn’t swipe it yet. Her hand rests lightly on the keycard.

Charles offers a small smile. “You really undersold how good you are at conversation.”

She gives a quiet laugh, dipping her head. “That’s because you didn’t hear me at the conference panel last month. I made a joke in Japaneese no one laughed at.”

“That’s because you haven’t had me in the crowd,” he says gently, stepping just a little closer. “I would’ve laughed.”

She looks up at him, something soft in her eyes now, less guarded than before, still sharp, still her, but warmer.

“I had a good time tonight,” she says, her voice a touch quieter than usual.

“I know,” he replies. “I could tell.”

He’s teasing, but not in a smug way. Just… charmed.

There’s a pause then, right before she steps toward him. Just a small step.

And without warning, she leans in and presses a kiss to his cheek, light, but lingering for half a second too long to be casual.

Her voice is low when she pulls back, almost amused at her own boldness.

“Thank you, Charles.”

He blinks, caught off guard for once and maybe a little speechless.

She doesn’t wait for him to find the words. Just gives a small smile, turns, and slips into her room, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

He stands there a moment longer, his fingers brushing where her lips just were, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah.

He’s in trouble.

...

Her phone rings before she even opens her eyes.

At first, she groans and buries herself deeper into the covers. But it doesn’t stop.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

With a sigh that says she already knows what’s coming, she reaches for it blindly. One look at the caller ID and she huffs a quiet laugh.

“Already?” she croaks, voice sleep-rough.

“You absolute witch,” the voice on the other end hisses, half-gasping, half-laughing. “I wake up, check Instagram, and BAM. You. Charles Leclerc. That smile. Walking you back to your hotel like a scene from a Netflix show.”

Y/n stretches, blinking at the ceiling, the edges of her lips curling. “He is very photogenic.”

“No. No. Don’t downplay this. There are at least six paparazzi angles and two fan videos. You were smiling.”

“I do that sometimes,” she says dryly, already scrolling through the headlines.

Mystery Brunette Accompanies Charles Leclerc in London

Charles Leclerc Seen With Translator Girlfriend?

Fluent in Love? F1 Star and Monaco-Based Linguist Spark Romance Rumors

She snorts. “Fluent in love? That’s a bit dramatic. He was fun though.”

“Okay, but you said he was boring,” her friend reminds her between cackles.

“I say a lot of things,” she replies, flipping to the next headline. “Also, I’m the one who walked away last night. I kissed his cheek, that’s all.”

“Oh please, he looked like he was ready to grab you. You cracked him. He’s done for.”

There’s a pause, and then Sally adds with mock seriousness: “So are you admitting I was right?”

Y/n grins. “About what?”

“That you couldn’t resist.”

She laughs now, fully awake. “No. I’m admitting I played it better.”

They both burst out laughing, sharp, chaotic, victorious.

Outside, the sun hits the glass of her hotel window, and down below, London doesn’t know what it’s in for.

Neither does Charles.

...

It’s late afternoon when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. The kind of knock that isn’t sure if it should even be happening.

Anastasia’s still in her robe, hair pulled back lazily, a mug of coffee in one hand, the TV murmuring something she’s not paying attention to. She wasn’t expecting anyone.

Another knock, two gentle taps.

She sets the mug down and pads barefoot across the carpet. Pauses. Peeks through the peephole.

And there he is.

Charles, standing just off to the side, like he’s trying not to be obvious. Hoodie pulled low over his hair. Hands in his pockets. Looking, for once, not like an international sports star, but just a boy who maybe thinks he messed something up.

She opens the door.

He straightens a little when he sees her, one hand lifting in a sheepish wave.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Sorry. I know I should’ve texted.”

Y/n leans against the doorframe, brows raised, waiting.

He scratches the back of his neck. “I just... wanted to say sorry. For the photos. For the attention. I didn’t- I mean, I didn’t think-”

She tilts her head, watching him flounder with a small, unreadable smile.

“Charles,” she interrupts gently. “You didn’t hire the paparazzi.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly. “Still. You didn’t sign up for that.”

She shrugs. “It comes with the territory, doesn’t it?”

There’s a pause. His eyes search hers. Quiet.

“I just didn’t want you to feel like... you were being dragged into something.”

She watches him for another moment, then smiles, shaking her head a bit.

"You worry too much."

...

The garage is humming, the usual pre-qualifying buzz vibrating through the floor. Charles is leaning over a monitor, reviewing data, when Lando saunters up behind him, helmet under one arm, smirk already locked and loaded.

“So,” Lando says casually, “how was dinner?”

Charles doesn’t even turn around. “Dinner was fine.”

“Oh yeah?” Lando steps up beside him, pretending to study the screen. “Just fine? Because, see… Twitter thinks otherwise.”

Charles sighs through his nose. “Twitter needs a new hobby.”

Lando grins. “Don’t dodge me, man. You asked me for a list of restaurants that were ‘quiet, not flashy, good food, somewhere she won’t hate.’ That was suspicious from the start.”

“I was being polite,” Charles says, dry.

“You were being a man with a plan.” Lando laughs. “So? She liked it?”

Charles finally looks at him, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “She did.”

“And you?” Lando nudges him. “You like her?”

Charles exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know yet.”

Lando watches him for a beat. “You’re lying.”

Charles shrugs.

Lando grins again. “This is fun. I hope you fall in love or crash and burn - either way, I get a front row seat.”

“Remind me not to ask you for dating advice again.”

“Too late,” Lando tosses over his shoulder as he walks off. “You're already in too deep.”

...

The suite is dim, curtains drawn against the grey London sky. On the screen, the pre-race coverage buzzes softly, commentators chattering, camera shots sweeping across the grid. Charles’s name flashes in the lower third. He’s smiling at a fan in the paddock, oblivious.

Y/n lounges in an armchair, legs crossed, a glass of champagne poised delicately in one hand. Her friend sprawls on the bed behind her, flicking through photos on her phone. “These are gold,” she says. “Look at this one, he’s looking at you like you put a spell on him.”

Y/n doesn’t look. She already knows. “I did,” she replies calmly.

The camera cuts to Charles climbing into the car, the prancing horse logo gleaming under the lights. Y/n watches him, unreadable.

“You’re scary,” her friend says, but it sounds like admiration.

“No,” Y/n murmurs, eyes sharp. “I’m good at what I do.”

Her friend laughs, breathless. “Do you think he knows yet?”

Y/n finally glances over her shoulder, a slow, amused smile blooming. “Doesn't suspect a thing."

The lights on the screen go red, one by one. Anastasia leans forward just slightly, eyes locked on Charles’s car.

“Let’s see how well he performs when he thinks someone’s watching just for him.”

Her friend whistles. “You’re ice cold.”

But Y/n only lifts her glass again and takes a sip.

...

Her friend is still giddy beside her, replaying a slow-motion clip of Charles overtaking someone on Lap 38 like it’s cinematic brilliance.

Y/n, still calm and composed, scrolls through her phone until she finds his name.

She doesn’t overthink it. She never does.

The message is simple. Just warm enough to make his heart jolt. Just vague enough to keep him guessing.

Before she hits send, her friend glances over. “You’re texting him now?”

Y/n smirks, thumb hovering. “Of course. Timing is everything.”

She hits send.

A few thousand miles away, Charles is just stepping out of the car, helmet still in hand, surrounded by noise and celebration. He laughs and his dimples most noticeable in the sun.

“Didn't think you'd take this so seriously” her friend murmurs, impressed.

Y/n only smiles, the phone still glowing in her hand. She watches him on the podium as he closes his eyes for the national anthem, face shining.

...

The champagne’s still fresh on his suit. Charles runs a hand through his damp hair as he steps off the podium, smile lingering, but there’s that dazed post-race haze in his eyes—like part of him hasn’t caught up yet.

Flashes go off. Team members pat him on the back. Reporters shout. But for a second, he lets the chaos blur into background noise.

One new message.

He stares at it for a moment, mouth twitching into something realer than the smile he wore for the cameras.

A hand claps his shoulder, it’s Carlos, grinning, breathless. “You checking splits or fan mail?”

Charles locks the screen, slipping the phone back in, heartbeat just a little faster. “Neither.”

But the thought stays with him.

Because somewhere, far away from the screaming fans and the glare of the spotlight, she watched.

And she texted.

And now, she’s in his head again. exactly where she planned to be.

...

The walk back from their first date in Monaco is slow. Monaco is glittering around them like it always does, lantern lights swaying gently above the stone streets, the hush of the sea close enough to taste in the air.

They’ve been talking the entire time. But somewhere between the restaurant and her street, the conversation softened. Less words, more space between them.

He says something that makes her laugh, a low, surprised laugh, and she turns to look at him just as he’s already watching her.

The smile on his face doesn’t quite reach his lips. It stays in his eyes, soft, like it’s only meant for her.

“You always laugh like that?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re trying not to.”

She lifts a brow, a little amused. "Hm?"

He shrugs, stepping a little closer without even thinking. “Like you didn’t expect to. Like someone caught you off guard.”

She doesn’t answer.

Because he’s right. And because he’s standing too close now. Not quite touching her, but near enough that she can feel the edges of him, his warmth, his gaze, the way he shifts slightly like he’s holding back.

There’s a long beat of silence.

He glances down at her lips — just for a second.

And then he murmurs, “Can I?”

She should say something clever. She always does.

But tonight, her words stay tucked behind her teeth.

So she nods. Once. Barely.

And it’s all he needs.

He steps closer, leaning down, his eyes softly on her lips. He kisses her like it’s been building, slow at first, his hand rising gently to the side of her jaw, thumb brushing just below her ear. She leans into it before she can stop herself, kissing him back with something softer than either of them expected.

It’s not rushed. Not messy. It’s steady. Warm.

The kind of kiss that pauses in the middle because they both smile. His heart is racing.

When they finally pull away, he doesn’t move far his hand still resting against her skin, forehead barely brushing hers.

“Well,” he says, breath light. “That felt… overdue.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh, her eyes still half-closed. “Yeah.”

“You don’t regret it?”

She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”

And then she steps back, fingers brushing his hand once before they fall apart. She doesn’t invite him in. Doesn’t need to.

Because the door closes softly behind her and the kiss stays lingering like the warm Monaco night.

And Charles just stands there for a moment, running a hand through his hair, smiling like a man who knows something’s begun.

...

Two weeks later, It’s late when they walk down to the water.

Monaco is quiet in that silver way cities get when the night is deep and everything else is sleeping. They don’t say much. He’d offered to walk her back after dinner, but she’d tugged him toward the marina instead. Something about the air — it felt like it needed to carry something.

They sit on the edge of the dock. Their feet dangle, and the waves below are soft, lazy. The water reflects the city lights in scattered pieces.

She speaks first. “You ever get tired of being seen all the time?”

Charles glances over. “You mean by people?”

She nods. “Yeah. Fans. Cameras. Strangers who think they know you.”

He’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “Sometimes. But I chose it. Doesn’t mean I don’t want space, though.”

“Right.” She twists a loose ring around her finger. “It’s just strange. This... thing between us. It’s not private. Not really.”

He looks at her. Carefully.

“You want it to be?” he asks gently.

She hesitates. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

Then she adds, “It’s not just about people knowing. It’s about what they expect. Like I’m supposed to be a certain type of girl if I’m with someone like you. And I’m not. I’m—” She stops, frustrated. “I’m complicated. And selfish sometimes. And I get quiet when I shouldn’t.”

Charles doesn’t interrupt. Just watches her speak, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of her honesty.

“And I know what you are to the world,” she says. “But I’m still figuring out what you are to me.”

That makes him breathe in, slow. But he doesn’t look away.

“And what are you to me?” he asks, voice low. “Do you ever think about that?”

She finally turns to him.

“Do you?” she counters.

He holds her gaze.

“All the time.”

It knocks the air out of her a little.

“You’re not hard to like,” he continues, gently now. “You think you are, but you’re not. You make it hard on purpose. And I get it. But I like you anyway.”

She blinks. Once. Then twice.

“I don’t want to be someone you have to figure out,” she whispers.

“You already are,” he says, “but I don’t mind.”

Silence settles between them again. But it’s not sharp. It’s soft. Comfortable.

And when he reaches out, not to kiss her, but to take her hand, she lets him. No fight this time. Just fingers threading together.

She leans her head on his shoulder after a while, and neither of them says another word.

But for the first time, something feels a little less guarded. A little more real.

She doesn’t move for a long time. His shoulder is warm beneath her cheek, steady in a way she hadn’t realized she needed. The silence isn’t heavy—it breathes between them like the sea, rhythmic and alive. Her fingers curl more tightly around his, and he squeezes back without needing to look.

“You always this quiet?” she finally asks, her voice softer now. A little amused.

“Only with people who make me think too much.”

She smiles at that. “Is that a compliment?”

He shifts, lets out a quiet laugh. “Depends how you take it.”

She hums. “Then I’ll take it as one.”

It’s quiet again, but now it’s layered. Warmer. Like something invisible has loosened.

Charles tilts his head down toward her. “Do you think too much about me?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. But she doesn’t pretend either.

“Yes.”

He breathes a laugh. “Good. I was hoping I wasn’t the only one.”

She lifts her head, just enough to look at him. His eyes are darker in the low light—still, searching.

“You’re not,” she murmurs.

He nods, but there’s something a little raw beneath his smile. “I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admits. “But I like it. I like you. And I’m not rushing anything. I just want to be wherever you are.”

She doesn’t flinch this time.

Instead, she watches him for a long moment. “I think I keep waiting for you to see the worst in me.”

“I think,” he replies, quietly, “you’re scared I’ll still stay if I do.”

That catches her off guard.

But before she can respond, he adds—“And I might. Stay, I mean.”

There’s a long, still moment between them. Then, carefully, she leans in. Not rushed. Not dramatic.

Her lips press to his cheek first. The same way they had the night of their first date. But this time, she lingers.

And then, just before pulling away, she lets her lips find his—slow and deliberate. It’s a kiss that doesn’t ask for answers. It just wants to exist.

He just touches her jaw gently and smiles.

Her fingers rest lightly on his collar as he pulls her back into another kiss, slower this time, deeper. The kind that makes everything outside the moment fade. The kind that makes her forget how careful she usually is.

He kisses her like he’s learning her, like he’s been waiting to, like maybe he’d keep going until morning if she let him.

When they part, barely inches between them, she whispers, “You always kiss like that?”

His grin is crooked. “when I mean it.”

She shakes her head, laughing under her breath, her forehead tipping forward to rest against his. “Careful, Leclerc.”

“Why?”

“You’re going to make it hard to leave.”

His hand slides to the side of her face, thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone. “Then don’t.”

She meets his eyes, and for the first time, she doesn’t mask the softness in hers.

“I have to fly out Monday.”

His lips are still warm against hers when he whispers it—soft, careful, like he’s offering a piece of himself.

“Come to the next race with me.”

She freezes for just a second, her fingers still curled against his chest.

He watches her eyes shift—something flickering behind them. Her breath hitches, and she pulls back just enough to really look at him.

“Charles…” she says it gently, almost like it hurts. “No.”

His smile fades a fraction. Not completely, just…enough.

“No?”

She bites her lower lip, eyes flicking down before coming back up. “Not yet.”

He doesn’t move. Just waits.

“I like this,” she admits quietly. “I like you. But I’m not ready to be in that world. Not like that. Not yet.”

He studies her face, searching, but not pushing. “You’re not saying never.”

She shakes her head. “I’m saying not now.”

Silence stretches between them.

Then he nods. Once. Slow. Sure.

“Okay."

She exhales, something in her chest easing. But he reaches for her hand before she can slip too far away again, fingers lacing through hers.

“I still want to kiss you,” he says softly.

A smile breaks, small and sad and fond, as she leans in again.

“Then kiss me, but don’t ask me to follow you yet.”

And he does. No questions. No pressure.

Just a kiss that says, I’ll wait.

...

She wasn’t sure how he’d talked her into this. Pasta from scratch in her kitchen. But there he was, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of flour on his jaw, looking too at ease in her home for someone who wasn’t supposed to stay long.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she said, pointing at the dough he was kneading like it had personally wronged him.

He glanced up, feigning offense. “Excuse me? I’m following your instructions exactly.”

“No, you’re manhandling it. You’re supposed to be gentle.”

“I am being gentle. This is my gentle.”

She tried to suppress a laugh and failed. “Your ‘gentle’ looks like a wrestling match.”

He grinned, clearly delighted by her unraveling composure. “Maybe I need a better teacher.”

She narrowed her eyes, stepping in close enough to nudge him aside. “Move. Let me fix it.”

Their hands brushed when she reached for the dough, and for a second, neither of them moved. She didn’t look up, but she felt the way his eyes lingered on her — quiet, steady. “You do this often?” he asked, softer now.

“What?”

“Let someone into your kitchen.”

She paused, then glanced up at him. “No.”

That earned her a small smile, something knowing and warm. “Me neither.”

They went quiet again. The water began to boil behind them. He moved to stir the sauce, giving her space — but not much.

She threw a dish towel at him.

“What was that for?” he asked, laughing.

“For judging my cooking.”

“You judged mine first!”

“Because you were mauling the dough!”

He gave her a mock-scandalized look and stepped closer. “So violent.”

“So dramatic.”

“Fine. Truce?”

She looked up at him, realizing how close he was now, how her kitchen suddenly felt smaller, warmer. “Truce.” He held out his pinky.

She blinked. “What are you, twelve?”

“Maybe. But I want a pinky promise.”

She rolled her eyes, but hooked her pinky with his anyway. His hand lingered a second too long.

Dinner turned out slightly uneven, wildly underseasoned on one side, and somehow perfect on the other, but they laughed through all of it, music low in the background, both trying not to notice how comfortable it all felt. And when the plates were cleared and she handed him her clothes for the night, the storm outside made it easier not to say the things they were both thinking. But the warmth stayed between them.

And so did he.

The pasta was forgotten on the stove. The wine, half-drunk, left to warm on the counter. What started as harmless teasing while she chopped basil — a flick of sauce on his white shirt, a smirk thrown over her shoulder — had built into something neither of them were really controlling anymore.

She was laughing, again. Breathless, flushed from the wine or maybe from the way he had been watching her all night. “You’re staring,” she said, voice lilting as she reached to wipe something off her cheek.

“Can you blame me?” Charles replied, leaning on the counter across from her, watching her with that gaze, the kind that never wavered, not even when she tried to meet it head-on. “You look like hell and heaven mixed together.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile slipped. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” he said, crossing the small space. “Because you’ll believe me? Or because you already do?”

Her breath caught, and she hated that it did.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with.”

He tilted his head, stepping closer. “Neither do you.”

His hand ghosted over her waist — not quite touching yet, but close enough that her skin tingled. Her back hit the counter behind her, a soft exhale escaping as she looked up at him.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” she murmured.

He smiled, but it was slow, unreadable. “Maybe.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It was slow-burning and hungry — the kind of kiss that tugged something deep and buried loose from the chest. His hands found her hips as she leaned into him, her fingers curling into his shirt like a lifeline. He walked her back without breaking away, guiding her gently until the counter met her back, he lifted her on the counter, hands on her thighs, controlling himself to not squeeze too hard.

His mouth moved down to her jaw, then her throat, open-mouthed, like he couldn’t get enough. “You drive me insane,” he whispered against her skin.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her hands were in his hair now, pulling, and he growled, low, deep in his chest, and kissed her harder. Her shirt had ridden up slightly, his fingertips skimmed along bare skin like it was sacred, and she felt herself unraveling.

He pulled back finally, forehead resting against hers, both of them panting. Her eyes searched his, a question forming.

“What are we doing?” she asked, voice barely audible.

“I don’t know,” he admitted, thumb tracing her cheek. “But I don’t want to stop.”

Neither did she.

She kissed him again.

This time, slower. More certain.

By the time she handed him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, the rain outside had softened to a drizzle, tapping gently against the balcony doors. He disappeared into the bathroom to change, and she stood quietly in the kitchen, sipping the last of her wine and trying not to overthink things.

When he reappeared, barefoot and loose-limbed in her clothes, it took her a second to breathe again. He looked so at home it was disarming.

“You sure I’m not intruding?” he asked, voice soft as he leaned against the doorframe. The gray shirt hung just a little off his collarbone, her oversized shirt.

“If you were,” she said lightly, “you’d still be standing in the hallway.”

He smiled, stepping into the room, and for a second, neither of them said anything. The silence between them wasn’t awkward — it was full, humming with something quiet and undeniable.

Then he glanced at the couch and then back at her. “I can’t tell if this is the most domestic thing we’ve done or if I’ve just dreamt about this already.”

She raised a brow, amused. “You dreamt about borrowing my clothes and crashing on my couch?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “about being here. With you.”

That made her falter. She blinked, suddenly less guarded. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do,” he said gently. “And if I didn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here dripping water in your hallway.”

She crossed her arms, lips twitching like she was holding back a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said without missing a beat. “And terrifying. And impossible to figure out.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yet here I am.”

The tension shifted—tender now, careful. He took another step closer, and she didn’t move away. He reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and for a moment, he just looked at her.

“You’re really letting me stay?”

“You’re already here.”

“I don’t want to ruin this,” he murmured.

“You won’t,” she said, almost in a whisper.

And then, like gravity had pulled them together, she leaned in, not quite a kiss, but the barest brush of her lips against his cheek. His eyes fluttered closed, just for a second.

“Sleep well, Charles.”

He looked at her like she’d just undone something inside him. Then nodded.

“You too.”

And later, when she turned out the lights and slipped into her room, heart thudding, she had no idea how she was going to survive this man.

She couldn't sleep that night.

He was in the other room, asleep in the soft glow of her living room— or maybe pretending to be, because he always knew when her mind started spinning like this.

She stared at the ceiling from her own bed, blanket pulled up to her chin, her phone resting on her chest. A photo still open. One she had taken earlier that night.

He had been standing in her kitchen, barefoot, hair messy, wearing one of her hoodies because his suitcase hadn’t made it to Monaco. He’d looked impossibly domestic. Like he belonged there. Like he belonged to her.

She had caught the moment in secret — him laughing at something he said, hands mid-gesture, so full of life and light.

And now she couldn’t stop looking at it.

Because something had shifted.

It wasn’t just the late-night texts or the way he always knew when she was lying about being okay. It wasn’t the kisses, slow and sweet. It wasn’t the way he always watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

It was how he made everything quieter — even her own chaos.

And that scared her more than she could admit.

Because she had planned this. The bet. The charm. The script.

she hadn’t planned him.

She hadn’t planned the way her stomach would flip when he said her name in that hushed voice. Or how her chest would ache when he touched her without asking, like he already knew she needed it.

She was falling. And fast.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, jaw tightening.

She was supposed to be in control.

She was supposed to win.

But now — now, she was so fucked.

...

They were curled up on the couch in her Monaco apartment, the sea humming low outside the balcony doors, the golden spill of warm lamplight flickering against the walls. She was reading — one leg folded under her, oversized hoodie drowning her frame — and Charles had barely looked away from her for the past twenty minutes.

She noticed, of course.

She peeked over her book, amused. “You’re staring.”

He smiled, caught. “I know.”

She closed the book slowly, eyebrows raised. “Something on your mind?”

Charles hesitated, like he was carefully picking the words from the air. Then, he shifted closer, his fingers brushing gently over hers where they rested on her lap.

“I keep thinking about how… peace feels like this,” he said softly. “You. Here.”

She blinked. Her heart knocked once, loudly.

He looked down, then back up. “You make everything quieter.”

There was a beat of silence. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

He chuckled, nervous. “I don’t know how to say this like a normal person, but—can I be yours? Like… properly? Officially?”

Her lips curved, the breath she’d been holding finally exhaled.

“You want to be mine?” she asked, voice low.

“I already am,” he said, just like that.

She leaned in, and kissed him — slow, sweet, a silent yes pressed to his lips.

When they pulled back, she whispered, “You’re insane.”

“But yours,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. “Please say you’re mine, too.”

She touched his face, thumb running over the corner of his mouth. “I already was.”

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just sat there, limbs tangled and quiet, the world still blissfully unaware of what had just changed between them.

...

A blurry shot of her laughing across a café table in Monte Carlo, Charles leaning in with that unmistakable look in his eyes—the one that never made it to race day interviews. Then came another: them walking by the marina, her hand briefly brushing his wrist as he smiled at something she said.Dinner in Italy. A stroll through old streets in Lisbon. Her leaning over to whisper something in his ear while he grinned down at his shoes like a teenager.

By the time the Monaco tabloids got hold of it, the headlines were relentless. Her phone buzzed like a broken fire alarm. Messages from people she hadn’t spoken to in years.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at her apartment door.

She opened it to find Charles standing there, hoodie pulled up, baseball cap low, a sheepish grin barely hiding behind his usual calm.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” he said.

“I know,” she replied, crossing her arms.

There was a pause. Then she stepped out onto the small terrace with him, closing the glass door behind them. The ocean stretched out below, quiet and infinite.

“They’re just pictures,” she finally said, leaning against the railing.

He nodded beside her. “But now it’s not just ours anymore.”

She looked at him carefully. “You scared?”

He turned to her fully then, brushing a bit of wind-blown hair from her cheek. “Only if you are.”

She smiled small, honest. “I’m not.”

That night, she dreamt of red flags waving and thousands of people shouting his name.

And when she woke, her mind was already made up.

...

Her birthday. It’s nearly midnight when they step out of the car, the glow from the Monte Carlo streetlamps kissing her bare shoulders. She’s still holding the red rose he handed her after dessert, the one the restaurant staff brought out with the champagne. Charles follows just behind her, one hand resting on the small of her back as they reach her door.

She turns the key, steps inside, her heels clicking gently against the hardwood. The air is quiet, thick with whatever has been simmering between them all night. She hasn’t said much since dinner — not because she doesn’t want to, but because she’s floating. Charles hasn’t taken his eyes off her since she stepped out in that backless black dress earlier, his hand lingering longer each time he helped her in or out of a car, each time he brushed the hair off her neck to whisper something soft near her ear.

She toes off her heels, letting them fall by the door. He watches, lips parted, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, like he’s still reeling from her — the way her skin shimmered under the restaurant lights, the way she laughed during dessert, the way she’d leaned in across the table, eyes full of something he didn’t dare name.

She turns to face him now, standing there barefoot, the hem of her dress brushing the floor.

“Did you like the place?” he asks, voice low.

She nods. “It was perfect.”

“You’re perfect,” he says, without hesitation.

She exhales slowly, lips curling. “You’ve said that three times tonight.”

“And I meant it every time.”

Her fingers reach for his collar, toying with the fabric, her touch feather-light. “You going to kiss me, or just keep standing there looking like that?”

He doesn’t answer — he just steps in and kisses her. It starts sweet, like always. But it doesn’t stay that way.

His hands find her waist, pull her flush against him. Her fingers slide into his hair as his lips trail down her neck, along the slope of her shoulder. The straps of her dress shift, loosen. She exhales into his mouth when his hands smooth along her bare back, reverent, hungry.

They don’t make it to the bedroom right away. She kisses him hard in the hallway, against the wall, her hands already tugging at his shirt. He lifts her — effortlessly — and she wraps her legs around his waist, laughing into his mouth before it turns breathless. Her dress falls lower, and he groans against her skin when he sees just how little she wore underneath.

He carries her to the bed with care and urgency, setting her down like she’s made of something rare. She pulls him down with her, their bodies slotting together with ease, heat sparking where their skin meets. They undress each other slowly, kissing between every layer they peel away, like they’ve waited long enough — they want to feel everything.

And when he finally sinks into her, there’s a beat — a sharp gasp, her hand tightening on his shoulder, his name tumbling from her lips like a confession. He stills, forehead pressed to hers, brushing her hair back gently, letting her adjust.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers against her lips, soft and breathless.

Her eyes flutter open, lips parted. She kisses him — slowly, deeply — and rocks her hips against his in response.

After that, everything becomes a blur of warmth and want. He moves with aching tenderness, like he’s memorizing every gasp she gives him. She runs her hands down his back, pulling him closer with each thrust. The rhythm builds — slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, like they’ve both been holding back for far too long. He kisses every inch of her, her shoulder, the space behind her ear, the curve of her breast, and whispers her name like it’s sacred.

When her legs tighten around his waist and she cries out softly, it undoes him completely. He kisses her through it, lips trembling against her cheekbone, groaning her name like a prayer.

They don’t say much after, just lie there tangled, the air thick with shared breath, heartbeat against heartbeat.

She turns to him, eyes sleepy but alert, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw.

“Thank you,” she murmurs.

“For what?” he asks, voice hoarse.

“For tonight. For all of it.”

He smiles and pulls her into his chest, kissing the crown of her head.

She falls asleep like that — heart pounding, skin warm, fully aware that she’s ruined now. That this night, this boy, has her in ways she can’t even name yet.

100.000 TRANSFERED TO YOUR ACCOUNT.

"hey, happy birthday, we need to talk"

...

It had been a few months since that night. Since her quiet no to following him to a race.

And true to his word, Charles didn’t ask again.

But he showed up.

Texts before flights. Dinners in quiet corners of Monaco when their schedules aligned. The occasional coffee slipped into her hand on a morning walk, as if he knew she’d forgotten breakfast again.

Tonight, they’re back on his terrace, the sea humming low beneath them. The air smells like salt and citrus. She’s curled into one of his sweaters, legs tucked beneath her on the lounge chair, and he sits nearby, close, but not quite touching.

He watches her profile in the warm evening light, the way the breeze plays with strands of her hair.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says eventually, voice soft.

She glances over, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Thinking.”

“About?”

She hesitates. Then... “I saw the calendar,” she says. “Next race is lmola”

He nods, cautious. “Yeah.”

She looks at him fully now, eyes steady. “I want to come.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to feel it. Then he blinks, and something like hope slowly rises to the surface.

“You do?”

“I still hate the idea of cameras in my face,” she murmurs, “but I hate the idea of not being there more.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, gently taking her hand, like he’s afraid she might change her mind.

Instead, she leans into him, letting her head fall lightly against his shoulder.

After a beat, he says quietly, “So…do I finally get to say you’re mine?”

She smiles, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt. “You’ve always known the answer to that.”

And then he smiles that smile that she doesn't want to care for and kisses her.

...

It was chaotic, loud, and sun-drenched — the paddock before a race weekend always was. Mechanics weaving through reporters, engineers barking into radios, fans screaming through barricades. But Charles had one hand on her lower back, guiding her through the crowd like she was the only one there.

She’d come after much convincing. And only because he’d promised it would be “low-key,” which, given the number of cameras clicking when they walked in, was clearly a lie.

He leaned closer. “Ignore them,” he murmured. “They’ll get bored soon.”

She just hummed. “You say that like I haven’t been in this kind of mess before.”

He grinned. “Right. You’re tougher than me.”

“Considerably.”

Still, he noticed the subtle way she curled a little closer to his side. And he didn’t mind. Not one bit.

They ducked into the hospitality area, where the noise was more contained, the air cooler. And immediately, he spotted Lando waving him over from a corner table — a few familiar faces already sitting there.

“Come on,” he said. “Let me do something terrifying and introduce you to everyone.”

“Oh, good. A nightmare,” she replied dryly, but followed.

Lando stood the second they approached, grinning as his gaze flicked between them. “So this is her.”

“Be nice,” Charles warned, clapping his friend on the shoulder. “She bites.”

“I like her already,” Lando said, extending a hand. “Hi. I’m the funny one.”

She shook it, unimpressed. “I thought that was Daniel.”

Gasps from the Englishman. Charles snorted. “What have you been telling her?!"

From there, it snowballed — George, Alex, Carlos, even Lewis stopped by briefly. Some recognized her immediately, some didn't. All of them noticed the way Charles looked at her.

And she held her own — tossing a sarcastic jab back at Lando, discussing Monaco with Carlos, and pointing out an error in a multilingual press release that had George blinking in awe.

Later, as they walked away from the group, Charles nudged her with his shoulder. “So? Was it terrible?”

She shrugged, a small smile playing on her lips. “Could’ve been worse.”

“You like them?”

She paused, glanced at him. “I like you.”

He grinned, wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

...

She hears the knock before she sees the message — “Are you home?” — and by the time she opens the door, he’s already there, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed and tired.

“Hey,” she says softly, instantly stepping aside. “Come in.”

Charles doesn’t say much. He just walks in, head low, shoulders weighed down like the day has taken every ounce of fight out of him. She closes the door behind him gently, watching him sink into the couch like he needs the world to stop spinning for a minute.

She doesn’t ask right away. She just moves to sit beside him, close but not pressing, her hand resting lightly on his knee.

“Bad day?” she murmurs.

He nods once, lips pressed together. His eyes are glassy, and when he blinks too hard, a single tear slips down his cheek. He doesn’t try to hide it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and she means it. “Want to talk?”

He shakes his head. “Not yet.”

She nods. She doesn’t need words. Instead, she opens her arms, and it takes him only a second to shift, to fold into her like he’s been waiting all day to fall apart somewhere safe. His head finds her chest, arms wrapped around her waist, his breath unsteady.

She runs her fingers through his hair, gentle and soothing, the way you do when you’re grounding someone. His breathing starts to settle. The silence stretches, full but not uncomfortable. She presses a kiss to the top of his head, her hand still stroking his hair, heart breaking quietly at how small he feels in her arms.

Minutes pass. Maybe more. He doesn’t move, just lets himself exist there, held, needed, safe.

And then, barely audible — a whisper against her collarbone, like it slips out without his permission:

“I think I’m in love with you.”

Her hand pauses. Her breath catches.

He doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t try to explain. He just stays there, pressed against her, vulnerable and raw and utterly worn down.

She doesn’t say anything right away. Just holds him tighter, fingertips tracing circles on his back. That silence, Charles remembers, planted the first seed of doubt. Her heart is hammering now, but her voice stays soft, steady.

“I’m here,” she says quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhales shakily, like maybe that was all he needed to hear.

...

Sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains, warm and golden, casting slow-moving shadows across the sheets. She stirs first, stretching gently beneath the covers, her hair a tousled halo against the pillow.

He’s already awake — has been, for a while — lying on his side, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other resting lightly on her hip under the blanket. He watches her, quiet, peaceful, like the world’s slowed down just for this moment.

She blinks sleepily, eyes fluttering open, and finds him already looking.

"Hi," she murmurs, voice still thick with sleep.

Charles smiles. “Salut.”

She shifts onto her side to face him, tucking her arm beneath her head. “How long have you been staring at me?”

He pretends to consider. “Long enough to know you make waking up look unfairly beautiful.”

She groans, burying her face into the pillow. “Too early for compliments.”

“No such thing.” His voice is low and warm, fingers brushing up to trace the line of her jaw. “You’re gorgeous.”

She peeks at him through one eye, lips curving. “You said that last night.”

“And it was true then, too.” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. “But now it’s morning and your voice is raspy and your hair’s a mess and I still think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Her cheeks flush, and she tries to hide it, but his grin only grows.

“You’re unbearable,” she mumbles, but she’s smiling.

“Still gorgeous though,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “Monaco’s never looked better.”

She rolls her eyes, but leans forward and kisses him anyway, slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that says stay a little longer. And he does.

...

Charles had just stepped out of the gym in Monaco, towel slung around his neck, head ducked slightly, earbuds still in. He wasn’t in the mood to stop, especially not for her.

Her friend. The one Y/N never had anything kind to say about. Always brushing off mentions of her with a muttered, “We used to be close,” followed by a hard silence. The one who always seemed just a little too curious about Charles.

He sees her before she sees him, considers taking a sharp turn toward the marina path—but she spots him.

“Charles!”

He curses under his breath and pulls out an earbud. “Hey.”

She smiles a little too wide, crossing her arms. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here.”

“Yeah… I was just heading out.”

He starts walking, but she walks beside him, undeterred. “So, how are things with Y/N?” she asks, eyes narrowed in interest.

Charles doesn’t answer immediately. He doesn’t owe her anything—and Y/N clearly didn’t want her close.

“Fine,” he says shortly. “Is there something you need?”

She shrugs. “Just checking in. I mean, you’re kind of the prize of the year. I’m impressed she’s kept you hooked this long. It's been a year right?"

He stops walking.

“What?”

She tilts her head innocently. “Oh. She didn’t tell you?” A pause, then a smirk. “Right. She never liked being second best at anything. Not even bets.”

His blood runs cold.

“What are you talking about?”

Her smile is razor-sharp now. “It was a joke at first. Just a stupid dare. A 100k euros if she could get you to fall for her. But I guess things got... out of hand.”

Charles just stares at her, blinking like he’s been slapped.

“You should ask her about it,” she says sweetly, backing away. “I mean—if it’s all real now, she’ll have nothing to hide… right?”

She walks off, leaving him frozen there—sweat drying cold on his skin, chest tight, and heart pounding in a completely different way.

He doesn't move for a long time. When he does, he doesn't even realize where he's going.

...

“Don’t worry, I’ll win this bet and get a Leclerc-shaped trophy to prove it.”

...

She's at work when she gets the message.

Her heart drops to her stomach.

...

It’s storming when Y/n arrives.

Rain lashes the pavement, her hands trembling as she knocks on Charles' door. He opens it fast—like he’s been pacing, waiting, burning. His eyes are red. Not from the wind. From crying.

He doesn’t say anything. Just turns and walks back inside, leaving the door wide open behind him.

She follows him in, soaking wet, heart racing. “Charles, I swear—please, listen to me.”

He whirls on her. Eyes wide, voice cracking with disbelief and fury. “Is she telling the truth?”

“I—yes, but not like that, it wasn’t what you think—”

“No. No. Don’t you dare start with that.” He lets out a sharp laugh, filled with venom. His hands fly up, gripping his hair like he’s trying to keep himself from breaking something.

“How the fuck does your friend have more courage than you? She told me everything.She had the decency to tell me!”

“I was going to tell you, Charles, I swear on my life—”

“WHAT? That I was just a fucking bet to you? That none of this meant anything? You were just keeping me around to win?”

He’s full-on crying now. His voice shaking, broken.

“I told you things I’ve never told anyone, Y/N. I let you in. I fucking loved you.”

She takes a small step forward, reaching for his arm. “Charles, listen to me, please. It started as a joke but it changed—I love you, I—”

He flinches. Steps back so fast she freezes mid-reach.

“Don’t touch me.”

His voice is barely a whisper, but it hits like a scream.

Y/n is panicked, hands shaking.

“Please don’t do this…”

He takes a shaky breath.

“You used me. You fucking used me and then you stood there, in my house, acting like it was real. How many did you make after we fucked? And every time after that?"

“It wasn't just fucking and you know it. It was real. Everything after—I never got money, I never even cared about the bet after I met you—”

“Bullshit! Then explain the hundred thousand that showed up right after our first night together!”

“That wasn’t from the bet. That was… it was a personal payment, not related to you. I can show you—”

Charles cut her off, eyes wide

“You still think I care about receipts? I checked your bank account because I was going insane trying to prove you didn’t do this to me. I was trying to convince myself you were better than that. I was desperate to believe you. But every single thing just proves what I was to you: a game. You never even had the guts to come clean. You're just... a horrible person. I threw up when I saw the cheque."

His voice breaks again. And then comes the worst part—he laughs. A humorless, hollow sound.

“I even told my mom about you.”

Y/n feels something rupture in her chest.

Y/n's tears spilling. “Charles…”

Charles is barely holding himself together. “The least you could’ve done was tell me. Not kiss me with the same mouth that told people I was a fucking game. That's why you never told me you loved me back. It was all fake. A whole year..." He's backing off hand over his mouth. He feels like throwing up again.

She’s sobbing now, and steps forward again, desperate.

“I didn’t lie! Not once! I know what I did was horrible, I know, but I never—never—meant for it to go this far. It stopped being a game the moment I saw you smile. I swear to God, it was real.”

He looks at her, face blank. The anger is gone—but not because he’s calmed. He’s just empty.

“Then why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

“Because I was afraid of losing you.”

“You lost me anyway.”

She just stands there in the silence, the rain still dripping off her coat, mascara bleeding down her cheeks.Because the worst part isn't that he screamed. It’s that when he looked at her, there was nothing left.

"Leave."

"Charles, Please-"

"Leave! Before I press charges." He blurts out. His legs gave out, dropping down on a chair.

She stands in silence. This is the consequence to your own actions. She turns around and leaves.

After the screaming, after she left in tears, after his chest burned with too many unsaid things—he just sits in the dark. Numb.

By the time the sun rises, he's already packed her things into boxes.

Clothes. Books. That stupid mug she always used that said “Too Tired To Care” in chipped red letters. The one she insisted was lucky. The one he kissed her cheek over, sleepily, the first morning she stayed over.

He loads it all into the trunk of his car.

Then he texts Carlos.

“Can I crash at yours a few days?”

“Of course. You okay?”

Charles doesn’t reply.

He drives, blinking hard. The road is blurry. But not from rain.

His grip on the wheel is white-knuckled, knuckles stinging from where he punched the wall last night after she left. It hadn't helped.

His phone is face-down in the passenger seat. He hasn't opened any messages. Not hers. Not his mum’s. Not the ones from Lando or Arthur, asking if he’s okay.

The radio plays low in the background, some soft indie song they used to dance to while brushing their teeth.

His vision clouds again.

He wipes his cheek fast, angry at himself for crying—again—but the tears won’t stop. They just won’t stop.

Because all he sees is her.

Her laughing in his hoodie, barefoot in his kitchen. Her falling asleep in the passenger seat with her hand on his thigh. Her whispering "I feel safe with you" in his arms after a bad dream. Her teasing him in front of his friends. Her kissing his forehead when he had a fever and couldn't move from the couch.

Her.

His mum’s voice echoes in his head.

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

He remembers smiling like a fool.

“Yeah. I think she is.”

He wipes his eyes again. It’s no use.

By the time he pulls into Carlos’ driveway, his face is blotchy and wet.

Carlos opens the door immediately, like he’s been waiting, sees Charles—and says nothing. Just pulls him into a hug.

And Charles, who’s been trying so hard to stay composed, finally breaks again.

Muffled, into Carlos’ shoulder. “She used me, man. And I loved her so fucking much.”

Later, in a colder tone—while trying to hold his breath steady:

He calls her.

She picks up.

Her voice is small.

She sounds like she’s been crying too.

“I need you to take your things by Sunday.”

Silence on the line.

“I packed them. I left them there. You can figure out the rest.”

“Charles, listen-"

“No.”

Pause.

His voice is shaking.

“Please just… be gone by Sunday.”

He hangs up.

He doesn’t throw the phone.

Doesn’t scream again.

Just sits there in Carlos’ guest room, staring at nothing.

Because he’s realizing now—

He can’t hate her the way he wants to.

And somehow, that’s worse than anything else.