Liza @parthenopeeeee - Tumblr Blog

Jul 12

Fast Cars, Fast Lanes

› Pairing → Jannik Sinner x FMC

› FMC was once a rising star behind the wheel, competing in F3, until an injury forced her to hang up her racing helmet. Determined to stay in the sport she loved, she pivoted to a career in strategy, eventually earning a position as principal strategist at the Mercedes F1 team. In her first season leading the team, she crosses paths with world No. 1 tennis player Jannik Sinner.

› F1 meets tennis, enemies to friends to lovers

Part 18

Race day in Singapore forces a kind of tunnel vision.

A narrowing. A deliberate stripping away until all that’s left is what matters.

You and team move through the morning like routine.

Radio checks. Strategy sheets. Weather updates. Degradation curves you’ve stared at so long they feel carved into the back of your eyelids. You run through scenarios until they’re muscle memory—safety car windows, VSC probability, undercut thresholds, the places where a tenth becomes a wall.

Everything else becomes background noise.

The gossip. The cameras.

Jannik.

Singapore is walls and consequences, a circuit built out of narrow margins and punishment. It demands full attention like a tax you pay in concentration and heart rate. Every call you make sits on a knife edge; every lap is a negotiation with the limits of grip and bravery and heat.

The start is clean. The first stint settles. You watch tire temps climb, see the delta shift, feel the race breathe and twist as the field stretches and compresses. You talk in numbers. You listen for tone. The team needs calm, and you’ve learned how to give it even when your ribs feel wired with adrenaline.

When the race throws its usual Singapore curve—traffic, a moment of chaos, a window that opens and threatens to slam shut—you don’t hesitate.

You commit.

“Box, box. We’re going now.”

The pit lane turns into controlled violence. Crew moving like one organism. Screens flickering. Timing columns reshuffling. Your eyes moving fast enough the edges of your vision blur.

You don’t think about headlines. You don’t think about cameras.

You think about gaps and risk and the thin, vicious line between winning and regretting it for the rest of your life.

And then, somehow—despite how this track likes to bite—you feel it click.

The strategy holds.

George manages the pace with that quiet, brutal competence. Kimi stays sharp, aggressive when it matters, disciplined when it doesn’t. You watch the numbers line up—one by one—and you don’t let yourself celebrate prematurely because Singapore punishes optimism, too.

The final laps are a held breath.

The chequered flag is a release you feel in your bones.

P1.

P2.

In Singapore.

For a second you don’t even hear the garage erupt. You just stand there with your headset half off, staring at the timing screen like your brain needs the numbers to stay still long enough to believe them.

Then the noise crashes in.

It’s a blur after that—congratulations in passing, shoulders grabbed, hands clapped, someone shouting your name over the roar of celebration. You’re moved from one thing to the next like you’re on a conveyor belt: a quick hit interview, a sponsor handshake, a “one more” camera moment, a corridor full of people grinning like they’ve been holding their breath for months and finally exhaled.

Your headset is off, but your body is still on the pit wall—still replaying laps, still scanning for the one mistake you could’ve made that somehow didn’t happen.

You know what you’re supposed to do.

Go back to the hotel. Eat something. Sleep. Reset.

Singapore has a way of draining you dry, and the season doesn’t pause just because you won.

But the adrenaline won’t let you be sensible.

It sits in your bloodstream like electricity, bright and restless, making you feel too alive to lie down in a quiet room and let the night end politely. You don’t want rest.

You want to burn it off. You want noise and movement and laughing until your chest hurts.

And—stupidly, dangerously—you want him there.

At some point Toto appears at your shoulder, shirt loosened, eyes still sharp but softened at the edges.

“Good job,” he says like it’s an ordinary sentence. Then, after a beat, with the faintest hint of a smile: “We are going to celebrate.”

You blink. “We still have debrief.”

“We will debrief tomorrow,” he says, final. “Tonight, we celebrate. The team needs it.”

He’s right. You can feel it everywhere—the jittery energy, the laughter breaking through, the way your engineers look like they might cry or sprint, maybe both. Someone is already yelling about a club. Someone else is dragging George and Kimi toward another photo. The air tastes like champagne before you’ve even had a sip.

You should slip away.

But then you spot Jannik off to the side—quiet, polite, trying to take up as little space as possible—and the win surges through you again, warm and reckless.

Your feet move before your brain can build the warning signs.

When you get close, he looks up immediately, and it’s ridiculous how quickly his face changes when he finds you—like the rest of the garage blurs and only you stay in focus.

“Hey,” you say, and your voice comes out softer than you meant.

“Hey,” he answers, low and careful. “How are you feeling?”

You smile like you can’t help it. “We won,” you say, like you need to say it aloud to make it real.

His eyes warm, corners softening. “I know,” he says. “I saw.”

For a beat you just look at each other while chaos swirls around you, and it feels strangely… quiet in the space between his gaze and yours.

You clear your throat, glancing toward the team as they make plans, already moving like a school of fish toward the next thing.

“They’re going out,” you say, aiming for casual. Like it’s a logistics note. “Apparently it’s mandatory.”

His brow lifts with a flicker of amusement, like he can’t picture you in a club on purpose.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t,” you warn, but the word comes out warm, ruined by your smile.

He glances toward the crowd again and you see the hesitation settle in—subtle, careful. The instinct to be sensible. Discreet. Not make anything harder for you.

You hate that you notice.

You hate that it matters.

And then, because the adrenaline is still humming and you’re too happy to be careful, you hear yourself say it anyway.

“Come.”

It’s one word, quiet, almost reluctant—like you’re testing it in the air.

His eyes flick to your mouth and back up so fast you almost pretend you didn’t see it.

Heat climbs your neck.

“It’s not a big deal,” you add too quickly, trying to patch it up with logic. “You can stand in the corner. Judge everyone. Be injured and superior.”

A breath of a laugh leaves him, but he’s barely listening. He’s looking at you like you’ve just handed him something fragile and valuable.

“You’re inviting me,” he says, and his voice sounds almost stunned.

You lift one shoulder in a shrug that tries to be indifferent and fails. “I’m celebrating,” you say, like that explains everything. “And I’d… like you there.”

The honesty slips out so cleanly it scares you.

His expression shifts—something like awe, softened by tenderness—like your smallest risk is the biggest thing in the world to him.

He doesn’t step closer. He doesn’t touch you.

But his gaze holds you anyway.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “If you want me there.”

You try to keep it light, but your smile goes helpless. “I wouldn’t have asked,” you murmur.

The words hang between you, too intimate for a garage full of people, too true for the version of you that’s been insisting on “friendship.”

Jannik swallows, eyes still locked on yours.

“I’ll come,” he says, softer now.

“Good,” you manage, and it comes out like you didn’t realize you were holding your breath.

And when you turn back toward the team—toward the noise, the celebration, the night you know you’ll regret tomorrow—you feel his eyes follow you, steady and stunned.

The moment you walk in, the win hits you all over again—just in a different form.

It isn’t the timing screen or the radio chatter now. It’s bodies, noise, hands reaching for you. Not rough—constant. A drink is pressed into your palm. Someone yells your name over the music. A mechanic grins like he still can’t believe it. An engineer catches your shoulder in passing, squeezes once, and disappears back into the crowd to continue celebrating.

“Brilliant today,” someone says, breathless.

“Absolute masterclass,” someone else insists.

You smile on instinct, nodding like your body remembers the script even if your brain is still somewhere around lap forty-seven, still running numbers, still checking for the mistake that never came.

The club is pure Singapore—dark and glossy, sharp edges softened by low light and expensive atmosphere. Bass pulses through the floor like a second heartbeat. Cold air fights the heat that’s still clinging to your skin from the track. It smells like perfume and citrus and champagne and sweat in the best way—like people earned this.

Jannik stays right by your side.

He isn’t hovering. He isn’t trying to insert himself into your world.

He’s just… there—steady in the chaos, close enough that when the crowd shifts you don’t lose him, close enough that you can turn your head and find him without searching.

You tell yourself you’ll do the rounds. Say the right things. Toast the right people. Be present.

And you mean it—right up until the momentum of it all scoops you up, victory still buzzing under your skin, and you catch yourself doing something you didn’t plan to do at all.

Introducing him.

Like it’s natural. Like you aren’t supposed to keep him neatly separated from this part of your life.

“Jannik,” you say, slipping into a small pocket of space near the bar where a handful of engineers have gathered. “This is—uh—this is my team.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you realize you’ve already gotten carried away.

Jannik’s mouth twitches, soft with amusement, but he’s polite—handshakes, small nods, a quiet nice to meet you that makes a couple of people blink like they weren’t expecting him to be… normal. People clock him instantly, of course they do. The tennis player. The paddock pass. The one who keeps appearing in the background of Mercedes clips.

No one says anything outright.

But you catch the looks—quick, subtle, knowing.

The kind that say: Interesting. The kind that say: So this is what that is. The kind that say: We’re not blind.

You keep your face neutral anyway, because you’re good at that.

And because if you acknowledge it—if you let the room see you feel anything—you don’t know what happens next.

The night moves in waves. More congratulations. More drinks that appear like magic. More laughter that feels almost unfamiliar coming out of people you’ve only ever seen under fluorescent lights and pressure.

You’re pulled into quick conversations—strategy, pit stop timing, the call that flipped the race. You deflect praise like you always do.

“I was terrified,” you admit once, and it makes them laugh harder, like they love being reminded you’re human.

Eventually the group shifts, and you end up in a lounge area—low couches, a table littered with glasses, the music thudding softer here but still vibrating through your bones.

George drops down first, loose-limbed and glowing, drink in hand. Carmen slides in beside him, eyes warm and proud. Kimi arrives a beat later with his girlfriend, his expression still that half-contained smirk that reads like he’s filed the whole day under I told you so even if he never said it.

You sink into the cushions with a long exhale you didn’t know you were holding.

And Jannik sits beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Close enough that when George leans forward to say something and everyone laughs, Jannik’s shoulder brushes yours—and the contact sends a small, stupid spark through your chest that has nothing to do with alcohol.

George’s eyes flick between you and Jannik—quick and sharp, the way he watches a gap open on track. He doesn’t say anything immediately. He just lets the moment sit, like he’s taking a measurement.

Then he grins, all easy charm, and lifts his glass toward Jannik with exaggerated politeness.

“So,” George says, voice light, “you’re the one brave enough to join a Mercedes celebration tonight.”

Jannik’s mouth quirks. “I’m injured,” he deadpans. “I can’t run away fast.”

Kimi lets out a short laugh—the closest he gets to enthusiastic. “Smart.”

George takes a sip, nods like he’s accepted the joke… and then, with the same casual tone he uses right before he asks something that matters, he adds, “But seriously—Singapore?”

His eyebrows lift. “You don’t exactly pick this place for a relaxing holiday.”

You feel it immediately—the gentle probing under the banter, the curiosity sharpened by the fact that George isn’t stupid and the internet has eyes.

Jannik stays calm, gaze flicking briefly to you like he’s checking what you want him to say.

“Shanghai didn’t work out,” he says evenly. “And I… wanted to see the race.”

George hums. “Mm.” He leans back into the booth, still smiling, still friendly. “And Mercedes paddock passes just… fell into your lap?”

Jannik’s expression warms a fraction, like he almost laughs. “Someone was kind.”

George’s eyes slide to you for half a second—quick, knowing—then back to Jannik.

“Right,” he says, drawing the word out like he’s filing it away. “Kind.”

Kimi takes another drink, gaze drifting over you both with that quiet, amused detachment, like he’s watching two people attempt to lie badly in public.

George tilts his head, still light, still polite—just curious enough to be dangerous.

“So,” he says, “how long have you two been… friends?”

Jannik’s mouth twitches at the emphasis. He doesn’t bite. He just keeps it smooth.

“Long enough,” he says, tone mild.

Kimi huffs a short laugh.

George grins wider, like that answer told him exactly what he wanted without giving him anything he can quote.

His eyes flick to you then—pointed, playful: friends, yeah?

Normally you’d jump in. You’d redirect. You’d protect the boundary.

But you’re warm and tipsy, the kind of tipsy that makes your laugh come easier and your thoughts arrive a half beat late. You’ve been drinking on too little food, riding adrenaline, and Singapore victories don’t settle gently in your bloodstream.

Tonight, you don’t have the energy to steer.

So you don’t. You just turn your head. And look at Jannik.

He’s sitting beside—calm in the chaos, shoulders relaxed, gaze steady. His attention is on the conversation, sure, but it keeps drifting back to you like you’re a stronger gravity than anything George is saying.

When your eyes meet, something in you softens completely.

You smile.

Slow. Warm. Unhidden.

Jannik’s breath catches—just barely—and then his mouth curves in response, the kind of smile he keeps trying to downplay and can’t. Like he’s embarrassed by how obvious he is. Like he’s delighted anyway.

George watches it happen. You can feel him clock it in real time—the pause, the tiny shift, the way his grin turns into something knowing.

“Right,” George says, far too pleased with himself. “Okay.”

Kimi’s girlfriend leans closer to Kimi, murmuring something that makes him smirk. Carmen’s eyes flick between you and Jannik and she smiles like she’s trying very hard not to.

Jannik glances at George again, still composed, still playing the polite game—but his hand shifts slightly on the cushion, closer to your thigh without actually touching. A quiet question. An offering.

You don’t move away.

You just keep smiling at him like the room is background noise.

George lifts his glass.

“To friendship,” he says, voice sweet as poison.

You tilt your head, still looking at Jannik when you answer, “Cheers.”

Jannik’s eyes stay on you a beat longer than they should.

You leave before the night turns on you completely.

Not because you’re bored or tired—because you can feel the edge of it. The way the alcohol is starting to blur and soften. The way your body is running out on the fumes and adrenaline and a win that’s finally quieting down enough to let you feel the exhaustion underneath.

You manage the goodbye circuit like a pro—quick hugs, congratulations traded back and forth, promises of debrief tomorrow that everyone laughs at like it’s a joke.

And then you’re outside.

Singapore air wraps around you—warm, wet, smelling like rain that never quite falls. Streetlights turn the pavement glossy. The bass from the club is muffled now, distant, like the whole night is receding behind glass.

You’re a little unsteady on your feet and you hate it, because you hate losing control. You would rather walk into a wall than admit you’re tipsy.

Jannik doesn’t make a comment. He just puts his hand at your elbow—light, brief, steadying—and then drops it as soon as you find your balance.

A taxi pulls up.

You slide in first, still laughing at something you can’t quite remember. He follows, the door thudding shut behind him, and suddenly it’s quieter—just the hum of the engine, the city slipping by in neon streaks, the faint smell of fabric seats and his cologne.

Your stomach flips—not from the car, from the closeness.

For a few seconds you sit there, shoulders pressed into the seat, trying to assemble yourself into composure again. Trying to remember that you’re supposed to be careful.

Then your hand finds his.

Your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

You feel it—the split-second pause, the catch in his breath, the way his hand tightens around yours like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind if he moves too fast.

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you back, warm and steady, thumb stroking once over your knuckles like a quiet question.

You stare out the window for a beat, watching Singapore blur past, and suddenly your chest aches with something too full.

It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself.

It’s the win. It’s the adrenaline. It’s the week. It’s the fact that you haven’t eaten.

It’s not—

You turn your head anyway.

He’s looking at you, expression softened, eyes a little tired and impossibly gentle.

The sight of him—here, in this quiet bubble with you, after everything—makes your throat tighten.

“I’m…” you start, then laugh under your breath, embarrassed by how shaky your voice is. “I’m really happy.”

His brows lift slightly, like he’s bracing for impact.

“About the win?” he asks, careful.

You shake your head once, slow.

“Yes,” you admit. “That too. Obviously.” You squeeze his hand, fingers threading tighter. “But… this.”

He doesn’t speak. He just watches you.

“You being here,” you say, the words tumbling out now that they’ve started. “Tonight. All weekend. The garage. The… stupid club.” Your laugh wobbles. “I didn’t think I’d get to have you and… this feeling at the same time. Not without something going wrong.”

His gaze drops to your joined hands, then lifts back to your face. Something shifts in him—soft and wrecked, held tightly behind control.

“You don’t have to say—” he begins.

“I do,” you cut in, too fast, too honest. “Because I’m going to wake up tomorrow and hate myself for how much I’m about to admit.”

His mouth twitches, pained and fond at the same time.

You swallow hard, eyes stinging with that weird, bright pressure that comes when you’re too full of something you’ve been starving for.

“I told you before that you mean… a lot to me,” you say quietly.

His breath catches. He looks away for half a second like he can’t take it head-on, then back again, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only real thing in the car.

“You always have,” you add, softer, and the truth of it scares you even as you say it. “It’s— it’s stupid, because I tried so hard to put you in a box. To make it smaller. To make it safe.”

Jannik’s thumb pauses against your knuckles.

“Nothing about you feels small,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You make a sound that’s half laugh, half broken exhale. “You’re not helping.”

He smiles faintly, then it fades as he studies you. “You’re okay?” he asks again, quieter now, like he’s asking something deeper than the words.

You nod, but it’s messy. “I’m okay,” you say, then immediately contradict yourself. “I’m… scared.”

His grip tightens—not trapping, grounding.

“Of what?” he asks, voice low.

You take a breath that scrapes on the way in.

“Of you,” you admit, and your laugh comes out soft and bitter. “Of how easy you make it to… feel. Of how much I like you.” You close your eyes for a second because saying it out loud makes it real. “It scares me how much I like you.”

When you open your eyes again, he’s looking at you like you’ve just handed him something sacred.

“Hey,” he says softly, and there’s no triumph in it. No smugness. Just tenderness. “I’m here.”

“I know,” you whisper, and your voice cracks. “That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitches, but it isn’t a joke. “It doesn’t have to be a problem,” he says, careful, like he’s trying not to push and failing anyway.

You shake your head, small. “I'm sorry, I'm making things complicated. I don’t know how to—” You swallow. “I said we should be friends but I don't know how to just be your friend when I feel so much for you.”

Jannik leans in just a fraction, still not touching your face, still giving you space even in the tight taxi seat.

“You don’t have to know all of it tonight,” he says, steady. “You can just… be happy. Just for this ride. Just for this moment.”

You squeeze his hand again, like you’re trying to pour everything you can’t say into one simple pressure.

“I’m happy,” you whisper. “I’m so happy I get to share this with you.”

His eyes soften fully—no defenses, no polish.

“I’m happy too,” he says, voice rough. “More than I should be allowed to be.”

The taxi hums beneath you, the city sliding past in soft, smeared light. Your hand is still laced with his, warm and steady, and you can feel the alcohol loosening the last careful knots in your body—the ones you normally keep tied tight enough to survive.

You should stop talking.

You should stop looking at his mouth like it’s a magnet.

But you don’t.

You bite your lip—hard enough to anchor yourself—and your eyes flick up to his. He’s already watching you, expression soft and intent, like he’s trying to hold you gently with his gaze alone.

The air between you feels thin.

You swallow, throat tight, and the words slip out before you can polish them into something safe.

“Can I… kiss you?” you ask, voice small and stupidly brave.

For a heartbeat, Jannik doesn’t move.

His breath catches—barely there, but you feel it in the way his hand tightens around yours. His eyes drop to your mouth like instinct, like hunger. Like yes.

Then he forces himself to look back up, jaw working, the control in him snapping into place with visible effort.

He exhales, low and shaky, like saying no costs him something.

“Friends don’t kiss,” he says quietly.

The words land like a soft slap—not cruel, not angry. Almost… careful. Like he’s trying to protect you from what he wants as much as he’s trying to protect himself.

Your cheeks burn. Your heart stutters.

You try to laugh it off—because that’s what you do when you’re too exposed.

“Right,” you say, forcing a brightness into it. “Friends don’t kiss. My bad.”

But the laugh wobbles on the way out. It betrays you. It comes out thin, like you’re trying to turn something aching into a joke and failing.

You start to look away, cheeks hot, as if you can tuck the moment back inside your throat and pretend it never happened.

Jannik’s hand tightens around yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

Before you can pull your composure back together, his other hand comes up—slow, careful—fingers catching your chin, guiding your face back toward him.

The taxi lights slide across his expression, and for once there’s no polished restraint left in it. His gaze is too open, too hungry, like you’ve finally said the quiet part out loud and it’s undone him.

He pulls you closer—not all the way, not a kiss—just close enough that you can feel his breath, close enough that your heart starts doing stupid things against your ribs.

“You’ll be the end of me,” he says, voice low and wrecked, like it’s a confession he’s been biting down on for weeks.

Your breath catches.

His thumb strokes once along your jaw, a touch so soft it hurts.

“I can’t—” He exhales, eyes flicking to your mouth and back, control fraying at the edges. “I can’t ever say no to you.”

You go still, the air in your lungs suddenly too thin.

He huffs a quiet laugh that has no humor in it, just disbelief at himself.

“Even when I should,” he adds, softer. “Even when it’s smarter. Even when it’s what you think you need.”

His forehead nearly touches yours. The space between you is a held breath.

“But friends don’t kiss,” he repeats, the words coming out like they cost him. Like he’s clinging to the only boundary left that won’t break you both.

Then he pauses, voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper against your mouth.

“So don’t ask me like that,” he murmurs. “Not when you’re brave for five minutes and then afraid again tomorrow. Because if you ask… I’ll ruin us. I’ll say yes.”

His hand stays at your jaw, steadying you, holding you there—not to take, but to keep you from slipping away into your own panic.

You don’t answer with logic.

You answer by leaning in.

By letting your breath mingle with his, letting your hand tighten around his like you’re choosing him on purpose this time, not by accident, not by panic.

Jannik’s eyes flick to your mouth again—wrecked, helpless—and whatever restraint he’s been clinging to snaps clean.

He kisses you.

It steals the air out of your lungs in one, brutal sweep—weeks of want and hunger and swallowed words pouring into a single, devastating point of contact. It isn’t careful like the kiss at his door. It isn’t a soft press he can pretend meant nothing.

It’s real.

His mouth is warm, sure, aching with the kind of need that feels like it’s been living under his skin for too long. He kisses you like he’s been starving, like he’s been trying to be good and finally, finally stopped.

And you let him.

You let him pull you closer until the space between you disappears, until your shoulder brushes his chest, until your whole body tilts toward him like gravity has made its decision.

His hand slides from your jaw to your waist—steadying at first, then settling with intention. His thumb moves in a slow, grounding stroke along your side, up and down like he’s trying to soothe you and undo you at the same time.

You make a sound into his mouth—small, involuntary—and it’s the most honest thing you’ve done all night.

Jannik breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours, eyes half-lidded and wrecked.

“Fuck,” he whispers, like it’s prayer and curse in one.

Your lips tingle. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

“This is…” you start, but the words fall apart because your brain can’t keep up with your body.

His hand tightens at your waist, not hurting, just anchoring—like he’s saying stay.

He kisses you again, slower this time, but somehow deeper—like he’s learning the shape of you all over again, like he wants to memorize this version of you: tipsy, brave, undone and not running.

The taxi is too small for the way your body keeps betraying you.

One second you’re pressed into him—heat and breath and his hands steady at your waist like he’s holding you together—and the next your mind snaps back into place, panic rising sharp and familiar.

You pull away too fast, chest heaving, cheeks burning.

“Sorry,” you blurt, the word tumbling out like it can rewind time. “I’m— I’m sorry.”

Jannik goes very still.

Not offended. Not cold.

Just… controlled, like he’s clamping down on something inside himself.

His hands stay on you for a beat longer—gentle, anchoring—then loosen immediately, giving you space the second you ask for it without even saying the words.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “I shouldn’t— I haven’t eaten, I’m tipsy, I—this is messy.”

His gaze holds your face, steady as a handrail.

“I’m not,” he says quietly.

You blink at him.

“I’m not going to be angry at you,” he continues, voice low, careful, like he’s choosing each word with his teeth. “I’m not going to shame you. And I’m not going to pretend I didn’t want it.”

Your throat tightens.

The city lights smear across the window behind him, catching on the line of his jaw, the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his restraint looks like something physical.

“I’m trying,” he admits, the words roughening on the way out. “I’m trying so hard to do this the way you need.”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes.

He swallows once, gaze flicking to your mouth and back like it hurts to look.

“But don’t say sorry like it was nothing,” he says, quieter now. “Like it didn’t mean anything.”

You can feel your pulse in your throat. You stare at your own hands, folded too neatly in your lap like you can organize your feelings the way you organize strategy.

“I just—” you start, voice thin. “I don’t want to ruin—”

“Us?” he finishes softly.

You flinch at the word because it’s too real.

Jannik’s breath shudders. His hand lifts, slow, stopping halfway like he’s asking permission even now. When you don’t pull back, he lets his fingertips brush your knee—barely there, a touch that feels like both restraint and confession.

“You’re not ruining anything,” he says, steady. “You’re just scared.”

Your eyes sting.

He leans in a fraction, not crowding, just close enough that his voice drops into something intimate—meant only for you.

“And I want you,” he says, so plain it hurts. “I want you the way I shouldn’t. The way I’ve been trying not to say out loud because I know it makes you feel trapped.”

Your breath catches.

His eyes hold yours, dark and honest.

“I want you when I wake up,” he continues, voice rough, the restraint fraying at the edges. “When I’m on court. When I’m in airports. When I’m trying to be professional and normal and not… whatever this is.” A faint, broken smile flashes and disappears. “I want you when I’m being good. I want you when I’m being patient.”

You go still, every nerve lit.

“And tonight,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your mouth again like instinct, “I wanted you so much I couldn’t breathe.”

The words land heavy in the quiet, in the hum of the engine, in the neon blur outside the window.

He closes his eyes briefly, as if he’s reining himself back in.

“But I’m not going to take what you give me when you’re running on nothing but adrenaline and champagne,” he says, opening them again, voice steadier. “Because you will wake up tomorrow and try to punish yourself for it, and I won’t be the reason you do that.”

Your throat tightens painfully.

You whisper, “You’re too good to me.”

A small, self-deprecating huff leaves him. “Then be with me,” he says, eyes soft but honest, “be with me, please.”

The silence that follows is brutal.

The taxi slows in front of your hotel, tires whispering over wet pavement. Singapore glows outside the window—neon and humidity and the last of the night clinging to your skin like perfume.

You sit up straighter as if posture can rebuild discipline.

It doesn’t.

Your hand is still in his. Your pulse is still too loud. Your head is warm and fuzzy in that way that makes bravery feel easy and consequences feel far away.

The driver pulls to the curb. The car rocks gently as it stops.

Jannik doesn’t move right away. He’s watching you like he’s trying to memorize the exact version of you he has right now—tipsy, honest, undone—because he knows it won’t last.

You swallow, throat tight, and do the thing you’ve been doing all night: you choose him before you choose fear.

Outside, the hotel doors slide open and shut. A couple laughs somewhere. The world keeps going.

Inside the taxi, it’s just you two and the hum of the engine.

“Okay,” you say, mostly to yourself, and your voice comes out too soft.

Jannik’s thumb brushes over your knuckles. “Okay,” he repeats, like he’s matching your breathing.

You climb out first, feet unsteady. The warm air hits you and you sway for half a second—more from exhaustion than alcohol, you tell yourself. You hate how he notices anyway.

His hand finds your elbow, light as a question. He steadies you without making it a thing, then drops his touch the moment you’re balanced again.

You walk into the lobby together.

The world is too bright in here, too clean. Marble floors and quiet music and the late-night hush that makes every sound feel like it’s being recorded. The elevator dings somewhere. A concierge looks up, glances at you, then at him, and you feel the urge to square your shoulders—strategist face, paddock armor—because being seen like this feels like a risk.

Jannik’s presence beside you doesn’t make you more careful.

It makes you softer.

That’s the problem.

For a second you just stand there. The space between you feels like the last thread holding your restraint together.

Jannik’s gaze drops to your hand on the keycard, then lifts to your face. His jaw flexes once—control, restraint, all of it.

You can see it in him: the question he’s trying not to ask.

And something in you—tender and reckless and terrified—tilts toward the cliff.

“Do you want to…” you start, voice catching. You clear your throat and try again, forcing it into something lighter. “Do you want to come up?”

The words hang in the hall like a match struck too close to gasoline.

His breath catches.

He doesn’t answer immediately, because he’s trying to be good. You can see him doing the math in real time—your looseness, your soft voice, the way your eyes are daring and scared at once.

His mouth parts.

And you rush in before he can fall.

“Say no,” you whisper, almost pleading, cheeks burning with the honesty of it. “Please. Just—say no.”

He goes still.

Your laugh breaks out again, shaky. “I can see it on your face,” you add, quieter. “I can see you want to say yes, and I—” You swallow, throat tight. “I’m not… I don't trust myself tonight.”

He steps closer—but slow, careful.

“I do,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I trust you,” he repeats, steady. “I trust you to mean what you ask. And I trust you to tell me to stop if it’s too much.”

Your throat tightens, the words landing too cleanly.

“But—” you start, voice breaking, “Jannik, I’m— I’m not in my right mind. I’m not thinking—”

“I know,” he says softly. “So listen to me. Look at me.”

You do. You can’t not.

His eyes hold yours, serious in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Do you want me to come up,” he asks, slow and clear, “because you want me—now—when you’re like this?”

You swallow, breath shaky.

“And if you wake up tomorrow,” he continues, “will you regret it because you didn’t mean it… or because you’re scared of how much you did?”

The question is a hand under your ribs. It steadies you even as it exposes you.

You stare at him, heart pounding, and you hate how true the answer is.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“But I…” You exhale, the honesty falling out of you like gravity. “I want you.”

Jannik’s eyes close for a second, like the words cost him oxygen. When he opens them again, he looks wrecked—relief and restraint colliding in the same breath.

You shake your head quickly, the panic rising again. “So say no,” you plead, almost embarrassed by how small your voice sounds. “Please. Be better than me right now.”

His mouth twitches—pained, helpless.

“You think I’m better,” he murmurs, and there’s a quiet, broken humor in it. “I’m not.”

He steps in fully then—still not touching, but so close you feel his warmth.

“You’re asking me to say no,” he says, voice rough, “to the one thing I’ve wanted since Amalfi. No, even before Amalfi.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts a hand, slow, stopping halfway like he’s still asking permission even now. When you don’t pull back, his fingertips brush your cheek—gentle, grounding, like he’s anchoring you to the moment.

“I can walk away,” he says softly. “If that’s what you truly need. But don’t beg me to pretend I don’t want this. Don’t ask me to lie.”

Your eyes sting.

He leans in just enough that his forehead nearly touches yours.

“And don’t ask me to be stronger than you,” he murmurs. “Because I can’t be, when it’s you.”

The air between you trembles.

You swallow, lips parting, and the truth comes out quieter—rawer.

“I don’t want you to go.”

Jannik exhales like it hurts.

“Okay,” he says.

The word lands heavy, decisive.

You freeze. “Okay?”

He nods once, eyes locked on yours. “Yes,” he says, and his voice is soft but certain. “I’ll come up.”

Your pulse spikes, fear and want tangling so tight you can’t tell which is which.

He sees it immediately.

So he adds—steady, controlled, like he’s laying down something firm under your shaking feet:

“Slow,” he says. “And we do it your way. And if you say stop—at any point—I stop. No questions. No punishment.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, a shaky little movement.

You both wait for the lift. The silence between you isn’t awkward; it’s charged. You can feel the want in him like heat held tightly under skin. You can feel it in yourself too, rising in small, reckless waves.

When the doors open, you both step in.

The elevator is quiet, mirrored walls throwing your reflections back at you: eyes too bright, mouth still a little swollen from kissing, his expression controlled but not calm.

You press the button for your floor.

The doors slide shut.

And suddenly there’s nowhere for your nervous energy to go.

You keep your gaze forward, then flick it to him, then away again. Your hand hovers near his like it wants to reach and doesn’t know if it’s allowed.

Jannik watches you with a tenderness that is almost worse than the desire.

Like he’s trying to hold himself still so you don’t spook.

You exhale shakily, then laugh under your breath—quiet, not quite sane.

The elevator climbs. Seconds stretch.

When it opens onto your floor, the hallway is dim and silent and suddenly intimate in a way the club never was. The carpet swallows your footsteps. The air smells faintly like detergent and expensive hotel soap.

You walk side by side toward your door, keycard cool in your palm.

Your heart is beating too fast.

Your fingers curl tighter around the keycard. You swipe it on the door, the lock blinking green.

You hesitate—one last second on the edge—then push the door open.

Jannik follows you in without rushing, without triumph. Close. Careful. Like he understands exactly how fragile this feels, even as he wants it.

Before the door shuts, he catches your hand again—interlacing your fingers like a promise he intends to keep—and presses a brief kiss to your knuckles, eyes lifting to yours.

“Still okay?” he asks, low.

You nod, breathing unsteady. “Yeah.”

His thumb strokes once over your hand. “Okay,” he murmurs again.

The second the door clicks shut, the room goes too quiet.

Not peaceful quiet—charged quiet. The kind that makes you suddenly aware of every detail: the hum of the air-conditioning, the distant elevator bell, the way your own breathing sounds a little uneven.

Jannik stands just inside like he’s waiting for you to tell him what the rules are.

You’re still holding the keycard. Your hand is still warm from his. Your heartbeat is still doing something stupid.

And then his phone starts vibrating.

Once. Twice. Again—so fast it’s not even a “call” anymore. It’s a warning.

Jannik glances down at the screen and his jaw tightens.

Simone.

It rings again before it even fully stops.

You watch his expression shift—something like guilt, irritation, and resignation all at once. The reality of the outside world barging into the small, fragile bubble you just built.

Your stomach dips.

Of course Simone is calling. Of course. Jannik withdrew from Shanghai. He’s injured. He’s in Singapore. He’s in a random hotel at—what time is it even?

The phone buzzes again, insistent.

You let out a breath that tries to be a laugh and fails. “He’s going to kill you,” you murmur.

Jannik’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay tired. “He’s already killing me,” he says, quietly.

Jannik’s phone keeps vibrating in his hand, screen lighting up again and again, but he doesn’t answer it. He just turns it face down on the table like he can physically silence the world by refusing to acknowledge it.

You watch him do it and feel a strange mix of relief and dread.

Because part of you loves the idea that he’s choosing you over everything.

And part of you knows that’s never how his life works.

“I’m going to change ,” you say, too quickly, like you need a task to anchor you back into sanity. You force a small smile. “Real quick. I smell like a club.”

Jannik’s mouth twitches, soft. “Okay,” he says. Then, gentler, “Take your time.”

You place your phone on the table next to his and disappear into the bedroom before your courage evaporates.

When you return to the living area, Jannik is sitting on the couch. He watches you with a soft, exhausted amusement, still keyed up, still too quiet. His jacket is half off. His hair is a little messed from the taxi. His gaze keeps drifting to your mouth like it’s a reflex he hasn’t learned to control.

You take a seat beside him. He looks at you and you look at him.

Then immediately, he kisses you.

His mouth is warm and sure, and it isn’t rushed, but it’s hungry in a way that makes your knees soften. Weeks of restraint and careful distance collapse into one real thing.

You make a small sound into his mouth—half surprise, half relief—and his hands find your waist like they’ve been searching for it all night.

Guiding you closer until your body presses flush to his, until your fingers curl tighter in his shirt because you don’t know what to do with all the want in you except cling.

He pulls back a fraction, forehead nearly touching yours, breath uneven.

“God, I've been wanting to do this” he murmurs.

Your answer is to kiss him again—harder this time, because you’re tired of lying to yourself.

Jannik exhales, low, like the sound is dragged out of him.

His hand slides along your side, up to your ribs, then back down—slow, grounding, like he’s trying to keep you here with him without tipping you into panic.

You shiver at it anyway. You hate how easily your body gives in. You love it too, and that scares you.

Then you break the kiss on a breath—forehead brushing his for half a second—like you’re trying to remember how to be a person again.

Your mouth is still tingling. Your pulse is still sprinting. His hands are still at your waist like he forgot how to let go.

You tilt your head, lips still swollen, and whisper, “Okay,” like you’re issuing a ruling from the pit wall. “That’s enough.”

Jannik blinks at you, amused and wrecked at the same time. “Enough?” he repeats, voice rough.

You nod solemnly, as if you’re very serious about this. “Just kissing,” you say. “That’s what you get. Because you still owe me.”

His brows lift. “Owe you?”

You pull back just enough to look him in the eye—playing innocent with a face that absolutely betrays you.

“For the paddock passes,” you say, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “Remember? I’m not running a charity.”

Jannik’s laugh comes out low and helpless, like it’s dragged from him. The sound fills the room and makes your chest flutter in a way you refuse to analyze.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

You shrug, feigning professionalism. “I’m very fair. I have standards. Contracts.”

His smile widens—soft, warm, disbelieving. “Contracts,” he echoes, and he leans in, nose brushing yours. “Is that what this is?”

“Mm,” you hum, trying to keep your voice steady. “Consider this… partial repayment.”

Jannik laughs again, then shakes his head like you’re impossible and he’s already lost.

“Okay,” he says, still smiling. “Then I’ll repay you.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “How.”

His gaze flicks to your mouth—quick, instinctive—and then back to your eyes, a little too honest for a joke.

“However you want,” he says simply. “Tell me.”

The words land with more weight than he means them to.

Your stomach flips. Your throat tightens around a laugh that tries to stay light and fails at the edges.

You lift your chin anyway, because you refuse to let him see how hard that hit.

“Dangerous answer,” you murmur.

Jannik’s smile turns slower, softer. He steps a fraction closer, hands still warm at your waist like he can’t help himself.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But it’s true.”

You swallow, eyes locked on his, and for a second the teasing slips—just a crack—enough for the truth to glow underneath it.

The truth that he’s letting you set the rules.

The truth that he’s offering himself like he trusts you not to break him.

You force the banter back into place like armor.

“Fine,” you say, trying for stern. “Interest accrues.”

Jannik huffs a laugh and dips his head like he’s surrendering.

“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low, warm, and full of trouble. “Whatever you say.”

And then—like he can’t resist even that much—his mouth brushes your cheek, a quick, soft kiss that feels like a promise hidden inside a joke.

“Just tell me,” he whispers against your skin, “how you want to be repaid.”

You swallow, heart skidding, and instead of answering with words, you answer the only way you can without falling apart:

You kiss him.

The kiss turns into another kiss, and then another—slower, deeper, the kind that makes time feel thick. Jannik’s hands stay at your waist, steady and warm, thumbs tracing the same small paths like he’s trying to memorize you through fabric.

Your back is now flat on the couch, then he’s there—between your legs, close but careful, like he’s holding himself in check even while his eyes look wrecked.

You tug him down by his shirt and he comes willingly, mouth finding yours again with a sound that’s half laugh, half broken breath.

“You’re—” he starts, then loses the sentence to your mouth.

The air goes hot.

Your hands slide up his neck, fingers threading briefly into his hair like your body needs an anchor. He shivers like it hits somewhere deep. His hand moves along your side, up and down—slow, grounding—never rushing, never taking more than you give.

And still, it feels like crossing lines.

Because you start rocking into him without thinking—small, restless movements that have nothing to do with strategy or control and everything to do with want. Your hips shift. His breath catches. His forehead drops to yours for a second like he’s trying to stay sane.

“Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing your mouth between words. “Slow.”

You laugh softly, a little breathless. “You’re the one who said you're repay however I want.”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah,” he admits, voice rough. “I didn’t think you’d—”

“Be this difficult?” you whisper, teasing, but your hands are clutching him like you don’t want distance.

His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. Too honest.

“I can’t think,” he says quietly, like it’s an accusation and a confession at once.

You make a small sound and kiss him again, and it deepens—your bodies pressed together, heat building through layers of clothes. His hand slides to the back of your thigh, steadying you, pulling you closer with careful intention.

You shift again, closer, your legs tightening around him just slightly—enough to feel the way he responds, enough to make his breath break. He doesn’t push you down. He doesn’t push you anywhere.

He just holds you.

Like he’s trying to keep you safe inside your own wanting.

You pull back for air, lips swollen, chest rising too fast. Your forehead rests against his.

“This is…” you start.

Jannik exhales a low laugh, shaking his head like he’s lost. “This is not friendship,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips. You should say something smart. Something careful.

Instead, you nudge closer again—wordless, greedy for the warmth of him—and his eyes close like he’s absorbing it, like it hurts.

His mouth finds the corner of yours, then your cheek, then back to your lips—kissing you like he’s trying to calm you and undo you at the same time.

Your hands wander—over his shoulders, his chest, the line of his back—feeling him everywhere you’re allowed. His hands do the same, tracing you through fabric with slow, reverent touches that make your skin feel too tight.

You rock against him again, a little more this time, and he lets out a quiet, wrecked sound, forehead dropping to your neck for half a second like he needs somewhere to put it.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, voice raw.

You swallow, eyes closing.

You should.

You don’t.

Instead you pull him back up and kiss him again—deep, hungry, still contained—because you’re not ready to give up the closeness yet, even if you can already feel tomorrow trying to sharpen its teeth.

And in the dim hush of your room, with your phone forgotten on the desk and the city humming far below, you let yourself have this version of him—pressed close, hands everywhere they’re allowed to be, mouths speaking what you keep refusing to say out loud.

The buzzing keeps going—again, again, again—pulsing against the table like it’s determined to drag you back into the real world.

Jannik breaks the kiss with a frustrated breath, forehead hovering near yours for half a second like he’s trying to hold onto you through sheer stubbornness.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, not angry—just done.

You laugh softly, breathless. “Ignore it.”

“I was,” he says, but the phone buzzes again, insistent, and something in him finally snaps—pure irritation at the interruption, nothing more. He reaches over, grabs the phone off the table without looking, and answers it like he’s already mid-argument.

“Simone—che cos’è?” he says, clipped. “What is it?”

There’s a beat.

Then a voice—calm, older, unmistakably not Simone—comes through the line.

“Who is this?”

Jannik freezes so completely it’s like someone hit pause.

His eyes widen. His mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out. The color drains from his face in real time.

Slowly—painfully slowly—his gaze drops to the screen.

He reads the caller ID.

And whatever expression he was wearing a second ago—annoyed, impatient—shatters into pure, horrified realization.

It’s not his phone.

It’s yours.

His eyes flick to you—wide, apologetic, oh my god—and you feel your stomach drop straight through the floor.

On the line, your father repeats, mild and deadly calm, “Hello? Who is this?”

You move on instinct and reaches for the phone.

Jannik hands it over immediately, like he’s grateful for anything that ends this moment, eyes wide with a silent, mortified apology.

“Papa?” you say, breathless—too high, too quick, like you’ve just been caught doing something you don’t have words for.

There’s a pause on the other end. Long enough to make your skin prickle.

Then your father exhales—slow and controlled, the sound of a man taking inventory.

“Bonsoir, ma chérie,” he says. “I wanted to congratulate you. You were brilliant today.”

Your chest loosens on instinct. The praise hits somewhere deep, somewhere soft.

“Merci, Papa,” you murmur, and you mean it. “It was… a good day.”

“Mhm,” your father hums—then the tone shifts, just slightly. A careful curiosity sliding in under the warmth. “Although… that didn’t sound like you a second ago.”

Your stomach drops.

You glance at Jannik, who looks like he wants to melt into the carpet. His hands are half raised, palms open, apology written all over him.

“I—” you start, panic sharpening your voice. “Sorry, I—”

Your father continues, mild as anything. “I thought you were back in your room. You texted me fifteen minutes ago.”

Your throat goes dry.

Because you did. You texted him like a dutiful daughter: Back at the hotel. All good. You’d meant it as reassurance. You hadn’t meant it as… evidence.

Your grip tightens on the phone. “I am in my room,” you say too fast.

“Mhm,” your father repeats, and now the amusement is unmistakable. “So who was that man who answered my call like he owned the phone?”

Your pulse spikes.

You don’t think. You just blurt the truth like it’s a reflex.

“That was Jannik.”

Silence.

A long, loaded silence that makes your skin prickle.

The realization hits you half a second too late: you could’ve lied. You could’ve said a teammate. You could’ve said a driver. You could’ve said anyone.

You said Jannik.

You hear your father inhale slowly, like a man opening a file he already suspected existed.

“Jannik,” he repeats. “The tennis player.”

You close your eyes. “Yes.”

Another beat—then, very calmly:

“What is he doing in your room,” your father asks, “… at two in the morning?”

Your cheeks go nuclear. You stare at the wall like it might offer an escape route.

“He—” you begin, but words feel suddenly useless. Too many truths stacked on top of each other. The win. The celebration. The taxi. The way he showed up. The way you let him.

Your father adds, dryly, “And don’t tell me he’s there to review tire degradation.”

You make a sound that’s half laugh, half mortified choke. “Papa.”

“I’m asking,” he says, still steady, not angry—just father. “Because it sounded like someone was looking for him. And it sounded like he didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Your stomach flips. You glance at Jannik again—at the tension in his jaw, the way he’s trying to be invisible out of respect, like he’s already preparing to leave if you so much as tilt your head.

Your father’s voice softens—still teasing, but with something protective under it.

“Was he disturbing you,” he asks lightly, “or did I disturb the two of you?”

You freeze.

Your whole body goes hot and cold at the same time.

“Papa,” you whisper, warning and pleading all at once.

Your father sighs—soft, fond, annoyingly calm.

“Put him on,” he says simply.

Your eyes widen. “What?”

“If he’s in your room at two in the morning,” your father replies, voice mild, “I’d like to say hello. Properly.”

You stare at the phone like it might explode. Then you look at Jannik.

“Papa—”

“Put him on,” your father repeats, voice gentle but firm in the way that means he’s not asking anymore. “If he’s going to answer my call, I might as well speak to him properly.”

You glance at Jannik. He’s standing a few feet away, shoulders tense, hands half-open at his sides like he’s trying to look as harmless as possible. The apology in his eyes is immediate, almost painful.

You cover the mic and hiss, “I’m so sorry.”

Jannik’s mouth twitches with a helpless, self-deprecating almost-smile. He shakes his head once, like it’s okay, like he’ll take the hit.

“It’s my fault,” he murmurs quietly. “Give it.”

You pull the phone away from your ear, staring at it like it’s a live grenade.

Then you lift it back, voice small.

“He’s… right here.”

“Good,” your father says, calm and entirely too composed. “Let me say hello.”

You swallow, cheeks still on fire, and extend the phone toward Jannik like you’re offering a peace treaty.

Jannik takes it with both hands—polite, careful—like he’s holding something sacred. He draws a slow breath, straightens slightly, and brings it to his ear.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” he says automatically, voice warm and respectful, French slipping out on instinct. “Enchanté.”

Your father pauses—just long enough for you to hope he’ll be charmed into letting this go.

Then, in flawless Italian, your father answers, calm as a metronome.

“Buonasera, Jannik.”

Jannik freezes.

It’s subtle, but you see it—the tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes, the fractional lift of his brows like he’s recalculating mid-point.

Your own stomach drops. Leave it to your father to disarm Jannik completely.

Your father continues, same smooth Italian, almost conversational.

“Parlo italiano (I speak Italian),” he adds, like he’s simply removing a barrier. “Così non ci fraintendiamo (That way we won't misunderstand each other).”

Jannik swallows once, throat bobbing, then answers in Italian too—careful, formal, respectful.

“Sì, signore… capito (Yes, sir. I understand).”

There’s a beat. Your father doesn’t rush. He lets the silence do what silence always does—make people fill it with truth.

Then he asks, still in Italian, voice mild in a way that is somehow more dangerous than anger:

“Allora,” your father says, “cosa ci fai nella stanza di mia figlia alle due del mattino?”

(So. What are you doing in my daughter’s room at two in the morning?)

Your entire body goes hot.

You stare at the carpet like if you look at either of them you might combust. Your fingers twist in the hem of your shirt. Your heart bangs against your ribs like it wants to escape.

Jannik goes completely still.

Not because he doesn’t have an answer. Because he has too many, and none of them fit neatly into something harmless.

He glances at you once—quick, seeking—like he’s asking Do you want me to lie? Do you want me to soften it? Do you want me to walk out right now?

Your throat tightens. You don’t give him anything useful. Just a small, helpless look that says: Please don’t make this worse.

Jannik inhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself.

Then, still in Italian, he answers your father with a kind of careful honesty that doesn’t insult anyone’s intelligence.

“Signore,” he says, respectful, “mi dispiace. Ho risposto per sbaglio. Pensavo fosse il mio telefono.”

(Sir, I’m sorry. I answered by mistake. I thought it was my phone.)

“I know,” your father replies, not unkind. “That’s not what I asked.”

The line lands clean.

Jannik’s jaw flexes. He looks down for half a second, then back up, as if he’s deciding to meet your father where he is—directly, without theatrics.

He clears his throat.

“Sono venuto a vedere la gara,” he says carefully. “E… dopo la serata, volevo assicurarmi che stesse bene.”

(I came to watch the race. And… after the evening, I wanted to make sure she was okay.)

Your father hums, as if weighing that.

“And now she is okay?” your father asks.

Jannik’s gaze flicks to you again. Softer this time.

“Sì,” he says quietly. “È… stanca, ma sta bene.”

(Yes. She’s tired, but she’s okay.)

A pause.

You can almost hear your father’s thoughts through the line: pride, suspicion, affection, the protective instinct that doesn’t need to raise its voice to be sharp.

Then, very calmly:

“Jannik,” your father says, “I am going to ask you one more time.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“What,” he continues, “are you doing in her room at two in the morning?”

Jannik exhales—slow, steady—like he’s choosing the only answer that doesn’t disrespect either of you.

“Stiamo… parlando,” he says carefully. “Ci siamo messi a… recuperare.”

(We're...talkinng. We've been... catching up)

He swallows, eyes flicking once toward you before returning to the phone.

“Perché oggi è stata una giornata enorme,” he adds, quiet but steady. “E perché… lei conta per me.”

(Because today was a huge day. And because she matters to me.)

Your father goes quiet for a beat, the kind of pause that isn’t hesitation—it’s him choosing exactly how to say what he means.

Then, still in smooth Italian, he lets out a small, unimpressed sigh.

“Jannik,” he says, calm as ever, “le due del mattino…(Two in the morning.)”

It lands like a warning wrapped in silk.

“That’s not the time people ‘catch up with friends,’” your father continues, voice mild but pointed. “That’s the time you sleep.”

A beat.

“Or,” he adds, dryly, “you do other… night activities.”

You make a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. Your whole face goes hot. You cover your mouth with your hand like that will hide your humiliation from the universe.

“Papa!” you blurt, loud and mortified, “It’s not like that—”

There’s a beat of silence, then your father exhales—slow, unimpressed, the sound of a man who has raised a daughter and is not in the mood for fiction.

“Don’t lie to me,” he says, still in Italian, tone almost gentle. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Your entire face burns. You glance at Jannik, who looks like he’s experiencing a new kind of death—standing there polite and frozen, eyes wide with apology and something like restrained laughter because your father is too much.

“I’m not—” you start again, but your father cuts in, not unkindly.

“Enough,” he says. “I called to congratulate you. I’m happy you had a good night.”

A pause, then the edge returns—soft, but unmistakable.

“And I’m also your father.”

You go quiet, swallowing hard.

On the other side of the room, Jannik shifts his weight, shoulders tense like he’s preparing to take a serve he can’t return.

Your father’s tone changes when he speaks again—less teasing now, more direct. He’s still calm, but the father in him steps fully forward.

“Jannik,” he says, addressing him again.

Jannik straightens instinctively. “Sì, signore.”

There’s a brief pause, the kind that makes your stomach tighten because you can feel the seriousness approaching.

“Are you serious about my daughter?” your father asks.

The words drop into the room like a weight.

You stop breathing.

Jannik doesn’t answer immediately—not because he doesn’t know, but because he understands what’s being asked. This isn’t gossip. This isn’t a playful interrogation.

It’s a line being drawn.

You watch his throat work as he swallows. You watch the way his hands curl and uncurl once at his sides, like he’s steadying himself before speaking.

Then, very quietly, Jannik says, “Sì, signore..”

Jannik’s answer hangs in the air between you like something he can’t take back.

Yes.

No charm. No spin. Just that single, steady syllable.

Your father is quiet for a beat on the other end of the line, the kind of silence that feels like a measuring tape—him taking the shape of Jannik’s voice, the lack of hesitation, the weight behind it.

Then, in Italian, your father exhales softly.

“Bene,” he says.

The word lands with a strange finality, like a door clicking into place.

“If you are serious,” your father continues, calm and unhurried, “then that’s good.”

You close your eyes, cheeks burning, stomach flipping with something that isn’t quite fear anymore—something dangerously close to relief.

Your father doesn’t let you sit in it for long.

“And if you’re serious,” he adds, dry and maddeningly composed, “then I want to meet you.”

You snap your eyes open. “Papa—”

He ignores you with the ease of a man who has been ignoring your protests your whole life.

“I want to meet the man who thinks it’s normal to be in my daughter’s room at two in the morning,” he says, voice even. “The man who answered my call. The man who—” a brief pause, and you can hear the faint smile he tries not to let through, “—is apparently sharing her bed.”

You make a strangled sound. “Oh my god.”

Jannik goes very still.

Not embarrassed exactly—more like he’s been hit with the reality of what your father just said out loud, blunt as a scalpel. His eyes flick to you, apology flaring, then back to the phone, posture straightening like he’s facing a line judge.

“Signore—” he starts.

Your father cuts in, not unkindly.

“Don’t panic,” he says, calm. “I’m not yelling. I’m not threatening. I’m a father.”

A beat.

“And you,” your father continues, “are in my daughter’s life in a way that is… not small.”

Your throat tightens. You stare at the carpet like it might open up and swallow you whole.

“So,” your father says, voice firm now, settled into decision, “yes. I want to meet you. Properly. In daylight.”

A tiny breath escapes you—half laugh, half mortification.

Jannik’s mouth twitches as if he’s fighting the same reaction. His voice, when it comes, is respectful and steady.

“Sì, signore,” he says quietly. “Of course.”

Your father hums, satisfied.

“Good,” he says again. “Because if you’re serious about her, you will have no problem looking me in the eye.”

You swallow hard.

Then your father’s tone softens just slightly—still controlled, but warmer, almost fond.

“Now,” he says, “let her sleep. She forgets she’s human when she’s happy. And when she’s stressed. And when she’s with—” he pauses, letting the implication hang, “—company.”

“Papa,” you whisper, half horrified, half laughing.

He lets that sit for a beat.

Then, before you can respond, your father speaks again—this time in French, the words landing like a hand on your cheek, gentle and familiar in a way that makes your throat tighten instantly.

“Je t’aime, ma chérie.”

(I love you, my darling.)

The embarrassment drains out of you for half a second, replaced by something softer and older.

“I love you too,” you whisper, voice suddenly small.

There’s a quiet hum on the other end—approval, affection, relief all folded into one sound.

“Bonne nuit,” your father says.

“Bonne nuit, Papa.”

Jannik murmurs a soft, respectful, “Buonanotte,” and then the call ends.

When call ends, and the room is suddenly too quiet—like the walls are holding their breath after hearing your father say the thing out loud that you keep trying not to name.

You’re still half on Jannik’s lap, legs tangled, your phone clutched in your hand like evidence.

Jannik hasn’t moved. He’s warm beneath you, steady, eyes on your face like he’s checking if you’re about to bolt.

You blink, swallow, and finally the mortification catches up.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurt, the words tumbling out. “He—he shouldn’t have—this is so—”

Jannik’s mouth twitches, a faint smile trying to exist in the wreckage. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.

“He… he loves you a lot,” he adds quietly.

“It’s not,” you insist, cheeks burning. “It’s—my father. And you answered my phone. And now he thinks—” You cut yourself off, because you can’t even finish the sentence without combusting.

Jannik’s gaze softens. “He doesn’t think,” he says quietly. “He knows you.”

That makes your throat tighten in a way you don’t want to examine.

You shift, trying to put space back between you before your brain starts making this into something it can’t survive.

“Okay,” you say too briskly, like you’re calling a pit stop. “You should go. It’s late. You have—your wrist, physio, Simone—”

You lean away.

Jannik’s arms tighten around you—not hard, not trapping, just enough to stop your momentum. Enough to keep you from slipping out of his orbit.

“Hey,” he says, low.

You freeze, breath caught.

His hands stay at your waist, warm, anchoring. His forehead tips toward yours, almost touching.

“I don’t want to leave,” he admits, voice rough with it.

Your heart trips.

“Jannik,” you whisper, warning yourself more than him.

He exhales, the smallest laugh with no humor in it. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re about to do the thing where you put everything back in a box because it’s safer.”

You swallow hard. “It is safer.”

He looks at you for a beat—eyes tired and honest and stubborn.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “But it’s not what either of us wants.”

You try again, shifting like you’re going to stand, and he stops you with a quiet, ridiculous kind of seriousness.

“I’ll go,” he says.

You blink. “You will?”

He nods once, then adds—eyes flicking to your mouth like he can’t help it—

“But for a price.”

Your brows lift, incredulous. “A price.”

“Mhm.” His mouth quirks, soft and boyish for one second. “A proper goodnight kiss.”

You stare at him, then laugh—real, disbelieving, the sound slipping out of you before you can stop it.

“Have we not been kissing enough?” you ask, voice warm with teasing you don’t quite mean.

Jannik’s smile fades into something quieter. Something more raw.

“No,” he says, and it’s so earnest it makes your chest ache. “Because this—” His thumb brushes lightly at your side, like he’s grounding himself in the proof of you. “—doesn’t feel real.”

Your laughter stutters.

He swallows, eyes holding yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks too long.

“I don’t know if I wake up tomorrow and it’s all a dream,” he says softly. “And you go back to being… careful. Being friendly. Preparing to be friends.”

Your stomach turns. Your throat tightens.

“Jannik—”

“Just listen,” he murmurs, and there’s no force in it—only need. “I want one I can remember. One I can keep. For my sanity.”

You stare at him, heart thudding, because it’s not flirtation anymore. Not banter. Not repayment for passes.

It’s him asking you to acknowledge the truth for one more second before you both try to pretend you can live without it.

His voice drops, softer—almost pleading.

“And I need you,” he adds, “to rethink what you think this means.”

You swallow hard, eyes stinging.

“This means…” you start, but the words won’t come, because naming it feels like lighting a match.

Jannik’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“It means you want me,” he says quietly.

Your breath catches.

“And I want you,” he continues, even quieter—like the confession is too simple to defend itself. “It’s that simple.”

Silence hums between you.

You should say something smart. Something cautious. Something that keeps the edges from cutting you.

Instead, you lift your hand and cup his jaw, thumb brushing the line of it like you’ve done this a hundred times in another life.

Your voice comes out small.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper.

Jannik’s eyes soften, mouth barely curving. “I know.”

You lean in.

This kiss isn’t frantic. It isn’t hungry the way the earlier ones were.

It’s slow. Intentional.

Like you’re giving him what he asked for—something he can carry into tomorrow like proof he didn’t invent you.

His hands tighten gently at your waist, holding you there like he’s afraid the moment will shatter if he breathes too hard. When you pull back, your forehead rests against his for a beat, both of you breathing like you’ve just run something you didn’t train for.

Jannik closes his eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

You swallow, heart aching. “Now go,” you murmur, trying to sound firm.

He opens his eyes again, gaze still fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“I will,” he says softly.

Then, quieter—stubborn, almost tender:

“But don’t make me be the only one who admits what this is.”

And you hate that you can’t answer him.

Because the truth is sitting right there between your ribs, loud and simple and terrifying:

You want him.

And he wants you.

And neither of you are very good at pretending otherwise anymore.