nina

You don't think too much of it when he comes in that first time.

He comes in through the front door. The bell jingles, interrupting the soft jazz coming through the café's speakers. You look up, and there he is — good-looking, light-haired, blueish eyes. You smile your usual customer service smile and, before you can greet him, he speaks.

"Hi. Good morning."

It's nice. His voice is really nice. It rings low, carries a thick Monegasque accent you could pick out anywhere. You get a lot of different people with different accents in the café every day. Besides, you have a nice voice with a Monegasque accent speaking in your head all the time. But you've met a whole damn lot of Monegasque people since moving to help your aunt with the coffee shop in Monaco. So.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

The man freezes. He stares at you wide-eyed, something between surprise, excitement, and terror flying through his expression. Your eyebrows immediately furrow at the sight and you open your mouth to ask him what's wrong, but he beats you to it again.

"Do we know each other?"

Your eyebrows furrow further, confusion painting itself across your face.

You can't possibly remember every customer, sure, but you like to think you're really good at remembering faces, and you have to admit that his is too damn beautiful to forget. You look him up and down just to make sure, and, just maybe, to admire the view, and you're certain you don't know him at all.

"I don't think so. I've never seen you before."

He blinks. He turns his head slightly to the side, like a curious cat staring straight into your soul, searching for answers, secrets, worlds. It takes him a couple of seconds to answer, but you're patient. You work in customer service.

"I guess not," is his cautious response, and he's sort of looking at you as if you're an alien. "I'm Charles."

You blink back at him. He reminds you of someone, but you can't figure out who it is.

"Hi, Charles. Are you okay?"

Charles (the name suits him, somehow) gapes at you like a fish out of water. He seems at a loss for words, which feels a little silly to you, but you're patient. You work in customer service.

"Yes. Yes, I am okay," he enunciates each word carefully, and you nod in encouragement. He looks up at the menu handwritten on the wall behind you. "Any… recommendations? To drink?"

You're impressed at how quickly he seems to get himself together, despite the awkwardness that lingers inside the empty shop. You smile politely at the question.

"The cinnamon cappuccino is probably my favorite drink on the menu," you offer calmly, and he nods in earnest, already taking out his wallet.

You prepare the cappuccino. You add more chocolate than usual, because this guy looks like he needs it. He pays for it, and then he thanks you, and then he bolts out of the café as if he's in a rush.

You don't even shrug. Some people are weird.

You read on the internet once that people wouldn't recognize their own voices if they heard it coming from someone else. You wonder if that's also true for your soulmate's voice.

Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes. You suppose it makes sense — it's not enough to simply meet them, you have to recognize them, pinpoint that their voice is the one inside your head, and, worse, they have to recognize you too. Making sure that it's actually a match is probably the hardest part.

You've had people come into the café and say that that they knew your voice from their own thoughts. Every single time, you could confidently tell that they were wrong, because you could always tell they didn't have your voice. Every single time, you couldn't find even an inch of familiarity to the sound of their speaking.

The voice inside your head, the one that narrates your thoughts, counts grams of sugar and coffee, and reads your aunt's recipe book, is male. It has a Monegasque accent. Most times, it has a sing-song cadence to it that feels very unique. It annoyed you as a kid. You are used to it now.

To be complete truthful, the accent might've been one of the reasons why you agreed to move to Monaco of all places. That was a few years ago, and your soulmate hasn't shown up yet. To be fair, most people's don't — it feels like a long shot, now, and you guess you're over it. Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes, which means you've accepted you won't find yours.

Charles, the weird but beautiful guy, comes back the following day.

"Hi," he beats you to it again, and you smile politely.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

He walks closer to the counter, eyes fluttering between your own and the menu behind you. He's still as good-looking as he was the previous day and still sounds awkward as fuck when he opens his mouth to speak, clearly a little uncomfortable.

"That cappuccino was good."

Your smile turns amused, slightly intrigued, and you can't help the snort that escapes you.

"I'm glad."

He clears his throat, shoves his hands inside his pockets.

"I'd like another recommendation. If possible."

"Yes, of course," you chirp happily, and then turn around to stare at the menu even though you wrote it yourself a couple of hours ago. Every customer enjoys a little bit of a show. "The strawberry matcha is really good, and we got fresh strawberries just this morning, so it's… Extra crisp, I'd say. If you want something to eat, the chocolate croissants came out of the oven 10 minutes ago or so. They're my favorite."

When you turn back to look at him, your eyebrows rise at the way he's studying you. Charles has that cat look back on his face, and, for some reason, it makes your cheeks flush.

He looks at you as if he's looking for something. He looks at you like a child seeing a favorite character in Disneyland but being unsure if they're real or not. It's almost endearing, in a way, if not incredibly awkward.

"Are you okay?" You find yourself asking him for the second day in a roll, and he blinks in surprise, his face immediately turning red with embarrassment when he notices he's been caught staring.

"Yes. Yes, sorry." He looks away while this deep mortification paints his scarlet skin. "I'll take the matcha. And the croissant. Yeah. Sorry."

You chuckle slightly at his words, punching the items into the cash register while he looks at everything but you, rocking on his heels while he waits.

Charles lets his credit card fall on the floor once before he picks it up quickly and pays, and a little smirk fights its way to your lips even when you're trying to be polite and professional. He's weird in a cute way, you think.

He keeps his eyes on the ground while you prepare his strawberry matcha, and soon enough he's muttering a soft thanks and rushing out again. You watch him leave with a small smile.

You wonder if he'll come back. You're not sure why, but you sort of hope he will. You like your regulars.

"You weren't here yesterday."

You look up from the book you're reading, startled, to find blueish eyes staring back at you. Your eyes travel towards the bell on the door, asking yourself if you were really so focused on the story you didn't hear it ring.

"Hello, good morning," you say out of habit, putting down your book and straightening yourself on the cashier's chair. "I don't work Thursday mornings."

He walks closer, leaning his forearms against the counter while he looks up at the menu and then back at you again.

"I thought you were the owner."

You smile, aware of how weird this is. Aware of how easy it feels to fall into conversation. That's not usual for you.

"I sort of am, yes."

He leans his head to the side. Curious cat.

"Sort of?"

"My aunt has owned this café for over a decade," you explain, fingers tapping against the cover of your book, tone still chipper yet softer, "she asked me for help a couple of years ago. I accepted. She's been retired for a few months, so I guess I'm the owner now — but, you know. It'll always be hers."

Charles listens attentively, drowning in every word, eyes slightly widened as he drinks every single one of your syllables. It feels intimate, somehow, to be heard like this.

"Do you make all the pastries?" He asks in stride, and the question makes you chuckle.

"No, no, we have chefs for that. They usually leave things ready before leaving for the evening and I just pop them in the oven in the morning. I make some of the cookies and most of the drinks, though."

He nods seriously. You wonder if this situation looks as insane as it feels to anyone watching it through the café window, both of you looking at each other while your jazz playlist plays through the speakers.

"So you're here on Thursday afternoons?"

You blink. Your fingers stop tapping.

"Are you stalking me or something?"

That seems to snap him out of whatever mood he's in, and he takes a few steps back.

"No! No, absolutely not. No. God, I'm sorry if that's what this sounds like. I—no." He shakes his head violently, clearly mortified. "The guy that made my drink yesterday didn't give me a good recommendation, so I just got the cappuccino again, and it wasn't as good as yours. I—I prioritize a good drink, okay?"

That's enough to make you laugh. He relaxes at the sound, looking at you sheepishly, and smiles. You smile back. It feels electric, in a way.

"I'm gonna tell Andrew that his drinks are getting formal complaints," you mutter, but your tone is playful, and he chuckles. You are weirdly fond of it. It's a little familiar. "So, how can I help you, Charles?"

"A good cinnamon cappuccino, to make up for yesterday," he orders, and it makes you laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief as you punch the order in, "and you can pick the pastry."

You look back up at him.

"Really?"

"Yes," he nods, "you're good with recommendations."

You grin at him, and his cheeks turn red.

"Okay. A good cappuccino and a mystery pastry coming up."

You and your weird guy fall into a nice rhythm. He comes in almost every morning (and every Thursday afternoon). He orders a different thing almost every day, and sometimes falls back into the cinnamon cappuccino. You usually pick the pastry. He makes quick small talk — how is Andrew, how is your aunt, did you watch the football game last night. Sometimes other customers walk in and your conversation lasts mere seconds. Other times, it stretches on for minutes, soft words exchanged across the counter. Maybe you give him a couple of free pastries and add extra chocolate in his cappuccino quite often, but no one needs to know.

The first time Charles decides to eat in the café instead of taking away his order, he's the only customer in the coffee shop.

You get a lot of movement in the early morning, and he usually comes by a good hour before the chaos of lunch time, which means you're usually alone. This day is no different, and he accepts your recommendation of an iced chai latte and a piece of pumpkin pie with a smile.

He actually takes one of the few seats by the counter, and you look at each other with a new wave of shyness that you both thought had already melted away throughout the last couple of weeks.

"So," for once, you speak first, always that hint of customer service on your words, looking down at the counter as you wipe it with a clean rag. "You've lived in this area for long? I had never seen you before you first came in."

"No, I actually moved nearby the week before we first met," Charles answers before taking a big bite of his pie, eyes widening with surprise, "this is really good."

"I told you so." You shrug, forcefully wiping at a coffee stain. "That's nice. What attracted you here? Was it our banger sign? I designed that."

He chuckles at the question, blue eyes looking up at you with a certain fondness that leaves you breathless. He swallows the piece of pie and takes a sip of his latte, and then his face turns incredibly red. You stare at him curiously, waiting.

"This is going to sound really weird," he warns you, but you swat the idea away with a small smile.

"You're really weird already," you say in return, and he smiles back.

"I saw you through the window," he says softly, and you blink at him. He groans, looking away. "I told you it was going to sound weird. Just—hear me out, okay? I was a new guy to the neighborhood, and I saw you through the window, and you—you know when you have a childhood best friend, but then one of you moves out of town and you never see each other again?"

You blink again, wondering where the fuck he's going with this. "Yeah?"

"I saw you through the window, and it was like seeing a lost childhood best friend again. You just felt so damn familiar I had to come in and look. You still feel really familiar."

There's a brief second when the two of you just study each other. His good-looking face, his beautiful eyes, his strong features. You weigh his words in your chest.

It's weird, yeah, but don't you feel it too? The way you were a little fond of him from day one, the way you were sure you'd heard his laugh before but couldn't pick out where.

"I'm, what, like a distant family friend you barely remember?" You ask lightly, trying to take away some of the seriousness from the conversation. He thanks you with a snort.

"Somewhat, I guess. It's nice, though." He takes another sip of his latte and you watch him quietly. "And you did win me over with the drinks and pastries."

You laugh softly, not even embarrassed of the way you're staring at him, and you wonder if you've got the same cat-like expression now that he always has when he studies you.

"I'm sure I did, I'm pretty good at this," the words slip out of you with a little too much truth in them. You watch as Charles' body tenses slightly, wide eyes moving to meet yours with that same mix of surprise, excitement, and terror they had when he came in for the first time. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, questioning, wondering. He chokes on his drink.

He coughs loudly and you're immediately by his side, slapping his back.

"I'm okay," he sputters out in between coughs, clearly embarrassed, cheeks bright red, "I'm super okay."

"Are you sure?" Your eyebrows furrow further, and he nods too intensely.

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure." He coughs a few more times, and then the bell on your door rings.

You stare at him with something between confusion and worry, but he waves you off and nods towards the customer coming in. You shoot him another questioning look that is answered with a sure nod, and then you're back behind the counter.

"Hello, good morning. How can I help you?"

Charles finishes his food and his latte before you finish pouring the new customer's coffee, and he offers you a quick wave before leaving through the front door, little bell ringing in his wake. Something inside you aches.

He feels familiar, too.

For the first time in a month, Charles doesn't pass by the café.

You feel stupid, but your head snaps up every time the bell rings, looking for him in every customer, in every stranger passing on the other side of the window. It's a little silly, maybe, but he became a part of your routine, quick small talk before the rush of lunch time, quiet conversation while he sips at his drink and your jazz playlist fills the air with music. As weird as he is, you've come to quite enjoy his company.

He doesn't show up the following day, either. You linger around the shop while cleaning up, wiping down the tables like someone on a mission, wondering if you can will him into being here just so you can ask him what happened before you have to close shop.

By the fifth day, your head stops snapping up. On the eighth, when the bell rings on the late evening after you've already turned off the music, you don't even look towards the door.

"We're closed," you speak before whoever this is can react, hands busy with putting each chair on top of a table, apron severely stained after a busy day.

"Hi. I'm sorry for getting here so late."

Something inside you crackles with electricity. The voice rings clearer than the front door bell through the silent air, sending sparks in your direction. You recognize that voice. That accent. That sing-song cadence. It's so familiar your chest seems to burst with it.

When you look towards the door, it's just Charles. Still, your heart hammers between your ribs, trying to push itself out of your body, your eyes wide in a mix of surprise, excitement, and terror.

It's just Charles.

But, for one second, he sounds like something else. Someone else, even — someone who narrates your thoughts and reads your aunt's recipes.

"Hey." You put another chair down, staring at him across the café, slightly out of breath. "It's been a bit."

"I know. I'm sorry." His hands comes up to his neck, his face is sheepish, and you've missed his weirdness around your shop. "I've just been—busy, a little. How are you?"

"I'm okay." You cross your arms in front of your body, a little too aware of yourself. "You're a bit late, though. I've already cleaned up the kitchen and the coffee counter—you're gonna have to come back tomorrow. Or whenever you want," you add that last bit hurriedly, but he barely seems to mind.

"I expected that." Charles clears his throat, and you watch him shove his hands inside his pockets in that tell of nervousness you're starting to grow used to. "I was wondering if you'd like to grab dinner with me. When you're done."

You gape at him. Your heart rate manages to rise even more. You should worry about a heart attack at this point.

"What?"

"I enjoy our conversations," he says simply, shrugging, "I'm sorry I haven't been around much, but I checked on Google what time the shop closes and thought maybe I could pass by and we could—get something to eat. And chat. Like we do here, except you won't be at work."

For a few moments, you consider it uncertainly.

You've missed him these last few days. You're not sure how you feel about him just walking in when you've already closed and asking you out for dinner. You're not sure how you feel about how familiar his voice sounded just then, how it sent shivers through you.

Charles is a weird guy. He's also your favorite regular, and you've been a little fond of him from the start.

So when you say sure, he immediately starts helping you with the chairs, asking what else you need to do before the two of you can leave. You laugh at his eagerness, directing him to where the tea cup cabinet is and showing where each cup goes. You don't usually like closing by yourself, but you're glad for it today. This way, the two of you can linger around the café as he helps put things in their places, exchanging soft smiles and quiet giggles before leaving for what is basically a date. It's a date, right?

He picks the restaurant, tells you it's a place he's been going to every once in a while. When you ask why he makes a habit of becoming a regular at every place he goes to, he shakes his head and says he's only a true regular at your shop. Your cheeks flush at how low his voice is when he says it.

And, oh, how you notice the way his voice sounds during dinner, while he laughs, while he tells you about getting all his haircuts at his parents' salon. You notice everything about it — the way it lingers in the air, the way it reaches out to you, the way it would've annoyed you as a kid, but you're used to it now.

But would you recognize your soulmate's voice if you heard it outside your head? You're not quite sure. You take a quiet walk through Monaco after dinner is over and you fight over who gets to pay the bill (he does, he grabs it too quickly), and you breathe in the night air with a suspicious peace in your body that rattles your chest. The wind is crisp and comforting. Charles walks by your side.

"So, you're from Monaco, right?" You ask, hands inside your pockets to chase away the cold breeze. "What got you to move to my side of town?"

He snorts, a smile on his face when he looks at you.

"I just moved out of my parents' house and wanted a nice place. The neighborhood is nice enough." You hum in agreement, so he keeps talking. "You… Are not from Monaco? Right?"

"Right." You nod, eyes traveling across the beautiful streets. "My aunt needed help with the café. I had just finished university and I guess—I guess I was a little lost on what I was supposed to do next. It was a big change, but it felt right, I guess."

"It does feel right."

Your gaze finds his in the comforting night, and you notice the way his cat eyes fall down to your lips for just a moment before they flutter back towards your irises, his skin turning a soft shade of pink that sends a small shock down your spine.

You stop walking, and he stills in place.

"Why didn't you come by the café this week?"

He seems surprised by the question but doesn't back down. You appreciate the way he's willing to be honest. You appreciate the way being honest feels so simple.

"Ah, I was a little freaked out," he admits, and your eyebrows rise, encouraging him to continue. "The whole familiarity thing, you know? It felt like too much. I got nervous." He pauses, voice taking up a degree of confidence and certainty that gives you butterflies. "But I'm not freaking out now. You—you're really nice, and fun. I've enjoyed seeing you every day more than I could put into words. And I'm not freaking out anymore."

You study him for a couple of seconds. Charles, your weird regular, standing in front of you with his heart on a platter after disappearing for a little over a week, taking you out for dinner, still looking down at your lips every once in a while and studying your face as if he's looking for something, making sure you are there, making sure you are real. Your heart bangs against your ribcage with a surety you can't ignore.

"I'm glad you came back," you answer calmly, "I missed you. You always made the morning pass by quicker."

A full grin takes over his mouth, the shade of red on his face growing darker when you take one of your hands out of your pocket and reach out towards his. He interlaces your fingers together, thumb rubbing affectionately on the heel of your palm, and it all feels like fireworks exploding in the Monaco skies while you walk under the stars with your favorite regular, who sneaks glances at you way more than he does at the beautiful night sky.

You give him your address and he walks you home. You talk all the way there, making fun of your coworkers and a few passersby on the streets. When you get to your place, Charles kisses your cheek softly as a goodbye, fingers still holding on to yours while the small touch sets your body on fire. Before he can pull away, your free hand takes a hold of his upper arm, keeping him in place when you lean forward and kiss his cheek, too. When your lips touch his skin, it's already burning.

"Not bad for a first date." There's not a hint of that chipper customer service tone on your voice — it's playful and teasing and raw, and he laughs breathlessly, inhaling deeply as if trying to breathe the sound of you into his lungs.

"I guess not," he nods, and you both just look at each other for a second, two curious cats wondering what happens next.

It's you who pulls him towards you again, pressing your lips to his for a quick moment before you're all but running away, slipping into your apartment building and running up the stairs like a tempting teenager, grinning at the sound of his voice yelling out your name by the gate. You can hear his smile and it just feels right, because you knew you needed to kiss him just like you knew him from that first day when he walked through the café door.

He's a regular. You'll see him tomorrow.

You don't have to say it, do you? It's in the sound of his voice. He falls right into step with you.

A few days later, after quite a number of late dinners after work and stolen kisses through the streets of Monaco, Charles wakes up at 4am and shows up at the café while you're unlocking the door. You look at him as if he's fucking crazy (he is, apparently) and he offers to help set things up for the morning.

"It's not even 5am yet," you chastise him while he slips in, body relaxing at the welcoming sound of the door bell ringing. "What are you doing here?"

"You told me you'd be alone in the shop today," he tries, and you're not even sure how he picked up the throwaway comment you made earlier in the week, complaining through text that none of the other cashiers or baristas could make it to work on this day. "I thought I could help."

You stare at him is disbelief, shaking your head as you lead him to the back, telling him where to leave his things while you find him a clean apron. You can barely believe he's actually here, but it makes you warm.

"So, boss," he says when he's properly dressed, hands behind his back, and you can't help but snort at the ridiculous sight. "What do we do first?"

"I'm baking cookies today." You throw a hairnet towards him that he miraculously catches. "You can probably help with that. We need the cookies to be inside the oven before 5:30am, preferably."

"Yes, boss," he salutes, and it looks so stupid you have to laugh. He smiles, enjoying the sound, and it sends another wave of warmth through your body.

You work together nicely, like a well-oiled machine. Charles follows your directions with ease, and this huge sense of calm and belonging washes over you while your elbows brush against each other, bodies too close as you roll the dough into small balls.

He counts the grams of sugar and flour aloud and, God, it's too familiar. It's right there.

"Why do you like jazz that much?" He asks while the dough bakes, working beside you to set up all the tea cups and mugs by the coffee machine as if he's done this a thousand times. You wonder if he learned just from watching you do it.

"What do you mean?"

"The café playlist. It's always jazz."

Your hands still. You listen to the music closely for a few seconds. He watches you with a fondness you've felt from day one. You guess the universe has its magics.

"I like the piano," you answer simply before returning to work.

"I can play the piano," he tells you, and you can only shoot him a surprised glance before the bell on the front door rings.

He actually fits quite easily by your side. He carefully takes the pastries from under the counter while you take orders and prepare drinks, and he's good with the small talk and calming conversation most of your customers look for.

When you tell him you'll pay him for the work day, he says he truly only wanted to spend the day with you. You kiss him behind the closed café doors, arms around his neck while the sky gets darker and darker, giggling by the cash register because everything seems to fit right in. His lips brush against yours again and again, his eyes hungry, and you melt under his touch, a whispered thank you for the help escaping you in between hushed kisses.

You don't have to say it, so you don't — the two of you already know the truth, and that's enough.

You only acknowledge it a couple of months later, one night in his apartment, when you sit down on the floor by his piano and stare at him eagerly. His fingers travel through the keys, playing a familiar tune — some song from your café playlist, one that plays on the speakers all the damn time.

Then he hums, and you know that sound, because you've heard it every other day ever since you first heard this song.

"Most people don't find their soulmates within their lifetimes," you say, and the piano stops. Charles turns his neck to look at you on the floor, blueish eyes so soft they make your chest ache with the amount of affection you feel for him. You smile. "When did you know?"

"First time I stayed at the café to eat. I don't remember exactly what you said — but you spoke to me without any customer voice at all for the first time, and I clocked it immediately." He looks shy, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck. "I freaked out. But you already know that. You?"

"During our first date, I think. But you always sounded familiar."

He smiles, and the world glitters around him.

"Like a lost childhood best friend?"

You laugh, body warm and heart swollen.

"Yeah. Like a lost childhood best friend."

Weird little guy. He gives you that cat look before he starts playing again, finally closing his eyes as he picks up the humming and you sigh, enjoying it quietly, humming the same tune with the exact same voice inside your head.

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HIIII omg I hope you guys enjoyed reading! I loved writing this one and oh it is so special to me. likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated! have a good day <3

liked by alex_albon, yourusername and 216,345 others

f1updates @.williamsf1official has announced Alex Albon's race engineer for the upcoming F1 season will be Williams' Y/N L/N. The engineer has been working for Williams for 4 years, and will already step into the new role for the first GP of 2025.

username1 oh come on

username2 THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1

username3 some of you acting as if they picked a rando off the street and ignoring the fact y/n has been a reliable engineer for the team for years… grow up

username4 I'm SO excited to watch her work with Alex!!!

username5 chat are we for real?

username6 YESSSS WOMEN ON F1!!!!!

liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 108,948 others

yourusername I'm so beyond honored and excited to start this year as an F1 race engineer! The biggest thanks to @.williamsf1official for this opportunity and to @.alex_albon for trusting me with this very important job. 💙

alex_albon I'm so excited to work with you! ♡ liked by yourusername

williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername GO WILLIAMS!!!!

username1 I'M GONNA SAY IT AGAIN: THE WOKE ARE KILLING F1

georgerussell63 Congratulations!!! ♡ liked by yourusername

lauramuller YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername LET'S FUCKING GO!!!!!!!!!!!!

username2 alright…

It's not that you've given up on your love life, per se.

It's just that you're preoccupied with other things.

"Bearman is 1.7 seconds behind you, Alex."

Such as doing your goddamn best to help Williams be an upper midfield F1 team.

"Bearman has activated DRS, Alex."

And, most of all, trying to get Alex Albon somewhat closer to a podium.

"And Bearman overtakes Albon after another brilliant lap! Haas' work this season has been truly stellar—"

Which is proving itself to be a little complicated.

"Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, Alex. We'll get him in a few laps."

"The car sucked today."

You sigh deeply at that, hands on your waist as you watch Alex take off his helmet, his brow furrowed with frustration.

"I know," your tone is apologetic, but you know that doesn't change anything. "You did well either way."

His brow furrows further.

"We didn't even finish inside the points."

"You're being too hard on yourself," you try, one of your hands rising up to touch his arm, feeling his race suit's resistant material under your fingertips, "you said it yourself. The car sucked. You can't do miracles when the car sucks, Alex."

"Bearman can," is his annoyed answer, and you can swear you see a few tears accumulate on the corners of his gray eyes. You know the string of bad races are taking a toll on him. "Doesn't matter. We'll do better next weekend."

Your chest feels heavy at the disappointment that lingers in the space between his words, in the furrow of his eyebrows, in his posture. You're not sure how to make him feel better — not when you keep losing the chance to get any points, not when he keeps finishing P12, P14, P17.

It's not his fault, but you don't know what to do either.

You open your mouth to answer, and then Alex is pulled away from you and dragged to interviewers. Your heart clenches at the bad timing of it all, but the social media manager barely spares you a glance, and you resort to going back into the garage to speak to the engineering team about the race, about the car, about ways to erase that look on your driver's eyes.

liked by albonfan1, username2 and 27,897 others

f1updates After a disappointing race, Alex Albon gives Sky Sports an exclusive interview about his struggles with the car:

🎙️ "The team worked really hard, but ultimately I just wasn't comfortable with the car today. It wouldn't be fair to just say the car sucked and that's why we did badly, but I have to admit my issues with it were definitely an important factor in our results. I'm hoping we can fix some of these problems before the next race."

username1 I know he's saying the issue was the car but tbh I feel like his little race engineer was no fucking help as usual

↳ username2 brother that's not the case AT ALL

username3 I mean… they did say the woke would kill F1 and specially Williams…

username4 it's really telling that you only see these "engineers" in midfield to objectively bad teams. you'd never see something like this in McLaren lol

↳ username5 wow literally shut the fuck up

username6 Alex explicitly says the team worked hard and he just wasn't comfortable in the car and yet you guys are talking shit about unrelated stuff this is ridiculous

username7 IT'S OKAY HE'LL DO BETTER IN THE NEXT RACE

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alex_albon We'll do better next time. Special thanks to @.yourusername for leading me so brilliantly through such a complicated race.

username1 you guys don't know how to behave so he had to make a post making it clear y/n isn't the problem 😭😭😭 embarrassing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

username2 chin up alex you're the goat

username3 THE CAR SUCKS BUT YOU DON'T!!!!!!!!!

yourusername Proud of you like always ❤️ ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,003 others

When Carlos gets his first podium with Williams a few weeks later, Alex is ecstatic.

He celebrates. He hugs his teammate. He parties with his team. He doesn't even look you in the eye the entire night, and you know he's getting into his own head.

You'd been one of Williams' engineers for his side of the garage for years, so he knew you before this season, of course he did. He smiled brightly when he was told you'd be on his radio for the next season right after one of the last races during the prior year, his still gloved hand shaking yours excitedly.

Truly, Alex is your friend. Moreover, Alex feels like he's disappointing you.

"I'm sorry," are the first words out of his mouth when he finally sits down next to you in whatever random club you're at, many hours after the race ended and too many drinks later. "I'm sorry I sucked today. And on many other days."

You immediately shove his shoulder, touch burning under the soft white shirt he's wearing. Feels like cotton.

"Shut up, Albon. It's not your fault." Your words are a little slurred and so are his and neither of you mind. "We'll get there too."

He breathes sharply, throwing his head back to look at the ceiling, back resting against the couch you're sharing.

"I hope so," he turns his neck so he can stare at you. "Maybe we need more team bonding."

You laugh at that, propping up your elbow against the couch as your chin rests on your free hand. Your other hand holds a half empty glass.

"Oh, yeah?" You take a long sip of your drink. "What kind of team bonding are you thinking?"

"I don't know," he admits, "any kind."

You laugh again, and a shadow of a smile takes over his face. He sighs and closes his eyes for a moment. It feels peaceful, to just sit here with you for a second, listening to the noises of the club, feeling like they're far away, a quiet buzz from the alcohol swimming through his veins.

He opens his eyes.

"What color are the lights?"

You blink in surprise at the question.

"What?"

"What color are the lights?" He repeats, and you look around the club to check.

Just like in any other places, your eyes travel around the space to find different hues of black, white, and gray. You can see light flashing brightly closer to the dance floor, but they are as monochrome to you as everything else. You wonder if they're red, or purple, or blue. You wouldn't know if you could see them — wouldn't recognize the colors you've never seen before.

You know the stories. One miraculous touch from your universe-assigned soulmate, and the entire world would explode in color. You only know it to be true because it has happened to too many acquaintances and friends and family members to be false.

Some look for their soulmates their entire life. You're preoccupied with other things.

It's not that you don't care or that you don't want to look for your soulmate. You like to think you're just — not obsessing over it. If it's meant to be, if you're truly meant to find this perfect person who will quite literally bring color to your life, they'll show up. You won't have to look for them.

Yet you've heard F1 cars are different colors, and that must make them easier to differentiate, specially when they're going too fast for you to read the numbers and sponsors. So maybe that'd be helpful.

"I wouldn't know." You finally look back at him just to find him studying you, his dark gray eyes mapping every inch of your monochrome face. "All black and white to me."

"Really?" He sounds somewhat surprised, and you chuckle.

"Really."

Usually, this is the moment when two strangers look at each other awkwardly and touch hands just to see, chuckling even more awkwardly when nothing changes.

You and Alex don't need to, though, so you don't. Because you're pretty sure you've already touched him many times before — you work together, you're his race engineer, you've clapped his back and given him high fives and shaken his hand.

So the two of you keep conversation going for the rest of the night, coming up with team bonding exercises and discussing race strategies until the topic shifts towards childhood memories, his first karting win, your time in university, the way his parents always said his favorite color would probably be blue when he could see it.

Your body is warm from more than just the buzz of your drinks, and, when you finally leave, hand in hand with some girl from the social media department who you always share hotel rooms with, you offer him a grin.

And he grins right back, waving you goodbye, shoulders lighter than before.

It starts to nag at you, day after day.

Have you actually touched Alex before?

You're not sure why the question rises up inside your mind. You have, right? You must have. You've known him for years. you're his race engineer. You must have.

Why can't you remember a single time you actually did, though? Every single touch you can think of happened with gloves, on his race suit, his hand on your shoulder on top of your clothes. Why can't you remember a single time you touched skin to skin?

What if you haven't?

That's a good question, what if. What if… what? It's not like he could be your soulmate. There's no spark. There's no—no chemistry.

Well, there is a little chemistry. There has to be because you're his race engineer and you need to work well together, to have some sort of understanding. It's not—it's not like that, though.

You would know if Alex was your soulmate. You'd feel it somehow. You must've touched at least once, a brush of fingers, anything. You would know.

"Alex, Antonelli coming up behind you."

"How far?"

"3 seconds, but he's closing the gap really fast."

Your eyes fly across the many screens in front of you, from Alex's vitals to the state of every single screw and bolt on the car to the live stream of information that shows Mercedes' number 12 inching closer and closer to your number 23.

"Antonelli is 2.1 seconds behind."

"Fuck!"

"Take it easy, Alex. Just focus on defending. You're doing great today. We only have 3 more laps, come on."

You watch the screen attentively. You count down the seconds to Alex on the radio as Antonelli grows closer, but Alex manages. He moves the car deliberately, forcing the Mercedes driver to wear out his tires, avoiding an overtake until you're screaming into the radio microphone, smiling wildly.

"P5, Alex! You're P5! Good fucking job!"

He gives you a high five when he's finally out of the car and you're acutely aware of his gloves, of how his skin doesn't actually touch yours. Even when you take a picture with the team to celebrate his position, his arm resting across your back, it only comes in contact with your dark gray shirt.

It's weird, now. Noticing it.

It's weirder when he reaches out for you in the way he does after almost every race, a bright grin on his face as his hand comes up to touch your clothed shoulder.

Even still, you grin back at him.

"Great job today, Albon." His fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder, and, for some strange reason, it sends a spark of electricity through your body that absolutely terrifies you. "I told you you'd get back into your rhythm, didn't I?"

"Our rhythm." His eyes sparkle with excitement. "You did amazing today, truly. Couldn't have done it without you."

You punch him in the arm playfully, your skin touching his race suit. Your fingers seem to tingle.

"Stop it. You were the one driving the car. I was just yelling in your ear."

He laughs at that, pulling you in for a hug. Your body immediately tenses up, eyes wide open as you wait for it, for something, for anything.

Nothing happens. His arms touch yours, the fabric of his race suit rubbing against your skin. It almost feels unlucky, in a way, and then you're chastising yourself — you've hugged before. Surely, you've touched then. You're just making up a problem that doesn't exist.

You hug him back. Your heart beats wildly inside your chest.

You're going fucking insane.

liked by yourusername, georgerussell and 305,716 others

alex_albon Really good work today!! More points in the bank 🤌💙

username1 y/n looks amazing and then there's alex

username2 am I the only one who thought they were lowkey flirting in the radio today…

↳ username3 bestie you're insane actually

williamsf1official Great work, Alex!

yourusername ALBOGOAT ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,518 others

username4 no because why am I sort of obsessed with the dynamic between alex and his race engineer… do you guys think they could be soulmates…

↳ username3 BFFR

liked by georgerussell63, albonfan1 and 456,321 others

alex_albon Enjoying the holidays before we head back to work 🏎️

username1 THIS YEAR IS ALEX ALBON'S YEAR

username2 ALEX WDC IDC!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

albonfan1 omg that meat looks so good………..

username3 man's an eater truly

It's late one night when Alex searches you out in the Williams headquarters, probably already past midnight. He's in for simulator work, discussing his issues with the car with the engineers while you're on endless meetings with the team's strategists, debating pit preferences and quali orders.

It's pre-season. To your relief, the season ended soon after your—your silly crisis, and you had quite a bit of time to recenter yourself.

You're not avoiding Alex. That would be really fucking stupid. You're just—getting into your own head. It's fine. It's fine! You're not that close either way. You're just friends. Coworkers. Acquaintances.

You should not be this stressed out over the hypothetical (and probably inaccurate) possibility of not having touched Alex Albon skin to skin. Of maybe, perhaps, being his soulmate. It's fucking stupid.

You are, though. He's cute, you've noticed. And he's always nice — to you, to the other engineers, to Carlos. He's really funny and sweet. You really enjoy listening to him speak on the radio. It's—yeah. Yeah.

"Hey." He smiles when he finally gets to you, not even noticing the way your eyes widen in surprised and wrongly-placed panic. "I feel like I haven't seen you in ages."

A soft chuckle leaves your lips, and you smile back, looking down at your notebook. "Yeah, it's been a while." You look back up at him. "Did you have a nice break?"

"I did, yeah." He shoves his hands inside his pockets. "You?"

"Yup." You nod a little too enthusiastically. "Hung out with my family. Saw some friends. It was great."

"I'm glad." His smile is so genuine your heart skips a beat, and you can't even believe how silly you're being. "I hope you rested well, because we'll have a lot of work this season."

"Yes, we will." Your fingers tap against your notebook, and you force yourself to relax a bit. "Give me a podium on Australia, will you?"

Alex laughs, and the sound is really nice. You can't believe you've never noticed how nice his laugh sounds before.

You can't believe you're thinking about any of this. You need to get your shit together and act normal.

"Yes, ma'am. Still counting on that team bonding, though."

A snort escapes you.

The two of you snap your heads towards one of the other engineers as Alex's name is called from the sim room, and he gives you a playful nod before running back. You manage to offer him a small wave, chest clenching as he leaves even while your body relaxes.

You're genuinely losing your mind.

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alex_albon Pre-season

tagged: yourusername

username1 HUM?

username2 best Williams duo back at it again ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others

↳ alex_albon Damn right

↳↳ carlossainz55 Excuse me? ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,518 others

username3 they came back from break attached at the hip omg

username4 i love how literally every single picture we get of alex from testing and every social media thing he shows up in, y/n is right beside him. they're literally best friends they'll kill it this season

yourusername GET BACK TO THE SIM ♡ liked by alex_albon and 1,347 others

↳ alex_albon 🫡🫡🫡

↳↳ username5 chat is this… flirting…

liked by alex_albon, williamsf1official and 20,741 others

yourusername Australia here we come!! 💙

alex_albon YESSSSSSSSSSSS ♡ liked by yourusername

lauramuller Looking so good! Good luck to Williams this season! ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername Good luck to Haas too!!!!!!!!!!

username1 I LOVE her style I have to say

username2 what a cutie!!!

username3 FACE CARD NEVER DECLINES

username4 I'm obsessed

username5 why no pictures with Alex? we know you have them

liked by yourusername, williamsf1official and 56,714 others

alex_albon Confident in the car, confident in my team. Australia here we come!

yourusername you stole my caption…

↳ alex_albon perhaps

username1 WILLIAMS WCC!!!!!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 2,603 others

username2 SO EXCITEDDDD CAN'T THE SEASON START ALREADY

username3 confident in the car?????????????????????????? has a williams driver ever said this before??????????? historical

williamsf1official 💙💙💙 ♡ liked by alex_albon and 5,214 others

"Alex, Piastri has overtaken Antonelli and is 4 seconds behind you."

"4 seconds? That's a lot."

You roll your eyes, a grin taking over your face.

"It's his home race, Alex. Don't be mean."

"What position are we in?"

You look at all the screens in front of you.

"P4. Really good result for the first race of the season, if you can keep it up." There's an edge of teasing to your voice, but he barely notices it.

"There's still a bunch of laps. Who's P3?"

You blink. "Russell. 3.4 seconds ahead."

"I'm coming after his ass."

A surprised laugh escapes your lips. "So 4 seconds is a lot, but 3.4 isn't?"

"I promised someone an Australia podium."

Your cheeks flush at that, and you ignore the side-eye you get from a few of your colleagues, fingers tightening on the notes sprawled on the table in front of you as you watch your screens.

It happens slowly.

The gap decreases lap by lap, until Alex is just 3, 2, 1.7 seconds away. He always puts in a lot of effort, but this time he chases Russell like a hunter, calculated turns saving every millisecond they can until he's so close you can taste the champagne on your tongue. He chases hungrily, and you match his hunger easily in the same way you seem to always match him, counting down the seconds and speaking in sharp, precise bursts of words, making sure not to throw him off.

"You're less than half a second away, Alex." You're aware he knows, you're aware he can see George right in front of him, you're aware the front of his car is already aligned with the back of Russell's, but you can't help but say it out loud, eyes wide with excitement.

"I know," and he knows you know, but he can't help but say it out loud either.

It's glorious. Your heart is out of your chest and reaching out to him and you're sure his ears must hurt when the Williams pit wall explodes in cheers the second Alex concludes the overtake. Your hand comes up to your mouth and your eyes fill with water and you can hear his voice screaming into the radio, and you don't care about anything else in the world.

The checkered flag is waved and it takes Alex mere moments until he runs towards your team by the boxes, jumping up and down by the race track when it's finally over. His gloved hands hold your wrists and your hands hold his helmet, staring into his gray eyes through the glass as the two of you yell at each other, tears streaming down your face and both screaming complete nonsense before he's dragged away to the cool-down room.

Everything happens too fast. Before you know, you're looking up at the podium, and he looks straight down at you before Great Britain's national anthem ends, eyes sparkling with joy and excitement and something else, and then he's spraying you with champagne, and you laugh, and laugh, and laugh, eyes burning from the alcohol, grin hurting your cheeks, so happy you can barely breathe.

Coworkers and engineers from other teams congratulate you as you walk through the crowd to the back of the podium where you know he must be, and you smile widely — you're on a mission. Alex's first podium with Williams. Your first podium ever. You're fucking ecstatic.

He's looking for you, too. You find each other in the middle of a random hallway, both searching, both shaking with excitement, and he's pulling you into his arms before you can react, naked hands coming up warm and tight against your back while yours come around his shoulders.

"I told you—"

"I can't believe—"

"Thank you so much—"

"You're—"

When you pull away enough to look at him, your hands automatically come up to cradle his jaw, holding his face just like you held his helmet minutes after the race, in a way that feels so natural, so instinctive, that you barely notice your own movements.

And the world explodes.

You can't name any of the colors you see. You've never seen them before. It's bright — so bright, overwhelming, makes your retinas hurt. Your breath catches, and Alex's eyes go impossibly wide.

His eyes are dark. Not gray, like before. You immediately want to know the name of this color — still dark, but warmer. Softer. Sweeter. It matches his hair. He looks good in Williams colors, whatever they are.

You can't manage to process anything else other than this — the soft warmth of his eyes, the way it matches his hair, the way every single color in the world seems made just for him, created exclusively to look nice around him.

You laugh. You laugh, and he's laughing too, and you're pulling him into another tight hug, and your head hurts from all the brightness and you can't name a single thing you're seeing, but it's perfect, isn't it? It's perfect.

When you pull away again, his eyes seem to sparkle in an even more beautiful way, lighting up their deep color, and he grins, and it's perfect.

"I hoped it was you," he admits. Your heart seems to burst. You laugh once more, loudly, your entire body burning hot, your eyes burning from the champagne, your heart burning from seeing him in his entirety.

"I'm glad it's you," it comes out choked, and you might be crying again. He lets out something between a sigh and a chuckle, and, before you know it, his lips touch yours softly, as warm as the color of his eyes. You don't care if anyone sees it, you don't care that you're standing in the middle of a hallway in the paddock, you don't care about any consequences or logistics — you can only see his colors.

You've heard stories of soulmates. Of this moment. You've never searched for it, not intentionally, and yet it came to you. Just like you believed it would.

You pull your lips away and his follow. You stare at him again, you commit his colors to memory. It's all so overwhelming you can barely think.

"Congratulations on the podium," you manage, and he grins so big you can feel your face flushing, "really good race."

"You're so stupid," his voice is smothered with affection, and a giggle escapes you before his mouth slants over yours, his hands resting on the back of your neck and sending a pleasant shiver up your spine.

Your eyes close as you sigh into his kiss, turning off the colors that stay engraved into your mind. He sighs too, and it feels bright. Brighter than the world around you, brighter than anything you've ever seen or felt before.

It's stupid, yes. It's perfect, too.

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yourusername touched this guy by accident and now everything's too bright

tagged: alex_albon

username1 WAIT DO YOU MEAN

username2 OH MY GODDDDDDD

username3 I KNEWWWWWW THERE WAS SOMETHING GOING ON

username4 first time you post him properly and it's a soulmate reveal oh my god I'm obsessed

alex_albon you're my favorite color

↳ yourusername OH......

↳↳ alex_albon IS THIS A BAD THING? DON'T REACT LIKE THAT ♡ liked by yourusername

liked by yourusername, carlossainz55 and 893,064 others

alex_albon hard launch

tagged: yourusername

georgerussell63 CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!! ♡ liked by alex_albon and 13,248 others

carlossainz55 Okay maybe you can be the best Williams duo ♡ liked by alex_albon and 25,147 others

username1 oh they look so good together

username2 finding your soulmate is such a beautiful experience I'm so happy for you guys ❤️

yourusername you're MY favorite color ♡ liked by alex_albon and 18,316 others

↳ alex_albon SEE IT'S CUTE WHY DID YOU SAY OH

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