AMANI

The Singapore Grand Prix was over, but Oscar hadn’t even looked at the podium.

The final laps had been chaos an endless sequence of “hold position,” strategic confusion, biased pit calls, and moments where he could feel the team favoring someone else.

Every overtake, every corner, every ounce of effort had been undermined by decisions he couldn’t control.

And now, exhausted and hollow, he only wanted one thing: you.

The moment the checkered flag waved, he made a beeline toward you.

No words, no hesitations just raw, desperate need for grounding.

He wrapped you in his arms as though holding onto you was the only thing keeping him upright. You felt the tremor of his exhaustion through him: the mental strain, the physical strain, the cumulative weight of a season that had never fully seen him.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, pressing your cheek against his damp hair.

“I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He clung to you, shaking slightly, and for the first time since the race started, he allowed himself to collapse just a little emotionally, physically.

He didn’t let go.

He couldn’t.

And you didn’t let him.

When the taxi brought you back to the hotel, you didn’t even ask questions.

You guided him into the room, past the glowing lights of the city below, past the faint echo of the cheering fans outside.

“Come on,” you murmured.

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He didn’t resist.

He simply followed, silent and trembling, letting you lead him to the bathroom.

The shower was already warm, steam curling around you both.

You stepped in first, letting the water fall over your shoulders, and then guided him gently into the spray.

“Lean into me,” you said softly, holding him close. “Let me help you release it all, even if it’s just for a moment.”

His shoulders were stiff, muscles knotted from tension and the relentless push of the track.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, massaging his scalp slowly, carefully.

Every stroke, every small circle on his shoulders, every gentle press along his back was a silent promise : he didn’t have to carry this alone.

“You’ve been holding so much,” you whispered, letting your hands move over his arms and shoulders. “All season, every race… and tonight… I know. I see it.”

He exhaled shakily, burying his face in your neck, leaning into your hands as if the simple contact could remove the exhaustion lodged deep in his bones.

“I can’t… I can’t stop trying,” he murmured, voice breaking.

“I give everything, and it’s never enough.”

“You’re enough,” you replied, pressing a kiss to his damp hair.

“You’ve always been enough.

You just needed a safe place to be reminded of it.”

For a long while, you guided him, massaging, washing, letting the warm water rinse away the sweat and the tension, the adrenaline and heartbreak.

He trembled slightly under your touch, not from desire, but from the sheer relief of letting someone care for him without judgment.

You reminded him in small gestures brushing hair from his forehead, rubbing circles into his shoulders, letting him exhale that he could finally just be.

When the shower ended both of you being wrapped in towels you led him to the bed.

He didn’t hesitate; he collapsed onto it, resting his head in your lap.

You played with his damp hair, your fingers threading into the strands, while his hands found yours, squeezing gently.

His eyes were heavy with fatigue and residual frustration, but in the quiet, he started to let it out.

“I hate them,” he muttered, voice muffled against your leg.

“All season… every radio call, every strategy, every favor… it’s like they don’t even see me.”

“I know,” you whispered, running your thumb along his temple.

“I know. But you’re seen here, Osc. You’re safe here. You’re loved.”

He exhaled again, a shaky, weighty breath.

“I just… I want to be… I want to be enough.”

“You are,” you said softly. “Every lap, every corner, every effort you’ve given I see it all. And I love you for it. Always.”

His fingers played gently with yours, threading through them as your hands continued to move through his hair.

His other hand found its way to your shoulders, rubbing tiny circles into you, grounding you just as much as you had grounded him.

You let yourself lean into him, letting him care for you while still holding you safe.

The tension in your shoulders softened under his touch, the tightness in your chest easing as you realized you didn’t have to be strong right now either.

“You’ve carried so much for me,” he whispered, voice breaking again.

“Let me… let me hold you this time.”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him fully.

“You’re already holding me,” you admitted, letting him stroke your hair, knead your shoulders, press small comforting kisses to your temple.

“I feel safe with you.”

Minutes passed like hours.

You didn’t speak; you didn’t need to.

Your fingers played with each other’s hair, your hands moved in gentle, reassuring motions.

He murmured complaints about the team, the season, the unfairness and you listened, letting him vent, letting him release the weight he had carried for so long.

Eventually, the room grew quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing and the warmth of two bodies holding each other.

His head stayed in your lap, your hands threading through his hair.

He exhaled long, deep breaths, finally allowing himself to feel relief, to let go.

You pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head, whispering,

“Always together. No matter what.”

He nuzzled closer, sighing into your legs. “Always,” he murmured.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

The race, the bias, the chaos of the season it could all wait.

Here, in your arms, he was seen.

He was safe.

The parking lot was never much to look at. The asphalt was cracked in spiderweb patterns, as if the earth had grown tired of supporting all the cars that weighed it down. Faded white lines tried to maintain order but were losing the battle to time and weather.

In the rainy season, puddles gathered like shallow lakes, and in the dry heat, dust settled in every crevice. Most people chose their spots at random every morning, drifting between whatever was available, but not you. You had a claim—not legal, not official, but a claim nonetheless. Third row, fifth space from the left, beneath the weary shade of a spindly tree. It wasn't glamorous, but it was yours.

The spot had history. You'd parked there through  late nights and early mornings, in the monsoon when you sprinted inside under your umbrella, and in blistering sunshine when you left the windows cracked open just to avoid suffocating.

The tree had once dropped a branch on your hood and left a dent that insurance refused to cover. You forgave it anyway. This was your territory. Everyone in the office knew.

Which was why, on that particular Tuesday morning, your foot slammed on the brake as if you'd seen a ghost. Because someone—some stranger—was in your spot.

Not just any stranger.

A sleek black Mercedes sat gleaming in the sunlight, parked with a confidence that suggested it didn't worry about petty things like citations or tow warnings. The car looked less like it had been driven and more like it had rolled directly off the showroom floor that morning—paint shining, chrome sharp enough to blind, tires slick with polish.

Even the air around it seemed cleaner, as if dust refused to risk dulling its finish.

But the car wasn't what made your hands lock around the steering wheel. It was the man leaning against the driver's side door, one ankle crossed over the other, attention half-buried in his phone. He didn't just look like he belonged there—he looked like he belonged everywhere.

George.

Not "George the Janitor," not "George with the nerdy comments." George Russell. Formula One's golden boy, poster child of speed and precision, the man whose face you'd seen on billboards, screens, and headlines whether you'd wanted to or not.

He had the kind of public life that was inescapable; tuxedos on magazine covers, helmets in victory photos, smug little smiles that sponsors seemed to eat up. And now, absurdly, impossibly—he was standing in your parking spot, scrolling his phone like the lot, the building, the city, maybe even the whole damn world, already belonged to him.

Your boss's words flickered at the back of your mind, uncomfortably sharp.

"He'll be dropping by this week," he had said casually yesterday afternoon, as if announcing a plumber's visit. "Might use our office for a bit, some personal business. Just...don't be surprised if you see him around."

You hadn't asked who he was. You'd been buried in deadlines, nodding absently, assuming some client, some consultant, some random high-profile visitor you'd never interact with. Now, with your bumper inches from a car worth more than your salary times five, you understood exactly who he was.

And apparently, fate had decided your first meeting wouldn't be in the safety of your boss's office, but right here, in the middle of the battlefield you'd defended with passive-aggressive ferocity for weeks.

He looked up then, sensing the weight of your stare. His eyes met yours through the windshield, cool and steady, like he'd known all along this was how it would happen. And for the first time in a very long time, you weren't sure whether to put your car in park—or reverse and run.

You parked two rows away, killing the engine harder than necessary, and sat for a moment just staring at him. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe he didn't know. But deep in your chest you already felt it: the primal flare of possessiveness. This was your space, and he had no right.

By the time you got out of your car, George had looked up. Even behind dark sunglasses, you could feel the weight of his attention sweep over you. He smiled—a small, amused tilt of his lips, like someone who'd just stumbled onto a private joke.

     "Excuse me," you said, pointing accusingly at the asphalt. "You're in my spot."

     He looked up slowly, like a cat disturbed from its nap. His smile tilted in amusement. "Good morning to you, too."

     "I'm serious." You jabbed your finger at the faded line beneath his car. "This is my spot."

     "Is it?" He pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, revealing eyes that were as sharp and blue as the racing suits you'd seen him in on TV. "Because unless I'm missing something, I don't see your name painted on it."

     Your jaw tightened. "Everyone knows it's mine. I've parked here for years."

      "Then maybe everyone should've told me." He folded his arms, leaning back against the hood as if he intended to stay there all day. "Look, it's shady, close to the entrance, good visibility—what can I say? I've got an eye for the best line."

"Best line?" You scoffed. "This isn't a racetrack, it's a parking lot."

     He chuckled, low and maddeningly smooth. "Still all about strategy."

     You stared at him, incredulous. Of all the places for him to wedge himself into your life, it had to be here, in the one corner of the world you thought was safe from celebrity nonsense. "Don't you have a valet? Or a private garage? Or a... helipad?"

     George shrugged. "I like this spot." That made him grin, a flash of white teeth against sun-kissed skin. "Tell you what—next time, get here earlier. Problem solved."

     The infuriating part was how calm he was, how clearly entertained he seemed by your outrage. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because nothing you could say would puncture that smug smile. Instead you spun on your heel and stalked away, muttering about arrogant rich men and their terrible taste in real estate.

     The next morning, you woke earlier than usual, sheer determination pushing you out the door. You skipped your coffee run, chewed a stale granola bar instead, and drove with one mission in mind: reclaim what was yours.

But when you turned into the lot, your heart sank.

     The Mercedes was already there. Parked perfectly within the lines, gleaming smugly under the morning light. But George himself was nowhere to be seen.

      You parked nearby, fuming, and as you walked past his car, you noticed a rectangle of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper.

      Curiosity prickled. Against your better judgment, you plucked it free and read the neat, slanted handwriting:

Pole position goes to me. Better luck tomorrow.

     Your mouth dropped open. He had left you a note. On his windshield. Like he knew you'd storm past, like he'd staged this entire thing just to needle you.

      You crumpled the note into your pocket, cheeks hot, and muttered, "Unbelievable."

     By Thursday, you tried to convince yourself it was a fluke, that maybe he'd get bored and move on. But when you turned into the lot, déjà vu hit like a punch. The Mercedes sat there again, immaculate, perfectly angled in your space.

      This time, two notes fluttered in the breeze beneath his wipers. You yanked the first free:

Track limits exceeded. Five-second penalty.

Your scowl deepened. The second note was even worse:

A champion always defends their territory.

      You could almost hear his voice in those words, amused and cocky. You shoved the papers into your bag and marched inside, telling yourself you were not going to play his game.

      But by Friday, it was impossible to deny. It was a game. His game—and somehow, yours too.

Another note appeared, crisp and mocking:

Unsportsmanlike conduct. Black flag.

Then another the following week:

Oversteer detected. Recommend adjustments.

And another:

Pit stop needed: you look exhausted.

     That last one made you laugh, loud and unguarded, before you caught yourself. You glanced around to make sure no one had noticed, then quickly folded the note and slid it into your bag with the others. You told yourself you'd throw them away later, but you didn't. You couldn't. They were ridiculous, childish, infuriating—and addictive.

     Every morning, as you rounded the corner into the lot, your pulse picked up with a strange anticipation. Would he be there in person this time, leaning against his car with that unbearable grin? Or would it just be the Mercedes, silent and smug, with another neatly folded note waiting for you to find?

You hated that you looked forward to finding out.

     By the third week, the notes weren't enough anymore.

     You'd gotten used to peeling his smug little messages from his windshield—phrases that sounded like racing commentary but felt aimed directly at you, every word dripping with taunt and tease.

     At first you saved them only to remind yourself how much he annoyed you, but somehow they ended up tucked neatly in your desk drawer at work. You weren't sure when they'd gone from "evidence of his crimes" to something closer to a secret collection.

But the morning battles were starting to feel like more than paper games.

     On the next Monday, you arrived determined to beat him, only to find the space blocked off with two bright orange traffic cones. Not standard cones either—these were stamped with the logo of one of his sponsors. You gawked at them in disbelief, then spotted the folded note taped to one:

Practice session in progress. Please observe track limits.

     Your laugh was sharp and disbelieving. He'd actually staged the parking lot like it was a circuit. Rolling your eyes, you got out, dragged both cones aside, and parked anyway. But you left the note behind, pinned beneath your windshield wiper like a trophy.

      The next day, he struck again. When you arrived, the space was empty—for a moment you thought you'd won—until you saw the chalk outline scrawled across the asphalt. A white rectangle drawn neatly inside the faded lines, with the words George's Pit Box scribbled in bold letters across the top.

He wasn't even there. Just the outline, waiting for you like graffiti.

     You muttered curses under your breath, parked two spaces over, and spent the entire walk to the building rehearsing the scathing speech you'd give him the next time you saw his smug face.

That time came sooner than expected.

     By the Wednesday of the third week, when you swung into the lot, George was already there, perched casually on the hood of his Mercedes. He had no sunglasses this time, just tousled hair and that infuriating smile like he'd been expecting you all along.

"Morning," he drawled, lifting a coffee cup in lazy salute.

     "Morning?" you repeated, throwing your hands up. "Are you serious? Cones? Chalk outlines? What's next, a pit crew to wave me away with flags?"

"Not a bad idea," he mused. "I'll see what I can do."

      You glared at him, heart hammering faster than you wanted to admit. "Why are you even doing this? You could park anywhere. You probably have ten garages. Why here?"

     He tilted his head, studying you like you were a puzzle. "Why not here?"

"Because it's my spot."

"Exactly." His grin widened. "That's why it's fun."

     You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because what could you possibly say to that? He was toying with you, and worse, he knew you'd keep playing.

     "You're irresistible ," you muttered, brushing past him toward the building. But as you walked away, you swore you heard him chuckle under his breath, and it left a heat in your chest you couldn't quite name.

Thursday morning was your turn.

     You arrived before dawn, when the lot was still shrouded in the grey light of morning. You parked triumphantly in your spot, pulled a sheet of paper from your bag, and scribbled a message in bold black marker before taping it to your windshield:

Reserved for actual hard-working people. Celebrity drivers can find valet service elsewhere.

     When you returned in the evening, the note was gone. But on Friday, George was back, his Mercedes shining in your space, and a fresh sheet of paper waited under his wiper:

Correction: reserved for people who can parallel park without crying.

     You gasped out a laugh despite yourself, looking around quickly to make sure no one had seen. He was infuriating. He was relentless. And—if you were being honest—he was funny.

     One rainy morning, you arrived to find him already there, standing under an umbrella beside his car. The storm had left the lot slick and shining, puddles scattered like landmines. You hesitated at the edge of your row, wondering if you should just park elsewhere and avoid him, but something about the sight of him waiting made your feet move forward.

"You're early," you said, tugging your jacket tighter against the rain.

     "So are you." His grin was crooked, boyish, softened by the drizzle beading on his hair. "Getting competitive, are we?"

You rolled your eyes. "Don't flatter yourself."

     But the corner of your mouth betrayed you, twitching upward.

     For the first time, he didn't gloat. He just smiled back, quiet and easy, and for a moment the storm around you seemed to fade.

      It happened on a Friday, the kind of Friday where everything already felt like too much. You'd overslept, spilled coffee down your shirt, and barely made it to the lot with five minutes to spare before you'd be late. And then, as if the universe wanted to mock you before you reached room, your car gave a sickening wheeze in the highway . You tried again. The engine coughed once, shuddered, and fell silent.

     You sat there gripping the steering wheel, forehead resting against the leather, breathing in the faint smell of burnt oil. Of course this would happen. You were debating whether to slam your head against the horn out of sheer frustration when a knock on the window startled you.

     George stopped his car at the side, leaning down just enough to peer inside, a faintly smug expression plastered on his annoyingly handsome face. He gestured for you to roll the window down.

     "Need a push?" he asked when you complied, his voice amused but not unkind. "Or should I call my pit crew?"

     "Don't you dare," you groaned, covering your eyes with one hand. "I'll never live that down."

     "Relax," he said, straightening up. "I won't tell anyone. Scout's honor." He circled to the front of your car, lifted the hood with an ease that suggested he'd done this before, and peered inside. "Although," he admitted after a beat, "I'm very good at driving cars, not fixing them."

     You leaned out your window. "So you're saying all that money and not a clue what to do with a dead battery?"

     He smirked, unbothered. "I could probably change a tire. Beyond that... you'll have to settle for me looking useful while you call a tow truck."

     Despite yourself, you laughed. He stayed there with you, leaning against the side of your car like it was the most natural thing in the world.

     When the tow finally came, he lingered still, insisting on waiting until you were sorted. It wasn't something he had to do. It wasn't part of the game. And for a moment, you didn't quite know what to make of it.

     The tow truck driver strapped your poor car onto the flatbed with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. You stood off to the side, arms crossed, rain still damp in your hair from earlier and a sinking sense of defeat in your stomach.

     It wasn't just the inconvenience of losing your car; it was the humiliation of George, of all people, standing nearby with his arms casually folded, watching it happen like some smug witness to your downfall.

     When the driver finally waved you over to sign the papers, George stepped closer. "Where's home?" he asked, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

     "You can't exactly Uber from here. And I'm not letting you walk." His tone was matter-of-fact, the kind of confidence that didn't leave much room for argument. He gestured with his keys, already moving toward his car. "Come on. I'll drive you."

      The idea of being trapped in a car with him—the same man you'd spent weeks trading petty windshield notes with—was absurd. And yet, when you glanced at the retreating taillights of the tow truck and the empty space where your car had been, you realized you didn't have many other options. With a sigh that was meant to sound annoyed, you followed.

     His car was pristine inside, of course. Sleek leather, faintly smelling of cologne, with little hints of luxury you'd only ever glimpsed in magazines. Sliding into the passenger seat felt almost surreal, like stepping into a different world entirely.

     You tugged the seatbelt across your chest, trying not to stare at the way he adjusted the mirrors with casual precision.

"You don't have to—" you started.

"I know," he cut in smoothly, glancing over with that faint smirk. "I want to."

      The engine purred to life beneath your feet, quieter than you expected, controlled power wrapped in elegance. For a man who made his living taking corners at terrifying speeds, George drove the streets with almost exaggerated patience, one hand resting lightly on the wheel. You found yourself studying the lines of his profile, the way his focus softened outside the track, how he seemed strangely normal.

      The silence stretched for a moment before he broke it. "So," he said lightly, "do I get to know why you're so determined to fight me over that spot every morning?"

       You shot him a look. "Do I get to know why a millionaire F1 driver refuses to use valet?"

     His laugh was soft, genuine, slipping between you like a secret. "Touché." He tapped the wheel thoughtfully. "Maybe I just like having something ordinary. Something not staged, not planned. Just... you and me bickering over a rectangle of asphalt."

     You turned your gaze toward the window, hoping he wouldn't notice the warmth crawling up your neck. Because the truth was, you felt the same. And maybe, sitting there in his too-perfect car with the city rolling by, you realized that the war you'd been fighting wasn't really about a parking spot anymore.

     George pulled smoothly up to the curb outside your building, easing the car into park with the same fluid motion he did everything.

     For a moment, you just sat there, the quiet hum of the engine filling the silence. It felt oddly reluctant, as though the moment shouldn't end yet.

     "Thanks," you said finally, unbuckling your seatbelt. Your voice sounded too small in the polished interior.

     He glanced over at you, one hand still resting casually on the wheel. "Anytime." There was no tease in his tone this time, no sly smile or smirk. Just a simple sincerity that caught you off guard.

     You stepped out, the night air cooler than you expected, brushing damp against your skin. He stayed in the car, window rolled down, watching as you slung your bag over your shoulder and made your way to the door.

     You told yourself it was normal courtesy, that he was just waiting to see you safely inside. And yet... you could feel his gaze on you, steady and unhurried, like he wasn't ready to leave either.

     At the door, you hesitated. The keys were already in your hand, but something made you glance back. He was still there, resting his arm along the window frame, the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth like he'd been caught in a thought.

"What?" you asked, voice carrying softly across the quiet street.

     His smile deepened, subtle but warm. "Nothing. Just... you're different when you're not glaring at me over a parking space."

     You snorted, but the sound came out too soft, too fond. "Don't get used to it."

     "Too late," he said simply. Then, with a little tap to the wheel, he added, "Goodnight," before easing the car back into motion, taillights glowing red as they disappeared down the street.

      You stood there for a long moment, keys slack in your hand, the warmth of his words lingering heavier than they should have.

      The next day was heavy with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and promised a storm. By the time you left the building, the sky had cracked open, unleashing a torrent that blurred the edges of everything into silver. The parking lot shimmered with puddles, each step out of the doorway met with a roar of rain so thick it was like a curtain you couldn't see through.

     You hovered just inside the entryway, clutching your bag to your chest, glaring out at the storm as if sheer willpower might make it stop. You hadn't brought an umbrella. Of course you hadn't—your morning had been rushed again, distracted by thoughts you wouldn't admit even to yourself.

     Now you were stranded, the downpour hammering the pavement like it meant to keep you there all night.

"Forgot yours too?"

     The voice made you jump, though you knew it instantly. George slipped in beside you, shaking droplets from his hair, his jacket plastered damp against his shoulders. His grin was lopsided, boyish despite the water dripping off his jaw. He looked—annoyingly—like someone caught in an advert for cologne, the kind that made everything, even getting drenched, look glamorous.

     You folded your arms. "I wasn't planning on the sky declaring war."

     "Rookie mistake," he teased, echoing his words from yesterday, and then he leaned against the wall with casual ease, watching the sheets of rain. "We could wait it out."

     You tilted your head, squinting through the downpour. "And how long do you think that'll take?"

     He glanced at you sidelong, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "Or... we could run for it."

     You laughed, short and incredulous. "Through that? You'd drown."

     "Not if I'm faster than the rain." His grin widened, infuriatingly sure of himself. "Come on, it'll be fun."

      Something in his tone tugged at you, the way he said it like he wasn't just talking about running. Against your better judgment, you found yourself nodding. "Fine. But if I slip and break my neck, I'm haunting you."

"You'd make a very charming ghost," he said lightly, already holding the door for you.

      And then you were both out in it—sprinting across the lot, splashing through ankle-deep puddles, the storm drenching you in seconds. Your bag thudded against your side, your shoes squeaked with every step, and yet you couldn't stop laughing, the sound breaking free without your permission.

     He laughed too, loud and unguarded, glancing at you as if this—this chaos, this shared absurdity—was worth more than any victory on a track.

     By the time you ducked under the overhang near the cars, you were breathless, hair plastered to your cheeks, clothes sticking in uncomfortable places. You pressed your back to the wall, trying to catch your breath. George leaned beside you, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders shaking faintly with residual laughter.

     "Worth it," he said simply, voice low and certain, as if the storm had washed away every layer of his usual bravado.

And for once, you didn't argue.

     You only stood there with him, listening to the rain hammer the world into silence, the two of you caught in a moment that felt suspended outside of time.

      The morning after the storm, you half expected another sarcastic note plastered to George's windshield—something about how you'd almost drowned or how your running form needed improvement. You were braced for it, rehearsing comebacks in your head as you crossed the lot.

     But when you reached your pigeon hole at lunchtime, you stopped short. There was a folded square of paper.

You pulled it free, scanning the handwriting that had become so familiar:

"Truce? Meet me at the café across the street. My treat."

     You stared at it for longer than you cared to admit, the word truce looking strange in his handwriting, softer than his usual taunts. For a moment you debated crumpling it, pretending you hadn't seen it, clinging to the ritual of battle. But curiosity tugged at you, stronger than pride. By the time you found yourself pushing open the café door, you knew you'd already lost this round.

George was easy to spot, tucked in a corner booth, long legs stretched out comfortably as though he owned the place. A coffee already sat in front of him, and across the table was a second cup, steam curling into the air. He looked up as you approached, a faint smile breaking across his face.

"Didn't think you'd come," he said, voice low but carrying just enough smugness to keep you on familiar ground.

You slid into the seat opposite, deliberately casual. "I almost didn't. But free coffee is free coffee."

He chuckled, nudging the cup toward you. "Figured I owed you. After all, you did brave a hurricane on my ridiculous suggestion."

You wrapped your hands around the cup, letting the warmth soak into your chilled fingers. The café was cozy, rain still tapping faintly against the windows, and for once there was no rush, no car engines humming in the background, no scramble for territory. Just the two of you, tucked into a pocket of stillness.

"So," you said after a sip, "is this where you confess that you've secretly been enjoying all this?"

His eyes gleamed, amused but steady. "Confess? That makes it sound like a crime."

"You know what I mean."

He leaned back, studying you with a calm that made you shift in your seat. "Maybe I like starting my mornings with a fight I can't win."

You snorted, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself. "Can't win? Please. You've stolen that spot more times than I can count."

"Maybe," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "But it's not about winning, is it?"

The words hung there, heavier than they should have, settling between you with the weight of something unspoken. You broke eye contact first, focusing instead on the swirl of steam rising from your coffee. Still, you couldn't quite shake the warmth threading through you, stronger than the drink in your hands.

For once, neither of you needed to fill the silence. It was enough just to sit there, across from each other, sharing something that wasn't quite rivalry anymore.

The truce didn't erase the rivalry. You still left notes, he still claimed the spot when he could, but something subtle had shifted. The barbs weren't sharpened knives anymore — they were inside jokes, carved into paper and windshield wipers.

And then came the days when the rivalry wasn't even the point.

You found yourselves in the same café more often, not always by design. Sometimes you'd see him already there looking at some sort of papers, hair mussed, pen tapping against his notebook, and he'd gesture to the chair opposite him without a word. Sometimes you'd arrive first, and he'd show up minutes later, sliding into the seat across from you as if it had been waiting for him.

One evening, the rain came down heavy again. You were packing up to leave the office when George appeared at the doorway, car keys in hand.

"You're not seriously walking home in this, are you?"

You arched an eyebrow. "What's it to you?"

"Get in the car," he said simply, holding the door open.

The ride was quiet, but not awkward. The wipers kept time against the silence, the faint hum of the engine filling the spaces where banter used to be. At a red light, he glanced over. "You always hum when you're thinking."

You blinked. "I do not."

"You do," he said, grinning, eyes flicking back to the road. "Been hearing it for weeks."

That was the first time you realized: he'd been paying attention. Not just to the notes, not just to the battles for asphalt — but to you.

The realization sank in slowly, like water finding cracks in stone. It didn't hit you in some cinematic moment of clarity, no lightning strike or swelling music. It was quieter, trickier, a steady reshaping of your days until you barely recognized your own routines.

You used to glance at the lot in the mornings with the sharp-eyed defensiveness of a soldier scanning enemy lines. But lately, your first thought wasn't Is my spot taken? It was "Is he here?"

You scanned for the gleam of his Mercedes before you even turned in. You noticed how the sun caught the edges of its polished paint, how it looked like it belonged in a different world than your battered sedan — and how you didn't care, not anymore.

The notes on your desk and windshield had stopped being jokes weeks ago. You told yourself you kept them for the humor, for the ridiculousness of your back-and-forth. But on bad days, when your inbox felt like a collapsing avalanche and the clock seemed stuck at noon, you'd find your fingers brushing over one of his folded scraps, rereading some dumb jab about "civilized rules of warfare" or his messy attempt at drawing a crown to mark his "victory." And somehow, that was enough to get you through.

You caught yourself watching him in meetings too, though you never admitted it out loud. George never looked like he belonged in your office's gray-carpeted, coffee-stained world. He carried too much ease, too much polish, even when he wasn't trying. But then his gaze would cut across the table — swift, deliberate, like a secret meant only for you — and your pulse would skip, tightening your chest in a way no rival ever could.

And when you saw him laughing with someone else — a fellow team member, maybe, or one of the assistants who lingered too long in his orbit — you felt it, a tug sharp enough to leave you restless. You didn't want to name it. Didn't want to admit that it had stopped being a game long ago. This wasn't about parking anymore. And the thought of that — of wanting something so dangerous, so fleeting — terrified you more than losing the spot ever had.

Which was why, when he stopped you outside the lot one evening, you froze.

He looked different in the fading light, not just the usual clean-cut edges and precise posture but softer, more human. His hands were shoved into his pockets, shoulders drawn tight in a way that made your breath catch. George Russell wasn't supposed to look nervous. But right then, he did.

"You're going to say no if I don't ask now," he said quietly, his voice steady despite the tension in his jaw. "And I can't leave without asking."

You blinked. "Leave?"

He nodded once. "A few more days. Then I'm back to Monaco." The word landed like a weight between you, heavier than you'd prepared for. He took a breath, met your eyes, and held them like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. "So... have dinner with me. Just once. No parking spots, no notes. Just... us."

The world seemed to tilt, narrowing to just him, just the way the light caught the edges of his face, just the quiet thrum of fear and hope tangled in your chest. For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Because this wasn't a game anymore. It was a beginning—or an ending.

And either way, you weren't sure your heart was ready.

The restaurant wasn't the kind of place you expected him to choose. No velvet curtains or champagne towers, no glittering chandeliers announcing wealth. It was tucked into a quiet side street, lit with warm amber bulbs strung overhead and the faint murmur of jazz from an old speaker in the corner. The tables were close enough to feel cozy, but not cramped, each one dressed with nothing more than a flickering candle and a little glass vase of wildflowers.

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Somehow, you'd imagined cameras waiting by the door, flashbulbs ready, menus lined with prices that would make your bank account weep. But here—it felt almost...normal.

George caught the look on your face as he pulled out your chair. "Not what you expected?"

You arched a brow, trying to cover your relief with teasing. "No gold-leaf steaks? No seven-course tasting menus?"

He gave a low laugh as he sat across from you. "I get enough of that circus. Thought you'd prefer somewhere we can actually talk."

You studied him across the candlelight, surprised at how easily he said it. Talk. As though that was the point of all this. As though this wasn't just a fleeting distraction before he disappeared back into a world you couldn't follow.

Menus opened, orders placed, the quiet hum of the place wrapped around you. It wasn't silence—never silence with him. He leaned in when he spoke, not loud, but close enough that it felt conspiratorial, like the two of you were sharing something no one else could. He teased you about how seriously you'd guarded the parking spot.

You countered with the number of ridiculous doodles you still had tucked away in your drawer. He admitted, with that maddening little half-smile, that he'd practiced folding paper airplanes just to deliver one of his notes.

And somewhere between the bread basket and the first glass of wine, the banter softened.

He asked about your work, not idly, but with a genuine curiosity that disarmed you. He listened—really listened—as you explained the grind, the constant tug-of-war between deadlines and ambition. His questions weren't filler; they cut sharp, thoughtful, drawing out truths you hadn't realized you wanted to share.

In return, he spoke about the road—not in glossy magazine terms, but raw and unvarnished. The exhaustion of back-to-back flights, the pressure that clung to every performance, the constant noise of people wanting a piece of him. "It's funny," he said at one point, swirling his glass absentmindedly, "you'd think the track is the loudest place in the world. But the quiet afterwards...that's worse."

Something in your chest tugged at that. You weren't supposed to understand, not really. But you did. The way silence could press in, heavy with all the things unsaid.

By the time the main course arrived, the world outside the little glow of your table felt distant, irrelevant. It was just him and you, laughter spilling too easily, stories overlapping, smiles that lingered a beat too long.

And beneath it all, a question you didn't dare voice: what happens when this night ends?

The plates had been cleared, the last of the wine low in your glasses, and still neither of you made a move to leave. The candle burned down to a stub between you, its little flame bending and bowing every time the door opened to the street outside.

George leaned back in his chair, arms folded loosely, studying you with an intensity that made you shift in your seat. Not the look of a man calculating a race or a win, but of someone memorizing. You fiddled with the stem of your glass, uncomfortable under the weight of it.

"What?" you asked finally, trying for lightness.

He didn't smile. Not at first. "I'm trying to figure out when this stopped being about the parking spot."

Your breath caught. He'd said it so plainly, like it wasn't the thing you'd been avoiding naming for weeks.

You laughed weakly, eyes dropping to your hands. "Maybe when you started folding origami with your insults?"

That earned a smile, quick and crooked. But then he sobered again, tilting his head slightly as though he could see through every defense you'd ever built. "For me, it was earlier. I don't know the exact day, but... I remember sitting in my car, waiting, just to see your reaction when you found another note. That's when I knew I wasn't playing fair anymore."

You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. "And you kept parking there because—what? You liked annoying me?"

"Yes," he said, but then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping softer. "And no. At first, it was just fun, a game. But then it became the only part of my day that didn't feel...scripted. No cameras, no handlers, no one telling me how to smile. Just you. Just your glare, your notes, your stubborn little victories. It made me feel—" He broke off, searching for the right word. "Human, I guess."

The honesty in his voice left you unmoored. You weren't supposed to matter like that. He wasn't supposed to matter like this. And yet, here you were.

You took a breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I thought I hated it at first. You stealing my spot, getting under my skin. But then... I caught myself looking for your car. Even when you weren't there. I'd get to work and it felt wrong if you hadn't left something ridiculous on my windshield. And when you did..." You gave a small, helpless shrug. "My day felt lighter."

The silence that followed was thick, not uncomfortable but weighted, like the air itself recognized what you'd just admitted.

His eyes softened. "So it wasn't just me."

You shook your head. "No. Not just you."

He exhaled slowly, as if the admission had been a risk he wasn't sure would pay off. Then he leaned closer, close enough that the table between you felt suddenly too narrow. "I'm leaving in a few days," he said quietly. The words landed like stones in your chest. "I can't change that. But I couldn't leave without telling you that this—" he gestured lightly between you "—has been the best part of my time here."

Your heart hammered so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

And for the first time since this strange, absurd rivalry began, you realized how terrifying it felt to want someone who was already halfway gone.

The ride back was quiet at first, but not in a bad way. The hum of George's Mercedes filled the silence, a low, steady sound that matched the faint drizzle still slicking the streets. The city outside was muted—streetlights blurring against wet pavement, headlights of passing cars smeared into streaks of white and gold.

You sat angled slightly toward the window, watching the rain glide across the glass, though your thoughts were anything but calm. Dinner replayed itself in snippets: the warmth of candlelight, the way George's laugh seemed to settle in your bones, the confession that had tumbled out of you when you weren't expecting it.

Every time the memory surfaced, heat crept up your neck.

George drove like he did everything else—smooth, controlled, like the road bent to his will. Yet there was something softer about him now. He wasn't the man fighting for tenths of a second, wasn't the name on billboards. He was the man who had left notes on your windshield, who had sat across from you with quiet vulnerability, who was glancing at you every so often like he wanted to memorize the way you looked sitting there in the passenger seat.

"You're quiet," he said finally, breaking the spell of the wipers against glass.

You swallowed, still facing the window. "So are you."

"I'm driving," he said, though his voice held a smile. Then, after a pause: "Are you regretting it?"

That pulled your gaze back to him. His eyes stayed on the road, but you caught the tension in his jaw, the careful way his hands tightened on the wheel. For a man who seemed so untouchable in every other part of his life, it was startling to see the nerves laid bare.

"No," you said, soft but certain. "Not for a second."

His shoulders loosened a little, the smallest exhale escaping him. "Good. Because I'd hate to think this was one-sided."

Your heart kicked at your ribs. The car turned onto your street too soon, the world narrowing to the familiar row of houses, the warm glow of your porch light. You weren't ready for the night to end, but endings didn't wait for readiness.

George pulled up in front of your place and shifted the car into park. Neither of you moved. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the rain whispering against the windshield.

"This is the part where I'm supposed to say goodnight," he murmured, finally turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between restraint and want.

Your throat tightened. "Supposed to," you echoed.

He laughed under his breath, then leaned an elbow against the steering wheel, tilting his body a little closer. "You have no idea how badly I don't want to."

You could feel the space between you shrink, magnetic and inevitable. The air was charged with everything unsaid—the rivalry that had started as nothing, the slow unraveling into something that mattered far too much, the truth that he was leaving soon and this moment might have to last longer than it should.

When he kissed you, it wasn't rushed. It was deliberate, the kind of kiss that unfolded slowly, with the weight of all the times you hadn't let yourself touch him before. His hand came up to your cheek, warm and steady, while yours found the front of his jacket, gripping lightly as though to anchor yourself.

The world outside ceased to exist. No rain, no ticking engine, no looming goodbye. Just the press of his mouth against yours, the quiet catch of his breath when you kissed him back, the way every piece of you seemed to realign under his touch.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing a little unevenly. His voice was a whisper. "Now I really don't want to go."

You smiled, shaky but real. "Then don't. Just... stay here a little longer."