chloé

You looked like death. And not the dramatic, poetic kind , the “my nose is a faucet and my soul has given up” kind.

You’d been camped on the couch under a pile of mismatched blankets, surrounded by an army of used tissues, a half-empty mug of tea, and the faint sound of your own suffering.

When Franco came home, keys jingling and that boyish grin on his face, he froze in the doorway like he’d just walked into a crime scene.

“Mi amor… what happened here?” His tone was somewhere between horrified and amused, his accent soft but teasing.

You tried to answer, but your voice came out as a mix between a groan and a croak. “I… think I’m dying.”

Franco blinked. “Ah. So this is where I collect your final words?”

You threw a tissue at him. It missed. Badly.

Laughing, he set his bag down and knelt beside you, brushing your messy hair off your forehead. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, his voice dropping low with concern. “Why didn’t you call me?”

You shrugged weakly. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

He frowned, that soft, pouty kind of frown that only made him look more beautiful. “You’re my favorite person. You could never bother me.”

And that was how it began.

Within minutes, Franco had gone full Florence Nightingale. He disappeared into the kitchen, muttering to himself rapidly, and came back balancing a tray like he was auditioning for a Michelin-star restaurant.

Soup, water, tissues, your favorite medicine, and a damp cloth for your forehead.

You stared at it, stunned. “You… actually know how to make soup?”

He looked offended. “I googled it.”

You giggled, weakly sipping while he tucked the blankets tighter around you.

Every few minutes he’d smooth your hair or press a kiss to your temple, whispering little nothings that you only half-understood but completely felt.

When your nose started running again, he handed you another tissue with mock seriousness. “Here, princesa. Blow. I want to hear it.”

You glared. “Franco—”

“Louder!” he teased, dodging your swat and laughing as you finally cracked a smile.

Later, when the soup was gone and you were drifting off, Franco lay behind you on the couch, his arm draped protectively over your waist.

His breath warmed the back of your neck, slow and steady.

“Feeling better?” he murmured.

“Mm. A bit. Still gross.”

“You’re never gross,” he said softly. “You could sneeze on me and I’d still kiss you.”

You cracked one eye open. “That sounds like a threat.”

He chuckled, tightening his hold on you. “Then be scared, cariño.”

You drifted off to sleep to the sound of his laughter, gentle, warm, the kind that made even the ache in your bones feel a little lighter.

And when you woke up hours later, tissues replaced, your fever finally dipping, you found him still there, asleep beside you, holding your hand.

His phone open to a tab that read “how to help your sick girlfriend feel better.”

You smiled faintly, whispering into the quiet, “You already did.”

I. A Lesson in Distraction — Firelight.

The campfire burned low, its embers whispering to the dark as night settled over Camp Half-Blood. Sparks rose like fleeting constellations, bright for a heartbeat before fading into the cool summer air.

Around the circle, demigods sang half-remembered songs, argued about quests, and laughed too loudly — the usual chorus of those who had seen too much and were still trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

Jannik sat a little apart, a stick tracing idle patterns in the dirt while his thoughts wandered.

Observation came naturally to him — sons of Athena were built to notice. The tilt of a sword in someone’s grip, the rhythm of a sparring match, the way people gave themselves away in the smallest, unguarded gestures.

But that night, for the first time, his gaze found something he couldn’t categorize.

Across the firelight, you sat among your friends, the glow gilding your features in gold and shadow. A daughter of Aphrodite — it was obvious, though not just because of your beauty.

The gods themselves might have hesitated before crafting a face like that, but it wasn’t your looks that gave you away — it was the way the air seemed to soften around you. Everything near you looked a little more golden, a little more alive.

You laughed at something, tossing your hair back, and the flames seemed to lean towards you as if they, too, wanted your attention.

Jannik told himself he wasn’t staring. He was observing. Analyzing. It was in his nature to study what caught his interest. But when your smile reached your eyes, he felt his heartbeat stumble, uncooperative.

He tried to file the reaction somewhere logical — you were simply... compelling. That was what Aphrodite’s children did best. They compelled.

Except it didn’t feel like compulsion. It felt like gravity.

He shifted on the log, pretending to follow the conversation beside him, but his eyes betrayed him, flicking back just in time to meet yours.

For a heartbeat, the world went still. Your gaze lingered a fraction too long — soft, curious, then you smiled. Not coyly, not like someone used to being adored, but with a quiet warmth that made his stomach twist. You turned away a moment later, laughter spilling easily back into the group, and Jannik exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax.

That should have been the end of it. Just a glance. A chemical misfire. Nothing worth remembering.

But later, when he lay in his bunk with the night pressing soft against the cabin walls, he could still see the shimmer of firelight in your eyes.

Morning came golden and bright, sunlight spilling over the training arena in molten waves. Jannik leaned against the railing, pretending to focus on the sparring drills below, but his eyes betrayed him again — they found you.

You stood in the shade near the armory, laughter mingling with that of a son of Hermes. Your hair caught the light like spun gold, and you moved with that effortless grace most children of Aphrodite had. Yet there was something different about you.

You didn’t seem to wield your charm like a weapon, or treat affection like a game. You were sincere — steady.

He’d noticed it before — during capture the flag, when you didn’t just rely on persuasion or beauty but strategy. You moved like you were dancing, but every step had purpose. You encouraged younger campers, remembered names, noticed who got left behind.

That was what undid him. Not the beauty. Not the lineage. The kindness behind it all. The intelligence woven through it. You weren’t perfect because of your mother — you were extraordinary in spite of her.

Jannik told himself that fascination was harmless, he wasn’t the type to fall easily. Athena’s children were meant to reason before they felt.

But as you giggled again, sunlight crowning your hair, he felt the quiet, inevitable truth settle in his chest.

Reason had nothing to do with it.

That night, the campfire burned again. The songs were softer now, the laughter fading as constellations wheeled above — familiar patterns his mother had once named in stories long ago.

Maybe she was watching. Maybe she was laughing at him.

Because somehow, you were sitting beside him.

He didn’t know how it happened — fate, accident, divine interference — but there you were, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your skin even through the cool night air.

Your legs brushed under the log you both shared, and electricity — imagined or not — sparked through him. He didn’t move away.

“You always look like you’re thinking something you’re not saying,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

You turned to him, eyes glinting with firelight. For a heartbeat, he thought you’d deflect — daughters of Aphrodite were good at that. But you didn’t.

You smiled instead — small, secret — and looked back at the flames.

“Maybe I am,” you replied softly.

And just like that, with a single look and three quiet words, the son of Athena forgot everything he knew about composure, logic, or restraint.

II. The Logic of Longing — Moonlight and Ink.

You couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the way his eyes had lingered on yours across the campfire, or maybe the weight of summer itself — heavy and golden, the air at Camp Half-Blood thick with cedar smoke and half-burned offerings.

Either way, your chest felt tight. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw Jannik — the calm curve of his mouth, the softening of his gaze when he thought no one was watching.

So you got up.

You slipped quietly from your cabin, careful not to wake the others. The Aphrodite cabin never truly slept; even at midnight, the air hummed with whispers and perfume. But for once, it was still.

Outside, the night was drenched in silver. The moon hung high over the pines, bathing the grass in spilled light. Cicadas hummed, steady and ancient, their rhythm pulsing through the dark.

You walked without thought, bare feet brushing the soft path past strawberry fields and shadowed cabins, each marked with its godly symbol faintly glowing. A moth brushed your arm, pale as ash. The world felt hushed, as if even the gods were listening.

Then you heard it.

A voice — low, measured, and deliberate — came from the Athena cabin’s garden, where vines climbed marble columns and the air smelled faintly of parchment and pine sap.

It wasn’t the brisk murmur of a strategist reviewing battle plans; it was slower, deliberate, words chosen for beauty, not logic.

You followed it, curiosity pulling you closer.

And there he was.

Jannik sat on the cabin steps, elbows on his knees, parchment balanced against his thigh. Moonlight kissed the curls at his temples, coppery gold where it touched. He muttered softly, lips moving with each line he wrote, focus usually reserved for battle maps or training drills.

At first, you thought he was reciting something old — a fragment of Homer, maybe, or a hymn to his mother. But as you listened, the words were his own.

He was writing.

And gods, he was writing poetry.

“O daughter of rose and starlight,

Whose steps make even shadows pause,

What fortress could I build to guard

The chaos your presence draws?

A tower of stone? A labyrinth of mind?

Or only this: a silent plan,

A heart undone, for none to find—”

He stopped, letting the verse hang between you, trembling though he didn’t know you were there. His shoulders slumped, expression tightening.

“So pathetic,” he murmured, shaking his head. “As if you’d ever notice me...”

You blinked, forgetting to breathe.

He thought you didn’t notice him — the boy who carried strategy like a second heartbeat, who always knew what to say and when to stay silent.

You had noticed him in every possible way. And now, there he was — Jannik Sinner, son of Athena — writing poetry in the moonlight. Poetry meant for Apollo’s children, not for scholars or tacticians, yet he wrote it with the same precision and quiet purpose he brought to everything else.

It softened you. You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

You stepped forward — gravel shifting under your foot.

“You should finish it,” you inquired, soft but clear.

Jannik froze. His head snapped up, eyes wide, caught completely off guard — the calm son of Athena undone.

“I–” He blinked, fumbling for composure. “I didn’t know anyone was–”

You closed the few steps between you, pulse thrumming like the wings of the moths that danced around. Up close, he smelled of cedar and ink — grounding, human.

“I think you should finish it,” you whispered again, quieter this time. “Because if you don’t…” You hesitated, heart in your throat. “You’ll never know that you’re not the only one who lies awake, wondering what would happen if we stopped pretending.”

He stared at you, parchment slipping to the grass.

“Are you serious?” he asked, voice low, rough-edged.

You smiled — not polished nor rehearsed, but small, honest, and trembling. “I won’t deny it,” you voiced out. “Not anymore.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved — the night held its breath. Somewhere in the distance, the waves sighed against the cliffs, old and endless.

Then Jannik stood, slow and uncertain, as though the ground might crack beneath him. The distance between you narrowed to a single breath.

Under the silver gaze of the moon — Athena surely frowning, Aphrodite undoubtedly smiling — the son of wisdom forgot every rule he had ever been taught about control.

III. Where Reason Learned to Feel — Under the Silver Eye.

The garden behind the Athena cabin was bathed in moonlight. Every leaf gleamed silver, every shadow stretched long and soft across the grass.

The world seemed to hold its breath — even the cicadas had gone quiet, as if they, too, were waiting for what would come next.

Jannik stood before you, hands hovering just above your waist, careful, unsure. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the tension wound tight in his frame.

It was strange, seeing the son of Athena — always so composed, so precise — caught in hesitation.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, the question trembling slightly, betraying disbelief, as if even then he couldn’t accept that the moment was real.

You tilted your chin, silver light catching in your hair, and met his gaze. “I’m sure,” you reassured sweetly — and in that instant, your calm steadiness anchored him more firmly than reason ever could.

That was all the permission he needed.

He closed the space between you slowly, reverently, like a scholar approaching a sacred text. His lips brushed yours tentatively at first — gentle, a careful hypothesis seeking proof. The air seemed to still around you, thick with something ancient, inevitable.

Then your fingers slid into his curls — soft, trembling — tugging him just slightly closer.

That was all it took for his restraint to fracture.

Jannik kissed you deeper, deliberate and strong, control unraveling into something raw. Every glance he had hidden, every thought he had held behind composure, poured into the press of his lips against yours.

He tasted of cedar smoke and dusk, and the warmth of him felt like a hearth in winter — steady, grounding, and unrelenting.

You exhaled against him, hands tracing the edges of his jaw. The moment expanded, slow and infinite. Around you, camp blurred into shadow — distant waves sighing against cliffs, faint glow of half-burned torches, the pulse of something divine threading through the still air.

For once, there were no titles. No “son of Athena,” no “daughter of Aphrodite.” Just two demigods, stripped of the expectations of their bloodlines, discovering something that was theirs alone.

When you finally drew back, the world felt changed. The stars above burned brighter, the night quieter. You looked at him — his eyes wide, uncertain, as though he were seeing the world for the first time and it terrified him.

In that moment, you understood what had always lingered at the edge of your awareness: that — him, there, then — wasn’t prophecy or fate, but choice.

You, daughter of Aphrodite, whose beauty could sway hearts but who had always longed for something real, had found your match not in grand gestures or divine interference, but in quiet intellect — in a boy who saw you as a person first, not a muse.

And Jannik, son of Athena, who had built his life on logic and order, had discovered that some things could not be reasoned through — that even the most careful plans could dissolve under the weight of feeling.

It wasn’t conquest that bound you — nor prophecy or even meddling gods weaving hearts for amusement either. It was simpler, older: balance meeting beauty, reason echoing desire, heart recognizing heart.

The moon — pale and unblinking, silver eye of the night — hung high above. Perhaps Athena turned away, conceding to something softer. Perhaps Aphrodite smiled, her laughter woven into the rustle of leaves.

And there, under the watchful gaze of the gods, with ink and cedar lingering in the air, you kissed him once more. Not desperate, not hurried — but patient and whole.

When you parted, the night exhaled, and for a heartbeat, it felt as though the stars themselves had shifted.

— You lay in the quiet of the hotel room — the soft glow of late moonlight falling across the pale carpet, unable to shake the weight that had been building in your chest for weeks.

The air was thick with leftover adrenaline, exhaustion, and something heavier — the ache of wanting him near while knowing that, tonight, he was elsewhere. Or rather, with himself.

Jannik wasn’t sleeping — you knew that because his laptop sat open on the desk, the US Open final frozen on a frame where his return had clipped the net, the ball bouncing harmlessly back into play for Carlos to strike again.

You watched him from the bed, wrapped in the duvet you had hoped he’d be under — his shoulders tense as though still carrying the weight of the match, the rank, and something even deeper inside him.

His jaw was tight, eyes sharp and focused even in the haze of fatigue. You realized he was replaying every point, every mistake, every near-moment where victory had slipped through his fingers.

You couldn’t breathe around it. Because it wasn’t new, but a pattern.

After Cincinnati, when he had been forced to retire in the final — sick, pale, and shivering, he had done the same thing. No rest, no surrender to weakness, just the replay running over and over in his mind.

After Wimbledon, when the glory had been his and the trophy had gleamed in his hands, he had finally let himself relax — but even then, the relaxation had been selective.

He had shared the wins, the golden moments, the laughs. But the lows, the stumbles, and the nights when he might have wanted to cry, rage, or scream into the void — those had been locked away, hidden behind that wall of willpower he had perfected. And you had seen the residue of it in him: the tension in his shoulders, the faint tremor in his hands when no one was watching, the little sighs that escaped when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

You understood all of it — you always had. You knew what dating Jannik would mean: sacrifices, patience, and long stretches when tennis would always take priority.

But understanding didn’t soften the ache. Not when it crept into the corners of your heart at three in the morning. Not when you saw him hunched over the laptop instead of curled up beside you. Not when the room smelled faintly of cold espresso, exhaustion, and determination — and you realized there was no space left for you in that bubble tonight.

Your chest tightened, fingers tracing the edge of the duvet as you thought about the pattern, the recurring sting. How you had been there before, watching him pull himself apart, chasing perfection, and punishing himself for the things he couldn’t control.

Cincinnati, when he hadn’t been able to continue, and still guilt and obsession had gnawed at him. Wimbledon, when joy had shone on his face, and still a quiet part of him had only allowed you to see the victories.

And now, the US Open — the culmination of it all — a night where the trophy had been just out of reach, the rank slipping from his grasp, and he was still refusing the rest you knew he deserved.

He was willpower made flesh — that obsessive, relentless drive. The self-expectation so high it eclipsed even the warmth he had for you.

That careful, precise, and controlled exterior that masked the storm he refused to share. You knew it was a flaw — perhaps his only one — but it hurt in ways words couldn’t capture.

You stared at him then, pale light catching the taut planes of his face, the slight trembling of his fingers hovering over the keys.

His lips parted slightly, muttering something inaudible — a self-directed litany of errors and regrets — and your heart fractured quietly, painfully, because the gentle, loving, and considerate man you adored was hidden behind that storm. Because he was there physically, yet absent in every other way.

The parallels kept spinning in your mind — the pattern wasn’t just about the tournaments, the matches, or the trophies. It was about him — about that need to wrestle alone with the weight of every point, every failure, every fleeting imperfection. And you loved him for it, yes — fiercely, entirely. But that love came with a shadow — loneliness, the ache of exclusion, and the bitter understanding that you only saw him fully when he was winning.

You exhaled slowly, almost silently, trying to calm the whirlwind inside you, but the tightness remained — a knot that would not loosen. Because as much as you had prepared yourself for that, as much as you had accepted it as part of loving him, the sting came back every time, and that night, it came with the quiet, brutal clarity that for all his gentleness, his care, and his charm, there was a part of him you couldn't reach — not yet.

Not until he decided to step out of that bubble of willpower.

And you hadn’t known if that night would be the night.

— The morning after felt nothing like morning. The blinds were drawn tight, the room heavy with stale air.

You had barely slept, tossing and turning while the bed stayed cold beside you. When you drifted off, it was restless, punctured by the blue glow of the laptop across the room. And when you woke, Jannik was still there — hunched in the same chair, head in his hands, eyes bloodshot.

Your throat felt raw, though you hadn’t spoken. It was the silence that hurt the most: the silence of your calls going unanswered, of your voice cracking when you begged him to come to bed, of his stubborn refusal to look at you. You were used to giving him space, used to letting him stew, but this time space felt like exile.

You sat up slowly, the duvet sliding from your shoulders, and for a moment the image almost made you laugh — the two of you caught in chains, him bound to his mistakes, you bound to him. And something inside you snapped.

“Do you ever think,” you began, voice hoarse but trembling with fire, “about how it feels for me when you do this?”

His head lifted, startled, eyes narrowing in confusion. “What do you mean?” The words were groggy, low.

You laughed — sharp, brittle, a sound that didn’t belong in the stillness.

“Don’t play dumb, Jannik. You stayed up all night. Again. I called you, what– ten times from the bed? And you couldn’t even turn around! You don’t even–” your voice cracked, “see me when you get like this…”

His lips pressed into a thin line, the first sign of defense rising like a shield. “I needed to watch the match. I needed to understand what I did wrong.”

You shook your head, tears stinging your vision. “That’s the thing. It’s always the match. Always tennis. When you win, you share it with me. When you lose, you shut me out. Cincinnati, here– every damn time! Do you think I only want you when you’re happy?! That I can’t handle you when you’re low?!”

His gaze hardened, but his voice stayed maddeningly even, almost cold. “You don’t understand what it’s like.”

There it was — that condescension, the barbed edge he used when he knew he was wrong but refused to admit it. And it cut clean through you.

You stood abruptly, the bed’s legs scraping against the floor. Your hands shook as you pulled on your sweater. “You’re right, Jannik. I don’t understand what it’s like to lose a Grand Slam final or to lose the number one ranking. But I do understand what it’s like to be in love with someone who only lets me in when he’s celebrating. Do you know how lonely that is? How humiliating it feels to keep begging for scraps of your time, your presence, when all I want is you, even if you’re broken?!”

His eyes widened, the first crack in his armor, but still he said nothing. Just that blank, shell-shocked stare, as if he hadn’t expected you to bleed like that in front of him.

And that silence hurt worse than words.

You grabbed your bag from the chair, fumbling with the strap, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t do this right now. I need air.”

You had barely made it halfway to the door when you heard the shuffle behind you. Then warmth — sudden and fragile — as his hand closed gently around your wrist. Not forceful nor desperate, just enough to stop you.

“Stay.” The word was whispered, almost broken. When you turned, his face was bare — no defenses, no willpower, only exhaustion, fear, and the kind of vulnerability he guarded like treasure. “Please.”

Your chest constricted, breath catching. His eyes were glassy, voice trembling as he exhaled the truth he had been holding back.

“I don’t shut you out because I don’t want you there,” he reasoned, low and sheepish. “I shut you out because I hate myself when I lose. I don’t want you to see me like that. Weak. Ugly. Not the person you deserve.”

Your tears fell harder, though softer now, as he stepped closer — his hand cupping your arm like he was afraid you might vanish. “But you’re right, I make it worse. I push you away when what I need most is to let you in. I don’t know how to fix it yet, but I don’t want to lose you. Not on top of everything else. So stay. Please stay.”

The silence stretched, heavy with the weight of his words. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw him — not the player, not the perfectionist, but Jannik. Your Jannik.

And even through the ache, your heart broke for him.

— You didn’t move right away. His words hung between you, fragile and trembling, as if they might collapse under their own weight.

You studied his face — pale with exhaustion, eyes ringed in red, lips dry and pressed tight as though afraid he had said too much.

That was the same man who had smiled through defeat at the press conference — who had carried himself with grace while the world watched. Yet there, with you, he looked stripped bare.

Your bag slid from your shoulder and dropped to the carpet with a muted thud. You turned fully towards him, his hand on your wrist loosening, as if bracing for rejection. But instead of pulling away, you lifted your free hand and pressed your fingers to his cheek. He exhaled shakily at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, like he had been starving for it.

“I don’t need you to be perfect for me, Jannik,” you whispered, voice uneven and swollen with tears. “I just need you to let me in, even when it’s ugly. Especially when it’s ugly.”

Jannik's throat bobbed as his arms slipped around your waist — tentative at first, then tightening, anchoring himself to you.

For a moment, you felt the faint tremor of his shoulders — not dramatic sobs, but small, silent cracks breaking through the wall he had held up too long.

This time he didn’t hide it. He buried his face in your hair and simply let himself be — vulnerable in a way that scared him, but also freed him.

The two of you stood in the dim light, wrapped in each other, the city’s noise muffled by heavy curtains.

There were no big declarations — no magical promise that it would never happen again, only Jannik's low, hoarse voice finally admitting, “I don’t know how to stop being so hard on myself. But I don’t want to keep hurting you because of it.”

Your chest ached, but you nodded against him. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together. But you have to let me try.”

He drew back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. His expression was raw, vulnerable — no armor, no performance. He pressed his forehead to yours, a silent vow more powerful than words, and hushed, “I’ll try.”

It wasn’t perfect. You knew it wouldn’t be. The parallels were still there — Wimbledon’s glow, Cincinnati’s shadows, New York’s unraveling. His instinct would always be to retreat into tapes, notes, and self-punishment. But now, there was a crack in the door. Now, you had seen him choose to reach for you, however clumsily, instead of the match replay.

You curled into him as the silence stretched, softer now, less suffocating. His breathing steadied against your shoulder, and you let your own tears dry into his shirt.

The hurt lingered, the work ahead was heavy, but for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t alone in it. Neither was he.

No rainbows, no empty promises — only you and him, flawed and breaking, but holding on.

"You're sure you just want to sit there and watch me? I don't want to bore you out of your mind, amor", Carlos said as he packed his training bag.

"I never get bored watching you, but if you were willing to teach me, then I could have a more active part on it...", you attempted.

"Is it something you're interested in?", Carlos mused. It had come up in conversation once or twice how you had never had the chance to try the sport, but it had been just that.

"I mean, how bad can I be at it?", you chuckled, raising your shoulders.

You ended up not joining him for that particular training session, opting to stop at a Nike store to get yourself a cute tennis outfit.

When you met Carlos after work for your first lesson, you arrived at the same time, immediately walking up to your boyfriend and pecking his lips.

"I have to say, you look really nice in these, especially this skirt", Carlos whistled, pulling you closer to him by your shoulders.

"I thought we could match", you tsked, kissing his cheek before entering the training ground, greeting the people who passed by before finding your court.

After warming up and listening to Carlos talk about how important this step was and how you shouldn't skip it, he finally got the rackets for you.

When Carlos touched your hand, a jolt of electricity shot through you, making your cheeks heat up. His touch was tender as always yet purposeful, like he was trying to instill confidence with a simple gesture. You looked up at him, nervous but eager, as he offered that signature warm smile that always made your heart flutter.

He gently took your racket and guided your grip, his fingers brushing against yours. "Relax your hand, amor", he whispered softly, his voice like a calming melody, "Tennis is about control, not force, trust me".

His touch lingered just a second longer as he adjusted your grip, and you felt yourself relax a little under his careful guidance.

He stepped closer, demonstrating a perfect forehand with graceful ease, then reached out again - this time to gently hold your hand to help you find your stance, "breathe,” he said quietly, eyes locking onto yours, "Feel the racket, find your rhythm. It’s all about connection - between you and the ball, between us and the game".

"It's hard when I have my amazing boyfriend teaching me", you snickered while still taking in his guidance.

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head before kissing your temple.

When he touched your hand again to position your feet, you felt your heartbeat quicken. His warm palm pressed gently on yours, steadying your stance, "All right", he murmured softly, “ready to try?”.

You swung hesitantly, missing the ball by a mile. Carlos chuckled as you hissed, "Rome wasn't built in a day, or however the saying goes", you mumbled.

"You'll get it, amor, just need to practice", Carlos assured.

As he positioned you on the court, he demonstrated a perfect forehand again, the ball flying through the air with effortless grace. When he reached out and touched your hand again to help adjust your stance, you felt your cheeks heat up. His touch was light, almost like a spark igniting inside you.

“Now, try again” he encouraged softly, stepping back to give you space.

When your first few swings missed once again, he chuckled quietly and stepped closer, "It’s okay. Just focus on the contact point, and stay relaxed.”

When Carlos touched your hand again, guiding it to the right position, your confidence grew. The ball finally made contact, and you couldn’t help but smile, "I did it, I did it!", you squealed before retreating to your relaxed position, "I know, calm and collected".

Your boyfriend grinned in return, his eyes glinting with pride, "See? You’re already improving, hermosa, you've got this".

By the end of the session, you felt a little more confident, yet perfectly aware of how slow the progress would be, "thank you for taking the time, Carlitos, you must be exhausted - I'll make your favourite dinner, how does that sound?".

"None of that amor, I got to spend more time with you and this way I can spend more in the future - might even make you part of my team", he winked, "but I will take you up on this dinner offer".

"I'm far away from helping you in anything - maybe making you good food", you tried.

Her eyes bulged. “So they can cut my finger off?”

That was dramatic. They probably wouldn’t do that. There was still zero chance of getting her to a hospital though. “Okay. Firehouse. They do stuff like that, right?”

That sounded like a better idea. She nodded. “Okay, yeah. Let’s go, like, now.”

The entire journey over to the firehouse, she was scared. Her finger hurt. All the worst case scenarios were running through her mind. What if there was permanent damage? What if they had to cut her finger off? She was quickly spiralling.

Delia could see it happening. The woman placed a gentle hand on her knee. “Doing okay?”

After a long exhale, she nodded. “I will be.”

The firehouse was busy. People were running around all over the place, probably with much more important things to do than attend to a stupid self-inflicted issue. Y/N was immediately filled with regret. They never should have come here.

Delia didn’t seem to come to the same conclusion. She marched right up to the front desk, offering the older man running it a kind smile.

“How can I help you ladies? Wanting a ride in a fire engine?”

She paused, weighing up the idea. There was no time just yet. “Maybe later. My friend here got my engagement ring stuck on her finger. We were hoping you’d be able to help without destroying it too much.”

He felt it was a slightly grim way to put it. “Her finger?” It wasn’t like they were going to saw it off. There were plenty of methods before amputation.

Y/N sighed. “Unfortunately, she means the ring.”

The other woman scoffed. She didn’t think she had any right to be judged in this situation. The ring was new and very, very expensive. She wanted it to stay in one piece if possible. The gent laughed, eyes scanning the room for any individual that might be able to help. Her eyes followed the same route. She suddenly felt guilty. Everyone here had a job to do, probably saving a life or 2, and she was going to tear them away from that because she was a mindless idiot.

Y/N tugged at her friend’s sleeve to grab her attention. “Maybe we should go. They have, like, fires and stuff to attend to.” Apparently her voice wasn’t as quiet as she thought it was.

The man chuckled. “We definitely do have fires and stuff to deal with, but we’re also medically trained for a reason. You’ll have a long wait in A&E to get that resolved.” That was true. She could be sitting in a waiting room for hours on end, pain only getting worse. It was the last thing she wanted. “You made the right choice. Now, I’m going to go find someone who isn’t too busy with those nasty fires to help you.”

His ability to lighten the mood was impressive. She even cracked a smile. “Thank you.”

With that they were left on their own. It gave them the opportunity to observe. This was the first time either of them had ever been inside a firehouse, and saw some of the inner workings. It was odd. New. Impressive.

“I should have said no to him.”

Her eyes flickered over to her friend with a frown. “What, why?” She thought she was happy to be engaged. Or at least she had been when she was first showing off her flashy new ring, right before everything went wrong.

The other woman scoffed, gazing around like the answer should have been obvious. She was in literal heaven. “Are you kidding? Look at these guys. They’re gorgeous.” A passing firefighter offered her a smile and she almost melted into a puddle. Oh, how she wished she was single again just for a day.

It was like she hadn’t noticed how attractive some of them were until it was pointed out to her. In her defence, she was very focused on the current throbbing in her finger. The pain was distracting. Now she was nervous. What if one of these guys was supposed to be her saviour? She was going to lose her mind. This was already embarrassing enough.

“How am I supposed to act normal with someone that hot helping me?” she hissed. Delia was finding this whole thing hilarious. She could already picture her friends scorching cheeks. She would enjoy this thoroughly. Y/N was going to be a mess.

“Relax. You’ll be fine.”

One of the said beautiful men approached with a kind smile. “Oscar is going to come and help you soon. He’s on his way.” And with that he walked away. It wasn’t much, but a name was something to go off of. How many attractive guys did she know named Oscar? The list was minimal. It gave her some hope.

She nodded. When the man was safely out of earshot, she turned to her friend with a sigh. “Oscar,” she repeated, like his name would tell her exactly what he was like.

Delia shrugged. “That could be anyone. Maybe Oscar is a little old man. Retired and they keep him around because he wants something to do.” It was a stretch, but it was plausible. She probably shouldn’t have gotten so hung up on that idea.

It was entirely not true as they found out. At first they thought he was just walking past. He offered a smile their way that made Y/N grin like a fool. And then he suddenly stopped in front of them. He was beautiful. Curly brown hair, styled like he was Prince Charming. A sweet smile, soft brown eyes. Somewhat of a permanent blush on his cheeks. His shirt was tight, inappropriately so. His arms were bulging and she was finding it hard to tear her eyes away. She knew firefighters had to be strong but that was just… wow.

At this rate she might need a doctor because she was sure her heart had stopped beating.

“Y/N!”

The woman’s voice snapped her out of the daze she didn’t know she had fallen into. Her cheeks burned furiously. It had been all of 30 seconds, how had she already managed to embarrass herself? Right now she hated everything. Most of all her past self for doing something dumb. If she got out of this alive, she would never do anything stupid again.

She cleared her throat. “Um, hi, I’m Y/N.”

The man was clearly used to women fawning over him like this. Either that or he was just extremely professional. He didn’t seem phased other than the tiny smile on his face. Delia’s giggles in the background were only making her feel worse.

“I’m Oscar, nice to meet you.”

“I’d shake your hand but, well.” She nodded to her currently injured hand, chuckling awkwardly. Luckily he found it amusing too. If he hadn’t laughed she didn’t know what she would have done.

She had no idea how she was supposed to stop being so weird. The man probably thought she was a complete freak. He took her hand anyway, to take a look at the damage. It was hard to read the look on his face. She couldn’t tell if it was bad or not. She really hoped it was an easy fix. The sooner she could get out of here, the sooner she could start acting like a normal person again.

The stuff he set up looked uncomfortably akin to a torture setup you might see in a mobster movie. She shuffled uncomfortably in place. He noticed, smiling at her. When he spoke again his voice was soft. A comforting sound that only she could hear.

“Relax, okay? I won’t do anything you aren’t ready for.” And despite him being a total stranger, she believed him. She trusted him.

Y/N nodded. “Okay.”

That was the go ahead he needed.

She didn’t understand how he could still be so gentle when trying his hardest to free her. It was obvious that he didn’t want to hurt her, but she was unsure whether he gave that sentiment to everyone, or just her.

Unfortunately, if she wanted the ring off, he was going to have to put some work into it.

At first it was pressure, but it quickly turned into pain that she wasn’t sure she could handle. It would have been infinitely easier to just cut it off, but that had been one of Delia’s strict no-no’s. “Wait, wait, stop.” She took a deep breath. He did as she said, stopped immediately. His eyes flickered to her face, concern washing over him. Her face had paled. “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Oscar frowned. “That’ll just be the pain talking. We can take a break. It’s okay.”

A hand rubbed her back reassuringly. “She’s a little squeamish. I’ll get some water.”

Then she was left alone with him. All probably part of Delia’s plan.

She fanned herself, hoping to cool down even slightly. If she could get her temperature down, maybe she wouldn’t be so close to fainting. It didn’t make it any less mortifying for this to happen in front of such an attractive guy. The patience he was displaying was incredible. However she felt terrible for wasting his time when he probably had so many more important things to do.

“This is so embarrassing,” she whined. Why wouldn’t the ground just swallow her up? She felt sick to her stomach. She couldn’t even hide her face in her hands because he was still cradling her injured one like it was made of glass. It was a gentleness she didn’t expect such a muscly man to possess. “I’m so sorry.”

He smiled. “No it’s not. I’ve seen a lot worse trust me.” He literally ran into burning buildings for a living. A ring stuck on a finger was nothing.

“Really?”

Oscar nodded. “Someone’s head got stuck in a chair a couple days ago.” The way he said it was like it was common. Clearly he was telling the truth when he claimed to be used to it. “If that’s any consolation. Not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen all week.”

It startled a laugh out of Y/N. “That does make me feel better actually.”

He smiled. It was a really nice smile. Their eyes locked and suddenly it was like Y/N was in some sort of trance. She couldn’t look away. She didn’t really want to look away. Understandably he had to be professional. He was working. There was no denying there was some kind of spark there though. Unless that’s how he acted with everyone. In which case, he was a huge flirt.

The spell was broken when Delia came rushing back, a water bottle in hand that had been kindly supplied by another beautiful man in uniform.

She took a few sips, admiring Oscar’s patience. There was probably 101 more important things he needed to do and yet he wasn’t rushing her. He just smiled and told her to take her time.

After a couple minutes he could tell she was just delaying things. That was the fear talking. If she didn’t get it over with soon she was going to psych herself out. “Think you’re okay to try again?”

With a deep breath, she nodded. It was better to get it over with. Oscar took her hand once again. He flashed her a kind smile. One that was meant to be reassuring. All it did was make her heart rate skyrocket. If he noticed the way it took her breath away, he didn’t mention it.

This time when he started pulling and cutting at the ring again, she closed her eyes. It might be easier to handle if she couldn’t see what he was going to do. It also felt like it was all over much quicker that way. Besides it was easier to see nothing but Oscar’s handsome face with her eyes closed like that.

She didn’t see the ring come off, but she felt all that pressure disappear. Followed by the cheer from Oscar and Delia. The sigh of relief when it finally came off was better than anything she’d ever experienced. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you so much.” It felt like she could properly breathe again.

He started to pack away his things. The ‘torture’ devices. Admittedly, despite the circumstances, she was sad to see him go. He must have felt it. His eyes flickered up to her with a smile. He must get hundreds of girls falling at his feet like this. She wasn’t going to be anything special. “Anytime you need my help, I’m here. You know where to find me.”

She smiled, gratefully. “Thank you. I’ll try not to make a habit of getting stuck in things.”

Back in the car she felt like she could finally breathe. All the embarrassment and adrenaline of the afternoon had her sinking down into her seat. After every emotion she’d felt today, there was still a silly smile on her lips.

“What?”

She beamed, hiding her face in her hands as her cheeks flamed. “I think I’m in love.”

Delia laughed loudly. Rolling her eyes at her friend’s antics. She didn’t blame her though. Anyone would swoon for those beautiful brown eyes and that crooked smile. She could certainly do worse than a handsome firefighter.

For the next few days all Y/N could think about was him. His voice, the way his hair curled, his laugh, those eyes. His eyes were practically haunting her dreams. She didn’t understand how she could be so obsessed with a man she had met so briefly.

She was praying to anyone that would listen that they would meet again somehow. She didn’t particularly care how.

She probably should have specified though.

Being evacuated from her building in the middle of the night due to a fire was absolutely insane. This had never happened to Y/N before and she had no idea what to do. She headed outside in nothing but skimpy pyjamas, conveniently forgetting to bring a jacket of some kind. The weather was far from kind to her. Why did this stuff have to happen at 3am?

She sighed, rubbing at her eyes as she stood on the opposite side of the road, watching the firefighters work. It reminded her painfully of the particular firefighter she was trying to get out of her mind. As one man walked past her she even swore she saw him. She was going crazy.

After she did a quick double take, she realised that no, that actually was Oscar.

Her eyes widened and before she could stop herself— “Oscar?”

His head turned and when their eyes met he smiled. The surprise was clear. It quickly melted into joy. He was actually happy to see her. “Y/N, hi.” The way he said her name made her heart flutter. “Please don’t tell me you got another ring stuck.”

She laughed, though her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the memory. “No, not this time. I do live in this building though.”

The building which had just been on fire. He blew out a breath. “Bad luck just follows you, huh?” She was certainly feeling pretty lucky right about now.

She shrugged. “Maybe this is the universe's way of having us meet again.” It was brave to throw out such a thought. But if she didn’t take her chance, how would she ever know? He might blatantly reject her. He could already be a taken man. Best case scenario, he likes her confidence and they see where things go. As she nervously fiddled with the sleeves of her pyjama shirt, she really hoped it would be the latter. “Unfinished business and all that.”

“Are you flirting with me?” There was a crooked grin forming on his lips. She was to assume he was taking it rather well.

Shyly she nodded. “Would it be so bad if I was?”

“Not at all.”

A weight was lifted off her shoulders. So he was single and he was clearly interested. She started to feel a little giddy at the idea of such an attractive man liking her. “Would you like to come up for a drink?” she asked.

He sighed. “Any other time I’d say yes, but I’m still working so…”

She frowned. Of course. How could she have forgotten that part? “Right, yeah, sorry.” Would she ever manage to stop embarrassing herself in front of him? It would truly be a miracle if she did. “Maybe a proper date then, another time?”

The nod he gave happened so quickly that he worried he’d been a little too eager. “I’d like that.”

A faint call of his name from somewhere in the background made them realise he needed to get back to work. “How about Friday at 8? I’ll come pick you up.”

She nodded. This was going to be a wild story to tell her friends. “Sounds great.”

They stood there for a minute, not talking, just looking. There was another yell of his name. She didn’t want to get him in trouble. “Love the shorts by the way,” he teased, placing a kiss on her cheek. They were something she’d had since her final year of secondary school, so short they barely covered her, decorated with little smiling koalas.

“Shut up.” She sent him on his way with the idea of Friday right at the front of her mind. As soon as he was out of sight she silently screamed, doing a little happy dance that she would never, ever admit to. She would be counting down the seconds till she saw her hot fireman again.

You always had that emptiness of missing your soulmate. It was an uneasy feeling, not too painful, but still it was a feeling that was always lingering there, somewhere deep down. It got worse as you got older, and you saw your friends, family, everyone eventually finding their halves, falling in love, getting married.

It got particularly hard during holidays, when you’d sit around with your family and their soulmates, and you’d be all alone, wishing and praying you’d find yours.

Eventually, you’d find yourself browsing the government website where they talked about what to do if you never find your soulmate, support groups and the last resource, medicines to deal with soulmate absences. Many people lived a good, healthy life even if they never got to meet their soulmate and you started to try and make peace with the fact that you never might.

You laid awake, staring at the soulmate tattoo on your wrist. It was a monogram of your initial and the initial of your soulmate, but it only had your initial and it’d be complete the moment you and your soulmate first touched. You had looked at your parents’ tattoo many times when they weren’t looking, too busy staring lovingly into each other’s eyes to notice you.

-

You were walking the shore, it was a warm summer night, you had just watched the sunset by yourself, sitting on a bench with an ice cream cone. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck prickle, and you quickly looked around trying to find the reason for that strange feeling. The pier was considerably full, people coming and going, a lot of locals and tourists, so it was hard to tell where that feeling came from. You kept walking and looking around when you stumbled into someone, hard. So hard it had you falling on your ass on the ground. You looked up to see one of the most handsome men you had ever seen.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” He said politely, offering a hand to help you up, but as soon as he pulled you up, you felt your soulmate mark tingle, and when you looked, a letter C showed up on top of your own initial, and as you looked at his wrist, both of you shocked, your initial showed up on top of his own monogram.

“Oh, my god…” You whispered, noticing his monogram wasn’t just his initial, it had another one too, an M, “What…?”

“I think… we might be soulmates…” Charles said with a startled giggle, “I’m Charles, by the way.”

You said your name back and offered a hand, exchanging a handshake and it felt good, a special kind of warmth spreading through your chest.

“I- I thought I already had found my soulmate…” Charles said, suddenly, “but…” He touched his own tattoo, “we might be a trio.”

Charles smiled as he offered his hand, and you took it, letting him guide you wherever. It didn’t matter when the feel of his touch was so soothing, so right.

Trios of soulmates aren’t common, but they’re not exactly rare. You had met a few through your lifetime, and your own grandparents from your maternal side were a trio of soulmates. Charles seemed eager, happy, and you allowed yourself to be just as giddy, he spoke fast, in a heavy accent looking like he was besides himself for having found you.

“I… I had always had this lingering feeling that something was amiss, even after I met Max, but I thought it was just my mind playing pranks on me… Oh, by the way, Max is my boyfriend and soulmate, and he’s probably yours too!” Charles was speaking a hundred words per minute and you could only smile at him, as he invited you to his car, to drive you to his boyfriends’ place, for you guys to meet because he could bet Max’s initial would join his on your soulmate mark. 

When you arrived at a fancy building, Charles guiding you to the elevator, you two looked at each other. Charles was flushed and breathless, looking happy.

“Max, mon coeur!” Charles called out as he dragged you into a big apartment, your hands intertwined together.

Max was a big guy, blonde, tall and handsome and his gorgeous eyes had your breath hitching on your throat when they met yours for the first time, the same feeling of the hairs on the back of your neck prickling. He had a confused face as he came out of one of the rooms, his eyes immediately dropping to Charles’ hand around yours.

“What is this, Charles?” His face was stormy, like he was getting angry.

“She is it. She is our soulmate…” Charles said, tugging you forward, closer to Max and you could see his contempt, like he didn’t like that one bit, it made you cringe internally, wanting to look good, to leave a good impression.

“I don’t think this is right…” Max said, carefully picking his words. You could sense his hesitation but you could also see how he was being careful to not hurt Charles’ feelings.

“It is, look!” Charles showed his soulmate mark, your initial now engraved on top of the C and the M.

Charles, for his part, looked so excited that he failed to notice the tension, Max’s hesitation and you with your stomach dropping to your feet. You felt crushed, the giddiness and the happiness you had felt meeting Charles now dampened by Max’s evident displeasure with all of it.

Despite being painfully aware of Max’s dislike of the situation, for a while you thought it was just the suddenness of everything, of him being used to only Charles as a soulmate. You attributed it to him being caught by surprise.

So you gently removed your hand from Charles’ and offered it to Max in a handshake. He hesitated, taking a couple of steps back, pretending to be busy with something else. You dropped your hand back to your sides.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you said with a tentative smile, despite the weird feeling of a knot in your chest tightening, making your insecurities bloom, your eyes meeting Max’s again.

-

Slowly, you started to be included in their routine. You knew that if it were by Charles’ decision, you’d probably have moved on day one. But you needed the space to adjust to the idea, you spent so long thinking you would never find your soulmate that finding out there were two of them was a little unnerving. And also, to let Max adjust to your existence, as he seemed a little reluctant still.

So you started getting to know each other every Wednesday night, when you usually went to their places, and you ordered food and chatted about life, about childhood, family, everything and anything.

And so, Wednesday dates became twice a week, and then two dinners and a lunch, and soon, you were part of each other’s routine. An intricate routine was built as it went, your meetings, your dates, they flying you out to the places they went for pre-season.

Despite integrating into each other’s lives fairly quickly, you still were keeping a safe distance, you had not kissed or even made love yet. You knew you had to take things slow, adapt to the change as much as you wanted to jump in head first. Max was… trying. You could tell he was trying, but he had a hard time adapting to abrupt changes. Charles called you over one time, alone, to explain that Max needed some time and patience, and even when they first got together, he had a hard time adjusting to a soulmate, to feeling them, to get familiar with the person and the avalanche of emotions that came with them.

It took a couple of weeks for Max to touch you, for your soulmate marks to grow complete.

You were flying overnight with them in Max’s private plane, you, reading a book in one of the seats, Max across from you on his phone. Charles was long gone, lying on the bed inside the other room, sleeping soundly for a couple of hours, through the night flight. You could feel Max’s gaze on you every few minutes, sometimes you looked back at him with a lazy little smile. You had put on a few of your PTOs to accompany them to the first race of the year, to try and get yourself immersed a little more in what seems to be a great part of their lives.

You tried staying awake, shouldering through the pages of your book, forcing yourself to read it. But the exhaustion was slowly creeping up, the letters starting to blur.

You blinked, and when you realized, you were waking up, feeling your soulmate mark tingling slightly. You looked up, Max was carrying you, the strong scent of his cologne filling your lungs, his warmth around you as you blinked again, confused.

“Sleep now, I’m taking you to bed,” He muttered, and it was the softest you’d ever heard his voice address you as.

You didn’t say anything as you felt him place you on a soft bed, low lights as you closed your eyes, feeling Charles’ warmth again. After a little sleepy scooting, you were half asleep between both Charles and Max. Charles’ legs between yours, his cheek against your shoulder on the right side, Max to your left side, pulling a blanket on top of you three. His arm reached across you, laying on your middle and his hand landing on Charles, like he wanted to feel both of you in your arms. Before fully falling asleep, you stared at his wrist, your initial finally joining his and Charles’ on his skin.

With a soft smile, you felt the happiest you’d ever felt, cocooned between the two loves of your life, relaxed as you fell asleep.

When you woke up again, a few hours later, Max wasn’t in bed, he was back at his seat, talking on his phone, while Charles was awake beside you, lazily doom scrolling, his legs still tangled with yours.

“Slept well, mon coeur?” He asked as he noticed you waking up.

“Yeah, I did…” You mumbled, rubbing your face, “Did Max sleep?”

“Yes, for a couple of hours. He doesn’t sleep much during flights. Why?”

“Did you see?” You whispered, almost giddy as you raised your hand to show him your wrist, mark now complete as Max finally touched you. Charles smiled softly, pulling your hand and placing a gentle kiss to your soulmate mark.

“See? He’s warming up…” Charles whispered back, eyes shining.

When you arrived in Australia, going straight to the hotel, smiling with Charles as Max made the check-in, your stomach dropped when the receptionist talked about “Two rooms”, not just one for you three. You gulped as Max gave you one of the keys, took the other one as he took Charles’ hand in his.

Your eyes dropped to their hands, and when your gaze met Charles’ he knew, you could see the same hurt in his eyes as in yours. You followed them into the elevator, and your room was right beside theirs. With a lump in your throat, you didn’t trust yourself to look at them one last time before entering, so you just didn’t, the first tears falling down your cheeks as the door clicked shut behind you.

After a quick shower, you sat in bed, wrapped in a robe telling yourself that this was fine. You’ve met them only a couple of months before, it was natural that they’d take time to adjust to you. Despite reading and hearing all about things like once you meet your soulmate, you never want to be apart from them, nor them from you.

It’s fine, you whispered to yourself again.

Around an hour later, Charles texted you to get ready for breakfast, and the puffy of your eyes was long gone as you dressed in a casual little dress and went downstairs to the restaurant to meet them.

Both were already there as you joined, walking towards them, you noticed how they checked you out, and that was almost enough to forget the fact you weren’t sharing a room with them, you chatted some more over breakfast. Despite Max being still slightly distant, you could see he was trying. Trying to talk to you, actively listening to your answers, joining in conversation.

Later that day, they ended up having to go to media day, which they asked if you wanted to go with. They said there wasn’t much going on, and for that exact reason you decided to go, it’d be better to get around the paddock on a day that it wasn’t full of people.

They showed you around, and that moment Max was slightly more talkative than he’d ever been, probably because it was a comfortable subject for him, talking about racing, about cars and tracks. You loved hearing him explain, talk about his passion, what he did on the daily and his routine there.

At some point, Charles left to record something with his team, but you and Max barely noticed his absence as you listened to the champion talking. Then, someone found you two and said Max had to go.

Max left you at the hospitality.

“Will you be okay here?” He asked, reaching into his pocket.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. If anything happens I’ll text you or Charles,” You said, and he held up your paddock passes, gently placing the string around your neck.

“If anything happens, you can go back to my room. You remember how to get there?” Max said, pulling your hair atop the strings of the passes.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Thank you, Max.” You whispered with a soft smile and he nodded, seemingly hesitating to hug you or something like that. You watched as he stepped back and went with the team person.

You ate, drank and opened your ipad to do some work, sitting in a far corner of the hospitality room, hoping the headphones would tune out the loud noises of the paddock.

Charles found you first after a couple of hours, he crouched before you, hands on your knees, looking soft.

“Tired of waiting?”

“I’m okay,” You said, reaching for him, gently brushing his hair that was out of place.

“Do you want to go back to the hotel? We might take longer here…” He offered, and you hesitated, despite wanting to stay, you were still somewhat sleepy from the overnight flight.

“I guess I could use a nap, and I might need to go shopping. I didn’t bring many weather appropriate clothes.”

Charles had a driver take you back to the hotel, after a short nap, you went out in the city to buy some clothes for the following days. During your shopping spree, you ended up going to a salon to do your nails, and on a whim, you decided a change would do you good and the boys might appreciate it, and you had the hair stylist darken your hair, and you chopped it off, shoulder length, a cool and fresh haircut.

When you arrived at the track, Charles was the first to greet you, a gentle smile as addressed your new look.

“Oh? Changed your hair? It looks nice, it’s so pretty.”

“Thank you, I thought it was about time I tried something new…” You preened under his praise, turning to Max, hoping to please him somehow.

“You look good,” He said with a little smile while Charles rolled a strand of your hair on his finger, softly feeling its texture.

You don’t tell them you did it to somewhat look more like Charles, to get Max to like you. And the way their eyes lingered softly on you… it meant something. Something that had you feeling a nice little warmth in the pit of your stomach.

Over a couple of days, you three grew more comfortable around each other, especially as you were the one coming into an already established relationship. So you really wanted them to naturally grow easier around you, you didn’t push, but every morning you had breakfast together and dinner too. You liked it, the routine, the softness of easy conversations about life, learning more about theirs, making plans for the future.

That same weekend, the race was… bad. Really bad for both of them, but especially for Max. Charles had started P5 and unfortunately ended P7. But Max… Had started P2 and due to a couple of race incidents and one 10 second penalty, ended up P13. According to what you heard from the race commentary it was his first actual bad race in quite some time. And you could see in his eyes the way he was fuming post-race.

During their post race commitments, you stayed out of their way, you knew they’d have press and meeting with their team, so you stayed at the Ferrari hospitality, grabbed a bite while you researched some way to help their de-stress later, maybe a swim in the hotel pool, or just soaking in the big jacuzzi in their hotel room.

After a couple of grueling hours, you decided to go find Charles first, since he’d probably be in a slightly better place mentally than Max. You went to his little room, but he wasn’t there. A helpful member of the staff said he had gone to see Max, and suggested you went there too.

You made your way through the maze of people towards them, grabbing a couple of small chocolates to give them. Charles had mentioned once that a little sweet treat would always lift their moods after a tough day.

As you arrived at his room, you could hear their voices through the thin walls, and it took you a few steps to notice they seemed to be arguing. You stopped before you could make your presence known, standing behind the door.

“-Look, I know you’re frustrated, the race today was fucking nuts…” Charles started, apparently trying to calm down Max.

“All of this sucks. But you don’t understand… because you’re you…” Max replied, still agitated, “You are kind and welcoming, but this is not cool with me, okay?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t do changes like you, Charlie…” Max sighed, seemingly unable to put into words whatever was plaguing him, “I feel so… I don’t know. I just hate that my car changed, that I’m battling it as much as I’m battling other drivers week in, week out. You’re also changed, Charlie, and I’m- here. And there’s…” Max’s voice died for a moment, and he whispered your name. The sound of it, the contempt in his voice… it had you rooted to the spot.

“What about her?” Charles asked, his voice almost shaky, as if he knew exactly where this was going.

“It was better before!” Max snapped, his voice an octave higher because of the outburst.

You froze, the weight of his words landing right on your chest like a deep, dark blow. Dread filling your lungs and aching like acid as you held onto the wall.

“You don’t mean it,” Charles whispered, sounding disappointed.

“It was, you know that! N-now because of her, we have to rearrange our schedules, and adjust our whole lives to fit her. When it was perfect the way it was before!”

“Don’t say that, Max,” Charles muttered, sounding hurt, “that’s awful.”

“Don’t pretend like this isn’t a lot of change for us, Charlie. We have the same life, we travel the same places, we are almost always in the same time zone, the same bed, face to face. She is not from this life. And now we have to stretch our already packed schedule and life to accommodate her. Do you think this is fair to me?”

Silence. A silence that spoke volumes, a consenting confirmation that Charles probably felt the same. That all your trying, all your efforts amounted to nothing in the grand scheme of things. You were just you and they were Max & Charles, 2-in-1, soulmates, halves of a whole. There was no space for you, there was never another spot available in their midst, in their bed. You were always set to fail, to be the stranger in their relationship.

You stepped away from the room, unable to put yourself through hearing more, walking aimlessly through the paddock. That had been enough for your heart to take, to understand its place in all of this. Even in their lives, there would never be any space for you. You’d never mean to Charles the same as Max, and you’d never mean to Max the same as Charles.

Trying not to cry, you swallowed the thick, painful lump in your throat, eyes red as you fought the tears, to not pull any unwanted attention to yourself as you blended with your surroundings.

You were like one of those sad soulmates stories you had read in forums on the internet, the loose string that would never fit with their counterparts. They could even love you as any soulmates did, but did they like you?

How long had you walked aimlessly? You didn’t know, but eventually, you heard your name being called by Charles, and you turned in time to see them waving you over. Max seemed moody, still, but slightly calmer, controlled.

“We were looking for you,” Charles said with a soft smile, one that made you break a bit more inside.

“I was a bit lost…” You said, unable to hide the redness in your eyes and nose.

“Are you okay?” Charles asked, and that caught Max attention, who stared at you more attentively.

“Yeah… just sleepy, I guess.” You lied, which they seemed to buy.

You three ended up going back to Monte Carlo a couple of hours later, both of them not finding any reason to stay there any longer. You kept quiet and distant most of the time. You sat in your seat, trying to read a book but your mind was elsewhere. Your mind was in the decision to make knowing you’re not wanted somewhere and make yourself scarce.

“Hey,” Charles said, and you looked up at him, “We’re going to bed to catch some sleep,” He pointed towards the small room with the big bed you three had slept on, on the way there, Max had changed from his t-shirt into a fluffy sweater, “Wanna come?”

You shook your head softly, “Let me just go through some more of my book. I’ll join you later, okay?”

He nodded, a gentle squeeze to your shoulder as he went to bed. You watched over your book when he joined Max on the bed, both of them cuddling softly, whispering things you couldn’t hear, intimacy you weren’t privy to.

The odd one out.

You stared at them for a few minutes as they fell asleep, Charles’ face tucked into Max’s neck, his arm around the monegasque, pulling him flush to his side. A blanket pulled up to their waists, cocooning them in warmth and affection. Sharing something you would never be part of.

Your eyes watered as you looked away, trying to tune out the ugly envy that wanted to rip through your chest and flood you. Because you wanted that, so much that the knowledge you won’t have any of it, made your chest constrict in tiny little pieces. The tears fell down after the first hour of their sleep, a sob ripped through your chest but you quickly covered it with your balled up coat, trying to breathe through it, to tone it down. You cried silently for the next few hours, trying to force yourself to stop, but every time you remembered Max’s words, a fresh wave of tears came over you.

Eventually, before sunrise, you managed to go to the bathroom and pull yourself together just enough to let the swelling in your face go down. You managed a nap in the reclined seat, never daring yourself to go to bed with them, despite how much you wanted it.

You woke up with Max touching your arm to wake you up, saying something about putting the seat belt to land. You walked with them quietly to the car, letting them sit together in the back seat while you went to the passenger seat. Max noticed, but he didn’t say anything as Charles sat down beside him, leaning against his shoulder.

You met his eyes through the rearview mirror, looking away after a second.

Whispering, you told the driver the address to your place.

“You’re not coming with us?” Max asked, and you just shook your head.

“I have some work things to fix.” You lied, not looking back at him.

It worked differently with trios. If the three parts were apart from each other, then they all would suffer those symptoms. But if two out of three were together, it didn’t matter much. The two would still feel the lingering absence of their third but they could ultimately live a comfortable, happy life. Your own grandparents, back in the day when Grandpa Joe passed away unexpectedly, your Grandma Everly and Grandpa Harold still managed to live together comfortably despite feeling the absence of their third.

So in a way, you knew Charles and Max would be fine without you.

You, on the other hand, would take the worst of the pain. 

And you were already feeling it, the shake of your hands as you stepped out of the car, quietly. Unnoticed. There was a tight knot coiled in your chest, and as they drove away and you went back home, you could feel it about to snap. You held back as best as you could because you knew the moment you got home it would snap. And break you forever.

And break you it did.

The moment you walked inside your place and the door was safely locked, your first sob ripped through your throat like a thunder, and you allowed your legs to wobble until you slid your back down the wall, until you were nothing but a pool of tears and heartbreak.

It’s a complicated thing, this feeling, this urge to be with them bellied your need to make them happy. But the knowledge that they were happy before you… without you… it stung. And if that was the way to make them happy, you’d do it and bear the short end of the deal. You’d take the pain if it made them happy.

That alone was enough to ease the burning pain in your chest.

So you pulled away.

Forty minutes later, Charles texted you wanting to know if you were still coming over for dinner as you had mentioned in passing during the trip. You lied, telling him you had a family problem to solve. Charles, bless his heart, got worried and offered help. You lied some more saying it wasn’t a big deal.

That’s how you started pulling away, the race two weeks later you had agreed to come, you canceled, saying you had work piled up and you’d have to stay back.

You progressively reduced texting with Charles, deciding to go slow, weaning, so he wouldn’t notice. His calls grew shorter and far between. The wave of heat and comfort you felt hearing their voices, seeing their faces made it worse when you had to hang up the call.

The pain got worse as you stopped talking with them. Your chest would hurt, a pointed pain that came in waves and made your hand press into your chest in a soothing massage.

The less you spoke with them, the pain grew to the point you had to find a doctor. A soulmate doctor who you told you lost your soulmate. Initially she prescribed heart medication, a pill you’d take every morning to ease the aching in your heart. She said that if at any point the pain got worse than the pills could prevent, you’d have to change to the medicine implant.

Soulmates were a complex thing, many times each case bringing complexities of their own, but overall, treatable. The medicine would considerably ease the pain to a liveable point. The depths of their absence will become something manageable, something you’d learn to live with.

It was the next day when you were all gathered in the living room, waiting for Kika to delegate the tasks for the shared lunch.

“So, Pierre and I will go to the store for fresh meat and spreads for the bread. Dennis and Joris can set up the tables,” she said, scrolling through her notes before looking back up. “That leaves Charles, Arthur, and Y/N in the kitchen. You three can handle the rest—salads, drinks, fruit platter. Easy enough.”

You opened your mouth to protest but shut it again quickly. For the sake of everyone’s mood, you plastered on a polite smile and nodded. “Fine.”

Arthur grinned at your reluctant tone. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“Trust me, Arthur, this is the highlight of my day,” you deadpanned, earning a chuckle from him.

You half-expected Charles to add some snide comment, something along the lines of ‘Try not to ruin the food’—but instead, he stayed quiet, expression unreadable as he followed you both to the kitchen. Strange.

Once inside, the three of you started rummaging for ingredients and splitting tasks. Arthur busied himself washing the vegetables, humming some tune under his breath, while you gathered fruits for the platter. Charles, however, seemed to be struggling with a very basic job—slicing baguette into neat pieces.

You watched him for a moment from across the counter, amused. His grip on the knife looked… awkward at best. How has this man driven a Formula 1 car at 300 km/h and yet looks this confused by bread?

Setting down the bowl of strawberries, you made your way over to him. “Move over, Leclerc,” you muttered, standing just behind him. You reached out and rested your hand lightly on his, adjusting his grip on the knife. The moment your skin brushed his, you felt him tense slightly—only for him to mask it by leaning an elbow on the counter, pretending nonchalance.

“If you hold it like this—” you guided his fingers, your voice calm, “—then angle the knife like that. See? Smooth cuts, no massacre.”

Charles’ jaw flexed, but instead of snapping, he gave you a small, amused glance. “You’re very confident in the kitchen,” he said, voice low. “For someone who burned toast yesterday.”

You froze for a beat, then rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw your brain. “That was one time,” you hissed, pulling your hand back. “And the toaster was faulty.”

Arthur, still rinsing lettuce, looked over his shoulder with a grin. “Faulty toaster? That’s a new excuse.”

“Shut up, Arthur,” you shot back, chucking a strawberry at him. He caught it easily, biting into it with a grin.

Charles’ lips twitched like he was fighting a smile, but he looked back down at the bread instead of rubbing it in. “Thanks,” he said after a moment, voice softer now.

You blinked at him. No sarcasm. No smugness. Just… thanks. “Don’t mention it,” you muttered, grabbing another cutting board and trying not to think about how his hand had felt under yours.

Arthur broke the brief silence, his grin mischievous. “Wow. No arguing? No insults? Should I be worried?”

You ignored him, slicing strawberries like your life depended on it. “I’m just trying to get this done before Kika returns and yells at us.”

Arthur smirked. “Sure, sure. Totally not because you two had some secret reconciliation.”

Your knife paused mid-slice. “Arthur—”

Charles cut in smoothly, voice teasing now. “Arthur, maybe focus on the salad before you cut your fingers off.”

Arthur raised a brow but turned back to his task, humming louder this time like he knew something. Which, of course, he didn’t. But the smirk on Charles’ face when your eyes met across the counter told you he’d picked up on your fluster.

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When you’d finally finished arranging the last platter, footsteps padded into the kitchen.

“Bonjour, baby sis,” Pierre’s voice sang out as he appeared in the doorway, his sunglasses perched on his head like some beach model. He walked over and dropped a warm hand onto your shoulder.

You glanced up, smiling despite yourself. “Hi.”

“Still alive?” he teased, eyes flicking briefly toward Charles, who was quietly stacking glasses onto a tray.

“Barely,” you deadpanned, handing Pierre the colorful bowl of fruit you’d just finished arranging. “But look—still got both arms and legs attached.”

Pierre chuckled, taking the bowl from your hands with exaggerated care. “And you even managed to make this Instagram-worthy. Impressive.”

Before you could retort, Kika slipped in behind him, carrying two bottles of sparkling water. Her eyes darted between you and the counter full of food, then to the spotless cutting boards. “Okay, wow. You three didn’t burn the kitchen down. Proud of you.”

Arthur grinned over his shoulder, drying his hands. “We thrive under pressure.”

You snorted. “Speak for yourself.”

Kika’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she set the bottles down. “So… everyone still friends in here?”

“Define friends,” you muttered under your breath, too low for everyone but not for Kika and Charles, who fought a laugh as he carried a tray toward the door.

“Play nice,” Kika warned lightly before heading out with Pierre.

You exhaled and grabbed the remaining bowl, following them to the terrace where the others had set up two long tables under the shade. Sunlight dappled through the trees, glinting off wine glasses and pitchers of lemonade. The spread looked like something out of a summer magazine—fresh bread, dips, charcuterie, and the fruit platter that had nearly cost you your sanity.

As everyone settled, the conversation flowed easily—Arthur and Paul arguing about whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza, Pierre dramatically defending French baguette as “the superior bread of all time,” and Kika laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

You joined in here and there, trying to relax, even though every time Charles spoke, your awareness of him sharpened like a blade. His voice was smooth, casual, weaving into the laughter like nothing had happened yesterday. But you caught it—the fleeting glances when no one was looking, the small curve of his lips when you teased Arthur. Like a secret tether humming between you two.

Pierre nudged you at one point, pulling you back from your spiraling thoughts. “You okay? You’ve been quiet.”

You smiled faintly, spearing a grape with your fork. “Just tired.”

“From cooking?” He snorted. “We both know Arthur probably did most of the work.”

You shot him a glare “Excuse you, I made the salad. And I didn’t lose a finger.”

That got a laugh from everyone, easing the tension coiling in your stomach.

Arthur then piped up with a finger in the air "And don't forget about the part where she VOLUNTARILY helped Charles cutting bread"

Pierre's eyes widened, a small smile sporting his face as his girlfriend across from him raised an eyebrow at you "Well, well" Kika spoke in a teasing voice.

You rolled your eyes, launching a piece bread in Arthur's direction "Don't act like I'm a moron all the time" you laughed.

For the rest of lunch, you let yourself drift in and out of conversations—chatting with Kika about her new favorite skincare brand, helping Joris fetch extra napkins, rolling your eyes when Dennis tried to make a toast “to surviving this chaotic friend group.”

By the time everyone finished, the sun had shifted higher, warming the terrace with a golden glow. Plates were empty, laughter still hanging in the air like bubbles.

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When the last scraps were gone and people started slouching back in their chairs, you stood and gathered plates. “We should clean up before this turns into a disaster zone,” you offered.

“I’ll help,” Dennis chimed in, springing up with that easy grin of his. He shot a wink toward the others. “The rest of you, enjoy your food coma.”

Back in the kitchen, the two of you fell into a rhythm—stacking dishes, running water, clinking glasses into the sink. For a while, it was just the sound of cutlery and soft chatter from the garden drifting through the open door.

Then Dennis spoke, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “So… you talk to Charles yet?”

You froze mid-rinse, heart lurching. “What?”

He smirked, leaning a hip against the counter. “Yesterday you two barely spoke, and now… I don’t know. You seem… different.”

You forced a laugh, focusing very hard on scrubbing a plate. “Different how?”

Dennis tilted his head, studying you with that annoying, all-seeing expression. “Just… less ‘I-wanna-murder-you,’ more… something else.”

Heat crept up your neck. Shit. “Maybe,” you admitted finally, too soft, eyes fixed on the bubbles in the sink.

Dennis’s grin spread like wildfire. “Maybe? Oh, come on. Spill. What happened?”

You shot him a warning look. “You can’t tell anyone. I wasn’t planning on Pierre or Arthur finding out. Ever.”

He mimed zipping his lips and tossing away the key. “Scout’s honor.”

You hesitated for a beat, then exhaled, setting the plate down. “Well... Something… happened. Last night. In the bathroom”

His brows shot up, intrigue lighting his face like Christmas morning. “Define ‘something.’ Like… talking? Or… something-something?”

You buried your face in your hands with a groan. “Dennis.”

“What?!” He laughed, grabbing a towel and flicking water at you. “I’m one of your best friends, I have the right to know if you’re out here making out with Ferrari boy.”

“First of all, ew. I didn't make out with him” You peeked at him through your fingers, cheeks burning. “Second… we weren't exactly talking either.”

That sent him into full-on smug mode. “Unbelievable. You two have hated each other for years, and now you’re—” He stopped, eyes widening with mock scandal. “Oh my God. Are you sleeping with him?”

You nearly dropped the glass in your hand. “Dennis! No! Well—” You bit your lip. “Not exactly.”

His jaw dropped, then split into a grin so wide you wanted to slap it off his face. “Not exactly?! Holy shit, this is better than I thought.”

"You're making it so much bigger than it is" you said, your red cheeks betraying your fake nonchalance.

"I'm only filling in the blanks, because you're being vague" he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at him "If you don't want me making up things, then tell me"

You let out a big sigh, admitting what happened in the bathroom yesterday. Obviously not giving him all the details, but just enough for him to know what happened.

"WHILE YOU WERE ON THE PHONE?" he chuckled, surprise audible in his tone.

"SHUSH!" you whisper yelled, covering your mouth with your hands "Not so loud, you idiot"

He rolled his eyes, laughing "Well, do you regret it? Or do you 'regret' it the same way you did last time?"

You groaned again, leaning against the counter. “I don’t even know how to feel about it. It’s… complicated.”

Dennis softened then, his tone gentler. “Hey. You don’t have to know right now. Just… figure out what you want. Not what he wants. You.”

Your chest tightened a little at that, but you nodded, grateful. “Thanks.”

He grinned again, breaking the moment. “Still hilarious, though. Every time we talk, it’s about your… activities with Charles.”

You shoved his shoulder with a laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’m just saying.” He held his hands up, smirking. “Your life’s basically a telenovela now.”

You rolled your eyes, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re in trouble,” he sang, wagging his brows.

You threw a dish towel at his face.

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You sat curled up on the balcony, a half-empty glass of wine dangling lazily from your fingers. The evening air was warm, thick with the faint scent of lavender from the garden below. From your perch, you could see Paul and Arthur in the yard, shoving each other around like overgrown kids, laughter echoing up through the quiet hum of cicadas.

For a blissful few minutes, it was peaceful—until the sliding door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t even have to turn to know who it was. The sound of slow, measured footsteps and that faint cologne—spice with something sweet—gave him away instantly.

Charles Leclerc.

Of course.

He walked straight past you without a word, propping himself against the stone railing like he owned the damn balcony. His forearms rested casually over the edge, head tipping back as he breathed in the night air. The picture of ease. Like this wasn’t your sanctuary.

“Why are you here?” you asked flatly, not bothering to hide the bite in your tone.

He shrugged, gaze still fixed on the dusky sky. “Fresh air,” he said simply, voice calm, smooth—infuriatingly so.

“Mm.” You took a slow sip of your wine, eyes narrowing over the rim. “Plenty of fresh air downstairs, you know.”

A small smirk tugged at his lips. “Yeah, but down there I have to listen to Joris and Gigi flirting like they’re in a bad rom-com.” He glanced at you then, eyes glinting with mischief. “Figured I’d save my ears.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically. “That doesn’t mean I want you in my aura.” you said as you moved out of your seat and onto the floor, leaning your back against the stone railing.

He chuckled low under his breath, then delivered the line that made your pulse spike. “Didn’t look like you felt that way yesterday.”

Your stomach twisted. Of course he’d bring that up. You met his gaze, glaring hard. “Just because I was stupid enough to fall for your little trap doesn’t mean you get to crash my me-time now.”

Charles arched a brow, completely unbothered by your venom. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” he murmured before tipping his beer to his lips.

You huffed, setting your empty glass down with a little more force than necessary. “Never said I didn’t,” you replied, nonchalant—except your voice trembled ever so slightly.

That single confession stopped him cold. He froze mid-sip, eyes flicking to you, something dangerous flickering behind them. Then why are you complaining? he almost asked, but instead, the words came out steady, low. “Then stop complaining”

You tilted your chin defiantly. “Just because you’re good at pleasuring women doesn’t mean I constantly want you around me.” The words were sharp, but the quiver in your tone gave you away.

Charles stepped closer, his presence wrapping around you like a second skin. His voice dropped, soft and teasing, but laced with something heavier. “Is it that you really don’t want me here… or that you’re afraid you’ll fall for my trap again?”

Your throat tightened. Don’t take the bait. Don’t— “Charlie, please. You’ve never shown me any interest before. Why now? You don’t want me. You’re just bored. And so was I.” You forced the words out like armor. “We hate each other, remember?”

His lips curved into a slow, infuriating smirk, and that single word rolled off his tongue like velvet. “Keep telling yourself that, chérie.”

Before you could bite back, a voice cut through the tension from below.

“HEY, CHARLES!”

You both jolted, glancing down to see Arthur and Paul waving from the garden. Charles exhaled sharply, leaning forward on the railing as if the stone could anchor him. “I’m not deaf, Arthur,” he called back dryly. “What do you want?”

Charles leaned further over the stone railing, forearms resting casually as his eyes scanned the garden below. Arthur was waving his arms like a madman, trying to get his attention, Paul standing next to him with a grin.

“Finally,” Arthur called up, “you’re impossible to reach, you know that?”

Charles exhaled through his nose, feigning irritation. “You ever heard of a phone, Arthur? Works wonders.” His tone was teasing, calm—exactly the mask he needed right now.

Arthur rolled his eyes dramatically. “We were gonna see if you wanted to join us later for drinks at the pool. Paul’s been bragging about his unbeatable beer-pong skills again.”

Paul chimed in with a laugh, “Unbeatable because it’s true!”

Charles smirked faintly. “You’ve beaten Arthur twice and suddenly you’re world champion?”

Their conversation flowed easily, but apparently the two other boys didn’t notice you—slumped low against the balcony’s edge, half-hidden by the stone railing. Knees bent, glass empty beside you, a wicked plan curling through your mind like smoke.

"But are you joining or not?" Paul questioned.

“Maybe,” Charles answered smoothly, though his posture was all controlled tension. You noticed it immediately—the way his grip on the railing whitened at the knuckles, forearms taut, veins pronounced. He looked calm. He sounded calm. But under the surface? He was a live wire.

"Maybe yes, or maybe no?" Arthur asked casually.

And that’s when the wicked idea bloomed in your mind. Smoke curling in your thoughts, daring you.

Payback. That was all you could think of. After what he pulled with Kika on that call, Charles deserved this. Deserved to feel as powerless as you had when he played his smug little games.

He was relaxed, oblivious, leaning forward just enough that the hem of his T-shirt lifted slightly—an opening too tempting to ignore. Slowly, silently, you shifted closer until your back was pressed against the railing, the cool stone grounding you as you reached up, fingers brushing against the back of his thigh. Light. Almost accidental.

Charles froze for half a second, his voice never breaking, though it sounded just a fraction tighter. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said, steady as ever. But you saw it—his knuckles whitening as they curled over the railing.

You smirked.

Bolder now, you let your hand wander higher, grazing over the fabric of his shorts. Heat radiated off him in waves, and you felt the tremor that rolled through his body.

“What are you doing?” His voice was razor-sharp this time, whispered through clenched teeth. He didn’t dare glance back. Not with two sets of eyes below him. His jaw worked hard, trying—failing—to mask the strain in his voice.

You didn’t answer. Just pressed your palm against him, feeling him harden beneath the thin fabric. Slowly. Torturously.

He swallowed hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “About nine?” Arthur asked, oblivious.

“Yeah,” Charles rasped, then cleared his throat, disguising it with a cough. “Nine’s good.” His accent was thicker now, dripping like honey, every syllable frayed at the edges.

By the time your fingers slid under the waistband, he was shaking—not visibly, but you felt it. A current running beneath his skin. He gripped the railing of the stone fence so tight it might snap, veins raised like cords as you freed him, heavy and hard in your hand.

And God, the way his breath stuttered nearly undid you.

You stroked him slowly, deliberately, nails dragging light scratches over sensitive skin. He muffled a groan with a sharp inhale, forcing a grin down at Arthur and Paul like nothing was wrong—while his world tilted violently under your touch.

Paul’s voice cut through, casual, cruelly timed. “Oh, Charles—ask Y/N if she wants to come too? She’s probably still in her room, right?”

Charles nearly choked. “Yeah,” he ground out, the word strangled as you tightened your grip. “I’ll… ask her.”

You smirked, only picking up the speed, causing the older boy to let out a sound, he hoped the other boys wouldn't hear. He glanced down for one second, big mistake, because the sight of you in front of him made it not one bit easier. He gripped onto the railing tighter, whispering through his teeth in a hissing tone "I hate you"

That's exactly when you decided to take it even further, moving your head towards his thighs, slowly but surely taking him out of his boxers, before without warning you put your lips around him, causing the boy to have even more struggles holding himself together.

“Why are you up there alone anyway?” Paul asked with a small smirk on his lips.

Charles let out a strained laugh. “Needed… some air.” His voice cracked on the last word, and you almost laughed.

Arthur grinned. “Or maybe you just wanted an excuse to lurk near your crush.”

If he wasn’t already on fire, that line set him ablaze. His jaw clenched so hard it might splinter. They don’t know. They can’t know. Fuck— “I don’t have a crush on her,” he lied smoothly, while your mouth wrapped around him again in one slow, devastating motion.

“Bro, you good?” Arthur called with a laugh. “You sound… weird.”

Every muscle in his body seized. His hands slammed against the stone, breath ripping from his lungs as heat shot through his veins. He bit down hard on a groan, forcing out words that sounded barely human. “Fine—just… hot out here,” he croaked.

Arthur laughed. “Okay then. Nine sharp!” the both of them finally starting to walk away.

"Don't forget to ask y/n" Paul added before they finally made there way out of the garden.

You heard Charles exhale shakily, his jaw ticking as he answered, “Sure… yeah.” Charles managed to say, barely audible, waiting until their voices faded into the distance before he finally—finally—looked down at you.

The second they were gone, Charles’ composure shattered. His head snapped down. His eyes were dark, wild, chest rising and falling unevenly. “You’re the worst,” he hissed, voice ragged, low enough to vibrate in your bones.

And you? You just looked up at him, lips curving into a slow, wicked smile as you murmured, “Payback, bitch.” before you returned back to what you were doing.

Charles didn’t move at first. Couldn’t. His entire body was rigid with restraint, knuckles bloodless against the railing as he sucked in a shaky breath.

“Y/N…” Your name tore from his throat, low and guttural, like a warning he didn’t even believe himself. You felt the sound vibrate through him, through you, and it only made you take him deeper, slow and languid, dragging your tongue along the length of him before hollowing your cheeks.

He cursed under his breath, a soft, desperate merde that made heat pool between your thighs. His hips twitched forward instinctively, fighting to keep still, but the leash on his control was snapping strand by strand.

“Stop,” he rasped, voice tight, breaking on the edges. His hand shot out, fisting in the balcony rail as if that could ground him. “Stop or—” His words choked off in a strangled groan when you swirled your tongue around the tip, squeezing the base with a grip that made him see stars.

“—fuck,” he breathed, and that was it. That was the last thread.

One second, you were in control, teasing him to the brink. The next, he had his fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp. His eyes—holy hell—his eyes were molten, wide and dark, every ounce of composure burned to ash.

“You think you’re clever, hm?” he growled, accent thick, voice wrecked and vibrating with something feral. He dragged your hair into his fist, angling your face up to him. Your lips were slick, your breath coming out in hot little pants, and the sight nearly broke him all over again.

You only smiled, breathless, defiant. “Looks like it’s working.”

That earned you a low, dangerous laugh. The kind that promised you were in trouble. Serious trouble.

“You want payback, chérie?” His voice was a silken snarl, dark eyes raking over your flushed face. “Careful what you start.”

Before you could fire back, he hauled you up—fast, rough, spinning you so your back hit the cold glass of the balcony door. Your gasp caught in his mouth as he kissed you—if you could call it that. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth, tongue, heat, like he needed to erase the last ten minutes of smug triumph from your lips.

You barely had time to process before his hands were everywhere—fisting the hem of your dress, dragging it up until cool air hit your thighs. His fingers gripped your hips hard enough to bruise as he ground against you, still heavy and hard, and fuck—you felt dizzy from the contrast of stone at your back and fire at your front.

“Think you can drive me insane and get away with it?” His words were a hot whisper against your ear, breath ragged as he pinned you tighter. “Not happening.”

You shivered when his teeth grazed your jaw, down to your throat, biting just hard enough to make your knees buckle. He caught you effortlessly, one arm banded around your waist as the other shoved your panties aside in one swift, ruthless motion.

“Charles—” His name spilled from your lips like a plea you didn’t mean to give him.

“Shhh.” His mouth was on yours again, swallowing the sound as his fingers slid over your heat—slow at first, teasing, like he wanted to punish you for every second of control you stole from him. His touch was maddening, featherlight, skimming over you until you were trembling, nails clawing at his shoulders.

Then, without warning, he pushed two fingers inside, curling them just right, and you bit down on a moan that still escaped anyway—soft, broken, perfect.

“Loud now, aren’t you?” he taunted, voice husky as his thumb brushed over your clit in agonizing circles. His forehead pressed to yours, sweat slick at his temples, his lips brushing your mouth as he added, “Bet the whole garden could hear you if I really tried.”

Your hips jerked forward, desperate, but he held you in place, pace mercilessly slow. It was torture—the kind that made your vision blur. You wanted to scream at him, beg him, anything to make him stop dragging it out, but then his lips were at your ear again, whispering something that shattered you completely.

“Tell me how much you hate me now.”

You could barely speak, breath coming in ragged gasps. “Charles, I—” Your words dissolved into a whimper when he curled his fingers deeper, faster, sending white-hot pleasure ripping through you.

“That’s what I thought.” His smirk was pure sin, teeth flashing as he dragged his fingers out of you—and before you could protest, he turned you sharply, bending you over the railing.

The stone was icy against your stomach. His hands gripped your hips like a vice as he kicked your legs wider, and then—God—you felt him, hot and heavy, sliding against you.

“This what you wanted, hmm?” he muttered darkly, lining himself up. “To push me until I snapped?”

For a split second, you considered letting him. Letting him have his way, like he so clearly wanted. But then your lips curled into a smile—slow, wicked. Oh no, Leclerc. Not that easy.

You braced your palms on his chest and shoved, hard enough to make him stumble back a step. The flash of surprise in his eyes almost made you laugh. Before he could react, you closed the space again—fast—pressing him against the cool glass of the balcony door to his room with your body caging his in.

His brows shot up. “What the hell are you—”

“That’s for me to know,” you purred, voice dripping with smugness, fingers already sliding his shorts down further, “and for you to find out.”

His breath hitched, chest heaving as you sank slowly—deliberately—to your knees in front of him. The sharp gasp that left his throat was pure music. He tipped his head back against the glass with a muted thud, knuckles white as he gripped the doorframe behind him.

“Y/N…” His voice was low, ragged, a warning and a plea tangled into one.

You only smiled up at him through your lashes as you freed him again, hot and heavy in your hand. You wrapped your fingers around his length and stroked once—slow, firm—before leaning forward to run your tongue along the underside, savoring the way his thighs tensed.

He swore in French, voice breaking as you took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks until his knees nearly buckled.

“Fuck—” He groaned, trying to catch his breath, hips jerking despite his effort to stay still. “You're—” His words cut off when you slid him deeper, nose brushing his stomach. A strangled moan ripped from his chest.

Charles cursed so loudly it was almost a growl, his accent thick and messy as his hand shot to your hair. “Mon dieu, Y/N—” His voice was fractured now, completely undone, and the way his hips stuttered told you he was close. Too close.

“Stop—fuck, if you don’t stop now—” His grip tightened, like he was trying to drag you off him, but you didn’t budge. You only hummed around him, sending vibrations that made him choke out a broken sound.

You pulled back just enough to speak, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Yeah… that’s kinda the point, Leclerc.” Then you swallowed him down again, harder, faster.

You glanced up at him then—eyes dark, lashes fluttering—and that was it. That single look detonated whatever control he had left.

“Fucking hell—” His head slammed back against the glass, jaw slack as his body tensed, pleasure ripping through him with violent force. His breath came out in a harsh, shattered groan as he spilled down your throat, every muscle trembling while you took everything he gave you.

You didn’t stop until he sagged against the glass, chest heaving, a string of curses falling from his lips like prayer. Only then did you slide off him slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before standing—calm, collected, victorious.

Charles was still reeling, rebuttoning his shorts with shaky fingers, when the sliding door behind him clicked open.

“Well,” Dennis’s voice cut through the thick air like a blade, dripping with amusement. “That’s… certainly an interesting thing to walk into.”

You froze. Charles froze harder, eyes wide, a flush creeping high on his cheeks, looking at the floor trying his hardest to ignore Dennis' existence.

Dennis grinned like the devil himself, hands shoved in his pockets. “Guess I don’t need to ask if you’re both having fun.”

Previous | Next

A knock at her bedroom door startled her out of her thoughts. She turned around as Lando walked in. "Ready?" He asked.

There were certain customs they had to honour. Without their father there, the Norris' had to do things a little bit differently. Instead of her father introducing her to the Sainz, it would be Lando. It would be Lando who would be signing the deals on her behalf, who worked with Sainz to set up the wedding.

Lando grabbed Y/N's arm and walked her out of her bedroom. "You okay?" He whispered as they walked through the halls.

Swallowing the lump in her throat Y/N nodded her head. She wasn't fine, but she was dealing with it. What could she do but deal with it?

Just the day before, she'd met Carlos down in her kitchen. She'd watched as her brother lost his shit, before she'd been sent back to her own bedroom. Carlos had been nice enough then, but, of course, Y/N hadn't known he was Carlos. She didn't know who he was until her brother came home and exploded.

"Are you?" She asked as they descended the stairs.

Lando nodded, too. He let out a sigh through his nostrils as they got to the dining room doors. "All you have to do is sit there and say nothing, okay? Let me do all of the talking. If you need to, give me a signal and I'll get you out," he said.

"We've got this," she said and they pushed open the door.

***

The dinner was mostly business talks, something Y/N wasn't very familiar with. Lando spoke with Sainz and Carlos, their tones civil. It was the first civil dinner the Norris family and the Sainz family had managed to have in a good few years.

The business talk sounded like gibberish to Y/N. There was a lot of importing, mentions of drugs and drink, and weapons. The Sainz had always been the biggest importers of the most weapons, supplying them to other families. With their feud, the Norris family was made to go else where for their weapons.

The subject of the arranged marriage hadn't come up yet, and Y/N was grateful. The attention hadn't turned to her at all, and she was grateful.

She ate, taking small bites like her mother had taught her. While she had never been to a dinner such as this, her mother had prepared her. Every meal the family had together was like this: Y/N's mother screaming at her until she sat up straight, forcing her to cut her food into the smallest bites possible.

"You must appear proper and dainty. That way, when you strike, they will never see you coming."

Carlos kept glancing at Y/N. As he ate, he looked up at her. His mannerisms at the table were just as well trained as her own, although he had been taught to look imposing and powerful. Just like the other two men at the table.

But Y/N didn't notice him. Of course she didn't; she was too busy staring down at her plate. She looked so... small. But that was all intentional. Carlos had been in this world long enough to know this. He was almost positive it was all an act.

There was a part of Carlos, admittedly a very small part, that wanted to get on with things. He was to be married to a woman he didn't know - he didn't want to just wait around while Lando, a man younger than him, discussed irrelevant business with his father.

The next time Carlos looked at her, Y/N was looking right back at him. As soon as his eyes met her, she looked away, bashfully.

As soon as they were finished with the main course and maids had taken away the plates, Lando turned to his sister. "I guess we should get on with things," he said.

"Yes, I suppose we should," Sainz replied, his accent thick.

Carlos cleared his throat. "Padre, no quiero hacer esto con ella en la habitación," he said, his voice low (father, i don't want to do this with her in the room).

His father looked at him, but he said nothing. From within his suit jacket, he pulled out a notepad and a pair of glasses. Placing the glasses on his nose, he opened the notebook and looked at Lando. "My son and your sister are to be married. This will link our families together. This means that the feud between our families will have ended. We will resupply you with weapons and you will reopen the trading routes for us."

Lando had his own notes in front of him, notes written by his father. He and Sainz had clearly discussed this before; all of their notes were the same. "First, lets discuss my sister." This wasn't on Lando's notes, but it was the most important thing to him. "I want her protected, incredibly well protected," he said and Sainz noted it down. "This is the only deal she'd ever to be involved in."

Over the top of his glasses, Sainz looked at Y/N. "Surely this is a choice for tu hermana. Is this what you want?"

When Lando didn't answer, Y/N realised that Sainz was speaking to her. She hadn't been ready for this, for him to actually speak to her. "Uh, yes, sir. I-I'm not to be involved in any business."

From the other side of the table, Carlos let out a laugh. Ever since he learnt that he was to one day take a wife and take over his fathers business, he had always dreamed of having a strong wife, one that would stand behind him, hand on his shoulder as she commanded his men.

Y/N Norris would never be that woman. She would never be the woman he truly wanted. But she was the woman he was stuck with.

"Very well," said Sainz. He turned his attention back to Lando and held his pen to his notepad. "Any more demands, Norris?"

Lando hadn't expected this. He hadn't expected Sainz to address him as Norris, not when his father was still alive. But that was what was happening. Lando was going to become Norris, the head of his family, when his father eventually passed.

Clearing his throat, Lando continued. "My father and I have spoken and I know Y/N is expected to move to Spain once she is married. When my father eventually passes, I want her to come home for a week, at least, for the funeral."

"No," Sainz said instantly. "You may have her for two days."

"Father-"

"Two days, and that's final."

Somewhat meekly, Y/N cleared her throat. "Um, sir, do I not get a choice in the matter?" Her voice was quiet, so quiet that Sainz didn't hear her.

But Carlos did. "Padre, it is her fathers funeral. We can let her come back for a week."

There was one rules in a crime family: Don't talk back to the head of the family. Sainz glared at his son from across the table. He could lose his temper, pull out a weapon and point it at Carlos. But that wouldn't be professional.

"It is something that we can discuss when the time comes," Sainz said, his voice low.

Those were all of Lando's demands for his sister. When he and Sainz moved onto the rest of the business, Y/N looked at Carlos. She wanted, more than anything, to thank him, for sticking up for her.

There wouldn't be any time for them to get to know each other, that was the tragic thing. Sainz and Lando were to set a date between them, and Y/N wouldn't get to see Carlos until the day of their wedding.

Y/N tried to listen, she really did, but she couldn't. Things were becoming very real, now.

Taglist: @fangirlmusicbiashoe

“Who are you and what did you do with Pierre?”

“I’m still me, Charles.”

“Could’ve fooled me. Up until a few months ago you would’ve never turned down someone as ehm well endowed as her.”

Pierre rolls his eyes, “up until a few months ago I wasn’t in a loving relationship.”

“A loving relationship in which your girlfriend stays in your hotel room while you party all night long?”

“What does it matter? Y/N gets anxious and this isn’t really her scene. She knows I would never do anything to hurt her or our relationship and she trusts me.”

“She should be here supporting you.”

“She does support me. Tirelessly. And I do the same in return by making sure she’s not forced into situations that make her uncomfortable.”

When they return to their hotel in the early hours of the morning, fairing none too well after a night of endless partying, Charles can’t help but peak into the suite that Pierre and you were sharing after Pierre was too drunk to properly shut the door.

You were still up despite the ridiculously late hour and reading a lengthy book using the warm light of a lamp on your nightstand.

Charles watches through the crack as you carefully mark your place in the novel and get out of bed to greet your inebriated boyfriend.

“Hi, Pear.”

Pierre leans in to give you a messy kiss, missing your lips almost entirely, “hello, mon coeur. I missed you.”

“I missed you too, love. There’s some painkillers and water by your toothbrush. And I put your boxers by the clean towels for after you shower quickly.”

“I need help.”

“Help with what?”

“Help me shower,” Pierre whines softly, “pleeeeeaaaasssseee.”

“Okay, you big baby. Let’s get you washed.”

Charles hurriedly shut the door when Pierre went to drop his pants.

Two

You paced up and down the gallery, hands linked in front of you to stop their shaking … mostly. It was your first public art exhibition and the tremendous milestone meant stepping far outside your comfort zone and into a social setting to show off your hard work.

Your eyes ran over the paintings carefully hanging on the walls for the hundredth time. They were perfect. The result of pouring your entire soul into the images that flowed from your hands and onto the canvas. Everything would be perfect. Almost everything, that is.

“How sucky that your boyfriend couldn’t be here for you.”

You turn around to face a classmate and friend from art school, “it’s not his fault. He has a job to do.”

Your boyfriend of nearly a year was going to have to miss the exhibition not matter how much you knew he wished he could be here to support you. But Formula 1 waits for no one and he was stuck on the other side of the world among the chaos that came with a race weekend.

“I’m just saying,” she throws her hands up defensively, “what about his job as your boyfriend?”

“Pierre does that daily, thank you for your concern. His attention to me whenever he isn’t actively working more than makes up for the time he dedicates to racing.”

You move to turn back around but stop and about-face, “and his dedication and passion to that part of his life are part of the reason I love him.” Then you finally spin on your heel and go back to surveying your work for any imperfections.

You were broken out of your thoughts as the curator lightly tapped your shoulder, having been ignored when she quietly called your name while you were lost in your own head.

“Miss Y/N, there’s a delivery for you. Shall I tell them to bring it in?”

A delivery? You were fairly certain you didn’t order anything though with how anxious you were as the exhibition approached, maybe you did and just forgot about it.

“Of course! So sorry. They can put it down wherever there’s space.”

You watch in shock as courier after courier after courier after courier filed their way into the gallery and places overflowing vases of every flower under the sun on the floor before going back outside and returning with even more bouquets.

When you can barely see the tile floors and the gallery looks more like a botanical garden than a low-key space to showcase art, one of the couriers approaches you and hands you a card.

I wish I could be there celebrating your achievements with you. I am so incredibly proud of you and all that you’ve managed to do. I will be carrying a little bit of you with me when I race tonight.

Love you always,

PG

You can’t stop the tears that threaten to overflow when you spot the small photo of a print of your favorite painting tucked carefully into his helmet that was taped to the card.

Your classmate makes her way into the atrium again, “Five minutes till showtime! Oh my god? Who robbed a florist.”

“No robbing,” you laugh, “just Pierre being Pierre.”

Three

Pierre excitedly opens the door to welcome his friends from around the grid into his Milan apartment for their annual visit after the Italian Grand Prix.

“Hey, guys! Come in. Y/N just went to the market to quickly get some fresh fruit.”

The group of drivers files into the foyer and stop just short of smacking into each other as they stop and take in the apartment around them.

When Pierre bought the apartment a few years ago, he immediately hired a top interior designer to take care of all the decorating. Since then, the place he called home was sleek and modern and even whiter than his AlphaTauri race suit. Nothing like the apartment his friends were currently staring at with open mouths.

This apartment was a controlled chaos of colors that should not have gone together but somehow did. The walls were lined with paintings and photographs and little hanging plants that the interior designer would have fainted at. The ceiling of the entry way had a rather impressive recreation of the Sistine Chapel ceiling … with cats instead of humans.

“This is … wow.”

“I know! Isn’t it amazing? Y/N did it all herself after she finally moved in,” Pierre gushed.

“It’s definitely unique.”

“It just feels so much more like home, you know? It took a while for her to finally believe me when I told her I wanted her to redecorate but now we both love spending time here whenever we can.”

The boys exchange wide-eyed glances as Pierre rambles on and on about all of the changes that you made. What happened to the luxurious party boy who barely remembered the names of the women that graced his bed? Since when did Pierre Gasly spend five minutes describing how you painstakingly crocheted a throw blanket to perfectly match your new couch? The mark you made on him was becoming just as clear as the mark you made on his your home.

Four

It was cruel, really. With Pierre’s home Grand Prix being left off the schedule, you had promised to join him in Austin instead. Art school was relatively flexible and you didn’t anticipate any issues taking a week off to fly to Texas.

Until a teacher suddenly announced a project that had to be completed in class during the week you were meant to be at the United States Grand Prix.

You tried to hide a sniffle as you explain that you won’t be able to support him in person to Pierre over the phone during your lunch break. You stare at your salad, pushing the greens around as any appetite escaped you.

“It’s not worth your tears, mon coeur,” Pierre’s soothing accent cracks through your speaker. “Do not even worry about it. I promise that I will take care of everything.”

You see your classmate drop into the seat next to you and wave as you finish your conversation with Pierre.

“Hi! What’s-”

“Were you seriously planning to miss a week of school to go on vacation with your boyfriend?”

“It’s not exactly a vacation.”

Your friend rolls his eyes, “Semantics. You were going to fly halfway across the world and miss a week’s worth of classes for him. He’s been a bad influence on you. You would have never dreamed about skipping even a day of class before you got together with him.”

“Being in a relationship has made me reevaluate my priorities,” you explain. “Don’t get me wrong — I love art and school is important but nothing beats being there for the people you love.”

“Whatever,” he sighs, “no use talking about it now. There’s no way you’re getting out of doing the project to go on your trip. Might as well cancel your tickets now.”

“Pierre said he’ll take care of the class so I’m not giving up hope yet.”

“Right … the second you get excused from the project is the second that pigs fly.”

You didn’t know which of you was more shocked when your boyfriend walked into the room like he owned it halfway through class the next day. He beelined towards your teacher with a purpose and you tore your attention away from the unfinished painting in front of you to watch as they talked. You can’t make out what they’re saying but see Pierre gesturing towards you and then slipping an envelope into your teacher’s hands when he gets a nod. They shake hands and Pierre makes his way to you.

He pecks your lips as your classmates’ eyes all turn to you, “Done. You’ll have an extra week to finish the project under supervision when you get back from America.”

“No way! How?”

“All it took was two paddock passes to Imola next season.”

“You’re actually the best, Pear. I love you so much.”

“Not more than I love you.” He turned to leave, “I’ll pick you up for dinner later?”

“Can’t wait, love.”

As the class dispersed an hour later, you couldn’t help bumping into your friend, “guess pigs learned to fly, huh?”

+ One

It wasn’t until the following season that his friends finally realized that you and Pierre were meant to be. You flew out to Belgium with him, knowing that Spa was especially hard for him emotionally and wanting to be there for your boyfriend. The morning of race day, you joined Pierre and the rest of the grid as they went to pay respects to Anthoine Hubert. You watched as various drivers left flowers and cards and stepped forward after they were done.

“I hope you don’t mind. I know that I never met Anthoine but I feel like I know him through all the stories Pierre tells and wanted to leave something to honor him too,” you pull a canvas out of your tote and kneel down to place it against the fence.

There’s silence as the men around you take in the portrait of a smiling Anthoine that you left among the flowers and wreaths.

Pierre pulls you in for a hug and you hold him tight as you feel your shoulder grow wet from his tears, “thank you, mon coeur. You have no idea how much this means to me.”