Tahlia

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

Lake Como glistened in the soft morning light, its surface scattered with diamonds of sun as gentle waves rolled against the dock. A light breeze rustled the cypress trees lining the water’s edge, carrying with it the scent of pine and polished wood from the nearby villas. Birds chirped, water lapped, cameras clicked.

And somewhere on a private terrace above the lake, Lando Norris was trying not to sweat through his linen shirt.

“Alright, we’re rolling in three, two, one...” the cameraman’s voice faded into silence as the red light blinked on.

Lando sat back in the sleek director-style chair, a black TUMI backpack resting on his lap. He adjusted the strap, cleared his throat, and gave the camera his signature, cheeky grin.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

His voice echoed softly against the terracotta walls behind him.

“This is my TUMI backpack. I take it everywhere, especially when I’m traveling. It’s kind of like my...survival kit,” he chuckled, unzipping the top compartment. “You’ll see what I mean.”

One by one, he began pulling items out, placing them carefully on the small table beside him.

“First up: my headphones,” he said, holding up a sleek black pair. “Can’t live without these. Whether it’s music, Netflix on the plane, or zoning out in the paddock, these save me.”

He paused and smirked at the camera. “They also help when I’m pretending not to hear Oscar.”

The staff behind the camera chuckled.

“Next... passports. Plural. Yeah. I have three.” He fanned them out like a hand of cards, laughing. “I’m international, baby.”.”

He dug deeper into the backpack and pulled out a small, velvet pouch. Opening it carefully, he revealed several stone bracelets in warm earthy tones.

“My mum got me these for Christmas,” he said quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t always wear them on track days, but I keep them close. Just… makes me feel a bit more grounded.”

He placed them gently down and then brandished a small tin.

“Cinnamon mints,” he declared proudly. “For the sweet tooth. Helps with cravings. Or when you want to pretend you don’t eat like a raccoon at midnight.”

More laughter. The atmosphere was warm, friendly. Lando was in his element, somewhere between boyish and bold.

“Now we’re getting to the fun stuff.”

He pulled out a tangled mess of keychains, one shaped like a tiny McLaren helmet, another a fluffy orange pom-pom, and the last: a piece of tissue with the initials LN sewn into it.

“A fan gave me this,” he said, holding it between his fingers. “I’ve had it for years. It’s falling apart but... can’t travel without it.”

He smiled at the memory, then paused as his hand slipped into one of the deeper side pockets. His brow furrowed.

“Oh... wait,” he muttered, pulling something halfway out before immediately stuffing it back in.

He looked up at the camera, suddenly sheepish.

“Uhh...yeah. Some stuff I definitely can’t show you,” he said, grinning and scratching the back of his neck. “Let’s just say... it's better to stay protected”

The staff broke into laughter. One of the camera guys let out a dramatic “ooooohhh.”

“What?” Lando laughed, holding up his hands in mock innocence. “You never know, okay? I like to get prepared.”

Still grinning, he reached again into the bag and pulled out a small, silver disposable camera.

“This guy comes everywhere with me,” he said. “I take film photos when I travel. Stuff that’s just for me, you know? Not for Instagram. Just memories.”

He held it up with affection, then reached in again and began pulling out little mementos: a handmade skull keyring from Mexico, a folded receipt with something scribbled on the back, a broken friendship bracelet.

“I’m kind of a hoarder,” he admitted. “These are all... pieces of places. People. Moments. I like keeping them close.”

His hand brushed against something in the side pocket. A small, rubbery bottle.

He pulled it out before he registered what it was.

There was a beat.

He stared at the camera.

The bottle gleamed in the sunlight. Bright pink. Labelled clearly ' Lubricant: Strawberry flavor' .

“Oh. My god.”

He blinked, went pale, then immediately turned red.

“I...okay, that’s not, this is not...this wasn’t meant to be in here.”

He stuffed it back into the pocket, eyes wide.

The cameraman wheezed behind the lens. A staffer covered her mouth.

“I swear this is not... I didn’t pack this bag this morning!” Lando stammered. “Okay I did, but not, like, not with this interview in mind so I didn't know I had to show it.”

Lando groaned. “Can we cut that out? Please? It’s for...dry skin.”

“Oh wich part of your skin?”

He buried his face in his hands and trie to change the subject.

Still flustered, he grabbed one of his tech pouches and unzipped it, desperate to pivot.

“Oh!” he beamed. “Okay. These are my favorites.”

From the padded pouch meant for a laptop, he pulled out a neat little stack of Polaroids tied with a red ribbon. He untied them quickly, holding the first one up to the camera.

“This... is my girlfriend.”

The way he said it, like he couldn’t believe his luck, was soft, sincere.

He flipped through the pictures with reverence.

“This is her in Spain last summer. Look at this, she was trying to take a serious photo and I made a face behind her.”

He laughed.

“This is us in Monaco. Don’t ask how I convinced her to get in the pool. She hates cold water.”

Another.

“This is her sleeping. And this... this is her at breakfast, in my hoodie.”

His smile melted into something private, like a quiet sunrise behind his eyes.

“And this...”

He held up the next Polaroid to the camera without looking at it first. There was a beat. A pause.

From behind the camera, someone made a choked noise.

Lando glanced up. “What?” Then looked at the picture.

“Oh...oh, no. No, no, no...”

He yanked it back quickly, his ears flushing bright pink.

“Shit, this isn’t...this was not supposed to be in that pile.”

He stuffed it deep into the side of the bag, clutching the remaining Polaroids protectively.

“Oh my god, please can you blur it,” he groaned, covering his face. “That’s from the other pile. Like...the private-private collection.”

The entire crew burst into cackles.

“I swear to god if that makes the cut, I’m a dead man. She’s going to kill me.”

“Was that a nude?” someone asked, not even trying to hide the glee.

“I am not answering that.”

“Was it?” the assistant pressed.

“I plead the fifth,” Lando said dramatically, still red-faced. “Blur it. Blur it, please. I’m begging you. I have a career. I have a relationship.”

He tried to laugh it off, but his smile was flustered, eyes wide and nervous.

Eventually, he cleared his throat, trying to move on.

“Anyway. My phone. My wallet. You know. The boring stuff.”

But even as he listed the rest of his items, he kept glancing at the camera, haunted. Regretfully boyish. Still blushing.

“Alright. That’s what’s in my bag,” he said quickly, snapping the backpack shut. “And apparently... a reason to get murdered by my girlfriend.”

He groaned again. “Can we cut that part? Please? I swear, she’s gonna make me sleep on the balcony.”

The red light turned off.

The staff burst into applause.

“Best interview yet,” one of the directors laughed, clapping. “Gonna break the internet.”

@TUMIofficial

WHAT’S IN MY BAG with Lando Norris: Lake Como Special Catch our exclusive behind-the-scenes interview with what Lando really carries with him👀

@_user1 WAIT. Did he just… show a nude of his gf on camera?? 😭😭😭

@_user2 THE WAY HE PANICKED. omg that was NOT staged. He looked like he wanted to die 💀💀💀

@_user3 No bc I NEED to know what was on that Polaroid. Was it like artsy nude or nude-nude?

@_user4 LMFAO he had the audacity to hint at condoms, then literally WHIPPED OUT A NUDE LIKE IT’S A FAMILY VACAY SNAP 💀💀

@_user5 He carries cinnamon mints for his sweet tooth AND spicy pics of his girl?? man’s layered fr

@_user6 Not Lando Norris accidentally exposing his thirst for his gf on a sponsored ad 😭 someone check on the TUMI PR team

@_user7 Lube AND nudes of his girl?? Lando Norris is not packing for a trip. He’s packing for a weekend of sin.

@_user8 He really said: “this is her being pretty, this is her sleeping… and this is her NAKED” lmao LANDO WHYYYYY

@_user9 This man is not traveling. He’s on a mission.

@_user10 Lando really opened that bag and gave us: emotional support bracelets, cinnamon mints, protection, lube, porn. He's got range.

@_user11 “Some stuff I can’t show you” and then five minutes later accidentally shows us 😭 this man has NO filter and NO chill

@_user12 This isn’t a “what’s in my bag” this was a “what’s in normally in my bedroom drawer but I somehow take it everywhere in my backpak”

@_user13 He said “I like to be prepared” and I believe him now

@_user14 “That’s from the other pile” UM. HELLO????? THERE IS A PILE??

@_user15 Protective AND obsessed with his girl?? I need a man like Lando

@_user16 He really said “what’s in my bag?” and the answer was: horniness

Texts messages

Y/N Just watched the TUMI video 😇

Lando Oh no.

Y/N The one where my nude photo makes a guest appearance in front of 1.2 million people? 🤗

Lando BABE It was an ACCIDENT But don't worry it's blur we can't see a single thing I didn’t mean to pull that photo I meant the cute ones!! The breakfast one!! The one where you’re wearing my hoodie!!

Y/N So you show the one where i’m wearing nothing at all?

Lando I’m sweating I’m actually sweating I’m gonna get sued. by you. By TUMI. By your parents

Y/N My mum did text me She said “interesting campaign... very modern”

Lando NOOOOOOOOOOOO I’m crawling into the lake

Y/N Also “i like to be prepared”? Really? What exactly are you preparing for mid-flight with lube? 🤔

Lando Dry skin!!! I said it's for my dry skin!!!!!

Y/N Right Because when i think of skin hydratation i think of edible lubricant 🙃

Lando I’m scared to check twitter Someone called my bag “frat boy coded" They’re not wrong

Y/N You do carry condoms, lube, candy and a Polaroid of me naked in the same backpack You’re like Dora the Explorer if she was addicted to sex

Lando DORA?!?!?! 😭

Y/N “What’s in my bag?” Everything but self-control

Lando Okay, first of all, RUDE Second of all… the lube smells nice Third of all… You didn’t complain last time

Y/N Oh so now you’re doubling down??

Lando Just trying to make the best of my public humiliation Besides What’s so wrong with carrying a few... essentials? A man’s gotta travel prepared

Y/N You sound like a horny boy scout

Lando “Always be ready” is a valid motto 🙋‍♂️

Y/N Valid until you drop a bottle of lube in front of a camera crew

Lando They laughed so hard i thought someone was gonna need CPR

Y/N You’re lucky i love you And you’re lucky the nude was actually a good one

Lando Thank you 🥺 i almost show the one where you’re biting the sheet but i had... instincts

Y/N INSTINCTS???? You mean your last two brain cells had a moment of clarity

Lando Pls Do you still love me?

Y/N Debatable Might depend on whether or not you bring me almond croissants when you will come back

Lando Deal But only if you let me take a new Polaroid… One just for me to see😉

Y/N … Good luck on media day tomorrow Norris

Lando Oh no god I forgot about that

The paddock was already buzzing by the time Lando arrived, hoodie up over his head like he was trying to go incognito. Not that it helped, cameras turned as soon as he walked through the gates.

Media day.

He kept his head down, offering a few tight-lipped smiles to passing crew and journalists. He could feel the looks. The barely contained smirks. The PR team had already warned him to "expect commentary.” He hadn’t realized commentary meant the entire motorsport world was now intimately familiar with the contents of his bag.

He reached the McLaren hospitality unit and headed straight for the driver lounge.

Oscar was already there.

He looked up from his phone the second Lando walked in, and the smile started immediately.

“Morning,” Oscar said, way too casual. “Sleep well?”

Lando didn’t answer. Just dropped into the chair across from him and stared at the ceiling.

Oscar waited half a beat.

Then: “So… what’s in your bag today?”

Lando groaned, eyes closing. “No.”

“No what?” Oscar asked, blinking innocently.

“I’m not doing this with you.”

Oscar nodded slowly, tapping his phone against the table. “Right. Of course. Strict media day focus. No time for lube talk.”

Lando didn’t move but look at him shocked. “Oscar!”

“Yes?”

“I will actually fight you if you keep talking”

Oscar continued, unfazed. “I’ve learned a lot about you this week.”

“Please stop.”

“Your skincare routine. Your travel essentials.”

“It’s for my girlfriend,” Lando muttered.

Oscar nodded slowly. “Romantic.”

Lando looked at him. “I didn’t mean to show half that stuff.”

Oscar took a long sip of his water bottle, then added, deadpan: “You were really sweating.”

“I was panicking, Oscar.”

“Yeah. I noticed.”

There was a pause.

Oscar looked back down at his phone.

“I just didn’t know you were the type to carry… souvenirs.”

Lando threw his head back and groaned. “It’s private. It’s supposed to stay private.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You handed it to a camera crew.”

“I didn’t know it was that one.”

Oscar hummed. “Risky system.”

Lando covered his face. “I’m not coming out for media. Tell them I’ve combusted.”

Oscar leaned back again, shrugging. “Might be safer. Someone from Williams asked if you’re sponsored by Durex now.”

Lando didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to crawl into his chair.

Oscar gave a tiny, satisfied nod.

Then, after a beat: “At least the mints were normal.”

“Thanks,” Lando said miserably. “Really comforting.”

Oscar took another sip from his water bottle, then looked back at Lando, who was still sulking in the chair across from him, hoodie half over his face.

After a moment, Oscar spoke again. Calm. Curious.

“Okay, but... I actually have a question now.”

Lando didn’t move. “Please don’t.”

Oscar ignored him, tone completely deadpan. “What’s in the pile?”

Lando sat up slowly, blinking at him in horror. “What the hell, Oscar?”

Oscar stayed relaxed, perfectly composed. “You said it yourself. There's the normal Polaroids. And then there’s the private-private pile. So… what’s in it?”

“I am not...” Lando pointed at him, absolutely done. “...having this conversation with you.”

Oscar raised a brow. “Just curious. For science.”

Lando stood up instantly. “I’m leaving.”

Oscar shrugged. “Fair.”

Lando stormed toward the door, muttering something about changing teams, changing sports, maybe even changing names.

He was halfway out when,

“Oi!” Oscar called after him. “Don’t forget your backpack, Norris.”

Lando froze mid-step.

Oscar was already grinning.

“You left it,” he added, far too casually. “Y’know… the one with your precious things in it.”

Lando turned around like a man walking back into a crime scene, snatched the bag off the chair with one hand, and glared.

“Stop talking about it,” he muttered.

Oscar just smiled. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You are thinking them.”

Oscar leaned back, unfazed. “I’m not.”

“You’re being insufferable.”

Lando slung the bag over his shoulder and walked out without another word.

As the door shut behind him, Oscar shook his head slightly and let out a quiet laugh, just enough to himself, just loud enough for it to echo in Lando’s memory for years to come.

You’re still wearing the locket.

The chain around your neck catches the light whenever the sun breaks through the clouds, and he’s grateful that you don’t notice how often he looks. Grateful, too, that you still trust him enough to let him drive you anywhere at all.

He hasn’t told you about Christian.

Not because he wants to keep it from you, not really. But because today isn’t about that. Today is about soft things. The raspberry madeleines in the paper bag between your feet, your thumb tracing lazy circles into his palm, the way you look at him when you forget to be afraid.

And it’s your birthday. So Isack keeps the memory of Christian’s voice folded small and quiet, tucked somewhere between the glove compartment and the back of his mind. Keeps it from bruising the sunlight pouring in through the windshield.

You talk about the beach town the way you always have: like it’s somewhere sacred. Childhood memories spilling through the cracks in your voice. Sandcastles. Cherry popsicles. A seashell collection that once lived in a shoebox under your bed.

Isack listens. He always has. Even back then, before all this. Before fists became currency. Before bruises and broken ribs were just part of the cost. He listens, and he watches the way your face shifts in the sun. Lighter, looser. Like the weight you carry has momentarily settled somewhere he can’t see.

“You’re quiet,” you say, turning to look at him.

He squeezes your hand. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

He swallows slowly. “How good you look with the wind in your hair.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile. For a moment, that’s enough. The road hums beneath the tires. The ocean waits at the edge of it all. And Isack, who has fought in every kind of cage—ringed in blood and steel and silence—finds a different kind of fight here. A fight to keep this day intact. A fight to give you something that doesn’t come from pain.

He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles one by one. Softly. Reverently. Like a vow.

The car speeds on. The light deepens. And still, he holds your hand.

Normandy unfurls around you like something remembered. Cobblestones catching sunlight, shutters painted in faded blues and greens, laundry lines swaying between windows. The town smells like the sea. Brine and wind and the faint sweetness of bread cooling in some unseen kitchen.

Isack parks the car with the same precision he used to lace your sneakers before gym class, all those years ago. You unbuckle before he can circle around to open your door, but he does it anyway. Even leans in to steal a kiss on your cheek, while your face is angled just so.

“You’re not a chauffeur,” you mumble, sliding out.

“No,” he says, “but I am always at your bidding, chérie.” 

He catches your hand and doesn’t let go. Lunch is a small restaurant just off the harbour. White tablecloths, chipped ceramic plates, windows fogged from the steam of the kitchen. You order the scallops. You always do. Pan-seared, with a little butter and a squeeze of lemon, no parsley.

“And she’ll ask to swap the greens for frites, s’il te plaît,” Isack tells the waiter before you can open your mouth.

You stick your tongue out at him. He kicks you underneath the table. When the plates arrive, yours exactly the way you like it, you flick a fry at him. It bounces off his shoulder. He lets it happen.

The scallops are soft and sweet, practically melting against your tongue. He watches you take the first bite, that familiar furrow of concentration between your brows. You always eat the same way. “Stop watching me,” you huff as you half-turn, trying to hide the way you’re slurping away at the Normandy specialty. 

“Just checking you’re still real,” he shoots back through a mouthful of his own fries.

It’s not the kind of thing he’d usually say aloud. But something in him is gentled today—like all the fight has melted into something quieter, more devotional. Maybe it’s the locket glinting against your collarbone, or the breeze lifting the hem of your skirt, or maybe it’s just this place, this moment.

You steal a scallop from his plate without asking. He reaches for your lemonade in retaliation. “You’re going to hate that,” you warn before his lips can even touch the straw. 

He grimaces. “I always do,” he says, taking a sip anyway. 

For a long stretch, there’s no need for talking. Just the clink of cutlery, the muted chatter of locals, the gulls crying out above the harbor like they’re narrating something you don’t need to understand.

There’s a stillness between you, anchored by everything you’ve lived and everything you’re still trying to unlearn. Love that’s worn in, scuffed at the edges, but no less precious. Affection that is so deep-rooted that it needs no words, that the silence is just as good as what is spoken. 

Isack settles the bill before you can argue. “It’s your birthday,” he argues when you give him a scathing look. 

“You never let me pay,” you grumble. “It might as well be my birthday every day.” 

He kisses your temple in apology, even though he’s not that sorry. Not when that sounds a bit like a daydream to him. Your birthday, every day. Beach trips and seaside restaurants and the glow you only ever get when you know a day is meant to be all about you. Arguably, all of Isack’s days are already about you. 

You both step out into the brightness, hand in hand, salt on your tongues, ready for the beach. It appears like a breath held too long, one finally exhaled. Pebbles the colour of ash and dove feathers crunch underfoot, round and cold, spilling in soft rivers beneath your sandals as you break into a run.

Isack watches you from the edge of the promenade, his shoulder leaning against the railing, his other hand still nursing the faint ache blooming beneath his ribs. The bruises are hidden beneath his shirt, but they tug when he breathes too deep, when he laughs too hard. When he sees you like this.

You stop just short of the waterline, arms outstretched like you could hold the whole sea in your chest. A wave rushes in, touches your ankles, and you squeal with a joy so unguarded it makes something swell in him.

“You coming?” you call out, turning toward him with a grin that rivals the sun.

He raises a hand in a lazy wave, the other still tucked beneath his ribs. “Go on ahead, sirène. I’ll sunbathe.”

Your mouth twists in mock judgment. “Old man.”

“Wounded man,” he corrects, watching as you wade further in, your dress hitched up around your thighs, your hair caught in the breeze like a ribbon.

He lowers himself to the rocks with a quiet groan, easing back onto his elbows. The pebbles press into his spine, grounding him. Salt clings to the air, crisp and clean, and gulls wheel overhead like scraps of song caught on the wind.

You’re still out there, laughing to yourself as the tide flirts with your knees. He thinks of all the times he’s fought to keep you safe, to keep the world from touching you the way it touched him. But here, now, the sea is touching you gently. He lets it. He begs it to. 

He watches the way your body moves in the light, not with performance, but with ease. Your happiness is a language he still doesn’t fully speak, but he’s learning. And maybe that’s the most honest thing about love—this constant relearning. The daily vow to witness. To soften.

You call out something he doesn’t quite catch, and he cups a hand to his ear with a smirk. You respond by splashing water in his direction, not that it reaches him.

Still, he flinches dramatically.

He’ll join you soon. He will. Just not yet. For now, he wants to memorize this: you in the surf, alive with sunlight, the locket at your throat catching fire in the golden hour.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Lets the warmth settle into his skin. Lets your laughter become his favourite sound again. And when he opens them, you’re still there. Still laughing. Still his.

But like the waves to the shore, the morning comes back to him slowly. The sound of your laughter, somewhere just beyond the tide, dissolves into the crash of memory.

You had been singing in the shower, and Christian stood on the doorstep like a nightmare came to life. You haven’t been answering my calls, Hadjar, he’d said, and Isack resisted the urge to slam the door. 

“I thought we were clear,” Isack had said, voice low, firm. He hadn’t even fully stepped out of the apartment, hadn’t invited Christian in. No, men like Christian didn’t deserve courtesy. 

Christian scanned Isack’s face with military indifference. “You lost to Pierre,” he said matter-of-factly. 

Isack didn’t move. “I’m out.”

“No one gets to be out after a loss like that.”

“I’m not doing it anymore.”

Christian raised an eyebrow. “Tell that to the men who bet on you. To the ones who own that cage.”

“I don’t care,” Isack grit out, the words brittle. 

“You think they’ll just let you walk away,” Christian said slowly, deliberately, “because you bought a necklace and made a promise over birthday cake?”

Isack flinched. Just barely. But Christian saw it. Christian knew, had seen this all play out time and time again among his fighters. 

“I’m done,” Isack repeated, quieter this time.

“They are going to call it running. Weakness,” Christian threatened. Warned. “If you don’t settle the score, you don’t just lose a fight. You lose your name. I am not talking about honor, Hadjar. I am talking about safety.”

From the bathroom, you had hummed some song your parents used to play on Friday nights. Christian cocked his head to one side, as if tuning in. Isack wanted to scream, wanted to insist that Christian had no right to perceive you in any way, shape, or form. 

But Isack had been frozen, had thought of all the losing fighters who thought the cut would be clean and the fights wouldn’t follow them home. Pérez. Ricciardo. Lawson. All good men. All once winners in their own right. 

Never heard of again after Christian was done with them. 

Isack hadn’t said a thing. He only felt his stomach turn as Christian said, sickly sweet, “Tell your girl happy birthday. Meilleurs vœux.” 

Then Christian was gone. Isack shut the door behind him and locked it twice. When you emerged from the shower, skin glowing, hair dripping down your back, you’d asked, “Was that Charles?”

Isack had lied. Without blinking. “Wrong address. Delivery guy.”

You smiled, soft and unsuspecting. Wrapped your arms around his middle. He’d held you tighter than he needed to, breathed you in like it might be the last chance he’d get, and showered so long you accused him of stalling. 

Now, on the beach, the sunlight should be too soft for memory. It stings anyway.

The sea wind carries your voice back to him in pieces. Little shouts of his name tossed between waves, laughter stitched into the salt-heavy air. Isack, Isack, Isack. You’re up to your calves already, skirt soaked at the hem. The sky stretches pale above you; the ocean before you, vast and glittering. 

Isack peels off his shirt slowly. Every motion is deliberate. He can feel the echo of Christian’s voice in his bones, but he forces it down. He looks to you instead, cataloguing the shape of you in sunlight. The tilt of your chin, the way you beckon without saying a word.

The pebbles bite at his feet as he walks down the shore. His ribs ache with each breath. His knuckles are still scabbed over, raw where they split. The salt will sting. He knows that. He steps in anyway.

The water hits him like a dare. Cold, bracing, cleansing. He hisses through his teeth but doesn’t slow.

You turn at the sound of his approach. Grin wide, bright as a flame. “You’ll catch hypothermia.”

He shrugs. “At least I’ll die pretty.”

You laugh, and it cuts through him, clean and good. You splash at him, water glittering midair. He flinches out of instinct, then lunges forward. “You did not,” he gasps, dodging a second wave of your ambush.

“I absolutely did.”

And then you're running. Wading deeper, shrieking when the tide tugs at your knees. Isack chases you, slower than usual, half limping, half laughing. His body protests with every movement; he doesn’t care. Not when you’re turning back to look at him with that expression he’d follow into fire.

The sea is up to your waists now. The water slaps at your thighs. He catches you by the waist and swings you around, even if his muscles groan at the movement. It’s worth it, he thinks. Worth it when you squeal with laughter, worth it when you dip your head back and your hair tangles in the waves. 

The kiss comes quiet, soft. Not urgent, but sure. You taste like lemons and salt. He cups the back of your neck with a trembling hand and tries not to think of blood. Of bruises. Of everything he’s still hiding from you.

You pull back, chest heaving. Press your forehead to his.

“Ça va?” you breathe into the scant space between you. Are you okay? 

It has become so easy for him to lie. “Oui,” says Isack, his fingers curling around the back of your skirt. 

You study him for a moment, skeptical but unwilling to push. After a terse moment, you nod. “Then kiss me again.”

He does. Longer this time. The tide nudges at your legs, tugging you both toward shore. You stay rooted there, wrapped in each other, as if you could stall the day from passing.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, Isack believes this will be enough. That the ocean can wash it all away. That if he holds you tight enough, the lies won’t slip through.

But the salt stings. And the cuts don’t close. Still, he kisses you like it might. 

The last of the saltwater clings to your calves as you both walk up the shore, bare feet ghosting over smooth stone. The sun has started its slow descent, warm and low, gilding everything in a light that makes even the ordinary look gentle. Isack carries your shoes in one hand, your towel in the other. Your laughter still echoes faintly in the hush of tide and wind.

You’ve changed into dry clothes behind the crooked screen of beach grass and dune. He had turned his back to give you privacy, but not before stealing one last glance at the curve of your shoulder, the way your spine arched as you peeled your salt-damp clothes away. Now, you’re in one of his hoodies. Hood pulled up, sleeves too long, hands tucked somewhere in the soft cotton folds.

He tugs you close as you walk the length of the beach, an arm slung low around your waist, thumb brushing absent circles into your hip. Your head rests against his shoulder. You don’t talk much. There’s no need to.

Until there is.

“You have been weird today,” you say, gently.

His step falters, just for a moment.

“Have I?”

You nod. “Not weird-bad. Just… far away.”

He wants to deflect. Say something stupid, like: Maybe the sea took my brain. But you’re not laughing. Your gaze is clear, soft, certain.

“So?” you press, voice quiet enough to be kind. He braces for the hit that he knows is coming; it still knocks him off his feet. “Was it really a delivery guy this morning, mon cœur?”

He stops walking.

The sea hushes behind you.

Your eyes search his, and he feels like every truth he’s swallowed is trying to claw its way back up his throat. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He can’t say Christian’s name. Not here. Not with the setting sun painting your cheeks golden and your hand tucked into the edge of his hoodie.

So instead, he panics.

Isack blurts out, “Marry me.”

He stumbles as he says it. Not out of clumsiness, but out of something heavier. Something tangled up in fear and hope and the desperate thrum of his heart. Your expression has crumpled into one of shock, and it spurs him on. Maybe he can pull this off. 

He tries to kneel, to make it look right, the way it’s meant to in movies or in the stories you used to tell each other when you were teenagers with nothing but dreams and borrowed time. But his balance slips in the sand, graceless and human. He ends up on both knees instead of one, palms planted in the grit like he’s bracing for impact. 

The sun is behind you, haloing your hair in gold. His chest is tight, ribs too small for the surge of everything inside. Your mouth parts, brows drawn in a mix of disbelief and exasperated affection. Like you can’t decide whether to kiss him or strangle him.

“Isack,” you say, voice low.

He looks up at you. His voice is uneven, breath catching around the words like they’re too big for his throat. “I’m serious. Marry me. I know this isn’t—I know it doesn’t make sense right now, but maybe that doesn’t matter. Maybe it’s just supposed to be you and me. Toujours. Always.”

You exhale slowly. Your eyes soften, but your stance remains firm, like you’re holding something steady for the both of you. “Get it together,” you mutter, crouching down in front of him, knees digging into the sand. You rest your hands on his shoulders, grounding him. “I love you, but you look like you’re about to throw up.”

A huff of laughter escapes him, breathless and half-sick with nerves. “I feel like I might.”

You press your forehead to his, close now, the salt wind curling around the edges of your hoodie. He can feel your breath, warm and steady, and something in him begins to calm. “I want to marry you,” you whisper, barely more than air. “Of course I do.” 

He closes his eyes. Tries to breathe through the knot in his chest. God, he doesn’t even have a ring. 

And then, you say, “But not like this.” 

“Not out of fear,” you continue, brushing his hair back from his face. “Not because you think it will fix something. Not because you’re scared I’ll leave.” 

His throat aches. His tongue feels useless in his mouth. There’s too much he wants to say, too many words crowding his lungs, and not one of them feels like enough. You’re right, of course. You deserve more than a panicked proposal, more than an ask made because it’s supposed to be easier. 

You lean in and kiss the corner of his mouth—soft, sure, the way you always are when he’s unraveling. He could cry from the gentleness of it. “Ask me again,” you murmur. “When it’s just us. When the world is not bleeding into it. Ask me when you’re not trying to cover up some truth, mon amour.” 

He nods. Once. Shaky. Every part of him trembling with relief and something more tender still. You pull him into your arms, both of you still crouched in the sand, tangled in the golden hush of the dying day. He buries his face into your shoulder, breathes you in like he’s memorizing this moment, holding it against the dark.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he notices the wet spot on the shoulder of your hoodie, the one put there by the tears that have started coming far too easy as of late. He tries to apologize for that, too. “I’m sorry, chérie. I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” you sigh. Patient as a saint, lovesick as a fool. “I know you are.”

He barely waits until you’ve rinsed the salt from your hair before he says it, voice casual but eyes too bright, too fast.

“We should stay the night. Just one,” he says, waving his phone at you. “I mean, it is your birthday. Would be a shame to rush back when the ocean’s right there.”

You’re sitting on a bench by the mouth of the beach, towel wrapped around your shoulders, the last warmth of the sun clinging to your skin. He watches the way your lips part like you’re about to protest, and so he keeps going, overcompensating.

“I booked something. Just now.” He sounds casual about it. As if he hadn’t spent his last couple of spare euros on this impulsive decision. “It was a good deal. Cozy. Sea view—sort of. It’s called La Chaumière. Sounds cute, no?”

Your brows rise. “You booked a room without asking me?”

He shrugs, trying for a grin. “Consider it a birthday surprise. Come on, mon amour. You know you want to sleep in tomorrow.”

You study him for a beat too long, towel pulled tighter around you like armor. The way you look at him, it’s not angry. It’s tired, knowing. Like you’ve already read the footnotes of this story and are waiting for him to catch up.

But you nod, slow. Giving up. Giving in. “Fine. One night,” you say wryly. “But you’re carrying the bags.”

He would have done it even without you asking. 

La Chaumière is everything the name suggests: small, endearing, a little worn in the corners. The walls are painted a pale sunflower yellow, and the bedding is mismatched but clean. There’s a rusted iron bed frame and a chipped vanity by the window, lace curtains moving faintly with the breeze.

Isack throws your bag down and spins in a slow circle like he’s unveiling a palace. “Look at this. Rustic charm. Character,” he declares. “It is giving... Jane Austen by the sea.”

“It’s giving bedbugs,” you grumble as you inspect a loose floorboard. 

He staggers back theatrically while clutching his chest, as if you landed a punch on him. “Tu m’as blessé!”

“Vous êtes dramatique.”

But you’re smiling, mouth twitching despite yourself. And that’s what he wants—needs. That flicker of light, that tiny break in the heaviness. He sits on the bed, patting the mattress beside him. “Come on,” he coaxes. “Lie down before I recite poetry about you and the seagulls.”

“You don’t know any poetry.”

“That’s not true. I remember one.” Isack clears his throat, the beginnings of a wide grin already pulling at his chapped lips. “Roses are red, violets are blue, you have cold feet, and they’re touching my—”

You toss a pillow at him, and he lets it hit despite how easily he could have caught it. He lets the moment stretch and shimmer, just long enough for the laughter to stay in the air. For the truth to stay just out of reach, muffled under cotton sheets and sea breeze.

He watches you as you unpack the small things. A hairbrush, a bottle of lotion, your phone charger. He wonders how long he can hold onto this. This borrowed quiet. This soft reprieve.

Maybe, he thinks, as you toss your towel aside and curl up beside him, head finding its place on his shoulder. Maybe if he tries hard enough, keeps you smiling long enough, you won’t ask again tonight. Maybe you’ll believe him for one more hour.

He kisses the top of your head and breathes in.

“Happy birthday, ma belle,” he whispers. More to himself than anything. 

The first birthday he ever spent with you, you were nine and insisted on making your own cake. A disaster of flour and orange soda, baked in your mother’s oven until the top was blistered and the bottom still raw. He ate two slices anyway, cheeks round with sweetness and something gentler, even then, even so young. He remembers how proud you were of it, the way you’d stuck toothpicks in to hold the layers, declaring it a structural chef-d’œuvre.

You turned thirteen in a train station, stuck on your way back from a school trip. He’d waited for you on the wrong platform, holding a single slice of cheesecake in a plastic box. You were tired and sunburnt and you cried when you saw him. He didn’t know what to do, so he sat next to you and passed you his hoodie and the slice, and told you he’d eat your pickles forever if it meant you wouldn’t look so sad.

He turned fifteen on a school night. You gave him a mixtape and a pencil with his name carved into it. You watched him unwrap it like it was something sacred. You’d shyly whispered, “You said you always lose yours,” and he’d looked at you like you’d built him a cathedral. Like he might find religion between track three and the eraser of the Faber-Castell pencil. 

Your seventeen was a blur of city lights and stolen gin, your hair pinned up with a ballpoint pen, dancing in a too-small kitchen with your shoes off and your heart wide open. He still sees you like that sometimes when he closes his eyes: all light and laughter, tipsy on joy and reckless affection. He still remembers what it was like to kiss you and taste the champagne on your tongue, to say the word love and instead hear the cadence of your name. 

There was the birthday when you got sick and he stayed in bed with you all day, spoon-feeding you soup he could barely afford, reading aloud from your battered copy of Camus until your fever broke. Another when he surprised you with a trip to Lyon and you missed the train, so the two of you spent the night in the station curled up on your backpacks, laughing so hard you cried.

And now here you are.

The hotel room is narrow and smells faintly of lemon disinfectant and salt. The curtains are thin and dated, the kind of print that looks older than the room itself. There’s one lamp with a flickering bulb, and the radiator ticks in the corner like an old watch.

He’s trying. God, he’s trying.

You sit cross-legged on the carpet, a plastic bag of convenience store food between you: two microwaved croque monsieurs, a sleeve of butter cookies, a bottle of lemon soda because the wine was too expensive. “It’s haute cuisine,” he boasts, peeling the plastic off the sandwich. “Trust me. Three Michelin stars.”

You bite into your half with feigned enthusiasm. “Mm,” you hum, the same way a food critic might. “Complex notes of rubber and despair.”

“Exactly. That’s the despair reduction aged in plastic wrap.”

You laugh. It’s small and worn, but it’s real. He pockets that sound, hides it somewhere safe inside himself.

You lean your head on his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

“I wanted to,” he says without missing a beat. 

And it’s true. For all the worry still pressing under his ribs, for all the fear curling like smoke in his chest, there is this. The way your face softens in the lamplight, the warmth of your thigh pressed to his, the knowledge that even in all the mess, in all the makeshift years, you have always chosen each other.

“This one is going to be another story we tell our seven kids,” he says after a moment, gesturing to the room. “The great lemon soda birthday of Dieppe.”

“It’s not so bad,” you say, nose scrunching, “and we will not be having seven kids. Just two”

He watches you fight back your giddiness. Tries to believe you when you say it’s not bad, that there’s still a life on the horizon.

Later that evening, the two of you lie in the dark like children afraid to waste it. The last few hours of your birthday stretch thin and sweet between you, like the bottom of a jar scraped for honey. The room is dim, still, save for the hum of the radiator and the hush of your breaths syncing into something slow.

He watches your eyelashes flutter against your cheek. Every time you blink, it’s like the night moves forward an inch. He doesn’t want it to. Not yet. Not while he still has you like this, cradled in the quiet.

“Are you falling asleep on me?” he whispers, squinting playfully to check.

You exhale a soft laugh. “No. You are.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

He turns toward you, barely a shift, just enough to press his nose to your temple. “We should both stay awake. Just a little longer.”

You hum. It vibrates against his chest where your palm rests. “Because the clock stops if we do?”

“Oui,” he says, half-myth, half-truth.

It starts slow like everything with you does. A shift of your leg between his. Fingers curling under his shirt. His hand brushing the hem of yours. The soft, wordless pull toward each other. The way your mouth finds his without thinking, like it belongs there, like it always has.

Your skin is warm and familiar. He knows every inch of it by now, but it never stops feeling new. Your kiss is slow, languid with sleep and something heavier beneath. His hands find your waist, the curve of your back, the slope of your neck.

He thinks of the first time.

In his childhood bed, the ceiling painted stars above you. You’d lit a candle, even though you weren’t supposed to, and the wax had dripped onto the floor. You’d both laughed, nervous and breathless, fumbling and shy and so very careful. You’d kissed him like you were telling him a secret that wasn’t yours.

He kisses you now the same way. Still reverent. Still undone.

Your body shifts beneath him, your thighs parting. He groans softly, pressing his forehead to yours. “You okay?”

You nod, tugging him down. “Yes,” you breathe. “Come here.” 

His fingers fumble with the edge of your underwear, breath hitching. His wounds sting with the stretch of movement, but he doesn’t care. He’d do anything to stay in this moment.

Then you pause.

It happens so fast. One second you’re pulling him closer, the next, your palms are pressing lightly against his chest. You break the kiss. Your breath is shaky.

“I don’t think I can,” you whisper against his mouth.

He stills. Every part of him taut with confusion and sudden cold. You bite your lip, eyes glassy in the dark. “Not until we talk about it. About what’s happening,” you manage. “About what you’re not telling me.”

The guilt swells again, hot and sharp. He nods slowly. His hands fall away. He knows you’re right, that you deserve this, but that doesn’t stop the loss from curdling in his stomach. 

“Alright,” he says, voice rough. “Très bien.” 

You shift, tug your shirt back down, and he does the same. The silence is thicker now, but not angry. Just waiting.

He lies back down beside you, careful not to touch you without permission. He stares at the ceiling like he did all those years ago, wishing he still believed in stars. You reach for his hand anyway. Thread your fingers through his. He holds on, even if it hurts.

You don’t say anything. You just wait. The seconds swell around him, slow and loud. He listens to them tick by on the wall clock, a tinny little thing above the bed, hands stuttering toward midnight like it’s afraid to get there.

You’re still turned toward him, knees drawn up under the blanket. He can feel your gaze on the side of his face, the weight of it soft and certain. You know he’s scared. Of course you do. You always have.

But still, you wait. You let him be the one to say it.

He can’t look at you. Not yet. Instead, he watches the second hand. Thirty seconds to midnight. Then twenty.

He lifts your hand to his mouth. Kisses your knuckles one by one. At least three seconds each, spent on the smooth skin he bruises over. “It will be a new day,” he says into the curve of your pinky. “It won’t be your birthday anymore.”

Your eyes search his. You don’t smile, but you nod. And when he kisses you, properly, it tastes like grief and gratitude and something raw in between.

“I want you to remember this birthday as a good one,” he murmurs, lips still against yours, “please.”

You touch his face. Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, tender as prayer. “Okay,” you say. Your voice cracks like sea glass. “D’accord.” 

He keeps his palm on your cheek. Lets his thumb drift over the bow of your mouth, the place he always returns to. He takes a breath, checks to be sure. 12:01AM. 

He tells you everything.

About Christian. About the knock on the door, your voice muffled from the shower, the way he’d stood frozen in the foyer like a kid caught stealing.

About the last fight. The score he didn’t settle. The unspoken threat that laced Christian’s every word.

About fear. Not of getting hurt again, but of you getting hurt because of him. Because he didn’t finish what he started.

He says it all. Slowly. Plainly. Voice low like a confession, like a wound opening. You listen. You let the silence hold the weight of it.

When he finishes, your eyes are wet. But you don’t look away. Instead, you lean in and kiss him again. There is no desperation, no anger. There is only forgiveness. Mercy. Love. 

In that moment, he thinks maybe he can still find a way through. If you’re still here, maybe there’s still a path forward, even if he can’t see it yet.

Isack kisses you back like it might light the way.

He wakes to cold sheets.

Not the kind of cold that means you’ve slipped out just a minute ago to wash your face or stretch by the window, but the kind that sinks in. The kind that means gone.

Isack bolts upright. His heart goes lopsided in his chest, tripping over itself. The light in the room is milk-grey, early morning pouring in through the thin curtains. For a split second, he thinks maybe you’re in the bathroom, that he’ll hear the sink running, your voice humming something off-key. But there’s only silence.

He calls your name once. It comes out hoarse.

He calls for you again, louder this time, as he throws off the covers. “Mon amour?” The bathroom door is open, empty. The floor is cool under his bare feet as he stumbles towards it. Dread blooms in his ribs.

Panic is a strange thing. It doesn’t hit all at once. It creeps. It curls. It climbs up his spine like ice. He pulls open the closet, the wardrobe, even the tiny drawer in the nightstand. Your shoes are gone. Your bag too.

He rips through the room like a man underwater.

The bed, the bathroom again, the hallway outside. He presses his forehead against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate, trying to think. Would they have come here? Could they have followed? Could Christian—

The door clicks open.

He spins around just in time to see you step in, paper bag in hand, hair damp from the sea breeze. There’s a bottle of orange juice under your arm and a croissant clenched between your teeth. “Hi,” you greet, voice muffled around the blasted pastry. 

Isack’s mouth opens but nothing good comes out. “Where the hell did you go?” he snaps, voice louder than he meant it to be.

The paper bag crinkles in your hand. You raise an eyebrow, expression soft with surprise, not hurt. Somehow, that makes it worse. “I was getting breakfast.”

He runs a hand through his hair, hard enough to pull. “I thought—putain. I didn’t know. I woke up and you were just—”

You set the bag down. Walk toward him. “Hey. I left a note.”

He hadn’t seen it. The one on the bedside table, with your scrawl and your poor attempt at leaving a lipstick mark. Je reviens tout de suite. Be right back. 

You’re in his arms before he realizes he moved. He wraps himself around you like something desperate, clutching at your back, your shoulders, the crown of your head. “I’m sorry,” he mutters into your hair. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

“I know.” You press your cheek against his chest. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face. You’re peering up at him like this is something new. Something strange. In some ways, it isn’t new. Isack has always worried, has always fretted over you. Never to this point, though. To the point of wild eyes and short breaths. 

“It’s that bad,” you say quietly. It isn’t a question.

He hesitates, then nods. Once.

Your fingers slide up to cup his jaw. “Okay.”

He doesn’t know what he expected. Anger. Accusation. Maybe fear. Instead, you’ve gone back to looking at him like you always have—like he’s still the boy you chose to love, not the man who brought danger to your door.

Even if he doesn’t deserve it, he leans into your touch.

“Let’s eat,” you say into his shoulder. “While it’s still warm.”

He lets you guide him toward the floor, where the sun has begun to inch across the carpet. You unpack the bag, tearing open the plastic with clumsy fingers. He watches you move. He watches you breathe. You’re here. 

He still has time. He still has you. 

That’s why the road home is extra long.

Isack drives below the speed limit. By ten, the sun has started to peek out, soft and watery through the windshield. The light feels older than that, like it’s been here forever. Charles’ car hums low beneath you, tires kissing the asphalt in lazy stretches. 

You don’t question his pace. You sit with one foot tucked under you, looking out the window, fingers laced in your lap like a hymn.

He sneaks glances at you at the red lights. Your profile in the daylight, chin tilted just slightly, that little freckle on your neck half-hidden by your hair. You don’t say much. Neither does he. There’s music, low. A playlist he made years ago, still miraculously apt on the aux. It skips every now and then, but it always settles.

Somewhere just past the halfway mark to Paris, he gruffly says, “I've been thinking.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Uh-oh.” 

He almost smiles. “I was thinking maybe... maybe you should stay with your parents for a bit. Just until I figure things out,” he says, already preparing for the fire the words will inevitably light. 

You turn your head slowly, the way you always do when you’re trying not to raise your voice. “Isack,” you say flatly, an dso he rushes on. 

“Just for a few days.” His fingers flex at the wheel. He keeps his gaze ahead. “I’ll call Christian. I’ll make it clean. I just... I need to know you’re safe.”

You shift in your seat, pull your leg down, your voice going tight. “So you want to make decisions for me now?”

“No, I just—”

“Because it feels like you are trying to disappear me before something happens. Like I can’t handle it. Like I’m some porcelain doll you can wrap in bubble wrap and ship off.”

He grips the wheel tighter, jaw ticking. “You are putting words in my mouth, mon amour,” he grits out. (No matter the argument, you will always be mon amour to him.) 

“Then what did you mean?” you shoot back, skeptical. “Because it doesn’t feel like love when you are pushing me away for my own good.”

“It is because of love,” he interjects. “It’s because I love you.”

The city looms closer in the distance. The skyline smudges with sun. You both open your mouths to retort—claws out, teeth sharp. 

Then the impact comes.

A sharp jolt. A metallic crunch.

The car lurches forward slightly, jerking both of you in your seats. Isack’s foot slams on the brakes, heart in his throat; one of his arms flies out to keep you from jolting forward too much, even though your seatbelt does its job. 

“Merde,” he mutters, breath shallow.

You turn in your seat, eyes wide. “What was that?”

He already knows. He’s felt it before. Fender.

You pull to the side of the road. The driver behind you slows too. Isack’s mind flashes to Charles, to the neighbor who had lent you the car like it was no big deal, with a wink and a clap on the back. Merde, merde, merde. 

He unbuckles quickly, twists in his seat to face you. His eyes rake over you to check for anything he might have missed. “Are you okay?”

You nod, hand on your chest. “Yeah. Just startled.”

He lingers, fingers brushing over your wrist like he needs proof. Then he exhales, jaw tight.

“Stay here,” he says, already reaching for the door.

He climbs out into the sharp light, ready to face the driver, the damage, the next small disaster. Paris is still a couple of miles away. There’s nothing but road here. 

The other car idles a few paces behind, black as pitch, windows too tinted for daylight. Isack squints into the sun and takes a step forward, scanning for the driver. “Bonjour,” he calls out, already doing the math in his head. 

Then the door opens.

And out steps Death himself.

Helmut.

The name, the face, the myth made flesh. He walks like a shadow cast in hard angles, dressed in a long, bone-grey coat that looks somehow too clean for this street. He carries a cane, though he doesn’t seem to need it. Behind him, two younger men unfold from the car like loyal dogs. Isack recognizes them instantly: Arvid and Nikola. Fresh blood. He hasn’t met them in the ring yet, but he’s heard enough.

Panic, the strange thing that it is, coils in his chest. It sends sparks down his fingertips. Not a random fender bender. God, when was it ever? 

Helmut smiles without warmth. “Bonjour, Isa-ack,” the man croaks. “Back to Paris so soon?” 

Isack resists the urge to take a step back. “How…?” he tries to say. The words fall flat. The sentiment does not. 

Helmut chuckles. It grates on the fucking ears. “You know how,” he answers, plain and simple. 

The right-hand man. Christian. 

Isack feels the edge of retreat press up behind him. He considers it—just bolting, grabbing your hand, disappearing. He’s always been a decent runner. He could carry you on his back, even. 

But then he hears the passenger door open behind him. Your voice floats out, sweet and lilting in the stifled air. “Mon amour? Everything okay?”

Too late.

Helmut’s head snaps toward the sound. His smile bares his teeth.

“Oh my,” he says. “Who is this?”

It all happens so fast. Helmut nods once. Arvid moves. Quick as a whip, stepping toward you with a hand outstretched like he means to keep you back. You jerk in surprise. “Hey—”

Isack moves without thinking. The gravel scrapes under his shoes as he lunges toward Arvid. “N’ose pas—!” Don’t you dare.  

Nikola intercepts, grabbing Isack by the shoulder and slamming him into the side of the car. For a moment, there’s nothing but fists, adrenaline, pain. Isack is single-minded in his focus. His instincts kick in the same time that the fear does. 

Isack swings wild. Lands one. Nikola staggers backward, howling. Clutching his nose. 

You’re trying to pull away from Arvid, kicking at his shin. “Let me go!” you screech. 

The sound of you struggling cuts through Isack more than the blows. He pushes off the car with a grunt, stumbles forward again. He’s aiming for Arvid now, reckless and stupid and wholly yours.

Then everything goes white.

A crack.

Helmut’s cane connects with Isack’s skull.

Isack drops to the ground. 

The pavement is cold against his back. Helmut steps forward, boot pressing down hard on Isack’s chest. “Still got some fight in you,” Helmut rasps, almost fond. “C’est bien. You will need that.”

Isack tries to move, but the world tilts sideways. He manages to glance up at you through the haze of pain clouding his vision, through the blood that’s beginning to flood metal in his mouth. 

Look away, he wants to tell you. Don’t look. 

He doubts you’ll listen. You’re still flailing in Arvid’s iron grip, spewing profanities despite the fact you’re already sobbing openly. That hurts Isack—the fact that you’re crying. But he feels a tinge of pride, too. Because you’re the real fighter, not him. 

Isack wishes he could find his voice, wishes he could say out loud how brave and beautiful he finds you. How it’s a truth he’s held close to his heart ever since he was 17, ever since he was 12, ever since he saw you on that playground where you refused to bow to the bullies. 

His brave, beautiful girl. 

Helmut swings again. 

Your voice splinters into a scream as Death’s cane whistles through the air. 

Darkness follows. 

(The last thing Isack sees is not Helmut, not Arvid. Not even your face. 

Instead, it’s the locket resting above your collarbone. His birthday gift. The one that houses a sepia photo of you and him.

Chapter One

Lorenzo stood in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and watching Arthur scroll through his phone at alarming speed. 

“So,” Lorenzo said slowly, “he’s not coming to dinner?”

Arthur didn’t look up. “Nope. Texted me twenty minutes ago to say he was ‘in a complicated emotional place’ and ‘needed to listen to piano alone.’”

Lorenzo exhaled. “Jesus.”

“He also said he thinks he might be ‘unlovable at a molecular level.’”

“Did he actually say that?”

“Verbatim,” Arthur said, flipping screens. “Followed by a photo of Leo looking like a tired therapist on his day off. and the crying emoji. Twice.”

Lorenzo dragged a hand down his face. “It’s been three months since Sophie.”

“Technically, two months, twenty-one days,” Arthur said, glancing at the clock. “But who’s counting.”

Lorenzo sighed. “He needs help.”

“He needs therapy,” Arthur said with a snort. 

And then Arthur’s eyes lit up like a cartoon character with a plan.  “He needs a girlfriend.”

Lorenzo froze. “Arthur.”

“Hear me out.”

“No.”

Arthur put his phone down slowly, deliberately. “I’m making a Raya profile.”

Lorenzo blinked. “You’re what?”

“Not for me. For him. I’m going to fix it. The spiral. The sad playlists. All of it.”

“You want to impersonate Charles on a dating app.”

“I want to rescue him. Emotionally. Romantically. Digitally.”

Lorenzo stared at him. “Arthur. That is identity theft.”

“That is love,” Arthur replied. “I’m Cupid with a Wi-Fi connection.”

“You’re Cupid with a death wish. You’re going to catfish people as our brother?”

“Not catfish. Curate. Like a gallery. Of his best self. It’s not lying. It’s… repackaging.” Arthur stood and began pacing. “Charles is clearly not going to do this himself. He’s too busy posting moody black-and-white stories of Leo looking out windows with captions like ‘we all leave eventually.’ I mean—what are we even doing?”

“You’re being insane.”

“It’s matchmaking!” Arthur said, pointing at Lorenzo like a man unveiling a conspiracy theory. “He’s clearly not going to do it himself. He’s still following his ex on Instagram, liking her stories at 2 a.m., and writing playlist titles like 'slow laps and slower heartbreak.' He needs help. I’m being a hero. Do you remember what he said last week? That he was thinking of deleting Instagram and starting over under a new name in the Alps? That’s not healing. That’s the first act of a French drama where he falls in love with his housekeeper’s goat.”

Lorenzo pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you think putting him on a dating app is the answer?”

“With me controlling it? Yes.”

“You’re barely qualified to manage your own love life!”

Arthur ignored that. “It’s foolproof. I’ll use good photos—Ferrari gala, that one boat pic, something with Leo so women know he has a soul. And I’ll write the bio. Sexy but a little tragic. Like if James Bond cried at Chopin.”

“This is criminal.”

“This is charitable.”

“You’re going to end up matching him with someone who thinks astrology is a political stance!”

“Then I’ll filter for that! Lorenzo, trust me. I’ve seen what’s out there. These women are feral—but one of them might just be perfect.”

Lorenzo sighed. “Just don’t use that photo from Mykonos.”

Arthur looked offended. “The shirtless boat one? That’s the opener.”

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Arthur: hey bestie question do u have any good pics of charles

Joris: Of course I do?? What for?

Arthur: nothing shady promise

Joris: Arthur. What are you doing.

Arthur: do u want him to die alone and spend the rest of his life crying into his dog

Joris: What???

Arthur: do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever

Joris: Arthur WHAT are you doing

Arthur: just send me the Monaco yacht one and the one from Singapore last year you know the one. the good hair day.

Joris: Arthur. Are you making a dating profile for him

Arthur: no. (not legally)

Joris: You’re insane. He’s going to kill you.

Arthur: worth it he’s brooding to “All Too Well (10 Minute Version)” again i’m desperate

Joris: …check your inbox and delete this chat before he finds it I’m not going down with you

Arthur: ur an accomplice now welcome to the operation code name: Raya Redemption

Joris: God help us all

***

Text Messages:  Lorenzo Leclerc & Joris Trouche

Joris: Lorenzo. We have a situation. A serious one.

Lorenzo: If this is about Charles lying on the floor again, I’ve already poured myself a drink.

Joris: No, this is worse. Arthur is making him a Raya profile.

Lorenzo: ...I know.

Joris: YOU KNOW???

Lorenzo: He told me over dinner while Charles was listening to Debussy in the dark and crying into Leo.

Joris: He just asked me for high-resolution thirst traps. High-resolution, Lorenzo.

i just sent him photos. under duress.

Lorenzo: why would you send him photos???

Joris: BECAUSE HE SAID CHARLES WAS BROODING TO TAYLOR SWIFT AND I PANICKED.

Lorenzo: that… tracks. Let me guess. Monaco yacht and Singapore hair day?

Joris: Yes. And he used the phrase “do u want Leo to be his emergency contact forever” like this was a national crisis.

Lorenzo: That does sound like Arthur. You’re an accomplice now. Welcome to the pit.

Joris: He named the operation Raya Redemption.

Lorenzo: Of course he did.

Joris: Should we… tell Charles?

Lorenzo: Not until Arthur gets at least one date out of it. I want to see where this goes.

Joris: Your family is unwell.

Lorenzo: That’s the most accurate thing you’ve ever said.

***

Arthur Leclerc cracked his knuckles, opened the Raya app, and began typing with the enthusiasm of a man who once made a Tinder bio for Pierre Gasly that had just said “French. Fast. Flexible.”

He had Spotify’s Ultimate Seduction playlist in the background, two open tabs of Charles’ most photogenic Instagram photos, and the moral compass of a raccoon in a jewelry store.

“Let’s make some magic, baby.”

He hit “Create New Profile.”

Name: Charles Age: 27 Location: Monaco (obviously) Profession: Formula 1 Driver. Winner of your heart. Photos:

Shirtless boat pic from Mykonos (for the people)

Shirtless post-workout mirror selfie, beads of sweat on his chest 

Shirtless with Leo in his arms 

Shirtless from the beach in Sardinia, wet curls, gaze angled to the sun like a Renaissance oil painting with commitment issues

BONUS: A picture of just his hands, veins out, no explanation

Bio :

Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso.

 Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.

Arthur read it back and grinned.

“Perfect. Bit mysterious. Bit unhinged. Bit sexy. Very me—I mean, Charles.”

Then came the matching filters.

Looking for: Women Age range: 21–35 Distance: Global Interests: Dancing, cooking, racing, danger, chaos, espresso martinis Turn-ons (optional): Confidence. High heels. Deep playlists. Women who look like they could ruin my life in Italian.

Arthur sat back, admiring his masterpiece.

“This,” he muttered, sipping Coke from a wineglass, “is how you get Charles off the floor and into someone’s arms.”

He hit publish.

Fifteen minutes later, the first like came in from someone named Hot4Horsepower.

Arthur grinned. “And so it begins.”

***

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur Leclerc with a mission)

@/Hot4Horsepower: hey charles ;)) i love fast cars and slow burns what’s your lap time in bed?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. First question: Have you ever watched an actual Grand Prix or do you just like the racesuits?

@/Hot4Horsepower: i like the tight suits and the adrenaline also i once watched drive to survive season 3

@/charles_leclerc: So no actual race experience. Strike one. Next: How do you feel about dogs with emotional trauma?

@/Hot4Horsepower: uh what are you okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m not the one who used “lap time in bed” as an opener.

***

@/LenaOffline: sooo… if we date, can i come to Monza in your suitcase?

@/charles_leclerc: Can you fit in a suitcase?

@/LenaOffline: ...maybe??

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up: Do you have a criminal record?

@/LenaOffline: not convicted

@/charles_leclerc: Next question: how many cardboard cutouts of me do you own?

@/LenaOffline: just the one! and one of Carlos for symmetry!

***

@/JulesUnfiltered: charles i already have our wedding vision board saved. do you want a spring ceremony or winter elopement?

@/charles_leclerc: Let’s backtrack.

Have we met?

Do you own a scrapbook labeled “Operation Husband”?

Be honest.

@/JulesUnfiltered: only the digital kind!!! also i emailed your management about matching tattoos

***

@/Lola.LateAgain: would u date someone who only dates for clout asking for a friend

@/charles_leclerc: That friend sounds suspiciously like you.

@/Lola.LateAgain: rude. anyway, how famous are you really?

@/charles_leclerc: Famous enough to Google. Not famous enough to be having this conversation willingly.

***

@/RoxieWithIssues: hey charles you ever been to ibiza?? bc i’ve got a villa and handcuffs jk unless?

***

@/JoWithAView: charlessssssss if we dated u could crash into me any time xx also do u still talk to seb? bc i had a dream abt u both

@/charles_leclerc: What kind of dream?

@/JoWithAView: the kind i can't describe here but i made a Pinterest board

***

@/MilfInSector1: hi baby u like older women? i make a mean carbonara and bad decisions

@/charles_leclerc: Define “older.” Define “mean.” Define “bad.”

@/MilfInSector1: 55 Spicy 2008 tattoo of Alonso’s face on my thigh

@/charles_leclerc: …This was a mistake.

***

@/AlinaUnbothered: omg ur real??? like i thought this was a bot. or worse. pierre.

@/charles_leclerc: Define “worse.”

@/AlinaUnbothered: someone not emotionally devastated. r u?

@/charles_leclerc: I once wept to a Debussy piano solo while making risotto. Does that count?

@/AlinaUnbothered: ur perfect. i collect tiny ceramic frogs. is that a dealbreaker?

@/charles_leclerc: Only if they’re haunted.

@/AlinaUnbothered: some of them are

***

@/ToeSucker88: u have beautiful feet pls send pics i have a collage due

***

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Hey cutie. Do you like handcuffs?

@/charles_leclerc: Depends. Are we talking F1 steering wheel tethers or prison time?

@/Cleo.CalmDown: Whichever gets you sweating. Also, I once dated two brothers at the same time. You have any siblings?

@/charles_leclerc:…

***

@/FreyaLikesFire: Hi Charles. I don’t actually watch F1 but I think you’re the guy who plays the piano in that viral TikTok, right?

@/charles_leclerc: …Yes. And I also occasionally drive very expensive cars. Do you know what DRS is?

@/FreyaLikesFire: Isn’t that the drug that makes hamsters fight?

@/charles_leclerc: That’s not even close.

***

@/SashaWanders: If I was your Ferrari, would you drive me fast or slow?

@/charles_leclerc: You would probably overheat and break down before we made it out of Q2.

@/SashaWanders: Kinky.

***

@/IsabelButSpicier: I don’t really care what you do as long as you’re hot and sad.

@/charles_leclerc: You just described every Ferrari strategy debrief. But okay, go off.

***

@/ClaraAfterDark: Let’s cut to the chase. I don’t cook, I don’t clean, but I will emotionally destroy you in under ten minutes. Interested? You look like you cry after sex. I find that hot.

***

@/NinaKnowsBest: Hi future baby daddy How do you feel about naming our first child ‘Ferrari?’ Girl or boy doesn’t matter x

@/charles_leclerc: That child will be bullied from kindergarten to Monaco GP.

@/NinaKnowsBest: Not if they’re hot.

***

@/EmTheEnigma: Let’s play a game: if you had to choose between your dog and me, which one would you kiss goodnight?

@/charles_leclerc: Leo. No hesitation. ***

@/EvaInParis: Hey babe. Do you come with the Ferrari or do I have to steal one?

@/charles_leclerc: Hi. Have you ever been convicted of grand theft auto?

@/EvaInParis: LOL I plead the fifth.

@/charles_leclerc: This is Monaco. We don’t have the fifth. Goodbye.

***

@/SofiaOnSet: What’s your star sign? Asking to check if our birth charts align. I will not date another Virgo. I’ve had four. They all cried.

@/charles_leclerc:

I’m a Libra.

Are you planning on picking our wedding date using astrology?

Be honest—have you hexed an ex?

@/SofiaOnSet: That’s private.

@/charles_leclerc: So that’s a yes. 

***

@/MayaWearsBlack: Can we skip the small talk? I only date drivers and DJs. You’re lucky you’re both hot and famous.

@/charles_leclerc:

Would you love me if I worked at a bakery?

How many drivers have you “dated”? Please round to the nearest dozen.

Do you know how to spell “empathy”? No autocorrect.

@/MayaWearsBlack: Who needs empathy when you’ve got a paddock pass?

@/charles_leclerc: Your honesty is terrifying. Goodbye.

***

@/TatianaFromIbiza: Let’s get married in Mykonos. I’ll bring the champagne, you bring the tux.

@/charles_leclerc: How do you feel about prenups?

@/TatianaFromIbiza: I’m an experience, not an investment.

@/charles_leclerc: You are a lawsuit waiting to happen.

***

@/BiancaWithIntentions: soooo if i date u, do i get paddock passes? asking for my sister (and me, obviously)

@/charles_leclerc: That depends. Would you say your intentions are: A) Romantic B) Opportunistic C) “Saw Drive to Survive and decided to try my luck”

@/BiancaWithIntentions: D) All of the above lol

***

@/VeraUnfiltered: I think you’re the one. I already told my therapist about you. She says I’m too impulsive but what does she know?

@/charles_leclerc: How long ago did you swipe right?

@/VeraUnfiltered: Twelve minutes. But I can feel things.

@/charles_leclerc: Like restraining orders approaching in the distance?

***

@/RomyInRed: Would you date someone who has been banned from Ibiza?

@/charles_leclerc: Follow-up questions:

What did you do in Ibiza?

Was it arson?

Are you legally allowed to leave the country?

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: bro

Arthur: we have a situation

Lorenzo: what did you do

Arthur: it’s not what I did it’s what the women of Raya have done to me

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I opened the messages for Charles and I’m genuinely afraid

Lorenzo: Afraid of what??

Arthur: of toe pics witchcraft and one woman who casually mentioned she has a tattoo of Alonso on her thigh like. full face. 2008 Renault colors.

Lorenzo: I’m going to be sick.

Arthur: they’re all insane one of them collects haunted ceramic frogs another said she wants Charles to crash into her 

Lorenzo: You created this account You brought this on yourself This is karma. This is divine justice.

Arthur: I was trying to help Charles find love but apparently Charles’ vibe attracts women who have cursed amulets and open warrants

Lorenzo: Delete it.

Arthur: No. I can fix this. I just need filters. And maybe an exorcism.

***

Pascale was in the kitchen, folding linen napkins with the serene efficiency of a woman who had raised three sons, lived through Charles’ La La Land phase, and once confiscated a bottle of cologne that smelled like “heartbreak and leather.”

Arthur hovered in the doorway like a raccoon with a secret.

“Maman?”

“Yes?”

“…I need to confess something.”

She looked up, suspicious. “Did you crash another scooter?”

“No. Worse.”

She put the napkins down slowly. “Go on.”

“I made Charles a Raya profile.”

A beat of silence.

“And I’ve been pretending to be him. Vetting the women. And—please don’t yell—but I think I might’ve… accidentally turned him into a sex symbol with commitment issues.”

Pascale blinked once. Then reached for her wine glass. “What exactly does that mean?”

Arthur swallowed. “One woman sent a voice memo that was just her breathing heavily. Another wrote an essay about his collarbones. And someone named ‘MILFInSector1’ offered to show him her Alonso tattoo. On her thigh, Maman.”

She closed her eyes. “Show me the profile.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m disappointed. In your taste.”

Arthur handed over the phone like it was radioactive.

She scrolled through in silence.

First: shirtless boat pic. Then: shirtless workout mirror selfie. Then: Charles shirtless on a beach, looking like he was about to write a tragic sonnet about the sea.

“Arthur,” she said slowly. “Is he wearing a shirt in any of these?”

“Technically… no.”

She tapped the screen. “This one looks like he just seduced a widow on the Italian coast and then vanished before sunrise.”

“That was the vibe!”

She gave him a look. “And this one? With Leo? Shirtless again?”

“It’s the dog dad bait. Women love a soft side.”

“He looks like a cover model for Brooding Bachelor: Mediterranean Edition.”

Arthur grinned. “Exactly.”

Pascale sighed like she’d aged ten years in five minutes. “Read me the bio.”

Arthur cleared his throat.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives through the Italian countryside and strong espresso. Swipe right if you can keep up—on the track or off it.”

Pascale stared. Then sipped her wine with great purpose.

“You wrote this like he’s a walking cologne commercial with a god complex.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a compliment. We’re fixing it. Sit down.”

They sat down at the table. Pascale adjusted her glasses like she was about to perform surgery.

“First, we’re removing at least three of the shirtless photos. Leave one. Two max. Any more and he looks like he’s trying to sell protein powder and regrets.”

“Can we keep the Leo one?”

“He’s shirtless and holding the dog. That’s double bait. You’re not stacking emotional manipulation with abs.”

Arthur sulked. “The steering wheel hands?”

“That one can stay. It’s tasteful. Mysterious. Almost… cinematic.”

Arthur perked up. “Knew you’d get it.”

“Now,” she said, rewriting the bio, “‘Swipe right if you can keep up’ makes him sound like he’s running from Interpol. We’re dialing it back.”

They replaced it with:

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Quiet mornings, loud engines. Looking for someone kind—with a sense of humor and a stronger tolerance for espresso than me.”

Arthur blinked. “That’s… actually kind of good.”

“I raised you,” she said simply.

She also added a hard filter: “No users with the words ‘feral,’ ‘MILF,’ or ‘toe’ in their usernames.”

Arthur blinked again. “How do you know this much about dating apps?”

Pascale sipped her wine and smiled. “Darling. I may be a widow. I’m not dead.”

***

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (still illegally operated by Arthur)

@/AnaSaysMaybe: So… are you actually looking for something serious or just another Italian summer situationship?

@/charles_leclerc: Ideally something meaningful. No drama. No performative sadness.

@/AnaSaysMaybe: But you're a Ferrari driver.

@/charles_leclerc: Touché.

***

@/SimoneAtSunset: Okay but real talk: Is the “piano at night” thing a metaphor for vulnerability, or are you actually playing piano?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m actually playing piano.

@/SimoneAtSunset: That’s either the hottest thing I’ve ever heard or the most manipulative.

***

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Your profile is giving tragic espresso husband. I love it.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s… oddly flattering. Thank you.

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Just a heads up though—I don’t reply to texts between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 p.m. And I ghost people when Mercury’s in retrograde.

@/charles_leclerc: So you ghost people… for sixteen hours a day?

@/NoelleDoesNotReply: Self-care x

*** 

@/AstridOnFire: You had me at “piano at night.” I melt for emotionally repressed men with a flair for the dramatic.

@/charles_leclerc: I’m… not sure that’s the healthiest criteria, but alright.

@/AstridOnFire: It’s okay, I fix people.

@/charles_leclerc: That is the least reassuring sentence I’ve ever read.

***

@/CamilleOnCamera: Are you actually looking for a relationship? Or are you just here to cry to Chopin and pretend you're okay?

@/charles_leclerc: I’m open to something real. Why?

@/CamilleOnCamera: Because I don’t do emotions, but I do look great in photos. So if you want a beautiful mutual breakdown, I’m your girl.

***

@/JulietteFromNowhere: You seem genuinely lovely, but just so you know—I bring a lot of intensity to relationships. Like, “sent my ex a Spotify playlist titled ‘Haunt Me Forever’” energy.

@/charles_leclerc: …Out of curiosity, how long after the breakup?

@/JulietteFromNowhere:Six months. But I made the playlist during the relationship. Just in case.

***

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Do you believe in soulmates or is that too cringe?

@/charles_leclerc: I think it depends. Soulmates, maybe. Destiny, yes.

@/ZaraLikesChaos: Good answer. Anyway, my tarot reader says I’m going to marry someone with intense eyebrows. I’m pretty sure it’s you.

***

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: What’s your opinion on monogamy?

@/charles_leclerc: Essential, if I’m being honest.

@/TaliaWithoutLimits: Shame. I’m more of a… rotating-cast-of-men kind of girl. But I thought maybe I’d make an exception if you were taller.

***

@/NaomiNotNice: You look like you feel things. I like that in a man.

@/charles_leclerc: …Thank you?

@/NaomiNotNice: Do you mind if I name our first child Enzo?

@/charles_leclerc: We haven’t even met yet.

@/NaomiNotNice: Manifesting.

***

@/MilaInMotion: What’s your relationship with your mother like?

@/charles_leclerc: Close. She helps with most of my major life decisions.

@/MilaInMotion: Oh. Yeah. That’s going to be a problem for me. I’m allergic to mother-in-laws.

***

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Your dog is adorable. I trust men more when they’re dog people.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo is the most stable relationship I’ve had.

@/DaphneOnTheRun: Same. My ex stole my cat in the breakup, but I got the espresso machine. Also, I burned his passport.

@/charles_leclerc: Wait what

***

@/EvaAfterMidnight: Hi. If we go out, please don’t talk to me about F1. I’ll pretend to care, but it’s mostly for the photos.

@/charles_leclerc: …Charming.

***

@/LucieOffGrid: Hi. You have a dog, a soul, and a tragic vibe. I’m intrigued. I live on a boat most of the year. No Wi-Fi. I churn my own butter.

@/charles_leclerc: That’s incredibly niche. How do you… date people?

@/LucieOffGrid: I don’t. I just appear in their lives, ruin them, and disappear again. Like fog. Or ex-girlfriends.

@/charles_leclerc: Oh dear God.

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: progress report

Lorenzo: this can’t be good

Arthur: we are still getting weirdos…but they are  technically better weirdos?

Lorenzo: Define “technically”

Arthur: no toe pics no thigh tattoos no one’s tried to hex him with moon water yet

Lorenzo: So… less weird?

Arthur: less weird but not normal

Arthur: example: one girl churns her own butter and lives on her boat another just sent him her cat’s star chart

Lorenzo: I don’t know if this is evolution or a new form of crisis

Arthur: they’re soft weirdos now like chaotic but moisturized

Lorenzo: and you haven’t found anyone normal?

Arthur: define “normal” because one girl said she’s emotionally allergic to mothers another made a Spotify playlist titled ‘haunt me forever’ for her ex boyfriend

Lorenzo: You deserve this

Arthur: excuse me I’ve filtered out the truly cursed ones

Lorenzo: That’s like bragging about evacuating only some of the haunted dolls

Arthur: baby steps we’re moving in the right direction

***

***

Arthur was sitting cross-legged on the couch, hoodie up, blue light permanently etched into his retinas. His thumb moved on instinct now, scrolling through Raya like a war veteran—twitching every time he saw the words “feral,” “open relationship,” or “wanna crash into me?”

He was ready to give up.

And then.

@/lydiacolbert

Her profile popped up like a glitch in the system. A miracle in neutral tones.

Photos:

Lydia petting a small cream dachshund on a sunny terrace.

Lydia on a bike, holding her face in the sun.

Lydia laughing in Mykonos. Natural. Unbothered. Beautiful.

Lydia holding a flower pot like it’s an award she just earned.

Lydia’s dog—in a sweater. A blue sweater and a pink collar. Judging the camera.

Bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Arthur sat up straight.

He reread it.

Then again.

“Charles,” he whispered to no one. “This is her. This is the one Leo won’t bark at.”

He clicked into the profile, skimmed her answers.

Interests: Cooking. Books. Dogs. Art museums. Sarcasm. Mild chaos. Turn-ons: Honesty. Calm confidence. Emotionally intelligent introverts.

Arthur blinked. “Oh my god, she’s hot and sane.”

He hit match faster than Charles on a quali lap in Monaco.

Seconds later: MATCHED.

Arthur stood, fists in the air. “YES. YES. FINALLY.”

Leo—who was asleep on a pillow in the corner—lifted his head in alarm. Arthur turned to him, grinning.

“Buddy,” he said breathlessly, “you’re getting a sister.”

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: I FOUND HER WE’RE SAVED

Lorenzo: You matched with a therapist?

Arthur: Better. Model. Dachshund. Judgmental. Possibly magic. Mild chaos. No witchcraft.

Lorenzo: …What’s the catch?

Arthur: There is no catch.

***

Raya Chat Log – @/charles_leclerc (operated by Arthur Leclerc, matchmaking menace)

 @/lydiacolbert has matched with you. ✅

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

Arthur stared at the screen.

Then sat bolt upright.

“She’s perfect.”

Leo looked up from the corner, unimpressed.

Arthur cracked his knuckles and whispered, “Do not ruin this.”

He typed back—cautiously, like approaching a feral cat that might also own a book deal.

@/charles_leclerc: Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

Arthur blinked. Whispered, “Marry her.”

He texted Lorenzo immediately.

***

Text Messages:  Arthur Leclerc & Lorenzo Leclerc

Arthur: She messaged FIRST.

Lorenzo: Who??

Arthur: LYDIA. Dog girl. Sanity girl. Flower-pot-on-a-bike girl.

Lorenzo: And?

Arthur: She’s funny. She’s dry. Her dog’s name is Désirée. She likes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I think Leo just wagged his tail at the screen.

Lorenzo: …You’re not qualified to handle this.

Arthur: I KNOW. I need backup. Should I respond with poetry or just ask her what her dog’s birth chart is?

Lorenzo: Respond like a normal person. And don’t mention astrology. 

***

Back in the app, Arthur took a breath. And for once, he typed like Charles would.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

Arthur choked on his Coke Zero.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “She’s real. She’s emotionally literate. And she cooks.”

He took a beat. Typed.

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Arthur stared at the message. Then slowly turned to Leo.

“Buddy,” he whispered. “We might’ve found her.”

***

Group Chat: Raya Redemption HQ 💘🐾

 Members: Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale, Joris

Arthur: EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LOOK AT THIS WOMAN

Arthur: screenshot of Lydia’s profile ✨Model. Dachshund. Wears linen. Reads books. Owns plants. Emotionally stable.✨ WE ARE NO LONGER IN CRISIS

Lorenzo: Did she send you toe pics?

Arthur: NO. She sent a message about her dog judging her for messaging men. It was dry. It was flirty. It was sane. She makes risotto and hates pineapple on pizza. I’m in love for Charles.

Joris: So… we’re not deleting the app after all?

Arthur: No. We’re framing this match and hanging it above the fireplace.

Pascale: Arthur, I swear to God, if you are still pretending to be your brother, this woman deserves better than whatever Cirque du Soleil act you’re pulling.

Arthur: Maman, relax. I’m being tasteful. No shirtless photos, no espresso metaphors. We even discussed dogs before pasta.

Lorenzo: That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve read today.

Arthur: I’M DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT. Even Leo approved. He wagged his tail. Once.

Pascale: You bribed him with ham, didn’t you?

Arthur: That’s beside the point.

Joris: Okay, but real talk—what’s the plan here? Are you going to tell Charles at some point, or is he just going to find out he’s dating someone from an app he never downloaded?

Arthur: We’ll ease him into it. Like exposure therapy. Step 1: Let him spiral less. Step 2: Keep messaging Lydia until she’s emotionally invested. Step 3: Gently reveal the deception. Step 4: Wedding.

Lorenzo: You skipped “tell the truth” and “deal with the emotional fallout” in your little master plan.

Pascale: I raised criminals.

Arthur: You raised innovators.

Pascale: When Charles finds out, I’m making all of you explain it to him. In person. While I film it.

Arthur: You’ll thank me when he’s married to the elegant Parisian woman with a judgmental dachshund and a normal relationship with emotional intimacy.

Lorenzo: Or he’ll drown you in the Monaco marina.

Arthur: That’s a risk I’m willing to take.

***

Charles took a sip of his espresso and opened Twitter with the innocent hope of seeing race predictions or maybe a meme about Pierre’s new sunglasses.

Instead, the first thing he saw was a tweet with his face and the words:

@/paddocktea:okay but WHO is running charles leclerc’s raya account(s) bc i just found TWO and they are… spiritually different??? exhibit a: “Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights. I like long drives and women who don’t ask too many questions.” vs “Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays. Looking for someone kind and espresso-tolerant.” one of these was written by a shirtless man with cologne in his eyes and the other by someone’s extremely French mother

[2 screenshots attached]

Charles blinked.

Scrolled.

Opened the replies.

@/feralgirlsf1: first version: "I will ruin you in Lake Como" second version: "I will feed you carbonara and never leave" who is writing this man’s character arc

@/drive_me_delirious: I KNOW ARTHUR MADE THE FIRST ONE. I KNOW IT IN MY BONES. but who made the sad poet rebrand? because I want to thank her

@/alonsohater420: Pascale Leclerc. That’s my theory. That woman raised sons and keeps receipts.

@/feralforferrari: “Winner of your heart” STOP WHO LET HIM TYPE THAT???

@/leoclubfanpage: not me cross-referencing shirtless beach pics with his Instagram to determine authenticity 💀

@/wifedashboard: someone said the new bio sounds like his maman made it and honestly?? not wrong

Charles put down his espresso with surgical care.

Then clicked on the screenshots.

First one:

Shirtless. Mykonos.

Shirtless. Beach.

Shirtless. Leo.

“Fast cars. Fine wine. Passionate nights.”

He audibly choked.

Second one:

Sweater. Steering wheel.

“Piano at night. Pasta on Sundays.”

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc and Lorenzo Leclerc

Charles: WHAT IS THIS

Lorenzo: …Good morning?

Charles: WHY AM I TRENDING FOR A RAYA PROFILE I’VE NEVER MADE??? WHY ARE THERE TWO OF THEM??

Lorenzo: Define “trending.”

Charles: Lorenzo. There are slideshows. There are threads.

Charles: There are comparative analyses of which version of my fictional dating self is hotter.

Charles: Someone said the first one was “sex on a Vespa” and the second one was “grief with a good red.”

Lorenzo: ...Okay but that’s honestly fair.

Charles: WHO. DID. THIS.

Lorenzo: I think now’s a good time to ask if you are in the country…

Charles: LORENZO.

Lorenzo: Okay. Fine. The first one was Arthur. The second one was… a joint operation.

Charles: WHAT.

Lorenzo: Arthur made the original profile without your knowledge. You were spiraling. He panicked. Then he asked Maman for help and she helped him rebrand you into someone… softer.

Charles: YOU LET MAMAN EDIT MY FAKE DATING PROFILE??

Lorenzo: She cut out the shirtless pics. You should be grateful.

Charles: I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

 Members: Charles, Arthur, Lorenzo, Pascale

Charles: ARE YOU ALL OUT OF YOUR MINDS???

Charles: I woke up to find out I apparently have not one, but TWO dating profiles.

Charles: TWO. ON RAYA. WITH BIOS.

Charles: AND PHOTOS. OF MY BODY. WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE.

Arthur: hi love would you like a chamomile tea and a therapist or should I start running

Charles: YOU PUT “WINNER OF YOUR HEART” IN THE BIO.

Pascale: I removed it. The first one made you sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries. The second one is tasteful. Sophisticated. A man with depth and a signature pasta.

Charles: YOU REBRANDED ME AS A TRAGIC HUSBAND?!?

Arthur: you’re welcome

Charles: WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO DO THIS

Arthur: you said “I’m emotionally unlovable at a molecular level” while listening to Debussy

Arthur: you were spiraling I intervened with vibes and wi-fi

Lorenzo: Arthur called it “Operation Raya Redemption” We even had a shared folder

Charles: A FOLDER???

Arthur: look bro we were just trying to get you off the floor and into the emotional arms of someone whose dog wears sweaters

Charles: WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

Lorenzo: …Arthur. Now is a good time.

Arthur: right okay so

Arthur: you got a match

Charles: NO.

Arthur: YES.

Pascale: She messaged first. That’s a good sign. Confident. Emotionally balanced.

Charles: NO ONE IS EMOTIONALLY BALANCED IN THIS FAMILY

Arthur: her name is Lydia she’s a model she lives in Paris and she has a dachshund named Désirée who wears sweaters and hates most men so obviously, she’s perfect

Lorenzo: She likes sarcasm, risotto, and espresso. She messaged to say your dog looks like hers when judging her for dating. You flirted about risotto for like six messages.

Charles: I DID WHAT??

Arthur: technically I flirted but I was channeling your tragic poet energy so it was spiritually accurate

Pascale: She’s very elegant. Also, she uses punctuation in her messages. We vetted her.

Charles: YOU VETTED HER??

Arthur: Maman and I read her Instagram captions. She passed. No star sign rants. No frog collections. Her bookshelf had actual books.

Charles: I’m going to lie down and scream into a pillow.

Arthur: you’re welcome.

Lorenzo: You should at least meet Lydia.

Pascale: She has excellent hair. You owe it to Leo.

Charles: …what does Leo have to do with this

Arthur: he wagged his tail when he saw her dog’s photo it was a sign

Pascale: I really think she’s a good match, Charles. She didn’t even bring up racing. Just said your dog looked adorable.

Charles: I AM DELETING THIS APP I AM DELETING THIS FAMILY CHAT I AM DELETING MYSELF

***

Charles was sitting on the floor. Because of course he was.

His phone sat on the couch above him, like a bomb. Still open to the group chat where his family casually confessed to identity theft and matchmaking in one breath.

He sighed.

Then, like a man opening a cursed scroll, he opened the Raya app. Logged in with the password Arthur had supplied: Pinsàroulettes16 (Arthur was not subtle.Charles should probably consider himself lucky that nobody had hacked it yet.)

New Matches: 1 @/lydiacolbert ✅

He blinked at the name.

Then the profile.

Paris.

Model.

Cream-colored dachshund in a blue sweater.

Laughing in Mykonos.

Holding a flower pot like it told her a secret.

Judgmental but kind eyes.

Her bio:

Currently accepting applications from people who enjoy quiet mornings, dry wit, and very judgmental dachshunds. Looking for something real. Or someone who won’t mind that my dog hates 90% of men.

Charles stared.

Then scrolled to the messages.

@/lydiacolbert: Hi Charles. I don’t usually message first, but your dog looks exactly like mine when he’s silently judging me for talking to men on the internet. I respect that kind of energy.

@/charles_leclerc (aka Arthur): Hello. I think Leo and your dog would get along. Or at least agree to judge us quietly from opposite sides of the room.

@/lydiacolbert: That’s honestly the most romantic thing I’ve read on this app. Désirée only tolerates people who can make risotto and don’t talk during movies. She once growled at a man who suggested pineapple on pizza. She was right.

@/charles_leclerc: Leo once refused to walk for three blocks because someone in a Juventus jersey smiled at him. I trust his instincts more than my own at this point.

@/lydiacolbert: A man after my own heart. Or at least after my dog’s high standards. What’s your risotto strategy?

@/charles_leclerc: Parmesan. Patience. A disturbing number of YouTube tutorials. And wine. Always wine.

@/lydiacolbert: Noted. Désirée says we’ll allow one date.

Charles sat very still.

Then read it again.

He felt something ridiculous tug at the corner of his mouth.

Leo stretched next to him and sighed—like even he was judging him a little less now.

Charles hesitated.

Then, for the first time, typed something himself.

@/charles_leclerc: Would Désirée tolerate a walk with Leo sometime next week? I promise not to suggest pineapple on anything.

He hit send.

Then set the phone down.

And muttered to Leo, “If I marry her, you’re getting a tux.”

Leo rolled over, unimpressed.

***

Charles arrived early. Like, way early. Like, sat-down-twenty-minutes-before-the-reservation-straightening-the-salt-shakers early.

Leo was wearing his least-offensive harness—the navy one Pascale called “respectable.” Charles had asked his mother to steam his shirt because he would have burned it. And he’d spent ten minutes standing in front of his cologne collection with the expression of a man selecting a weapon for emotional battle.

He went with the subtle one. The one that didn’t smell like haunted heartbreak on the Riviera.

Now he was trying not to pass out.

He kept checking his phone—not for messages, but to reread hers. Like they were prayers. Or sheet music. Something steady. Predictable. Beautiful.

He was on the fourth reread when he heard a soft “Hi.”

And he looked up.

And that was it.

Time? Paused. Brain? Empty. Soul? Gone. Sold. Stolen.

Because yes, Lydia looked like her pictures. The soft light, the clean lines, the effortless grace. But in real life, she looked like sunlight through linen curtains. Like the kind of quiet joy you don’t realize you’ve been missing until it’s there, in front of you, wearing ankle boots and a knowing smile.

And behind her, trotting like a tiny fashion editor late for brunch, was Désirée—new sweater, same disapproval.

Charles stood too fast. Knocked his knee on the table.

“Hi. Bonjour. Sorry. I’m—hi.”

Lydia tilted her head, smiling like someone who wasn’t startled by awkward men but delighted by them.

“That’s a lot of hellos.”

“I panicked,” he confessed, trying to smile but probably just grimacing.

“Well,” she said, settling across from him, “panic suits you.”

They sat. Leo gave Désirée a slow blink. Désirée gave Leo a look that said You are lucky I’m in a tolerant mood. Neither barked. It was, Charles decided, a miracle.

They ordered drinks. A croissant for him. An oat milk cappuccino for her. Two biscuits for the dogs. And the conversation just... happened.

They talked about risotto (“Saffron?” “Obviously.”) About books. About espresso machines (“Manual or capsule?” “Is that even a question?”). About why Désirée once growled at a barista for adding whipped cream. (“It was a crime against coffee,” Lydia said, without irony.)

And with every laugh, every dry observation, every easy silence, something in Charles started to settle. Like maybe he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just… waiting.

Until the warmth in his chest got too dangerous.

And he blurted it out.

“I need to confess something.”

Lydia paused, cappuccino halfway to her mouth. “Okay. I’m listening. Should I be concerned?”

Charles exhaled. “Maybe.”

She leaned in slightly. “Did you lie about being able to make risotto? Because honestly, I’d survive.”

“No. I can make risotto.”

“Then what is it?”

Charles swallowed. “This profile. On Raya. It wasn’t me. Not at first. It was my brother. Arthur. He made it without telling me.”

Lydia raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“And then,” Charles continued grimly, “my maman got involved. She edited it. There were… filters. There was a group chat. I only found out after it went viral on Twitter.”

Lydia blinked.

Then leaned back. Processing.

Then she squinted.

“Wait—both versions of your profile were real?”

Charles groaned. “Yes. One was Arthur’s masterpiece. All shirtless photos and chaos. The other was… Arthur’s chaos, edited by a woman who once made me redo a thank-you note because it wasn’t emotionally sincere.”

And then—

She laughed.

Not a polite giggle. Not a smirk.

A full, head-back, eyes-crinkled, joyful laugh.

“You’re telling me,” she gasped, “your mother edited your Raya profile?”

Charles nodded miserably. “She cut the shirtless photos. Said I was ‘the first one made me sound like a cologne ad that’s banned in most countries.’ Her words. Not mine.” 

“I love your family already,” Lydia said, still wheezing. Désirée sneezed under the table, as if in agreement.

Charles looked at her sideways. “So… you’re not running?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “But I am making fun of you for this forever.”

He laughed—really laughed. The kind that surprised him. The kind that had been stuck behind his ribs since Sophie. The kind he didn’t know he missed until this exact moment.

Then Lydia, still grinning, reached across the table and stole half his croissant with zero shame.

Charles blinked at her, stunned.

“So… am I meeting your mum on the second date or the third?”  He nearly choked on his espresso.

She leaned closer and said, very softly, “I’m really glad you showed up—even if it took your brother, your mother, and a deeply haunted dating app to make it happen,”

And Charles, soft, stunned, grinning like a fool, thought:

I’m screwed. She’s it. Leo’s going to need a tux.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

Charles: I met her.

Arthur: WHO LYDIA??

Charles: Yes.

Arthur: IS SHE REAL OR WAS THAT PROFILE A TRAP LAID BY A SUPERNATURAL ENTITY??

Charles: She’s real. And not a ghost. Unless ghosts can steal your croissant and your soul in the same hour.

Lorenzo: Define “steal your soul.”

Charles: She laughed at my confession. Not at me. With me. Said she’s making fun of me forever and then ate half my pastry like it was her birthright.

Lorenzo: ...I think you’re in love.

Arthur: WAIT. BACK UP. YOU TOLD HER???

Charles: I panicked. She asked what my risotto confession was and it just— came out.

Pascale: And what did she say?

Charles: She laughed. Like, full-body, eyes-crinkled, gorgeous laugh. Then said she loved my family already.

Pascale: She has taste.

Arthur: I AM A GENIUS.

Lorenzo: You’re a liability.

Arthur: A romantic visionary. I BROUGHT THIS WOMAN INTO OUR LIVES.

Charles: You catfished her.

Arthur: Tomato, tomahto.

Pascale: Invite her to Sunday lunch.

Charles: Already did.

Arthur: WHAT

Lorenzo: WHAT

Pascale: Good boy.

Charles: She said yes. She wants to meet the people responsible for her favorite romantic heist.

Arthur: I’m going to cry

Lorenzo: Please don’t.

Arthur: Do you think Désirée would let me hold her?? Or is that reserved for emotionally mysterious men and premium-grade deli meats?

Charles: She said you need to pass an emotional vibe check.

Arthur: I AM an emotional vibe check.

Charles: Anyway. I like her. I really like her.

Arthur: Can I make a speech at the wedding?

Charles: Absolutely not.

BeReal: @landonorris

Shared to: Close Friends Only

Cohabitation update: she brought the cat, the ribbon collection & half a ballet studio. I brought… enthusiasm.

🗯️ Replies (Close Friends Only):

Carlos 

MONACO???

YOU MOVED IN WITH HER??

WE BLINKED AND YOU’RE A HUSBAND.

Charles

I KNEW IT

also tell Ari we expect invites now

Pietra 

I am ACTUALLY CRYING

this is the final boss of the soft boy arc

Max Fewtrell 

“I brought enthusiasm” 💀 bro what happened to you

used to be scared of cats

now you’re living with one and two silk robes probably

Pierre

this man went from “no labels” to “we live together and share ribbon storage” real quick

Max Verstappen

ARIA HAS A BALCONY NOW !

I’M COMING TO VISIT FOR THE CAT

will she let me hold her yet??? I’ve been manifesting this.

Oscar

can you confirm if this also means you now own throw pillows and scented candles?

George

this is the most emotionally evolved I’ve ever seen you 🥹

Kika

i’m actually sobbing. soft girls win again

Rebecca 

also Ari look GLOWY??? is that love or monaco sun, or both???

Alexandra

this is my roman empire

Group Chat: Grid Gossip 🏁

Carlos

so… just to clarify

@Lando did you actually move in with the ballerina and her cat?? 🧐

George

Really enjoying this transformation from “I don’t do feelings” to

“I now live with an emotionally intelligent woman and her suspicious cat”

✨Brilliant arc✨

Oscar

He used to flinch when he heard me say “relationship.”

Now she owns 90% of his apartment

Lando

you’re all SO dramatic

it’s just a flat

calm down

Charles

oh okay

a flat you moved into with your girlfriend

with a cat you used to fear but now call “baby”

Lando

I DID THAT ONCE 🙄

George

And we’ll never forget. 😌

Pierre

How many ribbons is she up to now?

Do you guys have a color-coded emotion chart on the fridge?

Lando

...maybe.

Max Verstappen

okay but more importantly

how is Aria doing???

is she adjusting?

is she happy?

does she need anything??? 😟

Carlos

mate. focus.

Max Verstappen

I AM.

ON THE CAT.

Lando

i hate all of you

deeply and emotionally

George

mate, you’re halfway to adopting a second cat

don’t threaten us with feelings

Charles

congrats tho 🫶

happy for you both

also pls invite us for dinner

Lando

🙄 fine

next weekend. pasta night. bring wine.

Group Chat: Fan club of Ariana

Created by Charles Leclerc

9:12 AM | the morning after dinner

Charles

good morning to everyone except Lando and his fairy-tale domestic life

Carlos

did anyone else feel like they stayed in a boutique spa ?

Oscar

his soap smells like jasmine and stability

I didn’t know that was possible

Pierre

the real question is

why do I feel safer at THEIR place than in my own apartment 🫠

Carlos

and WHY did i walk into the kitchen and find Lando

making espresso

shirtless

with one hand on Ariana’s waist

like a bloody Chanel ad

Charles

he even kissed her temple while she stirred oatmeal

i almost screamed 😩

Max Verstappen

you guys have you saw Aria let me pet her ?

that’s real

that’s progress 🐈✨

Oscar

I don’t think the convo was about the cat, Max

Max Verstappen

Not my fault they have very similar name, I thought it was a group chat about the cat

George

Did you really think we were talking about Lando and the cat all this time ??

Max Verstappen

What could we possibly talk about then ? 🤨

Carlos

The fact Lando have a girlfriend mate

Lando

…can I help you??

What’s the group chat name about ? 😒

George

yeah

explain why your fridge has oat milk, elderflower, and no longer Red Bull

WHO ARE YOU 💀

Lando

we have taste. leave me alone.

Pierre

you said “we.” 😭

WE.

Carlos

so when’s the engagement then? 💍👀

Lando

go home

Pierre

mate

you’re in too deep

it’s been HOW MANY months??

Carlos

someone tell this man the honeymoon phase does end

you don’t have to act like she just invented the sun every time she smiles

George

he’s got “day 3 of knowing her” energy

but it’s been half a year

Oscar

smiling at each other across ravioli doesn’t count as a personality

Lando

okay, yes

but this morning she said “I feel like the sea when I’m near you”

what was I supposed to do??? NOT CRY?? 😭😭

Carlos

she said “I feel like the sea” ??

I’m gonna throw a fork at something

George

my grandma didn’t even speak to my grandad like this and they were married for 47 years 💀

Charles

he’s living in a sonnet

meanwhile i just reheated pasta and got judged by my dog

Lando

slander aside

we’re happy

she’s happy

and I love her

deal with it 😌🫶

Max Verstappen

good for you

but real question is Aria more tuna or salmon for treats ??

i actually need answers I’m in the store rn

Charles

mate stop obsessing over the cat 😭

Max Verstappen

BUT I LOVE CATS

Lando

it’s kinda weird you’re more into a cat than my overly really great love life

but yeah salmon, Aria has standards 🐱

Max Verstappen

great I buy 10

also I’m starting a new group chat about the cat asap

George

the real relationship in question here is max and the cat tbh 💅

This is it, it's the last chapter of this very long and very important series for me. I enjoyed so much writting this story and interacting with everyone of you who commented, liked or reposted this, so thank you so much for your support!

I have maybe an idea for a bonus chapter...so the storie is not completly finish ;)

Until then my request are still open for future stories :)

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > To: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/[email protected]

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < [email protected] > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/[email protected] > CC: Mark WEBBER < [email protected] > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”