#(( fc ))

You’d worked dozens of race weekends, but none of them had ever felt like this - like your pulse was synced to one driver’s laugh, like your camera lens kept finding the same pair of blue eyes even when you swore you were aiming somewhere else.

Franco Colapinto had a talent for being in your way.

And he did it on purpose.

You were sure of it the first time he caught you in the paddock that morning, stepping directly into your shot with a grin that could power the entire grid.

“Careful,” he said, leaning just a little too close as you lowered your camera. “If you take too many photos of me, people will think you’re obsessed.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I’m… working.”

“Ah,” he nodded, pretending to be serious. “So you have to photograph me. That’s even better.”

You ducked your head, pretending to check your settings, but he didn’t move. He stayed right there, hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels like he had all the time in the world.

“Want a proper one?” he asked. “I can pose.”

“No posing,” you mumbled. “Candid only.”

He lit up. “Then you’ll have to catch me naturally. Which means you’ll have to keep watching me.”

You nearly dropped your camera.

—

Later - Pit Lane

You were crouched beside the garage, capturing mechanics working, when a shadow fell over you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“You’re going to hurt your knees like that,” Franco said, crouching beside you. “Here, I’ll join you.”

“You don’t need to—”

But he was already there, shoulder brushing yours, close enough that you could smell his cologne - clean, warm, a little sweet.

“You’re very quiet today,” he murmured.

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not with me.”

Your breath caught. He said it like a fact, not a compliment, not a tease - just something he’d noticed. Something he’d memorised.

You lifted your camera to hide your face, but he gently nudged it down with one finger.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Don’t hide.”

You froze.

He smiled, softer than before. “I like seeing your face.”

Your heart did a somersault so violent it should’ve required a medical flag.

—

Qualifying - Behind the Fence

You were shooting through the gaps when Franco walked past, helmet in hand. He spotted you instantly - he always did - and tapped the fence with his knuckles.

“For luck,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re my lucky charm,” he shrugged. “Haven’t you noticed? I drive better when you’re watching.”

“That’s not-”

“Prove me wrong,” he grinned. “Look away.”

You didn’t.

He laughed, triumphant, and jogged off toward the car.

—

After Quali - The Photo

He finished P2, and you were waiting outside the garage when he came out, hair messy, suit half unzipped, cheeks flushed with adrenaline. He spotted you and immediately beelined over.

“Did you get good ones?”

“I think so.”

“Show me?”

You hesitated - you never showed drivers your raw shots - but he was already leaning in, head beside yours, shoulder pressed to your arm as he looked at the screen.

“That one,” he said, pointing. “I like that.”

“It’s a bit blurry.”

“I still like it.”

“Why?”

He looked at you, not the photo.

“Because you took it.”

Your breath stuttered.

He noticed.

He always noticed.

—

Evening - The Paddock Walk

You were packing your gear when Franco appeared again, hands behind his back like he was hiding something.

“You’re done for the day?” he asked.

“Almost.”

“Good. Walk with me.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because I asked nicely,” he grinned. “And because I have something for you.”

You followed him down a quieter path behind the hospitality units. When he finally stopped, he revealed what he’d been hiding - a small lanyard with a laminated card.

Your name.

Your photo.

And underneath it, in bold letters:

GUEST OF FRANCO COLAPTINO

You stared. “Franco… I’m not-”

“You are,” he said simply. “You’re my friend.”

Your chest tightened. “Why would you do this?”

He stepped closer, voice dropping.

“Because I want you around. Because I like when you’re near me. Because you make me nervous in a good way.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m… not good at this.”

“I know,” he said gently. “That’s why I’m going slow.”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear - barely touching you, giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

His smile softened. “See? You’re not as shy with me as you think.”

“I am,” you whispered.

“Then I’ll talk enough for both of us.”

You laughed - quiet, but real - and he lit up like you’d given him a trophy.

“Can I take a photo of you?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yes. Fair trade.”

You hesitated, but he lifted your camera with surprising care, adjusting the strap so it didn’t pull your hair.

“Look at me,” he said softly.

You did.

The shutter clicked.

He lowered the camera, eyes warm. “That one’s my favourite.”

“You haven’t even seen it.”

“I don’t need to.”

Your cheeks burned.

He stepped closer, close enough that you felt the warmth of him, close enough that your breath caught again.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he murmured. “Not as a driver. Not as a photographer. Just… me and you.”

Your voice barely worked. “Okay.”

His grin was instant, bright, boyish, victorious.

“Knew you’d say yes.”

“You did not.”

“I absolutely did.”

He offered his hand - not grabbing, not pulling, just offering.

You took it.

And he squeezed, gentle and sure.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ve been trying to flirt with you all season. Let me finally succeed.”

ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ: ᴇᴀʀʟʏ ᴀᴄᴄᴇꜱꜱ, ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ, ᴇxᴄʟᴜꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ: ʀᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ꜰʀᴏᴍ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ ᴀᴜ’ꜱ - ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʀɪᴏʀɪᴛʏ ʀᴇϙᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.