#a14 fic

Clementine had been on dates before.

Some good. Some… aggressively mediocre. Most of them started with nervous small talk and ended with her pretending not to notice when the guy checked his phone under the table. A few had asked about her brothers within the first ten minutes. One had actually said, “So, like, you’re into painting because you’re bad at math, right?”

She hadn’t made it to dessert with that one.

But tonight was… different.

It wasn’t just that Fernando had showed up right on time, or that he’d stepped out of his car and immediately walked around to open the passenger door for her like it was second nature. It wasn’t even that he’d called her Clementine in that low, deliberate way like the syllables tasted good in his mouth.

It was that he made her feel like he actually wanted to be there.

Not to impress her. Not to score points. Not to win. Just… to be there.

The restaurant wasn’t flashy—tucked off a side street, all warm wood and soft light, quiet enough that she didn’t have to raise her voice to be heard. The hostess greeted him by name. Not in the celebrity way, but in the way that said: you come here because you like it, not because you want to be seen.

He pulled out her chair. Sat across from her like he had all the time in the world.

And then—

He listened.

Clementine talked about her work, how she hated spreadsheets but was good at pretending otherwise, how she missed painting but couldn’t always afford the time or the space. She waited for him to interrupt. He didn’t.

He asked what colors she liked to work with. Asked what she felt when she painted. Not what she painted. Not if she made money from it. Just… what it felt like.

No one had ever asked her that before.

She laughed more than she expected. So did he.

There was no trying to keep up, no jostling for attention, no pressure to perform. Fernando didn’t look at his phone once. He didn’t make a single joke at her expense. He didn’t make her feel small.

And when she got flustered halfway through telling a story about spilling tea all over her sketchbook, he just smiled and said, “You’re charming when you ramble,” like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It was… Peaceful. Warm. Uncomplicated.

And then, over dessert, as the table candle flickered low and she found herself picking at the edge of her napkin, she blurted:

“This is the best date I’ve ever been on.”

Fernando looked at her, amused. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I kind of am,” she admitted, cheeks pink. “You’re just… nothing like what I expected.”

He tilted his head. “What did you expect?”

She shrugged, trying to find words. “I don’t know. Something colder. Sharper. Intimidating, maybe?”

“And instead I’m what?”

She hesitated. Then, softly, “Kind. And calm. And safe.”

His expression shifted—just slightly—but it hit her like gravity tilting.

“People don’t usually say that about me.”

“Well,” Clementine said, smiling now, “maybe they don’t know you very well.”

When he dropped her home, he didn’t push. No lean-in. No hovering. Just walked her to the door, hands in his pockets, like a man perfectly content to wait.

She unlocked it, turned back, heart fluttering high and ridiculous in her chest. “I’d… like to do this again. If you want.”

Fernando smiled. Not the press-conference smirk. Not the I know I’m fast smirk. A real one. Gentle. Warm.

“I’d like that very much.”

She watched him go, waited until the taillights disappeared around the corner, and then leaned back against her door, palms pressed flat to the wood, mouth open in a stunned, silent grin.

Every date she’d had before now felt like static.

This? This felt like the start of music.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: …so.

Dominique: 👀

Lucie: you can’t just “so” us after a date with FERNANDO ALONSO.

Gisele: SHE’S ALIVE. okay. spill. all of it. every single detail. what was he wearing. what did you eat. how many times did you think about kissing him.

Clementine: oh my god.

Dominique: don’t “oh my god” us. TALK.

Clementine: … it was the best date I’ve ever been on.

Lucie: 😳

Gisele: YESSSSSSSSSSS.

Dominique: i knew it. i KNEW it.

Lucie: okay but best date ever like “he paid for dinner and didn’t talk about himself too much” or best date ever like “i need to re-evaluate my entire life because my soul just shifted a little”?

Clementine: …second one.

Dominique: OH SHE’S GONE.

Gisele: goodbye clementine. it was nice knowing you.

Lucie: okay but he’s STILL TOO OLD.

Dominique: lucie. lucie. listen to yourself. if she says it was that good, i don’t care if he’s collecting a pension.

Gisele: i bet he opened the car door for you.

Clementine: …he did.

Dominique: OF COURSE HE DID. he’s got that gentleman energy.

Lucie: gentleman energy does not erase the fact that he’s forty-two.

Clementine: forty-three.

Lucie: OH MY GOD.

Gisele: forty-three and apparently magic.

Dominique: forty-three and apparently better than every guy you’ve dated under thirty.

Clementine: …he actually listened. like. to me. he asked about painting. not what i paint, or if i make money. he asked what it feels like.

Gisele: ok i take it back, marry him immediately.

Lucie: NO.

Dominique: lucie’s gonna be giving a speech at the wedding like “your honor, he’s old, but fine.”

Clementine: you’re all insufferable.

Gisele: and yet you’re texting us with a date-glow so strong i can FEEL it through the screen.

Clementine: maybe.

Dominique: definitely.

Lucie: ugh. fine. but if charles finds out and has an aneurysm, i’m not bailing you out of family dinner.

Clementine: …that’s a problem for future me.

Gisele: future you is going to be very busy dating fernando alonso.

Clementine: …okay maybe i am a little gone.

Dominique: A LITTLE????

Lucie: oh no.

Gisele: oh YES.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: …

Mark: That’s either the sound of victory or catastrophic failure. Which is it?

Fernando: We had dinner.

Mark: AND???

Fernando: And it was… good.

Mark: “Good”? That’s all you’ve got? This is your grand romance and you’re giving me good??

Fernando: It was the best date I’ve ever been on.

Mark: …

Mark: You absolute goner.

Fernando: She laughed at my jokes. All of them. Even the bad ones.

Mark: I know the bad ones. That’s love.

Fernando: She talked about painting. About how colors feel to her. No one’s ever asked her that before.

Mark: Oh this is hilarious. Big bad Alonso, the wolf of the grid, out here getting taken down by a girl with paint on her sleeves.

Fernando: She’s not like anyone else, Mark.

Mark: You say that about her and not a single corner of me doubts you.

Fernando: She said I was kind.

Mark: I told you. Gone.

Fernando: I walked her to her door. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t want to push.

Mark: Look at you, being all restrained and respectful. I’m so proud.

Fernando: She asked to do it again.

Mark: Of course she did. You’re Fernando Alonso. …and also apparently nice now, who knew?

Fernando: You find this very funny.

Mark: Mate, it’s the funniest thing I’ve seen in years. You. Dating. Smiling. Acting like a teenager who just discovered hand-holding. I’m buying popcorn.

Fernando: …

Mark: So when’s date two?

Fernando: Soon.

Mark: Good. I can’t wait to watch you spiral into actual romance. It’s what you deserve.

Fernando: You’re insufferable.

Mark: And you’re in love.

Fernando: It was one date.

Mark: Keep telling yourself that, lover boy.

***

Fernando didn’t know why he was nervous.

He wasn’t twenty anymore. He wasn’t even thirty. He had driven at 300 km/h with half a wing and a prayer and hadn’t flinched. He’d sat across boardrooms negotiating contracts worth more than most people would see in a lifetime.

And yet, waiting outside Clementine’s apartment for their second date, his pulse ticked high like he was back on the starting grid.

She opened the door in a soft dress that looked like it had been made for sunlight. Yellow again—not the hoodie this time, but the same quiet warmth. Her hair was loose. There was paint under one fingernail.

“Hi,” she said, smiling like it was just for him.

“Hi,” he managed, and suddenly Monaco didn’t feel as loud.

Dinner was easy in the way first dates weren’t supposed to be. No ice to break this time. No nerves to hide behind. Just Clementine, leaning her chin into her hand as she told him about the colors she dreamed in, her ankle now wrapped but healing, her voice soft but sure when she laughed.

She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t try. That was what undid him most. In a world of noise, Clementine Leclerc was quiet in the way a heartbeat was quiet—soft but absolutely essential.

When he walked her back to her building, the street was washed in late-night calm, a rare hush over Monaco. She leaned against her doorframe, smiling up at him with that open, unguarded expression that had been burning into his ribs since the first time she nearly tripped into him.

“I had a really good time,” she said, voice gentle.

“So did I.” He meant it more than she could know.

For a second, he thought that was it. A soft goodnight, maybe a third date on the horizon.

And then she tilted her head, bit her lip like she was weighing something, and stepped in close enough that he caught the faint scent of paint and something floral.

“Can I…?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer with words.

And then she kissed him.

It was soft at first, almost tentative, like testing if the world would let her have this. Fernando’s hand found the curve of her jaw without thinking, tilting her just slightly closer.

It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t dramatic. It was something quieter and infinitely more dangerous.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were pink, her eyes wide but steady.

“Sorry,” she whispered, though she didn’t sound sorry at all.

Fernando smiled, slow and real. “Don’t be.”

She laughed, breathless, and unlocked her door with fingers that trembled just a little.

He stood there a moment longer after she slipped inside, the ghost of her mouth still warm against his.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: …so I did a thing.

Gisele: OH MY GOD.

Dominique: YOU KISSED HIM DIDN’T YOU.

Lucie: wait. WHAT.

Clementine: …maybe.

Gisele: NO MAYBE. YOU DID. I CAN FEEL IT THROUGH THE WIFI.

Dominique: details. now. what did it feel like. what did he do. was there tongue.

Clementine: DOM.

Lucie: ARE YOU INSANE. you kissed fernando alonso. you actually kissed him.

Clementine: …yes.

Gisele: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Dominique: WAS IT GOOD.

Clementine: … yeah.

Gisele: “yeah” she says like her entire teenage crush arc hasn’t just come full circle.

Lucie: i am actually going to pass out.

Dominique: i KNEW you were gone after the first date. now you’re just buried.

Clementine: it wasn’t supposed to happen, okay?? we were saying goodnight and then i just… kissed him.

Gisele: and?? what did he do??

Clementine: he kissed me back.

Dominique: OH SHE’S DONE. PUT A FORK IN HER.

Lucie: you need to stop. right now. you need to STOP before you ruin your life.

Gisele: lucie.

Lucie: I’M SERIOUS. HE’S FORTY-THREE.

Dominique: and apparently kissses like a forty-three-year-old man who knows exactly what he’s doing.

Clementine: i hate you.

Gisele: you love us. almost as much as you love fernando alonso.

Clementine: it was ONE kiss.

Dominique: yeah and it’s going to haunt you forever in the best way possible.

Lucie: …okay. but was it that good?

Clementine: … yeah.

Gisele: oh no.

Dominique: oh YES.

***

Clementine hadn’t planned on having him over so soon.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to. It was just—her apartment was small. Not Monaco-small where everything was polished and compact, but the kind of small that still had Ikea screws poking out of furniture and mismatched mugs because she couldn’t bring herself to throw any of them away.

But her ankle was still stiff, and Fernando had texted: Do you want me to bring dinner to you instead?

And now he was here, standing in her doorway with a paper bag that smelled like pasta and her entire ribcage vibrating in a way that had nothing to do with painkillers.

“Hi,” she said, too soft.

“Hi,” he said back, smiling like it was just for her.

He moved through her little space with an ease that made her throat tighten. He didn’t comment on the size or the crooked bookshelf or the blanket draped over the couch that didn’t match anything else. He just set the bag down on the tiny table and asked where the plates were.

It was almost normal. Almost.

Until he saw the canvases.

They were stacked in the corner, half-hidden behind a chair. Clementine hadn’t even thought about them. They were just… there. Pieces of her she kept quiet because no one ever asked to see them.

But Fernando stopped mid-step, gaze landing on the splash of color peeking out from behind the fabric.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice careful.

Her stomach flipped. “They’re not—”

But he was already crouching, gently sliding the top canvas into the light.

It wasn’t finished. The background still raw, brushstrokes uneven where she’d gotten stuck on what it was supposed to feel like.

Fernando looked at it like it was something holy.

Clementine tugged her sleeves over her hands, heart hammering. “They’re just… experiments. I’m not—”

“It’s beautiful,” he said quietly, cutting her off without meaning to.

She blinked. “It’s not even done.”

“I didn’t say finished,” he murmured, tracing the edge of the frame with a fingertip. “I said beautiful.”

No one had ever said that about her work before. Not like this. Not without a but or a for a hobby attached.

He turned to look at her then, eyes soft in a way that made her want to hide and stay in the light all at once. “Is this what it feels like to you?”

Clementine’s throat went dry. “What?”

“Painting,” Fernando said. “Is this what it feels like? All of this?” He gestured gently at the color bleeding across the canvas.

She nodded, barely. “Yeah. This is what it feels like.”

He smiled, slow and real. “Then I think you’re better at this than you know.”

Something in her chest gave way then, quiet and shaking.

Dinner went cold on the table while he looked at every single one. And for the first time in years, Clementine didn’t feel the need to apologize for taking up space.

***

Fernando lay awake longer than he meant to.

The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of Monaco outside the window and the steady rhythm of Clementine’s breathing beside him. She was curled toward him in her sleep, one hand resting on his chest like it had just ended up there, not knowing what it did to him.

He’d had sex before. A lot of it. The kind that was good, and the kind that was forgettable, and the kind that left you wondering why you’d bothered.

But nothing—nothing—had ever felt like this.

It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, though she was, in that soft, unpolished way that felt like finding sunlight where you didn’t expect it. It wasn’t even the way her body fit against his like she’d been made for his hands.

It was how she’d given herself to him.

Sweetly. Completely.

No hesitation once she’d realized he wasn’t going to hurt her. No posturing, no pretending to know what to do. Just trust, quiet and devastating.

Fernando had been called dominant before, usually like it was a game. With Clementine, it wasn’t about power. It was about care. About holding her still and steady and giving her something he suspected no one else ever had.

She’d looked at him with wide eyes, breath catching on his name, and it had undone something deep in his chest. She wasn’t used to this—that much had been obvious in the way she’d gasped at the first careful drag of his hands, the shaky sound she made when he pinned her wrists gently above her head.

But she hadn’t fought it.

She’d melted under him like she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to tell her she was allowed to.

He hadn’t meant to go slow. Or maybe he had. Every instinct screamed to take his time, to let her feel every inch of what he was giving her. When she came apart beneath him, it wasn’t loud or showy. It was soft. Trembling. Honest.

Fernando closed his eyes, his hand automatically finding the curve of her shoulder under the sheet.

He’d spent twenty years chasing adrenaline, glory, the razor-edge of speed.

Tonight, lying in a quiet room with a girl who’d submitted to him with nothing but trust and sweetness, he thought maybe this was the first time in his life he’d actually won.

***

Clementine lay on her back, staring at the ceiling of her little apartment, sheets tangled somewhere around her knees and every single muscle in her body quietly humming.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected.

Okay, that was a lie. She had expected it to be good. It was Fernando, for God’s sake. The way he kissed alone had already been enough to undo her in a way no one else ever had. But this—

This had been something else entirely.

Her past experiences had mostly been… fine. That lukewarm word again. Fine in the way a lukewarm cup of tea was fine. Fine in the way she knew she was supposed to say it was good, because it wasn’t awful, but it had never left her feeling anything other than hollow.

Sometimes it hurt, too. The kind of hurt she never admitted to, because you were supposed to smile and say it was good enough. That you were good enough.

She’d never realized how much she’d lowered the bar until last night.

Because with Fernando, there was no “fine.”

There was him kissing her like he meant it, like he knew her body before he’d even touched it. There was the way his hands pinned her wrists gently against the mattress, the low murmur of his voice in her ear telling her what he wanted and asking if she wanted it too. There was the heat in his gaze when she said yes—not shy, not tentative, but yes, please, more.

And then there was him giving it to her.

He was… dominant. Not in the crude way she’d heard whispered about in bars, but in a way that made her feel safe even when her heart was pounding. Commanding without ever taking. Holding her together even as he pulled her apart.

It had been overwhelming. In the best possible way.

Now, in the pale light of morning, Clementine touched the edge of the sheet, fingertips brushing the skin of her wrist where his hand had held her down, and shivered.

She’d never known it could feel like that. That she could feel like that.

She turned her head slightly. Fernando was still asleep beside her, hair mussed, breathing even, one hand resting on her hip like even unconscious he wasn’t quite willing to let go.

Clementine bit her lip, heart thudding too fast.

She’d had bad sex before. Forgettable sex. Quietly painful sex she’d convinced herself was normal.

Last night had been the first time she understood what it was supposed to be.

And the terrifying, thrilling truth settling in her chest was this:

This had ruined her for every man her age, possibly forever.

And the worst part—the very worst part—was that she already wanted him again.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: …so. uh. we. we did it.

Gisele: OH. MY. GOD.

Dominique: DEBRIEF NOW. I WANT LAP TIMES. I WANT SPLIT SECTORS.

Lucie: you WHAT???

Clementine: yeah. that.

Gisele: well??? how was the race pace?? did the old man keep up???

Clementine: … he didn’t just keep up. he lapped the entire field.

Dominique: OOOOHHHHH SHE’S GONE.

Lucie: wait wait wait you’re saying it was actually good?

Clementine: good isn’t even the word. it was like… perfect tire strategy, clean air, fastest lap every time.

Gisele: 👀👀👀

Dominique: that man’s been in F1 for over twenty years, of course he knows how to handle the machinery.

Clementine: DOM.

Lucie: okay but seriously. what do you mean “good isn’t the word”?

Clementine: … i didn’t know it could be like that.

Gisele: …oh.

Dominique: wait.

Lucie: you mean… none of the other guys…?

Clementine: no. it was always… bad. rushed. sometimes it hurt. i used to think maybe it was me.

Gisele: Clem. oh my god.

Dominique: i’m going to find every single one of them and revoke their licenses.

Lucie: i’m actually kind of mad right now. like. furious.

Clementine: i didn’t realize how bad it was until… him.

Gisele: he must’ve been that good then.

Clementine: he was… he’s very… dominant.

Dominique: AS HE SHOULD BE. THE MAN RUNS RACE STRATEGY LIKE A GENERAL, OF COURSE HE’S CALLING THE SHOTS.

Lucie: dominant how??? like scary??

Clementine: no. never scary. just… firm. sure. like he knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what i needed before i even asked.

Gisele: ladies and gentlemen, fernando alonso is back on pole.

Dominique: and taking fastest lap. repeatedly.

Lucie: …i hate to say it but that actually sounds kind of hot.

Clementine: …it was.

Gisele: CLEMENTINE LECLERC.

Dominique: I WANT A FULL RACE REPORT ON MY DESK BY MORNING.

Clementine: you’re all insufferable.

Gisele: you’re the one dating a two-time world champion.

Lucie: …who apparently just became a three-time world champion in bed.

Clementine: …i might be in love.

Dominique: of course you are.

Gisele: we called it after date one.

Lucie: i hate that i’m not even surprised.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Mark: How was date #3? Or do I even want to know?

Fernando: …

Mark: Oh my god. You did.

Fernando: I spent the night.

Mark: GOOD. FOR. YOU. 👏👏👏

Fernando: You’re insufferable.

Mark: Mate, you’ve been walking around like a teenager for weeks. You NEEDED this.

Fernando: It wasn’t just— It wasn’t like that.

Mark: Ohhh, I see. Not just sex. Capital-S Something.

Fernando: …yeah.

Mark: You sound wrecked. In the best way.

Fernando: She’s… different, Mark. Sweet. She trusted me.

Mark: And you didn’t scare her off? Miracles happen.

Fernando: You joke. But she looked at me like… Like she wanted me to see her.

Mark: Oh mate. You are done for.

Fernando: I think I was done the first time she smiled at me.

Mark: And now?

Fernando: Now I’m ruined.

Mark: Good. About time someone did it.

Fernando: You’re enjoying this too much.

Mark: Are you kidding? This is the best subplot of your entire career. Fernando Alonso discovers intimacy with a paint-splattered twenty-something. I’m giving interviews.

Fernando: Don’t you dare.

Mark: Relax. But seriously, good for you, mate. You deserve something soft.

Fernando: … Yeah. Maybe I do.

***

It started with a dress.

Nothing dramatic, just a soft blue thing Clementine wore when he came by to cook her dinner one evening. Light fabric, the hem brushing just above her knees, delicate stitching along the seams. It looked… expensive, though not in the Monaco way. Not loud. Not logo-heavy. Just beautiful.

“You look nice,” he said, and meant it.

She’d smiled, tugging the skirt absently. “Ten euros. Secondhand shop near the bus stop.”

He raised a brow. “Ten?”

“Mm.” She looked faintly sheepish, though not in the way people did when fishing for compliments. More like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to enjoy it. “I like clothes. I just… you know. Can’t exactly drop half a paycheck on them.”

Fernando frowned slightly, but let it go.

Then he noticed it again.

The soft cardigan she wore over her blouse when he picked her up for coffee—vintage tag, careful mending along one sleeve. The wide-legged trousers she paired with sneakers—well-cut, clearly bought secondhand. Even her shoes: polished, cared for, but never the kind of brands you saw on grid walk interviews.

Clementine loved clothes. He could tell. The way her fingers lingered on fabric when they passed shop windows, the quiet joy in her face when she wore something that made her feel pretty.

And yet… never the flashy brands. Never the Monaco-standard uniform.

One night, when they were curled up on her couch—her feet in his lap, his hand idly tracing circles on her ankle—he asked, gently, “You sew your own things sometimes?”

She blinked. “No. Why?”

“You treat them like you made them,” he said. “Careful. Like they’re worth more than they cost.”

Her smile was soft, a little sad. “Well… they are. To me, at least.”

He waited. He’d learned Clementine opened up in slow increments, like water seeping through cracks in rock.

Finally, she sighed and rested her head against the back of the couch. “I’ve always liked fashion. Not, like, designer stuff for the sake of logos, but… how it makes you feel. How clothes can change your whole mood.”

Fernando hummed. “I can see that.”

“I don’t buy expensive things,” she added quickly, defensive in a way that set his teeth on edge. “It’s not like I can. And it’s not like my brothers ever give me money, which isn’t their job, obviously, but—” She hesitated, shoulders curling in. “They also… make fun of me when I even look at brands. Like it’s stupid. Or shallow.”

Fernando blinked. “Your brothers.”

“Yeah.” She laughed, small and humorless. “Lorenzo calls it ‘Monaco nonsense.’ Arthur says I should buy things that ‘make sense.’ And Charles—”

She cut herself off.

“Charles what?” Fernando asked.

Clementine bit her lip. “He once said it was funny that I cared so much about clothes when I wasn’t going to events or anything. Like… what’s the point if no one’s going to see it?”

Fernando stared at her for a moment, then let out a low laugh.

She looked at him, startled. “What?”

He shook his head, incredulous. “That’s rich. Coming from Charles.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Clementine,” Fernando said, deadpan. “Your brother is obsessed with his paddock outfits. Do you know how many times I’ve heard him debate the merits of Italian tailoring versus French cuts? He has people photographing him walking into garages like it’s Milan Fashion Week.”

Clementine blinked, then let out a startled laugh. “He… does, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Fernando said firmly. “And he’s going to tell you not to care?”

Her laugh softened into something shy. “It’s different for me.”

“No,” Fernando said simply. “It’s not.”

Clementine went quiet, her fingers twisting in the hem of her thrifted cardigan.

Fernando reached over, gently catching her hand. “If it makes you happy, it matters. And anyone who doesn’t take that seriously is an idiot.”

She blinked at him, eyes wide, as if no one had ever said it out loud before.

And Fernando, who had worn fireproofs his entire adult life and never thought much about clothes beyond fit and function, found himself wanting to buy her every single dress she’d ever paused in front of. Not because she needed them, but because she deserved to have someone look at her joy and call it serious.

***

She told herself not to expect much. That way, it wouldn’t sting.

Still, when Pascale had insisted on “a nice family lunch” for her birthday, Clementine had hoped—just a little—that maybe this year would be different. That maybe someone had noticed who she actually was instead of the blurry version they always seemed to see.

The table was set beautifully. Lorenzo poured wine. Charles hugged her, Arthur kissed her cheek, Pascale fussed over the roast. It looked perfect from the outside.

Then came the gifts.

Lorenzo went first, sliding a slim envelope across the table. Clementine opened it carefully, fingers light on the expensive paper.

“A voucher,” he said, smiling like it was thoughtful. “For a professional development seminar. One of my colleagues runs it. Networking, goal setting… all that.”

“Oh,” Clementine said softly. “Thank you.”

“Good for your career,” he added, as if she needed convincing.

Arthur’s was next. A sleek box. Inside: a leather-bound planner, embossed with her initials in gold.

“You’re always so disorganized,” he said cheerfully. “This will help you get your life sorted.”

Her throat tightened. “Right. Thanks, Arthur.”

Charles handed her his with the kind of grin that said I tried. She opened the package to find a pair of running shoes.

“I noticed yours were falling apart,” he said, nodding like it was practical. “Good for staying healthy.”

“They’re nice,” Clementine murmured, though she hadn’t run in months. Not since her ankle. Not since the accident.

Pascale’s was last. A box wrapped in pale ribbon. Inside: a pale silk scarf. Expensive. Neutral.

“It’s very elegant,” Pascale said, watching her face carefully. “Something you can wear to interviews, meetings… you should start thinking about more stable work, chérie.”

Clementine folded the scarf back into its box with careful fingers. “Thank you.”

No paintbrushes. No sketchbook. No hint that any of them had remembered the canvases stacked in the corner of her apartment or the way her hands always came alive when she talked about color.

Every gift was a version of her they wanted to fix.

Lunch went on. Charles told a story about the last race. Arthur joked about karting. Pascale scolded them for elbows on the table.

Clementine smiled where she was supposed to, said thank you at the right times, and felt herself folding smaller and smaller.

Later, when she let herself back into her apartment, the silence hit her like a wave. She set the scarf on the counter, lined the planner and the voucher up neatly, and stared at the shoes by her door.

Then she sat on the floor, pulled her knees to her chest, and let herself cry—not because the gifts were bad, but because not a single one of them had seen her.

When the tears finally slowed, she reached for her paintbrush.

If they couldn’t see her, she’d paint herself loud enough to exist.

***

The restaurant was tucked on a quiet street Clementine loved, the kind of place with crooked tables and mismatched chairs and the smell of butter lingering in the air. She’d picked it because it didn’t feel like Monaco, not really—it felt warm and real.

Dominique and her boyfriend Julien were already there when Clementine arrived, her ankle still a little stiff but good enough for the short walk. Gisele came next, sweeping in with her usual dramatic flair, her girlfriend Amira laughing behind her. Lucie and her long-suffering boyfriend Theo brought up the rear, carrying a tiny box tied with a ribbon that made Clementine’s chest tighten before she even knew what was inside.

And this year, there was an extra chair.

Fernando had offered to take her to dinner later, just the two of them, but when she’d hesitated and admitted she had lunch with her friends, he’d said, “Then I’ll come to lunch. If you want me to.”

And now he was here.

She hadn’t been nervous about him meeting them—until she saw him walk into the bistro, low sun catching in his hair, simple white shirt rolled to his forearms, that calm gravity around him that made people look up even when they didn’t know why.

Dominique caught her expression and smirked. “Oh, we are going to eat him alive.”

“Be nice,” Clementine hissed.

“We’ll be polite,” Gisele corrected. “There’s a difference.”

Lucie sipped her wine, eyes narrowing playfully. “Do we call him ‘Mr. Alonso’ or just skip to ‘so you’re the man wrecking our girl’s sleep schedule’?”

Clementine buried her face in her hands.

And then he was there, smiling that small, warm smile just for her, and the rest of the bistro faded into background noise.

“Mi niña,” he said softly, kissing her cheek like it was instinct. “Happy birthday.”

The girls went silent for exactly two beats. Then Dominique mouthed mi niña at Gisele, who bit her lip to stop from squealing.

Clementine, cheeks already pink, made introductions.

Fernando was… unfairly good. He shook hands, remembered names immediately, and answered Dominique’s pointed questions with dry humor that made even Lucie crack a smile. When the food came, he didn’t dominate the conversation—he just sat with one arm slung casually on the back of Clementine’s chair, listening, laughing in the right places, dropping quiet little comments that made her melt.

And then came the gifts.

Dominique slid a package across the table first. “Open mine before Gisele’s. It’s tradition.”

Inside was a sketchbook. Not cheap paper, not a novelty cover—something real. Heavy pages, the kind you could layer paint on without bleed-through. On the first page, in Dominique’s messy handwriting: For every color you haven’t found yet.

Clementine’s throat tightened. “Dom…”

“Don’t cry, you’ll make me cry,” Dominique warned, already misty-eyed.

Gisele’s gift was next: a set of brushes, hand-picked, each wrapped in tissue paper. “High-quality bristles,” Gisele said matter-of-factly. “Because if you’re going to paint masterpieces, you need the tools.”

Clementine laughed, blinking too fast. “You guys…”

Lucie shoved her box over with a small smile. “Mine’s not as fancy.”

Inside was a secondhand silk scarf. Vintage, deep emerald with soft gold threading. “For when you’re painting and don’t want your hair in the way,” Lucie said with a shrug. “Also because it’s pretty, and so are you.”

Clementine made a helpless sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “You’re all trying to kill me.”

Fernando hadn’t said a word through the unwrapping, but when Clementine looked up, his expression was soft in a way that made her chest ache.

“They see you,” he murmured, quiet enough for just her.

And for once, on her birthday, she felt like someone did.

Later, as they all clinked glasses and Dominique declared Fernando “shockingly tolerable,” Clementine sat back in her chair, scarf still looped loosely around her neck, sketchbook heavy in her bag, and thought: this is what a birthday is supposed to feel like.

Not expensive gifts that didn’t fit her. Not obligation or performance.

Just people who saw her.

And the man beside her, hand resting over hers under the table, who looked at her like she was the most obvious thing in the world worth celebrating.

***

By the time dinner was over and the door to her apartment clicked shut behind them, Clementine was exhausted in the soft, happy way that came from too much laughter and lemon tart. Her bag was heavy with the sketchbook and brushes, the silk scarf still knotted loosely around her neck.

She was about to kick off her shoes when Fernando cleared his throat.

“I have something for you,” he said, his voice low and deliberate in that way that always made her stop moving.

Her head snapped up. “You already bought dinner. And lunch. And you’ve been…” She gestured helplessly, cheeks warming. “You’ve been you. That’s enough.”

Fernando smiled faintly and reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim, rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper. No ribbons. No fuss.

“Open it,” he said simply.

Clementine sat on the couch, fingers careful on the wrapping. It peeled away to reveal a small wooden box, smooth and warm to the touch. When she lifted the lid, she almost forgot to breathe.

Inside was a set of oil paints. Not the cheap kind she’d been rationing. These were professional-grade, the kind she’d stared at in shop windows and clicked on in online carts before closing the tab. Rich pigments in sturdy tubes, arranged neatly like a promise.

“Fernando…” Her voice cracked on his name.

“You told me you haven’t painted with oils in years,” he said softly, sitting beside her. “You said you couldn’t justify the expense. So I justified it for you.”

Her fingers hovered over the colors like she might smudge them just by touching. “These are… they’re so expensive.”

“They’re worth it,” he said simply. “You’re worth it.”

Clementine blinked fast, tears threatening, throat tight. “You didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he cut in gently. “Birthdays are supposed to give you something that’s yours. Not something that makes you into what someone else wants.”

That broke her. Not in a dramatic, sobbing way, but in a quiet rush of air as the tears slipped over her cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable.

Fernando reached over, thumb brushing one away with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “No one’s ever… no one’s ever given me something that feels like me before.”

Fernando smiled, slow and soft, and leaned in just enough that his forehead brushed hers.

“Then they’ve all been doing birthdays wrong.”

Clementine laughed, watery and small, clutching the box of paints to her chest like something precious. Because it was.

Because for the first time in twenty-three years, her birthday felt like hers.

***

Clementine: ur race pace is giving main character energy rn like vroom vroom slay bestie 🏎️💅✨

Fernando stared at the screen for a full minute, then another. He’d driven through rain so heavy it felt like the ocean had swallowed a circuit whole. He’d handled double restarts in Singapore and every tire gamble Pirelli could throw at him.

He had never been this confused in his life.

“Vroom vroom slay bestie?” he muttered to himself.

He read it again. It didn’t help.

So he went in search of Lance. 

Lance was leaning against the hospitality counter, halfway through a protein bar, when Fernando appeared like a man on a mission.

“Lance,” he said, holding his phone out like evidence.

Lance blinked. “Uh. Hi?”

Fernando slid his phone across the table. “What does this mean?”

Lance glanced down at the message, then up at Fernando. “Who sent this?”

“…someone.”

“Your… someone?” Lance asked, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Fernando narrowed his eyes. “Answer the question.”

Lance squinted at the screen. “‘Your race pace is giving main character energy right now, like vroom vroom slay bestie.’”

“Yes.” Fernando crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”

Lance looked up slowly. “You don’t know what slay means?”

“I know what slay means,” Fernando said, offended. “Like… kill. Or win. I don’t know why she is calling me her bestie when I am not her bestie. I am—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Lance took another bite of his protein bar. “She’s saying you’re doing amazing. Like, main character of a movie amazing. It’s a compliment.”

Fernando narrowed his eyes. “That’s a compliment?”

“Yeah. It’s very Gen Z.” Lance tilted his head. “So… she’s the controversial young girlfriend nobody knows about, huh?”

Fernando stiffened. “…Why do you say that?”

“Because no millennial woman is texting you ‘vroom vroom slay bestie.’”

Fernando exhaled through his nose. “She is younger. Considerably.”

Lance shrugged like it was nothing. “So what? You’re both adults. If you’re happy, it’s nobody else’s business.”

Fernando blinked. He had been prepared for teasing. Judgment. Not… that.

“You don’t think it’s… strange?”

Lance shrugged again. “Nah.  As long as you’re not being creepy and she’s not being pressured, it’s just… a relationship.”

Fernando stared at him. Lance stared back, completely unbothered.

“…You are a very surprising person,” Fernando said finally.

“Thanks?”

Fernando looked back at his phone. Vroom vroom slay bestie.

He was still not entirely sure how to reply.

“Just text her back ‘slay,’” Lance said helpfully, peering over his shoulder. “With a sparkle emoji. She’ll lose her mind.”

Fernando gave him a look.

Lance grinned. “Trust me.”

Fernando (to Clementine): slay ✨

Clementine: 😭😭😭

Fernando stared at the crying emojis, then at Lance, who was now laughing into his protein bar.

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Mark: Me and Ann are in Monaco next week.

Fernando: …Why?

Mark: Because apparently my wife likes sunshine and overpriced coffee. Anyway. Dinner?

Fernando: Dinner.

Mark: Good. You can even bring your mysterious secret girlfriend 👀

Fernando: No.

Mark: YES.

Fernando: Mark.

Mark: Mate. I have been supporting this romcom saga for MONTHS. Ann has heard every single story. You think she’s not going to demand to meet the girl who turned Fernando Alonso into Monaco’s most wholesome sugar daddy?

Fernando: You’re never letting that phrase die, are you.

Mark: Absolutely not.

Fernando: …She might say no.

Mark: Then let her say no. But ask her.

Fernando: …

Mark: What’s that pause. That’s the “I already want to but I’m pretending to think about it” pause.

Fernando: I’ll ask her.

Mark: Good man. Next Friday. My treat.

Fernando: No, my treat.

Mark: You’re rich, I’m stubborn, we’ll fight about it at the table.

Fernando: Dios mío.

Mark: That’s the spirit.

***

Oscar hadn’t expected dinner to turn into… whatever this was.

It had started normal enough. Quiet evening, nice little restaurant tucked away in Monaco. Lily across the table, laughing softly at some story about the last race weekend. A rare calm moment in the middle of the season.

And then Mark Webber appeared.

“Oscar!” Mark clapped him on the shoulder like they were at a post-race debrief. “Didn’t know you were in tonight!”

“Uh… yeah,” Oscar said, smiling awkwardly. “Just dinner.”

Lily waved politely. Mark grinned back, then nodded toward the corner table. “We’re here with friends. Enjoy.”

Oscar glanced over automatically—just a split-second look—and froze.

Because that was Fernando.

And across from Fernando, laughing shyly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear—

Oh. Oh no.

Oscar blinked hard like maybe his brain had misfired. But no. It was definitely her. He’d seen her in the paddock a handful of times. Always on the edges. Always quiet.

Clementine Leclerc.

Charles’ baby sister.

Having dinner. With Fernando Alonso.

Oscar turned back to his menu with the speed of a man avoiding a car crash replay. His heart was suddenly pounding like he was on a qualifying lap.

Lily leaned in, whispering, “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, voice an octave too high.

He risked another glance. Fernando was smiling—softly. Fernando Alonso did not smile like that unless he’d just won a race or ruined someone’s strategy.

And Clementine looked… happy. Really happy.

Oscar’s brain immediately went to every possible consequence. Charles finding out. Arthur finding out. Charles killing Fernando. Headlines. Group chats on fire.

He picked up his water glass with shaking hands. “This is… fine.”

Lily raised an eyebrow. “What’s fine?”

“Nothing. Everything. Dinner. Life.” He was rambling. He knew he was rambling.

And then Fernando looked up and winked at him.

Oscar nearly dropped the glass.

“Do you know them?” Lily asked, curious now.

Oscar swallowed. “That’s… Fernando.”

“And?”

“…and Charles Leclerc’s sister.”

Lily blinked. “Wait. What?”

Oscar nodded, tiny and frantic, like a man signaling a mayday. “Yeah. Uh. We’re… we’re not here. We didn’t see this.”

Lily bit back a grin. “You’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking,” Oscar hissed, panicking.

In the corner, Clementine reached across the table to touch Fernando’s hand, and Fernando let her.

Oscar stared into his plate like it might save his soul.

He was officially an unwilling witness to the most dangerous secret in the paddock.

And he had no idea what to do with that.

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar: Lando. Emergency.

Lando: what did u crash

Oscar: Nothing. I’m at dinner.

Lando: then what’s the emergency??

Oscar: Fernando Alonso. Clementine Leclerc. Dinner. Together.

Lando: … wait.

Oscar: Romantic dinner. Holding hands. Laughing. WINKING.

Lando: WINKING???

Oscar: HE WINKED AT ME. LIKE HE KNOWS.

Lando: WAIT. WAIT WAIT WAIT. ARE YOU TELLING ME FERNANDO ALONSO IS DATING CHARLES’ LITTLE SISTER???

Oscar: YES.

Lando: OSCAR. HE’S OLD ENOUGH TO BE HER FATHER.

Oscar: DON’T SAY THAT.

Lando: WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO SAY??

Oscar: I DON’T KNOW. SOMETHING CALMING.

Lando: okay okay okay. breathe. maybe it’s not what it looks like.

Oscar: Lando. He was smiling. Softly.

Lando: NOOOOO. NOT SOFTLY.

Oscar: She touched his hand.

Lando: NOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Oscar: We’re dead. We’re so dead. Charles is going to kill him.

Lando: charles is going to kill him and then kill us for knowing.

Oscar: I don’t want to die this young.

Lando: same. you know what? this isn’t our business. we didn’t see anything.

Oscar: agreed.

Lando: … but also. HOW OLD IS SHE AGAIN???

Oscar: twenty-three.

Lando: HE’S FORTY-THREE.

Oscar: STOP SAYING THAT.

Lando: I CAN’T. THAT’S TWO DECADES.

Oscar: if we die, it’s been nice knowing you.

Lando: tell max i want him to have my sim rig.

Oscar: Tell lily i love her.

Lando: ok pact. we never talk about this again.

Oscar: deal.

(two seconds later)

Lando: …what do you think they talk about??

Oscar: Lando.

Lando: SORRY I’M NERVOUS.

***

Family dinners always carried a certain weight for Clementine. The clink of cutlery, the familiar voices bouncing over each other, the quiet ache of being there but not really seen.

Tonight was no different. Pascale had made pasta. Lorenzo poured wine. Charles and Arthur were arguing over something technical about setups.

And then it shifted, the way it sometimes did, onto her.

“Clem,” Arthur said between bites, “do you ever bring anyone to dinner? Or are you just planning on staying single forever?”

Clementine blinked. “Excuse me?”

Lorenzo smirked. “He’s not wrong. You’ve never had a boyfriend at one of these.”

“I don’t exactly bring home everyone I date,” she said lightly, trying to keep her voice even.

Charles chimed in, grinning. “Everyone you date? That implies there’s someone.”

“There isn’t,” Pascale said before Clementine could open her mouth. “She’s too shy. Always has been.”

Clementine felt the heat creep up her neck. “That’s not—”

Arthur cut in with a laugh. “What about that boy from school? What was his name? Paul? You barely held hands.”

“Thank you for the reminder,” she muttered.

Lorenzo shook his head, amused. “Maybe you’re just picky.”

“Or,” Charles said with a teasing grin, “maybe she’s secretly dating some mysterious guy and just won’t tell us.”

The table laughed. It was light, not cruel, but it landed heavy in her chest all the same.

She forced a smile, picking at her food. “Yeah. Something like that.”

None of them noticed the way her fingers tightened around her fork.

None of them knew that the man she’d kissed goodnight two days ago was old enough to make them all choke on their wine.

And none of them saw the way the joke hit—not because it wasn’t true, but because for the first time in her life, Clementine actually did have someone.

Someone she wasn’t ready to let them ruin.

***

It slipped out on a quiet Sunday afternoon, the kind of day that felt soft around the edges. Fernando and her had decided  to drive to the coast, the windows rolled down, the sea air tangling her hair.

She was fiddling with the radio when he asked, casually, “Do you ever drive down here yourself?”

Clementine hesitated. “I… don’t, actually.”

Fernando glanced at her, amused. “What, you don’t like driving?”

Her fingers tightened on the hem of her skirt. “I… don’t have a license.”

He blinked. “You what?”

“I don’t have a license,” she repeated, quieter this time, staring out the window. “Never got one.”

Fernando pulled the car over—not abruptly, but with purpose, easing onto the shoulder and putting it in park. He turned to her fully. “Mi niña, you live in Monaco. How do you survive without a license?”

She laughed, small and self-conscious. “Walk. Bike. Buses. It’s fine.”

“Why?” he asked, and his voice wasn’t judgmental, just curious.

Clementine’s mouth twisted. “I… guess I never thought I’d be good at it. And every time I mentioned it, my brothers would make some joke about how I’d crash into the first thing I saw, or forget which pedal was which.”

Fernando’s brows knit, a slow burn lighting behind his eyes. “They told you that?”

“It was just teasing,” she said quickly, though her voice lacked conviction. “And they’re not wrong, I can be… a little clumsy.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Fernando said, and there was no softness in it. “You can handle a car.”

Clementine shifted in her seat, startled by the certainty in his voice. “You don’t know that.”

He leaned back, still watching her. “I know you. You’re careful when it matters. You notice things other people don’t. You can absolutely handle a car.”

She laughed nervously. “You’re saying that like you can just… make it true.”

“I can,” he said simply. Then, with a flash of a smile: “I’ll teach you.”

Her eyes widened. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll teach you,” Fernando repeated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “If you want. No brothers. No jokes. Just you, me, and an empty parking lot.”

Clementine’s chest felt tight in the strangest, sweetest way. “Fernando, you’re literally a two-time world champion. I can’t learn to drive from you.”

His smile softened. “Why not? Who better to teach you than someone who knows how to trust a car?”

She looked at him, really looked at him—the calm certainty in his face, the way his hand rested easy on the gearshift like it belonged there.

And for the first time, the idea of driving didn’t terrify her. It didn’t feel like failure waiting to happen.

It felt like possibility.

Clementine smiled, shy and a little shaky. “Okay. Teach me.”

Fernando grinned, starting the car again. “Good. We’ll start next weekend. And Clementine?”

“Yeah?”

Fernando smirked, eyes still on the road. “Mi niña, you’re going to be the only Leclerc I trust behind a wheel.”

And for the first time, the idea of driving didn’t make her nervous. It made her excited. Because it wasn’t about a license anymore. It was about learning something her brothers said she couldn’t—with the man who believed she could.

***

The first time Clementine sat in the driver’s seat of the Aston Martin, she looked like she was about to commit a crime instead of learn to drive.

“I feel like someone’s going to arrest me just for touching the steering wheel,” she muttered, fingers hovering an inch away from the leather.

Fernando leaned against the passenger door, fighting back a smile. “Mi niña, it’s a car, not a relic. Put your hands on it.”

She did, tentatively, as if the car might bite.

“You’re going to be fine,” he said calmly, sliding into the passenger seat.

Her wide eyes flicked to him. “You’re letting me learn in an Aston Martin. That’s… that’s not fine, that’s insane.”

“I drive it all the time,” he said with a shrug. “If it survives me, it can survive you.”

“That’s not comforting.”

Fernando reached over, gently adjusting her grip on the wheel. “Breathe. This is just a machine. It does what you tell it. And I trust you to tell it what to do.”

That last sentence made her glance at him, startled, like no one had ever said they trusted her with something before.

She stalled the car twice.

The first time, she let out a strangled little noise and dropped her forehead against the wheel.

“I told you,” she mumbled. “I’m terrible.”

Fernando chuckled, resting a hand on the back of her seat. “You stalled a car you’ve been driving for thirty seconds. That doesn’t make you terrible. It makes you human.”

The second time, she sat back with a dramatic sigh. “It hates me.”

He smiled, soft. “Cars don’t hate. They just listen.”

When she finally eased the Aston forward without a jolt, her face lit up like she’d just won a race.

“Good,” he said, steady and low, watching her shoulders relax. “See? You can do this.”

“It’s… not as scary as I thought,” she admitted, voice a little breathless.

Fernando leaned back, content to watch her find the rhythm. “Most things aren’t. People just make you think they are.”

She shot him a quick glance, and there was something in her eyes then—something vulnerable and warm that made his chest ache.

By the time she parked, hands trembling slightly but grinning like a kid, Fernando was certain of two things:

One, Clementine Leclerc was going to get her license.

And two, watching her trust herself for the first time was better than any checkered flag he’d ever crossed.

***

The testing center smelled like stale coffee and nerves. Clementine sat in the waiting area with her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles ached.

“I’m going to fail,” she whispered.

Fernando, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, arched a brow. “No. You’re not.”

She shot him a look. “You have to say that. You’re my…” she trailed off, cheeks going pink. “You’re here.”

“I’m saying it because it’s true,” Fernando said, calm and steady. “You’ve been driving better than half the people on this road for weeks. You’re ready.”

Her name was called before she could argue.

The theory test was first.

The paper in front of her seemed to vibrate for a second, that old flash of panic hitting like it always did when the letters tried to swim. Clementine closed her eyes, breathed the way Fernando had taught her.

It’s not a race. You have time. The car listens to you. The road will too.

Question after question, she forced herself to slow down, to trust what she saw instead of what her brain told her it might be. When she walked out, her hands were trembling.

Fernando straightened from the wall. “How was it?”

She swallowed. “I… think I passed.”

His mouth tilted in a small smile. “Of course you did.”

The practical was worse.

She slid into the driver’s seat, aware of the examiner scribbling notes beside her, the weight of expectation pressing against her spine. Her ankle tapped the pedal too lightly the first time.

Then she heard Fernando’s voice in her head: You’re in control. It’s just you and the car. Nothing else matters.

And suddenly, it was fine.

She drove the route. Every turn, every stop, every careful mirror check. By the time they pulled back into the center, the examiner gave her a rare, small smile.

“Congratulations, Mademoiselle Leclerc. You passed. First try.”

Clementine blinked. “I… I did?”

“You did.”

Fernando was waiting outside. She stepped into the sunlight, still holding the temporary license in her hand like it might vanish.

He saw her face and didn’t even wait for words. He just pulled her into his arms and spun her once, laughing against her hair.

“I told you,” he murmured. “You’re a driver.”

Clementine laughed, breathless and shaky. “I passed both. First try. Fernando, I—”

He kissed her before she could finish. Not rushed. Not dramatic. Just soft, steady pride pressed against her lips.

When they broke apart, she held up the license between them, still disbelieving. “Look. I actually did it.”

He smiled that quiet, rare smile she’d come to love. “You did. And now we buy you a car.”

Her eyes went wide. “Fernando—”

“No argument,” he said, voice firm but warm. “You earned it. First try. You deserve to drive something that feels as good as this moment.”

Clementine looked at the license again, then back at him, and for the first time in her life, she believed she was capable of more than anyone had ever told her.

***

The look on her brothers’ faces when she pulled up outside the family home was almost worth the nerves that had been buzzing in her stomach all day.

Arthur was already outside on his phone. He looked up when he heard the low purr of the engine, squinting at the sleek green car rolling into the driveway.

And then his jaw dropped.

“Clementine?”

She lowered the window, smiling sweetly. “Hi.”

Arthur actually blinked. “You—what—where—how—”

Charles stepped out onto the porch, frowning at the noise. When he saw her climbing out of the driver’s seat, his frown turned into a look of pure, unfiltered shock.

“You were driving,” he said flatly, like he needed to confirm it.

“I was,” Clementine said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“You don’t drive.”

“I do now,” she said lightly, holding up the license in her wallet just long enough for both of them to see before tucking it away again.

Arthur gaped. “You—when did you even take the test?!”

“Last week,” she said, walking past them toward the door.

“Last week?!”

Lorenzo appeared in the hallway just as she stepped inside, brows lifting. “What’s going on?”

Charles pointed at the driveway, voice rising. “She drove here!”

Lorenzo glanced past her shoulder at the car, blinked once, then back at her. “Is that… an Aston Martin?”

Clementine smiled innocently, slipping out of her jacket. “Oh, that? I borrowed it from a friend.”

Arthur’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What friend has an Aston Martin?”

Clementine shrugged, all calm nonchalance. “A very nice one.”

Charles was still staring at her like she’d announced she’d joined the space program. “You got your license and didn’t tell us?”

“You all told me I couldn’t handle traffic,” she said with a soft, pointed smile. “So I thought I’d wait until I proved myself wrong.”

For once, all three of her brothers were silent.

Behind her back, the Aston Martin sat in the driveway, catching the last light of the evening sun, gleaming softly like a secret that wasn’t quite ready to be told.

***

It had started as a side thing. Sketches in the margins of her notebook, little color swatches pinned to her corkboard. Designing helmets felt like painting in motion—layers of color, curves that caught the light, something alive at 300 km/h.

She’d done one for Arthur once, just for fun. He’d loved it, even if it never saw more than a karting session. She’d done one for a friend’s kid, who wore it proudly on their tiny quad bike.

Charles, though?

Never asked.

Not out of malice. Just… never saw it as her thing. Never looked past the canvas and the paint to see the way her fingers lingered over carbon fiber and design sheets.

Fernando noticed in about five minutes.

He’d been watching her sketch at his kitchen table, her brow furrowed in concentration, her fingers smudged faintly with marker. The page was a soft curve of emerald and gold, an intricate pattern weaving around the vents.

“That one’s beautiful,” he murmured, coming up behind her.

Clementine startled, then laughed softly. “It’s nothing. Just an idea.”

“For who?”

She hesitated. “No one. Charles has never wanted one.”

Fernando’s brow furrowed. “You’ve designed helmets and your own brother hasn’t worn one?”

She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the page. “He doesn’t really… see me that way. I think he thinks it’s just a hobby. Painting. Design. Pretty things that don’t matter.”

Fernando stared at her for a long moment. Then he reached for the sketchbook, turning it gently so he could see it fully.

“I want one.”

Her head shot up. “What?”

“A helmet. Designed by you,” he said simply. “For me.”

Clementine blinked. “Fernando, I—”

“I’m serious,” he cut in, voice low but certain. “You have an eye. You see color like no one else I know. If you can put that on a helmet, I’ll wear it. Every race.”

Her throat went tight. “You don’t have to say that just because—”

“I’m not saying it because of anything,” Fernando interrupted, softer now. “I’m saying it because I want to. Because you deserve to see your work on track.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, as if no one had ever offered her that kind of validation before.

“You really would?” she whispered.

Fernando smiled, slow and sure. “Mi niña, I would be proud to wear your colors.”

And in that moment, Clementine realized he wasn’t just offering her a helmet. He was offering her a piece of herself, finally seen.

***

The helmet had been the first sign.

He’d known, the moment she shyly handed him the finished design, that Clementine had poured herself into it. Deep emerald, subtle gold flecks, the iconic thunderbolt she’d somehow managed to make cleaner without losing its edge. It wasn’t just a helmet. It was… her.

And then the rest started happening.

Quietly.

The new logo showed up one morning in his inbox with a note: I was messing around. Thought you might like it.

It still had the thunderbolt—she’d said she couldn’t imagine him without it—but it was sharper, sleeker. The typography cleaner. Professional, but with a little bit of the wild still in it.

He’d stared at it for a long time before texting her: You just rebranded me in an afternoon.

She’d replied with a blushing emoji and, You don’t have to use it.

He’d already sent it to his team.

Then came the closet.

It wasn’t intentional, at least not at first. She’d been sitting on his bed, flipping through hangers while he packed for a race weekend.

“You have… so many black t-shirts,” she’d murmured, half to herself.

“They work,” he said with a shrug.

“They’re boring,” she said softly, tugging one out and frowning at it. “You’re not boring.”

When he came back from the race, there were two new shirts folded neatly on the chair. Soft fabric, subtle color, just enough to break the monotony.

“I didn’t know your size,” she’d said, sheepish.

He’d worn one the next day.

The more time passed, the more he realized Clementine was quietly, carefully redesigning him.

Not changing him. Not erasing anything. Just… refining. Like she could see the version of him he’d stopped making time for somewhere along the way and decided to bring it back to life.

He caught her one evening, perched at his desk with her hair pulled up, sketching something on his tablet.

“What’s that?” he asked, coming up behind her.

She jumped slightly, then turned the screen. It was a mockup of his website. Cleaner layout. His colors balanced with new ones that somehow felt right. The thunderbolt logo sitting proud in the corner.

“I was just… playing,” she said quickly. “You can ignore it.”

Fernando leaned over, kissed the top of her head. “I never ignore you.”

She flushed, smiling shyly.

And as he stood there, looking at the girl who’d turned his helmet into art and his black t-shirts into something alive, Fernando realized something with startling clarity:

Clementine wasn’t just redesigning his aesthetic.

She was giving him back pieces of himself he hadn’t realized he’d lost.

And he loved her for it.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: She’s redesigning my entire life.

Mark: …ok you can’t just drop that on me. Explain.

Fernando: Helmet. My logo. My closet. Even the way the apartment looks.

Mark: Oh my god. You’ve got the girlfriend effect.

Fernando: The what?

Mark: The girlfriend effect. It’s science. You date someone amazing and suddenly your whole aesthetic upgrades. Wardrobe? Cleaner. Branding? Sharper. Apartment? Actually looks like a person lives there.

Fernando: It’s not just that. She makes it feel… like me. Like I’ve been pretending for years and she’s quietly putting it back together.

Mark: YEP. That’s the advanced girlfriend effect. Stage 2.

Fernando: That’s not a thing.

Mark: It absolutely is. Ann did it to me. I was a walking sponsorship board before her. Now look at me. Neutral tones. Cohesive fonts. Happiness.

Fernando: This isn’t about fonts.

Mark: It’s exactly about fonts. And color palettes. And the fact that Clementine Leclerc is turning you into Monaco’s most aesthetically pleasing man without even trying.

Fernando: …

Mark: You’re smiling right now, aren’t you.

Fernando: Shut up.

Mark: You love it.

Fernando: … Yeah.

Mark: Girlfriend effect, mate. Deadly. Unstoppable. And judging by the way you sound, permanent.

Fernando: …

Mark: Don’t even try to argue. You’re already gone.

***

Fernando appeared in the lounge like a man on a mission, phone in hand, muttering under his breath. Lance barely looked up from his energy drink.

“Another one?” Lance asked, already grinning.

Fernando dropped into the chair across from him and shoved the phone over like it was evidence in a crime scene.

Clementine: p1 energy today!!! manifesting a podium ✨🕺 You are the main char, don’t let the npc energy win 😤💥

Fernando pinched the bridge of his nose. “Explain. Please.”

Lance was already laughing. “Okay. She’s saying: ‘You’ve got P1 energy today, manifesting a podium, you’re the main character for real, don’t let the background NPC energy win.’”

Fernando stared. “NPC.”

“Non-playable character. Background people. She’s telling you to own the race.”

Fernando muttered something low in Spanish, leaning back in his chair.

It was at that exact moment Esteban Ocon walked in, saw the expression on Fernando’s face, and stopped dead. “Do I even want to know?”

Lance turned, smirk firmly in place. “Fernando’s got a secret girlfriend who texts in Gen Z hieroglyphics. I’m his translator.”

Esteban blinked. Once. Twice. “I’m sorry. What?”

Fernando shot Lance a murderous look. “She is not a secret girlfriend.”

“She’s definitely a secret girlfriend,” Lance said cheerfully. “And the messages are like… emoji soup.”

Esteban stepped closer, snagged the phone before Fernando could grab it back, and read the text. His face did a slow, delighted shift.

“Oh my God.” He looked up, eyes gleaming with unholy glee. “You’re dating someone who calls you the main character.”

Fernando glared. “Give me my phone.”

Esteban handed it back with a grin that looked like it belonged in a gossip column. “This is incredible. You’ve got a young girlfriend sending you TikTok love letters and Lance as your interpreter. Netflix is going to eat this alive.”

Fernando stood, pocketing his phone like that might hide the evidence. “If either of you says a word—”

Esteban’s grin widened. “Relax. I’m happy for you, old man. Also… NPC energy? I’m never letting that go.”

Lance raised his can in a mock toast. “To Fernando and his chaotic Gen Z girlfriend.”

Fernando groaned and walked out, muttering, “Dios mío,” for the second time that day while Esteban’s laughter followed him down the hall.

***

It was late when she found him.

She’d been walking home from Dominique’s shop, the sky bruised purple over Monaco, when she heard it—a small, sharp whimper from the alley near her apartment.

Clementine crouched, heart clenching, and there he was.

A dog. Skinny, scruffy, matted fur and wide, terrified eyes. He flinched when she held out her hand, but didn’t run.

“Oh, baby,” she whispered, voice soft as she crouched lower. “Where’s your person, huh?”

There was no collar. No tag. Just bones under fur and a quiet, desperate stillness that broke her heart in half.

“I can’t leave you here,” she murmured, pulling off her scarf to wrap around him. He didn’t fight when she scooped him up, just tucked his head under her chin and trembled.

By the time she got back to her apartment, she already knew Fernando was going to say no.

She set the little bundle on the couch, grabbed a towel, and was half-trying to clean him up when the door opened.

“Mi niña, I—” Fernando stepped inside, mid-sentence, then stopped. Blinked. “What is that?”

Clementine froze. “A… dog.”

Fernando stared. “…Whose dog?”

She bit her lip. “Ours?”

His brows shot up. “Clementine.”

“I couldn’t leave him!” she said quickly, clutching the towel around the trembling little body. “He was all alone, and it’s cold, and he’s so small, and I know what you’re going to say but please don’t make me take him to a shelter tonight—”

Fernando walked over slowly, crouching beside the couch. The dog looked up at him with huge, wary eyes.

“Poor thing,” he murmured, reaching out a careful hand. The dog sniffed once, then leaned into the touch like he couldn’t help it.

Clementine’s voice went soft. “See? He likes you.”

Fernando looked at her then, at the way her face crumpled just a little, the quiet plea in her eyes.

She braced herself for the sigh, the gentle we can’t keep him.

Instead, Fernando said, “We’ll need a vet appointment in the morning.”

Clementine blinked. “Wait—what?”

“He needs food. And a proper bath,” Fernando continued, already pulling out his phone. “And a name.”

“A name?” she echoed.

Fernando glanced at her, mouth curving in the faintest smile. “You didn’t think I was going to make you give him back, did you?”

Clementine stared at him for a second, then laughed—a shaky, disbelieving sound—and hugged the scruffy little dog closer. “I… honestly? Kind of.”

Fernando leaned over and kissed her temple. “Mi niña, if you can bring home stray world champions, you can bring home a stray dog.”

She laughed again, softer this time. “You really mean it?”

Fernando rubbed the dog’s ears gently, voice low. “Looks like he’s already home.”

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: 📸 [3 photos attached] LOOK AT HIM 🥹 He followed me home last night. He was all alone. I gave him a bath and now he’s perfect.

Dominique: Clem. Clem. I say this with love. That is the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen. 😭

Lucie: He looks like he was assembled by accident. Like a drawing a toddler made and someone brought it to life.

Gisele: WHY DOES HE HAVE ONE TOOTH??? IS HE SMILING OR THREATENING YOU????

Clementine: HE’S SMILING!!! 🥹 His name is Milo. He has a sensitive tummy and he loves peanut butter and classical music.

Dominique: He looks like he eats drywall and sees ghosts.

Lucie: Did you manifest the weirdest dog alive??

Clementine: You’re all so mean. He’s perfect. He chose me. 🥺

Lucie: You always fall for the emotionally damaged ones. Even the dog is on-brand.

Dominique: Okay but fr… I’d die for him. Ugly little goblin prince. 🐶👑

Gisele: Same. He’s hideous. I love him.

Clementine: 🥹 thank you He’s sleeping in a cashmere sweater right now.

Lucie: I take it back. This dog is thriving harder than I am.

***

The dog—now officially named Milo, because of course Clementine would pick something soft—had been in their lives for exactly three weeks when Fernando realized Clementine had absolutely no concept of moderation.

Milo had a bed. A luxury bed, plush and soft and matching the blanket she’d draped over the couch. He had toys. Dozens of them. He had treats in a jar that looked nicer than most of Fernando’s pantry.

He hadn’t expected to be jealous of a dog.

And yet.

There it was—some wiry, scruffy little creature with a permanent underbite and ears too big for his head, now curled up in a ridiculously plush dog bed in his living room, licking peanut butter out of a Kong like he was the prince of Monaco.

Clementine was on the floor next to him, legs folded underneath her, hair in a messy braid, softly narrating the dog’s life like it was a children’s cartoon.

“And then, Monsieur Milo had a very busy day of sniffing tree stumps and rejecting his kibble because he knows he’ll get chicken if he waits long enough—”

Fernando stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips twitching.

“Do I need to start waiting for my meals too, or does the royal treatment only apply to him?”

Clementine looked up at him, completely unrepentant. “He had a hard life, mon cour. He deserves soft things now.”

Fernando snorted, stepping into the room and looking down at the dog now wearing what looked like a tiny cable-knit sweater.

“Is that… cashmere?”

“Secondhand,” she said quickly. “But yes. He gets cold easily.”

“He’s a dog,” Fernando said flatly. “He has fur.”

Clementine gasped in mock offense. “You take that back. He is delicate.”

The dog chose that moment to burp audibly and lick his own foot.

Fernando sighed and dropped onto the couch. “You know he sleeps on my side of the bed now.”

Clementine smiled sweetly. “That’s because he likes your aftershave.”

“I think he likes my girlfriend,” Fernando muttered.

“Then he has excellent taste.”

Fernando watched as she gently scratched Milo’s ears, the little dog leaning into her touch with the kind of trust that made Fernando’s chest ache.

She cooed something in French, completely besotted, and Fernando shook his head.

“You do realize this dog has more toys than I had in my entire childhood?”

Clementine looked up, eyes twinkling. “Would you like a chew toy too?”

He stared at her. “Are you flirting with me and insulting me at the same time?”

“Is it working?”

Fernando bit back a smile. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Milo sneezed and then snuggled closer to Clementine with a dramatic little sigh, stealing the entire blanket off her lap in the process.

Fernando stared down at him.

“Unbelievable.”

Clementine just smiled. “Get used to it. You’re not the only spoiled man in this apartment anymore.”

Fernando chuckled, low and warm, watching her beam at the scrappy thing that had followed her home. “You know he’s going to expect this forever.”

“Good,” Clementine said softly, eyes still on the dog. “He deserves forever.”

Fernando felt his chest tighten in that dangerous way it always did around her—because he knew she wasn’t just talking about the dog.

And Dios, if seeing her spoil a stray with that much love didn’t make him want to give her every single thing she’d ever been denied.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: Clementine still refuses to buy anything expensive for herself.

Fernando: But our dog has a wardrobe now. Like, actual outfits.

Mark: Wait. What. THE DOG??

Fernando: I’m not joking. Little jackets. There’s a cable-knit sweater. A raincoat.

Mark: I need a photo. Now.

Fernando: She made him try on three sweaters yesterday. He looked like a toddler with a stylist.

Mark: Mate. You’ve lost control of your household.

Fernando: I never had it. She was very serious about keeping him “seasonally coordinated.”

Mark: And you’re letting it happen?

Fernando: She smiles when she folds his laundry, Mark. What am I supposed to do, stop her?

Mark: Honestly? Fair.

Fernando: She spent an hour comparing booties on Etsy today. For his paws.

Mark: And yet she’s still walking around in a Zara coat from 2018.

Fernando: Exactly. I offered to take her shopping. She said, and I quote, “Why would I need another coat when I can layer properly?”

Mark: You’re dating the world’s most financially responsible sugar baby.

Fernando: She bought him a personalized harness. With his name embroidered on it. In cursive.

Mark: I’m crying. This is too good. She’s out here living on discount codes and dog couture.

Fernando: I love her so much it’s actually starting to feel like a problem.

Mark: It’s only a problem if the dog starts having more shoes than you.

Fernando: … Too late.

Mark: 💀💀💀 Godspeed, mate.

***

She hadn’t even made it to the front door before it started.

“That thing is not coming near Leo.”

Clementine blinked, adjusting her grip on Milo' leash as she stared at Charles standing in the doorway like a one-man border patrol. His arms were crossed. His expression was somewhere between offended and mildly horrified. Leo — Charles' designer dachshund with a coat shinier than most F1 cars — stood behind him like a perfectly trained footman, looking vaguely judgmental.

“What thing?” she asked, blinking innocently. As if Milo wasn’t sitting beside her, tongue lolling, sweater slightly crooked, one ear permanently folded like he’d come fresh out of a washing machine.

“That,” Charles said, pointing like she’d dragged a wild boar in from the hills. “That… creature.”

“Milo,” she corrected, lifting her chin slightly. “He’s my dog.”

Charles raised both brows. “That’s a dog?”

“He’s a very unique dog,” she said defensively. Milo wagged his tail like he’d understood, which only made his whole body wobble. He sneezed. Then licked the doorframe. “And he’s not ‘coming near’ Leo, relax. I brought his blanket. He’ll stay on it.”

“You brought him to dinner?” Arthur’s voice floated from inside, already heavy with the kind of disapproval that only showed up when Clementine did something vaguely feral. “Why would you do that?”

“Because he’s part of my life now,” Clementine said, trying to keep her tone even. “He has separation anxiety.”

“I think you have separation anxiety,” Charles muttered under his breath.

“He’s vaccinated,” she snapped. “He’s clean. And he has better manners than most of you.”

Leo gave a single, aristocratic woof like he disagreed. Milo hiccuped and immediately sneezed on Charles’ shoes.

“Oh mon dieu—” Charles jumped back like she’d brought in a grenade. “He’s sick!”

“It’s allergies,” she said flatly. “He’s sensitive. Maybe he’s allergic to judgment.”

Charles gave her a look. One of those "be serious for once" expressions that made her want to roll her eyes so hard she’d see her brain.

But instead, Clementine crouched, wiped Milo’ nose with a little paw-print embroidered handkerchief, and gave him a gentle pat.

“See? Perfectly fine.”

“Clem,” Lorenzo sighed from the hallway behind Charles, dressed in something crisp and clearly ironed, “you couldn’t leave him at home just one evening?”

“He gets lonely,” she said quietly.

The hallway fell into silence for a beat. She heard her mother bustling in the kitchen. The sound of cutlery. Laughter from Arthur’s girlfriend. But nobody said anything to her directly.

As always.

Clementine squared her shoulders, then stood up, brushing her paint-flecked hoodie down over her jeans. Milo’ leash was a gentle floral print. She’d made it herself. It matched nothing about her family.

“He stays on his blanket,” she said calmly. “If that’s a problem, we can leave.”

Charles opened his mouth, but it was Leo who padded forward and sniffed Milo with the stiff curiosity of someone inspecting a knockoff handbag. Milo wagged. Leo did not. Still, he didn’t growl either.

After a few seconds of sniffing, Leo simply turned around and walked back inside.

Clementine lifted her eyebrows at Charles.

“Guess he’s been approved,” she said lightly, walking past.

Milo waddled along behind her, sweater slightly sagging, tail up like he owned the place.

Fernando Alonso liked mornings.

He liked the quiet before the tourists stirred, before the yachts began their low mechanical humming, before the smell of espresso crept through open shutters and the streets filled with the scent of too-expensive perfume. He liked the way the city sat heavy with mist in the early light, as if it hadn’t quite made up its mind yet about being glamorous.

He liked routine.

Every morning, same loop. From Port Hercules along the harbor, then up the winding path toward the gardens near the casino, earbuds in, pace steady, mind clear.

Except today, just past the bend by the rose trellises, he had to skid to a half-stop to avoid a collision with a human hurricane.

A girl. No, a woman—young, definitely younger than him, which admittedly didn’t narrow the field much these days. She came barreling out from a narrow garden path, earbuds trailing like loose ribbons, her ponytail in disarray, one shoe halfway untied.

“Mer—oh! Dios,” Fernando muttered, instinctively reaching to steady her as she stumbled. “Careful—”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t—oh no, did I step on you?” she gasped, looking horrified, scanning his feet like she'd just crushed his metatarsals.

“You didn’t,” he said, amused. “But I think your left shoe might escape if you keep going.”

She looked down, yelped, and bent to retie it, promptly dropping her phone in the process. Then she hit her head on her knee trying to stand back up.

Fernando blinked. Twice.

She finally looked up at him fully, cheeks flushed from running—or embarrassment, or both—and smiled the kind of smile that probably got her out of a lot of parking tickets.

And he recognized her. Not immediately. But—

Clementine Leclerc.

The youngest one. 

The… elusive one? 

The one you never saw on Charles’ Instagram unless it was someone’s birthday. She was wearing a pale yellow hoodie that said “Take it easy on yourself” in small embroidered text. It had a faint smear of something that might’ve been paint on the sleeve.

“Oh,” she said, squinting at him. “You’re Fernando Alonso.”

He raised a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“No! I mean—yes. A little. You’re usually not out this early, are you?”

“You’ve been spying on me?” he teased.

“Not on purpose,” she said, a little breathless. “You run clockwise. I run counterclockwise. We must’ve missed each other.”

Fernando found himself smiling. He hated smiling this early in the morning.

“Well, we’ve met now.”

“Sort of literally,” she said, gesturing to their near-collision. “Sorry again. I got distracted. There was a dog. And then I tried to take a photo. And then I realized I left my water bottle at home and thought I’d turn around but then the dog ran into the garden and—”

He held up a hand, not unkindly. “You don’t have to explain. I believe you.”

Clementine flushed again, tugging the sleeves of her hoodie over her hands like a nervous schoolgirl. “You sure I didn’t step on your foot?”

“I would’ve survived,” he said dryly. “I’ve been run into before.”

Her eyes lit with something warm and bright. “You must have great balance.”

“I’m a Formula 1 driver,” he deadpanned.

Her mouth made a surprised “o” and then she giggled, soft and self-conscious. “Right. Of course you are. Sorry, I’m not very good at, um—normal conversations. Especially before eight in the morning.”

Fernando, who prided himself on his composure, his ability to remain calm under pressure, who had literally once driven with a broken seatbelt and a fractured rib—felt his chest do something he didn’t have a name for.

She was… sweet. There was no other word. Sweet and a little scattered. The kind of person who chased dogs into gardens and wore positivity quotes on her sleeves without irony. And she looked at him like he was just a man out for a run, not Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion and certified old wolf of the paddock.

“I’m Clementine,” she said after a moment, sticking out a paint-smudged hand. “But you probably already knew that.”

He took it, fingers brushing hers. Warm. Slightly callused. Soft in a way that made him wonder what she painted.

“I did,” he said.

She looked up at him with that same unguarded, too-kind expression. “Thank you for not being mad.”

Fernando held her hand for a beat longer than was strictly necessary, then let go with a small nod. “You didn’t do anything worth being mad about.”

Clementine ducked her head, a little strand of hair escaping her ponytail and sticking to her temple. She looked like she wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. Instead, she gestured vaguely down the path.

“I should… probably keep going. Before I lose the shoe completely.”

“You should,” he agreed, though he didn’t move either.

For a second, they just stood there in the cool morning air, the city still holding its breath. She smiled again—bright and unguarded—and gave a little wave as she stepped back.

“See you… around the loop, I guess?” she said.

Fernando almost laughed at the phrasing. “Around the loop,” he echoed.

And then she was jogging off in the opposite direction, earbuds flapping again, hoodie bouncing at her hips. He watched her go longer than he meant to, the pale yellow of her sweatshirt disappearing slowly between the trellises and the morning mist.

When she was gone, the quiet pressed back in, familiar and heavy. Fernando exhaled, rolled his shoulders, and told himself to keep running.

But as he picked up his pace again, he realized he was smiling. Not the polite press of lips he wore in paddock interviews. Not the wolfish, knowing smirk that came out on race weekends. This one felt… involuntary.

He shook his head at himself. “Dios mío,” he muttered under his breath.

Routine. He liked routine.

Except today, apparently, he’d met Clementine Leclerc, and now the entire loop felt different.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: I think I made a mistake.

Mark: You? Impossible. What did you do, forget your age again and sign with Ferrari again?

Fernando: Met someone.

Mark: Met someone or met someone?

Fernando: Woman. Leclerc. The youngest one.

Mark: … You mean Charles’ sister?

Fernando: Yes. Clementine.

Mark: And why is this a “mistake”?

Fernando: Because she’s… I don’t know. Too young. Too… sweet.

Mark: 😂😂😂

Fernando: Why are you laughing?

Mark: Because the last time you said “too sweet” about someone, you married her.

Fernando: Mark.

Mark: Relax, mate. What happened?

Fernando: We ran into each other. Literally. She almost killed herself with her own shoelaces. She apologized five times for existing. She smiled.

Mark: That’s it? She smiled and you’re texting me like you’ve seen God?

Fernando: You didn’t see the smile.

Mark: Oh this is fantastic. I’ve been waiting years for this. Go for it.

Fernando: Go for it? She’s Charles’ baby sister. She’s—she can’t be more than twenty-four.

Mark: And what are you, ninety? Stop being dramatic.

Fernando: I’m not being dramatic. I’m being realistic.

Mark: Realistic is boring. Text me when you see her again.

Fernando: I’m not going to see her again.

Mark: 😂😂😂 You’re definitely going to see her again.

***

The bus was late. It was always late. By the time she reached the glass-fronted office near the marina, she was already ten minutes behind, which meant she’d get The Look.

She got The Look.

Her boss—a friend of Lorenzo’s from university, the one who had oh-so-kindly “given her a chance”—leaned out of his office.

“Clementine. Nine means nine.”

She smiled, the tight kind she had perfected. “Yes, sorry.”

“You’ll stay late to make up for it.”

“I—yes. Of course.”

Her desk was tucked in a corner by the copier, which was the office equivalent of being told to stand facing the wall. Her tasks were a jumble of admin work: data entry, filing, making coffee she never drank. The boss didn’t say thank you when she dropped reports on his desk. He never did.

By noon, her fingers ached from typing. By three, she had the distinct feeling she was going to dissolve into the office chair and no one would notice.

At five-thirty, just when she thought she might get away on time, he dropped another stack of files on her desk.

“These need to be entered by morning. And Clementine?”

“Yes?”

“Try not to mess it up this time.”

Her throat tightened. She swallowed it down and nodded.

“Of course.”

By the time she caught the bus back, Monaco was gold with evening light. She wanted to go home. She wanted to curl up with her sketchbook and not talk to anyone. But it was Friday, which meant family dinner.

She was twenty-two and still couldn’t say no.

The Leclerc apartment smelled like rosemary and expectation. Pascale greeted her with a distracted kiss on the cheek before returning to the stove. Charles was already there, Arthur on his phone, Lorenzo pouring wine.

“Clementine,” Lorenzo said. “You’re late.”

“Bus,” she murmured.

“Get a car,” Arthur said without looking up.

“I can’t—”

“Don’t mumble,” Pascale interrupted, shoving a salad bowl into her hands. “Set the table. And straighten your hair, mon dieu, you look like you ran here.”

Clementine bit the inside of her cheek and began setting out plates.

Dinner was loud in the way Leclerc dinners always were: overlapping conversations, a constant hum of racing talk. Charles was discussing setups for the next race. Arthur was arguing over karting stats. Lorenzo was dissecting business reports.

“Clementine, what is it you do again?” Arthur asked suddenly, mid-chew.

The question hit her like a slap.

“I… work at the office by the marina. You know. Admin stuff.”

“Right,” he said, already looking away. “Must be nice. Easy job.”

Her fingers tightened around her fork.

“It’s… not that easy,” she said softly.

“Oh come on,” Charles cut in, laughing like it was harmless. “It’s not Formula 1, Clem. You don’t need to act like you’re under pressure.”

“You really should think about a master’s,” Lorenzo said without looking up. “A bachelor’s isn’t much these days.”

Her fingers curled against her thigh. “You know I—”

“Dyslexia isn’t an excuse to stop trying,” Pascale interrupted, serving pasta onto plates.

Clementine swallowed. “I didn’t say it was.”

Her throat burned. She took a sip of water to cover it.

Lorenzo smiled, polite and sharp. “We only want what’s best for you, petite sœur. You don’t want to be wasting your life.”

I am wasting my life, she wanted to say. I am wasting it in a gray office with a man who doesn’t remember my name half the time, and then I come here and you look right through me.

Instead, she smiled that same practiced smile and murmured, “Of course.”

When dinner ended, she kissed her mother’s cheek, hugged her brothers, and stepped out into the Monaco night.

The bus was late again. She sat at the stop, hoodie pulled tight around her, and let the tears prick her eyes. Not enough to fall. Just enough to blur the lights on the water.

***

Fernando wasn’t in a hurry. For once.

He was driving the back streets above Port Hercules, sunglasses on, window down, letting the sea air and the low sun make everything feel five percent less artificial. Monaco could be suffocating, all sparkle and scrutiny, but some corners still felt real. Quiet.

And then the car in front of him braked hard, swerved slightly, and clipped a cyclist.

It happened so fast. A thud. A cry. A tangle of motion.

Fernando hit the brakes.

The bike skidded, the rider hit the pavement, and the driver of the car—some gleaming slate-gray luxury thing, not even a scratch on it—slammed his door and stormed out like he was the victim.

“You should watch where you’re going!” the man shouted.

Fernando was already halfway out of his car.

The cyclist was on the ground, struggling upright.

And—fuck.

It was her.

Clementine.

Yellow hoodie again, scuffed now. The elbow of her jeans torn. Her bike twisted slightly on the ground beside her. She looked stunned. Pale. Her hands trembled as she tried to assess the damage to herself more than the bike.

“Are you okay?” Fernando crouched down without thinking, steadying the bike with one hand so it wouldn’t topple further.

“I—” She blinked up at him, disoriented. “Oh. Hi. Um. I think so?”

“You’re bleeding,” he said, eyeing the scrape already blooming across her shin.

“It’s—” She glanced down. “Oh. Huh. That’s… fine.”

“Fine?” he repeated, incredulous. “You just got hit by a car.”

“It was barely a hit,” she said quickly, voice small but soothing, as if he were the one who needed calming. “Just a clip. I’m okay. Really.”

The driver stepped out of his car then, gesturing angrily at the bike. “She shouldn’t have been between the lanes! C’est ridicule!”

Fernando’s head turned slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice even in that way that always made mechanics back off in debriefs. “Are you suggesting this is her fault?”

“She came out of nowhere—”

“She was in the bike lane,” Fernando snapped, standing to his full height. “You hit her.”

The man scoffed. “It’s a scratch—”

“It’s a person,” Fernando cut in, sharp enough to silence the entire row of cars behind them. “Stay here. The police are coming.”

“I don’t have time for this—”

“You have time,” Fernando said, and there was something in his tone—low, uncompromising—that made the driver’s jaw snap shut. “You hit a cyclist. You don’t get to decide what’s necessary.”

Clementine blinked rapidly, like she might cry but didn’t want to.

“I was just going home,” she said quietly. “I didn’t even want to be on this street. I just thought the view might make me feel better.”

Fernando’s heart clenched, far more than it had any right to.

He stayed beside her while the police came. Gave a statement. Watched the other driver wilt as soon as badges and clipboards came out. Clementine was mostly silent, still a little dazed, still gripping the handlebars of her bent bike like it was an anchor.

He turned back to Clementine, who was still on the curb, wide-eyed, like she’d just watched a wolf bare its teeth.

“I don’t want to cause trouble,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he said firmly, crouching down again. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her fingers tightened on the bike handles, knuckles white. “You didn’t have to stop.”

“Of course I did.” His voice softened despite himself. “You were hit. And you don’t deserve someone yelling at you on top of it.”

Her laugh came out shaky, almost a hiccup. “You really didn’t have to stop.”

Fernando smiled faintly. “You say that like I could’ve driven away.”

He held her bike steady as she shifted, making sure she didn’t put weight on her scraped knee. She glanced at him then, soft and a little bewildered.

“Thank you,” she said, quiet but with all the earnestness in the world.

Fernando felt it hit him somewhere deep. Dios mío, he thought again.

For the second time in a week, Clementine Leclerc had collided straight into his life, and for the second time in a week, he wasn’t sure he’d recover from it.

***

Clementine sat very still on the curb, because if she moved too quickly she thought her brain might catch up to what just happened—and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

She was bleeding. Not badly, but enough to sting when the breeze hit it. Her bike wheel was bent into a sad half-smile, the chain hanging loose. The police officers were talking to the other driver a few feet away. And right beside her, crouched close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him, was Fernando Alonso.

Fernando Alonso.

Her fifteen-year-old self would have actually combusted.

She’d had the most embarrassing crush on him back then—back when Charles had been climbing into Formula 2 and she was a ghost in the background, watching races on the tiny TV in her room because the living room was always too loud. Fernando had been cool in the way only older, untouchable people were. Sharp jaw, impossible confidence, the kind of man who could walk into any room and make it orbit him.

She’d grown out of it, mostly. Life had a way of beating teenage daydreams out of you.

Except right now, sitting on the curb with his hand steadying her busted bike and his voice—low, firm, protective—still in her ears, that crush came roaring back like it had been lying in wait all along.

He looked at her ankle and frowned. “You should get that checked.”

“I’m fine,” she said automatically.

He raised an eyebrow. “You said that about being hit by a car.”

“It was barely—”

“Clementine.” He said her name like it was the only word in the world, and she forgot how to argue.

When the police finally cleared them to go, she tried to stand and realized two things: one, her bike was absolutely dead; two, her ankle was worse than she’d thought.

“Oh,” she said faintly, wobbling as she tried to put weight on it.

Fernando’s hand was there immediately, steady at her elbow. “You can’t ride that home.”

She glanced at the bike, then at him. “I can walk it.”

“You can’t walk either.”

“I can hop,” she said weakly, because humor was easier than admitting she was scared.

He gave her a look—dry, unimpressed, and somehow still gentle. “You’re not hopping anywhere. I’ll drive you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I’m driving you,” he said, already moving toward his car.

She opened her mouth to protest again, but her ankle throbbed in answer and she shut it. He loaded the mangled bike into his trunk with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d done more impossible things under worse pressure. Then he helped her into the passenger seat like she was something fragile.

The car smelled faintly of leather and sun. Clementine held her hoodie away from her ankle, staring at the swelling just below the scrape.

Fernando glanced over once they were moving. “Which way?”

She gave him her street name. He nodded. The ride was quiet for a minute, the hum of the engine soft beneath the weight of her pulse in her ears.

“Do you want to tell me where the hospital is instead?” he said finally, without looking at her.

“I don’t need the hospital,” she said, voice too quick.

“Your ankle says otherwise.”

She followed his gaze. The swelling had doubled since the curb. A tight ache had started to spread down her foot.

“Oh,” she said again, softer this time.

Fernando’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “Hospital, Clementine.”

She should’ve argued. She wanted to. But the truth was, she’d never been good at taking up space, at admitting she needed help. It was easier to fold into herself, to insist she was fine, because no one ever waited around long enough to see if she wasn’t.

And now here was Fernando Alonso, of all people, rerouting his car without a sigh, without a hint of annoyance, like it was the most natural thing in the world to take her bleeding, embarrassed self to urgent care.

She glanced sideways at him, at the sharp profile lit by the dipping sun.

Her teenage crush didn’t stand a chance. It had already melted into something worse. 

***

Clementine had never been particularly good at hospitals. Too bright, too clean, that faint antiseptic smell that made her feel like she needed to apologize just for bleeding on their floor.

Fernando, on the other hand, looked like he could’ve been waiting for a strategy debrief. Calm. Collected. Sitting in the hard plastic chair beside her while she perched on the exam table, hoodie balled in her lap, ankle elevated with an ice pack.

“It’s just a sprain,” the doctor said kindly, looping off the latex gloves. “You’ll be sore for a bit, but no breaks. Rest, ice, no cycling for a couple of weeks.”

Clementine nodded, relief flooding her all at once. “Thank you.”

The doctor left them a set of crutches she tried not to look at like an enemy.

“I can walk,” she muttered as Fernando helped her down from the table.

“You can limp,” he corrected, taking the crutches with one hand and her elbow with the other. “Use them until you get home.”

“I don’t even know if I should let you drive me home,” she said as they left the ER, half-smiling despite the embarrassment still humming in her chest. “You’ve done more than enough. Twice, actually.”

He glanced at her, dry but warm. “What kind of person leaves someone with a sprained ankle to carry a broken bike across Monaco?”

“The kind who doesn’t want to get roped into family drama when Charles finds out?” she offered, and he actually huffed a laugh.

By the time they reached her apartment building—a modest walk-up on the quieter side of the city—the sun had dipped low enough to paint everything in warm gold. He helped her out of the car without comment, carried her bike up the first flight of stairs like it weighed nothing, and set it gently against the wall outside her door.

She leaned on one crutch and fished for her keys, suddenly aware of how small the hallway felt with him standing there.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “Really. You didn’t have to stay, or drive me, or…”

Fernando shook his head. “Stop saying that.”

“What?”

“That I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

Clementine blinked at him, lips parting just slightly. For a second, she didn’t know what to do with that.

He cleared his throat, shifting just enough to glance at the battered bike. “You’re going to need someone to fix that. And if the swelling gets worse, someone should check on you.”

“I’ll manage,” she said, though it sounded less convincing than she’d hoped.

Fernando gave the faintest of smiles, then reached into his pocket and held out his phone.

“Then give me your number,” he said easily. “So you can text me if you need a ride. Or if the bike shop tries to overcharge you.”

It was… smooth. So smooth that for half a second she didn’t even register the implication, didn’t flush or fumble like she would’ve if it had sounded like a date. It was practical. Simple.

She took the phone, typed in her name and number, and handed it back with a shy little smile. “Thank you. Again.”

He tucked it into his pocket. “Rest. Ice. No cycling.”

“Yes, Doctor Alonso,” she teased, and that earned her a real laugh, low and warm.

Fernando took one last look at her—hoodie paint-smudged, hair messy, still smiling at him like he’d done something extraordinary instead of just… staying.

Then he nodded once and stepped back, letting her door click softly shut between them.

**

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: um. so i may or may not have gotten hit by a car today.

Dominique: ???????

Lucie: ??????? EXCUSE ME????

Gisele: WHAT DO YOU MEAN “MAY OR MAY NOT”??

Clementine: okay “hit” is dramatic. clipped. barely. just my bike. and my ankle. it’s fine.

Dominique: ARE YOU AT A HOSPITAL.

Clementine: …yes. sprain. no breaks. i’m okay!!

Lucie: WHO DO I HAVE TO KILL.

Clementine: please don’t. fernando alonso already scared the life out of the guy.

Gisele: wait. wait wait wait. what.

Dominique: WHAT DO YOU MEAN FERNANDO ALONSO.

Lucie: LIKE. THE FERNANDO ALONSO.

Clementine: yes? the one with the cars. and the eyebrows.

Gisele: oh my GOD.

Dominique: why was fernando alonso at your hospital????

Clementine: he… saw it happen. he stopped. stayed the whole time. drove me home.

Lucie: you’re joking.

Clementine: i’m literally sitting here with crutches staring at my broken bike like this is a fever dream.

Gisele: CLEM. CLEM. do you remember.

Dominique: remember what.

Gisele: her CRUSH.

Lucie: …what crush.

Dominique: …wait.

Clementine: no.

Gisele: YES.

Lucie: shut up. you had a crush on fernando alonso???

Clementine: I WAS FIFTEEN. it was not serious.

Gisele: you had posters.

Clementine: one.

Gisele: two.

Dominique: i’m sorry, this is incredible.

Lucie: i’m sorry, this is illegal. how old is he??

Clementine: forty-something??

Lucie: Clem. he’s literally twice our age.

Dominique: yeah but old just means they have experience 😉

Clementine: DOM.

Gisele: i’m with Dom on this one. i mean… it’s FERNANDO.

Lucie: no. absolutely not.

Dominique: what’s he like?? in person??

Clementine: …nice. calm. scary when he wants to be. also he called me Clementine like it was capitalized.

Gisele: you’re in love.

Clementine: I SPRAINED MY ANKLE I’M NOT IN LOVE.

Dominique: sure. and i “tripped” into my boyfriend’s bed.

Lucie: okay but seriously. are you okay?

Clementine: yeah. a little sore. a little embarrassed. also my teenage self is screaming.

Gisele: as she should.

Dominique: tell teenage you congratulations from me.

Lucie: tell teenage you to calm down because he’s too old.

Clementine: i hate you all.

Gisele: no you don’t. you love us. but not as much as you love fernando alonso.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: Update: I’ve now saved her from both herself and a car.

Mark: What??

Fernando: She got clipped by some asshole in a Maserati. On her bike. Right in front of me.

Mark: Jesus. Is she okay??

Fernando: Sprained ankle. Bruised pride. Broken bike.

Mark: And you just happened to be right there?

Fernando: I was driving. She was cycling. Monaco is small. The universe is weird.

Mark: The universe is matchmaking and I fully support it.

Fernando: I drove her to the hospital. Stayed with her. Then brought her home.

Mark: Of course you did. Because you’re casually in love with her already.

Fernando: I am not.

Mark: Mate. She got hit by a car and your first instinct was to murder someone and then chauffeur her to A&E like her knight in fireproof armor.

Fernando: I just didn’t want her to be alone.

Mark: EXACTLY. You don’t do that for people. You barely do that for me.

Fernando: She’s… Kind. And soft. And she looked at me like I wasn’t terrifying.

Mark: That’s because she doesn’t know you’re terrifying yet.

Mark: I’m just saying… if this ends with you dating Charles Leclerc’s baby sister, I want to be best man.

Fernando: You’re the worst.

Mark: And yet here I am, supporting your late-in-life romcom arc.

Fernando: There is no “dating.” I asked for her number so she could call if she needed a ride or help with the bike shop.

Mark: … …you smooth bastard.

Fernando: What?

Mark: You managed to get her number without making it sound like a date. That’s veteran-level.

Fernando: It wasn’t a date.

Mark: Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that while you save her contact with a heart emoji.

Fernando: I’m blocking you.

Mark: You’re not. You love me. Almost as much as you’re gonna love Clementine Leclerc.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

 (Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Clementine)

Clementine: Just so you all know, I’m okay. I got clipped by a car today while biking. Sprained ankle. No breaks.

Charles: Wait what?? 

Arthur: You got hit by a car??

Lorenzo: Sprain isn’t bad. Ice it. Elevate it.

Pascale: Mon dieu, Clementine, you’re always so dramatic. A sprain is nothing. When Charles broke his wrist in karts we were at the hospital all night.

Clementine: …yeah. I’m fine.

Arthur: So you’re just on crutches for a bit?

Clementine: Yeah.

Charles: Did you go to the hospital at least?

Clementine: Yes.

Pascale: Good. You’ll live. Be careful next time.

Arthur: Where were you biking anyway?

Clementine: Near the marina.

Lorenzo: Should’ve stayed on the upper roads. Less traffic.

Clementine: …thanks.

Pascale: When are you coming for dinner next? If you can walk by Friday, we’ll expect you.

Clementine: I’ll see.

Arthur: Don’t milk it too much, Clem. It’s a sprain, not a broken leg.

Clementine: Right.

Charles: Seriously though. I’m glad you’re okay.

Pascale: Yes, yes, we’re all glad. Now, chérie, try not to scare us over a little ankle next time.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Clementine Leclerc

Fernando: How’s the ankle?

Clementine: Sore, slightly dramatic, insisting on being the center of attention 😅 Doctor says I’m allowed to walk… eventually.

Fernando: Good. You had me worried.

Clementine: You stayed with me through the whole hospital wait and let me ruin your car seat with dried blood and embarrassment. I think that qualifies you for sainthood.

Fernando: I’ve been called many things. That’s a first.

Clementine: Don’t worry. I won’t make a habit of needing to be rescued.

Fernando: That’s a shame. I was starting to enjoy it.

Clementine: Oh? You enjoy bike accidents? 😇

Fernando: No. I enjoy your company.

Clementine: Oh. That’s… unexpectedly sweet.

Fernando: I can be. Occasionally.

 I was thinking— Since you’re temporarily banned from cycling, and since your bike is currently being mourned by its pedals, maybe you’d let me take you out instead. Somewhere without wheels. Dinner? Or coffee, if that’s less… pressure.

Clementine: Wait. Is this… Are you asking me on a date?

Fernando: That depends. If I say date, do you say yes?

Clementine: … Yes.

Fernando: Then yes. It’s a date.

Clementine: Okay. But no bicycles this time. I can’t keep making you my personal pit crew.

Fernando: Deal. But if anything happens to your fork at dinner, I’m prepared.

Clementine: Do you flirt like this with everyone or am I just special?

Fernando: You’re special. That was obvious the moment you nearly concussed yourself tying your shoe.

Clementine: Romantic. Can’t wait. ☺️

Fernando: Friday. I’ll pick you up. And don’t worry— I promise to keep the speed under 300 km/h.

Clementine: That’s oddly reassuring coming from you 😅 See you Friday.

Fernando: Looking forward to it.

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: …so, um. hypothetical question.

Dominique: 👀

Lucie: this is never actually hypothetical with you.

Gisele: spill. immediately.

Clementine: what if. what if. i had… a date?

Gisele: WITH FERNANDO.

Dominique: YOU DIDN’T.

Lucie: CLEMENTINE.

Clementine: IT’S JUST DINNER.

Gisele: DINNER IS A DATE. especially if it’s Fernando Alonso asking.

Dominique: i’m not even mad, i’m impressed.

Lucie: i’m not impressed, i’m terrified. HE’S TOO OLD.

Gisele: oh my god lucie, you sound like her mother.

Lucie: EXCUSE ME FOR HAVING A SENSE OF PROPORTION. he’s literally twice our age.

Dominique: yeah but imagine the experience.

Clementine: DOM.

Dominique: what??? he’s a two-time world champion. the man knows his way around a corner.

Lucie: NOT HELPING.

Gisele: okay but seriously. clem. how did this happen.

Clementine: he texted to check on my ankle. we were joking about how i keep needing to be rescued. and then he said he likes my company. and then he asked me to dinner.

Gisele: oh no.

Dominique: oh YES.

Lucie: i feel like i need to light a candle and pray for your soul.

Clementine: i said yes.

Dominique: OF COURSE YOU DID.

Lucie: you do realize charles is going to murder him, right?

Dominique: not if fernando outruns him. he’s good at that.

Gisele: STOP.

Clementine: you’re all terrible.

Dominique: you’re going on a date with Fernando Alonso. we’re perfect.

Lucie: fine. but if he shows up in a leather jacket on a motorcycle, i’m intervening.

Clementine: …why does that sound kind of amazing though.

Gisele: SEE? you’re already gone.

Clementine: i hate you all.

Dominique: no you don’t. now send us a picture of your outfit before friday or we’re staging an intervention.

Clementine: …fine. but you’re not allowed to say “experience” again.

Dominique: no promises.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: I did something.

Mark: …what did you do.

Fernando: I asked her to dinner.

Mark: YES. I KNEW YOU HAD IT IN YOU.

Fernando: Mark.

Mark: No, don’t “Mark” me. This is history. This is cinema. How did she react??

Fernando: She said yes.

Mark: OF COURSE SHE DID. She’s breathing, isn’t she?

Fernando: I’m too old for her.

Mark: Ah. There it is.

Fernando: No, seriously. I am too old. This is insane.

Mark: Mate, you’ve been insane since 2001. This is just a different flavor.

Fernando: She’s kind. And soft. And she looks at me like I’m… Not me.

Mark: Not you the F1 driver?

Fernando: Not me the… everything. The wolf. The old man still racing kids half his age.

Mark: So she sees you. That’s the problem?

Fernando: I don’t want to ruin her.

Mark: Jesus, listen to yourself. You’re not a curse, you’re a man who asked a woman to dinner.

Fernando: A woman 20 years younger than me.

Mark: You’re acting like you plucked her straight out of high school. She’s an adult, Fernando. She can decide if she wants dinner.

Fernando: Charles is going to kill me.

Mark: You’ve survived worse.

Fernando: Arthur will help him.

Mark: You’ve definitely survived worse.

Mark: Be honest. Are you smiling right now?

Fernando: …maybe.

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1teaLounge: 🚨Clementine Alonso (née Leclerc) just announced the birth of her daughter with Fernando Alonso. But let’s talk about the silence from her side of the family. No likes. No comments. Not a single repost from any Leclerc. It’s been nearly a year since her wedding. Nothing. This is starting to feel intentional.

@/F1teaLounge Reminder: • No one from the Leclerc family acknowledged her engagement • No one acknowledged her marriage to Fernando Alonso • Not a single post was liked about the pregnancy • And now nothing about the birth of their niece

@/F1teaLounge Meanwhile, Charles posts paddock pics in a bucket hat like nothing happened.

@/F1teaLounge It’s giving: 🫥 “we don’t claim her” 👎 zero emotional maturity ❄️ coldest family dynamic on the grid

@/F1teaLounge Lando and Oscar have said more in comment sections than her actual brothers. Mark Webber posted a damn bottle of champagne emoji and “felicidades!” 💀

@/F1teaLounge And like… whatever your thoughts on the age gap, Clementine is glowing. Fernando is present. Their kid is probably going to be reading Pirelli data by age four.

@/gridsidegossip Just a reminder that when Charles Leclerc's dog sneezes, half the grid and 4 of Ferrari's media interns post about it. But when Clementine Alonso — his sister — gives birth to a child? Radio. Silence. Not even a PR-safe “congratulations.” It’s giving deliberate. It’s giving estranged. It’s giving ouch.

@/softlaunchdetective timeline of the 🍼 drama: July 2025: Yacht pics leak. Alonso & Clementine go public. September 2025: Private wedding. No Leclercs present. December 2025: Pregnancy announcement May 2026: Baby born. No family likes. You can’t pretend this is normal.

@/fernandotoycar2 I will NEVER understand how you can look at your sister — your baby sister — living her dream, having a child with a man who adores her, and just… act like she doesn’t exist. Clementine Leclerc deserves better. She made her own family. And honestly? She upgraded.

@/lilypadwithwifi It’s actually sick that Charles, Lorenzo, and Arthur have said NOTHING. No “congrats,” no “welcome to the world,” no repost of her art, not even a passive-aggressive emoji. Y’all, their silence is a statement.

@/f1_fanfictionbrainrot me: I just love fictional drama also me: feral screaming because none of the Leclercs even acknowledged Clementine’s DAUGHTER being born this is a real-life Jane Austen novel with Instagram filters and a dog named Milo

@/paddockpsychic 🕯️manifesting a documentary 10 years from now where Clementine finally sits down and tells the truth.🕯️ About her family’s silence. About how Fernando was the first person who actually saw her. I’ll be seated.

@/f1teaqueen no bc let’s talk about how not a single Leclerc has ever commented on Clementine’s engagement, wedding, pregnancy, or baby. not one. like girl was LITERALLY in the Leclerc group chat last year and now they act like she doesn’t exist??

@/gridgossipgirl It’s actually wild that the softest Leclerc sibling is the one exiled like she’s the villain?? She posted a photo of her newborn daughter and not even a 💛 from her brothers. Not one. Make it make sense.

@/twinkoscarupdates clementine leclerc posting about giving birth while the rest of her family is posting #AD content and gym selfies is peak 2026 dystopia like they literally disowned her for dating fernando alonso. grow up.

@/tiarasandthrottle no but clementine’s story is actually insane. — not invited to family holidays — radio silence on all her life milestones — charles posts aesthetic coffee stories while she gives birth — arthur posts gym thirst traps and she’s the one who got cut off???

@/oldwolvesclub sebastian vettel commenting “congrats” under the Alonso baby post while CHARLES LECLERC says NOTHING is the level of petty I deeply respect

@/f1shenanigans the fact that even Lando commented “uncle mode: activated” under the baby post before any of her brothers… what did clementine DO besides fall in love??

@/alonsoedits Hot take: Milo the dog has done more for Clementine’s emotional well-being than her entire family ever did. Also, congrats to Mama Clem & Papa Nando 💚

@/simsandcircuitry genuinely hope clara elena alonso grows up with no idea who the leclercs are until she's 16 and finds out she has 3 uncles who ghosted her mom for falling in love

@/f1sapphics the fact that not a single Leclerc has ever publicly acknowledged Clementine since the Fernando thing… and now they’re completely silent on her wedding, her pregnancy, and the birth of their niece is just… wow.

@/softpitstop no but the silence is actually deafening. No comments from Charles. No likes from Arthur. Not even a passive-aggressive emoji from Pascale. Her literal child was born and they’re acting like she’s a stranger.

@/simfairyupdates Max Verstappen just liked Clementine’s post with the baby. He’s choosing violence and I love that for him.

@/retiredbutnotdead Still wild to me that David Coulthard congratulated them on air but Charles didn’t say a word.

@/f1wagsupreme the fact that this baby has Alonso blood AND Leclerc genes and she’s being ignored by the Leclerc side is CRAZY

@/piastrified oscar piastri being more supportive in the comments than any of her actual brothers is killing me softly 😭 📸 attached: Oscar’s IG comment: “Welcome to the world, Clara 💛 congrats Clem & Fernando!”

@/griddrinkinggame take a shot every time the leclercs publicly acknowledge clementine 📸 attached: A photo of a full bottle of vodka, untouched.

@/gossipfromthepitlane charles posting about a new helmet design and ignoring the birth of his niece is so painfully on brand it loops back around to comedy 📸 attached: Screenshot of Charles’ story with a new helmet pic posted the day Clara was born.

@/gridgossipqueen The fact that Charles Leclerc has never once acknowledged that his actual sister is married to Fernando Alonso is the kind of unspoken family drama you usually only get in HBO dramas and royal families. I need a documentary. I need therapy. I need popcorn.

@/zandvoortzoo the most heartbreaking thing about clementine alonso is that she posts the softest, sweetest things — gentle art, milo in outfits, fernando in paint-stained shirts — and her entire family acts like she’s dead to them.

@/burnerforfernando No matter how you feel about age gaps or Alonso, one thing is clear: Clementine Leclerc deserved better from her family. She got married quietly. Built her career. Had a baby. And they ignored it all.

I hope she knows we see her.

@/f1wagscentral Not to be dramatic but the Leclercs acting like Clementine ceased to exist after she started dating Fernando Alonso is very 19th century gothic novel of them Like, girl left the manor, married the wolf, and now the family speaks of her only in hushed tones by candlelight.

@/sebfansunite Remember when Charles said "family is the most important thing" in that docuseries?? Apparently it only applies to the family he likes.

@/alonsoficionado The way Fernando Alonso, certified chaos man, is the one being a stable, loving partner and father while the entire Leclerc clan is off playing emotional dodgeball 😭 Character development is wild.

@/beeandbunprints I know Clementine's friends bought her flowers and that Milo is currently sitting guard next to Clara's crib and that Fernando is crying in Spanish somewhere. But what I don't know is how the Leclercs live with themselves.

@/okbutoscar wait so let me get this straight the leclercs are out here acting like their baby sister doesn’t exist meanwhile she married a two-time world champion and just gave birth to the cutest baby on earth???? make it make sense.

The office always smelled faintly of burnt coffee and cheap toner. It clung to her clothes, her hair, her skin. Clementine sometimes wondered if that was why she couldn’t bring herself to paint when she got home—because the whole day had already soaked her in grey.

It had been tolerable at first. Not good, not fulfilling, but tolerable. A paycheck that covered rent and groceries if she counted carefully. A desk in the corner where she could disappear.

And then, slowly, it started to get worse.

It began with little things.

Her boss—Lorenzo’s old university friend—started “forgetting” her name when clients came in. “This is… uh, the assistant.”

Reports that weren’t hers would land on her desk with sticky notes saying fix this.

Once, she stayed late to reformat a presentation, only to watch him present it the next day and say, “I put in some extra work last night.”

Clementine smiled through it. She always smiled through it.

Then it was the hours.

“Just stay an extra hour to finish this.”

“Clementine, can you come in Saturday? Just for a bit.”

“You don’t mind staying late tonight, right?”

She minded. She minded desperately. But she always said, “Of course.”

And then the comments started.

“You’re good at this, you know. For someone with an art degree.”

“I bet your brothers never have to worry about spreadsheets, huh?”

“Don’t you Leclerc kids all land on your feet anyway? Must be nice.”

Every time, she bit her tongue until it hurt.

The day it broke a little was a Tuesday.

Her boss handed her a file, didn’t even look at her. “Client meeting at two. Take notes. Try not to make them look too… juvenile.”

“Juvenile?” she echoed, startled.

“You know. Creative types. No structure.”

She felt the words like a slap, the way she always did when people reduced her entire life to a joke.

“I have a degree,” she said quietly.

He laughed. “In painting.”

Clementine swallowed the hot lump in her throat, went to the meeting, and wrote perfect, structured notes.

By the next week, she stopped eating lunch at her desk. Not because she wanted a break, but because if she stayed in that room any longer she was afraid she’d scream.

One afternoon, Dominique texted: How’s work?

Clementine stared at the screen for a long time before typing: I think they’re trying to erase me.

She didn’t tell Fernando. Not yet.

He’d see her, the way he always did, and he’d look at her like she deserved better.

And Clementine wasn’t sure what to do with that when the rest of her world kept insisting she didn’t.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Dominique: CLEM. EMERGENCY.

Clementine: what did you break in the shop this time

Dominique: NOTHING. better. WAY better.

Lucie: define “way better.”

Dominique: i just had a client come in and ask about the big painting over the register. the one YOU did.

Clementine: …okay?? people ask about it sometimes.

Dominique: NO. listen. she runs a gallery. SHE. RUNS. A. GALLERY. and she wants to know if it’s for sale.

Gisele: WAIT WHAT.

Lucie: STOP.

Clementine: …you’re joking.

Dominique: CLEM I WOULD NEVER. well, i would, but NOT ABOUT THIS. she wants to buy one of your paintings. for real.

Clementine: i… what??

Gisele: ok breathe. this is huge. THIS IS ACTUALLY HUGE.

Lucie: what did you tell her??

Dominique: i told her i’d ask the artist and get back to her because i am a PROFESSIONAL.

Clementine: Dominique that painting is literally just me messing around with color because i was sad one night

Dominique: and it’s stunning. she literally said “there’s something raw and alive in it.”

Gisele: raw and alive. ok critic lady.

Lucie: Clem. honey. this is it. this is a door opening.

Clementine: i don’t know if i can.

Dominique: you CAN. you SHOULD.

Gisele: clementine. a woman with a gallery wants to pay you for your art. this is the opposite of a bad thing.

Lucie: think of it as a test lap. no pressure. just a chance to put your work on track and see how it runs.

Dominique: lucie using racing metaphors. i’m emotional.

Clementine: you guys are insane.

Dominique: and you’re TALENTED.

Gisele: so. are we telling her yes??

Clementine: … … yes.

Dominique: AAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

***

She hadn’t meant to let it slip.

It was one of those soft, sun-drenched mornings where everything felt like it might be okay. The windows were open, the dog was asleep on the balcony, and Fernando was sitting on the floor beside her tiny kitchen table, flipping through the gallery program she’d been trying to write her artist’s statement for.

She hated writing. Always had.

“I just…” she sighed, rubbing at her forehead, “I can’t get the words to sit still. Like, I know what I want to say, but when I write it, it reads like a fourteen-year-old typed it during a sugar crash.”

Fernando didn’t say anything for a beat, just looked at her over the top of the paper.

Clementine blinked. “I—” She hadn’t meant to say that part out loud either. She wasn’t even sure where the rest came from. “I have dyslexia. Diagnosed when I was nine. But I guess it was always there. Letters just… they never liked staying in order.”

She laughed a little, self-deprecating, and looked down at the messy, half-written draft. “It’s fine, though. I manage. It’s not a big deal.”

Fernando put the paper down.

He didn’t say, That explains a lot. He didn’t say, Really? But you’re so smart. He didn’t say, Lots of people struggle with spelling, you’ll be fine.

Instead, he said quietly, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Her shoulders hunched automatically. “Because people usually just think I’m being dramatic. Or lazy. Or making excuses.”

“I don’t think that,” he said. No hesitation.

Clementine glanced up at him. He was watching her the way he did when he was listening to telemetry—like he was actually listening. Not just waiting for his turn to talk.

“I failed French in secondary school,” she said, trying for lightness. “Who fails their own language? I used to hide spelling errors in birthday cards. My family used to laugh about it—Lorenzo once said I should stick to pictures since I obviously couldn’t write.”

Fernando’s jaw ticked.

“They don’t mean to be cruel,” she added quickly, a reflex she didn’t know how to turn off. “It’s just… how they are.”

He didn’t respond right away. He just reached for the pen on the table, clicked it once, and gently pushed her notebook aside.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Then we work with that. You tell me what you want to say, and I’ll write it down for you.”

Her breath caught. “You don’t have to—”

“Clementine.” His tone was firm but kind. “You already did the hard part. You made the art. You don’t need to prove anything else.”

No one had ever said that to her. Not like that.

She felt something hot and tight lodge behind her ribs.

“I used to think I was stupid,” she admitted softly. “Even after university. Even after my degree. Like, maybe I was just faking being capable, and one day someone would find out.”

Fernando looked at her for a long moment, then stood and crouched in front of her chair, resting his hands lightly on her knees.

“You’re one of the brightest people I’ve ever met,” he said. “You see the world differently, and that’s what makes your work mean something. Dyslexia isn’t a flaw. It’s just part of the equation.”

She let out a shaky breath. “That’s very sweet.”

“It’s not sweet,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s true. And also—have you seen some of the things I’ve said in radio messages? You’d think I was the one with scrambled grammar.”

She laughed, teary-eyed and relieved.

And when he pulled her in for a hug, she didn’t resist.

It was quiet for a moment, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her arms around his middle.

“I’ll help you write the statement,” he murmured into her hair. “And any others after that. No one needs to do this alone.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

***

It was a Tuesday.

It was always a Tuesday when things cracked, Clementine thought vaguely as she stared at the screen in front of her, the rows of numbers blurring until they might as well have been brushstrokes on the wrong canvas.

She’d been at her desk since 8:30. Her boss had dropped a spreadsheet on her without explanation and said, “End of day. Don’t mess this one up, Clementine.”

Her name had been sharp, like a warning.

She’d tried. God, she’d tried. But the longer she stared, the more the columns flipped in her head, the letters swapping places like they always did when she was tired, when she was stressed, when her brain decided to betray her in the same old ways.

B and D. P and Q. Rows that lined up until suddenly they didn’t.

She pressed her palms into her eyes and counted to ten. It didn’t help.

By noon, her hands were shaking on the keyboard. By two, she couldn’t tell if she was making it worse or better.

At four, her boss leaned out of his office. “How’s it coming, Clem?”

She startled at the nickname. He never used nicknames. It wasn’t kindness. It was mockery dressed as casual.

“I’m—working on it,” she said, voice thin.

“Well, speed it up. This isn’t art class. It’s numbers. You just have to read them.”

Her chest went tight, sharp around the edges.

It wasn’t art class. It was numbers. And she couldn’t even do that right.

She ducked into the bathroom at 4:15, locked herself in a stall, and pressed both hands to her mouth to muffle the sound. Not even a proper sob, just a broken noise somewhere between a laugh and a cry.

Why can’t you just do this?

It was the same voice she’d heard her whole life. Teachers. Tutors. Brothers trying to help until they weren’t. You’re smart enough. Just focus. Just try.

She was trying. And it still felt like drowning.

When she finally dragged herself back to her desk, the numbers looked worse. Like they were dancing just to taunt her. She blinked until her eyes burned, until the screen swam.

By six, she saved the file, handed it in without meeting his eyes, and left the building with her shoulders curled so tight it felt like she might fold in on herself entirely.

On the bus home, she stared out the window and bit her lip until she tasted blood.

It wasn’t just that she hated the job. It was that the job hated her. It fed on every soft, broken corner she tried to hide and called it incompetence.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t go near her paints when she got home.

She just sat on the couch, head in her hands, and let the quiet convince her she was unraveling, one misplaced letter at a time.

***

It was the sound that woke her up.

A soft, steady drip drip drip that didn’t belong in her apartment. Clementine sat up, heart thudding, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was wet.

She stepped into the kitchen and felt it: cold water soaking through her socks. A pipe must’ve burst in the wall because it was everywhere—the floor, the cupboards, seeping under the door. Her tiny apartment, the only space that felt like hers, was drowning right in front of her.

By the time Fernando got there—because of course he came when she called, voice shaking so badly she could barely explain—the water had climbed to her ankles, and Clementine was standing in the middle of it like she couldn’t move.

He took one look at her and knew.

It wasn’t just the apartment.

“Mi niña,” he said softly, stepping through the water to reach her.

The moment his arms went around her, she broke.

Not the small, quiet tears she let herself have in bathroom stalls. Not the controlled sniffles she offered her friends when she said she was “just tired.” This was everything all at once—the job, the family dinners, the feeling of being small and unseen, the weight of trying so hard for so long and still being one wrong file away from being humiliated.

Clementine clutched at his shirt, sobbing so hard she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t form words. “I can’t—Fernando, I can’t do it anymore, I can’t, I’m so tired—”

He held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other splayed over her trembling back. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

“I’m trying,” she choked out, the words cracking. “I’m trying and it’s never enough and they don’t see me and my job, it’s—God, I hate it, I hate it so much—”

Fernando’s jaw clenched. He’d known it was bad. He hadn’t known it was this.

He pulled back just enough to see her face, his thumb brushing tears from her cheeks. “Listen to me. You are not doing this anymore.”

Her breath hitched. “I—what?”

“This job, this… life that’s crushing you? No. Basta. It ends now.” His voice was low but steady, the same tone he used when calling strategy over the radio. “You deserve more than this. Better than this.”

“I can’t just quit,” she whispered, panic flashing through her wet lashes. “I don’t have savings. Rent is—”

“No,” he interrupted, cupping her face so she couldn’t look away. “You’re done breaking yourself for people who don’t care. You’re done thinking you have to earn being happy.”

She stared at him, lips trembling. “Fernando, I can’t—”

“You can,” he said, firm now. “You’re going to quit. You’re going to paint. You’re going to live.”

Her voice was a whisper. “With what money?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Mine.”

Her eyes widened. “Fernando—”

“I’m not asking,” he said simply. “I have more than I will ever spend. And if it means you can breathe again? If it means you can wake up without this weight crushing you?” He shook his head. “Then it’s not a gift. It’s… insurance. For something I care about.”

Clementine’s chest stuttered. “You can’t just—”

“I can,” he said, softer now, pressing his forehead to hers. “And I will. You’re mine, mi niña. You think I’m going to stand here and watch you drown when I can pull you out?”

Her tears came again, but quieter this time. Shaking, she whispered, “You don’t have to save me.”

He kissed her temple, held her like she was something precious. “I know. But I want to.”

And right there, in her flooded apartment with the cold water lapping at their ankles, Clementine realized Fernando Alonso had just rewritten her entire life in one sentence.

She let herself cry into his chest until her breathing steadied. When she finally pulled back, his shirt soaked and her eyes raw, he smiled gently.

“First thing tomorrow,” he said. “You quit.”

And for the first time, the idea didn’t terrify her. It felt like breathing.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: …so my apartment flooded last night.

Dominique: ???

Gisele: WHAT.

Lucie: are you okay??

Clementine: yeah. everything’s wet and the kitchen’s a disaster but i’m okay. fernando came over.

Gisele: OF COURSE HE DID.

Dominique: you are living in a romcom.

Clementine: i had a full breakdown. like. ugly crying, can’t breathe, the works.

Lucie: oh, Clem. 😔

Gisele: oh honey.

Clementine: he… told me to quit my job.

Dominique: GOOD.

Clementine: and then he said… he’d cover things until i can figure out painting or something else.

Gisele: …

Dominique: …

Lucie: so like. so like… a sugar daddy?

Dominique: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.

Gisele: the most romantic sugar daddy arc i’ve ever heard in my LIFE.

Lucie: okay wait. i love you. i will always support you. but i’m… slightly concerned.

Clementine: …i know.

Lucie: like. you’ve been independent forever. and now suddenly it’s “quit your job and let me pay”?

Dominique: lucie, to be fair, her job SUCKS.

Gisele: her job has been making her cry in bathroom stalls for months.

Lucie: i’m not saying she shouldn’t quit. i’m saying… money changes things.

Clementine: i thought about that. but it didn’t feel… weird. or like he was buying me. it just felt like… he wanted me to breathe again.

Gisele: oh my GOD.

Dominique: this man said “i want you to breathe” and my standards just shot into orbit.

Lucie: …okay. if you feel safe. if it feels like him helping, not controlling… then i trust you.

Clementine: it feels safe. it feels like… he’s catching me before i fall.

Gisele: CLEMENTINE. I’M WEEPING.

Dominique: i’m buying him a “best sugar daddy” mug.

Lucie: please don’t.

Clementine: …i might actually quit.

Dominique: DO IT.

Gisele: QUIT. BURN THE OFFICE TO THE GROUND (metaphorically).

Lucie: i’ll support you. even if i reserve the right to give him the side-eye the next time i meet him.

Clementine: that’s fair.

Dominique: it’s official. new era unlocked: The Clementine Leclerc Soft Life Arc.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: …so. her apartment flooded last night.

Mark: you have the most ridiculous romcom life right now.

Fernando: She called me crying. I went over. And Mark… it’s bad. Not just the apartment. Everything. Her job. Her family. She’s breaking.

Mark: …

Mark: and?

Fernando: And I told her to quit.

Mark: YES. GOOD.

Fernando: And I said I’d cover her bills until she can paint or figure out what she wants.

Mark: …

Mark: Mate.

Fernando: What?

Mark: You’ve gone full sugar daddy.

Fernando: It’s not like that.

Mark: It’s exactly like that and it’s the best thing I’ve heard all year. Fernando Alonso, World Champion and Emotional Support Bank Account.

Fernando: She was shaking in my arms, Mark. Telling me she can’t do it anymore. You think I’m going to stand there and say “good luck”?

Mark: Oh, don’t get me wrong. I love this. You’re out here saving damsels in distress and funding their art careers. This is like… Nicholas Sparks, but with more downforce.

Fernando: You’re an idiot.

Mark: A correct idiot. Tell me you didn’t look her in the eye and say something dramatic.

Fernando: …I told her she deserves to breathe.

Mark: OH MY GOD.

Fernando: What?

Mark: You. Are. Gone. Completely ruined. Writing poetry in flooded kitchens.

Fernando: It wasn’t poetry.

Mark: “You deserve to breathe.” Do you even HEAR yourself??

Fernando: She does.

Mark: You’re not just a sugar daddy. You’re a romantic sugar daddy.

Fernando: Stop calling me that.

Mark: Never. I’m putting it on your Christmas card.

Fernando: I hate you.

Mark: You love me. Almost as much as you love your paint-splattered, secretly brilliant girlfriend who is now living her soft life on your dime.

Fernando: …maybe.

Mark: Best. Storyline. Ever.

***

Fernando had imagined, in theory, what having a “sugar baby” might look like. Not in any serious way—just the idle joke Mark had planted in his head after that night in Clementine’s flooded apartment. Fancy bags. Shoes in neat little boxes. Clothes with price tags that made even Monaco blush.

Except Clementine was… terrible at it.

Three weeks into quitting her job and he’d had to beg her to use the card he gave her.

“Clementine,” he said one afternoon when they were out for coffee, sliding the little black card across the table toward her again. “You’ve bought groceries. Twice. That’s it.”

Her cheeks went pink. “Well, I didn’t want to… you know. Go overboard.”

“Overboard,” Fernando repeated, flat. “You bought bread and paint thinner.”

“High-quality paint thinner,” she corrected quickly.

“Mi niña,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “the point was for you to breathe. To not think about money. Not to live like a monk with acrylics.”

She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve. “I just… I don’t need much.”

That, right there, undid him more than any shopping spree ever could. She wasn’t being modest. She wasn’t performing. Clementine genuinely didn’t know what it felt like to want something and believe she was allowed to have it.

When she did use the card, it was laughably Clementine.

A secondhand easel she’d found online. Three books from the thrift store. A set of brushes she’d sent him a picture of first, asking, “Is this too much?”

He’d stared at the text for a full minute before replying, “It’s brushes. Not a private jet. Buy them.”

One evening, sprawled on her couch with her legs tucked under his arm, he found himself smiling at the thought.

Fernando Alonso, world champion, had the worst sugar baby in Monaco.

And he wouldn’t have changed a thing.

Because every time she shyly showed him a canvas she’d started with her “extravagant” new brushes, every time she came home with a bag of thrifted treasures and that hesitant spark in her eyes, he realized:

It was never about the money.

It was about Clementine learning, piece by piece, that she was worth being taken care of. Even if the most she ever bought with his fortune was good paint and secondhand silk scarves.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: She’s the worst sugar baby in history.

Mark: … Oh this is going to be good.

Fernando: Three weeks. I gave her a card. She’s bought groceries. And paint thinner.

Mark: Paint thinner. 💀

Fernando: She asked if buying BRUSHES was “too much.”

Mark: Crying. Absolutely crying.

Fernando: Do you know what kind of sugar baby texts you “is this extravagant?” with a picture of brushes??

Mark: The kind you’re in love with.

Fernando: This isn’t funny.

Mark: This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Big bad Alonso, sponsor of paint supplies and discounted groceries.

Fernando: I told her to breathe. To stop worrying. To buy what she wants.

Mark: And what she wants is… bread and paint thinner.

Fernando: Yes.

Mark: Mate. You don’t have a sugar baby. You have a starving artist who’s scared to want things.

Fernando: I know.

Mark: … Oh no. You said that too soft.

Fernando: She doesn’t know how to take without apologizing for it.

Mark: And you’re going to spend the rest of your life teaching her how.

Fernando: … Maybe.

Mark: God, I love this. Fernando Alonso, two-time world champion, personal patron of Clementine Leclerc’s paint thinner empire.

Fernando: I hate you.

Mark: You love me. Almost as much as you love your terrible sugar baby.

***

It started small.

A mug, of all things. Clementine had stayed over one weekend, padding into his kitchen barefoot, and wrinkled her nose at his cupboard.

“All of these are grey,” she’d said, pulling one down. “You own six identical grey mugs.”

“They work,” Fernando replied, bemused.

“They’re depressing,” she countered, and the following week, a sunny yellow mug appeared on his counter. No explanation. Just there.

He hadn’t realized then that it was the first piece of her planting itself into his space.

Next came the throw blanket on his couch. Soft, a little worn, in a color that made the steel of his apartment look warmer.

“Just for when it gets cold,” she said casually, but he caught the way she tucked it over her legs like it was instinct.

Then a small plant in the corner of the kitchen. “They like sunlight,” she murmured, brushing a leaf with her fingertip.

Then her brushes in a jar by the window because she’d been painting there one afternoon and “forgot” to take them home.

Then her scarf draped over the back of a chair.

Then a painting—unfinished, colors bleeding into one another in that way she always said felt like breathing—leaning casually against the wall like it had always belonged.

Fernando came home one evening after a race weekend, exhausted and half-humming with leftover adrenaline, and paused in the doorway.

His apartment was still his. Minimal. Clean lines.

But softer now.

A yellow mug drying by the sink. The blanket folded neatly over the couch. A faint smell of paint and Clementine’s perfume clinging to the air.

It felt… lived in. Not like a showroom. Like a home.

He didn’t even realize he was smiling until she padded out of the bedroom, hair messy, wearing one of his shirts.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Fernando crossed the room in three strides, pulling her in, kissing her forehead. “You’re turning my apartment into something dangerous.”

Her brow furrowed. “Dangerous?”

He nodded, holding her a little tighter. “You’re making it somewhere I want to come back to.”

Clementine blinked up at him, cheeks pink. “Is that bad?”

Fernando smiled against her hair. “No, mi niña. That’s everything.”

And he meant it. Because for the first time in years, the walls around him didn’t feel like a place to sleep between races.

They felt like somewhere to live.

***

Clementine:Good Luck tomorrow 🏎️✨ don’t let the FIA nerf ur vibes 😌💅 ur my 🐐 fr no 🧢

Fernando stared at the phone for a full thirty seconds, muttered something in Spanish under his breath, and went hunting for Lance.

Lance was halfway through a protein bar in the hospitality unit when Fernando appeared in the doorway with the same expression he had the first time Lance saw a red flag crash.

“Read this,” Fernando said, holding out his phone like evidence.

Lance squinted at the message, chewed, and then grinned. “Oh my god. She’s adorable.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“She said: ‘good luck, you’re my GOAT for real, no cap.’”

Fernando blinked. “Goat?”

“Greatest of all time.”

“And… no cap?”

Lance smirked. “No lie. For real.”

Fernando looked at the phone again. “She said… I am a farm animal with no hat.”

Lance nearly choked on his protein bar.

“She said you’re her GOAT,” he wheezed. “Like… the best. Ever. No question. No cap.”

Fernando rubbed a hand over his face. “Why can’t she just say words?”

“Because she’s Gen Z,” Lance said cheerfully. “This is a love letter in emoji form. You’re welcome.”

Fernando gave him a long, flat look. “You enjoy this too much.”

Lance shrugged. “You have a secret young girlfriend who texts like TikTok comments. This is the best subplot of my season.”

Fernando pocketed his phone, muttering, “Dios mío.”

Lance grinned. “Tell her you’re her goat too. That’ll blow her mind.”

Fernando glared at him all the way back down the hallway.

Later:

Fernando: Buenas noches, mi niña. …🐐

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Dominique: CLEM. CLEM. WAKE UP. WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING YOUR PHONE.

Clementine: dom it’s 7:32am what kind of war is happening 😭

Dominique: A GLORIOUS WAR. OF COMMERCE. OF VICTORY. ALL YOUR PAINTINGS AT THE GALLERY HAVE SOLD. ALL. OF. THEM.

Gisele: Wait. ALL?? Like… not just some?? Not just the big one in the corner??

Dominique: EVERY SINGLE ONE. Even the one with the sad dog in the hat.

Lucie: Excuse me. That one was ART. Emotionally devastating. I cried. Twice.

Clementine: you’re joking you’re all joking i dreamed this i’m still asleep and Milo is probably sitting on my head again

Dominique: I AM NOT JOKING. I’m at the café and Éloïse just called. She said a collector came in last night, bought three. Another one this morning called about the rest. Clem. YOU SOLD OUT.

Clementine: i— i don’t know what to say 🥺 that’s… oh my god

Lucie: Say “Quitting my garbage job was the right thing to do.”

Gisele: Say “sugar daddy Fernando was right all along.”

Dominique: Say “I’m a brilliant artist and my dumb family was WRONG.”

Clementine: 😭😭😭 i’m crying i literally don’t know how to feel i didn’t think— i mean i hoped but— i didn’t think anyone would want them

Gisele: People want them, Clem. People see them. People feel them.

Lucie: You know what this means.

Dominique: Studio upgrade. Paint upgrade. Milo gets a bougie little beret.

Clementine: 😭😭😭 he already has a beret

Lucie: Of course he does. You’re an artist now, babe. You’re allowed to be insufferable 💅

Clementine: 🥹 i love you all so much thank you for believing in me before anyone else did

Dominique: Always. Now go cry happy tears into Milo’ questionable fur and celebrate properly. We’re making dinner plans. You’re not allowed to say no.

Gisele: Oh and wear something expensive. Fernando’s paying now 😌

Clementine: you’re all insane i love you i’ll bring cake

Lucie: And champagne. And the beret. For Milo.

Dominique: LONG LIVE THE GOBLIN DOG AND HIS FAMOUS MOTHER.

***

Fernando wasn’t a man given to dramatics.

He was, however, standing in the middle of a boutique in Monte Carlo with a hand on his hip and a growing sense of vindication.

Because Clementine—sweet, soft-spoken, chronically underspending Clementine—had just sold out an entire gallery collection. Quietly. Without telling him. Without telling anyone except her three chaotic best friends, apparently. He’d found out via a phone call from Dominique, who’d shouted “SHE’S TOO MODEST TO BRAG, SO I’M BRAGGING FOR HER” before promptly hanging up.

He was still stunned.

Proud, obviously. Completely in awe of her talent, her warmth, the strange way her art clung to you emotionally. But also, if he was honest…a little smug. Because he’d known. From the first time he saw her painting in that paint-stained hoodie. From the way she talked about colors like they had feelings.

And now she stood beside him, flushed with embarrassment, in a boutique that probably had no idea who she was—yet.

“This is too much,” Clementine mumbled, tugging nervously at the sleeve of her pale green sundress. “I don’t need designer things.”

“No,” Fernando agreed mildly, “you deserve them.”

She made a small strangled noise in her throat. “That’s worse!”

He turned to her, folding his arms. “Clem. Mi amor. You just sold everything. Your paintings are hanging in the homes of people who probably own vineyards and cry into their espresso. You are no longer allowed to wear sad cardigans from Zara with holes in the cuffs.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Zara,” she muttered.

“Your dog has a higher quality wardrobe than you,” Fernando said. “And he ate part of it.”

Clementine looked up at him with those wide, stubborn eyes. The ones that always made him want to roll over and hand her the world on a platter.

“This isn’t about proving anything,” he said, voice softening. “It’s about celebrating. About marking the moment. You’re allowed to want something beautiful.”

Her lips wobbled slightly. “But what if I ruin it? Or spill paint on it?”

“Then we buy two,” he said simply.

That made her laugh. The kind of laugh that shook her whole frame and made her nose crinkle. God, he loved her nose.

They wandered the boutique together, and eventually she stopped in front of a silk blouse—robin’s egg blue, soft as breath. She ran her fingers over it like it might vanish if she touched it too hard.

Fernando watched her from a few feet back.

Watched the way she lit up despite herself.

Watched the way the shop assistant did a double-take when he realized who Fernando Alonso was—and how completely enchanted he looked by the girl at his side.

She held the blouse up to her frame, then quickly shook her head. “No, it’s too much.”

Fernando stepped closer and murmured, “We’ll take it.”

She gaped at him. “I didn’t even—Fernando!”

“Too slow,” he said, already handing his card over. “You hesitated. Rookie mistake.”

“But I didn’t even try it on!”

“Then I guess we’ll come back tomorrow when you decide you want the other color too.”

She groaned. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful,” he said without missing a beat. “And talented. And you make the world better just by being in it. So let me do this.”

Clementine looked at him like no one ever had—like he was the miracle, not her. And then, very softly, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, mi sol,” Fernando said, taking the boutique bag and slipping his free hand into hers.

He was many things. Champion. Competitor. Occasionally insufferable. But right now?

He was just a man wildly in love with an artist who didn’t know she was a star. And he was going to make damn sure the world saw it.

***

Clementine had been glowing when she arrived.

Not just because she’d worn blush for once, or because her curls actually cooperated that day, but because she was—quietly, deeply, breathlessly—proud of herself. All her paintings at the gallery had sold. Every last one. People she didn’t know had looked at something she made with her own two hands and wanted it. Paid for it. Hung it in their homes.

She was ready to share it. She thought—maybe, just maybe—they’d be proud, too.

She should’ve known better.

“So, you sold a couple paintings,” Lorenzo said, reaching for the breadbasket like it wasn’t a loaded statement. “That’s nice. A side hustle’s always good to have.”

Clementine blinked. “I sold all of them. The gallery’s already asked if I want to prepare for another show.”

Charles looked up briefly from where he was scooping mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Wait—really? That’s… actually cool.”

But before the warmth could settle in her chest, Lorenzo cut in again.

“Did you tell them you quit your job?” His voice was too calm. Too measured.

Clementine’s stomach dropped. “I—how did you—?”

“You used my friend’s name on your CV,” he said. “Did you think it wouldn’t get back to me when you ghosted the job?”

“I didn’t ghost anyone,” she said, heat creeping up her neck. “I gave notice. I thanked them. I just—couldn’t do it anymore.”

“So instead, you’re going to be what? An artist?” His mouth twisted around the word like it tasted sour. “You can’t live off gallery commissions, Clém. That’s not how the world works.”

“I’m not asking to live off it forever,” she said, quieter now. “I just… I need to try.”

“Try what? Being broke?”

Her throat closed.

Maman made a sound of vague agreement. “We’re not saying don’t paint, darling. Just be reasonable. You had a stable job. That’s important.”

“You’re not children anymore,” Lorenzo added. “Nobody’s going to pay your bills if you keep making reckless decisions.”

Clementine sat straighter. “I haven’t asked any of you for money.”

“But you will,” he said, matter-of-fact. “That’s how this always ends. You burn through what little savings you have, then expect someone else to pick up the slack when the dream doesn’t pan out.”

“It’s not a dream,” she said, and her voice shook with the effort of holding herself together. “It’s my work. I’ve worked harder than any of you know. I’ve been fighting to be taken seriously since I was sixteen and you told me to ‘pick something real’ instead of going to art school.”

Arthur laughed under his breath. “You’re so sensitive.”

“I’m dyslexic,” she snapped. “I barely got through that job. Every email took triple the time. Every spreadsheet felt like I was drowning. But I did it. I tried. And no one noticed. You didn’t even ask if I was okay.”

There was a long silence.

Charles looked vaguely uncomfortable. Arthur was already back on his phone. Lorenzo just shook his head.

“We’re not going to fund a fantasy, Clem. You can play starving artist if you want, but don’t expect handouts.”

She bit the inside of her cheek until it hurt. Not to cry. She wouldn’t cry in front of them. Not for this.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll figure it out on my own.”

Maman clucked her tongue. “It’s not about being harsh. It’s about reality.”

No one asked about the gallery name. No one asked what she painted. No one said congratulations.

Clementine stared down at her plate, appetite gone, the same heavy ache blooming behind her ribs like it always did when she dared to want more.

She’d come here to share good news. But once again, her family had made it feel like shame.

***

The first thing he noticed was how quiet the door was when it closed.

Clementine always came in with a kind of flurry—keys jingling, shoes kicked off in mismatched places, jacket halfway sliding off as she tried to simultaneously greet Milo, set down her tote bag, and tell him something that started with “you’ll never believe—”

But tonight… nothing.

Fernando stood from where he’d been reading on the couch, padding into the hall just as she was slipping out of her coat with movements too careful to be casual. Her face was turned away, hair falling in front of her cheek. Milo approached her eagerly, tail thumping, but even that didn’t spark the usual kissy-voice welcome she gave him.

“Clementine?” he asked gently.

She glanced up—and that’s when he saw it.

Not crying. Not quite. But the edges of her eyes were glassy, and her smile was the kind that wasn’t real. The kind people used when they were trying not to fall apart.

“Oh, hi,” she said softly. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep.” He moved closer, one hand finding her arm. “Everything okay?”

She hesitated.

And that was answer enough.

Fernando didn’t press, just led her into the kitchen, flicked the kettle on out of habit, and waited.

Clementine sat at the table with her hands curled around the sleeves of her cardigan. That cardigan she always wore when she was feeling small. The one with the embroidery along the cuff, half-faded now.

“I told them about the gallery,” she said eventually. “And that I quit my job.”

He set down a mug in front of her, tea steeping inside. Her fingers didn’t reach for it.

“They didn’t take it well?” he asked.

Clementine let out a soft laugh—if it could even be called that. More breath than sound. “Lorenzo said I was being reckless. That I’d come crawling back for money when it all failed.” A pause. “They think I’m playing pretend.”

Fernando felt something sharp twist in his chest.

He’d suspected, of course. He’d known something wasn’t right with the way she always grew quiet before family dinners, the way she never mentioned them unless asked, the way her voice tightened when she talked about her job, about what she could be doing if anyone had believed in her just a little sooner.

But hearing it like this—seeing the bruise of it behind her eyes—made it real in a way it hadn’t been before.

“They’ve never come to any art thing,” she continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Not once. Even when I begged. Even when it was here in Monaco.”

Fernando’s jaw clenched.

She shook her head, as if trying to dismiss her own hurt. “Sorry. I shouldn’t dump this on you.”

“No,” he said immediately. “No. Don’t do that. You’re allowed to be hurt, Clementine. That wasn’t fair. None of that was fair.”

She didn’t answer. Just blinked rapidly like she was trying to hold something back.

He crossed the space between them and knelt beside her chair, pressing a hand gently to her knee.

“You are not reckless,” he said, firm. “You’re brave. You left something that was making you miserable. You followed your work—your gift—and people see that. They bought that. You did that on your own.”

Her lips wobbled.

“They don’t get to decide what matters,” he said, quieter now. “They don’t get to make you small.”

The first tear fell silently. Then another.

Clementine reached for him, arms wrapping around his shoulders as she pulled him close, and he let her cling. Let her shake. Let her cry in the way she never let herself do around her family, the ones who should have been her safest place and somehow never were.

He didn’t say anything more—just held her, his palm warm on her back, the way he might settle a trembling engine, or a storm-struck car.

Later that night, when she finally drifted to sleep curled against him, Fernando lay awake.

There were very few things in life that still made him angry.

But this? This careless, casual cruelty—the way her family chipped away at her confidence, called it love but made her feel like a burden for existing the way she did?

It made his blood boil.

She deserved softness. Support. Celebration.

And if they wouldn’t give it to her—

Then he would.

Every time.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: They really treat her like that. Her own family. I thought maybe she was exaggerating a bit. She wasn’t. If anything she was understating it. 

Mark: Uh oh. Leclerc family drama? How bad are we talking?

Fernando: Dinner tonight. She told them her paintings sold and that she quit the office job. They acted like she’d said she joined a cult.

Fernando: Lorenzo told her she was being stupid. Someone said they wouldn’t give her money if she “keeps being like this.” Like she asked for anything.

Mark: Charming. Are we sure they’re not secretly a Bond villain family?

Fernando: She came home trying to pretend it was fine. I’ve never seen her that quiet. And this girl never stops talking. She curled up in that ridiculous embroidered cardigan and cried into my chest like she was five. Like she thought I’d be mad too.

Mark: Mate. My heart just cracked in half.

Fernando: She’s so… good. Too good. And they treat her like she’s a disappointment because she didn’t come out of the womb fluent in engine mappings.

Mark: Let me guess. Because she’s not Charles or Arthur. 🙄

Fernando: Exactly. And I think they genuinely believe they’re helping. They’re not. They’re cutting her down one snide remark at a time.

Mark: So. What are you going to do?

Fernando: What do you think? Support her. Buy her paints. Brag about her work to literally anyone who will listen. I’m already her sugar daddy, I might as well be her PR team too.

Mark: There he is. King of Monaco. Defender of Clementines. I love this for you.

Fernando: I don’t even care if people find it funny. She deserves someone who sees her. All of her. If her brothers won’t protect her—I will.

Mark: Mate. I’ve known you a long time. But I think this might be the first time I’ve seen you fall in love.

Fernando: …Don’t be an idiot.

Mark: Too late. Ann agrees with me, btw. We’re rooting for you two.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: dinner was awful. i don’t even know why i go anymore.

Dominique: Because you're a good person who keeps hoping for basic human decency. Unfortunately your family remains a pack of wet cardboard boxes.

Lucie: what happened??

Clementine: told them about the gallery. they didn’t care. lorenzo found out I quit my job and basically called me a freeloader.

Gisele: …he what now

Clementine: he said they’re not going to “fund my fantasy” and that I’ll “end up crawling back”

Lucie: that’s not just cruel. that’s strategic cruelty.

Dominique: I will fight every single one of them. Yes, including Leo.

Gisele: Not Leo 😭 but also? yeah. this is rage-inducing. you sold your work. people bought it. you created something and they acted like you told them you joined a cult.

Clementine: i don’t know why i even bother i just wanted them to be proud of me for once just once

Lucie: They don’t get to define your worth. They never have.

Dominique: Their opinions are not facts, babe. You made art. You sold it. You're doing the thing. And you’re doing it while being gentle and kind and sweet in a world that punishes softness.

Gisele: Fernando would’ve flipped that table, just saying. He gives exactly zero tolerance to anyone hurting you.

Clementine: he just held me when i got home. didn’t say anything. just wrapped his arms around me and let me cry into his shirt.

Lucie: 🥺🥺🥺 that’s a real man.

Dominique: That man is in love with you and I’m not even being funny right now.

Gisele: Clem your family’s love feels like conditions his love feels like sanctuary

Clementine: 😭😭😭 okay now i’m crying again but like. the good kind. thank you. all of you.

Dominique: Always. We’re your real family anyway. Your name may be Leclerc, but you’re ours. 💗

Lucie: 💐 us against the world 💐

Gisele: Now go to sleep, baby gallery girl. You have sold-out-artist dreams to keep having.

Clementine: love you all so much it hurts 😭😭😭😭 goodnight 💛

Dominique: Goodnight, sweetheart. Dream of Fernando yelling at Charles on your behalf. 🧚‍♀️✨

***

Clementine never thought she’d get used to luxury like this.

But somehow, Fernando’s yacht had started to feel like their little bubble — all gleaming teak and crisp white linens, the sea stretching out in every direction like it was just for them. She’d spent the last hour half-dozing on the sun deck, sprawled on a cushiony lounger in a sundress and Fernando’s spare pair of sunglasses, listening to the waves lap against the hull and the low hum of something Spanish playing from the Bluetooth speaker.

Now, he was beside her. Warm. Solid. Sun-drenched and smug, as always, wearing swim trunks and a smirk. One arm draped lazily along the back of the lounger like he hadn’t just pulled her into his lap twenty minutes ago and kissed her until she forgot her own name.

She wasn’t complaining.

He kissed differently when they were away from the world. Less controlled. Like he was allowed to be hungry.

Clementine shifted slightly, her legs tucked to one side as she faced him, brushing her fingertips along his jaw.

“You’re staring,” Fernando murmured, eyes still closed.

“You’ve got sunscreen on your nose,” she said, tapping it. “You missed a spot.”

He cracked one eye open, amused. “Are you offering to help?”

“I could,” she replied, feigning innocence. “But I think we both know what happens when I start touching your face.”

He leaned in. “I’m counting on it.”

It didn’t take much more than that. One glance, one press of her hand to his chest, and he was kissing her again — slow at first, then deeper, with the kind of heat that made her knees curl and her thoughts scatter.

There was something about kissing Fernando that always felt… grounding. Even now, with sunlight golden on his skin and the sea breeze curling through her hair, he kissed her like it was the only thing that mattered. Like she wasn’t a Leclerc, or someone twenty years younger, or the girl the tabloids didn’t even know about yet. She was just his, here, now, on this boat in the middle of nowhere.

His hand slid beneath the hem of her sundress, resting on her thigh, thumb grazing bare skin in lazy circles. She melted into it, into him.

“You taste like strawberries,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Blame the smoothie,” she breathed.

“I will. And then I’ll steal another.”

He kissed her again, and she smiled into it, looping her arms around his neck.

They were tangled on the lounger now, sun-warm and just a little dizzy, the kind of happiness that settled low in her belly and hummed under her skin. She could feel him smiling against her, and she liked knowing she could still do that — disarm someone as famously composed as Fernando Alonso with nothing but a kiss and a little sunburn on her shoulders.

“You know,” she said between kisses, “I think this is the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

“Don’t tell the paddock,” he murmured. “I have a reputation.”

“Of being scary and old?”

His hands slid up her sides, and he bit gently at her bottom lip in retaliation.

“Dangerous,” he corrected, amused. “Not old.”

She giggled, breathless and delighted. “You’re my favourite old man.”

“Keep talking like that,” he warned, “and I’ll throw you in the water.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist.

“Wouldn’t I?”

She kissed him again before he could make good on the threat — not that she really believed he would. Not when he looked at her like this, sun in his lashes and salt on his skin, like she was the most ridiculous and wonderful thing to ever ruin his peace and quiet.

And maybe she was.

But he didn’t seem to mind.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/FormulaTea: Fernando Alonso spotted kissing Clementine Leclerc on a yacht in Sardinia. Sources confirm the two are dating. Leclerc, 23, is the younger sister of Ferrari driver Charles Leclerc. 📸 [Paparazzi pic: Fernando and Clementine in a steamy kiss on the sun deck, Clementine straddling his lap]

@/wherestheflag FERNANDO. ALONSO. AND CLEMENTINE. LECLERC. I THOUGHT SHE WAS A MYTH. LIKE A MERMAID. OR ARTHUR’S GOOD DECISIONS.

@/paddockgossipgirl the grid when they see Fernando kissing Charles Leclerc’s baby sister in full daylight: 🫣😵💀💀💀

@/driveitslay I need Fernando Alonso to explain what business he has dating someone whose frontal cortex finished developing last week. Bro. What.

@/milkvanillalatte Her family: We are worried Clementine doesn’t have a boyfriend. Clementine: pulls Fernando Alonso like it’s a casual Tuesday Me: 🙇‍♀️🐐

@/charlesskitchen charles finding out fernando is dating his sister via YACHT PAPARAZZI PHOTOS is so funny because it means 1) he didn’t know 2) no one told him 3) someone is gonna die

@/jetztbittefresse ok but no fr, the power imbalance in this makes me so uncomfortable. He’s 43. She’s 23. That’s not a quirky age gap. That’s a generation.

@/ferrarifangirl69 can’t believe clementine leclerc pulled fernando alonso. like. she won the lottery and then found five euros in her coat pocket.

@/fernandoismydad fernando alonso dating clementine leclerc is proof that we’re in a simulation what is this. wattpad? fanfiction? telenovela?

@/oconnordisaster if esteban ocon saw this in real time i know he CHOKED on his water not even bc of the age gap just bc it’s fernando alonso

@/redflagromeo The funniest part is that NO ONE knew. No leaks. No soft launches. Just BOOM — kissy kissy on a yacht. Old wolf still got it.

@/softforclem everyone being weird about the age gap meanwhile I just want to know what sunscreen she uses. she’s glowing in those pics.

@/landonocareer lando: do you smell smoke? oscar: yeah. lando: it’s the internet. the alonso–leclerc reveal broke it.

@/notcarlossainz me seeing those yacht pics like: 👁👄👁 and also: 🚢🚢🚢 shipping it like fedex

@/chequedout honestly? she looks happy. and relaxed. and tan. and I can’t believe I’m saying this but… good for them????

@/f1fanmoments FERNANDO ALONSO AND CLEMENTINE LECLERC??? HELLO???? EXCUSE ME???? WE NEED A MINUTE.

@/gridgossip no because the most unhinged part is that NO ONE KNEW like. not even a rumor. not even a blind item. just BOOM. yacht kiss. full send.

@/fernando44goat My man really said “summer break” and pulled a 23 y/o Leclerc sister out of the multiverse like a side quest.

@/thegirlfromsector3 we really went from “who even is clementine leclerc?” to “she’s kissing a two-time world champion on a yacht” in 0.2 seconds.

@/ifyouaintcheco Not to be that person but… It’s giving midlife crisis.

@/slowlaplove Imagine having Fernando Alonso as your brother-in-law. I’d simply evaporate.

@/gridwivesclub some of y’all are acting like clementine is a child. she’s literally in her mid-20s, paints for a living, and just sold out a gallery in Monaco. sit down.

@/garagegoblin Imagine waking up to find out Fernando Alonso is dating your little sister and the whole world knows before you do. Charles. Blink twice if you need help.

@/alonsofanzonly he looks… happy. relaxed. if she makes him happy and it’s healthy, idc about the age gap.

@/karengivesopinions: fernando alonso… sir… that is a CHILD.

@/sharlessaint: I thought fernando liked racing against the young ones not DATING THEM???

@/gridgossipgirl: Me: we should normalize age-gap relationships Also me: sees Fernando and Clementine kissing on a yacht

@/f1mememachine: 🧓: fernando is too old for her 🐐: fernando is a legend 🤡: this is a PR stunt 🕵️: no wonder he’s been so happy lately 👀: how did NO ONE see this coming 🥲: charles is never gonna recover from this 🔥: honestly? good for them

@/TifosiTrouble can someone explain to me how clementine leclerc went from the invisible sibling to this. like. good for her??? but also I need to lie down

@/GridTeaTime FERNANDO ALONSO DATING A LECLERC ?!?!? AND IT'S NOT THEIR MOM?? WHAT THE F—

@/piastrigf me, peacefully making coffee, opening twitter, and seeing fernando alonso with a 23 year old brunette on a yacht: 🧍‍♀️

@/wagsupreme I feel like the grid WAG universe just expanded like five new chapters and none of us were prepared

@/WAGdramaDaily 🚨 unpopular opinion incoming 🚨 if she’s happy and it’s consensual, let the girl live. the rest of you need to stop projecting your daddy issues onto two consenting adults on a boat.

@/psychoferrarigf Can’t wait for DTS to pretend like this is shocking news in 2027 while playing moody music and cutting to Charles looking like he’s having a stroke

@/charlesleclercdaily charles leclerc getting on instagram today and finding out his sister is dating fernando alonso like: 🧍‍♂️

@/vroomvroomvibes can’t wait for the Drive To Survive episode titled “The Old Wolf and the Leclerc Cub”

@/burnersainz "he's old enough to be her father" AND??? daddy issues and yachts. she’s living your dream. stay mad.

@/baddielando me: why does fernando look so smug lately also me: oh. OH. him and clementine have been having a secret summer romance this whole time 😭

@/monacomenarevil Clementine Leclerc has a literal sunbeam of a personality and now she’s dating FERNANDO “I Bite” ALONSO??? I’m unwell.

@/gridgossipqueen the funniest part is that absolutely no one clocked this. like clementine? she was just the artsy leclerc sibling we never saw. fernando? thought he was too grumpy to kiss anyone. they really got us.

@/yachtgate2025: Not Alonso dating a woman born the year he debuted in F1 💀💀💀 I'm logging off. #YachtGate

@/overheardinthepaddock 📍Overheard on a yacht off the coast of Sardinia: “Okay but does Charles know?” “Know what? That his sister’s dating Alonso or that she’s the one who fixed his logo?” “No wait BACK UP—”

@/charlesleclerc_fan_38 me refreshing Charles’ Instagram every five minutes to see if he’s going to post anything about this. like. sir. blink if you’re okay.

@/pitlaneparanoia how did fernando pull this off no fr how

@/leclercnation charles is gonna EXPLODE when he sees this like. i'm actually concerned for fernando's safety

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar: mate. MATE. did you see twitter.

Lando: i’m looking at it with my mouth open like a cartoon character jaw on the floor

Oscar: FERNANDO. AND CLEMENTINE. ON A YACHT. SNOGGING EACH OTHER LIKE TEENAGERS.

Lando: oh yeah no we’re gonna play DUMB like aggressively dumb “Clementine? Never heard of her. Who’s that? The yacht was photoshopped.”

Oscar: "Isn’t Fernando single?" "Isn’t Clementine, like, 17?" "Wait that was a Leclerc?? I thought she was just… blonde!"

Lando: CHARLES IS GONNA LOSE HIS MIND he’s gonna crash his espresso machine i am terrified but also i will be watching with popcorn

Oscar: we were never here. we don’t know anything. we are innocent bystanders.

Lando: “what’s a yacht?” “who’s fernando?” “what’s kissing?”

Oscar: we’re not surviving this season i hope you know that

Lando: nope we die like men in matching Pirelli caps

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: fuck. fuck. fuck. FUCK.

Dominique: babe babe. why are you trending on twitter under “FERNANDO ALONSO” WHAT DID YOU DO

Lucie: I open twitter and there you are MAKING OUT ON A YACHT

Gisele: okay but you look HOT. like. yacht-core meets forbidden romance. love that for you. not so much for your anonymity tho x

Clementine: i just wanted to make out with my hot boyfriend on a yacht in peace IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK

Dominique: apparently yes yes it is also HOW did no one find out until NOW??

Lucie: girl we have BEEN waiting for the soft launch instead you gave us THE ENTIRE CAMPAIGN ROLL-OUT IN 4K

Clementine: do you think charles has seen it yet do you think i can fake my death

Gisele: oh babe not unless you can deepfake those photos into like you making out with an emotional support wax figure

Dominique: i’m more worried about the internet have you SEEN the replies?? they are rabid.

Lucie: "Fernando Alonso's sugar baby" "Leclerc family scandal" "how does he pull this many 10/10s" BABE THEY ARE FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

Clementine: i didn’t even mean to soft launch i was just on holiday on a yacht kissing my boyfriend LIKE A NORMAL PERSON

Gisele: normal people do not date FERNANDO ALONSO that man is a human legacy era

Lucie: but honestly? you know what? OWN IT. he’s obsessed with you. we’ve seen it.

Dominique: do not look at twitter do not check tiktok do not google yourself just sit pretty and let fernando do all the PR damage control he’s old. he’s good at it.

Clementine: i’m going to be murdered by my brothers that’s the real PR disaster

Gisele: if they try anything just unleash Fernando he’s basically the racing version of a medieval warhorse

Lucie: also what if he posts you now 👀👀👀

Clementine: i will literally combust please i need a nap and maybe to flee the country

Dominique: love you so proud of you now go text your hot old man and tell him to buy you another yacht for privacy purposes 🫶

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Mark: Mate. MATE.

Fernando: I don’t want to hear it. Do not start. No.

Mark: You’re on a yacht. Making out with a Leclerc. Like it’s Love Island: Veteran Edition.

Fernando: I hate you.

Mark: Clemmy looked good though. Real “my sugar daddy just bought me a small Greek island” energy.

Fernando: She didn’t even let me buy the sunglasses she’s wearing. She got them on sale. In a pharmacy.

Mark: Incredible. Truly the world’s worst sugar baby.

Fernando: The internet is on fire. Her family’s probably lighting the torches. Charles is going to chase me down with a baguette.

Mark: You’ve survived worse. You survived McLaren 2007. You’ll survive a Frenchman with abandonment issues.

Fernando: She’s upset. She didn’t want anyone to know yet.

Mark: Well. They know. At least you looked hot. You’re officially in your “softcore scandal” era.

Fernando: It was meant to be a quiet weekend. Just the two of us. No chaos.

Mark: She’s dating you, mate. Chaos is the love language.

Fernando: I’m too old for this.

Mark: And yet? Still pulling 11/10s in pastel bikinis. King behaviour.

Fernando: I hope your wine turns to vinegar.

Mark: Cheers 🍷 Give Clem a hug from me. And maybe buy her that island anyway.

***

Group Chat: Les Leclercs

 (Lorenzo, Charles, Arthur, Pascale, Clementine)

Lorenzo: Clementine. What the hell is this?

Charles: You’re kidding, right? This is some kind of joke?

Arthur: You’re dating Fernando Alonso?! Are you out of your mind??

Pascale: Please tell me this is a misunderstanding. This is not how we raised you.

Clementine: …hi. Nice to hear from you all, too.

Lorenzo: Don’t be glib. This is serious. He’s 20 years older than you, Clem. Twenty.

Arthur: He’s literally older than Lorenzo What is wrong with you??

Charles: Do you even know what people are saying online right now? Do you have any idea how this looks?

Clementine: Yes. I do. I have Twitter too.

Pascale: This isn’t about Twitter. This is about your choices. Do you think this is acceptable?

Clementine: I think who I love is my business. I think I’m happy. Which is more than I can say for a lot of family dinners lately.

Charles: He’s using you.

Clementine: No. He’s the first person who’s ever supported me without trying to change me. He’s kind. And he cares.

Arthur: He’s manipulating you. That’s what older men do.

Lorenzo: You need to stop seeing him. Now. Before this gets worse.

Clementine: Before what gets worse? People finding out that I’m actually in a healthy relationship? That I’m not a failure or a child?

Pascale: Don’t twist this. We’re protecting you.

Clementine: No. You’re controlling me. Like always.

Charles: It’s him or us, Clem.

Arthur: We can’t support you if you keep doing things like this.

Clementine: You don’t support me anyway.

Lorenzo: Think very carefully about what you’re choosing.

Clementine: I already have. And for once, I’m choosing me.

Clementine has left the chat.

****

He heard the door before he saw her.

It opened fast—too fast for Clementine, who usually padded through life like a cautious deer, pausing to admire shadows and stray cats. This was the sound of someone trying not to cry.

Fernando looked up from where he was sitting, barefoot and sun-warmed, a half-glass of wine untouched beside him.

She had her phone in her hand. Her cheeks flushed, lips pressed into a tight line. Her eyes glassy with the kind of anger that came from grief.

He stood immediately.

“Clem?”

She didn’t answer right away—just walked straight past him, flopping onto the sun-dappled lounger and pulling her knees up to her chest, hugging them tightly. Her hair smelled like sea salt and lemon sunscreen, but the rest of her—her posture, her silence—felt like a locked door.

Fernando sat next to her, not touching her yet.

“What happened?”

She shook her head.

“Clementine.”

She let out a breath, sharp and shaking. “They saw the photos.”

It took him a second. Then: “Your family.”

She nodded, miserably.

“And?” he asked gently.

“They’re furious,” she said, voice catching. “I mean—of course they are. But it was like I killed someone. Like I betrayed them personally by being… seen. With you.”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

She unlocked her phone, tapped rapidly, then turned the screen to show him.

He scrolled through it slowly, heart sinking with each message.

The oldest brother’s outrage. Arthur’s fury. Charles—hypocritically, almost laughably—talking about public image. Pascale’s disappointment disguised as concern.

And that line again.

It’s him or us.

Fernando didn’t realize he’d gone still until Clementine plucked the phone from his hands.

“I didn’t even say anything terrible,” she whispered. “I just said I was happy. And that you care about me.”

He swallowed. “And do you still feel that way?”

Clementine looked at him. “Yes.”

There was no hesitation in her voice. No flinch. Just soft conviction.

And yet, the tears came anyway.

She blinked them back, tried to speak, failed, and then buried her face into his shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times before.

Fernando held her immediately, tightly. One arm around her shoulders, the other stroking slow circles into her spine. Her body trembled with everything she was holding in.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean to ruin everything. I didn’t mean for this to get out. I just—I just wanted something for me for once.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Fernando said, low and fierce. “You didn’t do anything wrong. They’re the ones who should be ashamed. Not you.”

She sniffled. “I left the group chat.”

That got a small breath of laughter out of him. “Good.”

“I think they’re serious, though. I think they might actually not speak to me for a while.”

He leaned back, gently tipping her chin so he could look at her properly. “Then they don’t deserve to be around you while you’re happy.”

Her lip wobbled. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” His hand brushed her hair out of her face, then tucked it gently behind her ear. “They’ve spent your whole life telling you who to be. They don’t get to be angry that you finally chose yourself.”

She let out a broken laugh, muffled into his chest. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Fernando smiled into her hair. “I sincerely hope so.”

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in the quiet lull of waves and the last rays of sun, as the rest of the world spun a little too fast. And for once, Clementine didn’t try to chase it.

She was here. With him.

And she was choosing herself.

And he was choosing her, every second.

***

Group Chat: Les Fleurs 🌸

 (Clementine, Dominique, Gisele, Lucie)

Clementine: [1 image attached: screenshot of Leclerc family group chat] So. That went about as well as expected. :) They said it’s him or them. So I left the group chat.

Dominique: YOU WHAT CLEMMY WHAT THE FUCK 😭😭😭😭

Gisele: YOU LEFT??? LIKE ACTUALLY???

Lucie: holy shit. wait. i’m SO proud of you but also I wanna fight all of them???

Dominique: Girl. They really said choose between us and your happiness???

Clementine: Yes. Yes they did. Apparently I’m embarrassing the family. Because god forbid I fall in love with someone who treats me like a person and not a mistake.

Gisele: I’d say “their loss” but they’re not even losing you, they just never appreciated you in the first place.

Lucie: okay but also??? You left the group chat. Like full-on mic drop??? That’s my girl. 👑🔥

Dominique: No offense but Charles can wear some of these trousers and call it fashion and you are the embarrassment?? Make it make sense.

Clementine: I’m still kind of… shaking. But also? Fernando didn’t even flinch. He held me and said I didn’t do anything wrong. That they should be ashamed, not me. I cried on his shirt. It’s probably ruined. 😭

Lucie: NO IT’S PERFECT THAT’S A GOOD MAN RIGHT THERE.

Gisele: Okay but for real— You deserve someone who sees how soft and golden and brave you are And chooses that Not someone who tries to grind it out of you.

Dominique: You are so much more than the version of you they’re willing to tolerate. And you choosing you??? Chef’s kiss. Worthy of a gallery wall.

Clementine: I’m so lucky I have you girls. Seriously. If I didn’t, I think I’d be going crazy.

Lucie: You’re not crazy. You’re just finally living your life. And we’re cheering you on with snacks and wine. 🍷🍿💅

Gisele: Also if any of them try to text you privately?? Block. Delete. Excommunicate. Girlboss ✂️

Dominique: It’s Clementine season now. Let them watch.

***

Text Messages: Fernando Alonso & Mark Webber

Fernando: She left the family group chat.

Mar: …She what.

Fernando: They told her to choose. Them or me.

Mark: Bloody hell.

Fernando: Yeah. She chose me. But not just me. She said she was choosing herself.

Mark: Mate. That’s a big deal.

Fernando: She’s curled up on the couch right now. She just… felt done.

Mark: That girl has been through hell with those people and still came out soft. I don’t know whether to be impressed or want to punch someone.

Fernando: Both.

Fernando: It kills me how long she’s been made to feel small. Like she didn’t get to own her life. Her art. Her choices.

Mark: And now she does. Because she chose it. And she’s got you.

Fernando: She does. And I’m not letting go.

Mark: Didn’t think I’d live to see the day Fernando Alonso became a soft, supportive yacht dad with a traumatised girlfriend and a rescue dog But here we are.

Fernando: Call me that again and I’m blocking your number.

Mark 🦘: Sure, sure. Enjoy being in love, 🐺🩷

***

Group Chat: The Old Wolves

(Members: Jenson Button, Sebastian Vettel, Nico Rosberg, David Coulthard, Mark Webber, Fernando Alonso) 

David Coulthard: WELL. I open Twitter for one second and I’m greeted by Fernando tongue-deep in some woman on a yacht. Monaco never disappoints.

Mark Webber: Correction: Clementine Leclerc.Absolutely too good for him. We’ve known for months. You’re just late.

Fernando Alonso: I’d like to remind the group chat that I am right here. Alive. Online. Reading.

Jenson Button: Can confirm. I also just saw the photos. And the age gap discourse is out for blood.

Sebastian Vettel: We need to talk. Not in the “group chat banter” way. In the what the hell are you doing way.

David Coulthard: Oh come on, Seb. Man’s finally smiling in photos again. That girl clearly worships the ground he walks on.

Sebastian Vettel: That “girl” is Charles Leclerc’s little sister. She’s what, twenty-something? You’re closer to her father’s age than hers, Fernando.

Fernando Alonso: And she’s also a grown woman. She chose this. I chose her. She’s not some passive bystander.

Mark Webber: Look, Seb, I get it. But you’re preaching to the choir here. She makes him better. She’s good for him. He’s calmer. Softer. Still a menace, but like, domesticated.

Jenson Button: Also she has excellent taste in dogs.

Sebastian Vettel: I’m not saying it’s not real. I’m saying the optics are dangerous. You’re famous. She’s fragile. You carry the weight in this dynamic. You’d better be careful with it.

Fernando Alonso: I know exactly how much power I hold. Which is why I treat her like gold. She’s been underestimated her whole life. I’m not going to be another name on that list.

Nico Rosberg: Damn. Didn’t know you had that in you.

Mark Webber: Told you. He’s gone. Completely cooked. Soft for his sweet, artsy girlfriend who sends emojis he doesn’t understand.

Fernando Alonso: Lance is now my official Gen Z translator.

Kimi Räikkönen: 👍🏻

Sebastian Vettel: Just promise me this: Don’t make her regret it. Because if you do, I will fly to Monaco and take you out myself.

Fernando Alonso: Noted. I’d rather drive for Haas than hurt her.

Jenson Button: 💀💀💀

David Coulthard: God, he is in love. Next thing you know he’ll be buying throw pillows and getting matching pyjamas.

Mark Webber: Already happened.

Fernando Alonso: Leaving this chat.

***

Group Chat: Grid 2025

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Max Verstappen, Yuki Tsunoda, Liam Lawson, Isack Hadjar, Oliver Bearman, Esteban Ocon, Gabriel Bortoleto, Nico Hulkenberg, Kimi Antonelli, George Russell, Pierre Gasly, Franco Colapinto, Charles Leclerc, Lewis Hamilton, Alex Albon, Carlos Sainz, Lance Stroll, Fernando Alonso)

Charles ARE YOU KIDDING ME. FERNANDO.

Pierre: ...I just sat down with popcorn. Continue.

Charles: YOU'RE DATING MY LITTLE SISTER?! MY BABY SISTER?

Fernando: Not dating. In a relationship. Words matter.

Lando: wait what?? omg???

Oscar: whoa crazy this is news to all of us 😶

Charles: DON’T YOU DARE PULL THAT, PIASTRI. YOU KNEW.

Oscar: 😶😶😶 no thoughts. head empty. absolutely no knowledge of anything ever

George: Wait… are we just ignoring the yacht photos?? How did none of us know?

Lando: I had no idea. I literally thought that was, like, a cousin.

Max: They're adults. Who clearly like each other. This is not complicated.

Charles: NOT COMPLICATED? SHE’S TWENTY-THREE. HE’S FORTY-FOUR. HE COULD BE HER FATHER.

Fernando: But I’m not. I’m her boyfriend. And if you ever speak about her like that again, you won’t be able to say anything at all.

Carlos: …he’s not joking.

Yuki:she’s too soft for this. You better be good to her.

Fernando: She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’ll protect her with my life.

Esteban: That is… actually very romantic?? I’m lowkey crying.

Alex: Same.

Pierre: Charles, look, I love you. But your whole family has been treating her like she’s invisible since 2018. You don’t get to act shocked she found someone who sees her.

Charles: We didn’t know she was this serious with someone—

Max: Maybe she didn’t tell you because you never listen. Just a thought.

Oscar: god i’m sweating

Lando: okay fine we knew but only by accident!! and we didn’t say anything!! because we are GOOD FRIENDS

Fernando: She didn’t tell you because she was protecting her peace. You don’t get to demand access now.

***

She almost didn’t notice.

It had been one of those long, soft evenings—the kind that settled quietly around the shoulders rather than announcing itself with ceremony. Dinner had been easy: pasta and whatever Fernando had pulled from the fridge with dramatic commentary. Clementine had laughed through most of it, barefoot in the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand and her hair falling loose from its clip.

Now, Milo was snoring gently on the couch, curled into an unlikely shape that looked vaguely like a croissant. The lamp was on, casting a warm, golden halo over the living room. One of Clementine’s paintings—an abstract in muted ochres and ultramarine—hung above the bookshelf, the last thing she’d finished before the gallery sold everything else.

Fernando had been quiet all evening, but not in a bad way. Just watchful. Calm. Thoughtful in the way he always was when he was on the edge of something he wasn’t sure how to say.

So when he said her name—“Clem,” soft, careful—she turned without hesitation.

He was standing by the edge of the rug. Still barefoot. Still in the soft gray t-shirt she liked stealing. His hands were in his pockets, but the lines of his shoulders were drawn tight.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, rising a little from where she sat cross-legged on the floor with her sketchpad.

“Nothing,” he said. Then smiled, and it made her chest ache, because it was his real smile—the one he only ever gave her, slow and quiet and stunned that she loved him back.

He took a step forward. Then another. And then he knelt.

Right there, in the middle of their home. On the rug she had chosen. Under the lamp she always left on. With their ridiculous dog now sitting up on the couch, cocking his head in silent curiosity.

Clementine blinked. “Wait—wait, what are you doing?”

Fernando didn’t speak right away. He pulled something out of his pocket first. A small box. A velvet one.

And then, as the world narrowed and sharpened around him, he looked up at her—not like a man trying to convince her of anything, but like someone who already knew what they had.

“I love you,” he said. “And I know it’s not a surprise. But I need to ask anyway. Because you’ve changed everything. You made it all real. And I want to spend the rest of my life knowing you come home to me.”

She stared at him. At the box. At him.

He opened it.

The ring wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t enormous or headline-worthy. It was delicate, beautiful, and entirely her—a round brilliant-cut diamond flanked by two tiny sapphires, set in a fine gold band. The exact shade of blue she painted into skies.

“Will you marry me, Clementine?” Fernando asked.

Milo barked. Once. Loudly.

Clementine let out a stunned laugh that turned into a sob.

She nodded. Then threw herself at him. “Yes—yes, oh my God, of course, yes.”

They fell back together, laughing, both of them ridiculous and giddy, the ring box trapped somewhere between them. Milo jumped down and tried to insert himself into the hug, whining excitedly as Fernando buried his face in Clementine’s neck.

“I’m going to drop the ring,” Fernando murmured.

“Then I’ll marry you with a bread twist tie,” she whispered back, voice shaking from joy. “I don’t care.”

They stayed like that for a long moment. Wrapped in warmth and Milo fur and the quiet gravity of having just promised forever.

It wasn’t extravagant. It wasn’t public.

But it was perfect.