#fa14 am

“I wish I had her energy,” Alex Albon laughs, your brother’s teammate, who is sitting with you for a coffee while you wait for Carlos.

“Me too, mainly so I could keep up with her,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“I cannot believe it, my favourite Sainz back in the paddock,” someone says behind you, and you turn around.

“Fer!” you exclaim, standing up to greet him. “Hi!” you smile as he hugs you, one hand on your back.

“Hi, guapa, how are you?” he asks, pulling back with a smile.

“Rushing around, as always…” you reply, amused.

“Hi, who are you?” Bianca cuts in, coming up next to you and looking at Fernando, who watches her with amusement.

“I am a friend of your mum and your uncle, and you? I don’t think we’ve ever introduced ourselves, princesa…” he answers, kneeling down to be at her height.

“I am Bianca, Uncle Carlos’ favourite,” she says, holding out her hand to introduce herself, and Fernando bursts out laughing.

“What a shame, I thought I was his favourite and instead…”

“No, no, it’s me, he tells me all the time,” the little girl insists confidently.

“According to her she is the favourite of the whole world,” you comment, shaking your head with a smile.

“It is hard for her not to be, with that attitude,” Fernando says, looking at you.

“Do you drive like Uncle Carlos?” Bianca asks when she notices the race suit Fernando is wearing.

“Yes, I drive too, a green, very fast car…” he answers, “…more or less…” he adds under his breath, making you laugh.

“Hey you, away from my favourite person in the world,” Carlos’ voice comes from behind Fernando as he walks up and scoops Bianca into his arms, making her laugh. “Sorry, I am very jealous of my favourite princess,” he jokes to Fernando as he tickles the little girl.

“I believe you, not everyone has a princess like that,” the older man replies, getting back to his feet.

“Are you having dinner with us tonight? The whole family is there,” Carlos asks Fernando. “And you know if you say no to my mother then…” the Williams driver goes on, gesturing and rolling his eyes.

“I still remember when you bailed on her two years ago, I don’t think she has forgiven you yet,” you say, amused.

“I didn’t bail, they did not let my plane take off, that is different,” Fernando defends himself while everyone laughs. “So I am coming tonight, thank you,” he continues. “But only if I can sit next to you,” he jokes to Bianca.

“We’ll see, next to me there is definitely my mum, otherwise she says I make a mess,” the little girl replies with disarming sincerity.

“And that is more than true,” you comment.

“Ok, then I will sit next to your mum,” Fernando adds, giving you a wink. “I have a briefing, see you tonight, Sainz clan…” he smiles, saying goodbye and walking away.

Carlos also has things to do before the race and he leaves with Alex. You take Bianca’s hand and ask her if she wants to walk around and look for something to eat.

You hadn’t seen Fernando in months, maybe almost a year, the last time had been at some event in Monte Carlo. You had gone to visit Carlos and you had run into him at a dinner.

You smile, thinking that man is really like wine, he gets better every year he gets older.

You were a teenager when your father brought him home for the first time and… boom, the biggest teenage crush of your life started.

If you can even call it “teenage”, considering you are pretty sure it is still going on now that you are 32.

–

In the evening you are all sitting around the restaurant table, your parents, Carlos, Rebecca, you, Bianca and also Fernando, who kept his promise and joined you for dinner.

You finished eating a while ago, Bianca is quietly colouring and the conversation flows.

“I watched your latest series,” Fernando says at one point. “It was amazing…” he smiles.

“Did you like it?” you ask with a smile. “It is a totally different role from what I usually do, but… it was a challenge to play that character,” you answer.

You are an actress, and a fairly famous one, your name has been at the top of quite a few big Netflix productions lately, and your latest work, a thriller definitely more brutal than what you usually do, is number 1 among the most watched series.

“I liked it, and I am a fan of the genre, I couldn’t miss it,” he smiles, looking at you.

“Mum said I cannot watch it,” Bianca exclaims, suddenly appearing from under the table between you and Fernando, catching you both by surprise.

“Bianca, what did we say about crawling under the table?” you ask, looking at her.

“That… you don’t do it, but I am bored and I wanted to talk to you,” she answers, straightening up. “Do you know how to draw?” she asks Fernando, changing the subject.

Four years old and she already has more nerve than half the planet.

“Kind of, not really,” he replies.

“Mum is terrible,” Bianca says, amused, as she climbs onto Fernando’s lap without even asking. “Will you draw your car for me?” she asks. “Uncle Carlos put wings on his,” she whispers into his ear, but not exactly quietly.

“Let’s try, princesa,” he says, starting to draw the car on a sheet of paper, following your daughter’s crazy instructions.

Fernando is focused, he smiles now and then, chatting with Bianca. You watch them and… yes, you definitely still have a crush on him.

“Fer, what are you doing next week?” your father’s clear voice comes from the head of the table. Fernando looks up from the drawing to look at him. “Will you come to the beach with us for a few days?”

You look at your father, surprised, wondering where exactly that invitation is coming from. Sure, they have known each other for twenty-five years, but the last holiday Fernando spent at your family’s beach house was ten years ago, and you remember perfectly what it was like seeing him in swim trunks every morning.

“Why not,” he replies. “Can I come to the beach with you, princesa?” he asks Bianca, who pretends to think about it and then nods, laughing. “She said yes, so I’m coming,” Fernando says to your father.

Perfect, part two of the Alonso in swim trunks show is officially in the works, you think, unable to hide a pleased smile.

–

The orange sun is about to dive into the sea. You are sitting on the warm sand, watching Bianca chasing the waves and looking for shells.

“Beer?” you hear Fernando’s voice behind you as he comes over and sits down next to you, handing you a bottle. You thank him and take a sip.

You have been here for two days, and your eyes drift to him, tanned, messy-haired, that kind of “sexy” that makes you feel like doing something crazy.

But you have sworn off crazy, sworn off a lot of things since Bianca was born, like anything that isn’t her or work.

“She is unbelievable, that little thing,” he comments, nodding in Bianca’s direction. “She told me a story about a magic hermit crab she found this morning, she talks so much nonsense,” he adds, amused.

You burst out laughing. “You have no idea what she is capable of making up,” you say, shaking your head.

“And how are you?” he asks out of nowhere. “I haven’t managed to have a real conversation with you in ages…”

“Good,” you answer, partly out of habit and partly because maybe it is true. “Busy.”

“Do you still hear from Francesco?” he asks then.

You let out a breath. “Of course not, since I got pregnant I haven’t heard from him…” you say.

“Christ, he never called you?” he asks, stunned.

“Never, he has never even legally recognised Bianca, he is not her father except biologically. She is a Sainz, Sainz and nothing else,” you say, keeping your eyes on the sea.

“What a son of a bitch,” Fernando comments.

“Better this way. I didn’t see the point in taking him to court and forcing him to recognise someone he didn’t want, or rather forcing Bianca to have a father who didn’t want her. What for? I don’t need his money,” you say, shrugging.

“Yes, but this way you carry all the weight of the world on your own,” he says. You turn your face to look at him and give him a sad smile.

“You get used to it, you know, Fer… even to being alone,” you say.

“Yes, I know, but it sucks, and I say that from experience,” he replies, taking a sip of beer. “It sucks for a lot of reasons.”

“Yeah…” you say. “…sometimes I just wish I had someone to ask for advice, and yes, I have my family, Dad, Mum, Carlos… but I mean someone different,” you go on. “Do you get what I mean?” you ask, and he smiles, looking at you.

“I do… someone you chose,” he answers, and you smile too.

“Exactly…” you sigh, as Bianca runs towards you with a shell. “Look, mamì, there is a little animal inside,” she says, showing you the shell. You examine it carefully and see a tiny claw poking out of the opening.

“Look, Fer…” she says, holding it up to his eyes, and he smiles as he looks at it.

“Look how little it is…” he says.

“His name is Mr Crab,” she says with a grin. “Will you help me find more?” she asks, looking up at Fernando, who sets his beer down on the sand.

“Of course, princesa…” he answers, getting up. Bianca takes his hand and the two of them walk away towards the shoreline, talking about shells, hermit crabs, or who knows what.

You pause for a moment to take in the scene, thinking about how that should be normal for a child her age, having a father, and yet for her it is not. She has her uncle, her grandfather, a friend of her mother, but a father, no, never.

And just as that figure is missing for her, someone is missing for you too, someone to hold you in the evening, to laugh with you over those tiny, stupid things no one else gets.

The truth is, you wrapped yourself in a bubble of motherhood and work, never really giving yourself the chance to look for something more, convincing yourself you didn’t need it, that it wasn’t the right time.

But you are tired, tired of being alone, of never having a caress, a smile from someone for whom you come before everything else.

“Mum, look, look at the crab, Mum!” Bianca’s voice pulls you back to reality. You smile and get up, walking over to them.

“Oh my God, Bibi, that thing is huge!” you say, seeing the gigantic crab they found hidden among the rocks.

“Shall we take him?” she asks, looking at both of you.

“I am not even thinking about it,” you reply.

“I don’t think it is a great idea to try to grab that thing,” Fernando adds, amused.

“Can we go swimming?” she asks then, changing the subject.

“It is almost dinner time…” you say.

“Come on, come on, just a little bit,” she begs, bouncing on her feet.

Fernando laughs and stands up. A second later you feel one of his hands on your back and the other under your knees, he lifts you off the ground and scoops you up. “I’ve got the princesa, come on mami, just a little swim,” he laughs, looking at you.

“Fer… I am going to kill you,” you say, laughing, your hands on his shoulders as he wades into the water with Bianca splashing everywhere before throwing herself in.

When the water reaches his waist, he lets you go and you resurface, splashing him. “You are such a pain in the ass, Alonso,” you say, laughing, and he tries to defend himself, wrapping his arms around you from behind and holding your arms still.

“Look who’s talking…” he says, amused. “…if you weren’t so beautiful I would drown you on the spot,” he whispers against your ear.

And for a second you are not sure what to say. You feel his warm, wet skin against your back, his hands on your waist. You turn your head and look at him, he smiles. “Come on, you know you are gorgeous…” he says with that look you have never seen on anyone else’s face, only his.

“Will you throw me in the water?” Bianca’s voice cuts through the moment. Fernando’s hands slip away and he turns to grab her and send her flying into a huge splash.

You are not entirely sure what just happened, but his voice still buzzes in your ears and his hands still burn on your skin.

What the hell was that?

–

It is late in the evening. Bianca is asleep, and your parents too, Carlos and Rebecca have gone for a walk in town. Fernando disappeared to make a phone call in his room and you are enjoying the sea breeze on the terrace, a bit of silence and time for yourself.

You have been there for about ten minutes when you hear footsteps behind you and, when you turn, there is Fer, in shorts and a white shirt, with that smile that used to make your knees weak when you were a girl and maybe still does.

“It is so quiet,” he says, leaning on the railing.

You smile. “The sea is the most relaxing sound in the world,” you say quietly, and you notice he has turned his head and is looking at you.

“What is it?” you ask with a smile.

“I was thinking that I have known you forever, and every time I see you I discover something new about you…” he says.

“And what did you discover this time?” you ask, keeping your eyes on his.

“That you are a wonderful mother,” he answers simply. “That you can still laugh at the beautiful things that happen, at the tiny ones no one else even notices. I discovered you have a birthmark on your neck behind your ear, I discovered you feel lonely too, like I do…”

You look at him, surprised. You weren’t expecting those words, not like that, not with that sincerity.

“I discovered something about myself this time as well, about me when you are around,” he goes on. “That I cannot stop thinking about how much I want to kiss you,” he adds, as if he wasn’t saying anything important, as if those words weren’t enough to literally make your knees buckle.

You look at him and, for some reason, you don’t manage to say anything. Nothing reasonable comes to mind, you can only think “Please do it,” but then why don’t you just say it.

Maybe, luckily, Fernando doesn’t need an answer. He raises his hand and cups your face, leaning in just enough to brush his lips against yours.

And then you are the one who moves, you lean into him without even thinking, and let that kiss become something entirely different from a timid caress.

He shifts so that he is standing right in front of you, one hand on your waist, the other still on your face, while yours slide to his neck and into his hair.

You don’t even know how long has passed when he pulls back, gently brushing your lips with his thumb. “You are beautiful,” he says in a low voice, and you smile, eyes down. “You are, and I have thought that for a long time,” he adds, pulling you against him.

“Do you think your parents would watch Bianca for a night so you can go to dinner with me?” he asks with a grin.

“You want to ask my father to babysit his granddaughter so you can go out with his daughter?” you ask, amused, looking up at him.

“Well, it seems more reasonable to ask him that, rather than tell him I cannot think about anything except making love to his daughter…” he replies, amused, kissing you again. “I don’t think that would go down very well.”

“No, I don’t think so either…” you whisper, amused.

“Better to lie… let’s stick to dinner for now,” he jokes, and you both laugh. He holds you and you rest your head on his shoulder.

“Fer…” you start, and he answers with a “mh” against your hair. “You know my life is a mess, right?” you ask.

“I know, you should see mine…” he answers honestly. “…I am good at handling messes, don’t worry,” he adds, and all you can do is smile.

Honestly, this feels like the best kind of mess in the world.

–

One year later

“And I decided that since Uncle Carlos has a unicorn on his helmet, you should have a fire-breathing dragon,” Bianca says, sitting in Fernando’s lap in the Aston Martin garage.

“A fire-breathing dragon…” he repeats, amused.

“Yes… so we can burn Uncle’s unicorn too,” she goes on, nodding firmly.

“Did you hear that?” Fer says to one of the team members walking by. “Please find a dragon to put on my helmet,” he laughs.

“Fire-breathing,” she corrects.

“A fire-breathing dragon,” he repeats.

“I don’t think I want to know what you two are plotting,” you say as you walk in, taking off your sunglasses.

“Winning strategy,” Fernando says with a smile, and you burst out laughing.

“Wow, you two are a great team…” you say, leaning in to kiss him. “Everything okay? Has she been a nightmare?” you ask quietly, staying very close to him.

“Hey, this princesa is never a nightmare…” he jokes, stealing another kiss.

“Stop it, you two,” Bianca exclaims. “Have you seen how much they kiss?” she says, looking at Lance Stroll, who bursts out laughing.

“They are terrible, Bibi, terrible,” Lance agrees, encouraging her.

“Stop encouraging her,” you warn him, lifting Bianca off Fernando’s lap. “Come on, let them get ready for qualifying,” you tell your daughter, who nods, then leans back in to hug Fer.

“Don’t forget the dragon,” she says with a grin. He kisses her cheek and then stands up.

“I promise,” he says, amused.

You and Bianca walk away, planning to grab something to eat and then watch qualifying, which should start in about an hour and a half.

You are sitting in the hospitality area in front of a screen when Bianca suddenly jumps to her feet. “Look, look, look!”

On the screen there is Fernando, wearing his helmet, and on it there is a large sticker, a glittery dragon breathing fire.

“He put it on, mami, he put the dragon on,” Bianca says, pointing at the screen.

You smile, amused. There is nothing, absolutely nothing Fernando wouldn’t do for her, and for you too, if you are honest.

It has only been two weeks since you moved in together. You and Bianca officially live in Monaco with him now, new house, new school, new life.

A new love.

One so big you never thought it would happen to you. And yet…

After that holiday at the beach… you did go out to dinner, and, something your father will never know, you also made love, for so long you thought you were going to run out of breath.

Then Fernando started to be there. Always.

Coming to Madrid when you were there.

Coming to Canada when you were filming a series.

Or you were the ones going to Monte Carlo, just to be with him.

Christmas was the turning point.

Together, first with your family, then in Oviedo with his… and then the mountains, a holiday with just the three of you, with him teaching Bianca how to ski and the two of you spending endless evenings in front of the fireplace.

And little by little, the loneliness disappeared.

It went away completely. You don’t even know exactly when, but it dissolved, maybe thanks to a kiss, maybe thanks to a smile, to a morning in bed with his mouth on your skin.

The photos came, the gossip came, the rumours you both ignored.

Then came the race you went to with him, where he took your hand walking into the paddock, holding Bianca’s with the other while she bombarded him with ideas on how to make his car more glittery.

And then came that evening, on the sofa, with a simple “Come live with me…”

And you did not hesitate for even a second to say yes.

Their chats were a lifeline, mixing the glamorous absurdity of Formula 1 with the comforting mundanity of a candy shop.

F: They tried to give me rice for breakfast. I refused. I need a croissant. And possibly a very strong mechanic who can fix my brain.

Y/N: Jetlag is cruel. I’m having a pain au chocolat in your honor. And no, I can’t send my strong assistant, Pierre. He’s currently battling a shelf of rogue licorice.

F: I swear, the hospitality food gets sadder every year. Save me. Send photos of the violet pastilles.

Y/N: Fuel for the soul. Remember the plan: one corner, one lemon drop. No stressing about silly rice.

One evening, after the first full Grand Prix weekend, Y/N was closing up shop. The race had been grueling, televised early in the day, and Fernando's car had suffered a late-race technical failure that dropped him out of the points.

She knew he would be furious, exhausted, and swamped by media demands. She didn't text him right away. She knew better than to interrupt a warrior licking his wounds.

Instead, she recorded a short, 10-second voice note and sent it: the sound of the bell chiming as she locked the door, followed by a quiet, deep sigh, and then the gentle rustle of the forgotten bag of lemon drops she still carried.

His reply came two hours later, just as she was settling in at home.

F: I just heard this. It's the first moment of actual peace I've had all day. I swear I could smell the chocolate.

F: Thank you, Y/N. I wanted to throw my helmet through a wall earlier. Now I just want a hot shower and your caramels.

Y/N: The caramels are waiting. The wall is safe for now. Sleep, Fernando. You earned it.

A few days later, while Fernando was between flights and enduring a four-hour layover, he dared to video call her.

Y/N answered, slightly flustered, holding her phone up as she wiped down her pastry counter. Her hair, was tied back, and she wore a dusting of flour on her cheek.

"Look at you," Fernando teased, his face appearing instantly familiar despite the grainy connection. He was sitting in a bland airport lounge, his baseball cap resting on the table beside him. "You look like you're preparing for battle."

"It was a fondant incident," Y/N explained, adjusting the camera. "My enemy has been subdued. Where are you?"

"Somewhere cold and anonymous," he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to see your shop. And your face. My view is just businessmen and overpriced coffee."

As they talked, Y/N moved the camera around, showing him the antique jars, the bright array of fruit jellies, and the cozy corner where he usually stood. It was a simple tour, but his expression softened noticeably.

"The place hasn't changed," he observed, almost wistfully. "That's good. It needs to stay exactly the same."

"It will," she promised. "I'm the guardian of the quiet and the sweet. Don't you worry."

There was a long, comfortable silence, filled only by the hum of the airport on his end and the gentle whir of the exhaust fan on hers.

"I miss you, Y/N," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper, too genuine for the airport's public setting. "This whole thing... it's just faster and louder when you're not around. I think you might be better for my racing than my engineers are."

Y/N's cheeks flushed pink, a rush of pure fluff warming her. "I'm sure they'd argue with that. But I miss you too, Fernando. Come home soon."

"Soon," he echoed, picking up his cap. "Gotta go. Boarding call. But I'll send you a picture of the next sad piece of food they try to feed me."

The call cut out, leaving Y/N smiling down at her counter, her heart a little lighter. She hadn't fixed his car or his jetlag, but she had been the anchor he needed. And for now, one text, one call, and one lemon drop at a time, was enough.

A month had passed since Fernando left. His texts were now a constant, cherished stream: pictures of dreary hotel carpets, quick critiques of rival drivers, and increasingly frequent requests for "just five minutes" on a call.

The Spanish Grand Prix weekend was approaching. It was his home race, known for its intense pressure and passionate crowds. Y/N could sense the rising tension in his brief, clipped messages.

One rainy afternoon, while polishing the bell jar covering the coconut macaroons, Y/N made a spontaneous, impulsive decision—the kind she rarely made. She booked a high-speed train ticket to Barcelona.

The Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya was a sensory overload compared to the quiet elegance of Monaco. The air vibrated with the roar of engines, the clamor of tens of thousands of cheering fans, and the constant, hurried movement of team personnel.

Y/N felt entirely out of place in her comfortable jeans and a sensible jacket, carrying a small, plain tote bag next to women draped in designer clothes and team merchandise. But she had a plan.

She texted the Lemon Line a cryptic message:

Y/N: I ran out of the good chocolate. Do you know anyone in Barcelona who might have some? I'm willing to trade lemon drops.

Fernando didn't reply immediately. He was likely in a practice session or a media scrum.

Y/N located the entrance to the paddock—an exclusive, frantic world of glass and carbon fiber. She spotted a familiar face near the Aston Martin hospitality area: Edu, Fernando's longtime security detail, a man whose permanent scowl had once terrified her in Monaco.

She approached him with a determined smile.

"Hello, Edu," she said cheerfully, extending her hand. "I’m Y/N. Fernando's... candy supplier."

Edu, clearly stressed, raised a thick, skeptical eyebrow. "You shouldn't be here, miss. He is busy. Very busy."

"I know," she assured him, lowering her voice. "But I didn't come all this way to stand in a public parking lot. I came to deliver this."

She pulled a small, heavy, custom-made tin from her bag. Inside was a fresh batch of her finest dark chocolate sea salt bars—the ones he bought for his niece—and, nestled perfectly in a separate compartment, his favorite lemon drops.

"It's his anchor," she insisted, giving Edu a pleading look. "He needs his anchor before qualifying tomorrow. Just tell him 'The Lemon Line has made a delivery.' Please, Edu."

Edu, perhaps sensing the genuine, non-fawning quality of her request, or simply recognizing the candy, grunted and took the tin. "Wait here. Don't move."

Fifteen tense minutes later, Fernando appeared. He was in his full team kit, looking utterly exhausted, his face grim with concentration. He spotted Y/N and stopped dead in his tracks. The usual press of people around him seemed to blur out.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice a mixture of shock and sheer relief.

"The shop was boring," Y/N shrugged, trying to sound casual, though her heart was hammering from the noise and excitement. "And you didn't answer my text about the chocolate crisis."

He closed the remaining distance, his eyes crinkling in a rare, exhausted smile. He didn't hug her—they were in the middle of the paddock—but he took her hand, his grip warm and fiercely possessive.

"This is insane," he muttered, pulling her briefly into the relative quiet of a nearby fire exit alcove. "The media will have a field day."

"Let them," Y/N said, her focus only on him. "I just needed to see you. You looked tired in your last call."

He opened the tin, and the smell of dark chocolate briefly cut through the smell of oil and fuel. He popped a lemon drop into his mouth instantly, closing his eyes for a brief second.

"It works," he sighed, the tension visibly leaving his shoulders. "It always works."

He looked at her, his dark eyes intense. "I have five minutes before the technical debrief. Give me two."

He didn't speak of racing or pressure. He simply held her hand, telling her about a ridiculous fight he'd witnessed between two seagulls near the hotel and asked her if the new shipment of licorice had arrived. Just five minutes of quiet, sweet normalcy.

When the time was up, he leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.

"You are reckless, Y/N," he whispered, a thrill in his tone. "And wonderful. I have a car sending my driver down the road to my hotel after the debrief. It will take you to your hotel. Wait for me. Don't go anywhere."

He gave her hand one final, firm squeeze, grabbed the tin of chocolate, and was gone—swallowed instantly by the cacophony of the paddock, leaving Y/N smiling, the scent of expensive gasoline and sweet lemon drop mingling in the Spanish air.

The silence of the hotel room was a stark contrast to the chaos of the last few hours. You checked your reflection in the darkened window one last time, smoothing out the fabric of your shirt, before the soft, electronic whir-click of the lock shattered the quiet.

You spun around just as the heavy door pushed open.

Fernando slipped inside, looking exhausted. His shoulders were tight, and he was still wearing his coat, looking like he’d brought a storm of stress in with him. But the moment he looked up and saw you standing by the edge of the bed, the storm broke.

He didn’t say a word at first. He just let the door click shut behind him, flipped the deadbolt, and finally—finally—hung the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the handle.

"Hey," he breathed out, the sound rough and full of relief.

"Hey yourself," you whispered.

He dropped his bag to the floor with a heavy thud, not even looking at where it landed. In three long strides, he crossed the room, closing the distance between you. He didn't stop until his hands were on your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You buried your face in his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the fresh night air. You could feel the tension slowly leaving his body as he wrapped his arms around you, resting his chin on top of your head.

"I thought this day would never end," he murmured into your hair, his voice vibrating against your chest. "I’ve been dying to be right here."

"I’m here," you reassured him, running your hands up his back to soothe the knots in his muscles. "We’re alone. No cameras, no schedules. Just us."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart hammer. The public mask he wore for the world was gone; this was just him, raw and open.

"Phones off?" he asked, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.

"Way ahead of you," you said, glancing at the nightstand where your phone sat, screen dark. "Mine’s been off for twenty minutes."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his own device, and powered it down without a second glance, tossing it onto the duvet. "Good. Because I don't want to share you with anyone tonight."

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of longing and promise. It wasn't rushed; there was no time limit now. It was a kiss that said he had all the time in the world to memorize you all over again.

When he broke away, he kept his forehead pressed against yours, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw.

"So," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, intimate and warm. "Now that I have you all to myself... where do you want to start?"

You smiled, pulling him toward the edge of the bed. "How about we start by forgetting the world exists outside that door?"

"Done," he agreed, letting you pull him down beside you.

The Monaco apartment was usually a fortress of solitude, but tonight, it felt like a home. The floor-to-ceiling windows were slid open, letting the warm Mediterranean breeze drift in, carrying the faint, distant hum of the city below.

You were standing on the terrace, watching the lights of the yachts bobbing in the harbor, when you heard the heavy front door click shut.

There was a pause—the sound of keys being dropped into a bowl, the slide of shoes against the floor—and then, Fernando was there.

He didn't announce himself. He simply wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, letting out a long, shuddering exhale that seemed to expel the stress of the last three race weekends.

"Home," he murmured, the vibration of his voice humming against your skin.

You covered his hands with yours, leaning back into him. "Home," you echoed softy. "How was the flight?"

"Long," he said, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot just below your ear. "Too long. But it doesn't matter now."

He turned you around gently, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He looked tired—the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that comes from adrenaline crashes and time zone hopping—but his gaze was warm. He reached up, cupping your cheek with a hand that was usually gripping a steering wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Now, his touch was impossibly gentle.

"I missed this," he confessed, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. "I missed... quiet. I missed you."

"I missed you too, Fernando."

He took your hand and led you to the low outdoor sofa, pulling you down so you were tucked into his side. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just sat there, watching the glittering coastline, the silence between you comfortable and heavy with unspoken things.

"You know," he started, his voice thoughtful, breaking the silence. "Usually, when I come back here during a break, I just want to sleep. I want to shut everything out. I feel... empty."

He paused, looking down at where his fingers were interlaced with yours.

"But this time... coming back to you... it’s different."

You looked up at him, sensing the shift in the air. "Different how?"

Fernando shifted, turning his body so he could face you fully. The playful charm he often used with the media was gone. He looked serious, almost vulnerable.

"It feels like I’m actually recharging," he said, searching for the right words in English. "On the track, everything is fast. Decisions in milliseconds. Noise. Chaos. But with you, everything slows down. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t just want to rest. I want to be."

He tightened his grip on your hand slightly. "I found myself checking my phone constantly this past week. Not for team updates, not for data. Just to see if you’d messaged. I was in a room full of people, wishing I was here, on this balcony, with you."

Your heart skipped a beat. Fernando was a man who guarded his private life fiercely, who compartmentalized everything to survive the sport. Hearing him dismantle those walls was overwhelming.

"I felt it too," you admitted, your voice quiet. "The apartment feels too big when you aren't here."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, closing his eyes. "I think... I think I’m realizing that this," he gestured between the two of you, "isn't just a distraction from the racing. It’s becoming the most important part."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense. "I don't want to hide how much I need this. How much I need you."

He didn't wait for an answer. He leaned in and kissed you—slow, deliberate, and full of a deep, grounding affection. It wasn't the kiss of a driver celebrating a win; it was the kiss of a man who had finally found his sanctuary.

The morning sun in Monaco was bright, cutting through the sheer curtains and flooding the kitchen with white light. You walked out of the bedroom, following the rich, bitter scent of espresso.

Fernando was already up. He was leaning against the kitchen island, wearing grey sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair still tousled from sleep. He was scrolling through something on his tablet, a mug steaming in his other hand.

He looked up as you entered, his expression softening instantly. He set the tablet down and reached out, pulling you into a one-armed hug.

"Buenos días," he murmured, kissing the top of your head. "Coffee?"

"Please," you said, leaning against him for a moment before hopping up onto one of the barstools.

He moved efficiently, sliding a fresh cup under the machine. As the grinder whirred to life, you glanced at the tablet he’d left on the counter. It wasn't news; it was a color-coded calendar. The blocks of travel, race weekends, simulator days, and PR events looked like a wall of bricks, with very few gaps in between.

Fernando placed the coffee in front of you and saw you looking at the schedule. He sighed, a heavy sound, and leaned his elbows on the counter, mirroring you.

"It looks worse when you see it all at once," he said, tracing a finger over a particularly dense block of dates in October.

"It looks like a nightmare, Fernando," you said honestly, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. "Three continents in three weeks?"

"Yeah." He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes serious. "That’s actually what I wanted to talk about. Last night... it was perfect. But we have to be realistic about this."

He turned the tablet so it faced both of you.

"The season is getting heavier. The triple headers are coming up. There are going to be weeks where I am in a different time zone every three days, where I’m tired and grumpy and I can’t talk for more than five minutes." He looked at you, his gaze steady but vulnerable. "I don’t want you to feel like you are just waiting for me on a shelf until I come home."

"I have my own life, Fernando," you reminded him gently. "I’m not just sitting by the phone."

"I know," he nodded quickly. "And I respect that. But I want us to survive this. The distance... it breaks people. It’s broken relationships for me before."

He reached across the counter, taking your hand.

"So, we need a strategy. I don't want to leave this up to chance."

You squeezed his hand. "Okay. Strategize. What are you thinking?"

"First," he said, tapping a few blue blocks on the calendar. "These gaps. The summer break, the weeks between the flyaways. These are sacred. No media, no events. Just us. Whether here, or in Oviedo, or wherever you want to go. We lock those dates now."

"Agreed," you said.

"Second," he continued, "I want you to come to more races. But not just the convenient ones in Europe." He hesitated. "I know it’s a lot to ask. The paddock is chaotic, and it’s not exactly a vacation for you. But if you could come to maybe... Japan? Or Brazil? It cuts the time apart in half."

"I can look at my schedule," you said, considering it. "I can make Japan work."

Fernando’s shoulders relaxed visibly. "That would mean a lot. And... the communication." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I’m not always the best at texting when I’m in 'race mode.' I get tunnel vision. You have to tell me if I’m drifting away. Call me out on it. Don't let me disappear."

It was a rare admission of weakness from a man who prided himself on precision.

"I will," you promised. "But you have to promise that when we are together, like this morning... you’re actually here. Not thinking about tire degradation or wind tunnel data."

He smirked, that familiar spark coming back into his eyes. He leaned across the counter, capturing your lips in a quick, coffee-flavored kiss.

"I promise," he whispered against your mouth. "Right now, the only data I care about is how you take your coffee."

"Black. Just like you."

"Perfect," he smiled, grabbing the tablet and flipping it face down on the counter. "Then the schedule can wait another hour."

"Hat," Fernando said, tossing a navy blue baseball cap at you.

You caught it against your chest. "Check."

"Sunglasses," he listed, sliding his own pair—large, dark, and reflective—onto his face.

"Check."

"Attitude that says 'I am nobody, please do not look at me'," he finished, pulling the brim of his Kimoa cap low over his forehead until his eyes were completely shadowed.

You laughed, adjusting your own glasses. "I think that’s your default setting, Fernando. I have to practice."

"Come on," he smirked, opening the door. "Let’s go be normal."

The goal was simple: grocery shopping. It was a mundane task that most people dreaded, but for Fernando, it was a novelty. In a life where nutritionists planned meals and assistants filled fridges, picking out your own tomatoes felt like a rebellious act of freedom.

You took the elevator down and slipped out the back exit of the building, avoiding the main thoroughfare. The Monaco sun was high, baking the pavement, but a cool breeze came off the water.

You walked briskly toward the Marché de la Condamine. Fernando walked with a specific rhythm—head down, purposeful, avoiding eye contact. He held your hand firmly, tucked between your bodies as if to hide the connection from prying eyes.

Inside the market, the smells of fresh basil, curing meats, and baking bread hit you. It was busy, which was actually perfect; in a crowd, it was easier to disappear.

"Okay," Fernando murmured, leaning close to your ear as he grabbed a plastic basket. "What is the strategy? Pasta? Fish?"

"I was thinking we make paella," you teased, knowing his stance on non-authentic paella.

He stopped dead in the produce aisle, looking at you over the top of his sunglasses. "You are banned from the kitchen. We are making grilled fish and salad. Safe. Impossible to ruin."

"Fine, Chef Alonso. Lead the way."

Watching Fernando navigate a vegetable stand was surprisingly entertaining. He approached it with the same analytical intensity he applied to a race track. He picked up a red pepper, inspecting it for flaws, turning it over in his hands before nodding in approval and placing it gently in the basket.

"Too soft," he muttered, rejecting a lemon and reaching for another.

"You know, you’re very picky for someone who usually eats out of Tupperware containers," you whispered, nudging his arm.

"Quality control is essential in all aspects of life, cariño," he deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth twitched up.

For twenty minutes, you were just a couple. You argued playfully over which brand of olive oil was better (he insisted the Spanish one was superior to the Italian option; you let him win). You dodged a tourist who was walking while filming a vlog, holding your breath as the camera swept past you, but the lens didn't linger. You were invisible.

At the checkout, Fernando insisted on packing the bags himself, organizing items by weight and fragility with impressive speed.

"Tetris master," you commented as he fit a carton of eggs perfectly into a gap between the yogurt and the fruit.

"Efficiency," he grunted, hoisting the heavy canvas bags onto his shoulder.

Walking back to the apartment, the tension of "being seen" seemed to evaporate. The bags were heavy, the hill was steep, and sweat was starting to prickle at your hairline, but Fernando looked content.

"We did it," he said as you reached the private entrance of his building, the cool air of the lobby washing over you. "Mission accomplished. Zero selfies requested."

He set the bags down on the floor while waiting for the elevator, turning to face you. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his hat, revealing eyes that were bright and crinkled with amusement.

"That was..." he paused, searching for the word.

"Boring?" you suggested.

"Wonderful," he corrected. He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "It was the most normal hour I have had in six months. Thank you."

"Anytime," you smiled. "Now, let’s go see if your fish strategy pays off."

The shift from the slow, sun-drenched quiet of Monaco to the neon-lit, rain-soaked intensity of Suzuka was jarring.

The Japanese Grand Prix had been a disaster. Not because Fernando had driven poorly—he had driven like a man possessed, dragging the car into podium contention—but because a botched pit stop and a subsequent sensor failure had dropped him from 3rd to 9th.

You were waiting in his hotel room. The race had finished hours ago, but the debrief had run long. You could imagine the atmosphere in that engineering room: tense, sharp, and suffocating.

When the keycard finally beeped, the door didn't open; it was shoved inward.

Fernando walked in, and the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. He was still wearing his team kit, the collar pulled tight, his backpack slung over one shoulder like a burden. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. He looked exhausted, furious, and wired all at once.

He didn't say hello. He walked straight past you, dropped his bag onto the armchair with a heavy thud, and paced to the window, staring out at the dark, rain-streaked glass.

"Unbelievable," he hissed, the word cutting through the silence. "Absolutely amateur. We throw away points like they are free."

He ran a hand aggressively through his hair, messing up the already chaotic style.

"I give them 110 percent every lap. Every corner. And for what? To watch the Red Bulls drive away while I am stuck staring at a mechanic struggling with a wheel gun?"

He turned, ready to pace again, his eyes wild with lingering adrenaline and frustration. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall.

"Fernando," you said softly.

You didn't stay seated. You got up and walked over to him, not rushing, just steady movement. You didn't try to argue with him or tell him "it's just a race"—you knew better. To him, it was everything.

You stopped right in front of him, blocking his path.

"Hey," you whispered, reaching out to place your hands flat against his chest, right over the team logo. "Look at me."

He stopped. His chest was heaving with shallow breaths. For a second, he looked over your head, his mind still replayng lap 24, still fighting the car.

"I am here," you said, your voice a gentle anchor. "You’re not at the track anymore. You’re not in the car. You’re with me."

He blinked, his gaze finally snapping down to yours. The fire in his eyes didn't go out, but it flickered, wavering under the softness of your expression.

"I can't believe—" he started again, his voice cracking with the strain.

"I know," you soothed, sliding your hands up to cup his face. His skin was hot, his stubble rough against your palms. "I know it’s unfair. I know you deserved that podium. I saw you drive. You were incredible."

You stroked your thumbs over his cheekbones, forcing him to physically lower his head.

"But it's done. You can't drive the lap again tonight."

Fernando let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally slumping as the fight drained out of him. He closed his eyes, leaning his face into your touch, surrendering to the warmth of your hands.

"I’m so tired, Y/N," he admitted, the anger replaced by a crushing weariness. "I am so tired of fighting the car and the luck."

"Come here," you murmured.

You guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. He sat obediently, like a machine that had finally been switched off. You knelt in front of him, unlacing his heavy team trainers. He watched you silently, his expression softening into something profoundly grateful.

When you pulled his shoes off and set them aside, you stayed on the floor between his knees, resting your hands on his thighs.

"You held up your end of the bargain," you told him, looking up into his dark eyes. "You drove your heart out. Now let me do mine. Let me take care of you."

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in the crook of your neck. He held on tight, almost desperate, inhaling the scent of your shampoo—something that smelled like home, not burning rubber and petrol.

"Thank you for coming," he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick. "If I had come back to an empty room tonight... I think I would have gone crazy."

You rubbed his back, feeling the tension slowly unspooling from his spine. "I told you. I’m not letting you disappear into the tunnel vision."

He pulled back just enough to kiss you—soft, lingering, and apologetic.

"I'm sorry I walked in like a storm," he whispered, his forehead resting against yours.

"I can handle the storm," you smiled, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead. "Now, I ordered room service. It’s terrible hotel pasta, but it’s warm. And I found that Japanese tea you like."

A small, genuine smile finally broke through his exhaustion. "You are too good to me."

"I know," you teased gently, standing up and pulling him with you. "Come on. Eat. Sleep. We leave the race at the track."

The red digital numbers on the hotel alarm clock read 03:14.

Outside, the rain had picked up again, drumming a steady, rhythmic beat against the glass of the high-rise hotel window. Inside, the room was pitch black, save for the faint glow of the city filtering through the curtains.

You woke up not because of a noise, but because of the absence of warmth beside you.

You rolled over, blinking in the darkness. Fernando was still in bed, but he was lying flat on his back, rigid as a board. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling shadows. Even in the dark, you could feel the tension radiating off him, a low-level hum of anxiety that hadn't dissipated.

"Fernando," you whispered, your voice raspy with sleep.

He didn't jump, but he blinked slowly, as if pulling himself out of a trance. "Sorry," he rasped, his voice dry. "Did I wake you?"

"No," you lied softly, shifting closer to him. You rested a hand on his chest. His heart was beating a little too fast, a steady, anxious thrum. "You're replaying it, aren't you?"

He let out a long, frustrated sigh, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Lap 24," he muttered. "If I had come in one lap earlier. Or if the front jack man hadn't hesitated. I can see it, Y/N. I close my eyes and I see the telemetry. I see the gap to Perez opening up and I can't close it."

"The race is done, Fernando."

"My brain doesn't know that," he confessed, turning his head to look at you. "My body is exhausted. My legs ache. My neck is killing me. But my mind? It’s still doing 300 kilometers per hour."

You sat up slowly, pulling the duvet down to his waist. "Turn over."

"What?"

"Turn over," you repeated gently, guiding his shoulder. "You're holding all that G-force in your neck. You’ll never sleep like this."

He hesitated for a second, then complied, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the pillow. He groaned low in his throat as you straddled his hips, settling your weight comfortably so you could reach his shoulders.

"God, you are like a rock," you murmured, your thumbs pressing into the corded muscles at the base of his neck. They were rock hard, knotted with the immense physical strain of wrestling an F1 car around Suzuka for two hours.

"Don't go easy," he mumbled into the pillow.

You didn't. You dug your thumbs in deep, working out the tension in his trapezius muscles. He hissed in a breath through his teeth, his hands gripping the sheets, but he didn't pull away.

"Breathe," you instructed softly. "In... and out."

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the rain outside and his ragged breathing. You worked your way down his spine, kneading the muscles with a rhythmic, hypnotic pressure. With every pass of your hands, you felt him sink a little deeper into the mattress.

"You need to forgive yourself for the race," you said quietly, your hands moving back up to his shoulders. "It wasn't your mistake."

"I know," he breathed out, his voice sounding heavier, slurring slightly with incoming sleep. "I just... I hate losing."

"I know you do. That's why you're the best." You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his shoulder blade. "But even the best need to sleep so they can fight again."

His grip on the sheets loosened. His breathing deepened, the sharp, anxious edge smoothing out into a slow, steady rhythm. The adrenaline that had been holding him hostage was finally being pushed out by your touch.

"That feels... good," he whispered, the words barely audible.

You slowed your movements, transitioning from deep pressure to long, soothing strokes down his back. "Better?"

"Much," he sighed.

You climbed off him, sliding back under the covers and curling up against his side. He immediately shifted, wrapping a heavy arm around you and pulling you backward until your back was flush against his chest. He buried his nose in your hair, his breathing now deep and even.

"Stay," he mumbled, already half-asleep.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered into the darkness.

Within moments, the tension was gone, and finally, Fernando slept.

The roar of the V6 engines, the blinding flash of cameras, and the humid heat of the circuits felt like a lifetime ago. Here, in the mountains of Asturias, there was only the sound of the wind moving through the trees and the crackle of the fireplace.

It was late December. The season was officially over.

You were curled up on the oversized leather sofa in Fernando’s living room, a thick wool blanket draped over your legs. Outside, the northern Spanish winter had settled in, painting the landscape in greys and greens, mist clinging to the hills. Inside, it was warm and smelled of woodsmoke.

Fernando walked in from the kitchen, carrying two glasses of red wine. He was wearing a heavy knit sweater and jeans—no team logos, no sponsors, just him. He looked younger, the deep lines of exhaustion that had etched his face in Japan smoothed away by weeks of genuine rest.

He handed you a glass and sat down, not on the other end of the sofa, but on the floor right in front of you, leaning his back against your legs.

"To the off-season," he toasted softly, clinking his glass against yours.

"To the off-season," you smiled, taking a sip. "And to surviving the calendar."

He chuckled, a low, resonant sound, and tilted his head back to look at you upside down. "We did more than survive it, I think."

He turned around, resting his arm on your knees so he could face you properly. His expression was reflective, serious in that intense way of his, but without the hardness.

"I was looking at the trophy cabinet today," he said quietly. "At the museum. All those years, all those wins. And I realized that this year... even without the championship, it was one of my favorites."

"Why?" you asked, running your fingers through his hair.

He caught your hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss your knuckles. "Because usually, when the visor goes down, I am alone. And when the race is over, I go back to a hotel room and I am alone. But this year... in Monaco, in Japan, in Brazil... I carried you with me."

He looked at you with a vulnerability that he showed the world rarely, if ever.

"You kept me grounded, Y/N. You kept me sane. The strategy worked."

"I told you," you teased gently, though your throat felt tight with emotion. "I’m a good strategist."

"The best," he agreed. He set his wine glass down on the coffee table and shifted, rising to his knees so he was eye-level with you. He framed your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

"The calendar for next year is already out," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips. "It’s going to be harder. More races. More chaos."

"We'll manage," you said confidently.

"I know we will," he nodded. "Because I'm not doing it without you. Wherever I go, you are my home now. Whether it’s a hotel room in Suzuka or right here in Oviedo."

He leaned in, closing the gap between you. The kiss was slow, deep, and tasted of red wine and absolute certainty. It wasn't a desperate kiss of reunion or a hurried kiss before a flight. It was the kiss of a man who had finally crossed the finish line and realized the best prize wasn't a trophy—it was this.

He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

"We have two months," he murmured, closing his eyes. "No alarms. No flights. Just us."

"Just us," you echoed, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Outside, the wind howled through the Asturian mountains, but inside, everything was perfect, quiet, and still.

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The Madrid gala shimmered with gold. Chandeliers glittering like constellations, champagne flutes catching the light, the murmur of a hundred conversations blending into a soft, elegant hum. Flashbulbs burst constantly near the entrance, where Fernando and his partner posed for photos.

She stood beside him, serene in a pale gown that brushed the floor, her hearing aid catching a faint gleam beneath her hair. Cameras adored her, the poised tennis star who claimed three Grand Slam titles, despite being born deaf. But tonight, she wasn’t there as an athlete; she was there as Fernando’s partner, the quiet balance to his quicksilver charm.

He turned slightly, signing You look beautiful tonight.

She smiled, replying, So do you. If I ignore the tie.

He cuckold, a low, familiar sound. Their private jokes, their shared language, it was the kind of intimacy that didn’t need noise to exist.

Inside the ballroom, the crowd pressed closer. Waiters drifted through with trays of cava and canapés. The kind of event where conversations flowed too fast and the lighting was designed for photographs, not comfort. She held her own with grace, smiling, nodding, reading lis as best she could. Fernando stayed close, always a subtle step behind, ready to bridge the gap when people forgot to look at her while speaking.

And they often did.

He had seen it too many times, the polite dismissal, the awkward pause when she didn’t catch a comment, the way people shifted uncomfortably once they noticed the hearing aid. But she never let it show. Years of experience had trained her smile to remain steady even when her chest tightened.

A man from one of the Spanish networks approached with a sharp suit and a confident grin. “Fernando!” He said, clapping him on the back before turning towards her. “Andi you must be–” He trailed off, eyes flicking to her hearing aid. “Oh. Right.” The tone changed, slower, exaggerated, too loud. “DO. YOU. LIKE. THE. PARTY?”

The smile didn’t falter, but Fernando saw the flicker behind her eyes.

She signed quickly — He’s shouting. Tell him I’m deaf, not miles away.

Fernando’s jaw tightened. He shifted his weight, his expression still polite but unmistakably firm. “You don’t need to raise your voice,” he told the man evenly. “She can read lips just fine. And she speaks Spanish.

The journalist’s grin wavered. “Ah, of course, my mistake. I just thought–”

“You thought wrong,” Fernando cut in before he could finish. “Maybe next time, think first.”

The air went still for a moment. Cameras flashed nearby. She touched his arm gently, a silent plea to let it go. He exhaled through his nose, then turned back to her, hands moving fluidly in the space between them. You okay?

I’m fine, she signed, though her fingers hesitated. Just tired of being a headline before I can even speak.

He reached for her hand, threading their fingers together. They’ll learn. One way or another.

The rest of the evening passed in fragments. Speeches, polite applause, flashes of light. When the table was finally cleared and the crowd began to thin, Fernando excused them quietly. He guided her towards the balcony, away from the noise and the forced smiles.

Outside, Madrid’s night air was cool, soft against her skin. The city stretched below them, the glittering roads leading somewhere quieter.

She took a slow breath, closing her eyes. The silence wasn’t empty. It was peaceful.

He joined her at the railing, resting his hand on the small of her back. “You did well in there,” he said, his voice gentle but clear. Now that they were outside and away from the loud room, her hearing aid allowed her to hear his voice clearer.

She gave a faint smile. “So did you. Though I think your PR team will be sending you an email before breakfast.”

He laughed, the sound carrying softly into the night. “They already expect it. I told them I don’t stay quiet when people forget their manners.”

Her expression softened. “You didn’t have to defend me, you know.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wanted to.”

His hand moved, fingers spelling out slow, deliberate signs, You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Ever. 

Her throat tightened, “You make it sound simple.”

“It is,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Respect should be simple.”

For a while, they didn’t speak. The sounds of the gala were muted through the glass doors, replaced by the rhythmic whisper of traffic below. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he kissed her hairline gently. 

“When I was younger,” she said softly, “I used to hate being deaf. Not because of the silence. That part I liked. But because people decided what I could or couldn’t do before I even had a chance to show them.”

He glanced down at her, his thumb brushing over her hand. “And you showed them.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it never really stops. Sometimes I feel like I have to keep proving I belong here.”

Fernando’s brow furrowed. Aquí. he signed, using LSE. He tapped her heart. “You belong here. With me. Always.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her, the tension easing just slightly. “You really learned that just to say romantic things, didn’t you?”

“Maybe at first,” he admitted, his grin returning. “But now I do it because it’s our language. Because it’s how I can communicate with you.”

She blinked as the tears started to come. “You always know what to say.”

He shook his head. “No. I just mean it.””

She looked out at the skyline again, the lights reflected in her eyes. “I used to think silence was lonely,” she whispered. “But with you… it’s never felt so full.”

He smiled, turning her gently to face him. “Maybe that’s because you never needed sound to be understood.”

He raised his hands again, creating slow and steady signs. You are enough. Exactly as you are.

The words hit harder than anything said aloud. She reached for him, curling her fingers around his wrist before pressing a kiss to his palm. Then, as if the world around them had vanished, she mouthed back, “I love you.”

He didn’t need to hear it to know.

He replied in sign, simple and certain – Always.

The gala lights shimmered through the glass, muffled laughter and music filtering faintly from inside. But out on the balcony, it was just them. Two athletes, two lives built in noise and silence, finding the kind of understanding that didn’t need translation.

And when she smiled up at him, it wasn’t just gratitude, it was peace. The quiet kind that lingered long after words disappeared.

© rosietoesf1 — please do not repost, translate, or copy without permission ♡

liked by fernando and others

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