#fa14 fic

You found sanctuary on a semi-private terrace overlooking the harbor. You thought you were alone until you saw the silhouette of a man leaning against the stone railing, his tuxedo jacket unbuttoned, staring out at the dark water.

Fernando Alonso.

You froze. You knew him, of course. Everyone knew him. But you knew him through the lens of your father’s legacy—the man who raced with the same ruthless, beautiful aggression that had defined your own bloodline.

He turned his head, catching you staring. He looked older than on TV, the lines around his eyes deeper, his gaze heavier.

"If you are looking for a selfie," he said, his voice raspy and tired, "I am afraid the camera on my phone is broken."

You didn't flinch. You walked up to the railing, leaving a respectful distance between you. "Bold of you to assume I want a photo. Maybe I just wanted the view."

Fernando huffed, a half-laugh. He turned fully toward you, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "Everyone wants something in this city. Usually, it is a photo. Or a signature. Or to tell me how I should have driven Turn 1."

"Turn 1 was fine," you said casually, leaning your elbows on the stone. "It was the exit out of the chicane where you lost traction. You were too aggressive on the curb."

The silence that followed was heavy. Fernando stared at you, his eyebrows shooting up. He wasn't used to women looking like you talking about traction and curbs with such clinical precision.

"You watch the race?"

"I watch the lines," you corrected. "Most people watch the cars. The cars are boring. The mind behind the wheel… that’s where the story is."

Fernando shifted, his body language changing from defensive to intrigued. He stepped a little closer. The scent of his cologne—cedar and something spicy—drifted over. "And what does my mind say?"

"That you're angry," you said softly, turning to look him in the eye. "And that you're lonely. Even when you're going two hundred miles an hour."

It was a dangerous thing to say to a stranger. It was too personal, too perceptive. But you couldn't help it. It was the Senna instinct; you saw the soul of a driver because you had been raised in the shadow of the greatest one.

Fernando didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. The air between you suddenly felt charged, electric.

"You are very young to be analyzing the psychology of old men," he murmured. The comment on his age hung there—the elephant in the room. He was acknowledging the gap. He was giving you an out.

"And you are too old to be hiding on a balcony at your own gala," you countered, a small smile playing on your lips.

Fernando laughed, a genuine, warm sound that seemed to surprise even him. "Touché."

He rested his arm on the railing, inches from yours. "I don't know who you are. And usually, I know everyone in this shark tank."

"I'm keeping a low profile," you said. "I value my privacy. Much like you."

"A woman of mystery." He tilted his glass toward you. "Do you have a name? Or do I have to refer to you as 'The Critic'?"

"Y/N," you said. You deliberately left off the last name. The moment you said 'Senna', the dynamic would shift. The magic would break. He would look at you and see a monument, not a woman.

"Y/N," Fernando tested the name, the accent thick and rolling. It sounded different when he said it. He looked you up and down, not with lecherous intent, but with a sudden, dawning realization that he didn't want this conversation to end. "Well, Y/N. Since you have opinions on my driving... let me buy you a drink. And you can tell me what I did wrong in Sector 3."

"I don't drink," you said, lifting your water. "But I'll take a coffee. If you can find a place that isn't swarming with cameras."

Fernando grinned—the shark-like grin that he usually reserved for the podium. "I know a place."

As you walked back inside with him, his hand hovering protectively at the small of your back, you felt a distinct shiver of warning. This was reckless. The age gap, the hidden identity, the sheer gravitational pull of him.

Your mother would have been horrified. Your father? He probably would have understood the adrenaline.

Fernando’s Private Apartment, Switzerland. Three Months Later

Domesticity looked surprisingly good on Fernando Alonso.

He was currently sitting on the floor of his living room, surrounded by scattered telemetry sheets he’d brought home from the factory, but his attention was on you. You were on the sofa, reading a book, your legs draped over his shoulders as he leaned back against the cushions.

It had been three months of quiet dinners, late-night drives where he actually drove the speed limit, and a growing closeness that terrified you. You were falling in love with him. And because you were falling in love, the secret of your identity felt less like privacy and more like a lie.

Fernando sighed, tossing a sheet of paper aside. "The car is… frustrating. Sometimes I miss the old days. The raw mechanics. No hybrid systems, just the engine and the man."

He tilted his head back to look at you upside down. "You would have liked that era, querida. It was dangerous, but honest."

"I know," you said quietly, closing your book. "I watched the tapes."

"Everyone watches the tapes," Fernando dismissed gently, reaching up to squeeze your calf. "But to feel it? That was different. My hero… he knew that feeling better than anyone. He drove like he was chasing God."

Your heart hammered against your ribs. He was talking about your father. He did this sometimes—spoke of Ayrton with a reverence he showed to no one else.

"Ayrton," you whispered.

"Sì. Ayrton." Fernando’s expression softened, a distant look in his eyes. "He was the reason I wanted to be a driver. I had a poster of his McLaren in my room in Oviedo. I used to stare at it and imagine what he was thinking."

"He was probably thinking about how much he missed having a decent plate of feijoada," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

Fernando froze. He blinked, shifting to look at you properly. A frown creased his forehead. That wasn't a detail from a documentary. That wasn't public knowledge. That was a specific, domestic complaint.

"What?" he asked, a nervous chuckle escaping him. "How would you know that?"

You took a deep breath. You couldn't do this anymore. You swung your legs off his shoulders and slid down to the floor to sit opposite him, amidst the telemetry papers.

"Because he complained about the food in Europe constantly," you said, your voice trembling slightly. "And he hated the cold. And he used to hum when he was nervous."

Fernando went very still. The playfulness vanished from his face, replaced by a sharp, intense focus. He looked at you—really looked at you—searching your features. He looked at the shape of your eyes, the set of your jaw. Things he had kissed a thousand times but never contextually placed.

"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Who are you?"

"I didn't tell you because I wanted… this," you gestured between the two of you. "I wanted us to be just Fernando and Y/N. Not the Old Guard and the Legacy."

You reached into your pocket—you had been carrying it around for days, waiting for the right moment—and pulled out a small, worn photograph. It was a polaroid. A very young Ayrton Senna holding a toddler on a beach in Brazil. The toddler was you.

You slid the photo across the carpet.

Fernando looked at it. He didn't touch it at first, as if it were a holy relic. Then, with shaking hands, he picked it up. He looked at the man in the photo, then up at you. The resemblance was suddenly undeniable.

"Dios mío," he breathed. The color drained from his face.

He looked terrified. Not of you, but of the situation. The math was doing itself in his head. The age gap. The fact that he was sleeping with the daughter of the man whose poster had hung on his childhood wall. The sanctity of it.

"Are you… really?" he whispered, his voice cracking.

"I am," you confirmed. "Y/N Senna."

Fernando stood up abruptly, pacing to the window. He ran a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. "A Senna. I am dating… a Senna." He turned back to you, his eyes wide. "Does your family know? If Viviane finds out I am… that we are…"

"They don't run my life, Fernando. And neither does the ghost of my father." You stood up and crossed the room, stopping just in front of him. You didn't touch him yet; you waited to see if he would pull away. "I’m telling you because I love you. And I think… I think he would have liked you. You’re just as stubborn as he was."

Fernando stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. The shock was still there, but beneath it, the respect in his eyes deepened into something profound. He looked at you like you were precious cargo, something rare and fragile that he had to protect at all costs.

"This is dangerous," he murmured, stepping closer, his hands hovering over your waist before finally settling there, firm and possessive. "If the press finds out… if the paddock finds out… they will eat us alive. They will say I am too old. They will say I am tarnishing the legacy."

"Let them talk," you said, resting your hands on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath the fabric of his shirt. "We’ll be faster than them."

Fernando let out a breathy laugh, resting his forehead against yours. He closed his eyes, accepting the reality.

"Okay," he whispered. "Okay. But you must promise me one thing."

"What?"

"Do not tell me I drive like him," he said seriously, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Because I will cry. And that is not good for my reputation."

The silence in the apartment following your confession wasn't empty; it was heavy with the weight of what you had just admitted. The name "Senna" didn't just mean a family; in this world, it meant a religion. And Fernando knew better than anyone that he had just stepped onto holy ground.

He pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly. The playful, domestic Fernando was gone. This was the World Champion, calculating risk and strategy.

"Y/N," he started, his voice rough. "You need to understand. If this gets out… if they know who you are, and that you are with me… there is no going back."

"I know," you replied, your voice steady.

"No, you don't," he interrupted, shaking his head. He began to pace again, his agitation evident. "The press? They are sharks. But for this? They will be piranhas. They will analyze every photo. They will talk about the twenty years between us. They will say I am trying to relive the past through you. They will say you have—how do they say it in English?—daddy issues."

He stopped, looking pained. "I cannot let them do that to you. I cannot let them turn us into a headline."

You walked over to him, taking his hand. His skin was rough, calloused from the steering wheel. "Fernando, I’ve lived my whole life as a headline waiting to happen. 'The Orphan Daughter.' 'The Legacy.' I’m tired of it. With you? I’m just Y/N. I don’t want to lose that."

Fernando looked down at your joined hands. He squeezed your fingers. "I have lived my life in front of a camera since I was nineteen. I have given them everything. My anger, my joy, my mistakes. I do not want to give them this."

He looked up, his dark eyes fierce and protective. "I want to be selfish. For the first time, I want something that is just mine."

"Then we don't tell them," you said simply. "We lock it down. No social media posts. No paddock walks holding hands. We arrive separately. We leave separately."

"It will be hard," Fernando warned. "The paddock is small. People talk. Drivers notice things." (You both unknowingly thought of the same nosy Canadian in the Aston Martin garage).

"I don't care how hard it is," you insisted. "I want to be your partner, Fernando. Not 'Fernando Alonso's girlfriend, the Senna girl.' Just your partner."

Fernando exhaled, a long, releasing breath. He lifted your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles with a solemnity that felt like a vow.

"Just us," he murmured against your skin. "No cameras. No journalists. Just us."

"Promise?"

He pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you tightly, burying his face in your hair. You could feel the tension leaving his frame, replaced by a steely resolve.

"I promise," he whispered. "This is just for us. Until the end of the world."

And in that moment, the deal was struck. You had your secret. Now, you just had to keep it.

For the next two years, you became masters of the invisible life.

While the world argued about Fernando’s contract renewals and tire strategies, the two of you existed in the pockets of silence between the noise. It wasn't about hiding because you were ashamed; it was about hiding because what you had was too good to share.

You perfected the art of the "coincidence." He would fly to Tokyo for a sponsor event; you would fly to Kyoto for "business." He would post a photo of a gym in Dubai; you were actually both in a rental cabin in the snowy peaks of Hokkaido, wearing oversized hoodies and beanies, walking hand-in-hand through empty streets where no one looked twice at the man with the beard and the woman laughing at his jokes.

There were no VIP sections. No paddock clubs. Just cheap noodles in hole-in-the-wall restaurants and the feeling of his hand squeezing yours under the table, a secret language only you two spoke.

Insomnia was Fernando’s oldest companion. The adrenaline of the track didn't always fade when the engine turned off.

On those nights, you’d wake up to the smell of garlic and olive oil. You’d walk into the kitchen of his Lugano apartment, rubbing sleep from your eyes, to find him standing over the stove in sweatpants, carefully stirring spaghetti.

"Too loud in my head," he’d murmur, not looking up, but reaching a hand out for you.

You would slot yourself against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his spine. You didn't tell him to go to sleep. You didn't ask about the car. You just stood there, a warm, grounding weight, anchoring him back to earth.

"The water needs more salt," you’d mumble into his shirt.

"Everyone is a critic," he’d chuckle, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. And you’d eat pasta at 3:30 AM, sitting on the counter, talking about everything except racing.

Since you couldn't text him "I love you" while he was in the garage—too risky, phones were always being filmed—you developed an analog system.

He would open his carry-on bag in a hotel room in Baku or Silverstone, and there, tucked between his fresh race suit and his balaclava, would be a small, folded piece of paper.

“Don’t be grumpy with the engineers today. Even if they deserve it. - Y/N” “I packed the tea you like. Drive safe. Come home.” “Remember: Turn 4 is tricky. (I’m kidding. I love you.)”

He kept every single one. They were hidden in a safe in his bedroom, a stack of paper that meant more to him than any trophy.

The hardest days were the Sundays when the car failed him. When the strategy was wrong, or the engine gave out, or he just didn't have the pace.

The public saw the "Classic Fernando" frustration—the radio messages, the scowls in the media pen. But when the front door clicked shut and the world was locked out, he didn't have to perform.

He would drop his bag, looking exhausted and old, the weight of twenty years of racing crushing him.

You wouldn't ask “What happened?” You knew what happened; you were a Senna, you read the race better than the commentators.

Instead, you would just be there. You’d pour him a glass of wine, turn off the lights, and sit on the couch. He would lay his head in your lap, legs sprawled out, closing his eyes while you ran your fingers through his hair.

"I hate this sport," he would whisper, a lie he told every week.

"I know," you would soothe, the truth you offered in return. "But you were fast in Sector 2."

He would let out a breath, turning his face into your stomach, hiding from the world. In those moments, he wasn't the double world champion. He was just a man who was loved.

It was perfect. It was quiet.

And naturally, it was about to be ruined by Lance Stroll.

A small, 12th-century chapel in the mountains of Asturias, Spain. The middle of the summer break

There were no helicopters circling overhead. There were no "exclusive" deals with Hello! magazine. There wasn't even a grid full of drivers.

There was just the smell of pine, the cool mountain air of northern Spain, and the sound of dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the stone windows.

It was so small that if you blinked, the world would miss it. Just you, Fernando, a local priest who didn't own a television, and two witnesses: his oldest friend from Oviedo, and your cousin from Brazil who had flown in under the guise of a "European backpacking trip."

Fernando stood at the altar. He had won thirty-two races. He had stood on podiums with hundreds of thousands of people chanting his name. He had faced death at 200 miles per hour more times than he could count.

But as the heavy wooden doors creaked open, Fernando Alonso looked like he was about to faint.

He wasn't wearing a team kit or a sponsor cap. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, fitted perfectly, his hands clasped tightly in front of him to stop them from shaking.

You walked down the short stone aisle. You wore a simple white slip dress—no train, no veil, just elegance. In your hand, you carried a small bouquet of wildflowers you had picked from the roadside an hour ago. Pinned to the inside of your dress, against your heart, was a small gold locket with a picture of your father. He wasn't walking you down the aisle, but he was there.

When Fernando looked up and saw you, the air left the room.

His composure—the legendary focus—shattered. His face crumpled, just for a second, raw and unguarded. He brought a hand up to his mouth, his eyes rapidly filling with tears. He blinked hard, trying to clear them, but one escaped, tracking a slow path down his cheek.

He looked at you not as a driver, or a celebrity, or a legacy. He looked at you as the only thing that made the noise stop.

You reached him, taking his hands. They were warm and trembling.

"You look..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He just shook his head, squeezing your fingers. "Beautiful."

The ceremony was short. The priest spoke in soft Spanish, words about endurance, patience, and the journey. When it came time for the vows, Fernando didn't read from a card. He looked straight into your eyes, his dark gaze intense and wet.

"I have spent my life chasing time," he whispered, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Always looking for the next tenth of a second. Always rushing to the next destination."

He took a breath, his voice thick with emotion.

"But with you, I want to stop. I do not want to race anymore. When I am with you, the world is quiet."

He slid a simple gold band onto your finger—no diamonds, nothing flashy that would catch the light of a camera lens.

"You are my peace, mi alma," he said, stepping closer to press his forehead against yours, ignoring the priest for a moment. "You are my home. Wherever we are... you are my home."

"You are my home," you whispered back, the promise settling deep in your bones.

You kissed him. It wasn't a performance for a crowd. It was soft, desperate, and filled with relief.

When you walked out of the chapel ten minutes later, you weren't Y/N Senna and Fernando Alonso, the superstars. You were just a husband and wife, standing on a mountain, holding hands.

"So," Fernando said, wiping the last evidence of tears from his face and putting his sunglasses on to hide his red eyes. He squeezed your hand. "We are married."

"We are," you smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder.

"Good," he nodded, looking out over the hills of his homeland. "Now, let's go eat. I am starving, and I promised you the best fabada in Asturias."

It was the happiest day of your life. And nobody else knew it had happened.

Morumbi Cemetery, São Paulo, Brazil. Late evening, the week before the Brazilian Grand Prix (Secret Trip).

The pregnancy had been a masterclass in evasion. You wore oversized hoodies. You stopped attending races entirely. You posted "throwback" photos on your private Instagram to throw people off the scent.

But at home, Fernando was a different man. The "Matador" had become a fortress.

He treated you like you were made of glass. He wouldn't let you carry a grocery bag. He researched nutrition with the same obsessive intensity he used for analyzing tire degradation. When he was home, he spent hours just resting his hand on your stomach, feeling the kicks, his face filled with a terrified wonder.

But there was one thing he needed to do before the baby arrived. He needed to make peace with the ghosts.

He told you he was going for a drive. He took a rental car—a nondescript sedan—and drove to the Morumbi Cemetery.

It was dusk. The cemetery was vast, a green sea of grass under the heavy São Paulo sky. He walked to the center, to the simple brass plaque that marked the resting place of Ayrton Senna, and next to it, the resting place of your mother.

Fernando stood there for a long time. He held a cap in his hands, twisting the brim. He looked around to ensure he was truly alone.

Then, he knelt on the grass. Not in front of Ayrton, but in front of your mother’s plaque.

"Senhora," he began, his voice rough and quiet. He spoke in Portuguese, a language he knew well enough, but he stumbled slightly over the words, his nervousness palpable.

"I know... I know I am not who you would have chosen for her," he admitted, staring at the name engraved in the metal. "I am too old. I am stubborn. I am a driver, and you know better than anyone the pain a driver brings to a family."

He swallowed hard, looking down at his hands—hands that had steered championship cars, hands that were now trembling slightly.

"But I need to ask you... I need to ask your permission. I did not ask before we married. I was a coward. But now..."

He touched the grass gently.

"There is a baby coming. A boy. And I am terrified," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I know how to race. I know how to fight. But I do not know how to be a father to a piece of this legacy."

The wind rustled the trees, a soft, mournful sound. Fernando took a deep breath, his eyes glossy.

"I promise you," he said, his voice firming up with that steely resolve he was famous for. "I will protect them. The world will not touch them. The cameras will not touch them. I will be the wall between them and the noise."

He paused, a tear slipping down his cheek.

"I will love her enough for two lifetimes. I will love her enough to make up for the loss she carries."

He stayed there for a long time, kneeling in the dirt, making his peace. He told her about your cravings (strawberries and balsamic vinegar). He told her about how you laughed at his dad jokes. He told her that you were happy.

Finally, he stood up. He wiped his face, put his cap back on, and touched the plaque one last time.

"Obrigado," he whispered. "I won't let you down."

When he came back to the hotel that night, his eyes were red, but his spirit was lighter. He walked straight to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

"Where did you go?" you asked softly, running your fingers through his hair.

"To ask for a blessing," he murmured against your skin. "And I think... I think we got it."

A Private Clinic in Lugano, Switzerland. 4:12 AM.

The room was dimly lit, the only sound the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and the soft, snuffling breaths of the tiny bundle resting on your chest.

The adrenaline of labor had faded, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and a terrifying, overwhelming love.

Fernando sat in the chair beside the bed. He was still wearing the hoodie he had thrown on when your water broke, his hair a mess. He looked wrecked. He looked perfect.

He hadn't let go of your hand for four hours.

"He is..." Fernando started, but his voice failed him. He cleared his throat, leaning forward to look at the baby again, as if he couldn't believe he was real. "He is so small."

"He's perfect," you whispered, stroking the baby’s dark hair—hair that was thick and jet black, just like his father’s.

"Do you want to hold him?" you asked.

Fernando hesitated. The man who wrestled F1 cars around Monaco at 300km/h looked at the 7-pound baby like he was a bomb that might explode.

"I... I am afraid I will break him," he admitted, his voice trembling.

"You won't. You have good hands. Come here."

You carefully transferred the baby into his arms. Fernando adjusted his hold, supporting the tiny head with a tenderness that made your chest ache. As the weight settled against him, the baby shifted, letting out a small sigh.

That was the moment the dam broke.

Fernando looked down at his son, and his face crumbled. Silent tears spilled over his lashes, tracking through the stubble on his cheeks. He didn't try to hide them. He didn't wipe them away. He just stared, completely undone.

"Hola, pequeño," he whispered, his voice broken and wet. "I am your papa."

He looked up at you, his eyes swimming. "He has your mouth. Thank God he has your mouth and not mine."

You laughed softly, wiping a tear from your own cheek. "He has your eyebrows, Nando. There’s no denying that."

"We will fix that with tweezers later," he joked weakly, sniffling.

"Come here," you said, reaching for your phone on the bedside table.

Fernando leaned in, the baby nestled between you. You didn't use a filter. You didn't fix your hair. You just captured the moment: You, exhausted and glowing; Fernando, red-eyed and besotted; and the baby, sleeping soundly between his parents.

You looked at the screen. It was raw and real.

"Send it to me," Fernando said. "And then... put it in the Vault."

"The Vault" was your shared, encrypted folder. The one that never touched the cloud.

"No one sees this," Fernando said firmly, looking back at the baby. "Not yet. I don't want the congratulations. I don't want the tweets. I just want... this. I want to be a father before I am a driver again."

"No one knows," you agreed. "Just us. And the doctors."

"And Alain," Fernando sighed, grimacing slightly. "Because he sent the gift basket to the wrong hospital initially and my assistant had to correct him. But Alain is retired. He is old school. He doesn't know how to use Instagram. He is safe."

(Oh, the irony. The terrible, terrible irony).

Two hours later, reality knocked. He had a flight to catch. The Spanish Grand Prix—his home race—was waiting. He had tried to cancel, but you had insisted. The championship was tight.

He stood by the door with his bag, looking like he was being torn in half. He kissed your forehead, then kissed the baby’s head.

"I will fly back Sunday night," he promised. "As soon as the flag drops. I won't even do the media pen if I can help it."

"Go drive fast," you whispered. "We'll be here."

"Remember," he said, pointing a stern finger at you, though his eyes were soft. "Total silence. If anyone asks, you are on a spa retreat. No baby emojis. No hints."

"I am a vault," you promised.

He left, pulling his cap low over his eyes to hide the happiness radiating from him. He thought he was safe. He thought the secret was locked down tight.

He forgot that Alain Prost was working as a pundit this weekend.

Fernando looked like he had been hit by a truck, but he was smiling like he had just won the lottery.

He was sitting in the corner of the driver’s room, slumped deep into a beanbag chair. The dark circles under his eyes were bruised and heavy—the unmistakable mark of a man who hadn't slept more than two consecutive hours in three days. He was clutching a double espresso as if it were a life raft.

But every time his phone buzzed, the exhaustion vanished.

Lance Stroll stood by the doorway, arms crossed, watching. He felt like a wildlife photographer observing a rare species: The Domesticated Alonso.

Fernando unlocked his phone. His face transformed. The hard, competitive edge melted into a goofy, soft grin that made him look ten years younger. He typed something quickly, chuckled to himself, and then locked the phone, pressing it against his chest.

Lance had seen enough. He walked over and kicked the beanbag next to Fernando.

"Okay," Lance said, sitting down. "Spill it."

Fernando jumped, blinking rapidly. "Spill what? The coffee? I need this coffee, Lance. Do not kick me."

"You know what," Lance said, leaning forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "You look like a zombie from The Walking Dead, but you’ve been giggling at your phone for twenty minutes. You haven’t looked at the track data once."

"I know the track," Fernando scoffed, rubbing his eyes. "I have driven this track since before you were born. I could drive it blindfolded."

"Don't change the subject," Lance pressed. He pointed a finger at Fernando’s face. "The dark circles. The secret trips to Switzerland. The fact that you were buying a stuffed alpaca in the airport gift shop last month."

Fernando froze. "I like alpacas. They are... aerodynamic."

"Bullshit," Lance said. "Dude, I’ve got you figured out."

Fernando straightened up, his defenses rising. "You have an active imagination. I am just tired. It is... the jet lag."

"We are in Spain, Fernando," Lance deadpanned. "You live in Europe. There is no jet lag."

"I am old," Fernando tried again, taking a sip of coffee. "Old men get tired. We nap. It is natural."

Lance shook his head, a smug grin spreading across his face. He leaned in closer. "No. You’re not old. You’re a dad."

Fernando choked on his espresso. He coughed violently, pounding his own chest.

"I knew it!" Lance whispered-shouted, looking around to make sure the press officer wasn't listening. "I knew it! Who is she? Is it that mystery brunette from the charity gala two years ago? The one who told you your traction was bad?"

Fernando wiped his mouth with a napkin, his heart hammering against his ribs. Lance was too close. Way too close.

"Lance," Fernando said, his voice dangerously calm. "Focus on the race. My personal life is personal. I am just... happy. Can a man not be happy?"

"You're glowing, man. It's weirding me out," Lance laughed. "But fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll find out eventually. I have sources."

"Your sources are Reddit," Fernando grumbled, standing up to escape. "I am going to the briefing. Do not follow me."

Fernando grabbed his phone and walked out, his heart rate spiking. That was too close. He needed to be more careful. He checked his phone one last time as he walked down the corridor.

Fernando: “Lance is getting smarter. Or I am getting too tired to lie properly. How is the little boss?”

My Home (Y/N): “Sleeping. He misses you. Stay focused, Papa. Love you.”

Fernando smiled again, that same goofy, helpless smile. He put the phone in his pocket. He was safe. Lance was just guessing. The media knew nothing.

The race had been a grueling 66 laps in the scorching Spanish heat. Fernando had finished P5—a respectable result given the car's pace—but he looked ready to collapse. He had flown in late, slept three hours, and then driven an F1 car for two hours in 30-degree heat.

He walked into the media pen, helmet under his arm, sweat matting his hair to his forehead. He just wanted to get through the obligations, get to the airport, and get back to you.

He moved down the line of journalists. DAZN Spain: "Good points, car felt heavy." Sky Sports: "Strategy was okay, we maximized the result." F1 TV: "Yes, good battle with Lewis."

Then, he reached the French broadcast team. Standing there with the microphone was not a regular journalist, but Alain Prost.

The four-time World Champion smiled warmly as Fernando approached. They had a genuine friendship—two masters of the dark arts of racing. Fernando relaxed slightly, his guard dropping because it was Alain.

"Fernando!" Alain greeted him in French, leaning over the barrier to shake his hand firmly. The camera light on the operator’s shoulder was glowing a bright, steady RED.

"Alain," Fernando nodded, wiping his face with a towel. "Tough race. Very hot."

"Yes, yes, I can imagine," Alain beamed, looking unusually chipper. He leaned in closer, forgetting for a split second that he was holding a microphone connected to millions of televisions, or perhaps assuming the interview hadn't officially started yet.

"But the fatigue is worth it, no?" Alain chuckled, clapping Fernando on the shoulder. "I must say, I am so happy for you and Y/N. A healthy baby boy! The little heir is finally here. A Senna-Alonso blend... my god, the rest of the grid should just retire now, eh?"

It wasn't a quiet silence. It was a loud, sucking vacuum of silence that seemed to swallow the entire media pen.

The journalist next to Alain dropped his notepad. The cameraman, sensing blood, didn't cut away. He zoomed in. He zoomed in hard.

Fernando froze. He didn't just freeze; his operating system crashed. His eyes went wide, darting from Alain’s smiling face to the microphone, then up to the red tally light on the camera, and finally, directly into the lens.

The color drained from his face so fast he looked like he was about to faint.

"Alain," Fernando croaked, his voice cracking. "We are... we are live?"

Alain blinked, looking at the camera, then back at Fernando’s terrified face. The realization hit him like a brick wall. His hand flew to his mouth.

"Oh," Alain whispered. "Merde."

Inside the cool, air-conditioned hospitality unit, the entire team was debriefing. Lance Stroll was sitting on a sofa, nursing a water bottle, watching the post-race interviews on the big screen.

He watched Alain speak. He watched Fernando’s soul leave his body.

Lance Stroll stood up slowly. He pointed a shaking finger at the screen.

"I KNEW IT!" Lance screamed, his voice cracking with vindication. He spun around to look at his race engineer. "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU ABOUT THE ALPACA! I TOLD YOU HE WAS A DAD! NOBODY LISTENED TO ME!"

He turned back to the screen, throwing his hands in the air. "SHERLOCK STROLL STRIKES AGAIN!"

The world did not just react; it imploded.

Twitter / X Trending:

#BABYALONSO (1.2M Tweets) #SENNA (900k Tweets) #AlainProstLeak (500k Tweets) #SHERLOCKSTROLL (200k Tweets)

@.f1fan44 ALAIN PROST JUST DROPPED THE BIGGEST BOMB IN F1 HISTORY AND THEN SAID 'MERDE' ON LIVE TV. I AM SCREAMING.

@.f1fan53 Wait. Wait. Did he say Y/N? As in Y/N SENNA? FERNANDO ALONSO AND A SENNA HAVE A CHILD? The lore... the history... my brain cannot compute.

@.f1fan90 Fernando hiding a whole wife and baby for years is the most Fernando Alonso thing ever. The man is playing 4D chess with his own life.

@.skysportsf1 Admin is currently processing the news. Please stand by. 🤯

Fernando was still staring at the camera. He knew there was no fixing this. He couldn't spin it. He couldn't lie.

He took a deep breath, looked directly into the lens—imagining he was looking at you, sitting at home with the baby, probably horrified—and offered a weak, apologetic shrug.

"Well," Fernando said to the camera, his voice resigned but strangely light. "I guess I don't have to hide the diaper bag anymore."

He dropped the mic (metaphorically), turned around, and walked away, leaving Alain Prost standing there looking like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

The secret was out. And the King of Privacy was about to become the most talked-about Dad on the planet.

The moment Fernando walked away from Alain Prost, the atmosphere in the paddock shifted from professional to predatory.

It wasn't just sports news anymore. It was gossip. It was headlines about "The 20-Year Gap," "The Secret Senna," and "Alonso’s Hidden Life."

Fernando felt the shift in the air. He didn't go back to the hospitality unit to laugh with Lance. He went straight to the Aston Martin motorhome and locked the door.

He could hear the shouting outside. "Fernando! Is it true she’s Ayrton’s daughter?" "Fernando! How old is she?" "Fernando! Is the baby named Ayrton?"

He paced the small room, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He pulled out his phone. He didn't check Twitter. He dialed your number.

You picked up on the first ring.

"I saw it," you said, your voice shaky. "My phone has crashed twice. People are finding my private accounts. They’re commenting on... on everything. My age. Dad. Everything."

"Listen to me," Fernando said, his voice low and dangerously calm. It was the voice he used when the visor went down. "Do not look at the phone. Turn it off. Give it to the nanny. Close the blinds."

"They're saying terrible things, Nando," you whispered, the tears evident in your voice. "About the age gap. About me 'trapping' you. About Dad."

That broke him. The idea of you reading the filth of the tabloids, holding their newborn son, made him see red.

"Stop," he commanded gently. "Do not read it. It is noise. It is garbage."

"I'm scared," you admitted. "We had a bubble. It popped."

"I am coming home," Fernando said. "Now. I am leaving the track. I will be there in three hours."

Fernando opened the door of the motorhome. His press officer, a young woman named Sarah, looked terrified.

"Fernando, Sky wants a follow-up, and Netflix is asking if they can—"

"No," Fernando cut her off. He didn't stop walking. He put his sunglasses on, despite it being evening. He pulled his Aston Martin cap low.

"Cancel everything," he barked, moving fast. "Print media. TV pen. Fan zone. Everything."

"But the FIA regulations—" Sarah stammered, jogging to keep up.

"I will pay the fine," Fernando snapped. "I do not care if it is a million dollars. I am not speaking to anyone."

He walked through the paddock like a storm cloud. Journalists thrust microphones in his face. Photographers tried to get a reaction.

"Fernando, comment on the marriage!" "Is she really a Senna?"

He didn't look at them. He didn't acknowledge them. He physically shouldered past a cameraman who got too close. His bodyguards had to form a phalanx around him just to get him to the car.

When he finally got to the house in Lugano, it was pitch black. But the flashes of the paparazzi waiting at the bottom of the driveway lit up the night like lightning.

He drove through the gates, waiting for the security code to lock them out. Only when he was inside the garage, with the heavy metal door shut behind him, did he exhale.

He ran up the stairs.

He found you in the nursery. You were sitting in the rocking chair, holding the baby, staring at the wall. You looked small. You looked like the weight of two legacies—Senna and Alonso—was crushing you.

"Y/N," he breathed.

You looked up, eyes red. "They're outside."

"They cannot get in," he said, crossing the room in two strides. He fell to his knees beside the chair, wrapping his arms around both you and the baby.

He buried his face in your lap, breathing in the scent of milk and baby powder—the only real things in a world of fake headlines.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into your dress. "I am so sorry, mi vida. I tried to keep it safe."

"It's not your fault," you said, your hand resting on his head. "It was Alain. He didn't mean it."

Fernando looked up. His eyes were fierce. "I don't care who did it. I care that you are hurting."

He stood up, pulling you out of the chair and into his arms, careful with the sleeping baby between you. He held you tight, a human shield.

"From now on," he said, his voice a low rumble in his chest, "Protocol Zero. I don't speak about us. I don't answer questions. If they ask, I leave. If they print lies, I sue."

He kissed your forehead, then your eyes.

"They will attack the age difference because they are jealous. They will attack your name because they are vultures. But they will not get to you."

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye.

"I’ll take care of it," he vowed. "Nobody touches you. Nobody touches him. You are mine. And God help the person who tries to mess with my family now."

For the first time all day, you felt the panic subside. You weren't just married to a driver. You were married to the most stubborn, defensive, brilliant tactician in the world.

"Okay," you whispered.

"Okay," he echoed. "Now. Give me the phone. We are going to delete Twitter, and I am going to make pasta."

Fans dug through terabytes of data.

“Look at this blurry photo from the Amber Lounge three years ago! Is that her in the green dress talking to him?” “I found a flight log! His private jet went to Brazil six times last winter. Why would Fernando go to Brazil in January?”

But then, the conversation turned dark. The opinion columns started.

“Is the Age Gap Predatory?” “Would Ayrton Senna Have Allowed This?” “The Disrespect to the Legacy.”

That was the breaking point. You could handle the gossip about yourself, but you refused to let strangers weaponize your father’s ghost against the man you loved.

"We speak," you told Fernando one evening, tossing your phone onto the sofa. "Once. We control the story. And then we never speak about it again."

The cameras were set up. The lighting was soft. There was no branding, no sponsors, no Aston Martin green. Just a beige sofa and the two of you.

Fernando sat on the left. You sat on the right. From the moment the camera started rolling, he took your hand. He interlaced his fingers with yours, resting them on his thigh. He didn't let go for a single second. It was a physical message to the world: We are a unit.

"Thank you for doing this," the interviewer said gently. "I know privacy is paramount for you both."

"It is," Fernando said, his voice level. He looked tired but composed. He wasn't the aggressive racer today; he was the husband. "But the speculation... it has become too loud. And it is incorrect."

"People were shocked," the interviewer noted. "The connection between the Senna name and the Alonso name... it’s motorsport royalty. And the age difference. It surprised people."

Fernando nodded. He turned to look at you. His expression softened instantly, the hard lines of his face relaxing.

"I understand the math," Fernando said, a dry, small smile touching his lips. "I have a mirror. I know I am not twenty-five. But love does not look at birth certificates. It looks at the soul."

He squeezed your hand.

"She understands me," he continued, looking back at the interviewer. "Not the driver. The man. She knows when I am sad, when I am tired. She is the only person who does not ask for anything from me."

The interviewer turned to you. "Y/N, the comparisons to your father... they have been intense this week. People asking if he would approve."

You took a breath. You felt Fernando’s thumb rubbing circles on the back of your hand, grounding you.

"My father," you began, your voice clear and steady, "lived his life with passion. He did everything with his whole heart. He loved fiercely."

You looked at Fernando.

"He would have seen how Fernando looks at me. He would have seen that I am safe. That I am loved. And he would have respected Fernando as a competitor and a man. My father didn't care about optics. He cared about truth. And this..." You lifted your joined hands slightly. "This is the truth."

"Why keep it a secret for so long?" the interviewer asked. "Why hide the marriage? The pregnancy?"

Fernando answered this time. He sat up straighter, his protective instinct flaring.

"Because the world touches everything," he said firmly. "It touches my wins, my losses, my radio messages. I give the world everything I have on the track."

He looked directly into the camera lens.

"We kept it private because it was ours," he said, his voice dropping to that serious, reverent tone. "And because we wanted to protect our son. He is not a public figure. He is a baby. He deserves a childhood, not a headline."

"Will we see him?"

"No," you said, smiling softly but firmly. "You will see his father racing. You will see me cheering. But him? He is just for us."

The interview aired on Sunday morning.

The reaction wasn't scandalous. It was... tender.

The clip of Fernando looking at you while you spoke about your father went viral. Not because it was dramatic, but because of the look in his eyes. It was a look of absolute, unadulterated adoration.

@.f1fan56 Okay, I was skeptical, but did you see how he held her hand? He looks at her like she hung the moon. I’m crying.

@.sennafan9 She’s right. Ayrton would have just wanted her to be happy. And Fernando looks like he would kill a dragon for her. I approve.

@.lancestroll I still take credit for solving the mystery. Send me the unreleased wedding photos, Nando.

The Paddock, Autódromo José Carlos Pace (Interlagos), Brazil. Race Day

If there was one place on Earth where the name "Senna" carried the weight of a deity, it was here. Interlagos. The spiritual home of Brazilian motorsport.

For years, you had avoided this race. The memories were too loud, the expectations too heavy. But today, the sun was shining, the air smelled of rain and burnt rubber, and you weren't walking in alone.

The black SUV pulled up to the VIP entrance. The crowd of photographers and fans pressing against the barriers went silent with anticipation. They knew who was in the car.

The door opened.

First came the driver. Fernando Alonso stepped out, adjusting his Aston Martin cap. He looked sharp, focused, the warrior ready for battle. But instead of walking straight to the garage, he turned back to the car.

He reached inside, his expression softening instantly.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.

Fernando straightened up, and in his arms, resting securely against his chest, was a one-year-old boy. The baby was wearing tiny, bright green noise-canceling headphones and a miniature team polo shirt.

Then, you stepped out.

You wore a simple sundress and sunglasses, but the way you carried yourself—chin up, shoulders back—was unmistakable. You were your father’s daughter.

Fernando didn't hand the baby to a nanny. He shifted his son to his hip with a practiced ease that made the internet melt instantly. He reached out with his free hand, waiting.

You took it.

The walk down the Paddock was usually a gauntlet. Today, it was a coronation.

As you walked, the shutters of a hundred cameras clicked in unison, sounding like a swarm of cicadas. But the mood wasn't aggressive. It was enchanted.

"Look at his cheeks!" "He’s holding him so tight." "Look at them."

The "Matador," known for his ruthlessness, was cooing at the baby, pointing out a Ferrari mechanic walking by. "Look, pequeño. Red car. Slow car."

The baby giggled, burying his face in Fernando’s neck.

Halfway to the garage, amidst the screaming fans chanting “Senna! Alonso! Senna! Alonso!”, Fernando stopped.

The noise was deafening. A journalist from TV Globo was shouting for a comment. A photographer was practically lying on the ground to get the angle.

Fernando ignored them all. The world, the championship, the legacy—it all ceased to exist.

He turned to you. He used the hand that wasn't holding his son to gently adjust your sunglasses, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He looked at you with an intensity that silenced the people standing closest to you. It wasn't the look of a teammate or a celebrity partner. It was the look of a man who had found his finish line.

"You okay?" he mouthed, ignoring the cameras zooming in on his face.

"I'm home," you smiled, squeezing his hand.

He grinned—that genuine, crinkle-eyed smile that he reserved only for you.

"Vamos," he whispered.

He turned back to the path, hoisting the baby higher, gripping your hand tighter. As he walked toward the garage, carrying the future in his arms and holding his heart in his hand, Fernando looked more invincible than he ever had in a race car.

The legacy wasn't heavy anymore. It was just life. And it was beautiful.

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The first time she saw the kitten, it was entirely by accident.

They were walking back from dinner in Monaco, Fernando’s hand warm and familiar at the small of her back, when she stopped dead in front of the pet shop window. A tiny grey fluffball sat inside, blinking up at her with enormous blue eyes and a wobbling little head like it was too heavy for its body.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, pressing her palm to the glass. “Look at him.”

Fernando groaned immediately. “No.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I don’t need to look. I know that tone.”

She turned, eyes wide and pleading. “Nando… he’s perfect.”

“He’s a cat.”

“He’s a baby.”

“He’s a responsibility.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “So am I, and you married me.”

He smirked, leaning down to kiss her temple. “Exactly. One is enough.”

She laughed, but her eyes drifted back to the kitten, who had now flopped onto his back like a tiny, fuzzy starfish. Her heart squeezed painfully.

She wanted him. Badly.

---

The Argument

It started small.

A casual, “I was thinking… maybe we could go back to the shop tomorrow?”

Then a firmer, “I really think a cat would be good for us.”

Then, finally, the spark that lit the fuse:

“You don’t even want to consider it, Fernando. You’re not listening to me.”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Mi amor, I am listening. I just don’t want a cat. They scratch everything, they shed everywhere, and we travel too much.”

“I work from home,” she shot back. “I’m literally here all the time. He wouldn’t be alone.”

“It’s still a no.”

Something in her chest cracked.

It wasn’t about the cat anymore. Not really. It was about the way he dismissed it, dismissed her, like her wanting something so small and soft and harmless was unreasonable.

Her voice went quiet. “Okay. Fine.”

He froze. “Cariño—”

“No. It’s fine.” She stepped back, blinking fast. “I won’t bring it up again.”

And she didn’t.

For days.

---

The Silence

Fernando Alonso could handle pressure. He could handle media, strategy calls, tyre degradation, and a car that wanted to kill him every other corner.

But he could not handle his wife ignoring him.

She wasn’t cruel about it. She didn’t yell or slam doors. She just… withdrew.

Short answers. No morning kisses. No curling into his side at night. No humming while she cooked. No soft laughter at his stupid jokes.

She was there, physically, but emotionally?

She was on the other side of the world.

And it gutted him.

By the third day, he was pacing the apartment like a caged animal, muttering to himself in Spanish.

“Idiota… you absolute idiot… she asked for one thing…”

He replayed the moment in his head, the way her eyes had gone shiny, the way her shoulders had dropped. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He just… panicked. He’d never had pets growing up. He didn’t know how to be responsible for something so small and fragile.

But she did.

And she wanted this.

And he wanted her happy more than anything.

So he made a decision.

---

The Surprise

She came home from a grocery run, juggling bags and keys, when she heard it.

A tiny, questioning meow.

She froze.

Slowly, she set the bags down. “Fernando…?”

Another meow. Closer this time.

Then he appeared from the hallway, sheepish, holding the grey kitten against his chest like it was a priceless artifact he was terrified of dropping.

“Hi,” he said, voice soft. “I, uh… I think someone wants to meet you.”

Her eyes filled instantly. “Nando…”

He stepped closer, guilt written all over his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shut you down. I was scared, and stubborn, and—”

She took the kitten from him, cradling the tiny warm body to her chest. The kitten purred like a little engine.

Her voice cracked. “He’s perfect.”

Fernando exhaled, relief flooding his features. “Yeah. He is.”

She looked up at him, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You did this for me?”

“For us,” he corrected gently. “And because I hate when you’re sad. And because I love you more than I’m afraid of a tiny cat.”

She laughed through her tears, stepping into his arms. He wrapped her up tightly, burying his face in her hair.

“I missed you,” he murmured.

“I was right here,” she whispered.

“You weren’t,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad you’re back.”

The kitten meowed again, squished between them.

Fernando pulled back, grinning. “Okay, okay, pequeño. You’re part of the family too.”

She beamed. “What should we name him?”

Fernando pretended to think. “Fernando Junior.”

She smacked his arm. “Absolutely not.”

He kissed her forehead. “Whatever you want, mi amor. This one is all yours.”

She held the kitten up, nose to nose. “Welcome home, little one.”

Growing up, your father had been incredibly absent and he was never around. You knew off him and you saw him on rare occasions, but he always seemed too busy.

Your mother filed for a divorce with him when you were 14 and even though you'd been expecting it eventually you didn't take to it very well. You were angry at your dad and couldn't understand why he was never there for you.

The time it upset you the most was when you'd really got into ice-skating because it was your only memory with him, once a year in winter he'd take you skating. You thought it was a hobby of his and tried to get into it more assuming he'd be around more if you took on one of his hobbies.

However he never turned up for your competitions or tournaments and it broke both yours and your mothers hearts. When a competition went well, you just wanted to run up and hug him but he was never there, your mood immedleity slumped from false promises as your mum attempted to apologise on his behalf as you snatch your phone to see the shitty 'Sorry got caught up with work, ill be there next time' text.

When your mum moved on, you pretty much cut contact with your dad happy that it was just you and her because at the end of the day she was all your thought you needed.

But then she met him.

And you werent the nicest to him at first, being an angsty teen and seeing a new man with your mother after someone who claimed he loved her was so very absent.

He attempted to form a bond with you, considering he loved your mother more than anything and you could genuinely see how happy he made her.

But he too was absent at first. And you got it, he was this big name F1 driver who went from the sands of Bahrain one week to the Cherry Blossoms of Japan the next. But unlike with your dad, he never missed anything your mother asked him to come to.

A work christmas dinner? He was there. Parents Evening? He was there. Grocery Shopping? He was there! And you saw the change in your mother. She felt appreciated and loved. But it was still hard for you to warm up to him.

He understood this all too well.

He tried to come to any important thing your mum asked him too that was to do with you. He was at every ice skating competition you had and he would try his hardest to pick you up from school, despite your initial embarrsement of the boys in your year who fauned over your mums boyfriends car.

He was in the house more and more and you observed him.

The way he'd always offer you his food, or to help you clean your bedroom when you came down overwhelmed. If you wanted to go shopping but your friends had told you they werent up for it, he'd offer to go out with you.

And you started to fall in love with the idea of him being more than your mum's boyfriend, or a stable male figure in your life.

This idea was solidified when you'd been invited to come to a race with him while it was your half term. He didn't know when you were going to get there but you were adamant to see the whole weekend and surprise him. When you walked up seeing him sat outside the Aston Martin MotorHome with a few other drivers you were close enough to hear their conversations.

"Yeah look this is her at her last competition, she did so well im so proud of her but she was robbed of first place i think the judges were biased, like look, look at that spin!" he says as he moves the phone closer for Lewis, Lando and Carlos to see.

"Woah, she's really good! Have you suggested like ... her going further?" Lewis asks looking at you spin.

"Mmmm we've talked about it! And she was really excited when i said is support her the whole way, which is nice as sometimes i cant tell if im being a good enough role model for her" he sighs, swiping through some pictures he had of you or the two of you and your mother.

"Dude, by the looks of it... thats your family now!" Lando expressed.

"I know, but i don't want to force my way in. Im happy ... just being there for her yano?" Fernando smiles and you decide now is a good time to make yourself know despite trying to hold back your tears.

"Hey!" you call out jogging up and Fernando spins round face lighting up as he hears you.

"Y/N?" he exclaims looking over you before pulling you into a tight hug and kissing your forehead.

"W-What are you doing here?" he asks, looking over you.

"I asked mum if we could come early and she let me have the day off so we could get here earlier!" you grin at the older man and he pulls you back into a hug.

"Where is she?" he asks looking round with his eyes wide at the promise of your mum being close.

"Just putting the bags in the room, she thought id want to come see you!" you grin and he smiles.

"And did you? Want to come see me!" he asks, and you can tell theres a bit of insecurity behind their so you do something you haven't dared to do in the years he's been with your mother. Even once he married her.

"Of course i did! Now come on dad! I want a drink!" you smile taking his hands, you don't miss his friends faces light up at what you called him. And even he's a little stuck for a minute before he follows you.

The rest of the weekend was looking good, apart from the fact that it was seeming like a wet weekend where anything could happen. Fernando had been looking quick all weekend, due to the specific motivation of his family being there.

"You're looking quick this weekend!" you grin as you have lunch with your mum and Fernando.

"Yeah. I've got to impress both my girls don't i?" he grins and you nod enthusiastically.

"Erm, i have a competition coming up, its in three weeks. Do you think you can make it?" you ask in a slight mutter, knowing you had to bring it up at some point and the sooner the better.

"You know i will! What's its for?" he asks taking a bite into his wrap .

"To see if i can get into the Olympics" you say nervously.

"WHAT?" he exclaims his eyes lighting up.

"Y-eah" you offer, trying not to maintain eyecontact with him.

"Oh my god! Why - why didn't you tell me this is incredible Y/N!" he says happily taking your hand and pulling you closer to him to hug you.

You felt so loved around Fernando and you knew that this weekend was the weekend you had to ask him.

And that proved easier the minute he got a podium! You'd involved the whol Aston Martin Team in it. The plan was to stand behind the camera man while they take the group photo of the podium position and points position for Lance with a sign asking him to officialy be your dad.

You had the paper work, you had it for months actually but you hadnt had the courage to ask him in fear he wouldn't want to.

So here you were, sign hidden behind your back as you nervously watch the team get photos. Someone was filming Fernandos reaction and someone was filming you, it was all so exhilarating and nerve wracking at the same time.

You held the sign up and Fernando looks at you before reading it over taking in the words. He cocks his head to the side in confusion before you hold up the papers. His eyes widen and he shoots up nearly knocking over the trophy until a team member grabs it as he jumps over all the stuff in front of them.

"Are you serious?" he asks looking over the papers to see the legitimacy of them.

"Yes" you say in a whisper. He picks you up twirling your round kissing your forehead.

"Yes of course. But i dont need papers to show you ill be there for you when you need me!" he says, tears in his normally stoic eyes.

You hold him tightly, sobbing at the relief he had said yes. Your mum stays to the side filming the moment letting you two have your moment before you and Fernando reach out to have her join the hug. He kisses her on the lips before holding you both closely.

"My girls" he smiles.

Taglist:

A man like Fernando Alonso is not for the faint-hearted. Someone who is a s strong individual with her own mind and maybe even some power behind her eyes.

Which is where y/n comes in.

She took all of a minute to find Fernando and introduce herself the first time they were in a room together. Her confidence just exuded from her and Fernando's attention was exclusively on her.

Y/n warned him that she didn't like limitations and Fernando took that as challenge.

He's never felt as reinvigorated to have sex as much as he has since y/n first pushed him onto her bed and took the lead. Y/n absolutely dominates the man when she's given the chance to expand on his horizons.

He might be more sexually experienced in the regard of he's had more sex and more sexual partners but y/n clearly sees value in returning to the same people again and again because it means she can try new things with them. There's a level of trust that's build when you go back to the same person and start to push boundaries.

Like when she tied him down and dripped hot wax down on his skin before riding him while not letting him touch her for a second. He thought he'd hate the lack of control and surrendering to her whim, but he'd never felt to turned on in his life and he might go as far to say that's one of the best types of sex he's had in living memory.

Today they're out on a dinner date, just enjoying their time together and he's using up the little amount of free time he gets to focus solely on his younger girlfriend to really make sure she's feeling appreciated and cherished. Along with allowing her to flaunt herself a little with him since she's not shy about her bragging rights for bagging Fernando Alonso.

A perk of the job really.

Y/n smiles as Fernando holds her hand as she steps into the car and takes her seat while the valet got the door for her before he closes it, tipping the man and taking his keys with a thank you then moving around to the driver's side and getting in.

"Ready to go home?" Fernando asks already spying the heated lust behind her eyes as she watches him.

"No...I want to find somewhere to park up." Y/n states earning a small chuckle since y/n knows, what she wants she gets.

"Then we will find somewhere to park up." Fernando nods beginning to pull away.

There's not many spots that really allow for privacy without it being outweighed by the risk of getting caught. But that's what y/n likes, she's likes the thrill and the risk of being caught, it's a turn on for her and she's willing to risk it for the reward that comes to her if they don't get caught.

Eventually he finds a spot that with the dark of the night and the further shadow of some trees.

"Get in the back." Y/n instructs making Fernando smirk but do exactly as he's told with y/n climbing in the back between the seats as he actually gets out and just climbs into the back.

Y/n pulls her dress up before practically ripping his shirt off him, a couple buttons popping off with the force as he undoes belt and fly getting out his hardening cock that is nearly pulsing with a different type of need that he's only ever felt a need for with y/n.

Somehow y/n wedges her body down and licks up the underside of his dick teasing the tip as her tongue swirls around it and her eyes remain locked on him as she looks up at him. The sight is enough for his dick to twitch in excitement before she takes him into her mouth, disappearing between those perfect lips.

Fernando gathers her hair, just holding it back from her face but not daring to try and control the pace or depth she's taking him at.

He tries to keep himself quiet since he doesn't need to risk anymore attention that is being risked from the car rocking from their movements.

Y/n doesn't waste that much time giving him head since she much prefers to feel his dick inside her pussy than her mouth.

"Amor." Fernando groans as she climbs back up his body and straddles him, feeling him reposition so he's slouched a little more to accommodate the space and position they need to be in for this to work.

As soon as she's sinking down on his length, he's flexing his hand trying to contain the moans that are fighting their way out of his throat. Y/n loves the sight of a man falling apart because of her body.

What could be more empowering than that?

Y/n can feeling her own orgasm building, Fernando filling her so perfectly that in the back of her mind she's always certain it's just further evidence how well matched they are. No one feels as good as Fernando does to her and she's never felt as safe and confident as with him.

Even when she's risking a criminal record with him in Monaco by having sex in the back of his car.

Y/n can feel the car moving from her bouncing on the man, her hips grind down giving her clit some stimulation before she picks up the pace pausing every few thrusts to grind down on him before starting to bounce on him again.

Headlights catch Fernando's attention and seem to spur y/n on, the added adrenaline rush of threat of being caught making her twitch around him while he groans are the nearing of his orgasm while y/n begins to to lose her edge, spasming and clenching down on him, her weight pressed down but finally Fernando does take some lead, holding her hips and using the tightness of her pussy around him to finish himself off and fuck her through her high before spilling inside of her while she continues to ride it out.

He hold her down as low as possible keeping her to feel the last spasms and twitches before her orgasm fizzles away.

“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.

Fernando never made a big deal out of it.

That, more than anything, was what allowed her to keep breathing. 

She had told him on a quiet evening that hadn’t felt important enough to become a memory. No dramatic setup. No rehearsed speech. Just a pause between conversations and a truth she had been carrying for years, heavy and sharp-edged.

“I can’t have children,” she had said softly, voice steady only because she had practiced that steadiness for a long time. “There are growths on my ovaries. They tried to remove them, but… it didn’t work.”

She remembered watching his face closely, waiting for something to change. Waiting for grief on his behalf. For the silent recalculation she had seen in others, the way futures quietly rearranged themselves in their minds without her consent.

Fernando had listened. Properly. Without interrupting. Not rushing her through the explanation as if it made him uncomfortable.

When she had finished talking, he gave her a thoughtful nod.

“Okay,” he had said.

The word startled her.

“That’s it?” She asked before she could stop herself.

He had turned to face her fully then, resting his forearms on his knees. “I never imagined children as part of my life,” he had said honestly. “I imagined sharing my life with someone. That part doesn’t change.”

Something inside her had softened, easing slightly. It helped her make peace with it.

Or at least, it helped her build a life where infertility wasn’t the first thing she thought about every morning. 

It would be just the two of them. Late starts. Spontaneous travel. Quiet breakfasts and long conversations that stretched past midnight. A relationship built on choice rather than expectation.

Most days, she was content with that. Most days she was happy.

~~~

The holiday was meant to be easy.

A shared villa. A few days away from the noise of racing, from press obligations and tight schedules. Max had suggested it casually, Kelly had taken over the planning with cheerful efficiency, and before she had time to think too hard about it, the flights were booked.

She told herself she was fine with it.

The girls were lovely – bright, curious and endlessly energetic. Penelope gravitated towards her quickly, asking questions, tugging her into games, insisting she help colour pictures that sprawled messily across the dining table.

She laughed easily, and she meant it.

Fernando watched her with quiet affection, proud in the way he always was – not loud nor possessive, just deeply aware of her.

But grief doesn’t announce itself. It waits.

One afternoon, the sun heavy and warm, she sat on the edge of the pool with her feet in the water while the girls floated nearby, shrieking with laughter every time Max pretended to tip them over. Little Lily never too far from her father. Kelly watched from a lounge chair, phone held carefully, documenting moments she would want to remember forever. 

Something twisted in her chest.

Not envy.

Recognition. Knowing that was what she would never have.

The thought landed fully formed, cruel in its clarity.

She had known it, logically. She had worked through it in doctor’s offices and therapy sessions and quiet nights when the house felt too still. She had learned how to say the words without crying.

But seeing it – seeing the ease with which this future existed for others – cracked something open again.

She stood abruptly, murmured an excuse, and retreated inside before anyone could as if she was alright.

The bathroom was cool and quiet. She leaned against the sink, pressing her palms into porcelain, breathing carefully as if too much air might make her break.

Fernando noticed her absence almost immediately.

He didn’t draw attention to it, just excused himself with a nod and followed the house’s familiar layout until he found her in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders drawn inward like she was trying to disappear.

He softly called out her name, causing her to jump slightly.

She shook her head without looking up. “I’m fine.”

He sat beside her anyway, close enough to feel solid. “You don’t have to be.”

Her composure gave way then, tears slipping out without permission. She scrubbed at her face angrily, embarrassed by the suddenness of it.

“I thought I was past this,” she whispered. “I really did.”

Fernando took her hand, thumb brushing slow circles into her skin. “You can be past something and still feel it sometimes.”

She laughed weakly. “They’re wonderful. Penelope and Lily. And I hate that I made it about me.”

“You didn’t make it about you.” he said calmly. “Your grief just reminded you it exists.”

She inhaled shakily. “It’s different when it’s right there. When you can see what everyone else assumes they’ll have.”

Fernando was quiet for a long moment.

“I meant what I said,” he told her finally. “My life doesn’t feel empty without children. It feels full with you.”

“I know,” she said quickly. “And that helps. But sometimes I wish–” her voice caught. “I wish I could have given you the option.”

He turned towards her fully, steady and certain. “You did. And I chose you. Not a hypothetical future. Not expectations. You.”

She searched his face, looking for cracks.

There were none.

That evening, after the girls had been tucked into bed and the villa had settled into quiet, she sat with Fernando on the terrace. The air was cooler now, the sky streaked with stars.

“I’m scared,” she admitted. “That one day you’ll realise you want more.”

Fernando’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “I’m not waiting for a different life to start.”

She rested her head against him, the ache still there, but softer, less sharp.

For years, infertility had felt like a closed door she had to build her life around. A quiet, constant absence.

This trip had reopened the wound – but it hadn’t undone her.

It had reminded her that grief didn’t mean regret.

It just meant love had somewhere it couldn’t go. 

Fernando pressed a kiss into her hair, grounding and real.

“It’s okay to want something you can’t have,” he murmured. “It doesn’t make what we have smaller.”

She nodded slowly.

Their life wouldn’t look like Max and Kelly’s. It wouldn’t be loud or full of first steps and bedtime stories.

But it would be intentional. Chosen. Built with care.

As she looked at Fernando, steady and present, she realised that the future they were building was not lacking.

It was simply theirs.

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

eventually you ended up in his lap in the bedroom, you were still in the dress. the pastel yellow looked beautiful as his strong hands groped your chest. he licked his lips in anticipation. your breasts felt full in his hands and he purred, "look at you, beautiful." he knew he was going to give you a shiny diamond.

but he hoped to give you a baby first. not that you knew that, you were dutiful with playing it safe. but fernando wasn't getting any younger and worried he might not be able to perform his biological task and get you pregnant. so it was better to start earlier rather than later.

his hands soon went up the skirt of your dress. you looked good, much better than those slutty outfits that you usually wore. if you were going to be a mother, you were going to have some respect. your goods weren't were sale because fernando was the highest bidder. he gripped onto your ass and pressed you further against him. he growled in a low sexual tone, "you are by far the dumbest thing i've ever fucked. how did they even let you graduate?"

you pouted, remembering that you gave up university to play house with fernando in spain. it was hard hearing how much he missed you, so you left. you said, "daddy, remember. i didn't graduate." and fernando slapped your ass.

"i know, i know. better in my house then in lecture." he said lowly as he rubbed himself up against you. the roughness of your jeans hitting against your clothed pussy. he slapped your ass again and said, "hands better on my cock than typing essays. but you know that, this was what you were meant for."

you felt excitement race through you as you said, "will you use protection, daddy?" you pouted at him as you held his face. your core was soaked from him. he had that effect on you. but, you weren't going to be swayed easily.

dumb little thing, he thought. you thought you had any ounce of power in this situation. fernando fucked you, cared for you, provided for you. the least you could do was get pregnant. his hands rested on your lips and he licked his lips at the sight of you rubbing up against him. he replied, "yeah, i'll use protection. of course, my love." he said as he rubbed up against you once more and you felt the excitement through you.

you smiled a little bit and kissed him on the lips, you giggled a little and said, "thank you, daddy." and yelped when fernando gave you another slap on the ass.

you were soon in the bedroom and as you stripped, fernando knew he was going to fuck you raw. and the fact you trusted him so much was cute. oh my god you're stupid, was all he could think of when you even hung up the dress so it wouldn't get wrinkled. he eyed your behind and felt something hungry in his core. you were already acting like a wife and mother - how cute.

fernando took you by the hips once you had the dress off the floor and guided you towards the bed. you were laid out beautifully in a matching pair of undergarments. his rough hands played with your body and he felt the hunger grow.

he reached for your panties while you reached for your bra. you were soon undressed for him and you worked the buttons of his white shirt. his hands rested on your sides for a moment and he felt something stir inside of you. you'd look so cute with a baby at your hips, fernando's baby. his clothes were removed and you eyed him up and down.

"look at you." he said, "someone's hungry for me. get on your stomach, i want to feel you deeper." it was also a way for you to not see him fucking you raw. you wouldn't be able to tell the difference, but for fernando it would mean the world.

you got onto your stomach and bent your knees. he admired your beauty for a moment. you were going to be a perfect mother for his child, fernando knew what you needed better than he did. no need to worry about much else, not while he sank his cock into you.

he knew his friends would think he was a perverted old man for getting his sugar baby knocked up. but fernando believed that they were just jealous. especially when you had a pussy that just pulled him in. he moved up against you, making sure that every inch was inside of you.

"did you.. did you put on a condom?" you asked meekly, your face in the covers.

fernando pressed your head further into the soft pillows and said, "yes i did, my love. everything's all secure." this was the biggest lie he could ever tell. but you were just so stupid that you trusted him blindly. fernando liked that, it was important for a wife to trust her husband.

you whimpered a little bit and arched your back at the feeling. you held onto the covers and moaned, it was hot. your face looked pretty in the pillows, even that pastel pink decorative photo that always stayed on the bed. fernando held onto your hips and moved against you, his cock nudged against all the right places and it made your noises sound sweet.

with a cunt like this you'll be spending the rest of your twenties pregnant if fernando had his way. can't just have one child, no, no, he hoped for at least three. enough to keep the future mrs. fernando alonso busy. two boys and a girl was what he hoped for.

his pace quickened, near brutal as the two of you fucked against one another. he loved feeling you. your soft hips in his grasp, his cock buried inside of you. he worked your needy sexy with heavy thrusts, he could feel the fire in his core as he worked himself against you. you were irresistible.

"my love." he said, "you feel better and better every time i fuck you. i wonder if your pretty pussy could only take me now." he held onto you tighter and worked harder against you. you moaned a little louder and it was music to his ears.

you moaned loudly and clutched onto the covers. your back arched as he hit right up against you. it was erotic, it was like his tip was hitting against your cervix perfectly. your eyes rolled back a little and you felt the excitement in your core. it was hard not to e aroused by fernando, your daddy. you said out of breath, "please, daddy. it feels so good." you were near stupid (as if you weren't already) from fernando's feverish fucking.

"my love." he said, "you're so perfect for me. you take me so well. like you were made for me. spent a lifetime trying to find the perfect cunt to sink into every night and it was you." fernando wanted you all to himself, he wanted you every night he could have you. and once you got pregnant he'd have to be a little creative with the positions, but he'd make sure that you both felt good. he didn't want you to think he thought you were unattractive, you'd only grow more beautiful as your pregnancy progressed. and fernando would show you that.

his pace started to stagger and the pleasure grew in your core. there was a certain pleasure in you. the two of you fucked feverishly, you were more eager because you believed that fernando was being safe. not that his bare cock was plunged inside of you. invading your space.

"I'm close." you choked out as he moved against your body. pressed together, fitting perfectly. you clenched around him and gasped into the covers as you came around his cock. your eyes closed for a moment as you moaned.

fernando was spurred on from your orgasm to finish as well. he pressed his chest against your back and fucked you feverishly. the pleasure was lightning hot and you felt it curl in your gut. your toes curled from the over stimulation. he kissed your back and shuddered as orgasm neared. the pleasure coursed through as he thrusted against you. a few more thrusts and he finished inside of you.

you felt your heart flutter as he came inside of you. you were blissfully unaware of how much cum he was putting inside of you. you thought you were being safe, but in your blissed out state. you couldn't have cared less. you felt warmth in your body as he eventually pulled out and laid beside you on the bed.

his hand was on your middle, he felt the soft skin and kissed your neck. he wondered if he could get you anymore dresses, but have them for maternity wear.

-

"there's my wife." fernando said as you brought you drinks for fernando and his friends while they played cards. he got up from his seat at the outdoor table and took you by the waist to guide you towards the table.

he also could tell that his long time friends were eyeing your sweet middle. took a little while and a bit of lying, but you ended up carrying fernando's baby. you two were having a baby boy together and he couldn't be happier.