#formula

Isack notices. Of course he does.

He doesn’t say anything at first — just keeps a closer eye on you. He watches the way your shoulders sag when you think no one’s looking, how you stir absentmindedly at your coffee in the morning without drinking it, the way your gaze lingers on families walking together when you’re both heading through the airport. He doesn’t understand it yet, but he knows you. He knows when something is weighing on you.

One evening, after a long day at the track, you’re curled up on the hotel bed with your laptop, half-typing out captions for tomorrow’s posts. The glow of the screen washes over your tired face, and you don’t notice when Isack quietly closes his phone and shifts closer to you.

“Hey,” he murmurs softly, nudging his shoulder against yours. “You okay?”

You glance up at him, force a smile, and nod. “Yeah, just tired. Long day.”

But Isack doesn’t buy it. He never does when it comes to you. He takes the laptop from your hands, sets it on the bedside table, and then pulls you against his chest without a word. His arms wrap around you in that gentle but steady way that always makes you feel safe, like the rest of the world can wait.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he whispers into your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “But I can feel it when you’re not okay. And I just… I don’t like seeing you sad.”

The lump in your throat nearly gives you away. You close your eyes, sinking into the warmth of him, and let yourself breathe for the first time all day. His heartbeat is steady under your cheek, his hand drawing lazy circles on your back.

“I’m fine,” you say again, but it comes out softer this time, weaker.

“Maybe,” he says gently, “but even if you’re not, that’s okay. I’m here, you know?”

And somehow, that’s enough to make your chest loosen, even if you’re not ready to explain the ache of homesickness just yet. For now, you just let him hold you, grateful that he notices, grateful that he cares.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

It takes him a few more days to put it together. You don’t want to admit it out loud, because how could you complain when you’re living the kind of life most people only dream of? Traveling the world, being with the boy you love, working inside the sport you’ve adored since you were young. But no matter how hard you try to push it down, the ache keeps slipping through the cracks.

Isack notices the way your voice softens when you’re on the phone with your family, how your accent deepens when you switch into Polish, how your eyes stay glossy for a few minutes after you hang up. He notices when you light up spotting a Polish flag somewhere, and how you stand a little too long at the hotel window when the weather reminds you of home.

And then one evening, after a long back to back stretch of races, it all clicks for him.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from the shower, scrolling through old photos on your phone. He hears you laugh under your breath at one, then go quiet, your thumb hovering over the screen. By the time he sits down beside you, your eyes are glassy.

“Mon amour,” he whispers, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “You’ve been… off. I don’t want to push, but I need to know what’s hurting you.”

You shake your head quickly, blinking hard. “It’s nothing. I just—” Your voice wavers, and you let out a shaky breath. “I miss home, Isack. I miss Poland.”

It feels silly when it slips out, but once it’s said, there’s no taking it back. You look at him nervously, expecting confusion or frustration, but instead, he only softens.

His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you into his chest. “Oh, baby…” His voice is so tender it nearly undoes you. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“Because I didn’t want to sound ungrateful,” you admit, words muffled against his shirt. “I love being here with you. I love traveling with the team. I just—sometimes I feel like I’m losing pieces of myself out here. I miss my family. I miss hearing my language. I miss… everything.”

Isack tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him. His eyes are full of worry and love all at once. “Missing home doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful. It just means you have somewhere worth missing. That’s a beautiful thing, not something to hide from me.”

You swallow hard, and tears slip down your cheeks before you can stop them. He kisses them away one by one, murmuring in French against your skin. “Tu me brises le cœur, seeing you so sad. If I could, I’d bring Poland to you.”

You laugh softly at that, shaking your head. “That’s impossible.”

“Then I’ll find another way.” His expression is fierce, determined in that stubborn way he gets when he’s set on something. “You don’t have to carry this alone. If you miss home, then we’ll go. Even if it’s just for a few days. I’ll take you back, I promise.”

Your breath catches, your arms tightening around his waist. “You’d do that?”

“I’d do anything,” he says simply, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you. And if your heart is in Poland right now, then mine belongs there too.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight in your chest feels lighter. You don’t know when he’ll follow through on his promise, but you know he means it. And just having him understand, having him hold you like this, already makes the homesickness a little easier to bear.

You curl closer to him, breathing in his warmth, and he keeps whispering softly—half French, half English, a few mangled Polish words he must’ve picked up from you—until you finally drift off, tucked against the boy who never lets you feel alone.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

You’d been working late on your laptop, lost in endless drafts of captions for the team’s social media accounts, when the smell hit you. It wasn’t the usual bland hotel room service or takeout, but something richer, warmer — something that made your chest ache with familiarity.

You blinked, sitting up straighter, and padded toward the tiny kitchenette of your suite. That’s where you found Isack, sleeves rolled up, hair sticking up in every direction, and an unmistakable look of intense concentration on his face. Pots and pans were scattered everywhere. Flour dusted the counter, and he was stirring something in a pot that looked both suspicious and… oddly delicious.

“Isack?” you asked carefully, half afraid to startle him.

He jumped anyway, whipping around with wide eyes. A smear of flour was across his cheek, and you couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re not supposed to be here yet!”

You raised an eyebrow. “This is our shared hotel room. Where else am I supposed to be?”

He groaned dramatically, setting down the spoon. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

You stepped closer, peering at the counter, and then your heart stuttered. There, half-prepped, was dough for pierogi. A bowl of potatoes and cheese sat to the side, and on the stove, he was cooking onions in butter — the smell that had drawn you in.

“Are you… making pierogi?” you whispered, hardly believing it.

His sheepish grin gave him away. “I called your mom.”

Your hand flew to your mouth. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” he said proudly, lifting the spoon like a weapon. “She sent me a recipe and walked me through everything this morning. She laughed a lot at my chopping skills, by the way.”

You laughed too, eyes stinging for reasons you didn’t want to admit. The thought of your mom, thousands of miles away, patiently teaching your boyfriend to make the dish you’d grown up eating — it made your throat tight.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you murmured, stepping closer.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, glancing back at the pan like it was a final exam. “But I wanted to. I can’t take you home yet, but… maybe I can bring home to you, even just a little.”

That was it. The tears came, no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into his back. He stiffened at first, then relaxed, setting the spoon aside so he could turn and hold you properly.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head. “I wanted to make you smile, not cry.”

“They’re good tears,” you promised, laughing through them. “You’re so cute. And insane. And I love you.”

He smirked, brushing a bit of flour onto your nose. “I love you too. But you still have to help me fold these little guys. Your mom said it’s teamwork.”

The two of you ended up in the kitchen together for hours, flour on your hands, laughter bouncing off the walls. The pierogi weren’t perfect — some burst in the water, and a few looked more like abstract art than dumplings — but when you finally sat down to eat, it was the best meal you’d had all season.

And when Isack leaned across the table, cheeks pink with pride, and whispered, “Dobranoc, kochanie,” in clumsy Polish, you knew you’d never felt more at home.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

Race weeks always stretched you thin, the endless hours of media schedules, photos, captions, and last-minute changes all piling up. You were curled under the hotel blankets, laptop finally closed, exhaustion weighing down your chest. Still, you couldn’t sleep. You stared at the ceiling, mind buzzing with homesickness and the guilty thought that maybe you weren’t strong enough for this constant travel.

Isack noticed. He always did.

He shifted beside you, propping himself up on one elbow. “You’re thinking too loud,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles against your arm.

You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” His voice was soft, steady. Then, almost shyly, he reached over to the nightstand and picked up a small notebook. The cover was plain, navy blue, and when he handed it to you, he looked nervous in a way you rarely saw. “I was going to wait, but… I think you need this tonight.”

Curious, you opened it — and your breath caught.

The first page was filled with words written in his messy handwriting: Cześć, jak się masz? (Hello, how are you?). Underneath, he’d scribbled phonetic notes, little arrows, and even a doodle of a smiley face. The next page had kocham cię (I love you) in bold letters, with a shaky little heart drawn around it.

You flipped through slowly, heart pounding. Every page was the same — Polish words and phrases, some simple, some clumsy, all of them written with care. In the margins, he’d doodled little things: a steaming cup of tea, a pierogi that looked more like a cloud, even a tiny stick-figure version of you wrapped in a red-and-white scarf.

Your vision blurred with tears. “Isack…”

He shifted nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’ve been practicing. Every night after you fall asleep. Your mom helped me with some, and the rest I looked up. I know I’m probably butchering half of it, but…” He trailed off, his eyes searching yours. “I thought maybe if I learned your language, even just a little, it might feel like you’re not so far from home.”

You couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over. Closing the notebook, you pressed it to your chest and threw your arms around him, nearly knocking him over in the bed. He laughed softly, holding you tight.

“You’re an angel,” you whispered into his neck. “And perfect. And I love you so much.”

His arms squeezed you closer, his lips brushing your hair. “I love you too. Kocham cię,” he said carefully, testing the words. They came out heavy with his accent, but it didn’t matter.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, smiling through your tears. “That was perfect.”

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest eased. You still missed home, but sitting there in his arms, with a notebook full of his love and effort, you realized that maybe Isack was building you a new kind of home — one you could carry with you, no matter where the season took you.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

The season break was finally here, and you were more than ready to sleep for four weeks straight. The last few races had been exhausting, both physically and emotionally, and though Isack had done everything he could to soften the homesickness — the pierogi, the music, the notebook full of his scribbles — the ache hadn’t gone away. You missed home in a way that felt bone-deep.

So when Isack told you to pack a bag for “a little getaway,” you didn’t question it too much. He was secretive, yes, but you assumed he meant Monaco. Maybe a few quiet days by the sea, just the two of you. That sounded perfect enough.

The next morning, he guided you toward the private terminal at the airport, his hand warm against the small of your back. You eyed the sleek jet waiting on the tarmac, raising an eyebrow. “A jet? You didn’t tell me we were going full James Bond for this trip.”

He just grinned, that boyish, mischievous grin you could never resist. “You deserve it.”

Once you were in the air, you settled into your seat, curling up against him. The hum of the engines lulled you into drowsiness, and you dozed for most of the flight. Every time you stirred awake, you asked where you were going, and every time, Isack only smiled and kissed your hair. “Patience, mon amour.”

When the plane finally began to descend, you rubbed your eyes and peered out the window. The view hit you like a punch to the chest. It wasn’t Monaco. It wasn’t anywhere you expected. The rolling green fields, the red roofs of houses clustered in small towns, the unmistakable landscape of your childhood—

Poland.

Your breath caught. “Isack…”

He turned toward you, his expression soft, nervous, almost shy despite how proud he looked. “Surprise.”

You covered your mouth with your hand as tears welled instantly. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he said simply, brushing a tear off your cheek with his thumb. “You’ve been carrying this weight for so long, and I hated seeing you miss home. So I thought… why not just take you there?”

By the time the plane touched down, you were already crying. He helped you down the steps, your hands trembling as you tried to take everything in. The air smelled different here, familiar in a way that wrapped around you like a hug.

And then you saw them.

Your family was waiting at the edge of the runway — your parents, your siblings, even your grandmother, all waving and calling out your name. You froze, overcome, and then you were running, dropping your bag and sprinting into their arms. The sob that tore out of you was half joy, half relief, as you clung to them like you’d never let go.

Isack stood a few steps back, watching with his hands in his pockets, his eyes shining. He let you have the moment, let you fold yourself into the people you’d been missing so desperately. But when your mom finally pulled you back, wiping at your tears, she gestured for him to come closer.

He did, and she hugged him just as tightly as she hugged you. “Dziękuję,” she whispered, thanking him over and over, and even though his Polish was limited, he understood.

Later, as the sun set and you sat on the porch of your childhood home, your head resting on Isack’s shoulder, you whispered, “You didn’t just give me a trip. You gave me back a piece of myself.”

He kissed the crown of your head, holding you tighter. “You’re my home,” he said softly. “But I wanted to give you yours back too.”

And for the first time in months, your heart felt completely whole.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

The house was warm that evening, filled with laughter and the clatter of plates as your family crowded around the table. It had been hours since you landed, but your parents insisted on cooking a feast, pulling out every childhood favorite you’d ever mentioned to Isack. He had tried everything with wide-eyed enthusiasm — the soups, the sausages, the pastries — even if he asked a million questions about how to eat them properly.

Eventually, though, the noise quieted. Your family drifted off to bed one by one, leaving you and Isack sitting on the back porch together. The summer night air was cool, the stars brighter than you’d seen in months, unpolluted by city lights.

You tucked your legs under yourself on the bench, sipping tea your mom had made, while Isack stretched an arm around your shoulders. “It’s so peaceful here,” he murmured, gaze tilted toward the sky. “I get why you miss it so much.”

You leaned into him, a smile tugging at your lips. “It’s different from the paddock chaos, huh?”

He chuckled. “A little. No engineers yelling, no cameras chasing me. Just…” He gestured around at the quiet yard, the crickets chirping, the faint glow of your grandmother’s lantern in the garden. “This. You.”

For a moment, you just sat there, listening to the night. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled something out — a tiny, lopsided daisy crown.

You blinked at it, then at him. “Where did you—”

“I made it this afternoon,” he admitted, cheeks going pink. “Your little cousin taught me. She said you used to make these when you were her age, so…” He shrugged, awkward and endearing, before placing it carefully on your head. “Now you’ve got a crown. The prettiest girl in Poland.”

You laughed, clutching your stomach, but tears pricked your eyes too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. “But you’re smiling again. That’s all I wanted.”

And as you leaned in to kiss him under the quiet Polish stars, the daisy crown slightly crooked on your head, you thought that maybe he fit here just as perfectly as you did.

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗

The car ride to the airport was quiet. The soft hum of the engine filled the space between you, a peaceful contrast to the whirlwind of emotions from the past few days. You leaned your head against the window, staring out at the clouds drifting lazily across the sky, clutching the small duffel bag Isack had insisted you take with all the souvenirs and little reminders of home.

Isack’s hand brushed against yours from the center console. You turned toward him, catching his gaze — soft, warm, and full of that love that had always managed to anchor you even in the chaos of the racing world.

“Hey,” he murmured, thumb brushing the back of your hand. “I’ve got one more thing for you.”

Your stomach flipped with curiosity. He reached into the small compartment between the seats and pulled out a delicate black box, smooth and velvety. The kind of box you only ever imagine holding jewelry in.

Your hands shook slightly as he opened it, revealing a bracelet — fine silver links, a tiny charm engraved with coordinates, and a small locket attached. You picked it up carefully, eyes widening as you realized the coordinates were your hometown.

He watched you, silent for a moment, then gently nudged the locket open. Inside was a photograph of your family — your parents smiling, your siblings laughing, the whole scene frozen in one perfect moment of home.

“You…” you choked, tears already brimming, but your voice failed you.

“I wanted you to have something,” he said quietly, reaching over to take your hand and loop the bracelet around your wrist. “Something to carry with you when you’re away. So even when we’re traveling, when the hotels feel the same and the racetracks blur together… you’ll have a little piece of home with you.”

You swallowed hard, tears spilling freely now. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. “Isack… I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Just feel it. Feel that you’re loved. That you’re seen. That wherever you are, you’re never really far from where your heart belongs.”

You traced your fingers over the engraved coordinates, your voice barely above a whisper. “I can feel it… and I can feel you too. You… you make everything easier. You make missing home less lonely.”

He hugged you tighter, burying his face in your hair. “I’ll always do that for you. You don’t have to carry anything alone ever again. Not your home, not your heart, not your dreams. I’m here. Always.”

The plane ride was filled in comfortable silence, the kind where words aren’t necessary because love speaks louder than anything else. And for the first time in months, your chest felt light. Not because you were leaving Poland, not because the racetrack life would begin again, but because you had your heart — and your home — safe in your hands and wrapped around your wrist, and your love beside you, holding you through it all.

When you finally looked up at him, cheeks streaked with tears and eyes shining, he smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made every sacrifice, every mile, every lonely moment worth it.

“Ready to go back?” he asked softly.

You nodded, looping your arm through his. “Yeah. But this time… I’ll carry a piece of home with me, and a piece of you too.”

And as the plane ascended into the clouds, you knew that no matter where the season took you next, home wasn’t just a place. Home was here, in him, in the love and care that followed you everywhere, wrapped around your wrist, tucked in your heart, and whispered in every soft word he said.