#ikya posts!

Pedri should have known something was up when he overheard Pau whispering to Héctor Fort like a kid plotting a heist.

“No, seriously,” Pau insisted, voice low but not low enough. “Her cookies are nutritionist-approved. Do you know how rare that is? And she gives them to me. For free.”

Héctor’s eyes widened. “You’re telling me there’s a secret loophole to Barça’s diet plan?”

Pedri’s blood ran cold.

Your phone rings just as you’re settling into the couch.

“Mi vida,” Pedri’s voice is suspiciously sweet. “We haven’t gone on a date in a while, have we?”

You squint. “Pedri, we literally had dinner together last night.”

“Exactly. Too long.” He’s already talking faster. “I’m picking you up in twenty. Wear something cute.”

You don’t even get to question him before he hangs up.

Pau’s call comes exactly seven minutes later.

“Hey,” he says, voice already preemptively pouting. “So, hypothetically… if I, Héctor, and maybe Lamine showed up at your place tonight… would you maybe, possibly… make us those cookies?”

You bite back a laugh. “Sorry, Pau. I have plans.”

A dramatic gasp. “With who?!”

“Your ‘dad.’”

The silence is devastating.

Pedri, the smug little devil, grinned the entire drive over.

The date is nice. Pedri is smug the entire time, grinning like he just won the Champions League by simply existing in your presence.

You get home, still laughing at how ridiculous he’s being—until you open the door.

Pau, Héctor, and Lamine are sitting on your couch like three overgrown puppies who just got caught chewing the furniture.

“Surprise!” Pau says, grinning way too wide.

Lamine holds up a grocery bag. “We brought ingredients!”

Héctor adds, “And we won’t even make you cook! Just… supervise?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing as Pedri muttered under his breath, "I could murder three teammates. Just three. That’s not too many, right?"

It takes approximately four minutes for you to ban all three of them from the kitchen.

Pau somehow got flour in his hair. Héctor cracked an egg… directly onto the counter. Lamine almost put salt instead of sugar into the mix before you snatched the measuring cup from him.

You rolled your sleeves up. "Alright, since you three clearly can’t be trusted, I’m making the batter. You can watch like good little footballers."

Pau groaned. "This is unfair."

Héctor sighed. "We’ve been benched."

Lamine, ever the optimist, perked up. "But we still get cookies, right?"

Pedri, now in an excellent mood, threw an arm around you as you mixed the batter. "Yeah, but I get the first one."

Pau narrowed his eyes. "That’s favoritism."

Pedri grinned. "Damn right it is."

Pau glares. “You’re a terrible father.”

“And you’re a terrible son.”

Lamine sighs. “Can we at least lick the spoon?”

You point the spatula at him. “If any of you move before I say so, no cookies.”

Three professional footballers immediately freeze like statues.

By the time the cookies are done, the three of them have migrated to the floor in front of the oven, staring through the glass like it’s the most fascinating thing they’ve ever seen.

“They’re rising,” Lamine whispers, awed.

“That’s what cookies do, genius,” Pedri says, but even he can’t hide his smile when you pull the tray out and three pairs of eyes follow it from the oven to the counter, hypnotised.

The second the cookies were cool enough, all three of them lunged—only for you to hold the plate just out of reach. “What do we say?”

“Please,” they chorused, slightly surprised by their own politeness.

You sighed, handing them over. “I can’t believe I’m babysitting Barça’s future.”

Pedri, wrapped an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And yet, you’re so good at it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.

You are in love with a man who has two left feet on the dance floor but moves with liquid grace on the pitch. You are dating Ferran, and your favourite hobby, second only to kissing him, is teasing him about his great, undying love for Pedri.

It starts at a team barbecue at Gavi’s place. You’re perched on a garden chair, a glass of something cold in your hand, watching the footballers become clumsy boys again. Ferran is at the grill, brandishing tongs with exaggerated seriousness. Pedri materializes silently beside him, eyeing the chorizo.

“A little longer on that side, Ferran,” Pedri says, his voice calm.

Ferran jumps, as if startled by a ghost. “You think? I don’t want it to burn.”

“Trust me,” Pedri says, and then, without another word, he reaches over and gently steadies Ferran’s wrist, adjusting the angle of the tongs. It lasts two seconds.

You float over, a smile playing on your lips. You slide your arm around Ferran’s waist. “A culinary assist. Beautiful. Should I leave you two alone with the meat?”

Ferran’s ears go pink. “He just knows about chorizo! He’s from the Canaries!”

Pedri just grins, a slow, knowing thing, and wanders off. “See?” Ferran huffs, flipping the sausage with undue force. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s everything,” you sigh dramatically, resting your head on his shoulder. “The way he looks at you. The silent communication. It’s like you share a soul. A very, very serious, midfield-controlling soul.”

“We share a dressing room,” he corrects, but he’s fighting a smile.

Later, you’re at his apartment, watching a movie. Or, you’re watching a movie; he’s scrolling through his phone. He lets out a soft chuckle.

“What is it?” you ask.

He shows you the screen. It’s a video, sent from Pedri, of a toddler in a tiny Barcelona kit attempting to do keepie-uppies and falling on its diapered bottom. The caption reads: “Your fanclub president. Training starts early.”

You take the phone. “Aw. He sends you baby videos. That’s couple stuff.”

“It’s a funny video!” Ferran protests, snatching the phone back, but he’s already typing a reply, a soft look on his face.

You poke his cheek. “What do you reply? ‘My love, our future child will have better ball control’?”

He tackles you gently onto the couch, phone forgotten. “I reply, ‘Better than you on your first day.’ And I only send you heart emojis.” He proves it by covering your face in kisses until you’re both breathless and laughing.

The pinnacle of your manufactured drama comes during a lazy Sunday walk by the beach. Ferran is telling a long, convoluted story about a training ground prank involving Robert and a bucket of very cold water. He’s gesturing wildly.

“And then, Pedri, right, he doesn’t say a word, he just…” Ferran’s eyes light up, and he points. “Hey! Speak of the devil!”

Pedri is across the promenade, wearing a hat and huge sunglasses, but it’s unmistakably him. He’s with friends. Ferran, ever the golden retriever, raises a hand in a wave.

Pedri sees him. He nods once, that classic Pedri nod. Then, he makes a gesture. It’s small, just a tap of his fist against his own chest, then a point straight at Ferran.

Ferran mirrors it instantly, tapping his own chest and pointing back.

You stand there, watching this silent, profound, utterly ridiculous exchange. Your mouth drops open. Ferran turns back to you, beaming.

You find your voice. “What… what was that?”

“What?” he asks, innocently.

“That! The secret signal! The chest-tap-point! You have a secret signal?”

He shrugs, as if everyone has one. “It just means… you know. ‘All good.’ ‘I’m here.’ That kind of thing.”

You stop walking. You put your hands on your hips. “Ferran Torres. You have just performed a public, wordless declaration of solidarity with another man. A secret handshake without the hands. I am your girlfriend, and we do not have a secret signal. We have a grocery list.”

He loops his arms around your waist, pulling you close despite your mock outrage. The sea breeze ruffles his hair. “You want a signal? Fine.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “Every time I tap my chest and point, it’s for you. Even when I do it to him. It’s just practice for you.”

You try to stay stern. “That’s the worst cover story I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s true,” he says, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming soft and serious. He pulls back to look you in the eyes. “You know it’s true. You make fun of me all day, and I love it. Because at the end of the day, you’re the one here. You’re the one I come home to. Not him. Never him.”

He kisses you then, deeply, on a Barcelona beach, with the sun setting. You melt into it, because you know. You’ve always known.

Later that night, curled in bed, his breath evening out against your neck, his phone pings on the nightstand. You reach for it. It’s Pedri.

“Saw you with your girl. You looked like a lost puppy who found its owner.”

You smirk. You type back from Ferran’s phone, careful not to jostle him.

“Jealous?”

The reply is immediate.

“Ecstatic for you. Now stop texting me, I’m gaming. And tell her the secret signal thing was my idea. She’ll like that.”

You put the phone down. You turn and wrap yourself around your sleeping, oblivious boyfriend, your personal sun. You press a kiss to his shoulder, your heart full and quiet.

You never expected to have a child this early in life. Especially not a 6'0" one with green eyes and a Barcelona jersey permanently glued to his torso. But somehow, Pau Cubarsí has inserted himself into your relationship with Pedri, and neither of you can do anything about it.

“Mi amor,” Pedri groans, flopping onto the couch beside you, exhausted after training. His head lands in your lap, arms wrapping around your waist as he buries his face into your stomach. “Please, I’m begging you. Tell Pau to stop acting like we’re his parents.”

You barely get the chance to respond before a shadow looms over both of you.

“Why do you sound so ungrateful, Pedri?” Pau says, arms crossed over his chest. You glance up at him and try not to laugh at the way he’s staring Pedri down, lips pressed into a firm line. “Do you know how many people wish they had a son like me?”

“You’re not our son!” Pedri sits up, glaring at him. “You’re my teammate!”

“And yet, I see her more than you do,” Pau retorts, jerking his thumb toward you. “She actually appreciates me.”

He’s not wrong. You do appreciate Pau. He’s funny, keeps you entertained whenever Pedri is busy, and—despite his dramatic tendencies—he’s kind of adorable when he clings to you like a lost puppy.

Pedri groans and turns to you, eyes pleading. “Please, mi vida. Don’t encourage him.”

You press your lips together, trying to keep from laughing. But then Pau leans down, lowering his voice as he says, “You’re not planning on letting her go, are you?”

Pedri swallows hard, eyes flickering to you before darting back up at Pau, who is, unfortunately, very tall and very serious. “Of course not,” he says quickly. “Why would I?”

“Good.” Pau pats him on the shoulder, satisfied. Then, he grins at you. “Want to go get ice cream? Pedri’s paying.”

“Why am I—?”

“Because you love us,” Pau interrupts. “Right, Dad?”

Pedri lets out a long, suffering sigh. You ruffle his hair before standing up and offering him your hand. “Come on, amor. Let’s go before your child throws a tantrum.”

He takes your hand reluctantly, muttering something about how this is not what he signed up for.

Pau, as usual, is sitting way too close to you, stealing choco chips off your sundae and giving Pedri a pointed look every time he tries to hold your hand. “You know,” Pau says, leaning back in his chair with a grin, “if you two ever break up, I’m keeping her.”

Pedri chokes on his water. “What? No! That’s not how this works!”

“Why not?” Pau shrugs, completely unfazed. “She’s basically my mom now. You’d just be the deadbeat dad who’s not in the picture anymore.”

You burst out laughing, because the look on Pedri’s face is priceless. He’s torn between being horrified and trying not to laugh himself. “You’re impossible,” he mutters, shaking his head. But there’s a fondness in his voice that he can’t quite hide.

Later that night, as you’re lying in bed with Pedri, he turns to you and says, “You know I’m not going anywhere, right? Pau can threaten me all he wants, but you’re stuck with me.”

You smile, because you know he means it. And honestly, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You knew moving into this apartment would come with its quirks, but you didn’t expect him to be one of them.

Pedri.

Your unfairly attractive neighbor. The one who somehow always manages to be in the hallway when you are—leaning against his doorframe, tousled hair still damp from a shower, grinning like he’s been waiting all day just to annoy you. (And okay, maybe you’ve started timing your comings and goings to match his. Maybe.)

It starts small.

Him, stealing your grocery bags just to carry them the five steps to your door. *“You’re *such* a gentleman,”* you say, rolling your eyes.

“Only for you,” he fires back, and you hate how your stomach flips.

Him, knocking on your wall when you play music too loud—except he never actually complains. Just “You have good taste” and “Play it louder next time” and “I can hear you singing, you know.” (You nearly choke on your wine the first time he says that.)

Him, showing up at your door at midnight because “I ran out of sugar” (he didn’t) and lingering in your kitchen, watching you stir his coffee like he’s memorizing the way you move.

It’s all fun and games—until Ferran Torres ruins everything.

You’re returning Pedri’s blender (because yes, he lent you his blender, and yes, you’re both fully aware it was a flimsy excuse to see each other) when you hear voices inside his apartment.

You knock. The door swings open.

And there, standing behind Pedri with a bowl of popcorn in his hands like he’s watching the best show of his life, is Ferran Torres.

Pedri freezes. “Hey.” (His voice cracks. His voice cracks.)

You hold up the blender. “Thanks for this. Smoothie was great.”

“Oh my god,” Ferran breathes, like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “YOU’RE THE GIRL.”

Pedri’s head whips around so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t get whiplash. “Ferran—”

*“The one he keeps *blushing* over!”* Ferran continues, undeterred. *“Dude, you did *not* do her justice in your descriptions.”*

Pedri looks like he’s considering throwing himself off the balcony. “I’m going to kill you.”

*“He *literally* told me you have the prettiest laugh he’s ever heard—”*

“FERRA—”

“—and that you ‘borrow his stuff on purpose’ just to talk to him—”

You raise an eyebrow. *“Oh? *I* do?”*

Pedri’s face is now the color of a Barcelona jersey. “This is a nightmare.”

Ferran grins, shoving popcorn into his mouth. *“This is *gold.”

You smirk, leaning against the doorframe—mirroring Pedri’s signature move just to mess with him. “So. You talk about me, huh?”

Pedri opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “I hate both of you.”

Ferran claps him on the shoulder. “No, you don’t.”

(And the worst part? He doesn’t.)

Later that night, there’s a knock on your door.

You open it to find Pedri, hands shoved in his pockets, looking equal parts annoyed and fond. “So. Ferran’s never allowed over again.”

You laugh. “That bad?”

“Worse.” He steps closer. *“But… he wasn’t *wrong.”

Your breath catches. “About which part?”

His grin is slow, devastating. “All of it.”

(And when he kisses you, right there in your doorway, you make a mental note to thank Ferran later.)

A/N:

in my mind, ferran, texted pedri the next morning: “SO????” and pedri just sent a :✌️

You’re curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your legs, scrolling aimlessly through your phone. It’s been a long day, and you’re finally relaxing after work. Then, a notification pops up. It’s a tweet: “Arvid Lindblad mentioned his girlfriend EIGHT TIMES on Screaming Meals. Who is she??? Theories below.” Your stomach drops. What?

You hadn’t even watched the episode yet. Arvid had casually mentioned he was going on the podcast, but he hadn’t said anything about you being a topic of conversation. You quickly pull up the episode, your heart pounding as you fast-forward through the intro. And there it is. His voice, warm and relaxed, like he’s just chatting with friends.

“Yeah, my girlfriend actually loves that track,” he says, grinning. You pause. Rewind. Play it again. Girlfriend. He said it so casually, like it was common knowledge. Like everyone already knew.

You keep watching, and it happens again. And again. And again. By the time you finish the episode, you’ve counted eight times. Eight. He mentioned you eight times. Your face feels hot, your mind racing. The comments are already flooding in—speculation, theories, even a few wild guesses. Someone thought he was dating a pop star. Another person thought it was his teammate. Nobody knows it’s you.

You grab your phone and call him. He answers on the second ring, his voice cheerful. “Hey, love! Did you see the podcast?”

“Arvid!” you exclaim, your voice a mix of disbelief and panic. “You can’t just announce to the whole world that we’re dating! People didn’t even know!”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, genuinely confused, he says, “Wait… they didn’t?”

You groan, flopping back onto the couch. “No, Arvid! We’ve been keeping it private, remember? You just casually dropped ‘girlfriend’ eight times on a podcast that, like, every F2 fan watches. People are freaking out!”

He laughs, that easy, carefree laugh that always makes your stomach flip. “Oh. Oops. I thought everyone knew. I mean, it’s not like I was hiding it. You’re kind of the best thing in my life, so… why wouldn’t I talk about you?”

Your frustration melts a little at that, but you’re still reeling. “Okay, but now everyone’s trying to figure out who I am. What if they find out? What if they start digging?”

“Let them,” he says, his tone softening. “I’m not ashamed of you. I’m proud of you. If people find out, they find out. But if you’re not ready, I’ll handle it. I’ll tell them to back off.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “I just… I wasn’t prepared for this. I didn’t think you’d just casually mention me like that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can hear the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just… I guess I talk about you more than I realized. You’re kind of always on my mind.”

You can’t help but smile at that, even as your heart races. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you love me anyway,” he teases.

And he’s right. You do. Even if he just accidentally announced your relationship to the entire F2 fandom.

The next few days are a whirlwind. The speculation grows, but Arvid keeps his word. He doesn’t confirm anything, doesn’t drop any hints. He just keeps being his usual, charming self, deflecting questions with a smile. And when he calls you that night, his voice is soft.

“Hey,” he says. “I know this is a lot. But no matter what happens, I’ve got you. Okay?”

And for the first time since the podcast dropped, you feel a little calmer. Because yeah, it’s chaotic. But it’s also kind of… exciting. And as long as you’ve got him, you know you’ll be okay.

A few days later, you’re scrolling through Twitter again, and you see a clip from the podcast that someone has edited together. It’s just Arvid mentioning you. All eight times. The comments are a mix of confusion, admiration, and outright obsession.

“Arvid Lindblad is down bad for his girlfriend, whoever she is,” one tweet reads.

“Bro mentioned her eight times in one hour. EIGHT. That’s love,” another says.

You can’t help but laugh. And when Arvid calls you later that night, you playfully tease him about it.

“So, eight times, huh?” you say, grinning even though he can’t see you.

He groans, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Okay, okay, I get it. I talk about you a lot. But can you blame me? You’re kind of amazing.”

“Flattery won’t save you,” you say, but you’re smiling so wide your cheeks hurt.

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” he fires back.

There’s a look on Logan’s face, a look you instantly recognize. 

“We should break up,” he says quickly, as if afraid that if he said it more slowly, he might change his mind halfway.

His words hit you like a tidal wave, washing over your entire being. The world around you blurs as you focus on Logan’s eyes, the eyes that once looked at you with so much love and warmth. Now, they’re filled with a determination you’ve never seen before, a resolve that tells you he’s not wavering.

You swallow hard, trying to find your voice. 

“Logan, why? What happened?”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“It’s not something you did. It’s just... I need to find myself. I need to figure out who I am without us.”

You know that trying to convince him otherwise would be futile. You can’t control him, can’t make him stay if his heart isn’t here anymore. So, you nod, even though it feels like your heart is shattering into a million pieces.

“I understand,” you say, even though you don’t. Not really. But you respect his need for self-discovery, even if it means losing him.

Logan’s shoulders sag with relief. 

“Thank you,” he whispers, as if he didn’t expect you to take it so calmly. 

“I’ll pack my things.”

As he moves around your shared apartment, collecting his belongings, you sit on the edge of the bed, memories flooding your mind. You remember the nights spent talking until dawn, the lazy Sunday mornings, the way his laughter would fill the room and make everything seem brighter. He is your love, your life, and you can’t imagine a world without him.

When he finally zips up his suitcase, he turns to you, hesitating. 

“I’ll always care about you,” he says softly.

You force a smile. 

“And I’ll always love you.”

With a final, lingering look, Logan leaves. The door closes behind him with a soft click that sounds like the end of everything you’ve known. You sit there, staring at the closed door, feeling a hollowness you’ve never felt before. It’s as if a part of you walked out with him, leaving you incomplete.

Days turn into weeks, and you find yourself going through the motions, existing but not truly living. You see Logan’s ghost in everything—his favorite coffee mug, the sweater he left behind, the photos of the two of you still on the walls. Each reminder is a knife twist in the wound, a painful echo of what you had.

There are moments when you almost call him, moments when you’re convinced that hearing his voice will make everything better. But you stop yourself, knowing that he needs this time apart, needs to find himself without you. Loving someone sometimes means letting them go, even if it breaks your heart in the process.

You throw yourself into work, into hobbies, into anything that can distract you from the ache inside. Slowly, you begin to rebuild your life, piece by piece. The pain never fully goes away, but it becomes a part of you, a scar that reminds you of what once was.

You see Logan sometimes, in the places you used to go together. There’s always a moment of recognition, a shared smile that says, “I remember.” But you never approach him, never try to rekindle what you had. You respect his journey, just as he respected yours.

It all began with your friends’ relentless teasing during lunch break. You were laughing, completely oblivious to the underlying reason for their constant jibes and hints.

“Honestly, how can you not see it?” your best friend Mia said, exasperation lacing her tone.

“See what?” you replied, genuinely puzzled.

“Pepe Marti! He’s totally into you. He’s always watching you in class,” Mia declared, her voice lowering conspiratorially.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of his name. Pepe was a famous guy in your school. While you guys were spending hours in classrooms learning history and algebra, he was out racing in different countries, and he was doing pretty well. You’d always admired him from afar but never considered the possibility that he might notice you, let alone like you.

“No way,” you said, shaking your head. “He’s got so much going on with his racing. Why would he be interested in me?”

But the seed had been planted. You couldn’t help but replay moments in your mind—Pepe’s lingering gazes, the shy smiles he directed your way. Maybe your friends were right.

Days passed, and the idea that Pepe liked you began to feel less absurd. You started noticing him more, catching his eyes in class, and each time, he’d look away, cheeks slightly flushed. 

One day, after an extremely boring English lesson, you found yourself alone, gathering your books slowly. You glanced up and saw Pepe standing by the door, seemingly hesitant.

“Hey,” he said, his hands playing with the strap of his backpack.

“Hi!,” you replied, almost too quickly for your liking.

He stepped into the classroom. “Can we talk?”

“Sure!,” you were in no actual mood to talk with anyone, but you were curious about what Pepe wanted to say.

Pepe took a deep breath, and for a moment, he thought about just running away, too scared of your rejection. “I’ve been wanting to tell you something for a while now,” he began, his voice gentle. “I like you. A lot. I know it might sound crazy because we don’t get to spend much time together, but it’s the truth.”

You stood there, stunned into silence. Pepe’s face fell, interpreting your lack of response as rejection. He turned to leave, but before he could take another step, you rushed forward and grabbed his arm.

“Wait,” you said, your voice trembling. “I like you too, Pepe. I really do. But…can we take things slow? I don’t want to rush into anything and risk losing you.”

Relief washed over his features, and he smiled, the kind of smile that lit up his entire face, and yours in return. “Of course. I’d love that.”

From that moment on, your relationship blossomed slowly but beautifully. You’d steal moments between classes, share quiet conversations, and text each other late into the night. Pepe’s racing schedule was demanding, but he always made time for you, even if it was just a brief call from a different time zone.

One evening, as you sat together on a bench in the park, you found yourself lost in his eyes.

“There’s a shimmer in your eyes,” you murmured, as he looked at you curiously. “Like the feeling of a thousand butterflies.”

Pepe smiled and leaned in to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You make everything feel like that,” he whispered.

Despite the growing closeness, a part of you remained fearful. What if the demands of his career pulled him away from you? What if the whirlwind of his racing world left no room for your quiet moments?

“Please, let’s take it slowly,” you’d often say, your voice betraying your insecurities.

Pepe would always hold you close, his embrace reassuring. “We will. I’m not going anywhere,” he’d promise.

Your relationship became a delicate dance, balancing the excitement of new love with the caution of taking things step by step. Pepe continued with his racing career, and you got into university, majoring in mechanical engineering.

You remember how it all started. The excitement, the passion, the shared dreams, and the relentless ambition. You and Lewis had it all. Or so it seemed. As a top engineer at Ferrari, you lived and breathed motorsport, but it was your relationship with Lewis that made the moments off the track truly special.

It was Monaco 2016, the night before the big race. The sky was clear, and the stars shimmered over the Mediterranean. You met Lewis at a gala, the kind of event where the air buzzed with champagne bubbles and the murmur of high society. Lewis, with his charming smile and magnetic presence, was the center of attention, but when he looked at you, it was as if the world stopped. You talked about cars, strategies, and everything in between. There was an instant connection.

Over time, your relationship blossomed. The thrill of sneaking away for secret dates, the late-night conversations about life beyond racing, and the quiet moments where you could just be yourselves. Those were the times you cherished the most.

One night, as you both lay on the balcony of his apartment overlooking the city, Lewis rested his head on your lap, a rare moment of vulnerability from the world champion. “You know, sometimes I really wish I could run away from all the fame and people, and live a quiet life with you,” he whispered, his eyes closed in contentment.

You ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the weight of his words. “No Lewis, you love this. You love the fame and the cameras, it’s me who wishes you could run away from it all. I’m the selfish one.”

But love is never simple, especially when it’s tangled with the relentless pressure of professional success. Lewis's career skyrocketed, and with every victory, every championship, the distance between you grew. You were proud of him, of course, but the endless races, the media frenzy, and the never-ending demands on his time left little room for you.

It all came to a head after his fourth world championship win. The victory party was grand, a glittering affair that went on till dawn. But amid the celebration, you felt like a ghost, invisible and alone. You tried to talk to him, but he was swept away by adoring fans, sponsors, and the endless parade of well-wishers. When he finally found a moment, you could see the exhaustion in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and for a moment, you believed he meant it. But apologies couldn't bridge the growing chasm between you.

You tried to hold on, but the nights grew colder, and the days lonelier. Eventually, the strain became too much. One evening, after a particularly brutal argument, you packed your bags and walked out of his life, leaving behind the man you loved and the dreams you had built together.

Fast forward to 2024. Your career at Ferrari flourished, and you buried yourself in work to forget the heartache. But fate, or maybe Lewis has a cruel sense of humor. The announcement came out of the blue: Lewis Hamilton was joining Ferrari for the 2025 season.

The paddock buzzed with the news, but for you, it was a gut punch. The thought of working with him again, seeing him every day, was almost unbearable. But you were a professional, and you wouldn't let personal history affect your work.

The first meeting was awkward, to say the least. You avoided eye contact, focusing on the technical briefing, the strategies for the upcoming season. But you could feel his eyes on you, a silent plea for acknowledgment.

Days turned into weeks, and the tension simmered. It all came to a head one evening after a particularly long day at the track. You were in the garage, going over some data, when Lewis walked in.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low and strained.

You didn’t look up. “There’s nothing to talk about, Lewis. Let’s just do our jobs.”

He stepped closer, his presence impossible to ignore. “I’m sorry. For everything. I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance, but-”

You finally met his gaze, the familiar pain and longing in his eyes. “You might have won the races and championships, but you don't get my heart back.”

He flinched as if struck. “I know I can’t change the past, but I want to make things right. I miss you.”

The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, but the wounds were too deep. “It’s too late, Lewis. We had our chance.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but you turned away, focusing back on your work. The silence was heavy, laden with unspoken words and lingering regrets.

Working together was a constant reminder of what was and what could have been. Yet, slowly, a new dynamic formed. Professional respect replaced personal tension, and while the past remained a painful shadow, you both found a way to coexist.

Lewis never stopped trying to mend the rift. Little gestures, a coffee waiting at your desk, a supportive word during a tough day. But you held firm, guarding your heart against further hurt.

As the season progressed, Ferrari thrived. The collaboration between the engineers and drivers was seamless, and the team’s performance improved dramatically. There were moments, brief and fleeting, where you saw a glimpse of the man you had once loved, not the racing superstar, but the man who had shared his dreams and fears with you.

And in those moments, you wondered if, maybe someday, you could find it in your heart to forgive. But for now, you were content to focus on the present, the thrill of the race, and the drive to win.