#lightsoutcollab

The racing engineer beside you, hunched over in bulky black headphones, peered at the screen before wrenching the headset off his ears. “I mean…it’s fine in the end, isn’t it?” he asked, searching for any essence of reassurance in your gaze. He would find none today.

It did not take long for the cause of your concern to be upon your screens again, chaos surrounding him in waves of red, the colour of Italian pride and joy as they celebrated a win for the man who beat the reigning champion. 

The Ferrari racer did not bother to take off his helmet as he pounced on his teammates behind the scenes, held on by hopeful arms, the screams of the tifosi striking through the loser’s helmet, radiating in his ears till they rang like a warning. 

The cameras focused on the still figure of such a man, processing the loss of first place, slipped away by half of a second. Any other driver, and the people would demand the helmet be taken off, see the loss painted on his face. No one dared ask him.

Only waited in anticipation for what would escape the certain-scowling mouth once the world caught a glimpse of him.

They managed only when he walked slowly over to the press, where the journalists nearly snapped their necks to take a glance at his stalking presence. BBC Sports were the first to brave an interview post-race. Dozens of protruding cameras instantly focused on the man as he brought his gloved hands to his decorated helmet. The blood-red sheen of Red Bull glistened in the Melbourne sun as the helmet was taken off. The white balaclava covered his features still, but there was no mistaking what curdled in the champion’s eyes. 

“Congratulations on another podium, Seungcheol,” the journalist began, and you could see it on your screen—the restrained twitch of the said-man’s eyelids—no doubt suppressing an eyeroll. “Though, judging by your…well, you don’t seem too happy.” 

Indeed. Seungcheol took a moment staring him down, eyes raking over his face, the mic, before peeling off his balaclava—instantly the raven locks hidden away bounced erratically around his frame, matted with sweat. “Yeah, well…the strategy let me down today.”

The racing engineer whirled his head to you, watching the same stream. He caught the sparks slowly catching fire from the words escaped on live television. “He’s saying that ‘cause he knows you’re watching,” he hurriedly offered. He was not sure he believed it.

You definitely did not. “Blaming it on the team, Jeonghan,” you muttered, feeling your temple crease from excess furrowing. Screwing up on the track is a mistake—pointing fingers is a flaw. 

“And why is that?” the reporter asked, taking the bait. It made you seethe to hear it. “What specific part of strategy did you not agree with?”

“You saw the ill-timed pit stop. I was ready to squeeze out five more laps with the mediums, but insisting on a second pit stop in the middle was ridiculous.” His voice rasped more through the stream—exhausted from the race. “And then having the Ferrari undercut me because of this…in your words, I’m not too happy.” 

He then threw the BBC reporter a smile which felt more like an irritated grimace. It had the driver’s engineer grimacing beside you. “Last time he did that was Bahrain.” 

Not even a month ago. “Let him have his public tantrum,” you declared, sitting up from your chair, Jeonghan following your sudden movement. “I’ll see how he runs his mouth in front of me.” 

“Here we go,” the man murmured, shaking his head as you left the pit wall. You would have let a curse slip at him, too, but now was not the time for inner-team tensions. The star-driver had already fanned the flames for such an event. 

You stalked through the newbuild, bright-lit halls of the Red Bull garage, mechanics running back and forth, interns following closely behind as a couple cameramen flanked and recorded each speech. The red, yellow and navy-flanked compound never rested, a vessel of labour and power as dozens upon dozens of individuals enslaved themselves to the team’s victory. Nodding to each acquaintance who said your name in anticipation, a scent of slight fear marinated over the garage. Shit. This meant the comments had travelled. 

And if the comments had travelled, that means the man who expelled them was nearby too. 

You did not let yourself focus on that outcome. Your only objective was seeking out Jihoon—who, due to Seungcheol’s little outburst, was hiding out from the press in the depths of the paddock. The publicists surrounding him were muttering frantically within earshot, and the moment they caught sight of you thundering towards them they immediately stopped, finding solace in your shared anger. 

Jihoon turned towards you, and he was already raising his hand before you could speak. “I know, I know,” he said, jerking his head towards the exit, a cue for the publicists. “You both go. We’ll handle it.” 

“We’ll handle it,” you parroted, watching them leave, the two clearly relieved. “How many times do we need to fix his mess?” 

The man crossed his arms, muscles tensing underneath his navy polo t-shirt, all the Red Bull sponsors on clear display. “In fairness, he’s less mouthy than last season. The only questions I got hit with today were over his refusal to pit-stop at the agreed lap.” 

That goddamned pit stop. Thirty-five laps in was the agreed protocol. Seungcheol even agreed to it, albeit begrudgingly, but he was flying across the track on the thirty-fourth lap, and he barely heard the DRS activation call before he overtook the slower Ferrari, mocking a salute to Wonwoo before setting his sights on the real opponent. 

You had witnessed it all so clearly. The order from Jeonghan to box, but Seungcheol was 1.3 seconds away from Mingyu, a fastest lap time away from gaining top of the pedestal. His racing engineer warned him to take care of the tyres—no need to go batshit on the softs—but he saw the metal flesh of the Ferrari’s rear-wing, almost close enough to taste, and he could not help himself. 

“Maybe if he boxed when we agreed on initially, then he wouldn’t be bitching over second,” you guttered, watching the screens as Seungcheol entered the Red Bull garage. Yes, he should not be bitching, because he drove into the pit-lane five laps too late, soft tyres fraying, and the new mediums gave up in the hunt for first-place. 

Because he did not listen to you, he lost seven more points than was intended. Not just him—the whole team. 

Your souring expression only had Jihoon patting your shoulder. “Box that frown, _____. You need to greet the rookie.”

Releasing your last sighs, you shot the team principal and CEO a parting glare. “If he’s there, Jihoon, just know I’m not staying quiet.” 

“I didn’t think you could, anyway,” he called out, which you chose to let slide; you could not also butt heads with one of the most important men in the garage. 

Down some different hallways you walked through, taking the narrow stairs which brought you to the first level of the Red Bull facility. More interns ushered past, waving in greeting to you, you smiling in return, but any menial mirth upon your face slowly faded with every step closer to the door at the end of your journey.

He was supposed to be there—the door slightly ajar, you thought him already present, bracing yourself for the booming snarl that would rock the room on its stilts. No doubt he was bothering the junior publicists responsible to follow his every move post-race. 

And now he will set his sights on you. Sucking in an irritated breath, you reached your hand out, pushing the door. The lights were almost blinding, accentuating the late afternoon sunlight as you took in the multiple tables and chairs, a whiteboard in the far end of the room with incomprehensible scribbles staining the surface. As you predicted, the publicists you had seen beforehand instantly shot up from their seats. 

The infamous champion, however, was not there—another man, much younger, sat in between the team members. Donning the Red Bull gear, even the outer layer of the suit zipped to the neck, his dark blond locks now raked dry. His sun-kissed face turned to you, and he, too, raised from his seat, looking around to the publicists in some form of approval. 

The image—and the absence of a particular sight—had instantly raised your spirits. “Please, don’t be silly, sit, sit!” you immediately began, walking over to the table. “Look at you, Jay, first race of the season!” 

The said-rookie smiled sheepishly, turning to sip water from the long straw of his bottle. “It’s not like I scored any points,” he said, glancing at the sheets spread out before him. 

“Eleventh is not as bad as you think for a maiden race,” you assured him. You did not need to mention the previous second driver, Sohn Youngjae, DNFing in the first two races—you also did not need to mention whether those fumbles were his fault, or the new car. “Point is, it’s the third race. You’ll get in the top ten in no time.” 

Jay wanted to thank you. He could not, however, when a certain deep, booming voice grated in your ears.

“Already preparing the replacement for the chopping block?” 

It was involuntary, how your features twisted into a natural scowl. As if your body recognised the source of all agitation nearby, and prepared you for two outcomes—an attack, or defense. This time, the former would prove more useful. 

Taking every ounce of your strength to do it, you slowly turned your head. Your eyes pouncing on Choi Seungcheol had the rage igniting your exhaustion.

An air of irritated arrogance misted from his suited-frame, the uniform stripped to the waist, revealing the white, full-sleeved, sponsor decorated vest. His raven curls were less sweated, finger-brushed by his restless hands, though that had disappeared as he leaned against the doorframe, observing the scene before him.

A retort was slipping out of you before you knew yourself. “No, since you screwed us on and off the track!”

He was expecting this. “I won’t be held responsible for the terrible strategy,” he said as he approached. He then mocked a ponder, and you could not help your eye-roll. “Since, let me think…you, as Strategy Engineer, created said-terrible strategy.” 

“Principal Strategy Engineer, thank you. I know what my role is,” you jeered, squinting your eyes at him, “about time you learned yours too.” 

“Oh, I know,” he said, and his glare meant to strike true. “It’s why I’m still on the podium despite you trying to sabotage me.”

Even Jay turned his head to you at that. Your humourless laugh had Seungcheol frowning. “You thinking that confirms my suspicions,” you chortled out, “that helmet truly isn’t protecting anything inside.” 

The rookie could only watch, fearful eyes darting between his two superiors as they knifed each other down. “I’m not apologising for the interview,” the champion declared, leaning to where you sat. “Her Majesty wants Podium Pie but loses her appetite when I offer it to her.” 

You scoffed. “You’ll have a right to complain when you give us a win this season.” 

His jaw tightened—a stinging remark. “I’ll give you a win when you stop fucking with my races. I haven’t forgotten Bahrain.” 

When the second driver began to fidget in his seat, he realised another person remained in the room. That fact, too, seemed to irritate the podium sitter. “And stop wasting your time coddling rookies,” he added, rising straighter as he stood, throwing a glance at Jay. “Focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points.”

Before you could bark back at him, he already turned his back to you—any form of conversation with him now unwelcome. “You know who you can send any feedback for me to.” 

“Don’t bother pretending you’re gonna learn from it,” you sniped—an opportunity taken. 

He looked over his shoulder. “So you do focus on me, then?” A ghost of a smirk plastered on his cherry lips. “Good to know you do the bare minimum in your job.” 

Bastard. “How about you follow my example then and do some bloody work yourself?” You pointed towards the door. “Stop wasting my time.” 

“Thought I’d return the favour,” he merely said, hands lazing on his hips. “Since you waste so much of mine on the track.” 

“Oh my God, just piss off!” you demanded, and the rookie almost flinched at the shrill change of your tone. 

The champion merely laughed, a heartless little chuckle which had steam churning out of your ears. “Don’t go complaining to Jihoon about my meeting absences, then,” he called as he began to leave, “I know how you don’t like to fight your own battles.” 

You were going to prove him wrong when you grabbed a Sharpie from the table, hand raised to throw it at his face. With a driver’s agility he swerved out of the room, his self-satisfied humming ringing in your ears. 

Jay watched you set down the marker rather harshly, taking a quick peek at the doorway once more. “I knew Seungcheol had problems with people on track, but…” 

“You don’t know the half of it,” you sighed out, rubbing your temples. “Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t mean for you to see that.” 

“It’s fine, really.” His hand travelled to the back of his neck, scratching a little awkwardly. “In all honesty, it’s not the first time I’ve seen you both…um…” 

Your mind unintentionally wandered to all the possible moments your rookie would have witnessed—the notion that he had multiple opportunities was enough for a breath to huff from your lips. “I’m sorry,” you said, although it only held half its intended worth. “Enough about him, though. How are you feeling? Especially with the car?”

The boy paused, head hesitantly curving to different directions before quickly leaning forward, elbows propped on the table. “Well, it’s great…obviously,” he began, a calming assurance before the stormy confession. “I can feel it being faster than the Racing Bulls, but the sensitivity—” he raised his hands, fingers curling around an imaginary wheel, steering an imitation of his Melbourne drive. “It feels like I could be a tenth off a turn and crash immediately.” 

Of course—the same problem predicted champion Sohn Youngjae experienced in last year’s car, the exact predicament that landed every junior Red Bull rookie stumbling behind Seungcheol in two-digit places. Everyone on the paddock sensed the issue. The question as to whether anyone was to highlight the issue was, itself, an entire issue. 

“I’ve spoken about that,” you said to him, though he merely lifted his shoulders in an impassive shrug. “You don’t need to worry about it. You leave it to me.”

He snuck a glance to the door—a shadow of who thundered in and out somehow still lingering. “Seems like a lot of people are leaving it to you. I heard the papers saying it was less Red Bull, more _____  and Co. Formula One team.”

That brought a soft bout of laughter from you. “The first time the news is appealing to me,” you remarked, playing with the pen clicker. “But they’re still wrong. Red Bull isn’t what it is without its entire team…and that includes you now.” You then pointed the end of the pen towards the rookie. “Work hard, Jay, and you’ll make the podiums by the summer.”

Nodding enthusiastically, he raised his hand towards you—a personified olive branch. “Thank you,” he said in earnest. “I won’t let you down.”

You scoffed, though not maliciously. Taking his hand, you shook it promptly. “Seungcheol may not be counting on you, but I am. The whole team is.”

As the expectations settled upon him, his face morphing into a myriad of awe and pressure, you observed his will, mind wandering over his words. ______ and Co. You restrained a pride-stained smirk—if that was the impression Red Bull had left, then the publicists here needed to work overtime. Still, you could not help your ego, usually so bruised by recent results, slowly swelling from Jay’s comments. You did have many colleagues relying on you, whether they wished to admit it or not. 

But it did not matter to you, because you all worked for one objective: winning the Constructor’s Championships, thus making Red Bull the dominating field in Formula One as it was before. Whether certain colleagues will allow you to complete your objective is another matter entirely.

So, as you finally let go of the rookie’s hand, you hoped that either the reigning champion learned to behave, or Jay knew how to drive. 

THE RED BULL TEAM, IN COLLECTIVE MEASURE, SIGHED IN RELIEF AT THE SUZUKA CIRCUIT. 

Everyone, as per usual, had their calculating, uncertain gazes plastered on the superior driver as he swerved from each sharp turn to razor-cut corners, grunting acknowledgments to his messenger at every update. The harder the track, the greater the win—nothing easy was ever rewarding, and Seungcheol craved the sweet consequences of overcoming a challenge.

The car pushed against him as he curled into the infamous Esses, turns three and four in the middle of the race. The staggering g-force threatened to stutter his lightning pace, but Seungcheol was a bullet, blasting from the cannons of Honda’s engine. Power thrummed from his veins, attached to the Red Bull vehicle, and though there were splutters of near-loss of precisions in turn eight, it did not cost him. Even with one specific strategy ignored, he gained into podium position, and by lap 40 had overtaken the aspiring McLaren, vengeful papayas in his wake to whom he merely chortled at.

It was no shock to anyone, then, when the chequered flag waved over his car first. 

The garage whirled to life in a cheer, everyone around you already out of their chairs and swarming to the open paddock, where the stops were set up to position each driver as they slowed. The navy, red and yellows of your team proudly stuck like a primary-coloured beacon—first before anyone else. 

You, however, strayed your vision from the winner. On the screens splayed before your now emptying desk, you observed the secondary driver surpass the Aston Martin. The battle sparked within the Casio Triangle of curves, the last difficult section in the circuit. No one expected, perhaps even cared, to see Jay surpass Alonso’s defense, but the boy swerved inside turn 18, snagging sixth place from the senior champion. 

You did not understand the stillness of your body until that boy, too, earned his black and white flag. Felt the rush of relief thrum through you, realisation striking clear in your mind. 

Park Jay had brought the car in the points. 

The post-race interviews blurred through your conscience, time eating away the evening until you saw the podium celebrations. Seungcheol pedestalled the tallest, his champagne spray all the more glorious as it attacked Mingyu on third and Piastri in second. Still, with everyone’s eyes on the winners, you only looked at the boy walking into the garage, getting cheers from the mechanics. 

You were at the scene as the most important crew scrambled to assemble for the next meeting. “Jay!” you exclaimed at the slight-sweated racer, who immediately smiled at your approach. “Fourth race and you’ve given us solid points.” 

He was waving off your words, though the smile on his face was smug. “Alonso was giving me a hard time,” he admitted, weaving through the hallways with you. Mechanics had already brought the cars in, stripping the winning vehicle to analyse minor damages, any possible elements for change. 

“And yet it wasn’t hard enough,” you countered, taking out a special pass and hovering it over the security reader. With a successful beep! you opened the door, and most of the team presented themselves before you, cheering emulating once they saw the driver beside you. 

Jihoon, at the head of the long, white table, ushered over the newcomers, a lazy grin hanging over his mouth. “Good job, kid,” he praised, Jay dipping his head to hide what you were certain was a growing blush. “Already doing better than your predecessors.” 

“Any more of this and he’ll turn redder than our bull,” you teased, which only made it worse for the boy. Chuckling, the team principal waved a finger over the empty seats, the driver sitting next to his racing engineer. 

You wanted to set yourself down next to Jihoon, but he shook his head, pointing to the seat beside Jeonghan. “Seungcheol’s there…you don’t wanna sit on his champagne.” 

Sure enough, the chair was drenched with prosecco—stains of his wins. “Couldn’t he have cleaned himself up a little?” you remarked. “Leaving his mess without a second thought.” 

“Let him off this time,” Jeonghan said, crossing his arms as he watched you approach the free seat. “He’s given you the win.” 

“He hasn’t given me anything,” you mumbled, settling yourself, hearing the door slide open. “He races for himself…not like he listens to that damned radio either.” 

Just as you finished your sentence, you saw Jeonghan send you a warning glare—you understood why when you found the very man you spoke of close the door behind him, his eyes rooted to you and the criticisms fresh off your lips. Jihoon glanced between you two, waving him over. “We were wondering where you went,” he said, waving him over to his seat. 

“I was gonna come earlier,” he began, still watching you as he made his way over to his champagned chair, “but I kept being stopped by well-wishers. Everybody’s just so happy for me.” 

“You deserve it today, buddy,” Jihoon agreed, holding out his hand as Seungcheol sat down, then patting him on the back. “We need these wins to fend off the McLarens. Both Chan and Piastri have championship potential.”  

“We, however, already have a champion in the midst,” Jeonghan declared, thumb rocking over to said-man’s direction, earning a smug smile from him. 

Your sigh managed to hide most of your disdain from the team, everyone about to move on. Only one caught onto it. “Isn’t that right, _____?” Seungcheol asked, a little too loudly, and suddenly everyone’s eyes were on you, all plastered with confusion. 

“That was last year,” you said, picking at the seam of your trouser. “You’re not leading the tables, so you’re not a champion as of now.” 

His smile sharpened. “You’re the only person who thinks that.” 

“Doesn’t make my thinking wrong, though.” 

“Your thinking is wrong,” he immediately rebuked, crossing his arms, “which isn’t surprising, since it never really is right.” 

His tone had your mouth snapping open. “Is this why you don’t bother listening to team strategy?” You matched his stature. “Think your opinion is so important it trumps a dozen people’s ideas?” 

“We all know who’s leading the game plan,” he maintained, so matter-of-factly that you could not help yourself. Instantly your head threatened to burst from its body, so much agitation boiling within you it took Jeonghan holding onto your arm in due time to stop yourself from hurling at him. 

Still, you snarled, “Oh, so you’re deliberately ignoring my plans?” 

A dismissing look. “I never said that now, did I?” 

A cutting glance right back. “You’re implying it.” 

He said nothing to that, eyes lidded with snide boredom. You burned with the agitation he lacked—always a game to him, these interactions. You could tell with his leaning back in the dampened, swivelling chair, the corner of his lips, barely tugging upwards…the very image of nonchalance. 

The team principal instantly jerked his head to his computer screen, clearing his throat. “Anyway…” he trailed off, fixing himself in his seat. “Results. Obviously, Cheol gained first after losing out on pole. How did you feel about the degradation during the middle laps, since you had to pit stop earlier than planned?” 

“It was getting bad, to be honest, but nothing I couldn’t handle,” was the answer, the driver bringing out the tab to the Suzuka circuit telemetry. “Piastri pitting first over Chan was definitely a mistake on the McLarens’ part.” 

You observed each driver’s positions through each lap on the data sheet, watching Seungcheol’s gain in positions from the papaya drivers through the ill-timed pit stops. “The mediums could have lasted longer, though,” you pointed out, pointing your pen at the downward graph on his drive line. “Jeonghan warned you about traction.” 

“I was a little busy getting Hamilton off my ass on 20th,” he countered, raising a brow, “Wonwoo was about to leave the pit lane too at that time.” 

“Hamilton had a failing gearbox straight after,” you argued, turning around the paper, “and your tyres were about to fly off their tethers.” 

His finger pointed at a certain place on your paper. “I managed fine, didn’t I?” 

You knew where he pointed—his first place position. “It’s not about where you ended up,” you insisted, setting the graph down, “it’s about following orders. What would have happened if your tyres did fall apart?” 

“They didn’t, so why are you still talking about it?” 

“Because I have to think about the consequences should things go wrong,” you fumed out, ignoring Jeonghan’s careful gaze. In the corner of your eye, you could sense Jay nearby, his own confused, concerned state doing nothing to satiate your anger. “You don’t think about the risks, which is why I’m the one constantly worrying about the state of our cars, and whether it’ll give us wins.” 

“I’ve given you a win, haven’t I?!” Seungcheol suddenly lashed out, and you furrowed your brows. “Why are you still complaining?” He then looked around the room, glancing at every single unnerved face. “Should we not be celebrating my win today?” 

When the murmurs erupted, majority agreeing with his stance, you scowled, unable to contain your heavy sigh. The racing engineer beside you shrugged his shoulders, he too joining the wave. 

“He has had a comeback, in fairness,” Jihoon agreed, and that was that. Once again, the champion reigned over the room, undecided winner on the track and within this boardroom. 

It was not the first time this had happened—nor, did you imagine, would it be the last. 

As always, you were expected to play along. “Of course,” you faltered, deflated. You did not blame the CEO for wanting to drop the subject, but you could not help it, the irritation lingering. 

This stinging, however, would soon fade when he piped up in a more positive note. “Mr. Jay Park!” he declared, focusing on the young rookie, who instantly exuded a little surprise. “Now in the points!” 

The boy smiled, fixing his dampened locks. “The car was amazing today,” he began, efforting to look at everyone’s faces, filled with mirth—save for one, of course. “Yeah, the mechanics…they’ve worked really hard.” 

His answer had you smiling. “You can praise yourself too, you know,” you said, glancing at the rise in position at the end of the jutting curve, the difficult 17th turn which solidified the rookie’s position. “You overtook a two-time world champion.” 

“He definitely reminded me in the last three laps.” He raked a hand through his hair, thinking back on the race. “If that Aston was any faster, he would have spun me off the road.” 

“You kept your cool, Jay, especially with a driver of that aggression.” You reached your hand out, whole-heartedly patting his shoulder. “You should give yourself more credit.” 

His smile widened at you. “Thank you, _____.” He then glanced at Jihoon, a little more breadth in his chest. “Yeah, I’m…very proud of this result.” 

“You should be,” was the man’s answer, sending him a slight smirk before focusing back on his computer screen. “Let’s say a drink after I’m done doing some paperwork? We should celebrate Cheol and Jay’s points.” 

“I know a nice place nearby,” you chimed in, pulling out your phone and checking its location. “I hope everyone’s free, since today’ll mark a shift in Red Bull.” Slotting the device back in your pocket, you clapped your hands together, taking in the positive ambience of the room, which finally began to emerge. “Here’s to both cars in the points and a chance for the Constructor’s!” 

A round of cheers travelled round the group, one remaining silent as he became the first to stand. As he muttered a few words to his engineer, he excused himself, mocking a farewell salute to Jihoon before departing the room. The others began to disperse too, no doubt hoping to find more celebratory champagne. 

As you got up, Jay reflecting your actions, you were about to speak to Jihoon for the China plans when the former got to you first. “Hey, um,” he started, watching the rest of the team slowly leave the room, “I just wanted to thank you—again, actually,” he added right after, sheepishly chuckling, “for being so…you know.” 

When you ticked your head, scrunching your brows, he made himself more specific. “I was a little scared about Suzuka, especially since there was so much pressure.” He nodded, locking in the answer. “I know Red Bull’s ‘unlucky second driver’ rumour.” 

You clamped your lips together, suppressing an aww. “I mean, there is pressure. You’re in the top three teams right now,” you pointed out, “but you’re gonna prove that rumour wrong.”  

“This is what I mean,” he said, holding onto your words. “You’ve been really nice about today, and I appreciate it a lot.” 

“Well, of course!” You waved a hand at him. “Part of my job is to make sure the drivers are confident in the plans we’ve created.” 

“Anyway…” He scratched the back of his head. “Even if people may think you’re wasting your time, coddling me or whatnot, I still wanted to thank you for being nice to me.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek. Stop wasting your time coddling rookies…focus on the driver that’s actually giving this team some points. So that was the reason behind Jay’s sincerity. 

Oh, you were going to kill Seungcheol.

“Of course…” you trailed off, sending him an uncertain smile which he blissfully returned with his own sincere grin, letting you know he will attend the rooftop bar as he exited the room. 

As you made your way out of the meeting room, you then thundered to where you predicted the senior driver would be residing, in a further, grander part of the Team Hub. You were certain Red Bull spent at least a third of its budget on this man’s amenities—truly, if you were to take control of the capital, maybe the second car would be capable of podiums too. 

Up the stairs you went, the bottom half of the walls bathed in navy, the top reflecting a stainless-steel silver all around you. The reds and yellows never escaped you either, labels on the door indicating your way around, each engineer or mechanic’s room printed out. You reached a grand set of double doors, murmuring barely heard from behind the painted frame.

You knocked—you should have waited before entering, but the knock was sufficient warning. The man did not deserve a choice for rejecting whoever entered his room.

You deserved it, though, because once you walked inside, the sight of half-naked Seungcheol nearly rocked you to your core. 

Upon a massage table he lay on his stomach, chin resting on his hands as his physiotherapist worked on the upper parts of his back, towards the muscles that connected to his neck. A white sheet stopped your sight from straying any further, and instantly you trailed back to his face, which now craned upward to shoot an irritated glance towards you. 

Because the image stunned you still, he took the opportunity of your silence to retort, “Aren’t you familiar with the concept of privacy?” 

His quip instantly snapped you out of your momentary daze. The only thing you could demand from him was, “Why’re you wasting your time on a massage?” 

A whoosh of breath escaped him, more exaggerated to incite your vexation. “You might as well stop now, Soon,” he exasperated to his attendee, “No one’s gonna be allowed to relax anymore.” 

“As if you stop bumming about when I tell you not to,” you cut right back, nodding in greeting to Seungcheol’s personal physio. “Soonyoung, next time just keep squeezing the tension in his neck till it snaps.” 

The man’s mouth could have fallen to the floor in pure shock—more so when the driver spluttered out a rough laugh. “And you’re laughing?” he demanded. “I say, maybe you deserve it, judging by your reaction.” 

“If _____ wants to choke me so badly, she can come here and do it herself.” He slid his head, baring his neck to you. “It’ll give you an excuse to touch me since you want me so bad.” 

Your scoff had the poor medic a little concerned for your throat. “I would rather the Ferraris run me over,” you snarled. “Or I could take Jay’s car and run you over instead! Save us all the headache, no?” 

“You might as well take my car then,” he quipped, settling his head in his hands, “You’ll run me over faster.” 

“So you admit you’re favoured over the second driver?” You latched onto the implication, stepping forward. “I always had a feeling the mechanics took extra time tuning your car.” 

“Since you’re too stupid to recognise it, I was praising the driver, not the car.” 

“Oh, I know, that’s why I ignored the indication,” you jeered, crossing your arms. “It’s a miracle he’s scored points anyway, given how difficult it is to drive the RB22.” 

Seungcheol’s remark was quick—cutting. “He’s not a bloody baby. His whole job is to get points.” 

There—the perfect opportunity, presenting itself to you. “Hey, Soon, any chance I can speak to him alone?” 

“Of course,” he said, nodding as he swiped his hands together, dusting off remnants of his client. “Though I’m scared if Jihoon asks me to collect him I’ll only see his bleeding body on the table.” 

“Just know I did it for the team,” you drawled, earning a huff of laughter from the physio, and an unimpressed scoff from the champion. As the former bid his adieu, he closed the door behind him, you watching it slide shut.

With the door closed, you made yourself turn, expecting to stare him down. His eyes were already poised upon you. Silence fell, heavy and uncomfortable, the pressure akin to the Turn One g-force at the very circuit the man before you won in. It did not help either that he barely had any clothes on.

Not that it had an effect on you—no amount of perfectly lean muscle, dangerously curved shoulders that swell with every slight movement could change your mind about him. You made to keep your sight on his face, which had enraged you so much its objective allure had worn off completely.

That very face contorted in an arrogant dismissal. “Tryna get me alone while I’ve only got a towel to cover myself?” he provoked, slowly shifting his position. “Another one of your so-called faultless strategies?” 

“Your vanity is staggering, Seungcheol,” you remarked, rolling your eyes. “I was actually trying to save face, but I suppose I should have kept an audience to humiliate you.” 

A scoff through his nose. “You can try to humiliate me,” he dared, slowly swinging his leg downward, sitting up on the massage table. “What do you want?” 

You decided to cling onto the lead he slipped out. “You’re suspiciously critical about that boy,” you said. “Not a single word of congrats to him when he’s one of your first teammates in a while to gain points for the team.” 

He raised an incredulous brow. “That’s your issue with me?” 

“Don’t try to demean it,” you opposed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “He’s already got a ton of pressure on him for needing to perform after the previous rookie failures. You being overly mean doesn’t help.” 

Disbelieved, he twisted his mouth in a frown. “You’re berating me…because I’m not best friends with my teammate? The guy who’s competing with me for the Drivers’?” Then, he clicked his tongue, unable to help himself. “I mean, not that he actually is, since there is no competition between us.” 

“Oh my God, this is what I mean!” you exclaimed, breaking the crossed arms to bring your hands to your hips. “I’m not asking for friendship bracelets, I’m asking there to be a little mutual respect. Jay clearly admires you, and you being the ‘difficult senior’ is only gonna make his journey in Red Bull more difficult.” 

He breathed in sharply, his bare chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. “Well…it seems you’re already there to make everything easier for him, so I don’t need to do anything.”

Your brows immediately furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Oh, you know what I mean.” He jerked his head towards the left wall, where the meeting room would have been situated. “You were all cheers and promises of team drinks when he placed fifth today. Fifth,” he repeated for good measure, almost spitting the position out. 

“So? I’m only celebrating team achievement.” 

“But when my name is concerned, suddenly praises and celebrations are illegal! Banned on the paddock!” he declared. “Shit, I won the Grand Prix today, yet you acted like I was disqualified.”

“I did not act like that,” you countered. “Pointing out possible performance improvements is not, and should not be taken as, a personal attack. Of course, since you’re so self-centred, I know how hard that is for you.” 

“It’s not selfishness to demand respect,” he huffed, gripping harder onto the edges of the table. “I just think you hate to see me succeed.” 

You paused then, at a loss for words. “...what?” 

He carried on, forever a man in love with his own voice—Narcissus if he battled for podiums. “Don’t act so shocked by this. You just can’t take it if I’m winning.” 

The sheer lack of logic in his declaration had you snarking, “The only time you’re ever useful is when you are winning, since, you know,” you iterated, as if he was a child needing extra explanation, “we’re on the same team!” 

“Are we?” He stepped off the table, wrapping the towel around his waist—hanging too comfortably as it cut off the v-line trail, and still exposing his begrudgingly sculpted legs. “Are we really, when you applaud the kid more when he wasn’t even on the podium?” 

“Here we go again,” you grumbled, rubbing the space between your temples. “Seungcheol, the kid is on your team, too. This might be a foreign concept to you, but I want to support both the drivers.” You craned your head to glare at him—never forgetting his height the closer he stalked towards you. “It’s the Oracle Red Bull Team, not the Red Bull Solo.”  

“I hope you remember that too,” he muttered, eyes imprisoning your own. “Stop needlessly shitting on me when I’m the reason you have points right now.” 

A scowl marred your mouth.  “Jay’s given us ten points.” 

His eyes now squinted. “I’ve given you twenty-five today.”

“You’ve given me nothing,” you clarified, raising your chin at him. “It’s all going to the team.” 

“Are you not part of the team?” A slight lean, a stance to intimidate you. “Do all your little speeches on teamwork not apply to you?” 

“Don’t pretend I don’t slave away for this team,” you guttered, refusing to be subdued. You stood tall, despite his muscled stature threatening to overpower you. “All those so-called speeches you call them are aimed towards you.” 

He exhaled lightly then, lips breaking to release a lazy, self-satisfied grin. “Careful, Your Majesty, or I’m gonna think you’re obsessed with me.” 

Your nostrils flared at his audacity. “The only person obsessed with you is yourself, you stupid prick.” 

You meant to hurt him, bruise his ego. It only seemed to swell before your very eyes as his grin widened. “I have to, since you praise every idiot on the paddock save for me. Doesn’t help my three-time championship winning mindset, you see.” 

All these little quips, snippets of tom-foolery spluttering out of his cherry mouth. “You’ll deserve praise from me when you learn how to help your team out.” 

His pupils darted over your impassioned stare, your determined stance burning inside. “I’ll help the team out when you bother helping me out.” 

Bastard, bastard, bastard. Never pondering beyond his own mental borders—always thinking about himself. You could see it in his eyes, too. The dark, oak-hard browns of his irises, so resolute in his self-centredness. It made your lungs tighten in discomfort at the notion. 

You did not bid his terrible counter with a response, simply sufficing in glaring him down. Of course, because he always knew how to match you, he, too, stayed content in this heavy silence, crossing his arms over his upper chest, barely catching onto the swell of his shoulders growing with the movement. 

Even this was a power play—any normal opponent would have reacted to the state he was in, but you refused to succumb to the lack of layers. Any atom of awkwardness was thwarted by your growing obstinacy. No amount of aesthetic perfection could cancel out how much of an asshole he was. 

At least he knew that you were no frail intern, or a mindful, hesitant engineer. If he wished to stoop low, then you would dive to the lowest depths in order to silence him. 

As long as Choi Seungcheol did not win over you. 

You did not realise how long the two of you stared each other down, refusing to back away, until the doors suddenly opened, and still none moved until you heard the surprised “Oh!” from a flustered Jay, freezing at the entrance. 

Looking over your shoulder, you found yourself straightening your posture, clearing your throat a little too loud. Seungcheol’s irritated growl cut through your ears, striking the rookie in the process “What’re you doing here?!”

Seeing Jay almost flinch had you glaring at the man before you. “I’m sorry, I—” the former began as he looked to his right, beyond your own vision, then back at the scene before him. “Jihoon was asking for you both, so…”

It looked as if Seungcheol was about to open his mouth again, so you beat him to it, replying, “Tell him we’re right behind you.”

You could tell Jay wanted to inquire further, but the senior’s presence was enough to have him hurryingly nodding, leaving the two of you alone once more. You wasted no time, smacking the man on the arm. 

“Hey!” he exclaimed, rubbing the spot where you whacked home. “What the hell was that for?” 

“Stop being so difficult,” was all you demanded, hoping in vain that the warning would stick. 

He merely dismissed you with an aloof glance, stepping past you to where his clothes were neatly folded on the side tables. “I’ll stop being difficult with him when you stop being difficult with me.” 

You watched him pick up a shirt, about to unloosen the ties on his towel. He then looked at you. “I know you’ve already seen me half-naked, but that’s enough privileges for you today.” 

The eye-roll was instinctive, uncontrollable. “Less privilege, more punishment,” you muttered, thundering out of the entrance.

As you were about to shut the door when you heard him say, “Yeah, you keep believing that!” 

“Shut up!” was your incredibly witty response, slamming the door behind you. Aggressively you shook your head, bolting down the hallways with your mind spinning with his words, his attitude, his bare chest glistening as it shifted with every slight turn of his arm, twist of his abdomen. 

You seethed, widening your eyes at yourself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” you murmured, a mantra to your own scrambled mind, to the man you left behind, and this strange scene now in the very near past.

Choi Seungcheol was a born and bred bastard. You could not let him stray from your original objective—no matter how much he endeavoured to make you stray. 

WHOEVER DROVE BEHIND THE WHEELS OF RED BULL’S DESTINY DECIDED TO PUT ITS CELESTIAL FOOT ON THE PEDALS. 

You did not tend to believe in luck in winning races—it was obvious, considering strategy meant ruling out coincidences, strokes of mere fortune over logistics—but there was definite shift in the team, as if the very tides of the sport had turned, the entire paddock rearranging itself according to your team’s success. 

Now you did think your colleagues were exaggerating with such claims, but Shanghai brought favourable results once more. The sprint allowed several points to enter the Red Bull threshold, Seungcheol achieving first in the sprint, the Ferrari rocket barely missing him by a fifteenth of a second. Jay’s softs had major traction, but still managed to snag points position. 

Chaos began during the actual race on the Sunday, several of the mid-fielders spinning after a Haas car braked too late. The star driver of the team battled for first between Mingyu and Piastri once more, polesitter Seungcheol retaining his position while Jay managed to snag fifth again—conversations opened towards the latter’s growing impact on the car, especially when he also earned an extra point for fastest lap. 

Still, the Chinese Grand Prix failed to be as eventful as its successor. Miami weekend arrived within a fortnight, and the city prepared in full splendour—it could have rivalled Las Vegas’ grandeur, especially since the yellow sun and turquoise beaches that usually bathe the population in a coming-of-Summer ambiance were nowhere in sight. Torrential rain was predicted on race weekend, and it had every team on the paddock shitting in their fire-proof suits. 

The Red Bull Garage were one of the first to establish themselves on the track, Jihoon watching over you as you laid down the possible groundwork to secure a win. There was more work to be done, since Miami introduced the sprint similar to the previous host, which meant recognising what went according to plan, and what could have been improved. 

Sprints were Seungcheol’s forte. The man was made of velocity, as if his very blood accelerated through his veins at the speed of the RB18, which followed his every call. Obviously—it was made solely for him, even if the mechanics tried to convince you otherwise. Regardless, you knew that, despite the horrendous weather conditions, you knew that he would be faultless—he would turn the car into a motorboat. 

Jay, on the other hand, you were unsure about. His improvements reassured half of the team, but cynics like yourself needed more convincing when torrential rain was predicted. He had also never raced beside his rivals in such conditions—one rocky incident during his F2 career had crippled his reputation for performing unpredictably. 

You had even asked him during practice, when you were informing him of the game plan for Saturday as the angered rainfall made no attempt to settle into a calm drizzle. “This’ll be harder than Shanghai,” you warned him.

The boy looked beyond the Red Bull Hub’s windows, watching the flurry of black and white and red and blue umbrellas pass by him through the blurred, watery glass. “I know…but you’ve prepared me for the risks.” He paused for a second, clamping his lips together. “I won’t do as well as Seungcheol, though.” 

You did not know why that had your mouth constricting into a frown. “Why do you think that?” you demanded, and the sour taste of your question left the driver almost shrinking back.

“He got first in Shanghai,” he reasoned, reaching a finger out as he doodled to the window. “I’m still staggering behind him.”

“This is your first season, Jay,” you countered, glancing at him. “You both can’t be compared when he’s won three championships.” 

“He won the sprint in his first season, too,” he said, doodling absentmindedly on the fogged pane. “And it only went up for him then.” 

You snorted. “That’s ‘cause he was still following orders without a fight at that time. He’s fucked a race before, too, you know.” You took a step towards him, propping a comforting hand on his shoulder. “And that was when he wasn’t listening to me.”

As Jay looked back at you, you set your gaze a little harder. “He doesn’t like to admit it, but it takes a village to make a resident champion. If you listen to the team, Jay…if you listen to me, you won’t just be some rookie in Red Bull. You’ll be a champion in your own right.”

He watched you in return, blinking back at your words. There, you were not a mere friendly face anymore. Before him now was an ally—a powerful mentor who genuinely believed in his success. A Kingmaker, if he was to be so bold.

You hoped he had taken your words seriously, and left him to ponder over your sincerity as the day ended. Saturday, as predicted, brought oceans’ worth of rain upon the coastal city, onlookers adorning parkas and plastic covers to avoid the worst of the showers. The track was more than slick with the rainfall, and every team decided to start on wets.

And if there is rain, then there is always a crash. 

Not quite a crash which was of any importance to your team in particular, but one of the Ferraris—Wonwoo’s you believed—spun out of control due to severe aquaplaning on turn 7, nearly bringing down his teammate and Seungcheol in the process. Of course, since the latter cannot ever control himself, the official broadcasts had to censor his stream of stupid bastards and fucking idiots before Jeonghan finally told him to hold his tongue. 

Still, Seungcheol recovered quickly, unlike Mingyu, so he widened the gap between himself and the next opponent—Chan in his papaya’d fury—but he would be no match for the contending champion. Unsurprised as you were, you let Jihoon focus on him as you set your sights on the rookie, climbing up and up, nearly sending Seokmin in the Aston off wide at the end of the sprint lane. A risky move indeed, with speeds up to 200 miles per hour, but he had prepared for this. You had prepared him for this. 

Before you knew it, you had hardly gauged Seungcheol’s win in the Miami sprint before Jay flew past the chequered flag, gaining fourth in a sprint which had half the drivers spinning in the rain fall. Once again, the garage was delighted, but while the crew flung towards the winner, you found yourself bracing for a rather disappointed boy walking towards you.

He only stopped a foot before you, holding onto his helmet with both hands. “I’ll do better in the race.”

You could only furrow your brows in confusion. “But fourth is what I expected?” 

“Bloody Piastri,” he muttered, watching as it was time for the interviews. “I promise, _____, I won’t let you down.” 

“Jay…” you began, but he trudged towards the press, who no doubt would bring up the F2 incident. Amongst the crowds, the champion watched the little interaction, slowly turning to examine your disheartened expression.

As you noticed his stare, he shot you a rather feline smile. “Christ,” you muttered, watching him now make the rounds to you. 

“Someone isn’t too chuffed about his performance, then,” he greeted you, sparing his teammate a mockingly pitiful glance. “I take it you’ve finally stopped babying him? Told him his performance is dogshit?” 

“I didn’t need to tell him—” and then you brought an accusatory finger upwards— “Not that I needed to, by the way!” You clicked your tongue. “No, he was already disappointed in himself.”

“As he should be,” he corrected, locking his hands behind his back, helmet dangling between his fingers. “Piastri’s overtake was like taking candy from a baby.” 

“And when your brakes locked at Turn 12? Right in front of the Ferrari?” you demanded, turning to him. “I heard the stewards weren’t pleased.” 

“We didn’t get the investigation, though, so I don’t care.” He twisted the corner of his mouth upwards. “This is what happens when you pamper your drivers. Maybe if you treat him the way you treat me then he’d actually win something.” 

You tilted your head at him. “So you admit that I directly influence your wins?” 

His chuckle immediately stifled any hint of amusement. “So positive, huh? No, I’m admitting that you’re directly influencing his losses.” He swung his helmet over to his front. “My wins will always be my own.”

“One day you’ll be punished, Seungcheol,” you warned, propping your fists on either side of your hips, “all these ignoring my orders, pretending you don’t have the garage supporting you whenever you win.” 

“Maybe,” he only said, once again his disregard taking over. He slid his eyes to the banners on the circuit screen, his face at the forefront of any other driver. “But it won’t be today.” 

And he left you there at the front of the garage, watching the rain pour steadily, the drops unable to soothe the anger that he left behind. 

This damned rain decided to be merciless on race day, too. The engineers eyed their radars warily as teams began setting up their positions on the grid, Jay having a few words with the mechanics. Qualifying turned out to be chaos, too, with nearly a third of the drivers barely making Q2. Fortunately the Red Bull drivers were safe in Q3, but Seungcheol lost out on pole to Mingyu, which meant that the entire team had to deal with his sulking as they prepared for the final touches on the main day. 

In the end, no sprint could have rivalled the anarchy which was the Miami Grand Prix. The beginning had most of the wet tyres spraying huge excesses of water, causing horrendous visibility issues for everyone save for the smug Ferrari in the lead. Seungcheol managed to divert from Mingyu’s spraying, but could not go fast enough to overtake him in the first lap. 

Still, he could not complain when just after, the neon Sauber collided through the avalanche of mist into a Williams, in turn striking off his front right tyre in the process. The virtual safety car was brought out, thus forcing the champion to stay in his position, with his teammate five positions behind him. 

The race restarted on lap six, but the rain did not stop, the danger of further crashes constantly imminent, especially in the clustered mid-field. Mingyu began widening the gap between himself and Seungcheol, and it fuelled the latter’s grit, even more so on the straight after turn 16 where he almost flew off his wheels from the sheer speed. 

It was around lap 20 when you heard Jay’s message on the radio through to his race engineer. “Heeseung, the rain’s gonna stop soon. Let’s do intermediates.”

Heeseung turned to you and Jihoon, waiting for confirmation. Why Jay was certain of the weather changing, you had no idea, since the forecast predicted the rainfall to continue till the end of the day. It was as if he could recognise it, as the engineer clarified, “He was saying beforehand that the clouds were clearing…that no one can properly predict coastal temperatures.” 

You kept looking at the information, the tyre degradation as well as the car performance in general upon the ongoing telemetry. Last time the cars rolled out in Miami during a storm, half of the grid was wiped out due to poor tyre choice. A part of you thought him crazy.

“It’s your call,” Jihoon said to you.

I promise, _____, I won’t let you down. 

Your fingers tapped against the table, watching over the shower—slowly softening, you noticed, amongst the sounds of rapid spraying from the midfielders passing. “Tell him to box the next lap,” was your final call. Heeseung nodded, relaying the message to his driver. 

Jay cruised his way into the pit lane, you watching the broadcast dropping his name down from fourth, fifth, sixth, major places as the mechanics did a perfect pit-stop, green light barely flashing before the rookie escaped, entering just before a rather shaken Alpine who had locked up. Eleventh, you saw, but he had time.

Time which he used to his advantage.

While Seungcheol was in Mingyu’s battling sphere once more, the commentators in the background spoke of the rain slowing, the track already drying out from the torrential damage an hour back. The wets began to be a nuisance, even for the drivers at the forefront, the gap between the two and the rest of the field saving the champion. 

With everyone’s eyes on Seungcheol’s struggle, his agitation towards Mingyu, you found Jay’s banner rising with every overtake done between the next twenty laps. You could not look away, so stunned by his exploiting of the drying track as the rest toiled to keep their vehicles stable. He was akin to a rocket, razor-focus on the track ahead of him, each corner swirled as if he had raced this circuit a million times. 

He had captured your attention so intently you barely saw the final battle turn in the senior driver’s favour, who, after finally latching onto Mingyu’s wide turn in 11, swooped past him, smirking underneath his helmet. “Nicely done, Cheol,” Jeonghan commented, fixing his headset.

“Light work,” was the answer, which only had you snorting—as if he was not chewing on struggle puffs for half the race. That was the sole moment of your focus diverting, once again back on the rookie who now passed Chan on the longest straight. 

“Oh my God,” you got out, watching the screen as Chan refused to give up, DRS on both as each tried to bring their front wing after the other. It was one close call after another, the straight nearly ending, barely three seconds left to turn before the McLaren driver braked early, too early, and Jay had taken that opportunity, a golden egg handed in his gloved hands as he turned sharply, beating his opponent from the outside and accelerating enough to then swoop in from the inside at 18. 

Heeseung could barely contain his shocked grin. “Holding P3, baby!” he exclaimed on the radio, but Jay gave a curt response, undoubtedly too focused to communicate back with the same energy. 

And he stayed within this position. Perhaps he could have battled Mingyu too, but the latter was already challenging Seungcheol after both had pitted around the same time—a terrible call from Ferrari, you had to admit. Despite that, Jay’s consistent acceleration stopped the papaya drivers from creeping too close for comfort. 

The chequered flag fell in your favour—scraping into first was Seungcheol, Mingyu hot on his heels in second as fireworks erupted in a sudden rocket-launch into the air, deafening cheers detonating from the crowds at another Redbull win. 

A win and a podium as Jay’s car saw the wave of the black and white flag. A double podium for Red Bull after a whole two years of rookie failures. 

It was not long before the finished cars set themselves along their positions on the grid. The rookie barely flung himself out of the car before you were dragged by Jihoon and the rest of the men on the track, finding yourself in front of the boy as he found you amongst the sea of red and blue and yellow. He wrenched off his helmet, pulling down his balaclava and immediately dashing towards you.

His breathlessness in reaching you had your own eyes widening. “Jay!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “A fucking podium!” 

He was smiling, lips curving wider with every beat. Then, without warning, he flung his arms around you, pulling you into a most heartfelt embrace. You stilled at the sudden contact, chin grazing against his neck as he hummed against you. “Thank you for believing in me, _____.”

You could not help it—the smile, which threatened to inhabit your face, your hands which snaked around his neck. “It’s my job,” you merely said, ruffling his hair. “I’d have been a shit colleague otherwise.” 

“No,” he murmured, slowly pulling away as he kept you at arm’s length. “You’d have just been every other person on our team…but you’re not.” 

Pursing your lips a little from grinning, you patted him, fully accepting his hug. With hundreds of thousands of eyes upon the two of you, there was no discomfort—maybe a sense of satisfaction, that a driver finally believed in your vision. 

In the corner of your vision, you saw the incoming journalist. You jerked your head towards them. “They’re waiting for you.”

Glancing back, he retained his mirth, stepping away. “I can keep them waiting…if you want me to.” 

“Can’t have you slacking already,” you teased, Jay huffing out a laugh. “You go. We’ll celebrate in your honour soon enough.”

Satisfied by that, he dismissed himself from you with a little wave, jogging over to the press for the post-race interviews. You watched him leave, smile unable to be wiped off, your own lingering for him. He deserved it today—more than anyone else on the grid.

You were so wrapped up in your own thoughts you did not realise that not everyone had left their focus on you, as the rest of the world shifted to the Red Bull drivers who had made their team incredibly proud. You did not realise the stinging glimpses, the turn of his head every moment towards you as you headed inside of the garage, waiting for the podium celebrations. 

It was all for the better, perhaps—had you recognised the bestower of such a heavy gaze, it would have ruined a perfectly good day. And you refused to let your spirits be dampened by anyone.

ORACLE RED BULL TEAM WERE ALREADY EXTRAVAGANT, BUT THEY SPARED NO EXPENSE IN CELEBRATING THEIR GREAT WIN. 

Every sports anchor and news outlet commemorated Jay’s quick rise to gaining his first podium within the first couple of months, slotting his name after every compliment bestowed to Seungcheol. You could not get enough of it, already aware that the rookie deserved such praise since he settled himself in the Red Bull seat. 

The prized driver himself felt a little out of place with all the international praise, but Jihoon’s compliments had nearly made him faint with the sheer embarrassment. The CEO and Team Principal prided himself on this great achievement, and sought to celebrate it properly, Ferrari and Mercedes-style. 

With over a week left in Imola, the man in charge decided to fly out the team to the headquarters in Milton Keynes, hiring luxury event planners whilst informally tasking you to look over the preparations. The pomp and splendour may have been in excess—and you told as such to him—Jihoon was not to hear it. 

Seungcheol, despite his superior’s glee, had no troubles complaining about it. “You’d think we’re celebrating a royal wedding,” he guttered, crossing his arms after the event-planning meeting. “It’s only a bloody podium.” 

“This is for you, too, Cheol” Jihoon assured him, patting him on the chest as he left, emailing you over the minutes supplied by the publicists. “_____, get ready for tomorrow. I want you in early.” 

The champion tsked out as the former left. “He never did this shit even when I won the championship.” 

Now you knew he was spreading misinformation, but you chose to bother him in another manner. “Maybe because both drivers earning points is more important to him than one driver winning?” you contemplated, mocking a ponder. 

Unsurprisingly, he was not amused. “Stop putting your words in his mouth,” he huffed. “And why the hell are you involved in the planning? I know you’d rather crash into the Ferrari garage than plan a tacky party.”

“First of all, it’s not a tacky party,” you corrected, checking over the details on your clipboard. “It’s to showcase our achievements. We haven’t had a double podium in years.” 

He turned his head away, frowning—as if he did not care. “So? I won us the Driver’s.”

“So?” you parroted, emphasising his mumbling. “Because of Jay, we have a chance of winning the Constructor’s, too.” 

Even with his face turned, you caught the tick in his jaw. “Are you not satisfied by my wins?” you heard him ask. 

You made him wait—pausing in melodramatic fashion, enough to see him glance back at you again, anticipating in irritation. “So you don’t want the Driver’s then, is that what I’m hearing?” 

“You’re not hearing anything because I haven’t said anything,” you pointed out, hugging the clipboard to your chest. “Besides, you already know how I feel about your wins.” 

He craned his head to the side, studying your face. “No…I don’t, actually.” 

You did not like it, his eyes darting over your every feature—your steady gaze, the slight flare of your nostrils, your lips, hiding the slight gritting teeth. “A win for you is a win for you only. Jay’s wins on top of it, though…then it’s a win for us.” 

His eyes narrowed. “And you say I talk a lot of shit.” 

All you could manage now was a scowl. “Of course you wouldn’t get it.” With that, you turned on your heel. “Don’t be late for the party,” you called out, not bothering to look back at him. “It’s meant for you too, even if you don’t believe it.” 

You did not wait for his answer, choosing to ignore him for the rest of the day. 

Involuntarily, you missed the opportunity to speak to your rookie, too, so wrapped up with the party-planning In the end, you dampened down the overindulgence, realising you did not want the papers speaking about it, and—you had to face it—this was not your job, what with your Imola-strategy planning forced to be side-lined, which was a terrible strategic decision in itself. Jihoon did not provide enough time for you to set up anything too extravagant, so you hoped the addition of a luxury open bar would be enough to satiate expectations. 

The next evening arrived quicker than anticipated, the entire team arriving in clusters to the sleek, silver building, a huge, graphic bull plastered on its right side to welcome back the locals—officially named the MK-7. Everyone dressed majestically for the event, semi-formal attire adorned with all the riches people had saved, diamond earrings and Rolexes sparkling in the vibrant lighting. 

As the CEO ordered, you were one of the first present, welcoming everyone who arrived. Mechanics, engineers, publicists, everyone working or associated with the team were present. Even certain VIP members of Racing Bulls were invited, attempting to establish the relationship between two sister teams. 

It was not long before music had livened up the huge, metallic hallways of the building, food and drink eagerly consumed by the guests, everyone intermingling smoother than you expected. Granted, the absence of journalists may have played a part in the ease of the ambiance, but you liked to think that you had played a part.

_____ and Co. Formula Team. You smiled as you sipped your first of many champagne glasses of the night. That smile widened when you spotted Jay making his appearance, flanked by Heeseung and Jihoon. Each one of them were clad in sleek black suits, although the latter’s three-piece was more luxurious than his employees—one had to boast of their paycheck after all, you surmised. 

The rookie found you instantly amongst the crowds. “Hey!” he called, ushering over to you. Instantly he hugged you with one arm, a casualness established. “Wow, you look great outside of the Red Bull colours!”

Indeed. You observed your outfit, a simple enough black dress which shimmered with every flicker of light catching on its fabric, its asymmetrical hem cut across your right leg, slicing up to your left thigh. Heels were the less practical choice, but they matched your outfit, so you tolerated the aching in your feet. 

Even so, you matched his compliment with one of your own. “You scrub up quite nicely yourself.” You set your sights on Jihoon. “You’re wasting money on your stylist.” 

“Yeah, you’re looking ugly too,” was his dignified answer, to which you kissed him on the cheek. “I suppose the party’s not horrific. Where’s the bar you promised?” 

“Fuck you,” you first commented, pointing towards the food and drink situated at the far ends of the hall. “I made sure they stocked up on the rum and cokes.” 

“You truly are Red Bull’s saving grace,” the CEO praised, to which you rolled your eyes, downing another glass of champagne. 

“Join us when you’re done greeting everyone,” Jay offered, looking around the room.

“I’ll try,” you promised, observing the many admirers he had garnered within minutes. “I’ll let you tend to your fans first.” His immediate blush had you chuckling. “You both mingle. I’ll be right back.” 

As Jihoon dragged the boy to the open bar, you double-checked the banners hanging from one point of the first-floor balcony to the other, flanking Red Bull colours celebrating both the drivers’ names and achievements. 

You could hear the conversations, the whispers of opinions—everyone expected the champion to retain his lead, but to have a genuinely talented rookie challenge him introduced a whole new dimension to the race. 

It was peak entertainment, in their words—their meaning of Formula One. 

You supposed it did spark interest within the team. Nobody enjoyed Seungcheol’s second championship run, his winning every race on the calendar a terrible viewing experience for the average fan. Despite that, it was advantageous for you, for the team, so you did not complain too much. Even if it meant the second driver was side-lined. Even if he visibly struggled in a car meant for Red Bull’s golden boy. 

“Bastard,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself from cursing. How strange, that profanities never ceased, how instinctive they remained on your tongue at the thought of the man. 

“You really are obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Your breath hitched. Instantly, you swivelled around, and your breathing nearly stopped again at the sight of said-bastard—Choi Seungcheol, out of his racing suits—clad in clean, crisp black suit, no bow-tie in show as the top button of his white-shirt opened, revealing a patch of smooth, golden skin. His hair was a little longer, curls smoother, done over as they tucked obediently behind his neck, caressing the sides only with the turns and twists of his head. His one hand was tucked in his trouser pocket, the other adorning an empty champagne flute. 

You attempted to regain yourself—more so when he, too, assessed your out-of-office attire. Shamelessly, you then noticed with a surprise. “You’re not the only bastard in this field.” 

“Really? A shame.” He clicked his tongue. “Here I was, feeling special knowing I was the only bastard in your life.” 

“You don’t hold that much importance to me,” you merely said.

“A lie,” he opposed. “Your success and mine are intricately linked. I am, in fact, essential to you.” 

“No wonder you thought yourself special,” you drawled, “Your delusions found a way to being the centre of attention again.” 

“That’s because I am,” he clarified, the emphasis so heavy you wondered whether that was his first glass of the night. 

You made a show of looking over to his teammate—who, by the open bar, had now gained a crowd of recognition. “Hmm…I don’t think so.” 

He followed your line of sight. Comical, how instantaneous his mood soured. “Your PR works wonders, then.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“All this splendour…this luxury…” A weighted pause. “You wouldn’t have done any of this for me alone.”

“Well, of course not,” you agreed, which had him scoffing. “It’s a celebration of the team, not just the driver. Jihoon’s the one who initiated it.” 

“You had no problem turning it down, though,” he accused, and suddenly you realised the button undone at the top, the slight blush tinging his cheeks. “I thought you hated doing this shit.” 

You made sure he did not turn away from your stare. “I’d do anything for the team, Seungcheol.” 

He was blinking slowly, breathing heavily. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and you caught the action, darting away for a second. He was leaning a little closer, the scent of his perfume entering your nostrils, the infusion of champagne mixed in. 

“Anything…” he repeated, languid. “Anything…for the team?” 

He did not need to hear the answer. He could see it, stained on the determined set of your alluring features, all made up for tonight. 

“I see.” He made to down the flute, then realised the lack of alcohol swirling inside. “I need a drink.” 

You slid your eyes to the bar. “You can join your teammate. Share the success.” 

The corner of his cherry mouth twitched upward. “Share,” he scoffed, as if the very word offended him. He said nothing else, skulking past you, almost knocking you over as he made his way instead to the waiters carrying trays full of champagne. 

You lifted your chin at his back, fading within the crowds. Fine. Let him sulk—tonight was not solely about him, anyway. You made sure of it.

Still, the conversation did not escape your mind, his slight slurring words, the cruel tone of his voice striking an unwelcome commotion within you. Fortunately, Jeonghan, who had arrived soon after, forced you to drink some more, gossipping about the terrible dancers from the engineering department. 

The night had begun to incite further excitement, music turning louder, spirits becoming more animated. Everyone was—or, at least, seemed to be—enjoying themselves, either drinking or dancing or laughing, and you made it your sole objective to mingle too, refusing to let your labours go to waste. 

You even managed to swing about with Jay, who turned out to be a rather good dancer after acquiring a little liquid confidence. The next couple of hours were a dream—more so when, after engorging yourselves in amusement, the music began to settle, Jihoon jogging to the front of the crowds. His magnetic presence had the guests pausing their ministrations, eyeing his swaying figure as he clinked his glass with a desert spoon.

“Thank you everyone for joining us today!” he exclaimed, waving his hands over to the audience before him—you at the forefront. “This has been a long-time coming, and I couldn’t have been happier to be celebrating with the finest team in F1!” 

His declaration was followed by a round of hooting. “We’ve been so lucky with our star driver, who’s brought us three trophies here. Seungcheol, I’m too short to find you in there, but here’s to you for putting Red Bull in the contender’s scene!” 

The cheers were deafening—the drink in you had you joining in, albeit not as enthusiastically as your peers. “This year, though, we have achieved something we did not even dream of in the previous seasons. One rookie has done what previous experienced drivers were unable to do. Barely 23 years of age, but has managed to start off his career by having one of the quickest podium finishes in the Red Bull season!” 

Jihoon raised his glass to you. “With our Principal Strategist Engineer by our side, we have created the team of legends!” His grin was hazardous, infecting each guest that surrounded him. “We will be the winning team of this Championship!” 

You, in turn, lifted your flute. “To gaining a chance in the Constructor’s! To Jay, and a new beginning!” 

Everyone followed your league. “To a new beginning!” 

The entire hall drank simultaneously, cheering once again threatening to take down the ceiling with the sheer, unadulterated mirth that radiated within the four walls. There was no denying it. Everyone was so happy. Even you were eventually, after the alcohol had blanketed your senses, making your senses buzz with excitement. 

Jay, at the very least, was on the top of the world, already tipsy with wine and compliments as he made full use of the bar. “Heeseung, how much has he drunk?” you asked, watching him attempting a backflip next to the walls of trophies. 

“Blame Jeonghan. He egged him on to do four kamikaze shots with him. Each.” 

“Christ,” you got out, checking the time on your watch. “And where’s Jihoon?” 

“He’s trying to see if we have a karaoke machine in the spare boardrooms,” he replied, swirling his drink. “As if we’re that jobless at the headquarters.” 

You huffed out a chuckle, one more name on your tongue remaining. “Take care of yourself,” you said, squeezing his shoulder before filtering your way through the clusters. 

Eventually you found the CEO, who was unsuccessful in his search for further entertainment. “No karaoke machine at MK-7,” he faltered, shaking his head as he downed another rum and coke. “Do we run a racing team or a prison?”

“Alright now,” you muttered, setting him down on the bar stools. “Maybe that’s enough for you today.”

“No, I need one more drink with Cheol,” he said, raising his pointer finger for emphasis. “Where’s the prick gone? Did a whole toast for him, but I didn’t see him anywhere.” 

So he noticed, too. “Probably off somewhere…licking the wounds he inflicted on himself.” To that, Jihoon gave you a look. “What?”

“He’s not used to being challenged, _____, that’s all.” 

“And how’s that my problem?” 

“He’s your driver as much as Jay is.” He leaned against the countertop. “Go find him for me. I’ll sort him out.” 

You contemplated giving Jihoon more to drink so he would shut down that request. Unfortunately, you were a good friend. “Fine…” you got up, straightening your dress. “...but I’m not feeling too great either. I’ll take a while.” 

“Excuses,” was his answer, to which you flipped him off, a gesture you would not dare be committing sober. Thankfully, your boss was plastered too, so only found it the funniest action on the face of this earth.

Making your way out the hallways, you tried your best not to be distracted by the guests. Many tried to pull you for a conversation, congratulate you for your work. Although you appreciated it, you had a job to do, and that would always remain your priority. 

Stalking the empty hallways, music from the party fading slowly, you walked further away from the merriment. The building was huge, a metallic maze in its own right. You were almost certain you were lost until you found yourself within the grand halls of the Red Bull showroom. 

Gazing beyond the grand staircase which brought one down to the gallery, dozens of priceless Red Bull cars were lined up in a circular arc, flanked by banners of their numbers in a sea of navy. You had observed your team’s lineage many times, especially during the initial promotion at the beginning of each season, so you knew this room inside out. 

It was the sole reason Seungcheol stood out. 

There he was, in the dimmed lights of the showroom, flickering every now and then in a certain corner. It dampened his grave features; his eyes were set on the car before you—the RB15, which won him his first championship four years ago, settled neatly on a pedestal. His mouth was a hard line, a tightrope of agitation, and his absent-minded swirling of his sad champagne was the only sound in the room. 

He was so absorbed in his reflections that he did not gauge your step down, the entrance within the hall. Perhaps he did notice, but did not seem to care anymore. Nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

It was that thought that had you taunting him. “Why’re you hiding out here?” 

Blinking back, his eyes sharpened, darting to you. He drew back a heavy breath. “So generous for Her Majesty to come after me,” he drawled, drawn out. 

You clicked your tongue. “Principal’s orders,” you clarified, downing the last of the alcohol in your glass. “I would’ve happily let you sulk here.” 

“I’m not sulking,” he sneered, but his words were heavy, effortful. The alcohol took its toll on his dry, cruel wit. “Go back to your party.” 

“My party?” You propped the champagne flute upon the ground, dusting away at your hands. “Last time I remember, it was your name on the banner.” His mocking snort had you raising a brow. “I’m sorry, you’ve lost your ability to read, now? What can you do successfully?” 

A crease marred the centre of his browline. “You’re the last person who can measure my successes,” he spat. “You shit yourself when you have to say one good thing about me.” 

You twisted your mouth. “I have no problems pointing out your successes. It’s my bloody job to scrutinise your performance. Not my fault you provide me with so many criticisms.”

“It is your fault,” he began, stepping out of the championed car’s vicinity, his suited-self in full view. “I have won almost every single Grand Prix since the start of the season, yet all I got from you is radio silence. I have brought points for the team, but I’m hearing nothing about myself!” 

“Oh yeah?” you taunted, taking a step forward, the first embers of your anger warming in your gut. “Tell me, Great Champion, what have I been saying that’s made you so upset?” 

Your counter only had him scowling further. He opened his mouth, and the imitation that spewed out of him had you blinking back. “Oh, ‘Jay is improving so much in such a short time! Jay is somehow driving the undrivable car’!” He kept parroting your casual comments, accentuating his teammate’s name with cruel sarcasm as he stalked towards you. “‘Jay this, Jay that, Jay can be the future fucking champion’!” 

You could only gape at him. “You’re mad…because Jay is doing well?” a harsh chortle escaped you, and it cracked the ice forming on the driver’s face. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Great Champion, Saviour of Formula One, that your teammate is challenging you! I’m fucking devastated that he can drive a car that no one else can drive!” 

“I can drive that car!” he roared, and you swore his rage echoed in the grand hall. “I am winning in that fucking car!” 

“Because it’s made for you and you only!” you screamed back, pointing a finger at him. “If you couldn’t bloody drive it, what the hell are you here for?!” 

“What the hell am I here for?!” His wild eyes were rooted to you, staring you down in a frenzy akin to his visage during a tense race. “I’m your fucking driver. I’m the reason you have a job in the first place.” 

A gasp flew out of your mouth at his audacity. “How dare you,” you guttered, another two steps forward. He was closer now, his rage radiating off his stature like rubber off a ruined tyre. “I’m the reason you’ve managed to get three championships. Any other and they’d have left long back.”

“Oh, so now I get no credit for my wins, while the teenager swiped from go-karting gets all the credit for his measly podiums?” He snarled loudly in your face. “I thought being a good strategist meant you were objective about a situation. Maybe you are out of your league with this job.” 

He was drunk. He said this because the champagne he downed in spite went straight to his head. Because of that, you let your rage rush to your head too—alcohol and anger never mixed well. 

“You…you selfish bastard!” you spat, glaring into his eyes, set ablaze by your words. “Getting jealous of your teammate…refusing to celebrate the team victory because you think it damages you…taking all your anger out on me when you’re the one who never follows any orders!” 

“And why should I follow your orders?” he snarled, and you could feel the disdain bite at your face. “You’ve never done anything for me.” 

A laugh barked out of you, and it drove him insane. “Look at you! Can’t even see outside of yourself! Of course I never do anything for you, I don’t work for you! I work for the team, while you only work for yourself! You’re so fucking self-centred that you haven’t realised it for years!” 

As he watched you snap one word after the next, the final scream drove straight home. “You only do what you want! You only care about yourself!” 

And you would have let your mouth run this eternal sprint, never ceasing the curses against him. Except the champion had had enough. 

The champion let out an agitated, aggravated breath, seized your shoulders in his shaking hands and crashed your lips against his. 

Your eyes shot open at the pressure, the sensation of his mouth moving at frightening pace, and it swept over your senses, shooting sparks at every corner of your hazy, flustered mind. His grip on your arms was iron, the ore of his ire striking through your flesh, binding you to the spot he desired. You perhaps might have, had you ever bent to his will.

But you were—yes, you may have thrashed against him, repelling from his burning hands, but you found your lips betraying your will, finding a rhythm, chasing after his own, opening for him to delve deeper. What the fuck are you doing? Your mind screamed at you, shaking your senses awake but to no avail. Whatever cage held your logic in safety, Seungcheol’s hands, Seungcheol’s lips had pried it open, locks torn in savagery. 

Savage because there was nothing beautiful in this scene—no sweet kisses, no tender touches softening ample desires. This was a cruel circus, a gross collection of drunken stupors and heated rages finally pushing to the surface. He was all over you, a mighty presence blanketing your frame, his hands on your arms travelling down, encircling your waist, yanking you so close you almost melted against the heat, radiating off his frame. 

Maybe the sounds of lips smacking against lips, deep pants flying out in between dragged your common sense back into the cage. Somehow, the logic which he had set free came crawling back. Whatever function that faltered in your arms had fixed itself, fingers rising to his tensing chest and pushing him back. 

The ferocity had him stumbling, hazed-out by the actions he had committed—did not realise he committed. You sputtered out a ragged breath, chest rising, falling, as erratic as your gaze, all over his flushed, raging features. He was the same, harbouring the same anger as you, always on the same level. 

This time was unprecedented. These levels of sheer rage never penetrated the surface previously. Perhaps the drinks were responsible for the fading propriety—not that you both ever showcased any sense of professionalism around each other. 

But in the white lights of Red Bull’s hall of fame, any semblance of decorum vanished. 

The two of you, facing each other—eyes refusing to tear away from one or the other, rooted in case one slipped. You would never—would refuse to let it happen. You saw it in Seungcheol, too—the determined, skin-slicing glare of his, you always on the opposite end of it. And maybe the drink cursed your senses, disheveled your conscience. It had to, because he was straying, this time, straying from your burning eyes to your now-swelling lips. 

Your question meant to freeze him over. “Why…why did you do that?” 

He lost himself in your parted mouth, shining because of him. It was an effort, dragging his carnal gaze up to meet your own. “Because I do what I want…by your description.” 

That had your lips parting wider, brows twitching upward. Like an itch the irritation, an eczema of anger scaled your very skin, and it proved impossible to scratch away. The insults formed, climbing too quickly in your constricting throat. “You fucking bastard.” 

Seungcheol squinted, as if the venom stored in your slander struck his face. Good. You meant for it to hurt. But his eyes hooded, head dipping just a little to look at you with the full force of his focus. God, you could tell he was drunk, but those irises held emotions more pungent than any alcohol he downed. 

What he did was scoff through his nose, a small, dismissive gesture—as if he was aware. As if it was old news, rotting in the Red Bull garage. As if your observation held no importance. 

That drove you off the goddamn paddock. Oh, you were going to murder him. 

And you were going to—your legs thundered to your supposed victim, hands already rising to strangle him, except your fingers did not squeeze the life out of his throat, but raised to the back of his head, pulling so viciously towards you that he had no warning for your lips. 

Yes, your mouth was on the attack this time, stumbling his ministrations upon you, allowing you to smirk against him as you kissed him back with the same fervour. By God, Seungcheol stood corrected with his statement, his brow furrowing as he finally recognised the situation. You quickened your mouth against him, and he could not match you fast enough, a matching pace with a rival car, teasing to overtake but not quite allowing himself that win.

He needed that win—his hands shook with the sheer want as they wrapped around your frame, swiping over your dress, finding any sliver of skin to extract its warmth. He could not even wait before his tongue swiped against the seam of your lips, and it was lights out for the champion, delving deeper inside your mouth.

Your lips were the finishing line, the pole position. Your taste was the champagne spray at each win Seungcheol gained, but the taste of your tongue was sweeter, the same alcohol you consumed prior now mixing into a passionate cocktail of your kisses. 

Even the passion, however, could not rival the fury that laced your mouth, the heat of his tongue undermining the volcanic pants tumbling out of you. You writhed against him, each swipe into his dark curls harsher knowing it was the bane of your existence who bore them, each rough swirl of your tongue along more vigorous realising it was the beacon of your ire that offered it. 

He pushed you further and further, the large, rectangular table in the middle of the too-bright hall an obstacle in his war path, fingers finding recess along the buttons of your dress, efforting to pop them open but he was clumsy, like a fool when handling the fabric. 

You broke away for air, heaving more as he pounced on the corners of your mouth, lips travelling down. “Stop ruining my dress,” you rasped out in irritation, sensing the pressure of the sleeve pushing down, stopped by your neck. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grunted, roughly hoisting you upon the table-top, empty glasses falling with a soft thunk all around you. His hands travelled down, so fast, too fast, finding the hem of the dress, riding it up with scrambled fingers. 

You hissed at the touch, his remnants up your legs, the outer-side of your thighs. “It’s my job,” you snarled, a startling rush of breath escaping you as his mouth planted on your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses at the column of your throat. It was a magnetic feeling, the sparks inside the base of your skin alighting with every brush of his teeth. 

“Your job—” he barked out, squeezing out flushed kisses upon you, eliciting soft exhales from you— “Is to focus on me, to make me win.” 

“Always about you, isn’t it—” you meant to bite back, but the dress now bunched at your waist, and his thumb skimmed much too close to the apex of your thighs as he opened your legs. “Ah, never thinking about anyone else.” 

He paused from his assault on your neck, dizzying head dipping down to the display: your panties, matching your dress, and he blinked back rapidly, insides swelling with a hunger that almost made him forget why he pounced on you in the first place. “I don’t give a fuck about anyone else.” 

Realising your impending silence, he dragged his gaze upwards, caging your own. “Not right now anyway.”

His tone irked you so much, but the look in his eyes stunned you to further quiet. Again, you blamed the champagne for slowing your wit, any chance to humiliate him. You kept pointing fingers to it, because you ignored it—watching as one of his hands, firmly hanging onto your hips before falling, leaving a ghost trail in their wake, found slight purchase against the lace of your panties. 

Your breath hitched—and the curse was out, because he heard it. Quiet as a Saharan night, but to his ears as loud as a festival. “Shit,” he got out, wrenching your legs further, settling in between, snuffing any distance. “Liked what I did?” 

At least your drunken state allowed some form of torment. “You haven’t even done anything,” you griped, acutely aware of his fingers still lingering. “Bigging yourself up for no reason.” 

“You and your fucking mouth,” he guttered, colliding his lips against yours, attempts to silence you successful enough that you could merely hum, closing your eyes and letting the sounds of your mouths engulf you entirely. You wished to be strong, pride seeping through the haze of lust, but then you felt a most delicious sensation against your core—dampening lace rubbing against your slit, and then a little further, and that damned pride of yours crumbled over his fingers. 

The champion savoured your broken moans on his tongue as his thumb rubbed your clit, drinking them in like liquor—tasted infinitely richer than any alcohol he downed in a rage this evening. He circled the bud, swelling under his touch, and he felt your absence on his mouth, breaking away in growing pleasure. 

Pleasure. From Choi fucking Seungcheol. 

Agitation sprung on your veins, battling against the sheer desire overwhelming your senses, cultivating the quicker he encircled your clit, other digits slipping past the underwear’s lining and teasing your entrance. His other hand gripped onto your thigh, hard enough that you knew it would leave a remnant, but you were scraping your nails against his neck, dipping underneath his dress shirt, each sharp graze earning seething breaths. 

He was teasing still, never taking the panties off while he played with you, swiping your arousal with expert fingers, groaning at the sight of the tips slick with your eagerness. His head hung heavy, loaded with the sounds of your weighted sighs, but nothing stopped his determined gaze, looking at you through his lashes as he kept going. 

And because he did not stop, did not dare give you a moment’s rest—did he ever, you thought in passing amidst the chaos—your core tightened beneath his touches, your thighs tensing with every second faster in his circling, his mouth growing desperate in its torturous path. He claimed your lips again, and the desire rippling off his tongue was so intense you could not help the moan climbing out of your own mouth, loud enough it escaped his clutches, releasing it to the Red Bull halls. 

Your orgasm was near, so near—any minute and you would be undone by the one man who had unravelled your professional demeanour countless times, and would now wield the ability to pleasure you over your head. 

“Fuck, I can’t wait—” he slipped out, wrenching his fingers away from you, almost making you scream. “I know, I know, just give me a second—!” 

Frantically his fingers attempted to undo his trouser buttons, but found himself erupting to a pause. “Wait, shit, I don’t have a condom.” 

You groaned at him for stopping, tugging at his shoulders. “I’ve got the implant,” you chided, as if he was supposed to be aware of this information already. “Get on with it already!” 

He would have argued back with you, but his desire leashed his tongue. Stupid, drunken fool—restless in his movements, so impatient to have you that his fingers ceased to work, unable to take his trousers off, buttons popping quick enough for your hands to wrench down his Calvins. His cock sprung free from its cotton, and you had to falter for a second, seeing the sight before you. 

Oh Christ—the near-release was forgotten, fading within you, but this new sight occupied all your thoughts instead. Your parted mouth and widened eyes had him unable to stop a wild smile from forming. 

You would have regretted this—all of it—more so when his smirk sparked your insides into a frenzy. “If I knew this was a way to shut you up…” he trailed off, pulling down your underwear. 

You watched him guide his cock to where your arousal still prevailed, waiting for respite. Even your scrambled mind could not stop retorting, “Says the one who couldn’t get his pants down properly.” 

He merely chuckled, a harsh huff of laughter. “Here you go again,” he said as he leaned in, imprisoning you with his stare. “I shouldn’t even fuck you for all that attitude you give me.” 

“And you’re such an angel, huh?” But then you felt his tip slip against your folds, and you paused—hesitated. Oh, he really was no angel at all.

“I hope not,” he slurred, his free hand hanging onto your hip. “Especially not with you…you don’t deserve it.” 

Somehow that too pissed you off, and you furrowed your brow, ready to begin yet another argument when he slipped past you, his cock sliding in, and your brows then raised, sputtering breaths escaping, because he was inside, Seungcheol was inside you, and you could only gape at him.

You were drunk—of that there was no doubt, since none of this could have occurred in your dreams. Nothing in your imagination could have conjured the sheer fullness of him, the size of his length making your cunt pulsate at its very presence. Sure, you had engaged in illicit relations, had some fun in your early days, but those days were easily forgotten.

You knew, as he bottomed out in you, that no amount of champagne could ever make you forget this feeling. 

He watched your eyes widen, lips contort in that wonder, releasing a ragged, satisfied breath. “Jesus,” he said, matching your amazement. “You’ve never even looked at me this way when I’ve won you points.”

“Still—” you began, but hesitated when he slowly began to pull out. Even so, you got out, “Still thinking about yourself?” 

A chuckle sputtered out of him as his tip solely remained, teasing between your slit. “Thinking about myself, am I?” he repeated, his hands taking hold of your thighs, pushing you to wrap your legs around him. “Even now?”

Knowing you, you would have said yes, just to spite him—then his cock was sliding right in again, a little faster than before, and your walls betrayed you, welcoming him much too quickly for your liking. You held onto him, too focused on him inside of you to care that your dress was barely off, sweated into, fingers digging so urgently into his shirt you were certain of its ripping. 

Your incoherence, more so when he commenced a quicker pace, made him unable to contain his grin. “That’s what I thought,” he whispered to you, his words leaving their trace on the shell of your ear. His arrogance set you ablaze, but there kindled another kernel of fire, more dangerous than your usual agitation. You were not allowed to think on it further, your thoughts revolving solely on the precise, razor-sharp movements—never failing to slip out to the tip, and then ever so quickly diving back in.

Seungcheol could not stop grinning. Goosebumps spread over his heated skin, his dress-shirt matted with sweat, but he was alive inside you, thrusting into you with a rising pace which had you drawing out sounds he did not think possible to extract. He had already shamefully admitted to himself that your nose constantly upturned at him, your hmphs and whatevers had him smirking unknowingly, but that very mouth now singing harmonies of pleasure—pleasure he extracted—was a feeling too addictive for him to consume responsibly.

One more advance of his cock into your pulsing cunt and your back arched, soaked fabric against soaked fabric clashing with each of his movements. The sensation grew from your core, curling along your spine, the inner lining of your thighs, and it returned, by God it had returned, when you thought the bastard would rob you of it again. 

And he could feel it too. He could barely comprehend it himself, much less say it to you, his open, heavy kisses dropping on every expanse of your skin just not enough to satiate him. The champagne dizzied his mind, your cunt staggered his senses. Even his thrusting became erratic, the sweat on his brow grazing against your temple with every swipe up, with every slide down. 

“S-Seungcheol—” you finally got out, your thighs tensing, your core tightening even further. You were close now, dangerously near, and his name on your tongue made his self-control wane even thinner, fingers sliding down to your clit once more. “I think I’m gonna—fuck!” 

You gasped at his circling, the familiar movements back to taunt you. The languidity of his touches had long vanished now, rocking you on the table, the thudding of bodies against wood quickening at a pace most impressive for two drunkards, screwed-out colleagues who could barely navigate their mouths towards each other, sloppy kisses on cheeks and chins, free hands finding whatever purchase on sweated shirts, knotted dresses, sheen skin. 

Your moans. God, your fucking moans, your sweet, victorious, passionate grunts, slipping out of you without helping it, despite your restraint in truly letting go. This drink had cursed you, this damned party had weakened you, but when he hit a certain spot, balls-deep within you, you almost lost the will to care. 

In the great halls of Red Bull Racing, the winning lights of your team flashed on you and Seungcheol as you found yourself on the brink of collapse. 

Red Bull’s champion could sense it beyond the alcoholic haze. “You’re close, right?” he whispered, barely voiced properly—unsurprising, since all his strength fixated on you. “Shit, hang on—” 

And then he became ruthless, setting a pace so rapid and perfect that you understood why he gained all these titles, overtook all his opponents. He was faster than any car flying on the racing tracks, beadier than any steward pacing on the paddock. He followed onto every soft moan that escaped you, every dig of your nails in his shirt. You could feel him slipping and yet he never ceased to please you, contributing to the ever-increasing tension ridged within your thighs. The release was fated to arrive, and Choi Seungcheol would be the one leading it with his stained fingers. 

One more circle of his fingers around your clit, and you were undone.

Completely, utterly unable to stop yourself from shaking as you wrenched your eyes shut, rasping out to him as you came. As he pulled his face away from your own, comprehending your newfound position, the contortions of your face, the shake of your thighs had him stunned. His emotions overwhelmed him, his desire turned pungent, his pride so powerful from the image it had him cursing, holding onto you as he, too, let himself go, finishing himself into you with a pained grunt. 

The very action had the man hanging his head, exhaling painfully as he held onto your hips. You, too, could hardly take enough time settling yourself, barely registering his touch as you kept your eyes closed, listening to your own heartbeat. 

The only sounds in the room now were your inhales and his exhales, soft swaying of the fabric with every minute moment, the slight creak of the table from the champion’s weight. Hell, his cock was still inside you, but there was no recognising it, your astonishment holding you captive. 

It was only when, after great effort, when Seungcheol lifted his head, his tired, heavy-lidded gaze finding your own, your feelings halted—just for a moment. 

Those bitter, brown eyes; a circuit’s worth of arrogance racing around in those irises usually, sparks of challenge always afire whenever they locked with yours. These were the same pair of eyes, widening, ever so slightly, the more you studied them—the more you realised that these were the same eyes you equalled with as they undressed you without shame. 

Instinctively, your hands went down to your bunched-up dress, further down. His cock was still there, only now sliding out as the bearer, too, slowly grasped what had just occurred. 

It was as if the guise of alcohol had dropped. No more champagne-tinted glasses adorned. Your fingers that had somehow grazed his skin then confirmed your fear, at first a little organism which now grew large enough to suffocate you in the victor’s hall. 

You just had sex with Choi Seungcheol. 

Every drop of blood drained from your face. What have you done?

He, too, looked as if he had seen a ghost.

Your eyes did not dare leave his as your hands pushed your dress down, bottom sliding off the table, forcing the man to pull back, take a step behind him. None of you said a word, simply staring, physically unable to tear your gazes off each other. 

What have you done?

The champion’s mouth parted, almost as if wanting to say something, anything to stifle the shock growing in his insides. Gone was the desire, the scathing, painful lust that permeated the very atoms of this room. 

Your breaths could barely come out, tensely lodged in the back of your throat. 

Seungcheol rasped out only one word. “_____?” 

_____. You could have died then and there. 

It was what had you slipping out, scarcely there, “What have you done?”

And it was not fair—for the first time, you were not fair, completely unjust, but you did not care, did not care a single bit for the slow, contorted confusion, surprise staining his broken, perspired face. 

Because what you said was undeserved, you blamed the nerves of your words for your next actions; picking up your panties—God, evidence of his ministrations still present—and you whirled your back to him, taking off in a hurried rapidity towards the exit. You did not dare look back, in case you confronted the haunting stare on your neck, the dying, disoriented glint in those irises. 

The lights were still on. The winning cars still remained stationary, as they were before, and always will be. 

You and Seungcheol, however, were forever changed. 

He turns to find Lee Seokmin—McLaren orange splashed all over him, lanyard swinging, already grinning as if he knows he’s being insufferable. Which, of course, he does.

Mingyu adjusts his cap with a lopsided grin. “Bold words from the guy who once called Eau Rouge ‘kinda cute.’”

“That was one time,” Seokmin says, mock-offended, “and it is cute. In a terrifying, please-don’t-launch-me-into-the-fence way.”

Xu Minghao appears before Mingyu can volley back. The new arrival is in Mercedes gear, impossibly relaxed, sipping an espresso like he has all the time in the world. Minghao never hurries, never sweats, never looks anything less than editorial-spread perfect, even in a paddock crawling with cameras. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t encourage him,” Minghao says, eyes flicking to Seokmin. Then, to Mingyu: “You’re jittery.”

“I’m not jittery,” Mingyu protests, immediately aware that only jittery people insist they’re not. “I’m focused.”

Minghao takes a long sip, unimpressed. “You’re vibrating like a phone on silent.”

Seokmin nearly chokes on his laugh. “Oh my god, he is,” he cackles. “Someone put him in airplane mode before quali.”

Mingyu glares, but it’s half-hearted. This is how it always goes: Seokmin heckles, Minghao observes, Mingyu suffers. He can’t even complain, because the truth is he likes it. Likes that they’re here, together, even in rival colors. Likes that Monza isn’t just a track, it’s their track. The place where they were kids with bad haircuts and bigger dreams, trying to convince each other they’d all make it here someday.

And look at them now. Williams, McLaren, Mercedes. Not bad for three idiots who once got kicked out of a karting facility for trying to draft a security golf cart.

Seokmin slings an arm around Mingyu’s shoulders, nearly knocking his cap off. “Don’t overthink it, Gyu,” Seokmin says cheerfully. “Just drive like hell. If you don’t win, you’re only letting down half of Italy.”

“Comforting,” Mingyu deadpans.

Minghao’s mouth quirks. “Don’t listen to him. Just remember what we said when we were fifteen.”

Mingyu remembers. He remembers vividly. Sitting on cheap plastic seats, knees knocking together, promising each other they’d one day not just watch, but race. That they’d carry each other through, no matter where the grid scattered them.

“Win or lose,” Mingyu muses, “we always meet back here.”

Seokmin nods, unusually serious for a moment. Minghao just sips his drink, but his eyes soften.

Seokmin ruins it, as expected. “Cool. So when I beat you both, I can expect dinner Il Moro, yeah?”

Mingyu groans. Minghao sighs. Just like that, the moment dissolves back into chaos—the only way it ever really works with the three of them.

Still, as Mingyu turns back toward the track, he feels steadier. Ready. Because Monza isn’t just special. It’s home. This time, he’s not just the kid in the stands; he’s the one behind the wheel.

Qualifying at Monza is always chaos disguised as order, though. The track is so fast, so unforgiving, that one slipstream too many or one lock-up at Variante della Roggia can drop you down five places before you can blink. Mingyu knows this. He’s lived this. Still, it doesn’t stop his pulse from thundering when he’s released from the garage, when Williams sends him out into the blur of red, silver, orange, blue.

Minghao is clinical. His laps are precise, as if he’s painting with a ruler. Every apex kissed, every braking point exact. It’s maddening how effortless he makes it look, as if he’s just taking his Mercedes out for a polite Sunday stroll at 350 km/h.

Seokmin is chaos in motion. The rocketship of a McLaren twitches under him, but he wrangles it with surprising grace. Somehow, it works. He’s fastest through Sector 2, the radio full of his whoops and laughter. By the time Q3 ends, he’s snatched pole, punching the air with that face-splitting grin.

Mingyu? He lands a respectable P7. Solid. Reliable. The kind of position that makes engineers nod approvingly but doesn’t earn headlines. He knows it’s good work. He knows Williams is stronger than it’s been in years, that the upgrades are sticking, that the car beneath him is finally something more than a stubborn mule in corporate livery. But when he hears the crowd roaring for Seokmin’s orange car or sees Minghao’s name perched neatly in P2, it’s hard not to feel like the supporting character in someone else’s movie.

On his cooldown lap, the adrenaline settles into something softer. He loosens his grip on the wheel, lets the Monza trees blur past. It’s hard not to think back. To the hell that was Red Bull, to the brutal climb up the junior ladder, to the endless conversations about potential and promise. He’s spent years carrying Williams through development, pulling every scrap of performance out of machinery that didn’t always want to cooperate. Now he’s here, at the sharp end of a new chapter, finally with a car that might fight.

But still. No podium. Not yet.

He watches Seokmin celebrate over the radio, hears Minghao’s cool acknowledgment of his front-row start. Mingyu smiles, even laughs, but inside he tucks the thought away like a folded note: I’ll get there, too.

Because Monza raised him. Monza taught him how to dream. And tomorrow, maybe, it’ll teach him how to stand where he’s always wanted. Up high, champagne in hand, finally shoulder to shoulder with the friends who’ve always believed he could.

Mingyu finds his way to the decisively unglamorous Williams motorhome. It’s not much compared to the chrome-and-marble lounges that Ferrari or Red Bull roll out every weekend, but it’s comfortable in its own way. Blue accents, warm lighting, coffee machines that don’t sputter half the time anymore. Progress.

Joshua Hong sits at one of the tables, helmet still under his arm like he doesn’t quite trust leaving it anywhere else. Old habits from Ferrari, maybe. Back when every move was photographed, every angle scrutinized. He’s scrolling through data on a tablet, lips pressed into a thin, disappointed line. He’d qualified P13. 

Mingyu drops into the seat across from him with all the subtlety of a collapsing deck chair. “You know, staring at telemetry won’t make the car magically faster,” he says delicately. 

Joshua looks up, startled, then huffs a laugh. “Worth a shot.”

Mingyu leans back, folding his arms behind his head. “First Monza with Williams. How’s it feel? Culture shock?”

Joshua considers it, then shrugs. “It’s… different,” he settles. “Ferrari had twenty people fussing over every button I touched. Here, I feel like I’m supposed to make my own coffee.”

“You are supposed to make your own coffee,” Mingyu says, grinning. “It’s character building.”

That earns him a real laugh. Joshua shakes his head. “I’m still adjusting, I guess,” he confides. “The car handles fine, but it’s not what I’m used to. You’ve been here longer, and you make it look easier than it is.”

Mingyu tries not to preen at that. Instead, he tips forward, conspiratorial. “Here’s the trick. Don’t fight the car too much. It’s stubborn. Think of it like… a cat. If you force it, it’ll scratch. If you coax it, it’ll cooperate just enough to get the job done.”

“So you’re saying I should… seduce the car?”

“Maybe buy it dinner first.” 

They both laugh, and the tension in Joshua’s shoulders loosens by a fraction. He taps a note into the tablet, still smiling. “Honestly, thanks. It’s not easy, but at least I’ve got you.”

Mingyu blinks, surprised by the sincerity tucked under the joke. He clears his throat, pretending to study the ceiling. “Well, don’t make it sound like we’re married. You’ll give the engineers ideas.”

“Relax,” huffs Joshua. “You’re not my type.”

“Rude,” Mingyu says, clutching his chest in mock offense. 

But inside, he’s relieved. Relieved that Joshua isn’t bitter, isn’t distant, that the shadow of Ferrari hasn’t made him impossible to reach. Joshua’d made a pretty good case for himself in Maranello red, but then seven-time World Champion Yoon Jeonghan wanted to make a move from Mercedes. It’s the kind of thing you can’t even be mad about, the type of demotion you take with a clenched jaw and a prayer for redemption. 

Williams isn’t Ferrari. It never will be. But maybe, with Mingyu and Joshua, it can still be something worth building.

“Come on,” Mingyu says, pushing to his feet. “I’ll show you where they hide the good snacks.”

Joshua follows, grinning now, and for the first time all weekend Mingyu feels like they’re not just two drivers shoved together by circumstance. They’re teammates. Maybe even friends. And at Williams, that might just be the secret weapon.

Unfortunately, their snack run is cut short. Williams has decided it’s ‘content time.’ Which, in practice, means Mingyu and Joshua are herded into a corner of the motorhome that’s been dressed up with two folding chairs, a blue backdrop, and more ring lights than anyone needs outside a K-pop audition.

Joshua takes it in stride. Professional smile, easy banter with the social media coordinator. Mingyu, on the other hand, is already zoning out. He knows the routine: intro clip, thumbs up, some scripted lines about teamwork and strategy, maybe a ‘who’s taller’ joke if the intern behind the camera is feeling spicy. His brain is already skipping ahead to tomorrow. The race. Monza at full tilt, the slipstreams, the strategies, the chaos waiting to happen.

He half-listens as the briefing drones on. Celebrities expected in the paddock tomorrow. So-and-so, actor. Someone else, pop star. And then.

Your name.

It snags his attention for half a second, the way an unexpected chord does in the middle of a song. Vague recognition thrums at the back of his mind. You’re an influencer, he thinks. He follows you, though he doesn’t remember when he clicked the button. Late-night scroll, probably. He remembers flashes: a vlog with neon signs in Tokyo, a clip of you spilling iced coffee and laughing at yourself, a carousel post full of designer clothing. 

The memory is fuzzy but oddly warm, like a light left on in another room. Mingyu almost lingers on it. Almost.

Then the coordinator claps their hands and announces, “Okay, Joshua first, then Mingyu. Quickfire questions, then predictions for quali and race.”

And just like that, the thought is shelved. Mingyu sits up, shakes the static from his head, and focuses back on what matters: data, pace, tire strategy. Tomorrow is Monza, and Monza doesn’t leave space for distractions—even ones with familiar names and half-remembered smiles on a glowing phone screen.

Come Sunday, the excitement is at a fever pitch. Race day at Monza is a circus, and Mingyu is one of the trained performers.

The morning starts with the usual noise: fans pressed against barriers, chanting names, waving flags. Reporters circle like seagulls over fries, microphones shoved forward in case anyone slips and says something headline-worthy. The Williams garage is a hive. Mechanics shouting tire pressures, engineers glued to monitors, Joshua humming nervously as he tapes up his gloves. Somewhere in the paddock, Seokmin is almost certainly mugging for a camera. Somewhere else, Minghao is almost certainly pretending the cameras don’t exist.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. 

Sips water. Sways side to side on his feet like he’s already negotiating Ascari. He jokes when someone asks if he’s nervous. “Nervous? I only panic recreationally.” The laughter helps. 

Then comes the walk to the grid. The roar grows louder, a wall of sound built from engines and announcers and tifosi who’d probably sell their souls for a Ferrari win. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. His mind is already moving faster than his feet, lap one unfolding in his head like a storyboard.

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The chaos of Monza mutes, as if someone turned the volume knob down to zero. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel somewhere in the garage. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence.

He slides into the cockpit, straps pulled tight across his chest, the car cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P7, nose angled toward possibility. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat.

Then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward like it’s been waiting its whole life for this one second, and Monza opens wide in front of him.

Monza doesn’t give you time to breathe. Not really. Not when you’re thundering into Turn 1 at 300 km/h with six other cars fighting for the same square of asphalt. Mingyu knows this, braces for it, and still winces as two cars brush wheels in front of him. He darts left, gains one position, loses another. Net zero. Typical Williams arithmetic.

The first laps are pure survival. The car is twitchy in the chicanes, eager to understeer as if it has personal beef with his front tires. “Front end’s gone, it’s like driving a shopping cart,” he snaps into the radio. 

There’s a pause, then his engineer’s calm voice: “Copy, Mingyu. Balance noted.”

He knows they’re used to it by now. He’s affable in the paddock. Always smiling, quick with a joke, the guy who helps rookies find the good coffee machine. But in the car? On the radio? He’s a menace. His friends tease him about it constantly. Gentle giant until you put him in a helmet, then he’s Gordon Ramsay with downforce.

“Why did we pit that early?!” he barks twenty laps later when he’s spat out into traffic. “I’m boxed in by two Alpines who think this is a fu—damn carpool lane!”

“Understood, Mingyu. Let’s keep pushing.”

He groans, but there’s no time to sulk. Ahead, Seokmin is dancing in clean air at the front, Minghao lurking just behind. Mingyu feels the gap between them and himself like a physical ache. They’re fighting for podiums. He’s fighting his steering wheel just to keep the car pointing straight.

He keeps going. He wrestles the Williams through Ascari, feathering the throttle. He throws it into Parabolica with more hope than grip, muttering prayers to the racing gods and a few curses for good measure. Every lap is a scrap, every sector a negotiation.

The radio crackles. “Good work, Mingyu. Lap time’s improving. Keep this pace.”

He exhales, a humorless laugh catching in his throat. “Tell the car that.”

It’s not glamorous. It’s not heroic. But it’s racing. And when the laps tick down and the flag finally waves, Mingyu drags the car across the line. Bruised ego, tired arms, and all. Not a podium, not a headline. Points, still. Points for Williams after spending years hoping for the bare minimum of a finish. 

The checkered flag waves, and Mingyu exhales so hard it fogs the inside of his visor. His arms ache, his neck feels like it’s been wrung out, and the Williams under him is radiating the heat of a dying sun. But the timing screen doesn’t lie: P5. 10 points for Williams. Practically a love letter written in neon.

The radio crackles alive with static. “Mega job, Gyu! That’s P5!”

Mingyu decides he’ll take it. Helmet bobbing against the headrest, he radios back, “Alrighttt, baby!”

“Way to make your girlfriend proud, mate.”

“…Thanks, gu—my what?”

The radio goes suspiciously quiet. No laughter, no explanation, only the faint hiss of white noise. He waits. One beat. Two. Nothing. Mingyu narrows his eyes inside the helmet, muttering, “Yeah, real funny, guys.” 

He imagines the garage choking back laughter, everyone pretending to busy themselves with tire blankets and telemetry screens while actually waiting for the inevitable post-race interrogation.

Still, as he slows the car on the cooldown lap, weaving to wave at the fans, he can’t shake the question. Girlfriend? He’d remember if he had one. He thinks. Probably.

Classic Williams. Work him to the bone, then leave him with a riddle to chew on all night. He can already hear Seokmin and Minghao cackling about it over dinner.

But for now, he allows himself the satisfaction: P5 at Monza. A win in its own way.

Mingyu, sweat-streaked but still buzzing from the race, tugs his fireproof top straighter as he slides into the mixed zone. but P5 has him smiling like he’s just won the whole championship, as he walks into the pen. Fluorescent lights, elbowing journalists, and the faint whiff of rubber baked into the asphalt.

“Great drive today, Mingyu,” someone from Sky Sports barks out. “How did it feel out there?”

He leans closer to the mic, conspiratorial. “Like wrestling a bull on roller skates. But hey, we stayed on track, didn’t explode, and crossed the line in one piece. That’s what we call progress.”

A few chuckles ripple out. He answers questions easily: strategy calls, tire management, how much water he thinks he sweated out. (“About three liters, minimum. I’m basically jerky now.”)

Then a reporter tilts her head, squinting at her notes. “And Mingyu, about the broadcast—?”

“What about it?” 

“Well, it was one hell of a hard launch, wasn’t it?”

Mingyu’s face contorts into polite confusion, like someone who’s been told the ending of a movie he hasn’t seen yet. He opens his mouth to explain—though what exactly, he’s not sure—but before he can string together a defense, his PR handler materializes at his elbow, all professional smiles and efficient steering. “Thanks so much, we have to move on. Next interview, sorry!”

Mingyu is herded away mid-protest, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “Wait, broadcast? What broadcast? I didn’t even—” His words are swallowed by the crowd as another mic is shoved in front of him.

It takes hours for Mingyu to finally piece it together. By the time he’s showered, debriefed, and shoved into fresh Williams merch, the adrenaline has faded to something heavy in his bones. Only when he’s slouched in the back of the team van, scrolling his phone, does the mystery crack open.

His notifications are a war zone: Seokmin’s texts in all caps (“LMAOOOOO BRO UR FINISHED”), Minghao’s in his trademark straightforwardness (“bold of you not to hide from us”), and about a dozen unread group chat messages with the kind of creative memes that can only be weaponized by friends who know your weaknesses.

Mingyu squints, thumb hovering over the link Seokmin has sent. A screen recording, clipped from the F1 TV broadcast. He taps it open.

The screen cuts to the Williams garage, right after his near-spin-save, the crowd roaring like it’s a goal at the World Cup. Then the camera finds… you.

Mingyu, against his better judgment, has to admit the broadcast director has taste. The lens loves you. He privately does, too, for about half a second. The easy way you smile, the spark of expression that makes the whole shot hum. 

But then his gaze slides to the graphic at the bottom of the screen, and his soul leaves his body. There’s your name, and then the designation.

Social Media Influencer, Partner of Kim Mingyu.

Partner. As in…? 

He doesn’t even know you.

He stares at the tag so hard he’s convinced he’ll find a typo hidden inside. Nothing. Just his name, clean as day, tethered to yours. His stomach does a neat little nosedive. He scrolls back, replays it once, twice, three times, like maybe on the fourth it’ll magically change to something less career-ruining. No luck.

Another message pings in from Seokmin: a string of wedding emojis. Minghao simply adds: “congrats.”

Mingyu slumps further into the seat, phone pressed to his forehead.

The video conference feels less like a meeting and more like a trial. Mingyu sits in his apartment with hair still damp from the shower, clutching a mug of coffee like it’s a legal defense. On his screen: Williams PR, looking like they haven’t smiled since the V6 era, and you. An innocent bystander dragged into the mess, appearing far too composed for someone accused of having a secret relationship with him.

God, Mingyu thinks, unfair. 

Even pixelated through mediocre Wi-Fi, you look good. Distractingly good. How is it possible to look camera-ready in a Zoom call? He looks like a raccoon caught stealing snacks, and you look like a magazine spread.

“Let’s run this again,” one of the PR managers says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Are you or are you not in a relationship with Kim Mingyu?”

You sigh, hands raised in a calm denial. “We’re not,” you say, and your voice is pitched just a touch differently from whatever tone you use for filming content. It fascinates Mingyu. “We’ve never even spoken before this.”

Mingyu nods enthusiastically. “True. I’d remember if we had.” Then, realizing how that sounds, he backpedals. “Not because you’re forgettable. You’re, uh—very memorable. Obviously. Just—” He clears his throat. “Point is, this is our first conversation.”

Your brows lift, amused despite the situation. “Thanks, I think?”

PR is unamused. “This isn’t a joke,” they insist. “The broadcast explicitly tagged you as Mingyu’s partner. The narrative is running wild. We need clarity.”

Mingyu leans toward the webcam, adopting his most trustworthy expression. Unfortunately, makes him look like he’s about to confess on a reality dating show. “We’re telling the truth,” he retorts. “No secret relationship. No scandal. Just a very confused driver and a very unlucky influencer.”

“And you’re certain?” PR presses.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Absolutely.”

“Yes,” Mingyu echoes. Then, almost reflexively, “Although—I mean, hypothetically, if there were ever a relationship, we’d probably be, you know, supportive of each other’s careers. That’d be nice. Not that this is that. Because it isn’t.”

PR stares. You try not to laugh. Mingyu wants to sink through the floor but can’t help sneaking another glance at you, wondering if the meeting could possibly end with something besides his professional funeral.

The Zoom call sputters to an end not long after. PR smiling too tight, lawyers muttering about statements, and Mingyu signing off with a half-wave. The second his laptop screen goes black, his brain decides to betray him. Naturally, the first thing he does is type your name into Instagram.

He tells himself it’s just curiosity. Research. Due diligence. Absolutely not stalking. Except, two scrolls in, he’s already leaning back in his chair, eyebrows climbing as your follower count glares at him: 512,000. Half a million, he thinks to himself. That’s… several Monzas full of people. Great.

He knew you did commentary on motorsport—he’s seen your posts, the ones that float onto his Explore page between dog memes and teammate thirst edits—but it turns out you have a whole empire attached. There’s a makeup brand. Campaign shots. Tutorials with numbers in the six digits. Mingyu taps one absentmindedly and is immediately greeted with perfect lighting, perfect editing, and perfect you.

What really makes him grin is when he stumbles across a clip with a familiar face: James Vowles, the Williams team principal, standing awkwardly in front of a camera while you shove a mic toward him. “James, be honest,” you say, “what’s harder, running an F1 team or trying to blend liquid eyeliner in under three minutes?”

James blinks like a deer in headlights. “…The eyeliner?”

“Correct,” you chirp, before turning back to the camera. “That’s why he runs the cars and I run the tutorials.”

The video cuts with James chuckling, clearly defeated, and Mingyu can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him. 

Mingyu doesn’t mean to fall down the rabbit hole, but that’s exactly what happens. One video turns into five, five turns into twenty, and suddenly he’s a full-blown archeologist digging through the ruins of your Instagram.

There you are with F2 drivers, teasing them mid-interview until they’re blushing like schoolboys. There you are at an IndyCar paddock, chatting with a team principal as if he’s your next-door neighbor borrowing sugar. Mingyu leans closer to the screen with every swipe, eyes darting between your captions and the way you laugh, quick and clever, always a beat faster than whoever’s in front of you. He finds himself grinning at his phone like an idiot. 

The hours slip away without him noticing, the digital equivalent of quicksand. His thumb keeps scrolling even though his brain is half-asleep, his body heavy in his bed. Then—there it is. A photo buried deep in your feed, posted more than three years ago. Younger you, hair a little messy, no glam team in sight, standing high in the Monza nosebleeds with a grin that threatens to split your face in two. The caption is nothing but a string of exclamation points and a blurry shot of cars in the distance.

Looks like he isn’t the only one who’d dreamt of Monza.

Mingyu stares at it, soft amusement tugging at his mouth. He barely registers the way his thumb hovers, then double taps. A small heart flashes red before his phone slips in his hand, the screen dimming. The last thing he knows before sleep drags him under is your wide smile from the grandstands. Bright, unpolished, impossible not to look at. 

Somewhere in the background, the quiet horror of having just liked a three-year-old photo waits for him in the morning.

The thing is, Mingyu doesn’t notice right away. Why would he? He sleeps like a log, wakes up like one too, and the only thing on his mind is coffee and cardio. So there he is, dutifully jogging on the treadmill, earbuds in, pretending this is about fitness and not an excuse to outrun his anxiety, when TikTok does what TikTok does best: ruin his life.

The video pops up innocently enough. Caption in neon text: “Did Mingyu just soft-launch a girlfriend???” A voiceover kicks in, suspiciously gleeful. “So, Mingyu liked this three-year-old photo of our favorite influencer—yes, three years old, folks—and here’s the proof.” 

Cue screenshot. Cue zoom. Cue circle around his username.

Mingyu’s foot falters. His treadmill betrays him. One mistimed step, and suddenly he’s half-tripping, half-flailing, clutching for balance. His earbuds yank out with the violence of divine punishment.

A man of precision on track, publicly defeated by a treadmill and a phantom like. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Mingyu swears they’re multiplying—these PR meetings. Same conference room, same slideshow clicker, same headache. This week it’s Baku, and instead of tire strategy or track notes, the PowerPoint behind the comms team might as well be titled How to Manage Your Totally Real, Definitely Not Imaginary Girlfriend.

He sits there, arms crossed, pouting like someone stole his dessert. He’s already said it a hundred times: you’re not dating. Apparently, the Internet has spoken, and the Internet doesn’t exactly care about facts.

“We just need to be clear in messaging,” one PR manager says, pointing at a bullet point that reads Keep It Vague.

“Vague?” Mingyu repeats, voice pitching with incredulity. “What’s vague about ‘I don’t know her’?”

Someone else sighs, like he’s the problem child. “It’s not about accuracy, Mingyu. It’s about optics. If you push too hard, it looks defensive. Defensive looks guilty.”

“So now I’m guilty of… not dating someone?” He leans forward, gesturing wildly. “You hear how that sounds, right?”

The silence that follows suggests yes, they hear it. No, they don’t care.

Mingyu slumps back in his chair. He’s all out of exasperated arguments. The PR team drones on about narratives and fan sentiment graphs, but it washes over him. Water on a duck’s back. Finally, he just sighs, mutters something noncommittal, and waves a hand. Fine. Believe what you want.

By the end of the hour, his pout has calcified into resignation. If the whole world wants him in a relationship he doesn’t have, he’s not going to win the argument today. He gathers his things, ducks out before someone can hand him another bullet-pointed nightmare, and calls it a draw. For now.

Mingyu swears he’s not thinking about you. Not at all. Not when he’s reviewing track notes, not when he’s staring down the tight castle section in Baku. He’s perfectly disciplined, focused, and absolutely not distracted by someone with sharp wit and a suspiciously radiant Zoom camera presence. Nope. Not him.

Until the morning of qualifying, that is.

Instagram stories. A quick scroll, nothing serious, until there you are, framed in blurry orange and papaya. A McLaren paddock pass swinging around your neck like a guillotine blade pointed at Mingyu’s sanity. He stares, brows furrowing with something suspiciously close to betrayal.

Of course it’s McLaren. Of course they’d play the long game. If Williams accidentally branded you his partner, McLaren’s apparently out here auditioning you for the role.

He tells himself to let it go. To focus on the race. To be a professional. Instead, he’s suddenly opening his DMs, staring at your name in the chat box. His thumbs hover. He types. Hi.

Deletes.

Types again. Wow!!!

Deletes harder.

What does one even say? ‘Hey, didn’t know you were in town, hope papaya orange brings out your eyes’? ‘Cool pass, traitor’? ‘Please stop looking this good while I’m trying to not die in a street circuit’? Every attempt looks ridiculous the second it leaves his brain.

With the resignation of a man already defeated, he sets the phone down. He’s done. He’s above this. He’s a professional athlete, not some lovesick fanboy—

He picks the phone back up. One more try. Just one. He thumbs in the lamest reply in human history, something so bare-bones he can feel his ancestors shaking their heads at him: Nice lanyard lol.

He means to delete it. He means to backspace, to retreat into silence, to salvage dignity.

But his thumb betrays him a second time.

Sent.

A beat.

Delivered changes to Seen. 

Every vein in Mingyu’s body goes cold-hot-cold. You’ve seen it. The lamest message in the known universe. No time to unsend, no room for excuses. It’s done. He’s doomed.

Baku may be a monster, but nothing terrifies him more than waiting for your reply.

Mingyu stares at his phone like it’s a bomb he accidentally armed. He’s mentally drafting an apology tour when the notification banner pops up.

|   yourusername: thanks. it’s from mclaren, though. 

Okay. Professional. Polite. Mingyu exhales, shoulders sagging, and immediately thumbs out a reply. 

|   min6yu_k: Knew that. Was just testing you. 

There’s a pause, long enough that he wonders if you’ve muted him forever, but then another bubble appears. 

|   yourusername: u’re terrible at tests, kim.

He grins despite himself, typing fast.

|   min6yu_k: That’s fair. In my defense, I don’t usually text mid–Grand Prix scandal.

|   yourusername: a scandal you created by liking a post from 2021?? 🤨

Mingyu winces, caught red-handed. He considers doubling down, then decides self-deprecation is safer.

|   min6yu_k: Guilty

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about all of it, by the way. I didn’t mean to drag you into weird rumor mill territory.

This time, your response comes quicker. The words are still measured, but there’s a softening he can almost hear.

|   yourusername: it’s fine lol. not like you paid f1tv to do it or anything 

|   yourusername: just wasn’t expecting to wake up with people tagging me as ‘f1 wag of the year’

Mingyu laughs out loud, loud enough that his trainer shoots him a look. He taps back:

|   min6yu_k: Honestly, you deserve the award just for surviving that Zoom call.

Your reply takes longer this time, but it’s worth the wait.

|   yourusername: don’t get used to it. m not doing another emergency pr summit with u

|   min6yu_k: Noted. One PR trauma bonding session only 👍

The typing dots linger for a moment, then vanish. Finally:

|   yourusername: anw no promises about seeing u around the paddock 

|   yourusername: but good luck in quali 🍀

The words land softer than he expects. A pat on the back he didn’t know he needed. Mingyu reads them three times before tucking his phone away.

He qualifies P4. He’s not saying it’s because of you, but he’s also not saying it isn’t.

Qualifying P4 feels like the kind of small miracle that makes you think maybe all the treadmill trips, the PR scoldings, and the humiliating Instagram accidents were worth it. But Sunday has teeth. By lap twenty, Mingyu’s strapped into a seat that might as well be a bull ride with branding. The car is twitchy, the balance gone, and his voice is chewing through radio static.

“Why am I losing power out of turn two?!” he barks.

Pit wall comes back too calm for his liking. “Telemetry shows everything is stable, Mingyu. Keep managing.”

“Stable? Stable?! I’m wrestling a washing machine on rollerblades, how is that stable?”

He gets silence. The kind of silence that says we don’t know either, please don’t crash. By lap forty, his jaw is locked, shoulders aching, and he’s screaming again. “This thing is undriveable! Brakes are gone, rear won’t hold! Do you want me to park it or what?”

“Negative, keep pushing.”

He pushes. All the way down the order until the flag waves and the numbers slap him in the face: P16. From the high of P4 to this. A freefall with no parachute. He sits in the cockpit longer than he should, helmet pressed against the wheel, before finally peeling himself out.

The paddock microphones descend like vultures. One of them doesn’t even start with a question about the car. “Mingyu, fans noticed your girlfriend was seen wearing McLaren colors today. Any comments on that?”

His jaw ticks so hard it could crack. Sweat’s still streaking down his temple when he levels them with a stare sharp enough to cut wire. “Next question.”

Another tries again, reshuffling words but not intent. Mingyu’s answer doesn’t change. This time, colder: “Ask about the race or don’t ask at all.”

There’s always background noise in the paddock. Engines, chatter, cameras clicking. Right now all he hears is the roar of blood in his ears, louder than any crowd. P16, and apparently, he still can’t shake you from the headlines.

Mingyu does what he always does after a race gone sideways: he disappears. Not Houdini-level, but close. Sunglasses, cap pulled low, hoodie large enough to smuggle an entire pit crew under. He walks through the Old City, trying very hard not to look like someone who just drove an F1 car into the ground and then got roasted on live television.

The Old City is perfect for this. Stone walls, narrow alleys, that golden glow of lamplight softening even the sharpest edges of his mood. He likes it here. Always has. There’s something about Baku at night that feels like the world is willing to forgive him, at least for a few blocks.

Which is exactly when he rounds a corner and nearly collides with you.

Of course. Of course.

You blink, step back, and immediately clock the situation. “Right,” you say lightly, hands going up in mock surrender. “I’m guessing you don’t want company right now.”

Mingyu could laugh if it didn’t sting a little. You’re not pitying, and that almost makes it worse. Pity, he can swat away. This gentle assumption that he needs space? That’s harder to argue against. His throat goes tight, but he manages a faint grin from under the brim of his cap.

“Depends,” he says. “Do you count as company or cosmic punishment?”

Your smile tilts, not unkind, and you shake your head. “I’ll take that as my cue. Good night, Mingyu.”

You step past him, and he lets you, every nerve screaming to ask you to stay. To hang around. To just talk about anything that isn’t tire degradation or whether P16 is a character flaw. He swallows it down, watching your figure fade into the lamplight until he’s left alone with his disguise, his hoodie, and the city that always seems to know when he needs to hide.

Mingyu tells himself it’s fine. People bump into each other in crowded old towns all the time. One awkward encounter doesn’t mean anything.

Then he sees you again twenty minutes later, bent over a display of silver bangles at a stall, the shopkeeper coaxing you into trying one on. He’s half tempted to call it a simulation glitch.

By the third run-in—this time at a clothes shop where you’re holding up a linen shirt to the light—Mingyu is actively bargaining with the universe. Once is a coincidence. Twice is… funny. Three times? That’s fate with a capital F. Someone’s writing this, and Mingyu is the unwilling protagonist.

He ducks into a little restaurant tucked against the curve of the city wall, hoping for anonymity, peace, maybe a plate of kebab big enough to eat his feelings. Instead, the hostess leads him straight to a table—and there you are again. 

Not at his table, mercifully, but at the one directly across, angled perfectly so the two of you sit like some deranged parody of a date. Mingyu covers his mouth with a hand like he’s trying not to laugh at the world’s dumbest punchline. You catch his eye just long enough to arch a brow, equal parts really? and don’t even start.

Dinner becomes an Olympic-level charade. He stares at the menu too hard. You sip your drink with the exaggerated grace of someone being watched, which, to be fair, you are. Whenever your gazes almost meet, you both snap your attention back to your plates like guilty schoolkids.

Some small joke you must have thought of on your own occurs to you, because you duck your head, shoulders shaking, and laugh into your meal. The sound is warm, unguarded, nothing to do with him. For the first time since the race, Mingyu feels something slip in his chest. His mouth tugs up, almost against his will, into a smile. 

Three days. That’s how long Mingyu gets to breathe before the next firestorm.

Barely seventy-two hours of pretending the Internet has moved on, and then PR summons him as if he’s a schoolboy headed for detention. Mingyu slumps into the conference room chair, hood still up from the drive over, and immediately they spin a laptop toward him.

The photo in question: Baku’s Old City, the kind of shot that belongs on a travel brochure. A jewelry stall gleams with silver chains and glassy trinkets. There’s Mingyu—hood pulled up, cap tugged so low it shadows half his face, but his height and frame basically scream yes, it’s him. His posture is a dead giveaway; he has never in his life managed to look inconspicuous. A few steps away, there you are. Not talking. Not even facing each other. Just existing in the same atmospheric frame. The Internet, of course, has already branded it confirmation. Hashtags piling up by the second. Think pieces forming. Fans congratulating themselves on being right all along.

“Really?” Mingyu squints at the screen. “This is the smoking gun? My back?”

“Your recognizable back,” one of the managers corrects, pinching the bridge of their nose like they’re suppressing a migraine. “Do you have any idea how quickly this is spreading?”

“Quicker than my car on Sunday,” Mingyu mutters, because sarcasm is the only weapon left in his arsenal. He’s barely armed, but it’s all he’s got.

The room doesn’t laugh. Of course it doesn’t. He’s talking to people who categorize memes as communication risks. They don’t have the range.

Mingyu tries, weakly, to defend himself. He explains you weren’t together, that you hadn’t even exchanged words, that coincidence is not the same thing as a relationship. He gestures with his hands, sprawling explanations across the table, hoping volume and dramatics might soften the edges of disbelief. It’s pointless. His PR team waves him off. They’re already drafting statements, debating whether to ignore or confront, arguing over hashtags that will inevitably backfire. One of them says ‘brand synergy’ with a straight face.

Mingyu sinks lower in his chair, jaw tight, cap brim nearly touching the table. He knows the drill by now. No matter what he says, the narrative’s already running laps without him. On the outside, he’s exasperated. On the inside, though, he’s quietly grateful.

Because if the vultures had gotten photos of those dinner tables, side by side in the Old City, chairs angled just so, him biting back laughter as you laughed into your meal—then that would’ve been ruined, dissected, cheapened into content. He can already imagine the captions: soft launch confirmed, same restaurant, same night, what more proof do you need?

But they don’t have that. All they have is his back in front of a jewelry stall, a sliver of coincidence blown into mythology. Which means he gets to keep the dinner. He gets to keep the sound of your laugh tugging his mouth into a smile. He gets to keep it as his, that moment. Untouched, unpolished. 

Mingyu resolves to keep his head down. Or at least he tries to, though it’s hard to look subtle when you’re six-foot-something and wearing a fireproof suit. The only thing louder than the Internet whispering about him is the uncooperative Williams underneath him.

Singapore: he retires, engine coughing out before he can even call it a night. America: he crosses the line dead last, gritting his teeth while the checkered flag waves like mock applause. PR tells him to keep smiling, but even he can’t fake cheer through the smell of burning rubber and disappointment.

It’s not all bad. Mexico: pit lane start, every commentator politely predicting doom. Mingyu claws his way up, lap after lap, until the scoreboard flashes him into the points. Las Vegas: the lights, the noise, the neon chaos, and the Williams wrestled to P6. For a moment, it almost feels like proof. Proof that he belongs here, proof that the fight is worth it.

He races, races, races. The weeks blur together: flights, hotels, meetings, helmets, grids. Always noise, always expectation.

In the gaps between, when the adrenaline fades and the world is still, he tries not to think of you. Not your giggle across a dinner table in Baku. Not the idea of you lingering at the edges of his story like some subplot he isn’t brave enough to read aloud.

He tells himself it’s better this way. That racing is enough. That winning—even scraps of it—is enough. But sometimes, when the garage finally empties and he’s the last one there, he catches himself staring at the shadows, half-expecting them to laugh the way you did.

The next time he actually sees you, it’s not in an ancient city or the dawn of the paddock. Instead, it’s a charity gala. One that’s not supposed to be a battlefield, but unspools like one anyway. The moment Mingyu spots you across the ballroom, every carefully rehearsed sponsor smile crash lands into nothingness. The chandelier above gleams, champagne flutes clink, and Mingyu’s standing there with a bow tie that suddenly feels three sizes too tight.

“Don’t look now,” Minghao murmurs, which is, of course, the universal sign to definitely look now. Seokmin cranes his neck shamelessly.

“Oh, she’s here,” hums Seokmin. “No wonder he looks like he just saw the light of God.”

“I do not look like that,” Mingyu mutters, but his ears betray him, turning a shade redder than the Ferrari livery he’s sworn to loathe.

Minghao raises his glass. “You’re short-circuiting.”

“Am not.”

Seokmin grins, cruel and delighted. “You’re buffering.”

Mingyu glares at both of them as if sheer willpower can keep his dignity from combusting. He risks one glance back, and there you are, catching his eye. For a beat, the whole room fades. The music, the chatter, the endless speeches. Just you, framed in soft golden light.

On instinct, Mingyu lifts a hand in a wave that feels ridiculously small for someone his size. It’s awkward, a little sheepish, but honest. When you acknowledge him with the faintest smile, a nod in return, it’s enough to reset his entire internal system. He’s still Mingyu—Williams’ exasperated problem child, PR’s recurring nightmare—but in that moment, he’s also just a boy shyly waving across the room.

For the rest of the night, Mingyu tells himself he’s not hovering. He’s not orbiting. He’s not casually re-aligning his path through the gala ballroom so that every champagne refill, every polite handshake, somehow puts him within fifteen meters of you. 

No. He’s just… navigating. Strategically. Like he does on track. Except instead of overtaking Boo Seungkwan, he’s dodging billionaires in tuxedos and trying to stay within your view.

Minghao notices first. “You’re circling,” he muses. “Very predator-and-prey of you, Kim.”

Seokmin grins. “More like a golden retriever lost in a sea of penguins.”

Heat creeps up Mingyu’s neck. He ignores his friends, throwing a suppositious glance towards where you are, laughing at something someone’s just said, light catching the edge of your glass. He short circuits all over again.

By the time he finally intercepts your orbit, you beat him to the punch. “You know,” you say, eyebrow raised, “for someone the Internet keeps calling my boyfriend, you’re surprisingly bad at just coming over to talk.”

Mingyu groans, half-burying his face in his hand, but laughter spills through his fingers. “Unbelievable. Even you?”

“Even me,” you confirm, smile tilting into smirk territory.

“Great. Fantastic. Love that my fake relationship is just as good at roasting me as my real friends.”

“Maybe you should work on your approach,” you suggest, tilting your head.

“Oh, because sneaking up on you at a gala is already peak suave?” he shoots back, earning the smallest laugh from you—a sound he pockets instantly.

The two of you slip into small talk, the easy, low-stakes kind. Complaints about the too-fizzy champagne, mutual side-eyes at the overzealous photographers, gentle mockery of the violinist who’s going a little too hard on Vivaldi. Mingyu lets himself just stand there, conversation flowing between you, thinking maybe he doesn’t mind the world’s favorite rumor if it means he gets to hear you laugh again.

One of the photographers is relentless. Mingyu swears the guy has been circling like a shark all night, lens gleaming, waiting for the perfect strike. He and you have already dodged him twice. Once by pretending to be fascinated by the dessert table, another by Mingyu faking a very urgent bathroom trip. Now, cornered by the bar, there’s no escape route except straight through.

“Just one picture,” the man insists, camera half-raised. “For the fans. For the story.”

Mingyu shoots him a look that hopefully communicates: if you say ‘story’ one more time, I’ll actually combust. Out loud, he goes with: “We’re good, thanks.”

You’re already shaking your head, polite but firm. Still, the photographer doesn’t budge. He leans in, coaxing, pressing, eyes flicking between you and Mingyu as if you’re a headline just waiting to be printed. Mingyu sees it. That flicker of unease in your shoulders, the way your hand tightens around your clutch. You’re not pitying him, not annoyed—just uncomfortable. Which, for Mingyu, is more than enough incentive to do something.

He doesn’t think. He just acts. One hand lifts, finds the small of your back, rests there with enough certainty to draw a line in the sand. “We’re trying to stay lowkey tonight,” Mingyu says, tone calm but edged with finality. It’s the kind of voice that isn’t loud but leaves no room for argument.

The photographer hesitates, caught off-guard, before lowering his camera. Mingyu doesn’t wait for him to regroup. With a gentle but decisive pressure of his palm, he steers you away, guiding you back into the flow of the gala crowd.

Only once you’re safely out of range does Mingyu let out a breath and mutter, half-groan, half-laugh, “Can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank god for the world’s slowest string quartet.” He tilts his head toward the musicians in the corner, whose dirge-like tempo is the perfect cover for his quick exit.

You glance up at him, eyebrows raised, lips pursed into a thin line. He shrugs, hand hovering at your back for a beat longer  before he reluctantly pulls it away, conspiratorial grin slipping in. “What?” Mingyu says. “Every fake boyfriend has to earn his keep somehow.”

You don’t even need to speak before he feels the lecture coming. “You know you basically poured gasoline on the rumor mill just now, right? You could’ve left it alone, but no. You had to…” You gesture vaguely toward the part of your back where his hand had been seconds earlier. “That.”

Mingyu runs a hand down his face like he can physically wipe away the accusation. “What was I supposed to do? Just stand there? Watch you squirm while some guy shoved a camera in your face?” His voice pitches, equal parts exasperation and self-defense. “Come on, you looked uncomfortable.”

“I would’ve managed,” you say, chin tilting stubbornly.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want you to ‘manage’,” Mingyu shoots back, his words clumsy but earnest. “I wanted you out of it. So I got you out of it.”

The two of you stand there, simmering in a disagreement that’s half bickering, half something else. Mingyu crosses his arms, jaw tight, but his mind races—conspiratorial, frustrated, and maybe just a little guilty because you’re not entirely wrong. He did fuel the rumors, didn’t he?

You sigh, breaking the stalemate. 

“Still.” Your voice softens, reluctant but sincere. “Thank you, I guess.”

That’s all it takes for Mingyu’s defenses to flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. “You’re welcome,” he says, low. Then, because he can’t resist, he adds, “Next time, I’ll let the paparazzi have you. Just to balance the damn rumors.”

The Qatar desert sun leans heavy against the track, and Mingyu is sweating before he’s even in the car. The second-to-last race of the year, and he’s wound tight as suspension springs, desperate for a podium that keeps dangling out of. He doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep need to prove himself—maybe to the team, maybe to the sport, maybe to himself. Maybe all three.

He tries to focus. He really does. Helmet on, mind narrowing to the thousand moving parts of a race. Brake points. Tire temps. Strategy calls. Don’t think. Don’t drift. Just lock in.

But there’s whispers in the garage, the kind of background chatter he’s learned to ignore. Except this one snags his ear like a hook. Something about you. About you being here. About Williams, of all teams, deciding they’d much rather have you floating in their hospitality suite than pretending they’ve still got control of their season. He’s not even sure it’s true, but the rumor curls through the air, and suddenly it’s in his bloodstream.

Mingyu pretends not to care. 

He pretends really, really hard. The flutter in his chest betrays him, tapping against his ribs like it’s got its own engine. He clamps down on it, tells himself it doesn’t matter, tells himself he’s got work to do. He’s here for the car, the laps, the fight. Nothing else.

Except—if you are here, somewhere in the paddock, he can’t help but wonder. 

Would you be watching him? Would you be laughing at Williams’ gallows humor, or would you be looking for him on track? He’s not sure which answer makes his heart race faster.

Helmet visor down, lights above flickering red. Mingyu tells himself he’s chasing a podium. Somewhere in the mess of adrenaline and nerves, he knows he’s chasing something else, too.

Mingyu qualifies P7, which is not bad considering the Williams spends half its time threatening to explode. He tells himself a podium is still in reach—if strategy plays nice, if the car behaves, if the gods of motorsport are in a generous mood. He’s clinging to optimism like it’s oxygen, and it almost feels convincing.

Joshua, later, is leaning against the pit wall with arms crossed. The two of them are trading notes on tire wear when Joshua tilts his chin toward the paddock and says, casual as ever, “Your girlfriend’s here.”

Mingyu blinks. “Excuse me?”

Joshua doesn’t even look up from the tablet. “Your girlfriend. Over there. By the garage.”

For a beat, Mingyu thinks it’s a joke, the usual ribbing. But then Joshua’s expression doesn’t change, doesn’t even twitch with irony. He’s dead serious. Which means Joshua doesn’t think he’s teasing. Joshua actually believes it.

Mingyu groans, head tilting back. “Oh my God. Not you too.”

“Too?” Joshua finally glances over, eyebrows raised. “So you’re not denying it?”

“I—Joshua.” Mingyu levels him with the most exhausted look he can muster. “We’ve talked, like… three times.”

Joshua shrugs, unbothered. “Looks like more than that.”

Mingyu mutters something unprintable under his breath, already feeling the weight of inevitable defeat. If even his own teammate has crossed over into the conspiracy camp, then resistance is futile.

Sighing in the tone of a man trudging toward his own execution, Mingyu straightens his cap and makes his way toward the garage. He catches sight of you just where Joshua said, sunlight catching against your profile. Despite himself—despite the sheer ridiculousness of it all—he feels that stupid flutter in his chest again.

He clears his throat. “Hey.” Pause. “Apparently I’m obligated to greet my… uh, girlfriend.”

The word hangs there, dry as dust, but his goofy grin betrays him.

You’re leaning against the garage railing when he arrives, Williams blue catching the lights just right. It makes your skin look luminous, your eyes brighter, your whole presence impossible to ignore. Your shirt hangs loose but sharp, tucked just so, sleeves rolled like you know exactly what you’re doing. Hair pulled back neat, a few strands escaping like they’re in on some private joke. To Mingyu, you look like the team’s best-kept secret and a fashion campaign rolled into one.

“P7,” you say in greeting. “Impressive. I heard your radio, though—are you sure half of that wasn’t just dramatic improv?”

Mingyu puts a hand to his chest, scandalized. “That was high-quality communication. Shakespearean, almost. I was painting a picture of the car’s suffering.”

“Mm. Sounded like a soap opera,” you reply, amused. “Very moving, though.”

He narrows his eyes at you, but his grin gives him away. “You know what’s really moving? How much better you look in Williams blue. It’s offensive, actually. You’re making the rest of us look underdressed.”

You laugh, batting him away, but the flush in your cheeks is there. Mingyu, pleased with himself, settles beside you. You’re mid-sentence about the car’s performance when the joke in your tone suddenly sharpens into conviction.

“It’s not hopeless, you know,” you say, leaning forward a little, eyes alight. You’re not even looking at him; you’re eyeing the FW47 car. “Williams has the aero figured out in theory. They just need to optimize the mechanical grip and manage tire degradation better. If they get that balance right, you could be fighting solid midfield every weekend. Maybe higher.”

Mingyu stares. 

You’re animated, passionate, talking with your hands like you’re sketching blueprints out of air. He catches the curve of your mouth, the fire in your words, the way your voice lingers on possibility. He’s so caught up in the sight that it takes you arching a brow for him to realize his mouth is hanging open.

“What?” you ask. “You’re gaping.”

“Uh—” Mingyu’s brain short-circuits, and before he can stop himself: “You’re hot.”

Silence. His eyes go wide. “Wait, no, I mean—you’re smart. And hot. But also smart. Like, terrifyingly smart—”

Your cheeks are crimson now, but you’re laughing through it, hiding your face in your hand. Mingyu groans into his palms, wanting to melt into the garage floor. Somehow, though, when he risks a glance, you’re still smiling at him.

That evening, his hotel room is blessedly quiet. No engineers running simulations, no PR managers breathing down his neck, no Joshua pestering him with unsolicited advice about hydration. Just him, the glow of his phone, and the exhaustion settling deep in his bones.

He’s halfway through convincing himself to sleep when his screen lights up with a message from Minghao. One link, no explanation. The cryptic efficiency of someone who knows exactly how to ruin his peace.

Mingyu taps it. Regrets it immediately.

A post from paddock photographer Kym Illman. A candid, crisp shot from the garage earlier: you in Williams blue, laughing so hard you’ve gone pink-cheeked. Mingyu is right beside you, caught mid-smile, teeth on full display. The picture is practically weaponized charm, the kind of thing PR dreams of and Mingyu personally dreads.

The caption reads, Mingyu and his partner sharing a light moment in the garage. Williams bringing more than just fresh energy this weekend.

Mingyu groans into his pillow. Partner. Partner! He’s losing the war, one pixel at a time. The entire Internet is now a scrapbook of moments he can’t explain, strung together into a narrative he never signed off on.

He should be annoyed. He should be typing some half-hearted denial to Minghao right now. Instead, his thumb hovers over the image, holding it just long enough for the save option to appear. Because the photo—well. It’s good. And he likes the way you look with laughter spilling out of you, the way he looks like someone worth laughing with.

A part of him hopes it’ll double as a good luck charm. Spoiler alert: Sundays care very little about luck. 

Starting at P7 isn’t bad, Mingyu tells himself. In fact, P7 is great. P7 is ‘you can claw your way to the podium if you don’t blink’ territory. He repeats this as he straps in, as he flicks through his steering wheel settings, as he forces his breath steady. Williams isn’t exactly giving him Excalibur here, but he can still fight with a butter knife if he swings hard enough.

For a while, it even looks possible. He’s hanging on, toe-to-toe in the midfield, saving his tires like he’s babysitting toddlers hopped up on sugar. He’s patient, disciplined, calculating. The radio crackles with encouragement: “Nice work, Gyu. Keep this pace, we’ll have options.”

Mingyu believes him—until strategy decides to do the Macarena in traffic.

“Box, box, box,” comes the call, too late for an undercut, too early for an overcut. He emerges behind a train of cars that are slower than dial-up internet, and his entire plan unravels. “

Why did we pit there?” Mingyu demands. “Whose idea was this?! Are we trying to set a Guinness World Record for Most Time Wasted?”

The pit wall gives the vague, corporate answer. Mingyu groans. Fine. Reset. He can still recover.

And then it rains.

Not much, at first. A drizzle, the kind that makes you question your windshield wipers. But here, on slicks, it’s Russian roulette. “Rain on Sector 2,” his engineer says. “Copy?”

“Copy,” Mingyu mutters, then immediately fishtails. “Never mind, un-copy.”

His rear steps out in a slow, cinematic spin. Tokyo Drift but with zero style points. He pirouettes once, twice, kisses the runoff. Somehow, he avoids the wall. “Car’s fine, car’s fine,” he says quickly, like he can ward off damage with words alone.

The problem is, he’s lost chunks of time. The car won’t grip. He’s skidding through corners like a toddler on rollerblades. The radio comes in: “Box for inters?”

Mingyu sighs. “Sure,” he grits out. “Let’s just throw darts at a board at this point.”

The inters don’t save him. The track dries faster than his patience. He’s hemorrhaging positions. Every lap is another cut. “We’re losing pace,” his engineer says wryly.

“Thank you for the breaking news,” Mingyu shoots back. “Next you’ll tell me water is wet.”

The final straw comes when he spins again. This time, a lazy half-turn that stalls him dead. He tries to rejoin, but the gearbox protests, the engine coughs, and the car gives up. A stubborn mule in carbon fiber. Yellow flag. Out. 

He rips off his wheel, slams it down. The radio captures the wreckage of his mood, the flare of his temper: “Unbelievable. I swear, this car fucking hates me. Every weekend, it’s like, ‘How do we ruin Mingyu’s life today?’ Well, congrats! You nailed it! Ten out of fucking ten!”

Silence on the other end. Even PR can’t spin this one.

When the marshals push his car away, Mingyu leans back in his seat, helmet hiding his expression. He should be furious. He is furious. But underneath it all, he’s just tired. Tired of chasing podiums that slip like soap through his fingers. Tired of trying to wrestle miracles out of machinery that won’t cooperate.

The post-race gauntlet is merciless. Mingyu peels himself out of the car like a man molting out of regret, and it only gets worse from there. Cameras swarm. Microphones appear. The interviewers all carry the same tone—pity dipped in professionalism—as they circle around the elephant in the paddock.

“Unfortunate race today, Mingyu. Talk us through the spin?”

Talk us through the spin. As if he doesn’t replay it on loop every time he blinks. He pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach anywhere near his eyes and offers up the same canned lines: “Yeah, tough one. Strategy didn’t play out, rain caught us off-guard, car was tricky to handle. Happens in racing.” 

He knows he sounds like a Wikipedia page of excuses, but it’s either that or full meltdown live on Sky Sports.

By the time he’s herded into the Williams garage for the debrief, his nerves are frayed down to threads. The engineers argue over telemetry, strategists snipe over rain calls, and Mingyu sits there, nodding, calculating how many laps it would’ve taken to at least limp into points.

The salt in the wound? Minghao and Seokmin, beaming on the podium screens. Another champagne spray. Another trophy kiss. Mingyu tells himself he’s happy for them. He tells himself a lot of things. Deep down, jealousy coils tight, acidic, like he’s been made to clap for someone else’s birthday party when it was supposed to be his.

When the meeting finally dissolves, he slips out, jaw tight, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. That’s when someone steps in his path. He doesn’t even clock who it is before snapping, sharp and venomous: “What now?”

And then he sees.

It’s you.

You blink at him, startled but not retreating, your brows quirking. Mingyu’s stomach plummets. Fantastic. Just brilliant. He’s spent weeks trying to convince you he’s not a complete disaster of a human being, and here he is, barking at you like a cornered dog.

His voice comes out too fast, too eager to undo the damage: “Wait, sorry—God, I didn’t know it was you. I thought—you know what, doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have snapped at all.”

You don’t make it easy for him. You don’t make it hard, either. You just… take a seat. Mingyu follows suit. Against the garage wall, it’s just you and him on two ancient, folding chairs. There’s no pity in your eyes, no lecture in your tone. He’s so grateful it nearly undoes him.

Silence stretches, the kind that crackles like static. He braces for something clinical—strategy notes, soft condolences. Instead, you tilt your head and ask, entirely out of nowhere: “What’s your favorite color?”

Mingyu blinks. Of all the questions—“My… favorite color?” 

He sounds like you just asked for his PIN number. “Uh. Red. No—blue. No—wait, not like Williams blue, more like… the sky when it’s just about to storm. That kind of blue.” He hears himself ramble, and it horrifies him for a beat. You’ve gone and messed it up, boy. 

You only hum, thoughtful. And then you don’t say anything else. The silence settles again, which is somehow worse. After about a full minute of silence, you smirk. “You know, customarily,” you say, “when someone asks you a question like that, you’re supposed to return the favor.”

He jolts, eyes widening. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Uh—what’s your favorite…” His brain does a lottery spin of topics—movie? food? pet names?—and somehow lands on, “Circuit. Yeah. What’s your favorite circuit?”

That gets you to light up, as if you’ve been waiting all day for someone to ask. You launch into a passionate spiel about technical corners and elevation changes, about how Suzuka is poetry in geometry. Mingyu listens, trying not to gape like a tourist at the Louvre, but he’s certain his mouth does fall open somewhere between ‘cornering’ and ‘apex.’

He  stares at you for a second longer than he should, caught between admiration and amusement. Then he almost-smiles. “See, I was expecting like… Monaco. Because pretty. But no, you’re out here giving me a TED Talk.”

“Sorry for having taste,” you say, mock-prim. “Alright, your turn again. Favorite meal?”

“Easy. Ramen. Any kind. Preferably the kind I don’t cook myself.”

You laugh. “Convenient. Okay—favorite childhood cartoon?”

He groans like this is torture. “Do you realize this could define how you see me forever? Fine. Pokémon. Basic, I know, but Growlithe was my guy.”

“Predictable. I would’ve pegged you for a Dragon Ball kid.”

“Oh, I was,” he says, pointing at you. “But you only said one. See? I have integrity.”

The back-and-forth continues, questions traded like contraband in a classroom: least favorite subject in school, dream vacation spot, worst haircut. With each answer, the weight on Mingyu’s shoulders eases. Somewhere between your exaggerated gasp at his confession of once owning frosted tips and his genuine interest in your love of late-night beach walks, he realizes he’s smiling without forcing it.

For once, post-race, he isn’t counting what he’s lost. He’s cataloguing these tiny answers instead, tucking them away for when they might someday matter. If that day were to ever come at all. 

Eventually, the night winds down, and reality starts tugging you back toward your own obligations. Mingyu catches the shift in your body language before you even say it. You stand, brushing invisible lint off your outfit, and tell him you should go.

“Already?” he asks, trying to sound casual, like this doesn’t gut him just a little. “No dramatic farewell speech?”

You laugh and lean down to give him a quick hug, perfunctory at best. It barely counts. It’s more like a polite tap of shoulders than anything else. Mingyu blinks. Stares. Then, with a blooming grin that’s both incredulous and shameless, he says, “You know, for someone who’s supposedly my girlfriend, you’re really underselling it.”

Your eyes sparkle, the corner of your mouth quirking upward. “Oh? You want a better one?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to reply, but it doesn’t matter. Suddenly, you’re wrapping your arms around him properly. Fully. No half-measures, no polite shoulder-tap. Warmth, pressed close enough to fry every neuron in his brain. He goes statue-still, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat. For a terrifying second, he thinks he might actually forget how to function.

Instinct finally kicks in, and he hugs you back. Tentative at first, then firmer, anchoring himself like you’re the only stable point in a world that keeps tilting sideways. He could get used to this. Too easily.

You shift, about to pull away, but his voice escapes before he can stop it. Softer than he means to, vulnerable in a way he almost never allows himself: “Five more minutes.”

You freeze, then settle. He feels you smile against his shoulder.

“Five minutes,” you echo, teasing but warm, and Mingyu prays for time to go slower.

For once, everything actually goes Mingyu’s way.

It’s not perfect—he doesn’t leap onto the podium in a blaze of champagne glory—but it’s close. Close enough that he can taste it. Strategy is sharp. The car holds steady. He dices through midfield battles with a mix of sharp elbows and prayer, and when the checkered flag falls in Abu Dhabi, he’s crossing the line in P4. Four. Just shy of the podium. The kind of finish that makes your stomach twist with both pride and irritation, because how dare happiness arrive dressed as almost?

The radio crackles to life before he’s even cooled the car down. “P4, Mingyu! Amazing job. That’s points secured and top eight in the championship. What a season.” The voice from Williams is beaming, practically hugging him through the static.

He leans back in the cockpit, sweat stinging his eyes, and laughs. Half in disbelief, half in exhaustion. Top nine. He’s in the top ten of the driver standings. Something he wouldn’t have dared to scribble in the corner of his notebook a few years ago. Something that felt galaxies away when he first climbed into a car that could barely finish races without a prayer and duct tape.

“Thanks, guys,” he says into the mic, voice a little rough. “Really. Couldn’t have done it without you. Let’s keep building. I’ll be back next season stronger than ever.”

There’s a cheer on the other end of the radio. He closes his eyes for a second, the lights of Yas Marina still blazing around him, and lets himself feel it. Not a podium. Not yet. But damn close. Close enough to know he’s not dreaming anymore.

Mingyu is still humming with adrenaline, his race suit damp with sweat, when the microphones swarm again. Only this time, the air feels different—lighter, buoyed by the fact he’s just hauled a Williams across the line in P4. 

The first interviewer grins. “Mingyu, incredible finish today. You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled doesn’t even cover it. He rattles off something about the car being strong, the team executing perfectly, about how every pit stop felt like choreography, and the words actually sound like him, not a hostage video. He can feel himself grinning in a way that won’t peel off his face for days.

Then, inevitably, the pivot: “And we have to ask… there’s been a lot of talk about the support you’ve had this season, especially from someone seen often by your side. Care to comment?”

The universe clearly has a sense of humor. Mingyu knows who they mean. Of course he knows. He’d be blind not to. When he scans the garage edge, you’re not there. No quick eye roll, no sly smile, no subtle cue to help him dodge or play along. Just an empty space where you should be, and suddenly his chest aches more than his arms did wrestling the car through Turn 9.

He could dodge, like always. Crack a joke, laugh it off, turn the question into smoke. That’s the script. But he’s loose with joy, too full of something he can’t swallow back down. So, instead, he leans into the mic and says, “Honestly? I couldn’t have done it without her support. Through the highs, the lows, the complete disasters—she’s been there. So… yeah. I’m grateful. More than I can say.”

The crowd of reporters buzzes, hungry for more, but Mingyu only smiles, sharp and secretive. It feels good to give a bit, to let the truth slip through the cracks. It feels good to say your name and have it be associated with his. 

His PR team gives up for the season. After a week of frantic emails, ‘damage control’ meetings, and increasingly desperate drafts of public statements, they stop chasing him down hallways with their iPads. Mingyu stops pretending he’s going to answer them, too. At some point, it just isn’t worth the effort. The world seems to have decided what it wants to believe, and honestly? He’s too tired, too giddy from Abu Dhabi, to keep trying to redirect the narrative.

It’ll blow over, he tells himself. You’ll ignore it. Ghost the rumors into silence the way you do everything else you don’t want to dignify. He’s almost convinced himself when, the next day, he scrolls through Instagram and sees it.

Your story.

It’s grainy phone footage, taken by someone else in some sports bar miles and miles away from where he is. The audio is terrible, bass thumping, people yelling over each other. But there you are, unmistakably you, at the center of the chaos. Jumping up from your barstool when Mingyu’s Williams crosses the line P4, screaming like you’ve just witnessed a miracle. You clap your hands to your mouth, eyes bright, and laugh into your drink, glowing with secondhand victory.

Mingyu stares at his phone. Then he laughs. Loud, ridiculous, unguarded laughter that startles the poor Williams junior engineer walking past his hotel room door.

Without even thinking, he hits the reshare button. Adds a caption that’s half joke, half confession: Best cheerleader I could ask for. Even from across the world. 🩵

Two doors down, his PR person heaves out an exhausted sigh when she gets the Story notification.

The break kicks off the way all bad ideas start: with Minghao declaring, “What’s the point of being young, rich, and stupid if we don’t at least borrow Toto’s yacht?” and Seokmin immediately agreeing. Mingyu, who’s usually the voice of reason, somehow becomes the designated captain within the hour.

Now here they are, bobbing off the Sardinian coast like three very expensive criminals. The sun is ridiculous, the sea too blue to be taken seriously, and Mingyu is already rehearsing how he’ll explain this in court. (“Your honor, it was peer pressure. Also, Minghao had the keys.”)

They sprawl on deck chairs with sunglasses and cocktails that Minghao insists are ‘balanced,’ though Mingyu suspects they’re about 80% rum. Seokmin kicks his feet up and points his glass at Mingyu. “So. You and her.”

Mingyu groans. “No. Not this again.”

“Yes, this again,” Minghao says, far too pleased. “You’ve been dodging since Singapore. It’s getting embarrassing.”

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu insists, though even he doesn’t buy the dryness in his own tone. He sips his drink to hide it, though the concoction mostly just makes him cough.

Seokmin grins like a man who’s spotted blood in the water. “Bro, you reshared her Instagram story with a caption. A caption! That’s couple behavior.”

“Friends can write captions,” Mingyu says weakly.

“Not sweet ones,” Minghao counters, leaning back with all the serenity of a Bond villain on vacation. “You basically confessed.”

Mingyu tries to wave them off, to redirect, to point out the literal stolen yacht situation that seems way more pressing than his alleged love life. But they don’t budge. The teasing circles him like seagulls, relentless, pecking at every excuse.

Finally, he just throws his hands up. “Believe what you want. I’m not explaining myself anymore.”

Seokmin and Minghao exchange a look that says everything. The case is closed, the verdict unanimous. Mingyu is dating you. Mingyu does not get a say.

He stretches out on the deck, lets the sun burn his cheeks, and tells himself it’s easier this way. Besides, he thinks, half-smiling into his glass, there are worse people to be your alleged significant other. 

The yacht feels different once Minghao and Seokmin’s girlfriends arrive. Before, it was three idiots pretending they knew how to work a boat. Now, it’s candlelit dinners, more bottles of wine, laughter that rings across the water. It’s picturesque. Romantic. A setting from a movie poster.

Which is fine, really. Good for them. Great, even. But somewhere between the second glass of wine and Seokmin serenading his girlfriend with a Bruno Mars impression, Mingyu realizes he has become… the fifth wheel. The extra chair at a table for four. The stray sock in a neatly folded pair.

He tries to roll with it. He raises toasts, he laughs too loudly at Minghao’s jokes, he even helps refill glasses with all the grace of a man auditioning for ‘world’s most eligible bachelor.’ The longer the night goes, the clearer it becomes—this is Couple Island, and he’s accidentally booked himself a ticket.

Sometime after midnight, drunk and fed up, he makes his escape. Slips away from the warm glow of fairy lights and clinking cutlery, out onto the quieter deck where the sea hushes against the hull. His phone feels heavy in his pocket, reckless and inevitable. He doesn’t think twice. He just hits call.

The screen lights up, and after a few rings, your face appears. Half lit, eyes squinting, hair mussed from sleep. “Mingyu?” you murmur, voice low and scratchy. “Do you know what time it is here?”

“It’s morning, right? Perfect timing,” Mingyu grins, though it’s crooked and hazy. “You’re my breakfast call.”

You blink at him, unimpressed but too tired to argue. “You drunk?”

“Drunk on friendship,” he says, then groans, flopping onto a deck chair. “Okay, maybe also wine. But mostly on friendship. Terrible, terrible friendship.”

Your brows lift. “What happened?”

Mingyu presses the heel of his hand to his forehead as if he’s the world’s most tragic hero. “They brought their girlfriends. Minghao and Seokmin. Both of them,” he whines. “I’m the fifth wheel. Do you know what that’s like? To be the odd one out on a yacht? It’s humiliating. I’m like a decorative throw pillow. Nobody needs me, but I’m here.”

You laugh softly, trying to smother it in your sleeve, but he catches it. He narrows his eyes at the screen. “You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m not,” you say, still smiling. “I’m sympathizing.”

“You’re doing it very poorly.”

“Go back inside, Gyu. You’ll forget all about this in the morning.”

He sighs, dramatic as ever, tipping his head back to look at the stars. “Maybe. But right now, it feels like the saddest movie in the world. Mingyu: The Fifth Wheel. Nobody would buy a ticket.”

“I’d buy a ticket,” you say quietly, already slipping back toward sleep.

Mingyu is three drinks past good judgment. Sardinia is wasted on him; the stars are blurred, the sea hums like a lullaby, and yet the only thing he cares about is the faint glow of his phone screen. Specifically, the sleepy face blinking back at him from thousands of miles away.

“Do you know,” he keeps on going, slurring through it, “future scholars are going to study this moment.”

You voice is muffled by your pillow. “Scholars?”

“Yeah. Exhibit A: Minghao and Seokmin being disgustingly in love. Exhibit B: me. Alone. Tragic. Very Greek mythology of me.”

You huff something like a laugh, eyes already drooping again. He should stop. He should absolutely stop. But Mingyu’s mouth keeps going like it has its own steering wheel. “Also,” he says suddenly, as if it’s just occurred to him, “you look so pretty right now.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long. Then you’re fully burying half your face into the pillow, muffling something incoherent. Mingyu’s heart is tap-dancing in his chest. Smooth, genius. Real smooth.

He panics forward, babbling, “No, I mean, not just now. Like—always. But right now too. Like, imagine—imagine waking up next to you. First thing in the morning. And you’d be all—” He waves a hand, searching for words, “—soft and annoyed because I’m talking too much, and I’d bring you coffee, but probably spill it, and you’d forgive me because I’d look very apologetic while shirtless—”

“Stoppp,” you groan, but your voice is soft, too soft. He can see the pink creeping over your cheeks even with your phone’s dim light.

Mingyu hides his own face in his elbow, groaning like he can rewind the last thirty seconds of existence. “Oh my God, kill me. Forget I said any of that. I’m—this is—illegal content.”

You don’t answer. You’ve gone quiet, your breathing evening out, the screen wobbling as you sink deeper into your pillow. A small smile tugs at his mouth. He wants to keep going, to ramble until the sun comes up, but the night air is cool, the deck is comfortable, and his words finally slow into nonsense.

At some point, the phone slips to his chest. His eyes close. On your end, you’re already gone, dreaming. Two time zones apart, you fall asleep on the same call, the line still open, the quiet static of connection buzzing like a heartbeat.

Like an actual couple.

The day after, Mingyu wakes to the kind of heat that makes him wonder if he accidentally slept in the mouth of a volcano. His face is tight, his arms stinging, and when he tries to move, every muscle protests. He sits up on the yacht’s deck with a groan, phone dead beside him like a corpse at the scene of his bad decisions.

It takes a few hours—painkillers, aloe, two bottles of water, and locating a charger that isn’t claimed by Seokmin’s girlfriend—before his phone finally buzzes back to life. Mingyu stares at the black screen reflecting his fried expression, trying to remember how many regrettable things he said last night. He’s about 70% sure he called you pretty. He’s 100% sure he meant it.

His thumbs hover over the keyboard. He starts and deletes three drafts before settling on cowardly honesty:

|   min6yu_k: Hey

|   min6yu_k: Sorry about last night. And this morning. Also sorry in advance for every other time I’ve ever been alive. 

|   min6yu_k: I know we’re not really friends. So I won’t bother you anymore

|   min6yu_k: 🥺🥺🥺

It’s dramatic. It’s pitiful. It’s very him. He sighs, hits send, and tosses the phone aside, prepared to spend the rest of summer nursing his wounds, physical and otherwise. 

Except three dots appear. Then a reply.

|   yourusername: you can bother me whenever you want :) 

Mingyu blinks. Reads it twice. Three times. He grins so wide his sunburn protests, but he doesn’t care. Maybe he lost a layer of skin to the Sardinian sun, but he’s gained something else. Something a little reckless, a little ridiculous, and very possibly the best part of his summer. 

At first, Mingyu hovers over the message bar like it’s a detonator. He’s sober this time, which makes everything worse. No wine haze to blame, no excuses. Just him, his phone, and the awareness that if he presses send, there’s no rewinding.

When he finally does send a message, it’s a selfie of his sunburnt face. The caption: 

|   min6yu_k: Survived Sardinia. Barely. RIP skin.

You take three hours to reply—plenty of time for him to spiral, convince himself he’s made a career-ending mistake, and contemplate moving to the wilderness. Then your response lands: a blurry photo of your breakfast, and a jab at his own suffering. 

|   yourusername: sardinia? how original

|   yourusername: fork found in kitchen 🍽️

He laughs—out loud, alone in his kitchen—and that’s all it takes. The door cracks open. From then on, the rhythm builds. At first, hesitation lingers. Messages sent with too much caution, replies delayed on purpose so he doesn’t look overeager. 

Somewhere along the way, the choreography slips. He responds within minutes now, sometimes seconds, shamelessly glued to his phone like a teenager. He sends you photos: his ridiculous tan lines, the monstrosity of a protein shake he attempts, a cat he sees on the street that looks like it’s plotting global domination. You send back TikToks that make no sense at 3 a.m. but have him howling with laughter under his covers.

And then come the barbs, sharp but playful. You roast his selfies (“Your arm looks like it belongs to another species”), and he retaliates by mocking your taste in music. It should be embarrassing, how quickly it becomes a habit. This thread of chatter threading through his days, as constant as hydration reminders and training sessions.

But Mingyu’s not embarrassed. Not anymore. He just thinks, conspiratorially, that if this is what bothering each other looks like, he’s never been happier to be a nuisance.

This is where it gets him: 

Mingyu has known many flavors of doom in his life. Punctured tires, last-lap lock-ups, missed braking points. All of them humbling in their own way. None compare to this: two photos flashing across his phone, your face out of view, your body framed in mirror selfies, each dress daring him to choose.

|   yourusername: help me pick? 

It’s harmless, obviously. Mingyu stares for so long he forgets how to blink. His brain stutters, sputters, tries to buffer like a bad WiFi signal. He considers tossing the phone into the sea. Monaco’s harbor is right there. It’d be so easy.

Instead, he does the next worst thing: he runs. Actually runs. Down the promenade, past tourists with gelato and locals pretending not to be tourists. He jogs the length of Monaco like cardiovascular exercise will sweat the problem out of him, like he can outpace the way his pulse goes haywire at the thought of choosing which dress you’ll wear.

By the time he circles back to his apartment, lungs on fire, shirt damp, he forces himself to type something vaguely neutral: Red. Classic. Can’t go wrong. He even throws in an emoji, something safe, a thumbs up. Detached. Cool. The digital equivalent of sunglasses indoors.

Your reply comes minutes later. 

|   yourusername: perfect

|   yourusername: that’s what i was leaning towards. thanks, gyu ♥️

Casual. Effortless. Like you’ve just asked him for help carrying a grocery bag, not ripped open his ribcage and left his heart in the chat. And you’ve started calling him Gyu now, too? 

That’s the moment. The horrifying, crystalline moment where Mingyu realizes with the clarity of a man struck by lightning that he wants you. Not in the abstract, not as a punchline to his friends’ teasing, but in the messy, all-consuming, terrifying way that has him jogging laps around Monaco to keep from combusting.

But how is Mingyu supposed to want somebody he already supposedly has? 

He doesn’t even notice it happening at first—days swallowed by preseason meetings, simulator hours, sponsor shoots where he smiles so hard his cheeks twitch. He figures if he stays busy enough, the static in his chest will quiet down. If he puts a little space between himself and you, maybe the wanting will dull into something manageable. He tells himself it’s strategic distance. 

Except it isn’t, and it doesn’t help. He finds himself unlocking his phone mid-briefing, half-expecting a message that isn’t there. He laughs too loudly at jokes that aren’t funny, just to prove to himself he’s fine. He convinces himself that this is what focus looks like.

Then one day, it happens. A ping. A message. You. Mingyu doesn’t brace himself, doesn’t think. He opens it on instinct and immediately gets sucker punched in the gut.

|   yourusername: hi! you’re probably busy with training haha i hope u’re doing well

|   yourusername: (kinda miss u tbh 😮‍💨 is that stupid?) 

His brain bluescreens. Full system failure. He actually forgets how to breathe, like someone’s yanked the air out of the room. He’s not even sure what expression he’s making until he hears the sound of a door creak. Joshua, who had been mid-sentence about something sponsor-related, freezes in the doorway. His eyes widen, then narrow, then flick to the glowing phone in Mingyu’s hand.

“Uh-huh,” Joshua says slowly. Then—mercifully, wisely—he backs out of the room without another word.

Mingyu sinks into his chair, phone clutched to his chest. Strategic distance, he realizes, doesn’t stand a chance. He types out the fastest response he’s sent in days. 

|   min6yu_k: Hiii yes sorry training’s been a bitch but i’m doing ok how are you???????

|   min6yu_k: We’d have to be stupid together then 

|   min6yu_k: Because I miss you too 

The first race of the new season should not feel like this. Mingyu knows nerves—he’s lived on them since he was old enough to lace his own karting gloves—but this is different. This is not a pre-race tremor, not the usual itch of adrenaline waiting to be unspooled down a straight. This is worse. This is him, phone in hand, thumb hovering, debating whether calling you is the bravest or dumbest decision of his week.

He calls anyway.

The line rings once, twice, and then you pick up. “Hey, Gyu. What’s up?”

“Hey.” He clears his throat, already regretting everything. “So, uh… Albert Park.” Brilliant start. Shakespearean. “First race of the season.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “I’m aware. It’s in all the headlines.”

“Exactly.” He paces his hotel room, wearing a groove into the carpet. “And, um. I was thinking… maybe you could come. Not, like, as a Williams guest or whatever, because, y’know, branding and politics and boring stuff. I mean as my guest.” He emphasizes it in case you missed it. “Like—my guest. We could… go into the paddock together. Maybe grab a bite. Walk around.”

There’s a silence on your end, the kind that feels longer than it actually is. Mingyu stares at his reflection in the blackout window, mouthing the word idiot at himself just in case.

Finally, you say, skeptical, “You’re inviting me to the Australian Grand Prix as your date?”

He chokes. “Not—date! I mean—it could—if you—no. Just, y’know. Companionship. Human interaction. Totally platonic. Unless—” He squeezes his eyes shut. “You know what, I’ll stop talking now.”

You laugh softly, and he feels his chest loosen a fraction. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, letting the pause twist the knife for half a second before conceding, “I’ll come.”

Mingyu exhales so hard he nearly drops the phone. “Cool. Great. No pressure, obviously. Uhm, remember to wear sunscreen, okay? Albert Park sun is brutal. I’d know. I’m practically a walking cautionary tale.”

Another laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind, Gyu,” you say, almost shy, and Mingyu soundlessly fist pumps to himself. 

The nerves don’t go away, but they shift. No longer sharp and skittish; instead electric, buzzing. The kind that says he’s about to race for something more than points.

Mingyu tries to tell himself it’s just another Saturday. Just another quali. Just another morning of stretching out his nerves and trying not to combust before getting into the car. Except this time, he’s driving a very different kind of car. A rented SUV with tinted windows and three passengers, one of whom happens to be you.

He picks you up from your hotel, the street still teeming with Grand Prix weekend energy. You slip into the backseat, wedging yourself between his trainer and manager without complaint, like being sandwiched between two six-foot blocks of professionalism is the most natural thing in the world. Mingyu swears the interior shrinks the second you get in.

Your outfit. God help him, your outfit. Casual but sharp, put-together in a way that makes the Melbourne sun look underdressed. He risks a glance in the mirror and nearly rear-ends a taxi. Smooth.

“Uh,” he starts, already regretting it, “you look… very… event appropriate.”

A pause. The kind of pause that echoes. His trainer coughs into his fist. His manager looks out the window a little too intently.

You blink, mercifully amused, lips quirking. “Event appropriate, huh?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu insists, doubling down like a fucking idiot. “Like, if there was a… podium for outfits, you’d be P1. Easily. Dominant performance.”

That earns a snort from the trainer, barely smothered, and a muffled laugh from his manager. Mingyu resists the urge to eject himself from the driver’s seat mid-traffic. He grips the wheel tighter, muttering, “Ignore them. They’re not funny.”

You, gracious as ever, lean back against the seat, still smiling. “Thanks, Gyu. That’s sweet.”

Sweet. He’ll take sweet. Sweet is a win. Sweet is a miracle. Sweet is better than event appropriate.

Albert Park looks different when you’re seeing it through tinted windows and the flash of camera lenses bouncing off the glass. Mingyu knows the drill—he’s been doing this for years—but today the sight of the waiting crowd makes his pulse spike harder than any formation lap. Fans, media, the blur of microphones and glossy posters, all of it pressing in like a tide.

He tries to give you a heads-up, fumbling for some kind of warning. “Hey, so, outside’s gonna be… intense. Cameras. People yelling. Think, like, a K-pop concert but everyone’s taller.”

You just slide your sunglasses on with an ease that makes him question who’s supposed to be protecting whom. “Relax, Gyu. I’m an influencer,” you remind him delicately. “I’ve had strangers yell my username at me across a mall. I’ll survive.”

The car doors open, and it’s go time. His trainer gets out first, then his manager, then him. The noise surges instantly, like someone unmuted the world. Phones thrust forward, lenses clicking, fans screaming his name. He pastes on the practiced smile, the one that says approachable but not available, and starts the slow walk forward.

He’s half-hoping, half-dreading that you’ll be swallowed by the chaos. But no—you emerge behind him, cool as anything, taking two polite steps of distance. Sunglasses hiding your eyes, shoulders relaxed, expression unbothered. To the outside world, you look like any other VIP guest tagging along, but Mingyu knows better. He knows you’re choosing to walk in the slipstream, close enough to follow, distant enough not to feed the wolves.

He can’t help himself. Every few strides, he glances back over his shoulder. Quick checks, like he’s making sure his phone hasn’t fallen out of his pocket. Just to confirm you’re there. That you haven’t peeled away, decided it’s too much, vanished back into the car.

He slows down just enough to let you catch up, then gestures vaguely at your sunglasses. “Good choice,” he says, just low enough so that no one else can overhear. “Sun’s brutal.”

“I figured.” You tilt your head toward the clear Australian sky, unimpressed. “It’s literally daylight. Revolutionary concept.”

“Yeah, but Melbourne daylight is different,” Mingyu insists, as if he’s the leading authority on weather patterns. “Sneaky UV levels. They don’t warn you about it in the travel brochures.”

You give him a look over your shades. “Are you actually worried about me getting sunburnt at a racetrack?”

“Someone has to be,” he mutters, tugging you a half-step closer to the shade of a Williams banner. “Trust me, the cameras will make a whole slideshow if you’re peeling tomorrow.”

You laugh under your breath, which he pretends not to notice. Instead, he points toward the accreditation zone. “Security will scan your pass. Don’t let go of it, or they’ll treat you like you’re trying to break into Fort Knox.”

“Gyu,” you say patiently, “I’ll be fine. Really.” You gesture to the phone already in your hand, camera app open. “Worst case, I film content and go viral for being denied entry. Great engagement.”

“Please don’t make my paddock debut about you getting tackled by security.”

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. “I’ve survived worse than this. Go focus on your actual job.”

The reminder lands sharper than it should. His job. Right. Quali, telemetry, strategy. He’s supposed to be thinking about apexes and braking zones, not sunscreen and lanyards.

At the edge of the hospitality suite, he hesitates. You’ve already slipped into your influencer default. Phone angled, voice lilting into that effortless rhythm of someone who knows exactly how many seconds of banter an audience will tolerate. He should leave. He should. Instead, he hovers, trying to decide whether fussing one last time will make him look protective or pathetic.

You solve it for him by lowering your phone and arching a brow. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, superstar?”

Caught. He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I just… wanted to say, uh. I’ll see you later.”

And then he’s hugging you. Sort of. An awkward, halfway squeeze that’s more bump than embrace—one arm slung around you before he thinks better of it. It’s brief, barely long enough to register, but when he pulls back his ears are hot, and he hopes nobody got that on camera.

You don’t tease him for it. You smile like you’re in on the joke. “Good luck, Gyu,” you say. 

He nods, turns, walks away before he can second-guess the whole thing. He qualifies P12, and rolls up on Sunday with a note to himself that you’re somewhere, out there, watching. 

The thing about starting P12 is that expectations are mercifully low. You don’t need to be a miracle worker; you just need to keep the car in one piece, dodge midfield chaos, and maybe luck into a points finish if the racing gods are feeling charitable.

Mingyu knows this. He tells himself this as he rolls up to the grid, helmet heavy on his head, the whole world buzzing around him. P12. Respectable, manageable. Just stay out of trouble.

Naturally, trouble finds him by Turn 3.

There’s a tangle of cars ahead, two midfielders locking wheels like stubborn toddlers, and suddenly he’s threading through carbon fiber confetti, heart in his throat. One car spins, another skates across the runoff, and Mingyu darts left, then right, then somehow pops out the other side like a magician’s rabbit. P9.

“Nice job, Gyu,” his engineer crackles in his ear. “Keep it steady.”

Steady, sure. Except the field ahead is snarled in its own mess. Dirty air stacking cars like rush-hour traffic, everyone fighting over the same square foot of asphalt. Mingyu bides his time, lurking, waiting. He knows Williams didn’t give him a rocket ship, but it gave him something better today: clean air, if he can just grab it.

And then it happens. A bold dive here, a DRS overtake there, another spin he manages to skirt by a hair’s breadth. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s free.

No traffic. No turbulence. No rear wing to stare at.

Just open track.

Mingyu blinks at the empty stretch ahead like he’s hallucinating. “Uh,” he says into the radio, voice cracking in a way he prays the broadcast doesn’t catch, “is anyone gonna tell me why I’m… leading?”

“Confirmed,” his engineer replies, calm as if they haven’t just witnessed an exorcism of Williams’ last decade of pain. “You’re P1. Repeat, P1. Head down, focus.”

P1. He’s never heard those syllables in that order attached to his name. Not in Formula One. Not in a Williams. The last time this team led a lap, he was still in high school, scrolling highlights on a cracked phone screen. 2015. 

Now it’s him. Now it’s real.

The crowd’s roar swells as he flies past a grandstand, a wall of sound rattling his chest even through layers of fireproof and carbon fiber. He doesn’t dare glance, doesn’t dare blink, but he feels it. The weight of history, the disbelief in the air, the cameras that will replay this moment a thousand times over. Kim Mingyu, leading a lap in a fucking Williams. 

“P1, Gyu,” his engineer repeats, and this time it sounds a little less clinical, a little more awed. “You’re leading the race.”

Mingyu exhales through a laugh he can’t contain, giddy and sharp. “Yeah,” he says, conspiratorial even with the whole world listening, “no pressure or anything.”

He keeps driving.

For ten glorious laps, Mingyu lives in a universe where the Williams is the fastest thing on track. Ten laps of clean air, ten laps of watching the timing screens update with his number at the very top, ten laps of telling himself not to think about the fact that he’s leading a Formula One race. 

Of course, reality has mirrors. And in those mirrors, Minghao and Seokmin are getting larger. Orange and silver machines, jaws open, hungry. Friends off track, rivals on it.

“Maintain pace, Gyu,” his engineer says evenly, which is code for: try not to get eaten alive.

“I’d love to,” Mingyu replies, voice dry, “but I think they skipped breakfast.”

Still, he holds them. A lap, then another, then another. He can practically feel the disbelief radiating through the paddock. Williams leading. Him leading. A miracle stretched into double digits.

But miracles are greedy with fuel and merciless with tires. On lap 11, the call comes. “Box, Gyu. Box this lap.”

He doesn’t argue. He peels into the pitlane, heart pounding, knowing exactly what it means. The stop is slick. Sub-three seconds, one of Williams’ best in years. For a heartbeat, hope flares. Maybe, just maybe.

And then he’s back out, slotted into traffic, mirrors full, lead gone.

The world resumes its natural order.

By the time the checkered flag waves, Mingyu’s in P6. Respectable. Points on the board. Nothing headline-shattering. It feels like champagne anyway.

He unclips his belts, chest still buzzing. P6, and he’s grinning inside his helmet like a maniac. He knows what just happened. He knows what it felt like, ten laps in the sun after a decade of drought.

When the radio crackles with the engineer’s closing words—“P6, Gyu. Great job out there.”—he answers without thinking, giddy and conspiratorial, “Yeah. But did you see those ten laps?”

Because he did. And he’s not forgetting them anytime soon.

Helmet off, sweat dripping, heart still sprinting laps long after the checkered flag, Mingyu climbs out of the car in a haze of adrenaline. He waves at the crew, at the fans, at the blur of Williams blue around him, but none of it sticks. His gaze finds you instantly, like his eyes have been preprogrammed for it.

And before he can think, before he can second-guess, he’s moving.

You barely have time to set your phone aside before he’s got you in his arms. An adrenaline-fueled, lift-you-clear-off-the-ground hug. The world tilts with it, the paddock noise muffling under the rush of his heartbeat in his ears. You laugh into his shoulder, muffled, protesting just enough to save face, “Gyu, people are watching—”

As if the snap of cameras doesn’t remind him. As if the universe doesn’t immediately hand him a reality check in the form of fifty lenses clicking at once.

Right. His place. His job. His image. He puts you back down quickly, ears burning hot, and attempts a recovery maneuver as subtle as a spin into gravel. He offers his hand, plastering on a grin. “High five?”

You just stare at him for a beat, long enough for him to realize how stupid it sounds. Then you roll your eyes, the fond kind of exasperation that says you know exactly what he’s doing. One hand comes up, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that cuts through all the noise. You lean in and press a kiss to his cheek, right there, in full view of the paddock, the cameras, the world.

“Congratulations, Gyu,” you say softly, like it’s just the two of you anyway. “That was incredible.”

Mingyu’s mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again, but nothing remotely human comes out. Just static. Just overload. He can drive 300 kilometers an hour, but this? This he has no defense for.

Somewhere in the back of his scrambled thoughts, he realizes the headlines are already writing themselves. But, for once, he can’t bring himself to care.

“You have to break up with her.”

That’s how his PR opens the meeting. No good morning, no coffee, no gentle preamble. Nothing but a straight shot to the chest.

Mingyu blinks across the glossy conference table, helmet hair still damp from simulator practice. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You and her.” His PR gestures vaguely, like waving at a rumor in the air. “The influencer. It’s time to end it.”

“End… what?” Mingyu asks, baffled. “We’re not even—” He cuts himself off, because he knows exactly how this sounds. “I’ve said a hundred times we’re not dating.”

“Exactly.” His PR leans forward, earnest in that professional, bloodless way only PR managers can be. “Which makes this easy. If you’re not really together, then breaking up shouldn’t be a problem.”

Mingyu stares, slack-jawed. “You’re asking me to fake break up with someone I’m not dating. Just so what—people stop shipping us?”

“Not just shipping. Headlines. Trends. The narrative has shifted too far. You leading laps, finishing P6—that should’ve been the story of Melbourne. Instead, every outlet ran photos of her kissing your cheek. Four races in, and people are still asking about your ‘girlfriend’ instead of your cornering speed. We need the spotlight back on Williams.”

He drags a hand down his face, muttering, “Unbelievable.”

“Triple-header is coming,” PR presses on, relentless. “Europe is brutal with media. If we don’t redirect focus now, you’ll spend half your pressers answering personal questions. So we end it. Clean break. A short statement, mutual respect, wishing her well, etcetera. It’ll die down in a week.”

Mingyu tries—really tries—to keep his expression neutral. But the twitch in his jaw, the way his knee won’t stop bouncing, betrays him. He’s frustrated. No, worse than frustrated. Cornered. Like they’ve told him to DNF a race he hasn’t even started.

Finally, he exhales, sharp and disbelieving. “You make it sound so simple. Just—press release, problem solved. But you ever consider maybe it’s not that simple for me?”

His PR fixes him with that calm, unblinking stare. “Mingyu. This is Formula One. Nothing is ever simple. That’s why we manage the story before it manages you.”

Mingyu doesn’t have a quick, witty comeback to that. All he has is a knot in his chest, tightening as the word breakup echoes in his head. Something he was never in, something he doesn’t want, and yet somehow, they’re asking him to make it real.

The race around the corner is Suzuka. It’s a world away from the neon chaos of Melbourne or the glamour circus of Monaco. Perfect, Mingyu had thought. Lowkey. Easy. So, of course, it feels anything but.

He spots you, weaving through a cluster of tables on the restaurant’s outdoor patio. Even in the soft light, you stand out, easy and composed, the kind of presence that makes him sit up straighter without realizing. He tells himself to be cool, casual—no overthinking.

“You look…” He pauses, searching for a word that doesn’t sound like it was fed to him by a PR intern. “… phenomenal.”

Your lips curve into a smile, faintly amused. “Phenomenal, huh? Big word for a race car driver.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Mingyu shoots back, grin in place. “I usually stick to things like ‘fast’ and ‘turn left here.’”

The banter lands, but there’s a hitch in his chest that doesn’t ease. He pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sits across from you, and tries to remind himself this is supposed to be simple. Two friends, two meals, no cameras, no press statements hovering like storm clouds. You were here to watch a different series, and he was a couple of days early to his own race weekend. A convenient meet up. 

You glance at the menu, easy, unbothered, while Mingyu pretends not to study the way the lantern light catches in your hair. He wants to lean into it. The warmth, the normalcy, the way your presence steadies him more than any simulator lap ever could. But the conversation with his PR sits in the back of his mind like a weight he can’t shake.

He laughs at your joke about jet lag, compliments your choice of ramen, even teases you for documenting the steam curling off the bowls for your followers. Outwardly, he’s himself. Playful, a bit awkward, just enough charm to keep things light. Underneath, he’s split in two. Half of him is here, in this moment, soaking you in. The other half is already calculating headlines, imagining the fallout, wondering when the other shoe will drop.

You catch him zoning out once, chopsticks paused midair, and tilt your head. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” he says too quickly, pasting on a grin. “Just… carbs. Love carbs.”

You laugh, though it’s edged with a bit of certainty. Mingyu laughs too, because that’s easier than saying the truth. He wants to be fully here, fully with you, but there’s a part of him that can’t stop holding back. And it kills him a little, because if any place should’ve been easy, it should’ve been Suzuka.

It turns out the city has a dessert shop tucked into every side street. Crêpe stands with paper cones, ice cream parlors with flavors no European circuit would dare attempt. Mingyu follows your lead, ducking into the more secluded ones, the two of you slipping past fans like conspirators avoiding capture. Sunglasses, hoodies, baseball caps—it’s practically a spy movie, if spies cared this much about mochi.

He ends up with matcha soft serve, you with strawberry. You both settle into a park bench that looks like it was made for dates, not debriefs. For once, the air feels still.

It’s you who brings up Qatar. “Remember that weekend?” you ask, twirling your spoon in the air. “When you DNF’d and looked like you were ready to quit motorsport entirely?”

“Vividly,” Mingyu deadpans, licking a drip of ice cream before it melts down his hand. “Truly one of my career highlights.”

“You were sulking,” you continue, grin tugging at your lips, “so I asked you all those ridiculous scrapbook questions. Favorite color, dream vacation, bucket list stuff. You looked at me like I’d lost my mind.”

“You had lost your mind,” Mingyu insists, playful. “I’d just cooked my tires in Q1 and you wanted to know my favorite animal.”

“Still worked though,” you say lightly, biting into your cone. “You smiled. And I told you all about how Suzuka is my favorite circuit.”

Mingyu pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Why’d you do that, anyway?”

You glance at him, eyes reflecting the lantern glow. Your answer is simple, almost offhand, but it lands like a punch straight to his ribs. “Because I wanted you to just think of good things.”

He stares for a beat, throat suddenly tight. There’s a dozen clever replies he could make, a hundred quips to dodge the weight of it. None of them feel right. Not here, not now.

Instead, he does something braver. Wordlessly, he reaches out, fingers brushing against yours in the small space between. His pulse hammers as he waits, half-expecting you to pull away. You don’t. You blush, glance down, then shyly curl your hand into his. Soft, certain.

Neither of you says anything after that. You just sit there, eating ice cream in companionable silence, hands entwined under the lantern glow, letting Suzuka hold the words you’re not ready to say out loud.

The park is quiet, the lantern-lit street behind you fading into soft shadows. Mingyu leans back, still holding the ghost of your hand in his own, when it happens: the both of you speak at the same time. “I—” “We—”

“You first,” Mingyu says, quick, because he’s a gentleman—or because he’s stalling.

You hesitate. Then you take a breath and drop it like a guillotine. “We should… break up.”

For a second, Mingyu thinks he’s misheard. The cicadas are loud, the buzz in his ears louder. “Sorry,” he stutters, “what?”

“You know.” You look down at your lap, twisting the edge of your sleeve between your fingers. “Just… say we split. Make it official, so people stop talking about it.”

Mingyu heart skids. “Let me guess. My PR gremlins reached out to you.”

You shrug without meeting his eyes. “Something like that.”

That shrug shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but it does. You look small when you say it, like the words don’t belong in your mouth. And Mingyu hates it. Hates that this thing, whatever it is between you two, makes you sad instead of light.

He sits there, silent for a beat, staring out at the faint glow of the vending machines across the park. There’s a hundred arguments to make, loopholes to wriggle through. But none of them are what he wants to say.

So he settles on the simplest answer, voice steady even though his chest feels anything but: “No.”

The word hangs between you, clean and sharp, like a flag he’s just planted. No disclaimers, no half measures. Just no.

Your brows knit. “No?”

Mingyu sits up straighter, realizes he’s just lobbed a single syllable grenade into your lap, and now you’re staring at him like he owes you the full manual. Which, unfortunately, he does.

“Right. No,” he repeats, nodding too much. “As in, no, I’m not doing that. The fake breakup thing. Because—because—” His voice trips over itself. He groans, face tilting skyward for a moment. “God, why is this so hard to say?”

You wait. Patient, kind, which only makes it worse. 

“Look.” He exhales, and forces his eyes to meet yours. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not before I even get the chance to—” He falters. Then, softer: “—to have you properly.”

The last words tumble out in a rush, embarrassingly earnest. His ears burn, and he wants to bury himself under the park bench. Instead, he braces for impact. You’re staring at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between startled and touched. And then—unfairly, devastatingly—you blush. A soft pink spreading up your cheeks, visible even in the dismal park light.

Mingyu swallows, throat dry. “So, uh,” he adds, voice cracking around the edges, “your move.”

It feels a lot like waiting for a race to start, for that iconic lights out, and away we go to ring through the circuit. There’s a countdown in Mingyu’s head. Five, four, three, two—

“So…” you start, “how did your matcha ice cream taste?”

Mingyu balks. He’s halfway through processing the confession he just dumped on you, and now—ice cream reviews? “Uh. It was… cold? Sweet? A little bitter? Like, earthy?” He gestures vaguely, as if the right adjectives are hiding in the bushes behind you. “Honestly, it just tasted like… matcha.”

You press, lips twitching. “I mean, I want to try it for myself.”

He looks at the empty cup in his hand, then back at you, utterly lost. “But I, uh… finished it? Like… five minutes ago?” He lifts the cup to show it off, because clearly the evidence helps.

You laugh, the sound bubbling up like you can’t hold it in any longer. “Mingyu. I’m trying to ask if I can kiss you.”

Oh.

Oh. 

His entire brain hits the emergency brakes. Eyes wide, ears hot, neurons firing off fireworks. And then he sputters, grinning so wide it almost hurts. “You should’ve just asked that in the first place!”

Before you can roll your eyes again, he’s already leaning in, all eagerness and barely-contained giddiness, heart hammering so loud he swears you can hear it as his lips find yours.

His hands find your face almost instinctively, palms cupping your cheeks. You, ever contrary, slip your hands up to wrap around his wrists instead, grounding him. The contact sends a jolt straight through him, but he doesn’t dare move away.

You’re both terrible at this. Smiling too much, giggling in the middle of it, teeth and noses bumping just enough to make it ridiculous. And yet, Mingyu thinks it’s the best kiss of his life. He tastes sugar and laughter and the kind of lightness that makes the world spin softer. Something sweet, faintly tart, clings to your lips. It ruins him all over again.

When you finally pull back for air, he immediately chases after you, lips brushing clumsily, desperate. You catch your breath and tease, “Still not enough matcha flavor?”

Mingyu, breathless and pink-eared, blurts, “I’ll get you all the ice cream in the world if you just—” and cuts himself off by pulling you right back in, kissing you like it’s the only thing on the calendar that matters.

Monza smells like gasoline, nostalgia, and the kind of pressure Mingyu pretends doesn’t get to him. 

He tells the camera it’s just another race weekend, but in his head he knows Monza is still sacred. Straight lines, roaring history, the sort of track that makes or breaks legends. Which is why, naturally, he’s been paired for media duties with Minghao and Seokmin. Because fate likes to test him.

Minghao is being his usual infuriating self, answering a journalist’s question about tire management with a perfectly calm, perfectly vague “It depends,” while Seokmin leans into his mic and announces, “I plan on not crashing.” 

The room laughs. Mingyu groans. This is his life: carrying the weight of Monza while babysitting two men who find chaos funny.

They bounce off each other like badly behaved electrons, the press delighted, and Mingyu, despite himself, plays the straight man. “I’m surrounded by clowns,” he says, and sure enough the clowns grin.

But then—then—he sees you.

You’re not supposed to be here yet, but there you are, slipping into the paddock. Mingyu goes still, mic halfway to his mouth. His brain is gone, his mouth is gone, and he’s halfway out of his chair before he realizes he’s moving.

“Where are you going?” Seokmin calls after him, eyes wide with mischief. “Hey, it’s just a media session, not a wedding march!”

Minghao, not even looking up from his phone, adds, “Don’t trip over your feelings, Mingyu.”

Mingyu ignores both of them. He’s already weaving through cables and crew, long legs making embarrassingly quick work of the distance. He tells himself he’s walking, but the truth is closer to a jog. Maybe even a run. He doesn’t care. He’s got Monza waiting, he’s got pressure pressing down on him, but right now, he’s got you, and that eclipses everything else.

He doesn’t even pretend to slow down. He barrels straight into you with the kind of single‑minded determination he usually saves for turn one, sweeping you into a hug so tight it makes your feet leave the ground. The cameras click like machine gun fire, but for once, he doesn’t care. It’s you. Everything else can queue up and wait.

You melt into him, laughter bubbling as he rocks you side to side. When he finally loosens his hold, his gaze snags on your outfit—and that’s it, Mingyu’s gone.

“Wait—hold on—” He leans back just far enough to take you in properly. “Is that… is that a custom jersey?” His voice pitches up like he’s seeing fireworks. “Oh my God, it’s my number. And Williams. And cropped? Do you want me to die?”

You grin, tilting your chin so the light hits the printed ‘06’ stitched across you. “Figured I should dress for the occasion.”

Mingyu is instantly generous with his compliments, layering them one after the other like he’s stacking pit stop tires: “You look insane. Gorgeous. Unfair. Like—do you know how much trouble you’re about to get me in? People are going to riot.”

Before you can roll your eyes, he’s already attacking with kisses. Forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, quick pecks everywhere like he’s determined to leave no part of your face unclaimed. You try to push him off, laughing protests muffled between smacks of affection.

“Mingyu—stop—people are staring—”

“Let them stare,” he breathes between kisses, words warm against your skin. “They should know I’ve already won today.”

Eventually, you surrender, slumping into his arms with a sigh that’s equal parts exasperation and fondness. Somewhere off screen, his PR person is already probably having a heart attack. 

Mingyu has never been prouder of three hours spent sitting in a too-cold conference room surrounded by too many suits. Usually, PR meetings drag on with endless discussions about sponsor activations and social media angles, but that one? That one, he’ll happily put in his memoir someday. 

For three hours, he sat tall in his chair, chin lifted, repeating the same thing until the walls practically echoed with it: he was not breaking up with you. Not in private, not in public, not in any alternate universe.

The team tried everything—statistics about audience focus, graphs showing the attention curve, polite suggestions that Williams deserved the spotlight. He listened, nodded, smiled even, then shrugged and repeated it again: “I’m not doing it.” 

His PR lead had rubbed their temples. His manager threatened to ‘circle back.’ Mingyu just folded his arms and thought about Suzuka, about you laughing into his mouth with strawberry ice cream still sweet on your lips, and wondered how they ever thought he’d say yes.

He promised you he’d figure it out. That meeting was him fulfilling his promise. 

The climax came when James walked in, coffee in hand, eyebrow already raised at the tension in the room. Mingyu didn’t even wait. “I’m not breaking up with her,” he said, like a kid daring his parent to say no. 

James stared, sipped, then sighed like a man who has seen too much. “Fine,” James said, and just like that, the case was closed. 

Victory, thy name is Kim Mingyu.

And now, here he is in Monza, with you in his arms, reveling in the world’s biggest plot twist. The cameras might think they’re witnessing a PR disaster. Mingyu knows better. He thinks it’s a love story. He squeezes you tighter, grins against your hair, and calls you the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

Mingyu goes through his rituals. Left glove first, always. Then right. A tug on each strap to make sure they’re snug. 

He taps his helmet twice against his knee before handing it to his mechanic. Sips water. The same old checklist, muscle memory dressed up as superstition. This time, there’s a new addition.

He glances down at his phone, the lockscreen glowing back at him. A screenshot from that very first broadcast. Your name, your tag, bold and impossible to ignore: Partner of Kim Mingyu. Wrong back then. Right now. Better than right—deserved. He grins like an idiot every time he sees it, and now is no exception. The sight of it steadies him better than any pep talk could.

Then comes the walk to the grid. Mingyu does the usual handshakes, the usual half-hearted smiles for the cameras. But his mind isn’t only running laps this time. It flickers back to you, standing somewhere in the paddock with that jersey on, cheering him with a grin that’ll outshine the entire weekend. His girl, his girl, his girl. 

The moment his helmet clicks into place, the world changes. The crowd is still there, the cameras still there, Joshua still fiddling with his steering wheel two rows ahead. But to Mingyu, it’s silence. Pure, focused silence. You’ve already done your part, even if you’re not sitting in the cockpit beside him.

He slides into the car, straps pulled tight across his chest, the cockpit cocooning him. His visor lowers. His breath echoes back at him, steady, rhythmic. The grid fades to shapes, colors, blurred edges at the periphery of vision. All that’s left is the straight ahead—the red lights waiting to tell him when to leap.

Formation lap. Heat in the tires, brakes biting, the car alive under him. He lines up in P10. The lights blink on, one by one.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

For a second, nothing exists but his heartbeat—and a faint image of his lockscreen still burned into his vision.

And then the lights vanish, the world snaps back to deafening, and Mingyu launches. The car surges forward, and Monza welcomes him home.

Mingyu drives like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. In a way, he has. Not just for Monza. For you, too. For love and speed and calling wins as they come.

He’s precise. Every turn-in is sharp, every exit clean, every lap a mirror of the last. The car finally behaves, the balance perfect, as if it’s decided, for once, to stop fighting him and join in on the dream. The pit stops click like choreography, mechanics flawless, seconds shaved so cleanly it’s synonymous to fate. He glides back out without losing rhythm, and somewhere in the corner of his mind, he’s grinning at the absurdity: Williams, of all teams, putting on a masterclass.

He tells himself not to get ahead. Don’t count the laps, don’t think about the what-ifs. Except it’s impossible. Ten to go and he’s still there, clinging to the back of the train. Minghao up front, Seokmin directly in front of him, and then him—Williams blue streaking against the sea of silver and papaya. 

Eight laps. 

Six. 

His engineer’s voice is smooth, coaxing, but Mingyu can hear the edge in it, the tremor beneath the calm. “Keep it steady, Gyu. You’re right there. Bring it home.”

Bring it home. As if it’s that easy. As if he hasn’t been haunted by years of DNFs, slow cars, pit wall gambles that never paid off. As if this isn’t Monza, cathedral of speed, the place he’d sworn as a rookie he’d give anything just to finish well in. 

The tifosi are a blur of scarlet in the grandstands, flags whipping like fire, but somewhere among them, he imagines you. Hands clasped tight, heart pounding as hard as his. 

Four laps. 

He can’t tell if it’s sweat or tears fogging up his visor, but the corners blur for a second, heart jackhammering against his ribs. He laughs breathlessly, half a sob, as if the sound will keep him steady. 

Three laps. Two. 

Every instinct in his body screams to push harder, to gamble everything on one reckless dive. He could try and snap past Minghao, could maybe overtake Seokmin. For once, Mingyu doesn’t chase. He holds. He trusts. He feels the car answer him in kind, as though it knows, finally, what’s at stake.

Final lap. 

The world condenses into white lines and asphalt. Every braking point feels sacred, every throttle press an oath. Ascari rushes by like a memory he’ll never lose. Then Parabolica. Endless, swallowing him whole and spitting him back onto the straight. 

The checkered flag waves.

Kim Mingyu, Williams’ pride and joy, roars across the line in P3.

The radio explodes. Crying, shouting, voices tripping over each other in disbelief. Five years without a podium, and Williams finally has one. Mingyu finally has one. His engineer is yelling his name. Someone else is screaming numbers, lap times, statistics. He can’t speak, throat too tight, helmet pressing against his tears. The noise is unbearable, overwhelming, until something cuts through all of it.

Your voice. Trembling, wrecked, crying and laughing all at once: “Mingyu—”

Just his name, but it knocks the breath out of him harder than Eau Rouge ever did.

That’s it. That’s when the dam breaks. He’s laughing and crying at the same time, shoulders shaking in the cockpit, breath fogging his visor. He squeezes the wheel, Monza unfolding around him like a film reel he never thought he’d get to star in. The podium ceremony, the champagne, the photos—he’ll get to them eventually. But right now, all he can think about is you, you, you. 

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 DAY BEFORE PRESEASON TESTING  5.412KM | 57 LAPS

-

THE BAHRAIN SUN IS MERCILESS. You suppose it's fitting for the day. The paddock is filled with dry heat and tension, the sweat dripping down your spine as you stride across black pavement. Your polo sticks to your skin, making you irritable as everyone else who is buzzing with the energy of preseason testing. 

Five years of this hasn’t made you any less nervous. Five years of flights, jet lag, highs and lows, and watching Joshua both fail and win at Bahrain hasn’t made any part of the next few days easier. You try not to think about the list of media needs, the sponsorship requirements, the sheer amount of things Joshua is beholden to. 

It’s worth it, though. 

Jogging up the steps of the Pit Building, you nod to the dozens of other people that make things for the Mercedes team work. The dozens of people here pale in comparison to the hundreds involved in making sure Joshua’s car can start, much less make it over the finish line. 

You spot Wonwoo coming out of a media room and you quicken your pace. Wonwoo only oversees a single driver and you have no desire to see your brother’s teammate right now. You take the stairs to the second floor at a near sprint, hearing the familiar rumble of laughter behind you, chasing you around the corner to the hospitality suite where you find your brother.

Joshua is slumped in a seat, cap tugged low on his head. He fidgets with a water bottle between his hands, jaw locked tight. He senses you as you approach, the tension in his shoulders easing as he sits up a little straighter while you take the seat across from him.

“Don’t look so nervous,” you tease, trying to break the ice. He huffs and rolls his eyes as you pull a tablet from your satchel. “Not going to lie, it’s a pretty full afternoon.” 

“Great.”

“Lighten up. You’re getting paid to do it.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” 

Joshua leans back in his chair, tapping the corner of the bottle against his knee. He doesn’t say anything else, so you scroll through your notes and start reading aloud. Today, he’s got sponsor check-ins, media hits, content requests, track walk and team dinner. You know he’ll smile and charm his way through all of it, but it’ll drain him to do it. 

You’ve both been at this long enough to know the rhythm. Even when you were kids, you were always his manager, bossing him around, telling him when he needed to go to practice, reminding him to finish his homework. You’ve carried that role into adulthood, but above all, you're his sister first, and being his sister means choosing him over everything else.

Everyone else. 

You shove away the thought before it can distract you from the task at hand. Joshua leans back in his chair, glancing around the room before his gaze settles back on you. “What?” 

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “What what?”

“Say what you want to say. I can tell something’s bothering you.”

“Feels like it’s going to be a bad year.”

You frown. “You haven’t even run the car and you’re throwing in the towel?”

“No, I just have a vibe.” He pauses. “Feels like they’ve put more faith in him.”

You don’t have to ask who him is. Joshua only says him like that when he means Seungcheol. 

“They won’t do it out right,” Joshua continues, twisting the bottle cap. The plastic cracks and you have to resist the urge to snatch it out of his hands to get him to stop fidgeting. “But it’s pretty obvious.” 

You watch him quietly. You know he isn’t wrong. The press has already started sharpening the narrative between the Mercedes teammates ahead of the racing season. Seungcheol, the driver with the bite and the edge that can take Mercedes to another championship. Joshua, the reliable one who knows how to be a team player. 

The memory of Singapore looms in the back of your mind. When you look at Joshua, you know he remembers it too, the taste of the memory more bitter than others. Sharper and more painful, too. 

“We won’t let them,” you reply, shrugging. 

“Simple as that?”

“Simple as that. You’re their driver too. If we need to fucking remind them, we will.”

His mouth twitches. “I’d be fucked without you.”

“Definitely.” 

Joshua’s smile fades as he leans his head back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling. When he speaks again, it’s softer. “Remember when we thought driving together would be the dream? Feels like the worst fucking thing we could’ve done.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have an answer, because Joshua is right. Five years ago, Seungcheol and Joshua joining team Mercedes together was the dream. It was what all the money, hope, sweat and tears of your childhoods had been poured into. Countless hours of practicing, of racing, of being dragged around to watch him. To cheer him on. To give him advice. 

You’d been that for Seungcheol, too. Until Singapore. 

Sighing, you lean over and squeeze Joshua’s knee. “Let’s go. You have to do some TikToks, buddy.”

Outside, the sun hasn’t gotten any better. It’s an unrelenting, brutal reminder of the pressure cooker that is media day. The paddock buzzes with frenetic energy, full of reporters jostling for soundbites, cameras clicking, cameras in Joshua’s face, phones recording. You’re glued to Joshua’s side, tablet in hand, helping him navigate a relentless schedule of sponsor obligations, interviews, and content shoots. 

Joshua’s smile is as polished as ever. He’s always been the media’s darling, a handsome and charming racer who is polite and warm, even when he loses. His answers are rehearsed and perfect, but you catch the strain in his eyes, the way his fingers fidget with the hem of his polo. 

Breaking up a media scrum, you navigate him toward a meet-and-greet tent for sponsors. He shakes hands and poses for photos with executives decked out in team gear - some with tags still on it. Afterward, you drag him to another interview with a motorsport outlet where he dodges un-approved questions about team dynamics with a practiced laugh. 

“That’ll be all,” you cut in, your smile sharp. “Thanks for your time today.”

The reporter falters, opening his mouth to ask another question but Joshua is already moving, twisting the cap on his water bottle back and forth. “Thanks,” he mutters as you head out of the room. “This is why I drive cars. I hate this.” 

“If you want to drive cars-”

“I know,” he sighs, quoting your father. “You have to do the work.” 

The content team is waiting for you when you head back to the Pit Building. A sense of dread drops like a stone in your stomach, sinking into the very pit of you when you see the shape of Seungcheol. His back is to you, broad shoulders pulled tight in his team polo as he leans to see something on the social media manager's phone. Wonwoo is a few feet away on the phone, nodding with the device pressed to one ear, his finger pressed into the other. 

When Seungcheol turns, your chest tightens. He looks the same as he always does, though his hair has gotten longer. His dark brown hair is wavy today, a little damp with sweat. He bites his bottom lip as he listens to the instructions being given to him by the social media team, arms crossed over his chest.

You’re forced to look the other way. The ache there hasn’t dulled even after a year, and though you’ve prepared all offseason to deal with the frustration of seeing Joshua’s teammate, it still doesn’t prepare you for the stab between the ribs when he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s dark eyes go from inquisitive to guarded. You see the shift happen as you and Joshua approach. You feel yourself stiffen, the tension rippling from Joshua to you and onward. The social media girls notice the sudden silence and turn to see you, both of them grinning and greeting you to try and dispel any awkwardness.

It works in the professional sense. Joshua tilts his head to Sungcheol politely before turning to listen to what the girls are asking him to do. You don’t look at Seungcheol at all, drifting away and pulling out your tablet to stare at schedules and emails and documents. 

“You look sour.” You look up at the voice as Wonwoo pockets his phone. “The iPad do something to you?"

“No. Must have been the smell of your cologne.” 

He laughs. “Good to see you too.”

You hum but don’t reply. You don’t dislike Wonwoo. On the contrary, you think he’s an extraordinary manager with a lot of connections in Formula 1. But Wonwoo is team Seungcheol and Team Seungcheol is often anti Team Joshua, so Wonwoo gets your distaste by default. 

“How was your offseason?”

“Do you care?” You ask him while deleting spam emails.

“No, but it’s the polite thing to ask.”

“Spare me. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He laughs again. “I like you. Shame we can’t be friends.”

“Mhmm.” 

You and Wonwoo watch from afar as the social media team leads Joshua and Seungcheol through a series of content pieces. Watching them interact is strange. Joshua keeps his cap low, mouth twitching when he’s asked to stand closer to Sungcheol. The two of them shift, shoulders brushing just once before Joshua steps to the side. 

“They’ve gotten worse at this,” Wonwoo sighs, folding his arms. 

“Or better at making it awkward.”

“Good for the media, though.”

You glance up sharply at that. It’s always a game with Seungcheol’s camp, how the narrative bends and who gets painted in what light. Joshua has always been painted as the second, the fallback plan, the team player who is prioritized no matter how hard he tries. Bitter. Charming, but salty. 

“They’re supposed to be teammates, not headlines.”

“Naieve,” Wonwoo shoots back. Not rude, just matter of fact. “You know better than that. It’s never just about the race.”

The social media team wraps up and Joshua offers a clipped thank-you to the staff before heading toward you. He glances at Wonwoo and says nothing, brushing past you without stopping. His hand flicks your elbow as if to say let’s get the fuck out of here but you’re rooted to your spot when Seungcheol looks up. 

It’s fleeting, no more than a split second, but it feels like the Bahrain sun is scorching through you again. His expression doesn’t shift, still the cool, unreadable driver, but you know him. Know the twitch in his mouth is a tell, know that the flex in his jaw is him gritting his teeth. Angry. 

Wonwoo notices. “Still radioactive between you two, huh?”

Instead of answering, you pivot on your heel, following Joshua. He waits for you near the door. This is how it always is - Joshua goes. You follow. He waits. Your entire life has been the same pattern over and over again, but if you didn’t choose your brother, no one else would. 

It’s a burden you have no problem bearing. 

“You holding up?” You ask as you both jog down the steps into the heat of the late afternoon. 

“Barely. Just have to get through strategy.” 

You nod, checking the time. “I’ve got some sponsor calls while you’re in strategy. Team meeting after. You should have time to shower and get ready.” 

Joshua gives you a grateful look, the kind that reminds you why you do this, why you’ve always done this. He’s your brother, your responsibility, your constant. Even when both of your worlds have tipped over and over again. 

“You’ll be okay without me for a bit?”

You smirk. “I’ve been managing you for years. I think I can handle a couple of hours.” 

He lifts a hand to his head and gives you a two finger salute. You mimic the action, a little sign off you’ve had since you were kids. He heads to meet with the team for a strategy session as you head for his trailer, the sun baking the top of your head as you squint and hurry, desperate for air conditioning. 

Inside Joshua’s trailer, you sit on the couch and get to work. You have about a hundred emails worth of media inquiries, sponsorship questions, news articles and appointment requests, but you’re barely able to focus on any of them. Seungcheol’s gaze haunts you, even hidden away out of sight from the rest of the paddock. 

Five years ago it seemed like the culmination of a dream when Joshua and Seungcheol stepped into their Mercedes seats. It was something they’d wanted as kids when they were karting together. You’d been there by default, watching their races under flickering lights, falling asleep in the car on late-night drives to the next place, the three of you dead tired. 

You’d been a trio. Joshua, the steady river, the one who kept focus and calculated his moves. Seungcheol, the furious storm, all instinct and ego. And you, some sort of combination of the two of them, the one who tried - and failed - to keep them on track. 

Wonwoo was right. Press was always about more than the race. The media had loved the story of childhood best friends turned teammates, an illustrious fairy tale for an illustrious sport. You’d loved it too, watching two of your favorite people get to do what they’d worked so fucking hard for. 

Those dreams were for nothing. It had only taken five years to realize that. 

The weight of those years settle over you. You’ve spent half a decade managing Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that demands everything. You’ve watched him battle self-doubt, media scrutiny, and the shadow of a teammate who seems to thrive on chaos. 

You turn off the tablet, rubbing your temples. Tomorrow, practice begins. It’s the first bout of the fight, the first taste of what the season is going to be like. Knowing that Joshua already feels like the scales are tipped in Seungcheol’s favor gives you anxiety. There’s only two years left in Joshua’s Mercedes contract. 

He needs to win. 

Tomorrow, you hope he will. 

-

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 DAY 1 PRESEASON TESTING  5.412KM | 57 LAPS

The morning is sweltering. You can barely breathe in the air thick with heat. The low hum of engines warming up makes your teeth vibrate as you stand in the Mercedes garage, headset snug over your ears and very much out of the way as people in uniforms run around making final checks. 

Joshua’s radio crackles in your headset as he confirms comms with the pit wall. Your tablet is tucked under your arm, your focus entirely on the screens above that display telemetry data and live footage from the track. You don’t handle strategy - that’s for people far more equipped than you - but you’ve been watching Joshua race for years. 

The paddock is alive with the shouting of mechanics and engineers, media buzzing around the garages. You’re hyper-aware of your surroundings, trying to keep out of the way but also trying to avoid him. Seungcheol’s presence is a constant undercurrent in the garage, buzzing along your awareness like static. 

You spot him across the garage, conferring with his race engineer. His dark hair is still damp with sweat and your stomach twists. You force your eyes back up to the screens, trying to focus as your brother readies to run the car for practice.

Seungcheol’s first practice session of the team was perfect. You’re unsurprised. Mercedes has always had reliable cars, and Seungcheol is more than a reliable driver. He’s got an instinct rarely found in drivers his age and he’s competitive. Vicious, even. 

Practice starts and you tune out Seungcheol’s existence, entirely focused on Joshua’s car and the crackle of comms between him and the Pit Wall. Today isn’t a day for nerves exactly, but you feel them anyway, a mix of excitement and worry that the car won’t be ready mixing to make your stomach flip. 

Joshua completes his first few laps, the car looking sharp as he pushes through the corners. The telemetry shows a decent pace and you feel yourself relax. Joshua sounds relaxed, too. “Car feels solid so far. Bit of understeer in Turn Eight, but nothing major. 

One of the media managers walks by and gives you a tap hello. You smile at her - genuine - before turning back to the screen as Joshua paces ahead of his practice group. 

Just as he starts his seventh lap, Joshua’s voice comes through, frustrated. “Losing power. Engine’s cutting out.” 

You chew the inside of your cheek. The engineer’s voice is calm, but urgent, instructing Joshua to retire the car immediately and to get into the pit if it can. You squeeze your fists, sighing deeply as you watch him struggle toward the pitlane, trying to retire the car. 

This isn’t how you want to start the day. 

As Joshua’s car rolls into the garage, mechanics swarm him like a hive of bees, tools in hand. You stay back, letting them work as you pull the headset down. Joshua climbs out of the car, yanking off his helmet. His face is flushed, eyes dark with anger as he exchanges clipped words with the engineers. You catch his eye, offering a small nod of support, but he just shakes his head and heads toward his dressing room.

You let him. You know him well enough to feel when he needs support and when he needs to blow off steam. The last thing he wants right now is your empathy, so you linger among the whir of engines and the smell of burnt tires. 

“Hey.” You look up in surprise to see Seungcheol coming your way. It’s the first time he’s spoken to you directly in months. 

You cross your arms. “What do you need?”

“Just checking in. Tough break on the car.”

“Yeah. Tough break. Happens to him a lot.”

Seungcheol’s borrow furrows. He’s so beautiful up close. You hate that about him. It makes standing this close to him all the more vexing. No man - especially a rival - deserves silky long eyelashes and a perfectly rosey mouth. 

“I don’t control what happens to his car. You do know that right?”

“I know how cars work, Seungcheol.”

“Then why does it feel like you think it's my fault?”

You meet his gaze, your eyes hard. “Was there something you wanted, Seungcheol? I’m busy.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flash with something raw - hurt, maybe - but it’s gone so fast you think you might have imagined it. Seungcheol takes a step back, stiffening. He crosses his arms over his chest, closing himself off from you.

“Busy,” he echoes. He laughs without mirth. “Right. Always busy.” 

You say nothing. Seungcheol turns away, making a beeline for his own dressing room away from the eyes and away from you. Wonwoo crosses the garage and raises his brows as he follows Seungcheol’s stormy form down the hall. You watch them go, watching as Seungcheol rakes his hands through his hair, frustrated. 

It isn’t until they’re gone that you realize your heart is hammering. It's infuriating how easily Seungcheol throws you off, how he still manages to affect you with a single, clipped conversation. You’d hope not speaking to him over the last few months would dull the edge of his presence, but it seems like a stupid dream now. 

Stupid like all the other dreams you’ve had together. 

The voices of the mechanics pull you back to the present. They chatter about engine diagnostics, leaning over Joshua’s car. You sigh and turn on your heel, going in search of your brother. There’s work to do - there’s always work to do - and you need the work. Need the distraction. 

Need to think of anything but Seungcheol. 

The dressing room is tucked in the back of the garage down a narrow hall. You try not to think about the fact that Seungcheol’s is directly across the hall, ignoring the low pitch of his voice as you slip into Joshua’s room. The room is small and utilitarian, kept incredibly clean and orderly by the man sitting on the couch inside of it. 

Joshua’s still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and bunched around his waist. His helmet rests on the couch next to him, discarded like an afterthought. He leans back against the couch, hair sweaty and pushed off his head. He refuses to meet your gaze, knee bouncing up and down as he stairs at the TV in the corner instead where the practice run continues.

You sit in an armchair. “There’s still more practice days. It’s why we do this.”

“I know.”

“If you know then why are you pent up like a tiger in a cage?”

“Feels like I’m already playing catch up.”

The fluorescent light overhead buzzes faintly. You sigh and lean back in the chair, watching him. The light casts harsh shadows across his face, deepening the worry etched into the lines around his mouth. It’s the same look he’s had since you were kids, when a bad race would eat at him for hours. Back then, you’d drag him out for ice cream or make him laugh with a stupid joke. 

Now, the stakes are higher and you work for him. You’re his sister first, but sometimes being his manager is more important than being the kid he dragged around the karting track. 

“You’re not playing catchup,” you tell him firmly. “It’s day one, Josh. One bad session means fuck all. You cannot start the season thinking you’re already losing or I’m going to make you attend more therapy sessions.”

He huffs, but he nods. He finally looks at you and you see a little bit of the tension melt from him. “I know. Just feels like there’s always something new, you know?”

“Yes. One practice session isn’t going to change the fact that there’s always something. It’s not the first time your car has gone to shit. It won’t be the last.”

“Encouraging.” He smiles, but this time it’s real. “What would I do without you?”

“Suffer. Have shitty sponsorships. Do more weird ass TikToks, I don’t know.” He laughs and leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “I mean it, Josh. You can’t let the little things like this set you back. You’re way tougher than that.”

“You sound like dad.”

“Good. He was a smart dude.” You stand, gesturing at him. “Shower. You smell awful.”

Joshua laughs, a real one this time. “Yes, boss,” he jokes, mimicking your two-finger salute from earlier.

You step out of Joshua’s dressing room, the door clicking shut behind you. The muffled hum of the garage filters through the walls, the roar of cars going down the pitlane reaching you from here. You pause for a moment, leaning against the wall, the cool metal grounding you as you take a deep breath. The air smells like oil and rubber, familiar.

Keeping Joshua in the right headspace is hard. You’re his sister, his manager, his cheerleader, often his strategist, and sometimes, it feels like you’re stepping into the void left by your father. 

Your father would have known exactly what to say. He always had a way of cutting through the noise, of making Joshua believe he could outdrive anyone, even on his worst day. You try to channel that now, to summon the same conviction, but it’s hard. You’re not your dad. You’re not a larger-than-life figure who could command a room with a single look. You’re just you, juggling holes that don’t always fit together seamlessly.

It’s a strange kind of loneliness, the responsibility of knowing when to shift between sister, manager, pseudo-parent, friend. You’ve spent years building Joshua’s career, fighting for his place in a sport that chews up talent and spits it back out without a second thought.

Standing through him through every high and low hasn’t been easy, but it has been worth it. You’d do it again every time, you’d choose Joshua every time. You’ve chosen him even when it meant not choosing yourself because if not you, then who was going to do it? 

You push off the wall, straightening your shoulders as you head back toward the garage. There’s no time to dwell on it all - not today. Not with more work to be done, media to answer to, and a team meeting to get through. But not for the first time, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like just to be you - no roles, no responsibilities, just… you.

You file away the thought in the same folder as all those silly dreams of you, Seungcheol and Joshua taking on the world together.

-

ALBERT PARK CIRCUIT | 2022 SEASON OPENER  5.278KM | 58 LAPS

Albert Park Circuit is nothing but noise. The grandstands are packed with over a hundred thousand fans waving flags and chanting under the Australian sun, but it’s barely audible over the roar of engines and the hum of machinery and drills as cars pit before spilling back out into the lane to get back to the race.

The Mercedes garage hums with tension. Your eyes are fixed on the monitors above you, arms crossed as you watch the race. Lap times flash in green on one screen, and on the other, Joshua is closing in on Seungcheol in front of him, getting into an overtake position. 

“Push here,” the engineer tells Joshua, voice crackling over the radio.

“Heard.” 

It’s been a grueling race. Seungcheol and Joshua both started in the midfield after bad qualifying rounds the day before, but the two of them have managed to climb their way to first and second position, turning the race from a battle with other teams to a fight between teammates.

You hate this part. Joshua and Seungcheol have been competitive since you were kids, but the stakes have changed the game. Your palms begin to sweat as Joshua takes a turn fast and perfect, closing the gap between him and the race leader. 

“Clear to overtake,” the engineer says.

Joshua’s car shoots forward on the monitor. You hold your breath as he squeezes into the DRS zone, the nose of his car edging alongside Seungcheol’s as they tear down the straight. The garage holds its breath along with you, everyone going rigid as they dive into turn three, neither driver yielding. For a moment, it looks like Joshua has the overtake - but Seungcheol brakes late, tires spitting sparks as he defends the line and forces Joshua life.

You groan. You can’t help it as your head rolls back, watching Joshua lose his momentum. Unfortunately, you have to commend Seungcheol on his driving. He is nothing less than perfect as he holds Joshua off, defending his position until the checkered flag waves and they cross the line in a one-two punch, a double podium

The garage erupts in cheers but you don’t join them. Someone slaps your back and you smile, nodding and giving a thumbs up. You are happy - P2 is great. A double podium is even better. But you know Joshua wanted P1, and starting off in the wake of Seungcheol’s success for the second season in a row is hard. 

On the monitors, you watch Seungcheol climb from the cockpit of his car, yanking his helmet off. His smile is bright enough to put the afternoon sun to shame. Joshua parks just behind, slower to climb out, helmet still on.

Sighing, you pull the headset off and follow the PR team into the pit lane, swept in the tide of black uniforms and noise. Fans scream from the grandstands, flags whipping against the sky. Joshua offers Seuncheol a clap on the back as you approach, but when he pulls his helmet off, the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

Not the way it used to.

And then it happens.

Seungcheol spots you through the chaos. Still buzzing with adrenaline, he pushes past a cameraman and pulls you into his arm and lifts you, spinning you as he screams in delight. It’s instinctive, you realize. Dizzying. Elating.

He smells like sweat and fuel, his heartbeat slamming against your cheek where it’s pressed to his chest. For the smallest fraction of a second, you let him hold you there, arms caught halfway between pushing him off and holding on. Because his win is your win - it’s been like that for years. 

You push him away, giving him a look. He grins at you before jogging back over to Joshua’s side, waving to the fans while your world erupts into chaos of cameras, questioning glances and cleared throats. You ignore them in favor of getting back to your job, ducking to talk to the PR team for Joshua’s upcoming post-race media. 

Thankfully, you get through the podium ceremony without incident. You’re back to normal, refusing to think about the way Seungcheol stares at you from the podium or the way Joshua very specifically sprays Seungcheol in the face with champagne. Rivals first. Best friends second. 

By the time the ceremony is over and done with and you’re sitting in the hospitality suite doomscrolling on Twitter, wincing at every new post. 

Seungcheol wins P1 but tell me why he’s hugging his teammate’s SISTER  before anyone else  💀

Mercedes double podium ✅ Seungcheol + Joshua bromance ✅ Hug with Joshua’s sister ??? ✅ ???? 

Joshua finally back on the podium and all ppl can talk about is his teammate and his sister LMAO

Nahhh Seungcheol celebrating w his teammate’s sister is CRAZZZZYYY 😭

Joshua drops in the seat next to you. You flinch, dropping your phone and losing sight of all the insane things people are talking about online. You look at him and offer a forced, nervous smile. He raises his brow, leaning forward to pick up your phone. He glances at the screen as he does, frowning. 

“Seungcheol didn’t even hug Joshua first,” he reads out loud. “Straight to his sister? Be serious crying face emoji, crying face emoji, crying face emoji. Is this what you read online? 

“No!”

“I just know Joshua is losing his mind frrrr. What’s frrr?”

You snatch the phone back and look at it. “That says ‘f-r’ dumbass, not furrr. It means for real.”

“Well you for real, made things weird today, so who's the bigger dumbass?”

You deflate and slide down in your seat. “Me. P1 in the Dumbass Grand Prix.”

“Why is the internet more interested in you two than the fact Mercedes got a double podium?”

You shove your phone in your bag. “Because the internet is a dark and evil place. Plus, he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Joshua snorts. “Give me a break.”

Across the suite, Seungcheol is laughing with a group of engineers, champagne glass in hand, his eyes flicking toward you every so often like a thread you can’t untangle. You ignore it, despite the fact that every time you feel his eyes on you, your heart starts to race all over again.

The double podium feels a bit hollow. For Joshua, the headlines will sting. P2 is an excellent way to start the season - but it means Seungcheol already has an edge on him. Joshua hates when Seungcheol has the edge. For Seungcheol, it’s an immediate mark in the win column - something that he just expects. 

For you, it’s another fault line in an already damaged structure.

-

SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025 RACE DAY 307.47KM | 53 LAPS

Purple clouds swell in the distance, hanging low and angry over the Ise Bay. You eye them as you walk toward the media pen. The air tastes heavy with rain, wind pulling at strands of your hair. You quicken your steps, checking the time as you near the buzz of reporters and other media outlets. The hum of the crowd from the grandstands vibrates through you, the ruckus from the team garages carried on the wind. 

Your chest tightens as you enter the media pit. The air promises rain and rain changes everything. It reminds you of Singapore last year, and you want to do anything but think of Singapore last year, when the dam between Joshua and Seungcheol - and you and Seungcheol - had finally broken. 

Joshua breaks from his assigned media person and drifts toward you. He’s stoic as always on race day, giving you a nod and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. You’re both in business mode and you lead him to his scheduled media slots, cameras flashing and voices shouting. You steady him with a tap to the elbow before drifting to the side to observe. 

“Joshua,” the representative for Sky Sports starts, “We’re just three races into the season and it seems like Mercedes has taken to using you defensively. How do you feel about being asked to hold other teams back to protect your teammates' lead?”

For a moment, you think Joshua is going to bristle. He hates questions like this. But he smiles, polished and polite like he’s been practicing as he answers the question. “I don’t see it that way. Every driver protects position. That’s racing. If I’m in the lead, I expect Seungcheol to protect his position, which in turn protects mine.” 

The words are sharper than they sound. No one else seems to notice, but you do. The press laughs and moves on to the next question, but you see the edge in your brother's jaw, the tension set in his shoulders. 

It continues like that for a few more interviews. You can taste the static of distant storms in the air alongside a tension you can’t rid yourself of. You don’t like rainy races and Suzuka is a difficult track to race. Joshua is going to need his full focus to get through all of the fast corners, and he’s not going to be able to hesitate when driving today. He’s going to need to be equal parts confident and patient, but he needs to commit. 

Joshua is not as good at committing as Seungcheol is.

When the media scrum disperses, Joshua appears at your side. You walk side-by-side back outside, the sky darkening. You see him look at the impeding clouds swollen, with rain, see the tension tighten the corners of his mouth. He turns straight ahead, ignoring the storm, determined to not let it bother him. So you do the same, pushing ahead in silence, the thrum of pre-race energy shivering over the entire circuit. 

You part ways when you reach the garage. This is Joshua’s ritual now. You give him a hug and your standard two finger salute, and he returns it, giving you a smile that’s more confident than you feel before he vanishes for a physical therapy session ahead of climbing into his car. 

Instead of going into the garage, you head for the main building, needing the steady rhythm of work to distract you from the nerves. You spot Seungcheol walking toward you on his way to the garage and a tingle goes up your spine as his eyes meet yours. He slows his steps, waiting for you to do the same but you don’t, averting your eyes to charge ahead. 

“Really?”

You say nothing, ignoring the weight of his eyes on your back. You feel your hands shake but you can’t think about Seungcheol right now. There is no room for him on race day - any day, really - but you cannot let his constant attempts to speak to you disrupt your routine. Your rhythm. 

Having a steady cadence to race day is as important for you as it is your brother. While you’re not superstitious, there is a comfort in doing the same thing over and over on race days. And if you occasionally switch something up when Joshua’s race goes poorly - well. That’s between you and whatever higher power is watching. 

You exhale when you’re in the hospitality suite again. You find an unoccupied office space and get to work. When you’ve carved through most of your emails, several phone calls and a single brief virtual meeting, you pull out the stats and the logistics from Joshua’s qualifier yesterday.

He’s starting P3 today with Seungcheol at P1. You like his odds. As you flip through the paper, you try not to think about the potential for rain. It isn’t supposed to start until perhaps mid race, but you don’t want rain at all. It makes a race that much harder and when bad enough, suspends the race entirely. 

By race time, you’re back where you belong in the garage, headphones on and craning your neck to look up at the monitors. Wonwoo is standing next to you, his silence welcome. Neither of you speak today, the tension too high for a game of wit or to play frenemies. 

The race begins dry. You feel a sense of relief as the cars tear down the figure-eight layout. You watch as the driver in front of Joshua takes turn eight too wide and flies into the gravel, giving him an immediate advantage to keep on Seungcheol who is still in P1. 

“It’s going to start to rain,” the team engineer radios to Joshua. “Box for new tires.”

“Heard.”

Your nerves spike with every radio call. You watch as Joshua pits for a tire change, the team effortlessly getting him back out before losing too much ground. He easily retakes P2, catching back up to Seungcheol with newer tires, flying through the turns as they near Turn 1 again. 

“Push,” the engineer calls. “Overatke in Turn 1.” 

Your heart pounds for a few seconds and you hold your breath. As the two Mercedes come around Turn 1, Joshua overtakes, his newer tires giving him the advantage. You clap your hands together, bursting at the seams as the garage goes nuts at Joshua’s flawless maneuver. Seungcheol is still close, but he needs new tires. 

And then the rain starts on lap thirty-two. 

By lap forty the tarmac is wet and the cars are slipping. Mist sprays up from the tires as the cars slip along the turns. It’s not a full deluge, but already the track is ten times more dangerous. There’s only thirteen laps left though, and Joshua is pushing to win. 

“Fuck,” Joshua says over the radio. “Visibility is shit but I’m good.” 

“Copy. Stay out. Choi is on new tires and pushing hard - gap is 1.2 seconds. He’s fending off Kwon. Stay focused.”

“Heard.”

The rain intensifies, turning the track into chaos. Someone loses control and goes into the gravel at the back of the race, but there’s no debris and no safety car. You watch as water sheets off the asphalt, Joshua’s tires hydroplaning that send spray arching into the air. You grip your table, fingers trembling as he holds on to P1 - but it’s precarious. 

Every corner is a potential disaster, every straight a battle against the elements. The garage is like a pressure cooker, engineers barking updates from the pitwall through your headphones and the pitcrew leaning forward as Seungcheol fights for an overtake position as the laps wind down. 

You glance at Wonwoo beside you. His face is a mask of calculated calm, but his eyes are locked on the telemetry data, fingers drumming against his thigh. Seungcheol’s car is a predator now, slicing through the rain with fresh tires that give him the edge in grip. Joshua’s are older, degrading faster in the wet, rough track of Suzuka. 

He defends like a fortress. He brakes late into turns, blocking every line Seungcheol probes. You suck in a breath when Joshua weaves into Turn 1, his car twitching as he fights for traction. Seungcheol dives inside, but Joshuaq shuts the door, forcing his teammate wide. You exhale sharply, but it’s short lived.

“Let Choi through,” Joshua’s engineer says. “He’s on fresher tires - better chance to hold off Kwon.” 

Your stomach drops. The garage goes deathly quiet, all eyes flicking between the screens and the pit wall. Joshua’s response is immediate. “Fuck that. There’s four laps left.” 

“Hong, confirm. Team orders to swap positions.”

“No. He can fight for it.” 

Singapore comes back to you. It’s the same nightmare scenario, battle between teammates in the rain, a refusal to comply with team orders. You feel sick, chewing the inside of your cheek so hard that you taste blood as you watch Joshua defy orders.

“Stubborn idiot,” Wonwoo mutters, shaking his head. 

“Fuck off,” you snap. “It’s a bullshit ask.”

Wonwoo says nothing. Suzuka is a river of water as Joshua and Seungcheol start the final lap. Seungcheol is aggressive, positioning himself for the kill as they enter Turn 1 again. Joshua holds him off but you see how hard the fight is. All the while, Kwon Soonyoung keeps behind them in an orange McLaren, waiting for them to crash into one another and seize the opportunity. 

Seungcheol goes for it again Turn 3, feinting to the outside. Joshua blocks him out, but Seungcheol doesn’t back off. You can barely breath, your heart pounding as your world narrows to focus only on the monitors in front of you. Seungcheol goes for it again at Turn 8, shoving the nose of his car inside, wheels locking as he brakes late.

Time slows. You see it unfold in microseconds as Seungcheol’s car clips Hoshua’s rear wing, a spark of contact that sends Joshua spinning. His Mercedes aquaplanes across the track, slamming into the barriers with an explosion of carbon fiber and metal. Debris shoots outward on impact and the other cars on the field scatter to avoid impact. 

Terror claws up your throat as the garage turns into chaos. Your hands fly to your mouth as you watch, chest heaving. Mechanics are all standing on their feet and you hear Joshua’s engineer call for him over the radio. For a second, he doesn’t answer, just static. 

“I’m okay,” Joshua says. His voice is deadly calm. “Getting out of the car.” 

The cameras cut to Joshua as a team rushes to help him. His helmet is still on and he staggers when he gets out of the car. He’s upright, gesturing wildly with his hands. Even through the rain, you can see the fury on him as he stalks off down the track to head back to the garage. 

Seungcheol crosses the line under a red flag, claiming P1 by default. You don’t care. His victory tastes sour in your mouth. You tear off your headset, tossing it onto the seat behind you. You exit the garage, immediately drenched in rain as you jog toward the beacon of light that is the medical center. 

Joshua is the only patient inside, sitting on a cot and swinging his legs. His helmet is still dripping on the table behind him, his race suit soaked with rain and sweat. He looks up when he hears you, eyes burning and hands trembling as he grips the edge of the cot he’s sitting on. 

“Fucking shit head-”

“You’re okay, yeah?” He nods. A medical attendant comes over to run him through a short series of concussion protocol. When he’s cleared, you squeeze his arm. “It’s more important that you’re okay.” 

“Barley.” He looks at you, his anger morphing from anger to something raw. “It’s Singapore all over again. He could have fucking killed me.”

You don’t answer him because you don’t know what to say. He’s right. The team will be angry at the both, but ultimately it was drivers being drivers. It’s competitive. They’re stubborn. Joshua was ordered to let him overtake and he didn’t - Seungcheol wanted to win. 

Seungcheol would never intentionally hurt Joshua. You both know that. It doesn’t make the sting of the crash hurt any less, knowing that either of them will do what it takes to win. Once upon a time, they had that in common, fighting side-by-side. Now they’ve turned that ferocity on one another, the need to beat the other strong enough to make them clash like this over and over again. 

By the time you both leave the medical center, the podium ceremony is over. Seungcheol has collected his points and Joshua is finishing without any, dropping him in the standings behind Soonyoung for Team McLaren. 

Back in the garage, the air is electric. Joshua storms in and spots Seungcheol by his car, his race suit unzipped and tied around the waist. You don’t stop him, swallowing past the tension in your throat, fighting your instinct to play buffer, to keep them from fighting.

That isn’t your job anymore. 

“What the fuck was that?” Joshua yells, startling the entire garage. “You pushed me right off the fucking track.”

Seungcheol’s eyes flash. “You didn’t leave room! You always leave-”

“Fuck that, you know you’re in the wrong.”

“You were told to let me overtake-”

“I’m not your lapdog. You locked up, lost control, and took me out.” 

“Enough!” You flinch at the sound of Elias König shouting. The team principal for Mercedes rarely raises his voice, but he’s livid now, stalking toward the arguing men. He points to them both. “My office. Now.”

Both men scowl but comply. The garage is silent as they watch them go, steam practically coming off the both of them. Elias turns around to look at the garage, his gaze deadly enough to kill. Everyone jumps into action, going back to post-race duties before Elias stalks off after his drivers.

You like Elias, for the most part. A former high-powered corporate strategist from Frankfurt, he never dreamed of being involved in the world of motorsports. He’s made his reputation restructuring underperforming companies with surgical precision, and he’s done the same for Mercedes. 

Elias has always been polished and calm. He’s a deliberate man who leads with logic and discretion, empathetic but ruthless when he needs to be. The last time you heard him raise his voice was in Singapore. 

It’s hard to shake the memory of that race. 

“Your boy is going to be in trouble.” You look up at Wonwoo who sighs, tired. “He can’t keep ignoring strategy.”

“Fresher tires don't give Seungcheol a free pass to do what he wants,” you snap. “It was a bad strategy. There was no reason for them to ask for a position swap.”

“Long term strategy requires sacrifice.”

“Shut up, Wonwoo. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know anything. I’ve been in this world since I was five.”

Joshua and Seungcheol emerge from Elias’s office, faces dark like thunder. Neither speaks. Joshua brushes past you with a curt nod and you follow. You glance at Seungcheol a single time to see him looking at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. 

The silence is louder than any shouting, heavy with everything unsaid. 

-

SUZUKA CIRCUIT | 2025 POST RACE 307.47KM | 53 LAPS

Rain falls against the hotel windows. You stare out through the misty glass, unseeing. The hotel is one of those luxury hotels that focuses on the little details - rich carpets that are soft underfoot, careful designs in the tiled floors, exquisite art in the hallway. 

You can’t appreciate any of it right now. Japan always feels like a favorite in your long season of racing. You have memories here over the years: noodles at a tucked-away spot that Joshua insists on revisiting, walk throughs on the lantern-lit streets near the track, late nights spent drinking after a podium win. Japan feels less magical without Seungcheol, though, and neither one of you dared to mention it all evening.

Seungcheol. 

Even thinking his name makes something sour rise in your chest, equal parts fury and something else you try to ignore. You can still hear the crunch of the carbon fiber, see the sparks from the barrier as Joshua’s car slammed into it. For one terrible second, there had been that split second of silence on the comms and you thought - this is it. This is when it happens.

It’s always been your worst nightmare. Joshua does a dangerous job. He crashes all the time. But the memory of last year’s crash looms in your mind like an angry spirit you can’t get rid of, following you even to the most remote places. 

And now here you are again. Same rain. Same pit in your stomach. Same fight as last year in Singapore. 

Anger propels you out of your room and across the hushed corridor. You take the elevator up two floors. You know where his room is - Joshua had been complaining about it all weekend, annoyed at how close he was. Always too close - Elias’s doing, probably. 

Joshua isn’t in his room now, though. He’s downstairs with Soonyoung and Jeonghan, who despite being on different teams, have a positive relationship with your brother. 

Unlike the man on the other side of the door you pound your fist against. 

It opens quicker than you expect. Seungcheol fills the frame, shirtless and hair damp, sweat still cooling on his chest. He has sweats swung low on his hips, and a feminine voice drifts from the room. His eyes flick back before he slips into the hallway, shutting the door almost closed behind him. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand, voice harsh. “You could have killed him.”

His jaw tightens, but he’s maddeningly calm. “That’s a bit much. We crash all the time.”

“You didn’t have to overtake-”

“He refused orders. He wanted to race, and so did I. You have to leave room-”

“Fucking leaving room!” Your voice spikes, echoing down the corridor. You take a deep breath, trying to steady the rage coursing through you. His gaze pins you in place and you hate that the heat rises in your chest, the way it feels like shame and anger and something you refuse to name. “You didn’t have to. You know you didn’t have to. It was your ego.”

“Ego? You’re one to talk. You’ve been icing me out since Singapore.”

“This isn’t about Singapore.”

“It’s always about Singapore!” He shouts, finally raising his voice. He steps closer, the hallway suddenly too narrow, the air thick between you. “It always comes back to fucking Singapore.” 

Your hands are shaking, but you don’t back away. “He’s all I have left” you hiss. “And with the way you fucking treat him, it’s like you’re trying to take him away from me. Like winning is all that matters.”

The words land like a slap. He flinches, mouth opening and closing. Something falters in his expression and he softens for a second before he turns to stone again. That familiar, old ache blooms beneath your anger, heavy and relentless, the grief of what you once were to Seungcheol pressing into the cracks of his fight with Joshua.

It’s always like this. Seungcheol and Joshua fighting as the primary, your pain and struggle with Seungcheol secondary. 

You ignore it like you always do. “Joshua is all I have left,” you whisper, tired.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “You made sure of that, huh?”

Anger and hurt twists into something raw and ugly inside of you. You step back, shaking your head. “I can’t even look at you right now.”

He glares, but his voice is quieter. “You never do.” 

“Go back to whatever you were doing. We’re done here.”

“At least she looks at me.” 

The words hollow you out. They’re meant to hurt and they do, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. You turn, your steps too loud in the muffled carpeted corridor. Outside, the rain still hammers the windows, mimicking the storm inside of you as the elevator takes you back down to your floor. 

At least she looks at me. 

You don’t know how to tell him that if you do look at him, you won’t be able to stop. You’ll give in and let him win. 

Just like he always does.

-

ZANDVOORT CIRCUIT | 2020 POST-QUALIFYING 162.097KM | 37 LAPS

The hotel room smells faintly of takeout and a hint of motor oil, a reminder of the long day at the track. Joshua and Seungcheol - you by default, maybe - permanently smell like fuel and leather, a scent you know by instinct. You sit cross-legged on the floor, balancing styrofoam cartons of noodles and dumplings between you, Joshua and Seungcheol. 

Seungcheol is mid-story, animated as his hands fly through the air. “So then I looped the kart around the corner, hit the hale bale, and somehow ended up sliding into the marshmallow pit.”

“I remember that!” You laugh, clutching your stomach, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “Your mom was so pissed - you’d just gotten over a concussion!” 

For a fleeting moment, the world feels small and safe, like it did when the three of you were kids sneaking past curfews and running around hotels until your legs ached. You’re older now, still going from hotel to hotel as Seungcheol and Joshua chase pennants in Formula 2, but that gold halo of childhood seems far away from the hotel room floor in Zandvoort. 

Joshua nearly chokes on his noodles, his laughter erupting somewhere between a cough and wheeze. “Oh my god, that’s when she threatened to pull you out of karting!”

Seungcheol grins, unabashed. His eyes crinkle in a way that makes your heart flip. “Worth it. I still won the next race.”

He leans back on his hands, the movement pulling his T-shirt tight across his shoulder. You force your gaze back to the dumplings before he catches you staring, terrified that if he does, he’ll immediately start making fun of you for it.

For a moment, the world shrinks to the three of you on the floor, passing cartons and reflecting on your childhood. It doesn’t feel like you’re hopping from country to country, shoving online courses between races so you can keep up with Joshua and your dad. 

Your dad wanted you to attend university in earnest. You insisted that you belonged by his side. With him managing both Joshua and Seungcheol, someone needed to take care of him. Even now as the three of you share food, you know your dad is out on the phone with sponsors or strategizing something, leaving the three of  you to your own devices. 

It’s rare, these moments without his watchful eye. You savor the ease of it and the way you can just be yourself with Joshua and Seungcheol. No pressure. No expectations. 

You reach for a dumpling, chopsticks clumsy from laughing, and catch Joshua sneaking a sip from a can of an energy drink tucked behind his knee. Your eyes narrow. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be drinking those anymore!”

He freezes. “It’s just one!”

Seungcheol’s head snaps up and he grins. “Oh you’re done for.”

You lunch across the circle, snatching the can before Joshua can react. He yells and tries to snatch it back, but you press your hand to his forehead, pushing him away while Seungcheol chants, “Manager! Manager!” 

Joshua makes a dramatic dive for the can but Seungcheol tackles him back, both of them collapsing in a heap. “Traitor!” Joshua wails, flopping onto the floor with an exaggerated groan. “My own sister and my best friend, stabbing me in the back!”

You roll your eyes. “You’ll thank us when you don’t sleep all fucking night and start tweaking through Turn 1 tomorrow.”

All of you settle back onto the floor, the can hidden behind you. Seungcheol looks at you and his grin softens. He nudges your knee with his, a sideways smirk on his face. “Teamwork, huh?”

Seungcheol’s voice is light, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your stomach twist. You shrug, trying to play it cool, but you feel the heat creeping up your neck. 

You’ve had a crush on Seungcheol for what feels like forever - since the days he let you ride on the back of his kart, you think. You know he doesn’t feel the same - you’re just his best friend's kid sister who runs around the paddock behind them - and it makes it all the worse.

“Teamwork,” you agree. “Pass me the noodles.”

He chuckles, low and warm, and passes you the carton. The three of you settle into a comfortable quiet, the TV flickering behind you, casting you in a halo of blue light. Tomorrow’s race looms, but for now, it’s just you, Joshua and Seungcheol, the three of you united in your joint dream of getting them to Formula 1.

-

BAHRAIN INTERNATIONAL CIRCUIT | 2025 POST-RACE 5.412KM | 57 LAPS

Even without the sun, the Bahrain International Circuit is choked with heat. The air is still thick with the electric buzz of the race that sets your nerves on edge. The roar of the grandstands lingers, a feverish pulse that hasn’t died down since the checkered flag waves. Mercedes has wrapped with another double podium, but this time it’s Joshua stepping onto the first place podium, Seungcheol right next to him in second. 

It’s a riot of celebration around the stage. Mechanics clap one another on the back and everyone gives you a congratulatory hug as they pass you where you stand watching. Joshua’s smile is bright as he lifts a bottle of champagne and starts to spray it. Seungcheol does his part well enough, dousing Joshua in champagne and clapping him on the back. But you know him well enough - you see the tightness in his jaw, the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. 

P2 is good, but for Seungcheol, it’s never enough. Not when Joshua is standing on the top step next to him, doing better in the same car.

You make your way to the pit lane, weaving through the post-race chaos. The media swarm, cameras flashing, fans scream. Joshua’s already surrounded, answering questions with his easy charm, but you keep your distance, checking schedules and murmuring quietly with the PR team. You’re in manager mode, but your focus shifts when you feel him before you see him.

Seungcheol strides toward you, awareness prickling at the back of your neck as you turn to glance at him. His race suit is unzipped to his waist, hair still damp with sweat and champagne. He hesitates only for a second before he asks, “Can we talk?”

Your stomach twists, the memory of your fight in Suzuka still painful. “I’m busy,” you grit out, turning away.

“Wait, just-” He reaches out, not touching you but close enough to make you pause. “Can we please clear the air?” 

“This is not the place.”

Your voice is colder than you mean, but you’re right. There are too many cameras and wandering eyes here, and the press and fans alike love inventing theories about you and Seungcheol. They have your entire career. So you pivot, heaving toward the hospitality suite, your heart hammering.

He doesn’t follow, but you feel his eyes on your back. You push through the crowd, dodging reporters, your tablet a shield against the world. By the time you reach the suit, your hands are trembling. You hate how easily he unravels you, how one word from him can drag you back to all the places you’ve been, both good and bad. 

Joshua finds you waiting for him in the suite. He’s glowing, the win radiating off of him. His eyes narrow when he sees you, picking up on the tension you’re trying to hide behind a false smile. He sits down and slings an arm around your shoulders, squeezing.

“What’s with the face?” He teases. “I just won and you look like you’re going to fire someone.”

“Maybe I should.” He rolls his eyes. “Just a lot to do. You know how it is. But I’m glad you’re back on top.”

“Feels good, honestly. Don’t let him ruin the fun, yeah?” You start to protest and Joshua gives you a look. “Come on. It’s time to celebrate.” 

You laugh and let him pull you to your feet. “You’re insufferable when you win.”

“Honestly, so are you. Let’s go. I’m starving and I want more champagne.” 

You follow him, the weight of Seungcheol’s gaze fading with each step. You’ll think about it another time. 

Like you always do.

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2021 POST-PRACTICE 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

Sea salt clings to your skin, the scent of bougainvillea drifting in the air. The hum of the circuit still lingers in your ears as you follow Seungcheol up a narrow, cobbled street. Practice day is utter chaos - yachts gleaming in the harbor, paparazzi swarming, the glitz of Monte Carlo pressing in from every angle. You’re exhausted, but Seungcheol is moving with purpose, his hands brushing yours. So you follow. 

“Found this place last year,” he says as you walk. He gives you a grin that makes your heart stutter. “You’re going to love it.”

Seungcheol leads you to a cafe tucked between weathered stone buildings, its faded awning and tiny wooden chairs a world apart from the polished chrome of the paddock. You squeeze into a corner table, knees brushing under the cramped space. The proximity is stifling, sending a quiet thrill through you. 

Seungcheol’s dressed down, hair messy. He looks softer here, away from the track, his usual intensity tempered by the distance between the two of you and the world that keeps threatening to break you under pressure. It’s his first year in Formula 1, and you swear you’re ready to let this world break you already. 

“You look like you’re about to bolt,” Seungcheol teases, nudging your foot with his. 

“I’m fine,” you argue, unwilling to let him know how nervous he makes you. 

Even after all this time, he makes you nervous. It’s only gotten worse with age as he’s grown from a semi-lanky teenager into a broad-shoulder man. The weight of adulthood has changed things, and you swear his eyes linger on you longer than they used to. Perhaps it's your own silly dreaming.

The waiter sets down two small espressos on the table. Seungcheol leans back and sips his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. You laugh. “Not your thing?”

“Not when it tastes like motor oil.”

“Everything probably tastes like motor oil to you.”

When Seungcheol smiles, his eyes crinkle in that way that makes it hard to breathe. You feel like you’re tiptoeing around something, a secret neither one of you want to mention for fear of making it real. You’d think you were imagining it, but when his knee brushes yours and neither of you pulls away, you start to realize maybe it isn’t just you. 

“So,” Seungcheol says, stretching. “What happens when Joshua retires one day? Like, what would you do? I know you’re finishing school right now but are you going to work for your dad or what?”

You snort. “Joshua? Retire? He’d rather crash into every barrier. You know he’ll drive for as long as any team will sign him.” You swirl your espresso, not meeting his face as you think about his question. “I don’t know, though. I guess I’ve never thought about it. This is my life - him, dad - you. What else is there?”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment. His fingers tap on the table and you watch them. He has pretty hands. It’s a fact about him that you catalogue with all the other facts about Seungcheol, like the way you know his favorite flavor of soda is cherry, or the way he likes to listen to a specific playlist on race day, or the way he has a scar on the back of his neck from a crash as kids. 

“There’s more than this, you know.” He looks at you, eyes serious. “You could travel for fun. Study something that’s not online. Go be a big corporate baddie. What do you want?”

The question catches you off guard, his tone gentle but probing. You want to brush it off and make a joke, but the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible. Your chest tightens and you realize you don’t know the answer. Not really. You’ve spent so long being Joshua’s shadow, his support, that the idea of wanting something for yourself feels foreign.

“I…” You shake your head. “I guess I’d figure it out. Maybe I’d just follow you instead, huh?”

His lips twitch, a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Careful. I’d hold you to it.” 

Your breath hitches at the way he says it. His eyes are serious as they stare at you, something flickering there. The cafe feels smaller, the air heavier. You fight the urge to lean into it, to close the distance between you, but you don’t. Can’t. 

The waiter passes by and breaks the spell. You lean back in your seat as Seungcheol clears his throat, looking out at the street where tourists wander around. Finally he says, “You’d be good at anything. You’re smart as shit.” 

You roll your eyes but your cheeks burn. “I’ll make sure to put tough as shit on a resume.”

He laughs, loud and bright and the tension between you eases. It’s not entirely gone, still simmering under every glance. But you manage to finish your coffees, the conversation shifting to safer ground. 

Later, when you lie awake in your hotel room, you think back on his question: what do you want? You think of his knee against yours, the warmth of his smile and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. You think of the way he laughs and how he’s always so sure of himself. 

It occurs to you that the only thing you’ve ever wanted for yourself - truly, entirely wanted - is Seungcheol. And you have no idea what to do with that.

-

JEDDAH CORNICHE CIRCUIT | 2025 RACE DAY  308.45KM | 50 LAPS

Something about night races makes the world come alive. The Saudi Arabian night is sharp with the scent of fuel and asphalt, the grandstands pulsing with energy. Fans chant wildly as cars scream down the straights, their engines echoing off the concrete barriers as they race under the floodlights. 

You chew on your thumbnail, eyes fixed to the monitors. Joshua is chasing down Red Bull ahead, his pace relentless despite the punishing heat of the track. The race is halfway through, Joshua currently the only member of Mercedes in pole position as Seungcheol fights his way through the midfield from a bad starting position. 

Out of habit, you watch Seungcheol’s car. His speed starts to drop down on a straight and the garage groans, mechanics throwing their hands up in the air. It seems the engine trouble he had yesterday in qualifying has returned, his car crawling toward the pit lane as he’s instructed to retire the car. 

Your stomach sinks as you glance across the garage where Seungcheol’s crew is already scrambling. His car limps to the garage, mechanics swarming him like a beehive. He climbs out, yanking off his helmet with a scowl that could curdle milk. He exchanges clipped words with his engineer before stalking to the pitwall to talk to Elias. You turn back to the race, crossing your arms as you track Joshua’s movements. 

Seungcheol returns, his suit tied around his waist. You assume he’s going to his dressing room, but instead he drifts toward you. You stiffen when he stops beside you, sipping his water bottle. He doesn’t look at you, his hair sweaty and finger-raked back of his forehead. You haven’t spoken since brushing him off in Bahrain, but his presence is a steady weight.

Neither one of you says anything. Instead, you watch the race in silence, both of you with your arms crossed as you glance back and forth between telemetry data and the actual race. You focus on Joshua’s lap times, momentarily distracted when Seungcheol reaches for the headset someone brings him. His arm brushes yours as he leans to take it, the contact sending a jolt through you. You want to move, to put space between you, but you’re frozen to the spot until the contact breaks.

Seungcheol puts the headset on, watching Joshua’s race. Your arm is still buzzing where he brushed against you, so out of it that you nearly miss when he notes, “He’s pushing too hard in Turn 22.” You glance at him, but his eyes are on the screen. “He’s losing time in the exit. Needs to brake later.”

You hesitate. Your instinct is to snap at him, but the nostalgia kicks in, making you swallow past a riposte. “He’s managing the wear,” you say instead, voice hoarse. “Late breaking there risks locking up.”

Seungcheol huffs, but it’s not dismissive. It’s more like he’s thinking it over. “Maybe. But Lee has better traction off the corners. Josh has to match him there or his ass is grass.”

It’s weird. You used to have this kind of back-and-forth all the time. You nod though, adjusting your headset. “He just needs to close that gap for DRS.”

“Hope so.” 

You don’t talk a lot. You only make comments here and there, both of you falling into laser-like focus as Joshua closes the gap between him and Red Bull and gets the clear for DRS. He flies on the straight, jerking around Lee Chan, your entire garage clapping as Joshua pulls ahead. 

Seungcheol doesn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Standing next to him like this feels familiar. It’s the most you’ve spoken in months - not that you’ve given him the opportunity. You don’t know why you do now, other than you’re a sucker for nostalgia. You miss this - miss him - and the realization twists in your gut, sharp and unwelcome. 

You catch yourself stealing glances at him, at the way his jaw clenches when Joshua nails a corner, the way his fingers tap restlessly against his thigh. He’s still Seungcheol - intense and competitive. You hate how much you still notice.

Joshua holds off P1, fending off both McLaren and Red Bull as the checkered flag waves. You clap excitedly, a thrill going through you as the garage erupts into a mixture of relief and pride. You pull off your headset, glancing at Seungcheol. 

He pulls his headset off, eyeing you. “You still have an eye for strategy.”

“I’ll stick to management.”

He hums. Seungcheol turns to leave and hesitates. He lowers his voice, voice so soft you can barely hear him in the roar of the garage and the noise of the paddock. “I miss this. Talking to you. You.” His eyes are steady and your chest tightens, the ache of the past flaring up again. “I wish you’d let me be your friend again.”

Friend. 

It doesn’t feel like the right word. You and Seungcheol had been friends for years. Joshua had brought Seungcheol home with him after the first day of karting to find you playing video games and it had sealed your fate with the three of you. You’d been a unit ever since, three moons circling the same gravity: the dream that they’d be big someday. 

But you and Seungcheol had transcended that. Friends feels like where you started, but not where you ended. You don’t know what to call where you ended, friends but something more. Something almost. You remember the thrill of it, the longing you’d felt for years taking shape into something real and tangible.

And then Seungcheol had ruined it in Singapore. 

The ache of the memory makes you shut down again. It feels as raw now as it did almost a year ago and you pull your headphones off, tossing them onto a seat. Seungcheol watches you put the wall back up, the cool indifference sliding back into place where you’re safe from the memories of being friends - of being something more. 

You glance at the screen where Joshua is climbing out of his car. “I have to go.”

Seungcheol doesn’t stop you. The look on his face is resigned, as if to say I know. You pivot and head out. He doesn’t follow you, but you feel his gaze, heavy as ever until you’re out of sight. Your heart hammers, torn between the pull of what was and the pain of what is.

You hate how much you wish it could be again. 

-

SILVERSTONE CIRCUIT | 2022 POST-PRACTICE SIMULATION 306.198KM | 52 LAPS

It’s quiet at the factory. It feels strange to be here in season - usually being at headquarters only happens ahead of the season for events, business, branding shoots and meetings. Now, the hum of machinery and the faint glow of computer screens are the only signs of life. 

The simulation room is tucked away in a corner of the Mercedes facility, a high-tech cocoon where Joshua likes to chase perfection in a virtual world. He’s got a set up in his apartment too, but with the home team advantage for the race weekend he’s begged you to come with him to run simulations of the race again.

As if he doesn’t have this one memorized down to every groove in the track. 

It’s well past midnight as you trudged through the building, tablet heavy under your arm. Joshua is practically a zombie in front of you, chugging down water and trekking blearily to the exit. Tomorrow’s grand prix is looming, but he’s been pushing himself harder, desperate to keep up with his teammate in their second year with Mercedes. 

The very teammate that you catch in a separate simulation room. You glance through the glass window to see Seungcheol is still there, strapped in and hands gripping the steering wheel like he’s fighting for pole position. The screen in front of him flashes with the familiar curves of the Silverstone Circuit, the same curves and straights you and Joshua have been talking about all night. 

Joshua laughs. “He’s going to keep at it for hours. Maniac.”

You hum, noncommittal. Your feet slow until you stop at the door. Seungcheol’s focus is unrelenting, his posture rigid. “Go ahead,” you tell Joshua. “I’ll catch up. Someone needs to pull him out.”

Joshua raises a brow, but he’s too tired to argue. He gives you a two finger salute. “Don’t stay too long. If he won’t leave, just head out. You need sleep too.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Joshua leaves you standing near the glass. You stare at Seungcheol for a moment, watching the way each twitch of his hands is controlled. Deliberate. When the screen in front of him finishes his current session, you knock on the glass. 

Seungcheol’s head jerks up and he pauses the simulation. His face is flushed, sweat beading on his forehead. He looks at you, eyes heavy with exhaustion, but he gives you a tired smile and waves you in. He relaxes in the seat as you slip in and walk over.

“Didn’t expect you here this late,” he says, voice rough. “Josh here?”

“Just left. Begged me to come with him. Says he likes my strategy more than your own team.”

Seungcheol’s mouth turns. “You are pretty good.”

“Chasing lap times?”

“Always.”

“Maniac.”

“Says you. You’re here too, aren’t you?”

“Mmm.” You cross your arms over your chest, drinking in his features. Seungcheol is handsome as ever, even when the signs of exhaustion are all there. Dark circles under his eyes, dry lips, red eyes. “You’re pushing too hard, Cheol. You’re going to burn out.”

“You sound like your dad.”

“Rude.” You perch on the edge of a table in the room, swinging your legs.  “Hows it going, then?”

“Elias has been on me about consistency. I’m struggling with it. Plus, your brother sets the bar so fucking high. His lap times are almost perfect. Always.”

It’s true. Joshua’s lap times are scary consistent, proof of years worth of refined practice and talking over his drives time and time again. Joshua isn’t just perfect - he’s clinical. Logical. Refined. Not like Seungcheol who wins often, but is just as likely to face disaster or have to climb his way out of a bad qualifying position. 

“You’re doing fine,” you tell him softly. “P4 in quali today was solid. You’re not out of the race.”

He looks at you, his expression unreadable. There’s a flicker of something that makes your gut tighten and your breath quicken. “Doesn’t always feel like it. Feels like no matter how fast I go, it’s not good enough unless I finish first.” 

“Not good enough for who?”

“Anyone.”

The silence stretches between you. You watch as he takes a sip of water, Adam’s apple bobbing. You want to comfort him. You want to get up and cross the room, to run your fingers through his hair and tell him he’s doing fine - more than fine.

But you don’t. He’s your brother’s best friend and biggest rival, the single person in the world who understands what it’s like for both you and Joshua. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Seungcheol says eventually. He sighs and leans against the seat, slumping slightly. “It just feels… heavy, sometimes.”

“I know. I feel it sometimes. Different, but you know how it is. Joshua, too. I’m in your corner though, if it counts for anything.”

His eyes meet yours and for a moment, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air feels charged and full of something - promise, maybe. His gaze flickers down to your mouth so fast you think you imagine it. 

“It counts,” he says, voice soft. “It counts more than you know.”

-

MIAM INTERNATIONAL AUTODROME | 2025 POST-QUALIFYING 308.326KM | 57 LAPS

I wish you’d let me be your friend again.

The words play over and over in your head, looping like the cars around the circuit. You haven’t spoken to Seungcheol since - not that there’s been a chance - but you can’t stop thinking about how easy it had been in Saudi Arabia. How many times in your life had you sat next to him and ranted about strategy? Arguing positioning? Quipped back and forth? 

For a moment, it felt like your Formula 2 days again, pressed closed together while watching the cars that Seungcheol would inevitably end up in, both of you arguing about teams and strategy and just… being you. 

It haunts you. It always does. Most days you find yourself opening your mouth to say something to him before remembering it’s not like that anymore. That you’d cut him out of your life and slammed the door shut on any sort of a relationship. Sometimes, you walk into a hotel room, scrubbing your hair with a towel only to stop and swear you can smell his cologne again, lingering just beyond in a place you cannot reach.

Everyone talks about the death of relationships. But no one talks about the death of a what if. 

Once again, you shove down the thought. You have no time for mourning the past tonight, especially with the piss poor interview Seungcheol gave after securing P2 in qualifying. The memory of it is hot as the Miami pavement as you cross the neon-drenched street. Palm trees sway lazily against a cotton-candy sky, the last of the sun dying soaking the sky in color. 

Rows of waterfront venues line the street, each one of the high-end restaurants and beach clubs dotting the Miami River. Heat simmers in the air, the humidity sticking to your skin, balmy and irritating. You try not to let it irritate you, deciding that you want to enjoy Miami while you’re here. 

CASA NEOS thrums with lowkey energy as you enter. Fairy lights are draped over open-air cabanas, the water in the distance lapping gently against docks where you can see shiny speed boats and MasterCrafts bobbing alongside orange buoys. 

Servers carrying fresh seafood towers and grilled wagyu sliders rush by you as you duck into the private dining room where the buzz of voices draws you to Team Mercedes. The private dining room and then some is roped off for team dinner, your coworkers and everyone who makes anything tick in the garage spread out and enjoys a night of mingling before the race tomorrow. 

Team dinners out are rare. Usually formal team dinners happen in the hospitality suite, but Miami is one of the cities where Elias likes to make a show of it, bringing everyone together and rewarding them - within reason - for the season so far. 

Joshua raises his hand when he sees you. You nod and dart over to him, pausing to accept a sweating glass of margarita with a cute little umbrella in it as you go. You take a sip and make a face, forgetting how strong the drinks are in Miami. 

Honestly, you need a strong drink. A single look at your brother tells you he’s still just as angry as he was two hours ago, and the single beer he’s allowed himself to have hasn’t eased the frustration from hearing Seungcheol’s interview.

It was stupid. Even the PR team hadn’t liked his answer much, but Seungcheol has never been as polished in Joshua with the media. Seungcheol giving an interview about the push and pull between him and Joshua had been fine - every team deals with it. But Seungcheol calling it personal had awakened the online media circus again, reigniting the conspiracy theorists to work out what happened in team Mercedes that broke the friendship between two teammates. 

Like every other time fans online caught the tension between Joshua and Seungcheol, you were dragged into the thick of it. You’ve never been able to escape it fully - not since Joshua’s elevation to Formula 1 and your rise to the role of his manager after your dad’s passing. Mercedes die-hards have been calling you the atom bomb of Mercedes for years - the Yoko Ono of Mercedes. 

Joshua stabs his salad as you sit down next to him. “What did watercress ever do to you?”

He glares. “You know why I’m pissed.”

You nod. What should be a happy mood to be bonding with the team has been poisoned yet again. You sigh, reaching across the table to pluck a salad plate from the middle. Down the table, you see Seungcheol enjoying himself just fine, laughing at something one of the engineers says. He’s dressed in a casual linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tan arms, the buttons at the top of his shirt undone. 

When Seungcheol glances at you, you avert your eyes, turning your attention to one of the strategists next to you to engage her in conversation. She’s a few drinks in but nice, and you decide she’s better company than Joshua who is now nursing water with melting ice and a small cup of gelato that is melting faster than he can eat it. 

Halfway through dessert, your phone starts to ring. You sigh, realizing it’s a sponsor you owe a sign-off on a post to. Scooting your chair back, you dismiss yourself outside the venue. It’s night now, lights reflecting gloomily off the rippling black surface of the river, a mix of tropical music, drums and voices drifting from each restaurant on the dock.

You hold the phone to your ear, apologizing as you walk down one of the empty docks. In the distance, you can see the Jose Marti Park across the river. The hum of the city backtracks your conversation as you finish up your phone call, hanging up and pressing your finger to the bridge of your nose as though it could relieve the tension there from the long day.

Footsteps behind you draw your attention. You turn, expecting people returning to their boats. Instead, you find Seungcheol. He’s silhouetted in shadow, a soft glow to his face from the lights on the side of the boat. Your heart immediately lurches at the sight of him, followed instantly by anger. 

“Uh oh,” he says, stopping a few feet away. “You’ve got your mad face on.”

“Yeah I’ve got my fucking mad face on.”

The humor vanishes from his face. “What now?”

“What now? Your horrible media training is what.”

He rolls his eyes. “Are you seriously mad about the interview? I said nothing wrong. It’s no secret we’re competitive.”

“Whatever.” You move to walk past him but he steps in front of you. “Seungcheol, not now.”

“Not now. I’m busy. Not the right time. That’s all it ever is with you. I thought maybe we made a bit of progress in Saudi Arabia. I thought we were working on this-”

“There’s no this, Seungcheol. What is so confusing to you?” 

You stare at him, the words hanging in the humid air between you. The dock creeks softly under your feet, the gentle lap of the river against the pilings the only sound cutting through the sound from the restaurants.

All you can focus on is Seungcheol, standing there with his hands shoved in his pockets, his linen shirt rumpled and dark hair tousled by the breeze off the river. He’s too close - always too close. You can smell his cologne, woody and warm. It hits you like a punch to the gut, remembering the way the scent used to cling to your clothes after stolen moments in hotel rooms and quiet corners of the paddock. 

Before Singapore. 

Your heart twists as a familiar ache blooms in your chest. You miss him. You miss hearing his laugh, you miss the way he’d lean in close after long nights of travel, you miss his shoulder brushing yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You miss his late night talks in Formula 2, you miss dreaming big under fluorescent garage lights.

Missing him changes nothing. Not after the blowout from last year, not after the way Seungcheol’s ambition has rotted his friendship with your brother. Not after the way he dragged it being personal into the mix again, pulling you back into the chaos. 

You’re mad at him for stirring it all up again, for not letting the past stay buried. Mad at yourself for the way your pulse quickens looking at him, for the part of you that wants to throw caution to the wind and cross the dock and take what you want. 

But you can’t. You won’t. Joshua is your brother, and protecting him means keeping this door shut, no matter how much it kills you. 

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens like he sees right through you. Maybe he does. “What’s confusing,” he grits out. “Is that you’ve been shutting me out for months even though I’ve been trying. I’ve tried apologizing, reaching out - fucking begging you to talk about Singapore and you won’t let me.”

You cross your arms over your chest as the wind picks up. You feel a chill, both from his words and the wind. The sound of voices carry down the dock, but it’s just the two of you out here, night snapping with tension. 

“Because I don’t want you to, Seungcheol.” It’s a lie and you know it, but you continue, “I don’t want the apologies. I don't want to talk about it. Singapore happened. You and Joshua blew up. End of story.”

He steps closer, the dock’s wooden planks groaning under his weight. The soft glow from the boat light cast shadows over his face that sharpen his features, his full lips pressed into a thin line. “My friendship with your brother is separate from my relationship with you.”

“No. It isn’t. You told me to choose because you were incapable of separating me from your drama with him. So I did.”

“Oh yeah? So you’re over me, then? Just like that? You suddenly feel nothing anymore because me and your brother don’t have a friendship anymore? Bullshit.”

The words sting. You feel your throat constrict painfully, trying to swallow past a denial of your feelings but they get stuck. It isn’t nearly as simple as being over him. As if you haven’t spent nights staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment spent with him, every whispered conversion in the dim light of a Monaco hotel room. As if you didn’t ache for the what if life that Seungcheol always asked you about. 

You’re furious at him for pushing, for not letting you grieve the loss of him in silence - the silence that he forced when he tried to make you choose between him and family. But beneath the anger is the raw, unrelenting fucking want. The want for his touch, his voice, the way he made the chaos of your world feel steady. 

You shake your head. “Yes. I’m over you. Happy now?”

The lie tastes bitter in your mouth, and from the way his eyes darken, he knows it’s a lie. For a moment, the air between you stills. The sound of the lapping waves and the distant music fades, the world narrowing to just you and him on the dock.

Then he moves, closing the distance in a single stride. Seungcheol’s hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, and he pulls you in. His lips crash against yours, not gentle but desperate. Demanding. Like he’s been holding back for months and the dam has finally broken.

The kiss tastes like the whiskey he’d had at dinner. You gasp into his mouth, melting into the familiarity of it immediately. His free hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body searing through you. 

Everything tilts. You hear the pounding of your own heart as his mouth slides against yours, the rush of blood in your ears. The woody smell of him wraps around you, intoxicating. You clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting in the linen, though you don’t know if it’s to pull him closer or push him away.

Seungcheol pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, breath ragged. His eyes search yours, dark and stormy. “Tell me you don’t feel anything. Say it again. If you mean it, I’ll stop trying.”

You swallow, the words sticking. Your mouth tingles from the kiss and your heart screams in your chest. “I don’t feel anything.”

He lets out a harsh laugh. “I said to mean it, liar.”

He kisses you again, slower and deeper this time. His lips move gently against yours, teeth pulling at your bottom lip softly until you open up for him. He groans, his tongue sweeping in to taste the faint lime on your tongue from your margarita. 

Seungcheol is intoxicating. You remember the first time he kissed you, dizzying and hypnotic. It feels that way now as his hands roam, one hand pressing up your back to pull you closer, the other tracing the curve of your hip. 

When you break apart again, both of you are breathing hard. He lifts a hand to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Please let me apologize to you. Properly.” 

The neon lights from the waterfront are a smear of watercolor across the oil-slick surface of the river. His eyes are dark and searching, holding yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“Please,” he says again. “I’ve been trying for months. Singapore was a mess, I know. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should have never told you to choose between Josh and I.”

It hurts. You’re torn between the longing to let him back in and the fear of what it would mean. You miss him so much it's a physical ache, a hollow space that gnaws at you in quiet moments. But letting him apologize feels like stepping into quicksand, something you won’t be able to escape from. 

“I don’t know how,” you admit. Seungcheol’s face falls, the hope in his eyes dimming. He steps closer but you step back, breaking his hold. The dock feels unsteady beneath you. “I can’t. Not now.”

His hands fall to his sides, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The glow of the lights catch the tension in his jaw, hurt flashing in his eyes. He doesn’t push further, though. He just watches you, silent as ever as you turn, your heart hammering so loud it feels like the entire city can hear it. 

Your steps are near frantic as you hurry back toward CASA NEOAS, the lights and open-air cabanas a blur through the tears you refuse to let fall. The buzz of voices wash over you, drowning you as the sounds of laughter and your smiling coworkers greet you, completely at odds with the storm you’ve just escaped.

Inside, Joshua is still at the table, his interest in the dinner no better. His gaze flicks up to you when you reenter, eyebrows raising slily. You just shake your head and slide into your seat, reaching for a glass of water to chug it down. The glass is slick with condensation, the coolness of the water doing nothing to undo the heat of the dock moments ago.

You think nothing will. 

-

MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024 POST-QUALIFYING  306.143KM | 62 LAPS

Marina Bay Sands glows like a become, the Supertree Grove a distant silhouette against the night. It’s humid outside, the air clinging to your skin and making your clothes feel heavy. Seungcheol is standing outside on the sidewalk, focused on the phone in his hand. He’s dressed down, less like a Formula 1 superstar and more like the kid who used to steal your skittles. 

Stomach fluttering, you walk toward him, adjusting your shirt as it ruffles in the breeze. Seungcheol senses your presence, looking up from his phone. His eyes soften when he sees you, the smile he gives you threatening to do you in right there. No one else smiles at you the way Seungcheol does, which is why you’ve agreed to wander down here at his request.

“Dinner?” He asks, voice low. “Just us?”

You nod, heart kicking up a notch. “Lead the way.”

Seungcheol knows this place better than you do. It’s one of his favorite places to visit even when it’s not racing season. He takes you to a quiet restaurant tucked along the Singapore River, a place with open-air seating and lanterns strung across. The water reflects the lights in shimmering streaks of gold and red, the air heavy with chili crab and pandan leaves from nearby vendors. 

You settle into a corner table, letting Seungcheol order a spread of Hainanese chicken rice, satay skewers and tiger prawns. You sip a beer, tilting back in your seat to look at him. He looks tired but relaxed, leaning back in his chair to glance out at the river, eyes soft. 

“I could have done better today,” he says eventually, turning to you. “A little frustrating. Josh must be happy with pole position.”

You nod, treading carefully. The growing tension between them has you on edge, hating the way something dangerous has been simmering around the three of you all season. “You were half a second behind. That's nothing here. You’ll make it up tomorrow.”

He shrugs, but he doesn’t let it go. “Yeah. Hopefully tomorrow my own teammate doesn’t box me out again.”

“Cheol…”

“It’s frustrating. I don’t know how we went from living our dream together to barely being able to be in the same room.”

The weight of his words hangs in the air. You feel the familiar tug-of-war to stay loyal to Joshua but offer comfort to Seungcheol. It’s starting to feel like you can’t bridge the gap between them, but every piece of advice you offer them feels like a betrayal one way or the other.

“Maybe talk to him,” you offer. “The two of you are so fucking stubborn. Just talk.”

His eyes darken. “We’ve tried. You know how it goes.”

You want to tell him Joshua’s just protecting himself, that he’s scared of losing what he’s worked so hard for, that he’s carrying the weight of your dad’s legacy too. But saying that feels like crossing a line, like choosing Seungcheol over your brother.

Instead, you reach across the table, your fingers brushing his. “He’ll come around.”

Seungcheol’s hand turns, capturing yours, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. The touch sends a shiver up your arm, a reminder of how easily he unravels you. “Whatever. Let’s talk about something else.”

The dinner stretches on, the food growing cold as you talk—about dreams, about fears, about the what-ifs that feel too big to name. But the frustration lingers, a quiet undercurrent. You want to fix things for him and Joshua, to be the sister and the whatever you are to Seungcheol. But every solution feels like a compromise, and you hate it, the way you’re caught between two people you love, the way you can’t fully give yourself to either without betraying the other.

When you leave the restaurant, the Singapore night wraps around you, the air heavy with heat and the distant pulse of music from Clarke Quay. Seungcheol walks you back to the hotel, his hand brushing yours until he finally laces your fingers together. You smile, squeezing his hand back, feeling every callus and rough patch from years of driving. 

At the hotel entrance, he stops, turning you to face him. The neon glow from a nearby sign casts his face in shades of blue and pink, his eyes searching yours.

“I don’t care about the rest,” he murmurs. “Josh, the team - it’s secondary. I like this, though. Whatever this is. I like this with you.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, kissing you soft and sure, his lips warm and tasting faintly of the beer you shared. It’s slow and deliberate, his hands framing your face. The world falls away, the hum of Singapore fading until it’s just the two of you kissing in the shadow of the hotel. 

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling in the humid air. “See you tomorrow?” 

You nod and sneak a soft kiss to his lips again. He groans and tries to steal another but you dart away from him, your laughter trilling and manic as you skip back inside. You leave him standing there smiling at you, the crinkle of his eyes genuine. Real.

It’s not much longer until the season is over. You’ll wait until then to make it real, to fix the bullshit between your brother and Seungcheol. It’s what your father would do. 

You vow to do it too. 

-

MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT | 2024 RACE DAY 306.143KM | 62 LAPS

Heavy rain lashes the ground. You watch the screens with your arms crossed over your chest, heart hammering. The tepid air makes your team polo stick to you, turning the air in the garage heavy with tension and moisture. 

You don’t know why they haven’t called off the race. The rain makes the night race all the more difficult, the team radios crackling with barking orders as Joshua tries to maintain his position at the head of the race, Seungcheol right behind him. Seungcheol has fresher tires though, trying to fend off both McLaren’s as they round the last few laps of the race.

A single glance at the pitwall tells you how tense it is. You see Elias arguing with strategists, the engineers debating on how to keep both McLaren’s from passing on fresh tires and better grip. You’ve been here before, and you feel the sense of dread as Seungcheol closes in closer on Joshua just before the call comes through.

“Let Choi overtake. He’s on fresher tires. He has a better chance to hold the lead.”

Your fists clench at your sides, fury bubbling up hot and fast. The garage feels too small, the air too thick, as you stare at the monitors showing Joshua's car slicing through the deluge. He's been the team player, swallowing his pride, and now this?

“The fuck do you mean let him overtake? I fucking protected his lead the last two races guys. Get the fuck out of here with that.”

The garage falls quiet. Your heart races, a mix of pride and dread twisting in your gut. His race engineer asks him to let Seungcheol overtake again, but Joshua refuses, battling the slick road and the shit visibility while Seungcheol rides his ass, two orange McLarens not far behind. 

Seungcheol is a shadow in Joshua’s spray. You watch on the screens, breath held as Seungcheol dives for the inside at Turn 10, a risky move when it’s dry and near suicidal when it’s wet. His front wing clips Joshua’s rear tire and it’s all that needs to happen to send Joshua into the barrier.

Time slows. Joshua’s car hits the barrier in a spray of sparks and debris. Everyone in the garage shoots to their feet, hands on their head. You feel a cold tingle sweep over you, your entire body going numb with fear as you watch as red flags appear while your brother’s car goes up in flames, the rain doing nothing to put it out. 

Voices on the radio call his name as crews rush to get to him. The other cars on the track stop, the session halted amid the downpour and the disaster that is Joshua’s car. Your world narrows to a single point, hands pressing the headphones closer to your ears as your heart pounds, waiting for Joshua to answer. 

The pit wall feels like it’s closing in, the hum of rain on the roof and the wet tires screaming through the track melding into a single, unbearable pulse in your chest. Your stomach is in knots, fingers trembling as you grip your headphones. You can barely breathe, and every instinct in you screams at the impossibility of what just happened. 

Joshua’s car is mangled against the wall. You stare and stare and stare until finally, you see him helped out of the wrecked car. The visor on his helmet is cracked and he has to be helped to stay steady as he walks. You press a palm to your mouth, watching as tears sting your eyes in relief, anger, terror. You don’t even know. 

The race is called finished. Seungcheol wins by default, but it feels hollow. Drivers carefully start to return to the pit with winners instructed to the air near the podium. You wait in the garage alone, watching the team file out into the rain for a podium as Joshua is escorted to the medical tent. 

You don’t move. Can’t move. Everyone leaves you alone, staring at the screen and the replay of the destruction. Each time you see Seungcheol’s front wing clip Joshua’s car, you flinch. 

Joshua has been in tons of accidents. It comes with the territory. But you’ve never seen one like that, helmet cracked, care in flames. Worst of all, it had been an overtake attempt by his teammate. His best friend. 

Something sour twists in your stomach as you wait for your brother to come back from the medical bay. You finally peel the headphones from your ears, the sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof your only company. The garage seems eerily quiet with half the people out celebrating Seungcheol’s win with the other half waiting for pieces of Joshua’s car to be brought back. 

Anger buzzes beneath the surface. Seungcheol is competitive, but the reality of how dangerous he’s willing to play it sinks into you like a knife between the ribs. He was willing to risk a terrible overtake for something like that. You look at the pitwall where you see Elias already talking to an FIA representative. You’d be shocked if Seungcheol wasn’t given a penalty.

Joshua is trembling when he enters the garage. He’s alone, his helmet tucked under his arm. You see the fault line in it, heart flipping. You shoot to your feet and dart over to him, hesitating to make sure he’s okay before he nods and you hug him. 

“Fucking christ,” you mutter. “Are you alright?”

“Feels like every bone in my fucking body is broken. Surprisingly, it’s not. I’m under concussion protocol.” 

Relief floods you, sharp and fleeting, chased by rage. “Let’s go-”

“No.” You step back, wide eyed. “I want to see him when he comes back.”

“Josh-”

“No.”

The silence in the garage is heavy. You stand next to Joshua, trying not to fidget. His jaw is tight, eyes fixed on the entrance as he waits for the team to filter back in after the podium and media. You want to say something, to ease the tension coiling in the air, but words feel useless. Joshua’s trembling has stopped, replaced by a quiet, dangerous stillness that has you on edge.

You glance at the monitors. The podium ceremony is in muted colors under the rain. Seungcheol’s face flashes on screen but he doesn’t smile. It’s an awkward ceremony, no champagne sprays and dulled by the dramatic ending. 

Joshua watches too, his knuckles white around the helmet tucked under his arm. You know he’s replaying the crash too. 

Members of team Mercedes start to filter back in. You watch them with an impending sense of doom, several people stopping dead in their tracks when they see the look on Joshua’s face. No one says anything - not to you, not to him. This is something only the team principal can handle, and Elias is nowhere to be found yet. 

When Seungcheol enters, it’s like a bomb goes off. One second Joshua is next to you, the next he’s halfway across the garage, voice raced. “What the fuck was that, Choi?”

Choi. Not Seungcheol. Like they haven’t been on a first name basis with one another since they were in their teens. Joshua launches his helmet at the wall and the entire garage flinches as it cracks loudly against the metal. 

Seungcheol’s face hardens and he stops walking as Joshua approaches him. “I didn’t mean to hit you. It-”

“Fuck you!”

The garage feels smaller, the air electric with rage. Seungcheol throws his helmet onto a nearby table, the clatter echoing. “You think I wanted this? I was fighting for the win, same as you! You could’ve let me by like the team said-”

“Fuck the team!” Joshua shouts, stepping closer, his fists balled. “I’ve been playing your wingman for two races, Cheol. Two. I gave up my shot to protect you, and this is how you repay me? By putting me into the fucking wall?”

The argument explodes, their voices overlapping, each word a spark in a powder keg. You feel your pulse hammering, your hands shaking as you watch your brother and his best friend tear into each other. The other mechanics and engineers in the garage freeze, eyes darting between the two drivers.

You step forward just as Elias appears, shouting, “Enough! Both of you in my office now!”

“Fuck that,” Joshua spits.

You grab his arm, pulling lightly. “Josh-”

“Don’t,” Joshua warns, his voice low but sharp, his eyes flicking to you for a moment before returning to Seungcheol. “This is between us.”

Seungcheol’s gaze shifts to you, and something in his expression darkens. His voice drops, cold and deliberate. “No, it’s not just between us. She inserts herself every time. So choose, right now. Me or him?”

Your heart nearly stops. Your palms are slick with sweat, everyone silent. “I- what?”

“Choose,” he seethes. “You can’t play peacekeeper anymore. Choose.”

The garage is deathly silent, the weight of his words suffocating. “Seungcheol, there is no choosing, I’m not a -”

“So you choose Joshua. You always do. That’s fine. The two of you can make me the bad guy, but I’m done with your fucking family.”

The words slice through you, sharp and cruel. Your vision blurs with tears, but the rage surges forward, unstoppable. “What is wrong with you? Is that how bad you want to fucking win?”

“The two of you always make me the bad guy. It’s my fault Joshua refused team orders, it’s my fault he didn’t win, it’s my fault he’s mad, I should say sorry, I should be more reasonable. You two are birds of a fucking feather.”

It feels like you’ve been slapped. You take a step back from him, staring. It feels like he’s a total stranger. Seungcheol has never spoken this way to you before, never voiced that he felt like you were ganging up on him. You immediately feel defensive because Seungcheol is often the aggressor in arguments, he is the one who goes for the throat. 

And yet you say nothing. You stare and stare and stare at the man who just the night before, was telling you all of the nonsense didn’t matter. That you were important. That he wanted to make sure he kept you around. And how he’s telling you to choose as though its some sort of fucking powerplay and he can overtake Joshua again by taking his sister.

You turn away from Seungcheol, avoiding your brother's gaze but stepping toward him for protection like when you were kids, seeking his comfort. Seungcheol swears, scoffing, but he doesn’t say another word. 

Joshua grabs your arm, his grip tight but grounding. “Let’s go. He’s not worth our time.”

The cold air hits your face as you step into the downpour, but it does nothing to cool the anger burning in your chest. Joshua’s hand stays on your arm, a silent anchor, as you both head toward out, leaving Seungcheol behind. 

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025 THREE DAYS UNTIL QUALIFYING. 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

Sunlight bends off the pastel shutters and brass balconies of Monte Carlo. The faint tang of the Mediterranean lifts on the breeze, carrying the sweet scent of bouganvillea. You’ve been in Monaco all week, using the excuse of early meetings and sponsor prep to linger here longer.

The truth is simpler: you’ve needed the quiet. Needed the soft press of books and paper in your favorite little shop on the hill, tucked away from the glossy yachts and the press swarms that will start in a few days. 

A bell tinkles above the door to the bookshop you’re in. You don’t even look up as you trace the spines of novels both familiar and unfamiliar to you. A group of tourists next to you whisper over postcards and rare first editions, their excitement making your lips twitch in an almost smile. 

“Of course you’re here.”

Your spine goes rigid at Seungcheol’s voice. You turn to see him. He’s dressed in a slouchy hoodie, baseball cap pulled low on his head. He leans against a shelf, shoving his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He looks good but tired, like the nights between now and Miami have been keeping him up too.

“What are you doing here?” You whisper. 

He takes a step closer, a little hesitant. “Can we talk?”

You should say no like you always do. You should walk out, push past him and drown yourself in work until race day swallows you whole. It’s how you’ve managed up until now - until that kiss in Miami alongside the river. Against your better judgement, you nod.

It surprises him. He gives you a fleeting smile before gesturing you to follow. The two of you move through aisles of books, silent for a few minutes. His hand skims the spine of a poetry collection, his fingers reverent. You fight a shiver looking at them. 

“I need to explain,” he starts, voice rough. “Whath happened in Singapore. When I made you choose. It’s been gnawing at me and you…”

“I haven’t let you.”

He snorts. “Yeah.”

“I’m letting you now.”

“I thought I’d lost you already,” he admits. He chews his lip, not meeting your eyes as you walk. “The moment I clipped him, I felt like it was over. Knew I fucked it up. It felt like I was always compromising for Joshua with so many things, like I was holding back. Even with you - especially with you. So I thought if I just made you choose, I could make you reject me then instead of sometime later when it would hurt more.

“Seungcheol.” Your voice comes out sharp, but it wavers. Your pulse thrums in your throat. The bookstore suddenly feels too small, too close, the air heavy with all the words you never said. “You can’t just do that. You can’t put me between you and him.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens. His voice drops lower, hoarse. “But I wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about you. About every moment I’ve bitten my tongue or stepped back because it was easier than pushing against Joshua. That night I wanted - just once - for you to choose what you wanted.”

You close your eyes for a second, but it doesn’t help. You still see the flames licking Joshua’s wreck, the spray of rain, the red flag waving. You still feel the taste of Seungcheol’s mouth in Miami, the way you folded into him like it was inevitable.

The silence between shelves is thick, the kind that makes you hyper-aware of every breath, every shuffle of his sneakers against old wood. He waits for you to say something - anything - but your throat is tight, your chest hot. Finally, you find your voice, though it shakes with the weight of it.

“Do you know what that felt like?” you whisper, your hand pressing against the spine of a book just to feel something real. Grounded. “Standing there, watching Joshua’s car go up in flames like that. For a few minutes, I thought he might be dead.”

You bite down hard, but the words push their way out, jagged and ugly. “It felt like you wanted to win more than you wanted your best friend safe. Like the race mattered more than him. And then you told me to choose like it was more important for you to win me than it was for me to choose for myself.”

The words hang in the air, and for once, he doesn’t have a quick answer. His face twists, like each syllable slices straight through him. He opens his mouth, closes it again, fists curling at his sides.

“That’s not what I meant, but I understand.” He kicks a stray piece of dust on a carpet runner. “I was just scared of always being second to Joshua. I thought if you didn’t choose me then, you’d never do it later.”

“You keep using the word choose like it’s a game of choices. It’s not. I don’t have to choose anyone.”

He flinches. You see it, even if he tries to mask it by ducking his head, dragging a hand over his face. For the first time since he walked in, he looks small in front of you. Not a champion. Not Joshua’s best friend. Just Seungcheol, raw and stripped down to the bone, staring at you like you’ve gutted him.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he says finally, voice hoarse. “I just… wanted you. And I went about it in the worst way.”

Your fingers tremble as you press a book back into place, needing something to do with your hands, anything to stop the way your chest aches. “And that’s exactly the problem.”

The bookstore feels impossibly small, the air dense with everything you’ve just said. Seungcheol doesn’t move at first. Just stands there, staring down at the faded rug between you like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, raw.

“You’re right,” he sighs. “I did want to win that night. And I did want you. But neither of those things matter. I was selfish and afraid, and I let it twist together with my struggle with Joshua and that wasn’t fair to you. You’re different people.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’re not used to him being vulnerable like this. He hasn’t been since… well, since before Singapore. But you see him trying now, see him genuinely letting you see him. He takes a step closer, not crowding you, but close enough to bridge the gap.

“I hate how I handled it. I hate that I made you feel like you were trapped. That’s not who I want to be to you.”

“Who do you want me to be to you?”

He hesitates. “Anything you’ll give me. Just… not your enemy. Anything but that.”

The silence stretches. It’s fragile and tentative. It makes your heart beat faster, the urge to immediately answer yes warring with the instinct to say no. You’ve been saying no for months now, and it seems to have gotten you nowhere. Which begs the question - who are you protecting?

“Neutral ground,” you say at last, the words steadier than you expect. “We’re not friends. We’re not enemies. Just… neutral.”

Something loosens in his expression, relief washing over him even as his shoulders stay tense, like he’s afraid one wrong move will undo it all. He nods. “Neutral.”

For the first time since the 2024 Singapore Grand Prix, you feel like you can breathe again.

-

CIRCUIT GILLES-VILLENEUVE 2024 PRACTICE 305.27KM | 70 LAPS

Rain opens up in the sky in seconds. One moment, practice is underway with engines roaring down Circuit Gilles Villeneuve and the next, the clouds are cracking open and dumping sheets of rain across the track. Marshals immediately wave everyone in as mechanics scramble to cover equipment and move out of the rain. 

You sit tucked beneath one of the flapping canopies of a tent, arms wrapped around yourself against the sudden chill. Around you, voices rise and fall. Joshua is joking with a mechanic as he pulls his helmet off as someone passes around towels. 

Seungcheol appears, jogging in the rain. He’s drenched, hair plastered dark against his forehead. His racing suit clings to him and he doesn’t bother shaking himself off, just drops down into the seat next to you with a groan. 

“You look like a wet dog,” you tease.

That gets a shake out of him and you scream as water droplets fly from him to you. You shield yourself against him, laughing as rain mists against your legs. He tilts his head toward you, grinning. “Tell me a story. Something to pass the time until they let us back out.”

You blind at him. “A story?”

“Yeah. You’re good at them. Better than just sitting here listening to Joshua argue about tires.”

So you try. You reach back to a memory - not something funny or something from the time that Seungcheol entered your life, but something a bit farther. A memory that Seungcheol wouldn’t have with you. 

“When Joshua and I were little,” you start. “My mom used to let us help in the kitchen on Sundays. She’d drag chairs to the counter so we could reach, even though we made a mess of everything. I used to spill flour everywhere and Joshua would try so hard to be serious and organize, but I always ended up convincing him to steal chocolate chips for me.”

You laugh softly, surprising yourself. “She never told him off for it. She just…pretended not to see. And the three of us would end up sitting on the floor, eating half-burned cookies before they cooled.”

The words taper off into the drum of the rain. Seungcheol shifts a little closer, smiling. His head tips toward you, shyly resting on your shoulder. You glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the sheets of rain hide you in your little corner of the world, everyone else faraway and distracted. 

“Keep talking,” he murmurs. “I like the sound of your voice.”

So you do. At first, you think he’s faking the heaviness of his head on your shoulder. But then his breathing evens, warm against your arm, and you realize he’s drifted off to sleep, letting your voice lull him into some soft dream. 

You hope it doesn’t stop raining.

-

CIRCUIT DE MONACO | 2025 POST RACE 260.286KM | 78 LAPS

It smells faintly of roses and expensive perfume in the lobby of the hotel, the marble floors gleaming under the soft glow of chandeliers. Monaco at night hums beyond the glass doors, laughter spilling in from the harbor, engine purring along the winding streets. 

You press the button of the elevator, heels dangling from your hand, bare feet cool against the marble. The celebration of Joshua’s podium stretched late, and you’d slipped out just before the crowd turned rowdy. A part of you is thankful he’s distracted by the friends who had flown in for his birthday - you are far too tired to go into the early morning hours tonight. 

Someone clears their throat behind you. You turn to see Seungcheol. You make a surprised sound as you look him up and down. His black dress shirt is rolled at the sleeves, collar open to reveal the line of his throat. His jacket hangs carelessly over his arm, his hair mussed from the humid night air. His eyes catch yours, dark and bright at the same time. 

“Hi,” you breathe. 

“Hi.” 

Seungcheol gestures for you to enter the elevator first when it arrives. You step in, a little light-headed and breathless. He follows you in, leaning against the wall as you hit a number. You glance at him and he grins, telling you top floor. You roll your eyes. 

“Congrats on the win, by the way,” you manage after a beat. 

His mouth twitches. “Thank you.”

The elevator hums softly as it begins to climb, and for a moment all you hear is the thrum of machinery and the faint echo of music drifting up from the harbor. The air feels thick, charged, almost stifling in the small box of metal and glass.

He’s leaning back against the mirrored wall next to you, head tilted, eyes fixed on you in that deliberate way that makes you squirm. His chest rises and falls slowly, the low light of the elevator catching on the necklace hidden beneath his shirt. The distance between you feels unbearably narrow, the silence deafening.

“You look good,” he notes. 

You stare. “Thanks. You do too.”

Seconds tick by. Then he tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Stop me if you want to.”

Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “Stop you from what?”

He leans forward, slow and sure, the kind of movement that leaves you with an out. His breath is warm against your cheek, his hand braced against the railing just beside your hip. You smell his woody cologne, your eyelashes fluttering as it mixes with the softest buzz of the champagne you’d had earlier.

You could turn your head. You could laugh. You could stop him.

You don’t.

The kiss collides between you, soft for only a second before the dam breaks. His mouth is urgent, desperate, all the words neither of you have said spilling out in the way his lips part against yours, in the rough drag of his thumb along your jaw. You match him with equal force, the weeks of tension snapping like overstretched wire.

By the time the elevator dings at your floor, you’re pressed back against the wall, your shoes long forgotten on the floor of the elevator, his hand tangled in your hair. Both of you are breathless, tasting champagne and salt, your mouth aching with the force of his kiss.

Neither of you moves when the doors open. He breaks the kiss only to rest his forehead against yours, breathing hard. Then, without a word, he catches your hand in his and pulls you with him. Down the hall, past gleaming sconces and thick carpets muffling your footsteps, until you’re inside his room with your back pressed against the door, his mouth on you again.

He breaks away, peppering your jaw with kisses as your fingers tangle in his hair. His teeth drag against your pulse point and you make a breathy sound, hips coming off the door to buck forward into his. He makes a wrecked sound, sucking at the spot beneath your ear. 

“You should have stopped me,” he groans. “Tell me to stop.”

“I can’t.”

“Fuck.”

You pull his mouth to yours again. The kiss is hungrier this time, edged with something almost desperate, like both of you know this is reckless but can’t bring yourselves to care. His hands bracket your waist, pulling you flush against him, and heat skitters through your whole body at the press of his chest, the solid warmth of him surrounding you.

When his lips trail down your jaw to your throat again, tongue swiping over the sensitive skin, you shiver. His tongue traces the curve of your pulse, slow and deliberate, and your knees nearly give. 

“Cheol,” you whisper, voice breaking on his name. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, voice low and rough. His hand slides down, finding the edge of your dress, skimming the bare skin of your thigh. “Let me show you.”

You nod. "Show me." 

That's all it takes for the last thread of restraint to snap.

Seungcheol's hands are everywhere at once, mapping the curves of your body like he's been starving for the chance. He tugs at the zipper of your dress with a roughness that borders on frantic, the fabric pooling at your feet. His finger traces the lace of your panties, teasing, before he hooks them under and drags them down your legs. 

"God, you're beautiful," he breathes, voice ragged, like the sight of you is undoing him.

And maybe it is.

He drops to his knees before you, right there against the door, his broad shoulders filling the space between your thighs. The carpet is plush under your bare feet, but you barely notice as he parts your legs with gentle insistence, his breath hot against your core.

"I've thought about this so many times," he confesses, lips brushing your inner thigh, sending sparks racing up your spine. "Tasting you. Making you come undone for me. I never got the chance.”

His tongue traces a path up your thigh, teasing the sensitive skin until you're trembling. When he finally presses his mouth to you, it's with a groan that vibrates through your entire body. Your breathing turns ragged as Seungcheol licks into you, slowly at first, like he’s savoring you. The sensation is overwhelming, the wet heat of his tongue in your cunt making you buck forward. 

He holds you steady with one hand on your hip, the other sliding up to spread you open further, exposing you completely to his mouth. He hums, sucking your clit gently. You see sparks, dropping your head back against the door hard enough for it to thunk. He laughs, looking up at you through his dark lashes as his tongue slides through your folds. 

“Taste so good,” he tells you, voice desperate. He dips his tone back in, teasing your entrance. “Could do this all night.”

"Cheol," you gasp, fingers threading through his hair, tugging as he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue.

He moans against you, the sound filthy and desperate, like he's the one being pleasured. You feel the press of his fingers against your thighs, the way his lips seal around you, sucking gently before diving back in with renewed fervor.

He doesn't rush, drawing it out until you're a mess above him, legs shaking, breaths coming in short, needy pants. The first orgasm crashes over you unexpectedly, a wave of heat that leaves you arching against the door, gasping his name.

He doesn't stop, tongue circling your throbbing clit, prolonging your high until it's almost too much. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, eyes wild as he looks up at you. “Can you give me another?”

You nod and before you can catch a breath, he's back, this time slipping two fingers inside you while his mouth works your clit. The stretch is perfect, his fingers curling just right to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

Seungceol drives you insane. Always has. But this is something different, your eyes fluttering at the slick slide of his tongue over your cunt, the rhythmic pump of his fingers, the way he hums in approval when you clench around his dingers. You feel the coil in your gut tighten again, faster this time as he devours you.

The second climax hits harder, your body convulsing as pleasure rips through you. You pull his hair harder, grinding against his face, and he takes it all, fingers thrusting deeper until you're spent, collapsing against the door. He rises then, mouth crashing onto yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands slide up his chest and you push him toward the bed. “My turn.” 

Seungcheol watches you, gaze fucked out and lids heavy as you press him toward the bed until he’s falling backward. He props himself up with two hands, watching you with his mouth parted and glistening in your cum as you sink to the ground.

You press Seungcheol’s knees open, dragging your nails up his thighs. He shivers, head falling back slightly, eyes half closed. You pull the zipper down, making sure your fingers press into his hardening cock, teasing. He groans and you grin as you free him from his pants.

His cock springs free, thick and hard, already leaking at the tip, turned on by just getting to taste you. It makes your desire for him spike. You’ve never wanted anyone this much in your life, and even though you know you’re not supposed to, you do want him. More than anything. Like a covetous, greedy little creature. 

You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his head fall back with a groan. You take him into your mouth without warning, lips stretching around him as you swirl your tongue over the head. He tastes salty, musky, and you hum in satisfaction, taking him deeper.

His hand fists in your hair, not guiding but holding on as you set a rhythm. It’s slow at first, teasing the underside of his cock with your tongue, then faster, hollowing your cheeks. The sounds he makes are obscene, low curses and your name tangled together, his hips twitching forward involuntarily.

"Fuck, just like that," he grits out, eyes locked on yours. 

The intensity in his gaze is searing, like he's memorizing every second. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but in control, drawing out his pleasure until his thighs tremble. The tip of his cock presses the back of your throat and you gag but you don’t care, letting the spit leak down the sides of your mouth onto his shaft. He swears, a shiver rippling through him. 

He pulls you off suddenly, breathing ragged. "I don’t want to come in your mouth."

With his help, he hauls you onto the bed. You pull at his shirt, the buttons popping as you tear it open. The hard planes of his chest gleam in the low light coming in through the windows. You lean down, nipping at his collarbone while he kicks off his pants, jostling you. 

You help him get rid of his shirt and the world tilts as he rolls you over, pressing you into the sheets. They’re crisp and cool against your overheated skin, the weight of Seungcheol pressing you down grounding you. His fingers slip between your thighs again and your breath catches as he presses them in. 

"So wet for me," he murmurs, thumb circling your clit.

“Please don’t tease me.”

He grins and withdraws his fingers, smearing your arousal down his shaft. You open your legs wider as he grasps his cock, pumping. You watch him, feeling delirious. There are a million reasons you shouldn’t be doing this right now, but for the first time in your life it feels like you’re doing what you want. 

And you want Seungcheol.

Seungcheol presses his cock to your entrance and you both moan. He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and you both gasp at the fullness. He's big, stretching you perfectly, and the sensation is exquisite. It’s a tight fit and overwhelming, but you don’t care. He slides all the way in, pressing his forehead to yours, breath mingling. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel incredible.” 

The first thrust is slow, letting you adjust, but soon the pace quickens, driven by the desperation that's consumed you both. He moves with purpose, hips snapping forward, each stroke hitting deep. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer, nails digging into his back.

It is maddening, having him like this. His movements jostle you up the bed but you don’t care. Your fingers slide down his back, feeling the muscle flex under your fingertips as he fucks into you with a desperation that is echoed by the way you whine his name. 

Seungcheol slows suddenly, pulling out. You start to complain and he laughs, huffing, “Turn over.”

You comply rolling over with your knees propping you up as you lay down on the bed, ass up. He positions himself behind you, palming your ass briefly, fingers squeezing. You laugh and wiggle your hips, earning a groan and a soft crack of his hand across your right cheek. 

His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging in as he slides back in. The angle is deeper and he sets a punishing rhythm. Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, his cock dragging against that spot inside that makes you see white.

"Harder," you plead, pushing back against him as your fists tangle the sheets. 

He obliges, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch you further. The other hand reaches around, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in tight circles. You go nearly catatonic in his hands, feeling the static build as he works you toward another orgasm. You have no thoughts, no worries, no anything. It’s just his breaths against your temple as he bends down, pressing his mouth to the crown of your head softly. 

It undoes you. You clench around him suddenly, pulling him in deeper. He slows as you squeeze around him, your breath coming out in broken sounds. Your sounds must do him in, because he shivers and comes shortly after, fucking you through it until he can’t stand it anymore. 

Seungcheol pulls out and gently rolls you over. You stare up at him, dizzy and so drunk on him that you barely register a brief kiss to your lips before he sinks back down, mouth trailing lazily down your stomach.

“One more,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs. “Can’t help myself.”

“Fuuuck,” you rasp, feeling his tongue press to your aching cunt. 

He’s gentler this time, lapping at your oversensitive folds, cleaning you up while building you back up. You look down to see him looking up at you. His eyes are dark and heavy with want, but there’s a softness there too. 

The room feels like it’s spinning, the air thick with the quiet sounds of your shared breaths. Your moans are soft, broken, each one pulled from you by the careful swipe of his tongue, the gentle press of his lips. His lips close around your clit again, and this time he sucks, so softly it’s barely there, but it’s enough to make your back arch off the bed, a ragged sound tearing from your throat. He releases you almost immediately, soothing the sensitivity with a slow, broad lick that has you shaking. 

“You’re going to kill me,” you pant, hand tangling in his hair.

“I’m making up for lost time,” he mumbles, mouth smearing against your pussy. “You’ll forgive me.”

When your breathing starts to hitch, your moans turning into desperate little gasps, he finally takes pity on you. His tongue flattens against your clit, pressing just a little harder, and he hums softly, the vibration sending a wave of pleasure crashing through you. You cry out, your body tensing as he licks you through the last of your orgasm. 

You go boneless. He presses wet kisses to your thighs, smearing spit and cum. You don’t care. You don’t care about anything but the fact that you want him back pressed close to you, that you just want to be near him again. 

Seungcheol’s hands stroke your thighs, soothing the tremors, and he presses one last kiss to your clit, soft and chaste, before crawling back up your body. His lips find yours and you let him kiss you, not caring about the mix of fluids as his tongue tangles with yours. 

Somewhere in the room, your phone rings. It pulls you from your thoughts and you break the kiss, lifting your head. Your phone is lighting up by the door, a beacon where it lays on the floor near your dressed. You can’t see the screen, but you know the ringtone.

And the reality of what you’ve just done overtakes everything else. 

I apologize for any mistake about f1 racing and races in general 😭 I had no time to catch any race while writing, but I did my best trying to remember the few I watched! this isn't realistic at all but i hope you have a good time reading hehe

last note: it's not specified, but I did imagine red bull Seokmin while writing, so, do with that what you will

hope you enjoy!! I can't wait to read your thoughts!!

The clock on the restaurant’s wall signals it’s barely 3:30 pm when the waiter walks towards your table with your order. His smile has the needed amount of politeness, mixed with a little bit of judgment at you for ordering two burgers with a side of fries at this hour.

You thank the young looking waiter as he sets the plates on the table, right before looking at the man sitting across from you, wide eyes and wiggly eyebrows to annoy him further.

“Don’t you love we’re doing this?” The salt shaker is heavy in your hand, coating your fries with a thick layer of salt before even tasting them.

Seokmin chuckles, shaking his head and extending his arm to lift the top bun of your hamburger. The tomato slices get squished between his fingers as he takes them out of your burger and puts them on his own.

There’s a faint shade of pink extending from his cheeks to his ears, probably from the unwanted attention of undoubtedly being judged by your snack choices.

“We could’ve waited until later, you know?” His mouth is full from already diving into his meal, and you chuckle in response as you salt his fries too. “Hey—stop that! Don’t tamper with my food!”

“I don’t want to hear you whining about them having no flavor in five minutes! I’m saving myself from misery!”

“You’re trying to poison me and stop me on my way to stardom!” He complains but still doesn’t stop the salt attack, “the people are going to wonder where the next big star went away to.”

“The people… being?”

Seokmin nearly chokes at the dry bread tickling the roof of his mouth, “a lot of people watch Formula 2, you know?”

The two older ladies sipping tea on the table beside yours whisper as they side-eye you two.

“They’ve been rooting for me. They even celebrated that I’m moving on from being a reserve driver and racing properly this season.”

“Oh, I’m sure…”

You didn't know that something other than Formula 1 existed before your best friend got scouted to race. Being subjected to weeks long bullying by all of your friends, and a thousand comments of ‘what did you think the One stood for?’ was enough for you to want to learn the basics.

But it was after Seokmin started racing and people started stopping him on the street, begging you to take their picture with the smiley man they knew from watching his races on TV, that you understood. It was big.

Now, after months of being a reserve driver, another thing you learned existed because of him. He had the chance to compete in a Formula 1 Championship for real. You didn't ask what happened, why the driver he's replacing can't finish the year. You celebrated his dream coming true.

“They're excited about me moving up the ladder!”

“Definitely,” you tease, hoping he knows you’re as proud of him as a best friend can be.

How couldn’t you be? The boy you used to save a seat for at lunch during the high-school days, the one who’d pirate formula 1 simulators to play during the little free time he got, who everyone doubted he had what it took to race professionally. He succeeded, and you got to see him through his journey with your own eyes as his personal cheerleader.

You see it every day, with every selfie taken with a fan, with every broadcast news showing his face, with every highlight of a race showing on TV. This is what he was meant to do, what he loves shyly, but with all his heart. And now, he finally has the chance to prove himself as a worthy driver after being overlooked by his team for so long.

“By the way," Seokmin starts as the first fry crunches between your teeth, "you have to watch every race now."

As if it wasn't already your plan, a sigh leaves you before responding, "Watching rich men drive cars fast every week? Oh! The dream!"

The grannies judge your dramatics before sipping on tea again, but you've learned to get used to being stared at. You had to, not knowing who could recognize the man who inhaled his burger in the time it took you to eat five fries.

"I expect feedback every Monday," his words come out muffled by the napkin wiping his mouth of any possible stain. "Are you eating these?"

You're quick to slap his hand away from the side of nuggets you ordered. “You said you didn't want any. Live with that."

It's always the same with him. Going out to eat anywhere, he never orders everything he wants, only to take a bite out of your order later. A new flavor of ice cream, pistachio flavored popcorn, nutella-filled churros, the list of things you never finished ‘cause he begged to try them is endless.

The crunch sounds of his fries takes you out of your thoughts, and you look up to find Seokmin's mouth moving.

"You still haven't told me why we had to drive three hours to get burgers at 4 pm."

"I did tell you!" A fry flies from your hand and hits him right in the face. He eats it like he hasn't eaten one in ages. "You just never listen to me."

"No, you didn't!" Seokmin smiles as he purposely annoys you. "I'm not buying that you just wanted to spend time with me."

"Why do you think, then? If I'm such a mean friend who doesn't want to spend time with her best friend before he disappears forever."

"Let me guess…" his finger taps repeatedly against the corner of his mouth as he thinks, unknowingly entrancing your eyes to look at the lower part of his face. "You want to kidnap me so you'll never have to be away from me."

It's common knowledge among everyone in your life that you and Seokmin are a package deal. From always seating with the other in high school to sharing any and every class possible in college, even if you weren't doing the same majors. An elective class showed up on both programs? You were doing it. You work well together, so why waste it?

The news that he was going to be racing more often was like a punch in the gut. When he became a reserve driver —and you learned that those existed only because of him, he stopped being needed on the paddock too often, and his visits to his hometown became more frequent.

Now, he's spending the rest of the season as a proper formula 1 driver. His dream come true. You should be proud. You are proud, but can't help feeling like a part of your heart crumbles a little every time the reminder hits that you won't see him for months, you won't hear the loudest laugh ever known to man, you won't have a shoulder to cry on.

How is life supposed to continue? There are other people in your life, other friends that you cherish, who will hang out at your apartment when you ask, watch the races on your couch, and tease Seokmin in the group chat. But none of them are him. 

Seokmin squints at your thoughtful state, his face the entire view in front of you, and suddenly the half-eaten burger on the table becomes the most interesting thing in the small restaurant.

You take another bite to fill your stomach before it starts aching. "You'd love to live off my cooking, admit it."

His laugh echoes around the room, contagious and warm, and your laughter quickly joins. The idea of you producing any kind of meal is always funny to him.

Burned pancakes, cakes hard as bricks, brownies with zero flavor, some people are just not made for the kitchen, and that's okay. Seokmin's been your victim countless times. He always ate what you presented with good intentions, but not even his kind smile managed to hide the disgust in his eyes as he swallowed.

"I'd love that, you're right," he's breathless, trying to tone down his squeals after the scene he himself made and stealing a few fries from your plate in the meantime.

"If I'm not feeling like racing one day, I'll ask you to send me some of your undercooked cookies."

The memory he's talking about flashes through your eyes. "They were supposed to be like that!"

"With burned down edges too?"

"You're so mean," you avoid his stare by looking down to the table, finding there's hardly any food left, courtesy of the fried-potato-stealing. "You're about to lose your one and only fan."

"You're finally admitting you're my fan?"

"Well! Not anymore!"

"Like you don't love to watch me."

He smirks as he drinks the last of his soda, the sprite zero he insists is the best drink ever even if no one on the planet likes it, and your throat dries at the sight.

There's a line, and a blurry one at that, that you're never sure if he crosses on purpose or if it's your mind playing sick games. Your amicable, smiley, gentlemanly best friend couldn't be implying something else.

You do love watching him race. The interviews he gave after his F2 races, with the sweaty hair falling in front of his face and that tired smile he flashes to every interviewer. You watch everything.

Your camera roll is filled with blurry pictures of your computer screen, his face present in every single one of them, either celebrating a win or being embarrassed at a mistake. Always with the intention of sending them to him, let him know you were watching. Still, they don't leave their place in your phone gallery. But you never delete them either.

Suddenly, the urge to clarify something he didn't even imply takes over you, "I've never missed any of your races." 

You catch it before he even replies, that soft glint in his eyes that appears when he's happy. "I know."

His smile is assuring, like the toasty air that envelops you when walking past a bakery, like that one weighted blanket saved for the coldest winter days, like a warm cup of tea before sleeping.

You've celebrated every step forward he took in the racing world. When he got into Formula 2, his first podium, his first pole position, when his team finally promoted to being a reserve driver for Formula 1. Things kept changing, but your friendship didn't, you stayed strong and cheered for him every step of the way, and he stayed the kind Seokmin you loved, even with all the fame that came with his job.

So, why does it feel different this time? He's always flying from one country to the other, except for the times he isn't needed on the paddock on race day, and doing video-calls instead of hanging out when he's away became normal for you two a long time ago. It shouldn't be different, yet it is, somehow.

The waiter comes with the check Seokmin asked behind your back, giving you no chance of paying for the meal before he's giving the boy his card and telling him to give himself a 20% tip.

But the boy's gone before your hand even reaches the depths of your bag, leaving you squinting at your best friend. "You shouldn't be paying for your celebration."

"Let me spend my money however I want," he starts grabbing his things, ignoring your moment of stubbornness. "If I want to spend it on you, I will."

"But—" his index finger places against his pursed lips, the shut-up gesture that always makes your blood boil.

It isn't his first time doing this. It's been happening since he realized that paying for meals behind your back was the only way he could get away with using his money on you since you've prohibited him from buying you gifts. It's annoying, and you'll pay him back. One day.

When he notices you're in no rush to get your things and leave, Seokmin stands on the side of your chair, towering over your, too calm, body ominously. "Are we done now? Can we go home? I still need to clean up my apartment."

Your phone's dry with no texts received during the meal time, so you lock it again and take a few seconds to place it properly on your bag, not sparing your friend a glance.

"Why do you wanna end the day so badly? Are you tired of me already?"

"I never get tired of you," Seokmin snatches your bag out of your hands and begins walking away with his long legs and big steps, your legs almost running to chase after him. "I just want to  find out what you're hiding."

His smirk can even be heard as he pushes the glass door open.

"What could I possibly be hiding?"

"I don't know, maybe Seungkwan murdered the guy I'm replacing, and you want me to have an alibi."

"Shit, you weren't supposed to find out!"

His car stands out parked around the block, red and shiny, spottable it from a mile away. "Fine, if you're in a hurry, we can go back. It's okay."

Still, you refuse to get in the car, leaning against the passenger door as if time wasn't moving. With the keys spinning around your finger, you're not even sure how you got them. But, you congratulate yourself mentally for stealing them from him at some point, one last attempt to make the afternoon longer.

"It's a 3 hour ride back. Whatever you're planning can't take longer than that." Seokmin stands just a few feet before you, eyes narrowed in an intent to analyze and catch any of your signs, something he's worriedly good at. "Stop with that! Can't someone want to spend an afternoon with their best friend who she never sees? Is that a crime!"

Seokmin smirks lightly, eyes locked with yours as he teases, "I'll miss you too." "Oh, shut up!" Unable to stand under his gaze for long, the car keys fly from your hands to his, a sign of defeat. "Fine, let's go."

He chuckles in disbelief, walking not to the driver seat, but towards you. "I'm driving?" "You're literally a professional driver," the words blurt out of your mouth, as if a teasing reminder could draw a wall between Seokmin's body and yours. "Yeah, at 200 miles per hour." His smirk hasn't faltered since leaving the restaurant. He even looks… amused at your intents of joking your way out his interrogation.

Your eyes concentrate on the opened buttons of his shirt, almost all you can see from your point of view without tilting your head up. "My record so far is 50."

"Should I call the police?" Seokmin chuckles, and you want to die, his shoulders bouncing at the rhythm of his chest rising right in front of your face. "People drive like crazy here! No one uses their side signals anymore! I need to be prepared!" "Fine, I'll drive. But we're getting home in two hours."

You grunt in response, glad to not have to drive, but annoyed at everything that his return entails. The next morning, he'll leave, again, for longer this time, with less free hours he can spend talking to you. That's not a life you want to live in. A life where the robotic sound of Seokmin's chuckles breaking through the video call is the next time you'll hear his laugh.

Neither the TV or the phone screen do justice to everything Seokmin is. Through your eyes, he's the person who'd never judge you when you tell him your weird dreams, the one you'd learn things about a rich men sport for. He's… the sun, your sun. After today, the sun will go away from your sky, leaving your days blue, cold, and sunless.

Sitting on the car's leather seat, it feels like an eternity since you got to the restaurant, yet it wasn't enough time. "Don't let me fall asleep."

"I can't make any promises," Seokmin starts the engine, but when you turn your head to glare at him, he's already focused on you. "You've slept through my loudest alarms!"

"That was one time!" Something in his eyes renders you incapable of maintaining eye contact for long, and it's easy to use the road ahead as an excuse, "eyes on the road, Formula 1 boy."

The buzzing all around you stops, your eyes shooting open and settling on the familiar gray columns and walls of the garage. Hours spent sleeping, hours missed. You wasted your time.

A ruffling sound turns your neck to the driver's seat, where Seokmin's snacking on a bag of spicy Doritos and already looking at you.

"You fell asleep," he says with a mouthful, smiling like it's funny.

Like it's funny that your last hours alone with your best friend flew by cause you were so weak you had to fall asleep. "Tell me something I don't know, Sherlock."

You regret the tone you used as soon as Seokmin raises his eyebrows and turns to unlock the car doors. "O…kay, bad mood after a nap. Got it."

He's out of the car in a beat, only his arm in your sight as he grabs the keys without looking in.

"It's not that—I'm sorry." The passenger door shuts closed behind you as you flap your arms in the air to draw his attention back, "I just didn't want to spend our last hours together passed out."

Seokmin stops in his tracks and turns around, barely a few steps away from the car, and from you, "You're acting like you're never going to see me again."

"Well, you'll be much more busy!" He looks unconvinced, shoulders still slouched due to your outburst, so you keep going, "what if the fame gets to your head and you start ignoring my calls, or leaving me on read after the third voice note telling you the gossip around school."

"I'd never do that! Gossip is my main priority." The corners of his mouth lift as he sees you walk up to him, ready to go up to his apartment after all. "Funny."

Countless times you've done the same, walked the same cold garage and hopped on the same elevator, with the same Seokmin who's walking by your side but ever-so-slightly ahead of you.

As he turns to click the button to his floor, you check your phone again and see the text you've been waiting for. "But, seriously, don't start ignoring my calls, or I'm flying to whatever country you're in, and making you pay for the plane ticket."

He chuckles again, and the same warm nostalgic sensation takes over your every organ, again.

There's nothing out of the ordinary as you get out of the elevator, steps coordinated walking the hallway you know by memory. It's suspiciously silent, as if the echo of your feet against the tile floor was enough for you two. But you're not ready to say goodbye. "We're finally back here." Seokmin fidgets with his keys, awkwardly standing beside his door and facing you. "You can drop the act now."

"What act? We spent the day together like I wanted," You cross your arms in front of your chest, giggling at his confused face."You're finally rid of me, happy?"

"Yeah, yeah, like I believe that." Seokmin sticks his ear against the wooden door, trying to hear even a sliver of a noise from inside his own apartment.

"Okay! Bye now!" With a slow pace, you begin walking away, the elevator still waiting for you. "Call me when you leave for the airport, okay?"

He, then, realizes you're actually leaving. You almost miss the small smile and the wave of his hand before you turn and walk away. All you get before he clicks his door open, defeated.

"SURPRISE!"

The screams from inside Seokmin's apartment reach you before you even turn back around, right when he starts laughing and locks eyes with yours.

You're back by Seokmin's side in seconds, with your hands on his back and pushing him inside his crashed home. "You didn't think I was just going to leave like that, huh?"

A walkway forms between all your friends, letting the man of the hour in as someone closes the door behind you. Everyone greets and hugs Seokmin, who's still in a bit of shock that all of this happened behind his back. Thanks to you.

“How did all of you get in?” Seokmin's smile is as big as ever, glancing at everyone before setting his eyes on you. 

“I gave them my key.” You shrug.

You've always had a key to his apartment in case of emergencies—the emergencies being either Seokmin getting his arm stuck between the wall and his too big bed, or times he forgets to do the dishes before flying to a country on the other side of the world.

"I didn't give it to you so you could pass it along to everyone!"

"Acting like you weren't pouting thinking I had nothing planned for you."

Everyone laughs at Seokmin getting exposed by your comment, but he gets over it quickly as something else catches his attention. 

There's a huge poster hanging where Seokmin kept an undecorated wall, with hand-painted blue, red, and white letters spelling the guest of honor's name. Just his name.

Someone you don't see pops open a bottle of champagne, and everyone goes wild with celebration, claps, and a few whistles here and there. Seokmin gets forced into the living room by Chan and Mingyu, who swear he'd previously told them they could use his fancy new washing machine before dates.

You've been with him the entire afternoon, so you let the rest of the guys harass him for a while.

Music starts blasting through the expensive speaker system Seokmin set up—another reason why you wanted the party to be at his apartment. The playlist had been kept a secret from you. Everyone was afraid of what songs you’d add if given the chance, and it almost made you go crazy. But the music is not eardrum-shattering, so you let it be.

The layout of Seokmin's apartment is tattooed in your brain. How many nights have you crashed on the very same couch Wonwoo's playing with the X BOX in right now? Or how many times have you come in the middle of the racing season to take care of Seokmin's plants?

Someone screams in the living room, followed by a choir of laughter and flashes of phone cameras. The guys are making sure Seokmin won't miss their pranks.

"Did he figure it out?" Seungkwan catches you in the kitchen, about to raid the wine cabinet.

You could walk around Seokmin's apartment blindfolded. You know in which kitchen cabinet is everything you need, where he hides the fancy wine, and you’re the only one he doesn't give shit to for drinking it.

"He suspected I was planning something, but I handled it like a champ."

"You hit him in the head and gave him temporary amnesia?"

The corkscrew in your hand works as a temporary threatening device, and Seungkwan throws his hands in the air with a pout and a frown of eyebrows of the same threat level.

"He looked really shocked," Seungkwan continues after you've placed your weapon back on the counter. "I don't think he expected all of us to be part of the surprise."

"What else could he expect?"

Seungkwan shrugs as an answer.

Grabbing one of the two matching wine glasses from the cabinet—your favorites, your mind drifts back to Seungkwan's statement as you fill your glass past the recommended amount.

Sure, Seokmin suspected there was a surprise waiting back for him. But why would his group of friends not be a part of it? Everyone wanted to celebrate his success, his final step up to where he always wanted to be. You made sure everyone came, put Seungkwan in charge of setting up the party while you distracted Seokmin all afternoon. It was a perfect plan, and it worked! He was as shocked as ever.

The taste of dry and sweet red wine dampens your lips, and you gulp down half the glass, enjoying the taste. It's a tradition. Drinking red wine on special occasions. For tonight, you didn't wait for Seokmin, afraid to interrupt his time with his other friends before snatching him back with you.

"Ew!" Seungkwan's hand gets dangerously close to the glass in your hand before you slap it away. "Grab your own glass! You know where they are."

“It's just a sip!” His eyebrows frown again, this time genuinely offended.

“You know you can die.”

“From what? The possibility of getting in contact with someone's saliva? Tell that to your past self from the college years.”

“I'm still in college!” You defend yourself, even if fighting against the memories of your slutty era is pointless. 

“Stalling entering the job market doesn't count.”

“Now I’m definitely not giving you anything.” You gulp down the rest of the wine while purposely holding eye contact with Seungkwan. He doesn’t stop you. "Hope you get h.pylori and die."

"You don’t get—Hey I wash my hands!" Someone entering the small kitchen interrupts Seungkwan’s declaration.

Vernon pops into view for two seconds, putting his hands on Seungkwan’s waist to move him a bit to the side and be able to reach a forgotten bowl full of chips left on the counter. You don’t miss the touch or your friend getting red as a tomato.

"I'm not talking about hands." Hiding your giggle behind your empty glass, it’s clear your friend’s now focused on something else.

"Bitch,” Seungkwan mutters, crashing into none other than the man being celebrated while on the way out.

Seokmin emerges through the kitchen door, hair a mess and with more buttons of his shirt opened. The wine bottle sitting on the counter beside you draws his attention immediately.

“What happened to you?” You can’t help but chuckle, your eyes following him until he stands against the wall just by your side.

He grabs the wine bottle from the counter and drinks straight from the tip, gulp after gulp falling down his throat as he quenches his thirst. “You left me alone with feral people and drank our wine alone.”

You laugh, handing him a matching wine glass as he grabs another bottle for himself after tasting yours. “I wanted to give you some time with them after having you all for myself.”

The guys always whine about not spending time with Seokmin in between the races he attends. They complain about you getting all the privileges and not sparing even a phone call for them—which you are guilty of. So, you don’t want to hear their bitching and whining again after tonight.

“Never do that again.”

Seokmin sighs dramatically, now pouring himself a proper glass of wine and then pouring the rest of it on yours before discarding the empty bottle in the trash can. He doesn’t waste time, clicking your glasses together in a toast and downing the liquid at record speed.

You do the same, eager to get on with the party. Hoping that it will never end.

The front door closes shut under the push of your hands and there's finally silence.

You look back at the, somehow, clean living room the guys left behind, but sigh at the reminder of everything that was left in the kitchen. It's not the worst you've seen, but it's not something you want to deal with.

Seokmin's grabbing stray beer cans and putting them away in a trash bag he placed on the floor. He shouldn't be cleaning up the mess that solely exists because of you. But he's nice, too nice, and wouldn't let you close to the mess.

“Go see the guys out and I'll clean up.” He said, ushering you away from the messy kitchen and into the pathway to the door.

“You need to rest for tomorrow. Let me, please.” You tried to take the bag from his hands, but he’s faster and stronger, and it was away from your reach in less than a second.

“Stop arguing with me on our last moments together!” He retorted, using your words against you, and that won him the argument.

But now, with your one job done, and your friend ignoring you in the name of dish washing, your mind wanders to dangerous places.

After tonight, it will never be the same. He’ll be too busy, too famous, wanted by everyone around him. He said he’d never stop annoying you, but what happens when the rich parties inevitably make him realize the people back home don’t compare to his new circle?

The surge in thoughts about the future triggers the hangover headache prematurely. Red wine always has two different possible outcomes: either you make bad and stupid decisions or you get the worst hangover ever known to the human species. Seems that tonight you’re getting the latter.

“I'm making us hangover smoothies. I don’t want to feel dead tomorrow.”

His blender is where you knew it would, sitting untouched and with a layer of dust accumulated on top.

Seokmin doesn’t argue with you, “use anything I have left. Can’t let it go to waste.”

Opening his fridge after his approval, you’re met with the squeaky clean white interior and a few vegetables you’ll for sure use. “Why do you have an unopened bag of spinach when you’re leaving for months?”

“So you could use it for your anti-hangover concoctions," he lies, and you side-eye him so hard he bends over laughing. “Use it all and stop judging me.”

Every green vegetable you find goes into the blender, with a lot of lemon juice and the last few ice cubes that weren’t used for drinks.

Blender noise fills the comfortable silence that falls between you two as Seokmin finishes the dishes and rests against the cabinets behind you. Your body tingles, feeling his stare on your back, watching your every more.

The kitchen is too narrow, and Seokmin knows you hate it because you told him about a million times. There isn’t space for him to be standing where he is, yet, you can’t find it in you to complain. It’s the last time you’ll have him this close to you for a long time.

Seokmin’s eyes follow you as you find the glass cups you always use for your smoothies and pour the green liquid in.

“I have to clean that now.”

“Don’t complain about my good deed,” you roll your eyes as you hand him his part of the hangover cure, “I'll do it tomorrow in the morning."

He chuckles and gulps down the drink, as he always does despite not believing when you say it helps with feeling better after drinking. You rest your hips against the counter, angling your torso backwards and hoping the added centimeters between you will help the suffocating feeling of Seokmin standing so close.

The overpowering taste of spinach takes a few sips to get used to, but you don't flinch at the bitter taste, knowing you're under Seokmin's scrutinizing gaze even if you're avoiding his eyes.

“It's not your best,” he says, reading your mind.

“You're the one that forced me to put in a whole bag of spinach!”

Knowing there’s no way you’ll finish the awful smoothie, and using it as an excuse to still not look at Seokmin, you put the half-empty glass in the sink.

“I told you I had it just for you,” he states with full honesty. And you hate that you believe him.

There it is again. The invisible line about to be crossed. There must be something in the air. Maybe the mix of questionable old vegetables and lemon juice made you delirious.

“Should I feel insulted?” 

“I knew you’d want to make a smoothie so neither of us feel like shit tomorrow,” Seokmin shrugs, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. It could be. It should be. But, judging by your pulse accelerating, it doesn’t feel like it. 

“Yeah! And now the only thing I’m capable of making in a kitchen is ruined!” You try to joke, to ease the tension in the room, to stop being so twitchy under Seokmin's gaze. But everything feels too warm, too something. “I’ve never put that much of anything into my creations.”

To your demise, Seokmin chuckles, getting off where he was resting against and taking one step into your personal space.

“So, when I peed purple for a week straight, that was a complete coincidence?”

Your breathing stops as he stretches in front of you to place his empty glass on the counter. His expensive perfume is all around you, his chest your sole view, and you get goosebumps at the warmth of his body against yours.

“How was I supposed to know that beet turns pee purple?”

His head’s tilted down, eyes on you again and resting his body on a hand too close to yours on the counter.

“It doesn’t unless you put too much in what you eat!” His smirk is all you need to know he's teasing you on purpose. But you can't seem to shut up, wanting to fill an incoming silence at all cost. 

“Well, I hope you enjoyed your last party and last smoothie with me, ‘cause no other hangover cure will ever compare to mine.”

Seokmin takes a deep breath, realizing, once again, that even if things aren't changing, a lot is. His kind smile turns sad as memories flash through his eyes.

“I had a lot of fun. Thank you.”

The moment's changing. You feel it in the air. All the borrowed time you got with him, time you took for granted, is now coming to an end. He'll leave and you'll stay behind, like you always do.

“The guys are all going to miss you,” words stumble out of you, the only way you find to freeze time, to be with him for a little longer. “I can't believe you agreed to let those two use your washing machine! I swear if they call me to come help them I'm—”

Words stop coming out of your mouth, a pair of lips against yours sealing them shut.

Seokmin's hands cup both sides of your jaw, so gently you barely notice them there over the feeling of his mouth against yours. The noise all around you quiets down for the first time since the big news.

That is, until you realize what's happening, and your hands, that were sneaking up his torso and almost wrapping around his neck, push him back.

His wide eyes connect with yours as your eyelashes flutter open. “I’m sorry, I—” He starts, and both of your apologies come out over the other.

“N-no, no, it’s okay, I just wasn’t expecting it,”

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,”

“It’s not that I didn’t like it,”

“And you wouldn’t shut up, so I—”

“Actually, I think I did like it—”

“What?” You both ask at the same time, registering what the other was saying.

Can he sense the rapid beating of your heart? Is that why his smile keeps widening?

You're sure the warmth you feel growing on your face is visible from a mile away. Concealing your thoughts and feelings is hard in his eyes. He reads you like an open book, there's no way he can't see the fireworks he just lit up in you.

For the first time since knowing Seokmin, no words come out of your mouth, too focused on the growing electricity all around. You pushed him away, but he’s still close, too close. His kiss’ repercussions in your body and soul aren’t disappearing, the feeling of his lips against yours so palpable you’d think they were still there.

All the times you found yourself contemplating how it’d feel to kiss your best friend, and all the times you ushered the thought away, the conclusion was always a negative one. Everything would change, it wouldn’t work, or he’d hate you.

But now, he isn’t backing away, there isn’t disgust in his eyes, which haven’t left your lips since you separated. You’re still you, and he’s still him, standing in his kitchen, using the narrowness of it as an excuse for your closeness.

“You did that to shut me up,” you repeat the last part of his confession.

“And you liked it,” he chuckles again, but you catch as he takes another deep breath, a nervous tick he's always had.

“You're so annoying,” you mutter, with your lips still tingling from his touch.

“Yeah, but you're still gonna miss me.”

Maybe Seokmin knows you too well. Maybe he knows that his smirk and his stare going from your lips to your eyes make a mess of your organized mind. You had a plan for the night. A well thought out plan that didn’t include making eyes at each other and reconsidering your friendship.

“Yeah, I will,” you reply in a beat.

Because you will. Because the thought of being away while his life changes so much is scary. Because you’ll become nothing to him while he’s everything to you. Because you won't be with him while his dreams come true. Because you’ve been standing on the sidelines for so long, loving him more than you should.

And yet, he’s here now. Your Seokmin. Refusing to leave your side, with the buttons of his shirt enticingly open and his parted lips a remainder of where they just were. His stare’s lost on the lower part of your face, mind racing with thoughts you hope are similar to yours. Desire. Longing. Want.

Seokmin takes the tiniest step forward, enough to have your chests colliding. You’re not breathing, you can't, waiting for what his next move will be. His hands find their place on both sides of your waist, holding you in place even if there’s no chance you’re running away.

With his face so close, his breath fans over your awaiting lips, a sick game to have you at his mercy. His smile fades the closer he gets, eyeing you for what it feels like hours before asking, “Can I kiss you again?”

Your response is automatic, as if your body knew what he’d say. “Please.”

It comes out as a whisper, and you barely finish the word before he’s on you again.

All doubt is erased the second his lips mold with yours, evaporating into the steamy atmosphere. Letting yourself dwell in this re-kindled desire, you sigh as he dominates the new kiss, soft yet needy as his hands push your chest further against his.

Your hands find the back of his neck, threading with his hair and tightening your grip. Seokmin bites at your lower lip in retaliation. Both pushing and pulling, bringing the other closer until there’s no speck of space left between you.

The marble counter digs into your lower back, but that pain becomes the least of your worries when Seokmin’s tongue swipes your lower lip, asking for access. The mess of teeth and tongue flushes your whole body from top to bottom.

The lemon and spinach mix with the faint taste of wine as your tongues meet. It’s messy in a way you never thought Seokmin would kiss like.

How many girls had the honor of feeling him against them, his lips gliding over theirs instead of yours. All the opportunities you missed due to digging your feelings into a grave they’re now popping out of. You can’t help melting against him. Finally yours. 

A hunger you’ve never felt before runs through your veins, looking for a way to feel Seokmin everywhere all at once, to get back all the time you could’ve gotten with him. His muscles tense under your touch, hands wandering everywhere you can reach. You know he feels it too. The want.

You moan in his mouth, and something takes over him. His arms get loose before you feel his hands gripping at your thighs, lifting you up until you’re sitting on the counter. The frenziness of it all blurs your surroundings. The sound of Seokmin’s forgotten glass falling into the sink is merely a background noise along with the wet sounds echoing in the kitchen.

Like a magnet, his hips find your legs spread for him, pushing his growing hard against your core with the barest amount of desperation, and that has you moaning sloppily against him once again. Thank the universe for making you choose to wear a skirt for the party.

Wanting more of him, your hands make space to sneak between your chests, undoing the last buttons holding Seokmin’s white shirt together. His warm skin gets chills under your cold fingers. His lips go still on yours as you feel down his chest, breathing into your mouth the further down you get.

Years of forbidding yourself even from peeking at him if he was showing a bit of skin. Years of wondering how his golden skin would feel against yours. Neither the past or the future matter. Now, you’re nothing more than two people looking to fulfill years of accumulated longing.

You tease his hardness over his jeans, earning a groan against your throat as Seokmin kisses down your neck. The both of you refuse to take your hands off the other, making it a chore to unbuckle the expensive belt he's wearing.

“Are we doing this?” Seokmin asks, voice hoarse against your skin.

In the haze of his hands on your ass and his lips pressing on your pulse point, feeling the acceleration, there's no time to doubt what you want.

“If you have a condom, then yes.”

Like the human of the male species he is, Seokmin takes out one out of his wallet at your request. He lays it on the table with a smirk, lips red and swollen all because of you.

“Should we talk about it?” He asks again when he feels your hands toying with the hem of his jeans.

The few layers of clothes don't do anything to hide Seokmin's bulge pressing against your core. And his hands go up and down the sides of your thighs, to tease you more or to draw your attention, you’re not sure, but it sends waves of arousal crashing through your body.

“What’s there to talk about?” It sounds stupid the second it leaves your mouth.

What should you say? That things won’t change after this? That things changed already? That you wanted this for so long you forgot how life was like before him? Too much talk. Too many feelings you don’t want to deal with just yet.

Seokmin looks at you, a mix of desire and scepticism all across his face. “You know—”

“Let’s just,” you interrupt him before he says anything that could break you, “see how it goes. We can talk after, but I need you right now.”

His throat bobs at your words. A fight going on in his mind that your hands interfere with, caressing his lower back.

“We don’t have to if you’re not sure.” You can pretend this never happened if he's doubting everything.

He takes another deep breath, releasing in half a moan that does nothing if not encourage the pulsing of your core against his. And you're sure he can feel it.

“Seok—” His mouth smashes against yours, cementing his decision.

Melting at his touch again is easy. The sound of fabric and metal hitting the floor draws your attention to the lack of another layer between you. He's big. Big in a way you know you'll feel his stretch for days after.

Your legs wrap around Seokmin's hips, pushing him so closely against you there isn't a single atom separating your bodies. His mouth on yours is merciless, his tongue working as if trying to memorize every crevice.

“I really, really want to eat you out,” he sighs into your lips.

“Nothing's stopping you, driver boy.”

Seokmin sees it in your eyes. A glint of desire that mirrors his. “You have the next world champion between your legs and you’re making jokes?”

Your eyes are locked with his as he sinks to his knees, his hands holding your thighs open until you're all he can see. His gaze turns hazy, descending down your heaving body until it lands on your poorly clothed core. His fingers hook on your sides, leaving you bare for his eyes to see.

The kitchen grows hot with every second Seokmin spends admiring the mess of juices he caused with a few kisses. All you want is for the ache to stop, to shrink before his stare and be satisfied from the years-long accumulated desire.

He takes you in, just millimeters away from where he wants and almost tipping you over the edge of the counter.

An experimental lick between your folds makes you both mutter equally hungry curses. His breath against your wet core drives a shiver up your body, followed by a rush of liquid fire through your veins.

“You haven’t—raced even o–once,” Half of his brain is paying attention to you talking, the other half concentrating on kissing your inner thighs and spreading your folds. Your pulse races, growing expectant seeing his lack of shyness. “You don’t have—fuck—bragging rights.”

Words get stuck as Seokmin attaches his mouth to your mound again, decided on making your brain scramble to make sense. 

He mumbles something in response, muffled by his tongue lapping at your juices and moaning like a starved man. You grip his hair, keeping him in place as the familiar fire begins to pool at the base of your stomach.

“I’m not—” he nods against your core, cutting away any possible thought from your head.

You feel his smirk against you, as if the embarrassingly quick way he has you done for him was amusing. He knows your signals, learned to interpret your body language, all for this moment. To please you correctly.

Delving his tongue in your entrance, your whole body quivers as his nose bumps against your clit. Your insides clench around nothing, walls begging to be stretched and dripping arousal for him to taste.

Your hand tightens on his hair as your hips grind against him, chasing the light ahead with your eyes shut tight.

“Fuck, you're so good,” your words feed his eagerness, now more determined to show you just how good he can make you feel.

Each swipe of his tongue gets faster and harder, and he doesn't seem to mind that your hand's keeping his head suffocatingly close to your core. You'd be worried if it wasn't for the mix of grunts echoing against the kitchen walls at every wave of arousal dripping out of you. He might even be enjoying it more than you.

His hands try to keep your legs open for him, but you lose control of your body feeling the coil snap hard at the flick of his tongue. It's his strong hold against the trembling of an earth-shattering orgasm sending trembles down your body.

Your body goes limp, weight falling back when you let loose Seokmin’s head and place your hands on the counter for support. He licks every sensitive part of your core, looking straight into your eyes as he cleans you up. A menace.

Oxygen takes work to get in your lungs. Mixed feelings colliding and getting your soul sucked out of you was not how you planned to end the day. But Seokmin gives you no time to ponder about it any longer.

His lips find yours once again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You bring him closer, attempting to get rid of his godforsaken shirt so you can see him properly.

“Are we in a rush?” He chuckles, but lets you take it off him without getting in your way.

“Mhm.” The plastic packet warms up in your hands before you tear it open and roll the condom down your friend's length. “If you're not in me in the next two seconds, I might die.”

“Glad you're not dramatic.” His hands grip your thighs wrapped around his waist like he has all the time in the world.

“I'll go home and take care of it myself, then.”

Something inside him snaps at your teasing. A mix of desire and wonder flashes through his eyes. But before you get to question it, you feel the head of his cock dragging along your lower lips.

He prods at your entrance, and for a second, you worry if it'll fit. Every cackle you let out at your romance books comes back at you like a boomerang in the form of your hot best friend filling you up and stretching your walls in new ways.

Seokmin's hips stutter when he's all the way in, your insides quivering around him trying to get used to the stretch.

“I need a second,” you say at the same time as he announces, “I'm not gonna last.”

Your bodies are so close, you're not sure who chuckles first, but the vibrations travel from chest to chest and all the way down.

Slowly, the dragging along your walls beats the uncomfortable position on the counter. Seokmin’s strong arms hold you against him, setting the pace with his hips and moving your body to wherever he wants.

You let him take control, indulging in every feeling he sparks. From his fingers digging into your flesh, to his cock gently prying you open with every stroke. His soft grunts by your ear only egg you further. Everything is him. Time should stop right this second and never resume.

Your nails scratch Seokmin’s back when he reaches that point that makes you squirm, and everything turns blazing hot.

Seokmin’s thrusts lose control, making you lose your breath as he lifts you off the counter and drills into you, searching for his orgasm. Your arms wrap around his neck, fearing your inevitable fall to the floor. But, once again, Seokmin’s full of surprises.

His biceps cage your torso to his, almost effortlessly keeping you in the air to thrust with no control. You take it all, everything he has to give as he mumbles nonsense praise into your ear.

Waves come crashing out of nowhere, and Seokming holds you through it all. Shaking in the air as your walls pulsing around him trigger his pending orgasm. You’re so sensitive you can feel his length twitching and unloading into the condom.

A choir of deep breaths and curses echo around the silent kitchen. Seokmin sets your limp body on the counter again, discarding the used condom in the trash. You should probably take care of that.

There’s so many things to do still. “We should finish cleaning up.” Your voice comes out half a whisper.”

Seokmin pulls his pants back up after retrieving your panties from wherever he threw them. Your body craves something. More. You don’t do silence. You can’t.

You could say something more, start a serious discussion about your friendship, about the future, his future.

But there’s so many things to do. Clean. Talk. Leave.

One of your hands flies across the narrow kitchen and finds Seokmin's wrist. His eyes haven't changed in the seconds of ruffling silence. A glare of hope flashes through them.

There's so many things to do. But only one that you want to.

Pulling him back against you is easy. Finding his lips and opening up for him again is even easier. He lets you take control, nods against the skin of your neck when you mumble instructions in his ear, and carries you across his empty apartment into his bedroom.

The coffee burns the roof of your mouth before you gulp it down. Hopefully, the warm drink will help the ache on every one of your muscles. The bitter taste makes your forehead hurt, the perfect excuse to hide your face behind the mug and ignore everything else.

A pair of eyes in front of you digs holes through every surface you put between you and him.

“If you don’t spill the beans in the next five minutes, I’m leaving.” Seungkwan’s voice tears the invisible wall down.

“I already told you what happened,” you mumble as you take another sip.

The cozy coffee shop near your place felt like a nice place to sit down and have a hard conversation at first. But now, the tired people who just want their morning coffee to go to work feel like they're judging you.

They must all see your messed up hair and realize you've been wearing the same clothes for over 24 hours. Even the shame must be seeping through your pores, filling the air inside the place with the distinct smell of embarrassment.

Looking everywhere but at your friend, you first hear his sigh, then his hands are taking your distraction away from you.

“You slept with Seokminnie,” he starts, and you mutter a chorus of r-rated curses that don’t do anything to stop him. “That doesn’t explain why you called me at 6 in the morning and forced me to have a terrible breakfast just hours before my flight.”

“I needed to eat something and you guys ate everything left last night,” you avoid the topic, and Seungkwan sighs dramatically, again.

“You didn't go to the airport.”

Seungkwan, with his judging eyes and exaggerated grunts, has been your voice of reason since forever. He lays it thick, rips the band-aid off, whatever you wanna call it. You need the shock, you need to hear the words from someone else. Maybe it makes sense if it's not coming from your own over-thinking mind.

“He probably doesn’t even want me there.”

“You know,” he sets your stolen mug on the table, ready to dig and poke until you give him what he wants, “for someone with that many master degrees, you’re pretty stupid.”

“What the hell, dude!” There's nothing throwable at your reach, so you slap his hand away from the table.

“Why are you being like this?”

“I think sleeping with my best friend is a very reasonable thing to freak out about.”

“You said it was good!”

Seungkwan’s eyes are as wide as bowling balls. The initial sex news didn't surprise him at all, but your stupidity seems to have reached unprecedented levels.

“Did you accidentally tell him you’re in love with him or something?”

There's a beat of glaring silence before you say, “you know I didn’t do that.”

It's a recurring thought that you're used to covering up with much more important subjects. It's something you're entirely too careful about to just blurb it out in the middle of a careless bone.

He checks out his notifications with a shrug. “That explains why he’s not replying to my texts and screaming at me, I guess.”

“You’re texting him?!”

Your arm flies into Seungkwan’s personal space a bit too late, and he instantly holds his phone out of your reach.

“Team business! Go away!”

You scoff, but his attention is now on texting someone. To your knowledge, everyone on the team had the same flight except for Seungkwan, who had to get one later for reasons he decided not to tell you. You're glad he's here, still, witnessing his most dumb friend.

“What the hell did you do?” He asks again after he locks his phone and puts it in his pocket.

“Nothing! I just woke up and left.”

Seungkwan glares at you. You glare back. He's no mind reader, but he must be seeing something in you, and you desperately want to find out what it is and hide it.

“What?”

“Did you talk, at least?” You shake your head. “Left a note?” Another shake. “Why?”

“I don’t know! I couldn’t stay there.”

You ghosted your psychologist months ago, but you know she'd say something about not being able to face the consequences of your actions. You'd argue that you just wouldn't want to hold Seokmin back from what he always wanted. Tie him to you and his past life.

“So, you’re making me your accomplice.”

“And I'm the dramatic one.” You don't know how many more eye rolls you have in you.

Seungkwan crosses his arms on the table, which means the conversation is now a serious one. “What should I say if he asks where I was? Or if you talked to me?”

“Just—” air leaves your lungs in a sigh. “Don’t tell him, please? I can’t talk with him right now.”

“You’re going to have to, eventually. You know that, right?”

“His mind should be on his race in a few days. He needs to train, and I don't want to bother him with useless drama.”

“He won't contact you if he thinks you want space.”

“I need space! I'm going to talk to him after I practice my speech. I promise.”

After life restarts, when your Seokmin-less days become the new normal and the dread keeps you company, you'll do it. When you're sure you can live without him.

“Okay, now that the freaking out is over, can you please tell me what happened? I want excruciating detail.” The last of your coffee finds the wrong pipe down your system and you choke at Seungkwan's ask. “It's like being inside a soap opera!”

—

Every muscle ached. The soft mattress you were laying on did nothing to help your body stop tensing, but there were two big arms keeping you close to a human-shaped heater.

His skin felt soft all around, nothing in between you and him but an invisible wall you began to build as soon as you gained consciousness. His sheets enveloping you smelled like him, sweet and expensive.

You almost closed your eyes back and pretended it was all a dream. You'd wake up and you'd be back at your place, just another more than friendly dream about your best friend. Nothing out of the ordinary. But you couldn't.

Reminders of the night all over the bedroom attacked you when you opened your eyes.

In the corner of the room, his luggage judged you as you tried to free yourself from his grip. The party clothes scattered around the floor, the used condoms on the bathroom bin, framed pictures of the two of you over the years. Every stage of your friendship plastered inside the four walls.

There was time before his alarm went off. The alarm that'd set off his bright future.

Getting dressed was the easy part. Covering every bit of skin of your body Seokmin made his, dressing up with the clothes he took off. Putting yourself back together.

Your face in the mirror was the first jumpscare you confronted. Tear stains decorated your cheeks, your natural make-up a mess on your skin. His mess. Your heart squeezed as you scrubbed your face with foamy soap, trying to hold off on tearing up and making noise.

Seokmin's deep unknowing breaths were all you heard. His eyes fluttered closed and the tiniest smile on his face broke you a little more inside. You'd just ruin him.

Somewhere in the living room was your forgotten bag, with your half-charged phone and two sets of keys to different apartments. Seungkwan must've put Seokmin's back inside your bag without you noticing.

Outside the bedroom, beginning to forget the night before was easier. Without the constant reminders, and his fingers so close to where you always wanted, the journey to forget began.

The last reminder made you jump. Green goo stuck to the dirty blender still on the counter, with a broken glass dumped in the sink, victim of two rushed people out of their mind.

For once, you wished you were drunk. You wished there was an external component to help you blur the events of the night. Memories that will inevitably hurt you and the friendship you've built for so many years.

Maybe, if you fuck up first, the heartache would be easier, too. If it was your fault, and not his. If you broke his heart before he had the chance to figure out he could do better.

Closing the door behind you, cementing your decision, was the hardest thing you did that morning.

—

“I should’ve known there was a vibe after that bullshit you told me about dying and whatever,” Seungkwan observes after carefully listening to your rendition of the morning.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were making a scandal about me drinking from your glass and then Seokmin came in and drank straight from your bottle. I couldn’t believe it, but you're both so weird I didn’t think much of it, and—”

His rambling continues, and you'd be offended by him calling you weird, if you weren't busy having slight memory issues.

“When did he—I don’t remember any of that.”

“Oh, but it happened. My memory never fails.” At your confused expression, he presses. “Were you that drunk?”

“I wasn’t drunk! And I made hangover smoothies after, I told you.”

Everything feels so natural with Seokmin, that sometime during your friendship you stopped paying attention to his actions so you wouldn’t overthink about what they meant.

“I still hate drinking from the same cup.”

“Oh,” Seungkwan wiggles his eyebrows and gets his hand slapped again, “It’s just your awful memory then.”

“Shut up, asshole. My memory’s just fine.”

Seungkwan checks his watch out of habit. He probably should already be leaving for the airport, needing to get there a few hours prior and all that.

“You need to go.”

You don’t want to keep him any longer. He also has his future ahead. Having an existential crisis can wait.

“I don’t want to leave you freaking out. What if you do something horrible? Like getting a face tattoo?”

“Fuck, I should cancel my appointment, then.” Seungkwan laughs, though skeptically. “I can figure it out, I promise.”

You know he's worried. About you, about Seokmin. His eyes analyze every micro-expression on your face, and you try to be as serious as possible.

“I'm always a text away,” he settles on saying. “A call too, but let's do those less often.”

“Don't worry about that. I need peace and quiet, and you talk too much.”

“Bitch,” he mutters and pretends to gather his things. But he should be doing it for real. 

“Okay, now leave!” You usher him away, leaving him no choice but to obey after making a scene. “Have a safe flight!”

“Hope you had safe sex!” He yells back, louder than he needs to.

“I hate you! And I hope your plane crashes!”

“I'll miss you, too!”

People stare at you, and now that Seungkwan's out the door and moving on, you care.

There's so much silence without him, just you with your thoughts and judging stares from the other clients in the café. The pressure’s there, all around you, to get it together.

Will you be able to live without Seokmin this time? Not just kilometers away from you, but actually ignoring you? It's your fault, there's no denying it. 

You'll get it together. You'll reach out to him first. Fix your friendship after fucking up tremendously. Easy.

The first few days pass with dread. Empty and gray. Sticking to your new routine is the way you found to not get lost in the emptiness, or in the unwanted thoughts.

Going back to college fills your every day. New classes to attend, assigned readings, essays. Anything you can do to stop the tsunami of thoughts, you do. But, if the three books and the open laptop in front of you prove something, it's that it’s not working.

You managed to snatch a table for yourself at the library—not that it was hard since no one willingly is on campus on a Saturday afternoon, decided on putting your mind to work on something. But you’re not stressed enough to do school work yet, and the people all around you talk so loudly, you find yourself listening to them to pass the time.

Gossip about people you don’t know is always interesting. Some girl kissed her friend’s ex at a party, another girl failed her first exam in her life, then a muscular guy chased the librarian around to look for something too specific. Fun to hear, but you take your phone out anyway. Less possibilities to form a thought.

You sip from your untouched black coffee on the table, only to realize it’s not coffee and it's not yours. It’s what Seokmin always drinks: a matcha with three packets of sugar. You always put his order first, and you must’ve automatically ordered his favorite instead of yours this time. Embarrassing.

The green drink goes down your throat with a sting.

Scrolling through social media, you can't escape your wrong-doings, or your algorithm. The timeline’s filled with clips and posts from the Qualifying, mostly people complaining about their favorite driver's position on the grid for Sunday.

There's only one person you'd share tweets with and laugh about the ridiculousness of some people's opinions.

Further down, you see what you were half avoiding, half expecting to see.

“Lee Seokmin, eliminated in Q1.”

You had talked about it, the possibility of him not doing great during the first races. Even though your little knowledge of how races work and his refusal to tell you the team's strategies snowballed in your brain into the idea that it was impossible for him to do poorly.

Starting P16 isn't bad for a first race in a Grand Prix. It can't be! Your fingers itch to text him, to encourage him, somehow. His chat glows on your screen, almost growing cobwebs from the inactivity.

Seungkwan was right. You knew it even before he said it out loud. Seokmin wasn't going to contact you first, he'd wait until you were ready to talk, not wanting to pressure you.

His profile picture taunts you. A photo you took yourself over time he came to visit. He'd made you drive him to the beach and you watched him surf for hours, not without hearing at least five pleas for you to join him.

You had your fun, staring into the ocean, seeing Seokmin riding the waves infuriatingly well. Was there nothing he was bad at? You remember taking your phone out, recording him riding the tallest wave you'd seen until then. Then a picture, and more as he came out of the water and ran to you with the biggest, proudest smile on his face.

Your stomach turns. That won't ever happen again. You're sure he'll never direct a smile that is happy and warm to you ever again.

You lock your phone and put it away before you do something stupid. He's probably busy for the race the next day. A text from you will only make things worse, you're sure.

—

Against your better judgement, and breaking your promise to not think about a certain driver, you find yourself seated in front of your small TV. Your inner alarm clock woke you up almost automatically to catch the tests before the race starts.

Race Day craze was all over your social media, with clips of every driver and predictions being almost inescapable. You couldn't catch the pre-race interview some driver is always subjected to, but you're on time for everything else.

Seokmin's face fills your screen before you have the chance to open the camera app. The dark blue uniform makes him look serious, his smile nowhere to be seen on his concentrated face.

The last time you saw him, he was peacefully sleeping on his bed with his lips curled. That Seokmin looks nothing like the one being filmed as he puts on the colorful helmet and gets in the car.

Your heart pounds inside your chest as if you were the one about to drive, and a mix of nervousness and excitement reverberates from your head to your toes. For a moment, even if your best friend hates your guts, you're as happy for him as you've ever been.

Regret. A painful regret punches you in the gut. He doesn't look sad, but there’s something missing in him. The little wrinkles beside his eyes, that shine of warm happiness that followed him everywhere.

Seokmin hates you. He has to. You changed everything then dipped before you could make sense of what happened, together. The Seokmin you see on your screen must no longer be your best friend. Not even your friend.

You look at his contact again, unsure if he'd want you to reach out after all. You lost him for good. All the hope you've harbored trying to get your feelings in order, now gone.

His voice coming from the speakers startles you. It’s important for drivers to check if their mic and radio work, and usually they’ll just say nonsense or sing a song they like so their engineers know what the issue is, if there’s any.

The last time you heard his voice, he was mouthing lust-filled nonsense against your naked back. 

Then, the first lines of a song you thought Seokmin would never sing in public reach your ears.

“You're insecure, don't know what for.”

You cackle as your eyes go back to the screen. You can’t see his face under the helmet, except for his crescent moon shaped eyes as he sings.

“You're turning heads when you walk through the door.”

Could there be hope?

To everyone listening on the paddock and at home watching the TV, Seokmin’s just singing a 2011 pop staple. But, to you, it’s a sign that your best friend might not hate you after all.

Countless were the karaoke nights you sang that song together until your lungs couldn’t take it anymore. Seokmin, as always, gave the performance of his life every single night, out-singing you and your pitchy screams.

But it wasn’t about the singing. That song became a joke between you two. You’d hear it in the supermarket and you had to send him a voice message. When it came on the radio, you’d look at each other with twinning grins and burst out laughing. It was your song, and now, he’s singing it knowing the whole world is watching him.

Does he know you’re watching too? He has to know you’d never miss something so important to him. You waited for him outside a class after your first fight. You paid for his meal one time you argued and he left the restaurant. Across the timeline of your friendship, you fought so many times, but never failed to be there for him.

People laugh off screen, and Seokmin keeps singing until they tell him everything's working fine. He concentrates on the car and the circuit in front of him, arms tensing as he fixes his posture.

Seokmin starts the race quickly after, and you watch it all with more enthusiasm than ever. You don't want to miss any detail to make sure you tell him everything after.

Unfortunately, he doesn't earn any points for the championship. But ending at P17 isn't bad at all! Sometimes finishing the race in one piece is all that matters, or so Seokmin said a lot of times after you made fun of him during his F2 era.

From the way he gets out of the car, you can tell he's disappointed. His slouched shoulders that don't match the weak smile he shows the camera give it away.

A few reporters rush to shove their mics in Seokmin’s face, ignoring the sweat dripping down from his hair onto them. You barely hear some of the questions thrown his way, but he picks some one by one and answers perfectly.

“How do you feel after your first race?”

He rakes his fingers through his damp hair before answering, “It was all I ever dreamed. A little disappointed at the result, but now I can only go up!”

His answer eggs the reporter on, who chuckles as the few that didn't get their questions chosen move on to other drivers.

“It was a good start today, but you couldn't recover the spot you lost after the pit stop.”

“It was unfortunate, yeah. The soft tyres we changed into degraded quickly and I couldn't gain back any spot,” Seokmin replies expertly. “Still, I'm happy to have finished, and I hope I have a good season ahead!”

“Your family must be very proud of you, seeing you race after being a reserve driver for so long.” The reporter sounds captivated by Seokmin, continuing with the interview when he could’ve stopped after the race feedback.

“I hope they are,” he chuckles and your stomach turns. “Everybody back home was excited to see me today.”

“I'm sure they’re waiting to call you as soon as you’re done here.”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone, mom!”

There’s no denying the natural charm Seokmin delivers with each word. His answers are all effortless, and he doesn’t look bored or bothered by the questions. You knew it before, but it gets clearer and clearer that that’s where he’s meant to be.

“Anyone special back home? Any girl you’re hoping to impress?”

Seokmin chuckles with embarrassment, and you feel heat rushing up your cheeks.

“There might be. I'm not sure, yet.”

“C'mon! Now you're a professional driver, who would let you get away?”

“I wish it was up to me,” he chuckles again with an unreadable expression. “It was good talking to you, man! See you after the next race!”

“Sure will!” The reporter replies and the next driver shows up on screen. But your eyes follow Seokmin's figure blurring further and further in the background until he disappears.

You can fix this. You won’t let your stubbornness get in between him and you. He gave you the sliver of hope you needed. Whether he meant it or not.

Bitter taste envelops your tongue from biting your nails, and you're sure you're carving a hole on your floor from pacing in circles. Your phone stares at you from the other side of your room, laughing at you.

Every minute that passes after the race that you’re not calling Seokmin is a wasted one. There really are only two options: either you call him and confront your mistake, or you never talk to each other again.

Both scenarios would result in losing him. Though, living in a world where Seokmin isn’t a part of your daily life seems even worse than admitting your feelings out loud. There has to be a way to keep him by your side still.

Seokmin’s picture shows up on your screen. Your phone is in your hand and you’re calling him. Blood pumps faster and faster from your heart, but there’s no time to panic.

“Hi,” Seokmin’s voice buzzes through the line.

The shock of him not ignoring your call makes you unable to speak for a few seconds. You were panicking so much, you forgot to rehearse what you were going to say to him.

“Hi, loser,” you say quietly over the silence.

His guard is up, no trace of a smile in his tone as he replies, “You saw the race.”

“I told you I wouldn’t miss it.”

Your earnest words fade into the awkward silence. You knew you'd have to push through it to get him to hear you. The next questions mumble out of your lips, so quickly you regret them instantly.

“How are you? How’s the fame treating you?”

“It’s fine. Nothing really changed, just more people watching.” His tone's flat like never before.

“I hope you're not too bummed about the result. I know you're going to do great in the coming races!”

He only hums in response.

The deafening silence creates a black hole inside your room, sucking any idea you could possibly get to alleviate the awkwardness. He’s waiting for you to talk, that’s clear.

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you, about…” the words take work to get out of you, and in the end, it doesn’t even sound like you intend to. “What happened at the party.”

“You left,” he says, with simplicity, with hurt.

“I panicked,” you rush to half-explain. “I'm sorry.”

There’s so much more behind your words, so many things you can’t bring yourself to address out loud.

“We could’ve talked about it, together.”

“I know. I know you wanted to.”

Seokmin's doing a great job at presenting the facts, but not helping you form a forgiveness-earning speech. Dryness was expected from his part, but you didn’t expect words to be so hard to find after hearing his voice.

“There’s no excuse for what I did. I was awful. I shouldn’t have left and I shouldn’t have ghosted you all week when it was so important for you.” Your throat tightens as tears begin brimming from your eyes. “I’ve been a terrible friend, and I’m truly sorry.”

The line falls dead as he considers your apology. Knowing how important this race and the entire week was for him, you don’t expect Seokmin to forgive you easily. You don’t even deserve it. And if he’s willing to give you another chance, you’ll work hard to earn his trust again.

You can almost picture his face as he breaks the silence. “I didn't mean for it to change things between us.”

Seokmin's words leave a sour aftertaste, even though it’s what you wanted to hear. He wants to stay friends. You should be thrilled.

“Good,” you exhale. “I don't want things to change either.” If there’s disappointment in your voice, he shows no signs of realizing.

“I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“No, stop that.” You jump in place. “You didn't do anything wrong. It was me who ran away like a coward.”

“You're right,” he chuckles in response, and a sense of familiarity takes over the call. “And I had to clean the blender.”

“Fuck! I'm sorry for that, too.” He's back to teasing you, and you're easily embarrassed.

You laugh together as if everything was okay again. As if the ghost of his fingers on your skin and his tongue on yours didn't wake you up every night in a cold sweat.

“Can we just—It may not be fair for me to ask you this, but, can we pretend it didn't  happen?”

It. You can't even say it.

His breathing slows, thinking carefully. You fear you're about to lose him, again.

“I don't want us to fight,” you over-explain, and he sighs.

“Me neither.”

“And you actually can't be mean to your fans, so, you'll be forced to talk to me no matter what.”

After what it feels like years, your body relaxes. Hearing him chuckle because of you again feels good, warm, right.

“You're my fan now?”

“I've always been. Ever since you got your driver's license.”

You're so honest, the rest of the truth almost slips out. But it's not fair to him. You can't just blurt everything out over a call and expect him to be okay with it.

Instead, you let him ramble about the car, the race and the team. And you hear and comment about every detail. Because you're also excited for him.

You talk for hours, and the awkwardness fades away as the call progresses. With you telling him how it feels to go back to college and him explaining the differences between f1 and f2 to help you understand things for the next races.

He doesn't have to know that you googled everything the day before. You're happy he's willing to talk to you like everything is normal again. You won't waste your second chance.

Your windbreaker jacket fights for its life against the storm you didn't realize was coming into town until it was too late.

The rain and you have become one.

Your socks stick uncomfortably to your feet inside your drenched sneakers, and you can only hope the jacket covered your bag enough so your things didn’t get ruined.

You enter your building, in a better mood now that there’s a roof over your head after walking from the bus stop. Almost instantly, you open the camera app, take a photo of your soaked hair sticking to your face and send it to Seokmin before hopping on the elevator.

In hopes of restoring most of the normalness you’re able to, you’ve begun texting every day with him, mainly with mundane updates about your days that easily turn into conversation.

A new notification makes your phone buzz in your hand, and your heart races with anxiety and excitement; the new mix of feelings you started getting when talking with Seokmin.

Getting a text from your best friend shouldn't feel giddy, it shouldn't draw an instant smile on your face and make your hands tremble.

Still, you try. You try to answer his questions about your new major as a best friend would. You send him posts you see on your timeline about the racing season, and he sends you memes about university. You try not to zoom in on the mirror selfies he sends daily and try not to remember the feeling of being wrapped in those same arms.

It's late at night for you, but for Seokmin, the day just started. ‘Heading out to train’, said his last message before your storm selfie. That was over half an hour ago.

You change into dry clothes and flop down on your couch as your blood pressure drops seeing his new texts.

‘You need to stop your hate for umbrellas’, reads the immediate response to your photo. You'd argue that it wasn't your refusal to carry umbrellas this time, and you genuinely didn't know it was going to rain. But the next few texts restrict the oxygen flow to your brain.

Seokmin's sitting sideways, with his full body on display and his side profile almost testing you from far away. The angle makes it so the empty gym occupies most of the photo-space, but your eyes don't see anything else other than him.

Two dumbbells sit at the sides of his feet, probably unused as he doesn't look sweaty yet. The black shorts he's wearing don't do anything to hide his thigh muscles as they tense from the position he's in. Muscles you felt slapping against your own not long ago.

Deep inside you, a sliver of guilt appears, trying to overshadow the turmoil beginning to pool at the pit of your stomach.

You've tried to push down everything Seokmin makes you feel that you shouldn't. But it's so hard when the very sight of his body takes you back to that night again.

The lights inside your home remain off. You forgot to turn them on when you came in, and only a few rays of the street lampposts bleed through your curtains. It's so dark, it's easy to step over the embarrassment and let the desire, that you fought so hard to hide, win.

As your hand pushes down past the hem of your jeans, the inner fight going on in your mind blurs completely. That night is burned on your eyelids like a tattoo. It follows you everywhere you go, but it’s forever only in your mind.

Your body quivers imagining Seokmin’s hands are touching you and not yours. You burn with embarrassment and lust, body flushed as his muscles flex below you. How it would feel to have his fingers inside you, longer, deeper, and looking to please you until you’re done for.

The ghost of that night drives you to the finish line. Sticky, tired, and knowing it can never happen again.

Your phone buzzes on the table with more notifications. You never answered him, blinded by what isn’t real.

If Seokmin notices you leaving him on read for a suspicious amount of time, he doesn’t comment on it. His next few texts are all complaining about the new routine they have him on, but then saying he enjoys the challenge and seeing the results.

Those results are going to make your life really hard moving forward.

When old people complain about the new generation being addicted to their phones, you always argue that it’s the new way we have, as a society, to learn new things every day. Sure, you can get misinformation from anyone, even on the internet, but the easier access makes everything faster.

Besides, the older generation is just as addicted as they claim others to be. You’d go even as far as to say that it’s worse for them.

You would, but you’ve been proving old people right for the past few days.

For Fridays to be your busiest day of the week, full of classes and group meet-ups for projects, your screentime resembles too closely the one of a 10 year old addicted to tiktok. You’ve been constantly checking your notifications for the past two days, and always see your lockscreen empty.

Waiting for your order at the coffee shop you had a heart to heart with Seungkwan a few weeks ago, it just looks like Seokmin decided to hate you again.

Reeling back to when you apologized, everything seemed fine! Your last text conversation didn’t differ from how you’ve been talking.

If you did something to pass him off again, it would be nice for him to tell you for once.

The bartender's loud voice startles you out of your thoughts. “Iced matcha latte!”

You groan at your changing coffee order but take the cup from the worker regardless. The table you've become a regular off is empty, and you sit on your self-assigned chair to contemplate your life's twists and turns.

The text conversations with Seokmin don't stray far away from friendly updates and banter here and there. He hasn't been available for calls either, so you know you didn't slip and said something you weren't meant to.

The last picture Seokmin sent you catches your attention. He had the day off and his teammate invited him to spend the day at his yacht.

Blueish teal water surrounds him, but even if there's nothing inherently insinuating about the picture, you can't avoid looking at his face for longer than necessary. Your eyes then steer to his naked shoulders, imagining what's below the edge of the photo.

You've sunk your teeth on those shoulders, felt that very same nose against your core and came so hard you forgot how to breathe.

Seungkwan’s name flashes on your screen with an incoming video call, making you jump on your seat and gaining you a few weird looks. 

After taking a deep breath, you check your airpods are still connected before accepting the call.

“I can't believe I have to call you myself to get in touch with you!” He accuses as soon as you pick up.

You try your best not to gasp too loud. “You told me not to call you!”

“A text wouldn't hurt either,” Seungkwan rolls eyes. “And I know you've been texting ‘Mister Yacht Party’, so don't tell me you haven't had time.”

With everything going on, and you trying to ignore anything even remotely related to Seokmin in case you slip up, you’ve forgotten about the other relationships in your life too. Your incapability to interact normally with Seokmin made you grow apart from everyone, in case they ask, in case they realize.

“Okay, I yield. I'm sorry, I should've texted you.”

Seungkwan, even if he knows what happened, is still as busy as Seokmin. You didn’t want to bother him with your college girl problems.

“Thank you. That's nice to hear.” He shows a genuine smile. “How have you been?”

“Classes and group projects and all. I don't want to annoy you with my boring routine.”

“Not that I like being annoyed, but you should tell me anyway! It's not boring to me if you like what you’re doing.”

It's heartwarming and annoyingly sweet of him, and you'd tear up if you weren't in public. “Thank you, really, but I want to talk about you! The new hotshot mechanic in Formula 1!”

His ears grow red with embarrassment. “I'm just observing the actual mechanics do their job for now.”

“That's how you learn! They'll eventually ask you to hold some tools and then you'll be working with the cars in no time!”

“Let’s hope the universe hears you,” he chuckles his words out.

In the background, you see a shadow of a figure moving before hearing Seokmin's voice. You don't quite get what he's saying to Seungkwan, but your body freezes as their focus goes away from you.

You haven't called Seokmin since you apologized weeks ago, because he's busy and you still received his daily updates anyway. But his recent silence put a stop to any progress you thought you made.

A door closes on Seungkwan’s side of the call, and his attention comes back to you. You have to pretend to be cool about it.

“So, how do you feel about that new lifestyle of his? Partying with famous people and all.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m a mechanic, not his manager,” he throws you a glitchy knowing look. “I'd like it more if he found a way to get me invitations, though.”

“I'm sure they all invite their teams to their rich men hangouts.”

“Well, they invite their friends and I'm trying to replace you.” You're about to argue when he continues, “But I'm not letting his dick anywhere near me, so I guess I'm at a disadvantage.”

You choke on your drink. “Don't say that out loud! What if he hears you? Oh my God.”

“Oh, don't be dramatic.” His evil smirk shows you no compassion. 

Your eyes scan the café in search of any wandering stares. “I shouldn’t have told you anything.”

“Too bad, you can't regret it now!” Seungkwan tries, but your worried expression doesn’t go away. “Don't worry about your sex drama. He just left anyway, he won't hear.”

The little information about Seokmin piques your interest. You guess it's his day off, since Seungkwan isn't working either, but he clearly had plans. You're not part of them. You haven't been for days now.

“Where did he go? He hasn't texted me in days.”

At your question, Seungkwan's expression turns. “Oh, shit,” he mutters under his breath.

“Are you kidding? What? What happened?”

“No, it's nothing. I'm sure he'll tell you.”

“So, there is something.” Nothing Seungkwan says helps calm you down.

“I didn't say that.”

“Come on. Did I upset him? Is he avoiding me? Is he getting drunk with Charles Leclerc again? Or worse, with Max Verstappen?”

Is it possible that Seokmin simply got tired? Maybe he realized texting wasn’t enough to keep a relationship going and decided to pursue something within his reach.

“You didn't do anything,” he sighs. You can't tell exactly why.

“Then, what? Where did he go?”

“He's doing something for his publicist.”

Whatever you thought his answer would be, that isn’t it. You didn’t even know Seokmin had a publicist, though it makes sense since he’s a public figure.

At your expectant face, Seungkwan realizes you need much more information than what he’s providing. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

“I'm going to fly wherever you are with the sole purpose of snapping your head off.”

“You don't scare me. You can't run a full block without getting the air knocked off you!”

“Besides the point! Just tell me already! I have no one to gossip with about famous people besides you, come on.” It's just gossip, you repeat to yourself. Celebrity gossip.

“Fine, but don't freak out, okay? Promise?” You nod, unsure but determined to know. “He's… on a date.”

For a second, your heart stops. “A date.”

“A PR date.” You glare at him, confused and paralyzed. “You know, when two managers arrange a dinner with two famous people to, like, boost their popularity.”

“Why the hell should he boost his popularity? He's a driver, not a fucking pop singer.”

“I know jack shit about marketing, don't ask me!” Seungkwan throws his free hand in the air, with his eyes wide at your reaction.

Your mood drops to new lows. If you weren't in a busy café, you're sure your throat would begin closing as a warning for incoming tears.

“Look. They just have to be seen hanging out. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“It sounds like something if this is why he's been avoiding me.”

“I'm sure he has his reasons.”

If it was just a PR strategy, Seokmin would text you complaining about it. At least past Seokmin would have. The Seokmin you didn't ruin.

Any effort you were doing to seem uninterested fades. “Who is she?”

“Nope! We're not doing this.”

“W-why?”

“Because it doesn't matter!” Seungkwan almost yells.

“It does! His publicist team wouldn't choose someone random. They at least have to seem to have chemistry.”

This is what you were afraid of, Seokmin finding new people and realizing you're not worth the trouble. It makes perfect sense he'd want to stop contacting you altogether.

“You didn't even know what a PR date was 5 minutes ago. You don't know how it works.”

“But it makes sense! You can't deny that.”

“I can. And I will,” he asserts. “You shouldn't overthink about it. It's just a one time thing.”

“Yeah, you're right.” Just a one time thing. “I don't care.”

“Good.” Seungkwan exhales in relief. But his relaxation is short-lived.

“I don't care if he dates! He has all the right to.”

“Oh, boy,” he mutters as you start your ramble.

“He's a free, single man who just became famous. Of course he has all kinds of beautiful women lining up for a chance.”

“That’s not what I meant, just saying.”

“It's a matter of time before he gets married to a beautiful and rich model who'll give him children with symmetrical faces and buy them designer onesies.”

“Your twisted mind keeps surprising me, years after years.”

“It's not twisted, I'm being realistic.”

Being realistic is the only way you can save yourself from bad situations. You set the expectations low enough that nothing surprises you, nothing tears you down, because you were prepared.

You and Seokmin are nothing more than friends. If you were anything more, the distance and his new relationships would make everything harder. With your busy college schedule and his training, there could be nothing else.

You'd hold him back. And that would be worse than seeing him date anyone else.

The next day, the news and social media are filled with photos of the new hot couple out to dinner. But you don't allow yourself to care more than you should.

The numbness helps. Even if your eyes itch at every new angle of the two of them talking at the table. Even if he shows her that same smile that makes your stomach flutter. Even if that girl isn't you. It shouldn't be you. It could never be.

After the spectacle the day before, you should’ve expected to find that girl’s face in the foreground as soon as you turn on your TV. You gave Seungkwan’s words some thought and believed him when he said it wasn’t something to worry about, that it was just a one time thing. It certainly is not.

They came into the paddock with their arms interlocked, ready for the cameras to show them to the whole world. As Seokmin went to get ready, she stood on his team’s side, with her effortless beauty and perfect fitting outfit.

The sour mood kept getting worse as the race preparations started. Seokmin doesn't hesitate and radio checks like normal, no singing involved.

It's your fault really. You had your expectations too high for the reality you live in. Seokmin’s not going to sing One Direction before every race to get your attention. Stupid.

The first hour blurs past with a debilitating heartache. Every time Seokmin does a successful overtake, the camera focuses on his new date. Her reactions fuels social media just as much as him doing well.

You don’t catch the rest of the race. You mentally can't handle it.

It's late in the evening, so the cashier at the supermarket doesn't look at you weird for buying a ridiculously priced red wine. It's too late when you realize the brand you gravitated towards.

The race is on its last laps when you get back. Your eyes stick to the screen, that you forgot to turn off when storming out, even if you don't want to. It's a tense game of overtaking, falling behind and the ranking changing with each lap before it finishes with Seokmin positioning P11.

You watch as he celebrates with his team. Everyone with smiles on their faces and palming Seokmin on the back. And she's also there.

He was really close to gaining points for the championship, which is huge for a new driver. You know he's probably at it inside his head, telling himself that he should've placed in the top 10.

The sports channel's now airing an old basketball tournament, formula 1 long gone from your screen. You stare at it blankly, with only Seokmin’s face as he got out of his car in your mind. You want to tell him that he did awesome. That no matter the position he ended at, with all the maneuvers he managed against the other drivers, he cemented himself as someone to watch out for.

You turn the TV off and head to bed, hugging the unopened wine bottle and trying to convince yourself not to do anything you'll regret. You know it's too late when you hear his voice over the speaker.

“Hi?” The sound of a door closing echoes through the line.

Once again, you called him. Instead, this time, there was no hope that he'd answer.

“Congrats on today.” There's no cheer on your tone. “You did great.”

“Thank you. I just got to the hotel.” You hum in response, not knowing what else to say. “I-I wondered if you were watching.”

“I was.”

Silence follows your affirmation. He didn’t expect you to call. You didn't think you would either.

“I'm guessing you saw…”

“I couldn’t really ignore it,” you say dryly.

“I was going to tell you but-”

You interrupt him, “It's okay if you didn't want to.” You know you have no right to be upset by a date, he doesn't owe you an explanation.

“I wanted to.”

“Oh.” He doesn't owe you an explanation. Doesn't matter how bad you want one.

“I just didn't know how.”

You think about it for a second. Does that mean he can just ghost you entirely? Do you have the right to complain when you did the same thing not long ago?

“I missed you these past days,” you decide to admit. “You didn't need to go all silent treatment on me.”

“I'm sorry, I really am. It was just—a weird situation.”

“Kwannie told me about it.”

“That weasel,” Seokmin mutters. “Yeah, he knew ‘cause I was with him when my manager called me.”

You chuckle, fixing your posture and laying face up in bed. “He didn't want to tell me but I forced him.”

For a second, everything feels normal again. Your smile shows back up as you stare at the ceiling, hearing Seokmin laugh lightly at what you said. He’s still your best friend.

You hear ruffles of sheets on his side. He's also in bed. “Why did you want to know?” If you shut your eyes, you could picture him laying with you.

“Why did I want to know the reason why my best friend was ignoring me?”

“Okay, fair. I'm sorry, again.”

“I was actually sad, you know,” you chuckle your words out. “I bought wine to get sad drunk and all.”

“Are you drunk in bed? What time is it?” Your stomach does a funny flip at his concerned tone, but you push it back down.

“I know it’s barely after noon for you, but it’s night time here,” you remark before taking a deep breath. “I didn't open the wine. I called you instead.”

“Good, ‘cause you can't be trusted when you're wine-drunk.”

“Okay, now I'm getting offended! When have I ever misbehaved when drunk?” You regret the teasing question as soon as it leaves your lips.

“Do I have to remind you of the last time we drank a whole bottle of red wine each?”

The conversation was going there regardless, but you still lose your breath at his mention. The forbidden topic. You shouldn’t be talking about it, but you need to clarify something to him before trying to delete it from your memory. It’s not much of a confession, you just need to get it out there.

“I wasn’t drunk.”

“I know,” he replies almost too quickly.

“It wasn't like I didn't know what I was doing.”

Seokmin might’ve initiated the kissing and touching, but you were just as eager as him. After all that time, he was kissing you like it meant something, and it was easy to ignore the uncertain future when his hands were on you and he was licking his way into your mouth so good.

“After you left, I just thought-”

“You shouldn’t worry. You didn't do anything wrong.”

The burden of that morning comes creeping into your mind. He still sounds hurt talking about it, and you wouldn't hold it against him if he still resented you.

“I know you don't want to remember it.” His words are so quiet you almost break. He might’ve forgiven you, but you didn't mend the wound you left him with.

“It's not that. I-” You want to explain, but you can't finish the thought.

“It's okay.”

“But it's not!” The darkness allows you to speak your feelings out loud. In the pitch black of your room, no one can judge you. “I do remember it. Like, a lot. And it's embarrassing.”

From the other side of the line, only breathing sounds can be heard. You shouldn't have said anything. You need to learn to shut up and stop making everything weird.

“I remember it, too,” he replies, shy and quiet. “Every day.”

Oh. Goosebumps creep up your body, your blood sizzling traveling through your veins from head to toe.

You want to believe him so bad. “You don't have to say that just because I did.”

“I'm not. You need to stop putting words in my mouth.” Seokmin sounds severe, tired of going around circles but never getting to the point.

“I can't really see your reactions through a call.” You try to hide your nervousness behind a chuckle. “You could be making puking faces and I wouldn't know.”

“Isn't my word enough?”

“It's not. Sorry,” you chuckle again. What else can you do?

“Close your eyes,” he instructs.

“For what?” You ask, incredulously, but still do as he says.

“Close your eyes. Imagine me there, like we're talking face to face.” He sounds so calm, all while your thoughts reel looking for an answer as to what he's doing. “Are you laying down?”

“Yes.”

“What would you say if I was there?”

“I-I don't know.” Your voice shakes, anxious and expectant.

“If you were here with me, I'd be the happiest man in the world,” Seokmin admits, and your heart stops.

“Aren't you happy living your dream?”

“It's not the same if you're not here watching.”

“But you did well today!”

“And I wanted to celebrate with you. But you weren't there.” While the celebration seemed nice on TV, he's telling you another story. “I didn't go out with them. I came straight here to the hotel. I was about to call you when I saw your name on the screen.”

Your legs shake lightly with excitement. All that sadness you felt taking over you dissipated with each of his words.

“I missed you. So I called.”

“I'm glad you did.”

Ending the conversation at this moment, switching the topic even, would be the wise decision. You didn't have a single drop of alcohol, but your mouth is unrestricted.

“I wish I was there with you for real. Not in your imagination.” You swallow hard, but it's not enough to stop your blabbering. “I don't like not being with you.”

After a pause, Seokmin finally speaks up again, "You could be.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “I can't go to a race.”

“I don't mean to a race. Or at least, not just one.” You're speechless, scavenging in your mind for any other thing he could be talking about. At the silence, Seokmin continues, “You could be with me.”

“What are you saying? Seokmin, please.”

“C'mon,” he spits out, as if it was obvious. “You know.”

“Know what? I was just saying-”

“You know how I feel about you.”

—

The bed dipped where your bodies were tangled together. It was too hot, your skin glistening with sweat, but neither of you cared.

His arms wrapped around your waist, flushing your back against his chest to keep you from escaping. You were too sleepy to even think of the possibility. His steady breath and the beating of his heart were more calming than anything.

Nothing seemed real. Your eyelids felt heavy after being up all night, and you were sure the sun would come up any minute. Time, unfortunately, still moved.

You were almost drifting to sleep when you heard his voice.

“This,” his words slurred, as if he was on the verge of falling asleep, too. “This meant something right?”

You didn't know if he was awake, if he wanted an answer. He surely felt your lungs suddenly not filling with air.

“Yes,” you replied. Only with the lights turned off and in the limbo between days you could admit something like that.

“I don't think I can ever go back.”

—

For the tenth time in the night, your heart stops. You're shivering, beginning to sweat from the overwhelming sensation. For how much time have you waited to hear him tell you this?

“You can't say that. Not right now.”

“When should I? There's no such thing as the right time. I feel it, right now. I l-”

“Don't. Please, Seokmin,” you choke out, trying and failing to stop the cascade threatening to fall from your face. “We can't.”

“Why?” Your eyes are still closed, imagining his reactions like you've memorized his face and his every expression. “Why can't we try? Don't you feel it too?”

“It's not that simple.”

“But it is! Why are you so against it?”

“Because I don't want us to change!” You yell into the air. To him. Pleading to the universe.

“It won't. I know it won't because it never has.” Seokmin's not calm either. You can tell there's something brewing behind his thought out words. “I’ve liked you all this time, all these years. Since I was nobody and you insisted on coming to watch me get my racing license. You were the only one there, you were always the only one supporting me at the beginning.”

“I didn't say anything then because I didn't feel worthy. I never thought you'd look at me the way I looked at you. And that night,” he continues. “I kissed you that night because I wanted to since forever. You were acting like everything was going to change drastically, but my feelings weren’t going to. And they're still the same. You finally looked at me when I was leaving and I thought it was my last chance. Then, you wanted to act like nothing happened, and I accepted. I went on with it, thinking that at least I was still in your life. But it's not enough. It's not enough anymore.”

“Seokmin, please.” Tears stream down your face, nothing working to stop them. “I'd just hold you back.”

“Why? Why? I want this! I'm asking you!”

"Because! You're moving forward, doing something with your life, getting to where you always wanted, and I'm stuck here, studying like I've done all my life, watching everything from the sidelines.” Hiccups force you to take a breath, no matter how hard it is. “I'm not worth it. You should be with someone with a future. With someone you can hug, and kiss, and actually be with.”

“I don't want anyone else. I want you,” he pleads quietly. You're breaking him, again. “I don't care about having to video-call to talk. I'd gladly do it with you.”

“It might seem like enough now, but you'll get tired. We'd start hating each other for being busy the only time one of us had time.”

“You're always so pessimistic. We can make it work! We've been doing it for years now!”

“But it’s different. I-I don't think I could handle it.”

“Tell me. Tell me you don't want to be with me.” He asserts. Done. Tired. “But I can't go back to how it was. It'd hurt too much.”

Everything stops as his words settle in. You don't have any more teats to spill. The thing you feared became real. Your relationship isn't enough, he wants something you can't give him.

You clear your throat, “I'm sorry.”

You've said those words too many times to each other. But this time it's not to take what you did back. You know you're breaking his heart, but there's nothing else you can do.

“It's done then.”

You hope he doesn't hear you getting choked up. It's not fair to him when it's your fault.

“Goodbye,” It's a whisper of your name, but it hurts like a gunshot.

You start living zoned out. Seconds blend into hours and hours blend into days, seamless. Your body works on autopilot, repeating the same cycle day after day: go to classes, eat, sleep, repeat.

The past weeks were just a test, nothing compared to the real thing. Living a life knowing you will never have Seokmin by your side again.

Roughly two weeks have passed since the cursed phone call that changed it all. Two weeks since you had to admit the worst part of your insecure brain to him. Two weeks since you broke his heart. But you push through it, even if it seems like days will never have bright colors again.

From time to time, you check your phone in hope to find something, and disappointment is always the result. You've exchanged texts with Seungkwan, disclosing the least amount of detail possible to his gossiping self, but even if you want to believe things will get better, it never feels normal. He'll always be in Seokmin's team. Even him talking to you feels like treason.

Is there a world where this wasn't the end result? Maybe if you weren't a coward.

Stepping slowly on the grey cement, you get out of the library and see your bus speed away from your stop. Another small consequence of your actions. You've given up on anything working your way by now.

You wait for the next one with a blank mind. Standing at the bus stop, staring at your feet, you try to think of something that aren't Seokmin's last words to you, ever.

It's done then. They sounded so harsh at that moment, but the more you think about it, the more you realize how badly you hurt him. It was for the best, you think. It has to be. You're saving both of you from a worst heartbreak. If you let yourself fall more deeply, it'd hurt more. You can't handle that.

The Sunday sun makes your skin prickly with sweat. You didn't put in sunscreen before deciding to kill time in the library doing God knows what. A day full of regrets, it seems.

When you finally sit on the bus, some time later, you don't fight the urge to check on the latest sports related news. You aren’t in each other’s lives anymore, but that doesn’t mean you won’t check on his career. You’ll never stop supporting him.

Your Seokmin related news have been scarce since that call. Of course, you chose one of the few race free weekends to end your friendship. You knew how he spent his free weeks, but you didn’t hear anything about him either. You didn’t ask.

This week’s race was one Seokmin had been expecting since the first moment he got the news that he’ll be racing. The São Paulo Grand Prix was specifically hard for him. Not only is the weather in the region unpredictable, it’s also not located on flat ground, which means it follows the ups and down of hills, and it’s a counterclockwise circuit, which has different repercussions on the driver’s body.

You may not have hourly updates of his life anymore, but you’ve built an entire encyclopedia of Seokminisms. With the anxiety that comes with having to follow his team’s past success on the circuit, combined with the special training to get the body ready for the race, Seokmin probably hasn’t left the gym in days.

The race started while you were waiting on the sidewalk. Seokmin started at P10 and quickly gains a few spots as the laps progress, positioning P7 by the time you reach your home.

But, with all the sad groveling you’ve been doing, you haven’t checked São Paulo’s estimated climate for the weekend. You realize your mistake the second the sun stops illuminating your screen, replaced by a gray, worrying layer of clouds covering the sky. The narrators all comment on the weather change and the start of the rainfall, expected in the region at this time of the year.

Racing under the rain is normal, every driver has done it countless times. It's the decreasing ability to see past one meter ahead that worries you.

Your remote is in your hand the moment you sit on your couch, without even taking your outside clothes off. Your eyes glue to the screen. Seeing the amount of laps decrease without any incidents lets you breathe, but the anxiousness never leaves.

Seokmin manages to block drivers from passing him, and not even his rushed pit stop prevents him from staying within the scoring positions, but when he celebrates through the radio, you can almost hear the toll the circuit is taking on him. Racing counterclockwise pushes the driver's neck to the right, straining the body uncomfortably.

The storm worsens each minute that passes, and you wonder why they haven't stopped the race yet. With 5 laps left to finish, maybe there's hope it can be done. For a second, you think that too.

Seokmin overtakes another driver during the ‘S’ turn, officially positioning P5. Having just 4 laps left, it's basically his final position.

But the rain doesn't relent. If the hope was that the storm ended as a mere drizzle, everyone was wrong. The circuit and paddock were nearly invisible, cast aside by the blurring rain.

It happens before you even register what’s barely visible behind the rain.

Tyres squeak against the pavement, harsh and loud. No one knows what happened. The sports narrators describe the accident you can’t see, wondering which driver almost managed to finish the race.

The broken car’s color is barely recognizable. You listen attentively to each driver that stops racing, name after name hoping to hear Seokmin saying he’s at the pit stop.

“The back right tyre’s done for,” his voice gets picked up by the radio with a chuckle, followed by a choir of questions from his team.

You exhale for the first time in minutes. If he’s talking he must be okay. But you don't get to relax. No one knows what happened, or how badly the car or Seokmin were hurt.

The storm calms down just barely, but enough to see both the medical car and the safety car doing their respective jobs.

Seokmin is extracted from the car and instantly laid down on a gurney. The narrators explain the way his degraded tyres slipped on the wet asphalt and caused the car to run into the wall.

You analyze the repetition, now clearer thanks to the many angles the races are filmed in. Somehow, as the experts are explaining, Seokmin managed to turn the car in a way it wouldn't badly hurt him before it crashed. It could’ve been much worse.

But, even with every maneuver in the world, he still got carried to the hospital, and you have no way of knowing how he was. You couldn't ask him. You couldn't ask anyone.

Your TV is off the second the narrators change topics and the race resumes to the last laps. As the afternoon goes on after the race finishes without him, you stop caring about everything else. Anything that isn't news about Seokmin goes in through one ear and out the other.

Hours and hours pass with you debilitating your sense of sight by looking at your phone, searching news articles and social media for any kind of information. You get nothing, only people discussing the ending positions. How can no one worry about a driver getting injured?

You're about to give up when your ringtone catches your attention. You pick up instantly. “How is he?”

“He's at the hospital,” Seungkwan sighs. “They're just now allowing visitors.”

Okay. If they’re allowing people to see him, it probably means he’s not in need of intensive therapy. He’s okay.

You might be more relaxed, but there are still tons of questions to ask. “Are they making him stay the night? Is he hurt?”

“I don't know the extent of his injuries yet, I'm sorry.” Seungkwan sounds out of breath, like he’s pacing back and forth in the hallway.

“What happened?” You insist. “I couldn't see anything with the rain.”

“The team didn't manage the pit stops correctly and the car slipped with the wet floor.”

“So, his team and whoever decided that the race could continue with the storm are idiots.”

“Hey! I told them it wasn't safe?”

After watching so many races over the years, it became clear that when anything that could endanger the drivers came into play, the race would stop until it was safe. The weather in that region of Brazil might be unpredictable, but a storm is still a storm, and just thinking about Seokmin being as blind to the circuit as you were from the cameras puts a lump in your throat.

“I don’t understand how they allowed that.”

“Me neither, I swear.” Seungkwan sounds defeated.

Deep down you know he was probably fighting everyone on the paddock before the accident happened. He isn’t making jokes and teasing you like he usually would. You don’t want to fight.

“Can you just—let me know if he's okay?” You whisper, fearing that saying it out loud would trigger some response from the universe.

“Why don't you ask him yourself?”

“You know I can't do that,” you protest. “He hates me.”

He sighs and continues with a babying voice, “He doesn't hate you.”

“He does. Don't lie to me.”

Seungkwan is aware that you and Seokmin talked and essentially ended your friendship, but he doesn’t have a clue what you said to him, the way he pleaded for you to listen and how you refused. It hasn’t been long enough for him to even consider beginning to forgive you. And it’s okay. You did it knowing the consequences.

“You're so fucking stubborn,” Seungkwan mutters. “I can't believe I have to do something for you two to grow some balls.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” You must look crazy, pacing around your apartment screaming at the phone.

“You're coming here.”

“Here? To fucking Brazil?” He just hums as a reply. “Yeah, right.”

“You are. I'm booking you a plane ticket right now.”

He must be joking. “You're not.”

“Hell yeah I am! And I'm using his card, too.”

“That's called stealing. You know that, right.”

“Not if it's what Seokminnie really wants.”

His nickname being uttered pinches your heart. You want nothing more than to see him, to hug him and breathe him in. If these past two hours proved anything, it’s that being away from him and left out of what happens to him is hell on earth.

“I can't go there,” you repeat quietly. “He won't want to see me.”

“He will.” You sigh with hesitation, but Seungkwan interrupts you before you can object. “I won't tell you how he is if you don't come. And I'll pay the guys to not talk to you, too. Simple as that.”

“You can't be serious.”

The free trip offer starts sounding not too bad. You fear if he pushes you a bit further, you’ll accept. You’re weak when it comes to Seokmin and he knows that.

“I have never been more serious about something in my life.”

You sigh again, knowing you’re going to accept. It’s as simple as that, and you hate yourself for it. How are you going to get ready for the inevitable heartbreak that’ll come with seeing Seokmin face to face again?

“I'm going to punch you in the face when I see you.”

“And I'll gladly take it. After you talk to him.”

The doorknob is within reach from your hand, cold, taunting, and the thing that separates you from the one person you want to see the most.

For once, you forgot about your other responsibilities. You threw everything away and jumped on a plane on a Sunday afternoon to travel to the other side of the world. Currently, Seokmin's well-being is your top concern, above going to beginner college classes.

On the plane you could only think of that to say to him. Seeing him again was such a wild and foreign idea that, even standing with only a wall between him and you, it still doesn't seem real.

Hours in the sky didn't prepare you for shit, and the emptiness of the hallway gives you chills.

Your heart's pounding like you're being chased, with your hands sweaty and brain reeling. You're in no state to face the most important person in your life. You need to get it together.

Trying to accustom your brain to the high possibility of receiving a string of curses and screams, to be asked to get out and never return, is not hard. Hearing his voice will be enough. Knowing he's okay, at least physically.

After taking a deep breath, but not yet revealing yourself, you knock on the door as you open it slightly.

You hear Seokmin sigh before he says, “Soonyoung, I already told you I don't want—”

Whatever he was about to say gets cut off when you peek your head through the opening.

Seokmin's sitting with his back against the lifted bed, already dressed in his clothes and with no visible bruises or stitches. He's as shocked as you that you're entering his room, blinking rapidly trying to check if he's seeing correctly.

“Can I come in?” You ask, knowing there's a high possibility of being denied.

There's a beat of silence before he asks, “Why are you here?”

You take a step into the room, and when he doesn't tell you to get lost, you take it as a yes.

“I saw what happened.” You stand awkwardly away from his bed, searching for injuries on him and feeling his eyes going over you. “I was worried.”

“So you flew all the way here?” Of course, he's not convinced, especially after your last conversation.

“I wanted to see if you were okay,” you reply, but it's not the whole truth. “I wanted to see you.”

“There was no need for you to—”

“Well, I came.”

You stare at each other, trying to figure out what's going through the other's mind.

Now that he's in front of you, waiting for you to say something, words don’t want to form sentences in your mind. Whatever you planned to say disappeared the second his eyes laid on yours.

His silence is unnerving. Maybe you made a mistake. You'd rather him scream and tell you how much he hates you than being subjected to the icy quiet for any longer. What else were you expecting?

“I'm sorry—maybe I shouldn't have. I'll leave.”

You motion to turn around and leave. Seungkwan got you a back ticket for the next day. You can wait at a hotel until then.

Tears pool on your eyes as you begin to face the door. Everything moves at a slow pace. You saw him after months being away, and you're ending it once again.

“Wait! Wait a minute.” His voice freezes you in place. “Don't leave.”

“I should let you rest.” You turn halfway, still not facing him again. “You probably don't want to see me.”

“I'm glad you're here.”

For the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe. As you dare to look his way again, your lungs fill with air and a weight lifts off your shoulders.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you chuckle to hide your nervousness. “Are you hurt?”

“No, no. Just a few bruises on my left side. The circuit had nothing on me.”

You laugh with him, unsure of what's appropriate to say. Yes, he's an amazing driver, but you were still worried, and now you know he's okay. There isn't really anything else to do.

“It's okay if you hate me,” you blurt out.

Because it is. You can't expect him to be forgiving just ‘cause you showed up at the hospital. It's not fair to him.

“You don't get it,” he sighs and pushes himself up the bed. “I don't.” 

“I was awful to you and now I have the nerve to show up! I wouldn't hold it against you if you did.”

Seokmin walks towards you, casting his shadow on the white cemented floor. You can't look down for long, because his form blocks any other view and his scent and warmth touches your skin, erupting goosebumps all across your body.

Your throat threatens to close. It's hard to swallow with the rush of emotions taking over you.

Before he can speak, the door behind you opens and reveals one of the nurses. For a second, you forgot you were in a public place in another country.

“You're officially discharged, Mr. Lee. Is this who'll be taking you home?” She points at you.

You look at him, perplexed. He doesn't even have to stay the night. Seungkwan played you. He made you worried sick, he flew you here in a rush, for the whole thing to be over after a few hours. He'll pay for this.

The nurse taps her foot against the floor, waiting for an answer. “I am. Yes.”

It's a quiet taxi ride to the hotel Seokmin's staying in. The unsaid words between you are for no one else to hear. Not the driver, not the hotel staff, not even the hot air engulfing the hallway.

When the door clicks closed behind you, you rush to place all his things on the couch –because of course he booked a room with a full living room.

“I could've got my stuff, you know. I didn't break both arms.”

“You should rest for a few days.”

Seokmin stands behind you, waiting for you to quit stalling and face him again. His presence is all too ominous, drawing heat up your body.

But you can't deal with the pressure. “I'll leave you to it.”

He grabs your hand, keeping you from running away. “Why did you come?” He asks, voice too close to you.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” you whisper back, turning around slowly.

“And hopping on a plane and coming to São Paulo was your first choice? You could've texted me.”

His eyes bore holes on the top of your head as you avoid his stare. Analyzing the room is much more important than catching his eyes and melting right into his hold.

“I wasn't sure if you'll reply.”

“Then, you could've texted anyone else.”

“It's not the same.”

Seokmin's hands creep up your arms, boiling your blood everywhere he touches. When he reaches your neck, his fingers tilt your jaw up to finally meet your eyes.

Everything you expected to see in his eyes, from disappointment to dislike, or even repulsion, it's not there. His expression is as soft as ever, except for the faintest smirk forming in one corner of his mouth. Not that you're looking.

“Why did you come?”

“You know why.”

Words were never your strong suit, especially not when the man you love is staring down at you like you hold the secrets of the universe. After all this time, how can he not know?

“I don't. That's why I'm asking.”

You roll your eyes playfully, falling into his trap too easily.

“I missed you. Is that what you want to hear?” He's smug as he nods and urges you to keep going. “I hate being away from you. Because, I am my own person, but I don’t know how to live if it's not with you and your stupid smile by my side.”

“I have a stupid smile?”

“Very stupid.”

You chuckle together, chests almost colliding from the closeness. He isn't stepping away. You don't want to either.

“I'm sorry—for the other day.” You see his expression fall into seriousness.

“You don't have to apologize.”

“No. I do.” Your hand in his chest stops him from contradicting you. “I shouldn’t have acted out like that. Not after we slept together, and especially not during that call. I got scared and I was selfish to think that it was the only way I could save myself from being hurt. And I know I keep fucking everything up, hurting you and then apologizing. I don't know how you have it in you to keep wanting to see me even when you hate me, but I'm also selfishly happy that you do.”

“That's where you keep getting it wrong.”

Standing in the middle of the empty room, you're trapped between his hands and the weight of his following words.

“You didn't let me finish what I wanted to say that day,” he continues. “I don't know why you're scared to hear me say it, but now that you're here, I think it's because you're ready to.”

Seokmin breathes in and out, giving you time to reject him. You want nothing more than to hear those few words.

“I love you. I've loved you for years and I have never stopped. I don't think I'm capable of feeling any other way about you.”

The four walls surrounding the both of you suffocate you. Breathing takes double the effort after hearing the words you've been chasing for years.

When his thumb caresses your cheek, you realize he's wiping off the tears running down your face.

“Don't leave. Stay with me tonight.”

Not trusting your ability to speak at the moment, you only nod and let him lead you to the bedroom, after ensuring you're leaving your bag with his stuff.

Getting into bed with him feels just as natural as it feels like the most anxiety inducing thing you did ever in life. While your pajamas consist of old stretched clothes that don't fit anymore, his is only a pair of shorts. Nothing else.

Inside the covers, your bodies are drawn together like magnets, and your head's suddenly laying on his bare chest. His steady breathing could soothe any worry. You'd drift to sleep if it wasn't for the little time you have together.

His hand searches for yours and interlocks your fingers right above his stomach. All so intimate, but for once, you don't want to run away.

“Are you missing class tomorrow?” He asks, breaking the comfortable silence of the night.

“Hmm, yeah, my flight back leaves at night.”

With your eyes closed, you feel his light chuckle against your cheek.

“Miss goody two shoes skipping an entire day of class? For me?”

“Oh, shut up!”

You aim to hide your face behind your hands, but he grabs your wrist before you even get the chance to. With his other hand, he lifts your chin up, once again connecting your eyes.

The yellowy lamp on the nightstand highlights the feature on his face. His high cheekbones take the cake, pinkish red due to the warm temperatures. You see his eyes going over your face too.

Your shy smile dies below his stare. A thousand thoughts run inside his mind, unsure of everything.

“Have I told you how happy I am that you're here?”

His voice, so soft and honest, melts you in place. You feel giddy all around, being with him so comfortably. Weeks ago you might’ve been panicking in the same scenario, but every minute it passes, your decision becomes clearer and clearer.

“Happy enough that you won't mind that Seungkwan used your card to pay for my plane tickets?”

“I knew I shouldn’t have given it to him for those discounts he wanted.”

You chuckle. “You're a good friend. To everyone and to me.”

“A good friend, huh?” Seokmin's hands drift down to your hips and lift you until you're on top of him. “I don't think you'd allow any friend to touch you like this.”

He traces your back, feeling your hot skin as his hands drift inside your t-shirt. Your eyes almost close with a sigh, but the sight of him under you is one you don't want to miss a second of.

His bare chest under your touch rises and falls as he thinks of a witty answer. Your fingers go over his skin, finding every mole on his torso and wishing you were the only to have seen them.

“What do you want to be, then? The ‘best friend’ title is already yours.”

“The one that starts with ‘boy’.”

“Boy best friend?”

It's fun to tease him, more so when you seem to be in charge of the situation. But, without changing his position or his tone of voice, he manages to flip that around.

With all this time away, you forgot Seokmin is not who he always seems. He's kind and infectiously happy, but he's also a man that frequents the gym and knows his effect on you.

When he pushes your hips down on his groin, your little shorts and his paper-thin sleeping shorts let you feel just how much he wants you.

“Fuck,” you mumble, and it's clear he got what he wanted.

One hand caresses the side of your face, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear before he says.

“You're really pretty.”

If he can't see the wave of warmness across your face, you're sure he can feel it.

“I didn't even put make-up on before coming ‘cause I was in such a rush.”

“You sooo care about me.”

Your jaw and your neck and your nape, all fall into the trap of his touch. His magnetism almost controls you, lowering your face slowly, entranced by the way his lips move.

You kiss the corner of his mouth. Then, you kiss up his jaw and both his cheeks. He chases your lips but you manage to avoid him, save for the faintest graze when you speak.

“And you sooo love me.”

Seokmin hums in response, letting you have your teasing moment back. He doesn't know that you're trembling inside, feeling his length twitching under you with just a few kisses.

“Are you going to let me kiss you or should I beg?” The breathless question almost leaves you speechless.

“Only if you promise to never stop.”

“You're gonna have to restrain me, then.”

“I bet you'd like that.” 

Seokmin breaks the tension, pushing your neck down and finally connecting your lips after so long.

Neither of you waste time, delving into the kiss like starved people. You don't know how you lived this long away from him after learning how he tasted.

Teeth clash as your limbs tangle together trying to feel every bit of skin you can. You grind against his bulge shamelessly, earning groan after groan into your mouth. He doesn't stop you.

The few layers between your cores allow you to feel everything. Your already damp panties stick to your folds with his shape dragging along.

You moan in each other’s mouths, desperately seeking to satisfy the fire growing inside you. His arms hold you impossibly closer, keeping you in place as his tip presses against your clit over the clothes.

“Seok—what the fuck.” You're breathless, with your body flushed with embarrassment at how quickly he's able to get you to the edge without even touching you properly.

You hide your face on the side of his neck as he keeps going. You let him get off against you, feeling his cock grow with every day of his hips and every moan you don't contain.

“Can you come like this?” The broken words struggle to leave him between the light grunts he lets out.

“I don't want—” His hand going under your shorts cut your words off.

In between your sweaty bodies, Seokmin found a way past your inner thighs and now plays with his fingers against your drenched panties. He sneaks past the last bit of fabric and coats his digits with your arousal.

“Fuck, baby, already?”

You can't find it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Not when you feel the rapid beating of Seokmin’s heart as he feels just how much you crave for his touch.

Your nails claw on his shoulders as he prods two digits on your entrance, warm and ready for him since that first time not long ago.

“I've thought about this every day for months,” he admits as your walls clamp around his fingers. “Having you like this.”

“Really?”

If he responds, it sounds like mumbling nonsense to you. You're barely registering his words, concentrating on his long fingers reaching places not even you could.

Your body doesn't give any of you a warning before you start trembling on top of Seokmin. He curls his digits to take you further into the moment and doesn't stop until you're coating his entire hand.

You ride the orgasm down as he kisses your shoulder, so sweetly one wouldn't think he still has two digits buried inside you, taunting your sensitive walls.

With all the strength you can gather, you get up from the bed, feeling empty at the loss of him. You take off your t-shirt and shorts in one go, leaving only the ruined panties on.

“Don't just stare at me,” you say with your most playful tone you can manage. “Get a condom or this isn't happening.”

Your voice draws him out of the trance he was in, looking at you.

“Right, yeah, right.” He scrambles to get up and find his discarded pants. “I think I had one here.”

Now back on the bed, you take his place as he breaks open the plastic packet he found in one of his pockets. You watch him pull his shorts down and puts the condom on like eye candy as your body prepares for him.

Seokmin crawls on the bed, kissing up your thigh and stomach until you're face to face.

“The doctor said you should rest,” you giggle as he pecks your lips and wraps your legs around his hips.

You clamp against nothing as Seokmin kisses you deeply once more. His hard glides along your sensitive core, but you want more.

“The doctor didn't know I'd have a pretty girl in my arms.”

He kisses down your neck as his protected length coats with your arousal, pressing your wet folds and swollen clit and making you moan into the air.

“Stop playing with me.”

Seokmin chuckles against your chest at your plea, his breath fanning over the damp spots he's leaving on your skin. Every fire he ignites sends waves of heat through your body down to where your cores meet.

“Look who's begging now.”

“I don't beg. I demand.”

You feel his tip just barely poking at your entrance, so close yet so far from what you need. He pins you down with his whole body, rendering you incapable of doing anything else than taking his teasing.

“Hmm,” he hums against your throat, liking up your jaw until his lips press against your earlobe.

Your warmness welcomes him as he stretches you open slowly. Seokmin's long fingers weren't enough to prepare you to be filled by his hardness again.

Every time your mind wandered to that first night, worried but needy at the same time, you spent longing to feel him against you. But you weren't ready for his cock to carve space for his shape to fit in.

“Shit,” he half moans in your ear.

But his noises just turn you on more. Your insides hug him tight in place, and you can feel his dick twitch every time he tries to move.

He snaps his hips back until he's almost all the way out of you. “Min–”

“I'm giving you what you wanted, baby.”

His hips pound against yours, hard, filling you up to the hilt again. The bed squeaks below you as he starts thrusting mercilessly.

A choir of grunts and moans echo around the walls, over and over as Seokmin reaches every spot to make you scream. and scream you do.

You scream his name like a mantra, no longer afraid of the meaning of what you're doing. You allow yourself to feel everything he gives you. Every thrust, every moan, every sweet word in your ear. You're ready for him. All of him and what it entails.

When you rake your nails down his back, he loses control of his thrusts. Your touch sends him to another plane, where he can't control the way he moves or thinks. “Oh my God!” You roll your eyes back at the new added pleasure.

Seokmin's thumb circles your clit slowly, contradicting the menacing pace of his hips. He pushes every button to make you squirm, to squeeze around him harder and harder until he has to push your walls open. It's too much. It's everywhere and nowhere. Your mind and body are focused on reaching the fireworks that Seokmin strokes and strokes to explode.

Everything combines in one deliberate stroke that has you seeing stars, trembling under Seokmin's body uncontrollably.

He whispers praise in your ear as he keeps thrusting in his search for his orgasm. Your gummy walls, sensitive and still wanting, quiver around him, making it hard for him to continue his pace. But it's not hard for him to cum into the condom after you egg him on.

This time, when he gets up to clean the both of you, there isn't a single drop of panic creeping up on you. And if there were, you wouldn't let it.

“I hope you're not getting any ideas,” Seokmin chuckles as he gets back under the covers with you. “I have one idea. But you're gonna like this one. I promise.”

He stretches his arm for you to lay your head on and you happily comply. You accept his every act of affection, his soft caresses on your sides, his kisses on the top of your head. You even proudly wear the big shirt he gave you.

“What's on your mind?” He asks, a bit scared. “There’s something I haven't told you.”

The truth at the tip of your tongue draws heat up your body. He just saw you naked and kissed every inch of your body, but this is another kind of bare.

He waits for you to continue, and you hide your face from his too kind eyes.

“As you know, I've been letting all the scary thoughts I had dictate my life decisions.” He hums, and you go on. “But, I've been so scared of losing you, that I thought I'd be easier if it was my fault. I couldn't stand the thought of drifting apart without reason, so I made one up.”

“We were never going to-”

“Shut up.” You shut his mouth with your hand. “I know that now. I'm getting there!”

“Anyway, you showed me that I had nothing to be afraid of. You kept giving me opportunities even when I didn't deserve them and I realized that my paranoia warped my image of you to someone you really weren't. And I can't believe that I believed that for so long.”

You chuckle with nervousness and finally look him in the eyes.

“I love you, too.” A tear runs down your cheek. Seokmin caresses the side of your face but doesn't interrupt you. “I don't know when it started, because it's so natural to me that I feel like I've always loved you. The truth is, I can't see myself with anyone else. It's always been you.”

There it is. You poured your whole heart out and the world as you know it it's still the same.

Seokmin closes the small distance between you, kissing your tears away. He wasn't spooked, he didn't run like you always imagined.

“I really needed to get that out before I fell asleep,” you find it in you to chuckle.

His two hands hold your face. You look straight at him, the first time you can't decipher what he's thinking. The wrinkles by his eyes make an appearance before he cracks into a smile. Your favorite smile of his.

“I'll tell you that I love you everyday if that's what you need. Every hour. Every minute, even.” He tucks your hair behind your ears, so there's nothing in the way between your eyes and his.

“I'd like that very much.”

A shower of pecks comes your way. “I love you.” One on your lips.  “I love you.” One on both your cheeks. “I love you.” And one on your nose. Just everywhere. You giggle and fight for a way away from his trap, but he's decided.

“Will you be my long term, long distance, low commitment, casual girlfriend?”

You were about to cry your eyes out again,  but instead you frown in confusion. “What the hell is that?”

“You don't know that line? It's from the Barbie movie!”

“When did you watch the Barbie movie?”

“My teammate’s daughter forced me once.” He joins you as you laugh hysterically. “But seriously, will you be my girlfriend?”

You think about it. For real this time. With no self-sabotage and the real Seokmin sitting in front of you.

You nod eagerly and kiss him again, knowing it's the first kiss of millions you'll share with him forever.

“I can't believe I'm officially a WAG!”

“Okay, now where did you learn that term?”

note: thank you so much for reading! this last scene wasn't proof read, so, i'm really sorry if it has any mistakes :(

The track winds around the Hard Rock Stadium; you literally couldn’t miss it. You filmed a few shots with Wonwoo around the track, the aqua blue surrounding it fitting the whole Miami vibe: palm trees and sunny skies, a clear contrast from where you and Joshua grew up.

“Did we get everything here?” Wonwoo asks, lowering his camera.

“Yeah,” you nod slowly, glancing around the track. “Mr. Hong should be heading to the media room like his assistant said.”

“Why do you keep calling Joshua ‘Mr. Hong?” Wonwoo chuckles with a teasing glint in his eyes. “It’s so formal and stuffy. Relax a little.”

“Pfft, I am relaxed,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms defensively. “We aren’t exactly friends, you know.”

If only Wonwoo knew why you were keeping it professional, why you’ve been trying your hardest to keep your distance.

“Sure,” he raises an eyebrow, a skeptical smile on his lips. “One day, you’ll tell me why you’re acting all cagey.”

Wonwoo has this uncanny ability to read people well, and you wish, at this very moment, you could turn it off. He’s been your right-hand man since you’ve been with this company. You work well together and consider him a close friend.

“I am not acting cagey!” you huff. “We’re done here. Let’s go get some film in the garage and then meet Mr. Hong after .” You leave no room for debate, and Wonwoo doesn’t press it further.

You offer to help Wonwoo with the equipment, but he shakes his head, motioning for you to go ahead without him. As you scan your surroundings, your eyes wander aimlessly until they settle on the row of garages, each numbered from 1 to 36. Small beads of sweat form on your forehead as Florida's humid weather makes you instantly regret wearing anything but white. The air is thick and heavy, adding to your discomfort as you navigate through the scene.

“Garage number 17… where are you—”

Your breath falters, forcing you to a complete stop. There he was, your former high school sweetheart, no longer the scrawny kid you were madly in love with. He’s taller, more handsome, with broader shoulders, and sports a black undercut that suits this new man he’s become. You stand there for a moment, studying him in awe as he talks to his teammates, Lee Jihoon and Lee Chan, two equally attractive men who lean against the table as they engage in a deep conversation.

You involuntarily shift your leg, making your presence known earlier than you would’ve liked. Fuck.

“S-sorry,” you sputter, your nerves getting the best of you. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.”

“No, no, it’s fine. We were finishing up anyway,” Jihoon says, dusting the back of his pants. “You’re—”

“Birdie.”

Hearing your childhood nickname from Joshua’s lips brings chills throughout your body. You remember when he gave you that nickname in elementary school when you claimed during recess that you could fly and jumped off a tree. Needless to say, you did not fly; instead, you ended up with a fractured wrist and a bruised ego. But Joshua was impressed anyway, saying you were trying to leave your nest and soar like the pretty bird you were. You were his pretty bird.

“Hi, Joshua,” you say slowly. “It’s been a while.”

“Yes, it has.”

You can hear it in his voice and see it in his eyes. It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, how well you have progressed in your respective careers, or how well he masks it; the hurt and pain are still there.

“Birdie?” Wonwoo’s voice creeps up behind you.

“Yeah,” Joshua smiles. “It was a nickname I gave her when we were kids. She loved to spread her wings and fly, be damned who she left behind.”

You still, detecting the venom wrapped in his seemingly nice statement. Maybe you deserve that.

“Okay, then,” Jihoon speaks up, dissipating the thickening tension that was starting to take over. “I will leave you to it.”

He claps his hands together and leaves with Chan, nodding to you and Wonwoo before exiting the garage. You turn to Wonwoo, who returns your gaze with raised eyebrows, your face heating with embarrassment. You didn’t expect Joshua to welcome you with open arms, but you have never experienced him being… mean, especially to you.

“I was told that I could meet you at the media room,” You gesture towards the garage. “We were just going to get some quick films before we met with you.”

Being near him again made you anxious; your already sweaty hands getting clammier by the minute. The way his eyes peered into your soul made you uncomfortable, like he was reading the deepest parts of your mind and trying to uncover your secrets.

“I’ll meet you there,” Joshua announces, walking off before you can respond with a simple “okay.”

You glance over at Wonwoo, who gives you a subtle, sympathetic smile. “You good?” he mouths.

You nod stiffly, rubbing your temples. He didn’t check to see if you were coming; despite it being a record-high day in temperature, the iciness in his interaction made it clear: Joshua Hong absolutely hates your guts.

Joshua is rattled. He knew a documentary was being filmed and that he would have to answer a few questions about his life and his passion for driving for the team. But he didn’t know that it would be you, of all people, taking charge of this. When you arrived at the garage, you caught him off guard, and a flood of emotions washed over him. He was happy to see you at first, your sunny disposition brighter than anything the sun could put out.

But then he remembered you left him.

That happiness turned into indifference and then hurt. Anger even. You were supposed to be the one he was supposed to spend his life with. The person he was supposed to grow old with, marry, and have kids with. He wanted a future with you, and you disappeared without even telling him goodbye. He hasn’t had a serious relationship since, and he has come close, but he decided in the end that they would all spread their wings and fly away like you did. You did the one thing that he was afraid of the most: being left behind.

Shaking his head, he entered the press room, where he found controlled air and silence as he waited for your arrival. He was glad no one was there, as it allowed him to recollect his thoughts and rein in his emotions for the interview. Sitting on the sectional sofa, he cocks his head back, replaying the interaction in his head over and over again. He knows he was a dick, it’s unlike him, and he should apologize, but it felt good, so good, to give you an inkling of what he felt when you ghosted him.

After a moment of silence, the door opened, and you stepped through, followed by Wonwoo and his equipment. Your eyes met briefly before he looked away, your makeup concealing the slight redness and puffiness around your eyes. Shit, he cursed to himself. Did he make you cry?

“Hey—”

“I’ll be asking you about your journey into racing,” you talked over him, keeping your tone bright and professional like nothing happened. “Your career with Mercedes, your thoughts on this season.”

“Ah, so the easy stuff,” Joshua remarked.

You gave him a kind smile that didn’t meet your eyes and nodded, returning your attention to Wonwoo as he finished setting up his camera. He felt a dull ache in his stomach, slowly regretting the way he had treated you earlier.

Joshua couldn’t help but watch you as you paced back and forth, reading your notes. You weren’t the baby bird he knew you to be all of these years ago. No, you were more beautiful than ever— your navy blue button-up and white jeans filled you out in all the right places. And despite everything that had happened, he found himself wanting you more than he could have imagined.

“Okay, we’re going to get started,” you announced, taking a seat on the sofa that positions you off-camera. “Are you ready?”

“Ready as I have ever been.”

Joshua noticed you bit your lip, and a slight smirk curved on his mouth. You still have the same mechanisms when you’re nervous.

“What drew you to racing in the first place? Was there a specific moment or person that sparked the dream?”

He should have seen that coming. He lay back slightly, thinking over his answer carefully. “My parents took me to a birthday party at a place that had go-karts. My mom didn’t want me to drive one, but my dad insisted, and something sparked in me when I got behind the wheel and drove around the track. I felt alive.”

You nodded, jotting down some notes on your scrub pad, your gold bracelets clinging against each other. “So it’s pretty safe to say that racing is something that you have always wanted to do, right?”

“Yeah, it’s the one consistent thing that has made me happy. My mom didn’t want me to race. She thought it was too dangerous, and my car would blow up or something like that. But I had someone in my corner who believed in me. She said I had a fire in me that deserved to be shown to the world. I believed her, and it got me where I am.”

He watched you shift uncomfortably in your seat, your foot tapping lightly against the floor as you purposely avoided his gaze, keeping your eyes on your clipboard.

“People talk about how easy it is to get caught up in the noise of the sport and how isolating it can be. How do you overcome that?”

Joshua shifted in his seat, fingers drumming on the table. He took a deep breath, furrowing his brow as he gathered his thoughts. “I learned how to tune out the noise and, eventually, the silence too. It’s easy to do when you see people and things for who they are.”

You paused, finally meeting his gaze. “Has something happened that gave you that mindset?”

“Yeah, there’s something that comes to mind.”

Joshua caught a flicker in your gaze, the way your eyelids dulled slightly as your breath hitched, and Joshua knew in that moment that you knew exactly what he meant.

“You’ve become a fan favorite on and off the track, the face of the Mercedes team. Do you think your public image matches who you are privately?”

Joshua lets out a throaty laugh. “I only let people see what I want them to see. They can come to their conclusions, but ultimately, I know who I am.”

You nodded, scribbling on your pad again. “Is it hard, keeping the two separate?”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “I am conscientious about my life and who I let in. Past experiences have made it that way.”

His mouth twitched at the edges— half amusement, half sadness. Ever since you left, he has made it a point not to let anyone get close like you did. At that level of heartbreak and pain, he vowed never to experience it again.

“This is one of the biggest races in your career. This track is the very track where you won for the first time. How does it feel, coming back here again?”

“This may sound off, but it feels like home. I keep thinking about that moment when I raced to the finish line and held my trophy. I have had many since then, but this one is undoubtedly my favorite.”

“I can imagine how this one would be your favorite,” you agreed, tapping your pen on your knee.

“How would you know?”

He regretted those words the second they came out of his mouth. He didn’t mean to let his thoughts and feelings exude through this interview. But how would you know what that felt like for him? You weren’t here to witness his rise to glory and see where he is now.

“Joshua…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” he raked his fingers through his hair. “Do you have any more questions?”

You stared at your pad, drawing a hard line on the paper. “Yes, one more.”

Joshua nodded as a gesture for you to continue. You took a deep breath, slowly gazing at you as you prepared the last question.

“If you could go back to your younger self, the little boy who grew up in a small town and dreamed of racing around the world and taking care of his family, what advice would you give to yourself?”

This question hurt the most. He doesn’t speak at first, staring at the carpet a second too long. It feels like the air suddenly got thin, slowly suffocating him on the inside. There are so many things he would tell his younger self— about love, losing a parent, and what his life would become. But one thing sticks out the most:

“I would say, ‘Don’t count on forever. Forever isn’t promised to anyone, and people can change their minds and fly away, like birds when the seasons change.’ ”

When he finally looked at you, he saw it— the tiny shift in your posture, the flicker of guilt in your eyes. This was supposed to make him feel good, taking silent jabs that only you would understand. But instead, he sits there, feeling worse than before.

“That’s a wrap,” Wonwoo said softly from behind the camera, turning it off.

Joshua stands abruptly, his throat tight and dry from thirst. Making his way to the door, he looks back at you again, whose eyes meet your eyes as she gives you a curt nod.

“Thank you, Joshua, for your time.”

He nodded and exited the press room, wanting to get as far away from here as possible. He needs a distraction.

Do you still love Joshua? Honestly, you don’t know.

But being around him is stirring up feelings that you thought you had buried and gotten over a long time ago. One look in his eyes reminds you of the time he finally worked up the nerve to ask you to be his girlfriend in the sixth grade. Or when he kissed you for the first time while you were eating ice cream at the local beach. Or when you both graduated from high school and he drove you up to the mountain late at night, overlooking the view of the city, where you promised each other forever. You had it good, so good, but you chose to leave to discover who you were as a person and reach new heights. To soar.

And you did that. You’re one of the most sought-after filmmakers in the world. You don’t regret it, and you have definitely lived, but sometimes, in the back of your mind, you wonder what it could’ve been if you had stayed? Could you have been a WAG?

The thought makes you shudder.

“You good, boss?”

Looking up from your phone, you gaze at Wonwoo, who is slowly putting away his equipment.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat. “I’m good. It’s just been a long day.”

“An eventful one, I would say.”

You raise your brows at him, who smirks and shakes his head. “When were you going to tell me you used to date the face of the Mercedes F1 team?”

“Never,” you mutter, exhaling deeply. “I just thought I could get through this project and move on, like everything else.”

Wonwoo lets out a low whistle, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder. “Well, the thing about the past catching up with you is that it doesn’t care about production time.”

“What did I do to deserve this?” You let out a weak laugh, followed by an exasperated sigh. You both step out of the press room, the Miami heat clinging to your skin even though the sun has already started to set. You are thoroughly exhausted, and your thoughts are balled together in a clusterfuck.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Wonwoo says softly, placing a supportive hand on your shoulder. “It’s obvious there is some history there, and you don’t have to tell me anything, but maybe try talking to him? See if you can clear the air?”

“I’ll have better luck parting the Red Sea,” you quip, shaking your head. “I’ll just have to push through. It can’t get worse than this, right?”

Wonwoo shrugs and walks with you to the parking lot, the sky shifting into the blue hour. The wind slightly blows, and the smell of the ocean and palm trees surrounds you as you walk to your car. In the distance, you hear an engine roar, and instinctively, you look up, seeing Joshua on the other side, accompanied by a woman in a dress a little too tight, hanging over his shoulder. You know you shouldn’t care; it’s been years. But your heart still constricts, and the dull ache in your stomach becomes stronger.

“Are you okay?”

You gaze at Wonwoo, who gives you a sympathetic smile.

“Let’s just get out of here.”

The hotel room was heavy with humidity and the echo of last night’s choices. Joshua stirred in his sleep, dreaming of one of the best nights of his life. 

It’s the night of your graduation, and he took you to the spot you claimed for many years as your own: the lookout. It was the edge of the mountain that overlooked the small town you were from. You could see your high school, the beach, and if you squinted hard enough, your houses. It was your favorite place to be. You were barefoot on the hood of his beat-up car, chin tilted toward the stars, a locket glinting softly at your throat. Joshua sat beside you, one knee up, his hand warm where it brushed yours—careless, then intentional, then still.

“I love you,” Joshua murmured, looking at you like you were the constellations themselves.

“I know, silly.” You rolled and faced him, your index finger caressing the right side of his cheek. “I love you, too.” 

Joshua leaned in and kissed you, the feeling of your lips against yours setting his soul on fire. The ring he planned to propose to you with burned in his pocket, and it took all the restraint in the world to not pull it out and put it on your finger. But deep down, he knew that night was not the time, and he would savor the idea of marrying you just a little bit longer. 

“I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.” 

You didn’t say a word back; you just kissed and kissed until you both felt content, cuddling underneath the stars. Joshua felt like he could fly with you that night, and he would have never imagined that shortly after, you would be the one to clip his wings. 

Bzzt Bzzt!

The constant vibration of his phone on the nightstand woke him from his slumber, relentless in its rhythm, until he groggily reached for it and pressed the side button. Joshua lay flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face, blocking the sliver of sunlight that seeped through the blinds. The brunette beside him, Trixie, was still asleep; her perfume clinging to the sheets like a reminder he hadn’t asked for.

He stared at the ceiling, nursing a slight headache and an aching heart. He was supposed to have moved on by now, evolved, and left you behind. Content. But now you are back in his orbit, disturbing his peace, consuming his every thought. Not even his dreams are safe—you, laughing in the passenger seat with your shoes off, legs on the dash. You, tearing up as you watched the town sparkle like it was yours for the taking. You leaving a couple of months later without a goodbye. His mother’s voice is in his head, telling him she will find someone better for him and that you were never good enough. She never did, and he wasn’t surprised; no one could measure up to you, and he gave up on even trying.

His phone buzzed again on the nightstand. Tiredly, he reached for it, swiping open the text message from Jihoon. 

Jihoon: Press day. Meet by the paddock entrance at 12.

Joshua reacted with a thumbs-up to the message, watching as the bubbles of an incoming message from Jihoon followed. 

Jihoon: What’s the situation with 'Birdie’?

Joshua stared at the screen, unsure how to answer that. He can barely wrap his head around it himself, let alone have the extra brain power to explain it. 

Ignoring the message, he exhaled and sat up slowly. Trixie stirred beside him but didn’t wake. He padded into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He turns on the shower, stepping in and letting the hot water hit his head and the rest of his body. It didn’t do shit to clear his head as he stood there, thinking of you and the way you looked yesterday in those white jeans. 

He noticed you kept your distance, as if you were doing him a favor, as if professionalism could mask the history you shared with each other. As if you hadn’t been told that they were going to be together forever and that he was the one for you. Like you didn’t vanish without even having the decency to call, text, hell, even send a letter. 

Joshua dragged a hand through his hair, his jaw clenched as he remembered the slight hitch in your breath when he said your name yesterday. Birdie. He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Not really. But the way you froze? The way guilt flickered across your face before you smoothed it away with a fake smile?

It felt good… And then it felt awful.

“G’morning, handsome,” a voice lifted behind him, light as sugar.

Trixie stepped into the shower without invitation, wrapping her arms around Joshua with her bare chest pressed against his back. She smelled of roses and vodka, something that he was pretty used to. Trixie was a friend he could see whenever he wanted to have some fun and release some stress. Trixie didn’t expect anything but a good time and occasionally a conversation. She was familiar and easy to get along with, which he appreciated.

Trixie placed kisses on his neck, her hand moving with purpose along his cock and stroking him slowly. He didn’t stop her.

His breath stuttered, and he relaxed, allowing her to please him in the way she knows how, whispering dirty things in his ear.

“Were you thinking about me?”

He didn’t answer; he didn’t need to. Trixie worked her hands like magic, kissing his neck the right way and bringing him temporary bliss. When he came, he let out a low groan, spilling himself all over her hand, dripping onto the shower floor. He was supposed to feel lighter and better, and yet he feels more hollow than before.

“You’re normally not this serious after blowing a load,” Trixie giggled, already grabbing the body wash.

Joshua forced a smile. “I guess I am still waking up.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, lathering the sponge and washing his back. “When are you gonna stop playing and lock me down?”

Joshua turned his head toward her, offering a smirk he didn’t mean.

“Now, baby…”

Trixie rolled her eyes and laughed. “I know, I know. Can’t blame a girl for tryin’.”

She kissed his jaw and finished washing up, leaving him in the steam of the shower and his own thoughts. He exhaled, glancing at the fogged-up mirror across from him. His reflection was a blur, but even through the dissipating steam, he did not recognize himself. 

The golden hour light shines through your hotel bedroom as you sit on the bed, reviewing footage from the documentary. You’ve been at it for hours, combing through every shot and finding yourself stuck at the interview portion, where you were face-to-face with Joshua. 

Joshua is very handsome on camera and even better looking in person. It’s almost too easy to fall for his charms, his smile, and his soft, spoken voice, but you know him. Watching the scene, he seemed polite, but you couldn’t help but jump at the subtle jabs he took at you. “I am conscientious about my life and who I let in. Past experiences have made it that way,” and “Don’t count on forever. Forever isn’t promised to anyone, and people can change their minds and fly away, like birds when the seasons change.” Those sentences haven’t left your mind since. It didn’t help that he practically stormed out of there after the interview was done, leaving nothing but a trail of ice in his wake. 

You would be a liar if you didn’t admit to yourself that you hadn’t thought about him over the years, wondered how he was doing. Missed him even. Of course, you see him in the news, and your family still lives in your hometown, so you hear tidbits about him here and there. But it’s not the same as talking to him, getting into his mind, and seeing how he is doing firsthand. You know, ultimately, you made the right choice by not staying in that small town and pursuing your dreams, but you never wanted to hurt Joshua. You loved him, and all these years later, as much as he hates you, you still care about him. 

He was your best friend, the one person you had on this Earth that you could tell anything to, and he would never judge you. He never told you a lie, loved you like no other, and made you feel safe. Yes, you were teenagers then, but it didn’t feel like teenage love; it felt like destiny. That’s why it was hard to tell you wanted to leave and pursue your dreams of filmmaking. You knew if you told him, he would drop everything for you, and you would not be the reason why he didn’t soar on his own to be who he is now. 

Your phone rings loudly across the room, breaking your focus but providing a much-needed distraction. Scrambling to grab it, Vernon’s contact flashes on the screen, making you pause before you answer. 

“What’s up, Vern?”

“Nothing much, Birdie,” Vernon says in a teasing tone. 

“Ugh, you heard about that, huh?" You groan, plopping on the bed. The last thing you wanted was for everyone else to know about your history with Joshua and the messiness that came with it. “I’m going to beat Wonwoo with his camera.”

“Actually, Wonwoo isn’t the one who needs the beating,” Vernon discloses. “It was Chan. I heard him talking about it in passing with Jihoon.”

“Oh god,” You let out a frustrated sigh.

“Yeah. So what’s the story there?” Vernon presses further.

You roll your eyes, blowing a raspberry in the air. “There is no story. He is my ex-boyfriend from high school. We broke up, and now, years later, I am here interviewing him for this documentary. Your documentary, by the way.”

“Geez, why are you getting all snippy with me?” Vernon chuckles through the speaker. “Obviously, there is more to the story, but you can keep that to yourself.”

There is a slight pause, with shuffling noises heard on the phone, which makes you sit up. “Vernon, I’m sure you didn’t call to ask me about my sordid love affair with my ex-boyfriend.”

“You’re right, I didn’t,” Vernon discloses, hearing the door shut behind him. “I need you to stay and film some of the races.” 

“How many?”

“Uh, enough to cover all three days?” 

You drop the phone on your face, making you wince in pain. You planned to leave Miami tomorrow night and put all of this behind you. Maybe this is you flying away, but this is warranted. Staying here is suffocating you slowly.

“What happened to ‘sticking to the schedule,’ Vernon?

“Pfft, I make the schedule,” Vernon chuckles. “Listen, I got a call from the powers that be, and they want it included in the documentary. What can I do?”

You want to argue back, but you bite your tongue instead. You signed onto this project as a favor to him, who looked out for you when you were just starting in the business and needed some guidance. You could technically say screw it and leave, but you don’t want to do that to your friend. 

“Fine,” you let out a sigh. “I assume Wonwoo will be around to help?”

“Well, of course. I sent him down there to film some of the press day earlier. He should be sending that to us both shortly.”

“Alright,” you clear your throat. “I’ll coordinate some things with Wonwoo and send them to you.” 

“Sounds good,” Vernon replies. “And listen, I appreciate you being cool about this. I will owe you one.” 

“Oh, you bet your ass you will,” you chortle, disconnecting the call. 

Your stomach rumbles loudly, followed by an ache that says if you don’t eat something, your body will take you out. You could have ordered room service, but if you stay in this room any longer, you will go crazy. The sun has completely disappeared over the horizon, wiping out the last bit of natural light you had.  With a sigh, you slip on your shoes and quietly leave your room, opting to take the elevator to the restaurant in the hotel. As the elevator descends, you can almost taste the warmth of a freshly cooked bread and soup, something you crave to satisfy your soul. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you instinctively pull it out, reading the email from Wonwoo containing the files from the event. Your head is down when you bump into someone’s back, almost losing your balance and falling over them. You shove your phone in your pocket, feeling mortified and embarrassed for not paying attention. 

“I’m so sor—”

You find yourself face to face with the one person you hoped to avoid at least for the day—Joshua, whose eyes briefly widened with shock before changing his expression to indifference. The transition brought a sharp ping to your stomach that made you almost want to keel over. 

“Oh,“ Joshua remarks, straightening his shirt. “I didn’t think you would still be here.”

“Me neither,” you reply. “It just got extended through the weekend.”

“Hm,” he nods. “Sounds like you aren’t flying away by your choice.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, irritation slowly creeping in at that jab. If only I could fly away right now, you thought to yourself. You know you’re the villain in this story, breaking this golden boy’s heart and changing the trajectory of his life, but your patience is wearing thin. How many times is he going to keep poking the bear? Is this fun for him?

You glance behind Joshua, meeting the gaze of Jihoon, who was talking to the waiter ahead. As if he sensed tension, he turned around and saw you and Joshua coming over to you shortly after. 

“Hey, didn’t think I’d see you here,” Jihoon greets you. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” you smile at him. “I am hoping to get a quick bite to eat before I go back to work.” 

“Ah,” he bobs. “Well, I talked to the hostess, and they have one table left, and the wait time after that is about 30 minutes to an hour.”

Your stomach aches again, prompting you to place your hands on your abdomen to alleviate the hunger pain. Joshua looks at you curiously, and you quickly turn away. You should have stayed in bed and ordered room service. 

“Well, there goes dinner,” you say. “I guess I’ll head back to the room. You guys have a good night.” 

“No, wait,” Jihoon says suddenly. “Why don’t you share the table with us? No sense of having to wait an hour for food.”

“Oh, that’s not—” you and Joshua both say in unison. 

“It’s fine,” Jihoon insists. “Think of it like car pooling, but it’s with a table.”

“Excuse me,” the hostess calls out to your group. “The table is ready.”

Jihoon thanks the waiter and turns back to you and Joshua, arching an eyebrow with a feign of impatience. “Don’t you guys want to eat?”

You bite your lip nervously, your eyes shifting to Joshua. “I can go somewhere else and eat, honestly. I don’t want to rain on your parade.” 

“You’re fine,” Joshua says, shaking his head. “I’m not gonna be the bad guy who didn’t let you eat.” 

He walks off before you can respond, your mind buzzing with noise and three little words: what the fuck.

You follow them into the dining hall, choosing a seat at the very back to avoid the curious eyes that were watching the three of you as you walked by. The room was filled with lively conversation and the sounds of clinking glasses, plates, and cutlery in a dimly lit setting. A waiter quickly approaches and places fresh bread and oil in front of you, filling the air with the delicious aroma of freshly baked goods. Your mouth waters at the enticing smell.

You break off a piece of the bread, hands trembling slightly, and dunk it into the oil—olive and herbaceous, with a subtle heat that kicks at the back of your throat. It’s delicious, and for a few seconds, it distracts you from the awkwardness settling at your table like a third guest.

Jihoon, always the natural buffer, flips open his menu with casual ease. “I heard the mushroom risotto is decent,” he murmurs, eyes scanning the page. “And the steak’s apparently overrated. Just saying.”

You hum in acknowledgment, focusing on chewing your bread rather than the awkwardness of sharing dinner with your ex. Speaking of Joshua, he is quiet— not brooding, just unreadable. He’s barely touched his many, just skimming through the first page and setting it down like there wasn’t more to see. You avoid eye contact like the plague, insisting on looking at the interior of the restaurant and everyone around you. 

“Did you get all the footage you needed today?” Jihoon asks. 

“Yeah, we did,” you reply, brushing breadcrumbs from your hands. “I am still sifting through the footage, and I am staying to film some of the races. I am reviewing the interview now.”

“Oh, that,” Joshua finally spoke, catching you off guard. “How did that come out?”

“Uh, it came out fine,” you say carefully. “I think your answers were concise and to the point.”

“Good,” he nods. “I would hate for any of my words to be misconstrued as anything other than the truth.”

“Why would it be misconstrued?” You fold your arms. 

“No reason, really,” Joshua shrugs nonchalantly. “I just want to be up front about everything, since it wasn’t always afforded to me.” 

You glance down, chuckling softly to mask your irritation. You’re not naive; you can feel the bitterness hidden in those words. 

Jihoon frowns between the two of you, a hint of confusion flickering across his face. “Okay, what am I missing?”

“Nothing,” you and Joshua say at the same time.

Jihoon raises an eyebrow and shrugs while you pop another piece of warm, crusty bread in your mouth. This is not an ideal situation to say the least, but you’re starving, and this piece of bread is your saving grace until this is over. Tiny bubbles of anxiety churn in your chest, urging you to focus on the menu in front of you. You scan the options, heart racing a little, and impulsively select the first dish that catches your eye. 

The waiter comes back, and you place an order for tomato soup, while Woozi settles for the salmon risotto, and Joshua orders chicken linguine. With a nod, the waiter quietly takes your menus, leaving you three alone until the food arrives. 

“So how do you two know each other?”

You look up slowly and glance at Joshua, wondering if he will throw you a bone and say anything. He makes no effort to speak, and annoyance stirs in your chest once again.

“We grew up together,” you disclose, sitting back in your chair. “He was my neighbor and we went to the same schools.” 

“Ah, so you guys are old friends?” Jihoon asks curiously. 

"Well, you could say that," you respond nervously.

“Come on, Birdie. We were more than just friends,” Joshua says casually. “We dated from sixth grade through senior year. Does that time mean nothing to you?”

Jihoon’s eyes widen, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he looks everywhere but you two. Your mouth is agape, and your face heats up in embarrassment, your throat tightening as your words seem to fail you.

“N-no, that’s not it,” you falter. “It did mean something to me. It does, I mean. I just don’t see the point of bringing it up now. It’s been years.” 

“Wow.” Joshua scoffs, folding his arms. “So what was I? Just a fleeting moment to you until you flew away from the nest?”

“W-what? That’s not true.” You feel the anger rising throughout your throat. “Really, Joshua? Do you really want to do this here?”

“We might as well,” Joshua challenges.

“Actually, guys—” Jihoon interjects. “Maybe do this later? People are staring.”

You glance around the dining hall, meeting the concerned eyes of fellow guests. You didn’t mean to raise your voice, but you’re tired of being picked on. Not once did he bother to ask for your side of the story or speak to you as a human being. You know you have no right to be mad; you’re the bad guy. But the relentless series of jabs, each one stinging you like a bee. You’ve had enough.

“Jihoon, I appreciate your hospitality and inviting me to eat with you both,” you say, wiping your mouth on a napkin. “But I’m going to leave. See you tomorrow at the races.”

You get out of your seat, pushing your chair in and refusing to meet Joshua’s eyes. You pull out cash from your wallet, setting it down for your portion of the meal. You know that if you stay longer, you will say something you will regret. As much as you feel bad for leaving the way you did, you refuse to be disrespected. 

“There you go, running away again,” you heard him mutter under his breath. 

You let out a low chuckle, turning slowly towards him. “Yes, I am running away. I won't be where I am not wanted. Do I need to ask you for permission to use the toilet next?”

You leave before he could respond, the heat of anger consuming your heart and mind like a wildfire. The adrenaline rushes throughout your body as you storm out of the hotel and into the night, needing to let the steam blow out of your ears. You instantly regret your parting words to him, guilt eating at you like a parasite. The crazy thing is that you aren’t entirely mad at Joshua. Annoyed? Yes. But most importantly, you’re angry at yourself for letting it get this far, for having to face what you have been suppressing: you still think about him.

“Joshua, what the hell was that?”

Jihoon came back to the table after telling the waiter to cancel your order of tomato soup. Joshua sat at the table, stewing over your parting words before you walked away. You were angry? He was the one left behind, from the future that they could have had. You were his best friend, the closest thing he could hold dear to his heart, and you just cut him out of his life like he was nothing. Then you skip over the essential parts of your history like it was nothing, while your very presence makes him want to go up a wall.

“She drives me crazy,” Joshua said bitterly. “So many other documentaries she could have done, and yet she had to do the one about MY team. It’s like she likes rubbing it in my face.”

“Rubbing it in your face?” Jihoon said, confused. “Did it not end well?”

Joshua looked at him solemnly and let out a deep breath. “She wasn’t just any ex; she was the one. I wanted to marry her; I had a ring for her and everything. We had been together since we were kids, and we promised that after graduation, we would stay together forever. She was my best friend.”

He paused, fiddling with the napkin on the table. “One day, we were supposed to go out on a date by the beach, and I planned to propose to her right then and there. But she never showed up. I went to her parents and found out she had moved across the country the day before, without telling me where she was going or what her plans were. She had even told me she loved me the night before.”

Reliving that day felt like a stab to the heart. The look in your mother’s eyes when she had to break the news, watching him fall apart at their doorsteps. Joshua was torn up for weeks, barely getting out of bed unless it was to work on his car or run errands for his mom. He always knew at a young age that he wanted to be a racer and see the world, and he hoped that he would be able to do that with you by his side. Was he not enough? Why didn’t you talk to him? Why did you leave?

“Love aside, man,” he sniffed dryly. “She was my best friend, and she ghosted me. That’s not how you treat someone you care about or love. I know it sounds silly, still being mad about it years later, but hearing her willing to skip over our relationship, our bond, like it was nothing. I don’t know, it sets me off, man.”

Joshua exhaled deeply, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he raked his fingers through his hair. This surge of feelings felt foreign to him; he’s the poster boy of being cool, calm, and collected. He thinks rationally, with a clear head, and always keeps his emotions at bay. But you stir something in him like a tazmanian devil, leaving his heart and every string attached ruined in your wake.

“I’m going to go,” Joshua announced, getting up from the table. “Just tell the waiter to put the food in a to-go box and bring it to me later?”

“Yeah, sure,” Jihoon said with concern in his eyes. “Are you going to be alright for tomorrow? The team is depending on us.”

“I’ll be fine,” Joshua reassured him. “I just need to get some air. This week has been fucked.”

Jihoon nodded firmly as Joshua walked away, leaving the dining hall with a whirlwind of thoughts. Rather than heading to his hotel, he decisively chose to take a walk to clear his mind under the night sky. He turned toward the park, sitting on a weathered wooden bench directly in front of the shimmering lake. White ducks and their young swam by peacefully, the complete oxymoron of the unrest Joshua was feeling inside.

Jihoon was right—he needed to get his head together, erase you from his mind, and wipe away the seeping connection that is pouring into his heart. He was supposed to be over you, moved on, and evolved. But instead, he is here, in turmoil over the girl he thought he would never have to see again, making him address the repressed feelings he had hidden for so long—you still hold most of the space in his heart.

Fuck, he muttered to himself. Why did it have to be you of all people?

He remembered the day you both graduated from high school and how proud you looked when you held your diplomas. You had the look of love in your eyes that seemed sincere. Did you know you were leaving him then? Was it all a joke to you when you thrived in college while he was in his hometown, in mourning? Did you care when his mom died? A torrent of thoughts flooded his mind, each one intensifying the slow-burning ember of anger that smoldered within him.

Joshua exhaled deeply, feeling the craving for a cigarette intensify with each breath he took. He had quit smoking a few months ago and had been managing well, but the current situation was pushing him to his limits, making him want to relieve the pressure. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Trixie's number, his thumb hovering over the call button. However, something held him back—his better judgment urging him not to make the call.

I’ll just sleep it off… I have a long day ahead.

He made his way back to the hotel, pushing the images of happy faces and hand-holding out of his view like a blur, the humid air slowly suffocating him. A moment later, he found himself at the front of the hotel, slipping into one of the elevators and pressing the close button rapidly, wanting to be alone. The elevator hummed as he pressed floor 12, the centralized cool air and music distracting him as he went up, his chest feeling lighter when he thought about his soft bed and the quietness it would bring.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened slowly at his stop, peace finally finding him as he stepped out, and he laid eyes on his room. That peace, however, was short-lived when the elevators next to him opened, and you walked out, your shocked eyes meeting his, full of the same fire that he felt inside.

“Joshua.”

“Birdie.”

You walked in the opposite direction from him, making your way slowly toward the last room on the right. Questions still burned in the back of his mind, and he needed closure to understand why you did it. It was now or never; otherwise, he would be left searching for answers for the next ten years.

“Birdie,” Joshua called out. “We need to talk.”

You stare at him, debating if you want to have another round of him calling you every coward in the book. Your peace is shattered, your nerves are frayed, and all you want is to lie in bed and pretend this never happened. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? You just push things away, don’t deal with things… You just fly away.

Letting out a deep breath, you straighten your shoulders, deciding to face the elephant in the room. “Your room or mine?”

He gestures for you to follow him to his room, turning and walking to room number 1231. A month ago, if someone had told you that you would be interviewing your first love again and entering his hotel room, you would have wondered what they were smoking. Life truly is ironic.

You walk into his hotel room, which is identical to yours, but it features a breathtaking view of the city, overlooking the park that shines under the bright lights. His belongings are neatly put away in the closet and drawers. The room is adorned with a sense of order, and it smells of clean, fresh linen. It evokes nostalgia, recalling the many times you spent in his childhood bedroom, always smelling clean without a speck of dust. Some things never change.

You take a seat on the chair by the window, studying him as he takes off his jacket and hangs it in the closet. Your hands rest in your lap, your thumbs twiddling idly as he gets settled, unsure of how to start this conversation or what to say. Do you tell him you're sorry and you missed him all these years? That you never meant to hurt him? Does it even matter now?

“Joshua, I—”

“Why did you leave?”

He sits on the bed, legs open with his hands slightly behind his back, studying your every move. You feel vulnerable and exposed, like someone who has to answer for their crimes in front of a judge, but instead, it’s to a former love you still care for. You hate it.

“Were you unhappy with me?” Joshua presses further. “Did you not love me anymore?

“No, Joshua, it wasn’t that—”

“We used to be able to talk about anything.”

“I know, but it’s more complicated than that.”

“You were my dream—”

“THAT WAS THE PROBLEM!”

Your chest rises and falls like a wrecking ball, breaking every wall you had that held back your emotions. “That was the problem. You would have given everything up for me. If I told you that I was accepted into one of the most critically acclaimed schools in the country, and I was moving across the country, you would drop everything for me. “

“But why—”

“I’m not done,” you raise your hand, interrupting him. “I knew about the ring, okay? I went into your room one time when you were at practice to get the hoodie you asked for, and I saw it. I know that ring was passed down through generations in your family, and it just felt too real. I even tried it on. I felt like I was suffocating, and I needed to breathe. Find myself. Fly away, as you call it.”

The hurt in his eyes is evident, a soft reminder of the seventeen-year-old kid you promised to give your life to. For the first time in years, you feel your heart break.

“I could have handled it better instead of ghosting you, and I am sorry. I will be sorry for the rest of my life. But I don’t regret leaving, going to my dream school, I dreamed of going to, and being who I am now.”

Your breathing slows, and your body feels lighter after releasing what has weighed on your heart all this time. A quiet exhale escapes your lips, leaving your mind clearer than ever before. You observe Joshua processing your words, a mixture of hurt and understanding on his face, his eyes reflecting a storm of emotions that you can’t describe other than pain.

“Birdie, I,” he stumbles over his words. “Why didn’t you talk to me? Tell me how you felt? I would have done anything you wanted. I knew you liked films, but I didn’t think you were that passionate about them. It makes sense why you made me watch all three Godfather movies.”

Your mouth curves into a slight grin, reminiscing about that day. It was on Sundays during junior year summer break, and he would just come home from an early church service, suited in a nice shirt, dress pants, and shoes. His mother didn’t like you much, said you were corrupting his good boy, but Joshua always stood up for you, and she begrudgingly allowed you two to be, with open doors, of course. You brought three DVDs for the trilogy and you begged him to watch them with her, promising to do whatever he wanted for a week. He didn’t need that; he just wanted to make you happy. To be yours.

He sat through all three movies with no complaints, listening to you ramble about each scene and asking questions when needed. It was the first time you realized that you LOVE film, and you wanted to be the one creating them. You wanted to make people feel the way you did when you watched it for the first time. It spurred you to join the film club in high school, helped you get the necessary recommendations for colleges, and led you to apply off a whim to the top school in California. When the acceptance letter arrived, you thought it was a prank and called the admissions office three times to make sure. You were excited, happier than ever, and you did plan to tell him your plans and figure out where to go from there.

But then you saw the ring. Everything changed after that.

“I was afraid of disappointing you,” you confess. “You had our future mapped out, and I knew that racing was your thing and you were going to pursue that while I went to the community college. Get an apartment, make it big in the racing world, and be something great. But getting that letter, it was the one thing that was mine, something that wasn’t tied to anyone else. It showed that I could have a future in doing something that I wanted. And I had to take that chance, Joshua. It didn’t mean I didn’t love you or didn’t care about you.”

You watch him run his fingers through his hair, watching him try to make sense of how you felt and understand the decision that you made, his brows furrowing deeper.

“I loved you so much,” Joshua says softly. “You were my best friend underneath it all, and you just left. You didn’t write me a letter, call, text, or anything. I had to find out from your mom that you left. Do you know how much you hurt me? How FUCKED I was?”

A moment of silence fell between you two, the tension thick and swallowing you both alive.

“Did you know about my mom? Hmm?” Joshua probes, inching towards you. “Did you even care that she passed? Did you ever care about me?”

His words feel like a dagger to the chest, cruelly piercing your heart and leaving an indelible ache. It doesn’t matter what your answer would be to that; he is determined to hate you anyway.

You can’t take it anymore; you need to leave.

“I-I’m sorry, Joshua,” you say quietly, the weight of your words hanging in the air. “I’m going to go.”

You rise from the chair and make it halfway to the door before you feel your hand being pulled back towards Joshua, a wild look in his eyes. “You don’t get to run away this time. Face this.”

“What do you want me to stay?” You’re frustrated; every raw emotion simmering just beneath the surface. “Do you want me to say I’m sorry? That I have regretted leaving you the way I did ever since I left, and I have NEVER stopped thinking about you over the years? Wondered how you were doing and if you were happy? Well congratul-fucking-lations, Joshua, you got it—”

You are cut off by Joshua abruptly, pulling you into a fervent kiss that is all-consuming and heartfelt. It leaves you breathless and weak in the knees.

“Joshua—”

“Stop,” he pleads, his eyes soft. “Just stay with me… please.”

Your mind is screaming at you to leave, to pretend this never happened, and go on like the professional you are. You got your closure, and he understands why you left. But your heart is beating a different tune, begging you to stay, to give in, and to quit fighting.

“Kiss me again.”

His lips crash against yours, igniting a rush of electricity that sends shivers down your spine. You let him take control, following his lead until the backs of your legs are touching the soft covers of his bed. His hands caress your face, leaving your skin tingling, and you haven’t felt more alive.

Your thoughts are none; the cravings of your heart and body take over your movements as you help Joshua out of his shirt, revealing a bare chest that was made for marking. He continues to kiss you ravenously, his tongue sliding into your mouth and playing with yours. Suddenly, your shirt feels too hot and restrictive against your skin. You break the kiss quickly to take it off, revealing a black lace bra that you randomly wore, which also happens to be his favorite color.

“Get on the bed, baby.” Joshua’s voice is barely above a whisper.

You nod quietly, scooting on the bed backwards, lying back as he climbs on top of you. He kisses you again, leaving you with a fervor that you have never felt before. You weren’t a virgin by any means, but you haven’t had a lot of experience either. You focused on work throughout the years, allowing yourself to have fun every once in a while if you felt like you deserved it. But this, the way he is touching you, moaning in your mouth as he positions himself in between your legs, has your blood pumping hot.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, trailing his index finger across your face. “So angelic.”

“Am I?”

His eyes shift for a moment, soft and pure, as if he is looking at the most precious thing. “Let me show you.”

He kisses you again, moving down towards your neck, sucking on your skin that is bound to leave you with purple hues that you will have to answer for later. Joshua is enamored with you, reaching behind you and unhooking your bra in one go like a pro, almost like he has had plenty of practice doing this. You quickly remind yourself that this is not the same Joshua you knew years ago. This one is more evolved and experienced— but one thing remains the same: he is still eager to please.

“You’re perfect.”

You bite your lip, unable to form a coherent thought as you fall deeper into a pool of bliss with his tongue swirling around your nipples. He groans against your breast, like he is savoring the taste of your sweet-smelling skin. You have never been worshipped or wanted in this way, and it leaves you feeling crazed and wanting more.

“This feels good,” you coo, stroking his hair. “I want you.”

“I want you too,” Joshua confesses. “I always have.”

He kisses down your stomach, each one searing and igniting something in you, animalistic, wanting to consume everything he has to offer. Your breath hitches when his fingers play with the hem of your pants, lowering them and sliding them off your legs, and throwing them on the floor. You feel raw, exposed, and when he pulls you towards the edge of the bed, your hands grasp the cover, bracing for his next move. 

“Joshua?” You find your voice, barely.

“Yeah?”

You smile softly, a striking contrast to the words sitting on the tip of your tongue. “Do your worst.”

A low chuckle leaves his lips, your panties being pulled to the side, revealing your slick arousal. Joshua’s eyes darken at the sight of you, his thumb brushing gently against your inner thigh.

“You’re wet for me, already? I’ve barely touched you, baby.”

He glances up at you through his lashes, a faint smirk playing at his lips as your panties are being removed and thrown where your pants are. You bite your lip, watching him, the tension in your stomach coiling tighter.

“Joshua…” you whisper. “Don’t hold back.”

"I wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pressing an open-mouth kiss to your thigh. “We have years to make up for.”

The wet heat of his mouth is pressed against your clit, sucking on before lowering his tongue down to your center. The sensation is overwhelming; his tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, savoring the sweet taste that no one else has come close to doing right. He moans between your legs like he is satisfying his craving. Your hands fly to his hair instinctively when he goes faster, and a lewd moan slips from your lips, sending you further into a deep bliss.

He’s filthy, lapping up your juices and tongue fucking you in ways you didn’t know existed. Your fingers grip his hair tighter, your hips figuring out the rhythm of his tongue and riding it, more moans from him sending vibrations throughout your body.

“Yeah, just that,” he grunts. “Give it to me.”

He eats you with an insatiable hunger, leaving you delirious, making it harder to think, harder to breathe. The pleasure builds, spreading like fire through your veins, until you can’t hold back the sounds escaping you.

“JOSHUA!” you cry out. 

You fall apart, every nerve snapping like a live wire. You spill over in a way that you can’t stop, making a mess of the blanket and Joshua’s face as he continues to drink in everything you have to offer. Heat floods your face in shame, pleasure hitting you like a euphoric high that you don’t want to come down from. You have never done that before.

His grip tightens at your hips, holding you still as he leaves a lasting kiss on your center. Your breathing slows, and you look at the ceiling, too embarrassed to look at him in the eye.

“What’s on your mind?” He murmurs against your skin.

“Nothing,” you sigh softly.

“Birdie…”

“Okay, fine,” you sit up, meeting his gaze. “I am just trying to grapple with the fact that I got eaten out by my ex, who I thought up until now hated me, and I ended up doing that.”

You point at the blanket, a wet spot as big as Texas, thanks to you.

“Have you ever done that before?” Joshua asks, his index finger trailing down your leg.

You shift uncomfortably, refusing to look into his eyes again. “No.”

“Oh? So I’m your first… again.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Joshua climbs over you, pushing you back towards the bed as he kisses you again. “You have a smart mouth.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

Feeling bold, you reach down to his pants, undoing his belt and the button hiding beneath it. He studies you carefully, a cocky grin on his face that begrudgingly sets your insides on fire. “We have to do something about that.”

He shoves his pants and boxers down and kicks them off his leg, his cock already hard, glistening, and dripping with precum. He lies next to you on the bed, stroking himself while beckoning you to come closer, and you can’t help but think this is a man.

You know what he wants; it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that out. You lean over him, leaving a kiss on his soft tip. His breath hitches, and you smile, swirling your tongue around the base and slowly swallowing him inch by inch. He curses softly, thrusting in your mouth as if this were the last time this would ever happen.

“Shit,” he inhales sharply, groaning as you hum around him.

His fingers tighten over the back of your neck, grasping it lightly as he fucks your face. Your eyes water with tears as his cock hits the back of your throat, meeting his pace with a carnal for him, to make him feel good. Saliva slicks down your lips, spilling down your chin as your jaw aches under the relentless rhythm.

“Where…” Joshua grits his teeth. “Did you learn how to do this so well?”

Your tongue curls around a vein, one last decadent swirl before you pull off with a wet pop!

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

In a swift maneuver, he turns you over, laying you on your stomach. He smacks your derriere teasingly, watching it jiggle with a wicked look in his eyes that should scare you, but instead, you are more aroused. This Joshua may still have those kind eyes and soft voice that you fell in love with, but he has different, more grown-up up. Thrilling.

“Are you going to stare at my ass all night, or are you going to fuck me?” You taunt him.

“Lift,” he commands, smacking it again.

You do as you’re told, lifting up slightly as he lines himself against your entrance, his tip teasing your lower lips. He enters slowly, stretching you out deliciously as he lets you adjust to his size, your hands instinctively gripping the blanket.

“God, Joshua…”

“There’s nothing godly about how I am going to fuck you.”

His hips snap against you, hands pressing against the blanket as he fucks from behind. Your ass meets his hip with each stroke, desperate to feel every inch of him. He’s ravenous, kissing your back as he whispers dirty things to you, igniting a spark in you that makes your pussy wetter.

Loud moans and the slapping of skin filled the room, the headboard of the mattress banging against the wall as his thrusts became harder and more fervent. You try to hold back, but in the end, you give up, whimpering and screaming his name. You have never been fucked like this in your life, your walls squeezing his cock that leaves you feeling intoxicated and breathless.

“Don’t stop,” you cry out. “Keep fucking me just like that.”

He leans down closer to you, cupping your face towards his and giving you a salacious kiss that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. You’re both sweaty, in the zone with each other, and in that moment, you realize you forgot to ask him about a condom. A giggle slips through your lips, breaking the kiss as you cover your face with a pillow.

“What’s so funny?” He grunts, slowing down his movements.

“I forgot to ask you about a condom,” you reply, biting your bottom lip. “It’s a little too late for that.”

“Mmhmm,” is all you hear before he presses your head further into the pillow, proceeding to fuck you like before. You feel pleasure everywhere, your skin tingling and shocks spreading throughout your body. You are incoherent, screaming into the fabric as your orgasm takes over you, shaking you through your core. Joshua doesn’t let up, the gushiness of your cunt loud and clear as he continues to pound into you, slapping your ass again for his pleasure.

“I-I’m close, baby,” Joshua sputters, kissing your shoulder. “Where do you want me?”

You are shaking, too overstimulated and fucked out to answer, lazily waving your hand to say anything, not caring if he understood what you meant. With a shattered breath, he moans your name, your real name, and pulls out of you shortly before he releases, sending spurts of his hot load on your back and lower. You close your eyes, catching your breath as you finally come down from cloud nine.

“Stay there,” he says softly.

You hear him go into the bathroom, and you slowly open your eyes, looking at your reflection in the picture windows. Your mind is racing with all kinds of thoughts—reality kicks in when he returns, lifting your chin and kissing you with a softness that almost turns you into puddy.

Maybe you still love him, or there are definitely some feelings there… but now isn’t the time to figure it out.

“I have the shower running,” Joshua says, wiping off his mess with a warm towel. “Join me.”

You nod silently, not saying much as you let him lead you into the bathroom by hand. Everything is a blur as he washes you from top to bottom, speaking when you were supposed to and smiling at the correct times. This was not supposed to happen. You weren’t supposed to have this contention with Joshua just to end up in his bed days later. You were supposed to film this documentary, scotch-free, and move on with your life. You are a professional, barely a lover. What the fuck are you doing?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Joshua’s voice cuts through your thoughts, the fogginess in your head clearing up, and your focus is back on him.

“Honestly, no,” you confess, stepping out of the stall and grabbing a towel. “What are we doing, Joshua?”

“I don’t know,” he comes out shortly after, wrapping a towel around his waist. “Do we need to figure it out now?”

Beads of water cascade from his hair, glistening as they fall on his chest. You look away quickly, the flashbacks of being thoroughly fucked on the bed flooding your mind. Your body betrays you; your core pulsates at the thought of him inside of you again. God, he’s irresistible.

“No, we don’t, ” you shake those images away. “I’m… going to get dressed and go back to my room.”

He lets out an exasperated huff, frustration flickering across his face as he crosses his arms. “You want to leave again? After all that?”

“Joshua. Come on,” you raise an eyebrow in disbelief. “You know me being here, naked at that, is no good for you and me.”

“Why?”

“Use your head. You know why.”

“No, I won’t. I can’t read your mind, Birdie.”

“I wish you did,” you mutter.

“Why?”

“Because you would know I want to do this.”

You pull him into a heated kiss, surprise etched on his face as he realizes what is happening, his arms wrapping around your body like a warm hug. It was needy, desperate, the kind that satisfied your soul deep down. He picks you up and places you on the bathroom counter, deepening your kiss as his hands cup your face. Your hands fiddle with his towel, untying it and letting it fall on the floor. The loose knot you had placed on the front of your towel is pulled away by him with ease, exposing your wet, naked body to him once more.

“Is this what you want?” He whispers, his thumb brushing against your clit softly.

You nod softly, a gasp leaving your lips in response. “Y-yeah.”

He continues to rub it softly, watching your face contort with pleasure as your sweet moans echo through the bathroom. His other hand fists his cock, the tip already at your wet entrance as he pushes himself in slowly, groaning to your tight walls around him.

“Joshua…” you warn him. “Quit teasing me.”

You witness his eyes going dark before he drives into you, holding onto your hip as he gives you what you asked for. Your mouth slips open into a breathless “O’, your eyes snap shut as he fucks you, intending to make you cum.

“Look at me,” he pleads, kissing you deeply. “Baby, look at me.”

Your eyes flutter open, tears streaming down your face from being overstimulated. He kisses them away, quickening his pace while you whimper in his ear, begging him not to stop.

“Harder, Joshua,” you gasp, digging your nails into his back. “Give me more.”

Every fuck you had has left your body, meeting his thrusts as he continues his onslaught, not showing any signs of slowing down. You're sweaty again, breathless, your throat hoarse from the amount of moans and screams you have done tonight. You keep chasing that feeling, the one that makes you feel like you’re going to burst every time he hits your spot, leaving sweet kisses on your neck and chest. As if he read your mind, his fingers snake to your clit, pinching it unexpectedly, which sends you over the edge.

“JOSHUA!” You let out a choked sob, convulsing over his cock as you meet your orgasm again.

He watches you in amazement, his own movements becoming rigid and sloppy, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He kisses you with feeling and depth that didn’t need words to comprehend how he was feeling this very moment. There was a look in his eyes that made you feel warm— the look of someone who is still madly in love.

“Go ahead,” you soothe, unable to form a complete sentence. “Inside me.”

He nods desperately, breathing hard in the crook of your neck as he pours himself into you. You instinctively rub his back as he shudders, coming down from your high, hazy, and energy-depleted. His movements are still, and he stays in place, holding you close like you’re going to fly away.

“Are you okay?” He pulls himself off of you slightly, looking into your eyes softly.

“I’m fine,” you reply, leaning your head back against the mirror. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

He studies you carefully, entirely pulling out of you, leaking cum dripping from his cock. The weight of your actions settles in deeper than it did earlier, as you realize you may have made things more complicated. You don’t know if you could call yourself in love with him, but you can’t deny the attraction and affection that you feel. As much as you tried to push it in the back of your mind all these years, you did miss him. But how do you tell him that?

Joshua helps you off the counter, making sure you can stand on your own carefully. There is no longer a look of indifference, hatred, or sadness in his eyes. They radiate love, something soft and nostalgic, like you had the first time. Your heart beats for him, yearning to hold him close and never let him go. Figure it out somewhere along the lines. But do you deserve that?

The constant ping pong of logic vs. emotion in your head gives you a headache, and you want nothing more than to lay your head on a pillow and sleep. You feel his eyes burn in the back of your head as you both step back into the stall, washing your bodies clean of the latest round of sin.

“We don’t have to figure it out now, Birdie,” Joshua assures you as he washes your back. “Let’s just talk about it in the morning.”

“Tomorrow is Day 1, did you forget?” you sigh, remembering tomorrow’s schedule. “I don’t want to cause any distractions for you or interrupt your routine. Plus, I have to film and interview you and Jihoon, remember?”

“I know,” he replies, rinsing the soap off your back. “Look, I don’t want to go another ten years without us talking or figuring this out. I still love you, Birdie.”

His confession hits you like a bolt from the blue, leaving you in shock and your head spinning. There’s no way he still loves you after all this time, right? After what you did? 

“Joshua, I—”

“You don’t have to reply to that yet,” he interrupts softly, turning you towards him. “Can you just stay the night? Please?”

The alarms are going off in your head, telling you that this is a terrible idea and you should run. Your instinct screams at you, drowning out your rational thoughts. You look at him, and you see hope shining in his eyes, and it feels like knives in your gut. Do you want to give him false hope about what you are feeling, and you don’t even know yourself? How can you face yourself in the morning?

But once again, your body betrays you as fatigue hits you like a bag of sand, and deep inside, your heart has an overwhelming desire to be wanted, and you can’t deny that anymore.

After a moment of contemplating, you take a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll stay.” 

The roar from the crowd of fans was deafening, the wallops and cheers barely registering as Joshua climbed out of the pit. He barely made it, reaching 10th place, which is unlike him. Joshua almost always places first. He pulled off his helmet, sweat dripping from the side of his face and his neck. His Principle, Seungcheol, was hot on his tail, the sound of his boots thundering behind him.

“Hong, we need to talk.”

A journalist from CaratSports beelined towards him, determined to get a statement about the disastrous result out there. Seungcheol cursed under his breath, giving him a mean side eye before walking into the garage.

“Joshua, I have to say, you haven’t placed lower than 3rd place since your rookie year. Do you care to explain what happened out there?”

“No excuse, Rich,” Joshua responded, giving his best face of the franchise smile. “I wasn’t at my best out there. My head wasn’t in the race. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

Joshua wasn’t lying; He was distracted— because of you. You haven’t left his mind since that night a couple of days ago, and the next day, instead of finding you in bed sleeping next to him, you left him a note: “I’m not flying away. We will talk soon.” He had hoped you would find him yesterday and discuss everything, but it seemed you were only interested in filming the test rounds and left shortly after. Was that note supposed to comfort him and make him feel sane while he waited on you, again?

It seemed like nothing had changed all these years.

He gave Rich a polite nod before going into the garage, meeting the stares of Jihoon, Chan, and Seungcheol, who looked like he was going to blow a gasket.

“What the hell was that out there, Hong?” Seungcheol fired at him.

“Nothing, Cheol,” he replied, irritated as he removed his fire jacket. “I wasn’t in it today; I have a lot on my mind.”

"Well, no shit,” Seungcheol retorted, stepping closer to him. “You need to get your head in the game, Hong. You drove like you were in la-la land during the test run yesterday and today’s race. Keep this up, and Chan will be racing in your place sooner than you think.”

“Loud and clear,” Joshua bristled. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Seungcheol shot back. “Figure out whatever the hell is eating you before it costs us more points.”

He stormed out of the garage, leaving Joshua with Chan and Jihoon. Chan looked at him nervously as the younger racer with a promising future approached him slowly.

“Just so you know, I didn’t petition for your spot or anything,” Chan raised his hands. “I didn’t expect him to say that.”

Joshua glanced at him, his irritation fading away. He knows it’s not Chan’s fault, or anyone else's. He drove out there with his hand in the storm clouds, and it almost cost him the race.

“I know, bro,” Joshua reassured him. “I’m the one who messed up today. I’ll get us back to where we need to be tomorrow.”

Chan nodded, his face much relaxed. “Okay, good. Im going to find Cheol and make sure he is good.”

He watches him leave and leans back against the desk, his mind swirling with the day’s events. This was a race he should have easily won, yet thoughts of you clouded his focus. Ever since you popped up in his life again, everything felt chaotic and familiar all at once, throwing off his rhythm and igniting a tension he couldn't shake.

He narrowly escaped the press looking to ask questions about your performance, no doubt. He didn’t have the heart for it today. Plus, Jihoon was talking to the crowd, and he seemed to manage everything with ease. Climbing into his sleek black G-Wagon, he fired up the engine, leaving behind the frenzy of the lot. The tires gripped the pavement as he sped towards the hotel, the city whizzing by in a blur, with a determination to shower, clear his head, and seek you out. 

Pulling into the parking lot, he took the back entrance to the elevators, going straight to his room before he could be seen. He passed your door on the way, and he wondered if you were in your room, and if you thought of him at all. He wondered if you felt the same pull that you did, that wanted to be close and never let go. The truth is, Joshua never stopped loving you. He tried to deny and push it to the side, but you being here, living and breathing, makes it impossible to ignore what he has been feeling inside. And he needs you to know that.

Everything happens quickly. He showers quickly, washing away the sweat and shame of barely making the qualifying position. He hurriedly puts on a shirt and grey sweatpants, his tunnel vision never being so clear. His pulse was high, adrenaline from the track and eagerness to speak with you taking over him.

He stepped out of his room, squarely bumping into Trixie, who was dressed in a tight black dress that hugged her curves and heels that were screaming to be taken off. The familiar smell of her rose perfume wafted from her.

“Joshua,” she greeted him, holding a bottle of wine. “Just the man I wanted to see. Are we hanging out tonight?”

Joshua slowed, his steps faltering. If that night with you had never happened, he would have gladly taken up on her offer. But now, the thought of spending a night with someone who isn’t you feels empty. Not worth it.

“Not tonight, Trixie,” Joshua answered, shutting the door behind him. “I was just heading out, and I have a race tomorrow. So I need to focus, you know.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Trixie nodded with understanding. “Maybe tomorrow night, before you leave?”

A pang of guilt resonated with him. In his mind, there was not going to be another night filled with booze and sex. Trixie was fun and was always available for a good time, but it was never serious. Unfortunately, he knows what he needs to do.

“Trixie…” He cleared his throat, fingers tightening in his pockets. “I think we should take a break.”

Her smile wavered, her eyes flickering with confusion. “Is it something I did?”

The guilt tightened his chest. He never wanted to hurt her or be an asshole, but he had to be honest about what had changed.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he reassured her. “On top of me being busy, I’m kind of involved with my ex again, and it’s complicated. You don’t deserve to be tied up in that.”

She pondered his words, and he was unsure of her reaction. But then she exhaled, her shoulders relaxing, and her expression softened. “I understand, Joshua,” she said quietly. “Life is complicated, you know? It’s not like we were serious anyway.”

She gave a small shug, a gesture that was more kind than careless. “It’s fine, Joshua. I’m a big girl, I knew what I was getting into.”

She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, the smell of her rose perfume palpable within the bridge of his nose. He watched her walk away, his mind already somewhere else— looking at your room door. His plan still tingled with the phantom memory of your skin, and every part of him was drawn back to that moment with you, in the bedroom and the bathroom.

He strided to your door, placing three knocks before you opened it carefully. You had on a plain t-shirt and shorts, with a pair of reading glasses sitting on top of your head. Your eyes widened with shock before they softened, leaning against the frame of he door.

“Joshua,” you said softly.

He swallowed, throat dry. “Can I come in?”

You blinked, clearly weighing the risk, before stepping aside. He slipped in, shutting the door behind him with care, as though even the sound of it mattered. Your room glowed in a shade of amber, notes and folders stacked over your desk, and your bed was unmade and messy. The air smelled of black jasmine tea and citrus, a hot cup steaming on the dresser. He followed your lead, sitting on the bed, your fingers barely touching.

“You left me again,” he said, turning towards you. “We shared something, and the next day I woke up and you were gone, again. It felt like last time.”

Your shoulders slumped. Your gaze dropped to the carpet. “I left a note, Joshua.”

“Come on, Birdie,” Joshua scoffed, almost offended. “It’s not the same as you being there, and you know it.”

Silence fell between you after that, heavy and suffocating. He watched you twiddle with your thumbs, and he desperately wanted to hold you, to look into your brain and heart, to understand your thoughts and how you felt. Do you think the same way he does? Can something be made from this?

“Well, contrary to popular belief, I did have to get up early and film,” you disclosed. “But also, that night… it scared me.”

Joshua’s eyebrows knitted together, processing your words as it took away chunks of his heart. His hands clenched at his sides, doubt gnawing at him violently. Was he too aggressive? Did he hurt you?

“W-was I too rough—”

“What? No,” you shook your head vehemently. “I wasn’t scared of you. Remember, I asked for it. I wanted it, and I don’t regret that.”

Relief took over him, slowly replaced by confusion as he tried to understand what you meant. You took a deep breath, facing towards him and biting your lip with nervousness in your eyes.

“I was scared of… me. What I am feeling and still feel. This isn’t easy for me, Joshua.”

Joshua’s breath caught, his mind racing with so many thoughts. “So you do feel something? For me?”

Your eyes lifted, wide and vulnerable as you looked into his. “I’ve always felt something for you, after all these years. I don’t know if I would call it love now, but I missed you terribly. I regretted the way I left you as soon as I got on the plane. But I was a kid then, and I thought what I was doing was the right thing for you. Since there was no good way to explain what I did, I worked really hard to move on, focus on my career, and make it worth it. It worked for a while, but now being here, with you in my orbit again, it’s strumming up a lot of things.”

Your pinky touches his, sending chills throughout Joshua’s body. You touched him again, willingly, and he wanted to do nothing more but lie you back on the bed and show what he feels for you.

“Joshua, you asked me if I cared if your mom died, and that hurt me. Deep in my core.” You’re voice was trembling, your eyes watery and red with tears. “I know your mom didn’t care for me much, but I did respect her. She came through for my family in many ways that my parents couldn’t, despite her thinking I was ‘corrupting her son.’”

“Well, why didn’t you call?” Joshua’s voice was wracked with emotion. “I would have given anything to hear from you, to be in your presence again.”

“Joshua, I…” Your voice trailed off as anticipation filled the air. “I was there.”

Joshua looked at you incredulously, your confession rattling him to his core. “What do you mean you were there?”

A heavy sigh leaves your lips as you look up at the ceiling, your eyes blinking rapidly as you fight back tears.

“I came to the funeral,” you explained. “I heard that she passed from my mom, and I hopped on the first plane that I could to the church where the funeral was. I stayed in the back so I wouldn’t be seen, but I was there, Joshua.”

“You—” His voice cracked, a boy’s voice again, the sound of loss layered under disbelief. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Because it wasn’t about me,” you clapped your hands in your lap. “What could I have said? It was about your mom. About your family. You had everyone around you, and I didn’t want to make it harder.”

“God, Birdie,” Joshua let’s out a frustrated sigh. “I would have given ANYTHING to hear from you then. Yes, I had family around me, but I was so fucking alone. No one there understood me like you did. God, I would have given anything to fly away with you.”

He dragged a trembling hand through his hair, swallowing hard. “All these years, I thought you didn’t care. That you just walked away and never looked back.”

“I did look back,” you said, voice breaking. “Too many times. But I thought I was doing what was best for both of us. You had dreams, Joshua. And so did I. Staying would’ve meant holding each other back.”

Something inside him fractured. Not in anger, but in grief for all the years wasted in silence, for every moment that could’ve been different if either of you had dared to be selfish.

“So what do you want to do?” Joshua dared to ask, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I love you.”

He watched you shift on the bed, your eyes glistening at his confession. Your hand covered his,  anticipation drilled inside his chest as he waited for your response. He does love you; you were the only one for him. All these years, he tried to move on and have meaningful relationships with other people. He might come close, but he just couldn’t move on. The others just couldn’t connect like you and he did. 

“Come on, Birdie, it was always supposed to be you, no one else,” Joshua pleaded, laying his heart on the line. “You spent late nights with me, watching me practice racing at an abandoned track with a kart you managed to get online. You tracked my time and encouraged me when I wanted to do better. It was you who stood up to my mom when she wanted me to stop racing and go to medical school to become a doctor. It was YOU who came with me to the gym or met with potential benefactors when you could have been doing anything else.”

Your lips quivered, tears spilling out of your eyes that you desperately tried to hold back. Even now, being in your presence, you filled him up with a hazy nostalgia and hope that can’t be replicated with anyone else. You were, are, and always will be his dream. 

“I don’t know,” you said with a shaky breath. “I feel like I don’t deserve your kindness right now. I don’t have any right to be in your presence and listen to you confess your love for me and how much you still want me after all these years. Someone else deserves that.” 

“I don’t want anyone else,” his words came out rough, dragged from a place he kept locked up for a decade. “I want you.”

You looked down and bit your lip as you processed his confession, undoubtedly trying to think of what to say. Joshua instinctively moved closer to you, the tension thick and pulling him down like quicksand, but he couldn’t seem to stay away. 

“Say, something please,” he murmured.

“God, I missed you,” you whispered.

You kissed him. It wasn’t frantic or desperate, like a couple of nights ago. It was heartfelt, slower, and more tender. This kiss unraveled him from the inside out. Your soft lips tasted faintly of jasmine tea, and he desperately wanted to taste everything that you had to offer.

His hand slid under your waist, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You sighed against his lips, relief flooding through him at your reciprocating feelings.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, pulling back and searching your face. “Tell me this isn’t what you want—”

“I want this, Joshua.” Your voice is pleading but firm. “I want you.”

Joshua groaned, kissing you again as he lowered you back against the sheets. His body hovered over yours, not trapping but sheltering, one hand braced by your head, the other still tangled with yours against the mattress. You arched up to him, your chest brushing his, and he swore under his breath.

Clothes became an afterthought. You tore each other’s clothes off until you were both bare; his hardening cock pressed your abdomen as his lips trailed from your throat to your collarbone to your breasts. He sucked on each nipple with care, his tongue carefully swirling around your mounds like it was the last time. Joshua was enamored with you and would never let you go.

“Joshua,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“I’ve got you,” he promised, sinking lower until he settled between your thighs. His fingers teased along your slick folds, and you gasped, hips jerking.

He slid two fingers into you, and your walls clenched around him. You moaned his name — broken, needy, and desperate. Joshua groaned, lowering his mouth to you, his tongue finding your clit. You bucked against him, your hands fisting the sheets as he tasted and licked like you were the best thing he had ever tasted. Your hands fisted his hair, your sweet moans and trembling thighs driving him mad.

“Joshua, fuck, I’m gonna—”

You came suddenly and violently, filling his mouth full with your juices as your orgasm washed over you. Joshua held you through it, licking you gently until your thighs quivered and your chest heaved. He kissed his way back up to you, and when he looked into your eyes, he knew he couldn’t wait any longer. His cock felt the wetness of your folds, and it burned something inside of him—sheer need.

“I want it,” you cupped his face in both hands, pulling him into another kiss. “I need it, please.”

That was all that he needed. He lined himself up, the heat of you slick against his tip, and pushed slowly inside. Your gasp, your nails clutching at his shoulders — it nearly undid him. You clung to him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

“Don’t stop,” you begged.

Joshua moved with care at first, slow thrusts that let you adjust, that allow him to savor the impossible reality of being inside you again. But soon the pace quickened, driven by the way you gasped his name, the way you clenched around him, the way every inch of you seemed to beg for him. He was pussy drunk, in love, and it felt like he finally had the girl of his dreams back.

He had dreamed of this moment for many years, hoping you would return to him and that he would have his best friend back. Joshua would never admit this, but he checked on her throughout the years, watched your films, studied you, and wondered how you were and if you were happier without him. And now you’re here, and he’s deep inside of you, ready to give you his all, if you let him.

“Give it to me,” he coached you, placing a kiss on your temple. “Give me all of it.”

Your release hit you again, harder this time, your whole body trembling beneath him. Joshua followed soon after, spilling into you with a shuddering groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged. For a long time, neither of you moved. Just breathing, clinging, hearts racing in sync.

Joshua brushed your damp hair from your face, his thumb tracing down your cheek. “I don’t want to lose you again.”

You looked at him tenderly, smiling so softly before kissing him. You didn’t have to say anything; he knows what that kiss meant.

And for the first time in years, Joshua believed he could breathe again.

The Miami sun is unrelentless, searing down on asphalt that shimmered in waves of heat, engines roaring so loud the vibrations rattled through your ribcage. The atmosphere buzzes with cheers from excited fans, and from where you stand along the pit wall, the blurs of cars cutting impossible lines across the track. It should hold your attention after all, it is the Grand Prix.

But you keep thinking about last night and the past few days that you have shared with Joshua. The thought of Joshua’s hands on your face, being inside of you, and whispering sweet things in your ear makes you feel flustered in this sticky Florida heat. Everything is happening so fast like a whirlwind, and you aren’t sure what is left or right anymore. You missed him, and you aren’t afraid to admit it now. But where do you go from here?

“Hey.” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through your haze of thoughts. He lowers his camera, squinting at you from behind his glasses. “You good?”

“I’m peachy,” you say quickly, forcing your eye back on the track. “Just focused, that’s all.”

“Focused my ass,” Wonwoo snorts. “You’ve been filming on autopilot since we’ve been here. You didn’t even flinch when Choi spun out.”

“What the fuck? He did?”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo deadpans. “Pretty dramatic, too. Half the pit nearly had a heart attack. But sure, you were “focused.”

Your face heated up in embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I had a long night.”

Wonwoo tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “A long night, huh? Has anything to do with your golden boy over there?”

“Wonwoo, I love you like a brother. But I am going to beat you with your camera.”

He snickers but doesn’t press further. He studies you for a beat and then sighs, lowering his camera again.

“I don’t know all the details, but if something is going on between you two, after all these years…” his voice trails off, adjusting the lens cap in his hands. “Then you should pursue it. Don’t run from it because it’s messy and you made a mistake. Be honest with him and with yourself. It’ll set you free.”

You blink rapidly, your throat tight. Wonwoo always had this way of cutting through the noise, grounding you when you were spinning out. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it stuck.

“Since when did you become Dr. Phil?” You joke, nudging his shoulder.

“When I took this job and saved your ass from crashing out,” he teases back. “Now pay attention, because your boy is in first place.”

Your eyes snap back to the back, and there he was, leading the pack. Joshua’s silver and black car streaks down the straight, flawless in his lines and carving through the gaps like he was cutting air itself. Lap after lap, he creates a bigger distance from the others, his team shouting encouragement, and you stand there with a microphone in hand in awe. When the checkered flag finally waved with Joshua crossing the finish line in first place, the visceral screams from the fans and his team alike were visceral, proud, and it made you smile from ear to ear.

The garage erupted, with the mechanics leaping into each other’s arms and the racing Principle, Seungcheol, punching the air like sweet victory. Chan, their reserve driver, whoops so hard it nearly drowns out the engines. Joshua climbs out of his car, tearing off his helmet, sweat-soaked hair falling into his face. His grin is blinding as he points to his teammate, Jihoon, who came in second place, the crowd, and his team.

And then he saw you.

For a moment, everyone disappeared, and it was just you and him. His eyes lock in with yours through the sea of bodies, and his eyes shift into something soft and something else entirely. Something meant just for you. You watch him dive into the arms of his crew, the weight of victory and pure joy shown in every moment. As you jot down your questions for the closing interview, you let your smile too, proud in a way you haven’t let yourself feel in years.

You think about the time you spent with him this morning, where you lay in bed with your feet tangled with his like nothing had changed. The intimacy he shared with you again as he told you he loved you over and over. The ease of conversation you had as he was getting ready, talking about his goals for today’s race, and how happy he was to have you there. It felt like you were meant to be there, but it also filled you with a deep regret that you may not ever get over. You could have had this, but you selfishly cut him out of your process, instead of considering him like he did with you. 

It made you realize some things, and you need to get it off your chest.

“Are you ready?” Wonwoo asks as he films the last bit of the celebration. “I’m sure they are going to go into the media room to do the closing interviews, and then we are free.”

“Aww, you don’t like the smoldering heat of Miami?” You tease him.

“I don’t like my shirt sticking to my back,” Wonwoo quips, packing up his camera equipment.

You let out a hearty laugh and follow the crowd of reporters heading into the building where you and he faced off for the first time. There was a faint tang of champagne and sweat in the air, the blur of bright lights and flashing cameras taking over the ample space. You sit in the reserved section for you and Wonwoo, steadying your clipboard as you wait for your turn to answer your questions. The agreement was to ask your questions when everyone finished, and you wait, listening to the professional and not-so-professional questions that made your eyes roll.

When it finally comes to be your turn, Joshua sits across from you, his lips curving faintly in a way that melts your insides.

“Joshua, congratulations on the win. After a difficult qualifying yesterday, what was going through your head today?”

His eyes sparkle when he speaks, feeling a flutter of happiness in your chest. “Honestly? That I couldn’t afford to stay distracted. I had to focus on what mattered and resolve any mental blocks that were holding me back.”

You feel your throat tighten, and you clear it, shooting off your next question. “And what does matter to you?”

He didn’t look away; instead, his gaze intensified. “Winning the race for my team and also knowing when to fight, and when to hold on.”

His words caught you off guard, a double-edged sword hidden in plain sight. You press forward, professional, but every answer he gives feels threaded into something unspoken, tugging at an invisible connection that only you and he could see.

When the interview wraps, the cameras lower and the crew begins packing up. Joshua lingers, and you feel his gaze before you see him, sending chills down your spine. You tell Wonwoo you will catch up with him later— you had to handle some unfinished business.

You turn to face him, who is already walking towards you, a soft smile on his lips when he looks at you, like a man in love. Your heart races with a tenderness that feels comfortable and nostalgic.

“Joshua,” you say quietly, holding onto your clipboard.

“Birdie,” he responds, moving closer to you.

Looking around to make sure everyone was gone, he pulls you into a kiss, wrapping his arms around your waist as if he were afraid to let you go. You melt into him, every professional bone leaving your body.

“I’m glad you didn’t leave this morning,” he whispers in between kisses.

“Well, I couldn’t leave my hotel room,” you giggle. “But if you must know, I might have been glad I woke up to you this morning.”

It wasn’t a lie. You are glad you didn't become a flight risk and stayed with him, allowing yourself to feel. You watched him while he slept, and he still looked like the kid who watched you jump out of the tree. The same boy who called you his pretty bird and who kept you in his heart all these years. Your kind-eyed, sweet, loving boy. You will never be sorry enough for leaving him the way that you did, and you still don’t feel worthy of his forgiveness, but he is giving you an opening, and you’re going to take it.

“Joshua,” you say, motioning for him to sit down. “I’ve been thinking about everything, and I have some things I need to say.”

“Okay?” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, a tremor betraying his uncertainty.

You exhale deeply, stepping out on a small line of faith. “I... I don’t know what this is now,” you say honestly. “Between you and me. Maybe it’s Destiny. Fate. But I know that I missed you, and there is a part of me deep down that still loves you, even after all these years. I cannot say I’m sorry enough—”

“Birdie, you don’t have to keep apologizing—”

“Yes, I do,” you interject, your voice shaking slightly as you struggle to hold back the tide of emotions consuming you. “What I did was cruel, and I hurt you. Thinking about it now, what I did was so fucking stupid. I should have just talked to you and figured something out along the way. You were my best friend, the one person who believed me when I said I could fly. I wasted all these years thinking I was being some self-sacrificing martyr of love when I should have picked up the phone and called. I love you and I’m sorry—”

Joshua shuts you up with a kiss of conviction, his thumb stroking the side of your face. Your body calms immediately, the raging tide you felt earlier falling back and putting you at ease. You wrap your arms around him, calming the chaos in your mind. Warmth spreads through you like the sun, feeling safe and accepting of the love he wants to give you.

“If you will have me, Joshua, I would like to try again.”

His smile is small, trembling at the edges, but real. “Of course I’ll have you. You’re all I ever wanted.”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes when he kisses you again. It’s gentle, unhurried— stirring hopeful feelings in your chest, like it’s okay to feel this with him.

“So you aren’t going to fly away from me anymore?” Joshua asks, intertwining your fingers with his.

You smile softly, biting your lip as you gaze into his eyes.

“I’m done flying away. Joshua,” you say, pointing at his chest. I’m ready to come home.”

🏁 Race: Overtake by @sailorsoons

🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: all for one by @amourcheol

🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader