#lomlando

You told him plainly during your last argument that you were done with the cycle, that it wasn’t fair to either of you to keep this game going. He did nothing more than nod and say “Okay” before he disappeared into the Motegi chaos, like the words had meant nothing to him. Like the relationship had meant nothing to him.

So you swore that when he came home, you would say goodbye and be gone from his life forever. You wouldn’t fold the way you always did. You were tired of seemingly loving him more than he loved you.

But when the front door opened, and he finally stepped inside, the energy in the entire house seemed to shift.

He looked like a wreck, both physically and emotionally. His hair was an awkward length like his schedule had been too packed to even find time to visit the barber, a bruise was peaking out from his worn t-shirt along his arm, his shoulders slumped from more than just one race weekend that clearly didn’t go well. Even the sound his bag made when he dropped to the floor was enough to make your heart skip a beat.

He didn’t speak, and you didn’t either.

Fabio just walked toward you slowly, like he was giving you time to push him away. You told yourself you would. You told yourself this was your moment to prove that you meant what you said to him in Japan.

Yet you stayed perfectly still while he sat beside you on the couch. Silence stretched between the two of you until it physically hummed in your ears. You were ready for another chance to prove yourself, to prove that you both were caught in a vicious cycle of broken promises and miscommunication. You were ready for him to try charming his way back in with some half-smile, promises to communicate better, some gentle brush of his fingers down your arm.

But none of that came; instead, he simply leaned over and rested his forehead against your shoulder.

It was such a small gesture, and yet, it seemed to shatter any wall you had built up instantly.

Your throat tightened. His breath was warm on your collarbone. He didn’t touch you any further, didn’t ask for forgiveness that he hadn’t earned. He just let himself be close to you in the simplest, most vulnerable way he knew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was small and soft. “I can’t lose you.”

You closed your eyes because it didn’t seem fair. He wasn’t supposed to sound like that. He was supposed to turn on his quintessential Fabio charm of bright smiles and flirty winks. But yet here he was, quiet, broken, and showing you the parts of himself that even you had only been able to see a handful of times. 

You hated how quickly your anger softened. You hated how he seemed to know how to undo your anger. You hated that you kept letting him in your heart again. 

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself not to lean into him even though your body begged you to. “You say that,” you murmured. “But nothing ever seems to change.”

He lifted his head, eyes tired but achingly sincere. “I know.”

That wasn’t the response you expected. Normally, he tried to reassure you, to talk you down with appealing lies and soft touches. But now he just looked at you as if he was finally seeing the expense of everything he’d taken for granted.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “I’ll do it right this time. I promise. Just tell me.”

And then his voice cracked, and that was what broke you. It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t the promise. It was the genuine worry underneath the words he spoke.

Your fingers twitched closer to him before you could stop them, brushing gently against his hand. His breath hitched, barely audible, as if that tiny contact meant more than any audible forgiveness you could offer.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” you admitted softly.

The confession hung in the air between you for a few moments, taking up all of the space in the room. 

Fabio exhaled shakily and leaned his forehead against yours, your noses almost touching. There were no smiles, no attempts at flirty charm, just something raw and real. Something that finally felt like the truth.

“You always seem to come back to me,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes closing. “Let me be better. I promise I can.”

And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to fully believe him, even if deep down it scared you. You just couldn’t seem to push him away. 

You slipped behind the garage before any member of the media could actually corner you. The roar of the crowd was still echoing through the paddock, but here it was a lot quieter. The roars of the crowd was almost drowned out by the distant hum of generators, and the steady thump of your own pulse. You paced back and forth, helmet still tucked tightly under your arm, replaying every mistake while trying not to let the stinging sensation in your eyes spill down onto your cheeks. 

You didn’t hear Jenson approach.

“I thought I’d find you back here,” Jenson said, voice soft enough that you almost didn’t register it as his.

You froze mid-pace. “I’m fine. I just needed a minute away from the cameras.”

He didn’t try to argue with you. He just stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his team jacket, expression gentler than you had ever seen on his face. Definitely softer than you deserved after a race like that. His presence alone made your chest tighten. He’d been mentoring you all season. You were surprised by how patient, calm, and annoyingly perceptive he had been. But today he looked at you like he already knew exactly how hard you were being on yourself, like he knew he didn’t have to say anything. 

“Walk me through it?” he asked.

He asked the question after every single race, no matter how great, or in this case, terrible it was. It was supposed to be a normal debrief, professional and simple, like it always had been.

But the moment you opened your mouth, you couldn’t keep your voice from wavering. “I—I lost the rear in Turn Eleven. I thought I had the grip but—” You swallowed. “I guess I overdid it.”

Jenson nodded, encouraging you to keep going. “Okay. What else?”

You exhaled shakily. “Then the bad pit stop. And then I couldn’t warm the tires on the out-lap, and—it was just bad, Jenson. Everything I did was just awful.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the scent of his cologne was able to cut through the lingering smell of sweat and gasoline on your suit. “Everything wasn’t bad,” he said. “You fought hard. You made some incredible saves. That lock-up? Lots of drivers wouldn’t have kept the car out of the barriers. But you did.”

You shook your head. “It still wasn’t enough.”

The tremble in your hands must’ve been obvious because he reached out without thinking, gently taking the racing gloves still in your hands, setting them aside on one of the generators. Then he caught your hands again. Yours were bare, cold, unsteady, but his were much steadier and warmer as he wrapped them around yours. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “Look at me.”

You did, and regretted it instantly. He looked far too tender for someone who was meant to be simply debriefing you, for someone who was just supposed to be your mentor.

“You’re allowed to be upset, but don’t talk about yourself like that. Not when you drove your heart out.”

Your breath caught. He must have felt it, because soon his thumb was brushing over your knuckles in the most soothing manner possible.

“Sorry, this was supposed to be a debrief,” you whispered, voice small.

“It’s okay.” His lips tugged into a soft smile. “ I think you needed this a bit more.”

Your eyes dropped to the ground, attempting to ignore his gaze. You saw him step even closer, then he gently tilted your chin up with two careful fingers. “You did good today,” he murmured. “Even if the result doesn’t show it.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “Jenson”

He didn’t move away. “Yeah?”

“This feels like it's more than just a pep talk.”

His eyes softened, warm and earnest. “Truthfully, I’ve been trying my hardest not to make it more than one, guess I’m failing at that.”

The world seemed to narrow to just him and you. His breath on your face, his hands in yours, the way his eyes were locked onto you. He lowered his to gently meet yours, and you swore you stopped breathing altogether.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded yes, but barely.

He took that as an invitation, which you gladly accepted. He pressed his lips to yours, slow and certain. A soft, steady kiss that held more care than heat and more purpose than hunger. Like he’d been wanting to do this for weeks, but waited until you he knew you needed it most.

When he pulled back, he rested his hand against your cheek, thumb tracing your skin. “We can still do the debrief,” he murmured with a little smile.