f1

liked by ynbrown, mclaren, astonmartinf1 and others

f1 BREAKING: congratulations to newlyweds @.ynbrown & @.lance_stroll ♥️💍 Sources confirm last night’s wedding was LEGALLY binding …Vegas strikes again.

fernandoalo_oficial THERE IS NO WAY.

charles_leclerc i leave the grid alone for ONE night.

lando zak’s gonna pass away.

oscarpiastri i cannot overstate how much i warned her not to drink the champagne.

estebanocon CAN I BE UNCLE PLEASE I COOK GOOD FOOD

alex_albon Lawrence has already made 12 calls and it’s not even 9am.

❀。• *₊°。

replies:

mclaren - username We also… uh… have no comment at this time. (Zak is alive btw, for anyone asking)

t - username NO WAY THEY GOT MARRIED AND ZAK FOUND OUT THROUGH A FAN TAGGING HIM 😭😭😭

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POV: Y/N | POV: Lance

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replies:

t - username NO WAY THEY MADE LIMITED EDITION CARS FOR A DRUNK VEGAS WEDDING 😭😭😭

oscar piastri - username as someone employed by one of these men: i’m scared.

j - username zak & lawrence rn: “what’s financial responsibility? never heard of her.”

b - username this is what happens when you let two rich dads play barbie dreamhouse with real racecars

v - username if they ever divorce i fear what the breakup cars will look like

daniel ricciardo - username Can my wedding get a collab car too or do i have to marry an heiress

charles lecler - username this is crazy even for vegas 💀

e - username metallic sage with a champagne emblem… LANCE IS SO DOWN BAD HE’S DESIGNING CAR SKINCARE

chloe stroll - username i told you guys dad was going to go dramatic.

l - username petition for mclaren employees to get paid in LV ✦ LOVE EDITION merch ty

h - username "both priced in ‘don’t ask, you cannot afford this’" they wrote that for me personally

fernando alonso - username good. when i retire i want one.

carlos sainz - username How do we vote on the next colorway

t - username AND TO THINK SHE WOULDN’T EVEN TELL ZAK THE GUY’S NAME 😭 NOW HE’S OUT HERE FUNDING A COLLAB DROP

y - username lawrence saw “married” and immediately opened his wallet like 💳💥💳💥💳

alex albon - username They need to stop giving lawrence ideas.

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THE DINNER SUMMIT (AKA PEACE TALKS)

The restaurant is one of those Vegas places that only exist in Vegas: warm lighting, white tablecloths, waiters who smile like they’ve seen things. A fake calm before a very real storm.

Lance opens the door for you because he’s deep in his golden-retriever-husband era, but the hand that’s shaking isn’t his. It’s your dad’s.

Zak Brown.

Who looks like he’s currently in his seventh circle of personal hell.

Next to him, sitting like he’s posing for a statue of a powerful billionaire: Lawrence Stroll, suspiciously serene. Too serene.

Both men stand when you and Lance walk in.

“Oh god…” you whisper. “Are they already doing the intense eye contact thing?”

“No, no,” Lance whispers back, squeezing your hand. “This is their version of being civil.”

“That’s worse.”

“Much worse.”

You sit. You’re placed next to Zak. Lance is placed next to Lawrence. As if they planned it. As if they said “divide and conquer.”

The tension is SO thick the waiter takes ten minutes to approach because he senses danger.

Zak won’t look at you. He can’t. He’s staring at the table, breathing slowly, processing.

Lawrence, on the other hand, looks… cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful.

Finally, Zak exhales, lifts his eyes, and says:

“Why a drive-thru chapel, sweetheart? WHY!?”

You cover your face with your hands.

“Dad…”

“Do you know how many millions weddings normally cost in this family?” Zak continues, appalled. “And you go and speedrun the whole thing in TWENTY-TWO MINUTES?”

Lance raises his hand timidly.

“Twenty-two minutes and forty seconds.”

Zak stares at him with an anger so pure Lance physically shrinks into his chair.

Lawrence takes a sip of wine.

“Personally, I thought it was romantic. Spontaneous. Young.” He smiles—that terrifying “I already hired people for a thousand-person wedding” smile.

“And now… you’re family. That’s something to celebrate.”

Zak practically chokes.

“Celebrate? PR is on fire, sponsors are calling, and Oscar just asked if this affects his emotional contract with my daughter!”

“Your daughter is wonderful,” Lawrence says calmly. “Everyone in the paddock loves her. Lance too. And now that they’re married…”

“Can you say that again?” Lance sighs dreamily.

“No.” you mutter, elbowing him.

Zak breathes deeply.

“Look at me,” he says. “I’m not mad that you got married. I’m… scared.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my little girl. I want to know you’re safe. And he—” He points at Lance like he’s committing a federal offense. “He has a long history of scaring me for fun.”

Lance raises both hands.

“I love her, sir. A lot. It wasn’t a drunk mistake. I mean—yes, alcohol was involved, but not the love part. That was already there.”

Silence.

Lawrence looks at his son proudly. Zak sighs. You want to slide under the table and never return.

Then Lawrence casually drops a grenade:

“By the way, I already ordered a custom Aston Martin to commemorate the marriage.”

Zak blinks. “How much did it cost?”

“Don’t ask questions like that, Zak. It’s tacky.”

“How. Much.”

Lawrence smiles. “Let’s say… the price of a small private jet.”

Zak drops his napkin, scandalized.

“IS THROWING MONEY AT EVERYTHING YOUR ONLY PROBLEM-SOLVING METHOD!?”

“And yours isn’t?” Lawrence fires back. “I already heard about the pearlescent papaya McLaren with their initials embroidered.”

“That was sentimental.” Zak argues. “That was obscenely expensive.”

“You started it.”

“I won’t be stopping.”

You and Lance exchange a look.

Lance whispers: “Do we need to stop them?”

“How?”

“I don’t know… announcing we want a proper ceremony maybe?”

“No. Absolutely not. Do NOT give them more reasons to spend money.”

The dads have now moved on to discussing whether the future baby should have a personalized baby kart or wait until they can walk.

“There is NO BABY,” you shout.

Three heads turn to you.

Zak: “Yet.”

Lawrence: “When there is, they’ll have two cars.”

The kitchen staff is probably whispering: we saw this coming.

Lance leans toward you, murmuring: “I actually wanna survive long enough to take you on a nice honeymoon.”

“Which one?”

“The only one where our dads aren’t arguing.”

You drop your head on his shoulder, defeated but happy, because yeah… this is a disaster. But it’s your disaster. And Lance squeezes your hand like you’re the brightest part of all the chaos.

Finally, Zak looks at you—exhausted, heartbroken, but soft—and says: “If he makes you happy… then I can be happy too.”

Lawrence nods. “Welcome to the family, Zak.”

Zak rubs his temples. “Oh god… we’re in-laws now.”

Lawrence raises his glass. “The world is not ready.”

You just smile. Because maybe Vegas was impulsive. But this moment… this one is real.

❀。• *₊°。

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replies:

charles leclerc - username tell me why Lance has two weddings before me this is crazy

lando norris - username zak brown planning a stroll wedding is not something I had on my 2025 bingo card

fernando alonso - username “no budget” are the two scariest words in motorsport

yn brown - username guys pls this wasn’t MY idea 😭Fy

lance stroll - username but you like the idea now right baby

oscar piastri - username so can I get a paid day off for this or what

mclaren - username absolutely not.

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replies:

lance_stroll I can help babe

-> you are making it worse

lance_stroll …fair

lawrencestroll you’re welcome.

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astonmartinf1

liked by ynbrown, lance_stroll, fan5 and others

astonmartinf1 We are thrilled to celebrate Lance & Y/N again—this time with style. 💍 A very special surprise is coming 👀

mclaren that’s crazy because WE also have a surprise

astonmartinf1 stay in your lane papaya mclaren cry about it green ynbrown PLEASE STOP

lance_stroll 🤫👀

fan34 💚💚

❀。• *₊°。

ynbrown

liked by lance_stroll, friend2, estebanocon and others

ynbrown We already had our perfect wedding. Everything else is just for the parents 🤍

lance_stroll you’re my wife. I love saying that.

ynbrown okay that part is cute

zakbrown rehearsal dinner is at 7. don’t be late

lawrencestroll wear the dress I approved ynbrown PLEASE STOP FIGHTING

lando this is better than reality TV

alex_albon facts.

❀。• *₊°。

ynbrown

liked by astonmartinf1, lance_stroll, mclaren and others

ynbrown married… again 🤍✨ this time with slightly less tequila and significantly more budget.

lance_stroll my wife looks like a fairy and i’m obsessed with her

ynbrown YOU’RE my fairy

lando i was promised food and instead i got emotions??

oscarpiastri the vows made me cry ngl

fernandoalonso congrats. also i caught the bouquet. i fear what that means

mclaren it was an honor to deliver the world’s first papaya-wedding aisle

astonmartinf1 and an honor to correct half of it to green ynbrown STOP FIGHTING IN MY COMMENTS

lawrencestroll beautiful ceremony. loved the green side.

zakbrown the papaya side was clearly superior. ynbrown DADS PLEASE

charlesleclerc i haven’t even had one wedding this is offensive

georgerussell63 the champagne fountain was unnecessary but appreciated

alex_albon the afterparty cured my seasonal depression

❀。• *₊°。

lance_stroll

liked by ynbrown, estebanocon, charles_leclerc and others

lance_stroll didn’t think anything could top vegas... but you walking toward me? yeah… nothing beats that.

ynbrown stop being cute it’s illegal

fernandoalo_oficial proud of you, kid

lawrencestroll excellent choice of spouse

zakbrown i will be approving the honeymoon schedule btw

lance_stroll sir please don’t

❀。• *₊°。

replies:

lando norris - username I WAS FRAMED

lance stroll - username i didn’t cry

yn brown - username babe you cried FOUR TIMES

fernando alonso - username the bouquet is already on ebay

m - username i believe that tbh

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@lance_stroll

liked by astonmartin, yourinstagram, fernandoalo_oficial and 2,720,034 others

lance_stroll 🇬🇧

view all comments

yourinstagram Amazing race from my bestie! Also did you post the picture that my hair is mess 😭

lance_stroll you never look like a mess ❤ liked by yourinstagram

teamstroll This rain masterclass. 🧑‍🍳

liked by yourinstagram

user2 Trash. Nepotism. Give your seat up op a better driver

yourinstagram Ugly, Short and an Arsehole. Worse Combination. Please get a life

nyanmow SUPER RACE 👏👏 THE RAIN

jeon_eni TE AMOOOOOOOO

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

As you stand there in the bustling pit lane, your eyes follow Lance as he walks over to you after another successful race. The adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the excitement of the day, you can't help but feel a swell of pride for your best friend.

You've been through so much together, and now, here he is, a successful Formula 1 driver, and you couldn't be happier for him.

"Hey Lancy!" you say, waiting for Lance to finish his weigh-in, hug from his team, and a pat on the shoulder with a proud grin from his father. As soon as Lance looks at you, his eyes soften.

He walks over to you and holds you before spinning you around and placing a kiss on your cheek. You two have been doing the same dance since Lance got his first podium this year.

"Thanks for coming, I'm really starting to think that you're my lucky charm," Lance grins.

"Of course I am, Lancy," you grinned back, the familiar warmth of his hands still on your waist before he gently set you down.

You reached up, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, a gesture so ingrained it was like breathing. "Someone has to make sure you remember how good you are."

His smile, wide and genuine, was a sight you cherished. It was so different from the stoic, focused expression he wore in the car, or the sometimes-beleaguered look he'd get when facing a particularly harsh press conference.

This was the Lance you knew, the one who still occasionally stumbled over his words when excited, the one who'd shared every secret and every dream with you since you were both knee-high.

And god, he was beautiful when he smiled like that. Your heart, annoyingly, did that little flip-flop thing it always did around him.

"You really think so?" he asked, his thumb idly stroking the back of your hand, a casual touch that sent a jolt right through you. "Because sometimes…"

He trailed off, a shadow passing over his eyes for a split second before he brightened again, pulling you closer to walk with him towards the debrief room. "Never mind. Let's just celebrate this one."

You squeezed his arm, that protective instinct flaring up. You knew exactly what he was going to say. The 'sometimes' was always about the noise, the relentless, often cruel commentary that followed him like a shadow.

It was the same noise that had you, the newly minted lawyer, spending late nights not networking, but meticulously scrubbing through comment sections on Instagram, X, YouTube – anywhere a troll dared to rear their ugly head.

Who's been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section?? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? It was you, armed with a lawyer's precision for identifying defamation and a best friend's unwavering loyalty.

"He's not just a rich kid with a fast car, you absolute imbeciles," you'd type under an anonymous username, your fingers flying across the keyboard, ready to dismantle any poorly-formed argument about his talent or his dedication.

"He put in the work. He's here on merit. You wouldn't know talent if it hit you in the face with a DRS-assisted overtake."

Then, of course, you'd calmly report the comment for harassment. It was a full-time job for your 'traveling companion' phase, but someone had to do it.

"Yeah, let's celebrate," you agreed, already mentally planning where they could go for dinner. "You were incredible today, Lancy. I mean, truly. The way you held that line on turn three? Chef's kiss." You demonstratively blew a kiss in the air, earning a soft chuckle from him.

He slung his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as they navigated the bustling paddock.

"You always say that," he murmured, his breath warm against your ear, sending another pleasant shiver down your spine.

"Because it's true," you retorted, leaning into his touch, your head resting naturally against his bicep. This was your normal.

For anyone else, this level of casual intimacy would scream 'couple,' but for you and Lance, it was just… you. Born into a family where a hug was a greeting and a kiss on the cheek was a goodbye, this felt like home.

You remembered high school, the girls in the hallway whispering, then outright asking, "Are you two, like, dating?" You’d just level them with a cool stare. "Why? Are you upset you've never touched a boy before?"

The snickers and comments usually died down after that. Lance, bless his oblivious heart, would just look confused, then shrug and link your arm in his as you walked away.

Now, years later, watching him navigate the cutthroat world of F1, you felt that same fierce protectiveness, magnified. You’d spent years studying torts and contracts, only to find your true calling in defending Lance's honour online.

As he steered you into the quieter area leading to the Aston Martin hospitality, he tightened his grip, pulling you closer. "Seriously though," he said, his voice a little softer, "it means a lot having you here. It just… makes everything better."

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. In that moment, the noise of the paddock faded, the hundreds of people around them disappearing.

It was just you and Lance. Your best friend. Your biggest crush. The boy whose comments section you single-handedly policed. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

"Always, Lancy," you whispered, a silent promise hanging unspoken in the air between you. "Always."

As you make your way through the paddock, you can't help but think about your childhood with Lance. Growing up in a loving family where touch was a big way of showing love, you've always been affectionate with your friends.

In school, girls would tease you and call you two a couple, but you would calmly snap back by saying that they shouldn't be angry that they've never touched a boy before. The comments stopped for the whole time.

Now, as you travel the world with Lance, watching him race and enjoying each other's company, you can't help but wonder if there's more to your friendship than just being best friends.

The atmosphere in the Aston Martin hospitality suite is electric, the smell of champagne and victory in the air. You and Lance are surrounded by well-wishers, but you manage to sneak away to a quieter corner.

You've always had a knack for finding these secret pockets of solace amidst the chaos. . . .

He squeezed her arm gently, the fabric of her jacket soft beneath his fingers. “Come on, let’s get this debrief over with so we can properly celebrate,” he murmured, pulling her a little closer as they resumed their walk.

He could feel the warmth of her body pressed against his side, a familiar comfort that had been a constant in his life for as long as he could remember.

It was the kind of comfort he’d always taken for granted, like the sun rising or the earth spinning, until he’d started to truly understand how rare and precious it was.

His mind, usually a chaotic swirl of telemetry data, race strategy, and the endless pursuit of perfection, quieted in her presence. He remembered the shadow that had crossed his eyes when he’d almost said, “Because sometimes…”

The ‘sometimes’ was the weight of expectation, the cacophony of online abuse, the relentless dissection of his every move. It was the feeling of being judged before he’d even started, of having his passion reduced to a birthright, his talent dismissed as a mere byproduct of his father’s wealth.

It was a suffocating pressure that few could truly comprehend, and even fewer could alleviate. But she, somehow, always did.

She wasn’t just a person who made things better; she was the very definition of better. She was the calm in the storm, the steady hand when the world felt like it was tilting on its axis.

He’d often wondered what his life would look like without her, and the thought was a bleak, desolate landscape he quickly retreated from. Their story, his story, began not in the roar of an engine or the glint of carbon fiber, but in the pastel-colored chaos of Mrs. Henderson’s kindergarten class.

He’d been a quiet kid, more interested in meticulously stacking blocks than in joining the boisterous games of tag. He remembered the day she arrived, a whirlwind of bright colours and uncontainable energy, a small scowl permanently etched on her face as she surveyed their domain.

He’d been building a tower, a precarious marvel of engineering, when a larger, louder boy had deliberately knocked it over. Lance, too stunned and too shy to react, had just stared at the scattered blocks, his lower lip trembling.Then, like a tiny, fierce avenging angel, she had appeared.

“Hey!” she’d shrieked, her voice surprisingly powerful for such a small frame. “You leave him alone! He worked really hard on that!”

The boy had scoffed, but she hadn’t backed down. She’d planted herself firmly in front of Lance, her arms crossed, her eyes narrowed in a way that had made even the class bully hesitate. “Apologize,” she’d demanded, pointing a tiny finger.

The boy, bewildered by such an unyielding force, had mumbled something that might have been an apology before reluctantly retreating.

She’d then turned to Lance, her scowl softening into a look of genuine concern. “Are you okay?” she’d asked, her voice surprisingly gentle. “He’s a meanie.”

Lance, speechless, had merely nodded. She’d knelt beside him, her small hands already helping him gather the scattered blocks.

“Don’t worry,” she’d said, her voice brimming with confidence. “We’ll build it again. Even bigger this time.”

That was it. That was the moment. From that day on, she had been his unwavering protector, his fierce advocate, and his most cherished confidante.

She had been the first person who saw past his quiet nature, who understood the intricate workings of his mind without him having to utter a single word.

Through childhood, she was the architect of their adventures, the instigator of daring escapades in the sprawling gardens of his family home. While he meticulously planned his Lego cities, she would be out scaling trees, daring him to follow, her laughter ringing through the air.

She was the one who could coax him out of his shell, who knew exactly how to make him laugh until his sides hurt. She saw the world in vibrant technicolor, and through her eyes, even his sometimes-monotonous reality gained a thrilling new dimension.

As they grew, so did the complexity of their lives. His passion for racing, once a childhood dream, began to consume him, demanding every ounce of his time and focus.

She, equally driven, delved into her studies, her mind a steel trap for facts and figures, her ambition set on the legal world. Their paths diverged physically, but emotionally, they remained inextricably linked.

He remembered the early days of junior single-seater racing. The brutal travel, the endless hours in simulators, the crushing disappointment of a bad race, the fleeting euphoria of a good one.

He was often lonely, surrounded by people who were either rivals or colleagues, with few genuine connections. But then, a text would pop up on his phone, always from her.

Something witty, something encouraging, something that would cut through the noise and remind him of home, of who he was beyond the helmet.

She’d send him photos of her law school campus, snippets of her absurdly complicated cases, anecdotes about her professors. And he, in turn, would share the mundane details of his life on the road, the frustrations of a new car setup, the weight of expectation.

She never tried to pretend she understood the intricacies of aerodynamics or tire degradation, but she understood him. She understood the pressure, the dedication, the sheer grind of it all.

He’d overheard whispers sometimes, casual comments from friends and family, about the oddity of their closeness. “Are you two ever going to just admit you’re together?” they’d tease.

He’d just shrug, a flush rising to his cheeks. He knew it wasn't the typical relationship, but then, nothing about his life was typical. And for a long time, the idea of changing it, of risking what they had, was too terrifying to contemplate.

Their friendship was the one constant, the one safe harbour. He couldn’t jeopardize that. Not for anything.

Yet, as years passed and he stepped into the glaring spotlight of Formula 1, something began to shift. The casual touches, the shared glances, the comfortable silence between them – they all began to take on a new, unsettling, yet undeniably exhilarating meaning.

The move to F1 was brutal. The scrutiny was relentless, the criticism vitriolic. Every mistake was amplified, every success diminished.

He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders, the constant need to prove himself, not just to his team, but to an entire global audience that seemed determined to dismiss him.

It was during these darkest times that her presence became not just a comfort, but a necessity. She would travel with him whenever she could, becoming his ‘traveling companion’ – a convenient euphemism for the team to explain her constant presence in the paddock and motorhome without raising too many questions.

He knew, instinctively, that she was doing more than just being his cheerleader. He saw her on her phone sometimes, a focused intensity in her eyes as her fingers flew across the screen, a look he’d come to associate with her tackling a particularly thorny legal problem.

He’d heard her muttering under her breath once, something about “defamation of character” and “absolute imbeciles.” He hadn’t pressed her, but a faint, knowing smile had touched his lips.

He knew she was defending him, protecting his honour in ways he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, directly acknowledge. It was a silent, powerful testament to her unwavering loyalty, and every time he thought of it, a warmth spread through his chest.

After a particularly brutal race, one where the car had failed him and the press had torn him apart, she’d found him slumped in his driver’s room, staring blankly at a wall.

She hadn’t said much, just sat beside him on the small couch, her shoulder pressed against his. Then, without a word, she’d reached for his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. The simple touch had been a lifeline, pulling him back from the brink of despair.

He’d leaned his head against hers, and for a long time, they’d just sat there, the soft rhythm of her breathing the only sound. In that quiet moment, he realized that her presence wasn't just helpful; it was essential.

He started noticing things. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way she chewed on her lip when she was deep in thought, the subtle scent of her perfume that would sometimes linger in his hospitality room after she’d left.

He’d catch himself watching her across a crowded room, her animation, her fierce intelligence, her infectious energy drawing his gaze like a magnet. His chest would tighten, a strange, unfamiliar ache blossoming in his ribs.

This wasn't just friendship anymore. This was something deeper, something far more potent and terrifying.

He’d tried to rationalize it, to dismiss it as the familiarity of a lifelong bond. But the butterflies in his stomach when her hand brushed his, the jolt that went through him when she leaned into him for a hug, couldn't be explained away by platonic affection.

He felt a fierce, protective urge to keep her safe, to see her happy, to be the reason for her brightest smiles.

Today, after the race, after holding that line on turn three like his life depended on it, the euphoria had been immediate. But the real high, the truly grounding satisfaction, had come when he’d seen her.

The way her face lit up, the genuine pride in her eyes as she’d launched herself into his arms. The feel of her body against his, the familiar weight of her hands on his waist before he’d gently set her down. He’d seen the pure joy in her expression, and it had reflected his own.

“Someone has to make sure you remember how good you are,” she’d said, smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead, a gesture so ingrained it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

He’d grinned back, a wide, genuine smile that hadn't come easily lately. It was true. She did that for him. She saw past the headlines, past the statistics, past the public perception, and saw him.

The kid who just loved to drive fast, the man who poured his heart and soul into his craft.

“You really think so?” he’d asked, his thumb idly stroking the back of her hand. The casual touch, a habit formed over decades, had nevertheless sent a jolt of something electric through him, a feeling that was becoming increasingly common, increasingly insistent.

He’d almost said it then, almost confessed the deep-seated self-doubt that plagued him, the constant whispers of not being good enough. But then he’d brightened, pulling her closer to walk with him.

“Never mind. Let’s just celebrate this one.” There would be time later for the vulnerabilities, for the deeper conversations. For now, he just wanted to bask in the glow of her approval, her presence.

He had slung his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as they navigated the bustling paddock.

The familiar weight of her head resting against his bicep, her voice bright and enthusiastic as she recounted his race, was a balm to his soul.

“You always say that,” he’d murmured, enjoying the warmth of her breath against his ear, the pleasant shiver it sent down his spine.

“Because it’s true,” she’d retorted, and he knew she believed it with every fiber of her being.

As he steered her into the quieter area leading to the Aston Martin hospitality, he’d tightened his grip, pulling her even closer. “Seriously though,” he’d said, his voice a little softer, a little more sincere than he usually allowed himself to be. “It means a lot having you here. It just… makes everything better.”

It wasn’t just a simple statement; it was an admission, a glimpse into the depths of his reliance on her, his burgeoning feelings.

He’d looked down, meeting her eyes. And in that moment, the world had truly faded. The hundreds of people, the multi-million dollar machinery, the roaring engines – it had all dissolved into a distant hum.

It was just them. His best friend. The fierce, loyal, brilliant woman who silently fought his battles online. The woman he was undeniably, irrevocably falling in love with.

“Always, Lancy,” she’d whispered, her response a mirror of her earlier promise. And as he looked at her, truly looked at the woman who had always been there, who made him feel truly seen, truly valued, he knew.

The unspoken promise hanging in the air wasn't just about friendship or support anymore. It was about something more. Something that felt like destiny.

And for the first time in a very long time, Lance Stroll felt a hope that surpassed the thrill of any victory, a hope that promised a future infinitely better than anything he could have imagined alone.

He just had to find the courage to reach for it. . . . .

The relentless glow of your phone screen was a familiar companion late at night. You scrolled, your thumb a blur, an almost visceral knot tightening in your stomach with each negative comment. “Stroll is just a pay driver.” “He doesn’t deserve that seat.” “Another fluke podium.”

Fury simmered beneath your skin. You’d been at this for years, a one-person digital defense force, a guardian angel of Lance’s comment section.

Who’s been defending Lance Stroll in his comments section? Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it’s you, his childhood bestie, ready to throw down with anonymous keyboard warriors over the honour of the kindest, most misunderstood man you knew.

Just yesterday, you’d watched him on the TV, standing on the podium, champagne spraying, a rare, genuine smile gracing his features.

It had been a chaotic race, a masterclass in tyre management and strategic driving, and he’d earned that third place. The world, or at least a vocal part of the internet, seemed determined to dismiss it as luck.

You, however, knew the relentless grit that lay beneath his often-reserved exterior. You knew the thousands of hours, the quiet determination, the immense pressure he carried.

Your phone buzzed, startling you. Not a Twitter notification, but a direct call. Lance.

“Hey,” his voice, a little tired but laced with a faint satisfaction, filled the room. “Did you see?”

“See? Lance, I practically had a heart attack during those last ten laps! You were brilliant! Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” You could hear him chuckle softly, a sound that always managed to soothe the tautness in your shoulders.

“Thanks, Y/N. That means a lot.” A pause. “Look, they’ve invited me to another one of those club things tonight. Celebration. You know. And honestly… I just… I really don’t want to go.”

You did know. Lance hated the manufactured glitz of those post-race parties, the forced smiles, the superficial conversations. He preferred quiet nights, a good book, or just… existing.

“So don’t go,” you said simply.

“I kind of have to,” he sighed, and you could practically see him running a hand through his hair. “It’s expected. But… would you be my plus one? Just so I don’t have to stand there awkwardly by myself. I promise we can leave early.”

Your heart gave a little flutter. A plus one. For Lance. To a fancy club. “Of course, Lance. Happy to be your human shield.”

He laughed then, a genuine, joyful sound that made your own smile widen. “Perfect. I’ll send the details. Pick you up at nine?”

“See you then.”

You hung up, a strange mix of excitement and nerves bubbling within you. A club. You hadn’t been out like that in ages. Your eyes drifted to your wardrobe.

What does one wear to a fancy F1 after-party? Then it hit you. That black mini skirt you rarely wore, paired with… a vivid emerald green top. You remembered, years ago, when you were teenagers, playing video games at his house, you’d been wearing a simple green t-shirt.

He’d looked over, mid-game, and said, “You know, green really suits you, Y/N. Like, really suits you.” It was such a small, throwaway comment, yet it had lodged itself in your memory, a surprising little treasure. Tonight, you’d wear green. For him.

Nine o’clock arrived, and you stood in your chosen outfit, feeling a mix of self-consciousness and quiet confidence. The black skirt was sleek, the green top a vibrant splash of colour against your skin. A few minutes later, your doorbell chimed.

Lance stood there, looking impossibly handsome in a dark, tailored shirt that hugged his shoulders just right. His eyes widened slightly as he took you in.

“Wow, Y/N,” he breathed, a genuine smile replacing his earlier apprehension. “You look… stunning. Green really does suit you.”

A blush warmed your cheeks. “Thanks, Lance. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

The club was a sensory assault. Pounding music, flashing lights, the humid press of bodies. Lance, true to form, looked subtly overwhelmed. You instinctively moved closer to him, letting your shoulder brush his arm as you navigated the crowd.

He immediately responded, his hand finding the small of your back, a light, comforting pressure as he guided you through the throng. It was such a natural gesture, one of many, woven into the fabric of your long friendship.

He always liked having an arm, a shoulder, your waist, or the small of your back within touching distance. It was his anchor in chaos, and tonight, you were his.

“What drink do you want, Y/N?” he leaned down, his voice just audible over the bass, his breath warm against your ear.

The way he said your name – that slight dip in his tone, the gentle emphasis – always made your heart do funny things. It sounded less like a question and more like a soft invitation. “Something fruity, I think,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. “And not too strong.”

He nodded, a slight crinkle at the corner of his eyes, before disappearing into the crush at the bar. When he returned, carefully balancing two elaborate cocktails, he handed one to you. “This one looked… fruity.” He shrugged, a boyish grin on his face.

You took a sip. It was sweet, tangy, and perfect. “It is. Thanks.”

As the night wore on, Lance found himself cornered by various team personnel, sponsors, and other drivers. You stood beside him, a silent, supportive presence.

At one point, as he was deep in conversation with a particularly effusive sponsor, you felt a familiar weight. His chin rested on your shoulder, his breath a gentle warmth against your neck as he continued to speak, nodding and smiling politely.

It was a silent claim, a way of grounding himself, and you felt a warmth spread through you, distinct from the buzzing energy of the club. You were his comfort. He was yours.

Later, you found a slightly less crowded corner, leaning against a velvet banquette. Lance had slipped his hand into yours, his thumb absently brushing over your knuckles.

You weren’t saying a word, just existing quietly in the same space. The music throbbed around you, the chatter of voices was a dull roar, but in your shared silence, it felt like the most sacred thing.

It was moments like these, wordless and profound, that truly defined your connection.

You noticed him then, his gaze drifting over your green top, before his fingers, almost imperceptibly, began to play with the hem of your sleeve.

He wasn't quite holding your hand anymore, but he wanted to touch you. He always did this, a subtle, almost shy gesture, when he felt close but wasn’t ready to voice the depth of his feelings.

It was a silent language, understood only by the two of you.

A new song blasted through the speakers, and someone bumped into you, pushing you slightly away from the banquette. Before you could even register the movement, Lance’s arm wrapped around your waist, slowly and smoothly dragging you onto his lap.

You gasped softly, startled, but his grip was firm, possessive in the most gentle way. He settled you comfortably, your back against his chest, his chin resting on your shoulder again. “Better?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble.

You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, the warmth of his body. “Much,” you whispered, a contented sigh escaping you. The alcohol, combined with his proximity, was making you light-headed in the best way.

As the hours passed, you noticed a shift in Lance. His initial stiffness had melted away, replaced by a looser, more ebullient presence. He was laughing louder, talking more freely.

He’d had a few more drinks than he usually would, carried away by the celebratory atmosphere. His chin was still resting on your shoulder, but now his words were slightly slurred as he recounted an anecdote about a chaotic practice session.

“Lance,” you interrupted gently, turning your head slightly to meet his gaze. His eyes were a little unfocused, but still held that familiar warmth. “I think it’s time to call it a night.”

He blinked slowly. “Already? But it’s fun.”

“It is,” you agreed, patting his arm. “But you’ve got a busy week, and I think your bed is calling your name. Let’s say goodbye to a few people, and then we can head out.”

He grumbled good-naturedly but complied. You helped him navigate the farewells, keeping a steadying hand on his arm, nodding politely to the well-wishers who clearly hadn’t noticed his slightly tipsy state.

Once outside, the cool night air was a welcome relief. The street was still bustling with late-night revelers, but it felt quieter than the club. “Beach?” he mumbled, leaning against you slightly.

You looked at him, surprised. The beach was a good twenty minutes away, and he was clearly past the point of wanting a long drive. But he looked so earnest. “Okay,” you smiled, hailing a passing taxi. “Beach it is.”

The taxi ride was mostly silent, save for the low hum of the engine and Lance’s occasional soft sigh. He leaned his head against the window, watching the city lights blur by.

When you arrived at the deserted stretch of sand, the ocean’s roar was a soothing balm. The moon cast a silver path across the waves, and the air was crisp with the scent of salt.

You kicked off your shoes, sinking your toes into the cool sand. Lance did the same, stumbling a little before righting himself. You walked along the shoreline, the waves lapping gently at your ankles. He was quieter now, the alcohol having mellowed him into a reflective state.

Suddenly, he stopped, bending down clumsily. He picked up something from the sand, a small, unassuming grey rock, smoothed by the ocean. He turned it over in his palm, then held it out to you.

“This,” he slurred slightly, his gaze soft as he looked from the rock to you, “this reminded me of you.”

You took the rock from him, turning it over in your own fingers. It was just a stupid rock, plain and ordinary. But because it was from him, because he’d seen you in it, you held onto it like it was a diamond, a priceless gem. It was a testament to how deeply he saw you, even in his drunken state.

“Thank you, Lance,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

He just smiled, a small, genuine curve of his lips. You stood there for a long moment, the ocean breeze whipping your hair, the silence comforting between you. Then, you gently tugged his hand. “Alright, let’s get you home for real this time.”

You found another taxi, and soon you were pulling up to his sleek, modern apartment building. You helped him navigate the elevator, his arm slung heavily over your shoulder.

Inside, his apartment felt vast and silent after the chaos of the club and the wildness of the beach.

“Shower first,” you instructed gently, but he just shook his head, already making his way towards his bedroom.

He stumbled a little, clearly exhausted. You followed, watching as he practically collapsed onto his king-sized bed, shoes still on.

You sighed, a fond exasperation. You knelt down, untying his laces, carefully pulling off his shoes and socks. He was already half-asleep, face smushed into the pillow.

You pulled the duvet over him, tucking him in like he was a child. He stirred, murmuring, “You make me feel like I’m home,” his voice thick with sleep and genuine sentiment.

Your heart swelled. You knew what he meant. Home wasn’t a place for Lance; it was a feeling, a person. And that he felt it with you… it was everything.

“I’m just going to get you some water,” you whispered, starting to pull away. You knew he’d be thirsty in the morning.

But as you moved, his hand shot out, surprisingly fast and strong, wrapping around your wrist. “Don’t,” he mumbled, his eyes still closed. “Don’t leave yet.”

Not because he thought you were going somewhere, or leaving entirely. But because being with you, having your presence by his side, was the safest he’d felt all day.

You sank back down, pulling out your phone to set an alarm for yourself. His grip on your wrist loosened but didn’t release. You watched him breathe, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

After a moment, his eyes fluttered open slowly, focusing on you. His gaze was softer now, clearer than before, though still heavy with sleep. He looked at you, truly looked at you, like you weren’t just a person, but his favourite story.

One he’d been rereading since forever and still kept finding new parts to fall in love with. The depth of emotion in his eyes was almost overwhelming.

“Stay the night?” he asked, the words so soft it might’ve been a wish, spoken into the quiet of the room. He didn’t press, didn’t demand. Just offered the possibility, wrapped in vulnerability.

You looked at him, really looked, and saw the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, the way his eyes searched yours.

You knew that underneath the bravado of his racing persona, he was just Lance, your Lance, who sometimes needed the quiet comfort of familiar arms.

"Of course," you whispered, reaching up to brush a piece of hair out of his eyes.

You leaned over him, your hand lingering on his cheek, feeling the roughness of his stubble under your fingertips. His eyes closed at your touch, a contented sigh escaping his lips.

You slid in beside him, his body warm and comforting as you lay down. The bed was a cocoon, the soft fabric of his shirt a second skin, the scent of him – a blend of sweat, victory, and something uniquely Lance – enveloping you.

For a moment, you lay there, feeling his breathing even out, his heartbeat slow, steady and reassuring beneath your cheek.

It was a dance you’d done many times before, a silent ballet of friendship and care. But tonight, the music had changed. There was a tension in the air, a new melody playing.

Suddenly, his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer. You stiffened for a moment, unsure if this was a sleepy gesture or something more. His eyes remained closed, but his grip was firm, his hand curling around your waist.

It felt less like he was holding onto you for comfort and more like he was afraid to let go. You let out a soft sigh, your body melting into the warmth of his embrace.

You lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your side.

The weight of his arm was comforting, a silent promise that no matter what the world threw at either of you, he'd be there. You felt your own eyes getting heavy, the lullaby of the waves outside matching the rhythm of his heart. The room was bathed in a soft, moonlit glow, casting shadows that danced across the walls.

As you drifted closer to sleep, your hand found its way to his chest, feeling the steady thump beneath your palm. It was a comforting beat, a reminder of life, of warmth.

His breathing grew deeper, a low rumble that vibrated through you. You felt the warmth of his skin, the gentle brush of his breath against your neck.

You closed your eyes, the darkness behind your lids matching the shadows in the room.

The whispers of the ocean grew distant, the world outside fading away as you succumbed to the gentle embrace of unconsciousness.

In that space between sleep and wakefulness, your mind played with the concept of home, of safety, and of the person whose arms you were in. . . .

The first thing you registered was warmth. A deep, pervasive warmth that enveloped you, a scent you knew as intimately as your own, a rhythmic thrum against your cheek.

You stirred, a soft groan escaping your lips as you stretched, your body protesting the sudden movement. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains.

For a confused moment, you weren't sure where you were. The room wasn't yours, the bed wasn't yours, and the arm wrapped firmly around your waist definitely wasn't yours.

Then, the memories flooded back: the club, the beach, Lance’s slurred confession, the simple grey rock, the quiet plea to stay. And the arms.

You remembered the feeling of him pulling you close, the hesitant anticipation, the eventual succumb. You were in Lance’s bed, curled against his chest, his arm heavy and possessive around you.

The morning light, pale and gentle, painted the room in hues of soft grey and muted gold. You could discern the familiar contours of his face, softened in sleep.

His dark hair was a mess against the pillow, a lock falling across his forehead. His lips, usually set in a determined line, were slightly parted, a quiet breath escaping them. His eyelashes, surprisingly long, lay fanned against his cheeks.

You could feel the subtle vibrations of his breath against your hair, his steady heartbeat a lullaby beneath your ear.

You hadn't realized how deeply you'd missed this proximity, this raw, unfiltered closeness that transcended years of friendship. It was different now. The platonic comfort had been replaced by something new, a tender fragility laced with an almost unbearable longing.

You remembered the feeling of his hand on your wrist, his unsaid plea, his eyes that had seen you like a favorite story. The intensity of that gaze, even through his drunken haze, had stolen your breath.

Carefully, you shifted, just enough to look up at him without disturbing his sleep. His grip on you tightened instinctively, a soft murmur escaping his lips.

You smiled, a soft, private thing. He was still half-asleep, his subconscious clinging to your presence.

The knowledge that your presence offered him such comfort, such a sense of home, was a profound and humbling realization.

You traced the line of his jaw with your thumb, feeling the slight stubble there. So often, you saw him on screens, saw the pressure of the F1 world weighing on him, saw the harsh criticisms and the fierce defenses you launched in his name online.

But here, in the quiet intimacy of his bedroom, he was just Lance. Your Lance. The boy who’d taught you how to skip stones across the lake, the teenager who’d shared secrets under starlit skies, the man who still carried a piece of your heart.

His eyelids fluttered, a slow, deliberate movement. You froze, your hand still on his jaw. His eyes, the clear blue of a summer sky, slowly focused on you.

There was no alcohol haze now, just soft recognition, and something deeper, something you couldn't quite name but felt resonate deep within your own chest.

A faint smile touched his lips, sleepy and genuine. “Morning,” he croaked, his voice rough with sleep. He didn't move his arm, didn't pull away. If anything, he tightened his hold subtly, as if testing the waters, assuring himself you were still there.

“Morning,” you whispered back, your voice equally soft. The silence that followed wasn't awkward; it was comfortable, pregnant with unspoken emotions.

You could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

He blinked slowly, then his gaze dropped to your intertwined bodies, his arm still firm around your waist, your head nestled against his shoulder.

His eyes flickered back to yours, and for a split second, you saw a flash of vulnerability, a question. Is this real? Is this okay?

You offered him a small, reassuring smile, letting him know it was more than okay. He responded with a deeper, more relaxed sigh, pulling you just a fraction closer. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head, and you felt the soft brush of his breath against your hair.

“Sleep okay?” he mumbled, his voice a little clearer now, though still heavy with sleep.

“I did,” you replied, truthfully. You’d slept deeply, securely, perhaps more soundly than you had in a long time. “What about you? No headache?”

He chuckled softly, a low rumble in his chest. “Surprisingly not. Maybe the beach cured me.” He paused, then: “Did we… did we go to the beach?” His voice was laced with a genuine question, clearly hazy on some of the details.

You smiled, a mixture of amusement and tenderness. “Yes, we did. You wanted to. And you found a rock.”

He lifted his head slightly, peering down at you, a furrow in his brow. “A rock?”

You carefully maneuvered your hand into your pocket, retrieving the small, unassuming grey stone. You held it up, allowing the muted morning light to catch its smooth surface. “This one.”

His eyes widened slightly in recognition. A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, unguarded smile that always reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners.

“Right,” he breathed. “The one that reminded me of you.” He looked at the rock, then back at you, his gaze soft and knowing. “Still does.”

Your heart fluttered, a wild bird trapped in your ribs. You clutched the rock tighter. “It’s just… a rock, Lance.”

“It’s not,” he said, his voice firm, no longer slurred or uncertain. “It’s smooth, like you. And it’s strong, like you. And it just… fits, somehow.”

He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, with a teasing glint in his eyes, “And it’s grey, which admittedly isn’t your best color, but everything else fits.”

You laughed, a genuine, light sound that filled the quiet room. “Oh, thanks, I guess! My best friend thinks I’m a grey rock.”

“My best friend thinks you’re solid,” he corrected, his voice dropping an octave, the underlying meaning clear. “Always there. Always steady. Always… you.” His gaze lingered on your eyes, a depth there that made your breath catch.

He lowered his hands, looking at you with a sheepish grin. “Thanks for… everything. Again.” His eyes held a depth of gratitude that warmed you from the inside out.

There was a lingering look, a moment where his gaze dropped from your eyes to your mouth, before flicking back up. A breath caught in your throat.

Was it just the morning light, or was there something more in his eyes?

You cleared your throat, pulling yourself back from the edge of that thought. “Don’t mention it. Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.” You pushed yourself up, the duvet falling away. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” he admitted, stretching again, his muscles flexing under his skin. “Coffee… and maybe some pancakes if you’re feeling ambitious?”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You dream big, Stroll. I’ll see what I can rustle up.”

You slipped out of bed, the cool air on your skin, and padded softly towards the kitchen. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of city life.

You loved his kitchen: sleek, modern, with a giant island counter perfect for spreading out the Sunday papers or, in your case, cracking eggs. You pulled out a pan, some butter, and began to search for eggs and bread, deciding on a simple scramble and toast.

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, a comforting scent that promised a gentle start to the day.

As you moved around the kitchen, humming softly to yourself, the shrill ring of a phone cut through the quiet. You paused, looking around. It wasn’t yours.

It must be Lance’s. He probably dropped it in the living room last night. You dried your hands on a dishtowel and walked into the living room, spotting his sleek smartphone on the coffee table, vibrating incessantly.

The caller ID glowed brightly: Lawrence Stroll. Your heart gave a little jolt. Lawrence was more than just Lance’s dad; he was like a second father to you.

He’d seen you grow up alongside Lance, always treated you with warmth and genuine affection, and despite his formidable presence in the business world, he had a surprisingly gentle side when it came to his children and those he cared for. You felt a familiar rush of affection and respect for him.

You picked up the phone, a slight smile on your face.

“Hello son,” Lawrence’s voice boomed, clear and distinct even through the phone, though it held a hint of amusement.

“Hi Lawrence,” you answered, a warmth spreading through you.

“Aw, it makes sense,” he chuckled. “Hi Y/N, I assume you went to the party with my son and brought him back home?”

“Yes, we’re at his apartment,” you confirmed, glancing towards the bedroom, wondering if Lance was still stirring. “I think Lance is sleeping but I can wake him up for you–”

“No need,” Lawrence cut you off, his tone softening. “I just wanted to check on him. You always make sure he’s alright. Thank you, Y/N. Good day.”

“Good day to you too, Lawrence,” you said, a genuine smile on your face as you hung up.

You placed the phone back on the coffee table, a thoughtful expression on your face. The call, brief as it was, underscored just how deeply intertwined your lives were with the Stroll family.

You weren't just Lance's friend; you were part of their trusted inner circle, the one they knew would always be there, holding things together. It was a role you cherished, a responsibility you embraced without question.

You returned to the kitchen, the scent of coffee now stronger, mingling with the subtle aroma of butter melting in the pan. You cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a practiced hand, the soft sizzle as they hit the hot pan a comforting sound.

Just as you began to fold the creamy yellow curds, a movement in the doorway caught your eye. Lance, now dressed in a soft grey hoodie and sweatpants, his hair still adorably tousled, leaned against the frame of the kitchen entrance.

He looked considerably more human than an hour ago, though a slight hangover haze still clung to his features. He walked over to the counter and settled onto one of the high stools, watching you with sleepy eyes.

“Smells amazing,” he murmured, resting his chin on his hand. “Did my dad call?”

You glanced at him, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, just now. He called you ‘son’ for a second.”

Lance groaned, a genuine one this time. “He probably knows I was completely out of it.”

“He knows you were with me,” you corrected gently, turning to plate the scrambled eggs and toast. “He just wanted to check in. Said good day.”

“Thank you… for talking to him,” Lance said, his eyes meeting yours, holding a depth of appreciation that made your stomach flutter. “He trusts you.”

“He trusts us,” you corrected again, placing a plate in front of him, along with a perfectly golden slice of toast. You poured him a mug of coffee, black, just the way he liked it.

He took a slow sip of the coffee, his eyes closing in blissful relief. “God, that’s good.” He looked up at you again, a soft smile on his face. “You always know exactly what I need.”

You laughed softly, pouring your own coffee. “It’s called being a good best friend, Stroll.”

But as you said it, a pang of something more, something yearning, echoed in your chest. You took the stool next to him, and the quiet comfort of the kitchen filled the space between you.

You ate in comfortable silence for a while, the clink of forks against plates the only sound.

The morning light now streamed fully into the kitchen, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air, but it also seemed to soften the edges of everything, painting the scene in warm, gentle hues.

“You know,” Lance said, breaking the silence, his voice low, “it’s… nice, having you here.” He didn’t look at you directly, instead focusing on his plate, but the sincerity in his voice was palpable.

You felt a blush creep up your neck. “It’s nice to be here,” you replied honestly, your voice a little softer than you intended.

The air in the kitchen seemed to thicken, the silence stretching like warm taffy. You took a bite of your toast, the crunch echoing in the space between you.

You chewed, savoring the taste of the bread and the sweetness of the jam, trying to ignore the way his eyes never left you.

Finally, you swallowed, washing it down with a sip of coffee. "So," you said, voice casual despite the thunder of your heart, "what do you have planned for this free week?"

You knew he had no races scheduled, a rare occurrence in the relentless Formula 1 calendar. It was a chance for everyone to breathe, to regroup, to heal.

Lance's eyes met yours, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Probably going back to Canada to spend time with the family," he replied after a while. "Do you want to come with me?"

The question hung in the air, as surprising as it was tempting. The thought of returning to the sprawling estate you'd both grown up on, surrounded by the familiar comforts of home, was an enticing prospect.

You felt your heart race at the implication, the sudden shift in your dynamic. "Canada," you echoed, trying to keep your voice even. "With your family?"

Lance nodded, his gaze not leaving yours. "Yeah, it's been a while since you've been back. And with everything that's been happening…"

He trailed off, his expression unreadable. "It might be nice to get away from all this," he waved a hand in the air, encompassing the whirlwind of the F1 world. "You know, just for a bit."

Your stomach did a little flip. The prospect of being surrounded by the Strolls, in their natural habitat, was both thrilling and terrifying. You’ve visited the estate before, but always as the guest, the friend, the plus-one.

This felt like a step closer, a blurring of the lines you’d drawn so carefully around your feelings.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the tornado in your chest. "Sure," you said, trying to keep your voice even, "I could use a break."

Lance's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that way that always made your knees go weak. "Great," he said, his voice a little too eager for your liking. "It'll be just like old times, except with fewer treehouses and more champagne."

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

The hum of the private jet was a familiar lullaby, though this time, it felt different. Usually, you were zipping across continents, chasing the thrill of the Formula 1 circus, the roar of engines a constant companion.

But today, the silence was punctuated only by Lance’s soft snoring beside you, his head tilted against the plush leather seat, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his brow.

You smiled, a gentle warmth spreading through your chest. This was Lance. Not the racing driver, not the high-profile athlete, but Lance, your childhood best friend.

The boy who’d once dared you to climb the highest oak in his backyard, the teenager who’d shared your very first illegal sip of champagne, the man who still called you at 3 AM from halfway across the world just to complain about a bad practice session.

It wasn't an unusual invitation. You’d been to their homes before, spent holidays with them, but this felt different. Perhaps it was the directness of his request, the way he’d sounded almost… eager.

Or perhaps it was just you, perpetually aware of the subtle shifts in the landscape of your friendship.

As the jet began its descent, the vast, green sprawl of Canada emerged beneath the clouds. You’d been here many times, but never quite like this. Not as a deliberate escape from the world, a quiet immersion in the Stroll family’s private life.

Lance stirred, groaning softly as he stretched. "Almost there," he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He caught your gaze, and that familiar, easy smile spread across his face. "Thanks for coming. Means a lot."

You just nodded, a blush creeping up your neck. "Wouldn't miss it, Stroll."

The landing was smooth, the transition from air to ground seamless. A waiting car, sleek and silent, whisked you away from the private hangar.

The drive through the treelined roads, flanked by crisp, autumnal foliage, was serene. You passed through imposing gates, then up a long, winding driveway that eventually opened up to reveal it: the Stroll estate.

It was less a house and more a discreet compound, nestled amidst rolling hills and dense woods. A grand stone mansion, with glass walls reflecting the late afternoon sun, stood proud and welcoming.

As the car pulled to a stop, the front doors swung open, and two figures emerged, radiating warmth.

"There they are!" Lawrence Stroll boomed, his voice carrying the distinct timbre of quiet authority mixed with genuine affection. He was a man who commanded respect, but his eyes held a surprising twinkle as he clapped Lance on the shoulder.

Then his gaze fell on you, and his smile widened. "Look who it is! My favorite adopted daughter!"

You laughed, stepping forward as he enveloped you in a robust hug. Lawrence had always treated you like his own, a permanent fixture in his children’s lives.

Beside him stood Raquel Stroll, Lance’s elegant stepmother. Her smile was softer, her eyes kind and knowing. She pulled you into a gentle embrace, her scent of jasmine and sophistication filling your senses. "Darling, it’s been too long. We’ve missed you.”

“It’s wonderful to be here, Raquel,” you genuinely replied, feeling a sense of belonging that few places outside your own home could evoke.

“Chloe’s just finishing up a call,” Raquel explained, leading you inside. “She’s desperate to see you.”

You already knew that. Your phone had buzzed with a flurry of excited texts from Chloe the moment Lance had told her you were coming.

Chloe, Lance’s older sister, was your closest confidante among the Strolls, a whirlwind of energy and unwavering loyalty.

The house itself was a masterpiece of modern design and old-world comfort. High ceilings, panoramic windows framing the stunning wilderness outside, and art pieces that could grace any museum. Yet, it wasn't intimidating. It felt lived-in, loved, filled with the quiet hum of a family’s life.

Raquel led you upstairs, the soft carpet muffling your footsteps. “Your room is right here,” she announced, opening a door. You stepped inside, and a gasp escaped your lips.

It was a spacious guest room, exquisitely decorated with a king-sized bed, a private balcony overlooking a serene lake, and an ensuite bathroom that looked like a spa. But what truly caught your eye was the adjoining door.

“And Lance is just next door,” Raquel added, perhaps a touch too casually, a light in her eyes that you couldn’t quite decipher. “Thought you two would like to be close, for old times’ sake.”

You simply nodded, suddenly feeling a flush creep up your cheeks. “Perfect, thank you, Raquel.”

She left you to settle in, and you collapsed onto the plush bed, your mind racing. Lance next door. It shouldn't be a big deal

You'd shared hotel rooms with him on race weekends when logistics were tight, endured countless sleepovers during childhood. But this was their home, his personal sanctuary, and the proximity felt… different. More intimate.

The next few days unfolded in a blissful haze of relaxed luxury. Mornings started with leisurely breakfasts around a huge kitchen island, the family sharing stories and plans for the day.

You’d join Lawrence for his morning walk around the grounds, listening to him talk about everything from business to racing. You’d share quiet lunches with Raquel, discussing books and art and life.

But it was the time with Lance that subtly shifted the atmosphere around you. He was different here, away from the pressure cooker of F1. More relaxed, more himself.

You’d find him in the home gym, challenging him to a friendly (and usually losing) competition. You’d join him by the indoor pool, floating aimlessly, sharing comfortable silence.

You’d watch movies together in the lavish home cinema, often just the two of you, curled up on the vast sofa, his arm casually slung over your shoulder, a familiar weight that suddenly felt new.

He’d catch your eye across the dinner table, a private smile passing between you, an inside joke only you two understood, and you’d feel a strange warmth unfurl in your stomach.

Or he’d touch your arm lightly as he passed, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver down your spine.

Things you’d always accepted as part of your platonic bond now felt charged with an electricity you hadn’t noticed before. Or rather, hadn’t allowed yourself to notice.

One afternoon, as Lance was out with his father reviewing some local property investments, Chloe found you in the sunroom, engrossed in a book. She plopped down on the chaise lounge opposite you, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"So," she began, her voice a low purr, "how's my brother behaving?"

You closed your book, marking your page. "He's fine. Annoyingly good at pool, surprisingly bad at charades."

Chloe chuckled. "That sounds about right. But I mean… how is he really? With you."

You frowned slightly. "What do you mean? He's himself. It's nice to see him relaxed, not so stressed about the next race."

She leaned forward, her expression softening but her eyes still holding that knowing gleam. "You know what I mean. You two are disgustingly close. Always have been. But you’ve also always been… very careful with each other, haven’t you?"

You felt a prickle of unease. “We’re best friends, Chloe. We’re allowed to be close.”

“Oh, I know.” She waved a dismissive hand. “And it’s sweet, believe me. But sometimes… I watch you two. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not looking. The way you light up when he walks into a room. And I wonder.” She paused, letting the silence hang heavy between you. "Do you ever wonder, too?"

Your heart began to thump a little faster. You swallowed, trying to find your voice. "Wonder what?"

Chloe sighed, a theatrical but gentle sound. "Don’t play coy with me. You know me better than that. I’ve known you since we were kids. I’ve seen every crush, every heartbreak. Your face is an open book to me. And right now, it’s screaming, 'Oh god, is she talking about that?'"

You felt your cheeks flush, a deep, undeniable heat. You knew exactly what she was talking about. It was a thought that had been lurking in the periphery of your mind for years, a whisper you’d always managed to silence.

“He’s my best friend, Chloe,” you repeated, the words feeling brittle, like fragile glass. “He’s family.”

“Exactly. And sometimes, family starts with a best friend who just happens to be the love of your life.” She watched you, her gaze unwavering. “You’re here, in his space, away from the world. He invited you specifically for this. Not a race weekend, not a PR event. Just… you. And him. And us.”

You looked away, out to the rolling hills, a sudden clarity washing over you. All those subtle touches, the lingering looks, the comfortable silences that felt so intimate.

The way your heart had picked up pace every time he entered a room. The way you’d found yourself comparing every potential partner to him, always finding them lacking.

It wasn’t just a childhood friendship anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. Not for you, at least. You didn’t know when the shift had happened, maybe gradually, imperceptibly, like the slow erosion of a riverbank, until the landscape was entirely different.

“What if…” you started, your voice barely a whisper, “what if I do wonder, Chloe?”

Her smile returned, warmer this time, full of understanding and not a little triumph. “Then that’s a good start.” She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Because he wonders too. Trust me on this. I’ve lived with him my whole life. I’ve seen him with other girls. He treats them like… well, like girls he’s dating. But with you? It’s different. It’s a deep, ingrained comfort, yes, but there’s also this undercurrent. This… tenderness. Almost a protectiveness. He lights up when you’re around, more than for anyone else.”

The revelations hit you like waves, each one breaking down a carefully constructed wall. You’d always brushed it off as familiarity, as the easy bond of childhood.

But was it? Was it truly just platonic when your stomach flipped every time he smiled that particular smile only for you? When you longed to reach out and touch his arm, just to feel the warmth of his skin? When the thought of him with someone else sent a jolt of possessiveness through you?

"What do I do?" you asked, the question escaping before you could censor it.

Chloe laughed softly. "Well, darling, that's entirely up to you. But I think… I think it’s time you stopped wondering and started knowing. And maybe, just maybe, you let him know too."

She stood up, gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, and walked away, leaving you alone in the sun-drenched room, the silence now deafening.

The book lay forgotten on your lap. Everything felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

Suddenly, the comfortable guest room next to Lance’s, the shared knowing glances, the casual touches – they all took on a new, highly charged meaning.

You weren’t just Lance’s best friend anymore. And the unsettling, exhilarating truth was, you hadn’t been for a very, very long time.

Later that evening, at dinner, you couldn’t meet Lance’s eyes. Every time he spoke, every time he gestured, you felt a jolt. His laughter, which had always been a comforting sound, now resonated with a deeper, more complicated meaning.

You found yourself acutely aware of the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the easy grace of his movements, the crinkle at the corner of his eyes when he smiled.

After dinner, Lawrence and Raquel retired early, and Chloe excused herself, giving you a knowing wink as she passed. You and Lance were left alone in the vast living room. He was scrolling through his phone, but you could feel his gaze on you intermittently.

"Rough day?" he asked, putting his phone down on the coffee table. "You've been quiet all evening."

You took a deep breath. This was it. The moment to decide if you continued to sail in the safe harbor of friendship or brave the turbulent waters of something more.

"Just… thinking," you admitted, your voice a little shaky.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze gentle but inquisitive. "About what?"

You met his eyes then, and in their depths, you saw a reflection of your own unspoken questions, your own dawning realizations. The easy familiarity that had always defined your relationship was still there, but now it was overlaid with a thrilling, terrifying vulnerability.

"It's nothing," you murmured, trying to convince yourself more than him. But even as the words left your lips, you knew it was a lie.

The air between you was thick with something unspoken, a tension that had been building for years, unnoticed until now.

Lance leaned in, his eyes searching yours. "If it's nothing, why do you look like you've just been told you're racing in the rain without wet tires?"

You chuckled nervously, the heat of his gaze making it difficult to breathe. "I just… I was talking to Chloe today."

He raised an eyebrow. "And?"

You took a deep breath. "And she said some things that got me… thinking."

Lance's gaze grew more intense, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. "What things?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air.

You lied. The words hung on the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t say them. Not now, not when you were standing on this precipice of truth and possibility.

"Just… about how much she cares about you," you said instead, your voice a little too bright. "How proud she is of your achievements."

Lance's eyes searched yours, and you saw the hint of disappointment. "That's sweet of her," he said, but there was something in his tone that suggested he knew you were holding back.

The silence grew heavier, until it was a tangible presence in the room, pressing down on you both.

Your heart raced, the lie feeling like a lead weight in your chest. But it was too late to take it back, to confess Chloe had been the one to finally articulate what you'd been feeling for so long.

Instead, you picked up the conversational thread, trying to weave it into something that felt more truthful. "She's right, you know. You've come so far. You're an amazing driver."

Lance's gaze softened, his eyes searching yours. "Thanks," he murmured, leaning back into the sofa. "It's nice to hear that from someone who's known me before the spotlights and the podiums."

The lie you'd told about Chloe's words felt like a barrier between you, a wall made of invisible glass. You longed to shatter it, but fear held you back.

Fear of rejection, fear of losing the one person who'd been a constant in your life since before you could remember your own name. Fear of the unknown.

You stood, the words 'see you in the morning' a flimsy shield against the torrent of unspoken emotions threatening to drown you. Lance’s gaze, a mixture of puzzlement and that familiar, almost tender concern, followed your retreating form.

You wanted to sit back down, to retract the clumsy lie, to confess everything that had been churning inside you all evening, but your feet seemed glued to the luxurious Persian rug.

The silence grew heavier, the air thrumming with the words you couldn't say. You offered a small, strained smile, turning on your heel before he could ask anything more that would unravel your fragile composure.

You practically fled the vast living room, the quiet echo of your footsteps on the polished marble floor a stark contrast to the cacophony in your mind.

Up the grand staircase you went, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Each step away from him felt like a retreat from a battle you hadn’t even started, a surrender before the first shot was fired.

Your guest room was a sanctuary of gilded comfort, but it offered no refuge from your thoughts. The door clicked shut behind you, and you leaned against it, pressing your forehead against the cool wood.

Regret, sharp and bitter, twisted in your gut. Why couldn't you just tell him? Why did the truth get caught in your throat, replaced by a clumsy, transparent lie?

You walked to the large window, pulling back the heavy drapes to reveal the moonlit grounds of the Stroll estate. The sprawling gardens, the distant twinkle of city lights – it was all so grand, so far removed from the simple life you’d shared with Lance growing up.

Yet, here you were, in his world, feeling more out of place than ever, precisely because your feelings for him had outgrown the comfortable confines of your shared history.

Chloe’s words replayed in your mind, clear as a bell: “Do you ever think about it? You know, you and Lance?”

She had asked it so casually, yet with such insightful precision, as you two had been curled up on beanbags in her private media room that afternoon, watching a terrible rom-com.

You’d mumbled something vague, but her eyes, so much like Lance’s, had twinkled knowingly. “Because he thinks about it, you know. More than he lets on.”

That was the bomb she’d dropped. And you, coward that you were, had let it detonate in your mind all evening, leaving you a silent wreck. And then you had the nerve to lie about it to him.

You glanced at the shared wall between your room and Lance's. He was probably in his room now, maybe still scrolling on his phone, maybe pondering your strange behavior.

Did he feel it too, this suffocating weight of what remained unsaid? Did he suspect the truth behind your evasiveness?

You changed into your sleep clothes, the silk cool against your skin, but your mind raced.

Every memory with Lance, from muddy childhood adventures to quiet moments on race weekends, was suddenly recontextualized.

Had those lingering touches, those prolonged gazes, those easy silences, meant something more all along? Had your heart been whispering these truths to you for years, only for your practical mind to dismiss them as the unbreakable bond of best friends?

Sleep felt like an impossible dream. You tossed and turned, the soft mattress offering no comfort against the turmoil within.

The morning light, dappling through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the dining room, was almost offensively bright. You descended the stairs with a renewed sense of trepidation.

Lawrence and Raquel were already at the grand mahogany table, engaged in a conversation about some business dealings. Chloe was there too, sipping orange juice and scrolling through her own phone, looking annoyingly refreshed.

Lance entered just as you were about to take your seat, his presence filling the elegant space with a subtle hum of energy. He caught your eye for a fraction of a second, a fleeting glance that held a vestige of the previous night’s unspoken questions.

He offered a polite, almost distant nod, before greeting his father and Raquel. Your heart sank. Had you effectively created a chasm between you?

Breakfast was a surprisingly lively affair, considering the silence of the night before. Lawrence and Raquel were attentive hosts, asking about your comfort, your plans for your stay.

Chloe was her usual effervescent self, drawing you into conversation about fashion and music. Lance contributed occasionally, mostly talking about his training schedule or upcoming events.

His interactions with you were polite, friendly even, but lacked the usual intimate banter, the shared jokes that had always been your silent language.

You felt a ghost of a touch on your arm. Chloe, her eyes sparkling with mischief, leaned in as Lawrence launched into a monologue about a new investment. "So," she whispered, "how was your 'thinking' last night?"

You nearly choked on your croissant. "Chloe!" you hissed, trying to glare at her without drawing attention.

She just grinned, taking a long sip of her juice. "Did you tell him?"

You shook your head, feeling a fresh wave of mortification. "No. I… I panicked."

Her smile softened. "It's okay. These things take time. But don't wait too long. You know what they say about opportunities."

You just nodded, unable to articulate the knot of fear and longing in your chest.

The Strolls had planned a day of sightseeing in Montreal. It was a beautiful city, a blend of old-world charm and modern vibrancy. You found yourself paired with Chloe for much of the day, as Lance was often pulled aside by his father for quick calls or discussions.

You explored the Notre-Dame Basilica, meandered through the cobbled streets of Old Montreal, and browsed boutiques, all while your mind drifted back to the living room, to Lance, to the lie.

"You're still quiet," Chloe observed as you both sat at a café, sipping lattes, the gentle hum of the city a backdrop to your unspoken anxieties. "He's noticed, you know. Lance."

"He said something last night," you admitted, stirring your latte with a small spoon. "And I… I messed up. I lied about what you said."

Chloe gave you a sympathetic look. "Oh, honey. What did you say?"

"I said you were talking about how proud you were of him," you confessed, your cheeks flushing. "Not… not about how he felt about me."

Chloe stifled a laugh, then sobered, her gaze softening. "He'll figure it out. He's not stupid. He knows something's up."

She reached across the table and took your hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "Look, I know it's scary. But you two have something so special. It's already there. You just have to acknowledge it."

You squeezed her hand. "But what if I acknowledge it, and it's not mutual? What if I ruin our friendship? Our lifelong friendship?" The words felt like a desperate plea.

"What if you don't acknowledge it, and you spend the rest of your life wondering 'what if'?" she countered, her gaze direct, unwavering. "And trust me, that's far worse than any temporary awkwardness."

Her words resonated deeply. The 'what if' had been a silent companion for years, a gentle hum in the background, but now, it felt like a scream.

Later, as the evening chill began to set in, you found yourself walking just a little behind Lance and Lawrence, who were deep in conversation about Formula 1.

Lance, perhaps sensing your presence, slowed his pace until you were walking side-by-side, the rhythmic shuffle of your shoes a counterpoint to the distant city sounds.

"Enjoying Montreal?" he asked, his voice softer than it had been at breakfast, a hint of the old familiarity returning.

"It's beautiful," you replied, your gaze fixed on the ornate architecture surrounding you, the intricate details of a centuries-old building. "Thank you for bringing me here."

"Anytime," he said, and you felt his eyes on you, a familiar warmth spreading through your chest. "It's good to have you here. This place can get a bit… intense. Family time always helps."

You smiled, a genuine one this time, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. "It's good to be here." The simple truth felt like balm after the previous night's deception.

The next few days passed in a similar rhythm. There were more family meals, a visit to a local art gallery, and even a short hike in a nearby park where Lance, surprisingly, abandoned his phone to actually talk and laugh with you in a way that felt like old times.

Yet, the underlying tension remained, a subtle hum beneath the surface of every interaction.

You found yourself stealing glances at him, noticing the way his jaw tightened when he was deep in thought, the crinkles around his eyes when he genuinely smiled. He, in turn, seemed to be observing you more closely, his gaze lingering a little longer whenever your eyes met. . . .

The chill of the Canadian morning, even in late spring, was a familiar companion.

You stirred beneath the heavy duvet, not reaching for the other side of the bed out of habit, but out of a deeper, unacknowledged yearning.

The chill of the Canadian morning, even in late spring, was a familiar companion. You stirred beneath the heavy duvet, not reaching for the other side of the bed out of habit, but out of a deeper, unacknowledged yearning.

Your bedroom, serene and perfectly appointed, was separate from Lance’s. It had always been this way. When you visited Mont Tremblant, when you were in Monaco, or even back in London, your spaces were distinctly, deliberately separate.

It was a silent agreement, a unspoken boundary in a relationship that defied easy categorization. Friend? Confidante? Something more, something perpetually on the precipice of definition, yet never quite tipping over.

You stretched, the soft linen cool against your skin, and listened. Usually, by this hour, there would be the faint clatter from the kitchen, the low murmur of voices—Lance’s, perhaps Chloe’s, or Lawrence’s booming laugh.

But today, an unexpected quietness hung in the air, a stillness that felt oddly heavy. A prickle of unease, light as a feather, brushed against you.

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed, you padded barefoot into the expansive living area, the silence following you like a shadow.

The grand windows overlooked the pristine grounds, bathed in the soft, nascent light of dawn. No one. The vast, luxurious space felt empty.

A moment later, Lawrence emerged from his study, phone pressed to his ear, his expression unusually grave.

He spotted you, and his face softened marginally, though the lines of fatigue around his eyes were prominent. He gestured for you to wait, ending his call with a clipped "Understood."

"Morning, my dear," he said, his voice a little gruff. "Slept well?"

You nodded, a question forming on your lips. "It’s very quiet. Is everyone still asleep?"

Lawrence sighed, running a hand through his silver hair. "No, not quite. Lance left. Had to go to the Aston Martin HQ. Urgent meeting, apparently. Just got the call a few hours ago. Barely even saw him myself."

The words landed with a surprising thud in your chest. Lance had already left. Without a word, without a goodbye. A wave of disappointment, sharp and immediate, washed over you.

It wasn't just the lack of a personal farewell; it was a profound sense of missing his presence already, even though you hadn’t yet seen him this morning.

You understood, of course.

His commitment to Formula 1 was absolute, a demanding mistress that often pulled him away without warning. It was the nature of his world, a world you had become an intrinsic part of, yet always, somehow, on the periphery of its most intimate moments.

You spent the rest of the day in a quiet haze, trying to occupy yourself, but your attention kept drifting. You found yourself glued to the news channels, saw snippets of him in his team gear, looking serious and focused, surrounded by engineers and strategists.

You watched him on screen, so close yet so impossibly far, and felt a pang of something akin to longing, a deep ache for a connection that remained frustratingly undefined, elusive.

It was a familiar ache, one you’d learned to live with, a silent companion in your world alongside Lance.

Days later, the next race on the Formula 1 calendar beckoned. The Grand Prix in Montreal. This time, the whole family was able to attend, a grand affair that brought the usual chaos and excitement of the paddock.

You were immersed in the vibrant atmosphere, the roar of engines a constant companion, a visceral symphony that thrummed through your bones.

The smell of burnt rubber and high-octane fuel, usually sharp and acrid, was to you a strangely alluring perfume, a scent that now evoked the thrill of the sport.

You moved through the throngs of people – journalists, team personnel, celebrities, and fans – feeling a strange sense of belonging, and yet, simultaneously, an underlying detachment.

You chatted with Chloe, observed Lawrence navigating the political landscape of the paddock, and soaked it all in.

Later that afternoon, Lance appeared in the Aston Martin hospitality suite, fresh from his initial debriefing with the team engineers. His face was still flushed with the intensity of the track, traces of concentration lingering in the tight set of his jaw.

But as his eyes swept over his family, they softened, settling on you for a brief, familiar moment. He gave you a quick, shared smile—a fleeting flicker of that familiar warmth that always seemed to promise more than it delivered—before being swept into another conversation with his father, talking strategy and car setup, his attention already elsewhere.

You watched him go, that subtle ache returning, a quiet sigh escaping your lips.

Later that day, during the free practice session, you found yourself standing at the edge of the pit lane. The air vibrated with raw power as the cars thundered past, a blur of speed and sound.

Your eyes were glued to the giant screen that displayed telemetry and lap times, absorbing every data point, analyzing every turn, every split-second decision.

You lived and breathed this sport, understood its nuances in a way most casual fans never could. You were completely absorbed, transported by the sheer theatre of it all.

It was then that you felt a gentle tap on your shoulder, light as a butterfly’s wing.

You turned, fully expecting it to be Chloe, perhaps coming to drag you away for another social engagement, but instead, you were met with a friendly, slightly hesitant smile from a man you recognized instantly.

He was a prominent actor, renowned for his roles in a popular sci-fi series and a few critically acclaimed indie films.

His face was a familiar presence on your screen at home, yet seeing him here, in the flesh, amidst the high-octane world of Formula 1 elite, was a surprising, almost surreal, encounter.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice smooth, with a charming, almost theatrical cadence, exactly as you'd heard it on screen. "I couldn't help but notice… you have an incredible focus on the screen. Do you follow F1 closely?"

You felt a blush creep up your neck, a warmth spreading through your cheeks. You were unaccustomed to being approached in such a direct, complimentary way, especially by someone so recognizable.

"Yes," you managed, a little flustered, trying to compose yourself. "Been a fan for years. Since before Lance even started racing." You quickly realized that last part wasn't necessary once spoken, but it was out there now.

He chuckled, a pleasant, resonant sound. "I could tell. It’s refreshing to see such genuine enthusiasm. Most people here are more interested in the champagne than the lap times." He extended a hand, his grip firm but gentle. “I’m Ethan Vance, by the way.”

"It's nice to meet you," you replied, giving your name, a strange sense of unreality settling over you. Ethan Vance. Here. Talking to you.

He held your gaze, his eyes a confident, sparkling blue. There was an earnestness there that disarmed you. "Listen, this might be a bit forward," he began, his smile widening slightly, "but I'm here for the weekend, and I’m looking for someone who actually knows something about this sport beyond the celebrity gossip and paddock politics. And, well, you seem very… engaging."

He paused, a polite, almost deferential expression on his face. "Would you be open to getting a drink sometime this evening? Or perhaps dinner?"

The question hung in the air, unexpected and utterly bewildering. Your mind raced, a whirlwind of disbelief and frantic thought. No one had ever asked you out, not directly like this, especially not in such a public, high-profile setting.

For years, you’d been so intertwined with Lance’s world, with the Stroll family, that perhaps others simply assumed you and Lance were dating, or that you were somehow ‘off-limits’ due to your close proximity to such a prominent figure.

The thought had never truly bothered you before, not in the way it did now, standing there with a charming movie star gazing at you expectantly.

He was respectful, his demeanor polite and genuinely nice, not at all what you might expect from someone of his fame.

And the opportunity… Chloe’s words echoed in your mind, her often-repeated mantra: Opportunities don't always knock twice, darling. Don’t be afraid to open the door. This was an opportunity, certainly.

A chance to step outside your comfort zone, to experience something new, to maybe even distract yourself from the confusing limbo you were in with Lance. A life beyond the paddock, beyond the Strolls. The temptation was potent.

After a moment of internal debate that felt like an eternity, a tiny, almost imperceptible nod from some unexplored part of your psyche, you heard yourself say, your voice a little softer than you intended, "Yes, I'd like that. Dinner sounds lovely."

A genuine smile lit his face, transforming his already handsome features. "Wonderful. Let me get your number, and I'll text you the details. There's a fantastic little Italian place I heard about, not too far from the circuit."

As you exchanged numbers, your fingers brushing briefly against his, a strange mix of excitement and trepidation swirled within you.

The moment he walked away, disappearing back into the throng of people, your gaze instinctively flickered to where Lance had been moments ago, now deep in conversation with a team principal, his back to you.

A pang of guilt, sharp and sudden, pierced through your carefully constructed composure. It felt like a betrayal, even though there was nothing concrete to betray.

You decided, in that very instant, that you wouldn't tell Lance about this. Not yet. The reasons were murky, a blend of fear—fear of his reaction, fear of making your already ambiguous relationship even more complicated—and a desperate need to protect this fragile new development, this tiny spark of something for you.

But the decision was made. The secret, another one in a growing collection, was now yours to keep.

As the final minutes of the session ticked away, you could almost feel the tension in the air dissipate as the cars began to peel off the track, one by one.

And then, there he was, Lance, pulling into the garage, his helmeted head nodding in a familiar pattern of acknowledgment as he passed you. The hiss of the car’s brakes, the pop and sizzle as the engine cooled, the symphony of a successful run.

You held your breath, waiting for that first glimpse of his face, the look that would tell you if he was happy, if he was satisfied.

As his helmet was removed, his eyes found yours, the usual sparkle replaced with a tired resignation. You knew that look.

It was the one he wore after a tough session, one where the car hadn’t quite behaved as expected, or where his times hadn’t matched his inner benchmarks.

You stepped closer, ignoring the flurry of engineers and mechanics that surrounded the car. "How'd it go?" you asked, your voice low, only for him.

Lance sighed, unbuckling his harness with practiced ease. "It was alright," he said, his eyes still on the garage floor. "Could've been better."

You stepped closer, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "Want to talk about it?" you offered, feeling the warmth of his racing suit seep through your fingertips.

His muscles tensed under your touch, a silent testament to the physical and emotional toll each practice session took on him.

He looked up at you, his eyes a mix of exhaustion and frustration. "It's just… I can't seem to find that extra something today. The car's fine, but… it's like I'm just not clicking with it."

You knew that feeling. The elusive perfect harmony between driver and machine that could mean the difference between a podium finish and a DNF. You squeezed his shoulder in understanding, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold reality of his words.

"It's okay, Lancy," you murmured, using the nickname that only you were allowed to call him. "You've got this. You're the best. Just need to find that sweet spot again."

The smile he gave you was tired but genuine, the kind that made you feel like you were the only person in the world who truly knew him. "Thanks, Y/N," he said, his voice a rumble that seemed to vibrate through your chest.

You stepped back, giving him space as the team descended on the car, but you didn’t move away. You watched as they swarmed around him, checking over every inch of his car, whispering into their headsets, making notes, analyzing data.

And through it all, his eyes remained on you, a silent promise that once this was done, he was yours again.

As the frenetic activity of the garage swirled around them, Lance excused himself, leaving his team to their work.

"I need to go talk to my family," he murmured, his hand briefly squeezing yours before he disappeared through the throng of people.

You nodded, watching him go, feeling a strange sense of both relief and disappointment.

The pit lane was a cacophony of sounds, a symphony of power and passion, yet the silence that followed his retreating footsteps was deafening.

You took a deep breath, the smell of fuel and rubber a stark reminder of the world you had chosen to immerse yourself in, a world where you didn’t quite fit, yet felt more alive than ever.

As you turned to leave the garage, you caught a glimpse of him in the corner of your eye, the tension in your body immediately unwinding. Ethan Vance. Staring at you.

Your heart skipped a beat, a thrill of excitement and nerves colliding. His gaze was intense, a silent question that seemed to ask, 'Did you mean what you said? Will you really have dinner with me?'

You felt your cheeks heat up under his scrutiny, and for a moment, you debated looking away, retreating into the safety of anonymity. . . .

The Stroll house, usually a symphony of hushed footsteps, the clinking of ice in crystal glasses, and the low murmur of important phone calls, felt unnervingly silent to Lance.

He sat at the sprawling dining table, a half-eaten plate of osso buco growing cold before him.

The Venetian glass chandelier above cast a warm, golden glow, but it failed to chase away the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He was home, in his childhood sanctuary, yet it felt hollow, incomplete.

He pushed a perfectly roasted potato around his plate with his fork, his gaze fixed on the empty chair opposite him. It was a phantom presence, one that usually held a vibrant, laughing figure, a bright spark that made even the grandest of dinners feel intimate.

“You’re still thinking about her?” His father’s deep voice cut through the quiet, pulling Lance sharply from his reverie.

Lawrence Stroll, a man who built empires with a steely gaze, picked up his own fork, a glint of knowing amusement in his eyes.

Lance blinked, feigning ignorance. “Who?”

“Y/N,” Lawrence said simply, taking a bite of his food.

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken truth. Lance clenched his jaw, the casual mention of her name like a physical blow. He didn't respond, couldn't. His throat felt tight.

Lawrence sighed, a sound of exasperated affection. “Lance, look at me.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Lance met his father’s gaze.

“I think we all know you love each other,” Lawrence continued, his voice softening just a fraction. “So, please, for the love of God, ask her out. Because she is getting taken away from you.”

The words hit Lance like a sudden, unexpected headwind on the track. His heart lurched. “What do you mean?” The question was out before he could truly process the implication, a raw, almost desperate sound.

Lawrence leaned back in his chair, a grave expression settling on his face. “A boy asked her out on a date yesterday while you were in free practice.”

The fork clattered onto Lance’s plate, the sound echoing too loudly in the opulent room. Free practice. While he was meticulously shaving milliseconds off his lap times, pushing the limits of his car, Y/N was out there, living her life, having other men ask her out. The thought sent a jolt of icy panic through him.

"Who?" Lance demanded, his voice rough.

"Does it matter?" Lawrence countered, a hint of weariness in his tone. "What matters is, for years, you two have orbited each other like twin stars, too afraid to collide. You've always had her, haven't you? Always known she'd be there, waiting, a constant presence. And now, she’s not. She’s moving on."

Moving on. The phrase twisted in Lance’s gut. The image of her, vibrant and laughing, but with someone else, ripped through his composure. It was a future he had subconsciously taken for granted, and now it was slipping through his fingers like fine sand.

"I need to go," Lance said, pushing away from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the polished floor.

Lawrence merely raised an eyebrow, a knowing glint in his eye. "Where?"

"To her," Lance stated, the answer obvious, the only possible answer.

"Good," Lawrence said, picking up his fork again.

The drive to Y/N's parents' house was a blur of streetlights and rising panic. Lance gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Every red light felt like an eternity, every green an urgent command.

He hadn't realized how deeply he'd integrated Y/N into the fabric of his life until the threat of her absence loomed. She was the calm in his storm, the familiar warmth that tethered him to something real outside the high-octane, high-pressure world of Formula 1.

He imagined her smile, just for him, the way her eyes crinkled when she truly laughed, the quiet understanding that passed between them without words. And the thought of another man seeing that, experiencing that… it was unbearable.

He pulled up to her parents’ familiar Victorian home, the porch light a welcoming beacon. He cut the engine, the sudden silence deafening after the roar of his internal turmoil.

Taking a shaky breath, he walked to the door and knocked, the sound feeling unnaturally loud in the quiet evening.

The door swung open, revealing Y/N. Her eyes, wide with surprise, met his. A soft gasp escaped her lips, her hand rising to her chest.

She was wearing a soft, oversized sweater, her hair pulled back loosely, and she looked utterly beautiful, utterly hers.

“Lance?” she whispered, her voice a question.

“Hi, Y/N,” he managed, his voice rougher than he intended.

She hesitated for a beat, then stepped aside, letting him in. “Come in. What are you –”

Before she could finish, her mother, Evelyn, appeared from the living room, a warm smile spreading across her face. “Lance! What a surprise! It’s lovely to see you, dear.”

“Mrs. Y/L/N,” Lance said, forcing a smile. “Always a pleasure.” He exchanged a quick, polite greeting with her father, David, who emerged just behind Evelyn.

The usual pleasantries felt like an unbearable charade, each passing second a tick of the clock he didn't have.

“Y/N, would you mind… could we step into the kitchen for a moment?” Lance blurted, nodding towards the back of the house, his gaze fixed on Y/N, willing her to understand the urgency in his eyes.

Y/N’s brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern crossing her face, but she nodded. “Of course. We’ll be right back, Mom, Dad.”

As they walked down the short hallway, the silence between them was thick with anticipation. Lance’s heart hammered against his ribs.

He pushed open the kitchen door, closing it softly behind them, creating a bubble of privacy. The kitchen felt stark, the white cabinets and gleaming countertops reflecting the harsh overhead light.

Y/N turned to face him, her arms crossed, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in her expression. “Lance, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”

He ran a hand through his hair, suddenly feeling awkward and unsure of how to begin. The smooth, confident racer was nowhere to be found. “I… I heard something.”

Her head tilted. “Heard what?”

He took a step closer, his voice low, almost a growl. “About… about a boy. Someone asked you out.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she looked away, her gaze flitting to the window above the sink. A shy, almost secretive smile touched her lips. His stomach lurched.

“Oh,” she murmured, her voice soft. “Yes. Ethan.”

Ethan. The name sliced through him. “Ethan?” he repeated, the name tasting foreign and bitter on his tongue. “Who’s Ethan?”

She finally met his gaze, a hint of defiance now mixed with her shyness. “He’s nice and he’s an actor.”

“An actor,” Lance echoed, the words flat. He wanted to scream, What about me? What about us? But the words wouldn't form. They were stuck, choked by years of unspoken affection and a paralyzing fear of disruption. “And… and you said yes?”

Her shoulders gave a slight shrug. “He asked. He was polite. And you were… busy.” Her voice was gentle, but the implication hung heavy in the air: You weren't here. You never are.

“Busy with free practice,” Lance said, his voice tight. “My job.”

“I know what you do, Lance,” Y/N said softly, her eyes holding a depth of understanding mixed with a quiet hurt. “And I support it. You know I do. But… I also have a life, you know? And Ethan actually asked.”

The blunt truth of her words was a physical blow. He had always taken her presence for granted, assuming she’d be there, orbiting his demanding schedule, a constant.

The idea of her actively seeking, or being sought by, someone else was a betrayal, not of her loyalty, but of his own complacent assumptions.

“So… you’re going?” he pressed, the question a desperate plea for her to say no.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. We’re meeting up after the race this weekend. For dinner.”

After the race. After his race. The finality of it settled over him, cold and heavy. He could see it, clear as day: the cheers, the podium, the interviews, and then, while he was flying off to the next circuit, she would be having dinner with Ethan.

What would they talk about? What would they laugh about? Would she look at him the way she looked at Lance sometimes, with that knowing, gentle warmth?

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. He opened his mouth, the words "I love you" perched on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released. He wanted to tell her she couldn't go, that she was his, that she always had been.

But the words, the ultimate, terrifying confession, remained trapped behind his teeth. It was as if his tongue was tied, his emotional vocabulary reduced to nothing.

Years of focusing on split-second decisions on track, of internalizing pressure, had left him utterly unprepared for this. He was a champion racer, but a coward in love.

A long, excruciating silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the hum of the refrigerator.

Y/N watched him, her expression shifting from shyness to a familiar, almost weary disappointment. She had waited for him, he knew, had always been there. And he had failed to step up.

“Right,” Lance finally managed to croak, the word hollow, inadequate.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe. He wanted to argue, to demand, to plead, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate.

All he could produce was a deep, guttural sound of frustration. He had driven all this way, only to stare at her, speechless, as the future he dreaded solidified before his eyes.

“Is that all?” Y/N asked, her voice softer now, tinged with a sadness that mirrored his own. Her hope, whatever little she had left for him, seemed to dwindle with each passing second of his silence.

He shook his head slowly, a single, decisive negative that meant nothing and everything. It meant, No, it’s not all, it’s everything, but it also meant, No, I can’t say anything else. The irony was brutal. He was Lance Stroll, fearless on the track, yet terrified of a few simple words.

He turned, the defeat heavy on his shoulders, and walked back towards the door, leaving her standing there, a silent testament to his failure.

The click of the handle, the soft thud of the door closing behind him, felt like the final nail in the coffin of a silent, unspoken romance.

The drive back to the Stroll house was even worse. The panic had intensified, now mixed with a potent cocktail of regret and self-loathing. He’d had his chance, and he’d choked.

He could feel Lawrence’s knowing gaze on him from earlier, hear his father’s words: “She’s moving on.” It wasn't a warning anymore; it was a reality.

The race weekend loomed like a death sentence. Lance tried to focus, to compartmentalize as he always did, but Y/N’s face, her shy admission, the name ‘Ethan’ – it all cycled through his mind, a relentless, distracting loop.

During practice, his lines felt off, his braking points less precise. He found himself glancing towards the Hospitality building, hoping to catch a glimpse of her, and hating himself for it.

When he saw her once, laughing with a group of people he didn't recognize, he instinctively looked away, a sharp pang in his chest. Was Ethan among them? He couldn’t bring himself to look.

Qualifying was a disaster. He put in a sloppy lap, missing Q3 by a hair’s breadth. “What was that, Lance?” his engineer had asked, concern in his voice.

Lance had mumbled something about the car, but he knew the truth. His mind wasn’t on the apexes; it was on the dinner Y/N would be having.

Race day dawned, a bright, unforgiving sky over the circuit. The smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel filled the air. This was his world, his sanctuary, but even here, the fear of losing Y/N crept in, insidious and distracting.

He went through the motions of his pre-race routine – the strategizing, the team debriefs, the helmet going on – but his focus was fractured.

Every conversation, every instruction, felt muted, faraway. The only thing that felt real was the ticking clock, counting down to the moment Y/N would walk out of his life, perhaps forever.

As he settled into the cockpit, the engine roaring to life around him, he closed his eyes for a moment. He saw Y/N again, her eyes on him, that look of patient disappointment. He saw her turning away.

The thought ignited a desperate spark within him. He couldn’t let this happen. He wouldn't. Not now. Not like this. He had been a fool, and now he had to be brave, whatever the cost.

The five lights went out. The race began.

Lance drove with a reckless abandon he hadn't shown in years. He wasn’t just racing the other cars; he was racing time, racing himself.

He braked later, pushed harder, took risks that made his engineer's voice crackle with alarm over the radio.

He cut through the field, aggressive and determined, weaving through traffic, each overtake a desperate plea, a desperate affirmation that he wasn’t someone who gave up, not on the track, and not on the woman he loved.

He visualized Ethan’s face, a phantom rival, adding fuel to his fire. He had to win this, not just the race, but this entire desperate, silent battle for Y/N.

He crossed the finish line in a respectable P4, a strong recovery from his qualifying blunder, but the result barely registered.

The moment he stepped out of the car, the reality of what he had to do crashed down on him like a wrecked chassis. He tore off his balaclava, ignoring the sweat that stung his eyes and the sticky feel of his racing suit. The team clapped and congratulated him, but he could only nod, his eyes scanning the sea of faces for hers.

Finally, he spotted her, standing with his sister, a glass of champagne in her hand, her eyes shimmering with a mix of excitement for his performance and a hint of sadness. He felt his stomach drop. With a newfound resolve, Lance pushed through the throngs of people, his heart racing.

As he approached, his sister, Chloe, gave him a knowing smile, stepping aside to give them space. “You looked incredible out there today, Lance,” Y/N said, raising her glass slightly.

The words felt like a knife to his gut. “Thank you,” he murmured, taking the champagne from her and setting it aside, his eyes never leaving hers.

Her expression shifted, a glimmer of curiosity lighting up her gaze. “What’s wrong, Lance?” she asked, her voice gentle.

He took a deep, unsteady breath, trying to find the right words. “It’s nothing. It’s just…” He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Are you coming to the party after?”

Y/N tilted her head, a hint of confusion in her expression. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it. But… you know I have that date with Ethan tonight.”

Lance’s heart stuttered, the name like a blow to his chest. “Yeah, you said that.” He tried to keep his voice steady, his eyes not giving away the chaos raging inside.

The party would be full of his racing colleagues, glitz and glamour, the kind of celebration that usually energized him. But now, it felt hollow.

“Is that a no, then?” He managed to ask, the hope in his voice almost imperceptible.

“Well, I can’t exactly cancel on him, Lance. I’ve already said yes,” Y/N replied, her voice a soft whisper.

He nodded, trying to keep his cool. He knew he couldn’t force her to choose between him and Ethan, not when he had never even admitted his feelings.

But the thought of her with someone else was a dull ache in his chest that he hadn’t anticipated. He took a step closer to her, the smell of her perfume mingling with the race fumes that clung to him.

“It’s okay, just text me if you need help,” he said, his voice gruff with unshed emotion.

You nodded, unable to find the words to respond. The weight of his concern was palpable, a warm presence that seemed to envelop you like a comforting blanket.

The urge to lean into him, to seek the shelter of his arms, was overwhelming. But you knew that you needed to handle this on your own. You had to find your own strength, even if it meant facing the storm without your best friend by your side.

With a tight smile, you hugged him back, feeling the solidity of his muscles, the racing suit still damp with sweat from the intense race. For a moment, you clung to him, letting the comfort of his embrace wash over you.

His arms around you were a familiar bastion of safety, a reminder of the friendship that had been your anchor through so many storms.

But as the seconds ticked by, you realized that you couldn’t let this moment last forever. With a final squeeze, you stepped back, breaking the contact.

“Thank you, Lance. I’ll be fine,” you assured him, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just focus on celebrating. You deserve it.”

He nodded, his expression a complex tapestry of emotions – concern, regret, and something else you couldn’t quite place. “Alright, but remember, I’m here for you. No matter what happens tonight.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. The warmth of his arms around you lingered as you turned away and began to walk through the crowded paddock.

The cacophony of voices, the clank of champagne flutes, the endless flash of cameras – it all faded into a distant buzz as you thought about what lay ahead.

The date with Ethan, the conversation with Lance, the secret you had been carrying like a heavy burden. . . .

The bass throbbed, a relentless pulse against the floorboards, vibrating up through Lance’s sneakers and settling like a dull ache behind his eyes. Neon lights, strung haphazardly from the ceiling, painted the crowded living room in sickly greens and blues, making everything feel a shade too artificial.

Laughter, shrill and boisterous, ricocheted off the walls, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional smash of something dropped.

He stood by the punch bowl, a pristine, untouched glass of water in his hand, a solitary island in a chaotic sea of dancing bodies and animated conversations.

Boredom was a physical weight, pressing down on him, but it was a familiar weight, one he’d been carrying for hours. His eyes scanned the room, not really seeing anyone, just registering the blur of faces.

He could be anywhere, doing anything, and it would still feel the same. Because ‘anywhere’ wasn't where he wanted to be, and 'anything' wasn’t what he wanted to be doing.

He wanted to be with Y/N. And Y/N was not here.

She was on a date with Ethan.

The thought slid into his mind, insidious and unwelcome, as it had every twenty minutes since he’d arrived, despite his best efforts to banish it.

Ethan. Tall, charming Ethan with his easy laugh and his art history degree.

Ethan, who had met Y/N at the paddock and had been relentlessly, charmingly, pursuing her ever since. Lance had seen it unfold, helpless, watching from the periphery as Ethan’s attention, like a slow-moving, inevitable tide, had swept Y/N up.

A fresh wave of unease washed over him. Were they laughing right now? Was Ethan making her laugh that particular way, the one where her head tilted back slightly and her eyes crinkled at the corners? Was he holding her hand? Was he looking at her the way Lance always wanted to, but never dared?

He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw. He could almost hear the clink of their wine glasses, the hum of quiet conversation, so different from the cacophony surrounding him.

He imagined the soft glow of candlelight on her face, illuminating the subtle freckles across her nose that he adored.

He pictured Ethan leaning in, saying something intimate, something that would make her blush. The phantom image sent a cold shiver down his spine.

He remembered a quiet afternoon, just a few weeks ago, before Ethan had entered the picture. They’d been holed up in Y/N’s apartment, a torrential August storm lashing against the windows.

They’d built a ridiculous blanket fort in her living room, armed with popcorn and a stack of cheesy horror movies. She’d tucked her legs under her, leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder as a particularly jumpy scene unfolded.

Her hair, smelling faintly of citrus shampoo, tickled his cheek. He remembered the warmth of her against him, the comfortable silence, the easy rhythm of their breathing.

He’d wanted to loop his arm around her, pull her closer, whisper something impossibly brave. But he hadn’t. He’d just sat there, a silent anchor in her storm. And now, the storm felt like it was inside him, raging.

He hadn’t drunk. He never did at these things. It wasn't a moral stand, just a practical one. He wanted to be clear, sharp, in control. Especially tonight.

Drinking would only amplify the gnawing anxiety, dull the edges of his self-restraint until he did something stupid. Like call her. Or show up. Or scream.

No, a clear head was imperative, even if it meant feeling every pang of jealousy, every stab of regret, with brutal clarity.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make him flinch. He opened his eyes to see Esteban, his friend since primary school, leaning in, a half-empty bottle of some amber liquid clutched in his hand.

Esteban’s dark eyes, usually twinkling with mischief, were narrowed in concern, though a faint smile played on his lips.

"Mate," Esteban said, his voice cutting through the bass, "can you try and enjoy yourself instead of thinking of Y/N?"

Lance’s shoulders sagged. "Is it that obvious?" he mumbled, avoiding Esteban's gaze, feigning sudden interest in the string of fairy lights above the punch bowl.

"Obvious?" Esteban scoffed, taking a swig from his bottle. "Mate, you look like you're attending your own wake. The only thing missing is the sombre music and a eulogy. We all know where your head is. It’s always with Y/N."

Lance finally met his friend’s eyes, a flicker of defiance in his own. "It's not like that."

Esteban just raised an eyebrow, a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Oh, isn't it? Because last I checked, you haven't taken your eyes off your phone for more than five minutes, expecting some kind of distress signal. And before that, you were staring into space, replaying the entire history of Lance and Y/N, I'm guessing. How long has it been, like, seven years of this unspoken pining?"

Lance felt a flush creep up his neck. "It's not pining. We're friends. Best friends."

"Right, and I'm a professional ballet dancer," Esteban retorted, a smirk playing on his lips. "Look, I get it. She’s great. Beautiful, funny, smart. And you're… you. Kind of a mess when she's not around to straighten you out."

He softened his tone, putting a hand on Lance’s arm. "But this? This isn't helping anyone. Especially not you. You look miserable. And she’s out there, on a date."

The words landed like punches. She’s out there, on a date. It was the brutal truth, and it felt like a betrayal, not from Y/N, but from his own cowardice. He'd had countless opportunities, a thousand small moments where he could have, should have, said something.

A lingering touch, a prolonged glance, a quiet confession whispered into the night. But he’d always pulled back, terrified of shattering the delicate, comfortable friendship they shared.

What if he told her and she didn't feel the same? What if it ruined everything? The thought was a stone in his stomach, heavy and suffocating.

"What am I supposed to do, Esteb?" Lance finally asked, his voice barely a whisper against the din. "Call her? Tell her I'm sitting here, wallowing, wishing she was here instead of with… him?"

Esteban took another swig, his eyes thoughtful. "Well, what exactly do you want to do?"

Lance looked around the room, the vibrant, uncaring faces. He looked at his un-drunk glass of water. He thought of Y/N, her vibrant spirit, her infectious laugh, the way her hand fit perfectly in his.

His chest tightened. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want her to be with Ethan. He didn’t want to wonder. He wanted to know. He wanted to try.

"I want her to be happy," he said, the old, familiar mantra.

"Yeah, but with whom?" Esteban pressed, his voice firm, no longer teasing. "And are you sure she is happy right now? Or is she just… going through the motions? Because, my friend, sometimes, people need a little nudge to realize what they really want. Or who they really want."

Suddenly, the party seemed to recede, the noise fading to a distant hum. Lance saw Y/N’s face, not happy, not sad, just… questioning. He remembered a conversation they’d had just days ago.

She’d been talking about Ethan, how nice he was, how attentive. But her eyes hadn’t sparkled the way they did when she talked about a new book or a particularly challenging puzzle.

There’d been a slight hesitation, a subtle coolness in her tone. He’d dismissed it as nerves then, pushing down the hopeful flicker in his chest.

But what if it was more? What if she was just going through the motions, just as Esteban suggested?

A sudden, fierce surge of adrenaline coursed through him. It wasn't jealousy anymore, not just fear. It was a terrifying, exhilarating clarity.

What if he didn't try? What if this was the night he lost her forever, simply because he was too afraid to speak? The stone in his stomach dissolved, replaced by a frantic flutter.

"I need to go," he said, the words spilling out before he’d even fully formed the thought. He turned, the room a blur as he weaved through the throngs of people, his heart hammering in his chest.

He didn’t bother saying goodbye, didn’t care if he was being rude. All that mattered was reaching her, breaking the invisible barrier that had kept them apart for so long.

Outside, the cool night air hit him like a slap, the rain a refreshing contrast to the stifling heat of the party.

He took a deep breath, the scent of wet pavement and distant engine oil grounding him in the world of racing, the world he knew, the world that had brought them together.

He climbed into his Aston Martin, the leather seats enveloping him in their luxurious embrace.

The engine purred to life, a reassuring, familiar sound, and he sped through the streets, his thoughts racing faster than the car. . . .

Meanwhile, you sat across from Ethan, the flickering candlelight doing little to warm the growing chill in your heart.

The Italian restaurant was indeed quiet, tastefully decorated, but the sophisticated ambiance felt suffocating. You picked at your truffle pasta, the rich aroma failing to tempt your appetite.

Ethan was… pleasant. He was handsome, attentive, and spoke with an actor’s practiced gravitas about his latest film project, his philanthropic endeavors, his deep appreciation for “authentic experiences.”

He held your gaze a little too long, laughed a little too loudly at your mild jokes, and kept finding excuses to touch your hand across the table. Each touch, rather than feeling comforting, sent a shiver of unease down your arm.

You found your mind drifting, a constant, unwelcome companion. You thought of Lance. How his hand, when it brushed yours, felt like a spark, not a calculated gesture.

How he listened, truly listened, not just waiting for his turn to speak. How his laughter was a genuine, booming sound, unpolished and infectious. You remembered the last time you’d seen him, just yesterday, when he’d dropped off a new book he thought you’d like.

He’d lingered by your doorway, talking about something mundane, but his eyes, those intense, green eyes, had held a quiet depth you couldn’t quite decipher.

You’d pushed it away then, dismissed it as your imagination, a hopeful fantasy.

"Y/N?" Ethan's voice cut through your reverie, a touch of impatience now in his tone. "Are you with me?"

You blinked, forcing a smile. "Oh, sorry, just admiring the art on the wall."

He chuckled, a dry sound. "Right. So, as I was saying, after we wrap up here, I was hoping you'd come back to my place. I have this incredible wine collection, and a view of the city you wouldn't believe."

Your stomach tightened. You’d been dreading this. The date had been polite, but it felt like an audition, and you were failing to connect.

You wanted the night to end. You wanted to be home, perhaps with a mug of tea, texting Lance about your day.

"Oh, that's very kind, Ethan," you began, trying to soften the blow. "But it's been a long week, and I have an early start tomorrow."

His smile didn't falter, but something in his eyes hardened. "Nonsense. A beautiful woman like you needs to unwind. Besides, it's just a few more hours. I promise, you'll enjoy yourself. I’m quite the host."

His hand reached for yours again, his grip a little firmer this time, less a caress and more a claim.

A prickle of fear ran down your spine. This wasn't the charming, suave actor from the beginning of the night. This was something else. You tried to pull your hand back subtly, but he held it fast.

"Ethan, really, I appreciate it, but I need to get going." Your voice was a little more forceful than you intended.

His gaze intensified, losing its pleasant veneer. "Don't be coy, Y/N. Everyone knows what a late-night invitation means. You don't get to flirt all evening and then play innocent."

Your jaw dropped. "I wasn't flirting! This was a dinner!"

He leaned closer, his voice dropping, though the edge remained. "Let's not make a scene. People are watching." He gestured vaguely to the few other patrons. "Just come with me. It'll be fun."

The walls seemed to close in, the candlelight suddenly oppressive.

Your heart raced, the comfort of the familiar nowhere in sight. You needed out. "Ethan, please. I need to go home." You tried to stand, but his grip tightened.

The panic grew, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. You looked around the room, the other diners lost in their own conversations, oblivious to the silent battle being waged across the white tablecloth. You didn't want to cause a scene, but the fear was real, visceral.

You took a deep, steadying breath. "Ethan," you said, your voice calm, "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"There's no misunderstanding," he said, his smile turning into a smirk. "You know what you're here for."

The room swirled around you, your breath catching in your throat. You could feel the heat of his hand on yours, the weight of his stare pressing into your skin.

Panic grew in your chest, a thunderous crescendo, as you searched for an escape. Your eyes darted around the restaurant, looking for a friendly face, a lifeline, anything to break the tension.

As you stood, the chair scraped against the floor, a sound that seemed to echo through the room.

Your hand shook as you reached into your purse for your phone, fumbling with the smooth device as you tried to keep the tremble from your voice.

"I'll just call a cab," you said, your eyes not meeting his. The screen of your phone flickered to life, the glow illuminating your tight, pale face.

Ethan's smile slipped, his eyes narrowing. "Don't bother," he said, rising swiftly, his chair scraping against the tile. "I'll make sure you get home safe."

Your heart hammered in your chest as he took your elbow, guiding you out of the restaurant. The cool evening air did little to ease the suffocation of the last hour.

You felt the weight of his hand on you, the way he steered you towards his waiting car.

It was all so wrong, so very different from the comfort of Lance's touch, the gentle way he'd guide you through a crowded paddock.

With shaking hands, you dialled one of the emergency numbers you had programmed into your phone. The digits blurred before your eyes, your breathing ragged and erratic as you waited for someone to pick up.

It felt like an eternity, each ring echoing in your ears like the tick of a clock counting down to an inevitable doom.

And then, a voice, calm and steady. "Hello? Is everything okay?"

Your eyes snapped to the phone, the screen glowing with an incoming call from Lance's number.

You froze. You'd dialed Lance's number, instinctively, without even thinking. You’d called Lance.

The app on your phone, the one you’d installed for safety, had an emergency feature. It didn't just dial; it sent your location. And Lance, bless his overprotective soul, had it set to share with him.

The moment your thumb had hovered over the button, your phone had buzzed to life, and you knew he was on his way. You felt a mix of relief and mortification so potent it could have its own flavor.

Wow, it's been forever since you went on a date, and now you find yourself needing rescue from your crush.

Ethan’s grip tightened, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "Who are you calling?"

"It's my… uh, my ride," you managed to stumble out, your voice shaking. You had to keep it together. You had to get out of this.

Ethan's grip loosened slightly, his eyes flicking to the phone in your hand. "Your ride?" he questioned, his grip still firm on your elbow. "It's fine. I'll take you."

You could feel the lie coating your tongue, thick and bitter, but you pushed it aside. "It's already on the way," you said, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. "Thank you, though."

Ethan's grip on your elbow didn't ease, his eyes still locked on the phone in your hand. "Who is it?" he asked, the edge in his voice sharper.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep the fear at bay. "It's… it's just a friend," you lied, hoping against hope that he'd let you go. The lie felt thick and wrong on your tongue, a stark contrast to the ease with which you'd always communicated with Lance.

Ethan's eyes narrowed, his grip on your elbow tightening. "Friend, huh?" His tone was skeptical. "Let's see who this friend is, shall we?" He reached for your phone, and a flash of terror shot through you.

You pulled back reflexively, your heart racing. "No, it's—it's nothing," you stuttered, your hand closing protectively around the device.

Ethan's smile grew thinner, the pressure on your elbow increasing. "Don't lie to me, Y/N. Who is it?"

"Ethan, I'm not lying," you said, your voice straining to stay calm. But the tremor in your hand betrayed you, and you watched in horror as he pried your fingers open and snatched the phone from your grip.

His eyes scanned the screen, looking for evidence of your supposed rendezvous. You could feel the blood draining from your face as the seconds ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity.

The phone, a silent witness to your fear, lay in his palm, a symbol of the power dynamics shifting in a way that made your stomach churn.

As you watched him, a cold resolve began to coil within you, a fiery determination to escape this situation unscathed. You took a deep, shaky breath, steeling yourself for what was to come.

The moment he glanced back up at you, his expression one of triumph, you made your move.

With a swift twist of your wrist and a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, you snatched your phone back. His eyes widened in surprise, and he grabbed for it again, but you danced out of reach.

Your heart thundered in your chest, the sound drowning out the distant hum of the city around you. The rain had picked up, plastering your hair to your face, but you didn't care. You had to get away from him.

You turned to run, but he was faster. His hand closed around your arm, yanking you back with a force that made you gasp. His grip was like steel, unyielding and painful.

You stumbled, your heels slipping on the wet pavement. Fear and anger melded into a white-hot flame in your gut, and you swung around, your hand coming up to slap him across the face with every ounce of strength you could muster.

The sound echoed through the alley, a sharp crack that seemed to cut through the rain.

Ethan's eyes went wide with shock, and his hand fell away from your arm. For a brief second, you felt the sweet taste of victory. But it was short-lived.

He recovered quickly, his hand flying back to strike you. You saw the blow coming, but you couldn't move fast enough. His knuckles collided with your cheekbone, sending a jolt of pain through your skull.

You staggered back, your hand flying to your face, the sting spreading like wildfire.

Your vision swam, and for a moment, the world went dark around the edges. You could taste the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, and your ears were ringing. But the pain only served to fuel your desperation.

You had to get out of here, now. You turned to run again, but the world spun, and your legs didn't seem to work. You stumbled, your knees hitting the ground hard, the phone slipping from your grasp.

Through the rain and the pain, you saw the headlights of a car approaching. You didn't dare hope it was Lance. You just hoped it was anyone but Ethan.

The car screeched to a halt beside you, and the door flew open. You looked up into the concerned, furious eyes of the one person you never thought you'd need saving from.

Lance was out of the car in an instant, his eyes scanning the alley. They found Ethan standing over you, his hand still poised to strike.

The rage on Lance's face was unlike anything you'd ever seen. It was primal, terrifying, and absolutely beautiful.

With a roar, he launched himself at Ethan, his fist connecting with the other man's jaw in a powerful uppercut. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet of the night, and Ethan stumbled back, his eyes wide with shock.

Lance didn't give him a chance to recover. He advanced, each punch thrown with the precision of a trained fighter, the strength of a man defending what was his.

You watched, stunned, as the man you knew as your best friend, the kind-hearted, gentle soul who'd never hurt a fly, transformed into a creature of pure, unbridled anger.

Each blow was calculated, each move designed to protect you. And in that moment, you knew. You weren't just his lucky charm. You were his everything.

The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. Ethan lay on the ground, groaning, his face a mess of blood and rain. Lance stood over him, panting, his fists clenched.

"Don't you ever touch her again," he growled, the threat in his voice so palpable it could have been a living thing.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your cheek throbbing, the cold rain mixing with the warm blood trickling from your mouth.

You'd never seen Lance like this before.

His eyes, usually a warm, comforting shade of brown, were now a fiery tempest of anger, the kind you'd only seen on TV, in those movies where the hero saves the day.

But this was no movie, and the hero was your best friend, standing over a man who had just tried to hurt you.

The rain was cold against your skin, your knees bruised from the fall, but it was the warmth of Lance's gaze that brought tears to your eyes. You've never felt more vulnerable, more exposed, than you did in that moment. But somehow, you felt safe.

You frequently embraced the role of a defender in your friendship, courageously standing up for Lance against the various online critics who targeted him.

But now, as you watch him standing over your would-be attacker, you realize that your friendship had transcended beyond the digital realm.

Lance's gaze snapped to you, the rage in his eyes dissolving into a fierce tenderness. He rushed to your side, his warmth a stark contrast to the cold rain.

He cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "Are you okay?" he breathed, his voice thick with concern.

You nodded weakly, the tremors still coursing through your body. "I-I think so," you murmured, your voice shaking.

In an instant, Lance's expression changed from one of rage to one of absolute concern. He took one scan of your whole body, taking in the bruised knees, the handprint on your arm, and the way you were holding your cheek.

Without another word, he scooped you into his arms, as if you were made of the most fragile glass.

You gasped at the sudden movement, but the moment your body was nestled into his embrace, a profound sense of safety washed over you.

Lance's arms were like steel, strong and unyielding, yet his touch was gentle, almost tender. You could feel the tension in his body as he carried you, his muscles flexing with each step, his breathing ragged.

The rain beaded on his shoulders, soaking through your clothes and mixing with your tears, but you didn’t care.

The coldness of the night was nothing compared to the warmth of his body pressed against yours. Each step he took was measured, careful, as if he was afraid that any sudden movement would shatter you.

"Lance," you muttered again, your voice a shaky whisper. His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of pain, any sign that you weren’t okay.

His expression was a tumult of emotions, a storm of anger and fear and something else, something softer that you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Gently, he placed you into the passenger seat of his car, his touch so careful it was like he was handling a fragile piece of artwork. The leather was cool against your flushed skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of his arms.

He hovered over you for a moment, his eyes scanning your face, his hands hovering as if he wasn’t sure where to touch you next. It was like he was memorizing every inch of you, committing to memory the way your eyes shone in the dim light, the way your breaths hitched in your chest, the way your pulse fluttered at the base of your throat.

Then, his expression tightened, and he straightened up, shutting the door firmly behind you. You watched through the window as he strode around the car, his movements sharp and precise.

When he slid into the driver's seat, his eyes met yours in the rearview mirror, and you could see the rage bubbling just beneath the surface.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call the police?" he asked, his voice tight with a fury that seemed almost tangible.

You took a shaky breath, the reality of what had just happened crashing down on you like a ton of bricks. The cold metal of the seatbelt buckle pressed against your palm, and you realized you hadn't even buckled in.

Your hands trembled as you fumbled with it, the clicking sound seemingly as loud as the thunder outside. "I-I don't know," you whispered, your voice shaking. "I just… I just want to get out of here."

Lance nodded curtly, his jaw clenched as he started the engine. The car's warmth began to seep into your bones, a stark contrast to the cold fear that had taken root in your core.

He didn’t say a word as he pulled out of the alley, the tires squealing slightly as he peeled away from the scene of your near-disaster.

The silence between you was deafening, filled only by the steady patter of rain on the windshield and the occasional splash of water thrown up by a passing car.

You could feel the unspoken tension in the air, thick and oppressive. You knew he was fighting back the urge to turn around, to go back to Ethan and teach him a lesson that would ensure he never laid a hand on you again.

You also knew that if he did, it would only make things worse, would only add fuel to the fire that was already burning out of control.

So you sat there, the rain a blur outside, and took a moment to gather yourself, to breathe in the scent of leather and Lance that filled the car. You've been in his car countless times before, but never like this.

Usually, it was filled with laughter and inside jokes, the occasional serious conversation about his next race. But now, it was a cocoon of safety, a sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

"I'm sorry," you said finally, the words coming out in a rush, a tapestry of regret and relief. "I didn't mean to drag you into this. I just… I didn't know what else to do."

Lance's knuckles were white on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched as he navigated the city streets.

He glanced over at you, his eyes still burning with the aftermath of the fight. "Don't apologize," he said, his voice gruff. "You did nothing wrong. I just… I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt."

You looked down at your hands, folded neatly in your lap, and realized that your nails had left little half-moon indents in your palms.

"I should have known," you murmured, the words slipping out like a confession. "I should have seen the signs with Ethan."

Lance's gaze never left the road ahead, his focus intense, his knuckles still white on the steering wheel. But you could feel his eyes on you, feel the weight of his concern. "What signs?" he asked, his voice tight.

You took a deep breath, the memory of Ethan's hand around your wrist sending a shiver down your spine. "The way he'd look at me, sometimes," you murmured. "The way he talked about other women. The possessiveness… I just didn't want to believe it."

Lance's eyes flicked to you, the anger in them giving way to something else, something softer. "You couldn't have known," he said, his voice gentle. "You're too kind, too trusting."

You leaned your head against the cool glass of the car window, watching the city lights streak by. You've always been the one to see the best in people, the one to give second chances, even when you probably shouldn't have.

It was what had made you so good at your job, so good at supporting Lance. You could see the potential in everyone, even when it was buried beneath layers of doubt and spite.

But maybe, just maybe, that was your downfall too.

"You couldn't have known," Lance said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "He's good at hiding it."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking into your soul like a lead balloon. You should have known. You'd seen the signs, the subtle changes in Ethan's behavior.

The way his compliments had started to feel more like orders, the way his smiles had turned into smirks when you didn't immediately agree with him.

But you'd been too caught up in the whirlwind of your new life, the glamour of the F1 world, to pay attention. You'd been too busy supporting Lance, too busy being his rock, to realize that you'd become vulnerable.

As the car pulled up to the hotel, Lance turned to you, his expression a mix of anger and fear. "You're not going anywhere with him again," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Not alone."

You nodded, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness. It was like admitting that your fairy tale had shattered into a million pieces. But you knew he was right. You couldn't ignore the warning signs any longer.

"Come on," he said gently, unbuckling your seatbelt and helping you out of the car. His arms were around you before your feet even hit the ground, and you leaned into him, letting his strength hold you up. "Let's get you cleaned up."

The hotel lobby was a blur of lights and sounds as Lance guided you through it, his hand firm on your lower back. You were vaguely aware of the stares and whispers, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The warmth of Lance's hand was the only thing that felt real.

When you reached the safety of your hotel room, the tension in your body began to uncoil like a tight spring. Lance led you to the bathroom before leaving you alone, the soft click of the door shutting out the world.

The bathroom was bathed in a warm, golden light, the scent of vanilla candles and hotel shampoo comfortingly familiar. You got out of your soaking clothes and stepped into the shower.

You stood there, shivering, the cold air of the room prickling your skin as your wet clothes fell to the floor. The mirror reflected a stranger, someone with bruises and a look of terror in her eyes.

The hot water of the shower was a balm to your chilled flesh as you stepped under the spray. It was a stark contrast to the cold rain, the heat enveloping you like a warm embrace, soothing your nerves and washing away the grime of the city streets.

You let the water beat down on you, the force of it pummeling your body, as if it could scrub away the fear and the violation of the alleyway.

The droplets stung your bruises, but the pain was a reminder that you were alive, that you'd survived.

The steam rose around you, a cocoon of mist that swirled and danced in the shower's artificial light, wrapping you in a warm embrace.

You closed your eyes, letting the water cascade over your lids, a soothing balm to the chaos within. The scalding heat of the water began to seep into your skin, chasing away the chill that had settled in your bones.

The droplets fell in a rhythmic pattern, a steady beat against your shoulders, your chest, your thighs. Each one a silent promise that you were safe, that you were okay.

You raised your hands to your face, feeling the sting of the hot water against your bruised cheek. Your eyes fluttered open, and you watched the blood and grime swirl down the drain, a crimson river mixing with the clear stream.

When you finally emerged from the shower, the bathroom was steamy, and the air felt clean. You wrapped yourself in one of Lance’s oversized towels, feeling a fragile sense of peace.

You pushed open the door, expecting to find him in the living room, but he was standing just outside, holding a neatly folded pile of clothes.

“I figured these might be more comfortable than what you were wearing,” he said, his gaze sweeping over you briefly before settling on your face.

He averted his eyes quickly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. The gesture was so inherently Lance – respectful, thoughtful, and a little shy, even after all these years.

You looked down. In his hands were a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and one of his own faded band t-shirts – the one with the worn-out Ramones logo that you sometimes stole to sleep in anyway. A small, shaky smile touched your lips. “Thank you,” you whispered, taking the clothes. “Lance, you didn’t have to…”

“Just put them on,” he interrupted gently, turning and heading towards his bedroom. “I’ll be in there.”

You dressed quickly, the soft fabric a comforting embrace against your skin. The warmth of the sweatpants against your scraped knees was surprisingly soothing.

The t-shirt, several sizes too big, hung loosely, smelling faintly of his familiar cologne and something uniquely Lance. You felt completely safe, wrapped in his scent, in his clothes.

When you entered his bedroom, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, a first-aid kit open beside him. The lamp on his nightstand cast a soft, warm glow, making the room feel like a sanctuary.

He looked up as you entered, and his gaze softened. He patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

You walked over, your legs still a little unsteady, and sat down. Without a word, you leaned back against his pillows, stretching your legs out in front of you.

Naturally, your bare feet found purchase on his legs, resting comfortably on his thighs. He didn't flinch, didn’t flinch at all, instead adjusting slightly to give you more room, his warmth seeping into your cold skin.

The casual intimacy of the gesture, the familiar weight of your legs on his, was a testament to years of shared comfort, a silent language spoken between your bodies.

He picked up a bottle of antiseptic, his movements slow and deliberate. “Okay,” he murmured, his voice low, almost a hum against the quiet of the room. “Let’s get these cleaned up.”

He started with your knees. Even in the soft light, you could see the angry red scrapes, some tiny pebbles still embedded in the skin. He poured the antiseptic onto a cotton pad, and you braced yourself for the sting.

It came, a sharp prick, but his touch was so gentle, so unbelievably tender, that it barely registered. He worked meticulously, his brow furrowed in concentration.

His fingers, calloused from years of working with his hands, were surprisingly delicate as he dabbed away the blood and grit.

“Does that hurt too much?” he asked, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You shook your head, watching him, mesmerized by the care in his actions. His gaze dropped back to your knee, his dark lashes brushing against his cheekbones.

He applied a small amount of antibiotic cream, then carefully placed a soft bandage over the worst of the scrapes.

Then he moved to your face. You hadn’t even realized you had wounds there, but as he tilted your chin gently, you felt a slight tenderness on your cheekbone and a small cut near your temple.

He dipped another cotton pad into the antiseptic, his touch exquisitely light. His thumb brushed your jawline, a feather-light caress that sent a shiver through you, entirely different from the shivers of fear.

“Just a little scrape here,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin as he leaned in closer. You could smell his clean, masculine scent, the subtle fragrance of his shampoo.

His eyes, so close, were full of a quiet intensity, a raw vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. They held an ocean of concern, yes, but also a yearning, a silent plea that echoed something deep within you.

He dabbed the cut near your temple, then examined your cheekbone, which was slightly bruised. He didn’t press there, just observed it with a soft, knowing look.

He then reached for a tube of arnica cream, gently massaging a tiny amount into the tender skin. His fingers were so soft against your temple, his touch easing the tension that still throbbed there.

You watched his face, the way his brows furrowed in concentration, the gentle curve of his lips. The horror of the evening began to recede, replaced by an overwhelming sense of gratitude and a dawning, breathtaking realization.

He didn't have to be here. He didn’t have to answer the phone. He didn't have to risk himself. But he did. For you. Always for you.

Suddenly, the lifetime of shared jokes, late-night talks, scraped knees in childhood (which he’d also tended to back then), and unspoken understandings coalesced into a blinding truth.

This wasn’t just best friendship. It had grown, silently, steadily, into something deeper, something profound. And this traumatic night had simply ripped away the veil, showing you what had been there all along.

His hand lingered on your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, his gaze still holding yours.

The silence stretched between you, no longer quiet or comfortable, but charged, electric. His eyes, those warm amber pools, were asking a question, holding a confession.

“You saved me, Lance,” you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, but these were tears of something akin to wonder.

He shook his head slowly, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “Always,” he breathed, the single word a sacred vow, a promise whispered across years of shared history and into an uncertain, yet suddenly hopeful, future. “Always.”

The word hung in the air, a silent echo in the softly lit room. Your breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but Lance heard it.

His gaze, which had been fixed on yours with an unwavering tenderness, flickered. His thumb stilled on your cheek, then slowly, hesitantly, pulled away.

The sudden absence of his touch left a cold hollowness, a stark reminder of the fragile balance you were teetering on.

He sat back slightly, the first-aid kit still open between you, a silent witness to the charged atmosphere. His hands, which moments ago had been so gentle and purposeful, now rested idly on his thighs, calloused and strong, yet seeming almost unsure of themselves.

He cleared his throat, a soft, dry rasp in the quiet. His eyes, though still holding that intense vulnerability, darted away, just for a second, to the wall behind you, then back to your face, as if seeking permission.

You said nothing, not because you had no words, but because a torrent of them surged through you, jostling for release. Gratitude, an aching tenderness, a profound understanding, and a thrilling, terrifying sense of the unknown.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a wild drumbeat against the quiet hum of the night. You watched him, your own gaze unwavering, waiting.

He took a deep breath, his chest expanding beneath the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “I… I meant it,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, as if the words were difficult to push past the lump in his throat.

He finally lifted his head, meeting your eyes fully, and what you saw there stole your breath. It wasn’t just concern or friendship. It was something deeper, something raw and exposed, something that mirrored the tumult in your own soul.

Love. Unmistakable, undeniable love.

“It’s always been you,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper, but each word resonated with the weight of years. “From the moment I first saw you, a little whirlwind of scraped knees and wild ideas, I knew… I just knew you were different. You were always the one who made sense of the chaos, the one who saw the world in technicolor when everyone else saw it in shades of grey.”

He paused, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I know… I know this is probably a lot right now. After everything. And I shouldn’t… I probably shouldn’t be saying this, not like this.”

He gestured vaguely to the first-aid kit, to the bruised skin on your face, to the whole terrifying experience you’d just endured. “But seeing you… seeing you like that, knowing I almost… I almost lost you tonight… it just… it ripped everything open.”

His gaze dropped to his hands, calloused and trembling slightly. “Every time you laughed, every time you cried on my shoulder, every time we stayed up until dawn talking about nothing and everything… I felt it. This pull. This fierce need to protect you, to make you smile, to just… be near you.”

He looked up again, his eyes pleading, searching yours for a sign. “I always told myself it was just friendship. That it had to be. Because… because you’ve always been my best friend. The most important person in my life. And I was so terrified of screwing that up, of saying something, doing something that would push you away, that would break what we had.”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “But it’s more than that. It’s always been more. Every time you wore one of my shirts, every time you fell asleep on my couch, every mundane moment we shared felt sacred to me. And tonight… when I thought… when I thought I was too late…”

His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat again, struggling for composure. “It was like a knife twisting in my gut. I realized then, with terrifying clarity, that I can’t live without you. Not just as my friend. As… as my everything.”

The tenderness in his eyes, the absolute raw honesty of his voice, was overwhelming. You felt tears, real tears this time, prick at your eyelids. This wasn’t the dramatic confession you read in books or saw in movies.

This was Lance. Quiet, earnest, profoundly sincere. It was a confession born of fear and relief and a love so deep it had been a silent, elemental force in your life for years.

“Lance,” you breathed, the word a mere whisper. You shifted, your legs still resting on his, their familiar weight suddenly charged with new meaning.

Your feet, once comfortably warm against his skin, now tingled with a nervous energy. The Ramones t-shirt, once a comforting embrace, now felt like a revelation, its fabric imbued with the scent of his confession.

“I know what I’m asking,” he continued, misunderstanding your quietness for uncertainty, or perhaps, for rejection. His voice was thick with vulnerability. “I know it’s a massive leap. And I know you might not feel the same. Or you might just need time to process this. And that’s okay. Whatever you need. I just… I couldn’t keep it inside anymore. Not after tonight. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

He raked a hand through his already dishevelled hair, a nervous habit. “I love you. I’ve loved you for a very long time. More than friendship, more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And I know it’s messy, and it’s probably the worst possible timing, but I had to tell you.”

The silence that followed was different from any silence before it. It wasn’t comfortable, nor was it charged with unspoken tension. It was heavy with the weight of years of unspoken emotion, of a truth finally brought into the light.

You looked at him, truly looked at him, and saw the boy who had shared his last cookie with you in kindergarten, the teenager who had helped you study for your calculus exam when he was already brilliant at it, the man who had driven across town in the middle of the night just to bring you soup when you had the flu.

Every memory, every shared moment, clicked into place, slotting into a larger, more beautiful mosaic.

He loved you. He had loved you. And you… you loved him too. It wasn’t a sudden realization, not a lightning bolt. It was like watching a sunrise you’d always known was coming, but had never truly seen until this moment.

The slow, steady burn of affection, the unwavering comfort, the unique sense of belonging you felt only with him—it had been love all along. Just a different kind of love that had slowly, imperceptibly, shifted its form.

Your heart swells in your chest, feeling as if it might burst with the weight of the words that hang between you.

You look into his eyes, searching for a hint of doubt, a flicker of regret, but all you see is the raw, unfiltered truth of his confession. And in that moment, you know that you can't hold back any longer.

"Lance," you begin, your voice shaky with emotion, "I love you too." The words spill out, a whisper that seems too small for the magnitude of what you're feeling.

Yet, as they hang in the air, they expand, filling the space around you with warmth and light.

His eyes widen, the green in them deepening like a forest at dawn. He searches your face, looking for any sign of doubt, but all he finds is the truth reflected in your gaze.

You've been his rock, his anchor in the storm, and now he's yours.

The moment feels like forever, but in reality, it's just a heartbeat, a single pulse of the universe acknowledging the shift in the air.

The room, once a space of refuge and friendship, transforms into something more intimate, more significant.

It's as if the walls themselves lean in, eager to witness the tender dance of confession and revelation that unfolds between you.

Lance's smile is like the sun breaking through a storm cloud—relief and joy blending together into something so potent it could power the very cars you both love.

He leans in, his eyes never leaving yours, and hugs you softly, as if afraid that a sudden movement might shatter the delicate moment.

His arms envelop you, the warmth of his embrace seeping into your bones, chasing away the last vestiges of the cold fear that had gripped you earlier.

The touch is familiar, a comfort you've known for years, but now it's different.

The beat of your heart quickens, the air thickens, and you can feel the gravity of his confession pressing against your skin, changing the very fabric of the universe that has been your friendship. His body molds to yours, and you realize that this is where you fit—where you've always fit.

The curve of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the scent of engine oil and sweat mingling with his cologne—it's all a part of him, and now, it's a part of you, too. . . . .

The soft glow of the living room lamp cast long, gentle shadows across the walls as you snuggled deeper into Lance’s side. The scent of his cedar-and-spice cologne was a comforting anchor, familiar and utterly safe.

His arm was a warm weight around your shoulders, holding you close as the low hum of the television filled the quiet space.

You were half-listening to the evening news, the familiar rhythm of a normal Tuesday night, contentedly tracing the patterns on his worn grey t-shirt.

The world outside felt distant, unimportant, locked away by the intimacy of his embrace.

“Breaking news!” The presenter’s voice, usually calm and measured, suddenly sharpened, cutting through your peaceful daze. You blinked, pulling your gaze from Lance’s chest to the screen, a vague sense of unease stirring within you.

“Today a celebrity has been arrested. Ethan Vance, a well-known actor, has been arrested for kidnapping and human trafficking.”

Your breath hitched. Ethan Vance. The name hit you like a physical blow, a cold, sharp echo from a nightmare you’d tried desperately to bury. You felt Lance’s arm tighten around you, a subtle shift in his posture, as if he’d sensed your sudden tension.

The screen flickered, showing a mugshot, then a brief, chilling clip of Ethan Vance himself, being led away in handcuffs. His eyes, even on the grainy news footage, seemed to bore into the camera, a smirk playing on his lips.

“I wasn’t finished with you,” his gaze seemed to say, an evil, triumphant glint that sent a shiver racing down your spine.

You shuddered, an uncontrollable tremor that racked your entire body. The warmth of the couch, of Lance, suddenly felt insufficient to ward off the chill that had permeated your very bones.

Instinctively, you buried your face in Lance’s neck, inhaling his familiar, grounding scent, trying to block out the image that haunted your peripheral vision.

“Many women have come out to say that Mr. Vance would ask them out for dinner and then invite them to his house, where he would give them drinks which contained Zopiclone, which made them fall asleep.” The presenter’s voice continued, cool and factual, detailing the horror that had very nearly become your reality.

A sob tore itself from your throat. It was ragged, uncontrolled, tears stinging your closed eyelids before tracing hot paths down your cheeks.

You clung to Lance as if he were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly tilted on its axis. That could have been you. You could have been human trafficked if it wasn’t for Lance.

The thought was a relentless hammer blow to your chest, leaving you breathless and aching.

“I was so stupid,” you muttered, the words muffled against his skin, choked with fresh tears.

Lance’s grip on you tightened, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head, pressing you closer. He said nothing for a moment, letting you sob, letting the raw fear and relief wash over you.

He knew. He had seen the terror in your eyes, felt the tremor in your body. He remembered everything, just as vividly as you did.

Now, months later, the fear still lingered, a faint shadow, but it was overshadowed by a deep, abiding love. Lance held you closer on the couch, his hand stroking your hair.

“You weren’t stupid,” he murmured against your temple, his voice rough with emotion. “You were trusting. And he was a monster. You couldn’t have known.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him, your eyes still wet but now filled with something else – adoration. “But I almost fell for it. I almost went with him. I was so caught up in the fantasy.”

“Anyone could have been,” he replied, his gaze unwavering. “He preyed on people. That’s what he did. What matters is that you’re here. You’re safe.” He kissed your forehead, a lingering, tender kiss that spoke volumes. “And you’re mine.”

You buried your face back into his chest, clutching his shirt. The news anchor’s voice faded into the background, replaced by the steady thrum of Lance’s heartbeat.

You felt the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, and a profound sense of peace settled over you.

Your journey from that night had been long. There had been therapy, the slow process of rebuilding trust in yourself and the world. But through it all, Lance had been there.

He never judged you, never blamed you. He simply held you, listened to you, and reminded you, every single day, of your strength and your worth.

He cooked for you, took you for long walks, and simply existed beside you, a silent anchor. He was your safe harbour, your unwavering compass.

You thought of the early days of your friendship, how you’d dismissed him as "just Lance." How short-sighted you had been.

He wasn't flashy or boastful, he was simply good. Kind. Strong. Devoted. He saw you, truly saw you, even when you didn't see yourself clearly. He was the quiet hero who didn't seek recognition, but acted out of pure, selfless love.

The news report continued, detailing how many women had been rescued, how the investigation had widened. The arrest of Ethan Vance wasn’t just a headline; it was closure.

For you, and for so many others. A monster was off the streets, and a dark chapter was finally closed. You tilted your head back, meeting Lance’s eyes. They were grey-blue, calm and deep, reflecting the love and relief that swelled in your own heart.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words inadequate for the depth of your gratitude. “Thank you for everything. For saving me. For being you.”

He smiled, a gentle, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Always,” he said. . . .

The morning sun, still gentle and hesitant, cast long, watery shadows across the kitchen as you stirred your coffee. You wore a simple green sundress, cool and comfortable against your skin, and you hummed a forgotten tune, completely oblivious.

Across the table, Lance was a bundle of barely contained energy, fidgeting with his spoon, avoiding your gaze, and responding to your cheerful chatter with monosyllabic grunts. It was so unlike him. Usually, he was the calm, steady presence, the one whose easy laugh could dispel any cloud. Today, he was a storm of unspoken thoughts.

"You okay, Lance?" you asked, a faint frown creasing your brow as you watched him push a piece of toast around his plate. "You've been… quiet this morning."

He looked up, startled, his eyes wide and a little panicked. "Me? Uh, yeah. Yeah, fine. Just… thinking." He cleared his throat, took a gulp of lukewarm tea. "Great breakfast, though, Y/N. Really. Top-notch." He flashed a nervous, almost pained smile.

You narrowed your eyes playfully. "You've eaten three bites, Lance. And you usually devour my blueberry pancakes."

"Right. Well, I'm, uh, full. Very full. Actually, that reminds me! Beautiful day out, isn't it? Perfect for a walk. On the beach, perhaps?" He gestured vaguely towards the window, where the first glimmers of light were starting to turn the sea a brilliant sapphire.

Your eyebrows rose. A walk on the beach? He was usually content to linger over coffee and conversation until mid-morning. But his suggestion was so earnest, so desperate, that you simply shrugged. "Sure, why not? A walk sounds lovely."

He practically bolted from the table, muttering something about fresh air doing them both good. You watched him go, a mix of amusement and mild concern swirling within you. He was definitely up to something.

Your mind raced through possibilities: had he upset someone? Was he brooding over a race? But nothing quite fit the sheer, unadulterated nervousness radiating from him. You finished your coffee, tidied up, and then joined him, still in your green dress, as he waited by the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

The beach path was familiar, winding through fragrant coastal scrub before opening up to the vast expanse of sand and sea. He led the way, a little too quickly at first, then slowed down, adjusting his pace to yours.

His hand brushed yours once, briefly, and then he seemed to pull it back as if burned. The air hummed with unspoken tension, and you found yourself stealing glances at his profile, trying to decipher the unreadable expression etched upon it. The sun was higher now, warm on your bare arms, and the gentle lapping of waves against the shore was the only sound besides your footsteps.

"Beautiful day," you murmured again, trying to break the silence.

He nodded, a tight smile on his face. "Yeah. Perfect."

You continued walking, the sand soft beneath your sandals. Then, in the distance, you saw it. An outline. A shape. It looked like… no, it couldn't be. A giant heart, meticulously crafted from what looked like dried wildflowers and framed by shimmering fairy lights, stood proudly on the pristine sand. Inside the heart, spelled out in elegant, looping script against a white banner, were the words: 'CAN I BE YOUR BOYFRIEND?'

Your eyes widened, a gasp catching in your throat. Your first thought, unbidden and immediate, was for the poor soul who had spent hours crafting such a grand gesture.

"Oh, Lance!" you exclaimed, turning to him, your voice hushed with awe and a touch of embarrassment. "I think someone is asking someone out here! We should go, we don't want to intrude on their moment."

You tugged lightly on his arm, ready to pivot and walk back the way you came, or at least along the water's edge, far from the display. But he didn't budge. You looked up at him, and his face was a mask of fear, his jaw tight, but he kept walking, towards the heart. His eyes, usually so confident and clear, were darting nervously around, almost pleading.

"Lance?" you questioned, your voice laced with confusion. "Are you sure? It feels kind of… private."

He just shook his head, a single, determined shake, and continued leading you forward. You took a hesitant step, then another. The distance between you and the heart-shaped decoration dwindled with each beat of your increasingly frantic heart.

As you drew closer, your eyes scanned the sand in front of it. That’s when you saw it – a carpet of rose petals, sprinkled generously across the path, leading directly to the heart. They weren't just a few; they were a thick, vibrant swathe of deep crimson, fuchsia, and ivory, forming a distinct pathway.

It was in that precise moment, as you stepped onto the soft, perfumed petals, that a sickening lurch went through you. The pieces clicked into place with horrifying, yet exhilarating, clarity. The nervousness, the strange suggestion for a walk, his refusal to turn back, the direct path of petals…

He was asking you out.

Your breath hitched. You stopped dead, your mouth slightly agape, staring at the heart, then at the petals, then back at Lance, who had finally stopped beside you. He looked utterly terrified, but also determined, his gaze fixed on the sand, seemingly unable to meet your eyes.

You two stood there, side by side, in front of the sign that boldly proclaimed 'CAN I BE YOUR BOYFRIEND?', enveloped by the scent of roses and the vast, knowing silence of the sea. The shock was a palpable thing, a tangible weight in the air between you. You had no words. Your mind was a whirlwind of a thousand unspoken questions, fears, and a nascent, overwhelming joy.

Lance took a deep, shuddering breath, the sound loud in the quiet morning. When he finally looked at you, his eyes were brimming with a raw vulnerability you had rarely seen. "Y/N Y/L/N," he began, his voice a little hoarse, "I'm sorry for waiting so long to ask you this. Truly, I am. But I have a reason, I promise."

He paused, collecting his thoughts, his gaze sweeping over the elaborate setup, then back to your stunned face. "Growing up with you, I… I caught things. Things that are important to you. Like important dates that you never forget. Your first day of uni. Your first proper heartbreak. That day," he continued, his voice softening, filled with careful regard, "that day I told you my feelings for you, that was also a day of terror for you."

"I wanted this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the heart, his eyes pleading for understanding, "to be a day of pure happiness. No shadow, no lingering pain. So, I waited. I waited weeks, until I saw that light come back into your eyes, until I knew you'd healed enough for this to truly feel like a fresh start. For us to be a fresh start."

"Lance," you managed to whisper, your voice thick with emotion, the tears now freely tracing paths down your cheeks. The thoughtfulness, the sheer patience of his gesture, was almost too much to bear.

He took another shaky breath, his resolve firming. "From the day you rescued me from those bullies all those years ago, behind the school gym…," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper, recalling a forgotten memory you barely thought about anymore.

You remembered it vividly, though: a scrawny, terrified Lance cornered by three older kids, and you, then a fearless, scabby-kneed nine-year-old, charging in with a handful of sand and a scream that scared them off. He’d looked at you that day like you were an avenging angel, and you'd just grinned, dusted off your knees. "From that day, I’ve loved you. There's no mistake about it. No childish crush, no passing infatuation. It was real, even then."

He gestured with a sweeping hand. "But seeing how adventurous, how wonderfully big and vibrant your personality was, how you embraced every challenge and charmed everyone you met… I always feared that you would never, could never, like me like that. Not the quiet, studious Lance. I watched you date. I watched you laugh with them. I watched you cry over them." His voice tightened, a flicker of pain crossing his face. "Until I heard you were going on a date with David, from your art class. That… broke me. Something in me snapped. It didn't sit with me. It never did with any of your exes, or any of my exes, for that matter. Because even when I was with someone else, it was always you I was comparing them to. It was always you that my heart was aching for."

He finally met your gaze directly, his eyes raw with emotion. "So now, with that fear finally gone, or at least pushed to the side enough to do this ridiculous, terrifying thing," he let out a short, nervous laugh, "I wanted to ask you something."

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and gently took yours, intertwining your fingers. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a silent promise. His gaze was deep, earnest, full of a love so profound it stole your breath.

"Can I," Lance Stroll, he finally said, his voice imbued with all the hope and vulnerability in his soul, "be your boyfriend?"

You were utterly speechless. The tears streamed freely now, tears of pure, unadulterated joy. Of relief. Of a love you hadn't dared to name, but had felt brewing between you two for years. The sheer audacity, the incredible sweetness, the years of hidden affection pouring out in this one grand, magnificent gesture… it was overwhelming.

"Yes," you choked out, the word barely a whisper, but firm, absolute, and filled with all the unspoken answers he deserved. "Yes, Lance. A thousand times, yes!"

Before the word had even fully left your lips, he pulled you into a fierce, desperate hug. His arms wrapped tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You clung to him just as tightly, your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, sobbing into his shoulder. The scent of his familiar cologne, infused with the fresh saltiness of the sea, filled your senses. It felt like coming home, like finally exhaling after holding your breath for years.

You stayed like that for a long moment, simply holding each other, the world shrinking to just the two of you, bathed in the growing warmth of the morning sun. When he finally pulled back, slowly, reluctantly, you took a moment. Your eyes, still swimming with tears, met his. His face was flushed, his eyes bright with unshed tears and an almost disbelieving happiness. You saw the careful hope, the boundless affection, the relief shining in their depths.

And then, with a soft, undeniable gravity, you leaned in. Your lips met, gently at first, a tentative exploration, then with a deepening certainty. It was soft and sweet, carrying the taste of salt and the lingering scent of rose petals, but beneath that, it was a kiss of years of unspoken longing, of shared laughter and quiet comfort, of a bond that had always been there, waiting patiently for this moment. It was the beginning of everything.

As your first kiss lingered, a soft click echoed from behind a cluster of dune grass. Esteban, looking slightly disheveled but beaming, emerged with a camera held aloft, lowering it slowly. "Got it!" he whispered enthusiastically, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Every single tear, every stutter, every agonizingly slow step, and especially that kiss! Lance, mate, you owe me big time for the early start!"

Lance, still holding you close, let out a sheepish, triumphant laugh. "Esteban! I told you to stay hidden!" He turned to you, a new wave of color rising to his cheeks. "Surprise! I kind of… wanted someone to capture it."

You pulled back from the kiss, a soft gasp escaping you. You stared at Esteban, then at Lance, then back at the giant heart. A fresh wave of heat rushed through you, half embarrassment, half overwhelming endearment. He'd planned all of it. The meticulous details, the hidden photographer, the emotional speech – it was all for you.

"You… you had him recording it secretly?" you managed, a giggle bubbling up from your chest.

Lance shrugged, a happy, boyish grin replacing his earlier terror. "Had to, didn't I? For posterity. And so you'd believe how nervous I actually was."

Esteban winked. "He was practically hyperventilating, Y/N. Good thing I brought extra batteries."

You shook your head, a smile splitting your face as you looked from Esteban to Lance. "You two are impossible." But your heart was soaring. The embarrassment quickly faded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of being cherished, truly and completely. He hadn't just asked you to be his girlfriend; he had orchestrated a moment you would never, ever forget.

With Lance's arm firmly around your waist, pulling you closer than ever, you turned to face the ocean. The waves continued their rhythmic dance, the sun climbed higher, casting diamonds across the water.

The heart of flowers stood proudly behind you, a monument to a love finally confessed. You leaned your head on his shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The world felt utterly brand new, vibrant and full of promise. And you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that this was only the first chapter of your story together.

The one Lance had been secretly writing, all along. And now, you would write the rest, hand in hand. . . .

•┈••✦ ❤ ✦••┈•

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yourusername

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She never expected Formula 1 to become the place where her body finally felt… normal.

Not cured - never that. Gastroparesis didn’t magically disappear because Lance Stroll held her hand or because she had learned to navigate feeding tubes and medical bags like second-nature. But in the paddock, among the noise, the chaos, the cameras and the constant rush, she found something that surprised her, over and over again. Accessibility, acceptance and a kind compassion woven into the structure of a world that didn’t seem like it would have any space for someone like her.

She learned early that the paddock wasn’t perfect. But it was better and kinder than the rest of the world had been, in small, meaningful ways. Enough space to turn a wheelchair. Ramps built into most of the pathways. Security guards who actually listened when spoken to. Engineers who stepped aside without making it a big deal. PR managers who made sure photographers didn’t block access.

And then there was Lance.

Lance didn’t flinch at medical things, now did he treat her like she was breakable. He made her feel like her feeding tube wasn’t something that separated her from the rest of the world, but something he was invited into understanding.

It started months ago, back before she was ever comfortable enough to let him see everything. Before he had ever traced his fingers over the tubing or brushed a soft kiss to the skin nearby. Back before he made her believe love didn’t have to shrink around her needs.

He had learned her routine early, partly because he wanted to help, partly because he wanted to understand and partly because he just liked being near her during the quiet, vulnerable parts of her evening. He never insisted on helping with the actual setup. He handed her things if she asked, sat close if she wanted company and stayed silent if she needed concentration.

It was one of the things she cherished most about him. He always let her lead.

And today was one of those days where her tube felt the only way anything was going to get into her system at all.

“Long day?” Lance asked softly as he opened the motorhome door for her, instinctively scanning the room.

“I’m tired,” she admitted as she walked inside. “And my stomach is staging a coup.”

Lance’s smile was sympathetic without being pitying. “That bad?”

“Bad enough.”

That was all she had to say. He nodded and stepped aside, letting her head into the small bedroom area first. He knew she preferred taking a moment alone before setting up her nighttime feed. Time to just decompress from the paddock crowds and to give herself time to transition from public-her to private-her.

Do you want company?” He asked from the doorway.

“Not yet,” she smiled carefully. “But soon.”

“Okay.” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head before letting her go.

She loved him for that. For never assuming, never hovering. For giving her space when she needed it and closeness when she didn’t.

She sat on the chair next to the bed and unpacked her medical bag slowly. The pump, tubing extension, sterile flushes and the formula bag. Her hands shook a little with both fatigue and frustration. Sometimes the hardest part wasn’t the illness itself, it was doing the routine while she was exhausted. When her body felt too heavy and when the last thing she wanted was to be reminded that her digestive system had checked out long before she and Lance had ever met.

She breathed out, grounding herself. She had learned not to rush this. Her body needed patience and her mind did too.

A soft knock sounded on the doorframe. “You good, love?”

She glanced up. Lance stood there, soft-eyed, still in his Aston Martin team kit, hair slightly messy from removing his cap repeatedly through the day.

“I’m okay,” she said. “Just taking it slow.”

“That’s alright.” He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, not too close to crowd her. “Can I do anything?”

“Pass me the extension tubing.”

He did, gently with two hands, like it was precious. She smiled a little. “It’s not fragile.”

“You’re fragile,” he teased lightly, smiling.

“I’m not that fragile.”

“No,” he agreed, voice softening. “You’re not.” He reached out, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

She flushed, shaking her head, but his demeanor stayed warm. He always said things like that, like he saw strength in her that she had never noticed.

It took about ten minutes before everything was fully set up, tubing connected, formula bag hung, pump primed, her system ready for the slow overnight feed her body tolerated best.

She let her shoulders drop. The hardest part was done.

Lance seemed to feel the tension ease out of her, “Want to lie down?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. “I’m shattered.”

He helped her slide from the chair to the bed, not because she needed him to, but because she liked when he did. His hands were gentle but sure, his movements practiced. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, letting him lift and guide her. When he settled her onto the pillows, he brushed a stray hair from her cheek.

“You alright?” He asked.

“Mmhmm. Thank you.”

He smiled, leaning in, kissing her warmly. “Anytime.”

He lay beside her, propping himself up on one elbow. She watched his gaze travel over her tubing, checking unconsciously that nothing was kinked or pulled out of place, not with worry, but with familiarity.

He reached under the pillow and pulled out a packet of gum, her favourite flavour. She blinked at him. “You keep it there?”

“Of course.” He grinned. “Never know when you’ll want it.”

She laughed softly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thoughtful,” he corrected, placing a piece in her hand. “Big difference.”

“Mm. A very big difference.”

He kissed her forehead. “And I also have popsicles in the freezer.”

She stared at him. “Lance–”

“Three flavours,” he added proudly. “Well, four, but I already ate one because I got curious. For scientific reasons.”

“Scientific reasons?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he said, completely serious. “I needed to make sure they weren’t freezer-burned.”

“Lance.”

“Also I was craving one.”

She snorted, covering her face. “You’re impossible.”

“Impossible,” he repeated, leaning closer, “and yours.”

Her chest tightened, warm and full.

She took the piece of gum, chewing it slowly. Sometimes flavour alone was enough. Sometimes it felt grounding.

Lance lay down fully beside her, facing her, one hand carefully resting over her hip, away from the tubing. After a moment, he spoke quietly. “You know…” He kissed her shoulder. “I mean it when I say you amaze me.”

She rolled her eyes gently. “Because I can use a feeding tube?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Not because of that. Because you don’t let anything stop you from living your life. From coming here. From loving me.” His fingers brushed her arm softly. “I know it’s not always easy. I know some days hurt.”

She swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“But you still…” He breathed out, searching for the words. “You still show up. Fully. Honestly. You let me be part of all of it. Even the hard parts.” His voice grew softer. “That means everything to me.”

She blinked hard. “Lance.”

She kissed him before he could say anymore. He kissed her back with equal gentleness, his hand sliding into her hair. When she pulled away, she looked into his brown eyes. “Thank you for making this feel normal.”

“It is normal,” he said firmly. “Your normal. Our normal.” He glanced at the tubing with affection, not fear. “Part of you and part of your life. And I am lucky I get to be included.”

Warmth settled into her bones, deeper than exhaustion, deeper than the ache in her stomach.

“Come closer,” she whispered.

He shifted carefully, tucking himself against her, mindful of the tubing and of her body’s limits, but still close enough to feel like home. His hand found hers, fingers intertwining.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice feather-soft.

She closed her eyes. “I love you too.”

The pump hummed quietly. Lance’s breathing slowed beside her. His thumb stroked the back of her hand, slow, steady and adoring.

Food was food, love was love, and she was his in every way that mattered.

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