speed date (arvid linblad)
synopsis: in which case y/n, earns herself a hot blind date, not realizing that her best friend set her up with non other than f2 driver arvid linblad
smau x prose (11.3K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆
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I was goddamn royally fucked.
Considering that bright and early on Monday morning at 9:00 AM, I had a cumulative test for my Intro to Sociology course on social stratification, I should’ve been spending my Saturday night locked in my dorm, surrounded by sticky notes and highlighters, cramming like my life depended on it.
And, to be fair, it kind of did.
The University of London wasn’t just any institution—it was a beacon of prestige, a place where centuries of tradition met cutting-edge academic rigor. My concentration in International Relations wasn’t some fluff major either; it was the real deal, complete with rigorous coursework that challenged you to dissect the layers of global politics, economics, and, of course, sociology.
Getting into this university had been a Herculean task. Maintaining my grades here? Even more so. I wasn’t just chasing a degree—I was chasing First-Class Honours, the kind of distinction that could open doors to diplomatic corps, global think tanks, or even the United Nations. It wasn’t just expected by my parents; it was demanded by my own overachieving, anxiety-ridden brain.
Which was why I absolutely needed this course to go well. I needed that test score. I needed to drown myself in textbooks until the theories of Karl Marx and Max Weber were practically embedded into my brain.
But did I also need this blind date?
For purely entertainment purposes? Maybe.
For the sake of my rapidly deteriorating mental health? Definitely.
All thanks to Ollie, my friend-slash-brother-from-another-mother, who had somehow made it his life’s mission to “get me out there.” “It’ll be good for you,” he’d said with his usual laid-back grin when I protested. “You’re always locked up in that room of yours. Have some fun for once, yeah?”
My protests had been met with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Trust me, you’ll like him. He’s one of my best mates. Good guy, funny, decent-looking, and he knows how to hold a conversation. What more could you want?”
For starters, I wanted to know who the hell this mystery man was.
“What’s his name?” I’d asked, crossing my arms as Ollie lounged on my couch like he owned the place.
“You’ll find out on Saturday,” he’d replied, far too casually for my liking.
“Oh, come on!”
“It’s a blind date, love,” he’d said with an exaggerated eye roll. “The point is in the name.”
“And what if he’s horrible?”
“He’s not,” Ollie had said, his grin widening. “And if he is, you can ditch halfway through and blame it on your precious sociology test.”
“He’s not,” Ollie had said, his grin widening like he’d just cracked the code to the universe. “And if he is, you can ditch halfway through and blame it on your precious sociology test. Or, better yet, fake food poisoning—classic, foolproof.”
“Great plan, Ollie,” I deadpanned, glaring at him. “I’ll just dramatically clutch my stomach and sprint to the bathroom. Real subtle.”
He laughed, propping his feet up on my coffee table like the annoying pest he was. “Hey, it works. And besides, you’re good at theatrics. Remember last month when you staged that coughing fit to get out of that guest lecture?”
“That was different,” I snapped. “I actually thought I was dying.”
“Oh, totally,” he said, smirking. “Dying of boredom.”
I threw a pillow at his face, which he caught effortlessly, still grinning. “You’re so annoying.”
“Annoying but lovable,” he replied, tossing the pillow back with that self-satisfied grin that made me want to both punch him and keep him around forever. “And you’ll thank me for this. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I echoed, glaring at him. “Ollie, you’re about as trustworthy as a wet traffic cone. And let’s not forget the last time you tried to ‘help me.’ I’m still emotionally recovering from the guy who wouldn’t stop talking about his crypto portfolio.”
“That was one time,” he said, rolling his eyes dramatically as he sprawled across my couch, looking far too comfortable in my space. “And, in my defense, how was I supposed to know he’d turn out to be a walking NFT?”
I glared harder, arms crossed. “He handed me a business card with a QR code that said, ‘Scan for my life story.’”
Ollie burst out laughing, kicking his feet up on my coffee table like he owned the place. “Okay, fine, I’ll admit that one was a misfire. But this guy? Top-notch. No QR codes. Just vibes.”
“Great. Because ‘vibes’ are definitely what I’m looking for,” I muttered, sinking into the armchair opposite him. “I should be studying right now, not signing up for another one of your social experiments.”
“Studying?” Ollie repeated, raising an eyebrow. “It’s Saturday night, Y/N. Even nerds need a night off. Besides, I’m leaving in two weeks for testing. Who knows when I’ll be back to sprinkle a little chaos in your life?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. That was the thing about Ollie—he was infuriating, but I missed him when he wasn’t around. He’d been my unofficial big brother since university, and now that he was off racing for Haas in Formula One, our hangouts were fewer and farther between. The thought of him jetting off for the season again made me soften, just a little.
“Fine,” I said begrudgingly. “But if this date sucks, I’m holding it against you for the next decade.”
“Deal,” Ollie said, sitting up and extending a hand like we were sealing a business agreement. I ignored it, rolling my eyes instead.
“And when you’re back in March, you’re buying me dinner,” I added.
“Done,” he said, grinning. “You want it in London or a paddock somewhere?”
“London,” I said firmly. “I’m not flying to Bahrain just to watch you crash into someone.”
“Bold of you to assume I’d crash,” he shot back, a mock-offended hand over his heart.
“Bold of you to assume you wouldn’t,” I replied, smirking.
“You’re lucky I like you,” he said, shaking his head but laughing anyway. “Anyone else would’ve blocked your number by now.”
“And you’re lucky you’re going back to testing soon,” I said, throwing a pillow at him. “I can only take you in small doses.”
“Oh, you love me,” Ollie said with a grin, catching the pillow effortlessly. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave you alone in a few weeks. But until then, you’re stuck with me.”
God help me, he was right.
After Ollie left my dorm, grinning like the smug instigator he was, I decided to do what any responsible student would do: bury myself in my notes and try to salvage what little control I had over my life.
Friday night was a blur of highlighters, scribbled index cards, and frantic Googling about Karl Marx’s theory of class conflict. My desk, which had started out reasonably tidy, quickly turned into a war zone of open textbooks, coffee mugs, and half-eaten snacks. By the time I checked the clock, it was 5:00 AM, and I was drooling on my sociology notebook.
The guilt of falling asleep mid-study session hit me like a freight train when I finally woke up. My neck was sore, my back was stiff, and my face had a lovely imprint of the notebook spiral on it. The sun was already creeping through the blinds, and I groaned, wiping at the dried drool on my chin.
I stumbled into the dorm kitchen in my pajamas, too bleary-eyed to care who saw me, and threw together the saddest breakfast imaginable: a grilled cheese sandwich made from stale bread and the last two slices of American cheese in my fridge. The toaster barely worked, but it was functional enough to melt the cheese, which I considered a win. Sitting on the counter, I wolfed it down like a goblin, crumbs falling onto my notebook as I tried to multitask.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of intense cramming. I barely moved from my desk, save for bathroom breaks and refilling my mug with instant coffee. Page after page of social stratification theories blurred together, my brain buzzing with terms like "bourgeoisie," "proletariat," and "meritocracy." Time felt irrelevant—until it wasn’t.
When I finally glanced at the clock, it was 7:03 PM.
And my date was at 8:00.
Ohhhhh, I was so fucked.
Panic slammed into me like a freight train. My pen froze mid-sentence, and my eyes darted to the mess around me: papers, empty coffee cups, and my disheveled appearance reflected back at me in the dark screen of my laptop. My hair looked like it had fought a losing battle with a blender, and I was still wearing the same pajamas from the night before.
“Shit,” I muttered, pushing myself up from my desk so fast my chair squeaked. “Shit, shit, shit.”
How had I let this happen? Oh, right—because I’d convinced myself that I could juggle both being a straight-A student and surviving Ollie’s matchmaking. My brain, now functioning on fumes, reminded me of one very important fact: I was absolutely not ready.
“Okay, okay, I can fix this,” I said out loud, pacing my dorm in a panic. “Just... start with the basics. Shower. Clothes. Makeup. Don’t think about the fact that you’re already screwed.”
Grabbing my towel and a pair of flip-flops, I bolted down the hall to the shared dorm bathrooms, clutching my toiletries like a soldier heading into battle. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I pushed open the door, the faint smell of cheap soap and mildew hitting me immediately. I grimaced. Shared dorm bathrooms were the bane of my existence, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The showers were already occupied, voices bouncing off the tiled walls as girls chattered about everything from classes to their plans for the weekend. I tried my best to tune them out, ducking into the furthest stall and locking the door with a shaky hand.
“Fastest shower known to mankind,” I muttered to myself, tossing my towel over the door and setting my shampoo precariously on the tiny shelf. I slipped off my flip-flops and stepped onto the gritty floor of the shower stall, wincing as I reminded myself not to think about what might be lurking there.
I turned on the water, and it blasted me with ice-cold fury. “Shit!” I hissed, dancing out of the spray until it warmed up. Time was ticking, though, so I forced myself under the stream, quickly lathering up my hair and scrubbing like my life depended on it.
All the while, the conversations outside the stall droned on. Someone was laughing loudly about their roommate’s terrible cooking, and another voice chimed in about their date going horribly wrong. “Same, girl,” I muttered under my breath, rinsing shampoo out of my hair.
I grabbed my loofah and scrubbed every inch of myself with the kind of fervor that could’ve sanded a wooden floor. When I reached my feet, I braced myself, balancing on one leg like a flamingo to scrub in between my toes. “Germs don’t take a day off,” I whispered like it was a mantra.
Then came the worst part: shaving. I fumbled with my razor, slathering a generous amount of body wash on my legs before dragging the blade over my skin as quickly as I dared. My hand slipped once, the razor catching on my shin. “Ah, fuck!” I yelped, wincing as a thin red line appeared.
“Are you okay?” someone called from outside my stall, their voice tinged with concern.
“Fine!” I lied, my voice too high-pitched to sound convincing. “Totally fine!”
I rinsed my leg, the water stinging as it hit the scrape, and forced myself to finish shaving the other leg, gritting my teeth the entire time.
Finally, I turned off the water and grabbed my towel, wrapping it around me as I tried to ignore the suspiciously squelchy sound my flip-flops made against the wet floor. I’d survived, barely, but I still had to face the monumental task of getting dressed and making myself look presentable in less than 45 minutes.
I pulled off an impressively athletic sprint back into my dorm room, water still dripping down my legs and towel barely clinging to my body as I slammed the door shut behind me. The clock on my desk glared at me with unforgiving numbers: 7:25 PM.
“Shit, shit, shit, I'm a bloody mess,” I muttered, rushing to my closet and yanking the door open. The already crammed space seemed to mock me with its lack of options. Dresses? Too cold. Skirts? Not the right vibe. Pants? Too boring. My hands moved frantically, rifling through hangers as I tossed rejects over my shoulder like a tornado. A floral skirt flew across the room, followed by a crop top and a pair of boots I hadn’t worn in months.
“Why do I own so many clothes but nothing to wear?” I groaned, holding up a sequined dress and immediately tossing it aside. The pile on the floor grew, and my patience shrank.
Finally, at 7:35, I resigned myself to something both practical and chic: a grey cape jacket paired with black thermal tights, sleek black shorts, and knee-high boots to keep warm. It wasn’t exactly runway-ready, but it looked polished enough to get Ollie off my back for not trying. I caught a glance at myself in the mirror and nodded. “This’ll do,” I muttered, yanking the cape’s zipper closed with a sigh of relief.
With 12 minutes left, I tackled my hair and makeup. A quick spritz of heat protectant, a few frantic waves with my curling iron, and a generous application of hairspray made my hair passable. My makeup routine was an Olympic sprint: concealer, mascara, blush, and the lightest swipe of gloss. I blinked at myself in the mirror at 7:47 PM, flushed and frazzled but somehow looking... decent?
“Good enough,” I said to my reflection, grabbing my purse and darting out the door.
By the time I flagged down a cab, the streets were choked with rush-hour traffic. As the driver punched in the destination, the fare popped up on the screen, and I winced. “Seriously? Highway robbery,” I muttered, climbing in anyway. There was no time to be cheap—not when I was already cutting it this close.
As I climbed into the cab, the driver, an older man with a kind smile and a thick accent, turned to me. “Where to?” he asked.
“Maggiore,” I replied quickly, rattling off the address Ollie had texted me earlier. I tugged the seatbelt across my lap, my fingers twitching as I locked it into place. The cab lurched forward, merging into the sea of traffic, and I leaned back against the seat, watching the clock on the dashboard mock me with its relentless ticking. 7:49 PM.
Rush hour in London was like wading through molasses, and the minutes seemed to fly by while the car barely crawled forward. I tapped my fingers against my knee, glancing out the window as red brake lights reflected on the glass like a taunting light show. 7:50. Why had I thought this was a good idea again?
The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes crinkling with curiosity. “You look nervous,” he said, his voice casual but warm. “First date?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Uh, yeah,” I admitted, my cheeks heating as I adjusted the hem of my cape jacket. “A blind one, actually.”
“Ah,” he said with a knowing chuckle. “That explains the fidgeting. Don’t worry, miss. Blind dates aren’t all bad. Sometimes they’re even fun.”
“Fun,” I repeated, laughing nervously. “Sure. Let’s go with that.”
He chuckled again, his eyes returning to the road. “Don’t overthink it. Worst case, you’ve got a good story to tell your friends, eh?”
I sighed, leaning my head against the window. “I guess you’re right. But if it’s a disaster, my friend who set this up is going to pay.”
He laughed, a deep, hearty sound that made me relax—if only a little. “Sounds fair. Just enjoy yourself. You never know—this date might surprise you.”
“Here’s hoping,” I murmured, checking the clock again. 7:52 PM. My fingers tightened on my purse strap as the cab inched forward. I could feel my pulse quickening, every tick of the clock reminding me how little time I had left.
The cab driver must’ve noticed, because he added, “You’ll get there on time, miss. I’ll make sure of it.”
I gave him a small, grateful smile, trying to calm the swirl of nerves in my stomach. This was fine. Totally fine. Except it wasn’t, because I was about to walk into a room and meet someone I’d never even seen before. And if they were anything like the train wreck of Ollie’s last matchmaking attempt… well, I was in for a very long night.
“Thanks,” I said softly, glancing out the window as we finally pulled into a quieter street, closer to Maggiore. The clock flashed 7:57 PM, and my heart skipped a beat. Showtime.
The warm buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses filled the air as I stepped into Maggiore, my eyes darting around the restaurant. Ollie had been vague about what his friend looked like—typical—but he had, in his infinite wisdom, left me with the oh-so-helpful clue: “Just look for the kind of guy you’d consider handsome.”
Great. Because that wasn’t subjective at all.
I scanned the room, my gaze skimming over tables of couples and groups until it landed on a man sitting by the window. He was tall, well-dressed, and had a brooding, almost annoyingly good-looking air about him. The kind of guy who looked like he’d stepped out of a perfume ad with just the right amount of perfectly styled hair. Handsome? Sure. Probably Ollie’s type of wingman? Definitely.
Taking a deep breath, I made my way over, my heart hammering in my chest. “Excuse me,” I said hesitantly as I reached the table. “Are you… Ollie’s friend?”
The man looked up, his brows furrowing in confusion. “Sorry, what?”
I blinked, suddenly hyper-aware of the curious look in his deep-set eyes. “You’re not…? Oh my god, never mind,” I stammered, heat flooding my face. “I, uh, I think I’ve got the wrong table.”
As I stumbled backward, practically tripping over my own feet, the guy by the window—Mr. Brooding Handsome—watched me with a glint of amusement in his eyes. Before I could escape to the safety of my actual date, he leaned forward slightly, his sharp jawline catching the dim light of the restaurant.
“Wait,” he said, his voice smooth, rich, and entirely too confident. “You’re not just going to walk away after that, are you?”
I froze, blinking at him. “After what?”
“After mistaking me for your date.” He smirked, and the way his lips curved up was so irritatingly perfect it made my brain short-circuit. “I mean, not that I’m complaining. You can sit here if you want—I’m sure whoever you’re actually looking for wouldn’t mind waiting.”
I stared at him, my brain firing off alarm bells. What the hell is happening right now?
“Uh, thanks, but I think I’m good,” I said, trying to muster a polite smile while edging away.
“Are you sure?” he pressed, his smirk deepening. “I wouldn’t mind getting stood up if it meant spending the evening with you.”
Oh, God. Kill me now. Was he actually flirting with me? This was not part of the plan.
“Wow,” I said, managing to sound more annoyed than flattered. “Do you just have a stockpile of lines ready for moments like this?”
Mr. Brooding Handsome smirked again, completely unfazed. “Only for the ones who deserve them.”
I stared at him, deadpan, and decided to throw the ultimate curveball. If this guy was going to make me uncomfortable, I might as well return the favor. “You do realize I’m a minor, right?”
His smirk vanished faster than you could say awkward silence. His eyes widened, his expression morphing from confident to horrified in record time. “Wait, what? You’re—you’re underage?”
I didn’t even blink, keeping my expression as serious as I could manage. “Yeah. Seventeen. What are you, some kind of perv?”
His face drained of color so fast I almost felt bad for him. Almost.
“I—I didn’t know! You don’t look—” he stammered, his words tripping over each other in a desperate attempt to backpedal.
“Oh, so now it’s my fault?” I said, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow. “Classic.”
“I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—” He ran a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair, clearly spiraling. “I need to repent, like immediately. This is horrible.”
Before I could drive the nail in any further, a sudden burst of laughter cut through the awkward tension, loud and unrestrained. I froze, my head whipping toward the sound, and for a moment, my brain short-circuited.
At the next table sat quite possibly the prettiest boy I had ever seen in my life.
He had this full head of unruly dark curls that looked like they’d been styled by the wind, framing a face so symmetrical it could’ve been carved by Michelangelo himself. His sharp jawline softened by a cheeky grin, and his deep brown eyes sparkled with a mix of amusement and curiosity as he laughed like he couldn’t help himself. He wore a crisp white collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms, and the first couple of buttons undone, hinting at effortless charm. He looked like he belonged in a summer movie montage or an editorial spread, not sitting casually in a restaurant grinning at my misfortune.
And the kicker? His smile. The kind of smile that could make a nun forget her vows—and right now, it was aimed squarely at me.
I stared, completely floored, as he tilted his head slightly and wiped away a tear from laughing so hard. “Wow,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, like melted chocolate. “That was the single most entertaining thing I’ve seen all week.”
My face, already red from mortification, went nuclear as I realized two things in quick succession:
This boy had witnessed my entire interaction with Mr. Brooding Handsome.
This boy was my date.
“Kill me now,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to look away from his stupidly perfect face.
“You’re Y/N, right?” he asked, still grinning as he gestured toward the empty seat across from him. “I’m Arvid. Ollie’s friend.”
I froze, my stomach doing somersaults. Ollie knows. He knows exactly what kind of face card would render me absolutely useless.
“You’re Arvid?” I managed to squeak out, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched.
“Guilty,” he said, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence, the kind that made the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt seem like a deliberate act of seduction. “And you must be the infamous Y/N he told me about. The one who, apparently, would rather fake food poisoning than go on a blind date.”
I shot him a glare, though it lacked any real heat. “That was private.”
"Hah!" he chucked.
Arvid reached down beside his chair, pulling out a bouquet of assorted flowers wrapped neatly in brown paper. Bright yellows, soft purples, and cheerful whites filled the bundle, with not a single rose in sight. My jaw dropped slightly as he handed it over with a casual smile, as if this was the most normal thing in the world.
“These are for you,” he said, his voice warm but teasing. “Before you accuse me of trying too hard, Ollie did warn me you’d need some convincing to show up.”
I blinked, taking the bouquet automatically, the vibrant colors almost distracting me from the fact that a ridiculously hot stranger had just handed me flowers. “These… aren’t roses.”
He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Nope. I figured you’d appreciate that. I may or may not have done some research.”
“Research?” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “What, did Ollie give you a dossier on me or something?”
"Well... maybe yes," He responded bashfully.
"Thank you very much," My cheeks turned red, grateful, and also astonished that this Greek God of a man wasn't just dashingly handsome, he was also chivalrous.
"You are very welcome," He smiled, a real wide one too. “Are you going to sit, or are you going to keep terrorizing random men in the restaurant?”
I sank into the chair opposite him, my face burning as I buried it in the menu. “I hate you already,” I muttered.
“Don’t worry,” he replied, his tone light and teasing. “I’ll grow on you. Give me, like, an hour.”
I stared at him, narrowing my eyes. “You sound awfully confident for someone who just witnessed me humiliate myself in front of half the restaurant.”
Arvid leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table, his grin not wavering for a second. “Oh, trust me. Watching you mix up your date and traumatize that poor guy? That was the highlight of my week.”
I glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. “You’re enjoying this way too much,” I muttered, crossing my arms.
“Of course I am,” he admitted shamelessly, leaning back in his chair and casually adjusting the cuff of his rolled-up sleeve. “Though, in my defense, Ollie did tell me you’d be entertaining.”
I blinked, my stomach twisting. “Ollie told you... what, exactly?”
“Everything,” Arvid said, his grin widening. “Who you are, what you study, the fact that you once tried to sneak an entire pan of brownies into a movie theater—”
My jaw dropped. “He did not tell you that.”
“He absolutely did,” Arvid replied, laughing. “And honestly? Respect. That’s commitment.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “Oh my God, I’m going to kill him.”
“Don’t be too mad,” Arvid said, his voice still laced with amusement. “He was just being a good friend. Besides, it’s not like I went into this blind.”
I froze, slowly lowering my hands. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well,” he began, his tone so casual it immediately put me on edge. “Ollie might’ve shown me your Instagram. And your TikTok.”
My stomach plummeted. “Excuse me?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, though the sheer horror in it was unmistakable.
Arvid grinned, leaning back in his chair like he had just dropped the most casual bombshell in history. “What? It’s not like I went deep into the archives. Just the highlights.”
“The highlights?” I sputtered, my voice cracking. “What exactly does that mean? Oh my god, how far did you scroll? What did you see?”
He laughed, his curls bouncing slightly as he shook his head. “Relax, Y/N. I’m not some creep. Just, you know… the usual stuff. Your workout videos. Your, uh, thirst traps—”
I nearly choked on my own breath. “Thirst traps?!”
He nodded, looking far too amused for my liking. “Yeah, you know the ones. Dancing in your dorm, flexing after workouts. Oh, and that one where you were doing lunges in, like, the sweatiest shirt I’ve ever seen. You called it ‘Hot Mess Energy’ or something.”
I slapped my hands over my face, groaning into them. “Oh my god. This is my worst nightmare. My literal worst nightmare.”
“It wasn’t that bad,” he said, though his teasing grin said otherwise. “I mean, I appreciated the honesty. Not everyone has the guts to post their sweaty, post-gym selfies for the world to see. Very authentic.”
I peeked at him through my fingers, my mortification climbing by the second. “You saw those? All of them?”
“Not all of them,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “Just the ones Ollie said would give me ‘a sense of your personality.’ And honestly? You’re hilarious. That video where you did the 0.5 camera angle thing and made your forehead look like it was five feet wide? Comedy gold.” He let out a dad laughed and I paled even more then I thought I could. What was my life. I was going to kill Ollie after this.
I dropped my hands onto the table, glaring at him with every ounce of dignity I could muster—which wasn’t much. “Arvid,” I said slowly, “if you’ve seen all of that, why are you even here?”
He raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I said, gesturing vaguely at myself, “why would you agree to this date after seeing… that?”
His grin softened, and for a moment, he looked almost earnest. “Because I liked it,” he said simply. “You’re not trying to be someone you’re not. You’re just… you. And, for what it’s worth, sweaty workout Y/N is still pretty damn cute.”
I stared at him, my cheeks flaming so hard I was surprised they didn’t spontaneously combust. “You’re just saying that,” I mumbled, suddenly very interested in the edge of the menu.
“Nope,” he said, popping the “p” with a smirk. “In fact, I think the 0.5 angle thing is kind of endearing. It shows you don’t take yourself too seriously. And honestly?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make my heart stutter. “It’s hot.”
I blinked, my brain short-circuiting as my self-consciousness warred with the undeniable fact that this absolute Greek god of a man had just called me hot.
What kind of fucking fanfiction life was I living in.
“You’re lying,” I said weakly, though my voice lacked conviction. My cheeks were on fire, and I suddenly wished the dim lighting in the restaurant was just a little dimmer.
Arvid leaned back in his chair, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Why would I lie? I’ve seen the TikToks, Y/N. You’ve got confidence—and honestly, that’s more attractive than someone pretending to be perfect all the time.”
I groaned, slumping forward until my elbows hit the table. “I’m never posting online again.”
“Don’t do that,” he said, his tone softer now, almost reassuring. “It’s part of what makes you you. I like that you’re not afraid to be a little messy. It’s refreshing.”
I glanced up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For someone who spent his life racing cars at insane speeds, he was surprisingly grounded. Or maybe he was just really good at charming people. Either way, I hated that it was working.
“So,” I said, desperate to shift the focus away from my TikTok antics, “Ollie told me absolutely nothing about you. Care to fill in the blanks?”
He shrugged, resting his chin on his hand, the picture of casual confidence. “Well, here’s something—Campos Racing just signed me. First year in F2.”
I blinked, my brain scrambling to process the words. “Wait… Campos Racing? F2?”
His grin widened, clearly enjoying my confusion. “Yep. Signed the contract a few weeks ago. I’m officially moving up.”
I gawked at him, my mind racing. “Hold on. Ollie didn’t tell me you were a driver. He just said… God, he didn’t say anything except that you were his ‘friend.’” I gestured at him dramatically. “This feels like vital information, Arvid!”
He laughed, his curls bouncing slightly as he leaned back in his chair. “Ollie’s probably just being Ollie. He wanted it to be a surprise.”
“Well, congrats,” I said, trying to recover from the shock while still glaring in my mind at Ollie for leaving me unprepared.
“It’s huge,” he admitted, the pride in his voice impossible to miss. “I’ve been karting and working my way up through the junior series for years. Getting this contract feels like… I don’t know, everything I’ve been working toward finally paying off.”
“And you’re just casually dropping that into the conversation like it’s no big deal,” I said, giving him an incredulous look. “You realize that’s insane, right?”
Arvid chuckled, shrugging as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, it’s just what I do. I don’t really think of it as a big deal. It’s my job.”
“Your job is racing cars for a living,” I said, emphasizing the absurdity of it all. “You have to admit, that’s a bit cooler than your average 9-to-5.”
“Maybe,” he said, his grin turning slightly sheepish. “But honestly, it’s just a lot of training, traveling, and trying not to screw up in front of thousands of people.”
“I watch Formula 1 sometimes,” I admitted, shifting slightly in my seat. “Well, I try to when I have the time. But F2? Not so much. I mean, I know it exists, and I know it’s the step before F1, but I barely have time to keep up with one series, let alone two.”
“Fair,” he said, nodding. “F1 gets all the glitz and glamour, so it makes sense people don’t pay as much attention to F2. But we’re where the real grind happens.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Oh, so you’re saying F2 drivers work harder than F1 drivers?”
“Not harder,” he said with a laugh. “Just… differently. F2 is all about proving yourself. Every race feels like a job interview. You mess up, and it could cost you everything.”
“Yeah, it’s a big step,” he admitted, a hint of pride in his voice. “This is my first year. It’s a lot of pressure, but it’s what I’ve been working toward since I was a kid.”
I couldn’t help but smile, despite myself. “That’s actually pretty cool. I mean, it’s not every day you meet someone who’s chasing a dream like that.”
“Thanks,” he said, his grin softening. “I wasn’t sure how much you’d care, since Ollie said you’re more into F1 than anything.”
“Yeah, well, Ollie didn’t tell me anything about you,” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “I came in completely blind, so thanks for the heads-up, Ollie.”
Arvid laughed, his curls bouncing slightly. “To be fair, I came in knowing way more about you than you did about me, so maybe it balances out.”
“Don’t remind me,” I muttered, my face heating up again as I thought about all the embarrassing TikToks and Instagram posts he’d probably seen.
“Seriously, though,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “You might not know much about F2, but if you ever want to come to a race, let me know. I’ll make sure you get the VIP treatment.”
I blinked, caught off guard by the offer. “That’s… nice of you,” I said, unsure of what else to say. “But I’d probably just embarrass myself.”
“Doubt it,” he said, his grin turning teasing again. “Though I’d pay good money to see you try and explain tire strategy to someone.”
I groaned, shaking my head. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, his voice warm and light, “you’re still sitting here.”
Before I could respond with something witty—or tell him off for being annoyingly charming—the waiter arrived, and the moment took a sharp left turn.
It was Clara. Of course, it had to be Clara. The girl from my Intro to Economics class, who was practically infamous for her ability to sniff out drama and turn it into the juiciest gossip on campus. She was the type of person who could glance at someone’s outfit and instantly know who they were meeting, where, and why.
And right now, she was staring at me with her sharp, piercing eyes—eyes that missed nothing. Her perfectly arched eyebrows lifted slightly, just enough to suggest that she recognized me, though she didn’t say it outright. But the look was there, subtle but unmistakable. It was the look of someone who knew they had stumbled onto something interesting. The kind of look that could turn my mortifying night into Monday morning entertainment for the entire Economics department.
My stomach twisted as her gaze flickered from me to Arvid, and then back again, like she was cataloging every detail for later. The tailored white collared shirt, his effortlessly confident posture, my flushed cheeks—she was filing it all away, I just knew it. Clara didn’t need words to spread gossip. Her looks alone could set a chain reaction of whispers in motion.
For a moment, I considered pretending I didn’t recognize her. Maybe if I avoided eye contact, she’d assume I was just some random girl with no connection to her perfectly curated world of university drama. But the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth told me otherwise. She knew. She knew.
“Hi,” she said brightly, flipping open her notepad, her voice so professional it almost made me forget the glint of amusement in her eyes. “Are you ready to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”
Her tone was perfectly polite, but her sharp gaze lingered a second too long, and my stomach dropped even further. This wasn’t just a casual encounter. This was Clara seeing something she’d want to dissect later, probably over a cappuccino with her friends.
I forced a tight smile, gripping the edge of the table like it might somehow anchor me. “Uh, a few more minutes, please,” I said, my voice coming out higher than I’d intended.
Clara’s lips twitched again, and for a horrifying moment, I thought she might say something more. But instead, she just nodded and walked off, her sleek ponytail swishing behind her.
As soon as she was out of earshot, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and slumped back in my chair. “Of course it’s her,” I muttered under my breath.
Arvid raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into an amused grin. “Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly,” I muttered, glancing at Clara’s retreating figure. “She’s in my Intro to Economics class. And she’s… well, let’s just say she’s the kind of person who loves to be in the know.”
“Ah,” he said, his grin widening. “A campus gossip.”
“Worse,” I replied, leaning forward. “She’s the campus gossip. If she recognizes me—and I’m pretty sure she does—this date is going to be all over campus by Monday morning.”
Arvid tilted his head, clearly more entertained than concerned. “You’re worried she’s going to spread the word that you’re out with a Campos Racing driver?”
I shot him a look. “No, I’m worried she’s going to turn this into some kind of soap opera. She’s probably already coming up with theories about why I look like I’ve been holding my breath for the past five minutes.”
He chuckled, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t mind the idea of people talking about us.”
“Of course you don’t,” I said, shaking my head. “You’re the ridiculously hot guy in the story. I’m just the awkward mess who thought she could get away with ordering hot water and lemon in a place like this.”
“Ridiculously hot, huh?” he teased, leaning forward with that damn smirk of his.
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “I take it back. You're bloody annoying never mind."
Arvid and I continued talking for a minute, then we scanned our menus when we realized it was in fact dinner time, and we must eat during dinner.
The waitress—Clara, from my Intro to Economics class—returned with her notepad and a polite but overly curious smile. Her gaze flickered between me and Arvid, and I could tell she was already mentally storing this entire scene in her little database of gossip.
“Have you decided on drinks to start?” Clara asked, her voice light and professional, but her eyes were practically screaming, I know you.
I shifted uncomfortably, trying not to let my nervousness show. “I’ll have hot water with lemon,” I said, folding my hands on the table like I hadn’t just committed financial suicide by agreeing to eat at this place.
Clara gave me a quick nod, but before she could jot it down, Arvid chimed in, “I’ll have the same.”
My head whipped toward him, my eyebrows shooting up. “You drink hot water with lemon?”
He leaned back in his chair, shrugging as his lips curved into a smirk. “Not usually. But I figured I’d give it a try. You look like you know what you’re doing.”
Clara glanced between us, clearly amused, and jotted down the order. “I’ll bring those right out,” she said, but not before giving me one last look that screamed we’re going to talk about this in class, aren’t we?
As soon as she walked off, I turned back to Arvid, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t have to order the same thing as me, you know. It’s not a personality quiz.”
“True,” he said, leaning forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand. “But I thought it might give me some insight into you. What does hot water with lemon say about someone?”
“That they’re broke and trying to save money?” I shot back, hoping my sarcasm would mask how flustered I felt.
He laughed, the deep, warm sound sending a strange, fluttery sensation through my chest. “Nah, I think it says you’ve got taste. And discipline.” He winked, and I felt my face heat for the hundredth time that night.
I couldn’t stop myself from sneaking another glance at him while pretending to adjust my napkin. Seriously, how does someone even look like that? His curls, dark and unruly, framed his face like they were sculpted to perfection. And that jawline? Sharp enough to cut through my sanity. Then there was the smirk—the one that somehow managed to be both infuriating and heart-stopping at the same time. It wasn’t fair. No one should look that good and be charming. It felt like some cosmic joke, and I was the punchline.
His gaze flicked up from the menu, and of course, he caught me staring. Again. A slow smile spread across his lips, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a glint of knowing mischief.
“See something you like?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.
My face ignited, and I quickly looked away, pretending to be very interested in the tablecloth. “In your dreams,” I muttered, though the heat in my cheeks betrayed me.
He laughed softly, the sound somehow both infuriating and intoxicating. “You’re not very good at hiding it, you know.”
“Hiding what?” I shot back, glaring at him with what I hoped was righteous indignation but probably just looked like I was panicking.
“That you’re flustered,” he said smoothly, leaning forward slightly. “And, dare I say, a little impressed.”
“I’m not flustered,” I lied, crossing my arms as if that would protect me from the sheer intensity of his presence. “And definitely not impressed.”
“Sure,” he said, his grin widening. “Whatever you say, Y/N.”
Before I could come up with a halfway decent retort, Clara reappeared with our drinks. She set the glasses of hot water with lemon down in front of us, her sharp gaze flicking between Arvid and me like she was analyzing every interaction.
“Have you decided on food?” she asked, her voice polite but laced with curiosity.
Arvid gestured toward me, clearly amused. “Ladies first.”
I swallowed, feeling Clara’s gaze boring into me as I opened the menu again. The prices glared back at me like some cruel joke, but I wasn’t about to let either of them see me sweat.
“I’ll have the Grilled Sutton Hoo chicken,” I said finally, forcing my voice to stay steady. “With the mushrooms and the… uh, truffle sauce.”
Clara jotted it down, her lips twitching like she was holding back a comment. She glanced at Arvid, who hadn’t stopped watching me with that insufferable smirk.
“And for you?” she asked.
“I’ll have the Slow Cooked Herefordshire Beef ‘Daube,’” he said easily, barely glancing at the menu. Then he looked at me, his grin softening into something that felt almost… warm. “And we’ll share the pork belly starter, if that’s okay with you.”
“Fine,” I said, pretending not to notice the way my heart skipped at the way he looked at me. “But only because I’m starving.”
Clara nodded, her gaze lingering on us for a moment longer than necessary before she walked off. As soon as she was out of earshot, I slumped back in my chair, groaning softly.
“Relax,” Arvid said, his voice light and teasing. “You’re acting like she’s going to write a full exposé about us.”
“She might as well,” I muttered, dragging my hands down my face. “She’s in my Econ class, and she’s always gossiping. By Monday, everyone’s going to think I’m dating you.”
“And?” he said, raising an eyebrow, a glint of mischief dancing in his dark eyes. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
I blinked, caught off guard by the casual confidence in his tone. “Excuse me?”
He leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, his smirk softening into something dangerously charming. “I’m just saying,” he began, his voice dropping to a smooth, teasing lilt, “if we were dating, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. In fact, it might even be pretty great.”
“Oh, really?” I shot back, raising an eyebrow, trying desperately to mask the heat creeping into my cheeks. “And what exactly makes you think that?”
He shrugged, his curls shifting slightly with the movement, and somehow, even that looked annoyingly perfect. “For starters, you’d never have to worry about a boring meal. I’d make sure we’d always go to places like this—or better. Nice food, good wine, desserts you’d dream about afterward.”
“Wow,” I said dryly, though my voice betrayed a hint of nervous laughter. “So generous of you.”
“I’m not done,” he said, his grin widening as he leaned in, his eyes locked on mine. “We’d do fun things, too. Not just fancy dinners. Weekend trips. Walks through new cities. Ice skating, even if you’re terrible at it.” He winked, and I felt my stomach flip. “And I’d make sure you always had the best view of whatever race I was in. VIP, every time.”
I tried to scoff, but the idea was so vividly painted in my head that I couldn’t help the way my traitorous mind entertained it for a split second. “Sounds like you’ve thought this through.”
“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, sitting back in his chair. “I’m just saying, people might gossip about us, but at least they’d be talking about something good.”
“Something good?” I echoed, crossing my arms and fixing him with a mock glare. “You have a very high opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
“Not really,” he replied, shrugging again. “I just know what I bring to the table. And if I were your boyfriend, Y/N, you’d never have to question it.”
My heart stumbled at the casual way he said it, like he wasn’t just throwing it out to mess with me, like he meant it. My face flushed so hot I was surprised steam wasn’t coming out of my ears.
I quickly reached for my glass, taking a long sip of hot water with lemon just to avoid his gaze. “You’re unbelievable,” I muttered, my voice muffled by the rim of the glass.
"Mhm," he smirked, titled his head, and looked at me, his gaze piercing through all defenses that I put up.
What the fucking hell. No boy had ever done this to me. I hate this.
I didn’t respond right away, mostly because I couldn’t. The thought of him painting this ridiculously idealized picture of dating—us dating—was doing things to me that I wasn’t ready to admit, even to myself.
“Dream on, Campos,” I muttered finally, setting the glass down and forcing myself to meet his gaze. “It’s going to take a lot more than good food and fancy dates to win me over.”
He grinned, his eyes twinkling with something that made my heart skip. “Challenge accepted.”
And just like that, he had me right where he wanted me—half-annoyed, half-intrigued, and entirely unable to look away.
I took another sip of my hot water with lemon, using the motion to buy myself a moment to collect my thoughts. Arvid was entirely too good at throwing me off-balance, and the way his dark eyes never seemed to leave mine didn’t help.
“So,” he said, breaking the silence with that maddeningly smooth voice, “tell me about you. Ollie said you’re studying something impressive.”
I raised an eyebrow, setting my glass down. “Ollie said that?”
“Well,” he admitted, a teasing smile tugging at his lips, “his exact words were, ‘She’s a genius who’ll probably run the UN someday, but she’s also stubborn as hell and will definitely challenge you to an arm-wrestling match if she’s had too much caffeine.’”
I sighed, "He may be correct on that account."
Arvid laughed, the sound warm and infectious. “So, is he right? About the UN, I mean. Not the arm-wrestling—though I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”
I lowered my hands, rolling my eyes. “I’m studying International Relations at the University of London. It’s not as glamorous as it sounds, though. Mostly, it’s a lot of reading, writing, and pretending I understand what my professors are saying half the time.”
“Sounds pretty impressive to me,” he said, his voice genuine enough to make me glance at him. He was leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, looking at me like I was the most interesting person in the room.
I shrugged, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “It’s… something I’m passionate about. I like understanding how the world works, why countries act the way they do, and how policies shape people’s lives. It’s a lot to take in, but I love it.”
“Let me guess,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “You’re the type who stays up all night before exams, surrounded by books and snacks, stressing over every little detail.”
I leaned back in my chair, letting out a laugh that was more exasperated than amused. “You have no idea. That’s literally what I was doing before this date.”
Arvid raised an eyebrow, his smirk deepening with curiosity. “Oh? Do tell.”
“Well,” I began, setting my glass down and crossing my arms, “Ollie showed up unannounced last night and decided to chat my ear off about who-knows-what Formula 1 nonsense, completely derailing my study schedule. He finally left at, like, midnight, and by then, I was already behind.”
Arvid nodded, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Sounds about right for Ollie.”
“So,” I continued, gesturing animatedly, “I stayed up until five in the morning—yes, five—trying to cram for my Intro to Sociology test on social stratification. Somewhere around 3:00 AM, I drooled all over my notes and woke up with half the syllabus stuck to my face.”
He snorted, barely containing his laughter. “Please tell me there’s a picture.”
“Thankfully, no,” I shot back, narrowing my eyes. “But when I woke up, I ate the most pathetic grilled cheese sandwich ever, made in my dorm kitchen, and went right back to studying. I didn’t even realize the time until it was 7:00 PM, and that’s when I panicked because I remembered you.”
“Flattered,” he said, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eye. “So, what happened next? Let me guess: world’s fastest shower?”
“Oh, you have no idea.” I rolled my eyes, already cringing at the memory. “The shared dorm bathroom was packed. Everyone was gossiping, and I was just trying to scrub between my toes without hearing about Sarah’s boyfriend drama. Oh, and I shaved my legs so fast that I actually cut myself. Twice.”
“Ouch,” he said, his smirk softening. “I hope you at least had decent water pressure.”
“Barely,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Then I had to sprint back to my room, only to realize that none of my clothes looked right. I threw half my wardrobe onto the floor before deciding on this.” I gestured to my outfit. “At 7:35.”
“And you still managed to look incredible,” he said, his voice dropping to that warm, teasing tone that made my stomach do flips.
“Stop,” I muttered, though my face heated up against my will. “Anyway, I finally finished getting ready, grabbed a cab, and spent the entire ride freaking out about being late. All because Ollie thought it would be funny to set me up without telling me anything about you.”
Arvid laughed, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like quite the journey. I’m impressed you even made it here in one piece.”
“Barely,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him. “And now I’m sitting across from you, telling this embarrassing story while you look like you just walked off a magazine cover.”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands, “I had to make a good impression. Ollie said you’d be a tough critic.”
"Well I can say your fit is impressing me, and serving cunt at 100%," I cheekily grinned.
Arvid burst out laughing, the deep, warm sound filling the space between us. His dark eyes lit up, and he tilted his head, clearly amused by my choice of words. “Serving cunt at 100%, huh? That’s probably the best compliment I’ve gotten all year.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, sitting back with a smirk, feeling oddly triumphant for making him laugh like that. “Don’t let it go to your head, though. I’m still a tough critic.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he replied, his grin widening. “I know better than to let my guard down around you. You’re like a tiny ball of chaos, and I have to stay sharp.”
“Tiny?” I repeated, narrowing my eyes. “Did you just call me tiny?”
“Well, yeah,” he teased, leaning forward again. “You’re what, five-four? Five-five?”
“Five-four and a half,” I corrected, crossing my arms. “And don’t act like you’re a giant, Mr. Five-eight.”
“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands in mock defense, “five-eight is still respectable. I could still pick you up with one arm.”
My face went hot, and I was suddenly very aware of how close he was leaning. “Don’t even think about it,” I said, trying to sound stern but feeling the flutter in my chest betray me.
Arvid smirked, clearly relishing my flustered state, and then—because he was insufferable—he flexed his arm casually. The motion sent his bicep straining against the fabric of his shirt, and I couldn’t help but notice the way his veins ran along his forearm, prominent and defined.
I swallowed hard, my face heating up even more. Why does he have to look like that?
“Do you work out often?” I blurted before I could stop myself, instantly regretting it.
He tilted his head, his smirk softening into a knowing grin. “Yeah, pretty much every day. It’s kind of essential, you know, for driving.”
"Mhmm," I responded, letting him explain. I totally knew this, I just liked the sound of his voice when he spoke.
He laughed, the sound deep and warm. “You’d be surprised how physically demanding it is. A lot of it’s about endurance—keeping your neck and core strong to handle the G-forces. And grip strength for controlling the wheel during long stints. Plus, I spend a lot of time on reaction drills and cardio.”
“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding slowly. “I’ve heard Ollie does those things too.”
Arvid raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair with a grin that was pure mischief. “Yeah, but let’s be honest. Ollie’s kind of a twig. I’m actually buff.”
I snorted, the laugh bubbling out of me before I could stop it. “You did not just say that.”
“Sure,” Arvid said, leaning forward again with a glint of mischief in his eye. “But let’s face it. Ollie couldn’t bench press a wet towel. He’s got the build of a breadstick.”
That did it. I burst out laughing, my hand flying up to cover my mouth. “You did not just say that!”
“Hey, I’m just being honest,” he said, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. “It’s not a bad thing. Breadsticks are great. They’re just… not very sturdy.”
I was still laughing, my shoulders shaking as I tried to get it together. “Poor Ollie,” I managed, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “You’re terrible.”
“And you’re way too nice to say it, but you know I’m right,” he teased, his grin growing. “Besides, if we ever went to the gym together, I’d let you choose the playlist. That’s gotta count for something.”
I tilted my head, raising an eyebrow. “So now you’re inviting me to the gym? This is escalating quickly.”
“Not really,” he said, leaning back with a sly smile. “I’m just planning ahead. You know, keeping my options open.”
“For what?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “For humiliating me on a treadmill?”
“Hardly,” he said with mock offense, his hand going to his chest like I’d deeply wounded him. “Do I look like the kind of guy who’d do that?”
I gave him a slow once-over, letting my eyes linger on his annoyingly perfect posture and the barely-contained smugness on his face. “Honestly? Yes. You absolutely look like that guy.”
He laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, closing the already diminishing space between us. “Okay, fair. But I’d only push you on the treadmill so I could catch you when you fall.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but my brain short-circuited for a second. Was he always like this? So quick, so smooth, and so completely aware of how to make my pulse race?
“Wow,” I said, regaining composure just enough to throw him a smirk. “You’ve really got a whole playbook of lines ready to go, don’t you?”
“Not lines,” he said, his tone shifting to something warmer, more deliberate. “Just the truth.”
I blinked, thrown off balance by the sincerity in his voice. Before I could find a comeback, he leaned back again, his grin morphing into something impossibly charming. “Besides,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself, “if we’re talking about treadmills, you should know I’d never humiliate you. I’d just pace you. Keep you steady. Maybe even give you a motivational pep talk.”
“A pep talk?” I asked, crossing my arms. “You don’t exactly strike me as the motivational speaker type.”
“Oh, I can be,” he said, feigning seriousness as he clasped his hands like some kind of motivational coach. “Picture this: ‘Come on, Y/N! Just one more kilometer! Think of all the overpriced lattes you’ll earn after this!’”
I burst out laughing, the image of him cheering me on while I panted my way through a workout was too much. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “But I’d still get you through that workout. And afterward, I’d make sure we went somewhere to refuel properly. Burgers, fries, the works. You know, balance.”
“Balance?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Coming from someone whose entire job is throwing their body around a track at 200 miles per hour?”
“Exactly,” he said, nodding solemnly. “I’m an expert on controlled chaos.”
“You are chaos,” I shot back, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“And yet,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make my heart do something stupid, “you’re still smiling.”
“I—” I started, but Clara, our ever-curious waitress, appeared again, interrupting the moment.
“So,” Clara said with a sweet but suspiciously knowing smile, “are we ready for that pork belly starter?”
“Yes,” Arvid answered immediately, glancing at me with a look that said he wasn’t done with the conversation. “And can we also get another round of hot water with lemon?”
I glared at him. “Are you mocking my drink choice now?”
“Not at all,” he replied, completely serious. “It’s growing on me. Kind of like you.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands as Clara smirked and walked away. This boy was going to drive me absolutely insane—and, annoyingly, I was starting to think I might enjoy the ride.
As the food arrived, the conversation between us found an easy rhythm. The slow-cooked pork belly, crispy on the outside and tender on the inside, was practically melting in my mouth, and I couldn’t help but let out a soft sigh of approval.
“Good?” Arvid asked, raising an eyebrow as he took a bite of his own.
“Better than good,” I admitted, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “It’s probably illegal for food to taste this nice.”
He grinned, gesturing with his fork. “You should’ve seen the catering at my last F2 event. This is basically Michelin-starred dining compared to that.”
“What did they serve?” I asked, curious.
He chuckled, setting his fork down. “Let’s just say I’m not entirely convinced it was chicken.”
I laughed, almost choking on a piece of pork. “Okay, but I thought you F2 drivers were supposed to have these super-healthy, protein-packed meals or something.”
“Oh, we do,” he said with a dramatic eye roll. “It’s just that sometimes, when you’re at a track in the middle of nowhere, the food options are… limited.”
“So you survive on protein shakes and dreams?” I teased, raising an eyebrow.
“Pretty much,” he said with a grin. “Which is why this,” he gestured to the pork belly, “is basically heaven.”
By the time our main courses arrived, I’d learned more about his training routine, some behind-the-scenes F2 drama, and his guilty pleasure for cheesy reality TV—though he’d sworn me to secrecy on that last part.
I had just taken my first bite of my grilled chicken when he asked, “So, what about you? What’s the one thing you eat when you’re stressed?”
“Instant noodles,” I admitted, without a hint of shame. “Cheap, easy, and doesn’t require a fully functioning brain to make.”
Arvid laughed, shaking his head. “Let me guess. Ollie’s given you a lecture about that.”
“Every time he catches me eating it,” I said, rolling my eyes. “He’s convinced it’s going to kill me.”
“Well,” Arvid said, leaning forward with a playful glint in his eye, “if it does, can I have your notes on Intro to Sociology? They sound pretty thorough.”
I groaned, but I couldn’t help laughing. “You’re impossible.”
As we finished our meals, I reached for the menu to double-check the bill when I realized Arvid was already signaling for the check.
“What are you doing?” I asked, frowning.
“Paying,” he said casually, like it was no big deal.
“Wait—no!” I protested, sitting up straighter. “We’re splitting it.”
“Too late,” he said, handing over his card with a charming grin. “You can thank me later.”
I stared at him, flustered and a little impressed. “You’re sneaky.”
“I prefer the term ‘chivalrous,’” he replied, standing up and nodding toward the door. “Come on, let’s get dessert.”
“Dessert?” I asked, grabbing my bag and following him out. “Isn’t that cheating your diet or something?”
“Probably,” he said with a shrug. “But I figured I’d make an exception. For you.”
My face burned at his words, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it as we walked a few blocks down to a quaint little dessert shop. The place was cozy and full of charm, with mismatched furniture, colorful murals on the walls, and the scent of freshly made waffle cones wafting through the air.
“Okay, this is adorable,” I admitted as we walked up to the counter.
“Best ice cream in London,” Arvid said confidently. “Ollie and I found it last year after one of his races.”
I scanned the menu, my eyes widening at the sheer variety of flavors. “How do you even pick?”
“Easy,” Arvid said, stepping up to order. “You go with whatever makes you happiest.”
“Philosophical and hungry,” I teased. “Impressive.”
He grinned, ordering a double scoop of salted caramel and pistachio in a waffle cone. When it was my turn, I went for chocolate and hazelnut, mostly because it sounded indulgent enough to match the mood.
We found a small table by the window, and as I took my first bite, I couldn’t help but let out a satisfied hum. “Okay, you weren’t lying. This is amazing.”
“Told you,” he said, his gaze soft as he watched me. “I’ve got good taste.”
“Debatable,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “But this ice cream? Definitely a win.”
The conversation flowed easily as we ate, filled with jokes, stories, and just enough teasing to make my cheeks ache from smiling. For someone I’d been so wary of meeting, Arvid Lindblad was turning out to be… kind of perfect.
“Alright,” he said as we finished up, leaning back in his chair with a grin. “Rate the date so far. Be honest.”
“Hmm,” I said, pretending to think. “The food was great. The company… tolerable.”
He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re ruthless.”
“And you love it,” I shot back, surprising myself with how comfortable I felt around him.
“Maybe I do,” he said, his tone softer now, his dark eyes holding mine for just a moment too long.
My heart did a little flip, and I quickly stood up, tossing my napkin onto the table. “Come on. Let’s go before you start getting sappy.”
He laughed again, standing and following me out the door. As we stepped into the cool evening air, I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter, a little warmer. For someone who’d completely derailed my plans for the night, Arvid Lindblad wasn’t half bad. In fact, he might just be the best distraction I’d had in a long time.
As we stepped outside the ice cream shop, the night air was cool but not uncomfortable, and I glanced at Arvid with a small smile. “So, what’s the plan? Are you driving me back, or am I hailing a cab?”
He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish for the first time all evening. “Uh, about that… I can’t drive you back.”
I blinked, genuinely surprised. “Wait, what? You’re a race car driver, but you don’t have your road license?”
“Not yet,” he admitted with a chuckle, his curls catching the streetlights in a way that was entirely too distracting. “I figured I’d drive in Formula 1 before I bothered with driving on normal roads.”
I stared at him, my jaw dropping slightly. “That is the most absurdly cocky thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Cocky?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. “Or just confident?”
“Cocky,” I shot back, folding my arms. “And impractical.”
“Maybe,” he conceded, his grin never wavering. “But it’s worked for me so far.”
I rolled my eyes, shaking my head. “Unbelievable. I have my license, and I’m younger than you.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to that smooth, teasing tone that had been throwing me off all night. “Guess I’ll just have to make it up to you another time. But first—” He pulled out his phone, holding it out to me. “Put your number in.”
I raised an eyebrow, trying to play it cool despite the way my heart skipped a beat. “You’re awfully confident I’ll say yes.”
“Well,” he said, his smirk widening, “you’ve already spent the whole night with me. What’s a few more texts?”
I huffed, grabbing his phone and quickly typing in my number before handing it back. “There. Don’t make me regret it.”
He looked down at the screen, saving my contact with a satisfied nod. “Oh, I won’t. In fact, I’ll text you as soon as you get home. Just to make sure you’re safe.”
“Smooth,” I muttered, though I couldn’t help the small smile tugging at my lips.
He stepped closer then, his expression softening as he opened his arms slightly. “Can I at least give you a proper goodbye?”
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. “Fine. But no funny business.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, his voice warm with amusement as he wrapped his arms around me in a hug that was surprisingly… nice. He smelled like cologne and something faintly sweet, and for a moment, I let myself relax against him.
When he pulled back, he gave me one last smile, his eyes lingering on mine for just a second longer than necessary. “Thanks for tonight, Y/N. I had fun.”
“Me too,” I admitted quietly, quickly looking away before he could see the blush creeping up my neck. “Take care, Arvid.”
He waved as I stepped into the cab, and as the car pulled away, I couldn’t help but glance back at him through the rear window. He was still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking every bit the confident, charming troublemaker he’d been all night.
By the time I got back to my dorm, it was exactly 10:57 PM. I glanced at the clock on my phone, shaking my head with a small smile. Full circle, I thought, dropping my bag onto the chair and sinking onto the bed.
Moments later, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: made it home safe? or should I file a missing person’s report?
I rolled my eyes, biting back a smile as I typed back. relax, I’m alive. barely, though. those ice cream calories nearly did me in.
His reply came almost instantly.
Arvid: guess we’ll have to hit the gym together soon. you know, balance.
I groaned, but my cheeks hurt from smiling. This boy is going to be the death of me.
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yourusername
liked by olliebearman, arvid.lindblad, and 1,203 others
yourusername: why this one.... this one lowkey ate.
view comments:
user1: okay cuntcore we get it queen
user2: ALRIGHT. girl is this a DATE??? hello answer my TEXTSSS.
user2: i know you are reading these y/n....
yourusername: i never said that it was a date
olliebearman: sure, sure...
user3: HUH shes a stunner i need to see what fugly ass man this is just to check if he can fight me for her
olliebearman: wait WDYM this one lowkey ate
olliebearman: answer my texts NOWWWWW
olliebearman: stop pretending you are studying it says you are active on insta
olliebearman: GIVE ME A LIFE UPDATE PLEASEEEEE
yourusername: never knew a bitch was so thirsty DAMN
olliebearman: i take credit i take all the credit guys
yourusername: you aired out my DIRTY LAUNDRY
user4: GIRLS GIRLS no fighting
user5: there is no way a MAN made you laugh harder than i did
yourusername: hate to be the bearer of bad news...
olliebearman: there is absolute no way he isn't even that funny
olliebearman: MY jokes are better than his common.
yourusername: once again, i hate to be the bearer of bad news...
user6: scrolling through her likes to see who this fool is
user7: AND he got her flowers? idk who this is but he a diva
yourusername: byeee he wishes
olliebearman: are you sure you are only saying this one ate because he paid for your meal AND your icecream...
yourusername: i don't know what you are talking about!
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