SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.
Their chaotic banter sparks into undeniable chemistry, but as playful encounters turn serious, the public scrutinizes their age gap and backgrounds, forcing them to navigate fame, gossip, and forbidden attraction together.
The next morning, Catalina woke up to an empty hotel bed, the sheets still warm on one side. She reached over, eyes half-closed, only to brush her hand across the cold imprint of Carlos's pillow. For a moment she lay there in the quiet room, blinking at the faint gray light seeping in from the curtains. It hit her all at once—today was race day.
Her chest fluttered with nerves that weren't even hers to carry.
Carlos had slipped out hours earlier, somewhere around five in the morning if the faint buzz of her phone was anything to go by. He'd kissed her forehead, whispered something in Spanish she hadn't quite caught, and was gone before she even had time to mumble in protest. She knew the routine—media, briefings, engineering checks, strategy meetings—but it didn't stop her from missing him the second the door closed behind him.
By nine, Carola arrived at the hotel room to collect her. Catalina had showered, pulled her hair into a low bun, and slid on her "incognito" outfit: black jeans, a loose white T-shirt, oversized sunglasses, and the cap that had become her shield in crowded spaces. She hesitated before adding one last thing: the small gold pendant that hung delicately around her neck.
The pendant Carlos had given her.
Her fingers lingered over it for a beat, the way one might touch a relic or a prayer bead. Then she tugged it free of her collar and let it rest proudly against her chest.
"¿Lista, corazón?" Carola's warm voice came from the doorway. (Ready my love)
"Lista," Cat said, smiling as she slung her tote bag over her shoulder.
They slipped out quietly, heading to the private transport arranged for family and guests. The sun was already blazing, bouncing off the sleek buildings of Abu Dhabi as they drove. Cat pressed her face to the glass like a child, taking it all in—the city that seemed to shimmer like a mirage, the track glittering in the distance like some futuristic cathedral.
When they arrived, Carola led her around the back entrance. Security barely glanced at them—Carola was a fixture here, known and trusted, and Catalina stuck close, head ducked. The roar of engines in the background sent chills down her arms.
As they wove through the narrow corridors, they passed a handful of drivers milling about before warm-ups. One of them turned, spotted her, and groaned loud enough to echo.
Cat couldn't help it—her grin broke wide across her face as she raised her hand and flipped him off.
He shot the gesture right back, rolling his eyes with exaggerated annoyance. But there was no real bite to it, more the way a younger brother might grumble at an older sister's antics.
"¿Eso pasa siempre?" Carola asked, amused.(does that happen often?)
"Siempre," Cat replied with a smirk.(always)
By the time ten o'clock rolled around, Carlos found her near the paddock, his fire suit already half-zipped, hair slightly damp from the heat. She felt her whole body light up the second she saw him. He slipped past a barrier like it was nothing, walking straight toward her as if the whole world could wait.
"Gatita," he murmured, sliding one hand around her waist, the other brushing against her jaw. He kissed her without hesitation, quick but grounding, like he needed the taste of her before throwing himself into the chaos.
Her cheeks burned as she pulled back just slightly, just enough to take him in. And then she noticed it: the bracelet she had bought him in the market the other night, snug around his wrist.
Her lips parted into a smile. She touched the edge of it with her fingertips. "Lo tienes puesto." (You're wearing it)
"Siempre," he said simply. His eyes flicked downward to her pendant, gleaming in the sun. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. (Always)
"Good luck, mi amor," she whispered, her voice soft but certain.
"Gracias, mi vida." (Thank you, my love)
The words were intimate, low, but they left her dizzy. She watched him pull back, watched him slip his helmet into place as team members swarmed around him, watched him disappear into the machine that was race day.
Her hands felt suddenly empty.
She followed Carola to their seats in the grandstand, weaving through the crowd until they found the reserved section near the front. To her surprise, she spotted a familiar profile already seated.
She hesitated for half a second, then squared her shoulders and approached. "Buenos días, señor Sainz," she greeted politely in Spanish, slipping into the rhythm of her first language. (Good morning, mister Sainz)
He looked up, a little startled, but his face softened as recognition flickered. "Catalina," he said, testing her name on his tongue. "Qué gusto volver a verte." (What a pleasure to see you again)
The warmth in his tone eased her nerves. She sank into the seat beside him, tucking her cap lower on her forehead, and before long, conversation flowed.
He asked about her studies, and she explained about Bath, about juggling her rowing team with her classes. He asked about her family, and she told him about her mamá's cooking, her abuela's garden back home in Guadalajara, the way her little cousins always demanded piggyback rides when she visited.
And when he asked about rowing—his eyes curious, intent—her whole face lit up.
"We've won all our races this season," she admitted, fingers fiddling with her pendant. "And there've been scouts... from the Olympics. Nothing official yet, but—"
He raised his brows, impressed, and something about his approval made her glow with pride.
The start of the race cut their conversation short. The engines roared to life, vibrating through her chest, and the stadium erupted into noise. Catalina leaned forward, elbows braced on her knees, pendant clenched tightly in her fist.
The cars shot off, a blur of color and sound. She tracked Carlos immediately—her eyes finding the familiar number, the flash of Ferrari red slicing through the pack. The noise was overwhelming, the adrenaline infectious, but she barely noticed the crowd around her. All her focus was on him, her heart in her throat every time he took a corner.
Her hand never left her pendant. It became her anchor, her prayer. Every time the camera switched to his car on the jumbotron, she whispered a quick plea under her breath.
Lap after lap, she kept her eyes glued to the track, knuckles white around the chain. The heat, the sound, the tension—it was nothing compared to the storm inside her chest.
By the time the checkered flag waved, she was hoarse from shouting without realizing it. Carlos crossed the line in fourth. Not a podium, not the victory he wanted, but still a strong finish. She found herself on her feet, clapping furiously, her pendant hot against her skin from the way she had clutched it.
When she finally sat back down, breathless, she glanced at Carlos Sr. He gave her a small, approving nod.
And Catalina, despite her nerves, despite everything, couldn't stop smiling.
Carlos had been riding the low, hot high of the paddock all afternoon—the aftershocks of the race still buzzing in his veins. Fourth place wasn't what he'd wanted, but it was solid. The team worked around him with the easy choreography of people trained to fix things quickly and move on. He'd smiled for cameras, signed a few helmets, posed for the obligatory post-race photos, and then ducked back toward his room, thinking maybe he could steal ten minutes, call Catalina, breathe.
When he opened the hotel door, he assumed the voice at the other end of the corridor was hers. The light was slanting in across the carpet, and he pictured her in his head: hat low, hair tucked up, the pendant glinting under her collar. He expected to see that small, impatient grin, that look she gave when she was proud or amused or ready to tease him.
Instead, his father was there—tall, straight, the kind of presence that filled the minor lobby spaces in which they stood. The man's hair was silver at the temple, his face lined in the familiar way Carlos had spent a lifetime memorizing; those lines had deepened this season. The expression on his father's face was not the mild reproach with which they'd traded horseplay and race banter in the past. It was a weight, heavy and dangerous. When his father met his eyes there was no greeting—only a look that said very plainly: sit.
Carlos felt the world narrow. The room's hum, the distant thud of the track, the low radio in the team lounge—suddenly everything was background to the single point of gravity between them. He shut the door, then turned to face his father, the smile he'd been carrying for hours evaporating.
"Papá?" he said because the habit was older than the surprise, but his voice felt small.
"Siéntate(sit)." His father's command was simple, and it carried the authority of the years. Carlos obeyed, the leather chair swallowing him, and watched his father cross the short span to the window, back to him. The silence made both their shoulders look broader. Finally, his father drew in a breath and spoke.
"You know why I'm here." He spoke English now, carefully chosen words, but there was Spanish threaded through the edges—accents and shortcuts that only made it harder for Carlos to dismiss. "It's about the girl. Catalina."
Carlos's stomach dropped. The name on his father's lips sounded formal; there was no nickname, no easy affection in it. He let his hands rest on his knees. "What about her?"
His father turned to him, and the look said: I have been thinking this over, and I have been awake at three in the morning thinking about it. "Sit down properly, hijo," he said. "We have to talk."
What followed was a conversation that Carlos had suspected would happen someday—just not like this, and not with his chest raw from the race. His father did not mince words. He went straight to the heart in the language of men who had sat at tough tables before.
"You are thirty-one," he began. "She is twenty-two. Nine years is not nothing. Age gaps are not always a problem when there is balance—when both have the backing, the resources, the experience to handle the storm. But listen to me: what you do affects others. I have seen what the storm does."
Carlos heard his father's voice change as he spoke of the past, of the fragility of private people thrust into public fire. He pictured the photograph on the old coach's desk in Bath; the coach's hurt had been a real, lived thing, not a cautionary tale. His father's face had lines and scars he kept out of the press, and now they looked sharper.
"You know the internet," his father said. "You know how fans behave. They will dissect details. They will ask questions about age and intentions and every private text. They will look for dirt and, when they find it, they will not stop. They will say things they should not to someone with no machine behind her. You have a team. She does not."
Carlos's first reaction was immediate, dogged. "We're not like that," he said. "It's not a game of PR. We're—she's not an accessory, Papá. She has her life, her studies. She's not—" He stopped because the words tumbled into themselves. He could feel the edges of a defense forming: lists of her strengths, the way she rowed until her hands were bled raw, the way she'd come at him equally as human as he was. The truth was he wanted to argue with the manuscript of caution his father laid out, and he wanted to press his thumb into every line.
His father's eyes did not go easy. "I know your heart, Carlos. I know how you look when you speak about someone. I have never seen you like this." There was a pause. "That scares me less than how I imagine what could come for her." He spoke slowly, with an anger that could not be flung around but pressed down with the steady weight of a man trying to protect another.
"You think it is different for other drivers," his father continued, and the tone was not accusation but a weary list of facts. "Look at those public relationships. Many of them are with women who have teams, resources—managers, lawyers, people who will buffer the hit and handle the trolls. Miss Villalobo is not rich. She is a student. She has herself. If the public decides to make her his scandal, who will shield her? Who will take the blows? You will go on the news, you will have a wardrobe of excuses and PR, but she will be left to face a cyborg of hate with no team to defend her. Can you sleep knowing that?"
Carlos swallowed. The question landed like a fist. Images flickered across his mind—the message threads, the viral posts, the way fans could pivot from adoration to ownership. He thought of the coach's warning in Bath: the woman who had been chewed up by the machine. He thought, embarrassingly, of his own father's quiet example: a man who had seen the machinery up close and carried the toll.
"You will say it is unfair," his father said, softer now, as if granting room for the answer he expected. "You will say that you will protect her. But think: that protection often requires more than a promise. It requires containment. It requires people who can fight for her, for her career, for her privacy. Do we have that? If we do not—and sometimes we do not—do you understand what it means to expose someone with no defense?"
Carlos's mouth opened and closed. He tried to tally all the ways he could push back. "We could do it differently," he said. "We could be careful. We can keep it discreet. We can—"
His father shook his head. "Discretion is a fragile shield, easily pierced. And you are already not discrete. You sent her a locket. You sent flowers. You have your bracelet on your wrist." He looked at the small symbols as if they were ships off a cliff. "You are not the only man who's thought himself capable of steering a storm. The difference: you can leave the stadium at the end of the day and be picked up in a car with tinted windows. If the public decides to punish you, the knife is not always aimed where it should be. Where does it fall? On her. On her future."
Carlos's throat worked. He thought of her—so young in his memory, laughing at street tacos, cursing in the boathouse, bending to pick up her oar with hands that showed calluses and stubbornness. He imagined the frenzy of headlines, the slurs, the way people could reduce a life to a label and toss it away. A hot, ugly fear rose in him: what if his choices became the reason she was crushed?
"You talk as if she's fragile," Carlos said at last. Defense warred with dawning comprehension. "She's not. She's not a thing that needs protecting from me. She's her own person."
"She is a person," his father agreed, voice like gravel. "A person with a future. And you are the adult in this. You are the one with the power to break or to bear." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the man who had once taught him to drive into turns and to read tracks at fifty meters. "Ask yourself this, son: if two weeks of backlash falls on her, if the press chooses to make her the story instead of his girlfriend—can you live with that? Will you allow her to be disposable because it suits the narrative? Because, Carlos, I have watched it happen: a driver walks away, career intact, and a private life is left in wreckage."
Carlos's legs felt weak. The room pressed in. He could see scenarios like a pulse: a headline that tightened like a noose, screenshots that refused to die, family members furious, friends wrapped in defensive language. He tried to rebut with the examples of other couples with large age gaps who'd endured, who'd come out intact. "We're not the only age-gap couple," he said flatly. "It's not a death sentence." He wanted to be brash. He wanted to be certain.
His father pivoted, weary but direct. "No. But many of those women are models, celebrities, women with staff who can manage the fall out, lawyers who can redact and press charges. Miss Villalobo does not have that. If it goes pear-shaped, she will be alone. You might call that overprotection, but it is reality."
Carlos thought about the locket on his bedside table—her picture inside, the smallest, most obscene private thing he'd ever owned—and the bracelet around his wrist. He thought about the way she'd said mi amor so casually, and how quickly she'd tried to hide it. He thought about the coach's face in Bath, and the echo behind it, his father's long wake of experience.
"I don't want to take away her agency," he said finally, voice raw. "I don't want to tell her what to do. I love her." The words felt both precious and futile. His father's jaw tightened.
"Love is not only feeling, Carlos," his father said quietly. "It is responsibility. Responsibility to the person you love, yes, but also responsibility to the consequences your life forecasts on others. People will hunger for a story, and if they decide they want a sacrifice to make their narrative clean, who will they choose? Often the one without a team. I am telling you this as a father: think of what it will mean if you insist on this without the armor she will need."
Carlos's denial started to crumble—not because he didn't believe in what he felt but because this was not only about feelings. He could see now, in stark, parental prism, how scandal was less a burst than a slow pressure. He had the resources, the reach. But did Catalina? He had to admit, in the small private theater of his head, the truth his father offered: she did not.
"I can build a buffer," he said at last. "We have people who can manage it. I can bring in the right people. I can handle it."
His father's look did not change. "Have you thought of what it will cost her? The emotional labor of being everyone's spectacle while you are the one with the options? You can hire people, but you cannot buy back time or the peace they take. If she's a rower trying to make her own career, the story will overshadow her results. Will that be acceptable?"
Carlos closed his eyes. He could feel the race—both the literal one that morning and this new, sharp moral race—compress in him. The words were heavy, unavoidable. He wanted to move, to argue, to insist that the world would bend because of what he felt. Instead he found himself answering in a smaller voice, "I didn't think about all that."
"That's because you are in love," his father said gently. "Loving makes you blind to what is not you. I am asking you—no, I am ordering you—to see beyond that. If you love her, you will fight for her future, not only for this moment. And if you decide to proceed, do it with the humility and care it deserves. Not like a man taking what he wants, but like a man building a fortress."
The room felt colder, and yet the words landed with a clarity that shook something loose inside Carlos. He had thought his declaration of affection would be the hardest thing he'd have to do. He had been wrong. Harder, it seemed, was the responsibility that followed.
He sat there, looking at his father—his lineage of men who had made choices and paid for them—and understood for the first time fully that love in his life was not only a personal peril but a public act. He could feel the balance of power more acutely than ever: what he wanted to keep, what he could shield, and what could break if handled carelessly.
"I will think," he said finally, the words small and inadequate, but they were the only honest ones he had. His father nodded once, slow, as if that might be enough for the moment.
"Then you will do better than some," his father said, voice tempered by hope and warning. "Because thinking is the beginning."
Carlos sat slumped on the sofa in his hotel suite, the door clicking shut behind his father's departure. He rubbed his face with both hands, pressing hard against his eyes until he saw sparks. His chest felt tight, like something had been tied around his ribs and cinched until he couldn't quite breathe right.
His father's words replayed again and again, sharper each time. "She's twenty-two. She has her whole life ahead of her. You? You're thirty-one. You've lived, you've failed, you've recovered. But her? If this goes wrong, she'll carry the scars forever."
Carlos groaned and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He knew his father wasn't trying to be cruel—if anything, Carlos Sr. had said it with more gentleness than he'd expected. But the truth was there, cutting deep.
He thought about the tweets he had scrolled past at the airport just days before: blurry paparazzi shots, fans theorizing, a dozen different names thrown around. "Who's the mystery girl Carlos has been spotted with?" "Not a model—maybe a cousin?" "She looks way too young." The words still clung like tar.
If the internet ever put two and two together and realized it was Catalina Villalobo—rower, scholarship student, Olympic hopeful—what then?
Carlos rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sick at the thought of her being bombarded with hate, her face plastered on gossip blogs, her private life torn apart. She didn't have a PR team, a brand manager, or years of learning how to tune out the noise. She had herself. Her boat. Her little circle of friends who teased her about "for the plot."
Could she withstand the full weight of his world crashing onto hers?
He shook his head. Am I selfish?
And then, like an answer from fate, the sound of the door unlocking broke his spiral.
"Cariño?" Catalina's voice floated into the room, bright and warm like sunlight after a storm.
Carlos looked up just as she slipped inside, her hat tilted low, sunglasses hanging from her shirt collar. And then that smile—that smile—the one that made everything inside him unravel. She closed the distance in seconds, climbing onto his lap without hesitation, wrapping her arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You'll win next season, mi amor," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear before pressing a kiss to his forehead.
Carlos exhaled slowly, his hands instinctively finding her waist. How do I let go of someone who looks at me like this?
Her blue eyes—so wide, so trusting—stared into his own with a sincerity that nearly broke him in half. She didn't see Carlos Sainz the F1 driver, the media figure, the son carrying his father's expectations. She just saw him. Just Carlos.
She peppered his forehead with little kisses, her thumbs brushing against his jawline. "You were incredible out there. P4 isn't easy, and you fought so hard. Everyone saw it."
Carlos couldn't even form words. He just looked at her, fighting the urge to confess everything—the fear, the warnings, the reality of what being with him would mean.
But Catalina, oblivious to the storm in his chest, kept talking, trying to lift his mood.
"Also, guess what?" she grinned, pulling back just enough to give him her full attention. "I finally met Yuki today. Finally."
That earned the ghost of a smile from him. "Sí?"
"Yes! And guess what? I'm taller than him." She said it with mock triumph, as if she had just won gold at the Olympics. "Barely, but still taller. He admitted it. That's going on my resume."
Carlos chuckled under his breath, his hands tightening slightly at her waist. Her joy was infectious, no matter how heavy he felt.
"And he's actually so sweet," she went on. "Like, ridiculously sweet. He asked me about rowing, about training, even about Mexico. We talked for like ten minutes. He's got that... little brother vibe, you know?"
Carlos hummed, letting her voice wash over him, grounding him.
"Oh! And then Lando..." She rolled her eyes, though her smile betrayed her amusement. "That idiot tripped me. On purpose."
Carlos' head snapped up. "¿Qué? He tripped you?"
"Yes!" She laughed, leaning her forehead against his shoulder. "So obviously I tripped him back. And he actually fell. Like flat on his face. Everyone saw."
Carlos couldn't help it—he burst out laughing, the sound rough but genuine. He could picture it too clearly: her mischievous grin, Lando's dramatic fall, the chaos that followed.
Catalina lifted her head, her expression softening when she saw him laughing. She touched his cheek gently, thumb stroking along his stubble. "See? Better mood already."
He caught her hand, kissing her palm. His chest ached again, but for a different reason now. How could something so simple, so pure, be dangerous?
Her hand lingered against his cheek, and she tilted her head, studying him closely. "You're quiet, amore. More than usual. Is it the race?"
Carlos hesitated. For a second, the urge to confess nearly won. To tell her about his father's warning, about the doubts gnawing at him. To explain that it wasn't just podiums or points weighing him down—it was the fear of ruining her, of dimming her light.
But then she smiled again, warm and unguarded, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't put that burden on her shoulders.
Instead, he leaned forward and kissed her—soft, lingering, desperate.
Catalina kissed him back without hesitation, curling closer into his lap, like she could merge into him completely. And for a fleeting moment, Carlos let himself forget everything else.
When they pulled apart, her eyes sparkled with mischief. "By the way, I may or may not have stolen one of Checo's snacks from the hospitality table."
Carlos raised a brow. "¿Qué hiciste?" (What did you do?)
"Don't worry, I shared with Carola," she said with mock innocence. Then, with a grin, "But still. He's going to find out eventually."
Carlos groaned, half amused, half exasperated, pulling her tighter against him. "Eres imposible, gatita."
"And you love it," she teased, kissing the tip of his nose.
Carlos closed his eyes, breathing her in. Yes, I do. And that's the problem.
Because as much as he loved this—her warmth, her laughter, the way she filled his world with color—he couldn't silence his father's voice in his head. Couldn't ignore the very real possibility that her innocence, her future, her dreams... might burn in the firestorm of his fame.
And yet, holding her now, feeling her heartbeat against his chest, he knew one thing for certain: letting her go would be the hardest thing he'd ever do.
By the time they made it back to the hotel, Catalina was leaning her head against Carlos' shoulder in the backseat of the car, scrolling through her camera. She was still glowing from the race, even if Carlos hadn't made the podium. Every photo she looked at—his car flying past, the blur of red and orange against the track, even a couple of blurry selfies she had sneaked when Carola wasn't looking—made her smile all over again.
As soon as the elevator doors closed, she slipped her hand into his, squeezing it. "Amore," she asked, tilting her head to look up at him, "what time are we leaving for dinner? I just want to know how long I have to get ready."
Carlos hesitated. He had been thinking about that dinner all day—the reservation, the plan, the way he'd imagined asking her properly to be his girlfriend in front of the candlelight. But his father's words were still heavy in his chest. She's a kid, Carlos. Don't drag her down with you.
He looked at her, really looked. Her hat was tilted back now, sunglasses hanging from her shirt, her pendant catching the light when she shifted. She was watching him expectantly, her eyes bright, her cheeks still pink from the sun.
Something inside him wavered.
"Let's stay here," he said finally, his voice softer than usual. "Just the two of us. No fancy dinner, no people."
Catalina blinked at him in surprise. "Really?"
"Sí." He forced a small smile. "I just... I want you to myself tonight."
For a second, she studied him, brow furrowing the tiniest bit. He'd been quieter all day, even after she made him laugh about tripping Lando. It was like something was on his mind, something he wasn't saying. But she didn't press—not yet.
Instead, she smiled and leaned her head against his arm. "Honestly? Works for me. I wasn't in the mood to play dress up anyway."
When they got to his room, Carlos tugged his shirt over his head and threw it into a chair, sighing as he dropped onto the bed. Catalina wandered over to her little bag, digging through it before spinning around with a mischievous grin.
"What?" Carlos asked, raising a brow.
She held up two sheet masks like trophies. "These."
He groaned. "No. No, cariño."
"Yes." She pouted dramatically as she climbed onto the bed. "You're stressed, I can see it. This will help. Look—hydration, soothing, anti-wrinkle."
Carlos gave her a flat look. "Anti-wrinkle?"
"You're thirty-one," she teased, smirking as she straddled his lap. "It can't hurt."
"Catalina..." He tried to sound firm, but she was already ripping open the package.
"Stay still." She gently pressed the cool mask to his face, smoothing it carefully along his jaw and forehead. Carlos closed his eyes, sighing. He would never admit it, but it felt nice—her fingers soft, her attention focused entirely on him.
"There," she said proudly, leaning back to admire her work. "Perfect."
Carlos cracked an eye open to look at her, muffled behind the mask. "You're enjoying this too much."
"I am." She grinned, tearing open her own mask and slapping it on. "Now we match."
The sight of them—two athletes with sheet masks on, sitting cross-legged on the bed—was so ridiculous Carlos actually laughed.
Catalina's grin widened. "Wait, wait—don't move." She grabbed her phone and snapped a picture.
"¡No!" He groaned, reaching for her, but she scrambled back, laughing so hard she almost dropped the phone.
"I have a reputation to uphold, cariño," he said, half laughing, half serious.
"And I'm helping," she teased. "Look at us, skin care power couple."
Carlos lunged playfully, and she squealed as he tried to snatch the phone from her. They wrestled for a moment, laughter bouncing off the walls, until Carlos pinned her against the bed, their masks crinkling.
She looked up at him, breathless, eyes sparkling. "Mi viejito hermoso," she whispered, and just like that, the playfulness shifted into something softer.
He leaned down and kissed her, mask and all, and she giggled against his lips.
A little while later, they were curled up under the covers, masks tossed in the trash, watching The Office on the TV. Catalina lay half on top of him, her head on his chest, her hand tracing lazy circles on his stomach. She laughed out loud at the episode, her shoulders shaking.
Carlos glanced down at her, memorizing the way her nose scrunched when she laughed, the way her pendant glimmered against her skin. And even though the heaviness was still there—his father's warning, the risk, the reality—he couldn't stop himself from pulling her closer.
"Carlos," she murmured during a quiet moment, "you know you can tell me anything, right?"
"I know," he said softly, kissing the top of her head. "And I will. Just... not tonight."
She looked up at him, searching his face, but then nodded. "Okay."
He kissed her again, longer this time, as if he could pour all his conflict, his fear, his devotion into the press of his lips.
Catalina smiled against him. "See? The masks worked. You look glowing, amore."
He chuckled, shaking his head, and held her tighter, letting himself—for just tonight—for just this moment—believe that maybe, somehow, this could all work out.
Carlos was sipping his coffee slowly, sitting outside the hospitality area, sunglasses shielding his tired eyes. He hadn't slept much—half because of the adrenaline still buzzing from the race, half because his father's words wouldn't leave him alone.
She's a kid, Carlos. You'll ruin her future.
Every time he looked at Catalina's face in his mind—her bright smile, her pendant glinting in the sun, the way she'd hugged him last night and whispered that he'd win next season—his chest ached. He wanted to believe in them. He did believe in them. But his father had a point, didn't he?
"Carlosito," a familiar voice broke into his thoughts.
Carlos looked up to see Checo walking over, Alonso trailing behind, both with their coffees. They sat down across from him like two uncles who'd decided it was time for an intervention.
Carlos tried to force a smile. "Buenos días." (good morning)
"¿Qué pasó ayer?" Checo asked, cutting straight to the chase. (What happened yesterday?)
Carlos blinked. "¿De qué hablas?" (What are you talking about?)
Checo gave him a look, the kind that stripped away all defenses. "You canceled the dinner. Carola said Catalina was with you, but your face..." He gestured at Carlos' exhausted expression. "Algo pasó. Dime." (Something happened. Tell me.)
Alonso leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, observing quietly at first.
Carlos shook his head, staring into his cup. "No es nada." (It's nothing.)
"Bullshit," Checo said flatly in English, leaning forward. "Talk."
For a long moment, Carlos said nothing. But the weight of their eyes, the expectation, the familiarity—they weren't just colleagues. They were men who'd lived longer, made mistakes, survived them. Men who might actually understand.
Finally, Carlos sighed. "It was my father."
That got their attention. Both leaned in.
Carlos took off his sunglasses, rubbing his face. "He came to my room after the race. Told me... told me I need to think about her. Catalina. About how young she is, how much future she has ahead of her. He said I'd ruin it. That the backlash, the hate... it won't be like it is for me. I get shit for a week and it's gone. For her? It'll destroy her."
He let the words sit there, heavy in the air.
Checo exchanged a look with Alonso, then back at Carlos.
"And he's right," Carlos added bitterly. "I can't stop thinking about it. She's not a model, not from a rich family with PR teams to clean up the mess. She's just... Catalina. Alone. If they find out about us, if the fans go after her... I don't know if I can live with myself knowing I caused that."
For a moment, neither older driver spoke. Then Alonso leaned forward, voice firm. "Carlos, escucha. If you truly love her, then no matter what happens, you will always have her back. That's what it means. No excuses."
Checo nodded, his tone gentler but just as steady. "Mira, backlash always comes. But it also always passes. People scream, they write their little comments, and then—puf—they move on to the next scandal. If you stand beside her, if you protect her, it won't matter."
Carlos shook his head. "But my father—"
"Your father loves you," Checo interrupted. "But he doesn't see Catalina the way you do. He sees a girl. You see the woman she is. Don't confuse the two."
Carlos looked down at his hands, the bracelet Catalina had bought him catching the light.
Alonso leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Carlos, listen carefully. If you don't ask her, if you keep hesitating, someone else will. She's in Bath, sí? At a university? Surrounded by boys her age. Pretty, smart, funny... Don't you think half of them are already looking at her?"
The thought made Carlos' jaw tighten instantly.
Alonso smirked knowingly. "Exactly. To the world, she is single. You wait too long, someone else will take their chance."
Carlos clenched his fists, the image of Catalina laughing with some faceless boy twisting his insides. He wanted to protest, to say no one else could understand her the way I do, no one else makes her smile like I do. But the truth was, Alonso was right—if Catalina was single in everyone's eyes, then the world would act accordingly.
Checo sighed, shaking his head like a disappointed tío. "Mocoso. You're thirty-one and acting like a scared teenager. You love her, no? Then fight for her. Or let her go—but don't torture her with half-measures."
Carlos opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
And then—like fate's cruel trick—the sound of Catalina's voice floated toward them.
All three men turned. Catalina was walking up the path, grinning from ear to ear, hat pulled low, sunglasses perched on her nose, but her energy impossible to hide. She waved cheerfully before slipping her hand into Carlos', leaning against him like she belonged there.
Alonso's gaze flicked down to their joined hands, then up at Carlos with a raised brow. Checo smirked.
"Listo para la aventura de hoy?" Catalina asked brightly, looking up at Carlos. (Ready for today's adventure?)
Carlos forced a smile, squeezing her hand gently. "Claro, mi vida." (Of course, my life.)
But she wasn't fooled—not completely. She tilted her head, studying him for just a moment. The light was still there in his eyes, but dimmer, weighed down.
Still, she let it go. For now. Instead, she flashed a grin at Alonso and Checo. "Hola, chicos. Ready to babysit him for me when I'm not around?"
Both older men chuckled, covering their concern with practiced ease.
Carlos kissed her temple, trying to hold onto her warmth, even as the doubts still whispered in his chest.
The sun was already beginning to sink lower over the marina, throwing soft gold across the water, when Catalina tugged Carlos by the hand down the promenade.
"¡Vamos!(lets go)" she urged, half laughing, half commanding, pulling him like a stubborn child who refused to move faster than his own pace.
Carlos smirked faintly, letting her drag him, but Catalina saw the way his shoulders stayed tense, his gaze too often fixed somewhere far away instead of on her.
She tightened her grip on his hand. Something's wrong, she thought. I don't know what, but I won't let him brood all day. Not today. Not my last day here.
So she was determined to distract him.
Their morning had already been full—she'd insisted on wandering through the souks, haggling for scarves she didn't really need just to see the way Carlos' ears turned pink when the shopkeeper winked and said, "For your wife, very special price." Catalina had played along, looping her arm through his and declaring in her best Spanish, "Sí, mi esposo," just to see his grin slip into a blush.
But the blush had faded quickly, replaced by that cloud in his eyes.
Now, as the promenade buzzed with music and chatter, Catalina leaned against him and tilted her head up. "You're quiet."
"I'm here," Carlos said softly, giving her hand a squeeze.
"But your head isn't," she countered, raising a brow. "And I don't like sharing you with your thoughts. They don't make me laugh half as much as you do."
That earned the ghost of a smile.
She bumped her shoulder into his. "Okay, rule for today: no brooding. Only fun. If you break the rule, I'll... I'll..." She tapped her chin dramatically. "I'll post that photo of you with the towel wrapped like a turban."
Carlos groaned. "No puedes."
"Oh, I can," she teased, eyes sparkling. "Don't test me, Sainz."
For the first time all morning, his laugh was real—low, warm, the kind that made her heart flutter. There you are, she thought.
They stopped at a little café overlooking the harbor, choosing a table outside. Catalina ordered mint lemonade and a plate of mezze; Carlos, still stubborn, only coffee.
As the waiter walked away, she rested her chin in her palm and studied him openly. His hair was tousled from the sea breeze, his jaw tight despite his smile, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of his cup.
"You're thinking again," she accused.
Carlos arched a brow. "I am allowed to think, Cat."
"Not today." She leaned across the table, lowering her voice. "Tomorrow I fly back, remember? You don't get to waste our last day with..." she waved a hand vaguely, "whatever storm is happening up there."
He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue. Then he sighed, shoulders softening. "You're impossible."
"And you love it," she said smugly, reaching for a pita chip.
He smiled at that—small, but genuine.
The mezze arrived, bright plates of hummus, olives, falafel. Catalina made a game out of feeding him bites, ignoring his protests until he gave in. When he finally admitted the falafel was good, she cheered so loudly the table beside them chuckled.
"See?" she said, wagging a finger. "Smiling. Eating. Not brooding. We're making progress."
After lunch, she pulled him back onto the promenade, weaving through street performers and stalls. A man was sketching quick portraits in charcoal; Catalina insisted they sit.
Carlos groaned again but let her drag him onto the little stool.
Twenty minutes later, the artist turned the pad around. Catalina gasped—it was a beautiful rendering of them, her leaning into Carlos, his arm around her, both smiling.
She bit her lip, suddenly shy. "We look..."
"Like us," Carlos finished softly, eyes lingering on the drawing. His hand brushed over hers, squeezing gently.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. He was too quiet again, too thoughtful.
They wandered to the docks, where she made him pose for silly selfies with the yachts in the background. She teased him about being jealous of the cats lounging on the pier. She pointed out every ridiculous souvenir—camel keychains, plastic falcons, sequined abayas—until he finally cracked a proper grin.
And when they passed a little ice cream cart, she didn't even ask. She bought two cones—mango for her, pistachio for him—and shoved his into his hand.
"For your brood tax," she said firmly.
Carlos chuckled, licking the ice cream. "You're crazy."
"And you're stuck with me," she shot back.
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the sun dipping lower, the sky painted orange and pink. Catalina slipped her arm through his, resting her head against his shoulder.
"I don't want to go back tomorrow," she whispered.
Carlos' arm tightened around her. "I don't want you to, either."
She looked up at him, catching the shadow in his eyes again. "Then stop looking like you're saying goodbye already. I'm still here. One more night. Make it count, Carlos."
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. For a moment, he just looked at her, as if memorizing every line of her face.
Then he cupped her cheek, thumb brushing her skin. "I'll try."
Catalina smiled, leaning into his touch. "Good. Because if you mope again, I'm buying ten camel keychains and scattering them around your apartment until you lose your mind."
That finally broke him—he laughed, deep and warm, pulling her into his chest.
And Catalina held him, worry still tucked deep in her heart, but grateful for every second she had left.
The train station inside the airport buzzed with the kind of noise that made it feel like the world was moving on without her—people rushing past with rolling suitcases, announcements blaring, children crying somewhere in the distance. Catalina clutched the strap of her duffel bag tighter, her heart thudding unevenly.
Carlos stood beside her, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, sunglasses hiding most of his expression. But she didn't need to see his eyes to know something was wrong. She had known for days now—since after the race, since his smile stopped reaching all the way up, since the weight in his voice never left even when she tried to pull him out of it.
She forced a smile. "I'll call you when I land, okay?"
Carlos nodded, the movement stiff. "Sí."
Her throat tightened. "And maybe next break, you come to Bath? You still owe me a tour of London, remember? I'll show you the Olympic pool—"
"Cat." His voice was soft, but final in a way that made her chest ache.
She stopped, looking at him. "What?"
He shook his head slightly, like he couldn't bring himself to answer.
Don't overthink it, she told herself. He's tired. He's stressed. Don't turn this into something it isn't.
But when the boarding call echoed overhead, something inside her cracked. The goodbye suddenly felt too sharp, too heavy, too final.
"Ven aquí,(come here)" she whispered, throwing her arms around his neck and holding him so tight her nails pressed into the fabric of his hoodie. He hugged her back, strong, steady—but his embrace felt like a goodbye, not a see-you-soon.
Tears burned behind her eyes. She swallowed them down, refusing to let him see her break.
Slipping her hand into her bag, she pulled out a small square photo—the charcoal sketch from the promenade, folded neatly. Without saying anything, she slid it into the pocket of his wallet. A piece of them, tucked away, something he couldn't throw out even if he wanted to.
She pulled back, forcing a grin through the tightness in her chest. "For luck, mi viejito hermoso."
Carlos' lips curved faintly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Safe travels, gatita," he murmured.
One last look—just one—and then she turned, dragging her suitcase behind her as she stepped onto the train that would take her to her gate. She didn't dare look back, because she already knew: if she did, she'd run straight back into his arms.
And this time, something deep inside whispered that if she left, something between them was ending.
The hotel room was dark when Carlos finally came back. The curtains were pulled open, letting the glow of the city seep through, but he didn't bother turning on a light.
He tossed his wallet onto the table, collapsing onto the sofa with a bottle of whiskey in hand. The burn was sharp, but not enough to dull the echo of her hug, the feel of her whisper against his neck.
He pulled the wallet back toward him to grab a card, and that's when he saw it.
The sketch of them, smiling, her head resting on his shoulder like she belonged there. She had slipped it in without telling him.
Carlos clenched his jaw, blinking hard as his throat closed. He pressed the picture against his forehead, cursing under his breath.
You're selfish, cabrón. You let her in. You knew better.
His father's voice wouldn't leave him: She's a kid, Carlos. Her whole life ahead of her. You will survive the backlash. She won't.
He'd tried to fight it. Tried to believe in them. But the more he pictured Catalina's smile being torn apart by tabloids, trolls, and fans who didn't forgive easily, the more he knew he couldn't risk it. Not for her. Not for the girl who deserved peace, not headlines.
So he did the only thing he could.
With shaking hands, Carlos opened his phone. He didn't let himself hesitate. He didn't give himself the mercy of second thoughts.
Every click was a stab to his chest, but he forced himself through it.
It's for her. It's protection. She'll hate me, but she'll be safe.
He dropped the phone onto the couch beside him, burying his face in his hands.
By the time the knock came, the bottle was half empty.
"Go away," Carlos muttered, but the door creaked open anyway.
"Cabroncito..." Checo's voice carried that blend of humor and warning only an older brother figure could pull off. He stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. "What the hell did you do?"
Checo's gaze flicked to the bottle, then to the photo still on the table. He sighed, dragging a chair closer and sitting down across from him. "Talk to me."
Carlos stayed silent, staring out at the city lights.
Checo leaned forward, voice low. "Carlos. Please tell me you didn't..."
Finally, Carlos looked up, his eyes bloodshot. His voice was barely above a whisper. "It's for her own good."
"She deserves better," Carlos said hoarsely. "Being with me—it's a heartbreak waiting to happen. She'll get hate, they'll destroy her, and she has no one to protect her from it. Not like the others. At least this way..." He swallowed hard. "At least this way, she'll walk away before it ruins her."
Checo's face fell. He ran a hand down his beard, shaking his head. "Ay, Carlos... Dios mío."
Carlos stared at the bottle, voice breaking. "I can take it. I've been hated before, it passes. But her? She's twenty-two. She's got everything ahead of her. I won't be the reason it all burns."
Checo sighed, leaning back. "So you decided for her."
Checo's tone sharpened. "Do you even hear yourself? You love her, but instead of fighting for her, you cut her off? You think she'll see it as protection? No, hermano. She'll think you broke her heart because you didn't care."
Carlos' jaw worked, but he didn't speak.
Checo rose, pacing the room. "I've seen you happy, Carlos. Happier than you've ever been. And it wasn't because of racing, or podiums, or sponsors. It was her. Don't lie to yourself—you're not doing this for her, you're doing it because you're scared."
Carlos slammed the bottle down harder than he meant to. "I'm not scared! I—" He broke off, chest heaving. "I can't let her be destroyed by my world."
Checo studied him for a long moment, sadness etched into his features. "Then you already destroyed her yourself."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Checo finally clapped him on the shoulder, heavy but gentle. "Sleep it off, hermano. But think about this: when she looks at her phone and sees nothing—no texts, no location, no you—will she feel protected? Or will she feel abandoned?"
And with that, Checo left.
Carlos leaned back, staring up at the ceiling. His hand reached blindly for the photo again. He held it against his chest, whispering into the dark: "Lo siento, gatita."
Carlos didn't know. He didn't even think to check.
But somewhere online, fans had already caught it. A blurry photo, taken outside the track two days earlier, started spreading.
Carlos in a black hoodie, head bent close.
A girl beside him, hat low, mask covering half her face.
Their hands brushing, almost clasped.
"Carlos Sainz spotted with same girl as before? Who is she? #F1"
Within hours, Twitter was buzzing. Zoomed-in screenshots, threads dissecting the pendant around her neck, speculation about her identity.
And though Catalina was hidden behind sunglasses and a mask, the photo carried just enough truth to sting.
Carlos was oblivious—his phone still lying face-down on the couch.
But the world was already watching.
