#yizhouprint

You were raised on champagne flutes and charity galas, with last names carrying more weight than first impressions. The Upper East Side was your kingdom — and you, its reluctant princess.

You were the girl the tabloids loved to write about: every debutante ball, every front row seat at Fashion Week, every accidental run-in with someone else’s boyfriend turned into a headline. You didn’t even have to try.

People liked to say you were magnetic, that the world bent a little to keep you in the center. They weren’t wrong.

But there’s something they never wrote about — that, when the flashbulbs dimmed and the music died down, you preferred the quiet. The moments when you could slip off the Louboutins and sit barefoot on the balcony of your apartment, overlooking the city, feeling anonymous for once.

You loved the world you were born into, but you couldn’t ignore the creeping boredom of it all.

The charity luncheons started to blur together, the parties all smelled the same — champagne and expensive perfume and a faint whiff of desperation.

You smiled for cameras, made polite conversation, but somewhere inside you, the spark that used to love the chaos started to dim.

Still, you played your part.

You were good at it — the perfect society darling, the “it” girl who always seemed to have a story worth telling. But lately, you found yourself craving something different. Not louder — not exactly — but realer.

So when your best friend slid into the booth across from you one bright spring morning, phone in hand, glossy lips curled into a grin, and said,

“Come to Monaco with me for the Grand Prix,” you almost laughed.

You didn’t know a single thing about Formula 1 — other than the fact that your father’s company logo was probably somewhere on a car that went too fast.

But the word Monaco stuck in your head all day.

It wasn’t New York. It wasn’t another Met Gala, or another glossy page of predictable society gossip. Monaco was noise and speed and sunlight that glittered off the water.

Maybe, you thought as you scrolled through pictures of last year’s race — champagne-soaked podiums, yachts lined like jewels on the harbor, drivers smiling like the world belonged to them — this was exactly what you needed.

And so, for the first time in a long time, you felt that familiar rush in your chest. The one you used to get before sneaking out at night, or before stepping onto the dance floor when everyone’s eyes were on you.

Maybe this trip would give you back your spark. You had seen the world before, but the prospect of Monaco felt different.

It was like someone had dialed the saturation up on reality — the harbor glittered like it had been cut from crystal, and the air was warm with salt and gasoline.

You’d been to Saint-Tropez with your parents a dozen times, to Lake Como with girlfriends, all the usual places that wealthy New Yorkers flock to in the summer — but this wasn’t like that.

This wasn’t slow afternoons and overpriced rosé. This was fast. Loud. Alive.

The taxi wound down the sharp corners toward Monte Carlo, and you leaned your head against the window, watching the yachts bob in the marina. Your best friend had fallen asleep beside you, earbuds in, but you couldn’t close your eyes.

Because this trip, for once, wasn’t just another summer vacation.

You thought about all the parties you’d been to, all the ballrooms you’d floated through with a practiced smile. About the articles that called you enigmatic and untouchable when, truthfully, you’d rather be barefoot in someone’s kitchen at three a.m. with music playing too loud.

You thought about how many times you’d seen your name on Page Six, as though they knew you — when half the time, you didn’t even know yourself.

You were good at the life you were given, better than anyone expected. But you couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that you were just… playing a role. That you were saying all the right things, wearing all the right clothes, showing up in all the right places — but missing something.

The taxi rounded another corner and suddenly you saw the harbor from above — the sun catching on the water, the streets already buzzing with life even before the weekend had properly started.

You felt it then — that twist in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

Excitement.

Hope.

The quiet, desperate wish that maybe this weekend could be more than just another trip. That maybe you could find something here — or someone — that made you feel real again.

You smiled to yourself, just barely, before the driver pulled up to the hotel. The flash of paparazzi cameras caught you by surprise as you stepped out, but for once, you didn’t mind. Because for the first time in a long time, you were ready for a little chaos.

The atmosphere was everything you expected — and nothing like what you thought.

By Saturday morning, the city was electric. The streets thrummed with anticipation, balconies were already draped with flags, and every café was full of people talking about tire strategies like they were debating philosophy.

You sat at a table on the hotel terrace, sunglasses perched on your nose, an untouched cappuccino in front of you, watching the harbor below like it was a stage and you were the audience.

“Okay,” your best friend said, dropping into the chair across from you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve been moody since last night. Are you seriously going to sulk through the Grand Prix weekend?”

“I’m not sulking,” you replied, stirring your coffee lazily.

“You are sulking,” she pressed, arching a brow. “You’re in Monaco, babe. There are parties to go to, yachts to drink on, actual drivers to flirt with—”

“Flirt with?” You shot her a look, but the corner of your mouth lifted despite yourself.

“Yes,” she said, as if it were obvious. “You’ve been bored out of your mind all year. This is supposed to be fun. Come on — when’s the last time you actually let yourself have fun?”

You didn’t answer, but the silence was answer enough.

Your friend groaned, reaching for your phone and snapping a quick selfie of you mid-eye roll.

“Fine. If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for the narrative. Imagine the tabloids: Upper East Side darling spotted at Monaco GP, having the time of her life.”

You laughed, snatching the phone back. “You are ridiculous.”

“And you love me.” She grinned. “Come on, let’s go. The drivers are doing media today before free practice, and I heard Ollie Bearman is actually kind of cute in person. We can at least get a drink by the paddock entrance, right?”

You caved — you always did.

A few hours later, you found yourself walking through the crowded streets, past the fans pressed against barriers, waving signs and wearing merch.

You spotted a few familiar faces in passing — Ollie Bearman laughing with his team, Isack Hadjar in his team kit signing caps for fans, Yuki Tsunoda darting through a crowd with an energy drink in hand. Someone said Alex Albon was around somewhere too, and you swore you caught a glimpse of him taking a photo with a kid near the paddock gates.

There was a strange comfort in seeing them all so up close — the people your friends always talked about, larger-than-life and yet so real in front of you.

“See?” your friend said, bumping her shoulder against yours as you sipped a spritz. “This is better than whatever sad little gala we would’ve been stuck at this weekend.”

You smiled, just a small one, but this time it reached your eyes. “Okay… maybe you were right. Maybe this was a good idea.”

“Obviously,” she said, victorious. “Now let’s see if we can crash one of those team parties tonight. I heard they’re insane.”

For the first time in months, you felt that familiar rush — the spark that used to make your heart beat faster. Maybe this was what you’d been missing: something unexpected. Something that made you feel like the world could surprise you again.

Somewhere across the paddock of Monte Carlo, Caleb Xia sat slouched in the corner of the McLaren motorhome, scrolling through his phone with the kind of bored expression that only came from seeing one too many headlines about himself.

“F1’s Rookie Heartthrob — Caleb Xia Spotted Leaving London Café With Mystery Blonde”

“Caleb Xia: McLaren’s Golden Boy, But Is He Ready For Monaco Pressure?”

“Who Is Caleb Xia Dating? Internet Thinks They’ve Cracked It.”

He rolled his eyes and dropped the phone on the table with a sigh.

“Another love life exposé?” his teammate, Gideon, teased from across the room, tossing a balled-up paper towel at him.

Caleb caught it midair and threw it right back. “You’d think I’m secretly engaged with the amount of time they spend writing about me.”

“Hey, at least they care,” his engineer said with a shrug as he walked by. “You’re good for PR.”

Caleb groaned. “Great. I love being reduced to ‘good for PR.’ Forget the fact that I qualified P1 yesterday — apparently, the real drama is who I’m seen having coffee with.”

But the truth was, Caleb didn’t actually mind the attention — not really. He just hated the narrative that followed him around, the assumption that being young and attractive automatically meant he was some playboy.

He wasn’t.

Most days, Caleb preferred quiet mornings at the sim, evening runs by himself, and the occasional late-night call to his sister. If the world wanted to think he was some glamorous rookie with a revolving door of girlfriends, fine. It kept them entertained. But it wasn’t him.

His phone buzzed again — this time with a media schedule reminder — and he groaned, running a hand through his dark hair. “Guess I better go smile for the cameras before they say I hate the fans.”

“You do hate the cameras,” his teammate called after him.

“I don’t hate the cameras,” Caleb shot back with a smirk as he grabbed his cap and headed toward the paddock. “I hate the way they stare like they’re waiting for me to mess up.”

The air outside was buzzing, the kind of weekend energy that got under your skin whether you liked it or not. Fans lined the barricades, chanting names, holding out flags and caps for autographs. Caleb slipped on his sunglasses and waved, signing a few as he passed.

Another headline would probably go up later — something about how “calm and collected” he looked ahead of Sunday’s race — but for a moment, he let himself just exist in the noise.

And somewhere in the crowd, just for a split second, his gaze landed on you.

He didn’t know your name yet. Didn’t know you were watching with that curious half-smile, taking in all of Monaco like it was a movie set.

But something in his chest tightened anyway — like the camera had just shifted focus, and for the first time all weekend, he wasn’t thinking about racing, or interviews, or headlines.

You were standing near the barricade with your friend, dressed in something simple but impossibly elegant, sunglasses perched low on your nose as if you were only half interested in the chaos around you. But the sunlight caught on your jewelry, on the gloss of your lips, and Caleb felt like he’d been hit with G-force at 0 km/h.

“Caleb!” someone called, snapping him out of his daze. A fan shoved a cap toward him and he signed it automatically, though his eyes kept darting back to you.

God, who are you? You didn’t look like the other influencers who crowded the paddock — too poised, too calm. You looked like you belonged here without even trying, like Monaco itself had manifested you.

He adjusted his cap, pretended to check his watch, anything to steal another glance. You laughed at something your friend said and he swore he felt it in his chest.

“You good?” his PR manager asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Yeah,” Caleb said quickly, maybe too quickly. “Just… hot out here.”

She gave him a look but said nothing, ushering him along toward the hospitality suite. Caleb followed, sunglasses hiding the way his gaze flicked over his shoulder one last time.

He didn’t even know your name, but for some reason, he was already hoping you’d still be there tomorrow.

“Okay, I swear one of the McLaren boys is staring at you.”

You blinked, glancing at your friend like she’d just told you the sky was green. “What?”

“There.” She tilted her chin subtly toward the line of drivers walking past. “Tall, dark hair, orange cap. He’s literally staring at you like you’re the grand prix trophy.”

You followed her gaze — and oh.

Caleb Xia. McLaren’s golden boy. The rookie everyone was talking about this season.

He was looking at you, and not in the vague celebrity-to-civilian way, but in a way that made your stomach flip. You quickly looked away, pretending to adjust your sunglasses like you couldn’t be bothered, though your pulse had spiked to unsafe levels.

“He’s not staring,” you said lightly, forcing a breezy laugh. “He’s probably just looking at, like—someone behind me.”

“Mm-hm.” Your friend gave you the most knowing smirk. “Sure. Totally not staring at the Upper East Side’s favorite party girl. Definitely not staring at the girl whose dad sponsors his team.”

You swatted her arm, cheeks burning. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you’re blushing!”

“I am not.” You absolutely were. You turned back toward the barricade, pretending to be fascinated by the crowd, but your thoughts were running laps faster than any F1 car on track.

McLaren’s star rookie. Staring. At you.

You tried to act unbothered, but inside you were screaming from the rooftops of the New York skyline.

Fast forward to Sunday and the whole principality was buzzing. The streets were packed, the air thick with champagne mist and roaring cheers — and Caleb Xia was standing at the top of the podium, drenched in victory.

You weren’t exactly a motorsport girl, but even you had to admit — there was something insanely attractive about the sight. The fireproof suit clinging to him, the triumphant grin, the way he lifted the trophy like it weighed nothing.

Your friend elbowed you knowingly. “You’re staring.”

You scoffed, flipping your hair and pretending to focus on your phone. “Please. I’m just… appreciating the sport.”

“Right. The sport.”

Okay, maybe you were staring. And maybe you were imagining what that smile would look like if it was aimed just at you.

You bit back a grin, letting your sunglasses hide your eyes as the crowd around you erupted in cheers again.

“Maybe I should come here more often,” you murmured under your breath, almost to yourself — but the words hung there, heavy with possibility.

You hadn’t planned on becoming a regular fixture on the Formula 1 calendar — but there you were, two months later, strolling through the paddock at Silverstone like you owned the place. And maybe, in a way, you did.

Your friends loved it, the constant travel, the electric atmosphere, the excuse to dress up for race weekends. You did too, though you’d never admit it aloud.

The whole scene reminded you of St. Tropez in the summer — glitz, champagne, and cameras flashing — except here, it smelled like gasoline and adrenaline.

And of course, the whispers followed you everywhere.

“Who is she?”

“She’s here every race now—she must be dating one of them.”

“No, no, she’s a sponsor’s daughter. Total nepotism.”

“She’s gorgeous. She’s like… the paddock It-Girl now.”

You’d scroll through social media later and laugh at the edits, the TikToks of you just existing — sipping an Aperol spritz on McLaren’s hospitality balcony, adjusting your sunglasses, smiling at someone out of frame — all set to romantic songs like you were the star of some indie film.

“Look at this,” your best friend snickered one afternoon in the McLaren motorhome, holding up her phone. “‘McLaren boys fighting for the mysterious paddock princess.’ Oh my God, they think you’re dating Gideon now.”

You raised a brow, perfectly nonchalant. “And last week it was Caleb. Make up your minds, honestly.”

Your friends cackled, loving the spectacle more than you did, but even you had to admit it was fun — the attention, the headlines, the idea that everyone was dying to know who you were.

Still, you kept your distance from the drivers, politely nodding if you ever passed one in the hallway. Even when you caught glimpses of Caleb Xia, helmet tucked under his arm, dark hair damp with sweat as he walked back to the motorhome post-session.

“Are you ever going to talk to him?” one of your friends asked as you leaned over the balcony to watch the teams set up for qualifying.

You smirked, adjusting your sunglasses to hide your expression. “And ruin the mystery? Never.”

But deep down — every time you saw him, every time you caught the faintest glimpse of that half-smile, heard the low timbre of his laugh from a distance — you felt that little thrill again. The same one you’d felt back in Monaco, the day everything changed.

And if you were honest with yourself? You didn’t hate it.

Meanwhile, Caleb, wasn’t used to this.

Usually, people came to him — reporters, sponsors, adoring fans who screamed his name as he walked past. But for weeks now, he’d been the one looking.

Searching the paddock for a flash of silk, a familiar pair of heels, the soft laugh he’d heard over the crowd at Monaco and Silverstone.

And when he finally spotted you standing by the hospitality balcony at Spa — hair swept over one shoulder, drink in hand, the breeze catching the hem of your dress — something in him clicked.

“Are you really going to just stand here and stare again?” Gideon muttered beside him, smirking.

Caleb ignored him. His heart was already thudding in his chest as he walked over, weaving through a cluster of engineers and PR staff until he was standing just a few feet away from you.

“Hi,” he said, smooth but quiet, as though testing the waters.

You turned, sunglasses catching the light — and oh, that little smirk. “Caleb Xia.” You said his name like you’d been expecting him.

For a split second, he forgot every clever opening line he’d practiced in his head. “You know who I am?”

“Of course,” you said simply, swirling your drink before taking a slow sip. “You drive for the team my father sponsors. I’d be a terrible daughter if I didn’t know at least that much.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. There it was — the chase.

“So you come to the races just to keep tabs on us?”

You tilted your head, eyes glinting with something playful. “Or maybe I just like the view.”

Caleb felt that one in his chest, but you didn’t give him time to recover — just smiled sweetly, handed your drink to your friend, and started walking toward the balcony stairs.

“Where are you going?” he asked, following a few steps behind.

“To the grid walk,” you called over your shoulder. “Try to keep up, Golden Boy.”

He laughed then, low and warm, because he couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel like this — like he was twelve years old again, chasing after something just out of reach.

And oh, he liked it.

From then on, it was like Caleb had made you his favorite game.

Not in a careless, bored sort of way — no, he was deliberate. Strategic. He’d spot you across the paddock, you’d pretend not to notice him, and yet he’d always find an excuse to pass by where you were standing.

“You’re following me,” you teased one weekend in Monza, where the buzz of the paddock made everything feel like a movie.

Caleb didn’t even blink. “Or maybe you’re just everywhere I want to be.”

Your friend stifled a laugh beside you. You shot her a look and turned back to Caleb, feigning boredom. “Careful, Xia. People might think you like me.”

“Let them.” His grin was infuriatingly confident.

And people did start talking.

‘McLaren’s Caleb Xia Spotted Chatting With Socialite Heiress Again’

‘Who Is She? The Mystery Girl Caleb Xia Can’t Seem to Stop Looking At’

‘Forget PR Relationships, This One Feels Real’

You’d scroll through the headlines with a raised brow, holding up your phone across the table when you ran into him at the motorhome.

“You’re ruining my reputation, you know.”

He leaned casually against the doorframe, helmet under one arm, that stupid grin tugging at his mouth. “What reputation? The one where you look impossibly good in every picture they take of you?”

“Flattery,” you said, slipping past him, “is cheap.”

But when you caught his low chuckle behind you, it sent a spark through you that you refused to admit out loud.

By the end of the weekend, everyone had caught on.

Engineers, PR people, even the fans — they’d started cheering when they saw you in the paddock, holding up signs like ‘Give Her the Mclaren Hoodie, Caleb!’ or ‘Socialite x Rookie Power Couple When?’

And instead of shying away, you found yourself leaning into it.

The air was warm but breezy as you stood on the balcony of the team’s hotel suite, overlooking the beautiful skyline of Azerbaijan.

Baku always felt like two worlds colliding — old city walls and futuristic skyscrapers — and somehow, it fit the way Caleb made you feel.

“You’re brooding,” came his voice from behind you, teasing and lazy. “Should I be worried?”

You turned to see him leaning against the doorframe, still in his team kit, arms crossed. The smug little smirk on his face was enough to make you roll your eyes.

“Not brooding. Just thinking,” you replied coolly, turning back toward the view.

“Thinking about me?” he shot back instantly.

You scoffed. “Not everything is about you, Xia.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, walking out onto the balcony, his shoulder brushing yours as he stopped beside you. “You’ve been coming to almost every race. You sure you’re not just here for me?”

You fought the smile tugging at your lips. “I like the atmosphere. The energy. The—”

“The drivers?” he interrupted, grinning.

“Careful, Caleb. You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said quickly, then softened, eyes glinting as they found yours. “I just don’t like sharing your attention.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how honest that sounded. “That’s a very bold thing to say for someone who spent weeks trying to convince me to even talk to him.”

He grinned, shrugging like he had all the time in the world. “And now you are. Seems like I’m winning.”

You rolled your eyes again, but your chest felt warm, fluttery.

“You’re sly.”

“And you love it.”

“Bold assumption,” you muttered, stepping away to hide your smile — but Caleb caught your wrist gently before you could walk back inside.

“Hey.” His voice was softer now, teasing tone dropping just slightly. “Don’t run away when I’m being honest.”

You turned back, finding him closer than you’d realized. For a moment, neither of you said anything — just the city lights below, the sound of distant traffic, and the pulse of your heart in your ears.

“You make this too easy,” you said finally, trying to break the tension with a smirk.

“Good,” he said simply, grin returning as he let go of your wrist, only to tug the brim of your cap down playfully. “Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

You huffed, but when he walked back inside, you stayed there a moment longer, staring out at the glittering city and letting yourself admit — just for a second — that Caleb Xia might actually be the most dangerous thing that’s ever happened to your carefully curated life.

“Do you think they’ve guessed?” you murmured to him once, ducking under an awning as a rain shower passed over in Singapore.

Caleb, completely unbothered, just shot you that knowing look as he opened up his umbrella. “I think they want us to stop pretending we don’t enjoy this.”

You pretended to scoff, even as your heart thudded at the way he was looking at you — like he’d already decided you were his favorite win of the season.

And maybe, just maybe, you were starting to let him have it.

It started with the likes.

At first, it was subtle — Caleb’s name popping up under your Instagram posts, username appearing under a photo of you at a gallery opening. Then it was your weekend brunch picture. Then it was your mirror selfie before a gala.

By the time he liked a photo of you lounging on the deck of your yacht in Capri, the media had lost its mind.

‘Caleb Xia Finally Picks a Girl? Socialite Heiress, Y/N, Seems to Have His Attention’

‘From the Grid to the Gram: Mclaren’s Golden Rookie is Soft-Launching?’

‘Sorry Ladies, Caleb Xia Might Be Off the Market’

You couldn’t lie — you loved it. You loved how unbothered Caleb was about feeding the fire, too.

So when he cornered you outside the Mclaren motorhome in Singapore, freshly showered after free practice, smelling faintly of cedar and apple soap, you couldn’t resist the way his grin made you want to roll your eyes and melt at the same time.

“You owe me dinner,” he said simply, like it was a fact.

You blinked. “Do I?”

“Mm.” He leaned against the wall, all easy confidence. “For all the press I’ve been getting because of you.”

You crossed your arms. “Last I checked, my father’s team sponsorship, and my own free will, means I get to exist in the paddock without owing you anything.”

He only smiled wider. “Then let me buy you dinner for existing so well.”

God, he was annoying. Infuriatingly charming. Which is how you ended up across from him at an exclusive rooftop restaurant that overlooked the entire Marina Bay track, the city lights twinkling like stars against the black water.

And that’s when you realized you might be in trouble.

Caleb was all charm — jacket hanging just right on his broad shoulders, his usually messy hair tamed for once, his easy laugh drawing eyes from every table. He poured your wine for you, and you tried not to notice the way his fingers brushed yours.

“So,” he said, swirling his glass lazily, “are you going to admit you like me, or do I have to keep liking your posts and chasing you around the paddock until you do?”

You snorted softly. “What if I told you I liked the attention?”

His grin turned downright dangerous. “Then I guess I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat creeping up your neck betrayed you.

Dinner was long, drawn out, and borderline cinematic — Caleb wasn’t in a rush. He asked about your magazine, your travels, your favorite cities. He listened and teased you when you got too passionate about a topic, just to see that spark in your eyes.

By dessert, you were leaning in closer, laughing at something stupid he’d said about the chaos of the driver’s WhatsApp group.

“You’re not as annoying as I thought you’d be,” you admitted, swirling the last of your wine.

He tilted his head, eyes glittering. “Careful, princess. You’re starting to sound like you like me.”

You smiled slow, deliberate. “Maybe I do.”

Caleb’s smirk softened into something warmer, but still edged with that hunger you’d been sensing all night. “Good,” he said simply, as if that had been the goal all along.

When he walked you back to your hotel, the tension was unbearable — the humid Singapore night buzzing with it. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t push — just tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and said, “Next race, I’m taking you out again.”

And damn it, you knew you’d say yes.

On the Sunday, the heat in Singapore was suffocating, the whole paddock buzzing like a champagne cork about to pop.

You were supposed to be watching from the hospitality suite, glass of wine in hand, looking unbothered and glamorous like always — but when Caleb crossed the finish line first, you were on your feet screaming with everyone else.

The cheers, the flash of cameras, the roar of the crowd — it was all a blur. Next thing you knew, you were being ushered down to parc fermé, your heels clicking against the concrete as mechanics and engineers flooded the track.

Caleb was still in his fireproofs, helmet off, hair sweaty and sticking to his forehead — and you had never seen him look better in your life.

He spotted you immediately. Like a heat-seeking missile.

You didn’t even have time to say anything before he strode over, adrenaline still radiating off him like static, grabbed you by the arms, and kissed you right there — in front of everyone.

And when I say kissed, I mean kissed.

You heard the audible gasp from the reporters, the shocked cheers from the Mclaren crew, the click-click-click of a thousand cameras capturing the moment that would break the internet.

When he finally pulled back, grinning like a madman, you could barely catch your breath.

“Caleb—” you started, half-scandalized, half-deliriously happy.

He just winked. “What? You said you liked the attention.”

Somewhere, someone wolf-whistled. Someone else shouted, “ABOUT TIME!” The cameras were still going off like fireworks, but you barely noticed.

You were too busy laughing, feeling lighter than you had in years, as Caleb pressed his forehead against yours and whispered, “Guess we’re official now.”

You didn’t mind. Not one bit.

Later, as you scrolled through your phone in the motorhome — headlines already going insane — you couldn’t stop smiling.

‘BREAKING: Caleb Xia Hard-Launches Relationship in Parc Fermé’

‘Mclaren Rookie’s Mystery Girl Revealed — And She’s Upper East Side Royalty’

‘Caleb Wins Singapore GP and Possibly the Girl of His Dreams’

You couldn’t even be mad about it.

Because for once, the tabloids had gotten it exactly right — Caleb had hit the gas, full-speed, and finished straight into your heart.

Once the paddock had quieted down, the motorhome was buzzing with champagne and team members celebrating the double podium, but Caleb had dragged you away from the crowd the second he was done with media duties.

You sat cross-legged on the couch, shoes abandoned somewhere on the floor, still trying to wipe confetti off your dress when he came back from showering. His hair was damp, sticking adorably to his forehead, and he was wearing a casual hoodie. Somehow, that was even more dangerous than the fireproofs.

“So,” you started, trying to sound casual as you scrolled through the avalanche of notifications on your phone. “Parc fermé, huh? You do realize there’s this thing called a soft launch?”

Caleb leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like you’d just told him a bad joke.

“Soft launch? No chance. I’m not about to let the internet play guessing games about whether or not I’m into you.”

You raised a brow. “So you just kiss me in front of half the paddock?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” he shot back easily, making his way to the couch and plopping down next to you, his thigh brushing yours.

“You’re unbelievable.” You tried to sound annoyed, but the smile threatening to take over your face gave you away.

Caleb noticed, of course. He always did. “You liked it,” he teased, nudging your knee with his.

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was pounding way too hard for someone who was supposedly unbothered. “Maybe,” you admitted softly.

That made him grin — really grin, the way he only did when he wasn’t Caleb Xia the driver, but just Caleb, the boy who’d been chasing your attention for months.

He leaned back, looking smug and entirely too comfortable. “Good. Because I’m not taking it back.”

You stared at him for a long moment before laughing, finally letting yourself melt into his side.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, and his voice softened just enough to make your chest tighten.

“Nah. I’m going to keep winning races so you keep showing up. That way, I’ll never have to miss you.”

You didn’t say anything to that — just reached for his hand and held it, letting yourself bask in the glow of his words, of the race, of everything.

And for the first time in a long time, the noise of the world — the tabloids, the gossip, the expectations — faded into the background.

All that mattered was this: Caleb, warm and steady next to you, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin like he had no plans of letting go.

You’d always been the one who carried too much.

Not because anyone asked you to, but because it felt easier that way — easier to shoulder everyone else’s burdens than to risk exposing your own.

When your classmates at the DAA academy panicked over exams, you were the one sitting with them until sunrise, quizzing formulas you already knew by heart.

When a teammate froze before a simulation, it was your hand steady on their shoulder, your whisper in their ear: “You’ve got this. Trust yourself.”

You never once asked for that same reassurance back.

It wasn’t in your nature.

You were stubborn — headstrong to the point of recklessness, driving yourself through fatigue and bruises just to prove you could keep going. You were hardworking to a fault, volunteering for extra drills, extra shifts, extra responsibilities. No one doubted you’d follow through, even if it meant running yourself into the ground.

And you were always smiling. Always positive.

Even when your hands trembled from exhaustion, you’d laugh it off. Even when your chest felt too heavy to breathe, you’d flash that grin and convince everyone else it was fine. That you were fine.

It became a role you played so well that no one questioned it anymore. They leaned on you. They depended on you. And you let them — because it was easier to patch someone else’s cracks than admit you had your own.

Behind closed doors, though, it was different.

You’d collapse on your bunk after a fourteen-hour day, stare at the ceiling until your vision blurred, and whisper to no one in particular: “Just one more day. I’ll get through it.”

You weren’t weak. You refused to be. But you were alone in your battles — by choice. Because the idea of someone seeing you unravel, of admitting you weren’t always strong, felt unbearable.

So you kept carrying it all. With stubbornness. With a smile. With the kind of quiet recklessness that only someone used to surviving could manage.

Caleb, your classmate at the DAA, was one of the few who seemed to notice. Sharp, quietly observant, and irritatingly difficult to fool.

During late-night study sessions, you’d doze off with your cheek pressed to your palm, notes blurring in front of you. Caleb would tap his pencil against the desk until you stirred, fixing you with that steady, unblinking gaze.

“Don’t say it,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes.

“I wasn’t going to.” His tone was calm, almost flat. Then, after a beat: “But if I did, I’d say you’re useless if you burn out.”

You groaned, dragging your notebook closer. “Five more minutes. I’m fine.”

“That’s what you said half an hour ago.” He nudged your pen back toward you.

“You’re not invincible.”

You huffed like a child caught red-handed.

Gideon, sitting across the room, only smirked and went back to his notes. Caleb didn’t even glance at him — his eyes stayed on you, sharp enough to cut through every excuse you wanted to make.

“You sound like my dad,” you muttered.

“Your dad doesn’t have to fly with you in drills tomorrow.” Caleb leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “If you crash us into the training wall, I’m not explaining it to the instructors.”

Despite your groaning, you knew he wasn’t nagging for the sake of it. That was never his style. No dramatics, no raised voice — just this quiet way of noticing when you were pushing too far.

Like during flight training earlier that week. You’d thrown yourself into a simulation with reckless precision, pushing the shuttle until your shoulder ached from the controls.

The instructor praised your speed. Caleb, however, caught the way you flexed your hand afterward.

“You keep flying like you’ve got nothing to lose,” he said as you stepped off the simulator pad. “You’ll burn out before you even get a license.”

You’d laughed, brushing it off. “Come on, that was practically perfect.”

“Perfect doesn’t mean sustainable.”

You hated that he had a point.

And when the group project came around, you didn’t hesitate to volunteer for more work than anyone else. Before you could even finish, Caleb cut in: “She’ll take half. I’ll do the rest.”

You glared at him later. “I could’ve handled it.”

“I know.” His expression didn’t waver. “That doesn’t mean you should.”

He had this way of undercutting your stubbornness without making you feel small. Just… steady. Reliable.

The kind of person who slid a protein bar across the desk when you skipped meals, or flicked your pen back into your hand when you nearly nodded off.

Little things. Things you didn’t realize you’d started relying on.

One evening, when the study room was quiet and the hum of the lights filled the silence, Caleb finally spoke.

“You know, you help everyone else,” he said, voice even but eyes sharp. “But when it comes to you? You shut down.”

You opened your mouth, ready to deflect with a joke, but his gaze held you in place.

“You don’t have to hide from me.”

The words landed heavier than you expected. And for the first time, you weren’t sure you could laugh them off.

The hum of the aircraft filled the silence between you and Caleb as you trudged back from another grueling mission.

Your body ached from the maneuvers, your uniform stained with dust and smoke, but you kept your stride steady, chin tilted up like you hadn’t just pushed yourself to the brink again.

Caleb, of course, walked beside you, his eyes scanning over you the way they always did — searching for signs you’d never willingly admit to.

“You’re limping,” he said flatly.

You scoffed, waving him off with a half-smile. “Please. I’ve had worse. Don’t start with the lecture.”

His gaze narrowed, but he didn’t argue, which was somehow worse. He only fell into step closer, his shoulder brushing yours in quiet insistence.

Finally, you sighed, running a hand through your hair.

“You don’t have to force yourself to look after me, you know. I can handle myself.”

Caleb tilted his head, unreadable for a beat, before replying in that calm, steady way of his.

“Maybe you can. But it doesn’t mean you should have to. Not alone.”

Something in your chest tightened, caught between annoyance and gratitude. You turned your eyes forward, refusing to let him see the soft curve of your lips as you muttered, “…Still. Thanks. For worrying.”

He didn’t push, didn’t say anything else — but the faintest ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth as the two of you walked the rest of the way together, silence speaking louder than words.

After you had washed up, your dorm door clicked open and your roommate waltzed in, the smell of fried noodles and dumplings immediately filling the room. She carried the bag like it was treasure.

“Guess who’s feeding you tonight?” she announced with far too much enthusiasm.

You didn’t even look up from your textbook, already suspicious. “If it’s you, thank you. If it’s someone else, I’m returning it.”

She set the bag on your desk with a flourish.

“Caleb. Straight from the commons. He told me to make sure you actually eat, since apparently you have a bad habit of forgetting food exists.”

You groaned, leaning back and dragging a hand down your face. “Of course he did.”

“Mmhm,” your roommate hummed, clearly enjoying herself. She plopped onto her bed and hugged a pillow, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“You know, for someone you claim is just a friend, he sure goes out of his way for you.”

You grabbed the bag reluctantly, peeking inside. The warmth and scent made your stomach growl, but you scowled anyway.

“He’s just… irritatingly considerate.”

“Right,” she said, dragging out the word. “Just like it was irritatingly considerate when he wore your hair tie on his wrist as a form of ‘female classmate, except Y/n’ repellent for a whole day.”

Your head snapped up. “You’re still on about that? It meant nothing. He probably forgot it was there.”

“Forgot? Please. Caleb ‘Detail-Oriented’ Xia? The guy who notices when you highlight in a different color? No way.” She cackled.

Heat crept up your neck, and you shoved a dumpling into your mouth to shut her up.

“And,” she went on mercilessly, “don’t think I didn’t see how he scared off those other dudes at the hangar. They were harmlessly flirting, and Caleb looked ready to file a report on them for existing within five feet of you.”

You nearly choked and immediately grabbed the water bottle on your desk before chugging it.

“He wasn’t—! He was just… being protective. That’s what friends do.”

“Protective,” she echoed, smirking.

“Buying you dinner, watching you in lectures, calling you out when you skip meals, wearing your hair tie—” She tapped her chin. “Sounds less like a friend and more like…”

“Don’t say it,” you warned, pointing your chopsticks at her.

“…a crush,” she finished gleefully.

You groaned and flopped onto your bed, balancing the takeout container on your stomach. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re blushing,” she shot back instantly.

“I’m not!”

“Sure, sure. Just like you hate that he notices when you’re tired, and hate that he brings you food, and totally hate that everyone else can see it but you.”

You turned your face into the pillow to hide your grin — not that it helped, because your roommate’s laughter rang out across the room.

The next day, you slid into your usual seat across from Caleb in the lounge, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. For once, you weren’t dragging your feet or stifling yawns.

You’d actually eaten, actually slept — and it showed.

Caleb glanced up from his notes, pen pausing mid-word. His sharp eyes flicked over you, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, well,” he said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Someone looks almost human today.”

You scoffed, setting your coffee down a little too firmly. “I always look human.”

“Debatable,” he replied smoothly, flipping his pen between his fingers. “The other day you looked like you were about five minutes away from collapsing face-first into your notebook. This is an improvement.”

You narrowed your eyes at him but couldn’t stop the tiniest twitch of your lips.

“You’re hilarious.”

“I try.” He went back to his notes, the smile still ghosting on his face. “Guess the takeout worked.”

You froze, heat prickling the tips of your ears. He didn’t even glance at you — just kept writing, like it was a casual, offhand remark.

“…Thanks,” you muttered finally, voice barely above a whisper.

He hummed like he hadn’t been waiting for it, though you caught the way his pen stilled for half a beat.

“Don’t mention it,” he said simply.

For a moment, the only sound was the scratch of his pen on paper and the soft buzz of the library’s lamps. You sipped your coffee, pretending to study, but you couldn’t shake the quiet warmth lingering in your chest.

At lunch, the cafeteria was unusually quiet, most cadets still out on field drills.

You and Caleb slid into a corner with your trays — yours stacked high with food you swore you were going to finish this time, his as neat and orderly as his notes.

He gave your plate a pointed look as you sat down.

“That’s ambitious.”

You jabbed a fork at him. “Don’t start. I’m hungry.”

“I didn’t say anything.” His mouth curved, that frustrating half-smile of his.

You rolled your eyes, digging into your food with exaggerated gusto just to prove a point. The silence stretched comfortably between you — until your thoughts slipped too fast for your mouth to catch up.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

The words dropped like a live grenade. You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, while Caleb blinked at you, startled for once.

“…What?”

You scrambled. “I—I mean, not like that,” you stammered, heat crawling up your neck.

“I just—uh, you’re so serious all the time, I was wondering if you ever… you know… dated.”

Caleb set his fork down with deliberate calm, his gaze pinning you like you’d just walked into one of his well-laid traps.

“If I’ve ever dated?”

“Forget it,” you muttered, waving him off. “Forget I asked.”

But then, infuriatingly, his mouth curved into something just shy of a smirk.

“No, I haven’t.”

You blinked. “…Really?”

“Really.” He leaned back against the chair, one arm draped lazily along the backrest — but still close enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you.

“Not much room for that here. And…” His eyes flicked toward you, steady, unreadable but heavier than usual.

“…I’m picky.”

Your breath hitched. That single word felt aimed, sharp and quiet as a dart finding its mark. You nearly knocked over your drink, fumbling to cover the way your pulse had quickened.

“Picky,” you repeated, trying for deadpan but failing.

“That’s what I said.” He picked his fork back up, cool as ever, like he hadn’t just upended your entire sense of equilibrium.

“Eat your food before it gets cold.”

You stabbed at your plate, cheeks burning, heart pounding far too loud for the cafeteria’s quiet.

That night, you collapsed face-first onto your bed with a groan so loud your roommate nearly dropped her skincare bottle.

She glanced over, unimpressed. “What happened to you? You look like someone told you we have drills at dawn.”

You rolled onto your back dramatically, clutching the apple plushie Caleb had given you months ago after he won it for you at a random arcade in SkyHaven. He’d tossed it at you with a muttered “because you look like you need something soft to punch instead of me.”

You never got rid of it. Now, you hurled it up into the air and caught it again, groaning.

“I asked him if he’s ever had a girlfriend.”

Her mouth fell open. “…WHAT?”

“I didn’t mean to!” you wailed, burying your face into the apple. “It just slipped out while we were eating. I don’t even know where it came from!”

Your roommate was already grinning, crawling onto your bed like she’d been waiting her whole life for this.

“Oh my god. What did he say?”

You peeked out, mortified. “…He said no.”

She gasped, dramatic enough to rival you. “And?”

“And he said—” you groaned again, muffling it against the plush.

“He said he’s picky.”

The silence that followed was dangerous. You could feel her smirk radiating before she even said it.

“Picky.” She leaned back on her elbows, savoring the word like fine wine. “Oh, that’s rich. Tell me, Y/N… who exactly do you think he’s being ‘picky’ for?”

You chucked the plush at her, but she caught it effortlessly, cackling.

“Oh no, you don’t get to throw him at me,” she teased, squeezing the apple like it was suddenly Caleb himself. “This is basically a love confession in plushie form. ‘Here, have this to remember me by.’”

“Stop,” you whined, flopping back on your pillow.

She lobbed the plush right back at your chest, smirking.

“Didn’t he already scare off those guys at the hangar? And now he’s feeding you, giving you plushies, calling himself picky… you do realize you’re the obvious denominator here, right?”

You hugged the apple defensively to your chest, glaring at the ceiling. “…He was just being nice.”

“Uh-huh. Sure.” She sing-songed, slipping off your bed.

“Keep telling yourself that, princess. Meanwhile, I’ll be waiting for Caleb to come pick up his future sister-in-law invitation.”

You groaned again, launching the plush at her retreating back — and missed.

On the other hand, Caleb replayed the scene in his head for the fiftieth time that night, pacing his side of the dorm room like a man possessed.

“Have you ever had a girlfriend?”

Your voice, casual but not really, had lodged itself in his skull like a song he couldn’t get rid of.

It was so random, so clumsy, so… you. And Caleb had answered honestly—at least. But then, like the idiot he was, he’d added “I’m picky.”

And now? Now he was spiraling.

Because what if you’d picked up on the subtext? What if you realized who exactly he was picky for?

“Dude,” Gideon’s voice cut through his storm of thoughts. He was lounging on his bed, smirk already in place.

“You’ve been walking holes into the carpet. Want to tell me why?”

Caleb shot him a look, but Gideon only arched a brow.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” Gideon repeated, leaning forward like a shark that smelled blood. “This wouldn’t happen to be about her, would it?”

Caleb froze, which was apparently all the confirmation Gideon needed, because he burst into laughter.

“Oh my god—what did she do? Breathe near you? Look at you for too long?”

Caleb scrubbed a hand over his face.

“…She asked me if I’ve ever had a girlfriend.”

That shut Gideon up for all of two seconds before he lost it. He doubled over, cackling into his pillow, kicking his legs like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” Gideon wheezed. “She’s so gone for you, man.”

Caleb stiffened. “She’s not—”

“Yes, she is!” Gideon cut in, grinning wickedly. “Why else would she ask that? What’s next, she’s gonna start doodling your last name after hers in her notebook?”

Caleb groaned, throwing himself onto his bed. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I get it,” Gideon said, smug as ever. “You’re freaking out because, deep down, you’re hoping she did mean it that way. And that terrifies you because you’ve never actually let yourself think she’d ever—”

“Shut up.”

“—look at you like that,” Gideon finished anyway, grinning like the devil.

Caleb rolled onto his side, glaring at the wall, but his pulse betrayed him — still hammering from the memory of your voice, from the way you’d looked at him across the table.

The shift wasn’t sudden — it crept in like fog, unnoticed until it was all anyone could see.

At first, it was little things. Caleb carrying one extra ration pack on missions, “just in case.” Him hovering a little too close when you climbed down from the shuttle. The way his hand lingered half a second longer when he helped you out of your gear.

You noticed. Of course, you noticed. But instead of snapping at him or brushing it off like usual, you… let him. And that was the beginning of the end.

One afternoon, when you burned your palm fiddling with a sparking wire, Caleb was the first to move.

His voice was sharp, commanding — but his hands, as he caught yours and guided it under cool water, were careful.

“You need to stop being so reckless,” he muttered, frowning.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t pull away. “And you need to stop acting like you’re my babysitter.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to be one,” he shot back — but quieter this time, almost… softer.

The others noticed.

At the hangar, when you walked in late, Caleb’s gaze flicked up instinctively. He scanned you like he was checking for injuries before relaxing, and Gideon elbowed a fellow cadet with a smirk.

During training drills, Caleb barked at everyone equally — except you. With you, his criticism came out gentler, almost tailored, his tone shifting in ways that didn’t escape anyone’s notice.

And then there was the mess hall incident.

You reached for the salt at the same time Caleb did, your fingers brushing. The jolt that shot through you was ridiculous, and judging by the way his jaw tightened, he’d felt it too.

You both froze — then quickly pulled back, like nothing happened.

Except half the table had seen.

“Something’s going on there,” your roommate whispered not-so-subtly, shooting you a grin.

You ignored it, stabbing at your food. Caleb ignored it too, but the tips of his ears were burning red.

The tension only grew worse during missions.

Every time you got separated, he searched for you first. Every time a blast went off too close, you were his priority. And every time he muttered, “You okay?” under his breath, your chest tightened in ways you didn’t want to admit.

By the time the week ended, everyone in your circle knew something was shifting. You could feel their eyes, their smirks, the way whispers followed you both out of rooms.

And yet — neither of you said a word. You let the tension coil, let it hang in the air like an unanswered question.

The week that followed was awful and you had to admit, you were exhausted.

The kind of exhaustion that sat heavy in your bones, the kind that couldn’t be shaken off with a nap or a cup of caf. The week had been brutal: missions stacked on top of training drills, barely enough time to breathe, let alone recover.

And Caleb — of course he noticed.

You thought you’d hidden it well.

The way your shoulders slumped in the cockpit after the last simulation, your smile faltering just before you caught yourself, the stumble in your step as you walked toward the hangar.

Nobody else said anything, too caught up in their own fatigue. But Caleb? His gaze tracked you the entire time, sharp and unreadable.

You didn’t expect him to act on it.

Later, as you ducked into the supply corridor to stash your gear, he was already there, waiting. Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, shadows falling over his face, but that intensity in his eyes fixed squarely on you.

“Fucking God—” you startled, clutching your chest. “You can’t just lurk like that, Caleb.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t even twitch. Instead, his voice was quiet — that kind of low, steady tone that cut through every excuse you were already scrambling to throw at him.

“You’re not taking care of yourself.”

Your jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he countered immediately, stepping closer.

“I’ve been watching you push past your limit all week. Do you even realize you almost nodded off in the cockpit today?”

Heat rushed to your face. You looked away, muttering, “I was just—tired. It’s nothing.”

“Don’t.” His voice sharpened just enough to make you freeze. Then it softened again, almost — almost — like he regretted it.

“Don’t brush it off. You keep forcing yourself like this, it’s going to catch up with you. And then what?”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge. Caleb took another step closer, close enough now that the tension between you felt like a rope pulled taut.

“You don’t have to be so harsh on yourself all the time,” he said, softer now. “You’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to not carry everything alone.”

The words lodged deep, far deeper than you wanted them to. For a moment, you couldn’t even breathe.

Finally, you forced a weak laugh, trying to break the weight of it. “Since when did you start sounding like a lecture from the medbay?”

That earned you the faintest twitch of a smile. Barely there, but enough to make your chest tighten.

“Since I started caring whether you burned yourself out before the next mission,” he murmured.

You thought you could walk away from him.

You thought you could shove the gear into its rack, plaster on another tired smile, and make it back to your quarters before the tightness in your chest split wide open.

But Caleb’s words stuck. You don’t have to carry everything alone.

And suddenly, all that pressure — the endless drills, the weight of expectations, the gnawing self-doubt — it cracked.

You dropped onto the nearest crate, your hands digging into your face.

“I’m so—” Your voice broke, and you hated it. Hated how raw it sounded. “I’m so tired, Caleb. I can’t keep—”

A sharp inhale rattled through you, and before you could clamp it down, tears blurred your vision.

For a second, there was silence. No judgment. No sharp lecture. Just silence.

Then Caleb sat down beside you.

Not too close, but close enough that you felt the steady warmth of his presence. He didn’t touch you, didn’t press with questions. He just was there — solid, grounded, like an anchor dropped in stormy seas.

Your breathing hitched. You tried to cover your face, muttering, “This is—embarrassing.”

“It’s not,” he said simply. His tone left no room for argument.

That made something in your chest stutter. Because he meant it. He wasn’t humoring you.

So you let yourself lean, just barely, your shoulder brushing his arm. He didn’t move away.

For a long moment, the only sound was your uneven breathing. Then, softly — softer than you’d ever heard him — Caleb said, “You don’t have to do it all at once. You don’t have to do it all alone.”

“Needing help isn’t weakness,” he said at last, his voice even but laced with something softer. His gaze stayed on you, not heavy, just there.

“You push yourself until you break, and you think that makes you strong. But strength isn’t carrying everything until it crushes you.”

Your throat tightened. “Then what is it?”

“Letting someone carry it with you.” His tone didn’t waver. “That’s strength.”

The words sank deep, past the layers of training, expectation, and stubbornness you’d built around yourself. He wasn’t lecturing. He wasn’t pitying. He was telling you — like it was fact — that letting yourself lean wasn’t failure.

Your breath hitched. You shook your head, trying for deflection, for distance.

“Why—why do you even care this much?”

Caleb’s expression shifted, something flickering across his features that you couldn’t place at first. He tilted his head slightly, as if weighing whether to say it, then he met your eyes.

“Because you matter,” he said simply. “Not just as a pilot, not just as part of the squad. You matter to me.”

It landed in your chest like a strike. Not grand or dramatic — just steady, undeniable.

You blinked hard, heart thundering in your ears. Nobody had said that to you in a long time. Not like that. Not without strings attached.

And suddenly, sitting there with the sting of tears drying on your cheeks, you realized something terrifyingly simple: you liked this. You liked being cared for.

Not tolerated, not looked after out of duty — cared for. And you liked that it was him.

You leaned into his shoulder then, not by accident this time. He didn’t pull away. If anything, you felt him ease just slightly, like he’d been holding back the urge to reach for you and was relieved you’d made the choice first.

The hangar lights buzzed overhead, but the world felt smaller, quieter. Just you and him and the steady comfort of his presence.

For the first time, you let yourself breathe. And you let yourself think — maybe you didn’t have to be untouchable all the time. Maybe it was okay to want this.

Maybe it was okay to want him.

The silence lingered, but it wasn’t suffocating anymore.

You’d let yourself lean against him, your head pressed to his shoulder, your breathing uneven but steadying as he stayed utterly still — like moving might shatter the fragile trust forming between you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. Caleb didn’t ask for more than you’d already given. He didn’t demand explanations or tidy conclusions. He just let you exist — messy, tired, vulnerable — without pulling away.

When you finally lifted your head, blinking through damp lashes, his eyes were waiting for you. Not sharp, not guarded — open.

A strand of hair clung stubbornly to your cheek, and before you could brush it away, his hand moved. Fingers — rough from training, steady as always — tucked it gently behind your ear.

His touch lingered, the back of his knuckles grazing your temple like he couldn’t quite make himself let go.

Your heart stuttered.

Caleb’s gaze flicked from your eyes to your mouth, then back again. There was no calculated charm in it, no arrogance. Just hesitation. Want. And the silent question of whether you’d push him away.

You didn’t.

When his hand slid down, warm and grounding, covering yours where it sat fisted in your lap, you let it. And when he leaned in — slow enough to give you every chance to stop him — you didn’t move.

His lips brushed yours like the softest whisper, barely there, but enough to make your chest ache with how much it meant. A kiss not of urgency, but of promise.

When he pulled back, his forehead hovered against yours. You hadn’t realized until that moment how heavy everything felt on your shoulders — but here, with him, it was lighter.

“You don’t have to do this alone, I’ll always be by your side” he murmured, low, steady, like an oath.

And for the first time, you believed it.

For the first time, you let yourself want it.

You let him in.

It wasn’t announced, it wasn’t confessed in a grand way — but after that night, things were different.

Caleb hadn’t even asked if you meant it when you’d muttered, half-defensive, “Fine. We’re dating now, I guess. Don’t make a big deal about it.”

And he hadn’t teased or challenged it either. He’d just said “Okay” — with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the kind of smile he usually reserved for victories in the cockpit.

Except this wasn’t victory — it was you.

The difference wasn’t loud, but it was there.

You were softer now, but only with him.

In the cafeteria, when you slid into the seat beside Caleb, no one even blinked anymore.

You didn’t sit across from him the way you used to — didn’t put the table as a buffer. Instead, you sat close enough that your knees brushed under the table, and when he handed you his apple without a word, you accepted it with the smallest huff, like it was routine.

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying not to look at him too long.

He only tilted his head, satisfied.

Everyone else pretended not to notice, but Gideon’s smirk gave him away.

During training debriefs, Caleb had gotten into the habit of lingering just behind your shoulder. He didn’t touch — not in front of the others — but his presence was steady, unspoken. A tether.

You, who’d always prided yourself on standing your ground alone, found yourself leaning back ever so slightly into that presence. Not enough for anyone but him to catch. Enough that he did.

The sweetness crept in like that.

Caleb carrying an extra water bottle “just in case,” which always ended up in your hands. You brushing the hair out of his eyes in the hangar before a mission — casually, offhand, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb murmuring “Careful” when you nearly tripped over a work bench, his hand steadying your back for half a second too long. You falling asleep in the lounge, only to wake with his jacket draped over you.

The others noticed. Of course they did.

One evening, when you and Caleb were shoulder-to-shoulder over a tactical map, arguing softly about maneuvering patterns, Gideon whispered, “When did that happen?”

And someone else (definitely your roommate) answered, “You mean when did she start smiling like that?”

Because that was the real shift.

Not that Caleb was more attentive, not that you allowed it — but that you smiled, soft and unguarded, in a way no one else ever got to see.

Later that week, the two of you walked back from the hangars under the low hum of evening lights. Caleb was quiet, but his fingers brushed yours with the kind of hesitation that felt deliberate — like he was giving you the choice.

You took his hand first.

And the way he looked at you — startled, then impossibly tender — made your chest ache.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, heat creeping up your neck.

His thumb traced the back of your hand once, steady, grounding. “Maybe. But I’m yours.”

And you didn’t argue. Not this time.

The day you were born had never felt like something worth celebrating.

Maybe once—when you were younger, when you still believed that if you planned hard enough, if you smiled brightly enough, if you made it look perfect, people would finally see you.

Every year, you tried. Balloons that matched your favorite color. Themed cakes you spent hours choosing. A playlist that you hoped would fill the silence between awkward conversations.

And yet, it was always the same.

Your friends would scroll through their phones between songs, laughing about things that had nothing to do with you. Your parents would slip in halfway through the party, exhausted from work, smiling that polite smile that said this should be enough, right?

You’d open presents, thank everyone, pose for photos — but deep down, all you could think was how you were just a spectator in your own celebration.

One year, you remember standing in front of your cake — twelve candles flickering, everyone chanting “make a wish.”

You inhaled, closed your eyes, and wished to feel wanted. Then you blew them out, and nothing changed.

By the time you turned sixteen, you’d mastered the act.

The perfect hostess, the perfect daughter, the perfect birthday girl.

You told jokes, you handed out slices of cake, you smiled so wide your cheeks hurt. But when everyone left and the last balloon deflated, you sat alone at the table, staring at melting wax and untouched frosting, realizing that the emptiness didn’t go away just because people were around.

Eighteen was the breaking point. The “milestone.”

You told yourself you didn’t care anymore — that adulthood was about independence, about not needing anyone to make you feel special.

You refused the party your parents offered, turned off your phone, and let the day pass like any other. But even as you stared at the ceiling that night, you couldn’t ignore the ache that came from knowing no one had knocked, no one had tried.

And that was when you decided birthdays weren’t for you.

It was easier that way.

Easier to pretend you didn’t care. Easier to shrug when someone asked what your plans were. Easier to smile and say, “I don’t really celebrate,” when what you meant was, no one ever really celebrated me.

So now, every year when the date rolled around, you buried yourself in work. You shut out the world and told yourself it was just another day.

Because if you didn’t expect anything, then it wouldn’t hurt when nothing came.

You’d built your walls so high, even you had forgotten what stood behind them. Years of being overlooked had taught you that vulnerability was just another invitation for disappointment. So when you met Sylus, you were the kind of woman who smiled politely but never lingered, who shook hands but never held on.

You’d mastered the art of distance — clean, quiet, and deliberate.

You met him at a charity auction one autumn evening — one of those glossy events full of champagne flutes, whispered names, and glittering people who liked to pretend their money meant kindness.

You weren’t there to socialize. You were there to observe.

The collection being auctioned was yours, though no one knew that. Pieces designed in silence, crafted from sleepless nights and a yearning to create beauty where you couldn’t find it.

Your name wasn’t attached — that was the whole point. You never wanted to be seen, only your work. You liked the anonymity, the way people admired your creations without realizing the girl behind them was sitting just a few tables away, tucked in the corner, sipping her drink like she didn’t belong there.

And then Sylus found you.

He wasn’t like the others — didn’t care for the spotlight or the murmurs that followed his name. He didn’t ask for small talk or try to charm his way in. Instead, he just sat across from you when no one else dared, his tone easy, his gaze steady.

“You’re not bidding,” he’d said that night, his voice soft but teasing.

You arched a brow. “Neither are you.”

He smiled, something quiet flickering behind his eyes. “Maybe I’m waiting for something worth bidding on.”

You rolled your eyes then, told yourself he was just another smooth talker in a room full of them. But Sylus didn’t fade into the background like the rest. He stayed.

He asked about things no one ever did — your thoughts on fabrics, architecture, the way art felt more alive in silence. You gave him guarded answers at first, watching for ulterior motives, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But it never did.

He listened. Really listened. Like your words meant something.

That night turned into weeks of unexpected messages, slow conversations, coffee breaks that became hours. He never pushed, never pried. He simply showed up — again and again — until you realized that maybe, for once, someone wasn’t trying to get past your walls just to see what was hidden.

He just wanted to sit beside them.

And in a world where everyone wanted something from you, Sylus was the only one who didn’t.

It had come up so casually that you almost didn’t notice the way Sylus’s expression changed.

You were sitting on the couch together one slow evening — his arm draped lazily across the backrest, your legs tucked beneath you as you scrolled through your phone.

The sounds of the N109 Zone outside your window hummed with its usual rhythm, but inside, everything was still. Peaceful. Comfortable. Until Sylus broke the quiet.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice thoughtful. “I just realized something. You’ve never celebrated your birthday. Not once since I’ve known you.”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah,” you said simply, scrolling past a post you didn’t really see.

He leaned forward a little, trying to catch your eye.

“What do you mean yeah? You just… don’t do birthdays?”

You shrugged, still avoiding his gaze. “I just—don’t.” The words came out light, dismissive, but your fingers tightened around your phone.

“I mean, I stopped wanting to make my birthday feel special after realizing that no one genuinely wanted to celebrate it with me. Or… me at all.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint ticking of the clock.

Sylus didn’t say anything — not yet. He just watched you, quietly, his chest tightening as you forced a small laugh and brushed it off like it didn’t matter. Like it hadn’t once meant everything to you.

He wanted to reach out, but he didn’t. Not yet. You looked too calm — that practiced kind of calm that comes from years of convincing yourself the ache had gone away.

But Sylus knew better.

And though you didn’t notice, his gaze softened as he leaned back again, silently memorizing the curve of your smile — the one that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

Sylus couldn’t shake the memory.

It replayed in his head long after that quiet night — your voice soft but detached, the way you spoke of your own birthday like it was something that happened to someone else.

He was baffled. You, of all people — the woman who carried herself with quiet grace, whose creativity could turn the simplest thing into art, who gave so much of yourself to others without ever asking for anything back — how could you not want something as simple as a day for you?

You never asked for much. Never had. And that, more than anything, made his chest ache.

Sylus had the kind of wealth that could make anything happen with a phone call — a yacht party, a diamond necklace, a penthouse suite overlooking the city — but you? You never wanted any of it.

Even when you lingered just a second too long at the window display of a boutique, or when your eyes softened at the sight of a patisserie case full of tiny, perfect cakes, you’d always shake your head, smile politely, and say, “It’s fine. I don’t need it.”

You had been raised to be grateful. To take what you were given and nothing more. To not expect too much, even when you gave everything.

But Sylus had seen enough.

He wanted to change that. To show you that wanting joy didn’t make you selfish — that you deserved to be celebrated, loved, and seen, not for the image you built, but for who you really were.

So he made it his quiet mission. No grand announcement, no dramatic reveal — just a plan, brewing behind that calm smile of his.

This year, Sylus was going to make you enjoy your birthday again — whether you believed you deserved it or not.

While you were out managing your fashion empire — sharp heels clicking against marble floors, phone pressed to your ear as you negotiated contracts and creative visions — Sylus was halfway across in the N109 Zone, effortlessly juggling two very different worlds.

Between shady deals whispered over encrypted lines and brief meetings with contacts who preferred not to be named, he was making quiet reservations at your favorite fine dining restaurant, one known for its velvet interiors and skyline views.

To anyone else, it might’ve seemed like an odd juxtaposition — the man who lived in the shadows of Oninychinus, securing a table draped in white linen and candlelight — but to Sylus, it made perfect sense.

You had built your life around restraint, discipline, and quiet elegance, but beneath that soft-spoken composure was a woman who appreciated beauty, who found comfort in the details of luxury even if she’d never admit it.

And Sylus… he noticed.

He noticed how your eyes lingered on the rich fabric of a dress, how you admired the artistry of plating before taking a bite, how a single glass of fine wine could ease the tension in your shoulders after a long day.

You would never ask for it — but he was more than willing to give it.

Because beneath all your modesty and humility, he knew: you were meant for a life of quiet luxury and love — and Sylus planned to give you both, wrapped in the kind of tenderness money could never buy.

As Sylus confirmed the last of the arrangements — the soft piano playlist you loved, the custom menu tailored to your favorite dishes — he leaned back in his seat, exhaling a slow breath. The lights of flickered outside the tinted windows, casting fractured colors across his face.

And for the first time that day, his chest ached.

He thought of you — how you’d spend hours planning his birthdays, sneaking around to find the one thing he’d mentioned wanting months ago, and pretending it was no big deal when he caught you.

You always celebrated him so easily, so wholeheartedly. Yet when it came to yourself, you withdrew, claiming it wasn’t worth the effort.

You’d smile that small, practiced smile — the one that didn’t quite reach your eyes — and say, “It’s just another day, Sylus.”

But he knew better.

He knew the quiet kind of pain behind those words, the exhaustion of being the one who always gave and never asked.

He’d seen it in the way you brushed off compliments, in the way you worked yourself to the bone to build the life you had — not because you wanted praise, but because you had no other choice.

Now, as the city pulsed beneath him, Sylus pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the dull throb there. You’d survived so much, built an empire from nothing, learned how to be everything for everyone — except for yourself.

He closed his eyes, a small, sad smile tugging at his lips.

You always made the world beautiful for him. It was time he reminded you that you deserved that beauty too.

Before meeting you, Sylus wasn’t an emotional man — he never had been.

Feelings were liabilities in his world, distractions that dulled your instincts and slowed your trigger finger. He had learned to move through life like a ghost: sharp, calculating, untouchable.

But you… you were a different kind of danger.

He remembered the first time he’d seen you laugh — not the polite, reserved smile you wore in public, but the real one, the one that lit up your eyes like city lights after rain.

You had that rare ability to find beauty in chaos, to see hope where others saw nothing but ruin.

Even in the darker corners of his world, where morality blurred and violence was currency, you never recoiled. You met everything — and everyone — with quiet understanding.

And that haunted him.

He’d watched you care for people who didn’t deserve it, lift others up without expecting anything in return.

You never held a heavy heart; instead, you carried the weight of the world with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible.

Sometimes, when you’d fall asleep beside him after a long night, he’d just stare — tracing the slope of your shoulder, the soft rhythm of your breathing — wondering how someone like you could exist in a life like his.

Sylus was a man carved from frost and silence, but around you, the ice had begun to melt.

Now, as he stared out over the lights of the N109 Zone and the mountain of information from your favorite restaurants to your favorite activities on his desk, he realized something: when it came to you, there was no strategy, no defense, no restraint. There was only tunnel vision.

You were the one thing he couldn’t look away from — the warmth he’d never thought he deserved.

When your birthday came around, it was just another date on the calendar—another morning of answering emails, reviewing samples, and managing meetings.

You treated it like any other day, sipping your coffee while scrolling through messages that read more like polite formalities than genuine warmth.

You’d gotten good at pretending it didn’t sting.

That is, until your phone rang.

Sylus’ voice on the other end was smooth, casual—too casual. “You should leave work early, sweetie. I’m already downstairs,” he said.

No explanation, no hint of how or why, just that calm authority in his tone that always made you sigh and give in as you let your secretary know that you were leaving for the day.

By the time you stepped outside your office building, the last thing you expected was to see him leaning against a sleek, vintage sports car that looked like it had driven straight out of a dream. The sunset caught the polished chrome, throwing gold across the street.

You stopped in your tracks, blinking in disbelief.

“What’s all this?” you asked, laughing under your breath as you approached.

Sylus only tilted his head, opening the passenger door for you like a scene out of an old film. His silence was deliberate, his smirk faint but knowing.

You rolled your eyes, sliding into the seat, feeling the soft leather beneath your palms. The car roared to life with a low, velvety hum.

As he pulled into the street, he handed you a black gift bag from the backseat.

“I got you something,” he said simply.

You looked inside—red silk fabric, your exact size, and your style.

He’d been paying attention again.

“We’ll stop at home first,” he continued, one hand steady on the wheel. “Get ready. I’m taking you out tonight.”

You laughed, still thinking this was one of his dramatic whims, one of those nights where he needed a distraction from his world and chose you to be it.

“Sylus,” you said, half-teasing, half-curious, “you’re being strange.”

He didn’t answer, only glanced at you with that same small smirk—the one that always gave him away.

You didn’t know it then, but for Sylus, this wasn’t just another night. It was the beginning of him rewriting every lonely birthday you’d ever endured.

After getting ready at home, you took one last look in the mirror and felt your breath hitch.

The reflection staring back didn’t even look like the version of yourself who’d trudged through another ordinary morning.

Your hair fell into soft, effortless waves, brushing over your shoulders like the touch of a secret. Your makeup done beautifully, your lips glossy enough to look like a promise. And that dress—his dress—fit you like it was sewn onto your skin.

The red silk clung to your frame, rippling with every subtle movement. The slit up your thigh teased just enough to make your heart race, and the open back left you bare to the air, vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.

You shouldn’t have blushed—but you did. The woman in the mirror looked like she belonged in his world, and that thought alone made your stomach twist.

“Sweetie?” Sylus’ voice came from the hallway, low and deliberate. You could hear the smirk in it even before he stepped through the door. “Are you done getting ready?”

He stopped dead the moment he saw you.

For once, words didn’t come easy to him—only a slow exhale and that sharp flicker in his eyes, the kind that always made your knees feel a little weaker than you’d like to admit.

“You’re staring,” you murmured, pretending to adjust your earring just to avoid the heat in his gaze.

“I’m appreciating,” he corrected, closing the distance between you until you could feel the whisper of his breath at your jaw. “Seems like you’re ready enough.”

His hand found your waist, thumb brushing the bare skin at the dip of your back before he pressed a kiss to your neck—slow, deliberate, dangerous. You felt your pulse spike, the scent of his cologne clouding your thoughts.

“Come on,” he murmured against your skin, lips still curved into that insufferably smug smile. “We’ll be late for dinner.”

You barely managed to reply, heart still stuttering as he laced his fingers with yours and led you out the door—completely unaware that the night ahead would become one you’d never forget.

The private dining room was dimly lit, a warm golden hue reflecting off the crystal glasses and polished silverware.

Soft jazz played in the background—something you’d always found comforting—and for a moment, it almost felt like any other quiet night out with Sylus.

Until he reached beneath the table and slid something toward you.

You blinked when you saw it—a massive bouquet of red roses, each bloom impossibly perfect, their scent rich and heady in the air.

“Sylus…” you breathed, completely caught off guard.

He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.

“I know you hate celebrating your birthday because you think about how no one genuinely wants to celebrate you,” he said softly. His voice had lost that teasing edge, replaced with a kind of warmth that made your chest ache.

“But now you have me. And I want you to know that you are special—and that I’d celebrate your presence in every waking moment if I could.”

The words hit deeper than you expected.

You’d spent years convincing yourself that you didn’t need anyone to make your day feel important, that relying on others only led to disappointment. You’d learned to smile through loneliness, to plan your own happiness because no one else ever did.

But now… this man. This impossible, infuriating man who’d made a life out of being unshaken and unfeeling, looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth feeling for.

You blinked rapidly, but the tears fell anyway—hot and unwanted.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you whispered, voice trembling.

“I know,” Sylus said simply, reaching across the table to brush his thumb against your cheek. “That’s why I wanted to.”

You let out a quiet, shaky laugh, your heart twisting. For the first time in a long time, you felt seen—really seen. Not as a name, not as a company, not as a mask of strength. Just you.

When he stood to embrace you, you melted into his arms, the scent of roses clinging between you both. He didn’t say anything more, didn’t need to. His touch said it all—the unspoken promise that for once, you didn’t have to hold the world on your own.

And when he sat back down, casually calling the waiter and ordering for both of you without even glancing at the menu, you couldn’t help but smile through your tears.

Of course he remembered your order by heart.

After wrapping up with dinner, the soft flicker of the candlelight cast shadows across the private room, warm and intimate, catching on the sharp planes of Sylus’ face.

He looked unfairly good sitting across from you—dark shirt rolled at the sleeves, watch glinting faintly as his fingers played idly with the stem of his wine glass. He wasn’t even trying, and yet he still looked like a man straight out of a dream.

“Why?” you asked him softly, fingers tightening around your napkin. It came out almost as a whisper, fragile in the quiet room.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, no teasing smirk this time, no mask of the untouchable man who could buy out cities and never blink. Just Sylus. Just the man who’d somehow found a way past every wall you’d built.

“Because you deserve to be celebrated,” he said, voice low but sure, the kind of certainty that made your throat go tight.

“You may not feel like a gift to this world, sweetie, but to me…” He leaned forward slightly, his gaze unwavering, “…you are one of the greatest things to ever happen to me.”

The words hit like a slow-moving wave, cresting and breaking inside of you.

All the years you’d told yourself your birthday didn’t matter, all the moments you’d swallowed down disappointment and smiled anyway, all the times you convinced yourself no one cared enough to make it special—it cracked under the weight of what he was saying.

Maybe you could finally let go.

Maybe you could finally stop gripping the reins so tightly.

Because across the table was a man who loved you as if it were easier than breathing—who celebrated you without you ever needing to ask, who made the day you were born feel like a day worth remembering.

And for the first time in years, you felt the faintest spark of something you’d long buried: the urge to smile, to really smile, because you were happy.

You don’t remember the exact day it happened. Only the sunlight, the smell of freshly cut grass, and the sound of laughter that drifted over from the yard next door.

You were still in your ballet clothes—pink tights clinging to your legs, the satin slippers tied neatly at your ankles, your leotard hidden beneath a wrap skirt your mother had fussed over.

You had come back from class tired but proud, spinning your bag off your shoulder as you stepped onto the porch.

That’s when you heard her voice.

“Y/N!” Mei’s laugh carried over the fence, bright and carefree. She was in the garden again, her hair tied back with that ribbon she always wore. But this time, she wasn’t alone.

A boy stood beside her, taller than both of you, with sunlit brown hair and a smile that seemed too easy.

He held a basketball under one arm like it belonged there, the way some kids carried around books or violins. His other hand was reaching toward Mei, plucking a flower from her garden only to hand it right back to her with a boyish grin.

You slowed, your hand tightening around the strap of your ballet bag.

Mei spotted you first. “Y/N, come meet him!”

The boy turned then, eyes catching yours across the yard. Warm, open, as if he had known you longer than the two seconds his gaze had lingered.

“Hi,” he called, lifting a hand in greeting. “I’m Caleb.”

The sound of his name curled in your chest like something that would stick, though you didn’t know why.

You hesitated before stepping off the porch, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Y/N,” you said softly.

His eyes widened just a fraction as he looked you over, not in the way that made you squirm like some of the boys in school, but… curious. Gentle. His smile grew.

“You’re pretty,” Caleb said matter-of-factly, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. “I like your outfit.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks so quickly it startled you. Pretty? No one had ever said that before, at least not like that.

You dropped your gaze, fumbling for something to say, but your words tangled in your throat.

“T-thank you,” you mumbled, shifting your weight from one slipper to the other.

Mei giggled, teasing you both. “She just got back from ballet. She’s been dancing forever.”

“Ballet?” Caleb’s smile deepened, and he bounced the basketball against the ground once, letting it spin in his palm like it weighed nothing.

“That’s cool. I play basketball, but I think what you do is way harder.”

Your blush deepened, and for the first time, you didn’t think boys were icky. Not if they looked at you like that.

That was the day it started—the flutter in your chest that grew every time his name slipped into a conversation, every time you caught him leaning over Mei’s fence, every time he smiled in your direction.

You hadn’t known it then, but that summer afternoon with sun-drenched grass and a boy with kind eyes was when your crush on Caleb first bloomed.

When years had passed, the rhythm of your life fell into something almost cinematic.

Mornings began with iced coffee in one hand, books in the other, and Caleb slouched against your locker like he had all the time in the world.

His hair was always slightly mussed—messy in the way that looked intentional—and his smile came easy, especially when it was aimed at you.

“You’re late,” you’d say, tucking your books into your bag.

“You love that I’m late,” he’d reply without missing a beat. “Gives you a reason to scold me. Keeps our friendship spicy.”

You’d roll your eyes, ignoring how heat crawled up your neck. “Friendship doesn’t need spice, Caleb.”

He’d only grin, falling into step beside you as you walked to class. “Says who?”

It was always like this. Easy. Familiar. Too good, sometimes, for you to believe it could last.

At school, everyone noticed. The way he’d save you a seat without being asked. The way you’d slide your water bottle across the desk when you saw him rubbing at his temples after practice.

You were the class valedictorian, the untouchable ballerina, the girl who seemed to glide above the mess of high school politics.

Caleb was the golden boy—captain of the basketball team, sharp enough to rival you in grades, and charming enough to make everyone forget how competitive he actually was.

Together, you were… untouchable.

“Power couple energy,” one of your classmates whispered as you and Caleb entered the library side by side.

You’d ignored it, pretending to focus on your notes while Caleb leaned closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours.

“Power couple, huh?” he muttered, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he was fighting a smirk.

You shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Focus, Caleb.”

“I am focusing,” he said, tapping his pencil against his notebook. “Just not on chemistry.”

Your stomach flipped in a way you absolutely refused to acknowledge.

Every time someone teased you, you pulled out your excuse like armor.

“My studies and ballet come first.”

It worked. It shut down questions. It made you sound untouchable, focused, mature.

But deep down?

It was a lie you were starting to struggle with.

Because there were moments—tiny, fleeting ones—that made it hard to ignore what your heart wanted.

Like after ballet practice, when Caleb waited outside the studio even though he claimed it was “on his way home” (he wasn’t obligated to yet he still did). He’d lean against the railing, headphones hanging around his neck, and hand you your favorite drink without a word.

“Tough class?” he’d ask, eyes glinting with something that looked too much like fondness.

“Always is,” you’d reply, tightening the ribbons of your ballet bag.

And then he’d walk you home, the streetlights casting shadows across his face, his hands shoved in his pockets. He never said much on those walks, but the silence was… nice. Comfortable. Like you didn’t need words to fill it.

Of course, your friends picked up on all of it.

“Seriously, Y/N,” Mei teased one afternoon, nudging your side as Caleb grabbed both your trays in the cafeteria and carried them over like it was nothing.

“If you don’t date him, someone else will.”

You nearly choked on your water. “We’re just friends.”

“Friends don’t look at each other like that,” she sang, grinning as Caleb slid into the seat beside you instead of across.

You wanted to argue, to deny, to hide behind the safety of “dance and your grades” again, but the words stuck in your throat when Caleb leaned in, whispering something about the basketball game later that evening. His breath tickled your ear, and you nearly forgot how to breathe.

Late at night, when your pointe shoes sat by the door and your textbooks were spread across your desk, you let yourself admit the truth in silence.

You didn’t want to be Caleb’s competition.

You wanted to be his.

You and Caleb were practically attached at the hip, and everybody knew it. He’d wait for you after ballet, you’d wait for him after basketball—it was just the way things worked, and it slowly turned into a routine.

But today, your feet hated you. Every step home felt like walking on knives, and you were trying really hard not to show it.

“Why are you walking like a penguin?” Caleb asked, squinting at you with barely hidden amusement.

“I’m not walking like a penguin,” you said primly, lifting your chin.

“Yes, you are. A very… tragic one. Like, if penguins had bad knees.”

You glared at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He just grinned and crouched down in front of you. “Hop on.”

Your eyes went wide. “Hop on—?! Are you insane?”

“Relax, it’s called a piggyback ride,” he said, patting his shoulder like this was perfectly normal. “Train’s not that far. Unless you wanna crawl.”

Your jaw dropped. “I can walk, thank you very much.”

He turned his head, arching a brow.

“Y/N. You’re literally limping like you lost a fight with your pointe shoes.”

“I didn’t lose—” you began indignantly, but he cut you off by wiggling his shoulders.

“Get on before I force you.”

You sputtered, pointing at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smirked. “Try me.”

Your heart hammered in your chest. With a dramatic sigh, you finally climbed on, muttering, “If you drop me, I’m haunting you forever.”

“Noted,” he said, standing with zero effort. “Wow, you weigh like… nothing. This is easy.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, burying your face in his shoulder to hide how red your cheeks were.

He laughed, the sound vibrating against you, and you wanted to melt into the pavement.

After a moment, you blurted out, “My recital’s in a month. You and Mei better come since it’s my graduation solo.”

“Duh. Wouldn’t miss it,” he said immediately.

Your chest tightened. Stupid Caleb. Stupid dependable Caleb.

By the time you reached your house, you were already flustered beyond repair. He set you down gently, grinning like he had no idea he’d just ruined your life.

“See? Told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“You’re insufferable,” you repeated, but your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly—before leaning down and pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

Your brain short-circuited.

You squeaked out a “GOODNIGHT” and slammed the door shut so fast you nearly took the hinges off.

From the kitchen, your mom called, “Sweetie? Who was that?”

“CALEB!” you shrieked, throwing your bag onto the floor. “I’M FINE, NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT! GOODNIGHT MOM!”

You sprinted to your room, collapsed on your bed, and screamed into your pillow.

Why did he have to be like that? Why did he have to carry you like you weighed nothing, kiss your forehead like it was the most casual thing in the world, and look at you with those stupid, perfect eyes?

You groaned and kicked your blankets. He was going to be the death of you.

On the other hand, Caleb barely had time to step back before the door slammed in his face. He blinked once, then chuckled under his breath.

You were probably pacing in your room right now, cheeks red, hands flailing at the air like you always did when you didn’t know what to do with yourself. He could practically picture it.

And god, he liked that image way too much.

Caleb shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back over to his house, the cool night air doing nothing to calm the warmth buzzing in his chest.

He hadn’t planned on kissing your forehead—it had just… happened.

One second you were looking up at him with those wide, tired doe eyes, and the next, he was leaning down like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And your reaction? Priceless.

He grinned to himself. He lived for that look on your face—the way your bravado crumbled in two seconds flat, the way you’d squeak out some excuse or throw an insult to cover how flustered you were. He teased you for it, sure, but only because he thought it was the cutest thing in the world.

The truth was, Caleb liked you. A lot more than he should.

More than just “the girl next door” or “my best friend’s best friend.” Somewhere along the way, between waiting for you after ballet and seeing you asleep at study sessions with ink smudges on your fingers, it had shifted.

And now? He was doomed.

“Caleb!” a voice called behind him. He turned to see Mei jogging to catch up as he entered the driveway, a knowing grin plastered across her face.

She’d seen. Of course she had.

Caleb groaned. “Don’t.”

Mei raised her brows, all mock innocence. “Don’t what? I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“I’m always thinking it,” she shot back, smirking. “You really kissed her goodnight?”

Caleb rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling sixteen again. “It wasn’t—it was just—look, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Oh, sure,” Mei said, rolling her eyes. “Totally not a big deal. That’s why you’re grinning like you just won the championship.”

He tried to school his face into something neutral, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, tugging up anyway.

Mei laughed. “You like her.”

“Shut up,” Caleb muttered, but there was no heat in it.

“You liiike her.”

He sighed, shoving her shoulder gently. “Yeah. I do.”

Saying it out loud didn’t make it lighter—it made it heavier, sinking into his chest, real and inescapable.

And as much as he loved teasing you, deep down he wondered if he’d ever work up the nerve to tell you that all of it—every smirk, every sarcastic jab, every little forehead kiss—was just his way of saying he was already yours.

The next day at school, you were still replaying last night in your head.

Every time your mind wandered back to the way Caleb leaned down, the brush of his lips against your forehead, the way your heart practically did a pirouette in your chest—your face burned all over again.

You swore you weren’t going to think about it anymore, but of course, the universe had other plans.

Because Caleb was leaning against your locker, that easy grin tugging at his mouth, when you arrived.

“Practice got canceled,” he announced, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You raised a brow. “Okay… and?”

He shrugged, already grabbing your books like it was second nature. “Means I can take you to the studio today. You’re welcome.”

You blinked at him, a little thrown. “Oh—um, thanks?”

“Don’t sound too excited,” he teased, nudging your shoulder with his.

You tried to roll your eyes, to play it off, but then you noticed the bag slung over his other arm. Not his basketball duffel—something smaller, colorful, and very familiar.

“…What’s that?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Caleb glanced at the bag like he’d forgotten he was holding it, then smirked. “This? Oh, nothing. Just your favorite snacks.”

Your mouth parted slightly. “Why?”

His grin widened, infuriatingly cheeky. “Had to fuel you up so our ballerina will be as graceful as a swan.”

You groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re smiling,” he shot back, and you cursed the fact that he was right.

The bus ride was worse. He kept sliding the snack bag toward you on the seat, humming like he wasn’t blatantly trying to make you laugh. By the time you reached the ballet studio, your cheeks hurt from grinning too much.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

As you stepped off the bus, one of your ballet classmates spotted you—and her eyes went straight to Caleb, who was holding the strap of your dance bag like he was your personal assistant.

“Who’s that?” she asked, curiosity dripping in her tone.

You quickly snatched the bag from him. “He’s—he’s just a guy I grew up with. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Your friend smirked, unconvinced. “Mhm. Right. Just a guy. Who carries your bag. And buys you snacks. And looks at you like that.”

You felt your face heat instantly. “He does not—”

“Bye, Swan Lake,” Caleb called behind you, giving a little wave as you were practically dragged into the studio by your friend.

The teasing only got worse after rehearsal. Because there Caleb was again, leaning casually against the studio wall, scrolling through his phone like he hadn’t just made your day more complicated.

You barely had time to change out of your leotard before your friends descended on you like a pack of wolves.

“So…” one of them drawled, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Who’s the tall, handsome guy waiting outside for you again?”

You froze mid-sip of water. “He’s—he’s just Caleb.”

“Just Caleb,” another friend repeated with mock seriousness. “Right, and I’m just casually being chauffeured around by Timothée Chalamet.”

The studio erupted in giggles.

“Guys, seriously—” you started, but they were relentless.

“Oh, come on, Y/N. He carries your stuff, buys your favorite snacks, and shows up like some leading man from a drama. He’s basically your boyfriend.”

You nearly choked. “He’s NOT—!”

“He came back,” your friend muttered, staring between the two of you like she’d cracked some kind of code.

“Of course he did,” you huffed, grabbing your bag. “He’s… reliable. That’s all.”

“Ready to go?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your friends exchanged looks like they’d just won the lottery.

“Ready to go,” one of them whispered dramatically. “You guys hear that? Prince Charming wants to whisk her away.”

You covered your face with your hands, mortified. “I hate you all.”

But Caleb? Oh, he was eating this up.

“Wow, so this is what you tell your friends about me?” he said, leaning against the doorframe, that cocky little smirk tugging at his mouth.

“I—NO—I don’t—!” you sputtered, words tripping over themselves.

One of your friends snickered. “Oh, she talks about you plenty.”

Your jaw dropped. “I DO NOT!”

Caleb tilted his head, pretending to think. “Huh. Good to know.” He winked, and you swore your soul left your body.

“Anyway, let’s go,” he added smoothly, walking over to grab your bag before you could protest. “See you ladies later.”

Your friends waved sweetly. “Bye, Caleb! Come back soon!”

You groaned, dragging him out of the studio. “You don’t have to enjoy this so much, you know.”

“Enjoy what?” he said innocently, though his grin betrayed him. “I’m just here to pick you up.”

You glared. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet…” he leaned closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “…you still let me.”

Your face burned, and Caleb just laughed, walking ahead like he hadn’t just destroyed you with one line.

That night, as you lay in bed, memories of your childish innocence start to plague your mind.

The two of you as children, barefoot in the grass between your houses.

You were maybe seven, him eight, your pointe shoes dangling from your hands after practice. Fireflies blinked lazily in the summer night, and your laughter echoed like bells.

“Caleb,” you had asked suddenly, voice small but earnest, “what happens when we grow up? Will we still…be like this?”

He had grinned at you, his boyish confidence shining even then. “Of course. I’ll be your forever.”

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unsure if he meant it. But Caleb had doubled down, puffing out his chest.

“One day, when we’re older, I’ll marry you. You won’t need anyone else. Just me.”

You’d giggled, face hot, and whispered, “You promise?”

“Promise,” he said without hesitation, pinky wrapping around yours beneath the stars.

For years after, the memory lived quietly inside you. Sometimes, when he carried your ballet bag without being asked, or teased you until your cheeks turned scarlet, you wondered—maybe he is my forever.

Your mind then shifted over to the memory that would solidify your feelings for Caleb forever.

It had been one of those lazy spring afternoons, the air sweet with jasmine and sun-warmed earth. The garden at your house was bursting with color, and the two of you sat side by side on the stone bench your mother always said was “too pretty to actually sit on.”

You were still in your practice leotard, legs tucked under you, as your gaze lands on the boy in front of you. You were both fourteen, and Caleb had definitely grown taller, handsomer even.

Meanwhile, Caleb, dirt smudged on his hands from helping Mei with the flowers earlier, leaned back on his palms, head tilted toward the sky.

“Don’t you ever get tired?” he asked suddenly, squinting at you.

You raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being…well, you.” He gestured vaguely, cheeks a little pink. “Perfect ballerina. Perfect grades. Always smiling. Always…” He trailed off, flustered.

You laughed, but it wasn’t the light, airy laugh everyone at school loved. It was quieter, softer—like something you only gave to him.

“I’m not perfect, Caleb. You just think I am.”

He turned his head, catching your gaze, and for a second you swore he could see straight through you.

“Maybe,” he said with a small grin. “But I like thinking it.”

You rolled your eyes, looking down at your lap, trying to will the heat in your face to disappear. “You’re ridiculous.”

But then, in the hush that followed, you found yourself whispering, “Sometimes, when I’m dancing, it feels like I can’t breathe without someone there to catch me.”

Caleb leaned a little closer, so close you could smell the faint trace of that apple cologne and sunshine on his skin.

“Then you don’t have to worry,” he murmured, almost like it was a secret between you. “If you ever fall, I’ll catch you.”

You blinked at him, heart skipping in that reckless, unfamiliar way it always did around him. Before you could reply, Mei came running down the path, calling your names, breaking the moment apart.

But that memory—the sunlight, the scent of roses, the way Caleb’s voice had sounded like a promise—it stuck with you. Even when you tried to forget.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

The first time Caleb didn’t meet you outside the studio, you figured he must’ve had basketball practice run late. He always did push extra drills after everyone else was done. When you got home, you found a text:

Caleb🍎: Coach kept me late, sorry Swan. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.

You smiled to yourself, not thinking twice. Of course, he was busy—he was Caleb, after all.

But then, “tomorrow” never quite came.

One day it was the student council meeting running long.

The next, it was helping a teammate with stats homework.

After that, a last-minute committee for homecoming decorations.

Each time, he’d deliver the excuse with that same easy smile, as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if you’d just… understand. And you did. You always did.

Until you realized you were going to walk home from the studio alone. Again.

The studio clock ticked far too loudly in the quiet. Everyone else had already left, the lights dimmed except for the one above the mirrors where you sat on the polished floor, stretching absentmindedly.

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark.

Caleb had promised—again—that he’d swing by after practice. But practice had run late. Or maybe he got caught up with Gideon. Or maybe something else entirely. Either way, he wasn’t here.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You’d grown used to walking home alone after awhile, the cool night air brushing against your tired limbs. Still, a small ache tugged at your chest.

The creak of the studio door startled you.

“Y/n?”

You looked up, wide-eyed, and there he was—Zayne Li, your other childhood friend.

Taller than the last time you saw him, dressed casually but somehow still carrying that composed air that medical school had given him. His dark hair was a little messy, his smile instantly warm.

“Zayne?” Your voice cracked slightly from surprise.

He stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

“Your mom said you weren’t home, so I figured…” His gaze flicked around the empty studio, landing back on you. “And here you are. Still the same ballerina who refuses to rest.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly. “What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t back until the holidays.”

“Weekend break,” he said simply, walking over to you. “I couldn’t not check in. Besides—” he crouched down so you were eye-level “—you didn’t really think I’d miss watching you practice, did you?”

The words wrapped around you like a hug. You blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in your eyes. Zayne always had this effect—appearing when you least expected it, reminding you that you weren’t as alone as you sometimes felt.

He noticed the silence, tilting his head.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you whispered quickly, too quickly. You busied yourself with tying and untying your pointe shoe ribbons.

“I just…thought someone was going to come pick me up, but they got busy. It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

Zayne frowned, but instead of pressing, he sighed and stood up. “Then I suppose it’s my turn,” he said, extending his hand toward you. The same familiar smile from years ago lit his face.

“Come on, Odette. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated only for a moment before slipping your hand into his. His grip was steady, grounding, the kind that never wavered. For once, you were grateful for the stoic man in front of you in all the years that you’ve known each other.

At lunch the following week, you sat with Mei and a few friends, tapping your pencil against your untouched food. Caleb was across the cafeteria, laughing with his teammates and a group of girls from the cheer squad.

“Is it just me,” one of your friends said carefully, “or does Caleb… not hang around here as much anymore?”

You stiffened. “He’s just busy. Basketball season is intense this year, and he’s captain. You know how it is.”

Mei frowned, pushing her tray aside. “Yeah, but he’s always busy now. He used to wait with us, even if he had practice. Now it’s like—” she waved a hand, “we’re not even on his radar.”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “It’s fine. Really. He’s probably just juggling a lot of things. He’ll… he’ll come around.”

But as your words faded, the sound of Caleb’s laughter carried across the cafeteria, and you felt a strange hollowness settle in your chest.

Walking home that day, one of your ballet friends nudged you.

“You know,” she said with a knowing look, “if my guy started ditching me like that, I’d start wondering.”

“Wondering what?” you asked, a little sharper than you intended.

“That maybe he doesn’t care as much as you think.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to snap back, to tell her she didn’t understand Caleb like you did. But all you could manage was a weak:

“…He’s just busy.”

And with that, you walked faster, as though you could leave the ache behind with every step.

It was late at night when you finally let yourself flop onto your bed, hair still damp from your shower, ballet bag tossed carelessly to the side.

Your legs ached from hours of practice, but it wasn’t the usual burn that left you proud of yourself. Tonight, it just felt… heavy.

You picked up your phone out of habit, scrolling absently through your moments feed, liking photos of classmates, tapping through stories. And then—

There he was.

Caleb. Arm slung lazily around Gideon’s shoulder, his grin wide and careless as a few other friends crowded into frame. A caption:

Golden boy squad ✨ late nights >>> practice stress.

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

“…Has he already forgotten about me?” you whispered into the quiet of your room, the words tasting bitter even as you said them.

You thought back to when Caleb used to text you after every practice—complaining about assignments, sending blurry photos of the court, or simply: you home safe? It had been your constant. Your tether.

Now? Nothing. Not even a stray emoji.

You tossed your phone face-down onto the pillow, but it didn’t stop the flood of thoughts. Slowly, painfully, you realized:

The Caleb who used to tease you after ballet, who knew how you liked your snacks, who’d walk you home even if it meant running late for himself—that Caleb was gone.

And in his place stood someone you barely recognized. A stranger who smiled at everyone, but no longer just for you.

You curled into yourself, blinking back the sting in your eyes. Maybe it was silly—overdramatic, even.

You told yourself it was just life, that people grew, that this was normal. But deep in your chest, it felt like something was splintering, the kind of crack you couldn’t fix with excuses anymore.

For the first time, you wondered if you’d lost your Caleb forever.

Months blurred together. What began as little shifts—Caleb missing lunch, forgetting to wait for you after ballet—became the new normal.

The casual texts, the easy laughter, the stolen little moments that had been the rhythm of your days… all gone.

You stopped waiting.

At first, you still looked for him in the halls, still left space beside you in the cafeteria, still glanced toward the gym to see if he’d catch up. But with each silence, each excuse, each time he breezed by with nothing more than a smile that didn’t quite reach you, something inside you withered.

So you stopped.

You stopped calling. You stopped waiting. You even started slipping out of rooms the moment he walked in, brushing past with polite smiles that stung more than they soothed. You still clung to Mei—your constant, your sister-in-everything—but Caleb? You built a wall and shut him out.

Caleb noticed, of course.

It hit him in the quiet moments—how your laughter no longer spilled across the cafeteria table, how he’d catch only glimpses of your hair in the hallway before you disappeared around the corner. He thought it was strange, but Mei’s reminder grounded him.

“Her recital’s soon,” she said one day, tying her shoelaces with a sigh. “She’s probably drowning in rehearsals, you know how she gets.”

Caleb nodded, a little too quickly. “Right. That’s it.”

It was easier to believe that than to look too closely at the empty space you left behind. Easier to chalk it up to your perfectionism, to the looming recital, to the pressure of graduation. Easier to tell himself you were just busy—just like him.

What Caleb didn’t see was how badly his neglect had carved into you. How the distance wasn’t just circumstance, but choice. How the boy who once felt like home now felt like a stranger.

And though your recital and graduation loomed ahead—two milestones you once dreamed of sharing with him—you weren’t sure if Caleb even belonged in those dreams anymore.

The track was quiet except for the steady rhythm of sneakers against pavement and the sound of Caleb’s breathing beside Mei.

They’d been running together for years, and normally Caleb’s competitive streak would’ve had him teasing her for falling behind or pushing her to sprint the last stretch. But today, Mei’s silence pressed heavy.

She slowed, tugging her earbuds out, and finally said it.

“You know you’ve really hurt her, right?”

Caleb frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

“What are you talking about?”

Mei shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief.

“Don’t play dumb, Caleb. I’m talking about, Y/N.”

Your name alone made his steps falter. Caleb blinked, suddenly hyperaware of the way his chest tightened.

“Hurt her? I haven’t—Mei, she knows how busy I’ve been. Practices, team meetings, the fundraiser, college applications—”

“Don’t you dare use that as an excuse.” Mei cut him off, her tone sharp in a way that made Caleb’s jaw click shut.

“Everyone’s busy. I’m busy. She’s busy. But she never once stopped making time for you. She never stopped waiting for you. And you—you just let her stand there, looking like a fool while you brushed her off with that golden-boy smile of yours.”

Her words landed like blows. Caleb opened his mouth, grasping for something—anything—to soften it.

“She’s always understood me, Mei. Since we were kids. I thought…” He dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair, searching for the right words. “I thought she knew.”

That earned him a laugh—sharp, bitter, completely humorless. “Knew what? That she didn’t matter? That you’d drop her the second something shinier came along?”

“Mei—”

“No. Don’t ‘Mei’ me.” She stopped dead in the middle of the path, forcing him to turn and face her. Her expression was stern, eyes blazing.

“Do you even realize how embarrassing it’s been for her? Everyone could see it—how much you two adored each other. You were practically written into each other’s lives. And then you pulled away, made her look like she’d been the only one invested all along.”

Caleb’s throat went dry. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Mei’s voice softened, but her words cut deeper.

“I see her every day before she goes to school and ballet, Caleb. Every single day. And every time, she’s a little quieter, a little dimmer. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone who used to shine so bright just… fade? Because I do. I’ve been watching it happen to my best friend for months. And you—” She jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You’re the reason.”

Caleb stood there, silent, his breath loud in the hush between them. He wanted to fight it, to argue, to insist he hadn’t meant it like that. But he thought of you—your tired smile, the way you’d stopped meeting his eyes in class, how you slipped out of rooms before he even got the chance to say hi.

And for the first time, he realized Mei was right.

Mei’s hand dropped, her tone gentler now but still firm.

“She loved being around you, Caleb. You made her feel safe. And you’ve been too blind, too selfish to notice how much your absence has wrecked her. So if you care about her—even half as much as she cared about you—you’d better get your act together.”

She started jogging again, leaving Caleb rooted on the track, chest heaving for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.

For the first time in months, the thought of losing you hit him square in the gut. And it terrified him.

The theater lights dimmed, and the hushed chatter of the crowd fell into silence.

Caleb leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the stage. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—he knew you were talented, everyone did—but when the music swelled and you stepped onto the stage, it was like the air itself shifted.

You looked ethereal, every movement precise yet effortless, the kind of grace that drew every eye in the room.

Caleb’s breath caught in his throat. That’s her, he thought. Not just the girl next door, not just his best friend, not just the one who used to wait for him after practice.

You were… radiant.

Beside him, Mei whispered, “She’s incredible.”

He nodded, unable to tear his gaze away.

But then Mei added, her voice low, almost cautious, “She’s been accepted into the most prestigious ballet academy in SkyHaven.”

Caleb’s head whipped toward her. “What? Since when?”

Mei didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on you, proud and sad all at once.

“You knew?” Caleb’s voice dropped to a hiss, half teasing, half accusing. “And she told you, but not me?”

Mei’s smile faltered. She finally turned to him, and there was no playfulness in her expression.

“You stopped paying mind to her, Caleb. In turn, she stopped waiting for you.”

The words hit harder than he expected, knocking the breath right out of him. His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges. He turned back to the stage, but suddenly it felt like he was watching from a distance—like there was glass between him and the girl he thought he knew.

The final note rang out, and you landed in perfect stillness, the crowd erupting into applause. Flowers showered the stage, cheers filling the hall. Caleb clapped, but his stomach churned.

When the curtain fell and the audience spilled into the lobby, he followed Mei through the crowd, ready to congratulate you, maybe apologize, maybe just say something.

But then he saw you.

You stood by your parents, radiant in your costume, cheeks flushed with victory. And beside you was a man Caleb didn’t recognize—tall, poised, just a little older, carrying himself with quiet confidence.

He held out a bouquet of white jasmines and blue hydrangeas, the blooms delicate and striking in the theater lights.

You smiled as you accepted them—really smiled, the kind that reached your eyes, the kind Caleb hadn’t seen directed at him in months.

Mei stilled beside him. Caleb’s heart plummeted.

Because it wasn’t him standing at your side anymore.

It was someone else.

Caleb and Mei finally managed to reach you, just as you tucked the jasmine and hydrangea bouquet close to your chest.

“Y/n,” Mei beamed, hugging you tight. “You were phenomenal.”

“Seriously,” Caleb added, his voice rougher than he intended. “You killed it out there.”

Your face lit up as you glanced between the two of them. “Thank you,” you breathed, that familiar warmth in your eyes—but before Caleb could say more, you turned slightly, tugging the man at your side closer.

“Oh, and this is my boyfriend,” you said proudly, “and future cardiac surgeon extraordinaire, Zayne Li.”

Caleb froze. Boyfriend? Since when?

The word ricocheted in his skull, sharp and final. Zayne extended a hand, his grip confident, his smile effortless. Caleb shook it numbly, his heart splintering in his chest.

He’d heard the name before. Of course he had. Zayne Li—the Zayne Li. The man who was always there when he wasn’t.

The one you used to mention in passing, always with a fondness Caleb pretended not to notice. The one who, despite grueling hours in medical school, never missed a single recital of yours. The one who sometimes picked you up from class when he was in town, Caleb catching glimpses of him leaning casually against his car as you ran into his arms.

Mei had always rolled her eyes whenever Zayne came up in conversation, joking about how he was too perfect and that maybe you should marry him instead, but Caleb… Caleb had been wary. And now he understood why.

Because Zayne wasn’t just perfect—he was yours.

“Come to my celebratory dinner tonight,” you said suddenly, your excitement bubbling over. “At my house. Please, both of you. I’d love for you to come.”

Caleb managed a stiff nod, but his mind was unraveling.

Of course. Of course it was Zayne. The man your parents adored, the man they always thought would be your match, the man who was actually there when Caleb wasn’t.

The pieces slammed into place like cruel puzzle edges—your dimming smile, your silence in the halls, the way you stopped waiting for him.

You hadn’t just pulled away. You’d stopped waiting for Caleb to catch up, and Zayne had been right there to hold you steady.

Caleb felt sick.

He’d been so blind.

The days that followed blurred together like a film running too fast. Spring melted into summer, rehearsals into finals, and before Caleb could even process it, the end of their high school years was staring him in the face.

He saw you in fragments now—always from a distance.

You walking down the hall with Mei, your laughter trailing behind you. You in the courtyard, Zayne sometimes appearing at your side with that easy smile. You leaving the school in your practice clothes, hair still pinned back, bouquet in hand from Zayne who sends you flowers for no reason all the way from SkyHaven.

Once, you would’ve waited for him. Once, he would’ve been the one at your side.

But “once” felt like a lifetime ago.

And then, in what felt like a blink, it was graduation day.

The auditorium was packed, a sea of caps and gowns, proud families waving from the stands. Caleb sat stiffly in his seat, hands clenched on his lap as he watched you climb onto the podium, valedictorian sash glinting under the lights.

You stood there with poise, confidence radiating from you like it always had. The girl he’d grown up with—the girl who’d been his constant—was now someone untouchable.

“I would like to thank all the friends I’ve made on my journey,” your voice rang clear, steady, proud. “To the people I love, thank you for becoming an inspiration. Though a lot of things had been left unsaid for me, I hope we all reach our dreams and live life with the same purpose until the end! This is Y/n L/n—congratulations, everyone!”

Applause erupted, cheers echoing off the walls. Caleb clapped numbly, his throat tight, heart heavy.

You smiled into the mic, radiant and untouchable. And then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he saw you step down and laugh, right into the waiting arms of Zayne.

Caleb’s chest constricted.

You had once been his maybe. His almost. His what-if.

But he realized it too late.

Now, you were completely out of reach.

It was strange how easily life could carry you forward. One moment, you were walking across the graduation stage, and the next, you were hauling suitcases into dormitories and learning to live in a brand-new city.

Caleb found himself at the DAA in SkyHaven, the air around him filled with ambition and the familiar thrill of competition. He had friends, classes, and the court—but still, there was a piece of him missing.

That piece of him showed up one late afternoon.

You.

You were waiting outside a café, hair pinned loosely, a book resting in your lap as you stirred a coffee absentmindedly. When Caleb walked past, your eyes flicked up—and for a second, it was like nothing had changed. You smiled.

“Caleb.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You looked so much more grown, so much more sure of yourself, yet still the girl who once tripped over her pointe shoes in front of him, giggling until your stomach hurt.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said softly, sliding into the seat across from you.

For a while, you both just sat there, a comfortable silence stretching between you before Caleb finally spoke.

“I… I missed this. Us. Talking like this.”

Your smile faltered a little, eyes lowering to the rim of your cup. “I missed it too. But things change, Caleb. We’ve both… changed.”

He nodded, but it didn’t make the ache any less sharp. “I just keep thinking—I could’ve done better by you. Been there more. Maybe things would’ve…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

“Caleb.” Your voice was gentle, a quiet cut through his rambling. “You don’t need to apologize. I’ll always be grateful for what we had—for the memories, the laughter, all of it. You were my best friend.”

The lump in his throat was unbearable. “But not anymore?”

You paused, then reached across the table, your fingers brushing against his.

“You’ll always be special to me. But Zayne…” you exhaled softly, as if saying his name already explained it all. “Zayne makes me happy. He’s been there in ways I didn’t realize I needed. And I can’t turn away from that.”

Caleb swallowed hard, forcing a crooked smile. “Yeah. Of course. I’m glad he makes you happy.”

You squeezed his hand, eyes soft. “But I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Because I do. I’ll always root for you, Caleb. Always.”

He laughed lightly, though it was hollow in his chest. “Guess you’ll always be my Swan then, huh?”

You giggled, and for a fleeting second, it was like the years hadn’t drifted between you. “And you’ll always be my golden boy.”

The moment lingered, fragile, fleeting. Caleb wanted to hold onto it, but deep down, he knew this was closure.

You had moved forward with your heart, and all he could do was learn how to move forward with his.

Caleb walked back to his dorm alone, the city lights painting the pavement gold. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, but no matter how tightly he clenched them, he couldn’t stop the hollow ache in his chest.

He had loved you. He realized it now—too late, when the words could no longer change anything.

Every laugh, every shy smile you gave him, every time you scolded him for teasing you too much… he had brushed it off as “just us.” But it wasn’t. It had been everything.

And he had let it slip through his fingers.

Caleb stopped on the bridge that overlooked the river, leaning on the cold railing. The water shimmered below, restless, moving forward no matter what stood in its way.

“Guess that’s what I have to do too,” he murmured, half to himself. Moving forward. Even if a part of his heart still lingered in the memory of a ballerina who once laughed with him until the stars came out.

Meanwhile, you were waiting on another side of the city.

Zayne’s figure came into view as he jogged toward you, hair a little tousled, his white shirt clinging faintly from the run. He carried a small bouquet—jasmines and blue hydrangeas, your favorites.

“There she is,” Zayne grinned, catching his breath as he reached you. “My beautiful Odette.”

You laughed softly, warmth bubbling in your chest as he handed you the flowers. “You didn’t have to bring these, you know.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You had a long day. Figured you could use something beautiful—though, honestly, the flowers don’t stand a chance next to you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and for a moment, you just stared at him—the boy who had grown into a man, the one who had been there quietly, steadfastly, through every stumble and triumph.

When Zayne leaned down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, you felt something settle inside you. Safety. Belonging. Love.

“Ready to head home?” he asked, offering his hand.

You slipped your fingers into his, smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as the two of you walked down the quiet street together, laughter spilling between you, neither of you noticed the figure on the bridge in the distance, watching the same stars.

Caleb was learning to let go, and you were learning how to hold on.

You’ve never been one to do things halfway.

From the moment you stepped into your first NFL locker room as an intern, microphone shaking slightly in your hand, you knew you’d fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. And you did.

You clawed your way from rookie sideline reporter to the woman everyone looked to for breaking stories. The NBA followed, then an award or two, and soon enough, Formula 1 came knocking.

You’ve always been easygoing — the kind of woman who can laugh with a PR team one second and grill a head coach the next — but you don’t tolerate nonsense when it comes to your work. You’re sharp, thorough, and relentless when chasing a story, and that reputation precedes you.

Even now, as you step onto the paddock for the first time, credential swinging from your neck and heels clicking on the asphalt, you feel that old rush of purpose.

This is where you’re meant to be. The air is thick with gasoline and competition, fans screaming from the fences, cameras flashing — and you thrive in it.

You’ve followed Formula 1 for years, but secretly, you’ve always had a favorite: Scuderia Ferrari’s silver-haired, red-eyed prodigy, Sylus Qin.

You’ve watched him rise from his F2 debut to the big leagues, and maybe, just maybe, you’re a little biased. Not that you’d ever let that slip.

You’re here to work — to break stories, to get the inside scoop, to prove that women like you belong in this world.

Still, as you catch sight of him in Ferrari red across the paddock, laughing with his engineer under the blistering sun, your breath catches just a little.

Just because you’re a boss doesn’t mean you’re immune to a pretty face.

On the other hand, Sylus had been in Formula 1 long enough to know the rhythm of a race weekend.

Three seasons in the red meant press calls, simulator sessions, briefings, sponsors — rinse, repeat. He moved through it with the easy swagger of someone who knew exactly where he stood.

The fans adored him, the team relied on him, and the media couldn’t get enough of his sharp one-liners and devastating smiles.

But lately, he found himself scanning the press room for a different reason.

He spotted you almost immediately, notebook in hand, camera slung across your shoulder like an extension of your body.

You weren’t like the others — no frantic scrambling for clickbait, no shouting questions just to get a sound bite. You asked the right ones, the kind that made him pause and think before answering. And God, did he look forward to it.

Even now, as he slid into his chair at the press conference table, he felt that spark of anticipation — searching the rows until he found you. There you were, leaning forward slightly, focus sharp, lips pressed together in quiet concentration as the moderator read the first question.

Sylus hid a smirk behind his water bottle.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself — polished but not performative, with just enough steel in your voice to match his own — but he couldn’t help himself.

He liked the chase. The subtle game between the two of you. The way you barely flinched when he teased you, when his gaze lingered a second too long after answering one of your questions.

“Ready?” his race engineer muttered beside him.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to you.

“Always,” he replied — though he wasn’t talking about the race.

You were always meticulous about separating your personal life from work. Everyone was aware of this, and it was one of the reasons why you were so incredibly successful in your field.

You asked clean, sharp questions, never letting yourself get flustered or crossing any lines. People trusted you for that.

Everyone except Sylus, that is.

“Journalist of the Year,” he drawled as he stepped into the media pen, still in his fireproofs, hair damp from the helmet. He was grinning like he had just been told the world’s funniest joke. “Are you going to ask me something difficult today, or can I relax?”

“I always ask difficult questions,” you shot back, pen poised over your notepad. “It’s not my fault if you keep giving me easy answers.”

The other journalists laughed under their breath, and Sylus tilted his head, red eyes glinting in amusement.

“Careful,” he said, leaning just a little closer so only you could hear. “One day you might make me work too hard, and then I’ll have to find another reason to keep coming back here.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction — not really.

Just a slight quirk of your brow as you fired off your question about Ferrari’s strategy calls, perfectly professional. Still, you caught the small smirk he tried to hide when he answered you, just vague enough to be cheeky.

“Classic Sylus,” someone muttered behind you, but you stayed focused, scribbling down his words, even as you could feel his gaze linger on you a beat longer than necessary before he moved on to the next reporter.

It was becoming a pattern.

Post-qualifying interviews where he’d answer your questions with a grin that was just shy of flirtatious. Media pen sessions where he’d throw you a playful quip, knowing it’d get a rise out of you. And you? You handled him like you handled everyone — calm, composed, untouchable.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The pen finally cleared, leaving you with your clipboard, your notes, and the faint echo of Sylus’s laughter still bouncing around your head. You shook it off — you had a deadline to meet.

“You know,” a fellow journalist sidled up beside you, smirking, “if I had men like that looking at me like that, I’d stop pretending I don’t notice.”

Another one chimed in, leaning against the table. “Seriously, do you have ice in your veins or what? He’s Ferrari’s golden boy. He doesn’t flirt like that with anyone else.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your notepad into your bag. “He’s just being nice. He does that with everyone.”

“Mmhm,” your colleague said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure. And I’m the next World Champion.”

Their laughter followed you as you made your way back to the media center, but you didn’t slow your pace. The teasing was familiar, harmless, but you weren’t about to let yourself get caught up in speculation.

You had an article to finish, an editor to appease, and an entire grid’s worth of drivers to cover — not just one annoyingly attractive one with red eyes and a penchant for smirking at you in the middle of press conferences.

Still, as you sat back down at your laptop and replayed the day’s interviews, your cursor lingered a little too long on the section where Sylus had leaned close, voice low, grin infuriatingly charming.

You told yourself it would wear off.

It had to.

You weren’t the type to get distracted.

Not by anyone — and definitely not by him.

Sylus had always kept things simple — race hard, spend harder, and avoid getting tangled in anything that didn’t involve a checkered flag.

Emotions, relationships, commitments? Too messy. Too distracting.

And yet, he found himself scanning every paddock he walked into, looking for you.

You were easy to spot, somehow — not because you were loud, but because you carried yourself with that quiet authority that made people move aside without even realizing it.

He’d catch glimpses of you with your hair pinned back, pen between your teeth as you typed furiously into your laptop, or kneeling by a photographer to compare notes before the next interview block.

You were in the pen rain or shine, notebook in hand, voice steady even when questions got heated. He’d seen you put your mic down once — once — when a rival driver tried to bait you into gossip.

“Respectfully, I’m here to talk about the race, not rumors,” you’d said, and Sylus had barely suppressed a grin. You didn’t flinch, didn’t cave, and everyone respected you for it.

But Sylus wanted more than your professionalism.

He’d caught himself lingering near the media center after debriefs, listening to your laugh carry down the hall, low and warm. He’d seen you stay long after everyone had left, poring over transcripts until your eyes were half-shut.

Once, in Suzuka, you were crouched on the floor with a laptop and three half-empty coffee cups, muttering deadlines under your breath — and it made something inside him twist.

“You’re going to burn yourself out like that,” he’d teased, passing by, helmet still in hand.

You’d barely glanced up. “Better burned out than sloppy reporting.”

It had been an offhand remark, but Sylus had thought about it all night.

For a man who thought he’d seen it all — the fast cars, the fast lives, the beautiful people — he hadn’t expected someone like you to catch his eye. But now, when he saw your smile after a long day or caught the tired little sigh of relief when a story went live, it was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like… something he wasn’t ready to name.

It started small.

Sylus lingered a little longer in the media pen that Thursday, a hat tucked under his arm as usual, but this time he didn’t walk past your little corner. He stopped right in front of you.

“You look like you haven’t slept since Miami,” he drawled, a teasing glint in his crimson eyes.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, pen hovering over your notes.

“I sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Not enough,” he replied, leaning against the barrier as if he had nowhere else to be. Cameras clicked nearby, other drivers walked past, but Sylus’s attention didn’t waver.

“Try not to pass out during my quali tomorrow, yeah? I’d hate to put on a show and not have my favorite journalist see it.”

Your friends lost it.

The second Sylus walked away — with a lazy wink, no less — one of them slapped your arm. “Favorite journalist? Are you kidding me right now?”

Another laughed. “Do you have any idea how many women would kill to have Sylus Qin say that to them?”

You tried to play it off, flipping your notebook shut with a sigh. “He’s just being Sylus. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” your friend smirked, “but he’s never like that with us.”

You ignored them, returning to your laptop, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You told yourself it would wear off. That it was nothing. Just another driver being cheeky.

But deep down, you knew better.

On Saturday, the media pen was buzzing after quali — Red Bull locked out the front row again, Ferrari had one driver in P13 and Sylus in P7. Not the worst result, but definitely not what the Tifosi were hoping for.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

“P7,” you said, voice even and professional as your cameraman gave you the cue. “Not quite where you wanted to be, but still solid points potential for tomorrow. Walk me through that lap.”

Sylus didn’t even answer right away. Instead, he gave you a look — slow, deliberate, the kind that made you suddenly very aware of the cameras, the crowd, the mic in your hand.

“P7 isn’t bad,” he finally said, leaning slightly closer so only you could really hear the low drawl in his voice, “but I’d have gone faster if I knew you’d be waiting for me at the finish line.”

Your jaw nearly dropped, but you recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. “Professional answer, Sylus,” you reminded him, trying not to look like your heart was doing backflips.

“Oh, right,” he smirked, pretending to think as he crossed his arms, the scarlet of his fireproofs creasing just enough to show off the outline of his muscles.

“Car felt decent. Still fighting a bit with traction out of Turn 3, but I’ll figure it out before tomorrow. Don’t worry — I plan on giving you something worth writing about.”

The way he said it — direct, playful — had heat rushing to your face before you could stop it. Your cameraman, bless him, cleared his throat loudly to break whatever electricity had just sparked between you two.

You jumped slightly, flashing the camera a quick, professional smile as though nothing happened.

“Well, we’ll be watching. Good luck tomorrow, Sylus.”

He didn’t leave right away. Instead, he gave you one last look — that slow, knowing smirk curling his lips — before finally walking off to the next reporter.

Your friends in the pen didn’t let you breathe.

“Oh my god,” one of them whispered as soon as he was out of earshot. “Do you two need a moment?”

You rolled your eyes, tucking your hair behind your ear to hide the very obvious blush creeping up your neck. “Focus,” you hissed, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Because no matter how hard you tried to keep the walls up, Sylus Qin had just made it very clear — the chase was on.

Meanwhile, you didn’t want to challenge your boundaries — you’d worked too hard to earn your reputation as the paddock’s consummate professional — but Sylus had started seeking you out more often, until the line between “work” and “whatever this was” began to blur.

It wasn’t noticeable at first. A teasing quip after a press conference, a wink when you passed him in the paddock. But soon it became an every weekend occurrence — and people were starting to notice.

During one Thursday media day, you were standing with a group of journalists, notebook in hand, when Sylus strolled by. He slowed just enough to make eye contact with you and said, “Hope you’re asking the hard questions tomorrow — wouldn’t want you to go easy on me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “When have I ever gone easy on you?”

His grin was slow, wolfish. “Never. And that’s why you’re my favorite.”

The other drivers definitely heard that one. Ollie, walking just behind Sylus, did a full double take before breaking into a grin and muttering, “Oh, this is getting good.”

By Saturday’s quali, the banter had escalated. When you went to interview him post-session, he leaned on the barrier in front of you and gave you that signature smirk.

“You look like you want to yell at me for P11,” he said, casually peeling off his gloves.

“I don’t yell,” you replied coolly, but you couldn’t stop the corner of your mouth from twitching upward.

“Mm. Not yet,” he teased, and the camera guy audibly snorted behind you.

And then there was the time during the driver parade when he waved at the crowd — and then directly at you.

The gesture was so obvious that Isack, standing next to him, leaned over with an incredulous grin and said into the mic just loudly enough for the F1TV feed to catch:

“Mate, you’re not even subtle anymore.”

Sylus just shrugged, totally unapologetic.

By now, the banter was so frequent that your friends in the press room started keeping score.

Who teased who first? Who left the other flustered? You pretended to brush it off, nose buried in your work — but you couldn’t deny the spark that crackled every time you two locked eyes.

It wasn’t just flirting anymore. It was becoming a game — one that the whole paddock was in on.

It scared you — more than you wanted to admit.

You’d worked so hard to keep your personal and professional life separate, yet suddenly it felt like the whole world was watching you eradicate that line that you, yourself, built.

The whispers, the cameras, the headlines — they were all there, quietly reminding you that one wrong step could undo everything in the blink of an eye.

So when Sylus invited you out for dinner after the race weekend, you almost said no. Almost.

But now, sitting across from him at a quiet little restaurant tucked away from the busy streets, wine glass in hand, you finally let the words spill.

“It’s… a lot,” you admitted softly, eyes trained on the tablecloth. “Being around you. Having people look at me differently. I worked so hard to build this reputation, Sylus, and now I feel like every time someone takes a picture of us, they’re waiting for me to slip up.”

Sylus didn’t interrupt. He just listened, leaning back in his chair, letting you say every thought you’d been holding back for weeks.

Finally, he reached across the table, gently taking your hand in his.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady, the kind that made your chest loosen. “I would never let anything bad happen to you. Not because of me. Not because of any of this.”

You glanced up, and for once there wasn’t any teasing in his expression — just raw honesty.

“I love what you do,” he continued. “You’re good at it. You make us look good even when we’re having the worst day of our lives out there. You make people see us — not just the drivers, but the humans. And I… I love that about you.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear — it was relief.

“You really mean that?” you asked quietly.

Sylus squeezed your hand. “I’ve never meant anything more. I’m not trying to mess with your career. I just… want to be part of your world, if you’ll let me.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight on your shoulders eased just a little.

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly, “I can let work and my feelings mesh for a bit. Just to see where it goes.”

Sylus grinned then, soft but triumphant, and raised his glass.

“To seeing where it goes,” he said.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel scared — you felt excited.

The next race weekend in Monza felt different.

You weren’t sure if it was the quiet confidence Sylus left you with after that dinner or the way he seemed lighter too, but everything just… felt easier.

You still did your job the way you always had — microphone in hand, crisp questions ready, professional smile firmly in place — but you didn’t flinch when Sylus found you in the paddock, leaning casually against the Ferrari motorhome, grinning like he had a secret.

“Good luck charm,” he teased as you walked by, just loud enough for your cameraman to hear.

“You wish,” you shot back, but there was no heat behind it. If anything, the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

And maybe that’s why the cameras caught it.

Because by the time qualifying ended and Sylus put his car P1, the internet already had screenshots of the way you looked at him as he walked past you in the media pen, all smug and flushed with adrenaline.

Then came the headlines.

“Ferrari’s Sylus Qin and Paddock Darling Spark More Romance Rumors After Quali Banter.”

“F1’s New Power Couple? Fans Compare Y/n and Sylus to Alonso & Melissa.”

“New WAG Era Incoming — and She’s a Total Boss.”

Your journalist friends wouldn’t stop sending you TikToks and fan edits.

“Oh my God,” one of them gasped, holding up her phone during lunch. “People are calling you the ‘CEO of the paddock.’ This edit is literally saying you’re the definition of boss woman.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the laugh. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not as insufferable as Ferrari’s golden boy looking at you like you hung the moon,” your friend shot back.

And just when you were about to fire back some sarcastic reply, Sylus appeared behind you, still in his red polo, hair slightly damp from the heat.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just set the internet on fire.

Your friends exchanged a look, biting back their grins.

“Ready for what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“For dinner. Again. Unless you’re going to pretend you don’t like seeing me outside of work anymore,” he said, and there was that grin — the one that got him into trouble.

The table went quiet, then erupted in teasing.

“Oh, she’s ready,” one of your colleagues laughed.

And maybe you should have been embarrassed, but you weren’t.

Because when Sylus reached for your hand as you got up, you didn’t pull away this time. You let him lead you through the paddock, the cameras flashing, the fans screaming, and for once you didn’t care.

If anything, you found yourself smiling, letting them take their photos.

Because maybe you weren’t just the journalist anymore.

Maybe you were the journalist who had the heart of Ferrari’s brightest star — and maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a scary thought after all.

The atmosphere in the Ferrari driver room was electric. The roar of the Tifosi outside still echoed through the walls, and the celebratory red confetti clung to Sylus’s hair.

He was still in his fireproofs, sitting with one leg bouncing, energy buzzing off of him as though the race hadn’t ended thirty minutes ago.

And you — still in your work clothes, laptop perched on your knees — were frantically typing out your post-race article before deadline.

“Don’t you have a team for this?” Sylus teased, leaning over to peek at your screen.

“Yes,” you said without looking up, “but this one is mine. Ferrari Home Win at Monza? I’d never let someone else write it.”

He smirked, leaning closer until his chin nearly rested on your shoulder. “So serious,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “Some of us have jobs outside of driving fast cars, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice dropping to a low rumble as his hand slid over your thigh, thumb brushing against the seam of your skirt. “I just think maybe the journalist deserves a break. Preferably with the driver who just won his home race.”

“Sylus,” you hissed, trying not to laugh, “I have ten minutes to turn this in—”

“And I have all night to celebrate,” he cut you off, pulling your chair closer to him so you were practically in his lap now.

You tried to protest, but the grin on his face was too contagious.

“You’re impossible,” you said finally, typing with one hand now because the other was occupied with keeping his big hands off your laptop.

“Mm, but you like me this way,” he said smugly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before leaning back just enough to watch you type.

“Go on then, boss woman. I’ll wait. But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight.”

“Good,” you muttered under your breath, and that earned you one of his rare, boyish laughs — the kind that made your chest feel warm.

When you hit send on the article, Sylus didn’t even give you a chance to close the laptop before he took it gently from your lap and set it aside.

“My turn,” he said simply, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, the noise of the Tifosi outside now nothing compared to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

By the time your article went live, Ferrari’s media team had already posted their shot — Sylus sitting in the driver room with you perched on his lap, still holding your laptop, his cheek pressed against your temple.

The photo went viral within minutes.

“Boss woman WAG era??”

“This is so Fernando + Melissa coded but younger??”

“She really just filed her article from the driver’s room in his lap??? Iconic.”

The edits came fast — TikToks with slow zooms on the way Sylus’s thumb traced lazy circles on your knee, compilations of him looking for you in the media pen spliced with clips of this moment. Twitter (or X, whatever it was these days) was in full meltdown.

You caught wind of it later that night, scrolling through your phone in Sylus’s hotel room as he lounged shirtless on the bed behind you.

“‘Most professional paddock relationship ever,’” you read aloud, suppressing a laugh. “‘Can deliver a Monza Ferrari win and 800 words before deadline.’”

Sylus peeked over your shoulder, grinning. “They’re not wrong.”

“Do you realize the amount of edits out there of you staring at me during interviews?” you teased, tossing your phone onto the bed.

He didn’t even look guilty. “Good. Let them know.”

You raised a brow. “Let them know what?”

“That I’ve been gone for them,” he said simply, pulling you down beside him. “From the start.”

It was ridiculous — you were supposed to be the professional one, the serious journalist who kept her personal life out of the headlines. And yet, somehow, being in the spotlight with him didn’t feel invasive. It felt… right.

You had gotten used to the sterile white walls of Akso Hospital.

To some, the smell of antiseptic was suffocating, but to you, it was a strange kind of comfort. It meant order. It meant life still had structure, even when everything else in your personal life fell apart.

“Dr. L/N, you’re a machine.”

The teasing voice came from one of your colleagues in pediatrics, Jason, as he leaned against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. You barely looked up from the stack of charts you were signing off.

“Machines don’t make mistakes,” you said flatly, flipping a page. “That’s the goal.”

Across from him, your friend Hannah rolled her eyes and set a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to look up.

“You know that’s not what he meant. What time did you leave yesterday?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven?!” Hannah’s voice cracked as if you had just confessed to a crime.

“Y/N, you’re going to burn out before you even hit thirty. You can’t keep drowning yourself in work like this.”

You forced a small smile, the kind you reserved for moments when you didn’t want to argue.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You always say that.” Jason sighed, sipping his coffee. “You’re one of the best pediatric surgeons we’ve ever had, but you’re still human. And don’t even get me started on your love life—”

“There is no love life,” you cut in, sharper than you intended. The words hung there, heavy and final.

Jason and Hannah exchanged a look before Hannah softened her voice.

“Y/N… you’re young, you’re beautiful, and you’re brilliant. You can’t just let one bad guy ruin everything for you.”

One bad guy. That was generous.

Your ex had been a nightmare dressed like a daydream, the kind of man who knew exactly how to weaponize affection.

At first, he was attentive, showering you with flowers at the hospital, leaving good morning texts that made you blush during rounds. Love-bombing, though you didn’t recognize it at the time. You thought maybe, just maybe, someone finally saw you.

But the sweetness curdled fast.

His attention turned into control — asking why you weren’t home yet, why your patients mattered more than him, why you were still at dinner with colleagues when you could be with him. He made you feel guilty for working, guilty for breathing without his permission.

By the time you ended it, you felt hollowed out, ashamed you had let someone dismantle the walls you’d spent years building.

So you rebuilt them higher. And thicker.

“Not everyone is like him,” Hannah said softly, almost like she could read your mind.

You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head.

“I don’t have time for dating, Hana. You know how my schedule looks. And I’m not lowering my standards just because people are worried I’ll end up alone.”

Jason raised a brow. “High standards are fine. Impossible ones aren’t.”

You gave him a pointed look.

“Says the man whose last date was with a med student half his age.”

“Ouch,” he hissed dramatically, clutching his chest. Hannah stifled a laugh, but you could see the concern still swimming in her eyes.

When your pager went off, you felt a rush of relief. Work — the one constant you could always lean on.

You slipped away without another word, your friends’ voices echoing faintly down the hall. You’re wasting your potential, Y/N. Don’t drown yourself.

But you did. Because drowning in work was safer than drowning in someone else.

At night, the halls of the pediatric ward were quiet at this hour, the kind of quiet that hummed with exhaustion but also safety—children sleeping soundly, nurses taking their last rounds, machines beeping in steady rhythms.

You had stayed behind after your shift again, paperwork piled high on your desk, but you couldn’t help the tug in your chest that urged you to check in on one of your patients before leaving.

The little boy had fallen asleep with his stuffed bunny tucked under his chin, a storybook left open on the sheets. You adjusted his blanket gently, smiling to yourself.

This is why I do it. Even when it feels too much, this is why.

But as you turned to leave, you nearly collided with someone leaning against the doorway, his white coat draped casually over his shoulders.

Zayne.

Your surprise melted into a knowing smile.

“So the kids really weren’t lying when they said Doctor Zayne was their favorite.” You tilted your head, amusement dancing in your voice.

“What brings you to the pediatric ward?”

His lips curved into the faintest smirk, his dark eyes steady on you.

“Heart consult. The nurses said my patient wouldn’t calm down unless I came myself. Apparently, I’ve been adopted.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that carried through the hall. “I knew you were good with kids, but I didn’t realize you were that good.”

He shrugged, tone dry as ever. “Maybe they just like the candy I bribe them with.”

“Ah,” you teased, “so the legendary Dr. Zayne’s secret technique is sugar. As expected,”

“Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my reputation.”

Despite his stoicism, he had always been the person you confided in most, the only one who seemed to understand without needing much explanation.

Maybe it was the years of your families knowing each other, or maybe it was the way his dry humor balanced out your more earnest nature.

You found yourself following him to his office, the two of you walking side by side down the hushed corridor.

His office was neat, everything arranged with a precision that screamed Zayne. He pulled out the chair opposite his desk, gesturing for you to sit, and you obliged.

“So,” he said, sliding open a drawer and pulling out a neatly wrapped box of macarons (your favorite), which he placed on the desk between you, “how’s pediatrics treating you?”

You raised an eyebrow at the gesture, amused. “Bribing me too?”

“Depends on how honest you’re planning to be.”

That earned him a soft chuckle. You leaned back in the chair, sighing as your shoulders slumped.

“It’s… good. I mean, I love it, Zayne. The kids make it worth everything. But…” You rubbed your temples lightly.

“Sometimes it feels like I’m carrying too much. Like if I let go even a little, everything will collapse.”

His gaze sharpened, though his voice stayed even. “That’s because you don’t let anyone else carry it with you.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line. You didn’t want to admit he was right—not when independence had been your armor for so long. Not when your last relationship had left you wary of needing anyone at all.

Before you could answer, Zayne glanced at the clock.

“It’s late. You shouldn’t still be here.”

“I’ll be fine. I was planning to ride the bus home—”

“No.” His voice cut in, firm but not unkind. “It’s nearly midnight, and you live across town. I’ll drive you.” You blinked at him, momentarily thrown off.

“Zayne, you don’t have to—”

“I insist.” His eyes met yours, unwavering.

“Or do you really want me to call your mother and tell her you’re still wandering the hospital halls at this hour?” Your jaw dropped slightly, then you narrowed your eyes.

“That’s dirty.”

“Effective,” he corrected, already reaching for his keys.

With a reluctant laugh, you stood. “Fine. You win.”

The car ride was quiet, but not uncomfortable. The city lights streamed past in blurs of gold and silver, and for the first time all day, you felt yourself relax into the seat.

Zayne didn’t pry, didn’t push. He just drove, steady and reliable as always.

As he stopped in front of your apartment, you hesitated before unbuckling your seatbelt.

“You know…” Your voice came out softer than intended. “I really do love what I do. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But sometimes… sometimes it’s just so stressful.”

Zayne’s eyes flicked to you, unreadable in the dim glow of the dashboard.

For a moment, you thought he might say something—something weighty, something that would undo the careful barriers you had built around yourself. But instead, he only said quietly:

“Then let me help. Even if it’s just driving you home.”

Your chest tightened, your reply catching in your throat. So instead, you only managed a small, grateful smile.

“Goodnight, Zayne.”

“Goodnight.”

And as you stepped out into the night, you couldn’t help but think—maybe depending on someone every now and then wouldn’t be the worst thing after all.

The week following your late-night run-in with Zayne was nothing short of brutal.

Three major surgeries lined up back-to-back, your body moving on pure adrenaline while your mind begged for rest.

You were used to this pressure—children’s lives rested in your hands, and you refused to falter.

In the moments between scrubbing in, you remembered flashes of your younger self.

Your mother crying in the kitchen while you, barely fourteen, comforted her like an adult. The way your teachers leaned on you to take leadership roles. The friends who knew you were the “reliable one,” the person who always had it together.

Independence had never been a choice; it was carved into your bones.

So, when the weight threatened to crack your composure after the third surgery that day, you slipped into an empty supply closet, shut the door, and pressed your forehead against the cool wall.

Just a moment. Just one tear. But as always, you wiped it away before it could fall.

You emerged, collected and professional, ready to push through another chart.

But when you reached your office, Zayne was sitting there—leaning casually against the corner of your desk, a takeout bag dangling from his hand.

You froze. “Zayne? What are you doing here?”

He held up the bag. “Last I checked, normal human beings require food. You, however, seem to think you’re above biology.”

You sighed, setting your clipboard down and walking over to him.

“I had lunch.”

His eyes swept over you, cool and assessing in the way only he could manage. His dry humor didn’t hide his sharpness.

“Really? Because your stomach says otherwise. I could hear it growling down the hall.”

Your traitorous stomach gave another low rumble, and you scowled, adjusting your glasses to avoid his smug look.

“That’s not—”

Before you could finish, he reached forward and plucked the glasses right off your face.

“Zayne!” you gasped, reaching for them, but he tilted his head just out of reach, a rare chuckle escaping him.

“Even the doctor should take care of herself,” he said, setting the glasses neatly on your desk. His voice softened just slightly.

“You’re not a machine, Y/N.”

You pouted, grabbing the food he’d brought and opening it despite yourself.

“You sound like my interns nagging me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he countered, folding his arms as he watched you dig into the food. “You’ve got a headache, which I’ve accounted for since you asked for aspirin about an hour ago. You’ve been up since dawn. And you skipped at least one meal, probably two.”

You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, then muttered, “You don’t miss much, do you?”

His lips curved faintly. “I make it my business not to.”

The warmth of the food settled into your stomach, easing the gnawing ache you hadn’t admitted was there. You tried to deflect.

“Don’t you have that business trip to Chansia coming up? You should focus on your work before you go.”

Zayne’s gaze held yours, steady and unwavering.

“Maybe taking care of you is also part of my work.”

The words hit you harder than they should have. Your heart skipped, your throat went dry, but you shook your head quickly, as if denying yourself the permission to believe it.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” he replied simply. “So we’re even.”

Later, when the hospital corridors grew quiet and the night shift settled in, Zayne insisted on driving you home.

You tried to argue—you always tried—but the exhaustion dragged at your bones, and he wasn’t taking no for an answer.

In the passenger seat of his car, you leaned your head against the window, watching the blur of city lights rush by.

The day had drained every ounce of strength from you.

Even after the tough surgeries, you still forced yourself to review more charts, check on more patients, and smile at the nurses who admired your endurance.

You kept your eyes on the window as the skyscrapers and people of Linkon flickered past. Your temples throbbed, your body begged for rest, but your mind refused to loosen its grip.

You were used to carrying it all. Used to standing tall. Used to pretending the weight never pressed on your shoulders.

When Zayne finally pulled up in front of your apartment, you unbuckled your seatbelt with practiced politeness.

“Thanks for the ride, Zayne. You really didn’t have to, again.”

His hand gripped the wheel, knuckles pale in the dim glow. He looked at you then, eyes soft but unwavering.

“You did a good job today.”

You blinked, caught off guard. Compliments usually rolled off you—easy to brush aside, easy to dismiss. But the way he said it, low and steady, made your throat tighten.

“I… just did what I was supposed to,” you muttered, trying to sound casual.

Zayne leaned back slightly, studying you with that frustratingly calm expression of his.

“You don’t always have to be ‘supposed to.’ You shouldn’t have to handle it all on your own, Y/N. Even the toughest gems…” his gaze lingered on you, heavy but gentle, “…can crack under pressure.”

The words pierced deeper than you wanted to admit. You tried to laugh it off, but your lips trembled.

Nobody had ever told you that before—not like this. People expected strength from you, admired it, demanded it. And yet here was Zayne, sitting in the quiet of his car, reminding you that you were human.

You looked down at your hands, clutching your bag too tightly.

“If I stop holding everything together, then who will?”

Zayne’s voice was quiet, but it settled into your chest like an anchor.

“Maybe you don’t have to hold it together alone.”

You didn’t reply, too scared your voice would crack. Instead, you nodded faintly, murmured a soft “Goodnight,” and slipped out of the car.

But as you shut the door and walked up to your apartment, your heart pounded. His words replayed over and over.

For the first time in years, you wondered if you really had been carrying far more than you were meant to—if maybe, just maybe, someone else could share the weight.

And that thought both terrified and comforted you.

Your office was unusually quiet that afternoon, and for once, you let yourself enjoy it.

The charts were neatly stacked, your desk wasn’t drowning in paperwork, and the faint hum of the air conditioning almost lulled you into forgetting how exhausted you really were.

That is—until Hannah broke the silence.

“You know what you need?” she said dramatically, plopping into the chair across from your desk like she owned it.

“A love life. Seriously, Y/N, you can’t just work yourself into your thirties without at least a little spice. I’m begging you.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Oh my god, Hannah. Not this again.”

Yvonne, ever the quieter one, was perched on the sofa with her coffee. She smirked over the rim of her cup.

“She’s not wrong. You’ve been dodging dates like it’s a sport. At this point, even our patients are getting more romance than you.”

“Ha-ha.” You leaned back in your chair, sighing heavily.

“Can’t I just have five minutes of peace without someone reminding me that I’m single? I’m not even that old.”

“You’re twenty-somethiiing,” Hannah sing-songed, leaning forward with her elbows on your desk. “And you’re wasting your prime by eating instant noodles at midnight and glaring at your computer screen.”

“I do not glare at my computer screen.”

“Yes, you do. I’ve seen it,” Hannah shot back. “Your resting face screams: ‘If love knocked on my door, I’d send it away with a restraining order.’”

Yvonne chuckled into her drink. “She’s not wrong.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

“Why do I even let you two in here?”

“Because we’re fun,” Hannah grinned, about to launch into another teasing comment—

—but a knock interrupted her.

You looked up, and your breath hitched when the door opened to reveal Zayne, stepping inside with a casual calmness only he could pull off. He carried a plastic bag in one hand, the hospital’s white fluorescent lights catching against his dark hair.

“Speak of the devil,” Hannah whispered with a smirk.

Zayne didn’t seem to notice the atmosphere he’d just walked into. He held up the bag like it was nothing.

“I got you your favorite drinks and snacks before I left,” he said simply, crossing the room with long strides. “So that you can at least eat if you can’t find time between schedules.”

You blinked, momentarily frozen. “…You did what?”

Zayne set the bag down on your desk, his expression as unreadable as always, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

“Also, make sure to call me when you’re headed home or coming to work, just so I know you’re safe. I’ll only be gone for a few days,” His tone was firm, almost like a command, but softened at the edges.

Your throat tightened, but all that came out was an undignified squeak.

“O-Oh. Okay.”

Zayne gave a small nod, as if that settled it, then turned to leave.

“I’ll see you when I get back from Chansia.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The office was silent for all of two seconds before Hannah and Yvonne exploded.

“Oh. My. God.” Hannah practically jumped out of her seat. “WHAT was that?!”

Yvonne set her coffee down, her smirk widening.

“So the rumors are true. Our Ice Queen does have a weakness—and it’s Doctor Zayne.”

You immediately waved your hands, heat rushing to your cheeks. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. We’re not—he’s just—”

“Taking care of you?” Hannah cut in, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Wait, Y/N, do you realize what just happened? He brought you snacks. He knows your favorites. He told you to call him when you get home. Who even does that unless they’re dating?”

“We are not dating!” you snapped, though it came out more defensive than you wanted.

Yvonne leaned back, looking smug. “You can’t control him, huh?”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “…Exactly. Even if I tried, Zayne does whatever he wants.”

“Ohhh, but what he wants is to take care of you,” Hannah sing-songed again, gleeful. “Is our Ice Queen finally melting away for the Ice King?”

“That’s it. Out.” You shoved at Hannah’s shoulder, steering her toward the door while Yvonne laughed behind her.

“Admit it, Y/N!” Hannah cackled, resisting just enough to be annoying. “He’s into you! And you’re into him! Our Ice Queen has feelings!”

“OUT.”

You pushed them both into the hall, slammed the door shut, and leaned against it, face burning.

For a long moment, you stood there in the silence, glaring at the bag of snacks Zayne had left behind. Your heart betrayed you, thumping faster than you wanted it to.

You muttered under your breath, “They’re insufferable.”

But still—you didn’t move the bag away.

You settle into the quiet of your apartment, shoulders slumping the moment the door clicks shut behind you.

For once, the silence doesn’t feel suffocating—it feels earned after a day of operating rooms, rounds, and endless conversations with parents who look at you like you hold their child’s entire future in your hands.

Your phone buzzes as you toe off your shoes.

Y/N: Made it home. Happy now?

Zayne⛄️: More than happy. Get some rest, don’t stay up reviewing charts and call me before bed.

Y/N: Bossy. ;;

Zayne⛄️: You need it.

You roll your eyes, but the smallest smile threatens to break across your lips. Setting your phone on the counter, you finally peek into the plastic bag Zayne left you.

The first thing you notice is the neatness of it—your favorite bottled tea, a chocolate bar you haven’t touched in years, fruit slices sealed in a container, and then… a packet of chips that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

There’s a small sticky note clinging to the front, written in Zayne’s crisp handwriting:

“You always ate these when you were pressured during studying.”

You pause, staring at the words like they’ve unlocked a memory you’d buried under years of professionalism.

And just like that, you’re back in the Sky Haven Medical School library.

The old fluorescent lights buzzing above, textbooks stacked taller than your head, your pen tapping against the margin of your notes as if that could beat the fear out of you.

You remember the pressure pressing on your chest, the thought that if you failed even one exam, you’d be disappointing your parents—their only child who was supposed to excel, supposed to be perfect.

You’d bought those exact chips from the vending machine in desperation, eating them quietly while flipping through pathology slides. And beside you, Zayne, with his sleeves rolled up and hair falling into his eyes, had leaned back in his chair and smirked.

“You know, you’re way more serious than me, and that’s saying something.”

“Because someone has to be,” you had muttered, hugging your notes closer.

“Relax, Y/N. You act like the world will collapse if you don’t memorize the entire textbook.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not an only child with impossible expectations.”

You remember his expression softening at that—just briefly, before he reached over, snagged one of your chips, and popped it in his mouth.

“Then let me help you shoulder it. Eat your chips. I’ll quiz you.”

It was the first time you realized that someone could see through the steel armor you wore—and still choose to sit beside you anyway.

Now, standing in your kitchen with that same brand of chips in hand, you press your lips together. Years later, Zayne is still doing it. Still noticing, still quietly weaving himself into the cracks you swore you’d never let show.

You sigh, softer this time, before placing the bag of snacks neatly on the counter.

“Even after all these years… you never stop, do you?” you murmur to no one.

And though the apartment is silent, your heart is anything but.

Steam still curls off your skin as you settle into bed, hair damp, your phone glowing faintly in your hand.

You hesitate for a moment—he said he’d be traveling today, and you don’t want to bother him. But the note is still sitting on your nightstand, tucked against the half-empty bag of chips, and you can’t shake the warmth in your chest.

You press call.

The line rings twice before his voice comes through, a little rough but steady.

“Y/N?”

“Hey,” you murmur, adjusting against your pillow. “Did I wake you up?”

A soft chuckle. “No, don’t worry. Just got in a while ago. The flight was long, but manageable.”

You imagine him leaning back somewhere—hotel room, maybe—shirt collar loose, hair messy from travel.

“Good,” you say quietly. “I… uh, wanted to ask if you made it safely.”

“You sound like me now.” His smile laces through the line.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small laugh that escapes. “Don’t get used to it.”

There’s a beat of comfortable silence, and then you clear your throat.

“I saw your note.”

“…Ah,” Zayne says, the kind of sound he makes when he’s been caught but doesn’t regret it.

“You remembered that? From med school?” Your voice dips softer than you intend.

“I remember a lot of things,” he replies simply. “You think you’re harder to read than you are. Back then, you tried to carry everything on your own. I thought… maybe snacks could take the edge off.”

You exhale slowly, the tension in your chest loosening even further.

“Zayne,” you murmur, “thank you. For everything you’ve done. Not just today. Always.”

There’s a pause on the other end, like he’s weighing his words. Then, gently:

“You don’t have to thank me. Just… rest, alright? I can hear how tired you are. Sleep while you can.”

Your lips curve faintly, even as your eyelids grow heavy.

“Still bossy as ever.”

“You mean persistent,” he corrects, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Zayne.”

You end the call, phone slipping onto the pillow beside you. For the first time in a long while, the weight on your shoulders doesn’t feel unbearable.

The charity event is in full swing, spring sunlight spilling over the hospital courtyard in warm, honeyed tones.

Pink petals from the nearby cherry blossom trees drift lazily in the breeze, catching in children’s hair as they run past the booths, laughter ringing like little bells in the air.

You tug the head of your mascot—your snowman-in-an-astronaut-suit design—into place on the display table, the oversized figure drawing delighted squeals from the kids who come bounding toward it.

Beside you, Zayne stands as effortlessly composed as always, though the corner of his mouth twitches when the children shout, “Doctor Y/N! Doctor Zayne! Look, it’s so cute! You two make the best team!”

You laugh, brushing your hands against your cream colored dress as you crouch down to meet the kids at eye level.

“You think so?”

One little girl with snowflake-shaped barrettes nods vigorously.

“Mm-hmm! Because Dr. Y/N designed it, and Dr. Zayne’s helping her. It means you like each other, right?”

Heat crawls up your neck before you can stop it, but Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. He leans down slightly while resting his arm around your shoulder, his voice smooth and steady.

“Doctors can be good teammates without that implication,” he says gently, though there’s a teasing lilt beneath his even tone.

His eyes flick toward you, just for a second, and you catch the faintest glimmer of amusement.

The kids, predictably, groan. “Boring! You two totally like each other.”

Your mouth opens, ready to deny it, but Zayne quietly clears his throat and straightens, cutting off the moment. You glance up at him, catching the faintest dusting of pink at the tips of his ears.

Later, when the crowd thins, you notice Zayne at the corner of your booth with a small fruit knife and an apple in his hand.

His fingers move with that same surgeon’s precision you’ve seen countless times in the operating room, but here, it feels softer, more deliberate. His shoulders are relaxed, posture casual, and yet every cut is exact.

The apple skin peels away in a single curling ribbon.

“Are you seriously… peeling fruit at a hospital event?” you ask, arching a brow.

He glances up at you, expression unreadable. “Doctors need to demonstrate dexterity in all contexts.”

You snort. “That’s the most Zayne answer you could’ve given.”

He doesn’t reply, only flicks the last strip of peel away and offers the apple to you with quiet finality.

“Eat.”

Your eyes widen.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” His tone softens. “You’ve been running around all day. I doubt you’ve eaten anything since morning.”

You take the apple reluctantly, fingers brushing his in the exchange. A small shock of warmth travels up your arm, and for a second you almost forget how to breathe.

Biting into the fruit gives you a second to compose yourself. The sweetness floods your tongue, and you smile faintly despite yourself.

“…It’s good.”

Zayne’s gaze lingers on you, as though cataloguing your reaction. Then, so quietly you nearly miss it, he says, “I remember you used to study with one in hand. Same brand.”

Your chest tightens. “You remembered that?”

“I told you before.” His eyes shift toward the blossoms drifting overhead. “I remember a lot of things.”

For a moment, you don’t know what to say.

The courtyard around you hums with children’s laughter, with colleagues calling greetings from other booths, with the rustle of spring leaves—but all you can focus on is the man beside you, and the weight of his quiet attention.

When the announcement comes later that your booth has won Best Mascot, the kids scream in delight, clinging to both of your hands and dragging you to the stage.

You’re laughing so hard your cheeks ache, but when you glance at Zayne, he isn’t smiling for show—his expression is warm, genuinely touched by the children’s joy.

“Dr. Zayne, Dr. Y/N, you’re the best!” one boy shouts, tugging insistently at your hands until you and Zayne are standing shoulder to shoulder.

You feel his arm brush yours, close enough that the warmth seeps through your sleeve. Your heart pounds, and you know he can sense it—he’s always been good at reading you.

As the applause settles and the children scatter back toward the games, you exhale, turning toward him. “You didn’t have to help so much with the booth, you know.”

His gaze flickers down at you, calm and steady.

“You designed the mascot. I only made sure people noticed it.”

“That’s not true,” you counter, voice softening. “You’ve been… helping me more than you think.”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches long enough for petals to drift between you, spinning on the breeze. Zayne tilts his head slightly, studying your expression.

“Then let me continue to,” he says finally, his voice low but firm.

Your breath catches.

For someone who’s built walls so carefully around your heart, the words land like a key slipping into a lock you hadn’t realized you wanted to open.

For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel the urge to push back, to prove you’re capable on your own. Instead, you meet his gaze, letting the spring light soften the edges of your hesitation.

“…Alright,” you whisper.

And for once, Zayne smiles—small, but real.

It’s rare that you and Zayne have a day off that actually lines up.

The hospital is relentless, emergencies don’t wait, and between surgeries, meetings, and late-night rounds, both of you are usually running on caffeine and adrenaline. So when you find yourself sitting across from him at a small restaurant tucked away in the quieter part of the city, it almost feels unreal.

The sunlight spills through the windows, soft and golden, catching in Zayne’s dark hair as he stirs his tea like he has all the time in the world.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he says, setting his spoon down. His eyes meet yours, sharp and steady, the kind that sees more than you’d like.

“I’m just…enjoying the peace,” you murmur, poking at your food. “It doesn’t happen often.”

Zayne smirks.

“Coming from you, that sounds suspicious. Usually you’d be filling the silence with complaints about paperwork.”

You roll your eyes. “I don’t complain, I state facts.”

He chuckles, low and warm, before leaning back slightly.

“Then here’s a fact: you’ve built your whole life on independence. Always insisting you can handle everything on your own. Why?”

The question catches you off guard. You blink, fork hovering over your plate.

“Why…?”

“Yes,” he says plainly, as though it’s the most natural question in the world.

“Why is independence your whole identity? You never lean on anyone. Not your colleagues, not your friends. Not even me.”

Your throat tightens. For a moment, you consider brushing it off with a joke, but Zayne’s gaze doesn’t waver.

He’s not asking as a colleague or a friend. He’s asking as himself.

“…Because that’s always been my nature,” you finally admit, voice quieter than intended.

“I never learned how to depend on anyone. If I didn’t keep myself strong, people would fall apart around me. And somewhere along the way…I just stopped expecting anyone to catch me when I cracked.”

There’s a long pause, heavy but not suffocating. Zayne studies you, his expression unreadable. Then, he exhales slowly, as if making a decision.

“Then let me change that,” he says.

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes locked with yours.

“You’ve spent your whole life carrying the world alone. But you don’t have to. Not with me. So…let me prove it to you.” His voice drops, steady and unshaken.

“I like you, Y/n. Let me take care of you,”

Your fork clatters against the plate. Heat rushes to your cheeks before you can stop it.

“Zayne…”

“I’m serious.” His lips tug into the faintest smile, one that softens the usual sharpness in his features.

“I don’t want to just check on you when you skip meals. Or peel apples for you at charity events. Or drive you home after surgeries because you won’t admit you’re exhausted. I want to be there because you’ll let me. Because you’ll choose me.”

You bite your lip, your heart thundering in your chest. He always has this way of being both infuriatingly blunt and quietly tender, and it leaves you defenseless.

“…I don’t know if I can just…stop being the way I am,” you whisper.

Zayne’s smile deepens, patient and sure.

“Then I’ll wait. I’ll remind you every day that you don’t have to stand alone. That even the strongest gems don’t lose their worth when they let someone hold them.”

Your chest tightens, but this time it isn’t from restraint. It’s from the terrifying, overwhelming ache of wanting.

“…You really don’t make it easy to resist you, do you?” you murmur, trying to mask your fluster with sarcasm.

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm.

“That’s the point.”

And when you meet his gaze again, steady and unwavering, you realize maybe—just maybe—you’re finally ready to let yourself lean on someone.

The dinner with both your families is louder than you expected—laughter bouncing against the walls of Zayne’s family home, overlapping stories about childhood, and the warm clatter of silverware against porcelain.

Your father and Zayne’s dad are competing over who can carve the roast cleaner, while your mothers are practically interrogating Zayne about his worst moments in med school.

Zayne, to his credit, takes it all in stride, even smirking as he playfully throws back embarrassing memories about you.

You try not to flush as he casually says, “She always fell asleep on her textbooks. Once, I peeled an orange for her and she woke up insisting she could do it herself. Five minutes later, she cut her thumb.”

Everyone laughs—including you, reluctantly—because it’s exactly the kind of thing you would’ve done.

Later, while everyone’s clearing the table, your mother quietly pulls you aside into the hallway, her hand still warm from gathering plates. Her voice is gentle, almost conspiratorial.

“Y/N,” she begins, her eyes soft in the dim light of the hallway. “You and Zayne look good together. I’ve always told you since you were children.”

“Mom—” you start, ready to deflect, but she continues before you can wriggle away.

“Listen to me. I noticed it tonight. The way you lean toward him when he speaks, how he always notices when your glass is empty before you do. It’s… different now.”

She pauses, searching your face like she used to when you were little and trying to hide something.

“You never let anyone take care of you, mei. Not me, not your father, not even when you were breaking apart at the seams during med school. But with him—” her smile softens, bittersweet— “I can see that you’ve finally allowed yourself to feel safe.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow hard, trying to act unaffected, but your mother knows you too well.

She squeezes your hand once more before releasing you, disappearing back into the chatter of the dining room, leaving you alone with your thoughts—and the pounding of your heart.

Later, you find yourself shoulder-to-shoulder with Zayne in his family’s kitchen, sleeves rolled up, water running warm as you both wash dishes in companionable silence.

The air is thick with something unspoken. Every time your hands brush while reaching for a plate, you can feel it—heat curling up your spine.

Zayne hums quietly, focused on scrubbing, but you finally break the silence, your voice low.

“Zayne…”

He glances at you. “Hm?”

“My mom… she noticed. Us.” Your words wobble, but you keep going. “She said she’s always known. That I never let anyone take care of me, but… with you, I have.”

You grip the plate in your hands too tightly, then set it down before you crack it.

“And she’s right. I don’t know when it happened, but I trust you in a way I’ve never trusted anyone.”

For once, Zayne doesn’t rush to respond with a teasing comment or a deflection.

His eyes are on you, steady and intense, and you feel like he’s peeling back every layer you’ve ever built up around yourself. He sets down the sponge, rinses his hands, and suddenly—he’s closer.

The moment hangs, fragile and suspended—until he leans in and kisses you.

It’s sudden, almost clumsy, because in the same breath he knocks a plate off the counter. The two of you flinch, breaking apart just as the dish clatters into the sink.

The sound rings out, sharp and ridiculous in the quiet kitchen. You both freeze, then dissolve into soft laughter when you see it’s intact.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack,” you whisper, breathless.

“Worth it,” he murmurs, brushing his forehead against yours, eyes shining with something tender and unshakable.

For the first time in years, you feel it—the certainty that love isn’t a burden or a risk too sharp to touch.

It’s worth the wait. And standing there, with warm water dripping off your hands and Zayne’s lips brushing yours again, you finally let yourself believe it.

Contrary to your job, you hated the spotlight. Cameras, flashing bulbs, microphones shoved in your face — all of it felt suffocating.

You weren’t made for glossy press photos or staged smiles; you were the kind of person who thrived in the shadows, pulling the strings and making sure the chaos looked polished.

You never planned on ending up in Formula One, much less as the PR officer for one of its brightest stars. But then there was Rafayel.

Your best friend since forever, a boy who grew into a man that somehow made the world bend to him. When he got his shot in motorsport, he didn’t ask — he begged.

“Come on, you’re the only one I trust. If I’m going to let someone micromanage my life, it better be you.”

You’d rolled your eyes, muttering something about how ridiculous he was, but you said yes.

Maybe it was the way he smiled, all effortless charm with a streak of mischief that hadn’t dulled since you were teenagers. Maybe it was the promise of a salary that could shut you up when your parents asked how you’d pay rent.

Now, your days were spent taming Rafayel’s edges — smoothing his words into headlines, reminding him to tone down the arrogance in interviews, making sure his charisma didn’t spill into chaos.

He paid well, you did your job well, and it wasn’t so bad working alongside your best friend.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Because somewhere between the early mornings in the motorhome and the late nights drafting statements, you realized this wasn’t just a job. It was Rafayel. And if you weren’t careful, the very man you were supposed to protect from scandal might just become your greatest distraction.

But to Rafayel Qi, none of this was complicated.

He had trust issues, and rightfully so — the industry was crawling with opportunists, social climbers, and leeches hiding in every corner.

To survive in Formula One, you had to be careful who you let into your orbit. For Rafayel, the solution had always been simple: keep his circle impossibly small.

And when it came to his public image, there was no one else he’d rather hand the reins to. Why hire a stranger when he could hire his best friend?

“You’re the only one who won’t sell me out,” he’d said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And he wasn’t wrong. Aside from his manager Thomas — who barely scraped by the label of “trusted” — you were the only constant in his life.

The only person who saw past the glittering Mercedes star on his chest and remembered him before the world did.

So, to Rafayel, it only made sense: if he was going to have someone by his side at all times, it had to be you.

You hated dealing with Rafayel’s PR though.

Honestly, why did your best friend have to be the grid’s most extravagant driver? He’d say things like “I don’t care for the parties after my wins” with a bored wave of his hand — and then turn around and bask in the flashing lights of paparazzi cameras like he’d been born for it.

It drove you insane.

And yet… if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be here.

The Mediterranean stretched endlessly before you, sapphire waters shimmering beneath the late afternoon sun.

The salt-kissed breeze tangled in your hair as you lounged on the deck of a Monaco yacht that was way too big for just the two of you. Your sunglasses sat lazily perched on your nose, one hand idly scrolling through your phone.

Headlines. Always headlines.

“‘Mercedes’ golden boy spotted with mystery woman in Port Hercule,’” you read aloud, deadpan, sipping from your drink without even looking up. “Guess who that mystery woman is?”

From across the deck, Rafayel was sprawled like some Renaissance painting come to life, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, a smug grin pulling at his lips. He tilted his sunglasses down just enough to meet your gaze.

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy the attention, cutie,” he teased, voice lazy, velvety. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to make me look good in the press?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might stay that way. “I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble, Rafayel. There’s a difference.”

He chuckled, that low, unbothered sound that only added to your headache — and maybe, if you were honest with yourself, to your heartbeat too.

“And yet, here you are. Mediterranean sun. Monaco yacht. Your best friend, looking devastating as ever. Tell me again how much you hate this job?”

You groaned, slumping back into your seat, but the corners of your lips betrayed you with a tug upwards. He wasn’t wrong.

Rafayel’s gaze lingered on you as you moved inside the yacht, your frown sharper than the sea breeze outside. He followed quietly, leaning against the doorway as you perched on the sofa, laptop balanced on your knees like a shield.

You muttered under your breath while typing furiously, your sunglasses now tossed aside.

“God forbid a Mercedes driver actually enjoy a vacation.” He murmurs.

“Well, you ridiculous fish,” you scowled without looking up, “someone has to make sure your image stays clean. Because while you’re busy parading around like Poseidon’s gift to Formula One, there are vultures out there with nothing better to do than leak whatever dirt they can dig up.”

Rafayel smirked, amused by your dramatic tirade.

“Ridiculous fish? That’s the best you’ve got?”

You ignored him, tapping faster.

Then the sofa dipped, and you squealed as Rafayel dropped his full weight beside you, nearly knocking your laptop askew.

“Rafayel!” you shrieked, clutching the hem of your sundress. “Nooo—this dress is—”

“I’ll get you another one,” he sighed, cutting you off with the breezy nonchalance only he could pull off. Without hesitation, he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his cologne filling the air between you.

“Raf—stop,” you muttered, half exasperated, half—something else entirely—as he nuzzled against your temple like an oversized cat.

“You work too much,” he said simply, his voice softer now, the grin fading into something more genuine.

For a moment, you froze, heart stuttering in your chest. But then you sighed, shoulders slumping as you finally let the laptop fall shut. The hum of the yacht filled the silence, and you thought of the long, grueling season ahead.

Maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself breathe.

That night, the comfort of your desk lamp was a stark contrast to the glittering chaos of Monaco.

Back home, everything was quieter—the soft scratching of your pen against paper, the steady hum of your laptop, the faint tick of the clock reminding you that most sane people were asleep.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then three times in rapid succession, like he was testing how long it would take for you to crack.

You sighed, finally glancing at the screen.

FISH BRAIN 🐟 [3]:

Did you eat?

You’re still working, aren’t you?

You’re going to give yourself wrinkles before I do

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. Fingers poised above the keyboard, you typed back: Some of us actually have jobs, you know.

Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared.

FISH BRAIN 🐟 [3]:

You mean MY job.

And I didn’t hire you to be stressed.

Close the laptop. I’ll FaceTime you. We’ll talk about literally anything else.

You stared at his messages, the corners of your mouth softening despite yourself.

He could be insufferable, dramatic, a walking headline half the time—but he was also the one person who made sure you weren’t swallowed whole by the very job you never asked for.

The phone buzzed again. This time, a photo: Rafayel, hair a little messy, half-smiling at the camera with the caption—Don’t make me come over there.

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t want to name. With a resigned laugh, you shut your laptop, reaching for your phone.

Maybe a ten-minute call wouldn’t hurt.

The paddock was alive in a way it hadn’t been for months—cameras flashing, fans pressing against the barriers, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air.

Mercedes had shown pace in pre-season testing, and the world was ready to crown their golden boy before the lights had even gone out.

Rafayel, of course, was thriving.

His smile gleamed, his hand raised in effortless waves, his every move a calculated mix of charm and chaos. He leaned down to sign caps and posters, slipping in a joke or two that sent the crowd into delighted shrieks.

Beside him, you stood with your iPad and sunglasses, lips pressed into a thin line.

“This is never going to end, is it?” you muttered under your breath, watching as Rafayel winked at a fan holding a homemade sign.

He glanced sideways at you, as if he’d heard your despair through the noise. A mischievous grin tugged at his mouth.

“You say that like you don’t love being here.”

You shot him a glare, one you’d perfected after years of surviving his antics.

“I tolerate being here. There’s a difference.”

“Mm,” Rafayel hummed, signing another autograph before straightening up. “Don’t worry, cutie. When I win, it’ll all be worth it.”

The way he said it—when, not if—should’ve sounded arrogant. Instead, it settled in your chest with a strange, stubborn warmth.

Still, you rolled your eyes. “Just don’t say anything stupid on camera.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, striding ahead with the crowd roaring louder. You grumbled after him, still holding your iPad.

The paddock noise had become a steady hum in the background, like the ocean roaring in your ears. Rafayel was still busy working the rest of the crowd, signing shirts, chatting, throwing up peace signs for cameras.

You were about to nudge him toward the media pen when a cluster of fans suddenly turned their attention—not to him, but to you.

“Wait—are you the girl from TikTok? Y/n?” one of them called, eyes bright. “You’re Rafayel’s PR, right? Your content is so funny!”

Another chimed in, “Yeah, you’re so cool! We love your behind-the-scenes videos!”

Heat crept up your neck as you adjusted your sunglasses. You hadn’t thought your little account—your quiet rebellion against the chaos—would actually get noticed here.

“Oh—thank you,” you said, offering a small smile. “That’s really sweet.”

A few phones angled your way, and for the first time all morning you felt yourself actually soften, the corners of your mouth tugging up.

You’d only started posting to keep yourself sane, but seeing strangers light up because of it made something flutter in your chest.

Then, without warning, a hand clasped around your wrist.

“Hey! Let go!” you squeaked, nearly tripping as Rafayel tugged you out of the cluster of fans.

He didn’t even look back, his pace purposeful, like a cat dragging away its favorite toy.

“There,” he announced with a grin once you were tucked firmly at the edge of the media pen. “Now no one can steal you away from me.”

You glared, trying not to be too aware of how close he’d pulled you.

“I was just saying hi—”

He shot you a playful look, already turning toward the cameras and microphones gathering around him.

“Yeah, yeah. PR officer first, TikTok star second. You can thank me later.”

And just like that, Rafayel slipped into interview mode—voice smooth, charm on autopilot—while you stood at his side, pulse still skipping from the suddenness of it all.

By the time Rafayel finished his last media obligation, he was practically glowing, the kind of effortless charisma that cameras fed off of.

You were scribbling notes on your iPad and reviewing the interviews on your phone when he leaned in, brushing his shoulder against yours as he murmured, “Back in a sec—don’t run off,” before striding toward a cluster of drivers.

And just like that, you were left in the orbit of the other PR officers.

“God, he really doesn’t let you breathe, huh?” one of them, Maya from Ferrari, teased, sipping from her coffee. “If my driver hovered around me like that, I’d file a complaint.”

“Or a restraining order,” laughed another, Leo from Aston Martin. “The way he pulled you out of the fan crowd? That was—what’s the word—possessive?”

Your throat tightened, but you forced a huff, shoving your tablet against your chest.

“He’s just—Rafayel. You know how he is, and don’t talk about him like that. He means well.”

“Oh, we know,” Maya smirked, exchanging a look with Leo. “But you? You let him get away with it. Anyone else, and you’d have bitten their head off.”

You rolled your eyes, lips tightening into a line.

“Please. I don’t have time for this.”

But as their laughter faded into the background, you felt the sting in your chest, the truth lodged where you couldn’t spit it out.

They weren’t wrong. Rafayel was clingy. Too much, sometimes. Yet the idea of pushing him away made your stomach twist. So instead, you swallowed the ache and pretended their teasing didn’t dig under your skin, holding yourself together in the way you always did—crying inside, smiling on the outside.

You tried to laugh along with the teasing, but the moment your colleagues dispersed, leaving you with your own thoughts, the smile slid off your face like a mask you’d been holding too long.

You loved Rafayel. You’d known it for months—maybe years, if you were honest with yourself.

But what did that matter? He was Rafayel Qi, Mercedes’ golden boy, a headline waiting to happen, the kind of man celebrities crossed oceans for just to be photographed next to. And you? You were the one standing just outside the flash of the cameras, making sure he didn’t say something reckless, drafting statements, redirecting gossip before it ever reached him.

Would he even look your way when there were models, singers, and actresses who could give him a world so much brighter than what you had?

Your heart twisted as you watched him across the paddock, laughing with another driver, sunlight catching on the edges of his smile.

He belonged in that glow, larger than life, dazzling. And you—well, you were just the best friend who kept his messes quiet, tucked safely out of the frame.

Still, the way he had tugged you away from the fans earlier replayed in your mind, stubborn and persistent.

There, now no one can steal you away from me. He’d said it like a joke, but it clung to you in a way no casual comment should.

You hated that it made your chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.

Before you know it, your spiraling thoughts are cut short by a familiar voice calling your name.

“There you are.” Rafayel appears at your side in an instant, his hand already looping around your wrist like he’s claimed you. “Come on, we’re going to dinner. The others are waiting.”

Your friends smirk, trading knowing looks behind his back, and you want the ground to swallow you whole. You try to protest, tugging gently at your arm.

“Rafayel, I still have—”

“No excuses.” His grin is blinding, boyish in a way that makes it impossible to fight back. “You’ve been glued to your laptop all week, you’re coming with me.”

The PR officers nearby exchange muffled laughs, one whispering, clingy, while another raises an eyebrow in amusement. You shoot them a desperate glare that only makes them smirk harder.

Heat creeps up your neck, and you force a huff.

“You’re seriously impossible.”

“Yet you always give in,” he teases, tugging you forward.

His hand doesn’t loosen until you’re out of sight of the others, swallowed by the golden glow of the paddock lights, leaving your chest unsteady with something you can’t name.

Barcelona’s media day is a blur of microphones, flashes, and the low hum of engines in the background.

You’re halfway through fielding emails on your phone when you catch sight of him—Rafayel, tall and radiant in the Mercedes team kit, laughter spilling as he leans toward a woman who looks like she was plucked straight off a magazine cover. Her hand brushes his arm, and he doesn’t pull away.

Your chest tightens. For months, you’d learned how to quiet the insecurities that once clung to you like shadows. By his side, you’d grown braver, lighter. Now they come roaring back, cruel and sharp.

Of course. Why would he ever look at you, when women like her exist?

So you straighten your back, tuck your sunglasses on, and force your expression into perfect indifference. It’s the oldest trick in your book: if you look unbothered, maybe you’ll feel unbothered too.

Later, Rafayel finds you by the garage, concern etched into his features.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, softer than usual. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head, eyes never leaving the laptop screen in front of you. “It’s nothing. Just work.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he presses, voice dipping. His gaze lingers like he’s trying to peel away the mask you’ve worn all your life.

You force a little laugh, too brittle to sound convincing.

“Seriously, Rafayel. I’m fine.”

But inside, your stomach twists, and you can’t shake the image of him smiling at her.

The rest of the day, the paddock buzzed like a hive, the chatter of media day spilling into every corner. You were gathering your things, trying to blend into the background, when the sound of laughter caught your ear.

It was her. The same woman from earlier, her perfume lingering in the air as she leaned toward another group of women, phone in hand.

“Can you believe it?” she giggled, waving the screen like a trophy. “Rafayel actually gave me his number.”

The others gasped, clutching each other’s arms in exaggerated delight.

“I don’t even care about the whole car thing,” one of them chimed in, rolling her eyes. “But God, the drivers? They’re insanely hot. Especially Rafayel. Like—wow. I’d go to every race if it meant seeing him.”

Their voices blurred together, a chorus of shallow admiration, each word carving a deeper ache in your chest.

They didn’t know a thing about the sport, about the grind, about the way Rafayel’s entire world revolved around every fraction of a second on track. They didn’t know him.

But you did.

And yet, here you were, clutching your iPad a little too tightly, heart sinking with the realization that maybe knowing him wasn’t enough.

Maybe being his best friend, his PR officer, his constant, wasn’t enough either.

You slipped out of earshot before they could notice you, head high, mask perfectly in place—just like always.

Later that evening, you found yourself cross-legged on the sofa in Rafayel’s hotel room, the glow of the city outside his window spilling soft shadows across the walls. He was stretched out opposite you, still half in his team kit, hair mussed from hours of cameras flashing in his face.

“Media day should be classified as a sport of its own,” he groaned, tossing a cushion into the air and catching it again.

“I swear, if one more journalist asks me how it feels to be in Mercedes, I’ll tell them to go drive the car themselves.”

Normally, you would’ve laughed—rolled your eyes, maybe, and reminded him that this was literally your job to manage. But instead, your gaze was fixed on the glass of water in your hands, swirling it idly as if the condensation held answers you were too tired to say aloud.

“Mm,” you hummed absently, not even realizing how flat it sounded.

Rafayel blinked. “That’s it? Mm?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was a crease forming between his brows as he studied you.

You startled, forcing a laugh as you looked up at him.

“Sorry. Just… zoned out. Long day.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, like he was trying to peel back the layers you’d hastily thrown over yourself. But then, with a sigh, he let it go.

“Yeah, I get it,” he murmured, leaning his head back against the sofa, lids heavy with exhaustion. “We’ll survive another one tomorrow.”

You nodded quickly, grateful he hadn’t pressed, and changed the subject with a little too much enthusiasm.

The conversation slipped back into its usual rhythm, your smile steady, your words practiced.

But Rafayel wasn’t a fool. He knew you better than most.

Even as you carried on like nothing had happened, the echo of your distant gaze clung to him, a quiet reminder that something was wrong.

And though he didn’t force the truth from you, he made a silent promise to himself as he closed his eyes: he’d wait. However long it took, he’d get to the bottom of it.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of you brushing him off with practiced smiles, of laughing at the right moments, of insisting “I’m fine” when clearly, you weren’t.

At first, Rafayel gave you space, waiting for you to crack and come to him. But Spa was different.

The air itself seemed to carry weight—the looming clouds, the mist clinging to the trees, the tension of a weekend where drivers held their breath through Eau Rouge.

And Rafayel had reached his limit.

You were tucked into a corner of the Mercedes garage, adjusting your blouse, pretending to look busy while mechanics buzzed around. Rafayel spotted you, jaw tightening as he strode over.

“Hey,” his voice cut through the noise, low but commanding.

You looked up, startled. “What are doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the car by now?”

“Don’t deflect.” He planted himself in front of you, arms crossed, blocking any escape route. His eyes—sharp, probing, impossible to dodge—pinned you to the spot.

“You’ve been acting weird for weeks. And don’t even try saying it’s nothing.”

Your stomach dropped. “Raf, I’m literally just tired—”

“No,” he interrupted, tone firmer now, though not unkind. “Tired I can read. Tired doesn’t look like this.” He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You barely look me in the eye anymore. You don’t laugh the same. And today, you didn’t even notice I almost walked into a bloody camera tripod.”

Despite yourself, a small huff escaped you. “You’re dramatic.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice so no one else could hear.

“Only with you.”

The words hung heavy between you. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“So tell me what’s going on. Please. Because I can’t focus on the Eau Rouge if I’m worried sick about the one person I trust actually avoiding me.”

Your throat tightened, your tablet trembling slightly in your grip. He was right—of course he was right.

The dam you’d built inside your chest was starting to crack, and Rafayel’s gaze, steady and unwavering, was all it took to bring it dangerously close to breaking.

Your throat burned, eyes stinging as if the words were right there—balanced on the tip of your tongue, begging to spill out.

You wanted to tell him. You wanted to scream that you couldn’t stand seeing him with someone else, that you hated being just his PR officer when your heart had been his long before Formula One.

But you swallowed it. Forced your lips into that polished little smile you’d perfected for the cameras.

“I’m fine, Raf. Really.”

His brows furrowed, frustration flashing across his face.

For once, the always-composed Rafayel Qi actually looked… lost. He opened his mouth, about to push again, when a mechanic rushed over.

“Rafayel, it’s time. Car’s ready.”

The driver looked back at you, jaw clenched, eyes lingering on your face like he was trying to memorize every detail before pulling away. Slowly, he exhaled, giving a small shake of his head. Not in anger—just in defeat.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low and raw, only for you. “But this isn’t over.”

And then he was gone, helmet in hand, the garage swallowing him up. You stood there frozen, tablet heavy in your grip, heart aching at the sight of his retreating back.

The roar of the Mercedes engine echoed through Spa like thunder, and you could feel it—Rafayel was driving like a man possessed.

Every lap time that flashed on the screen made your chest tighten. Purple sectors. Aggressive turns. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He was fighting.

And when the chequered flag waved, there it was. P1.

The garage erupted into cheers, engineers clapping shoulders, mechanics grinning wide. But you? You just stood there, clutching your tablet, pulse racing for a completely different reason. Because you knew.

That wasn’t just speed. That was Rafayel burning through his frustration, his confusion—his feelings.

When he finally climbed out of the car, helmet under his arm, he didn’t smile like the others. His purple eyes immediately searched the garage until they found yours.

You held his gaze, breath caught in your throat, and for a moment it felt like the world was only the two of you.

But then Thomas clapped him on the back, breaking the spell.

“Good work, Raf. Now let’s keep this momentum for FP2.”

He nodded distractedly, but his eyes flicked back to you, sharp and unreadable. You knew he wanted to say something—anything—but he just handed the helmet off and walked past you, brushing so close your arm tingled.

No words. Just the electric, unspoken tension hanging heavy in the air. Because he had to get in the zone again, and you had to pretend you weren’t falling apart.

Saturday morning, the paddock buzzed louder than usual.

Rafayel had qualified P3, and the energy was electric—engineers were fist-pumping, journalists scrambling, and social media already blowing up. But you, headset snug around your ears, notebook and iPad in hand, moved through it all like you always did—professional, focused, yet every so often your eyes flicked to him.

He stood just a few meters away, calm and collected, but there was a difference. The edge in his posture, the way his jaw flexed, the subtle tilt of his head whenever your paths crossed—it all screamed unspoken things. And you knew it.

Your other PR friends were quick to notice, whispering just loud enough for you to hear:

“You two… it’s ridiculous. You could literally cut the tension with a knife.”

“I know,” you muttered, forcing your gaze back to the media schedule. “We’re fine.”

But as Rafayel leaned back against the barrier, helmet tucked under his arm, you could feel it.

The competition wasn’t the only thing heating up this weekend. Every glance, every half-smile, every brush of his hand against yours as he passed—it was you and him now. And for the first time, it wasn’t just business.

You straightened your shoulders, reminding yourself you were here to work. Yet your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat each time he looked your way.

You’re on edge the entire way back from the media pen, heart hammering like it might burst through your chest.

Rafayel’s car has been secured, the fans and cameras already flocking elsewhere, but he doesn’t let you go. Instead, he corners you near the paddock gates, face set in that calm, infuriating way he has—the one that always makes you feel like he can see straight through you.

“You’ve been… different,” he says, voice low, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “All these weeks, you’ve been… pulling away. What the hell is going on with you?”

You shake your head, trying to find words that won’t betray you, but the dam inside finally breaks. Your hands clutch at your jacket, trembling, and a few frustrated tears slip down your cheeks.

“I… I can’t… I just—”

“Just what?!” he snaps, frustration flaring in a way that mirrors your own.

“You act like you don’t care, like you’re some perfect little PR officer who never gets feelings, but I know you feel something. So just tell me!”

The words come out in a rush, jagged, desperate:

“I love you, Rafayel! I’ve loved you for so long, and I was scared… scared that if I said anything, I’d ruin everything between us, scared you’d never see me that way, scared of how much I’d want you!”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then his expression softens. His hands are on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His voice is a mixture of exasperation and something tender that makes your chest ache.

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it’s been for me to watch you shrink away from me when all I want is to be with you?”

You’re trembling, sobbing, and he pulls you closer, pressing a warm, steadying hand to your back.

“I only have eyes for you,” he murmurs before tipping your chin up and kissing you, slow and deliberate at first, then fierce as if he’s making up for all the time lost.

You cling to him, heart pounding, tears mixing with laughter and relief. Everything you’d bottled up, every doubt, every fear, melts into that one moment.

The paddock fades away—the cameras, the fans, the noise—and it’s just you and him, finally, finally honest with each other.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper against his shoulder, voice cracking. “Why did I wait so long?”

He chuckles softly, nuzzling you, eyes warm and unyielding. “Because I love you enough for both of us, and now, we’ve got all the time in the world to be us.”

You had always loved Formula One.

It wasn’t just the speed or the glamour — it was the strategy, the tension of every lap, the way one decision could change the entire course of a race.

You still remembered the first Grand Prix you ever watched.

You were seven, sitting cross-legged on the couch next to your father, your little hands clutching a bowl of popcorn as the cars roared to life on the grid.

“Pay attention,” your father had said, his voice calm but excited. “It’s not just about who’s fastest — it’s about who makes the smartest calls.”

And you did. You soaked it all in: pit stop gambles, tire changes, safety car drama. The obsession stayed.

By the time you were in high school, your notebooks were full of more than math equations — they were covered in doodled track layouts, alternative pit strategies, and notes about tire degradation.

“Who even thinks about two-stop strategies during Chemistry?” your best friend had groaned, peeking at your scribbled notes.

You’d only grinned. “Someone has to win the championship for Ferrari one day. Might as well be me.”

In college, it became your personality. Group projects? You always volunteered to “call the shots” — joking that you’d be the Susie Wolff of your team.

You spent weekends watching races with your study group, pausing mid-broadcast to passionately explain why a virtual safety car could change everything.

“Honestly,” your roommate once said, watching you with wide eyes, “you’re scary good at this. Like… if you ever work in F1, I fear for the other teams.”

And maybe she was right.

Years later, with a headset on and your eyes glued to multiple screens, you were no longer that wide-eyed girl watching races in her pajamas — you were Aston Martin’s lead strategist, with the power to make or break a Sunday.

Meanwhile, Zayne never thought racing would be more than a hobby. Growing up, he’d tried everything — snowboarding, tennis, kayaking — but nothing quite gave him the rush like karting did.

It was supposed to be just another weekend activity, something to blow off steam between lectures and late-night study sessions.

Then the wins started piling up. Sponsors came knocking. Suddenly, what was meant to be a side hobby became a full-fledged career — and Zayne Li found himself balancing Formula One with medical school.

Most people would’ve cracked under the pressure, but Zayne thrived on it. He liked the chaos, the mental challenge of switching between studying anatomy one day and perfecting braking points the next.

The grid adored him — a rare mix of focus and easy charm — but the one person who always caught his eye was you.

You, with your ever-present headset and laser-sharp focus on the timing screens, completely unbothered by the noise around you. You were shy, but brilliant, and Zayne found himself lingering in the garage longer than he needed to just to catch the smallest smile when you nailed a perfect strategy call.

“She’s the reason we even got points today,” he’d tell the engineers after the debrief, as his gaze found you across the room.

Because for all the adrenaline and glory, nothing beat the quiet thrill of watching his favorite strategist at work.

You were grateful to work at Aston Martin—really, you were. Sometimes it still felt surreal, standing in the heart of the garage with headsets pressed against your ears, the roar of engines just outside.

This was the dream you’d built since childhood, watching Grand Prix Sundays with your father, scribbling strategies in the margins of your notebooks.

Now, you weren’t just watching. You were the one pulling the strings.

“You do realize you’re the reason we’re sitting this high in the constructors’ standings, right?” one of the engineers teased during debrief, a grin tugging at his lips.

You ducked your head with a small smile, cheeks warm.

“It’s a team effort,” you mumbled, clicking through your laptop.

“Team effort, sure,” another piped in, throwing a rag at him. “But you’re the one who calls box at exactly the right second every time. It’s uncanny.”

You shook your head, hiding a quiet laugh. You didn’t like talking about your work — praise always made you a little shy — but your colleagues had a way of making you feel like you’d hung the moon.

You were still young, still a doe-eyed rookie in the scene compared to the veterans surrounding you, but you held a deep, unshakable love for motorsport. That passion bled into everything you did — the long nights of number crunching, the endless simulations, the heated debates over strategy that ended with you stubbornly fighting for what you knew was right.

Even Zayne noticed.

“You know,” he said one evening, catching you in the garage long after most had left, “you work harder than anyone I know.”

You startled slightly, not realizing he was still around. “Zayne—you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. His race suit long discarded of as he now stands in his team kit, hair still damp from the post-race shower, but he lingered by your workstation, leaning casually against the wall.

“I’m just saying. You spend more time looking at those timing screens than you do sleeping.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus back on your laptop.

“That’s part of the job.”

He grinned, that easy, sharp grin of his that made your stomach flip. “Yeah, but it’s not part of the job to be this good at it.”

You gave him a look, unsure how to respond, and he chuckled softly, pushing off the wall.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it. Just… don’t forget to breathe, okay?”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you with the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

Zayne had become your closest confidant ever since you started working as his race strategist. Somehow, it had just… happened.

One late-night strategy meeting turned into a conversation about music, which turned into him telling you about med school and how he secretly hated anatomy class, which turned into you accidentally confessing you’d once fainted dissecting a frog in high school.

Usually, you liked to keep your relationships with the drivers clean, civil, and perfectly professional — a firm handshake and a polite smile was enough.

The last thing you needed was to give anyone a reason to believe the old paddock rumors that women only made it this far by getting too close to the men they worked with.

But Zayne made it hard.

He was annoyingly good at it, too.

“Long night?” His voice came from behind you as you hunched over your laptop, chewing on the end of your pen.

You didn’t look up. “Long week.”

He pulled out the empty chair beside you and spun it around, sitting on it and staring at you intently.

“You know, most people would’ve gone home by now.”

“Most people don’t have to decide between a one-stop or a two-stop strategy that could make or break your race,” you replied, scrolling through another set of data.

“See,” he said, leaning his back on the backrest. “You care too much. You care so much it’s kind of scary.”

You finally looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “And you don’t?”

He smirked. “Oh, I care. But I trust you to care enough for both of us.”

That made your stomach flip — not because it was a flirtatious comment (though Zayne’s smirk made it sound like one), but because he meant it. He trusted you. Completely.

And you liked that Zayne treated you as his equal.

He never looked down on you, never questioned your calls, never made you feel like you had to fight twice as hard to be taken seriously — not the way others had when you first broke into the paddock.

You should’ve been grateful that he respected you so much, but if you were honest with yourself…

You wouldn’t mind being reported to HR, because Zayne made it nearly impossible to keep your feelings strictly professional.

The casual touches on your shoulder when he passed, the way he always looked for you first after stepping out of the car, the quiet late-night conversations when the world felt like it had gone to sleep — they were all starting to chip away at your carefully built walls.

And maybe, just maybe, you were letting them.

Suzuka weekend felt different. Maybe it was the crisp spring air, maybe it was the constant buzz of the Japanese fans who lined up outside the paddock gates every morning, or maybe it was just Zayne.

Because Zayne had definitely been different.

He was more playful than usual, like something had clicked in him between Shanghai and here.

During the first free practice session, his voice echoed through the garage, light and teasing.

“You look worried, miss strategist,” he said as he gets out of the car. “Do you miss me by any chance?”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see your face, eyes glued to the clipboard in front of you. “I’m worried because you keep cooking your tires. Not because I miss you.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, a smile obvious in his tone. “If you say so.”

The engineers snickered, and you caught a few of them giving each other side-eyes across the pit wall.

By Saturday, it had only gotten worse — or better, depending on who you asked.

“Tell Zayne to box. Box now,” you called over the radio as you ran the numbers again.

“He says, ‘you just like it when he comes back to you,’” his engineer shot back immediately.

You bit back a laugh and sigh, conscious of the mechanics hearing. “I’d appreciate it more when he listens to me, actually.”

Zayne whispers to himself as he overhears you, “I’m always listening.”

Your heart did a very unprofessional flip in your chest as you think about Zayne’s words, but you forced yourself to focus on the data flashing on your screen.

The teasing turned into something softer on race day.

After finishing P3 — a solid result given the strategy gamble you’d taken — he found you in the garage as everyone celebrated. Instead of the usual high-five, he leaned closer, still damp with sweat from the helmet, and murmured, “Good calls today. You saved me.”

“Just doing my job,” you said, trying to play it cool.

“Mm. Maybe,” he said, stepping back with that little smirk of his. “Or maybe you just like keeping me out of trouble.”

You hated how much you liked the game — the glances across the garage, the subtle brushes of his hand when no one was looking, the way you could feel his eyes on you during debriefs.

It was risky, and you knew it. You had worked too hard to get here, and the last thing you wanted was for the paddock to think you’d fallen into the cliché of “driver and strategist.”

But as you walked out of the garage that night, your phone buzzed with a message from him:

Zayne: Dinner? Just us. No data, no talk of strategy.

You hesitated — then smiled despite yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t.

But maybe you really, really wanted to.

Dinner was quiet — not awkward quiet, but the kind of quiet that feels like a secret. Zayne had chosen a tiny restaurant tucked into a side street in Nagoya, far away from the usual post-race chaos of team dinners and sponsor obligations.

The table was small enough that your knees almost brushed under it, and the warm glow of the lanterns outside made the whole thing feel… intimate.

“You really know how to pick a spot,” you said, swirling your glass of sake, trying to keep your voice even.

“Yeah, well,” Zayne shrugged, reaching for his chopsticks, “I figured you’d appreciate somewhere no one’s waiting to take blurry photos of us through a window.”

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of saying you don’t want to be seen with me?”

He glanced up, his mouth twitching into that half-smirk you were way too familiar with now.

“No. It’s my way of saying I don’t feel like sharing tonight.”

Your chest tightened at that, heat crawling up your neck, and you quickly busied yourself with your food.

For a while, it was just the two of you eating, trading comments here and there about the race — but it wasn’t like your usual post-race debriefs. This was casual. Soft. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, Zayne leaned back and gave you one of those looks.

“You’re quieter tonight,” he said. “What, no lecture about tire degradation or my braking points? I’m mildly impressed.”

“Not when you actually follow along the strategy perfectly,” you shot back, lips twitching.

“There it is,” he said, pointing his chopsticks at you. “I was starting to miss that little bite.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

Then his tone shifted, softer but still carrying that dry edge only he could pull off. “You know, I wasn’t joking earlier. You really do keep me out of trouble. I like that about you.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the honesty. “It’s my job to keep you out of trouble.”

“Yeah, but you actually care if I go along with the plan,” he said simply, leaning forward a little. “It’s different. You make me want to listen.”

The words sat between you, heavier than anything you’d heard from him before.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. This was the same Zayne who teased you relentlessly during strategy calls — but right now, there was no smirk, no punchline coming. Just him, looking at you like you were more than just the voice in his ear on race day.

“You’re… kind of ruining my whole ‘strictly professional’ thing right now,” you admitted, trying for lightness but failing at hiding how fast your heart was beating.

He grinned, finally leaning back, letting you breathe again. “Good. I’m tired of pretending I don’t like my strategist.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and reached for your drink to cover your face.

“Relax,” he said, deadpan. “Not like I’m about to post it on Instagram. I just thought you should know before the next race that you’re my favorite person on and off track.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because suddenly, keeping things professional didn’t feel nearly as important as it did when the season started.

By the time Silverstone rolled around, you and Zayne had settled into a quiet rhythm — one that felt dangerously natural.

At the paddock, you were all professionalism: headset on, strategy papers in hand, giving him updates with the same calm voice you always used.

No one would have guessed that just hours later, in the quiet of the hotel room, you’d be perched cross-legged on the bed while Zayne sat at the desk, books open, tapping his pen against a page as he studied.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” you said, crossing your arms.

He glanced over his shoulder, brows raised. “What did I do this time?”

“You called me your ‘good luck charm’ on comms. During quali. Can you believe the teasing I had to endure from your engineer?” you reminded him, shooting him a look.

A low chuckle rumbled out of him, the kind that always made your stomach flip. “Well, you are. Didn’t you see my lap time?”

“That’s not the point!” you said, tossing a pillow at him. “You’re going to get me in trouble one of these days.”

He caught the pillow with one hand, still grinning. “Relax, strategist. Nobody’s going to connect the dots. I’m just motivating my team.”

“You’re teasing me,” you accused, but your tone had softened — because it was hard to stay mad when he was looking at you like that.

Zayne finally pushed his chair back and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to you. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low. “But you make it too easy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thundering in your chest.

“You’re lucky you’re charming.”

“Lucky?” he repeated, smirking before leaning in to kiss you — slow and sweet, like he wasn’t in any rush to get back to his textbooks.

When he pulled back, you sighed and rested your head against his shoulder, your voice softer now. “I still worry, you know. About Barcelona, that strategy nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He went quiet for a moment, then pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know. But I’m here, aren’t I? You don’t have to carry that with you.”

You looked up at him, letting yourself smile despite the weight in your chest. “You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Med school,” he said simply, picking up his pen again and twirling it between his fingers. “And you.”

Your heart skipped, but you let him get back to his notes, curling against him as you scrolled through your laptop, both of you working in a comfortable silence that felt… domestic.

Like this wasn’t just a fleeting thing but something you were both choosing, quietly, over and over again.

Everyone was watching the post-race interview on Sunday, half the paddock gathered around the TV screens as the Aston driver stood there, helmet hair and all, grinning under the bright lights.

“Zayne,” the interviewer began, “everyone’s been dying to know — how do you even manage med school and racing at this level? Most people can barely balance one, and you seem to be doing both flawlessly.”

Zayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that quiet, self-possessed way of his. “I wouldn’t say flawlessly,” he said. “I just… plan my days well, and I’ve got a good team that keeps me on track — literally.”

You caught yourself smiling at the screen, heat creeping up your neck. He said it so casually, like it wasn’t tearing him in two some days to juggle everything, like he wasn’t sneaking study sessions between debriefs and simulator runs.

“And the late nights?” the interviewer pressed. “That can’t be easy.”

He shrugged, almost effortlessly charming. “Coffee helps. And so does having something worth it to work for.”

The crowd around the TV erupted in good-natured laughter, but you just stood there, flushed and fighting a grin. Because you knew he wasn’t just talking about racing.

Later, when you passed him in the motorhome, still in your Aston Martin polo and holding your clipboard, he caught your eye with that infuriatingly calm smile.

“Something worth it, huh?” you teased under your breath as you walked past.

Zayne only tilted his head, gaze lingering a second longer than it should’ve. “You heard me,” he murmured, and kept walking — leaving you standing there, heart thudding, realizing just how much you really, really loved this man.

You liked the balance you and Zayne had built — a quiet, delicate rhythm that fit perfectly between race weekends, strategy meetings, and late-night study sessions.

Your careers kept you busy, pulled you in different directions more often than not, but somehow, you always found your way back to each other.

It wasn’t just the romance, though that part made your heart race just as much as the lights going out on a Sunday. It was the way he understood you without asking, the way he never pushed but always showed up.

You both valued the privacy, the ability to love each other away from cameras and headlines, in the quiet safety of hotel rooms, long flights, or a late-night call after a bad race.

And as Zayne would always say, in his calm, dry way — “We’re good like this. Just us.”

It was nice, you thought, to have found each other — in the chaos of Formula One, in the most unexpected place, at exactly the right time.

The season had ended hours ago, the garage now empty except for the two of you. The air still smelled faintly of burnt rubber and champagne, but the noise, the frenzy, the flashing cameras — all of that was gone.

You sat side by side on a stack of unused tire blankets, Zayne still in his fireproofs, hair slightly damp from the podium celebrations. He leaned back against the wall, breathing deep like he was finally letting the season go.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you.

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Just thinking. About how far we’ve come.”

He chuckled softly, reaching over to take your hand. “You mean, from you yelling at me during strategy calls in my rookie season?”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “That was deserved, by the way.”

“Sure,” he teased, before squeezing your hand gently. His tone softened. “I like that we get to do this together, you know. Racing, life, all of it.”

It made your chest ache in the best way. Especially now that a handful of fans had kind of pieced together the truth — the matching hotel check-ins, the photos where your reflection was caught in his sunglasses — but instead of blasting it everywhere, they’d chosen to keep it quiet. A strange, unspoken pact between the two of you and the few who had noticed.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting the peace settle around you. “Me too. This feels… right.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Then we’ll keep it like this. Just us, just enough.”

But then he glanced down at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Although,” he said casually, “maybe next season we hard launch. Shake things up a bit.”

You laughed, swatting at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” His grin widened, boyish and infuriating. A rare moment where Zayne lets go of his stoic exterior.

You groaned and buried your face in his shoulder, but deep down, you knew if Zayne ever did hard launch your relationship, you wouldn’t mind — not even a little.

A year later, the cicadas hummed outside the window of your hotel room in Melbourne, the soft hum of the city spilling in from the streets below.

Another season loomed ahead — media duties, travel, sleepless nights filled with data and simulations — but for now, it was quiet. Just you and Zayne, side by side, curled up on the sofa with the faint glow of the TV casting across his face.

He was still reviewing notes for his first practice session tomorrow and an upcoming exam he had to take the next week, glasses perched low on his nose, but his free hand rested lazily against your thigh.

The break had been good to both of you — quiet mornings in Europe, trips where no one knew who you were, stolen time where he wasn’t a driver and you weren’t a strategist. Just Zayne and you.

“You’re staring,” he murmured without looking up from his notes, that familiar dry humor threading his voice.

You smirked. “I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”

Finally, he glanced at you, eyes glinting under the lamplight. “Careful. You’ll give me an ego right before the season starts.”

You nudged his shoulder, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “Like you need the help.”

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed since the last season — all those weekends where the world demanded everything from him and you had to keep your composure. Except now, there was something steadier between you, something stronger after a winter spent together.

“You ready?” you asked softly, tracing a finger over his wrist where his pulse beat steady.

He closed his notes, pulling off his glasses with a sigh, and turned toward you. “I was ready the moment I knew you’d be in the pit wall again this season.”

The words made your chest tighten. For someone who teased you relentlessly, he had a way of slipping in truths that left you speechless.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, watching the muted lights of Melbourne flicker through the window. “Then let’s make this season ours.”

Zayne pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand squeezing yours. “Ours,” he echoed, a small smile curling at his lips. “And maybe this time, I’ll even listen to you during strategy calls.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Now that would be a miracle.”

But deep down, you knew he meant it — this season, whatever came, you’d face it together.

By the time the checkered flag fell in Melbourne, the whispers had grown louder. Photos of Zayne sneaking smiles toward the pit wall, clips of his voice softening mid-radio call, moments where his eyes lingered a little too long on the screens where you stood — the fans noticed.

They pieced it together, of course. That there was someone, someone who made him laugh a little easier and race a little harder. But no one could ever say for sure.

Because you were always there, headset on, eyes sharp, smirk hidden behind the shadows of the Aston Martin pit wall.

To the cameras, you were just another figure in green, part of the blur of engineers and strategists who kept the team alive. To Zayne, you were everything.

And as the crowd roared, as confetti rained down on the podium, he found you through the chaos — the briefest glance, the faintest smile, one only you would recognize.

The world might know he was in love. But they would never know it was you.