souls don't meet by accident

You take a long swig of your drink. “Also, my heels hurt,” you say wryly. 

He huffs a laugh and tilts his head toward your feet. “You wore those just to make me look short.”

“You are short.”

Alex flicks your forehead. “I’m the tallest driver on the grid, thank you very much.”

You glance up at him, eyes a little too wide, pupils a little too dilated. You’re tipsy. Not wrecked, not sloppy, but looser than you usually are. Lopsided in the smile you give him, soft around the edges. Alex feels it thud in his ribs.

He’s used to this version of you. The one that comes out only with him. The one that drops sarcasm like armor and leans into him in crowded rooms without hesitation. He’s known you since you were kids, since your parents used to split school pick-ups and you cried the first time he beat you at Mario Kart. (“You cheated!” “I literally didn’t!” “I AM GOING TO TURN YOUR CATS AGAINST YOU!”)

You were the only one who never gave him a weird look when he said he wanted to race cars for a living. When he made Formula One, you mailed him a tiny plastic trophy with WORLD’S MOST AVERAGE MAN written in Sharpie on the base.

He still keeps it in his Monaco flat. Right beside the real ones.

Tonight, it’s his party. P5 in Austria. Not a podium, but it felt like one. The Williams crew had screamed in the garage, and you’d been there in the back, arms raised, mouth open in a wordless, feral cheer. He thinks about that moment now, how you practically tackled him afterward in parc fermé. Arms around his neck. Face in his shoulder. Like the rest of the world wasn’t worth looking at.

It doesn’t matter that you’re not dating. People assume. They always have. The glances, the smirks, the knowing comments. Alex doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care much how he’s perceived. Not when you keep choosing him over and over, in every small way that counts.

“Come on,” he says now, nudging your hip with his. “Everyone’s asking for you.”

“I’m protesting loud music and fake laughing.”

“Your fake laugh is top-tier, though.”

“It’s all the years I’ve spent laughing at your jokes.”

Alex fake-gasps. “You love my jokes.”

“Not the knock-knock ones.”

He leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “What if I told you I had a new one about Toto Wolff and a goat?”

Your face lights in a way that hits him like gravity. “Is the goat also Austrian?”

“Unconfirmed.”

“Proceed.”

Before he can get to the punchline, your hand shoots out and grips his forearm with sudden, startling urgency. “Shit,” you exhale.

Alex freezes. “What?”

You’re blinking over his shoulder, the color draining from your face in slow motion. “It’s my ex,” you mumble. “He’s here. Why is he here? This isn’t even his—oh my God, he’s walking this way.”

Your fingers tighten on his arm. Alex registers the heat of your skin, the press of your body turning instinctively into his side. He’s moving before he thinks, shifting slightly to block your view.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey. I’ve got you. What do you need?”

You stare up at him, startled. “I don’t know. I—I don’t want to look pathetic.”

Alex doesn’t hesitate. “Okay. Then let’s make him jealous instead.”

It comes out smooth, practiced. Like it’s something he’s thought about before. He doesn’t have time to examine all that. Not now, not with the way you’re holding onto his sleeve like a lifeline.

He’s always had a thing about your taste in men.

Never said much, never made a fuss. If pressed, though, he’d admit there’s not a single one of your exes he liked. They’ve all felt, to him, like half-chances. Men who didn’t see you properly. Who didn’t earn the right to touch your wrist, let alone your heart. Who took what you gave and didn’t know what to do with it.

And this one—this particular ex—he’s the worst of them.

It’s not just the breakup. It’s the way it happened. The slow, cowardly retreat. The way you’d checked your phone every few minutes for weeks, trying to laugh it off until you couldn’t anymore. The whispered explanations you’d given Alex after, eyes wet, voice small. “He said I was too intense,” you’d confessed, and Alex had felt something feral and sharp uncoil in his chest. 

Worse still, the ex is now part of the motorsports world. Some junior mechanic who floats around the Williams garage like static electricity. Useless and smug. Always managing to say the wrong thing with just enough charm to get away with it. Alex has had to sit through entire debriefs with the guy breathing two seats away, talking about tire temps like he invented them. And now he’s here. At Alex’s party. Circling like a vulture.

Alex spots him through the crowd, threading his way through the cluster of guests with that same half-smile. His eyes sweep the room—and yeah, he’s looking for you.

“Shit, okay, we need a plan,” Alex grumbles.

“What kind of plan?” You’re gripping his shirt now. Not hard, but enough to wrinkle it. He doesn’t care. Your panic is rising fast, cresting in your throat.

“I don’t know,” he says, scanning your face. “Do you want me to—should I pretend we’re together? Should I punch him? I’ll punch him. I’ve been meaning to try that.”

“Alex,” you hiss, barely breathing. “He’s getting closer.”

Alex curses under his breath. He’s thinking too fast and not fast enough. His fingers twitch like they’re trying to grab the idea before it’s fully formed. “Okay. Okay, we’ll fake date. Cool. How do people fake date? What’s the move? Should I put my arm around you or—”

You open your mouth like you’re about to say something helpful. Then you just—

—you kiss him.

No warning. No build. Just lips.

You grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward, right into you. Alex blinks, stunned, as your mouth finds his like it’s a question you’ve already answered a hundred times.

And suddenly he’s aware of a few things all at once:

Your mouth is soft. Warm. Slightly citrusy, he thinks, probably from the drink you had earlier. You always preferred something with lime.

You’re kissing him like you’ve done it before. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you’re coming home.

He is absolutely not thinking about your ex anymore.

His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting. He doesn’t even think about it. His eyes flutter shut. The kiss isn’t long, isn’t showy. It’s not performative. It’s not even that dramatic. But it’s anchored, intentional, and it hits him like gravity.

Somewhere, distantly, someone laughs. The music shifts tracks. A cheer erupts from a corner of the flat where someone’s undoubtedly doing something ill-advised with beer. Alex registers none of it. Just the press of you against him, the brush of your nose, the almost involuntary sigh you make as your fingers slip into his hair and rest there.

The kiss deepens slightly, for one breathless second. Like maybe you forgot it was supposed to be for show, too.

By the time you pull away—slow and stunned and still close enough that he can count the freckles on your cheek—Alex realizes something terrifyingly obvious.

He quite liked that. 

Alex doesn’t even get the chance to speak.

Your ex materializes like a summoned ghost, all thin-lipped smile and cologne that’s trying too hard. Oliver, Alex vaguely remembers his name to be. He’s holding a red cup and some flimsy excuse for swagger, eyes flicking between you and Alex as if he’s connecting the most obvious dots in the world.

“Well,” Oliver says, tone derisive enough to curdle milk. “That explains the floor show.”

Alex tenses. You shift an inch closer to him, and it’s instinct when he hooks an arm around your waist. Protective, not possessive. 

You laugh. It’s too high, too brittle. “Oh, hey,” you fib. “Didn’t see you there.” 

Oliver raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. You two looked busy.”

“We were. Are,” you say, then clear your throat. “Busy. We’re very... involved.”

Alex resists the urge to wince. You’re a good liar, but only when it doesn’t matter. Right now, you’re floundering. He can feel the way your hand clenches in the hem of his shirt.

“Right,” Oliver drawls, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s this? A little make out session to blow off some steam?”

You open your mouth. Then shut it. Then—

“We’re dating,” you blurt out.

A beat.

Alex nods like his heart didn’t just do a sideways flip. “Yep,” he says. “Totally. Very much dating.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s nothing, like his lips aren’t tingling from the memory of your mouth. You lean into him, barely trembling.

Oliver doesn’t look convinced. He gives a little smirk. “Huh. Didn’t peg you as her type.”

“No one ever does,” Alex says lightly, “but here we are.”

You grab Alex’s hand like it’s a rope you’re about to swing from. “Anyway,” you announce, a little too brightly, “we’re gonna go have sex now. So. Bye.”

Alex nearly chokes. “What.”

You’re already dragging him away. Through the crowd, down the hall, past two confused Williams juniors and someone yelling about jello shots. You make a pit stop at the drinks table and knock back one, two, three shots like you’re hydrating for a marathon.

Alex stares. “What the hell was that?”

“Panic,” you say, breathless, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Performance. Chaos. I don’t know.”

He grabs a shot himself and throws it back. “You told him we were going to have sex.”

“I did.”

“That is not subtle.”

“Subtlety’s dead. I’m grieving.”

“You said it like we were late for a reservation.” He mimics your pitched voice as he shoots back a bit more vodka. “Gonna go have sex now. Are you for real?” 

You spin around to face him, flushed and wild-eyed. There’s a bathroom door to your left and you open it like it’s the only sanctuary left on earth. “Just get in here before I make it worse,” you snap. 

Alex steps inside after you, heart rattling in his chest, mind spinning like he’s still in the car at 300 kph. Underneath it all—rising like steam in a quiet room—is the echo of your kiss.

Still warm. Still there.

Alex wakes to pain.

Specifically, a full-body, top-down, soul-crushing headache that feels like his skull got rear-ended by a safety car.

He groans. The ceiling swims.

Somewhere nearby, a curtain flutters. The room smells of faint citrus and someone else’s shampoo. He blinks against the light, tries to sit up, immediately regrets it. It’s not just the headache; it’s the thudding ache of memory, half-formed flashes surfacing like debris.

Bathroom debrief. More shots afterwards. Laughter muffled against tile. Your hand in his hair, in his lap, on his jaw—

The kiss.

The first one, yes, but also—the second. The third? There’d been more, he’s sure. Stolen ones, maybe a little sloppier. Maybe even sweeter.

He remembers your back against the sink. Your laughter slipping into his throat. The way you whispered something like, “We’re so bad at this fake dating thing,” before kissing him again, just because you could.

He winces. His ears pick up movement. Rustling. A zipper.

He turns his head and sees you.

You’re halfway into your jeans, shoes dangling from one hand, trying to be quiet in the way only someone with a guilty conscience and a mild hangover can manage. Your hair’s a mess. His hoodie’s swallowing your frame.

“Are you—” His voice comes out gravel. He coughs. “Are you sneaking out of your own apartment?”

You freeze. Look caught. Like a cat with contraband. “No. I’m... relocating.”

Alex squints. “To where?”

You sigh and flop dramatically onto the edge of the bed, one shoe still dangling. “I was trying to spare myself the humiliation of the world’s clumsiest walk of shame.”

He rolls onto his side with a groan, dragging a pillow under his arm. “You can’t walk of shame if you didn’t even get to the sex part. That’s, like, an amble of emotional damage.”

You groan into your hands. “Alex,” you huff. “I told your teammate’s girlfriend we were soulmates. I told your head mechanic we were planning a trip to adopt a dog in the Alps. I have texts, Alex. So many texts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Texts from Oliver?”

“No. Worse. Vowles.”

Alex snorts. “Oh, then, yeah. That’s legally binding.”

You shove your face into his pillow with a muffled scream.

He reaches out, tugs gently at your elbow. “Hey. Come here.”

“No.” 

“Get back in bed, honey.” 

“No.” 

“Please. I have a headache and abandonment issues.”

You hesitate. Then, grudgingly, you crawl back under the covers with all the reluctant grace of a cat forced into a bath. Alex immediately spoons you, arm slung around your waist, nose tucked against your shoulder.

“This is dangerous,” you mutter, already curling into him.

“You started it.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You kissed me. Multiple times. You escalated.”

“I panicked!”

“You kissed me like it was your job.”

You groan again, burrowing deeper under the duvet. “It’s not my fault you’re so fake dating-coded.”

He exhales slowly, his breath warm at the back of your neck. “We could keep doing it.”

You go still in his arms. 

“The dating part,” he clarifies. “Just. For show. Until it dies down.”

Your voice is quiet. “And when it does?”

Alex doesn’t have an answer for that. But he squeezes your hand under the sheets and kisses the crown of your head, and when you don’t protest, he figures he’s got his green light. 

By the time Alex walks into the Williams hospitality unit, it’s already happening.

It started in the paddock like all stupid things do: with one overexcited media assistant whispering something to a trackside engineer, who tells a performance coach, who tells someone from catering, who tells James. And once James knows, the apocalypse is officially underway.

Alex is barely two steps through the door when someone claps him on the back.

“Congrats, mate,” chirps one of the tire techs. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”

Alex’s lips quirk in a confused half-smile. “You did?”

“Please. Everyone’s been placing bets since Baku.”

He’s still processing that when Carlos, freshly transferred and not yet fully acclimated to the chaos, strolls in with a smug grin. “So I hear you have finally stopped being a coward,” the Spaniard coos. 

Alex gapes. “What?”

Carlos just raises his eyebrows. “‘Just friends’ my ass.”

“I was just saying the same thing,” James calls from across the room, where he’s attempting to make cereal with a protein shaker. “They were basically married before this.”

It’s funny, and annoying, and deeply unsettling. Because nobody’s surprised. Not even Carlos, who’s only been here a few months and already talks like he’s seen through Alex from the start. It should be a relief—this casual acceptance—but instead it kicks up something warm and sharp in Alex’s chest.

Because if everyone saw it coming, why didn’t he?

He’s mid-thought when you walk in.

You’re wearing sunglasses indoors, which is never a good sign. And your expression—somewhere between dread and barely-contained scream—confirms everything.

The room erupts into cheers.

You flinch.

Alex laughs. Actually doubles over a bit. Because the horror on your face is so pure, so you, and it hits him in the heart like a dart. “Oh my God,” you groan as someone throws confetti from god knows where. “This is my nightmare.”

“You’re a micro niche celebrity,” Alex teases, pulling you in by the elbow. “Bask in it.”

“I have six texts from my mum. She says, and I quote, finally.”

He tries not to smile too widely. “She always did like me best.”

“She says she had a dream that we got married on a beach in Phuket. She sent me Pinterest boards. This is her Super Bowl.”

“You know,” he says, a little too lightly, “this should’ve happened ages ago.”

You look up at him, mistrustful. As if you’re trying to figure out whether he’s teasing. “What?”

He covers with a shrug. “The pretending thing. We’re naturals.”

Your responding smile is faint but real, like you want to believe him. Like you might. Alex watches you get tugged away by a group of mechanics who apparently want to quiz you on his worst habits. (You already know them. You’ve memorized the list.)

And still, the thought loops in his head like a faulty radio: this should’ve happened ages ago.

The thing is, he’d buried it. For years. Wrapped it in best-friendship and late-night texts and the safety of almost. Because the idea of losing you? Unthinkable.

But now, everyone sees it. Everyone thinks it’s real, and maybe he’s the only one still pretending it’s not what he’s wanted this entire time. Alex watches you laugh at something Carlos says, your cheeks still pink.

Alex wants to touch your hand and not overthink it. He wants to kiss you without needing a cover story. He wants it to be real. 

For the first time, he lets himself admit it.

Alex sees him before you do.

Oliver, back in the garage like nothing happened. Like he didn’t light a match and walk away from it, letting someone else deal with the burn. He’s got the same infuriating grin, the same sunglasses on top of his head like he’s too important for shade.

Alex feels it before he thinks it. The instinct to shift closer to you.

You’re leaning against a workbench, laughing with a junior engineer about something Alex didn’t catch. Your posture’s relaxed, but there’s tension under it. When Oliver’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage, you go still.

“Hey, stranger,” your godforsaken ex greets. 

Alex watches your spine straighten. You don’t turn yet. You take a beat. Then two.

Then you twist around with a smile that’s polite and painful. “Hey, Oliver.”

Alex doesn’t wait. He slides an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. Pulls you into his side and drops his chin to your shoulder, voice casual. “Everything alright, babe?”

You don’t flinch. You just lean in. Your hand finds his where it rests on your hip. “Yep,” you say, sweet and steady. “Just catching up.”

Oliver’s gaze dips to the contact. His jaw tightens a fraction.

Alex doesn’t let it rest. “We’ve been on such a high lately. Haven’t we? All these points. All this... chemistry.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Your laugh is half-genuine, half-mortified.

“That so?” Oliver says, sounding like he’s chewing glass.

Alex just smiles. “Oh yeah. Chemistry’s off the bloody charts, mate. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.” 

Oliver barely holds eye contact before someone from the strategy team pulls him away. He leaves without saying goodbye.

As soon as he’s gone, you let out a breath like you’ve been holding it for a week. “Jesus.”

Alex drops his hand from your waist slowly. His palm tingles with the loss. You glance up at him, half a glower on your pretty face. “You didn’t have to go so hard,” you say. 

He raises a brow. “Didn’t I? Felt like he needed the full experience.”

“You inhaled me.”

“I’m a method actor.”

You nudge his side. “You’re disturbingly good at pretending to be into me.”

A laugh escapes him before he can stop it, and the words pass the floodgates not long after. “Who’s pretending?”

It lands like a joke. It’s delivered like one. But it hangs there between you, suspended in the charged space that always follows your name in his mouth.

You look away first.

Alex schools his face into a grin, the practiced one, the PR-safe version that’s all teeth and no truth. But inside, something twists.

Because it’s easy, too easy, to touch you like that. To play the part. To steal little pieces of something real under the guise of performance.

He wonders how long he can keep calling it acting before he forgets there was ever a difference.

You bump his shoulder gently. “Thanks. For that.”

“Any time,” he manages. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”

And it stings, just slightly, every time he has to say the word fake.

Because it keeps feeling less and less true.

The panic fades, or at least it mutates into something quieter. Less like a fire alarm and more like a ringtone you keep ignoring. It hums beneath everything, soft and persistent. An engine left running.

Everyone still thinks you and Alex are together. But the novelty has worn off. The jokes taper into shrugs. People stop asking when the wedding is and start acting like it already happened. The questions become lazy teasing instead of wide-eyed speculation. And the two of you—somehow, impossibly—slip back into your rhythm.

The bickering remains. So do the late-night phone calls, the shared snacks in the garage, the borderline hostile debates about music in the rental car. Now, there’s something new beneath it all. A softness that didn’t used to be there. An unspoken clause neither of you are brave enough to read aloud.

Alex tells himself it’s fine. This is fine. You’re both handling this like adults. Mature, well-adjusted adults who just happen to be cuddling more often, and whose inside jokes have started sounding dangerously like flirting.

It’s manageable until it isn’t.

He’s on his way past the media trailer, sipping lukewarm coffee, mind blissfully empty for once, when he hears it. Not because he’s eavesdropping. Just because someone inside is that loud.

“Honestly, I give it two more weeks. She’s obviously into him, but he’s way out of her league.”

Alex slows his steps. He’s never been able to resist a bit of tea. He gets more than what he bargained for, though. 

Another voice, lower, half-laughing: “Albon could do so much better. He’s just being nice. She’s like... convenient.”

His pulse spikes. His feet carry him before his brain catches up.

He steps inside the trailer and finds them. Three interns, hunched over a laptop, trying to act like they weren’t just dissecting someone else’s life. His life. Yours.

They don’t see him at first. Not until he says, too casually: “Sorry, what was that?”

Their heads snap up.

The one who probably said it—tall, wiry, self-assured in the way only someone new and clueless can be—starts to stammer. “I—uh—it wasn’t—”

“You talking about me?” Alex asks, voice calm and flat. Too calm.

They flinch.

“Listen,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t care if you think it’s a joke. I don’t care if you think this is some group chat. If I ever hear you talk about her like that again—like she’s some backup plan, some convenience—I will make sure you don’t set foot in this paddock again. Got it?”

Silence. Wide eyes. A single, terrified nod.

Alex turns on his heel.

And, like you have some sixth sense of when Alex is fucking shit up, there you are. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to qualify as a warning.

“Alex,” you say, voice tight. “Walk.”

He obeys.

You don’t speak until you’re three trailers down, out of sight. Then you stop, whirl on him, and plant both hands on your hips. “You can’t just threaten interns,” you snipe. 

“I didn’t threaten them,” he says defensively. “I just clarified the hierarchy.”

Your brows draw together. “Alex. You don’t have to defend me. We’re not—this isn’t real.”

He wants to argue. He wants to ask why that should matter. But he just exhales, presses the heel of his hand to his eye. “I’m your best friend,” he says softly. “That’s all the reason I need.”

You look at him for a beat too long. You know his words are true. The only reason Alex needs to step up is you. Fake relationship or not, he would always have your back. 

The tension breaks eventually. “Okay,” you murmur. You step forward, reaching up to adjust the collar of his fireproof. “But next time, let me destroy my own reputation.”

He smiles weakly. “Only if I get to supervise.”

Your fingers brush the skin just beneath his collar—barely there, a whisper of touch. Maybe accidental. Maybe not.

He doesn’t pull away. Just breathes. Deeper, steadier. Like your presence recalibrates something in him.

He’d been burning, just moments ago. Fury lit in his chest like a fuse. But standing here, with you so close he can smell your shampoo, feel your breath?

It all goes quiet.

Defending you made him see red, but being near you pulls him back into color.

The team dinner is only meant to be mildly chaotic.

Instead, it veers off-road somewhere between the second bottle of wine and dessert, when someone—probably Carlos, definitely emboldened by sugar and no filter—decides to initiate a group interrogation.

“Alright,” he says, stabbing a spoon in your direction. “You two. Spill. The love story. I want origin details. I want eye contact. I want yearning."

The table erupts like a classroom with a substitute teacher. James leans forward, eyebrows waggling. One of the engineers claps like he’s been waiting for this all week. There is actual chanting. Someone starts drumming on the table with a fork.

There is no escape.

Alex exchanges a glance with you. You roll your eyes, but he catches the smile tugging at your mouth, sees the way your shoulders inch higher in amused defeat. You nudge his foot under the table like you’re daring him to do something stupid.

Challenge accepted.

He clears his throat like he’s about to make a wedding toast, carefully sets his wine glass down, and folds his hands in front of him with mock gravity. “You know,” he says, in a tone that already makes people laugh, “I think it started the first time she insulted my music taste.”

Immediate groans. Laughter. You let out an exaggerated sigh and cover your face with both hands.

“She said Oasis was ‘emotional beige’,” he continues, solemn. “And I thought—wow. That’s the meanest and most accurate thing I’ve ever heard.”

You peek out from behind your hands. “It wasn’t inaccurate.”

“It wasn’t merciful either,” Alex says, placing a hand on his chest. “But I knew, then, that this was the woman who would ruin me.”

James chuckles. Carlos mimes wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

Alex leans into it. “She once helped me carry an entire IKEA wardrobe up three flights of stairs because I forgot to measure the doorway. Didn’t complain once. Just judged me silently the whole time. And that’s when I really knew.”

“You cried after,” you add, deadpan.

“I did not cry.”

“You absolutely did.”

“If I did, they were tears of appreciation.”

Someone clinks a glass for dramatic effect. There’s applause. There’s more chanting. Alex shrugs helplessly. “What can I say? She bullies me just the right amount.”

He doesn’t glance at Oliver, not directly. But he knows he’s there—three seats down, too quiet, stirring the remains of his dessert like it’s telling him secrets. Alex doesn't care. He tells himself that once. Then again. And again, until he can almost believe it. His hand stays where it is, resting gently on your knee under the table. His thumb traces a slow, thoughtless pattern.

Eventually, the noise ebbs again, and someone turns to you with a grin. “Alright, your turn. When did you fall for him?”

The table roars with anticipation. Alex expects a joke. A jab about his terrible taste in action movies or how he leaves wet towels on the floor. Something easy. Something safe.

But you smile, small and strange. A little embarrassed. A little vulnerable. “Honestly?” you start, and there’s a seriousness there that doesn’t belong. “I think I was already in love with him before I knew what it was.”

Everything stops.

The laughter doesn’t fade. It just disappears. Like someone cut the audio.

Alex’s world has tilted sideways.

You keep going, voice lighter now, deflecting a little with the shape of your words. “He was just… always there. Like some giant, awkward golden retriever. Every birthday. Every flat move. Every 2AM panic text. He’s part of everything. It crept up on me. By the time I realized, it was too late.”

Someone makes a heart shape with their hands. Carlos mutters something in Spanish that earns a round of teasing oohs.

Alex doesn’t laugh. He can’t.

He stares at you. At your hand, which finds his under the table and squeezes gently, like it means nothing. Like it doesn’t shatter him.

His brain catches up eventually, reminds him of the script. The part he’s supposed to play. He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your cheek. Then your mouth. It’s light. Practiced. Sweet. Exactly what people expect.

The table cheers again, louder than ever. But inside him, something tilts. Spins. Collapses and rebuilds itself all at once.

He pulls back and smiles for the group. He holds your hand tighter under the table, and he tries not to let the truth show on his face.

That he’s in love with you, and he has no idea how to come back from it.

The race weekend goes better than expected.

Clean, calculated. P4, but Alex is beaming when he gets out of the car. The points feel good. The champagne tastes better. And the adrenaline makes him bold in a way he hasn’t felt since karting days.

He’s going to tell you.

He has a whole plan. Flowers. Your favorite candies. A half-terrible, half-dramatic confession delivered with the sincerity of a man who’s spent far too long pretending not to be in love with his best friend. He’s already played it out in his head: how you’ll roll your eyes when he hands you the bouquet, how you’ll try not to smile when he fumbles the words.

How you’ll kiss him again—this time for real.

He’s halfway to hospitality, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, when he hears your voice.

And then Oliver’s.

Alex stops cold.

You’re around the corner, just behind one of the equipment bays. Alex stays frozen where he is. He knows it’s wrong, that he should announce himself, back away, do anything but listen.

He listens anyway. 

“You can’t tell me you don’t miss it,” Oliver says, voice low and coaxing. “I know you. I know how you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

There’s a pause. Alex hears the soft rustle of a jacket, maybe a step closer.

“We were good together. You can’t deny that. And this thing with Alex? Come on. He’s your friend. It’s clearly not real.”

Alex’s chest tightens.

“We were good,” Oliver presses. “I messed up. I know I did. But I still think about you. Every day. I miss you, baby.” 

Alex doesn’t hear your answer.

Because he turns away.

Walks. Fast. Doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t want to know what you said. Not really.

In his head, you’re already nodding. Already looking at Oliver with that softness you used to save for Alex. Already giving him another chance.

Isn’t this what you wanted all along?

Alex tells himself he should be happy for you. Instead, he crushes the flowers tighter in his hand, until the stems start to bend.

That’s why, later that night, Alex doesn’t expect the knock.

He’s in the middle of changing into his oldest hoodie—the truly hideous one that only travels because it reminds him of home and has a ketchup stain that predates his Williams contract—when the door rattles.

He thinks about ignoring it. He even halfway commits, dragging the hoodie over his head and tossing himself onto the bed as if he’s about to stage a one-man pity opera. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, casting everything in warm, sleepy gold. It’s the perfect environment for wallowing, really.

Then he hears your voice.

“Seriously? You ghost me after race day curry? You’re lucky I haven’t blocked you yet.”

He stares at the ceiling. Sits up slowly, heart tripping in his chest like it doesn’t know what beat to follow. You knock again, then jiggle the handle. “I know you’re in there,” you complain, voice muffled by the wood of the door. “I have your location on, asshole.” 

He drags himself to the door, hesitating for just one second more—a flicker of cowardice he can't afford. Then he opens it.

You brush past him with the breezy confidence of someone who’s made herself at home in every hotel room he’s ever stayed in. It’s infuriating and comforting in equal measure.

“Wow,” you say, tossing your bag on the chair. “Moody lighting. Brooding face. Albon, are you cheating on me?”

You clock the flowers before he can hide them. They’re on the nightstand, slightly wilted, petals already starting to slump like they know they’ve missed their moment. Your eyebrows shoot up. “Huh. Flowers. Wait—is there really someone else?” 

He closes the door. Stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands. Something inside him prickles. Something heavy and bitter and quiet. “Why are you here?” he asks, barely able to keep the waver out of his words. 

You glare at him. “Because you bailed on me. I brought snacks. We were going to watch terrible TV and yell at the screen like we always do."

“No,” he says, voice sharpening. “Why are you here? After what I heard. With Oliver."

Your expression flickers. The smallest hesitation, but it rings loud in the quiet of the room. Just enough for something in Alex to slip loose.

He laughs. It sounds wrong, wrong, wrong. “Unbelievable,” he breathes. “You came here to what? Let me down easy? Pretend everything’s normal while you go crawl back to the guy who made you cry in my car three months ago?”

“Alex—”

“No,” he cuts in. “You said you loved me before you even knew it. Was that just for show? Were you performing for the table? For him? Because it worked. He sure looked rattled. And you convinced me, too."

You step closer. “Alex—”

“If you want him back, just say it,” he says, gesturing wide now, breath picking up. “Don’t come in here and act like this is all some fucking joke we can keep playing because it makes you feel good, when I—”

You kiss him.

Mid-sentence. Mid-tirade. You grab the front of his hoodie, tug him down, and kiss him hard enough to knock every single word out of his mouth.

It takes him a full second to catch up to the moment. To the heat of your mouth, to the press of your body, to the hand curled at the base of his neck like it's always belonged there.

Then you pull back.

Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Panic dawning in your expression like a curtain ripping open.

“Shit,” you breathe. “Shit, I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”

You take a step back. Another.

He catches your wrist, gentle but firm.

“Don’t,” he says, soft now. Breathless in a different way. “You don’t get to do that. Not this time.” 

It’s his turn to kiss you. 

Slower. Like he’s learning the shape of something he’s only dared to trace in dreams. Like the ache in his chest has finally been given a name and a mouth to match.

You breathe into him. Your hand curls into his hoodie again. The kiss deepens, sharpens, softens. A thousand versions of almost finally collapsing into one real thing.

You break apart just enough to rest your forehead against his.

“I wasn’t going to say yes,” you whisper. “To Oliver. I didn’t even want to hear it. I just—froze. I didn’t know what you’d heard. I didn’t know what you felt.”

Alex pulls you close again. Tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you there. “I felt like I was losing something I hadn’t even had the courage to ask for yet,” he says into your hair.

You stay like that. Wrapped in each other. The hum of the room falling away.

For once, Alex isn’t performing. Isn’t pretending. He’s just here. With you. In the honest, terrifying, electric truth of it all.

Maybe it’s messy. Maybe it’s complicated. But when he kisses you again, it feels like something simple.

You taste like the corner store mints you always carry, like adrenaline and something a little too sweet. Your fingers slide under his hoodie, tugging at the hem with practiced ease, like you've done it a hundred times before in dreams you never admitted to having.

He helps you, wordless. Arms over his head, the awful thing coming off in a tumble of cotton and static, hitting the floor with a soft thud. He barely notices it.

Because your lips are back once the hoodie has been cast aside. And every time your mouth finds his, something in his chest reshapes like it’s making room for something that’s already been there, waiting to be named. He’s dizzy with it, with you.

Your hands skate over his ribs. He catches the tremble in his own breath. It’s not nerves. Not exactly. It’s a pressure valve finally breaking open after years of holding still.

Somewhere in the haze of now, Alex sees then.

You, seven years old and already mouthy, yelling at a steward on the karting track while wearing his spare helmet. It was three sizes too big and you refused to admit it. You spun out twice and still walked off like you’d won the whole thing. He was in love with your attitude before he could even spell the word.

Seventeen. You, sitting beside him on a bench outside a test session, ankles crossed, eating crisps and talking about nothing and everything. His knees kept knocking into yours and he couldn’t tell if it was an accident or a dare.

You at twenty, crying in his passenger seat over someone who didn’t deserve to hear you laugh. First heartbreak. He remembers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached, willing himself not to say something selfish. He hated that he didn’t get to be the one you trusted in that way—not yet. Maybe not ever.

More recent flashes. Your laugh in his kitchen as you made fun of his espresso skills. The way you always grabbed his arm at crossings, like he couldn’t be trusted to look both ways. How you wore his Williams team shirt around the paddock, oversized and confident, as if you belonged everywhere Alex existed. You always did.

Alex never stood a chance.

And now you’re here. In his hotel room. Kissing him like you mean it. Like you’ve always meant it. Pulling him in like he’s not a placeholder, not a maybe. Like he’s the whole damn point.

He pulls back, just slightly. Breath catching like it’s forgotten how to work. “Wait,” he says. It comes out rough.

You blink, the softest frown forming between your brows.

“I need to say—”

But you’re already shaking your head. Already smiling, like you know every word before it tumbles out.

“I know,” you say.

You know. Just like you know everything about Alex. Just like you know this was never going to be a one-act play for him, not going to be a funny story he might someday tell his kids. 

You kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. The line of his cheekbone, his temple. A constellation only you know how to navigate.

“I know,” you whisper again, voice warm and sure.

Your hand finds his, and you tug him toward the bed.

Alex follows, pulled by instinct and gravity. 

The backs of your knees hit the mattress first. He leans in, one arm braced beside you, the other still holding your hand like it’s a lifeline. You fall into the pillows with a kind of ease that makes his heart ache.

He watches you for a second. Your flushed cheeks, your wide eyes, the curve of your smile that's almost shy. He thinks he might actually burst open with how much he wants this. Wants you.

He doesn’t doubt it.

Not for a second.

Not with the way you look at him, like he’s something rare. Not with the way you touch him, like he’s already yours.

He lets himself be pulled. Lets himself fall. Hoodie long forgotten, wallowing postponed indefinitely.

Drowning in you is the better choice.

It’s the only one he wants to make.

It’s another party.

Champagne buzz and neon spill, the kind of post-race affair that always ends with at least one person losing a shoe and another crying in a bathroom. There’s a half-hearted DJ, a rotating charcuterie table, and enough gossip in the room to power a small country.

But tonight, Alex doesn’t care about the chaos. Doesn’t care about the playlist, or the over-salted canapés, or even whether Oliver is somewhere across the room still trying to act like he matters.

Because you’re here.

Pressed against his side, half-tipsy and radiant, stealing the olives from his drink and slipping them into yours like he won’t notice. (He does. He lets you. He likes when you steal from him.)

You look up at him, all soft eyes and crooked smile, and Alex forgets how he ever pretended not to be in love with you. The music thuds around you, a blur of voices and clinking glasses and someone yelling about pit stop strategy. 

It’s all background noise. Static behind the real headline: you’re his now. For real. No pretending. No show.

When someone asks for a photo, he doesn’t flinch. Just pulls you tighter to his side, hand at your waist like it’s been there for years. When you nudge your cheek against his shoulder, he leans down and kisses your temple. Quick. Familiar. Easy.

It’s all so easy now.

Somewhere between the fake relationship and the real one, the nerves and lies had dissolved. What’s left is something better. Steadier. Quietly certain in the way only long love can be. He still gets breathless when you laugh too hard at your own jokes. Still loses focus when you wear his team gear like a second skin. Still finds excuses to sit too close on the couch or brush your fingers with his. He’s not afraid anymore. Not of ruining it. Not of being too much.

“You’re staring,” you slur, voice barely audible over the pulse of the bass.

“You’re pretty,” he says, shameless, a little drunk on the sight of you.

You roll your eyes, but your hand curls tighter in his. “God, you’re so soft now.”

“Just with you.”

You laugh. Nose scrunching. It kills him, the way it always has. He’s helpless.

It used to hurt, watching you with someone else. Watching your gaze tilt elsewhere, smile curving for the wrong person. He remembers every bitter moment. Every quiet ache. Every time he swallowed the jealousy and called it friendship.

Now, he gets to be the one on the receiving end. He silently vows to never take it for granted.

Oliver does pass by at some point. Alex barely registers him. Doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t look twice. You don’t either. You just thread your fingers through Alex’s, thumb tracing lazy circles against his knuckles, like it’s second nature.

Later, on a balcony with cold air on their skin and distant bass rattling the railing, you curl into his side. The night hums around you, a little blurry with drink, a little sharp with meaning. He tugs your jacket tighter around you, presses a kiss to your temple.

“You cold?” he asks worriedly. 

You shake your head, lips brushing his collarbone as you lean closer. “Happy,” you say. Simple. Honest.

He smiles, slow and certain, chest full in a way it hasn’t been since he was a kid dreaming about podiums and fairytale endings. “Me too,” he breathes. 

You rest your forehead against his. For a while, there’s no need for words.

There’s nothing complicated about it. Nothing performative. Just you and him, toes over a line you’ve both stepped past, hearts bruised and mended. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Still soft?” you tease as a preamble for what’s to come. 

“Always,” he says, no hesitation.

You kiss him like coming home. Like finally getting the timing right.

He lets himself burn. For once, it doesn’t hurt at all.

alex albon stands merely twenty feet away from you, laughing at something one of his mechanics is saying, with his gangly arms crossed and his messy brown hair slightly tousled under his cap.

out of the corner of your eye, you can't help but to steal glances at him. much to your dismay, alex hasn't changed. he's still impossibly handsome, and definitely—devastatingly—no longer yours.

you haven't seen alex since the night everything went wrong. it happened during the weekend in silvertsone—during that lull of time between saturday and sunday. alex had a stressful week. you had a stressful week. things were changing and time was shrinking and before you could blink, you and alex were no longer...one.

there wasn't a dramatic fight, no shouting—just a quiet breakup behind the hotel door, full of things left unsaid. It was easier that way. clean. but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

because holy fuck did it ever hurt. the ache in your chest as soon as you walked out of that dim hotel room—not even sparing a glance over your shoulder when you knew that alex watching you leave—was unimaginable. the months that followed even more so.

but this was good—you kept telling yourself. you and alex...you weren't meant to do this. it didn't fit and a relationship most definitely went against some kind of rule about drivers and staff being interpersonal. so it's...fine.

except it's not fine because now you're back in the garage, lanyard coupled with your camera strap hanging around your neck like a cruel reminder that you and alex won't be sharing little looks through the lens anymore. it's not easy and it's certainly not clean.

you sigh—reserved and a little exhausted. you avert your gaze from alex, duck your head and hide your eyes behind the william's branded cap sitting on your rain frizzled hair. because of course it's raining. seriously—the clouds have decided to open up and pour a rainforest level of perspiration on your already wet parade.

your thumb idly moves over the pad, scrolling through the pictures you'd snapped before you saw alex, and left your world tilted on its axis. it gives you something to do. something other than looking at your ex across the garage. something other than wondering if alex is still feeling the affects of your breakup as you are.

"y/n?"

you look up, too quickly, already forcing a smile—and then that smile freezes. your face falling flat.

because It was him.

your ex.

not alex—the other one. the one from before. the one who made you feel small, the one who cheated and then had the audacity to make you feel guilty for leaving. and now? liam is here, and he is looking down at you with some kind of smug grin and it has your heart racing. "well, well. didn't expect to see you here."

you swallow roughly, dropping the camera. it's hits your belly with a dull thump. your lips part, a million things you want to say—telling him to leave being the most prominent—but they don’t fall. instead, you blink and with a timid voice, you ask—"what are you doing here?"

he laughs like you're being funny. it makes you want to shrink away. it's not that you're scared of him, per say, but you're certainly not happy to be near him. liam ignores your question just because he can, "you're still running around garages? thought you would've moved on to bigger and more glamorous things."

the words hit harder than they should. you're working in your dream profession in the most important motorsport league in the world. fuck him. "william's hired me," you state, voice firm despite the way it wobbles. "so…I guess that's glamorous enough."

"right. yeah, i'm," liam pauses, straightening up like he's about to share something world changing. you doubt that. "i'm actually helping out with logistics here now. full time. it's a lot but...you know me. can't stay still for too long."

of course he works here—you've got to be kidding.

you nod shortly like you care. "that's ones word for it."

liam, seemingly unaware of your lack of interest, keeps going. that's just him though, too busy listening to himself to be socially aware of anything or anyone else around him. "I mean, it's wild. I've been flown out to four countries in two weeks. my name's on the operations board now. we're running tight this season, but I've got it under control." he pauses, and shrugs less than humbly. his smile too wide. "pretty different from the guy you remember, huh?"

"you always did like telling people how busy you are."

he tongues his cheek in an attempt to hide a satisfied grin. liam always knew how to get under your skin, and your snarky response is enough proof of that. "yeah, well, can't help it," he pauses. "life's been good though. actually met someone not long after our split. totally different vibe. no pressure, no "career tunnel vision"—just real connection."

you blink—is he really going there right now?

"anyways. what about you, y/n?" liam quirks a brow like he already knows the answer before he can finish the question. "are you seeing anybody?"

panic takes root before you can control it. your ex is looking at you like you're nothing. like working here—just as he is, mind you—is nothing more than a pointless hobby.

your body reacts before your head has a chance to catch up. without thinking—without even blinking—you reach out and grab the first arm within range.

"babe," you declare loudly—surely earning you a few concerned glances—almost too brightly, tugging on the sleeve of the fireproof blue and white race suit beside you. "there you are."

it's only then, when you feel those familiar fireproofs beneath your plan that you realize—realize it's not some hopeless mechanic or engineer you've claimed as your fake boyfriend, but instead it's alex fucking albon.

alex blinks, eyes zoning in on your small hand wrapped around his elbow and then trailing up to yours. "...what?"

you squeeze his arm—too tightly like it's a lifeline. leaning into his space, you smile sickly sweet up at alex. a desperate and pleading look in your eyes as you silently beg for his compliance.

he catches on quickly—of course he does. alex is smart. his brows lift, barely perceptible, before sliding an arm around your lower back, keeping you close.

alex still smells the same—earthy and with a hint of rubber tire—and it invades your senses like an old friend. you hate that you welcome it the same way.

"hey," he greets, voice smooth but low, almost unreadable. "everything okay?"

you nod quickly, flashing a grin so wide that it strains your cheeks—the kind of grin that could win an award for most unhinged display of coolness while also dying inside.

"just wanted to introduce you to my boyfriend," you say, way too brightly, looking back at liam who’s still standing across from you. "alex."

your ex's jaw twitches—barely, but you catch it. that tiny, involuntary spasm of someone trying hard not to react.

ha ha.

alex blinks once, then again, like he's still catching up — but his hand stays right there at the small of your back. if anything, his fingers press a little firmer. steady. present.

a pause stretches between the three of you, taut like a pulled wire.

liam’s eyes flick between you and alex, discomfort creeping into his posture. his hands drop to his sides, flex once, then disappear into his pockets.

"this is who you're seeing? a driver?"

there it is—the sneer buried inside the question. that same patronizing tilt you remember from all those old fights. your spine straightens.

you shrug like the question didn't even land. like your heart isn't slamming against your ribs, trying to claw its way out.

you lean—just a breath—into alex's side. like it's natural. like you belong there. you remember when you did.

"it's new," you say smoothly. "but serious."

another silence. heavy. awkward. you feel the tension bubbling under your skin, the old burn of shame you refuse to let show. your ex's eyes linger on alex like he's trying to intimidate him.

alex shifts beside you, standing just a bit taller. not showy. just solid. unbothered.

"we're actually headed to a briefing," you say— all too quick and clipped.

“driver stuff,” alex adds on knowingly. his voice is low, steady. like he weighed every word before letting it out.

you see the way liam stiffens at that. not because alex is showing off — but because he isn't. he doesn't need to.

your ex nods. mumbles something — "right. see you around." and finally, mercifully, walks off.

the second liam turns the corner, you step away from alex like he's suddenly on fire. you exhale hard and press both hands to your face in some lame attempt at calming down.

"oh my god," you groan. "i'm so sorry. I panicked. he—he’s the one who cheated on me. years ago. gaslit me so hard I questioned my own name. and now he's here. I didn't know what to do. and your arm was just there and i just—"

"hey." alex's voice cuts through the spiral —calm, a little amused in a way that has your mouth snapping shut. "so i'm your boyfriend now?"

you let out a strangled laugh, and peek at him through your fingers. "please forget I said anything."

he's smiling. but not teasing, exactly. more like... amused. and something else. something unreadable that makes your stomach pull tight.

"too late," he says. "i'm flattered, really."

you lower your hands and half-glare at him. "alex."

the smile softens. fading just a little at the corners. for a second—just one—something passes between you. quiet. familiar. dangerous.

dangerous in the way you remember how his hand used to find yours under the table during press conferences. dangerous in the you remember how he'd roll over in hotel rooms and whisper your name like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.

"i'll play along if you need me to," he says, softer now. honest.

you swallow. look down at the dusty garage floor and then back up into his familiar eyes.

"you don't have to do that." you swallow.

"I know."

a long pause settles between you while the bustle of the paddock swirls around you—but in this small space between bodies, everything goes quiet.

"but I will," he finishes.

you look at him too long and suddenly, you're back on the edge of it—that same familiar, dangerous almost. not broken, but cracked. frayed at the edges. still warm.

still there.

what have you gotten yourself into?

part two: fake boyfriend rule #1: don't accidentally make it believable

by the time you stumble back into the media tent, your whole body is vibrating with secondhand humiliation.

you drop your gear to a unoccupied table with a thud, press your hands to your temples, and exhale like maybe you can sweat the whole moment out of existence.

two things are immediately clear:

one—you're going to spend the rest of the season hiding behind a lens and pretending you don't have functioning emotions.

and two—you are never, under any circumstances, making eye contact with alex albon again.

naturally, that lasts about three seconds.

he's already there, leaning against the espresso machine like he belongs in a magazine spread. arms crossed. one brow raised. watching you like he's been waiting.

"guess the briefing was cancelled?" he says, sipping from a paper cup. it must be green tea, you think. it’s always been his favourite. you haven’t been able to stomach the smell since silverstone.

you flinch. "we never had a briefing."

alex shrugs, annoyingly calm. "could've fooled me. you dragged me into a full-blown rom-com plot twist in front of your ex. felt like a scene partner."

you groan and sink into a chair, dropping your head back with a thunk. "I panicked, okay? I didn't mean to—god, I didn't mean for you to go along with it."

"you clung to my arm and called me babe," he says, deadpan. "in what universe was I just supposed to walk away after that?"

"literally any other universe," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the palm of your hands. "honestly, I was half expecting you to just laugh and leave me hanging."

alex’s expression shifts then, just slightly—the corners of his mouth curving into something halfway between amused and... wounded? no. that can't be right.

he steps forward, sets his drink on the table—you, you were right. green tea—and lowers himself into the chair across from you.

"if it helps," he says, voice quieter now, "I didn't do it to mess with you." you look up, startled. his eyes are steady on yours—not smug, not teasing. just alex. "I meant what I said," he adds. "i'll play along. if that's what you want."

your throat goes dry. "you're willing to fake-date me?" you ask, half-laughing. "that's...kind of insane."

alex smiles, slow and soft—the kind of smile that used to wreck you in hotel hallways and on long-haul flights.

"maybe," he says. "or maybe I know what it's like to stand across from someone who once wrecked you and feel like the only way to win is to look... completely unbothered."

that lands like a stone in your chest. that’s the thing about your silverstone breakup. you’re not exactly sure who initiated the end. you think it was you? but it all blurs together anytime you attempt at dissecting that night.

you blink once. twice. trying not to show how hard that hit. but he knows. he always knows.

before you can speak, alex reaches for his cup again and stands. "if we're doing this—and i'm not saying we should, just... if—we need ground rules."

you blink, brain still lagging. "you're serious?"

he nods. "no unnecessary touching in front of the crew. no weird, overly specific stories about anniversary trips that never happened. definitely no real feelings involved."

you snort. "right. because we're so good at keeping feelings out of things."

alex’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something more, but doesn't. "also," he continues, "if anyone asks, we've been together since... silverstone last year?"

your eyes go wide. "alex, that's the race where we actually broke up."

he tilts his head, grinning. "exactly. it's poetic."

before you can respond, the tent flap rustles and logan, the social admin who spends too much time on celebrity gossip, sticks his head in, grinning like a kid who just stumbled onto a secret.

"there you two are," he says. "I always knew something was going on."

you tense. "what?"

"I saw you earlier," logan says. "then alex told nicky you were together. the whole garage is buzzing. you guys are, like, disgustingly cute." and then he's gone—ducking out before either of you can react.

you turn toward alex, slowly, like your body is moving through molasses. "you told people?"

he doesn't flinch. "I didn't deny anything. there's a difference."

your head falls forward into your hands. "this is spiraling."

alex smirks, but it's gentler this time—like he's trying not to push too far. "welcome to the show, babe."

you peek at him through your fingers, giving him a withering glare. "you’re enjoying this."

he shrugs. "a little. but also... not as much as you think."

you sit up straighter, watching him.

alex doesn't look like he's joking anymore. his smile has faded, replaced by something quieter—something almost tender.

"you think this is a bad idea," you admit, “I should’ve just said I was single and drowned in humiliation.”

"I think it's a complicated idea," he corrects. "but I also think it might be the first time we've actually been honest about something in a while."

for a second, you just stare at each other—not with anger, not with bitterness. just the ache of two people who've circled each other for too long. who never really stopped caring, but don't know what to do with that care now.

your voice is soft when it finally comes out. "if we do this—fake or not—it's going to get messy."

alex nods in agreement. "probably."

"and you're okay with that?"

his answer is quiet. "i've been living in the mess ever since we ended. might as well make it worth something."

you don't have a reply for that—not one that wouldn't split you open. so instead, you stand. squeeze the strap of your camera like it might anchor you. then, almost without thinking, you glance back at him.

"i've got to shoot pit lane in twenty."

alex's smile returns—not smug, not performative. just soft and familiar in all the ways that make you feel soft.

"i'll walk with you."

and you let him.

for now.

part three: team dinners and terrible ideas

the next few days pass in a strange, surreal haze.

you'd expected the whole fake boyfriend thing with alex to collapse by tuesday at the latest—expected someone (most likely you if you're being honest) to crack under the weight of the awkwardness, or for the garage rumor mill to find something more interesting, and quietly let the story die.

but it doesn't.

instead, it grows.

not wildly—not dramatically. just enough to have you on the edge of your seat.

a hand placed gently on your back when you pass each other in the hospitality tent. shared looks from across the pit wall that linger a second too long. the occasional inside joke said just loud enough for someone else to overhear. it's convincing.

the worst part? it's not even that hard.

alex has always been easy. easy to fall into rhythm with. easy to trust. easy to miss.

too easy now, especially with the way he's slipped back into your life like he never left. alex still knows your tells—when you're tired, when you need water, when your shoulders are about to lock up from crouching behind your camera too long. he doesn't make a show of it. he just... shows up. quietly. constantly.

and that's the dangerous part.

you don't talk about silverstone. or the weeks after when you were left to wallow on your apartment couch and unfollow him on instagram. or the long, empty stretch of silence that lived between you since the breakup.

you just pretend.

by the time thursday rolls around, the whole team has gone full throttle into "bonding mode." or that's what logan calls it. you call it pointless.

there's a dinner booked at a quiet local restaurant after the press of media day—half casual, half corporate, with just enough pressure to show up looking vaguely put-together. the kind of outing where you'd usually blend into the end of the table, camera slung over the back of your chair, half-listening and half-editing photos between courses.

but tonight?

tonight is different. because now, no matter how hard you try to rationalize things, your stomach won't stop fluttering at the idea of walking into that dinner and sitting beside the boy who used to kiss your collarbone in parking garages between media calls.

the restaurant is tucked behind a narrow stone alley, the kind of place you'd only find if you knew where to look. warm light glowing against the windows, candle-flickers dancing across long wooden tables inside.

you hesitate at the threshold. you can already hear the laughter from within. the clinking of plates. someone doing a bad impression of someone important—you're pretty sure it's carlos.

you take one deep breath. it's just dinner. you've survived press days and pit lane stampedes. you can survive sitting next to your fake boyfriend and across from your cheating ex. easy.

with one more exhale, you push the door open.

warmth hits first—roasted garlic, butter, whatever wine they opened first. probably red if lisa from HR had anything to with it. your eyes scan the table automatically, spotting finalists engineers and mechanics, logistics crew, social media staff already two glasses in.

and then.

there.

alex.

he's sitting near the middle of the table, arm slung casually over the back of the chair beside him like he already knew it would be yours. once again—you could kill logan. alex’s got on a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled. a soft gold chain catching the light at his collarbone.

he looks up just as you step inside.

not a smirk. not a grin.

just that look. calm. soft. knowing. the same one he used to give you across hotel beds before whispering come here and pulling you close to kiss your neck.

you swallow hard. get it together, you tell yourself. he's pretending. you're pretending. this is fine.

before you can move, logan spots you—and lights up like a stadium floodlight. "she arrives!" he yells, throwing his arm out like you're royalty.

you cringe. "please don't start."

"oh, it's too late," logan says, patting the empty chair beside alex. "come sit, romeo's been saving you a seat all night."

alex grins while he stands—slow and easy—pulling the chair out for you with a maddening calm. "chivalry's not dead," alex teases, just loud enough for you to hear.

you arch a brow as you sit, voice dry. "you're enjoying this."

"i'm surviving," he replies, settling back into his chair, voice low enough that no one else hears. "you look good."

your breath stutters—just slightly. "don't start."

"i'm not," he chimes. "i'm observing."

your knees brush under the table, and neither of you make any moves to move.

soon enough orders get taken, more wine gets poured and bread sticks are consumed quicker than they are being restocked. the table comes alive, humming with stories and offhand jokes. carlos orders way too many appetizers and acts surprised when they barely fit on the table.

you keep yourself half-turned toward alex, hyper-aware of the space between your chairs—or lack of space, more accurately.

alex leans in when he talks to you, fingertips brushing your forearm once as he points at something on the menu. his hand rests on the back of your chair. not touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.

and then you see liam.

two seats down. white button-down, sleeves pushed to the elbows. fork picking at food he isn't really eating. he's angled just enough toward you to be noticeable, but not obvious. he hasn't said much. but he's listening.

watching.

waiting.

you take another sip of wine and try really hard not to throw it in his face.

alex's voice finds your ear. "you okay?"

you blink up at him. he hasn't looked away.

"yeah," you say, almost convincing. "just... thinking."

he nods, but his hand shifts slightly, fingertips brushing your shoulder. barely there.

you don't flinch.

you’re not sure if alex believes you, but he doesn’t push it. and that’s enough for you now. you set down your wine and browse the menu again.

energy at the table ramps up again just as mains arrive. conversation shifts to race chaos, missed flights, media week horror stories. and then, inevitably—"so who made the first move?"

logan again, of course, grinning like a fox, white wine glass dangerously close to empty. "come on. spill. albon or the lens queen?"

you nearly knock over your drink, but alex doesn't flinch. he’ll, he doesn't even look up from his plate as he answers around a mouthful of carbonara. "she did."

"i did not—"

"she cornered me after qualifying in hungary," he says, smooth as silk and full of playfulness. "told me if I didn't kiss her that second, she was revoking my media privileges."

the table bursts into laughter.

you stare at him, half-horrified, half-laughing. "that's not even remotely what happened."

"i'm paraphrasing," he shrugs.

"you're lying."

alex leans in again, voice low, eyes glinting. "you never said it wasn't love at first insult."

you blink. because that? that didn’t feel scripted. that was you. and him. and it sure as hell felt real.

across the table, liam shifts in his seat. "must be nice," he mutters into his glass—low, but not low enough. conversation stutters. not a full stop. just a beat.

alex goes still beside you.

you swallow hard while your stomach twists—wine and butter smothered bread threatening to make a reappearance.

slowly, alex leans back again, his hand finding the back of your chair. this time, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric. a quiet claim, but also quiet reassurance.

you don't say anything and once again, you don't pull away.

dessert comes and goes.

coffee—green tea for alex like usual, which earns him a pestering from carlos—orders blur. plates clear. the team gets louder and softer all at once. that unique haze of long weeks and longer races.

your muscles are just starting to unclench when alex turns to you again. his voice is low, "you good?"

you nod once. "yeah. just...digesting."

alex doesn’t buy into your lame excuse of a deflection. “you want to go?" no pressure. just an offer, tucked gently inside concern.

you look at him—really look. at the line of his jaw. the crease in his cheek when he half-smiles. the soft warmth of skin where his shirt opens, the gold chain against it. he hasn't changed, not really. and that feels worse than it should. because he’s still your alex, even when he’s not.

your lips part. you want to say yes. take me away and show me how much you miss me.

but then liam stands from the table— all too quickly with his chair scraping the tiles. mumbles something about needing the bathroom. he sends you and alex one more harsh look before leaving.

with a flickering pulse, you send alex a look, "five more minutes. I just need to get some air.”

alex nods. doesn't look away. "okay."

something in your chest splinters—not sharp, but just enough to let something old, familiar, unfinished slip through. you stand before you do something stupid like tell him you love him, making your way through the dim restaurant the same way you came in.

outside, the air is cooler than expected and it hits you like a refreshing wave, brushing against your shoulders as you step out onto the sidewalk, arms folding across your chest like armor. behind you, the restaurant still hums—laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling for the check. but it’s distant now.

you lean against the stone wall once you’re knees start to feel a little funny. it’s probably the wine and it’s also definitely alex.

a beat, and then the door creaks open. you don’t need to look to know that it’s alex. you know him well enough to know that your exit would’ve had him up and out of his seat only seconds after you. despite what it seemed like.

he steps out with that quiet, easy confidence—hands in his pockets, shirt slightly rumpled, a faint crease between his brows as he looks at you.

"you ran."

you huff, a little incredulously. "I stepped out."

"looked like running."

"don't flatter yourself."

he smiles—just a little. it’s crooked and familiar. the kind of smile that used to unravel you at 3 a.m. "thought you liked dramatic exits."

you roll your eyes, look toward the street. "I like controlled exits. that was more of a flight response."

he nods like that tracks. "was it the bread pudding? I warned them it was suspiciously wet."

you snort. "i've eaten track food in the rain. I can survive damp dessert." a beat passes. the kind that hovers.

alex rocks slightly next to you, close enough to share body heat, but not touching. "liam looked like he was trying to vaporize me with his mind," he says casually, like it's just another debrief.

your jaw tightens. "liam can choke," you say flatly.

he blinks. "wow."

you don't elaborate.

he waits and then, "that's not even your creative insult voice. that's just pure hatred."

"because I do," you say, turning toward him. quieter, but sharper. "I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel like I still owe him something. hate that he acts like none of it happened."

alex doesn't move, but his eyes darken. his jaw flexes once. he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, steady but also ready to turn heel and punch liam out of you gave him permission.

you breathe in and out. long drags that almost have you feeling wobbly. "anyway," you mutter. "not here to spiral. just here to not punch anyone in front of pr."

"proud of you," he murmurs. "growth."

you elbow him. "you're annoying."

"yet here you are. on a chilly sidewalk. with me."

"believe me, i've had worse company."

he glances down at you, amused. "like who?"

your mouth twitches. "want a list? liam's got a permanent spot at the top." you make an imaginary ranking with your hands, earning a fond smile from alex.

"I could've guessed. at one point I thought he might’ve jumped over the candles in order to choke us out.”

you huff a laugh because you could see it. a beat passes, a car horn honks down the street, and then, quieter—“I don't get how I ever believed him."

alex doesn't answer right away—he can’t—he just nudges your foot lightly with his. "people like that are good at sounding true," he says. "until they're not."

you look at him, and for a second, there's no act. no joke. just street noise and the ache of history between you, not full covered by the months and months of burying.

your voice is softer when you respond. "yeah. well, never again."

"good," he notes. another beat and then—“so do we think logan's still in there giving his ted talk on pasta shapes or did someone finally cut his mic?"

you snort. "he tried to argue tortellini is an 'elite-tier personality food.' I almost threw a knife at him."

alex grins. "that's the woman I remember."

part 4: if this is gake, then why does it hurt?

the sun isn't fully up yet, but the garage is already stirring with low voices, soft clangs of metal, and radios crackling faintly with logistics chatter.

you move quietly behind the lens, slipping through the garage like a shadow. the camera hangs in a familiar weight around your neck, and the steady click of the shutter is the only thing keeping you grounded in the early haze. you focus on the details—a mechanic's gloved hands tightening bolts, steam rising from a half-drunk coffee, glints of light off carbon fiber.

you keep working. you keep moving. you don't think. you certainly don’t feel. you round a corner, eyes on your viewfinder—and nearly walk straight into him.

alex, of course.

you go to apologize, some half joke about him taking up too much space for his own good ready to roll of the tongue, but that all stops and your stomach sinks the moment you see who he's with.

a woman in black clothes. tall. ridiculously pretty. she’s blonde, with one of those confident laughs that belong to people who've never been heartbroken. her hand rests casually on alex's arm. it’s looks easy, intimate, like she's done it before. like she has every right to.

you freeze. just half a second. but it's enough for heat to rise along the back of your neck like an unwanted spike.

alex hasn't noticed you yet. he's smiling—a real and relaxed smile. his head tilts slightly toward her, eyes crinkling at the corners.

and just like that, something inside you twists hot and mean. god, get over it. he's not yours. not anymore. maybe he never was. despite what your brain is saying, your heart still beats wildly, and your grip tightens around the camera until your knuckles go white.

you mutter something—half apology, half excuse—and move past them before either one can say a word. your shoulder brushes his as you pass.

you don't look back. not when he says your name and certainly not when the girl beside him asks what happened.

it doesn’t take long for alex to follow your footsteps, and by the time he catches up to you, you're halfway down the back corridor, scrolling through your sd card with all the frantic focus of someone pretending they're not spiraling.

he falls into step beside you, close enough that you catch the faint earthy smell of his aftershave. "hey," he says, voice careful.

you don't look up. "busy."

alex almost snorts. "I can tell." a beat passes before he continues, quieter. "you okay?"

you give a humorless laugh under your breath. "peachy."

he looks at you like he doesn't buy it for a second. "she's from pirelli. we were talking tires."

you stop walking and turn to him, slowly, and your eyebrows drawn with caution. your voice is calm—too calm—in a way that makes alex gulp. "why are you explaining that to me?"

he blinks and doesn't answer right away. much to your dismay, the pause—that second of hesitation—says more than you want it to. finally, alex swallows, eyes soft. "because you looked like you cared."

your heart drops straight into your stomach. you stare at him, throat tight. his face is maddeningly unreadable. it’s too open, too steady, like he's waiting for you to say something he already knows you won't.

"I don't," you mumble, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the strap of your camera.

you hate how quiet it comes out—how timid you sound. how much it sounds like a lie. alex doesn’t push—just nods once. slowly.

"okay," he says, softer now. "but if you did...I wouldn't mind." the words land between you like a weight. solid and impossible to ignore.

your chest tightens—not from panic, not with alex—but from something far more dangerous. the kind of ache that lives between denial and want.

he steps in, not close enough to touch, but just close enough for you to feel him. to feel that pull that never really went away. "you've got that look," alex murmurs, eyes dancing around your expression like you’re painting.

you narrow your eyes. "what look?"

"the one you get before you do something reckless. or throw something."

you huff. "you're not that important." but you don't move. you don't leave. because he is that important.

alex’s gaze flicks toward the empty photo bay—it’s quiet, tucked behind equipment cases and fluorescent shadows—then back to you.

"five minutes," he says. it’s not a question, it’s just an offer.

you hesitate, pulse kicking up, hard and sudden.

you should say no.

you have work. you have boundaries. you have no business wanting five more minutes with someone you're not supposed to miss. but.

your voice barely makes it out.

"okay."

you end up settling onto an old crate, tucked away just far enough to avoid most eyes—or at least the ones that might ask questions you're not ready to answer.

the thwack-thwack of impact wrenches and the soft hum of paddock chatter fills the background, steady and strangely calming.

you lean back, balancing a lukewarm paper cup between your fingers. alex had handed it to you a few minutes ago, and somehow it feels like the only tether holding the two of you in the same orbit. it’s something sweet and warm. you drink it in small sips.

out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him.

he's not looking at you—not yet. his eyes are fixed on the cracked pavement, thumb tapping a restless rhythm against his own cup's rim.

then he speaks. his voice low and a little rough—like it's been sitting in his throat too long. "I hated pretending you didn't exist last year. when we were together."

your breath catches. you turn slowly toward him, pulse hitching.

he still doesn't meet your eyes. "i'd be walking past you on the grid," he says, just above the garage noise, "and you'd smile like we were just coworkers. like it was nothing. it felt... wrong."

your chest tightens—that same old ache folding into something more fragile. you want to be sharp. or say something clever. but all that escapes is a quiet, "you were the one who said we had to keep it quiet."

it’s then that alex finally looks at you. his eyes are shaded—not just tired, but heavy with something softer. something that lives between guilt and memory. "I know," he swallows, voice gone thick. "I thought I was protecting you. from the noise. from the press. from all the questions. but mostly... from me."

you blink. eyebrows lifting, surprised. "from you?"

a small, almost broken smile curves his lips. "I thought i'd mess it up.” he sends you a gentle look, one that holds even more truth that words. “and I did. in silverstone. I gave you no other option.”

your heart slams against your ribs. maybe because you know exactly what he means. or maybe because deep down, you've been waiting to hear it.

you don't think, you just reach out, brushing your fingers against his hand around the cup. barely a touch. it’s hesitant but it’s alive.

his fingers twitch and then—then—curl gently around yours.

you don't say anything.

neither does he.

you don't need to.

in that quiet space between breaths, it feels like the world shrinks to just this—the weight of old truths, the warmth of his skin, the closeness you swore you wouldn't miss and somehow always did.

you almost laugh. not out of humor, but out of disbelief. because here you are, fake dating for the cameras, sitting in a garage full of noise, and somehow this feels more real than anything's felt in months.

alex clears his throat, like he's trying to shake it off. "so, uh... the espressos not terrible, huh?"

you grin and some of the tension slips loose. "better than I expected."

he bumps your shoulder, light and easy, "see? progress."

and just like that, the silence changes. it’s still full and most definitely still complicated, but... not final.

part 5: one bed, too many feelings

the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the soft mechanical hum of the hotel elevator as the day finally comes to a close. the chaos of race day slips away bit by bit, leaving just silence and nerves. your shoulders still ache from crouching to capture the perfect image, and as you reach out to press the button for your floor, your muscles cry.

your eyes stay fixed on the little screen counting floor numbers, but your mind's occupied with the familiar stature of the man next to you. alex. he had caught up to you before you could escape the paddock—fans and reports still lingering around as he grabbed your elbow. with a soft grin and squinting form the setting sun, he insisted to walk back to the hotel with you.

and you let him.

if you knew what mishap was waiting for you at the reception desk, you may of just stayed overnight in the williams garage and prayed no janitors thought you were dead.

the receptionist had frowned, clicking around for a bit too long, and then said the words that made your heart stutter: "looks like there's been a mix-up — only one room left on this floor."

alex raised an eyebrow beside you, spun the room key once between his fingers, and shrugged. "guess we're roomies."

you had stared at him. the disbelief, the exasperation—and, fine, the flicker of something else—all twisting in your chest. "great," you muttered, tone flat, but something in your face betrayed you.

he flashed you that crooked grin. "hey, at least it's not carlos—he farts in his sleep."

so here you are, replaying everything—the weight of his words, the way his fingers brushed yours, the stupid crooked smile that still makes your chest twist.

alex stands still next to you, hands shoved into his pockets. he watches the numbers, too—or pretends to always. he doesn't look at you. okay he does, but only when he thinks you're not paying attention.

when the elevator dings, the hallway unfolds quiet and soft, muted hotel lighting casting everything in beige and cream. a world away from the sound and sweat of the circuit.

you glance at the door number engraved on the silver key dangling from alex’s long finger.

412.

alex leads you to the room with a hand hovering near your lower back. he unlocks the door in silence, just the clinking sound of the lock unlatching to be heard in the otherwise quiet hallway.

once it opens, you step in and alex follows suit. the door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should—like it just locked in something you can't quite name.

your eyes dance around the space. crisp paint, even crisper bedding. a bathroom and a nice chair. but there's one bed. of course there's only one bed. and it's king-sized, which somehow makes it worse. like the universe had a sense of humor and was currently laughing its ass off.

you stand there for a second, just staring at the bed. your heart does a weird, awkward flip and you inhale slow through your nose so you don't turn heel and run. it's just a bed. you're a professional. you've shared hotel rooms before. just... not with an ex who you're still holding on to.

alex leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. his smirk is infuriatingly calm. he knows exactly what you're thinking. and he's definitely enjoying it. at least, on the outside he is.

"well, this is... cozy," you chirp, trying for breezy, but your voice catches slightly at the end.

he pushes off the wall and gestures toward the bed. "you can have the window side."

"how generous," you deadpan. "i'm sure you'll be stealing the blankets by midnight."

"probably," he says. "don’t know if you recall, but I snore like a dying engine."

"I remember," you mutter, already regretting everything. you climb onto the edge of the bed like it might bite you. your camera bag stays between you like a buffer zone.

alex sits on the other side, long legs stretched out, keeping his distance. for now. he's still in his team kit, and his hair has curled at the edges caused by the humid rain that drenched the track earlier.

"so what's the plan?" you ask, voice lighter than you feel. "we just... pretend this is totally normal?”’

he glances over at you. "isn't that what we're good at?"

your lips twitch into something half between a laugh and a sigh. "we're going to regret this."

"probably," he says again, voice edging with exhaustion. "but i'm too tired to care."

the air conditioner hums. the silence stretches.

you turn away first and tuck your legs under yourself, desperately trying to ignore the fact of how your pulse won't calm down.

"you don't usually share beds with your exes on race weekends, right?" you ask, more to fill the quiet than searching for an actual answer.

he laughs softly. "nope. you're a first."

you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "don't get cocky."

"too late." god, it's so dangerous—how easy this still is. how he can sit next to you like no time has passed, like nothing's broken.

you pull your knees closer. a beat passes, and you take the time to let your eyes wander further. a tv remote, faded curtains and a room service menu. a smile automatically tugs across your face, your voice is quieter now. "you remember japan?"

he turns slightly toward you. "which part?"

"the night after the race. the room service. the natto."

he groans through a laugh. "it tasted like something that should've been banned by the fia."

you laugh too—real, reluctant. "you made the worst face."

"you were laughing," he says, his voice softer now. "I remember thinking that was it. like... that was the happiest i'd ever been."

you freeze.

it's too much. too honest. too real.

you meet his eyes. "alex."

he doesn't move. his voice drops lower, almost a rasp. "i'm not pretending right now."

you swallow hard. "I know," you whisper back, just as quiet and hopeful.

the air between you tightens, turning electric. you lean in—just a little. barely enough to count. but he mirrors the motion, slow and careful, like the slightest wrong move might shatter everything.

your noses nearly touch. you can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension from the race still lingering in his shoulders. his eyes flicker to your lips and back again.

your heart is hammering. you stop breathing. and then—you pull back. just a few inches. your breath leaves you in a tremble. you’re not sure why you feel like crying. "this is a bad idea."

alex watches you for a beat, expression unreadable, and then nods. "I know."

but neither of you move. seconds stretch. your fingers twitch at your side. his jaw clenches, and then loosens. you glance down at his hand—so close to yours. too close.

the silence isn't empty—it's full of things neither of you say.

you turn your face away, but not fully. just enough to break the spell. "we should go to sleep."

alex doesn't answer. just looks at you like he's memorizing something. and slowly, quietly, the moment fades—like warm breath on cold glass. "yeah," he murmurs.

part 6: the things you don't say out loud (until you do)

the morning light slices through the curtains in soft, fractured beams. it catches on the tangled sheets around you, on the curve of your shoulder—on the shape of his absence.

you wake slowly, blinking quickly to discover that you're alone in the bed. your heart drops before you can stop it—some ridiculous flare of disappointment that makes you feel silly almost instantly.

just before you can reach for your phone, you hear it—the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, followed by the sound of a toothbrush working.

alex steps out a moment later, hair damp form the shower and, toothbrush handing form his mouth. "oh," he says around the handle once he sees that you’re awake. "sorry. didn't mean to wake you."

the relief at seeing him is almost as embarrassing as the where are you text you planned to send him in a desperate panic. you sit up, rubbing at your face. "you didn't."

but your voice betrays you. it’s hoarse and uncertain and it’s definitely a tell that you’ve only been conscious sub 30 seconds.

alex notices. of course he does.

neither of you mention the night before. not how close you were. not how close you still are. not the way it almost felt like nothing had ever ended.

once he spits his toothpaste in the sink and wipes his mouth with a towel, alex crosses the room, and grabs a hoodie from the back of a chair. he tosses you a glance. "tea?" he prompts like it's any other morning.

all you can do is nod. but you're still carefully watching him—and alex knows it.

because whatever happened between you last night, even if you didn't say it, even if you didn't touch...it still happened.

and it's still happening. and you’re not sure when it’s going to burst out the seams.

the paddock is already buzzing by the time you get there. sunday mornings always carry that low-grade tension—early press huddles, fans behind the barriers, pr people power-walking through garages with phones glued to their ears.

you hang near the media tent, adjusting your camera strap like it's armor, trying to ignore the extra attention that seems to follow you now.

people nod at you more than usual. a ferrari photographer winks. someone from alpine throws you a thumbs-up like you're part of an inside joke no one told you about. even logan, across the garage, catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows like a kid who definitely knows something he shouldn't.

perfect. the entire paddock thinks you're starring in a romcom you didn't sign up for.

you duck behind one of the support trucks, and lift your camera, adjusting the lens for the morning light. you focus on the movement—pit lane crew working on piastri’s car, glints of chrome, the way the sun skims across the front wing of the williams car.

focus. breathe. this is your job, not a soap opera.

"hey."

the sound startles you, nearly colliding with alex as you turn fast on your heels. he's close. just inside that invisible boundary line, leaning in so his voice doesn't carry.

"you okay?" he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning yours.

you nod too fast, heart beat recovering from the scare. "yeah. just avoiding logan's smug face and trying not to become the lead in the group chat this weekend."

a flicker of a smile tugs at his mouth. "he does have a flair for drama," alex notes, stepping slightly closer as someone walks behind you both.

his hand brushes the middle of your back so light that it’s maybe nothing. or maybe too much. either way, it sends a ripple through your spine.

thankfully, you don't react. not visibly anyways.

alex tilts his head, watching you. "for what it's worth... I think we're pulling it off. the couple thing."

you shoot him a deadpanned look. "great. i've always dreamed of being pit lane's most convincing pr stunt."

he grins. "you're a natural."

you roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the faintest twitch.

a pause settles between you. alex watches you for a beat longer, and there's something different in his eyes now. softer. also heavier? like he's debating whether to say what he really wants to.

and then, in a voice quieter than before, he admits, "i'm glad it's you."

your brow lifts. "what?"

he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "just... if i've gotta fake-date someone on the grid, i'm glad it's you."

you blink, surprised. caught off guard by the honesty of it. "okay," you say slowly. "that might be the nicest weird compliment i've gotten all weekend. but i’ll take it, considering I put us in this mess.”

before alex can respond, someone shouts his name from across the garage—a team comms person pointing toward the media pen, no doubt waiting for him to hurry the hell up. alex gives you a small nod and that signature half-smile. "catch you in a bit, fake girlfriend."

you call after him, "try not to fall in love with me mid-interview."

he tosses a wink over his shoulder without missing a step.

and then he's gone. swallowed back into the noise and speed of race day, leaving you with a camera full of photos and a stomach full of butterflies you definitely did not invite.

part 7: caught staring, caught feelings

the week between race weekends passes in a blur of flights, overflowing laundry, packing cubes, deadlines, and pretending like everything's totally fine.

you barely see alex after austria. a few texts here and there. mostly logistics. timing. one half-joke about shared hotel rooms again—neither of you really reply to that one.

but the silence isn't awkward. it's worse than that.

it's deliberate.

like you both know exactly how close you got in that hotel room—under thin sheets, too many inches stolen between unspoken things. every brush of his hand, every quiet breath in the dark, none of it was in the script. and neither of you stopped it.

now, silverstone looms.

his home race. big crowds. bigger press. and all eyes on him. which means all eyes on you, too.

you show up early, camera slung over your shoulder, lanyard bouncing against your chest as you weave through rows of fans crowding the barriers. the energy hits different here. louder and deeper like the track itself is holding its breath.

you haven't seen him yet, and honestly, you're not sure if you want to.

which makes it all the more jarring when you step into the williams hospitality tent and walk straight into carlos sainz mid-bite—and somehow still smirking.

the spaniard he leans back in his chair, fork dangling lazily from his fingers, that familiar gleam in his eyes. "well, well," he says, tone already smug. "the famous girlfriend.”

you freeze mid-step, camera swinging at your side. "excuse me?"

carlos gestures with his fork, like he's presenting hard evidence. "alex. he told me. you two've been keeping secrets, no?"

you open your mouth, then shut it again. breathe. play it cool. "we're... private," you say eventually. tone neutral, but not entirely convincing.

he raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. "ah," he says, stabbing at his pasta. "so private you forgot to tell half the paddock for a year. must be very real." he's not being rude, you know that. carlos is just blunt, and in turn, very intelligent.

you're still trying to come up with something halfway decent in response when a voice cuts in behind you—low, dry, and unmistakably alex.

"carlos."

you turn just as alex steps up beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression pulled tight like he's fighting a smile.

"what?" carlos shrugs, far too pleased with himself. "I like her. she's honest. and clearly too good for you."

you almost laugh. almost. but you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. not from carlos, but from the way alex is standing a little too close, his hand hovering at the small of your back.

like a reflex and habit.

"you didn't deny it," carlos points out, clearly enjoying himself.

alex smirks—calm, controlled, practiced. "didn't have to." and that? that lands right in the center of your chest. not a full ache, but definitely not nothing.

carlos grins. "fine. don't tell me. but i'm bringing this up at the next drivers' dinner."

"please don't," alex mutters.

"too late," carlos says, already typing something into his phone. when carlos turns his attention back to his food, alex leans in just a little, voice soft near your ear.

"you okay?"

you nod, even though you're not sure. maybe because if you don't, you'll say something you can't take back.

alex watches you for a second longer, eyes scanning like he's searching for the truth underneath your silence. but whatever he sees, he doesn't push. "i'll find you after practice," he says, even quieter. "if I don't get mobbed first."

you offer him a crooked half-smile. "tell your fans to chill. you're spoken for, remember?"

he chuckles as he backs away—but the look he gives you isn't staged. no, it's something that's been building long before the fake dating started. maybe even before the breakup.

and just like that, he's gone— swallowed up by the buzz of debriefs and interviews and everything else that keeps this world spinning.

you exhale, adjust your lens, and pretend your heart isn't racing just because of a look.

qualifying day — morning

the paddock pulses with energy, the kind that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and makes your chest shake. silverstone's always been a beast—home crowds, unpredictable skies, and more cameras than common sense.

you move through the chaos with your own camera slung across your body like usual, caffeine buzzing in your veins. your lanyard bounces with every step, and your hair's already a mess from ducking under scaffolding and sneaking between barriers for the right shot.

you don't see alex until you turn a corner and nearly run straight into him. he's leaning against a stack of tires, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like he's been standing there just long enough to wait you out. knowing alex, he probably was.

"you always film me when i'm sweaty and sleep-deprived. it's targeted."

you raise your camera. "it's authentic. be grateful."

"i'm a driver, not a documentary."

"you're both now. sorry." there’s not hint of an apology in your voice as you lift the viewfinder and snap a few frames all while he mock-grimaces.

he steps a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his when you adjust the lens. his voice drops—low and soft under the hum of the paddock.

"you nervous?"

"why would I be nervous?"

he tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to read through you. "because today's going to be loud. for both of us."

you keep the camera up. "i'll survive."

his eyes linger, like he wants to say more. but instead, he just taps the front of your lens gently.

"get my good side, alright?"

"you only have one side," you deadpan.

"which is devastatingly handsome. I agree."

you both laugh, too loud for how close you're standing, too easy for people pretending this is nothing.

later, back in the garage, everything tightens. the air feels heavier and more focused. qualifying's coming fast, and every person here moves like they've got a stopwatch ticking in their head.

you sit tucked into a narrow desk station between two walls, downloading footage from earlier. your focus is clipped, sharp, jaw tight as you scan through frame after frame of alex in motion.

you hear footsteps. and then your name.

"didn't expect to see you here still."

you go still and the turn in your seat slowly, stomach sinking as an all too familiar and unwanted sight greets you.

liam.

he's wearing sunglasses even through its just been pouring, and his team branded zip up has a coffee stain near the logo. he's still smiling like you're together. like you're friends. 

"get some good shots?" he asks, nodding at your gear. but his words hold no weight. liam doesn't care, he never has.

your jaw tightens. "I'm happy with them, yes." you mutter, turning back to your screen.

liam's eyes flick to the far end of the garage where alex is adjusting his gloves, laughing with one of the engineers. "I honestly didn't think albon would be your type." he steps in closer. "can I ask," he doesn't wait for you to speak before leaning in too close, almost bumping your camera off the table in the process. "was he your first choice? or did sainz blow you off and leave you with no choice?"

you stand abruptly, chair scraping across the floor with a loud, sharp noise. "what is your—"

"hey, relax," he interrupts, smirking. "i'm just saying... you always hated the spotlight. and now look at you. all over the paddock like some trophy girlfriend."

before you can utter a word, you feel someone step up beside you. a quiet and steady presence that comes as an immediate relief.

alex doesn't speak right away, and he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, like a wall between you and the echo of everything liam still knows how to twist.

"everything alright?" alex questions, voice low and unreadable. he's not looking at you though. no—his sharp gaze is set on liam.

liam scoffs. "wow. you really trained him, huh?" he glances alex up and down. "didn't know you were into playing guard dog."

alex's jaw ticks, but his voice stays level and cold. "she doesn't need anyone to guard her," he states. "but if you keep talking to her like that, i'll stop pretending to be polite."

the silence that follows is thick and tense—like the whole garage is holding its breath.

liam glances between you both. then shrugs, fake-casual. "touchy, touchy." and then he walks off like he won something.

you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, eyes fixed on the floor. you can feel that your face is hot with rage, and your eyes burn with unshed tears from your exes awful insinuations.

"you didn't have to do that," you say, quieter now.

alex keeps looking in the direction liam disappeared, his expression unreadable.

"yeah," he says finally, voice softer now. "I did."

you don't know what to say to that. not when something heavy is pressing behind your ribs—something like guilt, something like gratitude, something you don't want to name.

alex turns to you, gentle now. he reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear like it's the easiest thing in the world.

"you okay?" he asks again.

this time when you nod, a shaky breathing leaving your chest that tells the opposite, alex doesn’t believe it. he pulls you in for a sweet hug—pressing a kiss to your hairline that says more than words could.

late night — post-qualifying, hotel rooftop

you found yourself outside only a few hours after the saturday evening bleeds into night. your hair is still wet from your shower, pyjamas clinging to your skin in a comfortable way.

the hotel rooftop was mostly empty, the city's neon lights flickering distantly, traffic humming far below. it's a quiet and much needed relief after a day that felt like being microwaved inside a media cage.

you don't know why you came up here. maybe to breathe? maybe to be alone?  maybe because a part of you hoped he'd follow.

and, of course, he did. it's like alex knew that you were awake even despite your usual early bedtime. he steps out onto the rooftop minutes after you, two mugs in hand and his hoodie zipped only halfway up. you catch sight of the t-shirt you used to steal adorning his chest.

"I come bearing tea," he breathes, holding out one mug like a peace offering. "because coffee at this hour felt like a crime."

you took the mug wordlessly, fingers brushing his briefly. your hands are cold; his aren’t. probably due to the fact he made drinks.

"I would've taken coffee."

alex grins, "I know, that's why I didn't make it."

you sip instead of answering him, letting the steam warm your face before continuing, "shouldn't you be asleep?"

he shrugs, stepping beside you but careful not to crowd your space. "couldn't. brain won't shut off." he paused. "you?"

you gave a half-smile, eyes on the glittering city below. "same." your response is quick. posed and breezy. it’s easier than trying to explain how you’re really feeling—how your fake relationship with alex feels so identical to your past real one, that it’s almost cruel.

for a few seconds, the only sound between you was the whistle of wind and distant bass from the hotel below.

then, just before it gets too quiet, alex speaks. "carlos asked me if we were in love."

you nearly choke on your tea. "what?" you splutter, wiping a dribble of tea that escapes form the corner of your lips.

"you know carlos. subtle as a tire wall." alex laughs softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he continues. "he cornered me in the cooldown room. asked if we were real, or just good actors."

your chest tightens incredibly fast. "and you said?” you trail off, something like hope lacing your tone.

alex glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "I said no."

his answer hits like a dropped wrench—sudden, ugly and almost makes you jump. your grip tightens on the hotel mug in your clutches as you turn back toward the skyline, trying not to let anything show.

of course he said no.

this whole thing is fake. pretend. a performance. any word of the sort. you can’t curse yourself too hard though, not when the line between real and fake has blurred into nothingness.

just as you go to excuse yourself to go cry silently against the crisp hotel pillow you left behind, alex steps a little closer, just close enough for your breath to catch and shoulders to tighten.

"I said no," he repeats, slower this time, "because I didn't want to lie."

you turn toward him, brows furrowed. you’re not sure how this is better—and clearly alex sees your distraught eyes, because he holds your gaze, steady and sure. "I didn't want to say we were in love like it was some joke. not when I mean it."

your mouth opens, but no words come.

alex exhales through his nose, suddenly feeling awkward as he runs a hand through his unruly hair. "god, that was... not smooth."

"no," you answer quietly. "but honest."

there was a pause.

then.

"say it," you whisper.

alex blinks. "what?"

"say it." your voice is steady now, tinged with hope and something promising. you don’t know where the courage came from, only that you needed it. needed to hear it in something more than touches, glances, and almosts.

he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for an escape. searching your eyes to ensure that yes, you want this. want him. after a second that feels like a thousand, alex steps in. he’s close—close enough for your pulse to jump and breath to catch.

"you know I always look for you," alex’s words are no higher than a whisper, voice almost lost in the wind. "in every paddock, every crowd, every press line. even when I act like I don't care. especially then."

your chest aches.

he doesn’t touch you—not yet. his hands stay wrapped around the mug, like it was the only thing holding him together.

"I wanted to say something that day," he admits, “as soon as you walked out that door. but I couldn’t. not when i’d just broken your heart.” alex sighs shakily, eyes locking with yours as he continues. "and then we were halfway across the world and pretending to be fine. I didn't want to add to the noise. or say the wrong thing. or make you stay when you didn't want to."

"you think I didn't want to?" you asked, stunned.

"I don't know." his voice cracks just enough for you to notice. "you left. I let you. that's on me."

your breath hitched, tea was cooling fast under your hands, but you don’t care. "you didn't stop me either," you whisper sadly, “I wanted you to stop me.”

"I thought i'd already lost you," alex sighs.

the silence that followed was louder than anything either of you could say. then, carefully, like gravity gave up holding you apart, he stepped into your orbit. you watch carefully through tear filled eyes as alex sets his mug down on a ledge, between flower pots like it belongs. he takes yours next, sitting it next to his with a dull clink.

this time, when alex reaches out, it’s not for the mug. it’s for you. his touch is gentle—thumb brushing along your cheek, fingers settling against your jaw. you lean into the touch like it was instinct. mostly because it is.

and when he kisses you—quiet and slow—it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture, and it’s certainly doesn’t feel like an act. it feels inevitable. it feels like a hundred wordless sorries spoken against your lips.

the kiss—you and alex—feels like something you've both been circling around since the start. no cameras, no lies, and right now, certainly no pretending.

part 8: now what?

next morning, race day, austin TX

you'd slept, technically.

your eyes were shut. your body still—letting the weight of the duvet press you into the mattress. but your mind replayed last night on an endless loop. the rooftop, the tea, his voice, the kiss—over and over until dream and memory blurred.

by the time you stepped into the paddock, like usual, everything was already moving full throttle. race day. cameras flashing everywhere. fans chanting from behind fences, waving flags like lifelines.

you pull your cap lower, trying to focus. camera? check. lanyard? check. resolve not to combust every time you saw alex? well, that’s still pending.

he spots you before you spot him.

you’re by the williams garage, adjusting light settings on your camera and completely encapsulated by the lens.

he passes you by with his trainer talking about something alex doesn’t really care to hear. his fireproof undershirt is tucked messily into his race suit, zipper halfway down, hair still damp from running drills.

when your eyes catch his, alex is already smiling. the eye contact is brief, and he looks away like if he stares too long you might blind him.

your stomach flips. because alex is acting like normal. of course he is. you'd only kissed, not rewrite the laws of physics. no big deal. just two exes faking a relationship who maybe weren't faking anymore and also maybe still wanted each other and—

you nearly walk into a cart stacked with tires.

"you good?" logan appears beside you like some chaos-summoned spirit. you wouldn’t be suprised if he is.

you blink at him, brushing imagine dust off your shirt. "fine."

he raises a brow. "you look like you saw a ghost."

"just...pre-race nerves."

"you're not the one driving."

you mutter something incoherent under your breath and pretend to scroll through photos. but logan would never let you get away that easy. he leans in, conspiratorial. "so... is it weird if I say you two actually seem more believable now?"

you freeze. "what?"

"you and alex. the fake dating thing. didn't buy it at first, but now? there's like... a vibe."

you gave him a half mortified look. "what kind of vibe?"

"like..." he pauses, clearly enjoying this, "'i'd fight someone in parc fermé for you' vibes."

before you could respond, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck, that sudden awareness you always get when alex is near. he’s across the garage now, leaning over the nose of the car, deep in discussion with an engineer. but his eyes find you anyway. just for a second.

you look back, and this time, neither of you look away. not until someone calls his name and alex has no choice but to turn, slipping into driver mode like it’s second skin.

you exhale shakily, hand pressed to your stomach like that will make everything feel better.

the problem with kissing alex albon is that now you remember exactly how it felt. and the problem with pretending is that, suddenly, you don’t know what part is real anymore.

austin – mid race

the pit wall buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own. telemetry data streamed across the monitors. radios cracked and chimed. engineers shouted lap times, tire wear, gaps. you stood just behind the controlled chaos, headphones on but turned down low—enough to catch alex's voice when it filtered through comms, smooth but taut with focus.

you usually don’t wear the headphones. not because you don’t want to, but because hearing alex’s voice used to make you want to die. but now—with him slipping them over your ears before the race with a half lipped grin—you don’t ever want to take them off.

so you half pretend to take photos of inside the garage while you’re actually listening to every complain, praise and breath fall from his lips.

twenty-five laps in, and alex is holding p7. grinding it out on aging mediums, defending like hell from george in the mercedes behind him, and chasing hamilton ahead.

every time his name flashed on the timing screen, your heart stutters. not because it’s your job to care, but because it’s him.

the same man who kissed you like you were the only real thing left in the world last night. the same man you'd once left, terrified he'd forget you in the next country. the same man now threading a car through corners at 190mph like it was nothing—trusting you'll still be there when it stopped.

"box, box," came the call on lap 27.

in the blink, he was in. the garage exploded into repetitive movement. tires, jacks, and helmets all snapping into place. you step back, camera raised to catch the choreography with the detachment of a professional.

but your hands trembled.

alex's car hit the marks perfectly.

the stop was fast—2.3 seconds—the cleanest of all the stops so far.

until it wasn't. a rear tire gun jammed. only for a beat, but it was enough to fuck everything off.

2.3 seconds turned into 4.8.

you felt it like a punch to the chest.

"go, go, go." alex peeled out of the box with a certain pull, already yelling over the radio. not furious. just frustrated—controlled but frustrated—you could tell that by the edge in his voice.

"what happened with the left rear?"

no one answers right away. you look over at the crew. everyone back in position, reviewing footage and telemetry. fixing. adjusting. pretending like they aren’t holding their breath.

alex was back out in p9.

you lower your camera slowly, and then glance at the monitor again. you see him taking copse flat, no lift, chasing time like he could will it back.

and he did. sort of. he finished p8. it wasn't a disaster but it wasn't what it should've been either. the whole garage buzzed with what-if energy.

you wait by the monitors, unsure if you should stay or go. unsure if alex wants to deal with you and whatever weird state you’re both hovering in.

the paddock is thinning, the crews already packing up their things and heading to their hotels. somewhere nearby, champagne pops from another team's podium celebration.

you don’t move, not until—"you're still here?"

it’s alex's voice, left hoarse from the race, but unmistakably his. he’s still suited, fireproof top clinging to him and sweat caked in his hair. he looks tired, yet also wired—and something else you can’t name.

"you usually disappear right after interviews," alex adds, stepping closer.

"I was going to."

he raises a brow. "but?"

you exhale slowly. "you looked like you needed someone to be here."

his expression softens. "I did."

for a second, the noise of the track seemed far away. like the whole world has been pressed on pause. there’s no screaming fans or lando’s laugh between chugs of champagne. just your breathing and alex’s heart beat.

you study his face—flushed, raw, and real. so much left unsaid.

"that stop... wasn't your fault," you say quietly.

alex scoffs under his breath. "tell that to the two places I lost."

"you still drove the wheels off that thing."

he doesn’t answer right away, just nods once. and then, finally, he looks at you like you aren’t a ghost anymore. like he was still holding that kiss in his chest. "you helped today, you know," he murmured.

"I didn't do anything." you laugh shyly.

alex shrugs like it’s simple. to him, perhaps it is. "you stayed."

you swallow, pulse ticking louder than the fading engines. you want to touch him. want him to touch you. you want to say everything you aren’t supposed to.

instead, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets, voice light. "don't get used to it. I might disappear on you again."

alex smirks faintly, but his eyes? his eyes don’t play along. "if you do," he mutters, "i'll come after you this time."

evening — post-race team dinner, silverstone

the williams hospitality tent glowed under soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling. long tables were littered with paper plates, half-finished burgers, and flutes of bubbly champagne passed around like trophies. loud in that post-race way—adrenaline, exhaustion, and celebration all tangled.

you slip in late, camera still around your neck like it always is, hair windblown from standing trackside as the last drivers crossed the line. technically, you’re still working—someone always wants footage for socials—but your fingers haven’t touched the shutter in twenty minutes.

you spot alex across the room before he sees you. or maybe he did see you first, because he is already walking towards you.

there’s no hesitation in his steps. suddenly he’s just there. alex doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches over and takes the strap of the camera from around your neck. he lifts it off gently and then sets it on an empty chair even softer.

"you're done for the night," he breathes.

"you don't get to decide that."

"I do when your eyes are half-closed and your fingers are frozen."

you roll your eyes but don’t protest when he nudges a glass into your hand before tugging you toward the back table, away from the noise and the heart of the crowd.

you sit side by side on a bench, knees barely brushing—a closeness that doesn’t need announcing anymore. alex runs his finger over the stem of the glass in his hand, glancing at you sideways like he id trying to hide it.

you lean in, just slightly. "you always this twitchy after a top-ten finish?"

he scoffs but it has no bite. "it's not nerves."

"no?"

he looks at you—properly now—and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach flip. "you looked really good in that stupid team vest today."

you choke on your drink.

he continues like you didn’t almost just spit take, “and then with my headphones on. god.”

"you're unbelievable."

"i'm serious." he shrugs. "you wore it better than me, and that's saying something."

you bump your shoulder against his. "you're just trying to distract me so I don't ask how many places you could've gained if your left rear hadn't jammed."

"low blow," he murmurs, mock offended. his hand finds your knee beneath the table, and he just rests there, warm and steady. no drama, no show. just... easy.

your chest tightens with something unspoken. it’s something old and also something very, very new.

you and alex stay like that for a while, letting the the buzz of celebration, murmurs of post-race interviews, and even logan's obnoxious laugh from two tables away fade into background static.

and when you tilt your face toward his—just a little—he doesn’t ask. he just leans in without a blink and kisses you. it’s slow and casual, like the ones you’ve shared many times before.

like it didn't mean everything to you right now.

the kind of kiss shared with someone who already knew you—knew the things you didn't say out loud. familiar. certain.

when you pull apart, neither of you smile right away. you both just sit there—close, still, quiet and completely content.

eventually, you break the silence. "so should we just... talk about it?"

alex's lips quirk. "we are talking about it."

you huff, but don’t move away. his hand is still on your knee, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sleeve without thinking. "okay," you sigh happily, voice quiet as you peer up at him. "but... this isn't fake anymore, right?"

alex doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. instead he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours before placing another chaste kiss to your lips.

he doesn’t even pull away before he answers. "was it ever?"

morning before zandvoort race day

it had taken you and alex months. a dozen cities, two hotel mishaps, and one very unconvincing fake relationship—and somewhere between a late-night balcony kiss and a quiet team dinner, something had shifted.

you never really said it out loud—not like people expect you to. no big declarations. no perfect moment with violins in the background.

but the world around you notice.

especially now.

the paddock at zandvoort was alive with heat and music and that strange electricity that only comes before lights-out. the sun split through passing clouds, flags waved, people shouting alex's name from the barriers, and still—somehow—you manage to forget it is all this big.

because when you spot him before the drivers' parade, leaning against the barrier with his helmet in one hand and eyes scanning the crowd—then inevitably landing directly on you—everything else fades to background noise.

that smile. quick, crooked, a little private.

the kind of smile he used to hide. but now? he gives it to you freely.

you lift your camera without thinking.

click.

you didn't even need to check the screen. you already knew it was your favorite photo of the weekend.

"still pretending?" came a voice beside you.

you turn, a little startled, to find carlos grinning, arms crossed casually next to you.

"sorry?"

carlos nods towards alex. "him. you. that look he gives you. it's different now."

you hesitate. "it's not a story."

"no," carlos hums, smiling softer. "it's something better.”

you blink. "what do you mean?"

carlos shrugs casually. "he used to look like he was running from something. now he looks like he's staying for someone."

you don’t reply. not because you didn't know what to say—but because there was nothing left to explain.

your answer is already written in the lines of alex's face, the ease in his shoulders, the way his eyes always find yours even in a crowd of thousands.

this isn’t some rom com. it’s something real. something chosen. and when alex catches your eye again from across the barrier with that same grin and same quiet certainty, you feel it fully—for the first time.

you lower your camera and take a deep breath, the noise of the paddock washing around you like a distant tide.

alex's eyes hold yours once more—steady, soft, and real.

no words were needed. not now. because for the first time in a long time, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.