Contrary to your job, you hated the spotlight. Cameras, flashing bulbs, microphones shoved in your face — all of it felt suffocating.

You weren’t made for glossy press photos or staged smiles; you were the kind of person who thrived in the shadows, pulling the strings and making sure the chaos looked polished.

You never planned on ending up in Formula One, much less as the PR officer for one of its brightest stars. But then there was Rafayel.

Your best friend since forever, a boy who grew into a man that somehow made the world bend to him. When he got his shot in motorsport, he didn’t ask — he begged.

“Come on, you’re the only one I trust. If I’m going to let someone micromanage my life, it better be you.”

You’d rolled your eyes, muttering something about how ridiculous he was, but you said yes.

Maybe it was the way he smiled, all effortless charm with a streak of mischief that hadn’t dulled since you were teenagers. Maybe it was the promise of a salary that could shut you up when your parents asked how you’d pay rent.

Now, your days were spent taming Rafayel’s edges — smoothing his words into headlines, reminding him to tone down the arrogance in interviews, making sure his charisma didn’t spill into chaos.

He paid well, you did your job well, and it wasn’t so bad working alongside your best friend.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Because somewhere between the early mornings in the motorhome and the late nights drafting statements, you realized this wasn’t just a job. It was Rafayel. And if you weren’t careful, the very man you were supposed to protect from scandal might just become your greatest distraction.

But to Rafayel Qi, none of this was complicated.

He had trust issues, and rightfully so — the industry was crawling with opportunists, social climbers, and leeches hiding in every corner.

To survive in Formula One, you had to be careful who you let into your orbit. For Rafayel, the solution had always been simple: keep his circle impossibly small.

And when it came to his public image, there was no one else he’d rather hand the reins to. Why hire a stranger when he could hire his best friend?

“You’re the only one who won’t sell me out,” he’d said with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And he wasn’t wrong. Aside from his manager Thomas — who barely scraped by the label of “trusted” — you were the only constant in his life.

The only person who saw past the glittering Mercedes star on his chest and remembered him before the world did.

So, to Rafayel, it only made sense: if he was going to have someone by his side at all times, it had to be you.

You hated dealing with Rafayel’s PR though.

Honestly, why did your best friend have to be the grid’s most extravagant driver? He’d say things like “I don’t care for the parties after my wins” with a bored wave of his hand — and then turn around and bask in the flashing lights of paparazzi cameras like he’d been born for it.

It drove you insane.

And yet… if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be here.

The Mediterranean stretched endlessly before you, sapphire waters shimmering beneath the late afternoon sun.

The salt-kissed breeze tangled in your hair as you lounged on the deck of a Monaco yacht that was way too big for just the two of you. Your sunglasses sat lazily perched on your nose, one hand idly scrolling through your phone.

Headlines. Always headlines.

“‘Mercedes’ golden boy spotted with mystery woman in Port Hercule,’” you read aloud, deadpan, sipping from your drink without even looking up. “Guess who that mystery woman is?”

From across the deck, Rafayel was sprawled like some Renaissance painting come to life, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, a smug grin pulling at his lips. He tilted his sunglasses down just enough to meet your gaze.

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy the attention, cutie,” he teased, voice lazy, velvety. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to make me look good in the press?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you thought they might stay that way. “I’m supposed to keep you out of trouble, Rafayel. There’s a difference.”

He chuckled, that low, unbothered sound that only added to your headache — and maybe, if you were honest with yourself, to your heartbeat too.

“And yet, here you are. Mediterranean sun. Monaco yacht. Your best friend, looking devastating as ever. Tell me again how much you hate this job?”

You groaned, slumping back into your seat, but the corners of your lips betrayed you with a tug upwards. He wasn’t wrong.

Rafayel’s gaze lingered on you as you moved inside the yacht, your frown sharper than the sea breeze outside. He followed quietly, leaning against the doorway as you perched on the sofa, laptop balanced on your knees like a shield.

You muttered under your breath while typing furiously, your sunglasses now tossed aside.

“God forbid a Mercedes driver actually enjoy a vacation.” He murmurs.

“Well, you ridiculous fish,” you scowled without looking up, “someone has to make sure your image stays clean. Because while you’re busy parading around like Poseidon’s gift to Formula One, there are vultures out there with nothing better to do than leak whatever dirt they can dig up.”

Rafayel smirked, amused by your dramatic tirade.

“Ridiculous fish? That’s the best you’ve got?”

You ignored him, tapping faster.

Then the sofa dipped, and you squealed as Rafayel dropped his full weight beside you, nearly knocking your laptop askew.

“Rafayel!” you shrieked, clutching the hem of your sundress. “Nooo—this dress is—”

“I’ll get you another one,” he sighed, cutting you off with the breezy nonchalance only he could pull off. Without hesitation, he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, his cologne filling the air between you.

“Raf—stop,” you muttered, half exasperated, half—something else entirely—as he nuzzled against your temple like an oversized cat.

“You work too much,” he said simply, his voice softer now, the grin fading into something more genuine.

For a moment, you froze, heart stuttering in your chest. But then you sighed, shoulders slumping as you finally let the laptop fall shut. The hum of the yacht filled the silence, and you thought of the long, grueling season ahead.

Maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself breathe.

That night, the comfort of your desk lamp was a stark contrast to the glittering chaos of Monaco.

Back home, everything was quieter—the soft scratching of your pen against paper, the steady hum of your laptop, the faint tick of the clock reminding you that most sane people were asleep.

Your phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Then three times in rapid succession, like he was testing how long it would take for you to crack.

You sighed, finally glancing at the screen.

FISH BRAIN 🐟 [3]:

Did you eat?

You’re still working, aren’t you?

You’re going to give yourself wrinkles before I do

You rolled your eyes, though a small smile tugged at your lips. Fingers poised above the keyboard, you typed back: Some of us actually have jobs, you know.

Almost immediately, the typing bubbles appeared.

FISH BRAIN 🐟 [3]:

You mean MY job.

And I didn’t hire you to be stressed.

Close the laptop. I’ll FaceTime you. We’ll talk about literally anything else.

You stared at his messages, the corners of your mouth softening despite yourself.

He could be insufferable, dramatic, a walking headline half the time—but he was also the one person who made sure you weren’t swallowed whole by the very job you never asked for.

The phone buzzed again. This time, a photo: Rafayel, hair a little messy, half-smiling at the camera with the caption—Don’t make me come over there.

Your chest tightened in a way you didn’t want to name. With a resigned laugh, you shut your laptop, reaching for your phone.

Maybe a ten-minute call wouldn’t hurt.

The paddock was alive in a way it hadn’t been for months—cameras flashing, fans pressing against the barriers, the buzz of anticipation thick in the air.

Mercedes had shown pace in pre-season testing, and the world was ready to crown their golden boy before the lights had even gone out.

Rafayel, of course, was thriving.

His smile gleamed, his hand raised in effortless waves, his every move a calculated mix of charm and chaos. He leaned down to sign caps and posters, slipping in a joke or two that sent the crowd into delighted shrieks.

Beside him, you stood with your iPad and sunglasses, lips pressed into a thin line.

“This is never going to end, is it?” you muttered under your breath, watching as Rafayel winked at a fan holding a homemade sign.

He glanced sideways at you, as if he’d heard your despair through the noise. A mischievous grin tugged at his mouth.

“You say that like you don’t love being here.”

You shot him a glare, one you’d perfected after years of surviving his antics.

“I tolerate being here. There’s a difference.”

“Mm,” Rafayel hummed, signing another autograph before straightening up. “Don’t worry, cutie. When I win, it’ll all be worth it.”

The way he said it—when, not if—should’ve sounded arrogant. Instead, it settled in your chest with a strange, stubborn warmth.

Still, you rolled your eyes. “Just don’t say anything stupid on camera.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he quipped, striding ahead with the crowd roaring louder. You grumbled after him, still holding your iPad.

The paddock noise had become a steady hum in the background, like the ocean roaring in your ears. Rafayel was still busy working the rest of the crowd, signing shirts, chatting, throwing up peace signs for cameras.

You were about to nudge him toward the media pen when a cluster of fans suddenly turned their attention—not to him, but to you.

“Wait—are you the girl from TikTok? Y/n?” one of them called, eyes bright. “You’re Rafayel’s PR, right? Your content is so funny!”

Another chimed in, “Yeah, you’re so cool! We love your behind-the-scenes videos!”

Heat crept up your neck as you adjusted your sunglasses. You hadn’t thought your little account—your quiet rebellion against the chaos—would actually get noticed here.

“Oh—thank you,” you said, offering a small smile. “That’s really sweet.”

A few phones angled your way, and for the first time all morning you felt yourself actually soften, the corners of your mouth tugging up.

You’d only started posting to keep yourself sane, but seeing strangers light up because of it made something flutter in your chest.

Then, without warning, a hand clasped around your wrist.

“Hey! Let go!” you squeaked, nearly tripping as Rafayel tugged you out of the cluster of fans.

He didn’t even look back, his pace purposeful, like a cat dragging away its favorite toy.

“There,” he announced with a grin once you were tucked firmly at the edge of the media pen. “Now no one can steal you away from me.”

You glared, trying not to be too aware of how close he’d pulled you.

“I was just saying hi—”

He shot you a playful look, already turning toward the cameras and microphones gathering around him.

“Yeah, yeah. PR officer first, TikTok star second. You can thank me later.”

And just like that, Rafayel slipped into interview mode—voice smooth, charm on autopilot—while you stood at his side, pulse still skipping from the suddenness of it all.

By the time Rafayel finished his last media obligation, he was practically glowing, the kind of effortless charisma that cameras fed off of.

You were scribbling notes on your iPad and reviewing the interviews on your phone when he leaned in, brushing his shoulder against yours as he murmured, “Back in a sec—don’t run off,” before striding toward a cluster of drivers.

And just like that, you were left in the orbit of the other PR officers.

“God, he really doesn’t let you breathe, huh?” one of them, Maya from Ferrari, teased, sipping from her coffee. “If my driver hovered around me like that, I’d file a complaint.”

“Or a restraining order,” laughed another, Leo from Aston Martin. “The way he pulled you out of the fan crowd? That was—what’s the word—possessive?”

Your throat tightened, but you forced a huff, shoving your tablet against your chest.

“He’s just—Rafayel. You know how he is, and don’t talk about him like that. He means well.”

“Oh, we know,” Maya smirked, exchanging a look with Leo. “But you? You let him get away with it. Anyone else, and you’d have bitten their head off.”

You rolled your eyes, lips tightening into a line.

“Please. I don’t have time for this.”

But as their laughter faded into the background, you felt the sting in your chest, the truth lodged where you couldn’t spit it out.

They weren’t wrong. Rafayel was clingy. Too much, sometimes. Yet the idea of pushing him away made your stomach twist. So instead, you swallowed the ache and pretended their teasing didn’t dig under your skin, holding yourself together in the way you always did—crying inside, smiling on the outside.

You tried to laugh along with the teasing, but the moment your colleagues dispersed, leaving you with your own thoughts, the smile slid off your face like a mask you’d been holding too long.

You loved Rafayel. You’d known it for months—maybe years, if you were honest with yourself.

But what did that matter? He was Rafayel Qi, Mercedes’ golden boy, a headline waiting to happen, the kind of man celebrities crossed oceans for just to be photographed next to. And you? You were the one standing just outside the flash of the cameras, making sure he didn’t say something reckless, drafting statements, redirecting gossip before it ever reached him.

Would he even look your way when there were models, singers, and actresses who could give him a world so much brighter than what you had?

Your heart twisted as you watched him across the paddock, laughing with another driver, sunlight catching on the edges of his smile.

He belonged in that glow, larger than life, dazzling. And you—well, you were just the best friend who kept his messes quiet, tucked safely out of the frame.

Still, the way he had tugged you away from the fans earlier replayed in your mind, stubborn and persistent.

There, now no one can steal you away from me. He’d said it like a joke, but it clung to you in a way no casual comment should.

You hated that it made your chest ache with something dangerously close to hope.

Before you know it, your spiraling thoughts are cut short by a familiar voice calling your name.

“There you are.” Rafayel appears at your side in an instant, his hand already looping around your wrist like he’s claimed you. “Come on, we’re going to dinner. The others are waiting.”

Your friends smirk, trading knowing looks behind his back, and you want the ground to swallow you whole. You try to protest, tugging gently at your arm.

“Rafayel, I still have—”

“No excuses.” His grin is blinding, boyish in a way that makes it impossible to fight back. “You’ve been glued to your laptop all week, you’re coming with me.”

The PR officers nearby exchange muffled laughs, one whispering, clingy, while another raises an eyebrow in amusement. You shoot them a desperate glare that only makes them smirk harder.

Heat creeps up your neck, and you force a huff.

“You’re seriously impossible.”

“Yet you always give in,” he teases, tugging you forward.

His hand doesn’t loosen until you’re out of sight of the others, swallowed by the golden glow of the paddock lights, leaving your chest unsteady with something you can’t name.

Barcelona’s media day is a blur of microphones, flashes, and the low hum of engines in the background.

You’re halfway through fielding emails on your phone when you catch sight of him—Rafayel, tall and radiant in the Mercedes team kit, laughter spilling as he leans toward a woman who looks like she was plucked straight off a magazine cover. Her hand brushes his arm, and he doesn’t pull away.

Your chest tightens. For months, you’d learned how to quiet the insecurities that once clung to you like shadows. By his side, you’d grown braver, lighter. Now they come roaring back, cruel and sharp.

Of course. Why would he ever look at you, when women like her exist?

So you straighten your back, tuck your sunglasses on, and force your expression into perfect indifference. It’s the oldest trick in your book: if you look unbothered, maybe you’ll feel unbothered too.

Later, Rafayel finds you by the garage, concern etched into his features.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says, softer than usual. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head, eyes never leaving the laptop screen in front of you. “It’s nothing. Just work.”

“Don’t lie to me,” he presses, voice dipping. His gaze lingers like he’s trying to peel away the mask you’ve worn all your life.

You force a little laugh, too brittle to sound convincing.

“Seriously, Rafayel. I’m fine.”

But inside, your stomach twists, and you can’t shake the image of him smiling at her.

The rest of the day, the paddock buzzed like a hive, the chatter of media day spilling into every corner. You were gathering your things, trying to blend into the background, when the sound of laughter caught your ear.

It was her. The same woman from earlier, her perfume lingering in the air as she leaned toward another group of women, phone in hand.

“Can you believe it?” she giggled, waving the screen like a trophy. “Rafayel actually gave me his number.”

The others gasped, clutching each other’s arms in exaggerated delight.

“I don’t even care about the whole car thing,” one of them chimed in, rolling her eyes. “But God, the drivers? They’re insanely hot. Especially Rafayel. Like—wow. I’d go to every race if it meant seeing him.”

Their voices blurred together, a chorus of shallow admiration, each word carving a deeper ache in your chest.

They didn’t know a thing about the sport, about the grind, about the way Rafayel’s entire world revolved around every fraction of a second on track. They didn’t know him.

But you did.

And yet, here you were, clutching your iPad a little too tightly, heart sinking with the realization that maybe knowing him wasn’t enough.

Maybe being his best friend, his PR officer, his constant, wasn’t enough either.

You slipped out of earshot before they could notice you, head high, mask perfectly in place—just like always.

Later that evening, you found yourself cross-legged on the sofa in Rafayel’s hotel room, the glow of the city outside his window spilling soft shadows across the walls. He was stretched out opposite you, still half in his team kit, hair mussed from hours of cameras flashing in his face.

“Media day should be classified as a sport of its own,” he groaned, tossing a cushion into the air and catching it again.

“I swear, if one more journalist asks me how it feels to be in Mercedes, I’ll tell them to go drive the car themselves.”

Normally, you would’ve laughed—rolled your eyes, maybe, and reminded him that this was literally your job to manage. But instead, your gaze was fixed on the glass of water in your hands, swirling it idly as if the condensation held answers you were too tired to say aloud.

“Mm,” you hummed absently, not even realizing how flat it sounded.

Rafayel blinked. “That’s it? Mm?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was a crease forming between his brows as he studied you.

You startled, forcing a laugh as you looked up at him.

“Sorry. Just… zoned out. Long day.”

His eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary, like he was trying to peel back the layers you’d hastily thrown over yourself. But then, with a sigh, he let it go.

“Yeah, I get it,” he murmured, leaning his head back against the sofa, lids heavy with exhaustion. “We’ll survive another one tomorrow.”

You nodded quickly, grateful he hadn’t pressed, and changed the subject with a little too much enthusiasm.

The conversation slipped back into its usual rhythm, your smile steady, your words practiced.

But Rafayel wasn’t a fool. He knew you better than most.

Even as you carried on like nothing had happened, the echo of your distant gaze clung to him, a quiet reminder that something was wrong.

And though he didn’t force the truth from you, he made a silent promise to himself as he closed his eyes: he’d wait. However long it took, he’d get to the bottom of it.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of you brushing him off with practiced smiles, of laughing at the right moments, of insisting “I’m fine” when clearly, you weren’t.

At first, Rafayel gave you space, waiting for you to crack and come to him. But Spa was different.

The air itself seemed to carry weight—the looming clouds, the mist clinging to the trees, the tension of a weekend where drivers held their breath through Eau Rouge.

And Rafayel had reached his limit.

You were tucked into a corner of the Mercedes garage, adjusting your blouse, pretending to look busy while mechanics buzzed around. Rafayel spotted you, jaw tightening as he strode over.

“Hey,” his voice cut through the noise, low but commanding.

You looked up, startled. “What are doing here? Shouldn’t you be in the car by now?”

“Don’t deflect.” He planted himself in front of you, arms crossed, blocking any escape route. His eyes—sharp, probing, impossible to dodge—pinned you to the spot.

“You’ve been acting weird for weeks. And don’t even try saying it’s nothing.”

Your stomach dropped. “Raf, I’m literally just tired—”

“No,” he interrupted, tone firmer now, though not unkind. “Tired I can read. Tired doesn’t look like this.” He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You barely look me in the eye anymore. You don’t laugh the same. And today, you didn’t even notice I almost walked into a bloody camera tripod.”

Despite yourself, a small huff escaped you. “You’re dramatic.”

He leaned in, lowering his voice so no one else could hear.

“Only with you.”

The words hung heavy between you. He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“So tell me what’s going on. Please. Because I can’t focus on the Eau Rouge if I’m worried sick about the one person I trust actually avoiding me.”

Your throat tightened, your tablet trembling slightly in your grip. He was right—of course he was right.

The dam you’d built inside your chest was starting to crack, and Rafayel’s gaze, steady and unwavering, was all it took to bring it dangerously close to breaking.

Your throat burned, eyes stinging as if the words were right there—balanced on the tip of your tongue, begging to spill out.

You wanted to tell him. You wanted to scream that you couldn’t stand seeing him with someone else, that you hated being just his PR officer when your heart had been his long before Formula One.

But you swallowed it. Forced your lips into that polished little smile you’d perfected for the cameras.

“I’m fine, Raf. Really.”

His brows furrowed, frustration flashing across his face.

For once, the always-composed Rafayel Qi actually looked… lost. He opened his mouth, about to push again, when a mechanic rushed over.

“Rafayel, it’s time. Car’s ready.”

The driver looked back at you, jaw clenched, eyes lingering on your face like he was trying to memorize every detail before pulling away. Slowly, he exhaled, giving a small shake of his head. Not in anger—just in defeat.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice low and raw, only for you. “But this isn’t over.”

And then he was gone, helmet in hand, the garage swallowing him up. You stood there frozen, tablet heavy in your grip, heart aching at the sight of his retreating back.

The roar of the Mercedes engine echoed through Spa like thunder, and you could feel it—Rafayel was driving like a man possessed.

Every lap time that flashed on the screen made your chest tighten. Purple sectors. Aggressive turns. No hesitation, no second-guessing. He was fighting.

And when the chequered flag waved, there it was. P1.

The garage erupted into cheers, engineers clapping shoulders, mechanics grinning wide. But you? You just stood there, clutching your tablet, pulse racing for a completely different reason. Because you knew.

That wasn’t just speed. That was Rafayel burning through his frustration, his confusion—his feelings.

When he finally climbed out of the car, helmet under his arm, he didn’t smile like the others. His purple eyes immediately searched the garage until they found yours.

You held his gaze, breath caught in your throat, and for a moment it felt like the world was only the two of you.

But then Thomas clapped him on the back, breaking the spell.

“Good work, Raf. Now let’s keep this momentum for FP2.”

He nodded distractedly, but his eyes flicked back to you, sharp and unreadable. You knew he wanted to say something—anything—but he just handed the helmet off and walked past you, brushing so close your arm tingled.

No words. Just the electric, unspoken tension hanging heavy in the air. Because he had to get in the zone again, and you had to pretend you weren’t falling apart.

Saturday morning, the paddock buzzed louder than usual.

Rafayel had qualified P3, and the energy was electric—engineers were fist-pumping, journalists scrambling, and social media already blowing up. But you, headset snug around your ears, notebook and iPad in hand, moved through it all like you always did—professional, focused, yet every so often your eyes flicked to him.

He stood just a few meters away, calm and collected, but there was a difference. The edge in his posture, the way his jaw flexed, the subtle tilt of his head whenever your paths crossed—it all screamed unspoken things. And you knew it.

Your other PR friends were quick to notice, whispering just loud enough for you to hear:

“You two… it’s ridiculous. You could literally cut the tension with a knife.”

“I know,” you muttered, forcing your gaze back to the media schedule. “We’re fine.”

But as Rafayel leaned back against the barrier, helmet tucked under his arm, you could feel it.

The competition wasn’t the only thing heating up this weekend. Every glance, every half-smile, every brush of his hand against yours as he passed—it was you and him now. And for the first time, it wasn’t just business.

You straightened your shoulders, reminding yourself you were here to work. Yet your heart betrayed you, skipping a beat each time he looked your way.

You’re on edge the entire way back from the media pen, heart hammering like it might burst through your chest.

Rafayel’s car has been secured, the fans and cameras already flocking elsewhere, but he doesn’t let you go. Instead, he corners you near the paddock gates, face set in that calm, infuriating way he has—the one that always makes you feel like he can see straight through you.

“You’ve been… different,” he says, voice low, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it. “All these weeks, you’ve been… pulling away. What the hell is going on with you?”

You shake your head, trying to find words that won’t betray you, but the dam inside finally breaks. Your hands clutch at your jacket, trembling, and a few frustrated tears slip down your cheeks.

“I… I can’t… I just—”

“Just what?!” he snaps, frustration flaring in a way that mirrors your own.

“You act like you don’t care, like you’re some perfect little PR officer who never gets feelings, but I know you feel something. So just tell me!”

The words come out in a rush, jagged, desperate:

“I love you, Rafayel! I’ve loved you for so long, and I was scared… scared that if I said anything, I’d ruin everything between us, scared you’d never see me that way, scared of how much I’d want you!”

There’s a heartbeat of silence, and then his expression softens. His hands are on your shoulders, steadying you, grounding you.

“Why… why didn’t you tell me earlier?” His voice is a mixture of exasperation and something tender that makes your chest ache.

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it’s been for me to watch you shrink away from me when all I want is to be with you?”

You’re trembling, sobbing, and he pulls you closer, pressing a warm, steadying hand to your back.

“I only have eyes for you,” he murmurs before tipping your chin up and kissing you, slow and deliberate at first, then fierce as if he’s making up for all the time lost.

You cling to him, heart pounding, tears mixing with laughter and relief. Everything you’d bottled up, every doubt, every fear, melts into that one moment.

The paddock fades away—the cameras, the fans, the noise—and it’s just you and him, finally, finally honest with each other.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper against his shoulder, voice cracking. “Why did I wait so long?”

He chuckles softly, nuzzling you, eyes warm and unyielding. “Because I love you enough for both of us, and now, we’ve got all the time in the world to be us.”

You hadn’t planned on working for one of the fastest men in the world.

In fact, when your best friend, Tara, had slid the job listing across the café table — “Physio for Williams’ rising star, Xavier Shen” — you nearly laughed.

“You’re joking.” You pushed the paper back toward her. “Me? Working for him? That’s insane.”

She only sipped her latte with that smug grin that meant she wasn’t backing down.

“It pays well. You’ve got the degree, the experience, the certification. What’s the worst that could happen?”

You had a list, honestly.

Being trampled by the weight of F1’s spotlight, for one. Messing up and costing a race, another. But the biggest, most unspoken fear was sitting in the bottom of your chest: you weren’t sure if you could handle standing that close to someone like Xavier.

Because Xavier wasn’t just a driver. He was the kind of man who made headlines simply by existing.

Tall, soft-spoken, sharp-jawed, with that quiet smile that could unravel you if you weren’t careful. And now — thanks to your friend’s persistent nagging and your own reluctant “fine, I’ll do the interview” — you were standing in the Williams garage on your first day, clutching a clipboard like it was a lifeline.

He walked in with his hoodie half-unzipped, hair damp from the rain outside the Williams headquarters. You froze. Xavier glanced at you once, twice, then smirked like he’d already figured you out.

“You must be the new physio.” His voice was soft and smooth, with that smile that made you feel at ease. “You look nervous. Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

You felt your face heat, fumbling for professionalism. “I’m not nervous. Just… new.”

“Mm.” He stepped closer, head tilting with curiosity. “You blush when you lie.”

Your mouth fell open, scandalized. “I do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Xavier cut in, grinning now, clearly entertained by the way you struggled to look anywhere but at him. “That’s alright. I like shy people. Means I don’t have to talk too much.”

You groaned, already sensing what working with him would be like: endless teasing, those soft half-smiles, the quiet charm that filled every silence. And yet, despite the intimidation — despite the way your heart skipped in his presence — something inside you stirred.

Because maybe, just maybe, traveling the world alongside Xavier Shen wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Xavier wasn’t difficult to work with—at least, not in the way people liked to assume. Sure, he was young, sharp, talented enough to make engineers and strategists hold their breath during qualifying laps. But when it came to the people around him, Xavier just wanted one thing: ease.

His last physio hadn’t been bad, per se. Professional, competent, did their job well enough. But uptight. Cold.

Every interaction felt like clockwork, every session timed down to the second, every word weighed like it would end up in a contract somewhere.

Xavier never said it out loud, but he hated it. He hated feeling like he had to be “Driver Shen” every second of the day—even in moments where he just wanted to be a twenty-something who got sore muscles after a long weekend.

So when he switched teams, he decided he wanted a clean slate. New car, new garage, new energy.

And apparently, a new physio.

That’s when a mutual friend introduced him to you. He hadn’t expected much—another professional, another person who would hover with a clipboard and a polite smile—but the moment he saw the way you flustered trying to greet him, something inside him clicked.

You had stammered out something about “not being nervous,” which only made his grin widen.

“Right,” he’d teased, drawl curling around the word. “And I’m not a racing driver.”

Ever since then, Xavier found himself… entertained.

You were good at your job—very good, in fact. You kept him sharp, grounded, made sure his body kept up with the demands of the car. But what he really enjoyed was how shy you got when he teased you.

A single quip, a pointed smirk, a casual “you’re blushing again,” and suddenly, you were trying to hide behind your clipboard.

It was the exact opposite of uptight. Refreshing. Fun.

And Xavier Shen loved fun.

It was your second season working with Xavier, and you didn’t hate it one bit. In fact, sometimes you caught yourself wondering how you ever thought you’d be better off in your quiet little clinic back home.

When your friend first suggested you take the job—packing up your steady nine-to-five for a jet-setting life in Formula One—you had laughed. You? In racing? You could barely tell the difference between a pit stop and a pit lane. The most high-speed thing you’d done was chase after a patient trying to leave with a sprained ankle.

But somehow, here you were.

Two seasons later, traveling the world in a blur of airports, hotel lobbies, and grid walks, all because of one man—your client, your headache, your paycheck, your… friend. Xavier Shen.

Williams’ golden hope. A driver with a sweet smile and a reputation for being as quick with his wit as he was with his hands on the wheel. And the person you spent nearly every waking hour with, making sure his body was loose, his reflexes sharp, and his muscles ready to endure the brutality of the track.

“You stretch me out better than my last physio,” Xavier had said once, casual as ever, after you’d spent a session fixing the knots in his shoulders. “Not that I’m comparing or anything.”

You had rolled your eyes, muttering something about professionalism, which only made him smirk more. That was his thing—finding cracks in your composure and prying them open with teasing remarks.

Still, there was something intoxicating about this new life.

You weren’t just some physiotherapist in a small-town clinic anymore—you were part of something bigger. The roar of engines, the flash of cameras, the thrill of a thousand fans chanting in unison.

You were behind the curtain, in the heartbeat of Formula One, and though you hadn’t asked for it, you were addicted to the rhythm.

And through it all, Xavier seemed to enjoy keeping you on your toes just as much as you kept him in shape.

An hour later, Jeremiah leaned against the doorway of the Williams motorhome lounge, arms crossed and a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“You realize you’re the longest physio Xavier’s ever kept around, right?” he said, his tone casual, but his eyes glinting with amusement.

You didn’t even look up from where you were rolling up one of Xavier’s resistance bands. “I’m just doing my job, Jere. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Mm,” he drawled. “That’s what the last two said before they packed their bags.”

Before you could answer, a familiar laugh chimed in. It was your best friend, Tara—Williams’ PR officer and the one responsible for dragging you into this whirlwind of a career in the first place.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect him to keep you either,” she said, nudging you with her elbow as she set down her tablet.

“You had zero Formula One knowledge, no connections, and I practically begged you to take the job. Resume or not, I thought he’d chew you up and spit you out in a month.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned, tossing the band onto the couch. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Jeremiah chuckled. “She’s not wrong. Xavier is… particular.”

“Particular?” you echoed, arching a brow.

“Selective,” Tara added, grinning. “Picky. The man cycles through staff like he cycles through sunglasses. And yet—” she gestured dramatically at you—“here you are. Season two.”

Before you could form a comeback, the door swung open and in walked the man himself, Xavier Shen, still in his Williams team kit, hair sticking up in that effortless way you suspected he did on purpose.

“What are we gossiping about now?” he asked, unbothered as he grabbed a water bottle from the table.

“About how shocking it is you’ve kept me around,” you said dryly.

He smirked over the bottle cap, eyes flicking toward you with a glint that made your stomach flip. “Shocking? Please. I only keep the best.”

Jeremiah barked a laugh. “Oh, that’s rich. You’re impossible to please.”

Xavier shrugged, setting the bottle down.

“She gets me. Doesn’t nag too much, keeps me in one piece, and—” his gaze lingered on you, a teasing curve to his mouth—“she hasn’t quit yet.”

Your friend giggled, Jeremiah shook his head, and you—despite every attempt to appear unbothered—felt your cheeks warm as you muttered, “You all are the worst.”

But the truth was, you didn’t hate it.

The easy banter, the way it always felt so natural between the four of you—it reminded you of something you hadn’t expected to find in Formula One: a strange, dysfunctional little family.

And somehow, you were right at the center of it.

In the afternoon of free practice, the garage was alive with noise — headsets buzzing, engineers shouting lap times, the roar of engines echoing through the monitors.

You sat perched on a stool, eyes glued to Xavier’s on-board feed. Even after two seasons, the sight of him threading a Formula One car through the streets at impossible speeds still stole your breath.

Beside you, your friend’s leg bounced nervously, her eyes flicking between her PR notes and the timing screens.

“God, how does he make it look so easy?” she muttered, almost to herself. Jeremiah leaned back against the wall behind you, arms crossed as usual, his face the perfect picture of bored disinterest.

“He’s done this a hundred times. I’ve done this a hundred times. You stop being impressed after the fiftieth near-death experience.”

You glanced at him, half amused. “Near-death experience?”

Jeremiah’s mouth twitched. “If you sat through as many strategy meltdowns, press tantrums, and overnight flight delays as I have, you’d call it that too.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He eats, sleeps, and breathes Xavier’s schedule. I’ve seen him yell at airlines like his life depended on it.” Tara snorts from your side.

“Because it does,” Jeremiah shot back, his eyes still on the monitors even as he feigned irritation. “The man can’t miss a commitment or the world falls apart.”

You studied him for a moment, then turned back to the screen where Xavier was overtaking with the kind of precision that made everyone in the garage lean forward instinctively.

“You say you’re sick of it,” you murmured, voice soft but sure, “but I can tell you care.”

Tara hummed in agreement. “Deep down, he’s the proudest of all of us. He’ll never admit it, though.”

Jeremiah scoffed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward as the screen lit up with Xavier’s name climbing a position as he set yet another lap time.

“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t tell him that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

The three of you laughed, the tension easing for a heartbeat before the roar of the garage rose again as Xavier’s radio crackled with his engineer’s praise.

When qualifying had ended, and the garage was still buzzing from the last lap times flashing on the screen. Xavier’s name sat proudly at P4 — just behind the front row, and the engineers were grinning ear to ear.

Jeremiah pulled off his headset with a dramatic sigh, muttering, “Couldn’t have just pushed half a tenth harder, huh? Always keeping me stressed.”

Your best friend swatted his arm with her clipboard. “Shut up, that was brilliant! P4 in this field is insane.”

You stayed quiet, still watching the timing screens replay Xavier’s laps, a faint smile tugging at your lips. You hated admitting it aloud, but there was always this rush in your chest whenever he drove like that — calculated, daring, completely unshakable.

Then, like he had radar for your silence, Xavier strolled into the garage, helmet tucked under his arm, hair damp with sweat, his race suit fitting in all the right ways.

His eyes immediately sought out the three of you, landing squarely on you first before sweeping lazily over Jeremiah and Tara.

“P4,” Jeremiah said dryly. “I’m filing a complaint.”

Xavier smirked. “Noted. I’ll be sure to drive a tenth faster just for you next time.” He dropped his helmet onto the counter, then leaned casually against it, eyes flicking back to you.

“Though from the way someone was staring at the screens, you’d think I’d put it on pole.”

Your friend’s brows shot up, and Jeremiah bit back a laugh.

Heat rushed to your cheeks instantly. “I was just… analyzing your lines,” you said quickly, crossing your arms in defense. “That’s my job.”

“Mm,” Xavier hummed, unconvinced, that sly smile tugging at his lips. “If you say so.”

Jeremiah cleared his throat loudly, clearly enjoying every second of your fluster. “Don’t worry, doc, we’ll write it up in the report: Physio very invested in driver’s on-track performance.”

Tara stifled a giggle, and Xavier only chuckled, eyes still fixed on you as he peeled off his gloves.

“Good,” he said smoothly. “I like her invested.”

The teasing eventually fizzled into Jeremiah and Tara bickering over dinner plans, giving you the perfect excuse to slip away with the clipboard in hand.

You ducked into the physio corner of the garage, laying things out to avoid the way your cheeks still burned from Xavier’s smirk.

But of course, you weren’t alone for long.

Boots scuffed lightly against the floor, and then he was there, sliding onto the chair beside you with that easy grace that always made your heart skip.

Helmet gone, race suit unzipped to his waist, fireproofs clinging to him from the heat — he looked nothing like the composed, soft-spoken man who teased you in passing.

This was the Xavier who made every lap look like art.

“You didn’t tell me good job,” he murmured, leaning an elbow against the table, chin resting on his hand as he watched you scribble notes.

You kept your eyes on the page, refusing to look up. “I figured you already know you did well.”

“I still like hearing it,” he pressed, tone deceptively light, though there was a weight to his gaze that made your stomach flip.

You inhaled slowly, finally glancing up, meeting those red eyes that always seemed to see straight through you.

“Good job,” you said softly.

The corner of his mouth lifted. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to cover how your pulse quickened.

“Hydration check. Don’t argue.” You handed him the bottle, noting how his fingers brushed yours a second too long when he took it.

He drank, slow and unbothered, then set it down with a quiet thud. “You really do watch me too closely, you know.”

Your brows knit. “That’s my job, Xavier.”

“Is it?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. “Or are you just invested?”

The words hung between you, heavier now than in front of the others. For a moment, the buzz of the garage faded, leaving only the sound of your own heartbeat in your ears.

And then Jeremiah’s voice cut through the air, calling Xavier for debrief. The moment snapped like a string pulled too tight. Xavier rose smoothly, eyes lingering on yours a beat longer before he turned, walking back toward the engineers.

You exhaled shakily, scribbling another note you couldn’t even read.

The massage table creaked under Xavier’s weight as he stretched out, arms folded beneath his head.

Normally, he was the quiet type during sessions — answering your questions when necessary, sometimes even dozing off. But today, something was different.

“You’re awfully focused,” he drawled, the faintest hint of amusement lacing his tone.

You hummed in response, kneading at the taut muscle along his shoulder blade. “That’s the point. Focus means less pain for you.”

“Mm,” Xavier said, and then, with deliberate ease, turned his head just enough to catch your expression. “Or, I dunno, maybe you’re just trying not to look at me.”

The words struck harder than they should’ve. Your hands faltered for a fraction of a second before you smoothed over the hesitation, silently cursing the way your face was heating up.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you muttered, pushing your palms firmly down his back.

He chuckled, low and warm, and you swore he shifted just slightly, letting his hand brush against yours when you adjusted his arm. By the third “accident,” you were certain he was doing it on purpose.

When the session ended, you busied yourself with jotting down more notes, avoiding his gaze as he sat up and reached for his water bottle. He tilted it back for a sip, then broke the silence first.

“So,” he started casually, setting the bottle down, “Shanghai’s up next. What do you think? Am I podium material this year?”

You blinked, surprised he was asking you at all.

“I—I think you’re more than capable,” you said, voice softer than intended. “You’ve been working hard.”

“Capable,” he repeated, teasing. “That sounds like a safe answer.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, half-flustered, half-amused. “I’m your physio, not your PR. Don’t expect soundbites from me.”

“Maybe I like yours better,” Xavier replied easily, blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

You pressed your lips together, shaking your head, and shifted the subject before your pulse could give you away. “Anyway—what are your plans for the rest of the season? You’ll be busy enough.”

For once, he looked thoughtful, gaze dropping for a second.

“Same as always. Drive. Try to get a win or even onto the podium. But…” His eyes flicked back up to yours, softer now, lingering.

“I wouldn’t mind enjoying it more this time. The people I have with me. That matters too.”

Your breath caught, just briefly, before you forced yourself to smile and pack away the equipment. “Good. Then let’s make sure you’re in the best shape for it.”

His answering smirk was quieter than usual, but it stayed even as he stood, pulling on his jacket.

“That’s what I like about you,” he said simply, before strolling out of the room.

Leaving you staring at the door, heart racing, already dreading how much harder it was going to be to keep your little crush hidden.

Xavier didn’t know if he should laugh or be frustrated.

How could you be so oblivious? Anyone within a fifty-mile radius could see the way his gaze lingered on you a little too long, how his hand always found your shoulder in the garage, or the way he hovered near you after debriefs, like you were his anchor in the chaos of race weekends.

But you—ever the professional—just brushed it off.

“Good job today,” you’d say, eyes on the timing sheets, unaware that his arm was draped lazily over your shoulders in full view of cameras.

To you, it was just another one of Xavier’s casual gestures. To everyone else? The headline wrote itself.

During another one of your sessions, he tilted his head at you with that quiet smirk of his.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “you’re basically my partner.”

Your face warmed instantly. “This partner thing, again? I’m your physio.”

He chuckled, clearly entertained by your flustered denial.

“Same thing. You’re with me every weekend, you keep me in shape, you nag me when I don’t stretch. Sounds like a partner to me.”

“Xavier—” you tried, but he waved you off, leaning back like he’d won some small battle.

By Silverstone, it had become his favorite game.

Every time he called you “partner” — in the garage, in the motorhome, or mid-cooldown — your ears would turn pink, and Xavier thought it was the best sight in the world.

Of course, Jeremiah noticed.

One afternoon, watching qualifying from the garage, Jeremiah leaned against the pit wall with his arms crossed, eyes rolling as Xavier slung his arm around you again, pulling you into his side with easy confidence.

“You’re incorrigible,” Jeremiah muttered once Xavier walked off for media duties.

You blinked, confused. “What?”

Jeremiah gave you a look that screamed are you really this dense? before sighing.

“I’m just saying — I’ve known Xavier for years. He’s always been serious, pushing himself too hard, never letting anyone in. And now? He’s teasing, smiling, actually relaxed. I should be annoyed…” He smirked faintly. “But I’m not. Guess I’m glad someone’s making him loosen up.”

You frowned, not fully processing the weight of his words.

“I’m just…doing my job.”

Jeremiah only shook his head, muttering under his breath as he walked away. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

Back in the driver room, Xavier was grinning as though he could sense the conversation. He stretched, catching your eye, and said lightly:

“Don’t forget, partner. Jeddah’s next. You and me.”

And the worst part? You didn’t correct him this time.

The signs started out small, like most things in Formula One did. A blurry shot in the background of Xavier’s Instagram story, the two of you biking down the Bahrain track together. Fans had sharp eyes though, sharper than you gave them credit for.

“Who’s the girl?”

“Xavier with a girl?”

“They look close 👀”

Then came Monaco. A Williams PR video had caught you in the background, holding a golf club and shaking your head at Xavier’s terrible swing.

“You’re leaning too much on your back foot,” you nagged, pointing with the kind of authority only you could muster. He laughed, throwing you one of his infamous soft smiles before turning back to the camera.

The clip went viral in minutes.

And then Silverstone sealed it — Williams’ behind-the-scenes footage showed you pushing a plate of food across the table toward Xavier in the motorhome.

“Protein, not pastries, Shen,” you said, and though your voice wasn’t meant for the microphone, fans picked it up. Xavier just leaned back in his chair with a small pout.

By then, you weren’t just spotted. You were shipped.

#MysteryPartner trended after one fan stitched together clips of every time Xavier called you his “partner” in press conferences or livestreams, spliced alongside your appearances in his posts.

You tried to brush it off. When your other PR friend, Simone, showed you the edits, you only rolled your eyes.

“They’re reaching,” you muttered, scrolling past a TikTok of you biking next to him in Bahrain.

But deep down, you didn’t hate it.

And neither did Xavier.

He’d smirk every time he saw fans speculating, throwing you little glances whenever Williams PR or fans asked him a cheeky question about relationships.

Once, after a particularly blunt reporter asked if he was seeing anyone, he only leaned back in his chair and said coolly, “Guess you’ll have to ask my partner.”

You almost choked on your water in the back of the room.

Later, when you scolded him in private — “Xavier, you can’t keep saying that! People are going to think—” — he only shrugged, leaning against the wall with that maddening calm.

“Let them think,” he said simply, voice low. “We’re not hiding. We’re just…not explaining.”

And the worst part? You didn’t argue.

Because the truth was, you liked the balance.

You weren’t feeding into the teasing, but you weren’t pushing it away either. And Xavier — Xavier liked the fact that, even with the world guessing, you were still his quiet constant, the one person he could trust to ground him when the noise got too loud.

The next morning, you wake up to your phone buzzing like it’s on a mission.

At first it’s just a handful of messages — “omg”, “did you see??” — then your notifications explode.

Tara has sent you three frantic voice notes, Jeremiah’s last read: CALL ME. NOW. Your stomach drops a little as you flip the screen awake and scroll.

The internet had transformed the snippets of you in the Williams content, stitching, speeding up, remixing, captioning, and editing it to death.

You watch it like someone watching a train wreck in slow motion, because this time, everything was amplified tenfold.

First it was a TikTok compilation with clips of you biking behind Xavier in Bahrain, text overlay: “Xavier and mystery girl?? 🫶 #BahrainBuddies”. The next video, it was the Monaco golf blooper, the audio? A remix of cheering and a slo-mo of you laughing.

Then the Silverstone vlog, a five-second loop of you pushing the plate across the motorhome table: “PROTEIN MOM (we stan)”.

An Instagram story followed: a fan account has already made a carousel — stills from Williams’ PR post, a screenshot of Xavier calling you “partner” on a livestream, a grainy paparazzi snap of you both leaving the track. The caption: “the way he looks at her 😭”

After that, a Twitter thread with screenshots piled up with one-liners.

“Is Williams starting a new couple collab?”

“She gives ‘keeps driver alive’ energy.”

“Y’all, she’s not just the mystery girl, she’s the whole vibe.”

Tara’s voice note is breathless.

“You need to check the fan edits. Someone made a 30-second supercut of Xavier calling you ‘partner’ — it’s on loop and I can’t breathe. Also, merch ideas. Do you want merch?”

Jeremiah’s text is short and gleeful: “They found you. This is the best PR we didn’t plan.”

You clutch the phone and laugh — a noise that is equal parts panic and something softer, like amusement edged with embarrassment. Your toes want to curl into the carpet.

“Don’t look,” you tell Tara when you call back, but her delighted snort comes through the speaker. “Too late, sweetheart. This is gold. Xavier’s fans are delirious and the edits are actually tasteful.”

“He’s grounding the narrative!” Jeremiah adds the second he answers. “We can spin this: authenticity, behind-the-scenes — we can make this work for the team.”

You picture the paddock faces and the cameras and feel heat crawl up from your chest to your ears.

The last thing you wanted was to be recognized on sight, to have a thousand people recognize the way you tie a bandage or hand a water bottle. You are good at being behind the scenes; being seen makes you clumsy.

Tara leaks another giggle. “Also — trending hashtag suggestions. #MysteryPartner, #WilliamsWarmth, #PartnerOfThePit. Pick one. I prefer the first.”

Jeremiah clears his throat on the line.

“You can hide in the med tent. Or! You lean into it. Two options. Both good.”

You want to disappear behind a stack of kinesiology tape. Except someone knocks at the motorhome door and your heart does that ridiculous fist-shape thing because it’s Xavier, popping his head in, wiping sweat off his neck like he doesn’t know the internet has already remixed your life.

“You okay?” he asks, nosing the doorway. He says it like he already knows; he says it like he can read the flush on your face from three meters away.

You hold up the phone like a shield. “They found me.”

He steps in, sits on the counter beside you, and watches a looped fan edit play. The clip rewinds and replays the tiny corner of the motorhome when you shoved that plate towards him. He presses his thumb against the screen where it shows you laughing.

He doesn’t smirk like it’s a joke. He looks… pleased, in a way that loosens something in your shoulders.

“They call you partner,” he says quietly. “I like that.”

The word is soft on his lips, like he’s testing it in the air. Tara squeals through the speaker as if you’ve sent fireworks into the call. Jeremiah hums into the line like someone who’s been handed a winning scratch card.

You try to sound nonchalant. “It’s ridiculous. I’m going to be stopped for photos in the paddock next.”

“Good,” Xavier says, tilting his head in that lazy, infuriating way. “You should get some credit for keeping me in one piece.”

You flush harder.

Later, the paddock has definitely noticed. The timing of your steps, the way Xavier reaches for you the second he steps into the garage, the small, private jokes between you — it’s thinly veiled and delicious.

Cameras are sharper now, but you find the perverse comfort of it: you’re visible, but you’re still able to choose how much of yourself you hand over to the public eye.

Back in the motorhome, Tara is pulling up creative mockups. Jeremiah and Simone calmly plotting damage-control-turned-marketing. They have their hands on the narrative and they love this so much it’s almost criminal.

“You can hide behind me,” Xavier offers, half-mock, half-serious, brushing a finger across your knuckles. The gesture is casual, but the heat from his hand runs right up your arm.

“No,” you say, half trembling, half laughing. “I don’t want to be hidden. I just—” you falter, because admitting how small the recognition makes you feel is like taking off your headset and standing in the open.

Tara’s voice is suddenly tender for a second. “You don’t have to play it up. Keep your smirk. Keep your world. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jeremiah clears his throat, still plotting. “Merch idea: ‘Partner’ tees. Low-key, tasteful. The fans will eat it up.”

You groan, but the sound is light. Xavier presses his forehead to yours for a beat, the contact grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair, voice small enough it’s for your ears only. “Meme away, let them talk. You’re not alone.”

And because he’s Xavier and because somehow your cheeks have decided to be traitorous, you let yourself believe him.

For once, the shuffle of fan edits and glorified paparazzi shots becomes background noise to the immediate, quiet truth pressed between your palms — that the people who matter most in this chaos will treat your smirk like a secret and your heart like something worth guarding.

Later that night, as the fan edits go viral and the comment sections flood with shipping videos and affectionate riffs, Tara and Jeremiah stay up mapping out a plan, delighted and giddy and scandalously professional.

It had been eating you alive for months.

The teasing, the way he slung an arm over your shoulders in the garage, the “partner” jokes that everyone laughed at but you secretly clung to.

You’d convinced yourself you could hold the line forever — professional, unshakable, untouchable. But Austin came with its own kind of heat, the chaos of a sprint weekend, and something about the Texas sun melted every wall you’d so carefully built.

You caught him just before he pulled on his gloves.

The garage buzzed with noise — engineers with checklists, mechanics adjusting the front wing, Jeremiah barking orders somewhere in the background. Xavier looked up when you stepped in front of him, his soft-spoken ease cutting through the chaos.

“Xavier,” you blurted, heart hammering, “I just had to tell you that…I like you. I mean—more than I should. More than just work. I just—”

You cut yourself off before the rest of the words spilled out, because your face was already burning. What on earth were you doing?!

For a heartbeat, he just stared. Then, that slow, infuriatingly beautiful smile curved across his lips. He leaned close enough that only you could hear.

“I’ll get back to you,” he murmured.

And just like that, he pulled on his helmet, leaving you standing there with your pulse ricocheting in your ears.

The sprint was a blur.

You clutched the headset tighter than usual, calling strategy with hands that wouldn’t stop trembling. When the chequered flag dropped and Xavier crossed the line inside the points, you exhaled a shaky breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

In parc fermé, cameras swarmed, fans screamed. He pulled off his helmet, hair damp, smile dazzling in the floodlights. He looked straight at you — not at the crowd, not at the journalists, but at you.

“I hope these points are enough of an answer,” he said into the mic, voice steady but eyes warm, locking onto yours like it was the only truth in the paddock.

Your face flamed. Fans caught the moment instantly, screaming, phones flying into the air, hashtags already being born.

Jeremiah threw his head back, laughing. Tara squealed like she’d been waiting her whole life for this.

And you? You stood there, headset sliding down around your neck, trying to hide your blush behind your hand. But Xavier caught it — of course he did — and grinned like he’d just won the whole damn championship.

Because in his eyes, maybe he had.

You see them before you even check your messages properly — the edits, the slow-mo loops, the thousand little heart reactions that have become as normal as the beeping of monitors in the garage.

Your phone is a small, warm thing that vibrates insistently in your palm; Tara’s triumphant voice notes and Jeremiah’s dry, delighted one-liners pop up beneath it.

A fan edit replays on loop: parc fermé, floodlights, Xavier pulling off his helmet, that look he gives you that is all heat and promise.

The clip freezes on the moment the camera catches your laugh — the one he lives for — then rewinds and does it again, swapping in triumphant music and with captions like “partner goals” and “all mine”.

You press your thumb over the screen to hide your blush, but you can’t help the small smile that tugs at your mouth.

The internet can stitch, caption, and theorize until it’s hoarse; it doesn’t change what happens after the lights go off and the crowd thins.

He finds you before you find him — of course he does.

Xavier’s timing is impeccable in life the way it is on track: he slips into the physio room with that soft grin, race kit half peeled away, sweat cooling on the back of his neck. The whole sprint aftermath hums in the walls behind him; the team is still buzzing, but in here it’s quieter, safer.

“You look like you’re about to read me my performance review,” he says, dropping down on the stool opposite your table.

There’s mischief in his voice, in the way he watches your fingers fold over the tape, like he’s already making plans.

You roll your eyes because you’re a professional and also because you love that he tries so hard to be irreverent when he’s actually soft. You push the cap of the massage lotion with one practised thumb.

“I will if you need it,” you reply, deadpan. “You worked hard out there.”

He lifts one shoulder, the smile widening.

“Do me then. Ask nicely.”

You hand him the bottle like a weapon.

“Please,” you say, humor flat. “Ask nicely.”

He mimics an exaggerated bow, all charm. “Could my physio please administer a very thorough massage? My shoulders are holding the weight of P6 and my ego.”

You snort, the sound half a laugh, half a groan. “Your ego is fine. It’s your hamstrings that are dramatic.”

He shrugs, and when you press the first professional strokes into the knots above his shoulder blades, he exhales — that deep, content sound drivers make when a corner finally clicks.

Your hands find the familiar places on his back; the tension is there, as always, pulled taut from the sprint, but under your palms it softens in a way that never fails to calm you.

“Did something motivate you today?” you ask, fingers working at a stubborn band near his shoulder.

He makes a playful show of thinking it over.

“Maybe the thought of kissing you after parc fermé,” he says, voice low. “Maybe the thought of hearing you say ‘good job’.” He turns his head to peek at you, all easy warmth.

“Maybe both.”

Your cheeks heat, and for a second the professional mask slips. “You can be annoying you know,” you tell him, but your fingers don’t stop. You mean it as chastisement and praise at the same time.

He laughs softly, then twerks a little closer so your shoulder rubs his arm.

“Hey.” There’s a quiet import to it now, the kind of earnestness buried under his teasing. “You’re mine now.” The words aren’t showy; they’re the simplest possible thing: a claim and a promise folded into one.

“And I’m yours.”

Your chest tightens — the good kind of tight — and the world outside the physio room narrows to the press of his breath, the warmth beneath your palm, the soft drum of his pulse under your fingertips.

For years you’d been careful: boundaries, policies, professional distance. He had been careful, too, up until the point he wasn’t.

He had become the man who accidentally took your hand in public, who called you partner in front of the cameras on purpose, who let the fandom stitch together a romance and didn’t panic when they did.

You let the tape and the lotion and your training do what they always do and you let your hands talk in the language you know best.

He relaxes entirely, like a car released from a chicane, and his face buries into the curve of your shoulder with a contented, ridiculous sound.

“You sure?” you murmur against the sweep of his hair, more to hear the answer than because you doubt.

“Never more,” he answers, eyes still closed, voice thick with a kind of private triumph.

He shifts and pulls you with him until you’re sitting sideways on the edge of the table and he’s half-lying across your lap, forehead nuzzling your sternum.

The gesture is that blissful blend of claim and comfort; it’s domestic and utterly intimate, the sort of thing that would set fan accounts into orbit if the cameras caught it.

You squeal, high and surprised, the professional in you startled by how natural it feels to be folded into his arms.

“Xavier Shen,” you scold gently, fingers tangling in the back of his neck with practised hands even as your heart does gymnastics.

His laugh is muffled against your tee. “Getting a massage, I guess. But also because you’re mine now and I’m yours.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and smile, small, tidal, honest. You press your forehead to his, both of you damp and warm from the sprint and the residual heat of adrenaline, and the rest of the world — the edits, the tags, the thousands of little screens replaying your life — hums far away.

“You are ridiculous,” you whisper.

“And you’re very good at this,” he answers, voice soft. “Both the job and the—” he gestures vaguely between you two, tenderly absurd — “the rest.”

You tuck a stray curl behind his ear, clinically correct and oddly maternal and utterly full of feeling. “Then keep winning,” you say. “So I keep having an excuse to fix you.”

He presses one last kiss to your knuckles before settling his cheek back into the cradle of your palm.

“Deal,” he murmurs.

You stay like that for a long beat: the two of you in the small, fragrant stillness of the physio room, while somewhere online a million tiny edits play the same little moment again and again.

They can have their theories and their edits. You have the feel of him under your hands, the warmth against your ribs, the steady answer he says with his body and his voice.

When you finally stand to pat him lightly on the shoulder, arranging the towels with a perfunctory air, Xavier lifts his head and gives you a look that is entirely unambiguous.

“You’re mine,” he says again, this time with the faintest smirk, as if savoring a private joke.

“And you’re somewhat my patient,” you counter, raising an eyebrow and trying for mock sternness.

He snorts, then goes still, voice quiet and sure. “And also my favorite person.”

You laugh, because any argument would be ridiculous now, and you let yourself believe it — because he’s finally yours, and you’re finally his, and for the first time the edits on your phone feel less like exposure and more like background noise to the small, fiercely ordinary moments that truly belong only to the two of you.

You had always loved Formula One.

It wasn’t just the speed or the glamour — it was the strategy, the tension of every lap, the way one decision could change the entire course of a race.

You still remembered the first Grand Prix you ever watched.

You were seven, sitting cross-legged on the couch next to your father, your little hands clutching a bowl of popcorn as the cars roared to life on the grid.

“Pay attention,” your father had said, his voice calm but excited. “It’s not just about who’s fastest — it’s about who makes the smartest calls.”

And you did. You soaked it all in: pit stop gambles, tire changes, safety car drama. The obsession stayed.

By the time you were in high school, your notebooks were full of more than math equations — they were covered in doodled track layouts, alternative pit strategies, and notes about tire degradation.

“Who even thinks about two-stop strategies during Chemistry?” your best friend had groaned, peeking at your scribbled notes.

You’d only grinned. “Someone has to win the championship for Ferrari one day. Might as well be me.”

In college, it became your personality. Group projects? You always volunteered to “call the shots” — joking that you’d be the Susie Wolff of your team.

You spent weekends watching races with your study group, pausing mid-broadcast to passionately explain why a virtual safety car could change everything.

“Honestly,” your roommate once said, watching you with wide eyes, “you’re scary good at this. Like… if you ever work in F1, I fear for the other teams.”

And maybe she was right.

Years later, with a headset on and your eyes glued to multiple screens, you were no longer that wide-eyed girl watching races in her pajamas — you were Aston Martin’s lead strategist, with the power to make or break a Sunday.

Meanwhile, Zayne never thought racing would be more than a hobby. Growing up, he’d tried everything — snowboarding, tennis, kayaking — but nothing quite gave him the rush like karting did.

It was supposed to be just another weekend activity, something to blow off steam between lectures and late-night study sessions.

Then the wins started piling up. Sponsors came knocking. Suddenly, what was meant to be a side hobby became a full-fledged career — and Zayne Li found himself balancing Formula One with medical school.

Most people would’ve cracked under the pressure, but Zayne thrived on it. He liked the chaos, the mental challenge of switching between studying anatomy one day and perfecting braking points the next.

The grid adored him — a rare mix of focus and easy charm — but the one person who always caught his eye was you.

You, with your ever-present headset and laser-sharp focus on the timing screens, completely unbothered by the noise around you. You were shy, but brilliant, and Zayne found himself lingering in the garage longer than he needed to just to catch the smallest smile when you nailed a perfect strategy call.

“She’s the reason we even got points today,” he’d tell the engineers after the debrief, as his gaze found you across the room.

Because for all the adrenaline and glory, nothing beat the quiet thrill of watching his favorite strategist at work.

You were grateful to work at Aston Martin—really, you were. Sometimes it still felt surreal, standing in the heart of the garage with headsets pressed against your ears, the roar of engines just outside.

This was the dream you’d built since childhood, watching Grand Prix Sundays with your father, scribbling strategies in the margins of your notebooks.

Now, you weren’t just watching. You were the one pulling the strings.

“You do realize you’re the reason we’re sitting this high in the constructors’ standings, right?” one of the engineers teased during debrief, a grin tugging at his lips.

You ducked your head with a small smile, cheeks warm.

“It’s a team effort,” you mumbled, clicking through your laptop.

“Team effort, sure,” another piped in, throwing a rag at him. “But you’re the one who calls box at exactly the right second every time. It’s uncanny.”

You shook your head, hiding a quiet laugh. You didn’t like talking about your work — praise always made you a little shy — but your colleagues had a way of making you feel like you’d hung the moon.

You were still young, still a doe-eyed rookie in the scene compared to the veterans surrounding you, but you held a deep, unshakable love for motorsport. That passion bled into everything you did — the long nights of number crunching, the endless simulations, the heated debates over strategy that ended with you stubbornly fighting for what you knew was right.

Even Zayne noticed.

“You know,” he said one evening, catching you in the garage long after most had left, “you work harder than anyone I know.”

You startled slightly, not realizing he was still around. “Zayne—you scared me.”

“Sorry,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. His race suit long discarded of as he now stands in his team kit, hair still damp from the post-race shower, but he lingered by your workstation, leaning casually against the wall.

“I’m just saying. You spend more time looking at those timing screens than you do sleeping.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to focus back on your laptop.

“That’s part of the job.”

He grinned, that easy, sharp grin of his that made your stomach flip. “Yeah, but it’s not part of the job to be this good at it.”

You gave him a look, unsure how to respond, and he chuckled softly, pushing off the wall.

“Alright, alright. I’ll leave you to it. Just… don’t forget to breathe, okay?”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving you with the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

Zayne had become your closest confidant ever since you started working as his race strategist. Somehow, it had just… happened.

One late-night strategy meeting turned into a conversation about music, which turned into him telling you about med school and how he secretly hated anatomy class, which turned into you accidentally confessing you’d once fainted dissecting a frog in high school.

Usually, you liked to keep your relationships with the drivers clean, civil, and perfectly professional — a firm handshake and a polite smile was enough.

The last thing you needed was to give anyone a reason to believe the old paddock rumors that women only made it this far by getting too close to the men they worked with.

But Zayne made it hard.

He was annoyingly good at it, too.

“Long night?” His voice came from behind you as you hunched over your laptop, chewing on the end of your pen.

You didn’t look up. “Long week.”

He pulled out the empty chair beside you and spun it around, sitting on it and staring at you intently.

“You know, most people would’ve gone home by now.”

“Most people don’t have to decide between a one-stop or a two-stop strategy that could make or break your race,” you replied, scrolling through another set of data.

“See,” he said, leaning his back on the backrest. “You care too much. You care so much it’s kind of scary.”

You finally looked at him, narrowing your eyes. “And you don’t?”

He smirked. “Oh, I care. But I trust you to care enough for both of us.”

That made your stomach flip — not because it was a flirtatious comment (though Zayne’s smirk made it sound like one), but because he meant it. He trusted you. Completely.

And you liked that Zayne treated you as his equal.

He never looked down on you, never questioned your calls, never made you feel like you had to fight twice as hard to be taken seriously — not the way others had when you first broke into the paddock.

You should’ve been grateful that he respected you so much, but if you were honest with yourself…

You wouldn’t mind being reported to HR, because Zayne made it nearly impossible to keep your feelings strictly professional.

The casual touches on your shoulder when he passed, the way he always looked for you first after stepping out of the car, the quiet late-night conversations when the world felt like it had gone to sleep — they were all starting to chip away at your carefully built walls.

And maybe, just maybe, you were letting them.

Suzuka weekend felt different. Maybe it was the crisp spring air, maybe it was the constant buzz of the Japanese fans who lined up outside the paddock gates every morning, or maybe it was just Zayne.

Because Zayne had definitely been different.

He was more playful than usual, like something had clicked in him between Shanghai and here.

During the first free practice session, his voice echoed through the garage, light and teasing.

“You look worried, miss strategist,” he said as he gets out of the car. “Do you miss me by any chance?”

You rolled your eyes even though he couldn’t see your face, eyes glued to the clipboard in front of you. “I’m worried because you keep cooking your tires. Not because I miss you.”

“Uh-huh,” he drawled, a smile obvious in his tone. “If you say so.”

The engineers snickered, and you caught a few of them giving each other side-eyes across the pit wall.

By Saturday, it had only gotten worse — or better, depending on who you asked.

“Tell Zayne to box. Box now,” you called over the radio as you ran the numbers again.

“He says, ‘you just like it when he comes back to you,’” his engineer shot back immediately.

You bit back a laugh and sigh, conscious of the mechanics hearing. “I’d appreciate it more when he listens to me, actually.”

Zayne whispers to himself as he overhears you, “I’m always listening.”

Your heart did a very unprofessional flip in your chest as you think about Zayne’s words, but you forced yourself to focus on the data flashing on your screen.

The teasing turned into something softer on race day.

After finishing P3 — a solid result given the strategy gamble you’d taken — he found you in the garage as everyone celebrated. Instead of the usual high-five, he leaned closer, still damp with sweat from the helmet, and murmured, “Good calls today. You saved me.”

“Just doing my job,” you said, trying to play it cool.

“Mm. Maybe,” he said, stepping back with that little smirk of his. “Or maybe you just like keeping me out of trouble.”

You hated how much you liked the game — the glances across the garage, the subtle brushes of his hand when no one was looking, the way you could feel his eyes on you during debriefs.

It was risky, and you knew it. You had worked too hard to get here, and the last thing you wanted was for the paddock to think you’d fallen into the cliché of “driver and strategist.”

But as you walked out of the garage that night, your phone buzzed with a message from him:

Zayne: Dinner? Just us. No data, no talk of strategy.

You hesitated — then smiled despite yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t.

But maybe you really, really wanted to.

Dinner was quiet — not awkward quiet, but the kind of quiet that feels like a secret. Zayne had chosen a tiny restaurant tucked into a side street in Nagoya, far away from the usual post-race chaos of team dinners and sponsor obligations.

The table was small enough that your knees almost brushed under it, and the warm glow of the lanterns outside made the whole thing feel… intimate.

“You really know how to pick a spot,” you said, swirling your glass of sake, trying to keep your voice even.

“Yeah, well,” Zayne shrugged, reaching for his chopsticks, “I figured you’d appreciate somewhere no one’s waiting to take blurry photos of us through a window.”

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of saying you don’t want to be seen with me?”

He glanced up, his mouth twitching into that half-smirk you were way too familiar with now.

“No. It’s my way of saying I don’t feel like sharing tonight.”

Your chest tightened at that, heat crawling up your neck, and you quickly busied yourself with your food.

For a while, it was just the two of you eating, trading comments here and there about the race — but it wasn’t like your usual post-race debriefs. This was casual. Soft. And then, like he couldn’t help himself, Zayne leaned back and gave you one of those looks.

“You’re quieter tonight,” he said. “What, no lecture about tire degradation or my braking points? I’m mildly impressed.”

“Not when you actually follow along the strategy perfectly,” you shot back, lips twitching.

“There it is,” he said, pointing his chopsticks at you. “I was starting to miss that little bite.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you.

Then his tone shifted, softer but still carrying that dry edge only he could pull off. “You know, I wasn’t joking earlier. You really do keep me out of trouble. I like that about you.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the honesty. “It’s my job to keep you out of trouble.”

“Yeah, but you actually care if I go along with the plan,” he said simply, leaning forward a little. “It’s different. You make me want to listen.”

The words sat between you, heavier than anything you’d heard from him before.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. This was the same Zayne who teased you relentlessly during strategy calls — but right now, there was no smirk, no punchline coming. Just him, looking at you like you were more than just the voice in his ear on race day.

“You’re… kind of ruining my whole ‘strictly professional’ thing right now,” you admitted, trying for lightness but failing at hiding how fast your heart was beating.

He grinned, finally leaning back, letting you breathe again. “Good. I’m tired of pretending I don’t like my strategist.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and reached for your drink to cover your face.

“Relax,” he said, deadpan. “Not like I’m about to post it on Instagram. I just thought you should know before the next race that you’re my favorite person on and off track.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Because suddenly, keeping things professional didn’t feel nearly as important as it did when the season started.

By the time Silverstone rolled around, you and Zayne had settled into a quiet rhythm — one that felt dangerously natural.

At the paddock, you were all professionalism: headset on, strategy papers in hand, giving him updates with the same calm voice you always used.

No one would have guessed that just hours later, in the quiet of the hotel room, you’d be perched cross-legged on the bed while Zayne sat at the desk, books open, tapping his pen against a page as he studied.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” you said, crossing your arms.

He glanced over his shoulder, brows raised. “What did I do this time?”

“You called me your ‘good luck charm’ on comms. During quali. Can you believe the teasing I had to endure from your engineer?” you reminded him, shooting him a look.

A low chuckle rumbled out of him, the kind that always made your stomach flip. “Well, you are. Didn’t you see my lap time?”

“That’s not the point!” you said, tossing a pillow at him. “You’re going to get me in trouble one of these days.”

He caught the pillow with one hand, still grinning. “Relax, strategist. Nobody’s going to connect the dots. I’m just motivating my team.”

“You’re teasing me,” you accused, but your tone had softened — because it was hard to stay mad when he was looking at you like that.

Zayne finally pushed his chair back and walked over to the bed, sitting down next to you. “Maybe,” he admitted, voice low. “But you make it too easy.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart was thundering in your chest.

“You’re lucky you’re charming.”

“Lucky?” he repeated, smirking before leaning in to kiss you — slow and sweet, like he wasn’t in any rush to get back to his textbooks.

When he pulled back, you sighed and rested your head against his shoulder, your voice softer now. “I still worry, you know. About Barcelona, that strategy nearly gave me a heart attack.”

He went quiet for a moment, then pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know. But I’m here, aren’t I? You don’t have to carry that with you.”

You looked up at him, letting yourself smile despite the weight in your chest. “You really have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

“Med school,” he said simply, picking up his pen again and twirling it between his fingers. “And you.”

Your heart skipped, but you let him get back to his notes, curling against him as you scrolled through your laptop, both of you working in a comfortable silence that felt… domestic.

Like this wasn’t just a fleeting thing but something you were both choosing, quietly, over and over again.

Everyone was watching the post-race interview on Sunday, half the paddock gathered around the TV screens as the Aston driver stood there, helmet hair and all, grinning under the bright lights.

“Zayne,” the interviewer began, “everyone’s been dying to know — how do you even manage med school and racing at this level? Most people can barely balance one, and you seem to be doing both flawlessly.”

Zayne chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck in that quiet, self-possessed way of his. “I wouldn’t say flawlessly,” he said. “I just… plan my days well, and I’ve got a good team that keeps me on track — literally.”

You caught yourself smiling at the screen, heat creeping up your neck. He said it so casually, like it wasn’t tearing him in two some days to juggle everything, like he wasn’t sneaking study sessions between debriefs and simulator runs.

“And the late nights?” the interviewer pressed. “That can’t be easy.”

He shrugged, almost effortlessly charming. “Coffee helps. And so does having something worth it to work for.”

The crowd around the TV erupted in good-natured laughter, but you just stood there, flushed and fighting a grin. Because you knew he wasn’t just talking about racing.

Later, when you passed him in the motorhome, still in your Aston Martin polo and holding your clipboard, he caught your eye with that infuriatingly calm smile.

“Something worth it, huh?” you teased under your breath as you walked past.

Zayne only tilted his head, gaze lingering a second longer than it should’ve. “You heard me,” he murmured, and kept walking — leaving you standing there, heart thudding, realizing just how much you really, really loved this man.

You liked the balance you and Zayne had built — a quiet, delicate rhythm that fit perfectly between race weekends, strategy meetings, and late-night study sessions.

Your careers kept you busy, pulled you in different directions more often than not, but somehow, you always found your way back to each other.

It wasn’t just the romance, though that part made your heart race just as much as the lights going out on a Sunday. It was the way he understood you without asking, the way he never pushed but always showed up.

You both valued the privacy, the ability to love each other away from cameras and headlines, in the quiet safety of hotel rooms, long flights, or a late-night call after a bad race.

And as Zayne would always say, in his calm, dry way — “We’re good like this. Just us.”

It was nice, you thought, to have found each other — in the chaos of Formula One, in the most unexpected place, at exactly the right time.

The season had ended hours ago, the garage now empty except for the two of you. The air still smelled faintly of burnt rubber and champagne, but the noise, the frenzy, the flashing cameras — all of that was gone.

You sat side by side on a stack of unused tire blankets, Zayne still in his fireproofs, hair slightly damp from the podium celebrations. He leaned back against the wall, breathing deep like he was finally letting the season go.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you.

You shrugged, smiling faintly. “Just thinking. About how far we’ve come.”

He chuckled softly, reaching over to take your hand. “You mean, from you yelling at me during strategy calls in my rookie season?”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “That was deserved, by the way.”

“Sure,” he teased, before squeezing your hand gently. His tone softened. “I like that we get to do this together, you know. Racing, life, all of it.”

It made your chest ache in the best way. Especially now that a handful of fans had kind of pieced together the truth — the matching hotel check-ins, the photos where your reflection was caught in his sunglasses — but instead of blasting it everywhere, they’d chosen to keep it quiet. A strange, unspoken pact between the two of you and the few who had noticed.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, letting the peace settle around you. “Me too. This feels… right.”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Then we’ll keep it like this. Just us, just enough.”

But then he glanced down at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Although,” he said casually, “maybe next season we hard launch. Shake things up a bit.”

You laughed, swatting at him. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” His grin widened, boyish and infuriating. A rare moment where Zayne lets go of his stoic exterior.

You groaned and buried your face in his shoulder, but deep down, you knew if Zayne ever did hard launch your relationship, you wouldn’t mind — not even a little.

A year later, the cicadas hummed outside the window of your hotel room in Melbourne, the soft hum of the city spilling in from the streets below.

Another season loomed ahead — media duties, travel, sleepless nights filled with data and simulations — but for now, it was quiet. Just you and Zayne, side by side, curled up on the sofa with the faint glow of the TV casting across his face.

He was still reviewing notes for his first practice session tomorrow and an upcoming exam he had to take the next week, glasses perched low on his nose, but his free hand rested lazily against your thigh.

The break had been good to both of you — quiet mornings in Europe, trips where no one knew who you were, stolen time where he wasn’t a driver and you weren’t a strategist. Just Zayne and you.

“You’re staring,” he murmured without looking up from his notes, that familiar dry humor threading his voice.

You smirked. “I’m admiring. There’s a difference.”

Finally, he glanced at you, eyes glinting under the lamplight. “Careful. You’ll give me an ego right before the season starts.”

You nudged his shoulder, but you couldn’t hide your smile. “Like you need the help.”

For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed since the last season — all those weekends where the world demanded everything from him and you had to keep your composure. Except now, there was something steadier between you, something stronger after a winter spent together.

“You ready?” you asked softly, tracing a finger over his wrist where his pulse beat steady.

He closed his notes, pulling off his glasses with a sigh, and turned toward you. “I was ready the moment I knew you’d be in the pit wall again this season.”

The words made your chest tighten. For someone who teased you relentlessly, he had a way of slipping in truths that left you speechless.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, watching the muted lights of Melbourne flicker through the window. “Then let’s make this season ours.”

Zayne pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand squeezing yours. “Ours,” he echoed, a small smile curling at his lips. “And maybe this time, I’ll even listen to you during strategy calls.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Now that would be a miracle.”

But deep down, you knew he meant it — this season, whatever came, you’d face it together.

By the time the checkered flag fell in Melbourne, the whispers had grown louder. Photos of Zayne sneaking smiles toward the pit wall, clips of his voice softening mid-radio call, moments where his eyes lingered a little too long on the screens where you stood — the fans noticed.

They pieced it together, of course. That there was someone, someone who made him laugh a little easier and race a little harder. But no one could ever say for sure.

Because you were always there, headset on, eyes sharp, smirk hidden behind the shadows of the Aston Martin pit wall.

To the cameras, you were just another figure in green, part of the blur of engineers and strategists who kept the team alive. To Zayne, you were everything.

And as the crowd roared, as confetti rained down on the podium, he found you through the chaos — the briefest glance, the faintest smile, one only you would recognize.

The world might know he was in love. But they would never know it was you.

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

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

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

And yet, it was always the same.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eighteen was the breaking point. The “milestone.”

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

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

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

It was easier that way.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then Sylus found you.

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

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

You arched a brow. “Neither are you.”

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

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

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

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

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

He just wanted to sit beside them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Sylus knew better.

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

Sylus couldn’t shake the memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Sylus had seen enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Sylus… he noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he knew better.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you… you were a different kind of danger.

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

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

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

And that haunted him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That is, until your phone rang.

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

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

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

You stopped in your tracks, blinking in disbelief.

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

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

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

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

“I got you something,” he said simply.

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

He’d been paying attention again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped dead the moment he saw you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words hit deeper than you expected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of course he remembered your order by heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you could finally let go.

Maybe you could finally stop gripping the reins so tightly.

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

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

You’ve never been one to do things halfway.

From the moment you stepped into your first NFL locker room as an intern, microphone shaking slightly in your hand, you knew you’d fight tooth and nail to be taken seriously. And you did.

You clawed your way from rookie sideline reporter to the woman everyone looked to for breaking stories. The NBA followed, then an award or two, and soon enough, Formula 1 came knocking.

You’ve always been easygoing — the kind of woman who can laugh with a PR team one second and grill a head coach the next — but you don’t tolerate nonsense when it comes to your work. You’re sharp, thorough, and relentless when chasing a story, and that reputation precedes you.

Even now, as you step onto the paddock for the first time, credential swinging from your neck and heels clicking on the asphalt, you feel that old rush of purpose.

This is where you’re meant to be. The air is thick with gasoline and competition, fans screaming from the fences, cameras flashing — and you thrive in it.

You’ve followed Formula 1 for years, but secretly, you’ve always had a favorite: Scuderia Ferrari’s silver-haired, red-eyed prodigy, Sylus Qin.

You’ve watched him rise from his F2 debut to the big leagues, and maybe, just maybe, you’re a little biased. Not that you’d ever let that slip.

You’re here to work — to break stories, to get the inside scoop, to prove that women like you belong in this world.

Still, as you catch sight of him in Ferrari red across the paddock, laughing with his engineer under the blistering sun, your breath catches just a little.

Just because you’re a boss doesn’t mean you’re immune to a pretty face.

On the other hand, Sylus had been in Formula 1 long enough to know the rhythm of a race weekend.

Three seasons in the red meant press calls, simulator sessions, briefings, sponsors — rinse, repeat. He moved through it with the easy swagger of someone who knew exactly where he stood.

The fans adored him, the team relied on him, and the media couldn’t get enough of his sharp one-liners and devastating smiles.

But lately, he found himself scanning the press room for a different reason.

He spotted you almost immediately, notebook in hand, camera slung across your shoulder like an extension of your body.

You weren’t like the others — no frantic scrambling for clickbait, no shouting questions just to get a sound bite. You asked the right ones, the kind that made him pause and think before answering. And God, did he look forward to it.

Even now, as he slid into his chair at the press conference table, he felt that spark of anticipation — searching the rows until he found you. There you were, leaning forward slightly, focus sharp, lips pressed together in quiet concentration as the moderator read the first question.

Sylus hid a smirk behind his water bottle.

Maybe it was the way you carried yourself — polished but not performative, with just enough steel in your voice to match his own — but he couldn’t help himself.

He liked the chase. The subtle game between the two of you. The way you barely flinched when he teased you, when his gaze lingered a second too long after answering one of your questions.

“Ready?” his race engineer muttered beside him.

Sylus’s eyes flicked back to you.

“Always,” he replied — though he wasn’t talking about the race.

You were always meticulous about separating your personal life from work. Everyone was aware of this, and it was one of the reasons why you were so incredibly successful in your field.

You asked clean, sharp questions, never letting yourself get flustered or crossing any lines. People trusted you for that.

Everyone except Sylus, that is.

“Journalist of the Year,” he drawled as he stepped into the media pen, still in his fireproofs, hair damp from the helmet. He was grinning like he had just been told the world’s funniest joke. “Are you going to ask me something difficult today, or can I relax?”

“I always ask difficult questions,” you shot back, pen poised over your notepad. “It’s not my fault if you keep giving me easy answers.”

The other journalists laughed under their breath, and Sylus tilted his head, red eyes glinting in amusement.

“Careful,” he said, leaning just a little closer so only you could hear. “One day you might make me work too hard, and then I’ll have to find another reason to keep coming back here.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction — not really.

Just a slight quirk of your brow as you fired off your question about Ferrari’s strategy calls, perfectly professional. Still, you caught the small smirk he tried to hide when he answered you, just vague enough to be cheeky.

“Classic Sylus,” someone muttered behind you, but you stayed focused, scribbling down his words, even as you could feel his gaze linger on you a beat longer than necessary before he moved on to the next reporter.

It was becoming a pattern.

Post-qualifying interviews where he’d answer your questions with a grin that was just shy of flirtatious. Media pen sessions where he’d throw you a playful quip, knowing it’d get a rise out of you. And you? You handled him like you handled everyone — calm, composed, untouchable.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The pen finally cleared, leaving you with your clipboard, your notes, and the faint echo of Sylus’s laughter still bouncing around your head. You shook it off — you had a deadline to meet.

“You know,” a fellow journalist sidled up beside you, smirking, “if I had men like that looking at me like that, I’d stop pretending I don’t notice.”

Another one chimed in, leaning against the table. “Seriously, do you have ice in your veins or what? He’s Ferrari’s golden boy. He doesn’t flirt like that with anyone else.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving your notepad into your bag. “He’s just being nice. He does that with everyone.”

“Mmhm,” your colleague said, clearly unconvinced. “Sure. And I’m the next World Champion.”

Their laughter followed you as you made your way back to the media center, but you didn’t slow your pace. The teasing was familiar, harmless, but you weren’t about to let yourself get caught up in speculation.

You had an article to finish, an editor to appease, and an entire grid’s worth of drivers to cover — not just one annoyingly attractive one with red eyes and a penchant for smirking at you in the middle of press conferences.

Still, as you sat back down at your laptop and replayed the day’s interviews, your cursor lingered a little too long on the section where Sylus had leaned close, voice low, grin infuriatingly charming.

You told yourself it would wear off.

It had to.

You weren’t the type to get distracted.

Not by anyone — and definitely not by him.

Sylus had always kept things simple — race hard, spend harder, and avoid getting tangled in anything that didn’t involve a checkered flag.

Emotions, relationships, commitments? Too messy. Too distracting.

And yet, he found himself scanning every paddock he walked into, looking for you.

You were easy to spot, somehow — not because you were loud, but because you carried yourself with that quiet authority that made people move aside without even realizing it.

He’d catch glimpses of you with your hair pinned back, pen between your teeth as you typed furiously into your laptop, or kneeling by a photographer to compare notes before the next interview block.

You were in the pen rain or shine, notebook in hand, voice steady even when questions got heated. He’d seen you put your mic down once — once — when a rival driver tried to bait you into gossip.

“Respectfully, I’m here to talk about the race, not rumors,” you’d said, and Sylus had barely suppressed a grin. You didn’t flinch, didn’t cave, and everyone respected you for it.

But Sylus wanted more than your professionalism.

He’d caught himself lingering near the media center after debriefs, listening to your laugh carry down the hall, low and warm. He’d seen you stay long after everyone had left, poring over transcripts until your eyes were half-shut.

Once, in Suzuka, you were crouched on the floor with a laptop and three half-empty coffee cups, muttering deadlines under your breath — and it made something inside him twist.

“You’re going to burn yourself out like that,” he’d teased, passing by, helmet still in hand.

You’d barely glanced up. “Better burned out than sloppy reporting.”

It had been an offhand remark, but Sylus had thought about it all night.

For a man who thought he’d seen it all — the fast cars, the fast lives, the beautiful people — he hadn’t expected someone like you to catch his eye. But now, when he saw your smile after a long day or caught the tired little sigh of relief when a story went live, it was starting to feel less like curiosity and more like… something he wasn’t ready to name.

It started small.

Sylus lingered a little longer in the media pen that Thursday, a hat tucked under his arm as usual, but this time he didn’t walk past your little corner. He stopped right in front of you.

“You look like you haven’t slept since Miami,” he drawled, a teasing glint in his crimson eyes.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard, pen hovering over your notes.

“I sleep,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Not enough,” he replied, leaning against the barrier as if he had nowhere else to be. Cameras clicked nearby, other drivers walked past, but Sylus’s attention didn’t waver.

“Try not to pass out during my quali tomorrow, yeah? I’d hate to put on a show and not have my favorite journalist see it.”

Your friends lost it.

The second Sylus walked away — with a lazy wink, no less — one of them slapped your arm. “Favorite journalist? Are you kidding me right now?”

Another laughed. “Do you have any idea how many women would kill to have Sylus Qin say that to them?”

You tried to play it off, flipping your notebook shut with a sigh. “He’s just being Sylus. You know how he is.”

“Yeah,” your friend smirked, “but he’s never like that with us.”

You ignored them, returning to your laptop, but the heat in your cheeks betrayed you. You told yourself it would wear off. That it was nothing. Just another driver being cheeky.

But deep down, you knew better.

On Saturday, the media pen was buzzing after quali — Red Bull locked out the front row again, Ferrari had one driver in P13 and Sylus in P7. Not the worst result, but definitely not what the Tifosi were hoping for.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

You stood there with your mic and perfect composure, waiting for him to make his way over. And then he did, striding toward you with that trademark Ferrari fire in his expression, hair damp from sweat but somehow still looking annoyingly perfect.

“P7,” you said, voice even and professional as your cameraman gave you the cue. “Not quite where you wanted to be, but still solid points potential for tomorrow. Walk me through that lap.”

Sylus didn’t even answer right away. Instead, he gave you a look — slow, deliberate, the kind that made you suddenly very aware of the cameras, the crowd, the mic in your hand.

“P7 isn’t bad,” he finally said, leaning slightly closer so only you could really hear the low drawl in his voice, “but I’d have gone faster if I knew you’d be waiting for me at the finish line.”

Your jaw nearly dropped, but you recovered quickly, forcing a laugh. “Professional answer, Sylus,” you reminded him, trying not to look like your heart was doing backflips.

“Oh, right,” he smirked, pretending to think as he crossed his arms, the scarlet of his fireproofs creasing just enough to show off the outline of his muscles.

“Car felt decent. Still fighting a bit with traction out of Turn 3, but I’ll figure it out before tomorrow. Don’t worry — I plan on giving you something worth writing about.”

The way he said it — direct, playful — had heat rushing to your face before you could stop it. Your cameraman, bless him, cleared his throat loudly to break whatever electricity had just sparked between you two.

You jumped slightly, flashing the camera a quick, professional smile as though nothing happened.

“Well, we’ll be watching. Good luck tomorrow, Sylus.”

He didn’t leave right away. Instead, he gave you one last look — that slow, knowing smirk curling his lips — before finally walking off to the next reporter.

Your friends in the pen didn’t let you breathe.

“Oh my god,” one of them whispered as soon as he was out of earshot. “Do you two need a moment?”

You rolled your eyes, tucking your hair behind your ear to hide the very obvious blush creeping up your neck. “Focus,” you hissed, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

Because no matter how hard you tried to keep the walls up, Sylus Qin had just made it very clear — the chase was on.

Meanwhile, you didn’t want to challenge your boundaries — you’d worked too hard to earn your reputation as the paddock’s consummate professional — but Sylus had started seeking you out more often, until the line between “work” and “whatever this was” began to blur.

It wasn’t noticeable at first. A teasing quip after a press conference, a wink when you passed him in the paddock. But soon it became an every weekend occurrence — and people were starting to notice.

During one Thursday media day, you were standing with a group of journalists, notebook in hand, when Sylus strolled by. He slowed just enough to make eye contact with you and said, “Hope you’re asking the hard questions tomorrow — wouldn’t want you to go easy on me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “When have I ever gone easy on you?”

His grin was slow, wolfish. “Never. And that’s why you’re my favorite.”

The other drivers definitely heard that one. Ollie, walking just behind Sylus, did a full double take before breaking into a grin and muttering, “Oh, this is getting good.”

By Saturday’s quali, the banter had escalated. When you went to interview him post-session, he leaned on the barrier in front of you and gave you that signature smirk.

“You look like you want to yell at me for P11,” he said, casually peeling off his gloves.

“I don’t yell,” you replied coolly, but you couldn’t stop the corner of your mouth from twitching upward.

“Mm. Not yet,” he teased, and the camera guy audibly snorted behind you.

And then there was the time during the driver parade when he waved at the crowd — and then directly at you.

The gesture was so obvious that Isack, standing next to him, leaned over with an incredulous grin and said into the mic just loudly enough for the F1TV feed to catch:

“Mate, you’re not even subtle anymore.”

Sylus just shrugged, totally unapologetic.

By now, the banter was so frequent that your friends in the press room started keeping score.

Who teased who first? Who left the other flustered? You pretended to brush it off, nose buried in your work — but you couldn’t deny the spark that crackled every time you two locked eyes.

It wasn’t just flirting anymore. It was becoming a game — one that the whole paddock was in on.

It scared you — more than you wanted to admit.

You’d worked so hard to keep your personal and professional life separate, yet suddenly it felt like the whole world was watching you eradicate that line that you, yourself, built.

The whispers, the cameras, the headlines — they were all there, quietly reminding you that one wrong step could undo everything in the blink of an eye.

So when Sylus invited you out for dinner after the race weekend, you almost said no. Almost.

But now, sitting across from him at a quiet little restaurant tucked away from the busy streets, wine glass in hand, you finally let the words spill.

“It’s… a lot,” you admitted softly, eyes trained on the tablecloth. “Being around you. Having people look at me differently. I worked so hard to build this reputation, Sylus, and now I feel like every time someone takes a picture of us, they’re waiting for me to slip up.”

Sylus didn’t interrupt. He just listened, leaning back in his chair, letting you say every thought you’d been holding back for weeks.

Finally, he reached across the table, gently taking your hand in his.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, steady, the kind that made your chest loosen. “I would never let anything bad happen to you. Not because of me. Not because of any of this.”

You glanced up, and for once there wasn’t any teasing in his expression — just raw honesty.

“I love what you do,” he continued. “You’re good at it. You make us look good even when we’re having the worst day of our lives out there. You make people see us — not just the drivers, but the humans. And I… I love that about you.”

Your throat tightened, but this time it wasn’t fear — it was relief.

“You really mean that?” you asked quietly.

Sylus squeezed your hand. “I’ve never meant anything more. I’m not trying to mess with your career. I just… want to be part of your world, if you’ll let me.”

For the first time in weeks, the weight on your shoulders eased just a little.

“Maybe,” you said, smiling faintly, “I can let work and my feelings mesh for a bit. Just to see where it goes.”

Sylus grinned then, soft but triumphant, and raised his glass.

“To seeing where it goes,” he said.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel scared — you felt excited.

The next race weekend in Monza felt different.

You weren’t sure if it was the quiet confidence Sylus left you with after that dinner or the way he seemed lighter too, but everything just… felt easier.

You still did your job the way you always had — microphone in hand, crisp questions ready, professional smile firmly in place — but you didn’t flinch when Sylus found you in the paddock, leaning casually against the Ferrari motorhome, grinning like he had a secret.

“Good luck charm,” he teased as you walked by, just loud enough for your cameraman to hear.

“You wish,” you shot back, but there was no heat behind it. If anything, the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

And maybe that’s why the cameras caught it.

Because by the time qualifying ended and Sylus put his car P1, the internet already had screenshots of the way you looked at him as he walked past you in the media pen, all smug and flushed with adrenaline.

Then came the headlines.

“Ferrari’s Sylus Qin and Paddock Darling Spark More Romance Rumors After Quali Banter.”

“F1’s New Power Couple? Fans Compare Y/n and Sylus to Alonso & Melissa.”

“New WAG Era Incoming — and She’s a Total Boss.”

Your journalist friends wouldn’t stop sending you TikToks and fan edits.

“Oh my God,” one of them gasped, holding up her phone during lunch. “People are calling you the ‘CEO of the paddock.’ This edit is literally saying you’re the definition of boss woman.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide the laugh. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not as insufferable as Ferrari’s golden boy looking at you like you hung the moon,” your friend shot back.

And just when you were about to fire back some sarcastic reply, Sylus appeared behind you, still in his red polo, hair slightly damp from the heat.

“Ready?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just set the internet on fire.

Your friends exchanged a look, biting back their grins.

“Ready for what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

“For dinner. Again. Unless you’re going to pretend you don’t like seeing me outside of work anymore,” he said, and there was that grin — the one that got him into trouble.

The table went quiet, then erupted in teasing.

“Oh, she’s ready,” one of your colleagues laughed.

And maybe you should have been embarrassed, but you weren’t.

Because when Sylus reached for your hand as you got up, you didn’t pull away this time. You let him lead you through the paddock, the cameras flashing, the fans screaming, and for once you didn’t care.

If anything, you found yourself smiling, letting them take their photos.

Because maybe you weren’t just the journalist anymore.

Maybe you were the journalist who had the heart of Ferrari’s brightest star — and maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t such a scary thought after all.

The atmosphere in the Ferrari driver room was electric. The roar of the Tifosi outside still echoed through the walls, and the celebratory red confetti clung to Sylus’s hair.

He was still in his fireproofs, sitting with one leg bouncing, energy buzzing off of him as though the race hadn’t ended thirty minutes ago.

And you — still in your work clothes, laptop perched on your knees — were frantically typing out your post-race article before deadline.

“Don’t you have a team for this?” Sylus teased, leaning over to peek at your screen.

“Yes,” you said without looking up, “but this one is mine. Ferrari Home Win at Monza? I’d never let someone else write it.”

He smirked, leaning closer until his chin nearly rested on your shoulder. “So serious,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, fingers still flying over the keyboard. “Some of us have jobs outside of driving fast cars, you know.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, voice dropping to a low rumble as his hand slid over your thigh, thumb brushing against the seam of your skirt. “I just think maybe the journalist deserves a break. Preferably with the driver who just won his home race.”

“Sylus,” you hissed, trying not to laugh, “I have ten minutes to turn this in—”

“And I have all night to celebrate,” he cut you off, pulling your chair closer to him so you were practically in his lap now.

You tried to protest, but the grin on his face was too contagious.

“You’re impossible,” you said finally, typing with one hand now because the other was occupied with keeping his big hands off your laptop.

“Mm, but you like me this way,” he said smugly, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before leaning back just enough to watch you type.

“Go on then, boss woman. I’ll wait. But don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight.”

“Good,” you muttered under your breath, and that earned you one of his rare, boyish laughs — the kind that made your chest feel warm.

When you hit send on the article, Sylus didn’t even give you a chance to close the laptop before he took it gently from your lap and set it aside.

“My turn,” he said simply, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you, the noise of the Tifosi outside now nothing compared to the sound of his heartbeat under your ear.

By the time your article went live, Ferrari’s media team had already posted their shot — Sylus sitting in the driver room with you perched on his lap, still holding your laptop, his cheek pressed against your temple.

The photo went viral within minutes.

“Boss woman WAG era??”

“This is so Fernando + Melissa coded but younger??”

“She really just filed her article from the driver’s room in his lap??? Iconic.”

The edits came fast — TikToks with slow zooms on the way Sylus’s thumb traced lazy circles on your knee, compilations of him looking for you in the media pen spliced with clips of this moment. Twitter (or X, whatever it was these days) was in full meltdown.

You caught wind of it later that night, scrolling through your phone in Sylus’s hotel room as he lounged shirtless on the bed behind you.

“‘Most professional paddock relationship ever,’” you read aloud, suppressing a laugh. “‘Can deliver a Monza Ferrari win and 800 words before deadline.’”

Sylus peeked over your shoulder, grinning. “They’re not wrong.”

“Do you realize the amount of edits out there of you staring at me during interviews?” you teased, tossing your phone onto the bed.

He didn’t even look guilty. “Good. Let them know.”

You raised a brow. “Let them know what?”

“That I’ve been gone for them,” he said simply, pulling you down beside him. “From the start.”

It was ridiculous — you were supposed to be the professional one, the serious journalist who kept her personal life out of the headlines. And yet, somehow, being in the spotlight with him didn’t feel invasive. It felt… right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, you played your part.

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

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

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

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

But the word Monaco stuck in your head all day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excitement.

Hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You caved — you always did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wasn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You followed her gaze — and oh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my god, you’re blushing!”

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

McLaren’s star rookie. Staring. At you.

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

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

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

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

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

“Right. The sport.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And of course, the whispers followed you everywhere.

“Who is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile, Caleb, wasn’t used to this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And oh, he liked it.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let them.” His grin was infuriatingly confident.

And people did start talking.

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

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

‘Forget PR Relationships, This One Feels Real’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thinking about me?” he shot back instantly.

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

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

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

“The drivers?” he interrupted, grinning.

“Careful, Caleb. You sound jealous.”

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

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

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

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

“You’re sly.”

“And you love it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It started with the likes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Do I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And damn it, you knew you’d say yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And when I say kissed, I mean kissed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t mind. Not one bit.

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

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

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

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

You couldn’t even be mad about it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The morning light streams through your office window, catching on the glossy stack of proofs waiting for you. The whole room smells faintly of espresso and paper — your favorite mix.

You pull the top proof closer, the cover looking exactly as you’d pictured it: sharp lines, bold headline, a cover model draped in this season’s couture like she was born for it.

“Okay,” your best friend-slash-co-founder, Aili, says, dramatically leaning across the table, “I officially hate you.”

You smirk without looking up. “Why?”

“Because this is disgustingly good.” She flips through the pages, pausing on the center spread. “You know this is going to break the internet when it drops, right? The editorials, the styling — everything. It’s annoyingly perfect.”

You can’t help the grin tugging at your lips.

“Good. We only settle for perfect.”

This is the rhythm that keeps you going — the hum of printers, the clinking of coffee cups, the constant buzz of ideas that you and your best friend toss back and forth like breathing.

You’ve been doing this since the magazine was just a dream you whispered over late-night takeout, and now? Now, you’re approving layouts for a publication that has carved out its space in the industry and beyond.

Your phone buzzes with an email notification. Akso Hospital.

You open it quickly, scanning the contents. “Speaking of perfect,” you say, holding up your phone with a grin, “Akso just confirmed the date for their next charity gala.”

Your co-founder immediately perks up. “And you’re going, right? Don’t pull a disappearing act like last time.”

You feign offense. “I was sick.”

“You had a cold,” she fires back, grinning. “The entire guest list thought you were too chic to mingle.”

You laugh, setting the proofs aside.

“Fine, I’m going. I’m not missing a chance to see our name on that donor board again — it’s good press, good karma, and good champagne.”

It still hits you sometimes — how far you’ve come.

The magazine’s partnership with Akso Hospital had started as a small initiative, just a portion of your first few ad profits going to their pediatric wing. Now, your name was on plaques, on donation drives, on the wall of the children’s playroom.

You had built this with nothing but ambition, grit, and the ability to keep standing even when everything in your life felt designed to knock you down.

Aili watches you for a beat, softer now. “You know, sometimes I think you don’t give yourself enough credit for all this. You did that,” she says, gesturing to the proofs, then the framed donor letter on your wall.

You shrug, a little sheepish but secretly glowing. “We did that.”

The intercom on your desk buzzes and your secretary’s voice crackles through.

“Ms. L/N, the photographer for the autumn campaign is here for your approval.” You rise from your chair, gathering the proofs and smoothing down your skirt.

It’s not just work — it’s your element. Every step you take down the hallway, every nod you give to an assistant holding fabric swatches, feels like proof that you were right to believe in yourself.

You’re halfway through approving the photographer’s mood board when your thoughts drift, unbidden, to the polished white marble of Akso Hospital’s ballroom last year.

The memory of that night is still vivid: chandeliers dripping with gold, champagne flutes catching the light like scattered stars.

You hadn’t wanted to attend at first, but it was tradition. Your magazine had been donating to Akso Hospital’s pediatric wing for years, and it was only proper to be there when they honored their partners.

You remember standing by the grand donor board, the engraved letters of your magazine’s name gleaming under the lights. For a moment, you let yourself feel proud.

You had built this. You had earned this.

“You must be Miss L/N.”

The voice had been deep, smooth — almost startling in its gentleness — and when you turned, you were met with dark, curious eyes.

He stood there in a perfectly tailored suit, posture relaxed yet commanding, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips.

“You know me?” you asked lightly, surprised.

“Not personally,” he admitted, inclining his head politely, “but I’ve heard about you. You’re the one behind Velouria, aren’t you? I saw your name on the donor list — it’s rare to see someone so young do so much.”

His tone was devoid of flattery, instead conveying a quiet admiration that instantly disarmed you.

“Yes,” you replied with a small nod, finding yourself matching his composed demeanor. “Y/N L/N. Editor-in-Chief. Co-founder. Occasional donor.”

He smiled at that, warm enough to make your heart stutter. “Zayne Li,” he said, offering his hand. “Chief Cardiac Surgeon at Akso Hospital. And, apparently, your newest admirer.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking his hand. “That’s quite an introduction, Dr. Li.”

He held your gaze just a moment longer, something soft flickering in his expression.

“Then allow me to make another — it would be an honor to take you out sometime, Miss L/N. If you’ll allow me the privilege.”

It had been such an unexpected moment, the kind that made the world seem to pause around you.

You’d been so busy building a life, carrying every weight on your shoulders — and here he was, asking to walk alongside you.

A soft buzz from your phone pulls you back to the present.

A message from Zayne: Eat lunch, please. And not just coffee this time. :) There’s a little smiley face at the end, the kind that always makes your chest feel warm.

You type back a quick reply before your meeting starts, a faint smile lingering on your lips. You’d built all of this yourself — the magazine, the name, the life. But Zayne had found you right in the middle of it, when you least expected it, and reminded you that you didn’t have to stand alone anymore.

As you shut your laptop and rise from the conference table, the glow of the gala memory fades. Your team is already bustling to prepare for the next big feature, your best friend throwing you a grin from across the room.

“You didn’t even flinch at the budget adjustments,” she teases as the last intern slips out the door. “You’re scary when you’re this calm.”

“That’s because if I flinch, everyone else will panic,” you reply dryly, gathering the final proofs into a neat stack.

It’s true — you thrive in the chaos, but you also shoulder it. There are nights you stay behind when the office is dark, running through ledgers, emailing sponsors, approving layouts until your eyes ache.

Your name is on almost everything. Your success is your own. But that also means when something goes wrong, the weight feels like it’s yours alone to carry.

You catch your reflection in the glossy window — perfect hair, perfectly steamed blouse, perfect poise — and smooth a stray strand before heading back to your office.

Perfection was something you’d learned to perform early on, a shield you wore so no one would see how much it sometimes cost you to keep it all together.

Your phone buzzes again, a soft reminder of the outside world. Another text from Zayne: Remember to breathe, dove. You’re doing too much again, aren’t you?

The corner of your lips twitch. Of course he’d know, even from miles away at the hospital. Before you can respond, your best friend leans against your doorframe, raising an eyebrow.

“So. Are we talking about why your phone’s been lighting up with your fiancée’s name all day, or are you going to pretend it’s strictly business again?”

You throw her a look, but it’s betrayed by the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s not business,” you admit softly.

“And yet,” she grins, “you’re glowing. But I’ll let you enjoy that while I handle the press kits for the charity gala.”

As she leaves, you sink into your chair, letting yourself exhale. Thriving didn’t mean it wasn’t heavy — but somehow, knowing Zayne was just a message away made the weight feel a little easier to bear.

Your phone buzzes again — but this time, it isn’t Zayne’s name that lights up your screen.

It’s hers.

You freeze, thumb hovering just above the glass. The message preview is short, polite, almost cold:

Mother: Let’s have dinner tonight. There are things we need to discuss.

The familiar twist coils in your stomach before you even finish reading. For a moment, the room feels too quiet — the hum of the office muffled under the sudden rush of memory.

The last time you saw her, she had stood in the middle of your old home, voice like ice, spitting words you’ve spent years trying not to hear again.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you? Running off, playing the perfect daughter in public — all while making us look like fools. One day, all this pretending will come crashing down, and I hope it does. I hope you finally learn what failure feels like.”

You blink, shoving the memory back into the corner where it belongs, back where it can’t crack the poise you wear so carefully.

You should ignore her. You should say you’re too busy. You should block the number and finally set yourself free.

But you type back instead:

You: Tell me when and where.

Because as much as you hated the way she broke you down, as much as you told yourself you didn’t care anymore — you could never quite bring yourself to burn the bridge completely.

When Aili pokes her head into your office again, she pauses, catching the flicker of tension in your face.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie with a practiced smile. “Just dinner plans tonight.”

She narrows her eyes, but doesn’t push. “Fine. But if this is the kind of dinner that needs wine after, I’m on standby.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking off the chill in your chest. “Deal.”

But when she leaves, the office feels just a little colder — and the weight you thought you’d learned to carry alone feels heavier than it has in a long, long time.

You’re still staring at your phone long after the conversation ends, thumb pressed absently against the glass, when the screen lights up again — this time with Zayne’s name.

“Hey,” his voice comes through, warm and steady over the video call.

He’s still in his white coat, sleeves rolled up, hair a little messy like he’s been running between wards all morning. The sight of him is enough to make some of the tightness in your chest unravel.

“You look beautiful,” he says first — always says first — before his sharp eyes narrow slightly. “But something’s wrong. What happened?”

You hesitate, but you’ve never been able to lie to him, not really. “My mother reached out,” you admit softly. “She wants to have dinner tonight.”

Zayne is quiet for a beat, just looking at you through the screen.

Not judging. Not pitying. Just seeing you.

“Do you want to go?” he asks finally.

You swallow. “I should. It’s been… a long time. Maybe this time will be different.”

His brows knit, but he nods. “All right.” His voice is gentler now, like he’s talking to one of his younger patients. “I’ll pick you up after, okay? Just tell me where the restaurant is.”

You nod, a small breath leaving you that you didn’t realize you were holding. “Okay.”

“Good work,” he murmurs, and the praise makes your heart stumble in your chest. He notices — of course he notices — and a corner of his mouth lifts.

“I can already see you fidgeting. Calm down, hm? You’ve handled harder rooms than this.”

You huff softly. “That’s not the point.”

“Maybe not,” Zayne concedes, “but you don’t have to face it alone. If it gets bad, tell the driver. Leave. Text me. I’ll try to come get you if I have to.”

You smile faintly at his overprotectiveness, even as warmth spreads through your ribs. “You’re supposed to be saving lives, not rescuing me from my family drama.”

“Both can be true,” he says simply, before glancing off-screen — someone must be calling him back to work. “I have to go. But message me when you get there, okay?”

“Okay.”

And just before the call ends, he adds softly, “I’ll see you soon. Keep your head up.”

When the driver opens the door for you, you’re still replaying his voice in your head, clinging to the steadiness of it as the car pulls away toward the restaurant.

The call ends with a soft click, and Zayne stares at his own reflection on the darkened phone screen for a moment, jaw tense.

She always says she can handle it.

He exhales through his nose, a sigh that feels heavier than he means it to, before tucking his phone back into his pocket.

Of course you would agree to meet her. Of course you would face this alone — because that’s who you are. Fiercely independent, unbearably stubborn, always carrying things no one should have to carry.

And it drives him mad sometimes.

He scrubs a hand over his face, catches his own reflection in the glass of the operating room door. There’s no time to dwell — his next surgery is waiting — but the worry lingers like an ache he can’t quite shake.

You’ll put on that smile, he knows, the same one that fools everyone else into thinking you’re untouched by the world. But he’s seen the way your hands fidget under the table when the conversations get too sharp, the way your voice goes just a little too calm when you’re about to break.

“Dr. Li?”

Zayne blinks, glancing at the nurse waiting for him. He nods once, slipping into the calm focus his work demands, but not before murmuring under his breath — a promise meant for no one but himself:

“Just hold on. I’ll come get you if I have to.”

And with that, he disappears into the operating room, leaving the rest of his thoughts about you on the other side of the door — but never really letting go of them.

The restaurant is all warm lighting and soft piano music, but the air between you feels like it’s been chilled and pressed thin.

“Mother,” you greet her with a polite smile as you slide into the seat across from her. The word tastes foreign on your tongue, but you keep your posture perfect, chin lifted, just as she taught you.

“Y/N.” She nods once, her lipstick a shade too sharp for such a calm evening. “You look well.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

The first few minutes are fine, even pleasant — shallow talk about the weather, the state of the economy, the last charity gala she attended. You even catch yourself smiling once or twice.

But then it starts.

“So,” she says, folding her napkin with deliberate precision. “I see your magazine has been doing well. I suppose there’s no time for family when you’re busy running an empire.”

You take a slow sip of water. “I make time where I can.”

“Mm.” Her gaze flickers over you, sharp and assessing. “But you’ve always been so selfish. Always choosing work, your own ambitions, over the people who raised you. It’s as if we don’t even exist anymore.”

The words hit like ice water poured down your spine, but you only place your glass down carefully, nails tapping once against the tablecloth.

“I didn’t think providing for myself was selfish.”

She huffs softly, almost amused. “There it is — that tone. You get a little success and suddenly you think you know everything. You’ve become… arrogant. Do you even hear yourself?”

You smile — small, almost pleasant — though your pulse is pounding.

“I hear myself just fine, Mother. And I don’t think building something from nothing is arrogance. It’s survival.”

Her lips thin, her expression hardening.

“You’re still that same ungrateful brat. We gave you everything, and this is how you repay us? Running around pretending to be better than everyone.”

Something hot and bitter burns in your throat, but you swallow it back, keeping your voice level.

“Everything I have, I earned. Alone. No one built this life for me but me.”

Her eyes flash, but you don’t let her speak.

“You wished for my failure once,” you say softly, the memory scraping against your ribs. “And I still came today. Because despite everything, I wanted to keep the peace. I wanted to see you.”

For the first time, she falters.

But you’re already pushing your chair back, standing gracefully even though your hands are shaking under the table.

“Thank you for meeting with me, Mother,” you say with a small bow of your head, your voice clear and unshaken. “I think I’ve heard enough for today.”

You turn and walk out before she can recover, the restaurant’s soft music following you out like a cruel joke.

Your driver is already waiting, holding the door open for you, and you slide into the backseat with the same poise you held at the table.

Only when the car door shuts do you let your breath shudder out.

Zayne was halfway through removing his gloves when his phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen — a message from your secretary.

Secretary Qi: Miss L/N ended dinner early and returned to the office. She sent me home, but she’s still working. I had to inform you so you could check on her.

His jaw tightened immediately. He could almost see you there — still in the same restaurant outfit, hair immaculate, shoulders tense, face smooth as glass. Pretending.

He stripped off his scrubs in record time, changing into a crisp button-down and slacks before he even thought about it.

No one would ever say Zayne Li didn’t know how to show up properly — especially when it came to you.

By the time he reached your office, the building was nearly empty. He didn’t bother knocking, just quietly opened the door and found you exactly as he pictured: perched at your desk, posture perfect, flipping through layouts with a pen in hand.

“Y/N.” His voice was calm, almost too gentle, but it made you freeze mid-annotation.

You turned to look at him, and there it was — the mask. That perfect smile.

“Zayne. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be—”

“Done for the day,” he said simply, crossing the room in three long strides. “Your secretary texted me.”

You frowned, but he only crouched slightly so you were eye level, his hand brushing over your wrist, warm and grounding.

“Let’s get you home,” he said softly, like it wasn’t a request but a promise. “You can finish this tomorrow. Right now, we’re going to eat something decent and then you’re going to cry it out, just like you want to.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do.” His gaze was steady, the kind that made you feel seen in ways that almost hurt. “And I’m not letting you do it alone. Not tonight.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, blinking too fast, your throat burning. Then you exhaled shakily and let him take the pen from your hand.

“It’s ok, snow,” he murmured, gathering your things for you. “Let me take care of you now.”

He didn’t let go of your wrist until you were standing, guiding you out of the office like you were something fragile but still fierce — something he refused to let shatter under fluorescent lights.

At first, there was only the quiet hum of the engine and the faint city lights streaking past the window. You kept your gaze fixed on them, knuckles white where your hands were folded tightly in your lap.

Zayne didn’t push. He just drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the console as though waiting for you to take it.

And then, somewhere between one red light and the next, the dam broke.

“I just—” Your voice broke before you could even get the words out, a sharp breath escaping you. “Maybe if I wasn’t the way I am, they’d love me. Maybe if I was smarter, or prettier, or perfect—”

Your chest hitched as the rest tumbled out, the thoughts you’d buried under work and grace and poise for years.

“Maybe if I’d gone into medicine like they wanted, if I’d given up the magazine, if I wasn’t so stubborn about doing things my way—maybe they’d finally be proud of me. Maybe I wouldn’t always feel like I’m just… not enough.”

By then the tears were spilling freely, hot and humiliating, streaking down your face as you turned away, but Zayne didn’t let you curl in on yourself.

“Y/N,” he said quietly, reaching for your hand and lacing his fingers with yours. His thumb pressed against your palm, firm and grounding. “No. Don’t do that to yourself.”

You shook your head, tears dripping onto your knees.

“I tried so hard, Zayne. I built everything I have from nothing. I’ve donated, I’ve given back, I’ve—” Your voice cracked. “And it’s still not enough for them. I still feel like that kid who got scolded for drawing instead of reading biology books.”

Zayne’s grip on your hand tightened.

“You have built something extraordinary — something they could never even imagine. You’ve saved lives in your own way, given hope, inspired people. That is not a failure, Y/N. That is a legacy.”

He glanced at you briefly, his gaze soft but unyielding. “You have always been more than enough. They don’t get to take that away from you just because they can’t see it.”

Your shoulders shook as the sobs finally came, silent and raw, until you could barely breathe.

Zayne didn’t say anything more — just drove, thumb brushing over your hand every few seconds like he was reminding you, over and over, you’re not alone anymore.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, your breathing had steadied, though your face was tear-stained and your throat ached. Zayne unbuckled quietly, came around to open your door, and held out a hand.

“Let’s get you inside,” he murmured. “You can cry as much as you want, but you’re doing it somewhere warm, and with me right next to you.”

The house was quiet when you stepped inside, your heels clicking softly against the floor. Zayne guided you straight to the couch, his hand gentle on your back as though he was afraid you’d shatter if he pressed too hard.

“Sit,” he said softly, already slipping off his jacket and setting it aside.

You didn’t argue. You felt wrung out, heavy, like every bone in your body ached.

Zayne disappeared into the kitchen for a moment and returned with a glass of water, a box of tissues, and — to your surprise — a little plate with a slice of cake he must’ve brought home earlier.

“Here,” he murmured, crouching in front of you to set everything on the coffee table. “Water first.”

You took a few sips, the coolness soothing the raw burn in your throat, and then let him tuck your favorite blanket around your shoulders.

When he sat beside you, you immediately leaned into him, your head finding its place on his shoulder like it had been there a thousand times before.

He didn’t force you or ask for details. Instead, he simply sat there with you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and tracing slow circles with his thumb against your arm.

The steady rhythm of his breathing was enough to quiet the noise in your head, until the tears finally slowed and the exhaustion sank in.

“You deserve peace,” Zayne said at last, his voice quiet, almost reverent. “You deserve to be happy without wondering if you’re good enough for them. You already are.”

Your chest tightened. He tilted his head just enough to meet your eyes, brushing away a tear that had clung stubbornly to your lashes.

“Maybe it’s time to take a breather,” he continued, his tone careful but firm. “You don’t have to burn yourself out trying to earn love that should’ve been given freely. And you’re not alone in this, you know. My parents — they adore you. We adore you.”

A weak laugh escaped you, soft and watery. “They do call me more than my own parents do,” you admitted.

Zayne smiled, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Exactly. So lean on us for a while. Let yourself rest.”

You nodded, finally letting yourself sink fully into his embrace, letting the warmth of his presence wrap around you like the blanket on your shoulders. For the first time that night, you felt safe.

The sound of running water faded as Zayne stepped out of the bathroom, towel in his hair, shirt clinging softly to his frame. The bedroom was quiet, bathed in the soft golden glow of the bedside lamp he’d left on for you.

You were curled up on your side, breathing softly, already fast asleep. Your damp hair clung to your temples, and the blanket had slipped halfway off your shoulder, revealing the soft rise and fall of your chest.

Zayne paused in the doorway, chest tightening.

Most of the world only ever saw you as untouchable — the poised, confident woman who carried a whole empire on her shoulders.

Even he, at first, had thought you were unshakable. But here, in the quiet of your shared room, he saw the truth: you were soft. Vulnerable. Human.

He crossed the room slowly, careful not to wake you, and gently pulled the blanket back up to your chin. His hand lingered there for a moment, brushing against your cheek before he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple.

“God, you drive yourself so hard,” he whispered, voice almost a sigh. “But you still let me in… you still let me take care of you.”

Sliding into bed beside you, he wrapped an arm carefully around your waist, pulling you closer until your back pressed against his chest.

You made a faint sound in your sleep — the smallest, most trusting little hum — and Zayne felt something in him settle.

“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your arm. “For letting me love you like this.”

As your breathing evened out again, Zayne stayed awake a little longer, watching the peaceful look on your face. He vowed silently that he’d do everything in his power to keep you smiling like this — to shield you from anything that might dim your light again.

Three days later, you found yourself at one of the Li family’s favorite restaurants — the kind of place that felt like it had been frozen in time, quiet and warm, with the faint scent of jasmine tea and freshly baked bread floating through the air.

“Y/n!” Mrs. Li beamed the moment she spotted you. She breezed past her son with a mock-scolding look, pulling you into a hug. “I was wondering when you’d come see us — we were away for so long!”

She held you at arm’s length, her sharp, warm eyes scanning your face. “You look thin. Zayne, are you feeding her properly?”

“Mother, I promise I’ve been eating,” you said quickly, laughing softly — though the warmth in your chest threatened to make your eyes sting.

Mrs. Li tsked under her breath but smiled, taking your hand as if she’d known you your whole life. “Come, sit, tell me everything we’ve missed.”

Mr. Li rose slightly from his chair in greeting, nodding at you with a pleased smile before pulling out your seat.

“It’s good to see you again, Y/n,” he said warmly. “You must be exhausted with the latest issue. I read it cover to cover last night — brilliant work.”

That compliment hit somewhere deep. You weren’t used to this — parents who acknowledged your work not with criticism or backhanded remarks, but with genuine pride.

“Thank you,” you said softly, a little caught off guard by how much it meant. Once everyone was seated, the conversation flowed easily.

“You have to hear about our trip,” Mrs. Li said, brightening. “Zayne, did you tell her about Florence?”

“I said you’d tell it better,” he replied smoothly, reaching for the teapot.

Mrs. Li’s eyes sparkled as she launched into stories of their travels: the vineyard they stumbled across in Tuscany, the boat ride through the Amalfi Coast, how Mr. Li somehow managed to get them lost in the middle of Paris trying to find the “perfect” café.

You found yourself laughing more than you had in days. The way Mr. Li sheepishly admitted he’d been scolded by locals for standing in the bike lane, the way Mrs. Li animatedly described the art museums — it all felt so easy, so light.

“Next time,” Mrs. Li said suddenly, turning to you, “you should come with us. You’d love it. Zayne, make sure you take time off when we go again.”

Your cheeks warmed. “That sounds… wonderful,” you admitted, smiling. The invitation felt like more than just polite words — it felt like you were being folded into something whole.

Between bites of food, Mr. Li asked about your charity work, genuinely curious about how the magazine’s donations were being used. He nodded along as you explained the latest project, offering insightful comments here and there, clearly proud.

Somewhere between the second course and dessert, you realized your chest didn’t feel so tight anymore. The quiet pressure that had been sitting there since the dinner with your mother was gone.

This was what you’d been missing all along — a table where you could sit without fear of being judged, voices that didn’t cut but lifted, hands that didn’t push you away but pulled you closer.

Under the table, Zayne’s fingers brushed yours. When you looked at him, he was already smiling — that small, proud smile that made your heart skip a beat. He squeezed your hand gently, and you swore there was something unspoken in that gesture, something that said:

You’re safe here.

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it. All the pain, all the late nights and lonely moments, had led you here — to him, to this warmth, to a life you had built on your own terms.

The drive home was quiet, but it wasn’t the heavy kind of silence. It was soft, comfortable — the kind where you could still feel the echo of laughter from dinner.

You rested your head against the passenger seat, looking out the window at the blur of city lights, still thinking about the way Mrs. Li had squeezed your hand and told you to come with them next time.

Zayne glanced at you briefly before focusing back on the road. “You’re quiet,” he said gently, voice a shade softer than usual.

You smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About what my mom said?”

You nodded. “She was right, you know. I… I think I’ve been trying too hard to prove something to people who will never care. Maybe I needed tonight to see that.”

Zayne hummed thoughtfully, one hand casually on the wheel, the other reaching across to take yours. His thumb brushed slow, lazy circles against your skin.

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Y/n. Not to them. Not anymore.”

The truth of his words sank in. For the first time, you didn’t feel that familiar pang of guilt for even thinking about pulling away from your parents. You just felt tired — tired, and ready to let go.

You turned your head toward him, studying his profile in the glow of the dashboard. “Do you think we should go somewhere?”

He glanced at you, brow raised. “Somewhere?”

“Yeah,” you said, surprising even yourself with how light you felt. “Take a short break. Just you and me. No work, no calls, no family drama. Just… breathe for a little.”

A slow grin spread across his face, and your heart gave an involuntary flutter.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he admitted. “I’ve been waiting for you to take a proper break.”

You laughed softly. “You could’ve just told me.”

“Oh, I did,” he said, feigning offense, “but you always said you were too busy. But now that my brilliant girlfriend has suggested it herself…”

“You’re insufferable,” you teased, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

He squeezed your hand. “Where do you want to go?”

You thought about it for a moment, images of quiet towns and warm beaches floating through your mind.

“Somewhere far enough that I can’t be reached. Somewhere pretty. Somewhere that feels like it’s just ours.”

Zayne’s grin softened into something gentler, something that made your stomach do a strange little flip.

“Done,” he said simply. “I’ll handle everything. Just promise me you won’t back out.”

“I won’t,” you said, and for once, you meant it.

He looked satisfied with that answer, and you leaned back against your seat, fingers still intertwined with his. The decision felt strangely liberating — like choosing yourself, for once, instead of everyone else.

Tonight, you’d leave the ghosts of your past behind. Tonight, you’d start something new.

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

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

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

That’s when you heard her voice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Together, you were… untouchable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My studies and ballet come first.”

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

But deep down?

It was a lie you were starting to struggle with.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You wanted to be his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned his head, arching a brow.

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

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

“Get on before I force you.”

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

He smirked. “Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightened. Stupid Caleb. Stupid dependable Caleb.

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

“See? Told you it wasn’t so bad.”

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

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

Your brain short-circuited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And god, he liked that image way too much.

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

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

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

And your reaction? Priceless.

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

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

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

And now? He was doomed.

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

She’d seen. Of course she had.

Caleb groaned. “Don’t.”

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

“You’re thinking it.”

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

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

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

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

Mei laughed. “You like her.”

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

“You liiike her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Okay… and?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth parted slightly. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

But that wasn’t the end of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The studio erupted in giggles.

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

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

You nearly choked. “He’s NOT—!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Caleb? Oh, he was eating this up.

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

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

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

Your jaw dropped. “I DO NOT!”

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

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

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

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

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

You glared. “You’re so annoying.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You raised a brow. “Of what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, “tomorrow” never quite came.

One day it was the student council meeting running long.

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

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

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

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

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

Your phone rested beside you, screen dark.

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

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

The creak of the studio door startled you.

“Y/n?”

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

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

“Zayne?” Your voice cracked slightly from surprise.

He stepped inside, the door clicking softly behind him.

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

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

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

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

He noticed the silence, tilting his head.

“What’s wrong?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…He’s just busy.”

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

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

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

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

There he was.

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

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

Your thumb hovered over the screen.

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

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

Now? Nothing. Not even a stray emoji.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stopped waiting.

At first, you still looked for him in the halls, still left space beside you in the cafeteria, still glanced toward the gym to see if he’d catch up. But with each silence, each excuse, each time he breezed by with nothing more than a smile that didn’t quite reach you, something inside you withered.

So you stopped.

You stopped calling. You stopped waiting. You even started slipping out of rooms the moment he walked in, brushing past with polite smiles that stung more than they soothed. You still clung to Mei—your constant, your sister-in-everything—but Caleb? You built a wall and shut him out.

Caleb noticed, of course.

It hit him in the quiet moments—how your laughter no longer spilled across the cafeteria table, how he’d catch only glimpses of your hair in the hallway before you disappeared around the corner. He thought it was strange, but Mei’s reminder grounded him.

“Her recital’s soon,” she said one day, tying her shoelaces with a sigh. “She’s probably drowning in rehearsals, you know how she gets.”

Caleb nodded, a little too quickly. “Right. That’s it.”

It was easier to believe that than to look too closely at the empty space you left behind. Easier to chalk it up to your perfectionism, to the looming recital, to the pressure of graduation. Easier to tell himself you were just busy—just like him.

What Caleb didn’t see was how badly his neglect had carved into you. How the distance wasn’t just circumstance, but choice. How the boy who once felt like home now felt like a stranger.

And though your recital and graduation loomed ahead—two milestones you once dreamed of sharing with him—you weren’t sure if Caleb even belonged in those dreams anymore.

The track was quiet except for the steady rhythm of sneakers against pavement and the sound of Caleb’s breathing beside Mei.

They’d been running together for years, and normally Caleb’s competitive streak would’ve had him teasing her for falling behind or pushing her to sprint the last stretch. But today, Mei’s silence pressed heavy.

She slowed, tugging her earbuds out, and finally said it.

“You know you’ve really hurt her, right?”

Caleb frowned, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt.

“What are you talking about?”

Mei shot him a look that was equal parts exasperation and disbelief.

“Don’t play dumb, Caleb. I’m talking about, Y/N.”

Your name alone made his steps falter. Caleb blinked, suddenly hyperaware of the way his chest tightened.

“Hurt her? I haven’t—Mei, she knows how busy I’ve been. Practices, team meetings, the fundraiser, college applications—”

“Don’t you dare use that as an excuse.” Mei cut him off, her tone sharp in a way that made Caleb’s jaw click shut.

“Everyone’s busy. I’m busy. She’s busy. But she never once stopped making time for you. She never stopped waiting for you. And you—you just let her stand there, looking like a fool while you brushed her off with that golden-boy smile of yours.”

Her words landed like blows. Caleb opened his mouth, grasping for something—anything—to soften it.

“She’s always understood me, Mei. Since we were kids. I thought…” He dragged a hand through his sweat-damp hair, searching for the right words. “I thought she knew.”

That earned him a laugh—sharp, bitter, completely humorless. “Knew what? That she didn’t matter? That you’d drop her the second something shinier came along?”

“Mei—”

“No. Don’t ‘Mei’ me.” She stopped dead in the middle of the path, forcing him to turn and face her. Her expression was stern, eyes blazing.

“Do you even realize how embarrassing it’s been for her? Everyone could see it—how much you two adored each other. You were practically written into each other’s lives. And then you pulled away, made her look like she’d been the only one invested all along.”

Caleb’s throat went dry. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Mei’s voice softened, but her words cut deeper.

“I see her every day before she goes to school and ballet, Caleb. Every single day. And every time, she’s a little quieter, a little dimmer. Do you know what it’s like to watch someone who used to shine so bright just… fade? Because I do. I’ve been watching it happen to my best friend for months. And you—” She jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You’re the reason.”

Caleb stood there, silent, his breath loud in the hush between them. He wanted to fight it, to argue, to insist he hadn’t meant it like that. But he thought of you—your tired smile, the way you’d stopped meeting his eyes in class, how you slipped out of rooms before he even got the chance to say hi.

And for the first time, he realized Mei was right.

Mei’s hand dropped, her tone gentler now but still firm.

“She loved being around you, Caleb. You made her feel safe. And you’ve been too blind, too selfish to notice how much your absence has wrecked her. So if you care about her—even half as much as she cared about you—you’d better get your act together.”

She started jogging again, leaving Caleb rooted on the track, chest heaving for reasons that had nothing to do with the run.

For the first time in months, the thought of losing you hit him square in the gut. And it terrified him.

The theater lights dimmed, and the hushed chatter of the crowd fell into silence.

Caleb leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, eyes glued to the stage. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—he knew you were talented, everyone did—but when the music swelled and you stepped onto the stage, it was like the air itself shifted.

You looked ethereal, every movement precise yet effortless, the kind of grace that drew every eye in the room.

Caleb’s breath caught in his throat. That’s her, he thought. Not just the girl next door, not just his best friend, not just the one who used to wait for him after practice.

You were… radiant.

Beside him, Mei whispered, “She’s incredible.”

He nodded, unable to tear his gaze away.

But then Mei added, her voice low, almost cautious, “She’s been accepted into the most prestigious ballet academy in SkyHaven.”

Caleb’s head whipped toward her. “What? Since when?”

Mei didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on you, proud and sad all at once.

“You knew?” Caleb’s voice dropped to a hiss, half teasing, half accusing. “And she told you, but not me?”

Mei’s smile faltered. She finally turned to him, and there was no playfulness in her expression.

“You stopped paying mind to her, Caleb. In turn, she stopped waiting for you.”

The words hit harder than he expected, knocking the breath right out of him. His chest tightened, guilt gnawing at the edges. He turned back to the stage, but suddenly it felt like he was watching from a distance—like there was glass between him and the girl he thought he knew.

The final note rang out, and you landed in perfect stillness, the crowd erupting into applause. Flowers showered the stage, cheers filling the hall. Caleb clapped, but his stomach churned.

When the curtain fell and the audience spilled into the lobby, he followed Mei through the crowd, ready to congratulate you, maybe apologize, maybe just say something.

But then he saw you.

You stood by your parents, radiant in your costume, cheeks flushed with victory. And beside you was a man Caleb didn’t recognize—tall, poised, just a little older, carrying himself with quiet confidence.

He held out a bouquet of white jasmines and blue hydrangeas, the blooms delicate and striking in the theater lights.

You smiled as you accepted them—really smiled, the kind that reached your eyes, the kind Caleb hadn’t seen directed at him in months.

Mei stilled beside him. Caleb’s heart plummeted.

Because it wasn’t him standing at your side anymore.

It was someone else.

Caleb and Mei finally managed to reach you, just as you tucked the jasmine and hydrangea bouquet close to your chest.

“Y/n,” Mei beamed, hugging you tight. “You were phenomenal.”

“Seriously,” Caleb added, his voice rougher than he intended. “You killed it out there.”

Your face lit up as you glanced between the two of them. “Thank you,” you breathed, that familiar warmth in your eyes—but before Caleb could say more, you turned slightly, tugging the man at your side closer.

“Oh, and this is my boyfriend,” you said proudly, “and future cardiac surgeon extraordinaire, Zayne Li.”

Caleb froze. Boyfriend? Since when?

The word ricocheted in his skull, sharp and final. Zayne extended a hand, his grip confident, his smile effortless. Caleb shook it numbly, his heart splintering in his chest.

He’d heard the name before. Of course he had. Zayne Li—the Zayne Li. The man who was always there when he wasn’t.

The one you used to mention in passing, always with a fondness Caleb pretended not to notice. The one who, despite grueling hours in medical school, never missed a single recital of yours. The one who sometimes picked you up from class when he was in town, Caleb catching glimpses of him leaning casually against his car as you ran into his arms.

Mei had always rolled her eyes whenever Zayne came up in conversation, joking about how he was too perfect and that maybe you should marry him instead, but Caleb… Caleb had been wary. And now he understood why.

Because Zayne wasn’t just perfect—he was yours.

“Come to my celebratory dinner tonight,” you said suddenly, your excitement bubbling over. “At my house. Please, both of you. I’d love for you to come.”

Caleb managed a stiff nod, but his mind was unraveling.

Of course. Of course it was Zayne. The man your parents adored, the man they always thought would be your match, the man who was actually there when Caleb wasn’t.

The pieces slammed into place like cruel puzzle edges—your dimming smile, your silence in the halls, the way you stopped waiting for him.

You hadn’t just pulled away. You’d stopped waiting for Caleb to catch up, and Zayne had been right there to hold you steady.

Caleb felt sick.

He’d been so blind.

The days that followed blurred together like a film running too fast. Spring melted into summer, rehearsals into finals, and before Caleb could even process it, the end of their high school years was staring him in the face.

He saw you in fragments now—always from a distance.

You walking down the hall with Mei, your laughter trailing behind you. You in the courtyard, Zayne sometimes appearing at your side with that easy smile. You leaving the school in your practice clothes, hair still pinned back, bouquet in hand from Zayne who sends you flowers for no reason all the way from SkyHaven.

Once, you would’ve waited for him. Once, he would’ve been the one at your side.

But “once” felt like a lifetime ago.

And then, in what felt like a blink, it was graduation day.

The auditorium was packed, a sea of caps and gowns, proud families waving from the stands. Caleb sat stiffly in his seat, hands clenched on his lap as he watched you climb onto the podium, valedictorian sash glinting under the lights.

You stood there with poise, confidence radiating from you like it always had. The girl he’d grown up with—the girl who’d been his constant—was now someone untouchable.

“I would like to thank all the friends I’ve made on my journey,” your voice rang clear, steady, proud. “To the people I love, thank you for becoming an inspiration. Though a lot of things had been left unsaid for me, I hope we all reach our dreams and live life with the same purpose until the end! This is Y/n L/n—congratulations, everyone!”

Applause erupted, cheers echoing off the walls. Caleb clapped numbly, his throat tight, heart heavy.

You smiled into the mic, radiant and untouchable. And then, as if to drive the knife deeper, he saw you step down and laugh, right into the waiting arms of Zayne.

Caleb’s chest constricted.

You had once been his maybe. His almost. His what-if.

But he realized it too late.

Now, you were completely out of reach.

It was strange how easily life could carry you forward. One moment, you were walking across the graduation stage, and the next, you were hauling suitcases into dormitories and learning to live in a brand-new city.

Caleb found himself at the DAA in SkyHaven, the air around him filled with ambition and the familiar thrill of competition. He had friends, classes, and the court—but still, there was a piece of him missing.

That piece of him showed up one late afternoon.

You.

You were waiting outside a café, hair pinned loosely, a book resting in your lap as you stirred a coffee absentmindedly. When Caleb walked past, your eyes flicked up—and for a second, it was like nothing had changed. You smiled.

“Caleb.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You looked so much more grown, so much more sure of yourself, yet still the girl who once tripped over her pointe shoes in front of him, giggling until your stomach hurt.

“Hey, Y/n,” he said softly, sliding into the seat across from you.

For a while, you both just sat there, a comfortable silence stretching between you before Caleb finally spoke.

“I… I missed this. Us. Talking like this.”

Your smile faltered a little, eyes lowering to the rim of your cup. “I missed it too. But things change, Caleb. We’ve both… changed.”

He nodded, but it didn’t make the ache any less sharp. “I just keep thinking—I could’ve done better by you. Been there more. Maybe things would’ve…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

“Caleb.” Your voice was gentle, a quiet cut through his rambling. “You don’t need to apologize. I’ll always be grateful for what we had—for the memories, the laughter, all of it. You were my best friend.”

The lump in his throat was unbearable. “But not anymore?”

You paused, then reached across the table, your fingers brushing against his.

“You’ll always be special to me. But Zayne…” you exhaled softly, as if saying his name already explained it all. “Zayne makes me happy. He’s been there in ways I didn’t realize I needed. And I can’t turn away from that.”

Caleb swallowed hard, forcing a crooked smile. “Yeah. Of course. I’m glad he makes you happy.”

You squeezed his hand, eyes soft. “But I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Because I do. I’ll always root for you, Caleb. Always.”

He laughed lightly, though it was hollow in his chest. “Guess you’ll always be my Swan then, huh?”

You giggled, and for a fleeting second, it was like the years hadn’t drifted between you. “And you’ll always be my golden boy.”

The moment lingered, fragile, fleeting. Caleb wanted to hold onto it, but deep down, he knew this was closure.

You had moved forward with your heart, and all he could do was learn how to move forward with his.

Caleb walked back to his dorm alone, the city lights painting the pavement gold. His hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, but no matter how tightly he clenched them, he couldn’t stop the hollow ache in his chest.

He had loved you. He realized it now—too late, when the words could no longer change anything.

Every laugh, every shy smile you gave him, every time you scolded him for teasing you too much… he had brushed it off as “just us.” But it wasn’t. It had been everything.

And he had let it slip through his fingers.

Caleb stopped on the bridge that overlooked the river, leaning on the cold railing. The water shimmered below, restless, moving forward no matter what stood in its way.

“Guess that’s what I have to do too,” he murmured, half to himself. Moving forward. Even if a part of his heart still lingered in the memory of a ballerina who once laughed with him until the stars came out.

Meanwhile, you were waiting on another side of the city.

Zayne’s figure came into view as he jogged toward you, hair a little tousled, his white shirt clinging faintly from the run. He carried a small bouquet—jasmines and blue hydrangeas, your favorites.

“There she is,” Zayne grinned, catching his breath as he reached you. “My beautiful Odette.”

You laughed softly, warmth bubbling in your chest as he handed you the flowers. “You didn’t have to bring these, you know.”

“I wanted to,” he said simply, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “You had a long day. Figured you could use something beautiful—though, honestly, the flowers don’t stand a chance next to you.”

Your cheeks flushed, and for a moment, you just stared at him—the boy who had grown into a man, the one who had been there quietly, steadfastly, through every stumble and triumph.

When Zayne leaned down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead, you felt something settle inside you. Safety. Belonging. Love.

“Ready to head home?” he asked, offering his hand.

You slipped your fingers into his, smiling. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

And as the two of you walked down the quiet street together, laughter spilling between you, neither of you noticed the figure on the bridge in the distance, watching the same stars.

Caleb was learning to let go, and you were learning how to hold on.