Maddie

Back then, though, I was convinced it was only a matter of time. After all, how was I supposed not to believe it? He was always the one who came looking for me first. The one who took the seat next to mine before anyone else could. The one who always found some excuse to text me after the rest of our friends had already gone to bed.

And I fell for it completely.

That’s why, when Matteo showed up hand in hand with Julia—the girl who had so conveniently started showing up to all of our get-togethers—my heart nearly stopped.

Months of mixed signals, months of believing we were only one step away from becoming something real, came crashing down in a single moment.

The news of their relationship caught our entire friend group just as off guard as it caught me. Every single one of them had been convinced that Matteo and I were going to be endgame.

That was the most humiliating part of everything. The awkward smiles. The sympathetic glances. The quiet pity in their eyes. Everyone had words of comfort for me after that day.

Everyone except Kimi.

That’s exactly why he became the perfect place for me to hide.

Kimi and I met a couple of years ago. I was studying in Switzerland, and some of my classmates were Italian. During a summer trip to the Amalfi Coast, they introduced us.

He had always struck me as incredibly kind, and, to some extent, painfully shy.

Our friends loved teasing him, insisting he only acted that way around me because it was obvious he had a crush on me. I usually ignored their comments. A harmless crush wasn’t something anyone deserved to be embarrassed about.

Kimi didn’t seem to care much either. Whenever he had the chance, he’d find an excuse for us to talk or spend time together.

Just as friends.

After everything that happened with Matteo, those moments became even more frequent.

“And?,” Kimi asked, blowing lightly on his coffee before looking up at me, “is the ice cream good?”

“It is.” I smiled, licking the last bit of ice cream from my spoon. “Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”

For a split second, his eyes followed the movement before he quickly looked away again.

“So…” he said carefully. “Have you heard from Matteo?”

I shook my head, absentmindedly twirling the tiny spoon between my fingers.

“No. Ever since he started dating Julia, he barely replies in the group chat anymore. I guess he’s… busy.” I tried to sound indifferent, but even I could hear the faint bitterness creeping into my voice.

Kimi nodded quietly.

He didn’t make a single comment about Matteo, and I appreciated that. Most people felt obligated to remind me that “someone better would come along” or that “he wasn’t worth it.”

Kimi, on the other hand, seemed to understand that sometimes people simply needed to talk about something else.

He took another sip of his coffee before setting the cup down.

“Have you started the paperwork for university yet?”

“Not yet.” I shook my head. “I don’t start until after summer, so technically I’m still on vacation.”

“Must be nice.”

I let out a quiet laugh.

“Says the Formula One driver who spends his life traveling around the world.”

He shrugged with a small smile.

“Trust me. It stops being fun a lot faster than you’d think.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward.

Kimi tapped his fingers lightly against the table a couple of times, like he was debating whether he should say something.

“Hey…” he began at last, scratching the back of his neck. “Now that the season’s started, I’ll be spending most of the summer traveling around Europe.”

I looked at him, unsure where he was going with this.

“Okay…”

“And I was thinking…” His gaze dropped to his coffee for a second before he let out a nervous little laugh, clearly embarrassed with himself. “Since you don’t start university until after the summer…”

He hesitated.

“…maybe you’d like to come with me. To a few of the races.”

“…With you?” I blinked, completely caught off guard.

“Yeah. Well—not with me all the time.” He laughed awkwardly. “I’ll be busy pretty much the entire weekend. But you’d have paddock passes, you’d get to see the circuits… and once I’m done working, we could go out and explore whatever city we’re in. My parents will be at most of the races too, so you wouldn’t be by yourself.”

He said the entire explanation so quickly it sounded like he’d rehearsed it over and over before asking.

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he added almost immediately. “I just… thought it might be fun.”

A small, shaky smile spread across my face.

“I’ll think about it.”

His invitation stayed in my head for days. If I was being honest with myself, that wasn’t the kind of invitation you gave someone of the opposite sex if you only saw them as a friend. At least, not from where I was standing.

Kimi had taken the opportunity after everything that happened between Matteo and me, and little by little, he seemed to be making his feelings more obvious.

The more I thought about it the less I minded. I mean, if I went with him, I was guaranteed to have a good time. It would be the perfect distraction from Matteo. The only thing that worried me was his parents. What if they misunderstood the situation? Still, I figured any awkwardness would only last a moment.

One night, while mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, I came across a photo Matteo had posted with his new girlfriend.

The moment I saw it, a knot tightened in my throat. How could he be telling her he loved her when, not that long ago, he’d been saying those same things to me?

My mind refused to come up with a reasonable answer. Instead, through the haze of heartbreak, it desperately searched for a way to pull out the thorn that had buried itself deep inside my chest. Eventually, it landed on the worst possible solution.

I knew Matteo was jealous of Kimi. Kimi was younger than him, yet already far more successful—and wealthier than Matteo would probably ever be.

I also knew Kimi was attracted to me. At least enough to invite me to spend the summer traveling across Europe with him.

So in my mind the most logical solution was to start dating Kimi. Just to make Matteo jealous.

At first, I tried to shake the idea away. It was immature, petty and almost ridiculous. There was no way something like that would actually work.

But as the hours passed, the thought refused to leave. If anything, it only grew stronger. By the following morning, it had completely taken over my mind. So I decided to make the first move.

With trembling hands, I dialed Kimi’s number. It rang a few times without an answer. I was just about to hang up when he finally picked up.

“Hello!” His voice sounded breathless, and I could hear muffled voices and movement in the background.

“Kimi, are you busy? I can call you back if you’re—”

He cut me off before I could finish.

“No! Just… give me one second, please.” His voice grew even more strained, as if he was running.

I waited quietly. For a few moments, all I could hear was the wind, distant conversations, and hurried footsteps. Then a door slammed shut.

“There,” he said a second later, still slightly out of breath. “Sorry about that. I was in the middle of training.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy. You could’ve just called me back later.”

“No, no.” He answered almost immediately. “You’ve never called me before, so… I figured it had to be important.”

My heart melted just a little at the shy sincerity in his voice.

“Honestly, I don’t know if it’s that important,” I admitted with a nervous laugh. “I just thought it would be easier to call.”

“Oh… okay.” A brief pause “Go ahead.”

“It’s about what we talked about at the café.” I bit my lip, trying to suppress the smile that kept threatening to appear.

“…Yeah?” He sounded so hopeful it almost made me lose my nerve.

“I was wondering if your invitation still stands.” I hesitated for only a second “I’d like to come with you.”

Without realizing it, I had started absentmindedly biting my thumbnail while I waited for his answer.

The line fell silent. For two long seconds, I wondered if I’d somehow managed to break him.

“Uh— I—” A soft, nervous laugh escaped him. “Yeah, of course”

Another laugh.

“Of course you can, Y/N.” The excitement in his voice was impossible to miss.

We spent another few minutes talking through the details before eventually hanging up.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was doing was morally right. Using someone’s feelings to make someone else jealous wasn’t exactly something to be proud of.

But if life was handing me an opportunity… Why shouldn’t I take it?

(…)

Our first stop was Monaco.

Needless to say, I was completely blown away. I’d never seen that much luxury concentrated in one place. The streets were overflowing with supercars, enormous yachts lined the harbor, and it seemed like every other man had a supermodel on his arm.

And there I was… A bundle of nerves.

Kimi had booked me into the same hotel where his parents were staying, but because our schedules were different, we didn’t actually see each other until we met at the entrance to the paddock.

“Hi, Y/N!” His little sister, Maggie, greeted me so naturally it felt like we’d known each other for years.

“Hi,” I replied shyly, giving her a small wave.

“Y/N, we’re so happy you’re here supporting Kimi.” His mother wrapped me in a warm hug, smiling from ear to ear.

A second later, his dad hugged me too, patting my back affectionately.

It was obvious how much they adored Kimi, and they seemed genuinely grateful to anyone who supported him unconditionally.

We walked into the paddock together, and once we reached the garage, Marco started introducing me to everyone.

It felt strangely surreal.

Every time he introduced me, it was almost like he was doing it with pride, as if simply having me there meant something. What made it even stranger was the way everyone reacted.

Almost every single person gave me the exact same knowing smile.

Oh… so you’re Y/N.

That Y/N.

I had absolutely no idea what Kimi had told people about me.

The race arrived much faster than I’d expected. From lights out to the checkered flag, my heart never stopped racing. Thankfully—for my sanity as much as everyone else’s—Kimi crossed the line in P1.

Only then did I finally remember how to breathe.

Marco wanted me to go with him to greet Kimi in the parc fermé area, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I felt like I’d attract too much attention. So instead, I stayed in the garage, watching the podium ceremony on one of the team’s monitors.

Kimi stepped onto the top step, beaming as champagne sprayed in every direction.

I couldn’t help smiling.

My attention was suddenly pulled away by the vibration of my phone. An Instagram notification.

My heartbeat instantly sped up when I saw the name.

Matteo.

He had replied to the photo I’d posted from inside the garage. My hands immediately started trembling.

MATTEO: Nice. Didn’t know you were into Formula One.

ME: Kimi invited me hahaha.

I didn’t hesitate for a second. If I was going to follow through with my terrible little plan, I might as well commit to it.

A few seconds later, another message appeared.

MATTEO: Cool.

It was a simple reply. It shouldn’t have meant anything, but I knew Matteo.

Or at least, I liked to believe I did. Somewhere behind that one-word response I was convinced he’d felt at least a tiny stab of jealousy.

Suddenly, a pair of soaking wet arms wrapped around me from behind. I jumped.

“Kimi!” I spun around to face him. “You’re completely soaked!”

His grin was impossibly wide, his racing suit drenched in champagne from head to toe.

“Why weren’t you out there?” he asked.

“I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself.” I shrugged.

Kimi rolled his eyes dramatically.

“You’re always hiding.”

I laughed.

“Someone has to keep you humble.”

His smile only grew wider.

The next few weeks were the most fun I’d had in years.

Kimi had a way of making me laugh like no one else could, and his family was just as easy to be around.

Things couldn’t have been going much better for him, either. He was having the best run of his championship so far, which only made everyone’s mood lighter.

A couple of times, Marco jokingly told me I was Kimi’s lucky charm and that I should stay with them until the end of the season.

I always laughed it off.

But every time he said it, the guilt inside me grew a little stronger. I didn’t deserve their kindness. I hadn’t accepted Kimi’s invitation because I genuinely cared about Formula One or his career. I’d accepted it because it was convenient for me.

Our friends had started wondering if something had finally begun to happen between us. We’d grown so comfortable around each other that people couldn’t help noticing.

Especially Cleo.

She was probably my closest friend, and more than once she’d let me know how strange she thought it was that I’d suddenly become so interested in Kimi. I tried not to give too much away. Whenever she asked questions, I answered as vaguely as possible.

Between the Hungarian Grand Prix and Zandvoort, there was almost a month-long break. I decided to use the time to take care of my own life for a while.

Kimi had to spend some days in Brackley working with the team, so we said goodbye.

A few days later, our group of friends organized a barbecue at one of their houses. It had been a while since we’d all been together, so I decided to go.

The house was already packed when I arrived. I could hear music and laughter before I’d even walked through the front gate. Several long tables had been set up in the backyard, and the smell of grilled meat filled the warm evening air.

It was exactly the kind of gathering we’d always had whenever everyone happened to be in the same city. I greeted a few people before leaving my bag on an empty chair.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” one of the guys said.

“Honestly,” I admitted with a laugh, “neither did I.”

The past few weeks had been so different from my normal life that being back here felt strangely unfamiliar. Like returning somewhere I’d known forever, only to realize something had quietly changed.

“So… where’s Kimi?” someone else asked, taking a sip of his beer.

“Brackley. He’s working with the team.”

Everyone nodded as if that were the most obvious answer in the world. I didn’t think much of it.

At least not until a familiar voice spoke behind me.

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

I turned around.

Matteo.

His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, wearing the same relaxed expression that almost made me forget the mess he’d left behind. Almost.

“Hey.”

An awkward silence settled between us. Not because there was anything left to say. But because meither of us seemed to know where to begin.

“So…” he asked eventually, “how have you been?”

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

I nodded.

“I’ve been traveling.”

Something shifted in his expression. Just slightly.

“I saw the pictures.”

He didn’t need to explain which ones. Almost my entire Instagram feed had turned into a collection of racetracks, paddocks, and European cities.

“With Antonelli?” he asked, sounding almost indifferent.

I sighed quietly.

“Yeah.”

He waited, as if expecting me to add something. I didn’t.

“I didn’t realize you two were that close.”

A small smile tugged at my lips.

“Neither did I.”

He looked away for a moment.

“So… you spent basically the whole month with him?”

“Most of it.”

“Huh…” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded… confused. As if he was trying to fit a puzzle piece into a picture that suddenly no longer made sense.

That was when Cleo walked over, carrying two drinks.

“Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” I said.

She handed us each a cup before lingering beside us with a little too much interest.

“We were talking about her summer,” Matteo explained.

“Oh.”

The look Cleo gave me made my stomach twist. It wasn’t curious, it was analytical.

“So you really spent the whole month traveling with Kimi?”

“Yeah.”

“Interesting.”

I frowned.

“What’s interesting about it?”

She shrugged.

“Nothing. I just never imagined you two were that close.”

“I guess we are now.” Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Matteo staring down at the cup in his hands.

“And does he…?”

He stopped himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “I was just thinking… it must be hard trying to keep a friendship like that when someone spends their entire life traveling.”

There was something strange about the way he said it. It wasn’t criticism. It almost sounded like he was trying to convince me it couldn’t possibly last.

I opened my mouth to answer, but someone beat me to it.

“Well…” The familiar voice made all three of us turn around. “I’m planning on making it last.”

For one brief second, I honestly thought I was imagining things.

Kimi was standing there.

Still wearing a black Mercedes team shirt, a backpack hanging from one shoulder. His hair looked slightly messy, like he’d only just taken off his cap.

I blinked twice.

“What are you doing here?”

He smiled.

“I finished earlier than expected.” He dropped his backpack onto the ground before walking straight toward me.

He didn’t greet Matteo. He didn’t greet Cleo. He didn’t greet anyone else. He stopped right in front of me.

“I told you I’d try to make it.”

Before I could answer, he wrapped me in a hug. It wasn’t particularly romantic. But it lasted longer than anyone would’ve expected from two people who were supposedly just friends.

For a brief second, I felt his chin rest lightly against the top of my head before he pulled away.

“I missed you.” The words came out so naturally that, for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

When I looked up again, the first thing I saw was Matteo’s face. He didn’t look angry. He looked… Left behind. Like he’d just realized he’d shown up late to a conversation that had been unfolding without him for weeks.

“Hey, Matteo,” Kimi said at last, offering his hand.

“Hey.”

They shook hands politely.

It was the kind of politeness that only existed between two people trying very hard to prove they had absolutely no problem with each other.

“I thought you were in England,” Matteo said.

“I was.”

“And you came all the way here just for the barbecue?”

Kimi glanced at me for the briefest moment before answering.

“Yeah.” Just one word, but it shifted the atmosphere completely.

Cleo looked at me. She didn’t have to say anything, I could practically feel the tension radiating off her.

And, to my own embarrassment, a small part of me enjoyed every second of it.

The conversation fizzled out when someone announced the food was ready. As always, any sense of order disappeared immediately.

Everyone got to their feet at once, grabbing plates, cutlery, and searching for empty seats around the backyard.

I’d stayed behind for a moment to pour myself another drink when I noticed Kimi walking ahead of me. At first, I assumed he was just looking for somewhere to sit. It wasn’t until a few seconds later that I realized what he was doing.

He chose a table near the end of the garden. Before sitting down, he quietly pulled out the chair beside him just a little, resting one hand on the back of it as he casually continued talking to one of our friends.

The gesture looked completely unconscious. But it wasn’t. He was saving that seat.

For me.

Cleo reached the table first. Balancing her plate in one hand, she rested the other on the back of the chair.

“Mind if I sit here?”

Kimi looked up. For the briefest moment, something crossed his face, like he’d suddenly remembered something important.

“Oh—sorry.” He stepped aside with an apologetic smile. “I was actually saving that seat for Y/N.”

The silence lasted barely a second. Just long enough for Cleo to smile.

“Oh. Right.” She took her hand off the chair and quietly moved farther down the table.

Anyone else watching would’ve thought absolutely nothing of it. I probably would’ve too… If I hadn’t caught the way Cleo clenched her jaw before turning away. I tried convincing myself I was imagining things. That it had just been an awkward little moment.

“You gonna stand there all day, or are you coming?” Kimi called from the table.

His voice pulled me back to reality. I laughed softly before walking over. As soon as I reached him, he pulled out my chair.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He waited until I was comfortably seated before sitting down himself.

The gesture was so natural it felt automatic. Maybe that was exactly why everyone noticed it.

Almost instinctively, I looked up.

Matteo was still standing with his plate in his hands. He’d been walking toward our table, but the moment he saw me sitting beside Kimi, he quietly changed direction.

Instead, he sat at the opposite end of the garden. He tried joining another conversation. Still, every now and then, I caught his eyes drifting back toward our table.

Kimi noticed too. Their gazes met for only a second.

There was no challenge.

No smug smile.

Just the uncomfortable silence that exists when two people understand exactly what’s happening without either of them saying a word.

Then Kimi looked back at me.

“What?”

I shook my head.

“Nothing.” I was lying.

I’d gotten exactly what I’d wanted.

Matteo was watching me. For the first time, he finally seemed to understand that he could lose me.

And yet that victory stopped feeling important the moment Kimi, completely unaware of the game unfolding around him, reached over and spooned some salad onto my plate because he remembered it was the only way I’d eat tomatoes.

It was such an absurdly small gesture. But somehow, it unraveled something inside me.

The satisfaction I’d felt seeing Matteo’s expression faded into the background. What stayed with me for the rest of the night wasn’t Matteo at all.

It was Kimi’s easy smile as he talked to me… Completely unaware of the chaos he was causing inside my heart.

(…)

Kimi had the next two weeks off, so he invited me on a quick trip to St. Barths.

At first, I hesitated. It took him nearly half an hour of convincing before I finally gave in.

We flew first class. I’d assumed his family would be coming with us, but they weren’t. It was just the two of us.

That only made me more nervous. Up until then, every trip we’d taken together had included his parents and Maggie. Everything had always felt comfortably family-friendly.

Now we’d be alone. I didn’t know what that might lead to and I wasn’t sure I was ready for things to become more intimate.

Kimi seemed to understand that without me saying it out loud. Because he’d booked us separate hotel rooms. To my immense relief.

Our first day was spent by the hotel’s pool.

Kimi practically lived in the water while I stretched out in the sun, hoping to catch that soft golden glow summer always leaves on tan skin.

The following day, we went to the beach.

That was where I made my first mistake.

The water was so impossibly clear it looked more like an infinity pool than the ocean.

The moment we arrived, Kimi insisted I get in. I only dipped my feet into the water while looking for somewhere to leave my towel.

“It’s freezing,” I complained.

“You’re lying.”

“Kimi, you willingly sit in an ice bath after every race. Your opinion doesn’t count.”

He laughed. Without warning, he splashed a handful of water at me.

“You’re such an idiot!” I immediately splashed him back.

That was all it took.

We started chasing each other through the shallow water, laughing, soaking each other over and over again like two children who had absolutely no interest in behaving like adults.

While trying to escape, a wave caught me off guard. My footing slipped. Before I could fall, a pair of hands caught me around the waist.

Everything happened so quickly that I ended up crashing into Kimi’s chest.

Neither of us moved.

The ocean was still roaring around us. People were still laughing somewhere farther down the beach. But somehow it all felt impossibly far away.

One of Kimi’s hands was still resting around my waist. Mine had landed against his chest.

“Sorry…” he murmured.

Though he didn’t seem particularly eager to let go.His eyes drifted from mine to my lips, then back again. Like he was fighting himself.

“Y/N…” His voice was barely more than a whisper. “I don’t want to read this the wrong way.”

My heart pounded painfully against my ribs. I knew exactly what he was asking. I knew exactly why he was hesitating.

Part of me was still thinking about Matteo. About how much he’d hate this if he ever found out.

The other part simply wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss Kimi.

A small smile found its way onto my lips. I couldn’t look away.

“Why don’t you find out?”

For a split second, every trace of uncertainty disappeared from his face. Like he’d been waiting for permission all this time.

He closed the remaining distance between us.

The kiss was slow. Tentative. So unbelievably gentle it almost felt like he was asking every second whether I was still okay.

There was no urgency. No desperation. Just the soft brush of his lips against mine and, at some point, the warmth of his hand slowly tracing comforting circles along my back.

Time seemed to stop.

When we finally pulled apart, neither of us spoke.

Kimi was smiling. That small, almost disbelieving smile I’d started seeing more and more often. Like someone who’d just lived through a moment he’d imagined for years.

And all I could think was that I’d just made my plan infinitely more complicated than I’d ever intended.

That night, I couldn’t stop tossing and turning in bed. I felt awful, I didn’t deserve someone like Kimi. I’d taken advantage of him in the worst possible way.

He’d been nothing but honest with me. What I was doing was cruel. And somehow I couldn’t make myself stop.

Over the past few weeks, Kimi had slowly occupied more and more space inside my mind. Instead of fading, his presence seemed to grow stronger every single day.

Morning arrived together with an endless stream of notifications.

My eyes flew open. There were photos of Kimi and me at the beach. Standing much too close to be mistaken for just friends.

I kept scrolling.

Then my heart nearly stopped.

Pictures of us kissing. When had someone even taken them? As far as I knew, no one had been anywhere near us.

I knew Matteo would inevitably see them.

That realization should’ve made me feel satisfied.

Instead… I felt nothing. If anything, I felt even worse. It was like I’d fallen into a hole that kept getting deeper and every wall was too slippery to climb out of it.

Before Kimi woke up and discovered the media frenzy that was already unfolding online, I slipped out of the hotel.

The beach was almost empty. I wandered aimlessly along the shoreline, letting the waves wash over my feet while desperately trying to convince myself there was still a way to fix everything.

There wasn’t.

Footsteps echoed softly behind me. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

His voice startled me anyway.

When I looked back, he was walking toward me with his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. His hair was still damp. The concern on his face only made the guilt worse.

“Sorry… I just needed to get out for a while.”

He nodded.

He didn’t ask why. He simply stopped beside me and looked out at the ocean. After a while, he finally spoke.

“I saw the pictures.”

A knot tightened in my throat.

“I’m sorry.” It was all I could manage.

He turned to look at me, clearly confused.

“What are you apologizing for?”

I opened my mouth. None of the real answers would come.

Because I’m using you. Because I never should’ve kissed you. Because none of this started because of you. In the end, I chose the easiest lie.

“I didn’t want this to become public.”

A quiet laugh escaped through his nose.

“Believe me… I wasn’t expecting there to be a photographer hiding behind a palm tree either.”

Despite everything, I smiled.

When he noticed, he smiled too. Just for a second, he’d managed to pull me out of my own head.

Silence settled between us again.

He took a slow breath.

“If this makes you uncomfortable we can just tell everyone it was a misunderstanding.”

I looked at him confused. He avoided my eyes.

“I don’t want you thinking one kiss means you’re suddenly obligated to anything.”

My chest ached. Even believing I’d regretted kissing him, his first instinct was still to make things easier for me.

He was always like that. Always thinking about how I felt before himself.

“I just… I need a little time today.”

The disappointment that flickered across his face lasted barely a heartbeat.

Most people would’ve missed it. I didn’t.

He smiled.

“Take all the time you need.” He reached over, gently ruffling my hair before turning away.

He didn’t push, didn’t ask questions, didn’t try to convince me to stay. He simply respected what I’d asked.

I spent the rest of the day hiding in my room.

I tried sleeping. Then reading. Then convincing myself I could still stop all of this before it went any further. Every attempt ended the same way. With the memory of Kimi smiling at me on the beach.

By the time night fell, someone knocked on my door. I opened it expecting room service. Instead, It was Kimi.

He was wearing a plain white T-shirt, his hair was still slightly messy. His hands were buried deep inside his pockets.

He looked so nervous that, for a second, I thought he might change his mind and leave.

“Can I come in?”

I stepped aside.

He sat down on the small sofa by the window but stayed quiet for several seconds. His hands rubbed nervously together, like he was rehearsing every word in his head.

“I’ve been thinking a lot since yesterday.” He finally looked up at me. “And I don’t think I want to keep pretending this doesn’t mean anything to me.”

My breathing stopped.

“I know maybe that kiss was impulsive for you…” He smiled shyly. “And if it was… I understand, but it wasn’t for me.”

He lowered his eyes before meeting mine again.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time.” Another quiet breath. “I’ve liked you for a really long time.”

My heart pounded so hard I could barely hear anything else.

“I don’t want to pressure you, I just… I wanted to ask if you’d like to give us a real chance.”

Silence swallowed the room.

No.

I needed to say no, that was the right thing to do. I could still stop this before I hurt him even more.

But I also knew that saying no wouldn’t erase the kiss, It wouldn’t erase the photographs, It wouldn’t erase everything that had already begun to grow between us.

All it would do was make me lose the one person who had spent months trying, every single day, to make me happy.

I let out a slow breath.

I was still trapped in that hole, but now instead of trying to climb out, I picked up a shovel and started digging even deeper.

I’d already crossed too many lines.

And instead of turning back, I crossed one more.

“Yes.”

The smile that lit up Kimi’s face was so genuine that I had to look away.

He believed he’d just lived through one of the happiest moments of his life.

I’d just made my second mistake.

(…)

The next few weeks were complete chaos.

Kimi hadn’t publicly confirmed our relationship, but people didn’t need a statement after seeing us walk into the Zandvoort paddock hand in hand.

His family, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier.

“Finally,” Marco declared dramatically after finding out. “I was starting to think I’d die before Andrea finally admitted how he felt about you.”

Kimi and I exchanged an embarrassed laugh.

Just like his father, several members of the team came over to congratulate us, joking about Kimi’s little crush that, apparently, everyone had known about for a very long time.

A knot tightened in my stomach. Now I finally understood what all those knowing smiles had meant. I understood why everyone had welcomed me so warmly the first day I’d stepped into the Monaco paddock.

Social media, however, wasn’t nearly as supportive.

People were deeply divided. Some were genuinely happy for Kimi. Others had taken the opportunity to pour out every ounce of jealousy and hatred they’d apparently been saving.

I found that out one morning when a post appeared on my X timeline.

@kimi12aka: I don’t know who needs to hear this, but Kimi deserves someone who loves him for who he is, not for everything he can give.

He looks at her like she’s the love of his life, and she looks like she wouldn’t have given him a second glance before he became a Mercedes driver. You can tell she’s good at manipulating men. One day Andrea’s going to regret trusting the wrong person.

I couldn’t understand why the algorithm had decided to show me something like that. Until I looked closer.

Cleo’s private account had reposted it.

My eyebrows immediately drew together. How could she share something like that? But the longer I stared at the repost, the more all of Cleo’s recent behavior started making sense.

She was jealous.

I wasn’t entirely sure of what. But it was the only explanation that fit.

I was about to message her when Matteo’s name flashed across my screen.

MATTEO: I saw you’re in Italy. Want to grab a coffee?

For the first time I hesitated before saying yes. A few months earlier, I would’ve done anything for that opportunity.

Now, accepting somehow felt like betraying Kimi.

MATTEO: Just an hour. Don’t worry.

His persistence made me feel guilty enough that, eventually I agreed.

I arrived at the café ten minutes early.

I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous. Matteo and I had shared dozens of coffees before. But this one felt different. Maybe because, for the first time, I wasn’t secretly hoping something would happen between us.

He arrived a few minutes later wearing a simple white T-shirt and a dark baseball cap. He smiled the moment he spotted me.

“Thanks for coming.”

“It was no trouble.”

An awkward silence settled over the table as the waiter brought our drinks. Neither of us seemed to know how to begin.

Matteo broke the silence first.

“I saw the pictures.”

He didn’t need to explain which ones.

“Oh…”

“You look happy.” There was no bitterness in his voice. Only sadness.

“I’m trying to be.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh.

“I guess I deserve that.”

I frowned slightly.

He rubbed a hand over his face before speaking again.

“I’ve done a lot of thinking these past few months.”

“So have I,” I admitted.

He nodded slowly.

“…I don’t think in the same way.” His fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of his coffee cup. “When you started traveling with Kimi, I thought you were just trying to get my attention.”

My stomach twisted.

“I figured if I waited long enough, you’d get tired of it and everything would go back to the way it used to be.”He paused. “But it didn’t.”

He took a slow breath.

“That’s when I realized…” His eyes met mine. “The problem was never Kimi. It was me.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I stayed quiet.

“I got too used to having you around.” He smiled bitterly. “You were always there, and I just assumed you always would be until one day you stopped looking at me the way you used to.”

My throat tightened.

“I broke up with Julia two weeks ago.”

I blinked.

“What?”

“I realized I was trying to build a relationship while I was still thinking about someone else.”

My heartbeat quickened.

“Y/N…” His voice softened. “I love you.”

For a moment the world stopped.

“I know I’m late and I know I hurt you. But if there’s still even the smallest chance… I want to try again.”

The words I’d spent months dreaming about were finally right in front of me.

And yet I felt nothing. Nothing like the happiness I’d imagined all those times before.

I lowered my gaze to my hands.

I tried.

I truly did.

I tried to find the girl who would’ve jumped out of her chair to hug him. But she wasn’t there anymore.

Instead all I could see was Kimi.

Kimi laughing while trying to teach me how to swim.

Kimi pulling out a chair for me.

Kimi remembering that I’d only eat tomatoes if they were in a salad.

Kimi looking at me like I was the best part of every single one of his days.

I took a deep breath.

“A few months ago I would’ve given anything to hear you say that.”

Matteo closed his eyes for just a second. He already knew my answer.

“But you were too late.”

He smiled sadly.

“It’s because of Antonelli… isn’t it?”

I slowly shook my head.

“No.” I paused. “It’s because of me.”

He frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“It means, while you were realizing you loved me, I realized I’d stopped waiting for you.”

The silence that followed was devastating.

Matteo nodded once. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to change my mind. He simply left some cash on the table.

“I hope he knows how lucky he is.”

I watched him walk away without looking back.

For the first time in months, I finally felt that chapter of my life had come to an end.

When I got back to the hotel, I found Kimi sitting on the balcony. His phone rested in his hands. He didn’t look up right away.

“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah.” The answer came too quickly. Too flat.

He set the phone down on the glass table before finally looking at me.

“How was coffee?”

I froze. I didn’t remember telling him I was meeting Matteo.

“It was… fine.”

He held my gaze for a few long seconds.

“Did you just talk?”

My stomach dropped.

“Why are you asking?”

Without saying a word, Kimi picked up his phone again. He unlocked it. Then turned the screen toward me.

There were several photos. Matteo and I walking into the café. The two of us smiling across the table. Matteo leaning slightly toward me and one taken through the café window where the angle made our hands look much closer than they’d actually been.

My breath caught.

“Who sent you those?”

“I don’t know.” His voice remained calm but his knuckles had turned white around the phone.

After several long seconds, he spoke again. Almost in a whisper.

“I just need you to tell me one thing.” He swallowed hard “Do you still love him?”

There was no anger in his voice. Only fear. A fear so deep that the photographs themselves suddenly stopped mattering.

I stepped closer until I was standing in front of him.

“No.”

He searched my face.

Looking for even the smallest hint of hesitation.

“He asked me to meet him. He broke up with Julia and told me he wanted another chance.”

I watched Kimi’s jaw tighten.

“And you?”

I slowly shook my head.

“I said no.”

For the first time since I’d walked into the room, his shoulders relaxed. He let out a slow breath, like he’d been holding it all afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” He lowered his head. “I didn’t want to doubt you. It’s just… When I saw those pictures…”

He didn’t finish.

He didn’t have to.

I took one more step toward him and gently took his hand.

“I’m here.”

Almost instinctively, he laced his fingers with mine. When he looked back at me, the tension between us had changed.

It was no longer fear. It was the quiet need to feel close again. Without taking his eyes off mine, he slowly closed what little distance still remained between us. His lips sought mine with excruciating slowness until contact finally came.

His hands tightened around my hips, anchoring me against him as a low moan escaped his throat—a mixture of relief and desire that vibrated straight through my chest.

"Are you sure you want to keep going?" he asked, his words coming out between ragged breaths.

I could only nod hurriedly.

The air grew heavy, saturated with the citrus scent that always clung to him, now mixed with the metallic tang of adrenaline. We stumbled backward, bumping into the edge of the table and knocking a few decorations to the floor with dull thuds that neither of us even registered.

Kimi lifted me in one fluid motion, wrapping my legs around his waist before sitting me on the cold tabletop, the chill creating an electric contrast against the suffocating heat of his hands sliding beneath my blouse.

His kisses were no longer driven by urgency alone; they had become territorial, trailing down my jaw until they found the exact spot on my neck where my pulse hammered wildly.

I felt his teeth graze my skin, a deliberate pressure that arched my back and drew a moan from me, one that was swallowed by his mouth when he claimed my lips again.

There was no room for doubt anymore.

"You're beautiful," he said, his hands still wandering gently over my body. "I love everything about you."

His fingers, rough and resolute, found the fastening of my pants, undoing it with an efficiency that suggested he had imagined this moment a thousand times. When his hand finally reached the warm wetness between my thighs, a sharp gasp escaped me as my world narrowed to the single point where his skin touched mine.

I pressed myself closer to him, desperately trying to erase every last millimeter between us, feeling the hardness of his cock pressing against my stomach.

Kimi pulled back just enough to meet my gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that set me on fire, while his breath struck my cheek in short, hot bursts.

There were no words, only the sound of my pants and panties sliding down my legs with an urgency that bordered on desperation. He left me vulnerable, exposed to the cold air of the room, but the chill lasted only a heartbeat before his mouth claimed my collarbone again, leaving behind a trail of fire that made my fingertips tremble.

His fingers sank into my wet cunt with a steady, rhythmic pressure, exploring the texture of my walls with ravenous curiosity. I felt my body arch involuntarily, craving more of that friction, while a deep moan rumbled from his chest, resonating through the empty space between us.

His movements were anything but gentle; they were precise, driven by a muscle memory that seemed to know exactly where to press and how long to hold the tension before releasing the first spasm.

Without warning, he lifted me off the table only to turn me around, pressing my chest against the cold wooden surface. The sharp contrast stole my breath, leaving me exposed as I felt his body—solid and burning hot—anchor itself against my back. His hands slid down to grip my thighs, spreading them apart with a firmness that left me defenseless, while his breathing, now ragged, scorched the back of my neck.

There was no pause for tenderness; the rough brush of his pants against my damp skin was a delicious torture that made me want to bite the edge of the table to keep from crying out.

I felt the cool fabric of his trousers grazing my hip before he stripped out of them in abrupt, almost violent movements, driven by an urgency he could no longer contain.

When he finally felt the direct friction of skin against skin, an electric shiver raced down my spine, and a muffled sob escaped me, absorbed against the skin of my shoulder as he marked me with the possessiveness of someone reclaiming something they had believed was lost.

The entry was slow, a deliberate penetration that forced me to close my eyes and dig my nails into the wood as I felt every inch of me stretch to make room for him.

It wasn’t smooth; it was a struggle between resistance and surrender, where the air grew thick and the sound of our bodies colliding began to set the rhythm of the room.

He buried himself inside me with one deep thrust that stole the breath from my lungs, stopping at the precise point where the tension became unbearable, savoring the uncontrollable trembling of my legs beneath his grip.

Then the cadence changed. There was no longer any room for anticipation; it became raw, almost animal urgency. His thrusts grew heavy, driving into me with a force that shook my entire body against the table, the wood creaking beneath the weight of our desperation.

It was a feverish rhythm, stripped of every trace of tenderness, where each impact felt like a claim, an invisible mark being etched into my skin as rough, ragged breaths escaped him.

There was no subtlety in the way his hands closed around my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh to anchor me in place, making sure there wasn’t a single millimeter of air between us.

I felt small, overwhelmed by the intensity of his desire, like it was meant to consume me. Every thrust was a jolt, a sharp, visceral collision that forced me to arch my back to its limit, desperately chasing the point where pleasure fused with an almost painful pressure.

I could feel the tension coiling low in my abdomen, a knot tightening with every stroke of his cock against my cunt, while he whispered my name in a broken voice, almost a plea, against the curve of my neck.

His movements became erratic, shorter and deeper. Then, without warning, the rhythm broke. His hands clamped down on my hips with desperate force, pinning me against the wood as a guttural groan tore from his throat.

I felt the first contraction, an involuntary spasm that made my vagina tighten around his cock, and then the dam broke. A wave of liquid heat surged from the very center of my being, spreading outward in ripples that forced my head back as a cry escaped me, swallowed by the heavy air filling the room.

He didn’t stop. If anything, he drove into me one last time with a depth that stole the oxygen from my lungs, releasing a moan that reverberated through my entire chest as his body tensed like a rope pulled to its breaking point.

Pleasure ceased to be a sensation and became a deafening hum. For a single moment, we remained suspended in that precise instant when desire stops being hunger and becomes pure exhaustion. The table no longer creaked beneath us, replaced only by the dull echo of our breathing colliding with one another.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Our breathing gradually slowed until the urgency dissolved into something quieter. Something deeper.

He brushed another kiss against my shoulder.

“I thought I’d lost you today,” he admitted softly. His voice cracked ever so slightly.

I closed my eyes.

“You didn’t.” The words came out barely above a whisper.

He held me a little tighter.

“As soon as I saw those pictures…” He exhaled shakily. “I kept thinking maybe I’d never really had you to begin with.”

My chest tightened. I turned in his arms until I was facing him again.

“You have me.”

For the first time that evening, the tension disappeared completely from his expression. His forehead rested gently against mine as he smiled—a small, relieved smile that reached his eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered.

The words settled quietly between us.

I couldn’t bring myself to answer, not because I didn’t feel anything. But because I still wasn’t sure I deserved to.

(...)

Months later, I found myself in a get together with our friends. The party looked exactly like every other party our group had ever thrown.

The music was far too loud, someone was burning the meat on the grill, and half a dozen conversations were happening all at once.

Seeing Cleo again made me wonder if I'd overreacted about Twitter. Maybe Cleo's repost had just been a stupid, impulsive decision. Maybe if we both pretended it had never happened, things could go back to the way they were.

I was wrong.

"Y/N!" One of the guys waved me over from the backyard. "Come here—we were just talking about Kimi."

I couldn't help smiling as I walked over.

Cleo was already sitting there, a glass of wine in her hand. Our eyes met for only a second. She was the first to look away.

"So?" Marc asked. "How's Mercedes' golden boy doing?"

I laughed softly.

"Pretty well. He's feeling really confident with the car."

"It shows," another friend said. "I've never seen him this relaxed."

He smirked.

"Must be because he finally has a girlfriend."

Every pair of eyes immediately turned toward me. Heat rushed to my cheeks.

"Don't start..."

Laughter rippled around the table. Everyone laughed... Except one person.

"Yeah." Cleo's voice was so quiet it almost disappeared beneath the music. "Some people really do have all the luck."

I chose to ignore her. Someone else quickly changed the subject, asking what life inside the paddock was actually like.

I told them a funny story from Monza about a Mercedes mechanic who had mistaken me for a member of the team. Everyone laughed.

"Look at you," Cleo spoke again. "Six months ago you couldn't tell a Ferrari from a Williams, and now you sound like an F1 commentator."

The laughter this time was noticeably weaker. I simply smiled.

"I guess you learn a thing or two when you spend that much time traveling."

"Of course." She slowly swirled the wine in her glass before looking at me. "When someone offers to take you around the world for free, the least you can do is learn a little about their hobbie."

Silence crashed over the table.

One of the guys awkwardly cleared his throat, another suddenly became very interested in his phone. No one seemed to know what to say.

I took a slow breath.

No.

I wasn't going to give her the satisfaction. I kept talking to everyone else like nothing had happened. For almost twenty minutes, I managed to convince myself the night might end without us confronting each other.

Then someone pulled out their phone to show us vacation pictures. As they scrolled from one photo to the next, one image appeared.

Kimi and me. Walking through the Zandvoort paddock hand in hand.

"You two look adorable here."

I smiled faintly.

"That was the day we—"

"...made it official," Cleo finished for me. She took another sip of wine. "Although... I suppose for Andrea, it had been official long before that."

I frowned.

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged.

"Nothing. I just think it's funny how some people spend years waiting for a chance while others just happen to show up at exactly the right moment."

This time, I wasn't the only one who caught the poison behind her words.

The conversation died completely. I slowly set my glass on the table.

"Cleo."

She looked up.

"Yeah?"

"Come with me for a minute."

For the first time all evening, she smiled. A real smile, like she'd been waiting for exactly this.

"Sure."

"We need to talk," I said the moment we were alone in the kitchen.

She barely looked up.

I waited.

She said nothing.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and placed it on the countertop in front of her.

The repost was already open. The post calling me a gold digger. A manipulator. The girl who was only with Andrea because of everything he could offer.

Cleo looked at the screen for barely a second, then calmly took another sip of wine.

"So?"

My patience started slipping.

"You're seriously asking me 'so?'"

"Yeah."

"Why did you repost this?"

She looked back at the phone.

"Because I felt like it."

I frowned.

"You know exactly how much hate I've been getting ever since my relationship with Andrea became public."

"I know."

"Then why would you add to it?"

She let out a dry laugh.

"Because for once, someone on the internet actually said something that made sense."

Anger surged through me.

"Do you really think that's who I am?"

She set her glass down.

"I don't think it. I suspect it."

"Suspect what?"

She held my gaze.

"That Andrea wasn't your first choice."

Silence settled between us. I forced myself not to react.

"You're talking nonsense."

"Am I?" She crossed her arms. "A few months ago you cried over Matteo every single day. Then Julia showed up and, conveniently, weeks later you were traveling around Europe with Andrea. How convenient."

I clenched my jaw.

"You have no idea what actually happened."

"No." Her voice remained infuriatingly calm. "I don't. But I do know how to add two and two together."

I inhaled slowly.

"You're letting your jealousy make up stories."

That finally made her smile, not because she'd found it funny. Because I'd hit a nerve.

"Jealous?"

"Yes." I pointed directly at her. "You're jealous. You've always liked Andrea."

She laughed.

"And if I do?"

The question caught me off guard.

"What?"

"If I like Andrea... Does that automatically make me wrong?"

I didn't answer. She stepped closer.

"Answer me something instead. When Matteo started dating Julia how did that make you feel?"

I looked down for a split second.

She noticed immediately.

"Exactly. It hurt."

I nodded.

"Yeah."

"And right after that, Andrea invited you to travel with him."

A knot formed in my stomach.

"Yeah."

"And you said yes."

"...Yeah."

She smiled sadly.

"See why I have my suspicions?"

I raised my voice for the first time.

"That doesn't prove anything!"

"Oh?" Her voice never changed. "Then tell me why did you say yes?"

I opened my mouth.

The answer was simple.

Because I wanted to forget Matteo. But I couldn't say that. Because then I'd have to explain how.

My silence condemned me.

Cleo sighed.

"That's what I thought."

I immediately tried to defend myself.

"Things changed. I love him now." I said it firmly, because it was true.

She believed me. I saw it in her eyes. But it didn't make her feel any better if anything... It only made her look sadder.

"I don't doubt that you love him now." She paused. "What I doubt is why you gave him a chance in the first place."

My breathing quickened.

"Stay out of my relationship."

She slowly shook her head.

"Do you know what makes me the angriest?" She didn't wait for an answer. "He genuinely believes you chose him. That one day you woke up and thought I want to be with Andrea. When we both know that's not how it happened."

A hollow ache spread through my chest. Because even if she didn't know the whole story, she'd gotten far too close. I took a step toward her.

"Don't ever speak like you know my life."

"And you should stop pretending this started because of love."

That was it. I completely lost my temper.

"You don't know anything!"

"I know enough." She didn't blink. "I know you went to see Matteo."

My entire body froze.

"...How?"

Cleo slowly let out a breath.

"Because I'm the one who sent Andrea those pictures."

The world seemed to stop. I stared at her in disbelief.

"What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"It was you?" She nodded.

A mixture of anger and disbelief rushed through me.

"Why would you do something like that?"

It took her several seconds to answer. When she finally did, her voice sounded utterly exhausted.

"Because I wanted to be wrong."

I frowned. She smiled sadly.

"I wanted Andrea to receive those pictures and for you to be able to look him in the eye without being afraid. But after I saw you I knew I'd hit something, I don't know what. But something."

My heart pounded painfully.

"You could've destroyed my relationship."

"No." She shook her head firmly. "If a few photographs were enough to destroy your relationship then the photographs were never the problem. The problem was the secret you've been hiding from him since the very beginning."

Silence fell between us.

I was shaking with anger.

She was shaking with sadness.

She picked up her wine glass. Before walking away, she stopped beside me.

"I really hope you love him as much as you say you do. Because if he ever finds out otherwise... I don't think he'd survive it."

I watched her walk away, unable to move a single muscle.

For the first time since I'd accepted that trip, I realized the truth no longer belonged to me alone.

Someone else had started to see it. Even if they could only make out its outline through the shadows.

I didn't go back inside the party. I said goodbye to the few people who were still outside using whatever excuse came to mind, then drove for almost an hour without any real destination.

I didn't cry. I'd already cried every tear I had left during my argument with Cleo.

All that remained was an unbearable emptiness in my chest. For the first time since all of this had begun, I realized there was no point in putting it off any longer. I could keep hiding the truth. Keep waiting for the perfect moment. But the perfect moment was never going to come.

And with every passing day, the lie only grew bigger.

The apartment was completely silent when I got home.

I glanced at the clock, it was almost eleven at night. For a moment, I considered turning around, waiting until the next day, making up another excuse.

Doing what I'd spent months doing: Running away.

My hand was already on the doorknob when the bedroom door opened.

Kimi looked up the moment he saw me. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt, a glass of water in one hand. The expression on his face changed immediately.

"What happened?"

I shook my head. I tried to smile but I couldn't.

He set the glass down on the table without taking his eyes off me.

"Come here."

He didn't ask another question. He simply opened his arms and I did exactly what I'd spent weeks trying to avoid.

I fell apart.

I felt his arms wrap tightly around me as I buried my face against his chest. He didn't say anything. He just slowly rubbed my back, like he knew that any words would only break something that was barely holding together.

I don't know how long we stayed like that. Five minutes, maybe ten.

Until I finally managed to speak.

"I need to tell you something."

I felt his hand stop moving against my back. He didn't let go of me, but his breathing changed.

"Okay."

I took a deep breath. I pulled back just enough to look at him. I'd never found it so difficult to hold his gaze.

"I don't even know where to start."

Kimi sat down on the couch and quietly gestured for me to sit beside him. Then he waited. Just like he always did. Without pressuring me, without filling the silence, simply waiting. I sat down beside him.

My hands were shaking.

"Do you remember the first time you invited me to travel with you?"

A faint smile appeared on his face.

"Of course."

"I've been wanting to talk to you about that day for months."

The smile slowly faded. I lowered my eyes to my hands.

"It all started long before we kissed, before we started dating, before I even understood what I felt for you."

I took another deep breath. I knew that once I said the next words... There would be no taking them back.

"When I accepted that trip I didn't do it for the right reasons."

The silence that followed was unbearable. I waited for some kind of reaction.

A question, a change in his expression, anything. Nothing came. Kimi remained perfectly still, watching me quietly, waiting for me to finish.

I swallowed hard.

"I was completely heartbroken over Matteo. I thought about him all the time. I couldn't understand why he'd chosen Julia and then you came along." I looked up at him for only a brief moment. "You were the only guy I knew had feelings for me, and I..."

My voice began to crack.

"I convinced myself that if I started dating you I'd be able to forget him." The tears came before I could stop them. "I thought I was taking advantage of an opportunity not a person. But I was wrong, because the person was you and you never deserved that."

The room fell silent again. This time for much longer.

I struggled to breathe.

"I don't expect you to forgive me, I don't even expect you to want to see me again after this, I just couldn't keep lying to you anymore. For months, every time you told me 'I love you,' it felt heavier than the time before." I lowered my head completely. “I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry."

Kimi didn't answer.

I heard him slowly let out a breath. Then I felt him gently take one of my hands between both of his. He held it there for several seconds, like searching for the right words.

When he finally spoke... His voice was much calmer than I ever could have imagined.

"Are you finished?"

I looked up at him, confused. I nodded.

A very small smile appeared on his face, sad, but genuine.

"Then let me talk now."

Kimi remained silent for a few moments.

He never looked away from me. His fingers still held my hand with the same gentle touch they always had, as if he was afraid that one careless movement might break me.

He lowered his head for a second and let out a quiet breath of laughter through his nose. It wasn't mocking. It was the nervous laugh of someone who had been waiting for this moment for far too long.

"I've spent months imagining what this conversation would be like."

I frowned slightly.

"What?"

He looked back up.

"Not exactly like this." A sad smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "But I always knew it would happen someday."

My breathing stopped.

"What do you mean?"

He stayed quiet for a few seconds, choosing each word with care.

"I never knew exactly what had happened." He slowly shook his head. "There were just... things that never quite added up."

A chill ran down my spine.

Kimi took a breath before continuing.

"At first, I thought I was imagining it. It was easier to believe I was just being insecure. That I was seeing problems that weren't really there." A faint smile crossed his face. "George always says I overthink everything."

That managed to pull the smallest smile out of me before it disappeared almost instantly. His expression grew serious again.

"But the more time I spent with you the harder it became to ignore." He looked down at our intertwined hands. "There were moments when I'd catch you looking at me and I knew you were really there, with me. But then there were other moments..."

His voice softened.

"...when someone mentioned Matteo, and something changed in your face. Just a little, if I hadn't been paying so much attention to you I probably never would've noticed."

A sharp ache spread through my chest. Because he was right. I hadn't even been aware of those tiny changes. He had.

"Then you agreed to come to every race, we became closer, then we kissed, then we started dating and there were still things I couldn't understand." He looked back at me. "Not because I doubted that you cared about me. That was never the problem, what I couldn't understand was... Why me?"

I blinked.

"What?"

"I never understood why you'd chosen me. There were better-looking guys, older guys, guys with more experience, guys who looked a lot more like Matteo. I was just..."

He let out an awkward laugh.

"...me."

I immediately shook my head.

"Andrea..."

He smiled softly.

"Let me finish."

I nodded without saying a word.

"Then the coffee happened. It wasn't the pictures, the pictures just forced me to ask myself something I'd been avoiding for a long time." He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "What if I'd just come along at the right time?"

Fresh tears filled my eyes.

Kimi had never had proof. He'd never read a message. He'd never overheard a conversation. He'd figured it out entirely on his own. Just by piecing together tiny details that anyone else would've overlooked.

"I thought about asking you. So many times, there were nights when I almost did. But every single time I came to the same conclusion." He took a deep breath. "If I forced you to answer before you were ready I'd never know whether your answer came from love or guilt."

The first tear rolled down my cheek.

"Kimi..."

He slowly shook his head.

"Just listen to me a little longer." His thumb gently brushed over the back of my hand.

Such a tiny gesture and somehow It was enough to break me all over again.

"Then Matteo came back, he broke up with Julia, he came looking for you and I thought this is it, this is where it ends."

A sob escaped before I could stop it. He smiled at me with endless tenderness.

"I was convinced you were going back to him and do you know what the worst part was? I wasn't angry with you, I was just scared. So unbelievably scared, because I understood exactly why you'd choose him. He was the boy you'd been in love with for so long, the one you'd spent months waiting for."

I tightened my grip around his hands.

"But you didn't go back."

His voice cracked for the first time. Only slightly, enough for me to notice.

"You came back to me, not because he didn't love you anymore. You came back after he told you he loved you, after he offered you exactly the life you'd wanted for so long and that's when..." He smiled. "That's when I stopped asking questions."

Through my tears, I frowned.

"Why?"

"Because I realized that was the first decision you'd ever made thinking only about us. Not about Matteo, not about the past, about us."

A long silence settled between us. A very long one. I could barely breathe.

"Everything else, everything that happened before..." He let out a slow breath. "Of course it hurt, it hurt more than I can explain. There were days when I wondered whether every kiss had really been for me. When you told me you loved me, whether you already loved me or whether you were still trying to forget someone else."

He let out a quiet laugh, though I could see his eyes beginning to glisten.

"It was awful I'm not going to lie to you. But one day I realized something." He slowly lifted his hand and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "I stopped asking myself why you'd come into my life and I started asking myself why you were still here."

"Because you'd already had the chance to leave and you didn't. So I decided to wait until one day you trusted me enough to tell me everything."

"Even if it took months, even if it took years." His smile grew just a little wider. "I just wanted it to be your choice. Not because someone found out, not because someone forced you. But because you no longer wanted to hide from me."

I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes. I'd spent months imagining this moment. In every version I'd played out in my head, he stood up from the couch, asked me to leave, or—at best—told me he needed time.

I never imagined the hardest outcome would be this. That he would understand me.

That hurt so much more, because there was nowhere left for me to hide.

A broken laugh escaped me as I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand.

"You're an idiot."

Kimi raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah?"

I nodded several times.

"A complete idiot."

He chuckled quietly.

"I already knew that."

I shook my head.

"No, no you don't." I pointed a trembling finger at him. "Who waits that many months knowing there's a chance they're being used?"

He lowered his gaze. It took him a few seconds to answer.

"Someone who was afraid of hearing the answer before it was ready." The honesty in his voice completely unraveled me.

I started crying again. This time, I didn't even try to stop. Kimi didn't do anything.

He didn't move closer, didn't try to hug me, he simply let me feel everything. And somehow the space he gave me was exactly what made me close the distance myself.

I rested my forehead against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

"I'm sorry." My voice was barely a whisper. "I really am."

I felt him gently rest his cheek against the top of my head.

"I know."

We stayed like that for a long time. Neither of us seemed in any hurry to break the silence.

I was the one who spoke again.

"You know what makes me the angriest?"

He slowly shook his head.

I took a deep breath.

"If I could go back, I'd change the reason I accepted that trip. But I'd never change the fact that I accepted it."

Kimi lifted his head slightly to look at me. I continued before I could lose my nerve.

"Because it was the worst decision I've ever made and somehow, it was also the best."

A small smile appeared on his face. He didn't say anything. He waited, just like he always did.

"I just wish I'd found my way to you differently. That's what I can't forgive myself for, not being the person you deserved to meet." I lowered my gaze again. "Sometimes I think about the girl who got on that plane and I don't like her very much. Not at all, because she had no idea how much damage she was about to cause."

Kimi let out a quiet laugh through his nose.

"I do."

I looked up at him, confused.

He shrugged.

"She was an eighteen-year-old girl with a broken heart. People do stupid things when their hearts are broken and that doesn't make them bad people."

I stayed silent. I'd never looked at it that way.

"Besides..." He paused. "If that girl hadn't accepted that trip, I never would've met the woman I'm in love with now."

I felt my chest tighten again. Not from guilt, this time was something else. Something much closer to peace.

I took his hand in both of mine.

"Promise me something."

"What is it?"

"If I ever make you doubt how I feel again don't wait months. Tell me, even if we argue, even if I get upset, even if you're scared. I want you to be the one who tells me."

He smiled.

"It's a deal."

I smiled back. The first completely genuine smile I'd given all night.

We didn't need to say I love you. We'd already said those words hundreds of times before. The difference was that, for the first time those words were no longer resting on top of a lie.

I rested my head against his shoulder while he intertwined our fingers.

Neither of us spoke again. We didn't need to, we'd spent far too long trying to rewrite the past and, at last we both seemed ready to make peace with it.

There's a version of this story where I'm the villain.

And honestly...

I'm not going to argue with it.

Because the only thing that version never tells you... Is that people are rarely defined by the worst decision they've ever made.

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IrisLn turning 18 with mama... now we're onto canada

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user1 omg the 2nd pic my hearttt

lilamoss gorg…. what’s in canada girl 😭

->IrisLn the canadian gp!! invited by ferrari me and my moms first time going ->user2 ugh nepo baby's always living my dreams.. ->IrisLn im very lucky user2 ! wouldn't have these opportunities without the help of my last name <3 ->user3 a aware nepo baby.... rare

user4 the vibes are adorable

user5 happy birthday queen

yourusername My pretty girl!! That second picture needs to be framed!

->IrisLn it's one of my favs <3

user6 how cute are you two!!

user7 your photo dumps are always so cozy

user8 your mom being one of the biggest icons of the 2000's wow

user9 face card is so crazy

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enews Fans speculate the identity of Y/n L/n's daughter is Formula One Driver Lewis Hamilton.

Y/n L/n and Hamilton were spotted leaving the same party 18 years ago and L/n's daughter Iris just turned 18...

Prior to L/n giving birth in 2008, L/n alluded to not knowing anything about her daughters father aside from his first name. Years later while talking about the identity of her baby's father she replied "I've loved every second of raising Iris [her daughter] and I think when she gets to a certain age we'll have that conversation or get that test done." When asked for a comment L/n didn't reply.

Are you among the crowd of people who think Hamilton is the father?

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user1 she’s truly a perfect mix of them both

user2 wait she does look like them 😭

user3 based on her saying "get that test done" does this mean she had no idea who lewis was...?

->user4 im assuming if it is true but i don't know how she couldn't ->user5 y/n isn't really that online and only goes to major events so it's not crazy to not know who is is lowkey ->user6 also 2008 lewis and 2026 lewis do look fairly different 😭 and if she was tipsy she might not remember his race that well

user7 imagine finding out your date is THE Lewis Hamilton WHILE your mom is THE Y/n L/n wth

user8 she hit the genetic lottery

user9 fans putting this together before y/n or lewis did is crazy

user10 why is this now coming out im so!???!?!

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yourusername time well spent in canada! ❤

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user1 heyyy queen i have a quick question

IrisLn insightful weekend 😅

->user2 "insightful in many ways" DOES THIS MEAN?!??? ->user3 it's real what the fuckkkkk ->user4 this is crazy wth

user5 im sure the time was WELL spent

user6 lewis in the likes too :D

user7 i can't prove it but those flowers are from lewis

->user8 LITERALLY!!! ->user9 they have to be

user10 can we talk about the elephant in the room please

user11 omg she got the podium lift on video how cuteee

user12 iris' comment is soooo 😭

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tmz Y/n L/n and Lewis Hamilton confirm the rumors of Iris L/n being their child in newly released statement.

Hamilton says “I kind of knew she had a baby but I didn’t look too much into it, I thought she’d reach out if she [Iris L/n] was mine but when Y/n and I met again recently it reminded me that when we first met she had no clue who I was. So all this time she just thought I was a random guy who she met at a party, it’s strange she’s [Y/n L/n] has always been in the back of my mind for years. Reconnecting with them all these years later it feels like I found a missing piece.” L/n and their daughter Iris were in attendance at the Canadian Grand Prix which is where the two met again after 18 years.

When asked for a comment Y/n L/n replied "I was so focused on raising our daughter, that who her father's identity was wasn't really a main priority of mine. I also only knew Lewis. I didn't know he was Lewis Hamilton, if I'd known sooner I would've 100% reached out to him. I feel bad for how long it took but we have forever to get to know each other." L/n was seen arriving at Hamilton's Monaco apartment recently, confirming the two are reconnecting.

Click the link in our bio to read more.

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user1 this is so insane

user2 after seeing them all side by side it just makes sense

user3 i just can't make myself believe she didn't know who he was

->user4 well they both said it so believe it ->user5 y'all are so annoying... why would they lie about it?

user6 all because she went to a f1 race with her daughter wow

user7 ugh i feel bad because she had no clue about him :/

user8 missed 18 years because she had no clue who is was is crazy

->user9 i think that's why she said "we have forever to get to know each other" because it would've been fairly easy to find out who lewis is ->user10 she was just busy trying to raise her kid... i honestly don't think she should feel to bad tbh ->user11 yeah user also probably wanted to let her daughter have the choice of knowing who her dad is

user12 having go through this all in the public eye would ruin me

user13 if this brings lewis and y/n together... i'll cry

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lewishamilton Family ❤

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user1 i can't 😭❤❤

user2 so adorable omfg

IrisLn <3 !!! liked by lewishamilton !

user3 most important photo dump ever

user4 STOP ARE THEY LIKE TOGETHER TOGETHER?!!????

->user5 I THINK SO 😭 ->user6 saw a vid of the walking and they were holding hands

user7 pleaseee she looks just like them

user8 tagging y/n in the second picture 😭 they are so dating

georgerussell63 ❤ liked by lewishamilton !

user9 girlfriend hard launch and daughter reveal in one post wth

user10 so happy for you three <3

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Your forearms were burning, your throat felt like sandpaper, and your heart was hammering frantically against your ribs at a rate that could only be described as medically alarming. But as the checkered flag finally flew and the crowd exploded into a frenzy, the pain seemed to vanish. The car's radio crackled with celebration, your engineers and team shouting over one another as pure exhilaration poured in from the speakers.

Your gloved hands trembled, flooded with raw adrenaline as your car rolled to a stop into parc fermé in first place. You scrambled out of the cockpit, the roar of the grandstand hitting like a physical wave. Despite your legs quivering like jelly, you sprinted to the pit wall.

“Phenomenal! Truly amazing race. Congrats!” Mekies, the Red Bull team principal, exclaimed as he pulled you into a hug over the barrier. Before your feet could grace the ground again, another engineer caught you in another embrace.

Your whole team bombarded you with congratulations, hands clapping your shoulder as you vaulted over the pit wall. You exchanged high-fives all the way down the line before a staff member grabbed your arm, steering you towards the scales before you could bounce off somewhere else.

The transition was jarring. One moment your ears rang with praises from mechanics, and the next, you were in the quiet, sterile garage on an industrial scale. As the adrenaline pumping through your veins faded, the aches and exhaustion took hold again. Your helmet was now suffocating, your muscles on fire, and throat drier than the Sahara.

The moment the scale flashed green, your frantic hands tore off the tight helmet and balaclava. Cool air met the sweat that pooled on your forehead, sending a welcome chill down your spine. You trainer shoved a water bottle in your hands, already sending you down the corridor and towards the reserved cool down room.

"Congrats!" The familiar Italian voice echoed down the empty hallway, sending a wave of warmth through your exhaustion.

"Kimi!" You leaped towards him, energy spiking again at the sight of your friend. He was quick to catch you, nearly lifting you off your feet in a breathless hug. "Congrats to you, too!" You laughed into his shoulder.

"Grazie, grazie," he beamed, setting you down. His hair was in shambles from the helmet, his curls sticking out in a multitude of different directions.

 Another small laugh involuntarily escaped your lips at the sight.

Kimi tilted his head, his eyes playfully scanning your face. “What?”

“Your hair,” you managed to choke out between winded breaths, “Was that the helmet, or did you accidentally stick your finger in an electrical socket?” 

“Uh, it’s called aerodynamics. You should try it sometime, might make you faster.” 

You scoffed, pushing the door open to the cooldown room that was reserved for the top three. “Woah, slow your roll there, P2. You can criticize my aerodynamics when you're first.”

George was already sitting on the couch when you got there, a cold towel draped over his neck as he watched replays from the race on the screen. 

“Aye, P3! How’d you beat us here?” you asked, crashing on the sofa next to him. Kimi slid down next to you, looping an arm around George’s shoulders to pull his teammate in for a messy sidehug. George didn’t flinch at the sudden pile-up on the couch, just offered a tired but genuine smile and made room. 

“You guys took forever,” he shrugged, his eyes darting between you with a knowing glint. “I thought you had skipped the cool-down room to go have a celebration of your own. Though, clearly, Kimi was busy… losing a battle with a hairdryer?” You laughed once again, your head rolling back to rest on the couch as you lazily glanced at Kimi. He gave George a playful shove, but didn’t deny a thing.

He was probably used to it by now, given how often people would make comments about the two of you together. But beside him, your stomach did that familiar, heavy flip, the one that always made you question everything. 

“Strictly aerodynamics talk. Very professional,” you quipped. You hastily unscrewed your water bottle cap, taking a long sip to deflect from the involuntary heat rising to your cheeks.

“Mhm, sure, whatever you say.” George flashed a smirk that proved he didn’t buy a word you said. You set the bottle down with a deliberate click against the table. 

“Maybe if you listened to our aerodynamics chats, you’d be the one sitting P1, Russell.” 

George let out a dry chuckle, obviously not taking your insults to heart. “Chill, rookie, it’s your first P1. Don’t let it get to your head just yet.”

“I know!”  The sheer excitement and realization peeked through your cocky mask. “First P1! First woman ever to win a Grand Prix. You’re looking at history, baby!”

George’s smirk instantly melted into a genuine, brilliant smile. He reached across the back of the sofa, giving your shoulder a rough, proud shake. "Alright, alright, fair point. History has been made. I suppose I can allow the arrogance just this once."

"Just this once?" you scoffed, leaning into the warmth of the couch.

Beside you, Kimi hadn't spoken, but when you glanced over, his eyes were locked on you. The playful, teasing glint was gone, replaced by an expression that was entirely soft, and entirely too dangerous for your peace of mind. 

For the rest of the time, the three of you just watched the race replays on the big screen until an official popped their head in to signal it was time for the podium. 

The room had fallen into a peaceful silence, and suddenly the distance between you and Kimi felt miniscule. It would be so easy to shift your weight. To lean into his embrace, to let your exhaustion win, and let him hold you the way you knew he wanted to. But you forced yourself to remain upright, your eyes locked on the screen to prevent them from drifting in his direction. 

You loved him. It was a terrifying, undeniable truth that had haunted you for months, a lingering feeling that sat heavy and suffocating against your chest. Kimi was the one who spent all those late nights analyzing telemetry data with you, the one who made you his favorite Italian dishes when you cried over cruel media headlines, the one who made loving someone seem so easy in such an awful world.

It was no secret he felt the same. It had become an unspoken barrier in your relationship, the quiet knowledge that you both felt entangled with one another in a way, though neither of you dared to utter the words into existence. 

As a woman in such a male-dominated sport, you couldn’t afford a romance with another driver. All of your energy already went into proving yourself, fighting to be respected in a world that cared more about your gender than your lap times. Dating Kimi would ruin everything you worked so hard for. You would become a WAG first and a driver second, and compromising your values and career wasn’t an option. So, you held back, choosing to suffer with the ache of “almost” rather than the risk of losing everything you had built. 

“Time for podiums,” An FIA official announced, popping their head into your room. The three of you sluggishly rose from the couch. The celebrations were fun, of course, but nothing could beat the craving of rest after a grueling race like that. George strolled ahead, leaving you and Kimi walking together slowly. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Kimi asked, shattering the comforting silence between you.

“After the never-ending press conferences? A team dinner, I think,” you sighed, adjusting the sleeves on your race suit.

Kimi slowed his pace just a fraction, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead as he spoke. “You wanna come over after? We can have celebratory affogato and watch that new movie you were talking about.”

Your chest tightened. Say no, your brain demanded. Tell him you’re too tired, the team dinner will run too late. Hanging out in his hotel room at night, even if nothing actually happened, was far too intimate for just friends. You knew how it would go, laughing in the kitchen, holding hands under the blanket, splitting the dessert with a shared spoon, all while desperately pretending nothing was going on. It heavily blurred the dangerous line between friendship and something more, and you couldn’t risk that right now. Please, god, just say no. 

“Yeah,” you murmured, your smile masking your internal panic. “I’ll text you when I’m done with media.” 

Screw his stupid, messy curls and his stupider eyes that you were powerless against. 

By the time you had finished surviving the dozens of interviews, smiled through a fancy team dinner, and escaped back to your hotel to change, it was past midnight. You pulled up to Kimi’s room in an oversized tee and comfy shorts, knowing not even the affogato could stop you from passing out soon, probably in his arms. He opened the door in his Mercedes hoodie and plain sweatpants,his hair now clean but still adorably messy. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Kimi muttered a few minutes later, hips resting on the counter as he watched you struggle with the espresso machine. 

“I am literally just pressing a button, Kimi,” you said, not bothering to look up as he scooped vanilla gelato into a large bowl. “How can someone press a button wrong?”

He abandoned the spoon and headed towards you, swooping in to fix the machine. “You’re too aggressive. You need to be gentle. It can sense your stress, like a wasp,” he nodded and softly clicked a button, and of course it worked now. “See? Fine Italian engineering requires respect.”

You rolled your eyes, picking up the spoon and licking it clean. “It’s a cheap hotel coffee maker, not a Mercedes. And speaking of terrible engineering, have you used the showers in this place? They’re so… confusing.” 

Kimi shot you a dirty look at the Mercedes dig, but decided to let it slide. “I know, right? So many dials and levers, and half of them are useless.”

You laughed, the easy warmth of the moment filling the space between you as he poured the hot espresso over the gelato. Taking the bowl, the two of you moved away from the counter and sat cross-legged on the edge of the hotel bed, facing each other. For a moment, the room was silent, the only sound being the metal spoons softly scraping against porcelain. You ate in a peaceful manner, enjoying each other's presence silently with no pressure.

Kimi looked up from the bowl, his eyes slowly tracing your face. He studied the way your eyelashes fluttered calmly, the way you tucked your hair behind your ears when it drooped down, and the way your lips wrapped delicately around the spoon. And suddenly, it was all too much for him.

“You were incredible today," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, quiet register that made your chest ache. "But watching you up there... it just made me realize how hard it is to keep pretending that you're only my friend." 

You finally looked up at him, a cold sense of dread spreading throughout your chest and poisoning your heart. You knew where he was going with this, and you knew what it would cost you to say no. 

“Kimi, please,” you whispered, voice shaking as you set the bowl on the nightstand. Your heartbeat rang in your ears as tears blurred your vision, a silent, desperate plea for him to stop talking.  “Don’t do this. Don’t say it.”

“I have to,” he said softly, reaching out to grasp your hand, unaware his touch only made everything sting more. “Because I love you. Ti amo, tanto. I’ve known for months, and I tried to keep it hidden for your sake, but I can’t, not anymore.”

Each word was like a violent strike to your chest. His eyes were filled with absolute certainty, a look that was hauntingly beautiful, terrifying, and completly devastating. The exact words your heart so desperately longed to hear were also the same words that could ruin your career and passion that you had sacrificed your whole life to build.

Hot tears streamed down your face before you could stop them. “I can't," you choked out, pulling your hand out of his grip as if his touch burned. “I can’t do this, Kimi.” 

You couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes as you said it, grabbing your keys and fleeing before he had time to even try and understand. The weight on your chest had crushed your heart, sobs filling the corridor as you bolted from his room. 

The heavy door of your own hotel room shutting behind you felt like the final nail in the coffin. It was over. Everything was over. There would be no more midnight sleepovers, no more running around the paddock together, no more Kimi. 

Sliding against the door, you fell to your knees and gave in, violent, painful sobs racking your body. His voice replayed in a cruel loop, consuming your entire mind.

Ti amo, tanto. 

You loved him too, so much, and that was the worst part. It made your stomach twist into sharp knots thinking of what you had lost, of all that you had sacrificed for your career that now felt insignificant. For just a fraction of a second, the trophy on the counter felt worthless compared to his touch. But of course, reality always won. You couldn’t let yourself be diminished to just his girlfriend in the eyes of the world. You wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror again if you ever willingly let your work be overshadowed. So, you spent the rest of the night crying in the darkness of your room, praying to whoever would listen, begging for someone to take your feelings away so it would stop hurting. 

The sudden silence after the slam of his door was utterly deafening. 

He sat still on the edge of the mattress, his hands still outstretched to the empty air where you had just been moments ago. The room, which had just felt so warm and cozy, was now large and freezing.  On the nightstand, the abandoned affogato melted, the flavors swirling together to create a murky puddle. 

He had imagined that conversation a thousand times in his head, but he never pictured this. He thought you felt it too, the lingering glances in the paddock, the squeeze of your hand under blankets, the unspoken gravity that pulled you together every racing weekend. Had he read everything wrong and fucked it all up?

A sickening flood of regret suddenly threatened to drown him. He hadn’t meant to push you away, and he certainly hadn’t meant to make you cry. But he couldn’t bury his feelings any longer. He couldn’t hide how every weekend, when his mind should be focused on racing, his eyes always searched for you in the crowd. He couldn’t hide how empty he felt during breaks when you weren't by his side. The weight of it had become too much to bear, and it had all just spilled out. 

For a second, he thought about following you into the corridor, but the memory of tears streaming down your cheeks as you fled kept him exactly where he was. It was over. 

The next two weeks between racing weekends had been, simply put, an agonizing blur. You hadn’t spoken to Kimi since the night in his room. No texts, no calls ,no late-night hangouts, nothing. Just radio silence, from both ends. 

Which only made your arrival at the next track ten times worse. The paddock buzzed like usual, teams from everywhere meeting, testing, and socializing under the beaming sun. Normally, you and Kimi naturally found one another among the chaos, sneaking snacks between data analysis, or even just sitting silently together whenever you could grab a moment of freetime. This time, you could pass as strangers. 

When Kimi eventually passed the Red Bull garage, deep in conversation with one of his engineers, you purposefully pulled out your phone, pretending you were busy (you were staring blankly at the weather app). You didn’t look his way. He didn’t look yours. The distance between you felt loud, a noticeable pause in the crowded paddock. 

“What’s going on with you two?”

You nearly jumped out of your racing suit, looking over to see Max leaning next to you, also watching Kimi disappear as he turned the corner. Max wasn’t one for prying into people’s personal lives, but as your teammate, he spent way too long with you to not know when something was wrong. 

“Nothing,” you shook your head, eyes locked on the ground. “I’m just trying to stay focused on the season.”

“Bullshit. You haven’t stood within ten feet of each other since the last podium, and your telemetry data from yesterday looked like you were distracted,” Max said, his tone surprisingly blunt as he pushed off the wall and stepped closer. “You can lie to Mekies, but you can't lie to me. Did you guys fight or something?”

The walls you had been hiding behind for the past fourteen days suddenly came crashing down. You dragged him to the side, a spot hidden from nearby cameras and reporters, before pouring your heart out. You spilled everything. The espresso machine, the ti amo, the panic, and how you had fled out of a terrifying certainty that letting yourself love a competitor would turn your career into a media shitshow. 

Max sat and listened silently as you rambled on, his expression not wavering even as he wiped a stray tear from your face. 

“You’re overthinking this,” He stated firmly.

You blinked, caught off guard slightly. “Max-”

“No, listen to me,” he interrupted, looking at you sternly. “It doesn’t matter what they think. It doesn’t matter who you date, or how fast your laps are, those people won’t respect you either way. Fuck them. Don’t waste your time trying to win them over. Who you love won’t change your times ”

You let out a sigh, exhaling all of the stress that had been accumulating deep inside your chest for the past two weeks. 

Max watched you for a second, the harshness in his expression softening just a fraction, before he gestured vaguely toward the Mercedes garage. “Besides, he’s been driving awful all week because he’s miserable, and frankly, it’s getting dangerous for the rest of us on the grid. So do everyone a favor and go fix it. I'd like to win the race on Sunday without your boyfriend running me off the track.” 

Max’s words echoed in your head all day, looping like a broken record. He didn’t understand the struggles you faced, the misogyny that affected you on the daily. He had the luxury of being judged based on his race times. He didn’t feel what it was like to have your wins dissected and analyzed until being invalidated by a flimsy excuse. If you let Kimi in, you knew the headlines would only grow worse. 

By the time you were done with strategy meetings and engineering chats, night had already fallen. The frantic daytime rush of the paddock had died down by now, replaced by a quieter atmosphere where only a few hard-workers remained. Your heart hammered against your ribs as you made up your mind, grabbing your team jacket and running to the (mostly) empty Mercedes hospitality unit. 

You stopped outside Kimi’s driver room, taking one sharp, steadying breath before knocking softly.

A moment later, the door swung open, revealing an exhausted Kimi. His curls had that familiar messiness to them, but his eyes now held a new, tired burden to them. They widened slightly as his brain finally caught up and realized who he was looking at. 

“Hi,” you whispered softly, throat tight with all the words you longed to say.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice incredibly fragile, as if bracing for you to put another barrier up. 

The silence floated heavy in the air, filled with unspoken confessions. Kimi didn’t move, just waited for you to say something, anything. 

“I’m sorry,” you started, voice already cracking on the first syllable. The tears you promised not to shed had betrayed you and began pooling in your waterline. “I just left you there, and I’ve felt sick every day since. I am so, so sorry, Kimi.”

Kimi’s eyes softened immediately as he shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed like that. If I made you feel trapped, or ruined our friendship–”

“You didn’t ruin anything!” you snapped, unable to listen to him take the blame. “It was me, Kimi. It was never you. When– when you said those words to me, it was everything I had ever wanted to hear, but it felt like a trap. I’ve sacrificed everything to be an F1 driver. My friendships, my relationships, my teenage years... everything. Just to be treated like shit by half the reporters out there. And I was so scared that if I let myself have you, it would all fall on me again. I thought they would stop seeing me as a driver. I thought for my career to work out, it couldn’t work out between us.”

You took a ragged breath, a hot tear finally spilling over your lashes.

“But these two weeks without you have been hell. I miss everything, and I miss you the most of all. Not speaking to you hurt worse than any headline ever could. I don’t want to live in fear of what people might say anymore. I don’t want to celebrate a podium if you aren't there with me.”

More tears fell as you took a step closer, your vulnerability spilling out. 

“I love you, Kimi. Ti amo, tanto. And I’m so sorry it took me breaking down like this to finally tell you.”

Kimi didn’t say a single word. He simply closed the remaining gap between you, throwing his arms around you and pulling you tightly against his chest. He held you through every single sob, feeling your chest rise and fall rapidly against his. You could feel his own heartbeat racing wildly against your ribs as his hands ran comfortingly along your back, holding you so deeply it felt like he was trying to erase those two weeks of radio silence in a single moment. 

Slowly, the frantic pace of your breathing began to match his steady, grounding rhythm. Kimi pulled back just enough to look down at you, his thumbs tenderly wiping away the damp tracks on your cheeks as a soft, breathless laugh escaped him. 

“You are the only thing that keeps me sane out here, and no one on this grid could ever erase how incredible you are in that car,” he murmured, his voice thick with relief as his eyes searched yours. “We will handle the media, okay? Side by side. I just need you. Ti amo, tanto.”

As he pulled you back into a tight embrace, the stress of the last few weeks dissipated from your chest. The terrifying noise of the paddock, the fear of the headlines, and the doubts that had kept you awake for weeks all faded into nothing but background noise. You finally let yourself breathe again, knowing that no matter what, you would be okay, because you had Kimi by your side. 

LOUD LAUGHTER ROLLS ACROSS THE SANDY BEACH, carried by the wind and folded into the low crash of waves breaking against the shore. It fills the grey hush of the evening. Fills something in JJ too, something deep in the chest where warmth rarely lives, something that feels dangerously close to home.

The clouds have been gathering all afternoon, stacking themselves like bruises above the water. Now the rain comes harder, colder, slicing through the humid air in sheets, and you, of course, don’t care in the slightest. Your clothes are drenched, the thin white shirt clinging to your skin until the pale yellow of your swimsuit shows through like sunlight behind fog. Your dad’s oversized jacket hangs crookedly off your shoulders. Your hair – soaked, wild, sticking to your cheeks – should make you shiver.

But instead you throw your arms out wide and spin in the sand as if the storm were a stage built just for you, as if every drop of rain were a gift falling straight into your palms.

Thunder growls somewhere in the distance, a low warning crawling across the horizon and you only laugh harder. A laugh that sends something bright and reckless skidding through JJ’s ribs. Your appearance, your voice, your entire presence breaks over him like the tide. You’ve always been a siren to him, calling him closer without trying, without even knowing. He looks at you the way a drowning man looks at the surface – with a kind of desperate reverence. As if you’re the only air left in this entire world.

“Don’t look at me like that, Maybank.” 

Your voice is soft, almost teased through a smile, and though the sky is dark, your eyes catch the thin slice of moonlight between clouds, turning them into something he’d swear he could sail by. Something that glows like a galaxy trying to fit itself into human shape.

At the sound of your voice, everything in him curls tight – not with fear, not like it used to when his father opened his mouth, but with a fierce, treacherous wanting that makes him feel unsteady. Dependent. Starved for a warmth he never believed he could have.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Enchanted. Captivated. Spellbound. The word doesn’t matter – the truth does. Every breath he draws now has a purpose. You. And somehow that purpose both destroys him and makes him feel more alive than he has ever been.

“Come here, Jay,” you whisper or maybe he only thinks you do. 

The rain is too loud to be sure of anything. But then you reach out your hand, palm open, fingers trembling with cold and something tender, and that’s all it takes. JJ catches your wrist and pulls you into him with one sure, instinctive movement.

Your bodies collide with a sound that’s almost a gasp. He wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you in until your chest is pressed to his and there’s barely enough space left between you for breath to exist. Your forehead touches his shoulder, damp hair clinging to his throat, and he drops his head against yours like he’s finally found the place he was meant to fit. Heat surges through him the moment your skin brushes his – warm, bright, expanding in every direction like sunlight trapped under his ribs.

The rain hammers against the sand, against the jacket sliding off your shoulders, against his back. You raise your head, and he looks down into your eyes – and there it is again, that impossible infinity he always finds in them, the one that makes him feel small and huge at the same time.

Your lips brush along his jaw, feather-light, and his entire body lights up like someone struck a match along his spine. The world shrinks until it’s only you, only this moment, only the sound of rain and breath and his heart stumbling in his chest. He’s ready to spill every secret he’s ever held, even the ones you already know. Even the ones he’s afraid of. Because when you look at him like this – like he’s worth something, like you see him – he feels anchored. Chosen. Home.

“I love you,” he murmurs, barely more than breath, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of your lips. A small, reverent thing.

You smile. Soft, luminous even in the storm and nudge your wet nose against his cheek.

“Wait for me,” you whisper.

And then everything falls apart.

The dream shatters in an instant. Not gently, not like glass, but like something heavier, something that takes the breath with it when it breaks. Peace evaporates. Tranquillity is gone before he can even reach for it. All that remains is the darkness of JJ’s small room in John B’s house, swallowing him whole with its familiar cold and the kind of loneliness that tastes metallic on the tongue.

For a few seconds he can’t move. His eyes hang open in the pitch-black, unadjusted, useless. Cold sweat beads at his spine and slides down in thin, uncomfortable lines, soaking the waistband of his boxers. His chest heaves as if he’s been sprinting through a nightmare instead of sleeping in one.

“Fuck,” JJ whispers into the suffocating silence. 

His hand drags over his face, fingers pushing into his messy hair. It’s gotten long again. Even too long. He tugs at the ends just to feel something that isn’t the hollow ache gnawing its way through his ribs. But it barely cuts through the emptiness.

Your laughter is still there, echoing off the inside of his skull like it never left. The memory of your smile, the storm-drenched glow of your eyes, the warmth of your skin pressed to his – all of it spills through him in a dizzying rush of déjà vu so vivid it hurts. He can almost smell your perfume in the room’s stale air, still clinging to fabric and corners despite the fact that Sarah’s the only reason the window ever gets cracked open.

JJ shakes his head hard, as if he can rattle the memories loose. As if shaking off thoughts of you has ever worked. But every moment you spend together replays behind his eyelids like a film he doesn’t know how to turn off. The images stutter and repeat and loop until he’s breathless from wanting something that isn’t there anymore.

He swings his legs off the mattress, misjudges his footing, and his heel crashes into a half-drunk beer bottle. The glass clatters across the wooden floor, spilling warm, sticky liquid that spreads across the boards. JJ barely looks at it.

He needs air. He needs out. He needs to escape the hell he built himself when he lost you.

His hand reaches for the hoodie draped over the back of the chair, the one he’s been wearing like a second skin lately, the one heavy with old bonfire smoke and bad decisions. It slides over his shoulders in one practiced motion. In the pocket, his fingers brush a crumpled pack of cigarettes, then his skin is touched by the cold kiss of metal – the lighter. His jaw tightens.

Nicotine. That’s all he has now.

He quit smoking weed for you or maybe because of you. He thought he could climb out of the swamp he grew up in, that he could cut chains and be someone different, someone better, someone warm in the way you made him feel. He used to joke that you were like the sunlight he carried in his pockets. 

Now every day without you feels colder. Dimmer. Colourless.

He traded one addiction for another, and he knows it. Knows exactly what he’s becoming with every cigarette. Knows the resemblance creeping into his reflection – the shadow of a man he swore he’d never be. The shadow of Luke Maybank. The thought alone chills him deeper than the dawn air.

Outside, the world is just beginning to wake. Birds murmur hesitantly from the trees. The horizon blushes with pink and gold, the kind of quiet sunrise that used to seem beautiful when you stood beside him. JJ steps onto the porch and sinks onto the old, scuffed couch, its springs groaning under his weight.

His body moves without thought  – cigarette between lips, lighter flick, small flame caught between trembling fingers. The tip glows, then softens into smoke. The first inhale loosens something tight and painful in his chest. It always does. Relief, thin and temporary, seeps through him as he exhales toward the sky, watching the smoke dissipate and vanish into the cool morning air like a ghost.

Four years have passed since the night he tore his own world apart on this very porch. Four years since he last held you in his arms, last breathed warmth into the cold corners of his body, last felt you pressed to him like the only thing keeping him from falling clean through the earth. 

Four years – a lifetime for some people. But for JJ Maybank, it’s the blink of an eye. The nightmare he hasn’t been able to run from. The memory, tearing down his very existence, leaving rent free in his head.

He just turned twenty, grown in all the wrong ways and none of the right ones, yet somehow still standing in front of you like the same boy who used to swear the sun rose only because it wanted to light your face. He stands there, fists buried so deep into the pockets of his shorts that the knuckles ache. He stands there biting back the desperate, wild urge to gather you into his arms and never let you go, to seal you against his chest and pretend you were something he could still keep.

But he doesn’t move.

He just stands and watches as tears slip down your cheeks in trembling rivers – the kind of tears he used to wipe away with his thumb, whispering promises he meant with his whole heart. Your hands reach for his wrists, fingers trembling as you try to pull him back into sense, back into the boy you still loved. But he only shakes his head, jaw clenched so tightly the muscles quiver. He pretends his heart isn’t splitting in two, pretends your touch doesn’t make him want to crumble at your feet.

“Jay, don’t do this to me,” you breathe, your voice so soft it feels like a bruise on the night air.

You search his eyes for even a flash of the love you always found there, but all you meet is the cold mask he’d practiced in the mirror for hours before this moment. “I- I… love you.”

Three words. A flame. A spark. A prayer. A surrender.

Three words and inside him something collapses with a violent, silent snap. But on the outside he doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch.

He stands there, frozen in the kind of pain you’d never recognize, because he’s learned how to bury it. He knows he’ll hate himself more if he lets you stay. Hates himself already for making you love him enough to leave your dreams behind last year. Hates himself when he imagines you in a few years, sitting at a kitchen table you don’t like, telling your children that your biggest mistake was staying in North Carolina. That your biggest mistake was loving a Maybank who never managed to become more than the life he came from.

So whatever he had to do to make you leave… he did. Whatever lies he had to spit, he spat. Whatever cruelty he had to pretend he felt, he forced into his voice.

Because you’d already given up too much for him.

A whole year stolen from you. A year you should’ve spent at university with your friends, dragging each other out of bed for early lectures, sharing notes and inside jokes, studying in libraries until dawn, dancing at student parties, living the life you’d whispered about since you were a kid dreaming of something bigger than this island.

He wasn’t stupid. He saw the way you watched your friends’ Instagram stories with that small, aching smile – the kind that tried to be happy for them but never quite made it. He saw the university acceptance letter you shoved under the bed, wrinkled from how many times you’d read it, a painful ghost of the future you hid because you didn’t want him to see. He saw how your face lit up when you talked about your friends’ classes, their professors, their stupid campus gossip and the way your voice dimmed right after, as if you suddenly remembered where you weren’t.

He saw all of it. And he hated himself for being the reason you weren’t there.

That’s why he ended it. Not because he stopped loving you but because he loved you enough to let you go. Or at least that’s the lie he tells himself at three in the morning, chain-smoking on this same porch where he broke both of your hearts.

Ending things was supposed to be easier. It wasn’t. Not for a single second since.

JJ let out a long, exhausted sigh and tipped his head back, staring up at the fading stars scattered across the dawn-pale sky. They were barely visible, dim fireflights drowning under the early glow of sunrise, but he stared at them anyway because that was the last thing he remembered doing the night you left.

Back then, he’d believed he’d spoken to you for the last time on that old porch of John B’s house. He’d believed that walking away would save you, even as his heart cracked under the weight of it. And he’d been right: a week later, after days of being ghosted by the boy you loved, after every text was left on read and every call went to voicemail, you’d finally lost hope. 

You packed your life into your father’s car and left the island.

That morning, JJ found himself on your street before he even understood why his feet had carried him there. He made it as far as the old oak tree across from your house, the one with the crooked trunk and the roots pushing through the sidewalk, and that was where everything inside him just… stopped. His courage, his breath, his whole stupid heart. He stayed hidden in the shadow of the tree, fingers digging into the rough bark as if he could anchor himself to it. He didn’t dare step out, didn’t dare let you see him. All he could do was watch.

He watched you hug the Pogues goodbye, arms wrapped tight around them as if you were holding yourself together. Watched you smile – a soft, brave little smile that didn’t reach your eyes. Watched your father lift your bags into the car with shaky hands. Watched the door slam shut, closing away the last piece of home he ever really had.

And then he watched the car pull away. Watched it shrink down the street. Watched until the taillights disappeared and the silence rushed in like a wave.

You drove off, and he stayed rooted to the spot, standing among all the things he didn’t say, all the things he wished he’d told you, all the pieces of himself he never managed to show you before it was too late.

The next day, his phone lit up with a single text from you. Just two words.

Wait for me.

JJ stared at the screen through the blur of a hangover and leftover tears. Maybe it was the alcohol still running through his blood. Maybe it was hope. Or maybe it was the part of him that only ever beat for you but he typed back one word he shouldn’t have sent.

Promise.

Then your number went dead. Disconnected, deleted, gone. And so were you.

Time didn’t heal anything for him. It just kept going, dragging him forward while everything else around him crumbled piece by piece. His father vanished again, slipping away from the cops like he always did, and left JJ with the familiar wreckage: debts he never made, threats he didn’t deserve, promises that never meant anything, an empty house that echoed when he walked through it, and a hundred things that needed fixing because no one else would.

He started working long days at the old garage, letting the smell of oil settle into his skin and letting the endless hours numb whatever hurt too much. Nights ended the same way: bars with sticky counters, cheap drinks, loud music, or in the spare room John B kept for him, where he’d knock himself out with enough alcohol to guarantee dreamless sleep. Four years slipped past like that. Heavy. Flat. The same every day.

And all that time, you were living a life on the other side of the country.

He saw pieces of it on social media. The green campus lawns, faces he didn’t know, the world you were building without him. He studied every photo like it had answers hidden in the corners. Were you happier? Colder? Did you forget him? Did you still smile the same way?

But the worst part was that you hadn’t changed in the ways he feared. You still had that quiet warmth, that soft confidence that always pulled people in, the same bright spark in your eyes. You kept growing, blooming even, while he stayed stuck exactly where you left him. Still the same boy you once held onto in the rain.

The dreams were the hardest part, especially at the start. For two whole years, you came to him almost every night. Sometimes you were laughing, sometimes your eyes were wet, sometimes you slipped your hand into his like you used to whenever the day had been too long. He’d wake up gasping, heart pounding, crushed between the sweetness of seeing you and the pain of realizing it wasn’t real.

But eventually the dreams became less sharp. Less frequent. He still remembered your face, but parts of it began to blur. The exact way your smile tilted, the constellation of tiny moles on your skin, the soft smell of your perfume when you leaned into him. Even your laugh, once so clear it could stop him in his tracks, faded into something softer, distant.

He hated forgetting. Hated how memories slipped away no matter how tightly he held them. But when the dreams finally stopped altogether… life got easier. Quieter. A little colder, maybe but bearable. A kind of emptiness he could at least breathe inside.

And then everything he’d built around you – every wall, every layer of numbness, every bit of denial – collapsed the moment he saw you again last week.

He was only passing by The Wreck to drop off Kie’s forgotten sweatshirt, half-asleep and thinking about nothing, when he glanced through the big front window… and froze. 

You were there. Right there.

Sitting at a table with your family, sunlight catching in your hair. Your head was thrown back as you laughed, that soft open laugh that always made other people look up, that filled the whole café like it belonged there. You looked older in a way that didn’t push him away, older in the way time makes someone settle deeper into themselves. Brighter. Softer. Beautiful in the kind of way that made his chest hurt. 

You didn’t see him, but JJ felt the world tilt under his feet anyway. Felt something punch the breath straight out of him. Felt all those feelings he’d buried years ago clawed their way up like they’d been waiting for the smallest crack to break through.

By the time he made it back to the chateau, his pulse was still racing. And then he saw them, Kie and Sarah, sitting on the porch with their drinks, eyes wide and too-bright, studying him like he was a puzzle finally starting to solve itself. That’s when it clicked. Of course they knew. Of course they’d planned it.

They’d kept in touch with you all these years: visiting your campus on long weekends, calling you, laughing with you, carrying pieces of you back to the island. Pope too, whenever he was home from his university near you, always dropping stories about you when he thought JJ wasn’t listening. But JJ heard every single one. He cherished them like secret treasures – tiny sparks of warmth inside a cold cage he’d grown too comfortable living in.

And John B… John B was the only one who stayed on JJ’s side in his own way. The only one who didn’t bring up your name, not because you weren’t speaking anymore, but because he’d seen what it did to JJ every time someone did. He’d seen the way JJ crumpled at the sound of your laugh floating from a phone speaker. He’d seen the spiral, the breakdowns, the nights filled with nothing but guilt and missing you. So he never pushed. He just stayed, always ready to catch him, always the brother who didn’t need blood to be family.

That night, the dreams slipped back into JJ’s mind like they’d never left. Except now they were painfully sharp. Your voice brushing his ear, your fingers threading through his, your breath warm against his skin as you whispered his name the way only you used to.

You were close enough to feel real again. Close enough to reach. But still somehow impossibly far. And that distance… That endless, aching space between who you were in his memories and who you were now, felt like it was ripping him open from the inside out.

JJ took one last slow drag, letting the smoke burn right down to the filter before tapping the cigarette into the ashtray overflowing with old buds. Sarah was definitely going to yell at him to clean it. She always did. But right now he didn’t have it in him to care.

He ran a hand through his hair, brushing the damp strands off his forehead, and sighed. He really needed a haircut. Something simple – a trim from Kiara or maybe even a buzzcut just to start over entirely. You used to hate that idea. You loved running your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, catching little knots just to make him complain and then laugh. You always said cutting it short would be a crime, that his hair was one of the few things in the universe that actually listened.

Maybe that was why he never did it. Even after you left. Even when it got heavy and messy and made him look like someone he barely recognized. A version of himself that existed mostly because you’d once loved how soft he was beneath all the rough edges.

He let out a quiet, almost tired laugh. He’d give anything to find that version again, the one with the spark in his eyes, the one who actually looked forward to mornings, but he felt buried deep somewhere he couldn’t reach anymore.

The sand under his feet was cool and steady when he stepped off the porch, grounding him more than the cigarette ever could. He walked toward the shoreline, the early air hitting his face sharp and salty. The sky was opening into a soft blue, clean and new, but he didn’t feel new at all. Still, he kept walking. Each step carried him farther from the chateau and a little closer to breathing normally again. The waves rolled in and out steadily, loosening the tightness in his chest.

But the memories followed, gentle at first, then stronger.

Your hand slipping into his as naturally as breathing. Your laughter bouncing across the beach when he chased you through the sand. The way your eyes lit up when you spotted the ice cream truck and how somehow his wallet always ended up in your hands. The scent of your perfume trapped in his sheets long after you left. Lazy mornings tangled under blankets, whispering about futures you couldn’t fully imagine but wanted anyway. Your surf lessons, mostly you wiping out, mostly him pretending not to laugh. And the things etched deepest into him: your body pressed warm against his, lips tasting like summer and salt, your breath on his neck, the way you looked at him when passion made your eyes glow like sunrise.

He kept all of it. Held it carefully, terrified he’d forget and hating that he remembered so well.

JJ’s steps slowed as he climbed over the little ridge of rocks, dropping down onto the hidden stretch of sand that had once been yours. Yours. A place that felt like a secret you both guarded. He hadn’t come here once since the breakup; the beach always felt off-limits, like crossing into it would split him open again. Being here used to feel like choosing to bleed.

But this morning – quiet, half-lit, the world still sleepy – the place didn’t hurt him. Not like before. For the first time in four years, it felt soft again. Familiar. Like the beach remembered him just as much as he remembered it. Like something inside him shifted, settling into a shape he had forgotten he once fit into. This place was the one golden chapter he hadn’t managed to destroy.

He sank into the sand near the waterline and let the silence sit with him. The sea barely moved, a slow breath against the shore, and the horizon melted into pale blue and gold. JJ leaned back, letting the cool sand hold him, and closed his eyes. For the first time in a long while, breathing didn’t feel like work.

He remembered the day he knew, really knew, that this was where he wanted to propose to you. The idea had burst through him so bold and certain it almost knocked the wind out of his chest. After that, he replayed it over and over in his mind, like a memory from a life he never got to live.

He pictured the two of you spending the whole day here, warm and sun-dazed, the world narrowed down to your laughter and the steady thump of the waves. You’d be sitting on a blanket after swimming, drops of water sliding down your skin, your hair sticking to your cheeks. He’d wrap you in a towel, drag you onto his lap, and kiss you too many times while you squirmed and complained with a smile you couldn’t hide.

Later, when the sky turned hazy and golden, he’d build a small fire and open a bottle of wine he’d saved up for. Or maybe he’d steal something from your dad’s cellar and pretend he didn’t. You’d laugh at him for that, teasing him until his ears turned pink. You’d share pizza straight from the box and talk about everything and nothing, the pointless little things that always made him feel like the world wasn’t so heavy.

And when the sun finally dipped low and the moon took its place, he’d play your favorite song, that slow one you always put on before bed, and hold out his hands. You’d pretend to roll your eyes but you’d still walk into his arms, letting him sway with you in the uneven sand. He’d whisper that he loved you more than anything he’d ever known. And just when you relaxed into him, he’d drop to one knee.

He could still see it: his fingers reaching into the ripped pocket of his old shorts, pulling out the small gold ring he’d found in his dad’s closet when he was just a kid. He’d kept it all these years, hidden away like a promise he was never brave enough to speak out loud. Knowing his luck, the ring would probably fall through a hole in the pocket or slip from his shaking hands. You’d laugh so hard you’d cry, calling him an idiot and kissing his forehead while he tried to keep his heart from exploding.

But in the end, he knew you would’ve said yes. He believed that in the deepest part of himself. And in the life he once imagined that simple yes would’ve been the start of everything. 

You and him. Walking off this beach and into a whole future together. One that lasted a lifetime. In that world, you didn’t leave. And he never had to learn what it meant to lose the future he’d already imagined down to the smallest detail.

“Um… can I join you?”

For a moment JJ honestly thought he made the voice up – just another ghost his mind liked to throw at him when mornings got too quiet. He’d imagined you so many times that hearing you now didn’t feel real. But then the breeze carried your voice again, soft and careful, and something inside him jolted awake.

He pushed himself up so fast the world tilted. You were standing just a few steps away.

The rising sun framed you in gold, like it was pulling you out of the past and setting you gently into the present, right onto the small patch of sand he’d been hiding on. Your hair was tangled from the wind, strands sticking to your cheeks. A faint blush warmed your skin, like the walk had taken something from you, or maybe speaking had.

You were swallowed by a worn blue hoodie with the emblem of your university, sleeves pulled all the way over your hands, as if you needed something to hold onto. Your denim shorts were dusted with sand, legs bare, knees lightly scraped like you’d wandered through the rocks instead of choosing an easier path. You looked older, softer around the edges, but still so painfully familiar it made him feel seventeen again.

JJ’s throat closed up. All he managed was a stiff nod, and even that felt like too much. He turned his head toward the horizon as if the morning sky suddenly demanded all his attention. He felt the sand shift under your steps. Then the soft weight of you settling down beside him.

Your perfume drifted over to him. The same one he used to breathe in against your neck, while leaving soft kisses first thing in the morning. It hit him so hard his eyes nearly closed on their own. For one dizzy second he was back in old summers, when everything felt easy, when you’d stolen his hoodie and laughed into his chest, when life didn’t feel like a battlefield.

You let out a quiet breath and pulled your knees up, fingers brushing through the sand between you. He noticed your hands first. He always did. Your nails were painted that clean white you’d never given up, and there, on your wrist were the tiny scar from the cooking incident with Sarah. He remembered kissing that spot once, just to make you stop crying.

That little detail, untouched by time, cracked something deep in him.

“Thank you,” you said softly.

JJ went still. The word hit him wrong: too gentle, too unexpected. He stared ahead, every sense sharp like he might be dreaming again.

You cleared your throat. Your fingers kept moving through the sand, sifting it like you needed something to do with your hands. Your voice trembled even though your expression stayed steady.

“Thank you for letting me go four years ago.”

The knot rose in his throat so fast it hurt. You didn’t look at him, maybe you couldn’t. But JJ saw the shimmer in your eyes from the corner of his vision. He knew you were holding back tears. You’d always hated crying in front of anyone, even him, even when your walls slipped and he held you through it. And hearing you thank him – for something that felt like losing the only good thing he’d ever had – felt like the sharpest cut of all.

“I was crushed,” you said, and the way your voice trembled under that small, almost apologetic smile made JJ’s chest twist. It wasn’t an accusation. Somehow that made it worse. “I didn’t know how to breathe without you. Back then… I loved you so much I didn’t leave room for anything else. I forgot myself. My own life. My own plans. I thought being with you was the whole world. I thought it was enough.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, your lashes catching the early light like they were trying to hide what was gathering behind them.

“And maybe that’s why I needed you to end it,” you whispered, and something in your voice thinned out, like a loose thread pulling from a sweater. “Because if you hadn’t… I never would’ve walked away. I never would’ve learned anything about who I am now.”

Your fingers curled into the sand as if you could hold onto something solid. The grains clung to your skin, catching in the faint tremble of your knuckles. JJ watched your hand, remembering all the times it had rested on his chest, in his hair, on his cheek. Now it was holding nothing.

“And for a long time,” you breathed, “I hated you for it.” 

The confession came out small, honest. “But now… I don’t. Now I think it saved me.”

You drew a slow breath, letting the ocean fill your lungs. The morning air carried that sharp, salty bite you’d almost forgotten – the same one that soaked into every hoodie of his you smuggled off to university. The ones you kept buried at the back of your closet. The ones you clung to on lonely nights when you still didn’t know how to sleep without him. You used to press your face into the old cotton and pretend the steady thud you imagined beneath your ear was real. But when you opened your eyes, there was only empty light and quiet ceilings and a version of you trying to rebuild from scratch.

“And then you let me go,” you murmured, your breath ghosting across your knees. “You made it easy to leave. Or maybe you made it impossible to stay. And everything fell apart… but then it came back together.”

A small, wry smile tugged at your mouth, so fragile it barely held shape. JJ didn’t move. He didn’t trust himself to. His silence stretched between you – warm enough to say he heard every word, cold enough to remind him none of this erased the past.

“So thank you,” you said, barely louder than the waves. “Thank you, JJ.”

The moment his name slipped from your lips, a wave of emotion coursed through him, leaving him momentarily breathless. You sat so close he could see the fine trembling in your shoulders, the way the oversized hoodie swallowed you but couldn’t protect you from the truth you were spilling out. Your nails dug small half-moons into the sand. Your lashes trembled against your flushed cheeks, revealing the emotional toll of the morning.

And JJ wanted – God, he wanted – to reach across the small space between you. To drag you into him the way he used to, to press your head under his chin, to hold you until the world finally gave you both a break. But that wasn’t his place anymore. That wasn’t his right.

So he stayed absolutely still and sat beside you like a shadow. He let the silence lie between you, accepting the past without trying to change it. He didn’t even let himself breathe too loudly, terrified that one wrong move might shatter the fragile peace you were both trying so hard to keep standing.

Seconds dissolved into minutes, and neither of you shifted even an inch. Time moved the way it always had between you – soft around the edges, stretched thin, slowing itself just enough to make the moment feel like a fragile bubble suspended between breaths.

“I couldn’t live with the idea of you hating me,” he finally said, his voice barely louder than the push of the tide. “Not for chasing your dreams. Not for… everything I ruined.”

The last part cracked in his throat. He looked away quickly, the muscles in his jaw tightening until it almost hurt to watch.

Overwhelmed by the weight of unspoken words, a sudden flash of frustration broke through him – a sharp, reckless thing – and he snatched a stone from the sand and hurled it into the water. The splash split the calm surface with a harsh, ugly sound. You startled at the noise, shoulders jumping, and he closed his eyes as if punishing himself for it.

“I could never hate you, JJ,” you said, your head snapping toward him before you even realized you’d moved. “Never.”

Your voice shook with urgency, as if the truth had been building behind your ribs for years and finally found a crack to escape through. It was the first time you truly looked at him since you’d walked up to the beach, and when your eyes met his, something familiar and dangerous unfurled in the air – the same spark that had always existed between you, refusing to die no matter how hard life tried to change it.

He had changed. His hair was longer now, brushing the nape of his neck in soft curls you had to force yourself not to reach for. There was a roughness to him you didn’t remember. Harder angles, a sharpness that came from long nights, long losses. His smile lines had faded, replaced by faint creases along his brow, as if worry had become a habit. He stared stubbornly at the horizon, holding himself still like one wrong glance might break him in half.

And then, as if he heard the pulse of your heartbeat begging him to look at you, he finally turned.

His eyes caught yours. Blue, soft, familiar. And everything inside you stopped.

Because beneath all the grit and exhaustion, the warmth you’d once fallen into was still there, the quiet sincerity that he never showed anyone but you. It flickered to life like an old flame catching air again. Your chest tightened, your breath tangled in your throat. Seeing him like this – older, bruised by life, but still him – made something inside you cry out, a feeling that was too big to swallow and too dangerous to say.

“I’ve… loved you too much for too long,” you confessed before your mind could stop your mouth. The words trembled into the space between you and stayed there, glowing like a lit match.

JJ stilled. Love. Not past tense. Not a memory. Your voice hadn’t carried distance or closure; it carried the weight of the present moment. He stared at you as if the world had tilted, as if everything he thought he’d buried suddenly clawed its way to the surface. His breath caught in his chest, refusing to move. The sand beneath him might as well have dropped away, leaving him hanging between disbelief and hope so sharp it almost hurt.

You still… what? After four years? After university, after new friends, after every guy who had tried to replace him and failed? After he had broken the version of you that once loved him with every piece you had? 

No. It couldn’t be real. It felt too much like one of the dreams that used to torture him, the ones where you whispered his name in the dark and reached for him just before he woke up alone again. This was impossible. It had to be.

Any second now, he expected the whole scene to rip at the seams, the colors to bleed out, the sand to dissolve, the air to thin until he woke in that dim, claustrophobic bedroom at the chateau, the sour taste of last night’s beer still on his tongue. That was how it always ended. Every dream of you collapsed the same way: darkness swallowing light, hope folding back into emptiness, your voice fading just as he reached for it.

But the minutes ticked by. One. Two. And you didn’t vanish. You stayed right there – knees tucked close, sleeves pulled over your hands, eyes fixed on him with a steadiness that felt unreal. You didn’t fade. You didn’t blur. You didn’t run.

You waited. Waited for him to speak, or breathe, or fall apart. Waited for him to choose you or walk away. Waited like you had every right to sit inside the ruins of his morning and ask for the truth.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered at last, the words scraping out of him like they’d been trapped too long. “Don’t… don’t stay. Live your life. Forget this place. Forget me.”

His voice cracked, and before he could hold himself still, he shook his head hard, as if he could shake you out of this moment, and surged to his feet. The sand slid under him, but he pushed forward anyway, desperate to outrun the pressure building behind his ribs. His hands shook. His breath came uneven, ragged. Every step felt wrong, too heavy, like the whole world was leaning on him from behind, shoving him toward a future he never wanted.

The sky dipped. The shoreline tilted. He felt himself breaking all over again, like he had four years ago when he watched your car drive away and couldn’t force his legs to move.

The next second he felt a small, sharp pull. Your hand on his wrist.

The sand clinging to your palm scratched his skin, but he didn’t even notice. Your touch hit him like diving into ice water – shocking, electric, mercilessly alive. His whole body locked in place, breath trapped in his throat as if time had snapped its fingers and commanded him to be still.

“You promised to wait,” you whispered.

The words trembled, fragile as sea glass, but they cut through him all the same. He turned just enough to see your face, tears catching the early light, turning your lashes into tiny drops of gold. And suddenly it struck him: He had waited.

Every single day. Every empty morning. Every sleepless night when he lit cigarette after cigarette just to keep the silence from swallowing him. Every shift at the garage, every drink, every dream, every stupid hope he tried to drown. He had waited like something in him had been tethered to you, stretched thin but unbroken, refusing to snap even when everything else inside him did.

And now you are here. Real. Solid. Holding on to him like you still knew his pulse by heart.

JJ swallowed hard, chest tightening until it almost hurt to breathe. For the first time in years, he realized that waiting had never been the curse he thought it was. It had been a promise. A quiet one. A stubborn one. A living one.

“I’m waiting,” he breathed.

The words fell out of him shattered and raw. The truth of four years compressed into three small syllables. He turned toward you fully, letting himself give in just a little, letting the wall he’d built crack where your fingers touched him. His hand rose slowly, hesitantly, as if frightened the world might break if he moved too fast. His fingertips brushed your cheek, trembling as they found familiar skin. Your eyes fluttered closed at the contact – soft, trusting, like you’d been holding that breath for years.

And when he felt you lean into his palm, something inside him split wide open, flooding him with a warmth he hadn’t felt since the day he lost you.

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to. The moment said everything.

Everything else – the sand, the horizon, even the hush of wind moving across the water – slipped out of focus. There was only you. Only this fragile, impossible now that he had carried inside him for four years. Every sleepless night, every lonely morning, every ache he had tried to bury seemed to settle right here, in the space between your breaths. He would have given up anything to stay in this moment. He would’ve handed over his whole life if it meant he could keep you this close.

“I’m still waiting,” he whispered again, the words brushing the space between your mouths, frayed and aching. It wasn’t even a confession, it was the truth he had lived inside for years.

Tears streaked down your cheeks, warm and unrelenting, and JJ lifted his hands to your face, brushing them gently against your skin as if he could somehow carry the weight of them for you. The storm wasn’t in the sky. It was here, in you, spilling into his hands, into his chest, into the hollow space he had carried for years. It brought a rush of hope and fear and longing so fierce his knees wobbled, his ribs pressed tight against the breath he couldn’t fully pull in.

But he held himself up. He had to. Because you were here, trembling as you clung to the fabric of his T-shirt like it was the only thing keeping you steady. Your lashes glittered with tears, your breath hitched, and when you looked at him it was with the kind of raw devotion that could break a man clean open.

In that gaze, he remembered how to exist again.

“Take everything,” he murmured, voice thick and warm and a little broken. “Everything I’ve got… it’s yours. It’s always been yours.”

He pulled you closer until you were tucked against his chest, the crown of your head under his chin. The first sob shook through you, quiet and tight, and then another followed, heavier. You cried like a dam finally giving way, like you’d been holding the whole ocean inside your chest for years. JJ wrapped his arms around you and held you through all of it, letting your tears sink into his skin, into his heart, into the years he had lost without you.

“Take everything,” he whispered again, breath trembling against your hair. “Just… don’t leave me this time. Please.”

It wasn’t desperate, not really. It was honest. Painfully, beautifully honest. Every word carried the weight of the nights he’d lain awake imagining your face, the mornings he’d opened his eyes to an empty pillow, the long stretches of time where he’d tried to forget you and failed.

You clung tighter, sliding your arms around his waist as if you were trying to fold yourself into him, to fit into every space you used to fill. And he held you like you belonged there, like you had never left.

JJ lowered his forehead to your hair, breathing in the scent he’d never been able to replace. Your sobs softened slowly, turning into shaky breaths, and he let each one settle into him like a heartbeat. When he finally lifted his eyes, the sea was calm again, stretching out in a long, quiet line. The sunrise slipped over the water, pouring soft gold into the waves until everything glowed – the sky, the sand, the two of you tangled together as if the world had built this morning just for you.

He pressed a small kiss to the top of your head – gentle, steady, a promise spoken without words – and wrapped his arms around you, refusing to let even an inch of distance return.

You stayed there with him, curled against his chest, feeling the warmth of his breath and the solid beat of his heart. And in that fragile, glowing moment, every broken piece of the past seemed to ease just a little. The years fell away. The hurt loosened its grip.

You were here. You were real. And finally you were in his arms again.

thankx for reading <3

i don’t think this is my best work. something feels a little off, like it’s missing something, but i can’t quite put my finger on it. maybe it’s just been a long time since i sat down and wrote something for you. lately, i’ve mostly been writing just for myself. i might share some of those pieces later, but this time i won’t make any promises about publishing soon, because every time i do, i hit a block and can’t even edit my drafts.

i’d love to hear your thoughts on this one, though. lately, i’ve been feeling low on motivation, and maybe your feedback or even just your remarks could be the spark i need to write something new.

so, I’d really appreciate feedback — whether in the comments or my inbox! :3

  – your santi 🪐

"Oh, fuck." 

Your fingers tightened around the sheets, as your back lifted off the mattress. Sweat clinging to your body; hair fanned out around you like a halo. Another moan left your mouth as Oliver flattened his tongue on your clit, continuing to eat you out like a starved man. 

Sunday morning light filtered through the curtains, soft and unhurried, spilling in warm gold stripes across the tangled bedding. You’d lost track of how long you’d been here. Hours, maybe longer. The coffee on the nightstand had gone cold ages ago, forgotten the moment his hands had found your hips again. 

"Right there," you gasped, one hand releasing the sheets to thread through his dark hair. "Don't stop—" 

He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open, holding you still as he worked you with devastating precision. He knew exactly what you needed—the flat of his tongue, then the tip, circling, teasing, before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking gently. 

Your hips bucked. He let them this time, let you grind against his mouth, take what you needed, while his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs hard enough to bruise. You'd find the marks later—little purple memories you'd press your thumb against just to feel the ache. Just to remember this. 

"Osc—" His name broke apart in your throat as the tension coiled tighter. You were close, so close, that desperate edge where every nerve ending felt raw and electric. 

He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right, and the sound that tore from you was almost embarrassing. Almost. You were past caring. Past anything but the wet heat of his mouth and the stretch of his fingers and the way he was watching you—you could feel his gaze even with your eyes squeezed shut. 

"Look at me." 

You forced your eyes open. He'd lifted his head just enough to speak, his lips slick, his hazel eyes dark and intent. His fingers kept moving, a slow, relentless rhythm. 

"I want to see you when you come." 

The words hit you like a physical thing. You held his gaze as he lowered his mouth again, as his tongue found your clit, as his fingers crooked inside you and— 

You shattered. 

The orgasm ripped through you in waves, your back arching, your thighs shaking, his name a broken cry on your lips. He worked you through it, gentling only when the aftershocks began to fade, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs as you came back to yourself. 

But he didn't stop there. 

He kissed a slow path upward—over your hip bone, across the soft swell of your stomach, lingering at the dip of your waist like he had all the time in the world. When he reached the space just beneath your ribs, he paused, breath warm against your skin. 

"You're shaking," he murmured. 

"Your fault." 

He smiled against you—you felt it more than saw it—and pressed another kiss there, unhurried, reverent. 

"I know." 

He continued his path upward, mouth trailing over your sternum, the curve of your breast, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss felt deliberate, like punctuation in a sentence he was still figuring out how to finish. When he finally reached your lips, the kiss was softer than before—slow and searching, tasting like you and him and lazy Sunday mornings. 

"Fuck," you breathed when he pulled back. "Fuck, that was—" 

"I know," he said again, quieter this time, and something in his voice made your chest ache. He settled his weight over you, and you could feel how hard he was against your hip—but he wasn't rushing. Just looking at you with that expression he got sometimes, the one that made you feel like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. 

"We have all day," he murmured against your lips, one hand trailing down your side, over the curve of your waist. "I'm nowhere near done with you." 

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, a slow smile spreading across your face. 

"Good." You reached between you, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock, feeling him shudder. "Because I have plans for you too." 

❁✿❀❁✿❀ 

The sheets were a disaster. 

You'd given up on the fitted sheet entirely around hour three, when Oscar had flipped you onto your stomach and fucked you so thoroughly you'd nearly pulled the corner right off the mattress. Now it was bunched somewhere near the foot of the bed, twisted into itself with the duvet and at least two pillows that had become casualties of earlier activities. 

Afternoon light had replaced the soft haze of earlier, the sun now higher and sharper, spilling heat across bare skin where it slipped through the curtains. The summer warmth pressed against the windows like the city itself was leaning in, too curious for its own good. You still hadn’t opened them. Not entirely sure you wanted Monaco to have any evidence of what had happened behind them. 

You lay on your back, completely unmoored, watching Oscar as he disappeared briefly into the kitchen and returned with the kind of calm efficiency that felt almost unfair. 

One hand held a glass of water. The other balanced a plate of sliced fruit like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just ruined your ability to form coherent words for most of the day. 

"Hydration break," he said, entirely too smug for a man who'd made you come four times. 

"You're ridiculous." 

"You're welcome." 

He set the plate down on the nightstand and climbed back into bed like he belonged there more than anywhere else, settling in beside you with an easy familiarity that made everything feel slower again. 

You accepted the glass of water gratefully, only now noticing how parched you were, how your body had stopped keeping track of anything except him. The water was cold and refreshing, grounding in a way you didn’t realise you needed. 

 He fed you a strawberry while you drank, his thumb brushing your lower lip, and the gesture was somehow more intimate than anything else you'd done all day. 

"Hey," you said quietly, catching his wrist before he could pull away. 

He stilled, watching you. 

You turned your head and pressed a kiss to his palm—just once, soft, right in the center—then released him. 

Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something softer. He didn't say anything, but his hand lingered on your cheek for a moment longer than necessary, thumb tracing the line of your jaw. 

"What was that for?" he asked. 

"Nothing." You smiled. "Just wanted to." 

He exhaled—a small, almost disbelieving sound—and leaned down to kiss your forehead. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth. 

"You're going to be the death of me," he murmured against your skin. 

"Dramatic." 

"True." 

"What time is it?" you asked. 

Oscar leaned back against the pillows, glancing at nothing in particular before shrugging. 

“No idea.” 

A pause. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

You huffed a quiet laugh through your nose. 

He was right. 

It didn’t. 

That was the whole point of today—no schedules, no obligations, no races to get to, no meetings waiting on either of them. Just the rare, indulgent luxury of existing in the same space without a countdown hanging over your heads. 

The world beyond the apartment felt impossibly far away. 

You shifted closer, tucking yourself against his side, your head finding the familiar hollow of his shoulder. His arm wrapped around you automatically, pulling you in, and for a long moment neither of you spoke. Just breathed together, slow and synchronized, while the afternoon light painted everything gold. 

"I love this," you said quietly. 

His fingers traced lazy patterns on your arm. "This specifically?" 

"All of it. The—" You paused, trying to find the right words. "The nothing. The just being here. Not going anywhere." 

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. 

"I know what you mean." 

“You do?” 

“Yeah.” His voice is low, the smile boyish. “Because same.” 

You shook your head slightly, grinning before you set the water aside and shifted toward him, draping one leg over his hip. He was half-hard already, or still, and the slide of him against your thigh made you clench around nothing. 

"Again?" 

His eyebrows rose, but there was no real resistance in it —already pulling you closer before the word had even fully left him. One hand slid across your lower back, warm and familiar, fingers spreading possessively against your bare back. 

"Again." 

You didn't even try to hide the smile tugging at your lips. 

That did it. 

He laughed under his breath—low, warm, disbelieving in a way that always sounded like you were slightly ruining his self-control and he didn’t mind it at all. 

"You're going to kill me," he murmured, eyes flicking down to your mouth. 

"What a way to go." 

The smile that broke across his face was immediate—soft, unguarded—but it didn’t last long. 

He kissed you again before he could think too much about it. 

Not rushed, not careless—just hungry in the quiet, familiar way that always seemed to catch you both off guard like it was happening for the first time even though it never was. 

His hand slid up your back slowly, fingers tracing the line of your spine like he was mapping you out again, relearning you every time even though he already knew exactly where everything was. 

You shivered slightly at the touch. 

He noticed. Of course he did. 

"You're so beautiful," he muttered against your lips. 

Your smile grew immediately, involuntary. 

"Right back at you," you murmured, breathless now, kissing the corner of his mouth once like punctuation before shifting your weight. 

You pushed at his shoulder until he rolled onto his back, then swung your leg over to straddle him. His hands found your hips immediately, an instinct at this point, and you took a moment just to look at him—the mess of his hair against the pillow, the flush still visible on his chest, the way his eyes tracked every small movement you made. 

You didn’t speak for a moment. 

Just looked at him. 

"Hi," you said softly. 

The mess of his hair pressed into the pillow. 

The faint flush still lingering on his chest. 

The way his eyes didn’t wander once—not to the ceiling, not to anything else in the room—just stayed on you like you were the only constant thing he trusted to stay still. 

"Hi yourself." 

A small smile tugged at your mouth. 

You leaned down and kissed him—not to start anything, just because you could. Because he was there and he was yours and sometimes that still felt like a miracle. His hand came up to cup the back of your head, holding you there, and when you finally pulled away, his eyes were soft in a way that made your heart stutter. 

“I love you,” you said quietly. 

No build-up. No hesitation. 

Just truth.  

Matter-of-fact.  

Like you were telling him the sky was blue. 

His expression shifted immediately—something almost unguarded flickering across his face before it settled into something softer, warmer, almost disbelieving in how easy it still felt to hear it from you. 

"I love you too." He said it like it was easy. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.  

“Every single day,” he added, a faint smile pulling at his mouth now, boyish again in a way that belonged only to you. “Even when you steal all the covers.” 

Your eyes narrowed slightly. 

“I do not—” 

"You do." 

"Lies and slander." 

His laugh broke through the room instantly—bright, real, the kind that filled the space between you like sunlight sneaking through curtains. 

You reached down between your bodies, his cock already hard again and feeling heavy in your hands before positioning him at your entrance and sinking down slowly. The stretch was perfect, fullness and pressure and that delicious ache of well-used muscles. His breath caught; his fingers dug into your hips. 

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, the Australian accent heavier on the pronunciation this time. "You feel good." 

"Shit," it was barely above a whisper as you braced your hands against his chest for stability before you started to move. 

There was no urgency this time. You'd burned through the desperate, frantic need hours ago. This was something slower, something sweeter—lazy Sunday afternoon sex that built like honey dripping, inevitable and golden. You rolled your hips in long, slow waves, finding the angle that made you gasp, chasing pleasure without rushing toward it. 

Oscar’s hands roamed—your thighs, your waist, your breasts. He pinched one nipple and you clenched around him, earning a groan that made you smile. Then his lips found your other nipple, biting down on it, earning moans from you, shivers. You leaned down to kiss him, changing the angle, and the new pressure against your clit had you whimpering into his mouth. 

He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—and something in his gaze made you slow down, made you match the rhythm to the steady pulse of whatever was passing between you. 

"That's it," he murmured, one hand sliding down to help, his thumb finding your clit with unerring accuracy. "Just like that. Take what you need." 

You moved faster, grinding down harder, chasing the heat building low in your middle. His hips rose to meet yours, matching your rhythm, and the sound of skin against skin filled the room alongside your mingled breath. 

"I'm—"you gasped.  "Close," 

"I know. I've got you." 

His thumb pressed harder, circling, and you broke apart for the fifth time that day—or maybe the sixth, you'd honestly lost count. The orgasm washed through you like a warm tide, less explosive than before but no less consuming, pulling a long moan from your throat. 

You felt him follow a moment later, his hips stuttering, his fingers bruising your hips as he spilled inside you with a rough groan of your name. 

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you breathing hard. 

Neither of you moved for a long time. His arms wrapped around you, one hand tangled in your hair, the other tracing absent shapes on your lower back. Your ear pressed against his chest, and the steady thump of his heartbeat was the only clock that mattered. 

"Hey," he said eventually, voice rough. 

"Mm?" 

"Thank you." 

You lifted your head, confused. "For what?" 

He was quiet for a moment, like he was trying to find the right words. "For this. For being here. For making everything else feel smaller." 

Your throat tightened. You pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart. 

"You don't have to thank me for that." 

"I know." He smiled, soft and a little crooked. "But I want to anyway." 

There it was again—that feeling like you were both standing at the edge of something. The words neither of you had said yet, hanging in the air between you. You could feel them. You were pretty sure he could too. 

But for now, this was enough. 

"Okay," you said eventually, into the damp skin of his shoulder. "Now I might actually be done." 

"Liar." 

You laughed, too tired to argue. He was probably right. 

But for now, this was enough. The tangled sheets and the golden light and the sound of his breathing evening out beneath you. The way his arms tightened around you like he never wanted to let go. 

Outside, Monaco went on without them. Inside, time had stopped. 

And neither of you minded at all. 

✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿

So... that was hot❤️‍🔥🥵

What else do you wish to read in LTLI? - Help your Girl out a bit!!

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You set your sights on Nice. You head to La Turbie. Once, the two of you even made it to Saint-Tropez. 

Tonight, it’s nothing that extreme. It’s only Pointe du Cap Martin. A thirty minute drive out. A picturesque headland smack dab on the French Riviera. 

The Peugeot 2008 you had rented from a shady Facebook Marketplace seller groans as Charles pulls to a stop. He cusses underneath his breath. “This is a tractor,” he grunts. 

You laugh despite yourself. “You would know a thing or two about driving tractors, no?” 

“Excusez-moi?!”

You’re already out of the car before Charles can attempt to put you in a headlock. Immediately, you’re hit with the salty breeze of the Mediterranean, wafting in from the waves hitting the rocks below. You pick up undertones of citrus and petroleum beyond the overwhelming scent of the ocean, and it only reminds you of how much you’ve missed out on.

You don’t notice Charles until he’s crept up behind you. A squeal escapes you when you feel his arms wrap around your shoulders, cocooning you in the gingham picnic blanket you’d bought out for this outing. 

“I ought to throw you into the sea,” he threatens as you attempt to wiggle yourself free from his grasp. 

“What a headline that would make,” you retort, and Charles shakes his head with exasperation before letting go of you. 

“Come on,” he says, “we don’t have all night.” 

The words are part Charles’ trademark impatience, part truth. While you and Charles are now used to the finer things in life, time is a luxury neither of you have. Tomorrow, he has media obligations. All the pageantry required before the grand prix. You’ll have your work, and a flight to prepare for come Sunday evening. 

Monte-Carlo is no longer that much of a home for either of you. It’s the place where you were both born, sure, and it’s forever going to be on your passport. But Charles is in a new country every week, and you now have roots halfway across the world. Some city thrice the size of Monaco, where you can walk for hours and still not make it to the fringes. 

Once a year, though, you come back. To watch the Grandstands rise. To sit among relatives donning rosso corsa red. To hold your clasped hands to your chest; to pray for miracles. Or maybe just miracle, even. Singular. 

No matter how busy his home race press tour might get, Charles always carves out time for you. The yearly road trip is a tradition as sacred as the ones you participated in as children. For a few, precious hours, Monaco’s golden boy sheds the title of il predestinato. The only destiny he has to fulfill is whatever location you have in mind. 

The two of you settle on a spot near the cliff, the picnic blanket underneath you keeping the rocks from digging too harshly into your thighs. The lighting is abysmal—just a distant street lamp a couple of feet away—so you switch on your phone’s torch to make things a little brighter. 

Charles clicks his tongue. “You’re going to drain your battery,” he chides as he stretches his limbs. 

“I can’t see you in the dark,” you protest. 

“It’s not like you need to see me. You know how I look like.” 

You do, but there’s always something different whenever you come back around. More stubble. Messier locks. Darker bags underneath his eyes, laugh lines that match the dimple you used to poke until he was tackling you. 

But you don’t protest. You turn off your flashlight and let the evening creep back in, until all you can see are outlines and shadows of the man next to you. 

It is not the first time that Charles Leclerc has slipped through your fingers. 

You don’t dwell on it. Instead, you pass him his can of Coca-Cola, and you break out the Caprese salad you prepared precisely for this moment, and the two of you talk. There’d already been quite a bit of catching during the drive, thought that was punctuated with Charles rueing your tastes in rental cars.

You tell him about work. How you want to quit, how you’re doing interviews with different companies already. He talks to you about the race weekends before this one, asking every so often if you’d watched this one, if you’d seen clips of that one. He frowns when you say ‘no’, fights back a grin when you nod. You’re not the type to stay up until five in the morning to see Charles drive in circles, but when the races don’t happen during ungodly hours, you do try to tune in. 

“It’s been a hard start to the season, hasn’t it?” you say delicately, and Charles exhales like he’s been carrying the weight of the world with him in the SF-25. 

“That is an understatement,” he huffs. 

The rest of the season has yet to unfold; you like to think things will look up eventually. You don’t give Charles those platitudes, though. You change the topic. You flick a wrinkly tomato at him. You fall into the easy routine of bickering and conversation, the comfort honed and smoothed out over years of knowing. 

Knowing what the other person needs. Knowing where the other person wants to go. Knowing each other, even know, even after your lives have taken you both away from the Principality that shaped your accents. 

Tonight, you can tell Charles wants to believe this isn’t all that there is. He looks like he’s tired of moving, like his body is aching, except it has nothing to do with the rigorous training; instead, it’s the curse. It’s the privilege. It’s the legacy, and the legend, and the little boy he is underneath it all. He’s trying to practice mind over matter, trying to distract himself from the supposed good times that aren’t as good as he thought they might be. 

Wordlessly, he rests his head in your lap. 

Your fingers card through his hair on instinct. “Your hands smell like basil,” he grumbles, but he doesn’t pull away and you don’t fault him for it. 

He stares out at the sea. You keep playing with his hair. The French Riviera holds you—both this adult version of yourselves and the teenage selves you outgrew. 

“What do you think we’re like,” Charles asks, voice softer now that he’s sprawled out on your lap, “in another dimension?” 

You let out a snort of laughter. “Another dimension?” you repeat. “What is this? The Marvel cinematic universe?” 

“Pourquoi continues-tu à me faire ça—” 

“Alright, alright.” You pause, a strand of Charles’ hair caught between your fingers, before answering. “I like to think we would still be friends.” 

In the darkness of the evening, with his face angled away, you can’t tell if Charles is smiling. You can hear it, though. That small lilt in his tone as he whispers, “Really?” 

“Really,” you say, unable to keep the laugh from your own voice. 

There’s a brief pause, the kind that doesn’t require either of you to state the plain. There’s love here. It’s in the reverent way you hold Charles, the way his shoulders curve inward, the way the ocean returns time and time again to the shore. 

Charles answers his own question. “I think you would be taller in another dimension,” he teases. 

You give his tresses a playful yank. He yelps and leans down, teeth grazing your knee in a barely-there bite. You’re grown adults, and yet you still roughhouse like children. 

“I meant to say bigger,” he says as he settles, “like, award-winning actress big.” 

You wince. “Are we still on that?” 

He shifts in your lap so he can glare up at you. “You were meant to be a star,” he shoots back, and you reach out your free hand to pinch the space between his brows. 

“Those were only a handful of school plays, Charlie.” 

“And they were the best school plays Monaco had ever seen!”

The history unspools like a film roll. You as Juliet, Charles as Benvolio. You as Wendy Darling, Charles as a Lost Boy. The spotlight once shone bright as you bowed in front of standing ovations, but that curtain has long since closed. You’ve let it go; Charles hasn’t. 

“In another dimension,” you say absentmindedly, “I think I would like it if we were smaller.” 

“Smaller?” he repeats, like he’s certain he misheard. 

“Something not worth the mention.” 

A life where Charles did not race. A life where you both stayed in Monaco. Adjacent apartments off Le Jardin Exotique, trips to the bakery for madeleines. Slow bodies, lesser speeds. Magic not in the reinvention or the rush, but the familiar feeling that has blossomed between the two of you since you were both sixteen. 

Charles stares up at you, thinking it over. You can see the question trying to claw its way out of his throat. Would we be together, then? Would the relationship have survived? Because—what you have right now—this is love, yes, but it had been a different kind of love once upon a time. 

Stolen kisses over cobblestone streets slick with rain. Family dinners where everyone thought wedding bells were on the horizon. One hand on the steering wheel and the other squeezing your thigh; his eyes, amused as they watch the clouds float beyond the windshield. Look, that one is shaped like a heart. 

But you and Charles are done with hypotheticals, done with what ifs. You’re fine here. You have to be. The breakup had been clean, and the friendship had survived. Why tempt fate? 

“I think,” Charles says as he turns his gaze back to the ocean, “you will always be worth mentioning to me.” 

You don’t say anything in response. What could you? 

Charles cares for you still, and he will forever. That was part of your deal, the one you made when he decided he wanted to focus on his career and you first started thinking of a life beyond the city-state. The two of you had linked pinkies, eyes rimmed with red and tears spilling down your faces. 

You did not promise an encore. To do so would mean living for the hope of it all, would mean dissecting every interaction should there still be some of that romance left. No. Instead, you agreed on this. Once a year trips on winding roads—both the ones made of asphalt, and the ones connecting the two of you. 

After a bit more idle chatter, the two of you pack up. Charles has some movie screening he has to go to tomorrow. You’re meant to meet up with your grandparents for lunch. 

“Next time, I’m picking the car,” he threatens as he gets behind the wheel, and the Peugeot 2008 lurches in protest before starting. 

“Whatever you say,” you sing-song, already slotting your seatbelt into place. What you don’t say: It could be a shitty rental or sports car. It doesn’t matter. All you care about is that there is a next time. A penciled in date, a year down the line, where Charles Leclerc can be yours again for an hour or two. 

You don’t talk much on the ride back. But, for old time’s sake—maybe because the question got him thinking, too—Charles reaches out. He places his hand on your thigh. You rest your hand over his. He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t take, doesn’t make it mean anything. You don’t ask, don’t point out the stars, don’t love him more than you have to. 

Carlos cheers as if it’s a victory in its own right. He tugs at your wrist until you’re at his side. The kitchen smells of sugar and vanilla, and the late afternoon sun spills through the window, turning the terracotta tiles into a checkerboard of red and black.

His father ruffles his hair, chuckling under his breath. “Blow out the candles, campeón.”

Carlos turns to you, eyes sparkling with that mischievous glint that always means trouble.

“You do it with me,” he insists.

“It’s your birthday,” you argue, but he’s already inching closer, shoulder bumping against yours.

“Please?” he says, and you know then— even at this age— that you’ll never be able to say no to him.

So you do it together, squeezing your eyes shut as you make your wishes. When you open them, the candles are snuffed out, a faint curl of smoke rising toward the ceiling.

His mother claps, and his father nods. They share a knowing look. The kind of knowledge adults carry like a secret; the certainty that some people are just meant to orbit each other. 

The goddess of timing must be watching, amused and benevolent, because even the universe can’t help but indulge in this small, perfect moment.

There are murmurs about your friendship. Of course there are. Sainz Jr. had a friend, a next-door neighbor who indulged his every whimsy. 

And you had Carlos. 

Carlos, who chases your bullies away with sticks from his backyard. Carlos, who hurtles down the street on his bicycle so he can get the two of you the freshest bocadillos. Carlos, who will halve the chances of his birthday wish being fulfilled if it means you get to have a quarter of a wish, too. 

Later, after too much cake and games in the garden, you sit beneath the lemon tree. Dirt streaks your legs; frosting sticks to Carlos’ fingers. Your best friend leans his head against your shoulder.

His hair is damp with sweat, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone perfectly content. He’s only 10— que horror, the dreaded double digit!— but he acts like he already has all the answers in the world. 

“I’m going to be a race car driver,” he tells you. As if it’s a prophecy. His God-given right. 

You hum, picking at the grass beside you. “I know.”

“You’ll come to all my races?”

“Of course.”

Carlos sighs with satisfaction. “We’ll always be friends,” he promises, prophesies.

You’re too young to know that people change, that you can’t possibly predict the years to come. Right now, with the sun dipping below the rooftops and the sky blushing pink, it feels like forever could be this simple. 

After a beat, Carlos pipes up, “What did you wish for?”

“I can’t tell you,” you snort, “or else it won’t come true.” 

“Not fair!” he whines. “It’s my birthday!” 

You bicker and roughhouse until Carlos’ mother has to intervene. The question is forgotten when you two are called in for dinner of polbo a feira and tapas.

It’s one of those memories you wish you could keep in a snow globe, forever immortalized. The dining table, the conversation, the company. 

The wish you made, buried in your mind like the spare house key under a mat. 

I hope Carlos gets everything he wants. 

▸ AND SOMETIMES IT GETS ME, WHEN CROSSING YOUR JET STREAM— WE BOTH DID THE BEST WE COULD DO UNDERNEATH THE SAME MOON.

The trophy is heavier than Carlos expected.

His hands ache from gripping the wheel, knuckles still buzzing from the adrenaline of the last lap. All the same, he refuses to put the prize down. He clutches it like proof that the last three years weren’t just a dream; inwardly, he’s scared that letting go might somehow undo the third place finish.

The victory party spills across the hotel’s rooftop, lanterns swaying in the humid breeze. His father shakes hands with team managers. His mother beams at anyone who glances her way. 

And Carlos— Carlos searches for you.

You find him first, dodging through the crowd with practiced ease. There’s a scrape on your knee from tripping over a curb in your rush to get to the podium, and your hair is a mess from running down the track, but Carlos doesn’t care. 

You look at him like he’s conquered the world, and he feels like maybe he has.

He casts aside the trophy. Suddenly, it’s not as important as what he’s about to hold. 

“You did it,” you’re breathing, and he’s reaching out to pull you into a hug. “Cariño, you did it.” 

“We did it,” he amends. You laugh like it’s a joke, like Carlos isn’t being a hundred percent sincere. 

Nobody bats an eye at the show of affection. You’ve been around since Torneo Industrie. You were there for the podium finishes and the falls from grace. 

Carlos Sainz’s best friend. The one who was keeping a promise. The one he sought out after every race, win or lose.

Not just any girl in the crowd, but the girl. 

Carlos sways the two of you back and forth, feet shuffling in a clumsy imitation of a slow dance. There’s a live band playing the ballads his parents like, so his effort to keep you close is rather awkward and off-putting. 

He’s not about to be called out on it, though. Not when this is his moment, and he’s keen on sharing it with you. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he mumbles into the crown of your head. 

“You could have,” you respond firmly, the words spoken into his clothed shoulder. “You would have.” 

I don’t want to, he almost says, but he bites the words back. Carlos doesn’t want to need you too much. Doesn’t want to put his career in the palm of your hands.

He pulls back, still gripping your arms like he needs the anchor. The party swirls around you both. A snow globe celebrating him while he reveres you. 

“We’ll do this forever,” he says. A shadow of that childhood promise. “You’ll come to all my races.”

You’re older, now. A little wiser. Not so immune to the whispers. 

Carlos, who is built for bigger things. And you— the amalgamation, the imposition. El destino.

His destiny, if he were to want it badly enough. 

You smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. The moon hangs low in the sky, watching over you both like it knows something you don’t.

“Of course,” you say, pretending it’s still that simple.

▸ YOU SAID YOU WERE GONNA GROW UP, THEN YOU WERE GONNA COME FIND ME... YOU SAID YOU'D COME AND GET ME, BUT YOU WERE TWENTY-FIVE.

You remember what it looked like— the night Carlos made his choice. 

The car, idling by the curb, its headlights spilling across the pavement. Carlos, leaning against the gate of your house. His fingers tapped restless patterns on the metal; his sneakers scuffed against the ground. 

He looked young. He was young.

Stripped of the helmet and the race suit, he was just a 16-year-old boy with too much of the world ahead of him and not enough words to say what he meant. 

“I’ll call you,” he assured, voice breaking the silence. The third time he had said it that night.

You nodded and crossed your arms over your chest like you could hold yourself together that way. “I know.”

Carlos let out a breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. His hair was longer, curls falling over his forehead. It didn’t hide the way his eyes flickered with uncertainty.

He was always so sure of himself on the track— confident in every turn, every overtake— but he looked lost now, standing in front of you like he couldn’t figure out how to leave.

“You can still watch the races,” he had tried, the joke falling flat between you. “On TV. It’s almost the same.”

“It’s not the same,” you said, and you inhaled sharply when it came out sounding sharp. You shook your head and tried again. “It’s fine, Carlos. You should go.”

Instead of taking your advice, Carlos had taken a step closer. 

His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for you, but he shoved it into his pocket instead. “I don’t want you to think I’m leaving because I want to,” he said, words tumbling out too fast. “I have to do this. I just... I need to try. But I’ll come back.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He swayed on his feet, desperate to make you believe him. “I’ll get it out of my system, and then I’ll come back.”

The way he said it— like racing was a fever that needed to break, like the only cure was time and distance— made your chest ache. You’d never seen him without racing, couldn’t imagine a version of Carlos that wasn’t chasing speed like he was scared of what might catch him if he slowed down.

“How long?” you whispered.

Carlos opened his mouth. Closed it again. 

The truth is, he didn’t know. It could be years. It could be forever.

But he had looked at you like he wanted it to be tomorrow.

“Just wait for me,” he begged, voice barely above a whisper, “please.”

As a teenager, you had not thought it to be cruel. It was simply a parting remark, a best friend’s desperate plea. When you nodded and let Carlos plant a kiss to your forehead— as if sealing the deal— you didn’t expect it to feel a lot like a death sentence. 

It’s been nine years since. 

Carlos slips in and out of your life like Spanish summers. He’ll spend a week or two of off-season in Madrid, soaking up as much of you as he can. Every year, there is something new to report. 

A co-driver he dislikes. A team trying to poach him. An entire life where you are a footnote— a ‘best friend’ back home. 

This time around, he is 25 and gearing up to join McLaren. He had texted you about it when he first got the news. 

The papaya team, you said good-naturedly, and he responded with a selfie with his curly-haired co-driver. 

I told him all about you, Carlos said. You were not sure whether to feel grateful or heartbroken. 

Tonight, the dinner plates have been pushed to the side, remnants of your meal forgotten in favor of stretching the night out just a little longer. Your best friend sits across from you, elbow on the table, chin propped in his hand. 

The kitchen of his family home is quiet, save for the faint hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock. His parents have given you some privacy. Even now, they are still rooting for what they think is the soft epilogue you both deserve. 

Carlos’ eyes soften as you top his glass. The same warm brown as when he was fourteen and winning his first championship, as when he was sixteen and making promises he couldn’t follow up on.

You tilt your glass of wine, watching the way the liquid catches the light. “So,” you start, voice steady, “have you gotten it out of your system yet?”

You can see the guilt settle over him, the way his shoulders tense and his gaze drops to the table. He scratches at the wood grain with his thumb, jaw tight. 

“I’m close,” he says, and you hate how desperate he sounds to convince you. “Just a few more years.”

“A few more years,” you repeat, like you can make the words sound like less than what they are. You nod, pretending not to notice the tremor in his voice. 

You lift your gaze, studying him. The sharper angles of his face, the subtle lines that years of racing and travel have carved into his skin.

The way he looks at you— that hasn’t changed.

“I will come back,” he promises, leaning in, eyes wide and earnest. “I swear, I just—”

“Carlos.” You reach across the table, fingers curling around his hand. 

You squeeze his hand, trying to memorize the shape of him, the feel of his skin against yours. And then, slowly, you stand, tugging him to his feet with you as you move around the table. 

He follows you instinctively, like he always has.

You’re the one who finally, finally does it. In the dim light of this kitchen that has witnessed everything, you kiss him. 

It’s soft and lingering, a slow unraveling of years of almosts and maybes. Carlos doesn’t hesitate; he melts into it, hands coming up to cradle your face.

He kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every goodbye, every missed birthday, every time he said he’d come back and didn’t.

He tastes like the wine you’d been drinking, like everything you want but can’t have. 

You pull away and briefly rest your forehead against his, fingers brushing through his hair. Carlos chases your lips, but you step back. 

“You don’t have to come back for me,” you exhale, voice breaking on the words. “Just come back when you’re ready.”

Carlos stares at you, eyes glassy, chest rising and falling like he’s about to argue.

He doesn’t. He’s never raised his voice at you. He was not about to start tonight. 

You slip away, the same way that summer might end on an unassuming September afternoon. 

And so this must be what winter feels like, Carlos thinks as he watches you go. 

▸ ARE YOU STILL A MIND-READER, A NATURAL SCENE STEALER? I'VE HEARD GREAT THINGS, CARLOS, BUT LIFE WAS ALWAYS EASIER ON YOU THAN IT WAS ON ME.

You find out the way everyone else does.

The announcement is plastered across every sports site you frequent, and someone in the office even mentions it in passing like it's a casual thing. For them, it is.

For you, it's something else entirely.

Carlos Sainz signs with Ferrari, replacing Sebastian Vettel. 

The sting isn't sharp, but it lingers. A dull ache of realization. 

You used to be the first to know these things. You used to get the late-night texts, the excited voice messages, the hastily snapped photos of team gear before anything was official. Now, you're like everybody else, learning about Carlos’ life through headlines and curated press releases.

You wonder, briefly, if it's the kiss that ruined things. You haven’t exactly stopped talking, but the texts are infrequent now. The check-ins, more obligatory than organic. 

Still, you swallow the feeling and shoot him a message. Not because you have to, but because there isn’t a world where you wouldn’t give Carlos Sainz the flowers he deserves. 

Congratulations, mi campeón, you text him. Ferrari red suits you. 

Your phone rings in the next five minutes, your screen lighting up with a childhood photo of you and Carlos. 

“I was waiting for you to text,” he says, voice laced with relief. “I wanted to tell you myself, I swear. I just... Things happened so fast.” 

You close your eyes, resting your forehead against your hand. You realize that you don’t know where he is. Maranello? Monaco? 

In the house right next doors to yours— back home, where you once thought he belonged? 

You want to let him explain, want to listen to every single word, but your boss shouts your name from across the room. You’re reminded of your place. These white walls and linoleum floors; cubicles and desk set-ups that Carlos never would have settled for. 

“Lo siento, cariño,” you say hurriedly. “I’m at work. I have to go, but— I mean it. Congratulations. I am happy for you.” 

It’s small, almost negligible. The emphasis you choose to put on the word ‘am’. I am happy for you, you’re saying, as if you’re still trying to convince yourself of the fact. 

Carlos, on the other end of the line, exhales heavily. 

He doesn’t say he will call later tonight when you’re free. The two of you are no longer in the business of getting each other’s hopes up. 

“Thank you,” he says, the platitude sounding heavier than it should. 

You end the call and shove the phone into your desk drawer, hopeful that it will keep you from doing something stupid like reading up on Ferrari or texting Carlos a dozen apologies. 

The ache lingers. 

It always does. 

▸ I WON'T CONFESS THAT I WAITED, BUT I LET THE LAMP BURN. AS THE MEN MASQUERADED, I HOPED YOU'D RETURN.

Carlos shows up at your doorstep like he doesn’t know where else to go.

You don’t have to check your phone to know why he’s here. You step aside wordlessly, letting him into the familiar warmth of your home. He exhales, as if stepping over the threshold takes something out of him. 

Maybe it does. Maybe this is the last place he can let himself be like this— untethered from the world that has just tossed him aside.

For a long time, neither of you speak. He lingers in your living room, shoulders hunched as he stares at the floor. Carlos doesn’t have to know, but the laptop in your bedroom bears dozens of articles, like you were a crime scene detective trying to make sense of all the details. 

Lewis Hamilton to replace Carlos Sainz at Ferrari for the 2025 season. 

It had felt like a punch to the gut just reading it. You can’t even imagine what it must’ve felt like to be him.

“Carlos,” you begin, but he’s already shaking his head, a wry smile playing at his lips.

All these years between the two of you— despite most of it being spent apart— makes you a language that Carlos is fluent in. He knows. Knows that you were about to offer some comfort, some reassurance, some platitude. 

He shifts on your couch. Your knees bump against each other. 

“Maybe this is it,” he murmurs. “Maybe this is the end of the road for me.” 

Then, softer, like he’s telling himself as much as he’s telling you, “Maybe after this season, I’ll finally fulfill what I’ve always promised you.”

You hate that your heart leaps. Hate that for a second— one fragile, selfish second— you wonder if this is the universe finally setting things right.

This is the universe course-correcting, is it not? The years, and the distance, and the missed calls were all just detours leading him back here.

But that’s not how it works. 

Not for him. Not for you.

This is not fate. It’s heartbreak. 

And you would never let Carlos Sainz’s heart break, if you could do anything about it. 

“Carlos,” you say again, firmer this time. 

He looks up at you. You recognize the glint in his eyes. The part of him that’s already bracing for the fight. Ready to convince you, to convince himself, that this— this is the checkered flag, the final lap. 

You don’t let him. 

“This— racing— it’s who you are. You can’t give that up,” you say earnestly, the words for me hanging in the air between you. 

Carlos laughs. It sounds more like a sob. “I’ve already given up so much for it,” he says wretchedly. “And still, it’s never enough.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and shift closer, reaching out to rest your hand over his. He doesn’t pull away.

“If this is the end of the road,” you say softly, “then walk it all the way to the finish. Don’t let them decide when it’s over.”

Carlos fixes you with his gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. After all this time, he still looks to you like you have all the answers. 

Like you are the answer. 

After an eternity, he sighs and nods once.

For the rest of the night, you don’t talk about racing. You let him linger in the safety of your home, the two of you orbiting around each other like you always have. Two people bound by a history neither of you can seem to let go of.

You exchange stories. You watch reruns of some old telenovela. 

You keep your hands off each other, because you don’t want this moment to be a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. You respect each other too much to settle for that. 

When Carlos falls asleep on your couch, you quietly drape a blanket over him and let the lamp burn through the night.

Just in case he wakes up and needs to find his way back to you.

▸ WITH YOUR FEET ON THE GROUND, TELL ME ALL THAT YOU'D LEARNED 'CAUSE LOVE'S NEVER LOST WHEN PERSPECTIVE IS EARNED.

Carlos turns thirty with a new team, a new beginning, and a birthday party that feels like it was always meant to end here.

The Sainz family home buzzes with celebration— laughter spilling through the rooms, wine glasses clinking, plates scraping against each other as people help themselves to seconds. The scent of his mother’s cooking lingers, grounding everything in a familiarity Carlos hadn’t realized he missed this much.

And then there’s you.

Carlos stands by the cake, the glow of the candles flickering across his face, and he’s not looking at anyone else.

“Come blow the candle with me,” he says, holding out his hand.

You blink, caught off guard. A couple of snickers ripple through the room. Not everybody is privy to the lore, but they don’t really have to be. They all know how much you mean to Carlos. 

“It’s your birthday,” you say. The same thing you’d said two decades ago. 

His grin is boyish, teasing. “I’m thirty. I need the help.”

His mother hides her smile behind her mug. His father shakes his head, mumbles something like estos dos as déjà vu hits like a truck.

The room is full of people certain the two of you belonged to each other long before you ever understood what that meant.

You step beside him. Carlos counts down under his breath, his hand resting over the small of your back. 

The flame is extinguished. Another bottle of champagne is popped. You have some vague memory of the wish you made the first time this happened, but you can’t say for sure if it has come true. 

The party stretches into the night, but Carlos stays close, his shoulder brushing against yours every time he moves. He doesn’t say much— doesn’t have to. It’s enough to just be here for once. 

When the crowd thins out, he grabs his jacket without question, ready to walk you home like he always used to.

The streets of Madrid are quieter than they should be, as if the city is holding space for the two of you. The stars are bright, scattered across the sky like promises.

Carlos shoves his hands into his coat pockets, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. “What did you wish for?”

You exhale a soft laugh. “You can’t ask that.”

“I can.” He glances at you, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m thirty now. I’ve earned the right to know.”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him instead— the way he looks at peace, even with the weight of starting over. His new Williams contract is a fresh start, a lease on life he almost lost.

He’s not done racing. Not yet. But he’s here, he’s here, and you want so badly for that be enough. 

You stop walking. Carlos notices a beat later, turning to face you. His eyes are careful, searching.

“Racing is never going to be out of your system,” you say, as if it’s a fact of life. The sky is blue, the sun is warm, and Carlos Sainz will chase the thrill of a podium until his final breath. 

Carlos winces, looking almost guilty as he responds, “I didn’t mean to—” 

“I know.” You cut him off gently. You’re both now, and you understand that it is not simple. It never was. But that does not mean it is worth anything less. 

“I’m glad you didn’t quit,” you add, just to make things clear. 

Carlos steps closer. “I would’ve come back for you,” he says, voice rough with sincerity. “I think— I think I will always come back to you.”

You smile up at him. It’s bittersweet and small, but it’s all his. All for him. 

He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin. “You never told me what you wished for,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll tell you mine,” you say as you lean into him, chest aching with something that feels like forgiveness— for him, for yourself, for all the years you lost trying to outrun what was always inevitable, “if you tell me yours.” 

Carlos doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he leans in to kiss you like he’s been holding the promise of it for years. A quiet, patient kind of love finally breaking the surface.

It tastes like every birthday cake you ever shared, every race you ever watched, every almost that never quite unraveled into more.

This, he saying as he kisses away all the versions of love that didn’t quite fit before, is what I wished for. 

Somewhere in the universe, the goddess of timing breathes a sigh of relief. She had never lied. 

Te tomó bastante tiempo, she whispers through the breeze in your hair, through the constellation in the sky, through the flower that takes root over the spot you shared a kiss. 

It took you long enough. ⛐

His hotel room in Tokyo is all muted beige and filtered city light, the kind that makes everything look like a memory. He’s in a white tank top, hair wet from a shower, collarbone shining faintly with leftover steam. He looks tired. He looks beautiful. You hate that.

“Come to Suzuka,” he says, not bothering with hello.

You smile without showing your teeth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not,” he complains, flopping back down against his pillows. You itch to reach through the screen and trace all the parts of him you’ve come to know and love. “You didn’t even come to Melbourne for the start of the season. What’s the last race you were at?” 

You know the answer. Still, you feign like you’re thinking. “Abu Dhabi,” you say after deciding Alex has squirmed just enough. Last year’s season-ender. 

Alex winces like the truth physically hurts. “That’s criminal.”

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?” 

His voice is so small, so soft. You adjust your grip on your phone, desperate not to fall into this cycle, this pattern. Coming, taking, giving, leaving. “Work has been a lot,” you grit out. “I’ve texted you about it.” 

“Don’t do that.”

He sits forward. The screen tilts. A flash of his knee, the edge of a pillow. You’ve seen that bed before. You’ve been in it, legs tangled, laughing into his shoulder while the world outside blurred into something manageable. “I’m not doing anything,” you lie.

Alex blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Then I’ll just tell you. The helmet. The special one for Japan. It’s—it has you in it. Well, not you you. But something that’s about you.” 

Your stomach pulls. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I want you there. Because maybe it’ll make you come.”

You have half the mind to accuse him of trapping you. Of having nefarious intentions or whatever bullshit you can spew to get Alex to stop doing all this. Instead, a sigh rattles out of your chest and you say, “Fine. I’ll go.” 

His smile is quick and boyish, and it kills you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You end the call before you can say anything stupid, like I wish you didn’t do that or this isn’t fair or I want you so bad, I’d go back on the things I believe. You sit in the dark, phone face down, trying to remember how this ever felt simple.

Alex moved to Suffolk during the summer your bike had a flat tire. His family settled three houses down, in the white one with the peonies that never bloomed. He wore a school jumper too big for his frame and didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with a sharpness that made you listen.

You found each other in the way quiet children do. At the edges of playgrounds, in the hush before rain, somewhere between a shared silence and a dare. He let you ride his scooter once. You gave him half your sandwich. You became the kind of childhood friends they croon about in indie songs. 

By eight, he was already racing. Karting on weekends in places with names you couldn’t spell. You’d sit on a folding chair, hands sticky from petrol-slick air and melting sweets, watching him blur through corners. He never looked at the stands, never waved. But afterwards, helmet in hand, he’d find you first.

“Did you see that overtake?” he’d ask, grinning, teeth crooked and proud.

You always said yes, even when you hadn’t. He trusted you with his joy before anyone else, placing it in your hands time and time again. Who were you to drop it?

You grew up like parallel lines—close, steady, never touching. Until you did.

Three years ago, it had been raining in London. You’d both had too much wine and not enough food, and he had to race Silverstone in two days. His hotel room smelled like wet wool and expensive soap. You were laughing. About something stupid, a memory, one of the many things only the two of you remembered exactly the same way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even hesitant. It was just there, sudden and sure, the way you’d always known it would be if it ever happened. Fate, you thought, you prayed. 

You hoped that would be the start of it all. The shift, the change, the inevitable. Instead, he had pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Still friends?”

You were so dumbstruck that all you could say was yes. Yes, even though your heart clenched when he breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, because it meant Alex could comfortably lean in for a second kiss. A third. A fourth. 

You kept saying yes. Every time he reached for you in the dark. Every time he flew you out and touched you like something sacred and temporary. Every time you watched him leave in the morning, shoulders lit by the sun and never once looking back.

Still friends.

Yes.

It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.

The suitcase lies open on your bed, half-stuffed with clothes that still smell like dust mites. You fold things with more care than necessary, pressing your palms flat over each cotton shirt like you’re trying to smooth out a thought.

Your mother hovers in the doorway. Not saying much. Just watching. “Japan this time,” she says matter-of-factly. 

You nod. “You know how it is.”

She walks in, slow and quiet. Treading light. Her hand brushes over the edge of your suitcase, the one she’d gotten you when you first started taking these jet-setting trips to visit Alex wherever he was racing. It wasn’t frequent, but it was enough to rake up a significant amount of miles.

“You’ve been going less lately,” your mother says.

You don’t look up. “Been busy.”

A silence stretches between you, gentle and persistent. “You were always thick as thieves, you and Alex,” she says. “Even when he moved away, you’d look at the calendar all the time. Count down the days until he came back.”

You smile faintly. You remember that. For the longest time, you had scribbled in the race calendars into the Saturdays and Sundays, taking note of the time differences. It was a little quirk you stopped doing last year. “We grew up,” you say vaguely, but your mother is relentless. 

“Sometimes growing up just means getting better at hiding things,” she hums. 

You stop folding. Your mother sits beside you. Her fingers find a loose thread on your jumper, twist it once, then let go. “I won’t ask,” she says carefully. “It’s not mine to ask.”

You’re grateful and aching all at once. That mothers know best, that your love for Alex is so blindingly obvious to everyone but him. 

“Just—be careful,” she warns, and you nod. That’s all you can do.

She pats your knee, stands, and leaves the room with the soft efficiency only mothers have. You finish packing in silence. It feels like preparing for something other than a race.

By the time you’re flying out, you can only focus on the imminent promise of Alex’s hands cataloguing all the changes since you last saw each other. 

Fourteen hours in the air does something to your bones. Your spine feels longer, your limbs looser, like you’ve been pulled apart by altitude. The Narita airport lighting is too clean, too kind. It reveals every wrinkle in your clothes, every bruise of fatigue under your eyes.

And then there’s Alex.

Grinning like it’s spring and not just the arrivals gate. Ball cap low, hoodie creased, holding a bouquet of jet-lagged daisies and baby’s breath like he bought them because they looked sort of like you.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so simple, yet it undoes you.

“Hi.”

He pulls you into a hug without warning, arms looping around your shoulders like they’ve been missing their purpose. He smells like travel and the aftershave you teased him for when he first bought it. You let your forehead rest on his collarbone for half a second longer than you should.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out,” you murmur.

“You flew fourteen hours. I can drive forty-five minutes.”

He says it like it’s math, like it adds up, like there’s logic to the way he always tries too hard when you’re about to slip through his fingers. You pull back. "Flowers, though?"

Alex shrugs. “Figured you’d like them. The lady at the stand said they were sweet. Like you.” 

Your laugh is dry. He takes your carry-on like he always does, hand brushing yours for a second that buzzes longer than it should. You walk in step without trying. An old habit that never bothered to leave.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long.”

“Sleep at all?”

You shake your head. “Tried. Kept dreaming about missing the gate.”

He smiles sideways. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m right here.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he is right here, and he doesn’t see it—the weight of three years pressed into every beat of silence, every time he looks at you like nothing has changed.

You want to scream. You want to hold his hand.

Instead, you follow him into the soft Japanese evening, suitcase wheels humming against tile, the daisies wilting in your arms. 

You’re not surprised when there’s only one hotel key card.

Alex doesn’t say anything as he hands it over, just gives you that familiar look, half sheepish, half expectant, like this is just how things are. Like you wouldn’t have come otherwise. 

The room smells faintly of cedar and lavender, the kind of scent pumped through vents by hotels that cost more than you’d care to admit. There’s a single bed, king-sized and already turned down. The lights are low. Evening has softened the edges of everything—the city beyond the glass, the echo of jet lag in your bones, the sharpness of what goes unspoken.

Alex drops your bag by the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket. He stretches like a cat. Arms high, shirt lifting just enough to show the skin at his waist. You look away before he catches you. You’ve memorized the lines of his back in hotel mirrors, the way his shoulder blades rise when he’s tired.

“You hungry?” he asks. “Could order something. Or just raid the minibar like we’re twelve again.”

You smile, toeing off your shoes. “Minibar dinner sounds appropriately tragic.”

He laughs, pleased. “Perfect. I’ll get the world’s saddest sparkling water. Maybe some mystery peanuts.”

You sit at the edge of the bed while he rummages, pulling out a half-sleeve of biscuits and something that might once have been chocolate. He tosses them on the duvet with the flair of a magician, then flops beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

The room settles around you in the way shared spaces do. His charger, already plugged in on your side; your toothpaste, beside his in the glass. He pads over after brushing nighttime routine, hair damp from a quick shower, shirt loose and collar stretched.

There’s something about him in these moments. Unguarded, tender. Like the world forgets to ask too much of him for once. And in that forgetting, he remembers how to exist soft with you.

He pulls you in like muscle memory. His hand on your waist, his breath near your temple.

You go unquestioningly.

The kiss is slow. Familiar. Less heat, more gravity. He touches you like you’re fragile but necessary, like this is the only part of the weekend that makes sense. He murmurs something against your skin—your name, maybe. Or just the word please. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an apology.

You let him press you back onto the mattress, the sheets cold for half a second before his warmth fills the space. His touch is gentle, reverent, like he thinks this is how you say thank you. You hold him, nails digging into his back, trying not to hurt him more than necessary. 

Later, you lie tangled in the hush, his head on your shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. You think about what it would mean to let go.

It’s just a thought, though. 

The next morning, you wake to an absence.

The sheets beside you are still warm, faintly creased from where Alex’s body had been. But his pillow is abandoned, and there’s no sound but the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. For a second—just one clean, heart-punched second—you panic.

Then you hear the shower running.

Relief and resentment wash through you at the same time.

You sink back against the pillows, pressing your palms to your face. Your throat feels tight in that half-awake way that makes you wish you dreamed less vividly. The room smells like steam and his shampoo. 

The bathroom door opens with a soft hiss of air.

Alex steps out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and curling against his temples. He’s grinning already, eyes catching yours across the room. “Could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Water pressure’s phenomenal. Would’ve saved time.”

You groan into the pillow. “Pervert.”

He laughs, padding barefoot across the room, steam trailing behind him. “You love it,” he says cheekily. 

You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, and the sound of your shared laughter feels almost like the old days. Before things blurred at the edges, before kisses replaced inside jokes and you started sleeping with your memories.

“Go put some clothes on, you menace,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He gives you a mock salute and turns back to the bathroom. “Yes, captain.”

You head for your toiletries, feeling the day tug at your skin already. In the mirror, your face looks quieter than it feels. Your mouth remembers his. Your hands remember where he pulled you close. But what you remember most is how easy it is to fall into him—how friendship once felt like enough.

You used to be best friends. Before everything. Before late nights and shared beds and pretending it meant nothing.

And some days, like now, you still are. Best friends, that is.

You wonder if it will ever be enough again.

You ride to the paddock in the backseat of a tinted car, shoulder pressed lightly to Alex’s. The morning is golden and forgiving. 

Suzuka blurs past the windows—red lanterns still swaying from the night before, cherry blossoms beginning their slow fall, the air touched with the delicate scent of fried batter and spring. Alex hums along to something playing faintly on the radio. He taps your knee with his fingers in time to the beat. 

Just once, then again. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands if they’re not touching you.

The air between you is easy. Intimate in the quiet way that friendship can be when layered over something else. A liminal space neither of you names.

He steals your sunglasses and you let him. He makes a show of adjusting them on his nose, eyebrows raised. “Do I look cooler already?” he asks, grinning. You roll your eyes and try not to stare at his mouth.

He offers you a sip of his energy drink and you make a face but take it anyway. He wipes something from your cheek with his thumb and doesn’t comment on it, just lets his hand hover there for a beat too long. The silence fills up with old knowing, soft and dangerous.

Almost enough to fool you.

Almost.

The driver pulls up at the paddock entrance, and you’re met with the orchestral chaos of race day in its early rhythms. Media crews already swarming, engineers in fireproofs wheeling gear past, the crackle of radios and the distant whine of a power unit being tested. The scent of burnt rubber and fresh coffee threads through the breeze. Alex walks beside you, hand skimming your back once, twice, as though to anchor you.

You’ve done this before. Many times. But there’s something about being here again, together, that presses a quiet ache into your sternum. Like returning to a childhood bedroom that’s been rearranged without your permission.

The Williams motorhome appears like a cathedral in blue and white. You’re recognized immediately. A few engineers smile and nod. One of the comms girls hugs you tightly, laughing something into your shoulder about how long it’s been. Someone presses a coffee into your hand, just the way you like it. Two sugars, no milk. It’s a strange kind of comfort, this small network of familiarity in a world that moves too fast.

Then—

“Carlos,” Alex says, reaching to clap the shoulder of his new teammate, who stands just outside the motorhome in full kit. “This is my best friend.”

You turn to meet Carlos’s gaze. He’s charming, polite, smiling in that open, easy way that says he’s used to being liked. He extends a hand, firm but not overdone. You’re sure he’s a good guy, but you’re too hung up on the introduction to care about anything else. 

Best friend.

You shake Carlos’s hand and hope your face doesn’t flinch. You know the role. You’ve played it well for years. Smiled through it. Laughed through it. Shared hotel rooms and winter holidays and the softest versions of yourself, all under the umbrella of that phrase.

Something about hearing it aloud, in this place, in front of someone new—it lands different. It presses cold fingers against your chest.

Alex is already moving on, ushering Carlos toward a PR meeting, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you after. Don’t disappear.”

You smile back, lips curving with practiced ease. Of course you do.

You take a long sip of your coffee. It’s too hot. It burns going down.

You swallow anyway. 

Alex finds you later, just as he promised, in the quiet hours between press and briefing. Afternoon light slants through the windows of the hospitality suite, dust catches like static in the air. You’re tucked into a corner seat with your knees drawn up, phone unread in your palm. 

“Got something to show you,” Alex says, voice low.

You glance up. He’s already smiling, hair a little damp at the nape, lanyard tangled around his fingers. There’s a kind of eagerness to him, the kind he used to have before kart races, before it all got louder.

You follow him without speaking.

The room he leads you to is cooler, quieter. A storage space, maybe, or a converted engineering nook—lined with crates and spare parts, the stale tang of tyre rubber hanging faintly in the air. And there, propped on a cloth-draped workbench, is the helmet.

You pause.

It’s not what you expected. Not flashy. Not loud. It’s soft. White matte base with brushed, almost watercolour swathes of indigo and lavender bleeding toward the edges, like dusk spilling into night. On the side, near the visor hinge, is a single motif: a swallow in flight.

“It’s not finished,” Alex says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still needs clear coat. But... yeah.”

You take a step closer. Fingers don’t touch, but hover. The paint looks hand-done. Imperfect. Beautiful.

“Swallows are your favourite, right?” he adds. “You said once they’re always coming home.”

“Yeah. That was years ago.”

“I remember.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you with the kind of expression that unravels things. Eyes searching. Mouth set.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. Then, quieter: “Why me?”

He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Homecoming,” he answers, plain and simple and absolutely gut-wrenching. 

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just wide. You think of the years, the way he always made space beside him without asking if you wanted to stay. You think of how easily you did.

Your throat feels dry. “You know,” you say slowly, because the thought has been on your mind since this morning, “he thinks I’m just your friend. Carlos.”

Alex winces. Fucking winces. He glances away, jaw ticking a bit, like you’re not about to head back to the same hotel room later and fuck in the shower.

A beat. Alex doesn’t say anything to your accusation.

You don’t ask him to. You only step closer, the helmet between you like a talisman. “Thank you,” you say, and this time, you do touch the helmet—just briefly, your fingers grazing the painted sky.

He watches you do it. And then, quietly, almost laughing to himself, he says, “Figured if I crashed, at least it’d be wearing something that reminds me of you.”

You shake your head. But you’re smiling, and it hurts. “Idiot,” you chide.

He grins. “Your idiot.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too close to what you want—and too far from what you have.

Alex doesn’t crash.

He finishes P9.

A number that used to feel like clawing victory. Like a miracle wrung from a midfield car held together by tape and tenacity. And now—it just feels steady. Not easy, but earned. There’s something clean in the way he crossed the finish line today, a quiet defiance. The kind of performance that leaves no bruises, only breathlessness.

You watch from the back of the garage, arms crossed tight against your chest. Headphones clamped over your ears. The final laps passed like a dream.  One where the world narrows to telemetry and engine whine, the flicker of sector times on a screen. When the checkered flag waved, your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.

Now, the paddock is in chaos. Post-race buzz. Cameras flashing like static. Someone’s shouting in Italian. Mechanics high-five. There’s champagne somewhere, but you can’t see it. Just the press of bodies and the smear of victory across the asphalt.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes scanning until they find you. He doesn’t wait for an opening. Doesn’t care about the line of journalists trailing behind him or the media handler trying to tug him toward the pen. He walks straight to you, cutting through everything.

You take a step back. Instinct, maybe. Habit.

He pulls you in anyway.

The cameras catch it. You know they do. The embrace, the way his arms wrap around your shoulders like they belong there. You stiffen, palms flat against his chest. You’ve been labeled Alex’s childhood best friend, have been subject to speculation of various rabid fans and gossip sites. 

“Alex,” you hiss, low. “People are—”

“Let them,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from radio calls and engine growl, but it’s soft now. Just for you.

You shake your head, and your hands find the hem of his fireproofs, fingers curling there like they might ground you. “You’re ridiculous,” you grumble. 

“P9,” he says, like it explains everything.

Maybe it does, because he’s beaming. Not with the sharp joy of a podium or the reckless rush of a win, but something gentler. Like he’s proud. Like he’s content. Like you’re a part of it, maybe, and that’s why he’s with you instead of everybody else. 

The cameras flash again. Somewhere, someone’s calling his name.

In this moment, though, it’s just you and him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a second. He smells like sweat and rubber and the faint sweetness of whatever hydration drink he refuses to stop using.

“I’m happy for you,” you say.

His hand curls at the back of your neck. “Come with me?”

You want to ask where, but the question feels too fragile. Too close to breaking something.

So you nod.

And when he takes your hand, you let him.

He leads you down the corridor with his fingers wrapped around your wrist, still sticky from the gloves, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. The world outside—flashing bulbs, echoing interviews, the scream of celebration—falls away, muffled by white walls and the hush of engineered insulation.

His driver room is barely bigger than a closet. Spare. A bench, a chair, his race suit unzipped and hanging like shed skin. There’s a bottle of water half-finished on the counter. A towel draped over the back of a folding chair. Everything stripped to function.

But when he turns to face you, the room holds its breath. What’s about to happen is far from functional. 

His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Before you can ask what the hell any of it means. This morning, the helmet, the P9, the arms around you in front of half the paddock. His hands frame your jaw, a little too firm, a little too desperate. You taste the salt of him, the heat, the care.

He kisses like he’s still racing. Like the throttle’s still open and the finish line is somewhere in the shape of your mouth.

You melt. Of course you do.

Because you remember every version of him—mud-caked knees and scraped palms from karting days, late-night phone calls from airport lounges, sleepy secrets across hotel pillows—and this is all of them, distilled. This is every inch of history pressed into your spine as he backs you into the wall and exhales against your neck.

You want to say his name. You want to ask. What are we now? What does any of it mean? Do I get to keep you, or just these seconds?

But your hands slide beneath the hem of his fireproofs, and your fingers learn again the familiar slope of his waist, and he breathes your name like an answer. “My favorite part,” he murmurs absentmindedly into the crook of your neck. “This ‘s my favorite part.” 

And it should be enough.

It isn’t. 

Regardless, you let him kiss you again. You let him take you, hand over your mouth to keep your sounds muffled. You let him finish, let him bring you to that same peak, let him piece you back together after taking you apart. 

Your shirt ends up inside out.

Alex points it out between fits of laughter, eyes crinkled, bare feet padding across the linoleum floor as he tosses you your jacket. He’s flushed from the high of it all. He buttons the top of his race suit with fumbling fingers, grinning like he hasn’t done that exact thing a hundred times before.

“You look like you’ve been caught in a wind tunnel,” he says, smoothing your hair with both hands, thumbs pressing briefly at your temples. “A cute one, though.”

You try to smile. You do. But there’s a hollowness under your ribs, something heavy and low and familiar. Like something’s rotting sweet in your chest. He doesn’t see it.

He’s still beaming, tugging at a wrinkle in your sleeve. “There. Perfect.”

And you almost say it then. Almost let the words fall out: What are we doing? 

I can’t keep doing this, Alex. 

But he looks so happy. So golden in the overhead light, still caught in the orbit of something good. Something that feels like hope. You can’t ruin it. Not yet.

So you reach for his hand. His fingers slot through yours like habit, like home.

You nod toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “They can wait.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob, if it tipped the wrong way.

I’ll tell you next time, you think, as you follow him back into the noise.

Next time, when he’s not smiling like that.

Next time, when it won’t feel like stealing joy just to be honest.

Next time.

Just—

Not now.

The timing is never right.

Saudi Arabia. P9 again.

He dances you around the hotel room with his hands still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, laughing into the inside of your thigh as if nothing else exists. His joy is unfiltered, real. You think, maybe, you’ll tell him then.

But then he kisses you like you’re part of the celebration, like you’re champagne on his lips, and you can’t find the words in your mouth. Not when his hands know every part of you better than your voice knows how to form the truth.

In Miami, it’s P5.

He lifts you off your feet in the hallway outside his suite, spinning you once like a man who’s just won something permanent. He smells like the sun, his cheeks pink from the heat. “Did you see?” he asks, breathless, giddy. “Did you see how I held off Antonelli?”

“Of course I did,” you say, and you kiss him because it’s easier than telling him what you really mean. Because it would be cruel to take this moment away from him.

Italy is the same. Another P5.

Another night in a borrowed room, you pressed against the cool tile of a motorhome bathroom while he moans your name like it’s the only thing that exists beneath his ribs.

And still, you don’t speak.

You let him take. Let him thread his fingers through your hair and guide your mouth to his. Let him find comfort in your skin, in the shape of you, in the softness that greets him after every race. It feels like penance. Like proof that this is the version of you he wants, so long as it stays unspoken.

Each night, you lie awake beside him, the sheets tangled at your ankles, sweat cooling on your bare shoulders. You study the slope of his nose, the twitch in his fingers as he dreams.

You try to remember the sound of your own voice before it forgot how to say no.

In Miami, after the noise, after the warmth, after the sex that feels too much like lovemaking to just be chalked up to something primal—he falls asleep with his head on your chest. One arm draped across your ribs like a promise he never made. You don’t move. You barely breathe. The room hums with the air conditioner and your unspoken ache. 

You stare at the ceiling and try not to count how many ways you’ve chosen him over yourself.

You lose count before morning.

By the time Monaco comes around, you fake a migraine. A vague stomach ache. Something that sounds gentle enough to pass as believable, but just real enough to keep Alex from pressing.

He calls you from his hotel balcony, sun caught in the lighter parts of his hair. He frowns at the screen, concerned. Or at least something close to it.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. “Want me to send anything?”

You shake your head. Smile faintly, let your voice come out soft, strained. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

He nods. Looks off-screen for a moment, distracted by something—someone. Then back to you. “Rest, yeah? I’ll call you again later.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Good luck.”

He hangs up. You stare at the empty screen until it darkens and your reflection blinks back at you. He doesn’t call, and you don’t fault him for it. 

The article finds you by accident.

One of those sidebars that pop up when you’re checking the weather. You almost scroll past it, until the name catches your eye, buried in the speculation. A tabloid photo, bright and cruel: Alex on a golf course, sunglasses perched low, grinning across the green at a pretty girl whose name is Lily and whose swing is better than yours. Professional, the article notes. 

They look good together.

You tap the images, one by one, like touching them might change what they show. In the last one, he’s laughing. Head thrown back. Free. He laughs like that, too, when you’re showering after sex or trading stories over dinners. Often in private, never anywhere someone else can see. 

You stare at that one photo until your throat closes. Until you can no longer remember what it felt like to be looked at that way.

Your mother finds you like that. Curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone abandoned on the floor, eyes wide and glassy.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Just sits beside you, wraps an arm around your back, tucks your head beneath her chin like she used to when you were small. “I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper.

“I think you do,” she murmurs. Her hand strokes your arm, slow, steady. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”

You nod, brokenly.

“I wanted to be enough,” you say.

“I know,” she says. 

You cry until you have no more tears. Until your breath evens out against her shoulder. Until the ache becomes a dull, familiar thing.

She holds you through it all. By the time she’s getting up to make you one of your comfort meals, you already know what you have to do. 

You stop answering.

Not suddenly. Not all at once. Just the way a tide recedes—softly, so softly, you wonder if he even notices at first. He texts the morning after the Monaco GP. 

AAA [8:20 AM]: Morning. How’re you feeling now? You missed the best post-race sushi of my life.

You don’t reply. Not because you want to hurt him, but because you don’t trust what you might say if you open the door even a crack. Later, another text:

AAA [5:39 PM]: Mum says hi, by the way. I told her you were under the weather. She’s making soup just in case, and it should be sent over. 

You see it. You say nothing.

Spain comes. He finishes P10.

Barely. You watch from a stream muted low, the sound drowned beneath your own breathing. He looks tired. He still smiles into the cameras. And when he texts—probably stolen in between media obligations—it feels a lot like a man who’s bargaining. 

AAA [4:43 PM]: You watching? Hope you’re proud. Even if it’s just one point.

He calls the same night. You let it ring.

Canada is worse. Outside the points.

His face is closed off in the post-race interviews. The text comes later. 

AAA [11:10 PM]: Did I do something wrong?

Then:

AAA [11:53 PM]: I miss you.

At three in the morning, a voicemail. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey. I know you’re probably busy. Or just… done. I don’t know. You never said. But I—fuck, I don’t know. You usually tell me when you’re busy. If this is about—that stupid tabloid, or whatever? It was just a golfing lesson. Anyway. You have no reason to be… jealous. Or whatever. Just… call me, okay? Please.”

You don’t.

Austria. He doesn’t even start. DNS.

Technical issue, they say. The look on his face when he climbs out of the car—grief and rage and something dangerously close to despair—it unspools you.

Another voicemail, sent somewhere between him disappearing after media interviews and showing back up in front of the journalists with a tight-lipped grin.

“You’re avoiding me. I know you are. You didn’t even tell my mum you were alright, and she’s been worried sick. I had my dad check if your family was okay and even he said you’ve gone quiet. What’s going on? Just tell me.” A pause. Then, wretched, almost like a sigh of defeat: “You don’t get to ghost me. Not after everything. Not you.” 

You sit in the dark with the phone pressed to your chest like it might warm the place where he used to live inside you.

You still don’t call.

There are some things you can’t avoid, though. Silverstone comes like a tide.

The roads fill with flags and Ferris wheels and cardboard cutouts. Your village pub sets out Union Jack bunting again. Your father makes some dry comment about the national holiday Formula One has become. And you know. You know you can't hide anymore.

You get the first text Monday morning:

AAA [1:43 PM]: I’m flying in. Can we talk?

You don’t answer. You clean the kitchen instead. Scrub the countertops, wipe down the windows. As if clean glass could clarify anything at all. He doubles down. 

AAA [5:28 PM]: I’ll come to yours. Just want to see you. I’ll bring the bad flowers from Tesco, if that helps.

A voicemail, later that evening, tentative and thinly veiled: “Hey. I know it’s been a while. You’re probably still mad. Or sad. Or both. I don’t know. I just—I’ll be there tomorrow. Even if it’s just to see you across the street. Even that would be better than this.”

True to his word, by tomorrow afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. Not loud. Just three gentle raps, like he’s afraid your mother might answer.

You open it anyway.

He’s there, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus from the supermarket down the lane. His hair’s damp with mist, lashes clumped. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept right in weeks.

You don’t speak.

He clears his throat. “They were out of sunflowers.”

You step aside wordlessly.

He walks in like a memory. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Shoes off by the mat, flowers passed into your hand, eyes scanning the room like he expects to see a version of himself still here. The silence is soft, but full. You boil water out of habit. He lingers by the doorway, unsure.

“You’re not going to yell at me?” he asks, almost sarcastic. 

You shrug, trying to be noncommittal about it all. “What would be the point?”

He swallows. His jaw twitches. You leave the tea half-made, walk upstairs. You don’t say anything. Just know—somehow—that he’ll follow.

And he does.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into your room that still smells like dust and the lavender you leave under your pillow. He stands in the doorway, taking in the fact that the air is thick with expectation.

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” he asks.

You say nothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don’t know if he wants to hear it, or if he only wants what he can still take.

And so you don’t answer his question. Not directly. Instead, you ask, “How was Spain?”

Alex hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hot. P10.”

You nod, like that’s all there is to say. “And Canada?”

He shifts, arms folding. “Slippery. Out of the points.”

“Austria?”

“DNS.”

You offer a small sound of sympathy, but it’s hollow, transparent. A stall tactic. He sees it. He knows you. Knows you’ve watched all the races you’re asking about, knows you’re trying to delay the same way you dragged out this arrangement for much longer than necessary. 

He steps forward, voice low but strained. “Are we going to keep talking about races? Or are you ever going to get to the point?”

Again, you don’t answer. You get to your feet. You cross the room to where he is.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not a reunion. It’s blunt, desperate, pleading. A distraction dressed in affection. And for a moment—just a moment—he kisses you back like he needs it to survive. Like this is what’s been missing from his string of ill-fated races. His hands slide into your hair, his body molding against yours as if it never learned to be apart.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You tug.

He pulls away abruptly.

“Wait.”

You blink, breath catching. “What?”

He doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t come closer either. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. “I still want to know,” he manages. “I deserve to know.”

“Alex…”

He shakes his head, slow and quiet. “You disappeared. I thought you were sick. Hurt. I thought I did something wrong. And now you want to pick up where we left off like it never happened?”

You stare at him. He’s flushed. Hair mussed from your hands. Lips swollen. Still panting a little from the heat of the kiss.

But his eyes are hurt. 

You stand there, inches apart, in the middle of your childhood bedroom. The silence is deafening. You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, like you’re on the edge of something neither of you can name.

You’re still catching your breath when the words crawl out of your throat.

“I love you.”

Alex freezes. Like the words are a crash, not a confession. Like they’ve splintered the floor beneath him. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—gaze gentle, shoulders locked—like you’re something he almost recognizes but can’t quite name. Then, quietly, “I love you too.”

You close your eyes. That should be enough. It should be everything.

But it isn’t. “Not like that, Alex,” you sigh. 

His brow furrows.

You try again. “Not like… what you mean. Not in the way you mean it.”

Silence. The kind that leaves room for heartbreak.

He draws back a step. “What do you mean?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s helpless. “I mean I’ve been in love with you since before all this.” You gesture vaguely, between the two of you, between what the kids nowadays call a situationship. Personally, you call it an undoing. An unraveling. 

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks gutted not what he finally understands what you’re getting at, now that you’ve used the word in love. 

“How long?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than breath.

You look at him. “Years,” you say, thinking back to the boy in the kart, the teenager next door, the man in front of you now. You’ve loved all of them. Your voice cracks as you repeat, “Years, Alex.”

He crumples under the weight of your words. At the fact he’d asked, in the first place, and you spent the past three years of your life letting all of it wash over you. 

“God,” he mutters. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—fuck. I thought you were okay with it. I thought we were okay.”

“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I let you think that. I let myself think that.”

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can scrub the guilt away. “You should’ve told me.”

You tilt your head. “Would it have changed anything?”

Alex looks at you, helpless. Desperate. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost panicked. He knows it’s not the right answer, not the answer that you want. 

You step toward him. You touch his hand, gently. “It’s okay,” you manage, even though it’s not. “Really, Alex, it’s alright.” 

Somehow, you manage to tell him. Truths so tender and close to the heart that to relay them verbatim would be a crime.

You tell Alex you’re grateful to have had him, even if it were just like this. Even if it was just bits and pieces. Even if it was casual. 

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you like he’s trying to piece it all together. The silence stretches again. His eyes flick to the bed, then to the door. He doesn’t move. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or walk away.

Alex leaves anyway.

He says he’s sorry, eyes flicking between your face and the floor like he can’t quite decide where the damage is worse. You repeat that it’s okay, which is the kindest lie you know how to give. And then he’s gone—hood up, shoulders shaking, not looking back.

You don’t watch him leave. You sit on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, palms pressed together like prayer and surrender. 

It should’ve been a clean break.

Three years of blurred lines and soft touches that always stopped just short of real. He’d kiss you like it mattered, then laugh about it an hour later. You let him. Again and again. You think that’s the end of it. You try to believe it is. It’s easier to hate an absence when it’s permanent.

But the day before the race, your phone rings. His name lights up the screen like a wound reopening.

You let it go once. Twice. You’re letting him back out, but he doesn’t buck. The third time the phone rings, you answer.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ve got a paddock pass with your name on it.”

You pause. Not out of surprise, but because you’re waiting to feel something. You don’t.

“Silverstone,” he adds, as if you could forget.

You picture the pass in his hand—laminated, official, hollow. A gesture more ceremonial than sincere. “I can’t go,” you say evenly.

A beat.

“You busy?”

“No.”

Another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

You hear the static of his breath on the line. The shuffle of something—maybe his hand in his hair, maybe guilt settling in his bones.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.” 

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry at this performance of care, offered like a consolation prize. This is probably an olive branch, but you know you still need some time. You need to be furious. You need to be hurt. You need to hate him and what he’s made of you before you can even consider loving him again. 

“I should go,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

But he lingers. You almost say something. Almost tell him not to call again unless it means something. Unless he means it. 

You don’t. You just let him sit there in the quiet with you, not speaking, not hanging up.

And then finally—too late, too long—he does.

You end up seeing it on the news.

P4 at Silverstone.

Just short of champagne and cameras, but still something to be proud of. Still something you would’ve teased him about. You might have told him he was allergic to podiums, just to watch him roll his eyes and smirk like you’d said something stupid but sweet. And maybe he’d kiss you, again, in his driver room, waxing British slang to tease you, all the while driving you crazy with the way he can grope and squeeze. 

You almost text him. A good job. A thumbs up emoji. A dot, even. Something weightless. Something he could pretend didn’t matter if it made things worse.

You hold back. 

You brush your teeth instead. Crawl into bed. Turn off the lamp. The room folds in around you like silence is a kind of blanket. You almost get away with sleeping until your phone rings.

You don’t even have to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end. Laughter, glass clinking, music with too much bass. “You didn’t watch,” he slurs, like that’s just hitting him now.

“I told you I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t say why.”

You sigh. “Did I need to?”

He goes quiet, but the noise behind him doesn’t. It presses in, distorted and joyless. Celebration without clarity. Then, softer, garbled: “You’re the post-race celebration I miss the most.”

You sit up. “Alex—”

But he’s crying now. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just little, broken sounds, like something leaking out of him slow and unwilling. “It didn’t feel as good,” he sobs. “Didn’t feel as good to win—without you there.” 

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against one hand. “I’ll come get you,” you say.

He sniffles. “You don’t have to.”

You stand. Already pulling on jeans. Grabbing your keys. Not sure of anything but this: he can’t stay lost like this, not tonight.

“I know,” you say, and then you’re hanging up to book yourself a proper cab at two in the goddamn morning. 

The speakeasy isn’t marked, not really. Just a nondescript door off a narrow alley, guarded by a bored-looking man with an earpiece and a clipboard. But when you give your name, his expression changes. Softens.

“He’s in the back,” the man says solemnly, nodding you through.

Inside, the music is velvet-loud, low, and pulsing. Everything glows amber, lights like melted gold dripping down the walls. People in team polos and sharp jackets toast to something that sounds like victory, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

They all know who you are.

Someone from comms gives you a tight smile and gestures toward the hallway behind the bar. “In there,” she says, like she doesn’t need to explain further. Like you’re the inevitable ending to his night.

You find Alex hunched over a sink in the men's bathroom, one hand braced on the cold porcelain, the other trembling around the rim like even that is too much to hold. He doesn’t hear you come in. Or maybe he does, but pretends not to.

“Jesus, Alex,” you say, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He lifts his head, barely. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes rimmed red. Not from the alcohol, but from whatever came after.

“You came,” he breathes, like it’s a miracle. Like he’s seeing something holy.

You step forward and crouch beside him, grabbing paper towels, wetting one with cold water. “Of course I came.”

He laughs, ragged and too loud in the tiled echo. “Didn’t think you would. Thought I fucked it.”

“You did,” you say, matter-of-fact, blotting sweat from his forehead. “You absolutely did.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why’re you here?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer. Because you do. And it’s the kind that costs you something every time you say it out loud.

“Because you called.”

He leans into your touch like it’s a lifeline. “You always come when I call.”

You help him sit back, guide him to the floor with his back against the wall. The tiles are cold. He shivers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Alex rests his head on your shoulder, the weight of him more familiar than foreign. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he whimpers.

You exhale, slow. “That’s not true. You just didn’t want anyone else.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. He’s too out of it to try and deny the fact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you can tell by the quiver in his voice that he means it. 

You brush your fingers through his hair once, twice. You let the silence speak for you, and then you help him up. “Let’s get you home,” you say. 

The night air cuts through the alcohol-stained warmth of the bar as you step outside, Alex’s weight slung over your shoulder. He’s steadier now, upright at least, but still leaning into you like gravity is playing favorites.

You settle on the curb, one arm braced around his waist. The air smells like rain on asphalt, smoke, and the faint trace of spilled gin. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs too loud. London doesn’t sleep for long.

You’re waiting for a cab when Carlos finds you.

He approaches quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a fitted jacket, eyes scanning Alex the way someone might glance at a closed book. Worn, familiar, unreadable. “He okay?” Alex’s co-driver asks. 

You nod. “Drunk. Sick. Stubborn,” you answer, not bothering to play nice when Alex is dead on his feet and half-asleep already. 

Carlos huffs a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You’re the best friend.”

It still stings, still pricks. You keep your expression perfectly controlled as you give a small sound of affirmation, arms still focused on holding Alex upright. 

“Mm.” Carlos watches you for a second too long. “Doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story.”

“What does it feel like, then?”

Carlos shifts his weight. Looks away, then back. He glances at Alex to check if the man is listening, and then, Carlos confides as if it’s a secret: “It’s like you are his entire heart, and he’s just too scared to admit it.”

The words land like a bird flapping its wings across the Atlantic. No thunder, no accusation. Just something still and sudden.

You almost want to ask him to repeat it, to explain—but the cab pulls up before you can decide whether to believe him.

You help Alex into the back seat. He slumps immediately against you, arms curling around your middle without thought, face buried in your shoulder. His breath is warm and even, his fingers wound tight into your shirt like muscle memory.

You rest your cheek on the top of his head.

The cab pulls away from the curb. Carlos’s words echo, sage and unfinished. You don’t know what to do with them yet. So for now, you let Alex hold you.

You don’t think about it too hard. Just tell the cab driver your address, press your fingers against your temple, and watch the city blur by. Alex stirs once or twice, murmurs something incoherent against your collarbone, but otherwise stays folded into you.

By the time you reach your house, it’s well past four. You fumble with the keys. He sways a little when you guide him inside.

You don’t take him to your bed.

It feels too loaded, too intimate in the wrong kind of way. Instead, you settle him on the couch, pull a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and start toward the kitchen to get him some water. Before you can take more than a few steps, he reaches out.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice hoarse.

You turn back. “I’m just getting you a glass.”

He tugs gently on your hand. Not enough to stop you, just enough to anchor you. You kneel beside the couch. He’s watching you, eyes glassy but sharp in the ways that count.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says.

Here’s the terrible, terrible thing: You wouldn’t mind. You miss it sorely. The kisses, the touch. You’re convinced you’ll be dreadfully happy with the scraps of it all, but you figure the two of you have the right to make informed decisions. “You’re drunk,” you point out. 

“I know.” Alex exhales. “I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. Want the next one to be right.”

Your throat tightens. “You think there’s going to be a next one?”

His smile is impossibly sad. “Hope so.”

And then—because he’s Alex, and because this is how he breaks you—he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, just beneath your eye. Then one at the edge of your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose. All of them clumsy and warm and deliberate. None of them where you want them most.

You don’t stop him. You don’t move. There’s too much in your chest—years of it—and not enough space to lay it all down.

When he finally sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut again, his fingers remain curled around your wrist. Loose. Trusting.

You don’t move for a long time. 

The next morning, Alex is gone without so much as a goodbye. You half-expected it. Still, the hollow space where his body had been feels louder than anything else in the room.

No note. No message. No follow-up call.

You wait. A day. Then two.

By the third, you stop checking your phone so often.

When the knock comes, it’s gentle enough to be mistaken for wind. You almost don’t answer it. There’s no one at the door when you open it. Just a small brown paper bag, plain and unassuming, sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

You bring it inside, hands careful. There’s something fragile about it that you can’t quite name. Inside: a bundle of crocheted sunflowers, yellow and gold and clumsily perfect, like someone tried very hard to make them right even with hands that don’t quite know how.

Beneath them, a makeshift paddock pass—laminated, hole-punched, strung with navy-blue lanyard cord. Your name is written in all caps. There’s a photo of you from when you were kids. Grinning, windblown, your arm slung casually over Alex’s shoulder.

Underneath the photo, in bold handwriting: PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

The letter is tucked in a simple envelope, sealed with a strip of duct tape.

You open it with shaking hands.

I’m not expecting anything from you right now, his scratchy script leads with.

I get it. I know I’ve made this messy. I know I said too much too late. I still wanted you to have this, because you’ve always belonged next to me on race day. Not just as my best friend. Not just as something halfway. But for real. Something proper.

That’s why I made you this paddock pass. It’s stupid and I probably got the fonts all wrong. You don’t have to use it. If you ever want to, though, it’s yours. I don’t think anybody else is ever going to have that title. 

Also: the sunflowers. They’re not real, obviously. I wish I could give you fresh ones every time I leave, but I’m not good at that kind of thing. And they run out so often. So I made these. Or tried to. They took forever. I watched so many YouTube videos. I pricked my fingers like five times. Hope that counts for something.

I’ll let you have your space now.

I just want you to know that—given the chance, I want to love you like I mean it. 

Always and forever, Your Alexander Albon Ansusinha

The checkered flag waves.

P4.

Not a podium, but it feels like one.

Alex exhales, lungs finally catching up to the rest of him, the engine cutting to silence beneath him. His radio crackles with static and shouts, voices overlapping in celebration. The team is ecstatic. He lets out a whoop, punching the air from the cockpit, heart rattling against his ribs like it wants to break out and sprint down the pit lane.

“Brilliant job, Alex. Another P4. You nailed Sector 3.”

He laughs, breathless. “That was insane. The car felt so good. Thank you, everyone. Honestly. Thank you. Thank you.”

His gloves are damp with sweat. The world outside the cockpit is heatwaves and motion, but inside his helmet, he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

And then—a new voice cuts through the radio.

“Nice work, Albono. Kinda makes me want to crochet you a trophy.”

Everything inside him stills. 

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Part comfort, part ache.

It’s a record scratch, a public declaration, everything he’s been dreaming of for the past couple of months. Voice shaking with unrestrained joy, Alex only manages a disbelieving, “Is that—?”

There’s laughter on the other end, muffled and alive. The team doesn’t answer. They don’t have to.

Alex is yelling again, louder than before. Whooping into the mic, a sound that isn’t filtered through performance or professionalism. A sound from the core of him. There’s something raw in the chant of yes, yes, yes, something uncontained. 

The P4 doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Just that voice, soft and close and impossibly real.

You’re laughing, too, as you step back from the engineer’s radio rig, nearly breathless yourself. Your palms are still slightly damp with nerves, your chest still tight with something like disbelief. 

The Williams team surrounds you in a bubble of warmth—claps on the back, someone handing you a bottle of water with a grin, another looping you into a half-hug. “Told you he’d freak,” someone says.

You nod, cheeks aching from the smile that just won’t leave. Around your neck, your proper paddock pass swings with each breath. It’s glossy, official. But next to it hangs another—rougher, laminated at home, edges slightly frayed. The homemade one Alex had sent you months ago. The one that says PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

You touch it lightly, fingers brushing over the faded corner. It's worn, like something loved too hard.

You hadn’t been sure. You’d hesitated at the airport. Almost turned around at the gate. But the truth is: you missed him. And you were tired of pretending otherwise.

The garage is alive now—busy with celebration and noise. Mechanics moving in sync, voices rising in overlapping bursts, the scent of warm carbon, oil, and sweat curling into the air. The low whir of cooling fans. The scrape of tires on concrete.

You hear the car before you see it, the soft growl of the engine rolling into the lane. The screech of tires settling into stillness.

Alex climbs out.

Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His hands are trembling, still wired with adrenaline and something else—something unspoken and urgent. 

He tosses his gloves toward someone without looking.

Then he turns.

And he sees you.

For the longest time, you had doubted this would mean something. You worried that you’d waited too long. That all your silence had turned into something irreversible. That the distance you asked for had hardened into fact.

Time doesn’t stop. It just slows, enough for you to catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders drop, the way his mouth forms your name like it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

You don’t move.

You don’t have to.

"Like bowls," you confirmed, not looking up from the press notes you were pretending to edit.

"You have never once mentioned wanting to make a bowl."

"People contain multitudes, Kimi."

He'd huffed a laugh through his nose, unconvinced but unwilling to push, and gone back to scrolling through telemetry on his phone with the particular scowl he wore when a sector time displeased him. You'd felt the lie sit in your chest like a swallowed stone, sharp-edged and faintly thrilling, and told yourself it would be worth it. It was supposed to be temporary. Six weeks, maybe eight. Enough time to get the basics down, enough time to string together one perfect, devastating sentence, and then you'd never have to lie to him again.

That had been four months ago.

You were not, it turned out, a natural at Italian. You'd assumed arrogantly, in retrospect  that spending two years listening to Kimi speak it would somehow make the language seep into your brain by osmosis. It hadn't. The occasional phrase muttered under his breath after a bad session or the rapid-fire conversations he had with his mother on the phone were enough to make you fall a little more in love with the sound of it, but not enough to actually teach it to you. Grammar was an entirely different beast, full of rules that seemed invented solely to make you suffer. Still, night after night, you sat in your car outside team hotels with a language app glowing in your lap, stubbornly working through exercises and repeating phrases under your breath. Because you weren't trying to impress a garage full of people. You were trying to impress one stubborn Italian racing driver. 

Ti penso più di quanto dovrei.

I think about you more than I should.

You'd practice it in supermarkets, in airport security lines, in the shower with the water running so the sound wouldn't carry. You practiced it so many times the words stopped meaning anything and became pure muscle memory, the way a swimmer's stroke becomes thoughtless after ten thousand laps until you'd catch yourself mid-sentence and the meaning would come crashing back in, and you'd have to sit very still for a moment and remember how to breathe.

You worked in press and media for Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team, one of the most recognizable names in the paddock, a team built on championship-winning engineering, relentless standards, and an expectation that every detail mattered. You had been there before Kimi arrived as a wide-eyed rookie with a mop of dark curls and a habit of apologizing to the car after a difficult session, as though it could hear him and might forgive him for asking too much of it. You'd watched him grow into the seat over the course of the season, you’ve watched the apologies turn into thoughtful, technical debriefs with his engineers, watched the nervous excitement of a teenager stepping into Formula One settle into something calmer, sharper, and far more dangerous on track. You wrote his quotes. You stood beside him in front of walls of cameras and microphones, feeding him English phrasing under your breath when questions came too quickly or when he searched for the right word, your shoulder a careful two inches from his, close enough that only he could hear you. 

Say "we're optimizing the long-run pace," not "we are still figuring out the tires," it sounds more in control.

He always did exactly what you told him. He trusted you with his image the way he trusted his race engineer with his car, completely, without question, which was its own kind of devastating because you knew with total certainty that if you told him right now, in this parking lot, in passable Italian, that you'd been in love with him since the Hungary weekend eighteen months ago when he'd given his media training translator the day off and asked you, badly, hopefully, if you wanted to get dinner he would believe you. He would believe anything you told him. That was the whole problem.

You had said no to that dinner. You'd told yourself it was unprofessional, a media liaison dating a driver, a mess waiting to happen, and you'd believed it for about four months before you stopped believing it and just felt stupid instead.

So: Italian. A plan. A grand, faintly ridiculous, entirely earnest plan, because if you were going to do this if you were finally, after a year and a half of aggressive denial, going to tell him the truth, you wanted to give him something. You wanted the words to cost you something, the way his trust in you had never seemed to cost him anything at all. You wanted to hand him your feelings in the language his mother sang to him, the language he dreamed in, according to his trainer, who'd heard him talking in his sleep on the team plane once and never let him live it down.

You were going to tell Kimi Antonelli you loved him in Italian, on a night you had not yet chosen, in words you had rehearsed roughly four thousand times, and it was going to be perfect.

You should have known better than to plan anything around a man who never did what you expected.

The accident happened on a Thursday, three days before the Monaco round, in the hospitality unit kitchen, over a stupid argument about coffee.

"It is not coffee," Kimi was saying, with the wounded dignity of a man defending something sacred, to Pieter, the team's Dutch chief mechanic, who had just handed him a paper cup from the catering machine. "This is brown water. You have insulted brown water by comparing it to coffee."

"It's free and it's caffeinated, Antonelli, drink it or don't."

"I don't. I refuse. On principle." Kimi set the cup down with the exaggerated care of a man setting down a small bomb, and you, sitting at the counter with your laptop open to a half-finished press release, didn't look up because you'd learned over two years that Kimi's coffee opinions were a bottomless well and engaging with them only deepened it.

Then he turned to his trainer, Sandro, who'd just walked in, and said something fast and low in Italian, clearly assuming you and Pieter were both out of range of comprehension. Something about Pieter's coffee, something uncharitable, something that ended with a word you knew — insopportabile (unbearable) and a short, sharp laugh.

And you laughed too. Before you could stop yourself. A short, involuntary huff of amusement at exactly the right beat, exactly where a person who'd understood the joke would laugh, and not a half-second later, the way someone catching a delayed translation might.

The kitchen went very quiet.

You felt it before you looked up felt the air change, felt Pieter's attention swing toward you with the slow, delighted dawning of a man who has just witnessed something he intends to never let go of, felt Sandro go still by the doorway. And when you finally made yourself look at Kimi, he was staring at you with an expression you had genuinely never seen on his face before, in two years, through podiums and DNFs and the worst sunburn of his life in Abu Dhabi. His mouth was slightly open. His eyebrows were somewhere up near his hairline.

"You understood that," he said. In English. Flatly. As though testing the words for weight.

"I— " Your mind, usually so reliable under pressure, the same mind that could spin a four-car pileup into a measured, professional statement in under ninety seconds, produced absolutely nothing. A vast, ringing silence. "No."

"You laughed."

"I have a— delayed sense of humor. Yeah. I was laughing at something else. Internally."

"At what."

"A meme," you said, with the specific, doomed confidence of someone who has just realized they are going to keep digging this hole until it swallows them. "I thought of a meme."

Pieter made a sound that was very close to a wheeze and had to turn around and pretend to be extremely interested in the coffee machine.

Kimi did not laugh. Kimi was looking at you the way he looked at telemetry data that didn't match what his hands had felt in the car like there was a discrepancy here, a gap between what he'd been told and what had actually happened, and he was not going to rest until he understood why. "Say something in Italian," he said.

"What? No."

"Say— " He cast around, then said, simply, plainly, watching your face with an intensity that made your skin feel two sizes too small, " —come stai oggi."

How are you today. The easiest sentence in the world. A sentence a phrasebook gives you on page one. And you knew, you knew, with the specific dread of someone watching a car slide toward a wall in slow motion, fully aware of the outcome and entirely unable to stop it that the safest thing to do was to look blank. To shrug. To say I have no idea what that means, Kimi, you're being so weird right now.

You did not do the safest thing.

"Bene," you said, before you could catch it. "Un po' stanca, ma bene." Fine. A little tired, but fine.

The kitchen, somehow, got even quieter.

Kimi set his unbearable, unloved coffee down on the counter with great precision, and the look that spread across his face was not triumph, exactly, though there was some of that in it there was also something more complicated, something that made your chest go tight and your face go hot in a way that had nothing to do with embarrassment, or not only to do with embarrassment.

"How long," he said.

"Kimi— "

"How long have you been learning Italian."

You looked at Pieter, who had given up all pretense of coffee-machine interest and was now leaning against the counter with the rapt attention of a man watching the best television of his life. You looked at Sandro, who had quietly produced his phone and appeared to be filming, the absolute traitor. You looked anywhere except at Kimi, because you had a horrible suspicion that if you looked at him directly right now, with his hair still damp from the sim and his eyebrows still climbing and that unbearable, searching look on his face, you were simply going to tell him everything, right here, in the hospitality kitchen, with Pieter's ruined coffee going cold on the counter and Sandro's phone recording the whole humiliating spectacle for posterity.

"Four months," you admitted, to the floor.

Another silence. A different kind. You risked a glance up and found Kimi had gone very still, the teasing edge gone out of his expression entirely, replaced by something quieter and more careful.

"Four months," he repeated.

"It's not— it's nothing, it's just a hobby, lots of people learn languages, it's a very normal— "

"Why."

The question landed like a dropped tool, a single clean clattering syllable, and you felt the whole architecture of your careful four-month plan the rehearsed sentence, the chosen-but-not-yet-arrived night, the version of this where you controlled every single variable come apart in your hands like wet paper.

"I have to finish this press release," you said, and closed your laptop, and left the kitchen at a speed that was not quite a run but was making active use of the word quite.

Behind you, you heard Pieter lose it completely, and Sandro say something in rapid Italian that you were fairly sure, despite four months of careful study, you did not want translated.

You did not see Kimi again until media day.

This was, in itself, a small miracle of scheduling and cowardice .you'd buried yourself in logistics work for two days, coordinated three sponsor interviews and a livery reveal and a charity appearance you absolutely did not need to personally oversee, and managed, through sheer force of will, to never once be in a room alone with him. You knew this couldn't last. Media day was your job. You stood beside drivers at media day the way race engineers stood beside pit walls; it was simply where you existed.

He found you at the equipment tent twenty minutes before his first interview slot, while you were untangling a lanyard for the broadcast crew with far more focus than the task required.

"You're avoiding me," he said. Not a question.

"I'm working."

"You're avoiding me while working. It's an impressive skill, actually, I want you to know I'm impressed." He leaned against the equipment table, arms crossed, and you made the mistake of looking up, and found him not laughing at you, not teasing, just watching you with that same quiet, careful attention from the kitchen, like he was trying to read a sector time he didn't trust yet.

"I have your interview schedule," you said, holding up the clipboard like a shield. "Sky Sport at three, then the sponsor— "

"I don't care about the schedule."

"You should, you have four interviews in ninety minutes and the Sky one specifically asked about the gearbox issue from Spa, so I need you to use the line we discussed, the one about the long-term reliability gains, not the— "

"Why didn't you tell me?"

You stopped. The lanyard sat tangled and forgotten in your hands.

"It's not a big deal," you said, which was, you understood even as you said it, the single most transparent lie you had told in a month full of transparent lies.

"You learned my language in secret for four months and it is not a big deal." He wasn't angry. That was the strange part you'd braced for something like hurt or affront, the offense of a man who'd been kept out of a joke at his own expense, and instead what was on his face looked almost careful. Hopeful, in a way he seemed to be actively trying to suppress, the way he suppressed his disappointment after a bad qualifying lap, schooling his features into something neutral before the cameras found him. "People don't do that for fun, cara. People do that for a reason."

The endearment landed somewhere under your ribs and stayed there, glowing faintly, radioactive. He'd called you that before, occasionally, carelessly, the way Italians scattered tenderness into ordinary sentences without seeming to notice they'd done it — but it felt different now, deliberate, aimed.

"I had a reason," you said, before you could stop yourself.

"Tell me."

"I have your interview in eighteen minutes."

"Tell me after."

"Kimi — "

"After," he said again, gently, like it wasn't a request, like it was simply a fact about the shape the rest of the day was going to take, and then Pieter was shouting something about a tire pressure check and Kimi was being pulled away toward the garage, and you stood there with the ruined lanyard in your hands and your heart going much too fast for a Thursday afternoon.

You got through the interviews. You fed him the line about long-term reliability gains, and he delivered it word for word, the way he always did, except twice he glanced over at you between questions with a look that had nothing to do with gearboxes, and you had to physically school your own face into something professional, something that did not say I have known I loved you since Hungary and I have spent four months learning your language so I could tell you properly and I have absolutely no idea what I am supposed to do now that you know I've been lying to you about pottery class.

By the time the sun started dropping orange and low over the paddock, you'd run out of interviews to hide behind.

He found you on the terrace behind the hospitality unit, where the team sometimes ate dinner when the weather cooperated, looking out over the darkening circuit toward the grandstands, empty now except for the cleanup crews moving like slow ghosts under the floodlights. You'd come out here to be alone and think of an explanation that wasn't the truth, and had so far produced nothing.

"There you are," Kimi said, like you'd been the one running from something all day, which, fair, you had.

He sat down next to you on the low concrete wall, close enough that his shoulder nearly touched yours, and for a moment neither of you said anything. Somewhere in the garage behind you, an impact wrench whined and stopped. The smell of rubber and hot tarmac and the particular metallic tang of race weekend hung in the cooling air, the smell you associated, more than any other, with the two years you'd spent standing next to this man and not telling him the truth.

"Sandro deleted the video," Kimi offered, after a while. "I made him. I thought  you looked like you wanted to disappear."

"I did want to disappear."

"I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have in front of everyone, it was not fair, I got excited and I didn't think." He turned to look at you properly then, and the playful armor from earlier in the day had dropped away entirely, leaving something younger and more uncertain underneath, an expression you recognized from the very first season, before he learned to wear confidence like a second skin. "Why Italian?"

You looked out at the empty grandstands instead of at him. It was easier.

"Because," you started, and stopped, and started again. "Because you trust me with everything. My English, my line readings, what to say to the cameras and what not to. You never once question it. And I just I wanted to give you something that wasn't about work. Something that was just  mine to give. Not professional advice. Not a press strategy." Your hands were doing something complicated and nervous in your lap; you made them stop. "I wanted to tell you something important in the language that actually means something to you. Not the language we use for sponsor calls."

"Tell me what."

The wind moved across the terrace, carrying the smell of someone's cigarette from the far end of the paddock, and you thought about four months of late nights with a phone app glowing blue in the dark, four months of online lessons with a tutor every tuesday, four months of rehearsing a sentence so many times it had stopped sounding like words and become something closer to a held breath, finally, now, about to be let out.

You looked at him. Damp curls, dark eyes, the small scar above his eyebrow from a karting crash at fourteen that he'd told you about on a long flight to Singapore, the steady, open way he was watching you now like nothing in the world mattered more than whatever you said next. Eighteen months since Hungary. Four months of Tuesday nights that weren't pottery class. One ruined surprise, and a man waiting, patiently, for the truth he'd already half-guessed.

"Ti penso più di quanto dovrei," you said.

I think about you more than I should.

The words came out steadier than you expected, four months of repetition finally earning their keep, landing clean and whole in the space between you instead of crumbling apart the way you'd feared they might. Kimi went very still. You watched the sentence travel across his face in real time comprehension, then something brighter and more startled underneath it, like watching the lights come up on a grandstand all at once.

"Say it again," he said. Quietly. In Italian this time. "Dimmelo ancora."

"I think about you more than I should," you said again, in English now, because you needed him to have it both ways, needed there to be no possible margin for translation error in a moment this large. "I have for a long time. Since Hungary, honestly, since you asked me to dinner and I said no because I was scared and stupid about the job thing, and I have regretted saying no probably every single day since, and I started learning Italian because I wanted to tell you properly, I wanted to give you something that took real effort, something that proved I meant it, and then you went and ruined the whole plan by being unbearable about coffee in front of Pieter— "

"I ruined it," Kimi said, and there was real laughter in his voice now, breaking through, bright and disbelieving. "I ruined it."

"You laughed at the coffee and I laughed at the joke and everything fell apart."

"Everything did not fall apart." He reached over, slow, like he was giving you every chance to pull away, and took your hand off your lap, turning it over in his like something he wanted to look at properly. His thumb moved once across your knuckles, light, almost disbelieving. "Everything came together. Badly. With Pieter watching. But together."

"This is not how I planned it."

"No?" His mouth was doing something complicated, fighting a smile and losing. "How did you plan it?"

"Candles," you admitted. "Probably candles. A view. Something with actual atmosphere, instead of— " You gestured vaguely at the terrace, the floodlights, the distant whine of someone's impact wrench starting up again. " —this."

"I like this," Kimi said. "I like that it's true. I would rather have you, badly planned, on a wall behind a garage, than candles and a script." He was still holding your hand, and now he laced his fingers properly through yours, deliberate, an answer offered without being asked for. "I have been waiting eighteen months for you to change your mind about Hungary. I was starting to think I had imagined the whole dinner. That maybe I asked wrong."

"You didn't ask wrong. I was wrong. I was so sure it would be a disaster, mixing the job with this. With wanting you the way I wanted you."

"And now?"

"Now I've spent four months memorizing Italian verb conjugations for you, so I think the disaster has already started and I might as well see it through."

He laughed properly, that bright, surprised sound you'd heard maybe a dozen times in two years, usually reserved for podiums and good qualifying laps, and it did something to your chest, hearing it directed at you instead of a stopwatch. "Ti penso più di quanto dovrei," he said again, testing the words now from his own mouth, watching your face as he said them, "is correct, by the way. Your grammar. Very good. A little formal, but good."

"Four months, Kimi."

"I noticed." He brought your hand up, pressed his mouth briefly to your knuckles, an old-fashioned gesture that should have felt theatrical and instead felt exactly, devastatingly right, here on this wall, with the circuit lights coming up gold against the darkening sky behind him. "Anche io," he said, quiet now, no performance left in it at all. Me too.

"Show-off," you said, though your voice had gone thick. "I worked very hard on that sentence."

"I know. I could tell. It was a good sentence." He was closer now, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him in the cooling evening air, close enough that the next thing either of you said wasn't going to be words at all. "Next time," he murmured, "warn me before you confess something. I almost fell off my chair."

"There's not going to be a next time. I only had the one."

"Good," Kimi said. "I only need the one." And then he kissed you careful at first, like he was still checking the data matched what his hands could feel, and then not careful at all, four months and eighteen months and one ruined, perfect surprise collapsing down into the simple, unhurried space between one breath and the next and somewhere behind you, faint and getting fainter, you were fairly sure you heard Pieter, from an open garage door, shout something about finally that you were extremely glad you couldn't quite translate.

Three weeks later, you stood in the same equipment tent, untangling the same kind of lanyard, while Kimi leaned against the table exactly the way he had that first impossible Thursday, except now his hand found the small of your back without either of you remarking on it, an easy, unremarkable fact of how things were.

"Sky Sport at three," you told him, not looking up from the clipboard. "Use the line about long-term reliability."

"Sì, cara," he said, and you felt it land warm under your ribs the way it always did now, no longer radioactive, just true. "Anything else?"

"Don't insult anyone's coffee where Pieter can hear you. We've had enough incidents this season."

"No promises," Kimi said, grinning, and pressed a quick kiss to your temple before Sandro called him toward the garage, and you stood there with the lanyard finally untangled in your hands, watching him go, thinking not for the first time, and not, you suspected, for the lasthat some plans were worth ruining.