Cara_de_cema @caradecema - Tumblr Blog

FreeFall Hearts

Part: 5

SUMMARY: Lucero “Luz” Pérez, Checo’s fearless, adrenaline-chasing little sister, hides a life-threatening secret behind her wild smile. When Yuki Tsunoda enters her world, their connection is instant and disarming. As Luz guides him through adventure after adventure, he unknowingly becomes the light she didn’t realize she needed.

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Acapulco hit her like sunlight after months of winter—warm air, ocean breeze, salt on her skin. Luz stepped off the tiny resort shuttle, toes sinking into the sand, and something in her chest loosened for the first time in weeks.

Her smile was real this time. She reached for Yuki's hand—small and warm and familiar—and tugged him closer until they stood only inches apart, waves crashing behind them.

"I'm so glad I met you, Yuki," she whispered, voice soft but steady. Yuki blinked, surprised at how openly she said it. Then he smiled—slow, gentle—and leaned forward to press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there.

Luz's breath hitched, and for once she didn't hold herself back. She tilted her chin up and kissed him on the lips.

It started as soft... then deepened as Yuki cupped her cheeks, pulling her impossibly closer. The warmth, the sun, the ocean, his hands—it filled every part of her that had felt hollow.

When they finally pulled apart, Luz rested her forehead against his. "I'm sorry we won't have a future together, chaparro," she whispered, voice cracking despite her attempt to stay light.

But Yuki didn't cry. He just took her hands, squeezing them gently, his thumb brushing slow patterns over her knuckles.

"But we did have something," he said quietly. "Three months together, Luz. Three months of laughter and sunsets and stupid cones on our heads. Three months of you and me... and I wouldn't change any of it. Not for anything."

Luz felt her throat close, but a smile spread through her anyway—soft and a little sad.

"I just wish I'd met you sooner," she whispered. Yuki let out a tiny laugh and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her off the ground with ease. Luz squealed and wrapped her legs around his hips as he spun them once in the sand.

"Me too," he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "Me too, sunshine."

They stayed like that for a long moment—the ocean brushing their feet, the last stretch of daylight warming their backs, the world quiet except for their breaths mingling in the space between them.

Eventually, Luz leaned her head on his shoulder, sighing contently.

"We should head to the hotel," she said, tapping his chest lightly. "Play something stupid or maybe drink. I'm feeling fun, chaparro." Yuki raised a brow. "Fun?" She nodded, bright and teasing. "Yeah. Fun. No sadness. No crying. I want to enjoy the time I have left. I want to live, Yuki."

Her voice didn't waver. Her smile didn't crack. Yuki took her hand, lacing their fingers together as he kissed the back of it. "Then let's live, sunshine," he murmured.

And together—hand in hand—they walked back toward the resort, leaving two sets of footprints in the warm Acapulco sand.

That week in Acapulco didn't feel real—like the universe had slowed down just for the two of them, stretching every hour so Luz could breathe again, so Yuki could memorize every piece of her.

Yuki booked everything the resort even hinted at offering. He didn't say why. He didn't have to.

Zip-lining over the jungle canopy, Luz screaming pure joy as she flew across the trees, her laughter echoing louder than the wind. Yuki behind her, pretending he wasn't terrified just to make her laugh more. She crashed into him on the landing platform and kissed him breathless—salt, sweat, sunlight, and all of her.

Horseback riding on the shore at sunset, Luz leaning against his shoulder as her horse lazily followed his. She kept reaching for his hand, threading their fingers together, swinging their arms like kids. Yuki kept stealing glances at her—the golden light making her wig look like a halo, her cheeks flushed, her smile soft and real—and each time he looked away it hurt just a little more. Because she wouldn't always be here for him to look at.

Snorkeling in warm, impossibly blue water. Luz tugging him deeper every time he tried to float near the surface, showing him fish, shells, coral—anything she found beautiful. She was shivering a little from the cold, but she didn't complain, didn't slow down. Yuki stayed so close behind her he could always grab her waist if she wobbled. And when they surfaced again, breathless and laughing, Luz wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him right there in the water, waves rocking them gently like they belonged there.

Every night they came back to their room exhausted and sun-kissed, limbs tangled, Luz curling into him like she finally trusted someone else to hold the weight she'd been carrying for months. She fell asleep with her cheek on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, Yuki brushing hair from her forehead even hours after she'd knocked out.

She didn't hide anymore.

Not her exhaustion.

Not her affection.

Not her fear.

Not her love.

She kissed him whenever she wanted. Touched him whenever she felt like it—his face, his hair, his hands, his chest. She held him tight when a cough stole her breath. She joked with him when she was dizzy. She clung to him in the ocean when a wave knocked her off balance. She let herself be Luz—loud, sarcastic, dramatic, loving Luz.

And Yuki... Yuki treasured every second of it. He didn't push her. He didn't mention hospitals or doctors or time. He didn't make plans for tomorrow. He just lived in each moment with her. Because he knew—God, he knew—every day with her was one less day he'd get.

He wasn't doing all of this just for her. He was doing it for himself too. To have memories to fill the void she'd leave behind. To carry her laughter in his chest long after she was gone. To say, when it hurt too much to breathe, that he hadn't wasted a single second they were given.

And Luz... for the first time in months, felt alive again.

Truly alive. She let herself love him fully, finally. Selfishly. Recklessly. With every glance and every kiss and every night she fell asleep tucked against him. And in the quiet moments—like lying on the beach at night with Yuki's hoodie wrapped around her, her head on his shoulder and his fingers laced with hers—she would close her eyes and whisper:

"I'm happy, Yuki. I'm really happy."

And he would kiss her forehead and whisper back, voice breaking just the slightest:

"I know, sunshine. Me too."

They spent the week in Chichén Itzá wrapped in the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the sun. Luz moved through the ruins like she'd been born from their stones, pointing at carvings and staircases, explaining sacrifices with a grin that made Yuki snort. She joked she would've been the worst offering—too stubborn, too chatty, too dramatic. Yuki agreed a little too quickly, and she smacked his arm, laughing so loudly a tour group turned to look.

People recognized them, of course they did. Phones angled toward them, whispers rippled, someone asked for a picture, someone else posted a video online. Luz didn't even flinch. Yuki didn't stiffen. They didn't shrink away or pretend to be strangers. They held hands, intertwined fingers, stole kisses, hugged from behind, rested their foreheads together. For once, they didn't care. Not about comments. Not about rumors. Not about how pale Luz had become or how sharp her cheekbones were or how exhausted she looked after walking too long. None of it mattered.

It was them against the world, and the world could scream.

They tried everything they could find—Maya cooking classes, cenote diving, late-night market stalls where Luz forced Yuki to try spicy candy that nearly killed him. He pretended to handle it well until tears ran down his face, and Luz laughed so hard she almost fell to the floor. They made memories like they were racing time: sunrises on temple steps, afternoons wandering through craft stalls, nights tangled together on hotel sheets whispering confessions that trembled at the edges.

Yuki planned everything. Tours, dinners, little surprises tucked between moments. It wasn't only for Luz, even if that's what he told himself. It was for him too—because every morning she woke up was a gift, and every night she fell asleep beside him was a miracle he wasn't ready to let go of. He watched her throw her head back when she laughed, watched her eyes sparkle when she talked about history, watched her body grow weaker while her soul burned hotter. And he held her tighter each day, terrified that if he blinked too long, he'd miss something.

Luz didn't hide anymore. She loved loudly. She kissed him whenever the impulse hit. She grabbed his face. She ran her fingers through his hair. She pressed her nose to his neck and breathed him in. She let herself want everything—him, their moments, their stolen joy. She let herself be selfish with the time she had left, even if she knew the future was slipping from her hands like sand.

Who gave a fuck that their show hadn't lasted the full three months? Who gave a fuck that fans complained, that people criticized how she looked, that gossip blogs talked about her weight and her clothes and her illness with cruel fascination?

None of them were there. None of them mattered.

What mattered was Yuki's hand in hers as they stood in front of the pyramid, warm and sure. What mattered was the way he looked at her like she was the only thing worth seeing. What mattered was that every second they had left belonged to them—completely, fiercely.

And they lived it. Every fucking second.

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Yuki had known for days. The signs had been there—quiet, creeping, undeniable. The bloody tissue paper she folded into tiny squares and hid at the bottom of the trash. The strands of hair she tried to gather and throw away before he noticed, even though he always did. The way she winced when she thought he wasn't looking. The way her breath trembled after walking just a few steps.

So when he texted Checo that they were flying back early, he didn't hesitate. He didn't tell Luz either. She knew anyway. They both pretended they didn't know, because the pretending was gentler than the truth.

The flight to Guadalajara was quiet. Luz leaned her head on Yuki's shoulder and slept most of it, her fingers curled loosely around his arm like she was afraid her strength would slip away if she let go. He held her tighter with every passing hour.

When they stepped off the plane, Checo was already there. One look at her—just one—and something in him crumpled. Luz had always been bright, stubborn, loud, impossible to ignore... but now she looked like a shadow of herself, pale and fragile, her smile faint but still trying so damn hard. It looked painful for her to breathe.

"Mi niña,(My girl)" he whispered, voice cracking even as he forced a smile. Luz nudged him lightly with her elbow, the way she always did when she didn't want pity. Checo knew the gesture. He knew she was telling him, Don't make it harder.

He swallowed the lump in his throat so fast it burned. He was careful as he helped her to the car, his hand on her back, guiding her slowly, gently—like she might break if he didn't touch her right. She joked with him, something soft and teasing, and he laughed because she needed him to, even though his eyes were already red.

Home was louder than the airport—voices, footsteps, the kind of chaos only family brings. Their mom rushed forward first, wrapping Luz in her arms. Not tight. Not like she used to. Just enough to hold her without hurting her. She didn't cry. She refused to. Her lips trembled, but no tears fell in front of her baby.

"Qué linda... ya estás aquí,(beautiful… you’re finally here)" she said, smoothing Luz's hair back like she used to when Luz was a little girl. Luz leaned into it, eyes soft and tired. Her dad kissed her cheeks, her forehead, her hands—every part of her he could reach without making her wince. Luz smiled through all of it, small but real, as if she was the one comforting them instead of the other way around.

Checo's kids barreled toward her next, all energy and innocence until they froze, seeing their Tía Luz wrapped in blankets, looking thinner than they remembered. Luz, never missing a beat, grinned and said, "No se asusten, me peleé con un oso y gané... pero me mordió tantito.(don’t be scared i got in a fight with a bear but I won… he did bite me but just a bit)"

The kids laughed. Thank God they laughed.

Carola hugged her for a long time, burying her face in Luz's shoulder, breathing her in like she was trying to memorize her. Luz rubbed her back, whispering something that made Carola exhale shakily and nod.

Everyone settled in the living room, like always, crowded onto couches and floor cushions. Luz had three blankets draped over her—one on her shoulders, one on her lap, one around her feet. She joked she looked like a burrito. Yuki sat beside her, close enough that their legs touched, one arm behind her in case she leaned back and needed support. He barely blinked, barely breathed unless she did first.

Conversation flowed around them—stories, memories, teasing. Everyone spoke a little louder than normal, a little faster, like talking could fill the space the fear was trying to take.

Luz chimed in whenever she could, her voice softer but still full of life. She laughed at her nephews' jokes, teased Checo for being dramatic, told her dad that his mustache still looked fake. She made her mom roll her eyes. She made Yuki smile without even trying.

Every now and then, she closed her eyes like she needed a second to gather strength. And every time, Yuki shifted, adjusting a blanket, rubbing small circles on her back, checking her breathing without making it obvious.

No one said it out loud, but everyone felt it. The house was full—overflowing, even—but time felt thin, stretched. Precious. They were all holding on. To her. To each other. To the last moments they'd ever get like this.

Luz waited until the house was quiet the next morning—until her mom had gone to the kitchen to make tamales and her dad was outside pruning the lemon tree, insisting he didn't need help even though everyone knew he was keeping his hands busy so he wouldn't think too much. She waited until Checo and Toño had come back from the bakery with pan dulce, until Paola was done fussing over the coffee machine.

Then she asked, "Can we go to my room? Just us." The tone of her voice made them all freeze. It wasn't dramatic, wasn't heavy. That was the part that scared them—the gentleness. They followed her in silence, four grown adults suddenly feeling like kids again, stepping into the room where all of Luz's childhood medals and books and silly posters still hung.

Luz sat on the edge of her bed, three blankets over her shoulders, and pulled a stack of papers from a folder. Checo paled the moment he recognized what they were. Paola covered her mouth. Toño kept blinking, like if he did it enough times the papers might disappear.

"This is my will," Luz said simply. Toño flinched. Paola whispered, "Luz..." but Luz held up a hand. "Let me do this, please." They listened. She handed each of them an envelope. Inside was money—more than any of them expected. Luz smiled softly as they looked at her in disbelief.

"Half goes to the foundation for kids with cancer. The other half... I want you to use it to get kids through school. University, trade school, whatever. Just—help someone grow. Help someone live. That's what I want my name to do." Her voice cracked for the first time, but she kept going. She pulled out a picture next. A photo of her and all three siblings at the beach, sunburnt, smiling like idiots, arms around each other.

"This one for my funeral," she said. "Not the ones where I look like a ghost at the paddock. And if Red Bull tries to use some ugly-ass photo, chequenlos," she gave Checo a pointed look, "tell them I'll haunt them." Checo laughed—short, broken, but real. "I swear I will."

She reached into the folder again and took out a list—handwritten, neat despite her shaky fingers. "This is the outfit I want. Don't bury me in anything boring. I want the blue dress. The nice one. And the gold earrings grandma gave me. And my rings." Her siblings listened in stunned silence. She kept going.

"I know I don't have long," Luz whispered. "You can cry all you want. Scream, break shit, whatever. I know it's not fair that I'm the first one of us to go." Paola lost it then, silent tears spilling fast. Toño clenched his jaw so hard it trembled. Checo stared at the floor, fists shaking.

"But la Virgencita knows me," Luz said softly. "She knows if I had to be the last one to die... it would eat me alive. I'm too soft for that. I'm glad it's me. I'm glad it's not any of you." That broke them. All of them.

They fell into each other—hugging, gripping, sobbing. Four siblings clutching their baby sister like they were trying to hold her here by force. Luz let herself cry too, her small frame shaking under their arms, her face pressed into Checo's shoulder as Paola held her from behind and Toño wrapped his arms around all of them.

It was the kind of pain that didn't scream. It just... settled. Heavy. Inevitable.

That night, the house was quiet again. Too quiet. Luz slipped out carefully, pulling her blanket around her shoulders like a cloak. She stepped outside and sat on the cold tile, looking up at the sky. The stars were faint, but they were there.

The cold tremor hit fast. She tried to hide it, rubbing her arms, but her hands shook too much. She didn't hear Yuki come out. She only felt the sudden warmth of his jacket around her shoulders, then his arms sliding beneath the blanket, pulling her against him.

"Luz," he murmured, voice tight. "You can't be out here alone." She leaned into him, sighing. "Needed to breathe."

"You're freezing." He tucked her closer, wrapping himself around her like he could shield her from anything—like he wished he could. They sat in silence for a while, listening to distant traffic, a stray dog barking, the wind moving through the lemon tree leaves.

"I had a good life," Luz said finally. Yuki's breath hitched. "You're twenty-five."

"And I lived all twenty-five," she whispered. "I worked. I loved my family. I traveled. I did stupid things. I met you." He swallowed hard, jaw clenched. "Don't—" but she cupped his cheek. "It's okay. I'm okay," she said, voice small but honest. "I got more love than some people get in a lifetime. From you. From my family. I'm content, chaparrito."

Yuki closed his eyes like her words physically hurt him. He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in. "You deserved more," he said, barely audible. "Maybe," Luz whispered. "But what I got? It was enough." She smiled then—soft, peaceful, the kind of smile that belonged to someone who wasn't afraid anymore.

Yuki held her tighter, staring at the sky with her, knowing he'd remember this moment for the rest of his life. Even when she wasn't there to hold.

The sun hadn't fully risen yet, the sky still that soft blue-gray that made the whole neighborhood feel half-asleep. Yuki was outside in the garden helping Don Antonio trim the lemon branches, both of them working quietly, comfortably. It was the kind of silence that meant trust, that meant family. Don Antonio smiled every time Yuki handed him the shears without being asked.

Inside, Doña Marilú was humming softly as she made her way down the hallway, fixing her sweater around her shoulders. She knocked gently on Luz's door, waited, then pushed it open with the familiar tenderness of a mother who'd done this a thousand times.

"Luz, mi amor, levántate... ya es tarde.(luz my love, get up… its late)" She walked to the bed, brushing Luz's hair back like she had since she was a toddler. She gave her a little shake. "Hijita... ya despierta...(My girl… wake up)" Another shake, gentler.

"Luz... Luz, por favor, mi niña—(please my girl)" Something inside her went cold. A mother knows. In her bones, in her blood, in the ache that had been gnawing at her for weeks. She touched Luz's cheek.

Cold.

The sob that tore out of her wasn't human—it was animal, raw, the kind of sound mothers weren't meant to make. It ripped through the house like a warning bell, a heartbreak siren. "¡NO! ¡No, no, mi niña, mi bebé, por favor! ¡Luz, despiértate! ¡DESPIÉRTATE!(no my baby, please!… Wake up! WAKE UP)"

Her cries broke the air open.

Within seconds Paola and Toño came running, then Checo, who skidded into the doorway and froze—his entire world caving in front of him. Their mom was crouched over the bed, cradling Luz's still body to her chest, rocking, begging, whispering prayers through sobs.

"No debía ser así... tu debía enterrarme... no yo a ti... mi bebé... mi niña..." she wept.(It shouldn’t be like this… I shouldn’t be burying you, it should be you burying me… my baby. My girl)

Paola collapsed beside her mother, clutching Luz's feet, her face pressed to the blanket as she screamed. Toño grabbed the wall to keep himself standing, shaking so hard his teeth clattered. Checo stumbled to the bed, touching Luz's hand—cold, still—and his breath shattered.

"Mamita..." he whispered, voice cracking. "Ay... Luz..."

Outside, Don Antonio heard the screams. He dropped the shears immediately. Yuki looked up, heart stopping. He didn't even have to ask. Don Antonio's face had gone hollow, gray—he knew. Fathers always know.

Don Antonio didn't walk—he ran. Fast, desperate, toward the house. Yuki followed right behind him, chest tight, dread clawing into his throat. As soon as they crossed the doorway, the cries hit them like a violent wave.

He saw Marilú's body draped over the bed. He saw the siblings collapsing around her. He didn't need to see Luz's face. He knew. Something inside him broke so sharply he felt dizzy.

Don Antonio reached the room first. He didn't make a sound at first—just sank to his knees beside his wife, placing a trembling hand on Luz's shoulder.

Then he let out a quiet, shattered, "Ay... mi hijita,(Oh my babygirl)" before pulling Marilú against him, both parents holding their baby girl together, like they could keep her warm.

Yuki stayed frozen at the doorframe, gripping it so hard his knuckles blanched. His breath was gone. His legs were numb. Don Antonio looked up at him—eyes swollen, red, devastated—and something in that look cracked the last piece holding Yuki together.

The old man opened his arms. Yuki collapsed into them.

Don Antonio wrapped him in a fierce, tight hug—the kind of hug a father gave someone who had truly loved his daughter. Yuki buried his face into Don Antonio's shoulder and finally let everything go. The sobs tore out of him shakily, painfully, like he'd been holding them back for weeks.

"She—she didn't—she didn't wake up—" he choked. "No, mijo," Don Antonio whispered, voice trembling. "Pero no estaba sola... no estaba sola..."(But she wasn’t alone… she wasn’t alone)

Inside the room, grief poured out like a storm. It filled the walls, the floor, the air. It clung to the family like a second skin. Carola entered quietly, her own face pale, eyes already swollen. Her two youngest children were behind her, confused and scared by the noise. They tugged her shirt and asked where Tía Luz was, why everyone was crying.

Carola knelt down, swallowing her sobs, pulling them close. "Mis amores...(my loves)" her voice cracked. "Tía Luz... ya no está con nosotros.(she is no longer with us)" Their small faces twisted in hurt and confusion.

"¿Ya no va a venir?(she is not coming back)" the youngest asked. Carola shook her head, tears falling freely. "No, mi vida... ya no.(Not my love… she wont)" The little boy burst into tears. The older one tried to be strong but failed, collapsing into his mother's arms. Carola hugged them tightly, whispering, "La queríamos mucho... mucho...(we love her so much.. so so much)" as her own heart splintered.

In Luz's room, Marilú held her daughter's face in her hands, kissing her forehead over and over again, whispering prayers through her tears. Checo stroked Luz's hair, shaking uncontrollably, whispering in broken Spanish, "Mi hermanita... mi niña... llévate mi fuerza... llévate todo...(My little sis… my baby sis… take my strength… take everything)"

Paola curled up on the bed beside Luz's legs, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe. Toño stood behind them, hand on Luz's ankle, crying silently—pure devastation on his face. And in the doorway, Yuki remained in Don Antonio's embrace, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the girl he loved—the girl who had laughed with him, kissed him, held him—lying still and peaceful, finally out of pain.

The world kept moving outside. But inside that house, time stopped.

Luz's funeral was small, exactly how she wrote in her will—private, quiet, intimate. Her siblings honored every word she had left them, every instruction, because it was the last thing they could do for her.

The chapel was warm despite the morning chill, filled with soft candlelight and the smell of fresh lilies—her favorites. Her photo sat at the front, the one she had chosen herself: smiling, eyes bright, alive.

Her casket was surrounded by white roses and yellow marigolds, a blend of Mexican tradition and the sunlight she always carried.

Family filled the first rows—her parents leaning on each other, hollow and trembling. Paola gripping Tono's hand so tightly her knuckles went white. Checo sitting rigid, fighting every instinct in his body to fall apart.

Carola had her kids pressed against her sides, the smallest clutching a drawing he made of Luz with a halo. Friends filtered in quietly. Her childhood neighbors. Old schoolmates. A few close colleagues from Red Bull media. No cameras. No press. Just people who loved Luz.

And then the drivers arrived. Max walked in first, eyes red, jaw clenched. He hugged Checo silently, like he didn't trust his voice not to crack. Lando showed up minutes later, his usually bright expression gone. He stepped up to the casket, rested a hand on it, whispered something no one else heard, then wiped his eyes before turning to hug Paola and Tono.

The room felt heavy, the slightest sound echoing painfully.

Red Bull sent a wreath—massive, blue and red, with a simple white ribbon:

"Thank you, Luz. A bright soul, gone too soon."

They also posted a tribute online—simple, respectful:

"Today, we say goodbye to a colleague, a talent, and a light.

Luz Pérez brought joy, humor, and humanity to every moment on and off camera.

We are grateful for every second she shared with us.

Our thoughts are with the Pérez family.

Rest in peace, Luz."

No hashtags. No hashtags—just grief.

During the service, the priest spoke softly about peace, about pain ending, about souls finding rest. Luz's siblings could barely look up.

But Yuki... Yuki hadn't looked away from the casket. Not once. He stood beside Checo, shaking slightly, fingers intertwined tightly in front of him. His eyes were swollen, his face pale, but he never cried loudly—his grief was the kind that hollowed a person from the inside out.

When the priest finished, the family stood to say their last goodbye. One by one, they placed a white rose on Luz's casket. Her parents whispered prayers. Her siblings whispered promises. Yuki stepped forward last.

His hand hovered above the casket for a long time, trembling. Then he placed a small sunflower on it—Luz's favorite symbol, the one she always said reminded her of warmth.

He swallowed hard and whispered, barely audible: "...maybe in another life, Luz..." His voice cracked. "...maybe there... we get more time."

He closed his eyes, inhaled shakily, and for the first time since she died, a single tear fell down his cheek.

When the casket was lowered, Marilú clutched Don Antonio like she was losing her child all over again. Paola fell apart in Checo's arms. Tono pressed his forehead against the flowers, unable to move.

Yuki stayed still, staring at the earth as it covered the coffin. Max put a hand on his shoulder. Lando stood beside him silently. But Yuki didn't look at either of them. He looked at the sky—clear, bright, impossibly blue—and murmured again, barely a whisper carried by the wind: "En otra vida, sunshine... en otra vida."

And for a moment, it felt like the sunlight warmed him just a little more. As if Luz heard him.

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #checoperez father figure #yuki tsunoda x oc #yuki tsunoda #characters death #sad ending #right person not enough time #not enough time #cancer

FreeFall Hearts

Part: 4

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The first two days in Belgium passed in a blur of white slopes, freezing air, and Luz pretending she wasn't dying inside. She layered up—thermal, sweater, jacket, another jacket—but no matter how many layers she wore, the cold still cut through her skin and settled deep in her bones. It wasn't normal cold. It was the kind that came from inside, the kind she recognized from before.

The kind she'd hoped never to feel again. Still, she smiled. Still, she cracked jokes for the vlog. Still, she teased Yuki about how terrible he was at skiing and how she would've "gone pro if gravity didn't hate her."

But behind every laugh, her ribs hurt. Behind every grin, her bones ached like they were filled with fire. Her joints screamed with every step. She kept losing her breath halfway through a sentence, pretending she was just laughing too hard.

When Yuki fell—spectacularly—into a snowbank, she forced out her loudest laugh yet, but her vision blurred at the edges. Dizziness washed over her every time she bent down to strap the skis on. She hid the trembling in her hands by stuffing them into her pockets. She kept making videos, kept talking to the GoPro, but her voice sounded thin even to her own ears.

Yuki saw it. He wasn't stupid. Every time she forced a smile, his eyes flickered with worry. But he didn't push. He didn't hover. He just stayed close, letting her pretend because calling her out would make her feel small—and he refused to do that to her.

After the last run of the day, the media team gathered them for a final wrap-up shot. Luz smiled at the camera, cheeks red, nose freezing, eyes glassy. Yuki gave her a quick nudge with his elbow to make her laugh, and she did... but she could barely breathe afterward. Her lungs felt tight. Her chest burned. Every inhale hurt like something sharp was lodged inside.

"Hey, you okay?" Yuki murmured under his breath.

"I'm peachy, chaparro," she whispered back and winked—because she always performed. But the moment they were released for a break, Luz muttered something about needing the bathroom and slipped away before he could react. She barely made it inside before her legs buckled.

She caught herself on the sink, her breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The dizziness hit her so hard the room tilted. Then the coughing started—violent, brutal, tearing through her like it wanted to break her ribs. No blood this time. Just dry, relentless coughing that left her shaking, sweaty, and weak.

Her bones throbbed. Her joints felt stiff and swollen. Her limbs were heavy, like she was sinking into the floor. By the time the coughs subsided, Luz was trembling. She looked up at the mirror.

And froze.

She looked... hollow. Pale. Her cheeks too sharp, her eyes sunken, dark circles deep enough to bruise. Her lips were cracked, her skin dull, her body smaller than it had been even two weeks ago.

She pressed her fingers against the sink and watched how her hands shook. She looked like someone fading. Someone slipping. A ghost of who she used to be. The realization hit her like a punch to the stomach. A small, broken sound escaped her before she could stop it. Then she crumpled to her knees.

And Luz—tough, loud, sunshine-everywhere Luz—started to cry. Not small, quiet tears. But deep, uncontrollable sobs that echoed in the cold bathroom. Sobs she hadn't let herself release around anyone, not even Yuki.

She cried for the pain. She cried for the fear. She cried for her brother who didn't know. She cried because she was so tired of pretending she was fine. She cried until her breath hitched and her chest ached and she couldn't even lift herself off the tile.

Outside, she heard muffled voices. The media team. Yuki calling her name once. Soft but concerned. She squeezed her eyes shut harder. She didn't want him to see her like this. Not yet. Not like this.

So she pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle the sound and kept crying, alone on the cold floor, all warmth and strength stripped away.

When Luz finally steps out of the bathroom, her eyes are red and glassy, but she keeps her head down so no one can see. She doesn't even try to find the media team—she knows they wrapped for the day, knows they won't bother her until tomorrow. She just walks.

Fast. Straight across the lobby, straight into the elevator, straight down the hall.

She fumbles with her keycard twice before the door unlocks. The moment she's inside, she drops her gloves and jacket on the floor and goes straight for the thermostat. She turns the heater to the highest setting—28°C, 29°C, she doesn't even look—she just needs warmth, needs to stop feeling the cold in her bones.

Then she crawls into bed, boots still on, and pulls the blankets over her head. She doesn't sleep. She doesn't move. She just curls into herself and tries to breathe past the tightness in her ribs.

At some point—she doesn't know how long—it happens. A soft knock. Then the door opens.

She doesn't look, but she knows it's him. Yuki always knocks once, then waits exactly two seconds like he's giving her a choice... before he steps in anyway. He doesn't say her name. He doesn't ask if he can come closer. He doesn't ask what happened.

He just crosses the room quietly, slips off his shoes, and climbs onto the bed behind her. Slowly, gently, he wraps an arm around her and pulls her back against his chest. The warmth hits her first. Then the safety. Then the guilt.

And then the dam breaks.

Luz bursts into tears—violent, shaking sobs that tear out of her throat and into his sweater. She tries to apologize, tries to swallow the sound, but she can't. Her body is exhausted, her bones hurt, and she's terrified—terrified of dying, terrified of being weak, terrified of being alone.

Yuki holds her tighter.

"Sunshine..." he whispers, his voice thick with worry. "You don't have to keep pushing yourself. We can stop. We can tell them you're done. We can go home." The word home makes her cry harder. She shakes her head violently, gripping the front of his shirt like she's drowning.

"No," she manages between sobs. "No—no, I can't quit. I can't—Yuki, I can't. If I stop... I'll fall apart." Her voice cracks painfully. "This—this is the only thing that makes me feel normal. If I stop, if I go back home, the thoughts—" she swallows, shaking—"they'll crush me."

Yuki pulls her fully into his lap, arms around her like he's shielding her from the world. "Okay," he murmurs. "Okay. Then we won't stop. I won't let you fall apart. I'll be with you every single day. You hear me? Every day."

She hides her face in his chest, sobbing harder, because she believes him. God help her—she believes him. And it terrifies her because she knows she shouldn't let him love her. She shouldn't drag him into this.

But right now?

Right now she needs him more than she needs air. So she clings to him—small, shaking, exhausted—and lets herself fall apart in the one place she still feels safe: Yuki's arms.

Luz woke slowly, the fog of sleep still dragging at her bones. For a second she didn't know where she was — the heavy duvet, the hum of the old hotel heater, the faint scent of pine from outside. Then she felt it: an arm still draped over her waist, warm and steady, fingers curled protectively against her hip.

Yuki.

He was still there. Still holding her like the night hadn't happened, like she hadn't shattered in his arms.

Luz blinked up at the ceiling, throat tight. She tried to shift carefully, not wanting to wake him, but the movement triggered something sharp and brutal deep in her chest. A pressure. A burn.

She barely made it off the bed before the coughing hit.

A violent wave tore through her, doubling her over. No blood this time — thank God — just a dry, rasping cough that scraped up her throat like broken glass. She braced herself on the bathroom sink, gasping, fighting for air. Her knees shook. Every breath rattled.

When she finally managed to straighten, her reflection stared back at her: pale skin, purple bruises blooming along her collarbone from the stupid seatbelt, eyes sunken, lips colorless.

She hated it.

Every part of it.

Every reminder.

When she opened the bathroom door, Yuki was already there. Fully awake. Standing against the wall in sweats and a hoodie, hair messy, eyes soft with worry he was trying so hard not to show.

Their eyes met, and Luz tried to smile — a tiny, tired tilt of her lips. "Tire smile," she joked weakly. But her voice cracked. Yuki stepped forward, gentle but firm "I canceled the plans for today."

"What? Yuki—"

"It's just you and me," he continued, ignoring her protests, "and some hot chocolate." His voice was final, but soft. "You need to rest." Something warm cracked open in her chest.

She watched him for a long moment before her body moved on its own — arms slipping around him, pulling him into a tight, desperate hug. Yuki froze for half a second, startled, then melted into her, arms encircling her waist with careful strength.

She pulled back just enough to brush her lips against the corner of his. A ghost of a kiss. Barely there. Yuki went pink immediately, eyes wide, breath catching.

Luz grinned weakly. "¿Qué haría sin ti, chaparro?"(what would I do with out you) His blush deepened, but he didn't look away. Instead, he reached up and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead — deliberate, slow, grounding. "Probably get into trouble," he murmured. "So it's good I'm here."

Later, they bundled back into her hotel bed, wrapped in blankets and each other's warmth. Room service trays cluttered the table: warm food Yuki insisted on ordering, hot chocolate with too many marshmallows, and a sad little bowl of soup she managed to force herself to eat.

Yuki queued up movies — dumb comedies, comfort movies, anything he thought might make her smile. And slowly, slowly, Luz's breathing softened. Her muscles loosened. Her chest didn't ache quite so sharply.

With the snowstorm tapping against the window and the heater humming at full power, Luz curled into Yuki's side, his hand absently rubbing circles on her arm. For a few quiet hours, she didn't feel sick. Or scared. Or alone.

Just warm. Just safe. Just... held.

Steam curled around her as she stepped into the shower, letting the hot water hit her aching shoulders, her bruised ribs, the knots in her spine that had formed from too many nights curled into herself. For a moment, it felt like she could breathe again. The heat helped her chest loosen, eased some of the bone-deep chill Belgium had carved into her.

She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, let the water run through her hair. And when her fingers slid through the strands, she felt it— a softness, a lightness— then the sinking horror as she looked down and saw several strands stuck to her palm.

Long, dark, unmistakable. Her hand stopped midair. Her breath cut off. Her entire body went still.

Not this. Not again. No. No. No.

Her stomach dropped. Her throat burned. The water suddenly felt too hot, too sharp, like it was peeling her open. She pressed her back against the cold tile, forcing herself to breathe through the nausea building in her chest.

She hated this part more than anything. More than the bruises, the pain, the weakness. This made it real.

Hair loss meant the clock was ticking again.

She stood there frozen for nearly a minute, forcing her breath to slow, forcing her heart to stop clawing at her ribs. She scooped the hair from her palm, set it on the shower edge, and pretended she didn't see it. Control. She needed control.

When she finished, she wrapped herself in a towel mechanically, staring into the mirror without really seeing her reflection. Her skin looked washed out, her eyes dim, her lips pale. A version of herself she never wanted to see again.

But she forced her shoulders back. Forced her expression to soften. Forced the storm inside her to quiet just enough to pass. She stepped out of the bathroom. Yuki glanced up from where he sat on the bed, phone in hand, hair messy, hoodie slightly crooked like he'd been lying down.

He smiled when he saw her. A real one—warm, easy, soft around the edges. Luz felt hers appear automatically. Fake. Thin. Tight. Yuki didn't call her out. Didn't tilt his head. Didn't ask if she was okay.

He just nodded at her like he was giving her space to tell him when she wanted to. She appreciated him for that more than he knew. "So..." Luz said, grabbing her brush, her voice steady enough to pass. "Wanna go out later today?"

Yuki blinked. "Yeah. Sure." His smile softened, as if he knew exactly why she was asking. "Anywhere you want." He stood and slipped out of the room, giving her privacy without needing to be asked.

The door clicked shut and the moment it did, Luz collapsed into the chair at the vanity. Her hands trembled. Her chest tightened. Her eyes finally burned, the tears she'd held back in the shower now sliding out with no resistance.

She didn't sob—this was silent, sharp, a kind of crying that felt like it carved her from the inside out. She covered her mouth with her shaking hand, shoulders shaking, breaths coming in small bursts.

She grabbed her phone with unsteady fingers and opened a private contact list—wigs, stylists, medical costume designers. People who owed her favors. People who knew the drill.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, but she got through the calls. Told them what style she needed. What color. How fast.

They didn't ask questions. They heard her voice and understood everything. "It'll be shipped in two days," one said gently. "We'll mark it urgent."

Luz nodded, even though they couldn't see her. "Thank you." When the last call ended, she dropped her head into her hands. Just for a minute. Just long enough to feel it.

Then she inhaled deeply, wiped her face, and stood. She had spent years perfecting the art of falling apart silently.

She opened the minibar, pulled out a tiny bottle of something strong, and drank it without thinking twice. The burn steadied her. Gave her enough energy to move again, to get dressed.

She changed into warm clothes: thick leggings, a thermal underlayer, her black boots.

Then she saw it—folded on the chair by the bed. Yuki's sweater. The navy one with the slightly frayed cuff he kept denying needed replacing. She didn't think twice. She pulled it over her head.

The fabric swallowed her immediately, soft and warm, carrying his scent—clean detergent, pine, something faintly sweet. It calmed her pulse in a way she hated and needed at the same time.

By the time Yuki knocked and stepped back in, Luz was tying her hair up, forcing her expression into something bright enough to pass. He froze mid-step when he saw his sweater on her. His face softened instantly—eyes warm, a small smile tugging at his lips.

He didn't tease her. Didn't make a joke.

He just looked at her like she'd stolen all the air in the room. "Ready?" he asked quietly. She nodded. "Yeah."

He walked over and, without hesitation, intertwined his fingers with hers. His hand warm, steady, squeezing gently like he was grounding her without making a big deal out of it.

Luz felt her chest loosen just enough to breathe deeply. Yuki looked down at their hands, still smiling softly, and tugged her toward the door. "Let's go," he murmured. And for the first time that day, she didn't feel like she was falling apart.

Belgium at night was painfully beautiful—narrow cobblestone streets glowing under soft yellow lights, the cold biting through every layer no matter how thick, and the quiet hum of people slipping in and out of cafés. Luz loved it here. She loved pretending she wasn't sick even more.

But tonight her body wasn't pretending at all. They walked side by side, her tucked inside Yuki's sweater, her gloved hands shoved deep into her pockets, her breath visible in thin white clouds. She tried to keep her steps light, her smile easy, her voice steady whenever she talked to him.

Everything hurts felt like an understatement.

Her hips ached. Her spine felt like it was grinding against itself. Her joints throbbing like they were filled with broken glass. The Belgian cold wrung all the warmth out of her bones.

She joked anyway. "Oof, my knees just asked for retirement," she muttered after one uneven step. Yuki glanced at her, unimpressed. "Your jokes are getting worse."

"They are fantastic, thank you. Arthritis-chic is—" She tripped over a stone in the road and would have gone straight down if Yuki hadn't caught her, one arm sliding around her waist instantly. "Luz," he said softly.

She grinned up at him. "The sidewalk wants me dead." He didn't laugh. His eyes flicked over her face—noticing the exhaustion, the grayness under her skin, the shaky way she steadied her breath.

But he didn't call it. Didn't tell her to stop. Didn't make her feel fragile. He simply slipped his hand into hers and didn't let go again.

They ducked into a chocolate shop, then walked along the main street, then into a tiny bookshop where Luz ran her fingers across the spines like she had all the time in the world. Yuki followed her, close enough to catch her every time her balance faltered—which happened more than she wanted to admit.

At one point she stood a little too fast, her vision went white at the edges, and she swayed. Yuki caught her elbow gently. "Careful."

"I'm fine," she whispered, even though they both knew it was a lie.

He nodded anyway. "Yeah. But still—careful."

He stayed glued to her side after that, eyes never drifting too far. Anyone watching them would think he was just being sweet. Only Luz knew he was making sure she stayed upright.

By eight, the exhaustion hit her like a wave—heavy, suffocating, familiar. She tried to blink it away, but her eyelids were drooping, her steps slowing, her breath shallow.

"I think I'm calling it," she said quietly. Yuki didn't hesitate. He turned to her with a grin, bent slightly, and before she could protest, he picked her up—full bridal style, her legs dangling midair.

"YUKI!" she squeaked, though her voice was more tired than outraged. "It's faster," he said innocently. "Efficiency, Luz. I'm thinking like an engineer."

"You're thinking like an idiot," she tried to tease, but her head naturally fell against his chest, her fingers tightening around his jacket to steady herself. He adjusted his hold—still pretending it was a joke, still making it look casual for her sake—but she felt the solid strength of him, the warmth, the steadiness. He wasn't letting her walk because he knew she couldn't.

And she hated herself for how good it felt. For how safe she felt. For how much she already loved him. For how much he clearly loved her back. She didn't deserve to let him feel that. Not when she didn't have long. Not when Belgium had already proven how fast she was slipping.

Her chest tightened, her throat burning with emotions she couldn't allow herself. How could she be so selfish? How could she let him fall? How could she let herself want something that had no future?

Yuki glanced down at her just as her eyes dropped and her jaw tightened. He didn't need her to say anything; he knew exactly where her thoughts had gone—the dark, guilt-filled spiral she always hid behind that bright smile. He leaned in and pressed the softest kiss to her cheek.

"Don't go there," he murmured, his voice warm against her ear. "Not tonight, sunshine."

Her breath hitched.

He kept talking immediately—rambling nonsense about how he deserved an award for his strength, how she weighed "exactly fourteen kilograms," how Belgium should legally provide heated sidewalks, how he was 100% sure she'd try to fight a goose if she saw one.

He talked to keep her present. To keep her from spiraling. To keep her from thinking she was a burden or a mistake.

And Luz—exhausted, freezing, hurting everywhere—just looked at him. Truly looked at him.

With so much love it scared her. But also with a warmth she couldn't fight anymore. A softness that made her chest ache in a whole different way. A realization that she didn't want to push him away.

Not yet. Not tonight.

She curled closer to him, letting herself breathe him in, letting herself feel it—feel him—just for this moment. Just long enough to forget the ending she knew was coming.

Luz wasn't expecting the knock so early, and for a moment her stomach dropped—she thought it might be another morning of pretending she wasn't falling apart. But when she opened the door and saw Francisco standing there with a ridiculous grin and a fancy black case in his hands, her knees nearly buckled in relief.

"Buenos días, Lucerito,"(good morning) he said, sweeping inside like he owned the place. "I worked a little overtime, but—" he flipped open the case like a magician revealing his masterpiece, "—tu corona está lista."(your crown is ready) Her wig.

Same cut. Same length. Same soft waves. Just a shade darker than last time—rich chocolate brown instead of sun-kissed caramel. Her throat tightened. Francisco patted the chair. "Ándale, siéntate. Let me work my magic."(Come on, sit down)

She sat, hands twisting in her lap as he prepped her hairline, cleaned her skin, warmed the adhesive. His hands were gentle, practiced, and he didn't say anything until the last piece was secured and perfectly blended. Then he spun the chair toward the mirror.

Luz blinked. For the first time in weeks...she didn't look sick. Not healthy—but not dying. The hollow look in her eyes softened; the wig framed her face in a way that brought warmth back into her tired features. Her smile looked real again.

She stood and wrapped Francisco in a tight hug. "Gracias, Cisco...de verdad."(thank you cisco, for reals)

He hugged her back with a dramatic groan. "Ay, Lucerito, don't make me emotional. I just fixed my eyeliner." She laughed—a sound that actually felt like her—and he tapped under her eyes with two fingers.

"And remember," he teased, "go a little heavy on the blush, mija. Right now you look like a tiktokera doing an undead makeup trend." Luz smacked his arm and he cackled before heading out, sending her off with a blown kiss and a "Call me if that thing even THINKS about lifting!"

Still smiling, she grabbed her jacket and went straight to Yuki's room. The moment he opened the door, he froze—then his entire expression softened in a way that made her chest flip upside down.

"Sunshine..." he whispered. Before she could say anything, he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She giggled, cheeks warming, and he grinned like she'd handed him the moon. "You look beautiful," he said. She bumped his shoulder. "Shut up."

"No." He said it simply, and she blushed harder.

They headed downstairs hand in hand to meet the media team, both of them in thick jackets, thermal gloves, and snow gear. Yuki was bouncing lightly on his heels, Luz buzzing with the first real spark of confidence she'd felt in days. Because today was snowmobiles.

The moment they stepped outside, Luz inhaled sharply at the cold—but for once it didn't scare her. Not with Yuki brushing his hand against hers every few seconds just to check she was warm. The media team strapped GoPros on them, handed them cameras, and immediately the two were back in show mode.

"Welcome back, guys!" Luz shouted dramatically into the vlog camera. "Your favorite chaotic duo is going to try not to die on snowmobiles." Yuki snorted. "Correction—I will try not to die. She will try to do flips." Luz gasped. "Bold of you to assume I won't push you off yours."

The team groaned, already regretting their insurance policy. Once they were given the go signal, the two mounted their snowmobiles and shot off, engines roaring, snow spraying behind them. Luz shrieked in laughter as she swerved around Yuki. "WOOOHOOO—EAT MY SNOW, TSUNODA!"

"You're so annoying!" Yuki yelled back, but he was laughing so hard his voice cracked.

They raced through the trees, weaving between snowy pines, their cameras capturing every chaotic scream and shaky laugh. Luz kept standing slightly on the pedals to record a better angle; Yuki kept yelling at her to sit down before she got launched into another dimension.

When they reached the frozen lake, the guide waved them toward the ice skating rink nearby. Luz hopped off her snowmobile and shoved the camera into Yuki's face. "Next stop: us busting our asses on ice."

"Correction," Yuki said smugly. "You falling. I'm good at this."

"Lies," Luz said immediately. "All lies."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the rink, and the two of them were laughing, breathless, messy, and happy. And for the first time in days— Luz felt like herself again. Warm. Alive. Not defined by her sickness.

Just...Luz. Filming dumb adventures with the boy who held her together without ever making her feel breakable.

The lake was straight out of a postcard—white, glittering, quiet—and Luz and Yuki were absolutely ruining the serenity with the sound of their screams.

Yuki stumbled first, arms windmilling like a dying penguin. "WHY IS THIS SO HARD—!" Luz grabbed his jacket to keep herself upright but immediately regretted it because they went down together in a tangle of limbs.

"OW—YUKI—THIS IS YOUR FAULT!"

"My fault?! You said you knew how to skate!"

"I lied for the vlog!!"

They were both laughing so loudly the guide had to look away to keep from joining in. Every time one got up, the other slipped, and they'd go right back down in a heap. Eventually Yuki managed to stand long enough to pull Luz up by the hands, both wobbling, both clinging to each other like they were on a sinking ship.

"We are terrible at this," Luz wheezed, out of breath but smiling so brightly her eyes crinkled. "Yes, but we're terrible together," Yuki said, cheeks pink from the cold. "That's what matters."

They shuffled across the ice, hand in hand, half-skating, half-sliding, laughing each time one of them spun the wrong way or accidentally crashed into a snowbank. Luz filmed everything, dramatic narration included. "Here we have Yuki Tsunoda—Japanese shorty—attempting to skate without dying."

"Say that again and I'll drop you."

"You can't, you don't have balance!"

They were so wrapped up in their little world—complaining, laughing, wobbling—that time slipped away. But the weather didn't. By late afternoon, the temperature crashed. The wind cut sharper. The air froze faster. Their breath came out in thicker plumes.

Luz pushed through it, trying to chase Yuki across the ice, camera wobbling in her hand. She forced a grin, forced her legs to cooperate, forced the pain in her bones down. But her body couldn't hide it anymore.

Halfway across the rink, her skate caught on nothing. She froze—eyes widening, breath hitching, entire expression shifting from happy to horrified in a single second. It wasn't fear of falling. It was terror—deep, instinctive, familiar.

Yuki saw it instantly. "Luz?" He pushed forward on his skates, faster, faster, heart slamming against his ribs. "Sunshine—Luz—hey, look at me!"

She tried to take another step. Her hand trembled. Her knees buckled. And then— Luz crumpled.

Just dropped onto the ice like a marionette with its strings cut. "No—no, no, no—LUZ!" Yuki launched himself toward her, slipping so hard he nearly face-planted, but he didn't care—he slid the last few feet and caught her shoulders, pulling her up against him.

Her head lolled. Her lips were pale. Her breathing was thin, shallow, barely there.

"Luz, hey—hey, sunshine, wake up—wake up, please—!" His voice cracked, panic seeping through every word. "Come on, look at me, open your eyes—!" The media team was already racing onto the ice, shouting for paramedics. The guides signaled emergency medics stationed nearby—they were sprinting over within seconds.

But Yuki couldn't hear anything except the sound of his own heartbeat and Luz's terrifying silence. He pressed his forehead to hers, shaking. "Don't do this. Don't—please, Luz, please—"

Paramedics reached them fast, kneeling beside him, lifting her gently. One checked her pulse. Another checked her airway. Another started preparing oxygen. "Sir, we need to move her," one said. Yuki didn't let go. They got her onto the stretcher, strapped her down, covered her in heated blankets—even then, Yuki kept one of her hands in his, refusing to loosen his grip.

As soon as they lifted her, he moved with them, eyes locked on her unconscious face. He climbed into the ambulance before anyone could stop him. Media tried to tell him they needed to handle logistics—he didn't care. The paramedics told him to sit still—he barely heard them. His only focus was Luz.

He held her cold hand with both of his, trembling, terrified, whispering in Japanese and English both, voice breaking each time. "Sunshine...por favor...wake up...Don't leave me. Luz—stay with me. Please..."

The ambulance doors slammed shut. And the world outside disappeared.

⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰ ⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰

When Luz finally woke, the world came back to her slowly—first the too-bright hospital ceiling, then the soft hum of machines, and then...Checo.

He was slumped in the chair beside her bed, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—eyes swollen, beard rough, hair a mess, wearing the same hoodie she'd last seen him in before Belgium. For a second she wondered if she was dreaming, because Checo never looked like this. Not even during the worst seasons of his career.

But then he lifted his head, and the moment his eyes locked onto hers, he froze.

"Checito...?" Luz whispered, voice rasping. He shot to his feet so fast the chair nearly toppled behind him. "Luz." She blinked, confused. "What's...what's going on? Why do you look—"

"¿Cuándo?"(when) His voice cracked around the word. A single, sharp question. One that made her stomach drop. "¿Cuándo qué?"(when what) she asked, shrinking into the pillows. "Lucerito," he said, breath shaking, "¿por qué no me dijiste?"(why didn't you tell me) It hit her like a punch. She didn't even have to ask what he meant.

Her chest tightened, her throat closed, and tears flooded her eyes instantly. "Checito..."

He looked angry—hurt more than anything, the kind of hurt that only family could inflict. And when she broke down, he broke too. In two steps he was at her bedside, wrapping her up, pulling her against him like she was still the little girl who used to hide in his room during storms.

She sobbed into his chest, and he held her like he was scared she'd slip away again.

The door opened, and Paola and Toño rushed in. Paola froze when she saw her little sister awake, her breath catching before she rushed forward, tears already streaming. Toño wasn't far behind, jaw clenched, trying so hard not to fall apart.

They were on her in seconds—arms around her, hands in her hair, kisses on her forehead. A pile of family clinging to her like she was the only thing that mattered in the world.

When the crying finally slowed, Checo still didn't let her go. His arms stayed locked around her shoulders, chin resting on top of her head as if letting go meant risking losing her again. "Why didn't you tell us?" he whispered, voice raw. "Luz...¿por qué?"(Why)

She wiped her face with trembling fingers. "I didn't want to be a burden, Checo." He leaned back, eyes widening with disbelief and heartbreak all at once. "¿Una carga? ¿Tú?" His voice cracked. "Luz, tú eres mi hermanita. Nunca podrías ser una carga."(You a burden? You?... Luz you are our baby sis, you could never be a burden)

"I know how it goes," she whispered. "People worry, people panic. I didn't want you to stop your life because of me. I didn't want Paola or Toño losing sleep or coming to every appointment. I thought if I could handle it alone, then..." She swallowed hard. "Then maybe it wouldn't hurt everyone."

Paola shook her head, tears falling again. "Luz, mi amor...we're supposed to hurt together."

"It's too late," Luz whispered, refusing to look at them. "No," Paola said immediately. "No, it's not."

Luz shook her head, biting her lip so hard it nearly bled. "It is too late, Paola. Dr. Williams said..." Her breath hitched. "He said there's only a one percent chance." Silence hit the room so hard it was almost physical.

Checo's grip tightened around her. Toño looked away, eyes shining. Paola covered her mouth, shoulders trembling. And Luz sat there, surrounded by the people who had loved her since the day she existed, finally breaking open in the way she'd refused to let herself for months.

They talked for a long time—quiet, painful words between long silences. Checo telling her he wished she'd trusted him. Paola reminding her she wasn't alone, that she would never be alone. Toño promising he wouldn't let her disappear into herself again.

Luz apologized more times than she could count. Her siblings told her she didn't have to. They cried, they held her, they pressed their foreheads together like they used to as kids. And even though every word hurt, every truth cut deep, Luz felt something she hadn't felt in a long time.

She felt held.

She felt seen.

She felt loved.

And maybe—just maybe—that one percent didn't feel so impossible with them beside her.

Checo didn't let go of her hand. Not for a second. His thumb kept brushing over her knuckles in this slow, trembling pattern—like he was grounding himself, like touching her meant she was still here. Eventually, he swallowed hard and asked the question he clearly didn't want to ask.

"¿Cuánto tiempo, Luz?(how much time?)" Luz looked down at the blanket. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still, like the air itself had paused. Paola stiffened. Toño's jaw locked. Checo's voice broke. "¿Cuánto tiempo te queda?(how much time do you have?)" She hesitated, her lips shaking. "Dr. Williams...doesn't know for sure."

"Luz," Checo said again—soft, pleading.

She drew a shaky breath. "Maybe...a month." She blinked rapidly as tears blurred her vision. "Maybe less." Paola made a sound—a sharp, wounded gasp—and immediately turned into Toño's chest. He wrapped his arms around her, tanked by the sheer weight of her grief, his own eyes shining so fiercely it hurt to look at him.

The idea of losing her—of living in a world where Luz didn't exist—was unimaginable. She wasn't just their baby sister; she was the one that kept them soft, kept them grounded, kept them human. Every instinct they had was to protect her. And now they couldn't. Now time was slipping through their fingers, and there was no way to slow it down.

Checo held her hand tighter, knuckles whitening. "¿Desde cuándo lo sabes?(since when do you know?)" She chewed her lip, guilt washing over her face. "Since the interview. With Yuki. And Max." Checo cursed—sharp, vicious, whispering fire under his breath. "Luz...that was two months ago."

"I know," she whispered. "Dos meses,(two months)" he repeated like it personally offended the universe. "Y yo ni enterado..."(and I didn't know)

Toño rubbed his face, pacing once before stopping at the end of the bed. His voice cracked as he forced the words out. "You beat it once. You can beat it again." Luz looked at him—really looked at him—and her heart broke for him, for all of them. "Tonito," she said softly. "I'm tired." He swallowed hard, eyes falling shut.

"The needles," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "The beeping. The hair...falling out in clumps again. My body not listening to me anymore. Not cooperating." Her breath shook. "I'm tired of pretending I'm okay. I'm tired of fighting alone."

Toño looked down, defeated, his shoulders dropping as if someone had cut a string inside him. Checo stared up at the ceiling, breathing hard, trying not to shatter. The room sat in that painful silence until a gentle knock broke through.

All four siblings turned.

Yuki stood in the doorway with a bouquet of white and lilac flowers clutched in his hands. His cheeks were red from the cold, his hair still messy from running. He looked exhausted—haunted, even—but the moment his eyes landed on Luz, he softened.

Relief and heartbreak warred in his expression. Luz managed a small smile. "Hi." Yuki's grip tightened on the flowers. "I—I can come back. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"No," she said immediately, wiping her face. "It's fine. Come in."

He stepped into the room carefully, respectfully. He greeted Checo, Paola, and Toño with a polite bow, and each of them nodded back—some stiffly, some through tears, but they acknowledged him all the same. He set the flowers in the vase beside her bed. "These...are for you. I wasn't sure what kind you liked."

"They're perfect," Luz whispered. Then Yuki leaned down and kissed her cheek—gentle, lingering, his fingers brushing her jaw as if she were made of glass.

Paola broke.

Completely.

She turned her face into Toño again, sobbing openly, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. Because seeing Yuki kiss her little sister—seeing Luz have someone who loved her, who ran to her, who cared enough to look shattered at the sight of her in a hospital bed—it made everything hurt worse.

Paola could see the future Luz would never get. She wouldn't walk down an aisle. She wouldn't get to wake up beside someone who adored her. She wouldn't get to dance in her kitchen with a partner she loved. She wouldn't get quiet morning coffees or shared apartments or little moments that shouldn't matter but always do.

She wouldn't get forever. She wouldn't even get next year. And watching Yuki stand there, desperate and helpless, made that reality brutal. Yuki cupped Luz's hand between both of his, holding it like it was something precious. "I'm glad you're awake," he whispered. "I was...so scared."

Luz squeezed his fingers weakly. "I'm okay," she lied. Checo watched the interaction, jaw tight—not angry, but undone. His baby sister had people who loved her. People who weren't ready to lose her. None of them were.

The room filled again—with grief, with love, with everything they wanted to say but couldn't. And Luz lay there, surrounded by everyone who loved her most, knowing her time was running out. But also knowing she wasn't alone anymore.

Yuki never once loosened his grip on her fingers—not for a second, not even to wipe the tears that kept slipping down his face. His thumb stayed locked around hers as if letting go meant she would disappear again. Checo sat heavily in the chair at her bedside, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like the tiles might give him the answers he didn't have. "¿Cómo les vamos a decir a mamá y papá?" he finally asked, voice hollow. Luz exhaled slowly. "With words?" she said weakly, trying to smile.

Checo just shook his head, eyes burning. "No es chistoso, Luz.(It's not funny Luz)" Yuki looked between them, swallowing hard. "The doctors said...you're fine to fly. If you want to go back home. To Mexico." Luz blinked at him. "What about the challenges? The filming?"

"Luz..." Checo warned.

"No," she insisted, already trembling. "That's what keeps me sane. If I go home, if I sit still, if I'm not working—" Her breath hitched. "The thoughts come back. I start thinking too much. I can't... I can't do nothing." She didn't even finish before she broke, tears falling fast and heavy. Yuki immediately pulled her into his chest, holding her with both arms, whispering into her hair. Checo tried again, voice softer this time. "Lucerito, if you're home in Guadalajara...we can keep an eye on you. We can take care of you better."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about!" she snapped through sobs. "I'll just be a burden. I'll be watched every second. I'll be the sick one again. The fragile one. And I hate it—I hate it." Paola flinched, covering her mouth. Toño closed his eyes. "You're not a burden," Checo said, frustrated tears in his voice. "You're my baby sister."

"And what happens if I go home?" Luz shot back. "You stop your lives? You stop working? You stop everything to sit there and wait for me to—" she choked, unable to say it. "I don't want that. I don't want you watching a clock." The siblings stared at her, helpless and hurting.

The argument rose again, voices overlapping—fear, grief, desperation—until finally Luz pressed her palms over her eyes and whispered, "Just leave me alone. Please." Checo froze first. Then Paola. Then Toño.

The three of them backed away slowly, hearts shattered, but Luz didn't let go of Yuki's hand. She clung to it like it was the only lifeline she had left. Yuki stayed. Of course he stayed. He pulled the blanket higher over her shoulders, slid into the space beside her on the bed, and let her curl into his chest. He didn't say anything—he just wrapped an arm around her and stroked her hair in slow, grounding motions.

His fingertips brushed gently over her scalp, careful, soft, soothing. Luz relaxed gradually, her breaths growing deeper, slower, until she finally slipped into sleep—so exhausted she didn't even finish her sentence. Yuki kept brushing her hair until he heard the faintest snore escape her lips. Only then did he close his eyes too, resting his forehead against the top of her head.

Outside, through the small hospital window, Checo, Paola, and Toño stood in the hallway. They watched the two of them asleep—Luz curled into Yuki's chest, his arm holding her like he refused to let the world take her again. Paola wiped her face. "I can fly back tomorrow," she whispered. "I'll tell mamá y papá."

Checo let out a long, shaking sigh and nodded. "It's better if it's you." His voice cracked. "I don't think I could get the words out." Toño stared through the glass, jaw tight, eyes red. None of them said it, but they were all thinking the same thing.

How do you tell your parents their youngest child is going to die?

That she only has weeks left? That she's been carrying the weight of it alone? Paola pressed her hand against the window as if touching Luz's silhouette. Her voice was a broken whisper.

"Dios...how do we even begin?"

The next day came painfully slow. The doctor's face said it before the words ever left her mouth—gentle eyes, soft voice, hands folded like she wished she could hold the news back. Luz sat up slowly, fingers tangled tightly with Yuki's, squeezing so hard he could feel her knuckles shake.

"Lucero," the doctor began, pulling her chair closer. "We've reviewed all your scans. Your bloodwork. Your vitals. Your symptoms." She paused, searching for the least cruel way to phrase what had no kindness in it. "At the rate your body is declining... we estimate you have two weeks to a month."

Luz didn't move. Didn't breathe. The room felt like it folded in on itself. "We can offer palliative options," the doctor continued. "Comfort care, pain management, support through travel if you choose to move around. It's your decision how you want to spend the time you have left."

Luz nodded—too fast, too numb, like her head was moving on its own. She whispered a quiet "thank you," because that's what you say, even when your world is breaking. The doctor gave her a sad smile and stepped out.

The moment the door clicked shut, Luz's facade shattered. A sob tore out of her chest so violently it startled even her—raw, loud, uncontrollable. She doubled over, hands shaking, breath heaving like the air hurt her lungs. And Yuki immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him so tight she could barely tell where she ended and where he began.

"I've got you," he whispered, his voice already breaking. "I'm right here, Luz. I'm not going anywhere." She cried harder, burying her face in his hoodie, fist gripping the fabric like she was drowning and he was her only breath. Yuki held the back of her head, stroked her hair, rocked her gently like she was something precious and fragile.

"I don't want to die," she choked out, voice shaking violently. "I know," Yuki whispered, forehead resting against hers. "I know, sunshine." Her sobs eventually softened into hiccups, then into quiet trembling. Yuki didn't let go for a second.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Paola stood in her parents' living room in Guadalajara, hands shaking as she held her phone and a plane ticket in her purse. Her mother looked confused. Her father worried. They both sat slowly on the couch like she'd asked.

"Mamá... papá... siéntense, por favor,(Mom, dad... sit down please)" she whispered. Her mother's face tightened. "Paolita, ¿qué pasó? ¿Está bien Lucero?(what is wrong? Is lucero alright)" And just like that—Paola fell apart. "Mamá..." Her voice cracked instantly. "Luz—Luz tiene cáncer otra vez.(Luz has cancer again)"

Their mother gasped, covering her mouth. Their father went pale, hands gripping the armrest. "¿Qué...? ¿Cómo...? ¿Desde cuándo?(Huh? What? Since when?)" her father asked, voice thin and shaking. Paola started crying so hard she could barely force out the words. "Desde hace meses. No nos dijo... no le dijo a nadie.(Since a few month back.. She dint tell anyone)"

Their mother sobbed, "¿Y ahora? ¿Cómo está? ¡Dime que está bien, por favor!(And now? How is she? Tell me she is fine, please)" Paola shook her head, crying harder. "No... no está bien, mamá. Le queda muy poquito tiempo.(She is not well, mom. She doesn't have a lot of time)"

Her mother screamed—an agonized, broken cry that echoed through the house. Her father stood up and immediately sat back down, as if his knees couldn't hold him anymore. Paola collapsed between them as all three of them cried into each other—grief, shock, disbelief filling the room until there was nothing left but the sound of heartbreak.

Back in Belgium, Luz was discharged later that evening. She changed into warm clothes, pulled her beanie low, and walked out of the hospital leaning slightly into Yuki. Her body was weak but her will was sharp.

Two weeks. Maybe a month. She wasn't going to spend any of it lying in a bed waiting to fade. She hugged Checo first, burying her face in his chest. He held her so tight her ribs hurt, kissing her head again and again like he couldn't stop. "Te amo, Lucerito,(I love you)" he whispered. "Por favor... cuídate. Te necesito aquí... aunque sea poquito más.(Please take care of yourself. I need you here. Even if its a tiny bit)"

She cried softly into him. Toño pulled her next, lifting her off the ground like he used to when she was five. "Nos vemos en tres semanas en casa,(Ill see you in three weeks back home)" he murmured, even if he wasn't sure she'd make it that long.

"I'll be there," Luz promised. "Lo juro.(I promise)" They didn't believe it—but they needed to. She squeezed their hands one last time and turned, stepping into the car where Yuki waited.

She was quiet on the drive to the airport—exhausted, anxious, bracing herself. Because now she was flying home to face the one thing scarier than dying: Her parents' grief. She swallowed hard. "I'm going to get scolded so bad," she muttered, half laughing, half trembling.

Yuki smiled sadly and took her hand. "I'll be right there, sunshine." She looked out the window, watching Belgium fade behind her. Two weeks of warmth. Two weeks of beaches. Two weeks of pretending she wasn't dying. Two weeks to live. And Yuki beside her—for every single moment she had left.

◤──•~❉🪂᯽🏎️❉~•──◥

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #yuki tsunoda x oc #character death #sad ending #checoperez father figure

FreeFall Hearts

Part: 3

◤──•~❉🪂᯽🏎️❉~•──◥

Luz had barely slept on the flight to Monaco. She'd tossed, turned, stared at the cabin ceiling until sunrise, her mind stretched thin with thoughts she shoved back into the dark. By the time the jet landed, she felt hollow in that familiar, terrifying way—like her body was running on fumes and adrenaline alone.

But she forced a smile. Forced her shoulders back. Forced her lungs to breathe normally.

Two days off. Two whole days with Yuki before the cooking class and their surprise guests.

She could fake normal for two days. She had to.

In her hotel room, the light was soft and golden, Monaco's skyline glittering through the window. Luz stood in front of the mirror, brushing out her damp hair. The moment the brush crossed her shoulder, she hissed.

A fresh bruise.

She tugged her shirt off and stared at herself in the mirror.

New ones bloomed across her ribs, her arms, her hips—deep purples, sickly greens, faint yellows from the older ones. She'd always bruised easily during treatment. Now it was happening again. Small hits, little bumps, even pressure from gear left marks.

It was starting. The next stage. Her breath caught. Her eyes burned.

"No," she whispered, gripping the edge of the sink. "Not now. Not today."

She slapped her cheek lightly until the sting focused her. Again. And again.

Her vision steadied. Her pulse slowed. The panic retreated into the locked room where she kept the truth.

Her hair would start falling soon. She needed to be ready. Not yet. Not yet.

She slipped into black jeans, a white crop top, one of Checo's old jackets she always stole—soft, oversized, comforting. Her glasses hid her eye bags. A little blush faked life. Perfume masked exhaustion.

A knock echoed.

Luz inhaled, plastered on a smile, and opened the door.

Yuki stood there, hands in his pockets, hair messy from the flight, eyes bright as soon as they landed on her. "Ah—there you are."

She didn't even hesitate—she threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his shoulder. He stiffened for half a second before his arms wrapped around her too, steady and warm.

"You ready, chaparro?" she said into his chest, voice light, teasing.

He pulled back just slightly so he could look at her. And he smiled—small, soft, the one he only ever seemed to use around her.

"My sunshine," he said in Japanese, brushing a piece of hair off her forehead. "I'm going to take you everywhere today."

She rolled her eyes playfully. "Everywhere is a bold claim, Yuki." He smirked. "Trust me."

Before she could protest, he took her hand—just took it like he'd been doing it his entire life—and started walking with her down the hall.

"Okay, so listen," he said, excitement bubbling. "We're going to the harbor first. Then Old Monaco. Then this tiny café I like. Then the private gardens. And if you're not tired, then—"

"Chaparro, breathe," she laughed. He didn't. He just grinned harder.

"You said you've only been here for races, right?" She shook her head. "Yeah. I jump, I do my little show, I leave. Never really... explore."

"Then I'm fixing that," he said, squeezing her hand gently. "You're with me now."

Luz raised a brow. "Oh? Is that so?" He nodded seriously. "Hai."

She laughed, the sound brighter than she felt inside. Being next to him always pulled something warm forward—something she thought cancer had stolen.

Yuki glanced at her glasses. "Your eyes look tired. Did you sleep?"

"Define 'sleep.' He sighed. "Sunshine..."

"Don't start," she warned, poking his cheek. He didn't push. He never pushed.

Instead he let their fingers stay laced as he guided her through the lobby, already telling her facts about Monaco, pointing out landmarks before they even left the hotel.

And Luz, despite everything—despite the bruises, the fear, the ache deep in her bones—felt that tight knot in her chest loosen just a little.

Her world was cracking at the edges. But Yuki...

Yuki somehow always found the pieces she dropped and held them like they mattered.

She didn't know why he was her light. She didn't know why he always showed up right when she was fading.

But today—just today—she let herself lean into that. Into him.

Two days in Monaco. Two days of pretending she had all the time in the world.

Two days of being someone who wasn't dying. She squeezed his hand. "Okay, chaparro," she said. "Show me everything."

Monaco hit her all at once—the sunlight bouncing off the marble buildings, the soft breeze from the harbor, the echoes of footsteps on narrow stone streets. Everything looked too clean, too expensive, too pretty.

Yuki walked beside her with that little proud bounce he always had when he was in his element, pointing things out with quick, sharp gestures like a tour guide who couldn't slow down if he tried.

"That building is older than both of us combined. And that café? Best food in all of Monaco. No argument. And over there—"

Luz slipped her arm through his without warning. Yuki froze mid-sentence.

She simply leaned into him, head lightly brushing his shoulder, holding onto him in a way that felt natural—inevitable. She'd been getting tired more quickly; the long flights, the training weeks, the stress all stacked. Her legs felt heavy, her breathing uneven.

But with her arm around him? He made walking feel easier. "Keep going, chaparro," she said. "I'm listening."

He swallowed, cleared his throat, and tried to act normal. "R-right. So—uh—this street leads to the gardens. And the ocean view from there is... it's really nice."

She smiled. "This whole country is really nice. Like, annoyingly so. Why is everything so clean? Don't they have dust here?"

Yuki snorted. "I think Monaco bans dust. Illegal."

Luz gasped dramatically. "¿En serio? I knew it. That's why everyone is rich—they save so much money on cleaning supplies."(seriously)

He shook his head, laughing under his breath. "You're unbelievable."

"And yet you're still here," she said, bumping his hip with hers. "I am," he admitted quietly.

They wandered through the harbor next, Luz stopping every three seconds to take a photo.

"Ooooh, this one looks like Lando's bank account."

Yuki nearly choked. "Don't say that out loud."

"I'm sending it to him."

"No—Luz—"

Click.

Too late.

She took pictures of boats, of random pigeons, of her sunglasses reflection, of the sky, of Yuki from behind when he wasn't looking.

When he finally realized, he turned around to catch her holding her phone up.

He blinked. "Are you... taking pictures of me?"

She grinned. "You're part of my trip, aren't you?"

His ears went red. "I—well—yes, but—"

"Then stand still," she said, waving him back into the frame. "You're ruining the aesthetic."

He did, mumbling to himself but smiling like an idiot.

Later they climbed up to the old town, the stone paths narrow and winding. Luz's steps slowed—her legs burning, chest feeling tight—but she didn't say anything. She just moved closer, taking Yuki's arm with both of her hands this time.

Yuki glanced down, concern flickering, but he didn't ask. He just shifted his pace to match hers, guiding her through shaded alleys.

"You okay, sunshine?" he asked softly.

"Just tired. Blame Monaco for having stairs everywhere."

He nodded. "We'll take breaks."

"Or you can carry me," she teased, nudging him.

His eyes widened. "I— I can. If you want—"

"Relax, chaparro. I'm joking."

He wasn't. He absolutely wasn't. He would've carried her without hesitation.

They reached a small lookout point overlooking the sea, waves sparkling below.

"This..." Luz whispered, breath catching. "Wow." Yuki smiled at her, not the view. "Told you."

She lifted her phone again. "Picture."

He stood beside her, leaning slightly so their heads touched. She snapped it, then another, then another until he complained.

"Luz, stop, I look the same in all of these."

"No you don't," she said quietly. "I want to remember each one."

Yuki opened his mouth—then closed it, something warm and soft falling over his expression.

They stayed there for a long moment, her hand resting in the crook of his arm, her shoulder pressed against his. The breeze was gentle. His cologne mixed with salt air. And for the first time all day, she let her body rest fully against him.

"Thank you for showing me all this," she murmured. "You make it better," he said honestly. She turned her head. "Hmm?"

He shrugged, eyes on the ocean. "Being here with you... it's just nice."

Luz felt something bloom in her chest. Dangerous. Comforting. Hopeful.

She leaned her head against his shoulder again. "I'm glad I came." Yuki didn't move. Didn't breathe, almost.

He just stood there, letting her weight sink into him, letting her fatigue settle softly between them, letting the moment stretch long and warm.

They still had two days left. And he already knew— he was falling faster than he could stop.

Luz and Yuki spent their last free day wandering through Monaco like two overgrown kids let loose in a playground. Both of them filmed everything—Luz narrating dramatically into her phone while Yuki added sarcastic commentary from behind the camera.

They tried pastries, street snacks, gelato, and a questionable neon drink that Luz insisted on trying because "it looks radioactive, chaparro, that means it HAS to be good." Yuki took one sip, gagged, and filmed her cackling at him.

By the end of the day, Luz was tired, leaning against Yuki more than she realized, her arm hooked around his as he guided her through the narrow streets. He didn't comment—just kept her close, kept her steady, kept the camera rolling whenever she did something ridiculous.

The next morning came like a slap. Bright. Early. Way too cheerful.

The media van pulled up in front of their hotel, and Luz was still rubbing sleep from her eyes as Yuki handed her a coffee that was almost more milk than espresso. She shot him a grateful smile, her glasses slipping down her nose.

Inside the studio kitchen they were filming in, the crew was already buzzing.

Then Oscar Piastri walked in, looking polite and mildly confused, as always. And then— Lando.

He spotted Luz instantly. His smile flashed, but it dropped just as fast when he got a good look at her—at the sharper cheekbones, the paleness under her makeup, the tiredness behind her eyes. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to.

"Oi," he muttered and walked straight over, pulling her into a tight hug. Luz let out a soft laugh, patting his back. "You act like I died, Lando." "You look like you haven't slept in three months," he muttered into her shoulder.

She pulled back and shrugged with a grin that was a little too quick. "Work, you know how it is." Yuki stepped forward, giving Lando a short nod. Lando nodded back... then let his eyes flick between the two of them. Once. Twice.

He raised an eyebrow—the silent so this is a thing now? eyebrow. Yuki pretended not to notice. Luz absolutely noticed—and kicked Lando lightly in the shin for it.

"What?" Lando said, hands up, smirking. "I'm just saying hi." Oscar wandered over, clueless and yet somehow perfectly aware at the same time. "Are we... hugging? Is that required? I wasn't warned about this."

Luz snorted and hugged him too, earning a stiff pat on the back from Oscar and a snicker from Yuki. The energy settled. The cameras were almost ready. The crew was already excited—four chaotic personalities in one kitchen was practically guaranteed content.

Luz rolled her shoulders, tied her hair back, flashed a smile at Yuki, and whispered: "Ready to cook, chaparro?" Yuki grinned. "If you don't set something on fire first."

Lando muttered under his breath, "Oh, she will." And Luz just smirked at all three of them— completely unaware of how her presence alone held them together like gravity.

Luz tied her hair up in a messy bun, pulled her sleeves to her elbows, and cracked her knuckles dramatically as the challenge was announced:

Lando + Oscar

Yuki + Luz

"Easy win," Luz whispered to Yuki, elbowing him. Then the crew uncovered the ingredients.

Fish.

A whole fish.

And Lando Norris, proud hater of anything that once swam, froze like someone had pointed a gun at him. Luz burst out laughing so loudly the cameras caught it. "Oh, no. No way—Lando, look at me."

He shook his head violently. "No. Absolutely not." She grabbed her fish by the tail and marched toward him with the most evil grin. Lando immediately grabbed the nearest frying pan and lifted it like a shield.

"Back up! Back up! I'm warning you, Pérez!" The crew was nearly crying from laughter. Oscar had already emotionally checked out of the situation, quietly muttering, "I'm with the vegetarians."

Eventually, for the sake of their sanity (and because Lando swore he'd quit the show), they swapped his fish for chicken. The moment he got a non-fish ingredient, Lando strutted like he'd just survived a war. The kitchen descended into chaos.

Yuki was chopping herbs like his life depended on it, tongue sticking out in concentration. Luz hovered at his side, narrating dramatically into her vlog camera. "Look at this man. Chef chaparro. Future Michelin star." Yuki elbowed her. "Stop calling me that on camera."

"You want to open your own restaurant, right?" she teased. "Then you better know how to cook, shrimpy." Yuki turned aggressively red. Oscar's team was no better—Oscar following the recipe exactly, Lando throwing in ingredients based purely on vibes.

"Buddy," Oscar said with a straight face, "Stop adding random shit to it!." Lando shrugged. "It needs personality."

The whole afternoon became one long comedy show—flirting, bickering, throwing flour at each other, Luz flicking Lando's ear every chance she got and calling him Landito, Oscar solemnly judging everyone, Yuki trying not to smile too much whenever Luz bumped her shoulder against his. By the end, all four dishes were... edible-ish.

The final photo was taken with Luz in the middle, Yuki leaning slightly into her, Lando throwing peace signs, Oscar blinking like he wasn't sure how he ended up here.

It would eventually go on McLaren's Instagram, Red Bull's challenge page, and—most importantly—on the dedicated Luz & Yuki Adventure Account, where fans were already spiraling about the chemistry.

When filming wrapped, Lando swung an arm around Luz's shoulders. "Drinks tonight? You, me, Oscar, Yuki—come on, for old times' sake." Luz smiled sweetly and slipped out of his hold. "Sorry, Landito. We are booked and busy."

Yuki nodded smugly beside her. "We've got a schedule."

"We're filming go-karting all over Monaco tonight," Luz added, leaning into Yuki with a grin. "Gotta show the world how bad chaparro is at cornering."

"I AM NOT—!" Yuki started.

Luz was already walking away, tugging him by the wrist as the crew laughed. Lando watched them leave, shaking his head, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "Oh yeah," he muttered, "Yuki's finished."

By the time they made it to the hotel Luz dragged the zipper of her suitcase open, clothes already flying as she hunted for the yellow dress she'd ordered specifically for this night. Meanwhile, Yuki stood in front of the mirror, arms lifted as he tried to wriggle into the green shirt for his Luigi costume.

"You look like a jalapeño," Luz snorted.c"You look like a banana," he shot back, but he couldn't hide his grin. By the time they finished getting ready—Luz in Daisy-yellow with her hair half-tied in soft curls, and Yuki in a Luigi outfit that somehow almost looked fashionable—they were already laughing so hard that Luz nearly smeared her eyeliner.

They snapped a mirror selfie, Luz leaning into him with a peace sign, Yuki pointing dramatically at her Daisy crown. She posted it instantly to their joint account with the caption:

"We're causing chaos in 3...2...1 💛💚 #LuigiAndDaisy #RedBullChaosTour"

Red Bull reposted it almost immediately with a string of laughing emojis. Luz took that as a sign to keep vlogging, camera already in her hand as they made their way through the hotel lobby and out toward the van waiting to take them to the Monaco karting track.

She brought the camera close to her face as the city lights lit up behind her. "Okay guys, listen, I have a confession," she whispered dramatically, eyes wide. "I may or may not have... slightly... microscopically... sabotaged Yuki's kart."

"WHAT?" Yuki yelled from beside her, even though he definitely hadn't heard the details yet. He narrowed his eyes. "Luz. What did you do?"

"Nothing! I love you," she sang sweetly, flipping the camera toward him. "That sounds like something guilty people say," he muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.

When they got to the track, their karts were already lined up—one green, one yellow, both ridiculously on-theme. A GoPro was strapped to each helmet, another pointing up from the steering wheel. Luz rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain. "This is going to be iconic," she whispered to her vlog. "Y'all better screen record this."

Yuki slid into his kart and immediately paused. "...Luz."

"Yes?" she said innocently, smiling too wide.

"Why does this pedal feel weird?"

"No idea," she said, and then—because she couldn't help herself—she began to giggle.

"That is NOT reassuring!" Before he could investigate further, the track manager yelled, "Drivers ready?" Luz gripped the wheel. Yuki glared at her suspiciously. The countdown began.

"Three!"

Yuki pressed the pedal experimentally. His kart jerked like a dying turtle.

"Two!"

Luz was vibrating with suppressed laughter.

"One!"

"GO!"

Luz shot forward like she'd been launched from a cannon. Yuki's kart, meanwhile, moved with all the enthusiasm of a grandma in a mobility scooter. "LUUUUZ!" he shouted, voice cracking through the GoPro mic.

Luz was already several corners ahead, wheezing with laughter so violently she was swerving. "I SWITCHED THE VELOCITY SETTINGS!" she confessed between hysterical breaths. "FAST IS SLOW AND SLOW IS FAST!"

"You are literally the devil!" Yuki yelled, slapping his steering wheel as his kart crawled forward. But once he figured out the reversed settings, he began to regain speed—enough that the cameras caught him narrowing his eyes and mumbling something in Japanese that Luz was 98% sure wasn't PG-13.

Still, Luz was having the time of her life—drifting terribly, laughing like a menace, Daisy crown slightly crooked. She was in her element, the neon lights reflecting off the track, Monaco glowing in the background.

Eventually, Yuki caught up—because he always did. He pulled alongside her, ready to reclaim his dignity and absolutely smoke her. But then he glanced sideways. Luz was laughing, head thrown back, cheeks flushed, eyes shining like she hadn't been weighed down by anything in ages. Pure joy. Pure mischief. Pure Luz. And just like that, Yuki eased off the pedal.

He let her win.

Luz crossed the finish line with her hands in the air, screaming, "DAISY FOR THE WIN! THAT'S RIGHT, BABY!" Yuki's kart puttered in behind her. He pulled up next to her, arms crossed. "You cheated," he said flatly. "I won," she corrected, sticking her tongue out at him. "That's because you CHEATED."

She shrugged. "Skill issue."

"You switched my pedals!"

"Maybe you should learn to adapt, Luigi."

He groaned and dropped his head onto the steering wheel as Luz cackled. When the media team came over to grab the equipment, she turned the vlog camera one last time.

"Well, guys... that's a wrap. Daisy reigns supreme. Luigi remains a hater. See you tomorrow for more chaos." She hit stop and handed the camera over—and right when she stood up from the kart, her expression faltered. That sharp sting behind her eyes returned, the pressure building fast. She blinked hard, rubbing at her forehead.

Yuki noticed instantly, stepping closer. "Hey... you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," she said softly. "Just... stupid headache. Came out of nowhere."

He didn't push, just gently placed a hand on her back as they walked toward the van. Despite him muttering "cheater" every thirty seconds, she could feel his worry underneath it.

Luz leaned against the window once they were in the car, closing her eyes. The laughter of the night still echoed in her chest, but the pain crawled deeper, trying to swallow her mood whole.

She felt Yuki tug her Daisy crown off her head to keep it from pressing on her temples.

She didn't open her eyes, but she smiled faintly. Because even if the headache ruined the ending of the night, the rest of it had been perfect—chaotic, ridiculous, and so them.

⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰ ⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰

Luz woke up feeling like someone had dropped a piano on her skull.

The headache from last night hadn't just lingered—it had grown fangs. She groaned into her pillow before rolling out of bed, dragging her feet to the bathroom. The light was a violent enemy, so she showered mostly with her eyes closed, letting the steam soften her stiff neck.

But when she stepped out and wrapped herself in a towel, something caught her eye in the mirror. More bruises. Deep purple marks cresting over her shoulder, across her ribs, blooming down her side where the seatbelt had dug in during that stupid transport van jolt the day before. She touched them gently, winced.

"Chingada madre..."(for fucks sakes) she muttered. Seriously? She was bruising this easily again? Stress always did this to her—thinned her skin, weakened her body, made her feel like she was fifteen again and living off caffeine and panic.

She swallowed two painkillers with water, got dressed slowly, and forced herself downstairs to the hotel lobby café, where she could at least get caffeine into her bloodstream before spontaneously combusting.

Her phone buzzed.

FaceTime: Paola, checo & Antonio 📞

She sighed, but she accepted it anyway. Immediately, three faces appeared on her screen—Paola in her kitchen, Antonio sprawled on the couch behind her, and Checo popping into the frame like an uncle who wasn't invited but invited himself.

"LUCERITO!!" Paola yelled loud enough that Luz physically winced. "Ayy, baja la voz,(lower your voice)" Luz groaned. "My head is literally dying." Checo squinted at her. "¿Qué te pasó? You look... smaller.(what happened)

Paola crossed her arms. "That's exactly what I was going to say. Look at her face! Está más flaquita.(your are skinnier)" Luz dragged her palm down her face. "I'm not flaquita, I'm tired. There's a difference.(Skinny)"

"¿Y estás comiendo bien?" Paola demanded.(Are you eating well) "Sí," Luz muttered, even though the headache had stolen most of her appetite. Antonio leaned into the frame and pointed dramatically. "Mentiraaaa.(lier)" "Shut up," Luz snapped. "I literally had breakfast."

"What did you eat?" Paola asked. "...Coffee."

"¿Eso es comida?" Paola shot back.(That's food) "YES, for me it is!" Paola groaned like an exasperated mother. "Luz, por Dios. You can't live on café con leche. That is not nutrition." Checo nodded sagely. "It explains the eyebags."

"CHECO!" They cackled while she glared at all three of them. Paola finally waved her hand. "Okay, cambio de tema—did you see the comments on your last YouTube video?"(chnage of conversation)

Luz froze mid-sip of coffee. "...No."

"Oh my God," Antonio said dramatically. "You better look." Paola clasped her hands together like she was about to deliver holy gossip. "People are shipping you and Yuki." Luz nearly choked. "Paola—NO."

"What?" Paola shrugged. "I am just saying... I would not mind Yuki as my cuñado.(brother-in-law)" Luz held her breath. "PAO."

"What? Es lindo, es respetuoso, te ve como si fueras el sol.(he is nice, respectful, and he looks at you as if you were the sun)" Antonio nodded. "Además, cooks better than you."

"ANTONIO PLEASE!" Checo was wheezing in the background. Then Paola leaned closer to her camera, eyes narrowed with that Latina-woman-knows-everything expression. "Lucerito... yo veo cómo te mira él. Y cómo lo miras tú." (I see how he looks at you... and how you look at him)

Luz slapped her forehead. "Ay Dios mío." Paola wasn't done. "No me digas que no. Ustedes dos parecen novios."(Don't tell me no. You two look like a couple) Antonio chimed in, "La Daisy y el Luigi, ya se sabe."(Daisy and Luigi, everyone knows already.)

Luz groaned so loudly the people in the café turned to look. "Can you—PLEASE—behave like normal human beings for just one minute?" Paola giggled. "Te pones roja, eh?"(You're blushing, huh?)

"I AM NOT—"

Knock knock. The sound came from her hotel room door upstairs—loud, distinct.

Antonio's eyes went comically wide. "¿YA LLEGÓ TU NOVIO?"(YOUR BOYFRIEND IS ALREADY THERE?) Luz flipped them off instantly. "Cállense,"(Shut up) she hissed. "I hate all of you."

Paola screamed with laughter. "BYE." Luz jabbed the screen and ended the call before they could make her skull explode even more. She stood there another second, bracing herself, cheeks hot, head pounding.

And then she walked toward her room, praying it wasn't Yuki— because she was pretty sure her cousins would manifest themselves into the hallway just to embarrass her further.

To her absolute misfortune—and maybe a tiny bit of relief—it was Yuki standing outside her door.

Her brain immediately betrayed her, replaying every single stupid comment Paola and Antonio had thrown at her. Cuñado. Looks at you like you're the sun.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. Exactly what she needed with a headache the size of Mexico.

And the worst part?

They weren't wrong.

Yuki was good-looking.

Annoyingly so.

Soft eyes, fluffy hair, stupidly cute smile—

NO. STOP. BAD. NO THINKING THAT.

Yuki gave her that bright grin the moment she opened the door. "Since we fly to Belgium tomorrow for the ski challenge... I thought maybe we could go out tonight? Celebrate surviving Monaco?" he said cheerfully.

Luz smiled despite the chaos in her brain. "I'd love that. But right now..." She wrapped her arm around his because she was exhausted and touchy and honestly too tired to pretend she wasn't. "I need food."

Yuki nodded instantly and let her lean into him as he guided them to the hotel restaurant. Of course, because the universe hated privacy, a couple fans spotted them in the lobby.

"Oh my God—that's Luz and Yuki!"

"They're holding arms!"

"I TOLD YOU they're dating! The chemistry is TOO real."

Luz buried her face in Yuki's shoulder. "They're going to eat us alive on the internet," she muttered. Yuki just laughed. "At least we look cute."

Once they sat down, Luz ordered a chicken salad and devoured it like she hadn't eaten in three days. Halfway through, Yuki glanced at her, then hesitated. "So... you and Lando?"

Luz almost choked on a crouton. "Oh my god, not you too," she groaned. But she laughed. "Yeah, we hooked up for a whole summer. Two years ago." Yuki blinked. Hard. "A whole summer?"

"Yes." Luz stabbed her salad dramatically. "Neither of us wanted anything serious, so we ended it. We're just friends now."

"Friends who cooked fish together," Yuki muttered. "Don't be jealous, chaparro." Yuki's ears pinked instantly. "I'm not jealous! I was just—curious."

Luz smirked. "Okay, now your turn. Ever hooked up with a celebrity? Another driver? Someone famous who slid into your DMs? I won't judge." Yuki dropped his fork. "LUZ!"

"What? Fair question!" His face was absolutely red. "No, I—I don't do that. It's not for me. Nothing wrong with it, but I'm not... like that." Luz nodded slowly.

And deep down— buried under all the fear and exhaustion and the stupid bruises blooming across her body— she felt something warm loosen in her chest.

Relief. Real, quiet relief.

She smiled at him, softer this time. "Good," she whispered, almost too low for him to hear. "That's... good." And Yuki looked at her like he was trying really hard not to blush again.

They didn't do much that day except talk by 3 Luz excuse herself back to her room by the time she made it back to her room, Luz barely managed to kick off her shoes before collapsing face-first onto the bed. Her body was in full rebellion mode—tired, drained, sore in places she didn't have the energy to name. Within minutes she was out cold, still in her hoodie, lights on, curtains open.

She didn't even dream Just... quiet. Heavy. The kind of sleep exhaustion forces on you. It felt like a single blink before— Knock. Knock. Knock.

She jolted awake, disoriented, her heart pounding for no reason. The room was dark now, only the hallway light slipping under the door giving her any sense of time. Groaning, she checked her phone.

8:03 PM.

Yuki.

Of course.

Luz dragged herself off the bed, ran a hand through her hair, and slapped her cheeks lightly to look less dead. Her body protested every movement, but she forced a smile before opening the door.

Yuki stood there in a hoodie and jeans, hands in his pockets, cheeks tinted pink from the hallway warmth. His smile was so soft it made her chest ache. "There you are," he said, his voice immediately dropping to something warm. "I was starting to think you fell asleep on the floor."

"I actually might have," Luz admitted, rubbing her eyes. "I died for a few hours."

"You look better," he said honestly, leaning in just a little to get a better look at her face. "Rest helped?" She nodded. "Mm-hmm. Now I just need alcohol to finish the revival ritual." Yuki laughed under his breath and offered his arm. "Then let's go. Your chariot awaits."

Luz looped her arm around his without thinking—because she was tired, because it grounded her, because being near him made the headache behind her eyes ease a little. As they walked down the hallway toward the elevators, Yuki kept glancing at her, like he was making sure she wouldn't wobble or fall over. She caught him staring twice.

"What?" she asked with a crooked smile. "Nothing," he said quickly, though his ears betrayed him. "Just... glad you woke up."

"Chaparro," she sighed, nudging him. "I'm not going anywhere."

But Yuki didn't say anything back—just squeezed her arm gently as the elevator doors opened. And off they went into the Monaco night, the city lights reflecting in his eyes, her laughter echoing down the hallway, the two of them slipping into something warm and dangerous without even meaning to.

The streets of Monaco at night glowed gold—warm lights reflecting off quiet sidewalks, the distant shimmer of yachts in the harbor, and the soft echo of two very drunk idiots stumbling their way through the city.

"We should get drinks!" Luz declared earlier, pointing dramatically toward a random bar sign as if she were announcing a royal decree. Yuki had blinked at her, cheeks already warming. "We... already drank."

"So?" she grinned, grabbing his wrist. "Round two, chaparro. Vámonos." He followed. Of course he did. Hours later, they were gone. Beyond gone. Luz spotted a traffic cone on the corner and gasped as if it were a priceless relic.

"Yuki look. Hat." Before he could stop her, she placed the orange cone on her head like a crown, wobbling as she posed. Yuki burst out laughing so loudly a couple walking past turned to stare.

He pulled out his phone instantly. "Hold still—no wait, don't move—actually, move a little—" She struck a ridiculous stance, cone tipping sideways.

Click. "Your turn," she demanded. "No."

"Yuki."

"...fine."

He slipped a cone onto his head, and Luz laughed so hard she had to hold onto a lamppost. "You look like a sad traffic wizard," she managed between giggles. "You look like a construction unicorn," he shot back.

They continued down the street—two tiny, wobbly, cone-headed disasters, bumping into each other, laughing until they couldn't breathe. The kind of night that felt like a memory before it even ended.

By the time they reached the hotel, Luz was leaning heavily on Yuki, still giggling, still warm from the alcohol and the night and the way he kept glancing at her like she was the only bright thing in the whole city.

At her door, Yuki steadied her shoulders, hands lingering longer than they should have. Their laughter faded. Their breathing slowed. For the first time that night, silence pulled tight between them.

Yuki looked at her—really looked—and something in his expression softened, turned almost fragile. He stepped closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "Luz..." he murmured. Her heart stuttered painfully. His gaze dropped to her lips. He leaned in.

She felt the warmth of him, the promise of something she desperately wanted and absolutely could not have. Her hand shot out and pressed against his chest.

"Yuki... you can't fall for me." The words came out cracked. Broken. Barely above a whisper.

He froze. Confused. Hurt flickering across his face. "What? Luz—what do you mean?" She shook her head quickly, backing toward her room, panic rising like a tidal wave. "Just—just don't. Please."

He reached out as if to stop her. "Luz, talk to me. Did I do something? Are you—" But she turned away, pulling the door between them before he could finish.

"Luz—!" The click of the door landing shut cut him off. On the other side, her back hit the wood and she slid down to the floor, knees pulled to her chest.

The tears came instantly—hot, silent, uncontrollable. She pressed her hands to her mouth to muffle the sobs. Because she felt it— the way he looked at her, the way he stayed close, the way he cared.

And she knew what was coming.

The bruises.

The hair loss.

The weakness.

The ending.

She couldn't drag him into that. She wouldn't. He deserved someone whole. Someone who wasn't running out of time. Outside, Yuki knocked softly. "Luz... please just tell me what's wrong." She closed her eyes, letting her tears fall onto the cold floor. "Nothing," she whispered to herself. "Everything."

She hugged her knees tighter, shaking. Because for the first time— she wished she had more time to let herself fall too. Luz spent the entire morning pretending nothing had happened.

She showed up to meet Yuki with her usual crooked grin, hair tied up messily, hands shoved in her pockets like everything was perfectly normal. She joked about breakfast, complained about the hotel pillows, even nudged his shoulder playfully when he didn't laugh.

But he didn't joke back. Didn't smile. Didn't let it slide. He watched her quietly, too quietly, eyes tracking every forced laugh, every fidget, every crack in her voice. Until finally—he reached out and took her hand. Not gently. Not harshly. Just firmly enough that she couldn't pull away.

"Yuki—?" He didn't answer. He just guided her down the hallway, still holding her hand, stopping only once they were inside his room. The door clicked shut behind them.

He motioned for her to sit. She did, heart pounding. He stood in front of her for a moment, then lowered himself to sit on the edge of the table in front of her, eyes never leaving hers.

"Why can't I fall for you?" he asked quietly. She swallowed hard. "Yuki... don't."

"No." His voice didn't rise, but it sharpened. "Tell me." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, searching her face. "Sunshine," he said—gentle, pleading. "Please." Her breath faltered. She looked down, fingers twisting together, and her silence answered for her.

He slowly moved off the table and lowered himself to his knees in front of her, taking her hands in his. His thumbs brushed her knuckles, warm, steady. "You can't tell me you haven't felt it too," he said softly. "The pull. The way you look at me. The way you... are with me."

Luz bit her lip so hard she tasted copper. Because she had. Every second of it. Every laugh, every touch, every stupid inside joke—they were all threads pulling her closer to him.

She whispered, "Yuki, after the three months... you'll go back to F1. And I'll be gone." He frowned. "Gone where? You'll be jumping off planes, scaring everyone with your crazy stunts, yelling chaparro at me for fun—"

Luz let out something that sounded like a laugh but broke halfway through. A sharp, cracked sound. He froze. She covered her mouth for a moment, chest trembling. "When I was twenty... I thought I was going to die."

His expression shifted—slowly, painfully—as he listened. "I had cancer," she whispered. "The doctors didn't think I'd make it. I survived by a fucking miracle."

Silence.

The room felt too small. Too bright. Too real.

Yuki didn't breathe. Didn't blink. He just stared at her—at the girl who jumped out of planes like she wasn't afraid of anything—like he was seeing her break for the first time. She forced herself to meet his eyes, even as tears blurred her vision. "Yuki... the cancer is back." He went absolutely still. "I don't have long."

Her voice cracked into a sob at the end, her whole body curling in as if trying to hold herself together.

And that was all it took.

Yuki surged forward, arms wrapping around her so tightly she gasped. He pulled her against his chest, chin pressing into her shoulder as he held her like he was terrified she might vanish if he loosened his grip.

Luz collapsed into him, sobbing into his shirt, fingers clawing weakly at his back like she didn't want to be held but didn't want to let go. Yuki's breath shook as he whispered against her hair, "I'm here. Sunshine, I'm here. I've got you." And he held her through every shudder, every tear, as if anchoring her to the world she thought she was running out of.

Yuki kept holding her until her sobs finally softened, his fingertips brushing slow circles on her back—steady, grounding, impossibly gentle. When she finally lifted her head, eyes red and eyelashes stuck together, he cupped her cheeks with both hands.

He leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. When he pulled back, there was a tiny smile on his lips—sad, warm, and irrevocably certain. "It's too late, sunshine," he whispered. "I already fell for you."

Luz broke.

A raw, shaking sob tore out of her as she threw her arms around him again, burying her face in his neck. She clung to him like she was holding onto life itself, fingers digging into the back of his shirt.

"No one knows," she choked out. "Not Checo. Not my sister. Not my parents... no one."

Yuki's eyes widened—not with judgment, but with a kind of fierce protectiveness she hadn't seen in anyone before. He pulled back just enough to look at her, hands still on her arms.

"Then I'll be the first," he said softly. "And I'll be there if you need me. For anything. Anytime. Okay?"

Her lip trembled. "Chaparro..."

He smiled—small, gentle, almost shy. Hearing her call him that in that moment nearly knocked the breath out of him.

"No more being sad for now," he said, brushing away a tear with his thumb. "Let's go out. Let's have fun. Before tomorrow comes."

Luz blinked up at him, tears still clinging to her lashes, but now a faint, fragile smile tugged at her mouth. She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek—soft, warm, grateful.

"Okay," she whispered.

Yuki laced their fingers together—carefully, like she was something precious—and helped her stand.

For the first time since she'd found the bruises on her skin, Luz felt a flicker of something bright, something stubborn.

Hope. Because Yuki didn't let go. "Do you... want me to stay?" he asked quietly, voice steady in a way she wasn't. She hated how fast she nodded. How desperately she needed it.

Yuki didn't hesitate. He guided her gently toward the bed and sat with her, letting her curl into him like she had been made for that exact shape. Luz buried her face against his chest, and his arm wrapped around her automatically—as if he'd been waiting to hold her.

Slowly, softly, he began running his fingers through her hair. Over and over. Gentle. Careful. Almost reverent. Luz's breathing eventually evened out, but her mind wouldn't stop.

You idiot, she scolded herself. You let him fall for you. You knew better. You knew how this ends. She didn't deserve the way he held her, like she was something precious. She didn't deserve the quiet hum he made in his throat whenever she sniffled, or the way he kept brushing tears off her cheeks like it mattered.

This—this closeness—was exactly what terrified her with Lando. Getting attached. Letting someone care. Giving someone a future she couldn't promise them.

But with Yuki's hand stroking through her hair, with his scent—warm fabric softener, cologne, a hint of jet fuel and something uniquely him—wrapping around her, she couldn't push him away.

She didn't have the strength. Not tonight. He shifted only to pull the blanket up over her, his hand never leaving her hair. Then his fingers traced the back of her shoulder, slow and soothing, grounding her against the chaos inside her chest.

"Sunshine," he whispered at one point, so soft she thought she imagined it. She tightened her hold on his shirt, her heart aching at the tenderness in his voice. And God—she hated that she wanted this. She hated that she felt something when he touched her this gently. Hated that he was falling for her and she couldn't stop herself from falling back.

Because she knew the truth. There was no future here. Not for her. Not in the way he deserved. Her thoughts tangled and twisted until exhaustion dragged her under. Surrounded by his warmth, breathing in his scent, Luz finally slipped into a deep, heavy sleep—one she hadn't felt safe enough to fall into in years.

And Yuki stayed awake long after she'd gone quiet, his arms still around her, his hand still in her hair... protecting her from nightmares she'd never admit she was scared of.

◤──•~❉🪂᯽🏎️❉~•──◥

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #yuki tsunoda x oc #yuki tsunoda #characters death #checoperez father figure #right person not enough time #running out of time #cancer #sad ending

FreeFall Hearts

Part: 2

◤──•~❉🪂᯽🏎️❉~•──◥

The next morning, Luz and Yuki sat side-by-side at the long conference table while the Red Bull media team scattered notes and half-formed ideas everywhere, throwing out concepts faster than anyone could write them down.

"We're building the full schedule for the three-month campaign," one of the producers said. "Challenges, stunts, travel locations—everything. So throw anything you want on the board." Luz lifted a hand immediately.

"Yuki should get his skydiving license." Every head in the room turned. Yuki stared at her like she had just announced she'd eaten his car. "I what?"

Luz bit back a grin. "Come on, it'll be fun. And if you get scared, I'll hold your hand on the way down." He blinked at her, cheeks warming, rolling his eyes to hide it. "Yeah. Very comforting. Falling from the sky holding hands with a crazy woman."

One of the media leads perked up. "Actually... that would be incredible content." Yuki groaned into his hands. "Of course it would."

He tried to recover his pride by pointing at her. "Then Luz should be my passenger on the track. In the car. Full speed." Luz barked out a laugh. "I've been trying to get Checo to do that for years. Let's see if you're actually faster than my brother says."

The room buzzed with excitement as the team scribbled down notes:

— skydiving certification

— track ride-alongs

— free-diving

— stunt training

— cliff jumps

— Japan, Mexico, Finland, Austria, Thailand...

On and on, the map of their entire off-season filling up with pins and ideas and madness neither of them said no to. For once, Luz didn't feel restless. She felt... lighter.

When the meeting finally wrapped, Yuki tugged on her sleeve. "Food?" he asked, hopeful.

Luz nodded and followed him out, but the second they reached the cafeteria she felt her stomach twist — a sharp, burning pain that made her hand curl around her ribs.

Shit.

She grabbed a drink instead of food, pretending she wasn't struggling. Yuki frowned at her. "You're not eating?"

"Don't worry, chaparro," she said with a shrug, forcing a smile. "My stomach just hates me today." He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. He grabbed a tray of food and followed her to a table by the window. She sat down slowly, sipping her drink like nothing was wrong. Like the pain wasn't spreading. Like her insides weren't staging a rebellion.

Yuki sat across from her, completely oblivious, breaking open his sandwich. "So," he said, already talking with his hands, "if I'm getting a skydiving license, then you have to promise not to do that thing where you flip upside down just to scare me." Luz snorted. "No promises."

"And no pushing me out of the plane."

"That was one time."

"And no telling the camera I screamed."

"You do scream."

He pointed at her dramatically. "Lies." She laughed — genuinely — and he smiled like it was his favorite sound in the world.

They talked about nonsense. About food. About Scotland. About how short they were. About how Max would never survive skydiving with either of them. About how Checo would faint if he knew half the things Luz had done. And for a moment — just a moment — the pain eased. The heaviness in her chest loosened.

She didn't know why. She didn't try to figure it out. All she knew was that sitting with him, drinking something cold while he argued passionately about which Pokémon could beat an F1 car, felt like peace. A peace she didn't think she'd feel again.

Yuki leaned forward over the table, poking at his food while Luz lounged back in her chair, sipping her drink like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

"So," he said, mouth half full, "what's the dumbest thing you've ever done? Like... the actual dumbest." Luz smirked. "Oh, that's easy. I once did a whole stunt absolutely high out of my mind."

Yuki froze mid-chew. He looked at her like she had just confessed to murder. "You... what?" She shrugged, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Yeah. Not my proudest moment. But hey, it worked."

"That's not— Luz, what— how— why—" He was so flustered she couldn't even tell which question he meant. She laughed into her drink. "Man, I've done worse shit, but that one is up there."

"Do I even want to know the other things?" he asked cautiously. "Nope," she answered instantly. "Absolutely not." He shook his head like she was a puzzle he'd never solve, but he was smiling anyway, that soft, amused way he always looked at her — like she was chaos he'd willingly walk into.

Before he could ask anything else, a media lead popped out of the hallway, clapping loudly. "Alright! Pack your bags — we're flying to Mexico tomorrow. First stop of the campaign. Skydiving training, stunt shots, and Yuki's first skydiving license!"

Yuki looked horrified. Luz looked delighted. She stood, grinning like a menace, and stuck her tongue out at him. "Ready, chaparro?"

He groaned. "No." She cackled as she grabbed her bag and headed out. Yuki watched her go, already regretting every life choice that led him here — and ready to follow her anyway.

By the time Luz reached her hotel room, her smile had faded. Her stomach twisted again — sharper this time, crueler — and she barely made it to the bathroom before she was kneeling over the toilet.

Except she had nothing to throw up. Her body convulsed anyway, violently, painfully, until she was gagging on nothing but air and acid. Then she felt the familiar burn rise in her throat — metallic, terrifying — and she spat blood into the bowl.

"Fuck," she whispered, voice cracking.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her shaking hand, breathing hard. Her vision blurred at the edges. Her heartbeat hammered too fast, too uneven. She cursed again, one last breath of anger she didn't have energy for—

Then her body gave out. She slid onto the cold bathroom tile, cheek pressed against the floor, the room spinning in slow circles above her. Her last thought before darkness took her was bitter and small: Not now. Not yet. Please.

And then everything went silent.

⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰ ⋆⃟⋆⋆⋆⃟⊱✪⃝⃞⃝⊰

The next morning, Luz woke up with a pounding skull, a dry throat, and the vague memory of cold tile against her cheek. She dragged herself upright, splashed water on her face, forced color back into her cheeks with makeup, and told her reflection the same lie she told everyone else:

You're fine. Get up. And she did. Because she refused to let anyone see her falling apart.

By 7 a.m., cameras were rolling.

Luz had a GoPro strapped to her chest and another in her hand, bouncing on her toes with the kind of chaotic energy only she could fake so convincingly. The media team followed her every move as she pointed the camera directly at her face.

"Buenos días mis chaparritos," (Good morning my shorties)she announced dramatically "We're starting day one of 'Red Bull's Smallest Menaces Take Over the World.' I'm here with—" she spun the camera around— "my co-host, victim, and emotional support hobbit."

Yuki blinked into the lens. "Why am I the victim?"

"Because you agreed to get a skydiving license," she chirped.

"I did not agree—"

"¡Muy bien!" (Excelent)Luz cut him off brightly, flipping the camera back to herself. "We're heading to the plane now. We're flying to Yucatán, Mexico, my homeland—well, not mine mine, but you know—where this tiny man is going to jump out of a plane on purpose."

Yuki dropped his head into his hands. "I regret everything." Luz howled with laughter. They boarded the jet, and she ended the clip with a wink. "Okay friends, see you on the other side."

Once the cameras were off, chaos continued — but the softer, quieter version that existed only between the two of them.

Luz flopped into her seat and pulled her legs up, balancing a deck of cards on her knee. "Okay chaparro," she said, dealing. "We're playing Lotería rules but with cards because I forgot my set."

"That's not how—"

"It's how I play."

Within minutes, they were bickering over rules, making up new ones, laughing too loudly for how tired they both were. Yuki accused her of cheating. Luz accused him of being slow. Yuki threw a card at her head. Luz retaliated with a balled-up packet of pretzels.

They talked about everything and nothing — Scotland weather, music, food, the fact that Max was definitely going to bully them nonstop when he joined the shoots later.

At one point, Yuki looked at her mid-laugh. A real, soft stare.

"You always have this energy?" he asked. Luz shrugged, twirling a card. "What energy?"

"Like... like the world can't touch you." She snorted. "The world touches me all the damn time, chaparro. I just touch back harder."

He shook his head, smiling like she was unreal. She didn't notice. She didn't notice the way his eyes lingered. She didn't notice the warmth in his voice. She didn't notice how he kept choosing the seat closest to hers.

She didn't notice that he was already gone for her. The second they landed in Yucatán, the humidity slapped them both in the face. Luz turned on her GoPro instantly.

"Welcome to Yucatán," she announced. "Land of pyramids, cenotes, tacos, and probably the place where Yuki will cry during his first solo jump."

"I am not crying," Yuki said behind her. "Not yet."

She filmed everything — the drive to the hotel, her teasing Yuki about his height, the media team sweating to death in the heat, the giant skydiving billboards. When they reached the resort, she turned the camera to her face with mock seriousness.

"Room tour time." She barged into her suite first. "Okay look— king bed, free water bottles, giant bathroom I will definitely not slip and die in, and— oh wait— minibar!"

She opened it, gasped dramatically, and shut it again. "Nope. Not today, Satan." Then she whipped the camera toward Yuki, who was unlocking his door across the hall. "Now for the chaparro suite."

He turned. "No, no, no— Luz, don't—" Too late. She pushed past him and swung the camera into the room. "Ah yes. A man who lives simply. One bed. One suitcase. Seven snacks. A bathroom mirror he will absolutely use to practice his interview answers."

Yuki groaned, trying to snatch the camera. "Luz— stop— you can't just—" She dodged him easily. "She lives for chaos," she narrated to the camera, pointing at herself. "He lives for peace."

"I do not—!" She cut the clip right as he lunged for the GoPro. She ended up laughing so hard her stomach hurt — real pain this time, deep and twisting — but she kept her smile on.

Because the camera was still rolling. Because the team needed her. Because Yuki was watching her like she was a burst of sunlight he couldn't look away from. And because falling apart wasn't an option. Not yet.

They wandered through the hotel grounds first, weaving between palm trees and stone paths, the humid Yucatán air wrapping around them like a warm blanket. Luz kept her little handheld camera up, narrating dramatically like she was hosting a chaotic travel show.

"Here we have the chaparro himself," she said, spinning the camera to Yuki, who immediately threw her a dirty look. "Ready to throw himself out of a perfectly good airplane because... why, Yuki?"

"Because someone," he pointed at her, "decided I should get a skydiving license."

"Trust me," she grinned, zooming in obnoxiously close to his face. "You're gonna love it." He swatted the camera gently away, muttering under his breath, but he didn't stop smiling.

They piled into the van to head toward the skydiving center. Luz sat with her knees drawn up, her camera in hand, talking nonsense about clouds and humidity while Yuki listened, giving the occasional unimpressed snort. Every now and then, she'd tilt the camera toward him again, zoom dramatically, and he'd try—and fail—not to laugh.

When they arrived, the instructors welcomed them warmly. Immediately, Luz began filming everything, walking backward, narrating Yuki's fate with a wide grin.

"This, ladies and gentlemen, is where our little Yuki will become a man." Yuki made a halfhearted attempt to grab the camera but she dodged easily, sticking her tongue out before zooming into his very unamused expression.

The team began explaining the week-long process: ground school, safety briefings, practice jumps, emergency drills. Luz recorded all of it, catching every time Yuki raised an eyebrow, every nervous cough, every annoyed sigh.

"And here we see the chaparro realizing this is actually happening," she whispered dramatically into the mic. He elbowed her lightly. "Keep it up and you're doing my homework jumps."

"You couldn't handle me as your teacher," she shot back. After the briefing, they walked toward the changing area. Yuki's suit was giving him trouble—one zipper stuck, one strap twisted—and Luz practically doubled over laughing.

"Oh my god, your face—are you turning into a tomato? Is this heat stroke? Should I call for help?"

"Shut up," he muttered, cheeks absolutely crimson as he kept messing with the suit.

Luz wiped a tear from her eye and knelt down to help him. She tugged on a strap, patted down a buckle, and tightened the chest clip expertly. She was still laughing when she glanced up and caught how red he still was.

"Relax, chaparro," she teased. "Everyone looks stupid their first time." Without thinking—absolutely without realizing it—Yuki murmured in Japanese, "Sunshine, you are not helping."

Luz blinked. "What?" He straightened immediately, smirking like it was nothing. "Nothing."

"No, no, no—what did you call me?" she asked, stepping closer.

But he only shrugged, infuriatingly smug. Luz flicked him on the forehead. "Weirdo." She spun on her heel, grabbing her helmet, her pack, and her camera. Yuki watched her walk toward the plane, her braid swinging, her confidence solid and effortless. She glanced back once, scrunching her nose at him.

"You coming or what, chaparro?" Yuki swallowed. He was doomed.

The plane roared as it climbed, vibrating under their boots, wind sneaking through every gap in the fuselage. Luz loved this part—the anticipation, the pressure in her chest, the way the world slowly shrank beneath them. She sat cross-legged on the metal floor, tightening straps with muscle memory, her GoPro catching every movement.

Then she started her ritual.

A tiny stretch of her fingers. A tap to her chest. A spin of the little bracelet she always wore. A whispered "vámonos" (let's go) under her breath. She did it before every jump, almost unconsciously—calming, instinctive, hers.

Yuki watched her from where he was strapped to his instructor, helmet already on, GoPro blinking red. His heart beat way too fast. He kept pretending he wasn't watching her, but he was—constantly.

Luz looked weightless up here, even before they'd jumped.

She pulled her helmet on last, adjusting the strap like she'd done it a thousand times—which she had. Then she turned to Yuki and flashed him a quick, wild grin. The kind that said trust me, even when he definitely shouldn't.

"Ready, chaparro?"

"No," he said honestly.

She laughed, full and bright, and scooted toward the door as it slid open. Wind blasted through the plane, whipping her braid around. The instructor yelled instructions, but she barely heard them—she never needed them.

Yuki had his GoPro angled forward, recording everything.

Luz braced herself against the doorframe. For a moment—just a split second—she stood with her arms out, letting the wind hit her full force. She closed her eyes. It wasn't dramatic, wasn't for the camera. It was grounding. A breath in the middle of chaos.

And then she moved. To Yuki, it didn't look like she was preparing to jump. It looked like she was dancing.

She shifted her weight, toes barely touching the metal. Her hands moved in fluid little arcs, like she was greeting the open sky. For someone who should've been seconds from falling, she looked absurdly graceful. Almost unreal.

Then she leaned forward—just a hair. And dropped.

Her GoPro footage would later be blurry from the speed, but Yuki's angle—clean, steady, perfectly focused—caught everything.

The way she flipped backwards once. How she twisted effortlessly, arms slicing the wind. The way her body bent and curved like she belonged up there.

For a terrifying, breathless moment, she wasn't falling. She was flying. Yuki's breath hitched behind his mask. "Holy—" The instructor patted his shoulder, a silent get ready. But Yuki wasn't ready.

Not at all. Because Luz wasn't just adrenaline and recklessness and jokes. She was mesmerizing. His light, falling through the sky.

Back at the hotel, the air-conditioning hummed softly, mixed with the distant echo of waves hitting the shore. Luz barely had time to kick off her shoes before her phone buzzed nonstop—notifications blowing up. The media team wasn't just fast—they were supernatural. The video of the day's chaos was already online: Luz dancing out of the plane like an unhinged angel, Yuki yelling about how he wasn't ready, and a perfect split-screen of their GoPros.

The internet loved it. They always did.

But Luz didn't check a single notification. She was too tired. Too full of that strange quietness she hated.

They met in the dining area of the hotel—dim lights, soft music, barely anyone around. Luz poked at her food, pushing vegetables around, nudging rice like she was trying to rearrange her problems into a more edible shape. Yuki noticed instantly. He always did. But he didn't comment, didn't push.

He just asked, casually, "So... how did you fall in love with this? Jumping out of planes for fun?" Luz snorted, laughed, leaned back in her chair. "Oh, man. That's easy."

And she told him.

"Tengo years following Checo around. Since he started driving. And the first year he made it to Formula 3? They had a skydiving demo team at an event. I watched those crazy cabrones jump out of a helicopter and I swear my heart left my body." She grinned, almost proud of her teenage stupidity. "Right there I knew. That's what I wanted. Not driving—falling."

Yuki rested his chin on his hand, listening like she was giving the most interesting TED talk ever filmed. "So once I turned eighteen," she continued, "I applied. Got rejected. Applied again. Rejected again..." She shrugged. "Third time's the charm."

"You didn't give up," Yuki said softly. Luz chuckled. "Do I look like someone who gives up?" He shook his head immediately. "Exactly." Then she tilted her head. "What about you? How did little Yuki Tsunoda decide he wanted to drive cars at insane speeds for a living?"

He made a face. "My dad. He had a garage. And I liked going fast."

"That's it?" Luz laughed. "That's the big origin story?"

"Well..." Yuki tried not to smile. "There was also this one kid in school who said I wasn't tall enough to drive a go-kart." Luz slapped the table so hard the waiter flinched. "¡NO ME DIGAS! You became a Formula One driver out of pettiness?" (Don't tell me)

"Absolutely."

That sent her into hysterics, laughing so hard her eyes watered. And then they just kept going.

Talking about nothing and everything. Stories about their first injuries. Checo embarrassing Luz when she was twelve. Yuki's first crash that made him cry. Luz teasing him about being short. Yuki teasing her about being reckless. Inside jokes forming without effort.

Hours passed like minutes.

At some point the plates were taken away, their drinks refilled, the restaurant slowly emptied. But the two of them stayed—leaning in, smiling too much, comfortable in a way that felt older than the few weeks they'd known each other.

It didn't feel like a new friendship. It felt like one they'd forgotten they'd had.

And Luz didn't notice until much later—lying in her hotel bed, staring at the ceiling—that the heavy, crushing darkness she'd felt that morning never once touched her while she was with him.

Yuki Tsunoda was becoming a light she didn't know she needed.

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The sun was brutal that afternoon—bright, blinding, turning the Yucatán sky into a sheet of molten gold—but Luz didn't care. She was buzzing. Pacing. Camera on. Boots tapping against the concrete like she was performing for a crowd only she could hear.

She held her GoPro toward her face dramatically. "Alright, mi gente... today is judgment day for our little chaparro. Will he become a certified skydiver... or will he cry on camera?" She zoomed in on the closed door like it was a crime scene.(my people)

"Place your bets now." The door finally opened, and her whole body snapped to attention. Yuki stepped out slowly, blinking at the sunlight, face unreadable, shoulders stiff like he'd just taken an exam he wasn't sure he passed.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He shook his head.

And Luz exploded.

"¡SIIIIIII!" She bolted forward like a missile, the GoPro bouncing wildly as she launched herself at him. Yuki barely had half a second to register what was happening before she was in the air and—(yessss)

"Luz—! Wait—!" He caught her anyway, arms automatically wrapping around her waist as she threw hers around his shoulders. She hugged him tight, head buried in the side of his neck, laughing like he'd won a world championship.

Yuki hoped she couldn't feel how hard his heart was beating. When she finally pulled back, their faces ended up way too close—cheeks almost touching, noses almost bumping, her smile bright enough to burn a hole straight through him.

Yuki turned red from his collar to his hairline. Luz didn't even notice.

She spun her camera toward herself, still in his arms. "Ladies and gentlemen... looks like I have a new jumping partner." She wiggled her brows. "Checo, if you see this—I'm divorcing you. Yuki is my favorite now."

Somewhere in the world, Checo sneezed violently. Luz finally hopped out of Yuki's arms and grabbed his wrist with a triumphant grin. "Come on, chaparro—we have to do your first solo jump to celebrate!"

Yuki froze. "What??" She blinked. "What what?"

"You mean—alone?! Like—alone alone?!"

"Sí." Yuki stared at her like she'd just suggested murder. "Luz, I haven't done that yet! The wind tunnel doesn't count!"

"That's a wind tunnel!" he repeated, voice cracking. "Not actual death from above!" Luz squeezed his hand, eyes softening for a split second. "I know. But listen, Yuki—" She stepped closer. "You've trained all week. You're ready. And I meant it earlier. I'm serious. I'll hold your hand and walk you through it."

His panic softened just a little. Because when Luz said something like that—looking at him like she believed in him more than anyone ever had—it was impossible not to believe her back.

A tiny grin tugged at Yuki's lips before he could stop it. "Okay," he muttered. "If you're with me... then okay."

Luz cheered so loud a flock of birds took off from a nearby roof. "That's my chaparro!" She grabbed his hand—warm, small, firm—and tugged him toward the prep area. "Let's go before you come to your senses."

"I already regret this," he muttered. "You'll regret it more if you don't." Yuki huffed, but didn't pull his hand away. Didn't want to.

And as Luz dragged him toward his gear, bouncing with excitement, sunlight catching in her hair, laughing like she didn't have a single shadow in her world... Yuki realized something dangerous.

He would follow her anywhere. Even out of a perfectly good plane.

Luz tugged on the last strap of Yuki's suit, tightening it with a sharp jerk that nearly knocked the breath out of him. "¡Ay!" he yelped. "You're trying to kill me before the jump?"

She clicked the buckle into place and smirked. "If that tiny tug kills you, chaparro, you're not ready for the sky. Stand still."

She moved around him with practiced ease—checking rigging, adjusting the altimeter, smoothing out the fabric of his jumpsuit. Her fingers were quick, steady, confident, and Yuki watched them like they were magic. Every time she leaned in close, he held his breath without meaning to.

"Alright," she finally said, patting his chest. "You're good. Let's go before you start crying."

"I don't cry," he muttered. She raised a brow. "Mmhm. We'll see."

They walked toward the plane, the wind whipping at their clothes. Luz's smile was fixed, bright, unstoppable—like she'd swallowed the sun whole. Yuki's stomach was doing flips, but he didn't want to ruin that smile. Not for anything.

Inside the plane, the noise roared around them—engine, wind, rattling metal—but all Luz heard was the heartbeat of adrenaline. She clipped her helmet on, the camera light blinking awake. Yuki set up his GoPro reluctantly, then turned it toward himself.

"Okay," he said in Japanese, half whisper, half groan. "I am about to die. Please pray for me." Luz snorted. "Drama queen." She reached over and grabbed his hand. Her fingers threaded through his like it was instinct. Natural. Safe.

"Hey," she said, eyes soft. "Look at me."

He did.

"You got this."

Yuki nodded once, breath shaky. The door opened. The world became sky and noise and endless blue.

Luz squeezed his hand.

"One..."

He squeezed back.

"Two..."

He swallowed.

"Three!"

They jumped.

The wind swallowed their screams instantly. The world blurred—sky, earth, a rush of color—but Luz stabilized effortlessly, body slicing through the air like she belonged there.

"OPEN YOUR EYES!" she yelled over the roar. "YUKI—TRUST ME!"

He forced them open. And the first thing he saw was her—laughing, alive, hair whipping behind her helmet, falling like she was dancing, like gravity was a suggestion and she'd declined.

She kept hold of his hand for a few seconds, letting him adjust, letting him feel the air. His breathing steadied. His pupils widened. He didn't even realize he was staring at her instead of the ground. "Yuki," she called out, shifting closer. "Do you trust me?" His nod was immediate, instinctive. Luz let go.

For a heartbeat, he panicked—arms flailing, breath catching—but she moved around him with the ease of someone who knew every inch of the sky. She reached forward, grabbed his arm, twisted her body, and— They flipped. A perfect, clean front flip through empty air. Yuki screamed, then shouted, then— laughed. Loud and wild.

Luz's grin stretched across her whole face. "THAT'S IT! That's my chaparro!"

She guided him through checking altitude, hand signals, steady breathing. When it came time for the parachute, she hovered nearby but let him do it himself. The chute exploded open above him with a snap. He jerked upward, legs swinging, breath lost again—but this time with exhilaration, not fear. By the time they landed, Yuki was shaking, dizzy with adrenaline and disbelief. And Luz?

Luz hit the ground running—literally—and barreled straight into him, tackling him into the grass as her camera caught the impact. "YOU SURVIVED, CHAPARRO!" she hollered, laughing into his shoulder. Yuki hugged her back, arms tight, face buried in her neck for a second he wished lasted longer.

Luz flipped the camera to face them both, cheeks flushed, hair a mess. "And that, mi gente, is how you throw the smallest F1 driver out of a plane. You're welcome." She ended the recording with a click.

They waited together in the open field, helmets off, leaning back on their hands as the truck made its slow way toward them. The world felt soft—quiet breeze, warm sun, the faint buzz of leftover adrenaline. Luz's shoulder brushed his, and for a moment everything felt suspended, calm.

Then the cough hit her.

Sharp. Violent. Sudden. Luz's eyes widened in panic. "Luz?" Yuki leaned forward. "Are you okay?" She shook her head quickly—too quickly—and pushed him gently but firmly back down. "I—I'm fine. Stay there."

"Luz—"

"Stay," she repeated, voice tight.

Before he could argue, she scrambled behind the folded parachutes. Her hands were already shaking. The cough tore through her chest again—hot, painful—and blood splattered onto her palm, bright and terrifying.

She covered her mouth with the back of her glove, fighting the wheeze, swallowing down the metallic taste, trying to quiet the trembling in her limbs. Another cough threatened to tear out of her lungs. She forced it back.

Not here.

Not now.

Not in front of him.

She wiped her mouth, wiped her glove on the grass, wiped her fear off her face. By the time she stepped back toward Yuki, her smile was stitched back together—fragile, but there. "Sorry," she said lightly. "Swallowed a bug."

Yuki didn't believe her, not fully—but she was already walking toward him, nudging his shoulder with her own, laughing again, pretending nothing had happened. And because he didn't want to ruin her smile, he let himself pretend too. The truck rolled up. The sky stayed blue. And Luz kept her secret buried deep— for one more day.

Luz vanished into her room the second they got back to the hotel, leaving Yuki in the hallway still buzzing from the jump. She shut the door behind her, slid down to the floor for a moment, pressing a hand to her chest as the dull ache throbbed through her ribs. The coughing fit from earlier still burned in her throat, but she swallowed it down and forced herself up. She had gotten very good at pretending.

The shower was quick, hot, almost scalding—just enough to wash the dried sweat, dust, and fear off her skin. When she stepped out, she tugged on the softest things she owned: black sweats, worn thin at the knee, and one of Checo's old shirts from his early Sauber days. It was two sizes too big and smelled faintly like detergent and memories. Comfort.

By the time she walked into the hotel lounge, she looked like the picture of calm—hair damp, cheeks flushed from the shower, one hand holding a bottle of peach soju and the other holding an entire six-pack. Yuki blinked at her. "You... you're drinking that?"

"Yes," she said proudly, shaking the bottle. "We're celebrating, chaparro. You're officially not a danger to the sky. Mostly." He looked at the bottles again. "That's a lot."

"That's why I grabbed a six-pack," she said with a grin. "I know you're lightweight." He scoffed, crossing his arms. "I am not a lightweight." Luz popped the cap on her bottle. "You turn red if someone mentions alcohol."

"THAT IS GENETICS," Yuki protested, grabbing a bottle anyway.

They settled into the corner of the bar—half privacy, half chaos—and started drinking. Luz swung her feet back and forth like a kid, leaning into him every time she laughed at her own jokes. Yuki loosened up by the second bottle, cheeks already pink, hair slightly messy where he kept pushing it back.

At one point, Luz lifted her phone, aimed it at him, and snapped a picture. Yuki's head whipped around. "HEY—warn me!"

"I did. In my mind. Also, oh my God—look at you." She turned the phone to him. "You're red as fuck." He groaned and flicked her forehead. "Delete it."

"Ow—no. This is evidence."

"For what?"

"That I can outdrink you."

"You can not outdrink me."

"Oh, chaparro," she said, patting his cheek dramatically. "You sweet little delusional man." He took her bottle. She gasped. "Give that back!"

"No."

"Yuki!"

They somehow made it to the elevator laughing so loudly that the concierge gave them a look. Luz bowed dramatically. Yuki bowed even lower. Neither of them could stop giggling.

When they reached her room, Yuki followed behind her like a confused puppy. One moment they were drinking on the floor, backs against her bed, the next Luz spotted her makeup bag.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face.

"No," Yuki said immediately.

"Yes."

"No."

"YES."

Five minutes later, Luz had drawn neon purple blush across his cheeks and given him star stickers under his eyes. Yuki retaliated by giving her the most atrocious eyeliner wing in history—so crooked it practically bent dimensions.

"You look like a raccoon," he said proudly.

"You look like a drunk fairy," she countered.

"Then we match."

They both burst into laughter—loud, unrestrained, stupid laughter. Luz's stomach hurt. Yuki's eyes watered. At some point, one of them fell back on the carpet, and the other followed.

They stayed there—two idiots sprawled on the floor, makeup smeared, bottles rolling gently every time one of them shifted. The room hummed softly with the air conditioner, the only witness to the gradual drop in their voices and the way their laughter softened into exhaustion.

Yuki mumbled something—something about the jump, about trusting her, about the sky still feeling unreal. Luz whispered something back—she didn't even know what, just soft sounds and tired warmth.

And then, without deciding to, without thinking about anything at all, the two of them passed out. Luz half sprawled over Yuki's arm, Yuki drooling slightly onto her shoulder, both of them breathing slow and peaceful for the first time all week.

The bottles lay empty around them like forgotten confetti, and her brother's oversized shirt bunched under Yuki's cheek like a makeshift pillow. For one night—one small, stupid, soft night—Luz didn't feel tired. She just felt... safe.

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The jet ride back to England felt more like a playground than a flight. Luz had her knees pulled up on the seat, hoodie half over her face, teasing Yuki nonstop. Every time he tried to rest, she poked his cheek. Every time he tried to watch a video, she leaned over and whispered nonsense facts into his ear just to irritate him.

"Chaparro, did you know ducks have regional accents?"

"Luz, PLEASE."

"You're welcome."

But halfway through a joke about Max's angry face on race weekends, her own voice wavered, cracked by a tiredness she hadn't admitted to. She blinked once... twice...

And knocked out mid-sentence, her head falling softly onto Yuki's shoulder.

Yuki froze for a moment, eyes wide, then relaxed and tugged a blanket over her. He watched her sleep—her breathing too shallow, her face too pale—before looking away, pretending he didn't notice.

By the time they landed, she was still dead asleep. A crew member nudged her awake, and Luz sat up instantly, still half-dreaming, hair sticking in every direction. "We're here?" she mumbled.

Yuki nodded. "Barely."

The drive to Milton Keynes was quiet. Luz leaned her head against the window, the vibration lulling her out again within minutes. Yuki watched her reflection, her lips parted slightly, exhaustion etched into the soft lines of her face.

Once they reached headquarters, Luz tumbled out of the car like she hadn't just slept through half the day. Yuki smirked at her dazed expression. "You know, for someone who jumps out of planes, you sleep like a brick."

"I'm conserving energy, okAY," she said dramatically, hair still messy.

They decided to take advantage of their day off. The cafeteria was calm, nearly empty. Luz grabbed enough food for three people, but only picked at it—moving things around her plate more than actually eating. She hid it well, laughing with Yuki, cracking jokes loud enough to echo down the hallway.

But every few minutes, she'd go still, eyes unfocused, a tremor of fatigue shaking through her. Yuki noticed everything. He didn't comment.

After eating, they wandered through the hallways of Red Bull HQ. Yuki was pointing at a simulator room when something caught his eye—a wall of framed photos. Older ones. Team memories. Race wins. Drivers. And—

It was her.

Luz at fourteen, grinning with crooked teeth, face full, cheeks round, standing next to Checo in a Red Bull paddock pass. Another photo—Luz at sixteen, hair thick and wavy, arm around Max like she had bullied him into taking the picture. Another of her in early training with the skydiving team—eyes bright, body strong.

She looked... different.

Healthier.

Happier.

Whole.

Yuki stared longer than he intended to. Luz, realizing what he was looking at, stepped beside him. Her expression tightened for a split second before she forced a grin.

"Baby me," she said lightly. "I looked ridiculous." Yuki's jaw clenched. "You looked healthy." She froze. Before she could answer—before her mask could slip—her phone buzzed loudly.

The caller ID lit up CHECO.

She sighed softly, then put on a bright, exaggerated smile and answered. "PAPÁ," she greeted dramatically, even though they were only ten years apart. "I'm fine." Yuki didn't miss the slight tremble in her voice. He didn't miss the way her hand gripped the phone just a little too tight.

Or how her eyes darted back to the old photos—her younger self smiling like she didn't know what sadness felt like. "Sí, sí, I'm eating," she lied smoothly into the phone. "And yes, I'm sleeping. Yes, Yuki's here. He's being annoying." Yuki raised a brow. She stuck her tongue out at him.

But when Checo said something worried, something soft but firm, something that made Luz's shoulders sink just barely— She whispered into the phone, quieter now, "Papá... I promise. I'm fine." But the look she gave the floor said otherwise.

Checo kept talking, his voice muffled through the speaker, quick and worried in a way only an older brother could manage. Luz smiled the whole time—too wide, too practiced, the kind of smile that was meant to reassure someone else rather than herself.

"Sí, sí, sí," she repeated. "I'm resting. I'm being careful. No, I haven't jumped off anything weird. Papá, relax." She giggled like he had said something funny. But her fingers were trembling.

Yuki stepped a little closer—not enough for her to feel crowded, just enough so she knew he was there. Just enough so he could catch her if her knees suddenly buckled like they had twice that week.

Checo finally sighed, long and fatherly, and Luz rubbed her forehead. "Tell Carola and the kids I love them," she added. "And tell little Carola to stop trying to steal my shoes."

Yuki heard Checo laugh softly, relieved, but still worried. Still suspicious. Still absolutely unconvinced that Luz was "fine."

Then Luz's voice softened—barely above a whisper but sincere. "Te quiero, Checo."( I love you)

She hung up before her throat could close up.

The second the call ended, her entire expression collapsed like a puppet whose strings were cut. Shoulders slumping. Smile falling. Breath shaking out of her chest like she was finally allowed to stop pretending.

Yuki didn't say anything. He just watched her—really watched her—as she stared at the old photos on the wall. The girl in those pictures was radiant. Glowing. Strong.

The girl standing next to him now looked... tired. Too thin. Pale in a way that didn't come from travel or training. Eyes ringed with shadows she tried to hide with jokes.

Luz suddenly forced a laugh and slapped Yuki's shoulder. "Come on, chaparro," she said, turning away from the wall. "Let's go see if they still have the trophy Max broke."

But her steps were slower. Her breath shorter. Her hand brushing her stomach like something was twisting inside. Yuki followed her, not missing a single detail.

They wandered deeper into the building, Luz narrating everything dramatically as always—heavy accent, wild hand gestures, the chaotic charm that everyone fell in love with. She flirted with the trophy cases, pretended to roast Max's helmet designs, made fun of Yuki's height twice in one hallway.

But each time she laughed, she pressed her hand behind her back, like she needed the wall to steady herself. Each time she joked, she blinked too slowly, like she was fighting off dizziness. At one point, she leaned on the edge of a display case, breathing just a little too hard. Yuki stepped forward gently. "Luz... are you—"

"I'm fine," she cut in instantly, voice sharp. Then she softened it. "I'm just tired, chaparro." She always said she was "fine." She always sounded like she was lying.

They walked farther until they reached the simulator rooms. Luz perked up immediately, forcing energy back into her limbs like she was reviving herself through pure will. "Yuki, look! A room dedicated to your terrible haircuts."

He glared. "I do not have terrible haircuts."

"You choose bowl cuts sometimes."

"That was ONE TIME."

She burst out laughing—genuine this time, bright and loud, echoing down the hallway. For a moment, she seemed like the girl in the photos again. But then she swayed. Just slightly.

Just long enough for Yuki to react, stepping close, steadying her elbow before she toppled. She yanked her arm back with a grin that didn't convince him at all. "Relax," she said. "You act like I'm dying." Yuki froze.

She didn't notice. She kept walking ahead. Yuki watched her back, small and fragile against the huge, brightly lit hallway. And for the first time, something cold settled in his chest. Something like fear.

The next day Luz stretched her arms over her head as they stepped out of the garage, the late-morning sun warming the asphalt and the smell of burnt rubber still clinging to the air. Yuki walked at her side, hands shoved in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, pretending he wasn't buzzing with anticipation and nerves.

Luz wasn't pretending anything.

She was practically bouncing with every step.

"Ready to die, chaparro?" she teased, nudging him with her shoulder.

Yuki shot her a sideways glare. "You are the one driving today. If anyone is dying, it's me."

She grinned, big and shameless. "Well... at least you'll die in style."

He groaned, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He hated how easily she dragged smiles out of him—like she had a rope tied to his face.

Media crew followed behind, filming the two of them from every angle like they were shooting a documentary about chaos incarnate.

The walk toward the track wasn't long, but it felt strangely intimate.

Her arm brushed his every few steps. Her laugh echoed across the empty pit lane. Her energy—bright, relentless, alive—pulled at him like gravity.

And he noticed things he hadn't before.

The way she hid a tiny wince when she stretched too far. The faint shadows under her eyes. The way she seemed determined to outrun something unseen.

But then she caught him staring.

"Qué?" she asked, eyebrows lifting. (What)

Yuki jerked his gaze forward. "Nothing. I'm just... mentally preparing for death."

She slung her arm over his shoulders and leaned into him just enough to make his brain short-circuit.

"You're dramatic," she said, tone affectionate and exasperated at once. "You'll be fine."

His heart stuttered.He hoped she didn't feel it.

They reached the car, its red and blue paint glinting under the sun. It looked fast just sitting still.

Luz clapped her hands together. "Alright. Let's give Milton Keynes a show."

Yuki exhaled slowly, trying not to let his nerves show on camera.

But Luz—effortless, bright, fearless Luz—grabbed his hand, squeezed it once, and tugged him forward.

And he followed her without hesitation.

Luz practically vibrated with adrenaline, bouncing on the balls of her feet as if she wasn't pale, swaying, and sweating bullets underneath her borrowed fire-resistant suit. The media team hovered close, eating up every second of her chaos as Yuki tugged on his gloves, already smirking like he had been waiting days for this moment.

The NASCAR sat rumbling behind them, heavy, loud, hungry. And Yuki—cocky little menace—patted the hood like it was his car.

Luz squinted at him. "Why do you look like you're about to commit a crime, chaparro?"

His grin widened. "Because I am."

Before she could roast him further, Yuki reached for her helmet. He slid it over her head with surprising gentleness, fingers adjusting the chin strap, checking each buckle with laser focus. For a moment he was all business, serious and concentrated—until he tapped the side of the helmet and muttered something teasing in Japanese.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Then he buckled her in himself, tugging every strap, double-checking every connection like she was about to be launched into space. Luz didn't talk—didn't even joke—just stared up at him with a bright smile that didn't quite reach her tired eyes.

When he finally climbed in beside her, she could barely contain herself.

"Alright," he said through the mic. "Ready?"

Luz shook her head dramatically. "I was born ready. Go fast, coward!"

Yuki barked a laugh, pushed the visor down, and hit the gas.

The car exploded forward, the force slamming them back, but Luz's scream wasn't fearful—

it was delighted.

"FASTER, YUKI! COME ON, YOU'RE DRIVING LIKE MY GRANDMA!"

Yuki nearly choked laughing, tightening his grip on the wheel as he refused to let the car wobble under the speed. He took the first curve sharp, controlled, smooth—and Luz yelled in celebration like she was on a roller coaster.

He kept stealing glances at her— helmet tilted back, eyes shining, hands in the air like a maniac.

If she was sick, tired, worn down... it didn't exist here. Here, she was alive. And Yuki couldn't look away.

When the run finally ended, Luz ripped her helmet off and jumped out like she hadn't just been going 300 km/h. She bounced in place, hair wild, grin huge.

"That was AMAZING, CHAPARRO!" she screamed, throwing herself at him.

Yuki caught her with both arms, stumbling back a step as she clung to him like an excited koala. Her laughter echoed across the track.

He managed, breathless, red-faced,"Sunshine..." in Japanese, the word slipping out instinctively.

She had stopped asking what it meant. She already liked the way he said it too much.

Luz launched into her over-excited analysis of the lap—gesturing wildly, explaining the grip on the turns, the braking points, the insane pull of the acceleration—talking so fast Yuki could barely keep up. She looked like the happiest human on earth.

And then someone from the media team jogged over.

"Okay, Yuki, Luz—your turn to switch!"

Luz froze.

Yuki froze.

Then Yuki turned to her with the same look she had given him at the skydiving center.

That evil, smug, delighted tiny-terror grin.

"Have fun," he said sweetly. Luz tilted her head. "You think I'm scared—?"

"No," he corrected with a shrug. "I think I should be."Luz's laugh cracked through the air like fireworks.

She grabbed her helmet again, hair still sticking out the back, and jogged toward the driver's side of the car.

Still sweating.

Still exhausted.

Still smiling like the track itself was breathing life back into her veins.

And Yuki watched her go, chest tight with something he didn't have a name for yet.

Something that scared him more than the speed ever could.

She flung open the door, tossed her helmet inside, and clapped her hands together. "Come on, chaparro! Chop chop!"

He muttered something in Japanese that sounded suspiciously like a final prayer and dragged himself around to the passenger side.

Luz met him halfway.

She reached up, grabbed his helmet, and—very gently, almost sweetly—settled it onto his head. Her fingers brushed the sides of his face before she buckled the strap under his chin. Yuki felt like someone had plugged him into an outlet.

"There," she said, stepping back with a proud little nod. "My emotional support passenger is ready."

"I am not emotional support," he muttered. "You will be," she shot back, patting his cheek through the visor.

He groaned. She cackled.

Yuki hadn't even finished buckling himself in when Luz cracked her knuckles, adjusted her seat, and muttered—too casually to be legal:

"Did I tell you I don't have my license for driving?"

Yuki's soul left his body.

"WHAT—!? LUZ—???"

But it was too late—she hit the gas, and the NASCAR bolted forward like it had been waiting its entire existence for this exact level of chaos. Yuki slapped both hands against the interior like that would somehow save him.

"No, no—WAIT—!!" he yelped as they blasted into the first turn.

Luz only laughed, wild and bright, hair whipping in her face beneath the helmet.

"Oh relax, chaparro! Worst case scenario we spin!"

"SPIN?? WE DIE—!"

But then Yuki felt it—

She wasn't sloppy.

She wasn't reckless.

She wasn't guessing.

She was good.

Her lines were tight. Her braking instinctive.

Her hands steady as she fed the wheel into the corners with the natural ease of someone who'd grown up watching her brother chase apexes for a living.

The media team watching from the sidelines was already losing their minds.

"She's a menace!"

"She's a Perez, what did you expect?"

"Mini Checo strikes again!"

Luz cackled at every single comment, leaning into the next curve like she belonged in the seat. Yuki held onto the bar above him—and also, suspiciously, to the edge of her sleeve like it might anchor him to the earth.

"Luz—Luz—Luz DON'T—THAT'S TOO FAST—!"

She only shouted back, "LIVE A LITTLE, CHAPARRO!"

The car shot down the straight, wind screaming, engine roaring—

Luz's grin widening until her cheeks hurt.

Finally, after one last viciously clean exit, she eased off the throttle and rolled them to a stop. Yuki slumped forward, hands shaking, staring at the dashboard like it had betrayed him personally.

He lifted his visor. Stared at her. "...Do you seriously not have your driver's license?"

Luz shrugged, playful and unbothered. "I mean, technically? No."

"Technically?! Luz—!"

"Relax. I've watched Checo drive my whole life. And it wasn't that bad. Was it?"

Yuki didn't know whether to argue or pass out.

But when she shoved her helmet off and flashed him that stupid sunshine smile—the one she didn't realize she had—something in his chest gave way again, soft and helpless.

She reached over, flicked him on the helmet.

"Come on, chaparro. Don't tell me you didn't have fun."

He opened his mouth to deny it. He absolutely did not deny it.

And the media team caught all of it—her glowing, him blushing, the pair of them looking like trouble wrapped in adrenaline—broadcasting to the world the exact kind of chemistry no one could bottle or fake.

A match neither of them saw coming. But everyone watching did.

That entire week at Milton Keynes became its own little bubble—Luz and Yuki tucked inside it, orbiting closer and closer without even realizing it.

Every morning the media team had them in the lot with a car waiting, and Yuki took his role dead seriously. He crossed his arms, stood like a tiny professor, and explained everything with dramatic hand gestures.

"This is how you do a burnout," he'd say, tone solemn.

And Luz—already grinning, already bouncing on the balls of her feet—would answer, "Chaparro, you say that like I won't accidentally launch this thing into space."

She stalled the car more times than she managed to move it. She burned rubber when she wasn't supposed to. She nearly hit a traffic cone and blamed the cone.

But every time she got something right—every time she executed a turn clean, or a burnout held exactly the way he'd taught her—Yuki lit up like she'd handed him a trophy.

"You're getting better," he'd tell her, cheeks pink. And she'd bump her shoulder into his. "You're a great teacher." He fell harder every single time she said it.

By now it had been almost a month of their chaos, their filming, their traveling. A month since the handshake that changed everything. A month since Yuki had been doomed.

They got food again that night—though "food" for Luz meant a drink, then another drink, then maybe a sip of something if Yuki glared at her long enough.

The hotel pool area was empty, quiet except for the gentle churn of water. They sat at the edge, dipping their feet in, the tile still warm from the day.

Luz leaned back on her hands, looking up at the faint stars above the city.

"Can't sleep?" Yuki asked quietly. She huffed a laugh. "I never sleep."

He didn't point out how bad that sounded. He just dipped his foot deeper, creating ripples.

Eventually, without even thinking about it, she shifted closer. And then her head dropped lightly onto his shoulder—like she'd done it a thousand times and not just for the first.

Yuki froze for a heartbeat. Then relaxed. Slowly.

"You know," she murmured, eyes half-closed, "Checo used to call himself 'Papa Checo' because he swore I was just a walking disaster waiting to happen."

Yuki snorted softly. "He's not wrong." She nudged his ribs. "Hey."

"What? Truth hurts, sunshine." She pretended to be offended, but her smile was lazy and soft.

She let her legs swish gently in the water. "He raised me, kinda. Mom and Dad were busy, and Checo... he was always there. Even when he joined Formula 3. Even when he shouldn't have been."

Yuki listened. Really listened.

"Whenever I was scared," she added, voice dropping slightly "he'd let me sit on the pit wall next to him. He used to say I was his good luck charm."

"You still are," Yuki said before he could stop himself.

Luz blinked at him, face tilted up, eyes reflecting the water like dark glass.

For a moment—just one—he worried he'd said too much. But she smiled. Small. Gentle. Almost... grateful.

Then she nudged her forehead lightly against his shoulder again.

"Thanks, chaparro."

He swallowed hard.

The night hummed around them—the water, the faint buzz of lights, the distant sounds of a city settling down.

Luz closed her eyes, resting against him like she hadn't rested in years.

And Yuki? He knew he was gone. Absolutely, completely, hopelessly gone.

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #yuki tsunoda x oc #yuki tsunoda #characters death #no happy ending #cancer #chaotic duo #he fell first #he fell harder

FreeFall Hearts

Part: 1

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Lucero pulled her sweater back over her shoulders with slow, practiced movements, the kind that came from years of pretending she wasn't terrified. The hospital room was too bright, too clean, too familiar. She had already guessed the truth—her body felt heavier, her skin duller, her bones sore in that way she remembered too well. Still, she kept her face blank as she smoothed the sleeves down her arms.

A soft knock came at the door.

She didn't look up. She didn't need to. The doctor stepped inside with that expression she had prayed she wouldn't see again—gentle, pitying, already grieving her.

"Luz..." His voice cracked before he even finished her name.

Her throat tightened. She already knew. She had known before the tests, before the bloodwork, before she even walked into the hospital. But hearing it confirmed felt like the world tilting under her feet.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "It's back. The leukemia has returned."

Lucero closed her eyes. For a moment, she let herself feel it—the punch of fear, the bitterness, the anger rising like a scream she wouldn't allow to escape. She swallowed it all down, slow and steady, before she lifted her head.

"Just like last time," the doctor continued, almost apologetically. "We can start chemo again. It worked before—"

"No." Her voice didn't shake. It surprised them both. Luz sat up straight, jaw tight, eyes fixed on a spot just above his shoulder. "Last time it was a fucking miracle I didn't die. You said it yourself—if it came back, there was no chance I was making it out again."

He inhaled, slow and helpless, because they both knew she was right. This wasn't a battle she could win a second time.

She stood, pulling her bag onto her shoulder with trembling hands she tried to hide. "Thank you... for telling me," she muttered. "For everything, really."

The doctor looked like he wanted to stop her, or comfort her, or say something meaningful—but she didn't let him. She couldn't. Luz pushed past him gently and walked out, her footsteps echoing down the hallway she had never wanted to see again.

By the time she reached the parking lot, her vision was blurring. She unlocked her car, climbed inside, and the moment the door closed, the dam broke. The first sob tore out of her chest raw and desperate. She gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her alive, her knuckles white, her breath shaking.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not again. Not now.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and relentless. She pressed her forehead against the wheel, trying to breathe, trying to steady herself, trying not to fall apart completely.

But she knew, deep down, that this time she wouldn't outrun it. This time, death wasn't a threat—it was a deadline.

And yet... she put the car in drive and forced herself to go home, because no one could know. Not yet. Not ever, if she could help it.

Not even Checo. Not their sisters.

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Lucero tightened the straps on her jumpsuit, fingers moving with the muscle memory of someone who'd done this a thousand times, even though her body felt weaker than it ever had. The wind at the airfield whipped against her cheeks, carrying the familiar smell of fuel, metal, and the kind of adrenaline she used to crave. She forced a smile when she heard the footsteps behind her—she'd recognize them anywhere.

Checo pulled her into a hug so tight she almost forgot how fragile she really was. For a second, she closed her eyes and pretended she wasn't sick. Pretended she wasn't hiding something that could destroy him. He stepped back, scanning her face, then her body, his expression tightening with the concern she'd been dodging for weeks.

"Estás flaquísima," he muttered, eyebrows lifting. "No comes o qué?" (You're so skinny... you don't eat or what?)

Luz rolled her eyes dramatically. "Ay, por favor. Claro que como. I just have to stay in shape, my guy. Skydiving isn't exactly a couch sport."(oh please. Of course I eat) He scoffed, crossing his arms. "Yeah? Well you look like my daughter's drawing of a stick figure."

"Maybe you're just getting old and your vision's going," she shot back, bumping him with her shoulder.

They bickered like that for a minute—her teasing, him pretending he wasn't worried—until Checo suddenly straightened, looking past her. Luz followed his gaze. Max and Yuki were walking toward them with the media team.

Checo didn't drive for Red Bull anymore, not since moving to Mercedes, but he still showed up for his sister whenever she had a big stunt. He wasn't missing this one either.

The media coordinator began their introductions. "Lucero, this is Max and Yuki. They'll be—"

"Please," Luz cut in with a smirk. "I've known Max longer than Max has known how to drive without hitting a wall." Max raised a brow. "I haven't hit a wall in years." She grinned. "You sure? Because I remember—"

Max groaned. "Your brother drove for Red Bull like a century ago, Luz. Let it go."

Before she could answer, Yuki stepped forward for the official handshake. The moment their hands touched, something shifted—quiet, electric, impossible to ignore. Luz felt it hit her chest, sharp and warm. Yuki blinked once, like he felt it too.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly.

Her smile softened in a way she didn't intend. "You too, Yuki."

But she turned away before the moment could linger too long—she always ran from things that felt real.

She pivoted back to Max, jabbing him lightly in the ribs. "So, champ, you ready to lose today? Because when you do, you're coming down with me. No excuses."

Max snorted. "I don't lose, Lucero."

"Oh, we'll see about that." She stepped backward toward the plane, her grin bright and unbothered, her heart beating painfully fast from more than just the jump.

Max watched her go, shaking his head with a laugh. "Mini Checo," he muttered. "Exact same attitude."

Luz shot him a wink over her shoulder and took off at a jog, her braid swinging behind her—tiny, fearless, burning alive from the inside.

Yuki watched her the whole way. And Luz pretended she didn't notice.

Max and Yuki got dragged off to film whatever chaotic social-media challenge Red Bull had lined up for them. From a distance, Luz could hear Max yelling something about "this is rigged" while Yuki's annoyed voice echoed right after. Ten minutes later, Yuki came back looking both betrayed and resigned.

"I lost," he muttered.

Luz tried—truly tried—not to laugh. "Poor baby," she said as she crouched to check the straps on his harness. "Honestly, it's not as bad as it seems. You're not gonna die. Probably."

Yuki gave her a deadpan look. "That's very reassuring."

She grinned. "You're welcome."

He let out a soft, breathy laugh—one she wasn't expecting. It hit her in the chest, warm and quick, and she had to look at the buckles again just so he wouldn't catch her smiling too wide.

They boarded the plane together, Yuki strapped securely to her front, both of them squeezed into the narrow interior. Luz clipped on her GoPro, adjusting the angle while Yuki tried not to look like he was rethinking his entire life.

"Ready, chaparro?" she teased, her voice loud over the rumble of the engines.

"I was until you said that," he muttered, hands gripping the straps.

She laughed, then pushed open the door. The world roared to life—wind, sky, the dizzying drop. She bounced once on her heels before jumping, just to mess with him a little. Yuki tensed, instinctively leaning back against her.

Then she stepped out into nothing.

The air swallowed them whole, the wind screaming past their bodies. Luz felt weightless, alive, the way she always did—like this was the one place cancer couldn't reach her.

Behind her, Yuki let out something between a curse and a prayer.

"When is the parachute coming out?" he yelled over the wind.

"Calm down, chaparro!" Luz shouted back, laughing. "Soon!"

"Define soon!"

She didn't. She let him panic for another few seconds because it was funny, and because she could feel how tightly he was holding on. She didn't remember the last time someone held on to her like that.

Finally, she pulled the cord. The parachute flared open, jerking them upward. Yuki's breath caught, and Luz felt his whole body stiffen before he went still. "Open your eyes, chaparro," she said, voice softening.

He did. And the sky unfolded around them—endless, golden, breathtaking. He let out a quiet, stunned laugh. Luz smiled, her own heart fluttering in a way she wasn't expecting.

As they neared the ground, she angled their descent so that Yuki landed first—right on top of her. He froze for a second, hands braced on either side of her shoulders, eyes wide, face inches from hers.

"Sorry—" he started.

"It's fine," she said, laughing. "You're light. Like a chihuahua." He groaned, rolling off her, but he couldn't help looking back.

Because somewhere between the wind, the fall, and that smile of hers. He realized he might be screwed. He might be falling for this meteorite of a woman. And maybe—just maybe—he didn't care at all.

Luz tugged off her gloves, fingers trembling just enough that she hoped Yuki wouldn't notice. She crouched in front of him, undoing the buckles on his harness with quick, practiced movements. Yuki stood ramrod stiff, arms frozen at his sides like moving might set off a bomb.

She looked up at him and smirked. "Relax, chaparro. I'm not defusing a grenade. It's just a buckle."

He swallowed. "You jump out of planes for fun. Forgive me if I'm not calm."

"That's okay," she said, leaning in to unclip one final strap. "I like you nervous. Makes me feel powerful."

His ears went red instantly.

When she finished, they both turned toward the crowd waiting for them—Checo, Max, the media crew, all lined up behind the landing zone. Luz threw up a dramatic peace sign, tongue poking out as Max rolled his eyes.

But the smile died before she meant it to.

A harsh cough ripped out of her chest—deep, painful, wrong. She doubled forward slightly, trying to make it look like she was just catching her breath. Yuki took one step toward her, instinctively concerned.

She flicked her hand at him. "Go. Go. I'm fine," she said lightly, backing up before anyone could get close.

Only when their eyes shifted elsewhere did she look down. The inside of her discarded glove was wet with dark red. She clenched it in her fist, hiding it behind her leg, forcing her breathing to even out.

"Te pasaste, Luz," she muttered to herself quietly. "Not now."(God damn it)

Checo was still watching her, brows pinched, that older-brother radar buzzing. She straightened instantly, pasted on her usual grin, grabbed the parachute, and walked toward him. "Chequito," she sing-songed, nudging him with her hip. "Tell Max he screamed louder than Yuki, his first time jumping off."

"I did not—" Max protested.

Checo didn't laugh. He just gave her that silent look, the one that said he knew something was off but hadn't figured out what. He waited as she stowed the chute, wiped her face clean, and jogged off to shower.

When she came back, hair damp and fresh clothes clinging to her still-too-thin frame, Max waved his phone at them.

"Drinks?" he asked. "All four of us. No cameras. No interviews. Just actual fun for once." Checo shrugged. "I'm in."

Luz didn't give anyone time to reconsider—she hopped onto Checo's back like she used to when she was fifteen, legs wrapping around his waist, arms over his shoulders. "Vámonos, viejito," she declared. "Carry me. I'm tired."(Lets go old man)

He didn't fight it. He didn't even sigh. He just adjusted his grip under her legs and started walking toward the car waiting for them at the edge of the airfield.

Max laughed. Yuki followed behind them, stealing glances at the girl clinging to her brother—bright, loud, impossible.

And Luz hid her shaking hands in Checo's sweatshirt, praying none of them had seen the blood.

The bar Max had chosen was completely closed off—lights low, music humming, and not a single stranger in sight. Money and world championships had their perks. The moment they stepped inside, Luz lit up like someone plugged her directly into a socket.

She was pure desmadre the second her feet touched the floor. "Shots!" she declared, already halfway to the counter. "Let's see who survives tonight." Before anyone could react, she grabbed Yuki by the arm and dragged him with her, practically skating across the polished floor.

"Luz—!" Yuki stumbled after her, trying to look composed while being pulled like a ragdoll. She shoved a shot into his hand before he could even sit. "No thinking," she warned. "Just drink." He blinked. "Is this safe—"

"Live a little," she said with a grin that made it impossible to refuse. Across the bar, Checo watched her with that older-brother frown he couldn't hide anymore. Max noticed instantly.

"What's wrong with you?" Max asked, leaning against the bar. "You look like someone kicked your puppy." Checo exhaled, slow and heavy. "She's... different lately." Max followed his gaze to where Luz was now teaching Yuki how to insult people in Spanish, laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

"Different how?" Max asked. Checo shrugged. "Skinny. Tired. Snaps way too fast. And now she's drinking like she's twenty again." Max snorted. "She's twenty-five."

"That's my point." Checo scrubbed a hand over his face before letting out a low groan. "And ahora this Yuki kid is looking at her like she's the moon."(and now)

"Oh, definitely," Max nodded. "He's fucked." Checo cracked a smile. "Poor guy." "Poor him?" Max laughed. "Poor me. Imagine waking up one day and realizing your tiny teammate thinks your old teammates sister is hot."

Checo grimaced. "Dios mío. Don't say it like that." Max clapped him on the back. "I can make it worse if you want."

"Please don't."

Meanwhile, at the far end of the bar, Luz was being the worst influence Yuki had ever met—and he didn't mind at all. "Okay, chaparro, rule number one," she said as she shoved a second drink into his hand. "Never let Max choose your shots. He's Dutch. Their livers are built different."

Yuki burst into laughter, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling in a way she hadn't seen yet. "And rule number two," she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, "have fun tonight. No being serious. No being shy. No being professional."

Yuki looked at her like she was gravity, pulling him in without trying. "I think I can do that," he said. "Good," she grinned, tapping her glass against his. "Because I'm just getting started."

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The interview dropped early the next morning, and within minutes, social media was on fire. Edits, screenshots, slow-mo clips—fans dissecting every glance, every smile, every time Yuki leaned toward Luz instead of away from her. Comments flooded in about the "unexpected chemistry," the "tiny duo," the "chaotic energy."

Luz had her own following already—skydivers, adrenaline junkies, Red Bull fanatics—but this? This was different. People loved her with Yuki.

Too bad she couldn't enjoy any of it.

She lay in her hotel bed staring at the ceiling, tired in a way sleep didn't fix. Her body ached, her bones felt heavy, and her mind was running circles around every worst-case scenario. She was grateful she had no work today—no cameras, no jumps, no crew—just silence she didn't know how to handle.

She tried to sit with it. She really did. But it felt like the room was shrinking around her. A sharp knock broke the quiet. She frowned, dragged herself out of bed, and opened the door. Yuki stood there.

Nervous as hell. Shifting from one foot to the other. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tight. Like he'd spent the whole elevator ride overthinking every word.

"Oh no," Luz joked, leaning against the doorframe. "Did Max send you here to ask for his dignity back? Because I don't have it."

Yuki blinked, caught off guard, then huffed a little laugh. "Uh, no. I... um... heard from Max that you're here in Scotland a lot for work?"

She raised an eyebrow but stepped aside anyway, letting him in. "Yeah. Red Bull books a ton of aerial shoots here. Beautiful landscapes, dangerous cliffs. You know—stuff they love."

She closed the door behind him, and Yuki immediately straightened like he was entering a sacred space instead of her messy, lived-in hotel room. He cleared his throat. "Would you... mind showing me around? I don't have anything today. No meetings. No sim work. Max is gone. And the hotel is boring."

Luz stared at him for a second. The nerves. The sincerity. The fact that he'd clearly hyped himself up just to come ask. Something in her chest softened unexpectedly.

No time to be sad and depressed, she told herself. Not if the chaparro wants a tour. Her smile grew. "Sure. Give me two minutes."

Yuki nodded, stepping aside while she disappeared into the bedroom area. Luz changed quickly—jeans, a fitted black top, her favorite leather jacket, hair down, face fresh but with just enough makeup to hide how exhausted she really felt.

When she came back out, she was grinning, ready to shove every dark thought into a corner for the day.

Yuki looked up.

And froze.

Like actual pause-in-time, brain-shutting-off frozen. Luz raised an eyebrow. "You good, chaparro?" He swallowed, eyes dragging over her once before he looked away too fast.

"Yeah," he said softly, almost shy. "You look... ready." She smirked. "Oh, I'm always ready." And for the first time in weeks, she actually meant it.

Here's the scene shaped with the vibe you want — soft, funny, and quietly emotional beneath the surface:

Scotland wasn't exactly Tokyo or London, and Luz knew it. She kicked a rock down the gravel path, hands in her jacket pockets, as she guided Yuki through yet another stretch of green hills, stone fences, and an actual army of sheep.

"Welcome to my glamorous workplace," she said, waving an arm dramatically. "Behold. Grass. More grass. Sheep that hate me. That hill over there? I jumped off it last month and almost ate shit."

Yuki blinked at the hill, then at her. "You jumped... from there?"

"Yes," she said cheerfully. "That one too—" she pointed at a smaller one, "—and that one, but that one was boring. Too smooth. No thrill." Yuki made a face. The same exact face her brother made when she said anything that sounded remotely dangerous.

She snorted. "Why is it that you and my brother act like I'm suicidal? You two literally drive cars that go fast as fuck. I land wrong, I break a leg. You guys?" She jabbed a finger at him. "You guys die."

Yuki opened his mouth. Closed it. "...I mean—okay, fair."

"Exactly." She grinned. And somehow, walking with him felt... easy. Calmer than she'd felt in weeks.

They grabbed sandwiches from a tiny café she liked, then walked by the river, Yuki listening intently as she pointed out random villages, cliffs she had jumped from, the spot where she once almost got chased by a very territorial sheep. He laughed — full, loud, and unfiltered — and Luz felt the tightness in her chest loosen without her even noticing.

He didn't hover. He didn't pry. He didn't try to fix anything.

He just existed beside her, comfortable and warm, absorbing her chaos like he was built for it. At some point she realized she wasn't performing, wasn't joking to hide anything — she was just... relaxing. Letting her shoulders drop. Breathing deeper.

Yuki walked close enough that their arms sometimes brushed, and every time, her mind quieted a little more.

She didn't even notice until they were eating dinner, sitting across from each other in a tiny pub, the last of the evening light turning his hair soft gold.

God... I feel calm. Why do I feel calm? Since when do I feel calm around anyone?

And then he smiled — that gentle, earnest Yuki smile — and she felt something warm unfurl in her chest. She didn't know it yet.

But he was already becoming her anchor. Her light. The quiet place her mind softened around. The place she didn't fall — even when she expected to.

They stepped back into the hotel, the lobby warm and golden under the evening lights. Yuki held the door for her, cheeks still a little pink from the cold, and the second Luz spotted the bar she groaned.

Of course.

Checo and Max were already there, parked at a corner table like two dads waiting for their delinquent teens. Checo lifted a hand in greeting—and Luz felt the cough hit her throat like a knife.

Shit.

She mumbled something that could have been "be right back," and made a beeline for the restroom, one hand pressed over her mouth, the other balled tight in her jacket pocket.

Inside, she coughed hard into a handful of tissues, the metallic taste blooming immediately. She rinsed her mouth, breathed through her nose, waited for the shaking in her hands to stop.

Not now. Not here. Keep it together.

When she finally reemerged, she plastered on her usual smile and walked straight to Checo, sliding into the seat next to him and casually stealing his drink like nothing had happened.

Checo didn't even blink — he just signaled the bartender for another, eyes flicking over her with that quiet big-brother concern she always pretended she didn't notice.

Max leaned back in his chair, smirk already loaded. "So," he said, "what did you two get up to today?" Luz opened her mouth before Yuki could even breathe.

"Oh my god, Max, let me tell you—this man," she jabbed a thumb at Yuki, "looked at the Scottish countryside like it was a horror movie. I showed him the hill I nearly broke my leg on, and he looked like he wanted to call the FIA."

Yuki spluttered. "That's not—okay, maybe a little—"

"And," she barreled on, "I showed him the sheep army—" "They were staring at us!" Yuki protested.

"—and then we got sandwiches, and he fed half of his to a stray dog because he's a softie—"

"That dog was cute!"

"—and then we went to the river and I told him about the time one sheep tried to square up with me—"

Max snorted into his glass. Checo tried to look unimpressed, but a smile tugged at his mouth.

"Basically," Luz concluded dramatically, "Yuki survived a full day with me. Medal of honor goes to him." Yuki shook his head, cheeks warm, but he didn't look annoyed. He looked... happy.

And when Luz leaned back against her brother's shoulder, Checo didn't push her off. He just glanced down at her, then at Yuki, then back at Max, and sighed like he already knew this was only the beginning.

Luz didn't notice the look they exchanged. She was too busy laughing — the sound light and real in a way it hadn't been for months.

For three days, Scotland felt like the safest place on earth — not because it was quiet or peaceful, but because Luz wasn't alone with herself.

Checo had refused to leave yet, claiming he "needed family time," but Luz knew the real reason. Her brother could always tell when something in her was slipping, even if she hid it behind jokes and noise and bravado. And she didn't argue. She didn't want to. Being around him stopped her thoughts from spiraling.

Max had stayed too, making excuses about media obligations, but Luz knew he just liked the chaos she and Yuki brought into every room.

And Yuki... Yuki matched her madness step for step, breath for breath.

Every morning, the four of them ended up together — breakfast, media sessions, spontaneous outdoor adventures. Checo kept claiming he was "just observing," but he was always the one laughing the hardest when Luz dared Yuki to eat something weird or run up a hill in socks or race her to the top of some castle stairs.

Max egged them on like an older brother stirring trouble. And Yuki? Yuki was Luz's equal in every unhinged idea she had.

If she climbed a fence — he climbed it.

If she sprinted into a field — he was right behind her.

If she said "bet you won't"— he always did.

Their energy bounced off each other like sparks on gasoline.

One afternoon, while Max and Yuki were recording a segment, Luz hung off Checo's arm like a koala, watching the two of them with a small, secret ache in her chest.

"You okay, chaparra?" Checo asked softly. "Yeah," she lied. "Just... don't wanna leave yet."

He didn't push. He just kissed the top of her head, held her a little tighter. Because he knew — better than anyone — that Luz's silence was rare and dangerous. The dark thoughts were waiting. Always waiting.

But with Checo here? With Max teasing her nonstop? With Yuki making her laugh so hard her ribs hurt? The shadows didn't get close.

Later, when the filming wrapped, Yuki wandered over to her with that bright, eager smile she was getting used to — the one that felt a little like sunlight hitting her face.

"Luz," he said, "want to race to the top of that hill?" She blinked at him. "You... want to run up that?"

He shrugged. "You said you did it once. So I want to try." She grinned, wide and wild. "You're insane."

"You started it."

Luz didn't even have time to think before they were both sprinting — full speed, lungs burning, laughing like idiots while Max shouted commentary in the background and Checo yelled at them to not kill themselves.

They collapsed at the top, grass sticking to their clothes, breathing hard.

Luz lay on her back, staring at the sky, and realized —

her mind was quiet.

No heaviness. No sinking feeling. Just breath. Just heart. Just the warmth of Yuki's presence beside her.

He turned his head, looking at her with a softness she didn't see.

"You're fun," he said simply. "Of course I am," she teased. "I'm a Pérez."

But she swallowed the truth:

She didn't want these three days to end. She didn't want to go back to hotel rooms and wine bottles and fans spinning overhead. She didn't want to lose this strange, accidental peace she'd found with him.

Because for reasons she couldn't name yet, Yuki made being alive feel easier.

A week later Luz lay stretched across the hotel bed, one arm flung over her eyes, the other wrapped around the neck of a half-finished bottle of wine. The room was dark except for the soft whir of the ceiling fan turning slow, hypnotic circles. She watched it spin until everything in her chest felt hollow and heavy and too loud at the same time.

She hated nights like this — when the adrenaline wore off, when there was no plane to jump from, no stunt to rehearse, no cameras, no chaos. Just her. Just the weight she carried alone. Just the truth she refused to look at head-on.

When her phone buzzed, she let it ring twice, three times, before dragging it up to her ear.

"¿Bueno?" she muttered.

"Luz," her boss said, all business and no preamble, "Red Bull wants more interviews with you and Yuki. Fans are eating the dynamic alive. Off-season is slow, so the team wants to lock in a full campaign — three months if you're up for it."

Her first instinct was to say no. Her head hurt, her chest hurt, her life felt like it was folding in on itself.

But then she thought of Yuki.

Thought of how every time the dark started creeping in around the edges, somehow — accidentally, unknowingly — he appeared. A text. A knock at her door. A stupid joke. A question. A presence warm enough to quiet the worst parts of her mind. She didn't understand it. She couldn't explain it. But being around him felt like breathing after holding her breath too long.

And she needed that.

"Yeah," she said finally. "Set it up. I'll be there."

The next morning she was on a plane to Monaco, hoodie up, headphones in, trying to pretend she hadn't cried herself to sleep. She kept telling herself this wasn't about Yuki — not really. It was about work. About keeping busy. About doing what she was good at.

But deep down she knew.

She wasn't crawling out of her darkness on her own. Something — someone — was pulling her into the light without realizing it.

The moment she landed, she was swept straight into Red Bull HQ, still smelling like recycled airplane air. And there, leaning against a counter with a coffee and a shy smile, was Yuki.

He brightened the second he saw her. "Luz! You made it!"

She bumped shoulders with him, acting casual. But something in her chest loosened just a little.

Christian Horner walked in, clapping his hands together with the enthusiasm of a man about to stir chaos.

"Perfect, you're both here. We're building a whole campaign around you two. The concept is simple: 'Red Bull's smallest athletes take on the world.'"

Yuki groaned. Luz barked out a laugh.

Christian continued, ignoring them. "You two will spend the off-season traveling, filming challenges, training segments, stunts — skydiving, racing, free-diving, anything your tiny bodies can survive. Three months of content. Just the two of you. A nonstop adrenaline partnership."

Luz's smile grew slow and mischievous. Three months. Three whole months of adventure. Stunts. High places. New cities.

Three months not sitting alone in hotel rooms with wine and intrusive thoughts.

"Christian..." she said. "I love it." And she meant it.

Across from her, Yuki was trying very hard not to look like a man seeing heaven descending from the sky. He nodded along with Christian's rundown, but every time Luz brushed against him or grinned or tossed her hair, he lost focus entirely.

Because Yuki? Yuki Tsunoda was done for.

He was CRUSHING — hard, painfully, visibly — three months too early.

He kept glancing at her like she was unreal. Like she was sunrise after a month of rain. Like he could jump from one of her cliffs and trust she'd catch him every time.

Luz didn't notice any of it.

She didn't notice the way he watched her speak. Or how his smile widened every time hers did. Or how he stood just a step closer than necessary. Or how he was already, hopelessly, falling.

All she knew — all she could understand — was that standing next to him, she didn't feel like she was drowning anymore.

She didn't know why. She didn't question it.

All she knew was that the next three months were going to be a whirlwind of stunts and danger and adrenaline —

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel afraid.

◤──•~❉🪂᯽🏎️❉~•──◥

First chapter also if you guys can't tell this wont have a happy ending.

It's been a while since I did a sad story. I have to go back to my roots.

Lucero Perez (25)

#yuki tsunoda x oc #fanfiction #friends to lovers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #character death #checoperez father figure #sad ending

For The Plot// F1

Part: 25

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

Their chaotic banter sparks into undeniable chemistry, but as playful encounters turn serious, the public scrutinizes their age gap and backgrounds, forcing them to navigate fame, gossip, and forbidden attraction together.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Dinner in LA feels like a dream Cat still isn't sure she's allowed to be living.

The restaurant is loud in the best way—every table filled with teammates, parents, siblings, coaches, and a few stray F1 drivers who somehow snuck into the celebration. Carlos had insisted on paying for everything, waving away protests with that soft, stubborn smile of his.

Cat sits between her brothers and one of her teammates, still wearing the warm glow of the medal ceremony like a second skin. The gold medal itself is tucked into her purse, but she keeps touching the spot on her chest where it hung, as if to reassure herself it really happened.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling.

Across the table, Pato raises his glass at her. It's soft, friendly, and resigned all at once. He lost the girl, but he didn't lose the friend, and he's determined to keep it that way. Cat lifts her glass back with a grateful smile.

Her phone lights up with a message:

Lando: YOU DID ITTTTT. Olympic champ. So proud of you, mate. She snorts, holding the phone up for her teammates to see. "He spelled champion wrong."

"No he didn't," one of them laughs. "He spelled it in Lando."

The whole table cracks up.

Coach Margaret stands to make a toast, her voice immediately bringing Cat back to the girl she had been at sixteen—the one terrified of everything except a boat slicing through water at dawn.

"Catalina," she says, smiling so wide her cheeks might split. "You were the easiest kid to coach and the hardest one to replace. I'm so proud of the woman you've become."

Cat's throat closes and she leans her head into her brother's shoulder for a second, pretending she's not crying.

Her current coach jumps in next. "And I'm proud to say she's ours now," he teases, lifting his water glass. "But thank you, Margaret, for giving us a superstar."

The whole team bangs on the table and cheers, shouting Cat's name. She hides her face in her hands, laughing and crying all at once.

When she finally looks up, her old teammates are raising their glasses too, their eyes shining with the same bittersweet mix she feels in her chest. She gets up, walks over, and hugs each one tightly, whispering thank you into hair that still smells faintly of chlorine and sweat and home.

Back at her family's table, her dad has gotten himself just drunk enough that he's speaking in what can only be described as "aggressively proud Spanglish."

"I told her," he announces to the entire group, slamming his palm on the table for emphasis. "I told her she was going to win gold one day. My Catalinita, my Olympic champion!"

Cat groans and hides behind her hands again. "Papá, please—"

"Favorite child!" one brother yells.

"She is literally the favorite," the other adds. "Look at him. He's glowing."

Her father shoves both boys. "I love all my children. But the one who wins Olympics—maybe I love a little more."

Everyone erupts into laughter. Cat's face is red. Her dad is red. Her brothers argue over who's the real favorite. Her mom just shakes her head with a smile that could soften steel.

Across the table, Carlos is watching her—soft, warm, impossibly fond.

Leo elbows him. Alejandro raises his brows. Miguel smirks into his drink.

They know.

Tomorrow night is the night. Carlos is finally going to ask her to be his.

Carola, two seats down, is already planning tomorrow's shopping trip for a dress. She's practically vibrating with excitement.

Cat is the only one who doesn't realize what's happening. She's floating so high in her own bubble of joy—gold medal around her neck hours ago, team around her now, family laughing, food good, life bright—that she doesn't even think to wonder about the glances being exchanged around her.

She's just happy.

Happier than she's ever been.

When dessert arrives, her teammates pull her into a long rambling conversation about the medal ceremony. They talk about each other's strengths, each other's growth, the hell that was winter training, the way they held onto each other when it mattered. Cat talks about her old team and her new team, comparing memories and people and laughing at the ridiculous things they've all survived.

It's warm. It's tender. It's one of those nights she knows she'll remember forever.

Somewhere across LA, the internet is losing its mind.

Pictures of her and Carlos kissing in the stands are everywhere—every sports account, every fan page, every gossip site. F1 fans are practically clawing at the walls begging to know if they're official.

They aren't. Not yet. But tomorrow, they will be.

And Cat, still glowing, still overwhelmed, still unaware of everything being quietly arranged around her—

She just leans back in her chair, listens to her people laugh, and thinks: I can't believe this is real.

The next day all the girls woke up late—later than they've slept in weeks. The sun is already high over the Olympic Village when Cat finally blinks herself awake, the gold medal on her nightstand catching a sliver of light and throwing it across the room.

It still doesn't feel real.

They're officially done competing. Anyone who wants to stay in LA can, but athletes have to leave the Village and check into hotels. Most of Cat's teammates scatter to different Airbnbs or go with family. Cat? She's staying with Carlos.

He didn't even ask, really—just told her there was room for one more in his room.

Carola shows up outside the hotel later that afternoon, leaning against her car with sunglasses on and a grin that tells Cat she's up to something.

"Listo?" she asks.(ready)

Cat nods, still stretching out the soreness from the race. "Yeah, yeah. You sure you don't want to nap instead?"

"No," Carola says immediately. "We're celebrating you. Gold medalist lunch—just us girls."

Cat beams. She loves that idea.

They head to the mall, music playing, windows down, Carola chatting a mile a minute about everything and nothing. Cat's still floating, riding the high from last night, from the ceremony, from her family's laughter. From Carlos—

She shuts that thought down quickly. No need to overthink.

Carola leads her into the first store like a woman on a mission. "We're dressing you up," she announces. "If we're eating somewhere nice, you should look nice."

Cat rolls her eyes but lets herself be dragged through racks of dresses. She tries on a few: some too tight, some too bright, one that makes Carola scrunch her nose like she smelled something bad.

"You look like a medieval curtain," Carola declares. "Next."

They move to another store, then another. Cat laughs as Carola gets increasingly dramatic, hands to her chest, muttering "Dios mío" every time a dress isn't perfect.

And then—they find it.

A floor-length black glittering gown. Simple but striking. Elegant without being overwhelming. When Cat steps out of the fitting room wearing it, the lights catch on the fabric and scatter stars across the mirror.

Carola's jaw drops.

"Okay," she whispers. "Okay, this—this is the one."

Cat turns in the mirror, surprised at the way the dress hugs her waist and drapes over her shoulders. "It's pretty. Maybe too much for just dinner—"

"No," Carola cuts in, shaking her head dramatically. "Catalina. It's perfect."

She's practically vibrating, trying not to give the whole surprise away. She pulls Cat to a jewelry stand next, picking a delicate silver necklace with a gemstone that brings out the deep blue in Cat's eyes. Matching earrings, subtle but elegant.

"You look—wow," Carola says, hands to her mouth. "Like you're going to kill Carlos tonight." She whispered the last part.

Cat goes pink. "Carola! We're just eating."

Carola giggles, smacks her lightly on the shoulder, then whispers like she's telling a secret to the universe, "He won't survive it." Carola thought.

Cat narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Why are you so invested in my outfit?"

"Because," Carola answers, immediately recovering her composure, "if we're going somewhere fancy, you can't show up looking like you just rolled out of the boat."

"And who is paying for all this?" Cat gestures to the dress, jewelry, the shoes Carola is already pulling off a display. "I brought my own card—"

Carola grins wickedly and holds up a familiar black card.

Carlos's card.

Cat blinks. "Why does he keep giving you his card? That seems unsafe."

"For emergencies," Carola says innocently. Cat points at the pile of expensive items in her arms. "This is not an emergency."

"Catalina," Carola says, gravely serious, "you being underdressed is absolutely an emergency."

Cat laughs so hard she nearly drops the shoes.

They check out, Carola humming happily, practically skipping, knowing Carlos is going to lose his entire mind when he sees Cat in that dress.

Cat? She's still completely unaware.

She truly believes this is just a girls' night out. A fancy dinner. A fun little celebration.

Zero idea that tonight is the night Carlos plans to ask her to be his girlfriend.

Zero idea she is being dressed for the moment her entire life shifts.

She smiles at her reflection in a store window as they walk back toward the car.

"Is it too much?" she asks softly.

Carola wraps an arm around her shoulders.

"No. It's perfect. You're perfect."

Cat blushes, hugs her back, and gets into the car—still blissfully, beautifully unaware of what's coming.

By the time they make it back to Cat's hotel room, it's barely 2 p.m.—and Cat is exhausted in that floaty, weightless way that only comes after winning something you've trained half your life for. The dress hangs on the back of a chair like a secret. The jewelry glints softly in its little bag. Carola, humming with suspicious levels of excitement, kicks off her heels and immediately digs through her phone.

"Okay," she announces, "we have five hours to turn you into a goddess."

Cat laughs, tossing herself onto the bed. "Carola... it's just dinner."

Carola gasps dramatically. "Just dinner? Just dinner? Dios mío, Catalina, you kill me."

Cat throws a pillow at her.

Carola dodges it expertly, already pulling up a playlist and connecting to the room's Bluetooth. The speakers crackle—then the familiar opening of Mi Corazón Es Tuyo fills the room, upbeat and warm, instantly putting Cat in a better mood.

Carola claps once. "Perfect. Now sit your butt down."

Cat sits in the chair obediently as Carola gathers her brushes, pins, and half an arsenal of hair products. The afternoon light pours in through the window, catching the strands of Cat's thick curls.

Carola combs through them with gentle familiarity, her fingers light, looping and arranging curls with practiced ease.

"So," Carola starts casually, "now that you've graduated, and you're a gold medalist, and you've become the pride of three different countries—"

Cat groans. "Please stop."

"—what are your plans?" Carola continues, ignoring her. "Honestly. No cameras, no interviews. What do you want?"

Cat looks down at her hands, twisting her championship ring. "I think... I'm going to stay in San Francisco for a bit. Take a break. I've been on the go all year. Training nonstop. Traveling. Competing. Everything's been... a lot."

Carola nods softly. "You deserve a break. A long one."

"I might coach for the local club," Cat adds. "Just something light. Or maybe go back home for a few weeks. I don't know. I just want to breathe for a while."

Carola pauses mid–curl pinning and rests her chin on Cat's shoulder from behind, looking at her in the mirror. "You should. You've worked so hard. You deserve to rest."

Cat's shoulders relax. "Thanks, Carola."

Carola smiles and returns to the curls, pinning a few up and leaving others to frame Cat's face. By the time she finishes at 4 p.m., Cat's hair looks like something out of a magazine—soft waves pinned delicately into a romantic, effortless-looking style that actually took 40 pins and an entire bottle of hairspray.

Carola wipes invisible sweat off her forehead dramatically. "Mission one: complete."

Cat snorts. "You act like you're on a military operation."

"I am," Carola mutters under her breath. "You just don't know it."

Cat gives her a suspicious look, but Carola is already rummaging through a makeup bag so filled it looks like it weighs ten pounds.

She starts on Cat's makeup—soft, glowing skin, a hint of highlight on the cheekbones, a smoky shimmer that makes Cat's blue eyes look unreal. Carola hums and chatters as she works.

"You know," she says as she sweeps a brush across Cat's eyelid, "when Checo first met you, he said you were too calm for Carlos. I said, no—she just hasn't shown her chaos yet."

Cat laughs. "I'm not chaotic." Carola raises a brow. "Catalina. You punched a girl in college for calling your teammate fat."

"That was justice," Cat insists. Carola grins. "Sí. Exacto. Chaos."

By 5:30, Carola's makeup is done. Cat looks like a softer, more glamorous version of herself—still Cat, but glowing, polished, breathtaking. Carola changes next, slipping into a sleek rose-colored dress, heels clicking on the floor. Cat watches her zip up the side.

"You look gorgeous," Cat says. "So do you," Carola replies, tightening a bracelet. "This is the prettiest I've ever seen you." Cat goes pink. "Stop."

"No, de verdad. Carlos is going to pass out—" Cat looks up sharply. Carola freezes. "—from how jealous he'll be that we're having girls' night without him," Carola finishes quickly, waving a hand. "You know how he gets."

Cat relaxes again. "True." Carola exhales silently.

By the time they're completely ready, it's 6:30. The sun is starting to set, the sky turning golden, filtering in warm through the curtains. Carola grabs her phone.

"Okay. Stand by the window." Cat does as she's told, smoothing her dress—well, Carola's carefully chosen dress—over her hips. She feels beautiful. Nervous, but beautiful. Carola lifts her phone. The smile that spreads over her face when she sees Cat through the camera is nothing short of pride.

She takes a few photos—then a few more—then one where she steps back because she needs to capture the entire look. Cat laughs, ducking her head. "Stoppp."

"You look like a movie star," Carola says, voice softening. "He's going to—" She pauses, catching herself, then grins instead. "Everyone is going to stare at you tonight."

Cat shakes her head, smoothing her curls. "It's just dinner."

Carola bites back a smile so big it hurts. "Mm-hmm," she hums. "Just dinner." And as Cat grabs her purse and checks her lipstick in the mirror, blissfully unaware, Carola thinks:

Tonight is going to change everything.

Carola guides Cat through the restaurant like she's escorting royalty, her hand hooked around Cat's wrist as they weave between tables. The place is dimly lit, soft golden lights flickering against dark wood, elegant and intimate in a way that makes Cat blink.

"Carola... why are we upstairs?" Cat whispers. "You'll see," Carola sing–songs, almost skipping up the steps. Cat narrows her eyes. "Why are you giggling? Te ves sospechosa."

Carola only grins wider. They reach a set of double doors draped with velvet curtains. A waiter steps forward, bows slightly, and pushes one open. Cat steps through. And stops.

The room is empty except for one person.

Carlos.

Standing in a suit. Hands in his pockets. Hair perfect. Their matching hat set on the table like a declaration.

Her breath catches in her throat.

Carlos takes one step forward, and Cat turns sharply to Carola—who is giving her a thumbs up so enthusiastic it borders on violent. Then she winks, closes the door, and disappears, leaving Cat alone in the warm glow of candlelight.

Cat's heart stumbles. "Carlos...?"

Carlos crosses the room and kisses her without saying a word—soft, slow, pulling her in by the waist like he's been waiting months to touch her again. Cat melts immediately, her hands sliding up his chest, his jaw, kissing him back like she's been starving.

When they finally part, Carlos cups her cheeks gently. "Dios mío... you look hermosa." Cat flushes. "Carlos, what's going on?" He takes a shaky breath. The kind that says he's been rehearsing this.

"I was supposed to do this in Abu Dhabi." Cat freezes. The words hit like ice water. She remembers Abu Dhabi. How close they got. How real it felt. How Carlos suddenly pulled away—blocked her—and broke her heart without explanation.

Her chest tightens.

Carlos continues, voice quieter, apologetic. "I wanted to ask you then. I wanted to make everything official. But I got scared. I panicked. I... ran." He huffs a self-loathing laugh. "And I hurt you. I know I did. We stopped talking for months and it was my fault."

Cat looks away, blinking hard. The ache she buried resurfaces, soft but present. Carlos gently hooks a finger under her chin, pulling her eyes back to his.

"Catalina... this last year? Since meeting you? It has been the happiest, most chaotic, most alive I've ever felt." He swallows. "You push me. You calm me. You make everything make sense. I go to sleep thinking of you. I wake up thinking of you. You are... everywhere."

Her throat closes. Carlos steps even closer, voice barely a whisper. "So, mi amor... I don't want to wait anymore. I don't want to be a coward again. I want you. I want us. Catalina Villalobo... will you be my girlfriend?"

Cat doesn't answer. She launches herself at him. Her hands grab the back of his neck, pulling him down into a kiss so fierce Carlos nearly loses balance. He laughs into her mouth, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her slightly off the floor.

When they separate, Cat rests her forehead against his, breathless. "Took you long enough, pendejo." Carlos bursts into laughter, full and loud and relieved. He kisses her again, softer this time, and Cat smiles against his lips.

They sit down—technically. Cat lasts approximately ten seconds in her chair before she gets up again. "Ven acá,(come here)" she murmurs, sliding onto his lap like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Carlos's hands immediately settle on her hips as she kisses his cheek, then pulls out her phone. "Smile." Carlos groans. "Catalina—"

"Smile." He does. Because he's helpless. She snaps the picture: her in the glittering black dress, him in a suit, his matching hat in the background, her sitting on his lap with her hand on his chest.

Cat opens her Instagram story, types: "Got my gold... and finally got him too 💛✨"

Posts it.

Carlos wraps his arms around her from behind, burying his face in her shoulder as she giggles. "Finally," he murmurs. "Finally mine." Cat kisses him once more before sliding reluctantly back into her chair. Dinner arrives—perfect, candlelit, plated beautifully—and the two of them fall into conversation as if making up for every missed moment.

Their hands keep brushing. Their eyes keep lingering. And for the first time in a long time, Cat feels like she's exactly where she's meant to be.

Meanwhile the internet is collectively combusting. Cat's story has been up for less than ten minutes and Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, and every gossip site known to mankind are already on fire.

Screenshots of her sitting on Carlos's lap.

Zoom-ins of the matching hats.

Side-by-sides of Carlos looking at her like she hung the moon.

Fan edits with dramatic music.

People screaming "I KNEW IT" in seven different languages.

The F1 fandom and the rowing fandom merging into one giant emotional meltdown.

But Cat and Carlos don't see any of it. Their phones are facedown, silenced, and shoved to the opposite side of the table. They're in their own world, the candlelight soft around them, plates half-finished because they keep talking instead of eating.

Carlos reaches across the table and threads his fingers through hers, thumb brushing over her knuckles as if memorizing the shape of her hand. "Catalina..." he says softly. She hums, still smiling like she can't stop.

"I have to fly back tomorrow," he says. "Belgium. Practice before the race." Cat's smile falters for only half a second—but then she squeezes his hand tighter. "Okay," she says simply. "Then we leave in the morning, right?" Carlos blinks.

The happiness that flashes across his face is blinding. He looks almost stunned, like he wasn't expecting it, like he'd secretly feared she'd stay behind. "You—" He swallows, voice warm. "You want to come with me?" Cat arches a brow. "You thought you were getting rid of me that easy, amor?"

Carlos lets out a breathy laugh, that soft, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips—the one he only ever gets around her. He shakes his head slowly, eyes never leaving hers. "I wouldn't dream of it," he murmurs.

He lifts her hand and presses a kiss to her fingers, lingering there for a moment as if anchoring himself. Cat watches him, heart full, cheeks warm.

Their food sits forgotten. The world outside screams about them But here, at this table, in this tiny golden-lit bubble—

It's just Cat and Carlos.

Together.

Finally.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Christmas in Madrid felt like something out of a dream. Carlos Sr.'s estate was glowing with lights, the fireplaces already crackling, and the whole place smelled faintly of pine and warm bread. Catalina had been nervous the entire flight over — of course she was. The last time Carlos Sr. had been a factor in their relationship, it ended in heartbreak.

But when she stepped inside and saw him again, standing tall and proud but with a softened face, something shifted.

He walked toward her, paused, then nodded once. And then Carlos Sainz Sr. pulled her into a hug. "I was wrong about you," he said quietly, voice rough, sincere. "Very wrong. And I am sorry."

Catalina froze for a heartbeat — then melted. She hugged him tighter than she expected to, relief flooding her chest, her throat tightening.

When they pulled apart, Blanca swooped in with a squeal, hugging her like she'd been waiting years. Anna followed, beaming, saying, "We finally get to meet the girl he never shuts up about." Catalina flushed red immediately.

Then her own family came in — her mamá and papá, Miguel and Alejandro, and Leo (who immediately ran to Blanca's dog). Both families merged naturally, talking, laughing, passing food, sharing stories. Even Carlos's mother pulled Catalina aside with a warm smile, telling her she was "good for him."

Carlos barely left her side, one hand always brushing her back or linking their fingers.

The house was still loud — laughter echoing from the living room, Blanca and Miguel arguing over a board game, Leo running around with Anna's dog — but the kitchen was warm and quiet.

Carlos tugged Catalina in by the hand, closing the door behind them with his hip. "Just five minutes," he whispered against her hair. "I need five minutes where it's only us."

Cat laughed softly, leaning into the counter as he stepped closer. "Five minutes? Bold of you to assume our families won't come looking."

"They can try." Carlos braced his palms on either side of her on the counter, caging her in — but gently, tenderly. "I'm not sharing you right now." She rolled her eyes but her cheeks were pink. "You're so dramatic." He kissed her forehead. "I'm in love. It's the same thing."

Catalina's breath hitched. Even after five months of dating — five months of traveling with him, of the paddock and hotel rooms and dinners in places she'd never imagined — she still wasn't used to how earnestly he said things like that.

Off-season had started, and Carlos was done — done with airports, done with media, done with pressure. His plan was simple: stay home in Madrid with her. Wake up late, cook breakfast, take her rowing on the lake nearby, fall asleep on the couch watching movies, sneak out for long drives with no cameras, no one asking questions.

For the first time in years, he felt rested. Grounded. Happy. And Catalina... Catalina was glowing.

She loved this version of life — no finals, no lectures, just early-morning rows, lazy Spanish afternoons, and a future that didn't feel scary for once. She was in love with Madrid, with the soft pace of their days, with the comfort of being wanted so fully.

But mostly, she was in love with him. Carlos reached up, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "Mi amor," he murmured, smiling like she was the only light in the room, "you have no idea how happy you make me."

Cat felt her heart squeeze in her chest. "I think I do," she whispered back. "Because you make me just as happy." He kissed her — slow and warm and a little full of Christmas spices — the kind of kiss that said everything he couldn't.

Outside the door, their families kept laughing. Inside the kitchen, it was just the two of them, taking a breath, sinking into the quiet, into each other. Off-season had never felt so perfect.

Later that night, after dinner, after gifts, after wine and stories, Catalina posted a single photo.

A wide shot of both families gathered around the fireplace — the Sainzes on one side, the Villalobo Zugasti on the other — everyone smiling, cozy, comfortable. Carlos had his arm around her waist, his forehead leaning toward her hair. She was looking up at him, smiling in a way that made her whole face soft.

The caption read: "Feliz Navidad ✨❤️ Two families, one home."

Within minutes, the internet was losing its mind.

The comments exploded —

"WAIT THEY'RE TOGETHER FOR CHRISTMAS???"

"Carlos Sr. looks like he adopted her on the spot."

"Cat is officially the Favorite WAG™ now."

But Catalina didn't check her phone. She and Carlos were curled up together on the couch, feet touching under a blanket, whispering, laughing, just happy. For the first time, it felt like their lives had finally aligned — not just them, but the families, the past, the future. Everything was looking good for them.

Later that night the two of them snuck away while everyone else was still talking in the living room — Catalina tugging Carlos's hand with a mischievous whisper of, "Come on, show me your old room."

Carlos groaned but followed her up the stairs, muttering something about "no es tan interesante." The second the door opened, Cat's eyes lit up. The room was a time capsule. Trophies from when he was a kid. A tiny karting helmet. Walls painted a color he absolutely would deny choosing. And then—

"Oh. My. God." Cat marched straight to a shelf where a framed baby photo sat proudly: a tiny, chubby Carlos in nothing but a diaper, sitting in the grass, curly hair sticking up in all directions. She gasped dramatically. Then she whipped out her phone.

"No, no, no—Cat!" Carlos lunged, but she was too quick, already snapping pictures from every angle. "I'm updating my profile picture to THIS ONE," she declared, grinning like she'd won the world championship herself.

Carlos buried his face in his hands. "You're evil." Cat giggled, leaning in to show him the screen. "Look at you! You look like a little potato with legs." He groaned louder but pressed a kiss to her cheek, his hand finding her waist automatically. "I can't wait to go to your hometown and find your baby pictures."

Cat snorted. "Mine are cute." Carlos lifted a brow. "I was a cute baby." "You were... something," she smirked. Carlos slid his hands to her hips, pulling her closer. "Our kids will be cute too."

Cat froze.

Carlos noticed immediately. His voice softened, but he didn't back off. "Catalina... I'm not here for a short time." His thumb brushed her jaw. "I'm here forever. I know what I want." Her heart did something ridiculous — flipping, stuttering, swelling all at once.

She tried to play it off, whispering, "Baboso," as she grabbed his shirt and tugged him down. Carlos laughed softly — that low, warm sound she loved — and then their lips met, slow at first, then deeper, steadier, like they were sealing something real between them.

Outside the door, the house was full of family, warmth, and Christmas lights. Inside, in Carlos's old room, with baby photos scattered around them, everything felt like the beginning of a life they were quietly, inevitably building together.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

By the time Catalina hung up her oars for good, the world already knew her as a legend — three Olympics, three medals, one final gold, and a retirement speech that left half the UK crying. She was 33, done with 4 a.m. water sessions, swollen hands, and bruised ribs. Done with pressure. Done with constantly chasing the next impossible thing.

She wanted a family.

She wanted him.

Carlos had retired the year before, slipping out of Formula 1 with a grace that surprised everyone. He'd always said he'd know when it was time — and the moment Cat looked him dead in the eyes and said, "I'm ready," he knew.

They married years earlier, back when she was 25 and he was 35, a ceremony in Mallorca so breathtakingly private that the press didn't even know until months later. Just close family, the Mediterranean, and Catalina walking down the aisle with a smile so blinding Carlos forgot how to breathe.

They kept everything private after that — their marriage, their travels, their little apartment in London and their home in Madrid. Catalina posted sparingly, mostly sunsets and boats and cities she loved. Carlos posted even less.

So when, out of absolutely nowhere, on a random Tuesday morning at 9:17 a.m. Madrid time, Catalina uploaded a single picture — the internet exploded.

It wasn't even of her whole face.

Just her hand and Carlos's hand, cradling a tiny newborn foot between their palms. No caption. Just a soft white blanket and the unmistakable softness of a brand-new life.

The world stopped. Twitter crashed for seven minutes. Instagram broke its own notification limits. Sports pages panicked, convinced she'd been hacked.

But no — she simply turned her phone face-down afterward and went right back to staring at her son. Because inside the Sainz Villalobo family home, everything was blissfully quiet.

Carola was the first to burst through the door, hair bouncing, scarf half-off because she hadn't even bothered to fix it before sprinting inside.

"¿Dónde está mi sobrino?" (Where is my nephew) she demanded dramatically, as if she didn't know exactly where Cat was sitting. Catalina laughed, exhausted, glowing in a soft way she never had been before, cradling a tiny bundle to her chest. "He's sleeping, Carola."

"Not for long," Pato muttered as he walked in behind her, carrying three bags of food and a teddy bear far too big for any newborn. "Dios, he's tiny... how does a human get that tiny?" Checo followed next, already teary-eyed, already smiling like a proud uncle as he leaned over Cat's shoulder.

And Lando — well, he walked in with his phone raised, recording a vlog he claimed he'd never post, whispering dramatically, "We are here... for the tiniest Sainz in existence." Cat rolled her eyes but didn't stop smiling.

Carlos slipped an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head before gently lifting their son — Carlos Eduardo Sainz Villalobo — so everyone could see him properly.

He was perfect. A full head of dark hair. Smallest nose. Already the softest pout.

Carola covered her mouth as tears spilled down her cheeks. "He looks like you," she whispered. Cat shook her head. "He looks like both of us. But mostly..." her voice softened, "...he looks like a miracle." Carlos blinked hard, pressing his forehead to hers for a moment, soaking it all in — the love in the room, the tiny weight in his arms, the way Catalina looked at him like he hung the moon.

Pato leaned in closer, whispering, "You two are screwed when he starts walking. He's going to be fast as hell." Checo nodded gravely. "He will break things." Lando added, "He will break you."

Everyone laughed except Cat, who sighed dramatically. "Fantastic. I've birthed a menace." Carlos kissed her temple. "You birthed our boy."

Their boy.

Their whole world.

The group eventually settled around the living room — Pato warming bottles he absolutely didn't know how to use, Lando trying (and failing) to swaddle a practice blanket, Carola refusing to hand the baby to anyone else, and Checo quietly cleaning up takeout boxes because he remembered how chaotic newborn days were.

And in the middle of it all, Catalina leaned into Carlos, resting her head on his shoulder while their son slept against Carola's chest.

"Can you believe this?" she whispered. Carlos tightened his arm around her. "I can. I've been imagining it for years." Cat kissed his knuckles where they rested on her knee. "We're really parents."

"Yeah," he whispered, brushing their son's soft cheek. "We are. And we're going to be good ones." Outside, the world was screaming over a tiny foot and a surprising Tuesday post.

Inside, Catalina and Carlos sat surrounded by family, warmth, and a love that had spanned nearly fifteen years — from Abu Dhabi heartbreak to Olympic gold to this tiny new beginning. Their greatest adventure had just started.

Two years later, life in the Sainz-Villalobo household moved with the rhythm of a family that finally had everything they had ever wanted — love, peace, and two tiny, unstoppable hurricanes.

Their second child arrived on a warm spring morning in Madrid, the sun gentle, the air soft, and Carlos crying harder than the newborn. Miranda Graciela Sainz Villalobo Eight pounds, a head full of dark hair, and the exact same stubborn chin and nose as her father.

She blinked up at the world with deep brown eyes, scrunching her face in the most Carlos way possible, and Catalina burst out laughing even through her tears and exhaustion. "Carlos... she looks just like you." Carlos wiped at his eyes, not even pretending he wasn't crying. "She's perfect. Mi niña, you're perfect."

Little Eduardo, two years old and already tall for his age, looked up at the tiny pink bundle in his mother's arms and frowned deeply. "She's... small," he declared. Catalina laughed. "You were small too, cariño."

"No," Eduardo said seriously. "I big." Carlos ruffled his son's curls — the exact same curls Catalina used to tame into braids for practice. "You're big and she's little. You protect her, okay?" Eduardo nodded solemnly, as if he'd just been handed the most important mission on earth.

And thus, she joined the family — their tiny Mira, the perfect bridge between the stubborn Sainz spirit and Catalina's bold heart.

They learned quickly that Mira wasn't just Carlos's clone in looks — she had inherited his speed, his sharp eyes, his obsession with anything that went vroom.

By eight months she crawled faster than most toddlers could run. By one year she could make car noises suspiciously realistic for a baby. By eighteen months she cried — screamed — anytime Carlos put away one of his old helmets.

And by age two, she would sit in her tiny battery-powered car in the backyard, gripping the steering wheel with terrifying focus while Eduardo shouted, "SLOW DOWN, MIRA!" from the grass. Catalina stood at the door with her coffee, exhausted but glowing with pride. "That one's yours," she teased Carlos.

Carlos wrapped an arm around her waist. "She's perfect."

"You said that about Eduardo too."

"And he is. He rows better than some college kids already." Carlos grinned. "He's a mini tú."

He was. Eduardo had Catalina's eyes, her calm intensity, her focus. He was happiest by water — little hands wrapped around the miniature rowing oar Carlos had custom-made for him. He would sit on the dock in San Francisco whenever they visited, swinging his legs and watching the waves with a seriousness no toddler should possess.

And Catalina loved it. She loved that both children carried pieces of them — a mix of worlds, of passions, of histories. Their family was whole.

One afternoon, during an early summer barbecue at the Pérez home, Carola and Checo watched from the patio as Pato's son — a chubby-cheeked, dimpled little boy named Valentín — toddled toward Mira. Mira was standing by Carlos's leg, holding one of his old gloves in both hands, pouting because he wouldn't let her wear it.

Valentín stopped in front of her, holding out his toy car like an offering . Mira stared at him. He stared back. And then she snatched the toy car out of his hand, examined it, and gave a decisive nod of approval. Valentín giggled, clapping. Mira didn't giggle back — she simply sat beside him and started rolling the car across the patio stones with intense concentration.

Carlos blinked. "Did she... make a friend?" Pato put a hand on his heart dramatically. "This is the beginning of something beautiful." Catalina looked at him flatly. "Don't start." Carola whispered, smirking, "They would make cute babies."

"CAROLA!" three people shouted. Carola just laughed. And from then on, wherever the families gathered, Eduardo and Mira split easily into their own little worlds:

Eduardo trailing Catalina near the water, trying to mimic her strokes. Mira chasing after Valentín, racing him across the yard or demanding he share his toy cars. Two kids already showing who they were meant to become.

At night, when both children finally passed out — Eduardo curled between his rowing plushies and Mira hugging Carlos's old racing glove like a teddy bear — Catalina would lie with Carlos in the quiet of their home. "You ever think we'd have this?" she whispered one night, their daughter asleep on her chest after a nightmare.

Carlos brushed a curl behind her ear, his voice soft. "Sí. I always did. I just didn't know how long it would take to get here." She smiled, kissing Mira's forehead. "They're perfect."

"Our little team," he said, pressing his lips to her shoulder. "One mini you. One mini me. And both of them driving us crazy." She laughed softly. "I wouldn't change a thing."

Carlos slid his hand over hers, linking their fingers gently over Mira's small back. "Me neither." And somewhere across the hallway, Eduardo woke for a moment, peeked over at the night-light shaped like a little boat, and whispered sleepily to himself:

"I big. I protect Mira."

And he did.

And he would.

Forever.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

Next story will be Yuki x Checos sister only 5-7chapters. Chapter one will probably be out by next week.

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos finally did it #cat and Carlos finally dating #Catalina the gold medalist #happy ending

For The Plot// F1

Part: 24

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The second race day didn't feel like morning — it felt like the knife-edge of a blade.

The sky over LA was still washed in that pale gold dawn when Cat and the British women's eight walked out of the Olympic Village in their navy warm-ups, each girl quiet, each one vibrating with nerves so sharp they could've cut steel. It wasn't like the first race. That one had nerves, pressure, excitement.

This one had weight. If they didn't win today, there was no final. No shot at gold. No legendary last boat. No grandstand finish. It was win... or go home early.

Cat could feel her heart pounding in her throat as they approached the shuttle, the lenses of cameras following their every move. She tugged down the brim of her hat — the hat. Black, soft, worn-in, with a stupidly cute green dinosaur and a brown cat stitched on the front. A joke turned matching-couple-accessory. Her secret talisman.

She'd told everyone she wore it because it was lucky. Everyone except Bella knew the real reason. Speaking of Bella — she was walking beside her, clutching her water bottle like she wanted to crush it, but grinning like the chaos demon she was.

"You're wearing the matching hat," Bella whispered. Without even looking up, Cat muttered, "Shut up."

"I'm just saying... someone is in the stands with the other one." Cat pretended she didn't hear, but her cheeks said otherwise.

When they reached the competition venue, the crowds were already pouring in, flags waving, cameras clicking, the air heavy with the tension of too many dreams pressed into too small a space. The teams from Romania, Australia, the US, and the Netherlands were warming up in their sections, the atmosphere thick and competitive.

Cat took a breath, then another. Her legs felt like jelly and concrete all at once. The semifinals. Holy shit. The girls set their bags down and began stretching. Coach John gathered them into a tight circle, his clipboard tucked under one arm, his face surprisingly calm.

"Eyes up," he said. "Listen." Eight pairs of eyes. Wide, terrified, determined.

"You've all been training for this moment for years. Every mile you've rowed, every morning you woke up when it was still dark, every blister, every bloody cramp... you built yourselves for this. Not because someone told you you had to — but because you wanted it. Because this boat works when all of you work together."

Cat swallowed hard.

Coach John continued, "The pressure is real. The stakes are real. But the result? You decide that. Not Romania. Not Australia. Not anyone else. You." He pointed at them one by one. "This crew right here is good enough to be in the final. More than good enough. But you have to believe it. You hear me?"

A chorus of shaky "yes, coach."

"Good. Warm up. Lock in. Race clean. Race hard." They split off, doing lunges, high knees, arm swings. Bella swore under her breath when she nearly tripped. Cat flicked her shoulder and kept going.

Her body felt strange — tight but electric, the way it did before her best races. Like the universe had plugged a wire straight into her spine. But when she straightened to adjust her hat, her eyes drifted up toward the stands. She didn't expect to see him so quickly.

Carlos. Standing right beside her family. Wearing the matching damn hat. His hair was shoved underneath it, sunglasses on, but she'd know him anywhere. And beside him were her parents, her brothers, Leo, Lory, Jackie — all waving like maniacs.

Carlos lifted two fingers in a subtle little salute. Cat melted. Fully melted. She smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

Bella saw and immediately shoved her. "Oh my god. You're disgusting."

"Shut up," Cat hissed. "You have a whole Olympic crush arc on full display. People are staring."

Cat refused to look around — because Bella wasn't wrong. She could feel eyes on her, whispers, amused glances. The Carlos-and-Cat rumors had been around for months, especially after the matching hats, the soft-launch pictures, the way Carlos kept her as his wallpaper.

And now the paparazzi photo of their kiss had only fed the wildfire. But Cat didn't care right now. All she cared about was winning. They carried their oars down toward the docks, the smell of lake water, sunscreen, and adrenaline thick in the air.

Cat stepped onto the dock, then into the boat, moving with the practiced precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. The others followed — eight bodies slotting into place like puzzle pieces.

The coxswain hopped in at the stern and glanced at Cat, waiting for her to click into captain mode. Cat looked up at the sky, at the stands, at her family, at Carlos — then lowered her gaze and nodded.

Game face.

"Ready."

They pushed off from the dock, oars cutting the water in soft unison strokes as they glided toward the starting platform.

Romania was already lined up — stone-faced, tight, and dangerous. Australia too, with their aggressive pacing drills. Netherlands stretched their shoulders, confident and cool.

Cat locked her hands around the handles, inhaling that sharp burn of anticipation.

The world felt muted.

Just the boat.

Just the girls.

Just the race.

The official's voice cracked over the speakers.

"Ready crews..." Cat could feel the tremble in her muscles. Her lungs tightened. "Attention..." She shot one last inhale. The gun fired.

BOOM.

The girls drove their legs into the footplates, the boat exploding forward in a clean, vicious surge. Water splashed off their blades in perfect rhythm, eight bodies snapping back, eight blades slicing through the lake like razors.

They were top three immediately — them, Romania, and Australia. The coxswain shouted calls, keeping them on track. "Sharp on the catches! Loose shoulders! Breathe!"

Cat could hear the Romanian cox yelling behind them, hear the Australian rhythm echoing beside them. But she didn't turn. Didn't look. Didn't break. Between strokes, Cat shouted, voice raw already:

"Come on, girls! Hold that pace!" Her thighs burned. Her lungs felt like fire. Her arms trembled. The halfway mark hit. Romania surged.

Of course they did — desperate for payback. Australia matched. The water churned like a battlefield. Cat felt the push and snarled under her breath. "No," she whispered. "Not today."

When Romania began inching forward, Cat didn't hesitate. She looked at her coxswain and gave a sharp nod. The signal. The coxswain bellowed:

"TEMPO SWITCH! GO GO GO!"

Their crew shifted instantly — faster, harder, legs slamming, backs swinging, oars hitting the water with punishing force.

They gained. An inch. Two inches. Half a seat. Three-quarters.

They pushed again, legs screaming.

"Forty meters!"

"COME ON!"

"LAST DRIVE!"

Cat's voice cracked as she yelled, "DON'T LET THEM HAVE IT!" Australia was fading. Romania was two feet off them — not enough. The line approached — fast, too fast —They crossed.

Silence.

Tension.

The boat stilling beneath them.

Eight girls panting like they'd run through hell.

They stared at the giant screen. The numbers flashed.

GREAT BRITAIN – 1st.

Romania – 2nd.

Australia – 3rd.

Cat didn't breathe. Couldn't. Then— The boat erupted.

Screams.

Laughing.

Crying.

Oars slapping water.

Girls pulling each other into frantic, breathless hugs.

They'd done it.

They were going to the Olympic final. Cat threw her head back and yelled into the blazing LA sky, pure joy ripping out of her chest. Somewhere in the stands, Carlos stood and cheered — hat on, hands above his head — looking like he'd just won the world, too. They rowed back toward the docks, still shouting, still laughing, still riding the unbelievable high. And for one blinding, perfect moment... Cat felt unstoppable.

They rowed back to shore in a wild blur of adrenaline, sweat, and half-sobbing laughter. The second the boat touched the dock, everyone jumped off like they'd been electrified. Bella tackled Cat first, nearly taking both of them into the water. Then the whole eight joined in a chaotic group hug that smelled like lake water, sunscreen, and absolute victory.

Coach John pushed through the chaos, eyes shining even though he was trying to look stern. "Great call again, Villalobo," he said, voice gruff. Cat beamed, breathless. "Thanks, coach."

He clapped her shoulder. "One more. Then we make history." Before any of them could breathe, staff were herding the team toward the media zone. No chance to see family, no chance to wave to Carlos — just cameras, lights, microphones shoved in faces.

Cat adjusted her hat — her matching hat — and stood in line for another interview. Then a mic she recognized from childhood slid into frame.

El Gordo y La Flaca. Of course.

The reporter approached like she owned the ground she walked on, smile sugary and sharp. "Catalina Ofelia Villalobo Zugasti," she drawled, "felicidades por la carrera. But a question many of your viewers in Mexico want to know..."(congratulations on the race)

Cat already felt her stomach drop.

"Si estás tan orgullosa de ser mexicana," the woman continued, "¿por qué no compites por tu país? ¿Por qué darle la espalda a tu gente?"

Condescending. Judgmental. Exactly what she expected. Cat inhaled slowly through her nose.

She kept her expression soft, that sweet smile her mother called la sonrisa de arma blanca — the blade-behind-the-lips smile. Then she answered in perfect, steady Spanish:

"Cuando me gradué de la prepa, apliqué a más de diez universidades en México que ofrecían remo. ¿Sabes cuántas me contestaron? Ninguna. Ni siquiera para rechazarme. Pura... silencio." ("When I graduated high school, I applied to more than ten universities in Mexico that offered rowing. Do you know how many replied? None. Not even to reject me. Just... silence.")

The reporter blinked. Cat continued, voice firm but polite:

"En México, si no tienes conexiones... no llegas a ningún lado. No es un secreto. Es la realidad de muchos atletas que nunca reciben apoyo." ("In Mexico, if you don't have connections... you don't get anywhere. It's not a secret. It's the reality for many athletes who never receive support.")

Her teammates glanced over, wide-eyed. Cat wasn't done.

"Berkeley sí me respondió. Me ofreció una beca completa. Luego, en mi año de intercambio en Birmingham, seguí remando y llevé al equipo al campeonato. Bath vio mi trabajo y también me ofreció una beca completa. Yo fui donde me querían. Donde podía crecer. Eso no es darle la espalda a nadie. Eso es hacer mi camino."

("Berkeley answered me. They offered me a full scholarship. Then, during my study-abroad year in Birmingham, I kept rowing and helped take the team to championships. Bath saw my work and offered me another full scholarship. I went where I was wanted. Where I could grow. That isn't turning my back on anyone. That's making my own path.")

Silence.

Thick, uncomfortable silence. The reporter's smile had shrunk three sizes. "...Bueno," she said finally, stiff. "Felicidades en la ganada." Cat gave her the same sweet smile, nodded politely, and walked away without another word.

She barely made it five steps before another mic appeared — TV Azteca. Young reporter. Kind eyes. Nervous smile. Cat relaxed instantly.

"Hola, Catalina," she said warmly. "Primero, felicidades. De verdad, fue impresionante."

Cat laughed, wiping sweat off her forehead. "Gracias, estuvo... fuerte. Muy fuerte." This reporter asked real questions — about the race, the team, what the final meant to her family watching in the stands. Cat laughed more, gestured wildly, even teased Bella off-camera when the girl tried to pose dramatically behind her.

Then the reporter pulled up the picture. That picture. Cat jumping into Carlos' arms the night before, kissing him, both of them caught in the headlights of his car — their matching hats giving them away instantly.

The reporter raised an eyebrow. Cat groaned.

"Oh my god," Cat muttered in Spanish, face in her hands. "I swear, I can't sneeze without y'all knowing."

The reporter laughed. "¿Son pareja?" Cat smirked. "Pues... preguntale a él. Él es el chismoso." ("Ask him. He's the gossip.")

Everyone around them laughed. They ended the interview with a genuine hug — Cat squeezing her slightly so she didn't drop her equipment. "Gracias por ser linda," Cat whispered. "Gracias por ser honesta," the reporter whispered back.

And with that, Cat jogged off to catch up with her team, the sun hitting her matching hat just right, the cheers of the stadium still echoing in the background.

The final awaited.

And Catalina Villalobo was ready.

Cat didn't even get two steps out of the press zone before she started scanning the crowds like a bloodhound. She knew exactly where her family would be — loud, emotional, impossible to miss — and sure enough, she found them all clustered together like a traveling circus of Villalobos.

Her mom spotted her first.

"¡Mi niña!"

"¡Catalina!"

"¡QUE CARRERÓN, DIOS MÍO!"

Her mother threw her arms around her so hard Cat actually lost her balance, laughing into her mom's shoulder as her dad grabbed the back of her head to press a kiss to her hair. Alejandro and Miguel squeezed in, practically crushing her ribs as they shouted nonsense in Spanish, shaking her like she was a rag doll they were proud of.

"Okay— okay— I need to breathe—" Cat wheezed, laughing.

When she was finally released, she turned—

And saw him.

Carlos. Still in his matching hat. Still in that stupid hoodie she liked stealing. Still looking at her like she had single-handedly rowed the entire boat by herself.

Cat didn't think. She just launched herself straight into his chest, arms wrapping tight around his shoulders, face buried in his neck.

He hugged her back immediately—arms around her waist, pulling her in, holding her like he'd been waiting hours for this exact moment.

"Lo hiciste," he whispered, kissing the side of her head. "Mi campeona."

They stayed like that—longer than was normal for "just friends." Longer than anyone would misinterpret. Long enough that Leo absolutely had to ruin it.

"Okay, okay!" Leo shouted. "Save it for after she wins gold, por favor, I don't need to see the soft-launch of your future children!"

Cat didn't even bother turning around. She stuck her middle finger up behind Carlos's back while still hugging him.

Her family howled laughing. Carlos just smirked and kissed the top of her hat.

By the end of the day, Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, and every sports outlet on the planet had entered full meltdown mode.

#CatalinaVillalobo

#TeamGB

#MatchingHats

#CarlosWasThere

The photo of him in the stands — matching hat, matching grin, eyes glued to Cat — was everywhere. People slowed down videos, circled him in red, added dramatic music, zoomed in on the dinosaur logo like it was evidence in a government conspiracy.

Combined with Cat's interview? Her shutting down that reporter with surgical precision? Everyone declaring she "dragged the Mexican sports system by the scalp"?

The internet was FEEDING.

Meanwhile, Catalina Villalobo was nowhere near social media.

She was in Carlos's hotel room, in his clothes, on his couch, hair wrapped in a towel after the hottest shower she'd taken in days.

Carlos sat behind her, legs bracketing hers, massaging slow circles into her sore back while she scrolled through comments on her phone.

"Look at this," Cat muttered, voice thick with exhaustion. "'She's entitled.' 'She's ungrateful.' 'She just wanted to be British.' Bro, I literally just told the truth."

She rolled her eyes and tossed her phone onto her stomach. Carlos leaned down, chin resting on her shoulder, hands still working her muscles.

"Mi amor," he said softly, "those people wouldn't last three minutes in your training. They don't matter." Cat hummed, tilting her head so it rested against his.

"Yeah, but it's annoying," she said. "I didn't turn my back on anyone. Mexico turned its back on me." Carlos's hands paused—just for a second—before he resumed.

"You don't owe them anything," he murmured. "You owe yourself everything you've worked for. And look where you are." She exhaled slowly, melting further into him, exhaustion catching up with her all at once.

Carlos pulled her closer. "You are doing everything right, Catita," he whispered. "And mañana? You're going to rest. Sleep. Recharge. Then win the damn gold."

She smiled, eyes falling shut, body sinking into his warmth. "Stay with me tonight?" she asked quietly.

Carlos didn't even try to hide the smile she could feel on her skin as he kissed her shoulder. "Siempre."

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The next morning, Cat had to drag herself out of Carlos' ridiculously comfy hotel bed and back into the Olympic Village grind. The sun wasn't even fully up when she jogged across the compound, hair in a messy braid, uniform still smelling faintly like the lavender soap from Carlos' shower.

Coach John had the whole boat lined up in one of the meeting rooms, whiteboard already filled with scribbles. He didn't waste time.

"Tomorrow decides everything," he said, tapping the marker against the board. "Gold is there. But only if you execute."

The girls leaned forward in their chairs, notebooks open, pens clicking. Cat was laser-focused, jotting down every stroke cue, every split target, every adjustment they needed to make depending on which countries jumped early.

Bella kept chiming in about rhythm. Maya talked strategy for the first 500 meters. Cat added her own thoughts on pacing their power bursts so they didn't blow out too early.

By the time the meeting wrapped, everyone was buzzing with adrenaline.

And then Bella clapped her hands.

"Okay! Before we go—TikTok time."

All eight girls groaned but also immediately stood up because nobody could ever say no to Bella.

She aimed the camera at Cat, who was already half laughing, half embarrassed.

"We're filming part one now..." Bella said dramatically. "Part two will be once we have those BEAUTIFUL gold medals hanging on our necks."

The whole team screamed like teenagers and hugged each other so hard their lanyards got tangled.

Coach John shook his head, smiling like the shocked-but-proud dad he secretly was.

Once everyone dispersed, he gently tapped Cat's shoulder.

"Walk with me."

Her stomach fluttered — but he didn't look mad. If anything, he looked...proud?

"I saw your interview yesterday," he said as they stepped outside into the sun. "You handled it well. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Cat blinked, surprised. Coach John wasn't exactly the soft, encouraging type.

He added, "You have every right to defend yourself. And I'm on your side. Always."

Cat felt something warm swell in her chest. She nodded, murmured a thank you, and he patted her on the shoulder before sending her off.

She ran back to her room to change — swapping her training gear for shorts, a hoodie, and her favorite sneakers — because she had a plan.

A very sneaky plan.

She went to the back entrance of the Village and waited, bouncing on her feet like a kid.

When Carlos finally walked up the ramp, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on, Cat's smile practically cracked her face.

She held up a laminated pass like it was a golden ticket.

"Look what I got you."

Carlos took it, grinning, and immediately intertwined their fingers. "Mi amor... you're going to get in trouble one day."

"Worth it," she said smugly.

Once he had the pass clipped onto his shirt, Cat tugged him inside. She gave him the grand tour — the dining hall buzzing with athletes from half the world, the lounge where volunteers endlessly restocked snacks, the gym packed with teams warming up.

They snuck into gymnastics for a bit. Then volleyball. Then track. Everywhere they went, someone recognized them. And this time?

Neither of them cared.

They posed for pictures, laughed when people pointed out the matching hats, and didn't even flinch when someone whispered, "OH MY GOD, that is Carlos Sainz from the stands yesterday!"

Carlos just pulled Cat closer by the waist, kissing her hair.

Cat, for once, didn't blush.

She just smiled like she owned the whole damn Olympics.

For the rest of the day, it was just Cat and Carlos — the world shrank to the two of them wandering through the Olympic Village like they owned it.

Cat kept dragging him from venue to venue, pointing out everything like a tour guide on caffeine. Carlos acted like he had never seen anything cooler in his life, even though he'd been to actual Formula 1 paddocks and driven literal rocket ships on wheels.

At the archery range, he stood behind her with his hands on her waist, teasing, "You think you could beat them, mi vida?" Cat didn't miss a beat. "Absolutely not."

Halfway through the afternoon, Bella spotted them from across the walkway. She grinned so big her cheeks nearly split — but she wasn't alone. Alejandro popped out from behind a column like he'd been hiding from the police.

Cat blinked. Bella gave her a thumbs-up so dramatic it could have been seen from space. Alejandro waved awkwardly before pulling Bella by the hand behind the food trucks again.

Carlos raised a brow. Cat just shook her head. "I'm ignoring it."

"I think that is wise," he chuckled.

Later, Leo strolled by, hair perfect, swagger turned up to eleven, talking to a tiro al blanco girl from Team Mexico. Cat caught his eye and wiggled her brows. Leo flipped her off, then went right back to flirting so aggressively that Carlos muttered, "Dios mío."(God damn)

Evening fell, and the Village lit up with warm lights and that nervous, electric energy that only happens the night before Olympic finals. Cat and Carlos walked slowly toward the entrance where they had to split. Neither wanted to say it first. Carlos brushed a piece of hair from her face. "Mañana... I'll be watching."

"I know," she whispered. "And cheering. Loudly. Embarrassingly loudly."

"Perfect." Her voice cracked the tiniest bit. He cupped her cheeks, kissed her softly — then again — and pulled back smiling like an idiot who just won the lottery.

"Goodnight, Catalina Ofelia Villalobo Zugasti." She melted. Absolutely melted. Cat watched him leave, hugging her arms to her chest, cheeks hurting from smiling. When she finally got back to the Village, she expected to sneak quietly to bed.

Nope.

Everyone — literally every girl from her team — was outside, sitting on the steps, pacing, stress-eating granola bars, playing with their lanyards, or staring into the distance like traumatized war veterans.

Bella spotted her first. "CAT! We can't sleep!"

"No one can sleep!" Maya added, chewing ice like it owed her money. Cat stepped into the circle, hands on her hips. She looked at all of them — her friends, her crew, her sisters — all vibrating with nerves.

So she did what she always did. She took a deep breath and spoke.

"Tomorrow we get to do what we came here to do. We didn't bust our asses for two years to let nerves win now. We know our rhythm. We know each other. And when we hit that water, we're not rowing for medals, or cameras, or anyone else. We're rowing because we're the best damn team here — and we earned that right. So take a breath. Trust each other. Trust yourselves."

They all stared at her, blinking. Cat added, "And if anyone pukes in the morning, please do it away from my shoes." That broke them. The entire team screamed, shouted, hugged, and suddenly the tension cracked like a shell. Bella threw her arms around Cat first.

"You always fix my brain, I hate you," she sniffed. Maya wiped her eyes. "Same." One by one, they hugged her before heading to their rooms, nerves softened but fire lit.

As Cat crawled into bed, she whispered into her pillow: "Gold." And she meant it. The next morning came brutally early.

The alarms went off at 4:45 a.m., buzzing like angry insects. Groans echoed through the team housing. Cat rolled out of bed first, rubbing her eyes, muscles stiff but mind sharp. Finals day. The day. Bella was already stumbling around, hair in a messy bun, muttering prayers in English, Spanish, and whatever she had picked up from her Italian teammate last night.

They suited up in silence — the heavy kind of silence charged with purpose.

Downstairs, Coach John gathered them in a semicircle. "Today we row the race we've trained for. No panic. No overthinking. You follow the plan, and you trust Catalina's calls. She hasn't gotten you wrong yet." Cat swallowed hard. It wasn't pressure — it was honor.

When they walked out of the Village and toward the docks, the world felt sharper: the cold air, the chatter of crowds, the clatter of oars. People were already lining the railings hours before the start. Flags from half the world fluttered above them.

Cat kept her head down, focused — until she saw something that made her stop dead in her tracks.

Three familiar figures in the stands.

Carlos.

Carola.

Checo.

CHECO?

Cat blinked twice, genuinely thinking she was hallucinating from nerves or sleep deprivation. But no.

There they were — Carola waving like a deranged cheerleader, and Checo sitting next to Carlos, both wearing matching Team GB bucket hats like it was completely normal for two of Formula 1's biggest stars to show up to rowing finals.

And then Carola — bless her unhinged heart — stood up and lifted a giant cutout of Cat's face. Not a small one. Not a polite one. A full-on Nicki Minaj Barb-level poster.

Bella choked. "Oh my GOD." Cat covered her face with her hands and wheezed. "No. No, she didn't." Carola definitely did.

Carlos spotted her and grinned like sunshine, waving the hat in tiny circles just to make her laugh. Checo lifted his coffee cup at her like a salute. Carola blew her kisses.

Cat shook her head, cheeks burning, but her smile was unstoppable. Her teammates noticed immediately. Maya nudged her. "Girl. Your entire pit crew is here."

Bella whispered, "I swear to God, if I see Max Verstappen next I'm leaving."

The photographers noticed too — of course they did. Their cameras were already pointed at the trio, snapping rapid-fire shots of Carlos, Checo, and Carola like they were front-row celebrities at fashion week. Within seconds, flashes lit the stands.

Carlos didn't care. He just kept looking at Cat. And Cat — well, she looked back. The team began their stretching routine on the grass. Cat dropped into a deep lunge, trying to pretend her face wasn't plastered on a cardboard sign held proudly by her teammate's girlfriend's sister.

But her heart felt lighter. Her nerves steadied. Her people were here. Her family. Her man. And now half of Red Bull Racing, apparently. Bella leaned close. "Okay, but if you don't marry him, I might."

Cat snorted. "Shut up." Reporters were already moving in closer, recognizing the trio in the stands — the flash of cameras catching Checo's Red Bull jacket, Carola's ridiculous cutout, Carlos' unmistakable smile. Pato with his phone put recording.

But Cat tuned it all out.

She placed her hands on her hips, breathing slow, grounding herself. Around her, her teammates stretched, shook out their limbs, whispered to themselves, and shook off the fear.

Cat lifted her gaze one more time. Carlos mouthed, You've got this. She mouthed back, Watch me.

She turned to her team, voice steady, captain mode flipping on like a switch.

"Alright, girls. Let's warm up. And let's go win ourselves a gold medal." And just like that, they moved — united, focused, and fueled by every reason in the world to fight like hell.

They walked toward the starting docks like soldiers marching into battle.

The sun was barely risen, casting gold streaks across the water. Crowds pressed against the railings, flags waving, drums pounding from the Dutch section, horns from Romania, thunderous chanting from Great Britain.

Cat kept her head down, hat low, heart slamming in her chest — finals. Everything they'd bled for. When they reached the boats, the hush settled over them like a blanket. "Let's get to work," Coach John said quietly, voice almost shaking with pride.

The girls lifted the shell together — eight bodies moving as one — and carried it toward the water. Their breaths turned white in the cold morning air. Cat's hands tingled against the familiar slick carbon fiber.

Before she stepped in, she looked up toward the stands one last time. And that's when everything hit her. Her entire family was losing their goddamn minds.

Her mother was standing, hands clasped like she was about to pray herself into heaven. Her father was pacing like a caged lion, muttering, "Dios mío... Dios mío..." Leo and Lory had massive British flags painted on their cheeks. Jackie was wiping tears before the race even began.

Carola was waving the ridiculous cutout of Cat's face with the kind of enthusiasm only she could muster, shouting, "¡VAMOS CATALINAAAA!"(lets go catalina) Checo was clapping so aggressively it looked like his hands might break.

And then — of course — Pato O'Ward arrived late, shoving through security with a pass someone definitely forged, yelling, "¡YA LLEGUÉ, WEYYY! DON'T START WITHOUT ME!"(I am here, my guys)

Cat snorted, shoulders relaxing for the first time all morning.

Then her eyes went back to. Carlos. Hat matching hers. Shirt matching hers. Smile soft, warm, grounding. He put two fingers to his lips, then pointed them to her. A quiet little gesture meant just for her. Cat swallowed hard.

Focus. Lock in. Race mode. She stepped into the shell. The girls strapped in. The coxswain double-checked. Oars locked. Heartbeats synchronized.

The announcer's voice boomed over the water. "Final event: Women's Eight. Great Britain. Romania. Netherlands. Australia. United States. Germany."

The crowd roared so loud the water rippled.

Cat lowered her head. "Eyes up," she told her team. "Strong start. Strong finish. We do this together." The umpire lifted the flag.

The world stopped.

BANG.

The boats exploded forward.

The first 250 meters were a blur of violence — water churning, oars slicing, bodies snapping into perfect rhythm. Romania surged early, leading by half a seat. Netherlands right behind. Great Britain holding third.

Cat shouted, voice piercing through the chaos, "BREATHE — STAY TALL — STAY WITH THEM!" The British crowd thundered.

At 500 meters, they were still in third. Muscles burned. Breath tightened. No one spoke except Cat.

Australia pushed. Romania held the lead. Netherlands would not back off. Cat could feel her girls starting to fray — shoulders shaking, breaths slipping. She locked into them, eyes blazing.

"THIS IS OUR RACE!" she roared. "You've worked YEARS for these meters — YOU TAKE THEM BACK!" The boat responded like an animal unleashed. By 1000 meters, they pulled even with Netherlands. The stands went insane.

Cat didn't look — she couldn't. But she could hear her family screaming her name. Then, suddenly: "GREAT BRITAIN TAKES SECOND—!!" Romania still held first.

500 meters left.

The pain wasn't pain anymore. It was transcendence. It was fire. "WATER FORWARD!" Cat commanded. The coxswain echoed it. The girls obeyed.

They surged. The boat flew.

250 meters.

Romania started to falter. Their stroke rate dipped. Their coxswain panicked. Cat felt it. Smelled blood in the water. Her voice cracked as she screamed, "NOW! SWITCH! SWITCH! GO! GO! GO! EVERYTHING YOU HAVE LEFT! RIGHT NOW!"

The girls responded like demons unleashed — legs pounding, backs snapping, lungs screaming. The shell skimmed over the surface like it wasn't even touching it.

The British crowd was on its feet.

Her mother sobbing.

Carlos gripping the railing like it was life or death.

Checo yelling, "¡DALEEEE!" Pato screaming nonsense in Spanish. Carola shaking the giant cutout over her head like she was summoning spirits.

The finish line loomed. It was too close. Too damn close. Netherlands fought back. Romania clawed forward again. All three boats crossed the final twenty meters like a wall of insanity.

Cat didn't breathe.

The horn blared.

Silence.

No one knew.

Not the girls, not the coaches, not the announcers.

Cat's chest heaved. Her vision blurred. Every girl in the boat looked like they were teetering between vomiting and passing out.

Then — the screen began updating.

Line by line.

Bronze: Netherlands

Silver: Romania

Gold:

...

GREAT BRITAIN

The scream that erupted from their boat wasn't human. Eight girls collapsed into each other, sobbing, shaking, grabbing one another's faces, hands, jerseys.

Bella threw her head back and wailed. Maya hugged Cat so hard they nearly fell overboard. Cat pressed her forehead to their coxswain's and whispered, "We did it, we did it, we fucking did it—"

Coach John was on the shore wiping his eyes aggressively, yelling, "THAT'S MY TEAM! THAT'S MY GIRLS!"

As they rowed back, exhausted and euphoric, Cat finally looked up at the stands.

Her family was a disaster. Her mother crying uncontrollably. Her father hugging everyone including strangers. Leo jumping on Pato's back. Jackie and Lory screaming. Checo lifting Carola into the air. Carlos — eyes shining, hand over his heart, smiling the softest smile she'd ever seen.

Cat felt her eyes burn.

They reached the dock.

And the moment her feet touched the platform, her teammates tackled her into a group hug, sobbing, trembling, overwhelmed.

Gold. They did it. They actually did it.

And Catalina Villalobo stood there in the morning sun — soaked, shaking, hat nearly falling off — realizing she had just written herself into history.

Cat barely had time to wipe her eyes before she took off in a sprint — legs burning, lungs raw, medal not even around her neck yet. She didn't care. She needed him.

"CATALINAAAAA!" Bella screamed behind her, but Cat was already flying.

Carlos didn't wait. He vaulted the barrier like a man possessed, ignoring the security yelling behind him. The second his feet hit the ground, Cat launched herself into his arms.

He caught her effortlessly, lifting her completely off the floor as she wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against him. His hands held her like he never wanted to let go again.

"You did it, mi amor," he breathed, voice shaking, forehead pressed to hers. "Lo hiciste. Lo hiciste."(You did it, you did it)

Cat laughed through a sob, grabbed his cheeks, and kissed him — long, messy, shaking, full of tears and sweat and absolute joy. The stands erupted. Cameras flashed everywhere, journalists screaming their names, fans losing their minds.

For the first time in months, they didn't hide. Carlos set her down slowly but kept his hands on her waist, and Cat couldn't stop smiling. Couldn't stop crying. Couldn't stop feeling like her heart had grown five sizes.

"Go," Carlos whispered softly in Spanish, brushing her cheek with his thumb. "Ve con tu familia. Te están esperando."(go with your family they are waiting)

She nodded, squeezed his hand, and turned toward the stands. Her family was already spilling down the stairs.

Her mother was the first — Cat crashed into her, arms around her neck, and broke into sobs. Her mom kissed her head over and over whispering "Estoy tan orgullosa de ti... mi niña... mi niña..."(I am so proud of you, my girl)

Her father wrapped them both up, his eyes red, jaw tight with emotion. Then Leo tackled her from the side. Miguel and Alejandro grabbed her in a crushing sibling sandwich. Jackie and Lory squeezed in, all crying and laughing at the same time.

Cat was shaking, overwhelmed, repeating, "We won... we actually won... I can't believe it—"

Then she heard her name.

"VILLALOBO!"

Her head snapped up. Coach John was waving her over — but he wasn't alone.

Next to him... Coach Margaret. And behind her... the Birmingham girls. Her old team. Cat's breath hitched. Her knees buckled. A raw, ugly sob ripped out of her chest before she even moved. She broke from her brothers and ran — sprinted — straight into Coach Margaret's arms.

The older woman wrapped her up instantly, stroking her hair the same way she did when Cat was nineteen and terrified before her first big college race.

"Oh sweetheart," Margaret whispered. "Look at you now." One by one, Cat hugged her old teammates — girls she'd sweated with, bled with, grown up with. They held her so tight her ribs ached.

"We knew you'd do it," one said. "You were born for this," another added. "We watched every stroke." Cat sniffed, shaking. "Stop— you're gonna make me cry more."

"You're already crying," Margaret teased, wiping her cheek. "Shut up," Cat said, laughing and trembling at the same time. She stepped back, bowing her head gratefully before excusing herself — because she needed to get back to her team.

As she jogged toward the center platform, the rest of the British eight spotted her and burst into cheers, grabbing her hands, her shoulders, pulling her into their tight circle.

"VILLALOBO, LET'S GO—!"

"That's our captain!"

"You carried us, girl!"

Cat wiped her face, squared her shoulders, and stepped into place with them. The announcer boomed across the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen — the medal ceremony for the Women's Eight Final will now begin."

The British flag unfurled.

The crowd rose.

Cat's heart hammered.

This was it. Everything she'd fought for. Everything she'd bled for. Everything she never imagined she'd get. And as the podium lifted them toward the sky, Cat glanced toward the stands one last time — toward her mother, her brothers, her old coaches, her friends...

And Carlos, looking up at her like she'd hung the stars herself. She inhaled, closed her eyes, and stepped into her moment.

The medal platform rose slowly, almost theatrically, and Cat felt her heart pounding against her ribs like it was trying to break free. The eight of them stood shoulder to shoulder — arms linked, hands trembling, breath still uneven from the race. They were soaked, exhausted, half-crying, half-laughing, and somehow still managing to look like the most powerful group of women on the planet.

A volunteer approached with the tray. Nine gold medals.

Real gold. Olympic gold. Gold she had dreamed of since she was fourteen, rowing alone in a dusty San Diego boathouse because she didn't have a team yet.

"Representing Great Britain... gold medalists..." A wave of cheers hit them like thunder.

Bella was openly crying. Holly was shaking like she'd downed seven espressos. Jasmine kept whispering "oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—" And Cat... Cat could barely breathe from the joy.

Their names were called one by one.

When the medalist placed the ribbon around Cat's neck — that cool weight, that unbelievable weight — she felt her knees nearly give out. Her eyes stung immediately. She bit her lip, trying not to sob on camera, but it didn't work. Something deep inside her cracked open.

All the mornings.

All the pain.

All the doubt.

All the times she'd trained until she threw up.

All the times people said she wasn't good enough, wasn't British enough, wasn't Mexican enough, wasn't anything enough—

They all broke at once. And in its place? Pride. Pure, overwhelming, undeniable pride. Her team reached for one another instinctively, forming a messy line of arms around shoulders and waists, their medals clinking together like champagne glasses.

Then the announcer's voice echoed: "Please rise for the national anthem of Great Britain." The opening notes played. Cat lifted her chin. Her eyes locked on the British flag rising above them... and then drifted, just for a second, to the stands.

Her family stood together, waving and crying. Her brothers held up cutouts of her face and pretended to faint. Her mom had a hand over her heart. Her dad wiped his eyes.

Carlos stood beside Checo and Carola — his hat pulled low, his chest puffed with pride, looking at her like she'd just rewritten history. Pato was beside them too, recording everything like the proud friend he was.

Cat swallowed hard.

The anthem crescendoed, the air thick with emotion and electricity. Her teammates sang — some loud, some whispering, some just humming because their voices kept cracking. Cat mouthed the words, laughing once when Bella elbowed her and wiped her own tears with the back of her hand.

When the final note rang out, they all raised their medals high. The crowd roared. And the girls — god, they looked ridiculous — grinning like idiots, crying, screaming, hugging, jumping around with gold medals clinking like windchimes.

The moment they stepped off the podium, they were swallowed by cameras and microphones. Reporters crowded in.

"How does it feel to be Olympic champions?"

"What was going through your mind in that final stretch?"

"Villalobo, that call you made — brilliant move! How did you know?"

Cat, still breathless and puffy-eyed, could only laugh. "It feels unreal," she said, voice shaking with joy. "Completely unreal." Her teammates chimed in, laughing and hyped like they'd just won a World Cup.

"Cat carried us—"

"NO I DIDN'T, we all carried each other—"

"She's lying, she absolutely carried us—"

"We're gonna frame these medals—"

"We're gonna sleep with them under our pillows—"

Every interview ended the same way. With all of them giggling, shoulders pressed together, gold medals shining bright under the LA sun. They looked unstoppable. Untouchable. Unbelievably happy. And Cat knew — this was the moment she'd replay for the rest of her life.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos need to grow a pair #carlos sainz x original character #pato o’ward wants catalina #Catalina won gold

For The Plot// F1

Part: 23

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

July hit fast—too fast—and before Catalina could even catch her breath from the last week of hellish training, she was stepping off a plane into the warm hum of Los Angeles air. The Olympic grounds stretched out like a small city, buzzing with athletes, coaches, volunteers, flashing cameras, and golf carts zipping everywhere. Her team rolled their suitcases behind Coach John, who was trying—and failing—to keep all of them in a straight line. Everything felt huge, loud, overwhelming. And exciting. Terrifyingly exciting.

The first thing Catalina noticed inside the Olympic Village was how alive everything felt. Flags from every corner of the world hung on balconies, music echoed from different courtyards, and athletes in uniform jogged past them like it was a perfectly normal place to be. Bella, of course, had her camera out before they even reached their building.

"Day one at the Olympics," Bella narrated dramatically. "Our captain is trying not to cry, Maddie's flirting with another country's volleyball team, and Coach John already looks like he regrets everything."

"Shut up," Catalina muttered, but she was smiling. Hard.

They finally made it to their assigned rooms—small, clean, simple, two beds per unit. Catalina tossed her duffel onto the mattress and sank down for a moment, letting the weight of the moment wash over her. She was here. She was really here.

Her phone buzzed.

Carlos: Voy a escaparme cuando compitas. No me importa. I'm going to see you race even if I have to disguise myself as a mascot.(ama sneak out once you compete. I dont care)

Catalina burst out laughing, her exhaustion loosening into something soft and warm in her chest.

Cat: Carlos... you can't do that.

Carlos: Watch me.

The little thrill that went up her spine was ridiculous. But she let herself savor it.

While the rest of the team unpacked, Catalina opened Find My iPhone, checking in out of habit. Her parents were already in Los Angeles—she could see their little dot not far from the venue. A sigh of relief escaped her. They were here. They made it. And even though she'd never admit it out loud, she needed that.

"Okay, chicas," Bella announced, sticking her head into Catalina's room with her camera still glued to her hand. "We're sneaking out. Maddie wants Starbucks. Also I want to find the Swedish handball team."

"Bella..." Catalina started—but she was already getting up. "Fine. But we're not gone long."

Three minutes later they were out the door, tucked under hats and sunglasses like it would actually disguise them. The Olympic grounds were massive, and everything felt surreal. Golf carts zipped past with important-looking coaches. Athletes from half a dozen sports passed them in team-issued gear.

"Holy shit," Maddie whispered, grabbing Catalina's arm. "Is that Ilona Maher? THAT Ilona Maher??"

Catalina turned—and she almost squealed.

Ilona was standing with a couple rugby girls, towering, laughing, intimidatingly beautiful, and looking exactly like the absolute menace she was in the 2024 games. Bella nearly tripped trying to keep her camera steady.

"Go say hi!" Bella hissed.

"No!"

"Yes!"

Before Catalina could run, Ilona noticed them. "Hey! Rowing, right?" she asked, pointing at their jackets.

Catalina nodded, starstruck. "Uh—yeah—yes. We're from the UK women's eight."

Ilona grinned. "Hell yeah. Y'all look tough as shit."

Bella made a noise that definitely wasn't human and Catalina wanted to evaporate. They took pictures—Maddie got hers, Bella recorded a vlog clip, and Ilona hyped Catalina up like they'd been friends for years.

As they walked away, Catalina practically floated.

"I'm framing that picture," she whispered. "I don't even care."

Then they ran into him.

A swimmer—tall, broad, ridiculously handsome in that Olympian way—with a box of muffins in his hand. The muffins. The infamous chocolate-muffin-destroying legend of the last Olympics. Catalina gasped.

"Oh my god... it's him," Bella whispered. "The muffin guy."

He looked up, eyebrows raised, like he heard the nickname often. "You want one?" he offered, holding out the box.

Catalina blinked, taking it reverently. "Yes. Yes, I do."

They got a picture with him too, Maddie and Bella practically vibrating with excitement.

By the time they made their way back to the village, Catalina's phone was full of photos she knew she'd cherish forever. Real memories. Real proof that she was part of this world now.

As they rode the elevator back up, Bella leaned against the wall dramatically. "Okay. First day was a success. We met a rugby goddess, a muffin king, and Cat didn't cry from stress even once."

"Not yet," Catalina joked, though her stomach fluttered with nerves and exhaustion.

The doors opened to their hallway, and Catalina stepped out, the weight of the Olympics settling over her again—but lighter this time, easier to carry. Because she wasn't alone. She had her team, her friends, her family nearby.

And somewhere across the world, Carlos was ready to disguise himself for her like an idiot.

She smiled at the thought. The games were here. And she was ready to face them.

Catalina slipped out of the village just after sunset, hoodie on, hat low, her accreditation pass tucked into her pocket. She needed this—needed to feel normal for just a few hours, needed her people. Her Uber pulled up to a quiet side street near downtown LA, and the second she stepped onto the curb, she heard—

"¡MI BEBÉ!"(my baby)

Her mom practically tackled her in a hug, squeezing the breath out of her. Catalina laughed into her shoulder, warmth blooming in her chest in a way she hadn't felt in months.

"Mamá, déjame respirar," Cat wheezed.(mom let me breath)

Her dad was next, pulling her into a tight, proud hug, murmuring, "Mijita... we're so proud of you."

Then came the two hurricanes disguised as her brothers.

Alejandro grabbed her first, lifting her off the ground like she weighed nothing. "MIRA NOMÁS A LA OLÍMPICA," he shouted, shaking her like she was still eight years old. (Look who it is Miss Olympic)

"PUT ME DOWN!" she yelled between laughs.

Miguel joined in, wrapping an arm around her neck. "I haven't seen you in a year and this is how I'm welcomed? Abuse? Qué feo caso."(What an ugly case)

She elbowed both of them in the ribs—hard. "Touch me again and I swear—"

They only laughed harder.

And then she saw them—Leo practically bouncing, Lory waving both arms like she was trying to fly, and Jackie already recording the moment.

"MY BABYYYYY!" Jackie yelled, running to her.

"Shut up," Cat said, pulling her into a hug. "You're embarrassing me."

"You're an Olympian," Lory said, squeezing her. "Embarrassment is your brand."

Leo stepped forward with open arms. "Come here, bitch."

"You're the bitch," Cat said, still hugging him.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway—tacos?" Leo asked. "Because I know damn well you're starving for real Mexican food here. I already found the spot. Trust."

Cat didn't even pretend to play it cool. "POR FAVOR, LET'S GO."

And so the eight of them walked down the street, Cat in the middle, her matching Carlos-and-Cat hat sitting perfectly on her curls—black with a little green dinosaur on one side, a little brown cat on the other, and Carlos's number 55 stitched in the back. Leo pointed at it immediately.

"Ohhh? Representing someone? Interesting," he teased.

Alejandro groaned loudly. "Are you finally dating him? Yes or no, Catalina."

Before she could answer, Miguel jumped in with, "No. She should go for Pato. I like him better."

Cat stopped walking and stared at her brother. "I hate both of you."

"Carlos is too serious," Miguel said, shrugging. "Pato seems fun. Like me."

Ale groaned louder. "No, no, no. Carlos is better. Older. More stable. You don't need another clown in your life."

"You literally are a clown," Cat shot back. "And no one asked for your opinions."

Leo snorted. "Actually, I asked for the drama. Spill."

"Shut up," Cat muttered, flipping him off as they crossed the street.

They reached the taco stand—plastic tables, neon lights, the smell of carne asada making Cat's stomach scream—and the group sat down at two pushed-together tables. Cat squeezed between Alejandro and Miguel automatically, their shoulders pressed against hers like no time had passed.

Her mom fussed over her. Her dad kept asking about training. Jackie asked about the Olympic village gossip. Lory tried to steal bites of everyone's food. Leo kept making jokes at Cat's expense until she threw a napkin at his face.

It was loud. Messy. Chaotic.

And perfect.

Cat felt the tension of the last six months slowly melt off her shoulders as she listened to her family talk over each other. Her brothers kept refilling her drink. Her mom kept putting extra tortillas on her plate. Her dad kept warning her not to ruin her stomach before the competition.

But the best part?

It was just them.

No cameras. No TikTok. No coach timing her splits. No fans speculating who she was dating. No Carlos vs Pato rivalry. No pressure. No noise.

Just Cat, surrounded by the people who knew her before anything mattered.

Her voice softened as she leaned into Alejandro and Miguel, tacos in hand, laughing at something stupid Leo said.

It felt like home.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The week went by in a blur of settling in, adjusting to the time difference, and Cat running around the Olympic Village like a kid let loose in Disneyland. Every day she spotted more athletes from different sports — sprinters she'd watched in high school, gymnasts with world titles, swimmers built like marble sculptures, weightlifters who looked like they could bench-press her entire boat.

And Cat, being Cat, asked every single one of them for a picture with absolutely zero shame. She was building her own personal Pokédex of athletic greatness, grinning ear to ear in every photo like she was collecting ultra-rare shiny cards.

By midweek, everything was starting to feel real. The inauguration was coming up at the end of the week, and even though the girls had done opening ceremonies before, LA felt bigger. Louder. Brighter. The village buzzed with anticipation — athletes exchanging pins, flags everywhere, music blasting from balconies at night, and cameras catching every chaotic moment.

Cat decided to show her brothers where she'd be staying for the next few weeks, dragging Alejandro and Miguel along, plus Leo, Lory, and Jackie. The moment they stepped into the building, it was noisy, cluttered, and smelled faintly of sunscreen and protein shakes. Athletes walked around half-dressed, comparing uniforms, trading snacks, screaming from room to room. It was glorious.

Bella rushed in ahead of them, breathless. "Cat, I just saw Shaq. SHAQ. He was literally just walking—"

She turned — and immediately locked eyes with Alejandro.

Alejandro stopped walking mid-step. Bella stopped breathing. They stared at each other like two romantic idiots in the first five minutes of a Netflix rom-com.

Cat groaned loudly, already sensing disaster. "Absolutely not. Nope. No romance. No hookups. No crushes. Bella, vete. Alejandro, back up. Not happening."

Leo burst out laughing, shoving his cousin. "Bro, chill. Wipe your mouth, you're drooling."

Alejandro shoved him back, muttering, "Cállate, cabrón,(Shut up bitch)" without taking his eyes off Bella once. Bella looked seconds away from fainting.

Cat physically dragged Bella into her room, threatening to throw both of them out the window if they made things weird. The rest of the group only laughed harder.

Meanwhile, the internet was losing its collective mind over her hat. Every picture fans posted of her around the village showed her wearing that black cap with the green dinosaur, the tiny brown cat stitched on the side, and the unmistakable number 55. People tweeted about it constantly. Entire threads were dedicated to decoding the symbolism, despite it being painfully obvious to anyone with eyes.

The moment fans realized Carlos was wearing his matching one at the British Grand Prix, the timeline combusted. Photos of him walking through the paddock with the same hat were everywhere — zoomed in, screenshotted, slowed down, analyzed like a crime scene. Clips of him adjusting the brim while reporters purposely asked who gave it to him kept circulating.

Neither Cat nor Carlos said a damn thing.

Which only made everyone more insane.

Journalists asked Cat about it while she was walking between buildings, and she simply smiled, waved, and acted like she didn't understand English anymore.

On top of that, Pato kept calling and texting from wherever he was traveling that week, checking in like a happy golden retriever. He posted pictures of Cat on his story with captions like, "LA's finest 😎🔥" and "Rooting for mi reina ❤️🇲🇽." Cat always replied with laughing emojis or a middle finger, and she genuinely appreciated it. It was grounding. Comfortable. A reminder she had people in her corner.

Between the chaos of training, the global meltdown over The Hat, her brothers acting feral, the Bella-and-Alejandro telenovela brewing, and athletes she admired stopping her to wish her luck, Cat felt her nerves mixing with excitement in a way she hadn't felt since she was a kid.

The world was watching.

The Games were days away.

And Cat, wearing that stupid hat every single day, felt more ready than ever.

The day of the inauguration felt unreal from the moment Cat opened her eyes.

The entire village was buzzing — people running around in half-zipped uniforms, others screaming because they'd lost their accreditation, coaches yelling about being late, and somewhere in the distance, a German shot putter sang Beyoncé at full volume. It was chaos wrapped in glitter, exactly what an Olympic opening ceremony should be.

Cat and her team slipped into their uniforms: crisp, clean, and so patriotic it hurt. The moment they walked outside, cameras flashed. They were shepherded like cattle toward buses, laughing and clinging to each other as if someone might blow away in the California breeze.

Once they arrived at SoFi Stadium, the noise hit them like a wave — drums, announcers, screaming fans, blinding lights, fireworks in the distance. The stadium was MASSIVE, buzzing with energy like it was alive. Cat's heart raced, her hands shook, and she kept thinking:

Holy shit. I'm really here. Again. But this time... bigger.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

GUYS ITS THE SAME CHAPTER!!! BUT IDK WHY IT WONT LET ME DELETE EVERYTHING AT A TIME!!!!!

Her phone buzzed.

Carlos: Voy a escaparme cuando compitas. No me importa. I'm going to see you race even if I have to disguise myself as a mascot.(ama sneak out once you compete. I dont care)

Catalina burst out laughing, her exhaustion loosening into something soft and warm in her chest.

Cat: Carlos... you can't do that.

Carlos: Watch me.

The little thrill that went up her spine was ridiculous. But she let herself savor it.

"Bella..." Catalina started—but she was already getting up. "Fine. But we're not gone long."

"Holy shit," Maddie whispered, grabbing Catalina's arm. "Is that Ilona Maher? THAT Ilona Maher??"

Catalina turned—and she almost squealed.

"Go say hi!" Bella hissed.

"No!"

"Yes!"

Before Catalina could run, Ilona noticed them. "Hey! Rowing, right?" she asked, pointing at their jackets.

Catalina nodded, starstruck. "Uh—yeah—yes. We're from the UK women's eight."

Ilona grinned. "Hell yeah. Y'all look tough as shit."

As they walked away, Catalina practically floated.

"I'm framing that picture," she whispered. "I don't even care."

Then they ran into him.

"Oh my god... it's him," Bella whispered. "The muffin guy."

He looked up, eyebrows raised, like he heard the nickname often. "You want one?" he offered, holding out the box.

Catalina blinked, taking it reverently. "Yes. Yes, I do."

They got a picture with him too, Maddie and Bella practically vibrating with excitement.

By the time they made their way back to the village, Catalina's phone was full of photos she knew she'd cherish forever. Real memories. Real proof that she was part of this world now.

As they rode the elevator back up, Bella leaned against the wall dramatically. "Okay. First day was a success. We met a rugby goddess, a muffin king, and Cat didn't cry from stress even once."

"Not yet," Catalina joked, though her stomach fluttered with nerves and exhaustion.

And somewhere across the world, Carlos was ready to disguise himself for her like an idiot.

She smiled at the thought. The games were here. And she was ready to face them.

"¡MI BEBÉ!"(my baby)

Her mom practically tackled her in a hug, squeezing the breath out of her. Catalina laughed into her shoulder, warmth blooming in her chest in a way she hadn't felt in months.

"Mamá, déjame respirar," Cat wheezed.(mom let me breath)

Her dad was next, pulling her into a tight, proud hug, murmuring, "Mijita... we're so proud of you."

Then came the two hurricanes disguised as her brothers.

"PUT ME DOWN!" she yelled between laughs.

Miguel joined in, wrapping an arm around her neck. "I haven't seen you in a year and this is how I'm welcomed? Abuse? Qué feo caso."(What an ugly case)

She elbowed both of them in the ribs—hard. "Touch me again and I swear—"

They only laughed harder.

And then she saw them—Leo practically bouncing, Lory waving both arms like she was trying to fly, and Jackie already recording the moment.

"MY BABYYYYY!" Jackie yelled, running to her.

"Shut up," Cat said, pulling her into a hug. "You're embarrassing me."

"You're an Olympian," Lory said, squeezing her. "Embarrassment is your brand."

Leo stepped forward with open arms. "Come here, bitch."

"You're the bitch," Cat said, still hugging him.

"Yeah, yeah. Anyway—tacos?" Leo asked. "Because I know damn well you're starving for real Mexican food here. I already found the spot. Trust."

Cat didn't even pretend to play it cool. "POR FAVOR, LET'S GO."

"Ohhh? Representing someone? Interesting," he teased.

Alejandro groaned loudly. "Are you finally dating him? Yes or no, Catalina."

Before she could answer, Miguel jumped in with, "No. She should go for Pato. I like him better."

Cat stopped walking and stared at her brother. "I hate both of you."

"Carlos is too serious," Miguel said, shrugging. "Pato seems fun. Like me."

Ale groaned louder. "No, no, no. Carlos is better. Older. More stable. You don't need another clown in your life."

"You literally are a clown," Cat shot back. "And no one asked for your opinions."

Leo snorted. "Actually, I asked for the drama. Spill."

"Shut up," Cat muttered, flipping him off as they crossed the street.

It was loud. Messy. Chaotic.

And perfect.

But the best part?

It was just them.

No cameras. No TikTok. No coach timing her splits. No fans speculating who she was dating. No Carlos vs Pato rivalry. No pressure. No noise.

Just Cat, surrounded by the people who knew her before anything mattered.

Her voice softened as she leaned into Alejandro and Miguel, tacos in hand, laughing at something stupid Leo said.

It felt like home.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Bella rushed in ahead of them, breathless. "Cat, I just saw Shaq. SHAQ. He was literally just walking—"

She turned — and immediately locked eyes with Alejandro.

Alejandro stopped walking mid-step. Bella stopped breathing. They stared at each other like two romantic idiots in the first five minutes of a Netflix rom-com.

Cat groaned loudly, already sensing disaster. "Absolutely not. Nope. No romance. No hookups. No crushes. Bella, vete. Alejandro, back up. Not happening."

Leo burst out laughing, shoving his cousin. "Bro, chill. Wipe your mouth, you're drooling."

Alejandro shoved him back, muttering, "Cállate, cabrón,(Shut up bitch)" without taking his eyes off Bella once. Bella looked seconds away from fainting.

Cat physically dragged Bella into her room, threatening to throw both of them out the window if they made things weird. The rest of the group only laughed harder.

Neither Cat nor Carlos said a damn thing.

Which only made everyone more insane.

Journalists asked Cat about it while she was walking between buildings, and she simply smiled, waved, and acted like she didn't understand English anymore.

The world was watching.

The Games were days away.

And Cat, wearing that stupid hat every single day, felt more ready than ever.

The day of the inauguration felt unreal from the moment Cat opened her eyes.

Holy shit. I'm really here. Again. But this time... bigger.

They marched out with Team GB, flags waving, people chanting, the air thick with excitement. Cat smiled so hard her face hurt. She waved, blew kisses, even winked at a camera at one point. Bella elbowed her and hissed, "STOP FLIRTING WITH THE WORLD," but she was just as bad, blowing kisses at the rafters.

Everywhere she looked, iconic athletes from every country were celebrating, cheering, crying, laughing — a global fever dream. The torch lighting was cinematic. The music shook the ground. The fireworks made Cat feel like she was floating.

By the time they got back to the village, they were exhausted but wired like they'd chugged twenty Red Bulls.

Everyone posted their group photos instantly. Cat's phone exploded.

Messages from:

– Carlos 🦖: Beautiful. I'm stealing that uniform for myself.

– Pato: MY QUEEN SLAYING AS ALWAYS 🇲🇽🔥

– Her brothers: We saw you on TV you walked like you needed to pee.

– Leo: I'm printing your ugly face waving at the camera and framing it.

Cat threw her phone on the bed because it physically would not stop buzzing.

That night, Coach John gathered them in the common room. He looked tired but proud, the way coaches do when they want to cry but are pretending they're made of steel.

He had them sit on the floor in a big circle like preschoolers.

"Tonight was magic," he began. "Remember how this feels. Bottled nerves. Electricity. Pride. This — this is the last breath before the storm."

Everyone quieted.

"You're ready. You've trained harder than any crew we've ever had. I need you focused. I need you sharp. And I need you to trust yourselves, because I bloody do."

A few of the girls looked close to tears. Cat felt that heavy warmth in her chest, the kind that comes right before you prove yourself to the world.

Coach finished with a quiet, "Get some rest. Tomorrow, the real work begins."

They were dismissed — which, predictably, meant nobody went to bed.

Instead, they were immediately scooped up by a cluster of British athletes hanging around outside the building. Rugby players, track athletes, divers, swimmers — all wearing their matching GB gear and looking ready for mild chaos.

They all made a huge circle in the courtyard, snacks passed around, everyone gossiping like they were back in high school.

A girl from diving plopped down across from Cat, pointing her drink at her.

"Okay, I have to ask," she said dramatically. "Is Carlos Sainz actually as fit in real life as he looks on TV?"

Cat didn't even blink. She'd been approached with this question so many times she should honestly print out an FAQ card.

She took a slow sip of her water and sighed. "He's just a guy with a big head."

Across the circle, Bella snorted into her crisps.

The diver leaned in. "But like... are you two—?"

Cat cut her off instantly. "Nope! Speaking of men with big heads—did you meet the shot put team? They were literally doing karaoke in the elevator."

Smooth. Expert-level deflection. She was a pro by now.

The conversation smoothly drifted toward weird athlete sightings:

– Someone claimed they saw Simone Biles sprinting for an elevator with a sandwich in hand

– A cyclist was apparently walking around barefoot all day like a feral woodland creature

– A famous sprinter had already broken the no-party rule by DJing from a balcony

The group howled with laughter.

More athletes wandered into the courtyard, adding to the noise, the chaos, the joy. Someone started a game of "Which athlete looks like they'd steal your lunch." Someone else tried to convince Bella to prank the Australian rugby team. Cat ended up sitting on the ground between a gymnast and a boxer who were arguing about the best cafeteria dessert.

It was loud.

Crowded.

Chaotic.

Perfect.

Cat looked around — at her team, at her friends, at the flags and uniforms and glowing lights — and felt it hit her again:

She was really here.

The ceremonies were over.

The world was watching.

And tomorrow, the dream officially began.

The morning of their first Olympic race felt like stepping into a pressure cooker.

Uniforms pressed. Hair braided tight. Nerves fried.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The British women's eight stood in a quiet semicircle near the boat racks, every single one of them breathing like they'd just sprinted a mile. No one talked. No one joked. Even Bella was silent — which was borderline terrifying.

Cat felt her stomach twisting, but she refused to let it show. This was what she lived for. What she bled for. What she had trained through pain, sweat, and ice baths for.

She clapped her hands once, loud enough to snap everyone's attention.

"Alright," she said, voice strong despite her own anxiety. "Listen up."

Eight pairs of eyes turned toward her — trusting, terrified, ready.

"I know we're scared," Cat admitted. "I know we've been working ourselves into the ground. I know we're running on nerves and adrenaline and a questionable amount of caffeine. But we are not here by accident."

The girls nodded, shoulders loosening.

"We earned this. Every mile. Every blister. Every miserable practice in the rain. Every time we wanted to quit and didn't. We're not here to exist — we're here to win."

A few of them straightened, breathing deeper.

Cat stepped closer, voice softening. "We trust each other. We move as one. Remember that. Once we're in that boat, it's just us and the water. Nothing else matters. Not the noise. Not the crowd. Not the pressure. Just us."

Bella's eyes glistened. Their coxswain bit her lip, nodding fiercely.

"So," Cat finished with a crooked grin, "let's go scare the shit out of the rest of the world, yeah?"

"YEAH!"

They yelled it together, loud enough that a nearby German crew jumped.

Heading toward the docks, nerves buzzing, Cat scanned the crowd — and froze.

Her family.

Of course they were loud. They were Villalobo loud.

But Leo? Leo had taken it a step further.

He had printed a giant foam board cut-out of her inauguration photo — the one where she accidentally made a double-chin mid-wave — and was waving it like a man possessed.

Alejandro and Miguel were screaming her name. Lory and Jackie were recording. Her parents were clapping proudly, as if she weren't about to compete in the most important race of her life.

Cat snorted under her breath. "Idiotas..."

But it calmed her. It grounded her. It reminded her she wasn't alone.

The team moved in perfect formation as they lifted their sleek, white boat and walked it toward the water. That smell — river, sunscreen, adrenaline — hit Cat and made her whole body hum.

They slid the boat into the water. One by one, the girls climbed in. Cat sat down in her seat and let her hands curl around the oar handles.

This is it.

The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers. The crowd roared.

Across the lane, Romania and the Netherlands looked sharp. Focused. Hungry.

The coxswain called, "Ready..."

Cat inhaled.

"Attention—"

A beat.

The world narrowed to a pin.

BANG.

They were off.

The boat launched, almost leaping out of the water as if it had been waiting, coiled, for this exact second. Cat's lungs seized in that familiar way — the shock of impact, the shock of needing everything at once. Her body didn't think; it just moved. Years of sacrifice, cracked knuckles, cold dawns, taped ribs — all of it fired down her limbs like a live wire.

For the first 500 meters the world narrowed to oars, breath, water.

Romania surging.

Netherlands gaining.

GB holding strong.

She felt the girls around her — their breathing, their rhythm, their fight. Eight bodies snapping into perfect sync, the boat humming with the strain of it. Every stroke was a promise: we don't break first.

By 1000 meters her lungs felt raw, scraped thin. The splash of the oars became a steady drumbeat in her skull, mixing with the crowd — a roar so loud it felt like pressure against her ribs.

At 1500 meters the burn set in like fire.

Deep in her legs. Up her spine. Into her jaw. Into her teeth.

Her stomach clenched hard enough to make her vision flicker.

A bead of sweat slipped into her eye and she didn't even blink it away — she didn't dare break rhythm.

"WE'RE IN THIS!" their coxswain screamed, voice cracking with adrenaline. "STAY ON IT! STAY ON IT!"

Cat could barely hear him over the pounding in her head. But she felt the desperation, the belief, the need in his voice.

The crowd dissolved into white noise — a wall of sound crashing over them as they flew toward the final stretch.

50 meters left.

Cat felt it — that shift in the air, in the boat, in her bones. The moment that only rowers knew, the moment where you either became the monster or let the monster swallow you.

Her whole body trembled. Her chest burned like she was swallowing fire.

She screamed, voice cracking:

"SWITCH! NOW! GO! GO!"

It wasn't a command. It was a battle cry.

And the boat answered.

The girls didn't just respond — they unleashed. Legs driving harder, arms ripping through the water, bodies throwing everything they had left into the boat. The rate jumped. The bow surged. Their blades dug deep and vicious.

Romania hesitated — half a stroke, barely noticeable to anyone else.

But to Cat, it was a door opening.

They shoved through it.

The gap formed.

Then widened.

Then widened again.

The finish flags snapped upward just as they rocketed past, the boat vibrating from the sheer force of that final push.

For a single suspended heartbeat, the world held still.

Nobody breathed.

Nobody spoke.

Nobody dared to hope.

Then the screens changed.

The words appeared.

Cat saw them.

GREAT BRITAIN — LANE 3 — 1st PLACE

For half a second she thought she was hallucinating from oxygen deprivation.

Then—

"WE WON!" Bella screamed, voice cracking into tears.

The girls erupted. Pure hysteria. They grabbed each other's arms, shoulders, anything. Cat threw her head back laughing — breathless, shaking, overwhelmed.

They rowed back in total chaos, jumping in their seats, splashing each other, screaming toward the crowd like maniacs.

Their coxswain nearly fell into the water because Cat grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her yelling, "WE DID IT! WE DID IT!"

Flags waved wildly onshore. The announcer's voice boomed through the stadium.

Tears, laughter, disbelief—all of it at once.

It was real.

They had done it.

And this was only the beginning.

Their coach, John, was already waiting on the dock when the girls pulled in, arms crossed, sunglasses on, trying — and failing — to look composed.

As soon as the bow ball hit the edge and the girls hopped out, dripping and breathless, he let out a sharp whistle.

"One down," he said, voice thick with pride, "two to go."

The team cheered again, surrounding him in a chaotic, soaking-wet group hug that he pretended to protest but absolutely melted into. Even he looked a little glassy-eyed.

"You girls were flying," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "That switch at the end? Brilliant. You scared the hell out of Romania."

"Good," Cat grinned, squeezing Bella's shoulder. "They scare me all the time."

As soon as they were released, Cat spotted her family barreling toward her like a stampede.

Her mom reached her first, arms flung wide.

"¡Mi niña hermosa!" she shouted, pulling Cat so tight her feet nearly lifted off the ground. "Estoy tan orgullosa de ti—mira lo que hiciste, mi amor."

Cat buried her face in her mom's shoulder, inhaling that familiar perfume, feeling all the adrenaline crack into emotion.

Then her dad wrapped them both in his arms, kissing the top of her head like he always did when she was small. "Champion," he murmured. "Absolute champion."

Her brothers didn't bother waiting their turn.

Alejandro grabbed her from behind and lifted her straight into the air like she weighed nothing. "¡ESA ES MI HERMANA!" he yelled to the entire crowd.(That's My sister)

"PUT ME DOWN, IDIOTA!" she half-screamed, half-laughed.

Miguel took her from him midair, spinning her once, Cat shrieking the whole time. "Diablos, Cat! You were insane out there!"

"You're gonna make her puke," Leo warned — right before he grabbed her too, sweeping her up bridal-style with zero warning.

Cat smacked his shoulder. "LEO—"

He just hugged her tighter. "Shut up. I'm proud of you."

Lory and Jackie pushed their way through right after, both already crying.

"YOU DID IT!" Lory wailed, grabbing Cat's face in her hands.

Jackie hugged her from behind, face tucked into Cat's shoulder. "I'm so proud of you I'm gonna throw up."

Cat laughed, overwhelmed and breathless, her heart too full.

Her mom didn't stop at Cat. She grabbed Bella into a hug, then the coxswain, then the stern pair, telling each of them in warm, rapid-fire Spanish how spectacular they were, how strong, how brave, how she loved them all now and forever.

The British girls melted instantly — because being hugged by a proud Mexican mom was like being handed a lifetime supply of love and safety.

Bella sniffled, "Miss Zugasti, you're gonna make me cry again."

"I want you to cry," Cat's mom declared, kissing the top of her head. "You deserve it. All of you."

The whole team gathered together, medals not yet earned but momentum launching them toward something bigger than nerves or spreadsheets or expectations.

Cat stood in the middle of it — teammates cheering, family shouting, friends crying, the entire world watching — and for a moment she let herself feel the truth:

They were just getting started.

Leo caught her by the arm before she could slip back toward the team area, pulling her into a quick, tight hug that nearly knocked the wind out of her.

"We're picking you up at 7," he said, tone leaving zero room for argument.

Cat blinked. "Leo—"

"No peros," he cut in, pointing a finger at her face like a stern kindergarten teacher. "Be. Ready."

She sighed dramatically, but the fond smile creeping in gave her away. "Fine."

He kissed the top of her head and shoved her lightly back toward her teammates. "Go celebrate with your fancy British people."

On the shuttle back to the village, the energy was electric.

Every UK athlete who saw them burst into applause — swimmers slapping their hands against the bus windows, boxers offering fist bumps, sprinters yelling "LET'S GOOO, GIRLS!" from across the courtyard. Even the normally stoic shot put guys gave them nods of respect.

Cat's cheeks hurt from smiling.

Bella had tears in her eyes again. "We're like... official Olympians."

"You've always been an Olympian," their cox said. "Now you're an Olympian who just scared half the rowing world."

Inside the housing building, the celebration escalated instantly. Someone — probably one of the rugby girls — shook a bottle of champagne and drenched the entire eight.

The cox screamed.Bella shrieked.Cat just stood there, blinking through the spray.

Then she laughed, loud and unfiltered, tossing her head back as her teammates pulled her into another soaking-wet hug.

The hallway smelled like champagne and sweat and pure, stupid joy.

They took pictures.They yelled until their voices cracked.They replayed the last 250 meters on someone's phone at least twelve times.

Finally, when the chaos calmed and the others were buzzing around planning dinner in the dining hall, Cat slipped away with a quick, "Be right back."

Inside her room, she finally exhaled.

Her racing kit was soaked.

Her hair was a mess.

Her muscles felt like they were buzzing.

But the smile on her face hadn't faded once.

She grabbed her towel and headed to the shower, letting the hot water wash away the champagne, the lake water, the stress, and the adrenaline. By the time she stepped out, she felt human again — tired, but soft and warm and steady.

She slipped into clean clothes: jean shorts, a fitted white top, and of course, the hat — the stupid, beloved black hat with the dinosaur, the cat, and the number 55.

She checked the time.

6:31 PM.

Her heart fluttered with excitement and nerves and something else she didn't want to name yet.

She grabbed her phone, took a quick look in the mirror, and headed out to meet her family — ready for whatever chaos Leo had planned next.

Cat walked out of the building, still buzzing from the win, the shower, the champagne, the whole this-is-real-life feeling. Leo had said 7 PM sharp, and she trusted him — mostly because he would physically drag her by the ear if she was late.

She waited by the security gate, scrolling through her messages, replying to her mom, ignoring all the journalists in her requests, when she heard the low rumble of an engine she knew like her own heartbeat.

Her head snapped up.

A car pulled in — sleek, familiar, unmistakably him.

The door opened.

Carlos stepped out.

And Cat froze.

For half a second she didn't move. Then her face broke into a blinding smile, and she ran — full sprint, zero hesitation — straight into him. She jumped, wrapping her legs around his waist, and Carlos caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before grounding them both.

"¿Qué haces aquí?" she gasped into his shoulder, arms locked tight around his neck. (What are you doing here?)

Carlos cupped the back of her head, voice low and warm and unbelievably soft.

"¿De verdad creíste que me iba a perder tu primera carrera, mi amor?"(You really thought I was going to miss your first race, my love)

Her breath left her in a laugh — half disbelief, half pure affection. She pulled back enough to see his face, eyes bright and sunburned from his earlier commitments. He looked tired, but he looked happy.

"You're insane," she whispered, smiling like a lovesick idiot.

Then she kissed him — quick, small, but full of everything she hadn't been able to say all week.

"Wait," she said suddenly, eyes widening. "La cena con mi familia? They're gonna kill me if I ditch—"(Dinner with my family?)

Carlos smirked. "They helped me plan it. So you wouldn't know I was the one picking you up."

Cat blinked, then burst out laughing, shoving his shoulder lightly. "Of course they did."

He opened the car door for her with that stupid, gentle, old-school mannerism she pretended not to love. She climbed in, adjusting her hat and trying not to smile too hard.

Neither of them saw the paparazzi hidden behind a parked car, camera snapping the moment she'd leapt into his arms.

Neither of them heard the shutter capturing the kiss.

They were too busy being happy.

Dinner was... perfect.

Quiet. Private. No press, no athletes, no teammates. Just dim lights, soft music, the smell of good food, and Carlos looking at her like she was the only person on earth.

Cat talked and talked — about the race, her speech to the girls, about Romania nearly catching them, about how Bella screamed louder than the cox.

Carlos listened like every word mattered.

When Cat asked how he got out without anyone noticing, he shrugged. "I have my ways."

Translation: half the grid covered for him.

He teased her about Bella's vlogs, pulling out his phone to show the millions of views the rowing content had gotten. Cat winced every time she appeared in a clip screaming "GO AGAIN!" or "ONE MORE SET!" at the girls.

"She documents everything," Cat groaned.

"She documents you," Carlos corrected softly. "And she knows you're going to like watching all this one day."

Cat rolled her eyes, pretending she didn't melt at that.

By 9:45 PM, they were back in his car, parked outside the athlete village. The goodbye was too long, too soft, too sweet for two people who were "not officially dating."

Cat kissed him once.

Then twice.

Then again.

And again until she was laughing and shoving his chest.

"I have curfew," she whispered.

Carlos brushed her cheek with his thumb. "I know."

She kissed him one last time and slipped out of the car, walking toward the gate with her hat slightly crooked and her heart pounding.

When she opened the door to her room, Bella was sitting on her bed, legs crossed, smiling like the devil.

Cat froze. "What."

Bella didn't speak. She simply rotated her phone around like she was presenting evidence in a courtroom.

On the screen:

A crystal-clear paparazzi photo.

Cat in Carlos's arms.

Her legs wrapped around him.

Both of them kissing.

His hand in her hair.

Her hat backwards.

The biggest smile on both their faces.

Cat's soul left her body.

Bella blinked, smug as hell.

"So," she said sweetly, "how was dinner?"

Cat looked at Bella with that ridiculous, dreamy, soft-as-marshmallow smile — the one she only ever got after talking to Carlos. The one Bella absolutely refused to let slide.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep on me,” Bella warned, pointing at her like a strict mother. “Your man flew here from LONDON just to see you. I need details, Catalina Ofelia Villalobo Zugasti. Details.”

Cat just stuck her tongue out, already rummaging through her duffel for pajamas. “Lo siento, Bella,” she said, voice floating somewhere between exhausted and lovesick. “Estoy muerta. I need sleeeep.”(I am dead)

“No. No sleeping!” Bella slapped the mattress beside her dramatically. “Did he kiss you? Did he spin you? Did he—”

Cat giggled — an honest-to-god giggle — which only made Bella clutch her heart like she’d been personally wounded.

“Oh my god, you DID,” Bella gasped.

But Cat was already tugging Carlos’ hoodie over her head — the exact one her teammates had been teasing her about for weeks — and climbing into bed. She burrowed into her pillow, mumbled something that might’ve been “buenas noches” mixed with “te amo”, and within seconds… she was out.

Dead to the world.

Bella stared at her, betrayed.

“You’re kidding me,” she muttered. “You have your tongue down a Formula One driver’s throat and then fall asleep like THIS?”

No answer.

Cat was snoring. Softly. Peacefully. Like she hadn’t just set the entire Olympic Village rumor mill on fire.

Bella groaned, threw herself back into her own bed, and yanked the covers over her head.

“I swear, if you two get married before I get any gossip, I’m haunting both of you,” she mumbled into her pillow.

Cat didn’t hear a thing.

Not the threats.

Not the complaints.

Not even Bella muttering “puta enamorada” under her breath.( Fucking In love bitch)

She was already dreaming — of a man in a navy hat, waiting for her at the end of the dock. Bella barely got two hours of sleep.

She'd tossed and turned half the night, muttering into her pillow about "un maldito paparazzi arruinando el chisme", while Cat slept like the dead — starfished across her bed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing Carlos' oversized hoodie that she definitely did not leave the dorm with.(A damn paparazzi ruining the gossip)

When morning came, Cat rolled out of bed with a stupid grin plastered across her face, the kind that made Bella throw her own pillow at her.

"Dios mío, Catalina, you're glowing like a pregnant woman," Bella groaned as Cat tugged on her joggers, slipping her hat on — that hat, the matching one Carlos had bought for her. "At least tell me if he kissed you like he meant it."

Cat just stuck her tongue out again, exactly like last night, and left the room humming.

By the time she reached the dining hall, it was like word had spread overnight. Athletes from every direction turned as she walked in — swimmers, track girls, field hockey boys, weightlifters — all pretending not to stare but failing miserably. A few smirked openly. Someone even whispered "that's her" like she wasn't two feet away.

Cat ignored them all, grabbed a tray, and plopped down in her usual seat.

The rowing 8 immediately clustered around her like sharks scenting blood in the water.

"So," Priya said, stirring her oatmeal like it had personally offended her, "you going to pretend you weren't caught on camera with 'El Guapo de la F1' last night?"

Another teammate snorted. "Caught? She practically leaped into his arms."

Cat stabbed her eggs. "I did not leap."

Bella—late, hair a mess, tray half-balanced—slammed herself into the seat beside her. "She jumped. Like a full koala. Arms, legs, the whole wraparound. I saw the picture. It was beautiful."

Cat groaned and hid her face in her hands as half the table started cackling. She could feel eyes on her from nearby tables — a cluster of British sprinters giving her a thumbs-up, a couple rugby guys nudging each other and whispering.

Then a tall volleyball player with a high pony and a knowing smirk approached.

"Catalina, right?" she asked, leaning on the table like she owned it. "Sooo... are you and Carlos like... official-official? Or just sexy-long-distance-fling official? We're all trying to figure it out."

Cat looked up, deadpan. "No sé."(IDK)

The volleyball girl pointed at Cat's hat — the navy one with the tiny embroidered symbol that perfectly matched the one Carlos wore everywhere.

"Hmm," she said. "Funny, because the matching hats say otherwise."

Cat closed her eyes and took a slow breath.

"When did my love life become the Olympic village's favorite telenovela?"

"Since month two," Priya said, shrugging. "When people noticed Carlos had you as his wallpaper."

"And when you had him as yours," Bella added.

Cat whipped around. "You looked at my phone again?!"

Bella shrugged, unashamed. "You sleep like a corpse. It's not that hard."

The volleyball girl gasped dramatically. "Oh my GOD. It's mutual? You guys MATCH? That's— that's basically a marriage in Gen Z terms."

Someone from the next table over yelled, "TEAM CARCAT FOR THE WIN!"

Cat's soul tried to leave her body.

Groans broke out around the table as more athletes chimed in.

"CARCAT? No, no, it's CATLOS."

"Absolutely not. It's C&C."

Bella perked up. "I like carnitas. It's carnitas now."

Cat dropped her head onto the table. "Bella, por favor."

Across the dining hall, someone played the paparazzi photo on full brightness, tilting their phone toward a teammate as they analyzed it like it was forensic footage. Cat squeezed her eyes shut. She could practically hear the crackling of the grapevine.

Meanwhile Bella leaned in and whispered, "You know... you could just tell them he's your boyfriend."

Cat whispered back, "He's not."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "But you want him to be."

Ca respon

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz x original character #please don't let go of her carlos #pato o’ward wants catalina #carlos vs pato

For The Plot// F1

Part: 22

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The first weeks of January slipped by in a blur of early-morning water sessions, weight training, cold-weather runs, and the constant rasp of chalk dust on her palms. With New Year's behind her, Cat threw herself into training the way she always did — headfirst, no hesitation, no softness. But this time, there was something new hovering in the background of every practice, something she could feel even when she pretended not to notice it.

Eyes. Attention. Buzz.

The official rowing social media team had realized exactly what Bella already knew: Catalina Villalobo was good for numbers. They started posting her more — videos of her rowing form, progress updates, goofy behind-the-scenes clips where she was half dying on the ground after a workout. Cat didn't think much of it until her follower count went from a modest 300 to 10k... then 25k... then 50k.

Half the comments were people calling her an inspiration. The other half were people thirsting after her like she was a marble statue at the Louvre.

Cat laughed it off most days, but some nights, lying in bed with her muscles screaming, she reread those comments because they reminded her why she kept pushing. They reminded her that she wasn't the girl from last spring anymore — the one everyone ripped to shreds when news got out she and Carlos had been hooking up. Back then, the internet had been vicious. Unfair. Cruel. They'd called her names, questioned her motives, questioned his motives, made her feel like she was disposable.

Now those same strangers were calling her "queen," "champion," "mommy," and "the future of British rowing."

It was ridiculous — and weirdly healing.

She made her Instagram public because the social media team basically forced her ("visibility helps the sport, Catalina!"), but she also quietly created a second private account with just friends: Carlos, Carola, Jackie, Leo, Lory, her teammates she actually liked. Everyone important. Everyone who mattered.

Carlos, meanwhile, didn't say a word about the fact she still had that stupid picture of him — soft cheeks, teenager jawline, exposed collarbones, wearing a shirt that definitely belonged to a girl — as her wallpaper. Every time her phone lit up in front of him and he caught sight of his 15-year-old self dressed like a certified slut, he pretended not to stare.

But Cat never changed it. Because it always made her laugh. Because it reminded her he'd always been hers in one way or another.

Training tightened around her like a vise as February inched closer. The Olympics were so close she could taste them — California, warm sun, ocean breeze. She was excited for LA, but she was even more excited about one small detour she planned to make before the Games officially kicked off: San Francisco. A promise to herself. A quiet moment before the biggest competition of her life.

The pressure should've crushed her, but somehow... it didn't. The comments, the support, the hype — they helped. Bella's TikToks, even the embarrassing ones, kept blowing up. Cat's name started floating around in sports blogs, Olympic predictions, edits of "athlete baddies."

And, of course, there was Pato.

He had come to London three times in the span of a month — supposedly for "race prep" or "sim study" or "team meetings."

Cat wasn't stupid. Every excuse he gave smelled like bullshit, but he always showed up with a smile, a joke, an energy that made her laugh when she was half-dead from practice.

Carlos hated every single one of those visits.

And yet... the two of them still danced around each other. Still slept tangled up on her couch. Still cooked together, teased each other, flirted in ways that made her teammates raise eyebrows.

Still not official.

Not because they didn't want to be. Well cat was scared he would get cold feet again and block her.

But because they'd promised — slowly, carefully, rebuild trust from scratch. Let the healing finish. Let the foundation set properly this time.

Sometimes Cat wondered if she was being stupid about it. Sometimes Carlos wondered if he'd regret waiting.

But for now... life was good. Busy. Exhausting. Sweet around the edges.

And whether she admitted it to anyone else or not...

She wanted him. And he was done pretending he didn't want her.

Weeks later there were days when Catalina felt like her life had been reduced to a constant haze of aching muscles, chilled air biting at her lungs, and the rhythmic splash-thunk, splash-thunk of synchronized oars cutting through the Thames.

As the Olympics crept closer — weeks melting into days, days into hours — the pressure around the national team tightened like an ever-shrinking vise. But Cat didn't crumble. Not anymore. The cameras were around more often now, the media team hovering near the boathouse with ring lights, microphones, and gentle reminders that public engagement boosts visibility for the sport, Catalina.

So she did the interviews — sometimes still breathless from the water, sometimes with wet curls sticking to her forehead, sometimes while stretching on the grass with her teammates messing around behind her.

The world wanted a closer look at Catalina Villalobo, Olympic captain, TikTok-famous rower, the "mystery athlete" whose videos somehow racked up millions. She answered questions with honesty and humor, always grounding herself in the truth: she loved rowing; she loved her team; she loved representing both her countries.

But of course, not everyone saw it that way.

As soon as one wholesome training clip went viral, the discourse online twisted into something sharp-edged and exhausting.

"If she's so proud to be Mexican, why isn't she rowing for Mexico?"

"Where's the loyalty?"

"Fake pride, she only claims being Mexican when it benefits her."

Cat didn't engage. Didn't reply. Didn't even click the comment sections most days. Because she knew exactly who she was. She was born in Mexico, raised in San Francisco, trained in the UK program since she was a 20. She represented Great Britain because that was where she grew as an athlete — and also because Mexico didn't give her the chance to prove herself. There wasn't a sinister motive. Ok maybe a little.

She didn't owe strangers an explanation.

Especially not ones who only learned her name because Bella had filmed her on the ground dying after intervals.

Still, the noise built and built — especially since her popularity wasn't slowing down. The team's page had posted her more often, knowing her videos brought in views. More edits. More commentary. More speculation. If she ignored the ugly side long enough, the good parts helped drown it out: the "you're inspiring," the "I started rowing because of you," the "this girl is gonna dominate in LA."

Those comments fueled her when her legs burned, when her lungs felt like they were filled with ice, when the freezing wind slapped her face at 6 AM.

She didn't let the rest touch her.

Her life outside training had shrunk, but not vanished. She was still spotted out and about sometimes — grabbing drinks with Carola when Checo's wife traveled to London, sneaking in lunch dates with her friends between practice sessions, letting her teammates drag her out for bubble tea after brutal erg tests.

Anytime someone snapped a picture, speculation kicked up again.

Is she dating Pato O'Ward?

Carola and Cat were seen together, maybe she introduced them?

Carlos used to hook up with her, but now she's with someone age-appropriate.

Wait... didn't Carlos have a blurry girl as his wallpaper?

And wasn't Cat seen with a teenaged Carlos picture few weeks ago?

Maybe it was a picture of Pato and not Carlos??

The internet was running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail.

Cat ignored all of it.

Because at the end of the day, none of it mattered — not when she was too busy training, too busy living, too busy healing, too busy laughing at Carola's dramatic monologues about grid gossip. Carola and Carlos both kept sending her food — meals to keep her strength up, snacks to keep her spirits steady, little gestures that reminded her she wasn't as alone as training sometimes made her feel.

And Pato... well, Pato kept sending her memes.

Random, stupid memes at 2 AM. Soft teasing. Occasional flirty jokes that she pretended not to notice.

He'd been to London three times already — allegedly for race simulation, for sponsor events, for meetings. Cat wasn't stupid. He was coming for her. He liked being around her. And she liked him as a friend... but even she could admit he was doing the most.

Carlos hated it, but he kept himself in line because they weren't official yet — still rebuilding, still stitching over the hurt he'd caused last year. Cat knew he was jealous, but she also knew he was trying. Trying hard. Trying every day.

The complicated tangle between the three of them — her softening heart toward Carlos, Pato's persistence, the internet's obsession — was a full-on novella waiting to happen. But Cat never let it distract her when she hit the water.

Which is why she ended up exactly where she was now: sprawled out on the cold grass beside the boathouse, chest heaving, sweat dripping into her ears, absolutely dead from a brutal series of rate-40 sprints that made her arms feel like lead.

Her coach stood over her, unimpressed, hands tucked into his jacket.

"There's no gold medal for dramatic dying, Villalobo." Cat wheezed. "Maybe there should be."

"Up," he ordered. "Laying down won't win LA."

She groaned — loudly, theatrically — before rolling onto her stomach and pushing herself upright. Her abs screamed. Her shoulders protested. Her thighs felt like they were about to detach and walk away without her.

Her teammates laughed and clapped her back.

"Come on, Cap," one of the girls said.

"We've got gold to win," another added.

Cat forced herself to her feet, breath still stubbornly short. She brushed grass off her leggings, stretched her lower back, and finally let herself grin.

This — the exhaustion, the camaraderie, the determination — was why she was doing it. Why she ignored the critics and the gossip and the constant speculation about which driver she was supposedly dating. Why she tolerated Bella's endless TikToks. Why she put in every ounce of work she had left inside her.

Because she wasn't rowing for fame.

She wasn't rowing for Instagram followers.

She wasn't rowing for Carlos or Pato or the entire internet's opinions.

She was doing it for herself. For her team. For the girl who once doubted she'd ever be good enough.

And she was damn close to proving herself wrong.

Training resumed. Another hour of technique. Another long steady-state row. Another session in the weight room. Through it all, her phone buzzed in her bag — maybe Carlos sending videos of his breakfast, maybe Pato dropping another meme, maybe Carola sending her a rant about something Checo did.

Life kept moving. The Olympics kept inching closer. And Catalina — sweaty, exhausted, determined, stubborn — kept pushing forward.

Because there was no scenario where she wasn't walking into LA ready to take every medal she could get her hands on.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

By May, with barely two months left before the Olympics, Catalina was stretched thin in a way that even her teammates noticed. She was training harder, sleeping less, snapping at anyone who asked if she was "excited." She was exhausted down to the bones, mentally fried, hair always tied up in some half-dead bun as she pushed herself through another session on the erg.

Carlos knew she was struggling, but he also knew better than to hover—so he kept his distance, sending her good-morning texts and voice notes she could listen to between 10k pieces, trying to be a soft place for her to land without distracting her.

Meanwhile, Carlos was in Monaco, sunglasses on, pretending the sun wasn't blinding and the weekend wasn't already a mess. During the driver's parade, he spotted Pato leaning against a barrier, talking to a group of fans, all smiles.

Their eyes met, and Carlos couldn't help it—his mouth twitched into a smug, quiet smirk. It was impossible not to think about how Pato's friendship bracelet, once so proudly tied around Catalina's wrist, was now abandoned somewhere in Carlos's house in Spain. Lost. Forgotten. And in its place, hanging neatly from a hook next to her toothbrush, was Carlos's necklace—the one she claimed she was "borrowing" but had yet to return. Pato smirked back, fully aware of the silent pissing contest that had been going on for months.

Then, in the most dramatic way possible, Pato cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "¡Catita! ¿Cómo estás?" even though Catalina was nowhere near Monaco and nowhere near him. Carlos rolled his eyes, already reaching for his phone.

He watched Pato duck away from the crowd, phone in hand, clearly calling her. Carlos dialed at the same time, and Catalina—saint, favorite, woman—picked up Pato's call first. Carlos watched from fifty meters away as Pato looked directly at him, grinning like a smug little bitch, while Carlos's call rang and rang unanswered.

But then Catalina switched over.

Carlos straightened the moment she answered, relief quickly replaced by petty triumph. "Nada, mi amor," he said, voice soft but loud enough for Pato to see he'd gotten through. "Solo quería decirte que te quiero." (Nothing my love.. just wanted to say how much I love you)

She laughed immediately, warm and teasing. "Cursi," she accused, and hung up before he could respond. Pato raised an eyebrow, impressed but still annoyingly amused, then walked off like he'd won something.(cheesy)

But of course his dumbass needed the last word.

An hour later, Pato posted a picture of Catalina to his Instagram story—one he clearly pulled from the UK rowing team's media page. A nice flattering shot, clean and respectful, with a caption pretending he was just "supporting a fellow Mexican athlete." Everyone with eyes knew it was bullshit. Everyone.

Lando was on his phone in the McLaren motorhome when the notification popped up. He let out the loudest groan. "Why does he like playing with Carlos?" he complained to no one in particular, tossing his phone onto the table like it personally offended him. "Every damn time."

Across the paddock, Carola was scrolling too. She clicked Pato's story, rolled her eyes, and then clicked again—straight into Catalina's public Instagram reposting his message with a polite thank-you. But the next story? Catalina's private account. A meme. A stupid dumb meme clearly aimed at the situation, and Carola burst out laughing. Checo glanced over, confused, until she shoved the phone at him.

Checo squinted at the screen, then let out a long sigh that only a tired thirty-something father could produce. "Young people are so dramatic," he muttered, already spotting Pato outside the hospitality tent. "Ese chamaco—always causing problems."

And with that, he marched outside like the disappointed uncle of the entire paddock, leaving Carola laughing and Lando texting Carlos: bro your rival is at it again.

By June, the countdown to LA and the Olympics had officially entered the "holy shit, it's real" phase. Catalina and her team were in overdrive—training, media, photoshoots, everything that came with being a captain of a national-level rowing team. One of the assignments that had everyone simultaneously rolling their eyes and freaking out was a Photoshop session for the official uniform.

They had to pose in studio lighting, with their team kits superimposed neatly over them, each shot meticulously checked to look flawless. It was tedious, but the moment the photos hit social media, the reaction was immediate. Fans ate it up. The captions went wild. People noticed Catalina's fierce determination, her stance, her shoulders back, her gaze sharp and unrelenting. For once, the internet couldn't get enough.

But alongside the surge in followers and attention came the inevitable side effects: people noticing her age, her aesthetic, and her rise to prominence. A few actors, other athletes around Catalina's age, and even some minor internet celebrities started following her. Each new follow made Carlos's jaw tighten in frustration.

He could not say a word. Every time he considered texting her a warning or subtle "don't talk to him" message, he reminded himself that they were still taking things slow. No public labels, no demands, no overt jealousy. But the tightness in his chest? Oh, that was real. He could practically feel the male attention pressing against him like a physical wall.

Meanwhile, Catalina's phone never seemed to stop buzzing. Sheila, Lory, Jackie, and of course Leo had all made it a ritual to FaceTime her at odd hours. They wanted updates, gossip, and the latest dirt about who was sliding into her DMs or who was creeping on her online. One evening, as Catalina sat cross-legged on her bed, sweaty from practice, phone balanced precariously on her knees, Sheila's face popped up first.

"Okay, spill! Who's sliding in your DMs, Cat?" Sheila demanded, already smiling, already half-laughing.

Catalina held up a hand. "No comment," she said, half-grinning.

"Come on! You have to tell me!" Jackie chimed in, leaning over her laptop like she was trying to peek through a window into Catalina's life.

Leo, of course, could never play it cool. "I have blackmail against you, bitch. Spill!" he teased, a smirk plastered across his face.

Catalina groaned, dramatically, tossing her curls back. "Fine. Fine. A lot of athletes—mainly people around my age, some from rowing, a couple from swimming, and a few track guys—have been sliding into my DMs," she admitted reluctantly, rolling her eyes. "But I ignore them. All of them. I'm loyal, okay? I'm loyal to Carlos."

Sheila's eyebrows shot up, playful but mischievous. "I mean, I find Carlos attractive, don't get me wrong, but girl... you've got some handsome-ass motherfuckers in your DMs. Like, straight-up dripping with testosterone and ego."

Catalina leaned back against her pillows, sighing. "Look, I have better shit to worry about than dick," she said firmly, gesturing vaguely toward her uniformed team, her rowing schedule, and the mountain of training gear stacked beside her. "I'm worried about winning gold. That's the goal here. Not falling for some random guy sliding in with 'hey cutie' messages."

Leo laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, you are so concentrated, I swear. This is why you're going to kill it in LA. Totally focused. Totally lethal. I love it."

"Exactly," Cat said, smirking at her phone screen. "And by the way... Carlos better hope none of these fools try anything. Because he is not officially dating me, sure, but he will throw down if someone crosses the line."

Sheila rolled her eyes and chuckled. "Girl, relax. Let them chase. You're already untouchable."

"Untouchable until LA," Cat muttered, looking over at the calendar and counting the weeks left. "Three weeks. That's it. Then it's game time. No distractions, no drama. I need my body right, my mind right, my team ready."

Jackie nodded. "I get it. Focused queen. Just... don't be surprised if a few more followers pop up, and then, you know, the DMs just... escalate."

Catalina laughed, shaking her head. "Good. Let them slide. I've got gold on my mind. LA is coming, and I need to be ready. Carlos or no Carlos, Pato or no Pato, haters or no haters—I don't care. We train. We win. That's all."

The conversation lingered in that tone for a while, playful, teasing, but grounded in reality. She could hear the echoes of her team cheering her on in her mind, her coach's voice in her head reminding her why she was captain, and, of course, Carlos's voice, soft in her texts and calls, steady and grounding even when he couldn't be there.

As she put her phone down, stretching her arms over her head, she felt the familiar thrill of being on the edge of greatness. LA was close, the world was watching, and she had a team behind her, friends beside her, and Carlos quietly cheering her on from hundreds of miles away.

And, she thought wryly, if Pato or anyone else tried to steal attention? Well... they were going to have to get past her. And that meant the duck wasn't just going to play a game—he was stepping into a war zone.

The ice bath was colder than Catalina remembered, each second a sharp bite against her muscles, each movement making her teeth chatter just enough to remind her she was alive. Her legs floated like lead in the water, calves and quads still screaming from yesterday's erg session. She had thought the cold would numb the ache, that it would wash away the exhaustion, but all it did was make her hyper-aware of every fiber, every pull, every tendon begging for relief. She rested her arms on the side of the tub, letting the cold seep through her and wishing, for just a moment, that someone would appear with a warm towel, a chocolate bar, and the ability to magically make her bones stop throbbing.

And then, as if the universe heard her half-formed wish, the door creaked open. Catalina froze, muscles tensing even further. "Coach??" she croaked, surprised, teeth still chattering from the ice.

Margaret, her old coach from Birmingham, stepped in like she had always owned the room. There was a calm authority about her, but also a softness that made it clear she wasn't here to yell or lecture. She walked over to the edge of the tub, sat down, and gave Catalina a look that made her pause mid-shiver. "Stay there," Margaret said gently, almost like a command and a comfort all at once. Catalina did, leaning back slightly, not quite ready to leave the icy embrace but willing to listen.

Margaret's eyes scanned her, taking in the waterlogged hair, the tension in her shoulders, the exhaustion that radiated from her like a halo of pure effort. "Cat," she began, her voice quiet but firm, "you can do this. I know you can. You have the power, the endurance, the focus. You've got this. People believe in you—even more than you realize."

Catalina's eyes flicked up at her, trying to focus through the shivers. "Coach... I... I don't know," she admitted, her voice breaking just a little. "I love it, I love rowing, I love the team—but I'm so tired. I feel like... like I'm not enough sometimes. Like maybe I'm letting everyone down because I'm human and I—"

Margaret shook her head slightly, leaning closer to the tub's edge. "No. No, Cat. Look at me." Her gaze was firm, unwavering. "You're not letting anyone down. You are human, and that's what makes you strong. Every person who's backing you up, every teammate who trusts you, every coach who has pushed you—they see the strength you don't always see in yourself. And honestly? That's part of what makes you terrifyingly good. You second-guess yourself because you care, because you want it enough to do it right. That's what champions do."

Catalina blinked, tears threatening to spill, both from relief and exhaustion. The room felt warmer somehow, even over the icy water, just from Margaret's presence and the weight of her words. "I... I'm just so tired, Coach," she admitted, letting the vulnerability creep through for the first time in days. "I love it, but damn... this shit—training, the pressure, everything—it's making me second-guess myself constantly. I just... I want to do it all right, you know? And some days, I feel like I can't even remember what 'right' is anymore."

Margaret reached out and rested a hand gently on her shoulder, the warmth of contact cutting through the cold and the mental fog. "Cat, exhaustion is part of greatness. It doesn't mean you're failing. It means you're reaching, pushing past comfort, and daring to be more than anyone else expects. You're doing exactly what you're supposed to do—you're grinding, you're bleeding, you're learning, and yes, you're doubting yourself. That's normal. That's human. But it will pass. And when it does, you'll rise stronger, faster, sharper than anyone can imagine."

Catalina swallowed, letting her tears mix with the ice water. "I just... sometimes I feel like I'm on the edge, Coach. Like one wrong stroke or one bad day and it all comes crumbling down."

Margaret shook her head slowly, firmly. "And that's exactly why you'll crush it, Cat. You've felt the edge. You've stared at it. And yet—you haven't stopped. You've pushed through. That's what makes a captain, that's what makes an Olympian. And you, my dear, are both."

A tear slid down Catalina's cheek, but she couldn't stop the laugh that followed—half disbelief, half relief. She had been carrying so much in silence, the weight of expectation, the constant self-critique, the fear of slipping. Margaret's presence, her words, the way she believed in her so completely—it was like someone had opened a window in a suffocating room. "Coach," Catalina whispered, voice thick, "I needed that. I... I really needed that. I was starting to... I don't know... spiral."

Margaret smiled softly, squeezing her shoulder before standing. "And now you're not. You're here. You're alive. You're fighting. You're doing everything exactly right, Cat. Remember that every time the ice feels too cold, every time your legs burn too much, every time your mind screams at you. You are doing right. You are doing great."

Catalina sat back in the tub, letting the cold sting fade into something sharper—determination. She looked up at Margaret and nodded, a small, genuine smile breaking across her face. "Okay. Okay, I can do this. I will do this. Thank you, Coach. Really."

Margaret gave her one last look, full of pride and quiet encouragement. "You don't need to thank me. Just remember—your body is strong, your mind is capable, and your heart is unstoppable. Go show the world what Cat can do."

Catalina exhaled, letting herself lean back into the ice one last time, mentally resetting. For the first time that day, she felt lighter. She was tired, yes—but she was ready. Ready to push, ready to fight, ready to take every damn stroke like it was her last. She knew the next two months would be brutal. She knew the Olympics weren't just about physical strength—they were about mental endurance, about focus, about holding herself together when every fiber of her being wanted to give in. But for the first time that day, she believed she could.

And as she climbed out of the ice bath, water dripping onto the floor, she felt something she hadn't felt in weeks: steady, unwavering confidence, grounded in the knowledge that she wasn't alone. She had her team, her friends, and yes, Carlos—even if he was miles away, silently sending voice notes and texts of encouragement. And while Pato might be sending her memes and flirty gestures from wherever he was, none of that mattered right now. Right now, it was just her, the ice, and the fire she carried inside.

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #pato o’ward wants catalina #carola is team carlita #carlos vs pato #carlos sainz x original character

For The Plot// F1

Part: 21

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

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Catalina was so over it.

Every day that passed, it seemed Bella had a new "masterpiece" to unleash on TikTok — a video of Cat training, another of her yawning between sets, one where she was just sitting on the floor scrolling through her phone looking dead inside while Bella did a voiceover about "peak athlete life." And somehow, every single one went viral.

By now, Catalina couldn't walk into practice without someone teasing her about being "TikTok famous."

"Seriously, Bella," she groaned one afternoon, dragging her duffel bag toward the bench. "If you post one more video of me looking like a drowned rat, I'm switching your pre-workout for decaf."

Bella just laughed, holding her phone up anyway. "It's content, babe! People love you!"

"People love watching me suffer," Cat muttered, stretching her arms out with a dramatic sigh. "I'm one 'gym goblin' edit away from losing my mind."

Still, she couldn't deny it — December had been a blur. Training, press, constant calls. The Olympics captaincy meant endless meetings and media days. Some nights, she came home and fell asleep on her couch with her dinner half-eaten beside her.

But through it all, Carlos stayed steady.

He FaceTimed her more often now — sometimes during her late-night dinners, sometimes when she was sitting on the floor icing her knees. They didn't even need to talk much anymore; sometimes he'd just cook in his kitchen while she folded laundry, both of them content in the quiet rhythm of shared time.

The season was ending. Abu Dhabi was on the horizon. And after that, finally, they'd both get a break.

Catalina had already decided she wasn't flying home to San Francisco or Mexico this year — she wanted peace, quiet, no airports, no cameras. Just three weeks of lazy mornings, warm tea, and maybe some snow if the universe was kind.

Carlos, of course, had other plans.

"I'll be there for Christmas," he'd said casually one night, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Catalina blinked at him over the video call. "You'll be where?"

"In London," he repeated, smiling at her expression. "You said you weren't traveling, sí? I want to spend the holidays with you. Three weeks. No press, no noise, just us."

She stared at him for a long moment, her heart doing that ridiculous flutter again. "Carlos... you know you don't have to—"

"I want to," he interrupted softly, eyes steady on hers. "You've been there for me all year. Let me be there for you now."

And that was that. He was coming.

In the weeks leading up to Abu Dhabi, she found herself smiling more often than not. Between training sessions, her phone would buzz with his texts — a picture of his breakfast, a sarcastic meme about swimmers, a quick "thinking of you."

But of course, because the internet never rested, people had noticed.

It started after qualifying weekend, when a fan photo from the paddock began circulating on Twitter. Carlos was holding his phone in one hand, laughing with Charles, and someone had zoomed in — way in — to see his lock screen.

The picture wasn't clear. Just a blur of dark curls, a woman's profile, sunlight spilling over her shoulder. But that didn't stop speculation.

"Who's the girl on Carlos's wallpaper?" one account tweeted.

"That looks like the swimmer girl from the TikToks," another said.

"No way, that's Catalina Villalobo. Bro's in DEEP."

Carlos, of course, said nothing. He went about his media duties like nothing had happened — smiling, signing caps, giving interviews. But every time a reporter tried to sneak a question about "the mysterious woman," he just smirked, shrugged, and said, "Private life stays private."

Catalina, on the other hand, wanted to crawl into a hole.

She'd seen the screenshots within an hour — Jackie had sent them with fifty laughing emojis and a text that said "so subtle, Casanova."

"Unbelievable," she muttered that night, scrolling through Twitter. "This man starts soft-launching me like it's a marketing campaign."

Bella, of course, was thrilled. "You realize you're like the internet's new ship now, right?"

"I don't want to be a ship!" Cat groaned, dropping her phone face-down on the couch. "I just want to eat cookies and sleep for three weeks without trending."

"Too late for that," Bella said with a grin.

Catalina just sighed, tugging her blanket over her head. "I need a vacation."

Miles away from her. The next morning started with the internet in full chaos—like it always was when it came to Carlos Sainz.

F1 Twitter was doing what it did best: zooming in, overanalyzing, speculating. Someone had posted a photo of him in the paddock the day before, relaxed in his McLaren chair, phone in hand. But what had caught everyone's attention wasn't his smile, or his sunglasses—it was the faint reflection of his home screen on the glossy edge of his phone.

The image was blurry, but not that blurry. Enough to tell it was a woman. Long hair, maybe brown, a faint smile.

By the time Carlos woke up in his Abu Dhabi hotel room, the internet had already turned into a digital investigation board.

"Who's the girl on Carlos' lock screen 👀👀👀"

"That's definitely Catalina Villalobo, you can see the outline of her hair!!"

"No way, they broke up ages ago."

"Isn't she with Pato now???"

"Carlos Sainz really said: I miss my Olympic girl 😭💔"

Carlos scrolled through the chaos from the privacy of his suite, towel still slung around his neck from a morning shower, the desert sun cutting through the blinds. His lips curved into a slow smirk as he sat back on the couch, phone in hand.

He opened his burner account—his second Twitter, the one only his closest friends knew about—and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The notifications were endless. Hundreds of posts, edits, side-by-side comparisons of Cat's old photos and the blurry lock screen.

The fandom was in a frenzy.

One post had thousands of likes already:

"That's 100% Cat Villalobo. Look at the hair!!!"

Carlos's thumb hovered over the heart icon for a second before he scrolled past it. Another tweet caught his attention.

"Nah, she's with Pato O'Ward now. They've been spotted together in London."

His jaw clenched, thumb instinctively hitting the dislike button before he could stop himself. The tiny flash of red under his finger did nothing to cool his irritation.

He didn't know why it pissed him off so much—no, that was a lie. He knew exactly why. Because Pato's name kept showing up next to hers, because people were pairing her with someone else like he'd just... lost his chance.

He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, eyes narrowing at the screen.

She's not with him.

He knew that. He'd seen the way she looked at him when they talked. The softness in her laugh when she called him Carlitos. The hesitation when he leaned in just a bit too close. She wasn't with Pato—she was just too damn nice to tell the guy to back off.

Still, the sight of their names together—"Cat & Pato 😍"—boiled something in him he didn't like to name.

The door cracked open behind him and one of the PR assistants poked their head in. "Carlos, media in twenty minutes."

He nodded, barely glancing up. "Sí, sí, I'll be ready."

As soon as the door clicked shut, his smirk returned. He scrolled back to one of the clearer zoom-ins of his lock screen—the one that had everyone talking.

They'd done a good job trying to "clear" the photo. Someone had enhanced the contrast, sharpened the details, trying to make out her face. The result was grainy, distorted, but even through the blur, he could see the curve of Cat's smile—the one he'd taken one morning when she was still in bed, sunlight spilling over her bare shoulders as she laughed into the pillow.

He hadn't even realized it was that photo until now.

He chuckled under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

"Let them talk," he muttered in Spanish, a hint of pride in his voice. "Let them wonder."

He tossed his phone onto the couch and leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. For once, he didn't care if the internet played detective. If anything, he wanted them to.

Back in London Cat didn't say it aloud, but she couldn't deny it — part of her, the quiet part that missed his warmth and the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered, was counting down the days until he arrived.

Because the truth was, as chaotic as life had become — between TikToks, training, and viral theories — she couldn't wait to open her door on Christmas week and find Carlos Sainz standing there, smiling that soft, dangerous smile that always made her forget how to breathe.

The heater hummed quietly in the background, the London sky a pale gray outside her window. Catalina sat curled up on her couch, her laptop open and forgotten beside her, half-watching some random Christmas movie while her phone buzzed beside her every few minutes.

Another meme from Pato.

She snorted, shaking her head. The man had been relentless lately — cat memes, Olympic memes, even one about her TikTok fame that made her nearly choke on her tea. She sent him a half-hearted laughing emoji before tossing the phone aside.

"Dios, ese pato no se cansa," she muttered, stretching her arms above her head. (God, that damn duck doesn't get tired)

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

A sharp knock at the door made her pause.

She frowned — she wasn't expecting anyone. With a sigh, she got up, padding across the apartment barefoot, tugging her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands as she reached for the knob.

The second the door swung open, strong arms wrapped around her.

"Carlos—!" she gasped, half laughing, half startled as he pulled her close.

He smelled like plane air and cologne, his curls still damp from a shower. His embrace was firm, desperate almost, like he'd been holding his breath for weeks.

"You wasted no time to fly back, Carlitos," she teased once she caught her breath, her voice muffled against his chest.

He didn't answer right away — just tightened his arms around her and groaned lowly, his head dropping to her shoulder. "Ay, don't say it like that," he muttered, half teasing, half tortured. "Do you know how long that flight felt?"

Cat giggled, leaning back to look at him. "What happened? Did the plane forget to serve food?"

"No." His eyes darkened just a little. "Half the internet finds you attractive, amor. Those comments finally got to me."

Catalina blinked — then burst out laughing, nearly doubling over in his arms.

"Ay, Carlos, are you serious?" she managed between laughs. "You're jealous of TikTok comments?"

He sighed dramatically, throwing his head back. "I am human, Catalina."

"You're celoso,(jealous)" she corrected, still grinning. "Very, very celoso."

His lips twitched. "And whose fault is that?"

"Not mine," she said, stepping closer until their chests brushed.

His hand came up automatically to her waist, his thumb drawing little circles there, his restraint hanging by a thread. His eyes flickered to her lips — he wanted to kiss her so badly it almost hurt. But he stopped himself, jaw tightening.

Cat smiled softly, then tilted her head and brushed a feather-light kiss against the corner of his mouth. "You're impossible."

Carlos groaned quietly, eyes closing for a second like he was fighting every instinct in his body. "You're cruel."

"Te gusta,(you like it)" she teased, before turning and tugging him inside.

He followed willingly, his duffel bag dropping somewhere near the entryway before he collapsed onto her couch like a man finally home.

"Comfortable?" she asked, laughing as he stretched out, taking up most of the space.

"Much better now," he said, reaching out and catching her by the wrist before pulling her down with him.

She squealed, landing against his chest. "Carlos!"

"Shhh," he murmured, his hand sliding lazily through her curls. "I just got here."

For a moment, they stayed like that — her head tucked under his chin, the steady rise and fall of his breathing grounding her.

"How do you feel about P4?" she asked softly after a minute.

He shrugged, his fingers still tracing idle shapes on her back. "As of now, I do not care. As of yesterday... it pissed me off."

Cat smiled, half into his shirt. "You're dramatic."

He smiled faintly, his eyes softening as he looked down at her. "You love that about me."

"Maybe," she said, tracing her fingertip along the edge of his jaw. "But right now, I love this more."

He kissed the top of her head in response, exhaling slowly. For the first time in months, the world felt quiet again — no races, no noise, no distance. Just the two of them, tangled on her couch, wrapped up in warmth and that fragile, steady thing that had always pulled them back to each other.

And somewhere, half-forgotten on the counter, her phone buzzed again. Another meme from Pato.

She ignored it this time.

The afternoon drifted lazily into evening, soft winter light pouring through the windows of Catalina's flat. Outside, the city buzzed with pre-holiday energy — faint carols from the streets below, the hum of traffic, and laughter echoing from the nearby pub. Inside, though, everything felt still. Warm. Almost domestic.

Carlos and Catalina had spent most of the day doing absolutely nothing — which, for both of them, felt like a luxury. He'd dozed off on her couch with her legs sprawled across his lap, and she'd half-watched a movie while absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair. Sometimes they talked; sometimes they didn't. They didn't need to.

By the time the sun began to sink, painting her living room in gold and rose tones, a knock at the door startled them both.

"Food's here," Carlos said, pushing himself up and stretching before heading for the door.

"Perfect timing," Catalina said, grinning as she got up to grab plates.

Carlos paid the delivery driver and turned back toward the kitchen — but something on the counter caught his eye.

A bouquet.

Bright sunflowers and white roses in a glass vase, petals still fresh. A little card tied around the neck of it with a familiar scrawl.

Congrats on finishing training — proud of you, Catita. P.

Carlos froze mid-step. His jaw clenched.

He didn't say anything — just stood there, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared at the flowers like they'd personally insulted him.

Catalina followed his gaze, setting down the plates. "Oh," she said quickly, brushing a loose curl behind her ear. "Those? Pato sent them a few days ago. For the end of training. Sweet, right?"

She smiled, casual, unbothered — but the moment she said Pato, something dark flickered across Carlos's face.

Sweet.

Right.

He hummed under his breath, something that might've been agreement if it weren't so quiet, and gave a curt nod. "Yeah. Very sweet."

"Carlos..." Cat's voice softened a little, but before she could say anything else, he shook his head.

"I'll be right back," he muttered, disappearing toward the hallway.

She sighed, watching him go, half-confused, half-amused. Typical.

While he was gone, she set the table — opening the takeout containers, pouring them each a drink, humming under her breath. By the time he returned, she was smiling again, holding out a glass of wine for him.

Carlos stopped in the doorway for a moment, watching her. The way her curls framed her face, the faint blush on her cheeks from the heater, the soft look she gave him without even realizing it. His irritation melted away before he could even hold onto it.

Because truth be told, he had no right to be jealous. They weren't dating — not officially, not yet. Catalina was free to talk to whoever she wanted.

But that didn't mean he liked it.

He took the glass, brushing his fingers over hers as he did. "Gracias, amor,(thank you my love)" he murmured, eyes lingering on her a little too long.

She grinned. "You okay now?"

Carlos gave a small shrug, feigning casual, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. "I'm fine."

He wasn't. Not really.

Because every time he saw Pato's name light up her phone, every time she smiled at a message from him, a small spark of possessiveness burned low in his chest.

And standing there, watching her laugh softly as she took a sip of her wine, Carlos made himself a silent promise —

He wasn't going to let that fucking duck take her from him.

Not again.

Not ever.

The smell of food lingered in the air — warm, savory, comforting — but Carlos couldn't taste a thing. He sat across from Catalina at her little kitchen table, fork in hand, trying to act normal. She was still glowing from laughter, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth.

It should've been a perfect night.

It almost was.

Until she lifted her wrist.

"Oh, look!" Cat said with a grin, holding out her arm so he could see the small bracelet Carola had given her a few weeks back — a thin chain with a tiny silver F1 car and a little oar charm hanging from it. "Carola got me this when she came to visit! Isn't it cute?"

Carlos smiled softly at first, his heart warming at the mention of Carola. "Sí... muy bonito.(yes... very pretty)" His fingers brushed the charm lightly, a small spark of fondness in his eyes — until they drifted to the other bracelet sitting just above it.

A braided silver band with a small metal plate.

He knew it instantly.

"¿Y ese?" (And that one?) he asked casually, his tone careful — too careful. "The other one."

Catalina blinked and glanced down, as if she'd forgotten she was wearing it. "Oh—this? Pato gave it to me," she said easily, twirling her wrist. "As a gift for making the Olympic team."

The fork in Carlos's hand stopped midair.

He froze for a heartbeat too long.

She didn't notice — she kept talking, her voice animated, the sparkle in her eyes genuine. "It was really sweet of him, right? He said something like 'un regalo para una campeona,' (a gift for a champion) and I almost cried—"

Carlos nodded, his throat dry. "Yeah. Sweet."

His voice was clipped. Neutral. Controlled.

Catalina went on, completely oblivious to the slow storm brewing across from her. She was laughing, talking about training, her teammates, how Bella had accidentally capsized their boat last week — but Carlos wasn't hearing any of it. His gaze kept flicking to the bracelet on her wrist, that little glint of metal that made his jaw tick.

When his eyes lifted again, they landed on her neck.

Bare.

No necklace.

No trace of the small gold locket that had once matched his — the one she'd worn almost constantly before everything fell apart.

He tried to keep his voice steady. "And... your necklace?"

Cat looked up mid-bite. "Hmm?"

"The locket," Carlos clarified, his tone soft but careful. "You haven't worn it in a while."

Catalina blinked, then set her fork down. "Oh." She shrugged. "It's somewhere in my closet. With all your stuff."

Carlos went very still.

She said it so simply — like it didn't sting.

"I was planning on throwing everything away when you blocked me," she added casually, eyes dropping to her food again, her tone light but cutting all the same.

And that?

That made him shut up completely.

The air in the room shifted. Heavy now. Thicker.

Carlos stared down at his plate, his appetite gone. The only sound between them was the quiet clink of Catalina's fork against ceramic as she kept eating, like nothing had happened.

After a long silence, he finally spoke — voice quiet, almost a whisper.

"Sooo..." He cleared his throat, forcing a small smile. "What do you want to do after this?"

Cat glanced up, studying him. Her expression softened a little — she could feel the tension, even if she didn't know exactly where it came from.

"Look," she said gently, setting her fork aside. "I can feel you're mad."

Carlos exhaled through his nose. "I'm not mad."

"Carlitos," she said, giving him that look — half stern, half affectionate. "Let's just... not do this tonight. Okay? Let's sleep and wake up on the good side of the bed tomorrow, sí?"

Her voice was soft, coaxing.

Carlos looked at her for a long moment, his chest tight with things he wanted to say — things he shouldn't.

Finally, he gave a small nod. "Okay."

And when she stood and offered her hand, he took it, letting her pull him toward the bedroom.

Maybe she was right. Maybe tomorrow, everything would feel lighter.

But as they crawled under the blankets — Catalina's head tucked against his chest, his arm curled protectively around her — Carlos kept his eyes open for a long time, staring into the dark.

Because no matter how much he told himself he trusted her... he still couldn't stop thinking about the bracelet.

Before he could even drift off, sleep refused to come.

The dim city light slipped through Catalina's curtains, painting her walls gold and gray. Carlos lay there, half on his back, half turned toward her. She was fast asleep beside him—hair wild, cheek pressed against his chest, soft breath against his shirt. Peaceful. Untouched by the chaos that spun in his head.

But he couldn't stop thinking about that conversation.

It came back in flashes—Carola's voice, sharp and unflinching as always, echoing in his mind like a warning bell.

They'd been in the hospitality suite in Abu Dhabi, a few days before he flew to London.

Carola had called him over under the guise of talking logistics, but the moment she shut the door, Carlos knew it wasn't about PR. She had that look—arms crossed, chin tilted, eyes narrowing like she was ready to scold one of her kids.

"Carlos, tenemos que hablar del desastre que viene," she'd said, no pleasantries, no soft entry.

(Carlos, we need to talk about the disaster that's coming.)

Carlos had frowned, reaching for the bottled water on the table. "¿De qué hablas?"

(What are you talking about?)

"De Catalina," Carola replied, leaning forward, elbows on the counter. "Esa niña se está haciendo famosa sin quererlo. TikTok, fotos, clips de ella entrenando, entrevistas—todo. People are noticing her. And it's only going to get worse."(that girl is becoming famous on accident. TIKTOK, pictures, clips of her training, interviews, everything)

Carlos had stiffened, jaw tightening. "That's... good for her. She deserves it."

Carola gave a short laugh—half amused, half pitying. "Ay, mi niño, you don't get it, do you?"

He raised a brow.

"She's going to start getting shipped with people," Carola said flatly, switching to English so the words would cut cleaner. "Young athletes, influencers, guys her age. She's beautiful, she's confident, and she's single. Once the Olympics starts."

Carlos had felt that word like a pin to the chest.

Carola wasn't done. "Once word gets out that she's friends with Pato, the internet's going to lose it. He's charming, loud, age-appropriate. You know how fans are—they'll say she should be with him, not some Formula 1 driver a decade older who broke her heart and kept her hidden."

He'd clenched his jaw, looking away. "We didn't—"

"You did," Carola cut in. "You kept her private. You didn't have the guts to make it public. You could've been a year into a proper relationship by now, but no. No tuviste huevos y la dejaste," she said, her voice low and sharp. (You didn't have the balls, and you let her go.)

Carlos flinched, his hands curling into fists on his knees.

Carola sighed, the edge softening only slightly. "I like you, Carlos. I know you care about her. But this isn't a movie—you can't just show up with flowers and think everything resets. Catalina's building something for herself now, and people are watching."

Her tone dropped lower, her eyes narrowing. "And Pato—"

Carlos had looked up at that, his chest tightening. "What about him?"

Carola's lips curved into something between a smirk and a warning. "He's a smooth operator, that one. Charismatic, young, knows exactly what to say. And the worst part? He's not dumb. He knows what he's doing."

"No va a perder el tiempo." (He won't waste time.)

She leaned forward, tapping a manicured finger against the table. "He finds her attractive—he did the moment he met her. And you? You're giving him every opportunity to move in. Catalina is single to everyone else, remember? Because of you. Because you're still trying to earn her trust again."

Carlos hadn't replied—he couldn't. Every word landed like a hit.

Carola went on, her tone almost gentle now. "The world doesn't see your history. They only see what's in front of them. You think the fans will pick you over a 25-year-old driver who makes her laugh on camera? They'll say you're trying to be young through her. They're already saying it."

She'd let that sink in.

And then, like she always did, Carola delivered the final blow with a small, almost pitying smile.

"Be careful, Carlos. Because if you don't make a move soon, someone else will—and that someone else is already knocking at her door."

Now, lying beside Catalina, that last line replayed over and over in his head.

Already knocking at her door.

He thought of the flowers that weren't from him. The bracelet Pato gave her. The picture he'd posted. The way she'd said, "you're such a great friend, Pato."

He should've been calm. Rational. He trusted her—he did. But trust didn't quiet the part of him that hated the idea of anyone else making her laugh the way she laughed with him.

Carlos reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face, watching how her lips parted slightly in sleep.

Carola was right about one thing—Catalina was becoming someone the world noticed. And maybe he was already too late to protect what they'd had.

But he wasn't about to lose her again. Not to Pato. Not to anyone.

Not this time.

The next morning, Catalina woke up to the smell of coffee and the faint sound of a pan sizzling. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming — the warmth of the duvet, the soft gray London light filtering through the curtains, and the distinct scent of toasted bread and cinnamon that didn't belong in her quiet flat.

When she finally sat up, hair a mess and one sleeve of her shirt slipping down her shoulder, she found Carlos standing in her tiny kitchen. He was wearing one of his casual hoodies, sleeves pushed up, his hair still damp from a shower. He looked entirely too comfortable there — like he'd done this a thousand times.

"Buenos días, dormilona,(good morning sleepy head)" he said with that lopsided grin that still made her heart flutter.

"Morning," she murmured, rubbing her eyes. Then, with a teasing smirk, "You spoil me."

Carlos chuckled and leaned down to press a soft kiss to her cheek as she sat down. "Someone has to take care of you. You eat like a bird when you're alone."

"Hey," she protested, laughing as she saw the spread in front of her — fruit, eggs, pancakes, coffee, and even some churros he'd somehow managed to get his hands on. "This is too much."

"Not enough," he countered, pulling out the chair across from her. "You've been working too hard. You deserve a good breakfast."

Their morning flowed easily, their conversation light. Catalina talked about her training break, how she was debating redecorating her flat for the holidays, and how she'd accidentally gone viral again because of one of Bella's TikToks.

Carlos just listened — smiling, sometimes interrupting to tease her, other times just watching her, completely absorbed in the way her hands moved when she got excited about something.

After they finished eating, Carlos looked at her thoughtfully. "You want to go for a walk?"

She tilted her head. "A walk?"

"Sí," he said, smiling. "Fresh air. Maybe you can show me around your neighborhood — properly this time."

Cat arched a brow, pretending to think. "Hmm... I guess I can play tour guide for my favorite dinosaur."

Carlos groaned dramatically. "Not again."

"Oh, sí," she said, grinning. "Dinosaurio. That's your name again. Don't act like you didn't miss me calling you that!!"

They both laughed, slipping on coats and scarves before heading out. London was crisp that morning — the kind of cold that stung pleasantly at the nose and made their breath visible in the air. The streets were lively but calm, full of people carrying Christmas shopping bags, kids running ahead of their parents, street performers on corners playing soft guitar melodies.

Carlos and Catalina walked side by side, their shoulders brushing every so often. She pointed out her favorite café, a bookshop she loved, and the bakery she swore made the best pastries in all of London.

After a while, she got bored of walking at his pace and without warning, she jumped onto his back.

"¡Ay, Dios mío!" Carlos laughed, stumbling slightly before catching her legs. "You're crazy!"

"Dinosaurio, avanza,(go)" she ordered between giggles.

He rolled his eyes but couldn't stop smiling as he adjusted his grip on her thighs and kept walking. She rested her chin on his shoulder, still laughing, and for the first time in a long while, he saw her — the Catalina he'd fallen for. Carefree, bright, with that wild spark in her eyes.

They ended up at a small park near the river, where they finally sat down on a bench, watching the ducks glide across the pond and people passing by with dogs and strollers.

For a while, neither of them said much. They just sat there, quietly sharing a thermos of coffee she'd brought, their laughter fading into soft comfort.

"Feels like old times," she murmured.

Carlos turned his head toward her. "It does."

But there was a weight behind his words — a longing he didn't bother to hide.

By the time they made it back to her flat, the sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Catalina kicked off her shoes and immediately went into the kitchen, humming as she pulled out the ingredients for chocolate caliente. Carlos leaned against the counter, watching her move around with practiced ease — hair pulled back, sleeves rolled up, her focus entirely on the task.

He wanted to ask her out — the question sat heavy on his tongue, burning to be said. But he hesitated. They'd agreed to take it slow. She'd made him promise to earn her trust again, not to rush into something just because they missed what they used to have. And she was right... but God, it was hard.

Especially when she stood there in the soft kitchen light, laughing about something he barely registered, her voice soft and her smile easy.

Carlos tried to focus on her words, but his eyes kept flicking toward the silver bracelet around her wrist — the one from Pato. The one she'd said was a gift. It gleamed every time she moved her hand, and something sharp twisted in his chest.

She was talking about the next training camp, about maybe visiting her family in Spain afterward, completely oblivious to the storm inside him.

He could still hear Carola's voice in his head — Pato will find a way to make her like him.

Carlos swallowed hard. He wanted to throw the towel in, to just grab her hand, look her in the eye, and say, "Be mine again." But he didn't.

He watched her instead.

"Earth to Carlos!" Catalina said suddenly, snapping her fingers in front of his face. "What's wrong with you?"

He blinked, shaking out of his daze. "Nothing, amor. Just thinking."

"About what?" she asked, tilting her head, a soft smile on her lips.

Instead of answering, Carlos stood and stepped closer, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. He rested his chin on her shoulder, voice low and teasing. "About how lucky I am that you still let me be here."

Catalina rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. "Ay, qué cursi,(Oh, how cheesy," she teased.

"Solo un poco,(just a bit)" he murmured, kissing her temple.

She giggled — that quiet, genuine laugh that always undid him — and turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. For a heartbeat, the air between them felt electric, fragile, like something was about to shift.

Then the milk on the stove started bubbling, breaking the moment.

"Oops," she said quickly, stepping away to save her chocolate, and Carlos chuckled under his breath, watching her with something that looked a lot like love.

Yeah. He was in deep. And even if she didn't know it yet — she still owned him, completely.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Two days before Christmas, Catalina was tearing her flat apart.

She had checked everywhere — under the couch cushions, in her gym bag, through every drawer and coat pocket she owned. The little velvet box on her vanity sat open and empty, and the longer she searched, the more frustrated she became.

"Carlos," she called out, voice echoing through the flat, "have you seen my bracelet? The one Pato gave me?"

Carlos poked his head out from the bedroom, feigning innocence perfectly. "The silver one with the little engraving?"

"Yes!" she said, running a hand through her hair. "I had it after practice, I swear I put it on the counter. It's just... gone."

Carlos bit the inside of his cheek, doing his best to look sympathetic instead of victorious.

Because in reality? That bracelet wasn't lost at all.

It was sitting neatly tucked inside his suitcase, zipped into the side pocket beneath a few shirts — perfectly hidden, perfectly safe.

No one was going to steal her away from him. Not even a damn duck.

In his head, he muttered under his breath as he pretended to look under the sofa:

"Nadie me la va a robar, menos un maldito pato." ("No one is going to steal her from me, least of all a damn duck.")

Catalina sighed in defeat after another fifteen minutes of searching. "I can't find it. It must've fallen off during my run," she said, sounding genuinely disappointed. "I really liked that one..."

Carlos straightened up, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans as he schooled his face into something comforting. "Don't worry, amor, maybe it'll turn up. Or maybe Santa will bring you a better one."

She laughed tiredly. "You're impossible."

By the next day — Christmas Eve — the bracelet was long forgotten. The flat smelled like cinnamon and pine, a candle flickering softly by the window. Catalina was in the middle of wrapping the last of her gifts when a knock sounded at the door.

She looked up, confused. "Were you expecting anyone?" she asked Carlos.

He shook his head.

Opening the door, she found a delivery man holding a brown box with festive red ribbon and a familiar handwriting scrawled across the label:

"Para mi campeona 🏁✨"

Catalina smiled immediately. "Of course," she murmured, signing the receipt. "Campiona, huh?"

Carlos, lounging lazily on the couch, raised an eyebrow. "From who?"

Before she could answer, her phone started buzzing — FaceTime: Pato 🦆.

She rolled her eyes but answered anyway. "Pato? Why the hell are you calling me? It's like 4 a.m. in Mexico!"

On the screen, Pato grinned wide, hair a mess, clearly unbothered by the hour. "Vale la pena, trust me. Open the box."

Carlos leaned subtly into frame, making sure Pato could see him, though Pato's face didn't so much as twitch — except for the tiniest smirk.

Catalina sat down, pulling at the ribbon and opening the box. Inside was a delicate necklace — silver, minimalistic, with a small charm engraved with her initials and a tiny flame symbol.

Her eyes went wide. "Patito! Qué hermoso!"

"Sabía que te gustaría, catita," Pato said smoothly.

Carlos stiffened. His jaw tightened, his fingers curling against his knee. Catita. He hated it.

Catalina, oblivious, was still admiring the necklace, holding it up to the light. "It's perfect," she said, her voice soft.

Pato smirked on the screen, eyes flicking deliberately to where Carlos stood behind her. "You should put it on." His tone was light — teasing, suggestive — and the corner of his mouth curved knowingly.

Carlos swallowed his annoyance, forcing a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. Catalina handed him the necklace, her voice gentle. "Can you help me with it, Carlitos?"

He couldn't say no — not to her.

"Claro, gatita," he said quietly, mocking Pato's tone just enough for her to notice the edge in it.

He stepped behind her, fingers brushing her neck as he clasped the chain into place. The contact made her shiver slightly, and Carlos's gaze softened despite himself.

When she turned back to the camera, smiling, Carlos leaned just close enough that Pato could see him clearly.

"Thank you, Patito, really," Catalina said. "You didn't have to do this."

Pato's eyes flickered between her and Carlos, that same smug smile never fading. "Anything for you, Catita. Merry Christmas."

Catalina laughed, "Merry Christmas, loco, get some sleep," before hanging up.

As soon as the screen went dark, Carlos exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable.

Catalina noticed, smirking slightly. "You okay, Dinosaurio?"

Carlos gave her a side-eye, voice low and teasing but laced with jealousy. "Perfectly fine, gatita. Just... keeping an eye on the ducks around here."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."

"Lo sé,(I know)" he murmured, wrapping an arm around her waist as he kissed the top of her head.

But as she leaned into him, smiling, Carlos's eyes lingered just a second too long on the necklace — that duck's necklace — and he thought to himself,

Disfrútalo mientras dure, Pato.

("Enjoy it while it lasts, Pato.")

The rest of Christmas Eve felt like something out of a movie — the kind of soft, cozy evening neither of them had had in what felt like years.

Outside, London was hushed under a thin veil of snow, the city lights reflecting like glitter on wet pavement. Inside Catalina's flat, the world was small, warm, and safe — lit by fairy lights and the faint crackle of a candle on the counter.

Carlos and Catalina had spent most of the afternoon doing nothing and everything — stretched out on her couch, watching Christmas movies, sharing a blanket, arguing over which Home Alone was better.

"The first one," she said confidently, mouth full of popcorn.

"No way," Carlos countered, pointing at the TV. "The second has New York. A limo. Room service. Kevin's living his best life, amor."

Cat giggled, rolling her eyes as she threw a piece of popcorn at him. "You're impossible."

He caught it in his mouth and grinned smugly. "Talento natural,(natural talent)" he said, tapping his jaw.

By the time night settled in, they were side by side, feet tangled under the blanket, her head resting on his chest. It was quiet — that kind of silence where words weren't needed.

Then, out of nowhere, Cat turned her head toward him with that mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "We should open our gifts now."

Carlos chuckled softly. "Ya? It's still early."

"Sí," she insisted, sitting up, curls bouncing. "I can't wait any longer."

Carlos pretended to think about it before nodding. "Fine, but mine first."

He got up, walked to the tree, and returned with a small wrapped box in gold paper. He handed it to her, his gaze soft and fond.

Cat's grin grew as she tore the paper open, revealing a small velvet box. She blinked, looking up at him before she opened it — and her jaw dropped slightly.

Inside was a thin, delicate gold bracelet, simple but elegant — the kind of jewelry she actually wore, not too flashy, just enough to feel like her.

"Carlos..." she whispered, running a thumb over the small charm.

"Sé que te gusta el oro,(I know you like gold)" he said, smiling. "You always wear it, and... bueno, I thought maybe it would look good next to the one Pato got you."

Cat laughed softly, touched by the thought — and without hesitation, she slipped it on. "It's perfect."

She looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment the world just... stopped. The fairy lights reflected in his gaze, and before she could stop herself — before she could remind herself that they were supposed to be taking it slow — she jumped forward and kissed him.

Carlos froze for half a second, surprised, then melted into it — his hands instinctively finding her waist, his lips moving against hers like he'd been waiting months for that exact moment.

It wasn't desperate, or rushed — it was soft, deep, like a rediscovery. Like home.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, her cheeks flushed, she blinked as if realizing what she'd just done. "Oh my god— I—"

Carlos smiled, brushing a thumb over her cheek. "Don't apologize, mi vida. I've been waiting for that one."

She giggled, hiding her face in his shoulder. "Okay, okay, now it's your turn before I die of embarrassment."

He laughed quietly as she ran off to grab his gift — a rectangular box wrapped in paper decorated with little rowing oars and Formula 1 cars.

He opened it carefully, lifting the lid to find... a hat.

At first glance, it was simple — black, clean, but when he turned it in his hands, he saw it: a small embroidered dinosaur on one side, and a cat on the other, and stitched across the back in gold thread — 55.

Carlos's smile spread slow and wide, genuine and completely unguarded. "You made this?"

Cat nodded proudly, holding up her own matching one. "Now we both have our little team uniforms."

He looked at her for a long moment — the kind of look that said a thousand unspoken things. Then he stood, closing the distance between them in two steps, and kissed her again, this time with more surety, more intent.

When they broke apart, Carlos rested his forehead against hers, whispering with a smirk, "Take that, Pato culo verde." ("Take that, Pato green-ass.")

Cat burst out laughing, half pushing at his chest. "Carlos!"

"What?" he said innocently, but his grin was wicked.

A few minutes later, after they'd both calmed down and were back on the couch, Carlos snapped a photo — both their hands in frame, her new gold bracelet gleaming next to the hat on the table. He posted it to his private story with a simple caption:

"Feliz Navidad 🦖❤️ #TeamDinoCat"

And, of course, he made sure Pato was on the viewers list.

As Cat leaned against him, smiling at the screen, Carlos glanced down at her — her curls messy, her cheeks still pink, her laughter filling the quiet flat — and he thought, not for the first time, that she was the best Christmas gift he'd ever gotten.

The morning light was soft and golden, spilling lazily through Catalina's curtains. Carlos stirred first, feeling the weight of her draped over him — one leg tangled with his, her hand sprawled across his chest, hair a wild halo against his skin.

For a long moment, he just lay there, soaking in the stillness. The world outside didn't exist — just the faint hum of the city, the smell of coffee grounds from the kitchen, and her.

Then something on the nightstand blinked.

Her phone lit up, screen glowing against the dim room. Carlos reached over lazily, planning to flip it face-down so it wouldn't wake her — but then he saw it.

He froze.

His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

Because there, staring back at him from Cat's lock screen... was him.

Not the polished, put-together Carlos that the world saw now. Oh no. This was teenage Carlos, from his absolute slut era.

It was an old picture — one of those chaotic summer karting photos she must've found buried online or maybe had saved for years. He couldn't have been older than sixteen, tanned from head to toe, with sun-bleached hair, a cocky grin, and zero shame. He was shirtless, wearing low-rise jeans and a ridiculous chain, posing like he thought he was a Calvin Klein model instead of some kid with a go-kart.

Carlos stared at it in disbelief — then bit his lip to stop a laugh.

"No, no puede ser..." (I can’t believe this) he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his face. "She did not make this her wallpaper..."

He glanced at her sleeping beside him — still snuggled up, dead to the world, looking infuriatingly innocent.

"Gatita traviesa," (naughty kitten )he whispered, smirking. "You've been hiding things from me, huh?"

Unable to resist, he grabbed his own phone, angled it toward her, and snapped a quick photo — her half-asleep, one arm flopped over him, mouth slightly open, curls everywhere.

He looked at the picture for a moment, then grinned devilishly.

"Alright, fair's fair."

He set the photo as his own wallpaper.

Now, every time he unlocked his phone, he'd see her — drooling on his chest, peaceful and soft. If she got to have slut-era Carlos, then he got sleepy Cat. Balance restored.

Carlos tucked her closer, still trying not to laugh.

"Ahora estamos a mano,(now we are even)" he whispered against her hair. "You get the slut, I get the angel."

She stirred then, murmuring something incoherent — and he could've sworn she said, "Mi dinosaurio..." before nestling deeper against him.

Carlos smiled so wide it hurt.

"Yeah, yeah," he whispered, kissing her temple. "Your dinosaur's got proof now."

And with that, he drifted back to sleep — her phone still glowing faintly on the nightstand, displaying his most embarrassing photo ever for the world (or at least for her) to see.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #please don't let go of her carlos #carlos sainz x oc #carlos do something #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos Sainz x original character #Carlos vs pato #pato o’ward wants catalina

For The Plot// F1

Part: 20

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The next morning, the air in Catalina's flat felt too still.

Carlos had been glued to her side since dawn — quiet but affectionate, stealing little touches every few minutes like he was memorizing her. He made her coffee exactly how she liked it, leaned against the counter as she padded around the kitchen in one of his shirts, pretending everything was normal.

Neither wanted to mention the time ticking down.

When his phone buzzed with the driver's message, Carlos sighed softly and turned to her. She stood by the door, arms crossed, trying to look casual but her eyes gave her away — that same mixture of pride and sadness.

He smiled — that warm, steady smile that always made her heart twist — and stepped closer, brushing a hand over her cheek. "I'll see you soon, mi Catita. Don't miss me too much."

She laughed quietly. "No promises, Carlitos." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there for a moment before he whispered, "I'm proud of you."

Then he was gone.

The sound of the door closing behind him left an ache that echoed through the apartment. Catalina stood there for a minute, eyes lingering on the space he'd just left, before she exhaled and padded back toward the couch.

It was her first free day in weeks — no practice, no media, no pressure. Just her and her couch. She pulled a blanket over her legs, flipped through Netflix, and settled on an old movie that she'd seen a hundred times. It was the kind of lazy quiet she didn't get often.

Halfway through, her phone buzzed.

Pato 🏎️: I'm going to be in London tomorrow 😏

She grinned, instantly liking the message.

Another notification popped up seconds later.

Pato 🏎️: Already made us a reservation for dinner — you can't say no, Olympic girl.

Catalina laughed out loud. "He's such a good friend," she murmured to herself.

She typed back: I'll meet you there?

He replied almost immediately.

Pato 🏎️: ¿Qué clase de hombre sería yo si dejo que te vayas sola? I'll pick you up.

("What kind of man would I be if I let you go alone?")

Cat rolled her eyes affectionately and laughed again. "He's too much sometimes," she muttered, shaking her head as she sent back a thumbs-up.

I'll send you my address tomorrow, she added, before typing another: How fancy are we talking?

Pato 🏎️: 5/10. Nice, but not Met Gala.

She snorted and tossed the phone beside her, going back to her movie — until it buzzed again.

This time, it was Carola.

"¡Mi olímpica favorita!" Carola's voice came through the speaker, cheerful as ever. "I just saw the announcement. I'm coming to London tomorrow for some stuff, and I need to take you out to celebrate."

Catalina's face instantly brightened. "I'd love that! It still doesn't feel real, Carola."

"Ay, it better start feeling real soon, niña," Carola laughed. "You're representing the British! We're celebrating, no excuses."

Cat grinned. "Deal. You pick the place — I'll be free all day after I wake up."

"Perfecto." Then, because she couldn't resist, Carola added slyly, "And speaking of free days, where has the Spaniard been hiding? Everyone on the grid was asking where Carlos disappeared to this week..."

Catalina froze mid-laugh. "No comment." Carola immediately cackled on the other side. "¡Ah! No comment means there's something!"

"Carola," Catalina groaned, covering her face with her hand, though she was smiling. "Don't worry, amor, your secret's safe with me. But ay, if the others find out—"

"Then you'll deny everything," Catalina interrupted, still giggling. "Por supuesto. I'm an expert." (Of course)

They both laughed for a few minutes before Carola sighed contentedly. "I'm proud of you, Cat. You've worked so hard for this. You deserve it all — the team, the happiness... everything."

Catalina felt her chest warm. "Gracias, Caro. That means a lot."

"Always, mi niña. I'll text you when I land."

When the call ended, Catalina set her phone down beside her and leaned back against the couch.

The flat was quiet again, but not lonely this time. She felt... content.

Carlos was gone for now. Pato was coming tomorrow. Carola would be there too. Her life was moving — fast, exciting, chaotic — and for once, she didn't feel like she was trying to catch up.

She just smiled to herself, pulled the blanket tighter, and hit play again — the flickering light of the TV reflecting off her still-warm grin.

The knock on Catalina's door came just as she was finishing her morning coffee — hair wild from sleep, wearing a loose gray hoodie and shorts that had seen better days. She wasn't expecting anyone, so when she opened the door and saw Carola Pérez standing there with a wide grin, she nearly dropped her mug.

"¡Carola!" Cat gasped, immediately breaking into a smile as she threw her arms around her.

"Mi campeona olímpica!" Carola laughed, hugging her tight. "You think I'd come to London and not see you? Impossible." (My Olympic champion)

Cat giggled against her shoulder. "You're insane — why didn't you tell me you were coming this early?"

"Because I wanted to surprise you," Carola said, pulling back to look at her. "Also, look at you! You look so British now — messy bun, tea mug, baggy clothes."

Catalina laughed, tugging self-consciously at her hoodie. "I was not expecting company. This early."

Carola just smirked, waving a hand. "Please, you look adorable. Come on, get your shoes. We're going for breakfast. I'm starving and we have so much to talk about."

"Let me at least fix my hair—"

"Nope." Carola hooked her arm through Cat's and started walking her out the door. "You look like a goddess of chaos. Let's go."

They found a small café on a quiet street corner, sunlight spilling through the wide windows. Cat ordered her usual — pancakes and fruit — while Carola went straight for a cappuccino and chilaquiles, still clinging to her Mexican roots.

Carola was buzzing, talking about how proud everyone was, how she and Checo had both screamed when they saw Catalina's face on the Olympic announcement post.

"Checo said, 'esa niña lo logró, cabrón.'" ("That girl did it, damn it.")

Cat laughed so hard she almost choked on her juice. "He didn't!"

"He did. He said he's gonna get you a medal made of gold-plated tequila if you win."

Catalina grinned from ear to ear, cheeks flushed. "God, I love him."

Carola smiled softly — she knew how close Cat and Checo had become, especially after how he'd quietly looked out for her when everything fell apart with Carlos earlier in the year.

"So," Carola said, stirring her coffee innocently. "What else is new? You've got the Olympics, the curls, the glow... maybe a new someone?"

Cat blinked, confused. "No, not really. Just been training, seeing friends—oh! Speaking of! Pato's in town. He texted last night — we're getting food later today."

Carola froze mid-sip. "Pato O'Ward?"

"Yeah! He's such a great friend," Catalina said brightly, completely oblivious to the way Carola's brow arched. "He even made a reservation for us. Said he wanted to celebrate me making the Olympic team."

Carola hummed, trying very hard not to smirk. Oh, this is going to be fun.

"Such a gentleman, that one," she said slowly. "And how often do you two talk?"

"Not that much! Just memes and random stuff," Cat said with a shrug. "He's funny — makes the training days easier, you know?"

"Mhm." Carola took a sip of her coffee, hiding her knowing smile.

If Carlos could see this — if he only knew that Pato had slid in the second he left — he'd combust on the spot.

"Anyway," Catalina went on cheerfully, not noticing Carola's silent amusement, "he's just really sweet. I think he's one of those people that are just... good."

"Oh, absolutely," Carola agreed, eyes glinting. "You should definitely keep him close."

Cat smiled. "Yeah, I think I will."

Carola bit back a laugh. Perfect.

When their food came, the conversation softened. Between bites of pancakes and laughter, Carola reached into her purse and pulled out a small velvet pouch.

"Here," she said, sliding it across the table. "A little something."

Cat blinked in surprise and opened it. Inside was a delicate silver bracelet — one charm shaped like a tiny Formula 1 car, the other a small oar crossed with a wave.

"Carola..." Catalina breathed, eyes wide. "This is—oh my god—it's beautiful."

"I saw it and thought of you," Carola said warmly. "Racing and rowing — both things you've fought like hell for."

Cat smiled, her heart swelling. "Help me put it on?"

Carola nodded, leaning across the table to clasp it around her wrist. "There. Now, you're officially my favorite athlete in two worlds."

Cat beamed, admiring it, before Carola quickly snapped a picture.

"For my collection," she said teasingly.

The conversation drifted again — about training, about travel, about how quickly Cat's life had changed in a year. Eventually, Carola leaned in with a sly grin.

"So," she started, "our dear Spaniard was mysteriously missing from the grid for a whole week."

Catalina froze, her cheeks instantly heating up. "Oh my god—don't start."

Carola smirked. "¿Qué? Everyone noticed. He wasn't in the paddock, he wasn't online — and then suddenly, he's back and all smiles? Come on, niña, I wasn't born yesterday."

Cat buried her face in her hands, laughing through the blush. "He's trying really hard," she admitted quietly. "Like... really hard."

Carola softened. "He should. After what he did, it's the least he can do."

Catalina sighed, tracing her finger over the bracelet charm. "My brothers are still mad as hell about it. Alejandro especially. He called me stupid."

"Ay, Alejandro," Carola said, shaking her head with a small smile. "That one's got his dad's temper. But they love you. They just don't want to see you hurt again."

Cat nodded, eyes distant for a moment. "I know. But it's different now. I think he's really trying."

Carola leaned back in her chair, watching her — the earnest glow in her eyes, the kind of hope she hadn't seen since before the heartbreak.

She remembered January vividly: the headlines, the blurry paparazzi photos, the online chaos after the tabloids revealed Carlos Sainz's mystery girl. How Carlos had panicked, worried that the attention would crush Catalina, that her family would get harassed, and how his PR team had suggested pairing him publicly with someone else to "calm the narrative."

Carola had been furious back then — not at Cat, but at Carlos for even considering it.

Now, watching Cat smile again, she decided he could sweat a little longer.

"Keep Pato close," Carola said lightly, reaching for her coffee again. "It's always good to have friends like that."

Cat smiled brightly, oblivious to the hidden meaning. "Yeah, I think so too."

Carola just grinned, raising her cup. "To you, mi olímpica. And to the chaos that follows you."

They clinked glasses, laughter spilling between them — one blissfully unaware, the other quietly scheming for the sake of poetic balance.

Because if Carlos wanted Catalina back, Carola thought with wicked satisfaction, he was going to have to fight for it.

When breakfast ended, Catalina and Carola lingered a little longer outside the café, their laughter echoing down the quiet London street. The clouds above shifted, a drizzle threatening, but neither woman seemed to care. They hugged tightly — the kind of hug that promised more breakfasts, more teasing, more sisterly talks.

"Cuidate, niña," Carola said as she pulled back. ("Take care, girl.")

"I always do," Cat said with a grin, hugging her once more. "And thank you again — for the bracelet, for the food, for listening to my chaos."

Carola smirked. "Someone has to keep up with your telenovela of a love life."

Catalina laughed, waving goodbye as she walked off toward her flat, curls bouncing.

Carola watched her go, that fond, mischievous smile returning. "Pinchi Pato," she muttered under her breath once Cat turned the corner. "Pide días libres solo para meterse entre Carlos y la niña." ("Fucking Pato, asking for days off just to get between Carlos and the girl.")

She shook her head, half amused, half exasperated. "This is going to be a disaster — and I'm so here for it."

Back at her flat, Catalina kicked off her sneakers and flopped onto the couch. The city outside hummed softly through the window — traffic, voices, a distant dog barking. She still felt warm from breakfast, her bracelet catching the light every time she moved her wrist.

She told herself she'd only rest her eyes for a few minutes, but the next thing she knew, she was waking up to the fading sunset. The nap left her a little dazed, but when she checked her phone, there it was: a message from Pato.

Pato: Leaving in a few. Can't wait to see you!

Catalina smiled softly. She didn't read too deep into it — she never did. Pato had been nothing but kind, always friendly, always making her laugh. And besides, it wasn't a date. It was just two friends grabbing dinner.

She stretched, yawned, and headed for her closet. After a few minutes of debating between dresses and jeans, she went for something simple — black jeans, a white tank, and a soft cardigan. Casual but put-together.

She checked herself in the mirror once before tying her hair half-up.

A few minutes later, a knock echoed through her apartment.

She opened the door, expecting maybe a text warning or just a casual greeting — but there he was, Pato O'Ward, grinning from ear to ear, holding a bouquet of sunflowers and lilies.

Catalina blinked, caught off guard. "Oh! You didn't have to—"

Pato shrugged, his grin boyish. "What? You made the Olympic team. Flowers are mandatory. It's, like, a law."

Cat laughed, shaking her head as she took the bouquet. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he said, still smiling. "But I'm also thoughtful."

She set the flowers in a vase near the window, their bright colors lighting up her living room instantly.

"They're beautiful," she admitted. "Thank you, really."

"No problem," he said easily, watching her as she fussed with the stems. "You ready?"

"Yeah," she said, grabbing her bag and keys. "Lead the way."

As she turned to lock the door, Pato took a moment to glance around the flat — the faint smell of fresh coffee, the Olympic duffel in the corner, the small vase now blooming with the flowers he'd brought.

Carlos had definitely been here. Pato could tell — there was a jacket tossed over the couch that wasn't hers, a pair of men's sunglasses on the counter.

Still, he grinned to himself.

Challenge accepted.

Downstairs, as they made their way to the car, Catalina slipped into the passenger seat and laughed when she saw the playlist on his phone.

"Seriously, Bad Bunny?" she teased.

"Por supuesto," Pato said with mock offense. "What kind of Mexican would I be without him?"

Catalina laughed again, shaking her head. "You're impossible."

He smirked. "And yet, you're here."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed on her lips as they pulled into the London traffic, the music thumping low between them — a rhythm that made her forget, just for a moment, the ache of Carlos leaving that morning.

In Pato's presence, everything felt lighter. Simple.

And maybe that's what made it dangerous.

The restaurant was small but warm — one of those tucked-away London spots that glowed amber from the street, the kind of place where laughter bounced softly off the brick walls and wine glasses clinked like music. The low hum of chatter mixed with the scent of garlic and rosemary. Catalina loved it immediately.

"This place is beautiful," she said as they sat down, brushing a curl from her face.

Pato grinned, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place. "Only the best for an Olympian."

She laughed. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Not a chance," he said, snapping his fingers for the waiter. "You made the team, Catalina Villalobo, atleta olímpica. That deserves a toast." ("Olympic athlete.")

She shook her head but lifted her glass when the wine came. "Fine, but if I get tipsy, you're carrying me home."

"I'll call a forklift," Pato teased, earning a playful smack on the arm. "Jaja, vete ala verga(hahaha, go fuck yourself)" Pato snorted "Que boquita"(what a mouth) cat flipped him off but the smirk remained in her lips.

They fell into easy conversation after that — talking about travel, about racing, about the chaos of training. Cat confessed how much she'd been missing home, how her teammates were like sisters but how sometimes it still felt lonely in London. Pato listened, genuinely listening, his eyes soft but alive with mischief whenever she smiled.

Somewhere between bites of pasta and sips of wine, Catalina laughed too loud at one of his jokes and let something slip without meaning to.

"Yeah, Carlos was here when I found out about the Olympics," she said offhandedly, swirling her wine. "He surprised me that same day."

The name hung in the air for a moment. Pato's grin faltered just a fraction — not enough for her to notice. He forced a smile, his tone still light.

"Ah, Carlos, huh? The famous Spaniard."

She looked up and nodded, eyes softening a little. "Yeah. He was really sweet. He's... trying."

Pato only hummed in response, lifting his glass in a half-hearted toast. Inside, he could feel that stubborn competitive fire sparking to life. He didn't say anything else, but in his head, the thought was loud: trying won't be enough.

When dessert came, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet pouch.

"What's that?" Catalina asked, curious.

Pato smiled — the charming, disarming kind. "A little something. For you making the team."

He opened the pouch and pulled out a delicate bracelet: a thin silver chain with a tiny engraved wave charm. Simple, elegant, thoughtful.

Catalina's face softened. "Pato, you didn't have to—"

"Claro que sí," he said quickly. ("Of course I did.") "Eres mi amiga, y esto es importante." ("You're my friend, and this is important.")

She smiled, running her fingers over the charm. "It's beautiful, really. Thank you."

But she didn't put it on — just laid it gently beside her plate.

Pato tilted his head. "¿Cómo no te la vas a poner, Catalina?" ("How are you not going to put it on, Catalina?")

Catalina laughed softly, embarrassed. "Fine, fine. I'll put it on."

"Good," he said, standing and reaching across the table to clasp it around her wrist himself. His fingers brushed her skin — light, lingering.

"Perfect," he said quietly, and before she could notice, he snapped a quick photo under the table.

Later, while she admired the bracelet, he uploaded the picture to his private story — the one with only a handful of people on it. One of them being Carlos Sainz. The caption read simply: Good company, better luck.

He smirked as he hit "post."

They kept talking after that — Pato making her laugh until she nearly spilled her wine, Catalina teasing him about his Spanish accent when he tried to say certain English words. They discovered they both hated early mornings, loved spicy food, and had weird superstitions before big events.

For a few hours, it was easy. Light. No tension. Just two people enjoying each other's company.

When the night began to wind down, Pato insisted on paying. Catalina protested but gave in after a minute, amused by how stubborn he was.

"Let me at least tip," she said, and Pato raised his hands in mock surrender.

"Deal."

Outside, the air was crisp, the London lights gleaming in puddles from an earlier drizzle. They walked to his car in comfortable silence, their shoulders brushing once or twice.

When they reached her flat, Catalina turned to him with a bright smile. "Thank you for tonight, Pato. Really. It was fun."

He smiled back, hands in his pockets. "Anytime."

She leaned against her door, twisting the bracelet absently on her wrist. "You're such a great friend, you know that? It's so hard to find friends like you nowadays."

Her voice was sincere — warm, almost naive in the way she said friend.

Pato forced a smile again, though his jaw tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said softly. "Friends."

She waved before stepping inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Pato stood there for a moment under the streetlight, staring at the door, his smirk slowly returning.

"Amigos hoy," he muttered under his breath as he turned to leave. ("Friends today.")

He slid into his car, the dashboard lighting up as he checked his phone. A notification blinked — Carlos has viewed your story.

Pato grinned wider, that competitive spark in his eyes.

"Pero no por mucho tiempo." ("But not for long.")

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The weeks after that dinner blurred together, a rhythm of exhaustion and exhilaration that Catalina had learned to thrive on. Training had consumed her completely — early mornings on the river, cold air biting her cheeks, calloused hands gripping the oar as dawn painted the sky in streaks of gold. By the time she returned to the boathouse, muscles trembling and lungs burning, she felt alive. The kind of alive only athletes understood — when pain and joy blended into one pulse.

She'd been named captain of the women's team just before November ended. The announcement came quietly after practice — her coach calling her over, handing her a new jacket stitched with the Olympic crest and her name beneath it. Catalina had stood there speechless, her curls damp with sweat, a shy, disbelieving smile on her lips.

When she told Carlos that night over FaceTime, his entire face lit up. "Mi capitana," he said proudly, hand over his heart. ("My captain.")

Catalina laughed, cheeks warming. "You make it sound like I won gold already."

"You will," Carlos said, completely serious. "I know it."

He'd seen her in every stage — broken, rebuilding, reborn. He'd missed her worst days but was determined to never miss her best.

Still, no matter how much they called or texted, the distance dug its little claws in. Carlos was in the middle of the last stretch of the season, bouncing between continents. Catalina was drowning in training schedules and meetings. Timezones turned into their biggest enemy.

But somehow, they made it work — patching the distance with small acts of love.

Every Friday, without fail, Catalina would find a bouquet of fresh flowers waiting at her door. Sometimes lilies, sometimes wildflowers, sometimes her favorites — white tulips. There was never a note, but she didn't need one. The handwriting on the delivery slip always said Carlos S.

At least three times a week, her phone would buzz in the evening.

"Order from El Rinconcito delivered."

Her favorite empanadas, or her favorite soup, sometimes even pastries she had once mentioned missing from home. Every time, she'd roll her eyes fondly and mutter, "You're spoiling me, Carlitos," even if he couldn't hear it.

Their FaceTimes had become a ritual — always on her rest days, which conveniently lined up with race days for him. She'd sit cross-legged on her couch, hair messy, hoodie two sizes too big, while he called her from the paddock, fireproof suit still on, grin lazy but warm.

"How's my favorite Olympian?" he'd ask, teasingly.

"Still rowing," she'd answer with mock annoyance. "How's my favorite headache?"

Carlos would laugh. "Winning, hopefully."

And somehow, those moments — even through a screen — felt like home.

One night, as his season neared its end, Carlos mentioned it casually while tightening his race gloves before qualifying.

"When the season's over," he said, looking into the camera, "I'm not going home right away. I was thinking... maybe London for a few weeks. If you'll have me."

Catalina had blinked, surprised, her heart giving an odd little leap. "Stay here?" she asked softly.

Carlos smiled. "If you don't mind a Spaniard taking over your kitchen again."

Her lips curved. "I'd love that, actually. I miss coming home and seeing g you here."

He grinned wider, relief flickering across his face. "Then it's settled."

It should've been perfect — two people, finally finding time again.

But the world wasn't without its complications.

Every time Pato saw Carlos in the paddock, tension hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. It started as little things — a passing glance, a mocking grin, the faintest tilt of his head whenever he caught Carlos's eye.

Sometimes he'd give him a slow, knowing smile. Sometimes a wave that felt more like a taunt.

Carlos, for his part, would clench his jaw and look away, his usual calm cracking just enough for Lando to notice.

"Mate," Lando muttered one afternoon when they crossed paths near the hospitality area, "just ignore him. He's trying to get a rise out of you."

Carlos's nostrils flared. "He already did."

Lando didn't say more — truth was, he'd seen the photo weeks ago, the one Pato had posted of Cat wearing that bracelet. He'd seen Carlos's reaction too — the way his thumb hovered over the screen, his jaw tightening, the silent, burning fury in his eyes.

After that, Lando started going out of his way to avoid Pato altogether. He didn't want to be anywhere near that kind of fire. When Carlos's temper simmered, it was better not to stand too close.

Meanwhile, Catalina remained blissfully unaware of the silent war brewing across race tracks and group chats. Her world was filled with water, wind, and the rhythm of her oars slicing through the river. The countdown to December was all that mattered — a week off before the grind began again.

She couldn't wait. To sleep in, to be lazy, to maybe even have Carlos back in her kitchen, complaining about her coffee or stealing her socks.

But in the quiet moments — when she sat on her couch, wrapped in a blanket, the scent of fresh flowers filling her flat — she couldn't shake the strange feeling that something was shifting.

She didn't see the storm brewing outside her little world — the one where a Spaniard's patience was running thin, and a certain Mexican driver had just made himself an enemy far more dangerous than he realized.

Not even a week later Catalina should've known peace was never in her destiny — not with a team full of twenty young women, caffeine addictions, and Bella's endless chaos.

It was supposed to be a quiet morning. The river was glassy, sunlight spilling across the water in soft, golden ribbons. Catalina was perched at the front of the boat with a clipboard, her hair pulled into a messy bun, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the early hour. The girls were running through their last set, muscles burning, breath visible in the crisp air.

"Keep it steady," Cat called out, voice firm but even, the tone of a captain who'd earned every ounce of their respect. "We want clean water, no splashes on the drive."

Behind her, Bella — her ever-distracted teammate and self-appointed chaos engine — had her phone propped on her knee, pretending to check stroke rates. In reality, she was filming a TikTok.

It was that new trend — the one where someone says dramatically, "President Business stole the Kragle! The most powerful object in the universe!" before cutting to another person mid-task as the audio switches to a deadpan, "Blah, blah, proper name, first name."

Bella smirked to herself. Oh, this was perfect. Catalina — hair sticking out in every direction, brows furrowed in concentration, totally oblivious — was the ideal victim.

She lined the shot up, whispered a conspiratorial "sorry, Cap," and hit record.

By the time they reached shore, Bella had already uploaded the TikTok. No hashtags, no tags, no warning. Just "Training mornings with the best captain ever ❤️ #RowingGirls #OlympicTeam" and the audio everyone was obsessed with.

Catalina, of course, had no idea. She was too busy going over technique corrections and stretching her sore arms.

A few hours later, as the girls were changing in the locker room, Bella's phone wouldn't stop buzzing. The notifications came faster than she could swipe.

"Jesus Christ," she muttered, opening TikTok — and immediately started wheezing.

The video had exploded. Millions of views. Hundreds of comments.

"Who's the girl in the front??"

"Wait, she's real?? I thought athletes didn't look like that."

"Someone tell me her @ right now."

"She looks like she'd ruin my life and I'd say thank you."

"Why does she look so mad while being this hot???"

Bella burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. "Oh my god, Cat," she choked out between giggles.

Catalina, who was re-braiding her hair by her locker, frowned. "What?"

Bella could barely breathe. "You—your face! You're—oh my god—you're trending!"

"What are you talking about?" Cat said, utterly lost.

Still laughing, Bella shoved her phone into her captain's hands.

Catalina watched the video once, eyes widening in horror. She was sweaty. Red-faced. Her curls were a frizzed mess. She looked—God, she looked tired. And the comments—holy hell, the comments!

"Bella, why would you post that?!" Catalina groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I look awful!"

"You look like the female version of a Greek god," Bella wheezed. "The internet's in love with you, Cap."

"I look like I got hit by a boat," Cat muttered.

Bella only laughed harder. "Well, apparently that's hot now."

By the time Catalina had changed and gathered her things, the video had already crossed a million likes. Someone had even dubbed her 'Rowing's new It Girl.'

Meanwhile—across the world—Lando Norris was scrolling TikTok during a break between simulator sessions.

He was half-bored, half-procrastinating, swiping through random clips when suddenly a familiar voice in the audio caught his attention.

"President Business stole the Kragle, the most powerful object in the universe..."

He almost kept scrolling—until he saw the cut.

The camera flipped, and there she was. Catalina. Focused. Intense. Gorgeous, without even trying.

Lando burst out laughing. "Oh my god, no way," he said out loud, immediately saving the video.

Within seconds, he was on the hunt for Carlos. He found him standing near the simulator rig, chatting with an engineer.

"Mate," Lando said, grinning like a devil as he shoved his phone toward him. "You've got competition now, Carlos."

Carlos turned, brows furrowed. "¿Qué?"

"Just—watch," Lando said, already giggling.

Carlos's eyes narrowed as the video started. He watched the first few seconds with confusion, then the camera flipped, and he froze.

Catalina.

Sweaty. Serious. Oblivious. And stunning.

The corner of his jaw ticked.

Lando was practically dying beside him. "Look at the comments, bro! They're thirsting over her! You better step it up!"

Carlos didn't even look amused. His eyes stayed glued to the screen, his expression darkening with every scroll.

"Nope," he muttered, finally handing the phone back. "Nope. Absolutely not."

Lando laughed so hard he almost fell over. "What, jealous?"

Carlos glared at him, muttering something in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like, "Voy a matar al pato primero, y luego al TikTok entero." ("I'm going to kill Pato first, and then the entire TikTok app.")

Lando only laughed harder. "You better hurry, mate," he teased, walking away. "The internet's already in love with your girl."

Carlos rubbed a hand over his face, somewhere between disbelief and dread.

Because of course. Of course Catalina couldn't just quietly train in peace. Of course the whole damn world had to notice her — wild curls, fierce eyes, and all.

And as he sat there, scrolling through her comments, seeing strangers call her "dream girl," "wife material," "the hottest athlete alive," Carlos Sainz realized something very simple and very dangerous.

If the world wanted to flirt with Catalina Villalobo, they'd have to go through him.

It didn't take long for the internet to connect the dots.

At first, the viral TikTok was just a funny training clip — "hot girl does Olympic things." But the internet never stopped there. The comment sections were flooded with heart emojis, marriage proposals, and completely unhinged thirst comments. Then someone said it.

"Wait... isn't that the girl Carlos Sainz was rumored to have dated??"

And just like that, the spark hit the gasoline.

Within hours, Formula 1 Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram were on fire. Edits started flooding every corner of the fandom. Split screens of Catalina in her rowing gear beside old photos of Carlos — both tanned, athletic, grinning under the sun — with captions like "He fumbled the baddest one."

Tweets started going viral:

— Carlos Sainz fumbled her??? Jail. Straight to jail.

— I'd retire from racing too if I lost HER.

— She's out here training for the Olympics while he's fighting for P7.

— No wonder man's off his game 😭

It was chaos.

And Catalina Villalobo had no idea what kind of storm she had just walked into until Sheila called her midafternoon, voice already trembling with laughter.

"CATALINA," Sheila yelled as soon as Cat answered.

"What?" Catalina asked, her voice muffled as she tried to finish her protein bar.

"You're trending AGAIN. This time with Carlos!"

Cat groaned, dragging her hand down her face. "Oh, for fuck's sake—"

"Wait, I'm adding the others," Sheila said, ignoring her. Within seconds, the line beeped, and Jackie, Lory, and Leo popped into the group call like vultures circling fresh prey.

"Oh my god," Jackie gasped, already laughing. "CAT. You broke the internet."

Lory was cackling so hard she couldn't breathe. "I can't believe they found out you're that Cat."

Leo's voice came through last — calm but smug. "I told you, sis. You can't hide from the F1 gossip accounts. They sniff out blood."

Cat groaned again. "You guys are the worst."

"Oh no, no, no," Sheila said, struggling to hold in her laughter. "Listen to this tweet—'Carlos Sainz losing Catalina Villalobo is the real heartbreak of 2025. Bro had a goddess and said let's ghost her.'"

Jackie absolutely lost it. "GODDESS?! They're calling you the one that got away!"

"Yeah, keep laughing, you ass wipes," Catalina muttered, flopping onto her couch, cheeks burning as she scrolled through her phone. "This is ridiculous."

"Oh, it gets worse," Leo said, trying to sound serious but clearly enjoying himself. "Do you want to hear the comment section from Bella's TikTok?"

"No," Cat deadpanned.

"Too late," Leo said, clearing his throat dramatically. "I volunteered as tribute."

Jackie snorted so loud she almost dropped her phone.

"Here's another one," Leo continued, struggling not to laugh. "'Mommy? Sorry. Mommy? Sorry. Mommy?'"

"STOP," Catalina said, covering her face with both hands.

"Oh my god, wait," Sheila wheezed, scrolling through her own feed. "Someone said, and I quote, 'She could headlock me with those legs and I would thank her.'"

Lory was screaming now. "WHAT—OH MY GOD—STOP—"

Catalina shot up, pacing the living room as she ranted. "Why are people so weird?! I'm literally just rowing! Rowing!"

Jackie was in tears from laughing. "You're rowing and breaking hearts simultaneously, babe."

Leo couldn't resist. "Yeah, apparently the entire internet wants to be in your boat now."

"Go fuck yourself, Leo," Cat said without missing a beat, but she was laughing too now, cheeks flushed pink with both embarrassment and reluctant amusement.

Sheila snorted. "Oh, and my favorite one? Someone said, 'Carlos Sainz needs to apologize to the world for fumbling her.'"

Lory gasped dramatically. "Public apology tour! I'll make the merch!"

"I hate all of you," Catalina said through a laugh, sinking back into the couch, hiding her face behind a pillow.

The line erupted with laughter again, and for a few seconds, the sound of it filled the space — easy, familiar, chaotic. Her friends were impossible, relentless, but god, she loved them for it.

When the laughter finally died down, Jackie spoke up, tone teasing but softer. "You know, though... they're kind of right."

Cat peeked up. "What?"

"You are the one that got away," Jackie said. "He's probably losing his mind right now."

Catalina rolled her eyes, trying to play it off, but her chest tightened all the same.

Because she knew Carlos had seen it. She could almost picture him — jaw clenched, phone in hand, scrolling through the comments. And she wasn't sure if that made her want to laugh or run and hide.

Lory hummed mischievously. "You think he's gonna call?"

Cat threw the pillow at her phone. "Don't even start."

Leo chuckled. "Oh, he's 100% calling. Maybe not today, but soon. I can feel it."

"Yeah," Sheila added, smirking. "Man's probably booking another flight to London as we speak."

Catalina groaned, sinking deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket over her head like a shield. "I swear to God, if he shows up at my door again, I'm moving to Antarctica."

Her phone buzzed then — a new notification lighting up her screen. From Bella.

Carlos Sainz liked Bella's TikTok.

And the entire group exploded into laughter all over again.

"Oh, yeah," Leo said through wheezes. "He's SEETHING."

Catalina could only bury her face in the pillow again, voice muffled as she muttered, "I'm never leaving my house again."

But deep down — beneath the mortification, the teasing, and the chaos — she couldn't stop the tiny, involuntary smile that tugged at her lips.

Because if she was being honest with herself? The idea of Carlos seeing her again — seeing her strong, successful, glowing — didn't feel like a disaster.

It felt like poetic justice.

Catalina was still laughing with the group when her phone buzzed again — this time, with a name that made her entire stomach flip.

She blinked. "Hold up, guys," she said quickly, already reaching for her phone. "Carlos is calling."

Immediately, the call erupted into chaos.

"OOOOH!" Leo howled. "Speak of the devil!"

"Put it on speaker!" Sheila yelled.

"Tell him I said he fumbled!" Jackie added between fits of laughter.

Catalina rolled her eyes, trying not to smile as she hung up on them mid-screech. The phone kept buzzing as she accepted the incoming FaceTime call, her reflection flashing for a split second before Carlos's familiar face filled the screen.

"Carlitos?" she said softly, her tone half teasing, half warm.

Carlos didn't say anything for a few seconds. He was sitting somewhere dimly lit — probably his hotel room — still wearing his Ferrari team shirt, hair slightly messy, eyes locked on her like he was trying to memorize every line of her face.

For a moment, there was just silence, thick and unspoken, and then he sighed through his nose, voice low and a little jealous.

"Would you be willing," he began carefully, "to wear your necklace again?"

Catalina tilted her head, confused but smiling. "Why?"

"So people can connect the dots once more," he said, his accent thicker, possessiveness curling around every word, "and see we're matching again. So they can back off you."

There it was — the jealousy. The faint bite beneath his charm.

Catalina burst out laughing, head thrown back. "Carlos!" she managed between laughs. "You are so dramatic! It's not that serious!"

Carlos groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Mi amor, did you see the comments? Half the grid probably saw that TikTok, and now everyone thinks you're single and—"

"I am single," she interrupted with a teasing grin, watching his face twist with mock offense. "Technically."

He narrowed his eyes. "You're enjoying this too much."

"Maybe," she said, still giggling, curling her hair behind her ear. "But you, mister, sound like you're ready to challenge the internet to a duel."

Carlos leaned closer to the camera, trying not to smile. "If that's what it takes."

She shook her head, biting back another laugh. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously in love," he murmured, half under his breath, but she heard it — and for a heartbeat, her laughter stilled.

Catalina blinked, warmth flooding her chest before she tried to steer them back to safer waters. "Carlitos, stop," she said, still smiling, voice soft but teasing now. "You'll make the girls online think you're obsessed with me."

Carlos didn't miss a beat. "Maybe I am."

"Ay Dios mío," she muttered, hiding her face with one hand, laughing again to cover how her heart just did a full somersault. "You're impossible."

Carlos's grin softened into something tender. "I missed your laugh."

She looked up, their eyes meeting through the screen, and for a moment it was quiet again — a silence that buzzed with things neither of them could quite say out loud yet.

Then she sighed, playful again. "I'll see you later, Carlitos. Adiós, te quiero."

He smiled faintly, eyes soft. "Adiós, amor mío."

The call ended, and Catalina sat there for a second longer, staring at the black screen before shaking her head with a fond smile. She tossed the phone beside her and groaned dramatically. "He's gonna drive me insane."

Meanwhile, across Europe, Carlos Sainz was still sitting in his hotel room, staring at his reflection in the darkened window. His heart was pounding in that stupid, boyish way that made him feel seventeen again.

He should've been focusing on his debrief notes for the next morning. Instead, he unlocked his phone, scrolled through his photos, and stopped at one — a candid shot of Catalina laughing on his couch, her curls wild, her eyes bright.

He hesitated for a moment, then grinned — that mischievous, petty grin that always spelled trouble — and set the picture as his home screen.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Tomorrow, at the paddock, cameras would be everywhere. His phone would be out — maybe during a media interview, maybe as he checked messages — and someone, somewhere, would get a shot clear enough to catch that photo on his lock screen.

The picture would circulate within hours. People would pause, zoom in, compare, speculate.

And the internet would do what it always did best — connect the dots.

Carlos leaned back in his chair, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he whispered to himself, "Let them guess now."

Somewhere in London, Catalina Villalobo sneezed mid-sip of her tea and frowned at her cat. "I feel like someone's plotting."

And Carlos Sainz definitely was.

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos Sainz x original character #pato o’ward wants catalina #Carlos vs pato

The Plot// F1

Part: 19

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

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The afternoon light was soft and golden by the time Catalina got back from practice — hair still damp, cheeks flushed, hoodie hanging off one shoulder. She was exhausted but in that good, satisfied way. When she pushed open the door to her flat, she froze.

Carlos was already there — sitting comfortably on the couch, scrolling through something on his phone, a stupid grin tugging at his mouth.

"You're smiling like you did something," she said suspiciously, tossing her bag onto the chair.

He stood up immediately, eyes bright. "Go get dressed."

Cat blinked. "What?"

"We're going out."

"Out where?" she asked, squinting at him.

He just smirked. "Surprise. But dress... hmm, four out of ten fancy."

She arched an eyebrow. "So not sweatpants but not heels?"

"Exactly," he said, stepping forward to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Just you — pretty and comfortable."

She rolled her eyes but grinned. "Fine, bossy."

Twenty minutes later, she came out in jeans, boots, and a white blouse — hair tied up in a loose bun, gold hoops glinting under the light. Carlos, leaning against the doorframe, looked her up and down and smiled like a man trying not to melt.

"Perfect," he said simply, before leading her out.

When they got downstairs, he opened the car door for her. Cat paused, giving him a little smirk. "Chivalry? From Carlos Sainz?"

He shrugged, grin tugging at his lips. "Don't get used to it."

The drive was easy — the kind of silence that didn't need filling. She hummed softly to the radio, tapping her fingers on her thigh, and Carlos glanced at her every few minutes like he couldn't quite believe she was real.

After about twenty minutes, they pulled up to a small taquería on the outskirts of London — the kind of place that smelled like home the moment you stepped out of the car.

Cat's eyes went wide. "No way."

Carlos's grin widened. "Way."

She laughed, already walking toward the door. "You found a Mexican spot in London?"

"I did my research," he said proudly.

Inside, the air was warm and filled with the scent of cilantro, lime, and sizzling meat. They grabbed a table near the window, the neon sign outside casting a soft pink glow across her face.

When the waiter brought over tacos al pastor and horchata, Catalina actually groaned in happiness. "Oh my god. I've missed this so much."

Carlos chuckled. "I know. You've been complaining about British food for weeks."

She took a bite and pointed at him with her taco. "Deservedly."

He laughed, shaking his head, eyes soft as he watched her — the way she talked with her hands, the little smile that always lingered at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed.

She pulled out her phone and snapped a picture of her plate, posting it to her story with a quick caption: Finally, real food 🇲🇽💚.

Her phone buzzed not even a minute later.

Carlos, already guessing, raised a brow. "Who is it?"

She checked the screen and burst into laughter. "Pato. He said 'I'm jealous of your tacos, not you.'"

Carlos's jaw flexed ever so slightly. "Of course he did."

Cat, oblivious, kept grinning as she typed back something. But before she could hit send, Carlos reached across the table and plucked the phone gently from her hand.

"No phones," he said, voice firm but playful. "Just us tonight."

She blinked, then smiled, leaning her chin on her hand. "Just us, huh?"

"Sí," he said, eyes holding hers. "You and me. No distractions."

She nodded, warmth spreading through her chest.

And for the rest of the evening, that's exactly what it was — just them. Talking, laughing, sharing stories between bites of tacos and stolen sips of horchata. Carlos told her about his race — the chaos, the near miss, the quiet satisfaction of P7. Catalina told him about training, about the aches and the exhaustion and how alive it made her feel.

He couldn't stop watching her — the sparkle in her eyes, the way she leaned closer when she was excited, the way her voice softened when she said his name.

It didn't feel like London anymore. It didn't feel like racing, or training, or distance. It was just them — against the world, for one small, perfect hour.

When they left the taquería, the night air was cool, the street quiet except for the distant hum of cars. She slipped her hand into his without thinking.

Carlos squeezed gently. "See? Not too fancy."

Cat smiled up at him. "Nah. It was perfect."

When they finished eating, Catalina leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, wiping her hands with a napkin and smiling dreamily.

"Okay," she said, "that was heaven. Literal heaven. I could cry."

Carlos chuckled, pushing his plate away. "You almost did when the tacos came out."

She gave him a look, playful and dramatic. "Don't judge me, Spaniard. You've never gone this long without good food."

He grinned, watching her eyes light up even when she teased him. "You're glowing," he murmured under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Cat tilted her head. "What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, clearing his throat as he stood. "Come on. We're not done."

Cat blinked. "We're not?"

Carlos shook his head, that mischievous grin spreading across his face — the one that always made her wary and intrigued all at once. "Nope. Trust me."

She squinted at him, suspicious but amused. "You're planning something."

"Maybe," he said, offering his hand. "You'll see."

She sighed in mock defeat and stood, slipping her hand into his. "Fine. But if this ends with me doing something stupid, I'm blaming you."

Carlos smirked. "Fair enough."

They left the taquería and stepped into the cool London evening. The city lights shimmered against the damp pavement, the smell of rain still lingering faintly in the air. Carlos led her to the car, opening the door with a small flourish.

"Chivalry again," Cat teased, sliding in.

"Only for special occasions," he replied smoothly, shutting the door behind her.

The drive was short, filled with her humming softly to the music and Carlos glancing at her every few seconds like he couldn't help himself. They pulled up outside a small, neon-lit building that stood out between rows of closed shops.

Cat frowned. "Is that...?"

Carlos turned off the car and smiled. "An arcade."

She blinked. "An arcade?"

"Sí," he said, grinning proudly. "You've been training, working, serious. You need to have fun."

Her mouth twitched upward. "You're taking me to an arcade."

He raised a brow. "What, you scared I'll beat you?"

Cat laughed, full and bright. "You wish."

Inside, the place was buzzing with life — flashing lights, laughter, the beeping of machines, the clatter of coins. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and nostalgia. Cat's grin widened instantly.

"Oh my god," she said, turning in a slow circle. "This is so old school."

Carlos slipped his hands into his pockets, watching her with a fond smile. "You like it?"

"I love it," she said, eyes sparkling.

They started with air hockey.

Carlos, confident as ever, leaned over the table. "Ready to lose?"

Cat narrowed her eyes, grabbing the paddle. "In your dreams, golden boy."

The first round was chaos — fast, loud, and full of trash talk. When she scored first, she threw her hands up with a triumphant laugh. "Let's go!"

Carlos shook his head, laughing despite himself. "Beginner's luck."

"Or skill," she shot back.

By the second round, they were both fully immersed — shouting, laughing, bumping into each other as they tried to block shots. When Carlos finally won, he lifted his hands in victory like he'd just won a race.

Cat crossed her arms, pretending to pout. "Cheater."

"I don't cheat," he said with mock offense. "I just win."

She rolled her eyes. "You sound like Lando."

"Don't insult me," he said instantly, and that made her laugh so hard she nearly doubled over.

Next came basketball. Cat's competitive streak came out in full force. She shot one hoop after another, tongue poking out in concentration.

Carlos stood beside her, jaw slack as she kept hitting basket after basket. "Okay," he said, "that's not fair."

"I told you," she said between throws. "I'm good at this!"

He tried catching up, but when she beat him by almost twenty points, she turned to him with that smug little grin. "You were saying?"

He sighed, shaking his head, but his eyes were shining. "You're impossible."

They moved on to racing games, claw machines, and even Dance Dance Revolution — which turned into a mess of laughter, tangled feet, and a crowd that started cheering for them.

At one point, Cat slipped off her shoes, hair falling loose from her bun, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling as she laughed. Carlos couldn't take his eyes off her.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" she asked between laughs.

"Because you're..." He hesitated, his voice softening. "You're something else, Catalina."

She blinked, caught off guard. "That's... not an insult, right?"

He smiled faintly. "Not even close."

They didn't notice when a few people started snapping photos from across the arcade. To them, it was just noise — background to the moment that felt suspended in time.

They played until the lights dimmed and the machines started shutting off one by one. Carlos walked her out, a pile of small prizes in her hands — mostly candy and a stuffed toy she'd won at the claw machine.

"Not bad for a night out," she said, hugging the toy close.

"Not bad," he echoed, his voice soft.

Outside, the air was cool, the neon lights reflecting in puddles on the pavement. Cat turned to him, her smile small but genuine.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "For this."

Carlos met her gaze, that familiar warmth in his chest again. "You deserve a night where you don't have to think about anything."

For a long moment, they just stood there, the world hushed around them.

Then Cat smiled again — that bright, unfiltered smile that had first pulled him in — and bumped her shoulder lightly against his. "Next time, though," she teased, "I'm picking the place."

He laughed softly. "Deal."

The drive back from the arcade was quieter, but not in a heavy way — more like that kind of quiet that comes when you've laughed so much your cheeks hurt and your body finally decides to rest.

The city rolled by outside, streaks of amber and white light reflected against the car's sleek windows. Catalina had her head turned toward the window, one hand lazily holding the little stuffed toy she'd won — a ridiculous-looking penguin that she'd somehow managed to name "Mr. Waddles" before they even left the arcade.

Carlos kept sneaking glances at her every few seconds, a small smile tugging at his lips. The way the neon light caught her face, how her hair had come loose around her cheeks, the faint pink still on her skin from laughing — it was all too much.

"You keep looking at me like that," she said suddenly, voice teasing, "I might start charging."

Carlos blinked and laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Sorry, can't help it. You're distracting."

Cat snorted softly. "You're just saying that because I beat your ass at basketball and air hockey."

He turned his head toward her, mock offense in his tone. "Excuse me, I let you win."

"Sure," she said, eyes gleaming. "And I'm the Queen of England."

"Could be," he teased. "You've got the attitude for it."

Cat gasped, fake offended. "Excuse you?"

Carlos grinned as he pulled into her street, the familiar little London neighborhood quiet this late at night. He parked in front of her flat, killed the engine, and turned to her. For a second, neither of them said anything.

It wasn't awkward — just that kind of stillness where everything feels fragile, like one wrong word could break whatever was hanging in the air.

"Thanks for tonight," she said softly, fingers fidgeting with the edge of Mr. Waddles' wing.

He smiled faintly. "You don't have to thank me, mi amor."

Her eyes flicked to his. "Still calling me that, huh?"

Carlos hesitated, then nodded. "I never stopped."

Something flickered in her eyes, something soft and uncertain. "You're really trying, huh?"

He met her gaze steadily. "I told you I would."

There was a beat of silence — and then Cat sighed, shaking her head with a small, helpless smile. "You're too good at this, you know."

"At what?"

"At making me not want to be mad at you."

He chuckled quietly, leaning back in his seat. "Then I must be doing something right."

She rolled her eyes but the corners of her mouth betrayed her. "You're impossible."

Carlos reached over, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "And yet you keep letting me in."

Her breath caught — just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

"I..." she started, but her voice trailed off. She shook her head again, breaking the tension with a playful sigh. "Let's go inside. It's freezing."

Inside, the warmth of her little flat wrapped around them immediately. It smelled faintly of vanilla and citrus — something distinctly her. Carlos followed her to the kitchen where she kicked off her shoes and tossed her keys onto the counter.

"You want tea or something?" she asked, opening the cupboard.

Carlos leaned against the counter, watching her with that same quiet admiration. "Surprise me."

She gave him a side-eye, reaching for a mug. "Dangerous words, Sainz."

As the kettle boiled, the easy rhythm between them returned — small jokes, half-smiles, that lingering current of comfort that neither wanted to acknowledge too loudly.

When she handed him the cup, he took it but didn't drink. Instead, he watched her as she leaned against the opposite counter, sipping from her own mug.

"You look happy here," he said softly.

Cat smiled faintly. "Yeah, I am. Training's hard, but I love it. Feels like... I'm doing something that's mine, you know?"

Carlos nodded. "I get that."

"You do?"

He shrugged. "Racing's mine. Always has been. But..." His gaze softened. "It's different now. Feels empty sometimes, when you're not there."

She looked up at him then, eyes meeting his. "Carlos..."

"I know," he said before she could finish. "You don't have to say anything."

The silence that followed was heavy — not uncomfortable, just full.

Cat looked down into her mug. "You make it really hard to move on, you know that?"

Carlos smiled, just a little. "That's kind of the point, gatita."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue.

They ended up on the couch, the TV flickering quietly in the background. Cat tucked her legs under her, still holding her mug, while Carlos sat close enough for their knees to brush. Neither moved away.

At one point, Cat leaned her head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. "I'm tired," she murmured.

Carlos turned slightly, looking down at her. "Then rest."

"I don't want to fall asleep and drool on you again," she mumbled sleepily.

He chuckled, brushing his thumb lightly over her hand. "I don't mind."

Her lips twitched in a sleepy smile. "You say that now."

Within minutes, she was out — soft breaths, her weight pressed against his side. Carlos sat there, unmoving, his arm slipping gently around her shoulders.

He didn't even look at his phone when it buzzed on the table beside him — a message from Pato lighting up the screen:

So, how's your girl doing?

Carlos stared at the notification for a second, jaw tightening, then flipped the phone face down without answering.

Instead, he looked at Cat — at the way her lashes brushed her cheeks, the faint curve of her mouth, the peacefulness that only came when she was far from the noise of the world.

He sighed quietly, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the top of her head.

"Goodnight, mi amor," he whispered. "I'll win you back. Even if it takes forever."

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Sunlight slipped gently through the curtains, scattering across Catalina's face and the tangled sheets. She stirred slowly, her body protesting the early hour, a groggy sigh leaving her lips. For a moment, she forgot where she was—her body sore from training, her mind foggy from sleep—until the faint scent of coffee and toasted bread reached her.

Her brows furrowed.

When she turned over, her hand reached for the spot beside her on instinct—empty. The other half of the bed was cold, sheets already smoothed over. That's when she sat up, blinking as she noticed a folded sweatshirt on the nightstand—Carlos's—and a small sticky note on top.

Breakfast is ready. Don't yell at me for using your kitchen.

—C.

A sleepy laugh escaped her as she rubbed her eyes and pushed out of bed, padding barefoot down the short hallway.

Her flat wasn't big—bright kitchen, soft colors, plants she somehow hadn't killed yet—but it felt like home. And there, standing by the counter with his sleeves rolled up and his hair slightly messy from sleep, was Carlos. He was pouring orange juice into a glass, humming softly under his breath like this was something they did every day.

"Morning," he said without turning, as if he could sense her behind him.

Cat leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, still in one of his shirts she must've thrown on last night. "You know, most people text before they invade someone's kitchen."

Carlos looked over his shoulder, flashing her that infuriating grin. "Good morning to you too, mi amor."

She rolled her eyes, trying to hide the smile tugging at her lips. "You're lucky the food smells good, or I'd have kicked you out already."

"I'll take lucky," he said, pulling out a chair for her like a gentleman. "Sit. Eat."

She sighed but obeyed, plopping down at the table. "You're spoiling me, Sainz."

"Maybe that's the point," he said casually, setting down a plate in front of her—eggs, fruit, toast, and coffee just how she liked it.

She blinked, then looked up at him, genuinely impressed. "You remembered how I take my coffee?"

Carlos leaned against the counter, watching her take her first bite. "I remember everything about you, Catalina."

She froze mid-chew, the words lingering in the air longer than either of them expected. For a moment, neither said anything. Carlos didn't look away; he just smiled softly, a little wistful.

Cat swallowed, clearing her throat. "You're dangerous when you say things like that."

"Why?"

"Because I might start believing you again," she said quietly.

Carlos didn't answer right away. He just gave a small, thoughtful hum, walking closer until he was standing behind her chair. "That's the idea, gatita," he murmured.

Her heart fluttered, but she ignored it, cutting into her food again. "You really like testing your luck, don't you?"

He chuckled lowly, leaning down slightly. "Only when it comes to you."

She bit her lip to keep from smiling, refusing to turn around. "You're ridiculous."

"And you're smiling," he teased.

She pointed her fork back at him. "Barely."

"Barely counts."

They stayed like that for a while—easy, comfortable, domestic in a way that scared her a little. Carlos sat opposite her, stealing pieces of fruit from her plate when he thought she wasn't looking. She complained every time, and he'd grin every time, unbothered.

When she finally finished eating, she leaned back and sighed, stretching her arms above her head. "Okay, I admit it. You're a decent cook."

Carlos smirked. "Decent? I made you breakfast in bed—well, technically breakfast near bed."

"Don't push it," she said, laughing.

He watched her stand and start gathering her training bag, slipping her water bottle inside and checking her schedule on her phone. She was glowing, even in a rush—hair thrown up in a messy bun, cheeks flushed from the morning warmth.

"You going to practice?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.

"Mm-hmm." She slung her bag over her shoulder and glanced at him. "Day six of the week. My body hates me."

Carlos stood up as she neared the door. "Then I'll be here when you're done. Maybe I'll cook dinner, too."

Cat turned, an amused smile tugging at her lips. "You planning on staying the whole week or something?"

Carlos shrugged, pretending to think. "Maybe. Unless you tell me not to."

Her gaze softened, but she didn't answer. Instead, she walked up to him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

"You're impossible," she whispered, smiling just slightly before leaning up to press a kiss to his cheek.

Carlos froze, his heartbeat stuttering for a second. "That means you'll miss me when you leave, right?"

Cat smirked, already walking out the door. "Don't push your luck, Sainz."

As the door closed behind her, Carlos reached up and touched the spot where she'd kissed him, his grin widening uncontrollably.

He whispered to himself, voice soft, "She'll fall for me again. Just a matter of time."

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The sound of oars slapping water still rang in Catalina's ears as she stood at attention with the other girls, sweat clinging to her temples, her chest still heaving slightly from the morning's drills. Something was different today—every girl could feel it. The coaches were quiet, serious, exchanging low words between themselves instead of barking orders like usual.

When Coach Wilkes finally called them in, twenty young women in matching training jackets sat in a loose circle, fidgeting nervously, eyes darting between one another.

He stood before them with his clipboard, face unreadable. "You've all worked harder than any group we've ever had," he began, his voice steady but low. "You've pushed through pain, weather, injuries, and doubt. You've made this decision incredibly difficult for us."

The air thickened. Catalina's heartbeat quickened as she clasped her hands in her lap, her calloused fingers trembling.

Coach Wilkes inhaled and looked down at the paper. "The following eight athletes will represent Great Britain in the 2026 Olympics."

Every breath in the room stilled.

"Amelia Harper."

A tiny gasp broke from the line. Amelia's hand flew to her mouth.

"Bella Hughes."

A cheer burst from the back—Bella, the one who always called Catalina "Sainz" as a joke, was crying already. Catalina's lips quirked upward; that girl had trained with fire.

"Ruth Calloway. Sasha Patel. Lily Evans. Ivy Green. Catalina Villalobo—"

Catalina froze. For a moment she wasn't sure she'd heard right. She blinked, eyes wide, and Bella grabbed her wrist with a squeal.

"—and finishing the lineup, Zoë Bishop and Harper Lane."

Silence. Then it erupted.

Screams. Cheers. Cries. The eight of them stood in disbelief, laughter bubbling up as some of them threw their arms around one another. Catalina felt tears sting her eyes but swallowed them down, her first instinct to turn toward the other twelve girls.

They sat there, still and pale, trying to smile through disappointment. Catalina's chest ached. She pulled away from Bella and walked straight toward them, kneeling down to their level.

"Hey," she said softly, offering her hand to the closest girl, Mae. "You were incredible out there. You all were. Don't you dare think this means you weren't enough."

Mae blinked back tears, nodding. "Thanks, Cat."

One by one, Catalina hugged each of them, murmuring words of encouragement. The coach watched quietly from the corner, arms folded, pride flickering in his eyes—not just for her athleticism, but for her heart.

When the dismissed girls were finally escorted out, the remaining eight stood together, still dazed. Coach Wilkes clapped his hands once, snapping them from their haze.

"Alright, ladies," he said with a grin now breaking through his stoicism, "we've got a few things to do before you can celebrate. Go change into your official uniforms—we've got a photographer waiting to make the announcement."

The room erupted again. Sasha and Ivy screamed, Bella literally jumped on Catalina's back, laughing uncontrollably.

"SAINZ! We're OLYMPIANS!" she shouted, making the others laugh as they disappeared into the locker room.

Catalina's hands trembled as she zipped up the navy-and-red uniform jacket. The British flag was stitched on the chest, small and perfect. She touched it lightly.

The others trickled out, looking like they couldn't believe their own reflections. They posed for individual shots first—some serious, some smiling, all glowing with adrenaline and disbelief—before gathering together for a group photo.

Eight girls, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, standing under the white banner that read "TEAM GB – ROWING, OLYMPIC 2026."

The flash went off.

Catalina blinked spots from her vision, grinning so wide it hurt.

When it was all over, Coach Wilkes addressed them again, his tone softer. "You've earned this. The next few months will be the hardest of your lives—but for now, the next two days are yours. Rest. Celebrate. You deserve it."

"Thank you, Coach," they said in unison, still too dazed to process it all.

Catalina lingered a bit, watching her teammates chatter and laugh,. She felt her heart swell in her chest.

She didn't even know where to begin.

Carlos.

He was the first person who popped into her head. His face, his smirk, that patient way he looked at her like she was sunlight he couldn't quite touch. He'd told her just yesterday, "You're going to be great, Cat. You already are."

She wanted to run home and tell him everything. To see that proud look in his eyes—the one that made her feel unstoppable.

But not yet.

Not this chapter.

She wanted to see his face when he found out. She wanted it to be a surprise.

So for now, she just smiled to herself as she grabbed her bag, the Olympic emblem catching the light.

Outside, the autumn breeze hit her flushed cheeks, cooling them as she headed toward the exit. Her heart raced—not from training this time, but from sheer joy.

London felt different that day. Bigger. Brighter.

As she walked down the steps of the training facility, the other girls shouting behind her, Catalina looked up at the gray sky and laughed quietly to herself.

Olympian.

She could barely believe it.

Catalina ran like a mad woman back to her flat her smile never left her lips. Catalina burst through the door of her flat with the kind of energy that could've lit the whole building. Her duffle bag hit the floor with a soft thud, but she didn't even bother to take her shoes off before sprinting toward the kitchen.

Carlos was there — barefoot, in one of her aprons again, finishing off a pan of something that smelled suspiciously like his mom's tortilla española.

He turned around at the sound of her laugh — breathless, wild, bright — and barely had time to ask, "¿Qué pasa, mi amor?" ("What's wrong, my love?") before she launched herself straight into his arms.

"¡CARLITOS!" she shouted, legs wrapping around his waist, voice trembling with emotion.

Carlos caught her instinctively, hands steady against her back. His brows furrowed in confusion, but when he looked down at her face — flushed, teary-eyed, radiant — he felt it in his bones before she even said it.

"I made the Olympic team, Carlitos!!!" she screamed, the words tumbling out in one breath, the joy so pure it made him laugh out loud.

For a moment, Carlos just stood there, blinking in disbelief. Then it sank in — the reality, the pride — and he let out a shout of his own, spinning her around so fast she shrieked. "¿Qué dices?! ¡No jodas! ¡Mi campeona olímpica!" ("You are kidding?! No way! My Olympic champion!")

Catalina was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, clutching his neck as he twirled her, both of them dizzy and ridiculous and completely elated. When he finally set her down, he still had one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, as if he wasn't ready to let her feet touch the ground.

"I knew it," Carlos said, brushing a stray curl from her face. "I knew you'd do it. You're unstoppable, Cat."

She was still grinning so hard it hurt. "I'm still shaking," she said, pressing a hand to her chest. "I swear, I thought I was dreaming when coach called my name. Me, Carlos! Me!"

Carlos cupped her face, thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, and there was this quiet look in his eyes — proud, protective, utterly in awe. "You've worked for this every single day, mi vida. You deserve every bit of it."

Catalina let out a long breath, still smiling, still somewhere between tears and laughter. Then Carlos straightened, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"We have to celebrate," he said firmly, voice low but excited. "Like properly celebrate. You just made the Olympic team — this isn't something you mark with a takeaway pizza."

She blinked at him, mind already somewhere else. "Yes! We're going out!" she said quickly. "Get a drink or two — maybe three — I can finally relax, and—"

"Drink?" he interrupted, brow raised, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Catalina tilted her head. "Yeah. Bar. Dancing. Shots. You know... normal human celebration?"

Carlos' expression was equal parts scandalized and amused. "No, no, no, no. You deserve more than tequila shots and sticky floors, cariño. I was thinking—" he paused for effect, "—dinner. Fancy dinner."

Her jaw dropped, the tiniest pout forming. "Dinner?"

He grinned. "Dinner. Champagne. A view. Maybe a little dancing after, if you behave."

"If I behave?" she repeated, crossing her arms with mock offense. "You're going to tell an Olympian to behave?"

Carlos chuckled, stepping closer until she had to look up at him. "You're right," he murmured, voice soft. "You've earned a night to be completely un-behaved."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. "Fine," she sighed dramatically. "You pick the place. But if it's one of those restaurants where they serve you a leaf and call it art, I'm stopping for tacos on the way home.

"Deal," he said, laughing. "But tonight, it's my treat. You've worked too hard for anything less."

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his chest, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. For a second, she let herself sink into the warmth of it all — the moment, the pride, the way Carlos still looked at her like she was the sun itself.

"Te amo, Carlitos," she whispered softly, barely loud enough for him to hear. ("I love you, Carlitos.")

He froze for half a beat — not out of surprise, but because hearing it again, in her voice, after everything they'd been through, hit something deep. He kissed the top of her head and murmured, "Yo también, mi campeona." ("I love you too, my champion.")

And just like that, the two of them stood there in the quiet of the flat — Olympic dreams and second chances tangled together — before heading out into the night to celebrate a victory that, for once, was both of theirs.

But before they could do that catalina knew that she needed to call home. Catalina's thumb hovered nervously over the FaceTime button before she pressed. Her heart was doing that stupid cartwheel thing — equal parts adrenaline and that warm, hollow shock of "it actually happened." She let the call ring once, twice, and Alejandro's sleepy face finally filled the screen, hair an actual mess, eyes squinty with morning.

"¡Ale, despierta! Tengo noticias." she breathed, trying to keep it casual even though she was bouncing on the balls of her feet. ("Ale, wake up! I have news.")

Alejandro flopped fully awake at the sound of her voice. "¿Qué pasó? ¿Ganaste café gratis de nuevo?" he joked, still half-asleep. ("What happened? Did you win free coffee again?")

Catalina grinned, then flicked the screen to include Miguel so that both of them could see her at once. Miguel's jaw tightened into that look he got when he suspected something serious — protective, skeptical, the same face that had put a stop to bad boys back in Jalisco.

She swallowed and tried to steady her voice. Without giving them a second to interrupt, she blurted, "¡Me eligieron para el equipo olímpico, cabrones!" ("They picked me for the Olympic team, assholes!")

There was an electric pause. For a fraction of a beat, nothing happened — and then Miguel whooped so loud Alejandro nearly fell off his bed. "¡No mames! ¡Eso es enorme!" he shouted, jumping to his feet. ("No way! That's huge!")

Catalina covered her mouth, laughing and crying at once. She spun around so the camera caught nothing but the back of her hoodie — she was determined not to show Carlos in the background. She wasn't ready to announce whatever this tentative thing was to the whole family yet; she wanted this moment with Carlos to be safe and private first.

But Miguel was sharper than she gave him credit for. The first time he glanced to the side of the frame he only thought he'd seen a flash of dark hair and a profile, so he said nothing. The second time, when Carlos moved and the kitchen light hit his face, Miguel went suddenly still.

"Miguel — ¿qué pasa?" Alejandro asked, noticing the change. How his older brother froze beside him.

Miguel didn't take his eyes off the screen. He lowered his voice, half laughing, half incredulous: "¿Esa es la cara del español, no?" ("Isn't that the Spaniard's face?")

Catalina's stomach dropped in a way that felt thrilling and sick at the same time. She tried to nudge the phone so Miguel couldn't see, but her arm bumped the counter and Carlos glanced up. He realized he'd been seen. He gave the camera a quick, sheepish smile and ducked partly out of frame — enough that Miguel squinted and went full detective.

Alejandro's tone curled sharp as a jagged little blade. He leaned into the screen, rage just under the surface. "Catalina Ofelia Villalobo Zugasti, ¿te estás cogiendo al puto español otra vez!?" he shouted, half-laughing, half-stern. ("Catalina Ofelia Villalobo Zugasti, are you fucking the damn Spaniard again!?")

The way he said it — the old protective fury mixed with the memory of how broken she'd been when Carlos had blocked her months ago — hit the room with a physical thud. Miguel barked a loud, amused expletive and then followed up with one for good measure:

"Pinchi melolenga, después que te rompió el corazón! ¡Qué suerte tiene ese pelón pelorico que no estoy ahí pa' partirle su madre!" he spat, half-joking but earnest. ("You sfucking dumbass, after he broke your heart! That bald-headed guy is so damn lucky I'm not there to split his head open.")

Catalina's cheeks flushed. She could hear the worry threaded through every syllable, the way Miguel tried to sound fierce because he loved her — the exact same way their abuela used to mutter about men who didn't know how to keep a promise.

Carlos, hearing this from the background of the flat, hadn't meant to lean into frame again — but when Miguel said the name and Alejandro exploded, he stepped forward slowly, palms up like he was approaching a wary dog. He didn't want to make the brothers angrier; he wanted them to know exactly who he was and that he was not an idiot. He cleared his throat softly.

"Hola," he offered in Spanish, voice careful. "Soy Carlos. Mucho gusto." ("Hi. I'm Carlos. Nice to meet you.")

Alejandro, incandescent now, actually stood and pointed a warning finger at the phone. "Te lo digo en serio, Catalinita. Si ese cabrón te hace mierda, no lo voy a perdonar." ("I'm serious, Catalina. If that bastard hurts you, I won't forgive him.")

Miguel softened for a second, his bravado folding into something almost tender. "No te preocupes, hermanita. Si él te quiere de verdad, que se ponga las pilas." ("Don't worry, little sister. If he truly loves you, he better step up.")

Before things could spiral, their madre's voice cut in through the video like a warm, authoritative blanket. She'd been quiet on the other end, listening — the family radar always more sensitive than they let on.

"Déjala, Alejandro. Ella es mujer adulta y sabe lo que hace." she said, more softly than Alejandro expected. ("Let her be, Alejandro. She's an adult woman and she knows what she's doing.")

Then, with that fierce, unfiltered love only a mother can have, she added, "Yo sé que Carlos la va a tratar bien. Si no, que venga aquí y que me lo diga a la cara." ("I know Carlos will treat her well. If not, he can come here and tell me to my face.")

Miguel grunted but the edge left his voice. "Si te hace daño, te juro que no paro." ("If he hurts you, I swear I won't stop.")

Alejandro's chest heaved and he ran a hand through his hair. The anger was still there, fierce as ever, but the admonishment from their madre had nudged him back from the cliff. He swallowed, taking a breath like he was trying on a new approach. "Solo... cuídate, Cat. No vuelvas a darles a los hombres el control de tu felicidad." ("Just... be careful, Cat. Don't give men back control of your happiness.")

Catalina's eyes stung. She squeezed the phone with one hand, her other hand smoothing the front of her jacket where Carlos had leaned against her. She met her brother's stare through the screen and said, as steady as she could, "Lo sé. Gracias. Ustedes son mi familia. Siempre. Pero esto es distinto. Yo sé cuidarme." ("I know. Thanks. You're my family. Always. But this is different. I know how to take care of myself.")

Miguel's face softened into something like naive pride. "Y nos cuentas todo. ¿Entendido?" ("And you tell us everything. Understood?")

"Entendido," she answered, smiling through tears.

Carlos watched the exchange quietly, the barest of hurts flashing over his features when Alejandro called him "puto español," but then Miguel's strict, blunt backing and their madre's protective blessing made him relax just a fraction. He stepped forward, more sincere this time.

"Señores," he said slowly, respectfully, "entiendo sus preocupaciones. Yo no vine a lastimarla. Catalina es importante para mí." ("Gentlemen, I understand your concerns. I didn't come to hurt her. Catalina is important to me.")

Alejandro's jaw clenched — suspicion and a lifetime of looking out for his sister warred in his expression — but Miguel and their madre exchanged a look. Miguel, in his impulsive, protective way, grunted something that was half-condescending acceptance, half-challenge. "Entonces demuéstralo." ("Then prove it.")

Carlos nodded like a man accepting a duel he'd rather not fight: "Lo demostraré." ("I will prove it.")

The line hummed with the strange intimacy of family. Miguel, still loud and undiplomatic, tried to flip the mood with humor — a theatrical, brotherly grand final warning. "Si te portas mal, te juro, vengo y te hago comer chile sin agua." ("If you behave badly, I swear I'll come and make you eat chile without water.")

That earned a bark of laughter from Alejandro, a relieved snort from their madre, and even a small, embarrassed smile from Alejandro's protective chest. Catalina laughed too, all the tension loosening a bit.

She wound the call down with all the careful boundaries of a woman threading her life back together: "Voy a tener cuidado. No voy a hacer nada idiota. Prometo avisarles si algo pasa." ("I'll be careful. I won't do anything stupid. I promise to tell you if anything happens.")

Miguel's voice softened into the gruff tenderness that had never fully left him. "Entonces vamos a celebrar cuando vuelvas a casa, hermosa." ("Then we'll celebrate when you come home, beautiful.")

Alejandro, still fierce but beaten into brotherly support, spat one last line that was equal parts threat and blessing: "Y si te rompe el corazón de nuevo, lo voy a encontrar. Te lo prometo." ("And if he breaks your heart again, I'll find him. I promise you that.")

Their madre, practical and fierce, closed it with the single, undebatable truth: "Mija, tú sabes cuidarte. Nosotros estamos aquí. Vete a celebrar, pero con cabeza." ("Daughter, you know how to take care of yourself. We're here. Go celebrate, but with your head on straight.")

Catalina breathed deep, the family chorus landing over her like armor. She turned the camera a fraction so Carlos could see their faces one last time — the brothers' protective scowls, their madre's soft eyes, Miguel's half-smile — and she mouthed a quiet, fierce promise.

"Los amo." ("I love you all.")

The screen filled with waves and noisy goodbyes, and then the FaceTime call ended, leaving Catalina in the small quiet of the kitchen with Carlos at her back — solid, patient, watching her as if she were made of glass and sunlight.

She set the phone down and let out a long breath, laughing nervously. "Bueno, me lincharon," she said, rolling her eyes. ("Well, they tried to lynch me.")

Carlos wrapped his arms around her from behind before she could turn away, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Me conocen bien. They love you fiercely." he said softly.

She leaned back into him, feeling that fierce, complicated love echo in her bones. "Sí. Y yo los amo por eso. Pero... que pena, Carlos," she teased, nudging him. "Tendrás que ganarte al jurado." ("Yes. And I love them for that. But... too bad, Carlos. You'll have to win over the jury.")

He kissed the top of her head, solemn and adorably determined. "Haré todo lo que haga falta." ("I'll do whatever it takes.")

She let herself believe that, for now. She let the warmth of brothers' warnings, madre's blessing, and Carlos' stubborn promise collect around her like a shield — fragile, but not worthless.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

Catalina was still glowing — cheeks flushed, hair half-dried from the shower, and her Olympic team jacket draped loosely over her shoulders as she scrolled through her phone. Notifications flooded in nonstop — tags, mentions, reposts. The official Team GB Rowing page had just posted the photos: the eight women standing shoulder to shoulder in their uniforms, Catalina near the center, smiling bright enough to blind the camera.

Carlos sat across from her on the couch, pretending to read something on his phone but mostly just watching her. Every few seconds, she'd grin, laugh softly, or whisper "oh my god" to herself as another congratulatory text came through. He couldn't help it — his chest swelled with pride. His girl. His Cat. Olympic-bound.

Just as he was about to tease her about how famous she was getting, her phone buzzed again — this time, not a notification, but a call. Catalina glanced down and frowned for a second before answering.

"¿Bueno?" she said, tucking her phone between her ear and shoulder as she reached for one of her heels.

"CATALINA!" a voice all but shouted through the speaker.

Carlos' head snapped up. He recognized that accent instantly — Pato.

"¡Felicidades, mujer! I just saw the post! You're an Olympian now, holy shit!" Pato's voice was full of unfiltered excitement, loud enough for Carlos to hear every word.

Catalina laughed, cheeks turning pink. "Gracias, Pato," she said sweetly. "It still doesn't feel real, honestly."

"It should! You worked your ass off! We need to celebrate — I'm in London next week. Dinner's on me, okay? We'll do it properly."

Before Catalina could even respond, Carlos — who had been silent until then — rose from the couch with a calm smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He crossed the room slowly, slipping his jacket on.

"¿Amor, estás lista?" he asked, tone light but deliberate. ("Love, are you ready?")

Catalina looked up at him, confused for a beat. "¿Lista para qué?" ("Ready for what?")

Carlos gave her one of his charming, too-easy smiles — the kind that masked a thousand jealous thoughts. "Para ir a celebrar que entraste al equipo olímpico," he said smoothly, eyes glinting. ("To go celebrate that you made the Olympic team.")

On the other end of the phone, there was a pause. Dead silence for two seconds — then the sound of Pato clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Oh..." Pato said finally, voice suddenly lower. "You're with Carlos."

"Sí," Catalina said, distracted as she adjusted the strap on her heel. "He's taking me out to dinner."

Carlos met her eyes just as Pato's voice came through again, a teasing lilt in his tone. "Well then, tell him to take you somewhere nice. You deserve it. But next time, dinner's still on me, deal?"

Carlos' jaw flexed. Of course he had to have the last word.

Catalina smiled anyway. "Deal," she said, still not catching the tension brewing two feet away from her.

"Congrats again, Cat. Really. You're incredible," Pato added warmly before hanging up.

When the line went dead, Catalina set her phone down on the counter, humming softly as she slipped her other heel on. She turned toward Carlos, who was now leaning against the doorframe — arms crossed, expression a little too neutral.

She narrowed her eyes. "Okay... what's with that face?"

Carlos arched an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "What face?"

"That one," she said, pointing at him. "You look like someone just stole your churros."

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about, mi amor. I'm perfectly fine."

"Sure you are," she said dryly, brushing past him to grab her purse. "You only get that tone when you're pretending not to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous," he replied smoothly, opening the door for her.

"Mmhm."

He waited for her to walk through, holding the door open like a gentleman — but the tightness in his jaw betrayed him. Catalina bit back a smile, shaking her head as she stepped outside.

Carlos followed, closing the door behind them, his hand brushing lightly against the small of her back.

"Not jealous," he repeated under his breath, though the look in his eyes — dark, unreadable, and just a little bit possessive — said otherwise.

Catalina laughed softly to herself as they walked toward the elevator. "Whatever you say, Carlitos."

But inside, she couldn't help but think how even when he was jealous, he made her heart race in all the wrong — and right — ways.

Dinner had started out perfect — soft light spilling from the chandeliers, the low hum of jazz music in the background, and Carlos sitting across from her in a crisp button-down, sleeves rolled up just enough to show his watch and the edge of the tattoo on his forearm. Catalina couldn't stop smiling. Everything felt... still. Simple.

The restaurant was a little too fancy for her taste — starched napkins, crystal glasses, and a sommelier who spent ten minutes describing wine like it was poetry — but Carlos looked so happy she didn't say a word. Instead, she raised her phone and snapped a picture of their plates when the waiter set them down. The presentation was ridiculous — little curls of truffle, perfectly cut vegetables, sauce drizzled like art.

She posted it to her story with the caption:

"Celebrating the Olympic call-up 🥂🇬🇧"

Within minutes, her phone buzzed.

Pato 🏎️: That's cute. But where I'm taking you? WAYYYYY better food.

Catalina bit back a laugh, shaking her head as she typed, You're terrible.

Pato: You love me tho 😎

She rolled her eyes but didn't reply — instead, she flipped her phone face down on the table and reached for her wine.

Carlos caught the tiny smile tugging at her lips before she hid it. "Who was that?" he asked casually, stirring the ice in his drink.

She shrugged. "Just Pato being Pato."

He hummed quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching in a not-quite-smile. "Of course."

Catalina tilted her head, trying to gauge his mood. He didn't look angry — just... thoughtful. Maybe a little tired. His eyes softened when he saw her watching him.

"Don't give me that look, gatita," he said, reaching across the table to brush his thumb along her hand. "I'm happy for you. Really. You earned this."

Her throat tightened a little. "Thanks," she said softly. "But... you leave tomorrow morning?"

He nodded, sighing. "Yeah. Flight at seven. Back to the Netherlands for the next race."

"Right," she said quietly, pushing food around her plate. "It's always like this, isn't it?"

He frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

"You and me," she said, looking up at him. "We're always running in opposite directions. You're off to races, and I'm in training camps or at the boathouse. It's like..." She exhaled. "Like the timing's never on our side."

Carlos studied her for a moment, then reached across the table again, taking her hand fully this time. "Maybe," he admitted. "But we always find our way back, don't we?"

Catalina met his eyes, heart tugging. "Yeah. We do."

For a moment, they just sat there — hands intertwined, candles flickering between them, the noise of the restaurant fading into the background.

Then Carlos grinned — that crooked, dimpled grin that made her melt every single time. "Besides, I couldn't stay away from you even if I wanted to. You're too stubborn. You'd probably show up at my door with coffee and a lecture."

Catalina laughed, squeezing his hand. "You're not wrong."

"See?" he said, leaning back with a smug look. "We work."

They spent the rest of the dinner talking about everything but the obvious — about rowing, about the dumb things Lando said on stream, about Carlos' dad texting him photos of the family dog in Ferrari merch.

But when the plates were cleared and the last of the wine disappeared, there was a quietness that neither of them wanted to break.

Carlos reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You look beautiful tonight, Catita."

She smiled softly. "You're just saying that 'cause you're leaving."

He shook his head, eyes warm and unflinching. "No. I'm saying it because it's true."

Her chest tightened. She wanted to tell him to stay, even just for one more night, but she didn't. This was their rhythm — short bursts of stolen time between their worlds spinning too fast.

So instead, she just smiled back, trying to memorize everything — the way the candlelight caught his eyes, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way his thumb brushed circles over her knuckles like he didn't want to let go.

When they finally stood to leave, he placed a gentle hand on her back as they walked out into the London night. Cameras flashed somewhere down the street, but Catalina barely noticed.

Because for once, it didn't matter who was watching — it was just them. And even if the morning would come too soon, right now, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos need to grow a pair #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos Sainz x original character

The Plot// F1

Part: 18

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

A week later, the sun was already high over the paddock when Lando Norris walked toward the McLaren motorhome, iced coffee in hand, still half-asleep and half-hungover from the chaos of the last race weekend. He was scrolling through his phone, sunglasses hiding the exhaustion behind his eyes, when he almost crashed into someone.

"Mate, watch where you're going," he grumbled automatically.

The someone turned around, all bright eyes and ridiculous optimism — Pato O'Ward.

Lando blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh great. It's you."

Pato just grinned, far too chipper for a Tuesday morning. "Morning to you too, amigo."

Lando groaned. "Why do you look like you just won the championship or something? You're smiling like a Disney prince."

Pato didn't even deny it. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but glowing. "I met someone."

Lando stopped mid-sip, raising a brow. "Oh God. Here we go."

Pato nodded, ignoring the sarcasm. "I'm serious, bro. She was—" he paused dramatically, searching for the words, "—different. Like, I've met a lot of girls, but this one—she had this energy, this laugh, man. I can't get her out of my head."

Lando smirked, leaning against a wall. "Okay, Romeo. What's her name?"

"Catalina Villalobo."

Lando froze. The straw of his coffee made a loud suck noise as he blinked once, twice, like his brain needed to reboot. "Wait—wait—wait—what? Catalina Villalobo?"

"Yeah." Pato tilted his head, confused by the sudden change in tone. "You know her?"

Lando started laughing — a little too loud, a little too disbelieving. "Oh my fucking God, you're kidding."

"What?"

"What?" Lando repeated, mimicking him, and nearly choked on his drink. "You're talking about Cat — like Carlos's Cat. Mate everyone knows Cat and Carlos are going to get back together."

Pato's brows furrowed. "Wait, Carlos as in... Carlos Sainz?"

Lando nodded solemnly, raising his cup like he was giving a toast. "Yep. That Carlos. The Spaniard. El smooth operator. Her smooth operator."

Pato blinked, clearly trying to process that. "Oh." He paused. "Well... you said was, right?"

Lando sighed. "I said were. As in, they were together. Now it's complicated. He's been trying to win her back for months. Man's practically crawling."

But Pato just grinned — that same grin that made engineers nervous and PR people sweat. "So... they're broken up?"

"Pato."

Pato shrugged, completely unbothered. "I'm just saying, if he lost her, that's on him. She didn't seem like she had a ring on her finger when I met her."

Lando stared at him like he was watching a car crash in slow motion. "You've got a death wish, huh?"

Pato only smirked harder. "Nah. I've got good instincts."

Lando sighed, running a hand down his face. "Listen, mate, Carlos is literally begging her right now. Like, sending flowers, voice notes in Spanish, the whole pathetic lovesick routine. And you—" he pointed his straw at him, "—are about to make yourself public enemy number one."

Pato laughed, unfazed. "His loss, my win."

Lando opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Pato pulled out his phone and started typing.

"What are you doing?" Lando asked, already dreading the answer.

"Looking her up."

Lando groaned. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He snatched the phone from Pato's hand and typed "Catalina Villalobo" into Instagram. Sure enough, her profile popped up — her account private but many Wags and a few drivers followed her.

"Yup. That's her," Lando muttered, handing the phone back. "Good luck, mate. You'll need it."

But Pato was already grinning like he'd struck gold. "Got her." He hit the follow button without hesitation.

Lando raised a brow. "You seriously think she's gonna follow you back?"

Before he could finish his thought, Pato's phone pinged.

Followed back.

Lando's eyes widened. "You've got to be kidding me."

Pato turned the phone so Lando could see. "Guess she remembered me."

Lando gawked, dumbfounded, while Pato leaned against the wall, thumbs flying across the screen.

"Are you actually DMing her right now?"

"Of course." Pato didn't look up. "Can't waste momentum, hermano."

Lando stared at him for a long moment, speechless, before finally sighing and muttering, "You're a dead man walking."

Pato just chuckled. "I prefer risk-taker."

"Yeah," Lando muttered, watching him hit send. "Let's see if you're still saying that when Carlos finds out."

Because somewhere across the paddock, Carlos Sainz was probably checking his own phone — still trying to figure out how to win back the girl he swore he'd never lose.

And now there was a new name sliding into her DMs.

One that Carlos wasn't going to like.

Mean while back in London the afternoon sun spilled golden over the training field, warm and bright against Catalina's skin. She lay flat on the grass, her water bottle balanced on her stomach, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breath. The week had been brutal — early mornings, drills that made every muscle scream, and the kind of exhaustion that felt bone-deep — but she loved it. She hadn't felt this alive, this driven, in months.

Her phone buzzed beside her. She reached lazily for it, expecting a reminder or something from her coach.

Instead, it was a notification.

patooward has requested to follow you.

Catalina blinked, squinting at the screen. The name didn't immediately click, but the face — the grin, the messy hair, the eyes that looked far too amused — that she remembered.

The night of the afterparty. The guy she'd bumped into. The one whose drink she'd spilled and had insisted on cleaning up while laughing at his ridiculous jokes. The damn smooth talker who called her "mi heroína torpe" ("my clumsy heroine").

"Oh," she muttered, smiling faintly to herself. "So it's that guy."

She didn't think much of it. She hit accept, locked her phone, and sat up when her coach called her back for another round.

For the rest of the day, she didn't check again. Between drills, running, and a team meeting about upcoming competitions, she forgot all about Pato O'Ward's follow request.

It wasn't until later — hours later, when the sky had gone soft and blue — that she saw another notification.

patooward: hey, didn't think I'd find the girl who tried to save my shirt.

Catalina snorted out a laugh, towel still draped around her neck as she leaned against the wall of the gym. Her thumbs hovered for a moment before she typed back:

catvillalobo: I didn't try to save your shirt. I did save it. You're welcome.

His reply came fast.

patooward: oh, right. My mistake. Should've thanked you properly. Dinner maybe? To make up for traumatizing my poor drink.

She smiled, shaking her head.

catvillalobo: you're ridiculous. Also, I don't date victims of drink-related accidents.

patooward: harsh. good thing I'm persistent.

The banter went back and forth for a while — light, funny, harmless. Catalina didn't even realize an hour had passed until her phone buzzed with a reminder to stretch and rehydrate.

catvillalobo: gotta go. early morning tomorrow.

patooward: good luck, campeona. try not to ruin anyone's shirt this time.

She rolled her eyes, grinning as she locked her phone and tossed it aside. The dorm room felt strangely quiet now that Leo, Lory, and Jackie had gone back to San Francisco two days ago. The walls echoed with her own soft humming as she reheated leftovers, eating by the small window overlooking the training center.

Her phone buzzed again — but this time, the notification made her heart flutter.

A message from Carlos.

It wasn't a long one — just a gif of a tiny cat lifting dumbbells with the words "buena suerte en tu entrenamiento" ("good luck with your training").

Catalina's smile softened. She liked the little things he did — the quiet gestures, the way he remembered her schedule, the care behind every message.

She hit the little heart reaction, then typed a small thank you, before putting the phone down and heading for the shower.

They'd been FaceTiming almost every night for the past couple of weeks — usually for an hour, sometimes less when he was traveling. He'd send flowers every few days, always different. Tulips, white lilies, sunflowers. He never said why, but she knew.

Carlos was trying — really trying. To prove that he wasn't the same man who let her walk away that night. That he could love her the way she needed to be loved — not with grand gestures, but with consistency.

Still... it was hard. Distance had a way of whispering doubts, even when the heart tried to ignore them.

Across the world, in another time zone, Carola leaned against the pit wall beside her husband Checo, sipping from a paper cup. Her phone was open to Instagram, and her perfectly manicured eyebrow arched as she scrolled.

"Pato followed Catalina," she said, her lips twitching with amusement.

Checo almost choked on his drink. "Ese niño no sabe en lo que se mete." ("That boy doesn't know what he's getting himself into.")

Carola smirked. "No puedo esperar a ver qué pasa." ("I can't wait to see what happens.")

Checo shot her a look, half disbelief, half amusement. "Cómo te gusta el chisme." ("You really love gossip.")

She turned her head slowly, narrowing her eyes playfully. "No actúes como santo, Checo, porque eres igual de chismoso." ("Don't act like a saint, Checo, because you're just as much of a gossip.")

He chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Maybe. But at least I'm not crazy enough to watch Carlos and Pato fight over the same girl."

Carola tilted her head, grin sharp as ever. "Oh, but that's exactly why it'll be fun."

Checo shook his head, muttering something about chaos in the paddock, but Carola wasn't listening anymore. She was smiling — that knowing, wicked little smile — because she'd seen it happen before.

The universe had a way of drawing Catalina Villalobo into drama, whether she wanted it or not.

And this time, she didn't even see it coming.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The morning fog still clung to the water, soft and pale like a thin blanket, when Catalina jogged toward the docks. Her muscles burned from the previous day, but there was a fire in her chest — that relentless, familiar drive that wouldn't let her slow down. Around her, her team moved sluggishly, yawning, stretching, and muttering complaints about the early call time.

"Let's go, campeonas," Catalina called, voice firm but not unkind. Her breath came out in visible clouds, and she clapped her hands together, eyes sweeping over the girls. "You all look like you've been hit by a truck. Come on, let's get it together."

Bella groaned from behind her, tugging at her hoodie. "Cat, we've been training for six days straight. My arms are about to fall off."

Catalina turned, a teasing smile pulling at her lips. "If your arms fall off, I'll row for you. But we're not quitting."

The coach blew the whistle, and they all started toward the boats. The energy was low, tension thick. The last few races had been rough — their timing off, rhythm sloppy, teamwork strained. Catalina could feel the frustration simmering under the surface.

She took a deep breath and stepped onto the dock. "Hey," she said, turning to face the girls. Ten pairs of tired eyes lifted toward her. "Listen, I know we're exhausted. I know it feels like we're just... pushing and not getting anywhere. But we didn't come here to be average, right?"

No one answered, but a few straightened their backs.

"We came here because we're good," she continued, voice gaining strength. "Because someone saw something in us. Because we saw something in ourselves. You don't get invited to this camp unless you've earned it. So let's show them why we're here."

A small grin tugged at her mouth as she added, "Come on, campeonas. Let's make some noise out there."

The girls began nodding, murmuring agreement. The energy shifted — subtle, but real. When the whistle blew again, they lifted their oars and pushed off the dock.

The first few strokes were uneven. Catalina called out commands, sharp and rhythmic, her voice cutting through the morning air. "In sync! Watch the rhythm! Breathe, not rush!"

By the halfway mark, something clicked. Their timing locked. The water cut cleanly under the hull, the boat gliding faster, smoother. Catalina's voice grew louder, stronger — the pulse of the crew.

And when they crossed the finish line, they weren't just first. They were a full boat-length ahead of the second group.

When they hit the dock again, laughter broke out. Someone shouted, "Let's go, Cat!" and the others followed with cheers. A few slapped her back, some hugged her, sweat and lake water mixing as they grinned like maniacs.

"Drinks tonight?" one of them called.

"Day off tomorrow," Bella added, tossing her braid over her shoulder. "We deserve it."

Catalina chuckled, wiping her face with a towel. "You guys go ahead. I'm dead."

Bella slung an arm around her shoulders, smirking. "Come on, Sainz. A little drink won't kill you."

Catalina froze mid-step. Her head turned slowly, eyes narrowing. "You wanna fuck him or something?"

Bella raised her hands, laughing. "What? Can't tease my teammate for sleeping with an F1 driver?"

"I guess you can," Cat said dryly, rolling her eyes. "Just don't make me regret saving your ass out there today."

Bella grinned. "Never, captain."

They all headed to the showers, still laughing and teasing as they talked about the race. Later that evening, Catalina posted a story — a picture of her and ten other girls at a small pub near the water, smiles wide, cheeks flushed from laughter and beer. The caption read:

"earned this one 🏆💪🏼"

It didn't take long for her notifications to light up.

patooward commented: So when do I get an invite to celebrate the next win? 😉

Catalina snorted and replied:

catvillalobo: When you learn to keep your drink in your cup.

The girls around her laughed as she set her phone down. The night carried on easily — the clinking of glasses, the echo of music, the comfortable warmth of shared exhaustion. They talked about blisters, calluses, bad strokes, and the upcoming team switch-ups.

For the first time in a while, Catalina felt... content. No pressure, no fame, no expectations — just her and the sport she loved.

Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, Carlos sat on the edge of his hotel bed in Budapest, scrolling through Instagram between sponsor meetings. His eyes caught her story immediately — he recognized her smile, the pub lights, the caption.

But what made his jaw tighten was the small gray username under the story.

patooward.

His brow furrowed. The comment was flirty — too flirty — and when Carlos clicked Pato's handle, he saw the unmistakable truth.

Following each other.

Carlos' temple twitched. He opened Catalina's page. Sure enough — they followed one another.

He exhaled slowly, thumb tightening on the phone. He wasn't angry — not really — but something in his chest burned. Jealousy, protectiveness, maybe both.

He'd been patient. Careful. Giving her space, earning her trust back one step at a time. But now? Now he could feel it slipping through his fingers, and it scared the hell out of him.

He glanced at his race schedule. Hungary this weekend, then a week off before Belgium.

Perfect.

He opened his laptop, already typing out flight searches to London. He could use the week to "rest" — at least that's what he'd tell his team. But he knew the truth.

He was going there to see her.

To remind her that while distance was cruel, love didn't just fade — not when it was real.

And if some niño de IndyCar thought he could swoop in while Carlos was trying to make things right...

He had another thing coming.

Carlos closed his laptop, exhaled through his nose, and muttered to himself in Spanish,

"No voy a perderla otra vez." ("I'm not losing her again.")

He didn't care if it meant crossing the ocean — Catalina Villalobo was worth every mile.

But the thought of cat did not leave his mind, what if she was moving on with the papaya from F2? Carlos could not do this he needed a drink. The restaurant was loud — the kind of place where the clinking of glasses and low hum of conversation filled every corner — but Carlos barely heard any of it. He sat at the bar, jaw tight, scrolling through his phone for what had to be the hundredth time that evening. His food sat untouched in front of him, a half-empty glass of wine catching the dim light.

He wasn't angry — not really. Just... tense. Wound up. The image of Catalina's latest post replayed in his head, that damn comment from Pato O'Ward sitting right beneath it. It shouldn't have bothered him. She wasn't his girlfriend — not officially, at least. But seeing another man flirt with her — and seeing her smile back through the screen — it made his chest twist in a way he couldn't ignore.

He was halfway through a sigh when a familiar voice cut in.

"¿Qué te pasa, cabrón?" (What's wrong with you, idiot?)

Carlos looked up to see Checo standing there, Fernando Alonso just behind him, both wearing the same knowing look — that older-driver mix of amusement and judgment.

Carlos groaned softly. "Nada, weón. Estoy bien." (Nothing, man. I'm fine.)

Checo slid onto the stool beside him, flagging the bartender for a beer. "You sure? Because you've got the face of someone who just saw his crush post a photo with another guy."

Fernando snorted, clapping him on the back. "Or the face of someone who got beaten by me again. Which is understandable, eh, chaval?"

Carlos glared at him. "No empieces, viejo." (Don't start, old man.)

"Vamos, hombre." Checo raised his beer. "Come out for a bit. You look like you need something stronger than that sad glass of wine."

Carlos hesitated, then sighed and nodded. "Fine. One drink."

An hour later, "one drink" had turned into four.

The three of them were tucked away in the corner of a dimly lit bar. The music was low, and Fernando was halfway through telling some outrageous story from his early career — something about champagne, a lost shoe, and a furious team principal.

Carlos wasn't really listening. His thoughts kept circling back to Catalina.

Checo noticed. Of course he did. He leaned back in his chair, beer in hand, studying him. "So," he began casually, "you gonna tell us why you've been scowling at your phone all night?"

Carlos exhaled slowly. "It's nothing."

Fernando chuckled. "It's never nothing with you. What happened, eh? Catalina?"

Carlos froze, just slightly.

Checo smirked. "Ah, entonces sí es ella." (Ah, so it is her.)

Fernando grinned. "I knew it. The girl from London, right? The one who made him forget how to speak during dinner?"

Checo laughed at the memory. "Poor kid could barely look her in the eye. I swear, I thought he was gonna combust right there."

Carlos rolled his eyes. "You two are impossible."

Checo tilted his head, tone softening just a little. "She's a good one, mijo. Sweet, respectful, hard-working. Reminds me of my daughters. So if you're going to be involved with her, don't screw it up."

Carlos blinked. "You sound like her father."

Checo shrugged. "Someone's got to be."

Fernando chuckled. "Y tú serías el peor suegro del mundo, Checo." (And you'd be the worst father-in-law in the world, Checo.)

Checo ignored him, turning his attention back to Carlos. "So what's the issue?"

Carlos hesitated. Then sighed. "That IndyCar kid — Pato. He commented on her post."

Fernando laughed outright. "That's it? Dios mío, Carlos, you're jealous of a comment?"

Checo just raised an eyebrow. "You mean Pato O'Ward? That's my guy. He's like a little brother to me. But if he's sniffing around Catalina..." He let the sentence hang, lips curving into a knowing smile. "Then I understand why you're bothered."

Carlos rubbed a hand over his face. "No quiero parecer un loco celoso." (I don't want to look like a jealous psycho.)

Fernando grinned. "Too late."

Checo chuckled, finishing his beer. "Relax, hermano. Catalina's not stupid. She's loyal, focused. If she wanted him, you'd know. Just maybe tell her how you feel before someone else gets brave."

Carlos muttered something under his breath, and they all laughed. Eventually, the conversation drifted back to racing and nonsense until it was late enough that Fernando checked his watch and yawned dramatically.

"Alright, boys. We've got a race tomorrow. A dormir."

They all stood and headed toward the exit, the night cool and quiet outside.

As Carlos started walking back toward the hotel, another figure rounded the corner — Lando.

The moment their eyes met, Lando froze. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel and walked the other way like a man avoiding a landmine.

Fernando raised an eyebrow. "Qué raro..." (Weirdo)

Checo smirked. "No, no. That's guilt, amigo."

When Carlos disappeared down the block, Fernando and Checo exchanged a look — then turned and followed Lando.

They caught up to him outside a coffee shop.

"Oye, niño," Checo called out. (Hey, kid.)

Lando flinched. "Uh... hey, guys."

Fernando folded his arms. "We've got a question."

Checo's tone was calm but sharp. "Why is that papaya from Formula 2 — Pato O'Ward — in Catalina Villalobo's DMs?"

Lando blinked fast. "I— I don't know what you're talking about."

He tried to sidestep them, but Fernando blocked his path. "Don't play dumb, Norris."

Checo crossed his arms. "You forget that I actually know both of them. You're the bridge between all this, aren't you?"

Lando groaned. "Look, they met last week at the after party. They spoke a bit and yesterday he said her name and I slipped that I knew her. I warn him that she and Carlos had a complicated relationship but he still added her in ig. I didn't think he'd go and message her!"

Fernando sighed, shaking his head. "You really like trouble, eh, niño?"

Checo pinched the bridge of his nose. "You realize if Carlos finds out you started that, you're dead?"

Lando muttered, "She's not even his girlfriend..."

Fernando smirked darkly. "Tell him that. I dare you."

Checo gave Lando a half-smile — the kind that somehow made him more nervous. "Next time you get bored, find another way to entertain yourself, mijo. Don't play matchmaker with his temper involved."

Lando nodded quickly. "Got it."

Checo patted his shoulder once before walking away, muttering something under his breath in Spanish that sounded suspiciously like a prayer for patience. Fernando just laughed.

When they were gone, Lando stood there in the street, exhaling hard.

"Yeah," he muttered to himself, "definitely need a drink."

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The roar of the Hungarian crowd still echoed faintly in Carlos's ears as he sat on the pit wall, helmet in his lap, staring at the timing screen. P7. Not terrible — not what he wanted, but not a disaster either. His engineer was talking through the usual post-race rundown, but his focus was elsewhere. His phone buzzed in his suit pocket.

He pulled it out, and there it was.

Catalina 💫: P7 isn't bad. Congrats, Dinosaurio. Proud of you.❤️

Just that — simple, direct, hers. And yet it made his lips curve into the first real smile he'd had all weekend.

He typed back something quick — Gracias, mi amor — but then erased it, settled instead for Gracias, Cat. Means a lot.

Still, his heart wasn't in the post-race routine anymore. Media duties? Debriefs? He barely heard the calls of the PR team chasing him as he slipped out of the paddock early, baseball cap pulled low, hoodie up. For once, he didn't care about fines or angry press officers. He had somewhere better to be.

By the time he got to his hotel, he'd already booked his jet.

By the time the mechanics finished packing the garage, he was halfway to the airport.

And by the time the team realized he was missing from the post-race photos, he was thirty thousand feet in the air, heading toward London.

The flight was quiet. Just him, the hum of the engines, and the soft vibration of his phone resting on his leg. He looked at her contact photo — the one he'd taken when she wasn't paying attention, hair messy, face still flushed from laughing too hard at some stupid joke.

"Voy a recuperarte," he murmured to himself. (I'm going to win you back.)

It was gray and chilly when he landed at Heathrow. A drizzle slicked the tarmac, London as stubbornly gloomy as ever. Carlos grabbed his small duffel, threw on a jacket, and called an Uber. On the way, he stopped at a florist tucked between a café and a bookshop, the kind of place that smelled like rain and roses.

He stared at the buckets of flowers for longer than he'd admit. Finally, he picked a bouquet of wild tulips — her favorite — mixed with a few white peonies. Something simple. Something that looked like her.

Catalina's flat was small but bright, tucked on a quiet street near the river. The building had that newly-renovated charm — white brick, black railings, and plants growing unevenly on the balconies.

Carlos stood outside for a moment, heart pounding harder than it did before qualifying laps. He knocked, then quickly placed the bouquet right in front of the door so she'd see it before she saw him.

There were footsteps, then the soft click of the lock.

The door opened.

For a second, all he could see was her legs, then her hands picking up the flowers. Her voice came, amused and soft. "Who—"

She stopped when she looked up.

"Carlos?"

He grinned, half sheepish, half proud of himself. "Sorpresa." (Surprise.)

She laughed, that bright sound he'd missed more than he'd ever admit, and without a second thought, she threw her arms around him.

"God, you're actually here."

He wrapped her up, breathing her in, letting his chin rest against her shoulder. It felt like home.

When she pulled back, she didn't kiss him — and he didn't try. The boundary was still there, delicate and real.

She gestured him inside, still smiling. "What are you doing here?"

Carlos shrugged, closing the door behind him. "I missed you."

Catalina rolled her eyes but smiled wider. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he said, watching her move around her small kitchen, placing the flowers in a vase. "But you're glowing, mi amor. You look..." He trailed off, shaking his head with a soft smile. "Beautiful."

She gave him a playful look. "Stop. I'm literally covered in sunscreen, sweat, and river water."

"Still beautiful," he murmured, and she turned away, cheeks flushing just slightly.

They spent the afternoon together — easy, familiar. She told him all about Olympic training, her team rotations, her coach's impossible standards. She lit up when she talked about it, hands moving as she explained boat speeds, rhythm, endurance.

Carlos didn't interrupt once. He just listened, leaning on the counter, watching her talk. Every time she smiled, his chest ached in that stupid, hopeful way.

Later, when the sun dipped and neither of them had eaten, he grabbed his phone and ordered a pizza from the closest place he could find.

They sat cross-legged on her couch, paper plates balanced on their knees. Catalina was halfway through a slice, laughing about one of her teammates' disastrous steering moments, when Carlos pulled out his phone and snapped a photo.

"Carlos!" she groaned. "Delete that!"

He ignored her. "Never."

A few minutes later, while she wasn't looking, he opened his private Instagram story — the one with only a handful of people. A few teammates. Lando. Charles. And, just recently added... Pato O'Ward.

He uploaded the photo: Catalina sitting on the couch in one of his old hoodies, hair messy, laughing mid-bite, a pizza box open between them.

Caption: Some things are worth flying halfway across Europe for. ❤️🍕

He hit post.

A minute later, the little "seen by Pato O'Ward" popped up on his screen.

Carlos leaned back against the couch, smirking to himself.

Catalina glanced over, suspicious. "What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing," he said, tossing his phone aside and meeting her gaze. "Just... you."

She blinked, caught off guard for a second — then laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. "You're impossible, Sainz."

And for the first time in weeks, Carlos felt like things might actually be okay.

That night stretched longer than either of them had planned. The pizza was gone, the wine half-finished, and the soft hum of the London rain drummed against the windows while the city glowed in the distance. Catalina sat with her knees tucked under her, still in her training hoodie and shorts, hair pulled into a messy bun that Carlos found far too distracting.

She was talking again — about her teammates, how one of the girls forgot her oar this morning, how the coach nearly lost his mind. Carlos listened, grinning faintly, but his phone kept lighting up on the coffee table. He ignored it until Catalina's did the same — a soft buzz, then another, and another.

She glanced down and smiled. "Oh, it's that driver I met at the party. Pato, I think? He keeps sending memes."

Carlos froze for half a second, his easy smile stiffening at the corners. "Pato?"

"Yeah," she said absently, opening her phone. "He's funny. I didn't think he'd actually DM me, but he's just—" she snorted, showing him the screen, "look, it's this meme of a guy rowing with a motor attached to his oar."

Carlos forced a chuckle. "Ah. Hilarious."

She didn't notice the edge in his tone, still giggling as she typed back you're terrible with a laughing emoji. Her phone buzzed again. Another meme. This one about "drivers being athletes too."

She laughed again, oblivious. "Okay, this one's actually funny. He said, 'if F1 was in the Olympics, I'd bring home gold for Mexico.'"

Carlos leaned back, taking a long sip of his wine to mask the flare of irritation in his chest. "Claro que sí," he muttered under his breath. (Of course he would.)

"What?" Catalina asked, glancing up.

"Nothing," he said quickly, smiling. "Just... seems like he's got a lot of free time for someone racing full-time."

She didn't catch the sarcasm. "Well, they have a break between races right now, right?" she said, half-listening as she typed another response.

Carlos looked at her, the corner of his jaw tightening. So do I, he thought. And I flew halfway across Europe to see you.

Instead, he smiled — the kind that didn't reach his eyes — and said, "Yeah, a break."

Catalina finally put her phone face down and curled back into the couch, resting her head against his shoulder. "He's harmless," she said softly, almost reading his mind. "Just being friendly."

Carlos let out a slow breath and nodded, though every muscle in his body screamed otherwise. "Sure, mi amor. Friendly."

She tilted her head up, frowning playfully. "You're jealous, aren't you?"

He gave her a look — that signature Sainz smirk that masked more than it revealed. "No. Just observant."

"Uh-huh." She grinned, poking his chest. "You're jealous."

He caught her hand and kissed her fingertips, eyes dark. "Maybe a little," he admitted. "But can you blame me?"

Her cheeks warmed, and she tried to look away, but his hand tilted her chin back toward him. "You're not mine," he said quietly, "but I can still miss you."

The words hung heavy in the air. Catalina didn't know how to respond. So she didn't — she just leaned into him again, resting her head on his shoulder while his thumb brushed slow, lazy circles against her arm.

Her phone buzzed again on the table. Neither of them moved to pick it up.

Carlos stared at the screen lighting up — Pato O'Ward: "don't train too hard, campeona 😉" — before exhaling slowly through his nose, jaw tightening just slightly.

Catalina sighed contentedly, completely unaware. "You're quiet," she murmured.

Carlos kissed the top of her head and whispered, "Just thinking about how lucky I am to be here with you."

And though he meant every word, his eyes flicked back toward that glowing screen one more time, a storm quietly brewing behind his calm smile.

The next day the morning sunlight filtered softly through the kitchen window, the kind of golden light that made even a small London flat look warm and alive. Catalina was rushing — hair in a messy braid, rowing bag slung over her shoulder, still tugging her jacket on as she stumbled toward the door.

Carlos stood by the counter, a mug of coffee in hand, watching her with quiet amusement. She looked effortlessly beautiful to him, even with her sneakers half-tied and her water bottle clanking against her hip.

"Don't forget to eat something before you go," he said, gesturing toward the counter.

She grabbed a granola bar and grinned. "Yes, dad."

Carlos rolled his eyes. "Muy graciosa, gatita." (Very funny, kitten.)

She laughed, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "I'll see you later, dinosaurio. Don't burn down my kitchen, okay?"

He smirked, tilting his head. "No promises."

With that, she was gone — the sound of her sneakers echoing down the hall, the door clicking softly shut behind her.

For a while, the flat was silent. Carlos stood in the middle of the kitchen, still holding his coffee, and then sighed. He had hours before she'd be back from practice, and somehow, he wanted to do something that would make her smile. Something simple. Something that showed her he was serious this time.

He looked at the half-empty fridge, at the little sticky notes Catalina had left herself — milk, eggs, remember to stretch, buy more candles, don't text Carlos when mad. He chuckled softly.

"Too late for that one," he muttered.

So he rolled up his sleeves, tied one of her aprons around his waist — a ridiculous floral one that said Kiss the Cook — and got to work.

By the time Catalina came back hours later, sweat still damp on her forehead and her voice hoarse from shouting over the river, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filled the flat.

"Carlos?" she called, kicking off her sneakers.

"In the kitchen," came his voice — calm, low, and smug.

When she stepped in, she froze and then burst out laughing. There he was — apron tied too tight around his waist, wooden spoon in one hand, trying to look serious and completely failing.

"Oh my god," she giggled, covering her mouth. "That is so hot."

Carlos turned, smirking. "I clean, I cook, I look good doing it — you should marry me already."

She walked over, still laughing, and wrapped her arms around him from behind. "Tempting offer, Sainz."

Her hands slipped lower — to his hips, then his ass — and she gave a playful squeeze.

Carlos raised a brow, turning just enough to glance down at her. "¿Qué haces, gatita?" (What are you doing, kitten?)

"Appreciating fine art," she teased, eyes glittering.

Carlos chuckled, setting the spoon down before leaning in to murmur near her ear, "Behave, or you'll eat cold pasta."

She groaned dramatically and released him, plopping down on a stool at the counter. "Fine, fine. Feed me, chef."

He served her a plate — spaghetti in a homemade sauce, sprinkled with basil and a little parmesan. Catalina took a bite, eyes widening.

"Holy shit, this is actually good," she said, mouth full.

Carlos crossed his arms, feigning offense. "Actually good? You wound me."

She laughed, motioning to the food. "No, seriously. You might have just made me fall in love with you all over again."

"Then I'll cook every day," he said softly.

Something in his tone made her pause, her fork hovering midair. For a second, she didn't know what to say. So instead, she smiled — small, genuine — and took another bite.

They talked for a while, the conversation easy. She told him about training — about how her coach was mixing up teams again, about how one of the girls accidentally hit her with an oar. Carlos laughed, eyes never leaving her face.

When she finally stood up, stretching, she glanced toward the clock. "I should shower before I pass out."

Carlos nodded, gathering the plates. "Go ahead. I'll clean up."

She started toward the hall, then looked back at him — still standing there in that stupid floral apron, sleeves rolled up, focused entirely on the dishes.

And for the first time in a long time, she felt something deep in her chest. Not the ache of what they'd lost — but the warmth of something real, fragile, and new trying to take root again.

"Hey," she said softly.

He looked up. "Yeah?"

"Thanks. For this."

He smiled. "Anything for you, gatita."

She lingered a moment longer, heart fluttering, before disappearing down the hall — and Carlos, standing there with soap suds on his hands, let himself grin like an idiot.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos need to grow a pair #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #Carlos Sainz x original character

For The Plot// F1

Part: 17

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The morning air in London was crisp and bright, the kind that smelled faintly of rain even when the sky was clear. Catalina stood outside her new flat, clutching her coffee as she watched the moving truck pull up. The sight made her chest tighten — not from sadness, but disbelief. This was really happening. She was moving in. She was doing it.

Her parents were already fussing over boxes. Her mother gave instructions to the movers in Spanish, while her father supervised Leo, who had somehow managed to drop a box labeled "fragile" within five minutes.

"¡Leo! You break one more thing and I swear I'll—"

"I'm helping!" Leo protested, lifting another box dramatically. "Besides, I'm the muscle of the family."

"You're the muscle?" Jackie said from behind, carrying a lamp with Lory. "You got tired halfway up the stairs, muscle man."

Everyone burst out laughing, and even Catalina couldn't help but grin. The tension she'd been holding in since sunrise eased just a little.

The new flat was small but cozy — white walls, big windows that looked out over a stretch of green, and just enough space for her to breathe. It wasn't much, but it was hers.

By afternoon, the place was filled with laughter, music, and the smell of her mother's empanadas. They'd unpacked enough to make it livable, so they decided to celebrate. Leo uncorked a cheap bottle of champagne, spraying half of it on the floor while everyone screamed and ran for cover.

"To Catalina," Alejandro toasted, lifting his glass. "Our little Olympic girl."

"Who still can't reach the top shelf," Leo teased.

"Call me little one more time, and I'm throwing this empanada at your face."

Lory and Jackie laughed so hard they almost dropped their glasses. The moment felt light — real — like the start of something big.

As the night went on, the others began to drift home or fall asleep on the couch. Her parents left last, her mother hugging her tightly at the door.

"Estás lista, mi amor," she whispered, kissing her cheek. "You've worked for this. Don't doubt yourself now."

"I know," Cat murmured, her throat tightening. "I just... it feels unreal."

When the door finally closed behind them, silence filled the flat. Only the hum of the city and the faint ticking of the clock remained.

Catalina sat on her mattress — still on the floor — and looked around. Half-unpacked boxes surrounded her. A poster of the Spanish rowing team leaned against the wall, waiting to be hung. Her phone buzzed softly on the nightstand: a text from Carlos.

Carlos 🏎️: You in yet, mi campeona?

Catalina: Yeah. Moved in. Can't sleep.

Carlos 🏎️: Nerves?

Catalina: Yeah. Orientation tomorrow. I keep thinking they'll realize I don't belong there.

Carlos 🏎️: You belong there more than anyone, Cat. They're lucky to have you.

Catalina: You always know what to say, don't you?

Carlos 🏎️: Only to you.

Her lips curved into a small smile as she set the phone down.

She turned off the lamp, but sleep never came easy. Her mind ran wild — flashes of the lake back home, the endless training hours, the first time she sat in a boat and knew this was it. This was what she wanted.

And now, she was here. The Olympic camp. The dream she'd chased for years.

She lay awake until dawn, heart thudding with a mix of fear and excitement. She imagined the start of tomorrow — the cold water, the coaches, the other rowers who had dreamed just as hard as she had.

Outside, the first light of morning began to break over the city, painting the room gold.

Catalina sat up, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders, and whispered to herself with a shaky grin —

"Okay, Catalina Villalobo. Let's do this."

The air the next morning was sharp and cold, the kind that bit at the skin and filled your lungs with that clean, metallic taste of early morning mist. Catalina stood by the docks with forty-something other athletes, the lake stretching wide and still before them. The Olympic training camp looked nothing like she'd imagined—no soft introductions, no "welcome" banners. Just steel, water, and the sharp whistle of the head coach cutting through the air.

"Listen up!" Coach Dalton barked, his voice echoing over the water. He was a broad man with a shaved head and a look that could curdle milk. "You are not Olympians. Not yet. For the next four weeks, you're candidates. You'll eat together, train together, and compete against each other. By the end of the month, we'll know who stays and who goes."

No one dared move. Catalina's grip on her duffel tightened.

"Some of you were recommended. Some of you got here through trials. Doesn't matter. You're all equal now. Every stroke, every second, every drop of sweat counts."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. A few exchanged nervous glances; others, the more seasoned ones, kept their faces blank. Catalina straightened her shoulders. She'd trained for this moment. She wasn't going to look scared.

"Warm-up in ten. Then we split into groups. Move!"

The next half hour was a blur of stretching, timed runs, and whispered introductions. Catalina ended up beside a tall brunette who looked vaguely familiar — sharp cheekbones, dark brown hair tied perfectly back, and a faint Spanish accent when she spoke.

"So, you're Catalina, right?" the girl asked, adjusting her gloves. "You were at the university trials last year?"

"Yeah," Catalina said cautiously. "And you are?"

"Isabella," the girl replied with a little smile that didn't reach her eyes. "But most people call me Isa." She tilted her head. "You're the one Carlos Sainz mentioned in that interview last year, right? The one he called his lucky charm?"

Catalina froze for a beat — just long enough for Isa's smile to widen.

"Didn't think I'd run into Sainz's girl here," Isa said smoothly, pulling her boat shoes tighter. "Guess you've got your own finish line to chase, huh?"

Cat smirked faintly, masking the flicker of irritation in her chest. "Guess we'll see who crosses it first."

Coach Dalton's whistle blew again before Isa could respond. "Group One, on the water! Group Two, stretch and wait for the second call. Group Three, gear check."

Cat glanced at her list. Group One. Great. And, of course, Isa's name was right beneath hers.

She followed the others down to the docks, the morning air filled with the soft creak of oars and the ripple of water. As they lowered their boats in, Catalina felt that old rush — the calm before the chaos, the electric hum in her veins that always came before the first stroke.

"Warm-up lap," Coach shouted. "Let's see what kind of engines you've got."

Cat climbed in, settled her oar, and took a deep breath. The lake glimmered under the weak sunlight, cold and glassy.

"Ready?" Isa said beside her, smirking as if it were a challenge.

"Always," Cat replied.

The whistle blew. Eight boats sliced through the water at once, oars cutting clean, droplets catching the light like shards of glass. Catalina fell into rhythm instantly — one, two, pull, breathe. The world narrowed down to the sound of her oar, the burn in her arms, and the pulse in her chest.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Isa glance over — a small, competitive grin forming. Catalina didn't take the bait. She focused forward, muscles coiled and precise, her body remembering every hour of training that brought her here.

By the time they finished the lap, the coaches were already scribbling notes. Catalina's heart was pounding, her arms trembling, but she kept her face still. Isa brushed past her on the dock, whispering, "Not bad... for someone who probably gets her inspiration from a driver."

Cat just smiled, leaning on her oar. "Better that than getting my confidence from Instagram followers."

Isa blinked — clearly not expecting that — and Catalina turned away before she could answer, joining the others for the next drill.

She didn't look back, but she could feel Isa's glare burning into her back.

And for the first time that morning, Catalina's nerves melted into something sharper — the quiet, thrilling buzz of competition.

The sun hung low over the water, dipping the lake in liquid gold as the final whistle of the day echoed across the docks. Catalina's arms felt like lead, her shoulders burning, and her lungs were still catching up to the sheer brutality of the final timed session. Around her, athletes collapsed in the grass, laughing or groaning, some too tired to even speak.

She let out a shaky laugh as she flopped back onto the cool grass, eyes squinting up at the fading sky. For a long moment, she just lay there — her body buzzing with exhaustion, her heartbeat loud in her ears. The past month had been nothing but early mornings, punishing drills, and pressure so thick it sometimes felt like she couldn't breathe. And yet... she'd made it. She was still standing.

"Camp's over," she murmured to herself, a small smile curling on her lips. "Holy shit."

A few of the girls nearby started packing up, laughter rising in little bursts. Someone shouted a goodbye; someone else whistled toward the lake. Catalina finally sat up, brushing stray grass off her arms before standing and slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Her whole body ached, her hair was sticking to her neck, and she probably smelled like lake water and sweat — but she'd never felt prouder.

The gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she started toward the exit, the sun dipping further behind the trees. And then she saw them.

Lory, Jackie, and Leo were leaning against the hood of Leo's rented car, waiting just past the gates. Lory was holding iced coffees, Jackie was waving both hands in the air like a maniac when she spotted her, and Leo was, of course, mid-story, gesturing dramatically about something as they laughed.

Catalina couldn't help it — she smiled, wide and tired and real.

When she reached them, Leo immediately threw an arm around her shoulder, his grin bright. "Finally! You're done! Let's go get a drink — we all need one."

Cat laughed, voice hoarse from hours of yelling over the water. "Just I need one," she corrected, playfully nudging him with her elbow. "And a shower. And food. And a fucking nap."

Lory handed her a coffee, shaking her head with a smirk. "You sound like you survived war."

"I basically did," Cat said, taking a long sip. "They broke us down and rebuilt us from scratch."

"Yeah, but now you're officially in the final selection," Jackie said, grinning. "So it was worth it."

Leo nodded, squeezing her shoulder. "And after that nap, you're getting dressed, because we're celebrating tonight. I don't care if it's with wine, tacos, or karaoke — we're doing something."

Cat groaned dramatically but couldn't hide her smile. "Fine. But if I fall asleep at the table, you're carrying me home."

"Deal," Leo said, holding out his pinky.

She hooked hers with his, rolling her eyes but laughing all the same.

As they started walking toward the car, the chatter and teasing filled the air, the exhaustion slowly melting away with every step. For the first time in weeks, Catalina didn't feel the weight of expectation pressing down on her.

Just warmth. Laughter. And the faint hum of something good coming — something she couldn't quite name yet.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The airport goodbye was harder than Catalina expected. Her mother cried softly into her shoulder, whispering a prayer for safety and luck, while her father—stoic as ever—cupped her face and said, "Hazme orgulloso, mi niña."

("Make me proud, my girl.")

"I will, Papá," she promised, hugging him tighter.

Her parents were flying back to San Francisco, leaving Catalina to settle fully into her new place in London before Olympic training began in earnest. It should've felt exciting—freeing, even—but watching them disappear beyond security made her chest ache. For a moment, she wished she could follow them, hide from the whirlwind her life had suddenly become. But she had chosen this path—rowing, discipline, dreams—and now, London was her new beginning.

With her parents gone, it was just her, Leo, Lory, and Jackie once more—the chaotic little family she'd built over the years. The four of them made their way back to her flat in central London, the afternoon air warm and shimmering, the hum of traffic and distant bells filling the air. The city felt alive in a way Catalina both loved and feared. It meant things were moving, that time wasn't waiting for her to make up her mind.

By the time they got to her building, they had about four hours before they needed to leave for the race. The four VIP passes were sitting on her counter, glossy and gleaming under the light, a silent reminder of everything that had happened—and everything still hanging in the air between her and Carlos.

Her phone buzzed.

A message.

Carlos 🦖: I hope you're still coming, gatita. I saved you a seat.

Catalina smiled before she could stop herself, biting her lip as she read the message twice. Her stomach did that annoying flip—the one that reminded her she wasn't as over him as she wanted to believe. She set the phone face down on the counter, trying to suppress the grin tugging at her lips.

Then, from down the hallway, Leo's voice echoed, dramatic as ever.

"YES or NO?" he shouted, emerging in yet another outfit—a crisp shirt, trousers, sunglasses perched on his head like some kind of fashion influencer.

Catalina blinked. "Leo, that's your fourth outfit today."

"I need options!" he exclaimed, spinning for effect. "Do I look like a man who belongs in VIP?"

"You look like a man who's trying too hard," Lory muttered, walking out of her room in a sleek, champagne-colored dress that shimmered when she moved.

Jackie followed soon after, hair curled, red lipstick on, wearing a deep green satin dress that hugged her curves perfectly. "We're ready," she announced, giving Cat a look. "You, on the other hand, still look like you just unpacked boxes."

Catalina rolled her eyes. "Give me five minutes."

She disappeared into her room, closing the door behind her. Her heart thudded as she went through her closet—past the simple clothes, the athletic wear—until her fingers brushed against a familiar fabric. The black mini dress.

She hadn't worn it since Abu Dhabi. Well she never got the chance.

The memory was sharp: Carola dragging her through high-end boutiques, insisting she try on something special. "Carlos said you'll know which one," she'd said with a mischievous grin. And when she saw that dress—sleek, elegant, daring—she did know. That was the night he'd planned to officially ask her to be his girlfriend.

But that night never came.

Cat stared at the dress for a moment longer, then smiled softly to herself. "Why not?" she murmured, slipping it on.

When she stepped out, the chatter in the living room stopped. Lory raised a brow. Jackie whistled. And Leo, dramatically clutching his chest, gasped.

"Okay, no. Absolutely not," Leo said. "If you don't marry this man, I will."

Catalina laughed, shaking her head as she grabbed her purse. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious, Cat. Look at you! If he doesn't faint on sight, I'll lose faith in men."

She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. The teasing was easy—it kept her from thinking too much about what she was walking into tonight.

As they stepped out of the building, a sleek black car pulled up to the curb. The engine purred, and the driver—a well-dressed man in a suit—immediately exited, walking around to open the doors for them.

"Ms. Villalobo?" he asked with a polite nod.

"Yes," she said, blinking.

"Mr. Sainz sent me to escort you and your guests to Silverstone."

Leo's jaw practically hit the pavement. "Oh my god."

"Leo," Cat warned, her tone caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

But Leo was already stepping forward, shaking the driver's hand. "Tell Mr. Sainz that if he ever wants to marry a man who appreciates him—I'm available."

The driver chuckled awkwardly. Cat covered her face. Lory and Jackie burst out laughing behind her.

"Dios mío, Leo," she muttered. ("My God, Leo.")

As the driver held the door open, Catalina hesitated for a split second. Her pulse was racing, though she couldn't tell if it was from anticipation or nerves. She took a deep breath, then smiled to herself and stepped inside.

Lory slid in beside her, followed by Jackie and Leo, who was still mumbling about how "even the car smells rich."

As the doors shut and the city blurred past outside, Catalina let her head rest against the seat, eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

Because no matter how much she told herself she was fine—how much she insisted that she had moved on—she couldn't stop the small smile that crept across her face at the thought of seeing Carlos again.

This time, though... it would be on her terms.

The hum of the crowd hit them before they even stepped out of the car — that low, electric buzz that always came with Formula One. Cameras flashed somewhere nearby, and the chatter of fans swelled around the main gates as Catalina, Lory, Jackie, and Leo made their way through the private entrance their driver guided them to.

Even among a crowd like this, they turned heads. Catalina in that black mini dress, sleek hair and dark shades, looked effortlessly composed — the kind of confidence that came with knowing you'd been through hell and learned to walk out of it alive. Lory and Jackie, radiant beside her, matched the energy, while Leo — in a cream button-down and his best attempt at "classy" — was already smirking like he owned the place.

As they entered through the alternate VIP entrance, the chaos of the crowd melted away, replaced by the quieter hum of engines revving and the scent of burning rubber hanging in the air. The noise vibrated in her chest, familiar and distant all at once.

"Okay," Leo whispered, wide-eyed as they passed the paddock gates, "I take back everything bad I've ever said about your ex. This is insane."

"Leo," Cat warned, trying not to smile.

"No, I mean it. If I ever break up with someone, I hope they still invite me to events with this much free champagne."

Before Cat could respond, she heard her name.

"¡Catalina!"

Carola.

Cat turned just in time to see Checo's wife striding toward her — beautiful, poised, and smiling like she'd just been waiting for this moment. The two women hugged, the warmth genuine despite the noise and chaos around them.

Carola pulled back, eyes sweeping over Catalina's outfit, and she let out a disbelieving laugh.

"Carlos es un pendejo por no habértelo pedido esa noche," she said, shaking her head.

("Carlos is an idiot for not asking you that night.")

Cat couldn't help it — she laughed. "Díselo tú, maybe he'll listen to you," she said.

("You tell him, maybe he'll listen to you.")

Carola rolled her eyes dramatically but smiled as Cat introduced her friends. "This is Lory, Jackie, and my cousin Leo."

Carola greeted each of them warmly, even hugging Leo, who looked like he'd just met royalty. "You are so much prettier than in pictures," she said kindly, and Leo nearly fainted.

Soon, an official escorted them deeper inside, where the main VIP area overlooked the track. The world shifted around them — champagne flutes, designer sunglasses, cameras everywhere. They passed a few familiar faces — the girlfriends and wives of other drivers, influencers, even reporters. And, near the back, standing tall and talking to someone, was Carlos Sainz Sr.

Catalina's stomach twisted.

She turned on her heel before he could even glance her way. No, thank you. Not today. She'd faced down worse than that man's judgment, and she wasn't about to ruin her good mood now.

As she leaned over the balcony to look down at the track, a flash of orange caught her eye — and there he was.

Lando.

He was walking past the pit lane, grinning up at something, until he spotted her. His grin widened into a smirk. Without hesitation, Catalina flipped him off.

He didn't even hesitate — he flipped her off right back, and she burst out laughing.

"What was that?" Lory asked, sipping champagne.

"Just the twink," Cat said, shaking her head. "Long story."

Then — a ripple in the noise. Cameras shifting. A small cheer from somewhere near the paddock.

Carlos.

He was walking toward the Ferrari garage, suit unzipped to his waist, hair still messy from prep, looking — of course — unfairly good. Catalina didn't move for a heartbeat. Then, slowly, she took off her sunglasses and caught his gaze.

He stopped walking.

And for a second — just a second — it felt like everyone else disappeared.

Cat raised a brow, smirking. Then, with that same infuriating calm, she winked.

Carlos chuckled, shaking his head, and as he passed, he subtly blew her a kiss.

Lory and Jackie gasped. Leo froze mid-drink. Cameras were already clicking, people whispering — but for once, neither of them seemed to care.

Cat just turned back toward the seating area and said, "Come on, let's enjoy the race."

They found their seats, the four of them laughing and chattering, the world of racing buzzing all around. But before the engines could even roar to life, a familiar woman in team red approached their section — one of the Ferrari staff members Catalina had seen before, polite and professional.

"Miss Villalobo," she said with a smile, "if you'd follow me?"

Before Catalina could respond, Leo waved a hand dismissively. "Go, go. Get that bag, girl. At least one of us needs to marry rich for the family legacy."

Lory smacked him on the arm, Jackie laughed into her drink, and Catalina rolled her eyes.

"Idiota," she muttered under her breath, standing up. ("Idiot.")

She followed the Ferrari girl down a long hallway, through the paddock — the air thick with the smell of tires and oil and adrenaline. It was almost nostalgic, being here again. The chaos before a race always had a pulse of its own, alive and charged.

They turned a corner and stepped into the Ferrari garage, and Cat froze for a second. The controlled chaos inside was mesmerizing — engineers, crew members, the sound of engines warming. Then she saw her.

Charles Leclerc's girlfriend — elegant, kind, the type of woman who made everyone around her feel at ease. She smiled immediately.

"Ah! You must be Catalina," she said in a warm accent. "Carlos told me to make sure you were taken care of."

Cat blinked. "He did?"

The girl nodded, grabbing a set of headphones from a nearby counter and handing them to her. "Here, you'll need these. You can stand here if you'd like — best view in the house."

Catalina hesitated, looking around the garage, the Ferrari red gleaming under the lights. And then, as she slipped on the headphones and looked toward the track, she couldn't help but smile.

She hadn't planned for any of this. But standing here, in the middle of roaring engines and flashing cameras — the adrenaline, the chaos — she realized something:

No matter what happened next, she was exactly where she needed to be.

The buzz of the crowd still hummed through Catalina's veins when her phone chimed again. She glanced down, expecting a message from Lory or Jackie—but the name on the screen made her heartbeat stutter.

Carlos Sainz 🦖 → 4 entradas. After party.

Four digital tickets glowed across her screen, the words Ferrari Afterparty – London, VIP Access stamped beneath them.

Catalina blinked, then bit back a grin that tugged at her lips. "Oh no," she muttered, already knowing the chaos this was about to unleash.

She turned her phone around for the others to see. "Guess who just got us into the afterparty?"

Leo's jaw dropped. Then he licked his lips dramatically. "Time to find myself a sugar mama," he announced proudly. "Or a sugar papa, I'm not picky. Rich is rich."

Lory choked on her drink, and Jackie smacked Leo's arm. "You're shameless," she said between laughs.

Cat just gave him a look, somewhere between disbelief and affection. "I can't believe we share DNA," she said, shaking her head.

They decided to take advantage of their VIP passes before heading back to London, wandering around the paddock as the post-race chaos slowly settled. Security guards, team members, and a few stray fans were still buzzing about, but the air had softened from adrenaline to celebration.

Cat led the way, sunglasses perched on her head, the hem of her black dress brushing against her legs. They turned a corner—and nearly collided with Sergio Pérez.

"¡Checo!" Catalina exclaimed, instantly smiling.

He looked up, surprised—and then grinned, pulling her into a warm hug. "¡Catalina! ¿Qué haces aquí, mujer?" ("Catalina! What are you doing here, woman?")

"VIP things," she teased, pulling back to introduce her group. "These are my friends—Lory, Jackie, and my cousin Leo."

Leo was practically vibrating. "You're Checo Pérez! Oh my god—this is insane!"

Checo chuckled, shaking his hand. "Un placer, Leo. ¿Eres mexicano también?" ("A pleasure, Leo. Are you Mexican too?")

"Mitad," Leo replied proudly. ("Half.") "The best half."

The small group laughed, chatting for a few minutes about the race, about Mexico, about how Leo claimed he would "absolutely thrive in the Red Bull garage if given the chance." Before they left, Checo gave Cat a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Nos vemos en la fiesta, ¿sí?" ("See you at the party, yeah?")

"Claro," she said with a grin. ("Of course.")

They continued their stroll through the paddock, spotting familiar faces—Charles waving at them from across the walkway, George Russell taking pictures with fans, even Daniel Ricciardo laughing with a group near the McLaren motorhome. Every few minutes, Cat thought she'd spot Carlos—always just out of reach. Once she saw him in deep conversation with his father. Another time, with a swarm of Ferrari engineers. Then in front of the media wall, microphones surrounding him like a trap.

It felt like the universe was playing some cosmic game of tag—one where she could see him but never quite reach him.

"Girl," Jackie whispered, elbowing her. "He's totally avoiding you."

Cat arched a brow. "Please. He's working."

Leo leaned in, smirking. "He's definitely avoiding you. Probably trying to look cool before the afterparty."

Before Cat could reply, someone smacked her shoulder from behind.

"Oi, furry!"

She spun around, eyes narrowing. "Lando."

The Brit stood there with his signature mischievous grin, curls a little messy and hands in his pockets like a teenager who'd just gotten away with something.

"Still running around with that dinosaur, huh?" he teased.

Without missing a beat, Catalina jabbed him in the ribs. "Twink."

Lory and Jackie burst into laughter, and Leo nearly doubled over. "Did she just—?"

Lando rubbed his side with a mock glare. "You're lucky you're friends with Carlos, or I'd have you banned from the paddock."

Cat smirked. "You love me."

He rolled his eyes and walked off muttering something about "unhinged women" and "Spanish chaos."

By the time the four of them made another loop, the paddock was starting to empty out. The sun dipped lower, staining the horizon in gold and amber. They took a few pictures by the Ferrari garage, Leo demanding a "thirst trap lighting check," and then finally decided to head back to the city.

They piled into a car—music low, laughter soft, the hum of engines still echoing faintly in their minds.

When they reached her flat in London, the world seemed to slow down a little. Cat kicked off her heels, dropped onto the couch, and exhaled with a satisfied sigh.

"Okay," she said, glancing around at the chaos of half-empty champagne bottles and designer shopping bags. "We have, what, three hours to get ready for this party?"

Jackie checked her phone. "Four."

Leo grinned, already kicking off his shoes. "Perfect. Enough time for me to plan my seduction strategy."

Lory threw a pillow at him. "Or maybe a nap."

Cat smiled faintly, her thoughts already wandering—to the race, to the message, to the man who somehow still managed to make her heart race faster than any car on the grid.

She didn't know what the night would bring. But if Carlos Sainz had sent her tickets—well, maybe it was time to find out why.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

By the time evening fell, the flat was chaos.

Lory was blasting Bad Bunny from the speaker, Jackie was on the bathroom floor curling her hair with one hand and holding a glass of rosé with the other, and Leo was shirtless, standing in front of the mirror, asking for the third time, "Do I look better mysterious or slutty?"

Catalina groaned from the couch. "You look like you're about to sell protein shakes on Instagram."

He turned dramatically, flipping his hair. "So mysterious it is."

Despite the exhaustion from the race, the energy was electric. The four of them were buzzing with anticipation, the promise of the afterparty hanging thick in the air. It wasn't just any party—it was the afterparty. The one where the drivers let loose, where champagne flowed like water, and where gossip would be born and reborn by morning.

Cat tried to play it cool, curling her hair in loose waves and doing her makeup with steady hands, but every time her phone lit up, her stomach flipped.

By the time she slipped into her fitted black mini dress—a different one than the race, softer fabric hugging her in all the right ways—her phone buzzed again.

Carlos Sainz 🦖 → Car's outside. See you soon, gatita.

Her lips parted slightly. The small smile that followed was impossible to hide.

"Okay, I'm calling it," Leo declared, walking out of the bedroom in a silk shirt half unbuttoned, silver chain catching the light. "If you don't marry him, I will."

Catalina rolled her eyes. "You'd divorce him in a week when you realize he keeps his socks organized by mood."

Leo shrugged. "Worth it."

They piled into the car waiting outside, the driver greeting them politely before opening the back doors. The ride to the venue was filled with laughter and light bickering—Lory insisting that they wouldn't last ten minutes before spilling something on their clothes, Jackie scrolling through Instagram to see who else was there, and Leo humming the latest Bad Bunny track like it was a battle anthem.

When they arrived, the line outside stretched halfway down the block—models, influencers, and a sea of glittering outfits waiting to be let in. But when the bouncer saw their passes, his expression shifted instantly.

"Right this way," he said, pulling the rope aside.

Cat caught the looks they got as they were ushered in through the side entrance—curious, envious, intrigued. The pulse of the music grew louder as they entered, bass vibrating through the marble floor, lights flashing gold and red across the massive hall.

The atmosphere was intoxicating—drivers, celebrities, and team members all mingling in a blur of laughter, champagne flutes, and perfume.

Cat's phone buzzed again.

Carlos 🦖 → Left side of the bar. Near the red lights.

She glanced at the girls and Leo, who was already deep in conversation with an elegant older woman dripping in diamonds. "He's gone," Lory whispered, and Jackie cackled.

"I'll be back," Cat said with a grin, though her friends knew she might not be.

Navigating through the crowd took time—every few feet, someone stopped her to chat or congratulate her on her "connections." When she finally spotted him, though, the world seemed to quiet.

Carlos was standing near the corner bar, dressed in a crisp black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, collar open just enough to show the faint glint of his necklace—the one that matched hers. His hair was still slightly messy from the night, his expression soft when he saw her.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then she smiled. "Hi."

He grinned back, that familiar dimple appearing. "Hi, gatita."

He handed her a drink, fingers brushing against hers, and they started talking—easily, naturally, like no time had passed. Catalina told him about her new flat in London, about how she'd moved in just a few days ago, how she was both nervous and excited for training to start on Monday.

"I finally get to train with the Olympic team," she said, eyes sparkling. "It's insane, Carlos. This is what I've worked for since I was a kid."

Carlos didn't interrupt. He just watched her, his lips curved in a small, tender smile—the kind that held pride, love, and quiet admiration.

"Eres increíble, lo sabes, ¿verdad?" he said softly. ("You're incredible, you know that?")

Cat laughed shyly, taking a sip of her drink. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm the only person here."

He leaned in slightly, voice lower. "That's because you are."

Before she could reply, a familiar voice broke through the air.

"Get a room, you two."

Lando stood a few feet away, mock disgust written all over his face. He lifted his hand and flipped Cat off.

Cat laughed. "Love you too, twink!"

"Unbelievable," Lando muttered as he disappeared back into the crowd.

Carlos shook his head, chuckling. "No sé por qué sigo siendo su amigo." ("I don't know why I'm still friends with him.")

Cat grinned, her hand brushing over the small pendant resting against his chest. "Congrats on P2, by the way."

"Gracias," he said, eyes softening. "But I think I know why." He lifted the chain slightly, showing her the matching charm. "Mis amuletos de la suerte." ("My lucky charms.")

She smiled, fingertips grazing the cool metal.

Just then, a familiar melody filled the room—the same song that had played the night they first kissed, a year ago, when he'd found her in London after the race.

Their eyes met, and neither needed to say a word.

Carlos took a step closer, his hand finding hers. His gaze lingered on her lips, and for a heartbeat, everything around them blurred—the noise, the crowd, the flashing lights. It was just them.

He leaned in, and when their lips met, it was slow, familiar, and heavy with everything they hadn't said. Her hands slid up his chest, his arms pulling her closer until she could feel his heartbeat against her own.

When they finally broke apart, Cat rested her head on his shoulder, her voice quiet.

"¿Cómo se supone que hagamos esto, Carlos? No nos vamos a ver en casi un año." ("How are we supposed to do this, Carlos? We won't see each other for almost a year.")

Carlos exhaled, his chin resting gently on her hair. The music faded into something slower, softer.

"Ya lo hicimos una vez, mi amor," he said, his tone both hopeful and sad. ("We did it once, my love.")

She lifted her head, her blue eyes glimmering in the low light. "But FaceTiming isn't the same, Carlos. It's not."

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her face, his thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there.

"Lo sé, mi amor," he whispered. "Lo sé." ("I know, my love. I know.")

For a long time, they just stood there—her in his arms, the crowd spinning around them, the song still playing like an echo of another life.

She didn't know what tomorrow would bring, or the weeks after that. But in that moment, with his hands warm against her skin and the smell of champagne in the air, Catalina realized she didn't need to.

The music was pulsing harder now, the afterparty in full swing — laughter, bass, and champagne colliding into a blur of light and noise.

Carlos had been pulled aside by his team's sponsors, smiling politely as they took photos and asked questions about the race. His eyes, however, kept flickering toward the crowd, searching for her. Catalina had slipped away the moment a sponsor interrupted, her soft smile vanishing into the sea of people dressed in sequins and black suits.

She needed a breather — and maybe a familiar face.

The bar was packed, her heels clicking against the marble floor as she scanned the crowd for Lory or Leo. The smell of liquor and expensive perfume clung to the air, and she was halfway through texting Leo Where are you, dumbass? when she collided hard into someone.

Her drink wobbled in her hand, spilling a few drops, but his drink... not so lucky. The amber liquid splashed down the front of his crisp white shirt.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" Cat blurted, wide-eyed as she looked up — way up — at the man she'd just crashed into.

The guy blinked in surprise, then chuckled, the sound rich and teasing. "It's okay, I promise. Happens more often than you think."

She grabbed a napkin from the bar instinctively, pressing it against his shirt. "No, I'm serious, I'm such a klutz. I wasn't—"

"—paying attention?" he finished for her, smiling. "Clearly."

When she looked up, his grin was disarming — warm brown eyes, boyish dimples, and an accent that rolled out of him effortlessly.

"I'm Pato," he said, offering his hand, voice soft but playful.

Catalina blinked, recognizing the name. "Like... the driver?"

He laughed, shaking his head. "Yeah, that Pato. And before you say it—yes, it means duck. Go ahead, make the joke. Everyone does."

Her lips twitched. "I wasn't going to—"

"You were," he interrupted, laughing again. "I could see it in your face."

"Fine," she said, smirking. "Well, Mr. Duck, next time you should avoid standing in the way of distracted people. Occupational hazard."

Pato laughed so hard he had to steady his drink. "You're funny. I like that."

For a brief moment, it was easy — light. Catalina found herself laughing with him, shaking her head at his ridiculous charm. He wasn't flirting aggressively like most guys in that kind of party — he was just... easy. Relaxed.

From across the room, though, Carola noticed.

She'd been talking to a group of Red Bull engineers when she saw the scene unfold — Catalina laughing, leaning closer as Pato made some joke. Her smirk grew instantly.

"Bueno, esto se va a poner interesante," she murmured under her breath. ("Well, this is about to get interesting.")

Her eyes scanned the crowd again until she found Carlos. He was still with his sponsors — until he wasn't.

The moment his gaze landed on Catalina, his entire posture shifted. The relaxed grin he'd been wearing seconds ago hardened. His jaw flexed, lips pressed tight as his eyes locked on the scene — Cat laughing with Pato O'Ward, her hand still holding a napkin against his chest, his fingers brushing hers as he tried to tell her it was fine.

Carlos' hand tightened around his glass.

Carola didn't even try to hide her grin now. She knew that look. She'd seen it before — the way jealousy carved across a man's face, subtle and hot, just before he acted without thinking.

She watched as Carlos muttered something to his PR manager, handed his drink to a staffer, and started walking straight toward them.

Pato, meanwhile, was unaware of the storm brewing.

"Seriously," he was saying, "you don't have to fix my shirt, it's just whiskey. I probably deserved it for wearing white to a party."

Catalina rolled her eyes, pressing one last dab before laughing. "You're ridiculous, Pato."

He mock-pouted. "You're making fun of my name."

"Well, it's funny!"

"It's cultural!" he protested dramatically, and she laughed harder.

Her laughter, the sound that always melted Carlos — that was the last straw.

Carlos was halfway across the room now, his pace steady but deliberate, his eyes dark with something between irritation and possessiveness.

But before he could get there, Catalina was already patting Pato's arm, shaking her head. "You're trouble, Duck Boy," she said teasingly. "Try not to spill on anyone else, yeah?"

She turned just in time to spot Leo across the room, his hand waving like a beacon. "Cat! ¡Aquí!" ("Cat! Over here!")

She grinned. "Coming!"

"Wait—" Pato started, but she was already walking off, the hem of her dress catching the light as she moved.

Carlos froze mid-step, his glare softening slightly when he realized she'd left. Pato watched her go too, a little dazed, a small, crooked smile playing on his lips.

And Carlos noticed that, too.

Carola, who had silently appeared beside him, took a sip of her drink and murmured, "Looks like someone made an impression."

Carlos shot her a look. "¿De qué estás hablando?" ("What are you talking about?")

She just smiled slyly, her tone dripping with mischief. "Nothing, mijo. Just saying... if you don't make a move soon, someone else might."

Carlos exhaled sharply through his nose, running a hand through his hair as he looked back toward where Catalina had disappeared with Leo.

Pato was still at the bar, talking to someone else, but the faint smirk on his face told the story.

Carlos turned back toward Carola, his voice low and tight. "I'm not losing her again."

Carola smirked. "Then maybe you should stop glaring and go dance with her."

Meanwhile, Catalina had found Lory and Jackie near the lounge. Leo was flirting shamelessly with two women old enough to be their mother, and when she saw him, she grabbed his arm.

"Okay, lover boy, time to go," she said, laughing.

Leo protested. "But she said I looked like Harry Styles if he had better hips!"

"Exactly," Cat muttered, dragging him away.

They found Lory and Jackie at the far end of the room, all three of them giggling as they collected their things. Cat stretched, exhaustion and the faint buzz of champagne making her sway a little.

"I'm done," she said. "We're calling it."

Leo groaned but didn't argue. Lory and Jackie linked arms with Cat, and the four of them made their way out through the side exit, laughter echoing down the hall.

From the second-floor balcony above, Carlos watched them go.

And not far away, Pato O'Ward was still at the bar, his chin propped on his hand, looking in the same direction with a lovestruck grin.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, "I should've gotten her number."

Carlos' hands tightened into fists.

Carola just chuckled beside him. "Ay, Carlos," she murmured, "you better move fast before El Pato does."

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#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carola is team carlita #carlos need to grow a pair #carlos sainz x oc #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos do something #pato o'ward

For The Plot// F1

Part: 16

SUMMARY: Catalina Villalobo, a 21-year-old Mexican grad student, meets 30-year-old F1 driver Carlos Sainz by chance in Barcelona.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

The last month of school moved in flashes — sleepless nights, finals, research papers, and the low hum of nerves that followed Catalina everywhere. She had done it — almost done it — her master's degree was within reach, yet her mind wouldn't stop drifting back to him. To Monoco. To that hotel room. To the way Carlos had looked at her like she was both the wound and the cure.

She hated that he still lived rent-free in her head. She'd bury herself in studying, training, coaching the underclassmen, anything that kept her from checking social media or wondering if he'd watched one of her races. But every now and then, she'd see a clip of him on the F1 broadcast or hear the Spanish anthem and feel that old ache in her chest again — the kind that no medal or degree could quite fix.

And then, before she could blink, it was graduation day.

The air was electric, sunlight spilling over the old stone courtyard of the university. Rows of students in black robes and caps fanned themselves under the early summer heat, laughter and nerves buzzing like static. Catalina's stomach twisted in knots — not from fear of tripping, but from sheer disbelief. After everything, she had made it here. The long nights, the tears, the whispers — all of it had led to this moment.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly. Messages from her teammates, from classmates, and a flood of texts from her family who were already seated somewhere in the audience.

Mamá: Estamos aquí, mi amor. Primera fila. Estoy llorando ya.(we are here, my love. First row. I am crying already)

Papá: Esa es mi hija, carajo. Haznos orgullosos.(that's my daughter, god damn. Make us proud)

Lory: We're screaming the second your name is called.

Jackie: You BET we are. They'll hear us from across the Thames.

Leo: You fall, I'm posting it on TikTok.

Catalina laughed despite her nerves. She could picture them — Lory in bright red, Jackie waving a little Mexican flag, Leo grinning like the chaos agent he was, and her parents side by side, her mother emotional, her father pretending not to be.

When her name was called — "Catalina Villalobo, Master of Criminal Justice" — the sound that erupted from the stands was deafening.

"THAT'S OUR GIRL!"

"CATALINAAAAA!"

"GO VILLALOBO!"

She walked across the stage, heart pounding, a smile stretching so wide it almost hurt. The dean handed her the diploma and shook her hand, saying something about "outstanding work" and "bright future," but all Catalina could think about was how free she felt. For the first time in years, it wasn't about surviving — it was about living.

When she found her family after the ceremony, the tears came instantly. Her mom hugged her so tight she could barely breathe, whispering, "Estoy tan orgullosa de ti, mi niña."(we are so proud of you, my baby girl)

Her dad followed, eyes suspiciously shiny, muttering, "Esa es mi hija... mírala, toda una campeona."(that's my daughter, look at her. A real champion)

Lory and Jackie crashed into her next, squealing like they'd just watched her win Olympic gold.

"You did it, grad girl!" Lory beamed.

Jackie held up her phone. "Smile, bitch, this is going on my story."

Leo popped a party streamer in her face, and Catalina burst into laughter. "¡Idiota!" she yelled, smacking his shoulder playfully.

They took pictures — too many to count — laughing through every one. Catalina in her robe, her diploma held high. Her parents on either side. Her friends piled around her, their joy infectious. Even Coach Margaret was there, arms crossed but smiling proudly.

When Coach approached, Catalina straightened up instinctively — but instead of a stern word, the woman pulled her into a hug.

"You made me proud, Villalobo," she said softly. "Not just as an athlete, but as a woman. You've fought harder than most ever will."

Catalina swallowed the lump in her throat. "Couldn't have done it without you, Coach."

"Damn right you couldn't," Coach said, but there was warmth behind it. "Now go celebrate before I get emotional."

They all went out to eat — a noisy, chaotic dinner full of laughter and stories. Her mom ordered champagne for everyone, her dad gave a mini toast ("To my daughter, who makes even dragons look lazy"), and Leo kept making terrible jokes about how he was now related to "Dr. Rowboat." Only to be smack in the head. "I'm not a doctor idiot!"

By the time dessert came, Catalina's phone buzzed with a notification. A message from Carola.

Carola: Congratulations, Cat 🖤 you did it! You should be proud. Let's meet up in two days? We'll be in London before the next race.

Catalina hesitated for a second before replying:

Cat: Thank you, Carola. Yeah... I'd like that.

Lory caught her typing and raised a brow. "That your little F1 friend again?"

Cat rolled her eyes, sipping her drink. "Maybe."

"Girl, don't 'maybe' me," Jackie said, laughing. "You mean the one whose teammate broke your heart?"

Catalina glared at her, but the smile tugged at her lips. "Shut up. It's carola, checos wife." Leo turned to her "you have to introduce me to Checo Perez, bruh!"

Her mom watched them fondly from across the table, reaching to squeeze her hand. "You've grown so much, mi amor. I'm proud of you — not just for what you've achieved, but for who you've become."

"Gracias, mamá," Catalina said softly.

Later that evening, after the laughter faded and the city lights began to glow, Catalina and the rowing team made one last stop — the boathouse. The old wooden walls were filled with shirts, names, and signatures from generations of rowers who'd come and gone.

Catalina slipped off her graduation robe and pulled on her old university rowing shirt, the one she'd worn since her first year — faded, worn, but still hers. She grabbed a marker and wrote her name across the wall:

Catalina Villalobo — Captain. 2025.

Her teammates cheered, some tearing up, others laughing through the emotion. "You'll make waves at the Olympics, Cat," one said. "Don't forget us when you're famous!"

Catalina grinned. "Never."

Then, without warning, she climbed up on the dock railing, arms out like she was about to take flight. "For one last row!" she shouted — and dove into the water.

The splash echoed through the boathouse, followed by laughter and whoops as her teammates jumped in after her. The water was freezing, but it didn't matter. She floated on her back, looking up at the darkening sky, her graduation cap still clutched in one hand.

For the first time in a long, long while, Catalina felt light.

There were still things unsaid, ghosts she hadn't buried — but right now, there was only the cool water, the sound of her friends' laughter, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

And if her mind drifted briefly to a certain Spaniard with brown eyes and a broken apology on his lips... well, she let it. Just for a moment.

Tomorrow, she'd start again.

The next morning was the kind of chaos that only happens when you're leaving a piece of your life behind. Catalina's flat looked like a war zone — boxes everywhere, some half taped, others spilling over with clothes or books, a lonely mug on the counter she'd somehow forgotten to pack three times already.

The early Bath sunlight streamed through the windows, catching the thin dust in the air. The room smelled faintly of coffee, cleaning spray, and the guava pastries her mom had made before they left the hotel.

"¡Leo, cuidado con esa caja, cabrón!" Catalina yelled as her cousin nearly dropped one labeled Fragile. (Leo, be careful with that box, you bastard!)

Leo groaned dramatically. "You're the one who packed it like it's a Tetris game!"

"It's called being efficient," she shot back, crossing her arms.

In the living room, Jackie and Lory were dragging a heavy box toward the door, laughing and complaining in the same breath. "I swear," Lory grunted, "this girl owns more books than the entire university library."

"And three different blenders," Jackie added.

"Leave my blenders alone!" Catalina yelled, hands on her hips. "Each one has a purpose."

Her mom popped out from the kitchen, holding a mop like a weapon. "The only purpose right now is to clean, mijita. I already mopped this same corner twice!"

Her dad was sitting in a chair by the door, a cup of coffee in hand and a satisfied look on his face. His back wasn't what it used to be, but that didn't stop him from giving orders like a general.

"¡Ey, Leo! That one goes to the car, no la revuelvas," he said, pointing with the authority of a king.(Hey Leo! That one goes to the car, don't stir it up)

Leo rolled his eyes but followed instructions. "Yes, Tío Miguel."

On the counter, Catalina's iPad stood propped up on a stack of books, the screen showing her brothers Miguel and Alejandro back home in Jalisco.

"Wow," Miguel whistled. "You guys look like ants running around over there."

Alejandro leaned into frame, half-eating a sandwich. "Tell Cat to hurry up and come home before Mom adopts the entire rowing team."

Her mom turned around like she could somehow reach through the screen. "¡Cállate, chamaco!"(shut it, child)

The entire room burst into laughter. Catalina was sweating and tired and sore, but her heart was so full.

It had been months since she'd had this — the noise, the warmth, the teasing. After years of grinding through training, school, heartbreak, and rebuilding herself, it finally felt like her world was right again.

"Okay," Cleo said from the doorway, her clipboard in hand like the responsible one she pretended to be. "These five go to San Francisco, the ones marked in green go to London for camp, and the rest stay here for storage. Did I miss anything?"

"Nope," Catalina said, popping the p. "You're a lifesaver."

She walked back into her room to grab one final box — the one hidden in the back of her closet. The sight of it stopped her cold.

It was taped shut, old and worn, but unmistakable.

She crouched down and pulled it toward her, brushing her fingers over the faded ink on top. She didn't need to open it to know what was inside — the Polaroid of her and Carlos in Mexico City, the gold pendant, his hoodie, a few ticket stubs, a bracelet she'd sworn she'd never wear again.

She smiled softly, that kind of quiet smile that hurts but doesn't sting anymore. Just memories.

She grabbed a marker and wrote in bold letters:

TO LONDON

Then taped it again and carried it out to the living room.

"Alright!" she said, clapping her hands together. "Last box!"

Jackie looked at her with a grin. "Finally! I thought we were gonna die buried under your emotional baggage."

"Literal baggage," Leo added, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Her mom gave her a look — the kind that says I love you, but I need this day to end. "Mija, please, go out later. I need peace and sleep. I swear, you all talk louder than construction workers."

Her dad nodded sagely. "Por favor, go be young. Make noise somewhere else."

Leo perked up immediately. "Fuck yeah, I'm down!"

"¡Leo!" her mom scolded.

Catalina laughed so hard she had to hold her stomach. "We'll go out, mamá, don't worry."

"Good," her mom muttered, turning back to the kitchen. "And if you bring me back one more empty coffee cup, I'll throw it at you."

Jackie slung her arm over Catalina's shoulder. "So what's the plan tonight? Drinks? Dinner? A full send before the Olympian era begins?"

Lory grinned. "All of the above."

"Sounds perfect," Catalina said.

They all moved the last few boxes out, the laughter and chatter following them down the narrow stairwell. When Catalina came back up, she paused at the door. The flat was nearly empty now — stripped down to the basics, echoes of her life still clinging to the walls.

This had been her home for the last two years — where she'd cried, grown, fallen apart, rebuilt herself, and somehow learned how to be happy again.

She smiled, soft and proud.

This wasn't the end. Just the start of something new.

She turned to the others waiting by the door, her friends and family all sweaty, loud, and happy. "Alright," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Let's go make some bad decisions tonight."

Leo whooped. "That's my cousin!"

Lory high-fived Jackie. "Oh, it's gonna be one of those nights."

And Catalina — laughing, alive, heart still a little bruised but beating stronger than ever — grabbed her jacket and followed them out, ready to celebrate not just what she'd survived, but everything that was still ahead of her.

Because for the first time in a long time, she wasn't running from the past anymore. She was walking straight into her future — her own future — and she was finally okay with that.

The club was alive—music pounding, lights flickering in shades of gold and violet, laughter spilling over from every table. The air was heavy with perfume, sweat, and summer heat. Catalina hadn't felt this light in months. The weight of her master's program, the endless training, the heartbreak she never quite shook—it all felt distant tonight.

Lory and Jackie were out on the dance floor, arms in the air, singing along to a reggaeton remix. The girls from rowing were in their element—laughing, dancing, drinking shots they'd regret later. And Leo, of course, was being Leo—posted up at the bar, leaning too close to one of Cat's teammates, making her giggle with whatever dumb line he'd just dropped.

Cat sat back in the booth, sipping her drink, a smile tugging at her lips. She was finally letting herself breathe. She snapped a picture of the table, tagged the club, and posted it to her story with a sparkly caption. Celebrating freedom, she wrote.

She didn't expect that story to change everything.

An hour later, as she came back from the bathroom, she noticed the waiter hovering by their table—holding a sleek, frosted bottle of Dom Pérignon. Everyone blinked at it.

"Who's that from?" Jackie asked.

The waiter smiled and pointed across the room.

Cat followed his gesture—and froze.

Carlos.

He stood near the bar, in a black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his hair slightly messy, his eyes—those warm, impossible eyes—locked on her. It felt like the world narrowed to that one moment. The noise dulled, the lights blurred, and the breath caught in her throat.

"Cat?" Lory leaned over. "Oh my god. Is that—"

Leo turned too, eyebrows shooting up. "Damn," he muttered, taking a sip of his drink. "He's hot."

"In a straight way?" Lory teased, still stunned.

"No," Leo said seriously. "In a gay way. I'd let that man ruin my life."

Lory smacked his arm, but Cat barely heard them. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs.

She stood up before she could talk herself out of it and crossed the club. Each step felt like a slow-motion scene from a movie. He didn't move until she was right in front of him.

"Sorry," Carlos said first, voice rough, eyes flicking down then back up to her face. "I was in the area and... saw your story."

Her lips parted, surprise flashing into something sharper. "You stalked me?"

He gave a half-smile, guilty. "Lando's account, actually."

The air between them hummed. Cat crossed her arms, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through the haze of smoke and sweat.

He started to turn away, maybe to save her the embarrassment, maybe to protect his own pride. But then—like instinct—she reached for him, her hand wrapping around his wrist.

"I still love you," she said, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. Her voice was soft but fierce, breaking just slightly. "You fucking dinosaurio."

Carlos froze mid-step, turning back slowly. The look in his eyes—shock, pain, longing—nearly undid her.

"I want you to fight for us, Carlos," she whispered. "I want to believe again. Confiar en ti. Que no me vas a dejar cuando las cosas estén difíciles otra vez. Que no vas a desaparecer solo porque tu padre diga no."

("...That you won't leave me again when things get hard. That you won't disappear just because your father says no.")

Carlos's jaw tightened, his hands trembling as he cupped her face, his thumbs brushing away a tear that had slipped free.

"Gatita..." he breathed, the word cracking on his tongue. "You don't know how much I missed you."

Her lips trembled. "Then why didn't you come back sooner?"

He didn't answer with words. He leaned in and kissed her—soft at first, hesitant, like he was afraid she'd vanish if he pressed too hard. Then deeper. It wasn't the desperate kind of kiss that begged forgiveness—it was the kind that said I still see you, I still love you, I still want to fix this.

Her fingers found his hair, his arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer. For a moment, the entire club disappeared. It was just them again, like it used to be.

When they finally pulled apart, Cat's breathing was uneven, her heart racing.

Carlos leaned his forehead against hers. "Voy a hacer todo en mi poder para que me vuelvas a tener confianza, gatita."

("I'm going to do everything in my power to make you trust me again, kitten.")

He kissed her one last time—gentle, lingering—then pulled back, eyes searching hers. "Go back to your friends," he said softly. "You deserve to have fun tonight."

Cat blinked, caught between heartbreak and disbelief. "Carlos—"

He smiled faintly, that familiar tilt of his lips that used to make her melt. "I'll fight for you," he promised. "But not tonight."

Before she could say another word, he wrapped her in his arms—warm, firm, grounding. She hugged him back, her hands curling into his shirt. He smelled like everything she'd been trying to forget.

When he finally let go, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and whispered, "Enjoy tonight, mi vida."

And just like that, he walked away.

Catalina stood there for a moment, watching as he went back to the bar. He gestured toward their table, saying something to the bartender, slipping his card across the counter.

A minute later, the waiter returned to their booth with a grin. "The gentleman paid for everything, ladies."

Lory's eyes widened. "Wait, what?"

Leo whistled. "He's smooth. I'll give him that."

Catalina just stood there, heart pounding, watching Carlos disappear into the crowd and out the club doors.

He didn't look back.

But she knew—this time—he wasn't walking away for good.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The morning after the club was nothing short of chaos. The sun sliced through the blinds far too early, making everyone in Catalina's flat groan like the dead. Jackie had an eye mask on and a pillow over her head, mumbling something about "never drinking again." Lory was sprawled on the couch, half-buried under a blanket, her phone clutched in one hand like a lifeline. Catalina sat on the kitchen counter with a mug of black coffee, looking like a ghost of herself—hair in a messy bun, oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, sunglasses on indoors.

And then there was Leo.

At 8 a.m. sharp, the little Bitch started pacing the living room, full of life like he hadn't been taking shots five hours earlier.

"Let's go explore London," he groaned dramatically. "Come on, por favor. We can't waste the day!"

"Leo," Lory said from the couch, her voice muffled by the blanket. "If you don't shut up, I swear I'll drown you in tea."

He gasped. "That's violent! I'm just saying we can't sleep our youth away."

Jackie peeked from under the pillow, glaring. "You're twenty-two, not eighty. Sit down."

Cat just sipped her coffee, smirking. "Give him an hour, he'll crash."

But her phone buzzed then—a message lighting up her screen.

Carola: Hola preciosa, still good for tomorrow? We're in London already! 💋

Cat smiled despite her headache. She'd promised to meet up with Carola a few days ago, and honestly, she missed the woman's chaotic, big-sister energy.

The next day, the four of them—Catalina, Lory, Jackie, and Leo—packed their bags and caught the early train to London. Her parents decided to stay behind in Bath, her dad joking that he was "too old for hangovers and sightseeing." Her mom hugged her tight and said, "Vayan, disfruten. Déjennos descansar un poco."

("Go, have fun. Let us rest a little.")

London was alive the moment they stepped off the train—double-deckers rumbling down wet streets, the distant sound of Big Ben, the smell of roasted chestnuts mixing with city air. Catalina played tour guide all afternoon, showing them the classics: Westminster, the Thames, Tower Bridge, Covent Garden. Leo was in awe of everything, running ahead like a kid, while Jackie and Lory kept stopping for photos.

By the time the sun dipped below the skyline, painting the river in shades of gold, everyone was exhausted but smiling.

That night, Leo was the first to announce, "We're going out. I heard Soho has insane bars."

Lory and Jackie instantly agreed, still riding the tourist high. Catalina, though, shook her head, smiling softly. "I already have plans tonight."

Lory gave her a teasing smirk. "Plans or plans?"

Cat rolled her eyes. "Neither. Just meeting a friend."

They left laughing and teasing, and Catalina went the opposite way—down a quiet street lined with restaurants and glowing lampposts.

Carola was already waiting at the cozy café they'd agreed on, her hair perfectly curled, sunglasses perched on her head despite it being night. When she saw Catalina, she broke into a grin and stood to hug her tightly.

"Mi niña hermosa," Carola said warmly. "You look so good."

("My beautiful girl.")

Cat laughed. "Eso dices porque estás borracha de cariño."

("You're only saying that because you're drunk on affection.")

They sat down, ordered wine, and caught up—Carola talking about the chaos of F1 life, Checo's media events, and how her kids had become obsessed with go-karts.

Then, with a knowing glint in her eye, Carola leaned forward. "You know, Carlos ha estado sonriendo como un idiota estos últimos días."

("Carlos has been smiling like an idiot these past few days.")

Cat blinked, cheeks warming. "¿Sí?" ("Yeah?")

Carola smirked, sipping her wine. "Sí. No me lo dice, pero se le nota. Algo cambió."

("Yes. He doesn't say it, but it shows. Something changed.")

Catalina hesitated, then sighed. "We ran into each other. Twice, actually."

Carola's eyebrows shot up. "¿Dos veces?" ("Twice?")

"Once in Monaco, well i flew in after his dad dropped by bath to apologize for meddling in our lives" Cat said quietly, staring at her glass. "And again a few nights ago at the club. After he stalked my insta story through Landon's second insta"

Carola's expression softened as Catalina told her everything—the hotel room confrontation in Monaco, the messy tears, the fight, the kiss, and then their unexpected reunion at the club. She didn't spare herself the embarrassment, the way she told him she still loved him or how he promised to fight for her trust again.

When she finished, Carola smiled—slow and knowing. "Así que todavía hay fuego entre ustedes."

("So there's still fire between you two.")

Catalina laughed, shaking her head. "O cenizas." ("Or ashes.")

Carola reached into her bag then and pulled out four sleek, laminated cards, setting them on the table between them. "VIP passes," she said casually. "For the London race. Courtesy of a certain idiot who can't stop talking about you."

Cat blinked, staring at them. "No, Carola—"

Carola just waved her hand. "Don't fight it, mi amor."

Catalina laughed, covering her face. "I'll be in Olympic training! I can't just show up at a race."

Carola tilted her head. "When do you start?"

"Next week," Cat said softly. "In London, actually. The camp's nearby."

Carola's eyes lit up. "Then perfect! You'll already be here. El universo está conspirando, nena."

("The universe is conspiring, darling.")

Cat groaned but couldn't hide her smile. "You sound like my mom."

"Good," Carola said, winking. "Because your mom's right about a lot of things, and so am I. Maybe you need closure, maybe you need a new beginning. Either way—go. Let him see you shine."

Catalina sighed, leaning back in her chair. "You make it sound so easy."

Carola smiled knowingly, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "El amor nunca es fácil, pero vale la pena si te hace sonreír otra vez."

("Love is never easy, but it's worth it if it makes you smile again.")

For the first time in a long time, Catalina did smile—a real, genuine one. The kind that reached her eyes.

Maybe the universe was conspiring after all.

The cool London air hit Catalina as she stepped out of the café, waving goodbye to Carola, who hugged her tightly before leaving in the opposite direction. Their conversation still lingered in her mind — the laughter, the teasing, the warmth that Carola carried so effortlessly.

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her coat as she began the slow walk back toward her hotel. The city lights flickered against the damp pavement, double-decker buses rumbling past as she passed small shops and pubs alive with Friday night noise. When she finally stopped under the glow of a streetlamp, she pulled out her phone and opened her calendar.

Her move-in date was circled in red: Friday.

Her parents' flight home—Saturday.

And right below that, neatly typed in blue letters, Olympic Training Begins.

Catalina sighed softly. It felt unreal. Everything she'd worked for, everything she'd sacrificed, was finally happening. Yet a strange ache bloomed in her chest, quiet and heavy. Maybe it was the thought of her parents leaving, or that Lory, Jackie, and Leo would only be staying two more weeks after that before heading back to San Francisco.

She traced the calendar's edge with her thumb, her gaze drifting to her bag where the corner of an envelope peeked out—the one Carola had slid across the table with that mischievous little smirk.

Now, standing in the middle of London with that envelope in her bag, Catalina couldn't help but smile to herself. Carola was impossible to argue with.

The race weekend fell perfectly—right between her first two weeks of training. She could actually go, if she wanted. She could see him again.

The thought made her chest tighten.

Did she want to?

Yes.

No.

Maybe.

She shook her head and kept walking, boots clicking softly against the pavement.

By the time she reached the bar where her friends had gone, she'd convinced herself not to overthink it. Inside, the atmosphere was buzzing—Lory was laughing at something Leo said, Jackie had her arm around a local guy's shoulder, and music pulsed through the dim lights.

"There she is!" Leo called out dramatically, waving her over. "London's own tour guide, finally back!"

Cat grinned, sliding into the booth. "You look like you're dying," she teased, noticing the half-empty water bottles and greasy fries scattered across the table.

"I am dying," Lory groaned, dropping her head against Jackie's shoulder. "Leo woke us up at eight a.m. to explore London, can you believe that?"

Leo held a hand to his chest. "Excuse me, some of us appreciate culture."

"Yeah, like the culture of dragging your hungover friends across the city," Jackie muttered, making them all burst into laughter.

Cat let herself relax into the moment. She didn't mention the VIP passes, didn't bring up Carola or Carlos. The memory was hers to keep for now—a quiet, flickering secret she wasn't ready to share.

When the waitress came around, Cat only ordered one drink. She sipped it slowly, letting the burn of it settle low in her chest, and watched her friends dance and sing along to the music.

For the first time in a while, everything felt simple.

Later that night, the four of them stumbled out of the bar and made their way back to the hotel, their laughter echoing down the quiet London street.

As Cat slipped into bed, the envelope still resting in her bag across the room, she closed her eyes and thought of Carlos—of his smile, his voice, the promise in his eyes the night at the club.

And before she drifted off to sleep, she whispered softly into the dark:

"Maybe just one race."

By the time they made it back to the hotel, it was a scene of absolute chaos.

Leo was gone. Not just tipsy—gone. His arm was slung over Catalina's shoulders while Lory struggled to keep him upright from the other side, the two girls half-dragging him down the hallway as he mumbled a drunken rendition of Viva la Vida.

"Leo, por favor, lift your feet!" Cat hissed through laughter, trying not to trip.

("Leo, please, lift your feet!")

"I am lifting them!" he protested, his words slurred. "You two just walk too fast!"

Jackie followed behind, recording the whole ordeal on her phone, giggling as she whispered, "This is going on my story tomorrow."

"Delete that," Cat warned without looking back.

"Nope." Jackie was still laughing. "The people deserve to know their golden boy can't handle two tequila shots and a mojito."

When they finally reached their suite, Lory nearly collapsed against the wall as they fumbled with the keycard. "Okay, Leo, time for bed—no arguments," she said, pushing open the door.

Leo groaned dramatically. "You sound like my madre."

"Good, because you're acting like a toddler," Cat shot back, trying not to laugh as they guided him onto his bed.

He sprawled out face-first, still in jeans and sneakers, and within thirty seconds he was snoring like a dying bear.

"Wow," Jackie said, crossing her arms. "Record time."

Lory flopped onto the other bed beside Cat, panting. "We're never going out with him again."

"Liar," Cat murmured with a grin. "You love him."

"I do," Lory admitted with a sigh. "But I also hate him."

The three girls dissolved into quiet laughter, trying not to wake him as they kicked off their shoes. Eventually, one by one, they passed out too—London glowing softly beyond the hotel curtains.

The next morning was a disaster.

Leo woke up clutching his head, groaning like he'd been hit by a truck. Jackie was already nursing a black coffee on the windowsill, sunglasses on indoors, while Lory was half-asleep with a pillow over her face.

Cat was the only one remotely functional—hair in a bun, hoodie on, and a bottle of water in hand as she packed up her things.

"Why are you so alive right now?" Lory grumbled.

"Because I didn't drink like the rest of you," Cat said sweetly.

Leo groaned from the floor. "I think I'm dying. Tell my mom I love her."

Jackie rolled her eyes. "You said that last time too."

By the time they loaded everything into the car for the drive back to Bath, the mood had lifted slightly. They played music, stopped for coffee halfway, and Leo—miraculously revived—was back to making everyone laugh with dramatic retellings of the night before.

It wasn't until they were pulling into Bath, the city's golden stone buildings glowing under the late afternoon sun, that Cat decided to tell them.

They were parked outside their apartment, unloading luggage, when she cleared her throat. "So... I have something to tell you guys."

Three heads turned immediately.

Cat hesitated, then pulled the envelope from her bag—the one with Carola's elegant handwriting. "We got invited to the London race this weekend. VIP passes."

There was a moment of silence.

Then—chaos.

"WHAT?!" Lory screamed, dropping her coffee.

"VIP?!" Jackie's eyes were wide. "Like... actual VIP?!"

Leo nearly tripped over his own bag. "Hold on—are you saying Carlos Sainz invited you?"

Cat bit her lip, trying not to laugh. "Technically, Carola gave them to me. But yes... courtesy of Carlos."

"Courtesy of Carlos," Lory repeated, clutching her chest. "Oh my god. You're telling me we have four VIP passes?!"

Cat nodded, and before she could even blink, Jackie was screaming into her phone, "We're going to the Grand Prix!"

Leo threw his hands up in the air. "I'm gonna cry. I need to find something fashionable immediately."

"Shut up, Leo," Lory said, smacking his arm—but she was smiling so wide it hurt.

Cat leaned against the car, laughing as her friends lost their minds. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed moments like this—the joy, the chaos, the feeling of being young and alive.

For now, she let herself enjoy it. The nerves about seeing Carlos again could wait.

Because in just a few days, she'd be standing at the edge of a Formula 1 track again.

And whether she admitted it out loud or not—

her heart was already racing.

▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱▰▱

#fanfiction #friends to lovers #friends to strangers #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #carlos need to grow a pair #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz x oc

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