Summary : A single trip to the supermarket spirals into chaos when old rivalries collide with urgent stakes, forcing two people with a complicated history to rely on each other in unexpected ways. What begins as a moment of panic becomes a test of trust, resilience, and the uneasy shift between past grudges and present realities.
➣ Carlos Sains x Single Mother! Fem reader ( no use of y/n)
➣ Word count : 4.4k
➣ A/N : Well I think now is the right time to post since Carlos just got his first podium for Williams today! 😆
MY MASTERLIST
The fluorescent lights always made you feel like you were standing in an interrogation room. Too bright, too sharp, too exposing. You steered the cart past the endless rows of cereal boxes, one hand gripping the handle, the other reaching for your daughter's tiny fingers curled around the edge.
Or at least—you thought she was still there.
"Ellie?" you said, glancing down.
The side of the cart was empty. No messy pigtails. No tiny sneakers with the light-up soles. Just a scuff of shoe rubber on the linoleum.
Your pulse spiked.
"Ellie!"
You abandoned the cart, pushing past a man with a basket full of instant noodles, ignoring the annoyed glance he shot your way. The aisle stretched long and crowded, bodies moving in every direction, shoppers weaving between shelves like schools of fish. You caught a glimpse of a child's head darting past the frozen food section—blond, not hers.
You had looked away for one second. Just one. To compare the prices between two brands of peanut butter. One second, and your daughter had vanished.
You called her name again, louder this time. "Ellie!"
Heads turned. A woman pushing a stroller frowned, then went back to digging for coupons. The cashier at the express lane craned his neck before resuming the beep-beep of the scanner. The whole supermarket kept moving, humming with chatter and squeaky wheels, while your world had ground to a halt.
Your chest tightened. Where do I go first? The toy aisle. The candy racks. The bathrooms. She could be anywhere. She could be—
No. Don't think it.
You forced your legs to move, darting down one aisle, then another, your voice shaking now. "Ellie!" A toddler in a shopping cart laughed at you, thinking you were playing some kind of game.
It wasn't a game. It was the kind of nightmare you woke up sweating from, except you were awake, and the nightmare was still going. Your breath grew shallow. Panic clawed up your throat. In your head, every terrifying possibility bloomed in fast succession: someone could have lured her away, she could be lost and crying somewhere, she could be—
"Hey."
The voice cut through your spiral, low and firm, like a hand grabbing your wrist before you fell.
You turned, heart still hammering, and froze.
Carlos.
For a split second, your brain scrambled to make sense of it. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that same infuriatingly steady gaze you remembered from high school, only softened by faint lines at the corners of his eyes. He looked like he had stepped out of a memory you never thought you'd revisit—and here he was, standing between the canned goods and the pasta, holding a shopping basket like he belonged in your present.
Of all people.
"Need a hand?" he asked.
The words landed heavier than they should have. Because yes, you needed a hand. You needed ten hands. But the last person you wanted to admit that to was Carlos Sainz—your rival, your shadow, the boy who used to charm all the people in high school to get things in his wah, the one who had always found the chance to throw a sarcasm to you, the one whose smirk had fueled every late-night study session of your teenage years.
You must have looked stricken, because his brow furrowed. "You okay?"
"My daughter," you said, your voice coming out raw. "She's gone—she was just here—"
Something in his expression shifted. The basket in his hand hit the floor with a soft thud.
"Where did you last see her?" he asked, sharp, focused.
You blinked. He wasn't mocking you, wasn't smirking. He looked—concerned. Urgent. Like he'd just stepped into the panic with you.
Your throat worked, but no sound came out. For the first time in years, you had no quick retort, no defense. Just a mother in a supermarket, trying not to fall apart, and Carlos, of all people, standing there ready to catch the pieces.
Your mouth felt dry. The supermarket air-conditioning blew cold across your arms, but your skin was hot, prickling with panic.
"She was—she was holding onto the cart." You gestured wildly at the abandoned groceries, your voice cracking. "And then I looked away, and—"
Carlos didn't waste a second. "Which direction?"
"I don't know. I—"
"Okay. We'll split the aisles. You take left, I'll take right. We'll cover more ground that way."
He said it with a command in his tone, like he had some kind of authority here. And the worst part? Your panic-addled brain wanted to listen.
But another part of you bristled. The part that remembered sitting in AP Literature, watching Carlos raise his hand half a second before you did, stealing your answer about The Great Gatsby. The part that remembered how he'd smiled at you when he was announced the prom king, a smile that wasn't cruel exactly, but wasn't kind either. Just... triumphant.
And now here he was, telling you what to do.
"I don't need your help," you snapped, more harshly than you meant to. "I can handle this."
Carlos didn't flinch. He just crossed his arms, eyes steady on you. "Your kid's missing in a supermarket full of strangers. You can keep wasting time arguing with me, or you can let me help. Your call."
Your pulse thudded in your ears. Damn him. Damn him for being right.
You didn't answer. Instead, you spun toward the next aisle, calling, "Ellie!" Your voice cracked again, thinner this time. The panic was gnawing at you, threatening to drag you under.
Carlos kept pace with you. "How old is she?"
"Five."
"Height?"
"About this tall." You gestured mid-thigh.
"Hair?"
"Brown. Pigtails. Pink shoes with sparkles."
He nodded once, his jaw set. "Got it."
You almost hated how steady he looked. Like this was just another problem to solve, another test to pass. That same calm that had always made teachers fawn over him and made you want to scream. You ducked into the produce section, weaving between shoppers debating apples and oranges. No Ellie. No pink shoes.
"She likes dolls," you said suddenly, your voice tumbling out as if confessing. "If she saw one, she might've—"
"Toy aisle," Carlos finished. "Come on."
The two of you half-ran past a woman juggling a toddler and a bag of frozen peas. She shot you both a dirty look, but you didn't care. Your heart was still a drumline, relentless, drowning out everything else.
As you rounded the corner toward the toy aisle, you risked a glance at him. His expression was tight, focused. Nothing smug, nothing condescending. Just a man searching for a missing child.
It was disorienting. This wasn't the Carlos you remembered—the boy who lived to needle you, who thrived on competition. This was someone older, sharper. Someone who had stepped into your nightmare without hesitation.
You wanted to thank him. The words nearly rose to your lips, but they caught there, sticky with old pride.
Instead, you said, "Why are you even here? Shopping for another teacher's favourite trophy?" It came out harsher than you intended. Old habits. Old armor.
To your surprise, Carlos huffed a laugh. "Yeah, sure. I thought maybe the canned goods section would be handing out great marks." He shook his head, eyes scanning the shelves. "I live nearby. Monday's my grocery day. That's all."
You blinked. Somehow, the idea of Carlos doing something as ordinary as buying cereal and dish soap felt... strange. Like finding out a comic book villain also had to pay electricity bills.
"Ellie!" you called again, louder this time. Your throat was starting to ache.
No answer.
Carlos's gaze flicked to you. "We'll find her," he said quietly. His voice was so certain it almost made you believe it.
Almost.
But deep down, in that tight knot of fear inside you, a thought twisted: if there was anyone who would refuse to give up until he won—even against the odds—it was Carlos.
And right now, maybe that was exactly what you needed.
The toy aisle was a riot of color—plastic packaging, dolls grinning through clear windows, action figures dangling from hooks. Children tugged at their parents' sleeves, squealing over stuffed animals and miniature race cars.
But not Ellie.
Your eyes darted over every small head of hair, every pink sneaker, every flash of color that might belong to her. Nothing.
Carlos scanned the shelves too, his eyes sharp. "Not here."
The panic surged again, hot in your throat. "She could be anywhere. Someone could've—"
"Don't," Carlos cut in, his voice firm but not unkind. "We're not going there. She's here. We just haven't seen her yet."
You wanted to scream at him. How could he sound so certain? But your chest heaved too hard, your breath coming in ragged bursts. You dug your nails into your palms, grounding yourself.
Carlos's gaze softened for a fraction of a second. "Breathe. In. Out. Do it with me."
You glared at him, but your body betrayed you—you inhaled when he did, exhaled when he did, until your pulse stopped sprinting and settled into a shaky jog.
You hated that it helped.
"Okay," he said when your shoulders lowered. "Let's think. What's she like?"
"She's curious. Brave. Too brave." Your voice broke. "She thinks the world is safe. I try to tell her to stay close, but she—" You cut yourself off, the lump in your throat threatening to choke you.
Carlos nodded slowly. "So she's an explorer. That helps."
His calmness infuriated you almost as much as it steadied you. He'd always been like this—methodical, precise, confident. Back then it had felt like arrogance, the smugness of someone who knew he'd come out on top. Now, in the fluorescent supermarket aisles, it felt like something else. Competence.
You hated that too.
"Fine," you said tightly. "Where do explorers go?"
"Everywhere," he admitted. "So we split the store. You take produce to bakery. I'll cover frozen foods to pharmacy. Meet back in the middle."
You hesitated. The thought of searching alone clawed at you, but pride was a stubborn thing. "Okay."
You turned down the next aisle, calling Ellie's name, peering under racks of cereal boxes and between carts. Each time you didn't see her felt like another failure. Another mark against you as a mother.
And under it all, an older, pettier voice whispered: Carlos probably thinks you're failing, too. He probably sees you breaking down and feels the same smug satisfaction he always did when you stumbled in high school.
You clenched your jaw, refusing to believe it.
Still, his voice from the next aisle carried over, low and steady: "Ellie! Ellie, can you hear me?"
There was no smugness there. Just urgency.
Half an hour blurred past in fragments. A glimpse of a pink hoodie that wasn't hers. A stranger's child with braids. A false alarm near the bakery when someone shouted another name.
When you circled back toward the middle, Carlos was already there, pacing. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his shirt sticking to his back. He wasn't calm anymore—his jaw was tight, his eyes scanning like searchlights.
"Nothing?" he asked.
You shook your head, biting your lip until you tasted blood.
For a long second, the two of you just stood there in the chaos, your panic pressing against his silence.
Then he said quietly, "I remember this."
You blinked. "What?"
"In high school." His eyes flicked to yours. "The way you used to look when you thought you'd blown it. Like the world was going to end if you didn't win."
Anger flared. "This isn't about winning, Carlos. This is my daughter."
"I know," he said softly. "That's why I'm here."
The words disarmed you. You looked away, heat creeping up your neck.
"Why are you really helping me?" you asked, the question spilling out before you could stop it. "You don't owe me anything."
Carlos's gaze didn't waver. "Because it's a child. Because you look like you're about to fall apart. And because..." He paused, his jaw working. "Maybe I never hated you as much as you thought."
Your breath caught.
That couldn't be true. Not after years of hates, sniping, late-night study sessions fueled by spite. Not after the way his smirk had haunted you whenever you stumbled.
But the look in his eyes—earnest, steady—wasn't the look of someone lying.
Before you could answer, an announcement crackled over the loudspeaker:
"Attention, shoppers. We have a young child waiting at the customer service desk near the front entrance. If you are missing your child, please come to the desk."
Your heart leapt into your throat.
"Ellie," you whispered.
Carlos was already moving, his hand brushing your elbow as he guided you toward the front.
You half-sprinted, weaving between carts, ignoring protests when you bumped someone's shoulder. The store blurred past—frozen pizzas, stacked sodas, the scent of roasted chicken from the deli—until you reached the front desk.
A boy stood there, holding a balloon the clerk had given him. Not Ellie.
The balloon popped in your chest like a cruel joke.
Your knees almost buckled.
Carlos caught your arm before you fell. His hand was warm, steady. "Not her. But we keep going. She's here. Don't give up now."
His words were iron, holding you upright when your bones felt like glass.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, you realized—you weren't alone in it.
The supermarket seemed louder now, every sound magnified. The squeak of wheels. The chatter of shoppers. The harsh beep of scanners. Each noise grated, as if mocking the hollow space where Ellie's laughter should have been.
Your legs carried you toward the back of the store, though you barely registered where you were going. All you could hear was your own pulse, pounding like a drum.
"She's been gone too long," you muttered. "Way too long."
Carlos stayed beside you, matching your stride. "She's still here."
"You don't know that!" The words burst out sharper than you intended. "She could've walked out. She could've—"
He stopped dead, forcing you to halt too. His eyes locked on yours, steady and unyielding. "Don't do that. Not yet." You wanted to shove him away, scream at him, anything to release the terror coiled in your chest. But the weight in his gaze held you still.
"She's here," he said again, quieter this time. "And until we know otherwise, we act like that's true."
Your throat closed. You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
A loudspeaker announcement buzzed overhead: "Would the parent of a lost child please report to the toy section?"
Your stomach dropped.
You ran. The world narrowed to fluorescent lights streaking above, polished tiles flashing underfoot, Carlos's footsteps pounding behind you.
The toy aisle came into view again. A cluster of shoppers gathered around the endcap, blocking your sight. You pushed through, heart in your throat.
And then you saw—
A little girl in pigtails. Pink sneakers. Your lungs seized with relief. "Ellie!"
But when she turned, her face was wrong. Not your daughter. Someone else's.
The ground tilted.
You staggered back, pressing a hand to your chest. The edges of your vision blurred, spots of light dancing. Air wouldn't come, not enough, never enough.
Carlos was suddenly in front of you, his hand closing gently but firmly around your arm. "Hey. Look at me."
You shook your head, gasping. "I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can." His voice was low, calm, but threaded with urgency. Tears burned your eyes. Your breaths came shallow, ragged, but he didn't let go. His thumb pressed against the inside of your wrist, grounding you.
"In," he said, drawing air into his chest. You tried. Failed. Tried again.
"Out," he said, exhaling slow. You mimicked him, shaky at first, then steadier.
You hated that it worked. You hated how warm his hand felt, how steady his presence was, how much you needed him right now.
When your breathing finally evened, you sagged against the shelf of board games. The panic receded like a tide, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Carlos didn't let go until your hands stopped trembling. Then, slowly, he released you.
"Better?" he asked.
You nodded, unable to meet his eyes. The embarrassment was almost worse than the fear. You didn't break down. Not in front of people. Not in front of him.
"You're stronger than this," he said softly. "I remember."
That startled you into meeting his gaze. "What?"
"In school. You never quit. Not once. Even when you hated me, you wouldn't let me win without a fight." A faint smile ghosted across his lips. "That's still in you. Use it."
You swallowed hard, caught between shame and gratitude. The years hadn't dulled him—if anything, they'd sharpened him. But the edge wasn't turned against you anymore.
"I hate that you're right," you muttered.
Carlos's smile widened just a fraction. "Some things never change."
Something in your chest loosened, just slightly. Enough for you to straighten your spine, swipe your tears, and whisper, "Okay. Let's keep going."
"Good." His tone shifted back to brisk, businesslike. "We'll try the quieter aisles. Books, magazines, seasonal displays. Places she might wander if she wanted space."
You nodded, drawing a shaky breath. For the first time since this nightmare began, the panic wasn't controlling you.
Carlos's hand brushed your elbow as he guided you forward—not possessive, just steady. The contact lingered, warming your skin.
And despite yourself, you realized you were leaning into it.
And then, through the chaos, you heard it.
"Mommy?"
You froze. The voice was small, shaky, but unmistakable. "Ellie?" You spun toward the sound, heart in your mouth.
She stood at the end of the frozen foods aisle, clutching her stuffed bunny to her chest, eyes wide and wet. Relief hit you so hard your knees nearly buckled.
"Ellie!" You ran, dropped to your knees, and wrapped her tight against you, breathing her in like air after drowning. "Oh my baby, my baby—"
Her little arms locked around your neck. "I couldn't find you," she sobbed.
"I was right here. I'll always be right here," you whispered, kissing the top of her head again and again, tears burning your eyes.
A shadow fell over you, and you looked up. Carlos was there, breathless but smiling in sheer relief.
"Told you," he said softly. "Kids don't vanish."
You pulled Ellie back just enough so she could see him. "Mr. Carlos helped us," you murmured.
Ellie sniffled, peeking at him through damp lashes. "Thank you," she whispered, shy.
Carlos crouched down, eye level with her. "You scared the daylights out of your mom, kiddo," he said gently. "Next time, you stick close, yeah? Supermarkets are for sprinkles, not hide-and-seek."
Ellie gave a tiny nod, burying her face back in your shoulder.
For a moment, the three of you stayed there in the fluorescent glow, carts squeaking around you, the world carrying on as if your entire universe hadn't just cracked open and stitched itself back together.
Finally, Carlos rose and extended a hand to help you up. You hesitated—because taking it meant acknowledging something you weren't sure you were ready to name—but your hand slipped into his anyway. His grip was strong, warm, steady.
You didn't let go of Ellie's hand for the rest of the checkout. If she so much as blinked, you noticed. She clutched her bunny and your sleeve all at once, her little face pale from the scare.
Carlos stayed close behind, steering the abandoned cart back to you when you almost left it, gently reminding you to breathe when your chest threatened to lock up.
By the time you stepped outside, the air felt thinner, easier to swallow. The worst was over. Ellie tugged on your hand, her voice small.
"Can we... still get ice cream, Mommy?"
You almost laughed at the absurdity of it — but the request felt like exactly what you all needed. A reset. A soft landing after the fall.
"Yeah, sweetheart," you said, brushing hair from her damp cheeks. "We can get ice cream."
Carlos tilted his head toward the street. "I know a place. Two blocks over. Best sprinkles in town."
Ellie perked up, and even though part of you wanted to retreat straight home and lock the doors forever, the look on her face — and the steady presence at your side — made you nod.
"Alright," you said quietly. "Lead the way."
The ice cream shop was one of those cheerful little places with pastel walls and too many neon signs, the kind of place Ellie adored. She ran inside ahead of you, her pigtails bouncing, already pressed against the glass case of flavors by the time you and Carlos stepped through the door.
"Strawberry with rainbow sprinkles!" she announced to the teenager behind the counter as if she owned the place.
You laughed, shaking your head. "Guess we're not looking at the menu, then."
Carlos chuckled too, low in his chest, and stepped up to order. "One scoop of black coffee, cone. And make hers a sprinkle mountain," he added, jerking his thumb toward Ellie.
The girl behind the counter giggled as she handed over the towering cones, and the three of you found a booth near the window. Ellie swung her legs beneath the table, happily humming between bites.
For a while, the shop was filled only with the sound of her chatter and the clink of spoons against bowls. You felt yourself finally starting to relax. Until Carlos glanced at you, hesitated, then asked quietly, "So... what happened with you and..?"
You blinked, caught off guard. "You mean me and—"
"Yeah." He didn't finish the name. He didn't have to.
Your hand tightened around your spoon. For a second, you thought about brushing it off with a joke, like you would've back in high school when letting Carlos see any weakness felt unthinkable. But there was no teasing glint in his eyes now, only a careful patience.
You exhaled, looking down at your melting scoop of chocolate. "He wasn't built for this," you said finally. "For us. He loved the idea of a family, but the reality... it was too much. Responsibility doesn't come with an off switch."
Carlos's brow furrowed, but he didn't interrupt.
"He wanted freedom more than he wanted me. More than he wanted her." You tilted your head toward Ellie, who was now absorbed in the serious work of keeping her cone from dripping down her hand.
Silence settled between you, heavier than you expected. But it wasn't uncomfortable—it was the kind of silence that gave space, that let words breathe instead of smothering them.
Ellie suddenly leaned over, grinning with pink ice cream on her lips. "Mommy, try mine!" She shoved the cone dangerously close to your face.
You laughed, took a small bite, and made an exaggerated "mmm" sound until she squealed in delight. When you looked up again, Carlos was watching you with an expression you didn't recognize. Not pity. Something softer. Something warmer.
For the first time, you realized how strange it felt, sitting across from him without the barbs and the competition of your teenage years. Stranger still was the thought that maybe—just maybe—you didn't mind it.
Ellie was halfway through her cone, face sticky with sprinkles, when she suddenly turned to Carlos.
"Do you have kids?" she asked, her voice as casual as if she'd asked whether he liked sprinkles or not.
You nearly choked on your spoonful of ice cream. "Ellie—"
Carlos looked surprised, but not uncomfortable. He leaned his elbows on the table, meeting her wide-eyed stare. "Nope. No kids."
Ellie licked at her cone thoughtfully, as if processing this. "You should. You're funny."
Heat crawled up your neck. "Ellie."
But Carlos only chuckled. "Well, thank you. That's a big compliment coming from you."
Ellie grinned. "You could play hide-and-seek with me. You're tall, so you'd be easy to find."
The corners of his mouth twitched. "That doesn't sound very fair."
"Life isn't fair," she replied matter-of-factly, and he laughed, genuinely laughed. The sound caught you off guard.
You busied yourself wiping Ellie's hands with a napkin, pretending you weren't watching the way Carlos softened under her attention. Pretending you didn't notice how natural it looked, the three of you at this table like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
For a moment, you let yourself breathe in the possibility — and that was terrifying in its own way.
The apartment was quiet again, Ellie tucked safely into bed with her stuffed bunny pressed against her chest. You kissed her forehead, whispered a promise you hoped she'd never need tested again — I'll always find you.
In the living room, you sank onto the couch, finally letting your body feel the exhaustion that panic had burned through earlier. The house felt too big and too empty, the way it always did after Ellie fell asleep.
Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. You reached for it, expecting a reminder email or a random notification.
It was a text. From an unsaved number, though you didn't need to ask who it was.
Just making sure you two made it home safe.
You stared at the screen longer than necessary, thumb hovering over the keyboard. A dozen replies spun through your mind — something sarcastic, something casual, something you wouldn't regret later. Instead, you typed the simplest truth:
We're home. Thanks, Carlos. ;)
The three little dots appeared almost immediately, then vanished. You set the phone down, but your chest was still tight, your heart restless. Because for the first time in years, you weren't sure if Carlos was the same rival you remembered... or something else entirely.
And that thought lingered long after the house fell quiet.
summary : he shows up after race weekend with a glitter-glued LEGO review, three signed caps, and a smile just for you—because somewhere between the finish line and your second coffee, and probably you may become more than just a fan.
word count : 3.1k
taglist: @mimisweetz @tabisswag @l-a-u-r-aaa @h-rtsnana @dracoflaco @lilasthoughtss @verztpens @reallifemermaidprincess @evie-119 @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @midnightbabylon @sarcastic-nerd @mylatest-hyperfixation < i tried to tag all people who commented hihi well enjoy!>
The McLaren LEGO box crinkled gently in her arms as the mall doors slid open, the evening breeze brushing past like a quiet sigh. Y/N hugged the box to her chest like a security blanket, still half-convinced she had imagined the last thirty minutes.
Lando Norris the actual McLaren driver, occasional meme king, and her mom’s self-proclaimed future son-in-law was walking beside her. Casually. Like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it happened every day.
“So,” he said, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, “coffee, right?”
She blinked, jolted from her internal spiral. “Right. Coffee.”
There was a small café across the street with dim lights, cozy corners, soft music humming under the chatter. He held the door open for her, flashing a grin that made her stomach flutter unfairly.
They slid into a booth by the window. She set her LEGO box beside her like it was precious cargo. He noticed and chuckled.
“Protecting your treasure?”
“Absolutely,” she said solemnly. “McLaren Speed Champions are no joke.”
“I like your priorities.”
He ordered something sweet which is a caramel iced latte with extra whipped cream. She stuck with her usual something warm, comforting, and way too sugary. It felt oddly nice, sharing a quiet drink with someone who didn’t make her feel small.
“So,” he said, leaning in a little, “how’d you get into F1?”
She hesitated. The honest version felt too raw. But the polite one felt too fake.
So she met him somewhere in the middle.
“Last year,” she said. “I was going through some stuff. Life felt… heavy and it feels like I was hanging on by a thread and anytime I could snap. I needed something or a distraction to look forward to. Something loud and exciting and fast. I saw a clip of Carlos making a joke in an interview and ended up watching a whole race. And then I never really stopped.”
Lando’s eyes softened. “It helped?”
She smiled a little. “Yeah. It made me feel… part of something. And the deeper I watched some of Carlos's interviews and getting to know him a little bit which I know is not the really the real version of him but somehow I feel like I really relate to him."
He nodded like he understood. And she got the sense that maybe he did.
“I’ve always been kind of the extra friend, you know?” she added, voice quieter. “The one people forget to invite. The one guys never notice unless they’re asking for my friend’s number. My mom says I’m cute, but even my family compares me to my sister like she’s a supermodel and I’m… background.”
Her fingers curled around her cup. “I think that’s why I love sports and fandoms. There’s no ranking. Just joy. Just being excited about something without needing to be ‘enough’ for it.”
Lando didn’t respond right away. No jokes. No pity. Just a quiet kind of attention, like she was saying something important.
“That sucks,” he said finally, sincere. “And it’s wrong. For what it’s worth… I noticed you.”
She glanced up.
“Specifically in the LEGO aisle,” he continued, smiling slightly. “Where you looked like you were about to declare war on two plastic boxes.”
She laughed despite herself. “It was a tough decision.”
“And then you talked about treating yourself, and I thought… that’s brave.”
“Brave?”
“Yeah. Taking care of yourself when no one else does? That’s harder than most people think. I find that hard to do you know.”
She looked down, heart thudding louder than her drink’s foam fizz. She added "Probably because I have no one else but myself."
He smiled softly, and added, “You know… I get it. More than you probably think.”
Y/N blinked. “You do?”
Lando ran a hand through his hair. “I mean—my life’s great, don’t get me wrong. But being in F1 this young? People think you’re supposed to be fearless. Confident. Perfect. But it gets… a lot.”
She stayed quiet, letting him speak.
“There are days I feel like I’m not doing enough. Not fast enough. Not smart enough. Like I’m letting people down even when I win points. And then there’s the whole ‘funny guy’ persona. The pressure to always be smiling, even when my head’s a mess.”
His voice dropped. “Sometimes I don’t even know if people like me, or just the version they see online.”
Y/N’s chest tightened.
“I guess,” he shrugged, “it’s easy to feel invisible in your own way. Even when everyone’s looking.”
There was a moment of shared silence between them soft and unspoken, but deeply understood.
“You’re not invisible,” she said quietly.
“Neither are you.”
A beat. A smile. And then her phone chimed.
“It's my mom,” she blurted out, “She is going to scream when she finds out I met you.”
Lando brightened. “Oh, we have to send her a selfie.”
“You don’t mind?”
“Mind? I’m about to become her favorite man alive.”
They leaned in together, her phone raised. He smiled charmingly in the first photo, made a ridiculous face in the second, and before she could lock the screen, he grabbed a napkin and scribbled something.
Hi, Mom 👋🏼 – Lando 🧡
He added a doodle of a tiny LEGO car doing donuts.
Y/N nearly choked on a laugh.
She sent it to the family group chat with zero context.
The reaction was immediate.
Lando peeked over at the screen and snorted. “Your dad’s a tough crowd.”
“He just doesn’t understand the hype.”
“I’ll win him over. LEGO diplomacy.”
She grinned "And probably over golf cause he is really passionate about golf.", feeling something unfamiliar bloom in her chest lightness.
"Okay then I owe him a friendly golf tournament." He laughs.
As they lingered in the café’s golden glow, Y/N twirled her straw and glanced at him thoughtfully.
“Hey, um…” she began, voice quiet but sincere. “When you give the LEGO to Penelope, Max's daughter right? Can you let me know what she thinks of it?”
Lando looked up, surprised by the question. “You want a review?”
She smiled shyly. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know… it’d just make me happy to know if she liked it. Especially since I basically chose it.”
He leaned forward, grin forming. “You did more than choose it. You saved my title as favorite uncle.”
“Serious business,” she teased.
“The most serious,” he said. “I’ll send you her full report. Chaos rating, popsicle stand feedback, zipline test results—maybe even a video.”
Y/N chuckled. “You’re really selling this.”
“I’m really grateful,” he said softly.
Her cheeks warmed again. Not in that embarrassed, small way she’d felt so many times before. But in the kind that made her chest glow from the inside out.
Outside, the sky had shifted into deeper blues. The breeze was softer now, cooler, whispering around their ankles as they stepped onto the sidewalk.
They paused just outside the café doors, neither moving.
“I should go,” she said, adjusting the LEGO bag in her arms.
“Me too,” Lando nodded. But neither of them moved.
When the bill came, he reached for it instantly.
“Lando—”
“Nope. My treat. Final semester reward, remember?”
“You already got me the LEGO.”
“And now I’m adding coffee. Let me spoil you a little.”
She opened her mouth to protest again, but he gave her a lopsided grin that made her brain short-circuit.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m buying the next coffee.”
He brightened. “So there’s going to be a next coffee?”
She pretended to sip her drink. “We’ll see.”
For a few beats, they just stood there. Like people who’d known each other longer than they had. Like it wasn’t a first meeting — but maybe the fiftieth.
Y/N tilted her head with a soft smile. “This was… unexpectedly nice.”
Lando mirrored her expression. “Yeah. Feels like I’ve known you longer than an hour.”
“You too.”
A beat.
“If you ever need help choosing between tiny plastic race cars again,” he said, teasing, “I’m your guy.”
“And if you ever need help picking chaotic birthday gifts for sassy kids…”
“I know who to call,” he grinned.
She took a step back, a reluctant goodbye forming in her chest. “Thanks again. For the LEGO. And the coffee. And… good luck for your next race!"
Lando scratched the back of his neck. “Thanks for being the best part of my day.”
She bit back a smile, heart doing somersaults.
“Drive safe,” she said.
“I always do,” he replied. “Except in Mario Kart.”
“Now that I believe.”
They laughed, both hesitating one last time.
Then, like old friends who’d just fallen back into rhythm, they waved with a simple, unspoken, warm and walked off in opposite directions.
And though the night had arrived, and the city glowed in artificial light, Y/N’s steps were lighter than they’d been in weeks.
Because somehow, in the middle of plastic cars and coffee shop chatter, she’d found something she never expected.
Someone who saw her.
And maybe… someone worth seeing back.
Lando’s POV
Lando tugged his hoodie up over his ears as he stepped into the early evening chill, the echo of Y/N’s laugh still ringing faintly in his ears.
God, she was easy to talk to.
Not in the way people were when they wanted something from him, not like reporters or random fans who smiled too wide or tried too hard. Y/N had just… listened. Teased him. Called him out when he deserved it and smiled at him like he was a person, not a podium.
He liked that more than he was ready to admit.
As he crossed the street toward his car, he glanced back and caught a glimpse of her through the café window. She was still at the table, fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup, a soft look on her face. She wasn’t smiling, exactly. But she looked content. Calm. Like she was holding onto something good.
Lando looked away quickly, cheeks warming even though no one was around to see.
He didn’t know what this was.
Didn’t know what it could be.
But for the first time in a while, he found himself hoping he hadn’t just imagined it.
Y/N’s POV
Y/N sat for a while after he left, half-finished drink growing cold between her hands, heart still playing catch-up with the rest of her.
It had been a long time since someone made her feel like this. Like she mattered, like her presence in a room wasn’t background noise. Lando had made her laugh, sure. But more than that, he’d looked at her like she was someone worth seeing.
And then he’d gone and called her Speed Champ like it was an inside joke they already shared. Like there was a them.
She hadn’t expected any of it, not the coffee, not the way he’d lingered, not the way her chest ached in a quiet, unfamiliar way when he walked out the door.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A notification from the F1 app. Something about preparation for practice sessions for the upcoming race.
Lando’s name was in the headline.
Y/N smiled faintly to herself, then reached for the crinkled LEGO bag on the seat beside her. She hadn’t even opened it yet and wouldn't wanted to ruin the moment by rushing.
Outside, someone walked past with a McLaren hoodie, and it made her heart stutter.
Maybe it was silly. Maybe this would turn into nothing. Maybe she’d overthink every part of this until it crumbled in her hands.
But for now?
She let herself hold onto the feeling a little longer.
Grand Prix Weekend <Qualifying>
Lando’s POV
The garage was a swarm of noise — power tools, shouting over comms, tire trolleys squeaking across concrete. But none of it cut through the static in Lando’s head.
He’d qualified P4. Solid. Respectable.
But not what he kept thinking about.
Not when the signed Williams cap the one Carlos had handed over with a smirk and an amused “you owe me" was still tucked safely inside his travel bag, next to a neatly folded McLaren one addressed to a very proud mother.
And one more cap.
Orange.
Signed.
With a stupid little smiley face under his name.
For her.
He hadn’t told Y/N. Not a single hint. He wanted it to be a surprise. He wanted to see her face when she unwrapped it.
And maybe, maybe he wanted an excuse to see her again.
She hadn’t texted, and he hadn’t either. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he did. But he couldn’t figure out how to say “I keep thinking about that afternoon” without sounding ridiculous.
So he waited. Focused on the race. Told himself he’d message her after.
But when he peeled off his helmet and caught a glimpse of the crowd again, he found himself scanning it just in case.
And for the first time all day, he grinned for real.
Because he knew he had a reason to reach out now.
A very good one.
Y/N’s POV
Her phone buzzed beside her popcorn bowl, screen lighting up with a push notification of the F1 App along side the radio sound.
“Lando Norris qualifies P4 ahead of tomorrow’s race.”
Y/N smiled.
Not that she’d been checking. (Okay, she had.)
She wasn’t even watching live this time too caught up in a movie night with friends, the kind where no one cared about motorsport updates except her.
Still, she snuck off to the kitchen during a lull and scrolled through the day’s F1 recap posts.
McLaren had uploaded a clip of Lando waving at the crowd post-qualifying, helmet under one arm, his grin the same crooked one she remembered from across a café table.
Something twisted softly in her chest. Not in a bad way. Just… yearning, maybe.
They hadn’t texted since that afternoon. Maybe it was a one-time thing. Maybe he was just being polite. Or maybe this was the one she tried not to hope for but maybe he was just waiting for the right moment.
Y/N closed the app and reached for her drink. Something silly fluttered in her chest.
If he did want to see her again…
She really, really hoped he’d ask.
But the her phone lights up with a notification from instagram
Tuesday
Same café. Same table. A little more familiar this time.
Y/N got there early.
Not because she was nervous. (Okay, she was.)
But because part of her hadn’t stopped thinking about that first afternoon the LEGO store, his crooked grin, the way he’d called her Speed Champion like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Now, tucked into the corner booth with a fresh drink and slightly shaky hands, she glanced toward the café door every thirty seconds until —
Chime.
There he was.
Lando strolled in like he belonged there in a navy knitted sweater with backwards cap, and a new warmth in his eyes when they landed on her.
“You’re early,” he teased, sliding into the seat across from her.
“You’re late.”
“I’m literally two minutes early,” he grinned.
Y/N raised a brow. “Time is relative. You owe me a cat-themed review.”
“Oh, it’s in here.” He tugged a slightly wrinkled gift bag out from under the table and placed it between them with dramatic flair. “Straight from Penelope. Be warned — she takes feedback very seriously.”
Y/N peeked into the bag, expecting a folded drawing or maybe some stickers.
What she didn’t expect… were three caps.
Two orange McLaren ones and a navy-blue Williams cap, all neatly arranged under a glittery construction paper drawing. Her brows furrowed.
“What—?”
Lando leaned forward, suddenly bashful in a way she hadn’t seen before. “Okay, so… Penelope’s review is there. But the rest is from me.”
He gestured to the navy cap first.
“This one’s for you.”
Y/N blinked. Slowly. Then again.
The signature on the brim was unmistakable: Carlos Sainz.
“Lando—what—how—”
“You said he was your favorite. I told him you almost didn’t pick the McLaren set because of him. He said, and I quote, ‘that’s fair.’” He laughed. “But then he signed it anyway.”
She covered her mouth with both hands, eyes wide.
“And this—” he picked up the first orange cap, “—is for your mom. For calling me a teen rom-com lead. I felt obligated.”
He flipped it to show the message:
To the real #1 fan – Lando 🧡
Y/N let out an incredulous laugh. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about your mom’s loyalty.”
“And…?” She eyed the last cap.
Lando hesitated for half a beat before handing it to her.
It was hers. The second orange one.
Already signed with his name — and a small doodle of a smiley face under it.
“I figured…” he shrugged, “if I’m not your favorite driver yet, I could at least earn the hat space.”
Y/N didn’t speak right away.
She just stared at the cap in her hands a little stunned, a little overwhelmed, and suddenly very aware of the boy watching her reaction like it mattered more than any race result.
“This is the sweetest surprise I’ve ever gotten,” she said softly.
Lando smiled, and it wasn’t his usual public smile, it was gentler. Just for her. “Good. I was aiming for unforgettable.”
She laughed, quiet and breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”
He leaned back in his seat, smug. “And yet… here you are again.”
They lingered over coffee, their conversation even easier than last time filled with stories from the paddock, complaints about delayed flights, inside jokes about glitter glue and Max Verstappen’s backyard.
Y/N told him about a job interview she had coming up. He promised to send her good-luck memes.
And when it was time to go, neither of them moved right away.
Lando nodded toward the cap now clipped to the side of her tote bag. “You know you have to wear that next time you come to a race.”
Y/N smirked. “Only if you podium.”
“Wow. Harsh conditions.”
She raised a brow. “P1 energy only, remember?”
He grinned, cocky and golden in the late afternoon light. “Guess I’ll just have to impress you, then.”
She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to.
He already had.
ynusername posted a story
tbc.
author's note: finally part 2 is posted! will be posting part 3 soon and probably it will be the last part this series :) currently drafting for it! so stay tuned! lmk if you have any ideas to write for any drivers! oh! and also just lmk or comment below if you wanted to be tagged for the next part!
summary: when lando norris finds you torn between two LEGO F1 sets, he helps you pick—then sticks around long enough to find out you’re more than just a second favorite.
[word count] 1.6k
warnings: strangers to something more | fluff | insecure!reader | ferrari fangirl | second favorite driver but first to notice her | soft lando | mutual curiosity | comfort themes | feel-good one-shot | reader with self-worth struggles
author's note: this is my first f1 fic...i really hope yall enjoyed it, the story may seem sloppy cause its my first time writing something like this and its just a random idea that came up. enjoy!
The LEGO store smelled like plastic and childhood nostalgia. Y/N had been standing in the “Speed Champions” aisle for what felt like forever, arms crossed, brows furrowed, lower lip caught between her teeth. In one hand she held the Red Bull F1 car. In the other, the McLaren.
“I can only afford one,” she whispered to herself, as if saying it aloud would magically make the choice easier.
A reward, that’s all this was supposed to be. A little “well done” for surviving her final semester of university and crawling to the finish line of her internship without combusting. Just a small celebration for herself, from herself. Because no one else would. Not her so-called friends who always forgot to invite her. Not the boys who never once asked for her number, only her prettier friend’s. Not even her family who seemed to think “cute” was the most she’d ever be.
Her hands trembled slightly. Maybe she shouldn’t even be here. Maybe this was dumb. A silly plastic car to make up for—
“What’s a fine lady doing in the Speed Champions section?” a voice asked beside her, smooth and accented, with the exact kind of playful confidence that made her freeze.
She turned slowly, cautiously and nearly dropped both boxes. Standing there, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, was Lando Norris.
Lando freaking Norris.
“I—uh—hi?” she blinked, eyes wide. “Just, um… browsing. For the F1 cars.”
He peered at the boxes in her hands, grinning. “McLaren, huh? Excellent choice.”
She laughed nervously, shifting her weight. “I was thinking about it. But I’m torn between it and the Red Bull car.”
“Ahh,” he nodded solemnly, like she was telling him something gravely important. “Tough decision.”
“I know right?” she chuckled, more at ease now. “I mean, I can’t buy both. I just finished my internship, and this is like… my little treat. You know, for surviving.”
“Fair enough.” His eyes sparkled. “Honestly, you deserve both.”
She snorted. “Tell that to my bank account.”
There was a beat of silence, comfortable and warm. She could feel him watching her but not in the way people usually did, eyes glossing over her like she was background noise but more like he was really looking.
“I’m Lando, by the way,” he said, casually.
She blinked again. “I know.”
He laughed at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Of course you do.”
She lowered her voice, nervous again. “Sorry if I’m being weird.”
“You’re not,” he said quickly, sincere. “I like weird. Honestly, watching you try to decide was the highlight of my day. Your thinking face is adorable.”
Her breath caught.
No one ever called her adorable and meant her, not something she said or did.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nope. Visiting a friend. Well… technically visiting. More like killing time while she’s out with her other friends.”
He tilted his head. “Sounds… familiar.”
She gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, I’m usually the last person to know plans anyway.”
“Then those people suck,” Lando said simply. “You seem cool. More than cool, actually.”
She looked down, cheeks flushing. “Thanks. I guess I’m just used to being… background. Not the kind of girl guys notice.”
He stepped a little closer. “I’m a guy. I noticed.”
Her breath hitched. Something in her chest fluttered.
He smiled, like it was no big deal. “So. Red Bull or McLaren?”
“…McLaren,” she whispered.
“Excellent choice! Max could wait he has 4 freaking championships already plus we are surely wining the championship this year” he grinned, taking the Red Bull car from her hand and putting it back on the shelf for her.
"Want me to buy it for you?" He asked casually.
Her eyes widened. “What? No! I can’t—”
“Not trying to be weird, I swear,” he said, hands up. “Just… call it my contribution to your final semester celebration. And maybe a thank-you for supporting us! The least thing I could do.”
She smiled slowly, unsure, but touched.
“…Okay,” she said. “But only if I get to say thank you with coffee?”
He beamed. “It’s a date.”
The box crinkled softly in her arms as they wandered away from the Speed Champions section, Y/N still not quite believing this was happening.
She clutched the McLaren LEGO set to her chest like it was sacred, her brain still trying to process that Lando Norris. Yes, the actual F1 driver Lando Norris had just helped her pick it out. And now he was casually strolling next to her like it was normal.
“So,” he said, eyes scanning the shelves, “since I saved you from the heartbreak of choosing the wrong car, think you could help me now?”
She looked up, surprised. “Me?”
“Yeah, you,” he grinned. “I need to pick a LEGO set for Max's daughter P. She’s turning six, smarter than I am, and brutally honest. If it’s boring, she’ll tell me.”
“Well, no pressure at all,” she laughed. “What’s she into?”
“Everything chaotic,” he said. “Dinosaurs, glitter, cats, treehouses, science experiments… basically a one-girl tornado in sparkly sneakers.”
“She sounds amazing.”
“She is,” he agreed, fondness softening his tone. “But I’m losing my title as favorite uncle. This is my comeback attempt.”
Y/N studied the shelves thoughtfully. “Hmm… okay, how about this one?” She pointed to a colorful treehouse set with a zipline, mini figures, and a cat in a hammock. “Lots of chaos potential. There’s even a popsicle cart.”
Lando examined the box with exaggerated seriousness. “A zipline and a popsicle cart? You’re spoiling her.”
He glanced at her sideways, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Including you?”
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed with a soft notification. She instinctively pulled it out and instantly regretted it. Another text from her friends bailing out on her cause apparently the car was full and there wasn't any space left. Nothing new.
However Lando noticed something.
Bright red case. Ferrari.
Big yellow 55 on the back.
And, of course, her lock screen? A candid shot of Carlos Sainz mid-laugh at the podium.
Lando squinted at it, eyebrows raising. “Wait… is that a Ferrari case?”
Her face flushed instantly. “Oh… yeah.”
“And is your lock screen—hold on—is that Carlos?”
“I—yeah, um—he’s my favorite driver,” she mumbled.
He mock-gasped. “You were debating between Red Bull and McLaren, and you’re out here walking around with a full Ferrari starter pack? What happened to loyalty?”
“I already have the Ferrari Speed Champion set,” she replied quickly, defensive but laughing. “It was the first one I bought when I started watching.”
He gave her a mischievous look. “So I’m your rebound after Carlos.”
She groaned, laughing. “No! You’re not—okay, fine. You’re my second favorite.”
He put a hand to his chest like he’d been stabbed. “The betrayal.”
“But!” she added, holding up a finger. “You are my mom’s favorite. Like… hardcore.”
Lando blinked. “Your mom?”
“She’s obsessed,” Y/N grinned. “She heard your name once during a race, said you sounded like a character in a teen rom-com, and now she never misses your interviews.”
He burst out laughing. “A teen rom-com?”
“She has a theory that you’d be the main character’s charming, funny best friend who’s secretly the love interest.”
“Your mom sounds like a genius.”
“She really is,” Y/N said sincerely. “She told me if I ever met you, I better get an autograph and a photo. She won’t forgive me otherwise.”
He grinned wide. “I’d hate to disappoint her.”
Y/N looked up, still holding her McLaren LEGO box, her heart unexpectedly full.
He glanced at her phone again. “Okay, so Carlos is your number one, and I’m runner-up. But hey… silver still gets a podium.”
She giggled. “Are you seriously turning this into an F1 metaphor?”
“Absolutely,” he smirked. “And I’m fully committed to moving up to P1.”
summary: when lando norris keeps coming into your flower shop, you’re determined to figure out why he needs that many orders.
[word count] 6.1k
warnings: strangers to friends to lovers | flower shop owner! reader | fluff | humor | obvious and some not so obvious pining | kissing | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion
a/n: hello!!! and welcome to my very first formula one fic 🙌🏻 I’ve been writing nhl fics for years now and i’ve decided it’s finally time to dip my toe into some new media! hope any devoted f1 readers and/or my previous followers take their time to check this out.
🎶 say you love me by fleetwood mac, message in a bottle by taylor swift + don’t dream it’s over by crowded house
lando norris has never been too fond about the smell of flowers.
it's not that there's anything wrong with the floral scent—it's just definitely, absolutely not for him. there's something about that light, almost crisp musty smell that rubs lando the wrong way.
or maybe it's perhaps what he associates with those smells. red roses? his primary school principal who very clearly had it out for lando. daisies? the single flower he picked for his 1st grade crush, and she threw the petals back in his face as some sort of childish rejection. lilies? his late grandmothers funeral. morbid, yes, but true.
so to say he was dreading walking into this monaco floral shop was an understatement. it's painted a pastel peach, windowsills just a few shades darker so that they stand out from the brick. not that you can really see them though, not with the abundance of flowers in the hanging window baskets.
lando has already passed the store twice in procrastination. the first time he claimed he needed a coffee from the cafe across the street—because if he had to go in a flower shop, he at least needed some caffeine to serve as a pick me up while he did so.
the second time—okay, well, the second time he didn't have a valid excuse. lando simply just kept trucking by like the peach coloured brick wasn't flashing at him. taunting him with its happy colour and girly smell.
it's just...it's his elderly neighbours birthday. his elderly neighbour who he adores and who always bakes cookies for him, and lando won't be home to wish her well because of traveling. and she loves flowers. lando knows this because they're always on her counter, and he can smell peonies on her clothes anytime she stops by for milk, pinching lando's cheek while she calls him adorable.
so he knows he has to do this. his displeasure towards the arrangements be damned. lando tells himself to man the hell up and do this one nice thing for the sweet woman across the hall.
lando inhales strongly, collecting as much monaco sea air as possible before entering the shop. the wooden door creaks as he pushes it open, and instantly lando is hit with a million pollen and petal particles.
"fuckin' hell." he mumbles to himself, voice barley audible as his green eyes trail around the shop. with something similar to a grimace on his face, lando takes in the overgrown space. flowers fill every available space, making it almost impossible for a normal folk—or clueless folk—like him to navigate through.
lando takes a step, and the floorboards groan under his weight, giving away how worn and aged this place is. it's been a flower shop for as long as lando has lived in monaco, and for a moment, he lets himself wonder how long before too. surely, years based on the way that the smell so practically oozing from the light blue striped wallpaper.
wallpaper he can barley see, mind you, due to the wall of roses.
"is there something I can help you find?"
lando blinks, head snapping away from a bright yellow bundle of...some kind of flower, and towards the direction of your voice.
there's a section of teal counter, an old fashioned register and company cards sitting on top, and that's where you are. you've got on a apron that's the same peach colour as the bricks outside. and your hair’s pulled back in an effortless kind of way, and lando already knows that you smell like the flowers all around.
he swallows roughly and blinks again.
you smile, almost in amusement, and that's when he realizes that he's been stroking a flower petal like a muppet. "sorry, yeah, actually."
lando weaves through the various display tables until he's at the counter. up close, he's able to get a proper look at you, and his mouth goes dry at the sight. you're ridiculously beautiful. like other worldly kind of beautiful that would make even the most charismatic and charming men fall to their knees.
also known as him.
lando pushes through the sudden school boy nerves that are threatening to climb up his throat, sending you a boyish—yet confident—grin. "I want to send my neighbour flowers for her birthday, but i've got no clue about flowers."
you hum, "okay, well, do you know what kind of flowers she likes?"
he sends you a sheepish look, palms flat on the counter top. "all of them."
you giggle and lando swears he could faint at the sound.
"all of them?"
"yeah," he nods, "I swear that lady is like a bloody flower enthusiast. she's always got them on her island." lando pauses, a smile pulling at his lips, "and her windowsill. and her balcony. and her bedroom surely."
your fingers drum along the counter in thought. lando notes that your nails are painted a pink. it reminds him of the monaco sunset.
"and how old is said neighbour."
he blows out a breath and then grins cheekily, "elderly."
"i'd go with something classic," you tell him after a moment. you reach for a binder tucked between the register and the wall. it's blue and decorated with uniformed stickers and sharpie notes. you flip it open, swiping through a few sheets.
you point to a flower lando has never heard of, but he leans in and looks like he understands anyways. maybe—just a possibility—he was doing it so he could be closer to you. and yup, you smell like a flower field.
"i'd also throw some carnation in there. it's a classic flower for a piece. and beautiful."
lando's eyes dart away from the book and meet yours. they're swimming with passion and eagerness. it's cute, and lando can't help but to smile like a lunatic—teeth on full display. "I trust you, do whatever you think will make her happy."
your smile widens, "what's your budget."
he purses his lips. he hasn't really even thought about it. how much do flowers even cost? a beat passes, "don't have one."
your eyes widen briefly before you manage to control yourself. you're well aware that monaco is full of rich and wealthy people—even if you're not familiar with every single face that walks into your shop—but hearing those words never fails to suprise you.
flowers are expensive, and someone as clueless about flowers as the man in front of you seems to be, would have no idea.
"okay, that's great." you grab a form from behind the counter and then reach for a pen. you click the top a few times, the sound audible over the radio playing softly in the background. "when do you want the flowers to arrive?"
he tells you the date and you neatly write it down.
"and what's the name of the recipient?"
repeat.
"and the name of the sender?" you question after jotting down the previous answer. your eyes flicker up towards his green ones, a hint of personal curiosity in your gaze.
he takes his bottom lip between his teeth in an attempt to contain the embarrassing grin wanting to take over his face. "lando."
"lando." you repeat.
"and your name?"
the pen in your hand almost falls away, your eyes quickly finding his once more. "y/n." you tell him timidly, warmth collecting high on your cheeks as he repeats your name, slowly, like he's testing out how it sounds.
his eyes don't stray from yours, gaze tense and fond in a way that makes you positively squirm. you clear your throat, ball tip of the pen hitting the paper once more. "and the address?"
lando recites his neighbours address with ease, and you write down it just as quick. you question him on a few more basic things; phone number for contact purposes, if he’d like a card with the arrangement, and if so what he’d like to say, and you even asked him what day he’d prefer for delivery.
he asks if you do the deliveries, and you get warm again—lando wants to bathe in the pink of your cheeks. you tell him you have a driver who does it for you.
after he signs his name on the form, you take it back from him, moving towards the register between you. it’s silent for moment while you presumably log in, nails tapping rhythmically on the screen while you do so.
“can't make her birthday?”
your question has lando momentarily confused, brows pulled tight. it’s only when you raise an eyebrow in silent amusement that lando remembers who he’s getting the arrangement for—and why he’s here in the first place.
“oh, right,” he swallows roughly, “no I can't, i'm traveling for work.”
you hum and shoot him a curious glance. “what do you do for work?”
he laughs once and breathy, eyes falling down towards the floorboards for a few moments. once he meets your gaze again, he notes that you haven’t look away—and you look more intrigued than before.
lando grins, “you're not going to believe me if I tell you.”
“are you putting on some kind of mysterious act?” your fingers halt on the screen—hovering over the baby breath button—and you squint hesitantly.
“depends?” he hisses through his teeth, “is it working?”
“I suppose so,” you breathe a sound that almost sounds like a laugh, eyes darting away before quickly darting back to his. “i'm definitely curious now.”
“wasn't before?”
you kiss your teeth to keep a fond smile from blossoming on your face. you’ve dealt with flirty customers before, obviously, but there’s something about the curly haired, gap toothed smiley one in front of you now that has you actually flustered.
you decide to not answer right away, clicking a few more flowers on your computer for the order print. finally, after what feels like an eternity for lando, you answer.
“you're cheeky,” you muse.
he’s still grinning. “it's a part of my charm.”
you bark a laugh, “I bet it is.”
the door creaks open, breaking whatever trance the both of you had been in. a customer, a few years older than you, walks in causally—moving towards some daffodils you’d potted this morning.
you clear your throat, looking away from lando’s green gaze, and back towards the till. he watches you click a few more buttons and type some codes in—and then the printer is whirling to life.
the customer picks a bouquet and moves to wait behind lando.
his heart pings at the time being interrupted.
“i'll just take your card information then,” you say promptly, “my machine takes a picture of it for billing, if that’s okay with you?”
lando slides his credit card over the counter, “yeah, sure. thank you.” he watches as you carefully take his card—like it’s made of gold—and place it on some fancy machine lando couldn’t even attempt to dissect. it makes a few clicking sounds, presumably capturing the information, and then you pass it back to him.
“all right, you're all set.” your fingers brush his when lando takes it back.
“I appreciate this.” lando shoots a glance over his shoulder once the guy starts impatiently tapping his foot. and look at that—he’s suddenly got the urge to punch out your next customer!! without hesitation, lando looks back at you, continuing like nothing. “I think I would've been completely lost without you.”
you grin, smoothing down the front of your apron like a nervous habit. “we'll, it is my job.”
“you're good at it,” he compliments with an earnest smirk.
it makes you laugh awkwardly, absentmindedly reaching out to straighten up the stack of local business pamphlets. you keep them there for weddings as it helps local venues get recognition. “i'm not sure one could really be good at taking information for a floral arrangement,” you mumble modestly.
“well I think you're great.” lando answers quickly.
the guy behind him clears his throat and lando has to stop his eyes from rolling to the back of his skull.
you smile politely and lando, despite the annoyance for the douche waiting in line, follows suit, his own toothy grin reappearing. “i'll be seeing you, y/n.”
—
almost a month passes before you see lando again. despite the hopes of him walking back through the front door of your flower shop again, you didn’t believe the day would come.
but here he is, clad in a branded sweatshirt and shorts with his curly hair all unruly like he’s been running his fingers through it on the way over.
lando has some dignity, so he pretends to look very interested in the rose display before letting his eyes wander in search of you. yeah well, that whole self dignity thing lasts 20 seconds before his sights are set on you in your peach apron.
you can’t help but grin once you feel his gaze land upon you. like him, you also wanted to seem casual, so as soon as you realized it was him walking through your door, you reached for a book, and flipped it open to a random page in some attempt to appear scholarly.
you can’t even remember if this book is yours or the delivery guys.
“back for more flowers?” you ask, eyes flickering up to his approaching figure.
lando grins, “yeah.” no.
you close the book and put it back in the half dusty corner you found it. “the neighbour again?” you question, placing your palms flat against the counter.
he rubs the back of his neck. “not this time, but she loved them so much—sent me cookies as a thank you and everything.”
“i'm offended that you didn't bring me one,” you tease him quickly and easily, making lando’s stomach do that funny drop you get on a carnival ride.
you log into the register and lando laughs, answering you with an impressed raise to his eyebrows, “they barley lasted 10 minutes.”
you snicker at that. opening up a new order form in his file, you ask—“so who are these ones for?”
lando almost curses aloud. he really hadn’t thought this far ahead. when he woke up this morning he had a plan. he really did. despite the jet lag he’s still battling from three weeks of consistent travel paired with inconsistent sleep, lando was going to get up early and come visit your shop.
he was going to turn on his natural flirtatious side and ask you to dinner or something just as chivalrous—perhaps the new cocktail lounge that opened up just down the street from your shop.
but then you asked him with a pretty smile if he was back for more flowers and he just said yes without a second to process the question.
you wait patiently, fingers still—and now a bit longer and painted a sky blue—for his answer. an answer that’s taking a suspiciously long time for a person who supposedly came in here to but flowers.
lando clears his throat, “my...sister.”
“your sister?”
“yeah,” he nods, “it's her graduation.” she’s only in second year at uni, you idiot.
your eyebrows draw together with confusion.“in august?”
lando rubs along the back of his tanned neck once more, and you pick up that it must be an anxious habit. “yeah,” he winces, eyes trickling back to yours from where they briefly settled on the worn wood beneath his feet. “i'm a little late.”
“alright well,” you exhale, bringing out that same binder from last time. “let's do something simple, and something that says sorry for the late arrangement.” your teasing tone has lando smiling softly. you don’t catch it, too busy flipping through the pages in search of the flower you’d thought of it your head.
“yeah,” he breathes, “sounds great.”
you make a little trumpet noise when you find the poppies, letting lando choose between the variety of colours. he picks orange, says it’s his favourite, and you think that, oddly enough, it suits him.
you repeat the same process as before, and when you ask for a delivery address, lando just spews out his own. it’s not like you’d know anyways—besides, he can’t tell you that his sister actually lives in the UK and will not be receiving these flowers period.
so yeah, his address will do.
“okay, these will only take me 20 minutes tops. would you prefer delivery again? or would you like me to text you when they’re done and you can come pick them up?”
lando stutters for a moment, the excitement that settles in his chest at the thought of seeing you again today almost too much for him to bear. “I’ll come back, if that’s okay with you?”
you grin with half amusement, “i’m definitely okay with that.” you print the order form and grab it from the printer once it’s finished up. “I’ll text your number on file when they’re done.”
and before he can’t say anything else, lando just smiles dreamily, “please.”
when you do text him 30 minutes later, he returns to the shop almost immediately after, a cheeky grin on his face and two takeaway cups of coffee in his hands, you can’t help but to accept one. it takes him another 20 minutes before he leaves again, both of you too distracted with learning about one another to notice the passing time.
—
a week and many daydreams of lando walking through the front door of the store later, does he actually walk into the shop. he's gotten a hair cut since the last time you saw him. it's neater, but still got that messy look that makes him look like the main love interest in a early 2000s rom com.
lando’s got a container in one hand and a smile on his face. unlike last time, he doesn’t even glance at the flowers, and instead makes a beeline right for you.
you’re fussing over some sunflowers that are beginning to wilt in a large mosaic vase set out in front of the large window—giving the shop most of the sunlight you crave.
“you're back,” you note, eyes closing in to the tupperware in his large hand. “and you've got...are those cookies?” you turn away from the flowers, gently crossing your arms just as lando comes to a stop.
he grins proudly, “I saved you some this time.”
the brief conversation about homemade cookies from his elderly neighbour crosses your mind, and your eyes widen in recognition. “you didn't need to do that,” you scold kindly, not yet taking the container lando is gesturing out to you. “I was only playing,” you admit shyly.
“it's no big deal,” he shrugs, smile growing once you timidly take the clear container that holds four cookies. “plus, it's a thank you for all your help.”
“well,” you laugh once as you walk towards the counter, placing the cookies down next to the register before turning back to lando. he’s not near the sunflowers like you expected. no, he’s followed you to the counter.
you smile shyly, “thank you for the treat.” lando runs his hand over his sweatshirt—it’s a chiller morning in monaco, oddly enough—and mumbles some kind of compliment.
your cheeks heat anyways. “have you only come here to bring me these?” you squint inquisitively after a beat passes, eyeing lando.
“what?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, leaving him no choice but to awkwardly clear his throat. “no.” yes. “I had to be in the area.” no he really didn’t. “met up with a friend for coffee,” oh did he now? “told him all about your shop.”
his awful lies are all worth it the second an appreciative look flashes over your face. “did you?”
“I did,” lando swallows roughly and shoves his hands into his pockets. “he said he'd have to check it out.”
your lips part, but the shrill noise of the mint green phone attached to the wall ringing stops whatever words you planned to say. you look away from the phone and back to lando, sending him a guilty smile. “duty calls. excuse me.”
he watches you round behind the counter and answer the phone. lando’s not too sure why he sticks around for the phone call to finish up. maybe it’s the way he’s too entranced watching you in your element to leave, or maybe because he still hasn’t asked you out, and was planning to do it today before the phone started to ring. lando’s not quite sure.
regardless, he’s still there once you’ve finished the call, and you send him a look. “everything okay?”
lando blinks, “I also came because I need another flower arrangement.” he wonders if you can actually smell the bullshit coming form his mouth.
“oh!” you emote, “really?”
“yeah, my race engineer is getting married.” no lando, actually, your race engineer has been married for 10 years.
your eyes flash, “race engineer huh? you work with cars?” you question while bringing up his file.
“something like that.”
you smile, nodding your head slowly like you don’t quite believe him. lando almost wants to shrink in on himself and hide from your gaze—but that means he wouldn’t be able to look at you, and that sounds downright dreadful.
“alright, well, let me get something together then.”
—
four days before lando needs to leave for the british grand prix, he's walking back through the front door of the peach painted brick building.
it's not like you were expecting him or anything, but you're not surprised when the door creaks open and you catch sight of a familiar head of curls. what does surprise you though is the two men he's with—you presume they are his friends.
your curious and intrigued eyes catch lando's. despite the smile he sends your way, you can see something that looks a lot like embarrassment coupled with annoyance twisted within his expression.
his friends though? they couldn't look further from annoyed if they tried. both tall men who look around lando's age, scan your overgrown floral shop with wide eyes and amused grins.
"hello." you swallow thickly as their gazes land on you. your body naturally wants to freeze in place, especially when lando's friends somehow grow more smug and excited at the sight of you.
"y/n, hi." lando speaks first, his greeting coming out in one long breathe of relief—like physically seeing you now is allowing him to finally exhale.
"hello," the one who previously stood on lando's left greets you, a teasing glint in his eyes that makes you heat up. you note that he's got a similar accent to lando. the guy leans against the counter—not intimidating, but rather casual—"so, you own this place, right? do your own arrangements?"
"I do," you nod, already itching to reach for your binder just to look busy. your eyes narrow, "do you need an arrangement?"
"I actually do," he says, inspecting one of your business cards next to the register. his eyes flicker back to yours, "it's my girlfriend and I's anniversary, so i'd like to get a few big arrangements."
the other friend walks up next to the other one, a wide smile of his face. he's got the same accent—you wonder if they all grew up together. "lando hasn't stopped talking about you and this place for weeks. and when george here mentioned his anniversary, we just knew we had to come see what all the hype was about."
your eyes flicker towards lando, who has now come to stand beside his two friends. lando's cheeks heat and his eyes briefly meet the floor like they've done many times in your shop.
"is that so?" you ask the nameless friend, a slight teasing tone to your voice that has lando grinning automatically. when he looks back up, his eyes naturally lock with yours.
he sends you a meek smile and it doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, the two giving one another a look as you return the gesture.
"don't listen to these muppets," lando grumbles, "they've been in one too many crashes."
you let out a quiet laugh, fiddling with the pocket of your peach apron. you force your eyes away from lando's familiar ones and back to george—or so you think the other one called him. "I've got a form to go over with you, if you'd actually like to place an order."
george smiles appropriately, "yes, thank you." like lando has seen you do before, you go through the entire process with george in a quick yet efficient manner, taking down his information and helping him pick out the florals for the two arrangements george plans on having delivered in two weeks time.
once it's all done and you've printed the order form, you turn your gaze back on lando, a half hidden smile instantly pulling on his lips as you do. "is there anything else I can help you guys with today?"
"i'm okay, thank you," his other friend grins and extends his large hand to you over the counter, "i'm alex."
you take his hand delicately and lando hates how a pang of jealousy hits his chest. alex is literally in a relationship you muppet. "y/n."
the process repeats with george, who makes some kind of lame joke that works in making you laugh in amusement. lando naturally shifts, practically shoving george out of the way so that he's the one closest to you instead.
"lando." you greet with a knowing smile, "are you getting anything today?"
"not today-"
alex interrupts before lando can continue further. "im sure he'll be back soon enough to place an order though," he knocks his shoulder into lando's teasingly, "he really loves your place."
"oh yeah, he really—"
"alright," lando smothers whatever annoying thing george was planning to add on to alex's comment. he sends both of his friends a warning look, "I'll meet you guys outside, yeah?"
the two of them snicker—alex even tosses his hands up in a mock surrender—while the two of them make their way back through the flower shop and in the direction of the door. before the door creaks back open to reveal the monaco skyline, both alex and george send you enthusiastic departures, followed by inaudible whispers and laughter.
silence fills the store once more. lando's face is still tinged red in a flustered and slightly embarrassed way, and it has a little giggle slipping from your lips.
lando's lips turn upwards immediately. "I'm sorry about them, again," he retorted his earlier apology. "they insisted on coming with me when I mentioned stopping by tonight."
well, not exactly the truth. in all honesty, george and alex had both grown sick and tired of hearing lando talk about you and your shop—constantly—and forced lando to bring them so they could see what all the fuss was about. on the way over to your shop, lando had made his friends promise to behave and not scare you away—because that's the last thing he needed.
but then they walked in, saw why lando was so fond of you, and all promises of good behaviour were left at the door.
"they're fine," you reassure truthfully, a small smile playing on your lips. "so there's really nothing for you today?"
lando ponders for a moment, lips pursed while his eyes dart around the shop. right next to the counter you've got a selection of pre-made arrangements, easy for grab and gos for last minute birthday dinners, and early morning stops. lando picks the one with the most orange and places it on the counter between you.
"i'll take these, actually."
your grin widens and in an attempt to conceal it, you duck your head, busying yourself with wrapping them in paper for departure.
after a beat, your gaze finds his once again, except this time, its swimming with hesitation and a pile of curiosity. you clear your throat, finishing the last fold on the arrangement, "so...are these for your girlfriend?"
lando's ears pick up the distaste and envy that laces your question, and his urge to smooth over the situation before you get the wrong idea comes automatically. "no,” he huffs, eyes searching yours, “no girlfriend here. if I did have one though, i'm not sure she'd appreciate how often I visit the nice pretty girl at the flower shop."
your eyes widen, “oh-wha-me?”
lando laughs softly while your shellshocked expression doesn’t waver. he palms the back of his neck, a teasing tinge to his tone. “you are the only one who works here, right?
“yes,” you breathe.
“then yes,” lando’s grin widens. “you.”
like clockwork, you duck your chin to hide your face and lando blushes—the two of you very much resembling nervous primary school children with crushes. we’ll, actually, that’s exactly what it feels like. and clearly, according to alex and george, it what it looks like as well.
lando pays for the orange flowers, and when you ask again who they’re for (this time), he just says one word: you.
lets just say, you keep them in the back office and grin like a manic anytime you go in there and catch sight of them.
—
after the whole buying flowers and gifting them to you exchange that happened two months ago, you never really expected to see lando again. well correction—you expected to see him, but you didn't expect him to keep buying arrangements.
oh, but did you ever assume incorrectly. sometimes it was twice a week he'd walk into your shop, a shy yet confident look to him while he ordered an arrangement for some random event—team dinners, galas or his mothers retirement party.
sometimes you wouldn't see him for three weeks. you didn't ask about his whereabouts—assuming he travels for work—but everytime without fail, his first day back in monaco, he'd come see you. smiling and with a pep in his step, always telling you in a quiet, intimate way that he missed you.
but that's all he says. much to your dismay, lando never asks you out. not to coffee or dinner or anything in between. it's gut wrenching, sure, and then you start overthinking every single interaction with lando. were you misreading the situation?
but then he'd come back all flirty and telling you he missed the smell of the shop and you'd think otherwise. plus, he keeps buying damn flowers.
so today when lando walks into your shop, you're determined to figure it all out—the flirting and the flowers and everything else that gets your heart thumping and mind wandering.
he waltzes right up to the counter that separates you from the rest of the shop, a cheeky smile on his face as he leans on top the counter with his elbows.
you raise a brow, “another arrangement?”
“you guessed it,” he smirks boyishly up at you.
you don’t move to grab the binder like you usually would, and that instantly has lando’s thick eyebrows furrowing. you continue to stare down at him, unamused. “who are these flowers for?”
lando blinks, stuttering while he tries to formulate some kind of plausible response. “ummmm...oscar.”
“who's oscar?”
“my friend.”
you make a noise, eyes narrowing in utter disbelief. “does oscar typically want flowers?”
much to your surprise, lando just shrugs a shoulder, and with his lips pursed, he tells you—“don't really know.”
you don’t answer. not right away. it’s now that you grab the sticker covered binder full of pages upon pages of different flowers, carefully flickering it open so that the cracked spine doesn’t obtain any further damage. you seem very calm, and that makes lando feel the complete opposite.
there’s something your eyes that has lando narrowing his gaze on you. you don’t look at him while you quickly and quietly fill out the information—after all, you’ve filled out enough of these for lando that you’ve got his damn phone number memorized.
finally, you turn your attention back to him. “and delivery adress?”
and it’s then. when lando easily recites that same adress he’s given you more times than you can count, does your curiosity come to a tilt. you softly drop the pen, “i've got a question lando.”
“yes?”
you kiss your teeth, “how come every single arrangement after the first one is being delivered to the same address?”
lando blinks a few times. swallows roughly twice. and then he lets out an awkward chuckle, finger absentmindedly stroking along a divet in the wood counter.
“would you believe me if I told you everyone I know all lives in the same place?” he grimaces, hopeful eyes twinkling with mischief.
your nose scrunches—half amused and half in confusion. “not too sure if i'd buy that.”
“no?”
“nope.” lando’s shoulders sag and an apologetic grin forms at your response. you let out a slow breath, crossing your arms over the apron lando has been dreaming about. he sees that peach colour everywhere now—it’s like a less than kind reminder of how badly he’s been fumbling you. for months now.
“you know you don't have to come in here and buy things all the time,” your voice is laced with masked disappointment, making lando frown. you continue softly, “it's okay if you want to just browse.”
“I don't want to browse.”
“oh?”
lando curses to himself, so softly that to you it simply sound like a heavy exhale. you wait patiently for his response, playing with your bottom lip between your teeth to keep any emotions at bay.
you watch with careful eyes as lando pushes off the counter, his back straightening. his eyes meet your again, and after a tension filled beat, he admits—“I really didn't like the smell of flowers, you know that?”
“i'm sorry to hear that,” your voice is cautious. confused. “why did you come here then?” a pause while your brain jogs with memories. “was the neighbour a real person or…?”
“shes real,” lando reassures you quickly, “and it was actually her birthday.”
“and the others?”
he takes a deep breath, and then finally, after months of months of practiced speeches in his bathroom mirror, and imagining this conversation while the country music you have playing in your shop plays through his headphones before a race, lando spews.
“my sister didn't graduate, no one was getting married and oscar is actually allergic to pollen.”
you complete idiot, he thinks. because instead of that clearing up any of your confusion—and why would it because what the hell?—lando’s words have only made your expression grow tighter. you blink, “so why'd you keep buying the flowers.”
“because of you.”
“me?”
okay, he thinks, this is it. it’s finally time.
lando’s plump lips part, “because I liked you or I still do.” he takes a deep breath, “like you.” when you don’t respond, he continues. “and I know that it's kind of crazy and i'm crazy and i disappear for weeks at a time and im flirty and have too much money to spend on floral arrangements for imaginary occasions…but I just wanted to come see you.”
“lando,” your shoulders drop, and lando’s heart does as well. is this rejection? has he been playing this weird, long game for months only to have misread the situation.
“you can kick me out,” he offers.
“no,” you shake your head softly, and the last thing lando’s sees is your shy smile before you lean over the expanse of the counter, and place a delicate kiss to his cheek. so close to the corner of his mouth that for a moment, lando’s knees go weak. “i'm not going to kick you out,” you promise as you drop back to your heels.
dazed and still reeling form the feeling of your soft mouth on his warm skin, lando can only manage to nod dumbly. “that's good.”
“and I like you too,” you grin, “and all your made up occasions.”
lando exhales with a wide smile, “that's really good.” and because he’s sure he’s finally got it right, lando takes his turn to lean over the teal painted counter, one large hand holding the side of your face while he brings his lips down to yours.
it’s not perfect in the sense of the movies, but it’s perfect for you and lando. you’re both grinning into it, making it hard to actual kiss like normal people, but somehow you still manage to capture one another’s mouths in fleeting, tender kisses.
you pull away after a few moments, a playful laugh passing through your kiss moistened lips. “you're a race car driver.”
lando blinks, forehead bumping your gently while his thumb strokes long your cheek. “huh?”
a giggle sounds between you and then your pressing another quick kiss to his mouth. “that's your job.”
his eyebrows tug down towards his noise while an amused look crosses his face. “how'd you figure it out?”
“I googled you.”
he can’t help but to dip down and steal another kiss, muttering against your mouth—“cheeky girl.”
SUMMARY: You were once the best-kept secret in Lando Norris' life, the girl he loved quietly but fiercely behind closed doors. But when the love you built started to crack under the weight of distance, fame, and timing, you both let it go.
Now, a year later, you're working in F1 for the Williams team as an engineer. The paddock is full of ghosts, and he is the loudest one.
And even after all this time, when your paths cross again under the Monaco lights…you realise: he’s still on your mind. And maybe, just maybe, you’re still on his.
PAIRING: lando norris x reader
Present - Monaco, 2025
The Monaco air tastes like salt and adrenaline. The paddock was alive and buzzing, media milling curiously, engineers racing towards the garages with urgency.
You’d told yourself you weren’t avoiding the McLaren garage. Not on purpose, anyway. That it just worked out that way. You worked for Williams, you were on the other side of the paddock, you couldn’t help that. The paddock itinerary didn’t cross over, logistics were tight, a series of convenient lies you wore like perfume.
It’s not like you were looking for him. No, you wouldn’t, but every time you passed a flicker of papaya orange, you turned your head too fast. The what if haunted you, in terrifying splashes of neon green and bright orange. Really, the colours were so vibrant, it wasn’t your fault when it caught your eye.
The #4 car haunted the corners of your vision like an echo. You didn’t look. Not really. Not directly. You told yourself it was professionalism. Boundaries. Growth, even. Still, it hurt to walk past the monstrous posters of his face plastered all across the paddock, the hundreds of his fans yelling at the chance to meet him, the media with their whisperings of world championships. It didn’t make it easy, but you loved motorsports, too much to give it up over a four year relationship.
And yet, on the flight over, you found yourself scrolling through your Photos app. Past a gorgeous sunset in Miami, a selfie of you and Alex from three races ago, was a folder marked with a small, yellow heart and covered with a photo of your dog. Inside, there were 73 photos. Screenshots, candids, blurry memories from every summer before it all fell apart. Italy. Silverstone. Nights he couldn’t sleep and only you could talk him down. You didn’t open it. You never did.
But you hadn't deleted it either.
He’s there before you are ready. You spot him across the paddock from your place in the Williams garage, surrounded by a semi-circle of media. His laugh is sharpy and easy, a flash of teeth beneath sunglasses. The Lando Norris charm, freely given but rarely genuine. Your heart aches at the breadth of his smile, as he gestures big, runs a hand through his curls. He knows what they want and gives it freely. It’s a performance you know too well. Mask on. Spotlight burning.
You should turn away, but you don’t, until Carlos nudges your elbow with questions about tyre strategy and car balance.
The next time you see him, it’s too close. The Williams hospitality is buzzing and fluorescent when you bump into him near the espresso bar. You weren’t looking. Or maybe you were. Either way, your shoulder brushes his and the world narrows to just that point of contact.
You turn and it’s him.
Not him on the podium or on your screen. Him.
He shouldn’t even be there, at Williams. McLaren has their own espresso bar, their own delicacies, but you know he always loved the dry biscuits that Williams prepared before each race.
“Hey,” he says. Voice low, unreadable.
“Hi.” You hold your breath, say nothing more.
He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t say your name. You notice. He notices you notice. The silence drops between you like a missed apex. You swallow around it.
His eyes dart to your lanyard, your coffee, your hands, anywhere but your face. Yours are too busy memorising his.
Flashback - Tuscany, 2022
The light in Italy made everything feel softer.
Even the edges of Lando’s voice, usually sharp with energy or laughter, had gone slow and syrup-warm as he lay sprawled across the sun-drenched grass. His head was in your lap, curls damp from the pool, your fingers absentmindedly combing through them. His skin glowed bronze, flushed from the heat and the wine and the kind of happiness that didn’t know it was temporary.
Somewhere behind you, the villa’s old stereo played a playlist he’d made on the plane, half indie, half guilty pleasure, and the breeze carried the scent of rosemary and salt. The air buzzed with bees and distant laughter. He hadn’t said anything in a while, just blinked up at the sky like it had all the answers.
Then he turned slightly, cheek pressing against your thigh, eyes squinting up at you beneath a furrowed brow.
“I’d give up racing,” he said, voice low and half-cracked from the sun and silence. “If it meant keeping you.”
You stilled.
Your fingers curled slightly in his hair, but you didn’t say anything at first. Just stared down at him, heart tripping over itself.
He must’ve felt it, the catch in your breath, the way your eyes darted away.
So he smiled. That easy, unguarded smile only you ever really got. “I’m serious,” he said, softer now, like it was a secret. “I mean…I don’t want to. But I would. If it ever came down to it. I’d pick you.”
A bird called somewhere in the olive trees.
And you, too young, too hopeful, too caught up in the illusion of forever, had just laughed.
Not unkindly. But in that light, with the weight of his words too big for the summer heat, you didn’t know how else to carry them. “Lando,” you said, brushing a stray curl off his forehead. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not,” he insisted, eyes earnest now, voice stronger. “I know what I’m saying.”
You shook your head like you didn’t believe him. Like the idea of him ever walking away from racing was a fairytale, a love-drunk promise made in the golden glow of too-good-to-be-true.
Maybe that’s why you never brought it up again.
Maybe that’s why, when it finally did come down to choosing, neither of you knew how to let go without leaving scars.
But in that moment, with his head in your lap and the Italian sun wrapping around you both like a blessing, it almost felt possible.
You wish you’d believed him more than you did.
You wish he hadn’t meant it less than he did.
Present - Monaco, 2025
A beat passes too long. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something else. Something real.
From behind, Carlos appears, calling his name with a bright grin. And just like that, he steps away. Leaving you holding a coffee that’s gone cold. And a heart that hasn’t forgotten how it once held.
Hours later, alone in his driver’s room, Lando stares desperately at his phone. The message sits unsent. Again. His fingers hover above the screen, the words staring back at him like they’re daring him to hit send.
Monaco feels weird without you.
He sighs through his nose. Delete.
New draft. Quicker this time. Less feeling. More casual.
Carlos says you’re really helping Williams. Proud of you.
He backspaces faster than he typed it. Delete.
The third one hurts.
I still miss you.
He stares at it. His thumb wavers over the blue arrow. For a second, just one second, he thinks about sending it. About letting it hang in the air between you, no explanation needed.
But he doesn’t.
Delete.
His phone goes facedown on the table. He scrubs a hand over his jaw and exhales hard. The walls feel too quiet. The room too big. Monaco is supposed to feel electric, one of his favourite races outside Silverstone. But tonight, all it feels is hollow.
Because you’re here.
And not his.
Back in your hotel room, you lie face up on the bed.
You told yourself you’d be fine. It’s just another race. Another city. Another check-in, another routine. But Monaco isn’t just another anything. It’s the place where everything used to feel cinematic, where the line between the real world and the world you built with him blurred.
The hotel hasn’t changed.
Same view. Same bedsheets. Same stupid scent of jasmine soap that used to linger on his collarbones after he showered. And tonight, some stranger in the elevator passed too close, cologne like his, a trace of citrus and cedar, and your stomach flipped before you could stop it.
Worse still is the laugh.
At 2 a.m., down the hall, too familiar, too sharp, too him. It probably wasn’t even him. He’s at his own apartment somewhere in the city, but still, you froze at your door, keycard mid-swipe, listening with your breath caught in your throat.
But it wasn’t for you, anyways.
It hasn’t been for a long time.
So you do the only logical thing: you get drunk.
Carlos had invited you out, a double Williams points celebration or some other excuse. Alex and Lily would be there, he had assured you. He had failed to mention that the other drivers would also be there, celebrating Lando’s win amongst other things.
You trail to the rooftop bar, and lean against the counter, already a few shots in. Charles finds you, surrounded by too-loud music and tourists in sequins. He’s dejected, too. Second at his home race, so close to winning again. He knows better than to ask. Just hands you another drink and lets you talk around the thing you’re trying not to say.
Lando sees you before you see him. He watches the way you’re perched on a barstool, head tilted back, laughing at something Charles said. Your drink is half-gone, your cheeks are flushed, and for a second, it looks like Monaco hasn’t touched you at all.
You’re glowing. And it guts him.
Because that laugh used to be his. That glow used to be for him.
He watches from across the room, unseen, untouchable. A coward in the shadows. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t look.
He only looks at you.
And for the hundredth time that week, he thinks about Paris.
Flashback - Paris, 2024
The room was too small to be romantic, a fourth-floor walkup with creaky floors and no heating, but it was yours for the weekend. Rain tapped against the window panes like a soft metronome as you danced barefoot in one of his oversized hoodies, hair damp from a too-hot shower, face lit up by nothing but fairy lights and bad wine.
He watched you like you were a dream.
You twirled once, socks slipping on the hardwood. “You’re staring.”
“I know,” he said, breathless with something he didn’t yet have words for. “I’d marry you right now if I could.”
You froze, hoodie sliding off one bare shoulder.
“What?”
“I mean it,” he said. “No ring, no fanfare. Just us. You and me.”
You walked toward him slowly, something soft in your eyes. You touched his chest and murmured, “You’re lucky I’m a sucker for reckless boys with fast cars.”
And he was.
He still is.
But you’re not his anymore.
Present - Monaco, 2025
You left the bar early, tired of wallowing around in the presence of people who were so clearly happy. Charles had disappeared with Alexandra a few minutes earlier, so you thought it was best to bid Carlos goodbye and leave the party.
You walk aimlessly around the golden streets of Monaco, unsure of where you were going, but knowing that you couldn’t possibly return to the hotel just yet. Monaco glittered like always, gold, garish, glossy, but you felt grey.
The city didn’t care that your chest was full of heavy things, that you hadn’t really slept since you got here, that your smile cracked a little more every time someone mentioned his name like it didn’t still taste like heartbreak on your tongue.
You’d made it through the media center, through the polite nods and tighter-lipped smiles, through pretending this was just another race.
But then came the marina.
Quiet, silver-lit, half-asleep at night. You wandered there like muscle memory. You used to go there with him, late, always, when the rest of the world was spinning too fast. It was where he told you about his first F2 podium. Where you held his hand before his Monaco debut. Where you kissed him under fireworks and thought forever sounded a lot like this.
Tonight, you sit on a bench and cry as quietly as you can. Not pretty, cinematic tears, just the raw, embarrassing kind. The kind you’ve been swallowing for a year.
And suddenly, someone’s beside you.
You don’t look. You don’t have to.
You feel him before you see him.
Lando.
He doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t touch you. Just sits next to you like a ghost you forgot how to grieve.
Flashback - Spa, 2024
Rain taps against the windows of the rental car. You’re in the passenger seat, chewing your thumbnail while he checks his phone for the fifth time in five minutes.
“You said we’d spend the morning together.”
“I know, but Zak called. Just for a sec.”
You laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “It’s always ‘just for a sec.’ Always ‘just a call,’ just a debrief, just a meeting, just five minutes that turn into three hours.”
He sighs. “It’s my job.”
You stare out the window. “And I’m not?”
He doesn’t respond. Just turns the music up slightly.
You don't speak the rest of the drive.
Flashback - Tokyo, 2023
He’s jet-lagged and cuddled up behind you in the hotel bed, arms wrapped around your waist, breath warm on your neck.
“You ever think about the future?” you ask.
“Course I do.”
“What do you see?”
He hums, burying his nose into your shoulder. “You. Always you.”
You smile. “Doing what?”
“Dunno. Something normal. Coffee runs. Sunday walks. You on the pit wall, maybe. Me…not having to live out of suitcases.”
You turn to look at him. “You’d slow down for me?”
He smiles, sleep-drunk and soft. “I’d stop, if you asked.”
You didn’t ask.
You didn’t want to be the reason he stopped flying.
But God, you wanted him to land sometimes.
Flashback - London, 2024
You’re in his apartment, pacing. He’s jet-lagged and scrolling through emails, thumb flicking, eyes unfocused.
“You’re not listening,” you say.
“I am.”
“You’re not.” You stop, arms crossed. “You're never there, Lando.”
His jaw tenses. “You know what this job is.”
“This isn’t about the job.”
He looks up, finally. “Then what is it?”
You swallow. “It’s about you not showing up. Ever. Not to my reading, not to my sister’s dinner, not when I needed you. Not really.”
He scoffs, pushes off the couch. “I can’t keep apologising for being busy.”
You blink. “I wasn’t asking for sorry. I was asking for effort.”
Something shifts. The air changes.
“I’m doing the best I can,” he says, louder now. “You think this is easy?”
“I think loving me should matter.”
Silence.
The kind that starts in the throat and spreads to the room. The kind that means someone’s about to break.
He says, “Then maybe we’re done.”
You flinch.
You say, “Maybe we are.”
He doesn’t take it back.
You don’t either.
That was the last thing you ever said to each other.
Until now.
Present - Monaco, 2025
You don’t know how long you sit like that, him next to you, your breath still stuttering.
He finally speaks. Voice quieter than you remember.
“I never wanted to break up.”
You don’t move. Just stare at the boats, at the dark ripple of water.
“I just…” he breathes in, like the sentence costs him. “I didn’t know how to fix it.”
You nod, slow and sad.
“I didn’t want sorry,” you whisper. “I wanted you.”
He swallows. “I know that now.”
You finally look at him, really look, and it nearly wrecks you.
He looks the same. But not quite. Like something's worn at the edges of him, too.
There’s a pause.
A choice.
And somewhere in the silence, maybe a beginning. Or maybe just the truth, spoken at last.
The silence between you isn’t cold anymore. It’s quiet in a way that invites things in, soft truths, unspoken grief, the ache of maybe.
The waves lap gently against the dock. Somewhere far away, music drifts from a yacht party. But here, it’s just the two of you.
Still sitting side by side.
Still breathing the same air like it means something.
“Do you think we gave up too fast?” you ask, voice barely above the tide.
Lando doesn’t answer right away. You feel his body shift, a breath taken too deep. Like he wants to speak without cracking open.
“I think…” he says finally, “I was too scared to stay.”
You turn to look at him.
He’s not wearing his usual armor, no smile, no charm, no cool deflection. Just bare eyes, sad and honest. The kind of honesty that always came too late between you.
You nod. “Me too.”
A beat passes.
Then another.
And when he says it, it’s with a kind of quiet reverence. Like a confession.
“I never stopped loving you.”
The words drop like stones into still water. You feel them everywhere.
Your heart stutters.
Your throat goes tight.
You look at him, really look, and it’s all still there. Every soft glance, every half-finished laugh, every promise that didn’t know how to survive the pressure.
“I didn’t either,” you whisper.
He shifts, turns toward you slightly.
His hand twitches on the bench between you, reaching. Then stopping. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to touch you anymore.
You see the war on his face. Want versus restraint.
And you breathe out, gently but firmly: “Don’t do this unless you mean it.”
His eyes lift to yours.
“I’ve always meant it.”
And that’s the moment.
The exact second where maybe doesn’t feel so far away.
He leans forward, not to kiss you. Just to rest his forehead gently against yours. A touch so full of everything unsaid it makes your eyes sting.
There’s no rush. No fix-all.
Just his breath mingling with yours.
And the feeling that maybe, just maybe, the worst is behind you.
Present - The next morning
The sun breaks gently over the harbour, gilding everything in a soft, forgiving gold. It’s the kind of morning that feels like permission, to start over, or to let go, or maybe just to breathe again.
You and Lando walk slowly along the waterfront, shoulders brushing occasionally, eyes squinting against the light. There’s no need to fill the air, not anymore. The silence is comfortable now, something shared instead of endured.
He buys two coffees from a vendor with a crooked smile, hands you one just the way you like it. You tease him about finally remembering your order.
“Hard to forget something you used to say every morning,” he shrugs, grinning.
You sip. Walk a little more.
You talk about everything and nothing. The weather. The terrible music someone’s blasting from a yacht. How Charles is probably still asleep in yesterday’s clothes. You laugh, and he nudges you with his elbow like old times.
It’s easy.
Too easy.
And that’s what makes it dangerous.
You pause by the railing, fingers tracing the cool metal. The sea sparkles below like it doesn’t know what it’s taken from either of you.
“So,” you say, watching a boat pull away from the dock. “What now?”
Lando’s quiet for a moment. His coffee cradled in both hands. His voice, when it comes, is soft and certain.
“We take it slow. Or we don’t take it at all. But you’re not just gonna be a memory.”
He looks at you, eyes tired and hopeful all at once.
“Not if I can help it.”
The choice sits between you like the tide, steady, inevitable.
And now, it’s yours to make.
You take a breath, shaky, but sure.
Then you reach out and slip your hand into his.
No hesitation this time. No fear.
Lando freezes for a second, like he wasn’t expecting you to choose him, not again, not after everything. But then his fingers close around yours, warm and steady, and he lets out a breath that sounds like relief. Like home.
He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to.
Because this time, it’s not about grand gestures or second chances wrapped in fairy tale bows. It’s just you. Him. A slow morning in Monaco. And a choice that feels quiet but powerful.
You walk on, hand in hand. Past the boats. Past the past. Into whatever’s next.
No longer a secret.
No longer a maybe.
Just a beginning.
Future - Monaco, 2026
The harbour looks the same. But you don’t.
The chaos of race weekend buzzes in the distance, cameras clicking, engines whining, fans screaming from balconies, but here, tucked into a quiet café just up from the marina, the world feels still.
You’re seated across from him. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. Smile crooked, thumb tracing the lip of his espresso cup.
He’s talking about something ridiculous, Carlos’ golf swing or Oscar’s suspicious new skincare routine, and you’re laughing without thinking, head tilted back, completely at ease.
It’s been a year since the bench by the water.
A year since you said yes without needing the words. Since you let the past stay behind you. Since he promised, quietly but completely, that this time he’d show up.
And he has.
Not perfectly, but with intention. With effort. With the kind of love that isn’t loud, but lasting.
There were hard days. Days when old fears crept in, when silence felt too familiar, when “slow” felt like stuck. But there was honesty. Patience. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you found your rhythm again.
You still tease each other over coffee orders.
He still refuses to delete one of the worst photos of you from his camera roll because it makes him laugh.
You still reach for his hand in crowds, and he still squeezes back every single time.
He leans forward now, across the table, eyes scanning your face like he never quite got over the fact that you're here. With him. Still.
“You look proud of yourself,” you tease, sipping your drink.
“I am proud of myself,” he says. “For securing the coolest, smartest, most terrifyingly competitive girl in motorsport.”
You snort. “Terrifying?”
“Yeah. You should see your game face.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Always smiling now.
The morning sun glints off the water behind him. He looks out toward the spot you once cried beside, where he once sat down and didn’t know what would happen next.
And then he looks back at you.
“I’m really glad we didn’t give up,” he says.
You nod, softly. “Me too.”
He reaches for your hand over the table.
And when his fingers lace with yours, steady, sure, it feels nothing like the first time.
It feels better.
Because this isn’t a rescue. Or a restart.
It’s a life.
Yours. Together.
Quietly, and fully, and for real this time.
Yay! As always, requests are always open and I really appreciate you all! Thank you, my lovelies!!
Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more
Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse
“You’re doing it again.”
You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.
“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.
“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”
You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”
“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”
You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.
He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.
You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”
“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”
It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.
You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”
“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”
You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen.
Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.
“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”
You freeze. “What invitations?”
He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”
Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”
He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”
“No.”
It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.
Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”
“I’m not going.”
“You haven’t even heard-”
“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”
“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.
You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.
Vincent notices. His expression hardens.
“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”
“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”
You flinch like he’s hit you.
He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”
You say nothing.
“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”
“Then go,” you say quietly.
“You’re my girlfriend.”
You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.
Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”
Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.
“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”
You’re already shaking your head.
“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”
“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.
Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”
“Don’t,” you snap.
He stops.
“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”
Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”
The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.
You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.
You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.
Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”
You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.
“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”
You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.
So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”
His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”
You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.
Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.
Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.
You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.
You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”
You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.
***
The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.
Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.
“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.
You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”
The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.
You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.
Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.
By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.
***
Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.
A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.
Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”
You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.
The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.
Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.
You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.
You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.
“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.
You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.
Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.
You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.
***
The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.
You stare at the chandelier.
It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.
You can’t do this.
You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”
He glances up. “Now?”
“I’ll just be a second.”
He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.
You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.
You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.
You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.
He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”
Your throat closes.
He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”
You nod slowly. “Hi.”
He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”
You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”
He hands it to you without a word.
***
You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.
The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.
You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.
It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.
You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.
A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.
“You okay?”
You jump.
It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”
She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”
You force a smile. “Maybe.”
The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”
The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”
You nod. And then they’re gone.
***
By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.
He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”
“Out.”
“You disappeared.”
“I texted.”
“You didn’t.”
You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.
Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”
You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”
He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”
You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.
It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.
Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.
You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.
“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.
He pauses. “Who?”
“Just … someone from before.”
He looks confused. “From school?”
“No. From before that.”
A beat.
“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”
You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”
He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.
Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”
You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.
You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.
***
“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”
He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”
Your stomach drops.
“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”
Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”
Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”
“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”
You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”
“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”
Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”
He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”
You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”
“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”
You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”
He doesn’t flinch.
You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.
Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”
The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.
“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”
But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”
He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.
***
The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.
Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.
The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.
“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”
You try. It doesn’t work.
Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.
Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.
You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.
You stop walking.
“I need a second,” you whisper.
Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”
“I just need-”
Too late.
There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.
You turn the other way.
And that’s when you hear it.
“Y/N?”
It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.
You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.
It’s Charles.
The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.
“Y/N, wait!”
You don’t wait. You bolt.
Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.
You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.
You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.
In. Out. In.
It doesn’t work.
Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-
But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.
You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.
You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.
You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”
But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.
***
You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.
Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.
You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.
***
Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.
You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.
By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.
“Are you kidding me?”
You don’t respond.
He slams the door. “You ran.”
You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.
“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”
“I had a panic attack.”
That stops him cold.
You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.
His mouth opens. Then shuts.
You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”
Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”
“No. You didn’t.”
He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”
“You lied.”
“I was trying to help you move on.”
You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”
You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”
He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”
You don’t answer.
When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.
Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.
Are you okay?
You stare.
No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.
Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.
Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.
But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.
***
The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.
You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.
But then Vincent speaks.
“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”
You stiffen. “Leave for where?”
He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”
Your stomach churns.
“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.
“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.
“I can’t.”
Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”
“I had a panic attack yesterday.”
“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”
You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”
You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.
***
The paddock club is worse than you expected.
Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.
You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.
“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”
You turn to him. “I am.”
He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.
The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.
And then-
“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”
The suite erupts.
The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.
Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.
You stand. Too fast.
“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”
But no one hears you.
You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.
You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.
You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.
The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.
And that’s when you finally break.
You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.
You cry until you choke.
***
It’s hours before he finds you.
Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.
Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.
And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.
He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.
“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.
You flinch.
“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”
Your breathing hitches.
You don’t look up.
He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.
“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”
Tears slip down your cheeks again.
“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”
Your head lifts.
And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.
Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.
“Puis-je? Can I?”
You nod.
His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.
“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”
A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.
He pulls you into him.
You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.
“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”
In. Out.
“Comme ça. Like that.”
You match his rhythm, barely.
His voice is a metronome.
“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”
You nod, weakly.
“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”
That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.
Charles strokes your back slowly.
“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”
Another breath. This one deeper.
“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”
Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.
And still, Charles doesn’t let go.
“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”
You nod again, unable to speak.
He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.
***
The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.
He closes the door quietly behind you.
“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”
You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”
He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”
You sit.
He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.
“I won,” he says quietly.
You blink.
“What?”
“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”
A beat.
Your eyes widen.
“You — Charles.”
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.
“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”
He steps forward.
“No.”
You stop.
“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”
Your throat tightens.
He steps closer.
“When I saw you again.”
You try to look away.
He tilts your chin up with two fingers.
“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”
You look up at him — really look.
And the boy you knew is still there.
Not buried. Not broken.
Just older. Like you.
You nod, slowly.
“I’m breathing,” you whisper.
His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”
Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.
***
The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.
Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.
He glances at you at a red light.
“You okay?”
You nod.
“You don’t have to pretend.”
You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”
“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”
The light turns green.
The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.
His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.
And dog.
Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.
“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”
Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.
You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”
Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”
“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”
“He’s a Leclerc.”
You snort. “Touché.”
Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.
Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.
“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”
***
The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.
You sip, then drain the whole glass.
“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”
Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”
“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”
“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”
He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”
The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.
You don’t speak at first.
The food is too good.
Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.
Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“You won Monaco.”
“And I found you again.”
Your heart stumbles.
He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”
You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”
His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I ran.”
“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”
You blink.
He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”
You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.
“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”
Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.
“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”
“I know.”
You glance at him. “You do?”
He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”
You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.
“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”
“So why didn’t you?”
His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”
You nod. “Me too.”
He turns back to you.
“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.
You hesitate.
“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”
Charles swallows. “I hate that.”
“Me too.”
His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”
You blink. “You do?”
“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”
You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”
He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.
“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”
“I threw a spoon at him.”
“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”
You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.
Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”
You glance up at him.
The look between you settles deep.
Warm. Familiar. Real.
He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.
Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.
“I’m glad you came.”
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know,” he says. “But you did.”
You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.
Not like glass.
Like thaw.
Like something cold finally learning warmth again.
You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.
“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.
“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.
You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.
Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”
You take it without question.
***
The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.
Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.
“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”
You nod. Then pause.
“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”
“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.
You look at him.
“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”
You nod.
He starts to leave, then turns back.
“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”
You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.
“You always mattered more.”
He smiles. Small. Real.
“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.
The door clicks softly behind him.
You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.
***
Back then, everything was simpler.
You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.
“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”
Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”
“Like … twenty-five.”
He snorts. “That’s not old.”
You grin. “Feels ancient.”
He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”
You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”
“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”
You go quiet.
He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.
You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”
“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”
Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.
He looks at you then — really looks.
And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.
It’s a promise.
Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.
You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”
He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”
“Never.”
You meant it. So did he.
***
You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.
And then-
Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.
“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”
The door creaks open.
“You’re awake.”
Charles is holding a tray.
“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.
His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.
“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.
“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”
You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”
“I go every Monday.”
You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.
Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”
You look at him. Hard.
He holds your gaze.
“Because I missed you,” he adds.
You bite your lip.
“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”
Your chest tightens.
“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”
You stare at the tray again.
Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”
“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”
You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.
Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.
You shake your head. “It’s too much.”
“I can take it.”
You exhale, staring at your hands.
“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”
Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”
“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”
“Fuck that.”
You blink.
He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”
A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”
“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”
You look at him.
“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”
You nod, fast, eyes blurry.
“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”
He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”
You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.
“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”
“I know.”
Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.
Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.
And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.
It feels like a bridge.
***
Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.
“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.
“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”
“And then you fell.”
“I leapt.”
“You cried.”
“I landed emotionally.”
You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.
Charles grins, slouched and easy.
“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.
He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”
“Yeah. Before everything.”
“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”
You fall quiet.
You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.
You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”
“For what?” Charles asks.
“To feel this again.”
He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”
You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”
He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”
The dachshund barks on cue.
You smile.
“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.
Your brows rise.
He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”
You hesitate.
Then nod. “Okay.”
A beat.
Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”
You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”
He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”
***
The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.
You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.
“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.
You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”
You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.
He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”
You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”
“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”
You bite your lip.
“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”
You nod, chest tight.
The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.
And then-
“Y/N?”
You stop cold.
You know that voice.
Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.
Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.
You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.
He blinks once. Then twice.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”
The air shifts.
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”
Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”
“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.
His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”
“Vincent-”
“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”
Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.
“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”
“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.
“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”
You flinch.
Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”
Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”
Silence.
The world tilts.
Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”
“I left because of you,” you whisper.
He blinks.
“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”
Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.
“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”
He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”
You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.
Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”
You glance at Charles.
“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”
That does something to you.
But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.
You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.
“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”
“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”
He swallows.
“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”
“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.
***
That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.
You don’t go back to the hotel either.
You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.
Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.
You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.
You whisper, “I’m so tired.”
And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.
Not quiet. Not graceful.
You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.
You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.
And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.
He finds you there, curled in on yourself.
You don’t look up.
Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.
You exhale, broken and sharp.
“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”
He matches his breath to yours.
You inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
Again.
Your body starts to slow.
You lean into him.
“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.
You nod into his chest.
He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.
When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”
He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”
You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”
“I get it,” he says. “I do.”
You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”
He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”
He pauses.
“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”
You close your eyes.
“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”
You whisper, “But he was so good.”
“I know.”
“I wanted to be like him.”
“You were.”
You finally meet his eyes.
Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”
Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.
“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.
“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”
***
You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.
But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.
The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”
You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.
It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.
But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”
So you’re here. And you’re trying.
You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.
You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.
Marion doesn’t push.
Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.
“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”
You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.
“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”
You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.
“I want to try,” you say.
And for the first time in years, you mean it.
***
Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.
It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.
Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.
He doesn’t ask too many questions.
He doesn’t hover.
He’s just there.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.
You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”
He nods.
“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”
“I know.”
“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”
Charles exhales slowly.
You feel his breath against your hair.
“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”
He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.
“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”
You squeeze his hand.
That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.
***
The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Back and forth. Left and right.
You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.
It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.
But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.
You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.
“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.
“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”
You smile at the ceiling.
And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.
Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.
***
Vincent texts twice.
The first is vague.
We should talk.
The second is manipulative.
I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.
You don’t answer.
You don’t owe him that anymore.
Instead, you text Charles.
Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.
He sends back.
Come to Fiorano.
You blink at the screen.
Fiorano?
Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.
You stare at the message.
I’ll think about it.
But you already know you’re going.
***
It takes three trains to get to Maranello.
You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.
When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.
A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”
You nod.
You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.
When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.
Charles is out there.
Not Charles your childhood best friend.
Not Charles your heartbreak.
Not Charles your anchor.
Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.
The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.
You watch.
He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.
You’ve never seen anyone so alive.
Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.
You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.
And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.
He doesn’t wave.
He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.
You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.
And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.
It feels like memory.
It feels like home.
***
The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.
You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.
The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.
You hover at the gate longer than you should.
And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-
“Ma chérie-”
You go.
You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.
Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.
There’s grief there.
And love.
And something like relief.
“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.
“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”
“Charles?”
You nod.
She smiles.
The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.
You don’t go upstairs.
Not yet.
Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.
***
Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.
“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.
Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.
“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.
You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”
“I train now,” he says, smug.
Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.
“You okay?”
“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”
He nods. That’s enough.
The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.
You laugh too much. You drink too fast.
Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.
At one point, you catch him watching you.
He doesn’t look away.
***
After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.
You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.
Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.
“Were you-”
“No,” Charles says, too fast.
“Yes,” you say, at the same time.
Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.
But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.
***
Later, the house grows quiet.
Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”
Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.
And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.
“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.
“To your room?”
You nod.
He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”
You nod again.
***
Your bedroom is a time capsule.
The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.
Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.
He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”
“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”
“I know.”
You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”
“Are you?”
You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”
Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.
“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”
Your chest tightens.
“I know.”
“But I also knew why.”
You stare at the floor between you.
“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”
He doesn’t move.
“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”
“Did you?”
“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”
He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.
You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.
“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”
It hits like a second heartbeat.
You close your eyes.
“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”
He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”
You look at him. Really look.
“I’m scared,” you say.
“So am I,” he murmurs.
And then-
Then he kisses you.
Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.
You kiss him back.
There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.
Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.
You pull back first, eyes wide.
“I-”
But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.
“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”
You do.
You stay.
***
It’s been a year.
Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.
Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.
Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.
A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.
“Is this real?” You ask.
Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.
“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”
You look up. Your throat tightens.
“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”
You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”
You blink fast. “Of Charles?”
“Of both of you.”
***
You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.
The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.
You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.
The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.
From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.
You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.
You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.
You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.
Now-
You watch him fly.
***
Lap after lap.
Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.
You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.
You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.
You see Charles.
You see yourself.
You see surviving.
***
He crosses the finish line first.
The garage explodes in noise.
People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.
You don’t move.
Not at first.
You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.
Then a hand grabs yours.
It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”
***
The pit lane is chaos.
Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.
The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.
He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.
You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.
But then-
He turns.
And his eyes find you like they always do.
He doesn’t walk.
He runs.
He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.
“You made it,” he says.
You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.
“So did you.”
He kisses you.
Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.
It’s not hesitant this time.
It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.
***
Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.
He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.
“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.
“Winning Monaco?”
You nod.
He glances at you. Smiles.
“Better with you here.”
Your breath catches.
“I’m proud of you,” you say.
His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”
He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”
You grin. “So modest.”
He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.
Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”
you had me at throat slit ⟢ OP81 series (coming soon!)
main masterlist | fic playlist
PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader
SUMMARY: oscar was completely okay of being single, though lando says otherwise. lando had managed to convince oscar in joining a dating app—under fake name with a cursed meme for a profile pic, and mostly expecting nothing. but then he matches with you—a gorgeous girl, awkward, sarcastic, emotionally bruised, and just as skeptical about online dating. somehow, your weirdness clicks with oscar's.
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: use of y/n, face claims, photos taken from pinterest, satire, humor (dark humor), crack au, dating apps, inaccurate information, awkward, unhinged, memes are maybe a bit too much, dump accounts as form of freedom of expression, and minor typographical errors.
FACE CLAIM: liang lawrence (& others)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's me again! with new oscar smau. i'm really into smaus these days, and maybe i'll stick into doing stuff like this up until i'm finally okay with writing full length aus. i've mentioned this the last time, but as of the moment, writing full length aus drains me so much bc there's a lot of typing and proofreading—which can be really tiring. i'll be staring this smau once i'm done with the oscar smau that i'm currently working on.
part one ⟢ part two ⟢ part three ⟢ part four ⟢ part five ⟢ part six ⟢ part seven ⟢ part eight ⟢ part nine ⟢ part ten ⟢ part eleven ⟢ part twelve (ending) ⟢ alt. ending
HIII omg i love your writings!! got this idea while i was in the bathroom blasting alchemy by taylor swift and you were the first writer i thought of that i know would slay this!
Reader is a known singer but she doesnt really write love songs which charles is completely fine about. His friends ask and tease him about it and he brushes it off then one night on one of her tours she sings alchemy for the first time while charles is watching from the crowd. His whole world stops and maybe even tears up then he just goes on for days bragging about it. HUMOUR AND FLUFFF WHATEVER U WANT THANK YOU SO MUCH
WHERES THE TROPHY?
Charles Leclerc x Singer! Reader | fluff
SULI: hiii omg you have no idea how much it means remembering me first🥹 thank you soooo much!!!!! — very cool because I actually do have a singer!readers series coming up but none of the love interests is Charles sadly— but I really love singer au's and this was so much fun to write! Thank you so much for requesting, love you, hope you enjoy🫶
I'm absolutely obsessed with this song — stream "The alchemy" now!!!
Warnings: none, short and sweet, Twitter post at the end
Charles liked to think he had you figured out.
At least, the version of you the world didn’t get to see — the quiet one, the tired one after long studio nights, the version that wore his hoodie to bed and snuck kisses onto his shoulder when you thought he was sleeping.
He liked being the silent inspiration, the person behind the curtain. You were his in private — that was more than enough.
"She doesn't write love songs."
That was the line Charles Leclerc had come to know and love. He’d heard it in interviews, read it in headlines, and smiled through every late-night talk show where someone inevitably asked, “So, do you really not write about him?”
The camera would zoom in, the crowd would laugh, and you’d flash that sly little grin. “Don't worry, if I wrote a love song,” you always said, “you’d know it.”
Charles didn’t mind. In fact, he was fine with it.
You were his.
Even if the rest of the world liked to think you belonged to them.
The fans, the cameras, the interviews — they all wanted pieces. But Charles had long made peace with being the part no one else got to hear in the songs.
Because you didn’t write love songs.
Everyone said so.
You said so.
And Charles believed it. Until the night you didn’t.
...
back, first year of dating
“You still haven’t written a song about me,” Charles teased from the couch, bare feet on the floor, one arm lazily slung around your waist. His eyes were half-lidded, lips curled into that soft smile he only gave you when the world was quiet.
You rolled your eyes, brushing your fingers through his curls. “You say that like you’re not already in every other one.”
“Yes, but I want the main character treatment,” he said, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest. “The standing ovation. The bridge that emotionally ruins people.”
You just laughed, kissed his cheek, and said, “Maybe when you win Monaco.”
He groaned. “Cruel woman.”
...
He hadn't told you he was coming.
You were in the middle of a sold-out run through Europe, and Charles was drowning in simulator sessions and car debriefs. But when he saw the gap in his schedule, he booked the ticket quietly, packed light, and told his engineers he was leaving for “something more important than tyre degradation.”
Barcelona was a quick flight from Monaco. Your show there had been sold out for months, and he knew better than to try and sneak in through backstage. So he did what no one expected:
He lined up like everyone else.
He didn’t tell you. You were always happiest on stage, and he wanted to be just another face in the crowd that night. Just a quiet, anonymous dot in a sea of lights and sweat and noise.
Hood up, cap low, a simple black tee that did nothing to hide how gorgeous he was. He bought a pit wristband from resale (triple the price, but whatever), pushed into the crowd, and waited.
His heart beat harder the closer it got to showtime.
He didn’t know why. He’d seen you perform dozens of times. Hell, he’d watched you rehearse in sweats with a tea bag hanging out of your mouth. He lived with you.
But something about tonight buzzed different.
The lights dimmed.
The crowd erupted.
And then you appeared.
...
You always had a certain way of standing still — calm, rooted, like you didn’t need fireworks to be the most magnetic person in the room. Charles felt the shift the second you stepped up to the mic.
“This one’s new,” you said softly.
The crowd stilled.
“I wasn’t planning to play it live yet, but…”
You paused, and smiled.
“He’s here tonight.”
The girls around Charles screamed.
He went still.
No.
You’re not—
The opening chords were simple, soft. A rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat.
"Shirts off, and your friends lift you up over their heads, Champagne sticking to the floor"
The lyrics felt so close, so personal, Charles swore you were staring right at him, even though you couldn’t see him through the crowd.
"Cheers chanted, cause they said, There was no chance, trying to be The greatest in the league"
And then.
Then.
“Where’s the trophy? He just comes running over to me.”
Charles’s knees nearly buckled.
The lyric struck him like a punch to the gut.
He didn’t even breathe for a second — chest tight, hands shaking, mouth parted in stunned silence.
You remembered.
Monaco.
That day.
The crowd, the flags, the win — his first home win. The one he had chased like a ghost for years.
He remembered the noise, the champagne, the cameras flashing. But more than anything, he remembered you, standing behind the barrier, tucked to the side — quiet and glowing and waiting.
He hadn’t even thought.
He just ran.
Straight to you. Through the crowd. Past everyone. Helmet barely off.
You caught him in your arms like you’d been waiting there your whole life.
“Where’s the trophy?” the reporter had asked him after.
And he’d smiled before glancing over at you.
...
By the time you hit the final chorus, Charles had completely given up pretending he was okay.
His eyes were glassy. His cheeks were damp.
A teenage girl next to him elbowed her friend and whispered, “That guy is, like, sobbing.”
He didn’t even notice.
When you sang the last line and let the guitar fall quiet, Charles couldn’t move.
The stadium exploded in sound.
You bowed.
The lights went out.
And he just stood there — one hand pressed over his heart, whispering the lyric under his breath like a prayer.
...
Backstage, everything felt like static.
You were mid-change when a tech knocked on the greenroom door.
“Uh… sorry, there’s a guy trying to come back here. He says he’s your boyfriend? Hoodie, cap, extremely beautiful—kind of panicked?”
You laughed, heart already racing.
“Let him in.”
Charles barrelled into the room like a man possessed.
“You—” he said, voice raw.
You turned, makeup still smudged, hair frizzing from sweat, and barely had time to open your arms before he was there — pulling you into him like he hadn’t seen you in years.
“Monaco?” he whispered.
You nodded against his chest.
He pulled back just slightly, hands cupping your face, eyes red-rimmed and earnest. “You remembered.”
“Of course I did.”
“You wrote about it.”
A breathless laugh. “You wrote about me.”
You shrugged playfully, nose brushing his. “Guess you’re the main character now.”
His grin cracked wide and helpless, and then he kissed you. Soft, slow, deep — the kind of kiss that says thank you and I love you and I’m never letting this go.
“You’re screwed now,” he whispered, grinning against your mouth.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to brag about this forever.”
...
And he did.
The next morning:
And for the rest of the season, no matter how many podiums he earned, Charles had one answer to every post-race interview:
Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.
Genre : angst, SMAU
Pairing : Lando Norris x reader
Face claim : @suanbeiii
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SUMMARY 𝄡 There's a stray child in the McLaren garage, and of course, Lando is the one who has to deal with it.
PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Single Mother! FemReader
TAGS 𝄡 Fluff.
WORDCOUNT 𝄡 1k.
NOTE 𝄡 The cutest thing I've ever written ( yet ). This drabble is about another pairing I had in mind... <33
likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!
Something tugged at Lando’s race suit.
Amid the paddock frenzy, that subtle touch⏤so gentle he first thought he’d imagined it⏤startled him enough to abandon his pre-race ritual.
He looked down.
And found himself nose-to-nose with a pair of big amber eyes.
Lando blinked.
The child blinked back.
“What the—?” he murmured before crouching to her level. “What are you doing here, muppet? Where are your parents?”
She let go of his leg, stuffed her fist into her mouth—long enough for drool to glisten down her chin and wrist—and dropped onto the ground with a soft oomph.
She smacked her lips a few times—undoubtedly mimicking someone—and then clapped her hands, giggling.
“Mama!”
Lando cast a desperate glance around him, but the engineers and mechanics paid him no mind, wholly absorbed in their final adjustments to the car.
“I don’t know where your mama is.”
He ran a hand through his curls as stress began to rise. The girl looked at him with wide, hopeful eyes, only fuelling the tsunami building in his chest.
Of course it had to happen to him.
“Well... what am I supposed to do with you now?”
For a fleeting moment, he considered calling Oscar, who was probably still holed up in his room, but the Aussie driver was just as hopeless in situations like this—if not worse. His mother’s face flashed through his mind, and he suppressed a shiver at the thought of her scolding him.
That’s when he noticed it.
Tucked between the girl’s overalls and t-shirt, a lanyard.
Carefully, Lando pulled it free and let out a sigh of relief when he saw the pass. He flipped it over, softened momentarily at the ID photo, and read the name printed in bold.
“Apolline L/N? Well, at least we know you're not a paddock intruder, muppet.”
She giggled as if she understood him, then tipped forward—still figuring out her balance, clearly. Lando caught her before she hit the ground, muttering a quiet thanks for his fast reflexes.
As he resumed reading, he absentmindedly rubbed her back. Shaken by her near tumble, she had settled her head against his chest, sucking on her thumb.
Apolline L/N
VIP ACCESS
A guest of: SCUDERIA FERRARI
“Well, I guess your mama’s probably over at Ferrari. What do you say, Apolline?” He leaned back to meet her gaze. “Shall we go for a walk?”
He stood, a child in his arms and tiny fingers clinging to his fireproofs.
Together, they set off.
Eyes lingered on the duo as they passed by. Whispers soon followed. What was Lando Norris doing with a small girl in his arms? Was that his sister? His daughter from a past fling?
He could already imagine the headlines, always eager to twist the narrative. Watching warily as a cameraman aimed his lens at them, he tucked Apolline's head into his neck and tightened his embrace before quickening his pace.
He passed Williams, then Mercedes—ignoring George’s raised eyebrow—and finally stopped in front of the red garage.
The usual Monaco frenzy took on a different flavour here. Lando could almost taste the tension soaked into every inch of the garage.
Ferrari wasn’t swept up in Monaco mania, no; they were drowning in Chaos.
A Charles in full race gear paced, his phone pressed to his ear, while a flustered Alexandra—so far removed from her usual elegance—tried to comfort a woman in tears.
Her sobs drowned out the frantic conversations of the team, whose faces all wore the same expression: that of pure dread.
In his arms, Apolline began to wriggle.
“Mama!”
At the sound, the woman spun around. She tore herself from Alexandra’s arms and ran to Lando.
The latter remained frozen as he took in the woman before him. His eyes darted between her sparkling gaze and her intoxicating mouth. They would have travelled further down—drawn to the delicious lines of her figure in that dress—had she not spoken, brows furrowed.
“May I have my daughter back?”
Her French accent nearly made him faint.
“What? Your daughter… Oh—uh—yeah! Of course!” he stammered. “She’s yours. Right. Obviously.”
Clumsily, he transferred Apolline into her mother’s arms. She hugged the girl tightly before setting her down and checking her over.
“Mon ange! You scared me to death! Don't ever do that again. If you want to go wandering, we’ll go together. Understood?”
The little girl just laughed, unfazed by the turmoil she’d caused, and dashed off into the garage. Lando watched her wrap herself around Alexandra’s legs, and then—
Vanilla.
Lando instinctively hugged the woman back. He buried his nose in her hair and breathed in the sweet scent as his hands tightened on her back.
“Thank you,” she whispered with the kind of gratitude only a mother could convey.
When she stepped back, Lando was already mourning the warmth of her body against his. Flushing, he rubbed the back of his neck to chase the thought away and shrugged.
Control yourself, she has a child.
“It’s nothing. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
“Still. It means a lot.”
She offered her hand.
“I’m Y/N.”
“Lando.”
Alexandra called her over. Y/N gave him a small, apologetic smile—one that did something strange to his chest—and turned to walk away, tossing a final “thank you” over her shoulder.
Lando stayed there, a little dazed.
A throat cleared, breaking the spell.
Fred Vasseur stood in front of him with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. Only then did Lando realize half the garage was staring at him.
Knowing he had overstayed his welcome, he turned on his heel and headed back toward the McLaren garage—but not without grabbing Charles by the collar. The Monegasque struggled against his hold before freezing as Lando leaned in and whispered:
“Give me Y/N’s number, or I’m crashing into you at turn one, constructors’ championship be damned.”
you say good morning, when its midnight ⟢ OP81 (part 4)
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PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader
SUMMARY: you and oscar grew up together, and despite being neighbors and best friends with her sister, hattie, you never really talked or had a conversation with him. until one day, where he randomly texted you out of nowhere.
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: use of y/n, (a little) slow burn, humor, fluff, inaccurate information, no consistent face claims, all photos are from pinterest, weird, awkward, unhinge, reader is a little bit ball of a mess, long distance relationships, and minor typographical errors.
WORD COUNT: none
AUTHOR'S NOTES: part 4! the song that i use for this part is actually a filo music, from an artist named 'zild," i'm not sure if there's an english translation for it. also, if i have any filo f1 baddies readers, hello! heh. sorry if it's a bit short, i'll make the next ones longer. enjoy! :)
yn.jpg 🔒
📍tiong bahru, singapore
liked by yourmom, yourbrother, hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri, oscarpiastri, nathanleong, and 345 others
tagged: hattiepiastri , tiongbahrubakery
yn.jpg went all out on my twin flame's last day in sg before she flies back to australia ♡
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hattiepiastri best week ever! i'll definitely be back. maybe in your graduation soon? 🤔
yn.jpg you know you're always welcome to come back!! and maybe, hm?
nicolepiastri thank you for taking such good care of her, sweetheart!
yn.jpg always welcome! 💖
yourmom my girls! come back again soon, hattie ❤️
yn.jpg oh she'll def be back, mum 😆
hattiepiastri
📍singapore
liked by nicolepiastri, oscarpiastri, yn.jpg, and 1,677 others
tagged: yn.jpg
hattiepiastri a week in humid heaven with my favorite girl. went shopping and sweated a lot, but i'll see you again soon!!
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yn.jpg already uninstalling find my friends so i don't see your dot moving further away from me 😞💔
hattiepiastri i'll be back soon bc nothing can separate me from you!!!!
nicolepiastri bring me back something better than duty free biscuits this time
hattiepiastri 🫡🫡🫡
yn.jpg don't worry, auntie! i made sure that hattie will be bringing back some singaporean goodies for all of you!! ♡
oscarpiastri am i included?
yn.jpg i think that will be on hattie's discretion whether you're included or not 😆 jk!
hattiepiastri posted to their story!
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synopsis: what happens when you—the girl who has everything—finally realize you were never going to get the only thing you truly wanted?
warning: slight swearing, inaccurate timeline, stalker-ish behavior (really depends on how you perceive it), maybe ooc (SLIGHTLY cuz i’m just thinking how they’d act in a certain situation 😭)
note: it’s the amazing one sided chasing trope! 👏🏻 i waited for times like this!! so happy that i finally got an idea of how i wanted this to turn out, this was LONG Y’ALL. i also wanna say that some situations ARE kind off giving weird behavior like it’s giving obsesssion 😣 but honestly i fw it in fiction, FICTION cuz in real life this ain’t cute… ngl i wrote this for myself since i did not see any stories with this trope but i was like i’ll share it cuz why nottttt
this will be the final fic i post before i go on a short hiatus cuz of college, we have finals coming up aughhhh i’ll probably still be active but not posting for a while…
always remember that everyone is fictional and are for entertainment purposes only! enjoy!!
let me know your thoughts and comments (if you have any)
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2015
It was 2015.
You wore white silk to the paddock that day, even though it was sweltering. It clung to your skin like memory, and your mother had told you it looked like something someone much older would wear. You didn’t care. It was delicate and serious, like you.
The Monaco Grand Prix was always more spectacle than sport. Yachts glittered in the harbor, the wealthy elite wore linen, and cameras followed your every blink — not because of you, but because of your last name. Baudelaire. Your family had sponsored half the grid in some form for decades and the other half wanted in.
But you weren’t there for the men who smiled at your father or the ones who tried to guess your nail color.
You were there for him.
Carlos Sainz. The guy who was newly promoted to Formula One. Eyes like fire smothered in honey. He wasn’t the golden boy but there was something about Carlos. Quiet. Tactical. Good under pressure.
You remembered meeting him once before, years ago at a sponsor dinner in Madrid. You were sixteen, clumsy with your wine glass, and he had smiled at you as you stuttered over your name. He didn’t remember that day.
But you did.
Now you stood outside the Toro Rosso hospitality tent with your VIP pass, trying not to look like a lost puppy. Your assistant had offered to “deliver a message” instead, but you declined. You were determined. You were a Baudelaire.
You had to do it yourself.
He stepped out in his fire suit, zipper down to his chest, heat clinging to his curls. His brow was slightly furrowed from qualifying, where he’d just missed Q3. His engineer stood nearby, distracted.
You cleared your throat. “Carlos.”
He turned, and when he looked at you, you could almost pretend he knew who you were.
“Hi.” His voice was polite, a little tired. “Can I help you?”
You smiled. Not your press smile. Your real one, the one that made your stomach twist because it felt too soft.
“I just wanted to say,” you began, heart rattling in your ribs, “I think you’re brilliant. And I… I like you a lot.”
His eyes widened.
You rushed ahead. “I’ve liked you since you were in Formula Renault. Since Madrid. I know this is crazy. I just thought—”
He exhaled slowly. “You’re sweet. Really. But I’m not interested in… that. Not right now.”
Not right now.
You laughed a little. “Because of the race?”
“No,” he said gently. “Because I’m focused on my career. I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I’m flattered, though. Thank you.”
The worst part wasn’t the rejection. It was how kind he was about it. As if he didn’t want to hurt you. As if he thought that would make it better.
You nodded, smiled again and walked away before your face could fall apart.
That night, in the hotel bathtub, you replayed every word he’d said. Every inflection. Every pause. And you made a promise that this wasn’t over.
Maybe next year, he’d see.
Barcelona, Spanish Grand Prix 2016
The paddock in Barcelona smelled like heat and home.
You always said Madrid was your real home, but Barcelona made you feel closer to him — to the part of him that came alive behind the wheel. You’d timed your arrival on purpose. It was qualifying day. You could feel the adrenaline all over your body.
A year had passed. A long, precise year of silence and self-restraint. You hadn’t reached out. You hadn’t cornered him at any after-parties. You’d let it all go quiet. Your family had renewed their Toro Rosso sponsorship, and you’d made sure your name came up in boardrooms.
Now, you were back. Older, sharper. Your hair was different — shorter. You wore red this time.
Not because it was Ferrari red though, but because it was brave.
You found him near the pit wall, running through data with his engineer. The track noise was so loud it should have drowned out your heartbeat, but somehow it didn’t. You waited until his eyes drifted, until he noticed you standing just beyond the ropes, behind the branded banners.
He blinked once. Then again when he finally sees you clearly.
Recognition.
He didn’t smile, but he didn’t look away either.
You walked up like it hadn’t taken you weeks to build the courage.
“Hi,” you said, voice calm.
“Hey,” he replied, mildly surprised. “You again.”
That stung a little, but you didn’t flinch. “I wanted to say good luck. Home race. That’s got to mean something.”
“It does.” His tone was unreadable. Tired, maybe. Slightly distracted. “Thanks.”
You nodded, pretending you came all this way just for that. Yet you didn’t turn to leave.
He noticed.
“I thought we… talked about this,” he said, softer this time.
“I know,” you said. “But I’ve had a year to think, and I’m not embarrassed anymore. I don’t regret telling you. And if I keep regretting things I feel, I’ll just spend my life swallowing them.”
He ran a hand through his hair, glancing away like you’d just told him something personal about yourself. Maybe you had.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. “I still feel the same.”
You smiled. You didn’t cry. You never cried in front of him. “That’s okay. I just wanted to be honest.”
And then you added, before you could stop yourself, “Next year, if I feel the same… maybe I’ll tell you again.”
That made him smile, a little. “You’re stubborn.”
“You drive fast in cars for a living,” you replied, “and I’m the reckless one?”
His laugh was brief, but real.
You walked away before the ache could settle too deep in your chest, before you could second-guess the confession for a second year in a row. But you didn’t delete the photo your assistant snapped from across the paddock. The one where Carlos is watching you leave with a strange, unreadable look on his face.
You kept it. You looked at it sometimes.
You told yourself that it’s just one more year.
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2017
Monaco.
The shimmering streets, the elegant yachts, and the race that held the weight of years of history. Everything about this place screamed success, glamour, and achievement. And you… you wanted to be part of it all. Not just because it was Monaco, but because you needed him to finally see you.
Carlos was with Renault now. It wasn’t Toro Rosso anymore, it wasn’t the underdog team. It was a step up. So you did as well.
You weren’t just watching from the sidelines anymore. This year, you were in it. You had used your family’s connections to sponsor the Renault team. The deal had been a big one — a lucrative one. It wasn’t just a small gesture, but a powerful one. You wanted to prove that you could do more than be a girl with a crush. You wanted to show him that you were capable, that you weren’t just another face in the crowd.
But Carlos didn’t see it like that. At least, that’s how it felt. He didn’t seem to notice the way your eyes followed him, how your presence had shifted from a passive observer to someone who was deeply invested in his career.
The paddock buzzed with the usual noise. Mechanics rushed around, engineers discussed strategy, and the air smelled faintly of fresh rubber and gasoline. You stood at the edge of the action, not far from where Carlos was talking to his team, though he didn’t notice you at first. He was distracted, focused, his mind locked on the task at hand.
When he finally looked up, his eyes met yours across the bustling paddock, and for a moment, it was like the world slowed down. You were standing in front of the Renault team’s private area, and he was near his car, helmet in hand. The weight of it all seemed too much. You had invested so much in this team. In him to finally look at you.
He nodded briefly when he saw you, the faintest trace of recognition crossing his face.
You stepped forward, trying to hide the nervous flutter in your chest. “Hey, Carlos,” you called out, trying to keep your voice steady.
“Hey,” he greeted you with the same polite but distant tone that had become all too familiar. “You’re here for the weekend?”
“Yeah,” you said, trying to smile. “I wanted to stop by and check in. You know, show my support.” You gestured vaguely toward the team, your sponsorship deal visible in the Renault branding around the garage. “Big deal this year.”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s a good opportunity.”
There was an awkward silence. You both stood there, neither knowing what to say next. You could feel the weight of the moment, the space between you widening with every passing second. The whole reason you were here — the reason you’d pushed so hard to sponsor his team — was to make him see you. To make him realize you weren’t just some fleeting thing. That you had always been here, supporting him.
But Carlos wasn’t giving you anything. He was polite, yes. He was kind, even. But there was no recognition of your feelings. No softening of his usually stoic expression.
You took a deep breath, letting the frustration that had been simmering inside you spill out. “Carlos, I… I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Not just because of the sponsorship or the business side of it, but because I care. I’ve cared for a long time.”
He looked at you, as if the words were unexpected. The briefest flicker of something crossing his eyes, but he quickly masked it. “I know you care,” he said, voice quiet, careful. “And I appreciate it. But I told you last year, and I’m not going to change my mind.”
Your heart sank, and the words that followed felt almost robotic. “I know. You don’t have to. I just… I don’t want to keep pretending that I don’t feel this way.”
He took a step back, and for a brief, heart-wrenching second, you thought he might reach out, say something that might change everything. But he didn’t. He only glanced back at the team, the sound of a mechanic calling his name pulling his attention away from you.
“I have to go,” he said, his tone colder now. “Good luck with everything.”
“Good luck to you too,” you echoed, the words falling flat.
Carlos turned away from you, walking back to the team. You stood frozen, staring at his retreating figure. The ache in your chest felt almost unbearable. You had invested everything you had into this and yet, he hadn’t even acknowledged the depth of what you were offering.
You didn’t leave. You didn’t know how to. You watched him disappear into the Renault garage, a part of you still clinging to the hope that maybe… just maybe he would turn around, that something would change.
Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Spanish Grand Prix 2018
The sun blazed down on the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, casting a golden glow over the paddock, but you barely noticed the warmth. The race, the engines, the anticipation of the Spanish Grand Prix — it was all irrelevant compared to the single point of your focus.
Carlos.
This was the year. You could feel it in the air, that undeniable certainty that your efforts, your persistence, would finally pay off. You had always been there for him, always quietly supporting, but now… now you were starting to make a real impact. Renault had a new look this year, and with it, Carlos had begun to shine, earning attention from fans and critics alike.
While the world celebrated his potential, you found yourself locked in a battle of your own. A battle to finally break through that wall he had so carefully constructed.
You had increased your presence around the paddock this year, a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone in the wealthy elite you moved in. Your sponsorships, your family's influence, your overt support. It was becoming too apparent to ignore. You weren’t just a quiet admirer anymore. No, you were making changes, and that made Carlos uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable.
The tension was palpable. You could see it in the way he avoided you at events, the way his smile grew tighter whenever you spoke to him. But it didn’t matter. You couldn’t back down now. He was the only thing that mattered, and you knew that if you kept trying, eventually, he would see you for who you really were.
It was the evening of the Spanish Grand Prix, and the after-party was in full swing. Champagne flowed freely, the laughter of your friends and family filled the air, and the buzz of Renault’s successful weekend hung in the air like a sweet perfume. Yet, Carlos didn’t seem to be enjoying it. You noticed that he kept glancing at you from across the room, his expression tight and unreadable.
You weren’t drunk, but you had a slight buzz from the champagne, the alcohol giving you the courage to push forward. You walked across the room, each step an attempt to close the distance between you and him.
Carlos didn’t even wait for you to speak before he cut in. “You’re still here, huh?” His voice was tight.
You smiled, undeterred by the coldness of his tone. “I’m always here for you, Carlos. Always.” You made sure to hold his gaze, watching as he shifted uncomfortably under your stare.
“I don’t think you get it,” he said, taking a step back, his hand instinctively reaching up to adjust his tie. “I told you this isn’t going to happen. I’m not interested, and I’ve made that pretty clear.”
You stepped forward again, the cool air of the venue doing little to chill the heat rising in your chest. “Carlos, I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve been here all along, supporting you, standing by you, and I’m not backing down now. Not when you’re finally getting the recognition you deserve.”
The words were tumbling out now, quicker than you could stop them, but you didn’t care. You were beyond trying to play the games anymore. It had been years of waiting, of hoping, of enduring rejection after rejection You wouldn’t be pushed away now.
Carlos sighed heavily, his eyes flickering with annoyance. “This is getting ridiculous. I’ve told you, I’m not interested. You’re not some charity case for me to ‘save’ or whatever it is you think I owe you. You’re just making it worse for both of us.”
You flinched, the sting of his words cutting through you more than you were willing to admit. But you refused to back down. “You don’t owe me anything, Carlos,” you said, your voice quieter now. “I don’t need you to save me. I just need you to see me.”
The words hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, just a flicker of time. Carlos looked at you differently. His expression softened, just for a second.
But it was gone before you could see it. He turned away, his hand brushing through his hair as he looked towards a group of people across the room. “I can’t do this. Not here. Not now.”
You watched him go, the ache in your chest intensifying, but you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. It was becoming clear that you were chasing something he would never be able to give. Still, the determination burned brighter in you than ever.
—————
The whispers had started.
In the circles you moved in, people who knew of your family’s influence and your long standing connection to Carlos, the rumor mill was starting to churn.
“She’s obsessed with him,” they’d say behind your back. “Why won’t she just let it go?” They spoke of you as though you were a tragic figure, a woman who couldn’t let go of an unrequited love.
They didn’t understand. No one understood. To them, it was a story of desperation. To you, it was a story of love. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t obsessed. You were just… in love.
Carlos was starting to notice the rumors too. The way his family looked at him with concern, the uncomfortable conversations between him and his friends. They all knew about your feelings for him. They all saw the tension in the air, yet no one would address it directly.
And Carlos? He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even truly frustrated, not yet. But he was uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that he began to distance himself even further. He was more curt with you, his responses shorter, and his gaze more guarded. Every interaction became a minefield. But still, you couldn’t stop yourself.
You couldn’t stop loving him.
Monte Carlo, Monaco Grand Prix 2019
The world of Formula 1 had descended on Monaco, and so had the wealth and glitter of its glamorous parties. The yachts were moored in the harbor, their lights flickering like constellations in the night sky, while the sound of engines roared around the circuit.
Monaco. The perfect setting for a perfect disaster.
Carlos was… different. He was now a part of McLaren. The man you’d spent years chasing, the man whose every move you’d studied and admired from afar, was also publicly seen with another woman. The rumors had started trickling in from the usual sources. Friends of friends and whispers between the wealthy elite. They said she was a journalist, someone intelligent and glamorous. Yet you could hardly see her, her face a blur behind the veil of panic rising in your chest.
At first, you tried to ignore it. After all, Carlos had made it perfectly clear — time and time again — that he wasn’t interested. But seeing him with someone else, hearing the way people talked about them in hushed voices, was different. It was a stark, undeniable reminder that your feelings were unreciprocated, and the sinking weight of that truth hit you harder than ever.
You told yourself you wouldn’t let it bother you. But when you saw them together, laughing, talking, so casually enjoying each other’s company, it was all you could do to keep from breaking down right there. And that’s when the panic set in.
The party at the Monte Carlo casino was in full swing, a celebration of the sport, its drivers and its guests. You had barely noticed the laughter around you as you made your way through the crowd. All you could see was Carlos and her. His arm draped around her, his smile easy and effortless.
It stung.
You could hear the whispers, the murmurs about you. "Poor thing, still trying to win him over." "It’s getting embarrassing, isn’t it?" “She’s persistent, I’ll give her that…”
You couldn’t stand it anymore. You couldn’t just stand there and let him slip through your fingers, especially not when the world was starting to see him with someone else.
You found yourself slipping through the crowd, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, your vision narrowing on the only thing that mattered — Carlos. When you finally reached him, you didn’t even think. You blurted out the first thing that came to mind, your words almost frantic, “What’s going on, Carlos? Why her? Why are you doing this?”
Carlos’s expression faltered for a moment, the smile faltering as his eyes met yours, wide and a little surprised. But then, the flicker of annoyance crossed his face, and before you could say anything more, he gave a tight laugh. “Are you really doing this now, Y/N? Here? At a public party?”
The girl next to him looked between the two of you, confused, but she seemed to quickly pick up on the tension in the air. Carlos stiffened, his posture suddenly more guarded as he reached for her hand and gave her a gentle squeeze. “I think you should leave,” he said, his voice sharp.
Before you could respond, Carlos turned to her with a strained smile, excusing himself from the conversation. He moved swiftly, tugging you gently by the elbow as he led you away from the crowd, dragging you towards a quieter corner of the venue, away from prying eyes.
His grip on your arm was firm, his body tense, and for the first time in years, you could see the raw frustration in his eyes. The moment you were out of earshot from everyone else, Carlos spun on you, his expression dark. He was angry — but more than that, he was tired.
“Stop,” he said, his voice dangerously low. The words didn’t come out softly. “Stop following me around. Stop showing up at my races, stop making a scene every time you think I’m not looking. I’m not interested in you, and I never will be. You’ve had years of me making that clear, yet you still—” He paused, running a hand through his hair, as though trying to control the anger bubbling in his chest. “Dios mío, Y/N, ¿por qué no entiendes? Why can’t you just let it go?”
Your eyes stung as you looked up at him, the tears threatening to spill over, but you bit your lip, refusing to let them fall. “Carlos, I—” You started to speak, but he cut you off.
“No, basta! I’m not doing this with you anymore.” His words slipped, the frustration evident as his grip tightened on your arm. “You’re making me look bad. You’re making us look bad. And I’m tired of it.”
You stared at him, stunned by his sudden harshness. You had never seen him this angry, this done with you. But the pain coursing through your chest made you want to say anything, anything to make it stop. “But I love you,” you whispered, the words finally slipping out in a broken breath. “I always have.”
Carlos’s face tightened at your confession, his eyes darkening with a mix of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place. “That’s the problem, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve always loved me. But I’ve never felt the same. I don’t know how many more ways I can tell you that.”
The words hit you like a slap, the weight of them crushing you, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. You had known, in some corner of your mind, that this day would come — but hearing it from him while seeing the exhaustion and frustration in his eyes, broke something deep inside you.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out. You had never truly meant to make things so complicated, but in the end, that’s all you seemed to be. Complicated.
Carlos looked at you one last time. “Just stop,” he said, his voice quiet but final. “You need to stop, and find someone else.”
He turned, walking away without another word. The sound of his footsteps echoed in your chest, leaving you standing there alone, the sting of rejection more real than ever before.
Monaco, Yacht Party for Equestrian Sports 2020
Monaco. The place you once thought would be the scene of something magical for you and Carlos — a place where he’d finally see that you were enough. But by now, it had only become a reminder of your failures. The gold watches, the sparkling yachts, the residents whispering — they all knew your story by now.
No one said it out loud, but everyone knew. Those citizens, the people who had always stayed under the radar, now casually referred to your name in hushed tones. The way you had tried to win Carlos’s attention, the way you’d been persistent year after year, and how it had all culminated in your repeated rejection. It was almost normal now, a part of the social scene. People didn’t even flinch anymore when they saw you trying, only to fail once again.
This year, you’d tried to find peace with the fact that Carlos would never be yours. You tried to move forward, even if it meant acknowledging that you’d have to bury your feelings deeper than before.
Still, there was something about him, something you couldn’t seem to shake. His presence, the way he moved in the room, always so confident, always so… unattainable.
It was on one of those nights that you found yourself on the deck of a yacht in Monaco, attending a private event for equestrian sports. Your family had sent you to represent the Baudelaire name, the power and prestige that came with it. You stood on the edge of the yacht, watching the waves glisten under the lights, trying to keep your composure. The glint of the Mediterranean reflected in your eyes, but your thoughts were elsewhere. They were with Carlos, and the silence he had built between the two of you over the years.
The yacht was filled with the usual faces: aristocrats, businessmen, athletes. Your family’s friends, your friends, all mingling. It was the perfect environment for distractions. Yet, you couldn’t seem to pull your gaze away from him.
Carlos was here too, of course. Still driving for McLaren, he was now considered a darling of the F1 world. His new success only made your pain worse. He was with her — a different girl this time, another glamorous woman with dark hair, laughing and talking easily with him. The smile that spread across his face when he looked at her was like a knife through your heart.
You told yourself you’d been strong before. You told yourself it didn’t matter anymore. But it did.
You stood there for a long moment, watching him interact with her, trying not to let the jealousy and hurt rise up inside you. He wouldn’t even notice you, not now. He never had.
You tried to convince yourself that maybe you were better off giving up. Maybe he was right. Maybe you had been chasing nothing all these years. Yet no matter how much you tried to convince yourself, a part of you couldn’t let go of the what if.
And that’s when you saw him look your way. Just for a brief second. His eyes caught yours, and you felt your heart skip in your chest. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d come over. Maybe he’d finally speak to you like he used to. But instead, he did the one thing that shattered whatever hope you had left. He looked away. So easily. So dismissively.
He had completely ignored you.
And that’s when it hits.
That you could never make him see you.
Trying to regain your composure, you turned your attention to the side, where a man was approaching you. He was tall, with a lean build, dressed in a crisp white suit that somehow made him stand out from the crowd. His dark hair was neatly combed back, and his smile was warm but not too familiar. He wasn’t a face you recognized, but his approach was friendly and confident.
He stopped in front of you, offering a polite smile. “Excuse me, are you Y/N Baudelaire?”
You blinked in surprise, nodding quickly. “Yes, I am. And you are…?”
“My name’s Edouard Schmitz,” he replied, his voice carrying a pleasant Swiss accent. “I’m an Olympic equestrian. I’ve heard a lot about your family. It’s an honor to meet you.”
His name wasn’t one you recognized immediately, but his casual ease was refreshing. Also, he didn’t seem to be interested in what the rest of the world was gossiping about. Just that simple introduction was enough to make you feel a flicker of relief.
“Oh, thank you,” you responded, your words smooth, almost rehearsed. Media training kicked in. “It’s an honor to meet you as well. My family’s name is something we all take very seriously.”
Edouard chuckled, a genuine smile lighting up his face. “I’ve always admired the Baudelaire family. The way you’ve managed to maintain both influence and class in such a public world is something few can do.”
You gave a polite smile, nodding as the conversation continued, talking about the sport, your family’s influence in equestrian events, and the dynamics between sports and media. It was the same rehearsed speech, but this time, you couldn’t help but feel a little bit of relief. Edouard was genuinely interested in the topics you discussed, and for once you didn’t feel like an outsider.
As the conversation flowed, you couldn’t help but glance over at Carlos. He was still across the deck, talking to the same woman, laughing and sharing a moment. He didn’t even look in your direction again.
And as you looked, you saw his eyes flicker over briefly — just a small glance in your direction. Your heart stuttered in your chest. But it didn’t last long. He looked back at the woman he was talking to, his smile never faltering, as if he hadn’t seen you at all.
You sighed inwardly, trying to brush it off. But there was no denying that the hurt was deeper now, sharper than it had ever been. He had never cared about you the way you had hoped. And now, it was obvious.
You forced yourself to focus on Edouard, continuing the conversation with him, but as he spoke about his upcoming competitions, you couldn’t help but feel your gaze once again drifting back to Carlos. He wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore. He was avoiding you.
It hurt more than you’d ever thought possible.
—————
One Week Later, Baudelaire Family Dinner
The week after the yacht party in Monaco, you tried to bury the discomfort that had settled deep in your chest. Life moved on, and so did you. But it didn’t make the ache any easier to handle. It lingered quietly in the back of your mind, each fleeting moment where you thought you might be free from Carlos’s indifference only bringing more pain.
Tonight, your family had invited some important guests over for dinner, an intimate gathering to discuss business. This dinner felt different, your father had been talking excitedly about sponsoring a new equestrian athlete. His voice had carried a hint of pride when he mentioned how this young talent was quickly making a name for himself in the sport.
The dinner was set in the large dining room of your family’s estate, with gilded chandeliers casting a warm glow over the long table. You sat across from your father, distracted by the distant clinking of fine china and the soft murmur of conversations around you.
Just as you lifted your glass of water to your lips, the door opened, and in walked your father’s guests — Edouard Schmitz, the young equestrian who had introduced himself to you last week, and his manager.
You blinked in surprise, your eyes widening as you caught sight of him. Edouard was dressed in a simple but well-tailored black suit, a stark contrast to the lavishness of the dinner table, but it suited him. The moment your gaze met his, your heart skipped — it felt as though the world had shrunk, and you were once again at that yacht party, but this time in a more familiar space.
“Edouard?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the name leaving your lips before you realized what you were doing.
Your father’s voice rang out from the head of the table, amused. “Ah, you know each other?”
You nodded quickly. “Yes, we spoke briefly at the yacht event you sent me to last week. I didn’t know he was the one we’ll be sponsoring, though.”
Edouard smiled warmly, his eyes lighting up at the recognition. “It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.”
Your father, clearly pleased to see the two of you interacting, gestured for Edouard and his manager to take a seat. “I’ll have my assistant bring over the details of the sponsorship after dinner. Let’s eat first.”
You nodded politely, a quiet smile tugging at your lips as Edouard slid into the chair next to you. The table began to settle into a comfortable pace as plates of exquisite food were brought out, and conversation flowed around you.
As the evening went on, you found yourself leaning more into the conversation with Edouard. You spoke about his equestrian career and how your family’s involvement had brought him to the table. The more you spoke with him, the more you felt like you could finally breathe a little easier. He wasn’t part of the world of endless gossip about Carlos Sainz. He didn’t know about your feelings for him, or your failed attempts to capture his attention. Edouard was a stranger, yet he wasn’t judging you.
“So, what did you think of the event last week?” Edouard asked, his voice casual but curious. “The yacht party? The atmosphere was a little… exclusive, don’t you think?”
You chuckled softly, feeling a rare spark of lightness in your chest. “It’s like that every time. Monaco and its world of excess. You get used to it, but it’s never quite comfortable.”
“I can imagine. It’s a strange world, but I think I’ll get used to it soon. I’ve been trying to meet more people in the industry.”
Your smile softened as you nodded. “I think that’s a good idea. It can feel very lonely in this world sometimes.”
Edouard raised an eyebrow, his gaze softening. “You seem to know that feeling well,” he said thoughtfully. “Is it because of the expectations? The pressure to always be someone?”
You blinked, not expecting such a perceptive comment. But Edouard had always been a little different from the rest, hadn’t he? His words weren’t just idle small talk.
“I guess I’ve always had to live up to a lot of expectations,” you said quietly. “But sometimes, it feels like no one really sees me for who I am. It’s always about the family, the legacy, the connections. But what about me? What I want? Who I am?”
Edouard was silent for a moment. Then gave a small, empathetic smile. “I understand. It’s not easy. Especially when you’re constantly surrounded by people who only see what you can give, not who you are.”
You stared at him, swallowing down the lump that had formed in your throat. He wasn’t just another person filling the air with empty chatter. There was something honest about him that made it easier to be real.
As the evening wore on, the conversation between you and Edouard flowed naturally. Your father and his manager were deep in their discussion at the other end of the table, and you were thankful for the peace. It felt like you could finally take a breath without constantly worrying about whether your every word was being scrutinized.
By the time dinner was winding down, you felt lighter. A little less alone.
You leaned back in your chair, feeling the warmth of the room and the comfort of a connection you hadn’t expected. There was something about Edouard’s presence that made you forget, for just a moment, about the painful and unrelenting chase for Carlos’s attention. He was different. And in that difference, you found a sense of relief.
As you continued to talk with Edouard, you realized something for the first time in a long while. You didn’t feel like the girl who had been chasing after someone who could never see you. You felt like you were finally being seen for who you were. You were Y/N Baudelaire, not just a shadow of someone else’s life.
And that realization, gave you a glimmer of hope that maybe you could be more than the person you thought you had to be.
Monza, Italian Grand Prix 2021
You were supposed to be at the Italian Grand Prix that weekend.
You’d made plans weeks ago, carefully selecting your outfit with the signature Baudelaire style. A crisp cream suit, hair done in soft waves, heels that clicked whenever you took a step when walking in the paddock with calculated poise. You had even confirmed your guest pass with Ferrari’s hospitality coordinator. Everything was in place.
Until your mother walked into your bedroom the night before your flight.
Her tone was clipped, but not apologetic — your family rarely said sorry when they disrupted your life. “The Zurich liaison fell through. We need you to attend the FEI Nations Cup this weekend. It’s last-minute, I know, but you’ll fly out tonight. There’s no one else to send.”
You didn’t argue. That was your role, after all. The dutiful daughter of a legacy family. The quiet pillar everyone leaned on when plans fell apart. So, with a nod and the practiced stillness of someone who had long surrendered to the script of her life, you exchanged your Grand Prix itinerary for a hastily packed travel bag and a late-night flight to Switzerland.
You didn’t even ask who you were being sent to support.
—————
Switzerland, FEI Nations Cup
The air here was different. It was clearer, much quieter. Less screaming engines, more controlled breathing. It was unfamiliar, but not unwelcoming. You stood at the sidelines, wrapped in a tailored wool coat and a scarf with the Baudelaire crest embroidered discreetly into the fabric.
Your eyes followed the horse in the arena — a tall bay with a confident gait and a rider that leaned into the turns with striking ease.
It wasn’t until after the final jump, when the rider slowed and took off his helmet, that your stomach lurched.
Edouard Schmitz.
Your breath caught.
He didn’t see you at first, not among the subtle crowd of attendees and trainers and coordinators. You stayed quiet, hands in your coat pockets, unsure what you were supposed to do. But then, as he circled back near the edge of the arena, his eyes met yours.
He waved at you. Broadly. Boyishly.
You blinked, stunned by the warm recognition, and instinctively raised a hand and waved back.
A few heads turned.
The whispers began almost instantly. Muted and sharp. A woman behind you leaned closer to her friend.
“Isn’t that the girl who used to follow that F1 Ferrari Driver around?”
You felt the blood drain from your face, but kept your chin lifted, the smile still faintly on your lips. You didn’t look away from Edouard, and when he dismounted and started toward the edge of the field, you took a slow step back — retreating to the shadows of the tent, unsure of what this was becoming.
—————
Monza, Italian Grand Prix, Scuderia Ferrari Garage
The race was over. P6. Not ideal, but not terrible.
Carlos pulled off his gloves, unzipped his suit halfway, and ducked into the garage. Sweat slicked his curls to his forehead, and the adrenaline still buzzed in his veins. Normally, he’d glance to the left — right by the entrance to the hospitality suite — where you’d usually be.
Y/N.
Always standing there, back straight, lips pressed in that unreadable smile. Sometimes you’d wave. Sometimes you’d just watch him with eyes that said far more than you ever spoke aloud. There was something ritualistic about it — seeing you after a race, like you were part of the routine now, as regular as tire changes.
But today?
Nothing.
He walked deeper into the garage, nodding absently at a few engineers. Still nothing. He craned his neck slightly, pretending to stretch it. Still no sign of your pale coat or those silent eyes watching him like they always did.
He wiped his face with a towel.
That was… new.
He didn’t know why it stuck in his mind. He didn’t even like the attention. He had never asked for it, never encouraged it.
So why did it suddenly feel wrong that you weren’t there?
Monaco, La Condamine 2022
Monaco was small. Ridiculously small.
There was no hiding here — no slipping away unnoticed or quietly ignoring someone at a gala or a yacht party without it becoming the next whisper passed along champagne glasses and over expensive hors d’oeuvres.
Yet somehow, you had vanished.
Carlos leaned against the open railing of the rooftop venue, his drink untouched in one hand while the other thumbed absently at his bracelet. His eyes drifted to the harbor below. The kind of view people flew across the world to see. It used to impress him more.
Now, it just felt… still.
You used to be around. Always. Whether it was a race weekend, a press event, or a sponsor’s yacht party, Y/N Baudelaire had this way of appearing everywhere. A cream-colored ghost in designer clothing. Silent. Composed. Eyes trained only on him.
And sure, for years, he found it annoying. Unsettling, even. Your attention. Your persistence. The way you’d confess so seriously it left him with a mouthful of guilt and no soft way to say “no.”
But now? Now you were nowhere.
He hadn’t seen you all season. Not in the paddock. Not in the VIP suites. Not even in Monaco — where you lived, for God’s sake.
The last time he’d seen you was… what? That yacht party? From months ago? You hadn’t even tried to approach him then. You had just talked with some tall guy in a suit. Carlos remembered glancing once. Maybe twice. Enough to notice you not noticing him for the first time in years.
—————
The sponsor dinner was dull. One of those formal events Ferrari sent him to out of obligation. He shakes hands, takes photos, and pretends to be interested in the newest generation of electric motors or luxury watch collabs. Carlos could turn on the charm when needed, but tonight he was unusually quiet.
Mostly because of what he overheard.
“—none of the Baudelaires or any of their people showed up this year as well. Unusual, right?” a woman whispered near the canapé table, glass of white wine in hand. “My mother said the whole family’s focused on equestrian right now. Something about returning to their roots.”
“Oh! Didn’t you hear?” another leaned in, lowering her voice. “Someone spotted the daughter at an FEI Nations Cup, apparently waving at some male equestrian. A rising star. Swiss, I think.”
Carlos froze.
The sponsor across from him was still speaking — something about renewable energy and brand partnerships — but the words blurred.
“She was waving?” another woman giggled. “Maybe she’s finally found someone new to obsess over.”
They all laughed.
Carlos’s jaw tightened as he brought his glass to his lips and took a slow sip.
Good. He told himself. That was good.
You deserved to move on. To find someone who liked you back. Someone who didn’t reject you year after year. If this guy — this equestrian — made you stop looking at Carlos, then maybe that was what you needed.
But… why didn’t it feel good?
Why did it make his chest pinch?
He blinked slowly and finally refocused on the sponsor in front of him.
“I’m sorry,” Carlos said, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can you repeat that last part?”
—————
Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Belgium Grand Prix
It was early in the morning. Carlos had his sunglasses on, coffee in hand, already suited up in his Ferrari gear, but the usual rhythm of race day preparation didn’t settle him.
He kept scanning.
Not for his engineers. Not for his car.
For… you.
The paddock was missing something — or someone — again. The season was already halfway through and Y/N Baudelaire still hadn’t made an appearance.
He hated how he noticed that.
“‘Lo,” came a familiar voice as Max Verstappen strolled by in his Red Bull jacket, looking as relaxed as if they were just meeting at a park.
Carlos turned, greeting him with a quick smirk. “Max.”
“Big weekend,” Max said, nodding toward the garages. “Feels tense already.”
Carlos nodded. “Always is.”
A pause hung between them — casual, unbothered. Then Carlos while sipping his espresso, tilted his head just slightly.
“Your sister still riding?”
Max raised a brow. “Victoria? Yeah. Equestrian’s still her thing.”
Carlos feigned nonchalance, his tone light. “She ever compete at those FEI events?”
Max thinks about it. “Uh, yeah. Not recently though, she’s been more into coaching. Why?”
Carlos shrugged, staring off toward the media pens. “Just heard someone mention a Swiss guy the Baudelaires are sponsoring now. Edouard… Schmitz?”
Max furrowed his brow. “Oh, him. Yeah, name sounds familiar. He’s kind of new, I think. Young. Only seen him in headlines once or twice. Nothing major. He rides clean, I guess.”
Carlos nodded slowly, keeping his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses.
Then Max tilted his head. “Why do you ask?”
Carlos shrugged again. “Just heard something at an event. You know how people talk.”
Max smirked knowingly. “Yeah, especially when it’s about her.”
Carlos’s fingers twitched on his coffee cup. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… come on. The whole Baudelaire thing. It’s a circus in our circle. You don’t just randomly hear a name like Schmitz next to hers unless it means something.”
Carlos forced a chuckle, even as something in his chest bristled. “Maybe she’s just sponsoring talent.”
“Sure,” Max said, already glancing at his phone. “Or maybe she’s finally got someone else to stalk.” He smirks at his joke.
Carlos didn’t respond.
He just stood there, coffee now cold in his hand, sunglasses reflecting the glint of the paddock around him. It was loud, fast, full of everything he knew how to control.
Except for this.
Except for you.
—————
Brussels Stephex Masters, Belgium
The smell of horse sweat and summer soil had long become familiar to you. Not pleasant, not unpleasant — just present. A background scent to the whirlwind of mornings that bled into afternoons and into moonlit dinners filled with rich old men and businesswomen who looked you over with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
You were tired.
Not the kind of tiredness that a nap could solve, no, you were soul-tired. Every few days, you were in a different country, wearing linen or tailored jackets or satin blouses, shaking hands, speaking in that clipped, polite tone your family were known for. Your mother said it was “a good way to build reputation.” Your father told you it was “time to learn how to inherit.” You smiled, nodded, obeyed.
But deep down you knew.
They were just trying to distract you.
Trying to pry you away from Grand Prix weekends, from the paddocks you once bled into for him. Like if you didn’t see him, you’d forget what he looked like when he was angry, when he cursed in Spanish, when he looked past you like you were nothing but a nuisance on his side.
You didn't forget.
You just got busy.
Too busy.
These days, you thought you saw Edouard more than you saw your own parents.
The Swiss equestrian had slowly carved a space into you, and maybe even in your life. It wasn’t romantic. It was warm. He was like the brother you always wished you had.
Edouard talked. A lot. About his horses, the pressure, the solitude of the sport. He never asked too much. Never pried into why your voice got small when people mentioned Spain, or how your eyes sometimes darted to your phone during race weekends, only to turn off the screen without doing anything.
He didn't bring up the past, didn’t know the whispers of the Baudelaire who once chased a Sainz across a decade.
And you were grateful.
He never looked at you like you were pathetic.
He looked at you like you were capable. Which was exactly what you needed.
At a press event in Belgium, you stood beside him at the stables while a photographer from a Swiss luxury magazine asked both of you to pose near the horse Edouard had just competed with. His white competition shirt was still half-unbuttoned, and there was straw stuck to your shoes, but you smiled. Poised. The media training from your childhood kicks in like muscle memory.
Edouard leaned over slightly after the flash. “I think this is the fifth country I’ve seen you in this month.”
You chuckled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You’re counting?”
“Well,” he said with a grin, “it’s hard not to notice when someone is practically my co-pilot at every event.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head. My family just happens to sponsor you.”
“But they don’t have to,” he pointed out. “They could’ve pulled out anytime. They didn’t. You didn’t.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made you smile.
You didn’t answer. Instead, you glanced toward the nearby arena. Watching another rider take their turn, the pounding of hooves echoed like a heartbeat.
Côte d’Azur, Baudelaire Hotel Expansion Gala 2023
The newly built Baudelaire Hotel & Spa rose like a crystal jewel along the coastline, its pale stone walls washed golden by the late afternoon sun. Spotlights bathed the front entrance. A long navy carpet stretched out beneath a towering marquee printed with your family’s crest.
You had stepped out of the car with effortless poise, years of training ensuring your expression was serene, your posture immaculate, your every movement fluid.
But this time, you weren't alone.
“Look ahead, N/N.” Edouard said beside you in a low murmur, his tone somewhere between teasing and grounding. “Ignore the vultures.”
You managed a soft laugh, delicate and dry. “It’s just cameras.”
He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the cluster of photographers stationed behind velvet ropes. “In London, they’re cameras. In here? They’re bloodhounds with fashion degrees.”
Still, you didn’t let go of his arm.
Not because you had to. Because you wanted to. Because it was easier this way — to walk in with someone who knew the weight of pressure. Edouard wasn’t here for show. He was invited, yes — by your father, no less — but he hadn’t changed since your first yacht conversation. He didn’t flinch under society’s gaze. He didn't ask for you to act any type of certain way.
And that, more than anything, had made you relieved for the first time in months.
As you passed through the ballroom entrance, the event swallowed you in warmth and opulence. Massive chandeliers dripped crystal light. Waiters in white gloves glided by with trays of Dom Pérignon and fig tarts. Somewhere in the distance, a string quartet played a reimagined Coldplay song that you could recognize instantly.
But the buzz wasn’t for the architecture or the champagne.
“Isn’t that Edouard Schmitz?”
“That’s Y/N Baudelaire, obviously — but together?”
“I thought she was still obsessed with that F1 driver.”
“Please. That was, what, two years ago?”
“Well, she’s sponsoring him now. Maybe she finally got over it.”
The whispers slithered through the crowd like puffs of smoke. But you didn’t hear them. Not really.
Your mother was nowhere in sight. Your father had already been whisked off by board members and property developers. That left you and Edouard standing beneath a domed skylight, surrounded by power, wealth, and polite falseness.
“You alright?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Better than I expected,” you said truthfully, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle from your ivory gown. “I thought I’d be hyperventilating by now.”
“Don’t worry,” Edouard said with a soft smile. “If you faint, I promise to catch you before the tabloids do.”
You nudged him gently. “I’d rather you take me somewhere less chandelier-heavy.”
So you both wandered.
Down newly carpeted hallways, past suites not yet filled, through quiet terraces half-furnished. The hotel was days from its official launch — still in soft opening, still fragile. But beautiful, in that half-formed way most beginnings are.
Both of you laughed. About nothing and everything. He told you a story about a competition in Italy where his horse had accidentally kicked a Rolex sponsor’s luggage. You told him about the time your heels got stuck in a Formula 1 paddock grate and how you almost cried because Carlos saw.
Except you didn’t mention Carlos by name.
You didn’t need to.
You hadn’t thought of him tonight.
Not particularly.
—————
High above, on one of the glass balconies overlooking the lobby.
Carlos Sainz stood with a drink in hand and a scowl barely hidden. He was supposed to be here for a brief appearance, some light mingling before heading back to his apartment.
But then he saw you.
You stepped into view like a spotlight had been switched on when you entered. The lighting caught your hair just right — soft, classic, tucked behind one ear. You looked like every story he had once tried not to believe.
And you weren't alone.
That guy, the equestrian. The one people had been whispering about for months. The one he’d asked Max about under the guise of “just curious.”
You and him weren’t touching each other, but you didn’t didn’t need to.
Carlos watched you laugh at something Edouard said. A soft, real laugh — the kind you used to have around him. You looked lighter. Brighter. Both. Different in a way he couldn’t name, but didn’t like.
You weren’t scanning the room anymore.
Not looking for him.
Not watching the door in case he walked through it.
You didn’t even glance his way.
He waited.
Waited for you to look up. To sense him. To find his eyes like you always used to — like you could feel when he entered a room.
You never did.
You walked away with Edouard, turning the corner toward the private gallery wing. Smiling. Relaxed.
And Carlos stood there, glass untouched in his hand, the faint burn of a new feeling licking at the back of his throat.
—————
You excuse yourself from Edouard with a polite smile. “I’ll be right back,” you murmur, touching his sleeve lightly. He nods, still deep in conversation with a businesswoman in a black velvet blazer and dazzling diamond studs. You don’t know her name, but she seems familiar with horses.
You smooth the fabric of your gown, steadying your breath as you follow the quiet pull toward your family’s voices, echoing faintly down the corridor. They’re gathered near one of the smaller reception salons, the door slightly ajar. As you step inside, a flash of orange and black catches your eye—recognizable even from across the room.
McLaren.
Your father is laughing warmly, his voice rich with the ease he uses only when he’s already won something. The man beside him is the CEO of McLaren Racing—tall, neat, composed, with a practiced smile and the posture of someone who’d sat at more than a few tables with royalty and billionaires.
“Ah,” your father says, spotting you immediately. “Here she is. My daughter—Y/N Baudelaire.” He gestures with his glass, pride thick in his voice. “The one who brilliantly gave us the idea of getting into motorsports sponsorship. Honestly, it was never our thing,” he chuckles, “but because of her interest before, it made us realize what we were missing out on.”
You smile, demure and polite. “It was just a suggestion,” you say lightly, but your father waves you off.
“Don’t be modest. That sponsorship in 2015 all the way to 2019? All her. She practically handpicked the teams. Back then, it was all about Toro Rosso and Renault, wasn’t it?” He says the last part with a knowing grin, and something tightens just behind your ribs.
You nod carefully. “They were doing exciting things.”
The McLaren CEO turns to you with a smile. “I’ve heard about that, actually. Your family’s name also came up during our review of past minor sponsors and event partners. You’ve got a sharp eye, Miss Baudelaire.”
You give a small nod of thanks, unsure what to say. The moment feels both surreal and inevitable. You’d spent years orbiting this world, your heart practically staked to a starting grid, and now… here you were, being acknowledged not as a fan or a follower, but as someone who belonged at the table.
“We’re currently reviewing our roster for 2023,” he continues, looking toward your father. “And we’re very interested in potential partnerships that reflect a deeper heritage and elegance. You know, the values your family name is synonymous with”
Your father chuckles. “Well, that’s flattering to hear. We’d love to continue this conversation. Let’s set up a formal meeting soon—my assistant will be in touch.”
“Absolutely,” the CEO says, extending a hand. “I’ll look forward to it.”
You shake his hand too then watch as he walks away through the tall ballroom doors, his tailored suit blending into the crowd.
Silence settles for a beat as you stand beside your family. Your mother is already checking her phone. Your father swirls the last of his wine in his glass, his mind clearly already jumping ahead to meetings and projections.
“Well,” he says, turning to you. “You might have just opened a very valuable door tonight.”
You don’t answer right away. Your eyes flick briefly toward the hall, where you know Edouard is still waiting, where a very different kind of future isn’t negotiated through handshake deals or sealed with corporate smiles.
“Thank you,” you say simply, because that’s what’s expected.
The world kept moving. Though this time, you’re the one with the power to choose what direction it turns.
—————
Carlos hadn’t expected to stay this long.
He’d told himself he’d leave after one drink. But somehow, the murmurs of Monaco’s elite, the clinking of champagne flutes, and the strategic presence of a few familiar faces from McLaren’s team had kept him rooted. Or maybe it was the subtle weight in his chest every time he scanned the room, knowing what he was looking for but pretending he wasn’t.
He'd seen you earlier. In an ivory gown, back turned to him, talking animatedly to that guy. The one he’d only ever heard mentioned in whispers. The equestrian.
He hadn't needed anyone to confirm it. He recognized him from a handful of online articles, tagged photos, and one annoyingly crisp press release involving Baudelaire legacy and equestrian sponsorships.
So when Carlos turned the corner near the main hallway and nearly collided into someone, his jaw set the second he saw who it was.
“Oh—sorry,” Edouard Schmitz said, stepping back with a polite smile, clearly not recognizing him.
Carlos looked him up and down. Clean-cut. Expensive, but understated suit. That easygoing confidence that came from being well-liked, well-connected—or just oblivious. Probably all three.
“It’s fine,” Carlos replied shortly, the edge in his voice a little too sharp for a minor bump. He looks at Edouard.
“You're Edouard Schmitz, right?” Carlos asked, tone casual but clipped, as if the name tasted sour.
Edouard straightened. “Yes. Have we met?”
Carlos’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t a smile. “No, but I’ve heard of you. Recently.”
There was a pause. Carlos was just lingering, and staring.
Edouard gave a cautious half-laugh. “Alright… I suppose that's a good thing?”
Carlos shrugged, expression unreadable. “Depends who you ask.”
Before Edouard could respond, a familiar voice chimed in behind them.
“Hey—I’m back.”
Carlos turned his head just in time to see you.
Y/N.
You approached casually, like you had no idea what your presence did to the air in Carlos’s lungs. Your eyes flitted between the two men. You opened your mouth to greet Edouard but faltered slightly when your gaze landed on Carlos.
It hits you like a gust of cold wind.
He was right there.
And he was looking at you. Not with surprise, not with hurt, but with that calm, unreadable look you used to crave from him. The look you used to try to decipher like a puzzle you thought you could solve if you just stayed long enough.
“Carlos,” you said quietly, your voice instinctively polite.
“Y/N,” he said back, his gaze sliding from you to Edouard and then back again.
He had no idea what this was between them. Or maybe he did. But it didn’t stop the way his stomach curled into something he couldn’t name.
“I didn’t know you two were—friends,” Carlos added after a beat, voice carefully composed, but his Spanish accent curled sharply around the word friends.
Edouard gave a friendly smile. “Ah, yes. We’ve been working together for a while now.”
Carlos just nodded once. “Right. Working.”
You narrowed your eyes, almost imperceptibly. You knew that tone. That old, subtle condescension masked as charm. The way Carlos could bite without showing teeth.
But you said nothing. Not yet.
Carlos glanced at Edouard one more time. “Well, enjoy the party. Both of you.”
And then he walked away.You watched him walk away, back straight, hands casually in his pockets like that entire interaction hadn’t just knocked the wind out of you.
Carlos had always had that talent.
There was a pause before Edouard broke the silence. “You okay?”
You blinked, snapping out of whatever haze you’d been in. “Yeah. Sorry. I just didn’t expect to see him here.”
“Friend of yours?”
You gave him a polite, practiced smile—the one you used in every sponsor dinner, boardroom meeting, and polished event. “Something like that.”
Edouard didn’t press. That was one of the reasons you considered him trustworthy. He never pushed when he sensed your reluctance.
“I’ll go get us something to drink,” he offered, already scanning for the waitstaff. “Champagne?”
“Please.”
As he left, your shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the mask cracking in the safe space he gave you. You turned to look in the direction Carlos had gone. He was nowhere to be seen now, probably disappeared into some corner of the hotel with other associates or wealthy acquaintances who hadn’t spent the last few years falling apart in his silence.
You exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t said anything cruel. He hadn’t said anything meaningful either.
And somehow… that stung more.
—————
Carlos started walking towards the empty balcony, champagne flute untouched in his hand, and cursed under his breath again.
“Joder…”
When he gets there, the sea air felt sharp against his skin, but it wasn’t cooling him down. Not when his blood was still running hot, mind still replaying the way you had walked up to that guy with the kind of ease and casual grace that Carlos hadn’t seen from you in years.
He leaned on the railing, staring at the horizon but not really seeing it.
Why the hell had he even said anything? Why had he stopped? Why not just walk past, nod, smile, and be done with it?
Because it wasn’t just some guy.
It was you. And you looked… content.
You looked like someone who had finally started to move on. Like someone who didn’t flinch at the sight of him anymore. Someone who had finally stopped waiting.
And for the life of him, Carlos didn’t know why that made his chest feel like it had cracked open.
He took a long breath. He told himself it didn’t matter. That maybe now you had someone else to obsess over—good. Maybe you’d leave him alone. Maybe all the whispers, the rumors, the wide-eyed glances from people who remembered the girl who used to chase Carlos Sainz, would finally end.
Maybe now he could breathe again.
Then why did it feel like he couldn’t?
His grip tightened around the stem of the champagne flute.
You looked happy.
He hated that he noticed.
And worse—he hated that maybe, it wasn’t about you chasing him anymore.
It was about him being left behind.
—————
Later That Night, Private Lounge Area
Carlos sat low on the leather couch, jaw tense, knee bouncing slightly. A few scattered guests still lingered in the event’s private lounge, but it was quiet and private enough for him to speak.
Across from him, Lando stirred the ice in his drink with his pinky and raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been acting weird since the balcony,” Lando said, voice casual.
Carlos didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he looked into his glass like it might offer him something solid—something grounded. But it didn’t. Just the quiet swirl of something sparkling and bitter.
“She’s different,” Carlos muttered finally.
Lando squinted. “Who?”
Carlos didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Lando groaned. “Oh my God. Y/N?”
Carlos shot him a look. “You saw her.”
“Yeah, I saw her,” Lando said slowly. “She looked great, by the way. Real polished. Elegant. Like the whole hotel was built just to match her dress. Why?”
Carlos set his drink down with a soft clink.
“She’s not the same.”
Lando leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Mate. What are you trying to say?”
“I mean—” Carlos’s voice lowered. “Didn’t you notice? How… off she was?”
Lando gave him a long, blank stare. “Off. Like… off how?”
Carlos exhaled sharply, frustrated he couldn’t find the right word. “I don’t know. Just… not like herself.”
“Not like the version of her who used to wait outside every motorhome just to give you a good luck note?” Lando asked dryly.
Carlos glared at him.
“I’m just saying,” Lando went on, shrugging, “maybe she’s not off. Maybe she’s just… not that into you anymore.”
Carlos flinched. Just slightly.
“She didn’t even look at me, mate,” he murmured.
Lando stares at him. “So? Maybe she didn’t see you.”
“No,” Carlos said immediately. “She did. She looked right at me.”
“Okay, so she saw you and didn’t fall apart. Again, I repeat uhh… so?”
Carlos didn’t answer. His silence was louder than any explanation he could have given.
Lando sat back with a quiet scoff. “Right. So this isn’t about her being off. This is about her not looking at you like you’re the only person in the world.”
Carlos’s head snapped toward him. “It’s not like that.”
“It is exactly like that.”
“I just—” Carlos rubbed his jaw. “It’s weird, alright? After all those years—after everything—now she’s just acting like none of it happened.”
“Because maybe that’s a sign, mate,” Lando said, a bit more gently now. “That maybe she’s just… done. You ever think about that?”
Carlos didn’t reply.
Lando shook his head, grinning slightly as he leaned back. “It’s almost funny. You used to be the one who didn’t care. Now look at you—pouting in a velvet lounge because she brought another guy to a hotel opening.”
Carlos’s gaze darkened. “I’m not pouting.”
“You’re brooding, then.”
“I’m just wondering if she’s really with that Edouard guy.”
Lando snorted. “Yeah. Because that’s definitely your business.”
Carlos went quiet again.
And Lando—watching him carefully, watching that flicker of something just beneath Carlos’s tightly wound expression—sighed.
“You didn’t like her, remember?” he said softly. “You had your chance. Hell, you had years. And she waited. But now?”
He paused, lifting his glass to his lips.
“She’s not yours to worry about anymore.”
Carlos didn’t say a word.
—————
FP1 Day, Grand Prix Weekend
The paddock buzzed with its usual storm of movement—engineers shouting over radios, fans leaning against barriers, photographers flashing away with their lenses. Carlos adjusted his gloves as he walked through the Ferrari garage, the sharp red of his race suit catching in the sun.
It was supposed to be a normal free practice day.
But then he saw you.
At first, just the back of you—calm and poised as you strolled past hospitality, hands tucked in the sleeves of a crisp white blazer, sunglasses perched in your hair. A lanyard with a discreet VIP tag hung from your neck. The way you moved was different now. Lighter, quieter, like you belonged here.
Carlos stopped in his tracks.
“Y/N,” he murmured, barely audible.
Something in him lifted. Something fluttered, stupidly, in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair quickly, then again when it didn’t fall the way he wanted. His reflection in a passing screen caught his eye, and he straightened up—subtle, not too obvious.
Just breathe.
He started walking your way. Slowly. Casually. He didn’t know why his palms were sweating in his gloves.
As you turned around to scan the paddock, he timed it perfectly. Pretending to notice you only at the last second.
“Oh,” Carlos said, eyebrows raised. “Hey.”
You smiled.
Not the way you used to—not that warm, dopey grin that looked like it couldn’t help itself around him.
This was polite.
“Hey,” you said back.
Carlos cleared his throat, folding his arms lightly across his chest. “Didn’t expect to see you today. Here to support me again?”
He smiled, trying to sound playful.
But you just tilted your head a bit, almost apologetic.
“Oh. No, not exactly.” You scratched the back of your head and shrugged casually. “My family’s in talks with McLaren about a potential partnership. I just came to walk them over.”
Carlos freezes for a second.
“McLaren?”
You nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been trying to convince them for years, actually. Guess they finally decided it’s worth the PR.”
He tried to smile. He did.
But it faltered, just slightly. “Right. That’s… good. Makes sense.”
Carlos couldn’t help but remember how, back then, you used to ramble about his team’s brand appeal—it didn’t matter which one, you sponsored every single one of them. You had charts. You had ideas. You had him in mind.
And now?
Now you weren’t here for him at all.
You gave him another soft smile. “Well, I should go. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”
You took a step back, then paused, offering one last look.
“I’ll see you when I see you, I guess.”
The way you said it was smooth, unbothered. The way people say goodbye to acquaintances—people they used to know.
And you were gone.
Carlos watched as you slipped through the paddock crowd, walking further and further away.
He realized then, painfully and with full clarity that it wasn't your real smile. That wasn’t the one that used to be his.
And maybe—just maybe—he missed it.
—————
Paddock, McLaren Motorhome Lounge
The chrome-and-orange lounge was sleek and minimal—everything McLaren liked to be. You sat tucked into one of the corner sofas, legs crossed, a flute of sparkling water resting untouched on the table beside you. From the glass wall, you could see your father in one of the meeting rooms, talking animatedly with McLaren’s sponsorship team. You’d offered to attend, but he insisted you didn’t need to. You had assistants for that now.
Besides, you didn’t really want to sit through another negotiation meeting. Not today. Not here.
The room was cool and quiet until the door slid open.
A figure in a white and papaya team shirt strolled in—curly brown hair bouncing slightly, face vaguely flushed like he’d just come in from a debrief. You recognized him instantly.
Lando Norris.
You’d never spoken to him before, but you knew him. You’d known of him then, back when—
"Hey," you said casually, voice steady, not expecting him to stop.
But he did.
He looked over, then smiled slightly, as if recognizing you immediately. “Oh—you're Y/N, right?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Just waiting. Our team's meeting with McLaren about the partnership thing.”
“Oh, right! That’s today?” Lando lit up as he stepped toward you, hands in his pockets. “I completely forgot about that. That’s so cool of you guys. Really.”
You shrugged, offering a small smile. “It wasn’t easy convincing them, but I’m glad they’re finally open to motorsport. They used to only care about horses.”
Lando grinned. “Well, you’ve definitely upgraded in my opinion. Cars are faster.”
You laughed softly, and the two of you eased into light conversation. He cracked a joke about Carlos still hogging the mirror in drivers' briefings, and you pretended not to flinch.
Eventually, he glanced at the clock. “Alright, I gotta head back to hospitality before my PR manager has an aneurysm. It was nice talking to you, Y/N.”
“You too, Lando.”
He gave a little wave and walked off.
—————
Hallway Near McLaren Hospitality
Lando was humming under his breath as he walked down their hallway, tapping through unread messages on his phone. His pace was easy, unbothered, until—
“Lando.”
He jumped so hard his phone nearly slipped from his hands.
“Bloody hell, man!” he spun around. “What are you—why are you lurking like that?”
Carlos stood half in shadow, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting there a while. He looked composed—well, as composed as someone who clearly wasn’t. He was in his Ferrari race suit, unzipped halfway with the fireproof top clinging to his waist, arms crossed, jaw tight.
“I saw you,” Carlos said coolly, “in the McLaren lounge.”
Lando looked at him, wary. “Okay…”
“You were talking to her,” Carlos added, as if Lando needed the clarification.
“Oh. Y/N?” Lando nodded. “Yeah, she was there waiting for the sponsor meeting. She said hey. I said hey back. Not exactly Breaking News, mate.”
Carlos didn’t smile.
“What’d you two talk about?” he asked, too casually.
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?”
Carlos shrugged, trying to make it seem nonchalant. “Just curious.”
Lando squinted. “You’re curious about what Y/N and I talked about? Since when?”
Carlos was quiet.
Lando narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Wait, wait. Are you seriously… jealous?”
Carlos replies immediately. “No.”
“You are!” Lando pointed at him. “You absolutely are. What the hell, man? I thought you were the one who wanted her gone.”
Carlos exhaled sharply. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to. You acted like it. Don’t give me that ‘I never said that’ bull.” Lando crossed his arms, mocking Carlos’s defensive stance. “Back then? She was showing up to every Grand Prix, being nice, giving you—what was that thing? That custom leather suit? You hated it. Said it made you uncomfortable.”
Carlos stared past Lando, jaw clenched.
“She’s different now,” Carlos said. “I don’t know. It’s like she finally… stopped trying. And now I can't stop looking for her.”
Lando let that hang in the air before deadpanning, “Wow. That is so poetic, Carlos. You miss her now that she’s not obsessed with you. Groundbreaking.”
Carlos didn’t rise to the jab.
“Anyway,” Lando continued, less teasing now, “we just chatted. Nothing flirty. She’s chill. Like, scary calm. Girlboss energy. Honestly, I kinda get it now—why she made people nervous. She’s not chasing anyone. She doesn’t need to.”
The silence stretched as Lando scrolled absently on his phone, already losing interest in the conversation. Carlos just sat there, still, letting Lando’s words settle like a rock in his chest.
You’re not chasing anyone.
Not even him.
Carlos leaned back, rubbing the edge of his jaw, lost in thought.
He didn’t know what to say.
All he knew was that he missed it.
Not just the attention — but your warmth. The way you used to look at him like he could do anything.
pairing: boo seungkwan x f!reader | wc: 18K
genre: coworkers au, fake dating au, fluff, humor, suggestive, angst
warnings: language, alcohol consumption, suggestive scenes
a/n: for cam&em’s lonely hearts cafe collab (everyone go read every fic or i will Find You) // this is a continuation of morning rush
enormous thank you to @ylangelegy and @haologram for beta-ing this <3333
summary: You could honestly throttle Seokmin right now. Of all the half-baked, caffeine-fueled ideas he’s ever had, convincing the entire office that you and Seungkwan—your sworn nemesis and parking spot thief—are madly in love might just take the cake.
Seokmin has a plan. A really, really, really good plan. He’s sure of it.
Mostly.
He leans against the breakroom counter, nursing the world’s saddest cup of instant coffee, and considers the potential fallout. Sure, you and Seungkwan will probably strangle him (or, in your case, make an entire PowerPoint on “Why Lee Seokmin Deserves to Be Laid Off”), but the rewards outweigh the risks. Seokmin glances toward the hallway, where the faint sound of Aera and Ayoung’s laughter echoes, their voices just a pitch too smug. No, this plan is flawless. Foolproof. Nobel Prize-worthy, even.
All he has to do now is sell it to the two people who loathe each other the most in the office.
He hadn’t meant to open his mouth, but God, Aera and Ayoung had to have been demons crafted by the devil himself, the kind that thrived on overpriced lattes and the scent of shattered self-esteem. Seokmin had just been passing through the hallway, minding his own business—okay, eavesdropping a little—when he caught wind of their conversation.
“Honestly, I don’t know why she even bothers coming to these galas,” Aera had said, inspecting her manicure like it held the secrets of the universe. “It’s not like anyone actually notices her. She’s basically furniture.”
“Right? What’s the point if you don’t have someone on your arm?” Ayoung had added, with a theatrical sigh. “But then again, who would even want to go with her? She’s so…. ugh.”
The “ugh” had been the final straw. Seokmin hadn’t thought twice—he’d stormed over, ready to unleash a tirade about how you were the hardest-working person in the office, how you’d single-handedly carried your team through last quarter’s hellish project, and how you absolutely deserved more respect.
Instead, what came out of his mouth was:
“Y/N has a date. Obviously.”
The two women blinked at him in unison, their perfectly sculpted eyebrows raising in surprise. “Oh?” Aera recovers quickly, tilting her head. “And who’s the lucky date? You?”
Seokmin laughed, loud and unconvincing. “Me? No, no, I’m going with Soonyoung, like I always do.”
Ayoung narrowed her eyes. “Then who?”
And this is where Seokmin’s brain had short-circuited. He glanced around the room, as if the walls might offer some divine intervention. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the vending machine. His mind raced, searching for a name that would shut them up, and then—
“Seungkwan,” he blurted out.
Both women stared at him, stunned. “Seungkwan?” Aera repeated, incredulous.
“Yep! Seungkwan,” Seokmin had said, doubling down because he knew there was no turning back. “They’ve been together for ages. Super lowkey about it, though. You know how Seungkwan is.”
The silence was deafening.
“Seungkwan,” Ayoung echoed, her expression twisting into disbelief. “Boo Seungkwan. As in, ‘my parking spot is sacred ground’ Seungkwan?”
Seokmin’s grin tightened. “The very same.”
For a moment, the two women exchanged a look, processing this unexpected development. Then, to Seokmin’s immense relief, Aera shrugged. “Huh. I guess that makes sense. They’re both kind of…intense.”
“I mean, they fight like an old married couple,” Ayoung had added, smirking.
“Exactly!” Seokmin said, clinging to the lifeline they’ve unknowingly thrown him. “Soulmates, right?”
The rumor spread faster than an office email about free donuts, and by lunchtime, it seemed like everyone had an opinion about your supposed relationship with Boo Seungkwan. The first domino fell when Mingyu slid into the seat across from Seungkwan in the cafeteria, tray in hand and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. He casually tossed his napkin onto his lap, but there was a glint in his eyes that made Seungkwan pause mid-bite.
“So,” Mingyu began, spearing a piece of chicken with far too much casual flair, “you and Y/N, huh? Cute.”
Seungkwan, who had been halfway through chewing a mouthful of rice, immediately choked so violently he nearly toppled the entire tray. The force of his cough was so dramatic that Joshua, seated a few spots away, paused mid-bite and gave Seungkwan a couple of hard thumps on the back, muttering a half-hearted “Jesus, dude” under his breath. The rest of the table fell silent, watching the spectacle unfold with varying degrees of concern and mild amusement.
“Excuse me?” Seungkwan sputtered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes wide with a mixture of horror and confusion.
“You know…” Mingyu leaned in, lowering his voice conspiratorially, the way someone would when revealing state secrets. “You. Y/N. The whole undercover thing.” He paused for effect, looking around as if making sure no one else was eavesdropping. “Honestly, I didn’t see it coming, but it makes sense. You two do bicker like an old couple. It’s kinda cute, actually.”
Seungkwan froze mid-chew, his chopsticks hovering in midair, as his brain scrambled to process Mingyu’s words. Undercover thing? Old couple? Y/N?
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Seungkwan said flatly, his voice a mix of exasperation and genuine confusion, although a tiny bead of sweat had already begun to form at his temple. He glanced around, noticing the way a few of his coworkers at the nearby tables were suddenly pretending to be deeply invested in their food, but the side glances they were stealing were hard to miss.
Mingyu squinted, his expression becoming exaggeratedly serious. “Don’t play dumb, Seungkwan. Aera and Ayoung said you and Y/N have been secretly dating for ages. Ages. Like, seriously. You two are practically the office power couple.”
Seungkwan stared at Mingyu, not entirely sure whether he should laugh or start hyperventilating. His eyes flickered to Joshua, who was now giving him a sympathetic glance, and then back to Mingyu, whose grin had only grown wider with every passing second. The conversation around them had slowly started to fade into the background, leaving only the sound of Seungkwan’s rapidly beating heart in his ears.
For a brief moment, the only sound was the clatter of utensils against trays, and the faint sound of someone sneezing a few tables over, as though the entire room was collectively holding its breath. Then, with the force of a dam breaking, Seungkwan exclaimed, “WHAT?!”
The sound was so loud and high-pitched that the people around them flinched. Mingyu’s smirk only deepened.
“Yeah, you heard me,” he said, as if the news was the most normal thing in the world. “You and Y/N—together. Lowkey, sure, but people are noticing. Honestly, I'm impressed. You've got good chemistry. You bicker, you glare at each other like it's a sport, and boom—no one can resist you two.”
Seungkwan’s eyes widened even further, if that was possible. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out for a solid five seconds. “You... Mingyu, this is—this is insane. We’re not—”
“I mean, you guys do fight like an old married couple,” Mingyu added, completely unbothered. “Classic relationship stuff.”
Seungkwan let out a high-pitched groan, dropping his chopsticks onto his tray as he slumped back in his seat. Joshua patted him on the back with a sympathetic look. “Honestly, man, at this point, I think everyone’s already betting on how long you two last.”
Seungkwan turned a death glare on Mingyu. “Mingyu, I am not dating Y/N, okay? Not. I don’t even—”
“Sure you’re not,” Mingyu said with a wink, leaning back and taking a leisurely sip of his drink. “But hey, if you need help smoothing it over, let me know. I could use a good laugh.”
Meanwhile, you were in the middle of a relatively peaceful afternoon, lost in your work, when Soonyoung burst into your workspace like a caffeinated golden retriever on a sugar rush.
“Congrats!” he announced, voice loud enough to startle the intern two desks down, who nearly spilled her coffee in the process.
You blinked at him, genuinely perplexed. “For what?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him, unsure whether this was a prank you weren’t in on yet.
“For the relationship of the century, duh!” Soonyoung said, plopping into the chair next to you like he owned the place. He threw his feet up onto the corner of your desk, barely missing the pile of reports you’d been working on. He propped his chin on his hands, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You and Seungkwan—genius. Absolutely genius. I mean, I was wondering when you two would finally make it official, but keeping it lowkey? Perfect. Who came up with it? Was it you? It had to be you.”
Your face contorted into a mix of confusion and horror, the words barely registering. “What are you talking about? What relationship?”
Soonyoung leaned in closer, like he was about to share some highly classified info, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper. “The PR stunt, obviously! Aera and Ayoung are eating it up. Honestly, you and Seungkwan should start charging them rent for all the space you’re taking up in their heads. They're obsessed. It’s amazing.” He gave a pleased little clap. “Love to see it.”
“PR stunt?” you echoed, voice climbing in pitch. “Seungkwan?”
“Don’t be shy!” Soonyoung winked, his eyes practically glittering with pride. “You’re playing it so cool. I gotta hand it to you, you two are perfect at the whole ‘undercover couple’ thing. No one saw it coming. Now, with all those entertainment rumors about you two, people are talking. It’s the kind of buzz I can only dream of.”
You slammed your laptop shut with a dramatic bang. The sound made Soonyoung jump. "I’m going to kill him."
Soonyoung, unfazed, simply leaned back in his chair with a grin. “You should. But first, enjoy the chaos, because it’s already spreading. I mean, even the office Slack is buzzing about your ‘relationship.’ I think it’s time for you to play the long game.”
Before you could respond, Soonyoung was already pulling out his phone and swiping through a group chat on his screen. You could feel your headache forming as he muttered something about “setting the record straight” and “beating Mingyu’s office poll on couple dynamics."
Seokmin was mid-sip of his third coffee of the day when the breakroom door slammed open with enough force to make him spill.
“What the—” Seokmin started, dabbing at the mess with a crumpled napkin, but he didn’t get to finish because you and Seungkwan stormed in, practically radiating wrath. It was like watching a SWAT team execute a mission—except the target was him and his questionable life choices.
“You!” Your voice cracked through the air like a whip as you jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction.
“YOU!” Seungkwan echoed, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. His finger joined yours in solidarity, a united front of pure fury.
Seokmin froze, cornered between the sink and the vending machine, his coffee mug clutched like a makeshift shield. “Me?” he squeaked, his eyes darting between your expressions, both etched with a mix of betrayal and irritation.
“Yes, you!” Seungkwan snapped, stepping closer with the air of a man who had reached the end of his rope. “Do you want to explain why Mingyu just asked me if me and Y/N are naming our future pets after luxury brands?!”
The words hung in the air for a beat, heavy with absurdity.
“Luxury brands?” you echoed, your tone disbelieving.
“That’s not the point!” Seungkwan said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. He rounded back on Seokmin, who looked like a deer caught in a pair of particularly unforgiving headlights. “Explain. Now.”
Seokmin hesitated, his mind spinning like a faulty gear. He could feel a bead of sweat forming at his temple. “Okay,” he began carefully, stalling for time. “First of all, you’re welcome.”
The sheer audacity of the statement hit like a slap.
“You’re welcome?” you and Seungkwan chorused, voices dripping with incredulity.
“Yes!” Seokmin said, puffing up his chest slightly as though he were presenting a brilliant thesis. “You don’t understand how horrible Aera and Ayoung were being. They were saying awful things about you, Y/N! I had to defend your honor.”
“And your solution,” you said, your tone calm but with an edge sharp enough to slice through steel, “was to fake-date me with Seungkwan?”
“Yeah, Seokmin,” Seungkwan added, his hands flailing in emphasis. “I mean, if you wanted to fake-date Y/N, at least pick someone plausible. Like, I don’t know, Mingyu.”
“Hey!” you snapped, your glare whipping to Seungkwan.
“What?” Seungkwan asked, blinking in genuine confusion. “It was just an example.”
“Enough!” Seokmin groaned dramatically, throwing his hands in the air as though burdened by your collective lack of vision. “Look, it worked, didn’t it? Aera and Ayoung bought it! They even said you two bicker like an old married couple!”
“That’s not a compliment!” Seungkwan exclaimed, his voice rising an octave.
“And,” you interjected, stepping forward, your expression unnervingly calm but your tone laced with menace, “now the entire office thinks we’re in a relationship. So, how exactly does this ‘plan’ of yours end?”
Seokmin’s grin faltered slightly, his bravado cracking just enough to reveal a hint of unease. “Uh… with you two faking it for a bit longer? You know, until Aera and Ayoung find someone else to gossip about?”
Seungkwan let out a groan, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “You are unbelievable.”
“And you’re fired from planning anything ever again,” you added, your voice dripping with finality.
Seokmin opened his mouth to respond, his face twisting into a defensive expression, but the door creaked open before he could speak.
All three of you turned to see Soonyoung poking his head inside, his phone clutched in one hand. “Hey, not to interrupt, but I just posted a poll in the office group chat: ‘Who’s the power couple—Seungkwan and Y/N or Soonyoung and his plants?’ You’re winning by 72 percent, by the way.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
“You’re all insane,” Seungkwan muttered at last, snatching his coffee off the counter and storming out in a whirlwind of righteous indignation.
“Seokmin,” you said through gritted teeth, each syllable dripping with warning. “Fix this.”
Seokmin raised his mug in a mock toast, his grin resurfacing. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”
“Oh, no,” you groaned, turning on your heel. “We’re doomed.”
Seokmin’s apartment is as much of a disaster as you’d expect for a man who owns a single fork and three mismatched plates. The couch is one ill-timed flop away from breaking, and the "decor" consists of a faded movie poster, a dying plant, and a string of half-working fairy lights. Yet, somehow, it’s become the Friday night spot.
You, Seokmin, and occasionally Soonyoung gather here weekly like clockwork, cobbling together meals from his barren fridge, drinking yourselves silly, and venting about work. It’s an unspoken tradition, one that began with a pity invite after a particularly hellish week and quickly solidified when you discovered that, despite his lack of utensils, Seokmin could cook better than half the office put together.
Tonight, however, you’ve barely cracked open a bottle of soju when Seokmin starts talking about your “relationship” with Seungkwan.
“I’m just saying,” he slurs, stirring a pot of ramen with a spatula (his one and only cooking tool), “if you and Seungkwan fake-dated, Aera and Ayoung would shut up. It’s genius!”
You groan, sprawled on the lumpy couch with a glass in hand. “Seokmin, I’d rather die.”
“Would you, though?” he says, squinting at you like he’s cracked the code to life. “Because imagine showing up to the gala with Seungkwan on your arm. They’d hate it. And you’d look hot.”
You swish the remaining soju in your glass, frowning. “I don’t need Seungkwan to look hot.”
“Exactly! Which makes it better. He’d be like your hot accessory. Like a really angry Gucci bag.”
You snort at the thought of Seungkwan as a designer handbag and open your mouth to argue when Seokmin’s expression turns suspiciously earnest. “Look, I’m your work husband. I’d never steer you wrong. Just trust me.”
Your brain, already fuzzed from alcohol and exhaustion, betrays you. “Fine,” you mutter, waving your hand. “Whatever. I’ll fake-date Seungkwan.”
“REALLY?!” Seokmin drops the spatula with a clatter and claps his hands. “Great! Let me tell Soonyoung it’s safe to come in!”
“What?” you snap, sitting up so fast the room tilts. “What do you mean, safe to come in?”
“Yeah,” Seokmin says casually, wiping his hands on his pants. “He’s been waiting outside with Seungkwan for the 45 minutes it took for me to convince you.”
“LEE SEOKMIN, I WILL FUCKING THROTTLE YOU!”
You launch your slipper at him, but he ducks. The projectile sails past him and hits a new target—a very startled Seungkwan, who has just walked through the door.
The slipper connects with his thigh with a muted thwack.
Shocked silence fills the room.
Seungkwan glares at the three of you like you’ve all personally wronged him. “Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I’m going home. All of you motherfuckers are insane.”
“Wait!” Soonyoung and Seokmin leap forward, grabbing Seungkwan by the arms and dragging him back inside. He protests the whole way, muttering about how he “knew this was a terrible idea” and “should’ve stayed home.”
Thus begins the chaos.
Seokmin slaps the paper onto the coffee table like he’s presenting a groundbreaking thesis. In messy, barely legible letters, he’s scrawled FAKE DATING CONTRACT across the top.
“We’re doing this right,” he announces, brandishing the sharpie like a microphone. “Discussion topic number one: PDA.”
“None,” you say, raising your soju bottle in a mock toast.
“No PDA?” Soonyoung protests from where he’s sprawled across the armrest of the couch. “How is that going to convince anyone you’re dating? You can’t just stare at each other awkwardly across the room!”
“I don’t stare at people awkwardly,” you snap.
“Yes, you do,” Seungkwan deadpans. “That’s, like, your whole thing.”
“Excuse me?” you shoot back, glaring.
“Alright, alright!” Seokmin waves the sharpie between you like a referee breaking up a fight. “Compromise: hand-holding is allowed.” He starts writing it down, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth.
“And cheek kisses,” Soonyoung adds brightly.
“No way!” Seungkwan bursts out, looking betrayed.
“It’s just a cheek!” Soonyoung protests. “You don’t even have to look at her.”
“Wow,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. “Thanks for the enthusiasm, darling.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Seungkwan snaps, arms crossing. “Did you want me to lie and say I’m thrilled to be fake-dating the office menace?”
You grab a couch cushion and smack him over the head with it. “I wouldn’t have to be a menace if you weren’t so insufferable!”
“Guys!” Seokmin groans, pointing the sharpie at both of you like it’s a weapon. “Focus. Cheek kisses are in.” He scribbles it down while Seungkwan mutters something about treason.
“And you,” you add, pointing at Seungkwan, “are bringing me coffee every morning for six weeks from that café across town.”
“Like hell I am!” Seungkwan glares. “You know how far that is?”
“Yes, which is why you’re doing it,” you snap. “Call it emotional compensation.”
“You’re not getting coffee and the parking spot!” Seungkwan shouts, sitting up straight.
“The parking spot was mine first!”
“Your car doesn’t even fit in it properly!”
“Then I’ll make it fit!”
Seokmin scribbles something on the paper and holds it up with an exasperated flourish. “Okay, joint custody of the parking spot. You’ll alternate weeks.”
“That’s stupid,” you mutter.
“So are you!” Seungkwan fires back, and you lunge for another cushion.
“Guys!” Soonyoung yells, snatching the cushion out of your hands. “Rule number three: no throwing things at each other while in public.”
“I’m not signing that,” you say immediately.
“Neither am I,” Seungkwan agrees.
“Fine,” Seokmin grumbles, crossing it out. “Next rule: no kissing on the lips.”
“That should’ve been rule number one,” Seungkwan mutters, and you chuck a slipper at him for good measure.
“Rule number five: you have to act nice to each other in front of Aera and Ayoung,” Seokmin adds, barely pausing as Seungkwan yelps.
“Oh, great,” you say sarcastically. “So now I have to fake-date him and fake-like him?”
“Yeah, real tough,” Seungkwan scoffs. “Try fake-liking you for five minutes.”
“Okay, rule six: no insults while in public,” Seokmin says, scribbling furiously.
“Define ‘insult,’” you say.
“You just called me a moron five minutes ago!” Seungkwan protests.
“That’s not an insult,” you argue. “It’s an observation.”
“Oh my God,” Seokmin groans, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You’ll both bring snacks to the gala,” Soonyoung interjects, leaning over Seokmin’s shoulder. “That way, when you start arguing in public, at least you can shove food into each other’s mouths.”
“That is not going on the list,” Seungkwan says, shooting him a glare.
“It’s already on there,” Seokmin chirps.
The arguing goes on and on, fueled by soju and petty grievances, until the paper is crammed with hastily written rules, half of which contradict each other. Seokmin holds up the finished product triumphantly.
FAKE DATING CONTRACT(written and notarized by Lee Seokmin, Esq. of Bad Ideas LLC)
No PDA.
Exception: hand-holding is allowed.
Exception to the exception: no clammy hands.
Cheek kisses are mandatory for believability.
Mandatory?! – Seungkwan
Yes. – Soonyoung
No lip kissing, EVER.
We’re not that committed to this.
Joint custody of the parking spot.
Weeks will alternate.
If one party is late to the spot, they forfeit their turn.
Coffee Clause:
Seungkwan will deliver coffee every morning for six weeks.
It must come from the café across town.
Why do I have to do this? – Seungkwan
Because you’re annoying. – Y/N
No throwing objects at each other in public.
Or private! – Seungkwan
Not negotiable. – Y/N
Insult ban in public spaces.
“Moron” is not an insult, it’s an observation.
This feels targeted. – Seungkwan
Be nice to each other in front of Aera and Ayoung.
Smile. A lot. Pretend you’re not arguing.
How am I supposed to do that?! – Y/N
Snacks must be brought to the gala.
If bickering begins, snacks will be used to shut each other up.
This rule is offensive. – Seungkwan
Duration of fake dating: until Aera and Ayoung lose interest or find another victim.
No extensions allowed.
All parties must try to look reasonably attractive during public appearances.
Define ‘reasonably.’– Seungkwan
Just don’t embarrass me. – Y/N
Any disputes regarding this contract will be arbitrated by Soonyoung and Seokmin.
Oh, we’re gonna regret this.
Practice sessions required before the first public appearance.
“Practice” may include hand-holding, smiling, and general fake-couple behavior.
You glance at the chaotic list and groan. “I hate this.”
“Sign it anyway,” Seokmin says, shoving the sharpie into your hand.
You scrawl your name at the bottom with all the enthusiasm of someone signing away their soul. Seungkwan follows suit, muttering curses under his breath.
“Great!” Seokmin beams, snatching the paper and sharpie. “Now, time to practice!”
“Seokmin, it’s 3 AM!” you whine. “Let me go home!”
“NO!” Soonyoung and Seokmin yell in unison.
Practice begins in earnest with Seokmin standing in front of you and Seungkwan like a drill sergeant, clipboard in hand. Soonyoung is sprawled across the couch with a blanket, looking far too comfortable for someone instigating chaos.
“Alright,” Seokmin says, tapping his pen against the clipboard. “First order of business: compliments.”
“Compliments?” you echo, your tone flat. “We’re fake-dating, not auditioning for a rom-com.”
“Yes, compliments,” Seokmin says, with the exaggerated patience of a kindergarten teacher. “If you can’t fake a little affection, no one’s going to buy this. Start with something small. Seungkwan, you go first.”
“Fine,” Seungkwan sighs, turning to you. “Your… outfit is fine.”
“Wow,” you deadpan. “Don’t hold back.”
“Fine! You looked pretty that one day you wore a dress to work,” he says, crossing his arms defensively.
Your stomach flips unexpectedly, and you hate that it does. That wasn’t what you’d expected him to say. The memory surfaces unbidden: you, rushing into the office late for a meeting, fumbling with your presentation slides. You barely noticed Seungkwan staring, too preoccupied with apologizing to the executives that were staring at your whirlwind entrance.
Now, you remember the day too well, and you shove the memories down immediately. “That’s it? One day out of, like, a thousand?” you say, masking your unease with a smirk.
“Take it or leave it,” he snaps.
“Your turn,” Seokmin says, gesturing at you.
You glance at Seungkwan, already regretting what you’re about to say. “You… make people laugh.”
“That’s the best you can do?” Seungkwan scoffs, but there’s a flicker of something softer in his eyes.
“Okay, fine,” you grumble. “You’re good at your job. People like you. You’re… charming, I guess.”
The room goes silent for a beat, and you feel heat creeping up your neck.
“Well,” Seungkwan says after a pause, his voice quieter. “Thanks.”
“Okay, compliments, check,” Seokmin interjects, scribbling something illegible onto the contract for no discernible reason. “Next, hand-holding!”
“Seriously?” you groan.
“Yes!” Soonyoung shouts from his sprawl on the couch. “You’re going to have to do it in public! Get over it!”
Reluctantly, you hold out your hand. Seungkwan looks at it like you’ve just offered him a live grenade.
“Stop stalling,” Seokmin says, smirking.
Seungkwan grabs your hand, and the moment your palms meet, you recoil. “Why is your hand so clammy?” you demand, grimacing.
“Because I’m stressed, you monster!” Seungkwan shoots back. “Stop squeezing so hard!”
“I’m not squeezing—your hand’s just weird!”
“My hand is weird?” Seungkwan huffs. “Yours is dryer than the Sahara!”
“You’re both weird!” Soonyoung yells, throwing a couch pillow at your heads. “Try again, and this time, don’t look like you’re holding hands with a corpse!”
The both of you roll your eyes but try again. This time, it’s… slightly better. Seungkwan’s hand is still clammy, but at least he’s not actively complaining.
By the time Soonyoung pipes up again, the sun is starting to rise, casting pale light through the blinds.
“Alright, final test,” he says, stifling a yawn. “You’ve gotta kiss her cheek.”
“What?!” you and Seungkwan exclaim in unison.
“You’re going to have to do it in public anyway!” Soonyoung argues, gesturing grandly from the couch. “This is practice!”
“I am not kissing—”
“Just do it,” Seokmin says, cutting Seungkwan off with a weary wave of his hand. “The sooner you do, the sooner we can all sleep.”
You open your mouth to argue, but before you can, Seungkwan leans over. His hand finds your shoulder for balance, and then—soft and fleeting—his lips brush your cheek.
It’s over in a heartbeat, but your stomach flips like you’re falling from the top of a roller coaster. You can still feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the faint pressure of his lips, and it sends a shockwave of emotions crashing through you—confusion, nervousness, and something suspiciously like longing.
Seokmin looks at you knowingly, and your heart stutters in your chest.
“I have to go,” you mutter, grabbing your jacket in a rush. You can’t stay here—not with Seokmin’s knowing smirk, not with Seungkwan’s kiss replaying on a loop in your head. “See you Monday.”
Before anyone can stop you, you’re out the door, the crisp morning air biting at your cheeks as you flee Seokmin’s apartment like it’s on fire.
The parking lot is unusually quiet as you pull in, a sharp contrast to the whirlwind weekend you’re still trying to process. You hadn’t slept much since fleeing Seokmin’s apartment, your thoughts tangled in half-drunken banter, hastily scribbled contracts, and—worst of all—the lingering warmth of Seungkwan’s lips on your cheek.
A glint of sunlight off a familiar car catches your eye, parked a few rows back. Seungkwan’s here early. Of course he is. You can already feel your mood souring, bracing yourself for whatever fresh nonsense he’s decided to stir up this week.
Sliding into The Spot, you glance around, expecting the usual hustle and bustle of the office, but your focus sharpens the moment you spot them—Aera and Ayoung, lingering suspiciously close to your desk. You feel the groan build in your throat. It’s too early for this.
“Look who’s finally here,” Aera says the moment she spots you, her voice carrying easily over the din.
You keep walking, shoulders stiffening as Ayoung chimes in. “Big weekend, huh? Let me guess, late-night dinner dates with you know who?”
“Or maybe a romantic getaway?” Aera adds, giggling. “He seems like the type to splurge, doesn’t he?”
You don’t take the bait, just set your bag down at your desk, pointedly ignoring them.
But they don’t stop. Ayoung leans against the edge of your cubicle, her grin sharp. “Seriously, though. How does it feel? Dating the Boo Seungkwan.”
You glance up at her, exasperation seeping into your voice. “What is your problem?”
“No problem,” she says innocently, her expression anything but. “We’re just... curious. I mean, it’s not every day someone like him ends up with... well, you.”
There it is. The thinly veiled insult. Your fingers tighten around your bag strap, heat rising to your cheeks. Before you can snap back, Aera gasps, her attention snagging on your desk.
“Oh my god. Is that a coffee?” Her tone is mockingly saccharine as she picks up the cup, waving it in front of you. “And a note. ‘As requested - xo Seungkwan.’ How adorable.”
Ayoung practically cackles. “He even knows your order. Wow, this is... honestly shocking.” She isn’t wrong - it’s your exact order, right down to the weirdly specific oat milk ratio you insist on.
“Shocking?” you repeat, glaring.
Aera shrugs, clearly reveling in your discomfort. “I mean, come on. You’re you. He’s... him. It’s a little hard to picture, don’t you think?”
You open your mouth to retort, but a new voice cuts in before you can.
“Do you two ever get tired of this?”
You don’t even need to look to know who it is. You turn just in time to see Seungkwan stride over, exuding confidence like he’s been rehearsing this moment. He doesn’t even look at Aera and Ayoung; his focus is entirely on you as he slides an arm around your waist.
The casual weight of it is jarring, grounding—and completely unnecessary. Your heart stutters in response, though you’d die before admitting it.
“Is there a problem here?” Seungkwan asks, his tone all business, though you catch the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.
Aera’s confidence wavers for the first time, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. Ayoung, to her credit, looks equally flustered.
“No problem,” Aera says finally, her voice quieter now.
“Good,” Seungkwan replies smoothly. He glances down at you, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Enjoy your coffee, babe.”
With that, the two of them retreat, mumbling half-hearted excuses as they shuffle back to their desks.
As soon as they’re gone, Seungkwan drops his arm like it burned him, and the absence of his touch is... startling. Disorienting. You hate how much you notice it.
“What the hell was that?” you hiss, rounding on him.
He doesn’t even look fazed. If anything, he looks amused. “You’re welcome.”
“Welcome? For what? Making things worse?”
He nods toward your desk. “They’re gone, aren’t they?”
You narrow your eyes at him, your frustration mounting. “Why did you even—what is this?” You gesture vaguely to the coffee, the note, the whole absurd situation.
“A contract is a contract,” he says simply, already turning to walk away.
“Wait.” You grab the coffee, pointing it at him like a weapon. “How did you even know my order?”
He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with that infuriating smirk that makes you want to throw the cup at him.
“I have my ways.”
“Seungkwan!” you call after him, but he’s already walking off, the faint echo of his laughter trailing behind him.
You slump into your chair, glaring at the coffee like it’s somehow responsible for all of this. Your phone buzzes, and you pull it out, immediately opening the group chat with Seokmin and Soonyoung.
Y/N: which one of you mfs told seungkwan my coffee order
[NOT] tiger: 👀
[NOT] tiger: not it
seok: pinky swear not me
seok: hm
seok: didn’t think he’d actually get you coffee
Y/N: how the hell does he know?
[NOT] tiger: maybe he just
[NOT] tiger: knows[NOT] tiger: soulmate fr
Y/N: blocking you.
seok: wait
seok: did he get it right?
Y/N: YES
Y/N: that’s the problem!!!
seok: hmm
[NOT] tiger: HMMMMM
You toss your phone onto your desk, groaning into your hands. Mondays were supposed to be bad, but this? This was a new level of torment. And somewhere in the back of your mind, you can’t stop replaying the warmth of Seungkwan’s hand on your waist—and the way, just for a moment, it didn’t feel so bad.
Tuesday morning. You arrive at your desk to the familiar sight of a coffee waiting for you, the cup steaming invitingly as though it’s supposed to make you feel better about the day ahead. As you drop your bag onto the desk and take in the sight of it, your stomach tightens—because this time, Seungkwan’s waiting for you. Standing there like a kid in a candy store, a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth as if he knows exactly how to mess with your head.
But today is not the day.
Not after this morning.
You don’t know if it's the car breaking down in the middle of a torrential downpour, or if it’s the fact that your landlord decided today was the day to demand rent five days early and threaten eviction over the tiniest of issues—either way, you’re running on fumes and patience.
When Seungkwan opens his mouth to speak, you don’t even look up. You take a long, slow breath and mutter, “Not today.”
You don’t hear him move at first, and for a moment, you almost think he’s going to leave it. That maybe, just maybe, he’s finally catching on that not every moment is for him. But then, his voice—sharp, defensive—cuts through the air.
“What’s your problem today? I get it, you’re having a bad morning. But I’m trying to be nice here.”
You can’t help it; the words spill out before you can stop them. “I don’t need your pity coffee, Seungkwan. I don’t need your help.”
His eyes flash, the usual teasing glint replaced with something more serious. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
You don’t answer, just fold your arms over your chest, staring hard at the computer screen, trying to block him out. “Just…go away, Seungkwan.”
His eyes widen, and something flickers behind them—hurt, maybe? But before he can say anything else, you hear the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. You look up, realizing you’ve attracted a small crowd.
Aera and Ayoung are standing a few desks away, watching you two with wide, curious eyes. They’ve been lurking long enough to catch the exchange, and you can practically feel their glee radiating off them.
“Everything okay, [Y/N]?” Aera asks, barely hiding her amusement.
Your stomach sinks. You know exactly what they’re thinking: public fight, public gossip. You know you’re not supposed to care, but you do. You absolutely do.
Seungkwan must’ve seen it, too, because in a flash, he’s grabbed your hand—your hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world—and yanks you toward the breakroom. You stumble slightly in the direction he pulls you, not expecting the sudden contact. Your heart races, and for a split second, you wonder if this was what it felt like before. That warm feeling flooding your chest, the butterflies in your stomach.
But then the door to the breakroom slams shut, cutting off the noise of the office, and Seungkwan lets go of your hand.
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the counter, eyes narrowed. “Spill. What’s going on?”
You can’t hold it in anymore. The tension cracks, and before you know it, the tears are spilling out.
“I’m just so tired of everything,” you choke out, the words tangled in the rush of emotions. “My car is broken down, my landlord’s being a total jerk, and everything’s just—ugh. It’s just too much.”
You blink, feeling embarrassed, but Seungkwan doesn’t make fun of you. Instead, his gaze softens for a moment, just enough that you almost don’t believe it. Almost.
“Good,” he says suddenly, and your heart stutters. “You broke the contract.”
You lift your head, confusion wrinkling your brow. “What?”
“The contract.” He says it as though it’s obvious. “You snapped at me in front of Aera and Ayoung. That’s my parking spot for the rest of the week.”
You stare at him, blinking in disbelief. And then, before you can stop it, a laugh escapes from your lips—soft, genuine, and so not what you expected.
“Seriously?” you ask, trying to wipe away the tears that suddenly make you feel so small.
His face softens, just for a moment, before that look fades as quickly as it came. But for a brief second, you could’ve sworn he looked... endearing?
“Don’t laugh,” he mutters, crossing his arms again, leaning back against the counter. “I have principles.”
You can’t help but smile at that, and for the first time today, you feel lighter. You can’t quite place the warm sensation in your chest, but it’s there, flickering like the embers of something you don’t want to acknowledge.
“Hey,” he says with a half-grin, “a contract’s a contract.”
And then, without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving you standing there in the breakroom, a little lighter than before.
When you return to your desk, you’re not sure what you expected. Maybe you thought Aera and Ayoung would leave you alone, but no. Of course not. They’re standing by your cubicle, eyes glued to you, ready to pounce.
“Oh, look who’s back,” Aera says, feigning sweetness. “Everything okay? You two seemed like you were having quite a heated conversation.”
Ayoung raises an eyebrow, almost mockingly. “Yeah, what was that? We didn’t expect Seungkwan to be so... protective.”
You stiffen, but before you can say anything, Seungkwan strolls in casually, all too aware of their prying eyes. He throws a casual arm around your shoulder and leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks in a teasing tone.
“A lover’s spat,” he says smoothly, looking at Aera and Ayoung with a shit-eating grin. “Nothing to see here.”
You freeze for a moment, caught off guard by the sudden closeness of his body. You don’t move, don’t push him off, and you hate how right it feels, even if it’s just for show.
They seem to buy it, nodding and turning away, though you know the gossip mill will be churning with this new twist.
The rest of the day passes by in a blur, and when the lunch hour arrives, Seungkwan casually approaches your table, offering in his usual nonchalant manner, “I’ll drive you home today.”
The casualness of it almost makes you choke on your lunch. Seokmin, who had just taken a sip of his drink, immediately spits it out in Soonyoung’s face. You can’t help but laugh, but when Seungkwan shoots you a look, you quickly compose yourself.
“I’m fine,” you tell him, voice calm but firm. “Seokmin already agreed to jump my car and drive me home.”
Seungkwan shrugs, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “Whatever you say, babe.”
Later that evening, as you’re in the car with Seokmin, he turns to you, his gaze intense. “What’s going on with you and Seungkwan?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
You deflect, shrugging it off with a nonchalant tone. “Nothing. We’re just...” You trail off, unsure of how to explain it.
Seokmin doesn’t let up, his gaze never leaving you the entire drive home.
When you get home, you’re still thinking about Seungkwan—about his hand in yours, the warmth that flickered in his eyes when you laughed.
Later that night, you get a text from Seungkwan. You roll your eyes as you unlock your phone.
Later that night, you get a text from Seungkwan. You roll your eyes as you unlock your phone.
Seungkwan (WORK): what color dress are you wearing to the gala?
Y/N: why
Seungkwan (WORK): because it’s in two days idiot
Y/N: ok and
Seungkwan (WORK): what kind of boyfriend doesn’t match ties to his girlfriend’s dress
You pause for a moment, then text back,
Y/N: midnight blue
There’s a long pause before he replies.
Seungkwan (WORK): we’re gonna aera and ayoung the fuck up
Seungkwan (WORK): you’re welcome.
You snort, rolling your eyes, but something in the back of your mind feels a little lighter. You look at the screen again, trying to push away the warmth that’s creeping into your cheeks.
You try to shake off the weird fluttering in your chest, but it’s hard when you can’t stop thinking about the way he smiled at you in the breakroom.
Then, after reading the text one last time, you throw your phone aside and scream into your pillow for a solid 30 seconds.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?” The pillow muffles the sounds of your frustration, embarrassment, and maybe something else all rolling together.
It’s Wednesday, and you’re feeling... strange. So, as a silent apology of sorts, you leave Seungkwan's parking spot open for him, not even pretending it’s not a deliberate move. And to make it worse (or better, depending on how you look at it), you stop by his favorite restaurant—thanks to a very begrudging Mingyu who’d been the one to tell you at 6 AM—and leave a packaged meal on his desk with a simple note: "i’m sorry."
By the time Seungkwan walks in, there’s a triumphant grin on his face and a coffee in hand. You don’t even have to look up to know what’s coming—he’s practically floating from the excitement of seeing his spot waiting for him.
As you stand to meet him, your fingers brush ever so gently when he hands you your order. It’s the smallest of touches, but for some reason, your pulse quickens.
"Thank you for the food," he says, his voice sounding strange—almost sincere, which isn’t like him at all. "But how did you know my favorite restaurant?"
You can’t help the smirk that stretches across your face.
"I have my ways," you reply, leaning in just a little, your voice cool and teasing as you echo his words back from Monday. The playfulness between the two of you feels oddly familiar, and for a moment, there’s something in his eyes—just a flicker—that catches you off guard. But you shove it down before it can fully register.
Seungkwan arches an eyebrow, lips curling into that mischievous smile of his, but before he can say anything, you already know what comes next: more teasing, more playful bickering. It’s almost comfortable, like this entire fake-dating charade is starting to blur the line between what’s real and what’s not.
But the strangest thing of all is the way your heart is beating a little faster than it should.
You don’t know why you’re bothered. You can’t even really pinpoint the reason why, but when you walk past Seungkwan’s desk and see him sitting there, earbuds in, his face subtly twitching in response to a few of your colleagues’ whispers, something inside you snaps. It’s not your usual reaction to the gossip at work—it’s the way he seems oblivious to the hurt he's trying to hide, like he’s expecting it. Your mind races as you overhear them, the words sticking to you like bitter honey:
“Seungkwan’s just a joke with the dating thing. You can tell he’s not even on the same level as her,” Kevin’s voice rings out, “I mean, she’s crushing it, and look at him. He’s just... there.”
“He’s lucky she even pays attention to him,” Juyeon adds with a snide laugh.
And that’s when your heart clenches, the sound of their voices mixing with the hurt look in Seungkwan’s eyes as he watches the screen, his posture slumping in a way that you’ve seen too many times to ignore.
You tell yourself you don’t care.
But you do.
And before you can stop yourself, you march toward his desk. Your palms are sweaty, but your resolve is steady, and when you reach his side, you throw your arms around him from behind, your body leaning into his warmth, your chin resting on his shoulder as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re telling yourself it’s all just an act. Just a game. Fake dating, after all, is supposed to be easy.
But the feeling of his body stiffening under your arms, his breath catching, makes your stomach flip in a way you didn’t expect. You force yourself to smile, to say the words like they don’t matter.
"Hey love," you murmur, pressing a brief kiss to his cheek that feels far too real for what it is, "wanna get lunch?"
For a moment, Seungkwan just stares at you, dumbfounded. His eyes search yours as if trying to figure out whether this is part of the act or something more. You don’t give him a chance to answer. Instead, you interlace your fingers with his, pulling him to his feet and out of the seat, dragging him to the cafeteria without another word.
The air between you feels thick, but somehow, it doesn’t matter. You keep your grip on his hand as if it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. When you reach the lunch line, Seungkwan mumbles under his breath, his voice low but filled with something you can’t quite place.
“Thank you,” he says, and the words feel heavy, like they mean something far more profound than you expected.
You glance at him, trying to keep your face neutral. "Why do you put up with all this?" you ask, hoping to keep the conversation casual. But the question feels more vulnerable than you’d like.
He shrugs nonchalantly, though his gaze drops to the ground as he talks. "Come on, I get worse from you. I can handle a little shit talk from people who don’t know what they’re talking about.”
But something in his voice, something sharp and tired, makes your heart sink. The idea that you’ve made him feel like he’s “just there” rattles you. That you’ve unknowingly added to his burdens—because in this moment, it feels like you are the reason he’s doubting himself.
“Seungkwan, I didn’t mean—” you begin, but he cuts you off with a small, almost bitter smile.
"It’s fine," he murmurs, but there’s a flicker of something unsaid in his expression.
The rest of lunch is quieter than usual, and you both keep stealing glances at each other, unsure of what to say or how to fix the awkward tension that now lingers between you. When the two of you return to your desks, you half-expect him to brush it off and act like nothing happened, but instead, Seungkwan shows up at your desk after lunch, and for a moment, you think maybe he’s just here to grab something he left behind. But when he looks at you, his gaze softens.
"I’m sorry,” he says, looking almost... shy? “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad about the way I said that. I know you don’t... mean to be like that."
You swallow hard, feeling your heart twist, guilt and frustration building in your chest. “No, I... I shouldn’t have said anything either. I’m sorry, Seungkwan."
His eyes flicker, like he’s trying to read you, but then he cracks a smile. "Maybe we both just suck at this fake-dating thing."
It’s a lame attempt at humor, but it works. The tension lifts slightly, though the understanding between you two is still fragile. You force a chuckle, then give him a genuine, if a little uneasy, smile.
And just like that, the awkwardness starts to dissipate.
For now, anyway.
Thursday starts off strangely, though you try not to dwell on it. When you pull into the parking lot, The Spot is open for the first time in weeks. It takes you a second to process the empty space, the absence of Seungkwan's familiar car parked a few rows back.
The sight feels...off.
Your first thought is that maybe he’s running late, but a quick glance at the clock tells you that’s impossible. Seungkwan is never late. Your second thought—that maybe he’s working from home—is more logical, but it doesn’t explain the odd pang of disappointment settling in your chest.
It’s fine. Better, even. You’re busy enough today that you don’t need to see his smug smile or deal with the inevitable teasing that comes with it. Besides, tonight is the gala. He’ll show up there, looking sharp and polished, and you’ll do what you’ve been doing for weeks: play the part.
So why does the thought of not seeing him today feel heavier than it should?
You brush it off as you head into the building, but the feeling lingers. Your desk is bare when you get there—no coffee, no scrawled Post-it, no familiar, cocky energy waiting for you to roll your eyes at. You should feel relief.
Instead, it throws your whole morning off.
By the time you find yourself in the breakroom around noon, your nerves feel frayed. Deadlines loom over your head, your inbox is exploding, and now Soonyoung and Seokmin are leaning against the counter, watching you like hawks with identical grins.
“Excited for tonight?” Seokmin asks, his voice far too cheerful as he tears into a granola bar.
You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “What do you think?”
“I think,” Soonyoung interrupts before Seokmin can respond, “that you’ve been pretending not to care, but you’re actually super nervous about walking into that gala with Seungkwan.”
“I’m not nervous,” you snap, reaching for the coffee pot.
“Sure,” Seokmin says, his tone dripping with skepticism. “You’re totally calm. That’s why you’ve been fidgeting with your bracelet for the past five minutes.”
Your hand freezes, and you glance down to see your fingers toying absently with the charm on your bracelet. With a muttered curse, you reach for a mug instead, but the damage is already done.
Soonyoung smirks. “Uh-huh. Definitely not nervous.”
“I’m not,” you insist, pouring your coffee with more force than necessary.
“Then what’s with the bracelet?” Seokmin presses, grinning like he knows he’s got you cornered.
You glare at him over your shoulder. “Maybe I just like the bracelet, Seokmin. Ever think of that?”
“Or maybe,” Soonyoung drawls, dragging the words out obnoxiously, “you’re thinking about what it’s gonna be like to walk into that ballroom tonight on Seungkwan’s arm.”
Your hand twitches, spilling coffee onto the counter.
“Oh my god,” you groan, grabbing a napkin and swiping at the mess.
Soonyoung clutches his chest dramatically. “You didn’t deny it.”
“There’s nothing to deny!”
Seokmin snickers. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m ignoring you,” you correct, tossing the soaked napkin into the trash.
“You can’t ignore the truth!” Soonyoung declares, his grin practically splitting his face. “Which is that you’re gonna show up tonight in a dress that perfectly matches Seungkwan’s tie and pretend it’s all part of the act while secretly—”
“Soonyoung,” you interrupt sharply, narrowing your eyes.
“—you’re freaking out inside about how good he’s gonna look and how everyone’s gonna think you’re in love.”
“Why are you like this?” you demand, though the question is more rhetorical than anything.
“Because it’s fun,” Seokmin answers, popping the last bite of his granola bar into his mouth. “And because you’re so easy to tease when it comes to Seungkwan.”
You open your mouth to retort, but the words die on your tongue because the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that they’re not entirely wrong.
There is a part of you that’s been overthinking the gala all morning. Not because you’re nervous about the event itself, but because you’re nervous about him. About standing next to him in front of your colleagues. About the way he might look at you or the way his hand might rest on your back.
And more than that, you’re nervous about the way you’ll feel when it happens.
It’s a ridiculous thought. Seungkwan is your coworker. Your fake boyfriend. This whole thing is a game, a ploy to one-up Aera and Ayoung and win a stupid bet.
So why does the idea of walking into that ballroom with him make your heart race?
Why does it feel like it’s so much more than a game?
The rest of the day drags, your thoughts drifting back to the gala at every lull in the chaos of work. The deadlines on your desk pile higher, emails flood in, and the occasional, overly cheerful colleague stops by to remind you how "exciting" tonight is going to be.
But despite the busy afternoon, a strange mix of nervous energy and anticipation hums beneath it all. It’s not just about the event—the polished speeches, the endless string of handshakes, the clinking of champagne glasses. No, it’s about Seungkwan. About the act you’re supposed to put on together.
The hours pass in a blur of half-checked boxes and unfinished tasks. By the time you leave the office, you’re still not sure if you’ve made peace with the fact that you’re about to spend the evening glued to his side, pretending to be something you’re not.
You have just enough time to run home, change into your dress, and try to will away the nerves that have been simmering since this morning. Standing in front of your mirror, you adjust the midnight-blue fabric, smoothing it over your hips and fiddling with the clasp on your bracelet.
It’s just a gala, you tell yourself, reaching for your earrings. Just a few hours of small talk and pretending. You’ve done harder things.
But even as you head out the door, slipping into the backseat of the rideshare that will take you to the venue, you can’t quite shake the nagging thought in the back of your mind:
What if tonight doesn’t feel like pretending at all?
You spot Seungkwan waiting near the entrance to the ballroom, standing under the warm glow of the overhead sconces. He’s turned slightly away, scrolling idly on his phone, but it doesn’t take long for him to notice you. The moment his eyes land on you, they widen, the barest flicker of surprise crossing his face before he schools it into something more composed—almost indifferent.
Despite the tension simmering between you lately, you can’t help but take him in. The tailored fit of his suit accentuates his broad shoulders and sharp lines, and the midnight-blue tie—perfectly matched to your dress. The soft lighting catches on the neatly styled strands of his hair, and there’s a certain glow about him tonight that makes your heart stumble, just a little.
Focus, you scold yourself. It’s just Seungkwan. The guy who stole your parking spot. The guy who bickers with you more often than not. This is just one night, and then it’s over. Your hands smooth over the silk of your dress as you approach, brushing at imaginary lint to keep them from trembling.
Seungkwan, however, makes no attempt to disguise his once-over. His eyes drag down your figure with slow, deliberate appraisal before returning to meet your gaze. The faintest hint of a smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, but you notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
“What?” you ask, crossing your arms and raising a brow.
“Nothing,” he replies too quickly, glancing away. But his ears are tinged red, and when you prod again, leaning in just slightly to make him squirm, he mutters under his breath, “You clean up nice.”
For a second, you’re too stunned to respond. The casual compliment feels out of character, as if it slipped out before he could stop himself.
“And here I thought you’d be grumpy all night,” you say, masking your unease with an easy tease.
“Don’t get used to it,” he shoots back, though there’s no real bite to his tone. With a quiet sigh, he offers you his arm, holding it out stiffly as though unsure of himself.
Your breath catches for just a moment before you loop your arm through his, hoping he doesn’t notice the slight tremble in your fingers. The fabric of his suit is smooth and cool against your skin, and he adjusts his grip just slightly, settling his hand more securely over yours.
“Let’s get this over with,” you mumble, though you can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze.
“Right,” he agrees softly, leading you toward the grand doors. The quiet confidence in his step only makes your own nerves worse, and you wonder—just for a fleeting moment—if he feels it too.
The hotel’s ballroom is a picture of opulence, every detail polished to perfection. Warm golden light spills from the glittering chandeliers above, catching on the beveled edges of crystal glasses and the smooth, glossy surface of the checkered marble floor. White-draped tables line the room, adorned with centerpieces of fresh flowers and flickering candles. A string quartet plays softly in the corner, their music weaving through the gentle hum of conversation.
You barely have a chance to take it all in before the heat of Seungkwan’s arm against yours pulls your focus back. He stands tall beside you, his midnight-blue tie gleaming under the lights. You try not to fidget, but every time your gaze flickers to him, the quiet confidence in his expression sets your nerves on edge.
It’s just one night, you remind yourself, willing your feet to move forward. One night, and then it’s over.
The crowd shifts as you both step into the room, and you catch Aera and Ayoung’s gazes almost immediately. They’re standing near the champagne table, flutes in hand, their heads inclined toward each other in hushed conversation. The moment they spot you, their eyes widen, gliding from you to Seungkwan, then back again. Aera’s expression twists into something sharp and incredulous, while Ayoung’s lips curve into a smug smirk.
“Looks like we’re already the talk of the town,” Seungkwan murmurs, leaning slightly toward you. His breath brushes your ear, sending a shiver down your spine that you chalk up to irritation.
“Good,” you manage to say, lifting your chin. “Let’s give them something to really talk about.”
You’re not sure where the confidence comes from, but it carries you forward, your heels clicking against the marble as you walk with Seungkwan through the crowd. You can feel Aera’s glare burning into your back, but you keep your head high, your grip on Seungkwan’s arm tightening just slightly.
From across the room, you hear it before you see them—peals of laughter that could only belong to Seokmin and Soonyoung. You glance in their direction and find them stationed at one of the tables, grinning like giddy schoolchildren as they nudge each other and whisper conspiratorially. Seokmin pretends to hide his face behind his hand, but his eyes gleam with amusement, while Soonyoung practically bounces in his chair, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Subtle,” you mutter under your breath, though you can’t help the way your lips twitch upward.
Seungkwan notices too, his eyes narrowing slightly. “They’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Can you blame them?” you ask, finally letting a wry smile slip through. “We’re a spectacle.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head, but when you glance up at him, there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. You quickly look away, pretending to adjust the bracelet on your wrist.
As you move further into the ballroom, you catch snippets of conversations trailing off, eyes lingering just a second too long on you and Seungkwan. The tension in the room feels palpable, but Seungkwan doesn’t falter. He keeps his pace steady, his arm firm and reassuring beneath your touch.
And for a brief moment, as you glide through the glittering sea of people, you almost forget that this is all an act.
The ballroom is a haze of chandeliers, polished floors, and conversations that hum like a soft undercurrent beneath the music. You move through it all hyperaware of Seungkwan at your side, the faintest brush of his presence grounding and unsteadying you all at once.
He’s good at this, you realize. At shaking hands, sharing effortless smiles, and exchanging pleasantries that seem to charm everyone in his orbit. You try to focus on your own small talk, but it’s nearly impossible not to notice the way his hand occasionally drifts to the small of your back, guiding you subtly through the crowd. It’s light—barely there—but every time his palm presses gently against you, warmth blooms, spreading like ripples in a still pond.
You try not to overthink it. It’s probably all for show, you tell yourself. Just part of the act.
Except…why does he keep glancing at you? After every joke he tosses into the conversation, his eyes flit to yours, watching for your reaction. When you laugh, his smile softens, almost imperceptibly, and when you don’t, his brow furrows for the briefest moment before he’s cracking another.
“Can we help you?” you mutter when Seokmin and Soonyoung sidle up to you for the third time that evening, their grins almost too wide.
“Nope,” Soonyoung says, popping the ‘p’ with dramatic flair.
“We’re just here for the show,” Seokmin adds, barely holding back his snicker.
“Go away,” you hiss, stepping closer to Seungkwan as if that will somehow shield you from their relentless teasing.
Instead of leaving, they both wiggle their eyebrows at you, making exaggerated faces every time you shift a little closer to him—whether intentionally or not. At one point, Seokmin mimes taking a picture with his imaginary camera, pretending to swoon like a tabloid photographer.
“Do you need something?” Seungkwan asks dryly, not even sparing them a glance as he sips his champagne.
“Just enjoying the chemistry,” Soonyoung says, grinning.
“I hate both of you,” you say, shoving past them and pulling Seungkwan with you, his laughter trailing behind you as you march toward the buffet table.
As the night wears on, the hyperawareness doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows sharper. You catch yourself leaning into him, just slightly, when he speaks to you. His scent—something warm and clean—lingers in the air, familiar yet distracting. And though you do your best to stay detached, your stomach flips every time he turns to you, his expression softer than you expect.
It’s just one night, you remind yourself. One night, and then it’s over.
But when Seungkwan tilts his head to meet your gaze, a flicker of something unspoken in his eyes, you wonder if he feels it too.
The conversation with the vice president of finance hits like a brick wall. You had hoped for the night to pass without any more uncomfortable moments, but here it is. The older man comes over with a knowing grin, his eyes flicking between you and Seungkwan. His voice is smooth, polished—like he’s done this kind of thing a hundred times before. “Wishing you both all the best,” he says with a wink, his smile stretching into something almost too warm.
Then, as if to solidify the moment, he adds, “I found my wife at work too. It’s always the best kind of relationship, don’t you think?”
Before you can even react, Seungkwan steps in, his hand tightening imperceptibly around your waist, his grip firm, possessive. He plays along with ease, a smile tugging at his lips. “We do make a lovely couple,” he says, the words slipping out with the same smooth confidence he uses to charm everyone around him.
And just like that, your knees almost give out. You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to cling to any sense of composure, but it’s hard. His voice sounds like it’s meant for someone else. You glance up at him, searching for some sign that he’s only pretending, but his eyes are warm, and it makes your stomach churn. This is too much.
The moment lingers, stretching long and painfully until the vice president finally moves on, leaving you standing there with Seungkwan’s hand still resting on your waist. You feel the heat of his touch, the weight of the promise in his words. And yet, something inside you begins to twist, and you can't quite shake the feeling that this isn’t all a game anymore.
When the quartet begins to play a slow, lilting melody, you feel a wave of dread wash over you. Couples start gravitating toward the dance floor, moving in soft, synchronized sways. You think you’re safe until you notice Soonyoung and Seokmin’s scheming grins out of the corner of your eye.
“Oh, no,” you mutter under your breath, but it’s too late.
“You two,” Soonyoung grins, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Get out there. Show us how it’s done.”
You freeze, the world tilting on its axis for a moment. You don’t want to dance. You don’t know how to dance. And you certainly don’t want to do it with Seungkwan, not like this. But when you glance over at him, you see the faintest edge of a smile on his lips—like he’s enjoying this far too much.
With a few unsubtle nudges and a downright shove from Soonyoung, you find yourself standing under the ballroom lights, facing Seungkwan. He doesn’t even blink, just steps forward and guides your hands to his shoulders as though this is all perfectly normal. His hands settle on your hips, light but steady, and the contact sends a shiver through you.
“You look like you’re going to bolt,” he murmurs, leaning in just enough that only you can hear. “Relax. Aera and Ayoung are still watching.”
You force a smile, more for their benefit than his, and try to focus on the music. But it’s no use. Every part of this feels overwhelming—the way his hands feel solid against you, the way he moves with a calm confidence you didn’t know he had, the way his gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest moment before snapping back up.
The worst part? You’re not sure what’s fake and what isn’t.
You take a shallow breath, your heart racing as the music swells around you, and everything about the night begins to feel too real. Too intense. The way Seungkwan holds you so effortlessly, the way his chest presses against yours, his gaze lingering on you like it means something.
This isn’t just pretend anymore. This isn’t just a game. You feel like you’re drowning in the pretense, in the slow slide of his body against yours, the fake smiles, the promises of weddings that don’t belong to either of you. You don’t know why it feels like this—like a knot is tightening in your chest with every beat of the music, every moment that stretches longer than you can bear.
You can’t breathe.
It’s too much. The weight of it, the weight of him. His hands on your body, on your waist, intertwined with yours. The tension that thrums between you both is too real, and suddenly, you can’t stand it anymore.
You pull back abruptly, the movement so sudden it startles him.
“I need to go,” you blurt, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.
Without waiting for a response, you pull away from him, feeling his grip loosen as you shove past Seokmin and Soonyoung, who both watch you with surprised eyes. You don’t care. You don’t care that they’re probably confused, or that Seungkwan is still standing there on the dancefloor, looking as though he’s been left behind.
You don’t care about anything but getting away, away from him, away from this night that feels too heavy to carry. You push through the crowd, your pulse thundering in your ears, desperate to escape the world Seungkwan has created tonight—one where every smile feels like a lie, and every touch leaves you questioning everything.
Why did it feel like something more? Why does he feel like something more?
The hallway is cold, and the echoes of the ballroom seem a world away as you stand there, breathing in shallow gasps. You don’t know what you expected when you fled—maybe a bit of space to clear your head, a few moments of peace to sort through the mess in your chest. But then Seungkwan appears, footsteps rapid and sharp against the marble floor, and you brace yourself for whatever this is.
He stops in front of you, his eyes softening, a look of concern on his face. “You broke the contract,” he says, his voice low but playful. “You’re supposed to act like a couple in front of Aera and Ayoung.”
You should’ve expected it. Of course it’s just a game to him. Of course he doesn’t feel anything real. You press your lips together, the taste of bile rising in your throat. The way his words spill out with that same teasing tone, like it’s no big deal—that’s when it really hits you. None of this matters to him.
Your heart tightens, and you open your mouth to say something, anything, but it feels like the words are stuck in your throat, a knot you can’t untie. The silence stretches between you, thick and suffocating, until you finally spit out, “Fuck you, Seungkwan.”
His expression falters, eyes flashing with something like hurt or maybe frustration, but it doesn’t matter. You just want him to shut up, to stop saying the things that twist in your chest.
“What the hell?” His voice is sharp, defensive. “What’s your problem now? I’m just trying to make sure you’re not freaking out in front of them!”
“No,” you snap, your words slipping out before you can stop them. “I’m freaking out because you keep acting like it’s nothing—like it’s all just a damn game.” You’re pacing now, turning away from him, too afraid to face him. “And it’s not just a game, Seungkwan. But you don’t care. Of course you don’t care.”
Seungkwan’s voice is louder now, rising to match your anger. “Don’t you dare say that—”
“Why shouldn’t I?” you spit, your frustration spilling over. “You’ve been treating me like this whole thing is some kind of joke. Do you think I don’t see it? You think I don’t feel it?”
“You think I’m playing games?!” he practically shouts, his voice breaking through your thoughts. “What do you want me to say, huh? What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t know!” The words burst out in a rush, too loud and too raw. “I don’t know what I want! But I sure as hell don’t want this. Don’t want you acting like I’m nothing but some stupid... some stupid game to win! And—”
Your throat tightens. It’s too much. The pain, the frustration, the confusion. The way your heart keeps aching, wanting something that shouldn’t be there. You can’t breathe right, and suddenly, your eyes sting with tears that you didn’t want to shed.
Before you can stop it, you spin to leave, your chest heaving, your hands trembling. You can’t be here anymore. You can’t do this.
But then, just as you take a step, his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly.
“Don’t go,” Seungkwan murmurs, his voice softer now, and it’s the quietness of it that makes everything inside you snap.
In an instant, you turn back toward him, your body moving without thinking, driven by something primal, something that burns too hot to ignore. You don't care anymore, not about the rules or the reasons you were running or how much you've lied to yourself. Your lips crash into his, desperate and hungry, a sudden, violent collision of need and want. It’s rough, urgent, a complete collapse of all the control you’ve tried so desperately to hold onto.
His lips are warm, soft at first, but there’s no hesitation after that. It deepens in an instant, and you can feel him pushing you back, pressing you against the cold, hard wall. His body presses into yours, all sharp lines and heat, every inch of him a reminder that you’ve wanted this more than you’re willing to admit. You clutch his tie, your fingers knotting into the fabric, pulling him closer, deeper, like it’s not enough. His hands slide up the wall, bracing himself above your head, as if he needs that support to hold himself together too. But you’re too tangled in this moment, too consumed by the feel of him, the way his lips move against yours, the way his breath catches with every shift of his mouth.
His hands find their way to your body, his fingers grazing your hips, and you shudder, the friction between you both igniting something wild inside you. You kiss him back fiercely, and it feels like everything in the world has narrowed down to this singular moment. You don’t know if this is real or if it’s just your mind tricking you into believing it’s more than it is. But you feel it—how right it feels to be tangled up with him, how everything else outside of this space fades away.
His body presses harder, his chest against yours, his warmth seeping into you, filling the cracks where your control once was. You’re dizzy with the intensity of it, a rush of emotions crashing through you, and the silence between kisses becomes unbearable. Your breath is ragged, your heart pounding in your chest as if it’s trying to escape, to be closer to him. And every time you feel him pull away, even just a little, you’re pulling him back, chasing that connection that’s too elusive to hold.
It feels like the world is spinning too fast, and you’re holding onto him, to this fleeting moment, hoping that maybe it won’t slip away. But it does—it always does.
You press harder into him, your hands trembling as they slide up his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingers. It’s almost too much, like you’re consuming each other, but you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.
But then the air feels heavier, and the ache in your chest intensifies. This is wrong, it has to be. His mouth against yours, his body holding you so tightly—it’s all too much, and yet you’re still starved for more. You feel like you’re drowning, and yet you don’t know how to pull away, how to breathe again without the taste of him on your lips.
You break the kiss suddenly, gasping for air, your chest rising and falling with desperation, as if the only thing you need in that moment is to breathe and be closer to him. But you know better. You remember. You have to remember.
And just like that, the realization comes crashing down, shattering everything inside you. It’s all just a game for him. It always was. You turn away, stumbling back, your body trembling as you try to steady yourself, your hands shaking uncontrollably.
“No.” You gasp, heart hammering painfully in your chest. You can’t stay here. You can’t let him see how much he’s breaking you right now.
Before he can say anything, before he can try to reach for you, you turn on your heel and run. You don’t look back, even when your chest aches and your throat burns, because you know that if you do, you’ll see something you can’t unsee.
And you’re too afraid that the feeling you’ve just experienced—that feeling of being whole, of being wanted—is the very thing that’ll make you lose yourself completely.
That night, as the doorbell rings, you know exactly who it is before you even get up. You don’t even have the strength to ask them to leave—Seokmin and Soonyoung just know. They always do.
Seokmin's already cracking open a pint of Ben & Jerry's before you've even had the chance to process their arrival, his voice light but knowing, as if they’ve been waiting for the moment to show up at your door. And it’s not long before they’re seated on the couch beside you, Soonyoung's knowing look cutting right through you as he silently opens the second pint, passing it to you without a word.
You don’t have the heart to ask about Seungkwan. You’re terrified of hearing it, terrified of what they’ll say. You don’t want to know if he’s going to shrug it off, or worse, if he’s forgotten about you already.
Instead, you spend the next few hours in silence, the three of you settled into the couch, alternating between the steady flow of ice cream and shitty romcoms on TV. The sound of laughter and melodramatic dialogue fills the space, but you barely hear it. Every now and then, a sob shakes through you, and you absently grab Soonyoung’s suit jacket, wiping your face on it like some pathetic kid trying to hide from the world.
It’s not a game anymore, you think. But your mind keeps circling back, again and again, and your heart clenches painfully.
You find yourself sniffling during a commercial break, and before you know it, your voice cracks as you whisper into Seokmin’s shoulder, your words barely audible through the tears. “It’s not a game anymore,” you whimper, your chest tight with emotion, a hollow ache you can't seem to fill. “Not to me.”
Seokmin pats your head gently, his hand warm and comforting on your hair, and you can feel him press his cheek against your head in an unspoken gesture of reassurance. Soonyoung doesn’t say anything but looks at you sadly from his spot on your lap, his eyes soft with understanding, but he knows better than to push.
But then Seokmin speaks, his voice quiet, so gentle you almost miss it. “Was it ever?” he asks, the question hanging in the air, a quiet truth you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You don’t answer. Because you know the answer. You’ve known it all along, even when you were pretending not to. The truth is louder than the silence between the three of you, but you’re not ready to face it.
And so, instead of answering, you bury your face further into Seokmin’s shoulder, fighting the tears that never seem to stop. The answer is clear, but you can’t find the words to say it.
Friday feels like the weight of the week is catching up with you, every inch of your body refusing to move as you sit at your desk, staring blankly at the screen. You’ve worked from home plenty of times before, but today? Today, it feels different. The silence is too loud, too consuming, and you can't escape it, not even in the safety of your own apartment. Your phone buzzes incessantly in the corner of your desk, each ping making your chest tighten just a little more. You know it’s him. Seungkwan. You know because his name flashes on your screen, and every time, you hesitate before swiping it away, like a coward.
You don’t want to hear it, not today. Not when everything feels so broken.
But when the photo comes in—a simple picture of your coffee order, just sitting there on your desk with nothing but a blank post-it note next to it—you can feel the tears already threatening to break free. The coffee’s steaming, just the way you like it, but the note’s blank, empty. There’s nothing there. Just silence.
It’s too much.
You let out a strangled sob, your hand shaking as you clutch your phone. Your throat tightens as you struggle to breathe, the weight of everything crashing down on you all at once. You curl up at your desk, tears falling in heavy waves as you finally allow yourself to break. The floodgates that you’ve kept tightly shut the past few days burst wide open, and you can’t stop it. Can’t stop the sobs that wrack through you, shaking you to your core.
You’re not ready to face this. Not ready to admit what’s happening inside of you. You just want it to stop. To go back to before everything got complicated. Before you let yourself feel anything for him.
You don't even bother to wipe your tears away, don’t bother trying to pull yourself together. You don’t even go to Seokmin’s tonight for your weekly ritual. The usual distraction, the routine that’s always been your safe space, feels miles away now.
Instead, you pull the blanket tighter around you, the emptiness of the apartment matching the emptiness you feel inside. You bury yourself in it.
And you let the tears come.
The smell of Seokmin’s cooking wafts into the living room as he sets up the kitchen, making his usual chaotic symphony of clattering pans and sizzling ingredients. He’s persistent, like always, so you know there’s no way you’re getting out of this. He’s here to cook, and more importantly, to drag you back from the spiral you’ve fallen into.
You don’t say anything when he hands you the bowl of food. You just sit down at the kitchen table, quietly shoveling the food into your mouth. It tastes good, as always, but it doesn’t reach you. Not the way it should.
The silence stretches between you two as you chew, the clinking of your utensils the only sound in the room. Seokmin isn’t going to let it slide, though. He’s far too persistent to let you wallow in quiet.
“So,” he starts, his voice quiet but pointed, “what happened?”
You don’t answer immediately, and it’s not because you don’t want to—no, it’s because you’re not sure where to start. Do you tell him the truth? That you let your feelings get tangled up in a game, that Seungkwan tricked you into thinking it meant something more than it was?
But when you look up, you meet Seokmin’s eyes, and for some reason, you just... let it spill.
“I kissed him,” you say, voice small. The words feel like a confession you weren’t ready to make.
Seokmin’s brows furrow slightly, but he doesn’t push. He just asks, “But that’s a good thing, right?”
You snort, bitter and frustrated. “Seokmin, it was all just a game to him.”
The words hang there, sharp in the quiet kitchen air. Seokmin pauses, setting his fork down before speaking again. “Did he tell you that?”
You shake your head. “No, but he doesn’t need to. He kept bringing up the contract.”
Seokmin’s eyes narrow in frustration, but there’s a softness in them too. “Y/N…”
“Don’t,” you mutter, the emotion welling up again in your chest. “I’m done. I’m tired of this, Seokmin. It was never real for him, and it’s too real for me now. I can’t keep pretending.”
You can’t even look him in the eye now, your gaze turning to the table as your hands clutch the bowl. Seokmin stays quiet, letting you speak, but you can feel the weight of his disappointment. It doesn’t make you feel better, but at least you’re not holding it all in.
“What are you going to do on Monday? You have to present together.” Seokmin says, his voice light but his eyes serious.
The question hits you like a punch to the gut. You’ve been avoiding thinking about that. Of course, Monday will come, and you’ll have to face Seungkwan again.
“I’ll ignore him,” you reply, voice almost robotic.
Seokmin raises an eyebrow. “Let me repeat: you have to PRESENT. TOGETHER.” He emphasizes the word ‘together,’ and you can feel the weight of it pressing down on you. “Emphasis on TOGETHER.”
You just stare at your food, not knowing what to say. Your heart is heavy, your thoughts racing.
“Seokmin, I’m tired of this,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips. “I’m done. Aera and Ayoung can go fuck themselves, but I’m not playing this game anymore.”
Seokmin doesn’t say anything for a while. You hear him sigh, and when you look up, his face is softer. “If you say so.”
You want to argue, to tell him that it’s easier said than done, but instead, you just slump back into your chair, letting the silence fill the space again. He doesn’t push you further, just lets you stew in your emotions, knowing that you’ll need time. You’re not ready to face Monday, not ready to stand side by side with Seungkwan, pretending like none of this ever happened. But there’s no escaping it. And you’ll have to deal with it soon enough.
Monday morning is a punch to the gut.
You arrive at work, feeling the weight of the weekend's fallout heavy in your chest. The first thing you notice when you pull into the parking lot is that there’s no coffee waiting for you on your desk. The usual sign of Seungkwan’s presence, of him thinking of you in the mornings, is missing. It's a stupid thing to feel the absence of, but it cuts deeper than you'd like to admit.
You walk into the office, feeling all the eyes on you. It’s not even 9 AM, and you already know today is going to drag. You get to your desk, and before you can even sit down, Aera and Ayoung are already on you, their faces lit up with exaggerated curiosity.
"Hey, Y/N," Aera says, eyes flicking to the empty space where the coffee should have been. "Where’s your coffee today? You and Seungkwan usually have that whole ‘he brings your coffee’ thing down to a science. What’s up? You two not sharing that routine anymore?"
Ayoung giggles, and you feel the irritation bubbling up before you can stop it. You’ve had enough of this.
You slam your bag down on your desk, not bothering to hide the exhaustion in your voice. "We broke up. Now get out of my face so I can work."
The words hit the air like a slap, and for a moment, the office is completely silent. Aera’s mouth falls open slightly, her eyes wide in surprise, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Ayoung just blinks, taken aback, but she says nothing more, her usual snark suddenly gone.
You don’t give them a chance to respond. You turn away from them, sitting at your desk, hands shaking slightly as you pull up your emails. You can hear their retreating footsteps, but you don’t bother looking up. You don’t care. It’s easier to just ignore them and dive into your work, focusing on the tasks in front of you.
But it doesn’t stop there. As much as you try to bury yourself in your screen, the emptiness of Seungkwan’s absence—his lack of coffee, the parking spot that you still take for granted—gnaws at you. You tell yourself that it’s for the best, that the game is over. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The presentation room feels suffocating.
You stand at the front, flipping through slides, forcing your gaze to stay focused on the KPIs and metrics on the screen. The numbers are safe, the charts impersonal. You can talk about this with your eyes closed, but it feels like everything else in the room is conspiring against you.
Seungkwan, of course, keeps trying to catch your eye. Every time you glance in his direction—brief, fleeting—you see the way his expression tightens, the worry flickering in his eyes. You’re not sure if it's pity or concern, and frankly, you don’t care. You’ve worked hard to bury whatever feelings were there, and you’re not about to let him dig them up in front of a room full of people.
You force yourself to talk about the numbers. KPIs, data points, project metrics. Anything to avoid looking at him. You can feel Soonyoung and Seokmin watching you a little too intently, their eyes sharp with something unspoken. It makes your words stutter, your confidence falter just a little, but you push through, unwilling to show any weakness.
But then an executive asks if you're okay, and the words catch you off guard. You can’t help it—you glance over at Seungkwan. Just for a second. Long enough for him to notice, long enough for him to give you that look. The one you’ve been avoiding.
"I'm fine, thanks," you manage to say, voice steady despite the way your heart is hammering in your chest. You look back at the screen, not daring to meet anyone’s gaze. You try to ignore the weight of his concern, the way it lingers like a weight in the air.
The meeting eventually wraps up, and as everyone files out, Seungkwan steps towards you, his arm reaching out. You feel the familiar tug of his presence, the warmth of his hand inches away from your sleeve.
But you don’t want to feel it. You don’t want to deal with it.
You shrug him off, murmuring something about deadlines and reports that need to be finished. The words come out harsh and clipped, almost too much so, but you don’t care. You can feel the tension hanging between you like a storm cloud, but you don’t want to be near him right now. Not with everything still so raw.
You don’t wait for a response, just turn and walk toward your desk, not daring to look back.
You thought it would be easy to avoid Seungkwan. After all, it's just a matter of keeping your distance, staying busy, and letting the work pile up in a way that leaves no room for him to worm his way back into your head. You’ve been doing it for hours, and so far, it’s working.
Three hours, at least.
Seokmin and Soonyoung have been your perfect distractions, filling your day with so much nonsense that you barely have time to breathe, let alone think about Seungkwan and the mess you’ve somehow ended up in.
It started in the break room, just after the meeting. You’d been trying to sneak in a coffee, hoping it might calm the jittery feeling that’s been buzzing through you since you saw Seungkwan's hand reach for yours. But, of course, Soonyoung and Seokmin cornered you before you could even take a sip.
"Y/N, I need your opinion on something," Soonyoung had started, with that grin of his, the one that always spells trouble.
You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. "What now?"
Seokmin leaned in like they were about to discuss state secrets, whispering in a conspiratorial tone, "Soonyoung here is convinced he’s a professional ice cream taster. He wants to know if he should add ‘Certified Expert’ to his resume."
You rolled your eyes, but Soonyoung was undeterred, holding up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s with a flourish. "Can’t you see the wisdom in my plan? Who wouldn’t hire a man who knows his way around a pint of Cookie Dough?"
You snorted, shaking your head. "You’re ridiculous. But go ahead, waste your time on that. I’m trying to focus."
But no, they weren’t letting you go that easily. Seokmin started cracking jokes, distracting you with all the random things he’d overheard in the office. "Did you know that Ayoung is secretly obsessed with ‘90s boy bands? I walked in on her humming ‘I Want It That Way’ this morning, and I’m still recovering."
And Soonyoung, ever the instigator, added with a wink, "I also caught her in the hallway talking about getting a matching tattoo with Aera. Of a tiny cupcake. What do you think? The whole office would get a kick out of that."
By then, you were laughing despite yourself, pushing down the tight feeling in your chest. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to laugh, it was just that... well, everything felt too complicated. Too much.
So, you let them pull you into their nonsense. They carried on for the next hour—Soonyoung performing some ridiculous impression of an old-timey detective, Seokmin explaining his absurd theory that paperclips are an ancient alien technology (you’re still not sure if he was serious)—until you forgot, for just a moment, about everything else. Even Seungkwan.
But of course, they weren’t done. When they saw that momentary crack in your armor, they pounced, practically dragging you into a brainstorming session for next week's office party theme. Soonyoung insisted on a 'Beach Party' theme even though there was no beach within a hundred miles of your office. Seokmin argued for a retro ‘80s prom, and then proceeded to pull out old high school yearbook photos of him in a neon green tuxedo for ‘inspiration.’ You were supposed to be working, but you couldn’t help but laugh at Seokmin trying to explain why the color combo was "unbeatable."
They kept going, laughing, cracking jokes, pulling your attention from the tight knot that had been steadily winding around your chest since you left the meeting. But you knew—knew—this distraction wasn’t going to last forever.
Eventually, reality would catch up, but for now, you let them drag you along with them. The idea of facing Seungkwan, of facing what had happened, felt like too much. So you pushed it down, buried it in the ridiculousness of the day.
For now, you thought, it was working. But you had a feeling the peace wouldn’t last long.
It’s late, and you’re about to congratulate yourself on avoiding Seungkwan for the entire day as you open your car door. But of course, the universe has other plans for you. The sudden slam of the car door makes you jump, your hand still on the handle as you whip around to find Seungkwan standing there, his face set in that tight expression you know too well. The tension between you snaps, palpable in the cool evening air. His voice cuts through the silence, demanding, sharp.
"So this is how it's going to be?" he asks, the words heavy with frustration.
You freeze, your heart pounding in your chest. You were so sure you had made your escape. You had done everything you could today to keep him out of your head, to avoid this moment. Yet here he is, standing in front of you like an inevitable storm, his presence taking up the entire space between you.
You try to steady yourself, the tightness in your throat making it hard to speak. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," you manage, forcing the words out despite how small they sound against the tension hanging between you.
Seungkwan’s eyes narrow as if he’s reading you—really reading you, seeing right through the facade you’ve worked so hard to put on. "Don’t lie to me, Y/N. You’ve been avoiding me all day. It’s not just because of the work, is it? You’ve been avoiding me since... since the gala. Since everything."
You bite your lip, refusing to let the weight of his words sink in, but his voice keeps coming, a steady beat in your chest. “You think I’m just supposed to pretend everything’s fine after what happened?”
The words hit you like a slap, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. You try to ignore the ache that stirs inside you at the mention of what happened—the kiss, the way it felt so real, so right, and yet so wrong. So much of a game. And now he’s standing here, throwing it all in your face.
"I don’t know what you expect from me, Seungkwan," you snap, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "But it’s over. I told you—I’m done."
Seungkwan’s jaw tightens, and he steps closer, his proximity making you instinctively want to step back. But you don’t. You won’t.
"Done?" he repeats, voice laced with disbelief. "Just like that? You think you can just walk away? You’re really going to pretend this—whatever this is—didn’t mean anything?"
You open your mouth to argue, but no words come out. It’s as if your body’s betraying you, locking you in this moment where nothing makes sense, where the anger you thought would fuel you evaporates the moment Seungkwan looks at you with that frustrated, helpless look in his eyes.
You hate that you care. You hate that, even now, a part of you wants to reach out and undo everything. To erase the distance, the silence, the walls you’ve built between the two of you. But you can’t.
“You always thought of it as a game, Seungkwan,” you snap, your voice a little too sharp for comfort, but it’s all you have to hold onto. The argument. The distance. The lie you’ve been clinging to.
He’s shaking his head before you even finish the sentence, a rawness in his expression you’ve never seen before. “It was never a game for me!” His words crash through the silence, leaving an echo that hangs in the air. It’s too much. Too loud.
And then, just like that, you’re back in that hallway, your heart pounding. The night air feels suffocating, and there’s a closeness between you two that should feel wrong, but it doesn’t. It feels right in the way his chest is rising and falling too quickly, in the way you can barely breathe without him being this close. Your breaths are shaky, uncertain.
“What was it then?” Your voice cracks as you ask, small and vulnerable, that gnawing fear in your chest almost swallowing you whole. You don’t want to know the answer, but you know you need to hear it.
His gaze drops, his voice softens, and it’s enough to make your stomach turn with something too familiar. “What do you think?” he whispers, just above a breath, his words more like a confession than a question.
The truth is right there, suspended between you two, but it feels like a lie at the same time. You try to push it down, try to control it, but the knot in your throat grows tighter. You’re not sure what’s worse—the silence, or the fact that you’re on the verge of hoping for something you shouldn’t.
His hand moves to your face, brushing your cheek, and you can feel the heat of his touch seeping into your skin like a live wire. “I kept the parking spot argument going because I knew it was the only excuse I had to talk to you,” he continues, his voice thick with something you can’t quite place. “You’re so smart. So beautiful. I knew you would never give me the time of day unless I made you.”
It hits you in waves, like the ground beneath you is shifting. You open your mouth to respond, to tell him that this is too much, too late, that he can’t just explain this all away—but he cuts you off, the urgency in his voice making you freeze.
“No, please. Let me finish.”
You swallow hard, the words stuck in your throat, but you stay silent, waiting for him to continue.
He steps closer, the air between you two crackling with every movement. His eyes are dark, intense, and you’re not sure if it’s fear or something else flickering behind them. “I couldn’t just let you go. I couldn’t. So I did what I had to do. I kept pushing you, testing you, because I couldn’t let you slip away.”
The honesty in his voice is like a punch to the gut. Every word seems to break down everything you thought you knew about this whole thing. You can’t speak. You’re drowning in it, caught between the words and the way he’s looking at you.
You want to run. You should run. But instead, you stay there, with his hands on you, his breath too close to yours, and the silence that threatens to drown you both.
The question slips out before you can stop it, your voice small and fragile in the heavy silence that’s settled between you two. It feels like everything is crashing down, the weight of it all pressing against your chest, but the curiosity burns through. You need to know.
"Why did you say yes? To the contract?" Your voice barely rises above a whisper, and you can’t help the way your breath catches in your throat, that desperate need to understand.
Seungkwan freezes, his hand still hovering just inches from your face, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. It’s like you’ve asked the question that’s been hanging in the air, unspoken, for far too long. And for a moment, it feels like the world is holding its breath, waiting for him to answer.
He looks away, his eyes darting to the ground as if the answer isn’t something he can say out loud. His lips part, but no words come out. He takes a breath, almost like he’s bracing himself for what he’s about to admit. And then, slowly, the words slip out, ragged and raw.
“Because I didn’t know how else to get close to you.” His voice trembles slightly, but the honesty in it cuts through you, sharp and real. “I didn’t know how else to make you notice me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “I was tired of standing in the background, watching you with everyone else, wanting to be more than just... the guy who argues with you about parking spots or steals your coffee.”
There’s a bitter chuckle, half empty, half ashamed, and it almost breaks you. He doesn’t look at you now, but his words hang in the air between you like a weight that neither of you can lift.
“I thought if I had a reason, an excuse, maybe... maybe I could make you see me. See us." He finally glances back up, his gaze soft, too soft for the harshness of his confession. “And I was wrong, okay? I was wrong to use you like that.”
The silence after his words is deafening. Every piece of you wants to scream, to shout at him for what he’s done, for the way he played with your heart like it was a game. But you can’t. Not with the raw vulnerability in his eyes, the way he stands there, exposed and unsure.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice cracks, and it’s all you can manage.
His chest rises and falls with a deep, shaky breath. “Because I didn’t think you’d ever want to hear it.”
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, a breathless, almost irritated whisper. "You're an idiot." But it's not frustration you feel anymore, it’s something deeper, something that’s been simmering just beneath the surface for far too long.
And then you can’t help it. The space between you closes, and before you even realize what you're doing, your hands are on him, pulling his face down to yours. The kiss is fierce and unrestrained, lips crashing together with a hunger that feels almost desperate, like you’ve been starved for this moment, for him, for everything that’s been left unsaid.
Seungkwan’s hands find their way to your waist, tugging you closer, his body solid and warm against yours. He responds without hesitation, his lips moving against yours with a fervor that matches your own, a mix of frustration and need, and something else—something raw and real.
The world outside of this moment disappears, the streetlights and cars, the sounds of the city—it all fades away, leaving just the two of you, caught in the storm of it all. It feels right, in a way that makes your chest tighten, in a way that makes everything else feel insignificant. The kiss deepens, and for a moment, everything that’s been left unspoken between you two finally starts to come to the surface.
When you finally pull away, breathless and dazed, his forehead rests against yours, your heart pounding in the space between you. It feels like the whole world has just shifted, everything falling into place in a way that makes sense, finally.
"How did you know my coffee order?" You ask, voice still shaky from the kiss, but your curiosity getting the better of you. You're still trying to wrap your head around all of it.
Seungkwan pauses for a moment, then a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. "I watched you," he admits quietly, his eyes softening. "I memorized little things about you, filed them away. Thought maybe one day I could use them... if I ever got the chance."
You can't help the small giggle that escapes you at his confession, the weight of it all sinking in. It's the sweetest thing you've ever heard. Before you can stop yourself, you're pulling him back into a kiss, hands sliding up to cup his face, as if this moment could last forever.
When you pull away again, your lips still tingling from his touch, you look up at him with a playful grin.
"So what do you say, fake-girlfriend?" he asks, his voice low, teasing. "Wanna be my real girlfriend?"
You laugh, the sound light and carefree, pressing your head against his chest as he wraps his arms around you. For the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels right. You breathe him in, the warmth of his embrace anchoring you.
"Only if you still bring me coffee," you murmur, grinning into his shirt.
"Done," he whispers, pressing his lips to yours again, and this time it feels like a promise—one you both intend to keep.
EPILOGUE
Seungkwan’s car is parked downstairs, and your phone buzzes incessantly as you can practically hear his impatience through the screen. You’re running late, of course, but when you finally slip into the passenger seat, he’s grumbling, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. The moment you slide in, though, his tone softens, and he’s already handing you a cup of coffee—the perfect temperature, the way you like it, the warm press of his lips against your cheek.
"You’re lucky I didn’t leave without you," he mutters, but there’s no real anger in his voice. You smile as you take a sip. This coffee isn’t from the shop across town anymore. No, Seungkwan bought an espresso machine, much to your surprise, and he’s been making them himself. "What kind of boyfriend doesn’t make coffee for his girlfriend?" he had argued one night as you laid in his lap, and you had to admit, it was an endearing (and slightly ridiculous) argument. Still, this coffee tastes better than anything you could buy, and maybe you’re biased, but you think it might actually be true.
He pulls into The Spot with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s so much nicer not having to argue with you every day for the spot,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.
You roll your eyes and slam the car door shut with a dramatic flair. “I can pick fights about other things,” you shoot back unhelpfully, crossing your arms. “For example, your tie is hideous.”
Seungkwan gasps in mock outrage, his hand flying to his chest like he’s been personally attacked. "You did not just say that!" he yells, and then he's chasing you through the parking garage, the sound of his footsteps getting closer. You let out a shriek as you try to run in heels, but it’s no use—he catches up to you easily, hands dancing across your waist as you beg for mercy.
"Take it back!" he demands, voice filled with mock seriousness.
"No!" You laugh, still struggling against his hold, though it's a losing battle.
"Then no coffee for a week," he warns, his tone playful but authoritative.
"Boo Seungkwan!" you protest, but his grin only widens as he pulls you into the elevator, trapping you between his chest and the wall.
The elevator door dings open, and just as you step out, he pulls you back toward him, placing a kiss on your lips—slow and warm, lingering like he’s in no rush to let you go.
"Have a good day," he murmurs, his lips brushing your cheek.
"EW!" Seokmin’s voice shouts from behind you, and you can’t help but laugh at the sound of him. Seungkwan flips him off without missing a beat, the playful edge in his voice unmistakable. "This whole thing is your fault," he calls out to Seokmin’s retreating figure, who’s already halfway down the hall, grinning ear to ear.
"I know!" Seokmin yells back gleefully, his voice carrying through the hallway. "I had a really really good plan!"
✉︎ @maplegyu asked me if she could abuse her moot privileges for this smau, and ??? when was i ever going to say 'no' to my favorite gyuldaengie! her prompt: celebrity!mingyu x small business owner!reader would be cute AF— based on this (i.e. mingyu selling out a regnie pudding).
check out 🛒 not for sale's masterlist.
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ not for sale by enhypen. love is growing by plastic plastic. 711 by toneejay. she wants me (to be loved) by the happy fits. like or like like by miniature tigers. like the movies by laufey. do you wanna do nothing with me? by lawrence. wall st by boys go to jupiter.
› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao
