your favorite future wag

Ferrari fan so I cry every Sunday 23|| 🇫🇷

[julietsf1]

masterlist <3

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my personal favourites are marked with a little star!

currently I've written fics for franco colapinto, lando norris, charles leclerc, oscar piastri, kenan yıldız

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franco colapinto

irritating but irresistible (8k words) Alex Albon’s sister is not happy with Logan’s new replacement who seems to be very sure of himself.

Best Day Ever ☆ (6k words) Oscar's win and Franco's first points have to be celebrated. With her best friend Lando playing matchmaker and the tension between Y/N and Franco simmering, the night promises to be anything but ordinary. Sparks fly on the dance floor, but is Y/N ready to admit what’s really going on?

Post-Race Snuggles (1k words) After an intense Singapore GP, Franco’s idea of the perfect cool down is snuggling up in his girlfriend’s lap

From Raya to Rivalry (9k words) Carlos Sainz's little sister is pushed to the limit when rookie Franco Colapinto, who stood her up after a flirtatious encounter on Raya, re-enters her life—without any sign he remembers her at all. Between race weekends and time with friends the tension between them becomes impossible to ignore. Will Franco finally remember why she’s been driving him mad all along?

Chef's Kiss... but Maybe Not the Cooking (1.2k words) Franco might not be the best chef, but that doesn't ruin the night

Push & Pull (6k words) She has always kept Franco at a distance, teasing and confident that he’d never give up on her. But when he suddenly pulls away, she can’t stop thinking about him, realizing she might care more than she’s let on. Could it be that he’s been waiting for her to figure it out all along?

The Secret Admirer ☆ (7.5k words) She thought the biggest challenge this season would be her dynamic with her cold teammate, but mysterious notes and gifts start to complicate things. Who’s behind it, and what happens when she finds out?

Hurricane (5k words) When a hurricane leaves Y/N stranded at Charles’s Monaco apartment with a few of his friends, Y/N has to navigate both the storm outside and the one brewing inside.

Focus with Franco (2k words) Studying for exams is tough, but trying to focus while your yapper boyfriend, Franco, is around? Impossible.

Frights & Feuds (6.5k words) She and Franco never liked each other, but leave it to Lando to throw them into matching costumes at his Halloween party.

Love at first fright (2.2k words) You don’t know what is scarier, the haunted house where you are interviewing Franco or the way your heart speeds up around him.

Factory Reset (6k words) After a major crash, Franco Colapinto is sent to the Williams factory to work alongside the engineers repairing his car. Tensions run high as he’s forced to confront the realities of their work and the sharp wit of performance engineer Y/N. What begins as a clash of worlds becomes an eye-opening experience for both.

Holly Jolly Faking ☆ (8k words) Two people who can’t stand each other agree to fake a relationship to avoid meddling friends and unwanted matchmaking during their Christmas weekend away. What could possibly go wrong? [st. mleux reader]

A Technical Mistake ☆ (7k words) peaceful paddock mornings of stocking caps and shirts are flipped upside down when Franco Colapinto, a charming stranger she assumes is part of the tech crew, comes into her store and gives her weekend an unexpected turn.

The Sparks at Midnight (2k words) NYE at Lando's: a jar full of resolutions, a group of friends gathered around the fire to laugh, tease, and guess whose secrets were written on each slip of paper. With one very special resolution shaking things up for Y/N.

Crushes and Cortados (2.5k words) as a barista you see a lot of weird customers in a day, and this one Argentinian boy who keeps coming in every day is definitely one of them.

Ramentic Gestures (2k words) Franco thinks switching bowls is the chivalrous thing to do—until he takes a bite and realizes he’s made a terrible mistake

lando norris

The Idiot I Call Mine ☆ (7.1k words) best friends are supposed to share laughs, inside jokes, fries and the occasional late-night drive. what they’re not supposed to do is flirt like it’s a competitive sport or make you question every unspoken rule of friendship. at least, unless your name is Lando Norris apparently.

For her (3.2k words) She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud

The Line We Never Crossed (7.5k words) Lando Norris has been treating you like an afterthought all season, which would be fine if you hadn’t nearly kissed him last year. your new job in the paddock means you can’t avoid him, and his petty cold shoulder act is starting to feel personal

Strawberry Season ☆ (6.7k words) she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling

charles leclerc

The Potion Project (12k words) When a week-long potions project pairs two opposites, something starts brewing between them as well (harry potter inspired)

Home Again (4.5k words) eight years, one city, and a thousand unspoken words—will a chance encounter in London bring closure, or is there more in store for Monaco's golden boy and the one who got away

kenan yıldız

Perfect Fit ☆ (8.5k words) Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head

All is Fair in Love and Pastries (8k words) She came to Munich for romance and got ghosted instead. Now, all she has left is a non-refundable ticket, a wounded ego, and an ongoing feud with a man who stole her last pretzel.

Off Limits (18k words) Jude had one rule: his sister was strictly off-limits. Kenan really tried to listen, really did. But then you smiled at him, and, well—there was no coming back from that.

oscar piastri

Overtaking Your Expectations (3k words) Your biggest mistake this weekend? Underestimating Oscar Piastri. Now, he’s making sure you know it

[julietsf1]

After The Love Is Gone - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: it was supposed to be simple: you had a fiancé, a job in the paddock, and a life that made sense if nobody looked at it too closely. then lando norris came along and made things even more complicated

content: slow burn, best friends to lovers, f1 journalist!reader, mutual pining, oscar as unwilling witness, burnt out stale relationship

AN: hi guys! haven't been on here in a while! hope you are all good!! loads of kisses x

………………………………………………………………

There were places in the world where one was expected to behave with dignity.

Libraries, for example. Churches. Courtrooms. The quiet, perfume-polished lobby of a five-star hotel where men in linen jackets pretended not to stare at women in sunglasses.

The McLaren garage, by contrast, had never once managed dignity for longer than three consecutive minutes.

It was not entirely the garage’s fault. It was difficult, you supposed, to preserve a sense of solemn professionalism when the place was full of men who handled million-pound machinery with religious reverence, then turned around and argued for twenty minutes about whether a banana counted as a sufficient lunch. There were engineers hunched over screens with the intensity of wartime codebreakers, mechanics moving with practiced precision around carbon fibre and tyres, and somewhere, always somewhere, Lando Norris causing trouble with the self-satisfaction of a man who considered mischief to be his civic duty.

You found him almost immediately.

Not because you were looking for him.

You were not looking for him.

Technically, you had come into the garage with your microphone bag over one shoulder, your press pass warm against your chest, and the perfectly reasonable intention of finding your fiancé before the day grew too loud and too fast.

Clive worked on Oscar’s side of the McLaren garage as one of his tyre technicians, which had once felt like a lovely coincidence and now felt more like one of those practical arrangements life made on your behalf before asking whether you still wanted it. He had been your childhood sweetheart, though neither of you used that phrase because it made the whole thing sound more picturesque than it felt now. He was the boy from home. The one who had known your parents, your old bedroom, your first terrible haircut, the version of you who had not yet learned to walk through a paddock with a microphone in one hand and three follow-up questions already forming in her head.

You had loved him in the earnest, uncomplicated way young people love before they understand that love requires tending. There had been years when being with Clive felt as natural as knowing the way back to your own house. Then time had done what time sometimes does. It had simply worn the shine off, little by little, until the thing remained but no longer quite glowed.

The engagement had happened four years ago, in the natural way of things that have gone on so long everyone assumes they must continue. There had been a ring, and your families had cried, and Clive had looked relieved, almost proud, as though he had reached a checkpoint. Since then, no date had been chosen. No venue visited. No serious conversation survived long before being folded away under work, travel, exhaustion, timing, money, next season, next month, someday.

Someday had become a room you both kept passing without entering.

Still, you came to the McLaren garage often. At first because Clive was there, and because your job as an F1 journalist meant your paths crossed naturally enough for people to joke that you had become a semi-permanent fixture beside the papaya walls.

Then, somewhere along the way, you had stopped feeling like someone’s fiancée visiting his workplace and started feeling like you belonged there in your own peculiar, unofficial way.

The mechanics nodded when you passed. Someone usually had a coffee for you if you arrived early enough. Oscar gave you one of his dry little greetings if he was feeling generous.

And Lando.

It had happened without ceremony. The first time you properly spoke to him, he had made some ridiculous comment under his breath about you looking far too intelligent to willingly spend time with McLaren, and you had answered before you could think better of it. He had laughed, surprised and pleased, and from then on the two of you had fallen into a rhythm as easily as if someone had left a door open.

It was like things just clicked. It was friendship. Fast friendship, perhaps, but the paddock had a way of speeding ordinary things along. Everyone lived too closely, travelled too often, worked too late. You learned people in fragments: how they took their coffee, what annoyed them, when they were pretending to be fine, what sort of joke would pull them out of a bad mood.

With Lando, the jokes came first.

He pulled pranks on Oscar and looked to see whether you had noticed. You pretended to disapprove and then laughed anyway. He sent you terrible memes between media sessions. You corrected his spelling with unnecessary severity. He started saving the more ridiculous garage stories for you because, according to him, you had ‘the best horrified face.’ You told him he had the attention span of an over-caffeinated todler. He told you that was rich coming from a woman who once lost her phone while it was still in her own hand.

It was easy.

That was all.

You were loyal. You knew where the lines were. You did not cross them. You loved Clive, or at least you loved the life you had built around loving him, and you had never been the sort of woman who went looking for trouble just because someone else made her laugh.

But if anyone had asked why the McLaren garage had begun to feel brighter whenever Lando saw you first, you would not have had a sensible answer.

Today, he saw you first.

He was standing beside Oscar’s corner of the garage with an expression far too smug to not be suspicious. His curls were slightly messy, one hand tucked into the pocket of his shorts, the other holding what appeared to be a neatly stapled stack of papers. Oscar stood in front of him, arms folded, face blank in the particular way that meant he was either deeply unimpressed or spiritually departing his own body.

“Morning,” you said, slowing down.

Lando turned to you with a look of immediate delight.

It was always a little unfair, that look, the twinkle lighting up his green eyes. Like you had arrived exactly when he had hoped you would.

“Morning,” he said brightly. “Or should I say zǎo shàng hǎo, actually.”

Oscar closed his eyes. “No.”

You glanced between them. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Lando said.

“That’s usually how I know something terrible happened.”

Oscar held up the papers in his hand.

At first, you did not understand. They looked like normal race notes: printed tables, tyre information, track analysis, little diagrams that made your brain feel as if it had stepped into a room where everyone spoke fluent engineering and you had arrived carrying a tambourine.

Then Oscar turned the top page toward you.

It was entirely in Chinese.

You blinked.

Lando pressed his lips together.

You tried not to laugh. It was a noble effort, brief and doomed.

“Oh my God,” you said, covering your mouth. “Lando.”

“It’s educational,” he said quickly. “Global sport. International mindset. Oscar’s always talking about self improvement.”

“I have never once said that in my life,” Oscar said.

“You implied it.”

“When?”

“Details.”

Oscar looked at you. “See what I deal with?”

You should have been sympathetic. You did try. Oscar had the faintly haunted look of a man who had woken up expecting a normal day and instead been handed his professional instructions in a language he did not speak. There was something tragic about his composure, something almost Victorian in the way he endured suffering without theatrics.

Unfortunately, Lando was looking at you.

And that ruined everything.

He was not watching Oscar anymore. Not really. He was watching the corner of your mouth, waiting for it to betray you. His eyes were too bright, too alive with that private triumph he always wore when he had managed to make you laugh before the day had properly begun.

You bit down on your smile.

His grin widened.

“No,” you said, pointing at him. “Don’t look at me like that. This is workplace bullying.”

“It’s team bonding.”

“It’s trauma bonding.”

“It’s love.”

Oscar lowered the papers. “It’s awful.”

“Mind your tone, Osc,” Lando said. “Mandarin is a beautiful language, you’re being disrespectful now.”

You laughed then, properly, despite yourself. The sound slipped out of you before you could dress it up as professionalism, and Lando’s face changed in that small, dangerous way it sometimes did. Barely anything. A softening, perhaps. A little warmth gathering behind his eyes before he caught himself and turned back to Oscar with renewed theatrical seriousness.

“Right,” he said. “Shall we go through page one?”

Oscar stared at him. “Can you read it?”

“No.”

“Then why would we go through it?”

You leaned against the partition, shaking your head. “Give it a shot Oscar, you’ll be fluent by Shanghai next year.”

“See,” Lando said, tilting his head, “she always gets it.”

There were sentences that should not have been allowed to mean anything.

That was one of them.

Because he said it lightly, of course. Carelessly. In the same tone he used for everything ridiculous and harmless. But his eyes stayed on yours for half a second too long, and suddenly the garage felt slightly warmer than it had a moment ago. Around you, people moved and called to each other; someone laughed near the back; a wheel gun sounded briefly from somewhere nearby. The whole world continued in its noisy, mechanical rush.

You looked away first.

“Have you guys seen Clive by the way?” you said, too quickly.

Lando’s expression did not fall. That would have been too obvious. He merely looked down at the papers in Oscar’s hand and nodded once, as if remembering a fact he disliked but had agreed not to argue with.

“Right,” he said. “Clive.”

Oscar, who noticed more than anyone gave him credit for, became suddenly fascinated by page two of his translated notes.

As if summoned by the sound of his name, Clive appeared from the far side of the garage with a half-empty coffee in his hand and his headset pushed around his neck. He was good-looking in a sensible sort of way, with a square jaw, broad shoulders, and the kind of face your relatives liked because it suggested reliability. He had once been very charming to your mother. This fact had done an unreasonable amount of damage to your life.

“There you are,” Clive said, though he did not sound as if he had been looking very hard. His gaze passed over you, then Lando, then Oscar’s papers. “What’s all this?”

“Lando translated Oscar’s race notes to Chinese,” you said, still smiling.

Clive gave the papers a brief look, then snorted without much interest. “Must be nice having that much free time.”

That was the trouble with Clive. He rarely said things that were bad enough to defend yourself against. They were only small. Dull little stones dropped into the middle of a conversation until the whole thing sank.

Your smile thinned.

Lando’s did too, but the change was so quick that it was nearly unnoticable.

Then he smiled.

“Yeah,” he said lightly. “Terrible habit, having fun. I keep meaning to become joyless, but Oscar’s already taken the position.”

Oscar did not look up. “I’m not joyless. I’m tired of you.”

“Sure you are, buddy.”

You gave Lando a look. “You are aware this is his workplace?”

“It’s my workplace too.”

 “And this is how you contribute?”

“I bring atmosphere.”

Oscar held up the papers. “I’m trying to find a single word I understand.”

Lando leaned closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “That’s how I feel in strategy meetings.”

You laughed again, softer this time, grateful in a way you did not want to examine. Lando did that often: caught the edge of something awkward before it cut too deeply, then turned it into a joke and handed the room back to you lighter than he found it.

Clive did not notice.

He took a sip of coffee and looked at you. “You coming? I need to grab something from the back before briefing.”

It was not quite an invitation. More an assumption.

You straightened. “Yeah. Sure.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to you.

For a brief, foolish second, you wished he would say something. Not something meaningful. God, no. Nothing that dangerous. Just one more joke, one more excuse to keep you there, one more absurd comment about Oscar’s tragic academic journey.

But he only gave a small smile.

“See you later, trouble.”

“You’re the trouble,” you said.

“Debatable.”

“It’s really not.”

You were still laughing when Clive began walking away, and because you were engaged, because you had been engaged for four years, because everyone knew it and nobody said anything, you followed him.

The ring on your finger caught the garage lights as you adjusted the strap of your bag.

You used to look at it often after Clive proposed. Not obsessively, but with a kind of shy, startled pride. It had once seemed like proof of something: that your life was moving forward, that love had a shape, that someday had been promised to you in metal and stone.

Now you mostly noticed it when it felt heavy.

Lando watched you go.

He kept smiling until you disappeared behind the partition with Clive’s hand resting absently between your shoulder blades, guiding you forward without ever quite holding you.

Only when you were gone did his expression change.

Not dramatically. Lando was too practiced for that, too quick with humour, too used to folding softness into jokes before anyone could see it.

But Oscar saw.

He always saw.

He looked from the empty space where you had been back to Lando, then down at the translated notes in his hand.

“You know,” Oscar said, “for someone with so much free time, you’re making your own life very complicated.”

Lando took the papers from him and tapped them neatly against the counter.

“Don’t know what you mean, mate.”

Oscar stared.

Lando avoided his eyes.

…

There was something rather peculiar about the media pen after a race.

You had always thought it faintly theatrical. The bright lights, the microphones, the tired men in race suits trying to sound philosophical about tyre degradation, the journalists nodding gravely as if the fate of nations depended on sector two. You loved it, though. You loved the little absurdity of it, the speed of it, the fact that everyone was half-performing and half-telling the truth.

You were still checking your notes when Lando appeared in front of you, still flushed from the race, curls damp at his forehead, eyes bright with that dangerous kind of mischief that usually meant he had decided to make your job more difficult or more pleasant.

Possibly both.

“Right,” he said, before you had even introduced the segment. “Be nice.”

You glanced up. “I’m always nice.”

“Only when I tell you what you wanna hear.”

“Better make sure to give me some good answers then.”

His smile pulled to one side, bright and troublesome, like he had found the loose thread in your composure and meant to tug. “Maybe ask better questions then.”

The cameraman shifted behind the lens. Your producer gave you the silent signal.

You lifted the microphone, rearranged your expression into something professional, and began.

“Lando, strong recovery drive today, especially after the opening stint. How are you feeling after that?”

He answered properly at first, because beneath all the nonsense there was a serious driver with serious instincts, and you liked that about him more than you should. He spoke about balance, traffic, tyre wear, the grip coming in later than expected. You nodded, listening, asking him about the strategy window and whether the car had felt better in clean air.

Then, because restraint was not one of his more developed virtues, he glanced at your notes.

“What’s next?” he asked. “Are you about to ask about my deeply controversial race weekend food regime?”

You blinked. “That was not on my list.”

“Looked like it was.”

“I wrote ‘race weekend fuel management.” 

“It definetly said food.”

“You read what you want to read I suppose.”

“Arye you calling me fat?” ,” he said, with the grave disappointment of a man betrayed by the press. “And here I was thinking you respected me.”

“Respect is a big word, Lan.”

His eyes narrowed, twinkling. “Careful.”

Behind you, your cameraman made the fatal mistake of laughing under his breath.

Lando pointed toward the lens. “Let it be known to the world she thinks my butt is getting too big.”

You should have stopped there. A better journalist would have. A wiser woman, perhaps. Someone less susceptible to boys with bright eyes and terrible timing.

Instead, you said, “Nothing wrong with improving the rear-end performance.”

He leaned slightly closer to the microphone, his expression lowering into that half-cocky, half-amused look that made him unbearable. “Is that so?”

There it was. That little phrase. That little shift. As if the whole interview had tilted away from professionalism and toward something with a pulse.

You felt the smile trying to break over your face and fought it with all the dignity you had left.

Unfortunately, dignity had never done well around Lando Norris.

“I’m simply reporting what I’ve observed,” you said.

“Oh, so you’re watching me now?”

The words were light. His voice was playful. But his eyes stayed on yours just long enough for the noise of the media pen to draw back around you like a tide.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

Lando smiled.

Not triumphantly. Worse. Softly.

You forced yourself back to the job.

“Final question,” you said, trying to sound severe. “Looking ahead, what’s the main thing to improve before Barcelona?”

“Media training,” he said.

“For you?”

“For both of us, apparently.”

You gave him a look. 

“Oh, and the car.” He nodded, pretending to remember the existence of Formula One. “Yes. That. Probably qualifying pace, bit more consistency through the slower corners. But mostly answer discipline.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Thank you, Lando.”

“Always a pleasure.”

He stepped away, but not before giving you one last look, quick and familiar and bright enough to make your heart behave foolishly.

You pretended to check your notes.

The next driver was already approaching.

George Russell stepped into place next, looking far too amused for a man who had only just arrived. He glanced after Lando, then at you, his mouth already curving. 

“Well,” he said, before you had asked a single thing, “I’ll try not to disappoint after whatever that was.”

Heat rose to your cheeks with such speed that you resented him immediately.

You adjusted your notes. “George, please.”

“What? I’m being supportive.”

“You’re being crazy.”

“No, no. Crazy would be discussing on live TV whether Lando’s midnight chicken nuggets are now part of McLaren’s official performance programme.”

You gave him a look.

He smiled, perfectly composed. “Right. Sorry. Racing. Lovely sport. Cars go quickly.”

You lifted the microphone again, grateful for the structure of your work, for lap times and sector splits and the lovely impersonal safety of performance analysis. George answered cleanly, charmingly, with just enough humour to keep you on your toes.

But your attention was not as obedient as it should have been.

Because beyond George’s shoulder, Lando had stopped.

He must have heard the comment. Perhaps he had only caught his own name, or perhaps George’s voice had carried clearly enough through the pen. Either way, he looked back.

For a moment, the playful mask had gone.

He was not smiling now. Not quite. He was looking at you as you laughed at something George said, and the expression on his face was so unguarded that it felt almost indecent to see it. There was fondness there, yes, but also an ache he had no business wearing in public.

As though there was no one else in that crowded, noisy, overheated paddock he would rather look at.

Then Carlos Sainz appeared beside him, calm as ever, handsome in that composed, older-brother way that made even sympathy look stylish. He followed Lando’s gaze, understood everything in approximately half a second, and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

Lando startled slightly.

Carlos did not smile too much. He was kinder than that.

“Ay, cabrón,” he said softly. “Sometimes life gives you a beautiful problem, no?”

Lando looked away at once. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not.”

“She’s just-”

Carlos waited.

Lando stopped.

Across the pen, you asked George another question, smiling politely, microphone steady in your hand, utterly unaware of the quiet little tragedy occurring ten metres away.

Carlos squeezed Lando’s shoulder once.

Lando tried to laugh. It did not quite work.

“Plenty of fish in the sea, yeah?” he said, attempting lightness and failing so badly that even Carlos looked pained on his behalf.

Carlos tilted his head. “I thought you didn’t like fish.”

Lando had no clever answer for that.

So he looked back at you instead.

…

Barcelona had softened into evening, turning gold at the edges as if someone had held it briefly to a flame. The streets outside the restaurant were warm and crowded, filled with the lazy music of cutlery, passing scooters, laughter thrown from one table to another. Inside, the private room McLaren had taken over was already loud enough to suggest that no one present had ever been shy in their life, and if they had, the Formula One circus had beaten the habit out of them.

Terracotta dishes appeared and disappeared as if by magic: pan con tomate glossed with olive oil, patatas bravas in a deep red sauce, little croquetas with crisp golden shells, prawns bright with garlic, bowls of olives no one remembered ordering and everyone kept eating. There were glasses of wine and bottles of sparkling water and men in team polos telling stories with the slightly feral relief of people who had been released from the paddock for two hours and intended to make poor use of the freedom.

You arrived with Clive.

Or rather, you arrived beside Clive, which was not always the same thing.

He was in a good mood, at least by his standards, one hand resting briefly at the small of your back as you stepped into the restaurant, the other already raised toward someone from the garage.

“There’s everyone,” he said, and then he was gone into the easy noise of men who knew one another from long hours, quick repairs, bad flights, and shared cigarettes outside loading bays.

You knew most of them now. Knew the names of the mechanics who always asked if your interviews had gone well, knew which engineers became unexpectedly funny after half a glass of wine. Being Clive’s fiancée had opened the first door into the world of McLaren, but you had stayed because you liked the people.

And, though you did not care to admit it even to yourself, you liked how often the McLaren garage meant Lando.

He arrived late with Carlos.

Of course he did.

Carlos, Lando’s usual plus one, entered first, elegant with the air of a man who had never once rushed in his life and yet somehow was never truly late. Lando came beside him, talking already, hands moving as if the story required illustration. His curls were still slightly damp from a shower, his shirt half tucked in the lazy way of a man who never really cared enough, and when he looked up and saw you, his face changed.

Not greatly. Nothing one could accuse him of.

But enough.

A quick brightening. A private spark. A smile that seemed to find you before it found the rest of the room.

You looked down at your glass.

“There they are,” Clive said, returning heavily to the seat beside you. “The celebrities.”

Lando heard it as he reached the table.

“Careful,” he said. “Carlos gets very sensitive when people reduce him to his beauty.”

Carlos pulled out his chair with magnificent calm. “It is a burden, but I manage.”

“You’re so brave,” you said.

Lando placed a hand over his heart. “And me?”

“You clearly have nothing to worry about.”

Carlos laughed. Lando looked wounded, though the effect was somewhat ruined by how pleased he was to see you smile.

The seating had happened in that careless way group dinners often did, though it felt less like chance when Lando ended up across from you, Oscar on his left, Carlos on his right. Clive sat beside you, but he leaned away almost immediately, drawn into a conversation with two mechanics about some flight delay in Montreal and whether one of them had insulted an airline employee in a way that could technically be described as “provoked.”

You should have listened. You tried for nearly four minutes.

Unfortunately, across the table, Lando was trying to steal one of Oscar’s croquetas with the careful concentration of a man defusing a bomb.

Oscar did not look at him. “I can see you, Lando.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Your hand is on my plate.”

“Could be anyone’s.”

“It has your watch on it.”

Lando paused, looked at his wrist, then at you.

You laughed into your glass, and Lando looked up immediately, triumphant in the softest, stupidest way. It was the sort of look that should have meant nothing and therefore meant far too much.

Clive’s elbow brushed yours as he reached for bread.

“What’s funny?” he asked, without really looking at you.

“Lando’s trying to steal Oscar’s food.”

Clive glanced across the table, gave a short snort, then turned back to his conversation. “He’s always doing something.”

Lando’s eyes flicked toward Clive.

Then back to you.

Then he lifted the stolen croqueta in a silent toast and ate it whole.

Oscar stared at the empty space on his plate. “I hope you choke.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do, actually.”

“You’d miss me.”

“Sure I’d do.”

You had to look away, smiling.

Dinner warmed around you. Plates passed, glasses were refilled, someone began telling a story about Zak accidentally ending up in the wrong meeting room and committing to the bit for ten minutes before admitting it. Carlos spoke easily with the people around him, Oscar contributed only when necessary and usually to ruin Lando’s version of events with what he deemed to be ‘irrelevant’ details.

For a little while, you were happy.

Not wildly, not foolishly. Just quietly lit from within, the way one sometimes became at a table where the food was good, the city outside was beautiful, and someone across from you kept looking as though your laugh had improved his evening.

Then Clive spoke loudly enough to make several heads turn.

“So,” he said to Lando, leaning back in his chair with the satisfied confidence of a man about to be unpleasant and call it banter. “You brought Carlos tonight instead of some chick, then?”

The table shifted, not much but enough. A fork paused. Oscar looked down at his plate. Carlos lifted his eyebrows very slightly.

Lando smiled, but there was less ease in it now.

“I mean Carlos is the ultimate babe, isn’t he?” he said.

Carlos nodded. “This is true.”

Clive laughed. “Yeah, yeah. Heard you were spotted with a model last week though. How’s that going though?”

You felt something in your stomach sink a little bit without knowing exactly why.

“Wouldn’t believe everything you hear,” Lando said lightly.

“Come on, mate.” Clive grinned, warming to his own coarseness. “Must be nice though. Models lining up and all that. I’d be hitting all of them if I were you.”

You set down your glass.

No one had insulted you directly. That was the old defence, the one men like Clive relied upon without ever needing to name it. It was only a joke. It was just lads talking. It wasn’t about you. Except it was, in the way such things were always about every woman present, quietly reducing the world to something to rank, take, brag over, consume.

You smiled because you had been taught too well.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you said.

Clive barely glanced at you. “Oh babe can you bring me another one too?”

“I’ll see what they have.”

You stood anyway.

Lando looked at you then.

Only briefly, but you saw it: the irritation carefully tucked behind his eyes, the instinct to say something, the better instinct not to make a scene you would have to stand inside. He stayed seated as you walked away, and for that you were grateful.

For about thirty seconds.

Then he appeared beside you at the bar.

Not too quickly. Not obvious. He leaned one elbow against the counter as if he had wandered there by accident, though Lando Norris had never wandered anywhere in his life without purpose.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said.

You gave him a look. “At the bar?”

“Mad coincidence.”

“At the restaurant we’re both having dinner in?”

“Honestly, what are the odds?”

The bartender placed a glass of sparkling water in front of you. You picked it up, grateful to have something to do with your hands.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Behind you, the table was noisy again, but the sound seemed distant now, softened by the warm light over the bar. Lando looked down, dragging one finger through a ring of condensation on the counter.

Then he said, very casually, “For the record, only thing I’d like to be hitting right now is him in the face, to be fair.”

You nearly choked on your water.

“Lando.”

“What?” His eyes widened with perfect innocence. “I said to be fair. That makes it balanced.”

“You cannot say that.”

“I can’t do it,” he said. “Saying it seems like the compromise.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t think it too.”

You laughed then, unwillingly and all at once, the kind of laugh that escaped before you could make it polite. Lando’s face softened before he turned it back into a grin.

“There she is,” he said.

It was too gentle.

Your laughter faded into something smaller.

He seemed to realise it at the same time you did, because he looked away first, clearing his throat with great interest in the bar snacks.

“Anyway,” he said, briskly recovering, “this whole model thing is very misunderstood.”

“Oh?”

“Terribly lonely life. Every day a new glamorous woman. Flashing cameras. Private jets. No one understanding the real me.”

“The real you being?”

“A sensitive soul with a complicated relationship with Oscar’s approval.”

Across the room, as if sensing his name had been used for nonsense, Oscar looked over.

Lando pointed at him. “See? He feels it.”

Oscar frowned.

You laughed again.

This time, Lando did not bother hiding how pleased he was.

“Also,” he added, leaning a little closer, “I don’t know why Clive thinks Carlos isn’t a proper date. Look at him. Man’s gorgeous.”

You glanced over at Carlos, who was listening to a mechanic with grave attention, one hand under his chin like a prince receiving news of war.

“He is gorgeous,” you admitted.

Lando’s eyes came back to you, bright and offended. “Wow.”

“What?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You brought him up.”

“I didn’t ask you to agree that quickly.”

You smiled into your glass. “Jealous?”

He held your gaze for one beat too long.

Then his mouth tilted.

“What if I am?”

The words were playful, nothing more than another easy toss of the ball between you, and still your pulse tripped stupidly over itself.

…

You liked the paddock the best in the morning, before the real chaos settled in.

There was still a little softness in the air then. The sun had not yet made the tarmac shimmer. The hospitality doors were open, spilling out the smell of espresso and warm pastries, and everyone walked as though the day might still be reasonable if treated kindly enough.

You were walking toward the pit lane with Lando, which rather ruined the possibility of reason.

He had fallen into step beside you outside the McLaren motorhome, claiming he was going the same way. This was possibly true. It was also possibly the sort of truth men used when they did not want to admit they had waited seven minutes by a door while pretending to be busy on their phone.

You did not accuse him of this.

One had to preserve some illusions.

“So,” he said, lowering his voice with the seriousness of a man about to discuss international diplomacy. “I need your opinion.”

“Dangerous start.”

“It’s important.”

“You’re making me worried.”

He glanced over his shoulder, then leaned slightly closer, as if the papaya walls themselves might report him. “Oscar’s diffuser.”

You slowed half a step. “His diffuser?”

“Yeah.”

“Oscar has a diffuser?”

“He says it keeps him calm.”

“I’m sure he needs whatever peace he can find with a teammate like you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Lando said.

You looked at him. “But okay, so he’s using it to stay calm?”

“No one his age should be that composed. It’s unnatural. He’s a baby still but has the energy of a retired accountant who owns a very good chair.”

You tried not to laugh. You failed privately first, which was the most dangerous stage because Lando always noticed.

His eyes flashed with triumph.

“Exactly,” he said. “You see it.”

“I see that you are about to become a workplace hazard again.”

“I’m just doing what needs to be done.”

“I bet Oscar is thrilled he extended his contract.”

He grinned. “He wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t secretly love what we have.”

Around you, the paddock continued its steady morning ballet. A group of Alpine mechanics passed with crates, someone from Haas nodded at you, two photographers were already crouched in search of the perfect shot of a man walking while looking tired. Lando moved easily through it all, cap backwards, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing as he spoke. He had that extraordinary gift of seeming casual in a world that wanted everyone to be tense.

It made people look at him.

It made you look at him too, though you were generally careful about that.

“So what are you planning with Oscar’s diffuser?” you asked.

Lando’s face lit up.

“No,” you said immediately.

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I know your face.”

“My face is innocent.”

You just gave him a concerned look.

He smiled, far too pleased with that. “Australian spray tan.”

You stopped walking.

Lando took two more steps, then turned back, pretending to be surprised you had not followed. “What?”

“No.”

“It would be subtle.”

“It’s fake tan in a diffuser.”

He looked at you for a second, then nodded gravely. “So… it needs a little refinement perhaps.”

A slight giggle escaped your mouth.

Lando came back toward you, walking backwards now. “Imagine, though. He finishes debrief, completely unaware, just slightly more sun-kissed than when he started.”

“He would murder you.”

“He’d have to catch me first.”

“He drives a Formula One car.”

“Who has the number 1 on his car?”

You gave him a look.

He gave you one back, the little cocky one, all mouth and eyes and mischief, and the terrible thing was that you did imagine it. Oscar sitting calmly beside his diffuser, gradually acquiring the complexion of a man who had spent six weeks in Byron Bay. Lando pretending to know nothing. The entire garage slowly realising something was wrong.

You pressed your lips together.

Lando saw.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “That’s a laugh.”

“It is not.”

“That is absolutely a laugh. I see those cute dimples.”

“You really need to find a hobby, Lan.”

He put a hand to his chest. “This is my hobby.”

“A real one.”

“This is real to me.”

“Like golf,” you said. “Or chess.”

He pulled a face. “I’m too good at that already, it’s gotten boring.”

“Or,” you continued before you could think better of it, “a girlfriend.”

The word arrived lightly.

It should have stayed that way.

It was only a joke, tossed into the bright morning between espresso cups and camera shutters, the sort of thing you had said a hundred times in different forms. Get a life, Norris. Find a hobby. Bother someone else. Poor Oscar. Some harmless little thread in the fabric of your friendship.

But this time, for whatever reason, it caught.

Lando stopped smiling first.

Only the smallest shift, like a cloud moving across the sun. His gaze stayed on yours, and all the noise of the paddock seemed, unhelpfully, to place itself somewhere far away.

“A girlfriend,” he repeated.

You swallowed.

There were many sensible things you might have said. Yes, a girlfriend, preferably one with a high tolerance for nonsense. Or, God help her, whoever she may be. Or even something ordinary about Oscar filing a complaint with HR. Anything would have done.

Instead you stood there with your press pass against your chest and your heart behaving as if it had forgotten there were rules.

Lando’s eyes moved briefly over your face, not boldly, not greedily, but with an attention that felt far more dangerous because it was careful. He looked as though he might say something honest if the morning gave him half a chance.

You looked away.

It was not cowardice, you told yourself. It was decency. There was a difference, although lately the two had begun to resemble each other in poor lighting.

Lando breathed out, and when he spoke again, his voice had recovered its usual shape, though it sat a little softer around the edges.

“Bit harsh,” he said. “Imagine subjecting some poor girl to me full time.”

You forced a smile. “Exactly. There are limits to what one woman can reasonably be expected to endure.”

“You care about the people.”

“I’m a journalist. It’s my burden.”

“A noble profession.”

“Someone has to ask the difficult questions.”

“Like whether Oscar’s new skincolor is to rep the papaya brand even more?”

“If this prank happens, I’m reporting you myself.”

He started walking again, slower this time, and you fell into step beside him. The bubble had not burst exactly. It had changed. Thinner, perhaps. Easier to see through.

“You’d never expose your source,” he said.

“You’re not my source, Lan. You’re the suspect.”

He smiled, but it was not the same smile from before. “I’d look good in a mugshot, I reckon.”

“Sure you would.”

Ahead, the pit lane opened bright and busy, lined with people who had no idea that one careless word had made the morning feel different. You could see the McLaren garage now, mechanics already moving around the front, screens alive, the day beginning to tighten into schedule and performance and obligation.

Lando slowed near the entrance.

For one foolish second, you thought he might say something. Something small, maybe. Something not quite honest but close enough to be dangerous. His shoulder brushed yours as someone passed behind him, and he did not move away immediately.

Then Oscar appeared in the garage doorway with a suspicious look on his face.

“Why are you both smiling?” he asked.

You straightened. “We’re not.”

Oscar looked from him to you, then back again. “I don’t like when you two arrive together. Something always happens to me.”

“You’re paranoid,” Lando said.

“No, that’s pattern recognition.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Lando looked at you then, with that open, foolish warmth people only wore when they truly let their guard down.

Oscar saw that too.

Of course he did.

Oscar sighed with the patient misery of a man who had been placed among fools and given no immediate means of escape. “I’m locking my dressingroom today.” 

“Smart,” you said.

Lando leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “Cowardice, really.”

“You think Zac has a spare key?”

“I like the way you think.”

Oscar pointed at both of you. “Separate. Immediately.”

You lifted your hands. “I’m innocent.”

“You’re never innocent when he’s involved,” Oscar said.

Lando made an offended little noise, you rolled your eyes, Oscar disappeared back into the garage muttering something about changing his lock.

…

There are few things more dangerous than a bored Lando Norris with access to a printer.

Oscar had learned this the hard way, as most people learned the truths that mattered. He had survived the translated race notes with the pale endurance of a man who knew that protest would only feed the beast. Since then, he had begun treating the garage like a crime scene: checking his water bottle before drinking from it, eyeing his chair before sitting down, regarding all stationery with the suspicion of a Victorian widow receiving anonymous letters.

Still, somehow, Lando found a way.

You arrived in the McLaren garage late in the afternoon, when the day had begun to feel a little frayed at the edges. Screens glowed in the papaya-lit dimness. Mechanics moved with tired precision. Someone laughed near the back, someone else swore softly at a cable, and the whole place smelled faintly of coffee, rubber, and the metallic warmth of machines that had been worked too hard.

Clive was somewhere in the garage. You had seen him earlier for perhaps fifteen seconds, during which he had looked up from his phone, asked, “Busy day?” and returned to whatever he was reading before your answer had fully formed.

It was nothing new.

That was almost the sadder thing.

Then you saw Oscar.

He was standing perfectly still beside his side of the garage, which, with Oscar, was less a posture and more a warning system.

Lando stood nearby looking serene.

Too serene.

Every visible object near Oscar had Lando’s face on it.

Tiny stickers. Little smug Lando faces, all giving thumbs-up, scattered across Oscar’s belongings like a plague of cheerful, badly supervised insects. One on his water bottle. One on his laptop. Three on the rim of his helmet. Another on his notebook. One, most boldly, right on the back of his racesuit, just above his butt.

Oscar lifted his helmet with the terrible calm of a man presenting evidence before a court.

“Why,” he asked, “is your face on my visor?”

Lando looked at you immediately.

Not at Oscar.

At you.

You tried to keep it in. Truly, you did. You thought of serious things. Press briefings. Deadline pressure. Clive’s mother’s extremely beige living room.

Then Oscar turned the helmet, and tiny Lando beamed up at you from beneath the visor like an irritating little guardian angel.

You broke.

Lando grinned as though the sun had personally risen for him.

“No,” Oscar said, pointing at you. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I’m not.”

“You are visibly encouraging him.”

“I’m horrified.”

“You’re entertained, don’t lie.”

Lando leaned back against the counter, gleaming with satisfaction. “She has good humor.”

“She has poor impulse control when you’re around,” Oscar said.

Your laughter caught, just slightly.

Lando’s eyes flicked to yours.

There it was: that small, bright pause in the middle of the joke. One careless sentence turning the air warm enough to notice.

“Poor impulse control is the backbone of our friendship.”

“Well,” Oscar said. “I’m glad you are having fun together.”

You moved closer, examining the laptop. “How many are there?”

Lando suddenly found the ceiling interesting.

Oscar turned slowly. “Lando?”

“Just a few.”

“Define a few.”

Oscar closed his eyes.

A moment later, one of Lando’s engineers called his name. Lando gave Oscar a final smirk, which Oscar ignored with heroic commitment, then turned to you, smile returning, easy and too bright for the world.

“Behave,” you said.

He smiled. “You’d be bored.”

It was nothing.

It was always nothing.

Then he disappeared into the busier part of the garage, and the air he left behind seemed oddly less colourful.

Oscar began peeling a sticker from his laptop.

“You know,” he said, not looking at you, “the worst part is that you’re both equally annoying.”

“I am not equally annoying.”

“No,” he said. “You’re worse. You pretend you’re above it.”

You gave him a look. “Do you want help or not?”

He handed you the helmet.

For a while, neither of you spoke. You picked at a tiny Lando face near the visor while Oscar worked on his water bottle. The sticker came away slowly, stubbornly, as if even printed Lando refused to leave easily.

Then Oscar said, “You’re always so happy around him.”

Your fingers stilled.

“He’s funny,” you said.

“He is occasionally funny.”

“He makes everyone laugh.”

Oscar glanced sideways. “Not like that.”

You looked down. “Oscar.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You are very clearly aiming at something.”

“I’m just saying you understand eachother very well.”

Somewhere behind you, Clive laughed at something one of his mates said. The sound reached you thinly, like it belonged to another room, another life.

“I’m engaged,” you said.

“I know.”

“So.”

“So nothing.” Oscar peeled another sticker from his bottle. “I just think sometimes people stay in things because they make sense on paper.”

Your throat tightened.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It usually isn’t.”

You gave a small laugh, though it had very little joy in it. “He’s my best friend.”

Oscar looked down. “Since you like him so much, might I interest you in some stickers?”

That got you. A soft laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Oscar’s expression gentled, barely.

“You’re allowed to want more than just fine, I hope you know,” he said.

The words settled quietly, like dust in sunlight.

Fine.

That small, respectable word. The word you had used for years because it asked so little of you and explained even less.

Oscar reached over, removed the last sticker from the helmet, and placed it neatly on the front of your notebook.

You stared at it.

“Oscar.”

He handed it back with perfect calm. “You missed one.”

Tiny Lando smiled up at you from the cover.

For the first time all afternoon, Oscar’s mouth twitched.

You laughed.

Across the garage, Lando looked back at the sound.

You didn’t notice.

Oscar did.

And, for once, he let mercy win.

…

Zak Brown, in one of those bursts of cheerful American leadership which seemed to involve equal parts morale and mild chaos, had decided that what the McLaren team needed after a race weekend was bowling.

“Proper team bonding,” he had declared, as though he had not just invited forty exhausted people to throw heavy objects at polished wood under fluorescent lighting.

Still, the place had its charms.

The bowling alley sat tucked away from the worst of the Barcelona noise, glowing in red and blue neon, with plastic seats, sticky tables, music just loud enough to forgive everyone’s worst jokes, and the warm, greasy smell of chips drifting from the bar. Mechanics occupied two lanes already, competing with the seriousness of men who spent their professional lives calculating fractions of seconds and had now turned that precision toward knocking over ten pins.

Oscar stood near the ball return, looking as though he had been brought there against his will by a youth group.

Lando, naturally, looked delighted as he selected a bowling ball and held it up with far too much confidence.

“This,” he said, “is where champions are made.”

Oscar glanced at the ball. “You picked the child-size one.”

“It’s part of my strategy.”

“It’s being unable to lift the adult one.”

Lando ignored him and held the ball out slightly. “I can smell your fear from here, Osc.”

“That’s rental shoes.”

You laughed despite yourself, and Lando seized on it with the shameless speed of a man who had been waiting for one friendly witness.

“There,” he said. “She gets it.”

“She’s laughing at you,” Oscar said.

“She’s laughing near me. Counts.”

“It really doesn’t,” you said.

Lando shrugged with a big smirk. “I’m taking whatever I can, honestly.”

Clive was there too, though only technically. He had claimed a seat at the table with two of the garage boys, already holding a beer, one ankle resting over his knee as he settled into the easy masculine comfort of not participating. When you asked if he was playing, he glanced at the lanes and shrugged.

“Nah. I’m knackered.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, you go on. I’ll watch.”

You bowled first and did terribly, the ball veering with tragic determination toward the gutter.

Lando pressed both hands to his mouth. “Wow.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“You don’t even need to.”

“I’m just speechless.”

“Good. Stay that way or I’ll throw the next bowlingball to your head.”

He grinned. “With your aim, I’m not sure that’s the best threat.”

Oscar picked up his ball. “Can you two flirt less near the machinery?”

You turned. “We are not flirting.”

Lando, at the exact same time, said, “This is coaching.”

Oscar looked between you both. “Right. My mistake. Very professional.”

You tried to glare at him, but unfortunately Lando was already demonstrating a bowling stance with such unnecessary confidence that it became impossible to remain dignified.

“See,” he said, stepping beside you, “it’s all in the wrist.”

“You look like you learned this from a children’s birthday party.”

“You go to a lot of children’s birthday parties?”

“Oh yeah. I love crushing their little spirits.”

Oscar sighed from a distance. “I believe that.”

On your next turn, perhaps through skill, perhaps through luck, perhaps because the universe enjoyed comedic timing, you threw a strike.

For half a second, you simply stood there, stunned.

Then Lando erupted.

He cheered so loudly that three mechanics turned around. “Yes! That’s my-” He stopped himself so quickly it almost hurt. “That’s… that is bowling. That’s what that is.”

You spun toward Clive automatically, face bright.

He was laughing at something on one of the boys’ phones.

He had not seen.

The happiness faltered before you could protect it.

Then Lando was there, sweeping you up before you could think, lifting you clean off the ground and spinning you once while you shrieked.

“Put me down!”

“Absolutely not. We are celebrating.”

“Lando!”

“Osc, did you see that?”

“I saw it, Lando. Now put the lady down.”

You were laughing too hard, hands gripping Lando’s shoulders as he set you back down. For one second, you stayed too close. His hands were still at your waist. Your cheeks were warm from laughing. His eyes flicked over your face, bright, proud, and soft around the edges.

Then Oscar coughed.

Lando let go.

You stepped back.

“So, whose turn is it?” Oscar said, breaking the tension a bit.

“Mine! Thank you,” Lando replied.

“Anytime, mate.”

The game continued, and somewhere between Lando celebrating a spare like a world championship, Oscar quietly becoming much better than both of you, and you accusing Lando of sabotaging your technique by hiding the good bowling balls, the evening began to feel golden.

The kind of happy feeling that crept in when no one was expecting it.

Clive remained at the table. He drank, laughed with his mates, and occasionally glanced over with the vague expression of a man seeing a television on mute. When you bowled another strike, Lando pointed dramatically toward the scoreboard.

“She’s unreal,” he announced.

Oscar nodded. “Unfortunately, yes.”

You looked again toward Clive.

Nothing.

This time the disappointment arrived quieter, which made it worse.

A little later, Clive came up behind you with his jacket already in his hand.

“I’m tired, babe,” he said. “Let’s head back.”

“Oh.” You glanced at the lane, then at him. “Now?”

“Yeah. Long day.”

“I thought we could stay a bit longer.”

He gave a half-shrug. “You can if you want.”

It should have been generous. It sounded indifferent.

You hesitated, caught between the life you were supposed to return to and the one currently making Oscar argue with Lando about bowling shoes sizing.

Oscar, blessedly, looked up from the scoreboard.

“She’s winning,” he said. “You can’t make her leave now. Zak would be disappointed.”

Clive laughed shortly. “Right. Wouldn’t want that.”

You looked at him carefully. “Are you sure you don’t mind going alone?”

“Nah. Have fun.”

He kissed your cheek, quick, then left.

No argument. No jealousy. No disappointment.

Just gone.

You watched the door close behind him.

For a moment, the neon seemed a little too bright.

Then Lando’s voice came gently from beside you.

“You okay?”

You turned back.

He was not joking now. His expression had softened into something kind and careful. He knew you so well, he could read you like a book.

You smiled because that was easier. “I’m winning.”

His mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed on yours. “Yeah. You are.”

Oscar looked between you and groaned. “Right. I’m getting nachos.”

The game carried on. You bowled better after Clive left, which felt like a piece of information you did not want to examine. Lando accused you of hustling the entire team. You accused him of lacking discipline. Oscar returned with nachos and the defeated look of a man who had accepted that his evening had become a romantic subplot against his will.

When you went to the bar for drinks, you left Lando and Oscar alone near the lane.

Oscar watched you walk away, then turned slowly to Lando.

Lando did not look at him. “Shut up, please.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face is very loud.”

Oscar took a nacho. “You should just tell her.”

Lando’s smile faded.

Across the room, you leaned against the bar, laughing politely at something the bartender said, bright under the neon, free for one brief evening from the dull gravity of being overlooked.

Lando watched you.

“I can’t,” he said quietly.

Oscar followed his gaze.

For once, he did not make a joke.

Lando picked up his bowling ball, turned it once in his hands, and gave a small, helpless laugh.

“I’m so screwed.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Then, after a pause, he added, “Also, you’re still losing.”

Lando looked at the scoreboard.

You were, in fact, beating him.

His grin returned, softer this time.

“Kick me when I’m down, Osc,” he said.

And when you came back with the drinks, he looked up at you like the night had handed him something beautiful, something he knew better than to reach for.

…

The streetlights blurred against the windscreen. Balconies passed above you in dark little rows. Somewhere, music came from an open window and vanished as Lando turned down another narrow street.

He was still arguing about the bowling.

“I’m not saying the system was rigged,” he said, one hand on the wheel, “but I am saying there should be an inquiry.”

“You lost.”

“Under suspicious circumstances.”

“You threw the ball into the gutter twice.”

“It was the shape of the ball that was off.”

“You blamed the shoes.”

“It was all rigged.”

You turned your head against the seat, smiling. “You’re such a sore loser.”

“I think we should do a rematch again soon.”

You laughed, and the sound filled the car for a second, warm and easy. Lando smiled at the road, though quieter than before.

The evening had left you light in a way you did not quite trust. Bowling shoes, neon lights, Lando making too much ceremony out of your strikes, Oscar looking as though he had been personally wronged by joy. Clive leaving early with no argument, no irritation, hardly even a glance back.

You had told yourself that meant nothing.

You had become very good at that.

Lando pulled up outside your Airbnb, a narrow cream building with a green door and a tired little lamp above it. The street was quiet. The engine hummed. For a moment, neither of you moved.

“Well,” you said, unbuckling your seatbelt with unnecessary brightness. “Thank you for the lift.”

He did not answer.

You looked over.

His hands were still on the wheel, his thumbs resting against the leather, but his expression had gone somewhere far away. All night he had been quick, impossible, alive with some new joke before the last one had properly ended. Now he was still.

“Lando?”

He breathed out, almost a laugh but not quite.

“I need to say something.”

The words changed the car at once.

You felt it before he went on. The sudden weight. The drop in your stomach. The terrible, instinctive knowledge that some conversations arrived with a door behind them, and once opened, would not close neatly again.

“Don’t,” you said.

He looked at you then, and the softness in his face made it worse.

“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”

“I think I do.”

A faint, sad smile moved across his mouth. “Yeah. You probably do.”

You looked down at your hands. Your ring caught the streetlight in a dull flash.

“I’m engaged,” you said, because it was the fact you had. The shield you had. The oldest, easiest thing to put between you.

“I know.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’ve been trying not to.”

The honesty of that made your throat tighten.

He looked back through the windscreen, jaw working once, as though he could still decide to swallow the whole thing down and drive away. Then his hands left the wheel. He sat back, quiet for a second, and when he spoke again his voice was lower.

“I’m so in love with you.”

There was no drama in the way he said it. No grandness. That was what undid you. He said it like something exhausted and plain. Like a truth that had been standing in the room for months, waiting for both of you to stop pretending it was furniture.

“No,” you whispered.

His eyes closed briefly.

“Don’t say that,” you said.

“I know.”

“No, Lando, you can’t just-”

“I know.”

“You can’t say that to me.”

“I know.” He looked at you then, and there was something almost helpless in his face. “But I can’t keep doing this.”

Your throat tightened. “Doing what?”

“This.” His voice was quiet, but the word seemed to fill the whole car. “Pretending I don’t notice when you look for me in a room. Pretending I only make those stupid jokes because I like the sound of my own voice. Pretending it doesn’t ruin me a little when you laugh at something I say and then go back to him.”

You looked away.

“Lando.”

“No, I know.” He nodded quickly, as if he could already hear every sensible objection before you gave it to him. “I know what I’m allowed to be. I know where I’m supposed to stand. I know I’m your friend.”

“You are my friend.”

His mouth pulled into something too sad to be a smile.

“Am I?”

The question was so soft it hurt.

You stared at him.

He swallowed. “Because I don’t think friends do this. I don’t think friends sit in parked cars and feel like they’re about to lose something they never had. I don’t think friends have to remind themselves not to touch each other every time they stand too close.”

Your eyes burned.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.” His voice cracked slightly. “I know it’s not.”

“You can’t say that.”

“I know,” he said again, but this time the words sounded almost broken. “But you know it too. That’s the worst part. You know we’re not just friends. You know this isn’t normal.”

The silence after that was unbearable because it did not feel like accusation.

It felt like recognition.

You looked down at your ring, at the small dull glint of it in the streetlight, and for one terrible second it looked less like a promise and more like proof.

“I’m engaged,” you whispered.

Lando’s eyes softened, but he did not look away.

“I know.”

You looked away because if you kept looking at him, you would not be able to remember the correct shape of your life.

Clive. The ring. Your parents knowing his parents. Years of birthdays and Christmases and old photographs. The kind of history that wrapped itself around you until leaving it felt less like making a choice and more like tearing fabric.

“I have a life mapped out I can’t just leave behind,” you said.

“I know.”

The silence that followed was worse than arguing.

Lando swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

You expected that to make it easier.

It did not.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” he said. “I just needed you to know once. Just once. Because I can’t stand the thought of you thinking I only want to be this.”

He gave a small, broken little laugh. “I mean, I do. Obviously. I love being your friend. I love all of it. The stupid conversations, the way you pretend you’re above my jokes and then laugh anyway, the way you look at Oscar when he’s about to murder me. I love that you know when I’m being an idiot and when I’m actually not okay.”

He paused.

“But I don’t only want that.”

The words settled between you, quiet and devastating.

You reached for the door handle.

Not because you wanted to leave.

Because you did not.

You just had to.

Your fingers curled around the handle. He did not stop you. He only watched, breathing carefully, as if movement itself had become too much.

You should have opened the door.

Instead, you looked back.

Lando was close enough now that you could see the tiredness around his eyes, the thin crack in the confidence he wore so easily in every other room. He looked frightened of what he had said, but not sorry for feeling it.

And perhaps that was what broke you.

You leaned in at the same time he did.

The kiss was gentle at first, almost unbearably so. His hand lifted to your face slowly, carefully, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. His thumb brushed your cheek, and you kissed him again, a little less carefully this time, because the first had only proved what both of you already knew.

The second broke the surface.

It was not wild, not yet. It was worse than that. Familiar. Like arriving somewhere you had been trying not to call home. His mouth moved against yours with a tenderness that made your whole chest hurt. Your hand found the collar of his hoodie, holding there as though the world had tilted and he was the only steady thing in it.

For a few seconds, there was no Clive. No ring. No garage full of people who had been noticing before you dared to. No careful explanations.

Only Lando, warm and close and trembling slightly beneath your hand.

When you broke apart, he stayed near, his forehead almost touching yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he whispered.

Your eyes closed.

The truth came out small.

“Me too.”

His breath caught.

And then the world came back.

The ring. The door. The life waiting upstairs. The years behind you.

He moved as if to kiss you again, and you pulled back before you could let yourself.

“No,” you said, tears rising too quickly now. “I can’t.”

He went still at once.

You shook your head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“No,” he said, though his voice had gone rough. “Don’t be sorry.”

“I have to be with him.”

He looked at you for a moment, and the hurt in his face was so quiet it was almost worse than if he had said something angry.

Then he nodded.

“It’s okay.”

That single word nearly ruined you.

You opened the door.

The night air slipped in, cool against your face. You stepped out before you could change your mind, before you could say his name, before you could climb back into the warmth of the car and choose the part of your heart that had been awake all evening.

At the door, you looked back.

Lando was still there, both hands now resting in his lap, staring ahead as if moving too soon would break something.

For one impossible second, you thought of going back.

Then you turned the key and went inside.

…

The next race weekend arrived grey around the edges, that sad weather that made everything look as if it had been drawn in pencil: the pit lane, the hospitality roofs, the morning faces of people who’d been working late and lacking sleep. 

Lando arrived with his headphones on.

That was the first thing Oscar noticed.

The second was that he did not say anything.

No comment about Oscar’s trainers. No accusation that the weather had been personally arranged to ruin his hair. No attempt to tell anyone that he had discovered a new excuse to wear heelies in public. He only walked into the garage, nodded once at someone from the team, and disappeared into the quiet corner near the back with a bottle of water in his hand.

The garage, which was never truly still, seemed to notice anyway.

Lando without noise was not peace. It was a storm brooding.

He sat with one ankle crossed over the other, headphones covering his ears, cap low, trying so hard to disappear that he became the first thing anyone noticed. 

People passed. Screens glowed. Mechanics spoke around him. Somewhere a tyre blanket was being adjusted, somewhere else a tool clattered too loudly against the floor.

He flinched at none of it.

He was thinking about Barcelona.

He had told himself not to. Then again, he had told himself many things lately, and most of them had proved useless.

The kiss kept returning in pieces.

Her breath before it happened. Her hand in his shirt. The small, ruined honesty of me too. The green door swallowing her back into the life that had been waiting for her.

And after that, only the streetlight, the quiet car, and the stupid fact that his mouth still remembered her.

Every bone in his body was begging him, do not look for her.

So naturally, he looked.

Not obviously. Not desperately. Only in the little ways a person looks when he is trying to convince himself he is above it. A glance toward the garage entrance. Another toward the media pen corridor. Once, when someone laughed outside, his head lifted before he could stop it.

It was not her.

Of course it was not.

He took a drink of water and hated how ordinary the bottle felt in his hand.

Then he saw a new guy.

Not new to the world, obviously. New to the garage. Standing by the tires, headset around his neck, speaking to one of Oscar’s mechanics with the slightly too-eager nodding of someone trying to learn names quickly. He was young, or perhaps not as tired yet. His shirt was too clean. His lanyard sat wrong.

Lando stared for half a second longer than he should have.

Oscar appeared beside him.

He did not say anything at first. Oscar had a merciful side, though it often wore the disguise of exhaustion.

Lando pulled one side of his headphones back. “What?”

Oscar looked toward the new guy.

Then back at him.

“Didn’t you hear?”

Lando’s grip tightened around the bottle. “Hear what?”

There was a pause, not long enough to be dramatic, but long enough to change the air.

“Clive quit.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

The garage continued. The screens glowed. A mechanic laughed softly at something near the front. Outside, the grey morning pressed itself against the open doors.

Lando blinked. “What?”

Oscar kept his voice low. “He quit after Barcelona.”

“Why?”

Oscar’s expression shifted, careful now. “Apparently they broke off the engagement.”

The words moved through Lando slowly, as if they had to pass through several locked rooms before he understood them.

They broke off the engagement.

He looked down at the bottle in his hands.

For one wild, selfish second, hope rose in him so quickly it almost felt like panic.

Then guilt followed.

Then the memory of her tears forming in the passenger seat.

Then the kiss.

He swallowed. “Is she-”

“I don’t know,” Oscar said before he could finish. Softer, then, “I haven’t seen her.”

Lando nodded, though he was not sure why.

The new guy laughed at something near Oscar’s station. Life, with its usual poor taste, continued.

Oscar studied him. “You okay?”

Lando almost laughed.

No. Yes. Maybe. Terrified. Happy. Sick with it. Alive for the first time in a week and ashamed of how badly he wanted to be.

“Yeah,” he said.

Oscar gave him a look.

Lando put his headphones back around his neck. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No,” Lando admitted quietly. “I’m not.”

The garage opened brighter as the clouds shifted outside, a pale wash of morning light spilling over the floor, over the tyres.

Lando looked toward the entrance again.

This time, he did not pretend it was accidental.

…

By Friday afternoon, the paddock had remembered how to breathe. As did Lando.

He had spent the whole session doing what he was supposed to do. Brake points. Balance. Feedback. Corner exits. A small complaint about rear stability that his engineer had written down with the patience of a priest taking confession. He had spoken when spoken to, driven when required, and given absolutely no indication that his heart had been behaving like an unsupervised animal since Oscar told him Clive had quit.

Apparently they broke off the engagement.

The words had not left him.

They had followed him into the car, sat with him through the out-lap, returned every time the straight gave his mind half a second too much space. He had tried to be sensible about it. He had failed with impressive consistency.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near the barrier with your microphone in one hand and your notes in the other, talking to one of your crew members. The afternoon light caught along your hair, warm and forgiving. You were dressed for work, composed for work, smiling that professional little smile he knew too well.

Except it was different now, as if a burden had been set down after years of carrying it.

Lando stopped walking.

Only for half a second.

Oscar, coming up behind him, nearly walked into his shoulder.

“Oh,” Oscar said dryly. “There she is.”

Lando did not look at him. “Don’t.”

Oscar followed his gaze toward you, then softened in the smallest possible way. “Go on, then.”

Lando swallowed. “I can do sky news first?”

“Man up.”

“Damn it, Osc.”

Oscar looked at the McLaren garage behind them. “I’ll be waiting here, if you need me.”

Lando finally glanced at him.

Oscar only lifted his brows, calm and infuriating. “Try not to make it weird.”

Lando gave a short laugh. “Bit late for that.”

Then he walked toward you.

You saw him when he was close enough that pretending not to would have become childish. For one second, your expression opened before you could arrange it. Not entirely. Not in any way the camera would have caught. But enough for him to see the relief, the nerves, the question.

His chest went tight.

“Hi,” he said.

You looked at him, microphone lowering slightly. “Hi.”

It was ridiculous that one word could hold so much.

Your crew member gave a little nod toward the camera, blissfully unaware of the emotional architecture collapsing two feet away. “We’re rolling in ten.”

You cleared your throat, glanced down at your notes, and became, with noble effort, a journalist again.

Lando tried not to smile.

He failed.

The camera started.

“Lando, solid running in FP1, though we heard a few comments on the radio about the rear of the car. How did it feel out there?”

He answered properly at first. Mostly. Something about balance, a little instability in the slower corners, track evolution, nothing dramatic. The sort of answer he could give in his sleep. He had given it a hundred times.

The answer should have ended there.

It would have, with anyone else.

But your mouth betrayed you first, curving before you could stop it. “So the rear was giving you trouble?”

Lando’s eyes flicked up.

Instantly.

“Careful,” he said.

“I’m asking about the car.”

“Are you?”

You looked down at your notes, mostly because looking at him had become a liability. “You said it felt unstable.”

“I did.”

“Loose on entry?”

His smile grew slowly, like he had all the time in the world and every intention of misusing it.

“That depends,” he said. “Are we still talking about turn seven?”

“Lando.”

“What? I’m clarifying.”

“You’re absolutely not.”

“No, I am.” He leaned a little closer to the microphone, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “I want to make sure I’m giving you exactly what you’re asking for.”

Behind the camera, your producer shifted.

You held his gaze for a fraction too long.

“I’ll keep it professional,” you said.

“That’ll be new for us.”

Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and Lando’s smile changed. Not into the old thing, not the easy garage grin, but something gentler, fuller, the expression of a man watching a door open and trying not to run through it.

Charles, standing nearby with his own microphone waiting, looked over with raised brows and a smile he clearly did not intend to hide. George, next in line, leaned slightly toward Carlos, who had just joined him near the barrier.

George murmured, “Is this part of the broadcast?”

Carlos folded his arms, watching with the calm satisfaction of a man seeing something inevitable finally stop pretending. “It should be.”

Your producer, less romantic and more concerned with employment law, said from behind the camera, “Guys. We are still live.”

You blinked, suddenly remembering several horrifying facts at once. The camera. The crew. The paddock. Your job.

Lando looked at the lens, then back at you.

“Oh,” he said, smiling. “That’s good.”

Your heart tripped.

“Lando.”

He took half a step closer. Just enough to make the air between you change.

The entire paddock seemed to tilt its attention in your direction.

He looked at you the way he had in the car, only now there was no darkness to hide in, no door waiting for you to disappear behind, no ring on your finger catching the streetlight like an accusation.

Only you.

Only him.

His eyes flicked to your mouth, then back to yours.

You should have stopped him. You did not.

He leaned in and kissed you.

For one breath, the whole world held still.

Then you kissed him back.

Lando’s hand came lightly to your waist, careful even now, even with everyone watching. The kiss was soft, not long enough to be scandalous in the way people would claim later, but long enough to make pretending impossible.

When he pulled back, he was smiling.

Not smugly. Not even triumphantly.

Happily.

So plainly happy it almost hurt to look at.

Your face had gone warm. Your microphone was still in your hand, though tilted uselessly toward the floor. Somewhere to your left, George made a strangled little sound of delight.

Charles laughed into his hand. Carlos only nodded once, deeply pleased.

Oscar stood near the McLaren garage with both hands on his hips, looking directly at Lando with the expression of a man who was reliefed to be freed from the seemingly everlasting will-they-wont-they.

Lando glanced over.

Oscar pointed at him, then at the camera, then shook his head as if to say: unbelievable.

You laughed.

That was what finally broke the strange, glowing tension of it. Your laugh. Real and helpless and bright.

Lando looked back at you, and this time there was no need to hide the softness in his face.

He pulled you gently into him, not for the cameras, not for the paddock, but because, for once, he could. His arms settled around you with a quiet certainty that made your throat tighten. You let yourself lean into him.

The world was still loud but against his chest, beneath the noise of cameras and laughter and someone from your crew whispering, “We are so getting called into a meeting,” there was a small, impossible peace.

Lando bent his head, his voice low against your ear.

“So,” he whispered, “dinner after work?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

He was trying to be casual. Badly. His smile was bright, nervous at the edges, hopeful in a way that belonged more to the boy in the car than the driver in front of the cameras.

You thought of Clive then.

Not with guilt exactly. Not anymore. With sadness, yes. With gratitude for the years that had not been wasted simply because they had ended. With the strange tenderness one feels for a life that almost fit.

Then you looked at Lando.

At the boy who had made you laugh when things were dull, made room for you without asking, seen you before you had known you wanted to be seen. Your friend. Not only your friend. Never only that, not really.

You smiled.

The answer was very small.

Just a nod.

But Lando’s whole face changed.

George lifted a finger. “For the record, I called this during the nuggets interview.”

“You called nothing,” Oscar said.

Charles, still laughing, looked at you with open amusement. “Congratulations, I think?”

Your producer finally lowered her headset and stared at you both. “Can we please finish the segment?”

You looked down at the microphone in your hand.

Then at Lando.

He grinned.

You lifted the mic between you, trying very hard to sound professional while still standing inside the circle of his arm.

“Right,” you said, breathless and smiling. “So. About that rear stability.”

[julietsf1]

Recipe For Heartbreak - Lando Norris X PrivateChef!Reader

summary: his 'girlfriend' is the one in the spotlight. you’re the one he finds in the quiet, where his hand lingers just a little too long on yours. (8k words)

content: PR relationship, slightly toxic Lando, forbidden feelings, private vs public persona, crawling back

AN: got asked to do a toxic Lando fic & this is the result! inspired by my real world situationships that haunt me every night in my sleep lol

---------------------------------------------

Lando’s kitchen always smelled like him.

Not the cologne-and-race-fuel version of him that the public knew—the one who showed up on grid walks and in brand campaigns, draped over some model’s shoulder like a sun-kissed trophy boy. No, this kitchen smelled like sleepy citrus body wash, sea salt, the ghost of his last protein shake, and the warm, smoky scent of the espresso you brewed for him every morning.

It was your favorite time of day. Early light poured showered the streets on your walk to his place, the sea just visible past the row of terracotta roofs. The Cap d’Ail stillness was a gentle thing, in stark contrast to the busier Monte Carlo where he lives. 

Lando Norris’ private chef, a title that sounded much more glamorous on paper than it did when you were trying to get him to eat quinoa instead of beige carbs on a Tuesday. You traveled the world with him and his team, kept him fueled during back-to-backs, cooked through jet lag and media days. But it was the in-betweendays you loved the most — the quiet, domestic ones like this.

He’s already there when you arrive — because of course he is. Leaning against the counter like some kind of lifestyle shoot for “athlete at home.” Barefoot, hoodie half-zipped over a t-shirt, hair sticking up in several carefully disheveled directions. His phone is in his hand, but it’s very obvious he’s been listening for the sound of the terrace door.

“You’re late,” he says, still staring at his phone like this is a casual observation and not the most blatant lie of the morning.

“5 minutes, Norris,” you reply, setting your bag on the island. “Civilisation hasn’t collapsed.”

“You know I should fire you for wasting a World Champion’s valuable time.”

This from a man who isn’t even World Champion yet, who’s been late to at least two of his own simulator sessions this month, and who currently has something suspiciously jam-like on his sleeve. (You make a mental note to check the laundry situation later.)

“Not world champion yet,” you remind him, opening the fridge. “Eat your oats, Lan, then we can discuss statues.”

He drags himself to the island with the same energy as someone walking the final steps of a marathon. Chin propped in his hand, he watches you with an intensity usually reserved for race replays.

“You’re just gonna stand there and stare?” you ask, chopping fruit.

“Part of the process,” he says without missing a beat. “Chef under pressure, high stakes… It’s like MasterChef, but hotter.”

You roll your eyes, which earns a grin from him—the dangerous kind. He leans forward, elbow on the counter, and his gaze follows your every movement like it’s a sport in itself.

He steals a berry from the cutting board. You swat his hand away with the knife (blunt side, obviously—though the dramatic gasp he gives suggests you’ve gravely injured him).

“You know this is my favorite part of the day,” he says casually, like it’s nothing.

You don’t look up. “Breakfast?”

He tilts his head. “No. This. You. Acting like I’m a nuisance, but still letting me sit here anyway.”

You pause, stirring the oats. “I let you sit there because it’s easier than dragging you out. Don’t overthink it.”

He just grins. “Sure. That’s the only reason.”

“You love this,” he teases. “Me annoying you in your natural habitat.”

“I tolerate it. Barely.”

“Nah.” His smirk softens, his voice dipping just enough to make your pulse do something inconvenient. “You are a terrible liar.”

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. .

This is the problem. If he said it with his usual cheeky grin, you’d roll your eyes and keep cooking. But here, in this kitchen, there’s no media, no crowd to play to, just Lando barefoot, hoodie-wearing, hair-messy, looking at you like you’re the one piece of his life that doesn’t require performance.

Which is unfair. Deeply unfair.

Because you know how this goes. This is the part where he’ll stand in your kitchen looking at you like that, stealing bites, getting under your skin, and then… there’ll be a photo tomorrow of him holding hands with her. Perfect-hair, perfect-nails PR girlfriend. You’ll see it while scrolling on your phone between chopping courgettes and pretending not to care.

But you don’t think about that. Not now. Not when he’s still sitting there, chin in his hand, eyes all lazy warmth, like this kitchen is his favorite place to be.

You slide the oats toward him, careful not to brush his fingers. Not because you don’t want to, but because you really want to.

He takes a bite, leaning back with a sigh that is far too dramatic for oats. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

“It’s literally oats.”

“Elite oats,” he says, spoon pointed at you. “Chef’s kiss.”

You shake your head, turning to tidy up. His gaze is still on you. You can feel it. It’s always there.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, tone softer.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s that small smile again—the one that feels like it’s only for you. “Just like having you here.”

And just like that, you’re in dangerous territory again. The sunlight’s a little warmer, the sea a little quieter, and Lando Norris is looking at you like this is exactly where he wants you to be.

…

Some people board flights, sit down, and try to be unobtrusive. Lando is not some people. He’s a constant presence. Elbow nudges. Tapping the armrest to the rhythm of whatever’s in his headphones. Subtly (or not-so-subtly) leaning over to see if you’re watching something more interesting than him.

“Working again?” he asks, eyeing the laptop balanced on your knees.

“Yes. Some of us do that for a living.”

He grins, leaning his head against the seat. “You work for me darling, you can relax.”

You glance at him, unimpressed. “You are the pickiest eater I know, Norris. I need top rep before we land, unless you want me to feed you fish tonight.”

He pretends to think about it. “For you I’d try.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no denying the comfort of it. The easy rhythm between you, even in the cramped, artificial air of a team flight. The bubble follows you.

…

It’s a race weekend, which always feels like living in a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking. Everything’s moving, crowded, noisy. And yet somehow, when she’s not here, there’s a strange calm that slips in at the edges.

You hate yourself for how much you enjoy it. But you do. Without her, there are no staged photos, no dinners for the cameras. He’s less brand and more… himself. He lingers in the McLaren kitchen, leaning against the counter while you work. He follows you back to the hotel lounge after team dinners with some flimsy excuse about reviewing his nutrition plan—like he needs you there to function. It’s quieter, easier, the way it was before you started noticing every line you shouldn’t cross.

And that’s the problem. You’re the safe place he comes to when he doesn’t want to be that Lando. You’re the comfort, the quiet, the thing he can have in the shadows while the spotlight is busy somewhere else. But the spotlight will come back eventually. And you know that all too well.

The text comes at one in the morning.

Not a normal-person text. Not even a polite hi, sorry to bother you. Just two words, no punctuation, no explanation.

bring snacks

Of course it’s him.

You stare at your phone from the safety of your pyjamas and hotel bed. This is the part where a rational person says no. This is the part where you remember that he has a girlfriend whose PR team is probably asleep in Monte Carlo, secure in the knowledge that their client is playing his role exactly as scripted. This is the part where you turn off your phone, roll to your side, and let him fend for himself with whatever’s left on his room service table.

Instead, you type:

what’s in it for me

The reply comes almost instantly.

company best company you’ll get at 1am anyway

And that’s the problem. He’s not wrong.

You know exactly what you’re doing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. This is how heartbreak happens: slowly, predictably, with both of you watching it unfold from opposite sides of the line and stepping over it anyway.

Your key card is in your pocket before you’ve even thought of another reason to say no.

…

The hallway is quiet. The kind of silence that presses against your ears, makes you hyperaware of every step. The thick hotel carpet swallows the sound of your footsteps, but it doesn’t do anything to dull the thud in your chest.

You know exactly what this is. Exactly where it leads. And still, you’re walking toward his door like you have no control over your own feet. Each step feels suspiciously like walking into trouble, but by now, trouble is familiar. Trouble has a face, a laugh, a stupid hoodie you’ve probably washed more times than he has.

You pause in front of his suite. There’s half a second where you consider turning around, going back to bed. Then you knock—lightly, as if the sound itself is already an admission.

The door swings open almost immediately, like he’s been standing there waiting.

“Finally,” he says, leaning against the frame. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the edges, and his hoodie hangs loose over his shoulders. There’s that grin—the one that doesn’t just say I’m glad you’re here, but I knew you’d come.

“You’ve been starving for all of ten minutes?” you say, brushing past him and holding up the bag.

“I was wasting away,” he replies, shutting the door behind you.

“You ordered half the room service menu.”

“It’s not the same,” he says, voice dipping just enough to land somewhere warmer. “Room service doesn’t come with you.”

And there it is. That tone. The one that keeps you rooted exactly where you are instead of rolling your eyes and walking out.

His suite smells like him. Not the sharp, expensive cologne of press days, but warm soap and faint salt from the open balcony door. That quiet, comfortable scent you only ever notice in moments like this.

The coffee table is a mess of food: a burger, pasta, three kinds of fries, and a salad that’s clearly been ordered to meet some nutrition target before being abandoned entirely.

“You’re ridiculous,” you tell him, sinking onto the couch.

“You love me.”

“Love is a strong word,” you say, leaning back. “I tolerate you.”

“I tolerate you too, darling.” He drops onto the opposite end of the couch, stretching out until his knee almost touch your knee.

The TV hums quietly in the background, playing something neither of you is watching. The sound is there to fill the space, but it doesn’t. The air feels different here, like this suite exists in a different timezone from the rest of the weekend.

He leans back against the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, a fry dangling between his fingers.

“You know what’s tragic?” he says.

“That you’re about to eat a third portion of fries?”

“That too,” he smirks, “but no. FP2. Did you see the track temps? Thought the car was going to melt underneath me.”

“You complain like you were out there barefoot.”

“Would’ve been less frustrating. At least then I’d have an excuse.” He tosses the fry into his mouth, tilting his head toward you. “And don’t even get me started on the debrief with the team afterwards.”

“Oh, I heard,” you say, reaching for the ketchup. “The engineer with the death wish?”

Lando groans. “If he brings up brake balance one more time, I’m—” He stops, shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. I’m fine now.”

You glance at him, catching the way his voice has softened. “You sound fine now,” you say lightly.

He shrugs, lips twitching. “What can I say? Fries help. You help more.”

You try your best to ignore the comment but the butterflies in your stomach won’t let you.

“I should be scolding you for all this junkfood but to be fair I needed it too.”

He just smiles.

At some point, you stretch your legs and your knee brushes his. It’s nothing, an accident, probably. But neither of you moves.

His gaze lingers. The air shifts, charged.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I don’t think I’d survive these weekends without you.”

You pick at a fry, pretending not to notice the weight of the words. “You’d survive. You’ve got a whole team.”

“They keep me alive.” His eyes don’t leave yours. “You keep me sane.”

room feels smaller now, as if the walls have shifted closer just to trap the two of you in this thin strip of charged air. The glow from the TV barely reaches him, but you can see his eyes perfectly—fixed on you, steady, searching. He’s still watching you like he’s trying to decide something, like there’s a word hovering on his tongue that might shatter the little sanctuary you’ve built.

Your breath catches, a shallow inhale that feels louder than it should. He leans in—not much, just a fraction, but enough that you catch the faint smell of his shampoo, the quiet hitch in his breathing. You swear his gaze dips to your mouth for a fraction of a second.

For a heartbeat, you’re almost certain he’s going to close the distance. The tension tightens, almost visible, and your chest goes heavy, bracing for something that feels inevitable.

And then—

A knock at the door.

The sound cuts through the moment like a wire snapping.

He sits back abruptly, glancing toward the hallway. “Room service,” he says, and there’s a reluctant curve to his mouth, like he’s annoyed at the interruption.

You exhale, realising you’d been holding your breath the whole time.

He crosses the room, pulling the door open, his voice dropping low as he exchanges a quiet word with the staff. The door closes again with a soft click, and he’s holding another portion of fries when he turns back to you.

“In my defence,” he says, setting them on the table, “these are for both of us.”

You give him a look that’s equal parts disbelief and amusement. “Uh-huh.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. The air doesn’t fully reset—the tension hangs there, invisible but tangible, a thread that hasn’t quite been cut.

You stand to leave a few minutes later, hoodie pulled tighter around you. The air feels too warm, and you’re sure it’s not from the room temperature. He gets up almost instinctively, falling into step behind you, walking you to the door like it’s a ritual.

“Thanks for the fries,” you say, aiming for light but hearing the uneven edge in your voice.

“Thanks for coming,” he replies, and the way he says it is quieter, heavier.

You step toward the hallway, but his hand catches your wrist. Not tight—just enough to pause you. The contact is light, almost nothing, but it stops you cold.

His hand lingers, just that fraction too long. His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow, absent-minded, like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. Or maybe he does.

You meet his eyes, but there’s nothing you can pin down there. Just the same unspoken thing that’s been hovering all night.

“Goodnight,” he says, the word sitting heavy and strange in the space between you.

“Goodnight,” you manage, though your voice feels small.

You step into the hallway, his touch ghosting your skin. You walk back to your room with your pulse still racing, the echo of his voice, his hand, that almost, trailing behind you like a ghost.

…

The kitchen smells like rosemary and olive oil, the kind of comfort that normally keeps you grounded during race weekends. Not today.

You’re stirring a pan, watching the oil shimmer, when your phone buzzes on the counter. You reach for it absently, expecting a text from a supplier. Instead, Instagram.

You shouldn’t open it. You know better. But your thumb swipes anyway.

It’s a post notification from her.

You don’t even know why you turned those on. You couldn’t help yourself. It’s like your stabbing yourself in the chest but then again the thought of not knowing may be worse. At least it serves as a reminder why it would never work. 

A glossy story: her in some perfectly chosen outfit, smiling for the camera, with the text missing you 🧡 good luck this weekend @ lando

You could live with that. You’ve lived with worse. But then the next story plays automatically: an old photo, but not old enough to feel distant. The two of them kissing. The kind of photo that gets shared around pinterest and gossip accounts. See you soon.

The sound in the room dims for a moment, the sizzle from the pan turning faint. You set the phone face down and reach for a knife, movement maybe a little sharper than necessary.

“Smells good in here,” a familiar voice says behind you.

You don’t turn. “Does it.”

He steps closer, leaning against the counter like it’s habit. “That was… not a happy ‘does it.’”

“I’m just busy today,” you say, eyes fixed on the cutting board.

“You always say that when you’re annoyed,” he says, a faint grin in his voice. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” The knife moves faster than it needs to, slicing through herbs like they’ve offended you personally.

He tilts his head slightly, still watching you. “Sure.”

You ignore him, stirring the pan, moving from counter to stove in sharp, efficient motions. You don’t mention the post, the photo, the way last night’s almost-moment in his suite dissolved into something scripted for public eyes.

For a while, he doesn’t speak. Just stays there, grabbing a piece of bread from the counter, taking a bite, leaning quietly in the background. The silence should make it easier. It doesn’t.

Then, softly: “Hey.”

You pause mid-stir, not looking at him.

“You’re wound up,” he says, voice lower now, close enough that you can feel the sound more than hear it.

You open your mouth to deflect, but before you can, he’s stepping closer, sliding a hand lightly to your arm.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. His tone is steady, gentle, but there’s something in it that makes your throat tighten. “Whatever it is—you’re okay.”

Your breath catches, and you’re not sure if it’s from his words or the warmth of his hand.

And then, without waiting for you to agree or pull away, he eases you back from the counter. His arms come around you,secure, like he’s holding something fragile.

You stand there for a second, rigid in your own stubbornness, but his touch doesn’t falter. His palm moves slowly along the back of your head, fingertips brushing your hair, the kind of absent, careful gesture that feels like it’s meant to comfort him as much as you.

He doesn’t ask again what’s wrong. Doesn’t push. Just holds you there, long enough that you feel the air shift, long enough that your chest aches in a way you don’t want to admit. You allow yourself to sink into this shoulder.

And then, so quietly you almost miss it, he says, “It will be fine, trust me.”

You nod, not trusting your voice, feeling the weight of last night, of this morning, of everything unsaid pressing into the space between you.

He still doesn’t know why you’re upset. But he holds you like he does.

…

Dinner is good. Too good, if you’re honest.

It’s nothing elaborate — roasted potatoes, chicken, a bright salad on the side — but everything feels better in the quiet of his kitchen. Maybe it’s the playlist humming lazily in the background, maybe it’s the way the lights are warm instead of harsh. Maybe it’s because he’s here, leaning an elbow on the counter like he has nothing else to do, watching you with that look he gets sometimes—half amusement, half something you can’t name.

“You didn’t plate it as nicely as you do on race weekends,” he says, stabbing his fork into a potato.

“That’s because it’s just you here,” you reply, sliding your own fork into the salad. “No audience, no photos, no Michelin-star drama.”

“I am the audience,” he says. “Best seat in the house. That deserves five-star plating.”

“You’d spill it on yourself before you finished taking a photo.”

“Possibly,” he says, smirking. “But it would be worth it.”

It’s easy. Too easy. You eat at the counter, shoulders brushing now and then when one of you leans for a drink. He tells you about a sim race with Oscar, waving his fork around like punctuation, his eyes lighting up the way they do when he’s telling a story he really enjoys. You tell him about a ridiculous delivery mix-up that nearly ended in disaster, and he grins like he’s already imagining the chaos.

When the plates are empty, you start to stack them out of habit.

“I should do the dishes,” he says suddenly.

You pause. “You?”

“Yes, me. Let me be a gentleman for once.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You? The same person who once tried to clean a pan with… what was it? Washing powder?”

“They shouldn’t call it washing powder, that was not on me.”

“You can try to be a gentleman but maybe you should try being a functioning adult first.”

“Auch,” he says, standing and gathering plates anyway. “Then we do them together.”

You watch him carry the plates to the sink like a man on a mission, sleeves pushed up. “I still don’t trust your technique.”

He glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Trust builds over time.”

“Not with you and sponges.”

You rinse. He dries.

Or at least, he pretends to. More water ends up on the counter than on the towel.

It starts small—he flicks a drop of foam at you when it splashes his sleeve.

“Seriously?” you ask, brushing at the water on your arm.

He grins. “Part of the process.”

You flick a little foam back at him without thinking.

Big mistake.

His expression shifts—mock offense mixed with something gleeful. “Oh, you’ve declared war.”

Before you can back away, he’s flicking more suds in your direction, laughing as you dodge.

“This is sabotage!” you laugh, grabbing the sponge from his hand.

He tries to take it back, reaching around you, and in the ridiculous scuffle you end up face to face, closer than you’d meant to be.

You freeze for a moment.

He’s still smiling, but it’s softer now. His breath is warm where it brushes your cheek.

“You’ve got…” His fingers lift, brushing lightly over your jaw. “Foam.”

You swallow. “Thanks.”

Neither of you moves away.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just enough to pull at your pulse, “you’re a terrible influence. Always distracting me from my professional dishwashing duties.”

“Maybe you just can’t focus.”

“Maybe.” His hand lingers on your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin.

And then he leans in.

It’s not rushed. There’s no sudden movement, no dramatic grab. It’s slower than you expected, like he’s testing every inch of space between you. His breath brushes your cheek first, a warm, quiet warning. Your pulse kicks harder.

His lips meet yours in the lightest touch — warm, careful, the kind of kiss that feels almost like a question. His hand lifts, tilting your chin just enough to draw you in closer. There’s a hesitancy in the way he moves, like he’s giving you a fraction of a second to change your mind, to stop him before the line between you shifts completely.

But your fingers are already curling into the edge of his hoodie, knuckles brushing his ribs as if you’re anchoring yourself.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to let the air back between you. His gaze searches yours, steady, as if trying to read the answer you haven’t spoken yet.

“You taste better than anything you’ve ever cooked for me,” he says softly, the words low enough that they feel like they belong only here, only now.

Your breath catches, your voice a fraction shaky when you murmur, “This is a dumb idea. It’s going to complicate everything.”

“I don’t care.” His voice is steady, without hesitation.

“Lando—”

He shakes his head, just slightly. His forehead dips until it rests lightly against yours, his eyes still fixed on you. “Don’t care.”

And then his mouth is on yours again.

The second kiss is different. Deeper. Surer.

His other hand slides to your waist, fingers curling against your side as he tugs you closer. The counter presses firmly against your hip, grounding you even as the rest of you feels like it’s slipping into something weightless. His mouth moves against yours with a quiet confidence, coaxing rather than demanding, and it makes your head spin.

You hesitate for only a second before you give in.

Shyly at first — your lips parting, your hands lifting until your fingers fist lightly in the soft fabric of his hoodie. His body is warm, solid against yours, and you can feel the subtle tension in his shoulders.

His fingers flex at your waist, a subtle press that keeps you close. He tilts his head slightly, deepening the kiss, and your breath hitches when you feel the change in pressure, the steady certainty in the way he’s holding you.

The kitchen seems to fall away. You lose track of how long you stand there like that — pressed between him and the counter, the music a faint hum in the background, the smell of soap and rosemary still hanging in the air. His hands stay steady at your waist, his mouth coaxing yours until your pulse is loud in your own ears.

When you finally pull apart, you’re both a little breathless. His forehead stays against yours, his eyes closed for a moment like he’s catching the same breath you are. His thumb brushes absently along your jaw, a small, grounding touch that makes your chest feel too tight.

“This is going to ruin everything,” you say quietly, the words coming out more like an exhale than a warning.

He grins, soft, dangerous, his lips still close enough that you can feel the shape of the words when he says, “Probably. Still don’t care.”

…

The Richard Mille event is all glass and polish, the kind of venue that looks like it smells expensive. It’s not your first time at one of these sponsor days. They always blur together eventually—rooms filled with the hum of conversations that don’t need you, people you’ll never meet again, the faint clink of champagne flutes. You’re here because you always are, part of the inner circle that moves like a well-rehearsed shadow: his engineer, his trainer, a couple of McLaren people.

Normally, you don’t mind it. You’re good at staying just far enough in the background that the day passes without thought. But today feels different.

Because he’s here.

And not the him from last night. Not the Lando who laughed with you in the kitchen while you threw foam at each other over the sink, leaning in with a warm, careful kiss, and that low, maddening “Don’t care” when you told him it was a bad idea.

No, today it’s public Lando.

The one who arrives in a perfectly fitted team jacket, hair tidy in a way that’s almost certainly intentional, smile already in place. He’s practiced at this—the angles, the tone of his voice, the way his laugh carries just far enough to be heard over the crowd without feeling staged.

And she’s here, of course.

His girlfriend, perfectly composed in a deep red dress that seems almost engineered for the camera flashes. Her hand rests on his forearm like it belongs there, his hand at her waist as they step into the atrium. It’s easy to forget they’re not what they look like on nights like these. They fit the room perfectly—smiling for photos, leaning close for the right sound bites, laughing at something whispered just between them.

You keep moving, because that’s what you do. You check on catering, run over timings with one of the event coordinators, stand with his engineer while he grumbles about a setup delay.

But you’re aware of him in a way that feels impossible to shake. Not because you’re watching, exactly. But because the sound of his voice still finds you, bright and smooth in a way that doesn’t belong to kitchens or quiet playlists.

At one point during the speeches, you catch him looking at you across the room. Just for a moment. The smile softens—not much, but enough that you see it. Enough that you feel that quiet shift of recognition. But then someone calls his name, her hand slides into his, and the look disappears as quickly as it arrived.

Maybe you imagined it.

When the formalities end, he shakes hands, poses for more photos, answers a handful of polite questions. She’s by his side through all of it, polished and effortless, smiling when he does. You know the rhythm of these events. You know it’s all part of the performance.

And yet, by the time the evening winds down, you feel wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with work. You keep smiling at the right people, thanking the right staff, stepping into the elevator with the rest of the inner circle when it’s finally time to leave.

But in the quiet that settles over you on the ride back, you can’t shake the thought: maybe last night’s Lando only exists in moments where no one else can see.

…

The ride back from the Richard Mille event is quiet. Not uncomfortable, just… heavy in that way that settles in your chest, like the air’s been thickened just enough to make breathing harder. You’re in the same car, but there’s an entire ocean of unspoken things in the space between you. He scrolls through his phone occasionally, answering a text, giving a short laugh at something his engineer says in the front seat.

Your eyes stay fixed on the blur of lights outside the window.

When the convoy drops you off in Monaco, you slip out of the car quickly, muttering a polite goodnight to the group. You don’t check to see if he’s looking. You don’t think you want to know.

You shower, put on soft clothes, and try not to think about how your hands still smell faintly of the champagne that had been passed around earlier. You’re halfway through making tea when the knock comes at your door.

Of course it’s him.

He’s leaning against the frame, casual like this isn’t the last thing you expected.

“You left fast,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

“I was tired.” You move toward the kitchen, not looking at him.

“You didn’t even say goodnight.”

“You seemed busy,” you say, aiming for light but hearing the quiet edge in your own voice.

He watches you for a long second, leaning back against the counter. “If this is about today—”

“It’s not about today,” you cut in. And maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s about every today.

His brow furrows slightly. “You know how these events work. Sponsors. Press. There’s a way things have to look.”

“I know that.” You turn, finally meeting his eyes. “I’ve been to enough of them to know exactly how it works. But I don’t know if I can handle…” You trail off, searching for the words. “I don’t know if I can handle the two versions of you.”

His expression shifts, faint but there. “Two versions of me?”

“You last night,” you say quietly. “And you today. It’s like they’re two completely different people. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to protect myself from. I feel like a dirty little secret you need to hide, and I know it’s because of that contract, but you are a stranger when you’re in front of the cameras. It’s harsh.”

He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head like he’s trying to make the problem go away by physically brushing it off. “You know that’s not real.”

“Maybe not for you,” you reply, softer now. “But you’re not the one standing there watching it.”

For a moment, there’s only silence. Then: “I don’t love her. You know that.”

The words are steady, firm, like they’re meant to solve everything.

Your voice dips. “You don’t feel it the way I do. I have to stand there and watch you kiss her while you act like you don’t know me.”

His shoulders drop slightly. “It’s just in my contract. Not like I enjoy it.”

You shake your head, stepping back. “I don’t know. Maybe we should just keep it professional.”

The words hang there, and for a moment the only sound is the faint hum of your fridge. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he’s not ready to accept that, his gaze steady on you.

“Is that really what you want?” he says finally, his voice low enough to make it feel heavier.

You busy yourself with the edge of your sleeve. “Maybe it’s the smart thing.”

He takes a slow step into the room. “You don’t want smart.”

“Maybe I do,” you say, though it doesn’t sound convincing, even to your own ears.

Another step closer. “No, you don’t. You want me showing up here. You want me in your kitchen at midnight, stealing your tea and bothering you about what’s in your fridge.” His mouth curves just slightly, but his tone stays soft. “You want the guy from last night. You want the guy who kisses you until you stop overthinking it.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, because you hate how easily he says it.

He takes another step, close enough now that you have to tilt your chin to keep looking at him. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t care?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It’s the only point that matters to me,” he says, quieter now. “I finally have you, don’t let me lose you, darling.”

Your breath catches, and you hate that it does.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers over your hand—not demanding, just enough to keep you there. “Don’t make this about what it looks like at an event. Make it about this. About me driving here after a twelve-hour day because I didn’t want you going to bed thinking you’re just… the quiet part of my life.”

There’s a beat where you don’t answer, your pulse a little too quick.

“Let me stay. Tonight can be ours — just me and you, no cameras, no noise.”

It’s so easy the way he says it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And that’s how he always gets you — because for all the ways it will ache tomorrow, right now feels like the easiest decision you’ll ever make.

…

The hotel hallway is hushed at night, the kind of stillness that makes every small sound louder. You balance the takeout containers in one hand, knock softly, and wait.

The door opens almost instantly. He’s barefoot, in sweats and a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower.

“Finally,” he says, stepping aside. “I was two minutes away from calling a search party.”

“I should’ve let you starve,” you mutter, walking past him toward the table.

“That’s mean,” he says, closing the door. “After all I’ve been through today.”

“All you’ve been through?” you reply, unpacking the containers. “You had to work for 3 hours today, poor baby.”

He’s leaning against the counter now, watching you like you’re the only thing worth paying attention to. “You get me so well.”

You roll your eyes, but it still warms something in your chest you don’t want to acknowledge.

Dinner is comfortable in the way it always is with him. He sprawls on the couch, bare feet on the coffee table, teasing you about your order, asking about your day like he wasn’t there for most of it. And it’s so easy to fall into the rhythm that you almost forget. Almost.

But not entirely.

Because she’s here this weekend too.

You don’t say anything about her during dinner. You don’t say anything while you clear the table. It’s only when you’re back on the couch that it finally comes out.

“I think we need to set some boundaries.”

He glances over at you, eyebrows lifting. “That sounds serious.”

“It is.” You tuck your legs beneath you, fingers curling into the sleeve of your hoodie. “It’s hard, Lando. When she’s here. When I have to see you two together all day and then come here like nothing’s different.”

He exhales, leaning back against the couch. “You know what this is,” he says softly. “You’ve always known.”

“I know what this is,” you say, your voice dropping, “but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, and maybe there’s a better way to go about it.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he shifts closer. His knee brushes yours, his arm drapes lazily along the back of the couch. His hand finds your shoulder, thumb brushing in a slow, steady circle.

“I don’t want to talk about her,” he says, voice low. “I want to talk about you. About how you’re the only reason these weekends feel even a little bit normal.”

“Lan, please.”

You should pull away, you should press the point, but then he’s tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, leaning in just enough that his breath is warm on your temple.

“She doesn’t get this,” he murmurs. “This is just ours.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he’s already moving, his hands slipping to your waist.

Before you can react, he lifts you easily onto his lap. “I like you better here,” he says with a smirk, settling you against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You huff a laugh, despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously fond of you,” he corrects, tilting his head to kiss your jaw. One, two, three light pecks, trailing toward your cheek. “Ridiculously grateful you put up with me.” Another kiss at the corner of your mouth. “Ridiculously obsessed with your terrible movie taste.”

You try to keep your expression flat, but your lips curve before you can stop them.

“There it is,” he says softly, brushing his nose against your temple. “That smile.”

And you fold.

He doesn’t let you move, his hands settled easily at your hips, thumbs drawing slow, absent circles that make it hard to remember what you were trying to say in the first place. You lean back just far enough to see his face, and the version of him from earlier—the one in the paddock, smiling for cameras—is gone. What’s left is only this Lando: warm, unhurried, entirely at ease in a way he never is anywhere else.

You study him for a moment, and the ache doesn’t vanish, but it dulls. You know tomorrow will be worse, and the day after that, too. But right now, with the quiet hum of the TV and his gaze fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room, it’s easy to stop thinking about later. You let yourself rest against him, forehead tipping toward his, the space between you settling into something steady and calm.

At some point you both shift back onto the couch, his arm loose over your waist, his body angled toward you like it’s instinct. His breathing slows, even and quiet, and it’s not until the movie is finished that you realise he’s fallen asleep.

You lie still, staring at the ceiling in the soft light, and it’s that familiar contradiction—the safety of his presence like a cocoon wrapped around you, and the trap of knowing you’ll walk right back into this next time, no matter how much it will hurt.

…

The garage feels different today.

It’s not just the sound, though it’s louder—voices sharper, radio chatter more clipped, every engineer keyed into their screen. It’s not just the smell of fuel and rubber in the air, or the way the mechanics move like every second matters.

It’s the tension.

He’s close—so close to the championship—and everyone feels it. It hums in the air like static, in the way no one lingers too long over small talk, in the way every glance at the monitors feels heavier.

Your heart has been in your throat since the start of qualifying.

You keep to your spot, headset on, pressed against the edge of the garage. It’s your quiet corner, the place where you can see him on the screens and watch his car pull in and out of the pit box without being in the way. Normally it feels safe. Today, it doesn’t.

Not with her here.

She’s positioned perfectly for the cameras, just where the team’s PR wants her. Perfect hair, perfect jacket, perfect smile every time the camera swings her way. Every shot is designed to catch her reaction when he flies through a sector or nails a lap. Her presence is deliberate, calculated.

She’s meant to be seen, you’re meant to stay hidden.

And it makes your stomach knot.

But when he’s out on track, none of that matters.

The headset crackles with his voice, controlled and calm in that way it always is in the car. You watch the screen as he threads the car through each corner like he was born in it, every line precise, every exit clean. The lap times come in and your pulse jumps with each sector—green, purple, another purple.

When he crosses the line fastest, the garage erupts. Cheers, shouts, mechanics clapping each other on the back. She’s smiling for the cameras again, the picture-perfect image they want. You stay where you are, the sound of your pulse loud in your ears, your chest light with relief and pride you can’t show anyone.

…

Most of the media has cleared out, the press pens dismantled until tomorrow. Most of the team is already back at the hotel, tucked into rooms that still hum faintly with radio chatter from earlier. The only sounds left are the steady hum of generators and the soft buzz of overhead lights.

You’re finishing up a few last checks, stocking up the fridge with the last meal preps—making notes, checking details, anything to keep your hands busy. The quiet is nice. Rare on a weekend like this. It lets your thoughts stretch out, settle. You don’t expect anyone else to find you here.

So when you hear his voice, it catches you off guard.

“You’re still here,” he says, stepping into the room like he knew you’d be exactly here.

“So are you,” you reply without looking up from the papers in your hand.

He lets the door fall shut behind him, leaning against it for a second before moving in further. “Wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel yet. Too many press outside still.”

He says it lightly, but there’s something different about him tonight. No smirk, no rapid-fire teasing. Just a stillness. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms, but he keeps tugging at them like he needs something to do with his hands. His shoulders are tense in a way that isn’t immediately obvious until you look closer.

“You’re nervous,” you say softly.

He doesn’t answer at first. His gaze drops briefly to the floor, his fingers tapping against the seam of his hoodie pocket before he looks back at you.

“Feels different this time,” he says finally. “What if I mess up tomorrow.”

“You won’t,” you tell him, and it’s not a question.

That earns you the smallest smile—not the confident grin the cameras get, not the easy smirk he wears for the team. Something smaller. Quieter.

“You always say that like you know for sure.”

“I do.”

There’s a pause that stretches for a moment too long. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, like he’s debating something. Then he takes a slow step closer. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“You have no idea how much you calm me down. It’s ridiculous. I could walk out of a press conference ready to bite someone’s head off, and then I find you, and it’s just…” He stops, like the word is stuck in his throat. “…quiet. With you.”

You watch him, and for once, he’s not playing to an audience. His shoulders aren’t squared, his posture isn’t practiced. His hands move like they’re restless without a steering wheel to grip—tugging his sleeve, brushing through his hair, then back to his pockets again.

Another step closer, until you can feel the faint warmth radiating off him. His eyes search yours for something he hasn’t asked for out loud.

You can see the nervous tells up close now: the faint twitch of his jaw when he swallows, the way his breathing hitches almost imperceptibly before he speaks.

And when he leans in, you don’t stop him.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, like he’s determined not to rush this. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your neck, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw in a slow stroke that feels more grounding than romantic.

The tension in his shoulders begins to ease almost immediately, like every exhale is shedding a layer of pressure. You can feel it in the way his posture shifts, in the way his hand steadies against your back. It’s like holding him pulls some of the weight off.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead lingers against yours. His breath is steadying now, calmer than when he walked in.

His eyes stay closed for a second longer, and when they open again, they’re softer than you’re used to seeing. His thumb traces a slow line along your jaw before he dips his head, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. It’s brief but deliberate, the kind of touch that settles deep and stays there.

He doesn’t move far when he pulls back—just far enough to find your hands. His fingers thread through yours, warm and firm, his thumbs brushing absent circles over your knuckles.

For a moment, it’s just quiet. The hum of the paddock generators is a faint backdrop, but all you feel is the steadiness of his grip, the quiet weight of his attention on you.

Then, softly: “Will you meet me later?” His voice is almost too quiet to catch. “My room.”

You nod before you can think better of it.

His hands don’t let go immediately; they linger, holding yours in that slow, unhurried way that makes the rest of the world feel far away.

…

The roar is so loud it almost feels physical, rolling through the garage like a tidal wave.

The second the chequered flag waves, it’s chaos. Mechanics shouting so loud their voices crack. Engineers hugging like they’ve just crawled out of a near-death experience together. Champagne bottles appear from nowhere, corks flying before anyone has even processed what’s happened. Zac Brown is crying. The team boss—who never cries.

Headsets are tossed onto desks with reckless abandon.

Lando Norris: 2025 Formula 1 World Champion.

Your heart feels like it might burst.

Even from your tucked-away spot near the back of the garage, the place that’s safe from any camera swing, you can see the pure joy spilling through the team. You hear his voice through the radio feed, breathless, cracking, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He did it. He actually did it.

And you’re proud. Stupidly proud. Proud in the way you shouldn’t be, but are anyway.

You watch him bring the car in, the orange blur against the track lighting. He parks right in front of the garage, where the crowd is a living wall of noise.

He climbs out. Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat.

And for a split second—just before everything else—you see that grin.

The one you know. The one that’s too big, too unguarded, too genuine for cameras.

Your chest tightens in a way that feels like the moment is holding its breath.

He turns—

And then he runs.

Straight past his engineers, past the line of mechanics reaching for him, past the garage where you’re standing like an idiot holding your breath.

Straight to her.

She’s in the perfect place at the perfect time. Of course she is. 

The cameras snap like machine guns as he sweeps her into his arms. Her smile is flawless as she leans into him, their kiss staged at the perfect angle. Hands finding her waist like they find yours in the night.

It’s everything the media wants to see.

You knew this was going to happen. You knew it from the moment the points gap closed enough to make this weekend possible. You told yourself you were prepared.

You weren’t.

Because some small, stubborn part of you still hoped for something else. For a pause. For a glance. For a single moment where he’d break script, where he’d look for you.

And he doesn’t.

He doesn’t look at you at all.

There’s still that awful crunch in your chest, like watching glass shatter in slow motion. Not because you didn’t expect it, but because expecting it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

You clap when everyone claps. You even shout “Well done!” into the general noise because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

And you stay through the initial celebrations because leaving too early would be noticed. And the one thing you will notdo is become a story.

But the second there’s a lull—when the cameras shift leave the garage and the team, when the focus moves away—you slip out.

…

You stand in the kitchen for a second, still holding your bag like you’re not entirely sure what you’re doing here.

Somewhere, not far away, the celebration roars on. Music, shouting, clinking champagne glasses. You can almost feel the vibrations of it through the floor.

It’s ridiculous, how normal everything looks. The knives are lined up neatly on the counter, just like they’ve been all season—your little kingdom of order. The meal prep notebooks are stacked in their usual spot, one with a grease stain on the cover from an unfortunate incident with a leaky container in Singapore.

You exhale and set your bag down.

You start with the knives, rolling them carefully in their case. You’ve done this hundreds of times before — packing them after a race, getting ready for the next round. But this time there’s a strange finality in each fold, each buckle fastened.

Then the notebooks. You stack them carefully, sliding them into your bag. Each one feels heavier than it should, like it’s been carrying more than just grocery lists and portion charts.

Your mug is next. The one you’ve used every morning this season, chipped on the rim from some turbulent flight but still perfectly functional. You pick it up and for a moment you just… hold it. Thumb brushing over the imperfection.

It’s stupid, how it feels like the mug is looking at you in silent betrayal, like oh, so we’re leaving now, are we?

You put it back.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up. Against your better judgement, you check it.

Another notification of her adding to her Instagram story. Great.

It’s staring at you right above the text notification you’d been ignoring for the last hour now.

Meet me at my hotel room tonight x

Your chest tightens. Against your better judgement, you tap hers first.

Loud music. A sweep of the camera across a table scattered with champagne glasses and victory caps. And there he is—grinning, leaning down to hear her over the noise, his arm draped lazily over the back of her chair.

The music feels louder than it should.

You don’t tap his message. You don’t open it.

You set the phone down, screen facedown.

There’s a notepad on the counter. You pull a sheet of paper from it, smooth it against the surface, and pick up a pen.

The letter is short. It has to be—anything longer will say too much.

You keep it simple: a thank you for the season, a congratulations on everything he’s achieved. A goodbye, neatly folded between the lines.

You sign it, fold it cleanly, and leave it on the kitchen counter where you know he’ll see it when he comes back.

For a moment, you stand there, your hand resting on the counter. You trace the edge absently, remembering how many late nights you’ve leaned here—coffee in hand, him at the table, trading quiet words you’ll never say out loud to anyone else.

It feels strange to leave it all behind so quietly.

You pick up your bag.

One last look around—not long enough to get sentimental, just enough to know you won’t come back.

Then you step out into the night, the sound of celebration faint but still there, a reminder that life goes on, with or without you.

And you walk away before anyone notices you’re gone.

…

The last two weeks have been quiet.

Your days have settled into a new rhythm—coffee in your own kitchen, walks along the coast, dinners where you only have to cook for yourself. You haven’t answered his calls. Not because you were angry. Because you needed space.

And still, it’s been impossible to avoid the background noise. The gossip pages have been buzzing—speculation about his girlfriend, whispers about a breakup. Most telling of all: not a single photograph of them together since the championship.

You’ve tried not to care.

This evening, the breeze smells faintly of rosemary as you chop herbs in your little kitchen. The sound of the sea drifts in through the open window. The knock at your door almost blends in with it.

When you open it, he’s there.

No cap, no hoodie pulled low. Just him—hair a little messy, eyes a little tired, holding himself like someone who’s been carrying too much for too long.

“I’ve been calling,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

He doesn’t smile. He just looks at you, like he’s weighing every word before he says it. “I didn’t want to intrude but I need to talk to you. I didn’t want it to be a message you could ignore. I needed to stand here, in front of you, and say it properly.”

You cross your arms lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “Say what?”

“That I am so so stupid.”

The words hang there, heavy and unguarded.

“I made you feel like you were something I had to keep hidden,” he continues, his voice steady but soft. “Like you were an afterthought I’d come to when it was convenient. That was never what you were. Not once. And I hate that I let you walk away thinking that’s all this was.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head slightly, pressing on.

“You’ve been the one constant thing in my life that felt real. When everything else was loud, when everything was staged or scripted… you were the only place I could actually breathe. And I threw that away because I thought I could balance it all. I thought it was fine because I was managing but I completely neglected your feelings. I have taken you for granted when you were all I ever dreamed of having.”

You roll your eyes, but choose not to interupt him.

“I have handeled everything so wrong. I came looking for you that night of the championship, you are the only person I wanted to celebrate with but I fucked up. Prioritized the media circus when I should’ve prioritized you.|”

He steps closer, but not far enough to crowd you. His voice drops just slightly.

“You are perfect in every single way. And I’m an asshole for not meeting you in the middle when you asked me to. I know it’s too late but I’d do anything for another chance.”

He takes a breath, his jaw tightening just faintly. “I can’t promise I’ll get everything right. But I can promise I will spend every bit of whatever time you give me proving to you that this is where I want to be. With you. Just you.”

The doorway is still between you, but the silence feels different now—less like a wall, more like a choice.

You look at him for a long moment, the weight of his words lingering in the salt-heavy air. His gaze doesn’t waver, though you can see the strain in it, like he’s afraid to blink and lose his chance.

Finally, you step back, just enough for him to cross the threshold.

“You’ve got a lot to prove,” you say quietly.

His mouth curves, a flicker of relief breaking through, softening his features. “I know.”

And as he steps inside, it doesn’t feel like stepping back into the same place you left. It feels like something new—on your terms this time.

Before he can say anything else, you lean in, brushing a soft, deliberate kiss against his lips. His breath catches, surprised, and for a moment he doesn’t move, like he’s afraid that doing anything might scare it away.

When you pull back, his eyes stay on yours, wide in that rare, unguarded way you’ve only seen a handful of times. His voice, when it comes, is low, almost careful. “You have no idea what that means to me.”

You turn back toward the hallway, your voice calm, certain. “You’ve got one shot.”

And this time, you mean it.

[julietsf1]

My Hoodie - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: After a brutal race weekend ending in a DNF, Franco Colapinto comes home feeling empty. What he doesn’t expect is to find you waiting in his apartment, curled up on his couch wearing his merch, ready to cheer him up. (1k words)

content: hurt/comfort, fluff, wearing his hoodie, love

AN: based on a request sent to @2handsslan who tagged me :) it's a short one but a sweet one! ciao my loves

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Franco’s apartment is dark when he gets home. Not dark in the way night is dark, but in the way a weekend can hollow out a person.

The DNF follows him like a second shadow, lingering at his heels even as the door clicks shut behind him. He hasn’t checked his phone. He hasn’t looked at social media. It doesn’t matter if people are sympathetic or cruel, and frankly both are unbearable right now. His shoulders are hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, less visible. His bag is clutched tightly under his arm, and he smells faintly of gasoline, sweat, and the wrong kind of adrenaline.

The worst part isn’t the crash. It isn’t the retirement. It’s the helplessness. You can train, strategize, prepare until your entire life is made of lap times. And still, one race can chew you up and spit you out without ceremony.

He isn’t sure what he expected to find. An empty living room. His half-unpacked bag from the last flight. Silence.

What he didn’t expect, what he never could have prepared for, is you.

You’re curled up on the couch, bare legs tucked under you, wearing his hoodie. Something from his old merchandise collection. A navy one with his name stitched down the sleeve in white. It’s huge on you, drowning your frame, and the sight of you in it hits him like a punch to the chest.

For the first time all weekend, something sparks in him.

He stops in the doorway, just… staring. His duffel bag slides off his shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud, but he barely notices. All the hollow exhaustion, the burnt-out edges, the quiet ache of knowing the weekend went wrong —suddenly, it’s cut through by this warmth in his chest that he can’t even name.

“You’re here,” he says, his voice low, almost disbelieving.

You glance up, your whole face lighting up the second you see him. That bright smile wraps around his bruised heart like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Of course I’m here,” you say, as if it’s the simplest truth in the world. “Where else would I be?”

From your perspective, you can see the weekend on him. His posture is slouched, his shoulders heavy. His hair is slightly flattened from his cap, his green eyes dulled in a way that tells you he’s been replaying the race in his head.

So you stand, crossing the room before he can retreat into himself.

“You look like you’ve been through hell,” you say gently, tilting your head.

His mouth curves in something that isn’t quite a smile. “That obvious?”

You give a little shrug. “Only to someone who knows you.”

That’s when his gaze catches on the hoodie.

And oh.

The shift is immediate. His eyes flick over you like he’s memorizing the sight, like he doesn’t want to forget a single detail. The sleeves are too long, your hair is messy from waiting around, and you’re standing barefoot in his living room—yet he’s looking at you like you’ve singlehandedly rewritten the definition of beautiful.

“Dios mío…” he breathes, the words escaping before he can stop them. His voice is hoarse, reverent. “You can’t just—” He gestures vaguely toward you, as though you existing like this is something too overwhelming to articulate. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me right now.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile. “What, this old thing? Just thought I’d support my favorite driver.”

He laughs, a small, startled sound, and steps toward you like you’re gravity itself. “You look… increíble. Gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Unfairly gorgeous.” His eyes sweep over you again, lingering shamelessly. “I think I just fell in love with you all over again.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart does a little somersault anyway. “Guess I’ll have to wear your merch more often, then.”

His laugh softens, becoming something quieter. “You have no idea how much I needed this. You.”

And then he’s close enough to touch, and you can see how frayed the edges of him are. You slide your arms around his waist, pulling him in without hesitation.

At first, he hesitates, Franco always hesitates when he’s like this. As if he doesn’t want to weigh you down with his mood. But then it breaks. The tension leaks out of him all at once as his arms fold around you, holding you tight. His head drops to your shoulder, and you feel the exhale he’s been holding in since the checkered flag waved.

You squeeze him closer, one hand smoothing slow circles over his back. “You’re still my champion,” you murmur. “One race doesn’t change that. Not for me.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. But you feel the way his breathing changes, a little steadier, like every second in your arms is pulling him back to life.

When he finally speaks, his voice is soft. “You don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. His hands are still holding you, his fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie like he’s anchoring himself.

“That’s easy,” you say, smiling softly. “Because I mean it. Always.”

His lips twitch into the smallest, most reluctant smile. “You really are my sunshine, you know that?”

“Obviously,” you tease, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “Why do you think I’m wearing the merch? Because I like the color navy so much? No. This is part of my official role as moral support.”

He laughs, an actual laugh this time, and you swear you can see him coming back to himself. His eyes are a little brighter, his voice a little warmer.

And in that moment, you know: it’s not just the hoodie. It’s not just the words. It’s you being here, unshaken, still looking at him like he’s more than a race result.

And for Franco, that’s everything.

[julietsf1]

The Girl From APM - Arthur Leclerc x Reader

summary: They met at a gala. He was rude, she was done. It should’ve ended there. But the universe — and Charles Leclerc — had other plans (10.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, enemies to friends to lovers, a little tequila, a little lime, a lot of longing

AN: hi angels! sorry for my long disappearance! I've moved to a new apartment which I am so happy about!! lots of arrangements but now finally some time for myself again :) something different today as I saw Arthur Leclerc in front of the carrefour the other week and he looked ridiculously fine IRL oh my daaays!! also got a Charles, Lando and some other non F1 stories coming this week as well! LOVE YALL

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You are not from Monaco.

Not really.

Not in the sense that the locals are, born sun-kissed and fluent in four languages by the age of ten, moving through designer storefronts like it's church, and treating royalty like old classmates. But you're learning. Quickly. And you like to think you're not doing too badly.

It's been three months since you moved.

Three months since you folded yourself into this silken, surreal world like a note into an envelope, signing your new life with a hopeful little flourish.

And today, in particular, feels like a small reward. A golden ribbon of a day, stretching long and sun-soaked across the Riviera, where even the breeze feels curated. You walk along the harbor with Charles, a cone of hazelnut gelato in one hand and your sandals clicking softly along the cobblestones.

He’s already halfway through his second scoop. Some ridiculous mix of lemon and mango because “the sourness balances the sweet,” he claims, although he’s been grimacing through every bite.

“You’re so stubborn,” you laugh.

“And yet,” he says, dramatically licking the edge of the dripping gelato, “I persevere.”

You roll your eyes. “A true hero.”

Charles is easy company. Like a well-worn paperback -- familiar and beloved and a little bent at the edges. You met him during your second week at APM Monaco, at a luncheon for some of the brand’s key ambassadors, where he arrived late, still in race gear, and charmingly out of breath.

He’d called you la gentille tornade, the sweet tornado, after watching you glide between VIPs with an easy grace, all warm smiles and soft-spoken French.

Since then, he’s been something of a big brother. Always checking in, always offering advice. You don’t have many people like that here yet, and you treasure it.

You pause at the edge of the dock to admire a passing yacht. Charles follows your gaze.

“She’s beautiful, no?” he says, gesturing to the boat. But then, after a beat: “My brother would probably say it’s too flashy.”

You glance at him. “You have a brother?”

He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Arthur. Younger. Taller. More moody.”

You laugh. “Oh, I think I saw something about that! Isn’t he joining APM too?”

Charles nods, but it’s subtle. A flicker of something crosses his face -- hard to catch unless you're looking for it. You are.

You tilt your head. “Is he also a driver, like you?”

And there it is. The pause. Not long, but long enough to feel it. The briefest stiffening of posture, the slight narrowing of eyes.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice lighter than it was a second ago. “He is.”

You don’t press. You never do. Your whole life you’ve been the kind of person people tell things to without realizing they’ve said too much which means you’ve also learned when not to ask.

So instead, you offer a bright smile and lick your gelato. “Well, I hope he likes French television galas.”

Charles snorts. “That's this week already isn't it?”

You nod. “He’ll probably be invited too, I guess. All ambassadors are getting a table.”

“God help us,” he mutters. “He’s going to sulk the whole night in a tux.”

You giggle. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He groans. “You don’t know him yet.”

You twirl a little, letting the breeze catch your sundress. “Well, maybe he’ll surprise us. What are you wearing to the gala, by the way?”

Charles raises his eyebrows. “Just a simple suit. Don’t tell me you’re going full couture.”

“I work in luxury,” you reply primly. “It’s in my contract.”

“I thought your contract just said smile at clients and drink too much champagne.”

You grin. “Pretty much.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours. “You’re the luckiest person in the world.”

You finish your gelato as the sun dips lower, casting gold over the water. There’s a peace to the air here, a kind of easy stillness that only exists on slow afternoons like this, when the world feels soft-edged and almost generous.

…

The dress is Elie Saab. Midnight blue. A scatter of beadwork like constellations across sheer tulle, with a neckline that dips just enough to whisper without shouting. The kind of dress that makes strangers glance twice and women in PR nod approvingly. The kind that cinches in the waist like a secret and makes you feel — for a fleeting, flickering second — like maybe you do belong in Monaco after all.

Your driver arrives five minutes early. Jean-Luc, middle-aged, always a little bit too serious, but you like that about him. There’s comfort in people who take their jobs seriously, and tonight, you need all the comfort you can get.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle,” he says, opening the car door for you. You thank him softly and slide in, smoothing the gown beneath you.

The ride is quiet. The kind of silence that isn’t awkward but anticipatory. The city lit up like a necklace around the coast, winding through the dark like something from a perfume ad.

When the car pulls up in front of the venue, the light hits just right. You step out into a scatter of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at others but catching you in the corners. You smile anyway. Graceful. Understated. A little shimmer of mystery.

Charles is already there. Of course he is. He’s standing by the APM table with Alexandra, radiant in something silver and backless, and laughing with a group of other ambassadors.

“Regarde qui voilà,” he says, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “Our princess has arrived.”

You curtsy dramatically, making Alexandra laugh.

“You look stunning,” she says, kissing both your cheeks.

“As do you,” you reply, and you mean it.

You greet the rest of the table, dipping in and out of conversations like a practiced hostess. You love these nights, honestly — they remind you of everything you used to dream about when you were still living in that cramped flat in Paris, watching gala footage online while eating toast for dinner.

One of your favorite clients is seated just a few tables down: an older Parisian woman who buys sapphires like they’re candy. You excuse yourself to go say hello, gliding through the crowd with a flute of champagne in hand, keeping your smile ready and your laughter soft.

You stay longer than expected. There’s a warmth to her company. A sort of familiar flamboyance, like an aunt who gives you perfume samples and life advice in the same breath. You lose track of time.

Until—

You return to the APM table. And someone is in your seat.

You blink. Politely, of course.

He’stall, for one.

Sharp jawline. Crisp tux. An expression like he’s only half-paying attention and prefers it that way. You recognize the slope of the nose. The shape of the mouth. There’s a similarity, undeniably.

Arthur.

You step a little closer, voice gentle. “Excuse me! Sorry! I think that was my seat, is it okay if I sit here again?”

He doesn’t look up immediately. And when he does, it’s slow. Deliberate. His eyes are cool, unreadable.

“There’s no place card,” he says.

You blink. “No, but it is actually assigned though! I work for APM—”

“It’s a table,” he says mildly. “Not a throne.”

Oh.

Okay.

You offer a smile, the kind that’s more teeth than warmth. “Noted. Still, I was sitting there before.”

He sighs. Not dramatically. Just enough to let you know he’s annoyed. And then, finally, moves one chair over without a word.

You sit. Slowly. Delicately. Like you’re lowering yourself into enemy territory. The air between you has cooled by several degrees.

Charles leans forward from across the table, smirking. “Ah. So you’ve met.”

“Briefly,” you say, sipping your champagne.

Arthur doesn't answer. He’s watching the stage.

Charles nudges him. “This is the one I told you about. Client development. The really nice one.”

Arthur lifts an eyebrow. Barely. “She seems charming.”

You shoot him a look. “And you seem delightful.”

Charles groans. “Please, please don’t fight at the gala.”

“No promises,” you mutter.

The evening continues; speeches, awards, slow rounds of applause. The food is forgettable, the wine isn’t. You spend most of dinner catching up with Alexandra, who leans in at some point and whispers, “He’s not usually like that, you know.”

You raise a brow. “Then how is he usually?”

She grins. “More grumpy.”

Still, Arthur is not all bad. At one point, he notices your champagne glass is empty and gestures for the waiter.

“One for her too,” he says, then turns back to the stage.

It’s not much. But it’s something.

Later, when the evening winds down and people begin trickling out in glittering clusters, you excuse yourself to head outside. Your driver is already waiting.

The stairs down from the venue are steep, carved stone and poor lighting, and just as your heel catches on the hem of your dress, a hand reaches out.

“Careful.”

You glance up.

Arthur. Holding out a hand. No expression on his face. Just… offering.

You hesitate. Then place your hand in his.

It’s warm. Steady. A little rough around the edges. He helps you down slowly, not saying a word. At the bottom, he releases your hand like it’s made of glass.

You glance at him. “Thank you.”

He nods once.

You open your mouth to say more — something witty, maybe, or kind — but he’s already turning away, adjusting the cuff of his shirt, retreating like the tide.

…

The morning is bright in that peculiar Monaco way; the sky a soft wash of powder blue, the sea glittering like a lie, and everything else too lovely to be taken seriously. You arrive at the photoshoot early, as always, with a coffee in one hand and your phone buzzing in the other.

The terrace has been cleared for the session. White parasols bloom above wicker lounge sets. There are racks of jewelry glinting under diffused light, chilled Perrier lining a tray, and two stylists already fussing over the set like worried mothers.

Charles, of course, is late. But Antoine is not.

He greets you with his usual sleepy grin, camera slung low around his neck. “How’s my favoritte manager? Woke up early to see us shoot your content?”

You smile, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Such a nice idea of you guys to do some more organic promotions! Your pictures of Charles are always so good.”

“You should join us more often! Charles never praises me like this.”

You tilt your head. “Are you trying to flatter me into staying?”

Antoine shrugs. “A little.”

You laugh, taking a long sip from your coffee. “Tempting.”

By the time Charles arrives, you’ve already reviewed the lighting setup and briefed Antoine about the key pieces from the collection. He waltzes in wearing linen and sunglasses, croissant in one hand, coffee in the other.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Just catching up with Toine,” you say.

He kisses your cheek in greeting, then collapses into a lounge chair with the sort of theatrical sigh only Charles Leclerc can get away with.

“So lovely to meet your brother the other night by the way,” you say after a beat, adjusting a necklace on the velvet bust.

Charles stills. “He was a bit rude, wasn’t he?”

“Mmhmm.”

He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s…” he trails off, looking for a word that doesn’t sound like a pain in the ass.

“…Complex?” you offer.

He smiles faintly. “Let’s go with that.”

“I’m sure he’s lovely once he warms up. If he ever does.”

Charles sits forward. “He’s just used to people liking him for the wrong reasons. Or not at all. I think… sometimes he assumes the worst before giving people a chance.”

You blink at him. “Do I seem like someone who judges people by their last name?”

“Not at all,” he says. “But he is a bit stupid sometimes.”

You smile, touched. “Well, I’m just happy there’s at least one very lovely Leclerc brother in my life.”

“Two,” Antoine calls from across the terrace without missing a beat. “Lorenzo’s a gem.”

You laugh, lifting your hands in surrender. “I haven’t met him yet! Can’t say.”

Charles looks up, grinning. “You’re not wrong though. I am the best one.”

“Maybe you should just redo the meet with Arthur, that would be fun, right?” Antoine says enthusiastically, eyes flickering between you and Charles. 

And then — you feel it. That shift in the air. That strange, almost cinematic pause.

Charles is smiling too much.

That’s your first clue.

He does it subtly — the kind of smile people give when they’re pretending something isn’t happening. You’ve seen that smile on hosts who know the risotto has been burnt but insist dinner is going beautifully.

And then there’s Antoine. Who doesn’t bother to pretend at all. He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream, the keys to the penthouse, and your credit card.

You shift your weight. Slowly.

“What,” you say cautiously, “did you two do?”

Charles lifts his coffee cup to his lips in what can only be described as an evasive maneuver. Antoine lifts both hands like he’s been falsely accused. The tension stretches like ribbon between them.

You narrow your eyes. “Tell me you did not.”

“Did not what?” Charles says quickly, which is the exact phrase guilty people use before fleeing a crime scene.

Antoine, for his part, is clearly enjoying himself far too much. “We merely said it would be a shame if two elegant people who enjoy good conversation and moonlight walks never… ran into each other.”

You stare at him. “That’s oddly specific.”

Charles winces. “Okay, fine. Maybe I mentioned to Arthur that we were shooting here today.”

You blink. “Mentioned.”

“Yes.”

Antoine chimes in. “And maybe you said he should stop by here too.”

Charles shrugs. “Only in passing.”

“In passing,” you repeat. “You passingly mentioned that we be at a private terrace photoshoot. At eight in the morning. Picking out your couture jewelry and he should join?”

Antoine snorts. “It was a strong passing.”

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Charles.”

“You liked him,” Charles says defensively.

“I did not!” you protest.

“Not yet,” he insists. “But I’m sure you will.”

“I barely spoke to him at the gala—”

“That’s why this is such a good idea,” Charles says breezily.

You spin to Antoine. “You helped him with this?”

Antoine shrugs. “Charles offered me Beef Bar take away tonight. I fold like a deck chair.”

You cross your arms. “We have work to do. I planned a whole shoot for you just to turn it into a trap.”

“It’s not a trap,” Charles says, alarmed. “It’s… a casual, unsuspicious opportunity to let things unfold naturally.”

“In the most unnatural way possible.”

And then, like prophecy made inconveniently real, you hear it.

A car door slamming shut. Two sets of steps — slow and distinct — approaching along the stone path behind the terrace.

Your heart sinks. You freeze like someone who just remembered they left the stove on.

“Tell me that’s not him,” you whisper.

Charles whistles innocently. Antoine lifts his camera, as if preparing for a wildlife documentary.

You turn. And there he is.

He steps onto the terrace like the sunlight isn’t something that applies to him. Olive green shirt, jaw set, keys still twirling in his fingers — and when his eyes land on you, his whole body seems to stiffen by one barely perceptible degree.

You cross your arms. Instinctively.

He stops just short of the seating area and frowns, first at you, then at Charles.

“You said you needed a lift.”

“I do,” Charles says, too quickly. “I mean—I did. But I forgot we still had a few more looks to shoot.”

Arthur’s brows inch up. “You forgot?”

“Yeah,” Charles says, glancing nervously at Antoine. “A couple more shots. The bracelets. And… the rings.”

Arthur blinks. Slowly. Then turns toward Antoine, who is pretending to adjust a reflector with the same commitment an actor gives to dying onstage.

You glance between them, narrowing your eyes. “Wait.”

Charles smiles too brightly. “Since we’re shooting a bit longer, and you’re already here, I thought maybe you could take her home.”

You whip around. “Excuse me?”

“It’s on his way!” Charles says, holding up his hands like a peace offering. “She lives five minutes from you.”

Arthur lets out a breath. “You could’ve just told me this was a setup.”

“It’s not a setup,” Charles insists.

Antoine mutters, “It’s a light suggestion with automotive implications.”

You turn to Arthur. “I can call a driver.”

“I’m already here,” he says, tone unreadable.

You bristle. “Well, don’t sound too enthusiastic.”

“I’m not,” he replies.

You grab your bag a little harder than necessary. “Great.”

“Perfect,” he mutters, turning back toward the stairs without waiting.

You follow, jaw tight, trying not to stomp like a child. Behind you, Charles calls out, “Have fun!” and you resist the urge to flip him off with the delicate hand that wears your nicest APM ring.

Arthur doesn’t speak as he opens the car door for you. It’s the bare minimum of politeness, performed with the detached energy of someone passing a stranger a napkin at a café.

You slide into the passenger seat and stare straight ahead, arms crossed.

He gets in. Adjusts the mirrors even though they’re already perfect. Puts the car into drive. Doesn’t look at you.

After a minute of tense silence: “You weren’t supposed to be there,” he says.

You scoff. “Yeah, I got that vibe.”

“I mean it. I didn’t know.”

“Neither did I, apparently,” you mutter, glancing out the window. “Charles has been watching too many movies again.”

Arthur huffs. “He thinks he’s subtle.”

“He’s really not.”

Silence settles between you again, heavier this time. There’s something coiled in the air — not quite anger, but irritation layered over misunderstanding. Like both of you are reacting to ghosts that haven’t been properly introduced.

You sigh. “Look, if this is awkward, we can just not talk.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he replies.

You turn your head sharply. “Wow. Okay.”

He glances at you, then back at the road. “I meant—I just don’t have anything to say.”

“You’re so fun.”

He presses his lips together. “Maybe I don’t enjoy small talk.”

“Maybe you don’t enjoy people.”

He says nothing. Just changes gears. Smoothly. Cleanly. As if he’s already learned how to move through life without needing to explain himself.

And maybe that’s what annoys you most.

That you can’t read him.

That he doesn’t let you.

Because usually, you can. You’ve made a career out of reading people. Clients, guests, partners, hosts, you always know how to tilt a smile, how to offer the right word at the right time, how to sense what people need before they realize they need it.

But Arthur?

Arthur is a locked door in a hallway you didn’t ask to walk down.

Eventually, the silence breaks. Not out of comfort. But because you can’t help yourself.

“I do admire how you hold the door for me,” you say, watching the streetlights blur against the glass. “And helped me down the stairs the other night. Very gentlemanly of someone who seems to actively despise me.”

He exhales, contained. Like someone who’s learned to speak carefully, if at all.

“I’ve had time to practice,” he says after a moment. “When you’re the one people don’t expect anything from, you get good at the quiet stuff.”

You blink, turning your head. “Is that how you see it?”

He shrugs. Too casually. Like he’s tossing the comment into the air just to get rid of it.

“You’re friends with Charles,” he says. “That’s usually enough for people to assume they know me.”

You snort softly. “Right. Because God forbid anyone come near you without making it about your last name.”

He doesn’t answer. Just shifts into second gear and keeps his eyes on the road.

You glance out the window again, but your voice comes without thinking:

“You’re not Charles’s brother to me, Arthur.”

He glances sideways. Not fully, just a flick of his eyes. “No?”

“No,” you say, crossing your arms. “You’re just kind of an asshole.”

That lands. A beat of quiet — and then, he laughs. Low, warm, and involuntary. It slips out before he can catch it, and you glance at him just in time to see it settle into the corner of his mouth like a secret he didn’t mean to tell.

“Fair enough,” he says.

The tension shifts. Doesn’t vanish but bends slightly, like metal held too long in a flame.

He pulls up to your building, parking neatly along the curb without asking if this is the right place. It is.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he reaches for your bag, already handing it over before you ask.

You pause with your fingers curled around the strap. “Thanks.”

“For the ride?” he asks, dry.

“For not letting me fall on my face in heels the other night.” You tilt your head. “Could’ve let me suffer.”

He glances at you finally, and there’s a flicker of something behind his expression. 

“Tempting,” he says.

You open the door. The hinge creaks faintly. Neither of you moves to say anything more.

Then, because silence never quite agrees with you, you glance over your shoulder, one foot already on the pavement.

“Enjoy the rest of your morning, Arthur.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just rests one hand on the wheel, elbow on the door frame, like he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then: “Sure.”

You close the door behind you.

And that’s it. No smile. No wave. No friendly nod.

Just an unremarkable end to a remarkably strange drive with a man who, for all his detachment, still reached for your bag before you could.

As you head up the steps to your apartment, heels tapping against the stone, you wonder if maybe you were wrong.

Maybe he doesn’t despise you.

Maybe he just hasn’t made up his mind yet.

…

You don’t date.

Not because you’re emotionally unavailable or jaded or secretly in love with a long-lost childhood best friend. You’re just... busy. And good at being on your own. And, if you’re being honest, not particularly enchanted by the idea of someone mispronouncing your name over Negronis while bragging about their portfolio.

But people, friends, colleagues, your mother on every single phone call, keep insisting that the right person isn’t going to climb through your window like a Disney prince. That you have to put yourself out there. Try. Meet someone.

So, you said yes. To Maxime.

Maxime, who had nice enough shoes and a passable smile and worked in logistics, which sounded tolerable at the time.

You arrive at Maison Gigi five minutes early, because old habits die hard. You’re wearing your just in case he’s actually nice dress — a black silk wrap that dips a little at the back and makes your arms look excellent — and a pair of earrings that glitter like they’re pretending not to be expensive.

Maxime is late.

By eight minutes. And then three more.

When he arrives, he kisses both your cheeks too quickly and sits without pulling out your chair.

You make a mental note.

“You’re prettier than your photos,” he says as he folds his napkin. “Don’t see that very often anymore.”

You smile. “Thanks. I guess.”

He grins, unaware it was a jab.

You order sparkling water. He gets a Gin & Tonic and spends five whole minutes describing how the one at Cipriani was better.

By the time the bread arrives, he’s asked how many serious relationships you’ve had, whether you live alone, and if you’ve ever considered getting lip filler “just to define the Cupid’s bow.”

You drink your water and pretend it’s vodka.

Halfway through your seabass, you glance toward the terrace, thinking it might be a good time to fake a phone call. Or a family emergency. Or sudden food poisoning. Anything, really.

That’s when you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He walks onto the terrace with that signature, infuriating grace — linnen button up, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gripping a bouquet of pale roses and eucalyptus. As if he just robbed the most angelic florist.

He’s speaking to the hostess. Then he sees you.

And he stops.

Not completely. Just long enough for the pause to say something. His eyes meet yours — and something flickers in them. Recognition, amusement, something a little mean.

He laughs — just once, low and brief — then follows the hostess to the empty table directly beside yours.

“Well, well.”

You blink slowly. “Of course it’s you.”

His mouth curves. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“I’m not.”

“I can tell.” He scans the table. “Date night?”

Maxime shifts on the opposite side of the table. “Who’s that?”

You take a sip of your water. “An acquaintance.”

Arthur’s date appears behind him: tall, lean, slick-backed ponytail and an expression like she’s been forced to attend a work function. She slides into her chair and pulls out her phone before even glancing at the menu.

Arthur doesn’t sit. He lingers beside the table for a second longer, eyes still on you. Then, with all the subtlety of a man setting a trap he wants you to see, he turns to the waitress and says—

“Actually, would it be possible to join the tables?”

You blink. “Sorry?”

He gestures between the two setups, eyes wide with mock innocence. “They’re practically touching already. Might as well make it official.”

“Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Maxime offers a short shrug. “Sure. I don’t mind.”

Of course he doesn’t.

The waitress hesitates, then starts dragging the tables together with a smile and the weary efficiency of someone who has seen far weirder things in Monaco.

Arthur sits beside you. Not opposite, not across — beside. Close enough that your chairs nudge. Close enough that you can smell something crisp and faintly woody on him.

You don’t look at him.

“Nice dress,” he says, after a moment.

You cut him a glance. “Is that condescension or charity?”

He tilts his head. “You really don’t accept compliments well.”

“I accept them fine. Just not when they’re served with smugness.”

He smirks and leans back, arm resting along the edge of his chair. Which now overlaps yours.

You see Maxime straighten across you.

“So you two… know each other?”

Arthur answers for you. “Hardly.”

You hum. “Wish it was even less.”

Arthur presses his lips together, amused.

His date is now scrolling Instagram with one finger and sipping her wine without ever making eye contact with anyone. She looks stunning. And entirely uninterested.

Arthur notices. He glances at the untouched bouquet on their table. Then, with all the lazy elegance of someone who’s about to do something both thoughtful and infuriating, he reaches for it — gently plucking a single red rose from the center.

And without asking, without a word, he places it beside your plate.

You stare at it.

Then at him.

Then back at the rose.

Arthur leans slightly toward Maxime and says, tone light, “You didn’t bring her flowers?”

Maxime blinks. “It’s just a first date.”

Arthur hums. “All the more reason for a good first impression.”

You exhale through your nose. “Is this part of a new strategy to get under my skin?”

“No,” Arthur replies, shrugging. “That was just a fun bonus.”

You glance at the rose again. It’s fresh. Soft petals, still slightly closed. A perfect center.

You don’t pick it up. But you don’t move it away either.

For a while, the four of you sit like that. The world presses on: waiters weaving through tables, the low hum of live music drifting in from the bar, ice clinking in highball glasses.

Eventually, the noise at the table dips — Maxime focused on his steak, Arthur not filling the space for once.

You’re picking at what’s left of your main when Arthur shifts slightly beside you, elbow brushing the edge of your chair.

“How’s the date?” he says, just low enough that only you can hear.

You glance over. His expression isn’t smug now — just neutral. Curious, maybe.

You shrug. “Not the worst night of my life.”

He softly smiles. “That’s encouraging.”

You smile, despite yourself. “How’s yours?”

Arthur glances at his date, who’s now checking her watch while sipping her wine like it’s her third choice that day.

“Uneventful,” he says.

And then, quietly: “Could be worse.”

You nod once. “Well. At least the food’s good.”

Arthur glances at your plate. “You barely touched it.”

“Appetite died somewhere between 'what's your shoe size' and the phrase ‘how many bed partners have you had.’”

That earns a quiet snort from him.

At the far end of the table, Maxime is now leaning toward Arthur’s date, gesturing with a little too much confidence as he launches into a new topic — something about investment ratios. The blonde is making polite noises, phone finally tucked away, her expression fixed into a smooth, unreadable mask.

Arthur follows your gaze. “They seem to be enjoying themselves.”

You hum. “Maybe we should let them have the rest of the night.”

He arches a brow. “Don’t tempt me.”

You let the comment settle.

A beat passes — not awkward, but unexpected. Neither of you is trying, and that’s what makes it disarming. The sharpness between you has dulled a little. Or maybe it’s just shifted — honed into something quieter, subtler, less performative.

You glance at him sideways. “I thought you didn’t do small talk.”

“I don’t.”

“So what’s this, then?”

Arthur sips his wine. “Unavoidable.”

You exhale a soft laugh.

He doesn’t look at you, not directly. He just keeps that lazy posture, arm draped over the back of his chair, fingertips grazing the space near your shoulder.

“Anyway,” he adds, “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.”

You pause. “The rose?”

He nods once.

You look at it, still resting beside your plate, velvety and deep red and slightly tilted in your direction, like it’s been watching this conversation unfold with quiet amusement.

“I know,” you say.

Another pause.

“It's kind of sweet,” you add.

Arthur’s gaze flicks to you. Just briefly. But it lingers a half-second longer than it should.

Your water glass is empty. He notices. Doesn’t comment, but reaches toward the nearby jug and refills it halfway before settling back again.

Across from him, his date lets out a gentle, slightly rehearsed laugh at something Maxime has said. She adjusts the strap of her dress and leans in.

Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not exactly how I thought this dinner would go,” you murmur.

“That makes two of us.”

You glance down at your napkin, smoothing it with your fingers.

He shifts. “You heading home soon?”

You nod. “Probably.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

You blink. “Oh?”

He doesn’t explain. Just pushes his chair back and glances down at you, hand reaching toward the back of your chair.

You hesitate for a second, but he’s already moving — fingers brushing the curve of the seat as he gently helps you up. His other hand picks up your coat from where it’s been folded over your bag.

And then like it’s the most normal thing in the world he holds it open for you.

You slip your arms through the sleeves in silence, your skin brushing his as he eases it up over your shoulders. His movements are smooth, practiced, quiet. Not performative.

Not for show.

Maxime looks up suddenly, clearly clocking that you’re leaving. He shifts in his seat, trying to recover the thread of something he must’ve dropped a while ago.

“You heading off?” he asks, voice too loud for how little he’s mattered in the last thirty minutes.

“Yeah,” you say. “Early morning.”

He nods, leaning back like he’s trying to seem unfazed. “So... maybe I’ll see you again?”

Arthur’s hand rests lightly against the back of your coat, steadying you as you adjust your bag. You don’t look at him, but you feel it. That presence. Quiet but definite.

You glance at Maxime. “Maybe.”

He gives you a tight smile. “You’ve got my number.”

“Sure do.”

And that’s it.

Arthur’s already stepped aside, guiding you gently past the table with a hand barely grazing your shoulder blade. He doesn’t say a word as you walk out together, leaving Maxime blinking behind you like someone who missed the plot twist entirely.

Outside, the air is cooler than before, tinged with salt and whatever perfume clings to the night. You pause just shy of the curb, glancing at your phone.

“My car’s just around the corner.”

Arthur nods, hands back in his pockets. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly feels strange, standing there in the quiet with him.

Your car rounds the corner. You turn toward it, then back to Arthur.

“Thanks,” you say. “For the rose. And the coat. And the... whatever that was.”

He shrugs. “Anytime.”

You don’t say goodbye. Neither does he.

You just get in the car.

And as it pulls away, you glance into the rearview mirror and there he is.

Still standing where you left him, hands deep in his pockets.

…

There are two kinds of gyms in Monaco.

The first kind is where people wear sunglasses on treadmills and film themselves doing Bulgarian split squats.

The second kind — the kind you specifically asked Charles to recommend — is not that. Or at least, it isn’t supposed to be.

“FitFactory,” Charles had said. “It’s normal. No influencers. No DJs. You go in, you sweat, you leave.”

So this morning, you pull on your nicest Alo Yoga set — blush pink, full-length, thumbholes included — and fill your matching bottle, because coordination is a small kind of control. A mood booster, really.

And you walk to Larvotto feeling tragically optimistic.

Until you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

Leaning against the lockers.

White towel around his neck. Black T-shirt damp at the collar. His face flushed in that maddeningly attractive post workout way.

He’s looking at his phone. Hair pushed back. headphones looped loosely around his neck.

Then he looks up.

And sees you.

He straightens slightly, clearly just as surprised as you — though you watch him recover faster. Of course.

He blinks. Then smiles, slow and smug, like he’s trying to decide if this is real or a fever dream.

“Well,” he says, tossing his towel into his bag, “if it isn’t Monaco’s pinkest woman.”

You stop. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“I’m flattered you followed me here.”

You raise a brow. “Believe me I would have sprinted away if I knew you were here.”

He tilts his head, that crooked smile already forming. “All right, fair. But what’s with the full pink situation today?”

You glance down at your set — soft blush from top to toe — then meet his eyes, unbothered. “Coordination builds morale.”

He hums. “You look like a strawberry.”

You shrug. “I happen to love strawberries, thank you very much.”

His grin grows. “Of course you do.”

You motion toward his cheeks. “Well. Look who’s accidentally matching me.”

He laughs under his breath. “Is this your subtle way of flirting?”

You smile. “If it were, you’d know.”

He grins. “Noted.”

You walk past him toward the mats. Toss your bag down. You expect him to keep walking — to head out the way he was clearly planning to — but instead, you hear the quiet thud of another bag hitting the floor.

You glance up. Arthur sits down beside you like he owns the mat.

“You’re done,” you say flatly.

“I am.”

“So go home.”

He leans forward, stretching lazily. “Cooling down.”

“In the women’s section?”

“It’s unisex.”

You stare. “You were literally at the door.”

“And now I’m here, cherie”

You look away, lips twitching in spite of yourself. Unfortunately.

Arthur lies back, popping one headphone back in. Arms folded behind his head, posture entirely too relaxed.

You side-eye him. “Let me guess. Adele?”

He nods. “All I Ask. Better than any preworkout.”

“You’re broken.”

“I’m serious.”

“She’s devastating.”

“Exactly! That’s why. Sad music is the best for gymming.”

You lie back too, ponytail fanning out across the mat, pulse beginning to settle. “I’m not in the mood for existential cardio today.”

He hums, eyes closed again. “So why come?”

You shrug, the motion subtle as you lie back against the mat. “I miss feeling strong.”

That quiets things.

For a beat, it’s just the muffled thrum of someone’s bassy playlist in the weight section, the soft exhale of air conditioning, the distant clink of dumbbells.

Then he turns his head toward you. Just one glance, slow and deliberate.

“That makes sense,” he says.

You don’t know what to do with that, the gentleness of it. How unguarded it sounds. So you do nothing at all. Just close your eyes and pretend this is routine. That silence is normal between you two.

A moment passes.

Then, softer, like he’s speaking more to the ceiling than to you: “Monaco’s small, apparently.”

You let out a faint huff. “Apparently.”

Another pause. Then, with zero warning, he says, “Do you actually like Maxime?”

Your eyes snap open. “Seriously?”

He doesn’t look over. Just lies there, like he’s asking about the weather.

“No worries,” he says easily. “Just curious.”

You sit up slightly, stretching one leg out across the mat. “Not really.”

He props himself up on his elbows. “Then why waste your time? You are a busy woman, right?”

You glance at him, but there’s no challenge in his expression. No bite. Just a quiet question, laid bare between you.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Everyone keeps saying I should try. That I need to get out there more. That the right person won’t just materialize one day.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to figure out what part of that you actually believe.

 “Maybe they’re wrong.”

You blink. “About what?”

“About needing to try so hard. I think it just happens one day when you don’t expect it.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something in it that throws you off-balance, not quite sympathy, not quite sarcasm. Something close to understanding.

“It’s the same for me. I also go on dates already knowing she’s not the one, hoping I’ll be proven wrong. With the right girl you just know, it’s different.”

You hold his stare, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a dare.

Just two people. Sitting in a gym. Wearing too much pink and not enough armor.

You exhale a soft breath. “You’re surprisingly philosophical for someone who listens to Adele during ab circuits.”

He grins. “She’s a muse.”

You snort. “You’re unwell.”

He lies back again, smug and unbothered. “Takes one to know one.”

You smirk. “Touché.”

…

You’re tired.

A specific form of silk-laced exhaustion that settles behind your eyes after twelve hours of pretending to be slightly more charming than you feel.

Your heels click against the cobblestones as you pass the flower stand that’s just starting to close, the petals half-wilted in the July heat. You’re fishing your phone out of your bag, already composing a mental list of things to forget until tomorrow, when—

“Look who’s out of the office before midnight.”

You look up, visibly shaken.

Charles is grinning, of course. Draped in weekend denim and that effortless posture of someone who’s never had to rush a day in his life.

Next to him stands Alex, all grace and sunglasses even though the sun’s nearly gone.

And Arthur.

Arthur, whose laugh you must have heard first, though you’re only registering it now. He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly, eyes already on you like he knew you were coming.

You slow as you reach them, tucking your phone away. “How is it you are everywhere these days?”

Charles smirks. “Summer break, baby! Enjoying my rent this month.”

“As if you pay rent.” You laugh. 

“I am seriously worried about the hours you’re making, how is it nearly 9PM already?” Alex says with a frown.

“I survived. Barely. But my assistant reminded me I’m not allowed to perish before the Monday debrief.”

Charles snorts. “Corporate martyrdom.”

But Arthur hasn’t said anything yet. Just watches you with a look that’s difficult to read — not indifferent, not exactly fond. Somewhere in between. Studied.

“Hi,” he says, finally.

You smile, soft and unguarded. “Hi.”

It’s strange, how that single word feels suddenly heavier than the rest of the conversation. Like it lands somewhere deeper. Warmer.

The four of you begin to walk, but it’s not long before the spacing shifts — Charles drifting toward a shop window, Alex distracted by something across the street. You’re left side-by-side with Arthur, not by design, but by some subtle gravity that’s starting to feel familiar.

He says nothing at first, just walks beside you, steps even with yours, eyes skimming the buildings as they turn golden in the falling light.

“I saw your campaign today,” you say, voice casual but purposeful. “The new one. The watch close-up was a little dramatic, but you looked handsome.”

Arthur turns his head slightly. Just enough for you to catch the flicker of surprise — and then something gentler.

His cheek colors, almost imperceptibly, but you catch it.

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

You glance sideways, amused. “Blushing?”

“It’s warm out.”

You hum. “Right. Must be the sun, at 9PM. Or maybe compliments just throw you off.”

“I’m not used to them from you.”

“Am I making you shy?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and for a moment, it’s easy, lighter than it’s ever been.

And just like that, the tension thins. For a moment, the two of you walk in easy rhythm, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

You pass a fountain bathed in the last of the sun, the spray catching amber light. Monaco is winding down. Fewer people on the street now. Just the shuffle of steps, the scent of pastry dough cooling in bakery windows, the hush of something private between the two of you.

“You always walk home this way?” he asks.

“Nice scenery,” you say. “Helps clear my head.”

He hums, glancing over. “You should do it more often.”

After a beat, he nods toward a storefront with a sleepy golden retriever curled in the window. “You’re a dog person, right?”

You blink. “Yeah... I am.”

Arthur keeps looking ahead, a little too nonchalant. “Figured.”

You narrow your eyes. “How’d you figure?”

He lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. You just seem like the type.”

You snort. “What type is that?”

“Someone who secretly carries treats in her handbag.”

You laugh, but the question still lingers behind your teeth. He didn’t guess that. Not out of nowhere.

And then, almost too casually, he adds, “Charles mentioned something about you wanting a rescue.”

You turn your head sharply. “Did he?”

Arthur’s jaw twitches — the tiniest tell.

You don’t call him out. You just smile, a little too knowingly. “You two talk about me often?”

He doesn’t answer, but the silence is enough. He’s not smug. Not flustered. Just caught.

And when he finally does speak, it’s quieter. “He said you’ve been thinking about names.”

Your smile softens. “I have.”

Arthur nods, eyes fixed ahead now, like he’s trying not to press.

“I was leaning toward something French,” you say. “But I also kind of like the idea of naming her after a pastry.”

His lips twitch. “Like… Brioche?”

You grin. “Don’t judge. Brioche is adorable.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “Of course.”

You glance over again, this time lingering. He looks different in this light. Less calculated. Less aware of how he’s perceived. Just a boy walking beside you, saying too little and giving away too much.

And something about that makes your heart ache a little.

But not in a sad way.

Just in the oh, I didn’t expect this kind of way.

You slow as you reach your building, the familiar stone steps painted gold by the setting sun.

Arthur stops with you, just slightly to the side, hands still tucked in his pockets.

“Thanks for the company,” you say.

He shrugs, eyes flicking to yours. “Didn’t mean to. It just sort of happened.”

“That’s the best kind of thing.”

You hesitate, the moment stretching just wide enough to step into.

And you do.

“You can walk me again sometime,” you offer, voice lower now. “If you want.”

He tilts his head, almost like he’s studying you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “I mean, Monaco’s small. And I run into you all the time anyway.”

That makes him laugh, a quiet, honest sound.

You take a step back toward the stairs. He follows just slightly, and before you can retreat entirely, you lean up and press a kiss — featherlight and instinctive — to his cheek.

It lands just beneath his eye, where his skin is still a little pink.

Arthur goes very still. Like something inside him paused to catch up.

You pull back slowly, your eyes meeting his. The air feels different now, charged, but not heavy.

“I’ll see you around,” you say softly.

Arthur blinks once, then twice. And then he smiles — small, real, slow.

“You will.”

You climb the steps, hand grazing the railing, not looking back until you reach the door.

…

There’s something in the air, lavender tangled with engine smoke, sea breeze sticky with heat, that makes everything buzz a little louder. The kind of atmosphere where even the shadows wear cologne.

You don’t usually do clubs. And you definitely don’t do them alone.

But when Alexandra texted you two hours ago saying, “Just come. It’s casual. Charles says it’s basically just everyone from karting acting like idiots,” you said yes.

Mostly because she added: “You can borrow the red Sandro dress. It makes your legs look stupid good.”

So now you’re here. In the dress. And the heels. Walking through the velvet ropes of Jimmy’z like you belong here — which, technically, you kind of do. Charles had your name added to the list.

Inside, the bass is already vibrating through your teeth. There’s a fog machine going off in the corner. A bottle girl walks by holding a flaming sparkler.

You spot Alexandra before she sees you, curled into a booth on the far side of the room, next to a man you assume is Carlos (based on the hair, mostly) and a woman you don’t recognize. She’s talking animatedly to Alex, gesturing with a cocktail straw.

You approach just as Alex looks up and lights up like she won the lottery.

“You came!” she shouts, standing up to pull you in for a hug.

She smells like citrus gin and too-expensive perfume.

“I almost didn’t,” you admit.

“Well, thank God you did. I’m outnumbered by motorsport and testosterone.” She waves you toward the booth. “Come sit.”

As you slide into the booth beside her, Alexandra immediately drapes an arm around your shoulders like she’s waited all night for this.

“There she is,” she says, grinning. “The one and only.”

Then she gestures across the table. “This is Rebecca — she’s with Carlos. Works in fashion. Rebecca, this is the girl from APM I’ve been telling you about. My future sister-in-law.”

You laugh, surprised. “Wow. That escalated quickly.”

Rebecca’s eyes light up — piercing blue, framed by a halo of soft curls. “You should’ve heard her earlier. You are as gorgeous as she said you’d be.”

“Alex,” you groan, but she only squeezes your arm.

“It’s not my fault,” she says. “You look unreal in the red dress. I had to brag.”

Rebecca smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

You like her instantly. There’s an ease about her, confident, yes, but kind. The sort of person who would wait to drive off until you are inside.

Next to her Carlos is sipping something expensive and staring blankly into the middle distance.

You tilt your head. “Is he okay?”

Rebecca snorts. “He has this a lot, don’t worry. Carlos. Earth to Carlos.”

He blinks, then turns slowly. “Huh.”

Alexandra howls. “Carlos, for the love of—”

Somewhere behind you, someone screams “I’m not doing that unless you carry me!” followed by a crash.

You turn around just in time to see a guy in a backwards cap — who you can only assume is Lando — slipping on a tray of ice cubes while another guy films it, hysterically laughing. Probably George, judging by the neat button up and pinstriped trousers.

Alexandra sighs. “I’m so sorry in advance for everything that’s going to happen tonight. They are always like this when they’re all together.”

Someone is doing the robot in the middle of the dancefloor.

“…is that Charles?”

Carlos, still half-lost in his drink, lifts it in salute. “You should see him when there’s a live band.”

Before you can ask what that means, a tall guy with sharp cheekbones and a gentle blink like he’s still catching up slides into the booth. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, then offers a crooked, apologetic smile.

“Hi. Oscar.” he says, nodding to you before sitting down at the table. “Sorry I’m late. Have I missed anything besides interpretive dance?”

Rebecca lets out a soft laugh, her eyes bright. Alexandra grins and nudges him with her elbow, clearly fond of him already.

The table hums with low, easy chatter. Someone orders another round. Carlos eventually resurfaces from whatever quiet spiral he’d been in and launches into a heartfelt argument about the best burgers. Rebecca counters with a story about a chef in Milan who swore by adding peas instead of tomatoes.

The night softens. And for the first time all week, you’re not watching the clock.

You’re two sips into your cocktail when Alexandra leans in again, eyes sly.

“Look who just got here.”

You blink. “Who?”

She nods across the room.

You follow her gaze.

And then you see him.

Arthur Leclerc.

He’s leaning against the bar beside Charles, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it. There’s a faint flush to his cheeks and a slightly amused look on his face.

You don’t even have time to pretend you weren’t looking before he glances up and catches your eye.

And, of course, he winks.

You groan softly.

Alexandra smirks.

“Don’t,” you say.

“Too late.” she says, already linking her arm with yours. “Come say hi.”

Alexandra doesn’t wait. She drags you through the crowd, weaving past elbows and champagne flutes, laughter folding in around you. And Arthur doesn’t look away — not once — as you make your way toward him.

“Bonsoir,” Alexandra says brightly, kissing Charles on the cheek. He pulls her in to say something you don’t catch.

You stop in front of Arthur.

He straightens a little, gaze dropping down the length of you before returning to your face — and staying there.

“You’re…” he starts, then pauses, the corners of his mouth tugging. “Somehow even more beautiful than usual.”

The words land low in your chest, like a match struck in velvet. You mean to say something — to throw back a comment, make a joke, anchor yourself with the familiarity of deflection. But nothing comes. Your mouth opens, then closes, and for once, you let the silence live.

He steps closer as his eyes dip over your dress and back up again.

“Do a spin,” he says, voice low.

You blink, startled. “What?”

Arthur lifts one hand, loose and casual, the ghost of a grin playing at his lips. “Show me your dress. You look stunning.”

So you do.

Not dramatically, not like you’re putting on a show, but slowly, carefully, letting the silk sweep around your legs as you half-turn on the spot. Your hand slides along your hip as you move, more for balance than performance, though you feel the heat of his gaze tracing every inch.

When you come back around to face him, something has shifted. He’s no longer smiling.

Not entirely, anyway.

There’s still a pull at his mouth — but his eyes, those eyes, have darkened slightly, soft and locked on yours

He leans in. Not so much invading your space as inhabiting it. His voice when it comes is quieter than before. Just low. Just meant for you.

“Don’t act so shy,” he murmurs. “Not when you look like this.”

And then, barely a breath later, his hand finds your waist.

The touch is light — featherlight — but it lands like gravity. The pad of his thumb grazes the fabric of your dress, a quiet hello written in the space where your body curves. You feel it in your spine. In your throat. In every place that’s ever wondered what this might feel like.

He smells like warm bergamot and something a little deeper, wood, maybe, or leather. The kind of scent you don’t notice right away, but later find on your own hands and wonder how it got there.

Your fingers lift before you’ve decided to move. They find his collar, crisp and just slightly askew from the heat of the crowd, and smooth it back into place.

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you murmur, only barely able to hold his gaze.

He doesn’t move. Not yet. Just watches you, his expression unreadable in the half-light, as though trying to memorize this exact version of you. The pink in your cheeks. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something more but don’t.

Your heart drums fast. Too fast. You wonder if he hears it. You almost want him to.

…

It starts with Charles dragging you onto the dancefloor.

One moment you’re standing by the booth, cooling down with a half-finished cocktail, and the next he’s tugging at your wrist, all flushed cheeks and breathless laughter. “Allez! On danse!”

You try to protest but the music is pulsing and warm and far too good. Someone has shifted the playlist to something shamelessly nostalgic, all thumping basslines and sweaty joy. And Charles is a surprisingly good dancer for someone clearly three drinks past his limit.

So you dance.

And you laugh — the kind of laugh that bubbles up from somewhere physical. Rebecca joins for a bit, Oscar is there too, doing something that vaguely resembles choreography, and even Carlos has snapped out of his quiet trance, nodding along from the edge of the crowd like a sleepwalking club king.

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Just that the lights swirl, the music climbs, and somehow — somehow — you keep finding yourself closer to Arthur.

You don’t mean to. Not deliberately.

But every time you spin, every time you fall back into the rhythm, he’s there. Somewhere on the edge of your vision. Smirking from the booth. Sipping his drink by the bar. Sliding past behind you like a slow, orbiting moon.

And then, all at once, he’s not just near.

He’s there.

A hand brushes the small of your back. You turn. Arthur. Standing beside you now, dancing in that effortless, casual way that makes it look like he doesn’t care.

You raise your brows. “Didn’t take you for a dancer.”

He leans in, voice low against your ear. “I make exceptions.”

Your heart stutters.

Before you can reply — “Shots!” someone yells.

Lando, naturally.

He’s halfway onto a velvet bench, waving a napkin like a victory flag as two waitresses arrive with trays. Tequila. Dozens of them.

Oscar stares at them like he’s witnessing a crime. “I’m going to regret everything,” he mumbles.

You’re laughing as Lando thrusts a shot into your hand. “To making Charles dance like a divorced uncle at a wedding!” he cheers.

The group howls.

You’re mid-laugh when a hand curls at your waist.

It’s familiar now. The shape of it. The ease. And the warm weight of his palm, anchoring you just enough to still the world for a second.

You turn, breath catching, to find Arthur already close.

The kind of close that makes your pulse skip. That makes sound dull and the light tilt.

He’s looking at you with a glint in his eye, just this side of trouble.

“Want to help me with my shot?” he says, low enough that only you can hear.

You blink. “Your shot?”

He raises the glass and a torn salt packet between two fingers. His expression? Barely contained mischief.

“Come on,” he says, “I’ll talk you through it.”

Before you can protest or agree he steps in even closer.

“Hold still.”

Then, soft as anything, he bends toward your neck.

His lips graze just beneath your jaw — a featherlight kiss, deliberate — hot and slow. Just enough moisture for the salt to stick, but too much heat to ignore.

You go still. Entirely. Your breath catching in your chest like something hooked.

Arthur pulls back an inch, and his eyes flick up. He sees it. How still you’ve gone. How wide your eyes are. And he smiles like a secret.

“Just there,” he murmurs, and sprinkles the salt onto the spot he just kissed, watching it cling to your skin.

You open your mouth to ask what the hell just happened but he’s already moving.

“Now,” he says, more softly, reaching for the lime wedge, “open.”

Your lips part before your brain can even process the command.

He gently tucks the lime between them. The pads of his fingers brush your lower lip as he does.

Then he pauses. Right there. Inches away.

And his eyes catch yours — clear and gleaming.

“Careful,” he says, smiling lazily.

You blink. “Why?”

He leans in, eyes dancing. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

Your heart thuds — once, hard.

He bends again, slower this time, and his lips brush your skin first, almost like a question. Then his tongue follows — warm and deliberate — dragging a hot, slow line over the delicate curve just below your jaw.

The contact sends a tremor through you. It's not just the heat, or the pressure, it's the absurd intimacy of it, the way your skin prickles in response.

A sound escapes before you can catch it. soft, involuntary, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh.

You suck in a breath, spine locking in place. Your fingers curl reflexively into your dress.

Arthur tips his head back, downs the shot with that maddening ease, and then leans in for the lime. His mouth brushes yours as he bites into it, the citrus tang sharp in the air, his breath warm, not a kiss, but not not one either.

And then it’s over.

But your skin still hums.

You’re left standing, reeling, skin burning like a fire lit just beneath the surface.

He swallows, tongue sweeping briefly across his lower lip, then grins down at you.

“You’re really cute when you try to act unbothered,” he says.

You scoff. “I’m not.”

“No?” His brow lifts. “So this is you naturally flustered?”

You cross your arms, shifting your weight, but the heat still lingers at your collarbone. “It was just a shot.”

He chuckles — quiet, cocky, low in his throat — and tugs you in again by the waist, easily, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“That little noise you made?” he teases, voice rough at the edges. “Might be my new favorite sound.”

You can’t answer. Your brain won’t give you words.

Arthur draws back slightly, his gaze lingering for just a moment too long. He looks like he might say something. Maybe something stupid, or soft, or—

“Putain, je vais vomir.”

The words slice through the music, slurred and loud and unmistakably French.

You blink. Arthur blinks. You both turn.

Charles is standing a few feet away, clutching the edge of a table for dear life, his expression caught somewhere between awe and horror.

“Je rigole pas,” he insists, eyes wide. “Je vais vraiment vomir.” (“I’m not joking. I’m really going to throw up.”)

Lando wheezes with laughter. Alex looks mildly alarmed. Someone shouts for water.

You stare.

Arthur turns, sighs like a man aging in real time. “Of course he is.”

You blink. “Wait, is he—”

“Yep.” Arthur groans, and glances back at you, rueful. “Duty calls.”

You nod slowly, still breathless, your skin still singing.

He leans in one last time — his voice a murmur against the shell of your ear.

“Don’t disappear.”

You watch him go, reluctantly, honestly, and the second he’s gone, your fingers lift instinctively to your neck.

The spot still tingles.

…

The car hums softly through the still streets of Monaco, headlights cutting through the early dawn like silk.

Charles is slumped against the window in the backseat, lips slightly parted, one arm draped over Alexandra’s shoulder like he lost control of his limbs an hour ago. She’s half-asleep, face pressed against his collarbone, her sparkly heels kicked off and tucked beneath the seat.

Up front, it’s just you and Arthur.

He’s driving with one hand on the wheel. The other rests on your thigh — warm, firm, steady. His thumb strokes slow, absent circles over the fabric of your dress, so light it could almost be imagined.

You haven’t said anything about it. Neither has he.

But you feel every brush like it’s a lit match dragged across your skin.

The city is quiet. Streetlights flicker gold across cobblestone. A bus dozes at a stop. A cat weaves through the shadows. The kind of moment that feels suspended in amber — like if you speak too loud, it’ll all crack.

Arthur glances over at you once.

You don’t look back. Your heart’s already beating too fast.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, still watching the shadows. “Mm. Just tired.”

He hums. His hand tightens slightly when you shift.

“I’m sorry about Charles,” he says after a moment. “He’s an idiot. Especially when he drinks.”

You laugh under your breath. “He’s always an idiot. Don’t worry.”

Arthur smiles. You can hear it without turning.

“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “Still. You didn’t deserve to have your night end like this.”

You glance sideways, and catch the profile of him in the streetlight. The curve of his jaw. The faintest flush still lingering on his cheeks. He’s focused on the road, but there’s something else under it — that pull that’s been between you all night. Maybe longer.

“You’re driving me home, sounds like a great end to me,” you say softly.

There’s a beat of quiet. Then, his thumb presses a little more deliberately into your thigh — just once.

You shift in your seat.

The air between you thickens.

He pulls into your street too soon. The tires crunch softly against the curb, the engine purring low before cutting off entirely. Your apartment glows softly up ahead, washed in early dawn light — a sleepy kind of golden.

Neither of you moves.

Then he reaches for the door handle and gets out. Walks around. Opens your side.

You step out, and your hand finds his without thought.

It’s warmer than you remember.

He doesn’t let go as he shuts the door behind you.

Your shoes click lightly against the steps as you walk toward your door, his fingers brushing against yours with every step. You can feel him close — not just physically, but in the air around you, the quiet press of something heavier than what’s been said.

At your doorstep, you pause.

You turn.

Arthur’s standing just behind you, one hand sliding instinctively to your waist. His thumb brushes against your ribs. His eyes meet yours.

And stay there.

A silence stretches. The quiet of the night wraps around you like a blanket. The air is thick with all the things you both want to say but can’t.

His eyes dip to your mouth.

Your breath catches.

Then you move — slowly — rising to your toes.

The first press of your lips to his is featherlight. Testing. A peck more than a kiss.

But his grip on your waist tightens.

And then he kisses you back.

And this time, it’s not careful. Not measured. It’s hot and deliberate, his mouth parting against yours with a quiet hunger that coils low in your stomach. He tilts his head just slightly, his free hand rising to cradle your jaw.

You sigh into it, helplessly, fingers curling into the lapel of his jacket.

Arthur pulls you closer. His nose brushes yours. Your lips part again, and it’s slower this time — more languid, more sure. Your mouths move like they’ve done this before in a dream you forgot you had.

He tastes like lime and champagne. His hand anchors you at the hip like he doesn’t want to let go.

The kiss deepens. It's a little greedy now, a little breathless until the whole world feels like it’s wrapped around this one, impossibly good moment.

Then—

A mechanical whirr slices through the quiet.

The car window slides down.

“ARTHUR,” Charles groans in the sloppiest French you’ve ever heard. “C’est pas le moment pour flirter, j’ai envie de mourir…” (This is not the time to flirt, I want to die…)

Arthur freezes. His forehead still rests against yours, and for a moment neither of you moves — just caught in the laugh building behind your teeth.

You break first.

A soft, giddy giggle slips out of you, and Arthur smiles too, eyes still locked on yours.

He brushes his thumb gently across your waist. His voice drops to something quieter, something warm.

“Night,” he murmurs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You nod, still slightly breathless. “Night, Arthur.”

He gives you one more kiss on your forehead — this one quick — then takes a step back and jogs to the car.

The window is already rolled back up. Charles is asleep again.

But Arthur?

Arthur looks over his shoulder just before he slides back into the driver’s seat.

And for the second time tonight — you catch him watching you like he’s been doing it for longer than you realized.

…

The café is quiet — that post-party hush where even the espresso machine seems to steam more gently, as if nursing its own hangover.

You’re already at the corner table, sunglasses on, a cappuccino cooling between your palms. Charles slides into the seat opposite you with a grunt and a grimace, his hoodie pulled so low over his head it might as well be a blackout curtain.

Antoine follows more gracefully, camera bag slung over one shoulder, fresh as if he hadn’t spent the night dodging partygoers to capture candids in impossible lighting. He nods at you, lifts two fingers toward the waiter, and sits.

“I’m never drinking again,” Charles mutters into the wooden table.

You lift your cappuccino to your lips, smirking behind the rim. “Right. That’s your fourth time saying that since April.”

“I mean it this time.”

Antoine lets out a quiet laugh, glancing up. “You also said you were going to learn to cook.”

Charles lifts a hand, index finger raised in weary protest, but doesn’t dignify it with a response.

The server returns with Antoine’s espresso and an orange juice for Charles, who receives it like an offering from the gods and sips slowly, eyes closed— just as the bell above the café door rings.

You glance over your shoulder. And there he is.

Arthur.

Gray T-shirt. Wind-tousled hair. Sunglasses hooked into the collar. Hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with them.

Charles straightens up a bit, blinking like he’s trying to determine if he’s hallucinating.

Antoine looks between the two of you, then back at Arthur.

Arthur nods at the table, casually. “Morning.”

Charles stares. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur’s eyes find yours, warm. “She invited me.”

You sip your cappuccino. “Figured it’d be good to get some real food into you.”

Charles blinks again. “You two… text now?”

Arthur slides into the chair beside you like it’s nothing, like this has always been normal. His knee brushes yours. Doesn’t move.

Antoine takes a sip of his coffee, wisely staying silent — but his expression is all observation.

“I don’t remember anything after Oscar was spinning on the floor like a Beyblade,” Charles mutters, rubbing his temple.

“That was before the shots,” you say.

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, way before.”

Charles groans. “Oh god. Don’t tell me I did something embarrassing.”

You and Arthur exchange a glance.

“No more than usual,” Arthur offers.

“Perfect,” Charles sighs.

A moment of silence falls. Antoine pulls out a roll of film and threads it into his camera. The sun filters in through the café window, catching Arthur’s hair just so, and you’re suddenly aware of how calm it feels now. How natural. How easy.

Arthur leans in slightly. His voice is quiet, only for you.

“You’re really going to pretend last night didn’t happen?”

You glance sideways, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup. “You mean Charles puking or you kissing me?”

His lips curve. “You kissed me first.”

“Really?” You tease. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“You kissed me first,” he teases, leaning in, “but I’m very happy to return the favor.”

His fingers brush beneath your chin — gentle, steady — coaxing your face toward his.

His lips are warm and gentle against yours. His hand stays beneath your jaw, steady and gentle, and the slight pressure of his fingers makes your breath catch.

You feel it in your stomach first, that fluttery pull that tightens low and lingers. His mouth is soft, his skin smells like clean soap and something familiar you can’t name, and for a moment, you forget where you are.

The rest of the world recedes, the clinking of glasses, the murmur of other tables.

It’s just this.

When he pulls back, it’s only a breath of space. Enough to see the quiet gleam in his eyes. Enough to know he means it.

You blink once. Smile.

And so does he.

Charles, still staring down into his juice, mutters something under his breath. “I swear, I black out one night…”

You reach over and gently clink your mug against his glass. “Then consider this your morning recap.”

Arthur laughs under his breath, watching you with that same soft look from the night before.

Charles pretends to gag. “I hate it here.”

Arthur bumps your shoulder. “I don’t.”

Your smile lingers a second longer than it should.

[julietsf1]

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

[julietsf1]

hi all!! wanted to thank you guys for all the kind words and support i’ve gotten on my recent posts🤍 i’m super blown away by it hugeee thanks :))

i have 2 stories coming for you guys this weekend ;) one more serious and one more funny!! maybe a 3rd if i the weather is shitty here & i’ll have some more time to write hahaha

love u ciaoooo

[julietsf1]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

--------------------------------------------------

The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[julietsf1]

The Line We Never Crossed - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: Lando Norris has been treating you like an afterthought all season, which would be fine if you hadn’t nearly kissed him last year. your new job in the paddock means you can’t avoid him, and his petty cold shoulder act is starting to feel personal. (7.5k words)

content: mutual pining, second-chance romance, slow-burn, Oscar being an instigator, French

AN: coucou mes anges <3 another one for you! big thanks for the overwhelming enthusiasm on my last lando fic :) it means a lot!!

...........................................................................

The night hummed with life; laughter spilling from Charles’s yacht, the distant pop of champagne corks, music vibrating through the decks. Monte Carlo never slept after a race, and tonight was no exception. The lights, the sound, the weight of celebration pressed in from all sides.

You’d only meant to escape for a minute. Just a moment to breathe.

But Lando had followed.

Now, the two of you sat at the edge of the dock, heels discarded beside you, the water lapping gently beneath your feet. The night air was thick with salt and summer, warm against your skin.

You’re alone.

The realization settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

Not because you didn’t want to be—you did—but because you weren’t sure why he was here, or what this was.

It wasn’t unusual, not exactly. You’d been friends for a while, hovering in the same circles, both Monaco-based when you weren’t traveling, and yet—this felt different.

Like a moment suspended between something and nothing.

Lando stretched beside you, legs outstretched, arms braced behind him. Then, with a casual sort of amusement, he murmured, “So, I heard you liked my curly hair.”

You turned to him immediately, narrowing your eyes.

"What?"

His grin was insufferable. "That’s what they’re saying.”

"Who’s ‘they’?"

"The people. The masses."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Your sources are questionable."

"So you’re not denying it?"

You bit back a smile, nudging him with your knee. “Lando, I swear—”

His laugh was soft, curling at the edges. 

You turned away, looking out toward the water instead.

The sea stretched endlessly, a dark expanse under the moon, dotted with distant lights from other yachts, other parties. The breeze carried the faintest hint of salt and champagne, warm and sticky against your skin.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

When you glanced back, he was already looking at you.

The shift was barely noticeable, except suddenly the air felt heavier.

His hand inched closer—just enough for his fingers to ghost the wooden dock beside yours.

Your pulse spiked.

He leaned in.

Not dramatically. Not like some grand, sweeping moment in a film. It was slower, more uncertain—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

And you didn’t.

Your breath hitched.

Your body tilted, drawn into him like some unseen force, a thread tugging in the space between.

His fingertips brushed yours.

And then—

You both froze.

The spell broke.

The weight of reality crashed in, sharp and immediate.

What the hell are we doing?

You pulled back first. Forced out a small, awkward laugh.

Lando blinked, startled, his own body shifting back a second later. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls, looking away like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t be real.

Silence.

Thick and suffocating.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance—or lack thereof.

Before either of you could say something, a voice cut through the night.

"Lando!"

Someone from the boat.

You turned toward the sound, blinking back into reality, the moment collapsing between you like a house of cards.

Lando hesitated—just for a second—then pushed himself up, brushing his hands against his jeans.

"Guess I should go."

"Yeah." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

He didn’t move right away.

For a brief, fleeting second, you thought he might say something.

Then he just nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned and walked back toward the yacht.

You watched him go.

Your hands curled into fists against the wood.

The moment was gone.

…

The first time you see Lando Norris again, it’s almost anti-climactic.

No dramatic moment. No sharp intake of breath. No heart-stopping, soul-shattering collision of past and present. Just a stupidly hot Thursday afternoon in the Melbourne paddock, your brand-new team lanyard digging into the back of your neck, and the sudden realization that he’s here.

Which—obviously, he is. It’s the first race of the season, and this is his job. Just like it’s yours now.

Still, the knowledge sits awkwardly in your chest, the same way your new role at LVMH has been sitting awkwardly on your shoulders all week.

The partnership between Formula 1 and LVMH had been a big deal—a high-profile luxury collaboration that had the marketing team scrambling. When you’d been handed the opportunity to coordinate the on-site activations, it had seemed perfect. A step up, a challenge, an exciting, high-speed world that you’d already known intimately through years of association.

It had taken all of two minutes to realize the one major flaw in that plan.

You were going to see him.

Not just in passing, but constantly. Every weekend. Every city. Every press day and paddock club event and race debrief.

You’d thought you’d be fine.

And then, of course, you actually got here.

The Australian heat clings to you, sweat beading at the base of your neck as you weave through the paddock, passing familiar faces and nodding to a few you don’t quite know yet. It’s barely midday, but the place is alive—reporters setting up, engineers darting between garages, photographers angling for early shots of the drivers.

And then you spot Charles and Oscar.

Charles is leaning against a barrier near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, dressed in his usual paddock-day attire—team-issued shirt, sunglasses, that effortlessly casual Monaco ease that somehow never looks sweaty, even in 30-degree weather.

He grins when he spots you.

Oscar, beside him, looks as serious as ever, though his eyes flick over to you with mild interest.

"Ah, look who it is," Charles says, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Miss me already?" you reply smoothly.

"Obviously," he says, pulling you in for a brief hug.

Charles adjusts his sunglasses, smirking. “So, have you seen your favorite papaya yet?”

Your stomach plummets.

"Papaya?" Oscar echoes, head tilting slightly. "Wait—she’s friends with Lando?"

"Friends is a strong word," you say immediately.

"Oh, they go way back," Charles adds, clearly enjoying himself.

Oscar perks up like a cat spotting something mildly entertaining. "This is brand-new, highly relevant information. Why was I not briefed?"

"Because there’s nothing to brief you on," you say flatly.

"See, the fact that you’re saying that makes me think there’s everything to brief me on," Oscar counters.

"Agreed," Charles nods, pleased.

"Alright," Oscar clasps his hands together, "give me the timeline. We talking childhood friends? F1-era friends? Lovers turned enemies? Enemies turned lovers?"

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"I’m just collecting data," Oscar says innocently.

"Don’t worry, mate, I have the data," Charles cuts in.

Your stomach drops.

"Charles," you warn.

But he’s already too deep.

"So," Charles leans in like he’s about to deliver groundbreaking gossip, "Monaco, last year. My yacht afterparty. Except these two were not at the party because they were too busy having a moment on the dock."

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, now we’re talking."

"Alone," Charles continues, "feet in the water, looking all dramatic under the moonlight—"

"That’s not what happened," you cut in.

"I choose to believe it is," Oscar says.

"Anyway," Charles waves a hand, "it was tense. And then—get this—Lando leans in."

Oscar immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. "No. Way."

"Way," Charles nods.

"And then?"

"And then... nothing."

Oscar looks personally offended. "So, they didn’t kiss?"

"Nope."

"Did they talk about it after?"

"Not even once."

Oscar blinks.

Then he turns to you, dead serious.

"So what you’re telling me is that I’ve had to listen to Lando talk about absolute nonsense for an entire year, and this—which is actually interesting—never once came up?"

"Apparently," Charles smirks.

Oscar shakes his head, sighing. "Honestly, I feel betrayed."

"Well, he’s been avoiding me since I got here, so the story ends ," you added, shooting daggers at Charles.

"Oh, that’s just classic repressed feelings," Oscar says without hesitation.

"Thank you," Charles grins.

"It’s textbook," Oscar agrees.

"I hate you both."

"Deflection," Oscar says immediately.

"Textbook," Charles repeats.

Before you can actually walk away, the air shifts.

And then—Lando walks in.

Lando moves through the paddock the same way he always does—brimming with energy, unapologetically loud, just a little bit chaotic, like a human embodiment of a high-voltage current. It’s almost impressive, really, how someone can be so unrelentingly themselves at all times.

And yet, at this moment, it’s also deeply annoying.

Oscar and Charles, mid-conversation, immediately stop talking. Not in a natural, casual way, but in the very deliberate, slightly too-obvious way of people who are absolutely clocking the tension.

You resist the urge to fidget, to adjust your stance or smooth down your shirt or do literally anything other than exist in his vicinity. Instead, you steel yourself, ignoring the way your pulse ticks just a little too fast, and force yourself to look entirely unbothered.

Lando doesn’t see you at first.

His attention lands on Oscar, and with his usual grin, he strides forward.

"What’s up, mate?"

Before Oscar can respond, Lando reaches out and promptly ruffles his hair like an annoying older brother, sending it into a complete mess.

"Jesus—" Oscar immediately flails, swatting his hands away.

Lando just laughs, completely undeterred, before turning his attention to Charles.

"Mate," he greets, clapping a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder, nodding like they’re about to discuss something profoundly important.

And then, finally—his eyes land on you.

It happens fast, but you still catch the moment of hesitation. The flicker of recognition, the slight pause, the way his expression doesn’t quite shift but still seems to hold something uncertain.

Like he wasn’t expecting you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re standing right there.

It lasts for less than a second, barely a blink.

And then—just as quickly—it’s gone.

His face smooths back into its usual easy confidence, and without so much as a hello, a nod, anything, he simply turns back to Oscar.

"Let’s go. Time for interviews."

And just like that, he’s gone.

Just like that, you don’t exist.

Oscar’s jaw actually drops. Charles lets out a low whistle, slowly pushing his sunglasses up his nose like he just witnessed something highly entertaining.

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral, steady.

"Well," Charles murmurs after a beat, exhaling dramatically, "that was dramatic."

Oscar leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to deliver classified information.

"He just sneakily glanced at her before leaving," 

You shoot him a sharp glare.

"Drop it."

Oscar grins, miming a zip across his lips, but the way his eyes glint with curiosity tells you this is far from over.

…

The Miami Grand Prix shouldn’t feel like a fever dream. And yet, as you step into the nightclub where McLaren’s victory party is already in full swing, that’s exactly what it is.

The music pulses through the air, the bass thrumming beneath your feet. Neon lights flicker, casting glows of electric blue and deep orange across the space, the colors mirroring the McLaren celebration. Champagne bottles pop in the distance, drinks spill, bodies move to the beat. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s exactly the kind of place where reality warps, where things feel less real and more like a scene you’ll have to piece together tomorrow.

Lando won today. Not just a podium, but a full-fledged victory.

McLaren’s third 1-2 of the season. A statement race. A moment that will be replayed for years.

It’s everything he’s worked for. Everything he deserves.

So it should be easy—normal—to just be happy for him. To raise a glass, toast to his success, and not feel the sting of something unnamed creeping in around the edges.

"Tu es avec nous ou bien tu es partie dans tes pensées, là?" (Are you with us, or have you disappeared into your thoughts?)

A hand waves in front of your face, snapping you back to reality.

You blink, refocusing on Alexandra, who looks highly amused, her long dark hair shining under the blue-tinged club lights. Beside her, Charles is watching with thinly veiled smugness.

"Hein?" (Huh?)

"Elle plane complètement," (She’s totally zoning out) Charles quips, nudging Alexandra.

"Grave," (Seriously,) Alexandra agrees, smirking. She leans in slightly, voice dropping into a low, teasing lilt. "À quoi tu penses, ma belle? Ou… à qui?" (What are you thinking about, beautiful? Or… who?)

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Vous êtes insupportables," (You two are unbearable) you grumble, taking a sip of your drink.

"On t’adore aussi," (We love you too) Charles grins, entirely unbothered.

"D’ailleurs," (By the way) Alexandra says, tilting her head knowingly. "C’est quoi cette histoire avec Oscar?" (What’s this thing with Oscar?)

"Quoi? Rien," (What? Nothing) you say automatically.

"Ohhh, rien du tout?" (Ohhh, nothing at all?) she presses, eyebrows raised. "Parce que franchement, vous êtes inséparables ces derniers temps." (Because honestly, you two have been inseparable lately.)

"Bah ouais," (Well yeah) Charles hums thoughtfully, nursing his drink. Then, as if on cue, he grins knowingly. "Mais non, elle aime bien les Brits." (But no, she likes Brits.)

You whip around, giving him a look. "Excuse-moi?" (Excuse me?)

"C’est vrai," (It’s true) Charles insists, laughing as he leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. 

You cut him off immediately with a playful punch to his shoulder.

"Ferme-la," (Shut up) you mutter, though your lips twitch slightly.

"Aïe," (Ow) Charles grips his arm dramatically. "T’as vu comment elle me traite, Alexandra?" (Did you see how she treats me, Alexandra?)

"Je pense qu’elle se défend bien," (I think she’s just defending herself) Alexandra muses, smiling behind her drink.

Charles exhales, shaking his head. "Bref, parlons des choses sérieuses." (Anyway, let’s talk about serious matters)

You shoot him a warning look. "Si c’est encore un commentaire sur les Brits—" (If it’s another comment about the Brits—)

"J’allais dire qu’on devrait aller s’asseoir, mais bon," (I was going to say we should find a table, but okay) Charles smirks, standing up.

You glare, but follow.

Finding a spot isn’t easy—the entire club is a chaotic mess of celebrating McLaren personnel, F1 drivers, and the usual crowd that comes with a high-profile post-race party.

Eventually, the three of you manage to claim a booth toward the side, partially tucked away from the main dance floor.It’s the perfect vantage point—close enough to feel the energy, far enough to actually hold a conversation.

You barely have time to settle in before a familiar voice chimes in.

"Ah, you actually came."

You look up just in time to see Oscar sliding into the seat across from you, grinning.

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" you quip.

"Honestly? Wasn’t sure," Oscar admits, raising an eyebrow. "But I’m glad you’re here. McLaren’s big night. Wouldn’t be the same without you."

You snort. "Oh yeah, because I’m so crucial to the McLaren garage."

"Exactly," he nods, completely serious.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

"Anyway, get up," Oscar says, standing again. "We’re getting drinks."

"I have a drink," you point out, lifting your glass.

"Yeah, but I don’t, and I’m using you as an excuse to escape whatever conversation Charles is about to start."

You glance back at Charles, who is currently mid-sentence with Alexandra, looking vaguely philosophical.

You stand. "Good call."

Oscar drags you through the crowd with practiced ease, weaving past clusters of people already deep into celebratory rounds. The bass thrums through the floor, conversations blend into the music, and somewhere across the room, someone pops open another bottle of champagne. The whole night feels like it exists in a strange, weightless bubble, detached from reality.

By the time you reach the bar, the air feels heavier, the neon glow casting everything in shades of electric blue and orange. Oscar leans against the counter, exhaling like he’s just completed a mission.

"Alright," he sighs, nodding toward the bartender. "Now we can finally talk without being interrogated."

You snort, crossing your arms. "Big words from someone who’s been doing plenty of interrogating himself tonight."

"I prefer the term ‘investigative journalism,’" Oscar corrects smoothly, his tone just dry enough to make you huff out a laugh.

You shake your head, amused despite yourself, despite the way something unsettled lingers in your chest.

"By the way," Oscar adds casually, glancing over at you with a knowing look. "You look stunning tonight."

You narrow your eyes. "Flattery? What do you want?"

"You to stop pretending," he replies, flagging down the bartender.

Your stomach tugs slightly, a quiet warning.

"Pretending about what?"

Oscar doesn’t even bother looking at you as he gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. "That you’re over it."

You hesitate, fingers tapping against the bar.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," you say after a beat.

"Right," Oscar says, completely unconvinced. "Which is exactly why you’re about to spend the next five minutes trying not to look at him."

"I’m not—"

And then, before you can finish the thought, your gaze flickers toward the dance floor.

Lando is there.

The neon glow casts sharp edges over his features, blue light catching in the waves of his hair. He’s grinning, saying something to the woman pressed close to his side. Tall, gorgeous, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t require second-guessing. She tilts her head, lips barely brushing his ear, laughing at whatever he’s whispered.

His hand rests on her waist, fingers light but familiar.

A dull pressure settles in your chest, creeping in before you can push it away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s normal, expected. That after all this time, you shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

And yet—

Just as the thought forms, Lando’s gaze lifts.

The second his eyes meet yours, it’s like something tightens, sharpens, pulling everything into focus.

Even across the room, you feel the weight of it.

Neither of you move.

The music swells, bodies shift, champagne glasses clink, but the moment stretches longer than it should.

Then—without hesitation, he spins her.

It’s smooth, calculated in a way that feels deliberate, too easy to be accidental. His back turns, breaking the connection between you like a slammed door.

Oscar watches the entire thing unfold.

After a beat, he exhales, turning back toward the bar, plastering on the most exaggeratedly casual expression you’ve ever seen.

"Another Mojito sounds good, doesn’t it?"

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmur. "It really does."

When you turn to order, you miss the way Lando glances back over his shoulder.

But Oscar doesn’t.

...

The first morning of Monaco race week feels different.

The air is crisp, charged with the kind of anticipation that only exists in cities built for spectacle. There’s an undeniable energy, a hum that seems to vibrate through the winding streets, through the terrace cafés and superyachts lining the harbor. It’s a city that’s vibrant even on a normal day, but during Grand Prix week? It practically crackles.

And it’s home.

Which is why, despite the fact that your schedule is packed, your inbox is overflowing, and you technically have a job to do, you’ve spent your morning making pancakes.

Because priorities.

Balancing two containers stacked with still-warm pancakes, you navigate through the paddock with ease, stopping first at Charles’s motorhome.

You barely get a chance to knock before Charles pulls open his door, eyebrows lifting when he sees what you’re holding.

"T’es un ange, vraiment," (You’re an angel, truly) he says, grinning as he takes the container from your hands without hesitation.

"C’est juste des pancakes, Charles," (It’s just pancakes, Charles) you reply, amused.

"Non, non, c’est un acte d’amour," (No, no, this is an act of love) he insists, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest before lifting the lid.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. This is exactly why you like Charles—because every interaction is either chaotic or slightly ridiculous. Usually both.

" T’as décidé de lancer une boulangerie ambulante ou quoi?" (Did you decide to start a traveling bakery or what?) he asks, already picking up a pancake with his bare hands like a menace.

"Pas pour tout le monde," (Not for everyone) you smirk.

"Ah, je suis privilégié, alors." (Ah, so I’m privileged, then)

"T’as toujours aimé être traité comme un prince, non?" (You’ve always liked being treated like a prince, haven’t you?)

"Exactement," he says, nodding solemnly. "Tu me comprends trop bien." (You understand me too well)

Before you can fire back, a new voice enters the conversation.

"What’s all this?"

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Carlos Sainz strolling past, still in a Williams hoodie, his hair an absolute glorious mess.

"Morning, Carlitos," you greet, smiling as you pull him into a hug.

"Morning," he replies, hugging you back before spotting the pancakes. His expression immediately shifts to pure interest. "And what exactly do we have here?"

"Homemade, fresh, and delivered with love," you say, handing him a plate.

"I’m so glad I walked by at the right time," Carlos grins, already taking a bite.

Charles shakes his head. "I knew you’d steal my breakfast."

"I didn’t steal anything," Carlos says, pointing at you. "She offered. Huge difference."

"She only offers because she’s too nice," Charles retorts.

"Yeah, that’s definitely the reason," you deadpan.

Carlos gives a thumbs-up, still chewing. "Ten out of ten. Would accept again."

You laugh, stepping back. "Well, I have another stop to make before you two start fighting over the last one."

"Tell Oscar he’s not worthy," Charles calls after you.

"Noted."

…

The McLaren garage is already buzzing by the time you step inside, a steady hum of engineers, team personnel, and the occasional blur of papaya moving past. You barely take it in, though—your focus is on one person.

You find Oscar exactly where you expect him—perched on the edge of a counter, legs swinging idly, his attention completely fixed on the screen of his iPad.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder.

"Are you—wait, are you watching The Office?"

Oscar pauses mid-chew, glances at you, then tilts the screen just enough for you to see.

Season 2, Episode 4.

You stare.

"Oscar."

"What?" he says, around another bite of pancake.

"You’re watching it at a glacial pace," you accuse, setting the pancake container beside him. "For someone so fast on track, you’re painfully slow with TV shows."

Oscar smirks, finally glancing up.

"I told you, I don’t binge-watch things in one sitting like you do."

"That’s not a flex, Osc. That’s just a character flaw."

"I like to savor things," he argues, grabbing another pancake like it’s part of his defense.

"No, you like to take six months to finish a single season," you counter, crossing your arms.

"Tell that to my racecraft."

"Oh, I will," you say, grinning. "Right after I tell everyone you still haven’t finished White Lotus."

Oscar lets out a long, genuinely pained groan, dropping his head back against the cabinet.

"You’re the worst."

"I’m just speaking facts."

"You’re speaking like someone who finished all of Breaking Bad in four days."

"Five, actually," you correct.

"See? That’s unhinged behavior."

"It’s called commitment," you say, shrugging.

Oscar shakes his head, taking another bite, clearly accepting his fate. The conversation flows easily, like all your conversations do—comfortable, familiar, like second nature.

Which is probably why you don’t notice Lando walking in until the energy shifts.

It’s subtle—not a full stop, not an obvious shift in tone, but a flicker of something tense in the air.

Lando walks in like he always does—quick, purposeful, in the middle of something. But as soon as his gaze lands on you sitting beside Oscar, there’s a beat of hesitation.

It’s a fraction of a second—barely long enough to register—but you catch it anyway. The way his shoulders go rigid for half a breath, the way his gaze flickers over you before smoothing into something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, he masks it.

"Oscar," Lando says, tone clipped, neutral. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not even a glance.

The sting of it is instantaneous, even though you pretend not to care.

Oscar, still chewing, looks up. "Yeah?"

"The whole team’s been looking for you," Lando says, gesturing vaguely toward the engineers. "We need to go over a new strategy."

"Right," Oscar nods, setting his plate down and dusting his hands off. "I’ll be there in a sec."

Lando doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he lingers—half-turned away, but still close enough that you can see the tension in his posture. 

Then, with an exhale just sharp enough to sound frustrated, he turns and walks off.

Oscar watches him go.

Then he slowly turns back to you, chewing with far too much thought behind his expression.

And then he gives you the look.

One that very clearly says: What the fuck was that?

You lift an eyebrow, also a bit confused by what just happened.

"Don’t look at me like that," you mutter.

Oscar snorts. "Right. Because I’m the weird one here."

"Glad we agree," you deadpan.

But as Oscar grabs his plate and follows after Lando, you can’t shake the feeling that this weekend just got a lot more complicated.

…

Singapore is breathtaking at night.

The humid air clings to your skin, thick and warm, but the city more than makes up for it. The skyline is a glowing masterpiece, skyscrapers illuminated against the inky sky, the Marina Bay waters reflecting every vibrant light.There’s something surreal about being here during the race weekend—the most beautiful night race on the calendar, the entire city pulsing with energy, every street feeling like it belongs to Formula 1.

You walk leisurely through Gardens by the Bay, your steps slow against the backdrop of towering Supertrees, their neon lights casting a futuristic glow over the path. The air is still buzzing with life—distant laughter, the hum of nearby conversations, the occasional whoosh of a breeze pushing through the palm leaves.

Beside you, Lily Zneimer, Oscar’s girlfriend, matches your pace effortlessly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her lightweight sweater.

You met her earlier in the evening, introduced through Oscar with the casual ease of someone who genuinely thought you’d get along. And, to be fair—he was right.

Lily is incredibly easy to talk to—soft-spoken but sharp, with a warmth that makes conversation flow naturally. You clicked instantly, which is why, when she asked if you wanted to step out for a walk, you didn’t hesitate.

"I still can’t get over how beautiful it is here at night," Lily muses, tilting her head to admire the towering Supertree structures above.

"It’s insane," you agree, glancing up at the web of glowing branches stretching toward the sky. "It almost doesn’t feel real."

"Right?" she laughs lightly. "It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Oscar loves this place."

You hum, smiling. "You’ve been to Singapore before?"

"Just once," Lily nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I came last season, but it was a short trip. It’s nice actually having time to enjoy it this year."

"Yeah, the races kind of turn everything into a blur," you admit.

"Exactly," she agrees, before pausing just long enough for you to notice the slight shift in her tone. "Speaking of racing…"

You glance over.

She’s smiling, but there’s something pointed behind it.

"I heard you’ve been having some… trouble with his teammate."

Your steps falter slightly.

"Trouble?" you repeat.

"Maybe that’s the wrong word," Lily says, tilting her head in thought. "Let’s say… tension."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I wouldn’t call it trouble, but… yeah. It’s a bit weird."

Lily nods knowingly.

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, she drops: "Oscar said Lando was annoyed with him after the whole pancake thing in Monaco."

Your stomach pulls tight.

"Wait—annoyed?" you blink. "Why?"

Lily raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He never mentioned it?"

"Not even once," you say slowly, trying to piece together what you’re hearing.

"They usually get on well," Lily continues, studying your reaction carefully. "But after that, apparently, he barely spoke to him. It was noticeable enough for Oscar to bring it up, which says a lot."

You had assumed that whatever had happened in Monaco—whatever weird, quiet grudge Lando had been holding—had been aimed solely at you. That he had ignored you and moved on.

But now…

Now you’re hearing that he had barely spoken to Oscar that whole weekend?

You stare ahead, processing.

"I thought it was just me," you admit, mostly to yourself.

Lily watches you for a moment before giving you a gentle nudge. "Maybe you should talk to him. Just clear the air."

You open your mouth, hesitate, then exhale through your nose.

"I don’t know if that would help," you say honestly.

Lily hums, thoughtful. "Maybe. But ignoring it doesn’t seem to be working either."

You don’t have a counter for that.

…

Mexico city is loud and bright, and the warmth in the air feels almost celebratory. Alexandra had been talking about this dinner she was hosting for weeks, making sure everyone knew it was the event before the race weekend officially kicked off. If the turnout is anything to go by, no one wanted to miss it. The restaurant is stunning—high ceilings, flickering candlelight, the scent of fresh tortillas and smoky mezcal curling through the air. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like the whole night is stretched out in front of you, waiting to unfold into something memorable.

You arrive in high spirits, weaving through the tables, greeting familiar faces. The atmosphere is relaxed, conversations overlapping in different languages, the soft clink of glasses mingling with bursts of laughter. It doesn’t take long before you find yourself sliding into a seat beside Oscar, who acknowledges your presence with an easy grin.

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” he teases, nudging your arm as you set your bag down.

“Had to mentally prepare for whatever nonsense was waiting for me at this table,” you reply, scanning the group.

Carlos, sitting across from you, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’d say welcome, but I think you already know you’ve walked into enemy territory.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That bad already?”

“Carlos is just upset that I’m his biggest threat now,” Oscar chimes in, reaching for a glass of water. “He’s still not over the last race.”

Carlos scoffs. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“You should be honored,” Oscar counters smoothly. “Most people would love to be my rival.”

“Por Dios,” Carlos mutters under his breath, laughingly shaking his head.

Max, who had been swirling his gin and tonic lazily, finally looks up, unimpressed. “You two are still on this?”

Carlos points at him accusingly. “You’re just saying that because you don’t care.”

Max shrugs. “I care about my cats.”

Charles smirks. “And somehow, you still win races.”

Max lifts his glass as if to toast himself. “It’s all about balance.”

Oscar turns to you, shaking his head. “This is what I deal with on a daily basis.”

“Sounds tough,” you say, completely unsympathetic.

Max leans back, eyeing you playfully. “So, what do you think? Who wins if they go head-to-head next race?”

You hum, pretending to give it serious thought. “I think I’ll stay neutral and just enjoy the show.”

Carlos nods approvingly. “Smart answer.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Coward.”

The night moves on, drinks are refilled, plates are passed around, and the warmth of the evening settles into your bones. The food is incredible, Alexandra beaming every time someone compliments her choice of venue. The conversation is easy, filled with teasing and inside jokes, but even through the laughter, you can feel a certain presence in the room. A presence that, despite your best efforts, you’re hyper-aware of.

Lando arrives late, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss him.

His voice carries across the restaurant before you even see him, his laughter breaking through the steady hum of conversation. When he finally makes his way over, he’s in full form—grinning, animated, throwing an arm around Max like they’ve just won something. He slides into a seat between Carlos and Max, immediately falling into conversation, his energy big enough to pull focus. But every time you’re around?

He says nothing.

You don’t think anyone else notices at first. He’s still himself, still cracking jokes, still pulling people into conversations, still loud and impossible to ignore. But whenever you’re in the same circle, whenever your paths inevitably cross, he keeps his focus carefully elsewhere. You catch him sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not paying attention, his gaze flickering your way for barely a second before shifting back. And when he joins a conversation you’re already in, he acts as if you don’t exist at all.

You think you might be imagining it, but then you catch Oscar watching. Charles, too. And when the opportunity presents itself, when the moment naturally shifts and they see their chance, they both take it.

Charles stretches with an exaggerated sigh. “I think I need another drink.”

Oscar pushes his chair back immediately. “Yeah, same.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Oscar nods, already standing.

“Absolutely,” Charles adds, following suit.

They’re gone before you can argue.

And just like that, it’s just you and Lando.

The air changes immediately. 

Lando drums his fingers against the table, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar, then back to the space in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but it still feels like he’s aware of you, like the silence between you is taking up more space than it should.

You let the quiet stretch for a moment before finally breaking it.

“So,” you say casually, leaning back. “How are you?”

He glances at you, just for a second, and something shifts in his expression. Like he wasn’t expecting the question. Like he was caught off guard. You think, for a moment, that he might actually answer, that he might let whatever this is crack just a little.

But then, just as fast, his face smooths over.

“Could be better,” he says simply.

And then, without another word, he stands and walks off to talk to Carlos, leaving you there.

…

The paddock is still buzzing as the sun starts to set over Abu Dhabi, casting long shadows against the garages. It’s the usual pre-race chaos—engineers moving in and out, last-minute interviews happening outside team motorhomes—but your world has narrowed down to a single conversation.

You lean against the doorframe of Oscar’s driver room, arms crossed, watching as he sips from a water bottle like he hasn’t just blindsided you with his latest observation.

“You know he’s jealous, right?”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

Oscar sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Lando. He’s jealous. And you, my friend, are being absolutely insufferable about it.”

You scoff. “I’m insufferable?”

“Yes.” He nods, completely serious. “The ignoring-you thing? The weird, brooding glances? The fact that he’s acting like a Victorian husband who just found out his wife is writing letters to another man?”

Your lips part in disbelief. “That is a ridiculous comparison.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Is it? Because if he had a top hat, I’m pretty sure he’d be angrily adjusting it every time you walked past.”

Despite yourself, you let out a short laugh. “That is not what’s happening.”

“It is what’s happening.” Oscar tilts his head, unimpressed. “And you’ve just been letting it happen all season.”

Your arms tighten over your chest. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not a problem, it’s just… a situation you could easily resolve if you both stopped being so painfully repressed.”

You glare. “We are not repressed.”

Oscar snorts. “Oh, right. My mistake. Just two people who definitely don’t have unresolved tension standing in opposite corners of the paddock, staring dramatically across the room like they’re in a period drama.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I hate that you’ve started narrating my life.”

“Then fix your storyline.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, like he already knows he’s right, like he’s just waiting for you to figure it out yourself—that makes your stomach turn. You hate that there’s truth in his words, that deep down, you already know what’s happening here. You hate that ignoring it has been easier.

And you really hate that Oscar sees through you so easily.

“Just talk to him already,” he says, exasperated.

You huff, pretending to check your nonexistent watch. “Wow, would you look at the time? That’s enough of Oscar’s therapy hour.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You push off the doorframe. “I have very important things to do.”

Oscar smirks. “Like knocking on Lando’s door?”

“Like avoiding you,” you correct, already walking away.

He grins, but doesn’t push it further. “Let me know how it goes.”

…

Your heart is pounding by the time you knock.

It’s stupid. You’ve seen him a thousand times before. You’ve spent years around him. But something about this—about actively choosing to be here, about acknowledging something unspoken after months of pretending—makes your nerves coil tight in your stomach.

There’s a brief pause, the muffled sound of movement inside, and then the door swings open.

Lando stands before you, still in his race suit, half unzipped, sleeves tied loosely around his waist, the fabric clinging to the remaining sweat on his skin. His hair is a mess, damp, sticking up in different directions. Hot.

He looks at you, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to mask it.

There’s no indifference. No forced distance.

Just recognition.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower than usual, rough around the edges.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of the heat radiating off his skin, of the way his fingers twitch slightly against the doorframe.

“I just…” You hesitate, feeling a little stupid, a little out of place. “I wanted to say good luck. And that I’m happy to see you doing so well.”

Lando’s expression flickers. Not surprise, not exactly, but something close.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it.

Before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes.

It’s a split second—his whole body tensing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His arms remain stiff at his sides, and for a moment, you think this was a mistake.

Then, slowly, he exhales.

His fingers brush against your back, hesitant at first—then firmer, pressing lightly against your spine. He doesn’t hold you tightly, but he holds you.

Your face is against his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Then, just as quickly as you stepped into him, you pull away.

You meet his eyes for a brief second, your pulse a little uneven, and then, just to break the tension, you flash a small grin.

"Right. So. Uh… don’t crash, I guess?"

Lando lets out a short, breathy laugh—like he wasn’t expecting that.

And then you turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him standing in the doorway, watching you go, hands still hovering slightly at his sides like he’s not sure what just happened.

…

The paddock is quiet now, the chaos of the race replaced by a slow, methodical dismantling of the weekend. Mechanics move with practiced ease, packing up equipment, coiling cables, loading crates. The bright lights above cast long shadows across the pit lane, stretching out into the empty grandstands.

You lean against the railing of the paddock terrace, high above it all, watching the world wind down. There’s something almost peaceful about it—the way everything slows after the high-energy storm of the season’s final race.

Oscar was supposed to meet you here, but you don’t mind the solitude. After months of back-to-back weekends, the rare quiet feels like a luxury.

Then, you sense someone stepping beside you.

You don’t even have to turn. You already know it’s him.

Still, when you do, Lando is watching you.

His race suit is still tied around his waist, curls damp from the post-race exhaustion. His face is unreadable, but his presence is steady, intentional.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “Hey.”

For the first time in months, standing next to him doesn’t feel like balancing on a tightrope. There’s no hesitation in the silence, no unsaid words pressing against the edges. Just a quiet that feels comfortable. Familiar.

Lando exhales, staring down at the pit lane below. His fingers tap lightly against the railing, like he’s debating something.

Then—he sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

A small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “For how I’ve been acting all season. For ignoring you. For being… whatever the hell that was.”

You nod, gaze flickering back to the track. “Yeah. You were kind of a dick.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I know.”

There’s a weight in the air, but it isn’t suffocating. Just something that has been waiting too long to be acknowledged.

Lando shifts closer, resting his elbows on the railing. His hands grip the metal a little tighter than usual.

“I didn’t handle things well,” he admits.

You glance at him. “What things?”

His jaw tightens. He hesitates. Then—

“Seeing you every weekend. Looking all happy with Oscar. It was—” He stops himself, inhaling deeply. “It was fucking unbearable.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. “Oscar was just being nice. Made me feel welcome.”

It’s a subtle dig. You know it. He knows it.

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I hated it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Lando… do you know what was actually nice about spending time with Oscar?”

His lips press together, shoulders tense. “Enlighten me.”

You keep your voice casual, but there’s an edge to your words.

“Being treated like I exist.”

His jaw flexes. He hears the meaning beneath it.

Lando shifts, his weight rocking slightly onto his heels. He stares down at the pit lane for a long moment, then exhales slowly.

“It’s hard, you know?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “Trying to move on from something when it still feels unfinished.”

He swallows, glancing at you, then, carefully—

“I didn’t think I moved on.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable.

“I thought ignoring you would make it easier. That if I acted like you weren’t there, maybe I could get over it.” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking work.”

You exhale, finally understanding.

“Truthfully?” You pause, then admit, “I never moved on either.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. Relief. Frustration. Longing. Maybe all of it at once.

“Then why did we do this to ourselves?” he mutters.

You shake your head. “Because we’re idiots.”

He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe it. “Yeah.”

The weight of the moment settles between you both. It stretches, thickens, morphs into something tangible. Something inevitable.

Then, suddenly, the air shifts.

Lando’s gaze drops—to your lips.

It lingers.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move away this time.

Hesitantly—like he’s giving you the chance to stop this, to pull back—he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative, hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. His lips brush against yours, light as air, but the way his fingers graze your jaw, the way his breath catches, gives him away.

Then, slowly, something shifts.

His hands slip to your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a way that feels too natural, too easy, like you were always meant to be here.

And then he deepens it.

Not rushed, not desperate but slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he’s trying to make up for every wasted second. Like he knows this moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

Your fingers slide into his curls, damp from the night, messy from the hours he’s spent in his helmet, but softer than you imagined. The second you do, he exhales—a sound somewhere between a sigh and relief, like this is what he’s been waiting for, like something inside him is finally settling into place.

The world shrinks.

The paddock is forgotten.

It’s just him.

Just you.

Just this.

And when you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

Your forehead rests against his, both of you lingering in the space between, breath mingling, hearts still racing—like neither of you are quite ready to let go just yet

Lando grins—dazed, breathless, like he’s still processing it.

“So… does this mean you’ll bring me pancakes in Monaco next year?”

You groan, shoving his chest.

“You just kissed me, and that’s the first thing you say?”

“It’s an important question.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Consider it?”

“Yes. If you keep this up.”

He grins. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

…

bonus scene 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. About time.”

You both jolt apart, startled, turning to see Oscar standing there, arms crossed, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Lando lets out an actual whimper before burying his face in your shoulder. “No. Nope. This is a dream. This isn’t real.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Nah, it’s real. And I wish it wasn’t.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”

Oscar throws his hands up. “Long enough to regret every decision that’s brought me to this moment.”

Lando, still hiding his face, mumbles into your shoulder. “If I don’t move, maybe he’ll go away.”

“Yeah, that’s what you tried with her all season, and look how that turned out,” Oscar deadpans.

Lando groans loudly before finally lifting his head to glare at him. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Oscar nods, completely serious. “I was genuinely starting to think I’d have to suffer through another season of whatever that was.”

Lando throws his hands up. “I did not—”

Oscar holds up a finger. “Oh, you did. And I had to watch. Every week.”

Lando groans. “I hate everything about this.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “Yeah, well, so did I. I’d estimate I’ve aged about six years in the span of this season.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was that bad?”

Oscar gestures vaguely. “I mean… watching you two pretend you didn’t carewas exhausting. Do you know how hard it is to be the only sane person in this situation?”

Lando chuckles under his breath. “Fair.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, now you admit it?”

Lando shrugs. “Had to keep things interesting.”

Oscar scoffs. “For who? Your personal character development?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Lando sighs beside you.

Oscar, still looking far too pleased with himself, claps Lando on the back. “Alright, lovebirds. Carry on. Don’t let me stop you.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he simply turns and walks off, whistling like he’s just closed a major business deal.

Lando watches him disappear, blinking in mild disbelief. “We’re never hearing the end of this, are we?”

You grin, looping your arms around his neck.

“Nope.”

[julietsf1]

Overtaking Your Expectations - Oscar Piastri x Reader

summary: your biggest mistake this weekend? underestimating Oscar Piastri. now, he’s making sure you know it (3k words)

content: fluff, introvert warming up, lando's friend x oscar

AN: china did not go easy on my heart lol *cries in ferrari* glad mclaren did well though I really like oscar so glad the team just lets him win when he is p1! hope you all have a lovely day darlings <3

.......................................................................

Race weekends have a rhythm. The steady hum of engines, the flurry of activity in the paddock, the undercurrent of competition that pulses through every conversation, every movement. You’ve been to a fair few of them by now—tagging along with Lando, watching from the sidelines, soaking it all in.

But this weekend? Shanghai feels bigger.

Maybe it’s the packed paddock, maybe it’s the humidity that clings to your skin like an overenthusiastic handshake, or maybe it’s just the sheer weight of the stakes, the speed, the inevitability of something dramatic happening.

You’re standing in the McLaren garage, taking it all in—the organized chaos of race preparations, the smell of fresh rubber, the sound of mechanics running through last-minute checks—when a voice cuts through the noise.

Calm. Dry. Just slightly amused.

“You don’t work here, do you?”

You turn your head.

Oscar Piastri is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, an easy but intent look in his eyes, like he’s trying to place you. He’s still in his McLaren team kit, hair slightly mussed like he’s just pulled off a helmet. He looks precisely as composed as someone who drives at 300 km/h for a living—annoyingly so.

Your lips twitch. “That depends. If I say yes, do I get paid?”

There’s a pause—not because he’s actually considering it, but because he’s amused that you even said it.

His mouth quirks. “Not sure. But you’d probably get a uniform.”

You pretend to think. “Tempting. I’d look good in papaya.”

Now, he actually smiles. Small, but real. A fraction of a second too long.

“Right. So, you must be Lando’s friend.”

You tilt your head. “What gave it away?”

“The way you’re standing here like you own the place, enough mischief in your eyes to make me wonder if I should be keeping an eye on the spare parts.”

You snort. “Wow. So observant.”

He shrugs. “It’s a skill.”

Before you can respond, there’s movement near the front of the garage—Lando’s voice filtering through the commotion as he chats with his engineers. You feel his presence before you see him, the energy in the garage shifting slightly as he approaches.

Oscar notices too, glancing toward the noise before looking back at you.

“Well,” he says, stepping slightly aside, like he’s about to say more but thinks better of it, “guess I’ll let you get back to… whatever it is you’re doing.”

And just like that, he’s gone—moving effortlessly back toward the garage setup, disappearing into the organized chaos.

And you, despite yourself, find your eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary.

…

You weave through the McLaren motorhome, trying your best to look like you know exactly where you’re going. The problem is—you don’t. At all.

Every hallway looks indistinguishably sleek and corporate, every door marked with something unhelpfully vague like “Operations” or “Strategy.” You briefly consider making a bold, confident turn into one of them, but there’s always the looming risk of accidentally wandering into a pre-race briefing and getting thrown out like a lost intern.

That’s how you find yourself here—somewhere in the depths of McLaren HQ, clutching your coffee like a lifeline, when a familiar voice cuts through the hum of paddock noise.

“You’re back.”

It’s not a question. It’s an observation, one that comes with the dry, knowing tone of someone who expected to see you eventually.

You glance up. Oscar Piastri.

He’s standing just a step away, hands tucked into the pockets of his McLaren-issued hoodie, his expression as effortlessly unreadable as ever—except for the telltale glint of amusement in his eyes.

“Was I not supposed to be?” you ask, arching a brow.

Oscar tilts his head slightly. “Just an observation.”

You hum, taking a slow sip of your coffee, partially to hide the fact that he’s somehow already gotten under your skin. “Should I be flattered you noticed?”

Oscar doesn’t answer immediately. He just watches you, like he’s weighing his options—play along or push back?

Then, finally, he smirks.

“Well, I do have to keep track of Lando’s distractions.”

You scoff, nearly choking on your coffee. “Wow. Bold of you to assume I’m a distraction.”

His lips twitch, eyes flicking down to your McLaren pass dangling from your lanyard. “Aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply. “Shut up.”

Oscar lets out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly. “So… where exactly are you wandering off to?” His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of amusement beneath it, like he already knows the answer.

You hesitate. “Nowhere in particular.”

His brows lift, clearly unconvinced. “Right. Just happened to end up here, directly in front of my driver’s room?”

You scoff. “That’s a stretch.”

Oscar hums, hands still casually tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. “Not that I’m complaining, obviously.”

You open your mouth to fire back a response, but instead, he takes a small step forward, nodding his head down the hall. “Come on.”

You blink. “What?”

His lips twitch again, barely hiding a smirk. “You were trying to find the break room, weren’t you?”

You pause. Okay, maybe you were.

Oscar takes your non-answer as confirmation, already turning slightly. “Figured. I’ll walk you.”

For some reason, you don’t argue.

You fall into step beside him, the two of you weaving through the sleek McLaren hallways, his pace unrushed, too at ease for someone who should probably be doing something more important.

A few team members pass, some sparing a curious glance, some not bothering at all—because to anyone else, it probably just looks like a normal conversation. But there’s something oddly settled about the way he walks beside you, like this isn’t the first time, like it’s just easy.

The lunchroom comes into view, and Oscar gestures toward an empty table near the back.

“Sit,” he says simply, sliding into the chair across from you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You narrow your eyes, but follow anyway. “What, you’re babysitting me now?”

Oscar shrugs, leaning back in his chair, expression perfectly neutral. “I don’t know. Maybe I just enjoy the company.”

And annoyingly, you don’t hate the way that sounds.

Before you can respond, a new voice drifts in from just over your shoulder.

“Oi, stop corrupting my guests.”

Lando.

You barely have time to turn before he’s already breezing past, casually throwing an arm over the back of your chair—not fully joining the conversation, but just present enough to remind Oscar exactly where your loyalties lie.

Oscar doesn’t seem remotely fazed. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says smoothly, though the glint of amusement in his eyes tells a different story.

Lando exhales dramatically, as if this is truly the greatest burden of his existence, shaking his head as he scrolls through his phone. “Good. Because I need her focused on manifesting my race win.”

At this, Oscar finally looks back at you. “Oh, is that what you’re doing?”

You shrug, sipping your coffee again. “Of course. I’m a supportive friend.”

“Right.” His lips curve just slightly. “And definitely not underestimating me in the process.”

You hold his gaze. “I don’t underestimate. I just bet smart. Only one number one driver in the team.”

There’s a small beat of silence, the words hanging just long enough to feel like a challenge.

Then, Oscar exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Interesting take.”

Lando, half-listening, barely invested, lets out a small, distracted hum. "See? She knows what she's talking about." He then grins, teasing, "Just don't pull a 'Multi 21' on me please, Osc." He pats your shoulder and wanders off without another word—his attention clearly already pulled elsewhere.​

You watch him go before turning back to Oscar, who’s still standing there, his expression unreadable.

“What?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly, as if highly amused by something he’s not saying out loud. “Nothing. Just wondering how confident you really are in that bet.”

You narrow your eyes. “Oh, I’m very confident.”

Oscar hums again, but it’s less a hum and more of a quiet, knowing sound. The kind that lingers.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

And when he finally moves to leave, he does so with an air of quiet certainty.

As if he already knows something you don’t.

…

Race day. The Shanghai International Circuit is buzzing with energy—mechanics darting between garages, engineers murmuring into radios, and cameras following drivers as they make their rounds. The entire paddock feels like it's holding its breath, the anticipation thick in the air.

You're perched in the McLaren hospitality lounge, scrolling through your phone, the last moments of calm before the chaos begins. Absentmindedly, you post a pic from the garage yesterday on your story, captioned:

"Let’s go, Lando! Bring it home"

The moment you hit send, a shadow falls over your table.

"Wow." The voice is dry, unimpressed, and far too familiar. "Brutal."

You glance up. Oscar.

He's standing there, arms crossed, expression perfectly neutral—except for the unmistakable glint of amusement in his eyes.

"Brutal?" you echo, arching a brow.

He nods toward your phone. "Publicly backing the wrong papaya boy. Tough to see."

You snort, locking your screen. "Oh, come on. Surely, you’re used to it by now."

Oscar exhales, tilting his head slightly like you've personally wounded him. "Wow. Just twisting the knife, are we?"

You grin, tilting your head right back at him. "I don't know. You seem like you can take it."

His lips quirk. "I can. But that doesn't mean I have to suffer in silence."

"Ah, so what you're saying is," you muse, tapping your fingers against the table, "you're here to guilt-trip me?"

Oscar sinks into the chair opposite you, completely uninvited, and shrugs with infuriating ease. "I just think it’s fascinating."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," he continues, eyes flickering with mock disappointment. "I mean, I get it. You’re Lando’s guest. You feel obligated. But deep down? I think you know you’re backing the wrong McLaren driver today."

You scoff, folding your arms. "That’s a bold assumption."

"What?" His grin is almost lazy now. "Just saying, if I were you, I’d want to be on the winning side."

You gasp, dramatically. "Wow. So not only do you expect me to abandon my loyalty to my dear friend, but now you're calling me a bandwagon fan?"

He lifts a brow. "Wouldn't be the first time people switched sides after a race."

You shake your head, trying not to laugh. "You are so smug right now."

"Confident," he corrects smoothly, with a little cheeky wink.

You lean in slightly, matching his challenge. "Alright then, Piastri. If you’re so sure, let’s make this interesting."

His smirk deepens. "Go on."

You pretend to think. "If Lando wins, you have to—" You pause, eyes flickering over him before smirking. "Actually, no. I’ll save that for later."

Oscar blinks, then tilts his head, clearly intrigued but trying not to let it show. "And if I win?"

Your grin widens. "I guess I’ll admit I backed the wrong papaya."

Oscar lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "That’s it? No real stakes?"

"You want me to grovel?"

He hums as if considering. "Wouldn’t say no."

You roll your eyes, pushing yourself up from your chair. "Go win your race first, then we’ll talk."

Oscar watches you for a beat, then stands, stretching slightly.

"Good," he murmurs, eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I'll see you after the race, then."

And just like that, he walks away, too at ease, too sure of himself.

The worst part?

You can’t tell if you want him to win or lose. Probably both.

…

The Shanghai podium celebrations are wild—McLaren crew drenched in champagne, cheers echoing through the paddock, orange confetti stuck to everything in sight. Oscar won. Lando finished P2. It’s a dream result for the team, and the energy is electric.

You’re lingering near the back of the garage, watching as Oscar strides in, helmet still in hand, damp curls sticking to his forehead, fireproofs half-zipped down. He looks buzzed, winded, like he’s still catching up to the fact that he just won a Grand Prix.

You weren’t planning to stare. Really, you weren’t. But something about the way he looks—sharp, effortless, quietly victorious—makes it annoyingly difficult not to.

He catches your eye immediately.

“Ah,” he says, grinning like he’s already won twice today. “My biggest doubter.”

You fold your arms, smirking. “Doubter? I prefer realist.”

Oscar scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. And what’s your realist take now?”

You pretend to consider, tapping your chin. “I guess I was wrong.”

He arches a brow. “Sorry, what was that?”

You narrow your eyes, mock-annoyed. “Don’t make me say it twice.”

“I just want to make sure I heard it correctly,” he says, stepping closer, the noise of the garage fading slightly around you. “Did you just admit you underestimated me?”

You exhale, dramatically. “Fine. You were fast today. Scary fast.”

Oscar tilts his head, his gaze flicking between yours, like he’s memorizing the moment. “I’ll take that.”

His voice is softer now. The teasing still lingers, but there’s something else beneath it.

And for the first time, you let yourself actually feel it.

The heat curling between you, the undercurrent of something that’s been there all weekend, just waiting for someone to name it.

“Alright, relax, mate,” Lando interrupts, draping an arm around your shoulders, half yanking you away from Oscar. “You’re acting like you won the championship, not one race.”

Oscar lets out a breathy laugh, running a hand through his damp curls. “Sorry. Forgot I’m supposed to act like I don’t care.”

Lando smirks. “That’s more like it.” Then, he squints at you. “But you—” he taps your arm, mock-accusing, “—I saw you talking to him way too much today. And he never talks to anyone.”

You roll your eyes. “Relax, Norris. You know you are my favorite McLaren driver.”

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. "Still backing the wrong papaya, I see."

You shrug, grinning. "I stand by my choices."

He leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to make it feel deliberate. "Mmm. Let’s see how long that lasts."

Lando groans, shaking his head. "You do realize I can see you two, right? Like, I’m standing right here. I hate this. I’m leaving."

You laugh as he walks off, shaking his head, disappearing into the crowd of McLaren personnel.

Oscar, still standing close, exhales through his nose, amused. “You know, for someone who’s so sure about her loyalties, you’re suspiciously invested in proving me wrong.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I am not invested.”

He lifts a brow, tilting his head slightly. “Aren’t you?”

You hold his gaze. “No.”

Oscar hums, studying you in that annoyingly patient way of his, like he’s waiting for you to break first.

And then—he steps in, just enough that you feel the space shift, just enough that your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he murmurs, voice lower now, teasing but edged with something softer.

You blink. Heart in your throat. “You thrive off of this, don’t you? Making my life difficult.”

He grins, easy and unbothered. But he doesn’t step back.

“Maybe.” His gaze dips, just slightly, like he’s debating something. “You don’t seem to mind so much, though.”

Your stomach does a stupid, useless flip.

You could say something snarky. Something to break whatever is suddenly heavy in the air between you. But for some reason, you don’t.

In your attempt to break the tension, you roll your eyes, lightly shoving his arm. “Go celebrate, Piastri.”

His smirk lingers as he steps back—just slightly, just enough.

“Oh, I am.”

He turns to leave but hesitates—just long enough for you to notice, just long enough for it to feel intentional.

Then, with an almost lazy kind of ease, he glances over his shoulder. “You coming later?”

It’s not a demand. Not even a direct invitation. Just a question, wrapped in something that feels a little like a dare.

Your lips twitch. “Depends.”

Oscar tilts his head slightly. “On?”

You pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “How generous you’re feeling after your win. Think you can handle buying me a drink?”

His smirk deepens—not cocky, not smug, just amused.

“Yeah,” he says simply, eyes flicking over you once before settling again. “I think I can handle that.”

Your grin widens. “Good.”

[julietsf1]

Off Limits - Kenan Yildiz x Bellingham!Reader

summary: Jude had one rule: his sister was strictly off-limits. Kenan really tried to listen, really did. But then you smiled at him, and, well—there was no coming back from that. (18k words)

content: brother's best friend, slow burn, secret relationship, forbidden love, slight angst

AN: wrote this on the plane the other day!! can't lie guys, I have a real soft spot for Madrid since I had an exchange there & with the recent rumours on the possibility of Kenan leaving Juve I just had to write this! It is looooong but being a binge reader myself I always prefer long stories over multiple chapters :) hope u enjoy! ciao

------------------------------------------------

The house smelled of garlic and slow-simmering tomatoes, the kind of warmth that wrapped around you the second you stepped inside. It was familiar, homey—but unexpected. Jude rarely cooked unless coerced, which meant one thing:

He had help.

Following the hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of pans, you stepped into the kitchen—and immediately stopped short.

Jude stood by the stove, stirring something that, shockingly, looked edible. Beside him, moving with effortless ease, was a second figure, sleeves pushed up, knife in hand, chopping vegetables with practiced precision.

Your brows lifted slightly.

Kenan Yıldız.

You recognized him instantly—not just because of who he was, but because Jude never shut up about him. His name had been woven into conversations for weeks now. One of the best new signings at Madrid. Got along with Jude right away.

What you hadn’t expected was… this.

Kenan fit into the kitchen like he had been coming to your house for years. The smooth rhythm of his hands, the clean efficiency as he gathered greens in his palm before tossing them into a bowl—it was clear he knew what he was doing. He didn’t even look up at first, simply remarking,

“You must be Jude’s sister.”

His voice was warm, rich, touched with something amused—like he already knew you.

You blinked. “And you must be the new recruit.”

That got his attention. He looked up then and—okay, wow.

It wasn’t just that he was handsome; that was a given. It was how he carried himself—calm, unhurried, effortlessly present, as if he didn’t need to take up space to be noticed. His dazling green eyes met yours, gaze steady, warm, quietly amused. Like he was taking you in, waiting to see what you’d say next.

Jude, oblivious to the shift in the air, barely looked up. “Don’t let him fool you. He’s not helping.”

Kenan scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me? I’m doing all the hard work.”

“You’re cutting vegetables,” Jude deadpanned.

“With flawless precision,” Kenan shot back.

You leaned against the counter, watching them, amused despite yourself.

“You actually cook?” you asked, directing the question at Kenan.

He nodded, as if it were obvious. “Of course.”

Jude let out a disbelieving snort. “He’s lying.”

Kenan pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “What’s with the judging, Judy?”

“You literally looked up a tutorial on TikTok when you picked up the knife.”

Kenan smirked. “And? I’m a quick learner.”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Unexpected. Kenan’s gaze flickered to you, and for a brief moment, his expression softened.

Clearing your throat, you fought to regain the upper hand. “So, you’re just here to show off, then?”

Kenan shrugged. “Figured I should try my best to impress the sister I’ve heard so much about.”

You tilted your head. “Are you this smooth with everyone, or am I just special?”

His smile was slow, a little surprised—like he wasn’t expecting you to match him but found that he liked it.

“A little of both,” he admitted. “But mainly the latter.”

Jude groaned, dramatically turning away from the stove. “Oh my days. Don’t make me wack you with this spatula Kenan.”

Kenan smirked. “No worries, bro”

Yet he was still watching you, eyes glinting, something unreadable flickering behind them—like he wasn’t sure what to make of you yet.

You stretched out comfortably in the kitchen chair. “I think I’ll just sit here and watch. This is way more entertaining than I expected.”

Kenan chuckled, reaching for another onion. “As long as you’re enjoying yourself.”

The worst part? You did.

Jude, still focused on the pan, added, “For the record, Kenan practically begged to be invited over.”

Kenan exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s a dramatic way to put it.”

You arched a brow. “So what’s the less dramatic version?”

Kenan wiped his hands on a towel, leaning back against the counter. “I mentioned I had nothing to do tonight, and your brother insisted I come over.”

Jude scoffed. “You asked what I was making for dinner and then said, That sounds nice. I wish I had plans.”

Kenan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “And you invited me. So, really, this is on you.”

You hummed, amused. “Strategic play.”

Kenan’s lips twitched. “Can you blame me? Good food, good company…” His eyes flickered to you for half a second before he added, “I think I made the right call.”

Jude, oblivious, just shook his head. “Right. Well, you can do the dishes, then.”

Kenan sighed, dramatic as ever. “That’s not how guests should be treated.”

You smirked, shaking your head at him.

Jude barely paid attention, focused on stirring the pan. “Kenan’s alright,” he muttered. “One of the only friends I actually trust with my life.”

Kenan looked over at him, a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting the sentiment to be voiced so easily.

Jude continued, utterly unfazed. “That being said—just so you know—same rule applies to him as everyone else.”

He finally turned, fixing Kenan with a pointed look. “She’s off-limits.”

The air shifted.

Your expression twisted immediately. “Excuse me?”

Jude didn’t even glance at you. His focus remained on Kenan, casual but firm. It was clear he didn’t think twice about saying it, just like he had with every other teammate, every other friend. It was instinct.

Kenan, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He held Jude’s stare for a long moment, something unreadable passing through his expression before it turned into a friendly smile.

“Duly noted.”

Jude gave him a little slap on the back, before turning back to the stove. 

“Not that I don’t trust you, man. Just needed you to know.”

And then, just as effortlessly, just as naturally as if this were all a game only he knew the rules to—

Kenan winked at you.

You wanted to throw something.

Kenan just chuckled under his breath, tossing a handful of chopped parsley into the dish.

Jude, completely oblivious, still hunched over the stove, stirring like nothing had happened.

You exhaled slowly, chest feeling tighter than before.

This was going to be a problem.

…

The night was already borderline ridiculous before you even set foot on the course.

Disco golf.

Who in their right mind came up with this?

The artificial grass glowed with neon strips, fluorescent obstacles scattered across each hole like some kind of fever dream. Overhead, strobe lights pulsed in sync with a painfully bad club remix blaring from the speakers. It was an assault on the senses in every possible way.

And yet, somehow, this group made it work.

You barely had a chance to breathe before Antoine Griezmann materialized out of nowhere, his signature shit-eating grin firmly in place.

“Well, well, well,” he drawled, flipping a golf ball between his fingers like it was a poker chip. “Look who finally showed up.”

“I was literally five minutes late.”

Antoine was as predictable as ever—an insufferable smooth-talker, equal parts charming and irritating. He had tried it with you once, a half-baked attempt at flirting that had crashed and burned spectacularly. Instead of being embarrassed, he had turned it into a long-running joke at your expense. Or at least, he claimed it was a joke. 

You rolled your eyes. “I see Jude didn’t immediately chase you out of here. He must be in a good mood.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Why do people assume your brother hates me?”

“Because he does,” a new voice chimed in.

Vini Jr. 

The responsible one. The glue that held the group together. He was calm, steady, unbothered—unless you insulted his dance routine, in which case, he suffered more than anyone you knew.

Vini clapped Antoine on the back, his expression completely deadpan. “And for good reason.”

Antoine scoffed. “You wound me, bro.”

Before Vini could respond, a golf club swung dangerously close to both their faces.

“Boys, boys,” Arda Güler interrupted, dramatically flourishing his club like he was starring in a medieval jousting match. The lovable idiot, always at the center of chaos. His entire personality was built on making bad decisions and hoping for the best.

“This is a game of precision, not violence.” He spun his club around before dramatically planting it into the ground. “And I will emerge victorious.”

“You say that every time,” Vini muttered.

Arda ignored him.

A hand clapped down on your shoulder, and you turned to find Julián Álvarez standing beside you, unreadable as always.

“Should I even ask why you agreed to this?” he asked, voice low, amusement barely detectable.

Julián was the quietest of the group—the type who didn’t say much but noticed everything. He never inserted himself into drama, but if you needed advice, someone to talk to, or a brutally honest reality check, he was the guy.

You shrugged. “Morbid curiosity.”

Julián hummed, unconvinced.

The group started pairing up, and you had already resigned yourself to being stuck with Jude, as always. But before you could even move, Arda slung an arm around Jude’s shoulders.

“I’m with Jude,” he announced decisively, leaving no room for argument.

Jude shot him an incredulous look. “Since when?”

“Since now,” Arda said, already dragging him toward the first hole. “You’re good at this, right? Because I refuse to lose.”

You barely had time to process the betrayal before Julián and Vini shuffeled a little closer together as well. 

Great. That left you with either Antoine or Kenan.

Your eyes flickered toward Antoine, who was casually flipping his golf ball in one hand, smirking like he was already planning something insufferable.

Without a second thought, you turned to Kenan instead.

He was already watching you, utterly unbothered, twirling his club with the same easy confidence he carried in everything.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said, handing you your ball.

Your fingers tightened around it as you met his gaze.

“Lucky me.”

Kenan’s lips twitched, just slightly. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Jude, too preoccupied with arguing with Arda over proper golf technique, hadn’t even noticed—let alone the way heat crept up your neck as Kenan watched you with quiet amusement.

…

The first few holes passed in a blur of neon-lit obstacles and questionable golf techniques. Arda was taking things far too seriously, Jude was arguing about angles like this was an actual competition, and Antoine had already managed to cheat twice—though no one could prove it.

Kenan, to your mild surprise, was actually decent at it. Not overly competitive, but smooth, precise. Effortless.

Annoyingly so.

You, on the other hand, were not having as much luck. Your shots weren’t terrible, but they also weren’t particularly impressive. And Kenan, who had the unfortunate privilege of witnessing every single attempt, was clearly enjoying himself.

By the fifth hole, you were losing patience.

Kenan leaned on his club, watching as your ball veered slightly off-course. “Not bad,” he mused. “But I think you’re gripping the club too tight.”

You shot him a look. “Thanks, coach.”

He grinned. “Anytime.”

You exhaled, adjusting your stance before trying again. The ball rolled forward, making it past the obstacle this time but still stopping just short of the hole.

Kenan made a thoughtful sound. “Better.”

You turned to him, exasperated. “Do you actually have tips, or are you just enjoying watching me struggle?”

He tilted his head, considering. “Little bit of both.”

You huffed, shaking your head as you lined up for another shot. But before you could take it, you felt him step closer.

Too close.

Kenan reached out, adjusting your grip on the club before you could protest. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low enough that Jude—still distracted by Arda—wouldn’t hear. “You’re overthinking it.”

Your pulse jumped.

You were sure he knew exactly what he was doing. The proximity, the subtle amusement laced through his words—it was intentional.

You rolled your shoulders, pretending the heat creeping up your neck was from frustration. “Are you showing off again?”

Kenan smirked. “If I were showing off, you’d know.”

Before you could come up with a response, he took a step back, gesturing toward the ball. “Try again.”

You did. And, to your surprise, it went in.

You blinked at the hole, momentarily stunned.

Kenan’s smirk deepened. “See? All you needed was the right guidance.”

You turned to him, unimpressed. “You’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

He shrugged, all faux innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You exhaled sharply, turning back to the course.

…

The next morning, you sat across from Jude at your favorite café, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries curling around you like a comforting embrace.

Brunch had become a ritual—a chance to catch up, talk nonsense, and, more often than not, for Jude to rant about something that had deeply offended his very specific worldview that week.

Today, that thing was Antoine Griezmann.

You weren’t even five minutes into your meal before Jude leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and let out a deep, dramatic sigh.

“I hate him.”

You didn’t even have to ask who he was talking about.

Still, you took a slow sip of your coffee, humoring him. “Antoine?”

Jude scoffed. “Obviously Antoine.”

You hummed in amusement, cutting into your pancake. “What did he do this time?”

Jude leaned forward, elbows braced against the table. “What did he do? He was one second away from licking your face off, did you miss that?”

You snorted. “He was annoying, but I wouldn’t say that.”

Jude shot you a deeply unimpressed look. “He was testing my patience.”

You arched a brow, feigning innocence. “So… your patience is thin, then?”

“My patience doesn’t exist when it comes to my friends hitting on my sister,” he stated, as if it were fact.

“Technically, he didn’t hit on me,” you pointed out.

Jude’s glare was immediate. “He was setting up for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry. You know I’d never reciprocate anything anyway, right?”

“You better not.”

You exhaled through your nose, reaching for your coffee.

Because this was just Jude. Overprotective, borderline ridiculous, but never in a way that truly irritated you—because you knew it came from a good place.

Still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t overdoing it.

Jude took a sip of his drink, shaking his head. “It’s a hard rule. No friends of mine. Ever.”

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then, slowly, you leaned back in your chair. “Aren’t you going a bit far?”

“It’s for the best.”

“It’s insane.”

Jude crossed his arms. “You know footballers. You know I’m right.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

Because, unfortunately, he had a point. You weren’t blind.

You had spent enough time around Jude and his teammates to know how they moved—always on the go, always in a whirlwind of temporary flings, casual connections, never really rooted anywhere.

Still, your mind drifted to Kenan, who did not give you that impression at all.

You eyed him, unimpressed. “So what are you aiming at? Immediate death if they look at me?”

Jude barely hesitated. “Immediate exile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “A bit dramatic.”

“I think it’s still very generous.”

You sighed, knowing this was an argument you wouldn’t win.

…

The house was alive.

Music pulsed through the walls, the bass thrumming beneath your feet like a second heartbeat. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, where a group of guys were debating whether or not vodka actually made you better at beer pong. The air smelled of alcohol, sweat, and something vaguely burnt—probably whatever disaster Arda had left in the oven.

It was the kind of night that blurred at the edges, full of bad decisions and good memories. The kind of night where anything could happen.

And yet you barely registered any of it.

Because he was here.

You felt Kenan’s presence like static in the air, a pull that had been getting harder and harder to ignore. It had been this way all night—glances exchanged across the room, fleeting, lingering.

He was talking to someone, laughing at something Arda had said, but even as he smiled—as if nothing in the world was out of place—

You knew better.

Because he kept looking at you, too.

Short, quick glances that made your pulse kick up a notch.

You tore your gaze away, turning your attention to the nearest distraction.

Unfortunately, that distraction came in the form of Antoine Griezmann.

“Well, well,” Antoine drawled, appearing beside you with his usual brand of obnoxious charm. “If it isn’t my favorite Bellingham.”

You sighed, already bracing yourself. “Oh, God.”

Antoine grinned. “Did you miss me?”

“No.”

“Lies. Say it again, maybe I’ll believe you this time.”

You turned to face him, unimpressed. “Antoine, it’s physically impossible for me to miss you when you’re always finding new and creative ways to bother me.”

Antoine pressed a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. “Always so feisty.”

You didn’t even bother responding.

Suddenly his hand landed on your waist.

Casual. Uninvited.

Before you could even react and push him back, Jude was there, looking very angry. Oh god. 

His voice was sharp, unamused, cutting through the noise like a blade.

“Antoine.”

Antoine turned, lazy grin still in place. “Jude. Nice house party.”

Jude’s jaw ticked. “Get your hand off my sister.”

Antoine raised his hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just saying hi.”

Jude’s eyes narrowed. “Okay. Say it differently.”

Antoine smirked. “Don’t be so pressed.”

Jude now looked ready to commit an actual crime.

And just like that, you’d had enough.

You weren’t about to stand around while Jude and Antoine had another one of their pissing contests.

“You boys have fun,” you muttered, pushing past them before either could stop you.

You felt Jude’s glare follow you.

You didn’t care.

You weaved through the crowd, exhaling slowly, trying to shake the tension tightening in your chest.

Suddenly, a hand brushed against yours. Barely there. Just enough to make you notice.

Before you could process it, fingers wrapped around your wrist. Light, but firm. A silent don’t go that way.

No words. Just a pull—smooth and effortless—like he had already decided you were coming with him.

You didn’t fight it. Just let Kenan steer you through the crowd until the heavy bass dulled and cool night air brushed your skin.

Only then did he let go.

Kenan exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “You okay?”

Your arms crossed over your chest. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a breathy chuckle. "Why?"

"Because you just dragged me out of a party without saying a word."

Kenan smirked. “You followed.”

You rolled your eyes. “Not the point.”

He didn’t argue. Instead, his eyes flickered back toward the door—checking. Not for just anyone. For one person in particular.

Your stomach flipped at the realization. 

"Antoine gets on your nerves that much?" you asked, tilting your head.

Kenan sighed, leaning against the railing. "You could say that."

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingertips barely brushing his forearm. A fleeting touch, light as air, easy enough to pass off as nothing.

Kenan went completely still.

His green eyes flickered down to where your skin met his before slowly dragging back up to your face, something dark and unreadable swimming in them.

"You really care about that?" you murmured, barely above a whisper.

Kenan’s lips quirked, but his voice was steady. "Should I not?"

You held his gaze, pulse quickening. You knew damn well it was never just about Antoine. 

It was about you.

It was about the way Kenan had been watching you all night, the way he kept finding ways to be near you, the way his eyes dipped to your lips before flicking away like he hadn’t just done that.

You swallowed hard.

“We can’t do this,” Kenan murmured, but he didn’t move back.

He was still standing too close, still looking at you like he was already too far gone.

And you, reckless, breathless, said the words before you could stop yourself.

"I think it’s too late for that."

A flicker of something passed through his expression—uncertainty, hesitation, but that disappeared when he closed the space between you, his lips meeting yours.

It was slow at first, like he wasn’t sure if he was really allowed to, like he thought you might push him away. His lips brushed against yours once, twice—light, barely there, testing. But then you exhaled against him, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pulling him closer, and that hesitation unraveled.

His hand found your waist, gripping just firmly enough to keep you anchored as his other slid up, fingers skimming along your jaw before cupping your face, tilting it up to him. The railing pressed into your back, cold against your skin, but you barely noticed. All you could focus on was the warmth of him, the way his lips pressed deeper against yours, like he was memorizing the way you felt, the way you fit against him.

A slow, lingering drag of his mouth over yours, a quiet hitch of breath as your fingers twisted tighter into his shirt. When you tilted your head just slightly, letting him deepen the kiss, a quiet sound rumbled from his throat—a low, pleased hum that sent heat coursing through your veins.

It was a mess of pent-up frustration, of every unsaid thing, every stolen glance that had led to this exact moment.

And you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were supposed to go off inside your head. 

You chased it, chased him, let him pull you closer, let the weight of his body press against yours until—

The door creaked open.

You and Kenan broke apart instantly, breathless, heat still prickling under your skin.

Julián stepped onto the terrace, stretching.

You forced your breath to slow, straightening slightly.

Kenan rubbed the back of his neck, looking too casual.

Julián barely glanced at either of you. “Too loud in there,” he muttered, yawning.

Your heart was still pounding.

Julián paused, frowning slightly. “Why do you two look so—”

“Weird lighting,” Kenan cut in smoothly.

Julián squinted, then shrugged before turning away again. "Huh. Cool."

You risked a glance at Kenan.

And even though neither of you said anything, you both knew. This was far from over.

…

The morning after a party was always far too quiet.

The kind of quiet that exaggerated every tiny sound—every creak, every rustle—as if conspiring to remind you of all your questionable choices. Choices like sneaking onto terraces. Choices involving certain footballers whose names started with ‘K’ and ended with ‘enan.’

Yes, questionable indeed.

At breakfast, you tried to appear casual—a tall order given your current mental spiral. You clutched your lukewarm coffee like a lifeline, while across from you, Kenan sat annoyingly unbothered, spreading butter on toast with the ease of someone who had never had a scandalous terrace rendezvous.

Your narrowed eyes did nothing to shake his composure.

And because the universe loved tormenting you, Jude entered the kitchen at that precise moment, looking impressively disgruntled for someone still wearing last night’s hoodie. He slammed a plate down with the melodrama reserved for mornings after.

"Antoine Griezmann," he began, as if invoking an arch-nemesis, "is the biggest dickhead I’ve ever met."

Kenan, infuriatingly calm, took a sip of coffee. "Good morning to you too, Jude."

"Unbelievable," Jude muttered, turning to you. "That man has zero sense of boundaries."

From beside you came Arda’s voice, muffled by his folded arms. "For the love of God, lower your voice."

"You didn’t even drink," Jude shot back.

Arda lifted his head slightly, wincing. "The drinks weren’t the problem. The nachos, on the other hand…"

No one disagreed. The faint scent of burnt tortilla chips still lingered accusingly.

"Anyway," Jude continued, undeterred, "Antoine is officially banned from future gatherings."

You sighed. So much for hoping he’d drop the issue overnight.

"He put his hands on you," Jude emphasized. "I should’ve decked him."

"Jude. He barely touched me."

Jude scoffed. "Barely? You’re seriously defending him?"

"I’m not defending him. He’s a prick, but you’re overreacting."

Jude muttered something darkly under his breath.

Arda, finally awake enough to contribute, chuckled. "Antoine thinks he has a chance with everyone."

"Exactly!" Jude pointed triumphantly. "This is why—"

You braced yourself.

"No friends of mine. Ever."

There it was. Jude’s favorite rule, delivered with his usual finality.

Across from you, Kenan finally broke his silence, eyes amused above his coffee cup. "Are you always this intense before noon?"

"Don't start," Jude shot back.

Arda sighed. "Jude’s still recovering from his Antoine-induced rage episode."

"It wouldn’t be necessary if people listened to me," Jude muttered, sitting heavily with his breakfast.

You kept your focus on your now-cold coffee, resisting the urge to grimace. The last thing you needed was Jude sensing anything off.

But the silence stretched. You caved—stealing a quick glance across the table.

Kenan was already watching you.

Not brooding. Enjoying this. The way his gaze lingered was insufferable—calm, playful, like he knew exactly what was on your mind.

Your brows lifted. What?

The corner of his mouth curved—barely. A quiet tease. A private acknowledgment of shared misbehavior.

Your cheeks warmed. You turned back to your coffee.

Kenan cleared his throat softly, hiding his amusement with another slow sip.

It was going to be a long breakfast.

…

The living room was a battlefield of discarded hoodies, half-empty snack bags, and abandoned water bottles—the kind of war zone that only a FIFA night in full swing could create.

Jude was perched at the edge of the couch, controller clutched in both hands, his entire body tense with single-minded focus.

Julián, annoyingly composed, sat next to him, casual but lethal, dismantling the opposition with the kind of effortless precision that made everyone else look bad.

Arda, however, was mid-meltdown.

“This game is rigged,” he groaned, throwing his arms up as the ball sailed over the goal, missing by an embarrassing margin.

Vini barely spared him a glance. “You guys just suck.”

Arda let out a dramatic sigh, flopping back onto the couch. “Next round, we’re switching teams.”

And then, of course, there was Kenan. Lounging back against the cushions, controller resting lazily in his hands, watching the chaos like it was free entertainment.

His lips twitched slightly when he noticed you standing near the doorway. A quick once-over, deliberate, measured.

You ignored the way your stomach tightened under his stare.

"You guys still at this?" you asked, stepping further inside.

Jude didn’t even look up. " Vini’s on some demon mode tonight."

Vini smirked, glancing at you. "It’s not my fault everyone else is bad."

Arda, ever dramatic, flopped across the couch like a fallen soldier. “This is what I get for believing in myself.”

Kenan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Maybe next time, Arda."

Arda shot him a glare before tilting his head toward you.

"Are you keen on joining, or do you have more productive things planned?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m getting water and then I need to finish my paper, unfortunately ."

...

The second you stepped into the kitchen, you exhaled, pressing your hands against the countertop.

You just needed a moment. A pause. A second to collect yourself..

But apparently, tonight wasn’t going to grant you that luxury.

Footsteps.

"It’s really cute how you get all flustered."

His voice was softer this time, teasing but not sharp, laced with something warmer, something dangerously close to fondness.

You turned slowly.

Kenan stood by the counter, one hand resting lightly against the surface, his posture relaxed in a way that felt entirely deliberate. His gaze swept over you—not just playful, not just amused. Knowing.

"You followed me," you murmured, willing your voice to stay steady.

Kenan tilted his head slightly, an easy smile playing at his lips. "Felt like the right direction to go."

Not a denial. Not an admission. Just a quiet, magnetic pull in the form of words.

"You need to stop looking at me like that," you muttered.

Kenan raised an eyebrow, gaze steady. "Like what?"

You swallowed.

He was too close. Close enough that you caught the faintest trace of his cologne, the warmth of his presence wrapping around you in ways you didn’t have the strength to ignore.

"Like you want to kiss me," you said, quieter this time.

Something flickered in his expression—brief but unmistakable.

"I do," he said simply.

The air between you shifted.

He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t toying with you.

"You can’t say things like that," you murmured.

"Why not?"

You opened your mouth, but you struggeled to find words.

Because what were you supposed to say? That he made it impossible to think straight? That you had spent the entire morning replaying the way he kissed you last night? That if you let yourself, you might start thinking about how much you wanted him to do it again?

"Because Jude—"

There it was.

The reason why you should be walking away right now.

Kenan sighed, running a hand through his hair. The teasing was gone now, something quieter settling in its place.

"You think I don’t know that?" he muttered.

Your breath caught.

Kenan took another step forward.

The kitchen felt smaller. The air, heavier. A quiet moment stretched between you. Not tense. Not uncertain. Just… waiting.

His gaze flickered to your lips for a fraction of a second.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time.

His hands found your waist first, pulling you against him with quiet urgency, like he had been holding back for far too long.

Your breath caught, fingers gripping the front of his hoodie as he deepened the kiss, steady and deliberate. Like he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him. Like he wanted to savor every second of it.

His fingers pressed against your back, firm, grounding. Your heart stuttered as he lifted you effortlessly, setting you onto the counter like he had been meaning to do it all along.

Your legs parted instinctively to let him step between them.

And when his lips left yours, trailing down, brushing along your jaw, then lower—

A quiet sigh escaped before you could stop it.

Kenan smiled against your skin, pressing another slow, lingering kiss just below your ear.

You barely had the presence of mind to cling to him, hands twisted in his hoodie, breath uneven.

He stepped away, leaving behind the faintest trace of warmth where his hands had been. Not far. Just enough for you to feel the absence of his warmth. 

Your pulse was a mess, your mind struggling to keep up. 

His lips brushed your ear, voice barely above a whisper.

"I really like you."

The shift was instant, the absence of him unsettling in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You blinked, fingers still curled against the counter, as if letting go might send you tumbling into something you weren’t ready to name.

Kenan smirked—subtle, something almost teasing but not quite.

Then, with a lingering glance, he winked and walked out.

Like this hadn’t just changed everything.

You exhaled slowly, staring at the empty doorway, thoughts colliding too fast to make sense of.

Because Kenan Yıldız liked you. And you we’re definitely enjoying his company too.

It took a full minute before your body caught up with your brain.

Even as you stepped forward, something felt off—like you were still hovering in the space Kenan had left behind, the ghost of his hands on your waist lingering longer than they should. You inhaled sharply, straightened your shirt, and walked out of the kitchen with a carefully practiced ease.

Past the living room. Toward the stairs. Just a few more steps and you’d be free.

When all of a sudden Jude looked up. His brows immediately pulled together. "You look like shit."

You halted mid-step. “Excuse me?”

He tilted his head, studying you like some kind of medical anomaly. "Did you die in the kitchen? What’s wrong with you?"

From the couch, Arda barely lifted his head, his voice dry. "Maybe she saw whatever’s still in the oven. That alone could ruin anyone’s night."

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. "You guys still haven’t cleaned that?"

Jude didn’t blink. "Right. Well, hope you’re okay." His suspicion deepened, his gaze lingering a second too long.

Your eyes flicked to Kenan.

He was leaning back against the couch, controller in hand, seemingly absorbed in the game. Nothing about his expression gave anything away, but you noticed his almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. A silent reminder of what had just happened.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, heat creeping up your neck as you tore your gaze away before he could make things worse.

…

If someone had told you a few weeks ago that you’d be sneaking around behind Jude’s back, stealing glances and secret touches with his best friend, you would have laughed.

But here you were. And you weren’t stopping.

At first, it had been subtle. Little things that could be dismissed as nothing if anyone noticed.

The way Kenan’s knee would press against yours when you sat side by side, lingering a second too long before shifting away—always with that small, knowing smile. 

The way he’d find excuses to touch you in passing—a hand grazing the small of your back, fingers brushing against yours when he handed you something, the steady warmth of his palm resting on your waist as he leaned in to whisper something only you could hear.

You hadn’t been sure if it was intentional. If he was testing the limits.

Then came the car rides.

Kenan had convinced Jude that carpooling to training made sense, especially on days when Jude had plans afterward and wouldn’t be heading straight home.

And suddenly, Kenan was picking you up after work, dropping you home after practice, stretching the moments when it was just the two of you for as long as possible.

The car was dangerous. No one else around. No one to stop things from slipping past the point of denial.

Like the first time he had reached over—mid-traffic—to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

His fingers barely skimmed your skin, but the feeling traveled everywhere.

Or the time you had been venting about something Jude had done, and Kenan had just… reached over and taken your hand.

No smirk. No joke. No performance.

Just a gentle squeeze, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over your knuckles, his eyes still on the road, completely at ease in a moment that made your stomach twist into knots.

You just let him hold your hand all the way home.

And then there were the kisses. Stolen between car doors, in the quiet seconds before you had to pretend you weren’t completely unraveling for him. Kisses that left you breathless.

You weren’t sure how you had gotten here—how you had gone from avoiding him to falling straight into something neither of you could escape. The guilt of lying to Jude being overwhelmed by the joy you found whenever you two were together.

…

You were really not that much of a club goer. You hadn’t even planned on coming tonight.

But Jude had insisted, dragging you out with the usual crew, declaring that it had been far too long since your last proper night out. Maybe that should have been the first red flag.

Second red flag was Antoine. Obviously. 

He had been circling all night, hovering just close enough to make his presence known, just persistent enough to keep himself within your reach. Jude, already too deep into his drinks, was in no state to notice, leaving you to deal with him alone.

"Come on," Antoine leaned in, breath warm against your ear, his confidence as misplaced as ever. "Just one dance?"

You took a step back, trying to create space. "No, thanks."

If he heard the sharp edge in your voice, he chose to ignore it.

"Don’t be like that," he coaxed, grinning, still far too close.

Before you could respond, a presence settled beside you, calm and steady. Kenan.

He didn’t push, didn’t pull you away, didn’t do anything that could turn this into a scene. Instead, his fingers brushed against your wrist, light but deliberate, just enough to remind you he was there. That he had seen. That he wasn’t going to let this happen.

Antoine stiffened slightly. His smirk faltered, just for a second, before something sharp flickered in his gaze.

His hand lingered, his fingers warm against your skin, and suddenly Antoine decided he wasn’t so interested anymore.

"Didn’t realize you had another bodyguard," he muttered before stepping back, disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response.

Kenan’s fingers squeezed yours for just a moment longer before he let go, as if anchoring you before he released you completely.

Away from the worst of the noise, he turned to face you. "You okay?"

You exhaled, forcing the tension from your shoulders. "Yeah. Antoine is just—"

"A problem?"

"My most annoying problem."

Kenan smirked, leaning in slightly, his voice low enough to send heat rushing to your face. "Am I your favorite problem?"

The question made something flutter in your chest, but before you could answer, he kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. His lips met yours like he had been waiting all night for this. His hands found your hips, fingers pressing just enough to keep you there, like letting go wasn’t an option he was considering.

Your breath hitched as he deepened the kiss, his smile pressing into yours when you tugged him closer, the warmth of his mouth making it impossible to think about anything else.

"Kenan!"

The sound barely registered before Kenan was being yanked away, leaving you momentarily dazed, still gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Arda, far too exasperated to even recognize you in the dimmed lights, clung to Kenan’s shoulder like a lifeline.

"Bro, you gotta come quick."

Kenan blinked, still slightly dazed himself. "What?"

"Jude. Russian shots. It’s bad."

Kenan let out a slow, exhausted sigh, rubbing a hand over his face. " Scheiße."

You bit your lip to keep from laughing.

He hesitated for a second, gaze flickering back to you, something tender in his expression.

Then, leaning in just enough that only you could hear him, he murmured, "I’ll see you soon, baby."

And with that, he let himself be dragged into whatever disaster Jude and Arda had created, disappearing into the chaos of the club, leaving you standing there, still catching up.

…

Jude was dead weight against your shoulder, his entire body slumped into yours as you half-dragged, half-guided him through the front door. His hoodie was pulled up over his face, barely concealing the mess of curls spilling out, and his sneakers scraped lazily against the floor as he mumbled nonsense under his breath.

It had been a long night.

You should have known this would happen—should have expected that your always-overdoing-it brother would push himself too far, too fast, too recklessly, just because he could.

The others had offered to help, but you had waved them off, insisting you had him. And you did. Even if he was an absolute nightmare to get through the door.

You exhaled sharply as he nearly collapsed onto you.

"Jude," you muttered, shifting his weight. "Come on, just a little further."

A sleepy, unintelligible grumble was the only response before you finally managed to maneuver him onto the couch. His body melted into the cushions immediately, limbs sprawled in every possible direction, completely unaware that you had just spent the last of your strength hauling him inside.

"Never drinking again," he mumbled.

You rolled your eyes, pulling a blanket over him. "Uh-huh."

His breathing had already slowed, the heavy pull of sleep dragging him under. Then, just as his consciousness slipped entirely, his voice came—soft, barely audible.

"I’m glad you’re here."

Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Jude wasn’t sentimental. Not like this. 

Not when he was awake, anyway.

You wanted to brush it off, let it roll past you like the other half-coherent things he had been mumbling all night.

But the words settled somewhere deeper than you expected.

Your phone buzzed against your palm.

One new message.

Kenan: Can I see you?

…

You cracked the door open, the cool night air whispering against your skin. Kenan stood there, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze steady—warm, waiting. The streetlights cast a soft glow along his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jaw, the quiet hesitation in his expression.

He wasn’t pushing. Wasn’t asking for anything more than what you were willing to give. But he was here.

You hesitated for only a second before stepping aside, letting him in.

Kenan moved past you, slow, deliberate, his presence filling the space effortlessly. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air—warm, clean, familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. The door clicked shut behind him, closing the rest of the world out.

Something between you felt different now, heavier with everything unspoken.

"You didn’t have to come," you murmured, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

Kenan’s lips curved slightly, but the teasing edge was softer this time.

"I wanted to." His gaze searched yours, careful, intent. "I kept thinking about you. And I didn’t want to fall asleep wishing I was here instead."

Your fingers curled at your sides, gripping at nothing. "That’s..." You trailed off, words failing you. "That’s really sweet."

His smile deepened, laced with something warmer, something almost adoring. "I was worried I’d crossed into ‘hopelessly obsessed’ territory."

"Never said those things are mutually exclusive."

Kenan laughed. His fingers brushed against yours, hesitant at first—like he was giving you an out, a final moment to stop this before the line blurred beyond return.

You let his touch linger, let his fingers curl loosely around yours, warm and steady.

His voice was softer now. "I’m really glad to see you."

Your chest tightened. The weight of his words settled deep, making it harder to ignore what you already knew.

Your pulse quickened. Swallowing, keeping your voice low, careful, you murmured, "We should go upstairs. Before we wake Jude."

Kenan didn’t move right away. His fingers squeezed yours just slightly, his grip steady, anchoring himself to this moment.

"Lead the way," he murmured.

…

You woke up to warmth.

Not the usual, oh, the blanket’s cozy kind of warmth—but the very specific kind that came from having a large, slightly inconvenient man wrapped around you like a human radiator.

Kenan’s arm was heavy around your waist, his chest pressed firmly against your back, his breath slow and even against the nape of your neck.

For a blissful, fleeting moment, you didn’t think.

You just existed in the warmth of him, in the steady way he held you, like even in sleep, he wasn’t willing to let go. It was grounding, disorienting, and honestly very distracting.

And then—

A knock at the door.

Your heart stopped.

"Hey, you up?" 

Jude’s voice. Groggy. Unmistakable.

Kenan went completely still behind you.

Your stomach plummeted at the exact same speed panic shot through your veins.

You twisted, shoving at his shoulder, whispering urgently, "Go hide. Now."

Kenan groaned into the pillow, voice rough with sleep and entirely unbothered. "What’s going on?"

"Closet! Hurry up!" you hissed, already untangling yourself from the sheets, frantically smoothing out the blankets.

He cursed under his breath before rolling—not gracefully, not remotely smoothly—off the bed, landing with a muffled thud that had you cringing. You barely had time to gawk at his ridiculous lack of stealth before he scrambled toward the closet, slipping inside just as the doorknob turned.

You flipped onto your back, throwing an innocent expression onto your face so forcefully it was probably suspiciousas Jude poked his head in.

He blinked. Then squinted. Then held up a plate.

"As a thank you for dragging me home," he announced, completely unprompted. "I brought breakfast."

You stared at him, still trying to calm your breathing. "Wow. How sweet of you."

Jude frowned, stepping inside, eyeing you like you’d been caught committing tax fraud. "Why are you being weird?"

From inside the closet came the softest possible shuffle. You ignored it. Barely.

"I’m not," you said far too quickly.

Jude narrowed his eyes, the skepticism radiating from him palpable. "You definitely are."

The silence stretched.

Kenan was absolutely in that closet grinning. You just knew it.

“Just a bit sleepy, still need to wake up a bit.” You said, not even sure if you could convince yourself. 

After a painfully long beat, Jude finally left. "Take your time. I’ll be in the living room."

The moment the door clicked shut, you collapsed against the pillows, exhaling sharply.

From inside the closet, Kenan’s voice came far too smug for someone who had nearly blown his own cover.

"I think he’s onto you, baby."

Your eyes snapped to the closet. "Shut up and get out before he comes back."

Kenan slipped out, grinning like he had won something. His hair was already an absolute mess, and as he tugged his hoodie back into place, he looked disgustingly pleased with himself.

"Still worth it," he muttered, far too casual for someone who had just been shoved into a closet like a scandalous love affair in a bad rom-com.

You glared, unimpressed. "You’re the worst."

Kenan leaned down, tilting his head just slightly, voice low and teasing. "Go cuddle with Antoine then."

Your mouth opened, ready to deliver something truly scathing, but before you could—

He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek and slipped toward the window.

…

The stadium buzzed with anticipation, the crisp night air thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the more questionable aromas of stadium food—the kind that always smelled five-star but tasted like regret. Fans waved scarves and banners, their collective energy contagious, a living, breathing force of excitement.

You, Vini, and Julián had arrived early, settling into your usual seats in the VIP box, which offered a prime view of the pitch. Jude, Kenan, and Arda were warming up, all sharp movements and pre-match focus. Vini, still sidelined with his injury, lounged comfortably like a man who had fully embraced the perks of forced rest. Julián, meanwhile, had no real stake in this game—his Atlético Madrid loyalties firmly intact—but had shown up under the universal rule of football friendships: when your boys play, you support.

It should have felt normal—just another match, just another night watching your brother do what he did best. But from the moment the whistle blew, your gaze found him. Not Jude, not the movement of the game as a whole—but Kenan. 

You told yourself you were just watching the match, same as everyone else. But the way your eyes tracked Kenan’s every step made it painfully obvious that this had very little to do with football.

Watching him play like this—so completely in his element, entirely untouchable—felt a little like staring directly at the sun. You weren’t supposed to. It was bad for you. But even knowing that, you still couldn’t look away.

And then—Kenan broke loose.

A perfectly timed run, the ball practically glued to his foot, the entire pitch stretching open before him like a red carpet moment he had scripted himself. His acceleration was sharp, effortless, the kind of movement that made defenders rethink their entire career choices. One quick feint, a clean turn, a final ruthless touch—

And the ball was in the back of the net.

The stadium detonated.

Kenan’s name thundered through the stands, fans losing their collective minds, his teammates swarming him in celebration. Hands ruffled his hair, clapped his back, pulled him into the chaos—except Kenan barely acknowledged any of it.

Because Kenan wasn’t looking at them.

His gaze was already cutting through the noise, through the bodies, through the absolute carnage unfolding around him—until it found you.

With all the casual confidence of a man completely unbothered by the tens of thousands of people currently watching, he held your stare for just a second longer than necessary, before lifting his fingers to his lips, sending a small, knowing kiss in your direction.Not exaggerated. Not over-the-top. Just a little something to make sure you saw. A little something to make sure you knew.

And oh, you knew.

Your stomach twisted. Heat crept up your neck. You could feel yourself reacting before you could stop it, before you could school your expression into something resembling normal.

Too late.

Julián, seated next to you, hummed. Low, amused. Maybe even delighted.

And just like that the match was no longer your biggest concern.

…

The hallway outside the locker rooms was a chaotic mix of movement and noise, players filtering in and out, staff giving hurried instructions, and media figures darting around like they had somewhere important to be.

You, Julián, and Vini lingered near the entrance, waiting while the rest of the group finished changing before heading out for dinner.

Vini scrolled through his phone, completely uninterested in anything happening around him.

Julián, however? Julián was watching you.

You pretended not to notice, shifting your weight slightly, fixing your gaze on anything else—the floor, the ceiling, a scuffed mark on the wall that was suddenly very interesting.

But, of course, he wasn’t going to let you off the hook that easily.

"You know," he said casually, shoving his hands into his pockets, voice just low enough to be intentional. "You could just tell him."

Your body went rigid.

"Tell who what?" you asked, feigning confusion as if you didn’t immediately know where this was going.

Julián gave you a look. Not just any look—the kind of look that translated to: don’t even try it.

You swallowed, forcing a nonchalant shrug. "You’re being cryptic."

"And you’re being too obvious," he countered without missing a beat, eyebrow lifting in quiet amusement.

He wasn’t wrong.

Before you could even begin crafting some kind of defense, he sighed, the teasing edge in his voice softening.

"Listen," he said, quieter this time, like he was letting you in on something no one else was supposed to hear. "If you’re happy, you should just be honest."

You hesitated.

Julián wasn’t usually like this. He wasn’t the type to meddle, to pry, to offer unsolicited advice unless he genuinely meant it.

And the fact that he was saying this now—that he was looking at you like he had already figured out everything you were trying so hard to keep to yourself—made something tighten in your chest.

" Julián —"

"Jude will understand," he said simply.

And just like that, your heart stopped. That cracked open something you weren’t prepared to confront yet.

…

Post-match dinners were tradition—good food, good company, and Arda laughing at himself while everyone else berated his more questionable decisions.

But tonight, something felt... off.

And if you had to pinpoint why, it would be the warm weight of Kenan’s hand resting on your thigh under the table.

The restaurant buzzed with post-game energy—clattering plates, bursts of laughter, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread.

For a while, everything felt normal.

You and Kenan were just sitting next to each other. It wasn’t unusual. No one had batted an eye when you slid into the seat beside him. There was no reason to think twice about the way his knee brushed against yours a little too often or how, at some point, his hand had found its way to your thigh. The contact was warm, steady, deliberate in a way that made it impossible to ignore, but subtle enough that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone not looking for it.

Jude wasn’t suspicious. At least, not yet.

You frowned as Kenan stole a fry from your plate, grinning at your outraged expression as he dodged your attempt to swat at his hand. 

Somewhere between that and the next bite, you had started laughing a little too much, leaning in a little too easily.

Then came the real mistake.

Without thinking, without even realizing what you were doing, you reached over and fed Kenan a piece of food from your plate.

He didn’t bat an eye, didn’t move to stop you. He just took the bite like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The moment your fork landed back on your plate, Jude’s eyes found yours.

His brows furrowed. His gaze narrowed, expression shifting as though his brain was struggling to make sense of something that wasn’t quite clicking.

You could almost see it happening in real time, the slow mental process of realization beginning to piece itself together.

And in a moment of sheer, blind panic, Kenan—quick as ever—turned to Arda and, with zero hesitation, lifted a forkful of food to his mouth.

And fed him a bite straight from his plate. With complete eye contact. A hand under his chin for dramatic effect. Like he had been planning it all along.

Arda, to his eternal credit, didn’t miss a beat.

He sighed dreamily, tilting his head slightly as if this was some grand romantic moment before murmuring, “Finally, some love and appreciation.”

The entire table erupted into laughter. And just like that—crisis, momentarily avoided.

Jude, momentarily thrown off the scent, shook his head and rolled his eyes. "God, you two are annoying."

You exhaled.

Kenan’s hand, still resting on your thigh, squeezed once before relaxing again.

Suddenly, with loud steps, Antoine walked in.

Late as usual, he carried himself with the kind of lazy confidence that came from always assuming he was welcome, flashing his signature smirk as he slid into the empty seat across from Kenan. His gaze flicked across the table, already amused, already scanning for his next source of entertainment, before landing directly on you.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked, tone casual, but his eyes sharp.

Vini barely looked up. "You missed Kenan and Arda having a moment."

Arda, ever the performer, turned toward Kenan, winking like they had been caught in a scandalous affair.

"I’d happily do it again."

Antoine’s brow lifted in mild curiosity. "Do I want to know?"

"No," Julián muttered before taking a sip of his drink.

Antoine smirked, leaning forward slightly.

And then—he turned to you.

"Good to see you again," he said, tone just smooth enough to be irritating. "Didn’t know you were coming tonight."

Your body reacted before your mind did, the subtle shift of tension tightening across your shoulders, the momentary hesitation before you answered. It was small, barely noticeable, but enough for Kenan’s fingers to flex against your thigh under the table.

Antoine, oblivious, continued.

"Been a while, huh?" His voice had that same practiced charm, the kind that could talk its way in and out of just about anything.

You forced a polite smile. "Not long enough."

Arda snorted into his drink.

Antoine, entirely unbothered, let his grin stretch wider. "Whatever you say, beautiful."

The words settled over the table like a misplaced knife, sharp, unnecessary, and completely unwelcome.

You felt Kenan’s grip on your thigh tightening—not possessively, not obviously, but enough. Enough that you knew this was the exact moment his patience expired.

Antoine, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster, leaned back in his chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"You know, I was thinking—"

"You? Thinking?"

Kenan clearly wasn’t the only one who had lost his patience for Antoine.

Jude’s voice sliced through the conversation like a cold blade, stopping whatever Antoine had planned to say before it even left his mouth.

Antoine blinked, caught off guard.

The shift in Jude’s demeanor was immediate, the air around him suddenly weighted with something just serious enough to silence whatever playful deflection Antoine might have had planned.

"Clearly you can’t, or you’d remember she’s off-limits."

The weight of the words hung between them, unchallenged.

Antoine scoffed. "Oh, come on—"

"I don’t care." Jude’s voice never wavered.

Antoine stiffened, his usual lazy confidence faltering.

Arda, ever the hero, ever the breaker of tension, propped his chin on his hand and made a kissy face at Jude.

"Thank God there’s another Bellingham who isn’t off-limits."

It took a second, but then the entire table exploded into laughter, the relief of the tension being broken visible on all faces.

Even Jude, despite himself, exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

Antoine, thoroughly humiliated, sank into his seat.

Kenan reached for his drink, finally looking at peace.

And you?

You just exhaled, yet the weight on your shoulders hadn’t fully dissolved yet. 

...

The night air had a crisp edge to it, the kind that made everything feel a little more defined, a little more present. The streets had quieted, save for the occasional burst of laughter from passing groups and the distant hum of traffic rolling through the city. A leftover energy from the match still clung to the air, lingering in the spaces between streetlights and the faint glow of shop windows.

Jude had just left for some girl’s place, tossing you a lazy wave over his shoulder before sliding into the backseat of a taxi, completely unaware of what—or rather, who—he was leaving behind.

Now, it was just you and Kenan.

The two of you walked in sync, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm against the pavement, the kind of silent coordination that came naturally when you spent enough time around someone. Neither of you spoke for a while, but the quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It was settled, familiar, charged in a way that didn’t require words.

Kenan was the first to break the silence.

“You know,” he mused, his hands shoved in his pockets, his voice carrying that usual casualness, though there was something softer beneath it, something more careful. “I realized something tonight.”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “And what’s that?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. “I don’t actually know how you see the world.”

The comment made you blink, caught off guard. “What?”

Kenan smirked, but it wasn’t teasing—not in the way he usually was. “I know how you react. I know how you argue. I know the way your mind works when you’re scheming something, the way you roll your eyes when you think someone’s being an idiot. But I don’t know what you dream about. I don’t know what you think about when it’s just you and your own thoughts.”

His words sent something warm curling through your chest, something that felt an awful lot like being seen in a way you weren’t sure you were ready for.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twitching. “That’s already quite the character study. What else is left?”

Kenan’s grin widened. “That you’re stubborn, that you were a menace growing up, and that you have god-awful taste in movies.”

You gasped, scandalized. “First of all, I do not have god-awful taste in movies—”

Kenan hummed, feigning deep thought. “You like that one rom-com with the guy who—”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, and you will respect it,” you shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest.

His laugh was warm, deep, cutting through the cool night like a melody you’d heard before and wanted to hear again.

But then, after a beat, his voice softened. “I mean it,” he said, quieter now. “Tell me about you.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because no one ever really asked. Your entire life had existed in orbit around someone else’s story, in the shadow of football pitches and expectations, always introduced as Jude’s sister before being anything else.

But standing here, under the dim glow of streetlights, Kenan wasn’t looking at you like someone else’s sister.

He was looking at you. Like he wanted to know. Like he wanted to understand who you were beyond the spaces you filled for other people.

So, you told him.

About your dreams, your ambitions, the things you wanted that had nothing to do with football or being tethered to a world you hadn’t exactly chosen. About how you had always been restless, always searching for something that felt just out of reach, never quite sure what it was supposed to be. About the weight of constantly being seen as an extension of someone else instead of just you.

And Kenan listened.

Not in the way most people did, waiting for their turn to speak, but fully, completely. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t tease, didn’t try to fix anything. He just walked beside you, nodding now and then, his expression unreadable but focused, present, engaged.

Then, when you finally ran out of words, when you had spilled more than you had planned to, he stopped walking.

You turned to face him, and his gaze didn’t waver.

There was something warm in his eyes, something deliberate, something that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t sure you could name.

“I don’t want to keep sneaking around,” he said, straightforward, unwavering.

Your breath caught. The easiest response would have been to joke, to throw back something sarcastic, something that made this feel less serious than it was.

But you couldn’t. Not this time.

Instead, your voice came out quieter than expected. “Me neither.”

Kenan exhaled, like he had been holding onto that breath for too long.

He stepped closer, slow and measured, his presence surrounding you in a way that made the rest of the world fade into background noise. “We’ll tell him,” he murmured. “After this weekend.”

You hesitated—not because you weren’t sure, but because—

“Jude’s going to kill you,” you whispered, the ghost of a smile playing at your lips.

Kenan tilted his head, grin forming. “Think he’ll make it quick?”

You shook your head, laughing softly. “Probably not.”

“Damn,” he sighed, like he was genuinely considering the odds. “Guess we better make the most of it while I still have my limbs.”

…

The morning unfolded slowly, wrapped in that golden kind of stillness that came after a night where nothing was rushed, nothing was hidden, and nothing felt like a mistake.

You stirred awake gradually, the soft glow of daylight stretching through the curtains, dusting the room in muted warmth. The duvet was tangled around your legs, the air comfortably heavy, and Kenan’s arm draped over your waist, solid and warm, his grip loose but unwavering.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, your mind felt foggy, your body relaxed, completely enveloped in the weight of him against your back. His breath was slow and steady, lips barely grazing your bare shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his chest in perfect rhythm with yours.

There was something easy about it. Something natural, like neither of you needed to rush back into reality just yet.

Like the rest of the world could wait.

Kenan stirred behind you, inhaling deeply as he shifted, his fingers pressing lightly against your stomach before relaxing again—like his body refused to let go, even in sleep.

Then, soft and half-mumbled against your skin, a voice still thick with sleep—

“Mmm… morning, baby.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the way his lashes fluttered against his cheekbones, the drowsy heaviness still clinging to his green eyes, barely open, barely awake.

“Morning,” you murmured, voice quieter than intended.

Kenan exhaled a slow, contented sigh before burying his face into the crook of your neck, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for just a moment, as if delaying the inevitable need to get up.

Neither of you moved for a while, tangled in the sheets, limbs draped over each other in a way that didn’t feel stolen or temporary anymore—just right. The silence was filled with soft sighs, half-hearted murmurs about starting the day, Kenan groaning dramatically every time you even suggested getting up.

It took twenty more minutes of coaxing, a promise of coffee, and an absurd amount of effort to finally untangle yourself from him.

Which somehow led to Kenan, standing in your kitchen, sleeves pushed up lazily, completely in your space—eerily familiar to the first time you two met.

"You just gonna stand there and look pretty, or are you actually going to help?" you teased, casting him a glance over your shoulder as you reached for the pan.

Kenan smirked, arms crossed over his chest, the definition of amused. “I thought I was the guest here.”

You rolled your eyes. “I must have missed the part where guests show up like stray cats and never leave.”

Kenan snickered, stepping closer, his presence pressing against yours without even touching you.

"Can’t help it," he muttered, reaching past you to grab a knife from the counter, his hand grazing yours in the process.

Your breath hitched.

It was such a small thing—barely even a touch. But the air between you shifted, thickened, like neither of you quite knew how to handle it now that there were no rules left to break.

Kenan didn’t move away.

He tilted his head slightly, studying you, something soft and unreadable flickering behind his expression.

“I like this.”

You blinked. “Like what?”

He glanced around—at you, at the kitchen, at the quiet ease of the morning—before a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“This,” he murmured. “Mornings with you.”

…

By noon, Kenan was lacing up his shoes, bag slung over his shoulder, the usual ease in his movements feeling just a little more forced. Neither of you had said it out loud, but the reluctance hung between you, stretching out the seconds, making something as routine as leaving for training feel heavier than it should.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, watching him stall in the smallest ways—adjusting his bag, running a hand through his hair, double-checking his phone. It wasn’t subtle, and you weren’t about to call him out for it, because truthfully, you didn’t want him to go either.

His hand reached for the door handle, fingers grazing the cool metal, but instead of pushing it open, he hesitated. The pause wasn’t long, but it was enough.

He turned back.

His gaze settled on you, lingering for a beat longer than necessary, something unreadable in his expression. Without a word, he stepped forward, his fingers curling lightly under your jaw, thumb tracing absently along your cheekbone.

He slowly leaned in, lips warm against yours, moving with easy confidence, unhurried but unwilling to be cut short. His palm moved to your hips, pressing lightly against, fingers flexing like he wanted to pull you closer but knew he shouldn’t.

When he pulled back, his gaze flickered over your face, taking in every detail before a small, quiet smirk ghosted across his lips.

"You make it really hard to leave," he murmured.

A quiet exhale slipped past your lips. "Then don’t."

Kenan let out a soft laugh, more resigned than amused, like he knew exactly how impossible that suggestion was. His fingers lingered against your skin for just a second longer before he pressed a final kiss to your forehead.

Neither of you noticed the figure standing just a few feet away.

Neither of you caught the subtle shift in Kenneth’s expression, the way his arms crossed over his chest, gaze locked onto you both with an undeniable edge of amusement.

But when he saw Kenan kiss you—

Something clicked.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

And just like that—

A plan was beginning to form.

…

Vini Jr’s birthday getaway was supposed to be a break—one night away from the noise, the obligations, the endless cycle of training and matches. Just twenty-four hours to indulge, unwind, and embrace the illusion that their schedules weren’t already mapped out for months in advance.

And for the first few hours, that’s exactly what it was.

The cabin was absurdly over-the-top, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Nestled deep in the countryside with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a valley, it had everything—an infinity pool, a sauna, a hot tub, and a very charming fire pit outside. Every detail had been planned with precision, a testament to the fact that Vini took his birthdays far too seriously.

It was meant to be a night of doing absolutely nothing except lounging around, eating too much. It was one of those nights that felt effortless, where nothing needed to be said aloud because the comfort of familiarity spoke for itself. The kind of night where everything felt easy—like nothing could go wrong.

And then, Vini Jr—sentimental by nature, twice as bad when exhausted and warm from whiskey—sighed, stretching his legs toward the fire.

“This group means a lot to me,” he murmured, gaze flickering across the room before settling on the flames. “You guys are like my family.”

There were a few small nods of agreement.

Julián, reclining comfortably in an armchair, gave a lazy smile. “Yeah. Feels that way, doesn’t it?”

Arda, sprawled across half the couch with a blanket tangled around his legs, let out a sleepy chuckle. “If we’re family, does that mean I get to be the favorite child?”

“No,” Julián said flatly.

The laughter was soft, easy, unforced—

Until Antoine, sitting just slightly apart from the group, his usual smirk in place, twirling his whiskey glass idly between his fingers, decided to ruin it.

"You’d be surprised how close some people are."

The shift was instant, subtle but undeniable—like the air had dropped a degree.

Jude, who had been half-drowsy, half-listening, barely reacted at first, brows knitting slightly as he processed the words, turning them over in his mind.

“What?” he asked, tone absentminded, not yet realizing he had just stepped into a landmine.

Antoine leaned forward, setting his glass down with slow, deliberate ease, his gaze flicking toward you, then Kenan, then back again.

“Oh, nothing,” he mused, stretching out in his seat. “Just thinking about how you never really know what’s going on right under your nose.”

Your stomach plummeted.

Jude’s expression barely flickered, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, subtle but unmistakable, a sign that he had just caught up to the conversation a second too late.

Vini Jr must have sensed it too, because his voice cut through the air, sharp and warning.

"Antoine."

But Antoine, who had an unsettling grin plastered on his face, wasn’t finished.

“I meant to come apologize after dinner the other night,” he continued, voice mocking, syrupy-slow, words laced with the kind of satisfaction that made your stomach churn.

And then, with a casual, effortless cruelty—

"But then I saw Kenan making out with your sister."

Silence.

Like the room itself had just swallowed all the air.

Jude didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even react.

Just sat perfectly still, eyes locked onto nothing in particular, face so unreadable it almost looked blank.

Like his brain had short-circuited, too stuck between disbelief and fury to process anything at all.

When he looked up his eyes met yours. His jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack under the pressure. 

"Tell me he's lying."

His voice was quiet, low—but lethal.

A final chance.

A last, desperate lifeline—one last opportunity to prove that Antoine was just being a smug, conniving bastard.

But you had nothing to give him.

"Jude, I—” You faltered, voice paper-thin, cracking under the weight of what was coming. “There… might be something going on.”

Another silence.

But this one was worse.

Thicker.

Final.

Like the ground itself had just cracked open beneath your feet.

Jude’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t change. Didn’t flicker. It was still terrifyingly blank.

"Oh, come on, Jude," Arda groaned, breaking the tension like he hadn’t just stepped into the eye of a hurricane.“Don’t be mad, they’re actually kinda cute.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter skated across the room.

Vini Jr sat up, clearing his throat. “Kenan’s a good guy, man. You know that.”

Jude’s head snapped so fast you almost thought he’d get whiplash. His gaze darted from Arda to Vini Jr to Julián, like he was waiting for someone—anyone—to tell him he wasn’t crazy.

That he had every right to feel betrayed.

That this was completely, utterly wrong.

But no one did.

His voice came out sharp, brittle at the edges. "So, what? You’re all just fine with this?”

Julián hesitated before exhaling heavily. “Well… yeah?”

Jude blinked. Slowly.

Like he was waiting for the universe to right itself.

It didn’t.

Arda, shooting Kenan an empathic look, sighed. “I mean, it’s not like they killed someone, Jude.”

"That’s not the point!" Jude’s voice rose suddenly, snapping with a rough edge. “I had one rule. Just one.”

The words hit you square in the chest, knocking the breath out of you.

And then—

Something shifted in his face.

Like a much, much worse realization had just landed.

His jaw locked, eyes narrowing.

"Wait."

The single word was a trigger, a warning, a countdown to something that was about to explode.

His gaze flickered across the room. “Did you guys already know?”

Silence.

And then—

Julián sighed. “I mean…”

Arda awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “I might have figured it out.”

Vini Jr, ever the most unbothered, hummed. “I had my suspicions.”

Jude inhaled sharply.

"You—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening like he was physically forcing himself to stay composed.

And then—

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.

Bitter. Cold.

"Unbelievable."

His gaze snapped back to Kenan, something dark flashing through it.

"You. You knew how I felt about this. About my teammates—my friends—going near her."

Kenan’s jaw was tight, his entire body tense, rigid.

"I didn’t plan for this to happen," he said, evenly, carefully.

“So?” Jude scoffed. "That makes it better?"

Kenan hesitated. Then, softly, quietly—

“No. It doesn’t.”

Jude let out a sharp, unsteady breath, pushing up from his seat so fast that the blanket draped over his lap slipped to the floor.

“I need to clear my head.”

And just like that—he walked out.

The room stayed frozen, the embers in the fireplace popping softly, the only sound breaking the crushing weight of his absence.

Kenan didn’t move.

Didn’t look at anyone.

Just sat there, hands clasped in front of him, staring at the door Jude had disappeared through like he was already mourning something he couldn’t bring back.

Finally he exhaled. “I should go.”

“No.” Vini’s voice was firm.

But Kenan just shook his head, already rising to his feet.

“He’s my friend,” he said simply, voice quieter now, the tension in his body starting to unwind into something that looked an awful lot like regret.

“And I crossed a line. I don’t want to stay here and make it worse.”

Vini sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

Then—his eyes flickered to Antoine, and his entire expression changed.

“You, however?” His tone turned sharp, unforgiving. “You can get the hell out.”

Antoine scoffed. “Oh, come on—”

“I mean it,” Vini snapped, patience gone. “You don’t get to sit here and act like this wasn’t a game to you. You wanted to cause damage—and you did."

Antoine rolled his eyes, standing up and grabbing his jacket.

And then, with one last lingering glance at you and Kenan—

He was gone.

The silence around the now nearly burned-out fire was deafening. 

Arda exhaled. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

Julián gave you and Kenan a sympathetic look. “For what it’s worth, we never thought it was wrong. Just… complicated.”

Vini clapped Kenan on the shoulder. “Jude will come around. He just needs time.”

Kenan didn’t say anything.

Just nodded, his jaw tight, gaze distant.

Then—he turned to you, eyes softening for just a second.

“I’ll pack my bag.”

And with that, he was gone too.

…

The warmth of the day had long faded, leaving behind a crisp chill that clung to your skin, but you barely felt it.

You sat on the porch steps, arms wrapped around yourself, staring out at the darkness beyond the trees, replaying every second of what had happened inside.

The way Jude had looked at you—like he didn’t recognize you.

Your stomach twisted painfully. You and Kenan had agreed—you would tell Jude together, do it the right way. But now, the choice had been ripped from you. Antoine had done it for you, cruelly, deliberately, stripping you of any control. Instead of sitting Jude down, instead of explaining it carefully, you had been exposed—caught like some dirty little secret.

Now, it was out in the open. And everything felt ruined.

The door creaked open behind you. Footsteps on the wooden planks.

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to.

Kenan settled beside you, close enough that you could feel his warmth without touching. For weeks, he had made you feel safe. But tonight, there was no safety. No reassurance. Just the wreckage of what you had built.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“I should have told him right away,” Kenan murmured.

You swallowed hard. “We both should have.”

Kenan exhaled sharply. “I knew exactly how this would go. I knew how he’d react, and still—I let myself believe it would be fine.”

His gaze was locked on the horizon, jaw clenched, hands tightening into fists. “Maybe Antoine did it to be an ass, but it doesn’t change the fact that I let this happen. That I knew this could ruin things, and I…” He inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

His voice broke slightly.

And you knew—he wasn’t just talking about Jude.

Kenan exhaled, finally turning his head to look at you.

And your stomach dropped.

Because for the first time in weeks, he looked conflicted. Not just guilty. Not just sorry. But like he was standing on the edge of something and deciding whether to jump—or walk away.

“I love you.”

Soft. Barely a whisper. But it hit you like a punch to the gut.

Because this wasn’t how he was supposed to say it. Not like this. Not in the quiet of the aftermath, when everything was already slipping away.

Your breath hitched, vision blurring slightly, but you forced yourself to swallow past the lump in your throat. If this was the end—if you had to let him go—then at least he would know

You reached out, fingers trembling slightly as you cupped his face, memorizing the warmth of his skin.

“I love you too.”

Kenan exhaled, ragged, forehead pressing against yours. His hands cradled the back of your neck like he couldn’t quite believe what you had just said.

For a few stolen seconds, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed. Just sat there, foreheads touching, eyes closed, existing in the space of what could have been.

Then Kenan pulled back, and you felt it.

“I don’t want you to pick between me or your family,” he murmured.

Your chest caved in on itself. “Don’t say that.”

Kenan let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Come on, baby.”

He called you that one last time, like he knew he wouldn’t be saying it again. His thumb brushed your cheek, one final touch, like he was committing the moment to memory.

“You should stay.”

Your stomach plummeted.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head, tears well and truly spilling over now.

Kenan smiled, but it was small, sad, something entirely different from the ones he used to give you. “You know I’m right.”

You bit your lip, shaking your head, desperate. “I don’t care.”

Kenan exhaled, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering just long enough for it to hurt.

“You do,” he murmured against your skin.

And that was the worst part—because he was right.

Kenan had known what this would cost before you did. And that was why he was doing what you couldn’t bring yourself to do, why he was making the choice you refused to face.

A lump formed in your throat. “This isn’t fair.”

Kenan’s smile barely touched his lips. “Nothing about this was ever fair.”

You shut your eyes, but it didn’t stop the warmth trailing down your cheek. Kenan caught the tear with his thumb, unbearably gentle, as if this moment wasn’t already unraveling you.

And then—he stepped back.

And you knew.

This was it.

The moment he walked away.

Kenan adjusted his bag, glancing at you one last time before slipping his hands into his pockets and making his way down the steps. His shoulders were tense, his pace unhurried, but he didn’t look back.

And if you had glanced up, just for a second, you would have seen the faint glow of light filtering through the open window above the porch.

Would have seen Jude lying awake in bed, unmoving, his expression unreadable.

He had heard every word.

…

The stadium pulsed with energy—chants, stomping, the distant crackle of flares. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, laced with smoke drifting from the passionate sections of the crowd.

To most, this was just another match. Another ninety minutes under the floodlights.

For you, it was something else.

The first game since everything had fallen apart. Since Kenan walked away. Since you let him.

You sat stiffly in the private box, wedged between Vini Jr. and Julián, a cup of cold coffee cradled between your hands. Your eyes weren’t on the game.

They were on him.

Kenan stood on the pitch, clad in his Real Madrid kit, shoulders squared. To the world, he looked composed. You knew better. His jaw was too tight, his shoulders held tension that shouldn’t be there.

His gaze swept the stands until it found you. A fraction of hesitation. A flicker of something before he forced himself to turn away.

Julián muttered, “You’re staring.”

You blinked. “Was not.”

“Right,” he drawled. “And I’m a Barcelona fan.”

Jude hadn’t really spoken to you since that night. He had seen it—the way you barely ate, stayed in your room too long, weren’t yourself. Watching you now, staring at Kenan like you had already lost—he knew.

And on the pitch, it showed.

Kenan was off. His passes lacked precision, his movement hesitated. Jude, too. He wasn’t playing poorly, but you saw the difference.

Vini exhaled. “This isn’t them.”

You weren’t just watching two footballers struggle. You were watching two boys trying to push through something bigger than the game. And failing.

…

Halftime.

Kenan barely made it three steps into the tunnel before a hand gripped his arm, pulling him to a stop. His entire body tensed, bracing instinctively for a confrontation, expecting a sharp word, maybe even another shove.

But when he turned and met Jude’s gaze, something in him stilled.

Because Jude didn’t look angry.

He didn’t look like he was about to start another fight, didn’t look like he was holding onto resentment or betrayal.

He just looked… tired.

Kenan swallowed, exhaling slowly as Jude crossed his arms, studying him like he was weighing something in his head.

"You care about her."

It wasn’t a question.

Kenan’s jaw clenched, but he nodded without hesitation.

"I do."

Jude didn’t blink. His expression remained unreadable, sharp but not hostile, as if he was searching for any sign of doubt, any hesitation, anything that would confirm his worst fears.

"No, I mean, you really care about her."

Kenan’s chest tightened, his pulse drumming against his ribs.

But still, there was no pause when he spoke.

"More than anything."

Jude let out a long breath, dragging a hand down his face like this realization had just knocked the wind out of him.

"I was an idiot," he muttered, shaking his head. "I should’ve known earlier. She’s been miserable all week. So have I. And so have you."

Kenan didn’t answer.

Because there was nothing to say.

Jude sighed again, quieter this time, voice losing its edge.

"Listen to me," he said, meeting Kenan’s eyes with a look that left no room for misinterpretation. "If you ever mess this up—if you ever hurt her—" he paused, letting the weight of it settle, "you are done for."

Kenan nodded immediately. "I won’t."

Jude held his gaze for another long moment, assessing, deciding.

Then, finally, finally, he nodded.

"Then you have my blessing."

The words hit harder than Kenan expected.

His shoulders relaxed instantly, the tension he had been carrying for weeks lifting all at once, and for the first time in days, he could actually breathe.

The relief was overwhelming—so much so that before he could even think, before he could talk himself out of it—

He pulled Jude into a hug.

Jude stiffened immediately.

Then—he sighed. Loud. Dramatic. "Alright, alright, enough of this."

Kenan grinned, pulling back, the tightness in his chest easing completely.

Jude gave him a long-suffering look before muttering, half amused, half resigned—

"Kind of glad it’s you if it has to be any of my mates." A pause. "Still kinda weird, though."

Kenan laughed, the sound lighter than it had been in weeks.

And just like that, the weight of everything else—the tension, the guilt, the uncertainty—faded into the background.

Jude clapped him on the shoulder, nodding toward the tunnel. "Go play like yourself."

…

Where the first half had been marked by hesitation, the second half ignited with purpose. The tension that had clouded the match lifted, replaced by a sharp, relentless drive. And at the center of it all—Kenan.

From the moment the whistle blew, he was everywhere. Every pass landed with precision, every touch carried confidence, every movement had the unmistakable ease of a player who had just remembered exactly who he was. It was as if something inside him had settled, like the weight of the past few weeks had finally lifted.

Jude’s words in the tunnel had done more than clear the air. They had set him free.

Kenan played like a man with nothing to hold him back, his rhythm returning in full force. His movements were sharp, impossible to predict, his speed cutting through defenders before they even knew what was happening. The energy was infectious—his teammates fed off it, the crowd roared for it, the entire game shifted because of it.

Two minutes left on the clock. One last counterattack.

The stadium held its breath as Kenan surged forward, the ball at his feet, his body moving with instinctive precision. The defenders scrambled to stop him, but he was faster, sharper, weaving past them with practiced ease.

The goal was right there.

He didn’t hesitate.

One clean, powerful strike—

The ball sailed past the keeper.

And hit the back of the net.

Kenan barely had time to react before his teammates crashed into him, grabbing at his jersey, shaking him, shouting in pure elation. The weight of the game, of the past few weeks, of everything—gone in an instant.

And you?

You didn’t even realize you had jumped to your feet, hands pressed over your mouth, laughter spilling out in pure, unfiltered exhilaration. Your heart was pounding, the adrenaline coursing through you as you stared down at the pitch, at him.

Kenan turned, still surrounded by his teammates, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. But he wasn’t looking at them. He was looking for you.

And the second his gaze found yours, the rest of the world fell away.

His hands lifted, his fingers shaping a heart.

Right at you.

Your breath hitched, something flipping violently in your stomach, the moment pulling so tight you could feel it in your bones.

A hundred thoughts flashed through your mind. Jude. What if he saw? What if—

But then Jude jogged over to Kenan and patted him on the back, before tilting his head up to the box—

And smiling at you.

The tightness in your chest unraveled, the last few weeks dissolving in an instant.

Jude was telling you, without words, without spectacle, in the quietest, most Jude way possible that everything was okay.

The final whistle blew, Real’s victory confirmed, and the stadium exploded into celebration.

Your feet carried you down the stands before you could talk yourself out of it, weaving through the crowd, pushing past security, slipping through the barriers until your shoes hit the pitch.

The world around you was a blur of flashing cameras, roaring fans, falling confetti—

None of it mattered. You only saw one thing.

Kenan.

Still in the center of the pitch, still wrapped in the aftermath of victory—teammates cheering, hands clapping against his back, voices shouting over each other in celebration.

But Kenan wasn’t listening.

His eyes were searching.

And the second he saw you, everything else became secondary.

He moved through the crowd with quiet determination, each stride measured, gaze fixed on you like there was nowhere else he was supposed to be. There was no hesitation, no doubt—just certainty.

The second he reached you, his hands found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your jacket, warm and steady. His forehead brushed against yours, the ghost of a breath passing between you, his grip anchoring you to him like he had no intention of letting go.

And then—his lips were on yours.

There was nothing tentative about it, no room for second-guessing.

The way he kissed you was deliberate, like he had been craving this moment long enough and wasn’t about to waste it. He tasted like adrenaline and triumph, his fingers tightening against you as though to make sure you were really there.

The stadium noise melted into something distant, unimportant. It was just the two of you, caught in the heady mix of exhaustion, relief, and something deeper—something neither of you could deny anymore.

Still breathless, you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, the flicker of a smile ghosting across his lips.

“So, since we’re all feeling sentimental, should I kiss you too?” Arda stood a few steps away, grinning as he clapped Jude on the shoulder, eyes alight with mischief.

Jude recoiled instantly, baffled. “Absolutely not.”

Arda clutched his chest in exaggerated offense. “Wow. Rejected just like that. No hesitation.”

Laughter rippled through the team, light and easy, the weight of the last few weeks dissolving into something less complicated.

Jude exhaled, shaking his head.

But this time he was smiling.

For real.

[julietsf1]

Ramentic Gestures - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: Franco thinks switching bowls is the chivalrous thing to do—until he takes a bite and realizes he’s made a terrible mistake (2k words)

content: fluff, established relationship, tough guy soft moment

AN: Inspired by my uber eats order a couple of minutes ago! really do love spicy food I always carry my habanero pepper w me in my purse, just can't risk it yk

............................................................................

Kyoto at night had a certain glow to it. The kind that reflected off rain-slicked streets, neon signs flickering against glass windows, and the steady hum of life moving through the city. It was the kind of place that made everything feel a little more exciting, like anything could happen.

Franco and I had ducked into a small ramen shop tucked between two buildings, its red lanterns swaying gently outside. The place was warm, slightly crowded, the air thick with the scent of slow-simmered broth, fresh scallions and a hint of chili oil. It smelled incredible.

The restaurant was packed, mostly with locals slurping noodles and chatting over steaming bowls. The kind of place that didn’t rely on fancy decor or gimmicks—just good food.

Franco leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “See? I told you I’d find the best spot.”

I scoffed. “I found it. You just agreed.”

He winked, tilting his head slightly. “Agreeing is part of the process.”

Before I could argue, our bowls arrived, and the conversation immediately paused. The food looked incredible—deep, rich broth shimmering with chili oil, tender slices of duck resting on top, and a generous heap of scallions and sesame seeds. The noodles were thick and slightly curled, the kind that soaked up the broth perfectly.

I picked up my chopsticks, eager to dig in. “This looks amazing.”

Franco hummed in agreement, already reaching for his spoon. “Authentic Japanese ramen. Can’t get better than this.”

I took my first bite, letting the warm, flavorful broth coat my tongue. The spice hit immediately—not too bad, but definitely strong. A pleasant warmth bloomed in my mouth, tingling at the edges of my lips. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was the kind of heat that lingered. Heat that gets more intense with each bite you take.

Franco, however, didn’t seem to notice my reaction. He was too busy tasting his own food, completely unaware of what was about to happen.

“Spicy?” he asked casually, watching me from across the table.

I shook my head, swallowing. “A little, but it’s good.”

Satisfied, he twirled his chopsticks around the noodles and took a bite of his own, nodding approvingly. “Yeah, the broth is insane. Proper depth of flavor.”

I reached for my water, taking a small sip just to ease the heat. When I looked up again, Franco was watching me, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“You sure you’re good?” he teased.

I raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You always do this thing when something’s spicy—you try to act normal, but you reach for water every few seconds.”

“I do not,” I argued.

“You do,” he insisted, leaning forward slightly. “You did it in Monaco with the hotpot, and in Austin with the—”

“Oh my god, enough,” I laughed, rolling my eyes. “It’s really not that bad.”

He smirked like he didn’t believe me, then glanced at my bowl. “Do you want to switch?”

I hesitated. “You don’t have to.”

Franco scoffed, already reaching for my bowl. “Please cariño, I can handle it.”

I bit my lip, watching as he confidently pulled my bowl towards him, his expression still entirely too smug. “Alright,” I muttered, trading him for his much milder-looking ramen.

He barely hesitated before taking a bite.

And then—

His jaw tightened.

His grip on his chopsticks stiffened ever so slightly.

His chewing slowed.

For a second, I thought he might actually handle it. But then, the first real sign of distress—his ears turned red.

I bit back a smile, watching him carefully. “Good? Not too spicy?”

Franco exhaled through his nose, setting his chopsticks down with a careful precision. “Yeah.”

I squinted. “You sure? We can switch back.”

He licked his lips, blinking a little too much. “Mhm.”

I tilted my head. “You’re blinking a lot, honey.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You totally are.”

He sniffed. Subtly. As if testing the damage.

I gasped. “Your nose is running.”

He immediately swiped the back of his hand across his face, shaking his head. “It’s just warm in here.”

I could barely contain my laughter. “Franco, you are sweating.”

“I am not sweating.”

“There is literal moisture on your forehead.”

He exhaled sharply, reaching for his drink in a way that was almost casual, except for the fact that he drank half of it in one go.

I leaned my elbows on the table, smirking. “Are you gonna admit it’s spicy now?”

Franco cleared his throat, still determined to keep his composure. “It’s… a little spicy.”

I burst out laughing. “A little?”

He shook his head, sighing dramatically. “Dale, me rindo.” He glanced at my bowl, then back at me. “How are you just sitting there, totally fine?”

I shrugged, taking another bite of his much milder ramen. “I told you—it’s not that bad.”

Franco leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “No. This is actually lava.”

I grinned. “Too bad. You tried to show off and the spice humbled you.”

“I didn’t try to show off.”

“You absolutely did.”

He exhaled dramatically, reaching for a napkin and dabbing at his forehead. “I was saving you.”

“You should've saved yourself.”

Franco groaned, running a hand through his hair. “At least tell me I looked cool before it hit me.”

I tilted my head, pretending to consider. “Mmm. I don’t know. You went from confident to crisis pretty fast.”

He groaned again, dropping his head onto the table for a second before sitting back up. “Okay. Fine. What do I get in return for my suffering?”

I raised an eyebrow. “For your self-inflicted suffering?”

“Yes.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “What do you want?”

Franco smirked. “A kiss.”

I rolled my eyes, but he was already leaning forward, resting his chin on his hand like he was waiting.

I sighed dramatically before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “There. Happy?”

He grinned. “I don’t know. I think I need another one to really recover.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully, laughing as he reached for his drink again. Franco Colapinto, world class athlete—completely defeated by a bowl of spicy ramen.

[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

........................................................................

The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[julietsf1]

help me out lovelies who should I write about next? other suggestions also welcome in the comments :)

franco

lando

charles

carlos

Voting ended onFeb 13, 2025

[julietsf1]

All is Fair in Love and Pastries - Kenan Yıldız x Reader

summary: She came to Munich for romance and got ghosted instead. Now, all she has left is a non-refundable ticket, a wounded ego, and an ongoing feud with a man who stole her last pretzel. (8k words)

content: serendipity, slight enemies-to-lovers, unexpected chemistry, teasing, fluff :)

AN: getting that real life inspo lmao I'm actually still going to Munich this weekend as my ticket is non refundable :') bet im gonna go shopping tho!! have a lovely day darlings <3

_______________________________________

I stared at my phone for the hundredth time that day, hoping—no, praying—for a notification. A single message. A carrier pigeon, even. Anything to prove that I hadn’t just imagined the last 5 months of my relationship.

Nothing.

Just the same empty screen, as quiet and indifferent as the man who swore he loved me five days ago.

I refreshed our chat anyway, like that would suddenly make a difference. Maybe my WiFi was acting up. Maybe he had texted, and the message was just... stuck in the digital abyss, waiting to be delivered.

Nope. Still nothing.

I sighed dramatically and flopped back onto my bed, holding my phone above me like it might suddenly start explaining itself.

It had been four days since my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend? Current ghost?—had last texted me. Four whole days. No explanation, no excuse, not even the cowardice of a half-assed breakup text.

Just... radio silence.

Besides the instagram stories of his friends, where he was seemingly having the time of his life clubbing and going to basketball matches.

The man who, less than a week ago, had been telling me he missed me so much, that he couldn’t wait to see me, had apparently decided I no longer existed.

Cool. Very cool.

I unlocked my phone and stared at my last message to him. A simple:

"What time are you picking me up from the airport <3"

Sent. Read. Ignored.

I clenched my jaw and rolled onto my stomach, glaring at my laptop screen where my non-refundable plane ticket sat in my email inbox. A round-trip flight from Nice to Munich, purchased in what I now recognized as the stupidest burst of romantic optimism I’d ever had. 

What was I supposed to do now? Cancel? Waste the money and sit at home, marinating in my own heartbreak like some tragic rom-com protagonist?

Absolutely not.

He may have ghosted me, but I’d be damned if I let some spineless man ruin my weekend. If nothing else, I was going to Munich. I had been there quite often for him anyway; I can figure out town for myself. And if nothing else, I was going to eat overpriced pastries, wander through fancy boutiques, and romanticize the hell out of my heartbreak.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I packed my bags and boarded the plane with all the enthusiasm of someone heading to their own public execution.

…

Munich was cold, and I was hungry—a dangerous combination for my already fragile mood.

I had spent the last hour walking through Englischer Garten, trying to shake off the lingering irritation of being ghosted. Fresh air was supposed to be good for you, right? It was supposed to clear your head, restore balance, whatever.

Did it work?

Not even a little.

I even stopped by the Eisbachwelle, where wetsuit-clad lunatics flung themselves into freezing water, attempting to surf a man-made wave in the middle of the city. I lingered for a while, waiting for the sight of someone wiping out spectacularly to cheer me up. A little Schadenfreude, as the Germans call it.

But even that failed me.

A guy faceplanted so hard that his board smacked him in the ribs, and all I felt was secondhand embarrassment. Not a single drop of joy.

Which meant I had officially lost my edge.

I needed a reset. Something warm, salty, buttery, preferably in the shape of a large pretzel.

So when I spotted a small bakery stand in Marienplatz, I knew what had to be done.

There it was. The last Brezn.

Golden brown, perfectly crisp on the outside, still steaming slightly. It looked like a hug in food form. The kind of thing that could turn your entire day around, that could restore faith in humanity, that could—

A hand shot out at the same time as mine.

Before I could react, the pretzel thief had already handed over his cash, nodding a polite danke to the vendor as if he hadn't just robbed me blind in broad daylight.

I stood there, hand still hovering mid-air, fingers closing around absolutely nothing.

The guy—the criminal in question—didn’t even hesitate. He just took a bite, slow and deliberate, as if he were performing for a food commercial.

I should have just let it go. But I was cold, hungry, and, quite frankly, on the verge of snapping.

“Excuse me?” I said, my voice teetering dangerously close to customer service polite.

He finally turned toward me, mid-chew, like he hadn’t just committed culinary theft.

Up close, he was—unfortunately—pretty easy to look at. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sharp features softened only slightly by a full head of thick, dark blonde hair. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in an expensive ad campaign, modeling watches he probably didn't even know how to read.

His gaze flicked down at me, scanning me with the casual arrogance of a man who had never had to fight for the last anything in his life.

“Problem?”

I crossed my arms. “You just stole my Brezn.”

He glanced down at it. Then, without even a hint of remorse, ripped off another piece and tossed it into his mouth.

“Oh?” he said, chewing. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

I let out a slow breath through my nose. “You cut the line.”

He shrugged. “I don’t wait in lines.”

I squinted at him. “Oh, wow. That must be so difficult for you.”

“It is,” he replied, entirely serious, before popping another bite into his mouth.

I stared at him. He stared back.

This was a test from the universe.

“I think I deserve it more,” he said finally, still looking alarmingly relaxed about this whole thing.

“Oh yeah?” I deadpanned. “And why’s that?”

He licked a bit of salt off his thumb—unnecessarily slowly, might I add—before replying, “I’m barely ever home. Haven’t had one of these in months.”

I exhaled sharply, glancing at the vendor like maybe—just maybe—there was another pretzel hiding in a secret stash somewhere. But no. This was it.

This stranger had not only taken the last Brezn but was now making a compelling case as to why he deserved it more.

I had two choices:

1.     Accept defeat like a normal, functioning adult.

2.     Die on this hill.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t feeling particularly mature today.

“Well,” I said, shifting my weight onto one leg. “I actually had a really rough week. So if we’re doing the who deserves it more competition, I’m pretty sure I win.”

He raised an eyebrow, looking far too amused for someone who had just ruined my day. “Oh yeah? What happened?”

I opened my mouth, then hesitated.

 “Let’s just say I’ve had a series of unfortunate events that have led me here, to this exact moment, where all I wanted—all I needed—was a Brezn.” I gestured toward the offending baked good, still clutched in his ridiculously nice hands. “And yet, here we are.”

He considered that for a moment, like he was actually entertaining the idea of handing it over.

Then, after a beat, he simply swallowed, dusted the salt from his fingers, and said, “Still not giving it to you.”

I blinked. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Probably,” he agreed, unbothered.

And then—because apparently, this interaction wasn’t infuriating enough—he shot me a quick smirk, turned on his heel, and walked away.

With my pretzel.

I watched his retreating figure, the back of his stupidly nice jacket, the annoyingly confident way he walked, and considered my life choices.

Maybe I should have just tripped him.

…

By the time I reached Jamal’s apartment, I had mostly let go of the pretzel theft.

Mostly.

Fine, not at all, but I was telling myself that because I refused to let some random bread bandit ruin my entire weekend.

I rang the doorbell, and within seconds, the door swung open to reveal Jamal Musiala—failed Raya date turned best mate.

We had met on the app ages ago, but within the first five minutes of real-life conversation, it was abundantly clear that we were better off as friends. No awkward tension, no will-they-won’t-they—just immediate sibling energy.

And when he heard about my spectacular disaster, he didn’t even hesitate.

"Cancel the hotel. My guest room is free. You’re staying with me."

Which was how I ended up here, standing in his doorway while he pulled me into a quick hug.

"Yo! Finally made it," he said, immediately pulling me into a hug. 

"Survived another international flight," I sighed, stepping inside and already feeling the tension in my shoulders ease.

He grabbed my bag, tossing it near the door like it was his personal mission to make sure I did absolutely nothing for myself this weekend. "Long day?"

"You have no idea," I muttered, collapsing onto the couch. "Between the baby on the flight and some guy testing my patience on the streets of Munich, I was one bad moment away from throwing hands."

Jamal raised an eyebrow, already amused. "Define ‘testing your patience.’"

I waved a hand. "Eh, some random dickhead cut in front of me at a bakery. Took the last Brezn. Very tragic. Anyway, I’m over it now."

Jamal snorted. "You don’t sound over it."

"I’ve grown as a person," I said solemnly, grabbing the tea he handed me. "Anyway, enough about me. What’s new? Got any hot gossip?"

"Nothing as dramatic as your bread wars," he teased, settling into the chair across from me. "But I’m still reeling over the fact that you thought long-distance dating was a good idea."

I sighed, taking a long sip of my tea. "Alright, go on. Get it out of your system."

He smirked. "No, no, I just think it’s inspiring. You—who has approximately zero patience for time-wasters—thought dating someone five countries away was a solid plan."

I gave him a look. "It made sense at the time!"

Jamal raised an eyebrow. "Did it?"

I groaned. "Yes! In theory, long-distance means built-in space. No pressure to see each other all the time, no risk of losing yourself in the relationship. You still get your own life. It’s all very mature, very evolved."

"Ah yes," he nodded seriously, "a relationship with absolutely no quality time. Revolutionary."

I ignored him. "It worked perfectly for me."

Jamal leaned forward, grinning. "I think you’re saying he just didn’t make you fall head over heels properly."

"I’m saying it was a noble experiment that failed," I corrected.

"You rationalize love like it’s a business deal," he said, shaking his head. "I bet you made a whole pros and cons list before agreeing to this relationship."

I pursed my lips.

Jamal’s eyes widened. "Oh my God. You did."

"It was a very casual list," I mumbled into my mug.

He threw his head back, cackling. "You’re mental."

I scowled. "Some of us like to make informed decisions, Jamal."

"And some of us," he grinned, "realize that love isn’t an investment portfolio. It just happens."

I squinted at him. "That sounds like something people say when they want me to shut up."

"That too," he admitted, still smirking. "Anyway, I invited a friend over for FIFA later—hope you don’t mind."

I waved a hand lazily. "No problem. I’m gonna take a long shower first anyway."

…

The shower did its job. By the time I stepped out, warm and wrapped in one of Jamal’s oversized hoodies, I felt lighter. Like maybe this weekend wasn’t a complete disaster. Maybe I could just enjoy being in Munich, enjoy my friend’s company, and ignore the nagging feeling that I had flown here for absolutely no reason.

Then I stepped into the living room.

And froze.

Because sitting on Jamal’s couch, controller in hand, was none other than the Brezn thief himself.

I stopped so abruptly I nearly slid on the hardwood floor.

He looked up at me mid-game, one hand casually flicking the joystick, the other resting against the back of the couch like he had all the time in the world. His dark blond waves were slightly damp, like he’d just showered too, and he was wearing a black long-sleeve shirt that looked unfairly good on him.

For a split second, I thought maybe the universe was punishing me. That this was some kind of elaborate karmic joke.

Then he grinned, slow and lazy.

“Oh,” he said, far too casually for my liking. “It’s you again.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Are you following me?”

Jamal—completely oblivious to the mounting tension in the room—paused the game and looked between us. “Wait. You two already know each other?”

The man—who I now knew was not just some random bakery menace but an actual acquaintance of Jamal’s—stretched his arms out in front of him like he was completely at ease, shooting me a look that was somewhere between amused and smug.

“We met earlier,” he said, still grinning like he found this whole thing hilarious. “Had a little disagreement over a pretzel.”

I crossed my arms. “I wouldn’t call it a disagreement. More like an act of blatant food theft.”

Jamal let out a loud laugh. “Oh my God. You’re the Brezn guy?”

I turned to him, betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“Oh, I’m on no one’s side,” Jamal said, still grinning. “I just can’t believe you’ve been ranting about this all evening, and it turns out it was Kenan.”

Kenan.

I turned back to him, my brain finally catching up. Kenan Yıldız. The name suddenly clicked into place. Juventus player. Young star. He had been on all the football news headlines lately, yet I hadn’t recognized him when we’d been too busy arguing over baked goods.

Kenan leaned back against the couch, clearly enjoying every second of this.

“If it helps,” he said, “I did think about giving it to you.”

I scoffed. “Wow. So generous.”

“Didn’t, though,” he added, eyes gleaming.

I inhaled sharply, mentally weighing the pros and cons of throwing a pillow at his head.

Jamal, meanwhile, was still thoroughly entertained. “Alright, alright. Before you two start a war in my living room, sit down. We’re playing FIFA.”

I dropped onto the couch, watching as he passed a controller to Kenan. “Oh, fantastic. I get to witness high-quality gameplay firsthand.”

Kenan barely glanced at me as he selected his team. “That sounded sarcastic.”

I took a sip of my drink. “That’s because it was.”

Jamal grinned. “You talk like you’ve seen him play before.”

I gestured toward the screen. "The evidence is right there. You haven’t even started playing, and I can already see the classic overconfidence."

Jamal burst out laughing. “Oh, this is great. I love this."

Kenan tilted his head slightly. “You think I’m bad at FIFA?”

I leaned back, stretching my legs out. “I think you think you’re good, which is way worse.”

Jamal wheezed. “Mate, she’s calling you a fraud.”

Kenan finally smirked, something sharper in his expression now. “Alright then. Play me.”

I scoffed. “Why would I waste my time proving something I already know?”

Kenan handed me a controller. “Because I think you’re all talk.”

Jamal let out a low whistle. “Damn. You gonna let him say that?”

I squinted at Kenan, assessing. He looked too confident, too pleased with himself, like he had already decided I was going to lose.

Big mistake.

I stretched my arms, feigning boredom. "Fine. But when I win, you’re buying me a Brezn."

His grin widened. “Deal.”

Jamal leaned forward, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, this is officially the most invested I’ve ever been in FIFA.” 

The match started, and I quickly realized three things:

1.     Kenan was as smug as humanly possible.

2.     I was not as bad as he expected.

3.     I was still losing.

“You sure you’ve played this before?” he teased, passing circles around my defense.

I gritted my teeth. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Shut up.”

And then—he scored.

Jamal burst out laughing as I dramatically collapsed against the couch. “I’m going to throw this controller at your head.”

Kenan grinned. “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

I exhaled, resetting. “Alright. I’m locked in now.”

Kenan smirked. “Oh? You weren’t trying before?”

“I was warming up.”

And then—I started to figure him out.

Kenan was good, but he was also comfortable. He played like someone who expected to win—which meant he wasn’t ready for surprises.

So I gave him one.

Instead of playing safe, I started forcing mistakes. Instead of predictable attacks, I threw reckless passes forward, sprinting onto them with zero hesitation.

And then—somehow, some way—I scored.

The room went silent.

Jamal’s eyes widened. “NO WAY.”

I shot up from the couch, genuinely thrilled, throwing my arms in the air like I had just won the World Cup. “LET’S GO!”

Kenan blinked at the screen, processing. “...Alright. That was decent.”

“DECENT?” I laughed. “That was incredible. That was a masterpiece. Someone call FIFA, that was the best goal of the year.”

Jamal was dying, doubled over in laughter. “She’s actually celebrating like she won the league.”

Kenan shook his head, but he didn’t say anything.

Jamal leaned toward him. “You good, man? I think she actually rattled you.”

Kenan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “One goal means nothing.”

I grinned. “You sound stressed.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly.

“You look stressed.”

Kenan didn’t even respond. He just restarted the match, jaw set, eyes focused.

And that’s when I realized—he actually cared.

I had gotten to him.

And that fact alone made my entire weekend.

The rest of the game was pure chaos. I spent the entire match talking, commentating my every move like I was a sports announcer, making Jamal cry with laughter while Kenan did his best to block me out.

And then—somehow, against all odds—I scored again.

Jamal fell to the floor. “SHE DID IT AGAIN.”

I jumped up, clapping my hands together, absolutely beaming. “Someone get the cameras! Someone call ESPN!”

Kenan exhaled, dragging a hand down his face.

Jamal cackled. “I think this is the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

Kenan looked at me then, properly looked, and for a split second, there was something undeniably fond in his gaze.

He didn’t say anything, just shook his head with a tiny, reluctant smile.

I flopped back down, grinning wildly. “Kenan, should I go pro?”

“You should retire while you’re ahead,” he muttered.

I smirked. “So you admit I’m ahead.”

Kenan sighed, picking up his drink. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”

Jamal wheezed. “Nah, man, you lost. Accept it.”

I stood up, stretching lazily. “I believe you owe me a Brezn, Yıldız.”

With a giggle, I wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a coke from the fridge, still riding the high of my victory.

Behind me, I heard Jamal got up, grabbing his phone. “Food’s almost here—I’ll go down and get it.”

The appartment was quiet now besides the sound of a controller being set down. A pause.

Then, Kenan’s voice, low and even.

“She’s unbearable.”

I grabbed a coke and turned around, only to find him already walking into the kitchen.

He moved with the kind of easy confidence that was impossible to ignore, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt slightly, like he had all the time in the world. I expected him to go for a drink himself, but he just leaned against the counter, watching me.

I raised an eyebrow, taking a slow sip. “Let me guess. You came in here to process your humiliating loss in private?”

His lips twitched. “I came in here to see if you’d finally crack and admit you got lucky.”

I scoffed, setting my drink down with dramatic emphasis. “Lucky? Oh, that’s cute. You think this was luck.”

Kenan tilted his head slightly, like he was really considering it. “Mmm. Either that, or you tricked me into underestimating you.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “Are you suggesting I played mind games with you?”

His eyes glinted with something just shy of admiration. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

I smirked. “You’re right. I totally did. And I’d do it again.”

Kenan’s lips curled at the edges, like he wasn’t going to give me the satisfaction of admitting anything. But his gaze flickered—just for a second—down to my mouth before locking back onto my eyes.

There was a beat of silence, not awkward but charged.

His voice was lower when he spoke again. “I’ll get you back for that.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Sure you will.”

Before he could respond, Jamal’s voice rang out from the hallway. “Food’s here!”

Kenan stepped back, running a hand through his hair before nodding toward the door. “Come on, winner. Let’s eat.”

I followed, my smirk still lingering.

For the first time all weekend, I felt genuinely good.

…

It had gotten late the night before. Later than expected.

Jamal had ordered food, we’d all ended up sitting around, eating, talking, and somehow, between full stomachs and heavy eyelids, Kenan had ended up crashing on the couch. It wasn’t planned—just one of those things that happened when the night stretched longer than you thought it would.

I had barely registered it at the time, already halfway asleep in Jamal’s guest room, but when I woke up the next morning and wandered into the living room, there he was.

Kenan Yıldız. In all his six-foot-something, professional athlete, half-asleep glory.

Sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over his eyes, hair a mess of lazy curls, mouth slightly parted like he hadn’t fully re-entered consciousness yet.

I stared for a second too long, mostly because I wasn’t used to seeing him like this—soft around the edges, not smirking or arguing with me—before clearing my throat.

“You know, Jamal does have an actual guest room.”

Kenan didn’t move, just let out a low, sleep-roughened grumble that was probably a sentence in some language I didn’t speak.

I rolled my eyes, walking into the kitchen. “I’m going to get breakfast. If you’re alive in the next five minutes, feel free to come along.”

He was already pushing himself up onto his elbows, blinking like he wasn’t fully convinced the day had started yet. “Where’s Jamal?”

I grabbed my coat. “Still dead to the world.”

Kenan ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. “Smart man.”

…

The café was small, tucked away from the main streets, the kind of place that felt warm the second you walked in. The smell of fresh bread and espresso filled the air, and despite the morning chill outside, it was cozy, inviting, the kind of place people actually took their time in.

I relaxed a little the second I stepped inside.

Kenan scanned the space, hands in his pockets, taking it in like he was mentally scoring it. “Not bad.”

I scoffed. “Not bad? This is an elite breakfast spot.”

He smirked. “I’ll decide once I taste the food.”

I rolled my eyes but before I could continue defending my flawless café selection, I noticed a small interaction at the counter.

A barista—young, probably new—was clearly overwhelmed, trying to juggle too many things at once. She fumbled slightly with the coffee machine, hands moving fast, eyes flicking to the growing line like it was personally taunting her.

The businessman at the front, impatient and already checking his watch, let out a loud, exasperated sigh. “Jesus, is it always this slow?”

I didn’t mean to intervene.

It just kind of… happened.

I leaned slightly against the counter, offering a calm, easy smile.

“Take your time. It’s way too early for people to be this impatient.”

The words weren’t pointed, not really, but they carried just enough weight to cut through the tension.

The barista glanced at me, a flicker of relief in her expression before she nodded quickly and refocused on the drink in front of her.

The businessman, unimpressed, muttered something under his breath but dropped it, grabbing his coffee and stalking off.

Kenan, silent up until now, turned his head slightly toward me, like he was seeing me differently for the first time.

I ignored it, focusing back on the menu.

When we finally stepped up to order, the barista, still looking a little frazzled but better, managed a small, genuine smile.

“Thanks,” she murmured, adjusting her apron. “Some people are just…” She trailed off, rolling her eyes slightly, as if she couldn’t quite find the right word.

“The worst?” I offered.

She laughed. “Yeah. That.”

Kenan was still watching me, but now there was something else behind it.

Something almost amused.

“So you do have the capacity to be nice,” he mused, smirking as we stepped aside to wait for our drinks. “Interesting.”

I scoffed, stirring a sugar packet between my fingers. “I am perfectly capable of being nice.”

Kenan raised a brow, feigning deep contemplation. “Mmm. Just not to me?”

“The barista never stole my pretzel.”

He let out a low, lazy laugh, shaking his head as if he almost respected the answer. “Fair point.”

I took a sip of my coffee, pleased with myself, but before I could gloat, the barista returned, sliding an extra croissant onto our tray.

“On the house,” she said with a grin. “For being nice.”

I shot her a bright smile, but that smile slightly fell when I turned back to Kenan, I caught him watching me.

Not smirking. Not teasing.

Just looking.

It wasn’t obvious, nothing overt or lingering enough to call attention to itself. But there was something there—something unreadable, like a thought passing through his mind before he could decide what to do with it.

I frowned. “What?”

Kenan blinked, shaking his head slightly like he was resetting his expression. “Nothing.”

I squinted at him. “You’re weird.”

He smirked. “And yet, you invited me to breakfast.”

I rolled my eyes. “Because I was feeling charitable.”

Kenan took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes still flickering with something I couldn’t quite name.

“Lucky me.”

And for some reason, that sentence stayed with me longer than it should have.

…

The rest of the day, after dropping Jamal’s breakfast and Kenan went home, I was on a mission.

Enough sulking. Enough rehashing why I was even here. If I was going to spend a weekend away, I was going to make something of it—starting with the one thing that had never failed to lift my spirits.

Retail therapy.

Now, let’s be clear—I wasn’t the kind of person who regularly indulged in luxury shopping sprees. I was a firm believer in financial responsibility and splurging on sales.

But sometimes—just sometimes—a girl needed to treat herself.

I had no intention of actually buying anything.

But the moment I stepped inside Saint Laurent, something in me shifted.

Maybe it was the soft golden lighting, making everything look like it belonged in a dream. Maybe it was the quiet elegance of it all, the way the sales associates moved like they had all the secrets to life itself.

Or maybe, for the first time all week, I felt like I deserved something just for me.

I started with the handbags, lightly running my fingers over smooth leather and delicate gold clasps, trying to soak up the feeling of being in a place that felt so effortlessly put-together.

And then—I saw it.

It wasn’t a bag.

It was a dress.

Simple, timeless, and undeniably perfect.

I hesitated for a second, fingers hovering over the fabric, wondering if I was allowed to try something this nice on.

Then a sales associate appeared, smiling warmly. “Would you like to see how it fits?”

I bit my lip, a little shy. “Oh, I was just—”

But then, in a rare moment of self-indulgence, I nodded. “Actually… yeah. Why not?”

And that was how it started.

Five minutes later, I was standing in front of a mirror, staring at a version of myself I hadn’t seen in a while.

The dress fit like it was made for me.

It hugged just right, elegant but effortless, like I’d just thrown it on and magically looked stunning. The kind of dress that didn’t need accessories or complicated styling. It just… worked.

I smoothed my hands over the fabric, twirling just slightly, inspecting every angle.

And for the first time all weekend, I actually smiled at my reflection.

The saleswoman clasped her hands together. “That’s the one, isn’t it?”

I exhaled, still staring at myself. “You’re very good at your job.”

She laughed. "You look stunning, dear."

I let out a small, giddy giggle, the kind I hadn’t heard from myself in a while. It felt nice, to like how I looked—to do something that was just for me, without a single ounce of guilt attached.

For once, I wasn’t overthinking it.

I wasn’t analyzing whether I should or shouldn’t.

I was just happy.

So before I could talk myself out of it, I lifted my chin and said, “I’ll take it.”

As I handed over my card, I thought about where I’d wear it.

Jamal’s match tonight. The VIP box.

And then, out of nowhere, another thought crept in—one I definitely didn’t mean to have.

What if Kenan sees me in this? Surely he would be there too.

The moment the thought fully registered, warmth crept up my neck and into my cheeks.

I nearly choked on my own internal monologue.

I shook my head quickly, forcing down the blush before the saleswoman could notice.

I wasn’t buying this for him. Obviously. No. This was just for me.

…But if Kenan happened to see me in it, well.

That wasn’t my fault.

….

By the time I arrived at Allianz Arena, I felt genuinely lighter.

Maybe it was the crisp night air, the buzz of excitement in the crowd, or the fact that I was actually looking forward to something for the first time in days.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that I felt good in my new dress.

The stadium lights shone down as I made my way to the VIP section, clutching my pass. The energy inside was electric, fans already singing, the deep thrum of anticipation settling over the stands.

I stepped inside the box, scanning the seats for Jamal, when a familiar voice cut through the crowd.

I turned, already knowing who it was before I even saw him.

Kenan stood next to me, hands tucked casually into his pockets, his usual smirk firmly in place. The stadium lights did unfair things to his features, casting a warm glow over his already obnoxiously handsome face, and for a split second, I hated that he had the nerve to look like that in any setting.

His gaze flicked down ever so slightly, scanning my dress before he met my eyes again.

“You look good.”

I blinked, caught slightly off guard by the lack of sarcasm in his voice.

Then, as if he could sense me registering the compliment too much, he added, “Unexpected, really.”

There it was.

I let out a scoff, placing a hand on my chest. “Oh my God, Kenan. That was almost a normal, genuine compliment. You must be exhausted.”

He hummed, nodding. “Yeah, I don’t know what came over me. Won’t happen again.”

“Shame,” I teased. “I was really enjoying the moment.”

He shook his head, biting back a smile. “So, what brings you here? Finally expanding your horizons past FIFA?”

I crossed my arms. “Actually, I’m here for Jamal. Some of us support our friends.”

Kenan nodded slowly. “Mmm. And yet… you’re standing here, talking to me instead.”

I opened my mouth to fire back, but before I could, the stadium erupted in cheers, the players stepping onto the field.

I turned my attention to the match, trying to pretend I wasn’t slightly flustered.

Kenan, however, didn’t seem as interested in the game as he was in continuing his favorite pastime: annoying me for fun.

“So, be honest,” he murmured, leaning in slightly. “You understand the rules of football, right?”

I gave him a dry look. “Wow. Incredible assumption. You see a woman at a match and immediately assume she doesn’t get it?”

Kenan grinned, unbothered. “No, I just see you at a match and assume you’re mostly here for the snacks.”

I gasped. “Excuse me, I am deeply invested in Jamal’s career.”

Kenan hummed, clearly not convinced. “Okay. What position does he play?”

I stared at him. “...Defense?”

Kenan smirked. “He’s a midfielder.”

I groaned, throwing my hands up. “Alright, whatever, I’m here for vibes and friendship. Sue me.”

Kenan chuckled, his eyes twinkling with pure amusement.

For once, I didn’t feel annoyed by it.

I turned back to the field, taking in the sheer energy of the stadium, the rush of excitement that rippled through the crowd.

And out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kenan watching me.

I glanced at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching the match?”

His smirk didn’t waver. “I am.”

Something warm and fluttery settled in my stomach before I could stop it.

…

By the time the match ended, I was happily full of stadium energy but tragically underfed.

The VIP box had food, sure, but it was the kind of small, fancy bites that looked better than they tasted. You know, the kind that was supposed to be "elevated dining" but just made you angry and hungrier.

I popped another tiny canapé into my mouth and sighed dramatically.

Kenan, who had been watching me struggle with barely concealed amusement, finally smirked. “You’re starving.”

I turned to him, offended. “I am not starving.”

Kenan gestured lazily to the criminally small appetizer on my plate. “You just inhaled that in one bite.”

I crossed my arms. “Maybe I have a very refined palate.”

He snorted. “Right. That’s why you look physically betrayed after every bite.”

I sighed, defeated. “Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a little hungry.”

Kenan hummed like he was deep in thought, then glanced at his watch.

“Come on.”

I frowned. “What?”

He was already heading toward the exit, looking over his shoulder like it was obvious. “We’re getting food.”

I blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

Kenan chuckled, his expression full of mischief. “Trust me, anything outside is an upgrade from whatever that was.”

I tilted my head. “And what if this is an elaborate scheme to lure me into a suspiciously empty street?”

His smirk deepened. “I’d like to think if I wanted you gone, I’d be more creative than that.”

I considered it. “That’s… unsettlingly fair.”

…

Kenan’s car smelled unfairly nice—not in an overwhelming, aggressively expensive way, but in that effortless ‘I have my life together’ way. It was all clean leather, faint cologne, and something subtly fresh, like pine or citrus, the kind of scent that made you want to breathe a little deeper just to keep it around a second longer.

I did not breathe deeper.

Instead, I focused on the city outside, on the soft blur of streetlights streaking across the window as we drove through a quieter part of Munich. The streets were mostly empty, the chaos of match day behind us, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I wasn’t feeling weighed down by my own thoughts.

I was full, I was warm, and for once, I wasn’t thinking about him.

And then, Kenan spoke.

“So.” His voice was casual, almost offhanded, like he wasn’t about to upend my peace. “You never actually said why you were in Munich.”

I blinked, looking away from the window. “What?”

He glanced at me briefly, his fingers drumming idly against the steering wheel before he turned back to the road. “You don’t seem like the type to just book a random flight for fun.”

I scoffed, feigning offense. “Excuse me, I am very spontaneous.”

Kenan hummed like he didn’t believe me. “Right. And how many of these ‘totally random’ solo trips have you taken before?”

I opened my mouth. Paused. Frowned.

“…That’s not important.”

Kenan chuckled, shaking his head. “So, you’re telling me you woke up one day and thought, Munich sounds nice?”

I huffed dramatically, crossing my arms. “Maybe I did.”

Kenan shot me a pointed look that said ‘I know you’re full of shit.’

I exhaled, shifting in my seat. “Fine. I was supposed to see someone.”

He didn’t react—just kept driving, waiting.

It was almost worse than if he had immediately jumped in with a question.

I sighed, resting my head against the window. “But, uh… turns out he didn’t feel like seeing me back. And I had the ticket booked already.”

The words felt… lighter now, like they didn’t hold the same weight as they did a few days ago. Maybe because I’d said them out loud before. Maybe because I wasn’t alone with them anymore.

Kenan’s fingers flexed on the steering wheel, his jaw tightening for half a second before he spoke.

“Idiot.”

I blinked, turning toward him. “What?”

His voice was even, casual, but the way he said it was too sure, too final. “The guy. He’s an idiot.”

I let out a small, surprised laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t even know him.”

Kenan didn’t hesitate. “Don’t have to.”

Something about his certainty made my stomach twist.

I licked my lips, choosing to ignore the warm feeling creeping into my chest. “You’re very confident in that assessment.”

Kenan finally glanced at me, just for a moment, then looked back at the road. “Yeah. I am.”

The air in the car felt different all of a sudden, not uncomfortable, but charged.

I opened my mouth, about to say something to break whatever this was, when—

Kenan reached into the backseat, grabbing something, and tossed a small paper bag into my lap.

I frowned down at it. “What’s this?”

Kenan kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lazily on the gear shift. “Something I saw.”

I gave him a suspicious look before reaching inside.

The first thing I felt was something soft.

And when I pulled it out, I actually gasped.

It was a Jellycat plush.

But not just any Jellycat plush.

A pretzel-shaped one.

Ridiculously soft, golden brown with tiny embroidered salt flecks, its round body twisted into a perfect loop, like an adorable, carb-shaped hug.

I stared at it, completely thrown.

My brain short-circuited.

I turned to Kenan, wide-eyed. “You—” I stopped, shaking my head, too stunned to be normal about this. “You got me a Jellycat pretzel?”

Kenan shrugged, like this was completely normal behavior. “Figured you’d appreciate it.”

I blinked down at my lap, still gripping the plush like it might disappear if I let go. “I—this is—I don’t even know what to say.”

Kenan smirked. “Wow. A rare moment.”

I ignored him, still reeling. “Wait. How did you—” My eyes narrowed as the realization hit. “Jamal.”

Kenan huffed a small laugh. “Jamal.”

I groaned, slumping back against my seat, embarrassed beyond belief. “I swear, he’s worse than an actual gossip column.”

“He told me the full pretzel tragedy while you were shopping this morning.” Kenan’s lips twitched. “Said you looked genuinely devastated when I took the last one.”

I gasped, pressing a hand to my chest. “I was devastated.”

Kenan let out a real laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, I got that impression. Little drama queen.”

I glanced back down at the plush, running my fingers over its ridiculously soft surface, warmth blooming in my chest for an entirely different reason now.

I swallowed. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this, you know?”

Kenan exhaled through his nose, his smirk fading slightly. “I know.”

There was a small pause, then—

“I wanted to. I like to see you smile”

I froze.

Just for a second.

It wasn’t even what he said.

It was how he said it. Like it was simple. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

But it was a big deal.

I looked down at the Jellycat pretzel, tracing my thumb over one of the little embroidered salt flecks.

Kenan cleared his throat, like he wanted to move the conversation along before I got weird about it.

“I, uh—” He rubbed his jaw, focusing back on the road. “I couldn’t exactly smuggle a fresh one into the match, so I figured this would keep you warm in a different way.”

I swallowed, my grip tightening on the plush.

Somehow, slowly over the last few days, my heart stopped feeling so heavy.

I glanced at Kenan, and for once, he wasn’t watching me with his usual smirk or teasing expression.

He was just watching.

Like he was still trying to figure out why I looked so surprised.

Like he didn’t realize he had just completely disarmed me.

I turned back to the window, hiding my smile.

Kenan shifted in his seat, adjusting the air conditioning like he suddenly needed something to do with his hands.

He still hadn’t started the drive back to Jamal’s.

Good. I wasn’t in a rush to get anywhere.

…

I woke up earlier than expected, the kind of early where the world still felt half-asleep, where the streets outside hummed quietly with the first stirrings of the city.

The apartment was still, save for the occasional distant sound—pipes groaning as someone used the shower, the soft buzz of an electric toothbrush in another room.

And then—

A loud "OH, COME ON!" followed by rapid button-mashing and what I could only assume was a FIFA-related disaster.

I groaned, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to will myself back to sleep.

It didn’t work.

Instead, my hand reached instinctively for something beside me, fingers brushing against—

Oh.

I cracked one eye open.

There, sitting right beside my pillow, was the Jellycat pretzel plush.

Warmth bloomed immediately in my chest, completely uninvited.

It had been exactly where I left it, tucked neatly beside me like some ridiculous comfort object. I had slept next to it. Like some sentimental idiot.

I exhaled sharply, flopping onto my back and covering my face with my hands. “I’m losing it.”

Jamal’s distant FIFA agony continued in the other room.

I peeked at the plush again, this time reaching over to pick it up, squeezing it absently in my hands.

It was too soft. Too huggable. Too… thoughtful.

Kenan had really gone out of his way to find something like this. He had listened to Jamal’s retelling of my pretzel tragedy and then acted on it.

That thought alone did something weird to my stomach.

I needed to leave before I started reading into things.

After a long, slightly too-hot shower and a reluctant change into travel clothes, I zipped up my suitcase and walked into the living room, where Jamal was still intensely focused on FIFA.

“Morning,” I greeted, adjusting my bag strap.

Jamal barely looked up. “Yo. Ready for your flight?”

I nodded, shifting my weight. “Yeah, time to go back home. Thanks for letting me crash.”

He finally paused his game, stretching lazily. “No problem. You’re welcome to crash here whenever your love life implodes.”

I gasped, fake offended. “Excuse me, that was one time.”

Jamal smirked. “That was this time.”

I glared at him. “You’re very lucky I don’t have time to fight you about this.”

Jamal grinned, unpausing his game. “Safe flight, man. Oh—Kenan’s out front, by the way.”

I froze mid-step, my brain short-circuiting. “What?”

Jamal tilted his head toward the window. “I think he’s waiting for you.”

I blinked rapidly, my stomach flipping for reasons I refused to acknowledge.

Kenan was… waiting for me?

I didn’t even have time to process what that meant before my feet were already moving, slipping on my coat and heading for the door.

And sure enough—

When I stepped outside, there he was.

Leaning against his car, hands tucked into his pockets, his posture completely at ease, like he had been there for a while and had all the time in the world.

The moment he saw me, his lips curved into a smirk, like he had been expecting me to be surprised.

“You’re awake,” he said, as if he had any reason to assume I wouldn’t be.

I scoffed, shifting my bag higher on my shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

Kenan shrugged. “Driving you to the airport.”

I blinked. “I—what?”

He tilted his head slightly, amused by my confusion. “What, you thought I’d let you navigate Munich public transport with a suitcase?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I was literally just going to call an Uber.”

Kenan rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. “That’s boring.”

I stared at him, the weight of this entire situation settling into my brain.

Kenan—who had no reason to be here—had woken up, driven across the city, and was now waiting for me outside, completely unbothered, like this was just something he did.

I adjusted my coat, voice quieter. “You know you don’t have to do this, right?”

Kenan looked at me like I had just said something profoundly stupid. “Yeah. I know.”

I didn’t know what to do with that.

So instead of overanalyzing it to death, I just sighed, adjusting my bag.

“Fine. Let’s go.

…

When we finally pulled up to the departures area, Kenan shifted into park, tapping his fingers lightly against the steering wheel.

I unbuckled my seatbelt slowly, suddenly feeling like this was weirdly… final.

Like leaving now meant returning to normal.

And for some reason, I wasn’t ready for that.

I turned to him, opening my mouth to say… something.

But before I could, Kenan reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

A tiny bag of pretzels.

I blinked, thrown completely off guard. “You—”

Kenan smirked, holding it out toward me. “Figured you might need some snacks for the flight.”

I stared at him, something warm creeping into my chest before I could stop it.

I took the bag, shaking my head. “You’re trying to buy my goodwill?”

He leaned back against the seat. “You love it.”

I scoffed, but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Debatable.”

Kenan’s gaze flicked to my carry-on, and before I could register what he was about to say, his smirk deepened slightly.

“Did you pack the Jellycat?”

My face immediately heated up.

I opened my mouth—to lie, obviously—but Kenan just let out a laugh, shaking his head. “You did.”

I huffed. “No comment.”

Kenan’s lips twitched. “Good. It means my plan worked.”

I frowned. “Plan?”

He nodded toward the plush peeking slightly from the top of my bag. “Now you have to think about me every time you see it.”

My brain short-circuited.

I had no response to that.

I huffed, adjusting my bag. “Okay, well. Thanks for the ride, I guess.”

Kenan nodded once, casual as ever. “See you around.”

I hesitated for half a second.

Then, before I could stop myself—

I turned back to him one last time.

And said, without thinking:

“Don’t miss me too much.”

Kenan’s smirk was slow, lazy, and way too confident.

“No promises.”

I stared at him, my brain doing at least fifteen flips, before turning on my heel and walking inside before I could make this worse for myself.

I had no idea what had just happened.

All I knew was that my face was burning, and I was smiling like an idiot.

…

Back home, everything was exactly as I had left it.

The same apartment, the same slightly-too-loud coffee machine sputtering in protest before coming to life, the same half-empty fridge reminding me that I should really start grocery shopping like an adult.

Everything had resumed as normal.

And yet—

I found myself standing in my bedroom, suitcase still half-unpacked, as if some part of me refused to fully settle back into my routine. My fingers ran absentmindedly over the plush pretzel sitting on my bed, its soft, squishy loops an absurd but strangely comforting reminder of the past weekend.

I wasn’t supposed to still be thinking about him.

I wasn’t supposed to be replaying conversations in my head, breaking apart the way he had looked at me when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, the small shifts in his expression, the casual, almost careless way he had handed me that bag with the Jellycat and the pretzel, as if it hadn’t meant anything at all.

I let out a frustrated sigh, squeezing the plush against my chest like it was somehow responsible for all of this.

“You’re not helping,” I muttered at it.

Unsurprisingly, the Jellycat did not have a response.

I groaned, flopping onto my bed and burying my face into my pillow, as if that would somehow smother my thoughts into submission.

This was ridiculous.

I was being ridiculous.

I had gone to Munich with a very specific reason—to see someone who had ultimately proved to be unworthy of my time. But somehow, I had left with something else entirely.

A new inside joke. A new routine. A new, completely inconvenient way my stomach flipped whenever I got a text notification.

Which was precisely why I should not have reached for my phone just now.

But I did.

And when I turned it over—

There it was.

A new message.

From Kenan.

I hesitated for a beat, my thumb hovering over the screen, already knowing that whatever it said would only make things worse for me.

Then, finally, I clicked it open.

Kenan: Buy a nice winter coat.

I frowned, sitting up slightly as I typed back.

Me: Why?

The reply came almost instantly, as if he had been waiting for me to answer.

Kenan: I’m playing in the Netherlands next Wednesday.

Another message followed before I even had time to process the first.

Kenan: I need you to see how much better I am than Jamal, obviously.

I stared at my screen, my heart doing a very, very inconvenient thing, something warm and fluttery and deeply annoying settling into my chest.

I didn’t respond right away.

Because I already knew what I was going to do.

I was going.

[julietsf1]

Crushes and Cortados - Franco Colapinto x Reader

summary: as a barista you see a lot of weird customers in a day, and this one Argentinian boy who keeps coming in every day is definitely one of them.

content: meet cute, fluff, Barista!Reader

AN: As a Francaise, I am beyond happy Franco is with Alpine this season! Finally some reason to root for my own country lmao

_________________________________

Madrid in the fall was pure magic. The late afternoon sunlight painted the streets gold, filtering through rustling plane trees as locals bustled past in their scarves and coats. Inside the café, the air was warm and rich with the scent of espresso, the quiet hum of Spanish conversation mingling with the soft strumming of a flamenco guitar on the radio.

You stood behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine, relishing the peaceful moment before the next customer walked in.

And then, he appeared.

The door swung open with a soft chime, and you glanced up to see a boy who looked like he belonged in a Polaroid picture—slightly tousled dark curls, ridiculously green eyes, and the kind of smile that could probably get him out of trouble more often than not. He wasn’t overdressed like a tourist, but he didn’t look like a typical local, either. Too comfortable, too at ease—like he had already decided he liked this place.

And then, he spotted you.

His smile turned into something more mischievous, and before you could even process it, he was walking straight to the counter with way too much confidence for someone who had never been here before.

“Hola,” he greeted, voice smooth and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world.

You blinked at him. “Hola.”

He stared at the menu for exactly two seconds, tilting his head as if contemplating some deep, existential question. Then, his eyes flicked back to you.

“What do you recommend?”

There was something off about the way he asked—something too casual, too charming. You had worked in this café long enough to know when a guy was genuinely lost and when he was just trying to start a conversation.

You leaned against the counter, unimpressed. “You mean… coffee-wise? Or in general?”

His smile widened. “Both.”

You exhaled a laugh, tilting your head. “For coffee? A cortado. Classic, strong, doesn’t waste your time.”

“And in general?” he pressed, as if this was an actual conversation we were having and not him blatantly flirting.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Find better ways to flirt than pretending you don’t know what to order.”

That caught him off guard. He blinked, then let out a genuine, delighted laugh, like you had just won a game he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Okay, that was good.”

You smirked, already moving to make his drink.

When you slid the cortado across the counter, he reached for it—but not before his fingers brushed yours.

You didn’t react. Not outwardly, at least.

But when you glanced up, he was already watching you, eyes flickering with something teasing yet soft.

“Gracias,” he murmured.

And then, as if he hadn’t just weirdly flirted with you for no reason, he took his cortado, walked to a table by the window, and sat down like he had been coming here for years.

You exhaled, shaking your head.

Weird.

…

After that day, he came back.

And then he came back again.

And again.

It became a thing.

Same time. Same cortado. Same grin that made you want to throw a dish towel at his stupidly cute face.

And he was always talking to you.

He asked about your classes, your favorite part of Madrid, whether you preferred cats or dogs. He teased you when you were grumpy, made you laugh when you were exhausted, remembered little things you told him without you realizing.

And the flirting?

Oh, it never stopped.

One day, he leaned across the counter, chin resting in his hand as he watched you make his drink.

“You know,” he mused, “I read somewhere that people who drink cortados are very mysterious.”

You snorted. “You just made that up.”

“No, really,” he insisted, trying to sound serious but failing because his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “It means they’re deep thinkers, passionate, probably a little misunderstood—”

“Have you heard yourself yap, darling? You are far from mysterious.”

“Wow.” He placed a hand on his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were friends.”

You smirked. “We’re not friends. You’re just a strange guy who orders the same coffee every day and refuses to sit anywhere except that exact same table.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue. “Or maybe I just like the view.”

Your hands froze mid-wipe.

He was too pleased with himself, watching your reaction like it was his favorite part of the day.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to injure yourself and turned away, pretending to organize the espresso cups.

Behind you, you heard his quiet chuckle, followed by the familiar sound of him picking up his cup and heading to his usual seat.

Damn him.

…

At first, it was nothing. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Franco was just a customer. A customer who happened to flirt a lot. A customer who smiled at you like he knew something you didn’t. A customer who remembered little details you barely recalled telling him.

A customer you found yourself thinking about—just a little too often.

It started with small things.

One afternoon, you were making someone’s latte when the café door chimed, and—without even thinking about it—you glanced up.

Franco.

Hair slightly messier than usual, backpack slung over one shoulder, already grinning before he even reached the counter.

Your stomach did this annoying little flip, and it took you a second to realize why.

You had been waiting for him.

And that wasn’t even the worst part.

The worst part was that, when you realized it, you smiled.

It only got worse from there.

One day, after your shift, you were walking home, tired, your mind fogged up with school assignments, deadlines, and the general exhaustion of life.

And then, out of nowhere, you found yourself laughing.

It was one of his dumb jokes. One so profoundly stupid, you’d barely managed a blink when he’d said it. Something about how drinking cortados every day was “building his immunity” in case he was ever kidnapped. He’d even added, “It’s all about preparation, you know. Survival of the fittest. And right now? I’m basically the Usain Bolt of caffeine endurance.”At the time, you had rolled your eyes.

But now? Now, you were walking through Madrid laughing to yourself like an absolute idiot.

That’s when it hit you.

You liked him.

Not just in a he’s-funny-and-charming kind of way.

Not even in a he’s-cute-and-flirty kind of way.

No.

You liked him in a this boy has somehow become the best part of my day, and I didn’t even notice it happening kind of way.

And that realization?

Absolutely terrifying.

…

The next afternoon, you tried to act normal. Tried being the key word.

When Franco walked in, you were ready—arms crossed, expression unreadable, the picture of total indifference.

He approached the counter, completely unaware of the internal crisis you were currently battling.

Then, as always, he leaned against the counter, tilting his head in that ridiculously smug way.

“Buenas,” he said, flashing his signature grin.

And that’s when you knew.

You weren’t going to fight it anymore.

You weren’t just warming up to him—you were already lost, and the only thing left to do was even the playing field.

So, for the first time, you mirrored him.

Leaning against the counter, resting your chin in your hand, mimicking the way he always did it.

His eyebrows lifted—curious, amused, interested.

“Let me guess,” you said before he could speak. “Cortado?”

His grin widened immediately, like he had been waiting for this moment.

“You really know me.”

You tilted your head, tapping your fingers against the countertop. “More like you’re predictable.”

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Or maybe I just know what I want.”

Your stomach flipped before you could stop it.

But instead of panicking, instead of letting him win, you tilted your head further, just slightly, and raised an eyebrow.

“Right,” you mused, voice light, teasing. “And what else do you want, Franco?”

For the first time, he blinked.

Just for a fraction of a second, as if he hadn’t expected you to actually challenge him.

And then—he laughed.

Head tilting back, genuine amusement spilling into his smile, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he had just been caught off guard.

“Oh,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You’re trouble.”

You shrugged, smirking. “I learn from the best.”

His eyes crinkled at the edges, full of something warm, teasing, dangerously fond.

And that was it.

That was the moment.

Because from then on, everything between you changed.

…

It was a slow afternoon, the kind where the café hummed with a lazy warmth, the scent of espresso lingering in the air, blending with the sweetness of pastries cooling on the counter. Outside, the sun dipped lower, stretching golden light through the wide glass windows, making everything glow.

Franco had been here for nearly an hour, which was longer than usual. He sat in his usual spot by the window, tapping his fingers idly against his empty cortado cup, gaze flickering between the street outside and—you.

You could feel it.

The weight of his attention, the way he kept watching you as if he had something to say, but every time you caught his gaze, he looked away, chewing on his lip, pretending to check his phone.

Which was weird.

Because Franco never hesitated.

His presence in the café had always been effortless, his flirty remarks sliding into conversation like second nature, his teasing confidence something you had grown accustomed to. It was his thing—leaning against the counter with that knowing smirk, making some ridiculous comment just to see you roll your eyes. It was a routine, a pattern, one you had started to enjoy way too much.

But today, something was different.

You glanced at him again.

He was still staring at his cup.

Still not walking up to the counter.

It took another few minutes before he finally stood up, slipping his phone into his pocket, stretching his arms over his head like he was shaking off whatever thoughts had been keeping him rooted to that seat. He made his way toward the counter a little slower than usual, his steps lacking their usual lightness, as if he was deliberately dragging them out.

When he reached the counter, he didn’t lean against it like he usually did. Didn’t rest his chin in his hand, didn’t flash that effortless grin.

Instead, he hesitated.

You raised an eyebrow, already reaching for a cup. “Another cortado for you?”

Franco exhaled a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh… no. Actually.”

You blinked. That was new.

He hesitated again, shifting his weight slightly, his fingers drumming against the counter before he finally looked at you properly.

“Actually… I was thinking maybe I could see you sometime.” He paused. “Some place that’s not here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and sudden, but not entirely unexpected.

Because deep down, you had been waiting for this moment.

You had felt it coming.

Felt it in the way he lingered a little longer each time he came in, in the way his teasing had softened into something fonder, in the way his eyes flickered to your lips sometimes when you laughed.

And yet—hearing it aloud still sent a jolt of something sharp through your chest.

Your first instinct was to deflect, to act like this wasn’t a big deal. Because if you let yourself think about it too much, you might just start realizing that your stomach was doing things and your heart was beating faster and—

You smirked, crossing your arms. “There’s this really cute café on the other side of town—”

And then—he laughed.

Like, really laughed.

Not his usual amused chuckle, not one of those half-smirks he usually gave when you tried to banter back. This was a proper, head-tilted-back, actual laughter, the kind that made his shoulders shake slightly, the kind that caught you completely off guard.

You frowned, confused. “What?”

Franco wiped at his eye, still grinning. “I need to be honest with you. I don’t actually like coffee.”

Silence.

You blinked at him. Once. Twice.

Then, finally, you leaned forward, elbows against the counter, staring him down like he had just spoken in another language.

“You’re joking.”

He held up his hands in surrender, grinning like a guilty criminal caught in the act. “Nope.”

“You—” You gestured at him wildly. “You have been drinking cortados every single day for weeks?”

Franco shrugged, completely unbothered. “What can I say?” He flashed that infuriating, ridiculously boyish smile, the one that had always made you a little weak in the knees. “You make terrible coffee taste good.”

You stared at him, processing.

Then—you burst out laughing.

“For what?” Your hands flailing as if you could somehow pluck the answer from the air. “For this? For me?”

“Well, yeah.” He shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “You drank all that… espresso and milk, knowing full well you didn’t like it?”

“Every last drop,” he confirmed, looking far too proud of himself.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He leaned on the counter, resting his chin in his hand as his grin turned softer, more teasing. “But it worked, didn’t it? You’re talking to me now.”

You threw your hands up. “Oh my God. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! You could’ve just… I don’t know, asked for tea! Or water! Or literally anything else!”

“And miss out on the best cortado this side of Madrid?” Franco shook his head in mock disappointment. “No, no. That would’ve been a tragedy.”

You couldn’t help it—you snorted, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle the laugh that slipped out.

“See?” He pointed at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re laughing. So I must be doing something right.”

“You are—” You shook your head, still laughing, pressing a hand to your forehead. “You are really weird.”

Franco only grinned wider, looking pleased with himself.

“And yet, you like it.”

“I don’t,” you shot back, even though the warmth creeping into your cheeks said otherwise.

Franco raised an eyebrow, his grin growing impossibly smug. “You sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms over your chest. “You know, there’s a fine line between charming and annoying.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I’d still like to take you out.”

Your laughter slowly faded, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin, letting the moment stretch out just a little longer, just to make him wait.

Then—you smiled.

After a moment, you rolled your eyes, though your smile was now completely unguarded. “Fine. But if this date is awful, I’m making you drink two cortados next time.”

“Deal.” He grinned, his green eyes sparkling with so much boyish delight that you couldn’t help but laugh again.

You sighed, shaking your head, but the smile stayed on your face long after Franco walked out of the café that day.

[julietsf1]

Home Again - Charles Leclerc x Reader

summary: eight years, one city, and a thousand unspoken words—will a chance encounter in London bring closure, or is there more in store for Monaco's golden boy and the one who got away? (4.5k words)

content: reunion, slight angst, unresolved feelings, childhood friends

AN: another Charles one! I felt like these tropes really suited his vibe, I hope you enjoy!! :)

____________________________________

London always felt like a city of paradoxes - chaotic yet calming, detached yet full of life. As I sipped my cappuccino at a small café tucked away in Soho, I let my mind wander. The same questions had lingered in my mind over the years, growing louder the longer I avoided them. Was it a mistake to leave? Should I have fought harder to keep in touch with him? With Charles?

I shook my head. No, leaving Monaco had been necessary. It was beautiful, yes, but it was like living inside a postcard, picture-perfect on the outside but so painfully hollow within. Everyone was constantly posturing, trying to outdo the next person in opulence, charm, or connections. It was exhausting.

And Charles… he was Monte Carlo personified in so many ways. Stunning, magnetic, the kind of person who made you feel alive just by being in his orbit. But there was something raw and real beneath that glossy exterior, something I’d always seen, even when no one else seemed to. I loved him for it. And maybe, in a way, I hated him too - for thriving in a place that felt like it would suffocate me.

The faint chime of the café door opening pulled me from my thoughts. I glanced up, expecting some trendy Londoner or a tourist fumbling with their map. But instead, my eyes landed on a familiar face, one I hadn’t seen in nearly a decade. Arthur Leclerc.

“Y/N?” His voice was incredulous, his eyebrows shooting up as he stopped mid-step. He looked exactly the same, just a bit taller, a bit sharper around the edges. Still the same boy I remembered from childhood, though, with that mischievous glint in his eye.

I blinked, unsure if I was hallucinating. “Arthur?”

He grinned, practically bounding over to my table. “Mon dieu, it is you! I wasn’t sure at first, but… wow, what are you doing in London?”

I gestured to my half-empty coffee cup. “Living here. What about you? I thought you’d be… I don’t know, in Monaco or racing somewhere glamorous.”

Arthur slid into the seat across from me without waiting for an invitation, his grin widening. “I was here for a sim session, actually. But you, London? I thought you’d be in Paris or some other philosophy capital, writing about Socrates or something.”

I laughed softly. “Close enough. I came here for university, and I never left.”

“Eight years.” His tone was lighter, but his words carried weight. “It’s been eight years, Y/N. Do you ever go back?”

The question hit me harder than I expected. I took a sip of my coffee to buy myself time. “No,” I admitted. “Not since… well, not since I left.”

Arthur’s expression softened, though confusion lingered in his eyes. “You just… left,” he said gently. “No one really understood why. Charles especially.”

I looked down at my coffee, the words caught in my throat. How could I explain the weight of feeling like an outsider in a world I was supposed to call home?

“I just needed to go,” I murmured. “It wasn’t about anyone else.”

Arthur studied me for a moment, then nodded slowly. “I guess I never really got it, but… if it’s what you needed, then fine.” He paused before leaning forward with a small smile. “Come back. Just for the weekend, for the Grand Prix. I think it’d mean a lot to everyone. To Charles.”

I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. The truth was, I’d thought about going back a hundred times. But every time, I chickened out. Monaco felt like a ghost town to me now, haunted by memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

“I don’t know,” I said finally. “It’s complicated.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Arthur said simply. He pulled out his phone and started typing something before I could protest. “There. I signed you up as my guest. No backing out now.”

I stared at him, equal parts annoyed and touched by his insistence. “What if I had plans already?”

“Cancel them,” he shot back with a wink. “But seriously, Y/N, it’s time. Come back. Just for a weekend. What’s the worst that could happen?”

I sighed, knowing I’d already lost this battle. And maybe he was right. Maybe it was time.

…

Monaco hadn’t changed. Not really.

The same sunlit streets curved around the cliffs, the same pastel buildings clung to the coastline, their colors soft and warm under the Mediterranean sun. The harbor was still crowded with yachts that gleamed like polished jewels, reflecting the light off the water’s surface. It was all exactly as I remembered—beautiful in the kind of way that made you feel small and insignificant.

I wasn’t sure what I expected. Maybe cracks in the pristine perfection, signs that time had weathered the place the same way it had weathered me. But Monaco, ever the picture perfect place, refused to bend to time.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t resent it for that. The beauty I had once thought insincere now felt strangely comforting, like being greeted by an old friend who hadn’t forgotten you, even if you had drifted apart.

“Here we are, mademoiselle,” the taxi driver said, pulling up to the paddock entrance.

I took a deep breath and stepped out. The familiar hum of Grand Prix weekend surrounded me immediately - the roar of engines revving in the distance, the buzz of chatter from fans and team members, the faint tang of fuel in the air. It was overwhelming, yes, but also exhilarating. Nostalgia wrapped around me, equal parts warm and suffocating.

“Y/N!” Arthur’s voice rang out, pulling me back to the present. He was waiting just inside the paddock entrance, a wide grin spreading across his face as he waved me over.

I smiled despite myself and walked toward him. “Arthur,” I said, my tone teasing. “You’re not old enough to be drinking espresso yet.”

He laughed, pulling me into a hug that was warmer than I expected. “Eight years and you still won’t give me a break. Come on, let’s go.”

“Go where?” I asked as he led me into the paddock, his enthusiasm practically radiating off him.

“Everywhere,” he said simply. “It’s been years. You’ve missed so much.”

Arthur guided me through the maze of the paddock, pointing out everything with a mix of pride and excitement, as though I hadn’t grown up watching all of this unfold. But I let him have his moment, nodding along and laughing at his commentary.

“You look different,” he said suddenly, catching me off guard. “In a good way, I mean. More… I don’t know, serious. Like you’ve seen things. Learned things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very poetic way of saying I look old, Arthur.”

“No, really,” he insisted, his expression earnest. “It’s like you’ve grown into yourself.”

The comment was unexpected, but it warmed me. “Thanks,” I said softly. “You’ve grown up too. A little.”

He grinned. “Don’t let Charles hear you say that. He still treats me like a kid.”

At the mention of Charles, my stomach twisted, though I tried to keep my expression neutral. Arthur must have noticed something, because his tone shifted, gentler now. “I know it’s probably weird, being back here,” he said. “But I think it’s good you came. I think… I think Charles will be happy to see you.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him how wrong I thought he was. Instead, I nodded and let him lead me deeper into the paddock.

…

The paddock was chaos, as always. Media rushing everywhere, team members darting back and forth. But Charles couldn’t focus on any of it.

Because she was here.

He had only seen her for a brief moment, just a glimpse of her stepping out of a taxi and into the paddock. But it was enough to bring back everything; every memory, every laugh, every ache of missing her. She looked exactly like she did before, only prettier. 

It had been eight years. Eight years since she left without a goodbye, leaving him to wonder if he had done something wrong, if he had somehow driven her away. And now she was back, as though she had never been gone.

“Arthur,” he muttered, pulling out his phone. His hand shook slightly as he dialed.

His brother answered on the first ring. “Charles? What’s up?”

“What’s up?” Charles hissed, keeping his voice low as he stepped out of the chaos and into a quiet corner. “Arthur, why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

There was a pause, then a sheepish laugh. “Ah. You’ve seen her already.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her!” Charles snapped, though the anger in his voice was undercut by the nervous energy bubbling beneath. “You should’ve warned me.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Arthur said, his tone annoyingly casual. “I thought you’d be happy. It’s been years, Charles. Don’t you want to see her?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, leaning against the wall. “Of course I want to see her. I just… I don’t know what to say.”

Arthur’s voice softened. “You’ll figure it out. You always did with her.”

…

Arthur had been called away to a meeting, leaving me to wander the place on my own. I found a quiet spot near the Ferrari hospitality area, nursing a coffee and trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions in my chest.

Being back here was surreal, like stepping into a memory I wasn’t sure I wanted to relive. But at the same time, I couldn’t deny the comfort of it - the familiar sounds, the smell of the sea air mixed with fuel, the vibrant energy of race weekend.

I heard footsteps behind me and turned instinctively, my breath catching as I locked eyes with him.

Charles.

He stopped in his tracks, his expression a mix of shock and something I couldn’t place, something that made my chest tighten. For a moment, neither of us moved. The weight of eight years of silence hung in the air between us, heavy and unyielding.

Before I could say anything, he turned abruptly and walked away.

…

The roar of the engines drowned out everything else. I stood on the hospitality terrace, surrounded by fans who were shouting encouragement in a chorus of excitement. The energy was contagious, a reminder of why I had always loved race weekends, even when the rest of Monaco felt stifling.

Arthur had left me to sit with some of his friends, but I didn’t mind being alone. It gave me a chance to take it all in—the track, the sea of red Ferrari merchandise, the sun reflecting off the sleek cars. My eyes kept drifting to one in particular, the red number 16 that seemed to glide through every corner as though the circuit were made for it.

Charles.

I hadn’t seen him since he walked away from me in the paddock earlier. It shouldn’t have surprised me; after all, what could we have possibly said to each other in that moment? But it still stung, the abruptness of it, the way he looked at me like I was a ghost he wasn’t ready to confront.

I shook my head, trying to push the thought away. It didn’t matter. This wasn’t about him. It was about being here, about reconnecting with a part of my life I had left behind.

But as the race unfolded, I couldn’t stop my gaze from following him. Every lap, every overtaking move, every moment of brilliance - it was impossible not to be drawn in. Charles had always been talented, but seeing him now, so focused and in control, was something else entirely. It was breathtaking.

The crowd around me erupted as Charles crossed the finish line, taking the victory in a masterful final lap. People were cheering, waving flags, hugging strangers in celebration. I found myself smiling, caught up in the infectious energy of the moment.

But my smile faltered as I saw him step out of the car. The joy on his face was undeniable, but there was something else—something in the way his eyes scanned the crowd, as though he were looking for someone.

For a split second, I thought he might be looking for me. But then I shook my head, brushing the thought away. Charles had the whole world celebrating him right now. Why would he waste a second of it on someone who had been gone for so long?

Still, as he climbed onto the podium and lifted the trophy, I couldn’t help but feel that same strange pull I had always felt with him. It wasn’t just admiration or pride; it was I only felt with him.

As the celebrations spilled into the paddock, where the Ferrari garage was alive with champagne showers, laughter, I kept my distance, lingering near the back of the crowd as the team surrounded Charles, congratulating him.

Arthur spotted me and made his way over, a grin plastered across his face. “Pretty incredible, huh?” he said, motioning toward the scene.

I nodded. “He’s… he’s amazing,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended.

Arthur gave me a look, something between knowing and sympathetic. “You should come to the afterparty,” he said. “We’re all heading to Rimaldi later. It’ll be fun.”

I hesitated, the thought of being in a room full of people who knew Charles, who had been part of his world all these years, making my stomach twist. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t overthink it,” Arthur said, cutting me off. “It’s just a party. No pressure.”

I forced a smile, but the weight in my chest didn’t ease. “We’ll see,” I said, knowing full well I wasn’t going to go.

***

The party at Rimaldi was everything Charles had come to expect from these celebrations—loud music, overflowing champagne, and a sea of people he barely recognized. The restaurant’s cozy atmosphere had been transformed into a chaotic celebration, with glasses clinking and laughter filling every corner. Fans and acquaintances congratulated him as though they were old friends, slapping him on the back and offering toasts in his honor.

Normally, this was his element. He was good at this—the smiling, the handshakes, the polite small talk that came with being the center of attention. On any other night, he would have been content to let the noise and the crowd carry him, to let it fill the empty spaces he so often ignored. But tonight was different.

Tonight, no matter how many times he raised his glass or laughed along with a joke, he couldn’t shake the gnawing restlessness that had been with him all day. His mind kept drifting, pulled away from the party and back to the one place he couldn’t seem to avoid—her.

She’d looked the same and yet completely different. The years had softened some edges and sharpened others, but it was still her. Y/N, the person who had once been his closest friend, his anchor in a world that often felt overwhelming. He thought he had moved on from wondering why she left, why she cut him off, but seeing her again brought it all back in a rush.

He barely touched his drink, the glass sweating in his hand as he leaned against the edge of the bar. Across the room, Arthur caught his eye, a knowing grin on his face as he raised his own drink in a silent toast. Charles frowned and turned away, pretending not to notice.

“Charles! Congratulations!” A voice pulled him back to the moment. A well-dressed man, someone he vaguely recognized as a sponsor, clapped him on the shoulder. Charles offered a tight smile, exchanging a few polite words before excusing himself.

The truth was, he wasn’t really here. Not mentally. The louder the party grew, the more it grated on him, every laugh and cheer feeling like static in his ears. His thoughts kept circling back to the paddock, to the way her eyes had met his for that brief, electric moment. She had looked surprised, hesitant, but not angry. That was something, at least.

But then she had disappeared, and he hadn’t been able to stop replaying it in his mind—the way she stood there, so poised and composed, and then was gone, swallowed up by the crowd.

By midnight, he couldn’t take it anymore. The laughter and music blurred into background noise as he stood, shaking his head at someone offering him another drink. He muttered something about needing rest and slipped out through the side door, ignoring Arthur’s raised eyebrows as he left. His brother didn’t stop him, though, and Charles suspected Arthur knew exactly where he was going.

The streets of Monaco were quieter now, the city’s energy winding down after the race. Charles drove aimlessly at first, his hands tight around the steering wheel. The roads he knew so well blurred together as his thoughts raced faster than his car ever could.

He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t even know if she would want to see him. But none of that mattered, because the one thing he did know, the one thought that consumed him, was this:

He needed to see her.

***

The knock at the door startled me.

I glanced at the clock on the bedside table—12:27 a.m. I had been lying on the hotel bed for the past hour, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the day. Arthur’s invitation, the race, seeing Charles for the first time in years—all of it felt like too much, like I had stepped back into a world I didn’t belong to anymore.

Another knock, firmer this time.

I sat up, my heart racing. Maybe it was Arthur, coming to drag me to the afterparty. Or worse, maybe it was a staff member telling me something had gone wrong with my reservation. My stomach twisted as I padded across the room, hesitating before unlocking the door.

But when I opened it, it wasn’t Arthur or hotel staff standing there.

It was Charles.

He leaned against the doorframe, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his hair slightly tousled by the wind. He was dressed casually—dark jeans, a fitted jacket that hinted at his frame—but there was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. They flickered between me and the floor, restless, as though he were trying to piece together why he was even here.

“Hi,” he said finally, his voice quiet but steady.

I stared at him, too stunned to respond at first. “Charles,” I managed after a moment. “What are you doing here?”

His shoulders dropped slightly, like he’d been holding his breath. “Can we go for a drive?”

I blinked, caught off guard. “Now?”

“Yes,” he said, his tone firmer this time, though not unkind. “I need to talk to you. And I can’t do it here.”

I hesitated, glancing back into the room like it held the answer. But there was no answer waiting for me, no excuse strong enough to keep me from following him. “Okay,” I said softly. “Let me grab my coat.”

The streets of Monaco were quieter now, the city winding down after the race. Charles drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearstick. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed on the road, and the silence between us felt heavy, charged with everything unsaid.

I kept stealing glances at him, trying to read the expression on his face, but it was unreadable. It wasn’t anger exactly, but it wasn’t calm either. It was something in between—a tension I couldn’t quite place.

Finally, he turned onto a small road overlooking the harbor and parked. He shut off the engine but didn’t move, his hands gripping the steering wheel as he stared out at the lights reflecting on the water.

“Why did you leave?” he asked finally, his voice breaking the silence like a crack of thunder.

I swallowed hard, my hands twisting in my lap. “I didn’t know how to stay,” I said quietly. “Monaco… it wasn’t the same for me as it was for you. It felt fake, like I was living in a place where everything was about appearances and nothing was real. I couldn’t breathe there.”

He turned then, his gaze sharp and searching. “So you left without a word? Without even telling me?”

I met his eyes, feeling the sting of his words. “I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“Understand?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly. “Y/N, you were my best friend. I would have done anything for you, but you didn’t even give me the chance.”

The anger in his tone cut deep, but beneath it, I could hear something else—hurt. And that was worse.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I said softly. “But I had to go. For me.”

Charles shook his head, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Do you know how many times I thought about calling you? About flying to London to find you? But I didn’t, because I told myself that if you wanted to talk to me, you would.”

I clenched my hands together, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “I thought about telling you,” I said softly. “But I was scared. Scared that if I saw you, I wouldn’t be able to leave. And I had to leave, Charles. I didn’t know who I was anymore.”

“I would have let you go if that is what you wanted. I just wish I had known.” He said, looking deep into my eyes. 

I felt a lump rise in my throat. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“Even a text or a quick call would have made the difference, Y/N.”

“Then why didn’t you?” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “You blame me for no contact, but you never reached out either.”

His jaw tightened, his hands gripping the steering wheel again. “Because I didn’t think you wanted me to,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “You didn’t leave a door open, Y/N. Not for me, not for anyone.”

The anger in his tone cut deep, but beneath it, I could hear something else—hurt. And that was worse.

We fell into silence, the weight of our words hanging heavy in the air. My chest felt tight, my emotions raw and unsteady. I looked out at the harbor, the city lights shimmering like distant stars, and took a deep breath.

“Explain it to me,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “Because I don’t understand, Y/N. I’ve spent eight years not understanding.”

My chest felt tight, the weight of everything we had been avoiding pressing down on me.

“I was scared,” I admitted, my voice trembling. “Scared that if I stayed, I’d lose myself. Scared that if I saw you again, I’d lose the courage to leave. And then… after your dad…” I trailed off, the memory too painful to finish. “I didn’t know how to come back after that.”

Charles’s expression softened, the anger fading into something more vulnerable. “You could have come to me,” he said quietly. “You should have come to me.”

I shook my head, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. “And what would I have said? ‘Sorry for leaving you when you needed me the most’? I couldn’t face that, Charles. I couldn’t face you.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside.

My chest felt tight, my emotions raw and unsteady, as though years of bottled-up feelings had burst open all at once, leaving me vulnerable and exposed. I turned my gaze toward the harbor, the city lights shimmering like scattered stars on the water, their soft glow blurring slightly as tears pricked at my eyes. The stillness of the moment contrasted sharply with the storm raging inside me.

Charles broke the silence, his voice soft but resolute, as though he’d been holding these words back for far too long. “It shouldn’t have been Arthur who invited you back,” he said, his tone laced with frustration and regret. “It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to call you.”

The honesty in his voice hit me like a blow to the chest. I turned to him, my breath hitching as his words sank in. The years apart had been a chasm between us, filled with missed chances and unspoken words, and hearing him acknowledge it felt like a bittersweet relief. My throat tightened, and I struggled to find my voice.

“I know,” I said finally, my voice trembling. “But you didn’t call me. And… neither did I call you. We both let it happen.”

Charles’s jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly, his profile illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlights outside. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost fragile. “I didn’t know how to. After you left, I was confused. I didn’t want to admit how much it hurt. And then it just… felt easier to pretend I didn’t care.”

I let out a shaky breath, the tears I’d been holding back finally slipping free. “The second I got back to Monaco, all I did was look for you,” I admitted, my words coming out in a rush, like I had been holding them in for years. “Everywhere I went, I looked for you. You were everywhere - your face in the streets, your name in conversations, your memory in everything I saw. And yet… you were nowhere.”

I heard Charles inhale sharply, and when I turned back, his eyes were locked on mine, filled with an intensity that made my breath catch. Green and piercing, they were searching for something, some part of me I wasn’t sure I still had to give. Vulnerability. Hope. Regret. I saw all of it reflected in his gaze, and it was almost too much.

“I didn’t know if I wanted to see you again,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know if I could. But now that you’re here…” He shook his head, his expression softening into something raw and earnest. “Now that you’re here, I can’t imagine letting you go again.”

The space between us seemed to disappear in an instant. Charles reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped my face, his thumb brushing against my cheek in a way that was both tender and desperate. His touch was hesitant at first, as though he was afraid I might pull away. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Then, before I could say anything, his lips met mine.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like we were both testing the waters of something so fragile it might shatter under the weight of our emotions. But it deepened quickly, carrying years of longing, frustration, and unspoken love. It was messy and imperfect, tears mingling with laughter, but it felt like home in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

When we finally pulled apart, Charles didn’t move far. His forehead rested against mine, his breath warm against my skin. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though grounding himself in the closeness between us, before murmuring, “I don’t want to lose you again. Not ever.”

My heart pounded, each beat echoing the promise in his words. I closed my eyes, letting the moment wash over me, before whispering back, “You won’t.”

In that moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, leaving something lighter in its place. We weren’t perfect, and neither was this, but it was enough. It was us.