#mingyu x f1

[cheollollipop]

false start. | kim mingyu

genre: fluff. angst. smut. (MDNI 18+)

wc: 18.2k

content warning(s): explicit sexual content, emotionally charged intimacy, light bondage (wrist pinning), hair pulling, lip biting, and heated power dynamics. also includes themes of emotional unraveling, betrayal, loud arguments, yelling, lying, marital tension, emotional manipulation, guilt, and heartbreak. mentions of parenthood and mental/emotional instability.

💍 author's note!

surprise! not going to lie and say i didn't start writing this as i was writing the last part and boy does it feel good to be back. there's no racing in this but there is tension. lots of it. felt the need to shake things up a bit. this one is HEAVY. i hope it lives up to your expectations... *PSA: the spacing is definitely off because it's so long. not really sure how part two is going to work yet because there is...SO MUCH to unpack.*

Racing has always been louder than life. Louder than grief. Louder than fear. Louder than the human body's instinct to survive. It's not just a sport. It's an inheritance. A curse. A devotion that devours men whole and still demands more. Some names never leave the asphalt. One of those names belonged to my father. His reputation stretched beyond the tracks, fearless in the rain, ruthless on the straights, elegant even in the chaos of overtakes.

A legend whispered about in paddocks, inked into record books, idolized by children who dreamed of one day feeling the same wind in their chest.

Among those children was Kim Mingyu.

Before the world knew him as a champion, before his name was branded on posters and trophies, he was just a boy at our prestigious school in Seoul. Too tall for his age, always hunched at the back of the classroom, his notebooks filled with corner speeds instead of equations.

I was eleven the first time I really noticed Kim Mingyu. We went to the same school, an expensive, stiff-collared place where legacy weighed heavier than the uniforms. My family had the racing legacy. His family had everything else. His father was a corporate powerhouse, his mother a real estate magnate whose face was plastered on billboards from Gangnam to Itaewon. Mingyu was supposed to be the perfect son, primed to inherit the kind of empire that can't be bought overnight. Except he didn't care.

While the rest of us sat through violin lessons and debate prep, Mingyu spent his free time drawing race cars in the margins of his textbooks, explaining aerodynamics with a stolen protractor like it was scripture. He'd press his nose to the library computer screens, streaming grainy replays of Grand Prix, whispering driver names under his breath like prayers.

"Do you ever think about anything else?" I whispered once, leaning sideways at my desk. Mingyu glanced up from where he was tracing tire lines on graph paper. His eyes gleamed, dark with a feverish kind of focus. "Why would I? It's the only thing that matters."

The other kids laughed at him for it. They said racing was a waste, that only rich Europeans made it anywhere near Formula 1, with the exception of my father. But Mingyu never faltered. Not even when his father called it childish, insisting law or finance would be a worthier pursuit for the son of a business mogul. Not even when his mother, graceful and calculating as one of the city's top realtors, told him dreams were fragile things.

Because Mingyu didn't just want the dream, he wanted to be great. And I, daughter of the very man he idolized, was the only one who didn't roll my eyes when he said so. I knew he loved racing before he even admitted it out loud, because his whole face changed when he talked about it, as if he wanted to set the world on fire and let the engines be the match.

"You don't get it," he told me once, eyes too bright for a boy stuck in a blazer two sizes too small. "I'm going to be the best. Not just good. The best." And every single time he said it, I believed him.

The week before Monza never felt like an ordinary week. At school, the other kids whispered about summer ending, about exam prep, about who would make the debate team. None of that mattered to me. I spent more time sketching cars in the margins of my notebooks than solving equations, even though I could do both without thinking. The teachers looked the other way. They knew who my father was.

Every afternoon, I'd bolt out the gates, blazer crumpled, hair flying, running toward the garage before my driver could even pull the car around. I liked being there more than anywhere else. The smell of rubber, the hiss of hydraulics, the sound of engineers cursing in clipped accents. That was home. "Slow down, kid," one of the mechanics would call, usually Marco, who always had grease under his fingernails.

"Slowing down is for losers," I'd shoot back, climbing up onto the pit wall seat that was too tall for me, legs swinging. They'd laugh, shake their heads, but no one told me to leave. Not when I could already read data sheets faster than half the rookies. Not when I rattled off tire compound advantages as if it were bedtime math.

My father never discouraged it. He'd watch me from across the garage, helmet in his hands, that proud little smile tugging at his mouth. "You're going to be a menace one day," he told me once as I tugged at the zipper of his suit.

"I'm going to build my own team," I said firmly. He raised an eyebrow. "Not drive?"

"I don't want to just be in the car. I want the whole thing. I want to run it. The fastest car. The smartest engineers. The best drivers. Mine." He chuckled, but it wasn't a mocking sound. "Ambitious."

"I'll call it YN Racing," I added proudly. "Or something cooler. Haven't decided yet."

"You'll need sponsors, factories, money."

"Then I'll get it," I said. "If you can, I can." He tapped my nose with his finger. "That's my girl."

I trained too. Not because I wanted to be a driver forever, but because I knew if I was going to lead, I needed to understand every gear, every corner, every scream of the tires in my bones. Karting came easy. Junior formulas even easier. Coaches muttered the word "prodigy" when they thought I couldn't hear.

But I didn't want trophies. I wanted knowledge. If I could beat boys twice my size into the braking zone, if I could understand why the car twitched under me in Eau Rouge, then I'd know how to protect a driver when the stakes were higher. I told myself one day, when I had my own team, no one would die on my watch.

The days leading up to Monza blurred together. School, garage, simulator. Meals with my father where he let me sip his espresso and taught me about downforce with salt shakers and forks on the table. Late nights in the study where I traced track maps while he reviewed data, my head resting on his arm until I fell asleep.

The night before we flew out, I stood in the garage long after everyone else left, running my hand over the smooth nose of the car. My father's name in block letters stared back at me. I pressed my palm against it and whispered, "We'll make history."

I can still feel the sun that day, sharp and merciless against the back of my neck as I stood on the pit wall, headset too big for my ears, the roar of engines rattling my ribcage. The grandstands were a blur of red. Ferrari country always was. But I only cared about one car. One number. One name scrawled across the side in block letters I knew before I could even read. My father's.

Mingyu was next to me, gangly and restless at twelve years old, his blazer already abandoned, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows. He narrated every sector like the commentators on TV, hands flying through the air as if he could will the cars faster with sheer belief.

"Look at that exit out of Variante Ascari. Did you see that? He's gaining. He's going to take him into Parabolica, watch, watch." And then he did. My father slipped past on the inside, clean, ruthless, like the car was an extension of his body. The crowd roared. My chest swelled so full it hurt. This was who he was. Who we were.

Lap after lap, the race unfolded like a hymn. Ferrari in the lead. McLaren chasing. My father holding P3 with the kind of grit that made men legends. Every lap, he fought tooth and nail, brakes glowing, tires screaming, the world blurring into streaks of speed.

Mingyu never stopped moving. He jumped with every overtake, groaned at every yellow flag, muttered strategies under his breath like he was in the cockpit himself. I didn't tell him to quiet down. I liked the noise. It kept me from realizing how tightly my hands were gripping the barrier.

And then lap 42 happened. Parabolica. I still remember the way the air shifted. A strange stillness in the noise, like the circuit itself had sucked in a breath. My father came out of Ascari too wide. Just half a meter. That was enough for his rear tire to kiss the curb wrong. The car twitched. Corrected and twitched again.

"Come on," I whispered. "Hold it. Please." It happened in a blink. The back end snapped loose, the car fishtailed at two hundred kilometers an hour, and before I could even gasp, it was gone. Metal screamed. Carbon shattered. The nose slammed into the wall and folded like paper, sparks carving across the asphalt, fire erupting where fuel met friction.

The sound wasn't what I expected. It wasn't loud. It was hollow like the whole world had just fallen into silence and left only the echo of impact behind. Someone screamed. It might've been me. Mingyu's hand crushed mine, nails digging into skin, but I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel anything. The monitors replayed it over and over. Slow motion. Different angles. Each one worse than the last. The car crumpled. The fire spreading. Marshals sprinting. Sirens cutting through the static in my ears.

I don't remember breathing. I don't remember moving. Just the sick, sinking certainty in my chest that fate had already been decided. Mingyu whispered something beside me, his voice breaking, begging, praying, but it didn't matter. Because I knew. In less than ten seconds, everything had changed. My father's race. My family's legacy. My entire world. And all I could do was stand there, frozen on the pit wall, as the smoke rose into the Monza sky.

We waited for hours in a hospital that smelled like bleach and dread. My mother sat stiff, hands folded so tightly her knuckles bled white. My brother paced, muttering curses at the FIA, at the team, at the universe. I sat in the corner with Mingyu's jacket draped over my shoulders, staring at the floor tiles until they blurred.

When the doctor came, he didn't need to say anything. My mother's face cracked. My brother punched the wall so hard his hand split. Mingyu pressed his forehead into my shoulder, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," until the words meant nothing. Home was worse. His helmet still sat on the counter. His coffee mug still in the sink. The house was too quiet, too hollow. I couldn't stand it.

So I went to his study. The smell of oil and rubber clung to the air. His race suits hung like ghosts in the closet. I replayed footage of Monza until my eyes blurred, freezing the moment before Parabolica, convincing myself that if I stared long enough, the car wouldn't snap. I told myself it wasn't fate. It was failure.

The team should've pitted him sooner. The FIA should've reinforced the barriers. The marshals should've been faster. Everyone failed him. And underneath it all, a whisper I couldn't kill: If I'd been in charge, it wouldn't have ended like this.

That whisper never left. It twisted into something sharper, heavier. A vow I couldn't shake even as the years passed. One day, I'll build a team where no one dies like he did. Not my drivers. Not anyone. Never again.

Dinner is quiet in the best way. The kind of quiet filled with clinking silverware, soft jazz playing from the speaker above the fridge, and our daughter making a mess of her rice because she's too busy telling us about a dream she had last night.

"And then the unicorn flew over the mountain, but it had like, engine wings, and it went zoom like Appa's car!" Mingyu chokes on his water. "Engine wings?"

She nods furiously, cheeks puffed like a squirrel. "Yeah! And the rainbow was a track! And you were there too, Momma. You were wearing the superhero suit. But like…pink."

"Well, obviously," Mingyu deadpans, setting down his glass. "She wouldn't wear red. That's my color."

"You think you own red now?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

"Have you seen my race suit?" I roll my eyes. "Have you seen my closet? I own more red than you've ever touched."

"Yah," he says with a gasp, pointing his chopsticks at me. "You only wear red when you're trying to distract me on purpose." Our daughter giggles into her spoon. "Appa's cheeks are red now." Mingyu flushes even more. I laugh softly, dropping a piece of chicken onto her plate. "Eat your broccoli, superhero."

"Nooo," she whines.

"Yes," both Mingyu and I say in unison. We meet eyes over the table, and he gives me a soft, crooked smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes my chest hurt a little, because he's just so good. So present. Always. Too good for the lie sitting heavy on my tongue.

I stir my rice. "Hey," I say casually. "Courtney and I are doing a girls' day tomorrow. Just letting you know." He pauses just long enough for me to catch it. Then he nods, reaching for his water. "Girls' day?"

"Yeah," I say, keeping my voice even. "Just the two of us. Nothing major."

"What's on the agenda?" he asks casually. Too casually. I shrug. "Go with the flow."

"Uh huh," he says, taking a sip. "Tell her I want a rematch."

"A rematch?"

"At Scrabble," he says, deadly serious. "She cheats." I laugh. "You're still on that?"

"She spelled 'xanthan' on a triple word score, YN. Xanthan. And then acted like it was just something people know."

"To be fair," I say, grinning, "she does bake. Xanthan gum is a real ingredient." Our daughter is blinking back and forth between us, confused. "What's Scramble?"

"Chaos," Mingyu says. "It's chaos in board game form. Don't trust Auntie Courtney."

"I won't," she says solemnly, then sticks a chopstick in her juice like a sword.

"Well, have fun," he says. "You deserve a break." I nod, chewing slowly. Guilt lodges deep behind my ribs, sharp and constant. We finish dinner in a comfortable rhythm with clean up duty shared, our daughter insisting she help by drying dishes, but mostly just smearing bubbles on herself. Mingyu swoops her up with a towel and tosses her over his shoulder while she squeals. "Appa's got a baby burrito!" he declares.

"I'm a unicorn, not a burrito!" she shrieks through her laughter. We end the night tucked around her in bed, one story becoming three, our daughter finally knocking out mid sentence with her hand still clutching Mingyu's t-shirt. I brush the hair from her face. "She's getting so big."

"She's still tiny," he whispers. "She fits right here." He gestures to the crook of his arm. I smile. We leave the door cracked, as we always do, and slip down the hall in silence, our fingers brushing, not quite holding. Mingyu locks the front door and double checks the kitchen light. I take off my earrings. The routine is quiet. Thoughtless. Until he steps behind me in the doorway of our bedroom and wraps his arms around my waist.

"You seem lighter tonight," he murmurs, mouth warm against my neck. "You laugh differently when you're happy."

"Is that your way of saying I've been miserable lately?"

"No," he says, lips brushing the shell of my ear. "It's my way of saying I've missed you." I turn in his arms. He's close. His eyes hold so much concern, affection, want, but none of the suspicion I expected. Just warmth. His hands slide up, palms flat over my ribs. "I'm not trying to guilt trip you. Just… I really like you, that's all." I press my forehead to his chest.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. His arms tighten. "Don't be. Just come back to me. Like this." He kisses me before I can respond. Slow. Sweet. The kind of kiss that makes the world fall quiet. His hands slide up my back, gentle, steady, and I melt into them. Into him. I cup his jaw, feel the soft stubble under my palm, the heat in his cheeks. He deepens the kiss slowly, like he's testing the water, like he doesn't want to spook me.

My fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt, tug it up over his head, and let his hands dip under my robe, finding skin. "I missed this," he whispers against my mouth. "You have me," I whisper back. He pulls away just enough to look at me, pupils blown wide. "Do I?" I nod, but it's shaky. My chest is full of things I can't say. So I kiss him instead. It shifts. The pace, the breath, the hands. It all shifts. His mouth gets more urgent. My robe slips to the floor. His hands find my waist, my hips, then lower.

We tumble onto the bed in a tangle of limbs and heat. He hovers over me, pressing kisses down my neck, over my collarbone, across the curve of my shoulder. "I love your skin," he murmurs. "Love how it tastes." His tongue traces the dip of my throat, and I arch, breath catching. My hands tangle in his hair. He trails lower, across my chest, suckles softly at one breast before switching to the other, his hands kneading gently. I whimper, thighs already parting.

"Mingyu," I breathe. "I know, baby," he says, kissing lower, across my stomach. His head dips between my legs, no hesitation. I gasp, fingers gripping the sheets as his mouth finds me. His tongue is slow, practiced, devout. He licks like he's memorizing me all over again. Gentle at first, then firmer, swirling right where I need him. His fingers slide in, curling, coaxing. My thighs tremble. I moan softly. "Yes, just like that."

He groans in response, and the vibration makes me see stars. I clutch the back of his head, hips rolling, chasing the pleasure. When I come, it's soft and quiet. My legs curl around him, my whole body fluttering with release. He kisses up my stomach, lips swollen and wet, and whispers against my skin, "Still mine?" I pull him up, kiss him hard, tasting myself on his tongue. "I'm always yours," I whisper. He groans, lining himself up, sliding in slowly. I gasp, legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper.

He moves with purpose. Steady thrusts, forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling, our mouths brushing. His hands cradle my hips, mine tangle in his hair. "I love you," he pants, voice thick. I nod, holding him tighter. "I know. I love you too." He loses himself in me as his rhythm stutters. I feel him fall apart, feel his arms wrap tight around me, hear the broken moan he presses into my neck. When it's over, we stay tangled. Sticky and warm. He kisses my forehead, my cheek, the corner of my mouth. "Don't go again. Not like before."

"I won't," I lie softly. He doesn't respond. Just pulls the blanket up and wraps me close, his body still molded to mine. I stay there in his arms, savoring it. Because in a few hours, I'll lie again and the truth will come for us both.

By the time the sky begins to pale, I've already slipped out of bed, quiet as a breath. I get dressed in the dark. I leave a note on the kitchen counter that says "early meeting, back later," and I don't look back. The drive to the office feels longer than usual. Monaco's skyline blurs by in morning blue, and I don't even turn the radio on. My phone buzzes twice. I don't check it.

When I step into the building, it still smells like fresh paint and possibility. Our floors aren't branded yet, just long halls with glass walled conference rooms, desks stacked with mockups and renderings, whiteboards half erased. It's all in motion. All is still forming. By the time I reach my office, the guilt is a second skin. I sit behind the desk, stare at the mockup sketches pinned to the wall. Red and black streaks, obsidian curves. My father's colors. My name on the halo.

The door creaks open. Courtney's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised, coffee in one hand and something that's definitely not patience in the other. "Are you ever going to tell him?" she asks, voice sharp enough to cut through the air between us. "Good morning to you, too." She doesn't laugh. Just closes the door behind her, walking in like she owns the place. Her heels hit the floor in that deliberate way that tells me she's not here to chit-chat.

I click my pen twice. "Tell who what?" She scoffs. "Don't start with me. You know who. And you know what." I set the pen down carefully. The papers are spread across my desk like evidence: sponsor agreements, chassis sketches, mockups of our livery. They're all stamped and signed, sealed with enough NDAs to keep a war quiet.

"He'll find out eventually," I say. My voice comes out steadier than I feel.

"Eventually?" She steps closer now, her heels sharp against the floor. "YN, you're launching a whole goddamn Formula 1 team. Not a bake sale. You think he's just going to clap when he sees your rookies lined up next to him on the grid?"

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. "He'll understand."

Will he? Let me break this for a second. You all probably think I've been transparent all along. That when I stood in Monza, I was there out of spite, that it was all about him, about Mingyu and the way his name made my ribs ache.

But that's only half the truth. I didn't go to Monza for him. I went for me. To see if the roar still shook me the way it had when I was a kid on the pit wall, headset sliding off my ears, watching my father carve through Parabolica. I went to measure whether the dream still burned in me. I wasn't just watching the grid that weekend. I was watching the feeder series. F2. Hungry kids with fire in their eyes, the same fire Mingyu once carried in his notebook margins. I wanted to know if I could stomach it: the politics, the pressure, the possibility of loss.

I didn't plan on falling in love out loud. Not with him. Not so quickly, not so ferociously. I didn't plan on being someone's wife or someone's mother. But life doesn't check with your blueprints before it detonates. So here I am. Married to the man who used to whisper sector times in his sleep, mother to the little girl who looks at him like he's the only star in her sky. And still hiding the fact that I've been quietly building the one thing I swore I would. My own team.

The blueprints are no longer sketches on a napkin. They're contracts spread across this desk. They're factories rented under shell companies. They're NDAs, sponsor lists, mockups, and one man who knows the truth. Marco. My father's engineer. Back then, he was young, still proving himself, always lingering in the garage long after the rest of the team had gone home. He was there the week everything fell apart. He's the one who pulled me aside at the funeral when everyone else was drowning in condolences and told me, very quietly, "Your father was let down. Don't ever forget that." I didn't. Years later, when I called him, I half expected him to hang up. Instead, he sighed, muttered something about "your father's stubborn blood," and asked when we were meeting.

Since then, Marco has been my co-conspirator. He scouts while I watch from the shadows. We compare notes over quiet dinners in cities where no one knows our names. He tells me which kids are reckless, which ones are teachable, and which ones remind him of my father. Sometimes he gets misty-eyed when he says it. Sometimes I do too. But there's something else in those talks. A softness. A weight shared. Marco knows what it means to lose a driver. We didn't say it out loud, but we both knew it meant the same thing: building this team isn't just about the future. It's about surviving the past. A secret, betrayal, and a promise, all wrapped into one.

"Will he?" she fires back. "Because last I checked, Mingyu's entire personality revolves around being the best. And this—" she gestures at the papers, the sketches, at me "—this makes you competition."

The word hangs between us like smoke. Competition. I don't answer. I can't. Instead, I laugh, but it's thin. "You think this is about beating him?" Courtney shrugs. "I think you've spent years pulling strings behind closed doors and haven't told the man who shares your bed. So yeah, part of me thinks this has a little to do with him."

Her bluntness scrapes at the truth I don't want to admit because she's right. Because every late night call, every sponsor meeting, every hour spent staring at budgets and aerodynamics has lived in the shadow of Mingyu's name.

"Do you know what they still call me?" I whisper. "Even after I've been in this sport my whole life? They call me his wife. Not my father's daughter. Not my own person. Just... Mrs. Kim Mingyu."

Courtney's face softens, but she doesn't interrupt. I swallow hard. "This team...it's the only way I know how to take that back. To finish what my father and I started. To follow the dream I had. To make sure the only thing they see when they look at me isn't who I married." Silence stretches between us, heavy but steady. Courtney sets her mug down and perches on the edge of my desk.

"You don't owe anyone an explanation," she says softly. "Not the press. Not the fans. Not even him. But YN, be honest with yourself. When Mingyu finds out, and he will, do you want him hearing it from you, or from the headline that drops the morning your rookie pulls into the paddock?" The question lodges in my chest like shrapnel.

Because I can already see it. The cameras flashing, the commentators screaming about a "new challenger," the stunned look on Mingyu's face when he realizes the woman he trusted most has been planning to line up against him all along. And still... I can't bring myself to answer her.

After Courtney leaves, I sit in the quiet. The contracts stare back at me, rows of black ink that cost me years of whispered meetings and calculated risks. I should feel triumphant. Instead, all I think is the weight of keeping them hidden.

The mockup drawings are still taped along the wall, curling at the corners. A sleek chassis outlined in graphite and steel, the livery painted in deep obsidian with streaks of blood-red across the nose. I press my hand to the desk, fingertips brushing over the embossed folder stamped with the FIA's seal. Confirmation. Approval.

Our first car isn't finished yet. The engine's still a skeleton, spread across a dozen crates in a quiet garage outside Monaco where the world doesn't think to look. I make the drive there once a week. No press, no entourage, just me slipping through an unmarked door to stand before the machine that will carry my name onto the grid.

It's not pretty yet. No slick bodywork, no gleaming sponsor decals. Just scaffolding and torque wrenches, the skeletal shape of a dream. But when I stand there, alone in the hum of fluorescent light, I can almost hear it breathing.

My rookie is raw but hungry. I found him in Formula 2. Fast, reckless, with a chip on his shoulder so sharp it might cut him before the world does. He reminded me of my father. He reminded me of Mingyu, too. But more than that, he reminded me of myself.

"Give me a chance," he said when I slid the contract across the table. "No one else will." So I did. And now his signature sits right beside mine. Months away from the new season, everything is still smoke and whispers. The press thinks I'm just dabbling in business, attending galas, and making appearances. Mingyu thinks I've been consulting on junior programs, lending my name here and there. No one knows the truth. That I'm about to become their competition. And God help me, I want it.

The first time I walk back into the garage after Courtney's visit, it smells like oil and ambition. The air is thick with the hum of power tools, the sharp tang of fresh paint, the clatter of someone dropping a wrench and swearing in three languages. And right in the middle of it all, leaning against the half-built chassis like he's already on a podium, is Elias.

"Boss," he grins when he spots me, pulling his fire suit halfway down to his waist. He's still in the underlayer, sleeves tied loose at his hips, dark curls damp from the sim session he just finished. "You're late. I was about to send a search party." I roll my eyes. "I'm not late, you're early."

"Details," he says, pushing off the chassis and striding toward me. His accent rolls smoothly, the kind that makes sponsors lean in closer than they need to. "Besides, rumor has it the great YN doesn't make people wait."

"Don't believe everything you hear." He stops close enough that I catch the faint scent of cologne under sweat, tilts his head like he's studying me. "You really don't play, do you?" His grin widens. "I like that."

"Careful," I warn, "I'm married."

"Ah, yes," he says dramatically, pressing a hand over his heart. "To the legendary Kim Mingyu. I hear he's fast on and off the track." I narrow my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches. "Keep talking like that and you'll find yourself back in Formula 2."

He winks. "Worth it." It's always like this with Elias. He's young, fearless, desperate to prove himself, but there's an edge of charm he uses like armor. The flirting doesn't bother me, it's not serious. It's his way of testing boundaries, seeing how far he can push before someone pushes back.

"Focus on your lines in the sim, not my marriage," I remind him as I brush past toward the engineers' table.

"Yes, boss," he calls after me, "But if you ever need a rebound driver..." I shake my head, hiding a laugh.

That night, I drive straight to my mother's house. Her kitchen smells like garlic and sesame, the same way it did when I was a child. She's at the stove, stirring soup, while my brother sits at the counter scrolling through his phone.

"You're late," he says without looking up.

"You sound like Elias," I mutter, dropping my bag by the door.

"Who's Elias?" he asks, finally glancing up with one eyebrow arched.

"No one you need to worry about." My mother hums knowingly. "That means someone I should worry about." I groan and sink into a chair. "He's my rookie. He thinks he's charming."

"Is he?" my brother asks dryly. I roll my eyes. "He's twenty-two and thinks calling me boss is foreplay." That makes my mother choke on her laugh, "And Mingyu?" she asks, turning back to the stove. "Does he know about this rookie?"

My throat tightens just slightly. "Not yet." She sets the spoon down, wipes her hands on her apron, and turns fully to look at me. Her gaze is sharp, steady, the kind that made me confess to broken vases and failed math tests as a kid.

"Secrets are heavy, YN. Don't carry them longer than you need to."

"I'm not—" I stop because I am. Carrying it everywhere. The contracts in my bag. The logo mockups still hidden in my office. The fact that every day, I step closer to building a team Mingyu doesn't know exists.

Chan tilts his glass of wine, "She's right. This isn't a casual secret, YN. This is... career-shifting. Marriage-shifting."

"I know," I whisper. My mother softens, but doesn't back down. "You can't blindside him. Not with this. Not after everything you two have survived." Her words land heavy, dredging up every rooftop argument, every pit wall breakdown, every whispered promise in the dark that we'd never let racing come between us. But this isn't just racing. This is mine.

I look down at my hands, nails bitten short from stress. "I just need more time." My mother sighs, long and low, the sound of a woman who's lived through too many crashes on the track, in life, in love. "Time won't make this easier, baby. It'll only make it worse."

Chan lifts his glass in mock salute. "And when you do tell him? Invite me. I want front row seats."

"Chan," my mom snaps.

"What? It's gonna be a bloodbath." I throw a balled-up napkin at him. He dodges easily, smirking.

But later, when the laughter fades and the soup cools, my mother reaches across the table, covers my hand with hers, and says quietly: "He loves you more than the track, YN. Don't give him a reason to forget that."

By the time I pull into our driveway, the sky's gone lavender and the house glows with the kind of warmth you only get from laughter leaking through the windows. The front door's unlocked. It always is when he's home. Inside, the living room is chaos. Crayons are scattered across the rug, construction paper taped haphazardly to the coffee table, and Mingyu is on all fours pretending to be a horse while our daughter shrieks with delight on his back.

"Appa, faster!" she yells, tugging at his shoulders like reins.

"Faster?" he gasps dramatically. "I'm not a race car, I'm a tired old man!" She giggles, high and sharp, until he collapses onto the carpet in mock defeat. She scrambles off, triumphant, and immediately spots me in the doorway.

"Momma!" I barely have time to set down my bag before she barrels into my legs, curls bouncing, eyes shining. She smells like soap and markers. I crouch to hug her, burying my face in her hair. "Hi, baby. Did you have fun with Appa?"

"She made me run a Grand Prix around the couch," Mingyu groans from the floor, rolling onto his back. "I lost. Badly."

"Loooser," she declares proudly, before darting back to her crayons. I look over at him. He's sprawled out, hair a mess, t-shirt clinging to him, grinning like the world's biggest kid. And then his eyes narrow just slightly.

"Didn't know you meant all day when you said Girls' Day," he says.

I slip off my heels and head toward the kitchen. "Traffic."

"Mm." He pushes up onto his elbows, watching me with that lazy, knowing smirk. "Smells more like engine oil than traffic." My heart stutters. I keep my back turned as I pour a glass of water. "Garages all smell the same. Must've been the valet."

"Right," he says, stretching the word out like he's testing its weight. When I glance back, he's leaning against the counter now, arms folded across his chest, dimples threatening. "You've been sneaking around a lot lately." I force a laugh. "That's rich coming from the man who once booked a surprise villa in Crete behind my back."

He grins, but his eyes don't lose that sharp glint. "Yeah, but I wasn't gone for hours smelling like burnt rubber and new paint." I take a long sip of water to hide my face. "Maybe I got into a fight with a street racer on the way home."

"Mmhm." He steps closer, dropping his voice. "Or maybe my wife is hiding something from me." I look up at him then, at the teasing curve of his mouth, at the way his gaze softens even as it searches.

And I smile. Bright. Convincing. "Maybe you're just paranoid." He stares for a beat too long. Then he bends down, presses a kiss to my temple, and murmurs, "We'll see." Before I can answer, our daughter appears at our feet holding up a drawing.

"It's us! Momma, Appa, and me. We're superheroes." Mingyu crouches instantly, scooping her into his arms and gasping like it's the greatest artwork he's ever seen. "Superheroes? That makes sense. Your mom's definitely been saving the world behind my back."

She beams, and I laugh, brushing a hand over her hair. But when Mingyu glances up at me over her head, the warmth in his smile is threaded with something else. Something sharp.

By the time bedtime is over, story, water, bathroom, another story, our daughter's finally knocked out cold in her pink fortress of blankets and stuffed animals. I tuck her curls back, kiss her forehead, and linger a little longer than I should. She always sleeps so peacefully, like the world isn't as heavy as it feels on my shoulders.

When I step out into the hallway, Mingyu is leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. "You were stalling," he says quietly.

"What?"

"Three extra stories. Two songs. A full-blown puppet show with her stuffed bunny." His mouth quirks, but his eyes don't. "You're hiding from me." I brush past him toward the kitchen. "I just wanted more time with her. Sorry if that's suspicious."

He follows. Of course he does. His footsteps are slow, measured, and deliberate. By the time I reach for the kettle, he's already there, blocking the counter, his broad frame filling the space like he owns it.

"YN," he says, soft but firm. "What's going on?" I force a smile, reaching for the tea canister. "Nothing."

"Don't do that." His voice is low now, stripped of teasing. "Don't give me that polite, PR-friendly nothing. You smell like the garage. You've been gone for hours at a time. And when you come back, you look like you're carrying the weight of the entire world. Talk to me."

My hands fumble with the lid. "You're overthinking." He steps closer, crowding me against the counter. Not threatening, never that, but enough that I can feel his heat, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes bore into mine like he's trying to peel me open.

"Baby." His voice cracks on the word. "You promised me no more secrets."

The kettle clicks as the water starts to boil. I stare at it like it might save me. "I'm not keeping secrets," I lie.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. "Then tell me why it feels like I'm losing you to something I can't even name."

I swallow hard, throat tight. "You're not losing me."

"Then what?" His voice rises just slightly, raw edges showing. "Is it work? Is it something with Courtney? Is it... God, is it us?"

"No," I say quickly, too quickly. "It's not us." He studies me, eyes dark and searching. "Then look me in the eye and tell me where you've been." Silence.

The kettle whistles. I don't move. Neither does he. Finally, I force out the words: "I already told you. I was with Court." Something flickers across his face, hurt, confusion, the sharp sting of betrayal he tries to mask but can't quite hide. He takes a step back, shaking his head.

"YN..." His voice is barely a whisper now. "Whatever this is, you don't have to do it alone. But if you keep shutting me out, you're going to make me believe the one thing I've never let myself believe."

"Which is?"

"That you don't trust me anymore." The whistle dies down, leaving only the sound of my pulse roaring in my ears. I want to tell him everything. I want to throw the contracts on the table, drag him into the garage, show him the chassis, the colors, the dream I've been building brick by brick.

But instead, I whisper, "I do trust you."

His jaw tightens. "Then prove it." I can't. Not yet. So I step around him, pour my tea with trembling hands, and murmur, "It's late. We should sleep." When I glance back, he's still standing in the kitchen, staring at me like I'm already halfway gone. And for the first time, I've pushed too far.

The house is still when I wake. Dawn barely brushes the curtains, the sky a pale wash of gray-blue. Mingyu's arm is heavy across my waist, his breath warm against my shoulder, but the weight of last night presses harder. I can't lie here, not with the echo of his words rattling in my chest.

Careful not to wake him, I slide out of bed. My robe, my keys, my bag. One last look at his sleeping form, lashes fanned, mouth slack, brow still faintly furrowed even in rest. I whisper an apology he'll never hear, and then I'm gone.

The garage is a different world in the morning. Fluorescents hum overhead. The air is cooler, still laced with the metallic tang of tools and rubber, but calmer before the day ramps up. Two of the engineers are already here, Jason, hunched over telemetry printouts with a coffee that looks like it's on its third reheat, and Mina, laptop balanced on her knee, hair scraped into a bun. They both look up when I push the door open.

"Morning, boss," Mina says, already grinning. "You're early."

"Couldn't sleep." I set my bag down, moving toward the chassis in the center of the floor. "How's the front wing coming?"

"Balanced now," Jason says, shuffling papers toward me. "But we need more stability through high-speed corners. Elias's feedback was that it felt twitchy in Sector 3."

"Elias always says something feels twitchy in Sector 3," Mina mutters. "It's his catchphrase."

As if summoned, Elias appears from the sim room, still in his underlayer, curls damp with sweat, a water bottle dangling from his fingers. He looks maddeningly awake for someone who's been driving virtual laps since before sunrise.

"See?" he says, tossing his bottle onto the workbench with a grin. "Twitchy. It's my professional opinion." Mina groans. Jason doesn't even look up.

I cross my arms. "It's seven-thirty in the morning. Do you ever sleep?"

"Sleep is for the weak." He flashes a smile, leaning one hip against the chassis. "Besides, figured I'd impress you. Show you how committed I am to the cause."

"By sweating through my simulator seat?"

"By giving you world champion feedback," he shoots back, playful. I shake my head, "We'll see if it's world champion material once we're on an actual track."

He leans closer, eyes glinting. "Careful, Boss. Keep doubting me like that and I'll have to make you eat your words at Silverstone."

"Silverstone's six months away."

"Then six months from now, dinner's on you."

"Dinner?" I raise a brow.

He shrugs, all charm. "Loser buys. Unless Mingyu gets jealous, of course." He tilts his head, grin widening. "What's it like being married to the legendary Kim Mingyu, anyway? Does he wake up reciting lap times? Dream in sector splits?"

The jab lands sharper than he knows. I force a smirk. "Focus on beating his lap times first, then you can worry about his dreams."

"Mm. You're tough. I like that."

Mina groans again. "God, you're exhausting."

"Exhausting wins races," he quips back.

I roll my eyes and step around him, crouching beside Jason to study the numbers on his printouts. "Show me the downforce adjustments again. Let's compare it to yesterday's run."

Jason launches into the details, his voice steady, methodical. Mina adds in where she disagrees, quick and sharp, her ideas sparking off his like flint. Elias hovers, tossing in comments that are sometimes insightful, sometimes just there to get a rise out of us.

And for a while, it feels good. Good to lose myself in the data, the language of wing angles and tire degradation, brake balance, and drag reduction. Good to focus on the numbers instead of the ache in Mingyu's voice. Good to forget that back at home, my husband is probably rolling over in an empty bed, realizing I left before sunrise.

By mid morning, the garage is alive. Jason's whiteboard is already covered in equations that look like another language, Mina's juggling two laptops and muttering about telemetry graphs, and Elias has decided the best way to help is to lean against the workbench and critique everyone else's coffee choices.

"Americano?" he scoffs, pointing at Jason's mug. "That's bean-flavored water. No wonder your downforce numbers look so sad."

"Go run another sim," Mina fires back without missing a keystroke.

He gasps like she slapped him. "Boss, did you hear that? She doesn't respect art."

I don't even look up from the printout in my hands. "If you spent half as much time studying your racing lines as you do your latte art, we'd already be two tenths faster."

Elias clutches his chest. "Brutal. I'm wounded."

"Good," Mina mutters. I can't help the laugh that slips out. The bickering, the noise, the ridiculousness, it's chaos, but it's our chaos. My phone buzzes on the table.

Mingyu 💍: Where are you?

My stomach tightens. I flip the phone face down and slide it away, forcing my attention back to Jason's scribbles.

"Anyway," I say, voice firmer than I mean it, "if we adjust the angle here, we can compensate for the instability in Sector 3. Elias, you'll need to test it in the sim again."

"Your wish, my command," he says with a lazy salute.

The phone buzzes again.

Mingyu 💍 : Call me.

Mina's explaining something about airflow, her hands sketching arcs in the air, when the phone buzzes a third time, longer, insistent. Incoming call. I curse under my breath. The others glance over.

"Sorry," I mutter, snatching the phone and stepping toward the corner of the garage.

I swipe to answer. "Hello?"

"Where are you?" Mingyu's voice is low, rough from sleep.

"Good morning to you, too," I deflect, forcing my tone light. "Did you eat breakfast?"

"YN." There's no humor in his voice this time. Just steel. "Don't dodge the question. Where are you?" I glance back at the garage, Jason deep in notes, Mina glaring at her screen, Elias leaning too far back on his chair, balancing like he's auditioning for a circus.

"I'm out," I say finally. "I had some things to handle."

A pause. Then, quieter, "You left before I woke up."

I swallow. "I didn't want to disturb you."

He exhales, sharp through the line. "You've been different. Distant. I, YN, talk to me. Please." Before I can respond, Elias's voice cuts across the garage, loud and dramatic, "Boss! Tell Mina her airflow model looks like a sad balloon!"

Mina immediately yells back, "At least I have airflow, asshat!"

Mingyu's voice sharpens instantly. "Who was that?"

"No one," I say too quickly. "Just, Courtney being loud."

"That was a guy's voice." I close my eyes, pressing my fingers to my temple.

"I'm with," I catch myself. "Courtney."

There's a pause.

Then Mingyu's voice hardens. "YN."

Panic spikes. My grip tightens on the phone. "I, look, I can't—"

"YN!"

"I have to go," I blurt, voice too fast. "I'll call you later."

"Wait—" I hang up before he can finish. The silence after is brutal, louder than the drills and clattering wrenches around me. When I turn back, Elias is watching curiously from across the garage. I force my face into something neutral, like nothing's wrong.

"Alright," I say, steady as I can. "Back to work." But my pulse is still hammering, Mingyu's voice echoing in my head. I shove the phone deep into my bag like distance will erase what just happened. My palms are damp, my pulse still tripping over itself.

"Everything okay?" Mina asks without looking up, her tone casual but not careless. She's sharp, sharper than most, and I know she caught the way my voice cracked at the end of the call.

"Fine," I lie, sliding back onto the stool beside her. "Show me the airflow model again." Her eyes flick to me briefly, curious, but she doesn't press. Across the garage, Elias spins his chair in a lazy circle. "Boss, you sound like someone just caught you sneaking out of curfew."

I don't look at him. "Focus, Elias."

"I am focused," he says, grinning, "on how red your ears just got."

"Sector 3," I snap, sharper than I mean to. "Pull your data." That shuts him up for a second.

The numbers pull me back in, drag coefficients, brake balance adjustments, notes on tire wear. I circle values, mark margins, and argue with Jason over whether a half-degree wing change is too aggressive. It feels good. It feels safe. Numbers don't demand explanations. They don't ask where you are.

But the quiet moments keep creeping in. The way Elias leans against the chassis, tossing a smirk my way like he knows something I don't. The way Mina's typing slows every time my phone buzzes faintly in the depths of my bag. The way my throat tightens every time I hear Mingyu's voice echo in my head.

"Let's run another sim," I say finally, my voice steady, authoritative. "Sector 3, high fuel load. I want to see if the adjustments hold under pressure."

Elias springs up immediately, cocky grin back in place. "Your wish, boss." He disappears into the sim room, and the door shuts behind him with a low thud.

Jason clears his throat. "You okay?" I glance up. He's not prying, he never does, but his tone is softer than usual.

"I'm fine," I say again, too quickly. "Just tired." He doesn't argue. Just nods, eyes dropping back to his notes. And I sit there, pen scratching numbers into margins, heart still racing like I'm the one strapped into the car. Because I know the truth. I'm not tired, I'm unraveling.

The house is quiet when I step inside. Not "asleep" quiet. Not "everyone's tucked in" quiet. But off. I lock the door behind me and slowly take off my shoes, letting the silence envelop me like fog. No flicker of cartoons in the living room. No soft thud of our daughter's feet padding across the hallway in search of another bedtime story. No kitchen sounds. No hum of the dishwasher. No music.

Just a single light spilling from the dining room. I inhale. Shaky. Exhale. Even shakier. My bag slips off my shoulder, and I walk toward it. He's sitting at the head of the table, still in his work clothes, sleeves pushed up, tie loose around his neck, one hand wrapped around a half-finished glass of whiskey, a bottle is within reach.

Mingyu doesn't look up when I enter the room. For a second, I stand there in the doorway, heart pounding, watching him in the dim light like he's a portrait. Still.

I take a step closer. "You're up."

"I couldn't sleep." His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges.

I nod. "Is she asleep?"

He finally lifts his gaze to meet mine. "Yeah." Something tightens in my throat. I try to swallow it down.

"She asked for you," he adds. "Before bed." Shame hits me like a sucker punch. I look away.

"I'm sorry I missed it." He hums. Not forgiveness. Not anger either. Just there. I pull out a chair slowly and sit across from him. The wood creaks faintly beneath me. The whiskey catches the light in his glass.

"You don't usually drink this late," I say.

"You don't usually lie to me." My heart stops. He doesn't say it with venom. Doesn't even look mad. But the words land hard like he's just now letting himself say what he's been holding all night.I open my mouth to deny it. Close it again.

He watches me closely, fingers resting lightly against the base of the glass. "It's not Courtney, is it?"

I hesitate. "What do you mean?"

He laughs once. Quiet. Disbelieving. "Don't do that."

He sits back in his chair, eyes tired. "I didn't want to think it. I didn't even want to ask. But you've been somewhere else for a while now."

My hands tighten in my lap. "I'm not cheating on you," I say quickly, urgently. "Mingyu. I swear to god. There's no one else."

"I know." He says it so fast it stuns me.

"You...do?"

He nods. "It's not that kind of lie." And that's somehow worse. Because he believes me. Because he knows me and he still knows something's off.

"Then why—" I start, but he cuts me off gently.

"Because you've been hiding something from me. And whatever it is... It's big enough that you're scared to tell me." I can't speak. My throat closes.

"I'm your husband," he says. "You don't have to protect me from whatever it is. I've seen you at your worst. I've loved you through hell. But this distance? It's not protection. It's punishment."

I shake my head. "It's not that simple."

"Then make it simple." The table between us feels like miles. He exhales, runs a hand through his hair, and downs the last of his drink.

"I miss you," he says finally, like a confession. Like a plea. The way he says it breaks something in me. Because it's not about sex. Or attention. Or even routine. It's about me. He misses me. My thoughts. My presence. My voice in the quiet moments when the world stops spinning and I don't know how to give that back to him right now. Not without unspooling everything.

I reach out, just barely grazing his knuckles with my fingers. He lets me. But he doesn't hold back. "I'm trying," I whisper.

He nods once. "Try harder." Then he pushes the chair back and leaves the room.

I wake up before the alarm. The room is still dark, the curtains drawn, but my body knows it's time. My body always knows. I reach out instinctively, fingers brushing empty sheets. Still warm. He didn't sleep long.

I stare at the ceiling for a while, heart thudding in the back of my throat. The kind of rhythm that sounds too much like guilt. When I finally get up, I move slowly. Shower. Moisturizer. Hair pulled back.

The kitchen smells like toast and silence. Mingyu is at the stove, flipping pancakes in a hoodie and sweats like it's any other day. There's a mug of coffee next to him. Our daughter is at the table, swinging her legs and humming to herself between sips of milk.

"Good morning," I say softly.

He turns and offers a small smile. "Morning."

She squeals when she sees me, arms up. "Mom!" I cross the room and kiss her cheeks, burying my face in her hair.

"You're up early, little bean."

"Appa said I could have pancakes."

"Did he now?"

"I made the batter," she announces proudly. Mingyu chuckles under his breath but doesn't look up. I move to grab a second mug and pour myself some coffee, my movements careful. Neutral. Practiced. Like we're coexisting. He hands me a plate wordlessly. I take it.

We sit. We eat. We talk to her. But not to each other. When she runs off to change for school, the silence creeps in again.

"I have a meeting this afternoon," I say quietly, just to fill the space. He nods, still chewing.

"Probably late. I'll call if—"

"Don't worry about it," he says. The words are polite. Dismissive. Like he's trying not to be hurt. I study him for a moment. The way his fingers tap against his mug. The tightness in his jaw. His eyes flick to the clock, not to me.

"I meant what I said last night," I offer. "There's no one else. That hasn't changed."

He looks up slowly. "I know," he says. "But that's not what I'm worried about." He stands and clears his plate before I can say anything more.

"Text me when you're done with your meeting," he says, rinsing his hands. "And tell Courtney I said hi." There's a flicker of something behind his words. Not sarcasm. Not anger. Just... patience. Strained, thinning patience.

I nod once. "I will." He presses a kiss to our daughter's forehead as she runs back in, backpack too big for her shoulders. He grabs his keys. Walks out the door and just like that, he's gone.

I'm already on my second espresso by the time I pull up to the garage. It's barely 8:15 and the lot is half empty, dew still clinging to the pavement. The hum of fluorescent lights filters out from the entryway, along with the scent of grease, fuel, and whatever breakfast burrito Jason is burning in the back room again. I don't pause. I don't wave at the front desk. I keep my sunglasses on even though I'm inside.

The air inside the garage is colder than usual, or maybe that's just me. Someone's running diagnostics on the power unit in Bay 3. I catch a glimpse of the exposed chassis, its skeleton sleek and sharp, before stepping past it without a word.

"Morning, boss," Jason calls from the tools cabinet, toothbrush sticking out the corner of his mouth like a cigarette. He's always brushing his teeth in here. It's disgusting. And familiar.

"Hey," I say, but it's clipped. Automatic. I don't stop walking. Elias falls into step beside me by the time I hit the central console.

He glances down at my heels. "You're dressed like you're going to a board meeting."

"I have one."

"Since when?"

"Since now."

He raises a brow. "Everything okay?"

"Just get everyone in the conference bay. Quick meeting. Ten minutes." He doesn't push. Just nods and peels off with a whistle that sounds more forced than casual.

The team is assembled by the time I step in. Jason, grease-stained hoodie and all. Junie from comms. Sofia. Three of the newer engineers. Elias leans against the wall with his arms crossed.

I grip the back of the closest chair. "I'm going remote," I say. "Effective immediately." Jason stops chewing his pen.

Sofia frowns. "For how long?"

"Until further notice," I say. "I'll check email, but don't contact me unless it's urgent. Engine updates. Media leaks. Contract issues. That kind of thing."

Junie's brow creases. "We're not done finalizing the run plan for Elias next month."

"You don't need me for that," I say. "Talk to Troy. He has my notes."

Elias raises an eyebrow. "You sure you're not just avoiding morning debriefs? I know you hate the way Jason chews on pens." A few chuckles rise. I don't laugh.

"You're not funny today," I say sharply. "Stick to racing."

He holds my gaze, smile fading. "Got it."

"Good." I turn on my heel, heels echoing on the floor.

I don't wait for follow-ups. I don't linger. I retreat into the glass office, close the door, and shut the blinds. I sit behind the desk I spent months designing to feel like mine and stare at the inbox I won't check again today, then I pack up my laptop and leave.

I get home earlier than I ever do on a weekday. The sun's still climbing the sky, pale through gauzy clouds. There's a grocery bag in my hand, full of things we don't technically need. More strawberries. A new coffee grinder. The fancy oat milk he likes but never asks for. I pick it all up on the way home as some form of penance.

The front door clicks open with a whisper. I set the bag down and slip off my shoes. There's a soft clatter from the kitchen. When I round the corner, I see him.

Standing at the counter in a fitted t-shirt and joggers, stirring something in a pan that smells like soy sauce and garlic. He's got one earbud in, probably listening to race data or an interview or whatever podcast he zones out to when he's cooking. His phone is facedown on the island. The TV is on in the background, muted. Some cooking show we always mean to finish.

He hears me before he sees me. "You're home early," he says, not turning around just yet.

"Yeah," I say, setting my bag down gently. "Office was quiet. Figured I'd finish things here." He glances back. Just a quick look.

Something flickers behind his eyes. Not suspicion. Not relief. Just... something. Surprise, maybe. But he doesn't question it.

He nods and goes back to stirring. "I was going to make lunch. You hungry?"

"Starving." I walk over and brush my fingers across the back of his arm as I pass, light and quick. He doesn't flinch.

Lunch becomes a performance. I set the table while Mingyu plates the food. Light jazz in the background, cloth napkins instead of paper towels, and a pitcher of lemon water on the table like we're hosting guests. I smile. I nod. I ask him about his morning, looping my voice in that soft tone that sounds like me, but isn't. He doesn't press me. Doesn't ask why I'm home. Doesn't mention last night.

Our daughter tumbles into the kitchen in her mismatched socks and a tutu skirt she refuses to take off lately, a plastic tiara sliding sideways on her head. I'm confused for a split second before reminding myself that it's a half day for her today.

"Mama!" she beams, running up to me. "You're here!" My heart squeezes. I bend down to scoop her into my arms.

"Of course I'm here, baby," I say. "Where else would I be?" She pats my cheek like she's trying to make sure I'm real. Mingyu watches us. Says nothing.

I seat her in her chair, tie her napkin around her like a bib even though she insists she's a "big girl," and carefully cut her food into tiny, even pieces. Half the bites go uneaten because she's singing to herself the whole time. But I don't mind. I keep smiling.

After lunch, I clean everything while Mingyu takes her upstairs for her nap. I wipe the counters twice. Load the dishwasher with military precision. I even polish the fridge handles and reorganize the spice rack in alphabetical order.

When I hear his footsteps coming back down, I'm already scrubbing the sink. He pauses in the doorway, eyes trailing over me barefoot, sleeves rolled, wedding ring glinting in the window light.

"You don't have to do all that," he says quietly.

"I know," I reply, still scrubbing. "But it was overdue." He doesn't argue. Just walks to the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water, and takes a long drink.

I dry my hands. "Do you want to go for a walk later? Maybe the park?"

"I have some prep to do for the sim calls, but maybe after that."

"Okay," I say quickly, "We can push dinner a little. I was thinking salmon. Or that miso soup you like. Oh, and I bought more of those sesame crackers—"

"YN." My head jerks up.

He's looking at me. "You don't have to-" he starts, but stops himself. "You don't have to do all of this."

A smile slips into place like a reflex. "I want to." He nods slowly, but his eyes say something else. Something I don't have the capacity to unpack right now. So I glide past it. I ask him if he wants coffee. I start a load of laundry. I go upstairs to fold the clothes that are already done.

The rest of the afternoon is one long act. We bake cookies and we play with Play-Doh. We color, and I let our daughter paint my nails with glitter polish that won't come off. I don't flinch when she gets some in my hair. Every time Mingyu passes by, I'm smiling. Present. Perfect.

By dinner, I've cooked enough food for six. I set the table with candles. I pour us both a glass of wine and wear the dress he once said was his favorite. He compliments it again, but it's absentminded, said while reaching for the salt.

Later, I do bath time, bedtime, and lullabies. I read the story twice. When I come back downstairs, I sit beside him on the couch and fold myself into his side like muscle memory. He lets me. I kiss his shoulder and murmur something soft. Something sweet.

He kisses the top of my head and pulls the blanket over our laps. We look like everything is okay and I make damn sure we feel like it too.

I wake up before my alarm. Not because I need to. Just because I can.

The house is still dark when I make coffee. I grind the beans by hand. Boil the water to precisely 96 degrees Celsius. Bloom the grounds, pour in slow concentric circles, let it steep. I hum while it drips.

By 6:45, breakfast is plated like it belongs in a hotel buffet: rolled omelets, sliced fruit in neat little rows, toast cut diagonally with butter already melting on top. Our daughter's cereal is in her favorite bunny bowl with a tiny spoon beside it.

She stumbles out in pajamas, rubbing her eyes.

"Morning, baby," I chirp. "Want strawberries or bananas today?" She blinks at the table like it's Christmas morning.

Mingyu comes down next. Shirtless, hair wild, eyes still half closed. He freezes in the doorway. "You made all this?"

I kiss his cheek on the way to pour his coffee. "You're always saying you miss real breakfast."

"I didn't mean...like this," he says, sitting down slowly. "YN, are you okay?"

I brush it off with a laugh. "You love breakfast." He observes me. I don't flinch.

After drop-off, I stop by the store for a list of things I already bought. I reorganize the pantry while on hold with the dry cleaner. I wash all the windows. Alphabetize the bookshelf. Rearrange the guest linens. I finally replaced the battery in the clock above the stove, even though I'd stopped noticing it was wrong.

Lunch is leftovers, eaten while scrubbing the grout in the master bathroom. I don't check my phone or my email. I don't even open the garage Slack channel. When Courtney texts, "Are you alive?" I reply "Absolutely thriving 😊" and toss the phone face down on the counter.

By the time Mingyu returns, dinner is half-prepped. The table is already set. He steps into the kitchen, loosens his tie, and stops in his tracks. "Is that... is that beef bourguignon?"

I flash him a smile over my shoulder. "Your mom's recipe."

He sets down his bag slowly. "I haven't seen you cook this in years."

"I figured you had a long day."

He steps closer, eyes searching mine. "You're doing a lot lately."

"I'm fine."

"Are you?"

"Do you not like it?"

"That's not what I said."

I turn back to the stove. "Then what are we even talking about?"

A pause. He sighs, quiet and heavy.

"Nothing, I guess."

On Friday, I triple-wash our daughter's clothes and hang them to dry. I steam the curtains. I sanitize the remotes. I reorganize the medicine cabinet. I schedule a dentist appointment I canceled three months ago and repackage all the meat in the freezer into neatly labeled vacuum-sealed bags.

Courtney tries to call twice. I ignore both. I sent a sticker of a waving bear instead. It feels like enough.

I missed two calls from Elias. One from Jason. One from the chassis team.

I don't check my email. The tab is open, but I never click in.

By Saturday, Mingyu starts to hover. I feel it. He watches me from doorways. Places a hand on my lower back when I cook, his fingers a question I don't answer. He offers to help with dishes, with laundry, with anything. I say no every time.

"I've got it," I say, always with a smile. "You should rest."

One night, he lingers longer after putting our daughter to bed. He finds me in the kitchen, bent over the dishwasher.

"YN."

"Mhm?"

"I'm worried about you."

I stand. Turn. Meet his gaze head-on. "Don't be." He doesn't move.

"I mean it," I say, quieter now. "This is all good. I like being home. I missed this. You. Her. All of it."

He takes a step closer. "But you're not resting. You're not present either. You're—" he pauses, struggling for the word. "You're sprinting."

I laugh, but it sounds brittle. "I'm just keeping things together."

He frowns. "You don't have to keep everything together." But I do. I really, really do. Because the second I stop, I'll fall apart.

Sunday night, the dishwasher hums like it's thinking too hard. I scrub the same plate for the third time before realizing it's already clean. The scent of lemon soap sticks to my skin.

Behind me, I feel him come in. Mingyu leans in the doorway, arms folded, watching. "You've been going nonstop all day."

I glance over my shoulder. "There was a lot to catch up on."

"You haven't sat down once. Not even when she napped."

I rinse the plate again. "I'm fine."

"You said that yesterday." The silence stretches between us.

He crosses the kitchen slowly and stops beside me. Gently, he takes the plate from my hands and sets it on the counter. His fingers brush mine.

"YN," he says. "Talk to me." I hate the way he says my name like it's glass.

I force a smile. "You said you missed me, right?"

"YN, that's not-"

"Well," I say, gesturing to the spotless kitchen, the prepped meals, the color-coded fridge calendar, the toy bins finally organized by category, "I'm here. I'm present. Why are you questioning it?"

His brows knit. "I'm not questioning you."

"You are."

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm doing what you wanted." My voice cracks before I can stop it. "You kept saying I wasn't home, that I was too distant, that you missed me, so I'm here. I'm all the way here. Isn't this what you wanted?"

He exhales slowly. "I didn't want you to burn yourself out proving something."

"I'm not," I snap, too fast. "I'm just... I'm just trying to be better."

His eyes soften, but I don't want softness right now.

"You don't need to prove anything to me. You never did."

I shake my head and reach for the sponge again. "Just drop it, Mingyu."

He backs away. "All right. Dropping it." He leaves the room, footsteps quiet.

The sponge slips from my fingers into the sink. I watch the bubbles burst around it, chest tight, throat burning. We don't talk after that.

I finish wiping down the already clean counter. Mingyu sets the glass in the sink without a word, rinses his hands. The air between us feels sticky, pulled too tight like we both said, too much and not enough at the same time.

We move around each other like we've done this before. Like silence is muscle memory. Like distance is normal. By the time we make it to the bedroom, the tension's gone taut. Not angry. Not cold. Just... dense. Breathing it in feels like swallowing steam.

Mingyu pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it toward the hamper. His eyes flick to me when I shut the door and lean against it like I need the support.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to. I can see it in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw. He thinks I'm unraveling and he's not wrong. But I know how to cover it.

I take one step forward. Then another. I watch him watching me. His brow furrows slightly, and it only urges me on.

I walk slowly until I'm in front of him. "You missed me, right?" I murmur, fingers brushing over his stomach. "You wanted me to be more present. I'm here. I'm present."

His gaze softens. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

"Then what did you mean?" I ask, voice light, fingers trailing up to his chest. "Because it sounds like you want me, but now that I'm here, it's a problem." He shakes his head, but I don't let him speak. I push up on my toes and kiss him. Hard.

His hands come to my waist out of habit, grounding, but he doesn't pull me in the way he usually does. He's hesitant. I'm not.

I bite his bottom lip. He sucks in a breath. "Let me," I whisper against his mouth. "Please." He doesn't answer. But he doesn't stop me either.

I push him back gently until the backs of his knees hit the bed, and he sits. I crawl into his lap, straddling him, arms locked behind his neck. His hands hover at my hips like he's unsure of the rules now. So I set them for him.

I reach for his wrists and bring them up to the headboard, pinning them there. His eyebrows lift slightly. "Babe—"

"Shh," I murmur, kissing down his jaw. "Let me do this." He stares at me, chest rising and falling fast now, and nods once. Just once.

I kiss him again, deeper, slower this time, but still fierce. My teeth graze his lip again, and I hear the sharp inhale through his nose when I do it. I'm so far gone I barely realize I'm digging my nails into his wrist as I hold him there. His mouth parts. I take it as an invitation.

My hips start to move without permission in slow circles. I feel him hardening beneath me, and that only pushes me further.

I pull back and look at him. Eyes dark. Cheeks flushed. Mouth pink and kiss-bitten. Still confused. Still trying to understand, but not resisting. I let go of his wrists, only to run my fingers through his hair and tug. Hard.

His mouth falls open with a choked sound that makes my stomach twist. He swears under his breath, hands finally gripping my waist, fingertips pressing into skin.

"God, YN," he breathes, voice already wrecked. "What is this?" I kiss him again to shut him up.

I pull off my shirt. His hands reach instinctively for my skin, and I let him. I rock against him harder now, chest brushing his, lips messier, breathing heavier. The heat between us turns molten.

When I move to unbutton his pants, he tries again. "Baby, wait—"

I push him back with one hand and pull his bottom lip between my teeth again. "No more talking," I whisper. I take his hands and pin them again. This time, he lets me. No questions. No confusion. surrender.

I take my time peeling off the rest of our clothes. His eyes never leave me. Not even when I shift down and take him in my hand, stroking slowly until he curses and arches under me. Not even when I sink onto him in one long, desperate motion, and his head falls back against the wall.

"Fuck," he groans, hands gripping the sheets now. "You feel- god, you feel insane."

I ride him with single minded focus. Not fast. Just deep. Each thrust angled, controlled. My hands flat against his chest. His eyes search mine. And I don't give him anything but heat. No tenderness. No answers. Just friction and fury and closeness that isn't quite intimacy.

He catches on eventually. The way I chase release, like it'll fix something. The way I kiss him like I'm apologizing without saying it. The way I arch, move, and tremble.

His hands come to my thighs, then up to my hips. His eyes hold mine when he whispers, "Come for me."

It doesn't take long.

The pressure in my gut finally snaps, and I collapse against him, trembling, forehead pressed to his. He wraps his arms around me and whispers something I don't hear.

And when I try to move, try to do more, he flips us over and pins my wrists to the bed, still inside me.

"Stay," he says. "Just stay."

His forehead touches mine again. "Let me."

And this time, I don't fight him. I let him take it slow.

Let him chase it for both of us.

Let myself break apart underneath the weight of him, the feel of him, the love in his eyes that hurts more than it heals.

He finishes with a moan of my name, arms locking tight around me.

After, he doesn't ask questions. He gathers me close and pulls the covers over us, rubbing soft circles into my hip like it's a habit. And I let him.

The sunlight is soft when I open my eyes. There's a warmth behind me, Mingyu's chest pressed to my back, arm heavy over my waist. His breathing is slow, even, like he's still asleep. Like last night didn't happen. Like I didn't crawl into his lap with something desperate in my bones and try to drown it in skin and sweat.

I lay still for a moment. Long enough to feel the ache in my thighs. The scratch on my shoulder where I clung to him too tightly. The soreness in my jaw from biting my own tongue.

I'm tired. But not in the way that sleep fixes. Still, I shift carefully, lifting his arm and easing out from under him. He stirs but doesn't wake. I tuck the blanket back around him.

In the bathroom, I wash my face with cold water. My reflection looks a little more like a person again, not a perfect wife or a perfect mother or a flawless front facing lie, but I ignore that. I brush my teeth, tie my hair back, and get dressed in something casual and not rushed. Not messy. Pulled together. Present. Functional.

By the time I get to the kitchen, I've started humming. Not for any reason. To fill the space. The dishwasher is halfway loaded, and there are some crayons on the dining table from the night before. I wipe down the counters. Pack a lunchbox. Pour a cup of milk. Everything mechanical. Everything fine.

Mingyu appears twenty minutes later, still shirtless, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and yawning like it's any other day but he's quiet.

He watches me for a second too long as I slip our daughter's water bottle into her backpack. I feel his gaze but don't acknowledge it.

"Morning," he says finally.

"Morning," I echo, too brightly. "You want coffee?"

He nods, but doesn't move toward me. "Thanks."

I pour him a cup and hand it over. His fingers brush mine. We don't talk about last night. Instead, he sips slowly while I kneel to help our daughter with her shoes. She's humming too, swinging her feet and playing with the zipper on her jacket.

When we both stand, Mingyu clears his throat. "I'll get her dropped off," he says, voice light but eyes sharp. "You should relax a little today."

"I can pick her up," I reply smoothly, grabbing my phone from the counter. "I have to head out anyway. Just a quick stop."

He frowns. "It's really not a big deal. I can pick her up, too."

"I want to," I say. "Besides, you've got that sim debrief later, right?" His eyes narrow for a split second. Barely noticeable. But I catch it.

"I thought you said you weren't checking in on work anymore?"

I force a smile. "I'm not. I have to drop something off."

He looks at me like he doesn't believe me, but he lets it go. "Alright. Drop off's fine. You'll get her after?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't take long." He nods, still watching me like he's waiting for something else. I turn back to the sink and start rinsing a mug that doesn't need it.

Our daughter runs back in, backpack bouncing, yelling something about her plushie and that she left it by the stairs. Mingyu crouches to help her. I stay facing the sink. I wait until they're both out the door before I exhale.

By the time the front door closes behind them, I'm already moving. The house isn't dirty, but I clean it anyway. Vacuum lines become an art form. I rearrange the throw pillows three times before settling. The bathroom towels look crooked, so I fold them all again. I clean out the fridge for the umpteenth time. I even dust the fucking baseboards. Every corner has to feel like intention. Like effort. Like control.

Eventually, I'm back in the kitchen, scrubbing dishes that have already been rinsed. The water's too hot, but I don't care. I keep going. Plate after plate, mug after mug. And then one slips.

It happens in slow motion. The soap, the angle, the glass hitting the edge of the sink. It shatters instantly. A sharp, high sound like a warning bell. Pieces clatter into the basin and bounce onto the floor.

My breath catches. My chest goes tight. I stare at the broken mug like it's going to put itself back together if I just will it hard enough. But it doesn't. It just sits there. Broken. Sharp. Useless. And suddenly, I can't breathe.

There's a buzzing behind my ears, and my hands are shaking, and I can feel something coming up my throat, something thick and hot and terrifying. I grip the counter with wet fingers, chest heaving.

No.

No, no, no.

I press my lips together. Swallow it. Shove it down. I'm fine.

I'm fine.

The key turns in the door and I move on instinct, already gathering shards into a towel, ignoring the sting on my palm when I nick myself on a corner. I toss everything into the trash and rerun the water.

When Mingyu walks in, I'm facing the sink with trembling shoulders and too much soap in the water.

"Hey," he calls softly. I hear his shoes scuff the floor. "Everything okay?"

I keep my back turned. "Yeah. Just dropped something. No big deal."

I feel him pause beside me. "Your eyes are red."

Shit. "Got soap in them. I was scrubbing. It splashed up."

He hesitates. "Let me see—"

"I'm gonna go rinse them," I cut in too fast. "In the bathroom. Just to be safe." I dry my hands and bolt before he can say anything else, slipping past him with a smile that feels more like a crack in porcelain.

The second the door shuts behind me, I brace both hands on the sink and stare into the mirror. Red eyes. Redder cheeks. I splash water on my face. I wipe it all away. I go back out five minutes later like nothing happened.

I don't pick her up late. I don't pick her up early. I pick her up perfectly on time, waiting at the curb with a smile so bright it hurts.

She comes running toward me, backpack bouncing, cheeks flushed from the sun. "Mommy!"

I scoop her into my arms. "Hi, baby."

She wraps around me like she hasn't seen me in a week. And I feel it. That stupid ache. The guilt. The relief. The weight of it all.

"Guess what?" I say as I buckle her in, clicking the seatbelt like I'm not seconds from falling apart. "We're picking up Daddy next. I have a surprise."

Her eyes go wide. "Is it ice cream?"

"Nope."

"Matching shoes?"

I grin. "Better." As I pull away from the curb, I shoot off a quick text to Mingyu.

Me: Get dressed, nothing too casual. I have a surprise for us.

The typing bubble appears for a moment, disappears, then nothing

He's waiting at the door when we pull up. Button-down. Slacks. Confused. "What's going on?"

"You'll see."

We arrive at the luxury boutique thirty minutes later. It's sleek, tucked into one of those designer corners of Seoul that smells like money and minimalism. A private appointment is waiting for us because I made sure of it.

Mingyu doesn't say a word until we're inside.

The stylist greets us with a warm smile. "Welcome! You must be the Kim family. Everything's ready for the forever welds."

"Forever what?" Mingyu echoes slowly.

I turn to him with a smile that feels a little too big. "Necklaces. Matching ones. Welded on. No clasps. Just... permanent."

"You mean like... forever forever?"

Our daughter is already gasping in excitement, skipping over to the display tray of delicate gold chains. "They're so shiny!"

"I thought it could be our thing," I say softly. "A little reminder. Of us."

Mingyu's eyes flick between me and the stylist. "YN..."

"They're dainty, comfortable, totally safe," I push. "Symbolic, you know? Like anchor points. For all three of us." There's a beat of silence. He doesn't answer. The stylist looks between us, awkwardly.

"I want the heart one!" our daughter squeals, pointing to a charm shaped like a tiny lock.

"Perfect. Let's do it."

She goes first, eyes wide as they prep the welder. She watches, fascinated, as they close the chain with a soft flash of light and a puff of cool air. When it's done, she looks down at the shimmering gold and beams. "I'm never taking it off!"

I go next. Barely flinch. Smile like nothing's wrong.

When it's Mingyu's turn, he hesitates. "Babe," I prompt gently.

He finally sits. But his eyes never leave mine. And that's when I see it. The look on his face is no longer confused. It's fear. Worry. Recognition.

I force another smile, holding up my necklace next to our daughter's. "Look at us. Triplets." She squeals with laughter. Mingyu doesn't.

Dinner is usually my favorite part of the day. The table is small enough to keep us close, the light above us soft enough to blur the sharp edges of whatever we're carrying in from the outside. We play music sometimes, and pass around extra spoons when someone's too lazy to get one. She sings. He hums. I refill water glasses too often to feel useful. But tonight, the table feels like a stage.

Mingyu sets down her plate of rice and tofu, barely glancing at me. Not in that soft, half-smiling way that makes my chest flutter. Not even in that tired, I-missed-you-today way. Just... avoidance. A blank page. I stir the soup in my bowl. It's lukewarm.

He takes his seat. Straightens the napkin in his lap like he's buying time. Our daughter, oblivious in the most heartbreaking way, beams as she picks up her tiny silver fork. "You put the smiley carrots again!"

I smile, eyes fixed on my bowl. "Just for you."

"Mommy, can you tell the story again?"

"What story?"

She grins. "The silly one. About the spoon thief!"

"Oh," I force a laugh. "The criminal mastermind of our kitchen. Right."

I start the story, same as always. A spoon goes missing. One by one, others follow. Suspicion rises. I use dramatic pauses, silly voices. Mingyu doesn't so much as smirk. Just keeps eating, eyes on his plate, jaw tense.

My daughter giggles through mouthfuls. "And then the thief turned out to be—"

"The dog we don't have," I finish with a small smile.

She claps. "Again!" I glance at Mingyu. He still doesn't look at me.

The silence creeps back in. Heavy. Sharp.

I take a sip of my water and finally say, soft but clear, "It's quiet tonight." He doesn't answer.

"Usually, you have something to say about my soup."

"Soup's fine," he mutters, pushing rice around with his chopsticks.

I study his face. "You said you missed me." He pauses.

Our daughter doesn't notice. She's humming to herself, still caught in her own little world.

I repeat it. "You said you missed me." It's not just a statement. It's a challenge. A question. A plea.

He lifts his eyes to mine, finally, and they're darker than before. Not angry. Just... tired. "You said you'd come back different," he replies. Still soft. But there's steel under it.

"I did come back different."

"Yeah," he says. "You did." The tension thickens, syrupy and silent.

Our daughter chirps, "I missed you, too, Mommy."

I reach over and squeeze her hand. "I missed you more." Mingyu's eyes are still on me.

"You said you wanted me to be here," I say again, carefully. "To be around more. To be involved."

"I wanted you," he says, emphasis low but deliberate. "Not whatever this version is."

She frowns a little. "What version?"

"It's just an expression, baby," I say quickly, reaching to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Don't worry."

Mingyu goes quiet again, hands folded on the edge of his plate.

The conversation hangs in the air like invisible wires strung between us, taut and waiting to snap. We keep pretending our daughter can't feel it, but kids always feel it. She's too young to decode it, but not too young to feel the way our voices tiptoe around landmines.

I try again. "This version," I say gently, "is trying."

Mingyu's jaw clenches. He looks down at his plate, then back at me.

"You're not trying," he says, still coded, still careful. "You're covering."

"You think that?" He doesn't answer.

Our daughter is now distracted by her noodles, humming a melody from a cartoon she was watching earlier. She swings her legs under the table.

"You know," I say, keeping my voice even, "some people might say that buying matching necklaces is a pretty big deal."

"Yeah," he says, smiling tightly. "Big gestures are easy."

I bristle. "Excuse me?"

He leans forward slightly. "You've always hated performative shit like that. So yeah, it feels off."

"Language, Mingyu," I say firmly.

"It was for her," I continue.

He tilts his head. "Was it?" My throat goes dry and he says nothing else.

Dinner ends not with a bang, but with her fork dropping as she finishes the last bite, her voice sweet and innocent as ever.

"Can we read the snowman book before bed?"

Mingyu stands and picks up her plate. "Of course we can." He rinses it, dries it, and puts it away. Doesn't look at me. I sit there, soup cold, chest colder.

The house is quiet after bedtime stories. I tucked her in, just as I always do. Hair brushed, stars glowing on the ceiling, her tiny voice whispering, "Goodnight, Mommy. Goodnight, Daddy." I kissed her forehead, adjusted her blanket, and lingered too long at the doorway.

Now I'm brushing my teeth, just like it's any other night, like nothing is wrong. But the silence behind me is a storm.

Mingyu's in the closet, wordless. I hear the hanger squeak as he pulls something down. I spit, rinse, wipe my mouth, then finally glance back. He's holding a throw blanket. A pillow clutched under his arm.

"What are you doing?" I ask, voice carefully steady. He doesn't answer. Just walks past me, slow and purposeful, like he's already somewhere else.

"Mingyu." I follow him out of the bathroom, down the hallway. "Where are you going?" He doesn't even look at me.

"Mingyu," I try again, quickening my steps. "Can we please—" He stops and finally speaks, voice low and tired and heartbreakingly calm:

"I have nothing nice to say right now. So please... stop." The air leaves my lungs. He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't curse. Doesn't flinch. But he closes the guest bedroom door behind him with a finality that leaves me standing alone in the hallway. Pillow. Blanket. Silence.

And me? I stay frozen for a beat too long, staring at the door like it might open again. It doesn't. The house is still. No footsteps. No apologies. No comfort. Just that faint glow from under the door where our daughter sleeps. And the door across from it now closed.

I walk back into our bedroom alone. Sit on the edge of the bed we picked out together. The one he's not sleeping in tonight, feeling the weight finally crashing down.

At first, I think it's part of a dream, the buzzing, the blue glow, but then I realize my heart is hammering. And I'm alone. The other side of the bed is still cold.

I blink at the screen. The brightness stings.

30 missed calls. My stomach drops. All from the team. Mina. Jason. Two from an unknown number. I sit up fast and swipe to redial, hands clumsy. My throat is dry. My brain barely registers what time it is.

Mina picks up on the first ring. "YN." Her voice is sharp. Tired. Shaken.

"What's going on?" I croak. "It's... it's the middle of the night—"

"Yeah. It is. And maybe if you had checked your email sometime this week, you'd know why that matters."

I freeze. "Mina—"

"We've been trying to get a hold of you for days. The leak we thought was nothing? It's not nothing anymore." My blood goes cold.

"What kind of leak?" I whisper.

"The kind that lands us on the front page of every motorsport outlet by morning. Possibly earlier." I swing my legs out of bed.

"We don't know how bad it is yet," she continues. "But we have a situation. And I need you. We all need you. Get here. Now," then she hangs up. My hands are shaking before I even realize I've started moving. I throw on the first pair of jeans I can find. Hoodie. Sneakers. I don't bother with makeup. Don't even brush my hair. My chest is tight with something I don't want to name.

Quietly, I open the bedroom door and peek into the hallway. Dark. I tiptoe past our daughter's room, past the guest room door that Mingyu closed behind him hours ago. I don't look back. Keys. Phone. Wallet. Gone.

I shouldn't be driving this fast. My hands are locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white. I keep checking the time, like that'll help. 2:41 a.m. Every second I'm not there is a second someone else finds out. Every second is a chance for something to explode. The highway is dead quiet, but my head is a war zone. How bad is it? What do they know? What did I miss? My emails. God, I didn't even look. Not once.

I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second and immediately regret it. My tires squeal at the edge of the lane. I jerk the wheel back, breathing hard. My pulse is all over the place. I turn off the exit and cut across three lanes.

I see the garage lights up ahead. Jason's car is already parked outside. Elias's, too. Mina's headlights flash as she swings around the corner just seconds after me, hazard lights on.

I pull up, slam the gear into park, and sit frozen for half a second. Then I throw the door open and run. My legs feel like they're moving underwater. My brain can't catch up with my body. There's already shouting inside, the clang of something dropping, voices overlapping in the upstairs meeting room. I can see them through the glass, frantic shapes pacing around the whiteboard like it's a war map.

Jason spots me first. He doesn't smile. He opens the door.

"You're late." I open my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Mina doesn't even look at me as she turns the monitor toward the rest of the team and then I see it.

A blurry photo, a document header, my name, the team name, my father's name. Everything. Exposed.

The room is spinning. The screenshot on the monitor pulses like it's alive, every pixel dragging me under.

My name. My name next to his. Next to a team that wasn't supposed to exist. And the headline?

"Industry Rumors Confirmed: Underground F1 Team Allegedly Backed by Legacy Heiress."

No one says anything for a second. No one moves. Then Mina slaps her palm against the table so hard it rattles the glass pitcher in the center. "Are you fucking serious right now?" I flinch. She doesn't miss it.

Jason is standing off to the side, arms crossed, mouth in a grim line like he's holding something back that could burn the whole building down. Elias looks at me like he's seeing a ghost.

"Where the hell have you been?" Mina snaps, advancing toward me. "You ghosted us for days. We've been trying to reach you since Wednesday."

"I—"

"Don't even try," she cuts in, voice sharp enough to slice bone. "Do you have any idea how close we were to pulling the plug on everything? And not because of the leak. Because you vanished, you didn't answer your phone. You didn't respond to one damn email. And now this is out there, and you're surprised?"

I try to steady my breathing. My voice barely makes it out. "I've been dealing with things at home—"

"Oh, playing house, right?" Mina spits, tilting her head with a mocking smile. "Mommy mode in full effect?"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Mina laughs, loud and humorless. "There she is. Good to know the team's fearless leader still has a pulse."

"That's enough," Elias says sharply, stepping between us. But I'm not done. Not even close.

"You think I've just been playing house?" I hiss, stepping closer. "I've been trying to keep everything from falling apart. I've been trying to juggle a husband, a child, a lie that's turning into a bomb, and a career that might end both of them. So excuse me if I didn't get to your goddamn emails in time, Mina."

She crosses her arms. "You think you're the only one with something to lose?"

"I never said that."

"No, but you're acting like it. You went AWOL, YN. This isn't just your name on the line anymore. It's all of us."

Jason finally speaks. His voice is low and dangerous. "We trusted you."

I turn to him, my throat tight. "And I never asked you to." His jaw clenches.

"Yeah," he mutters. "That's the problem." There's a beat of silence.

Elias is the one who breaks it. "We need a plan," he says quietly. "Right now. This leak? It's just the beginning."

"And what if it's not a leak?" Mina adds coldly. "What if someone on the inside gave it up?" Her eyes find mine again. And this time? She doesn't look mad. She looks scared. Like she knows what's coming and thinks I'm the one who invited it in.

I want to scream. I want to fall apart. I want to rewind to a week ago and open the damn emails. Take the damn calls. Show up. But I didn't. And now everything is on fire.

The room is quieter now, but not calm. Never calm. Anger still crackles in the air like static. No one's forgiven me, they've just remembered we have bigger problems.

Elias draws a deep breath, then plants his palms on the edge of the table. "Damage control. Now."

"First thing we need to do is find the source of the leak," Jason says, flipping open his laptop. His voice is clipped, business mode activated, but his eyes still flick toward me with every sentence like I'm a faulty wire ready to blow again.

"I already told you I don't know who—" I start, but Mina cuts me off.

"Let's assume the worst. Assume it came from inside. That it's someone who knows what this team is, who backs it, and who's been watching."

Elias nods. "We can run a trace on metadata, cross-check IP pings on the files we shared. The article cited 'anonymous internal sources.' That means someone talked."

"So we find them," Mina says.

"And then what?" I ask, voice low.

Mina turns toward me. "Then we shut them up."

Jason's typing furiously. "We'll need a statement. Short. Vague. Buy time."

"I'll write it," Mina offers immediately, and no one argues. We all fall into silence for a few seconds as the gears start to turn again.

Elias paces. "We stay ahead of it. Schedule fake interviews. Divert attention. Leak something bigger if we have to."

I nod, grab a marker, and head to the whiteboard. "If we flood the press with decoys—"

Bzzzt. Elias' phone vibrates. He glances at it, eyes narrowing, then sets it back down.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt. It goes off again. Then Jason's laptop chimes. Then Mina's phone buzzes. Then mine. Then the group chat lights up on the screen behind us, message after message flooding in.

Elias picks up his phone. And I swear, I watch the blood drain from his face. "Oh, fuck."

"What?" I ask, already reaching for my own. He turns his phone toward me. It's a news alert.

🚨 BREAKING: UNCONFIRMED REPORTS LINK NEW UNDERGROUND F1 TEAM TO Y/L/N SEUNGJIN'S DAUGHTER, YN.

Sources say the heiress has been funding the project in secret for years—

—Married to F1 world champion Kim Mingyu—

"Holy shit," Jason mutters, standing.

Mina is already scrolling. "It's everywhere. X. Instagram. Reddit."

"They posted photos," Elias says. "The garage. You. That one dinner with me and you—" I feel my stomach drop.

"No," I whisper. "No no no—"

Jason looks up from his screen, jaw tight. "It's real. It's everywhere now. There's no spinning this." I feel the heat rise behind my eyes.

Mina looks at me. "Does Mingyu know?" I shake my head and reach for my phone again. My heart pounds against my ribs as I pull up my texts. And there it is. 23 missed calls. All from Mingyu. I don't even open them.

Until Elias says, very quietly, "It's happening. It's really happening." The room erupts into motion, but no one actually moves forward.

"I'll call legal," Jason says.

"They're not going to be able to stop it," Mina shoots back. "It's already gone viral."

"We can threaten outlets with defamation if we deny the story," he insists.

"They won't care. They now have enough traction to run with it. Denying makes us look guilty."

"Then we confirm parts of it," Elias offers. "Control the narrative."

"No." Mina shakes her head. "Too risky. We confirm one thing, it opens the floodgates. What if someone out there has receipts we don't even know about?"

Jason slams his hand on the table. "So what do we do?!"

My phone buzzes again. I press my palm against it.

Mina points toward the screen. "We need to get ahead of it somehow. Flood the timeline. Use burner accounts to start rumors about a different team. Give them a tastier scandal."

"You think people are going to care about some random pit crew fight when this is trending number one worldwide?"

"This wasn't supposed to happen," I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. "Not yet."

"No shit," Elias mutters.

Jason's pacing. "We could pull up our investor list, try to isolate who might have leaked something."

"It's not going to help us now," Mina snaps. "Damage is done."

"We need to get YN in front of a camera. Craft a story. Play the legacy angle—"

"I can't," I say. Everyone turns.

"I can't go public," I repeat, louder this time. "It's not just about me anymore." Silence.

And then, another buzz. Then another. My fingers shake as I glance at the screen.

I suck in a breath and finally swipe to answer. "Hello?"

"Get home."

I close my eyes. "Mingyu—"

"I'm not asking."

"I can't." My voice breaks on the last syllable. "Everything is falling apart, I have to—"

"No. You don't. You won't."

"Mingyu, listen to me—"

"You told me once," he cuts in, voice suddenly rough, "that I chose my job over our family. That I abandoned you for something I thought mattered more." My heart stutters.

"So let me ask you now, YN," he continues, calm but deadly. "What are you choosing?" I say nothing. There's nothing I can say.

"Come home, now," he says again, firmer this time. "Or don't bother coming home at all." The line goes dead. I lower the phone from my ear and stare at the screen. Around me, the others are still talking, pretending not to eavesdrop. All I can hear is the sound of everything crumbling. And for the first time since this entire thing began... I don't know which version of me to protect.

Courtney picks up on the second ring. She doesn't ask any questions. Just listens while I try to explain through broken, whispered sentences in the stairwell, and tells me she'll pick up our daughter from school later if I'm not back. I thank her. Twice. My voice cracks the second time. She doesn't mention it. I hang up before I lose the ability to breathe.

Back in the conference room, the air is sharp and dry, and everyone's eyes cut toward me like knives. I sit down in silence and brace myself.

From the outside, it looked like a strategy. But the truth? It was panic with whiteboard markers and caffeine. Mina's up front, hair tied back, red under her eyes, scribbling timelines on the board like she's willing the damage to reverse itself. Jason's on the phone, walking frantic laps as he hisses into the speaker about breach clauses and sponsor reactions. Elias is glued to his screen, trying to reassure the drivers, but the bounce in his knee tells a different story. X is spiraling. Mentions are climbing by the second. He scrolls and scrolls and scrolls.

I try to write a draft statement, something preemptive, something safe, but every sentence sounds like spin. Even the truths feel tainted now. I delete the entire thing and start over. Again. And again.

Legal calls in. It's worse than we thought. If the leak includes our financial backers, NDAs are null. If any private testing data made it out, we're looking at full suspension from the FIA. I'm only half listening by then. My mind is split between the meeting, the time, and the sick twist in my stomach that hasn't gone away since Mina told me to check my emails. I want to be present, but I feel like I'm underwater.

The team fractures into pods. PR takes the war room. Logistics and digital spread out. I get pulled into a call with one of the overseas partners. They're blindsided and furious, demanding names, answers, backup plans. I give them none. I lie through my teeth in a steady voice I didn't know I still had.

I step into the break room around 5:30 AM to find Elias drinking coffee like it's water, his eyes dark and unreadable. Mina hasn't stopped moving since I walked in. She looks up just once when I put on my coat.

"You're leaving?" she asks, voice flat.

"I'll be back," I say.

Jason exhales loud enough for all of us to hear. "You better be," she says, still not looking at me. I don't say anything else. Just turn, walk through the doors, and step out into the early morning gray. The sky is soft and washed out, birds starting to stir against the hush of the city, and for a second, I want to disappear into it. I want to keep walking until my feet give out, until I'm somewhere else, someone else, anyone but the woman holding this grenade.

I get into the car, I start the engine, and I drive home to a husband who now knows everything.

The front door was already open when I got out of the car. The light in the hallway was on, but it wasn't warm. I heard the shuffle of movement before I saw him.

Standing by the entryway, jaw tight, shoulders squared, arms crossed so tightly over his chest it looked like he was holding himself together by force. Behind him was the babysitter. She looked up, startled, then glanced toward the hallway where a few bags sat upright by the shoe rack.

"What—? What's going on?" The second my voice cracked, Mingyu looked at me. Not with softness. Not even with anger, not yet. Just silence. Like he was cataloging my reaction and seeing if I'd admit it before he had to say it out loud.

When I stepped forward, he moved in front of the bags. "You should've told me." That was all he said at first. No yelling. Not yet. And maybe that was worse.

My chest collapsed inward. "Mingyu—"

"Get her outside," he told the babysitter without looking away from me.

Our daughter, who had been peeking over the sitter's shoulder with tired eyes, blinked at the sound of her father's voice. The babysitter nodded quickly, like she'd been waiting for the signal.

"No, wait, wait—"

"Go," he said again, voice low but firm. The door closed behind them. And then it happened.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" The shout ripped through the house. His voice thundered in the foyer, echoed off the walls, sharp and gutting. I flinched. The bags. The door. The sheer volume of him.

"You built a whole ass team. You went behind my back, lied to me every day for God knows how long, made a goddamn fool of me, and I find out by a bunch of random people asking me how I felt?" He's shaking. Not with fear, but with rage.

"I can explain—" I start, stepping forward, hands up.

"You don't get to explain." His voice shatters like glass, loud and raw. "You had so many chances. All those nights you looked me in the eye and said everything was fine. All those mornings you kissed me goodbye and pretended you were picking up coffee. Do you know how stupid I feel?"

"Mingyu, please."

"No, no. You don't get to 'please' me right now. You don't get to play victim in the mess you made."

"I—I didn't think you would understand."

"Understand?!" His hands flew out at his sides. "You think I wouldn't have understood this? I fucking knew this was your dream! I knew it before we were even together. When we were just two idiot kids on a racetrack and you were pointing at your dad's pit wall like it was your throne. I would've STOOD beside you!"

Tears welled hot in my eyes as he steps closer. He stares at me like he doesn't know me. Like he never has.

"How long?"

I hesitate.

"Don't think. Say it. How long has this been going on?"

I take a breath. "Five years."

His face goes slack. "What?"

"Monza. You sent me that letter," I say, voice trembling. "The one that said, 'Come see what a real legacy looks like.' And I did. I went. I watched you qualify. And I felt... something break open."

He takes a shaky step back like I physically hit him. His jaw clenches. "You were recruiting in Monza? While I was out there trying to prove myself to you, you were already laying bricks for your own damn team and didn't think to tell me once?"

"I didn't do this to hurt you," I plead. "I did it because I had to."

"God, it all makes so much sense now," he says, almost to himself. "You've been running around the house like a madwoman all week. Slamming cabinets, vacuuming the living room twenty times, scrubbing dishes until you saw your reflection on them. I thought you were losing it. But no, turns out you were just cracking under the weight of your own fucking lie."

I take a step forward. "Mingyu—"

He cuts me off with a yell. "I WOULD HAVE HELPED YOU!" The words echo and then collapse into silence. His chest heaves. His voice is hoarse when he speaks again.

"Don't you get that? You think I wouldn't have backed you? That I wouldn't have dropped everything to make this happen with you? You think I wouldn't have been proud of you?"

I stare at him, lips parted, and finally the tears fall. "Mingyu, I was scared."

"Of what? Me?"

"No," I say. "Of losing it. Of it all falling apart. I built this from nothing. After everything with my dad. I needed to prove I could do it."

His jaw tightens. "And you couldn't trust me enough to stand beside you while you did it?"

"You trusted Elias," he sneers. "Your golden boy driver who knows more about your life than I do, apparently."

"It wasn't like that."

"Wasn't it? Because it sure as hell looks like you built a life without me in it." That one lands.

I press my palms into the counter. "Please," I whisper. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" he growls. "You did everything else." I'm crying now. Quiet, hot tears down my cheeks. He doesn't look away. Doesn't soften.

"You hurt me," he says, barely holding it together. "You broke something in me, and I don't know if I'll ever get it back."

I step forward. "Mingyu—"

He raises a hand. Not to hit. To stop me. "Don't."

"I didn't want to lie—"

"But you did." His voice echoes.

"You lied to my face. Over and over. And now? I don't even know who the hell I'm looking at." And with that, he turns and walks out the back door. Leaving me standing in our kitchen, surrounded by everything I was trying so desperately to protect.

Alone.

⤷ network tags: @svthub

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[cheollollipop]

off the grid. | kim mingyu

genre: fluff. ANGST.

wc: 10.6k

🚦author’s note!

okay so i definitely lied THIS is the last one i promise. let me live!

Flashback: 6 Weeks After Monaco -Tokyo, Tuesday, 9:41 AM:

The stick is on the edge of the bathroom counter, mocking me.

Not that I can blame it.

I'm the one who bought four of them at the convenience store down the street, like I was stocking up for the apocalypse. The cashier had the audacity to smirk. I had the audacity to smirk back. Neither of us said a word.

I cross my arms, staring it down.

One pink line: relief. Two pink lines: well...

Outside the bathroom, I can hear Mingyu's music playing from the kitchen. Something jazzy and upbeat that he probably paired with freshly squeezed juice and a color coded fruit tray because he's still riding the high of a P1 finish like he didn't nearly give me a heart attack.

I've been nauseous for a week. My boobs hurt. I cried during a dog food commercial. The signs are all there.

But still. Seeing it? That's different.

I peek again.

And that's when I see it.

Two lines.

Two. Very. Obvious. Lines.

"Oh my God."

My voice is a whisper and a scream all at once.

I sit down on the edge of the tub because my legs feel like cooked spaghetti. I take a breath. Then another. Then three more that don't help at all.

We were careful. Ish. Okay, maybe not really.

But it was post race, and I was wearing that stupid dress he likes, and we were being married and in love and glowing and drunk on each other, and—

Oh my God?

I grab the stick, throw it down like it's hot, and pick it back up again because I need to double check that it didn't somehow change its mind.

Still two lines.

And now I'm spiraling.

What if I'm not ready? What if I suck at this? What if the baby inherits his dimples and my caffeine addiction, and we end up raising a charming little gremlin who insists on eating Nutella with a spoon and climbing on countertops?

And that's when I hear him.

"Babe?"

My heart tries to escape my chest. I scramble to hide all four tests in the cabinet under the sink like that'll somehow erase the past two minutes of my life.

He knocks once on the bathroom door. "You okay?"

"Yep!" I squeak. "Fine! Totally fine. Just... girl stuff!"

There's a pause.

"You're not bleeding, are you?"

"No!"

"Do you need chocolate?"

"I don't—wait, yes. Yes, I do."

I hear him pad away, bless his clueless heart.

I wait until the coast is clear, yank the cabinet back open, and line up all four tests in a row like it's a very specific CSI episode.

Every single one: two lines.

My fingers shake as I reach for my phone.

I typed a text to Hani first. Delete it. Try again. Delete that too.

Then I hover over Mingyu's name.

I should wait. Make it cute. Pinterest worthy. Maybe tiny shoes, a little onesie that says Team Gyu, and a baby bottle in a trophy case or something.

But when I step out of the bathroom and see him dancing like a goof in the kitchen, barefoot, shirtless, singing into a spatula like it's a mic, I just blurt, "Hey."

He turns mid spin. "Yeah?"

"I'm pregnant."

Silence.

The music no longer feels like background noise. Just me. Him. My words still hanging in the air like smoke.

He freezes, spatula still in hand.

"Like... now?" he asks, eyes wide.

"I mean... technically, I guess it started a few weeks ago?"

Another beat.

Mingyu lets out the loudest, most undignified gasp I've ever heard and drops the spatula on the counter like he's just been electrocuted.

"You're pregnant?!"

I nod slowly.

"I'm going to be a dad?!"

Another nod.

He stares at me for a second like his brain is rebooting, then suddenly he's in front of me, hands on my waist, then my face, then my waist again, like he can't decide if I need comfort or a trophy.

"Holy shit," he says breathlessly. "You're—wait, you're sure? Like test test, sure? More than one test?"

"Four."

He lets out a choked laugh and leans forward to press his forehead to mine.

"You're pregnant," he whispers again, his voice full of wonder, awe, and slightly terrified joy.

And just like that, everything shifts.

-Monaco, Sunday, 6:42 PM Our Apartment: It's golden hour in Monaco, and our living room is flooded with soft light, which makes everything look warmer than it is. Mingyu sprawled across the floor in joggers and a faded team tee, one hand holding a toy screwdriver while our daughter climbed onto his back like he's her personal jungle gym.

"Appa, you're broken," she declares with the seriousness of a seasoned mechanic, poking at his shoulder blade. "I fix."

"Am I?" he laughs, twisting his head to look at her. "What do I need?"

"Sticker."

"Of course. Only the finest medical technology."

I'm standing by the open suitcase on the couch, folding tiny dresses and rolling socks that never stay on her feet. A half zipped carry-on sits by the door, and our passports are tucked inside a folder with our itinerary for Vegas. It should feel routine by now. Packing, prepping, flying halfway around the world for another race. But there's something extra about this one.

Maybe it's because it's Vegas. Or maybe it's because she's coming with us this time.

"You know we're not bringing that screwdriver through customs, right?" I call out, nodding toward the plastic tool in his hand.

"But she said I'm broken," he deadpans. "I can't fly internationally in this condition."

"Appa's dram-matic," our daughter whispers to me behind her hand.

"Tell me about it."

She giggles and launches into my arms a second later, and I catch her with a soft oof, pressing my nose to her curls. She still smells like baby shampoo and mischief. I'm already dreading the jet lag we'll all suffer once we land.

"Did you pack the travel snacks?" Mingyu asks, standing up and brushing himself off. His shirt lifts just slightly, revealing the line of his waist and the birthmark our daughter claims is shaped like a cloud.

"In your carry-on," I reply. "Next to your vitamins, your backup charger, and the lucky socks you forget every time."

He grins, stepping closer. "What would I do without you?"

"Miss a flight. Cry at the gate. Blame airport security."

"Harsh."

I lean up to kiss him anyway, just a soft brush of my lips over his. He tastes like coffee and confidence, and I linger longer than I should.

Our daughter makes a gagging noise. We both laugh.

The rest of the night moves in a familiar rhythm: dinner at the table, a bubble bath that turns into a splash war, her favorite bedtime story read in Mingyu's best dramatic voice while I braid her damp hair. And after she's asleep, her tiny limbs sprawled across the bed we swore she'd never co-sleep in, I curl up beside Mingyu on the balcony with two glasses of wine and a view of the sea.

"We're lucky," I say into the quiet.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he pulls me closer.

"I know," he murmurs finally. "I feel it every time I look at you. At her."

His fingers lace through mine.

"We'll be okay," I whisper, half to him and half to myself.

Because part of me knows. Vegas will test us. And not just on the track.

-Las Vegas, Monday, 1:04 PM Harry Reid International Airport:

The airport is a hive.

Paparazzi are like roaches. Persistent, twitchy, and always exactly where you don't want them to be.

We've done press lines, sponsorship dinners, and post race interviews before, but never like this. Never as a family.

As soon as the car doors open, the flashes start.

"There they are!" "First time with the baby. Look here, please!" "YN, is it true you've been scouting your own team?" "Mingyu, any thoughts on Julius joining the Vegas grid again?"

His hand is in mine before I even think of reaching for it.

Our daughter is in his other arm, hood up, headphones on, face tucked against his shoulder. Even at two years old, she can sense that this is not a moment for noise.

We don't answer and we don't look. We walk.

Straight line. No hesitation. Security flanks us like shadows. I don't even blink when a camera flash goes off two inches from my face.

Mingyu's grip tightens just slightly.

He's steady. Always is. And somehow, so am I.

Because this? This was never the part that scared me.

We get into the black SUV, doors slamming behind us like punctuation, and everything goes quiet again.

Mingyu exhales. Leans his head back against the seat.

"You okay?" I ask, my voice soft as I reach over and adjust our daughter's hat, which has slipped a little sideways.

"Yeah," he says, but his eyes stay on the rearview mirror a second too long.

At the time, I don't think much of it.

But later, I'll realize that was the first crack.

Not big enough to break anything.

But enough to let the light in.

-Las Vegas, Tuesday, 6:12 AMThe Cosmopolitan:

Mingyu is already gone by the time I wake up.

His side of the bed is still warm, faintly rumpled, the duvet half folded like he left in a hurry but still thought about tucking me back in.

He's been like this since we landed.

Hyper focused and routine driven. A man possessed by strategy and simulation.

I blink away sleep and slide out of bed, careful not to wake our daughter, who's spread out like a starfish on the other side of the mattress, one foot wedged firmly against my hip. Her curls are a riot against the pillow. Her stuffed elephant is trapped under her belly like it put up a fight and lost.

I smile, kissing her forehead before slipping into the living room.

There's already a cup of coffee waiting on the counter.

Of course there is. He's predictable like that. Reliable. Loving in the most infuriatingly quiet ways.

My phone buzzes.

Mingyu 💍: 6K run. At the sim by 7. Don't forget breakfast's in the fridge. Love you.

I tap out a quick reply, toss my hair into a bun, and start prepping for the day. There's no such thing as a slow morning with a toddler, not even in a luxury suite with blackout curtains and silk sheets.

She wakes up twenty minutes later demanding cereal, juice, and Peppa Pig in that order. I make her a plate shaped like a bear's face and pour myself a second cup of coffee I won't get to finish.

By 8:00 AM, we're in matching sunglasses. She's wearing her custom "Team Gyu" hoodie, and I've got her strapped to my hip while scrolling through our itinerary for the week: media days, practice laps, and sponsor dinners. Mingyu has four full-day sessions between now and race day. The team even built a mobile setup in one of the garages for last minute telemetry reviews.

It's a circus. But it's our circus.

When he returns just after 8:30, drenched in sweat and high on endorphins, he barely gets two steps through the door before she barrels into his legs yelling, "Appa!"

He picks her up effortlessly, still panting, still dripping, smiling like the sun cracked open just for her.

"Did you eat?" I ask, handing him a protein shake and a towel.

"Yes, Mom," he teases, kissing me on the cheek. "Don't forget we've got dinner with the Red Bull guys tonight. Casual, not press."

"I remember. Already called Kate"

He nods, distracted already, gaze flicking back to his phone where a new batch of lap time data just came in.

And just like that, he’s gone again.

Still here, in body. But somewhere else entirely in his mind.

I watch him head to the other room where his laptop is set up, where he's got two monitors, a notebook, and enough graphs to make a statistician weep. My chest tightens just slightly.

He lives for this part. The prep. The planning. The pressure.

But sometimes I miss him before he's even gone.

I try not to take it personally.

Later that afternoon, while he's at the factory running through strategy meetings, I take our daughter to the Bellagio fountains. She claps every time the water jumps. We eat overpriced gelato and wave at tourists. She insists we bring a bouquet of pink flowers back to the suite, "For Appa!" and I snap a photo of her holding them, cheeks sticky with sugar.

When I text it to Mingyu, he replies two seconds later:

Mingyu 💍: my whole heart. Mingyu 💍: show her the gearbox diagram on my desk pls. she’ll love it.

He's not wrong. She's already memorized every part of a steering wheel like it's a bedtime story.

After bath time and books, she knocks out cold against my arm, and I carry her into the second bedroom. I barely make it back to the main room before the door opens.

He steps in, eyes tired but alert, still somehow running on adrenaline and caffeine. His shirt is wrinkled. His knuckles are stained with grease. He drops his backpack and heads straight for the couch where I'm curled up with the blanket.

"You should sleep," I murmur, stroking his hair as he lays his head in my lap.

"I will." His voice is low. "Just... give me a minute."

I don't say anything.

Just trace the curve of his jaw and kiss the crown of his head.

Vegas hasn't even started yet.

But something's coming.

I can feel it in the quiet between us.

And the crackle of static just beneath the surface.

-Las Vegas, Tuesday, 8:12 PMRed Bull Private Dinner | SkyBar Lounge:

The view from the rooftop is insane. Full glam Las Vegas, neon glittering like it was poured from the sky, with Bellagio's fountains putting on a show just to our left. The breeze is warm, but not suffocating, and the bar staff keep the drinks cold and the small bites coming like clockwork.

Mingyu looks gorgeous tonight. All long lines and subtle swagger in his navy button-down, sleeves pushed to the elbows, collar just slightly open. His hair is styled, but not too styled, effortless in a way only someone trying can achieve. And the way his hand hasn't left the small of my back since we walked in? Obscene.

We make the rounds slowly. Sponsors, engineers, PR reps. I make easy conversation. Smile when I'm supposed to. Laugh when I mean it. The kind of plus one I know how to be.

Mingyu's animated when he's with his team, almost boyish in how he talks shop, hands flying, eyes bright, making lap time data sound like music theory. It's when he's happiest. I feel it in the way his thumb taps against my spine.

And then he walks in. Julius.

Late, as always. Always with an entrance.

He's in a sand colored suit with no tie, dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down like the dress code is just a suggestion and his ego is doing the rest. A Red Bull exec claps him on the shoulder like an old friend, and soon, he's roped into our conversation, pulling up a chair right across from Mingyu.

I stiffen slightly, but Mingyu shifts his weight and offers a tight, professional nod.

"Glad you could join us," Mingyu says lightly.

Julius flashes a smile, toothy and calculated. "Wouldn't miss it. You know I like to check in on the legacy drivers."

I glance up from my drink.

"Legacy?" someone else at the table chuckles. "What, like he's on his way out?"

"It's a joke," Julius says, holding up his hands. "God, relax. You know I'm a fan."

Mingyu's jaw ticks once. But he plays it cool, reaching for his wine instead of biting back. The conversation drifts. Kind of. Julius manages to bring it back to Mingyu every third sentence. Compliments laced in static. Nostalgic praise that doubles as backhanded swipes. And then he says it.

We're talking about the season and how brutal the calendar's been, how taxing the travel is with a kid and someone jokingly asks how Mingyu even functions with a toddler and twenty races to prep for.

Julius leans back in his chair, tilts his glass, and says, "Damn man! You were building an empire. And now?" He pauses, lets the moment sit. "Now you're building a family. How cute." It lands with a thud.

The table laughs. Not a big one. Just polite, uncomfortable chuckles.

Mingyu lets out a soft one too. "Guess I'll have to settle for both." But I know that look. The twitch behind his eyes. The microsecond delay before the smile. The way his thumb stops tapping. He heard it. Felt it. And it dug in deeper than he wants to admit.

I slip my hand under the table and brush his knee. Just a light touch. Reassurance. He doesn't look at me. He just lifts his glass.

"To both," he says. The table clinks back.

But me? I'm watching the way he swallows. Too slow. Too hard.

Like it stings going down.

The drive back to the hotel is quiet.

Too quiet.

Las Vegas blurs outside the window, flashy marquees, pink tinted palm trees, a never ending stream of people moving like they're chasing something, but inside the car, it's just silence. Mingyu's looking at his phone, not really scrolling, just tapping it against his thigh like it's helping him think. I watch him out of the corner of my eye.

The light from the streetlamps flickers across his face. He looks relaxed if you don't know him. But I do. And I can see the line in his jaw, the subtle twitch of his brow, the way his shoulders haven't dropped since the moment Julius opened his mouth.

I reach out, fingers brushing his.

"You okay?"

His hand shifts but doesn't close around mine. "Just tired."

I nod, even though I don't believe him.

We make it up to the suite in silence. The lights are dim, the air cool from the AC we forgot to adjust before we left. Our daughter's not there, still at the suite downstairs with the sitter.

It should've been a weight off both our shoulders.

And it was, for a while. But now?

Mingyu slips off his watch and sets it down with more force than necessary. I start taking off my earrings, watching him from the mirror as he goes straight for his side of the bed, already loosening the buttons of his shirt.

"You sure you're okay?" I ask again, softer this time. "He's just trying to get under your skin, Gyu. That comment wasn't—"

"I said I'm fine."

It's not loud. But it's final. The kind of tone that sounds more like a wall than an answer. I freeze. Not all the way. Just long enough for the sting to set in.

He's quiet again. Sitting on the edge of the bed now, back turned, shoulders hunched like the tension has nowhere else to go.

"I just..." I start, trying again, "I saw your face at dinner. You don't have to pretend with me."

He exhales, more like a sigh than a breath.

"I'm not pretending. I don't want to talk about it."

That's the wall. Right there. Clean. Sharp. Unmistakable. I swallow it down.

"Okay," I say, barely above a whisper.

I cross the room and check the monitor on my phone to give my hands something to do. Our daughter is fast asleep, sockless, curled around her bunny plush in the borrowed crib. Kate sent a photo an hour ago, thumbs up, all smiles, no problems.

At least someone's night is going smoothly.

When I come back, Mingyu's already under the covers, one arm slung over his eyes like he's trying to sleep through gravity. I slide into bed beside him, careful not to brush too close. And for the first time in a long time, we fall asleep back to back.

Or at least, one of us does.

Because I stare at the ceiling long after his breathing evens out, wondering how something as small as a sentence could feel so much like a crack. And how quickly that crack is starting to spread.

-Las Vegas, Wednesday, 5:46 AMThe Cosmopolitan:

The suite is quiet when I wake up. Too quiet.

The quiet that means someone's already up, already working, already buried in their own thoughts before the day even starts.

I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The bed's half empty,. Again. The duvet cold on his side, and our daughter's not here either. For a second, my heart jumps, but then I hear the soft hum of cartoons playing from the next room. She must've woken early. Mingyu probably scooped her up so I could rest.

I pad into the living room, still in my sleep shirt. Sure enough, the TV is on low, a sticky bowl of cereal abandoned on the coffee table. The sitter must've already picked her up for their morning walk.

Mingyu's on the couch. Laptop open. Foot tapping.

He's watching footage from Singapore last year, lap 38 from the looks of it, pausing and replaying the same corner exit over and over. His brows are furrowed, jaw tight, a pen tucked behind his ear. There's a legal pad on the cushion next to him covered in chicken scratch notes and sector splits.

I cross the room and curl into his side, nudging the laptop just enough to lean in for a kiss. His lips brush mine, but barely. A polite formality. Not real. Not him.

I pull back, eyebrows lifting slightly.

"Morning," I say softly.

"Mm." He doesn't look away from the screen.

I try again, my hand glides up to his shoulder, fingers gently massaging the knot I know is there. It's instinct by now. Reassurance without needing words. But he stiffens under my touch.

"Gyu—"

"I'm busy," he says, shrugging me off. "Can we not do this right now?"

The words hit like a slap, sharp in their detachment. My hand drops. I sit there for a beat, then lean back slightly, arms crossed. He sighs through his nose, still staring at the screen. I let the silence stretch just long enough before I speak again.

"So we're just not gonna talk about what Julius said last night?"

His fingers pause over the keyboard, but he doesn't turn to me.

"There's nothing to talk about."

I raise an eyebrow. "Really? Because it looked like he got to you."

His jaw ticks. "He didn't."

I let out a quiet laugh that isn't funny. "You're seriously going to sit there and act like he didn't imply your career is over because we have a kid?"

He pauses the video. Hard. His fingers flex once over the trackpad before he sets the laptop aside.

"Julius is a dick," he says. "He's always been a dick. I'm not giving him real estate in my head."

I scoff. "You already did."

"I'm not doing this," he says, standing now.

"Doing what?" I follow him into the kitchen, keeping my voice low. "Acknowledging that someone questioned your place in the sport and it got to you? Because it did. I saw your face when he said it."

"You think I haven't heard worse?" he snaps, spinning around. "You think I haven't had people doubt me since I was seventeen?"

"Not like that." My voice is tighter now, rising despite myself. "Not after everything you've built. Not when you're at the top of your game, and some washed up half ass wants to cut you down because he's bitter and threatened and jealous—"

"He wasn't cutting me down," Mingyu cuts in, voice low and bitter. "He was stating the obvious."

That stuns me.

"What?"

He rubs his face. "Do you know how many times I've missed training sessions because of teething? Or changed tire review meetings because nap time ran late? You don't think people notice that? You don't think the team notices when I bring a toddler to the paddock?"

"She's not a distraction," I snap, heart pounding now. "She's our daughter."

"I know!" he says, and suddenly it's too loud. "God, I know! Don't you think I know that? But the world doesn't care that we're trying to have both. They think I've lost my edge."

"Then prove them wrong!" I hiss. "You always do. You fight for everything else. Why is this any different?"

"Because this isn't just about me anymore!" he shouts.

And then, silence. My throat tightens.

"Keep your voice down," I say sharply.

His eyes flash. "She's not even here—"

"She was." I fold my arms tighter. "And even if she wasn't, maybe don't raise your voice at me like I'm the problem."

He closes his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, muttering something under his breath.

I shake my head. "You're pushing me away."

"I'm trying to focus."

"No," I say, chest burning. "You're trying to disappear. You're shutting me out and pretending you're fine because admitting this hurts would mean Julius got to you. But he did. And instead of talking about it, you'd rather push me away. Great strategy."

"You want me to whine about it? Sulk like a kid?"

"I want you to talk to me, Mingyu! I'm not your team, I'm your wife!"

He doesn't answer.

Just walks back to his laptop. Opens it.

Just like that? Conversation over.

I stare at the back of his head for a long second, heart pounding so loud I'm sure it's echoing off the walls. Then I walk back towards the bedroom.

I stop in the doorway like I've slammed into glass. My voice breaks before I even realize I'm speaking.

"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I didn't realize being loved by me was such a fucking inconvenience."

Mingyu looks up, startled. "What?"

I turn. Slow. Shaking. "You heard me."

"That's not fair," he says quickly, standing now. "That's not what I said—"

"No," I cut him off, eyes burning. "You didn't say it. You just made it very fucking clear."

He runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight. "Jesus, YN. Can you not do this right now?"

"Do what? Hold you accountable for acting like a stranger in our bed?"

"I've been under pressure—"

"So have I!" I yell. "But I don't take it out on the person I supposedly love!"

I storm to the bed, grabbing my hoodie off the floor. My hands fumble with the sleeves, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

"I never wanted to make you feel like you had to choose between your family and your job," I say. "But that's exactly what it feels like. Like every time you look at me, you see a fork in the road. And you're fucking tired of choosing us."

"YN—"

"No!" I scream, spinning on him. "Don't fucking interrupt me."

He steps back, hands out like he's trying to calm a wild animal.

"Let's just take a second—"

"I'm not done!" I shout.

The words rip from my throat and I don't recognize the sound of my own voice.

"You don't talk to me. You don't touch me unless you have to. You act like being here, being with me, is this heavy fucking burden that's screwing up your entire career."

"That's not true."

"The hell it's not!"

Mingyu moves toward me again, slower this time. His face is pale. His eyes dart to my hands, like he's terrified I'll throw something.

"You think I can't see it?" I demand, voice shaking. "I know you, Gyu. I know when you're drifting. You've been gone since the moment we landed."

"Because I've been trying to focus!"

"Focus?" I laugh bitterly. "On what? Your stats? Your image? Julius and whatever pissing match you two are in now?"

He swears under his breath. "This isn't about Julius—"

"Yes, it is. Because ever since he made that little comment, you've been unraveling. And instead of talking to me about it, you shut down. You pushed me away."

He tries again. "I didn't mean to—"

"But you did." My voice drops to a whisper. "You did. And now I'm standing here wondering if I ruined your life."

"Don't say that," he breathes. "YN, baby, don't say that—"

"You wanted this!" I explode. "You wanted me. You asked me to marry you. You said let's have a baby. You fucking promised me we'd build a life together, and now you're acting like it's a shackle around your ankle."

Mingyu's face collapses. His mouth opens like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

"I've been holding us together with both hands while you let go," I whisper, blinking back tears. "And I'm tired."

He takes one more step forward. "Let me fix this."

"You can't," I say. "Not right now."

I grab my jacket off the chair and zip it up with shaking fingers.

"Please," he says, voice hoarse. "Don't go."

I pause at the door.

"I can't stay here and feel like the enemy in my own marriage." And then I leave.

The door doesn't slam. It clicks shut. Which, somehow, is worse.

The moment the car door slams shut, it's like the last thread snaps.

I let out a broken sob, loud and cracked and ugly, and collapse forward against the steering wheel. The leather is cold against my forehead. My hands are shaking so bad I can't even find the keys in my purse. I can't breathe. My chest is too tight. My lungs won't expand. Everything hurts.

Everything.

My body. My heart. My pride.

I'm not even crying. I'm sobbing. Sputtering. Gasping. A full-body breakdown that feels like years of trying to hold it together is finally catching up to me in one goddamn parking garage. I can't do this.

I can't do this anymore.

My phone's somewhere in the chaos of my bag, and when I find it, I don't even think. I just hit call.

She picks up on the second ring.

"Hello?"

I can't talk. My throat's closing up.

"...Mom," I croak. And then I lose it all over again.

"Baby?" Her voice sharpens. "What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"I... I... no... I just..." I can't even string words together.

I'm choking on sobs. On breath. On everything I haven't said for months. "I'm so tired," I manage, voice wrecked. "I'm so tired, Mom."

"Oh, sweetheart..."

"It's like I don't even know who I am anymore. I try so hard to be calm, to be okay, to support him, to keep everything running so he can just focus, and it still feels like I'm in the way. Like I'm standing in the middle of his life with a giant neon sign that says 'this is why you're losing.'"

"YN—"

"I'm not saying he said it! But he doesn't have to. I see it in the way he looks right through me. The way he shuts down when I talk. I feel it when he leaves the room before I wake up and doesn't even text to say good morning. And God, I try to make it easy. I try not to complain or crumble or need too much, and it's like that's not enough either." I curl my hands into fists in my lap, nails digging into skin.

"I yelled at him," I whisper, voice hollow. "I yelled so much, Momma. I was screaming and crying, and I said awful things. I said I was sorry for being a distraction. I said... I said I never wanted him to feel like he had to choose between his family and his job." My voice breaks.

"And I think... I think he already did."

Silence. Then, quietly: "What do you mean?"

"I think he loves racing more than he loves us."

"Absolutely not."

"Mom—"

"No. I love you, but I'm not letting you say that. Not even in a moment like this."

I suck in a breath.

"I've known Mingyu since you brought him home," she says. "Since he stood in our kitchen and asked if you liked extra ice in your coffee because he remembered you said it once. Since he woke up at 4 a.m. to pick up your favorite bread from the Korean bakery down the street. Since he spent six hours helping your brother build a dresser so that he'd trust him with you."

I'm shaking again, but this time it's quieter. Quaking.

"That man has been in love with you since day one," she says. "And he has never, not once, treated racing like it came before his family. He's built a world where both can exist. But he's human. And humans fuck up. They shut down. They get scared. That doesn't mean they love you any less."

"I just..." I bury my face in my sleeve. "It hurts. It hurts so much."

"Of course it does. You're not made of stone."

"I feel like I'm failing."

"You're not failing. You're just overwhelmed. And exhausted. And hurting because you care." Her voice softens. "You don't cry like this for someone you've stopped loving."

I close my eyes. A tear slides into my mouth.

"You're allowed to feel everything you're feeling. You're allowed to say this isn't working right now. That doesn't mean you're broken. That doesn't mean you walk away the first time things crack."

"I yelled at him," I whisper. "I screamed. I said awful things, and I... I think I scared him."

Her voice is quiet now. Gentle. "And he'll think about every word. Because he loves you. Because he listens to you more than you think."

I press my hand to my mouth.

"But you need to talk," she continues. "Really talk. Not tiptoe. Not pretend. Not shut down because you don't want to be the reason he falters. That's not your job, baby. You're not supposed to shrink so he can shine."

"I don't want to lose him," I say, voice cracking. "I don't want her to lose him."

"You won't," she says, sure as the sunrise. "He might need a second to remember how to show up. But he'll find his way back. Because he doesn't know how to be without you."

I close my eyes. Let her words settle around me like a blanket.

"Do you think we're going to be okay?" I whisper.

Another pause. A long one.

"I think you've always been okay, even when you didn't feel like it. And I think if there's anyone who can come back from this... it's you two."

And somehow, through all the heartbreak and noise and shaking and snot and mascara, I start to believe her. Just a little.

"And YN?"

"Yeah?"

"When you're ready," she says gently, "go home."

"Home?"

"To the man who's probably pacing the hotel room like a lunatic and hasn't blinked since you slammed the door."

A quiet laugh punches through my tears.

"I love you," I whisper.

"I love you more," she replies. "Always."

-Las Vegas, Wednesday, 09:12 AM The Strip. Some café with overpriced iced lattes and a view of nothing but neon signs and noise.

I stare at my half empty coffee cup, fingers tapping the condensation as if it's supposed to distract me from the ache lodged somewhere between my throat and my chest. I haven't gone back. I couldn't. Not yet.

The sitter replied an hour ago with a thumbs up and a "She's doing great! Took a long bath and is playing with her blocks now 💕" but didn't ask any questions. I appreciated that more than I could say.

I'd told her the truth. That I was safe. That I just needed a few hours. That if anything urgent happened, I'd be here. Sent her my location, told her not to tell Mingyu.

She didn’t push. Just sent a heart emoji and said, "You’ve got this."

But it's Megan who keeps me from slipping too far.

One text is all it takes.

me: hey... you around today?

She replies in under a minute.

megs 🐢: always. want company? me: please. megs 🐢: give me ten. heels or sneakers? me: sneakers. and maybe tissues. megs 🐢: got it. black shades and a ride or die attitude coming your way 🖤

She picks me up like it’s any other girl’s day. No questions. Just a tight hug outside the café, keys jingling, sunglasses on, hair in a messy ponytail, her energy calm but firm like she already knows how to steady the air around me.

I don’t tell her everything. Not at first. But I don’t need to. Megan’s been around the paddock long enough to know how pressure warps even the strongest people. How love can bruise when you’re both trying to chase different kinds of finish lines.

We walk. Window shop. Pretend we’re tourists.

She drags me into a boutique with overpriced candles and swears one of them smells like “emotional healing and also maybe fresh baked cookies.” I nearly laugh. Almost.

"You know," she says, holding up a glittery nail polish and squinting at it, "I once told Louis I was going to key his car if he made one more comment about 'focus and distractions' in the same sentence as my name."

I glance at her. "Did you?"

"No. I threw a protein bar at him instead." She shrugs. "Marriage. Compromise."

This time I do laugh, just a little.

We end up getting facials at a spa tucked between a tattoo shop and a place that exclusively sells fur cowboy boots. Somehow, that feels right. Like I’m allowed to exist in this in-between space. Healing and messy and unsure.

Megan doesn’t pry. She doesn’t ask if I’m going back. If we’re okay. If I regret everything I said.

Instead, she says, "You know, it’s okay if you’re not ready to talk to him yet."

I nod.

"But don’t stay silent too long. Not because you owe him anything but because you’ll start to spiral."

"I already am," I admit softly, eyes still closed under the cooling mask.

She reaches out blindly and squeezes my hand.

"You’re not alone, YN. You’ve got people. Him included, even if he forgot how to show it."

I hold onto that.

By noon, we’ve migrated to brunch.

One of those rooftop spots with endless mimosas, uncomfortable chairs, and the kind of music that makes you feel cooler just for existing near it.

Megan insisted we go. Said I needed real food and Vitamin D, not just caffeine and existential dread. I didn’t argue.

What I didn’t expect was for it to turn into a full blown girls' meetup.

Emily, whose boyfriend races for Mercedes, shows up first. Oversized sunglasses and a wide brim hat framing her perfectly bronzed face like she walked off a yacht. Then there’s Sofia, engaged to a Red Bull engineer, who slides into the seat beside me with a kiss to my cheek and a loud, "Babe, you look hot. Like emotionally wrecked hot, but still."

They order immediately. Something fruity, something fizzy. Extra sides of drama.

"You know we were planning a girls' trip after the summer break anyway," Sofia says, scrolling through her notes app like it’s gospel. "We just hadn’t picked a destination."

Megan takes a long sip from her iced tea. "I vote Mykonos."

Emily makes a face. "Too cliché. I want something that says 'healing and hot girl summer,' not 'Instagram filtered tequila hangover.'"

"What about the Amalfi Coast?" I murmur without thinking, gaze locked on the tiny bubbles rising in my mimosa.

They all pause.

"Ooooh," Megan says, snapping her fingers. "She speaks."

"Amalfi it is," Sofia confirms, clinking her glass with mine. "And you’re coming."

"I don’t even know what next week looks like," I say honestly, brushing my thumb over the condensation again.

Emily shrugs. "Then that’s exactly why you need this."

Megan leans toward me, resting her chin in her hand. "Look. You’ve spent so much of your time being everything for everyone. This—right here, this brunch, this moment? It’s just for you. You don’t have to be a mom, or a wife, or some perfectly composed PR friendly version of yourself. You can just be YN."

My eyes stinging slightly, but this time for a different reason.

It feels good. Being around people who know the chaos, who live in it too, and still carve out joy like it’s sacred. It feels like breathing air I didn’t know I needed.

"I think I’d like that," I admit quietly. "The trip, I mean."

Sofia raises her glass again. "To Amalfi. And to being hot, healing, and maybe just a little unhinged." We clink again.

The bubbles hit my throat like relief. Not sharp, not sweet. Just... real. And for a few blissful minutes, I forget I’m spiraling.

Emily’s telling a story about a flight delay in Monaco where her boyfriend had to share a room with his race engineer. Megan’s trying to convince us that the tattoo shop next to the spa was a sign from the universe. Sofia’s texting someone about renting a villa and muttering, "If this guy screws me again, I swear I’m emailing his mother."

And me?

I’m sipping a peach mimosa and pretending like I’m not haunted. But curiosity is a hell of a thing. I pick up my phone. The screen lights up and my stomach drops.

23 missed calls. 19 texts. All from Mingyu.

For a second, I actually think my phone’s glitched. Like maybe it’s broken, or buffering the heartbreak in waves. But no.

The list keeps going.

Mingyu 💍 : yn please baby, where are you i’m losing it you’re not answering please please tell me you’re okay i need to see you i can’t focus. i can’t think i love you. i love you. i love you. come back i’ll do anything god i miss you please don’t shut me out not like this just text me. please. anything i deserve it. say it. yell. anything i need to know you’re alright please

Another text hits the screen right in front of me.

Mingyu 💍 : i’m calling you. please pick up.

My throat tightens. I quickly type out a message.

me: i’m alive. need space.

I hit send and blink through the blur, heart pounding as my thumb trembles against the glass. The screen lights up again, his name at the top.

Incoming call: Mingyu 💍

I don’t even get a chance to breathe before Sofia snatches the phone from my hands.

"Aht, aht," she tuts, shutting the screen off like she’s swatting a fly. "No boy drama during brunch."

"Soph—"

"No. He had his turn. This is your day." She tucks my phone into her oversized purse and lifts her sunglasses to raise a perfectly plucked brow. "Unless he’s giving birth, winning the championship, or bleeding from the ears? It can wait."

Emily reaches over and plucks my fork. "You need to eat. Emotional avoidance isn’t a meal, sweetie."

Megan leans into my side. "You okay?"

I exhale slowly. "I sent him a message. Just said I’m alive. That I need space."

"That’s all he needs to know," she says, like it’s the most straightforward truth in the world.

"But what if he—"

"Needs you?" Emily cuts in. "Let him. Needing you and respecting your space are not mutually exclusive."

Sofia waves a hand. "He can go scream into a helmet. You, my love, are going to order a stack of pancakes and decide what color bikini you’re bringing to Italy."

That actually makes me laugh. It bubbles out low and tired, but genuine.

"You guys are dangerous."

"Obviously," Sofia says, already flagging down the server. "That’s why you love us."

We spend the next hour sharing French toast and trading stories like battle scars. Every meltdown. Every champagne-fueled fight. Every PR disaster we’ve survived. We joke about forming a paddock wives union. We rate the best post-race parties. We make a list of Amalfi must haves that includes "no phones," "no men," and "at least one scandal."

And in the middle of it, between Sofia’s impersonation of her fiancé’s freakout over a missing torque wrench and Megan daring me to wear a backless dress, I feel something shift. Not fixed. Not whole. But definitely lighter.

-Las Vegas, Wednesday, 5:02 PM The Venetian. Room 2209, Girls Only

"I swear to God, Sofia, if this suite has a grand piano, I'm walking back to the lobby."

"Too late, babe," she grins, flinging the door open. "Welcome to post meltdown paradise."

I gape at the marble floors, floor to ceiling windows, and the literal chandelier hanging over the bed. There's a velvet settee. A stocked mini bar. A bathtub that could fit all four of us if we got bored enough.

"This is not normal," I mutter, stepping inside like I'm trespassing.

Emily tosses her bag onto the bed. "Neither is being a paddock wife. Embrace the chaos."

"You're staying the night," Megan adds, already toeing off her sneakers and heading toward the bathroom in search of robes. "You're not allowed to be polite or functional. We are officially off duty."

I hesitate in the doorway, phone still clutched in my hand. The room hums with warmth and friendship, but my nerves still hang like fog around my ribs.

"I just need to text the sitter real quick," I say.

I sit on the edge of the bed and type:

me: hey! I'm staying with friends tonight. location pinned just in case. I'll pay extra. thank you again for everything. kate: Please, no need!! She's doing so well. We made banana pancakes together and she pretended the blocks were little cars. Honestly? This is the best night I've had in a while 🥺💛

Another text follows a beat later.

kate: Also... I don't want to pry, but I hope you and Mingyu are okay. He came home earlier, and he looked like a ghost. He didn't say anything, just sat in her room and held her hand until she fell asleep.

That one hits harder than I expect.

I stare at the screen, throat tight, then type:

me: we're okay. just need a little space. thank you for being there. for her, and me.

I shut off my phone before I can spiral.

"Alright," I say, forcing a smile. "Let's do this."

"Hell yeah," Megan grins, already dragging the hotel coffee table to the center of the room. "You're in pajama territory now, babe."

Sofia throws a sleep set my way. Silky and black, with lace trim and way too much confidence. "Put that on. We're getting face masks on, toes out, and trauma gone."

"Are we doing facials or getting wine drunk first?" she asks, holding up a sheet mask in one hand and a bottle of rosé in the other.

"Both," Emily says. "Obviously."

We start with pedicures and peel off masks. Then manicures. Then Sofia announces it's time to "exfoliate the emotional wounds," which apparently means going around the circle and confessing the stupidest thing our partners have said during a fight.

"I once told Louis he needed to work on communication," Megan says, filing her nails. "And he said, 'I am communicating. You just don't like the message.'"

We all groan in unison.

"Mine said I use too many metaphors," Emily adds. "I said, 'That's rich coming from a man who calls his car she.'"

Sofia's laughing so hard she nearly spills the wine. "Mine said I don't fight fair because I use logic. Like what?"

I smile, finally, curling my knees up to my chest on the bed. "That feels familiar."

They all look at me.

I shrug. "I think he loves racing more than us. Some days, it just feels that way."

Sofia's smile softens. Megan quietly sets down her glass.

Emily's voice is gentle. "That's a heavy thing to carry, YN."

I nod. "I know it's not true. Not really. But it's hard not to feel like I'm always the distraction. The thing he has to work around."

Megan moves to sit beside me, pressing our shoulders together.

"You're not a distraction," she says. "You're the reason he breathes."

My throat tightens again.

"You're allowed to feel what you feel," Sofia says, grabbing the wine and refilling our glasses. "But just know. We see you. We see how hard you try. And no one here thinks you're too much."

There's a beat of quiet. That warm, golden kind of silence. The kind you don't want to ruin.

Then Emily says, "Alright. That's enough feelings. I'm queuing up 10 Things I Hate About You. Someone pass the popcorn."

An hour later, we've eaten our body weight in room service snacks and finished two bottles of wine. Our masks are off, our toes are painted, and Sofia is sobbing into a throw pillow because Heath Ledger is singing on the bleachers.

"I just want someone to serenade me while being chased by security," she mumbles.

"I want someone who makes me pancakes," Megan says, sprawled on the floor. "Like. Just pancakes. No war. No passive aggression. Just carbs and love."

"I want to not check my phone every five minutes and brace for impact," I say before I can stop myself.

The girls glance at me. Then, quietly, they nod.

"That too," Emily says softly.

We watch another movie. I lose track of the title. Something romantic. Something loud and funny.

And by the time Sofia starts hiccuping and Megan's halfway into the mini fridge looking for more chocolate, I'm under the covers with mascara smudged cheeks and a heart that doesn't feel as heavy.

Sofia climbs into the bed beside me and throws her arm over my waist.

"You're allowed to fall apart sometimes," she says sleepily. "As long as you remember who you are when you put yourself back together."

I hum. "And who am I?"

She snuggles closer. "Hot. Unbothered. Legendary."

I laugh, just a little. Then breathe.

And when I fall asleep, somewhere between Megan's snoring and Emily's whispering about Amalfi villa options, I feel something I haven't felt in days.

Safe. Warm. Wanted.

-Las Vegas, Thursday, 12:17 PM The Venetian. Girls' Suite, 17th floor

I wake up to the sound of someone groaning.

It takes me a second to register that it's me.

My head feels like it's been clamped between two speaker amps, and my mouth is as dry as hotel air conditioning. I blink against the light pouring through the window and immediately regret it. The sun is personally offended that I exist.

Sofia murmurs somewhere across the room, "Why is the ceiling moving?"

Emily lets out a strangled sound from the couch. "It's not. That's just your liver trying to escape."

I roll over, groaning into a throw pillow. My voice is gravel. "What time is it?"

"Too early," Megan mutters from the floor.

I reach for my phone blindly. Squint at the screen.

"Guys..." My throat is scratchy, but I manage it. "It's 12:17."

Sofia bolts upright like she's been electrocuted. "Past noon? Oh my God, practice is at four!"

Emily yelps, stumbling upright, hair matted to one side of her face. "Do I have time to shower or just Febreze myself and pray?"

"Depends," Megan says, rubbing her temples. "Are you trying to impress your man or make him question all his life choices?"

I sit up, groaning as the room spins for a moment before stabilizing. I'm still in my robe, somehow. My mascara is a war crime, and a popcorn kernel is stuck to my arm.

But despite the headache, dry mouth, and Sofia dramatically crawling toward the minibar for "electrolyte wine," I feel okay. Better than okay.

Sofia tosses a bottle of water onto the bed with surprising accuracy. "Hydrate, hot mess. You've got a husband to avoid."

"I'm not avoiding," I say, even as I take a long sip and wince. "I'm... strategically stalling."

Emily snorts, brushing out her ponytail. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"We did that," Megan says, sitting cross legged on the floor with a weak smile. "Finally."

There's a moment of sleepy silence as we slowly return to life. The makeup wipes get passed around. Someone brushes their teeth in the sink with a hotel cup. Sofia puts eye patches under her sunglasses and claims it's a Formula One essential.

Eventually, we gather our things: empty bottles, abandoned robes, makeup bags.

It feels like the end of summer camp. Hungover, sentimental, and mildly sticky.

"I needed this," I say, pulling Sofia in for a long hug.

"I know," she whispers. "We all do. You're not the only one cracking under the pressure."

Emily squeezes my arm. "Text us if you combust again. We'll bring reinforcements."

Megan leans in. "You ready to head back?"

I glance at my phone. No new messages. No missed calls. Just the echo of yesterday's chaos.

"Almost," I say quietly. "But I'm not spiraling anymore. That's something."

"That's everything," Megan says, linking her arm through mine.

We all say our goodbyes at the elevator, sunglasses on, shoes in hand, promising to finalize Amalfi flights tonight.

And as we step out into the sun, blinding, brutal, and buzzing with Strip energy, I exhale.

Practice day. Time to get ready. Time to face him. -Las Vegas, Thursday, 4:15 PM Las Vegas Grand Prix

I spot him the second I step onto the grid.

The back of his suit is unmistakable, the way it clings to his frame, helmet hanging from his fingertips, shoulders pulled taut like he's been holding his breath for days.

Someone on his team, one of the engineers I think, catches sight of me first. His expression shifts instantly. Like he's seen a ghost, he nudges Mingyu. Says something I can't hear.

Mingyu turns and when his eyes land on me, the world stops.

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't think. Just bolts.

Helmet forgotten. Head low. Sprinting across the grid like the asphalt might swallow him if he doesn't get to me fast enough.

He crashes into me with a choked breath, arms wrapping around my shoulders so tightly it knocks the air from my lungs.

I freeze. My arms hang uselessly at my sides. I can feel the tremble in his body, the way he's shaking like he's just come back from war.

"I know you're mad," he whispers into my hair, voice already cracking. "But please, please just touch me. Please hold me."

I gulp hard, throat tight.

And then, slowly, almost uncertain, I lift my hands and wrap them around his waist. The second I do, he breaks.

Mingyu lets out this sound, this raw, aching sob, and buries his face in my neck like he's been drowning and finally found air. His entire frame folds in on itself, clutching me like I'm all that's keeping him upright.

"I'm sorry," he breathes, over and over. "I'm so sorry. God, I was so fucking scared. I thought—"

"I'm okay," I whisper, voice barely there. He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the sight nearly shatters me. His eyes are bloodshot. There are tear tracks on his cheeks. His lips are bitten red. He looks like a man undone.

"I never, never meant to make you feel like an obligation. I never wanted you to feel like you had to compete with this," he gestures vaguely around us, at the race cars, the cameras, the noise. "That was never supposed to happen."

"I know," I murmur.

"I was losing it, YN. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I couldn't breathe without thinking about you. And our daughter, I kept picturing her asking where you were. I was," he cuts himself off, gasping, "I was so scared I broke us."

I exhale shakily, stepping back just enough to cup his jaw.

"You didn't break us. But you hurt me," I say gently.

His face crumples again. "I know. I know. And I hate myself for it. I hate that I let work and pressure and stupid ego pull me so far away from the two people who matter most."

"I needed to feel like we mattered," I say, voice catching. "Like I wasn't just one more thing on your to-do list."

"You're not," he says instantly. "You're everything. Always."

I close my eyes, trying to hold back the sting in my chest.

And then he says it.

"I pulled out of the race."

My eyes snap open. "You what?"

He swallows hard. "I told the team before I saw you. I couldn't do it. I can't race today, not like this."

"Mingyu—"

"There will be other races," he cuts in gently. "There won't be another you. There won't be another version of our family. I almost crossed a line I couldn't come back from. And I would've hated myself forever if I let that happen."

I shake my head. "I wasn't asking you to choose—"

"I know you weren't," he says. "That's what makes this so hard. You never gave me ultimatums. You never threatened to walk. You've always been there. And I still...I still almost pushed you away."

His grip tightens. "You supported me every step of the way. Through every win, every loss, every stupid press scandal and mid season breakdown. And all you ever asked for was to be seen. And I didn't give you that."

Tears sting again. I'm tired of crying. But they come anyway.

"I don't want this job if it costs me you," he says. "If it costs me waking up next to you. If it means coming home to silence instead of giggles and bedtime stories and your stupid humming while brushing your teeth."

My mouth twitches. "I don't hum that loud."

"You do," he smiles softly. "And I miss it. I miss you."

I study him for a moment. Really look.

He's not just sorry. He's stripped bare. Every wall down. Every mask off.

This is my husband.

My partner.

My daughter's father.

And he's scared shitless that he might've lost everything.

"I just want us to figure it out," I say quietly. "Together. Like we always have."

He nods quickly. "I want that too. More than anything."

I brush the hair from his forehead. "Can we go home?"

His voice cracks. "Yes. God, yes."

He lets out a breath somewhere between a sob and a laugh, pulling me in again. "I missed you so much," he whispers. "You have no idea."

I wrap my arms tighter around him. "I think I do."

A few team members stand at a distance, quietly watching, but no one dares interrupt. They know. This isn't a scene. It's a reckoning.

Eventually, we pull apart, and I take his hand.

"We should go," I say, glancing toward the paddock.

He nods. "We have somewhere to be."

And just like that, we turn and walk, past the cameras, the headlines, the glittering track lights, toward something real.

Something ours.

We don't say much as we leave the circuit. The silence isn't heavy this time. It's healing, steady, and full of promises we haven't spoken out loud yet but already mean.

Mingyu opens the passenger door for me, presses a soft kiss to my temple as I slide in, and then circles to the driver's side.

"I called her this morning," he says once we're buckled in. "She told me to go away."

"She's two," I smile. "She tells me that all the time."

"She also threw her sock at me."

I laugh, a real one this time. "Oh yeah, you're in trouble."

He glances at me. "Think she'll forgive me?"

"I think you're going to have to work for it."

"Good. I want to. For both of you."

He reaches across the center console and takes my hand, holding it like he's afraid to let go.

"Let's go get her," I say.

He nods. "Let's go home."

And we drive toward forgiveness, toward the life we built, toward the little girl waiting with crayons and chaos and open arms.

Everything else can wait.

This?

This is everything.

Always.

{Epilogue: One Month Later - Off Season}:

The suitcase won't close.

I sit on it. I press down with both knees. I even try bargaining with it like it's a sentient being. "If you cooperate, I promise not to overpack next time."

The zipper laughs in my face.

"You want me to try?" comes a voice from behind.

I glance over my shoulder to see Mingyu standing in the doorway, holding a juice box in one hand and a stuffed shark in the other.

"Why do you look like a preschool snack cart?" I ask, smiling.

He shrugs. "She wanted the purple one and then cried because she meant the other purple one. And this guy," he holds up the shark like it's a sacred artifact, "needed a full body massage and a nap, apparently."

I try not to melt.

"I swear she runs this house," I say.

He takes a step closer, gaze softening as he looks at me, barefaced, hair up, sitting cross legged in leggings and a hoodie on top of a half zipped suitcase.

"She runs me," he grins. "You? You're just her cool bestie who occasionally enforces bedtime."

"Lucky me."

He kneels beside the bed and effortlessly zips the suitcase shut like it's made of butter.

I stare. "Okay, that's black magic."

"It's dad magic," he says proudly.

Then, quieter, "You really going to Amalfi, huh?"

I nod, eyes flicking to the flight confirmation on my phone. "We leave tomorrow night. The girls booked a villa with a sea view and Sofia made an itinerary color coded by 'vibes.'"

He lets out a low whistle. "Sounds like danger."

"Exactly," I smirk.

He studies me for a second. "You sure you're ready?"

I know what he means. He doesn't mean traveling or leaving our daughter for a week. He means taking a trip that's just for me, not tied to work or PR or some emotional reset after a fight.

And I am.

I nod. "Yeah. I need this. Not to escape. Just... to remember who I am when I'm not on duty."

"You're always on duty," he says gently. "That's the thing. You're a mom even when you're away. You're my heart even when you're mad at me."

I roll my eyes. "Was that your way of being poetic?"

"No, that was my way of saying I'm gonna miss you so bad it's embarrassing."

I laugh, and he smiles like it's his favorite sound in the world.

"You'll survive," I tell him.

He leans in and kisses my cheek. "Barely."

Then he stands, straightens his hoodie, and heads for the door. "C'mon, dinner's almost ready. And someone wants to give you her special pre trip 'don't forget about me' performance."

"Oh god. Is she dancing again?"

"Worse," he says. "She's singing."

I groan and get up, following him out into the living room.

Our daughter stands proudly on the coffee table in socks and a tutu, holding a wooden spoon like a mic. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" has never sounded more off key or passionate.

I clap like it's a Grammy performance.

Mingyu's filming with his phone, grinning from ear to ear. "She's got your confidence."

"She's got your lungs."

We make dinner together afterward, homemade dumplings, chopped fruit, and a little chocolate for dessert. We watch cartoons, give her a bubble bath, and read the bedtime story twice because she asks with that little lisp that turns me to goo.

And when she's finally asleep, curled up with her shark, I find Mingyu sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, waiting for me.

He pulls me onto his lap.

"You deserve this trip," he says into my hair. "You deserve everything."

"And you?" I ask, voice soft.

He presses a kiss to my temple. "I've already got everything."

back ⋮ f1 masterlist

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[cheollollipop]

terminal velocity. | k. mingyu (teaser)

genre: angst

wc: 610

Monday morning

It's that kind of cold that sinks in and settles. Not the quick, biting kind, but the one that lives in your ribs and makes the silence feel like a physical thing.

I open the door before he even knocks.

Mingyu's there, hood up, his breath fogging the air. He's holding her like he's scared she'll break. Little shoulders hunched under a too big coat, hair mussed, the stuffed bear tucked under her chin. She looks better. Still the way she always does when she thinks the world is safe, because Dad is holding it together.

My chest twists. "Hey, baby," I whisper and reach for her. She folds into me like everything still fits.

"She had breakfast," Mingyu says without looking at me. Flat. Careful. "No fever. Took her meds last night."

"Okay." My fingers smooth the collar of her coat. "Thank you."

He nods once, already stepping back toward the car.

"Mingyu—" I shift her weight and set her down gently. "Can we—"

"Not now," he says.

"You always say that." I force my voice steady. It breaks anyway.

He looks past me, like my shape is a smudge in the doorway. "Because now is not the time."

"When is it going to be the time?" The words come out thin but sharp. "Because I've been trying for weeks."

He turns, like leaving is the only answer he knows how to give.

Before he can reach the porch, I say, "Sweetheart, go put on cartoons, okay? Mommy will be there soon." Her little feet patter away. I can hear the TV click to life. The theme song is thin through the walls.

He moves to leave. I step in his path and my hand lands on the doorframe.

"Don't," I say. Simple. Final.

"YN—"

"No." I cut him off. My throat is raw. "You can't keep walking away from me."

"Move." He says it low, the kind of single syllable that used to be reserved for track calls and pit lane orders.

"No." My breath catches. "I know I broke you. I know I lied. I know I did the thing that's tearing us up. If I could pick up every tiny shard and put them back where they belong, I would. I would undo this in a heartbeat. But I can't." My hands shake on the doorframe. "All I can do is try."

His jaw tightens. For a second he's only a set of angles, the line of his nose, the cut of his cheek. Then he looks at me, properly, and I see the exhaustion under everything. The late nights, the rehearsed calm, the way his eyes have been hollowed out by a thousand small betrayals.

"You don't get to keep walking away and then expect me to be the same person waiting on the other side," he says finally, each word a careful step away from whatever softness he might have given me once. "You lied to my face for years, YN." His voice breaks on the last word. "You used our life as camouflage."

"My god, Mingyu—" I step forward, my hands are empty. "I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it because I was scared. Scared of failing. Scared of losing what Dad left. Scared of being nothing but 'your wife' in their mouths. I thought I could protect all of it and protect you and us and—"

"You thought for yourself," he cuts in, bitter and clean. "You acted for yourself. You didn't just withhold information YN, you decided for both of us. That's not protection. That's betrayal."

It's not the first time he's said that word, but tonight it lands heavier.

Tears sting behind my eyes. "Do you want a divorce?" I hear the question fall out of me like a stone.

[cheollollipop]

KIM MINGYU x F1 AU

all mingyu x f1 stories live here for easy navigation! *content warning(s): smut (mdni 18+), angst, fluff.*

♯┆Masterlist

Pole Position

Green Sector

Off the Grid

False Start

Terminal Velocity (coming soon 😉)

･ ⟢ ⋮ svt masterlist  ゛༝.

[cheollollipop]

Surprise!!!! Title for the next F1 x Mingyu 🙏🏼 Can’t wait to release it for yall ugh!!!

[cheollollipop]

For those DM’ing me and asking about a part two to False Start, i will officially start working on it today! It will definitely take some time so please please please bare with me! ty so much for all the support on this mingyu x f1 series. i’m glad you all enjoy it as much as i do!

[cheollollipop]

Part 1 of my new Mingyu x F1 cont. is in the editing stages yall 🫣

[cheollollipop]

So i’m definitely adding another story to the Mingyu x F1 AU. Not to spoil anything but it’s looking like it’s going to be two parts. So far all I have is an outline but oooooo yall it’s so juicy im excited.