Discover Top Posts Tagged with #sungchan angst

summer on the grid | jung sungchan

⟶ summary: you only had two goals for the summer: travel around europe and forget the last four years of your life but then you met sungchan; once on a plane, again in a club and then finally on the grid. you didn’t mean to fall for formula 1’s rising star…it kind of just happened.

❀ genre: summer love, fast burn, strangers to lovers ❀ word count: 23.3k ❀ staring: jurin (22)- xg, sungchan (23)- riize, anton (21)- riize, eunseok (24)- riize, brief mentions of actual f1 drivers such as: lando norris, charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, yuki tsunoda and max verstappen. ⟶ what to expect: fluff, online bullying, invasion of privacy, borderline stalking, mentions of panic attacks, grinding and groping, drinking, profanity, romance, inaccuracy in race dates, prehaps inaccurate use of f1 terms (i'm still learning), mentions of actual f1 drivers (lando norris, yuki tsunoda, george russel, charles leclerc, ollie barman). the smau version can be found here.

✎୭: f1 has been the only thing on my mind lately pls enjoy my self-indulgence. happy silverstone weekend!

Newark Airport, USA - Saturday, May 31st

“Did you know that the A350’s wingspan is longer than a blue whale?” you ask, chin propped in your palm, eyes on the tarmac.

Jurin doesn’t look up from her phone but the corners of her mouth twitch. “How long’s a blue whale again?”

“About a hundred feet give or take. The plane’s longer.” She hums like that’s the most fascinating thing she’s heard all day. It isn’t—she’s heard this exact fact from you three times now. Most people tune out your plane trivia after fact one but Jurin lets you say things five times if that’s what it takes to get them out right, she even pretends to be interested.

You’ve known her since middle school, since the time you both got detention for sneaking into the library to google how planes fly. She was wearing a NASA hoodie two sizes too big and split her lunch with you. You’ve been orbiting each other ever since.

She’s curled up beside you in the same kind of hoodie; McLaren this time, faded and oversized. Her red hair is twisted up into a clip and she’s wearing sunglasses indoors for no reason other than stubbornness while tapping away mindlessly on her phone. Gate E7 is filling slowly and you’re slouched in your seat, legs hooked over the edge of your carry-on, watching a plane taxi down the runway through the wide terminal glass.

You’ve always loved planes. From the way they move to the way they lift off the ground like they’re weightless. Airports have always been your favorite place to be. Transitional spaces where anything can happen, where you’re not quite here or there just…in between. It’s part of why you chose aerospace engineering as your major.

You’ve spent the last four years drowning in propulsion equations and glitchy simulations that never ran right the first time, pushing through all-nighters and surviving off vending machine granola bars just to get your degree. It was worth it…probably. You’re still not sure. All you know is that you need this break.

You and Jurin started planning this trip a whole year ago with your mutual friend Sohee but he had to drop out at the last minute after securing a post grad job at one of the top hospitals in the state. The year gave you time to budget, map things out and actually look forward to something.

You wanted to travel the world and Jurin wanted to chase Formula 1, a surprisingly easy compromise. The two of you worked out the details between late-night ramen nights and pinterest boards during finals week—her tabs open to track layouts and driver stats, yours cluttered with flight paths and packing lists.

Five weeks in Europe. No itinerary beyond three key stops: London, Barcelona and Monaco. You’re hitting a few other cities in between but those are the ones written in your calendar, locked in since spring. You check the screen above your gate.

Flight 9423 | Newark → Heathrow | Gate E7 | On Time

It’s the first flight of the summer, the first of many. The intercom buzzes. “Passengers seated in 4A and 45G, please come to the gate desk for a quick seating update. That’s four-A and four-five-G. Thank you.”

Jurin pulls out one AirPod and looks at you. “45G, That’s me right?” You nod. She drags herself up, tugs her hoodie over her head a little and walks toward the counter. You watch her go then turn back to the tarmac. Another plane is taking off sleek and slow then suddenly airborne, climbing into the clouds like it’s nothing. Jurin comes back five minutes later, waving a new boarding pass in your face. “They upgraded me to premium economy.”

You blink. “What? Why you?”

“Jealousy isn’t a good look, sweetie,” she teases, wiggling the pass in your face.

You roll your eyes and slap her hand away. “Did the other person get bumped too?”

“Nope. They didn’t show. Their loss.”

You groan and flop back in your seat. “So I’m stuck back there alone?”

She smirks. “You’ll be fine. Talk to your new seat neighbor. Maybe they like plane facts.”

As if on cue, the intercom pings again. “Passenger in seat 4A, please approach the desk for your boarding information.” You look around to see if you can catch this mystery person but no one moves. You glance at the screen then back at Jurin. “Whoever they are, they’re late.”

She shrugs again, sliding her sunglasses back into place. “Oh well.”

Boarding starts not long after. She gives you a quick hug before slipping into the premium line, smug grin and all. You roll your eyes but smile anyway. You’re glad she’s getting the upgrade even if it means you’ll be stuck in the back alone. You pull on your backpack and inch forward with the rest of the crowd. It’s slow and awkward, the way boarding always is; too many bags, not enough space and people suddenly forgetting how the alphabet works. You make it past the gate agent and head down the jet bridge, the sound of rolling suitcases echoing off the metal walls.

The air smells faintly of cold metal and something artificial but it’s oddly comforting. You step into the plane offering a quiet “hi”and “thank you” to the flight attendants and follow the narrow aisle toward the back. It takes you a minute to find your row. When you do, it’s as cramped as expected. You hoist your carry-on into the overhead bin, nudge it into place and then ease into your window seat with a soft sigh. The vinyl is cool against your legs, the window even colder against your fingertips when you press your hand to the glass.

You bend down to slide your backpack under the seat in front of you. The straps get caught so you adjust them until they lie flat the way you always do, tight and neat and ready for takeoff.

You settle back into your seat, exhaling slowly but just as you’re about to close your eyes, you hear the soft shuffle of someone new stepping into the row. They move quietly, placing their bag overhead before easing into the seat beside you. You glance up offering a polite automatic smile and then freeze.

The guy next to you is tall, taller than airplane seats are built for and unfairly good-looking. His dark hair flops over his forehead in soft layers with the ends brushing the collar of his zip-up, sharp cheekbones and wireless earbuds hanging loose like he’s pretending to listen to something.

He meets your gaze for half a second then gives you a polite nod. You look away immediately, heat crawling up your neck. Great. He’s hot and now he’s sitting next to you for the next seven hours. You press your cheek to the window and exhale slowly, trying not to think about how close his knee is to yours or how he smells like bergamot and something expensive.

Soon, the cabin crew starts their usual safety spiel, voices chipper as they move through the motions. The guy next to you actually reaches for the safety card in the seat pocket like he plans to study it. You blink mildly impressed, no one ever reads those. “British Airways’ crash rate is one in 7.1 million,” you say, voice soft and conversational, eyes on the safety card.

He pauses then glances over at you slowly. There’s a slight furrow between his brows, like he’s trying to decide if you’re joking or just weird. “…good to know,” he says eventually, nodding once before looking back at the card.

You purse your lips silently cursing yourself. So much for your seat neighbor liking plane facts. There’s a beat of silence then— “What’s the rate for first-class passengers getting bumped to economy?” he asks, voice dry but curious.

You blink, a tad bit thrown off. “I…don’t think they publish those kinds of stats but they do tend to overbook on popular routes like this one. Especially into Heathrow.”

He hums and smiles faintly. “Figured. I was supposed to be in 4A; first class but got booted.”

That catches your attention. 4A, the other passenger they called with Jurin. You shift in your seat to face him a little more. “You didn’t ask to take the next flight?”

“Thought about it,” he says, lips quirking. “But I need to be in London at a specific time. Work.”

You nod slowly then glance toward the window. “Fair enough but still, you’d think they’d let you wait it out. The next flight is usually the A380. Upper deck, wider seats, quieter cabin. It’s a nice ride.”

He looks at you with genuine amusement now. “You know a lot about planes.”

You shrug. “Aerospace engineering major…planes are kinda my thing.”

His brows lift. “That explains the stats.”

You grin. “You want another?”

He pauses then shrugs. “Why not.”

You perk up. “Okay, so if you’re flying on a 787, you can feel the difference in cabin pressure. They keep the altitude lower, like 6,000 feet instead of 8,000, to reduce jet lag and fatigue.”

Before he can answer, a flight attendant passes through the aisle, gently reminding him to fasten his seatbelt. He does so wordlessly, tugging the strap over his hips and snapping it into place. You take that as a cue to keep talking because for once someone other than your family, Jurin and Sohee is actually listening.

You’re mid-ramble about engine thrust when you pause and peer out the window as the plane lines up on the runway. “I’m not totally sure what engines this aircraft uses,” you admit, voice thoughtful. “Sometimes you can tell based on the sound, for example GE engines have this lower whine during acceleration but—”

“GEnx,” he says smoothly, cutting you off.

You blink and glance over at him. He’s still looking ahead but there’s a slight upward tilt to his lips like he knows something you don’t. “That’s what this one uses.”

You study him for a second, surprised. “How do you know that?”

He hesitates for just a beat, barely noticeable then shrugs. “I work with engines.”

Before you can say anything in response, the plane begins to pick up speed and your attention shifts instinctively, eyes trained on the runway and chest buzzing as the aircraft starts to lift. You’ve always loved takeoff, it’s your favorite part of airplane rides. You’re momentarily too caught up to remember you were in the middle of a conversation. Once the plane levels out and the seatbelt sign dings off, he turns toward you again. “You all out of facts?”

You blink, lips parting. “Oh—sorry. Sometimes I get carried away. I forget not everyone cares about planes and physics.”

He shakes his head and smiles softly. “I don’t mind, I travel a lot so I’ve already seen every movie they have. This is better.”

You let out a small laugh. “Well, in that case, you’re in luck. I’ve got facts for days.” He laughs and you lean back into your seat, more relaxed than before.

“So what do you do, exactly?” You ask and this time you see him visibly pause.

“Umm…I work for Ferrari,” he says slowly, almost like he’s testing out the waters.

You hum, thinking of Jurin. The way you could go on about planes, she could go on about F1. You’ve tried to keep up but it’s all a little confusing. You know she’s a die-hard McLaren fan, has been since high school and she’s been annoyed for weeks about their drivers placing second and…sixth? You’re not sure, what you do know though is that some rookie’s been dominating the standings and won’t let McLaren take first. You think he might be a Ferrari driver but you’re not one hundred percent. “That’s nice. So you work with their engineers?”

He lets out a short laugh. “Yeah…something like that.” You nod but don’t push. Maybe it’s impolite.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you do?”

You shrug. “Just graduated. Haven’t landed a job yet.”

“Congrats,” he says, meaning it. “If you could work anywhere, where would it be?”

You think for a moment. “Maybe Emirates. They’ve got a good fleet and I like their aircraft models. I wouldn’t mind helping design new engines for them.” That sparks another round of back-and-forth, nothing too deep, just light conversation while dinner is passed around. You learn he’s from South Korea but went to a private school in England, travels a lot for work and enjoys working out. You tell him about growing up and going to school in the same state, how traveling’s always been your escape but school made it harder and how this five-week Europe trip is your reset.

Eventually, the cabin dims and the hum of the engines blends into the background. You feel your body getting heavier, exhaustion settling into your bones. You try to keep your eyes open a little longer but it’s getting harder. “You should sleep,” he says, voice quiet.

You nod already fighting a yawn. “Yeah…probably a good idea.” You lean your head gently against the window. You’re thousands of feet in the air, somewhere between yesterday and tomorrow, seated next to a stranger with a voice like honey and answers that only leave you wondering.

___

When you wake up a few hours later, you wake up to something warm beneath your cheek and something heavier pressing against your head. You blink groggily, adjusting to the low cabin lights. You shift a little and register the broad shape of a shoulder beneath your head and the way his body leans slightly to accommodate your weight. You sit up carefully and as you do he shifts too, stretching with a soft exhale as if he’s just now waking up. Your gaze meets his and you immediately blurt, “Sorry.”

He blinks sleepily, rubbing at one eye. “For what?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. “Falling asleep on you. I could’ve sworn I passed out facing the window.”

“You did,” he says with a yawn. “But you looked uncomfortable so I nudged you over.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “Oh.” You don’t really know what to say after that. You manage a soft, “Thanks.”

He gives you a barely-there smile, eyes flicking to the window. “We’ll be landing soon.” He says.

You turn to look too and sure enough the clouds have started to break. You can see the edges of the city now, glowing with early morning light. London is just beneath you but you don’t want to say goodbye yet. You’re already trying to think of something to say, something that doesn’t sound like you’re desperate to hold on to the moment when he turns toward you first. “So, where are you staying?”

You blink, caught off guard by the question. “Oh…I’m not actually sure. My best friend Jurin planned most of London. I planned our next stop.” He nods slowly. For a moment, something flickers across his face. It might be disappointment or maybe it’s just the lighting. You can’t tell.

You both sit in silence for a beat then at the exact same time you both open your mouths to speak. He laughs under his breath and motions for you to go first. You hesitate then ask quietly, “What’s your name?”

He looks at you for a long moment as if he’s thinking about something, like he’s debating. Finally, he says, “Jinsu.”

You try it out. “Jinsu?”

He nods when you pronounce it right. “Yeah. That’s me.”

You give him your name and he repeats it softly, more to himself than to you. You watch him as he says it again under his breath, like he’s committing it to memory. The seatbelt sign dings back on and you both shift, buckling in and straightening up. The descent begins slowly and you can feel the plane tilt.

You try to make conversation; you ask if this is his first time back to London since his private school days, if he likes it, if he’ll be staying long but neither of you really cares what the answers are. You’re just trying to fill the space before time runs out. Realistically, you could ask for his number. Be bold and put yourself out there but the possibility of rejection knots your stomach and you bite the urge down. Instead, you glance at him and murmur, “You know, landing’s the trickiest part of any flight. You’ve got lower visibility, unpredictable wind shear, plus the stress on the landing gear.”

He chuckles quietly, head tilted toward you. “Another fact?”

You smile a little sheepish. “Sorry. I can’t help it.”

“I didn’t say I mind.”

The wheels hit the runway with a soft jolt. The plane slows and you feel the shift in momentum as the brakes kick in. You stay seated quietly, heart heavier than expected. The engines hum low as the aircraft slows to taxi. Soon, everyone’s unbuckling, overhead bins flying open with impatient hands. Jinsu’s up first. He grabs his bag then turns to you like he’s about to say something but he stops. His eyes flick to the window then back to your face. He swallows like he’s choosing not to say what he really wants. “Thanks for the in-flight facts,” he says instead. “And…good luck on your trip.”

You smile but it feels a little bitter. “Thanks. Safe travels.” He hesitates a second longer then walks down the aisle, disappearing toward the front of the plane. You sit there for a moment, staring at the empty seat beside you. Eventually, you grab your bag, shuffle down the aisle and pass by Jurin, who’s still busy rearranging the contents of her tote. You slide into her row and plop down beside her. She startles slightly when she sees you. “You scared me,” she mutters. “How was the flight?”

You adjust your backpack, still in a bit of a daze. “Met someone.”

She raises a brow. “On the flight?”

You nod. “Jinsu, my seatmate.”

She eyes you carefully. “Cute?”

You shrug, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Tall. Mullet. Asian.” There’s a beat before she asks if you got his number. You shake your head and she groans, smacking your arm. You flinch and tell her to leave you alone. As the line inches forward, she asks if he said anything you could use to find him. You hesitate then say quietly, “He works for Ferrari.”

Jurin stops mid-step. “Ferrari? Ew. Maybe it’s a good thing you fumbled. I can’t be caught hanging out with someone who’s into red cars and bad decisions.”

That makes you laugh and for a second you forget about seat 45G. The two of you step off the plane and move through the terminal half-awake. The airport’s already buzzing with people but your body is starting to feel the effects of the long haul flight.

You exchange some cash at a kiosk near the exit and catch the tram into the city. Jurin talks you through the week ahead; food spots, museum stops, nightclubs and race weekend at Silverstone. You listen and nod along, letting her voice fill the space between your thoughts. By the time you reach your hotel, check in and ride the lift up to your floor, everything’s caught up to you. Your body aches so you both toss your bags down and agree to nap before doing anything else.

London, England - Wednesday, June 4th

Your first four days pass in a blur.

You two hit the ground running; figuratively and literally. The first full day was spent walking through Covent Garden and Notting Hill, stopping at thrift stores and overpriced bakeries. You and Jurin made it your mission to eat your way through every borough.

By day two, your camera rolls were full of aesthetic pictures in front of red phone booths and crooked pictures of Big Ben courtesy of Jurin. Day three was the museum circuit: the Tate, the V&A and a short stop at the Design Museum for you, where you geeked out over old aviation schematics while Jurin humored you with a patient smile.

Today, it rained all morning so you stayed in and ordered in food, watched half a rom-com and took turns scrolling Tiktok while cuddling under the covers. It was a calm day really, until Jurin sat up around 7 PM and said, “I got us on a list.”

Which is how you now find yourself standing at the vanity in your hotel bathroom, curling your lashes with Sohee on facetime while Jurin rifles through her suitcase for the y2k dress she swore she packed.

“I know it’s in here,” she mutters, digging through layers of mesh packing cubes.

You glance at her in the mirror. “You said this was gonna be a chill night.”

“It still is,” she says, holding up the black dress triumphantly. “You can thank Leah.”

You blink. “Leah from Oh Polly?”

She nods. “Apparently some of the reps are in town and they’re doing a soft launch event at a club tonight. Industry-only. Fashion, media, that kind of thing.”

You pause mid-swipe of lip gloss. “And that’s the list you got us on?”

Jurin grins. “I didn’t get a communications degree to let opportunities slide.”

You don’t retort because if there’s anything Jurin loves more than motorsports, its media. She worked her way through undergrad building a social presence from scratch, mixing brand deals with PR internships, teaching herself video editing between classes and cold-emailing reps just to get her foot in the door. She says the dream is to work on Mclaren’s media team full time.

“Do I need to be camera-ready?” you ask half-joking.

“Always. I gotta get content tonight so you might end up on my feed again.”

You finish your makeup and trade spots at the sink. Jurin ties her hair into two pigtails and braids them while you change into the outfit Sohee helped you pick out earlier, a baby blue butterfly top you had gotten off of amazon and low rise skinny jeans. For shoes you settled on some white kiichi pumps.

By the time you’re both ready it’s close to ten. You down a mini bottle of wine from the fridge while she chases her shot of tequila with flat soda. You both laugh and head downstairs and slide into the back of an UberX. Jurin gives the driver the name of the place, some unmarked building in Soho with a velvet rope out front and a guest list you can’t fathom.

“Are you nervous?” you ask, watching her adjust her necklace in the reflection of the car window.

She shrugs, smiling. “Not really. It’s just networking. If I make the right impression, it could mean more brand work this summer, more content. Maybe a foot in the door.” You hum and turn your attention back to the city blurring past. By the time you arrive, the line is still relatively short and you’re inside in under thirty minutes. You scan your surroundings, the club lights are too bright and strobing too fast, just asking for someone to seize. The dance floor is crowded with people and there are drunks stumbling all around you.

You and Jurin elbow your way in, looking around in awe. “Shots first,” she says over the music, already tugging you toward the bar. Her pigtails bounce as she walks, phone in hand, thumb tapping out a quick story update for her close friends list. At the bar, you squeeze into a tiny pocket of space pressed between a man in a glittery mesh shirt and someone in a puffer vest that definitely doesn’t belong indoors. Jurin flags down the bartender. “Two lemon drops,” she shouts.

The bartender nods and moments later, you’re each holding a tiny glass rimmed in sugar. Jurin raises hers with a grin and you cheers her before you both throw them back. Your lips pucker at the taste and your eyes squeeze shut. “Fuck that’s strong.” You say.

“Another?” Jurin asks smirking, you stare at her in shock and before you can say no, she’s already ordering another round. Four shots later, everything is hazier and warmer. The music is louder too, the bass vibrating in your chest. Jurin’s laughing again, grabbing your hand with a sharp tug. “C’mon! Dance floor!”

You stumble a bit, letting her guide you through the crowd. The air is thick with perfume and heat but Jurin doesn’t care. She pulls you right into the center and starts dancing, her pigtails whip back and forth as she mouths the lyrics, phone in hand capturing snippets of you both. You roll your eyes but laugh too and sing along for her video.

The two of you dance for what feels like hours but was really more like thirty minutes. You turn to face her, “I’m gonna pee,” you yell over the music, leaning toward Jurin. She nods without missing a beat, you turn to make your way through the crowd. The bathroom line is mercifully short. You wipe your face and check your reflection, surprisingly your makeup is holding up well. By the time you re-emerge into the main room, the DJ’s switched tracks and the floor is even more packed.

You glance around, eyes scanning the crowd for Jurin but she’s nowhere in sight. You get a notification that she’s posted on her instagram, you look at the post before texting her quickly asking where she’s gone. She responds letting you know she’s found her way behind the dj booth. You snort, not surprised. You pocket your phone and look around, trying to find something to occupy your time with. You scan the VIP section and you pause when your eyes fall on someone familiar.

For a second, your brain doesn’t register it. There’s too much going on; flashing lights, bodies pressed close but then your gaze sharpens. The person standing near the edge of the roped-off section, drink in hand, half-laughing at something someone said, turns slightly and it hits you all at once. It’s him! Jinsu.

He’s wearing a loose button-up, the first three buttons undone, showing smooth skin and the glint of a silver chrome hearts chain that rests against his chest. His sleeves are short, revealing his forearms and his hair’s gelled back, mullet framing his face. He looks good, almost too good. You freeze. He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s still talking to someone, solo cup in one hand, his head tilted as he listens but then he shifts and scans the crowd like he’s looking for someone and his gaze collides with yours.

There’s a flicker of disbelief that passes through his expression. A beat where his eyes widen slightly like he’s making sure he’s not imagining it. Then the surprise softens into a smile. You don’t move. You can’t, all you can do is stare as he begins to cross the floor toward you, weaving through the crowd like this isn’t a coincidence at all. You fumble for your phone and text Jurin. The two of you have a quick back and forth before you shakily pocket your phone into your back pocket just in time to see him step into your space, that same breathless smile on his face.

“Hi,” he says, almost like a question.

You swallow. “Hi.” You echo, heart beating erratically in your chest. Neither of you say anything for a moment. You’re too busy just…staring the other down. You’re the one who breaks it. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“Ditto,” he murmurs, eyes flicking over your outfit like he’s committing it to memory. “Thought I was seeing things for a second.”

You laugh, quiet and a little shaky, still caught off guard by how good he looks. Another pause arises but this time he breaks first by nodding toward the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You nod wordlessly. He steps aside for you to lead the way, hand grazing your back lightly as you move through the crowd. At the bar, he flags down the bartender and orders you something simple and himself a water. You feel his gaze every few seconds, like he’s checking to see if you’re still real. When the drinks come, he hands you yours, fingers brushing and you both lean against the bar.

You sip your cocktail, grateful for something to do with your hands. He watches you over the rim of his cup, then shifts slightly, angling toward you. “So, how’s the trip?”

You smile a little. “Busy. We’ve been doing everything. Museums, food spots, the usual tourist checklist. We walked like eight miles the first day.”

He laughs, nodding along. “Sounds about right. Are you doing all the landmarks too?”

“Mhm. Covent Garden, Notting Hill, some places Jurin saw on Tiktok.”

He chuckles like he finds that endearing. You glance down at your drink, swirling the liquid absently then you look back up and say, “Have you found your burger place yet?”

He blinks, thrown. “What?”

You laugh softly. “On the plane. You said you always try a new burger spot in every country you visit. That it’s your thing.”

His brows lift in shock. “You remembered that?”

You shrug. “It was cute. Stuck with me.”

He smiles down into his cup. “Not yet,” he says after a moment. “Probably after Sunday.”

You narrow your eyes a little. “That’s oddly specific.”

He shakes his head still smiling, like the answer’s too complicated or too stupid to share. “It’s just a thing. Timing, I guess.” Before you can press further, he sets his drink down on the bar and leans in slightly, voice dipping low again. “Wanna dance?”

You hesitate for a second but then push aside your doubts before you can talk yourself out of it and nod. “Sure.”

Jinsu doesn’t smile this time. He just tilts his head slightly and reaches out, fingers curling loosely around your wrist. The gesture is simple but the feel of his skin against yours sends a little jolt down your spine. He pulls you gently through the crowd, leading you toward a less-packed corner near the speakers where the lights strobe in soft pulses. You don’t miss the way people make space for him as he passes. You file it away for later.

Jinsu squeezes your hips one last time before turning you around and helping you slowly grind down on him to the beat of the song, once you have a steady rhythm going on he begins to buck his hips to meet your pace.

You’re arched slightly, whining your waist against him and catching the attention of those around you. Jinsu sneaks one arm around your front and gently squeezes at your right boob over your top, getting turned on by how you apply the right amount of pressure to his front every time you bounce off his lower half and the lustful gaze of those watching.

He slides the hand gripping your hip up a bit to squeeze your waist as he sensually moves his hips to the beat of the song, practically humping you. You can feel yourself getting turned on as his lower half brushes against you.

He leans in a bit and shoves his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in. This time you can’t hold back your moan. Just as the song starts to build, you feel him still and his hands loosen slightly, grip shifting. You turn, confused at the change in pace but see that someone’s at his side, a guy in dark clothes, speaking urgently into his ear. Whatever he says, Jinsu’s face falls and his jaw clenches. You step back instinctively. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you and for a second, it’s like he doesn’t want to move. Like he might say screw it but then he huffs frustrated and says, “I have to go.”

You blink. “Now?”

He nods once. “Yeah. My…Something came up.”

Your buzz falters but you mask it with a tight-lipped smile. “Oh okay. That’s fine.”

He hesitates, like he’s fighting the clock then finally, “I’m really glad I saw you again.”

You’re about to say something, anything. Maybe even ask for his number but he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd before your lips can even form the shape to let out the syllables.

Jurin appears beside you out of nowhere, practically bouncing, her phone clutched in one hand and a crooked grin tugging at her lips. “Where’d Ferrari boy go?” she asks, eyes scanning over your shoulder like he might still be somewhere nearby.

You shake your head, lips pressed into a thin line. “Had to go.”

Her brows knit. “Seriously? Again?”

You nod, exhaling through your nose, still a little dazed. “Yeah. Something came up.”

She squints at you. “Are you sure he’s not fake? A figment of your jetlagged, horny brain?”

You snort and shove her shoulder. “Shut up.”

She grins and throws an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close. “C’mon. Let’s go drink and you can debrief me about it.”

You let her tug you through the crowd back to the bar, the space where Jinsu stood just minutes ago already filled by strangers. It’s like he was never there. Jurin orders for both of you as you slide onto a stool, resting your elbows on the bar. She passes you a drink, something soft pink and sweet-smelling and raises her own in a mock toast. “To mysterious men who disappear into the night.”

You laugh and clink glasses. You swirl your drink slowly, watching the ice shift. Maybe third time’s the charm you think. It has to be fate doesn’t it? There’s no way two people meet like that on a plane only to run into each other again four days later in a city this big. That kind of coincidence feels too deliberate, too perfect. Tonight isn’t the last time you see Jinsu. You’re sure of it.

Silverstone Circuit — Qualifying Day, June 7th

The first thing you notice is the sound; buzzing, humming and too many overlapping voices. Radios chirping, tires being dragged across concrete, the distant roar of an engine firing up. The whole place is alive with motion, heat and adrenaline. You’re not even at the grandstands yet but the energy is bursting at the seams. Jurin is vibrating beside you, practically skipping with each step, pointing out things left and right—different team motorhomes, hospitality tents, a camera crew filming something for sky sports.

She’s grinning wide, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. “Okay, so fun fact: Silverstone has the second fastest average speed on the calendar, Monza is first.” she says as you trail behind her, one hand gripping the lanyard around your neck. “Silverstone is like almost 170 miles per hour. It’s insane. It’s an aggressive track, no room for mistakes. It’s why everyone loves this race.”

You nod, more focused on the way the garages line the paddock rather than whatever corner complex she just named. She doesn’t mind that you’re quiet. She never does, as long as you rep McLaren all is well and good. “That’s Red Bull,” she adds, pointing to a sleek, blue setup with security guards already waving fans back. “And Mercedes is down that row. I promised Sohee a picture of Eunseok so we gotta make a stop there before qualifying starts.”

You nod still trailing a step behind. It’s Day 2 of race weekend, Jurin opted to skip FP yesterday in favor of shopping for some discounted F1 Merch and argued that qualifying was more fun. Jurin’s in full fangirl mode, eyeing every driver that passes and you can’t blame her. She’s been waiting for this for years. You barely register when she stops walking.

“Wait,” she says suddenly, grabbing your wrist. “There! The papaya! That’s McLaren!”

You glance in the direction she’s pointing. It’s bright orange and unmissable. The garage doors are partially open and you can just make out a few people inside; some engineers, a cluster of photographers and maybe…one of the drivers? You can’t tell. It’s too far.

“I’m gonna see if I can sneak a pic,” Jurin says, already half-turning. “Anton might be there or Lando. I’ll be fast!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Fast as in…ten minutes or fast as in I’ll see you when the race starts?”

She flashes you a grin. “You love me.”

“Tragically.” And with that, she’s gone. Darting off in the direction of the papaya, digicam in hand, hair bouncing as she disappears into the crowd. You don’t chase after her, just shake your head and start walking in the opposite direction, trying to familiarize yourself with the paddock before it gets too packed. You don’t have a plan just time to kill. You check your phone, scrolling past the messages you meant to reply to earlier and pull up the paddock map Jurin made you download.

A few turns later, you think you’re somewhere near the Ferrari garage. It’s quieter over here—less screaming fans. Most of the people around you look like they work here. You catch flashes of red shirts, team radios, branded sunglasses. It feels like a different world. You open your phone again to text Jurin. The two of you go back and forth, Jurin tells you to look up and describe the area you’re in. You glance up to orient yourself with your surroundings but stop cold when your eyes fall on the large screen overhead. Your screen dims in your hand, forgotten.

There, just beyond the taped-off section of the garage is a digital display. It cycles between graphics: driver stats, race history, sponsor logos but what makes you pause is the face currently displayed. You stare at it for a full ten seconds before it really registers. It’s him.

Hair styled back off his forehead, race suit zipped to his collarbone, standing in front of a Ferrari backdrop with his arms folded, mouth set in a sharp, focused line. He looks older somehow, less like the guy who you gave plane trivia to and danced with in a nightclub and more like someone who’s used to being watched. The caption below confirms it.

Sungchan Jung – Scuderia Ferrari No. 2 Driver

Your stomach drops. You blink once, twice, hoping the image will change. That maybe it’s a mistake or maybe it’s someone who just looks like him. A cousin. A fan. A really well-dressed imposter but it doesn’t change because it’s him. Not “Jinsu.” Not Mr. “I work with engines.” Not the quiet and charming guy you met in the economy section of a redeye. He’s Ferrari’s golden boy, Formula 1’s rising star. He lied.

You feel heat rise in your throat, too fast to control. The shock turns sour in your chest. You’re embarrassed, angry and honestly? A little heartbroken. The worst part is you were starting to trust him. Starting to think that it was fate and maybe you two were meant to cross paths again. Ever the hopeless romantic.

You frantically text Jurin, telling her what you just stumbled upon. You take a step back. Then another. You just want to get out of here. You don’t even care which direction. Anywhere that’s not under this garage’s fluorescent lighting, not where you could run into him so you turn to leave. “Hey—wait.” His voice hits you before anything else causing you to freeze. You already know it’s him, you don’t need to look. You know how he sounds, you remember how he said your name somewhere over the Atlantic. You turn slowly.

He’s walking toward you, race suit half unzipped, sleeves tied around his waist. One hand is holding a bottle, the other is hovering like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. His expression is somewhere between stunned and sheepish. You don’t say anything, you don’t need to. It’s all written on your face anyway.

“Can I—can I talk to you?” he says, softer now. “Please.”

You just look at him. At the version of him you never knew. You can’t tell what you’re feeling anymore; it's all layered on top of itself. Confused. Hurt. Maybe a little relieved that he didn’t disappear forever but mostly hurt.

You shake your head and start to back away again. He follows, more urgently this time. “Wait—please. Just five minutes. I know I should’ve told you. I was going to, I just—” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t think I’d see you again and then when I did, it felt like it was too late to explain but I swear I wanted to.”

You hesitate and he takes the opportunity to step closer, voice quieter now. “Please. Just five minutes.” You don’t say yes but you do stop walking and he sees it as a win. He doesn’t wait for permission. Just gestures toward a quieter corridor behind the garage then walks ahead without checking to see if you’re following.

You follow him deeper into the corridor passing a few team staff on your way. A security guard nods at him then a door clicks open, held for you. You assume it’s his driver room and take in a deep breath before entering. He shuts the door behind him and you’re both enveloped in silence.

You glance around not sure where to look. It’s smaller than you expected, barely more than a converted office. One long bench. A chair. A wall-mounted monitor still playing track telemetry in the background. His race helmet sits on a shelf, matte red and white, the Ferrari logo gleaming under the overhead light.

Sungchan runs a hand through his hair. You can tell he’s trying to figure out what to say first. You beat him to it. “Why? Why lie?” Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.

He exhales slowly. Not defensive, just tired. “I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”

That makes you go still. He takes a step closer, cautious. “It’s not an excuse. I know that but when we met, it was just…normal. You didn’t know who I was. You weren’t looking at me like a headline or a stat sheet or someone you’d kill to get a photo with. You were just…” He shrugs. “You.”

You hold his gaze, even though your chest feels tight. “I don’t get that a lot anymore,” he adds. “People recognize me everywhere now. Airports, restaurants. Even when I’m trying to lay low and if they don’t, they find out within ten minutes and suddenly it’s like I’m not a person anymore, just…Ferrari’s number two.”

His voice drops slightly at that last part. You catch something in it—resentment? Weariness? You don’t press. Instead, you nod slowly. The anger that sat heavy in your ribs when you saw his face on the screen is still there but it’s not burning anymore. You get it, maybe more than you want to admit.

You’ve had moments like that too, not with fame of course but with people who wanted something from you before even knowing you. You think about all the times you’ve wondered if someone liked you because they wanted to or because they just wanted the version of you they’d built in their head.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, just watches your face like he’s trying to figure out if he’s already lost you. You cross your arms to steady yourself. “So…Jinsu?”

That makes him crack the smallest smile. It’s the first one you’ve seen since he caught you by the garage. “It’s a name my close friends use,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I used to give it to strangers when I didn’t want to be recognized and then I guess it…stuck. It’s kind of dumb.”

You shake your head. “It’s not dumb.” Another silence settles and you sigh, letting your arms fall to your sides. “I should go find Jurin.”

He straightens immediately. “Wait.” You do and he takes a small step forward. Not in a pushy way but enough to be in your space again. To make sure you don’t drift out of his orbit a third time. “I don’t want to leave it like this. Not again.” He says. You meet his eyes and there’s something in his face that wasn’t there before, he looks nervous. He swallows then says it like he’s deciding the second he speaks it aloud. “Can I have your number?”

You blink in shock. For a second, you think you misheard him. He waits, hands at his sides, mouth set in a faint uncertain line like he’s afraid he might’ve misread the whole thing. You tilt your head then smile softly. “Win the race tomorrow then maybe I’ll give it to you.”

That makes him laugh. His eyes flick down and then back up like he can’t believe you just said that but he’s grinning now, wide and real. It suits him better than the helmet. “Alright. Challenge accepted.” He says.

You nod once, still half-smiling. “Good. I like winners.” He opens the door for you without saying anything more. You step back into the hallway and he doesn't follow you out. Just stays in the doorway watching you walk away because this time he knows you’ll come back.

The Ferrari hospitality is cooler than the rest of the paddock, shaded, polished and oddly quiet in contrast to the sound outside. You spot Jurin immediately, she’s pacing near the espresso machine and chewing the edge of her thumbnail, her badge swinging wildly with each turn. She doesn’t see you until you’re close. “Where the hell have you been?” she says, striding toward you, eyes scanning your face like she’s trying to figure out if you’ve been crying. “You texted me you saw him and then you just disappeared. I’ve been texting you like crazy!”

You glance down at your phone, now buzzing uselessly in your hand. Six missed texts, a few all caps. You hadn’t even felt it vibrate. “I was going to text back.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I got distracted.” You weakly say.

She stares at you blankly. “You got distracted.”

“I was talking to him.”

“Talking.” She repeats the word slowly, like slowing it down will help you understand how ridiculous it sounds. “To the guy who introduced himself as Jinsu and then turned out to be Ferrari’s wildcard rookie.” You nod. She blinks twice. “You—what the hell happened?”

So you tell her. You give her the Sparknotes version, how he looked like he’d seen a ghost, how he said he didn’t mean to lie, not really. That he liked how normal it felt between you and how rare that is for him now; being a person and not a headline. Jurin doesn’t interrupt. Just watches you with her arms folded and lips pursed.

“I mean…” you trail off. “It made sense when he said it.”

She nods once, slowly. “It usually does when the guy who hurt you is hot.”

You scowl a little offended. “He didn’t hurt me.”

“Fine, he lied to you.”

You hesitate. “...He left some stuff out.”

“That’s not better.” Jurin argues.

You shift your weight and glance at the ground. “I don’t know. I really do get it though. People look at him and see…whatever they want to see. Fame, money, fast cars—”

“A PR relationship opportunity,” Jurin adds.

“...Yeah…sure but I didn’t know any of that. I just thought he was a guy who liked engines and didn’t mind my plane trivia.”

“He is a guy who likes engines,” she says. “But he’s also a five-time Grand Prix winner who drives for Ferrari and lives in the spotlight.”

You know she’s right. You’ve known it since the moment you saw his face on that monitor. Jurin keeps going though. “You have six hundred followers on Instagram ____. You hate being perceived. You don’t even let me tag you in my stories!”

You shrug, not really having much to say in response. “Sixhundred and forty and I know.”

You see her eye twitch at your attempt of dry humor but she brushes it off. “And now you’re what? Giving your number to someone who gets followed by paparazzi everywhere he goes?”

“I haven’t given it to him.” You say.

She frowns. “Wait, seriously?”

You nod. “He asked.”

Her mouth opens. “And?”

You shrug. “I told him if he wins the race tomorrow…then maybe.”

There’s a beat then Jurin makes a sound that can only be described as a strangled groan. “Oh my Gosh!”

You wince in anticipation. “Do you realize what you’ve done?!” she half-yells, smacking your arm. “I was praying for a McLaren 1-2 and you just gave Ferrari the power of love!”

“I panicked!” you hiss. “It felt bold at the time!”

“Bold?” she repeats. “You cursed McLaren!”

You grimace. “Maybe he won’t win?” She gives you a look that says be serious and you want to cower away. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” You pout.

She glares. “You might as well have handed him pole position on a gold platter.”

“I said maybe!”

Jurin rubs a hand over her face. “You better pray Anton and Lando both end on podium or I swear we are never speaking again.”

You clasp your hands together and say you’ll start a prayer circle for a papaya podium right now and that gets her to crack a small smile. She sighs and drains the last of her red bull then jerks her chin toward the crowd building around the fences. “Let’s go. Quali starts in ten.”

Silverstone Circuit — Race Day, June 8th

It’s hotter than you expected. The kind of heat that clings to your skin and settles at the base of your neck no matter how much water you’ve had. On top of that, it’s loud; blaringly loud. Not just the engines, which haven’t even started yet mind you but the sheer noise of people. You can barely hear yourself think.

You and Jurin are wedged into your seats in the grandstands, somewhere near the front row. The sun is merciless up here; no shade, no breeze, just heat radiating off the metal beneath your legs. Jurin’s wearing a papaya McLaren jersey, her favorite one, the back stretched slightly from years of wear. She has on black biker shorts and a bucket hat that’s already started to droop from sweat.

You’re in one of her extras: an oversized tee and a McLaren lanyard with your weekend pass swinging around your neck. Neither of you look cute but you definitely look like you have spirit. Jurin places her binoculars beside her and opens up a new bottle of water. “Race day,” she sighs, like it’s something sacred.

You glance around. “It’s loud.”

“It’s perfect,” she corrects. Your shoes are sticking to the floor of the grandstand and someone behind you just dropped their drink with a splash. It doesn’t really feel perfect but Jurin’s eyes are glued to the grid below and you don’t want to ruin her moment.

You’d gotten here early, well before the national anthem or any of the fanfare just to claim good seats. Jurin has been vibrating since she opened her eyes this morning and saw clear skies. A dry track and not a chance of rain. Nothing to mess with McLaren’s chances.

Yesterday’s qualifying had been a dream for her: A McLaren lockout with Lando in P1, Anton right behind him in P2. Her two papaya boys right where they belonged. Sungchan had slotted into third, Red Bull’s Shotaro in fourth and Eunseok in fifth—though that hadn’t lasted. He’d gotten slapped with a three-place grid penalty for overtaking under yellows after that Aston Martin rookie, Wonbin (?) picked up a puncture and crawled through sector two.

Sohee had lost his mind in the group chat: voice notes, screenshots of timing data, a single all-caps ‘I’M NOT OKAY’ followed by fifteen crying emojis. Jurin sent back a picture of her looking smug with McLaren hospitality in the back within five minutes. You were pretty sure the chat was still going. You kind of pitied him. Mercedes has been in shambles all season and Jurin hasn’t let him hear the end of it.

Your fingers brush the folded piece of paper tucked beside your phone. Just a small square with your phone number written in your neatest handwriting. The commentary over the loudspeakers cuts through your thoughts. Something about track temperatures and tire strategies. The cars are beginning to line up now; twenty single-file machines slotted into position. Your stomach flutters.

You’ve watched races before, mostly in Jurin’s room half-asleep on her bed while she explains DRS zones and rages at the drivers through her screen but this is different. You feel the adrenaline coursing through your body now, you finally understand the thrill. The five red lights blink on above the grid. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lights out.

The grandstands erupt as the cars launch forward. A scream of engines and tire smoke and raw speed as they surge toward turn one. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Jurin crushes your hand in hers. Sungchan makes a move immediately, swinging out wide. You see the Ferrari dart to the right, wheels inches from Anton’s. The two of them are neck and neck, fighting for the inside line. “Don’t you dare—” Jurin hisses under her breath but he does.

He takes it. Clean and aggressive right on the edge of track limits. When he comes out of the corner in second ahead of Anton, tucked behind Lando you’re already on your feet. “Yes!” you shout, fists in the air. Jurin lets go of your hand so fast it’s like it burned her. You sit down slowly, realizing what you’ve just done. She’s staring at you, mouth open in disbelief.

You try to play it off. “Sorry. Reflex.”

She squints at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’ve been brainwashed. “You’re wearing a McLaren shirt.”

“I know.”

“You cheered for Ferrari.”

“I know.”

She sighs, long and dramatic and mutters something under her breath about betrayal. You apologize again and promise it won’t happen twice but the truth is…it might because watching Sungchan drive is addictive.

The race unfolds like it always does. Long stretches of tactical shuffling, a near crash at turn seven. A pit lane double stack that nearly goes wrong for McLaren. Your bum goes numb from sitting too long and your bra is soaked in sweat but none of it matters because every few seconds your eyes flick back to the leaderboard and in bold font is Sungchans name in P1. He won the position in lap 38.

You sneak a glance at Jurin. She’s sunk a little lower in her seat, hat pulled low over her eyes. She hasn’t said anything in a while, which is usually a bad sign but her leg is still bouncing and you’re pretty sure she’s not actually mad just…sulking.

By lap fifty, it’s clear the race is his. Lando’s fallen to fourth, Anton can’t quite claw his way back past Shotaro and Charles, Sungchan’s teammate, has slotted into second with a comfortable gap. You feel the shift in the atmosphere even from the stands: the race isn’t over but everyone knows how it’ll end.

When the checkered flag finally waves after lap 52, Sungchan crosses first, Charles in second, Shotaro in third. No McLaren on the podium. Jurin lets out a long, dramatic sigh, flops back into her seat and says nothing. You glance sideways, unsure if it’s safe to speak. “You good?” you ask carefully.

She doesn’t look at you. “I could be petty right now but I’m not going to be because I’m mature and supportive.”

You fight a smile. “You’re pouting.”

“I’m processing.” She exhales. “It’s fine. Lando still got fourth. Anton was on mediums. It’s fine.”

You pat her on the arm gently. “He did great.”

“He got sixth.”

“…Great for the tire choice?” You offer, not really knowing what difference medium tires even make.

She gives you a flat look then softens. “Go get your man.”

You hesitate for a second then throw your arms around her in a quick hug, squeezing tight. She doesn’t hug back but she doesn’t shove you off either. That’s how you know she means it.

You practically leap down the grandstand steps, weaving through the crowd as fans swarm toward the podium area. It takes a minute to get to the barriers and by the time you do, the Ferrari crew is already there. Sungchan is being lifted off the ground by his team, a flurry of hugs and pats on the helmet. His visor is up now, dark hair damp with sweat, grin stretched impossibly wide

He spots you and catches your eyes through the fence. You see it in real time; him pushing forward, ducking around his engineer, slipping through the gap in the fence to get to you. His fire suit is still half-zipped, gloves loose in one hand and he looks like someone who’s just won the world.

“I think I’m owed something?” he says, still breathless.

You laugh. “Congratulations.”

He leans a little closer, eyes bright. “You know what I’m here for.”

You try to tame your smile but it's futile, “I think Jurin might actually kill me in my sleep tonight.” You glance around. Half the Ferrari crew is watching and you’re pretty sure some sports station is live streaming.

He leans forward. “Don’t stall.”

You pull the folded paper from your pocket and slide it into his palm “Don’t lose it. That’s a one-time-only offer.” You joke.

He grins. “Noted.” His team principal calls his name from behind, motioning toward the press pen. Sungchan glances over then back at you. “I’ll text you,” he says and then he’s gone, swallowed back into the sea of red.

Venice, Italy — Wednesday, June 12th

Four days have passed since Silverstone. Four days since you watched Ferrari’s golden boy win yet another Grand Prix and beam down at you like you were the only person in the stands. Since then, you’ve packed up your things and headed south with Jurin, the pair of you swapping British fog for Venetian sun.

Venice has been kind to you.

You’ve eaten your weight in pasta—cacio e pepe, vongole, one plate that came out of a tiny alley trattoria covered in so much truffle oil you nearly cried. Jurin has insisted on taking photos of everything. Half your camera roll now looks like the inside of a pasta cookbook. The other half is her doing outfit changes in front of canal bridges, dragging you into the frame anytime she remembers she isn’t traveling alone.

You’ve taken thousands of photos on your phones, on her digicam and even on a disposable you picked up from a street vendor just because it felt nostalgic. You’ve ridden the water bus, fed pigeons in Piazza San Marco and nearly got scammed buying a knockoff Murano ring. You’ve seen enough sunsets to last a lifetime and still, the first thing you think of when you wake up is him. Sungchan has been texting you nonstop.

Sometimes early in the morning, sometimes late at night when he can’t sleep, sometimes just to send you blurry photos from track walks or links to songs he thinks you’d like. You’ve fallen into a rhythm that feels alarmingly natural for two people who’ve only met in person three times. You don’t always reply right away, sometimes you take a minute to breathe and figure out how not to sound like you’re already too far gone. Sometimes he doesn't reply for hours and you’d picture him in meetings, in briefings you don’t know enough about to even ask but somehow it doesn’t matter. The silence in between texts never feels heavy or weird.

Now, it’s early evening and Jurin has stayed behind at the Airbnb to film something for her Tiktok while you wandered back out to do a little souvenir shopping. A final gift run before your flight to Barcelona in two days. You’re standing inside a tiny storefront, debating between two identical postcards for your dad when your phone buzzes.

Incoming facetime: sungchan 🏎️

You don’t hesitate and quickly swipe to accept already smiling. His face fills the screen a second later, up close and a little off-center. His hair is damp and pushed back, cheeks a little flushed. You can see a plain white wall behind him and hear a fan oscillating somewhere in the background.

“Hi,” he says, voice soft and boyish.

“Hi,” you echo, adjusting your grip on your phone as you pretend to still consider the postcards.

He squints a little, trying to place where you are. “Are you in a store?”

“Souvenir shop,” you say, spinning around slowly so he can see. “Jurin’s back home playing influencer so I figured I should get out for a bit and do my shopping, maybe bring something back for my dad so he doesn’t complain I only send pictures of food.”

Sungchan hums. “You’ve had a good day?”

You nod. “Great, actually! We went to the glass museum this morning then took a gondola to Giudecca after lunch. I swear Chanie, I had the best pasta of my life.”

His eyes light up. “Best pasta of your life?”

You nod eagerly. “Swear on my life.”

He frowns, mock offended. “Doubt it was better than mine.”

You pause. “Yours?”

“I make really good pasta,” he says, like it’s common knowledge. “I’ve been told it’s the best in Monaco.”

You raise a skeptical brow. “By who?”

“The rookies,” he says. “And myself.”

You laugh, shifting your phone. “Well, I’d need to try it to confirm.”

He grins. “You should come to my apartment sometime. I’ll cook for you.”

Your smile falters for a second and not because you’re unhappy but because your body doesn’t quite know what to do with a sentence like that. You glance away and pretend to study the magnets on a nearby shelf. “That’s a dangerous offer.”

“Why?”

“Because I might actually take you up on it.”

He opens his mouth to say something but a voice off-camera cuts in before he can. “Sungchan!”

He groans, head dropping slightly. “Sorry. Hold on.” You hear some commotion before the camera swings wildly and focuses on someone else; floppy hair and too much papaya orange. Anton. He’s sat beside Sungchan’s shoulder, eyes narrowed like he wasn’t trying to be caught on camera.

“Oh, hey,” you say, blinking at the sudden face.

Anton gives a little nod. “Hey.” Then he throws a pillow at Sungchan’s head.

You try to stifle your laugh while Sungchan barely dodges it, making a wounded noise as he whips the camera back at his face. “You see how I’m treated?”

You’re still grinning. “You probably deserved it.”

“I’m being harassed in my own hotel room.”

“Shouldn’t have given him your keycard then.” You shrug.

“I didn’t!” he huffs. “I was nice to the rookie once and now he follows me around like a duckling.”

You tilt your head. “He seems sweet.”

Sungchan pretends to look betrayed. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

You shrug and he sighs dramatically. You faintly hear a ‘I like her’ come from Anton off camera. You smile and fidget with an I love Venice keychain. Sungchan’s camera steadies again, angled so you can see just his head. You go about your shopping while he just stares at you. You don’t realize how long the silence lingers until he breaks it.

“There’s a grid dinner in a bit,” he says reluctantly. “I should probably start getting ready.”

You nod. “Right. Go do your PR duties.”

He scoffs. “It’s just dinner.” You give him a look and he sighs. “Fine. PR dinner.”

He doesn’t move right away though. Just looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face. You smile and tell him you’ll text later and he says, “Send me what you pick out for your dad, belle fleur.” You blush at the nickname and promise you will.

He hangs up first this time. You stare at your screen for a second after the call ends then exhale through your nose, quietly and a little dazed. You’re not even sure what you talked about exactly. Just that it was easy. That it felt like something you could get used to, like something you wanted to. You slide your phone into your back pocket and turn back to the postcards, wondering if he was serious about the pasta.

You continue your shopping and find items for all your family members. Your tote feels heavy carrying all your goods; a fine linen-bound notebook pressed with flowers on the cover, keychains, postcards, tiny jars of honey wrapped in gingham cloth and a glass dish.

The streets are quieter now. Late enough in the evening that most of the tourists have retreated into restaurants and the locals are shutting their storefronts for the night. The air smells like salt and warm brick. You take your time getting back. Your phone buzzes once in your back pocket. You pull it out and find a photo from Sungchan. To your surprise he’s not even in the shot, it’s a picture of Lando and Anton, the text that follows makes you chuckle.

6:48 pm | sungchan🏎️: think jurin will like me if i send more pics of the two ? 6:48 pm | you: hmmm idk she’s still upset about silverstone… 6:49 pm | sungchan🏎️: what if i throw the next race? 6:49 pm | you: haha she’d adore u 6:49 pm | sungchan🏎️: then consider it done 6:50 pm | you: and what if i bet on u to win ?? 6:50 pm | you: that parlay could cover my student loans 6:51 pm | sungchan🏎️: then of course i’d choose you 6:51 pm | you: good answer

You two go back and forth for a bit more before he has to go again. The apartment is dim when you return, the big window in the kitchen cracked open and letting in a breeze. Jurin’s at the counter with her laptop open, the light from her screen throwing blue shadows across her face. She’s still in her outfit from earlier, a pink tank top with white linen shorts but her hair is tied up now, a pen stuck behind one ear. Her digicam plugged in beside her, footage playing on loop as she trims the clips. She glances up when she hears the door. “Honey I’m homeeee.” You sing.

Jurin snorts. “Welcome back sweetie. Buy anything good?”

“Yes!” you say, digging through the bag. You take out the items and showcase them and she compliments each choice and how she thinks each family member of yours will react. She’s still talking as you move around the kitchen, unpacking a small box of cookies you’d picked up on the way. You place them on the counter between you and lean your hip against the edge, still half-listening as Jurin talks.

Just as she wraps up talking, her screen lights up with an incoming facetime. She glances at it and grins. “My baby!” You lean in just as she answers. Sohee’s face fills the screen, slightly flushed and backlit by what looks like the inside of his car. He’s in scrubs and there’s a takeout cup balanced in the console beside him. “About time,” Jurin says.

“You act like I don’t work twelve-hour shifts,” he mutters, squinting at the sun. “What are you two up to?”

“Eating cookies,” you say. “Being domestic.”

He scowls “Must be nice.” he says, voice flat.

You raise an eyebrow, “You could be here too, we literally invited you.”

“I’m a nurse. You think I’ve got time?”

You shrug. “On the bright side at least you’re employed.”

He waves you off and yawns. “I’m heading in for another twelve hour, just wanted to check in on you two and make sure you’re still alive. Anything new happening? Any updates about plane guy?” You and Jurin exchange a glance and Sohee’s brows pull together. “What? What was that look for?” He asks as he slows to a stop.

“You’ll never believe what happened on Sunday.” You say, Sohee takes a sip of his coffee and urges you to continue. You walk him through Silverstone, how you saw Sungchan, how you found out his real name, you tell him about the driver’s room and the phone number exchange. You keep it short but by the end, Sohee’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“So you’re telling me,” he says, hands clapping together once in disbelief, “that the man from your redeye flight is actually a Formula 1 driver?” You nod. He exhales through his teeth. “God really does have favorites.” You and Jurin both snort. He shifts in his seat, resting one arm across the steering wheel. “And you’ve been talking since?”

You hum and nod. “I think every day since Silverstone.”

Jurin pipes in, “they’re like lovesick teenagers I swear!”

You shove her gently and Sohee laughs before asking. “How do you feel about him?”

You press your thumb into the table and try to be honest. “I think…I like talking to him. I like the way he is when it’s just the two of us…I like that he texts me dumb things throughout the day and that he makes time to call even when he’s probably running on empty.”

Jurin hums knowingly. “Sounds like you like him babes.”

You tense a bit, a little thrown by the statement. You don’t answer right away. Just lean your against the counter and fold your arms like that might help you feel a little less bare. The kitchen’s quiet except for the faint hum of Jurin’s digicam transferring files and the sounds from Sohee’s car on the other end of the call. Sohee breaks it first. “Why do you look like that? There’s no shame in liking someone. Especially when that someone is a billionaire and goes out of his way to facetime you just to ask what you ate for lunch.”

You let out a half-laugh but it doesn’t really stick. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed,” you say eventually, voice softer than before. “I just—” You sigh and reach for another cookie you don’t even want. Your hands need something to do. “I don’t know. He’s just so…him? He’s twenty-three, has a Ferrari contract and an apartment in Monaco…Monaco! And then there’s me.”

Sohee’s quiet, Jurin too. You stare down at the wrapper in your hand. “I just finished school and I don’t even know what comes next. I don’t have a title or a path or any certainty about where I’m heading. My idea of fine dining is splitting a bowl of pasta with Jurin and pretending we don’t need to check our bank accounts. Like, what do I have to offer someone who is in the one percent?” It comes out more bitter than you mean for it to. Not angry, just honest. Uncomfortably so.

“I know how this sounds,” you add after a second. “But it’s hard not to feel like there’s a gap between us that can’t be filled by liking the same movies or texting every night. He lives a fast life that gets dissected and gossiped about. I get stressed at the thought of even being perceived.”

Sohee exhales. “Okay yeah…that makes sense.” You appreciate that he doesn’t sugarcoat it. That he doesn’t rush to contradict you or feed you a line about how you’ll work it out. It’s not that you don’t want to. You really really like Sungchan but it would be dumb to not acknowledge the stark difference in your lives, what you would be subjecting yourself to if anything were to come from this.

Jurin leans forward, fingers tapping her water bottle thoughtfully. “I hear you…I do but I also think…I think it’s not normal to lie about who you are on a plane because you’re scared someone will only like the version of you they’ve seen in a headline.”

You look up, confused. She nods toward your phone, the one that buzzes every evening now with his name lighting up the screen. “He lied because he’s tired of constantly performing and for once he didn’t want to and you gave him that even if it was just for a few hours on a flight.” You blink hard, throat tightening a little.

Jurin reaches over and squeezes your arm. “Don’t talk like you’re some consolation prize, you’re not. You’re someone who made him feel human again.” You look at her then at the phone still perched against the cookie box with Sohee’s waiting expression staring back.

“Just…” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “be honest with yourself about what you want and what you’re okay with because if this turns into something more, it’s not just going to be the two of you.” You nod slowly, trying to take that in.

Jurin glances between you and your phone, hesitates and then says, “While we’re on this topic…you should know that there’s a post going around.”

You stiffen, “A post? About what?’ You and Sohee both watch her close out her digicam photos and pull up instagram before scrolling on her mousepad to find said post. She pulls up a page named ‘paddocktea’ and turns her laptop to face you. Thankfully it’s not a picture of your face, not even your back or side profile. Just a picture of Sungchan blurry from movement with his helmet in hand and suit still half-zipped as he walks past the Ferrari hospitality lounge. The caption below it is what makes your stomach twist.

allegedly, ferrari’s golden boy sungchan might be off the market! multiple fans spotted a girl coming out of his driver’s room last race weekend at silverstone and sources say he’s been glued to his phone ever since. what do we think? is there a new wag?

You read it twice to make sure it says what you think it does. Jurin watches you carefully. “There’s no photos of you, not even a name just…speculation.” She says genty. You nod slowly letting that sink in. It’s a little surreal and a little unnerving but not the end of the world. There’s something reassuring in the vagueness…like you’re still shielded, still able to step back if you really need to. Your name hasn’t entered the conversation yet and maybe it won’t. Maybe this is just noise, destined to pass through the F1 rumor mill and fizzle out by the next race weekend.

Jurin closes her laptop and leans forward, resting her elbows on the counter. “You should talk to him. Not because of the post but…just to see where his head’s at. What he wants.”

You glance at your phone where it sits, screen dark. “Not gonna spiral about it tonight,” you say, stretching your arms overhead with a dramatic sigh. “I’m choosing peace.”

Sohee snorts and Jurin hums. “As long as you talk to him at some point.” She says. You nod and sigh before taking a seat beside her. You let it go for now because not everything has to be sorted out all at once, because you’ve still got two more nights in Venice and the view outside the window is golden and especially because life didn’t end when you first said hello to Jinsu, if anything it feels like it’s just beginning.

Venice, Italy — Thursday, June 13th

Today is your last day in Venice. It’s the kind of sentence that makes your chest feel weird, like something good is ending even though you knew it would. You and Jurin spent the morning wandering through the streets, stopping for cappuccinos and taking turns with your disposable. You bought things you don’t need nor have room for: a ceramic trinket shaped like a gondola and a tiny bottle of perfume that already leaked in your tote.

In the afternoon, you took the vaporetto out to Lido. The beach was busy but tolerable with kids building lopsided castles, old men napping under umbrellas, someone strumming a guitar a little off key. Jurin took her content photos while you played camerawoman, calling out pose prompts and adjusting angles until the light was just right. She caught a few good ones of you too, silhouetted against the water, laughing off camera, one where the hem of your dress is caught in the breeze.

You ate prosciutto sandwiches and split a bag of cherries while your legs dried in the sun. Bought a fizzy peach soda and a new pair of sunglasses that won’t survive the summer. You even spent the last of your euros on lemon cookies for the plane ride tomorrow and a little magnet for your younger sibling that you’ll pretend is a thoughtful gift, even though you grabbed it last-minute.

Now you’re showered, warm from the inside out and stretched across your bed in a clean t-shirt with your hair still damp. Jurin is at the kitchen table editing footage, mumbling to herself about lighting and captions. Your phone buzzes somewhere near your hip.

8:59 pm | sungchan 🏎️: how was your last day in venice?

You bite back a smile before you even read it again, thumb already reaching to reply.

You pause the conversation to head back toward the entryway where the Airbnb host told you packages get left and sure enough, nestled beside the umbrella stand is a large white box tied with a deep red ribbon. You carry it back inside with both hands, your brows lifting as you carefully untie the bow and peel back the lid. Inside is a bouquet so large it takes your breath away. An explosion of soft pink peonies, buttery yellow garden roses and delicate white ranunculus tied together with a pale silk ribbon. You call out a confused “Um?” to Jurin who peeks over her laptop and lets out a low whistle. Your phone buzzes again.

9:06 pm | sungchan 🏎️: hope u like them :)

You don’t reply right away just stare down at the flowers in awe. The gesture is unexpected but not unwelcome. You type back a quick thank you with three exclamation points and a red heart. A few messages later, he asks what time you’re arriving in Barcelona tomorrow. You tell him around 10, after which he sends a long voice note explaining the weekend schedule—how you’ll be getting in around the end of free practice and that he and a few of the other drivers are thinking of taking the yacht out in the afternoon. He says you and Jurin are more than welcome to join if you’re free. You practically beam at your screen.

You’ve never been on a yacht before. Just the idea of it sends a ripple of excitement through you. Sungchan of course says it so casually like this is a totally normal thing to offer someone you’ve known less than a month. You already know Jurin is going to freak out. Getting to hang out with her favorite drivers on a yacht in Spain is practically Christmas come early.

He asks if you’re planning on attending quali and the race and you say yes, that Jurin secured tickets for both Barcelona and Monaco. He immediately offers to upgrade you to VIP, which sends another rush of heat to your cheeks. You thank him again, a little more emphatically this time and he just says, “It’s the least I can do.”

You chat a bit longer about nothing in particular. He sends a photo of his room, clothes already laid out for media day. You tell him to go to bed and get some rest and he sends back a smiley face and says he’ll try. You stay quiet for a moment, then scroll through the photos Jurin took of you earlier on the beach. You pick your favorites and pair them with a close-up of the flowers. You hesitate only for a second before posting them with a caption that reads: you’re everything i ever dreamed of.

The post gains more traction than usual; more likes, more saves, a few random follows you don’t recognize. You catch Sungchan’s username among the likes, feel your stomach flip and then force yourself to put your phone face down on the nightstand. You’re not going to overthink it. Instead, you’re going to sleep with the biggest smile on your face.

Barcelona, Spain — Friday, June 14th

The sun is high and brutal and you’re doing your best to hide from it. Your shoulder is pressed into Sungchan’s side, your cheek resting against the warm fabric of his shirt. He shifts slightly enough to press a kiss to the top of your shoulder. You don’t say anything, just hum and let yourself sink deeper into the curve of his arm.

Across from you Jurin is animatedly talking, knees pulled up to her chest, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she explains something about content creating to Eunseok who nods like he understands but probably doesn’t. He smiles anyway.

Anton drops into the seat beside you with a sigh, water still dripping from his hair and chest. He opens the cooler wedged between your feet, rifles through it then holds up a grape soda in offering. You take it with a small “Thanks,” the can cold against your warmed fingers. He nods and leans back, stretching his legs until they bump against yours.

It’s been a long morning. You and Jurin landed in Barcelona around 9:20 am barely coherent, running on two hours of sleep and one shared red bull. The airport felt like a fever dream. You split a cab into the city, dropped your bags at the apartment and crashed for a brief barely-there nap before getting ready and heading to the marina.

Jurin had talked your ear off the whole ride over about Sungchan’s free practice session, gushing about his pace and how clean his lines were. You had to hide your shock at her willingly complimenting a Ferrari driver and tried not to fixate on the way your stomach flipped whenever his name came up.

By the time you reached the dock, most of the boys were already there shirtless, loud and very clearly off-duty. Sungchan was waiting at the edge with one foot up on the dock and one hand outstretched. He’d helped you and Jurin aboard and introduced you to the rest of the drivers—Shotaro, Wonbin, Eunseok, Anton, and Seunghan (the Aston Martin reserve driver you’d only heard about in passing) before pushing off from the dock and steering the boat into open water.

Since then, you’ve swam, eaten and sunbathed. Your stomach is full from too many sandwiches and a handful of truffle chips you swore you wouldn’t touch. The waves are gentle and the music is low as one of the boys whistle off-beat. You glance up at Sungchan for a second and find he’s already looking at you while tracing slow circles over your knee with the pad of his thumb. You take a sip of your soda and lean into him a little more. “This is nice.” You hum.

From the other end of the deck, there’s a thud and a sigh so dramatic it pulls your attention. Wonbin walks over and throws himself onto the closed cooler, arms crossed like a sulking kid, and Seunghan follows behind him, trying not to laugh. “You can’t just quit because you’re losing,” he says nudging Wonbin’s foot with his own.

“I wasn’t losing,” Wonbin mutters, face buried in his hand. “I just wasn’t winning.” You snort into your soda can.

Anton leans back into his seat with a scoff. “Same thing dude.”

“I don’t like playing games I’m bad at,” Wonbin says, still sulking. “It’s not good for my confidence.”

Seunghan just laughs and lets it go while Shotaro continues playing against no one, muttering about sore losers. You’re about to make a joke when a sudden wave knocks the boat off rhythm. The boat rocks back and forth trying to restabilize and you grip on to Sungchan a little tighter. Wonbin’s eyes widen. “Turbulence? On a boat?”

You glance up at him, lips twitching. “Not turbulence. That’s more of a plane thing.”

He squints at you. “Same difference.”

“Not really. Boat motion is surface-level but turbulence on planes is usually due to pockets of unstable air. It’s kind of like hitting invisible potholes.” You say. There’s a pause.

You feel Sungchan hold you closer and kiss the back of your head as Anton stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Why do you just know that?”

“She’s obsessed,” Jurin calls from somewhere behind her sunglasses.

“Hot girl with hyperfixations. A tale as old as time.” Wonbin says solemnly. Sungchan grabs a chip and flicks it straight at his forehead. “Hey!” Wonbin laughs, wiping salt from his face as Anton hauls him to his feet with a sigh. “Let’s go before he actually throws a punch.” Anton salutes you both lazily before tugging Wonbin toward the front of the yacht, muttering something about cannonballs.

You’re still half-draped over Sungchan’s side when he taps your hip gently, a silent signal to move. You shift without question, letting him guide you until you’re seated properly facing him with one leg folded between his and the other bent at the knee. He mirrors your posture, one hand finding your waist like it’s second nature.

He learns forward for the fruit bowl and picks out some grapes. He feeds you them one at a time without saying anything. He plucks them from the bowl and offers them to you between two fingers, waiting until you chew and swallow before handing over the next. You take them without question too relaxed to bother teasing him for it. Besides, it feels nice. “You know I could grab them myself,” you murmur around a bite.

“I know,” he says like that’s the whole point. He shifts a little, arms curling around your waist so you’re more fully in his lap. His chest is broad and warm against your front. For a few seconds you sit in silence while the boys shout somewhere on the other side of the boat then his voice cuts through it. “I’ve been thinking about Turn 7.”

You blink. “What?”

“High-speed corner in Sector 3.” He shifts slightly, nudging the bowl of grapes aside to use both hands while he talks. “Last year I lost in Barcelona because I took it too wide.”

“I don’t know what that means,” you admit gently.

He chuckles. “I know.” You stay quiet and let him keep talking. He goes on for another minute or two, laying out strategies like he’s trying to work through them in real time. It doesn’t really matter that you’re not following most of it, you can tell that talking it out helps, that he thinks better out loud and that he trusts you enough to be that person he tells his race strategy to. When he trails off, you glance at him again. “Do you always get this in your head before a race?”

“Not always,” he shrugs. “Only when I want to win.”

You smile. “Don’t you always want to win?”

He gives a noncommittal hum then says out of nowhere: “You’re really beautiful.” You freeze for half a second and then roll your eyes even as your heart trips. “Even with sweat dripping down my back?”

He leans forward and kisses the corner of your mouth anyway. “Especially then.”

Your mouth is parted just slightly from the surprise and he’s still close, so close you can feel the shift in his breath as it brushes your cheek. He doesn’t move for a second and neither do you. “You’re really beautiful,” he says again, this time lower like it’s a secret.

Your stomach dips. He’s waiting you realize, he won’t make the next move unless you do so you close the distance. It starts out soft and slow enough to make you second guess whether you’re actually kissing him or just thinking about it too hard but then loosely, his hand moves to grip your neck and you lift your chin higher so you can press your lips harder into his while your hands fist into his shirt. His free hand drops to wind around your waist and in one swift movement he pulls your body flush against his.

You gasp at the motion and Sungchan uses the opportunity to slip his tongue between your teeth, your lips parting further in response. You moan into his mouth, your chin lifting higher as you press your lips harder against his. You lose yourself into the intoxicating feeling of his lips against yours. When you feel his tongue flick against yours, your hands uncurl from his shirt only to wind up his chest, along his throat, towards the nape of his neck.

Both of you lose track of time, your tongues gliding and sliding against each other, both of you consumed by the other. There’s a soft ache in your lungs from the lack of oxygen but you don’t care. Right now, breathing is the last thing on your mind. In fact, the only thing you can think of is Sungchan and the intoxicating sensation of his tongue against yours.

When the ache grows too much to be ignored, the two of you pull away breathing harshly against each other. Your lips are slightly swollen and as you flick out your tongue to soothe them, you can’t help but whimper at the aftertaste of him in your mouth.

You stay like that for a while tucked into his arm. You can still feel the shape of his mouth on yours. You glance over at him, wondering if he’s thinking about it too but he just looks so calm hand still moving absentmindedly across the dip of your waist.

Your first kiss with Sungchan. You turn the thought over in your mind trying to make sense of it but you don’t know what it means or where this is going. All you know is how it made you feel, like something you didn’t even know you’d been waiting for had finally found you.

Eventually, Jurin appears with her phone in hand and a grin. “Photo time,” she announces. You groan but Sungchan just laughs and helps you up, smoothing a hand over your back before pressing a soft kiss to your temple like it’s second nature now. You take a few pictures, half-laughing and squinting into the sun. By the time the yacht heads back toward the dock, the sun is dipping lower and everything’s tinged with orange. Jurin waves you off with a wink and a promise to text later saying she’s staying behind with the boys for a night out. Something about a club one of them swears by.

You and Sungchan split off from the group, walking the streets before finding a gelato stand still open. You each pick a flavor and walk side by side, arms brushing now and then, saying very little. He asks if you’re tired and you say a little. He says he is too but doesn’t want the night to end. You hum in agreement, licking dripping pistachio off your cone. “It’s been a good day.” He nods in agreement.

Once you finish your ice cream you make your way along the waterfront, passing closed cafés and dimly lit shopfronts. The waves are lapping gently against the docked boats and there’s a breeze picking up, light but enough to make you pull your free hand into your sleeve. He notices and tugs you a little closer. “This still doesn’t feel real.” You say.

He looks at you. “What doesn’t?”

“This,” you say, glancing down at your joined hands like you’re not entirely sure how they got there. “You, us. All of it.” He doesn’t say anything right away, just lets your words hang in the air for a second. You both step around a stack of folded café chairs, his hand never loosening from yours. The breeze shifts again, a little colder this time and you try to ignore the way your skin prickles. “I know who you are. Like, who the world thinks you are and I know that’s not all of you but…it’s still kind of a lot to wrap my head around.”

Sungchan exhales through his nose. “That’s fair.” You look up at him expecting a joke or some light deflection but there’s none. “I guess it’s weird for me too,” he says eventually. “Not because of who you are but because of how fast this feels like it’s moving. Normally I meet people and it’s just…small talk and media-trained reactions but with you—” He breaks off, eyebrows drawing in slightly like he’s looking for the right words. “With you I don’t feel like I have to filter anything. That’s rare for me.”

You try to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “It’s not just a phase, then?”

He slows to a stop beside one of the railings, glancing out at the dark water before turning fully toward you. “If it were just a phase, I don’t think I’d have let you in the way I have or kissed you like that.” You nod and he squeezes your hand. “I like you,” he says simply. “Not the idea of you, not as a distraction. Just…you.”

It’s not an overblown declaration. Not some grand romantic gesture but it still hits the same. You don’t say anything, instead you lean into him again, your head against his shoulder as he slides his arm around your waist, tucking you closer as the breeze lifts again and the lights of the marina shimmer across the water.

He walks you the rest of the way home holding you a little tighter. Your hands stay intertwined and every so often he brings the back of yours up to his mouth like he can’t help himself. You don’t say much, everything that needs to be said already has been.

Your building comes into view sooner than you want it to. You’re not sure how the night passed so quickly, only that you’re already missing it, missing him and he hasn’t even left yet. Sungchan walks you to the door and lingers there. You stop in front of him, tilt your face up and he takes the cue, brushing his fingers along your cheek. “Get some sleep,” he murmurs. “Need my good luck charm well rested.” You nod but neither of you moves.

Then like gravity pulling you together he leans in and kisses you again. His hand rests lightly against your jaw and your fingers find the front of his shirt without thinking. He pulls back just a little not too far though, close enough that your noses still touch. “Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight,” you whisper and then you’re inside. The apartment is mostly dark save for the kitchen light. You round the corner and find Jurin perched on the counter in her pajamas drinking from a water bottle. She looks up startled then grins. “Back already?”

You raise a brow. “What happened to your big night out?”

She shrugs and hops off the counter. “The guys flaked. Said they were tired and needed to rest up for quali. Lame.” She opens the fridge again and grabs another bottle, tossing it to you. “What about you?”

You take the water and thank her before saying same and that, “Sungchan needs his sleep.”

Jurin hums as she twists the cap back onto her water bottle. “I’m happy for you. Sungchan seems like a good guy.”

You glance over at her, caught off guard by the softness in her tone. “Yeah,” you say after a beat, lips curving. “He is.” She opens her arms and you step into them easily. It’s a brief hug, she pulls away first and says goodnight before heading into her room.

You finish your water before heading to your room too. You toss your phone onto the bed as soon as you enter and peel off your clothes, not even glancing at the screen before walking into the ensuite bathroom. You step into the shower and let the water run while you think about tomorrow and what to wear, maybe you should wear red? Would Sungchan like that you’d be matching?

When you finally finish your shower and step out, the air feels cooler against your damp skin. You wrap yourself in a towel and pad into the bedroom, heading for your suitcase to dig out your skincare bag only to find your phone is buzzing like it’s trying to crawl off the bed. You blink at it confused but before you can reach for it Jurin pounds on your door. You flinch, heart jumping. “What the—”

“Open the door!” Jurin’s voice comes muffled through the wood, frantic.

Still dripping and naked, you yank the door open. “What’s going on?”

She’s wide-eyed, holding her phone out. “Have you seen this?” She turns the phone screen to you and your heart drops into your ass. On her screen is yet another post from paddocktea but this time you’re in it. In fact you’re in two photos. One of you and Sungchan on the yacht kissing and the other of you two holding hands and walking around the marina. The caption nearly stops your breathing.

looks like ferrari’s golden boy might be off the market for real this time. jung sungchan was spotted on a yacht in barcelona this week, where he was seen making out with a mystery girl on the upper deck—very publicly, we might add. sources say the two have been glued to each other since silverstone. if the pics are anything to go by, he’s not hiding it anymore. are we witnessing the soft launch of the paddock’s newest it couple?

Your breath goes shallow before you even finish reading the caption. There’s a strange ringing in your ears like the world’s been dunked underwater. The phone screen blurs and sharpens again and for a moment you don’t know if it’s because your vision is going or because the photo is just that clear. “Oh my Gosh,” you whisper, the words hollow and quiet.

“Hey…hey, sit,” Jurin says quickly guiding you back toward your bed. Your knees fold before you can register it, the towel barely tucked around you now. Your heart feels like it’s vibrating out of your chest. “I—I can’t—” you wheeze.

“Breathe,” she says, kneeling in front of you now, hands on your knees. “Breathe, babe. You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay.” But you’re not listening. Your hand fumbles around for your phone and as soon as you grab it, you swipe open your notifications. Instagram, Twitter, even Tiktok. They’re pouring in. Mentions, tags, reposts, comments from strangers, screenshots. The post has made rounds faster than you thought possible. You open Twitter and instantly regret it. You scroll down the trending tag, your vision blurring as you read them.

⤑ never thought i’d say this but i miss his ex ⤑ she’s disgusting what does he even see in her ?? ⤑ if she’s a wag then i’m queen of england 💀 ⤑ this pr ass relationship BYEEEE ⤑ how do you go from dating thee literal princess of monaco to this… ⤑ propaganda i will NAWT be falling for she’s so ugly

Your stomach twists. You don’t even know what wag material means. You didn’t sign up for this. You didn’t sign up for any of this. Jurin catches the change in your breathing before you do, you’re gasping again. Your hands are shaking so hard you nearly drop the phone. She grabs it from you gently, prying it out of your grip even as you reach for it again. “No,” she says firmly. “Absolutely not. You’re done. You’re not reading this. You’re not doing this to yourself.”

Tears spill out fast and hot, surprising even you. “I can’t do this,” you choke out. “I can’t—”

“Hey, hey,” Jurin tries but you’re already shaking your head, curling into yourself.

“I can’t go tomorrow. I’m not going to the race. I can’t show up and pretend this is normal. I don’t want this.” You’re crying now, like full on bawling. These people don’t know you yet they’re so cruel. You feel so exposed and out of place, like a fraud.

You knew being involved with someone like him came with attention but this? This is something else entirely. It’s invasive, it’s cruel and it’s a reminder that no matter how kind Sungchan is or how close he’s made you feel, you’re still not from his world. You don’t come from money or fame. You’re just…you. A fresh grad with mountains of student debt, a resume you’re still editing and a stomach that knots any time the spotlight gets too close. You’re not built for this and it shows.

Jurin’s quiet for a second, just watching you. Eventually she decides to speak up. “Don’t make any big decisions right now, okay? You’re overwhelmed and this is a lot but let’s breathe before we do something we can’t take back.” You nod but it’s more of a reflex than a promise because the truth is: you’re already halfway down the tunnel.

Your phone buzzes on the bed again and you lunge for it before she can stop you. You know it’s him. You don’t need to check. “Don’t. Not like this. You need to calm down first.” Jurin begs.

You of course don’t listen, you’re already pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?” Your voice comes out watery and broken.

There’s a beat of silence then he softly asks, “have you been crying?” You don’t answer, just sniff once and that says enough. “I’m sorry. I just saw the post. I’ve already called my team. I’m trying to get it taken down. I didn’t even realize anyone was taking pictures or I would’ve—”

“We should end this,” you cut in. The words taste bitter and final.

There’s a beat of silence. “W–what?”

You close your eyes. “We should end this. Who were we kidding, Sungchan? It was never going to last.”

“Don’t say that. Yes, it’s been fast I know that but that doesn’t make it any less real.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see you. “It doesn’t matter. You may be used to people digging through your life and making think pieces about your relationships but I’m not. I’m not okay with strangers smearing my name or spreading rumors that could cost me job interviews. I don’t have your security. I’m not backed by a team of reps or PR handlers. I’m just…me. A normal person trying to get by.”

Jurin looks at you then, quite visibly disappointed. Her shoulders fold in on themselves like she knows you’re not being fair but also understands that the hurt is too fresh to stop. “That’s not fair,” Sungchan says, his voice more fragile.

“No,” you agree. “It’s not but it’s the truth.”

“Hang up. Please, just hang up.” Jurin begs.

You ignore her and continue. “People are calling me a nobody, a gold digger, a joke.” You swipe at your cheeks, your voice cracking. “And maybe I could brush it off if it weren’t all true but I am a nobody. I’m just a girl you met on a plane.”

There’s a long pause. “You’re not a nobody. You’re smart and funny and beautiful and you’re worth so much more than what these people think.” You just stare ahead, jaw clenched, heart breaking even as you do it. “Please,” he says again, quieter this time. “Let’s figure this out. Don’t just walk away.”

You close your eyes. “I’m sorry Sungchan. I think it’s better if we cut ties now.” He says your name like a plea but you don’t wait for the rest. You end the call before he can say anything more, the dial tone loud in your ear as the screen goes black. Jurin pulls you into her arms and you let yourself fall, sobbing into her shoulder. You cry until your body is sore from it. You fall asleep like that; wrapped in your best friend’s arms, your phone face down on the floor and a knot in your chest that feels like it may never go away.

Circuit de Barcelona — Qualifying day, June 15th

The sun is high and beating down on the paddock like it has something to prove. The garage smells like burnt rubber and engine oil and the air feels thicker than usual. Sungchan doesn’t say much as he pulls his balaclava over his head. He’s been quiet all morning. The first quali run didn’t go as planned, he clipped the curb too tight on Turn 9, lost a tenth in Sector 3 and barely scraped through. It was sloppy and messy. Not like him.

Now he’s sat in the back of the garage with his fireproofs clinging to his skin and eyes glued to the live timing screen even though he’s not really seeing it. His engineer is crouched beside him, tapping notes on a clipboard. “You need to pull it together this run,” the man says plainly, not unkind but firm. “Your pace in free practice was top five. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be through. You got this.” Sungchan nods once, stiff and mechanical. He hears the words but they barely register because you’re not here.

Jurin is—he spotted her earlier, bouncing on her heels and talking to one of the Red Bull social media crew, wearing sunglasses too big for her face and a McLaren tee knotted at the waist but not you. You said you were done and you meant it. It shouldn’t matter but it does. He slips into the car, fingers tightening around the wheel. The sound of the engine roars to life and the world gets a little smaller. “You’re going out first on the mediums. You just need to beat Anton’s pace to make it through.” His race engineer says in his ear. The pit lane light goes green and Sungchan releases the clutch.

He sets off and for the first time since joining F1, he’s not thinking about the tire degradation or the wind direction. He’s not thinking about pole position or winning at all. He’s thinking about you. About your voice, hoarse from crying. About how small and unsure it sounded when you told him you couldn’t do this. About how you didn’t even give him a chance to respond before hanging up. He flies through Sectors One and Two making too many mistakes. He’s flying down the track on Sector 3, trying to match Anton’s pace but the back tire keeps slipping. He comes up on Turn 6 and takes it a little too fast and adjusts too late. “Careful on entry,” his engineer warns.

He grips the wheel tighter as he comes up on turn 7. He told you about this corner yesterday. Last season he went too wide, blew his lead and lost the race. You didn’t understand most of what he said, you nodded and listened, let him talk it through. You made space for him, in a way no one else does and now you’re all he can think about. You, with your trembling voice telling him you weren’t cut out for this. You, calling yourself a nobody like he hasn’t just spent two weeks chasing your presence.

The car rockets down the straight. His grip is tight…too tight. The numbers on his display blur with speed. He’s still thinking about your voice. “Watch your line,” his engineer says. “You’re too—” Turn 7 comes too fast. He turns in late, tries to catch it but the rear snaps. There’s a split second where he thinks maybe he can hold it but sadly he can’t. The cars too far gone.

The car fishtails violently and then hooks left. He slams the brakes but it does nothing, all four tires are locked. His halo cuts across his line of sight as the wall barrels toward him and then boom. Straight into the barrier.

Seventy kilos of carbon fiber and steel slam into the barrier at full speed, the nose shattering on contact, the rear end flipping slightly before slamming back down. His helmet snaps forward then violently back, his whole body restrained only by belts as the G-force spikes higher than he’s ever felt.

His visor fogs as he groans in pain. His radio crackles. “Yellow flag, yellow flag…red flag. Sungchan, status check—can you hear me? Sungchan, respond.” He blinks. The cockpit smells like burning rubber and hot oil. His chest aches, everything aches. The marshal lights flash in the distance. People are running toward him. He swallows hard and forces a breath then another. Your face, stupidly, is still the only thing in his head. He presses the comm. “I’m here,” he says, hoarse. “I think I’m okay.” Truthfully, he’s not. Not really.

___

You’re curled up on the apartment couch blanket bunched in your lap and remote resting useless beside you. The TV is on, coverage flickering between pit lane footage and sector analysis. You’re on the edge of your seat praying for a miracle. The qualifying session is partway through and nothing’s going to plan.

You chew on your lip as the commentators recap the Q1 results. Charles is out, starting P12 tomorrow. Some issue with the tires or engine, no one’s really sure yet. Sungchan only just scraped through in P10. His pace is off and his corners are messier than usual. You don’t need to be an expert to see it.

Your phone buzzes beside you with a text from Jurin. You exhale through your nose. She’s been trying to get you to come all day, sweet-talking you in the morning, even laying out a spare outfit for you but you couldn’t. You told her you needed time to yourself, that you would be a distraction. You shift the blanket higher over your chest, thumb hovering over your screen before typing.

10:35 am | you: do you think it’s my fault he’s not doing so well?

You stare at the message, then delete it. Retype it. Delete it again. Type it then send before you can second guess. Jurin doesn’t answer fast enough either way and it makes you feel worse. Your stomach churns.

You know what this track means to him. He told you about it yesterday, rambled on about Turn 7 like it was a living, breathing enemy. He needs a clear head and a clean lap but instead you’ve disrupted his peace with your breakdown and your uncertainty. You can’t shake the guilt. The coverage cuts to onboard footage again, Sungchan’s out for his second run. The camera jolts with every gear shift and you’re practically holding your breath. “Come on,” you whisper. “Come on, just make it through.”

Your eyes are locked on the screen as Sungchan rounds Turn 5, the onboard view rattling with speed, the edges of the frame blurring slightly as he pushes down the straight. You lean forward without realizing, fingers fisted in the hem of your shirt, breath caught high in your chest. “He’s coming up on Sector 3 now,” one of the commentators says.

You don’t blink as he dives into Turn 6, he takes it a little too aggressively, the car wobbling slightly as he corrects. “Careful. Please be careful.” You murmur.

Then he hits Turn 7, he goes in too fast and too wide. Again. The back end of the car kicks out and it feels like your heart stopped. You don’t hear the commentator’s voice spike. You don’t hear Jurin’s text come through. You don’t even hear yourself when you gasp out loud because the screen cuts to an external shot just in time to show his car hook left and slam into the barrier at full speed. It’s not a normal crash, it’s a full-on bone-rattling impact. Your hand flies to your mouth.

“Red flag! That’s a heavy impact at Turn 7,” the announcer’s voice comes back in. “That’s Jung Sungchan—yellow flags went out just before he lost it. Medical car’s already been deployed. That was a hard hit.”

You’re already standing, your knees weak and your body trembling. The replay plays again in slow motion and it’s worse this time. The way the car sails into the wall. The way the halo jars violently under the impact. How still everything goes right after. You don’t realize you’re crying until the tears hit your neck. “Sungchan,” you whisper but it doesn’t do anything. Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

Your fingers tremble as you unlock your phone again, eyes darting between apps hoping and praying for an update. The coverage shows the car from a distance now, crumpled and still. Your fingers are still trembling when the static crackles through the team radio. “I’m here.” He says hoarsely.

You collapse back onto the couch with a sob that’s equal parts relief and exhaustion, covering your face with both hands as tears stream freely now. The camera cuts to a wide shot with marshals and medics surrounding him as he climbs slowly out of the car. You swipe at your face trying to pull yourself together and trying not to think about what could’ve happened.

You clutch your phone tighter as messages start rolling in, notifications blinking at the top of your screen. They’re mostly from Jurin telling you that he’s okay and he’s being looked at now. That the impact was hard but his vitals are stable and he’s still cracking jokes with the team. That no, this isn’t your fault, not even a little bit. Still, you can’t help but feel like it is. A few minutes later, Ferrari’s instagram page updates with a statement. You read it once, then again.

An unfortunate end to Jung Sungchan’s qualifying session today in Barcelona. Following a high-impact crash in Sector 3, Sungchan has been ruled out for Sunday’s race on medical grounds. The team is with him every step of the way. Forza, Sungchan—we race again soon.

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a long time, ruled out makes your throat tighten. He was supposed to win here. Not just do well but win. You stare at your texts for what feels like forever before finally typing:

10:59 am | you: hi 10:59 am | you: i saw the race, i’m sorry you can’t race tomorrow. 11:03 am | you: i’m glad you’re okay

Monaco Circuit — Race Day, June 29th

It’s been two weeks since Barcelona but it doesn’t feel like it, in fact it feels longer. It’s been two weeks of complete silence. After the crash everything just…stopped. No texts, no calls, no more updates from the Ferrari garage. No little red heart reactions on your stories, nothing. You told yourself you wouldn’t reach out again, not after the way you left things and he didn’t either. Yet the silence doesn’t feel mutual.

You stayed in Barcelona for three more days after the race, drifting around the city like a ghost. Jurin kept trying to cheer you up but it didn’t help. She suggested cafés and boat rides, pointed out the shops she thought you’d like but you barely remember any of it. You didn’t eat much and didn’t sleep much either.

You rewatched the crash on your phone at least thirty times, looking for something that might tell you he really was okay. The official updates from Ferrari helped a little and so did the photo Anton sent you of Sungchan giving a thumbs up from the medical room with messy hair and his race suit half-unzipped but it wasn’t the same. You didn’t reply to Anton, you didn’t know how.

After Barcelona came Germany. Munich was colder than you expected, clouded over in the afternoons like the city was matching your mood on purpose. You walked through museums with Jurin, stared at renaissance paintings until they blurred together. You climbed towers and looked down at the old city, imagining what it might feel like to be someone else. You tried schnitzel even though you weren’t hungry and bought gifts for your family they didn’t need. Jurin begged you to go out one night and you agreed just to stop her pleading but you left after thirty minutes and cried in the hostel bathroom instead.

Paris came next. You were supposed to love Paris. You ate macarons by the river and drank a glass of wine you couldn’t finish. Jurin took pictures of you on a disposable camera, told you they’d look better after the film developed but you could already see the sadness in your eyes.

You rode the carousel near the Eiffel Tower and didn’t even pretend to smile. The comments online had only gotten worse. Every post, every tweet, every Tiktok blaming you for Sungchan’s crash sank deeper under your skin. People who didn’t even know your name before suddenly had so much to say. You made all your socials private and deleted Twitter altogether. Jurin and Sohee reported everything they could but it didn’t really help. The damage had already been done.

And now Monaco, you’ve been here five days. The water is bluer than you imagined and the air smells like salt and old money. Every time you step outside it’s like walking onto the set of a movie. Everything’s pristine. You haven’t left the hotel much, just walks to get coffee or follow Jurin to dinner. Monaco is your last stop, it’s also the last race before F1’s summer break. Race weekend started two days ago and Jurin tried convincing you to go, said it would do you some good but you told her you weren’t going, you’re not ready to face him. You had meant it when you said it but then Anton sent over paddock passes.

He didn’t even ask just texted you the confirmation barcodes and said, you should come. even if it’s just to say bye.

You stared at the screen for a full ten minutes before typing thank you and nothing else. He didn’t press, didn’t mention Sungchan, only sent a selfie of himself in sunglasses with a McLaren umbrella and said, it’s hot as balls here btw. bring sunscreen.

And so now, somehow, you’re going. Not because you’ve worked up the courage or found a new wave of confidence but because you feel like you owe it to yourself to try. You’re dressed in a black dress, sleek and simple but elegant. The paddock pass hangs around your neck and shifts with every step you take. Jurin’s hand stays linked with yours as you walk through the paddock, weaving around crew members and engineers.

The McLaren garage comes into view just as Anton is zipping up his race suit. His hair is damp from prep and there’s a thin layer of sweat covering his forehead. He looks up as you approach, “Look who finally decided to show up,” he grins, jogging over.

“Hi,” you murmur, hugging him quickly. He returns it, squeezing just tight enough to let you know he’s glad you’re here.

“Good timing, we’re about to line up.” He says after pulling away. “Glad you’re here…even if I know who you’re really rooting for.” You manage a faint laugh.

Jurin hugs him next and whispers something in his ear that makes him roll his eyes and nudge her back toward the garage. One of the McLaren engineers calls his name from behind a rack of tires and he gives you both one last smile before jogging off. You and Jurin edge deeper into the garage, just far enough to stay out of the crew’s way but close enough to see the pit lane buzzing to life. It’s almost enough to distract you.

The overhead screens show the grid feed, switching between shots of the track and the formation lap. When a broadcast camera pans toward the McLaren garage, you instinctively angle yourself away not wanting to be seen. Jurin squeezes your hand, “Sungchan had a good qualifying session, he starts fifth today.”

You nod. “I know.” You watched qualifying yesterday in your hotel room while Jurin watched from the pitlane. Your eyes flick to the screen again and there he is strapped into the car, visor up and hands on the wheel. A Ferrari crew member leans in and adjusts something then he’s alone again, eyes locked forward.

A reporter slips into frame, headset already in place and mic in hand, crouching next to the cockpit. “Sungchan, just a quick one, you’re starting P5 today—solid qualifying yesterday after a tough few weeks. How are you feeling heading into this race?”

He blinks once, twice. “Good. Car feels strong. Looking forward to the start.” You shiver at the lack of warmth in his tone but the interviewer nods, completely unbothered. “Right, of course. And obviously, it’s been two weeks since your crash in Barcelona. A lot of fans are worried, physically you’re cleared but some people are wondering…mentally, emotionally; how’s your headspace?”

Just like with the last question, he takes his time with answering. You see his fingers curl around the wheel again. “I’m fine.”

The reporter nods again then shifts tone. “And just to address the elephant in the room, I’m sure you’ve seen the photos from Barcelona, you and the girl from the yacht. A lot of attention there. Is that still a factor this weekend?”

Jurin stiffens beside you and you go completely still. On screen, Sungchan lifts his eyes, deadpan. For someone who’s known for his warmth and his soft-spokenness in interviews…there’s none of that now. “I don’t race with distractions. What I do off-track stays there.” He says flatly.

The reporter tilts her head. “So no comment on—”

“I said what I said,” Sungchan cuts in, firmer this time. The reporter backs off with a tight-lipped smile and nods to the camera. The feed cuts back to the grid, a wide shot of Monaco’s winding corners and gleaming yachts.

Jurin lets out a breath beside you. “Yikes, he’s usually so nice.” You say nothing, eyes still on the screen. You’ve spent two weeks convincing yourself that you ruined everything, that he’s angry with you. You told yourself he must’ve hated you or at the very least resented the way you disappeared but hearing the way he shut that question down, you know that isn’t it at all.

He never pushed you away, you’re the one who walked. He was willing and still wanting something real but you panicked. You let fear convince you that what you had wouldn’t possibly last and in your spiral and shame you said things you didn’t mean. Things that weren’t fair.

You told him he was used to it, that this was normal for him. That being picked apart by strangers and having every piece of his life dragged into the spotlight was just part of the job but just because it’s happened before doesn’t mean it hurts any less and just because he knows how to handle it doesn’t mean it doesn’t tear him up every time.

You were so focused on your own privacy being ripped apart that you forgot it wasn’t just you in that moment. You weren’t the only one in those pictures, you weren’t the only one whose boundaries were crossed. That kiss on the yacht, that walk through Barcelona, even the initial post about Silverstone…those had been his too. Yours, yes but also his and for once, he had something that hadn’t been commodified or analyzed or dissected by millions of eyes. Something untouched and honest.

You took the one part of his life that still felt like his and ended it over a phone call. A rushed, panicked phone call where he didn’t even get the chance to defend it. You see that now, too clearly to pretend otherwise and somehow that hurts far worse than the hate ever did.

The pitlane begins to clear, mechanics retreating behind the white line and engineers tugging off headsets. One by one, the grid boxes fill, the final cars rolling into place. Sungchan’s car settles into fifth and the camera lingers on him for a beat longer than the others almost like even the broadcast team knows he’s the one to watch. The engine noise swells, all twenty cars in sync. The five red lights blink on above the grid. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Lights out and just like that, they’re out.

The grid jolts forward, their tires screaming against asphalt. Sungchan’s launch is clean but not perfect. You watch anxiously with your hands clutched around your paddock lanyard as he gets boxed in heading into Turn 1. Anton, you think dives aggressively on the inside and Sungchan has to lift ever so slightly. The moment costs him, he drops one position, then another in the shuffle into Turn 3. By the end of the first lap, he’s sitting in P7, just behind both Mercedes and one of the Red Bulls. You catch yourself holding your breath.

The midfield keeps things tense for the next ten laps. McLaren surges ahead with Lando and Anton trading fastest sector times, keeping the commentary team on their toes. You catch sight of Jurin from the corner of your eye, teeth digging into her straw as she chews anxiously on the end of her iced coffee. By Lap 15, the first major shakeup happens; Wonbin spins out at Turn 11 after a brake failure. The rear of his car kisses the wall and sends debris flying. “Oh no,” Jurin mutters as yellow flags wave.

Just three laps later, Anton clips his front wing into Eunseok at the hairpin. The wing doesn’t come off but the contact throws both cars slightly off their lines. Eunseok recovers but Anton is forced into an early pit for repairs, dropping him down to P8. The McLaren garage groans in unison and then as if that weren’t enough, Shotaro’s radio crackles on the broadcast. “Power unit failure,” his engineer confirms grimly. The car crawls to a stop just shy of the tunnel, another DNF.

Through it all though, Sungchan slowly climbs back lap by lap. He takes advantage of the undercut during pit windows, dodges a near miss when Olli locks up into the chicane and finds his rhythm again. By Lap 30, he’s in P4. By Lap 40, P3 and by the time the Alpines collide at Sainte Devote he’s sitting tight in second right behind Lando.

The race gets halted after the crash, a red flag is called and all the cars head into the pit lane. The tension is thick as the replay plays on loop: the Alpine crash is one of the worst of the season so far. No injuries thankfully but it takes nearly twenty minutes for the marshals to clean up the debris. When the restart finally happens, everything feels even more intense. Lando keeps his lead and Anton’s quick reflexes puts him right beside his teammate in P2, now fully repaired and hungry to make up for lost time. Sungchan loses a spot at the restart, falling to P3 after a shaky exit from Turn 2 but he manages to holds it.

You don’t think you breathe for the final fifteen laps. Lando and Anton fight each other tooth and nail for the win and behind them Sungchan holds off his teammate and then George, then Charles again. The Ferrari pit wall is practically vibrating by the final lap. Finally the checkered flag appears after lap 78. Lando P1, Anton P2, Sungchan P3.

You exhale finally, like your ribs had been clamped in a vice this entire time. Jurin is shaking you by the shoulders, practically shouting, “PODIUM! HE MADE PODIUM!” and you can only laugh, stunned and teary-eyed, your hands shaking a little from the adrenaline. The McLaren garage erupts around you, orange shirts flooding the pit wall as engineers and crew members rush out to embrace their drivers. Jurin tugs your hand and you follow, the two of you getting swept up in the wave of bodies surging toward parc fermé. The front row is packed now, camera crews jostling for position, arms raised to catch every angle of the celebration.

You’re happy for Lando and Anton but your eyes never stray far from the third step of the podium. From Sungchan.

Sungchan stands there in his red race suit, damp with sweat and champagne and a tired but genuine grin pulling at his lips. His hair is messy, eyes bright. His trophy is on the ground beside him while he aims a stream of champagne at Anton’s chest, laughter spilling out of him like it can’t be helped.

He looks happy, really happy. You hadn’t realized how much you missed that until now. You don’t even flinch when the camera swings toward you, it doesn't even register in your body to duck or turn away. All you can do is stare, eyes glassy and heart thudding painfully in your chest. Jurin leans in, still gripping your hand and says, “Go!”

You hesitate, your eyes flicking toward the podium and back again, mouth parting like you want to protest but can’t quite find the words. Jurin tugs your arm. “This is your last chance! Just go.”

You don’t reply, not at first. You just glance up again and see that the drivers are already starting to head down the steps, laughing as they make their way off the podium and toward the back where their teams are waiting. It’s a small window and it’s closing fast.

You turn to Jurin, wrapping her in a quick but firm hug and murmuring, “Thank you,” against her shoulder, your voice thick with everything you don’t have the time or the right words to say then you’re moving before you can change your mind, weaving through the paddock crowd and pushing past the McLaren celebrations, cutting a sharp turn in the direction of the Ferrari garage, your pass swinging from your neck and your heart racing in time with your steps.

You spot him just ahead, flanked by a few Ferrari staff as they guide him toward his drivers’ room. He’s still half in uniform, suit rolled down to his waist and the sleeves of his fireproofs tied at his hips, a towel draped around his neck. He’s nodding at something one of the engineers says, clearly still riding the high of the podium.

You don’t think, you just call out his name. “Sungchan!” Your voice isn’t loud but it’s enough. His head turns immediately like his body knew before his mind did. His eyes find you through the crowd and for a moment, everything else stops moving. You can see the flicker of surprise in his face, the way his mouth parts slightly like he doesn’t quite believe it’s you. He doesn’t move at first, he just stares. When he registers you’re real, he tells his staff he’ll meet them soon and then slowly starts walking toward you. One step, then another, until he’s closing the distance between you with long, careful strides.

“P3,” you manage, even though your voice is already starting to wobble. “Congrats, Sungchan. You were incredible today.”

He nods slowly, still watching you. “Thank you.”

That’s all he says and something in your chest starts to cave in. You nod, clearing your throat even though it doesn’t do much. “Of course.”

“Where’d you watch from?” he asks and you’re surprised he even wants to know.

“Anton got us paddock passes,” you say.

“Cool,” he replies. The way that one syllable settles between you like a full stop makes your resolve crumble completely.

Your fingers twist together at your front. “Well,” you say, stepping back half a pace, “I should probably go. My flight’s tomorrow and I haven’t packed.”

Another nod. His expression doesn’t shift. “Safe travels.”

Those two words hit you like a punch to the chest because that was how it ended last time, wasn’t it? Him sparing you one last look on the plane and then turning around and walking away. You swallow hard and nod once. “Take care,” you whisper. “Rest during the break, okay?” You turn before he can see your face, before he can watch you fall apart. You get five steps, five whole steps before you hear him curse under his breath.

“Shit—wait. ____!” You stop and turn just as he reaches for you, his hand wrapping gently around your wrist. You blink at him startled as he tugs you gently but insistently away from the crowd, away from the Ferrari garage and the lingering press. He leads you down a quiet hallway behind hospitality where there's no noise and no crew.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he says, eyes locked on yours, the words unraveling fast and raw. “I told myself I’d let you go. That if you wanted to leave, I’d respect it but now you’re here and I can’t—” He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. “I can’t just watch you walk away again.”

Your lips part, a protest forming on your tongue but he cuts in before you can speak. “These last few weeks with you have been the best part of my year,” he says, chest rising and falling. “Maybe my whole career so far. I know you didn’t sign up for the cameras or the comments or the way people treated you and I’m sorry, I should have protected you more.”

You shake your head but he doesn’t let you speak. He barrels forward like he’s afraid if he doesn’t say it all now, he’ll never get the chance. “No, let me say this. Please.” He swallows hard. “When you pulled away, I should’ve run after you. I should’ve fought harder. I’ve never cared about someone like this. I’ve never wanted something to work so badly. I like you so much it scares the shit out of me and maybe this is too fast or too messy or too hard but I don’t care. I want you.”

You’re frozen, breath caught in your throat. He steps closer, his hand finding yours again, threading your fingers together. “Please stay. Come with me to Austria, to Hungary, to Australia. I don’t care where we go I just want you with me. Be my girlfriend and let me show you we can make this work.”

“Sungchan…” you whisper, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say.”

He lifts your chin gently, eyes scanning your face. “Say you’ll stay.”

You close your eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be if you’ll let it. I just need a chance.” He argues.

You look up at him then, really look and what you see knocks the air out of you, you’ve seen this look before. You saw it on the plane when he turned one last time before walking down the aisle, not knowing if he’d ever see you again. At the club, when you ran into him by sheer chance and he held you closer like your love story had been written long before that night even if he hadn’t told you the whole truth. At Silverstone, when you stumbled into the Ferrari garage and he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. It was there during the late night calls where he’d teach you bits of French and Korean between yawns calling you his belle fleur. On the yacht, where he kissed you with an intensity that rivaled the sun. That look has always been there, waiting for you to catch up.

You nod slowly and shakily, like your body is still catching up to your mind. “Yeah,” you manage, voice catching in your throat. “I’ll stay.” It’s not eloquent or put together but it still gets the job done.

“Really?” he breathes, almost as if he doesn’t fully believe he’s heard you right. You nod again, biting back a sob and he smiles brightly at you before taking your face in his hands and kissing you. You barely have time to react, eyes widening at the feel of Sungchan’s lips against yours, ultimately relaxing into his kiss.

You feel sparks fly within your stomach at the way his large palms completely engulf your cheeks and are pulling you onto his lips. Lost in the intoxicating sweetness of Sunghcan’s tongue against your own, you barely register the way he pushes you backwards until you’re pressed between him and the wall.

Your own hands desperately wander over his chest before they reach the collar of his compression shirt. His hands fall down to your hips, squeezing your butt and pulling your lower half into him before pulling away to lay kissing down the column of your neck. You sigh at the feeling, completely forgetting anyone could walk in at any given moment.

He comes back up, eyes flickering over yours for a beat before he kisses you again but this time it’s quick light pecks that make you laugh despite yourself, the sound bubbling up between your mouths, your foreheads bumping clumsily as you try to keep up with him. “Stop,” you whisper through a grin, breathless from the affection.

He of course doesn’t stop. He smiles and uses his thumb to wipe away the tears that slipped down. “I’m the luckiest guy in the world,” he says quietly. You blush at his words but don’t say anything, just stare at him happily and content.

Still holding onto his hand, you glance toward the clock on the wall. “Come on, you’ve got media stuff, remember?” You tug at his fingers, gently guiding him back toward the outside world. He groans dramatically but lets you lead. The moment you both step out, the buzz of the paddock comes rushing back like nothing ever happened.

“Well,” Jurin says, one brow arched as she spots you first, leaning casually against a crate of equipment with her arms crossed. “Took you long enough.”

Anton swivels beside her, still half in his fireproofs and sipping from a water bottle. His grin is instant and far too knowing. “About damn time.”

You freeze for half a second, instinctively pulling your hand back but Sungchan just laces your fingers tighter, proudly, like there’s no part of him that’s trying to hide. “Landed podium and I got the girl, Monaco how I love you.”

taglist: @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @yoursyuno @milkiae @syrawberry

#sungchan angst

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#sungchan angst