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coco-loco-nut · 7 days ago

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Operation: Mayhem - C. Sainz

summary: after a legendary prank war gets officially banned, you and Carlos, your rival camp’s infuriatingly competitive head counselor, are forced to team up for the sake of peace

pairing: rival camp counselor au Carlos Sainz x reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 12k

masterlist

No one remembers exactly how the prank war started.

Some say it began in 1994, when a Cedar Ridge camper accidentally flipped a canoe carrying Maplewood’s camp director. Others claim it was the Great Canteen Heist of ‘99, when Maplewood counselors, dressed in Ridge sweatshirts and fake mustaches, broke into Cedar Ridge’s kitchen and replaced all the peanut butter with mayonnaise.

Ask either side and the story changes. Names grow more dramatic. The stakes get bigger. There was a rumor, once, about a goat in a staff cabin and a karaoke machine rigged to play nothing but Nickleback.

Either way, it’s tradition now.

The rivalry has rules. Unspoken, sacred, passed down through whispered warnings and hand-scrawled manuals. There are teams, tallies, and a deeply unofficial Prank Scoreboard, stored in a locked Google Doc accessible only to the oldest counselors - those who have earned the password, survived shaving cream warfare, and lived to tell the tale.

Camp Cedar Ridge vs Camp Maplewood.

Lake rivals. Banner enemies. Glitter war veterans.

And now?

Now, it was a year after the infamous Kool-Aid Lake Incident, which turned half the waterline neon cherry red and prompted a county-wide investigation and a very serious camp director ceasefire.

“No pranks this summer,” the directors had said.

“We’re watching you,” they had said.

“Especially you, y/n.”

To which you, senior counselor, and unofficial Maplewood prank captain, had smiled sweetly and said,

“Of course. Scout’s honor.”

You had never been a scout.

Across the lake, Carlos Sainz stood ankle-deep in the lake water, skipping stones and squinting at the Maplewood shore like it might explode at any second.

He didn’t trust the silence.

It had been three whole days since either camp started their sessions. Three days since anything had gone wrong. No fire alarms. No dyed marshmallows. No surprise inflatable sea creatures floating onto the dock with cryptic messages tied to their necks. And that could only mean one thing:

You were up to something.

And if you weren’t?

Well. Then he would be. Someone had to keep things interesting.

Carlos bent down and selected a smooth, flat rock, the kind you learn to spot after enough years as a lake rat. He flicked it low and sharp across the water. One, two, three, four, five skips - then a clean plunk.

“Five,” he muttered. “Still better than Lando.”

To his left, a voice called out through the stillness, syrupy sweet and unmistakable.

“Careful, Sainz. Skip like that too close here, and I’ll have to report it as an act of aggression.”

He turned slowly.

You were standing at the edge of your dock - arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into your hair, a red lollipop hanging lazily from the corner of your mouth like the world’s most chaotic campfire villain. The golden hour hit your shoulders like a spotlight.

“Look who finally decided to show face.” Carlos called, shading his eyes.

You gave him a lazy two-finger salute. “What can I say? Laying low. Being good. You should try it sometime.”

He arched an eyebrow. “You? Being good? You once filled our shower house with live crickets.”

“Allegedly” you shrugged, letting your lollipop click between your teeth.

Carlos waded deeper into the lake until the water hit just below his knees, toes sinking into the squelchy muck. The sun glinted off his wet calves. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please enlighten me.”

“You’re too quiet this year,” he said, narrowing his eyes at you like you were a suspicious animal. “Too polite. It’s unnerving. I don’t trust it.”

Your eyebrows lifted, mock-innocent. “This is the first time you’ve seen me this summer.”

“Exactly,” he said, nodding slowly. “It’s weird.”

A pause stretched between you - tense, but not hostile. Like seconds before a canoe tips. You twirled your lollipop between your fingers. He flicked another stone, deliberately avoiding your gaze.

Then, you said, too casually, “Did you get the marshmallows I sent over last night?”

Carlos frowned. “What marshmallows?”

A grin slowly crept onto your lips. The dangerous kind. The kind that usually ends with someone covered in molasses.

From somewhere back at Camp Cedar Ridge, a bloodcurdling shriek rang out.

“THESE ARE FILLED WITH KETCHUP-”

Carlos froze.

You dropped the bare lollipop stick onto the dock.

It bounced once, then rolled to a stop at the edge.

By the time he turned back around, you were already gone.

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t scream. Didn’t shout across the lake. Didn’t storm over in the Cedar Ridge motorboat and demand vengeance.

No.

He just stared at your abandoned lollipop stick from the edge of the dock, like it held ancient secrets. Not angry. Not shocked.

Then, he smiled.

“Game on.”

The next morning at the Maplewood morning lineup, things were… suspiciously normal.

Too normal.

The sun was too bright. The air too still. The campers too well-behaved, standing in mostly straight lines with suspiciously innocent faces.

You were halfway through leading the “Banana Song” with a group of second-grade campers - complete with full hand motions and a tragic commitment to interpretive dance - when the whispers started.

At first, you ignored them. Kids whispered about everything - cryptids in the lake, secret tunnels under the arts barn, whether or not Camp Director Ryan was married to the raccoon that lived in the compost bin.

But then Lucy, your co-counselor, tugged on your sleeve, mid-banana peel charades, and whispered:

“Y/n,” she hissed. “Look.”

You turned.

And your soul left your body.

Your drama cabin - your kingdom - was completely covered in Cedar Ridge green.

And not just like, a tasteful splash.

No.

Drenched.

Streamers cascaded down from the roof like a waterfall of tacky betrayal. Pine needles were arranged into a horrifyingly accurate representation of the Ridge logo. Green glitter had been poured across the welcome mat. There was even a plastic moose head - god knows where he found it - nailed above the door like some woodland mafia warning.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the statue.

Right there on the porch stood a paper mache version of you - arms wide, lanyard swaying, hair too big, and in one triumphant hand: a giant plastic bottle of ketchup.

And across the chest of the statue?

“MAPLEWOOD’S MOST WANTED: CONDIMENT QUEEN”

You stood very still.

Lucy gasped. One of your second graders yelled “OH MY GOD SHE’S BEAUTIFUL.” Ella had to turn away, clutching her clipboard to her face.

You clapped once, slowly. “Okay,” you said, voice flat. “Okay.”

It wasn’t rage that boiled up next. It was something worse.

Respect.

Ella whispered, “That’s… honestly, kind of good.”

You were already marching toward the porch.

The moose’s glassy eyes watched you. Judging.

Taped to the door was a single sheet of white paper, bordered with cartoon clip-art laurels, written in comically fancy cursive:

A peace offering. And a warning. Love, Carlos

Later that day, you spotted him across the lake.

Carlos Sainz. Lifeguard chair throne. Aviators. Posture of a man who knew exactly how smug he looked and was thriving on it. He was eating a popsicle. Probably your favorite flavor. His feet were kicked up. He looked so relaxed.

You hated him.

You marched all the way to the end of the Maplewood dock and cupped your hands around your mouth.

“You think you’re funny?!”

Carlos barely glanced over his sunglasses. “I know I’m funny.”

“That statue doesn’t even look like me.”

“It deeply does.”

You shook your head. “This is war.”

He shrugged, casual as anything, “You started it.”

“And I’m going to finish it.”

He leaned back in his chair, smile curling like smoke. “Then stop yelling across the lake and come prove it.”

A dangerous silence settled on the dock. The kind that came before thunderstorms. Or glitter bombs.

You almost jumped in a canoe. Almost paddled across and knocked that smug little popsicle out of his hand.

But instead?

You grinned.

“Tomorrow,” you called. “Check your bunk. I’m feeling inspired.”

And then, with a dramatic hair flip and a flare of a girl with a reputation to maintain, you walked away.

Carlos didn’t respond.

But from his lifeguard chair, he saluted you.

In your cabin, you were busy plotting like a woman possessed.

Your notebook, once dedicated to camper skit ideas and themed dance playlists, had become a war manual. A full page was already labeled “Revenge.” Underneath: a bulleted list of potential weapons:

Fake centipedes

Real crickets (borrowed from the Nature hut, if Oscar looked the other way)

Fart spray

One Cedar Ridge hoodie that you’d been saving since last year’s color wars

Ella walked in halfway through your brainstorming session, took one look at the chaos, and muttered “I’m both terrified and proud.”

You didn’t look up. “That’s the correct response.”

“Are those… blueprints?” She asked

“They’re schematics,” you said seriously. “I’m an artist.”

“You’re unwell.”

You were. And you were thriving.

Because this wasn’t just payback anymore. This was personal. Carlos had declared war on your creative soul, defamed your drama cabin, and worst of all - gotten a laugh out of you.

That couldn’t go unpunished.

Before you could continue scheming though, the door to your cabin slammed open, Lucy running in.

“Y/N,” she began, slightly out of breath. “Ryan wants to see you in his office. He’s pissed.”

You froze.

Pen halfway through your bullet point for “Glitter Bomb (eco-friendly, but emotionally devastating).”

“Did he say why?” you asked, even though you already knew.

Lucy nodded, wide-eyed. “He said to bring the notebook.”

Ella let out a gasp so dramatic it could’ve won a Tony.

“That’s code red,” she whispered. “That's confiscation level angry.”

You stood up slowly, spine straightening like a soldier marching to her doom. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. This is fine. We’ve been here before.”

Ella blinked. “Have we?”

You ignored her.

Notebook tucked under your arm, you made the walk to the camp office like a criminal heading to court.

Only, instead of lawyers there were laminated posters about migratory birds and a bulletin board announcing “Worm Composting Wednesday”. Instead of security guards, two chipmunks sat perched on the wooden railing, chittering in what sounded suspiciously like judgement. You could swear one of them shook its head as you passed.

The air was thick with pine and the faint smell of citronella. Somewhere in the distance, a child was crying over a spilled bug jar, and a counselor was trying to console them with string cheese. Classic.

You adjusted your hoodie - the one still faintly glittered green from Carlos’s “peace offering” and climbed the creaky steps like you were walking the gallows.

And waiting for you at the top?

Camp Director Ryan.

Mid-forties. Perpetually sunburned. Looked like he’d never fully recovered from the Great Salsa Spill of ‘07. Wore the kind of socks that screamed “I gave up” and sandals that screamed louder. He was the kind of man who clapped before meetings and said things like “synergy” and “let’s circle back” with no irony. He also cried every year during the end of camp slideshow, especially during the photos of lost water bottles and friendship bracelets.

He was already standing when you opened the screen door, arms crossed over his clipboard like it was a riot shield.

“Sit,” he said like he’d already given you a thousand chances too many.

You sat, stiff as a rake. The notebook thudded in your lap like it knew it was guilty.

He pointed at it. “Is that the war journal?”

“... It’s a planner.”

“It’s a manifesto.”

“It’s color-coded.”

“Y/N.”

You sighed and slumped further down. “Fine. It’s a war journal.”

Ryan took a deep breath, the kind that said he’d warned you. Many times. In many staff meetings. With many laminated visual aids.

“You can’t just break into Cedar Ridge,” he began slowly, like he was trying not to raise his blood pressure. “You cannot stuff ketchup into marshmallows, dip them into hot sauce, drench the box in fart spray, and replace them with the camp’s supply of regular ones.”

“Technically,” you said, “I didn’t break into Cedar Ridge. I walked over there. And I didn’t replace them. They stocked the supply shelves themselves. I just… altered the box.”

“Y/N.”

Before you could defend your “culinary masterpiece” further, the screen door creaked open again.

Carlos stepped in like he owned the place, smugness wrapped around him like a towel at swim check. He was wearing the standard Cedar Ridge staff shirt - wrinkled, somehow freshly sun-kissed - and still faintly sparkling. He looked at you like he was enjoying your downfall like popcorn at a movie.

Maisie, the director of Cedar Ridge, followed him inside with the energy of a woman who had once run a Fortune 500 company and now had to deal with glitter-based warfare between two overgrown campers.

Carlos didn’t say a word. He just looked at you.

Smug. Smirking. Somehow slightly glittery.

You immediately narrowed your eyes. “Don’t know who did the glitter, but you look better with the sparkles.”

He smiled, all teeth. “You should try fart spray sometime. It’s… eye-opening.”

Ryan groaned into his clipboard.

Maisie snapped her fingers once, sharp and clean. “Enough. Sit.”

Carlos flopped down next to you, legs out like he was lounging poolside, not at a disciplinary hearing. He elbowed your notebook with mock curiosity.

“Is this the recipe book?” he whispered.

You deadpanned, “It’s your diary.”

Ryan clapped his hands once, loudly, the way camp directors do when they’re two seconds away from losing their minds. “Let’s get something straight. This ends now.”

Maisie leaned forward like she was prepping for a TED Talk titled We Are So, So Tired. “If I find one more plastic insect in my counselor cabins, I will be calling the board of directors and requesting the counselor mixer to be banned permanently.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t”

Carlos looked delighted. “Wait, that’s an option?”

Ryan shot both of you a look. “Guys.”

Maisie turned on you like a missile. “We are on thin ice after last year’s lake incident. And you-” she jabbed a finger at your notebook - “you are writing things down. In ink.”

“It’s erasable gel pen,” you muttered. “I’m not an animal”

Carlos choked on a laugh and looked away like he didn’t want to encourage you. He failed.

“This is supposed to be a summer of unity,” Maisie said, pacing now. “Peace. Shared programming. A joint talent show.”

You blinked. “Is that why we’re here? Because if this is about the talent show, I’m not letting Ridge do a campfire dubstep remix again, I’m pulling the power cord myself.”

Ryan pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about early retirement.

Carlos, still reclined, added helpfully. “Look, if she apologizes, I’ll consider calling a temporary ceasefire.”

You turned your head slowly. “Oh, you’re funny.”

Maisie sighed, rubbing her temples. “You two clearly have built some kind of… prank feedback loop.”

Ryan added “A toxic escalation spiral,” like he had practiced that phrase in front of the mirror.

Then came the worst part.

They both stared at you. Then at Carlos. Then at each other, like some camp-director unity.

Finally, Ryan said, “So here’s what’s going to happen.”

You and Carlos both sat up straighter, sensing doom.

“You’re going to co-lead the joint-camps campfire at the end of the summer.”

Your jaw dropped. “What?”

Maisie smiled, the type that should come with thunder. “Shared programming. Team bonding.”

Carlos leaned forward, looking personally betrayed. “Absolutely not.”

“This is your punishment.” Ryan said flatly.

You looked at Carlos. He looked at you.

Equal horror. Equal panic. Equal loathing.

And something else, sharp and electric.

Carlos muttered, “I’d rather be set on fire.”

“I’ll light the match,” you added, leaning toward him

Maisie didn’t blink. “Do not make us regret this.”

Ryan added “And if either of you brings glitter, fart spray, or ketchup to that campfire, I will have both of your lanyards revoked.”

You opened your mouth.

He held up a hand. “Don’t test me, Condiment Queen.”

The sky was turning that perfect inky blue that only happened at camp - that strange, suspended hue where day hadn’t quite ended but the stars had already started to arrive, scattered like confetti across a construction paper sky. The pine trees lining the clearing stood like cardboard silhouettes, sharp and still, and the smoke from the fire curled upward in slow ribbons, as if even it was eavesdropping.

The fire crackled in the center of the Maplewood counselors’ circle, low and lazy, throwing golden light onto your annoyed scowl in dramatic, theatrical shadow.

You dropped onto a log with a sigh so pointed it could’ve popped a canoe. Your legs stretched toward the fire. Your hoodie, still thoroughly ketchup stained, radiated chaos. Crumbs from your earlier emotional support granola bar tumbled into the dirt like tiny casualties.

“Did they arrest you?” Lucy asked, already passing you a s’more like it was contraband.

“They wanted to,” you muttered, grabbing it, “but I charmed my way out.”

“Liar,” Ella said from your other side. “I heard Ryan yell ‘Condiment Queen’ from the office.”

“And he called you a ‘toxic escalation spiral,’” Jo added, trying very hard not to laugh and failing spectacularly.

You bit into the s’more. “They’re making me co-lead the end-of-summer campfire.”

A beat. The wind rustled the trees. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted like it too was invested.

Then Jo, flatly: “With Carlos?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. “Obviously.”

That was all it took.

Screams. Actual, delighted, banshee-level screams from every girl around the fire. Lucy grabbed Jo’s sleeve like she was watching the end of a rom-com. Ella clutched her marshmallow stick like it was a bouquet. Jo lay backward on the log with a sound of pure evil joy.

“No,” you said firmly. “Stop. Whatever is about to happen - stop it.”

Ella was grinning wide enough to split the sky. “You two co-leading a campfire is either going to end in a marriage proposal or a court case.”

“More like a forest fire,” you muttered, biting into what was left of your graham cracker like it had personally wronged you.

But they were all giving you The Look™ now. That very specific expression that meant you were about to do something stupid and they were about to make it stupider.

“You know,” Lucy said, drawing the words out like a dare disguised as a thought, “if you really wanted to get him back…”

“No,” you said instantly, holding up a finger.

“What if,” Jo pressed on, eyes practically glowing, “instead of just pranking him…”

“Nope.”

“You emotionally compromised him,” Ella said with a mouthful of chocolate.

You stared. “You want me to seduce Carlos Sainz.”

“We’re just saying,” Lucy shrugged, “if you’re already being forced to co-lead the campfire, you might as well win on every level.”

“Exactly,” Jo agreed, tossing a pinecone into the fire like a blood offering. “He called a ceasefire if you apologized. But what if instead of surrendering…”

“... you made him fall for you,” Ella finished, the firelight catching in her eyes like she was plotting arson.

Someone’s marshmallow caught fire. No one noticed.

You crossed your arms tightly. “That’s not how war works.”

“That is exactly how war works,” Lucy said. “It’s psychological warfare.”

“It’s romantic sabotage,” Ella whispered like it was sacred.

You opened your mouth to object. Closed it. Opened it again.

Then sighed. “You’re all completely unhinged.”

Jo grinned. “And yet… you’re considering it.”

You stared into the fire. It snapped softly, a spark jumping toward your boot. In your head, you saw Carlos’s lifeguard lean. His maddening smirk. That godforsaken moose head on your drama cabin.

He’d called you Condiment Queen and made it sound like royalty.

You looked back at your friends, shook your head once, and then said:

“Fine. Let’s do it.”

Screams again. Lucy shrieked loud enough to disturb the bats. Ella immediately pulled out her little notebook - the actual war journal now, apparently - and began sketching out a betting pool. Jo tossed another log onto the fire like she was summoning ancient trickster spirits.

And you?

You sat back, stuck another marshmallow on a stick, and roasted it slow, steady, with the calm of someone plotting emotional ruin.

Because the war wasn’t over.

It was just going undercover.

Carlos was not pacing.

He was walking. Thoughtfully. Purposefully. Strategically. Just… around the edges of the Cedar Ridge staff cabins. For the fourth time. Maybe fifth. It didn’t matter.

And maybe muttering. Maybe it was low. Maybe dramatic.

But it wasn’t pacing.

Because pacing meant nerves. It meant weakness. Confusion. Emotional disturbance. And Carlos Sainz - decorated prank captain, lifeguard god, three year winner of “Most Likely to Steal the Spotlight at Color Wars” - was absolutely, undeniably fine.

Totally fine.

Except he wasn’t.

He stopped in front of Cabin Cypress. Frowned. The “TEAM RIDGE” banner was tilted by, like, two degrees. Unacceptable. He adjusted it to a perfect 90-degree angle, stepped back, scowled at it again… then muttered “Condiment Queen,” under his breath like it was a curse. Or worse - a compliment.

Because he could still see you.

The office. The ketchup streaked hoodie. The smug little tilt of your head. The way you twirled that pen like you were planning war crimes. The way you said he looked glittery. He had looked glittery, thanks to whatever sabotage glitterbomb you’d detonated that morning - but the worst part wasn’t the glitter. It was the fact that when you smiled at him, all sharp and victorious, he liked it.

Carlos ran a hand down his face, like he could wipe the memory off it. No luck.

He turned on his heel, marched toward the edge of camp, and collapsed dramatically on the bench behind the boathouse. It was his thinking spot. Far enough from the cabins that no campers would find him, and the only witnesses were the frogs and the moonlight.

The lake stretched out in front of him, glassy and black and all too quiet. The same lake where you’d yelled at him. Twice. The same lake where he’d saluted you like an idiot.

He groaned and flopped backward. The stars stared down at him like they were waiting for updates.

“Co-lead the end of summer campfire,” he muttered under his breath, voice thick with disbelief. “With her.”

The words sounded like a threat. A punishment. An act of administrative vengeance. Or possibly divine intervention. Either way, it was a disaster. A sparkle-coated, marshmallow-stuffed, slow motion emotional catastrophe.

It was also, maybe… a little exciting?

Which was deeply concerning.

Carlos wasn’t used to people matching him. They usually followed. Laughed. Occasionally rolled their eyes and cleaned up after him. But you? You came for his throne. You’d put centipedes in his cabin and ketchup in his marshmallows and walked away with glitter in your hair like it was your signature scent.

He didn’t trust it.

He didn’t trust you.

And that was the problem.

He wanted to.

“You’re spiraling,” a voice said behind him, loud, British, and far too smug.

Carlos didn’t even flinch. Of course it was Lando. His co-counselor, best friend, and all-around annoying voice of reason.

“Go away, Lando.”

Lando sat anyway, plopping onto the bench like he lied there. Which, honestly, he kind of did. “You’ve done five laps around camp in the last hour and adjusted every single team flag.”

“They were crooked.”

“You’re crooked.”

Carlos glared at him. “Do you need something?”

Lando shrugged, tossing a pebble toward the dock. It landed with a soft plop. “So. Campfire co-leader, huh?”

Carlos groaned and slumped lower on the bench. “It’s a death sentence.”

“She’s kind of cute when she’s threatening your life, though.”

“I will drown you.”

Lando grinned. “You saluted her. From the lifeguard chair. That’s like flirting in counselor code.”

“That was mocking.”

“It looked like yearning.”

Carlos threw a stick at him. Missed. Lando didn’t even blink.

“She’s planning something,” Carlos muttered. “I can feel it. That walk away? That was a villain exit. She probably has a whiteboard. There’s definitely a color-coded timeline.”

“You sound like you want to be a part of it.”

Carlos paused. Blinked up at the sky.

He did want to be a part of it.

Not the war - okay, yes, the war - but also… the way you lit up when you were scheming. The fire in your voice. The way your eyes sparkled even brighter than the dumb stuff he poured on the drama cabin. He wanted to see what you looked like when you weren’t mad at him.

He wanted to know what made you laugh.

Which was stupid. And reckless. And exactly what Lando saw written all over his face.

“Oh my god.” Lando whispered. “You like her.”

“No I don’t.”

“You do. You’re doomed mate.”

Carlos groaned again, louder this time, and let his head thunk back against the boathouse wall.

“I hate this summer,” he said.

“You don’t,” Lando replied, smug. “You love it. You love a challenge.”

Carlos closed his eyes. Saw you again, laughing with a marshmallow stick in one hand.

He opened his eyes.

Then sighed.

“Fine,” he muttered. “If it’s war… I’m not losing.”

You woke up the next morning with a sugar hangover, a suspicious glint in your eye, and a fire in your soul.

Your hoodie still smelled like wood smoke and betrayal. Somewhere in the tangled mess of your comforter was your notebook - the infamous war journal - now flipped open to a new page. Glittery annotations sparkled in the corners. A hastily drawn pink highlighter heart around the phrase “Operation: Emotional Annihilation.” There were three increasingly aggressive doodles of Carlos getting pelted with marshmallows, one of which now had devil horns and a speech bubble that just said “lol.”

You stretched, yawned, and stared at the ceiling beams above your bunk. Birdsong drifted in through the screen windows. Somewhere in the distance, a bugle call blared too enthusiastically for this hour.

Right. Today was the day.

You had agreed to seduce Carlos Sainz.

Okay. That was… not technically what they said. They said “emotionally compromise,” “win the war with your heart,” and “weaponize the campfire glow,” but the subtext was clear. You were going to flirt. Charm. Distract.

And, if you were being honest?

You were maybe, slightly, looking forward to it.

“Y/N,” Ella whispered, poking her head around the cabin divider. “Is today the day?”

You blinked. “The day for what?”

She gasped. “You forgot? You promised to start psychological warfare this morning.”

“I didn’t promise,” you mumbled, sitting up. “I said fine, let’s do it and then passed out on a log while someone lit a marshmallow on fire and Jo tried to baptize it in Sprite.”

Lucy rolled over in her bunk and grinned into her pillow. “So is that a yes?”

You sighed, shoved off your blanket, and stood. “Yeah, it’s a yes.”

Thirty minutes later, you stood in front of the mirror, the absolute picture of casual devastation.

You’d found your least condiment stained shirt - a soft vintage camp tee knotted at the waist. Your hair was braided into two impossibly effortful Dutch braids that took three tries, two brushes, and a brief spiritual crisis. A touch of camp-safe tinted lip balm graced your lips that would’ve made your campers scream if they noticed. (They would. They noticed everything.)

“You look like a girl about to ruin a lifeguard’s life,” Jo said approvingly

“I feel like a girl about to get written up again” you muttered

Lucy tossed you a banana from the dining hall stash. “Breakfast of champions. Now go. Find him. Smile. Use that weird laugh he likes.”

“He doesn’t like it.”

“He mentioned it.”

“That’s not the same thing!”

They all pushed you out the cabin door anyway.

Carlos was, of course, exactly where you expected him to be: perched in his lifeguard chair like a smug, sun-kissed gargoyle, sunglasses on, Gatorade in hand, watching the lake like he owned it.

That sight made your jaw clench. And maybe your heart flutter. Unfortunately.

You took a breath, then another.

Then strolled down the gravel path like you didn’t have a military-grade emotional ambush loaded in your arsenal. Like your hands weren’t slightly clammy. Like your brain wasn’t screaming abort mission while your friends hit behind a canoe shed for backup.

Carlos noticed you immediately. He sat up straighter - subtly, almost imperceptibly. But his head tilted. His lips curled, barely. And when you stepped onto the Maplewood dock, he pulled his sunglasses down his nose like he was starring in a romcom you didn’t ask to be cast in.

“Morning, Maplewood,” he called.

You gave him a lazy, sunshine-sweet smile that felt like slipping on armor. “Hey, Ridge Boy.”

He blinked. Once. Good.

“Beautiful day,” you said casually, like you didn’t have a journal labeled How To Emotionally Destroy Carlos Sainz With Charm Alone.

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “Are you… being nice to me?”

You tilted your head, lips parting in mock innocence. “What, I can’t enjoy shared programming and promote cross-camp unity now?”

He stared at you like he’d just walked into a Twilight Zone episode. “Not without something exploding in my bunk.”

You laughed - not your real laugh. The other one. The soft one. The one they told you to use. Carlos froze like he’d just glitched.

You leaned slightly forward, smile growing. “Guess you bring out my nicer side.”

Carlos stared like you’d just sprouted fairy wings. Perfect.

You popped the banana open, took a bite, and winked. “See you at the campfire planning meeting,” before turning on your heel and strolling away like a girl in full control of her narrative.

(You looked back. One glance. Very discreet. Worth it.)

Carlos was still watching. Still stunned.

At the edge of the woods, Ella and Lucy emerged from behind the canoe shed, jaws dropped.

“What the hell was that?” Ella asked

“Phase one,” you said, brushing imaginary dirt off your sleeve. “Confuse the enemy.”

“Phase two?” Jo asked, appearing out of nowhere.

“Make him want to lose.”

The joint-camp staff lodge smelled like sunscreen, dry-erase markers, and unresolved tension.

You walked in exactly three minutes late - not enough to be rude, just enough to make Carlos look up. Which he did. Instantly. His head snapped up like a deer in headlights, only more tanned and possibly having an internal crisis.

Good.

You wore your nice shorts. The ones with the slightly rolled cuffs and the tinny embroidered stars on the back pocket that screamed coming of age movies. Your hoodie was unzipped just enough to show the glitter paint stain you’d strategically smeared to look like an accident. Your walk was casual. Breezy. Full of righteous “I’m definitely not trying to ruin your life” energy.

Carlos, to his credit, looked like he had been electrocuted.

He was slouched in a mesh camp chair, sunglasses perched on his head, a pen twirling between his fingers. His posture screamed “I don’t care.” His eyes said, oh no.

“Hey,” you said, sliding into the seat beside him without waiting for an invitation.

“Hi,” he replied warily, like he was waiting for cockroaches to fall from the ceiling.

At the front of the room, Maisie and Ryan stood like two long-suffering sitcom parents, faces drawn with equal parts fatigue and the quiet prayer that maybe this time they’ll behave.

“Thank you both for showing up,” Maisie said with a tone so flat it could’ve been an ironing board. “We’re here to start planning a peaceful, meaningful, non-combustible end of summer campfire. Which you two,” she added, pointing with a laminated flowchart like it was a weapon, “are leading together.”

You smiled sweetly. Carlos stared straight ahead like he was bracing for impact.

Ryan passed out the meeting agenda like it might defuse something. You took one. Carlos didn’t.

“Don’t need it,” he muttered. “Campfire’s simple. Fire, songs, s’mores, bedtime.”

“Wow,” you said, faux-impressed. “Such vision. Such leadership.”

He finally turned to look at you. “Don’t start.”

“I’m being nice,” you replied, voice dipped in honey. “You’re the one being suspicious.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You have an agenda.”

“I have laminated ideas,” you corrected

You held up a glossy print out labeled: Theme: “Two Camps, One Heart.” Complete with pastel stars, doodled campfires, and a tagline underneath in bubble letters Activities for Unity, Not Arson!

Carlos actually blinked. “You made a mood board?”

“Yes,” you deadpanned before leaning in just slightly, your smile curling like smoke. “Does that intimidate you, Sainz?”

There was a moment - an actual moment - where he stared like he forgot how eyes worked. Like the pen in his hand no longer mattered and the air in the room had just changed flavor.

“No,” he said finally.

But it didn’t sound convincing.

Ryan clapped his hands like he was trying to summon divine patience. “Okay. Let’s pick songs. The campers will go around and share things they’ve learned, and you’ll both close the evening with a speech.”

Carlos raised his hand lazily. “Can mine be a monologue about personal betrayal and condiment trauma?”

You bit back a laugh. Barely.

Maisie pinched the bridge of her nose. “If either of you improvises a bit about fart spray, I swear-”

You waved a dismissive hand. “Of course not. This is about healing. Harmony. Growth.”

Carlos stared at you again, squinting like he was trying to crack a code. “Did you hit your head?”

You beamed. “Just discovered a new perspective.”

Ryan passed out the song list. You reached for yours, and your hand brushed Carlos’s.

Static. Actual static. Like the gods of teen romance had leaned over and whispered yes, this is the moment. Both of you froze.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

The paper sat between you like a ticking bomb. You snatched it a beat too late, your fingers suddenly traitorous.

“Sorry,” you said quickly

“No, it’s…fine.”

Maisie kept talking, something about timing the sing-along and the optional tambourine distribution, but your brain had fully static-dialed. Because Carlos still hadn’t looked away. And not in the usual I’m studying your weaknesses way. This was different.

He was watching you like you were a puzzle he hadn’t planned on solving, but wanted to.

You turned back toward your sheet, willing your heart rate to chill out and your face not to betray the wild, reckless smirk threatening to break through. Because you had a plan. You were executing the plan. And Carlos was folding faster than a soggy camp map.

He leaned a little closer. “So what’s the real plan?”

You blinked, all wide-eyed innocence. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“Are you trying to kill me slowly or just drive me insane?”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Can’t it be both?”

Carlos made a noise under his breath - somewhere between a groan and a very soft curse in Spanish - and slouched even deeper in his chair like gravity had suddenly doubled just for him.

Maisie gestured at the whiteboard. “Okay, let’s start mapping out roles. Carlos, you’ll handle fire safety and supplies. Y/N, you’re in charge of storytelling and camper engagement.”

You perked up. “Can I use a puppet?”

“No,” Ryan and Carlos said in sync.

After a beat, Carlos shot you a sideways glance. “What kind of puppet?”

You leaned over, stage-whispering, “A squirrel with a tragic backstory and a penchant for dramatic lighting.”

He closed his eyes like he was in pain. “I take it back. The glitter was nothing. This is psychological warfare.”

“Glad you’re finally catching up.”

Maisie moved on to logistics. Ryan handed out folders with individual assignments. You spun your pen in slow circles, trying not to smirk. Because somewhere between the puppets and the paper-touching and the word “intimidate,” you spotted it:

Carlos was starting to crack.

Just a little. Just enough.

His posture was off. His questions were different. He hadn’t called you a nickname related to condiments in twenty minutes, which had to be a record.

Jo had been right.

You didn’t need to win the war with fart spray or fake snakes in the shower drain.

You just had to smile. Charm.

And let him fall on his own sword.

Carlos reached for his folder, glanced at you again, and muttered something you barely caught:

“You’re dangerous.”

You leaned back in your chair, let the overhead fan ruffle your hair like a breeze of victory, and replied, “I know.”

After the meeting, Carlos was back in his lifeguard chair.

Alone. Supposedly in charge. Supposedly watching the lake for rip currents, paddle board mishaps, and rogue noodle fights.

Instead?

He was watching the path that led back to Maplewood.

His clipboard - meant for sign-outs and emergency contacts - was hanging uselessly at his side, pages fluttering in the breeze like even they had given up on pretending he was doing this job. His Gatorade sat forgotten and sweating in the cupholder. His sunglasses were on, but only because he didn’t trust his face to not betray him.

Because he was unraveling.

And it all started with that damn look you had given him in the lodge.

That smile. That ridiculous, sunshine-wrapped, just for him smile. The one you delivered like a grenade with glitter on the pin. And then the soft laugh. The hair. The stars on your back pocket. The wink on the dock.

You winked. At him. Like this was a game only you knew the rules to, and he’d already lost.

And now, he was suffering.

He stared blankly at the lake. Two campers were attempting to stand up paddleboard while playing “chicken fight” with pool noodles - something that should have had him on his feet, whistle in hand, barking safe boating practices like usual. But he barely glanced at them.

Not his jurisdiction. Let them fall.

He had bigger problems. Internal ones.

You were being nice. Not fake-nice. Not truce-nice. Genuinely nice. Like a dangerous new flavor of war, one he hadn’t prepared for. Not one prank. Not one confetti bomb. Not a single centipede in his bag.

Just smile-laced sabotage.

Carlos groaned, running both of his hands through his hair.

She’s in your head. Get it together, man.

This wasn’t supposed to be complicated. This was supposed to be a prank war. A summer long, sparkle streaked, marshmallow stuffed battle of wits. You were rivals. Sworn enemies. A dramatic cautionary tale for future counselor mixers.

You weren’t supposed to… glow like that. Or sit beside him smelling like campfire, strategy and some kind of mystery shampoo that made his brain short-circuit. You weren’t supposed to lean in close and ask if he was intimidated, like you knew he was.

Carlos tilted his head back, eyes closing behind the sunglasses. He let the sun beat down on his face and tried to breathe.

It didn’t help.

He could still hear your voice. Still feel your fingers brush his. Still see that damn glitter stain on your hoodie like a secret code.

And the worst part?

You hadn’t even really started yet.

He knew it. Could feel it. The way you smiled too easily. The way you didn’t argue. The fact that you brought a laminated mood board. In the way you leaned back like you already owned the battlefield. He could feel it in the air - electric, tense, and terrifyingly exciting.

Carlos hated not knowing what was coming next.

Carlos loved not knowing what was coming next.

You were going to kill him. And he was going to thank you for it.

Carlos adjusted his sunglasses and slumped back into the chair like it could hold his spiraling dignity.

“I’m so screwed.”

The next morning, you were elbow-deep in a pile of glitter. Actual glitter. Weaponized, industrial-strength, emotionally compromising glitter.

It covered the floor of the Maplewood rec room like someone had tried to reenact Frozen with a Broadway sized vengeance and a very aggressive arts budget. Every step left a trail. Every breath stirred up a sparkle cloud. Your shoes had given up somewhere around minute twelve, now permanently dusted in silver like tragic little disco ghosts.

And the culprit? He had just walked past the building.

You didn’t even hesitate.

You stormed out to the porch, slammed the door open with enough force to rattle the screen, and shouted into the sunlight like an underpaid goddess of vengeance.

“Sainz!” Your arm sliced through the air like a traffic officer from glitter hell. “Get in here, now.”

Carlos turned like he knew he was guilty of something. (He was.)

Within moments, he stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like they were armor, hair still damp from the lake, a tank top sticking to him in a way that was somehow criminal and distracting.

His gaze swept over the wreckage.

The floor was a catastrophe of sequins and sparkle fallout. The craft bins had been raided. Two glue sticks lay melted in surrender. And there you stood in the middle of it all - fists on hips, glitter on your face, holding the empty tub like the ghost of crime's past.

He blinked. “...What the hell happened here?”

You glared. The kind that had sent fourth graders into apology spirals moments earlier. “You happened.”

Carlos raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve been on lifeguard duty all morning. Very peacefully not causing this.”

“Yet somehow, you’re still the root cause,” you snapped, marching toward him with the rage of someone who’d cleaned the same two tiles eight times. “Apparently, you told Cabin Bearly Behavin’ that the ‘glitter rain’ prank from last year was ‘historically significant.’”

He grinned. “I said it was iconic. Which is true.”

“Carlos.”

“Y/N.”

You narrowed your eyes. He smiled wider.

And then, of course - he stepped inside.

One step. Crunch. His flip-flop immediately coated in silver and blue sparkles. He looked down at it, mildly impressed. “Wow. It’s like snow. If snow wanted to ruin your laundry forever.”

You shoved the empty glitter tub at his chest with no ceremony. “You’re helping.”

Carlos hesitated like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in a canoe. “Me? Why?”

“Because it’s your fault. Because these are your campers. Because I don’t want to be forced into another painful meeting with Maisie and Ryan.”

He snorted. “Is that a threat or a love letter?”

You hurled a damp sponge at him. Missed. It landed with a sad, flopping slap against the doorway.

Carlos sighed dramatically, then kicked off his shoes and crouched beside you. “Fine. What’s the plan, boss?”

You blinked.

Carlos Sainz. Prank captain. Waterfront menace. Maplewood’s #1 enemy combatant. Kneeling beside you with a dustpan in one hand and smile that felt dangerously like truce.

“...Start with the corner,” you muttered. “Work clockwise.”

He nodded solemnly, crawling to the far side of the room. “You’re the artist. I’m just the janitor.”

“You’re a menace.”

“Same thing,” he said, voice too soft.

You didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. Not with the way his shoulder brushed yours every time he scooted closer. Not with the way he hummed while he worked - off-key and annoyingly charming.

Somewhere around the fifteen minute mark, you reached for the same glitter pile and your hands touched. Again.

You froze. So did he.

The moment stretched.

Glitter clung to your skin like stars, clung to his knuckles like confetti. It would’ve been cinematic - silent tension, sparkling touch, unspoken emotions - if he hadn’t opened his mouth and said:

“If you cry, do your eyes shoot glitter now?”

You punched him in the shoulder. Lightly. Maybe too lightly.

He laughed, low and quiet, and didn’t move away. His eyes sparkled worse than the floor now.

Something dangerous. Something hopeful.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He winked. “Sure you do.”

You didn’t finish cleaning the floor.

But you did laugh.

And when he finally left - hands covered in glitter, hair dusted like a disco ball, that smile still lingering - you stared at the closed door longer than you meant to.

Maybe this wasn’t war anymore. Maybe it never had been.

You were supposed to be setting up for tomorrow’s improv games. That was the plan. The chalkboard said “Drama Block Prep - 10am,” and you had every intention of actually doing your job. But instead?

You were sitting center stage in the drama cabin. In a tragic puddle of tulle skirts, pirate hats, crumpled scripts, a rhinestone tiara, and one plastic sword that kept jabbing you in the thigh like it had a vendetta.

You stared at your war journal like it had personally betrayed you

Because, in a way, it had.

The page titled OPERATION: EMOTIONAL ANNIHILATION stared back at you - half covered in fingerprints, annotated with Lucy’s handwriting in neon gel pen (“Weaponize the Dimples”), and a crumpled sticky note from Ella that read: Make him beg.

You frowned at it. Hard. Then let your head fall back against the platform riser behind you with a theatrical sigh that would’ve made your campers proud.

You were supposed to be prepping. Organizing.

Instead, you were thinking about him.

Carlos.

Stupid lifeguard. Stupid perfect eyebrows. Stupid way he looked at you during the meeting like you’d rewired the entire emotional infrastructure of camp with a single smile.

It was supposed to be a game. That was the rule. You flirt, he folds. You wink, he spirals. You’re in control. You’re holding the reins.

Except… it didn’t feel like that anymore.

It felt messier. Realer.

Like the script had gone rogue.

You slammed the notebook shut and shoved it under a pile of costume capes. Maybe forever.

The worst part?

You liked the way he watched you now.

Not the usual rivalry glare. Not even the condiment fueled panic. But something else. Like he couldn’t figure you out. Like he wanted to. Not to win. Not to prank. Just to know you.

Which, to be very clear, was not the plan.

You groaned again, dragging yourself flat on your back across the paint-splattered stage. The floor was warm from sunlight bleeding through the dusty window panes. Above you, the wooden ceiling beams were covered in graffiti - years of camper signatures, inside jokes, doodles, “Camp 4evr <3” and one “I kissed Tommy here!!!” circled three times in pink Sharpie.

You should’ve been at dinner.

But instead you were here, curled into the safe chaos of the drama cabin, wondering when exactly your heart started confusing the battle with butterflies.

Somewhere outside, a whistle blew. Another activity rotation.

You covered your face with your hands and muttered, “I’m so screwed.”

Then, the door creaked open.

You sat up fast, hair full of static.

Carlos stood in the doorway, one arm braced on the frame like he wasn’t sure if he was invited in. No sunglasses. Just his stupidly handsome, slightly confused face, framed by the setting sun and the faint echo of dodgeball whistles in the distance.

“Was looking for the band room,” he said, voice half-teasing. “Guess I took a wrong turn and found the… emotional battlefield?”

You blinked. “What gave it away? The abandoned tutus or the fact I’m lying on the stage like a post-show ghost?”

Carlos stepped in slowly, eyes skimming over the wall of old costumes, the faded show posters, the paint-stained risers. He looked a little out of place here - all camp tan and lifeguard cool - but something about him softened in the space. Like he’d walked into your world, and for once… wasn’t trying to win.

“This where you do all your plotting?”

You shrugged. “Only when I need a break from my bunk and I’m trying not to rethink all my life choices.”

He nodded, then crossed the room like it was no big deal. Like stepping onto your stage wasn’t sacred. Like maybe he already belonged there.

He sat beside you on the floor, arms resting on his knees. One of them bumped yours. You didn’t move away.

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Not tense.

Just… full.

Then he said, softly, “You’re different when you’re not trying to win.”

You turned to him, eyebrow raised. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

Carlos smiled. A small one. The kind that didn’t hide behind jokes.

“It’s… interesting.”

You didn’t have a snarky reply for that. Not this time.

Because your chest was doing that fluttery, traitorous thing again. The one that had nothing to do with war strategy and everything to do with him.

He looked down, then back at you. His voice dropped, like he was almost afraid of the words:

“You know, whatever game this is - you don’t have to play it.”

That stopped you. Just for a moment.

Because you felt it too. That quiet shift. That steady unraveling of whatever truce you’d pretended to negotiate. Somewhere between the glitter cleanup and the shared laughter and the way his eyes lingered on you just a second too long…something had changed.

You didn’t want to win anymore.

You didn’t want a prank, or a victory, or even the thrill of the back-and-forth.

You just wanted to feel this.

Whatever this was.

You looked down at your hand resting on the floor between you - fingers stained with marker ink, glitter still clinging to your knuckles from earlier. He looked too. And then slowly, carefully, he reached over. Barely touched your pinky with his.

It was the softest truce in the history of war.

And you let it happen.

Later that night, the fire crackled like it knew something. Like it was in on the secret.

It wasn’t the end of year campfire that you and Carlos still had to finish planning. This one was scrappier. Unofficial. A kindling pile slapped together by a handful of over-caffeinated counselors who had managed to wrangle a fire permit and a Bluetooth speaker that only worked when held at a weird angle.

The kids were loving it. Sticky hands, smoke-sweet laughter, impromptu group songs that devolved into half-sun chaos. Someone was passing around a bag of off-brand marshmallows and claiming they were “vintage.”

And yet… none of that was what you were focused on.

You were supposed to be. Your job, technically, was to supervise the chaos from the sidelines and redirect campers before they set themselves on fire or broke into an interpretive dance routine involving sparklers. You had a group of kids behind you rehearsing a dramatic retelling of Shrek using Shakespearean monologues and pool noodles. They were thriving.

But your eyes weren’t on them.

They were on him.

Carlos was crouched low by the woodpile, coaxing a flame back to life with practiced ease. His forearms flexed as he added kindling. His nose scrunched when a puff of smoke hit him. His voice carried just enough over the crackling logs that you could hear it - warm, real, and unguarded.

And he was laughing.

Really laughing. The kind of laugh that took up space. Easy. Effortless.

And you were caught.

Your eyes didn’t just drift - they clung. Every time he moved. Every time he looked like the boy you used to compete against and the man you couldn’t stop seeing now.

He caught you staring.

Of course he did.

Carlos looked up, caught your eyes across the flickering flames, and for a moment, the rest of camp didn’t exist.

Not the fire. Not the kids. Not the years of pranks or the glitter still buried in his hair.

Just you and him.

He tilted his head slightly, like a question.

You didn’t answer it aloud. Didn’t wave or smile or raise a brow. You just stood. Quietly. Like gravity had shifted and your feet knew the way before your mind did.

You passed Jo on the way out of the circle. She gave you a confused look. You shrugged. Then you veered off the path - past the giggling campers and flaming s’mores sticks - until you reached the trail just beyond the tree line.

Carlos met you there less than a minute later. Like he knew.

No words at first. Just the rustle of branches. The warmth of the fire still brushing your back. And him.

Closer now.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low and rough from smoke and something else entirely.

You nodded. “Just needed air.”

He quirked a brow. “You’re outside.”

You smiled. “Then maybe I just needed you.”

The air shifted. It was subtle but electric. A hush that wrapped around your bones and made your breath catch.

Carlos took a half-step forward.

“You keep doing that,” he said, almost like a warning.

“Doing what?” you asked, heart already racing.

“Making it impossible to know what’s real anymore.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you reached out - gently, fingers brushing the edge of his Ridge hoodie sleeve - and looked up at him with all the caution you’d dropped somewhere in the drama cabin.

“This is real.”

He stared at you. Silent. Searching.

Then, slowly - like he was afraid to spook the moment - Carlos leaned in.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

He rested his forehead against yours. Hands on your hips, grounding you both. Close enough to feel the words you hadn’t said yet. Close enough that you could kiss him if you wanted.

You did want to.

But you stayed there. Held together in the almost.

But moments at camp always ended.

A branch snapped somewhere up the hill.

You both turned. Footsteps. Voices.

“Carlos?” Lando called. “You still on fire duty? That kid just roasted a marshmallow on a stick of deodorant.”

You both jolted back a little too fast - like guilty teenagers, not rival counselors approaching something dangerously beautiful.

Carlos ran a hand through his hair, already stepping back into his role. “Duty calls,” he muttered, eyes darting toward the trail, voice lower now, quieter.

You nodded, arms folding across your chest, like if you squeezed hard enough you could hold the moment in place.

He looked at you one more time. Like he wanted to say something else. Like there was something else. But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Because the second pair of footsteps was getting closer.

So instead, he gave you one last look. One that said this isn’t over. One that said I’m trying.

And then he turned. Jogged up the trail. Disappeared into the smoke and voices and distant crackle of deodorant-fueled destruction.

And you…stood there.

The sounds of camp swirling back in - guitar chords, cicadas, the telltale shriek of someone falling into the lake.

And just like that, the moment closed. Folded. Filed away in a corner of your chest labeled “almost”

You exhaled, slow.

Then turned, ran a hand down your face, and walked back to your campers. Back to the noise, the stage, the safety of pretending it was all just drama.

Even if your heart knew better.

A few days later, it was just past curfew.

Carlos knew he shouldn’t be out there. Curfew wasn’t optional. The lake was off-limits. He was technically breaking at least three camp rules just by being on the dock alone.

But he couldn’t sleep. And the water always calmed his head. At least, it used to.

Now it just made him think about you.

He was sitting there - hood up, arms draped over his knees, sneakers half untied - when he heard soft footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn. Didn’t want to get his hopes up. Didn’t think it would be you.

But then you spoke, voice smaller than usual. Tired. Honest.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.”

He exhaled, just barely. “Wasn’t expecting you either.”

You sat next to him without another word. Legs stretched out, your toes brushing the surface of the water, sweatshirt sleeves pulled down over your hands. You looked like the kind of tired he felt - deep, summer-worn, and tangled in something he hadn’t let himself name.

The silence wrapped around you like a blanket. The sky was navy and spangled. Music drifted from someone’s forgotten speaker in the Ridge’s rec shed. Crickets filled in the spaces neither of you were ready to speak into yet.

Carlos turned his head.

And there you were - sitting beside him, not looking at him, but not far. You hadn’t come to win a round or start a war. You’d come as you. Soft. Still. The way he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it.

He swallowed hard. “The other night,” he said. “At the drama cabin…”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Carlos hesitated. His fingers curled into the worn fabric of his hoodie. “Was that real?”

His voice didn’t sound like his own. Too quiet. Too raw.

You looked out at the lake. At the reflection of the moon across the water, stretched and fractured but still glowing. He wondered if that’s how this felt to you too - imperfect, uncertain, but still bright.

“It felt real,” you said finally. “But I don’t know what we do with real. Not here.”

Carlos leaned back on his palms. His shoulders ached from lifeguard duty, from not sleeping, from pretending this hadn’t changed everything. “Yeah. Me either.”

You turned to him. “Do you want it to be real?”

He didn’t hesitate. “I think it already is.”

That felt like the closest thing to a confession he’d ever said out loud. But it was the truth. God, it was the truth.

You leaned into him then. Just your shoulder, warm and barely there, pressing against his like it belonged. He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just adjusted so your knees brushed, and let his pinky touch yours - so light he wasn’t sure you’d feel it.

You did.

“Why’d you leave?” you asked, voice even softer. “That night.”

Carlos closed his eyes for a second. “Someone was about to set themselves on fire.”

“No,” you said, a hint of a smile pulling at your lips. “I mean really leave.”

He let the silence hang.

And then, quietly, painfully honestly, he said, “Because if I didn’t, I think I might’ve done something stupid.”

You shifted. “Like what?”

Carlos didn’t answer.

Instead, he reached for your hand. Finally, slowly. Like it was the most delicate thing in the world.

And when your fingers curled into his like they’d been waiting all summer to do exactly that - he knew.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You looked at him.

And then you did.

No teasing. No performance. No sparkly distractions.

Your mouth on his. Soft. Steady. Sure.

Carlos kissed you back with everything he didn’t know how to say.

And for the first time, it didn’t feel like a game.

The final campfire planning meeting was held in the staff lodge like usual, but it may as well have been on a different planet.

Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered through the old cabin windows, casting soft gold light across the scuffed wood floors and dust-speckled air. The fans hummed lazily overhead, pushing around warm air that smelled like pine needles, whiteboard markers, and the last days of summer.

But inside?

Everything felt heavier now - sharper and strangely softer all at once. Like the entire summer had been leading here, collecting moments like embers until it was impossible to pretend the fire hadn’t already caught.

There was no tension. Not really. Not anymore. But not exactly peace either.

You walked in before Carlos this time.

Clipboard hugged to your chest. Hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows like you meant business. Your hair pulled back into one of those practical, messy twist things you did when you were stressed or focused or pretending not to think about the boy you kissed on the dock a week ago.

The boy you hadn’t really talked to since.

Not properly. Not like that.

Carlos came in two minutes later.

Not late. Just… not early.

His steps were slower than usual. Not cocky. Not casual. Simply quiet. Like he was measuring each one. Like something was balancing inside him, delicate and maybe a little dangerous.

He gave you a look when your eyes met - brief, unreadable, but full of too much for a single second. The kind of look that didn’t need translation.

We need to talk.

You didn’t answer. Not out loud. Just blinked.

After.

He nodded. Once.

Maisie and Ryan were already there, halfway buried beneath a sea of color-coded schedules, supply lists, and clipboards that made the staff table look like a bureaucratic battlefield. A stack of sticky notes fluttered as Ryan rearranged a packet of skit sign-ups.

“Alright,” she said, voice somewhere between pep and despair. “This is it. Final meeting. Forty-eight hours until the campfire. You’ve both survived. I’m amazed. And I need fifteen minutes of actual adult behavior before my sanity combusts like last year’s marshmallows.”

You nodded, lowering yourself into the seat beside the dry erase calendar. You uncapped a pen, mostly for something to hold.

Carlos sat across from you, dropping into his chair with less flair than usual. Less anything. Still watching you.

Ryan, oblivious, flipped his clipboard like it was a mission briefing. “So we got the opening welcome. Camper gratitude circle. Unity skits. S’mores, obviously. And closing remarks.”

You tapped your pen to the clipboard. “Carlos does fire safety and announcements. I’ll handle transitions and storytelling.”

“And the final speech?” Maisie looked between you both.

There was a pause.

You glanced at Carlos. He was already looking at you. And then he smiled - small, real, the kind that tugged somewhere just behind your ribs. You smiled back before you could stop it.

“We’ll do it together,” you said.

Ryan blinked. “Like…alternate lines? Joint monologue?”

Carlos shrugged. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Great,” Maisie said, already marking something in red on her list. Clearly choosing to pick her battles. “Last thing - can you guys meet me at the campfire site tonight? Just to walk through lighting, timing, camper rows, all that?”

Carlos looked at you again. A question. Not a challenge.

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” you said. “We’ll be there.”

The firepit was quiet. No kids. No extra staff. Just the soft crunch of pine needles under your shoes as you stepped into the clearing, lantern in hand, the trees around you whispering with late-summer wind.

It smelled like smoke and the end of something.

Carlos was already there.

He’d stacked the extra benches like he said he would, arranged the logs in a near-perfect circle, and checked the kindling twice. The firewood sat in a neat pile off to the side, untouched, waiting for a spark that hadn’t quite arrived yet.

He crouched by the pit like it meant something. Like if he lined everything up just right, maybe he could control the outcome. Or at least, delay the inevitable.

You stepped closer, tucking your hands into your sleeves. “Hey.”

Carlos looked up. The sleeves of his hoodie were pushed to his elbows, and his camp badge was hanging crooked from his drawstring. His hair looked like he’d run a hand through it more than once. His cheeks were flushed, not from the heat - there wasn’t any - but from something else.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. Gentle. “Thanks for coming.”

You sat on the edge of the nearest bench, feeling the weight of the space around you. It was familiar and foreign all at once - like everything else between you lately. “I said I would.”

“I know.” He sat too, a few feet away. Close enough to feel the warmth if there had been a flame. “I wasn’t sure if that still meant anything.”

Silence.

Then, you asked quietly, “Why wouldn’t it?”

Carlos looked away for a second, jaw tight. “I don’t know. Maybe because I’ve been pretending too well. Like I could keep things simple if I just kept smiling and didn’t say anything real. Like everything didn’t change after the drama cabin. After the dock. After you kissed me like that,” He exhaled. “I don’t know what we’re doing anymore. And I hate not knowing.”

You stared straight ahead, but you didn’t shut down this time. “I was scared to know.”

His brow furrowed slightly, shoulders tense with things he hadn’t said yet.

You swallowed, heart in your throat. Your voice was thinner. “The plan was to win. To get in your head, mess with your ego, play the long game. But it stopped being funny. It stopped being a game.”

Carlos blinked like he hadn’t expected you to say it out loud. Then he let out a short, almost broken laugh. “Good. Because I’ve been losing so hard it stopped hurting.”

You cracked a smile despite yourself, then bit it back, looking down at your lap. The pine needles shifted gently around your feet with the breeze.

“Carlos…” you said, meaning a hundred different things.

But he beat you to it. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I like you.”

You looked up carefully. No smirk. No joke. The truth, out in the open.

“Not in just a camp crush way. Not because we’re good at teasing each other or because you look annoyingly hot when you’re mad at me.. I like you in a way that ruins games. That way that makes me forget to win.”

Your throat tightened, eyes stinging.

He kept going. “You make everything feel more alive. Even when we’re throwing condiments at each other. Especially when we’re not.”

You breathed in. Let it fill your lungs and shake your ribs. “I was so busy trying to control it. The story. The outcome. Us.”

Carlos turned slightly, watching you. “And I was just trying not to lose you.”

That was it. That was the moment it cracked. The walls you’d spent summers perfecting, stacking higher with every prank and every teasing smile. They dropped. Quietly. Completely.

You moved closer. Not dramatically, but enough that your knees touched. Your hand found the bench between you.

“I like you too,” you said, the words trembling but true. “In the way that terrifies me.”

Carlos didn’t breathe for a beat. Then he smiled - real and open and full of something fragile and warm. Like he couldn’t believe you’d just handed him that piece of your heart.

“You think it’s too late?” he asked

You shook your head. “It’s camp. It’s never too late. Just dramatic enough.”

He laughed, low and fond. And then, with a certainty you hadn’t seen before, he reached out. Slid his hand into yours.

No explosions. No fireworks. Just steady and sure.

You leaned your head on his shoulder, eyes slipping shut for a moment. The trees rustled above. The firepit stayed cold. But something else - something that had been stuck and waiting - finally felt like it was catching.

Setting up for the fire could wait.

You had already found what you needed.

The clearing was buzzing before the fire even caught.

Campers swarmed in waves - laughing, clinging to each other, chasing the last seconds of summer across the pine-lined field like they could hold it in their hands. Maplewood and Cedar Ridge campers mingled like there hadn’t once been a very real marshmallow-stick rivalry between them. They darted between benches and counselors, arms slung over shoulders, shirts covered in signatures and Sharpie hearts. Flashlights flickered like fireflies, and the air was thick with the kind of chaos only summer could make beautiful.

Counselors trailed behind them with flashlights and folding chairs, guiding and grinning and pretending they weren’t just as wrecked by the closing of another summer as the kids were. Ella was gathering marshmallow skewers, dramatically arguing with Jo over which flavor of s’mores was superior. Lucy had a clipboard of her own, checking off names with tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. Lando was in the middle of a circle of younger kids, passing out glow bracelets like they were ancient artifacts.

The sky was painted with that last stretch of golden twilight, streaks of peach and pink bleeding into the dark. The stars were only just starting to blink to life, shy behind the last scraps of sunlight. But the air was thick with that end-of-summer hum - heavy with nostalgia, soft with almost-goodbyes.

You stood at the edge of the circle, clipboard forgotten in your hand, your breath caught somewhere between nerves and wonder. The benches were full. The fire pit was loaded. The kindling waited.

And Carlos was beside you.

Not in front of you. Not across the fire. Not smirking behind a prank or a too-loud joke. Just beside you.

His shoulder brushed yours lightly as he leaned closer, voice low enough that it felt like something secret. “Ready?”

You nodded. Not because you were. But because it was time.

He lit the match.

The fire caught slow and bright, curling up from the kindling like a secret, casting light across every face in the circle. The kids oohed and clapped. A few counselors high-fived behind the benches. Lucy wiped her eyes and pretended it was just allergies.

Carlos stepped forward. “Alright, alright,” he said with his best impression of Ryan. “Housekeeping first - no hair in the flames, no sticks as weapons, and please do not eat ten marshmallows and then cannonball into the lake.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“And if you do,” you added, stepping up beside him, “make sure it’s at least entertaining. You’ve got, what, eighteen hours left of camp fame?”

More laughter. But it softened quickly, gentled by the glow of the fire and the quiet understanding that this was the last time you’d all be here like this.

Carlos glanced at you, a silent ready?

You nodded.

Together, you stepped forward. You hadn’t memorized the speech. Hadn’t even kept the draft you scribbled on the back of an old drama script. But this? This felt right.

“This summer,” you started, voice even, “was a mess.”

Snickers. Jo elbowed Ella lightly.

“A beautiful, chaotic, glitter-coated mess,” Carlos continued, deadpan. “With more mosquitoes and sunscreen mishaps than anyone predicted.”

“And more memories than we can count.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full - of meaning, of breath held tight in chests.

Carlos’s voice lowered, serious but warm. “You made art. You made friends. You made disasters in the dining hall. And you made this place feel like home.”

You looked around at the flickering faces. “We watched you grow. And fall. And get back up. We saw when you laughed until your face hurt. When you cried because goodbyes feel big. When you sang too loud, or fell off the paddle board, or froze on stage. And we are so, so proud of you.”

Lando cleared his throat behind the snack table. Not subtly. Lucy handed him a tissue without breaking eye contact with the fire.

Carlos continued. “We talk a lot about what you leave behind here - on stage, in the cabin walls, in the ridiculous inside jokes and prank wars. But the truth is…”

He paused. Then looked at you again. “The truth is, you take it with you too.”

You smiled quietly. “Camp doesn’t just end. It echoes.”

You both stepped back then, letting the silence breathe. The fire crackled. Sparks rose like tiny ghosts into the dark.

Then came the camper gratitude circle.

Campers, one by one, stood up. Some with practiced speeches, some barely able to talk through their tears. They thanked bunkmates, counselors, best friends, secret crushes. A Cedar Ridge camper admitted he’d never felt like he belonged anywhere until this summer. The fire seemed to lean in, listening.

After that came the skits.

Cabin Wood You Believe It reenacted the infamous blackout night with bathrobes and glow sticks and a truly cursed Pop-Tart stunt. Ella joined in with a melodramatic narrator voice that made the older campers howl. Jo and Lando brought out guitars for a song they swore they wrote themselves (they didn’t), and somewhere around the chorus, half the staff had joined in - off-key, too loud, perfect.

Marshmallows were passed. Coco burned tongues. Faces glowed. Laughter mingled with tears.

And when the last verse of the final camp song drifted into the night, when the fire burned low and the stars blinked overhead like they were watching too, Carlos reached for your hand.

Just there. Steady. Grounding. Like he’d done it every night.

No one cheered. No one pointed.

But Lando winked from across the circle.

And Lucy smiled through her tears.

You leaned against Carlos gently, his thumb tracing the edge of your wrist, grounding you to the moment.

The fire was dying, but the light in your chest wasn’t.

Summer was ending. But something else had just begun.

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coco-loco-nut · 2 months ago

Text

oh how i loved being the test reader for this one, it’s absolutely beautiful

Rooms Where You Waited - D. Ricciardo

summary: you traded galleries and studios for pit lanes until the space he left behind became louder than his presence

pairing: Daniel Ricciardo x painter!reader

warnings: swearing

word count: 4.8k

masterlist

The gallery hummed with the low murmur of money and quiet negotiations. Crystal glasses clinked, catching the soft light like scattered diamonds while designer heels clicked on polished marble. The scent of expensive perfume mingled with faint traces of oil paint and varnish, an odd but intimate perfume of creation and commerce. Outside, the Mediterranean sun was beginning to dip behind the Monaco skyline, casting long, golden shadows that stretched like fingers across the city’s glittering facades.

You stood by the far wall, eyes fixed on the painting you’d just sold - friction. A chaotic storm of reds and deep shadows, every brushstroke seemed to pulse with both violent motion and aching heartbreak. You hadn’t planned on letting it go - not this soon - but your agent had insisted “Monaco attracts noise and wealth. You need the exposure.”

Across the room, surrounded by a crowd of well-dressed strangers, stood Daniel Ricciardo. Sharp suit, undone collar, a presence that vibrated beneath the surface. It was clear that he didn’t belong here, but he’d just spent eighty-five thousand euros on your piece. The money made you skeptical, but his words surprised you.

“I don’t really get art,” he admitted when he found you along the wall, his champagne glass in hand, “but this one made me stop.”

You smiled, studying him carefully. There was a flicker of sincerity beneath the casual bravado, and skepticism waged a quiet war with curiosity inside you. “Most people say that right before they ask for a refund.”

Daniel laughed, warm and unguarded, the kind of sound that cracks the surface of a stranger’s shell. “Not me. I like that it doesn’t explain itself.”

Your eyes met, and in that brief moment, a silent recognition passed between you - two restless souls circling different worlds but somehow caught in the same orbit.

“Come to the race tomorrow,” he said suddenly, his tone shifting, no longer casual but carrying something hopeful.

You raised an eyebrow, amused and wary. “So you can parade me in front of billionaires?”

“No,” he said softly, the humor now long gone from his voice. “So you can see the part of me that doesn’t know how to paint.”

You hesitated, the weight of a thousand unspoken possibilities pressing down. And then, something - call it curiosity, or perhaps the flicker of something else - pulled you in.

“Alright,” you said finally. “Surprise me.”

The next day, the roar of Formula One engines ripped through the Monaco morning like thunder. You stood behind the VIP barrier, heart pounding as the cars flashed past, a symphony of speed and danger. The sharp, intoxicating smell of burning rubber and fuel mixed with the salty tang of the sea breeze, assaulting your senses and pulling you deeper into this foreign world.

You were a fish out of water. Around you, the crowd was a sea of focused faces - fans, sponsors, commentators - all fluent in the language of lap times and tire wear that you had no words for.

But when you saw Daniel. Helmet in one hand, the other clenched at his side. His eyes, fierce and burning with an intensity carved from pressure and expectation, cut through the chaos and the noise. In that moment, you understood him - not as a driver, but as a man carved from pressure and expectation.

The race blurred by in a torrent of motion and noise, but when Daniel crossed the finish line in second place, a cheer erupted. You watched from afar as he went through the familiar rituals - the podium celebrations, the flashing cameras, the relentless media interviews - before he finally slipped away to the quiet sanctuary of the balcony, away from the crowds, where you waited.

“Congrats,” you said softly as he approached, his head bowed, eyes locked on the gleaming trophy in his hands.

At the sound of your voice, his head snapped up, wide eyes searching yours, “you stayed,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion, but carrying a soft undercurrent of surprise.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” you admitted quietly, the weight of the moment settling between you like fragile glass.

“Most people don’t,” he said, his eyes softening

He stepped forward, the glow of the city wrapping him in gold and shadow. There was still an adrenaline clinging to his skin, the faint scent of swat and engine oil in the air, but something about him had shifted. The race mask was gone. What stood before you now was just Daniel - bare, unguarded.

You both stood in silence for a moment, the kind that doesn’t demand to be filled.

The breeze lifted the scent of fuel and sea salt from below, brushing cool against your flushed skin. Below the balcony, the paddock continued its chaotic symphony - shouts in different languages, metallic clanks of gear being packed away, laughter that echoed off the concrete. But up there, above it all, time slowed, like someone had turned the world down to a whisper.

Daniel exhaled through his nose, a quiet, worn-out sound. He looked at the trophy again like it wasn’t real, like maybe he wasn’t real either, unless he was moving fast enough to blur.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice almost too soft to hear.

You turned toward him slowly, unsure if you’d heard him right. “What?”

He met your eyes. His gaze was steady now. No jokes, no grin. “Come with me,” he repeated. “To Montreal, Barcelona. Wherever the calendar takes me. Just…come.”

Your breath caught, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. A second passed. Then another.

“Why?” you asked, because the part of you that had always been afraid of being wanted for the wrong reasons wouldn’t let the silence carry that answer.

He hesitated, and in that small beat, you saw him peel something back, just enough to let you in.

“Because I feel like I’ve been driving circles around myself for years,” he said, his thumb rubbing absently along the edge of the trophy, “And then I saw your painting, and it hit me harder than any crash I’ve walked away from. And then I met you, and suddenly nothing made sense again. But not in a bad way. Just-”

He paused, brow furrowed, like he was choosing his words carefully as if he were braking into a corner at 300 kilometers an hour.

“Just in the way that made me want to stop spinning for a minute.”

Your heart cracked open and filled all at once. “Daniel…” you started, but you weren’t even sure what came after that. You were staring at a man you barely knew and somehow knew too well. Standing on a balcony above the world, above the noise, with the ache of something rare blooming between you.

“I know it’s messy,” he said quickly. “I know it won’t always be easy. And I can’t promise I’ll be the guy who always says the right thing or shows up with flowers or - fuck, I don’t even know if I’ll be good at this.” He gave a soft, self-conscious laugh. “But I promise I won’t pretend like you don’t matter.”

You looked at him for a long moment. The lights reflected off his skin, soft and golden. The hum of the paddock faded further, like the world was holding its breath.

And despite everything - the noise, the distance, the risk - you found yourself saying it.

“Okay.”

A slow, surprised smile broke across his face, so different from the ones you’d seen on the podium or in press photos. This one was smaller, steadier. Real.

“Yeah?” he asked, like he didn’t want to trust it just yet

You nodded, and for the first time that day, you felt grounded.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Let’s go.”

The air in Montreal was crisp, cooler than in Monaco or Florence, the kind of clean that filled your lungs and made you feel like maybe things would continue to be simple. They had been during the two weeks Daniel had off. You had stayed at his place in Monaco as you learned more about each other.

Maple trees lined the winding streets near the hotel, their leaves trembling in the breeze. You arrived just past midnight, the city quiet except for the distant hum of traffic and the occasional burst of laughter from a late-night bar.

Daniel had picked you up from the airport himself, cap low over his eyes, hoodie pulled up. No team, no handlers. Just him, arms folded and grinning like a kid playing hooky.

You hadn’t said much on the ride to the hotel. You didn’t need to. There was something sacred about that kind of silence - the kind that only existed between two people trying not to break whatever it was they’d just started.

The suite overlooked the St. Lawrence River. You could see the lights from the paddock in the distance, already assembled for the race weekend. Daniel kicked off his shoes, peeled off his jacket, and sank into the couch like it was the first time he’d sat still in days.

He looked at you, eyes glassy with exhaustion. “You’re really here.”

You nodded, suddenly shy. “Yeah, I am.”

He reached out, fingers grazing yours without pressure. Just a touch. Just enough.

That night, you didn’t sleep so much as fall into each other - quiet laughter, tangled limbs, breathless pauses. It wasn’t perfect, not choreographed or cinematic. It was real. Messy. Warm. You fell asleep with your head on his chest, the rise and fall of his breath a rhythm you didn’t know you’d been missing.

The next morning, Montreal’s energy snapped into focus. The race weekend began in earnest. And suddenly, everything sped up.

Daniel’s days vanished into debriefs, simulator sessions, press conferences. The hotel room filled with the sound of early alarms and rustling gear bags. You’d wake up to an empty bed and a scribbled note on the counter:

Practice at 10. Didn’t want to wake you. Back after media. You looked peaceful - D

You wandered the old city streets alone, sketchbook in hand, trying to create with borrowed time. The buildings were beautiful there - old stone, ivy-covered, worn with memory. You funda quiet cafe near the circuit and spent hours sketching him from memory: the curve of his jaw, the tired intensity in his eyes, the way his hand gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding him together.

At night, you’d return to the suite. Sometimes he was there. Sometimes he wasn’t.

When he was, he was bone-tired, still smelling faintly of sweat and gasoline. He’d curl into bed beside you, half-asleep before he could ask how your day had gone. You didn’t blame him. Not really.

On Saturday, just before qualifying, you found him alone in the garage. His helmet was off, race suit half-zipped, a bottle of water clutched in his hand. He looked up when you approached, surprise flashing across his face before it softened into a smile.

“You made it,” he said, stepping closer.

You nodded, then looked around. “Is it always this…intense?”

He laughed quietly. “This? This is calm. You should see race day.”

You hesitated, then asked, “Do you want me to come tomorrow? Or would it be easier if I didn’t?”

His smile faltered, just for a second. Not in cruelty, but in calculation. As if he wasn’t sure which answer would hurt less.

“I want you there,” he said. “But I also don’t want you to think I’m only half-present. Because I am. When I’m in this-” he gestured to the garage, the car, to everything, “-I can’t be in anything else.”

You met his eyes. “I know. I just, I’m trying to figure out how to fit without disappearing.”

That stopped him. His jaw worked, trying to find the right thing to say. But the call came from his engineer, and the moment passed.

“I’ll find you after quali,” he said. “Promise”

And then he was gone, helmet on, world closed off.

And that’s how most of the weekends went. You started to mark time by the sound of sippers and the screech of wheel guns on pit lane.

There was always a promise. “I’ll find you after the session.”

Sometimes he did. Sometimes he didn’t.

When he did, he was drained - a hollowed-out version of the man who once traced constellations on your shoulder in the Monaco spark. He’d ask how you were, but never quite listen. Not fully. Not because he didn’t care, but because he’d left all his energy on the asphalt, in the car, in the fight for a tenth of a second that would decide everything.

When he didn’t - well, you stepped waiting with hope and started waiting out of habit.

You sketched in the VIP suite, in the local cafe, on hotel stationary. Anything and everything you saw: the chaos of the paddock, the city lights, the sun as it dipped beneath the horizon.

But the sketches began to change.

The lines grew tighter. Harsher. You weren’t drawing Daniel anymore. You were drawing the space he left behind. A crumpled bed sheet. A helmet resting alone on a workbench. Your own hand, outstretched, empty.

And still, you stayed.

You told yourself it was temporary. That balance was coming. That love, like racing, was just about timing.

In Hungary, you didn’t go to the race. You stayed in the room, curled under the blanket with your sketchbook on your lap, watching the muted broadcast on TV. The engine sounds didn’t carry through the glass. Just faint flashes of speed, frozen on screen like a dream someone else was having.

You waited for the text.

It came five hours late.

Podium. You should’ve seen it. I’ll tell you everything when I get back. X

He didn’t.

He stumbled in close to midnight, still buzzing from champagne and adrenaline. He didn’t kiss you hello. He mumbled something about strategy and tires and how close it had been in Turn 3. He peeled his jacket off and collapsed beside you, half dressed, one arm draped across your stomach like he still remembered where you were in the dark.

He fell asleep mid-sentence, a soft snore catching in his throat.

You stared at the ceiling. Eyes open. Silent.

And you realized something awful in its simplicity:

You didn’t even know what color his eyes had been that morning.

That night, you packed your sketchbook first.

You didn’t leave a note. You knew he’d notice your absence - eventually. But not tomorrow. Not the day after.

There was another city waiting for him. Another circuit. Another podium. Another chance to be adored.

You weren’t angry.

You were finished.

From your window seat on the red-eye back to your home in Milan, you watched the clouds blur beneath the wing. You pulled out a fresh page. The pencil trembled slightly in your hand as you began to redraw the figure from the piece Daniel had once called “the one that made me stop.”

The same orbit. The same pull. But this time, the gravity was gone.

This time, the figure spun alone.

======

The apartment was still.

No engine noise. No pit lane chaos. No rustling gear bags or scuffed shoes thrown by the door. Just the ticking of an old wall clock and the scratch of charcoal on canvas. The kind of silence that isn’t just absence - it’s aftermath.

You’d flown home from Hungary with no return flight. No tearful goodbye. No big final fight. Just quiet withdraw. The kind that doesn’t make headlines but echoes louder in private.

You fell back into your rhythms slowly - like relearning your own name.

The studio smelled of damar, dust, and the faint sweetness of drying paint. You started waking before dawn again, slipping outside while the city still stretched and yawned under sunrise. The cobblestones near your apartment felt familiar beneath your soles - sharp and uneven in places, but grounding. Solid.

The cafe near your building knew your order again. Strong coffee, no sugar. The same corner table. The same chipped ceramic mug. You sipped in silence and let your mind wander without being dragged into someone else’s schedule.

You painted like you were starving again. Like art was the only language left that didn’t ask you to shrink.

You flipped through the old sketches - the hotel rooms, the bed sheets, the outstretched hands - and you started to translate them. Not with the frantic abstraction of friction, but with stillness. Precision. Honestly.

The Ghostwork was born from those pages. A new series.

Darker. Intimate. Too intimate, maybe. Faces turned just enough to feel withholding. Shoulders slumped inward, burdened. Hands left unfinished - not for lack of time, but because you didn’t know if they were reaching or letting go.

They were portraits of presence without acknowledgement. Of love received in echoes. Of rooms where someone had stayed too long without being asked to.

Your gallery didn’t quite know what to do with them. Too raw, your agent said. Too quiet.

But buyers leaned in anyway - lingered longer at each canvas. A whisper of heartbreak, it turned out, sold better than any performance of contentment.

You never dared to tell them who the muse was. You never had to. The truth lived between the brushstrokes.

======

You didn’t hear from Daniel for twelve days.

Not a call. Not a message. Not even the passive, accidental kind of noticing, a liked photo, a tagged repost, a stray comment from a fan account. It was as if the whole circuit had swallowed him. Or maybe, as if he’d swallowed you and simply moved on.

You posted a carousel of photos from your travels - street scenes, a shadowy self-portrait in a cafe window, a sketch of your own feet on a balcony. The caption was one word: unfinished.

You didn’t expect him to notice.

He didn’t.

Until the thirteenth day.

2:03 a.m.

Your phone buzzed once, screen lighting up on your nightstand. Then again. And again.

You didn’t reach for it at first. Just let it buzz, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the fan in the corner. If it was important, it would keep buzzing.

It did.

By the third message, you sighed, wiped your paint-streaked fingers on your pajama pants, and flipped it over.

Daniel Ricciardo: Did I make it worse by asking you to come with me?

Daniel Ricciardo: I thought being near me would make you feel more included. But I didn’t realize I never actually let you in

Daniel Ricciardo: I miss you

Three simple lines. Too late. Too raw. And still, they cracked something.

Not open, not fully, but just enough to hurt.

You didn’t write back. Not that night. Not with your body still humming from a painting session that had gone too long. You turned the phone face-down again and went back to mixing colors you couldn’t name in the dim light. Colors that felt like memory.

The next morning, you sat on the windowsill of your studio, your coffee going cold beside you. Milan moved slowly below - the smell of bread from the corner bakery rising with the mist, mopeds coughing to life, pigeons scattering like grey brushstrokes against the sky.

You opened the message thread. Re-read it three times.

Your thumbs hovered. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You: You didn’t see me. You tolerated me. There’s a difference.

The typing bubble appeared immediately. A flicker of instinct. Maybe panic, maybe hope. But then… it disappeared.

And didn’t come back.

======

Your next show had no fanfare.

No champagne.

Just a long, narrow space with whitewashed brick and tall windows that let in raw, unforgiving daylight. The kind of light that left nothing hidden.

The gallery was hushed. People walked slowly here - not out of reverence, but caution. Like they were stepping into someone’s diary.

Each painting was hung with deliberate space around it. Enough room to breathe. To ache. Your pieces didn’t ask for interpretation. They asked to be felt.

Brushtrokes sharp in some places, blurred in others. Colors that moved like grief. This was The Ghostwork in its final form. Not a story of love, but of the haunting that followed it.

Near the far wall, hung on raw linen and lit only by skylight, was the final piece.

Devotion II.

The orbit. The solitude.

A figure half turned, walking into a crimson void. The kind of red that isn’t fire, but aftermath. Smoke. Around her: traces of another, not present, not fully. Just ghosted remnants. A shadowed boot print. An open door.

People stood in front of that one the longest. You rarely watched them directly, but you could feel when they arrived.

The hush. The stillness. The small, instinctive exhale.

You were adjusting a small placard on the far end of the wall when you felt the shift.

Not noise - but weight. A quiet disruption of ari. Gravity bending, every so slightly, toward one person in the room.

You know it before you turned.

Daniel.

He didn’t announce himself. Didn’t say your name.

He just stood there - dark jeans, soft shirt, hands folded in front of him like he was afraid to touch anything.

His eyes were on the final painting.

You didn’t turn around right away. You weren’t ready. Not until you heard him exhale, low and tight, like he’d been holding his breath since the moment you left.

“This one hurt,” he said quietly

You nodded, still facing the painting. “Good.”

He took a few steps forward, enough that his shoulder was just in your peripheral vision. Close, but not presuming. Still giving you space. Maybe for the first time.

“I didn’t know how loud I was,” he said after a long silence, “until you left… and everything went quiet.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

Not the version on magazine covers. Not the man in podium champagne and press conference smiles.

Just Daniel.

Tired. Clear-eyed. And finally - still. Not because the world stopped moving, but because he had.

He rubbed the back of his neck, thumb grazing the line of a fresh crease you didn’t remember from before.

“I thought if I brought you with me, you’d just… fit,” he admitted. “But I never made room. I just expected you to fold yourself around the noise.”

You crossed your arms, not to shield yourself - but to hold yourself up.

“And now?” you asked, voice level.

He didn’t flinch. “Now I want to learn how to make space. For real. Without asking you to shrink.”

Silence again. But this time, it didn’t ache. It waited.

You tilted your head toward the painting. “She’s still walking away.”

Daniel nodded slowly. “I know.”

You watched him from the corner of your eye, waiting for the defense, the argument, the plea. It didn’t come.

Just honesty.

“I haven’t decided if she will turn back,” you said at last, the words hanging loose, unfinished.

======

It was late September by the time you saw him again - truly saw him. Not through gallery lights or texts typed in the dark. But face to face. Present.

Florence was still warm, the kind of golden autumn that only Italy knew how to stretch into October. The air smelled like sun-soaked stone, fig trees and distant espresso. You were there for a residence - one month in a sunlit studio tucked into a courtyard near the Arno. The walls were bare plaster, the floors cool terracotta, and the windows opened wide enough to let in birdsong and the far-off bells of Santa Croce.

You painted in the mornings, walked at dusk. Your hands stayed stained with pigment and oil. You slept like someone who no longer waited for a message in the dark.

You didn’t think of him every day.

But when you did, it didn’t ache. Not in the sharp way it used to. It was quieter now. The kind of missing that didn’t demand to be answered.

Until one afternoon, there was a soft knock on the studio door.

You turned, expecting your gallery contact or the courier with fresh canvas. Instead, it was the assistant - a young woman with ink on her fingers and a nervous smile on her face.

“There’s someone here to see you,” she said

You turned, brush still in hand. “Did they give you a name?”

She paused, then offered a half-shrug, half-smirk. “He didn’t need to.”

And just like that, you knew.

You wiped your hands, heart thudding against your ribs like it hadn’t in months. As you stepped out into the courtyard, light pooled like liquid honey across the stone. And there he was.

No race suit, no entourage. Just a soft, lived-in hoodie, jeans, and slight scruff on his jaw. A bouquet of messy wildflowers in his hand - daisies, thistle, marigolds. Nothing curated. Everything honest.

You stepped outside, heartbeat in your ears. He didn’t speak at first. Just offered you the flowers and let his hand linger when yours touched his.

“You look rested,” he said finally.

You tilted your head. “You look… human.”

That laugh, low and genuine, bloomed out of him. “I took some time off. Told the team I needed a break. First time I’ve said that in a decade.”

“And they just let you?”

He shrugged, but there was a new softness in the movement. “Didn’t give them a choice.”

You smiled, but didn’t move. Didn’t fill the silence. You were learning to let people come to you - fully, or not at all.

After a beat, Daniel nodded toward the studio behind you. “May I?”

You hesitated for only a second. Then stepped aside.

Inside, the light had shifted. Long, late shadows climbed the walls. The canvases that filled the space were different now. Warmer. Calmer. The violence had bled out of the reds. There were still shadows, but they lived alongside softness. The figures had weight again. Not in burden, but in presence.

Daniel moved slowly, hands behind his back, as if afraid to disturb the quiet. He stopped in front of one untitled piece near the far window.

A woman, half-turned. Her spine arched with the motion of decision. Her face was indistinct, but her body was clearly grounded.

“She turns back,” he said.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him watch her. “You sure?”

“No,” he said, smiling faintly, shaking his head. “But she stops running. That’s something.”

You stepped forward, close enough to catch the faint scent of travel and lavender soap on him.

“Why did you really come?” you asked, not accusing. Just… steady.

Daniel met your eyes, and this time, he didn’t look away. His voice didn’t waiver.

“Because I don’t want to be a chapter in your work. I want to be part of what comes after.”

You stared at him. Your chest tightened. Not from pain. From recognition.

“I’m not giving up what I’ve built,” you defended, voice slow and even.

“I don’t want you to,” he replied instantly.

“I won’t chase you around the world.”

“You don’t have to.”

You stepped closer. Until you could see the faint creases by his eyes - the ones that only appeared when he was telling the truth.

“You hurt me,” you reminded him, plain and simple.

Daniel nodded “I know.”

“I don’t forgive you because you came back. I forgive you because I believe you want to stay.”

He let the words settle, like paint drying.

“I do,” he said. “Not as a driver. Not as someone who needs rescuing. Just as me.”

You reached up and touched his cheek, just once, before resting your forehead gently against his.

And in that quiet, sun-drenched studio in Florence, no one was racing.

No one was performing.

There was no finish line.

Only this. Stillness.

One year later, somewhere outside Lisbon

The house was small. Unremarkable from the outside. Weathered white walls. Shutters faded from too much sun. Vines and flowers climbed lazily across the back terrace. The kind of place you didn’t find unless you meant to.

It sat on the edge of a cliff road, just far enough from the city to hear your thoughts, just close enough to walk to the ocean. Daniel had found it on a whim after announcing his retirement during the offseason. You had arrived two months later with your brushes packed in linen, a half-finished canvas strapped to your back.

Now, it belonged to the both of you. Or maybe, more truthfully, it belonged to the version of you that had learned how to stay.

The morning light spilled across the kitchen table where a cup of coffee steamed beside a smudged sketchbook. Daniel padded in barefoot, hair a mess, hoodie borrowed from your side of the closet. He didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. He pressed a kiss to the crown of your head and sat down, barefoot ankles bumping into yours under the table.

On the windowsill, a vase of wildflowers had started to wilt. Thistle. Marigold. Daisies.

Outside, the waves rolled in slowly. No rush. No roar. Just rhythm.

You picked up a pencil, started drawing the horizon. He watched you for a while, quiet.

After a moment, he asked “What’s this one called?”

You tilted your head, still sketching. “Maybe nothing,” you said. “Maybe not everything has to be named.”

He nodded, content.

You kept drawing.

And this time, he stayed.

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