#*/ cs55 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Note

hii my love, could i possibly request a poly with carlos and rebbeca? with reader being an architect/ archeologist studying in edinburgh?

redesigned— cs55 + rebecca

smau + blurbs

you always thought your life would be built in clean lines and quiet mornings. tucked away in edinburgh’s grey stone charm, buried under piles of models and sketches, you were content building your future from the ground up—brick by brick, draft by draft. loving quietly and living softly. until rebecca. model, muse, and your first real love—rebecca donaldson walked into your life like a thunderstorm in a glass house. she swept you into her world of fashion weeks and flights, of candlelit rooftops and cameras that never stopped flashing. and yet, somehow, she always made space for you. for the silence. for the stillness. for love that felt like breath. you both were never looking for more—until a gala in barcelona. until carlos sainz. he shouldn’t have made sense. but he did. he saw you. he saw both of you. and maybe, for the first time, your carefully drawn plans weren’t ruined. they were just… redesigned.

fc : julie knezvic

(a/n): hi angel!! i hope you love and i am sorry that it took so long, im just a little behind rn. love you sm.

—

yourusername

liked by iamrebeccad, yourbff, yoursister & 2,301 others.

yourusername : random dump for you as i am too busy trying to survive my last few weeks of uni 😭

tagged : iamrebbecad

—

view 100 other comments.

yourbff : body is STILL tea tho. (so proud of you love) (you and rebe r so damn cute)

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : we love and miss you SO MUCH.

liked by yourbff and iamrebeccad

↳ yourbff : becs can you pls convince her to stop studying just for a night and we can all go out and have fun

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ iamrebeccad : babes i am working on it i promise. she is stubborn 😭

liked by yourusername and yourbff

↳ yourbff : trust me i KNOWWW

↳ yourusername : right here guys

↳ yourbff : we know. hopefully you see this and decided to let yourself have some fun.

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

username0 : how long have her and rebecca been dating??

↳ username1 : around 2 years i believe!

↳ username0 : aw omg. they r so cute

yoursister : can’t believe my baby sis is about to graduate 😭

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : you say ‘baby’ as if we aren’t a year apart

↳ yoursister : still a baby TO ME

liked by yourusername

iamrebeccad : so proud of you baby! you deserve everything and more. love you 🩷

liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername : love you even more. would not have survived w out youuuu

—

You’re on your third coffee of the afternoon, hunched over your desk, sleeves rolled up, graphite smudged across your hand like battle scars. The model in front of you is refusing to cooperate, and the sun is setting outside the Edinburgh flat you and Rebecca have half lived in for months. She leans against the doorframe—hair up in a loose bun, wearing one of your old hoodies that somehow still looks like a Vogue editorial.

“Babe,” she says, drawing the word out like honey, “how attached are you to your studies this weekend?”

You don’t even look up. “Deeply. Passionately. Borderline Addicted..”

She crosses the room, arms wrapping around your shoulders from behind, chin resting lightly on your head. “That’s cute. Unfortunately, I’m here to kidnap you.”

“Rebecca—”

“Barcelona,” she cuts in. “Sun. Sea. Minimalist wine bars. Me in a silk dress. You in that black jumpsuit that makes people fall in love with you. Come with me to the gala.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “I have five boards to finish by Monday.”

“And I have one very stubborn girlfriend who hasn’t taken a break in weeks,” she murmurs, nosing against your cheek. “You’re starting to talk in floor plan metaphors in your sleep.”

You huff a laugh, trying to stay strong. “If I don’t finish this model, I’ll fail.”

“You’ll finish it. But not this weekend.” She pauses. “Because I have reinforcements.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Reinforcements?”

She grins like she’s won something. “Your best friend. She’s flying in. I booked her a flight this morning. She’ll be in Barcelona waiting for us with two Aperol spritzes and a disposable camera.”

Your mouth parts slightly. “You didn’t.”

You cave. Of course you cave. Because it’s Rebecca, because it’s Barcelona, because she’s looking at you like you hung the stars—and because part of you wants to be reminded that there’s more to life than models and deadlines.

You lean back against her, eyes closing for a second. “Only if you let me bring my sketchbook.”

She kisses your temple, smiling. “Deal.”

—

Your suitcase is open on the bed. And still, somehow, empty. Rebecca lounges beside it in a silky robe, legs crossed, sipping her oat milk latte like the world isn’t burning in the form of your wardrobe meltdown.

“Okay,” you say, flinging a pair of trousers onto the pile for the third time. “I have absolutely nothing to wear.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You have literally three garment bags of stunning outfits, and yet you are now debating between the same pair of linen pants and that ‘reliable’ black dress that’s one dry clean away from falling apart.”

“I don’t like being perceived,” you grumble, yanking open another drawer. “Especially not in Barcelona. At a gala. With your friends. Who are all supermodels.”

Rebecca slides off the bed and wraps her arms around you from behind, hands warm over your waist. “They’re not my friends. They’re acquaintances I occasionally make eye contact with at runways. You, on the other hand, are the love of my life. Which, I’d like to point out, is more important.”

You lean back into her, your voice softer now. “Still nervous.”

“I know.” She kisses just behind your ear, gently. “But you’ll be breathtaking. You always are.”

She pulls away slightly, rummaging through your closet and pulling out the slinky black jumpsuit with the open back that you wore on your first real trip together. “You’re wearing this.”

You blink. “That’s… from Paris.”

“Exactly.” She hands it to you with a wink. “Let’s remind the world who made me fall head over heels in the middle of a hotel hallway.”

—

The jet is quieter than you expected. Sleek leather seats, dimmed lights, and a tray of strawberries and champagne already waiting. You curl up against Rebecca in one of the oversized seats, your legs draped over hers, the hum of the engines low and steady beneath you.

“Is this a kidnapping or a honeymoon?” you ask, eyes closed as she runs her fingers through your hair.

“A prelude,” she says. “To your well earned escape from architectural hell.”

You laugh, half asleep, letting your hand trace lazy circles over the inside of her wrist. She leans down and kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips—slow and unhurried.

“You’re going to love it,” she murmurs against your mouth. “The city, the sea, the food. I’ll take you to that Gaudí museum you’ve been obsessed with since forever. And the gala… You’re going to walk in and ruin everyone’s night in the best way.”

You smile against her lips, dazed and warm. “Only if you’re holding my hand.”

She tangles your fingers together. “Always.”

—

The wheels touch down on the tarmac just after noon, and you blink awake to golden light pouring through the windows of the jet, warm and sleepy against your skin. Rebecca is already smiling at you, one hand stroking your cheek, the other holding her sunglasses by the frame.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” she murmurs. “We’re here.”

You stretch with a sleepy groan, her hoodie still drowning you as you sit up. Barcelona smells different already, even from the window — like heat and citrus and the sea in the distance. The flight felt short, maybe because you spent most of it curled up in Rebecca’s arms, half listening to her whisper soft, ridiculous commentary while flipping through design magazines with you. You’re halfway down the steps of the plane when you spot her—your best friend—bouncing on her toes near a sleek black car waiting on the runway, waving both arms in the air like she might take off.

“There she is!” you shout, already sprinting.

She crashes into you with the force of someone who hasn’t seen you in far too long, arms tight around your neck, both of you laughing so hard it echoes off the runway.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically. “You’re real. You exist outside of voice notes and crying over thesis reviews.”

You mock glare at her. “I was not crying. I was… processing stress. Loudly.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, starchitect.”

Rebecca walks up behind you, smiling fondly at the chaos. “You must be the famous best friend who gets more good morning texts than I do.”

She shrugs. “Guilty. Someone had to emotionally support her through model glue disasters and coffee fueled breakdowns.”

“I can hear you both,” you deadpan.

Rebecca kisses your cheek in response. “Still adorable when you’re defensive.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm.

The three of you pile into the car, luggage loaded, air conditioning on blast. Your best friend immediately hands you a disposable camera and a tiny bottle of sunscreen.

“For the photos,” she says, “and so you don’t get roasted again like last summer. I’m not dealing with lobster YN in every candid this time.”

Rebecca leans over and stage-whispers, “Did she tell you about the time she got so sunburnt in Capri that she walked like a 90-year-old for three days?”

“Rebecca.”

“Oh, she told me,” your best friend grins.

You groan, burying your face in Rebecca’s shoulder, who just laughs and presses a kiss to your hair. As the car winds through the narrow streets toward your hotel, Barcelona spreads out around you—sun-soaked buildings, palm trees, motorbikes weaving through traffic, balconies draped in ivy. And in that moment, with Rebecca’s hand laced in yours and your best friend humming along to the Spanish pop song playing through the speakers, it feels like everything is exactly where it should be. It doesn’t matter that there’s a gala tomorrow. Or that you’re probably going to trip in heels at some point. Or that Rebecca’s world still feels a little too fast, a little too beautiful. Right now, it’s just the three of you. And it’s perfect.

—

The hotel suite smells…well…sweet, the scent of Rebecca’s perfume curling through the air like a promise. The sun’s nearly down, casting that golden hour glow across the skyline of Barcelona, softening the sharp edges of the city outside your balcony. From inside, the room hums with quiet movement—heels clicking gently on marble, fabric brushing skin, the low murmur of music from the Bluetooth speaker on the vanity. Rebecca stands in front of the full-length mirror, slipping into a floor length silk dress the color of champagne. It clings to her in all the right places, light catching on her collarbones and the soft curve of her back. She catches your eyes in the mirror and smiles softly.

“You’re staring.”

You hum, still barefoot in your robe, curled up in the corner chair with your sketchbook half-forgotten in your lap. “You’re literally unreal.”

She turns slowly, gliding across the room until she’s kneeling in front of you, her hands resting gently on your bare knees. “And you, my love, are not allowed to hide in that robe all night. Come on. Let me help you.”

You let her pull you up, fingers laced. The black jumpsuit hangs neatly on the closet door, the same one she picked out. She helps you step into it, zipping it up with steady hands, smoothing the fabric over your hips.

When you turn to face her, something shifts in her expression.

“God,” she whispers. “You’re gonna ruin me tonight.”

You blush, looking down, but she lifts your chin with one finger, pressing a kiss to your mouth—soft, reverent. “I mean it. You have no idea how beautiful you are.”

Later, with heels on and lipstick applied and nerves starting to stir low in your stomach, Rebecca slips her hand into yours as you step into the waiting car.

“I’ve got you,” she says, as if reading your mind. “Always.”

—

The venue is even more dramatic than you’d imagined—an old Spanish estate turned event space, all arches and climbing vines and warm candlelight. The crowd buzzes with the kind of energy you’ve only experienced at fashion week: air-kisses, flowing gowns, and laughter that’s just a little too practiced.You stay close to Rebecca at first, your hand tight around her fingers as she introduces you to people whose names sound familiar from Vogue articles. It’s not your world, not really. But the way she keeps glancing at you—checking you’re okay, brushing your arm with hers when no one’s looking—grounds you. You’re mid-sip of champagne, standing just off to the side of the courtyard, when he walks in. Carlos Sainz.

The buzz ripples almost immediately—subtle, but tangible. He’s wearing a dark suit that fits like it was made just for him, open collar, hair a little windswept like he stepped out of a commercial. There’s something warm and relaxed about him, like he’s completely at ease in the chaos. And yet, the moment his eyes find you—you—his expression shifts. Like you’ve pulled his attention into focus.

He walks toward you, slow and certain, and for a second you assume he’s going to greet Rebecca. Everyone here knows her. You brace for it. But then—his gaze lingers on yours.

“Hola,” he says, smile soft but curious. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

You blink, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “Hi.”

Rebecca steps in, hand still loosely curled around yours. “Carlos, this is my girlfriend. The brilliant architect I’ve been talking your ear off about.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “So this is the famous Edinburgh genius.”

You laugh nervously, cheeks hot. “Hardly genius. Just a tired student who got bribed into coming to a gala.”

Carlos grins. “Best bribe anyone’s ever pulled, then.”

Rebecca’s thumb brushes the back of your hand. The three of you stand there a moment longer—his gaze darting between you both, your body language, the way you lean into each other naturally. He doesn’t look surprised. He looks fascinated.

He tips his head slightly, voice lower now. “May I steal you both for a drink?”

Rebecca glances at you, eyebrows raised. Your heart thuds once, hard. You nod.

“Sure.”

And with that, something shifts—quietly, subtly, like the first breeze before a storm. You don’t know it yet, but tonight is the beginning of something. Something uncharted. Something beautifully complicated.

—

You’re seated between them. Rebecca on your left, her hand resting gently on your thigh beneath the tablecloth, fingers drawing slow, absentminded circles into the silk of your jumpsuit. Carlos on your right, nursing a glass of red wine, elbow resting casually on the back of your chair like he’s known you for years instead of ninety minutes. The gala is in full swing now—waiters weaving through tables with trays of Spanish tapas and champagne, a string quartet playing something low and romantic from the garden stage. Lights glitter overhead like a net of stars. And still, you can barely focus on anything but the energy between the three of you. It’s subtle but electric. Warm, blooming quietly under the surface of every glance and word.

Rebecca leans in, murmuring, “This wine is actually amazing,” as she reaches for her glass, brushing her shoulder against yours. You can feel the heat of her, the scent of her perfume still clinging to the air around you.

Carlos glances over. “You two are making everyone here jealous, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, nodding toward the rest of the table. “Look around. Half the people here are trying to figure out who you are and how you managed to make Rebecca Donaldson giggle like that.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Rebecca says, though she’s smiling into her glass.

“I’m not,” he replies. “I just think it’s rare. That kind of… ease. Most people in this room are trying so hard to look perfect. You two look like you already have everything you want.”

Your breath catches a little in your throat. Rebecca squeezes your thigh gently. “That’s because we do.”

You look between them—Rebecca glowing under the golden light, Carlos watching you with something softer than charm in his eyes. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to impress you. He’s just curious. Present. Drawn in.

“So, Carlos,” Rebecca says lightly, turning the spotlight, “tell us—how does a Formula 1 driver end up at a fashion gala on a Thursday night?”

He shrugs, leaning back slightly. “I got invited. My manager said it would be good for me to socialize with people who aren’t constantly talking about tyre degradation.”

You laugh, surprising yourself with how easy it feels around him. “Fair enough.”

“But I wasn’t planning on staying long,” he adds. Then, without missing a beat— “Until I saw you two walk in.”

Rebecca raises a brow, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Is that so?”

He holds your gaze when he answers. “Yes.”

Your heart skips. The silence stretches for a moment—not awkward, just thick with something unsaid. Rebecca reaches for her wine again, then turns toward Carlos with playful curiosity.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “what exactly is it that fascinates you?”

He doesn’t hesitate.

“She grounds you,” he says simply, looking at Rebecca. “You shine differently when she’s near.”

You feel the breath catch in Rebecca’s throat beside you. Her hand tightens on your leg, and when you turn toward her, her eyes are glassy with something unspoken. And then Carlos turns to you.

“And you… you look at her like she’s made of something holy.”

You stare at him, unable to speak. His voice is gentle, without expectation. He’s not hitting on you. Not in the way you’ve seen others try. He’s just seeing you—both of you—with a kind of quiet reverence that makes you feel… known. The moment is broken only by the clinking of silverware as dessert is served—some delicate Catalan cream and fresh berries—but the weight of it lingers. You eat in silence for a while, your thoughts buzzing.

Carlos turns slightly toward you as he dips a spoon into his dish. “So tell me something,” he says, tone light but curious. “Do you always design things with this much precision… or do you ever let yourself create something messy?”

You blink. “Messy?”

He shrugs. “Unplanned. Unbalanced. A little chaotic.”

You smirk. “I’m an architecture student. Chaos is my natural enemy.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But sometimes… chaos brings the best results.”

You glance at Rebecca. She’s already watching you with that look—the one that knows exactly what you’re thinking. That maybe… just maybe… this doesn’t feel like chaos. It feels like the start of something beautifully unexpected.

She leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking between her and Carlos. “Yeah. I’m… just wondering what happens next.”

Rebecca smiles softly, hand resting over yours now on the table. “Whatever it is… I think we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Carlos clinks his glass gently against both of yours. “To figuring it out.”

And in the middle of that glittering courtyard in Barcelona, with Rebecca on one side and Carlos on the other, you realize: You don’t feel like you’re in between them. You feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

—

The morning starts with sunlight spilling through the gauzy hotel curtains, soft and golden. Barcelona wakes up slowly — a city that stretches before it rises, where the air smells faintly of sea salt and fresh bread, and conversations drift up from the streets like music. You wake with Rebecca curled around your back, still half-asleep, her hand resting lightly at your waist. Her breath is warm against your neck. You smile, eyes still closed. A knock sounds at the door.

Rebecca groans dramatically and pulls a pillow over her head. “If that’s room service and they forgot your croissant again, I swear to god—”

You giggle, rolling out of bed, slipping into one of the hotel robes. But when you open the door, it’s not room service. It’s Carlos.

Wearing sunglasses, holding three iced coffees and a brown paper bag full of pastries like it’s the most casual thing in the world. His smile is crooked. “I brought breakfast. And a proposition.”

Rebecca’s voice calls from the bed. “If the proposition doesn’t involve carbs, we’re not interested.”

He chuckles. “Good thing I know my audience.”

You wave him in and close the door behind him. Carlos steps inside, handing you your drink and then holding up a small envelope.

“What’s that?” you ask, sipping your coffee.

He grins. “Tickets. Gaudí House Museum. You mentioned it last night, remember?”

You blink, surprised. “You remembered?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Of course.”

Rebecca sits up in bed, hair messy and eyes still heavy with sleep, grinning at both of you. “Did you just ask us out on a museum date?”

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “If I did, are you saying yes?”

You glance between them, heart blooming.

Rebecca nods. “Let me put on a cute outfit and we’re in.”

The taxi ride is filled with sunlight and soft laughter. You’re sandwiched in the back seat between them, Carlos’s arm thrown over the headrest behind you, Rebecca snapping candids of you both with the disposable camera your best friend gave you yesterday. At some point, Rebecca leans across you to steal a bite of Carlos’s croissant, and instead of pulling away, he just watches the two of you with that warm, unreadable look again — the one that says he’s taking this in like it means more than he’ll say out loud. By the time you arrive at the Gaudí House Museum, the three of you are humming with that easy sort of energy people only find when they’ve stopped pretending.

The museum is quieter than expected, cool and airy despite the heat outside. Everything inside is curved and intentional, dripping with artistry — from the mosaic tiles to the asymmetrical windows to the wrought-iron details that make the house feel alive.You pause in front of a set of floor plans and models, your eyes scanning the intricate designs like they’re secrets waiting to be solved.

Carlos leans in beside you. “So this is your world, huh?”

You nod. “It’s strange. I’ve studied this for years. But being here, in it… it’s different. It feels like touching someone’s dream.”

Rebecca takes your hand gently, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. “You do that too, you know.”

You glance at her. “Do what?”

“Build things that matter,” she says simply. “Even when it’s just in your sketchbook.”

Carlos watches the two of you with that quiet gaze again — soft, and maybe a little reverent. You keep wandering through the house, taking your time. At one point, you all stand in front of a massive stained-glass window that throws patches of color across the marble floor. Carlos snaps a photo of you and Rebecca bathed in the light, and when he shows it to you, your breath catches. Rebecca has her hand at your cheek. You’re smiling at her like nothing else exists.

“You really do light up the room,” Carlos murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You blush, looking away. Eventually, the three of you make your way up to the rooftop terrace. The city stretches out in all directions, hazy and golden beneath the sun. The famous chimneys rise like sculptural flames around you — surreal and magical. Rebecca presses her back against the warm stone, pulling you gently into her side. Carlos leans beside you both, arms crossed loosely, the breeze tugging at his curls.

“I get it now,” he says, voice low.

You glance over. “Get what?”

“How people fall in love with Barcelona.”

You can’t help but smile. “It’s beautiful.”

He looks at you when he answers. “So are you.”

The words hang there for a moment — not a line, not a flirtation. Just truth. You look at Rebecca. She’s already looking at you. And you feel it — that same undercurrent from the night before. Like the three of you are circling something unspoken. Something delicate. But real. Rebecca kisses your temple and leans her head on your shoulder. “This might be the best morning I’ve had in a long time.”

Carlos shifts slightly closer. “Same.”

And in that moment, high above the city in a house built from dreams, you think maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to build something, too.

—

several weeks later

carlossainz55

liked by yourusername, iamrebeccad, lando and 1,109,227 others.

carlossainz55 : 📸

—

view 121,007 other comments.

lando : i feel like the other woman’s other woman rn.

liked by carlossainz55

username00: whomst???

↳ username1 : i believe rebecca donaldson and her gf yn ln. check @/yourusername’s recent post.

↳ username00 : oh that is def carlos in her post.

alex_albon : okay carlossss👀

liked by carlossainz55

—

yourusername

liked by iamrebeccad, carlossainz55, lando and 75,764 others.

yourusername : life + baddies first day on the job;)

tagged : iamrebeccad

—

view 597 comments.

username0 : is this the girl from carlos’ post??

↳ username1 : i believe so…that is def him in the dump.

↳ username5 : him and lando in the likes 😭

↳ username7 : we have lost ladies

↳ username11 : she is dating rebecca though…

↳ username7 : they were both on his ig post…maybe throuple?

iamrebeccad : i am so proud of you, angel! you are killing it. i love you so much.

liked by yourusername and carlossainz55

↳ yourusername : love you even more. could not have done it without you.

carlossainz55 : Congratulations hermosa! So proud! ❤️

liked by yourusername and iamrebeccad

↳ yourusername : thank uuu carlitos ❤️

liked by carlossainz55

↳ username7 : oh yeah we are cooked.

—

The apartment is quiet, sun filtering in through the linen curtains, the scent of fresh basil and lemon lingering from the pasta Rebecca made the night before. You’re at the kitchen counter, barefoot and glowing — still not entirely used to the fact that you’re done with uni. That you’re officially working as a junior designer at one of the most respected firms in Edinburgh. That the world is beginning, finally, to expand. Rebecca hums to herself in the next room, curled on the sofa with a fashion book open in her lap, glasses perched on her nose. Her hair’s up in a lazy bun, an old t-shirt hanging off her shoulder. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Until the knock. You both freeze.

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you order something?”

Rebecca shakes her head. “No. Did you?”

You make your way to the door, curious, and open it—and there he is. Carlos. In jeans and a grey hoodie, holding a bouquet of wildflowers and a crooked smile that says he’s very pleased with himself.

“Hola,” he says, dimples deepening. “Surprise.”

You blink, stunned. “What—wait, are you—you’re here?!”

Behind you, Rebecca gasps and immediately darts to the door. “Are you kidding me?!”

Carlos laughs as you both wrap him in a hug, arms tangling. It’s warm and a little chaotic, the three of you practically swaying in the doorway.

“I couldn’t miss your celebration,” he says, pulling back just enough to hand you the flowers. “You graduated. You started your dream job. I figured that deserved something… dramatic.”

“You texted me ten minutes ago from Madrid!” Rebecca accuses, hitting his arm lightly.

“I was on the way to your place,” he grins, clearly unbothered. “Needed to keep the element of surprise.”

You’re still standing there barefoot, flowers in hand, heart pounding like you’ve just won something you didn’t know you were competing for. Carlos steps fully inside, glancing around like he’s been here before in his mind. “You two look like you’ve settled into something domestic and terrifyingly cute.”

Rebecca smirks. “We did. You just made it worse.”

“Good,” he says. “Because I’m here to ruin your cozy night in.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Oh?”

Carlos tugs two envelopes from the inside pocket of his hoodie. “I made a reservation at that rooftop place with the insane sunset view—Rebecca sent it to me weeks ago in a TikTok, so you’re both exposed. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

Rebecca bites back a grin. “You are unreal.”

“And then, if you say yes, I’m going to romantically kidnap you both.”

You pause, blinking. “Romantically… what?”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. “I want you to come to my next race. I already booked the flights. There’s a suite. It’s hidden. Think sun, espresso, a lot of carbon fiber, and the three of us hiding from the media in style.”

Your jaw drops. Rebecca’s hand finds yours instinctively. “Carlos…”

He smiles, softer now. “Look. I know we’re not putting names on it yet. But I miss you. All the time. And if I can steal you for just a few days—to cheer me on, to kiss you under Italian moonlight, to pretend this thing between us is real for a little while longer… then I want to try. I want to keep trying. With both of you.”

You feel the words settle between your ribs like something sacred. Rebecca squeezes your hand. You look at her. She looks at you. You’re both already smiling.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, heart racing.

Carlos steps closer, brushing your hair behind your ear, his voice lower now. “I know. But admit it… you love it.”

You do. God, you do. Rebecca leans up to press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Thirty minutes, Sainz. If we’re late for our own celebration, that’s on you.”

He winks. “I’ll be waiting.”

As he steps into the living room to give you time to get ready, you turn to Rebecca, breathless.

“We’re going to Italy.”

She grins. “With Carlos Sainz.”

You bury your face in her shoulder. “What are we even doing?”

Rebecca laughs, kissing the top of your head. “Something new.”

And you smile, because it doesn’t feel like chaos anymore. It feels like exactly what you want.

—

From the rooftop, the city looks like it’s breathing — windows flickering to life one by one, cars crawling slowly through the narrow streets below. There’s a warm breeze drifting over the tiles, carrying the scent of wine and sun-warmed stone. You’re seated at a candlelit table nestled beneath a string of golden fairy lights, the linen tablecloth fluttering gently in the wind. Everything is dusky pinks and golds and the soft clink of wine glasses. The kind of setting people spend months trying to plan. Carlos didn’t even flinch when he called ahead.

You’re in a silky deep blue dress Rebecca helped you pick out in ten minutes flat, your hair pinned up with tiny gold clips, and Carlos hasn’t stopped looking at you since you sat down. Not in a showy way — it’s quiet. Constant. His eyes find you every time you laugh, every time you turn toward the view. Rebecca sits across from you, a soft backless dress in burnt orange clinging to her like it was made for her, one arm stretched over the back of Carlos’s chair, her other hand holding yours across the table. Her skin is warm and golden in the candlelight.

“This is completely ridiculous,” you murmur after the waiter pours the first round of wine. “Like, offensively beautiful.”

Carlos lifts his glass. “You deserve ridiculous.”

Rebecca clinks her glass lightly against his, then yours. “To our girl. For surviving sleepless nights, evil professors, thesis disasters, and becoming a full time grown-up.”

You laugh and duck your head. “You two are being weirdly nice to me. I’m suspicious.”

Carlos leans closer. “Fine. Let me balance it out. Do you remember when you tried to explain structural cantilevers to me and ended up drawing a sketch that looked like a sad giraffe?”

Rebecca chokes on her wine. “That was a cantilever?! I thought it was a palm tree.”

Your hand flies to your chest in mock offense. “Wow. I am under attack at my own celebration.”

But you’re smiling. The kind of smile that feels like it’s living in your ribs, spreading slow and wide and warm. The kind you don’t even try to hide anymore. Carlos reaches over and brushes something off your shoulder — a petal from the small bouquet resting on the table — and his fingers linger just a second too long.

“You’re glowing,” he says, so quietly you barely hear it.

Rebecca meets your eyes and smiles, soft and knowing. “She always does when she’s happy.”

The food arrives — shared plates and small bites, things you’ve never tasted before but love instantly. You end up feeding each other across the table, laughing through full mouths, brushing hands as you pass forks and spill wine and get far too invested in an argument about what the best dessert on the menu will be. Eventually, after the plates are cleared and the second bottle of wine is opened, the wind dies down. The city hushes just a little. You lean back in your chair, tipsy and warm, the scent of Rebecca’s perfume wrapped around you and the sound of Carlos’s low voice filling the space between stories. He’s talking about racing, about how everything slows down the second he’s in the car. How quiet it is, even with all the noise.

“It’s not adrenaline,” he says, eyes on the skyline. “It’s clarity. Like the world only makes sense when it’s going a hundred miles an hour.”

Rebecca rests her head against your shoulder. “Is that why you’re so calm all the time? Because you’ve already met chaos head-on?”

He glances at her, something soft behind his grin. “I think I’m calm because I know what matters now.”

You don’t ask what he means. You don’t have to.

—

Later, the three of you are the last to leave. The waiter brings out one final glass of vermouth and a tiny plate of dark chocolate, and you all sit there beneath the fairy lights like you’ve slipped into another version of the world — one where nothing needs to be defined, only felt.

Carlos helps Rebecca up, his hand settling low on her back with a kind of gentleness that surprises her. When he turns to you, you hesitate for just a second.

Then you reach for him. Your fingers slip easily into his, and he doesn’t speak — just smiles. You walk back to the car with your heels in your hand, your head resting against Rebecca’s shoulder, Carlos’s arm around your waist, his thumb brushing back and forth over your hip. Three shadows under the moonlight. Three hearts slowly, steadily aligning.

—

You’re nestled into a private jet again — only this time, it’s not a whirlwind trip to a fashion gala. It’s something slower. Sweeter. Yours. Carlos insisted. No press, no handlers, no chaos. Just you, Rebecca, and him, headed for Italy.

“Technically,” Carlos says, settling into the seat across from you as the jet levels out above the clouds, “this is a work trip.”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow from where she’s curled beside you, your legs draped over hers. “Your version of work includes flying two girls across Europe for moral support.”

He grins. “High performance drivers require emotional regulation. You two are my favorite kind of therapy.”

You laugh, tipping your head back as the sunlight pours in through the window. “Well, we are professionals.”

Carlos slides his sunglasses to the top of his head and watches you for a moment — like he’s memorizing you. The way your hair falls against Rebecca’s shoulder, the soft flush in your cheeks, the way your fingers trace idle patterns into the blanket across your lap.

“You look lighter—calmer,” he says, just quiet enough to be real.

You glance at Rebecca. She’s already smiling. “We are.”

The seatbelt light clicks off, and Rebecca shifts to face you more fully. “Okay,” she says, nudging you with her knee. “Tell him your Italian bucket list. She made one.”

Carlos perks up. “You did?”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “It’s not a bucket list, it’s just… a few places I want to see. Sketch. You know. Architect things.”

Carlos moves to sit beside you now, across from Rebecca. His knee presses gently against yours.

“Let me guess,” he says, hand held out expectantly. “Villas, vineyards, maybe a Roman ruin or two?”

You place your phone in his palm, unlocked with your Notes app open. He scrolls slowly, eyebrows rising as he reads.

“You want to see the medieval towers in San Gimignano?” he says. “That’s like an hour from the track. We can go.”

Rebecca beams. “I told you he’d say yes.”

He keeps reading, and then—“You want to sketch the pit lane?”

You blush. “I don’t know, it’s a cool structure. It’s like a weird blend of utilitarian design and showmanship.”

Carlos stares at you for a second, and then says, “You’re genuinely the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

Rebecca hums. “Right? She makes buildings sound like poetry.”

The next half-hour melts into comfortable chatter. You talk about the race weekend, about places they’ll take you between sessions, about what you’ll wear to the paddock. Carlos jokes about putting you both in matching Williams polos and parading you around like his secret weapons. Eventually, Carlos disappears into the back cabin to take a call with his engineer, and Rebecca uses the opportunity to pull you closer, kissing your cheek, then your jaw.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” she whispers, brushing her thumb over your bottom lip. “You, me, him. Italy. This whole… thing.”

You tilt your head, voice just as soft. “Does it feel right to you?”

Rebecca looks at you for a long moment. “It feels like it was always meant to happen. We just had to get brave enough to let it.”

Before you can say anything, Carlos reappears, flopping into the seat beside you with a groan. “Well. Apparently my rear wing isn’t cooperating. But I’m not thinking about that yet.”

You smirk. “We can distract you.”

Rebecca grins. “Gladly.”

Carlos rests his arm on the back of the seat, his fingers just brushing your shoulder. “I think this might be the best race weekend of my life.”

—

f1gossipgirls

liked by lando and 2,188,001 others.

f1gossipgirls : So… let’s unpack the situation, shall we? First, Rebecca Donaldson and her longtime girlfriend YN LN make their debut on Carlos Sainz’s Instagram a few weeks back — soft lighting, soft smiles, soft launch vibes. Fast forward—the trio is now very much in Italy. Very much in the paddock. Very much together. Rebecca and Carlos? Spotted on a bike ride together. YN and Carlos? Photographed at lunch with his race engineer. Then YN and Rebecca are seen strolling hand in hand through the paddock like nothing’s changed.…Except on Quali day, YN shows up with Carlos. Walking in. Side by side. And standing next to him during a live interview, casually repping a Williams polo. We’re not saying it’s a throuple… but we’re also not not saying it’s a throuple. 👀

—

The morning begins with sunlight spilling across the balcony of your villa, the kind that turns everything soft and golden. Carlos is still asleep, tangled in the sheets, his arm slung over your waist. Rebecca is already up, barefoot in one of Carlos’s hoodies, sipping espresso and sketching something into your notebook that you’ll find later — a cartoon drawing of the three of you, hearts drawn over your heads.

“Get up, sleepyhead,” she whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We’re taking you somewhere.”

You blink awake. “Where?”

She just smiles. “Italy is full of secrets. Get dressed.”

They won’t tell you anything, but an hour later you’re in the back seat of Carlos’s rental car, winding through the Tuscan hills — green and sun-drenched, dotted with vineyards and wildflowers. Rebecca holds your hand loosely across the center console, and Carlos hums along to an old Italian song on the radio, sunglasses pushed up in his hair. Finally, the car slows near the edge of a medieval town, quiet and ancient. You step out, confused — until you look up. San Gimignano. Your breath catches.

The towers — the ones from your list — rise above the stone walls like jagged fingers reaching toward the sky. Brutalist, elegant, stubborn in their geometry. You’d written about them in a thesis once. But this… this is different.

You stare in awe. “Guys…you didn’t have to.”

Carlos smiles, locking the car. “Of course I did.”

Rebecca laces her fingers with yours. “We thought you deserved to see the real thing. You’ve been talking about it for years.”

You laugh, teary-eyed despite yourself. They walk you through the town slowly, letting you stop to sketch little pieces — an archway here, a crumbling façade there. Carlos carries your bag without you asking, Rebecca keeps tucking hair behind your ear and stealing kisses when you’re not paying attention. At one point, the three of you sit on a low stone wall overlooking the hills, passing a sandwich between you, legs tangled. You lean into Carlos’s side, Rebecca tucked under your arm.

“Do you ever get tired of being adored?” Carlos asks, only half-teasing.

You glance at him. “Do you?”

He pretends to think. “Nope.”

Rebecca hums. “I think she deserves to be adored. Every version of her. The architect. The sleepy one. The one who can’t remember where she put her pencil but can recite Roman history like it’s a love poem.”

Carlos leans in, brushing your shoulder with his. “Agreed.”

You don’t say anything for a while. You just breathe. You let it settle. This is what love feels like — not loud or rushed or fragile. But steady. Expansive. Soft around the edges. Later, Rebecca takes your camera and snaps a photo of you standing between one of the towers — Carlos behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. You’re smiling, cheeks flushed, sun in your hair. And when you look at it later, you’ll think — this looks like a beginning.

—

Race weekend has a way of feeling overwhelming. But somehow, with Carlos, it feels calm. He meets you and Rebecca outside the paddock entrance, dressed in his full Williams kit, sunglasses perched on his nose, hair still slightly messy. You’re in one of his oversized team polos — partially on a dare, partially because it just smells like him — and Rebecca’s in all white linen and a pair of black sunglasses that make her look like she’s walking into the Cannes red carpet instead of an F1 paddock.

“Ready to be shown off?” Carlos teases, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and tugging you into a gentle side hug. He kisses the top of your head and then leans over to press another to Rebecca’s cheek.

“Bold of you to assume you’re the one showing us off,” she replies, linking her fingers with yours on the other side.

He grins. “Fair.”

The first few minutes are a blur of cameras and whispers, heads turning as the three of you walk past in tandem. You feel it — the way people are watching, curious. Wondering. But Carlos doesn’t let go of you, not even when one of the Sky Sports guys gives him a very obvious once over. He walks you through the garage first, introducing you to a few engineers, showing you the car like it’s a favorite pet. He explains the updates they’ve made for the weekend, and you’re so genuinely interested — asking questions, tilting your head at the suspension setup — that one of the techs looks thoroughly impressed.

Rebecca leans over and whispers, “He’s going to marry you if you start talking about aero.”

You laugh and Carlos hears and just smiles.

“Alright,” he says after a moment. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

He leads you around to the Mclaren hospitality suite where, to no one’s surprise, Lando Norris is sitting on a bean bag, eating something from a takeaway box like it’s not Quali day.

“Ah, finally!” Lando jumps up as soon as he sees you. “The girls! The internet is losing its mind over you lot.”

Rebecca raises an eyebrow. “And what does the internet say, exactly?”

“That Carlos has taste,” Lando grins, holding out a hand to shake yours and then immediately pulling you into a hug. “I’m Lando. You’re YN. You’re Rebecca. You both terrify me, and I love it.”

Carlos rolls his eyes. “Ignore him.”

“Never,” Lando chirps. “Do you know how long I’ve been begging him to bring you both here? It’s like… morale, Carlos. Atmosphere. He’s been smiling like an idiot for weeks.”

You glance at Carlos. He’s pretending not to blush. Failing spectacularly.

“And you’re YN, right?” another voice calls — and then Alex Albon appears, holding a coffee and looking far too cool for someone awake this early.

You nod, shaking his hand. “Hi. Huge fan of your girlfriend.”

Alex laughs. “Aren’t we all.”

He turns to Carlos, eyes twinkling. “So this is the famous architect slash girlfriend. And the supermodel slash dangerous mafia wife energy girlfriend. Stunning work, mate.”

Rebecca gives him a dangerous little smirk. “You get it.”

The five of you chat for a while — it’s easy, natural. Alex and Rebecca get into an unnecessarily passionate debate about oat milk. Lando and Carlos talk strategy, but every few seconds, Carlos glances at you, just to check you’re still smiling.

—

Later in the afternoon, when the paddock thins out a little and the media starts to shift into race prep mode, Carlos leads you both to the back of the hospitality lounge and pulls you into a quiet corner. He sits down first, tugging you gently into his lap and resting his chin on your shoulder. Rebecca curls beside you on the padded bench, fingers brushing over your knee.

“I’ve never felt this calm before a race,” Carlos murmurs.

You lean your head against his. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s the best thing,” he says. “I’m usually somewhere between tense and mildly homicidal on Saturdays.”

Rebecca hums. “And now?”

“Now I feel like I’ve already won something.”

You’re quiet for a moment, fingers playing with the edge of his sleeve. The paddock noise feels far away now. Just the breeze through the flaps of the tent, the low hum of passing mechanics, the occasional click of a camera.

Carlos sighs into your neck. “Can I say something dumb?”

“Always,” you and Rebecca say in unison.

He smiles. “If I could take you both with me in the car, I would.”

You tilt your head, half-laughing. “We’d make terrible co-pilots.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But everything makes more sense when you’re near me.”

Rebecca looks at him then — really looks at him — and something shifts behind her expression. Something tender. “You know… this started as something casual. Something fun.”

Carlos nods.

“But it doesn’t feel casual anymore.”

You don’t say anything. You just reach for both their hands — one on either side of you — and squeeze. No labels. No pressure.

—

The sun is beginning to dip when Carlos crosses the finish line. P8. Not a disaster. Not what he wanted either. Not after how good race day looked. Not after how hard he pushed in quali. He doesn’t say anything on the radio after the cooldown lap — just a clipped, “Copy,” and then silence. His hands stay tight on the wheel until he’s back in the garage. The air inside is thick. No one meets his eyes. There’s too much noise and not enough at the same time — fans cheering in the distance, tires hissing, a metallic clang echoing from the back of the pit. Carlos doesn’t take off his helmet right away. He just sits for a moment. Letting it settle. Then, through the haze, he hears your voice.

“Hey.”

And just like that, the weight cracks. He looks up — and there you are, standing in front of him in the soft blue Williams polo you’d worn all day, eyes full of quiet warmth. Rebecca is beside you, sunglasses pushed into her hair, lips pressed together like she knows exactly what he’s feeling. You don’t ask about the race. You don’t say, what happened? or are you okay? You just hold your hand out. Carlos lets you help him out of the car. His gloves are still on, but your fingers fit between his anyway. Rebecca’s hand finds the back of his neck, grounding.

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “We’re here.”

He nods once, blinking hard behind his visor before finally tugging it off. His hair is damp, cheeks flushed, eyes a little unfocused — like he’s still halfway between the car and the world.

Rebecca tugs him gently toward the back of the garage, away from the lights. “Come on,” she says. “Breathe.”

You sit him down on a flight case, crouching in front of him. “You don’t have to be on right now,” you whisper. “You can just… be. With us.”

Carlos closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground.

“It wasn’t a good race,” he admits. His voice is hoarse. Honest.

Rebecca kneels beside you. “That’s not why we’re here.”

You nod, smiling gently. “You are not your result.”

Carlos laughs, just barely. “You two are dangerously good at this.”

“At what?”

He glances between you, soft and overwhelmed. “Loving me anyway.”

And then he leans forward, presses his forehead against yours, and exhales. Rebecca wraps her arm around both of you, pulling you into a quiet little triangle of comfort — there, on the edge of the paddock, while the world buzzes just beyond the garage doors.

“I’d come to every race,” you say into his shoulder.

Rebecca kisses the corner of his mouth. “Even if you finished last.”

Carlos lifts his head, smiling now — small, real. “You know what? That might be my new strategy. Finish badly. Win anyway.”

And as the sky turns gold outside and the paddock begins to clear, Carlos sits between the two people who make it all feel okay — win or lose, podium or pit lane — and knows, with complete certainty—This is everything.

—

carlossainz55

liked by iamrebeccad, yourusername, alex_albon and 5,001,001 others.

carlossainz55 : may not have won the race but i am always winning off the track. i love you both so much.

tagged : iamrebbecad and yourusername

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

381 notes · View notes

vivwritesfics · 2 days ago

Text

No Need To Ask

Chapter Four

Neither of them want to get married. Its a marriage of convenience, not of love. They can find it in themselves to love each other, but life has other things in mind.

Mafia!Au

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

There was a week of disputes over who would host the wedding. The Sainz wanted it to be them, for the wedding to be in Spain, but Lando wanted his little sister to get married on his grounds.

A wedding hosted by the Sainz family would be incredible. Set in the sun with a candle lit dinner to follow. Lights would be strung up over the reception and the best food would be served. Traditional Spanish dishes, and anything Y/N requested.

Carlos’ mother had been planning the wedding since Y/N’s mother first proposed the idea to the Sainz family. She had a scrap book full of ideas for the flower arrangements, the venue, the dress. She’d seen it all play out in her head, her Carlos standing there in a suit, looking handsome as he recited off his vowels.

But Lando was insisting the wedding happen in England. But Lando didn’t know the first thing about planning a wedding.

So, he had to concede. Reluctantly he let the Sainz family take control of planning the wedding. It was going to happen in Spain, with very few members of the Norris family present. That was putting Lando on Edge more than anything. He couldn’t have much protection there for him or his sister, leaving him to trust in the Sainz family.

And, in this line of work, you don’t trust easy.

While Y/N was in England, she did the one thing she could do for the wedding and picked out her dress. It was elegant, figure hugging, with floral patterns stitched into the skirt. There were two straps that went around her arms, sitting off the shoulders.

Her veil hadn’t yet been made. Mrs Sainz had insisted that the veil be left up to her, that she would have it made for her.

So, Y/N and Lando sat on their family’s private plane, her leg bouncing. Lando had a drink in his hands, cool and relaxed. But, inside, he was losing it.

His little sister was getting married. In just a few weeks, she was going to be married. Lando and Oscar, a rookie in his organisation, and Y/N were the only people flying to Spain for the time being. Oscar was to be left in Spain with Y/N, there to protect her while Lando flew back to England until the wedding.

He wasn’t keen on leaving his sister in Spain. But he didn’t have much of a choice. The Sainz were giving him much of a choice.

The plane touched down in the Sainz’s private hangar. Carlos was waiting for them, his sisters and a group of their men behind him. he wore black trousers and a white shirt, missing the suit jacket and tie that Y/N expected to see. She watched them out of the window of the plane; she looked at Spain, at the sun and the palm trees.

Y/N had always wanted to go to Sain. She had when she was very little, before the feud with the Sainz family started, but she couldn’t remember that.

“Ready?” Lando asked, putting his drink down. He’d had maybe six on the short plane journey, which was worrying to Y/N. Thank God this line of work had raised his tolerance to such a level; the whisky barely affected him anymore.

He didn’t stumble as he stepped off of his jet, his sister stood between him and Oscar. Y/N’s legs were wobbling as she stepped down onto the warm pavement. She stayed close to Lando as he led her over to Carlos.

Carlos said nothing to Lando. He looked past him, at the girl who seemed to be cowering behind him. He gave her a smile, one that was either kind or sinister, Y/N couldn’t tell. “Welcome to my home,” he said with a thick accent.

Y/N said nothing in response. She looked up at Carlos with wide eyes, waiting for somebody to say something more.

“Carlos,” said Lando, his stance protective in front of Y/N. “You wanted her here early, so here she is.” He glared daggers at the older man in front of him.

Behind Carlos, one of his sisters mumbled something in Spanish, something Lando and Y/N couldn’t understand.

“Who is the man behind the both of you?” Carlos asked for her, looking past them at Oscar.

Oscar had never been around the Sainz family before. He didn’t go to the last meeting with Lando, and he wasn’t there when Carlos and his father came to dinner. Oscar didn’t know what to expect. He wasn’t Lando’s first choice of protection for his sister, but he was the man Y/N was most comfortable with.

“Protection,” Lando answered shortly.

Carlos let out a laugh. “Your sister will not need protection in my house,” he answered.

“I’ll decide that, thanks.”

Things were incredibly tense. Y/N couldn’t help but glance back at Oscar, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Carlos. He cleared his throat. “Come,” he said and walked away, his sisters behind him.

Lando kept his hands in his pockets as he followed Carlos. Y/N and Oscar walked behind him, Carlos’ men surrounding them. Sparing a glance behind him, Oscar stayed close to Y/N, almost close enough to touch. It was almost his way of saying ‘you’ll be okay, I’ve got you.’

There were several cars waiting for them. Y/N, Lando, Carlos, Oscar and one of Carlos’ men got into one and everybody else spread themselves out between the others. Things were quiet as they drove away from the plane hangar. Y/N kept her gaze staring out of the windows.

They drove through the Spanish countryside, passing by fields full of horses and orange groves. There were quaint houses dotted about and mountains in the background.

And then there was nothing. Y/N looked forwards, at what they were approaching.

Huge black gates blocked the view of the house. The first car pulled up in front of the gates and said something into the little black box attached to it. And then the gates swung open. “Wow,” Y/N found herself whispering as they pulled up in front of the house.

It was gorgeous, with a huge fountain in front. The cars parked around the fountain and several men rushed forward to pull open the doors. Y/N stepped out, with Oscar behind her, and looked at the house.

It was massive, unlike anything Y/N had ever seen before. She thought her house was massive, but this was twice the size. There were stone steps leading up to a set of rounded, double doors. The house at had least four floors and the two rooms on either end of the house had huge balconies overlooking the front of the house.

One man rushed forward to push open the front door, but, with nothing more than a raise of his hand, Carlos stopped him. He wore a smug grin of his own as he walked up the steps and pushed open the door.

“Welcome to my home,” he said and held out his hand for Y/N to take.

She was nervous, not meeting his gaze. Y/N didn’t want to put her hand in his. She looked at her brother, but, from the look he was giving her, Y/N knew she had to. So, she placed her hand into Carlos’ and allowed him to lead her into the foyer.

The floor was white marble, with a compass in the middle. Above the compass was a brilliant chandelier. Against the left wall and winding up was a grand staircase, white with black railings. Y/N looked forward, where the compass pointed north. There were a set of doors and past those doors was a brilliant garden.

Y/N let go of Carlos’ hands and strode forward. Some of his men went to move forward, to direct her back towards him, but Carlos held up his hand once more, stopping them in their tracks. He watched as Y/N walked over to the set of doors, made entirely of glass. She twisted the handles down and pushed open the doors.

She stepped out into the garden, onto the patio. The patio floor was smooth stone. To the left there was a large table surrounded by incredibly comfy looking chairs. The table was surrounded by foliage, flowers and shrubbery, it was beautiful. An umbrella was up, shading the little area.

To Y/N’s right was a fire pit. A low stone wall that doubled as a seating area formed a small circle around the fire pit, with cushions covering the seats.

Directly in front of her was a pool. The patio went directly into stairs that led down into the square shaped pool. Plants and trees, some baring fruit, some not, surrounded the patio area. Behind the patio was a grass area. No, not a grass area, but a golfing green.

Y/N turned back to the house, looking at the people stood in the foyer. She didn’t know what to say, if she could bring herself to say something to Carlos.

At their dinner he had been polite, sweet, even. But he’d shown just how powerful he was.

Y/N walked back inside. She left the doors open as she joined her brother back in the foyer. “This place is crazy, Lan,” she whispered.

With the room silent, everybody heard it. But they didn’t acknowledge it.

Carlos sent some of his men to take Y/N’s, Lando’s and Oscar’s things to their rooms while he slowed them the entirety of the house. “Can’t believe this is your place,” Lando muttered, his hands shoved into his pockets as Carlos took them into the kitchen. He still remembered the little Spanish boy who he used to play with while their parents did business. And now Carlos lived in a literally castle while Lando still lived in his father’s house.

“So, it’s yours? Not your family’s?” Asked Oscar.

All three of them stared at him. Oscar’s job was to be seen, not heard. “Osc,” Y/N squeaked as she stared at him, her eyes wide. Yes, she wanted to know the answer to the question, but she didn’t want to see her only friend die for asking it.

Carlos cleared his throat. “Yes, this is my home,” he said, not giving away anymore information. He turned his attention to Y/N. “My men will show you to your room while I talk to your brother,” he said and two men strode forward, away from the walls.

They said nothing as they escorted Y/N and Oscar away.

Pulling open his fridge, Carlos pulled out two beers. He opened them and walked outside, sitting himself at the table by the pool. Lando followed. Spain was hot, as it usually was, and he found himself pulling off his suit jacket. Lando placed it on the back of his chair and sat opposite Carlos, who passed him the beer.

“You know I am not keen on one of your men staying in my house, Lando,” he said and sipped his beer.

Lando swallowed the lump in his throat. “I know how it looks,” he began. “Oscar is young. He’s good at what he does, but he doesn’t know the etiquette yet. I would have brought somebody more experienced in this line of work, but Y/N is comfortable with him.”

“She will learn to be comfortable with me.”

“Carlos,” Lando practically growled. His beer remained untouched. “She’s not like us. You can’t ask her to just be comfortable with you.” His expression softened. “Please, Carlos. If I could stay here with her, I would. Please, let Oscar stay, for her sake.”

Carlos sipped his beer.

Taglist: @fangirlmusicbiashoe

@prttylight