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albonoracers · 1 month ago

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love you like i mean it ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑

alex is always going to be someone that you want; you have too many years between you. (or: you, alex, and the devastating situationship that reshapes your friendship.)

ꔮ starring: alex albon x childhood best friend!reader. ꔮ word count: 10.2k. ꔮ includes: implied smut, romance, friendship, light angst with a happy ending. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. friends with benefits, idiots in love, the reader pines… so much…, carlos as a plot device. heavily inspired by & shamelessly references spring into summer by lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was initially supposed to be inspired by chappell roan’s casual, but i listened to too much lizzy mcalpine and ended up with *gestures vaguely* this. the fic got away from me at some point hence the 10k (lol). i was supposed to give up on it, but i pushed through because i owe @cinnamorussell some alex before the month ends. please enjoy my first ever alex long fic!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ modigliani, lucy dacus. the bolter, taylor swift. right side of my neck, faye webster. touching toes, olivia dean. ode to a conversation stuck in your throat, del water gap. do you love me?, georgia parker.

Alex calls you late, the way he always does when he’s just lonely enough to admit it.

Your phone screen lights up with a sepia-toned photo from your shared childhood, featuring you and him sharing a comically large lollipop. His contact name is his initials. AAA. It puts him on the top of your list, which honestly feels like a cruelty in the grand scheme of things.

You answer his call anyway.

His hotel room in Tokyo is all muted beige and filtered city light, the kind that makes everything look like a memory. He’s in a white tank top, hair wet from a shower, collarbone shining faintly with leftover steam. He looks tired. He looks beautiful. You hate that.

“Come to Suzuka,” he says, not bothering with hello.

You smile without showing your teeth. “That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not,” he complains, flopping back down against his pillows. You itch to reach through the screen and trace all the parts of him you’ve come to know and love. “You didn’t even come to Melbourne for the start of the season. What’s the last race you were at?”

You know the answer. Still, you feign like you’re thinking. “Abu Dhabi,” you say after deciding Alex has squirmed just enough. Last year’s season-ender.

Alex winces like the truth physically hurts. “That’s criminal.”

You shrug. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for me?”

His voice is so small, so soft. You adjust your grip on your phone, desperate not to fall into this cycle, this pattern. Coming, taking, giving, leaving. “Work has been a lot,” you grit out. “I’ve texted you about it.”

“Don’t do that.”

He sits forward. The screen tilts. A flash of his knee, the edge of a pillow. You’ve seen that bed before. You’ve been in it, legs tangled, laughing into his shoulder while the world outside blurred into something manageable. “I’m not doing anything,” you lie.

Alex blows out a breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, fine. Then I’ll just tell you. The helmet. The special one for Japan. It’s—it has you in it. Well, not you you. But something that’s about you.”

Your stomach pulls. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I want you there. Because maybe it’ll make you come.”

You have half the mind to accuse him of trapping you. Of having nefarious intentions or whatever bullshit you can spew to get Alex to stop doing all this. Instead, a sigh rattles out of your chest and you say, “Fine. I’ll go.”

His smile is quick and boyish, and it kills you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You end the call before you can say anything stupid, like I wish you didn’t do that or this isn’t fair or I want you so bad, I’d go back on the things I believe. You sit in the dark, phone face down, trying to remember how this ever felt simple.

Alex moved to Suffolk during the summer your bike had a flat tire. His family settled three houses down, in the white one with the peonies that never bloomed. He wore a school jumper too big for his frame and didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was with a sharpness that made you listen.

You found each other in the way quiet children do. At the edges of playgrounds, in the hush before rain, somewhere between a shared silence and a dare. He let you ride his scooter once. You gave him half your sandwich. You became the kind of childhood friends they croon about in indie songs.

By eight, he was already racing. Karting on weekends in places with names you couldn’t spell. You’d sit on a folding chair, hands sticky from petrol-slick air and melting sweets, watching him blur through corners. He never looked at the stands, never waved. But afterwards, helmet in hand, he’d find you first.

“Did you see that overtake?” he’d ask, grinning, teeth crooked and proud.

You always said yes, even when you hadn’t. He trusted you with his joy before anyone else, placing it in your hands time and time again. Who were you to drop it?

You grew up like parallel lines—close, steady, never touching. Until you did.

Three years ago, it had been raining in London. You’d both had too much wine and not enough food, and he had to race Silverstone in two days. His hotel room smelled like wet wool and expensive soap. You were laughing. About something stupid, a memory, one of the many things only the two of you remembered exactly the same way.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even hesitant. It was just there, sudden and sure, the way you’d always known it would be if it ever happened. Fate, you thought, you prayed.

You hoped that would be the start of it all. The shift, the change, the inevitable. Instead, he had pressed his forehead to yours and whispered, “Still friends?”

You were so dumbstruck that all you could say was yes. Yes, even though your heart clenched when he breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, because it meant Alex could comfortably lean in for a second kiss. A third. A fourth.

You kept saying yes. Every time he reached for you in the dark. Every time he flew you out and touched you like something sacred and temporary. Every time you watched him leave in the morning, shoulders lit by the sun and never once looking back.

Still friends.

Yes.

It’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.

The suitcase lies open on your bed, half-stuffed with clothes that still smell like dust mites. You fold things with more care than necessary, pressing your palms flat over each cotton shirt like you’re trying to smooth out a thought.

Your mother hovers in the doorway. Not saying much. Just watching. “Japan this time,” she says matter-of-factly.

You nod. “You know how it is.”

She walks in, slow and quiet. Treading light. Her hand brushes over the edge of your suitcase, the one she’d gotten you when you first started taking these jet-setting trips to visit Alex wherever he was racing. It wasn’t frequent, but it was enough to rake up a significant amount of miles.

“You’ve been going less lately,” your mother says.

You don’t look up. “Been busy.”

A silence stretches between you, gentle and persistent. “You were always thick as thieves, you and Alex,” she says. “Even when he moved away, you’d look at the calendar all the time. Count down the days until he came back.”

You smile faintly. You remember that. For the longest time, you had scribbled in the race calendars into the Saturdays and Sundays, taking note of the time differences. It was a little quirk you stopped doing last year. “We grew up,” you say vaguely, but your mother is relentless.

“Sometimes growing up just means getting better at hiding things,” she hums.

You stop folding. Your mother sits beside you. Her fingers find a loose thread on your jumper, twist it once, then let go. “I won’t ask,” she says carefully. “It’s not mine to ask.”

You’re grateful and aching all at once. That mothers know best, that your love for Alex is so blindingly obvious to everyone but him.

“Just—be careful,” she warns, and you nod. That’s all you can do.

She pats your knee, stands, and leaves the room with the soft efficiency only mothers have. You finish packing in silence. It feels like preparing for something other than a race.

By the time you’re flying out, you can only focus on the imminent promise of Alex’s hands cataloguing all the changes since you last saw each other.

Fourteen hours in the air does something to your bones. Your spine feels longer, your limbs looser, like you’ve been pulled apart by altitude. The Narita airport lighting is too clean, too kind. It reveals every wrinkle in your clothes, every bruise of fatigue under your eyes.

And then there’s Alex.

Grinning like it’s spring and not just the arrivals gate. Ball cap low, hoodie creased, holding a bouquet of jet-lagged daisies and baby’s breath like he bought them because they looked sort of like you.

“Hey,” he greets, and it’s so simple, yet it undoes you.

“Hi.”

He pulls you into a hug without warning, arms looping around your shoulders like they’ve been missing their purpose. He smells like travel and the aftershave you teased him for when he first bought it. You let your forehead rest on his collarbone for half a second longer than you should.

He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out,” you murmur.

“You flew fourteen hours. I can drive forty-five minutes.”

He says it like it’s math, like it adds up, like there’s logic to the way he always tries too hard when you’re about to slip through his fingers. You pull back. "Flowers, though?"

Alex shrugs. “Figured you’d like them. The lady at the stand said they were sweet. Like you.”

Your laugh is dry. He takes your carry-on like he always does, hand brushing yours for a second that buzzes longer than it should. You walk in step without trying. An old habit that never bothered to leave.

“How was the flight?” he asks.

“Long.”

“Sleep at all?”

You shake your head. “Tried. Kept dreaming about missing the gate.”

He smiles sideways. “You didn’t miss anything. I’m right here.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

Because he is right here, and he doesn’t see it—the weight of three years pressed into every beat of silence, every time he looks at you like nothing has changed.

You want to scream. You want to hold his hand.

Instead, you follow him into the soft Japanese evening, suitcase wheels humming against tile, the daisies wilting in your arms.

You’re not surprised when there’s only one hotel key card.

Alex doesn’t say anything as he hands it over, just gives you that familiar look, half sheepish, half expectant, like this is just how things are. Like you wouldn’t have come otherwise.

The room smells faintly of cedar and lavender, the kind of scent pumped through vents by hotels that cost more than you’d care to admit. There’s a single bed, king-sized and already turned down. The lights are low. Evening has softened the edges of everything—the city beyond the glass, the echo of jet lag in your bones, the sharpness of what goes unspoken.

Alex drops your bag by the wardrobe and shrugs off his jacket. He stretches like a cat. Arms high, shirt lifting just enough to show the skin at his waist. You look away before he catches you. You’ve memorized the lines of his back in hotel mirrors, the way his shoulder blades rise when he’s tired.

“You hungry?” he asks. “Could order something. Or just raid the minibar like we’re twelve again.”

You smile, toeing off your shoes. “Minibar dinner sounds appropriately tragic.”

He laughs, pleased. “Perfect. I’ll get the world’s saddest sparkling water. Maybe some mystery peanuts.”

You sit at the edge of the bed while he rummages, pulling out a half-sleeve of biscuits and something that might once have been chocolate. He tosses them on the duvet with the flair of a magician, then flops beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

The room settles around you in the way shared spaces do. His charger, already plugged in on your side; your toothpaste, beside his in the glass. He pads over after brushing nighttime routine, hair damp from a quick shower, shirt loose and collar stretched.

There’s something about him in these moments. Unguarded, tender. Like the world forgets to ask too much of him for once. And in that forgetting, he remembers how to exist soft with you.

He pulls you in like muscle memory. His hand on your waist, his breath near your temple.

You go unquestioningly.

The kiss is slow. Familiar. Less heat, more gravity. He touches you like you’re fragile but necessary, like this is the only part of the weekend that makes sense. He murmurs something against your skin—your name, maybe. Or just the word please. You can’t tell if it’s a question or an apology.

You let him press you back onto the mattress, the sheets cold for half a second before his warmth fills the space. His touch is gentle, reverent, like he thinks this is how you say thank you. You hold him, nails digging into his back, trying not to hurt him more than necessary.

Later, you lie tangled in the hush, his head on your shoulder, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair, slow and steady. You think about what it would mean to let go.

It’s just a thought, though.

The next morning, you wake to an absence.

The sheets beside you are still warm, faintly creased from where Alex’s body had been. But his pillow is abandoned, and there’s no sound but the gentle hum of the city beyond the window. For a second—just one clean, heart-punched second—you panic.

Then you hear the shower running.

Relief and resentment wash through you at the same time.

You sink back against the pillows, pressing your palms to your face. Your throat feels tight in that half-awake way that makes you wish you dreamed less vividly. The room smells like steam and his shampoo.

The bathroom door opens with a soft hiss of air.

Alex steps out with a towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and curling against his temples. He’s grinning already, eyes catching yours across the room. “Could’ve joined me, you know,” he says, voice still a little hoarse from sleep. “Water pressure’s phenomenal. Would’ve saved time.”

You groan into the pillow. “Pervert.”

He laughs, padding barefoot across the room, steam trailing behind him. “You love it,” he says cheekily.

You throw a pillow at him. He ducks, and the sound of your shared laughter feels almost like the old days. Before things blurred at the edges, before kisses replaced inside jokes and you started sleeping with your memories.

“Go put some clothes on, you menace,” you say, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

He gives you a mock salute and turns back to the bathroom. “Yes, captain.”

You head for your toiletries, feeling the day tug at your skin already. In the mirror, your face looks quieter than it feels. Your mouth remembers his. Your hands remember where he pulled you close. But what you remember most is how easy it is to fall into him—how friendship once felt like enough.

You used to be best friends. Before everything. Before late nights and shared beds and pretending it meant nothing.

And some days, like now, you still are. Best friends, that is.

You wonder if it will ever be enough again.

You ride to the paddock in the backseat of a tinted car, shoulder pressed lightly to Alex’s. The morning is golden and forgiving.

Suzuka blurs past the windows—red lanterns still swaying from the night before, cherry blossoms beginning their slow fall, the air touched with the delicate scent of fried batter and spring. Alex hums along to something playing faintly on the radio. He taps your knee with his fingers in time to the beat.

Just once, then again. Like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands if they’re not touching you.

The air between you is easy. Intimate in the quiet way that friendship can be when layered over something else. A liminal space neither of you names.

He steals your sunglasses and you let him. He makes a show of adjusting them on his nose, eyebrows raised. “Do I look cooler already?” he asks, grinning. You roll your eyes and try not to stare at his mouth.

He offers you a sip of his energy drink and you make a face but take it anyway. He wipes something from your cheek with his thumb and doesn’t comment on it, just lets his hand hover there for a beat too long. The silence fills up with old knowing, soft and dangerous.

Almost enough to fool you.

Almost.

The driver pulls up at the paddock entrance, and you’re met with the orchestral chaos of race day in its early rhythms. Media crews already swarming, engineers in fireproofs wheeling gear past, the crackle of radios and the distant whine of a power unit being tested. The scent of burnt rubber and fresh coffee threads through the breeze. Alex walks beside you, hand skimming your back once, twice, as though to anchor you.

You’ve done this before. Many times. But there’s something about being here again, together, that presses a quiet ache into your sternum. Like returning to a childhood bedroom that’s been rearranged without your permission.

The Williams motorhome appears like a cathedral in blue and white. You’re recognized immediately. A few engineers smile and nod. One of the comms girls hugs you tightly, laughing something into your shoulder about how long it’s been. Someone presses a coffee into your hand, just the way you like it. Two sugars, no milk. It’s a strange kind of comfort, this small network of familiarity in a world that moves too fast.

Then—

“Carlos,” Alex says, reaching to clap the shoulder of his new teammate, who stands just outside the motorhome in full kit. “This is my best friend.”

You turn to meet Carlos’s gaze. He’s charming, polite, smiling in that open, easy way that says he’s used to being liked. He extends a hand, firm but not overdone. You’re sure he’s a good guy, but you’re too hung up on the introduction to care about anything else.

Best friend.

You shake Carlos’s hand and hope your face doesn’t flinch. You know the role. You’ve played it well for years. Smiled through it. Laughed through it. Shared hotel rooms and winter holidays and the softest versions of yourself, all under the umbrella of that phrase.

Something about hearing it aloud, in this place, in front of someone new—it lands different. It presses cold fingers against your chest.

Alex is already moving on, ushering Carlos toward a PR meeting, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “I’ll find you after. Don’t disappear.”

You smile back, lips curving with practiced ease. Of course you do.

You take a long sip of your coffee. It’s too hot. It burns going down.

You swallow anyway.

Alex finds you later, just as he promised, in the quiet hours between press and briefing. Afternoon light slants through the windows of the hospitality suite, dust catches like static in the air. You’re tucked into a corner seat with your knees drawn up, phone unread in your palm.

“Got something to show you,” Alex says, voice low.

You glance up. He’s already smiling, hair a little damp at the nape, lanyard tangled around his fingers. There’s a kind of eagerness to him, the kind he used to have before kart races, before it all got louder.

You follow him without speaking.

The room he leads you to is cooler, quieter. A storage space, maybe, or a converted engineering nook—lined with crates and spare parts, the stale tang of tyre rubber hanging faintly in the air. And there, propped on a cloth-draped workbench, is the helmet.

You pause.

It’s not what you expected. Not flashy. Not loud. It’s soft. White matte base with brushed, almost watercolour swathes of indigo and lavender bleeding toward the edges, like dusk spilling into night. On the side, near the visor hinge, is a single motif: a swallow in flight.

“It’s not finished,” Alex says quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Still needs clear coat. But... yeah.”

You take a step closer. Fingers don’t touch, but hover. The paint looks hand-done. Imperfect. Beautiful.

“Swallows are your favourite, right?” he adds. “You said once they’re always coming home.”

“Yeah. That was years ago.”

“I remember.”

You look at him then. Really look. He’s leaning against the wall, watching you with the kind of expression that unravels things. Eyes searching. Mouth set.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. Then, quieter: “Why me?”

He shrugs, like it should be obvious. “Homecoming,” he answers, plain and simple and absolutely gut-wrenching.

There’s a silence after that. Not awkward. Just wide. You think of the years, the way he always made space beside him without asking if you wanted to stay. You think of how easily you did.

Your throat feels dry. “You know,” you say slowly, because the thought has been on your mind since this morning, “he thinks I’m just your friend. Carlos.”

Alex winces. Fucking winces. He glances away, jaw ticking a bit, like you’re not about to head back to the same hotel room later and fuck in the shower.

A beat. Alex doesn’t say anything to your accusation.

You don’t ask him to. You only step closer, the helmet between you like a talisman. “Thank you,” you say, and this time, you do touch the helmet—just briefly, your fingers grazing the painted sky.

He watches you do it. And then, quietly, almost laughing to himself, he says, “Figured if I crashed, at least it’d be wearing something that reminds me of you.”

You shake your head. But you’re smiling, and it hurts. “Idiot,” you chide.

He grins. “Your idiot.”

You don’t answer. Not because it’s untrue, but because it’s too close to what you want—and too far from what you have.

Alex doesn’t crash.

He finishes P9.

A number that used to feel like clawing victory. Like a miracle wrung from a midfield car held together by tape and tenacity. And now—it just feels steady. Not easy, but earned. There’s something clean in the way he crossed the finish line today, a quiet defiance. The kind of performance that leaves no bruises, only breathlessness.

You watch from the back of the garage, arms crossed tight against your chest. Headphones clamped over your ears. The final laps passed like a dream. One where the world narrows to telemetry and engine whine, the flicker of sector times on a screen. When the checkered flag waved, your lungs finally remembered how to breathe.

Now, the paddock is in chaos. Post-race buzz. Cameras flashing like static. Someone’s shouting in Italian. Mechanics high-five. There’s champagne somewhere, but you can’t see it. Just the press of bodies and the smear of victory across the asphalt.

And then he’s there.

Helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes scanning until they find you. He doesn’t wait for an opening. Doesn’t care about the line of journalists trailing behind him or the media handler trying to tug him toward the pen. He walks straight to you, cutting through everything.

You take a step back. Instinct, maybe. Habit.

He pulls you in anyway.

The cameras catch it. You know they do. The embrace, the way his arms wrap around your shoulders like they belong there. You stiffen, palms flat against his chest. You’ve been labeled Alex’s childhood best friend, have been subject to speculation of various rabid fans and gossip sites.

“Alex,” you hiss, low. “People are—”

“Let them,” he says.

His voice is hoarse from radio calls and engine growl, but it’s soft now. Just for you.

You shake your head, and your hands find the hem of his fireproofs, fingers curling there like they might ground you. “You’re ridiculous,” you grumble.

“P9,” he says, like it explains everything.

Maybe it does, because he’s beaming. Not with the sharp joy of a podium or the reckless rush of a win, but something gentler. Like he’s proud. Like he’s content. Like you’re a part of it, maybe, and that’s why he’s with you instead of everybody else.

The cameras flash again. Somewhere, someone’s calling his name.

In this moment, though, it’s just you and him. You let your head fall against his shoulder, just for a second. He smells like sweat and rubber and the faint sweetness of whatever hydration drink he refuses to stop using.

“I’m happy for you,” you say.

His hand curls at the back of your neck. “Come with me?”

You want to ask where, but the question feels too fragile. Too close to breaking something.

So you nod.

And when he takes your hand, you let him.

He leads you down the corridor with his fingers wrapped around your wrist, still sticky from the gloves, still trembling with leftover adrenaline. The world outside—flashing bulbs, echoing interviews, the scream of celebration—falls away, muffled by white walls and the hush of engineered insulation.

His driver room is barely bigger than a closet. Spare. A bench, a chair, his race suit unzipped and hanging like shed skin. There’s a bottle of water half-finished on the counter. A towel draped over the back of a folding chair. Everything stripped to function.

But when he turns to face you, the room holds its breath. What’s about to happen is far from functional.

His mouth is on yours before you can speak. Before you can ask what the hell any of it means. This morning, the helmet, the P9, the arms around you in front of half the paddock. His hands frame your jaw, a little too firm, a little too desperate. You taste the salt of him, the heat, the care.

He kisses like he’s still racing. Like the throttle’s still open and the finish line is somewhere in the shape of your mouth.

You melt. Of course you do.

Because you remember every version of him—mud-caked knees and scraped palms from karting days, late-night phone calls from airport lounges, sleepy secrets across hotel pillows—and this is all of them, distilled. This is every inch of history pressed into your spine as he backs you into the wall and exhales against your neck.

You want to say his name. You want to ask. What are we now? What does any of it mean? Do I get to keep you, or just these seconds?

But your hands slide beneath the hem of his fireproofs, and your fingers learn again the familiar slope of his waist, and he breathes your name like an answer. “My favorite part,” he murmurs absentmindedly into the crook of your neck. “This ‘s my favorite part.”

And it should be enough.

It isn’t.

Regardless, you let him kiss you again. You let him take you, hand over your mouth to keep your sounds muffled. You let him finish, let him bring you to that same peak, let him piece you back together after taking you apart.

Your shirt ends up inside out.

Alex points it out between fits of laughter, eyes crinkled, bare feet padding across the linoleum floor as he tosses you your jacket. He’s flushed from the high of it all. He buttons the top of his race suit with fumbling fingers, grinning like he hasn’t done that exact thing a hundred times before.

“You look like you’ve been caught in a wind tunnel,” he says, smoothing your hair with both hands, thumbs pressing briefly at your temples. “A cute one, though.”

You try to smile. You do. But there’s a hollowness under your ribs, something heavy and low and familiar. Like something’s rotting sweet in your chest. He doesn’t see it.

He’s still beaming, tugging at a wrinkle in your sleeve. “There. Perfect.”

And you almost say it then. Almost let the words fall out: What are we doing?

I can’t keep doing this, Alex.

But he looks so happy. So golden in the overhead light, still caught in the orbit of something good. Something that feels like hope. You can’t ruin it. Not yet.

So you reach for his hand. His fingers slot through yours like habit, like home.

You nod toward the door. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”

He leans in, presses a kiss to your cheek. “They can wait.”

You let out a sound that might be a laugh. Might be a sob, if it tipped the wrong way.

I’ll tell you next time, you think, as you follow him back into the noise.

Next time, when he’s not smiling like that.

Next time, when it won’t feel like stealing joy just to be honest.

Next time.

Just—

Not now.

The timing is never right.

Saudi Arabia. P9 again.

He dances you around the hotel room with his hands still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber, laughing into the inside of your thigh as if nothing else exists. His joy is unfiltered, real. You think, maybe, you’ll tell him then.

But then he kisses you like you’re part of the celebration, like you’re champagne on his lips, and you can’t find the words in your mouth. Not when his hands know every part of you better than your voice knows how to form the truth.

In Miami, it’s P5.

He lifts you off your feet in the hallway outside his suite, spinning you once like a man who’s just won something permanent. He smells like the sun, his cheeks pink from the heat. “Did you see?” he asks, breathless, giddy. “Did you see how I held off Antonelli?”

“Of course I did,” you say, and you kiss him because it’s easier than telling him what you really mean. Because it would be cruel to take this moment away from him.

Italy is the same. Another P5.

Another night in a borrowed room, you pressed against the cool tile of a motorhome bathroom while he moans your name like it’s the only thing that exists beneath his ribs.

And still, you don’t speak.

You let him take. Let him thread his fingers through your hair and guide your mouth to his. Let him find comfort in your skin, in the shape of you, in the softness that greets him after every race. It feels like penance. Like proof that this is the version of you he wants, so long as it stays unspoken.

Each night, you lie awake beside him, the sheets tangled at your ankles, sweat cooling on your bare shoulders. You study the slope of his nose, the twitch in his fingers as he dreams.

You try to remember the sound of your own voice before it forgot how to say no.

In Miami, after the noise, after the warmth, after the sex that feels too much like lovemaking to just be chalked up to something primal—he falls asleep with his head on your chest. One arm draped across your ribs like a promise he never made. You don’t move. You barely breathe. The room hums with the air conditioner and your unspoken ache.

You stare at the ceiling and try not to count how many ways you’ve chosen him over yourself.

You lose count before morning.

By the time Monaco comes around, you fake a migraine. A vague stomach ache. Something that sounds gentle enough to pass as believable, but just real enough to keep Alex from pressing.

He calls you from his hotel balcony, sun caught in the lighter parts of his hair. He frowns at the screen, concerned. Or at least something close to it.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” he asks. “Want me to send anything?”

You shake your head. Smile faintly, let your voice come out soft, strained. “I’ll be fine. Just need to sleep it off.”

He nods. Looks off-screen for a moment, distracted by something—someone. Then back to you. “Rest, yeah? I’ll call you again later.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Good luck.”

He hangs up. You stare at the empty screen until it darkens and your reflection blinks back at you. He doesn’t call, and you don’t fault him for it.

The article finds you by accident.

One of those sidebars that pop up when you’re checking the weather. You almost scroll past it, until the name catches your eye, buried in the speculation. A tabloid photo, bright and cruel: Alex on a golf course, sunglasses perched low, grinning across the green at a pretty girl whose name is Lily and whose swing is better than yours. Professional, the article notes.

They look good together.

You tap the images, one by one, like touching them might change what they show. In the last one, he’s laughing. Head thrown back. Free. He laughs like that, too, when you’re showering after sex or trading stories over dinners. Often in private, never anywhere someone else can see.

You stare at that one photo until your throat closes. Until you can no longer remember what it felt like to be looked at that way.

Your mother finds you like that. Curled on the couch with your knees to your chest, phone abandoned on the floor, eyes wide and glassy.

She doesn’t ask what happened. Just sits beside you, wraps an arm around your back, tucks your head beneath her chin like she used to when you were small. “I don’t know how we got here,” you whisper.

“I think you do,” she murmurs. Her hand strokes your arm, slow, steady. “You just didn’t want to admit it.”

You nod, brokenly.

“I wanted to be enough,” you say.

“I know,” she says.

You cry until you have no more tears. Until your breath evens out against her shoulder. Until the ache becomes a dull, familiar thing.

She holds you through it all. By the time she’s getting up to make you one of your comfort meals, you already know what you have to do.

You stop answering.

Not suddenly. Not all at once. Just the way a tide recedes—softly, so softly, you wonder if he even notices at first. He texts the morning after the Monaco GP.

AAA [8:20 AM]: Morning. How’re you feeling now? You missed the best post-race sushi of my life.

You don’t reply. Not because you want to hurt him, but because you don’t trust what you might say if you open the door even a crack. Later, another text:

AAA [5:39 PM]: Mum says hi, by the way. I told her you were under the weather. She’s making soup just in case, and it should be sent over.

You see it. You say nothing.

Spain comes. He finishes P10.

Barely. You watch from a stream muted low, the sound drowned beneath your own breathing. He looks tired. He still smiles into the cameras. And when he texts��probably stolen in between media obligations—it feels a lot like a man who’s bargaining.

AAA [4:43 PM]: You watching? Hope you’re proud. Even if it’s just one point.

He calls the same night. You let it ring.

Canada is worse. Outside the points.

His face is closed off in the post-race interviews. The text comes later.

AAA [11:10 PM]: Did I do something wrong?

Then:

AAA [11:53 PM]: I miss you.

At three in the morning, a voicemail. His voice is low, frayed at the edges.

“Hey. I know you’re probably busy. Or just… done. I don’t know. You never said. But I—fuck, I don’t know. You usually tell me when you’re busy. If this is about—that stupid tabloid, or whatever? It was just a golfing lesson. Anyway. You have no reason to be… jealous. Or whatever. Just… call me, okay? Please.”

You don’t.

Austria. He doesn’t even start. DNS.

Technical issue, they say. The look on his face when he climbs out of the car—grief and rage and something dangerously close to despair—it unspools you.

Another voicemail, sent somewhere between him disappearing after media interviews and showing back up in front of the journalists with a tight-lipped grin.

“You’re avoiding me. I know you are. You didn’t even tell my mum you were alright, and she’s been worried sick. I had my dad check if your family was okay and even he said you’ve gone quiet. What’s going on? Just tell me.” A pause. Then, wretched, almost like a sigh of defeat: “You don’t get to ghost me. Not after everything. Not you.”

You sit in the dark with the phone pressed to your chest like it might warm the place where he used to live inside you.

You still don’t call.

There are some things you can’t avoid, though. Silverstone comes like a tide.

The roads fill with flags and Ferris wheels and cardboard cutouts. Your village pub sets out Union Jack bunting again. Your father makes some dry comment about the national holiday Formula One has become. And you know. You know you can't hide anymore.

You get the first text Monday morning:

AAA [1:43 PM]: I’m flying in. Can we talk?

You don’t answer. You clean the kitchen instead. Scrub the countertops, wipe down the windows. As if clean glass could clarify anything at all. He doubles down.

AAA [5:28 PM]: I’ll come to yours. Just want to see you. I’ll bring the bad flowers from Tesco, if that helps.

A voicemail, later that evening, tentative and thinly veiled: “Hey. I know it’s been a while. You’re probably still mad. Or sad. Or both. I don’t know. I just—I’ll be there tomorrow. Even if it’s just to see you across the street. Even that would be better than this.”

True to his word, by tomorrow afternoon, there’s a knock at the front door. Not loud. Just three gentle raps, like he’s afraid your mother might answer.

You open it anyway.

He’s there, holding a slightly crumpled bouquet of peonies and eucalyptus from the supermarket down the lane. His hair’s damp with mist, lashes clumped. He looks like someone who hasn’t slept right in weeks.

You don’t speak.

He clears his throat. “They were out of sunflowers.”

You step aside wordlessly.

He walks in like a memory. Like he’s been here a thousand times. Shoes off by the mat, flowers passed into your hand, eyes scanning the room like he expects to see a version of himself still here. The silence is soft, but full. You boil water out of habit. He lingers by the doorway, unsure.

“You’re not going to yell at me?” he asks, almost sarcastic.

You shrug, trying to be noncommittal about it all. “What would be the point?”

He swallows. His jaw twitches. You leave the tea half-made, walk upstairs. You don’t say anything. Just know—somehow—that he’ll follow.

And he does.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Into your room that still smells like dust and the lavender you leave under your pillow. He stands in the doorway, taking in the fact that the air is thick with expectation.

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” he asks.

You say nothing, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don’t know if he wants to hear it, or if he only wants what he can still take.

And so you don’t answer his question. Not directly. Instead, you ask, “How was Spain?”

Alex hesitates, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hot. P10.”

You nod, like that’s all there is to say. “And Canada?”

He shifts, arms folding. “Slippery. Out of the points.”

“Austria?”

“DNS.”

You offer a small sound of sympathy, but it’s hollow, transparent. A stall tactic. He sees it. He knows you. Knows you’ve watched all the races you’re asking about, knows you’re trying to delay the same way you dragged out this arrangement for much longer than necessary.

He steps forward, voice low but strained. “Are we going to keep talking about races? Or are you ever going to get to the point?”

Again, you don’t answer. You get to your feet. You cross the room to where he is.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not a reunion. It’s blunt, desperate, pleading. A distraction dressed in affection. And for a moment—just a moment—he kisses you back like he needs it to survive. Like this is what’s been missing from his string of ill-fated races. His hands slide into your hair, his body molding against yours as if it never learned to be apart.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt. You tug.

He pulls away abruptly.

“Wait.”

You blink, breath catching. “What?”

He doesn’t step back, but he doesn’t come closer either. His hands hover near your arms, not quite touching. “I still want to know,” he manages. “I deserve to know.”

“Alex…”

He shakes his head, slow and quiet. “You disappeared. I thought you were sick. Hurt. I thought I did something wrong. And now you want to pick up where we left off like it never happened?”

You stare at him. He’s flushed. Hair mussed from your hands. Lips swollen. Still panting a little from the heat of the kiss.

But his eyes are hurt.

You stand there, inches apart, in the middle of your childhood bedroom. The silence is deafening. You’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon, like you’re on the edge of something neither of you can name.

You’re still catching your breath when the words crawl out of your throat.

“I love you.”

Alex freezes. Like the words are a crash, not a confession. Like they’ve splintered the floor beneath him. He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you—gaze gentle, shoulders locked—like you’re something he almost recognizes but can’t quite name. Then, quietly, “I love you too.”

You close your eyes. That should be enough. It should be everything.

But it isn’t. “Not like that, Alex,” you sigh.

His brow furrows.

You try again. “Not like… what you mean. Not in the way you mean it.”

Silence. The kind that leaves room for heartbreak.

He draws back a step. “What do you mean?”

You laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s helpless. “I mean I’ve been in love with you since before all this.” You gesture vaguely, between the two of you, between what the kids nowadays call a situationship. Personally, you call it an undoing. An unraveling.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He looks gutted not what he finally understands what you’re getting at, now that you’ve used the word in love.

“How long?” he asks, and his voice is barely more than breath.

You look at him. “Years,” you say, thinking back to the boy in the kart, the teenager next door, the man in front of you now. You’ve loved all of them. Your voice cracks as you repeat, “Years, Alex.”

He crumples under the weight of your words. At the fact he’d asked, in the first place, and you spent the past three years of your life letting all of it wash over you.

“God,” he mutters. “God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I—fuck. I thought you were okay with it. I thought we were okay.”

“I know,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “I let you think that. I let myself think that.”

He presses his palms into his eyes like he can scrub the guilt away. “You should’ve told me.”

You tilt your head. “Would it have changed anything?”

Alex looks at you, helpless. Desperate. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding almost panicked. He knows it’s not the right answer, not the answer that you want.

You step toward him. You touch his hand, gently. “It’s okay,” you manage, even though it’s not. “Really, Alex, it’s alright.”

Somehow, you manage to tell him. Truths so tender and close to the heart that to relay them verbatim would be a crime.

You tell Alex you’re grateful to have had him, even if it were just like this. Even if it was just bits and pieces. Even if it was casual.

He doesn’t answer, just looks at you like he’s trying to piece it all together. The silence stretches again. His eyes flick to the bed, then to the door. He doesn’t move. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or walk away.

Alex leaves anyway.

He says he’s sorry, eyes flicking between your face and the floor like he can’t quite decide where the damage is worse. You repeat that it’s okay, which is the kindest lie you know how to give. And then he’s gone—hood up, shoulders shaking, not looking back.

You don’t watch him leave. You sit on the edge of the bed with your hands in your lap, palms pressed together like prayer and surrender.

It should’ve been a clean break.

Three years of blurred lines and soft touches that always stopped just short of real. He’d kiss you like it mattered, then laugh about it an hour later. You let him. Again and again. You think that’s the end of it. You try to believe it is. It’s easier to hate an absence when it’s permanent.

But the day before the race, your phone rings. His name lights up the screen like a wound reopening.

You let it go once. Twice. You’re letting him back out, but he doesn’t buck. The third time the phone rings, you answer.

“Hey,” he says, uncharacteristically shy. “I’ve got a paddock pass with your name on it.”

You pause. Not out of surprise, but because you’re waiting to feel something. You don’t.

“Silverstone,” he adds, as if you could forget.

You picture the pass in his hand—laminated, official, hollow. A gesture more ceremonial than sincere. “I can’t go,” you say evenly.

A beat.

“You busy?”

“No.”

Another pause. This one longer. Thicker.

“Okay,” he says. But he doesn’t hang up.

You hear the static of his breath on the line. The shuffle of something—maybe his hand in his hair, maybe guilt settling in his bones.

“Alex.”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry at this performance of care, offered like a consolation prize. This is probably an olive branch, but you know you still need some time. You need to be furious. You need to be hurt. You need to hate him and what he’s made of you before you can even consider loving him again.

“I should go,” you say.

He doesn’t argue. Just murmurs, “Yeah. Okay.”

But he lingers. You almost say something. Almost tell him not to call again unless it means something. Unless he means it.

You don’t. You just let him sit there in the quiet with you, not speaking, not hanging up.

And then finally—too late, too long—he does.

You end up seeing it on the news.

P4 at Silverstone.

Just short of champagne and cameras, but still something to be proud of. Still something you would’ve teased him about. You might have told him he was allergic to podiums, just to watch him roll his eyes and smirk like you’d said something stupid but sweet. And maybe he’d kiss you, again, in his driver room, waxing British slang to tease you, all the while driving you crazy with the way he can grope and squeeze.

You almost text him. A good job. A thumbs up emoji. A dot, even. Something weightless. Something he could pretend didn’t matter if it made things worse.

You hold back.

You brush your teeth instead. Crawl into bed. Turn off the lamp. The room folds in around you like silence is a kind of blanket. You almost get away with sleeping until your phone rings.

You don’t even have to check the caller ID.

“Hello?”

It’s loud on the other end. Laughter, glass clinking, music with too much bass. “You didn’t watch,” he slurs, like that’s just hitting him now.

“I told you I couldn’t.”

“You didn’t say why.”

You sigh. “Did I need to?”

He goes quiet, but the noise behind him doesn’t. It presses in, distorted and joyless. Celebration without clarity. Then, softer, garbled: “You’re the post-race celebration I miss the most.”

You sit up. “Alex—”

But he’s crying now. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just little, broken sounds, like something leaking out of him slow and unwilling. “It didn’t feel as good,” he sobs. “Didn’t feel as good to win—without you there.”

You close your eyes and rest your forehead against one hand. “I’ll come get you,” you say.

He sniffles. “You don’t have to.”

You stand. Already pulling on jeans. Grabbing your keys. Not sure of anything but this: he can’t stay lost like this, not tonight.

“I know,” you say, and then you’re hanging up to book yourself a proper cab at two in the goddamn morning.

The speakeasy isn’t marked, not really. Just a nondescript door off a narrow alley, guarded by a bored-looking man with an earpiece and a clipboard. But when you give your name, his expression changes. Softens.

“He’s in the back,” the man says solemnly, nodding you through.

Inside, the music is velvet-loud, low, and pulsing. Everything glows amber, lights like melted gold dripping down the walls. People in team polos and sharp jackets toast to something that sounds like victory, even if it’s just the illusion of it.

They all know who you are.

Someone from comms gives you a tight smile and gestures toward the hallway behind the bar. “In there,” she says, like she doesn’t need to explain further. Like you’re the inevitable ending to his night.

You find Alex hunched over a sink in the men's bathroom, one hand braced on the cold porcelain, the other trembling around the rim like even that is too much to hold. He doesn’t hear you come in. Or maybe he does, but pretends not to.

“Jesus, Alex,” you say, nose scrunching up with distaste.

He lifts his head, barely. His face is pale, lips chapped, eyes rimmed red. Not from the alcohol, but from whatever came after.

“You came,” he breathes, like it’s a miracle. Like he’s seeing something holy.

You step forward and crouch beside him, grabbing paper towels, wetting one with cold water. “Of course I came.”

He laughs, ragged and too loud in the tiled echo. “Didn’t think you would. Thought I fucked it.”

“You did,” you say, matter-of-fact, blotting sweat from his forehead. “You absolutely did.”

He closes his eyes. “Then why’re you here?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer. Because you do. And it’s the kind that costs you something every time you say it out loud.

“Because you called.”

He leans into your touch like it’s a lifeline. “You always come when I call.”

You help him sit back, guide him to the floor with his back against the wall. The tiles are cold. He shivers.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “That’s kind of the problem.”

Alex rests his head on your shoulder, the weight of him more familiar than foreign. “I didn’t know who else to call,” he whimpers.

You exhale, slow. “That’s not true. You just didn’t want anyone else.”

He nods, eyes fluttering closed. He’s too out of it to try and deny the fact. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you can tell by the quiver in his voice that he means it.

You brush your fingers through his hair once, twice. You let the silence speak for you, and then you help him up. “Let’s get you home,” you say.

The night air cuts through the alcohol-stained warmth of the bar as you step outside, Alex’s weight slung over your shoulder. He’s steadier now, upright at least, but still leaning into you like gravity is playing favorites.

You settle on the curb, one arm braced around his waist. The air smells like rain on asphalt, smoke, and the faint trace of spilled gin. Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs too loud. London doesn’t sleep for long.

You’re waiting for a cab when Carlos finds you.

He approaches quietly, hands shoved into the pockets of a fitted jacket, eyes scanning Alex the way someone might glance at a closed book. Worn, familiar, unreadable. “He okay?” Alex’s co-driver asks.

You nod. “Drunk. Sick. Stubborn,” you answer, not bothering to play nice when Alex is dead on his feet and half-asleep already.

Carlos huffs a small laugh. “Sounds about right.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You’re the best friend.”

It still stings, still pricks. You keep your expression perfectly controlled as you give a small sound of affirmation, arms still focused on holding Alex upright.

“Mm.” Carlos watches you for a second too long. “Doesn’t feel like that’s the whole story.”

“What does it feel like, then?”

Carlos shifts his weight. Looks away, then back. He glances at Alex to check if the man is listening, and then, Carlos confides as if it’s a secret: “It’s like you are his entire heart, and he’s just too scared to admit it.”

The words land like a bird flapping its wings across the Atlantic. No thunder, no accusation. Just something still and sudden.

You almost want to ask him to repeat it, to explain—but the cab pulls up before you can decide whether to believe him.

You help Alex into the back seat. He slumps immediately against you, arms curling around your middle without thought, face buried in your shoulder. His breath is warm and even, his fingers wound tight into your shirt like muscle memory.

You rest your cheek on the top of his head.

The cab pulls away from the curb. Carlos’s words echo, sage and unfinished. You don’t know what to do with them yet. So for now, you let Alex hold you.

You don’t think about it too hard. Just tell the cab driver your address, press your fingers against your temple, and watch the city blur by. Alex stirs once or twice, murmurs something incoherent against your collarbone, but otherwise stays folded into you.

By the time you reach your house, it’s well past four. You fumble with the keys. He sways a little when you guide him inside.

You don’t take him to your bed.

It feels too loaded, too intimate in the wrong kind of way. Instead, you settle him on the couch, pull a blanket from a nearby cabinet, and start toward the kitchen to get him some water. Before you can take more than a few steps, he reaches out.

“Don’t go yet,” he says, voice hoarse.

You turn back. “I’m just getting you a glass.”

He tugs gently on your hand. Not enough to stop you, just enough to anchor you. You kneel beside the couch. He’s watching you, eyes glassy but sharp in the ways that count.

“I want to kiss you so badly,” he says.

Here’s the terrible, terrible thing: You wouldn’t mind. You miss it sorely. The kisses, the touch. You’re convinced you’ll be dreadfully happy with the scraps of it all, but you figure the two of you have the right to make informed decisions. “You’re drunk,” you point out.

“I know.” Alex exhales. “I won’t kiss you. Not tonight. Want the next one to be right.”

Your throat tightens. “You think there’s going to be a next one?”

His smile is impossibly sad. “Hope so.”

And then—because he’s Alex, and because this is how he breaks you—he leans forward and presses a kiss to your cheek. Then another, just beneath your eye. Then one at the edge of your brow, your temple, the tip of your nose. All of them clumsy and warm and deliberate. None of them where you want them most.

You don’t stop him. You don’t move. There’s too much in your chest—years of it—and not enough space to lay it all down.

When he finally sinks back into the couch, eyes fluttering shut again, his fingers remain curled around your wrist. Loose. Trusting.

You don’t move for a long time.

The next morning, Alex is gone without so much as a goodbye. You half-expected it. Still, the hollow space where his body had been feels louder than anything else in the room.

No note. No message. No follow-up call.

You wait. A day. Then two.

By the third, you stop checking your phone so often.

When the knock comes, it’s gentle enough to be mistaken for wind. You almost don’t answer it. There’s no one at the door when you open it. Just a small brown paper bag, plain and unassuming, sitting patiently on the welcome mat.

You bring it inside, hands careful. There’s something fragile about it that you can’t quite name. Inside: a bundle of crocheted sunflowers, yellow and gold and clumsily perfect, like someone tried very hard to make them right even with hands that don’t quite know how.

Beneath them, a makeshift paddock pass—laminated, hole-punched, strung with navy-blue lanyard cord. Your name is written in all caps. There’s a photo of you from when you were kids. Grinning, windblown, your arm slung casually over Alex’s shoulder.

Underneath the photo, in bold handwriting: PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

The letter is tucked in a simple envelope, sealed with a strip of duct tape.

You open it with shaking hands.

I’m not expecting anything from you right now, his scratchy script leads with.

I get it. I know I’ve made this messy. I know I said too much too late. I still wanted you to have this, because you’ve always belonged next to me on race day. Not just as my best friend. Not just as something halfway. But for real. Something proper.

That’s why I made you this paddock pass. It’s stupid and I probably got the fonts all wrong. You don’t have to use it. If you ever want to, though, it’s yours. I don’t think anybody else is ever going to have that title.

Also: the sunflowers. They’re not real, obviously. I wish I could give you fresh ones every time I leave, but I’m not good at that kind of thing. And they run out so often. So I made these. Or tried to. They took forever. I watched so many YouTube videos. I pricked my fingers like five times. Hope that counts for something.

I’ll let you have your space now.

I just want you to know that—given the chance, I want to love you like I mean it.

Always and forever, Your Alexander Albon Ansusinha

The checkered flag waves.

P4.

Not a podium, but it feels like one.

Alex exhales, lungs finally catching up to the rest of him, the engine cutting to silence beneath him. His radio crackles with static and shouts, voices overlapping in celebration. The team is ecstatic. He lets out a whoop, punching the air from the cockpit, heart rattling against his ribs like it wants to break out and sprint down the pit lane.

“Brilliant job, Alex. Another P4. You nailed Sector 3.”

He laughs, breathless. “That was insane. The car felt so good. Thank you, everyone. Honestly. Thank you. Thank you.”

His gloves are damp with sweat. The world outside the cockpit is heatwaves and motion, but inside his helmet, he’s grinning so hard his face aches.

And then��a new voice cuts through the radio.

“Nice work, Albono. Kinda makes me want to crochet you a trophy.”

Everything inside him stills.

The voice is familiar, unmistakable. Part comfort, part ache.

It’s a record scratch, a public declaration, everything he’s been dreaming of for the past couple of months. Voice shaking with unrestrained joy, Alex only manages a disbelieving, “Is that—?”

There’s laughter on the other end, muffled and alive. The team doesn’t answer. They don’t have to.

Alex is yelling again, louder than before. Whooping into the mic, a sound that isn’t filtered through performance or professionalism. A sound from the core of him. There’s something raw in the chant of yes, yes, yes, something uncontained.

The P4 doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing does. Just that voice, soft and close and impossibly real.

You’re laughing, too, as you step back from the engineer’s radio rig, nearly breathless yourself. Your palms are still slightly damp with nerves, your chest still tight with something like disbelief.

The Williams team surrounds you in a bubble of warmth—claps on the back, someone handing you a bottle of water with a grin, another looping you into a half-hug. “Told you he’d freak,” someone says.

You nod, cheeks aching from the smile that just won’t leave. Around your neck, your proper paddock pass swings with each breath. It’s glossy, official. But next to it hangs another—rougher, laminated at home, edges slightly frayed. The homemade one Alex had sent you months ago. The one that says PARTNER OF ALEX ALBON.

You touch it lightly, fingers brushing over the faded corner. It's worn, like something loved too hard.

You hadn’t been sure. You’d hesitated at the airport. Almost turned around at the gate. But the truth is: you missed him. And you were tired of pretending otherwise.

The garage is alive now—busy with celebration and noise. Mechanics moving in sync, voices rising in overlapping bursts, the scent of warm carbon, oil, and sweat curling into the air. The low whir of cooling fans. The scrape of tires on concrete.

You hear the car before you see it, the soft growl of the engine rolling into the lane. The screech of tires settling into stillness.

Alex climbs out.

Helmet off. Suit unzipped halfway, sweat darkening the collar. His hair is plastered to his forehead. His hands are trembling, still wired with adrenaline and something else—something unspoken and urgent.

He tosses his gloves toward someone without looking.

Then he turns.

And he sees you.

For the longest time, you had doubted this would mean something. You worried that you’d waited too long. That all your silence had turned into something irreversible. That the distance you asked for had hardened into fact.

Time doesn’t stop. It just slows, enough for you to catch the look on his face. The way his shoulders drop, the way his mouth forms your name like it’s the only thing that makes any sense.

You don’t move.

You don’t have to.

Alex is already running right back to you. ⛐

#Alex my baby I love you #alex albon x reader #alex albon fluff #f1 x reader #alex albon imagine

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albonoracers · 1 month ago

Text

Midnight Sun

Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader

Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun

You are not built for this.

Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.

“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”

You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”

She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.

“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”

“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”

You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”

You look up.

And you blink.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.

You stare at him. He notices.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”

“Yet,” he grins.

You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.

***

They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.

“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”

He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”

You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.

“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”

He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”

You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”

“Sounds useful in a race.”

“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”

He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.

“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”

He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”

You stare at him.

“That’s … poetic.”

He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.

Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”

You pause.

There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.

“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”

He raises his brows. “Draw them?”

“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”

“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.

“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”

He nods, slow.

“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”

“Like a supernova.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit with that for a minute.

Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.

“Let me guess — constellations?”

“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”

“You ever draw racetracks?”

You snort. “No.”

He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.

The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.

“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.

“I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”

He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”

You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.

“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”

You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.

“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.

He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-

Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.

He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”

You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.

He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.

“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”

You glance at the table. “No idea.”

“Damn. Well, no worries.”

He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.

You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.

And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-

His water bottle.

Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:

A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.

It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.

You pause.

Your thumb runs gently over the linework.

Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.

Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.

***

The message arrives two days later.

It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.

Instagram DM from oscarpiastri

Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?

Your second thought is oh no.

You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.

You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.

The message is short. Innocent.

oscarpiastri

Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.

You don’t reply.

You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.

You close the app.

And then, three days later — another ping.

This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?

You stare at it, baffled.

He remembers. He listens.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Then finally, you send.

yourusername

Aldebaran.

The response comes in less than a minute.

oscarpiastri

That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.

You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.

You should leave it there.

But then you type:

yourusername

It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.

oscarpiastri

So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?

You pause.

yourusername

Something like that.

***

After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.

Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.

The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.

“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”

He pauses.

“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”

You listen to it twice.

Then you send one back.

It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.

“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”

You almost don’t send it. But then you do.

And after that, it becomes a habit.

A quiet ritual.

***

“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”

You laugh into your phone.

“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”

“Then teach me.”

And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.

One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.

“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”

You glance up. “What?”

She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.

The caption underneath reads.

“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”

— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t breathe.

Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.

You sit down.

Hard.

Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?

You don’t hate it.

***

Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.

It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.

oscarpiastri

Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.

You grin despite yourself.

yourusername

That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.

oscarpiastri

… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?

Then, a follow-up photo.

It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.

A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.

It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.

oscarpiastri

Bought one. Fix it?

You laugh so hard you drop your phone.

***

By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.

You’re used to him now.

To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.

You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.

And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.

But it’s also not not romantic.

You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?

You frown.

yourusername

Behind me when?

oscarpiastri

When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.

You blink.

You hadn’t realized he watched those.

You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.

yourusername

Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.

oscarpiastri

Sounds like a spaceship.

yourusername

It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.

There’s a pause.

Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.

oscarpiastri

Gonna find it tonight.

You reply before you can stop yourself.

yourusername

You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.

Another pause.

oscarpiastri

Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.

You freeze.

The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.

“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”

You hesitate.

Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”

You hit send.

And the night moves on. But something else stays.

***

A few days later, you receive a package at your office.

No note.

Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.

You trace the lines.

And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.

***

You’re not supposed to be watching the race.

You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.

But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.

Oscar is leading.

Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.

You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.

When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.

And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”

You don’t message him.

You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.

Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.

At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.

You close the laptop.

Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.

You open your camera.

Not the front-facing one. Never that.

Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.

You take the photo.

And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.

yourusername

Congratulations.

That’s it.

No emoji. No overthinking.

You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.

***

He calls two hours later.

Not with a voice note.

A video call.

You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.

The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.

But your hand moves of its own accord.

You answer.

The screen goes black, then flickers to life.

He’s on a rooftop.

Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”

“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”

“Time dilation.”

“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”

You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.

“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”

You look down, cheeks hot.

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”

You don’t say anything.

He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.

“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”

You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”

“I’d like that.”

And just like that, you fall into orbit again.

The conversation stretches.

From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”

He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.

Time dilates, just like you said it would.

You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.

“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.

You glance behind you. “Looks like.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”

You consider it. “Probably.”

But neither of you ends the call.

Instead, you both sit there.

Watching a world shift toward morning.

***

You don’t mean to let him in.

Not like that.

But three nights later, it all breaks open.

You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.

But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.

It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.

You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.

It’s not working.

So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.

He picks up on the second ring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just listens.

You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.

After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.

You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.

Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.

“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”

You close your eyes.

“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”

You swallow.

“Stars are all I have left.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — rough, certain.

“You have more than that now.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.

But you don’t hang up.

And he doesn’t go anywhere.

***

The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.

Your pulse is steady the whole time.

When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.

oscarpiastri

I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.

You smile.

And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.

***

You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.

That’s the irony, isn’t it?

You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.

You try to laugh it off.

But it feels like your insides are folding.

Because Oscar will be there.

McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.

oscarpiastri

Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.

You hadn’t replied.

You couldn’t.

***

The night before the event, you ghost him.

Delete your Instagram account.

Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.

You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.

You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.

But the picture won’t form.

Not fully.

Not without a fight inside your skin.

So you stay.

Safe.

Invisible.

***

You don’t expect him to come.

You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.

But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.

You see the hoodie first.

Then the cap, pulled low.

Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.

Oscar.

Your breath stops.

He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.

Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.

You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.

He sees you.

And it’s over.

He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”

You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then-

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”

“It’s just an event-”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”

He steps forward, slow again.

“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”

You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”

He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.

Then he exhales.

Hard.

“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”

You say nothing.

He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.

He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.

“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”

The words hit you like gravity.

Your breath shudders out.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

He smiles, barely.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

***

The conversation that follows isn’t neat.

You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.

But you tell him.

You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.

You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.

You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.

And then, at the end, you say it again.

“I don’t want to be seen.”

His hand is still on your cheek.

“Too late,” he says.

***

Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.

He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.

You take it.

Only because your hands are shaking less now.

He nudges you gently.

“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”

You look down.

“Even if where I am is nowhere?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”

***

You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.

You only poke your finger twice.

***

The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.

Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.

Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.

Then smiles.

It’s not for the cameras.

It’s for you.

And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.

Even if you still want to disappear.

Even if you’re still afraid.

Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

***

You don’t speak for weeks.

Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.

It starts with silence.

Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.

You think about texting him every day.

You draft a hundred different messages.

Delete them all.

Because what would you even say?

“Sorry I panicked?”

“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”

“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”

No version sounds like enough. Or safe.

So instead, you disappear again.

But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.

You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.

You convince yourself it’s over.

That you ruined it.

That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.

You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”

Not to him.

To yourself.

Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?

***

The package arrives on a Thursday morning.

No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.

You hesitate before opening it.

Then tear the seal.

Inside is a mug.

A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.

You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.

That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.

And they did.

Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.

Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:

Still orbiting.

You don’t mean to cry.

But your throat tightens instantly.

You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.

And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.

No hesitation this time.

No drafts.

You dial.

He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.

“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”

“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”

He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”

Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”

“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’ve been a coward.”

“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Not until your voice steadies.

Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s charged with something electric.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”

***

You book the ticket that night.

Direct to Nice.

Your first time flying in years.

You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.

The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.

But then Monaco.

Sunlight. Sea. Heat.

And him.

He’s waiting just outside arrivals.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.

No cameras.

No entourage.

Just him.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.

Like the sun came out of him instead of above.

You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.

Neither of you says anything at first.

You stop right in front of him.

His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

So you make the first move.

You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.

He exhales against your hair.

And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

You don’t cry.

But you want to.

***

His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.

Too clean. Too quiet.

He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.

You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.

He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.

You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.

You pause.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.

Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.

“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”

More silence.

“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”

You glance sideways. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.

“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And let yourself believe it.

***

It’s been six months.

Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.

Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.

He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.

You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.

He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.

Neither of you says “forever.”

But you both say “soon.”

And that’s enough.

***

Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.

The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.

You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.

The talk is on entropy.

You’ve practiced it a hundred times.

But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.

Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.

Front row.

Oscar.

No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.

He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.

You mouth, you came.

He winks.

You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.

You just know you’re there.

***

“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”

A few eyebrows raise.

You smile.

It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.

“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”

You let the words settle.

“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”

You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.

“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”

Pause.

“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”

You glance down.

Then up again.

Right at him.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”

You take a breath.

“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”

You close your notebook.

And smile directly at him.

“Even if it breaks the rules.”

***

Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.

But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.

You spot him the second you exit.

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”

“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I was staring at you the whole time.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

Quick. Certain.

Like punctuation.

Like gravity.

***

That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.

You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.

Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

You nod, but don’t reply.

He shifts. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”

“It was.”

You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”

“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.

You laugh.

Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”

“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”

He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”

You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”

“Only if I taught a class on you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.

You sit up. “What are you doing?”

He draws the curtain back.

“Come here.”

You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.”

He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.

“Lay down,” he says.

You glance around. “On the floor?”

“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”

You stare at him.

He raises a brow. “Trust me.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.

Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Above you: stars.

Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.

He points.

“That’s Orion.”

You smile. “I know.”

“That’s the one with the belt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And over there …”

He squints.

You wait.

“… is the one I’m naming after you.”

You blink.

“Me?”

He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s not how astronomy works.”

He shrugs. “Sue me.”

You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.

“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.

“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”

Your heart lurches.

He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.

“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”

Pause.

“I care about this. You. Right now.”

You close your eyes.

His hand finds yours on the windowsill.

And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.

#I think the stars get to tell us love stories of old so this is so beautiful #f1 fic #oscar piastri x reader #f1 imagine #op81

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albonoracers · 1 month ago

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wrapped around your finger ⸻ alex albon x reader .

featuring alex albon , established relationship , disgusting tooth rotting fluff word count 0.8k author’s note requested by anon forever ago but i just got inspired for it today !! ALEX ALBON P5 oh the man that you are … i’m a mclaren enjoyer but if we don’t get albodium this season i WILL riot . this is a bit short and frankly very random but i was having brainrot about cuddling with alex and saw the albon_pets story which just made me laugh and inspired a tiny bit of the fic . i hope you enjoy it , anon ! as always come tell me what you think and my inbox is always open for requests ! title is from linger by the cranberries .

“Okay. What am I drawing now?”

You trace your finger deliberately against the side of Alex’s arm. You’re in the hotel bed in Imola; you flew in just a few hours before, after your boyfriend mumbled through the phone after qualifying that he missed you very much and would like you to come to the race please, if you could. He’s been clingy all evening since you got to Italy, now holding your back flush against his chest in the bed, arms wrapped around your waist. You like that he always presses his arms tight against yours, like he’s not just spooning you but actively hugging you closer.

There’s silence, for a moment. Even though you’re facing away from him, you can picture his face, the way his bottom lip is probably caught between his teeth, the way his eyebrows furrow when he’s concentrating. “A cat?”

“Be more specific,” you say, smiling.

He sighs lightly into your hair, his grip around you settling just a little tighter. “You’re expecting me to guess one of the cats based on your invisible drawing on my bicep?”

“They’re your children, you should know them by touch.”

“Fine, okay — do it again,” he says, and you try not to laugh at the appearance of his familiar competitive streak, exactly like you knew would happen when you started this little game. Still, you oblige, dragging your finger over his skin again and watching as it leaves goosebumps in its wake. “Horsey,” he says confidently. “Definitely Horsey.”

You shake your head, hiss through your teeth like a disappointed game show host. “It was Moomoo.”

“That felt nothing like Moomoo,” he protests, and you just laugh. “Are you having me on, love? Barely felt like a cat, honestly — it’d be a bit of a funny-looking thing.”

“Well…” you say, trailing off, and Alex gasps.

“How very dare you. Moomoo is a handsome boy,” your boyfriend says haughtily. He gives an exaggerated gulp like he’s shocked at your audacity to suggest otherwise, but you know better. Really it’s just because he knows you hate the feeling of his adam's apple bobbing against the back of your head.

“Alex, ew, stop, it feels so weird!” you whine, squirming away from his grip, but he holds you firm against him, arms lean and strong around yours.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says lightly, doing it again. “And if you keep wiggling around it’s going to be something very different rubbing against you.”

You dissolve into a fit of giggles. “I’m scandalized, Albon.”

“It’s scandalous business,” he replies, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Tread carefully.”

You snuggle in closer, cherishing the proximity after being apart for the week. There’s a yawn creeping into the edges of your voice when you speak again. “I’ll be sure to watch my step. Your turn. I’ll close my eyes, you draw.”

“If you close your eyes, you’re going to fall asleep, love,” Alex murmurs, his hand ghosting gently up and down your side in a soothing sort of motion.

“I won’t,” you lie. You can feel the exhaustion overtaking your body, but you want the time with him more. “Promise. I’ll stay up until you go to sleep. Now draw.”

“Bossy,” he huffs, but there’s no heat behind it. There’s a pause, and then his fingertip drags slowly across your forearm. It’s delicate, precise, like he’s trying to make sure you get it right without disturbing you too much.

You hum, trying to picture the soft touches in your mind’s eye. “Is it… a star?”

“No.”

“Then it’s a really lopsided version of the track tomorrow.”

Alex laughs, low and warm in your ear. “It’s a heart.”

“Might need to take some art classes, baby,” you tease, though you can feel your cheeks heating up even in the dark, cool room.

“Hey, my canvas was moving,” he says, squeezing your arm as if to emphasize his terrible conditions. “And I was distracted.”

You crack one eye open at that, tilt your head back towards him even though you can’t see him. “Distracted by what?”

He shifts slightly, like he’s trying to be closer to you even though he’s basically wrapped around you by this point. When he speaks, his voice is achingly soft, almost shy. “By how happy I am you’re here.”

The sudden sincerity makes something warm bloom in your chest. You’re quiet for a beat, finding his hand in the darkness and intertwining his fingers with yours. “I’m happy I’m here too,” you whisper. “Even if your drawing skills are questionable.”

“Rude,” Alex mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Poured my soul into that drawing, didn’t I?”

You laugh, tired and utterly content as your eyes flutter shut again. “I lied earlier. I think I’m falling asleep.”

“I know, love,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Okay,” you say quietly, squeezing his hand once before you let go. “Love you.”

You don’t hear his reply. You feel it, as sleep starts to drag you under.

Alex’s finger tracing across your forearm. L-O-V-E-Y-O-U-M-O-R-E.

#eeek #cute little drabble #alex p5!!! wooo #f1 x reader #alex albon imagine #alex albon x reader #alex albon fluff

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albonoracers · 1 month ago

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everyone should be watching f1 academy the women are hot at least more than half of them are defo queer there’s a full on championship battle brewing AND the racing is actually incredible because the cars are small enough to overtake! and they’re all women! they’re all women and they swear and get mad over the radio and they’re reckless and brutal and messy and so wonderfully racing drivers. f1 academy best racing series in the f1 circus at the moment.

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albonoracers · 1 month ago

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most assuredly ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

you approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. he opens his mouth to ask for the special. instead, oscar says, “would you like to get married?”

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x reader. ꔮ word count: 15.7k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, humor. mentions of food, alcohol. marriage of convenience, fake dating, set mostly in monaco, serious creative liberties on citizenship/residency rules, google translated french. title from the fray’s look after you (which i would highly recommend listening to while reading). ꔮ commentary box: i thought this would be short, but i fear i’m physically incapable of shutting up about oscar piastri. sue me. wrote this in one deranged sitting, and i leave it to all of you now 💍 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ almost (sweet music), hozier. a drop in the ocean, ron pope. hazy, rosi golan ft. william fitzsimmons. fidelity, regina spektor. just say yes, snow patrol. archie, marry me, alvvays.

Oscar Piastri fails his second attempt at Monaco residency on a Tuesday.

The rejection letter is folded too crisply, sealed in a government envelope so sterile it might as well be laughing at him. He stares at it while sipping overpriced espresso from the balcony of his apartment—well, technically, his team principal’s apartment, but the view of the harbor is the same. He watches a seagull steal a croissant from a toddler and thinks: that bird has more rights here than I do.

It’s not that he needs Monaco, but it would make things easier. Taxes, residency, team logistics. Mostly, he just hates the principle of it. He’s raced these streets. Risked his life at La Rascasse. Smiled through grid walks, kissed the trophy once, twice. How much more Monégasque does he need to be?

Still, the Principality remains unimpressed.

Oscar is dreadfully impatient about it all.

He walks to lunch out of spite. Refuses the team car. Chooses the one place that doesn’t care who he is: Chez Colette, tucked between a florist and a family-run tailor, with sun-faded menus and the same specials board since 2004. It smells like lemon and anchovy and garlic confit. Monaco’s soul in three notes.

You’re wiping down a table when he steps in. You don’t look up right away.

He knows your name, but he won’t say it aloud. That would make it too real. Instead, he watches the way your fingers move over the woodgrain, the tiny gold cross around your neck. No wedding ring.

Definitely Monégasque. Probably born here. He’s seen your grandmother in the back, slicing pissaladière with a surgeon’s precision.

You approach his table, pen tucked behind your ear. He opens his mouth to ask for the special.

Instead, he says, “Would you like to get married?”

There’s a beat of silence so clean you could plate oysters on it.

Your brow lifts, just slightly. “Pardon?”

Oscar’s own voice catches up with him. “I mean. Lunch. And then—maybe—marriage. If you’re free. Not in the next hour. Just in general.”

Another beat. Then you laugh, low and incredulous. Your English is heavily accented. A telltale sign you learned it for the express purpose of surviving the service industry. “Is this because of the citizenship thing?”

He stares at you.

You shrug, eyes twinkling. “You’re not the first to ask.”

Oscar groans and slumps back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not.”

You grin, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind being the last.

“How do you feel about pissaladière?” you ask, scribbling on your notepad.

“Is that a yes?”

You walk away without answering. He watches you disappear into the kitchen, the sound of your laughter softening the corners of his day.

He’s not sure what he just started. But he knows he’s coming back tomorrow.

And so Oscar returns the next day. Then the day after that. And the one after that.

At first, it’s curiosity. Then it’s habit. Eventually, it becomes something closer to ritual. Lunch. Sometimes dinner. Once, a midnight snack after sim practice, when he told himself he needed carbs and not just a glimpse of the waitress with the tired eyes and fast French.

He likes the way the place smells. He likes the handwritten menu and the old radio that crackles Edith Piaf like it’s a lullaby. He likes you, though he doesn’t let himself think about that too often.

You mumble French at him when he walks in. The first time, he wasn’t sure if it was welcome or warning. Now, he knows it’s both.

You’re usually wiping something down or balancing three plates on one arm. You never wear makeup. Your apron’s always tied in a double knot. And you never, ever miss a chance to call him out.

“If you’re here to poach the brandamincium recipe, you’ll have to marry my grandmother,” you tell him one afternoon.

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Tempting. But I hear she’s already married to the oven.”

You snort, and his chest flares with something stupid and bright.

The regulars give him side-eyes. Your grandmother watches him like she’s trying to solve an equation. Still, you never ask him to leave.

He tips well. He’s not trying to impress you. He’s just grateful. For the peace. For the food. For you.

One night, the lights are low and the chairs are half-stacked when he shows up with two tarte aux pommes from the bakery down the street. You look at him like you’re considering throwing him out. Instead, you pour two glasses of wine and sit.

He peels the parchment off the pastries. “Chez Colette. Named after your grandmother?”

You nod. “She started it with my grandfather. 1973.”

He glances around. The cracked tiles. The curling menus. The handwritten notes on the wall that must be decades old. “And now it’s yours”

“Sort of,” you say dismissively. “I wait tables. I do the books. I fix the pipes. Mostly I pray the rent doesn’t go up again.”

Oscar feels a twist beneath his ribs. He’s spent millions on cars. Watches. Sim rigs. But this—this tiny restaurant and your soft frown—feels more fragile than any of it.

“It’s perfect,” he says.

You look at him with the sort of grin that unravels him. “It’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. So he takes a bite of tart. Lets the silence sit between you. He swallows his mouthful of pastry, then says, “Then maybe we save it.”

You raise an eyebrow. “We?”

Oscar smiles. When you don’t tell him to leave, he makes a decision.

He returns three days later, after hours. He doesn’t mean to knock twice, but the restaurant is dark, the chairs up, the shutters half-drawn like the building itself is asleep. Still, he raps his knuckles on the glass, envelope in hand, because this isn’t something he can deliver over a text. Or a tart.

You appear after a minute, hair pinned up, sweatshirt on instead of your apron. You squint at him through the glass like he’s forgotten what day it is.

“We’re closed,” you say as you open the door halfway.

“I know,” Oscar replies, holding up the envelope. “I brought... paperwork.”

Your brows knit. You glance down at the crisp white rectangle like it might bite. “If that’s a menu suggestion, je jure devant Dieu—”

“It’s not,” he says quickly. “It’s—alright, this is going to sound completely mental, but just let me get through it.”

You cross your arms. “Go on, then.”

Oscar takes a breath. You’re still not letting him in; he figures he deserves it. “There’s a clause,” he starts slowly, “in the citizenship law. A foreign spouse of a Monegasque national can apply for residency after one year of marriage and continuous residence in the Principality.”

“I’m aware.”

He opens the envelope and slides out three neat pages, stapled, formatted like a sponsor contract. He’d asked his agent to help without saying why. Said it was a tax thing. That part wasn’t entirely a lie.

“This is a proposal,” he continues. “One year of marriage. Eighteen months, technically, to be safe. We live here, we do all the legal bits. Then we file for annulment, or divorce, or whatever keeps it clean. No... weird stuff. Just paperwork.”

You stare at him. He rushes on.

“In return, I’ll wire you 10% of my racing salary during the term. That’s around 230,000 euros. And 5% annually for five years after. You can use it however you want. To keep Chez Colette open. Renovate. Hire help. Buy better wine. I don’t care.”

You say nothing. The silence stretches. A bird flutters past the awning. Oscar rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not asking for a real marriage. Just a legal one,” he manages. “You’ve seen how hard it is for people like me to get a foothold here. I’ve driven Monaco more times than I’ve driven my home streets. I want to stay. I just... can’t do it alone.”

You look at the contract, then back at him. “You typed up a prenup for a fake marriage?”

“Technically it’s a postnup,” he mutters, half to himself.

Something in your face shifts. Not quite a smile. But not a no, either. “You’re serious,” you say, scanning his face for any hint of doubt.

“I really am.”

You shake your head, understandably overwhelmed and disbelieving that this acquaintance had plucked you out of nowhere for his grand citizenship scheme. “Give me a few days. I need to think.”

Oscar nods. He doesn’t push. He just hands you the envelope and steps back into the fading light of Rue Grimaldi.

Two days later, you tell him to come over once again. You give him a specific time.

The restaurant is closed again, but this time it’s by design—chairs down, kettle on, one ceramic pot of lavender still bravely holding on near the window. The table between you is small. A two-seater wedged against the wall beneath a sepia photo of Grace Kelly.

Oscar sits across from you, spine a little too straight, as if you’re about to interrogate him in a language he doesn’t speak. You’re reading the contract like it’s the terms of his parole.

“Alright,” you say, flipping the page with a deliberate rustle. “Ground rules.”

He nods, trying not to look as if he’s bracing for impact.

“One: I’m not changing my last name.”

“Didn’t expect you to,” Oscar says.

“Two: no pet names in public. No ‘darling,’ no ‘chérie,’ and absolutely no ‘babe.’”

He makes a face. “I don’t think I’ve ever said ‘babe’ in my life.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

You tap the next section of the contract. “Three: no sharing a bed. We alternate who gets the apartment when the press is nosy, but I don’t care how Monégasque the walls are. We are not reenacting a romcom.”

“I like my own space.”

“Four,” you continue, now fully warmed up, “if I find out you’ve got a girlfriend in another country who thinks this is all some hilarious prank, I will go on record. Publicly. With—how do you say?—receipts.”

Oscar’s eyes widen, then he laughs. He can’t help it. You’re glaring, but it only makes him grin harder. “There is no secret girlfriend,” he assures, still smiling. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

You study him a second longer. He meets your gaze. Not in a cold way. More like someone trying very hard to be worthy of trust.

“Alright,” you murmur, sitting back. “We have only one problem.”

“Do we?”

“This.” You gesture vaguely between the contract, the table, and him. “This is very convincing on paper. But people will ask questions. My grandmother will ask questions.”

“I figured as much,” Oscar says, drawing a breath. “Which is why we’ll need to... date. First.”

“Date,” you say, testing the word out on. Your nose scrunches up a bit. Cute, Oscar thinks, and then he crashes the thought into the wall of his mind so he nevers thinks it again.

“Publicly. Casually. Just enough to sell the story,” he explains. “Lunches, walks, one trip to the paddock maybe. Something the media can sink its teeth into. I’ll—I’ll pay for that, too.”

“You’re telling me I have to pretend to fall in love with you,” you say skeptically.

Oscar’s smile tilts. “Not fall in love. Just look like you could.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then you drop your head into your hands, laughing once—sharp and disbelieving. “Dieu m’aide,” you mumble into your palms. “Fine. One year. No pet names. Separate beds. And if you make me wear matching outfits, I walk.”

Oscar’s heart soars. “Deal,” he says, sealing it before you can back out.

He reaches out to shake on it.

You hesitate. Then take his hand.

And just like that, you’re engaged.

A photo of Oscar with a takeaway bag from your restaurant makes the rounds on a gossip account. The caption reads, Local Hero or Just Hungry? Piastri Spotted Again at Chez Colette. He doesn’t comment.

Then, a week later, he’s asked on a podcast what he does on his days off in Monaco. He shrugs, smiles, and says, “There’s this little place down on Rue Grimaldi. Family-owned. Best tapenade in the world.”

The host jokes, “That’s oddly specific.”

Oscar just sips his water. “So’s my palate.”

After that, things move faster. A video of you two walking along the harbor—him carrying two ice creams, you stealing bites from both—ends up in a fan edit with sparkles and French love songs. Then someone snaps a blurry photo of you adjusting his collar before a press event. The caption: Yo, Oscar Piastri can pull????????

He never confirms. Never denies. Just keeps showing up like it’s natural. He opens doors. He holds your bag when you need to tie your shoe. He stands a little too close when you’re waiting in line. The story builds itself.

Until one night, a photo leaks.

It’s at the back entrance of the restaurant, late, after a pretend-date that turned into real laughter and too much wine. You’re saying goodbye. He kisses you—cheek first, then temple, then, finally, the crown of your hair.

That’s the money shot. Oscar, his lips pressed atop your head; you, with your eyes closed. Turns out both of you are pretty good actors.

The internet implodes.

Lando calls the next morning.

“Mate.”

Oscar winces. “Hey.”

“You’re dating?” Lando sounds honest-to-goodness betrayed. Oscar almost feels bad.

The Australian squints at the espresso machine like it might save him. “Technically, yes.”

“You didn’t think to mention that?”

“I was enjoying the privacy,” he deadpans.

Lando hangs up. Oscar makes a mental note to apologize when they see each other next at MTC. For now, though, he has more pressing matters to handle. One he discusses with you while he’s helping you close up shop.

Oscar nudges you gently. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh no.”

“I need to use a pet name.”

You whip your head toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“Hear me out. It’s weird if I call you ‘hey’ in interviews. People are starting to notice. One. Just one.”

You narrow your eyes. “Like what?”

He clears his throat, adopting a dramatic air. “Darling.”

You shake your head. “Too Downton Abbey.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Too American.”

“Snugglebug?”

You stare.

“That was a test,” he says defensively.

“Try again.”

He considers. “Just��my future wife, then.”

You look away—too quickly. He sees it. The flicker. The way your lips twitch before you hide them.

“My future wife, then,” he says, sounding too smug for his own good.

You don’t say it back, don’t promise to call him your future husband. It’s alright. As it is, he has a couple more hurdles before he can even get to the wedding bells part of this arrangement.

Oscar has faced plenty of terrifying things in life: Eau Rouge in the rain, contract negotiations, Lando in a mood. None of them compare to this. Your grandmother’s dining room, cramped and full of porcelain saints.

He’s painfully aware of the scratchy linen napkin on his lap, the heavy scent of cedarwood and amber in the air. The wallpaper is floral. The lighting is... judgmental. And across from him, your grandmother—petite, sharp-eyed, hair in an immaculate bun—regards him like a fraudulent soufflé.

You sit between Oscar and her, valiantly attempting to translate. The infamous Colette says something sharp and direct in French.

You smile saccharinely sweetly at Oscar. “She wants to know if you have real intentions.”

Oscar clears his throat. “Tell her yes. Tell her I think you’re… remarkable.”

You raise an eyebrow but translate. Your grandmother hums noncommittally, eyes narrowing just a touch. Then she asks another question. You translate again. “She wants to know what you like about me.”

Oscar panics. “Tell her you’re bossy.”

You give him a look.

“In a good way! I like that you tell me what to do. It’s grounding,” he backtracks. “And that you don’t laugh at my French, at least not out loud. And that you know exactly what you want and refuse to settle for less.”

Shaking your head, you deliver the words in French. Oscar has no way to know if it’s verbatim or if you’re somehow making him sound better. Regardless, your next translated words hold true. “She says she still doesn’t trust you,” you say wryly.

“Fair,” he says.

The meal continues. Your grandmother asks about his family, his racing, what he eats before a Grand Prix. You relay each question in English, Oscar doing his best to keep up, alternating between charming and catastrophic. He drops his fork once. He mispronounces aubergine. You have to explain what Vegemite is, and it nearly causes an incident.

Finally, somewhere between the cheese course and dessert, he reaches for your hand. It surprises both of you, the way his fingers find yours without fanfare.

Your grandmother notices. She watches for a long second, then exhales through her nose. Her next words don’t sound as cutting. You murmur, translating, “She says she’ll be keeping an eye on us.”

Oscar nods solemnly.

Outside, later, as the night air cools your flushed cheeks, he lets out a breath like he's crossed the finish line. “Think she’d be open to babysitting the fake kids one day?” he asks ruefully.

You laugh. Hard.

He’ll take it, he decides.

The season starts. You stay in touch. Oscar shows up at the restaurant after three months on the dot, still smelling faintly of champagne and podium spray. “I bought the trophy,” he announces, holding it out like a peace offering.

You stare at the intricate cup accorded to him for crossing the finish line first, then at him. “You think I want a trophy in exchange for emotional labor?”

“I also brought you a pastry,” he adds, brandishing a delicate tarte tropézienne.

You take the pastry.

He follows you inside, slipping into your usual booth in the back, where the sound of the espresso machine muffles any chance of a quiet moment. You sit across from him, pulling your apron over your lap like a barrier.

“So,” he begins. “We should probably talk about... the proposal.”

“You’re really not wasting time,” you chuckle.

“We’ve got a timeline. Press, citizenship, nosy neighbors. I have to make it look like I can’t bear to be without you.”

You snort. “That’ll be a performance.”

He grins. “Oscar-worthy.”

You try not to smile at his joke. “What do you even envision? You just collapsing in the paddock and screaming that you must marry me immediately?”

“That was my backup plan.”

You sip your coffee, watching him over the rim. “And what would be the first plan?”

“Something classic. You’ll pretend to be surprised. I’ll get down on one knee. Ideally, there will be flowers, soft lighting, maybe a string quartet hiding behind a hedge.”

You shake your head. “Ridiculous.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want something like that?”

You hesitate. Just for a bit. “Fine,” you admit. “If it were real, I suppose I would want something simple. Something quiet. Not in front of a crowd. No flash mobs.”

“Noted. Absolutely no synchronized dancing.”

“And I’d want it to be somewhere that means something. Like... the dock near the market, maybe. Where my parents met. Just us. Some lights over the water. Nothing fancy.”

Oscar has gone quiet. It bleeds into the moment after you answer. You’re glaring at him heatlessly when you demand, “What?”

He shrugs, eyes a little soft. “Nothing. Just... You’re really easy to fall in love with when you talk like that.”

You roll your eyes, but the blush betrays you. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Should we make it the market dock, then? For the fake proposal.”

You open your mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. “Alright,” you concede, all the fight gone out of you. “But if you get a string quartet involved, I will throw you into the sea.”

“No promises,” says Oscar, even as he cracks the smallest of smiles.

Oscar FaceTimes his sisters on a Sunday morning, two hours before his second free practice session in Imola. He’s still in his race suit, hair slightly damp from the helmet, seated cross-legged on the floor of his motorhome like a boy about to beg for pocket money.

“Alright,” he says, flashing the camera a sheepish grin. “Before you say anything—I know it’s been a while. But I have news.”

Hattie appears first, her hair in rollers, holding a mug that says #1 Mum despite not having kids. Then Edie, still in bed, squinting at her phone like it betrayed her. Finally Mae joins from what appears to be a café, earbuds in, already suspicious.

“You’re not dying, are you?” Mae says apprehensively. “Because you have ‘soft launch of a terminal illness’ face.”

“No one’s dying” Oscar says exasperatedly. “I’m—okay, this is going to sound a bit mad, but I need you all to come to Monaco next weekend.”

A beat. Silence. A spoon clinks against ceramic.

“Oscar,” Edie says slowly, “if this is about the cat again—”

“No, no! I swear, it’s not about the cat. I’m—proposing.”

Three sets of eyebrows go up. Even Hattie lowers her mug.

“Is this the waitress?” Mae asks, frowning. “She’s real?”

Oscar lets out a heavy sigh. “Yes, she’s real. You’ve met her—at Chez Colette, remember? She works there. Thick accent. Quietly judges people with just her eyebrows.”

Recognition dawns slowly. “The waitress who told dad his wine palate was embarrassing?” Hattie says, remembering the one and only time Oscar had taken them to the restaurant, post-race. Back when it was just a place for good food and not ground zero for a marriage of convenience.

“The very one,” he says.

“I liked her,” Edie says. “Sharp. Didn’t laugh at your jokes.”

“So what’s the rush?” Mae’s eyes are narrowed. “You’re not the spontaneous type.”

Oscar hesitates. There’s a script he wrote for this exact moment, but it crumbles like a napkin in his hands. He tries the truth, or at least a gentle version of it. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what matters,” he says. “About building something. And... Monaco’s home now, in a weird way. But it’s not really home without her.”

It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole story.

There’s a pause, then Hattie sniffs and says, “Well, if this is how I find out I need a bridesmaid dress, I expect champagne.”

“I want seafood at the rehearsal dinner,” Edie adds.

“And we need a proper girl’s day with our sister-in-law-to-be,” Mae mutters, smiling despite herself.

Oscar grins, relief warm and fizzy in his chest.

“So you’ll come?”

“Of course we’ll come,” they say in near-unison.

The screen glitches for a moment, freezing them mid-laughter. Oscar watches their pixelated faces and thinks, oddly, that maybe this fake proposal has a bit too much heart in it already.

They fly in. His parents, too. The local press catch wind of it; rumors fly, but he says nothing. He’s too busy watching proposals on YouTube and figuring out how to make this halfway convincing.

On the day, Oscar finds that the dock near the market smells like sea salt and overripe citrus. The string of lights overhead flicker like they know what’s about to happen. Oscar stands at the edge, jacket wrinkled, hair wind-tossed, a paper bag tucked under one arm like he’s hiding pastries or nerves.

You arrive five minutes late. On purpose. He doesn’t look up right away, too focused on adjusting something in the bag. When he does glance up, there’s a boyish flush in his cheeks like he’s trying very hard not to bolt.

“You’re early,” you tease.

“I’m punctual,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

You walk toward him slowly, letting the moment settle like dust in warm air. Behind the crates of tomatoes and shutters of the market stalls, there’s the faintest sound of movement—your grandmother, probably, crouched next to a box of sardines with Oscar’s sisters stacked like dolls behind her. His parents, also trying to be discreet as they film the proposal on their phones. All of them out of earshot.

Oscar clears his throat. “So,” he says. “I was going to start with a speech. But I practiced it in the mirror and it sounded like I was reciting tyre strategy.”

You fold your arms. "Now I’m intrigued."

Oscar pulls the ring out of the paper bag like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a simple one. No halo, no flash. Just a slim gold band and a small stone, found with the help of a very patient assistant and a very anxious jeweler.

“I know it’s not real,” he says. “But I still wanted to ask properly. Because you deserve that. And because, if I’m going to lie to the world, I want to at least mean every word I say to you.”

He kneels. One knee on the old dock planks, the other wobbling slightly.

You try not to smile too much. You fail.

He looks up. Cheeks flaming, eyes glinting. “Will you marry me, mon amour? For taxes, for residency, and the longevity of Monaco’s local cuisine?”

You take the ring. Slide it on. It fits like something inevitable. “Yes," you say softly, amusedly. “But only if you promise to do the dishes when this all goes sideways.”

He laughs, rises, pulls you into him like he’s trying to remember the shape of this moment for later. The lights flicker above you, the market quiet except for the faint sound of someone muffling a sneeze behind a barrel of oranges. You lean in, mouth near his ear.

“There’s nothing more Monégasque than what I’m about to do.”

Oscar pulls back. “What does that—”

You grab his hand and hurl both of you off the dock.

The splash echoes into the cove, loud and wild and full of salt. Somewhere behind you, your grandmother cackles. One of Oscar’s sisters screams. The sea wraps around you both like an exclamation point.

He surfaces first, sputtering. “I didn’t even bring a string quartet!”

You shrug, treading water, the ring catching the last of the sunset. “Welcome to the Principality, monsieur Piastri.”

Somewhere above, the dock creaks and the lights swing, and a family of co-conspirators starts clapping. The water tastes like the beginning of something strange and maybe wonderful. Monaco, at last, lets him in.

One blurry photo on Instagram is all it takes.

Oscar, soaked to the knees, hair flattened to his forehead, grinning like someone who’s just robbed a patisserie and gotten away with it.

You’re next to him, clutching a towel and wearing an expression that hovers somewhere between incredulity and affection. The ring—small, elegant, unmistakable—catches the light just enough.

His caption is a single word: Oui.

It takes approximately four minutes for the drivers’ WeChat to implode.

Lando is the first to respond: mate MATE tell me this isn’t a prank.

Then Charles: Is that my fucking neighbor????

Followed by George: This is either extremely romantic or deeply strategic. Possibly both.

Fernando simply replies with a sunglasses emoji and the words: classic.

The media goes feral. Engagement! Surprise dock proposal! The Chez Colette Heiress™! There’s already a Buzzfeed article ranking the most Monégasque elements of the proposal (you jumping into the sea is #1, narrowly edging out the string lights). Someone tweets an AI-generated wedding invite. The official F1 social media releases a supportive statement.

By Thursday’s press conference, Oscar has a halo of smug serenity around him. He had fielded questions all morning, deflecting citizenship implications with the precision of a man who’s done thirty rounds with the Monégasque bureaucracy and lost each time.

Lando, seated beside him, nudges his elbow.

“So,” he says into the mic. “Do we call you Mr. Colette now, or…?”

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Only on the weekdays.”

A ripple of laughter. Cameras flash. “I’m just saying,” Lando continues, faux-serious, “first you get engaged, next thing you know, you’re organizing floral arrangements and crying over table linens.”

“I’ll have you know,” Oscar replies, “the table linens are your problem. You’re best man.”

“Wait, what?”

But Oscar’s already looking past the cameras, past the questions, to the text you sent him that morning: full house again tonight. your trophy is in the pastry case. i put a flower in it. don’t be late.

He shrugs at the next question—something about motives, politics, tax brackets. All he says is, “Chez Colette’s never been busier. She looks beautiful with that ring. I’m winning races. Life’s good.”

And for once, no one argues. (Except Lando, who mutters, “Still can’t believe you beat me to a wife.”)

But then the hate makes its way through the haze. A comment here. A message there. Oscar doesn’t find out until much later, but you supposedly ignored them at first. The usual brand of online cruelty wrapped in emojis and entitlement. It curdled, slow and rancid, like spoiled milk beneath sunshine.

DMs filled with accusations. Gold digger, fame-chaser, fraud. A journalist who called the restaurant pretending to be a customer, asking if it’s true you forged documents. The restaurant landline, unplugged after the fourth prank call.

By the end of the week, someone mails a dead fish to Chez Colette. Wrapped in butcher paper. No return address. A note tucked inside reads: Go back to the shadows.

You find it funny. Morbidly, anyway. You show it to your grandmother like a joke, like something distant and absurd. She doesn’t laugh.

Oscar doesn’t either.

He hears about it secondhand—Lando lets it slip, offhandedly, after qualifying. Something about the restaurant and a very unfortunate cod. He chuckles at first, caught off guard, then notices the way Lando avoids his gaze.

He texts you that same afternoon. what’s this about a fish?

You send back a shrug emoji. He calls you. You don’t pick up.

The silence between you is short and volatile. He digs. He finds out. He walks into the kitchen after hours, sleeves rolled, still in his race gear. “You should’ve told me.”

You’re wiping down the bar with the same rag you always use when you’re pretending you’re fine. “It’s not your problem.”

His jaw ticks. He’s too still. That particular quiet you’ve only seen once. After a bad race, helmet still in his lap, staring out at nothing, eyes unblinking. “It is my problem,” he says, voice low, tight. “We did this together.”

“We faked this together,” you correct, sharper than you meant.

“Don’t split hairs with me right now.”

You glance up. There’s a glint in his eye Not anger, exactly. Something colder. Something surgical. Protective. That night, he drafts the statement himself. It’s short. No PR filters. No fluffy team language. No committee approval.

If you think I’d fake a proposal for a passport, you don’t know me. If you think insulting someone I care about makes you a fan, you’re wrong. Leave her alone.

He posts it without warning. No team heads-up. No brand consultation.

The fallout is immediate. And loud. Some applaud him—brave, romantic, principled. Others double down, clawing at conspiracy theories like they hold inheritance rights. But the worst voices get quieter. The dead fish don’t return. You stop sleeping with your phone on airplane mode.

A few sponsors call to ‘express concern.’ He answers them all personally. Later, again in the restaurant kitchen, he leans against the counter while you wash greens, trying to act like it didn’t cost him anything to do what he did. Like it didn’t make something shift between you.

“Don’t read into it,” he says, picking at the label of a pickle jar with too much focus. “I just didn’t want our story to tank before I get my tax break.”

You don’t look at him. He shifts, awkward. Adds, “And... I guess we're friends now. Loosely.”

You pass him a colander without comment. He holds it as if it’s evidence in a case he’s trying to solve. “Still not reading into it,” you say, finally, absolving him and thanking him all at once.

“Good.”

When you turn away, he watches you a little too long. And when you laugh—just barely, just once—he lets himself smile back.

The restaurant is full, as always. Someone just ordered two servings of pissaladière and asked if the newly engaged couple is around tonight.

Your grandmother rolls her eyes and tells them, in her stern, stilted English, “Only if you behave.”

The wedding planning happens in the margins. Between races, between airports, between whatever strange reality the two of you have created and the one that exists on paper. Oscar reads menu options off his phone in airport lounges. You text him photos of flower arrangements with captions like Too romantic? and Is eucalyptus overdone?

Neither of you want something extravagant. The more believable it is, the smaller it needs to be. Just close family. A quiet ceremony. A reception in the restaurant, chairs pushed aside, candles on the table. You call it a micro-wedding. Oscar calls it a tax deduction with canapés.

Still, some things have to be done properly. Rings. A few photos. Legal documents with very real signatures. He misses most of it, but you keep him looped in with texts and the occasional FaceTime call, grainy and too short. It’s always night where one of you is.

On one of his rare trips back to Monaco, he stops by the restaurant to say hello. Your grandmother tells him through gestures that you’re at a fitting two blocks away. He finds the boutique mostly by accident. Sunlight catching on the display window, the bell chiming softly as he pushes the door open.

You’re on the pedestal, the back of the dress being pinned by a seamstress. Simple silk, off-white, the kind of dress that wouldn’t raise eyebrows in a civil hall or turn heads on a red carpet. Your hair is pinned up, loose and a little messy.

Still, he freezes.

You catch his reflection in the mirror and gasp. “Oscar!” you yelp, spinning to look at him. “It’s bad luck to see the dress!”

He blinks, caught. “It’s not a real wedding,” he huffs.

You squint at him. “Still. Don’t ruin my fake dreams.”

He steps further in, slow, like he’s not sure what rules he’s breaking. “So that’s the one?”

You shrug, turning a little in the mirror. "It’s simple. Comfortable. Feels like me."

He nods, too fast. “It’s nice. You look…”

You wait.

He swallows. “Very believable.”

“High praise.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, eyes still on the mirror, or maybe just on you. There’s a feeling crawling up his throat, unfamiliar and slightly inconvenient. “I should go,” he says. “Let you finish.”

“You came all this way. Stay. I want your opinion on shoes.”

“Right, because I am famously qualified to judge footwear.”

And so he sits, cross-legged in a velvet chair that probably costs more than a front wing, and watches you try on shoes, one pair at a time. You argue over ivory versus cream. You make him close his eyes and guess.

He doesn’t say much, but he files it all away. The way you wrinkle your nose at kitten heels, how you giggle when a buckle gets stuck, how you mutter something in French under your breath when the seamstress stabs your hip with a pin.

He doesn’t understand why his chest feels tight. But he doesn’t question it, either.

The day of the wedding arrives like a postcard. Sun-drenched, breeze-cooled, the sea winking blue behind the low stone wall where the ceremony is set up. Your grandmother insists on arranging the chairs herself. Oscar offers to help and is swiftly redirected to stay out of the way.

Chez Colette is shuttered for the day, but still smells like rosemary and flour. The reception will spill into the alley behind it, where the cobblestones have been hosed down and scattered with mismatched café tables, each with a little glass jar of fresh-cut herbs.

For now, the courtyard near the water has been transformed with folding chairs, borrowed hydrangeas, and a string quartet (at Oscar’s insistence and your distaste) made up of one of your cousins and her friends from the conservatory. They play Debussy with just enough off-tempo charm to feel homemade.

Oscar stands at the front, hands shoved into his pockets, tie slightly crooked despite Lando’s earlier attempts to straighten it. His shoes pinch slightly. He’s convinced his shirt collar is a size too small. Lando is beside him, fidgeting like he’s the one about to get married.

“You good?” Lando whispers, leaning in just enough.

“No.”

“Perfect.”

Oscar smooths the paper in his pocket for the eighth—no, ninth—time. It’s creased and slightly smudged from nerves and a morning espresso. He didn’t memorize his vows. He barely even finished them. But they’re his, and he wrote them himself. With some help from Google Translate and an aggressively kind old woman on the flight to Nice.

Guests trickle in like sunlight. Your friends in summer dresses and linen suits, their laughter lilting in the sea air. His family, sunburned from the beach, trying to look formal but cheerful. Hattie gives him a thumbs-up. Edie mouths, Don’t faint. Mae just grins and adjusts the flower crown someone handed her.

Then you walk in.

And the world does that annoying thing where it goes quiet and dramatic, like a movie scene he wouldn’t believe if he were watching it himself. You wear the simple dress. Ivory, sleeveless, the hem brushing your ankles. Your hair is down this time, soft around your shoulders. You have a hand wrapped around your grandmother’s arm, and your smile is the kind that turns corners into homes.

Oscar forgets what to do with his face.

The ceremony begins. The officiant says words Oscar doesn't register. Lando keeps elbowing Oscar at appropriate times to remind him to nod, and once to stop picking at the hem of his jacket.

You go first, when the vows come. Your voice is steady, low, threaded with amusement and something else. Something real. You say his name like it matters. Like it might keep meaning more with every time you say it.

You make promises that are half-jokes, half truths. To tolerate his road rage on normal roads. To always keep a tarte tropézienne in the freezer for emergencies. To have him; sickness and health, Australian and Monégasque.

His turn.

He pulls the paper from his pocket. Unfolds it like it might disintegrate. Clears his throat. Glances at you.

“Je... je promets de te supporter,” he begins, awkwardly, his accent thick and uneven. “Même quand tu laisses la lumière de la salle de bain allumée.”

There are chuckles. His sisters blow into handkerchiefs. A pigeon flutters past like it, too, is here for the drama. He stumbles through the rest.

Promises to make you coffee badly but consistently. To bring you pastries when you're angry with him. To never again get a string quartet without written approval. He throws in a line about sharing his last fry, even if it's the crispy end piece.

Halfway through, he glances up. And sees it. The shimmer in your eyes. The not-quite-contained tears that threaten to spill. It knocks the air out of him.

By the time the officiant is saying, And now, by the power vested in me—, Oscar doesn’t wait.

He leans forward and kisses you, hands framing your face like he can catch every single tear before it falls. His thumb brushes the edge of your cheekbone. It’s not rehearsed, but it’s right. You melt forward, like the kiss was always part of the plan.

The crowd cheers. Your grandmother sniffs like she always knew it would come to this. One of your cousins whistles. Lando punches the air with both fists.

The reception begins in the cobbled alley behind Chez Colette, strung with borrowed fairy lights and paper lanterns swaying in the breeze. The scent of rosemary focaccia and grilled sardines fills the air, mingling with the crisp pop of celebratory champagne.

Someone’s rigged an old speaker system to loop a playlist of jazz and golden-age love songs, occasionally interrupted by the soft hiss of the espresso machine still running inside. Your grandmother commands the kitchen like a general, spooning barbajuan into chipped bowls and muttering under her breath in rapid-fire Monégasque.

The courtyard buzzes with the kind of warmth that can’t be choreographed. Oscar’s sisters are deep in conversation with your friends, comparing childhood embarrassments. Mae pulls up a photo of Oscar in a kangaroo costume at age six and your side of the table erupts in delighted horror. One of your cousins has started a limoncello drinking contest beside the dessert table.

Lando, never one to be left out, sidles up to one of your bridesmaid cousins and introduces himself with a wink and a terribly accented “Enchanté.” She laughs in his face, but doesn’t walk away.

The music shifts from upbeat to something softer, slower. Oscar’s mother pulls him onto the floor for their dance. He resists at first, shy in the way only sons can be, but she hushes him gently and holds him like she did when he was five and fell asleep in the backseat of the family car.

They sway to the music, and halfway through, she wipes at her eyes and whispers something that makes Oscar nod too quickly and look away, blinking hard.

Later, it’s your turn. He finds you near the edge of the alley, holding a half-eaten piece of pissaladière, watching the lights flicker across the windows and the harbor beyond. There’s flour on your wrist and a tiny smear of anchovy oil on your collarbone.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand.

You smile, place your hand in his, and let him pull you in. The music lilts, old and romantic, like something out of your grandmother's record player. You move together in small steps, barely more than a sway, but it’s enough. “A year and a half starts now,” you murmur, eyes on his shoulder.

He hums. “We’ll manage.”

You let out a breath, equal parts hope and hesitation. “Still feels like we’re tempting fate.”

He leans closer, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Then maybe we should tempt it properly.”

You look up at him, the warning written all over your face. But he’s already grinning like he’s fifteen again, mischief blooming across his face. “You said you wanted something Monégasque,” he hums.

“Don’t you dare—”

He scoops you up before you can finish, and you yelp, arms flailing around his neck.

“Oscar Piastri, I swear—”

“Too late!”

He runs. Through the alley, past your grandmother shouting something scandalized in, past Lando who drops his glass and whoops, past chairs and flower petals and startled guests, and straight for the harbor.

The water meets you like a shock of laughter and salt, the world disappearing in a splash and a blur of white fabric and suit sleeves. When you surface, gasping, your hair clinging to your cheeks, Oscar is beside you, beaming, his jacket floating nearby like a shipwrecked flag. “Revenge,” he says, breathless, “is so damn sweet out here.”

You splash him, teeth chattering and smile unstoppable. “You are insane.”

“Takes one to marry one.”

On the dock, guests are cheering, others filming, your grandmother shaking her head with a tiny smile and muttering something about theatrical Australians. The string quartet starts playing again, undeterred. Lando appears holding two towels like a game show assistant and shouts, “You better not be honeymooning in the marina!”

Oscar swims closer, hands catching yours underwater. “You know,” he says, nose almost touching yours, “you never did say I do.”

You kiss him. Soft and sure and salt-slicked. “That count?” you murmur against his lips.

He laughs. “Yeah. That counts.”

Beneath the twinkle lights and the ripple of music, the harbor keeps your secret, just for a little while longer.

The headlines arrive before the sun does.

Oscar sees them on his phone somewhere over the Atlantic, legs stretched across the aisle, wedding band catching in the reading light. The screen glows with speculation: Secretly Expecting?, Tax Trick or True Love?, From Waitress to Wifey: The Curious Case of Monaco's Newest Bride.

He scrolls past them all, thumb steady, face unreadable. The truth was never going to be enough for people, he knew that. It didn’t matter that your grandmother cooked the wedding dinner herself or that your bouquet had been made of market stall leftovers and rosemary from the alley. It didn’t matter that Oscar’s mother cried during the ceremony or that you whispered something to him under your breath right before the kiss that made his heart knock painfully against his ribs.

None of that sells as well as scandal. In interviews, he dodges the worst of it with practiced ease. “It was a beautiful day,” he says, and “She looked stunning,” and “No, I’m not changing teams.”

Lando, naturally, finds every headline he can and reads them aloud in the paddock. “‘She’s either carrying his child or his offshore holdings,’” Lando recites dramatically, leaning back in a folding chair, grin wide.

Oscar rolls his eyes. “You’re just jealous you didn’t get invited to the harbor plunge.”

“Mate, you threw your bride into the sea.”

“She started it.”

The grid has a field day. Drivers he’s barely spoken to before raise their eyebrows and offer sly congratulations. Someone leaves a baby bottle in his locker with a bow. Social media eats it up and spits it back out, pixelated and sharp-edged.

But he tunes most of it out. Especially when it turns nasty. He has a team for that now. Official statements, social monitoring, the occasional DM deleted before he can see it. Still, he keeps an eye on the worst of it. Makes sure nothing slips through. Nothing that might reach you.

He lands in Monaco two weeks later with sleep in his eyes and a croissant in a paper bag. He stops by the restaurant like he always does and finds you at the register, wrist turned just so. The ring glints beside the band. Matching his. “You’re wearing it,” he says dazedly.

“We’re married.”

He shrugs, hiding a smile. “Feels weird.”

“That’s because it’s fake.”

“Still,” he says, tapping his own ring against the counter. “Looks good on you.”

You roll your eyes and hand him a plate. “Compliment me less. Pay for lunch more.”

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking: that your laugh sounds like music, that the lie is starting to feel like it’s been sandpapered into something real and delicate. Instead, he sits in the booth by the window, watching you refill the salt shakers, and thinks—the world can say what it wants.

You know the truth, and so does he.

The week of the Monaco Grand Prix dawns bright and impossibly blue. The streets of the Principality shimmer under the sun, fences rising overnight like scaffolding for a play the city has performed a thousand times. Everything smells faintly of sea salt and fuel, and by mid-morning, the air is alive with the buzz of anticipation and finely tuned engines echoing off marble walls. But this year, the script reads a little differently.

Oscar Piastri is not just another driver on the grid.

The press reminds him of it daily, with a barrage of questions and not-so-subtle headlines. There’s always been one Monégasque darling. Now there’s the new almost-Monégasque.

A man with a newly minted Monégasque wife, a wedding video that’s gone viral twice, and a story that seems too picturesque not to speculate on. Is it for love? For tax benefits? For strategic branding? The opinions come loud and fast, and Oscar finds himself blinking under the weight of it.

He fields the questions with a practiced smile. “No, I’m not replacing Charles. No, I don’t think that’s possible. Yes, Monaco means something different to me now.”

They ask about pressure. About performance. About legacy. He says all the right things. But in the quiet of the restaurant kitchen, where you’re prepping tarragon chicken for your grandmother and your hands smell like thyme, he confesses: “I feel like I might throw up.”

You look up from your chopping board. “That’s not ideal. Especially not in my kitchen.”

He slumps into the stool near the flour bin, the one that squeaks when someone shifts too much weight on it. He rubs his temples, his posture more boy than racer. “It’s just—this place. This race. You. The whole country’s looking at me like I’m trying to steal something.”

You cross to him, wiping your hands on a faded dish towel. The kind with embroidered lemons curling at the hem. “You’re not stealing anything. You’re earning it,” you remind him. “Like you always do.”

He groans, slouching further. “You’re too good to me. I hate that.”

“You love it, actually.”

“That’s the problem.”

The morning of the race is electric. The sun spills golden light over the yachts and balconies, gilding the grandstands in a glow that feels almost unreal. The paddock is a blur of team radios and cameras, the air tight with nerves.

You find him just before the chaos begins. He’s already in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, the kind of laser-sharp focus on his face that tells you he’s trying to keep the noise at bay. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, just enough to give him away.

You touch his arm. “Oscar.”

He turns, eyes snapping to yours, and before he can speak, you rise on your toes and kiss him. Not a peck. Not performative. Just real. Your hands rest briefly on his waist. His helmet almost slips from his grip.

He blinks when you pull back. “What was that for?”

“Luck.”

“I don’t believe in luck.”

“No,” you say. “But I do.”

He grins then, a little sideways, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help it. He starts P3. Ends P1.

The crowd roars. The champagne flies. The Principality erupts in noise and color. From the podium, as gold confetti floats like sunlit snow and the Mediterranean glitters beneath the terrace, he lifts the bottle, sprays it with abandon—and then he points directly at you.

A clean, deliberate gesture.

When he finds you after the ceremonies, helmet gone, hair mussed, face flushed with sweat and triumph, he pulls you into his arms like he needs to anchor himself.

He presses his face into your shoulder, his voice muffled but sure. “You kissed me and I won Monaco. I don’t care what anyone says. I’m never letting you go.”

You laugh, and laugh, and laugh, and he lifts you off your feet just so you can feel it for a moment. What it feels like to win, and to soar because of it.

Your honeymoon is late. A stolen few days during the season break, tucked between sponsor obligations and simulator hours. But it’s enough.

Melbourne is crisp in the winter. Sky the color of chilled steel, air sharp with wattle blossoms. Oscar meets you at the airport with a bouquet of native flowers and the look of a man trying not to sprint.

He’s a different version of himself here. Looser, unspooled. Driving on the left like it’s second nature, narrating every corner you pass with stories from childhood. “That’s where I broke my wrist trying to skateboard. That’s the bakery Mum swears by. That field used to flood every winter—perfect for pretending to be Daniel Ricciardo.”

He takes you everywhere. Fitzroy cafés for flat whites and smashed avo on toast, laughing himself breathless when you wrinkle your nose at Vegemite. St. Kilda for long walks along the pier, the scent of salt and fried food curling around you like a scarf. Luna Park for nostalgia’s sake; he wins you a soft toy at one of the booths, the thing lopsided and overstuffed. You carry it anyway.

He insists on a ride on the Ferris wheel, and you sit in the slow-spinning cage, knees bumping, breath fogging the glass. He holds your hand the entire time, thumb grazing your knuckles.

He shows you his high school, points out the old tennis courts and the library he never quite liked. You joke that he peaked too early, and he grins, nudging your shoulder. “I'm still peaking. Haven’t you heard? Married a local princess.”

You eat fish and chips out of paper by the beach, ketchup on your fingers, your laughter carrying over the dunes. You splurge on a seven-course tasting menu with matching wines the next night.

He doesn’t bat an eye at the bill, just watches you sip the dessert wine like it's the best part of the whole trip. The waiter calls you madame and monsieur, and Oscar almost chokes on his amuse-bouche trying not to laugh.

One afternoon, you stop by a museum, wandering slowly between exhibits, your steps in sync. He buys you a ridiculous magnet in the gift shop and sticks it in your handbag without telling you. “A memento,” he says later, as if the entire trip isn’t becoming one already.

On the third night, after a movie and a tram ride that rocked you gently against his side, you end up in the small rented flat he insisted on decorating with local flowers and candles from a boutique shop in South Melbourne. He lights them all before you even step through the door. There’s soft jazz playing on a speaker, and a tiny box of pastries on the kitchen counter. He remembered you liked the lemon ones best.

You turn to him, laughing. “You know you don’t have to do any of this, right?”

His smile falters only a moment. “Yeah. I know.”

But that night, he kisses you like he forgot. Like the boundary lines have been redrawn in candlelight and warmth and the way your laughter fills up his chest.

Oscar, for all his planning and fake vows and clever PR angles, starts to think he doesn’t want to fake a single thing anymore. Not the way your hand fits in his. Not the way you snore just slightly when you’re too tired. Not the way you sigh his name in your sleep like it’s always been yours to say.

Six months into the marriage, Oscar finds it alarmingly easy.

There’s a rhythm now. Races and rest days, press conferences and pasta nights. He wires you money at the start of every month without being asked, a neat sum labeled restaurant support in the memo line, though he likes to pretend it’s something more casual, more romantic.

Sometimes he sends it with a picture. The menu scrawled in your grandmother’s handwriting. A photo of you wiping down the counter, hair tied up and apron on. A video where your voice is muffled under the clatter of pans. He tells himself he does it to keep the illusion going. That the marriage needs its props.

But the truth is, he just wants Chez Colette to survive. Wants your grandmother to keep slicing pissaladière with the same steady hands. Wants your laughter to keep floating through the narrow alleyway outside the kitchen window. Wants to be the reason the lights in the dining room never go out.

That part doesn’t feel fake at all.

In Singapore, the air is thick as molasses and twice as slow. Oscar starts P2. He ends up P4.

The move had been perfect. He was tailing Max, toes on the line, pressure in every nerve. Then the moment came and he hesitated. A flicker. A brake. Not even full pressure—just enough.

Max takes the win. And Oscar sits with it. Sits with the loss, the pause, the decision that shouldn’t have happened but did.

The press room is cold with fluorescent light and smugness. Oscar unzips his race suit halfway and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for the inevitable. His jaw is tight. His eyes sharper than usual. Max gets asked first. He smirks.

“I knew he’d brake. He’s got a wife now,” the Red Bull driver teases. “Has to think twice about these things.”

Laughter. Some loud. Some knowing. Some cruel. Oscar stares at the microphone in front of him like it personally offended him.

He leans into it slowly. “I think Max should keep my wife’s name out of his mouth.”

A beat of silence. Then chaos. Max laughs like it’s a joke. Oscar lets it sit that way. Doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t smile.

He keeps a straight face through the rest of the conference. But there’s something restless behind his eyes, something simmering. Later, the clip goes viral. Memes. Headlines. Polls ranking it as one of the most dramatic moments of the season.

Some people say he’s being possessive. Some say it’s adorable. Others speculate wildly. Pregnancy rumors, tension in the paddock, impending divorce. A few even suggest it’s all a publicity stunt.

Oscar ignores all of it.

He scrolls through his phone in the quiet of the hotel room, looking at a photo you sent that morning. You in a sundress. The restaurant in full swing behind you. A bowl of citrus glowing in the window light. The ring on your finger catching just enough sun to drive him insane.

He should’ve won today. He should be angry at himself. At the telemetry. At the choice he made in that split second.

Instead, he’s angry at Max. At the snickering tone. At the way your name came out of someone else’s mouth like it belonged to everyone but you. Like it was part of a joke he didn’t get to write.

It’s stupid. He knows it’s stupid. But he replays the moment again, the way the word wife sounded when he said it. Sharp, defensive, protective. Not fake. Not rehearsed.

Oscar doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s haunted by the braking point. But because he wonders, for the first time, if he lost the race on purpose. If he braked because the idea of not seeing you again felt worse than losing. If the risk he once lived for now had consequences he isn’t willing to stomach.

He’s never been afraid of risk.

But he’s starting to learn that love, real or pretend, rewrites the whole strategy. And somewhere along the line, he’s forgotten which parts were meant to be fake.

He falls asleep as the sun comes up, the photo still glowing on his phone screen, your smile seared into the darkness behind his eyelids.

Eight months in, Oscar begins to catalogue his realizations like a man trying to make sense of a soft fall. A slow descent he never noticed until the ground felt far away.

He returns to Monaco between races. You meet him outside the market, where the fruit vendors already call him Oscarino, and where the cobblestones wear your footsteps like a second skin.

He watches you point out the small things: the fig tree tucked behind the old chapel wall, the narrow stairwell with the best view of the harbor, the café that serves coffee just a shade too bitter unless you stir it five times.

“Why five?” he asks, half-smiling.

“No idea,” you say. “It’s just what my father used to do. It stuck.”

He nods like this is sacred knowledge. Like he’s been let in on a secret the rest of the world doesn’t deserve. And there it is—realization one: Monaco will never again be just Monaco. It’s you now. It’s the way you slip through alleys with familiarity, the way you greet the florist by name, the way your laughter belongs to the air here. It clings to the limestone. It softens the sea.

You show him the bookshop that sells more postcards than novels, the stone bench under the olive tree where your grandmother once waited for a boy who never came. You walk ahead sometimes, pointing out a new pastry shop or pausing to listen to street music, and Oscar lets himself trail behind, watching you like you’re the most intricate part of the landscape.

Realization two: it’s alarmingly easy to call you his wife.

He’s stopped hesitating when people say it. Stopped correcting journalists or clarifying the situation. It spills out naturally now, that possessive softness—my wife. Sometimes he says it just to see how it feels. Sometimes he says it because it’s easier than explaining how this all started. But lately, he’s saying it because it makes him feel something solid. Something like belonging.

“This is for my wife,” he says as he buys a box of pastries for the two of you, and he realizes nobody had even asked. He just wanted to say it, wanted to call you that.

At dusk, you both sit near the dock where he proposed. You split a lemon tart, the crust crumbling between your fingers. The lights blink to life along the harbor, flickering like a breath caught in your throat.

“You’re quiet,” you say, licking powdered sugar from your thumb.

He’s quiet because he’s on realization three: he’s in love with you.

Not in the way he warned you against. Not in the doomed, reckless way he once feared. But in the steady kind. The kind that snuck in during long nights on video calls, during your terrible attempt at learning tire strategy lingo, during the sleepy murmurs of your voice when you answered his call at two in the morning just to hear about qualifying.

You nudge his knee with yours. “What’s on your mind?”

He doesn’t say the truth. He doesn’t say you. Or everything. Or I think I’d do it all over again, even if it still ended as pretend.

Instead, he leans over and kisses you. Softly. Just for the sake of kissing you.

Oscar returns to racing with the kind of focus that borders on fear.

The panic builds up quietly, like the slow tightening of a race suit. Zip by zip, breath by breath, until his chest feels too small for his ribs. Every weekend brings new circuits, new stakes, new expectations. Somewhere beneath the roar of the engines, the hum of media questions, the blur of tarmac and hotel rooms, there is a ticking clock. A deadline for when papers have to be filed. He races away from it.

It starts simple: a missed call. Then another. A message from you—lighthearted, teasing, as always. Tell your wife if you’ve died, so she can tell the florist to cancel the sympathy lilies.

He sends a voice memo in response, tired and rushed. Laughs a little. Says he’s just busy. Promises he’ll call when he gets a moment. The moment doesn’t come.

You begin to write instead. Short texts. Then longer ones. Notes about the paperwork, your grandmother’s health, the weather in Monaco. You remind him, gently at first, that his declaration needs to be signed before the deadline. That the longer he waits, the more eyes you’ll have to avoid. You joke about bribing a notary with fougasse. He hearts the message but doesn’t reply.

And slowly, your tone shifts.

I know you’re busy, one message reads, plain and raw. But I haven’t properly heard from you in six weeks. Just say if you don’t want to do this anymore. I won’t make a scene.

He stares at it in the dark of his hotel room. He doesn’t respond that night. Or the next.

In interviews, he smiles too easily. Jokes with Lando. Brushes off questions about Monaco, about the wedding, about how it feels to be the Principality’s newest almost-citizen. He avoids looking at the ring he still wears.

He tells himself he’s doing the right thing. That this is the cleanest way to let go. That maybe, if he can finish the season strong, everything else will settle into place. But every time he checks his phone, and sees no new messages from you, something sharp twists under his ribs. And still, he doesn’t go back.

The Abu Dhabi heat wraps around the Yas Marina Circuit like silk clinging to skin. The sun is starting its slow descent over the water, dipping everything in that soft golden wash that photographers live for and drivers hardly notice. Oscar notices, because you’re there.

You’re standing just past the paddock entrance, sundress fluttering lightly at your knees, sunglasses perched high, arms crossed like you’re trying to look casual and failing, which is how he knows you didn’t tell him you were coming.

He stops in his tracks, sweat already drying on the back of his neck from the final practice run, and stares. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says unceremoniously.

“McLaren flew me in,” you reply with a little shrug. “Apparently, there are...rumors. Trouble in paradise.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Trouble manufactured by your absence, more like.”

You raise a brow, just enough for him to catch the sting tucked beneath the humor. “You’ve been making it hard to keep up the illusion.”

Oscar exhales, jaw tightening. He wants to say he knows, that he’s been unraveling with every missed call, every message he didn’t answer because it felt too close to the thing he couldn’t name. Instead, he just says, “I thought the distance would help.”

“It didn’t,” you say simply.

The silence between you stretches, broken only by the far-off roar of another car doing laps in the distance. One of the crew members brushes past, giving Oscar a brief nod, and then disappears into the garage. And then you add, voice softer, “It’s not like I need you to be in Monaco every weekend. But sometimes it felt like you didn’t want to be there at all.”

That lands harder than anything else. There’s tiredness under your eyes, tension in the way you hold your hands together. But you’re here. You flew thousands of miles for a pretend marriage that doesn’t feel so pretend anymore. That has to mean something.

Because of that, Oscar thinks the race is going to be a mess. He thinks he’s going to falter, distracted by the pressure to make the act believable, especially now with you in the crowd and the cameras already tracking every flicker of expression. He thinks he’s going to crash.

He doesn’t.

From the moment the lights go out, he’s more focused than he’s been all season. Every corner feels crisp. Every overtake, calculated. His hands are steady, his breathing even. He doesn’t look for you in the stands, but he feels you there. A gravity, steady and unseen. He drives like he wants to win for the both of you.

P1.

He finishes second overall in the standings. But in this moment, it feels like first in everything.

The pit explodes around him. Cheers, backslaps, mechanics tossing gloves in the air. Oscar climbs out of the car, champagne already being popped somewhere, the air sticky and electric. Helmet off, hair damp, grin tights.

He scans the crowd like he always does after a win, but this time he’s looking for someone. You’re pushing through the throng, one of the PR girls parting the sea for you with a practiced flick of her clipboard. You stumble once in your sandals, catch yourself with a laugh, and keep going. He doesn’t even wait. He surges forward, meets you halfway.

Oscar cups your face and kisses you, champagne and sweat and adrenaline on his lips. The cameras go wild. The crowd screams. Somewhere, someone yells his name like they know him. He doesn’t care.

He kisses you like he forgot how much he missed it, how much he missed you, how long it's been since something felt this real. The kiss isn’t perfect—your nose bumps his cheek, his thumb smears makeup from beneath your eye—but it doesn’t matter.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and breathless against your ear. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“Apparently, I did,” you grumble, already failing to sound irked. “You keep getting lost without me.”

He laughs, something quiet and incredulous. Then, he holds you tighter and buries his face in your neck for one private second before the next cameras flash.

Monaco in the off-season is softer, like the city exhales after the last race and slips into something comfortable. The streets smell of sea salt and early-morning bread. The market thins out, the water calms, and Oscar returns.

He doesn’t text that he’s coming. He just shows up at Chez Colette on a Tuesday morning, hoodie pulled over his hair, hands tucked into his pockets, like he’s trying to apologize just by existing.

Your grandmother spots him first. “Tu as pris ton temps,” she grouses, and swats his arm with a dishtowel. “Si tu la fais attendre plus longtemps, je te servirai ta colonne vertébrale sur un plateau.”

Oscar grins, sheepish, and mumbles, "Yes, Madame." He finds you in the back kitchen, sleeves rolled up, peeling potatoes like it’s a form of therapy. You don’t look up at first, but you know it’s him. You always know.

“You’re late,” you say noncommittally.

“I brought flowers,” he says, setting them down between the pepper and the oregano. “And an apology. And—a real estate agent.”

That catches your attention. “What?”

“You said the building has plumbing issues. And your grandmother keeps threatening to fall down the stairs,” he says meekly. “I figured we could find something close. Something that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by wishful thinking and rust.”

Your lips part. “Oscar—”

“We don’t have to move,” he adds quickly. “But I want you to have the option. I—I want to help. Not because of the contract. Because I care for you and the restaurant and your grandmother who wants to serve my spine on a platter for being a terrible husband.”

The silence that follows is thick but not heavy. He reaches out, gently prying the peeler from your hand, and brushes a thumb over your knuckles. “You taught me how to love this city,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

You kiss him before you can think about it. Softly. Slowly. Like you’re reminding yourself what it feels like.

The days that follow move in a familiar rhythm. Oscar doesn’t race. He wakes with you and helps with deliveries. He lets your grandmother teach him how to deglaze a pan, how to make stock from scratch, how to use leftover vegetables for the next day’s soup. He burns the onions twice, gets flour on the ceiling once, and swears he’s getting better. He insists on learning to make pissaladière from scratch and ruins three baking trays in the process. The kitchen smells of olives and chaos.

You share a toothbrush cup. You buy a little rug for the bathroom that he claims sheds more than a dog. He brings your grandmother to doctor’s appointments, even when you say he doesn’t have to. He learns where you keep your spices and starts recognizing people at the market.

He holds your hand under the table when no one’s looking. And sometimes, when no one’s around at all, he still kisses you like someone might see.

You try not to talk about the timeline. About the looming expiration date. About the day one of you will have to be the first to say it out loud. Instead, you let him tuck your hair behind your ear. You let him draw a smiley face in the steam of your mirror after a shower. You let him fold your laundry even though he does it wrong. You let him dance with you in the living room while something slow and old plays on the radio.

And when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter one evening, his mouth warm against yours, you don’t stop him.

The winter chill makes the cobblestones glisten; Monaco is always sort of a dream after midnight, all soft amber streetlights and the hush of waves echoing off stone. Your laughter fills the alleyways like a song no one else knows. Oscar is drunk. Absolutely, definitely drunk. And you are, too.

You’re both wrapped up in scarves and half-finished wine, weaving through the old town with flushed cheeks and noses red from the cold. Oscar’s coat is too big on you, or maybe you’re just small inside it, and every few steps you bump into his side like a boat tethered too close.

“Are you sure you know where we’re going?” you ask, tripping a little over a curb. You clutch his arm.

“Nope,” he chirps, tightening his grip around your shoulders. “But we’re not lost. We’re exploring.”

You grin up at him, and it hits him again—how stupidly beautiful you are. Not in the red carpet, glossy magazine kind of way. In the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and how you say his name like it means something. He’s pretty sure his heart’s been doing backflips since the second glass of wine.

You stop by a low stone wall that overlooks the port. The moon sits fat and silver on the horizon, and Oscar feels like the entire world has tilted slightly toward you. “Can I ask you something?” he says, leaning his elbows on the wall beside you.

You nod. Your breath comes in puffs of white.

“What do you know about love?”

“Hm,” you murmur, intoxicated and contemplating. “I know it is tricky. I know it doesn’t always feel like butterflies. Sometimes it’s just... showing up. Letting someone in. Letting them ruin your favorite mug and not holding it against them.”

He huffs a laugh. “That happened to you?”

“Twice,” you say. “Same mug. Different people.”

“Did you love them?”

You pause. “I think I loved the idea of them. The idea of being seen.”

Oscar looks down at his hands. He doesn’t know why he asked, or why he cares so much about your answer. Maybe because he’s been feeling like he’s standing on the edge of something enormous. Something irreversible.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him. “Any great romances, my dearest husband?”

“Not really,” he admits. “There were people. Nothing that lasted. I didn’t want to risk it.”

“Because of racing?”

“Because of everything,” he says. “Because I’m good at pretending. And it felt easier than trying.”

You nod slowly, then rest your head against his shoulder. It’s not flirtation. It’s not even comfort. It’s something else. Something steadier. Oscar swallows. His thoughts are a mess of wine and wonder. You, against his side. You, in his jacket. You, not asking him for anything except honesty.

This is love, he thinks.

Not the crash of the waves, not the fireworks. This. He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you closer. “Let’s get you home,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair.

You sigh, content. “You always say that like you’re not coming with me.”

And he smiles, because he is. Of course he is.

Morning comes, spilling into the bedroom like honey, slow and golden. Monaco hums faintly beyond Oscar wakes to the warmth of your body, the tangle of your leg thrown over his, your hair a soft mess against his chest. He doesn’t move.

There’s a stillness in the morning that doesn’t come often, not with his schedule, not with the pace of the season. But here, now, he lets it hold. This was the second rule you two had broken—realizing that a warm body was something you could both use, even if it wasn’t for the sake of making love. Just to have something to hold.

He remembers the wine from last night, the stumbling laughter, your hand in his as you leaned into his side. This is love, he had thought, drunk and shadowed by the bluish evening. It’s still love, he thinks now, sober and in the daylight.

His hand drifts along your spine, drawing lazy patterns only he can see. You shift slightly, nuzzling into him, the smallest sigh escaping your lips. You once said you liked how he spooned. It had been early on, somewhere between forced breakfasts and joint bank statements. It had made him feel stupidly triumphant.

He doesn’t want to get up. Doesn’t want to leave this bed. He wants to memorize the weight of you against him, the sound of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch in your sleep. But then his phone buzzes. The alarm is gentle, insistent. He reaches for it without moving too much, careful not to jostle you.

A calendar reminder glows on the screen.

ANNIVERSARY IN 1 WEEK. START CITIZENSHIP DECLARATION.

Oscar stares at it. The words feel like they belong to someone else. A script he memorized, not a life he lives. He dismisses it. HitsSsnooze like he’s defusing a bomb.

You stir, eyelids fluttering open just enough to glance at him. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” he lies, tucking the phone under his pillow.

You hum, unconvinced but too tired to push. He shifts, pulling you closer, curling his arm under your neck, bringing you closer the way you like. Your back fits into his chest like a missing piece. You sigh, warm and content. Within moments, you’re asleep again.

Oscar stays awake. He counts your breaths, anchors himself to the rise and fall of your shoulders. The bed is quiet, your dreams peaceful, but something aches behind his ribs.

One more week. He holds you tighter.

Just a little longer.

Oscar doesn’t mean to ruin a perfectly good afternoon, but the words are sitting like a stone in his chest. They jostle every time you laugh, every time you brush your fingers against his arm, every time you ask if he wants a sip of your drink, already holding the straw out for him.

You’re barefoot, perched on the ledge of the terrace, hair loose. There’s leftover risotto on the table between you and the scent of oranges from the orchard down the street. It should be enough. He should leave it alone. But he doesn’t, he can’t, because a contract is a contract and he refuses to shackle you more than he already has.

“What do you want to do for our anniversary?” he asks, voice low.

You go still. It’s not immediate, but he sees it. The flicker behind your eyes, the pause too long before you smile.

“We could do something small,” you say eventually, your voice gentler than before. “Dinner. Maybe at that place with the sea bass. You liked that one.”

He nods, forcing a smile. “I did.”

You twist the stem of your wine glass between your fingers. “And after that,” you say, “you can submit your declaration.”

There it is.

You say it like you’re reading from a recipe card. Like you’ve practiced in front of the mirror. Like you’re trying very hard to pretend your chest doesn’t hurt. Oscar doesn’t respond right away. He doesn’t trust himself to. You sip your wine, and he watches the way your hand trembles just slightly, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re trying to fold yourself smaller. Like you’re preparing.

“Okay,” he says, plain and simple.

You smile. You always do.

When he gets up to leave for the gym, you walk him to the door. It’s quiet. You stand on your toes to kiss his cheek, and he turns just enough to catch your lips instead. It happens without thought. Without ceremony. The way it always has.

He pulls back slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “I’ll see you tonight?”

You nod. “I’ll be here.”

But even as you say it, he can feel it. The detachment. The quiet retreat. You’re drawing the curtain in your head, beginning the soft choreography of letting go. Because this is how the plot was written. Because this is how it will go. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer.

He walks out into the afternoon sun, but it doesn’t feel like light. It feels like the slow fade-out of a film. One where the hero doesn’t get the timing right. One where love comes too late.

On the day of your wedding anniversary, Oscar wakes up early.

Monaco hums quietly beyond the window, still in the lull between morning coffee and the world waking up. He turns onto his side and watches you sleep, for a moment pretending today is just another morning. He tries not to think of it as a Last Good Day.

Still, he makes sure everything is perfect.

He picks out the white dress shirt you said made him look like someone in an Italian film. He even tries to iron it for once. He buys your favorite flowers and then arranges them in the living room vase. He lets you sleep in and makes coffee the way you like it, with a dash of cinnamon. The two of you eat breakfast on the tiny balcony, knees knocking gently beneath the table.

When you smile at him over the rim of your cup, he kisses you. Long, sweet, steady. Like he means it. Because he does.

He books a quiet table at the small bistro tucked into one of the back streets of the city, a place you once said reminded you of Paris. You laugh too loudly over wine, your hand finding his easily over the tablecloth. For a few hours, you let yourselves be the kind of couple you’ve always pretended to be.

Then, slowly, the shadows lengthen.

“Ready to go?” you ask, voice soft as the sun begins to set.

He swallows. “Not really.”

Still, you walk hand in hand down the cobbled streets. The mairie—the city hall—waits like an afterthought, a quiet door at the end of a narrow alley. Oscar detours.

“Gelato?” he offers.

You smile sadly. You know what he’s trying to do. “Before filing paperwork?”

“It’s tradition,” he lies. “One year deserves dessert.”

You let him. You always let him. You get gelato; he tastes one too many samples. He pretends to get lost as you walk through the market, even though Monaco is probably the easiest map to remember in the world. He takes you to the docks, just for a minute, just to watch the boats rock gently in the water. You lean into him, silent, warm, your head tucked beneath his chin. He feels you there, but something else, too. The soft press of reality.

“We should go,” you whisper eventually.

He nods, but doesn’t move.

“Five more minutes,” he says. “Please.”

You let him delay. And delay. And delay.

The moment you file the paperwork, the clock starts ticking in a new way. You’re both aware the curtain is about to fall, but no one wants to call out the final act. So you stay there, together. Not speaking. Just watching the harbor. Pretending it’s still the first day, and not the last good one.

But this is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.

You walk into the government building side by side. Oscar’s hand grazes the small of your back as the two of you wait at the numbered queue, the soft whir of the ticket printer, the low hum of bureaucratic silence filling the air.

He signs the papers for the Ordinary Residence Permit with an orange pen you handed him from your bag. You’ve always kept pens on you. He knows that now, like the many other things he’s come to know and love about you. You watch him scrawl his name, carefully, and when he finishes, he exhales through his nose like it took something out of him.

The official behind the desk looks at the documents, stamps them, hands them back with a nod. Oscar is granted residency. Carte Privilège and citizenship are now visible, shimmering just over the next hill.

Neither of you speaks of endings. Not yet.

You agree to drag it out a little more. Not for legal protection now, not even for optics, really. Just to ease the world into the conclusion. He wires you ten percent of every monthly deposit still, but it’s no longer transactional. It’s a quiet act of love, of investment. A stake in something that outlasted the farce.

Two years instead of one and a half. Long enough for the lines to blur beyond recognition.

He’s there when your grandmother needs surgery. You’re there when he misses the podium in Spa and sits, soaked in rain, on the garage floor.

The divorce happens on a random off-season day. A Tuesday, maybe. The restaurant is closed. Oscar wears a hoodie and sunglasses like he’s hiding, but the clerk doesn’t even look up to recognize him.

The two of you sign quietly. No rings on your fingers anymore, but his tan line still shows.

“Take care,” you say, because there’s nothing else to say.

He nods. “You, too,” he says, and he means it as much as he knows that he’ll never love anybody else.

The story ends, quiet as it began—

Monaco is a small place. The kind of small that lives in the bones, that lingers in the echo of footsteps down alleys, that smells like salt and baked peaches even in February. Oscar thinks, at first, that he might be able to avoid you. He’s wrong.

He runs into your grandmother before he sees you. She catches his wrist in the produce aisle of the market and drags him toward the tomatoes.

“Ce sont mauvais,” she says, inspecting them with a frown. "Viens avec moi."

Oscar doesn’t protest. He never does with her. Her hand is still strong, her voice still unimpressed by celebrity. She mutters in French about overpriced zucchini and tourists ruining the flow of the Saturday market. He follows her like he used to, like he always will. She doesn’t ask about the divorce, and Oscar is half-tempted to grill her about how you might’ve justified it. In the end, he decides it won’t do him any good.

She feeds him a small pastry over the counter at Chez Colette, dabs powdered sugar off his chin, and says nothing when he glances over at the kitchen, where you aren’t. But you’re there later, arms flour-dusted, laughing with a vendor, the soft light of the late afternoon catching in your hair. And when your eyes meet, the silence isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Familiar. Something like home.

You greet him with the same smile you used to wear when you were both still pretending. “Back already?” you ask, brushing your hands on your apron.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he says. It’s mostly true. Okay, no: it’s entirely true.

In the aftermath, the press circles like gulls. Questions echo at paddocks and press conferences, in magazines and murmurs: Why did the marriage end? Was it all just for the passport? Was there heartbreak? Had there ever been love?

Oscar gives clipped answers. “We’re still friends. It ended amicably. I’ll always care about her.”

He says them all with the same practiced ease he once used on the track. But none of them touch the truth: that sometimes, in the quiet of his apartment, he still thinks of you when he hears the clink of wine glasses. That he misses the sound of your laugh bouncing off tile. That he still folds his laundry the way you taught him. That he sometimes forgets and checks his phone for your texts before remembering you no longer owe him any.

And sometimes, like a secret he keeps close, he still calls you his wife in his head.

Friendship is easier than silence. You both settle into it like a well-worn coat. You pass each other notes on delivery slips, meet for drinks that stretch into hours, walk the promenade without ever having to explain why. You send him soup when he’s sick during the off-season. He fixes the restaurant’s leaky sink without being asked. You tell him about your new dates, gently, and he listens too closely, nodding like he’s not tallying every man who isn’t him.

He learns to exist in proximity to the past. Learns to let his gaze linger on your cheekbones without reaching out. Learns that the ache isn’t something that ever really goes away. He sees you in the blur of every streetlight, in the smell of garlic on his hands, in the soft echo of French murmured over dinner.

The years go on. Races come and go. The restaurant thrives. He doesn’t kiss you again, but he lets you lean your head on his shoulder on cold nights, and you let him hold your hand under the table at weddings. At your grandmother’s birthday, he still helps serve the cake.

Love doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. It breathes differently. It makes room.

And Monaco stays small. Always small. Just enough room for memories, for weekend markets, for a kind of love that doesn’t ask for more—but still dares, in the quietest way, to linger.

Three years after the divorce, Oscar renews his Ordinary Residence Permit. It feels less momentous than it should. There are no trumpets, no ceremony. Just a polite government clerk stamping a paper, and a weight Oscar didn’t know he was carrying suddenly easing.

You come over that evening. He insists on cooking.

You arch a brow, leaning against the doorway to his small kitchen. “If you burn the garlic again, I'm calling your mum.”

“She’s the one who taught me this, actually,” he replies, a little too proudly.

The meal is simple: pasta with olive oil, lemon, and garlic, tossed with cherry tomatoes and a flurry of parsley. You watch him plate it with a kind of reverent amusement, your wine glass in hand. He lights a scented candle. It’s too much and too little all at once.

You take a bite of his labor of love. “You’ve improved.”

“No burns this time.”

“Progress.”

You eat in silence for a few minutes, the sort of silence that only exists between people who have known one another across the worst and best of themselves. Then, without looking at you, Oscar asks: “Why are you still single?”

The question isn't accusatory. It's soft, tentative, like he's peeling back a layer he doesn't have the right to touch. You don’t answer right away. He glances up.

You're still. Your fork rests against the rim of your plate. You have one or two silver hairs now, and laugh lines from the years. Oscar likes to think one or two of them might be from him. You smile, slow and crooked. Your voice is impossibly sad without taking away from the amusement of your words.

“To be married once is probably enough for me.”

It lands somewhere between a joke and a wound. Oscar nods, because what else can he do?

The pasta is a little too al dente. The wine is already warm. The truth lingers in the corners of the room, unspoken but present. You both sip, chew, avoid. Later, he sees you to the door. You press a kiss to his cheek, brief, like a punctuation mark. “Happy anniversary.” you half-joke.

He leans against the doorframe after you’ve gone, watching the hallway where your footsteps fade.

One full year later, Oscar invites you out again.

Except he doesn’t take you to a restaurant, doesn’t cook some pasta dish for you. Not really. He asks you to walk instead, your hand in his like old times. You go without question, winding through the tight alleys and open plazas until you reach the harbor.

It’s dusk. The dock stretches long and narrow, lined with the boats of old money and new dreams. The sea breathes soft against the pilings. The air is salted and damp, heavy with the scent of brine and engine oil. Lights flicker to life over the water—dancing like stars, like possibility.

He slows as you reach the edge of the dock. The sky is dipped in indigo, the sun a smear of molten orange far behind the hills. You shiver slightly, just enough for him to offer his jacket, which you take with a smile that softens something in his chest.

And that’s where he kneels.

Not at a white-tablecloth place. Not with roses and fanfare. But here, where he kissed you once. Where you dragged him into the harbor to celebrate something that wasn’t even real. Where you clung to each other with laughter in your throats and seawater on your skin.

“I know,” he says, voice breaking, because you’re looking at him like he’s insane. He deserves that, he figures.

His French fails him in the worst way. All the rehearsed lines dissolve on his tongue. He switches to English, because he’s desperate, because he needs you to know.

“We married for taxes once,” he says. “What do you say about marrying for love?”

He opens the box.

You gasp.

It’s not new. Not a cut-glass showpiece or anything plucked from a catalogue. It’s old. Your birthright. An heirloom. A week ago, Oscar sat across from your grandmother armed with months of practiced French. He told her the whole story, spoke of his devotion, and came out of the conversation with this blessing.

There is so much he wants to say.

How he wishes he could have fallen in love with you in a normal way; how he still probably wouldn’t have changed a thing.

How he agrees to be married once is enough, which means he wants to marry you over and over again. In Monaco, in Melbourne, in whichever corner of the world you’ll have him.

Before he can start, you’re sinking down to your knees, too. The dock creaks beneath you both.

You kiss him all over the face—temples, nose, cheeks, lips—laughing and crying all at once. “You idiot,” you whisper. “You stupid, beautiful idiot.”

He pockets the box, and, hands shaking, reaches for your waist, your shoulders, your hair. He laughs into your shoulder. “Is that a yes?” he breathes, but you’re too busy sobbing to get any words out.

That’s okay, Oscar thinks to himself as he pulls you as close as he can.

He can wait. ⛐

#god this was gorgeous #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x reader

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albonoracers · 1 month ago

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*looks at books* too tired for you *looks at films* too tired for you *looks at art supplies* too tired for you *eyes fall on tumblr* oho ho

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albonoracers · 2 months ago

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LN4: GETAWAY CAR

pairing: art thief!reader x getaway driver!lando norris

summary: you don’t like lando. lando doesn’t like you. but with priceless paintings and thousands of euros on the line, it seems both of you will have to suck it up for the sake of the job.

warnings: lots and lots of swearing, implied violence, crime, lando being a smug shit, open ending sort of, everyone is a criminal basically except for ollie bearman.

word count: 10.6k

a/n: heist au!! finallly!!!! it only took like half a year :D also can you believe i had to make an account at an art auction site for this. wild.

BRUSH STROKES OF SILK BLUE. Daubs of gold. A smear of bronze. You prop your chin over your mop as you gaze at the painting with a pleased smile on your lips. Faint cracks by the edges, yellowed paint—the passing of time, clearly. Still, despite the faint signs of age, you have to admire the near pristine state of the artwork.

“You look pensive,” Charles notes, rolling the cleaning cart beside you. The cleaning coveralls you both wear are dull enough to make you feel like a smatter of gray on a lackluster wall. A sun-timed shadow, even though night has long since set in. Carlos can be heard shuffling a few steps behind, never one to appreciate the quality of true artwork.

You tilt your head appreciatively. You can’t help but imagine just how much more beautiful the painting would look like beneath the sunlight, as opposed to the clinically artificial lights that are on for the night shift.

“It’s one of my favorites,” you hum.

“La carta, right?” Carlos asks. He kisses his teeth and tilts his head. He does that weird jaw thing that’s long been a habit of his whenever he’s thinking, his own mop in his hand. “It’s just a woman with a letter.”

You don’t even need to glance at the metal plaque beside it—you know the facts by heart. One forty-one by eighty-three point five centimeters. Oil on canvas. Pedro Lira’s The letter.

“It’s more than that. It’s about what you can’t see,” you start, gesturing appreciatively. Distantly, you hear the last cleaning cart squeaking away onto the next room. “She’s hiding the letter behind her. She’s alone, but she’s facing the door, and you can see light coming from there, so someone is coming. Someone who’s not meant to see the letter she’s received.” You exhale. You’ve seen the painting in your textbook for weeks, but there’s no denying how all the more breathtaking it is in person. “It’s an anti-portrait. We get to see her secret, but not her face.”

A beat passes. Two. Carlos exhales impatiently. “No, I think it’s just a woman with a letter.”

You spare a glance at Leclerc, who seems to agree. “Et tu, Charles?” You shake your head with a disappointed sigh. “You two have no appreciation for fine art.”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, trust me. I have plenty.” He glances off to the side and something crosses his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Charles is looking at you when he asks the question all three of you had been waiting for. “Ready?”

You feel the telltale buzz of static in your ear. Alex’s voice is loud and clear. “Alarms are off and exit route is clear. Eighty seconds start now.”

By the corner of your eye, you can see the red light of the camera flickering off. The regular cleaning crew has long deserted the room, leaving all three of you in your matching gray coveralls and black cleaning crew caps.

Eighty seconds.

You know the plan by heart because it was drilled into your head more times than you can appreciate. You know the service exit you’re supposed to take, the angles the cameras are facing, the amount of time it will take from the hallway to the inconspicuous car that will be waiting for you in the back alley. A clean break, Max had insisted. All as long as you make it out before your window of time is up.

Charles reaches for the painting, sparing one last glance at the cameras before taking it into his hands. You resist the urge to tell him to be careful with it. It’s beautiful, yes, but one scratch and the value decreases exponentially.

Satisfied, Carlos says, “Let’s go.”

The world turns red in a blink. You flinch at the loud, blaring noise.

Shit. Shit.

“That was not eighty seconds, Alex!” you hiss, wincing at the ear-piercing sound of the security system loudly announcing your unwelcome presence.

“The alarm is off!” Alex shoots back.

“Clearly not!”

“Everything’s fine on my end. Whatever tripped the alarm—that’s on you,” he retorts, and that’s easy to say from the safety of the meeting room, away from the absolute shit show that is about to unfold.

“Putain,” Charles curses.

The plan was simple. A clean break. You wouldn’t even need to run—just hide the painting in the cleaning cart and walk calmly to the service exit.

The sirens are making your spin. The red is dizzying. Burgundy. Amaranth. Crimson. To make matters worse, you’re certain you hear footsteps hurrying along the halls.

Then, as if on cue—“Stop right there!”

“Me cago en mi puta vida,” Carlos swears, and seeing the security guards standing a room’s length from you finally makes your survival instincts kick in.

“I am not going to jail for this,” you say—and you fucking bolt.

Carlos and Charles are hot on your tail—but so is security.

The walls bleed red with the lights. Carmine. Rosso Corsa. You make a sharp turn left. Service exit. Service exit.

“Alex, if the car’s not there, I’m slicing your fucking arm off.”

“Less talking and more running,” Alex responds, his voice sounding even more staticky than before as all three of you barrel down the narrow tunnel. Your steps are loud, too loud, and you have enough sense to duck your head to avoid getting hit by an industrial pipe.

A loud clang echoes behind you, followed by a sharp shout. Seems one of the security guards wasn’t as lucky.

“Door’s up ahead,” Alex informs you.

Carlos doesn’t waste time glancing behind before he pries the heavy metal door open. Given the loud, shrill sound the door makes, you gather it’s not as easy as he makes it look. You quietly thank the day Max had the foresight to hire Carlos as well.

As promised, there’s a car awaiting for you—a sleek red car with a loud rumbling engine.

“What is this?” you ask breathlessly. This isn’t subtle. This is the opposite of subtle.

“Just get in.” Carlos opens the passenger door and takes his seat. You swallow the other comments resting on your tongue and hurry onto the backseat. Love it when a plan comes together.

As you’re climbing onto your seat, you catch a glance of the driver behind the wheel—someone who is decidedly not the Aussie you know. In fact, it’s someone unfamiliar and younger—much younger.

Your entire face twists as you latch your hand onto the back of Carlos’ headrest. “Are you kidding?” you ask rhetorically as Charles haphazardly climbs onto his spot. You glance at the Spaniard with disbelief. “Who’s this—your nephew?”

The driver ignores you, rolling his eyes. “Who’s this—your wife?” he parrots back. You’re fairly sure you can see the white stick of a lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth.

Both Carlos and you accidentally meet each other’s gazes. Carlos scowls. You shudder, sliding back onto your seat. “Gross.”

Carlos exhales exasperatedly. “Just drive, Lando.”

The engine rumbles even louder than before, and the car dashes out of the alley. You lay back against the headrest, only to catch a glance of the driver in the rearview mirror.

Charles peers at you, arms empty now that he has left the painting in the trunk. Buildings and street signs blur past you. “What’s with all the complaints today?”

You glare at him. Alarms. Security. Fleeing on the least inconspicuous car to have ever been made—and the police probably well on their way. “Max is gonna have all of our asses. We’re freakin’ fucked.”

The car turns sharply at an intersection, making your head slam against the window. Pain sparks from your temple near immediately. “Fuck!”

“Y’should watch your head,” Lando calls out, and you can see the conniving little smirk on his lips on the rearview mirror. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shrugs. “And your mouth.”

To say Max isn’t happy with you all would be the understatement of the century. The silver lining, you suppose, is that he hasn’t yet started yelling.

There’s still plenty of time, though.

You watch as Max runs a hand through his face exasperatedly. You shift on your spot. The warehouse feels distinctly colder than it did when you left earlier today.

Carlos stands beside you, body wired and tense. Annoyed. He glances at Alex before finally asking, “What was with the alarms?”

Alex straightens on his chair, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was, uh, checking that.” His chair spins to the side a little. He pointedly looks away from Max. At this point, you know that even making eye contact with him at in ill-timed moment could be enough to finally spark his temper. “My working theory is that the museum must’ve done a few security upgrades. Something that wasn’t in the original blueprints that Charles gave me.”

Charles arches a brow. “So, it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your face scrunches. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. “Well, maybe the blueprints were a little dated, but that doesn’t mean Charles is to blame for—”

“No, I mean—why would a museum upgrade their security system so recently? So suddenly?”

Lando clicks his tongue, legs resting on a table by the corner of the warehouse. “Maybe they’ve seen the news,” he supplies, vague disinterest dripping from his tone.

You fold your arms over your chest, jaw ticking. You narrow your eyes at the new driver. “Or maybe they were tipped off.”

Lando’s brows knit-together as he meets your gaze. “What’re you looking at me for?” he scoffs. “I’m no snitch.”

Max calls your name, and you stifle a flinch. “That’s enough,” he says with an air of finality. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re staying to check the state of the painting. I want you to arrange a meeting with the buyer you’ve got lined up. Text me the information when you get it.”

“Fine—I mean, yeah. Sure.”

Carlos takes that as his cue. And now that you’ve all changed out of your gray coveralls, with him now wearing his usual long-sleeved black tee, he reaches for his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. He shares a look with Max as he straightens. “I’ll be waiting for my cut,” Carlos says pointedly.

Charles follows shortly, lightly nudging your shoulder. “See you next week?” he asks you, and you nod.

And then, as per usual, all that’s left is Max, Alex, and you. Well. Plus the new uninvited presence. You side-glance at Lando, who’s still scrolling on his phone, biting on the plastic stick of his lollipop. His legs rest on the table, recklessly swinging back on his chair. You resist the urge to tell him to cut it out before he falls and breaks his face.

Before you can fish for another argument, your phone buzzes in your hand, and the screen lights up with a notification from Alex. You furrow your brows at him, to which he subtly tilts his head towards the new driver. You tap the file he sent you.

It’s a police record.

Lando Norris. Your eyes skim through it. Illegal street racing. Reckless driving. So, he’s been arrested before.

“Alex,” Max calls.

“Hm?”

“The security system. Check what’s different.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alex responds, face scrunched up. “I’ve said it a hundred times—that’s just cinema bullshit. I need the updated schematics to do a full review. I also need to see it in person, or at least to be in the vicinity. Movies always make it seem so easy but it’s really not—”

“Albon.”

The sharpness of Max’s tone makes him puff out his cheeks. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow to see it in person.”

Max nods, his index and thumb rubbing against his eyes. He strides towards Alex, leaning over to see his computer screen. “Walk me through what went wrong today.”

Alex and Max’s voices settle into the background as you turn your focus back to the new face in the warehouse. Charles, Carlos and Alex didn’t seem all that surprised about Lando’s presence—which begs the question, were you the only one that wasn’t told, or simply the only one that cared?

You’re sitting down across from Lando before you can think better of it.

“Street racing,” you say, and he doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. You inch closer to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you were doing before this? Street racing?”

Green eyes flick up to you. There’s an unreadable glint in his gaze you can’t seem to place. “Did you do a background check on me already?” he drawls. “I’m flattered.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s with the change in career paths?”

He pulls his legs off the table, leaning his torso towards you. Lando shrugs, assessing you. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I wanna know who I’m in bed with.” Lando scoffs a laugh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes deliberately drop across your frame. You can practically see the comment resting on his tongue, so you quickly correct, “Who I’m working with.”

Lando clicks his tongue, appearing uninterested. “I don’t work with you. I work with Carlos—for Max now, apparently.”

“Mhm. Semantics.” You wave him off. That’s not the information you’re here for. “How many jobs have you pulled with him?”

Lando straightens at that, faux-surprised expression falling on his face. Finally, it seems, you’ve piqued his interest. “Oh, he hasn’t told you?” The corner of his lips twitches upward into a smirk. He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like trouble in paradise to me.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Team chemistry’s at an all time high. We’re fine.”

Lando reaches beside you for his keys, and you feel his scent wash over you. Some expensive cologne. Sweat. Pine. He arches a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “Clearly.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands up and heads out. Before he does, you call out: “Did you at least win a few races?”

Lando chuckles, walking backwards as he gives you a self-assured shrug. “What do you think?”

Sunlight seeps through the overhead skylight as you stride down the gallery. Today, your outfit is a far cry from the gray coveralls Max had you wear two weeks ago. Instead of looking like the cleaning crew, today you’re wearing expensive clothes provided by Max—from where, you never ask—to play the part of the interested potential buyer. Nothing too showy, but classy enough to blend in among the other buyers wandering around in the gallery.

Charles wanders around the opposite side of the room, not wanting to seem like the two of you arrived together. He studies the angles of the cameras, the amount of security guards posted around the halls while you study the paintings. Even with your sunglasses on, you can tell the paintings from a distance. A Bogdanov-Belsky by the exit, a Caillebotte at your left, a Sisley on your right.

You stop your walk around the room as you find yourself face-to-face with a Theodore Robinson work that seems familiar, but you can’t quite remember the name of. You read the plaque recently installed next to it. A Trout Stream, Normandy.

“So,” Charles prompts, moving to stand beside you as he analyzes the painting in front of you. He looks nothing like he did a week ago—definitely not like someone who was stealing a prized piece of artwork with you. A matching pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. “Thoughts on the new driver?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass,” you mutter, tilting your head as you move onto the next painting. It’s a Monet. You sigh, turning to Charles. “I miss Danny.”

Charles chuckles at that. “I get it. But Lando… he’s a decent enough driver—rough edges and all.”

You’re not sure you believe it all that much. Still, you murmur, “And that’s all we need, right?” You click your tongue, tilting your head appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

Charles nods, watching the painting. “She really is.”

“Vue de la tour Montalban,” you hum. The one you’d been keeping an eye out for. “I have to say, it’s not my favorite Monet. It even feels out of place in this gallery, doesn’t it?” You kiss your teeth. “Can you believe she’s going for three million euros?”

“Auction is in two weeks.” There’s a thrilling look spreading across Charles’ face. He meets your gaze. “How’s three million split six ways sound to you?”

Now that brings a smile to your lips. “Make it rain.”

There are many upsides to working with Max. He’s meticulous. Likes to make sure you understand the layout of the place before throwing you into action. He always has a plan, if not, then an outline to be worked upon. He’s fast, and all you need to do is keep track of what he says about the job and learn it by heart. You appreciate that about him—that feeling that he always seems to value other people’s time. At least, you think that’s it. It could also be that he’s always in a rush to get things done and move on with them.

Today, the layout of the warehouse feels remarkably like being back at school. You sit on a chair with a desk attached to it, along with a notepad and a pen in hand. Usually, you don’t have an issue—usually. You take notes, you finish them at work, you do your research, and you’re done. But today—today your notes are not nearly as thorough as you’d like them to be.

Lando’s leg is bouncing against your chair. It makes your jaw tick, your concentration dwindle. Your chair creaks, and your patience frays.

You spin your head around, frustration evident. “Do you mind?”

Lando is relaxedly sprawled against his chair, pen tapping incessantly against his desk. He doesn’t even have anything to write on. He raises a brow at you, tilting his head. “What’re you on about?”

“You’re kicking my chair,” you hiss. You think you hear Alex snort, but you make a point to ignore him. “Cut it out.”

“What? ‘M not even doing anything.” Lando rolls his eyes, and there’s just something about him—an aura of smugness that seems to ripple from him in waves—that grates at you. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, and turn around to face Max, who thankfully hasn’t cut his explanation short.

Max projects two pictures of the gallery. Hallways, rooms, camera angles and security placement—all courtesy of Charles and the gallery’s Instagram page. Your pen scratches on the yellowed paper before the bouncing against your chair starts again.

You whip your head around. “Are you five?”

He has his pen cap between his teeth when he responds with a shrugged: “What’s your problem?”

You scoff in disbelief. “My problem?”

“Lando,” Carlos says. Lando’s jaw ticks as he turns his gaze away from you, and it’s only then that you notice the slight furrow of his brows, the faintest traces of confusion embedded there.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to defend himself. His leg bounces in its place, accidentally nudging against your chair again. He seems to opt for a different option, and instead, he says, “If you think the cops are expecting another robbery,” he starts, slowly, “wouldn’t it be smarter to steal from some low-security gallery? Or a museum with an eighty-something old security guard?” He licks his lips, running a hand through his curls as he leans back against his chair. “I just—doesn’t an auction seem too high profile?”

Charles shares an amused smile with you before he twists around in his chair to face Lando. “That’s the beauty of it.”

His jaw ticks. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a rich people auction,” you say, as if that explains it. Lando stares at you, as if to say, you’re doing this on purpose. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you like seeing him not looking so smug. “Rich people think they’re untouchable. Like they exist on a whole different plane. They’ll do adjustments—showy things, like making more security guards stand at the entrance—but nothing that will inconvenience their precious costumers.

“No security system updates. No metal detectors. Nothing,” Alex adds with a relaxed shrug. “Works in our favor.”

Lando taps his pen against the desk. You’re enjoying this more than you should—finally seeing him realize he might be out of his depth. Or, at the very least, that he’s the outsider here.

Finally, he shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “If you say so.”

Strokes of green and viridian. Splashes of the pale purples and pinks of orchids. Touches of white jasmines and buttery-yellow tulips. The floral scent of hibiscus and roses always helps you concentrate—and, truly, you cannot bring yourself to understand why people go out of their way to study in noisy coffee shops when flower shops are always quieter, more welcoming environments.

Maybe it’s just you. Though, you suppose it helps that during most days it’s just Ollie and you.

You re-tie your apron as you turn the page on your art book, where you find a description on Claude Monet’s Vue de la tour Montalban. You lean closer to the counter, shifting your notepad as you write down, oil on canvas. 61.2 by 81.7 centimeters. Executed in 1874. Pending history of provenance. You draw a little asterisk there to remind yourself to check that later. Buyers rarely care for the past ownership of paintings, but in the case they do, it’s always useful to have it researched and ready.

The bell from the shop dings, and you don’t bother looking up. At this hour, it’s usually kids that never buy anything—or customers that take too long to decide and make a hundred turns around the store. Still, you chime, “welcome! Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Your attention is still set on your art book, reading the small note underneath the painting’s description. Monet’s first trip to the Netherlands was not a pleasant journey in search of new subject matters, but a necessity of politics. After Monet, his wife Camille and their baby spent the Franco-Prussian War—

A man stops just behind the counter, setting down a bouquet of pink roses. It forces you to look away from your work and put on your customer-service smile. “How can I—”

Your entire body grows cold, ice pricking against your skin. Those smug, annoying green eyes peer back at you, brows raised in slight surprise and lips curved upward.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando drawls, looking disgustingly amused. “What is it, sweet little florist by day, art thief by night?” He drums his fingers against the counter, turning his head to scan around the shop. “It’s a nice place you got, by the way. Do you own it, or just work shifts?”

Finally, you find your voice. “What the hell?” Your thoughts are running too fast for you to properly process them. How is he here? How did he find you? “You need to leave. Now.”

Lando leans against the counter, arms folded over it. He’s not looking all that different from the other few times you’ve seen him. Black hoodie, dark jeans. He has the hood down this time, revealing unruly curls that somehow look in disarray but in a stylish manner.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What? So you can run background checks on me, but it’s wrong when I do it?”

You barely have time to spare a glance and check whether Ollie is in the near vicinity when you reach for the strings of his hoodie and yank him down to your level.

You glare at him. “What if I showed up to your place of work, huh?”

Lando snorts, unmoved by the sudden closeness. “I don’t work. Y’think driving cars for Max is a side-gig? I don’t double as Uber.”

“You are way out of line just by being here. Do you have any idea—”

Ollie calls your name from the back, making you stiffen. You let go of Lando’s clothes and turn around, hoping you don’t look as on-edge as you feel.

Ollie stands by the hydrangeas, matching white apron tied around his waist. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks softly, momentarily glancing at Lando. Ollie stands straighter, jaw tensing, as if trying to intimidate him. He turns back to you, traces of concern evident in his voice. “Is he bothering you?”

You blink. Then, you smile. “Ah. No—we’re okay. Thanks, Ollie.”

He nods, though unconvinced. He spares Lando one last look before going to water the lilies.

Ollie is barely out of earshot when Lando grins. “Someone has a crush,” he says in sing-song tone. It makes your eye twitch. “I get it. The whole girl-next-door, girl working at the flower shop vibe must work wonders for you.”

Your jaw ticks, a retort already posed on the tip of your tongue—but you can see Ollie lingering out of the corner of your vision. He’s a worrier—usually, it’s a good trait that favors him. He’s never late. The flowers under his care rarely ever die. He’s lended you his keys more times than you can count. But the last thing you need right now is another set of ears and eyes on Lando.

You bite your tongue until it bleeds. You smile, reaching for his pink roses. “Will that be cash or card?”

Afternoon air feels cold inside the warehouse as you pace, fists angrily clenched at your sides as you finally stop.

Max raises an unimpressed brow from his seat. “Are you done?”

“He went to where I work, Max!” There’s anger in your voice, indignation—but also something you haven’t quite placed yet. You still can’t get over Lando’s sheer audacity. “Not even Charles has that information.”

Alex raises his hand from his seat, noodles stuffed into his mouth. “I do.”

“That’s not the point.”

Max sighs, blue eyes scanning the printed documents you gave him. All the relevant information you could get on the painting you’ll be stealing from the auction—from the name to the possible prince ranges to the material of the frame. His eyes flick up to you, uninterested. “I’ll get Carlos to talk to him.”

Your jaw twitches. “Should’a bashed his fucking nose in the second he stepped in.”

“Don’t,” Max says, waving his hand, never looking away from your notes. “That could severely impair his ability to drive.”

“And we need a driver.” Alex supplies helpfully.

“Do your best not to damage him, yes?”

Your voice is quiet and barely restrained when you reply, “No promises.”

Lando is late. Which isn’t good—for a number of reasons. Starting with the fact that you’re stealing the painting from the Wolff auction tonight. It’s quite a sight you’re left with as you all wait for Lando to show up. Carlos and Max are wearing black suits and matching bow ties, while you wear a black silk dress and flats. Alex, on the other hand, is lucky enough to stay wearing a baby blue hoodie and jeans while he lounges in front of his monitors.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, we’re gonna be behind schedule,” Alex notes.

You fold your arms over your chest, a knowing scoff escaping you. “Didn’t I say he was unreliable?”

“He’ll be here,” Carlos says gruffly.

The door to the warehouse slides open as Lando steps in, looking out of breath. “Sorry! I’m here.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until Lando throws you a look that says what are you looking at? His hair is more messy than usual, the buttons of his dress shirt halfway undone as he fixes his suit jacket, no tie in sight. “Hell has frozen over.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “I couldn't find a tux on such short notice. I had to borrow it from a friend.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? You’re the getaway driver. Drivers don’t need to dress up.”

Lando clicks his tongue. “Y’know, for once, we’re actually in agreement, sunshine.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Max states.

“Change of plans?” Max never changes his plans. Ever. He’s thorough, he’s precise—he doesn’t make changes because he doesn’t miscalculate. “Why?”

Max runs his ringed fingers across his jaw. “Charles isn’t making it tonight.” Your brow twitches. You’d assumed the reason Charles wasn’t here already was because he’d be meeting with you at the auction. “Some detective brought him in for questioning. He’s fine.”

“Is he?” Lando asks.

Max arches a brow, as if surprised Lando was the one to question him. “He will be, once we pull off this job without him and cops rule him out as a suspect.”

You start running the scenario in your mind. It doesn’t work—surely Max has realized that it doesn’t work. “I thought you said this was a four person job. Distraction, two for extraction, look out.”

“It is.” Max glances at Lando.

The protest is on your tongue before he can elaborate. “No, no. He is not replacing Charles—”

Lando seems just as opposed to the idea, protesting, “I’m the driver, breaking into auctions is not in my job description—”

Max pinches his nose, raising his hand to silence the two of you. “It’s either Lando or Alex.”

You don’t even blink. “Then it’s Alex.”

The man in question flinches in his chair.

“That’s not—it can’t be Alex, I need him shutting down the security system remotely and erasing any trace of us ever being there.”

“I don’t get why you can’t just contact Danny.”

Carlos shrugs. “Last I heard, he has the feds on his ass. We shouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” You sigh. “Damn. I liked Danny.”

“Forget about Daniel,” Max says, exasperated. He meets your gaze. “Lando’s coming with—either get on board or get out.”

The car ride to the auction is quiet. Until—

“Are you even aware of the plan?”

Lando rolls his eyes so far back he probably gets a glimpse of his brain. “Are you even aware of the meter-long stick you’ve got up your arse? It’s a wonder you can even sit down—”

“Ya, suficiente. You two are acting like children,” Carlos groans into his palm, looking out the window.

“She started it,” Lando mutters, parking the car into the alley. For once, he’s chosen a vehicle that’s actually inconspicuous—no neon paint or an overly-loud engine, but just a sleek black car.

“We’ll go in first. Wait five minutes after us, so we don’t go in as a group. Carlos and I will go out the back,” Max explains. “Remember—eight security guards. You just need to distract the two that are posted outside of the room, and we’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it,” Lando says.

Max and Carlos step outside of the car, closing the doors behind them. Lando drums his fingers against the wheel, watching the two walk up to the entrance of the auction building. You stare at him from the backseat. A moment passes.

“Could you really not find a tie?”

Lando twists in his seat. “Can you lay off?” He glares at you. You meet it evenly. He’s the first to look away, muttering under his breath.

You roll your eyes. Instead of responding, you reach for your clutch, open the door of the car, and exit.

“Oi, five minutes are not—”

You open the door to the passenger seat and sit down. Lando looks at you weirdly, so you ignore him. You open your clutch, sifting through its contents. “Button up the rest of your shirt.”

“So, you’re giving orders now too, sunshine?”

“Quiet being so difficult.” Reluctantly, Lando does as you tell him. “And stop calling me sunshine.”

Lando scoffs, lips curving up into a smirk. “Why? I think it’s fitting. What with your sunny personality and all.”

You roll your eyes—and, really, that’s starting to become a habit whenever you’re around Lando. Finally, you pull out a rolled-up black tie from your clutch. You straighten it, making sure there are no visible creases and that it looks presentable enough.

You turn to Lando, and not trusting him to put it on properly, you wrap it around his neck. He leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fanning against your forehead

“Why do you have a tie just on you?”

“It was for Charles,” you say, intent on making the perfect Windsor knot. “He had asked me to bring one for him. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, right. Lucky.” It occurs to you at that very moment that Lando might not have experience with this type of job. That he might be nervous. You’re starting to consider offering some words of encouragement when Lando interrupts. “So, you and Charles, huh?”

“Me and Charles, what?”

“Y’know.” He shrugs. “You’re always paired up. You seem close. You had his tie in your purse.” You finish with his tie, but don’t pull back. Lando’s green eyes suddenly feel scrutinizing. “If you’re keeping it a secret from Max or something, you’re doing a shit job at it.”

You furrow your brows. Then, realization. A laugh bubbles out of you, and Lando has the sense to look surprised. “Charles and I aren’t… we’re not together, or anything. We’re friends.”

“…With benefits?”

You pull away from him. “You’re disgusting.”

Static sparks in your ear and Alex pipes up, “Look out and distraction. Can we get a move on?”

“Yep, on it,” you respond.

Getting inside is no issue—not when you both already look the part and Alex has gotten your fake names on the list. The hallways are well lit, a handful of collectors and potential bidders still wandering around, taking in the artwork that will be up for auction in an hour or two.

You’re about to get into position when you spot it, just out the corner of your eye. Forest greens. Splashes of blue. Bold strokes of red.

You’re walking up to the painting before you can think better of it. After tonight, it’s probably going to go into some rich person’s private gallery. You trace the metal plaque installed beside it—not that you need to read it, anyway. You know everything about it already.

Lando strides and settles beside you, hands inside the pockets of his slacks.

“Anémones, by Claude Monet,” you say absentmindedly. It’s part of a large collection—forty paintings with similar motifs—though you doubt Wolff managed to get possession of any others. Most of them have been tucked away from the public, belonging to miscellaneous private collections. “You know, I think this one is one of my favorites of his. He spent around four years just painting flowers for this collection—once, he actually said, I perhaps owe it to flowers for having become a painter.” More quotes of his come to mind, unbidden, from those late nights you spent studying to get your degree. What I need most are flowers, always, always.

You sigh, pulling away from it, feeling Lando’s attentive eyes on you.

“It’s tiny,” Lando says, as if the painting has personally wronged him.

“It’s not about the size.”

He chuckles. “D’you find yourself saying that a lot?”

The urge to smack him is strong. You stifle it. Instead, you turn to the artwork once again. Try to commit each brushstroke to memory—to appreciate the fact that, at least, you get to see it in person. One of the perks of the job, you suppose. “It’s just—sad. It’ll probably never be seen by anyone else again. Maybe it’ll even end up in some warehouse, gathering dust.”

“Why don’t you buy it, then?”

You exhale, tilting your head. “‘Cause it’s probably going for over 1.5 million euros.”

Lando coughs loudly, as if choking on air. He draws a few eyes your way. “1.5 million? For some shitty little painting of flowers?” Disbelief is evident in his voice. “Why would anyone spend that much to throw it in some warehouse? Scratch that—why would anyone spend that much period?”

“Rich people shit,” you murmur with a shrug, careful not to be overheard. “Auctions are for art collectors, sure—but there’s also uninformed millionaires with money to spend. And when there’s more of those—well, these things tend to become a dick measuring contest among them.”

Lando furrows his brows. He pokes his cheek with his tongue, thinking. “This isn’t the painting we’re here for, though.”

That snaps you back to reality. “No,” you say, sobering up. “It’s not.” But maybe a part of you wishes it was.

“Are you in position?” Alex asks through your earpiece. You hum in response, but don’t move.

Lando arches a brow, expectant. “So? Are you the distraction?”

This isn’t happening. “Yeah, Lando. I’m gonna bat my eyelashes and flash the security guards.” He blinks at you. Oh, he’s fucking clueless. “God, get a grip. I’m lookout. You’re distraction.”

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he asks, a little too loudly. “Is that true?” he hisses.

You can practically see Alex shrugging from the comforts of his seat. “You’re a lot more reckless than she is. You make for a better diversion.”

“What—What do I do?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t know how to be a fuckin’ distraction!”

Your smile drips with saccharine. “But you do it so naturally.”

Lando inhales deeply, and then moves towards the center of the room. Besides him, there’s a table with champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He lingers there, awkwardly, occasionally glancing at the two bodyguards posted outside of the room Max and Carlos have to get into.

You wince, tilting your head. It’s like staring at a car crash—tragic, terrible, but you can’t look away.

“He’s floundering,” you say. “Oh my god. Just pull on the freakin’ table cloth and break the glasses. What are you doing?”

Lando approaches one of the security guards, as if trying to establish conversation, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Unbelievable.

“We’re gonna miss the window,” Alex tells you.

You close your eyes, swallowing a groan. Damn it. “I’m going in.”

As Lando goes back to the table with the appetizers, you make a show of picking up one of the champagne flutes. Lando furrows his brows as he sees you, and you gesture for him to step closer to you.

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging at his hair. “Look, I don’t think I’m—”

“Oh my god, why do you keep following me?” you ask loudly, drawing the attention of multiple potential buyers and art collectors.

Lando’s eyes widen, glancing around. “What are you doing?”

You yank your hand back. “Let go of me!” you exclaim, making more heads turn. You can feel the eyes of the entire room on the two of you, all meaningless conversation ceasing near instantly.

“I’m not touching you,” Lando hisses.

A man side-steps you. A security guard, if the uniform means anything. He looks down at you. “Miss, is this man bothering you?”

Lando forces a smile, moving his hands in an attempt of a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding—”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up.” He gestures at the other security guard to join. He settles behind Lando, a hand resting on his shoulder to prevent him from doing anything rash. The older security guard turns to you. “Ma’am?”

You widen your eyes. “Thank you so much, sir. He won’t stop following me. I’ve told him I’m not interested but he keeps—”

Finally, Lando seems to catch on to what you’re doing. “She’s lying, she’s a liar,” Lando declares loudly, dragging out the words. He makes a gesture as if trying to wave off the security guards. “She was all over me like a minute ago.”

You’re certain you hear a gasp somewhere in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to swallow a laugh. Oh, is this what we’re doing now? If Lando thinks you’re one to back down from a challenge, then he’s sorely mistaken.

“That was before I found out you were engaged!” you cry out, whipping your head back to the security guard, reaching for his shirt dramatically. “Can you believe it?” you ask, and the man blinks down at you blankly. “His fiancé is probably at home, wondering why he’s stuck at work—meanwhile he’s feeling me up in a closet!”

You watch as Lando bites the inside of his cheek. He coughs to cover up a laugh.

“It was a very nice closet.”

“You are unbelievable—”

“Okay, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the first security guard says, all too aware of the sudden quiet that has fallen over the room.

“Me? But he’s the one that—I came for the auction, I was—”

“Ma’am, please, it’s better if we handle this outside.” The way his palm latches onto your shoulder tells you it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.

“Outside? But I don’t want—”

“They have it,” Alex says.

“—on second thought, going outside sounds divine.”

Lando lets himself be pushed by the security guard, who is decidedly less gentle than the one guiding you. Before leaving, however, Lando turns to the crowd and calls out, “You might want to send your coats to the cleaners. Or burn them.” He’s shoved by the security guard. “You folks have a good night!”

By the time the two of you are outside, escorted by security, you and Lando are still bickering. “You always do this, you have to make a scene out of nothing—”

“I’m making a scene? Maybe I should tell Tara about how it was my name you were saying when you—”

The doors to the auction building close, and your faux screaming match ceases. Lando stares at you. You stare a him. Your lips break into a smile, before a barely-stifled laugh sparks out of you and Lando follows suit.

“I don’t think I knew heists could be this fun,” you say between giggles. The two of you start walking towards the car, ready for when Carlos and Max arrive with the painting in tow.

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “Me neither.”

The two of you fall into easy step, side by side. The knot you made for Lando’s tie is starting to come loose and your black dress is starting to itch. When his hand accidentally brushes with yours, you find it doesn’t bother you all that much.

Lando is unlocking the car when realization rolls down your back like a cold bucket of ice.

“I was supposed to be lookout,” you say blankly, stiffly.

Shit.

“Do you have any idea how fucking unprofessional this was?” Max barks at you. You feel glued to your spot, something like a knot forming in your throat. Your cheeks feel hot, your hands clammy. Usually—usually, you’re never at the receiving end of Max’s anger-induced reprimands. You don’t mess up. Not like this, anyway. “We could’ve been arrested. Carlos nearly was arrested. Cops could have my fucking face in their radar now. Do you even understand what that means?” His jaw twitches, a muscle tensing as he glares at you. You stare at the floor. “We had a plan. You were supposed to be lookout. You nearly fucked up this entire operation.”

Your throat feels dry, your stomach in knots. You lick your lips, your voice weak when you try to apologize. “I’m—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lando protests.

Max’s eyes narrow in his direction, with Lando sitting over one of the tables of the warehouse. His jaw looks like it’s one misdirected comment from splintering in half. “She should’ve known better,” he growls.

Lando hops off the table, tie and suit jacket long discarded. He scoffs, doing a quick once-over of Max. Seizing him up. It’s not a good idea. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have to be a dickhead about it.”

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks, turning to you with disbelief written all over his face—as if to say, are you really gonna let him speak to you like this? “He’s being a prick.” Lando steps closer to Max, putting some distance between the two of you. He works his jaw with his knuckles, green eyes narrowed. “If your plan didn’t work out like you wanted, then maybe the problem isn’t her—maybe the problem is you.”

Max’s cold, calculating gaze sweeps over Lando, before a scoff escapes him. He shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “You’re out.”

Lando huffs. “Fine by me, prick.”

“Not you.” Max’s gaze flicks to you.

The warehouse falls silent. You watch as Alex freezes on his chair, confusion and disbelief clear in his face.

Understanding feels remarkably like trying to digest a pile of stones. Hard to swallow. Heavy in your gut. You don’t trust your voice, yet you hear yourself asking— “Are you serious?”

Max looks unfazed. “You’ve proven you’re unreliable. I don’t work with unreliable people.” His voice is nothing but cold when he repeats, “You’re out.”

“Maybe this isn’t a decision we should—” Alex tries.

“But it wasn’t her fault,” Lando repeats loudly, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You will create a line of contact with the buyer we had agreed on. I will wire you your part of the money,” Max continues, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you. You feel like you’re going to throw up—worse, you think you’re going to cry. “But after that, I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

You clench your fists at your side, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Is this all it takes? One mistake? It’s unfair, you think. It’s so fucking unfair. But Max has never particularly cared for fair—only for results. And today, you might’ve cost him the one thing he values above money: his identity. All it takes is one cop to make the connection, to linger on Max’s presence a moment too long, and this all unravels. He already said Charles had been taken in, that Carlos nearly got arrested. There’s too much heat at the moment to afford any loose ends.

Still.

You laugh. It’s a bitter, bitter thing. It coils inside your chest, around your ribcage. You feel pinpricks behind your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you even shed a single tear in his presence. “You know what? Fuck you, Max.”

You feel tremors in your bones—loss, maybe. Frustration. Embarrassment. Anger.

In the end, you walk out of the warehouse with your head held high, and Lando following just a few steps back.

“Fuck you!”

The metal door slams loudly behind you.

The drive home is quiet. Lando buckled his seatbelt silently, jaw tense and knuckles tight around the steering wheel. You didn’t speak, so neither did he.

Droplets of rain fall against the windshield, the clouds bleeding into different shades of indigo. Finally, the car skids to a halt. The drop-off point. A place that is neither too close nor too far away from your apartment—not close enough to give away any personal information, but not too far that you’ll have to spend a long time walking home.

You stare at the dashboard, at the smeared traffic lights that bleed into one another through the window.

This is it. It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Lando says quietly, motionlessly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was. Fuck,” Lando squeezes his eyes, tugging too harshly at his hair. The silence lifts, paving the way for a frantic sort of planning. “I’ll explain it to him. I’ll make him listen—”

That almost draws a laugh out of you. “You can’t make Max do anything. Nobody can.” Your face crumples like paper, frustration tearing you apart at the seams. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “How could I make such a stupid, stupid mistake? I know better than that.”

“Stop it,” Lando says harshly, sharply, “you didn’t make a mistake—you were great. If anything, this whole plan was doomed the moment he decided to make me replace Charles.”

You huff a laugh. Lando leans his head against the headrest, pursing his lips, as if considering something. Silence settles once again. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I should tell you,” Lando starts. “It was an accident, that day I went to the flower shop.” He turns to you, shoulders dropping a little. “I didn’t know you worked there.”

A scoff scratches against your throat. “Yeah, right.” There’s no real malice behind your words, not anymore. Just exhaustion. You feel worn to the bone. Exposed. “You were just getting flowers, and it just so happened to be the flower shop I work at?”

“I didn’t know,” he insists, stammering, “It’s—It’s near my place.” He runs a hand through his curls again, as if that’ll help him convey his thoughts more clearly. “Running into you was an unlucky coincidence and I was—I was being a dick.”

Your brow twitches. “Are you… apologizing to me right now?”

“You’re sure as hell not making it easy.”

You chuckle. “Right.” You slump your head against the car seat. Surprisingly enough, you find you believe him. Maybe it should bother you more, that he knows where you work. Until a few days ago, it did. You’re not quite sure why it doesn’t anymore. At least now you know he didn’t do it to get under your skin.

Exhaustion makes you honest. “Did she like the flowers, at least? Your girlfriend?”

Lando squints, then laughs—a weak sound, tired—as he shakes his head. “I, no. No, the flowers were for my sister. She, uh…” he drums the pads of his fingers against the steering wheel, “She likes roses, and she’d just had a baby.”

“So, you’re an uncle now,” you note.

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“And, for the record, you were. Being a dick.” You exhale, tilting your head towards him. He meets your gaze evenly. “But I was also an ass to you. Multiple times. So… yeah.”

The corner of his lips curve up into a smile. “Was that an apology?”

“Take it or leave it, hotwheels.”

“I’ll take it.”

You click your tongue. “Since we’re speaking now, I should probably warn you to steer clear of the flower shop.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of that, but also because I lied to Ollie and told him you were a piece of shit ex of mine.”

“Woah,” Lando straightens off his seat, “you told your boyfriend I was your ex?”

You roll your eyes, and the weight of the day feels a little lighter on your shoulders. “Ollie’s not my boyfriend, he’s my coworker. And he had a few questions after you left—figured it was a good lie in case you ever tried to come back again.”

Lando scoffs. “Please. Like the kid could take me. He waters plants for a living.”

You squint. “I mean—he is taller than you.” You shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

You can feel Lando’s eyes on you. Lingering. Tracing your features. “Why’d you work there?” he asks, softer this time. “You clearly don’t need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean other than you’ve been pulling jobs with Max for a while?” He gestures at your hand. “I’m pretty sure that little bracelet of yours is worth more than you’d make in a year.” You glance down at it. It’s a small, barely noticeable silver chain. You bought it with the money from your first heist under Max. “Selling flowers doesn’t exactly sound like a lucrative business.”

You think about it for a moment. “I worked there when I was younger. The owner—she’s too old to take care of it now. It almost feels like it’s my own place in the world, you know?” You sigh, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I don’t know, maybe I just need to be a normal human being for a couple of hours a day.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, they’re tinted with a sarcastic scoff. “Like there’s anything normal about me,” you mutter, suddenly annoyed.

You rob museums and millionaire-funded auctions. You spend hours at your day job studying paintings you’re planning to steal and sell. Your best friend is a lockpick and a pickpocketer that has stolen your wallet multiple times for fun. You use your art degree and your contacts to fence stolen paintings for money.

“Who cares about normal?” Lando says, as if it’s the most natural response in the world. “Normal’s boring.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

Lando’s eyes are pretty, you realize with startling shock. Not quite green, but not hazel either. There are splashes of blue there—daubs of brown in a sea of green. You can feel yourself lingering—maybe he can feel it too.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for the handle of the door. It’s still raining outside. The cold air rushes inside the car like a rippling wave.

“I don’t have one, by the way,” Lando says suddenly, abruptly. He grimaces, his nonchalant act faltering. “A girlfriend, I mean. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You can see from the way his face twists up that he regrets ever speaking. You shake your head, and to your own surprise, you find yourself smiling.

“See you around, Lando.”

Weeks pass by slowly. Mornings stretch into dull afternoons, days feeling grayer and grayer as winter starts to roll in. You try to make a routine for yourself, something to keep you from focusing on that throbbing emptiness you feel in your chest whenever you stop.

So, you don’t stop. You arrive at the shop hours earlier and leave at long after sundown. You trim bonsais and water plants and throw away flowers that have long since dried. You wipe the windows. You scrub down the counter. At some point, you find yourself staring at a pair of scissors and wonder whether you should cut your hair.

You start bringing your art textbooks back to work. There’s no heist to prepare, no painting to study—but you let your mind wander, just occasionally, as you study the different artworks. Kahlo, Bracquemond, Malharro, Lira. If Ollie notices any changes with you, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

It’s not like you need the money—though it’s always a pleasant addition. You’ve saved enough so that if you don’t live extravagantly, you could manage. But you miss the thrill, the rush of adrenaline it gives you.

The only time you let yourself linger is at night—when you stare at your phone for a moment too long, unsure whether you’re waiting for a text from Max or a text from Lando.

Neither ever comes.

You received a text from Alex, a few days after your unceremonious severing of ties—a text he undoubtedly sent behind Max’s back. It was an apology—something short, sweet, and enough for you to appreciate it.

The one person you’ve been talking to consistently is Charles. He must’ve been the last to get the news—and a part of you can’t help but wonder how he reacted. He’s more level headed than most of you, but still.

“I could quit,” he told you one afternoon, over the phone. You could imagine the concentrated pinch of his brows, the displeased turn of his lips. “We used to manage just fine before, when it was just us.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

You sighed, going quiet for a moment. “It’s fine, Charlie. I mean it.” A beat. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Charles had just grumbled something in French, and that was that. You saw the news a few days after that—another auction house, a painting robbed from right under their noses. What surprised you was that the painting they stole—a Camille Pissarro—wasn’t even the most valuable work of his that had been on display that night. It almost managed to cheer you up a little. Their loss.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to close? I can stay a little longer,” Ollie says, untying his apron and hanging it behind the counter.

“I’m sure, Ollie,” you say, shaking your head. “Go home. It’s getting late.”

Ollie hums, bidding you a quick goodbye before exiting the shop to go get his bike. He’s a good kid, you think. You’re still not quite sure what you’ll do once he graduates.

The bell rings, and you find yourself fighting off a smile as you hang your apron beside his. “Did you forget something?” you call out.

You hear Ollie’s footsteps draw closer to the counter. Slow, measured. Then—

“Actually, I was hoping to get a suggestion.” You turn your head around so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. And there he is—decidedly not Ollie—standing in the middle of your shop like he belongs there. Lando’s hair looks longer, tousled, curls unruly as ever. He still wears that black hoodie of his, paired up with black jeans and sneakers. He’s tilting his head at you, waiting.

“We’re closed,” you say blankly. And, really—it’s jarring, seeing him here after expecting not to see him again unless he was showing up on the news.

“I figured,” he says. His fingers drum against the counter, green eyes with a mischievous glint. “Then again, I’m not really here for the flowers.”

Your mouth feels dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly, earnestly. It makes something jump inside your chest. Something curls inside your gut—a feeling distinctly opposite to the bottomless pit that’s been churning in your stomach for over a month.

“Did you, now?”

“You haven’t exactly made it easy,” Lando says, curious eyes scanning the place. Still, you can see the growing grin in his lips. “You did warn me off visiting this place again.” He shrugs. “S’not like I had your number.”

You’re not sure why that makes your lips quirk up, gaze tinged with amusement. “Not like it would’ve been that hard to get it.”

He hums, sidestepping the counter as he strides closer to you—close enough that you can see that mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes. Mischievous, but paired with something… softer. “You just love arguing with me, don’t you?” Lando asks, head tilted.

“Not anymore than you do,” you respond.

Lando leans closer, eyes flickering down to your lips. You can feel his breath fanning against your cheeks. His hand brushes against your waist—slowly, tentatively.

“You know, it’s been a shit show without you,” he says quietly. Like a secret only you’re privy to. “Not that he would admit it. I’m pretty sure he got scammed with this last buyer—”

You lick your lips, reaching up for the strings of his hoodie. “I don’t wanna talk about Max,” you murmur. It’s not out of resentment, either—but looking at Lando under the warm light, cheeks rosy and lips pink, Max might just be the last thing on your mind.

Neither of you are sure who makes the first move—it’ll be something to argue about later. There’s nothing gentle or soft about the way Lando kisses. It’s teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue—a competition on who can be the first to draw blood. Still, you can feel him smiling against your lips, his hands splayed around your waist as your arms reach up around his neck. His teeth pull against your bottom lip. Your fingers pull against his hair. You’re the first to draw a sound out of him, making you grin.

When you pull apart, both your lips are glossy and rosier than they were before. He looks breathless. You imagine you do too.

“You can be really infuriating, you know?” Lando asks.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He scoffs a laugh. “You just can never let me win, can you?”

“Definitely not.”

Before you can help yourself, you’re bringing him closer to you again, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue darts against his bottom lip, making him hum.

He pulls away first, eyes dazed. He looks down at your lips again then back up at you, as if restraining himself. “Let me take you out,” he says abruptly, voice a little wrecked at the end, “like on a proper date.”

You smile as you press your nose against his neck, lips trailing over the skin. He shudders, and it only eggs you on.

“Yeah?” you tease, voice breathy and quiet. Lando groans, moving to capture your lips with his again. “Where will you take me, hotwheels?” you ask between kisses.

He grins, green eyes alight. “Anywhere you want, sunshine.”

By the time Lando leaves, night has fallen outside, and closing time has long since passed. At last, it’s just you in the flower shop, lights turned off and windows locked.

You’re about to lock up and leave for the night, when you notice a small package you hadn’t seen before tucked into a corner, just beside the door. You kneel down, curious. It’s wrapped in a brownish paper, paired with a Fragile! Handle with Care sticker. You furrow your brows. There’s no way this is Ollie’s.

You wonder whether you should call him. Ask if he forgot a package. The thought dies as quickly as it appears. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you find yourself tearing at the brown paper.

The first thing you see is strokes of green. Perfected brushes of red and blue. You don’t believe your eyes. The gentle unwrapping becomes more desperate, urgent. Once it’s completely off, it’s unmistakable.

Anémones by Claude Monet. Inside your shop. In your hands. You’ve gone insane. There’s simply no other explanation for it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, on your knees, staring at the wooden frame in your hands. You don’t blink—afraid that the moment you do, it’ll vanish like you never had it in the first place.

You move your hand, only to feel something odd behind the frame. You scramble to turn it around, spotting a small, tiny slip of paper tucked behind.

You unfold it. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, followed by: No more excuses.

Then, on the other side: I think I’m starting to get why you liked this one so much.

You blink. Did Lando—

Fuck, he did. How did he get it? When did he get it? Your fingers trace the painting gently, as if it’ll turn to dust with the minimal pressure. Your body slumps forward slightly, disbelieving. This is yours now.

You drive home following every traffic law to ever exist. You signal as you turn, body taut like wire, unconsciously acting as if there’s already police eyeing you suspiciously. It’s only once you’re inside your apartment that you allow your shoulders to drop and gently place the painting on your rug.

A part of you wants to hide it under your bed. What if someone finds out? But even looking at it now, you know you could never do that.

You try to bite down a smile, but it’s futile. Maybe you could ask Lando for ideas on where to hang it. The thought feels remarkably like sunlight warming your chest.

You’re floating a bit, mind drifting anywhere other than your apartment. You still can’t quite believe it. All those thefts, all those fenced paintings and sculptures—it never occurred to you that you could keep one as your own. Lando did that.

When you reach for your phone to text him, you find that there’s another message already waiting for you.

It’s not from Lando. It’s from an encrypted number—one you’re all-too familiar with.

There’s a job that you could be useful for.

Are you in?

reblogs and comments are always appreciated! ⭐️

#ooooo I liked this one!#never thought I’d be into a heist au but I guess my love of oceans 11 is catching up to me #honestly love the warning that everyone but Ollie is a criminal #my sweet baby child can do no wrong 🥰#heist!au #getaway driver!lando #lando norris x reader

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albonoracers · 2 months ago

Text

tell all your friends i'm crazy (i'll drive you mad)

george russell x reader , university!au

feat. university!au, academic rivals to lovers, both of them are genuinely kind of unhinged about each other but reader is even more so, losers who can't communicate properly, EPISTOLARY!!! (a.k.a. a lot of emails), uni student government hijinks, george is student government president author's note. no other explanation to this other than the fact that kae and i have a crazy f1 university au inside of our lil brain spaces and i ended up with this behemoth of a piece. i say that after every smau but seriously. this one took me weeks to finish because of how … much it is. anyways. f1 university au you have my entire heart !! this is dedicated to kae @tsunodaradio , first and foremost, who will be one of the only people to understand the niche references i've got going on here. also dedicated to george russell nation… all ten of us !!!!! seriously . we need more george fics . ALSO ONE LAST NOTE i know this has the most random cameo but trust me it makes sense in the birdykae f1 university verse mixtape. maniac & checkmate by conan gray were on repeat the entire time i was writing this. that's all you need to know about their dynamic.

🧸 | yourusername • 15mins congratulations to georgerussell63 for winning the presidency. wishing the incoming student council a productive and transparent school year 🌟 ⤷ username1 you’re being soooo brave right now girl 🫶🏽 ⤷ username2 no bc i’m p sure the election was rigged anyway i voted for u diva

YU FREEDOM WALL | yufw • 14mins #YUFW1938 → random but why was george russell wearing a full on astronaut jacket to the announcement . are we sending him to the space katy perry style

miss rabbit has fainted ꗃ | thisisnotY/N • 13mins GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL YOU WILL NEVER KNOW PEACE. I AM CURSING YIUR ENTIRE FAMIYL LINE ⤷ oomf1 THE FULL GOVERNMENT NAME??? ⤷ oom2 u couldn’t even fake nice for more than 2 mins?? 😭

YU FREEDOM WALL | yufw • 6mins #YUFW1939 → does anyone else think y/n is kinda mother for crashing out after losing?? like go off queen i would’ve kicked a tree too

DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [10:12PM] : Heard you tried taking down a tree outside the library. Not very environmentally conscious of you you [10:12PM] : u know spreading false information is VERY unbcoming of a president DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [10:14PM] : It was a good race, though. I’d say better luck next time, but unless you’re looking at a fifth year… you [10:14PM] : oh FUCK OFFFFF DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [10:17PM] : You are SO gracious in defeat. Truly inspiring. you [10:18PM]: im literallt goingto print out your headhsot from the cmapaign postr and put it ona dartboard DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [10:18PM] : I would be so honored :) DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [10:18PM] : Wait. Are you drunk? you [10:20PM] : takeanwild fuckign guess!!!!!!

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: No Subject

George Russell,

This is a formal acknowledgment of your, for once, decent behavior last night.

While I maintain that your company remains largely insufferable, I appreciate you ensuring I arrived safely back at my dorm after the election results. Please do not misinterpret this as any kind of endorsement of your personality, your presidency, or your general existence.

Consider this a one-time display of civility. Do not get used to it.

Yours (begrudgingly and only because the Student Code of Conduct demands it), Y/N L/N she/her [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: No Subject

Dear Y/N,

No need for such dramatics — your gratitude (however painfully extracted) has been graciously accepted, documented, and added to my phone’s Favorites folder for posterity. :)

Rest assured, I’ll treasure the memory. And should you ever find yourself in need of rescue again — emotional, logistical, or otherwise — you know who to call.

Yours (always ready to catch you when you fall — literally and otherwise), George Russell he/him President-Elect, YU Student Government [email protected]

you [11:49AM]: ‘president elect’ it’s barely been a day can u be any more insufferable you [11:51AM]: also delete that screenshot of my email omg??? are u obsessed w me or smth

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: [email protected] subject: Upcoming Fall Semester Budget Committee Meeting

Hi Y/N,

Hope you’re enjoying summer break.

Not to interrupt your (undoubtedly busy) schedule of plotting my assassination, but as the Chairperson of the Finance Committee (your new title, congrats again), you’ll need to attend the preliminary budget meeting in August.

Sent you a Google Calendar invite. Just making sure you’re aware, so you can’t blame me later when you “forget” and accuse me of sabotaging you. :)

Yours truly, George Russell he/him President-Elect, YU Student Government [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] cc: none subject: Re: Upcoming Fall Semester Budget Committee Meeting

Hi George,

Thank you for the reminder — rest assured, my schedule is plenty full without the added burden of thinking about you.

In the future, though, you may want to reconsider CC’ing the entire Finance Committee when sending thinly veiled jabs. Would hate for your professionalism to be called into question before the semester even starts. 👍

I’ll be there. Try not to miss me too much until then.

Yours never, Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Government [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: none subject: Re: Re: Upcoming Fall Semester Budget Committee Meeting

Hi Y/N,

Duly noted. I’ll be sure to save my charming commentary for private correspondences moving forward — wouldn’t want to tarnish my sterling reputation.

(Though between us, I’m not convinced you mind the attention as much as you claim.)

Glad you’ll be at the meeting. It wouldn't be nearly as fun without you trying to kill me with your eyes across the table.

Behave yourself until then :)

Yours (whether you like it or not), George Russell he/him President-Elect, YU Student Government [email protected]

DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [3:34PM] : You really couldn’t help yourself, huh? you [3:34PM] : idk what you’re talking about dude 🤷‍♀️ DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [3:36PM] : The “highest standard of leadership” tweet 😐 you [3:36PM] : i was simply speaking in general terms??? you [3:37PM] : sooooo weird that you felt targeted tho 😬 DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [3:37PM] : Weird that you think you’re subtle DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [3:38PM] : Also weird that youre obsessed with me. And yet here we are you [3:38PM] : you’re so lucky i’ve committed to nonviolence this semester DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [3:39PM] : Good to know you’re still thinking about me when making your resolutions for the new school year :) Seen 3:39PM

YU FREEDOM WALL | yufw • 20mins #YUFW2364 → saw a freshman get lost trying to find the new library and end up in the forest behind the science building. welcome to YU babyyyy

miss rabbit has fainted ꗃ | thisisnotY/N • 19mins it’s sooooo funny how men can be wrong and smug at the same time. what a talent. what a gift. someone put him back in the box he came in ⤷ oomf1 and the box in question is your arms babe. be serious. ⤷ oomf2 can you pleaaaase just kiss already … girl we are SENIORS now 😭😭😭 ⤷ thisisnotY/N why would i wanna do that???????????

YU FREEDOM WALL | yufw • 13mins #YUFW2365 → why did the bookstore line look like the waiting room to hell this morning. i just wanted a pen. ONE. SINGLE. PEN.

George Russell | georgerussell63 • 10mins New bike lanes are finally painted in front of the Humanities Building! Thanks for your patience — and to the two students who almost ran me over last semester: this one’s for you! 🚲 #YUForward ⤷ username1 for journalistic purposes was one of the students who tried to run you over yourusername ?? ⤷ georgerussell63 Yes it was. ⤷ yourusername i plead the fifth 🤷‍♀️

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Founders’ Dinner

Hi Y/N,

Quick clarification: during the upcoming Founders’ Dinner, will I have 3 minutes or 5 minutes for the opening remarks?

Asking so you don’t accuse me of "hogging the spotlight" again. Thanks.

Yours truly, George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Re: Founders’ Dinner

George,

Three minutes each. And don’t flatter yourself — no one wants to listen to you for five straight minutes, least of all me.

Unless you plan to spend it apologizing for being insufferable. In that case, take your time. :)

Yours (again, never) Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Re: Founders’ Dinner

Y/N,

For someone who claims to hate the sound of my voice, you seem awfully invested in hearing what I have to say. Very curious.

Yours (intriguingly), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Fall Festival Booth Placement

Hi George,

Just wanted to clarify if the Finance Committee table was intentionally placed next to the improv club at the Fall Festival or if this is some elaborate psychological warfare on your part.

Let me know if there’s flexibility. Or if you want me to file a noise complaint through official channels.

Yours (why do we keep using this sign-off?), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Fall Festival Booth Placement

Hi Y/N,

You’ll be pleased to know the placement was random, but I’ll admit the image of you slowly losing your mind next to the improv club is pretty entertaining.

That said, I’ll check if there’s room to move the booth — assuming you ask nicely.

Yours (but only if you beg), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Re: Re: Fall Festival Booth Placement

George,

Fine. I’m asking. Nicely.

If you could move the Finance booth away from the improv club, that would be ideal.

Thanks.

Yours (concedingly), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Re: Re: Fall Festival Booth Placement

Dear Y/N,

Wow. Asking nicely and a thank you? You’re really spoiling me today, huh?

Booth’s been moved. You’re officially safe from the “yes, ands?”

Yours (I win), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

P.S. If you ever feel the urge to express gratitude again, don’t fight it. It suits you.

miss rabbit has fainted ꗃ | @thisisnotY/N • 12mins P.S. GO FALL IN A DITCH AND STAY THERE WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOUUUUUU

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Office Supply Request

Hi George,

Please submit a proper request form if you insist on stealing all the blue pens from the shared cabinet.

Or— very, very radical idea that might seem foreign to you— you could actually leave some for the rest of us?

Yours (pen-less and annoyed), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Office Supply Request

Hi Y/N,

Apologies. I didn’t realize the blue pens were such a high-value asset. I’ll return them under armed escort.

Also, “stealing” is a bold claim. I prefer “reallocating.”

Yours (with very neat notes, thanks to said pens), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Winter Formal Hosting

Hi George,

This year’s Student Government Winter Formal planning is officially underway. Please let me know if you’d prefer to emcee the event yourself, or if you’d rather have someone less prone to causing spontaneous headaches (i.e., me).

Also: I’ll admit, you do look marginally less terrible in a suit. Maybe even almost presidential. Do NOT let it get to your head.

Yours (very, very reluctantly), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Winter Formal Hosting

Y/N,

...Are you feeling alright? Should I alert the university health services that you’re handing out compliments now?

And yes, I’ll emcee the formal. Wouldn’t want you stealing my thunder. I’ll even bring a powerpoint and everything for when we have downtime.

Yours (wait… what?), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

you [1:11PM] : yu chorale singagram just dropped the setlist and i fear for our campus DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:12PM] : I’’m preemptively sorry for whatever poor souls are going to hear "all i want for christmas is you" sung a cappella DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:12PM] : Might even bring earplugs you [1:13PM] : justice for the altos honestly you [1:13PM] : kind of tragic they’re not doing my favorite this year though DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:13PM] : Dare I ask what it is? you [1:14PM] : river by joni mitchell, duh DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:14PM] : That’s a holiday song? DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:14PM] : Also just surprising you [1:15PM] : what’s that supposed to mean, russell? DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:15PM] : Nothing. DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:15PM] : Just that I’m surprised you even celebrate the holidays… considering how you’re the Grink and all. DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:15PM] : **The GRINCH. Damn it. you [1:16PM] : LMAOOOOOOOOO HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA DO NOT REPLY (gorge russell 🤢) [1:16PM] : Can we go back to my great joke there before the untimely typo? you [1:16PM] : HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA The Grink™️(gorge russell) [1:18PM] : ANYWAY let’s move on to more pressing matters. Am I still “DO NOT REPLY” on your phone? After the blue rabbit event in sophomore year? you [1:18PM] : not anymoooooore 😊😊😊😊

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Mishandled Venue Booking

George.

You went over my head. Again.

I don’t care what excuse you’re about to give me — the Student Council does not approve a major venue change 24 hours before the event without informing the Finance Committee. Not only is it irresponsible, it’s flat-out disrespectful.

We had a system. You ignored it. If you’re going to act like protocol doesn’t apply to you, maybe stop pretending this is still a collaborative council.

I’m not cleaning up your mess this time.

Y/N

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: Re: Mishandled Venue Booking

Hi Y/N,

You know what’s actually disrespectful? Spending more energy writing this email than just showing up and making it work like the rest of us.

I made the call because the original venue double-booked and no one from your committee caught it. So if you’re looking for someone to blame, try the mirror.

You’re not the only one doing work. But you might be the only one convinced the entire university revolves around you.

Grow up

Sincerely, George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] subject: Re: Re: Mishandled Venue Booking

Don’t you dare put this on me. Your office was the one who confirmed the original reservation. If you had looped in literally anyone, this could’ve been solved in under an hour.

But instead, you went ahead with a last-minute change that impacts logistics, catering, AV, and accessibility — and somehow I’M supposed to smile and thank you for that?

I’m not here to clean up your damage control. I’m here to do my actual job, and I’d appreciate it if you could try doing yours.

Fuck off, man.

Sent from my iPhone.

you [3:32AM] : this is the yu chorale right? how much for a singagram? +44 20 **** **** [8:07AM] : Hello! Apologies for the late reply. You can find our setlist and our price list here! [IMAGE ATTACHED] you [10:12AM] : ok great. how much to have you sing ‘all i want for christmas’ to GEORGE RUSSELL for every single class listed here? [IMAGE ATTACHED] YU CHORALE [10:16AM] : Um. We’d just like to double check your order. You want “All I Want For Christmas” for George Russell for… all 5 of his classes on Friday? you [10:17AM] : yes. my email is [email protected] send the invoice there

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: YU Chorale [email protected] subject: YU Chorale Singagram Order

Hi!

I know you have a predetermined setlist, but may I ask if I can order ‘River’ by Joni Mitchell? Order details below.

Recipient: Y/N L/N Schedule: 9:00 AM, Rm. 302 @ Social Sciences Building Song: River by Joni Mitchell (I can pay extra for the special request!)

Thank you!

Best regards, George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

GROUP CHAT → [YU Chorale] - SINGAGRAM SZNNNN 🔥🔥🔥🎄🔥🔥🔥🔥

estie bestie (intake duty) [12:02PM] : [2 IMAGES ATTACHED] estie bestie (intake duty) [12:02PM] : Should we tell them yukes [12:05PM] : no Pierre Gasly [12:05PM] : No albono [12:06PM] : NO 🐻-man [12:08PM] : Wait what’s going on?

YU FREEDOM WALL | @yufw • 13mins #YUFW2782 → someone in my class just got serenaded to river by ben platt by the yu chorale ?? why didn’t anyone tell me special requests were an option i had to have my boyfriend serenaded to LAST CHRISTMAS ???

⤷ username1 no one told you to do rhat?? it’s famously not a love song? ⤷ username2 yu chorale had santa baby in their setlist….. i feel like this is kinda on u man ⤷ username3 i feel like we’re all brushing over the fact that op thinks river is by ben platt … BABY HE SANG THAT ON A TV SHOW WE R LOSING RECIPES 😭😭😭

YU CHORALE [9:15AM] : 🎶SINGAGRAM COMPLETE!🎶 “All I Want For Christmas” by Mariah Carey successfully delivered to George Russell from Y/N L/N 💌 you [9:16AM] : NO you [9:16AM] : CANCEL the rest PLEASE you [9:16AM] : i am on my knees begging you [9:19AM] : ocon i KNOW this is you i know they have you on intake duty i can hear your stupid little voice in the confirmation text YU CHORALE [9:20AM] : uhhh no this is gasly actually 😐 you [9:20AM] : okay fine sure PIERRE you [9:21AM] : tell your friend to CANCEL THE REMAINING SINGING TELEGRAMS PLEASE I AM BEGGING YOU YU CHORALE [9:23AM] : we can cancel the afternoon requests YU CHORALE [9:24AM] : no refunds though. proceeds go to the Duck Pond Preservation Fund you [9:27AM] : i hope the duck pond floods and swallows the entire performing arts building

you [11:18PM] : okay. okay i am the first to say that i am sorry you [11:19PM] : i really thought you’d take it in good stride and it wld be like a haha so funny!!! moment but then alex told me u looked super down after the third one which . in my defense was not my fault because i didn’t know WHY they couldn’t just cancel the rest of the singagrams you [11:19PM] : i didn’t know you’d send me something and i didn’t know it would be RIVER of all things and now i feel awful you [11:20PM] : and now i hate that you were so nice because now i feel like a bad person which i probably am but idunno thoguht this was smthn we alwyas did w each other and i didn;t think it would get to you badly you [11:25PM] : what i’m trying to (terribly) say is that i’m sorry. i really am, george. you did a nice gesture for me after we argued and i responded terribly. you [11:43PM] : george? you [12:03AM] : if it makes you feel any better i’ll be eating ramen the rest of the week because i blew all my money on those stupid singing telegrams The Grink™️ (gorge russell) [12:04AM] : you know for the finance chairperson you’re really bad at handling your own money you [12:05AM] : okay haha fair you [12:05AM] : i genuinely don’t know what’s wrong with me you [12:06AM] : you surprise me with the most perfect thing ever and i panic you [12:06AM] : so i;m sorry you [12:06AM] : truce? please? Seen 2:49 AM

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] subject: (no subject)

OK listen. Im only sending this because Alex took my phone away and also because this is the only email I still have starred on my laptop (??? weird ??? anyway). I;m still kind of mad about the singagram thing. Like I KNOW we argue. And I know u hate me sometimes or whatever. But I was actually trying to do something NICE?? Genuinely. I paid EXTRA. For them to learn the arrangement. F gave them sheet music. Real sheet music. I dunno I thought it would make u smile

You are so fucking mean sometimes and I dont even know why it bothers me but it does. It actually does. because I try really fucking hard to give you some big grand gesture so you know how I feel and u never let me be. Anyway. I think we should have a meeting. Io discuss. Important Business. Like why you look so good when you’re mad at me. HAPPY NEWW YEARRR. fuck u (affectionate)

George WIllliamm Russell president (notin any official capacity) YU student government!

The Grink™️(gorge russell) [8:51AM] : Hi. The Grink™️(gorge russell) [8:51AM] : I am. So sorry about the email. The Grink™️(gorge russell) [8:52AM] : Truly, I did not know why I thought it would be a good idea. you [8:52AM] : george, it’s all good The Grink™️(gorge russell) [8:53AM] : Can we both just forget what I said? I was really just drunk and stupid you [8:59AM] : oh you [8:59AM] : oh yeah sure definitely The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:00AM] : Great! Yeah The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:00AM] : Okay The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:00AM] : Truce? you [9:02AM] : truce :) you [9:02AM] : it would fill me with great delight if you told me you’re hungover rn tho The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:03AM] : Trust me, I am DYING you [9:05AM] : yay❤️ The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:05AM] : Never going to a party with Lando and Alex ever again you [9:08AM] : really? was the grink there? The Grink™️(gorge russell) [9:08AM] : I thought we had a truce! you [9:13AM] : HAHA okay yeah we do you [9:13AM] : happy new year, russell:) george r 🤡 [9:13AM] : Happy new year!

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Hope you had a restful break — and that your ramen budget recovered.

Attaching the latest draft for Spring Welcome Week. Let me know if Finance has any concerns re: booth placement or budget allocation.

Appreciate your eyes on this :)

Yours truly, George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

ATTACHMENT: Booth_Placements2026.pdf

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Hi George!

Thanks for the draft — already made some minor adjustments to the booth flow (a few orgs have insisted on having shade after last year’s sunburn incident). Spreadsheet attached.

Budget looks good. I’ll Approve the release on Monday. Don’t spend it all on last-minute balloons again.

Yours (embarrassingly excited about planning week), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

ATTACHMENT: FINAL_Booth_Placements2026.pdf

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Re: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Appreciated, as always. I’ll restrain myself on the balloons.

Also, saw the note about putting the YU Chorale near the dumpsters. Still haven’t let bygones be bygones?

Cheers, George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Re: Re: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Hi George,

Chorale knows what they’ve done. :)

Also — are you still planning to do the opening remarks? Or should we pull from exec board? Let me know, I’ll be ready with cue cards if you freeze.

Yours (do the sign-offs, loser), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Y/N,

I’ll do the remarks — with cue cards, yes. Does that mean you’ll be in the front row?

Just try not to heckle me, or I will retaliate by veto-ing something in next quarter’s budget meeting.

Yours (happy?), George Russell he/him President, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

George,

Wow. Threats during syllabus week. That’s a new record, huh?

Remind me to lock you out of the next budget meeting.

Yours (yes, very), Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: Alexander Albon Ansusinha [email protected] to: George William Russell [email protected], Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: [email protected], +5 others subject: Please stop CC’ing us Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Spring Welcome Week Logistics

Hi both,

With full respect and love: Please stop CC’ing us in this thread. We got the booth map, like, 3 emails ago.

All setup details confirmed on our end. See you Monday.

Alex Events Committee

you [2:30PM] : were the sunflowers from you? george r 🤡 [2:31PM] : 🤷‍♂️Anonymous is anonymous you [2:31PM] : wowi guess ‘anonymous’ just has very george russell-esque handwriting george r 🤡 [2:31PM] : Weird… he sounds handsome, though george r 🤡 [2:32PM] : You’re welcome you [2:32PM] : haha okay thanks you [2:32PM] : really. it’s stupidly sweet george r 🤡 [2:33PM] : Wasn’t really expecting to get a whole florist truck in return george r 🤡 [2:33PM] : Did you mean to send me half of GreenGround’s stock? you [2:33PM] : okay that’s just one (1) apology bouquet george r 🤡 [2:34PM] : A 14-stem apology bouquet george r 🤡 [2:34PM] : You always have to one-up me, huh? you [2:34PM] : NOOOO wait i’m being soooo honest rn i’m not trying to one-up you you [2:35PM] : i just. idk. i still feel like i should be apologising for how messy things were last semester you [2:35PM] : so this felt like. yk. a friendly gesture :) george r 🤡 [2:41PM] : Oh, yeah. Of course. george r 🤡 [2:43PM] : Thank you for the flowers, friend:) They’re nice.

miss rabbit has fainted ꗃ | thisisnotY/N • 11mins fool me ONCE fuckyou fuck you fuck you fuck youfcuky you fcuk you fuck you fuck yo ufuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck youfcuky you fcuk you fuck you fuck yo ufuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you ⤷ oomf1 this is soooo very baller cash money normal person of you diva 😍😍 keep up the good work 😍

you [10:56AM] : hope you had fun at the mixer last night:) JAIL george r 🤡 [10:5APM] : Depends on your definition of “fun” I guess you [11:01AM] : ah you [11:01AM] : okay JAIL george r 🤡 [11:01AM] : You good? you [11:03AM] : yeah totally JAIL george r 🤡 [11:03AM] : Right JAIL george r 🤡 [11:03AM] : Cool Seen 11:46AM

from: Y/N L/N [email protected] to: YU Student Government Executive Board [email protected] cc: George William Russell [email protected] + 3 others subject: Motion to Initiate Impeachment Proceedings Against Student Government President George Russell

To the Executive Board and Judicial Oversight Committee,

I am formally submitting a motion to initiate impeachment proceedings against George Russell, Student Council President, on the grounds of conduct unbecoming of an elected student representative.

This is not a motion I bring lightly. However, in light of recent public behavior— documented and attached to this email in .PDF format, as per standard operating procedure— I believe the matter warrants formal review.

The Student Government Code of Ethics outlines expectations of leadership that include accountability, professionalism, and the maintenance of public trust. When the face of student leadership engages in behavior that actively undermines the credibility of the council, we are forced to ask ourselves what standards we are upholding.

I am requesting that this motion be added to the agenda for our upcoming Executive Board meeting, and that the Judicial Oversight Committee begin a preliminary review.

I am, of course, available for further clarification.

Sincerely, Y/N L/N she/her Chairperson, Finance Committee, YU Student Council [email protected]

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] cc: YU Student Government Executive Board [email protected] + 3 others subject: Re: Motion to Initiate Impeachment Proceedings Against Student Government President George Russell

Y/N,

Thank you for your submission. Though I’m not sure whether I’m more impressed by your speed or your level of spite.

Since we’re all pretending this is a matter of “public ethics” and not an impulsive overreach rooted in whatever tension you and I have been pretending doesn’t exist since September, I’ll keep this professional.

I stand by my record of leadership. One evening off-campus does not invalidate the work I’ve done, the hours I’ve put in, or the impact I’ve had. If the committee chooses to pursue a formal inquiry, I will cooperate fully.

In the meantime, I suggest you take a step back and ask yourself if this is really about the council. Or if it’s about the fact I wasn’t orbiting around you for once.

George Russell

from: Sebastian Vettel, PhD [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected], George William Russell [email protected] cc: YU Student Government Executive Board [email protected] + 1 other subject: Motion to Initiate Impeachment Proceedings

16 February 2026

Dear Ms. L/N and Mr. Russell,

I am writing in my capacity as the Student Affairs moderator and faculty advisor assigned to the overseeing of student government disciplinary proceedings.

Having reviewed the submitted motion, supporting materials, and the... spirited email exchanges that followed, I have come to the following conclusion:

This is not an impeachable offense.

While I admire the enthusiasm for constitutional engagement and deeply appreciate how invested you both are in the workings of this university, I will be formally recommending that the impeachment charge be dismissed in its entirety.

Whatever “tension”— and I quote, because I have genuinely lost track of which part of this is political and which part is personal— exists between the two of you is not something this Student Government is equipped to legislate.

You are both bright. You are both capable. And you are both (to be perfectly honest) exhausting. Please conduct yourselves accordingly.

Moreover, and I cannot emphasize this enough: I am currently overseeing seventeen student-led events, three sustainability grants, and an interdepartmental soil restoration conference.

I do not have time for this.

As a final note: according to the spring semester programming spreadsheet, both of you are listed as co-chairpersons for the upcoming annual Senior Bonfire Committee.

So. Good luck with that.

Sincerely, Sebastian Vettel, PhD Moderator, Office of Student Affairs Dean, School of Environmental & Sustainability Studies

[INCOMING VOICE MAIL FROM: JAIL george r 🤡]

hi. it’s me. obviously. i don’t know why i said that, i’m just— i’m not calling to fight, okay? i don’t want to fight. god, i’m tired of fighting. you exhaust me. you actually exhaust me. i mean that in the nicest way possible. or maybe i don’t. honestly i should stop being nice to you. but i’m sitting here, and i was trying to sleep, and instead i’m just lying in bed replaying every single thing i said to you this semester and every single thing you didn’t say back and i just keep thinking—what the fuck are we even doing? what the fuck are we doing? and yeah. yeah, i went out. and i got drunk. and i kissed some girl who i don’t even remember the name of. and she tasted like strawberry vodka and too much lip gloss and i knew, like knew even in the moment, that it wasn’t gonna fix anything. but i did it anyway. because you said the flower was a friendly gesture. friendly. friendly? and fine. fine. i probably overreacted. i probably shouldn’t have gone to bunker and gotten plastered and made out with some stranger while the whole campus watched. that’s on me. but you— you filed an impeachment motion. an actual, documented motion. cc’d judicial affairs, cc’ed fucking professor vettel. do you know how insane that is? what the fuck is wrong with you? no, seriously. what the actual fuck is wrong with you? and– and maybe this is stupid. god, maybe this whole thing has always been stupid and it probably would have been easier when we were arguing about committee agendas and pretending like that was the only thing making us miserable. because now it’s just— i don’t even know what it is anymore. you say one thing like it means nothing and i end up doing something reckless and public and so goddamn pathetic just to see if you’ll react. and you do. just— just not in the way that i wanted. and maybe that’s on me, too, for not saying the quiet things out loud, but you— you do that, too. never– never give any indication. so maybe it is my fault, and maybe it’s yours, too. but i meant the song. and the flowers. and i meant every email i wrote where i went back and forth over the wording four times before pressing send because i knew you’d read it like it was code and— i don't know. i think— i think i'm just talking now. you don’t have to call back. you probably won’t. and that’s— fine. i just. i guess i wanted you to know i noticed. that you didn’t say anything back. and that i’m still here. god help me, i’m still here. okay, uh— goodnight.

JAIL george r 🤡 [8:03AM] : Hey JAIL george r 🤡 [8:03AM] : About the voicemail JAIL george r 🤡 [8:03AM] : I was drunk JAIL george r 🤡 [8:03AM] : Iou don’t have to listen to it, I didn’t mean half the shit I said you [8:14AM] : are you fucking serious right now you [8:14AM] : you always do this you [8:14AM] : you say shit and then backtrack the second it scares you you [8:15AM] : LIKE OH MY GOD??? you think I’M the difficult one? you think i’m making this hard for you? you keep doubling down on everything you say and you say I’M confusing?? you [8:15AM] : jesus christ russell JAIL george r 🤡 [8:19AM] : Okay I guess I deserved that too you [8:19AM] : no you don’t get to do that either you [8:20AM] : you don’t get to play the martyr just because you left a voicemail you regret JAIL george r 🤡 [8:21AM] : Fine JAIL george r 🤡 [18:21AM] : Then let’s talk about your part in this JAIL george r 🤡 [8:22AM] : Because, honestly? I’m still trying to figure out what I did exactly that made you want to humiliate me in front of the entire student government. JAIL george r 🤡 [8:22AM] : Are you just pissed that i have a life outside of you? OUTGOING VOICE MESSAGE TO → JAIL george r 🤡 0:47

oh my god, you are so fucking presumptuous— you think i care that you have a life? you think that’s what this is about? you have no idea, george. none. you just assume everything. you walk around with your smug little student council smile and your goddamn perfect emails and your stupid—stupid sunflower and think you know everything. you think you’re the only one who gets confused? you think it’s not hard for me too? you think it’s not fucking exhausting trying to act normal when every time we’re in a room together i want to shake you or scream at you or, i don’t know, do anything just to get you to look at me properly? why am i jealous you have a life? oh my god, george, fuck! i’m jealous it wasn’t me! fuck! fuckfuckfuck don’t send that don’t—

you [8:36AM] : fuck you [8:36AM] : don’t listen to that you [8:36AM] : george please don’t listen to that JAIL george r 🤡 [8:38AM] : Too late JAIL george r 🤡 [8:38AM] : Even stevens now? you [8:39AM] : fuck off JAIL george r 🤡 [8:40AM] : I feel like this is something we need to discuss in person you [8:41AM] : great you [8:42AM] : perfect you [8:42AM] : AMAZING, really you [8:43AM] : maybe while we’re planning the seniors bonfire you can pencil me into the agenda between logistics and the end of my dignity JAIL george r 🤡 [8:43AM] : Great, I’ll bring the marshmallows you [8:45AM] : fuck. fine. one last fucking truce because i feel like they’d crucify us if we fuck up the seniors bonfire you [8:45AM] : do NOT make this weird JAIL george r 🤡 [8:46AM] : I mean JAIL george r 🤡 [8:46AM] : It’s already weird JAIL george r 🤡 [8:46AM] : But okay JAIL george r 🤡 [8:46AM] : Truce you [8:47AM] : 🖕

you [4:12PM] : hey quick question you [4:12PM] : did you request an extra rose delivery? you [4:13PM] : because i’m triple checking everything and there’s a box that wasn’t in my spreadsheet and i’m lowkey spiraling thinking i messed up the whole count JAIL george r 🤡 [4:17PM] : Nope, you didn’t mess anything up you [4:17PM] : what JAIL george r 🤡 [4:17PM] : They’re for you you [4:18PM] : like… the whole box? JAIL george r 🤡 [4:20PM] : Yeah. JAIL george r 🤡 [4:20PM] : Different colors. Thought you might want options. JAIL george r 🤡 [4:21PM] : You’ve been the one keeping this whole bonfire thing from falling apart so JAIL george r 🤡 [4:21PM] : Call it a thank you you [4:22PM] : oh you [4:22PM] : okay. cool you [4:22PM] : thank you

lando and 79 others liked

live from the hill! the seniors' bonfire has begun — and the last bloom ceremony starts in just a few minutes. 🎓🌹

username1 i’m a freshman but i already know i’m gonna sob when it’s my turn four years from now !!! username2 me and my situationship both holding white roses rn. we’re in danger username3 i still have my rose dried in a journal. most romantic thing i’ve ever experienced. good luck, class of 2026 ❤️ username4 if i don’t get at LEAST a yu turquoise rose tonight i’m throwing myself in the fire

[INCOMING VOICEMAIL FROM ALEXANDER ALBON → GEORGE RUSSELL : 9:47PM]

mate. george. where are you? okay listen— don’t get mad, but i couldn’t find you and i had to give my turquoise rose to someone, and lando was right there and i panicked, okay? i panicked. it was supposed to be yours. you know it was yours. do not make this a thing. where the hell are you anyway?

[INCOMING VOICEMAIL FROM LANDO NORRIS → GEORGE RUSSELL : 9:53PM]

MY MAAANNNN WHERE ARE YOU ALEX JUST GAVE ME HIS TURQUOISE ROSEEEE SUCK ON ITTTTT

epilogue ...

from: George William Russell [email protected] to: Y/N L/N [email protected] date: June 18th, 2026 subject: One Last One (For the Archives)

Hi.

Sending you one last email before they shut this whole system down and erase four years of bickering and budget drafts and accidentally too-long threads about table placements. I think part of me will always look for your name at the top of my inbox. But, hey, I figured it would be weird if my last message wasn’t to you.

You made this place something else entirely for me. Annoying, yes. Infuriating, often. But also bright, and sharp, and alive in a way I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully explain. There’s no one else I would’ve rather fought with every day. And no one else I would’ve rather... walked out of the woods with, after. Haha.

I know we joked about the bonfire being the end of the world, but if it was… I didn’t mind the way it ended.

Yours (since freshman year), George

#i was locked in from start to finish... this was so so so sos ososo so so good #i love you academic rivals forced proximity idiots in love drunk calls (or e-mails? in this case)#the way this played outtt. the tension. the bickering. the flirting in sign-offs #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #george russell

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albonoracers · 2 months ago

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albonoracers · 2 months ago

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past lives ⛐ 𝐂𝐒𝟓𝟓 & 𝐂𝐋𝟏𝟔

the past and present sit together under amber light, waiting to see which of them will speak first.

ꔮ starring: carlos sainz x reader x charles leclerc. ꔮ word count: 14.6k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, hurt/comfort, angst. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; mildly suggestive content. childhood friends!charles, husband!carlos, ferrari teammates carlos & charles circa 2024. google translated french & spanish, yearning..., not a love triangle, inspired by & references past lives (2024) ꔮ commentary box: this was an insane idea that i wasn’t sure if i could pull off, but i like how this turned out! here’s to things that ache (and heal) over time 🩹 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The classroom smells faintly of glue and crayons, with sun-warmed linoleum beneath your knees and the whir of the ceiling fan stirring the heavy Monte Carlo air.

Outside the window, the harbor glitters like a postcard.

Inside, you and Charles Leclerc learn to count to ten.

You’re both five years old, sitting cross-legged on a faded rug patterned with cartoon fish. Madame Noelle holds up felt numbers and makes the class repeat after her. Un, deux, trois, she says. The class echoes. You don’t. You’re busy elbowing Charles.

“You skipped seven,” you whisper conspiratorially.

He hisses back, “I did not.”

You raise your hand dramatically. “Madame, Charles skipped seven!”

Charles scowls. Madame Noelle sighs. Monaco is too small for tattling.

She knows both your mothers, has been to at least one of your birthday parties. Everyone in this principality has bumped shoulders at the boulangerie or shared a table at a family friend’s yacht party. There are no strangers here, only people you haven't seen this week.

Charles kicks your ankle under the rug. You kick him back. It means nothing. It means everything.

At pick-up, your mother is waiting outside the gate, sunglasses perched on her head. You find her chatting animatedly with Pascale, Charles’ mother. They laugh together like they’ve known each other since the womb. Maybe they have.

You tug on your mother’s hand and declare, with all the confidence of a child who has never been told no, “I am going to marry Charles.”

Your mother glances down at you, amused. “Really? Does he want to marry you, too?”

You shrug. “He likes me, so he will if I tell him to.”

Pascale overhears and grins. Your mother shares a look with her that says, Can you believe them?

But they can. In Monaco, lives are lived out close together—childhoods overlapping like waves on the shore. With the world’s shortest national coastline, you and Charles are just one ripple of many in the glittering state.

Later, when you’re older, you’ll wonder how much of your life was shaped right then. In that kindergarten classroom. In the shadow of that city where everybody knew everybody, where declarations like marriage seemed both innocent and inevitable.

You grow up with Charles like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Playdates become the rhythm of your weekends: afternoons on the beach building sandcastles until the tide claims them, climbing the rocks along the port with scraped knees and competitive shouts echoing off the sea. Your mothers exchange weekly texts like clockwork.

I'll bring them over after lunch.

Can Charles sleep over tonight?

They’re being impossible, but at least they’re impossible together.

One particular Sunday, they coordinate a park playdate. You’re not sure why it’s just you and Charles this time, no siblings in tow. Nonetheless, you go along happily, swinging your legs in the backseat while your mother hums along to the radio.

The park is quiet in that late-afternoon lull—shadows long, sun beginning its descent. Your mothers talk a few paces away from the benches, Pascale’s voice blending with your mother’s. You only catch pieces.

“Next year. Maybe sooner,” someone says.

“It’s a good opportunity…”

“...How she’ll adjust…”

You squint in their direction, but before you can piece together the puzzle, Charles nudges your shoulder.

“Race you to the fountain,” he sing-songs, already halfway across the grass.

You bolt after him, the words and worry dissolving like mist. Charles is all laughter and wild limbs, calling out taunts over his shoulder. You chase him through the warm dusk, the weight of whatever your parents are saying left behind in the dust kicked up by your sneakers.

Not too long after—it’s your last week in Monaco, and everyone knows it.

The class of twenty-something ragtag children all stare at you, expectant and wide-eyed. You keep your chin up. You pretend not to notice.

“Is it true?” asks Delphine, whose pigtails are always uneven. “You’re leaving? For real?”

You nod, folding a worksheet in half just to have something to do with your hands. “Yes.”

“But you’re coming back, right?” Louis chimes in from the next row. “For summer or something?”

“No,” you say, just as firmly. “We are moving. For good.”

There’s a murmur, the kind that ripples through a classroom when someone says something adult-like and absolute. Someone asks, very quietly, “Why?”

You straighten in your seat, full of something that feels like pride but might just be anticipation. “Because I want to,” you declare.

That doesn’t go over well. Delphine frowns, and Louis looks like you’ve just admitted to liking math. So you try again, voice louder this time: “Because nobody from Monaco wins the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature.”

They blink at you.

You blink back.

And then, realizing that your audience is a sea of confused eight-year-olds who still think cooties are a legitimate illness, you amend with a sigh: “Because nobody from Monaco can become a star.”

That, they understand. Or at least they pretend to. They nod in solemn agreement, the kind only children can muster when they don’t really get it but don’t want to look stupid.

Outside, through the open windows, you hear the faint rush of traffic and the Mediterranean breeze tousling the palm trees. Monaco is small, after all. You’ve always known this. It’s beautiful and glittering and good for birthdays at the yacht club, but your parents have always wanted more for you. You’ve inherited their greed, their ambition.

You wonder if Charles will understand. You wonder if you’ll have to explain it to him at all.

He says nothing of your big move, even as you neatly pack your life—an admittedly short one so far—into boxes and suitcases. He doesn’t say anything even on your last day, where you cry and cry and cry over your classmates’ handmade letters, your teachers’ kisses to your forehead, your friends’ tight hugs intending to tether you to this hometown.

The afternoon sun stretches long shadows down the narrow, cobbled street. Monaco always glows this time of day, like the buildings are pretending to be golden just for you. The breeze carries salt and something blooming. It’s probably the last time you’ll walk this way with Charles.

He trails you on his bicycle, feet dragging occasionally on the asphalt like he can’t decide whether to coast or stop. You’ve both been quiet since school. Not solemn, just—holding something heavy between you.

He always gets quiet when you cry. He’ll tease you relentlessly until you burst into tears, and then he’ll lapse into silence as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with your sniffles and your bloodshot eyes.

When you reach your gate, you stop and turn. Charles does too, resting a sneaker against the pavement to balance. He doesn’t get off the bike. He just stares.

You stare back, waiting. He squints up at you under his mess of curls, face red from sun and something else. When you deem him mute and incapable of human emotion, you turn to head into the house you will have to say goodbye to.

“Hey!” he hollers.

You stop in your tracks, turn around. In all your childlike incredulity, you shout back, “What!”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands twist the handlebars.

Then: “... Au revoir.”

You blink. The word hangs there, too formal, too final. It should be bye or see you or even just a shrug. But it’s au revoir, and Charles’s voice cracks just slightly when he says it.

Before you can answer, he pushes off the pavement, pedaling hard. His bike wobbles once, then evens out, then flies. He doesn’t look back.

He rides like he’s trying to beat you to your next destination, like if he gets there first maybe he can make you stay.

You watch him go, the sun catching in his spokes, the street swallowing the sound of his wheels. And then you start to bawl, enough that when your mother finds you minutes later, she worries if she is making the wrong choice.

The next day, the ferry leaves early; you are made to wake even earlier.

You watch the orange haze of sunrise ripple over the sea as your parents haul your suitcase over the ramp. The harbor is already busy—tourists heading out, commuters looking bleary-eyed and determined, early-morning joggers looping around the marina in practiced silence. There’s no real ceremony to your departure. Just you, your family, and a handful of belongings you insist on bringing. Your mother lets you carry your books in your own little backpack, though she says it’ll slow you down.

Everything’s happening too fast and not fast enough. The boat rocks slightly as you step on board. You don’t look back.

It’s a long journey. You sleep through most of it, your body curled up in the stiff seat next to your mother’s. You wake to the sound of her voice murmuring into the phone and to the sight of unfamiliar architecture flickering by in a blur through the window.

By the time the ferry and the train and the car ride are done with you, it’s already night. The lights outside your window stretch on and on, and you can’t tell where the city ends. The apartment is bare but warm. Your room has a real desk. Your father says he’ll hang up curtains soon. You nod, exhausted.

Your mother makes you brush your teeth before bed. You’re not too tired to dream, though.

And when you wake up the next morning, it hits you all at once.

You are in Madrid.

You will be in Madrid for the rest of your life.

It’s exam season when you finally cave and make a Facebook account.

It’s not something you’d really planned. You’d held out through the first year, ignored the growing notifications from the university group chats, smiled politely every time someone asked if they could tag you in something and you had to say, again, you didn’t have one. But now, holed up in the library with a half-drunk espresso and three books splayed out in front of you like some kind of ritual offering, you finally give in.

Peer pressure wins. You make the account for the lack of better thing to do. If you’re going to procrastinate, you might as well be productive about it.

You’re careful with the information you put in—just your name, your birthday, your university. No profile picture yet. You don’t even add anyone at first. You just lurk.

It’s surprisingly entertaining: scrolling through photo albums, stalking classmates’ friends of friends. The world feels smaller somehow, everyone connected by a handful of mutuals and grainy phone camera photos from nights out. It reminds you of the country you left behind a decade ago.

Maybe that’s why, on a whim, you search his name.

Charles Leclerc.

You don’t expect to find anything. Maybe a tagged picture from a karting event or a blurry group shot at some childhood birthday. But he has a profile, public enough for you to see everything: his cover photo is a racetrack, the Monaco circuit gleaming under dusk. His profile picture is newer—him in a race suit, holding a trophy with an almost bashful grin.

It hits you in the chest, how familiar he still looks.

You scroll down.

He’s posted a handful of times over the years. A race result here, a thank you to sponsors there. But it’s one particular post from three months ago that stops your heart cold.

A sepia snapshot of the two of you, all missing front teeth and dirt-streaked cheeks. The post has a fair amount of engagement. A dozen likes, a couple of amused comments from elementary classmates. It’s the caption that’s the real clincher.

Quelqu'un a vu cette fille?

Has anyone seen this girl, Charles is asking. A shout into the void. A prayer to a nameless god. A shot in the dark, except it hits its target.

You read it once. Then again. Then a third time.

You don’t overthink it. You copy the link to the post, click Message.

YOU [2:51 PM]: i think i know that girl.

It’s foolish to think Charles will respond immediately, but you can’t help it. You refresh, and refresh, and refresh, until you feel pathetic and you’re fairly sure you’ve memorized every word on the Facebook masthead. You’re about to log out when you hear two pings.

A friend request. And a response—

CHARLES LECLERC [3:32 PM]: Might need some proof.

It’s the worst week of your life as a uni student, yet you can’t help it. You smile, your fingers already flying across your screen to figure out a way to prove.

Skype IDs are exchanged. A schedule is set; 9 p.m. your time. You don’t immediately realize Charles is racing, that he’s in a time zone completely different from yours. That he cuts some corners and loses some sleep to make it possible.

Later that evening, the video call connects with a faint chime, and there he is. Older and clearer than memory.

Charles, on your laptop screen. His hair is longer now, flopping a little over his forehead. There’s a sharpness to his jaw that wasn’t there before and a slight dusting of stubble he’s probably proud of. But his eyes? Still the same. Green like the clovers that once grew on your front lawn; flecks of brown and gold that soften when they find you.

“Woah,” he starts, and you privately note his voice is deeper, a little rougher. “It’s really you.”

“Hey,” you say, grinning. Your voice comes out steadier than you expected. “It’s really me.”

He leans toward the screen like it might somehow give him more of you. It makes you feel shy, the thought of being reached, being seen, being found.

“So, uh,” you scramble for something to say, “Como estas?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was that Spanish?”

You wince. “I meant… how are you. I meant to say it in French.”

“Ah,” he says, laughter dancing at the corners of his mouth. “Trying to impress me?”

“I live in Madrid now, Leclerc. It’s survival.”

“Then survive in French. I missed that voice.”

The words catch you off guard, make your stomach twist in a way that feels both ancient and brand new.

The conversation slips into French, as natural as breathing. You talk about university, about how big the world suddenly feels. He tells you about racing, how fast things are moving—literally and otherwise. You nod along, even when you don’t fully understand the intricacies. What you do understand is the light in his eyes when he talks about it. You remember that look.

It was the expression on Charles’ face when he was hoisted up on his father’s shoulders, watching the racecars zip past Monaco’s famed chicanes. You had sat with the Leclercs in the grandstands, had hung out your window with Charles in hopes of catching glimpses of the famous drivers.

As a child, his hands would curl into fists in the air, as if imagining a steering wheel. As if he was in the car himself, bringing home honor and glory to his own.

Suddenly, the screen freezes. Charles’ face is mid-laugh, frozen pixelated. The audio drops.

“Charles?” you ask. “Hello?”

For a beat, nothing. Just the whir of your laptop fan.

Then, his voice crackles through. “I’m still here.”

The call steadies. He smiles. “Still here,” he says again, softer now, like a promise. Like a heartbeat.

You don’t say anything. Just nod. Because you are, too.

You lean back in your chair, trying to play it cool. “Well, good. Would be tragic to lose you to dial-up in 2014.”

He laughs. The same laugh. That’s how you know you’ve really found him again.

Something in you settles at that. Some small knot that had been twisted tight since you last saw him on your doorstep.

The conversation finds its rhythm. The first few minutes are spent marveling at how strange it is to hear each other after so long, followed by awkward attempts to remember who last spoke more fluently in which language.

The banter smooths out the awkwardness. Charles tells you about life in Monaco. He mentions his brothers, the narrow streets, the usual local gossip. And then, a little sheepishly, he talks about his time in Formula 2.

“I am hoping to make it to Formula 1 soon,” he divulges sheepishly, like it’s not something he’s allowing himself to hope for just yet.

Your eyes widen. “Seriously?”

He nods. “I know, I know. It doesn’t even make a lot of sense but…” A beat. A full pause. “Can I say something like this?”

“What do you want to say?”

He lifts his eyes to yours through the grainy screen.

“I missed you,” he says, awkwardly. A little rushed, like he had to leap over a ledge to get the words out.

A short silence swells between you, thick and unexpected.

“Me, too,” you finally say, just as softly. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

And somehow, that makes it feel more real.

The next few months are full of effort. Real effort. Not just the half-hearted, “Let’s keep in touch” people promise and never follow through on. You and Charles really try.

There are Skype calls that happen at three in the morning for one of you and just after dinner for the other. Sometimes he’s bleary-eyed in a hotel room in Malaysia, apologizing for the bad connection as his face turns into a mess of pixels. Sometimes you’re half-asleep on your dorm bed, earbuds in, whispering so you don’t wake your roommate. The conversations are short sometimes, just a check-in—

“You okay?” “Yes. You?” “Tired. But okay.”

—and other times they stretch past midnight, both of you forgetting time zones and alarm clocks. Those are the best ones. The ones that feel like old times, like you’re just two kids again, killing time before dinner, no eight-hour difference between you.

But the connection doesn’t always cooperate. There are lags that make you talk over each other, then both stop, then laugh. There are missed calls. His, because he fell asleep after a race; yours, because you didn’t hear your phone buzz in your bag between classes. There are moments where you’re mad at yourself for missing him, mad at him for not trying harder, even though you know he is. You both are.

He sends you photos sometimes. From tracks you’ve only seen on the television. Podiums. Pit lanes. Hotel rooms with terrible wallpaper. One morning you wake up to a video: him walking through a paddock, the sky overcast, his voice saying, “Thought you’d like this. It’s raining here, just like home.”

You try to send stuff back, too. Little pieces of your life. A snap of the cafe where you study. A blurry photo of your friend’s cat wearing your scarf. Once, a voice memo of you reading a poem you found in a used bookshop that made you think of him.

You both say “Miss you” sometimes. Not often. But enough. Just enough to remind each other that you’re still there, still trying, still looking for the right time to align.

Still wondering what it means to hold on to someone who isn’t really gone, but isn’t really there either.

There is only so much that effort can mean, though. There is only so much that it can do.

When there are more missed calls than actual ones, when there are less messages of substance and yawning gaps between responses, you can’t blame the frustration from bubbling. The expectations from crumbling much like the sandcastles the two of you used to build.

You and Charles deny the deposition for a good six months.

The Last Call connects after three missed tries. His face appears on your screen, half-shadowed by the dim hotel lamp behind him. He looks tired. You probably do, too.

You sigh. Not dramatically. Just... worn out. “Charles, maybe we should stop.”

He blinks, straightens a little. He stutters first in English, but then falls back in French. Your language of choice whenever the two of you were talking about something you wanted to keep secret, something that felt close to both your hearts. “Stop what?”

“Trying so hard to keep up. It’s... it’s not working, is it? Maybe we should just let things happen naturally. If we talk, we talk. If we don’t…”

His mouth opens, then closes again. You see the flicker of something in his eyes before he leans back, smile forced. “Right. Yeah. I mean—it’s not like we’re dating or anything.”

You laugh, but it sounds like a question. “Exactly. We’re not.”

He nods a little too quickly. “It’s probably better, anyway. Less pressure.”

Somewhere on his phone, a flower order confirmation remains open in another tab. A delivery to your dorm; blooms the color of your eyes, with the question he’s been meaning to ask since you first reconnected. He quietly files for a refund while you’re not looking.

You shift in your seat, arms crossed. “So... I guess we’ll just talk whenever. No more trying to schedule around time zones and bad Wi-Fi.”

“Yeah. No big deal.”

“No big deal,” you echo.

You both nod, your heads bobbing up and down in unison. You are both trying to convince each other. Yourselves.

“I should go,” you lie.

He nods again. “Of course. Good luck with finals.”

“Good luck with Monaco.”

His smile falters, just a little. “Thank you.”

You end the call. The screen goes dark.

Charles does not win in Monaco that weekend.

You nurse the heartache the only way you know how: you wander. Feet on autopilot, you find yourself at the little bookstore a few blocks from campus, the one with the crooked shelves and the windows that fog up in the rain.

You trail your fingers along the spines of used novels and yellowing travel guides. The ache dulls in the quiet of it—the soft rustle of pages, the low hum of the radio playing something old and slow. You’ve always liked it here.

The owner, an older woman with thick glasses and a perpetual cardigan, catches you lingering and offers you a job before you even think to ask. Just weekends, she says in lilting English. Just enough.

You take it. Happily. The bookstore becomes a sort of sanctuary. You shelve poetry collections and ring up cookbooks and memorize the names of regulars. You surround yourself with other people’s words, and for the first time in a while, you remember why you left Monaco in the first place.

You wanted to live inside something bigger than the state. Bigger than legacy or expectations. You wanted to become someone you hadn’t already been written into.

One overcast afternoon, the bell above the door jingles. You look up from the counter.

The man who steps inside is tall, dark-haired, sun-kissed in a way that suggests he’s just gotten off a plane. He squints around the shop like it might bite him.

“Hello,” he says in Spanish, smiling a little too politely. “I’m looking for a cookbook. For my mother. She is very picky.”

“Do you know what kind?” you probe.

“Something European, maybe. But modern? She does not trust anyone under sixty, but also hates anything too traditional.” He shrugs helplessly. “It’s a minefield.”

You laugh, already scanning the shelves behind you. “We might have something. Give me a second.”

He waits, hands in his pockets, looking around with polite interest. When you hand him a hardcover with a bright cover and minimalist title, he grins. It’s a nice smile, you think to yourself, as he turns the book over in his hands as if inspecting the weight of it.

“This might actually work. Thank you.”

You smile and take the book back so you can ring it up. “No problem,” you say, your eyes lingering a little too long on his five o’clock shadow.

He’s too distracted giving you equal attention to notice your staring. He pays with crisp bills and shining coins, his fingers brushing lightly against yours when he takes the book he just purchased. You’re convinced the transaction will end there, but then he offers his hand.

“Carlos, by the way. Carlos Sainz. Not the rally driver,” he adds quickly. “His son.”

A corner of your lip quirks upward. It’s a familiar name and title, but not one you have any particular attachments to. “Should I be impressed?” you ask, taking the hand of the legend’s son.

He laughs. “Only if you want to be.”

You shake his hand. Warm. Steady.

Something shifts. You don’t know what it is yet. Just that it feels like a beginning.

Carlos keeps coming back.

At first it’s little things: a recipe book for lentils, a thin novella in Spanish, a battered biography of someone you’ve never heard of but pretend to. Then he starts asking for weirder things. A Basque cookbook from the ‘70s. A philosophical treatise on sports. A slim poetry collection by a woman who disappeared in the Pyrenees.

You find most of them. He always smiles like he’s genuinely surprised.

“You’re magic,” he tells you once.

You snort. “No, I’m just stubborn.”

You learn things about him in the quiet way people share when they’re not trying to impress you. He races too, he says one afternoon, fingers brushing the cover of a travel memoir. Karting at first. Then cars.

You try not to ask who he races for, try not to let your thoughts spiral to Charles. You’re not trying to build a replica.

Carlos never pushes. Never oversteps. He just shows up. Makes you laugh. Leaves the space open for something soft to grow.

One day, he buys a copy of Letters to Milena. Doesn’t say why. Just nods when you hand it over.

Then he disappears.

Days pass. Then weeks. Then months. You think he’s ghosted you and hate yourself for how much it hurts.

Then one Saturday, the bell rings. You look up. And there he is.

He looks sheepish, holding a paper bag like it’s breakable. “I was traveling,” he says, by way of apology, “and racing.”

You open your mouth to say it’s fine, but he’s already placing the bag on the counter.

Inside: dozens of letters. Handwritten. Folded. Numbered. On hotel stationery, napkins, scrap paper. Your name on every single one.

“I didn’t know your address,” he says quietly, nervously. “But I still wanted to talk to you.”

You stare at the pile. Something rises in your chest, fast and helpless.

You lean across the counter to kiss him, and he sighs against your lips like this is all he thought about while jet-setting across the world.

The kiss tastes like courage and paper and something new.

It feels like the first page of a different story.

You and Carlos have been together for a little over a year now.

It’s quiet, mostly. Private. Not secret, but not something for cameras or press releases either. He doesn’t post you on social media. You don’t go to the races. Not because he doesn’t want you there—he asks, more than once—but because you can’t watch.

You try, once. Sit down with the race queued up, fingers curled into your sleeves. You make it five laps before your stomach starts turning. Before the sight of him—helmeted and flying—makes your breath catch in your throat. Too many angles, too many ways it can go wrong.

You text him afterward.

Good race. I think. I had to turn it off. Sorry.

He replies almost instantly.

That’s okay. I race faster when I know you are waiting for me at home.

And that’s the rhythm of it. He drives. You read. He flies. You shelve books and write.

On one of his rare weekends back home, the two of you are curled up on the couch in your flat, empty takeout containers on the coffee table, his head in your lap. He’s scrolling through something on his phone—team photos, maybe, or grid updates—when he says, absently: “There’s this new guy.”

“Well—not new. Just new to the grid. Really talented. Weirdly poised,” Carlos says, “Name’s Charles. Charles Leclerc. Ever know him? He is from Monaco too.”

Your heart stutters.

You run your fingers through Carlos’ hair like nothing’s changed. Like the air hasn’t gone tight in your lungs.

“Yeah,” you eventually manage. “I knew of him.”

Carlos doesn’t catch the pause. Or if he does, he lets you keep it. He just hums, eyes still on his screen.

You lean back into the cushions, forcing yourself to breathe steady.

You knew Charles Leclerc once. And you still do, somewhere. Somewhere in the part of your chest that hadn’t quite let go. But Carlos is here. Carlos comes back. And right now, that’s what matters.

You tighten your fingers in his hair. He looks up and smiles.

For a little while, you let yourself forget the name still echoing in your head.

The future doesn’t arrive all at once.

It comes in quiet mornings and shared coffees, in lazy Sunday afternoons rearranging the furniture, in long drives where nothing matters but the road and the sound of Carlos singing off-key beside you.

You keep dating. Keep building. A life. A rhythm. A future.

By 2021, you’ve settled in Madrid, your days divided between the bookstore and the pages of a manuscript you’ve been quietly shaping for years. Carlos is more than just your partner now. He’s your home. The person you find yourself planning for. Planning around.

That same year, two very good things happen.

Your book gets published. The small, strange novel you thought would never leave your laptop finds a home with a local press. The cover is understated, the first print modest, but it exists. It is yours. You hold it in your hands while Carlos opens a bottle of wine and insists on a toast.

He reads it in one sitting. You catch him wiping at his eyes before he grins and says, “You wrote me into this, didn’t you?”

You shrug, but you’re smiling so wide that there is only really one answer to his question.

And then Carlos signs with Ferrari.

It’s the dream, the thing he’s been working toward for years. When the offer becomes official, he tells you before anyone else. You scream. He picks you up and spins you around the flat like something out of a movie.

You celebrate both victories in a tiny tapas bar with your closest friends. You drink too much. He kisses you too long. Everything is golden. Not golden like Monaco used to be, but golden in a Madrid way—golden like the stars hanging low from the sky, like the city that often threatens to swallow you whole, like the boyfriend that always keeps his promises.

It isn’t until a week or so later that you see it. The promotional posters, the news articles putting them side by side.

Carlos Sainz and Charles Leclerc. Ferrari’s newest duo.

You stare at the name for a while. It doesn’t hit like it used to. No twisting in your stomach. No sharp intake of breath.

Because your life is not a detour anymore.

You live in Madrid. You have a book with your name on the spine. You have a home filled with secondhand furniture and shelves bursting with stories. You have Carlos—his warm hand in yours, his letters tucked in a shoebox under the bed, his jacket draped on the chair you always forget to put away.

Charles is no longer a tether.

Your heart is here, and it is full.

So you keep writing.

The stories come faster now, shaped by time and the steadiness of the life you’ve built. Your second novel wins a regional award. The third becomes a quiet bestseller. Your name is suddenly spoken in book circles, whispered in lit fests, shortlisted for prizes you never dared dream of.

Carlos races in Ferrari red. You watch from home sometimes, peeking between your fingers, your stomach still tight with nerves. But you’re learning. You can watch without unraveling. You can hope without fear.

You remain private. Still keep your names from headlines, still skip the red carpets. It’s not secrecy; it’s sanctuary. Carlos says it best, one late night on your balcony with a glass of wine in hand: “Let them talk about podiums and scandals. I just want to come home to you.”

When the two of you decide to marry, it’s the same.

No press. No spectacle. Just family and friends in the garden of your shared home, chairs borrowed from neighbors, fairy lights strung by your best friend the night before.

Carlos wears a suit that doesn’t quite match and his grandfather’s cufflinks. You wear a dress you found in a vintage shop, altered at the last minute when the zipper gave out.

You exchange vows barefoot, toes curling in the grass.

Carlos’s voice is low, earnest. He stumbles once, laughs nervously, then says, “I don’t know where I’m going to finish every race. I don’t know what the next season will bring. But I know you. And I know I want this for the rest of my life, more than any podium that I could ever have.”

You say, “You once handed me a bag of letters. I have never stopped reading them. I promise to keep reading, and to keep writing—us, together—for as long as you will have me.”

People cry. Someone drops a champagne flute. Carlos kisses you before they even pronounce you married.

The reception is homemade. Empanadillas on mismatched plates, a playlist you threw together last-minute, your uncle insisting on a toast that turns into a twenty-minute story about how he once met Fernando Alonso in a petrol station.

Carlos spins you around the living room for your first dance. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

Later that night, the house is quiet again. Everyone’s gone. It’s just the two of you, tucked on the couch in your wedding clothes, eating leftover cake with forks straight from the box.

Carlos rests his head on your shoulder. “Married,” he says, tasting the word.

“Yeah,” you hum. “Mi marido.” My husband.

“Mi esposa,” he responds in the same dazed, reverent tone. My wife.

And for once, there is nothing left unsaid. No past to outrun. Just the thrilling certainty of a life still being written together.

The news breaks while you’re at the bookstore, helping a teenager find something that will make her cry. Your phone buzzes once, then again, and then it won't stop. You glance down and see the headlines before you can stop yourself; they fly over your lockscreen, obscuring the photo of you and Carlos from your first real date.

Lewis Hamilton signs with Ferrari for 2025 F1 season.

The air drains out of the room.

You close the shop early. Carlos is already home when you arrive, slouched on the edge of the couch, remote forgotten in one hand, still in the hoodie he wore to training that morning. He doesn’t look up when you enter.

You drop your keys and cross to him silently, kneeling in front of him. His eyes are red but dry.

“They told me this morning,” he says, voice hoarse, “before the news went out.”

You don’t ask who told him. You don’t ask why they couldn’t wait, or why they chose someone else. You already know the answers wouldn’t help. And you’re not about to lie to your husband, to try to coddle him into believing the team will give up its anointed heir for him.

You want someone to blame.

Ferrari, for discarding Carlos after he gave them the best of his years. Charles, for staying. God, for the cruelty of it all.

But there’s no fight that matters more than the person in front of you.

So you climb up beside him, pull him in, let his weight fall against your chest.

“They’re going to regret this,” you whisper fiercely into his hair. “You’ll be back. You’re not done.”

His arms tighten around you. He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

Eventually, he murmurs, “I’m scared.”

“Me too. But I believe in you more than I believe in anything.”

There’s a long silence, heavy but shared.

Outside, the world turns without mercy. But inside, you hold the man you married and swear, silently, to weather this with him. Just like you always have.

That season, Carlos races like he has something to prove.

Because he does.

Every lap, every press conference, every qualifying session. He drives like he’s being chased, like every corner holds the future hostage. You see it in his posture, in the tension in his hands when he laces his boots, in the clipped answers he gives to questions that dance around what everyone already knows: he doesn’t have a seat next year. Not yet.

You watch now. You watch everything.

Your anxiety still curls under your ribs like it always has, but you’ve learned to carry it. You sit through practice, through qualifying, through the races themselves, heart thudding in time with the engines. You count his pit stops under your breath. You only breathe when the checkered flag waves.

Watching Carlos means watching Charles, too.

It’s strange, after all this time, to see him again so often. On screen. In red. Next to Carlos. Older. Sharper. Still familiar.

He does well. Consistent. Composed. He and Carlos don’t speak much on camera, but you see it in the glances they exchange—in parc fermé, in briefings, in the margins of the paddock. There’s respect there. Maybe even something more complicated. Something rooted in memory.

You feel a pull sometimes. Not quite longing. Not quite regret. Just that soft ache of having known someone deeply, once.

But the man you wait for at the finish line is not Charles.

You watch your Carlos fight for every point. For every scrap of validation. He is relentless. Brilliant. You see the fans rallying around him. The journalists softening their tones. The world beginning to understand what you’ve always known.

Carlos Sainz is not done.

And more than anything, more than your own nerves or history or unspoken what-ifs, you want this for him.

You want him to keep driving. To keep writing his own story. Not just to prove them wrong, but to prove himself right.

Because he is meant to be on that track.

And you are meant to be right here, watching him fly.

Madrid holds its breath on the Saturday he brings it up.

You're folding laundry in the living room, half-watching the news, when Carlos walks in from the balcony, the sun painting warm lines across his face. There’s a careful energy in his step, a wordless deliberation that tips you off even before he says anything.

He stands behind you for a moment, then wraps his arms around your shoulders. “The Monaco Grand Prix,” he says, like it’s just another city, just another circuit.

You pause, folding slowed. “You want me to come,” you say plainly.

He nods. “It’s... it might be my last one there. Maybe ever, depending how the year ends. And it’s the place you were born, you know? I want to do it with you there.”

You look up at him. His eyes are hopeful but cautious, like he’s ready for the refusal. Like he’s already preparing to let it go if you so much as flinch.

And you do flinch, but not for the reasons he thinks.

Later that evening, after dinner, you set two cups of tea down at the dining table. Carlos joins you, still in his soft clothes, hair damp from a shower. You don’t know where to begin, but the weight of the past demands light.

You sit down across from him and say, “There’s something I haven’t told you.”

He watches you, quiet.

You tell Carlos. Not the same fantastical way you weave your stories; not the careful tales you chart on Microsoft Word. No, you just give him the truth. The one school in Monte Carlo. The green-eyed boy next door. The Skype calls, and the quiet ending of it all.

A long pause settles between you.

Carlos is still, absorbing. Then: “And you did not tell me because...?”

You meet his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to make you doubt anything. Because he doesn’t matter now. Not like you do,” you manage. “But seeing him again—through the screen, in the paddock—it made me realize I needed to tell you before Monaco. You think I’m afraid of cameras or press or whatever. I’m not. I’m afraid of ghosts.”

Carlos leans forward, both hands on his mug. “I’m not afraid of him.”

You smile, small and sad. “I know. But I needed you to know why I’ve stayed away. Why it might hurt to watch you drive on a track he’s on, in the city that once knew us.”

He reaches across the table, takes your hand in his. “Then come,” Carlos earnestly. “Not for the cameras. Not even for me. Come for you. For the part of you that’s grown since then. For the life you chose.”

You let the silence hold you both for a moment before nodding. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

Carlos kisses the back of your hand, gently. Gently.

“It will be the race I remember most,” he promises. You don’t doubt it.

Your arrival at Monaco rips through the news like a raging tsunami.

You don a paddock past that declares Guest of Carlos Sainz, and a sort of confidence that indicates this is not the first time you’ve walked down these roads. At first, the media labels you as Carlos’ girlfriend. And then they see the glint of your ring under Monaco’s perpetual sun, and the title changes. Wife, the press whisper amongst each other, their cameras flashing, flashing, flashing.

Journalists dig for details. They find your writing. They put your accolades in the headlines. Someone interviews an old and withered Madame Noelle, who fondly recounts your aspirations for a Nobel Peace Prize for Literature. You make a mental note to tell her of your nomination.

Mere hours after you show up on the paddock, you get a frantic call from your publicist. “What have you done?” she demands. “Your books are flying off the shelves!”

“I went to a race,” you respond dazedly.

Carlos stays with you through it all. He guides you past the cameras, past the fans, past the Monégasque who begin to recognize you. Carlos keeps a hand on the small of your back, his presence cool and steady.

Especially when the inevitable happens.

When you step into the Ferrari motorhome and face your ghost. The one dressed in the same red apparel as your husband. The one with eyes you could make wishes on.

Charles looks up at the sound of the door opening and his gaze lands squarely on you.

Carlos doesn’t interrupt.

He sees Charles looking at you and simply steps aside, giving the moment air. Not leaving, not disappearing. Just pausing, the way someone does when they know something sacred is unfolding and their presence might shift its shape.

You step forward. So does Charles.

He’s older than you remember, but not by much. It’s more in the way he carries himself, in the lines near his eyes, in the heaviness that clings to his smile. He looks at you like he’s trying to understand something that changed when he wasn’t looking.

“Hey,” he greets. It’s small. Careful. Am I dreaming is the unspoken question.

“Hi,” you reply. No, you’re not becomes your wordless reply.

There’s a beat. Then another.

He almost smiles. “You’re here.”

You nod. “I’m here.”

At first, something flickers across his face. Something warm, hopeful, almost boyish. For a second, he thinks it’s about him.

That it was always about him. That the years and oceans and silences had all been waiting for this moment to make sense. That you're here now in Monaco to watch him break the supposed curse, to watch him fight for the title that has eluded him for years.

Then Charles sees the ring.

Then he sees Carlos, not far behind you, giving you space but not really gone.

The realization is slow. Painful. You watch it click into place.

“Oh,” Charles says, voice thinner now. He clears his throat, eyes flicking away for just a second before he finds his composure. “You’re—oh.”

You try to smile. It flickers and dies.

Carlos returns then, subtle but certain, his hand sliding around your waist like muscle memory. The touch grounds you. All at once, the nerves unravel. The noise, the flashing cameras, the ghosts all fade.

You lean into Carlos without thinking. Your body remembers where home is.

Charles watches the way you soften in his arms. The way your shoulders drop, how your breathing evens out. He sees it.

His expression is unreadable.

Not angry. Not sad. Just—fractured.

Like someone watching the ending of a story they didn’t know was being written without them.

Pleasantries are exchanged. You find a corner in the motorhome as Carlos goes off to do his thing. There is something in your chest that you can’t quite name, three languages and decades of writing later.

Later that evening, the hotel room is quiet, soft light spilling in from the lamps as Monaco murmurs beyond the balcony doors. You move through the familiar rhythm of the evening. Washing your face, brushing your teeth, folding your clothes over the armchair. Carlos is already in bed, shirtless and scrolling through his phone, but you can feel the tension under the surface.

He’s been reliable all day. Every time the press got too close, his hand found yours. Every time you faltered, he anchored you. But now, here, in the private dark of your shared life, the questions rise.

You slide into bed beside him, tucking your knees close.

Carlos puts his phone down, turning to face you. “Do you think he missed you?”

You pause, contemplating. “I think he missed the crybaby he knew a long time ago.”

“You were a crybaby?”

“Most of the time, Charles would just have to stand around and watch me.”

Carlos’s face shifts—just slightly. A flicker of something unspoken. His eyes go distant for half a second before he schools his features into something more neutral.

You catch it.

“Are you upset?” you ask gently.

He hesitates, and then shrugs. “No.”

It’s a lie. A visible one. You’ve known him too long not to notice when his mouth tightens just so, when his shoulders tense even as he pretends they haven’t.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his arm. “Carlos.”

He looks at you, that flicker of hurt still in his gaze. Not because he doubts your words, but because he wishes he had been there first.

“I don’t have the right to be mad,” he says quietly.

“Of course you do,” you tell him instantly. “You’re my husband. You can be mad, or confused, or jealous, or whatever it is you’re trying to pretend not to feel.”

Carlos sighs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’re going to run away with him.”

You laugh without meaning to.

Carlos looks at you again, semi-serious. “Are you?”

“Definitely,” you deadpan. “I’m going to throw away my life with you and run away with Charles to Monaco.”

Carlos doesn’t think that’s very funny.

You soften. “Do you even know me? I’m not going to leave Madrid for some... for Charles.”

Your husband’s eyes hold yours. “I know.”

A pause. Then, more quietly, he adds, “I know you.”

You curl closer to him, your fingers finding his under the covers. The silence that follows isn’t heavy this time. It’s whole.

Between free practices, with the sounds of tires screeching and engines humming just outside the hospitality suite, you scroll through your phone aimlessly. News alerts. Emails. A weather update. And then—

A Facebook notification.

You tap it open.

A message from Charles. The first in years. The app displays the last time you spoke: 2018. It’s a strange timestamp, haunting in its simplicity. A frozen past.

His message is short, straight to the point.

I know it’s been a while. If you have time while you’re in Monaco, maybe we could catch up? Would be nice.

You stare at the screen for a long time. You tell Carlos about it when the two of you are back in your hotel room, because everywhere else feels too public for a fact so intimate.

“He messaged me,” you say simply, showing him your phone.

Carlos reads it. Looks up, searching your face. “Do you want to go?”

“I wanted to ask you first.”

He smiles at that, gentle and firm all at once. “You’ve never had to ask for my permission.”

You nod, grateful. As you move toward the closet to pick an outfit, Carlos watches you with a kind of amused affection.

“What?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.

Carlos grins ruefully. “Just thinking about how good of a story this is.”

“The story of Charles and me?”

“Yes. I can’t compete.”

You frown, turning to face Carlos. “What do you mean?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect and realize they were meant for each other,” he says, half-joking, half-not. Enough to give you in second thoughts on whether you should go at all.

You walk over, hands on your hips. “We’re not meant for each other,” you say exasperatedly.

Carlos chuckles, his arms instinctively going to wrap around your waist. “I know, but in this story, I’m the evil Spaniard standing in the way of il predestinato’s destiny.”

You grab the nearest pillow and attempt to smack him with it, a laugh bubbling through your unease. “Shut up,” you huff.

He catches the pillow midair, chuckling, and you lean over to kiss him quickly before turning back to the closet.

The Oceanographic Museum of Monaco perches over the sea like it’s always been there. Unchanging, while everything else around it has moved and morphed and grown. It’s one of the few places in the Principality that still feels untouched by the glamour and spectacle. It’s where you and Charles used to sneak away on slow afternoons, pretending you were explorers, eyes wide at the glowing tanks and coiled sea creatures.

There aren’t many places Charles can go without being recognized anymore. But there are places that will keep his secrets. Places he grew up in, just like you. Places that remember who he was before the rest of the world knew his name.

You walk past the same entrance where you once lined up on school field trips. There’s a hum of nostalgia in your chest as you step inside, taking in the cool dimness, the sound of water lapping gently against glass, the muffled echo of voices.

You spot him by the jellyfish tank. His posture is looser than you remember, but still unmistakably him—tall, arms crossed, brow furrowed in thought. He’s dressed lowkey: baseball cap, neutral jacket. Still, you’d know him anywhere.

You walk up slowly. “Leclerc.”

He turns, startled. His face softens the moment he sees you. But there’s a beat—a pause like he’s searching for the right thing to say.

So you save him the trouble. You step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He hesitates for a breath. Then his arms come up around you, awkward and homely and unused to closeness like this from you, of all people.

When you pull back, your hands still on his arms, you both take each other in.

You laugh.

It bursts out, sudden and genuine. The absurdity of it. The familiarity. The age on both your faces and the way the years folded in on themselves like they never passed at all.

Charles grins. “Woah.”

“Woah,” you reply, breathless.

For a second, it feels like nothing ever changed. Even though everything has. You hug him again, more out of instinct than anything. It’s clumsy, short, but filled with everything you can’t quite say yet.

Charles sighs as you part. “I didn’t know what I’d say,” he confesses in fluent French. “I still don’t.”

“We don’t have to say anything clever,” you assure him, your French just a touch rusty but not any less sincere. “We’re here. That’s enough.”

You begin to walk the halls of the museum together. You are not strangers to the exhibits. Coral reefs, deep sea creatures, the huge skeletal models you used to dare each other to touch. But neither of you is paying much attention. Your conversation is light, filled with small talk: racing, writing, Madrid, the sea.

At one point, Charles stops by the virtual Great Barrier Reef exhibit.

“I should take a photo of you,” he says suddenly. “You, back in Monaco. It feels right.”

You laugh. “I don’t know if this is my most photogenic light.”

“It’s perfect,” he says, already raising his phone.

You pose at his incessant prodding, your entire form stiff in the blue glow of the exhibit. It casts oceanic shadows over your face, and you can’t help but feel a bit self-conscious.

Then Charles giggles—the sound so much like the laughter you remember from your yesteryears—and it breaks the tension. He snaps a few pictures, and you ease into it, eventually throwing up a peace sign.

When he’s done, he lowers the phone and smiles at you. “I’ll send them to you.”

You nod, heart warm, throat tight. (The photos never find their way to your inbox.)

It’s strange, being back. But it isn’t bad.

Not yet.

You sit at the far end of the museum, near the panoramic window that looks out over the endless stretch of the Mediterranean. The sun has dipped lower in the sky, and the light filters through the waves of the aquarium glass, painting you both in watery hues. There’s a hush here, the quiet that comes after the reunion adrenaline dies down, replaced by something slower. The final lap after a race.

You glance over at Charles, who’s scrolling through some of the photos he took of you. His mouth curls slightly at one, and you can see him pause like he’s committing the moment to memory.

“So,” you ask, voice casual. “Are you seeing anyone right now?”

Charles looks up, surprised—not by the question, but maybe by how directly it’s asked. He pockets his phone and responds, “Yeah. I am.”

You tilt your head, smiling a little. “Serious?”

He runs a hand over his face, sheepish. “We just started talking about getting married,” he admits with a hesitance that has you blinking in confusion.

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don't know.”

Your brows furrow. “If you love her, why don’t you know?”

He shifts in his seat, his leg bouncing slightly. “It's a little complicated.”

You don’t push, but you do watch him. After a beat, he relents. “I think I want her to marry someone more impressive than me.”

The quiet deepens. Not with discomfort, but with a kind of understanding that doesn’t need words. The two of you feel very old in that moment.

Not just in years, but in the way time has moved through you both. In the way the years have taught you to doubt what you give, to second-guess what you’re worth. The sea outside rolls on, unaffected. Timeless.

You rest your chin on your hand, looking out the window alongside him. “You’re still Charles,” you say quietly.

He doesn’t look at you. Just offers a tired smile. “Maybe that's the problem.”

You don’t respond. What is there to say?

Some people grow into the people they were meant to be.

Others spend their lives trying to prove they were always worth becoming.

And some—some just carry the weight of both.

Charles breaks the silence first. “What about you and Carlos?”

You smile, unable to help the way you grin whenever your husband’s name comes up in conversation. You tell Charles as much as you can without boring him. The bookstore kiss over the counter. The backyard wedding with cheap champagne. The hyphenated surname, the apartment you share.

You don’t mention the late-night talks, the bruises of uncertainty, the ache of Carlos carving out space for himself beyond the shadow of Ferrari. That part is too tender. Too recent.

Charles waits until you slow down. “I always figured he had someone,” he muses, “but he never said anything.”

“He wouldn’t,” you confirm. “He likes having some things that are only his.”

Charles’ gaze shifts, flickering somewhere to your hand. “I never thought it would be you.”

You can’t answer that. You don’t know how.

Silence slips between you again. This one is sharper, harder to bear. Your wedding ring feels impossibly heavy on your finger, like it’s pulling your entire arm down. You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of the weight of everything—not just the band of gold, but what it means. What it promises.

And what it leaves behind.

You return to the hotel late, just past the hour where the city outside softens and falls silent. The streets are darker now, shadows pressed up against the cobblestones, and inside, the room is gently lit. Carlos has left the bedside lamp on, waiting for you.

He’s in bed already, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes intense when they land on you. He doesn’t ask about your afternoon with Charles. You don’t offer anything. Instead, you slide in beside him, into the familiar ease of his warmth.

There’s no ceremony to it. No need. Just a glance, the softest touch of your fingertips along his jaw. He turns into it, eyes falling shut, and then his lips find yours.

You kiss like people who know each other’s shapes. Who’ve made a home in each other’s arms. The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, his hands tracing the line of your spine as if to remind himself: here, here, here.

You let him. Letting your hands cup the back of his neck, letting yourself be unraveled with quiet sighs and whispered nothings. The world narrows to this. To the hush of skin against skin, to the reverent way he holds you, to the way your name sounds like a promise on his lips.

In the afterglow, you lie curled against him, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. The silence is gentle, not heavy.

Then, Carlos speaks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you know that you speak in French when you talk in your sleep?”

“I do?”

“You never sleep talk in English, or Spanish. Just French.”

You tilt your head up. “I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

Carlos is quiet for a moment, fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare shoulder. You realize it’s his—your; a shared thing, now—surname. S-A-I-N-Z.

“Most of the time, I think it is cute,” he mumbles. “But sometimes... I don’t know. I get scared.”

You shift slightly. “Why do you get scared?”

He exhales slowly. The deep and dying breath of a weight he has carried for God-knows-how-long. “You dream in a language that I can’t understand,” he says in a voice so small that you don’t immediately believe it’s your husband you’re speaking to. “There’s this whole place inside of you where I can’t go.”

Your heart tightens at that. You reach up, brushing his hair back, and press your lips against his. The kiss is soft, lingering. A gesture that tries to say: come in. Come close. I’ll show you.

The Monaco sun is high and soft at once, glittering off the Mediterranean like sequins scattered by the gods. In the Ferrari garage, the air hums with nerves and reverence. You are here as Carlos’ guest. As his wife. But the Monégasque crowd, ever discerning, ever nostalgic, knows your face too well. They know you are here for Charles, too.

Charles’ mother finds you first, arms warm and familiar as she pulls you into a hug. Her voice is full of joy, like no time has passed. “Tu as grandi,” she says. You’ve grown up. You smile, because you know she means more than just your height.

Charles’ girlfriend, standing nearby, offers a polite smile. Tight. Controlled. She’s beautiful in a sharp, curated way. You return the smile, equally curated. This is not your moment. Not anyone’s, really. Not yet.

Carlos starts at P3, the sun catching in his visor as he climbs into the car. You squeeze his hand before he goes, press your forehead to his briefly, whisper something soft and private. A murmur amid the noise. A prayer to all higher powers. A ritual, as sacred as the vows you exchanged on your makeshift altar.

Charles is at P1.

The race runs steady. Smooth. Monaco is a street circuit notorious for its tight corners, but today it moves like silk beneath the tires. You stand with the engineers and crew, your eyes locked on the screens, barely blinking.

Lap after lap, Charles holds the lead.

Something blooms slow and aching inside of you. Not betrayal. Not regret. Just a deep-seated knowing. Of inevitability. Of time folding in on itself.

You remember it all: how you and Charles would sneak down to the port as children, watching the grandstands rise piece by piece, pretending the world was being built just for you. How he once said he’d win here someday, and you told him you’d be watching.

Is that a promise? he had asked, and you sobbed at the thought of him thinking otherwise.

Years and years and years past that afternoon, Charles Leclerc crosses Monaco’s finish line first.

You don’t hear the cheering right away. Not over the rush in your ears. Your heart feels stretched, as if it’s holding two lives at once.

A hand presses a tissue into yours.

You startle, realizing your cheeks are wet. You hadn’t noticed the tears. Not until someone—perhaps one of the crew, perhaps someone else entirely—offers comfort in the silence that follows greatness.

You take the tissue. You press it to your face.

Charles has won Monaco.

And for reasons too vast to name, you are crying.

Carlos finishes P3. The moment he finds you after the awarding ceremony, he is champagne-soaked and bright-eyed. His face is alight with something close to joy, but not quite. The smile he wears is wide, yes, but not as full as you hoped it would be.

Still, he doesn’t hesitate. He pushes through everyone—engineers, media, crew, well-wishers—to get to you, to honor the first race you have watched in person.

He wraps his arms around you and kisses you with the kind of devotion that carves out a space in time. When he pulls away, he whispers against your lips, “That one was for you, mi amor. For the little girl from Monaco.”

You close your eyes, and your heart stirs with something profound. You don’t know if Carlos knows the full weight of what he’s said, but you appreciate it. So much.

You try to tell him, try to choke it out, and it’s a mess of gracias and merci and thank you, like you can’t settle on which language you want to be grateful in. All of them, perhaps. It’s what he certainly deserves. He wills your indecision away with another kiss that feels like a promise in its own right.

After the moment quiets, after he’s pulled away to do media and you’re left watching from the side, your eyes drift.

And there’s Charles. He’s fresh off the podium, hair tousled from the cap, face flushed with the unmistakable color of victory.

There is too much that cannot be said.

You reach out your hand, and he sees it, understands it. He takes it. You squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back. Just once.

And in that moment, you think back to a classroom high on a hill, where you once told Charles, told yourself, that nobody from Monaco becomes a star.

You want to laugh. Or cry. Or both. You want to go back in time and shake your younger self by the shoulders, to tell her Vous avez tort. You are wrong.

You are holding Monaco’s star in your hands right now.

The bedsheets rustle as you and Carlos get ready for bed. He’s uncharacteristically contemplative, sitting at the edge of the mattress with his towel still slung over his shoulders from the shower. His hair, damp and curling slightly. His gaze, a thousand miles away.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the floor with an intensity that makes your chest ache. You reach for the lamp switch but hesitate, sensing something lingering in the air.

Finally, he says, “I’m trying not to think of it as a metaphor.”

You shift until you’ve settled beside him. “What do you mean?”

He glances at you, a weak smile barely tugging at his lips. “Charles finishing P1. Me finishing P3.”

You let the words sit between you before replying, gently, “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

Carlos exhales and turns his face toward you fully. “I don’t forget it,” he admits. “I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

Your heart fractures at the edges.

“It’s not you,” he says quickly, earnestly. “It’s not anything you’re doing wrong. It’s just…”

“The noise,” you finish for him, knowing of the voices in his head that he wars with everyday. They are commentators; they are his parents. They are you, too, sometimes, but they are also his own voice.

He nods, ashamed.

You reach up, thumb tracing the curve of his cheek. “Then let me be louder.”

He blinks, eyes dark and wide, as you lean in. The kiss you press to his lips isn’t urgent or rushed. It’s deliberate. Patient. A whisper of devotion, spoken without words.

He melts into you slowly, and you keep kissing him like a promise—like if you keep your mouth on his long enough, he’ll never again question the truth of your love. Like your lips could spell out every assurance in a language only the two of you understand.

Carlos pulls you closer, and when you break apart to breathe, his forehead rests against yours.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to.

You are his proof.

And you hope, as he closes his eyes and holds you tighter, that tonight he believes it in every bone of his body.

Carlos is already awake when you stir the next morning, his arm heavy around your waist, his breath warm and steady against your shoulder. You turn slightly to face him, eyes still adjusting. His gaze is soft, but a storm brews beneath it.

“Charles invited us out for a drink,” he says, voice low, like he’s not sure if he should be saying it at all.

You try to blink the sleep out of your eyes. “When?”

“Tonight. After press.” He hesitates. “I thought about not telling you.”

The confession lands gently, but not without weight.

“But you did,” you murmur, which loosely translates to Apology accepted.

Carlos’ hand tightens slightly around your side, grounding himself. “I could not keep it from you. Even if I wanted to. My conscience would not shut up,” he grumbles.

You breathe in slowly, watching the way his eyes won’t quite meet yours. You understand. How could you not? The history. The years. The tangle of past and present between the three of you, unspoken but undeniable.

Your fingers go to brush through his hair, still a little mussed from sleep. “We don’t have to go. Not if you don’t want to,” you reassure him.

His brow furrows. “I want you to go. That’s the problem.”

You let that settle. The truth of it.

Carlos shifts, pulling you closer. So close you can hear his heartbeat against your ribs. He holds you like he’s scared he already lost you. Like saying the words out loud made the fear real.

You wrap your arms around him in return.

And you think: maybe this is how you survive the past. By meeting it, side by side, in the present.

By bringing it to a dimly-lit speakeasy tucked away beneath the facade of an unassuming storefront. Velvet drapes and low jazz hum in the background. The amber lighting casts soft shadows across the walls. It smells of aged wood and whiskey, and even before you descend the narrow staircase, you can feel Carlos’s fingers brush yours for reassurance.

He doesn’t hold your hand. He rarely does in public. But this, tonight, is a little different.

Charles is already there, seated with a drink in hand at a table tucked into the farthest corner. He looks up as the two of you approach, eyes flicking first to Carlos, then to you. The smile that spreads across his face is genuine, if a little tentative.

Carlos is the first to speak. “Charles.”

They hug—tight, familiar, and briefly forgetting whatever weight still hangs between them.

You and Charles meet eyes next. The sight of him feels like catching your breath halfway. You step in, arms wrapping around him in a hesitant embrace. He holds you a second longer than expected, like memory pulled him in. When you pull apart, his smile is softer.

“Alexandra couldn’t make it,” he says, voice low and smooth. “But she sends her regards.”

You nod, offering a polite smile. “Tell her thank you.”

The three of you settle in, the velvet booth hugging you in close. Carlos sits next to you; Charles, across the two of you. Carlos’ thigh rests against yours beneath the table, grounding you. You can feel the tension in his leg.

Charles orders a round for the table. The server doesn’t ask for names. Of course they don’t. Everyone in Monaco knows who Charles is, who Carlos could be, who you once were. Even here, in the quiet corners of this exclusive speakeasy, the walls feel like they’re watching.

Drinks arrive. The ice clinks.

No one speaks for a moment. Then Charles clears his throat. “So... this is nice. I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

Carlos shifts slightly beside you, and you glance at him before replying. “We figured it was a good idea.”

Charles meets your gaze again. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Good idea.”

He takes a sip of his drink. Carlos rests a hand on your knee beneath the table.

And for a moment, the past and present sit together under amber light, waiting to see which of them will speak first.

You’re halfway through your drink, something citrusy and burning slow, when the conversation finds its rhythm. Easy, like skipping stones across a still lake. Carlos and Charles laugh about something from the garage, a story involving Lando’s half-zipped fireproofs and a mistakenly swapped helmet.

You lean back, watching them with a kind of quiet wonder. They’re good together, you realize. Not just on the track, but here too, outside the cars, outside the race. Carlos glances at you when he says something particularly ridiculous, like he’s checking if he’s still funny to you. He is.

The three of you have settled comfortably into English, but it meanders. You break into Spanish when Carlos exaggerates a story.

“Mentiroso,” you chide, nudging your husband beneath the table.

Charles grins. “What did you say?”

You look at him slyly. “I said he’s full of it.”

“Which is probably true,” Charles says, lifting his glass.

Later, you tease Charles with Frenchisms, dropping a mon pauvre when he recounts a rough stint in the simulator. He shoots you a pointed look, mock-offended.

“She says that when she’s trying to make me feel small,” Carlos stage-whispers.

Charles chuckles, then, almost offhandedly, says, “Well, he did ask me for French lessons once.”

Your eyes dart to Carlos, eyebrows raised. “Did you?”

Carlos hesitates for a beat, a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah. It was to understand you better.”

The warmth from your drink rises to your cheeks. You search his face. “Because of the dreams?”

He nods. Something in your chest pulls tight. Tender and aching. The idea of Carlos, awake in the middle of the night, trying to catch scraps of your unconscious language and learning a new one just to keep pace—it overwhelms you.

The irony is not lost on you, of course. The happenstance of him having asked Charles, of all people. But that is only second to the sheer affection you feel for your husband in that moment.

You reach for Carlos’ hand beneath the table, and he squeezes it twice in a wordless Te amo.

Charles, for once, gives you both a moment. He looks away, sipping his drink. But there’s a softness in the silence that settles. A quiet knowing.

You think, perhaps, he understands what it means to still be learning the language of someone you love.

With a little more alcohol in your systems, you and Charles slip into your native tongue.

Carlos scrolls on his phone, thumb lazily flicking past a feed he’s not really reading. He’s two drinks in, one leg bounced lazily beneath the table, but he hasn’t said much since you and Charles code switched.

You and Charles speak quietly, close enough to be overheard, yet cocooned in a language Carlos doesn't quite live in. You laugh softly at something Charles says about your shared childhood, but the ease falters when he leans in, eyes fixed on yours like he’s carrying something too big to keep anymore.

Charles says, “It is good that you immigrated.”

“I agree,” you say, words already beginning to slur just a bit. As if you’re unable to keep up with all the words within you.

“Monaco is too small of a country for you,” he muses. “It’s not enough to satisfy your greed.”

You both laugh, the kind that makes your shoulders shake and your cheeks ache. Carlos looks up briefly, sips from his drink, goes back to watching a video on mute.

And then Charles drops a quiet bomb, almost offhand. Spoken in the French that Carlos tried and failed to learn.

“I didn’t know that liking your husband would hurt this much,” Charles confesses lowly.

Stunned silence.

The air crackles around the three of you.

It’s as if something invisible but potent unfurls between you and Charles—a door that had always been there, just never opened. Now it’s swinging, slowly, soundlessly, wide.

Charles is not done. “When we stopped talking,” he says, “I really missed you. Did you…”

He trails off. You know what he means to ask. “Of course,” you respond. Bien sûr.

Charles’s tone sharpens, almost accusing. “But you met Carlos then,” he says.

You stiffen. “You met your girlfriend then, too,” you reply, the defensive edge in your voice unmistakable. You feel the shift in energy between you. Even through the buzz of alcohol and the nostalgic glow of memory, there’s a thin, tense wire stretched tight across the table, taut like a rubber band.

Are the two of you really being jealous of each other—here, now, with your husband sitting right next to you?

Charles catches himself, remembers his place. His expression softens. “I’m sorry,” he says. Je suis désolé.

You breathe out. “It’s okay.” C’est pas grave.

“I guess seeing you here again has made me have a lot of weird thoughts.”

“What kind of thoughts?”

“You know.” Charles hesitates, then seems to decide he’s gotten this far. “Seeing my first love after all these years. I shouldn’t have let her go. Thoughts like that.”

Carlos doesn’t look up from his phone, but somehow, the room feels smaller now. Like it knows too much. Like all three of you do, even as you try to protect your husband from it through the smokescreen of language.

Charles’ voice comes low, like he already knows this is the last time he'll speak this truth aloud. He goes on, the hypotheticals spilling out of him in one fell swoop. “What if I'd gone and found you in Madrid? What if you could have come back to Monaco? What if you had never left?”

Your breath catches.

“If you hadn’t left like that, and we just grew up together, would I still have looked for you?” Charles goes on. “Would we have dated? Broken up? Gotten married? Would we have had kids together?”

The room fades. The soft jazz, the warm laughter from another booth, the low murmur of Carlos's scrolling. All of it falls into a hush.

Charles pauses. His eyes are steady now, holding yours with a painful clarity. “Thoughts like that,” he finishes lamely.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Because there’s a weight to the moment—one that sits heavy in your ribs, tearing you up from the inside.

And then, he adds, gently: “But the truth I learned here is, you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is someone who leaves.”

There it is.

The ache spills into your chest before you even realize it’s taken root. Because it’s not unkind, what he says. It’s not bitter. It’s worse—it’s honest.

In that honesty, something beautiful and impossible hangs between you. A version of your life that will never be lived.

Charles sits back then. Just slightly. As if he’s letting go of a memory before it can burn him.

You sit across from him and let the ache settle in quietly, like a language you’ve always known how to speak.

Quelqu'un m'a dit drifts from the bar’s speakers like a whispered secret, Carla Bruni’s voice smoky and lilting in the familiar French. You recognize it immediately. The lyrics stir something in you. You let them settle into the silence between you and Charles, where his confession still hovers like dust in a beam of light.

I am told that our lives don’t have great value, Carla sings. I am told that the time that slips away is a bastard and that it’s making coats from our grief.

You finally speak, your voice half-swallowed by the velvet dark around your booth. “The girl you remember doesn’t exist here.”

Charles looks up. His eyes are soft. “I know.”

You nod once, slowly. “But that little girl did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but it doesn’t mean she’s not real.” A beat. You breathe in, steady. “Seventeen years ago, I left her with you.”

Charles exhales. He looks like something fragile just cracked inside him.

“I know,” he says again. “And even though I was a kid, I loved her.”

There is no shame in his voice. No hesitance. Just the truth.

You both laugh; the sound, an exhale of something too old to cry about.

The song goes on. Someone told me that you still love me, Carla croons.

Charles adds—softly, earnestly, even as his heart breaks in real time—

“To Carlos, you’re someone who stays.”

You don’t say anything back. Because that, too, is the truth.

Carlos looks up at the mention of his name, brows lifting as if surfacing from deep thought. His eyes shift between you and Charles, searching for context. Charles smirks, the crooked kind of smile that’s equal parts tease and defense mechanism.

“We’re talking shit about you,” Charles teases, the way only an old friend can joke, as though time hadn’t passed and no lines had been drawn.

Carlos’ expression flickers through something complicated—surprise, amusement, a flash of wariness. But it softens when you lean into his side, your head resting against his shoulder for a fleeting second. The kind of gesture that makes things make sense.

A minute later, you excuse yourself to the bathroom.

The table goes still. The music, ambient and moody, flows like a whisper through the speakeasy. Carla’s voice is now a distant echo.

Charles watches your retreating figure. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, out of nowhere, he says to Carlos, “Thank you.”

Carlos turns to him. “For what?”

Charles doesn’t answer. He just shrugs, looks away like the answer should be obvious, or like saying it out loud might ruin it. The words aren’t necessary. Not here.

Carlos studies him for a moment, quiet. “You are welcome,” he says simply. Accepting grace for the time spent as teammates, for the woman he loved well enough that Charles became nothing but a footnote.

The moment stretches out. Heavy, but not uncomfortable.

And then, Charles—perhaps for the first time in years—lets the emotion rise unchecked. His lips press together, nostrils flaring just slightly. His jaw tightens. The tears don’t fall dramatically. They come silently, one blinking past his lashes and trailing down his cheek like a secret.

Carlos sees. He does. But he says nothing.

He turns his gaze away, choosing not to acknowledge what should never be spoken between them. It’s the kindest thing he can do.

When you return, the two men are sitting just as you left them. The moment is already buried, tucked between the folds of music and memory, where it will stay.

You tell Carlos you’ll walk Charles to his car. He nods once and stays seated, watching as the two of you slip past the velvet curtains and back into the night.

The speakeasy door closes behind you just as the last notes of Carla’s song follow you out, fading like breath in winter.

I am told that destiny is making fun of us. It doesn’t give us anything and it promises us everything.

Charles walks beside you, his hands in his coat pockets. The streetlights cast soft halos on the pavement. There are no paparazzi here, no fans, no noise. Just you and him and the silence of streets that seem older than memory.

“We should do this again sometime,” Charles says. His voice is light, but the words are heavy.

“Definitely.”

You both know it’s a lie.

Monaco will likely never be in your orbit again. Not like this. Not with this kind of ache. Not with this kind of clarity.

The walk to the parking lot is slow, like your feet understand what your heart refuses to say out loud. You think about destiny—how strange and cruel and circular it can be. Charles, golden child of Monte Carlo, boy who was born to drive. He fulfilled his. You know it just by looking at him.

You have yours too. One that took you far from the Riviera, far from childhood ghosts, and into a life that is yours.

Somewhere between the beginning and the end, you and Charles became people who no longer quite fit into each other’s stories. Maybe you were never meant to. Maybe that’s the point.

He stops at his car, turns to you with that soft, sad smile. You hug him one last time. He lets go slower than he should.

“Take care of him,” he says.

“I will,” you promise. You would do it even if Charles didn’t ask you to.

He nods. Then, quietly: “Take care of you, too.”

Charles gets into his car. You stand there a moment longer, watching him ready to drive off into the city that raised him.

You don’t cry then.

Destiny doesn’t owe you that.

You turn around, the weight of Charles’ goodbye already settling in your chest, when you hear him call out—

“Hey!”

It’s just a word. Just a sound. But the way he says it, like it comes from somewhere deep, somewhere old, turns the air electric. For a moment, it doesn’t feel like you’re in the present. That single word—“Hey!”—rewinds everything.

It’s summer again. You’re a child. You’re in Monaco. You’re at your front door, and Charles is on his bicycle. He says au revoir instead of je t’aime because he is too young to understand the latter. He bikes the entire length of Monaco and back, passing by your house a dozen times even though you’ve already been taken away by a ferry that Charles will curse for months to come.

The memory flickers on like a fluorescent light about to burn out.

You turn to look at Charles now, in the dim glow of the parking lot. For a moment, you’re fooled. You could believe he’s still that boy, standing at your front porch and watching his whole life as it’s about to split in two.

Charles has stepped out of his car. His face is flushed with everything he doesn’t say. There’s conflict written all over him.

The desire to speak versus the need to stay silent. The affection versus the reverence. The sting versus the respect. His hands twitch slightly where they hang by his sides.

Finally, he says, voice softer than it's been all night, “In a past life. Do you think...?”

A supposition. It is the closest you will get to each other without betraying what you both currently have.

Smiling sadly, you manage, “Maybe.”

He tongues the inside of his cheek. An old habit, one that kept him from crying. “Okay,” he croaks. “Alright.”

“Charles…”

“No, no,” he says quickly, holding up a hand, the tiniest of smiles breaking through the storm in his eyes. “I’ll take 'maybe'.”

You swallow, and it feels like you’re swallowing every version of the past that could’ve been. “Okay.”

His gaze lingers. The moment stretches, enough that you feel every second like you’re learning how to count for the first time again.

Un. Deux. Trois. Quatre. Cinq. Six—

“Maybe in a next life, too,” he says.

You blink. “Charles—”

“See you then?”

Your mouth stays parted, but the words don’t come. This one is an invitation you do not know how to RSVP.

Charles gets back in the car. The door shuts with a soft finality.

He drives off.

And just like that, the spell breaks. The memory fades. Monaco is now. Monaco is then. And you’re walking back to Carlos.

You head back into the speakeasy.

You begin crying.

With each step, you cry harder.

You are crying like the little girl you once were, except Charles is not there to watch you cry. He is not the one with a hand hovering awkwardly over your shoulder, not the one with a conflicted expression at the sheer enormity of your emotions. You cry alone.

Your heels click across the floor as you re-enter the bar, the sound too loud against the low music and warm hush of patrons. No one looks your way, but you feel like a spectacle anyway. A walking memory unraveling at the seams.

Carlos is waiting for you.

He’s not on his phone. His drink is untouched. It’s like he’s been watching the door the entire time, as though he truly wondered if you might not come back. If you might run away with the boy you once loved and never stopped missing.

When Carlos sees you in tears, his expression crumples. His mouth parts slightly, his brows pull in. There is no jealousy in his face. No accusation. Just sorrow. Just heartbreak, raw and unhidden, like he’s feeling your pain along with his own.

You stand in front of him, unable to say a word.

Carlos doesn’t speak either.

He watches you for a brief moment. Then he reaches for you.

You fall into his arms. He wraps them around you, strong and warm and sure, and holds you while you cry. And cry. And cry.

You bury your face into his shoulder, hands clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might anchor you to the earth. He strokes your back slowly, murmuring something you can’t hear but feel in the weight of his hold. It could be English, or Spanish, or French. You’re not sure.

You are crying like the little girl you once were, except this time—this time—someone does something about it. Someone stays. ⛐

#oh my goodness #I started crying halfway through and then I couldn’t stop #unbelievably gorgeously written #charles leclerc x reader #carlos sainz x reader #fic rec #f1

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