callisrecords

[callisrecords]

me, covered in my blorbo’s blood after I wrote a fic about them

[callisrecords]

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description:

Part of the Beyond The Grid series.

Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn, honestly quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k

Part 2 - 13k

Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: a big big thank you to ashi (@junplusone) and rae (@nerdycheol) for beta-ing this and to tiya ( @gyubakeries) who sat through not just me yapping and losing my mind over this fic but also over real f1 happenings too 🥹 quite literally got me through the last 10k of this fic, no joke. this was incredibly fun to write and is the longest piece I've ever written fjdhfjd I hope you guys love it too!! also i swear to god i did not mean to jinx ferrari w this like don't come for me i am a ferrari fan too guys pls. do comment/reblog/send an ask w your thoughts!!

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying

May 24th

The room is cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your skin, into your bones – the kind that makes everything feel a little too sharp, a little too clear. Seungcheol wonders if it would be the right time to ask someone to turn the AC down. He stares at the screen at the front of the room, but the numbers blur together—lap times, tire degradation, sector splits—none of it matters. He already knows what they’re going to say.

His arms are crossed over his chest, jaw locked as his race engineer drones on about qualifying performance. Tyre warm-up wasn’t ideal. You lost a tenth in sector two. The front row was possible. Possible. Not achieved.

He should’ve been faster. He should’ve been better.

Seungcheol shifts in his seat, pushing his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t take notes. He doesn’t ask questions. No one is looking at him to lead this discussion anymore.

He’s had the feeling for a while now. Maybe it was when he won the championship last November. Maybe it was the pre-season meetings before testing in February. Maybe it was the first race, the one where he lost. Maybe it was the second when he—again—didn’t live up to everyone’s exceptions. Maybe it’s been the entire journey along the way. The thought has sat in the back of his mind for a long time and now it resurfaces, pressing hard against his temple. Seungcheol tries to push it back, tries to look at his race engineer and see the belief, the trust. He hasn’t seen that in a while too.

This isn’t your team anymore.

It doesn’t matter that he won the championship last year. It doesn’t matter that he was Ferrari’s chosen one, that he fought for them, bled for them, brought them back to the top. The shift was slow, subtle, happening in the way conversations changed, in the way people spoke to him, in the way expectations started to feel lighter. Not because he was carrying less, but because they were starting to place the weight elsewhere.

They don’t say it outright. They don’t have to.

He isn’t the future anymore.

Maybe, just maybe, they don’t believe he’s the present either.

And then there’s Jaehyun.

Seungcheol doesn’t turn his head, but he doesn’t have to. He can feel him sitting just a few chairs away, posture relaxed, flipping through his notes like he isn’t feeling the weight of this season pressing against his ribs. Like he’s not the one who’s supposed to be chasing, not the one who’s supposed to be trying to keep up.

But that’s not how it is anymore, is it?

Jaehyun is confident. Comfortable. Maybe even a little smug, though Seungcheol knows he wouldn’t show it. Not here, not yet. But Seungcheol feels it in the way the room leans toward him now. In the way the engineers talk, the way the strategists hesitate when they discuss race plans, the way every discussion that used to be centered around him now has another name in the mix.

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

Jaehyun is good. He’s always been good. But Seungcheol knows better than anyone that being good isn’t the same as being great. And yet, the way things are going, the way Ferrari is talking, the way everything feels like it’s slipping out of his grasp before he can hold on to it—

No.

His grip tightens around the pen in his hand. He forces himself to exhale.

No. The team is just shifting priority to be safe, he tries to convince himself. Seungcheol hasn’t been performing the same this season, and Ferrari cannot just sit there and wait for him to get his game back on. It’s only natural that they shift their focus to Jaehyun. 

Who has been outdoing you in almost all the races till now, he thinks bitterly, but now is not the time. His focus must be on getting back to that top step tomorrow. He’s not on the front row, but he’s on P3. And he’s done this before. Multiple times. You’re a four time world champion for a reason, he reminds himself.

The meeting ends without ceremony. Someone thanks them for their time. The engineers start shutting their laptops, the strategists murmuring amongst themselves, but Seungcheol stays seated, pen still in his grip, gaze still fixed on the screen even as the numbers disappear.

He should leave. Get up, grab his water bottle, head back to his room, reset. He’s done this a million times before. Shake it off, focus on the race.

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

Around him, the room is shifting. The dull hum of post-meeting chatter fills the air, team personnel filtering out in quiet clusters. It feels casual. Like this was just another debrief, another normal day at Ferrari.

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

He knows he hasn’t been performing at his best. He doesn’t need the numbers on the screen to remind him. But the part that unsettles him isn’t just his own frustration. It’s that no one else seems particularly concerned.

A season ago, a bad qualifying would have meant hours of discussions, strategists picking apart every sector, his race engineer sitting with him long after the meeting ended. But now, the debrief ends too quickly. The team moves on too easily, like they aren’t waiting for him to fix it anymore.

Seungcheol finally stands, rolling his shoulders back, exhaling sharply. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That he just needs to focus on the race.

It’s Monaco. The crown jewel of the F1 calendar. He must do this.

—

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

Sunday, Race Day

May 25th

He grits his teeth, jaw locked so tight it feels like it might snap. Push? Like he hasn’t been wringing every last bit of performance out of this car, like he hasn’t been on the limit for the last forty laps?

Like this race hasn’t already been slipping through his fingers since the second he left the grid.

The tires are gone. The strategy didn’t work. The plan was to overcut, stay out, build a gap—but the numbers lied. The degradation is worse than they thought, and now he’s stranded, barely keeping the car pointed in the right direction as he tries to squeeze out just one more lap before pitting.

It’s Monaco. Track position is king. And yet, here he is, fighting against cars that should be behind him.

“Box, box.”

The words come through, sharp and final, and Seungcheol exhales hard through his nose. He throws the car into the pit entry, hits the brakes slowly and pulls into his box.

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

The rear-left refuses to come off, the mechanic scrambling, precious seconds bleeding away. Three seconds. Four. Five. By the time they send him back out, he knows. It’s done.

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

“Car ahead is Jaehyun and ahead of him is Haechan. The others ahead are yet to pit so you are back in P3 for now.”

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

His engineer is saying something else, some meaningless reassurance about the stint ahead, but Seungcheol isn’t listening.

He can’t listen.

Because he realizes, for the first time, that this isn’t just a bad day, or a bad weekend or a bad first half of the season.

This is the championship slipping away from him. This is driver number 1 slipping away from him.

The gap isn’t closing.

Seungcheol has been pushing—hard, too hard—but it’s not making a difference. The pace isn’t there, the tires are overheating, and every lap that passes feels like another door slamming shut in front of him.

The harbor glints under the afternoon sun, the yachts filled with celebrities and billionaires sipping champagne, watching from their floating palaces as the cars thread through the streets below. The air is thick with engine heat and the sea breeze, the grandstands packed.

Monaco isn’t just another weekend. It’s where legends win, where the greats cement their names.

And right now, he isn’t driving like one.

He flies through the tunnel, foot flat on the throttle. He knows every inch of this track, knows exactly where he should be gaining, but it doesn’t matter when the car isn’t responding the way he needs it to.

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

He shifts down aggressively into the chicane, braking later than he should, hoping for something—anything—to change.

The noise of the crowd swells as he rounds the Swimming Pool section.

His grip tightens on the wheel. It’s not supposed to be like this. He’s supposed to be attacking, not looking in his mirrors, not having to think about defending, not feeling the weight of the entire race pressing down on his chest.

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

The words snap through his earpiece, grating against his nerves. He forces himself to breathe, to settle the frustration threatening to spill over.

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

They want him to accept that this is all he’s getting today.

He sets his jaw and throws the car into the next turn, taking a little too much of the curb on the exit.

By lap 75, the gap between Seungcheol and Jaehyun is huge again.

It’s worse than before.

The second stop was clean, no delays, no mistakes. And yet, somehow, he’s still lost time.

Fucking Monaco.

It doesn’t matter how well he drives. It doesn’t matter that he’s hitting his marks, that he’s extracting everything left in these tires. The mandatory two-stop has killed any chance of clawing his way back.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. At this rate, he won’t even see Jaehyun’s rear wing by the time the checkered flag falls.

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

The younger driver had been quiet all race, sitting behind, waiting. But now with just four laps to go, he’s close. Too close.

Seungcheol shifts his grip on the wheel, fingers flexing, gloves damp with sweat inside the cockpit. The wheel feels smaller, the car tighter around him.

P3 is all he has left.

And he’ll be damned if he’s about to lose that too.

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

Seungcheol flinches, but only slightly, just enough to feel it soak through the fabric, just enough to remind him that he’s standing here, that this is happening.

Haechan and Jaehyun get down from their P1 and P2 steps, champagne bottles tilted high, foam spilling over their hands as they spray each other first before turning toward him. He lifts his own bottle, angles it in their direction, but it’s only for the sake of formality.

Haechan stands in the center.

There’s something about him. The way he carries himself, the way he looks at the trophy, the way his hands stay steady even in the chaos. Seungcheol watches the way he smiles, watches the way he doesn’t fumble under the weight of it all. He’s young, still early in his career, but he handles himself like someone who’s been here before. Like someone who expects to be here again.

It reminds Seungcheol of himself. Or at least, of the driver he used to be.

And that’s when it sinks in.

That he’s not getting it back. That there’s no way for him to fight for this championship, not this year. That whatever edge he used to have—the thing that made him great, the thing that made him unstoppable—it’s not there anymore.

He tightens his grip on the bottle, jaw locking as he exhales slowly.

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

But right now, it just feels like confirmation of what he already knew.

Seungcheol barely registers the walk back down to the garage. His ears still ring, whether from the crowd or the exhaustion settling deep in his bones, he doesn’t know.

His PR manager is beside him, speaking, but he only catches fragments. Media pen. Keep it neutral. Good points for the team. The same routine, the same lines, but it feels heavier today. Because he’s never had to talk about losing here before.

Seungcheol mentally scoffs at the way he thinks it’s become a routine. Since when was he this alright with settling for mediocrity?

The media pen is packed, cameras already rolling, reporters waiting. Seungcheol takes his spot, forces his expression into something composed, something neutral.

The first few questions are easy. Tyres, strategy, the mandatory two-stop. He answers on autopilot.

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

“Seungcheol, this track has always been one of your strongest, but today you missed out on the win for the first time in five years. How are you processing that? And with Haechan taking the victory, do you think he’s proving himself as a serious contender?"

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

For a second, he says nothing, fingers flexing against the edge of his race suit. Five years. He hasn’t lost here in five years. Until now.

"Yeah, of course, it’s disappointing. Monaco is always an important race, and I would’ve liked to fight for the win," he says, voice measured, controlled. "But we did what we could today. A podium is still a good result for the team."

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

"He did well. Controlled the race, didn’t make mistakes. Winning here takes a lot, and he handled it."

It’s short and simple and exactly what he needed to say but as he moves on to the next reporter, the weight of it lingers. Because to him, more than what he said, it’s what he doesn’t say that matters. 

He doesn’t say he could’ve won if he tried harder, if the situation were a bit different. He doesn’t say he hopes to win next time.

And for the first time in his career, he’s not sure if he will.

HOME

In your defence, you never really expected Seungcheol to attend the wedding, especially with it being held smack bang in the middle of the season. 

In his defence, you suppose this is the reception and not the wedding itself. It isn’t to say that you are unsurprised when you walk over to your table with Seungkwan to see Seungcheol’s name on the seating list. The name sits there in Madina Script, all elegant swirls and carefully placed flourishes, as if good typography could soften the impact of his presence, slotted between yours and Jihoon’s, as if it belongs. You blink at it, half-expecting your eyes to be playing tricks on you, but Seungkwan sees it too, a soft sound of surprise escaping his mouth.

You can tell he’s excited as he sits down on your right, a small smile on his face that he tries to hide for your sake. You can’t help but shake your head and scoff at him in adoration. The boys haven’t seen Seungcheol in a while. He didn’t come back home last winter and you have a suspicion that it was partially because of you.

The reception hall hums with the easy lull of conversation, the clinking of glasses and silverware filling the space between soft music and warm laughter. The candlelight flickers against the delicate floral arrangements at the center of each table, casting shadows that sway with the breeze from the open terrace doors. Outside, the night stretches over the coastline, waves rolling lazily against the cliffs below. It’s the kind of evening that feels untouched by time, the kind where memories slip into the present so seamlessly that it’s easy to forget just how much has changed.

And it applies to you as well, as you turn toward the entrance, hoping to catch Jihoon before he finds his seat. You're ready to convince him to sit next to you when you spot the figure just behind him. For a moment, your stomach flutters, instinct overriding reason. You feel the simple pleasure of seeing someone familiar before you remember. Before it really registers who you’re looking at.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks too. Just for a split second, which you notice only because you were already looking at him. You turn back to Seungkwan, wondering why Seungcheol looks surprised that you’re here. You live in this town. It’s your neighbour’s wedding. Of course, you’d be here.

Seungcheol exhales slowly through his nose, steadying himself as he weaves through the tables. It’s fine. He’s fine. This night is just another social obligation—one he’ll get through with practiced ease.

Or so he thinks.

Because when he finally reaches his assigned table, when his gaze flickers over the place cards arranged neatly around the table, he sees it.

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

Then, with the kind of composure he barely feels, he pulls out his chair and sits down. Like the sight of your name beside his doesn’t feel like a cruel fucking joke.

The chair legs scrape softly against the floor, but you don’t look at him. Not yet. You’re still angled toward Seungkwan, fingers tracing lazy circles against the stem of your glass, as if you haven’t noticed him at all.

But he knows better.

Seungcheol reaches for the placard with his name on it, turning it between his fingers like the cursive script might offer an explanation. As if some part of him still doesn’t quite believe it.

And then you shift—just slightly, just enough for your gaze to flicker toward him, catching him in the act.

He sets the card down and straightens his spine, forces an easy expression onto his face, even as his pulse betrays him.

“Hey,” he says, hoping he sounds simple, nonchalant. He wonders if it is of any use though. Twenty nine years of knowing him doesn’t usually get erased by almost a year of no contact.

“You look well.”

Your voice is  smooth, free of hesitation, and for some reason, that unsettles Seungcheol more than silence would have. He glances at you, finding your expression unreadable, your posture relaxed like this is just any other conversation. Like there’s nothing strange about exchanging pleasantries after everything.

He wets his lips, nodding slightly. “So do you.”

There’s a pause, not quite awkward, but not entirely comfortable either. You nod in acknowledgement, taking a slow sip of your drink, and he watches as the condensation on your glass leaves faint moisture on your fingertips when you set it down.

“How long have you been here?” he asks. You can tell he’s uncomfortable by the way he glances around the hall, not meeting your gaze.

“A while,” you say, your lips tilting slightly like you know he’s asking just to fill the air between you. “Long enough to know the best way to sneak out if it gets unbearable.”

Something in him eases, just slightly. “And here I was thinking you stayed for the speeches.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I like them.”

Seungcheol is about to say something when Seungkwan leans forward, elbows on the table, “Alright, before the drunk bridesmaids start their speeches, how’s the season going?”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head slightly before reaching for his drink. “It’s going.”

Jihoon doesn’t let that slide. “That’s a non-answer.”

Seungcheol huffs out something close to a laugh, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s been competitive,” he says.

Seungkwan hums. “Red Bull’s that fast, huh?”

Seungcheol sips before nodding. “Yeah. They came into the season strong. The car’s quick, and they’ve barely put a foot wrong.”

Jihoon leans back, considering that. “And Ferrari?”

Seungcheol shrugs, tapping his fingers lightly against his glass. “We’re not slow. Just not as consistent as we need to be.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s not last year.”

That part lingers. Last year was different. Ferrari had been the team to beat, and Seungcheol had been the one everyone was chasing. He doesn’t say it outright, but you hear it anyway.

Seungkwan senses that the conversation might be heading downhill and rushes to say, “Well, at least your team is second fastest. I remember reading that McLaren were dropping down into the midfield again.”

Jihoon lets out a dramatic sigh. “Man, remember when they were actually fighting for wins?”

Seungcheol chuckles, shaking his head. “Feels like forever ago.”

You stare at him, watching as he sips his drink again. There’s a lot you want to say but you settle for asking something else. “Next is Canada, right?”

Seungcheol pauses, fingers tightening just slightly around his glass before he looks at you. He blinks, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “Canada’s next.”

“Oh, Montreal’s always fun. Wet races, safety cars, chaos. Right up your alley, huh?” Seungkwan shakes his head as he leans back into his chair.

Seungcheol huffs a small laugh, shifting his attention to him. “Something like that. Hopefully.”

Seungkwan hums in response, but before he can say anything else, a commotion from the other side of the hall catches his attention. His gaze flickers toward the dance floor, where a group of slightly tipsy guests have started an impromptu dance-off. Jihoon follows his line of sight, shaking his head with a quiet laugh.

“Unbelievable,” Jihoon mutters, but there’s amusement in his tone.

Seungkwan leans in slightly, watching with clear interest. “I’ll give them five minutes before someone trips over their own feet and spills a drink on someone else.”

“Three,” Jihoon counters, reaching for his drink.

Their conversation drifts as they start making bets on which unfortunate guest will go down first, their focus shifting entirely to the spectacle unfolding before them.

And just like that, it’s just you and Seungcheol again.

You glance at him, catching the way his shoulders have stiffened slightly now that the buffer of conversation has faded. He’s staring at his drink, thumb tracing absently over the condensation on the glass.

“So,” he says, voice low, hesitant. “You still watch the races?”

You blink, turning fully toward him. “Of course, I do.” There’s a hint of offense in your voice, even if you don’t mean for it to be there. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Seungcheol exhales softly through his nose, like he’s considering something. Then, he offers a small, almost apologetic shrug. “I don’t know. Just figured—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

You don’t press him on it. Instead you sigh, staring into your empty glass, “I never got to congratulate you, by the way.”

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

“Your championship.” You give him a look like it should’ve been obvious. “2024. You did it again.”

Seungcheol laughs dryly, going back to his drink for a sip before he replies. “Wow,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Bit late for that, don’t you think? Not doing that great anymore, am I?”

It’s tossed out casually, but the bitterness is unmistakable. His voice is light, almost like he’s making a joke, but you know him too well. It’s in the way his fingers tighten around his glass, the way his gaze flickers away from yours just a second too long.

Your stomach twists. You hadn’t thought much of it at first. He’s always been hard on himself, always pushed himself further than anyone else ever could. But this might be different, you realize.

“I don’t believe that.” You challenge, frowning slightly.

Seungcheol scoffs quietly but doesn’t argue. He just leans back into his chair, letting out a long exhale while pretending to look around the venue. 

“I’m going to get another drink. Do you want anything?” He asks finally. 

You shake your head slowly, still watching him. “No, I’m good.”

Seungcheol nods, pushing himself up from his chair, but the weight of his words linger.

He’s deflecting, ignoring what you said before and that means something is definitely wrong. You think back on how this season’s been going, searching for any sign. He hasn’t been winning like he usually does. But it isn’t like he’s dropped off either. He’s been on the podium for almost every race till now. So really, what could be bothering him?

Just as he returns, a warm voice cuts through the chatter. “Well, well, if it isn’t the four of you together again.”

You turn to see the bride standing beside your table, her lips curved into a knowing smile. She glances at you first, then at Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Seungkwan before shaking her head fondly. “I was just telling my husband that it’s been ages since I’ve seen you four in the same place.”

Her husband raises an eyebrow. “They were that close?”

The bride lets out a soft laugh. “Oh, more than close. They were inseparable. If you saw one of them, you knew the others were nearby, usually getting into some kind of trouble. I remember trying to study in my room while these four ran up and down the street, screaming about some game they’d made up.” She shakes her head, eyes twinkling. “It was basically a ‘buy one, get three free’ situation.”

Seungkwan laughs, nudging you. “Hear that? We were iconic.”

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

Her husband chuckles, looking between the four of you. “Alright, so who was the ringleader?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” the bride answers before anyone else can. She tilts her head toward Seungcheol. “It was always him.”

Seungkwan snorts. “Yeah, because people actually listened to him. Meanwhile, the rest of us? Chaos.”

Jihoon hums in agreement. “He had that whole intimidating older brother thing going on. Worked wonders when we needed to get out of trouble.”

Seungcheol finally looks up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or when you needed someone to take the blame,” he mutters, shaking his head.

You sigh. “And yet, you still went along with everything.”

Seungcheol exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. “Someone had to make sure you three didn’t burn the neighborhood down.”

“Excuse me,” Seungkwan says, hand on his chest. “I was a delight.”

Jihoon snorts. “You literally almost set the park on fire that one time.”

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

The bride grins as her husband shakes his head, clearly entertained. He looks at Seungcheol before offering a handshake. “I just wanted to say—I’m a big fan. Wishing you luck for the rest of the season.”

Seungcheol blinks, slightly caught off guard, but he takes the handshake with a small smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

The second they’re out of earshot, Seungkwan leans in with a grin. “Wow, a big fan, huh?”

Jihoon hums. “Did you see that? He even looked a little starstruck.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, shaking his head as he picks up his drink. “You guys are unbearable.”

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. “The four-time world champion has no love for his supporters. Could be the next big scandal on the grid.”

Seungcheol groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as Jihoon and Seungkwan dissolve into laughter.

You watch them, unable to stop the smile stretching across your lips. It’s been so long since you’ve seen them like this, teasing and bickering as if nothing has changed. As if life hasn’t pulled you all in different directions, as if time hasn’t worn away at the bond the four of you thought was unbreakable. For some of you, it still is unbreakable, you suppose. You’ve got to give Seungkwan that, since you see his insufferable face every day.

But it still aches, just a little. Because you know things aren’t the same anymore. Because you’re not sure if they ever will be.

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

The garage is comparatively quiet today, Seungcheol notes as he follows his race engineer inside. Must be because most of the mechanics have gone for lunch.

Thursday, Media Day

September 4th

The usual hum of conversation and metallic clang of tools is subdued, leaving only the low whir of cooling fans and the occasional murmur of engineers discussing setup changes. There are a few mechanics working on Jaehyun’s car on his side of the garage, but his side is mostly empty. The silence should be a relief, a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the race weekend begins. But instead, it feels suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a weight he can’t shake off.

There’s a weight in the air here that doesn’t exist anywhere else. Monza. Ferrari’s home race. The Tifosi already gathering outside the paddock, red flags draped over the fences, the pressure thick enough to choke on. He’s raced here for years, he knows what this weekend means—to the team, to the fans, to himself.

Which is why the growing pit in his stomach feels so out of place.

His car sits on the floor stands, untouched. No mechanics checking the rear suspension, no engineers reviewing his setup. But just across the garage, Jaehyun’s car is surrounded by people, a quiet buzz of activity following his teammate’s every movement.

Seungcheol glances at one of his engineers, who is flipping through setup notes on his tablet, barely paying him any attention.

“So, ahead of FP1 tomorrow, we’re keeping things mostly the same-”

“We need to fix the rear,” Seungcheol interrupts, voice firm. “I told you last week. It’s too light on the corner entry. If we don’t stiffen it, I’ll be fighting the car all weekend.”

The engineer exhales, rubbing his temple like this is an inconvenience. “We’ll keep an eye on it after FP1.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

Not a yes. Not even a no. Just a ‘later’.

The frustration simmers low in his chest, but he forces himself to breathe slowly, keeping his voice measured. “I’ve been saying this since Silverstone. We don’t need to wait for practice to confirm what we already know.”

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

A humorless chuckle threatens to rise in his throat, but he swallows it down. “I gave you the data last race.”

His engineer doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t bother coming up with a real answer, just nods vaguely, already shifting his attention back to the screen. Like this conversation is over. Like his concerns aren’t worth addressing now.

The irritation claws its way up his spine, but before he can say anything else, a voice from across the garage catches his ear.

“…he said he wasn’t comfortable with the rear,” one of the engineers mutters, crouching near Jaehyun’s car.

Another voice, sharper. “Yeah, we’re softening it a little, adjusting the setup so it’s more stable through the corners.”

Seungcheol stills.

His grip tightens around the water bottle in his hand, plastic crinkling under the pressure.

The same issue. The same complaint. Except this time, there’s no hesitation, no we’ll see after FP1, no vague nods and brushed-off concerns. They’re already fixing it. Already adjusting, already making sure his car is exactly how he needs it before he’s even turned a lap. And his car? Still untouched. 

“Good,” one of the engineers says. “Can’t have him struggling this weekend.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

The shift isn’t always obvious at first. It starts in small ways. Whose concerns get addressed first, whose feedback carries more weight in meetings, whose name gets spoken with more urgency. It’s subtle, so subtle that if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve convinced himself he was imagining it.

But he isn’t.

Not when he’s standing in the garage in Monza, in his team’s home, and watching everyone move just a little faster for someone else.

And it’s not that Ferrari doesn’t want him anymore. It’s not that they’re pushing him out. But they’re not prioritizing him either. They still expect him to perform, still need him, but they aren’t listening to him the way they used to.

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

This is why the paddock has been whispering. This is why people have started wondering about his future. He hadn’t wanted to believe it before, had pushed it aside as nothing more than speculation. But maybe they saw what he was just now realizing.

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

They’re keeping him. But they’re investing in Jaehyun.

It’s been happening all season.

From the very start, Seungcheol remembers the discrepancies—strategy calls that made no sense, pit stops that were just a second too slow, orders that left him boxed in at the worst possible times.

And all this time, he’s chalked it up to bad luck. A miscalculation here, a mistake there. But how many miscalculations does it take before you realize they’re not just mistakes?

And the worst part? What have I done to deserve it? Nothing.

His results haven’t been bad because of him. He’s still the same driver who won them four championships. Every time he’s lost a win, lost a position, it’s been because of something they did. Something they got wrong.

He watches as Jaehyun steps inside, relaxed as he greets the engineers. They respond instantly, turning their full attention toward him, nodding as he speaks, making sure everything is exactly as he wants it.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

Jaehyun doesn’t have to fight to be heard anymore.

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

The thought hits him harder than he expects. His fingers loosen around the water bottle he's holding, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something else. Something bitter.

Because suddenly, he remembers a different season. A different teammate.

Mingyu.

Seungcheol hasn’t thought about him in a while—not like this, not with the clarity he has now. But looking at Jaehyun’s car, watching the way the team moves around him, listens to him, works for him—he realizes it must have been the same back then, too.

Mingyu probably saw this.

Felt this, back when Seungcheol was the one Ferrari was pouring everything into, when every strategy revolved around him, when every upgrade, every minor tweak, was designed to suit his driving style first.

Mingyu had been a damn good driver. More than good enough to fight, to challenge, to win. But how many times had he been left with the we’ll see after FP1? How many times had he looked at Seungcheol’s car and known that he wasn’t getting the same level of attention?

Seungcheol had never thought much of it before. He’d always told himself that it was just how things worked, that the team backs the driver who can win. He hadn’t considered how it must have felt to be on the other side of it. To watch your team slowly stop listening. To realize that the people you trusted to have your back were already shifting their focus elsewhere.

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

Only this time, he’s the one left waiting.

A mechanic brushes past him, calling out instructions, but Seungcheol doesn’t move. He keeps his eyes on Jaehyun’s car, watches as the team works quickly—effortlessly—to make sure his teammate is comfortable, that his car is exactly how he wants it.

Seungcheol unclenches his fingers and rolls his shoulders back, forcing his expression into something more relaxed, more neutral.

Then he turns on his heel and walks out, not saying another word.

Seungcheol’s spent six years at Ferrari. He’s won them four driver’s championships and five constructors. He was the one who dragged them back to the top, who delivered their first driver’s championship in fifteen years, who gave them the momentum they needed to take the constructors’ title the year after. He was the one who gave his blood, sweat and tears to this. 

Heck, you even sacrificed your relationship fighting for this team, He mentally scoffs.

Seungcheol’s never been the second driver. And he sure as hell isn’t about to start becoming one now.

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about Monza. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend. To all the other Italians watching on their TVs. 

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour. 

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans. 

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once. 

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself. 

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

Seungcheol doesn’t know why he’s bothering with coffee. It’s not like he needs it. His body is already running on adrenaline, his mind sharp, wired, bracing itself for the race ahead. But still, he stirs sugar into his cup, watching it dissolve in slow, deliberate circles.

It gives him something to do. Something to focus on that isn’t the feeling creeping under his skin, the quiet conversations happening around him.

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

Seungcheol looks up, finding Jaehyun standing across from him, arms folded loosely over his chest, gaze unreadable but not unkind.

“Sometimes,” Seungcheol replies, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. “You?”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Doesn’t sit right. Too bitter.”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, a faint scoff of amusement. “That’s because you drink it wrong.”

Jaehyun tilts his head slightly, considering that. “Or maybe you just have bad taste.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Right. That’s why I’m the one drinking an actual espresso and not whatever sugar-filled disaster you get at the airport before flights.”

Jaehyun lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, first of all, an iced latte is not a sugar-filled disaster.”

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

For a moment, it almost feels easy. It reminds Seungcheol of when they weren’t sharing the same garage, when they weren’t dealing with the undercurrent of tension that came with being teammates. Back then, things had been simpler, Jaehyun in his own team, Seungcheol in his, their conversations laced with nothing more than lighthearted competition. The paddock had been big enough for both of them, their rivalry something manageable, something that only existed on track.

Jaehyun shifts slightly, straightening his posture, finally getting to the point.

“So,” he says, exhaling lightly. “Big day ahead.”

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

Jaehyun taps his fingers against his arm, watching him carefully. “You’re planning to be difficult?”

Seungcheol finally looks at him. “Aren’t you?”

Jaehyun holds his gaze for a second longer before huffing out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying, it’d be nice if we both made it to the finish line today.”

Seungcheol nods, slowly but surely. “Then don’t give me a reason to stop you.”

Jaehyun’s lips twitch like he wants to say something else, but he just nods once before stepping back.

Seungcheol watches as he walks off, settling at another table, already engaged in quiet conversation with one of their engineers.

He picks up his coffee again, rolling the cup between his palms.

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

Seungcheol’s brother tosses you your drink as you settle down on the corner of their couch, next to your father. You wipe off the condensation on the can with the sleeves of your sweatshirt, tucking your legs under yourself as your father pats your knee, still talking strategy with Seungcheol’s dad. Your mothers are in the kitchen, loading the last plates from dinner into the dishwasher before they come over for the race. 

Seungho sighs, fiddling with the remote as he settles on the right channel before plopping down onto the bean bag at your feet. Your mothers sit on the two seater, smaller sofa to your left, you sitting with the fathers on the bigger one, just like you have for years. Race day traditions don’t just disappear, even when everything else has changed.

Seungcheol’s father peels an orange, handing over the pieces to you and Seungho. Your mother complains about the AC’s temperature, but your father tells her that it’ll be hotter by the time the race starts anyway. Your finger already finds its place on the corner of the sofa’s armrest, the splinters of old wood that you pick on when the race gets heated. You don’t need to just yet, but you guiltily realize that you’re ruining their sofa every time. No one says anything to you about it. No one has to. It’s been your spot, your thing for years.

Seungho nudges you lightly, nodding toward the TV. "They’re saying the softs might not last long in the first stint," he muses, popping a piece of orange into his mouth. "You think Ferrari will actually pit at the right time today?"

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

He hums, shifting in his seat. "If they want a chance at winning, they need to be aggressive. Hards won’t get them track position, and the mediums are a gamble if the degradation is worse than expected."

You watch as the broadcast shows the tire allocations on screen, your eyes flickering over the strategies analysts have predicted. "Yeah, but you know they’ll be too focused on playing it safe. They always are when it actually matters."

Seungho sighs, not disagreeing. His gaze lingers on the Ferrari pit wall, the strategists adjusting their headsets. "Cheol won’t want to wait for them to figure it out," he says.

"They’re going to have to take risks eventually," he muses as the national anthem ends, watching as the cameras linger on Haechan as he walks back to his car. "Red Bull is too far ahead otherwise. Haechan’s been cruising all season, and Jeno’s not exactly slow either."

You shake your head, sinking further into the couch. "It’s ridiculous. Their car is practically untouchable. Even when they mess up, they still somehow come out ahead. It’s like they’re playing a different game."

Seungho leans back, arms crossed. "Ferrari had the chance to challenge them early on, but they didn’t capitalize when it mattered. Now it’s just damage control."

You chew on your bottom lip, eyes fixed on the screen as the camera cuts to Seungcheol on the grid. His helmet is still off, jaw set tight, gaze flickering across the sea of people moving around him. He looks calm, but you know better.

“You don’t think Jaehyun has a chance?” You ask distractedly.

Your father lets out a small laugh, “Wishful thinking, honey. Seungcheol and Jaehyun need to watch out and start playing for the team. The second Red Bull lad isn’t too far away from snatching up third or even second in the standings if these two mess up.”

—

The race settles into a rhythm, not a comfortable one, not for him, but a rhythm nonetheless.

Seungcheol grips the wheel tighter, eyes flickering between his mirrors and the track ahead. He’s in second, exactly where he started, but there’s no comfort in that. There’s a Red Bull ahead of him, and another behind.

And Jaehyun.

Jaehyun, who started P5. Jaehyun, who has been carving his way through the field. Jaehyun, who right now, is fighting for P3

He sees it happen in his mirrors, sees the moment Jaehyun lunges into turn one, late on the brakes but just precise enough to make the exit ahead of Jeno. A bold move. A necessary one. Seungcheol doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react beyond the slight press of his foot on the throttle, keeping his own pace steady.

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

The radio crackles to life. His engineer’s voice, calm and composed. But something’s still off.

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

Seungcheol doesn’t reply. Just tightens his grip, shifts slightly in his seat. He knows what’s coming next.

Another chime in his ear. “Let’s be smart about this.”

There it is.

He exhales slowly, foot pressing just a little harder against the throttle. Smart, meaning don’t fight too hard. Smart, meaning don’t ruin the team’s chances. Smart, meaning move.

He’s done playing smart.

Jaehyun is closing in, the red of his Ferrari filling Seungcheol’s mirrors as they barrel down the straight, DRS open, momentum in his favor. Seungcheol adjusts, keeping his line just tight enough to force him to work for it.

The first chicane is clean. The second is anything but.

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

They come out the other side still wheel-to-wheel, neither willing to yield.

The straight ahead is the fastest part of the track, the only chance to breathe before the next braking zone. Seungcheol is already calculating his defense, watching for the moment Jaehyun makes his move, ready to cover him off—

Too late.

Jaehyun clips the curb, the rear unsettled just enough to break traction. The car bounces, weight shifting unnaturally, and before Seungcheol can even react, he sees it. The flash of the underbelly, the violent twist of suspension giving out, the horrifying realization that Jaehyun’s car is airborne.

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

The force slams through him, the weight of the other car crashing down against his, shaking his entire body. The harness digs into his shoulders and ribs, holding him in place, but his head snaps forward, then back, helmet knocking against the headrest. The sound is deafening—metal crunching, carbon fiber shattering, the high-pitched screech of tires skidding helplessly across asphalt. His vision blurs at the jolt, breath knocked out of him as they careen off track, the gravel rushing up to meet them. The car shudders violently, bouncing as the suspension struggles to absorb the force. He barely registers the dust cloud kicking up around him, the shards of debris scattering across the runoff.

You feel your heart stop as the scene unfolds on the screen. It stutters hard, gripping your chest and throat as you stare at the two Ferraris get pushed into the gravel. From the corner of your eye, you see Seungho get up, hands on his head. No one in the room speaks. No one moves. The only sound is the distant murmur of the commentators, voices rising with urgency, barely registering in your ears.

“Oh my word! Massive crash between the Ferraris! Are both the Scuderia cars OUT of their home race?”

Even with the volume low, even through the ringing in your ears, you hear the grandstands erupt. A mixture of shock, horror, disappointment.

The slow-motion replay flashes across the screen—Jaehyun’s car hanging in the air for a fraction of a second before crashing down on top of Seungcheol’s, the halo absorbing the impact.

“Look at that! The halo is doing its job there, saving Seungcheol. But what a terrifying impact!”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sweater, your chest aching with the force of holding your breath. The camera shifts to the wreckage, two Ferraris, lifeless in the gravel trap, neither driver moving yet.

The ringing in his ears is the first thing Seungcheol notices. Then the tightness in his chest, the dull ache in his shoulders, the way his hands are still gripping the wheel like the race isn’t already over. His body feels heavy, like he’s just been thrown into a brick wall and left there.

He blinks.

His visor is coated in a thin layer of dust, the track ahead distorted through the haze of gravel and smoke. Something is still pressing down on him. Jaehyun’s car, still partially tangled with his own.

His radio crackles, his engineer’s voice cutting through the ringing.

“Seungcheol. Seungcheol, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

He inhales slowly, tests the movement in his fingers, flexes them once, twice. His chest rises and falls, shallow but steady.

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

You hear the shuddering breath of relief that his parents let out as soon as they hear his radio on the television. You exhale too, feeling your hands tremble. You’ve seen Seungcheol crash before. But it’s never felt like this. Never this violent or sudden. Never with another car landing on top of him.

Your fingers dig into your sweater as you stare at the screen, waiting for movement, waiting for confirmation that he’s okay beyond just two words through the radio. The marshals are already there, swarming the wreckage, clearing debris, working to separate the cars, but you can’t tear your eyes away from Seungcheol’s cockpit.

You barely register as Jaehyun jumps out of his cockpit, turning around to look at the wreckage before shaking his head and walking away. It infuriates you. Seungcheol was doing what he had to do to defend. Why did this guy have to come in and ruin it all? There was a turn there, maybe he didn’t fucking notice that he had to move his steering wheel, you seethe.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage. His mechanics are frozen, watching the same screen, the same image of his wrecked car, faces unreadable but tight with something that looks a lot like guilt.

Seungho mutters. “Come on, man, Get out.”

And then, finally, movement.

The top of his helmet shifts, his hands coming up to unbuckle his harness. You feel like puking as he pushes himself up, slow and obviously shaken up, until he’s climbing out of the car.

“And it’s confirmed,” The commentator begins, “Both Ferraris are out of the race at Monza! Can you believe it? In front of the thousands of Tifosi here, it has been a nightmare of a weekend for Ferrari.”

But as you watch Seungcheol stand there for a moment, staring down at the car that was supposed to take him to victory today, you can’t help but stop the unease from settling down in your gut. 

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

When he’s let back to his driver’s room after the medical check-up, Seungcheol slams the door shut behind him, the sound echoing through the empty halls. The windows shudder from the impact, but he pays no mind to them. 

His helmet is still in his hands, his grip so tight it almost hurts. His fingers flex around the edges, his breathing shallow, the weight of everything pressing down on him all at once. Then, without thinking, he hurls it across the room.

It crashes against the lockers with a violent clang, bouncing off metal before rolling to a stop near the couch. The sound rings in his ears, but it’s not enough. Nothing is enough.

He braces his hands on the edge of the table, exhaling sharply. His pulse is still hammering against his skull, a blunt ache settling at the base of his neck. His body feels stiff, sore from the crash, but it’s the frustration crawling under his skin that he can’t shake. He walks over to the bathroom.

This shouldn’t have happened.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenches as he stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His hair is damp with sweat, strands sticking to his forehead, his suit— the prized, blazing red overalls he once admired, the bright yellow emblem he respected— still covered in dust and streaks of dirt from the gravel trap. He looks exactly how he feels, like he’s been through a war and came out of it with nothing.

His head falls forward, hands dragging down his face, pressing hard against his temples.

He knows what’s happening outside. He knows that while he’s in here trying to catch his breath, Ferrari’s PR team is already working overtime to control the damage. He knows that somewhere in the paddock, Jaehyun is in his own driver’s room, being comforted, reassured, told that this wasn’t his fault.

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

He doesn’t need to hear it to know how this will play out.

Jaehyun is young, new, still learning. Seungcheol is experienced. Seungcheol should have been the one to manage the situation better.

That’s how they’ll spin it. That’s how they always do.

His knuckles whiten around the edge of the sink. He doesn’t trust himself to move just yet, not when his entire body feels like it’s still vibrating from the adrenaline. The crash replays behind his eyes every time he blinks—the lunge, the curb, the impact, the moment he realized he was completely powerless to stop it.

Be grateful you’re alive and well, Seungcheol reminds himself. It could’ve been so much worse. You’re okay. Physically.

Seungcheol struggles to get this breathing under control as he walks back out, picking his helmet up from the floor. A small part of the covering has chipped off, but it’s nothing he can’t get fixed. He stares at it for a moment— the black, prancing horse that adorns the back of his helmet. His race engineer had convinced him to get it after he’d won Monza for them in his debut year at the team. 

“You deserve to proudly show off that emblem,” He’d chuckled as he affectionately patted Seungcheol’s back.

Seungcheol wonders if he still thinks that. If he’s still deserving of this team’s respect. If they still have some for him, even if he is.

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

“Cheol, are you alright in there? Let me in.” It’s Seokmin, his trainer.

Seungcheol sighs. “I’m alright. Just leave me alone for sometime, please.”

Seokmin hesitates on the other side of the door, but eventually, his footsteps fade down the hall. Seungcheol exhales, pressing his fingers into his temples, trying to shake the exhaustion that clings to his body.

Then his phone vibrates.

The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp and unexpected. He doesn’t look right away, just lets it buzz against the table, debating whether he has the energy to deal with whatever crisis their PR team is about to throw at him.

But when he finally glances at the screen, his breath catches.

It’s you.

His throat dries up. For a second, he doesn’t move, just stares at your name, his mind sluggish in processing why, after everything, you’d be calling him now.

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

While you wait for him to pick up, standing in a corner of his parent’s backyard, you wonder if he’s changed his number already. Even if it is the same, would he still pick up?

The call connects.

You hear rough breathing on the other side. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, and you almost think he’s answered by mistake. Then, his voice comes through, low and strained.

“Yeah?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“Hey,” you say quietly.

Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away. There’s movement on his end, fabric rustling, the distant clatter of something being set down. When he finally speaks, his voice is flat, unreadable.

“What’s up?”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, glancing toward the house. His mother is still in the kitchen, her movements slow, like she’s distracted, like her mind is still on the crash. Your own parents are murmuring inside, their voices barely audible through the open back door.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” You sigh softly, “Are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Not too long, but long enough to know that he’s probably about to lie.

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

You don’t believe him and he knows that, because he doesn’t try to fill the silence or rush to convince you. There’s only the sound of his breathing, steadier now but still uneven at the edges, like he hasn’t fully caught it since stepping out of that car.

“No seriously, Cheol, everyone’s worried.”

There’s a soft scoff on the other end, the kind that isn’t amused at all.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol mutters. “They’re worried enough to call?”

You press your lips together, glancing back inside where Seungho stands at the door, a quizzical expression on his face as he tries to ask you what’s going on. “You know they are.”

Another pause. “Well, tell them they don’t have to be. I’m as good as I can be.”

You turn your back to his brother, throwing your head back in slight frustration, “Cheol, come on. They probably don’t want to bother you by calling right now.”

He doesn’t respond to that. The silence stretches again, and reality settles back in.

You kick at some of the pebbles on the ground, fingers tightening around your phone, “I wasn’t going to call either.”

“I figured. Wasn’t going to pick up either.”

You debate whether to say more, whether to ask the things you actually want to. Is Ferrari blaming you? Did Jaehyun say anything? Are you okay in ways that matter?

But you don’t. Instead, you sigh, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I called.”

Seungcheol hums, a little absentminded, but not dismissive. “Guess you were hoping I wouldn’t pick up.”

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

There’s something about the way he says it, like he knows neither of you really mean it, like he doesn’t mind that you called, even if he won’t say it outright.

You take a slow breath. “You should rest. I’ll let you go.” You hope someone reminds him to eat properly tonight. Hope someone eases his mind and tells him not to worry too much. That one loss here doesn’t mean the end of the world. 

He hesitates for just a second. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You hesitate too, Can’t you just say it to him yourself? 

But it’s not your place anymore. So you don’t.

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Seungcheol sits at the end of the long table, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Across from him, Ferrari’s team principal flips through his tablet, running over last-minute adjustments. His race engineer and senior management sit alongside him, unaware of why Seungcheol has called this meeting.

Friday, Post FP2

November 7th

They don’t know yet.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, gaze drifting across the room, over the familiar red embroidered logos, the crest of the prancing horse he’s carried on his chest for the last six years.

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

The team principal finally looks up. “Alright, let’s go over—”

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

At first, the reaction is mild, just confusion, like they’ve misheard.

The team principal’s fingers pause over his screen. His race engineer shifts slightly, exchanging a glance with the others.

Then, finally—

“What?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, voice even. “I won’t be re-signing with Ferrari.”

The words settle, the weight of them pressing into the room. His engineers stare at him, a mixture of shock and confusion on their faces

One of the executives clears his throat. “We haven’t even begun contract negotiations yet.”

“I know.”

A pause.

The team principal exhales, setting his tablet down, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “Seungcheol, this doesn’t have to be a rushed decision. We can—”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s when it truly sinks in. The initial surprise fades, shifting into something heavier, something closer to disbelief.

His race engineer straightens in his seat. “Look, if this is about the way this season has gone, if you’re frustrated, if you’re unhappy with how things have been handled, we can fix it. We can go into next year with a fresh start-”

“This isn’t just about this season.”

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand over his face. He knew they’d try to talk him out of it. Knew they wouldn’t just let him go without a fight.

So for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself be honest.

“You know…” he starts, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Seven years ago, you called me to this very meeting room in Brazil.”

If everyone in the room wasn’t already still, they are now.

His team principal doesn’t react immediately, but Seungcheol knows he remembers.

“I was still at Alfa Romeo,” he continues. “I was still quite young and new, still figuring out the sport, still proving I belonged here. And you sat me down, and you told me that you saw talent in me and if I came to Ferrari, we’d bring this team back to the top. That you’d help me become a world champion.”

He lets the words linger, lets them sink in. His throat feels tight.

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

Seungcheol looks around the room, at the men who have dictated his future for the past seven years. The ones who once fought for him. The ones who celebrated with him. The ones who, somewhere along the way, stopped prioritizing him the way they used to.

He takes a slow breath. “I’ll always be grateful for that.” He says, and for the first time, it hits him that he’s done with this team. That with what he’s said, they’re not his anymore. Seungcheol can’t help the feeling of mourning that overcomes him in this moment. “No matter how things have turned out, I won’t forget what we’ve achieved together.”

He isn’t sure if they expect him to say more. Maybe they expect him to be bitter, to bring up the choices they made this season, to throw blame in every direction.

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

“Ferrari gave me everything,” he admits, voice steadier now. “You gave me my first real shot. You gave me my first win, my first championship. You gave me a team that I could fight for.”

He leans back, exhaling. “I’ve given you everything I had in return.”

The weight of that truth settles between them.

His voice drops slightly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in the team principal’s gaze.

“Is this about another team?” he finally asks. “We haven’t heard anything yet, but if you’ve been approached, we should discuss it. We can match whatever offer they’re giving you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head slowly, the corner of his lips lifting in irony. They think this is about negotiation. About money, about leverage. They don’t realize it yet.

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

The team principal frowns. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol presses his fingertips against the table, grounding himself. This is it. If you say it, it’s real now.

“I mean, I’m not going anywhere else.” He’s surprised with how steady his voice is. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The silence that follows is different now. They don’t know what to say, don’t want to realize what he means

His engineer’s brows furrow. “Cheol…” He hesitates, voice dipping lower, more personal. “You’re not just leaving Ferrari, are you?”

The team principal exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Seungcheol, you’re thirty. This is not the time to retire. You’re at the peak of your career. You don’t just—”

“I’m not retiring. But I know what I want.”

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

His pulse thrums against his ears. He doesn’t need them to understand. He doesn’t need permission.

But for the first time, he lets himself admit it.

He’s tired.

“You don’t have to decide this now,” the team principal tries again, but there’s something more fragile in his voice this time. “Take the off-season. Step back. Think about it properly.”

“I already have.”

And the finality with which he says it shuts them up. There’s no convincing him because he’s already gone. He’s been gone for a while now, but it’s real and true today.

Seungcheol pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. The Ferrari crest catches his eye on the team principal’s polo, the same one he’s worn for the last six years. Once, it felt like armor. Now, it just feels like something he’s outgrown.

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

But just before he reaches it, his race engineer speaks again, voice quiet.

“You’re really sure about this?”

Seungcheol’s hand grips the doorknob tight. It’s a last-ditch effort, a peace offering, another chance to take it all back and go back to the team he’s called his home for almost his entire career.

He nods, slow at first but his expression is sure when he turns around for the last time. “Yes, I am.”

When he closes the door behind himself, Seungcheol hopes that no one walks out to talk to him now. The finality of his decision settles down on him, light on his shoulders but still heavy on his mind. 

These hallways that he’s walked for so long, this team that he’s been leaning on for so long. He wonders how just a few words can change how he feels. His footsteps echo against the floor, the polished tiles reflecting the dim overhead lights. He knows every corner of this building by heart. The walls lined with photographs, framed moments of glory, the history of Ferrari captured in still images.

Your history too.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of one as he passes, a photo from their first constructors’ championship together. The entire team, arms raised, champagne spraying in the air. His younger self is at the center, a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders, eyes bright with something fierce.

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

He remembers that night, the way his race engineer had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the way his mechanics had lifted him onto their shoulders, the way he had looked at his car and thought—this is home now.

Now, he stands here, staring at that same version of himself, and wonders if he would even recognize him anymore.

Would that Seungcheol understand why he’s leaving? Would he be disappointed?

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

This is what he wanted. This is what he chose.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He forces himself to keep moving, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step. The hallway stretches ahead of him, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure where he’s going.

Tomorrow’s race, for now. That’s where he’ll go. Let the season end before we figure it all out.

But tomorrow comes and Seungcheol knows this feeling of losing will stick to him for the rest of his life.

He hears the Red Bull team celebrating their Constructors’ win outside their garage. The cheers, the fireworks, the champagne. He’s been there before. Knows what if feels like to win this, to fight for something bigger than himself and come out victorious.

But not this year. Not anymore.

He glances around the garage. No one is talking. The mechanics keep their heads down, clearing equipment, avoiding each other’s eyes. The pit wall stares at the monitors like they can will the result into changing. His race engineer exhales sharply beside him, but doesn’t say a word.

They all knew this was coming.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. Not the loss itself but the inevitability of it.

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

But now, as he watches Red Bull celebrate on the screen, as he sees Haechan and Jeno lifted up on their mechanics’ shoulders, champagne bottles held high in the air, as he sees Jaehyun sitting in his chair, staring at the ground, shoulders stiff with disappointment, he just feels…exhausted.

The ‘what-if’s’ cloud his mind, momentarily. What if they’d backed him up like they used to. What if they’d all worked harder on the car, what if Seungcheol hadn’t been feeling like he was past his prime.

But a part of him knows, and he’s sick of shutting it down, so he lets the thought flow through him. This was bound to happen. This was always how it would’ve ended.

Seokmin hands his phone back to him, wordlessly, as they walk up to their hospitality. Seungcheol thinks Seokmin has known, maybe even before he’d made the decision. It’s easy to break the news to someone who is the least surprised by it. All Seokmin had done was clap him on the back once and wish him all the best. Seungcheol knows he’ll be there if he ever comes back and that is enough.

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Ferrari’s lion walks away — Choi Seungcheol announces exit from the Italian team.

Sunday, Race Day

December 7th

“Ferrari and Choi Seungcheol will part ways at the end of the 2025 Formula 1 season, bringing an end to a six-year partnership that delivered four driver’s championships, five constructors’ titles, and a legacy that has cemented him as one of the most successful drivers in the team’s history.

The announcement, made ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, has sent shockwaves through the paddock. While speculation around Seungcheol’s future had been growing in recent weeks, many expected Ferrari to push for a contract renewal. Instead, the 30-year-old has confirmed that he will not be re-signing with the team.

What remains unclear is what comes next. Unlike most high-profile exits, Seungcheol’s departure has not been linked to a move elsewhere. Ferrari has not commented on whether they attempted to retain him, nor has Seungcheol confirmed if he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.”

You stop reading after that sentence.

Your eyes hover over the words, rereading the title once, twice, three times before you yell after your mom, asking her to come down immediately. Just as she walks down the stairs, your front door opens, Seungcheol’s mother walking in with an exasperated look on her face, hands gripping her phone tightly.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn’t know about this either.” She laughs out in disbelief.

You shake your head, still processing the words you just read as your mother asks her what’s wrong before snatching your phone from you. 

Seungcheol’s mother exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Not a single word. Not to me, not to his father or his brother. We find out through the damn news?”

The frustration in her voice is clear, but you can also hear the hurt seep through.

You understand.

You sit down at the table, glancing at the article again. Seungcheol has not commented on whether he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “He has a race today, no? How come they announced it today? Did you try calling him?”

“Do you think he’d pick up?” Seungcheol’s mother clicks her tongue. “He’s probably acting like it’s just another race weekend. I don’t need to try to know that his phone is switched off.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

You can already picture it. Seungcheol walking through the paddock, head down, sunglasses on, pretending the world isn’t speculating about his future, pretending like he hasn’t just changed the course of his career with one decision.

Pretending like he hasn’t kept the people who have known him the longest in the dark.

But the one thing you can’t wrap your head around is—

“Why would he do this?” His mother sighs, heading to your kitchen to grab a glass of water, “He loves his team. Dreamt of driving for them since he was a kid. What went wrong?”

—

When the fireworks are over and the celebrations cease, Seungcheol comes down to the Ferrari garage, one last time.

The mechanics are mostly quiet as they pack up, with the season over and no more races to prepare for, there’s not much to talk about either. For a moment, Seungcheol is unsure of what he’d say to them. If there’s anything to be said, in the first place. He knows the news was broken to them before the articles came out, so that there would be no surprise and no disbelief during the race itself.

Seungcheol’s finished P2 here today. It isn’t a win, but he’s a little glad that he’s on the podium for his last race with the team.

 When Seungcheol steps inside, a few heads turn. Some of the younger mechanics glance at him hesitantly, like they don’t know if they should say something. But the ones who have been here long enough, the ones who have known him since the beginning, they know this is goodbye.

One of them straightens from where he’s kneeling by the tire blankets, wiping his hands on his overalls before walking over. 

“You’re really doing this, huh?” The mechanic’s voice is rough with fatigue, but affectionate still.

Seungcheol exhales, lips tilting into something almost like a smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before the mechanic lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Going to feel weird without you around here, kid.”

Seungcheol nods.

One by one, the others start to gather. A few hesitant at first, but then more of them, his mechanics, his engineers, people who have been here since his first win in red. They’ve been through everything with him.

He mumbles simple words. Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll miss you all. They clap him on the back, exchange knowing looks, make a few dry jokes to lighten the mood. But there is an undeniable sadness in the air, the loss of a prized one, the loss of a team.

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

Seungcheol knows that this moment would come, but when he meets the man’s eyes, he feels bare and stripped down in front of him.

For years, he’s been the voice in his ear, guiding him through every lap, every race. The man who’s saved his life a hundred times, talked him out of bad decisions, made him the best ones. The man he’s trusted almost his entire career.

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Still, his engineer sighs, shaking his head. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol lets out an awkward laugh. “A little.”

There’s a pause before his engineer speaks again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For how this year went. For how they treated you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You deserved better.”

Seungcheol swallows. Hearing it out loud makes it even more real. “It is what it is. I don’t blame you.”

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He stares at Seungcheol before speaking again, “Do you remember Austria?”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Which year?”

“In 2018.” 

As soon as he hears that, Seungcheol can’t help but laugh out loud, nodding his head.

“On the last few laps, you ignored my call to box for fresh tyres because, and I quote: ‘I can make it till the end.’”

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

“And then the rain hit,” His engineer repeats, shaking his head, “And I spent the next five laps yelling at you to come in before you crashed into the barriers.”

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

His engineer sighs, crossing his arms. “No. You didn’t. Somehow, through sheer luck or divine intervention, you kept it on track and won the damn race.”

Seungcheol remembers that day. The panic in his voice, the way his tires felt like they’d give out any second. The sheer adrenaline coursing through him as he dragged his car to the finish line.

He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes, “You were so pissed at me afterwards. I remember.”

“I was,” his engineer agrees. “But I was also secretly proud as hell.”

His engineer exhales. “That’s what made you special, you know.”

Seungcheol looks at him.

“You always knew where the limit was,” his engineer continues. “You always trusted yourself to find a way.”

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s spent his whole career pushing the limits. Trusting himself when no one else would. Fighting for what he believed in.

And now, he’s stepping away.

“I hope we meet again, on track.” His voice is soft now, “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be with them.”

Seungcheol looks up, surprised. 

“But if you come back, and if you still want me droning in your ear. I’ll come.”

He doesn’t respond right away. This is a promise. It’s the most heartwarming thing anyone here has ever said to him. 

But finally, his lips twitch in the closest thing he’s had to a real grin all season.

“Good to know.”

“So what now, Seungcheol? Where will you go?”

Seungcheol knows the answer now. It’s quite simple.

“Home.”

tags: @znzlii @yawnozone @archivistworld @minjiech @the-vena-cava @kookiedesi @starshuas @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @fancypeacepersona @angelarin @blckorchidd

[callisrecords]

it will pass but like can i at least get an eta

[callisrecords]

Gonna chill out the rest of May and then change my entire life in June. Possibly July if that doesn't work out. Certainly no later than September or October.

[callisrecords]

Lovers and Cowards

pairing: zhong chenle x f!reader

trope: uni au, strangers 2 lovers, rom-com

description: Chenle finds an old love letter in the dorm printer trash and does the most logical thing: threatens to read it aloud at Movie Night unless the owner steps forward. The problem? It’s your friend’s letter, and she immediately begs you to pretend it’s yours. Now you’re fake confessing to Chenle on her behalf, and he just seems amused. And suspiciously into it.

Part of the Notice Me (literally) series!

warnings: food mentioned, language, slander, alcohol mentioned

w/c: 8.9k

a/n: unedited and not beta-d because i wrote this purely fueled by the thought of taeyong coming back and like i just let the neo rip through me... sorry um. yes anyways, this is my comeback :))) this is personally a very chenle thing to do in my opinion so i hope you thinks so too and i did not do our main yapper's yapping tendencies justice with this but bear with me guys :sob:

The dorm’s bulletin board is usually a wasteland of passive-aggressive Post-its and flyers you never read. Someone’s always trying to sell a desk lamp, or start a study group, or threaten the rest into keeping the kitchen clean.

Which is why you almost don’t notice the new piece of paper pinned dead-center with three thumbtacks like it’s the announcement of the century.

You wouldn’t have looked twice if Yizhuo didn’t suddenly grab your arm hard enough to cut off your circulation.

“What the hell,” you hiss, shaking her off. “Do you mind? I like having blood in my hand.”

She stares at the notice like it’s about to lunge off the board and strangle her. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god.”

You glance between her and the paper. “What?”

Yizhuo swallows hard. “I'm not going to freak out.”

“That’s literally what people say right before freaking out.”

She ignores you, steps forward, and points at the paper without actually touching it. Like it’s a crime scene. “That’s my letter.”

You blink. “What?”

“The one in the notice!” she snaps. “I typed it out last week after the midterms, when we got drunk. Printed it and then panicked and threw it away. Now—” She waves at the paper like it’s personally offended her. “—this is happening.”

You actually read it this time.

Notice: Lovers and Cowards Did you (or someone you know) pour their heart out into a love letter, only to chicken out and toss it near the dorm printer? Bad news: I found it. Worse news: it’s going public. Unless the rightful owner steps up, this masterpiece of romance will be read dramatically during Movie Night this Friday. Don’t make me do this. (Actually, please do—I love the drama.) Claim it before then, or prepare to be exposed. No judgment… maybe.

You look back at her slowly. “…You wrote a love letter.”

“Yes.”

“And threw it away by the printer.”

“Yes.”

“And now some lunatic has it and is threatening to read it in front of the whole dorm.”

She throws her hands up. “Not just some lunatic. Look at the name! It's Zhong Chenle. He'll fucking humiliate me in front of everyone. If he reads it on the day of the movie night, the person I wrote it to will figure it out."

You lean back a little. “How?"

“It's Jun—" She stops herself, looking around before leaning in to whisper into your ear. "It's Junghoon. You know I talk to him a lot. He'll easily know that it was me and that is the last thing I want right now."

You nod slowly. "Okay… So just go claim it? That way he won't reveal anything."

Yizhuo backs up and sighs, palms fisting at her hip. "Babe. So you clearly don't know Zhong Chenle that well."

She takes the quizzical look on your face as the sign to continue. "I've known the guy since middle school, and for some reason he just likes pissing me off. Even if I owned up to it, he would go and tell Junghoon."

You open your mouth to retort, but she beats you to it. "Trust me. I know."

"What will you do then?"

Yizhuo stills, eyes narrowing in on you. Softly, she brings up her palms to grip your elbows. "My love. My darling friend. The one who's got my back at all times—"

You shake your head, trying to pry her fingers off. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Well, it can't be great if it needs a build-up like that. So no."

"Please," she pleads, calling out your name. "All you'd have to do is go up to him and say it was yours. He won't care if it's you because he doesn't know you."

"And why would I embarrass myself in front of a total stranger?" You sigh, walking away from the notice board and over to the couches.

Mark Lee—you recognize him because he shares a class with you, one that you can't recall at the moment—sits on one of the couches with his girlfriend, and you'd rather not listen in to their conversation. So you plop down onto the farthest seat and watch as Yizhuo dramatically falls to her knees in front of you. The carpet hasn't been cleaned in, well, god knows how long, and you try to pull her up.

She swats your hand away.

"Please. Embarrassment is not a word in your dictionary, and honestly, it isn't one in his either. Which is why he would do such a thing." She rolls her eyes before muttering to herself. "God, that fucking idiot. Always up in everybody's business."

You watch her with equal parts disbelief and amusement as she flails around. The dust and questionable stains cling to her jeans, but she’s too focused on her theatrics to care. You reach down again, this time tugging a little harder at her elbow. “Get up before you catch something.”

Yizhuo finally gets up with a small grunt, dusting her knees off before putting the same palms on your shoulders. You flinch with disgust.

"Come on. You just have to go up to him, tell him that it was you and that he should never bring this up again and walk out!"

“Okay, okay. I don’t really know Chenle that well,” you admit, glancing toward the notice board like it’s the root of all your problems. “But from what you say, he sounds like exactly the kind of guy who would make this hell for you.”

She nods, relieved. “Right? He’s like the unofficial dorm detective—except instead of solving crimes, he just digs up everyone’s secrets and spreads them for fun.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “So, you want me to be your shield. Walk up, claim the letter like it’s mine, and then pray Chenle doesn’t turn it into some dorm-wide scandal.”

Yizhuo’s smile widens. “You got it. You’ll save me from eternal humiliation.”

You shake your head, already feeling the weight of this terrible favour. “Fine. But if Chenle makes a mockery of me, you owe me. Big time.”

She throws her arms around you with a squeal, and your eyes flicker over to where Mark and his girlfriend watch you two with thinly veiled concern. You shoot an awkward smile and a thumbs-up at them.

So you make the walk of (slight) shame over to Mark who sits, bent over a mass media law textbook. Ah, that's the class you share.

You realise, soon enough, that you might have to confront Zhong Chenle earlier than you expected. The pinned message in the dorm's group chat stares at you in all its glory.

Gentle reminder, D-2 to the movie night. Hope everybody is excited! (and please, bring your own snacks. We're uni students, not billionaires)

"Hey." You poke his shoulder, a bit awkwardly.

Mark startles, looking up at you before pulling his wired earphones out. "Hi. Can I help you?"

"You're friends with Chenle, aren't you?"

He nods, glancing at his phone that lights up before turning back to you. "Yeah. Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no." You shake your head. "I was just wondering, what room is he from?"

Mark's eyes narrow in on you. "Hold on… are you the one—"

"God, no." You clarify, waving your hands in front of him. "I forgot to take my USB out after using the printer. Someone told me they saw him taking it."

It's a lie, obviously, and you surprise yourself a little with how easily it slips out. The things you'd do for Yizhuo.

Mark stares at you for a few seconds like he’s weighing whether you’re telling the truth or just wasting his time. Then he shrugs, like whatever. “Alright. That makes sense. Chenle lives in 130 with Jisung. But he's in class right now, actually."

"Oh? I'm sorry, but it's kinda urgent. What class is he in?"

"Uh…" he trails off, scrolling on his phone to find the man's contact. "I'll ask him. The kid doesn't pay attention in any of his classes anyway."

You nod and awkwardly stand beside him while he waits for the reply. Pulling your phone out, you're met with a string of texts from Yizhuo asking if you got the job done. You type out a passive-aggressive 'not yet' followed by five rolling eyes emojis and mute her number temporarily.

Mark's feet tap on the ground rhythmically, probably along the tune of whatever he's listening to. After about a minute, he perks up.

"He's in Ethics in Journalism. C block. Says he doesn't have any USB, but he forgets stuff, so you should probably go and talk to him. He's almost done, so he'll be out by the time you reach."

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Ethics in Journalism sounds ironic for whatever you've heard about him. A blabber-mouth like him couldn't possibly be a good thing for journalism, could he?

You thank him, making Mark shrug before turning back to his textbook and putting his earphones back in.

The afternoon sun hangs high, casting short shadows across the cracked pavement as you make your way toward the main campus buildings. The familiar buzz of students rushing between classes fills the air—laughter, distant music, the occasional shout—but none of it reaches you today. Your mind is too busy rehearsing what’s about to happen.

Ahead, the modern brick facade of the journalism building rises into view, old and intimidating. You glance up at the small sign near the entrance: C Block, Communications and Media Studies.

The heavens seem to be slightly on your side today, for Zhong Chenle walks out just as you walk up to the entrance. You recognize him from the photos Yizhuo has showed you. Plus, you were told that if you saw anyone boring enough to be out and about wearing a Stephen Curry jersey, then that was your guy.

True to her word, Chenle wears a royal blue Golden State Warriors shirt, headphones slung around his neck and eyes on his phone as he skips down the steps, taking two at a time.

He glances up just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, locking eyes with your waiting figure for a moment before pulling out one earbud. "Hey. Are you the girl that lost her USB?"

You blink, startled that he already knows. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” You shuffle your feet, suddenly aware of how awkward this whole situation is.

Clearing your throat, you try to sound casual. “Listen, could we maybe, uh, go somewhere a bit more private? To talk?”

"About your lost USB?" Chenle laughs out, before smirking. "Dude, if you like me or something… I don't know, just say it here. I don't really care."

You scoff out of disbelief, crossing your arms. Somehow, he's already managed to irritate you. "Okay, stuck-up much? No. Listen, I didn't even know who you were until like, a day ago."

He nods slowly, like he finds your rambling amusing. "Sure."

"No, seriously. It's something important, so I'd appreciate if we went somewhere a little—" You look around at the influx of students that are leaving the building, "—less exposed."

He laughs again. It's an easy, contagious laugh that somehow makes you want to punch him and grin at the same time. “Fine, fine. Lead the way, mysterious USB owner.”

You take in a deep breath and start walking toward a quieter corner of the campus, away from the crowds milling between classes. Chenle trails behind, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the scene with that casual confidence that’s somehow both annoying and impressive.

The air feels cooler under the shade of the tall oaks, leaves rustling softly as you reach a bench tucked away near a side path. Chenle leans back against the bench, crossing his arms.

"You didn't even tell me your name? What's up, anyway?" He exhales loudly, throwing his head back and slouching in the seat.

You give him your name. He says it once, lazily almost before glancing at you. Somewhere on the way, he's put on black shades. You don't like how you can't see his eyes, but you continue anyway.

"So… about the notice that you put up in the dorm."

That makes him straighten up. Chenle almost squeals before fully turning his body to face you. He claps his hands once as he brings his leg up to sit on it, like this is some picnic that the two of you are having. "That was you? Oh my god, I can't believe that worked!"

"Yeah, so just—" you cut yourself off with a sigh, "please don't read it out on movie night?"

He smirks, tilting his head. “What were you thinking anyway? Love letters? Who even writes those anymore? Especially ones they immediately throw away? That’s some dramatic behaviour. You sure you weren’t drunk?”

You flush, eyes flicking away. “Okay, yeah. Drunk after exams. Tired and emotional. Can you just not make a big deal out of it?”

Chenle chuckles, a slow, teasing sound. “No promises, but—"

"Hey!" You retort. "You said you'd keep it hush if the person revealed themselves!"

"—Okay, okay. I will. I'll cut you some slack." He throws his hands up in defence.

You sigh, looking away. You don't even know this guy, but you already know that there's a but at the end of that sentence. "But what?"

"Only if you read it out to me right here."

Your mouth falls agape as you turn back to him. There's no way he's being serious about this.

"Come on." Chenle urges, the grin never leaving his face. "Be brave! It was fun to read on my own, but it would be even more hilarious coming from the writer herself."

"Dude, what the hell? This was not what you said on the notice."

"A man can change his mind. Come on, be quick." He shrugs as he pulls his bag forward, unzipping it to rummage through the loose papers dumped in it. "I have it in here somewhere."

"Do you not have people dedicating love letters to you? Is that why you want me to read it out, you sicko." You grumble, grabbing the letter from his hands.

It makes him laugh again, and you watch, a little dumbfounded at the way he throws his head back. You would hate to admit it, but there's something charming about the guy.

You shake your head, curse Yizhuo a thousand times before clearing your throat and holding the paper up. The edges crease where you grip the letter tightly. Chenle leans back, almost vibrating with excitement.

“To the one who makes my heart do somersaults,

Every time you walk into the room, it’s like fireworks explode inside me—bright, loud, and completely impossible to ignore. You’re the melody I hum in the shower, the warmth I crave on cold nights.”

You pause, blinking at the words like you can’t believe someone wrote this. Chenle snorts quietly behind his sunglasses.

You press on, cheeks heating despite yourself. Fuck Yizhuo, fuck that stupid little girl.

“I know I’m probably a mess right now—drunk on exams and bad decisions—but damn, I had to tell you. You’re the kind of beautiful disaster that makes my world spin faster and slower at the same time.”

Your voice cracks slightly on “beautiful disaster,” and you clear your throat.

“If loving you is a mistake, then I don’t want to be right. So here I am, a hopeless fool scribbling my heart out on paper, hoping maybe you’ll catch the fever too.”

There's about two more paragraphs left, but you fold the letter back up and look at Chenle with a face so full of pain that he almost pities you. You stand up, shoving the paper into one of your pockets and glare at the man who's barely managing to hold back his laughter.

"There. Done. Can you shut up about it now?"

He nods, lips still split into a shit-eating grin. "One last thing. Who was this even written to? And I swear I won't go around telling people."

You eye him suspiciously. What could possibly happen? As long as you make it out of this alive and as long as it isn't revealed that the actual writer was Yizhuo, you'll be fine.

"Junghoon." You state, pursing your lips. "You may not know him, he's in a different dorm."

"I think I've heard his name, yeah." Chenle nods, also getting up from the bench. "But damn, you were brave. I acknowledge and respect that, although I was hoping you'd be a no-show and I'd get to read it out."

You step away, throw up a sign heavily relying on your middle finger and turn around to walk back.

His giggles ring in your ear and you resist the urge to turn around and punch his stupid, infuriating, good-looking—no. No, just stupid and infuriating face.

"What a fucking sadist, really." You mutter to yourself, stomping across the footpath. "Well, at least it's over now."

The common room buzzes with the low hum of chattering students and the clatter of drinks and popcorn buckets being passed around. In the kitchen, you hear the RAs arguing about seating arrangements and the lack of beanbags that they've borrowed from the college club rooms.

The couches have been moved to the sides, and upon your insistence, the carpet has been replaced, so it isn't as much of a hazard to just sit on the ground anymore. Behind you, someone is setting up the projector and fiddling around with the size of the projection on the wall. Yizhuo has managed to catch hold of a bean bag big enough for the both of you to sit, and you have a thin but soft blanket, folded in your arms in case they decide to turn the air conditioning up like the theatres. There's nothing that could go wrong.

Or so you think.

Because half way through the opening credits, someone settles down on the ground beside your bean bag with a loud exhale, making you twitch and turn towards them to throw a stink-eye.

Chenle.

He shifts lazily, propping himself up on one elbow as his eyes settle on you.

Yizhuo stiffens beside you, fingers clutching the blanket a little too tightly. Her gaze flickers to Chenle with something close to disdain, and you catch the subtle but unmistakable chill radiating between them.

Chenle’s dark eyes flick over to Yizhuo for just a moment, a flash of mild annoyance crossing his face before he looks back at you.

"Where's loverboy?" he asks, low enough for only you and Yizhuo to hear it. She scoffs lightly and turns back to the movie. "Didn't invite him?"

You roll your eyes. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering." He shrugs with a smile, "I thought you'd be here cozying up to him instead of… Yizhuo."

"Shut up, Chenle." She grumbles from beside you.

"What is up with you two anyway?" You ask, straightening a little with curiosity.

"I was just better than her at everything."

"He's a stuck-up asshole." They both answer at the same time. You bite your lip to not let the smile show.

"Our mothers are friends." Chenle hums. "So we kind of grew up together, unfortunately."

You blink, caught off guard by the casual confession. “Oh wow, that explains a lot.” You glance between them, the familiar sibling-like banter oddly endearing, before turning to Yizhuo.

"So you don't actually hate him, do you?"

Yizhuo shoots him a glare, but there's traces of amusement in her eyes. "Yes, I do."

"She doesn't." Chenle scoffs, pointing his chin towards the movie. "Turn back around."

“So,” you say, nudging Chenle lightly, “are you here just to torment us, or do you actually like the movie?”

Chenle shrugs again, eyes twinkling. “A bit of both, honestly. Plus, I figured sitting here would be more interesting than wherever the hell I was before.”

Yizhuo groans beside you. You look behind, eyes catching on the group of six that are slowly settling down towards the back of the room. "Really? They do look like they'd be fun."

"Eh, at times." He admits, "But honestly, I'm also here to ask about your little crush."

"No." You reply sharply, and he only lets out a breathy laugh before settling into the side of your bean bag. It surprises you how easily he gets comfortable, but you don't mind—weirdly enough—and Yizhuo doesn't seem to either, so you let him be.

"You're interesting, actually." Chenle mumbles, eyes still on the wall. "How have we never met before?"

You blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty that’s so casually dropped between the flickering shadows of the movie. “I have no idea,” you say, voice low enough not to disturb the others, "but it's probably for a good reason anyway."

Chenle throws an irritated glance at you, scrunching his nose. "Your loss. I'm a really fun person to be around."

When you reply with a snort, he stretches his arms above his head, eyes still half on the screen but now relaxed, like the casual companion he somehow is tonight. “So, tell me,” he says, voice dropping to a teasing drawl, “how much of that letter was real, and how much was drunk poetry."

"Man, let it go." You groan, pushing back into your seat. "Everything was drunk poetry. I'm not usually like that."

Yizhuo pinches your thigh under the blanket with a laugh, and you have to force yourself to hold back and not expose her then and there.

"Okay, you know what. I'm nosy. Tell me about this guy."

"What are you going to do?" You roll your eyes, "Play wingman?"

"Hey," Chenle protests, "I could if I wanted to."

But still, you stiffen. Truth is, you barely know Junghoon beyond a few passing hellos in the dorm hallway and a handful of vague group chats. Your mouth opens to answer, but the words stick in your throat.

Before you can stumble over some awkward excuse, Yizhuo leans a little closer, her tone smooth but firm. “Junghoon’s alright. Quiet, keeps to himself mostly. Not much for the spotlight. Probably why you don’t really know him,” she says, eyes flicking to Chenle with a hint of challenge.

Chenle raises an eyebrow, smirking at the subtle jab but not pushing back. “Ooh, protective, huh? Nice.”

You shoot Yizhuo a grateful glance, silently thanking her for the rescue as Chenle nudges the conversation forward with a lazy grin. “Well, quiet types can be interesting. Mysterious. But if you don’t know him well, how do you even… like him?”

"I do know him," you protest weakly, "he's a nice guy. I wouldn't like him otherwise."

"So that's your type? Nice, quiet guys?" He hums. "Didn't expect that, lowkey."

"Guess so, yeah." You nod slowly. You hope you're a good liar, because the way Chenle seems to look right at you makes you feel like you aren't. "Focus on the movie, would you?"

Chenle chuckles, shaking his head like he’s amused by some private joke. “You’re good at dodging, I’ll give you that."

You bite your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral. He notices, maybe, because he shakes his head, his black mop of hair swishing around.

You palms roll up into fists under the blanket to resist from reaching out and running a hand through it.

Zhong Chenle. Who is this guy?

The laundry room smells strongly of detergent pods, a quiet refuge from the usual dorm chaos. You lean against the wall near the row of dryers, phone in hand, eyes half-watching the soft white numbers counting down.

Your laundry’s nearly done, and you’re just killing time, thankful for the rare moment to yourself, when the door swings open with a muffled creek and in stroll two people, one with a familiar voice.

"I swear to god, you need to ask one of us to make something for you or at least to teach you how to use kitchen appliances without making it a safety hazard for every one involved." Chenle lets out exasperatedly, dumping his laundry bag into one of the baskets.

The other boy—Jisung, whom you've heard of before from Yizhuo—whines lowly. It's a sound you don't expect to hear from a man of his height, his brows furrowed and feet stomping lightly on the tiles, so you almost let out a small laugh.

It catches Chenle's attention, and he whips around to meet your eyes. He waves with one hand, shooting a grin, the other hand busy stuffing his closed into the washing machine.

Jisung eyes you a little curiously, nodding once in acknowledgement before he turns back to his friend. "Get off my back, dude. It's not my fault the toaster seems to malfunction every single time I touch it."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" Chenle scoffs. "Jisung someone had to call you out using the notice board. You realize how embarrassing that is for you?"

"You don't have to tell me." The taller boy grumbles. "It's okay. I'll go apologize later. At least I'm not ignorant like Mark was."

Chenle shakes his head, slamming the washing machine door shut. "Just ask, next time."

He glances over at you again, eyes sharp but friendly. "Why are you alone here? Where's the little devil?"

You sigh, slipping your phone back into your pocket. "She's bunked too many classes and is facing the consequences now. Studying in our room. Is this your roommate?" You ask, tilting your head at Jisung.

"The one and only," Chenle grumbles affectionately. "One hell of an idiot is a more apt description."

"Hi." Jisung waves awkwardly. "I've heard of you before."

You pointedly stare at Chenle, who simply shrugs.

"What can I say? He was the one that sat and watched me type the notice up. He's so non-committal, I tell you. Wants to know what happened but doesn't want to be directly involved."

"I don't want to be an ass like you." Jisung wraps an arm around his roommate's shoulder. "Being nosy isn't as big of a crime."

You exhale loudly just as the dryer beeps. "Hold on to that thought." You say as you turn back around to load the clothes into your bag.

"I don't judge, unlike him." Jisung points out, making you giggle.

"He wasn't too judgemental, I guess." You admit. "Although he did—wait, no. He was. He made me read out the letter to him."

Chenle's eyes glint as he leans slightly forward. "Well… I have to say, you have a really nice voice. Made the whole thing sound way better than I expected."

You pause for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. A faint blush rises to your cheeks as you glance up at him.

"Is that your way of saying I should read more often?" you tease, folding your laundry with a sly smile.

Chenle shrugs, grinning. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like hearing you talk."

Jisung rolls his eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at his lips. "Easy, there. She likes someone. Don't try to make moves on her."

It makes you laugh out loud despite yourself, and the smart retort that he was about to say dies on Chenle's tongue as he watches your palm come up to cover your mouth, your eyes crinkling before you turn away.

Why is he making moves on you? And worst of all, why do you not seem bothered by it?

"I'm not." He responds defensively, clearing his throat and shooting Jisung a look that clearly says shut the fuck up.

But he says nothing more, his attention fixed on you again. There’s a pause, the hum of the machines filling the silence.

“So,” you say absently, checking the number of clothes in your bag to make sure you left nothing, “what’s really got you so worked up about the kitchen?”

Chenle smiles. “Right, the toast is Jisung’s problem. I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

You look up at that, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You can cook?"

"Why is that so surprising?" He asks, sounding slightly offended.

"I don't know…" You mumble, pulling the strings to close the bag. "You look—"

"Good? Yeah," he waves you off with a sly grin, "tell me something I don't know."

"—like you survive off Red Bulls and instant noodles." You finish with a light-hearted scowl. "Where do you get all that confidence from, really?"

"I am a good cook." Chenle replies, sounding like he's challenging. "If you don't believe me, you can see for yourself. Or rather, taste for yourself."

"He does make really good scallion oil noodles." Jisung admits airily, slightly zoned out of your conversation.

Chenle raises an eyebrow at you. "So?"

“Okay, chef,” you say, tugging the laundry bag over your shoulder. “You owe me a taste test. When and where?”

Chenle taps his chin thoughtfully. “How about this weekend? I’ll cook, you judge.”

You smile, feeling a spark of something unexpected but welcome. “It’s a date.”

He nods, stepping back with satisfaction and slight determination. Another thing you've heard about him from Yizhuo is that he's competitive. Almost to a fault. But maybe… maybe you like that.

As you gather your things to leave, Chenle calls out your name, like he's just remembered something. "You sure your quiet boy won't mind you eating with another guy?" He teases cheekily.

You groan. "I'm allowed to have friends, thank you."

When you leave, Jisung turns to his roommate with a grin. "Why the hell are you hitting on her, dude?"

"I'm really not, Jisung." He sighs, pushing the taller boy away. "Maybe you'd know if you ever managed to speak to a girl who was interested in you."

"Rude." He mutters, a little dejectedly. "She seems nice. She called it a date. Why would she do that?"

Chenle hums, looking up to let out a small noise of confusion before he brushes it off, already opening his notes app to make a checklist of ingredients.

The setting sun's rays slide in through the library’s tall windows, casting long stripes of pale gold and pink light across your cluttered table. You’re buried under textbooks and scattered notes. The faint smell of recycled paper from your notebook and the sickly sweet coffee from the canteen has begun to make you gag. Your eyes flick over the same sentence for the third time, but it refuses to stick.

You groan. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Yizhuo stretches beside you, cracking her neck like it’s been ages since she last moved. “Break. Now.”

You shove your stuff into your bag, following her out. The quad is alive with the buzz of students—laughter, conversations, a frisbee sailing somewhere in the distance. Yizhuo wanders over toward the basketball courts, where a small crowd has formed.

When the two of you finally make it past, she scoffs. "Of course, it's him. That little attention-seeker. Bet he's just showing off."

It takes you the first four words to figure out who she's talking about.

You spot Chenle easily—darting between players like he owns the court, the bounce of the ball synced perfectly with his steps. His bright blue jersey stands out, like a beacon daring anyone to challenge him. You watch him spin, dribble, and then launch the ball into the net with that effortless flick of the wrist that gets the crowd cheering.

Yizhuo snorts beside you, crossing her arms. “Typical. Full of himself.”

You can’t help but smile, even though you try to play it cool. “He’s good.”

“Yeah, but he’s also an annoying show-off.”

You shrug, shifting on your feet. “Maybe. But he makes it look good. I kind of get why people watch.”

Yizhuo raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get too soft on him now. You’re supposed to be focused.”

You huff out a breath, stealing a glance at Chenle again. His laugh is loud and easy, the kind that makes the whole court seem a little brighter. There's a lot about him that you didn't expect, and somehow, he just keeps catching you by surprise.

You turn your gaze back to the game, but something about the way the sunlight hits Chenle’s face makes you pause. His hair is tousled just enough to look effortless, and when he smiles—really smiles—it’s like the whole crowd fades out for a second.

You catch yourself watching the way his muscles tense as he dribbles, the way his eyes sharpen when he focuses on the basket. It’s not just the game. It’s him.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware that you’ve been staring a little too long. Yizhuo nudges you with a reluctant sigh. "Please don't tell me you think the rat is handsome."

Her words are so random that you laugh out loud, maybe a little louder than you intended. The noise catches Chenle’s attention. He looks around, eyebrows raised as if trying to figure out where it came from. Then his eyes settle on you.

A slow grin spreads across his face as he waves, calling out, “Hey! Watching the game or just here to make fun?”

You and Yizhuo exchange a quick glance before you wave back awkwardly. Chenle shrugs and turns back to the game.

But you notice something subtle. His next moves are a little sharper, a little more precise—not like he suddenly decided to play seriously, but like he’s enjoying the extra attention. There’s a flicker of something playful in his eyes whenever they flick back to where you sit.

Yizhuo watches him too and mutters, “Okay, what the fuck is he doing?”

You turn to face her, raising an eyebrow.

"Like he's clearly trying to impress you, or whatever. But why? He thinks you like someone else, doesn't he?" Yizhuo asks , eyes focused somewhere past the courts as she thinks.

"Unless…" She snaps her fingers before turning to you and gripping you by the shoulders. "Did you tell him the truth?"

"No," you argue, "why would I do that?"

Yizhuo sits back again. "Sorry, you wouldn't. That was a moment of weakness."

Shaking your head, you lean back with her and continue watching. After a few seconds of silence, she pipes up again.

"Then why in the world has he developed home-wrecking tendencies? Trying to flirt with a girl who's heart is technically taken."

You shrug, cheeks warming.

Yizhuo rolls her eyes and stands up, throwing her hands up. “Alright, I’m done. This is weird. Let’s bounce before he starts trying to throw in slam dunks or something.”

"He's going to cook for me this weekend, by the way." You inform her as the two of you leave the court, not before you throw a small wave at him.

Yizhuo stops in her tracks, jaw hanging slack in astonishment. "He's going to what?"

You shrug. "We were just talking about cooking and he said he was good and I didn't believe that. Think he took it as a sort of challenge."

"Oh my god. What the fuck. I'm going to tell him to back off."

"Hey!" You protest weakly, "let me make friends too."

Yizhuo shakes her head before smiling and looping her arm through yours. "Hmm honey, I don't think he wants to be your friend. But alright, he's not the worst person out there."

On Saturday morning, your phone buzzes with a series of texts.

Almost instantly, he replies.

Chenle (130)

hey 121

isn't the little devil out all afternoon today?

my mum said she's visiting home

You

yeah! i think her cousin is home.

You pause, considering it. The dorm kitchen is usually a hassle on the weekends, and your own room is much more calming. Your phone pings with another text before you can respond.

Chenle (130)

can i cook in your room then?

i mean i've already got the scallion oil ready in a jar lol

so really i only need to make the noodles but

Chenle (130)

i'd offer my room but

jisung cannot get his ass out of bed and he's clumsy and awkward

do you fw that energy?

You

poor him…

he's so sweet why are you mean to him

and yeah my room's fine. will clean up a little though, so let me know when you're coming around

You react with a thumbs-up and throw your phone onto your bed before staring at the mess that your room has become after Yizhuo spent the entire morning deciding on outfits.

Chenle (130)

in like half an hour or so?

You start picking things up slowly, trying not to overthink why your heart beats a bit faster at the thought of him walking through that door. It’s silly. You tell yourself it’s just noodles, just cooking. But there’s a strange warmth in your chest that you don’t bother naming.

Halfway through, you catch yourself smiling quietly at the floor, like you’re keeping a secret you don’t want anyone to find out about. It’s awkward and a little thrilling all at once.

Your phone buzzes, dragging you out of your thoughts.

Almost there. Hope you’re ready for the best noodles of your life.

You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks warming just a little. Then, the soft knock on your door breaks the silence.

“Coming!” you call out, before shuffling over to the door.

When you open it, you're met with Chenle's dazzling face (as he says it himself) and a hand held out with a glass jar of scallion oil.

You take it with a small smile, your fingers brushing his just long enough to notice but not enough to care too much. Chenle steps inside, surveying your room with that familiar cocky grin.

“Nice setup,” he says, nodding toward your cluttered desk. “Looks like someone’s been pretending to study.”

You shoot him a side-eye. “Pretending? I’m multitasking.”

He laughs and pulls out the portable stove and pot from his bag like a pro. Watching him unpack, you settle on the floor nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look too interested.

“Hey, don’t think I didn’t see you stealing glances,” Chenle says without looking up.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Please. I’m here for the noodles, not the show.”

He flicks a glance your way, amused. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Chenle sets the pot on the stove, the faint hiss of boiling water filling the quiet room. He moves with easy confidence, but you notice the brief flicker in his eyes when they meet yours—something softer, quieter, that he quickly hides behind a casual grin.

“So,” you say, folding your arms and leaning back against the bed, “how long have you been cooking like this?”

“Long enough,” he replies, stirring the noodles gently. “Used to watch my mum. She’s got this way of making simple stuff taste amazing.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Mums are always like that, aren't they?"

“Yeah, exactly.” He shrugs. “It’s all in the timing. Too long and they get soggy. Too quick and they’re hard.

You grin, clearly entertained. “And how much time did it take you to learn that, Mr. Zhong?"

He waves the chopsticks at you. "Almost none. I'm a pro."

The soft clatter of the chopsticks, the gentle bubbling of the water, the quiet comfort of the room—it all feels strangely calming.

“So,” you say after a moment, “do you always cook for people? Or is this just a special occasion?”

He pauses, glancing at you briefly before turning back to the noodles. “I don’t know. I guess... I like it. The cooking part, and maybe the hanging out part too.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just maybe?”

Chenle laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe more than just maybe.”

You grin, leaning back on your hands. “I’m starting to think you might actually enjoy my company.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” he teases. “I enjoy a lot of things.”

But the smile he gives you feels softer, like it’s meant just for you. You don’t press it, just watch as he slides the noodles into a bowl, topping them with a generous drizzle of the scallion oil.

Chenle sets the bowl down in front of you, and you reach for your chopsticks, smacking your lips in anticipation. You wait for him to settle down in front of you with his own bowl.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks, eyes bright.

You take a bite, the warm noodles slipping easily between your chopsticks, the scallion oil fragrant and rich. “Not bad,” you say, “for someone who claims to be a pro.”

Chenle grins, watching you carefully. “Told you."

As the conversation flows—bits of teasing, shared stories about family dinners and awkward kitchen mishaps—Chenle’s gaze drifts to you, not just hearing your words but noticing the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, how easy it is to be here, like this, just talking and eating.

He thinks about how simple it feels, this rhythm between you two. No pressure, no pretence. But beneath that ease, a quiet ache presses at him.

You like someone else. He knows he’s not the one you want. And that knowledge stings, sharper than he lets on. Yet, despite that, he finds himself here. Choosing to be near you, drawn by something he doesn’t quite have the words for yet.

Chenle wipes his face lethargically with a towel, sweat dripping down onto the concrete ground as him and Jisung leave the courts, duffels hanging on their shoulders.

"Hey." Jisung nudges his elbow, nodding towards a bench near the quad. "Remember you were asking who Junghoon was? That's him."

Chenle follows his gaze and freezes. “Wait… what the hell is Yizhuo doing sitting practically on top of him?”

Jisung shrugs. "Beats me. I've seen them hanging out a lot, but I assumed that was how 121 and him met."

"Yeah, bullshit. She's sitting way too close for him to just be a friend." Chenle scowls.

"Hey, be glad. If they have something going on, that just means your chances with 121 increased."

Chenle laughs, but it’s tight, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Shut up."

He watches as Junghoon leans in closer, Yizhuo laughing way too loud, her hand brushing against his arm in a way that makes Chenle’s stomach twist in pain for you. Do you know about this? Why would Yizhuo do this to you? He thought you guys were inseparable.

It’s dumb. He knows it’s dumb to care this much. But the heat rising in his chest says otherwise.

Jisung claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, man, time to hit the showers before you start inventing conspiracy theories.”

Chenle grumbles but follows, his mind buzzing with half-formed thoughts.

Shower steam and hot water usually help clear his head, but not tonight. When he steps out, he’s still chewing on the scene, replaying it like a bad song stuck in his brain.

Pulling on a hoodie, Chenle grabs his phone and calls you before putting it on speaker.

You pick up on the fourth ring. He hears a little shuffling before your voice comes through in a whisper. "Hey? What's up. Sorry, I'm in the library."

"Which one?" Chenle asks, dropping his phone onto the bed and already pulling on the first pair of socks he can find.

"Uhm, the one near the engineering department." You inform, albeit a little confused. "Why? Are you going to study as well?"

"Uh—" Chenle mutters from the corner of his room as he slips into his shoes, "yeah, kind of. Stay there, I'm coming soon."

You say goodbye quietly. Chenle pulls his hood over his head and begins the short walk over to the engineering department. The street lamps are beginning to switch on, and the cool air hits his face, sharp and clear, but it doesn’t clear the clutter in his mind.

He just cannot wrap his head around it all. Chenle's known Yizhuo like you would an annoying sibling, and if there's anything, she would never do that to you. But he's seen it with his own two eyes. Why would Yizhuo go for the guy you liked?

The library door swings open with a quiet creak as he slips inside. The familiar smell of old books and polished wood settles over him, and he spots you almost immediately—head bent low over a pile of notes, your hair falling in soft waves that catch the light just right.

He stops short, blinking. There’s something about the way you look right now—soft, tired, and completely unguarded—that catches him off guard. His chest tightens in a way he hasn’t expected, a strange ache that makes him want to reach out and brush that loose hair from your face.

Before he can overthink it, he clears his throat, making you look up. Your eyes meet his, and there’s a flicker of surprise before you break into a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” you mumble when he nears you. "What are you planning to work on?"

Just as he's about to answer, Yizhuo emerges from the shelf behind you two, balancing the three thickest books he's seen in his life in her hands before dropping it onto the table, beside you. She huffs out, blowing the baby hairs away from her face, and Chenle controls the urge to lash out at her then and there when he sees the way you smile at her antics, eyes softening in affection.

“Hey,” he replies, voice rougher than he means it to be. "Don't know. I'll see."

Chenle slides the chair out noisily and lowers himself beside you, his gaze flicking briefly to Yizhuo, who’s still bustling about, her energy loud and bright in contrast to the quiet library. She shoots him a grin and waves before retreating back toward the stacks, leaving him alone with you.

He watches you for a moment, then without really thinking, he slides his chair a little away and pulls yours toward him without much warning. You startle with a gasp, looking at him incredulously. "What the—"

"Can we talk?" His voice is low, barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, surprise flickering in your eyes, but you nod, pushing your notes aside and lean in close enough that he can smell the faint hint of your shampoo and feel the warmth radiating from you.

Chenle clears his throat, suddenly not knowing how to break the news to you. He glances around, making sure that Yizhuo isn't in the vicinity before talking.

"Don't freak out, but I saw Yizhuo with… Junghoon a little while ago." He studies your face carefully, and is slightly perplexed when you give away nothing. "They were being kinda touchy, I don't know. Not the way friends act."

"Yeah? Okay.” Your tone is casual, like it’s nothing important.

Chenle blinks, a bit thrown off by your reaction. “You’re not... bothered?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Him and Yizhuo know each other and are friends. I don't really mind.”

He lets out a frustrated noise. "Listen, I know it's not my place and you probably believe her more than me, but I swear that the way they were acting was not appropriate. Aren't you bothered that your friend may be hitting on your crush?"

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Then something clicks in your mind, and your eyes widen just a little as you realise you’re supposed to care.

Chenle watches this shift with quiet surprise and much more confusion than he'd walked in with.

"It's okay," you wave him off, "it's nothing. Don't worry. She would never do that."

He watches with thinly veiled disbelief as you turn back to your textbook. Maybe you're just… much more open-minded than he thought you were. Maybe he's just reading too much into it—letting his feelings get the better of him because he's started to care more than he should

The next day, you find Chenle waiting for you outside your building when you walk out of class. He doesn't say anything, and only drags you—fingers wrapped gently around your wrist—to the same bench you sat at when you first met.

He sits you down, pays absolutely no regard to the confusion on your features and sits down next to you before removing the sunglasses he's wearing.

"I’ve been thinking,” he states confidently, “like… the entire night, actually.”

You glance up, brow raised, but he doesn’t waste time.

“The only thing that makes sense,” Chenle continues, “is that you lied. You came in place of Yizhuo.”

Your eyes flicker in surprise before he goes on. “Remember when I asked you about Junghoon? You didn’t have anything to say. If you liked someone, you’d probably mention him a bit more, right? But I’ve literally never heard you talk about him.”

"And in the short while that I've known you, it's become very obvious, if I think about it, that you are not the type to write love letters and cringey poems to someone. Like, that's Yizhuo's territory. Why didn't I think of her before?"

You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up his palm and continues anyway.

"And she was the one who spoke about him during the movie night. You just sat and nodded along!" He exhales with exasperation. "On top of that, you didn't even care when I told you about that entire ordeal yesterday. And I know that Yizhuo is one stupid girl, but she would never do that to a friend, no matter how much of a fucking devil she is."

Chenle's gaze sharpens in on you. "And you let me in your room, let me cook for you, and did not push me away when I lowkey flirted with you, so there's no way you like Junghoon. And you're the only one who would do the little devil's dirty work for her." He pauses, glancing away with annoyance, "What a coward, she is."

"Chenle—" you try to interrupt, in vain. "You've got it all—"

"So here's my final theory." He interrupts, placing his palm on your lips to stop you. You swallow, eyes widening in surprise. "Yizhuo likes Junghoon, wrote the letter when she was drunk and was stupid enough to get caught. She freaked out, asked you to go in her place, and you being the sweetheart that you are, agreed. And thus, you've been lying to me."

He watches you for a long moment, until you feel vulnerable enough to give up and nod under his gaze. With a triumphant fist pumping into the air, Chenle lets his palm drop from your face.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, looking away.

He turns to you immediately, heart sinking. "Hey, no. I mean, that was a dirty move, but I'm not upset. Don't worry. Just slightly confused and overall shocked that I didn't figure out sooner."

You nod, cheeks warming. "Yeah, I do not like the guy… Don't even know him that well."

Chenle bobs his head up and down, unable to stop the grin that stretches his lips. Your eyes narrow.

"Why do you care so much anyway?"

His smile drops a little before he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, um." He looks away for a beat, then meets your gaze again, a little softer this time. "Isn't it kinda obvious that I'm like…into you?"

His honesty catches you off guard, and you look away, letting the wind brush your hair onto your face to hide the colour rising up your cheeks. "I don't know… I guess so."

"Okay, um. Well, I like you. And I was a little bummed because I thought you liked that guy or whatever, but clearly you don't. So can we…" Chenle trails off as he gets up from the bench to look at you.

"Start over?" You mumble.

"Yes, exactly." He grins, reaching a hand out.

You grab it and stand up along with him, and he lets it fall between the two of you. "This time, Yizhuo stays the fuck away from us."

You laugh softly at that, the tension breaking like a snapped rubber band.

“Deal,” you say, your smile returning, bright and a little mischievous. "But only if you promise not to blow up on her."

Chenle shrugs, clearly amused. “No promises. Do you really not agree with my nickname for her? It's perfect.”

"She's an angel to me," you quip cheerily, swinging his hand slightly. "Okay, okay, wait. Do we do it like the movies?"

Chenle clears his throat and lets your hand go. He brushes a hand through his hair and falls one step back before shoving his hand in your face.

"I'm Zhong Chenle. I'm a sport journalism major, I live in room number 130 and I'm like, kinda sorta into you."

You nod solemnly, biting back a laugh before shaking his hand and telling him your name. "Good to know. I agree with you."

Chenle quirks an eyebrow. “Well, that was surprisingly formal for two people who basically just admitted to crushing on each other.”

You grin, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Hey, gotta keep it professional. Can’t just spill feelings like that."

He laughs, then steps closer, lowering his voice a notch. “So does this mean I can actually take you out on a date that we don't spend pretending we're into other people?"

You smirk, folding your arms. “Depends. What are your negotiation skills like, Mr. Zhong?"

He pretends to think hard, tapping his chin exaggeratedly. “I’m pretty good, if I say so myself. Especially when the prize is dinner with you.”

You roll your eyes but your smile widens. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

Chenle’s grin deepens. “You won’t regret it.”

taglist: @yukisroom97 @fleumurrr @awktwurtle @hyperbolicheart @reiofsuns2001 @t-102 @evilsailorsenshi @dee-zennie @gyubookeries @bat-shark-repellant @jisungsleftcheek @neocitytime127 @markleesleftpinky @fae-renjun @luumiinaa @ridinhyuck @carelessshootanonymous @jungwonniehv127 @once4sunrise @bunnysoonie @joonsprettygf @fleumurr @struggling101 @finewinesixtynine @bettyschwallocksyee @cloudzzcoffee @undomielsql @haeivie @nishiimuraka

[callisrecords]

Lovers and Cowards

pairing: zhong chenle x f!reader

trope: uni au, strangers 2 lovers, rom-com

description: Chenle finds an old love letter in the dorm printer trash and does the most logical thing: threatens to read it aloud at Movie Night unless the owner steps forward. The problem? It’s your friend’s letter, and she immediately begs you to pretend it’s yours. Now you’re fake confessing to Chenle on her behalf, and he just seems amused. And suspiciously into it.

Part of the Notice Me (literally) series!

warnings: food mentioned, language, slander, alcohol mentioned

w/c: 8.9k

a/n: unedited and not beta-d because i wrote this purely fueled by the thought of taeyong coming back and like i just let the neo rip through me... sorry um. yes anyways, this is my comeback :))) this is personally a very chenle thing to do in my opinion so i hope you thinks so too and i did not do our main yapper's yapping tendencies justice with this but bear with me guys :sob:

The dorm’s bulletin board is usually a wasteland of passive-aggressive Post-its and flyers you never read. Someone’s always trying to sell a desk lamp, or start a study group, or threaten the rest into keeping the kitchen clean.

Which is why you almost don’t notice the new piece of paper pinned dead-center with three thumbtacks like it’s the announcement of the century.

You wouldn’t have looked twice if Yizhuo didn’t suddenly grab your arm hard enough to cut off your circulation.

“What the hell,” you hiss, shaking her off. “Do you mind? I like having blood in my hand.”

She stares at the notice like it’s about to lunge off the board and strangle her. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god.”

You glance between her and the paper. “What?”

Yizhuo swallows hard. “I'm not going to freak out.”

“That’s literally what people say right before freaking out.”

She ignores you, steps forward, and points at the paper without actually touching it. Like it’s a crime scene. “That’s my letter.”

You blink. “What?”

“The one in the notice!” she snaps. “I typed it out last week after the midterms, when we got drunk. Printed it and then panicked and threw it away. Now—” She waves at the paper like it’s personally offended her. “—this is happening.”

You actually read it this time.

Notice: Lovers and Cowards Did you (or someone you know) pour their heart out into a love letter, only to chicken out and toss it near the dorm printer? Bad news: I found it. Worse news: it’s going public. Unless the rightful owner steps up, this masterpiece of romance will be read dramatically during Movie Night this Friday. Don’t make me do this. (Actually, please do—I love the drama.) Claim it before then, or prepare to be exposed. No judgment… maybe.

You look back at her slowly. “…You wrote a love letter.”

“Yes.”

“And threw it away by the printer.”

“Yes.”

“And now some lunatic has it and is threatening to read it in front of the whole dorm.”

She throws her hands up. “Not just some lunatic. Look at the name! It's Zhong Chenle. He'll fucking humiliate me in front of everyone. If he reads it on the day of the movie night, the person I wrote it to will figure it out."

You lean back a little. “How?"

“It's Jun—" She stops herself, looking around before leaning in to whisper into your ear. "It's Junghoon. You know I talk to him a lot. He'll easily know that it was me and that is the last thing I want right now."

You nod slowly. "Okay… So just go claim it? That way he won't reveal anything."

Yizhuo backs up and sighs, palms fisting at her hip. "Babe. So you clearly don't know Zhong Chenle that well."

She takes the quizzical look on your face as the sign to continue. "I've known the guy since middle school, and for some reason he just likes pissing me off. Even if I owned up to it, he would go and tell Junghoon."

You open your mouth to retort, but she beats you to it. "Trust me. I know."

"What will you do then?"

Yizhuo stills, eyes narrowing in on you. Softly, she brings up her palms to grip your elbows. "My love. My darling friend. The one who's got my back at all times—"

You shake your head, trying to pry her fingers off. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Well, it can't be great if it needs a build-up like that. So no."

"Please," she pleads, calling out your name. "All you'd have to do is go up to him and say it was yours. He won't care if it's you because he doesn't know you."

"And why would I embarrass myself in front of a total stranger?" You sigh, walking away from the notice board and over to the couches.

Mark Lee—you recognize him because he shares a class with you, one that you can't recall at the moment—sits on one of the couches with his girlfriend, and you'd rather not listen in to their conversation. So you plop down onto the farthest seat and watch as Yizhuo dramatically falls to her knees in front of you. The carpet hasn't been cleaned in, well, god knows how long, and you try to pull her up.

She swats your hand away.

"Please. Embarrassment is not a word in your dictionary, and honestly, it isn't one in his either. Which is why he would do such a thing." She rolls her eyes before muttering to herself. "God, that fucking idiot. Always up in everybody's business."

You watch her with equal parts disbelief and amusement as she flails around. The dust and questionable stains cling to her jeans, but she’s too focused on her theatrics to care. You reach down again, this time tugging a little harder at her elbow. “Get up before you catch something.”

Yizhuo finally gets up with a small grunt, dusting her knees off before putting the same palms on your shoulders. You flinch with disgust.

"Come on. You just have to go up to him, tell him that it was you and that he should never bring this up again and walk out!"

“Okay, okay. I don’t really know Chenle that well,” you admit, glancing toward the notice board like it’s the root of all your problems. “But from what you say, he sounds like exactly the kind of guy who would make this hell for you.”

She nods, relieved. “Right? He’s like the unofficial dorm detective—except instead of solving crimes, he just digs up everyone’s secrets and spreads them for fun.”

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “So, you want me to be your shield. Walk up, claim the letter like it’s mine, and then pray Chenle doesn’t turn it into some dorm-wide scandal.”

Yizhuo’s smile widens. “You got it. You’ll save me from eternal humiliation.”

You shake your head, already feeling the weight of this terrible favour. “Fine. But if Chenle makes a mockery of me, you owe me. Big time.”

She throws her arms around you with a squeal, and your eyes flicker over to where Mark and his girlfriend watch you two with thinly veiled concern. You shoot an awkward smile and a thumbs-up at them.

So you make the walk of (slight) shame over to Mark who sits, bent over a mass media law textbook. Ah, that's the class you share.

You realise, soon enough, that you might have to confront Zhong Chenle earlier than you expected. The pinned message in the dorm's group chat stares at you in all its glory.

Gentle reminder, D-2 to the movie night. Hope everybody is excited! (and please, bring your own snacks. We're uni students, not billionaires)

"Hey." You poke his shoulder, a bit awkwardly.

Mark startles, looking up at you before pulling his wired earphones out. "Hi. Can I help you?"

"You're friends with Chenle, aren't you?"

He nods, glancing at his phone that lights up before turning back to you. "Yeah. Is there a problem?"

"Oh, no." You shake your head. "I was just wondering, what room is he from?"

Mark's eyes narrow in on you. "Hold on… are you the one—"

"God, no." You clarify, waving your hands in front of him. "I forgot to take my USB out after using the printer. Someone told me they saw him taking it."

It's a lie, obviously, and you surprise yourself a little with how easily it slips out. The things you'd do for Yizhuo.

Mark stares at you for a few seconds like he’s weighing whether you’re telling the truth or just wasting his time. Then he shrugs, like whatever. “Alright. That makes sense. Chenle lives in 130 with Jisung. But he's in class right now, actually."

"Oh? I'm sorry, but it's kinda urgent. What class is he in?"

"Uh…" he trails off, scrolling on his phone to find the man's contact. "I'll ask him. The kid doesn't pay attention in any of his classes anyway."

You nod and awkwardly stand beside him while he waits for the reply. Pulling your phone out, you're met with a string of texts from Yizhuo asking if you got the job done. You type out a passive-aggressive 'not yet' followed by five rolling eyes emojis and mute her number temporarily.

Mark's feet tap on the ground rhythmically, probably along the tune of whatever he's listening to. After about a minute, he perks up.

"He's in Ethics in Journalism. C block. Says he doesn't have any USB, but he forgets stuff, so you should probably go and talk to him. He's almost done, so he'll be out by the time you reach."

You nod, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Ethics in Journalism sounds ironic for whatever you've heard about him. A blabber-mouth like him couldn't possibly be a good thing for journalism, could he?

You thank him, making Mark shrug before turning back to his textbook and putting his earphones back in.

The afternoon sun hangs high, casting short shadows across the cracked pavement as you make your way toward the main campus buildings. The familiar buzz of students rushing between classes fills the air—laughter, distant music, the occasional shout—but none of it reaches you today. Your mind is too busy rehearsing what’s about to happen.

Ahead, the modern brick facade of the journalism building rises into view, old and intimidating. You glance up at the small sign near the entrance: C Block, Communications and Media Studies.

The heavens seem to be slightly on your side today, for Zhong Chenle walks out just as you walk up to the entrance. You recognize him from the photos Yizhuo has showed you. Plus, you were told that if you saw anyone boring enough to be out and about wearing a Stephen Curry jersey, then that was your guy.

True to her word, Chenle wears a royal blue Golden State Warriors shirt, headphones slung around his neck and eyes on his phone as he skips down the steps, taking two at a time.

He glances up just as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, locking eyes with your waiting figure for a moment before pulling out one earbud. "Hey. Are you the girl that lost her USB?"

You blink, startled that he already knows. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.” You shuffle your feet, suddenly aware of how awkward this whole situation is.

Clearing your throat, you try to sound casual. “Listen, could we maybe, uh, go somewhere a bit more private? To talk?”

"About your lost USB?" Chenle laughs out, before smirking. "Dude, if you like me or something… I don't know, just say it here. I don't really care."

You scoff out of disbelief, crossing your arms. Somehow, he's already managed to irritate you. "Okay, stuck-up much? No. Listen, I didn't even know who you were until like, a day ago."

He nods slowly, like he finds your rambling amusing. "Sure."

"No, seriously. It's something important, so I'd appreciate if we went somewhere a little—" You look around at the influx of students that are leaving the building, "—less exposed."

He laughs again. It's an easy, contagious laugh that somehow makes you want to punch him and grin at the same time. “Fine, fine. Lead the way, mysterious USB owner.”

You take in a deep breath and start walking toward a quieter corner of the campus, away from the crowds milling between classes. Chenle trails behind, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the scene with that casual confidence that’s somehow both annoying and impressive.

The air feels cooler under the shade of the tall oaks, leaves rustling softly as you reach a bench tucked away near a side path. Chenle leans back against the bench, crossing his arms.

"You didn't even tell me your name? What's up, anyway?" He exhales loudly, throwing his head back and slouching in the seat.

You give him your name. He says it once, lazily almost before glancing at you. Somewhere on the way, he's put on black shades. You don't like how you can't see his eyes, but you continue anyway.

"So… about the notice that you put up in the dorm."

That makes him straighten up. Chenle almost squeals before fully turning his body to face you. He claps his hands once as he brings his leg up to sit on it, like this is some picnic that the two of you are having. "That was you? Oh my god, I can't believe that worked!"

"Yeah, so just—" you cut yourself off with a sigh, "please don't read it out on movie night?"

He smirks, tilting his head. “What were you thinking anyway? Love letters? Who even writes those anymore? Especially ones they immediately throw away? That’s some dramatic behaviour. You sure you weren’t drunk?”

You flush, eyes flicking away. “Okay, yeah. Drunk after exams. Tired and emotional. Can you just not make a big deal out of it?”

Chenle chuckles, a slow, teasing sound. “No promises, but—"

"Hey!" You retort. "You said you'd keep it hush if the person revealed themselves!"

"—Okay, okay. I will. I'll cut you some slack." He throws his hands up in defence.

You sigh, looking away. You don't even know this guy, but you already know that there's a but at the end of that sentence. "But what?"

"Only if you read it out to me right here."

Your mouth falls agape as you turn back to him. There's no way he's being serious about this.

"Come on." Chenle urges, the grin never leaving his face. "Be brave! It was fun to read on my own, but it would be even more hilarious coming from the writer herself."

"Dude, what the hell? This was not what you said on the notice."

"A man can change his mind. Come on, be quick." He shrugs as he pulls his bag forward, unzipping it to rummage through the loose papers dumped in it. "I have it in here somewhere."

"Do you not have people dedicating love letters to you? Is that why you want me to read it out, you sicko." You grumble, grabbing the letter from his hands.

It makes him laugh again, and you watch, a little dumbfounded at the way he throws his head back. You would hate to admit it, but there's something charming about the guy.

You shake your head, curse Yizhuo a thousand times before clearing your throat and holding the paper up. The edges crease where you grip the letter tightly. Chenle leans back, almost vibrating with excitement.

“To the one who makes my heart do somersaults,

Every time you walk into the room, it’s like fireworks explode inside me—bright, loud, and completely impossible to ignore. You’re the melody I hum in the shower, the warmth I crave on cold nights.”

You pause, blinking at the words like you can’t believe someone wrote this. Chenle snorts quietly behind his sunglasses.

You press on, cheeks heating despite yourself. Fuck Yizhuo, fuck that stupid little girl.

“I know I’m probably a mess right now—drunk on exams and bad decisions—but damn, I had to tell you. You’re the kind of beautiful disaster that makes my world spin faster and slower at the same time.”

Your voice cracks slightly on “beautiful disaster,” and you clear your throat.

“If loving you is a mistake, then I don’t want to be right. So here I am, a hopeless fool scribbling my heart out on paper, hoping maybe you’ll catch the fever too.”

There's about two more paragraphs left, but you fold the letter back up and look at Chenle with a face so full of pain that he almost pities you. You stand up, shoving the paper into one of your pockets and glare at the man who's barely managing to hold back his laughter.

"There. Done. Can you shut up about it now?"

He nods, lips still split into a shit-eating grin. "One last thing. Who was this even written to? And I swear I won't go around telling people."

You eye him suspiciously. What could possibly happen? As long as you make it out of this alive and as long as it isn't revealed that the actual writer was Yizhuo, you'll be fine.

"Junghoon." You state, pursing your lips. "You may not know him, he's in a different dorm."

"I think I've heard his name, yeah." Chenle nods, also getting up from the bench. "But damn, you were brave. I acknowledge and respect that, although I was hoping you'd be a no-show and I'd get to read it out."

You step away, throw up a sign heavily relying on your middle finger and turn around to walk back.

His giggles ring in your ear and you resist the urge to turn around and punch his stupid, infuriating, good-looking—no. No, just stupid and infuriating face.

"What a fucking sadist, really." You mutter to yourself, stomping across the footpath. "Well, at least it's over now."

The common room buzzes with the low hum of chattering students and the clatter of drinks and popcorn buckets being passed around. In the kitchen, you hear the RAs arguing about seating arrangements and the lack of beanbags that they've borrowed from the college club rooms.

The couches have been moved to the sides, and upon your insistence, the carpet has been replaced, so it isn't as much of a hazard to just sit on the ground anymore. Behind you, someone is setting up the projector and fiddling around with the size of the projection on the wall. Yizhuo has managed to catch hold of a bean bag big enough for the both of you to sit, and you have a thin but soft blanket, folded in your arms in case they decide to turn the air conditioning up like the theatres. There's nothing that could go wrong.

Or so you think.

Because half way through the opening credits, someone settles down on the ground beside your bean bag with a loud exhale, making you twitch and turn towards them to throw a stink-eye.

Chenle.

He shifts lazily, propping himself up on one elbow as his eyes settle on you.

Yizhuo stiffens beside you, fingers clutching the blanket a little too tightly. Her gaze flickers to Chenle with something close to disdain, and you catch the subtle but unmistakable chill radiating between them.

Chenle’s dark eyes flick over to Yizhuo for just a moment, a flash of mild annoyance crossing his face before he looks back at you.

"Where's loverboy?" he asks, low enough for only you and Yizhuo to hear it. She scoffs lightly and turns back to the movie. "Didn't invite him?"

You roll your eyes. "No. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering." He shrugs with a smile, "I thought you'd be here cozying up to him instead of… Yizhuo."

"Shut up, Chenle." She grumbles from beside you.

"What is up with you two anyway?" You ask, straightening a little with curiosity.

"I was just better than her at everything."

"He's a stuck-up asshole." They both answer at the same time. You bite your lip to not let the smile show.

"Our mothers are friends." Chenle hums. "So we kind of grew up together, unfortunately."

You blink, caught off guard by the casual confession. “Oh wow, that explains a lot.” You glance between them, the familiar sibling-like banter oddly endearing, before turning to Yizhuo.

"So you don't actually hate him, do you?"

Yizhuo shoots him a glare, but there's traces of amusement in her eyes. "Yes, I do."

"She doesn't." Chenle scoffs, pointing his chin towards the movie. "Turn back around."

“So,” you say, nudging Chenle lightly, “are you here just to torment us, or do you actually like the movie?”

Chenle shrugs again, eyes twinkling. “A bit of both, honestly. Plus, I figured sitting here would be more interesting than wherever the hell I was before.”

Yizhuo groans beside you. You look behind, eyes catching on the group of six that are slowly settling down towards the back of the room. "Really? They do look like they'd be fun."

"Eh, at times." He admits, "But honestly, I'm also here to ask about your little crush."

"No." You reply sharply, and he only lets out a breathy laugh before settling into the side of your bean bag. It surprises you how easily he gets comfortable, but you don't mind—weirdly enough—and Yizhuo doesn't seem to either, so you let him be.

"You're interesting, actually." Chenle mumbles, eyes still on the wall. "How have we never met before?"

You blink at him, caught off guard by the honesty that’s so casually dropped between the flickering shadows of the movie. “I have no idea,” you say, voice low enough not to disturb the others, "but it's probably for a good reason anyway."

Chenle throws an irritated glance at you, scrunching his nose. "Your loss. I'm a really fun person to be around."

When you reply with a snort, he stretches his arms above his head, eyes still half on the screen but now relaxed, like the casual companion he somehow is tonight. “So, tell me,” he says, voice dropping to a teasing drawl, “how much of that letter was real, and how much was drunk poetry."

"Man, let it go." You groan, pushing back into your seat. "Everything was drunk poetry. I'm not usually like that."

Yizhuo pinches your thigh under the blanket with a laugh, and you have to force yourself to hold back and not expose her then and there.

"Okay, you know what. I'm nosy. Tell me about this guy."

"What are you going to do?" You roll your eyes, "Play wingman?"

"Hey," Chenle protests, "I could if I wanted to."

But still, you stiffen. Truth is, you barely know Junghoon beyond a few passing hellos in the dorm hallway and a handful of vague group chats. Your mouth opens to answer, but the words stick in your throat.

Before you can stumble over some awkward excuse, Yizhuo leans a little closer, her tone smooth but firm. “Junghoon’s alright. Quiet, keeps to himself mostly. Not much for the spotlight. Probably why you don’t really know him,” she says, eyes flicking to Chenle with a hint of challenge.

Chenle raises an eyebrow, smirking at the subtle jab but not pushing back. “Ooh, protective, huh? Nice.”

You shoot Yizhuo a grateful glance, silently thanking her for the rescue as Chenle nudges the conversation forward with a lazy grin. “Well, quiet types can be interesting. Mysterious. But if you don’t know him well, how do you even… like him?”

"I do know him," you protest weakly, "he's a nice guy. I wouldn't like him otherwise."

"So that's your type? Nice, quiet guys?" He hums. "Didn't expect that, lowkey."

"Guess so, yeah." You nod slowly. You hope you're a good liar, because the way Chenle seems to look right at you makes you feel like you aren't. "Focus on the movie, would you?"

Chenle chuckles, shaking his head like he’s amused by some private joke. “You’re good at dodging, I’ll give you that."

You bite your lip, trying to keep your expression neutral. He notices, maybe, because he shakes his head, his black mop of hair swishing around.

You palms roll up into fists under the blanket to resist from reaching out and running a hand through it.

Zhong Chenle. Who is this guy?

The laundry room smells strongly of detergent pods, a quiet refuge from the usual dorm chaos. You lean against the wall near the row of dryers, phone in hand, eyes half-watching the soft white numbers counting down.

Your laundry’s nearly done, and you’re just killing time, thankful for the rare moment to yourself, when the door swings open with a muffled creek and in stroll two people, one with a familiar voice.

"I swear to god, you need to ask one of us to make something for you or at least to teach you how to use kitchen appliances without making it a safety hazard for every one involved." Chenle lets out exasperatedly, dumping his laundry bag into one of the baskets.

The other boy—Jisung, whom you've heard of before from Yizhuo—whines lowly. It's a sound you don't expect to hear from a man of his height, his brows furrowed and feet stomping lightly on the tiles, so you almost let out a small laugh.

It catches Chenle's attention, and he whips around to meet your eyes. He waves with one hand, shooting a grin, the other hand busy stuffing his closed into the washing machine.

Jisung eyes you a little curiously, nodding once in acknowledgement before he turns back to his friend. "Get off my back, dude. It's not my fault the toaster seems to malfunction every single time I touch it."

"Are you hearing yourself right now?" Chenle scoffs. "Jisung someone had to call you out using the notice board. You realize how embarrassing that is for you?"

"You don't have to tell me." The taller boy grumbles. "It's okay. I'll go apologize later. At least I'm not ignorant like Mark was."

Chenle shakes his head, slamming the washing machine door shut. "Just ask, next time."

He glances over at you again, eyes sharp but friendly. "Why are you alone here? Where's the little devil?"

You sigh, slipping your phone back into your pocket. "She's bunked too many classes and is facing the consequences now. Studying in our room. Is this your roommate?" You ask, tilting your head at Jisung.

"The one and only," Chenle grumbles affectionately. "One hell of an idiot is a more apt description."

"Hi." Jisung waves awkwardly. "I've heard of you before."

You pointedly stare at Chenle, who simply shrugs.

"What can I say? He was the one that sat and watched me type the notice up. He's so non-committal, I tell you. Wants to know what happened but doesn't want to be directly involved."

"I don't want to be an ass like you." Jisung wraps an arm around his roommate's shoulder. "Being nosy isn't as big of a crime."

You exhale loudly just as the dryer beeps. "Hold on to that thought." You say as you turn back around to load the clothes into your bag.

"I don't judge, unlike him." Jisung points out, making you giggle.

"He wasn't too judgemental, I guess." You admit. "Although he did—wait, no. He was. He made me read out the letter to him."

Chenle's eyes glint as he leans slightly forward. "Well… I have to say, you have a really nice voice. Made the whole thing sound way better than I expected."

You pause for a moment, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. A faint blush rises to your cheeks as you glance up at him.

"Is that your way of saying I should read more often?" you tease, folding your laundry with a sly smile.

Chenle shrugs, grinning. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like hearing you talk."

Jisung rolls his eyes but can’t hide the amused smile tugging at his lips. "Easy, there. She likes someone. Don't try to make moves on her."

It makes you laugh out loud despite yourself, and the smart retort that he was about to say dies on Chenle's tongue as he watches your palm come up to cover your mouth, your eyes crinkling before you turn away.

Why is he making moves on you? And worst of all, why do you not seem bothered by it?

"I'm not." He responds defensively, clearing his throat and shooting Jisung a look that clearly says shut the fuck up.

But he says nothing more, his attention fixed on you again. There’s a pause, the hum of the machines filling the silence.

“So,” you say absently, checking the number of clothes in your bag to make sure you left nothing, “what’s really got you so worked up about the kitchen?”

Chenle smiles. “Right, the toast is Jisung’s problem. I'm pretty good in the kitchen."

You look up at that, eyebrows raised in disbelief. "You can cook?"

"Why is that so surprising?" He asks, sounding slightly offended.

"I don't know…" You mumble, pulling the strings to close the bag. "You look—"

"Good? Yeah," he waves you off with a sly grin, "tell me something I don't know."

"—like you survive off Red Bulls and instant noodles." You finish with a light-hearted scowl. "Where do you get all that confidence from, really?"

"I am a good cook." Chenle replies, sounding like he's challenging. "If you don't believe me, you can see for yourself. Or rather, taste for yourself."

"He does make really good scallion oil noodles." Jisung admits airily, slightly zoned out of your conversation.

Chenle raises an eyebrow at you. "So?"

“Okay, chef,” you say, tugging the laundry bag over your shoulder. “You owe me a taste test. When and where?”

Chenle taps his chin thoughtfully. “How about this weekend? I’ll cook, you judge.”

You smile, feeling a spark of something unexpected but welcome. “It’s a date.”

He nods, stepping back with satisfaction and slight determination. Another thing you've heard about him from Yizhuo is that he's competitive. Almost to a fault. But maybe… maybe you like that.

As you gather your things to leave, Chenle calls out your name, like he's just remembered something. "You sure your quiet boy won't mind you eating with another guy?" He teases cheekily.

You groan. "I'm allowed to have friends, thank you."

When you leave, Jisung turns to his roommate with a grin. "Why the hell are you hitting on her, dude?"

"I'm really not, Jisung." He sighs, pushing the taller boy away. "Maybe you'd know if you ever managed to speak to a girl who was interested in you."

"Rude." He mutters, a little dejectedly. "She seems nice. She called it a date. Why would she do that?"

Chenle hums, looking up to let out a small noise of confusion before he brushes it off, already opening his notes app to make a checklist of ingredients.

The setting sun's rays slide in through the library’s tall windows, casting long stripes of pale gold and pink light across your cluttered table. You’re buried under textbooks and scattered notes. The faint smell of recycled paper from your notebook and the sickly sweet coffee from the canteen has begun to make you gag. Your eyes flick over the same sentence for the third time, but it refuses to stick.

You groan. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Yizhuo stretches beside you, cracking her neck like it’s been ages since she last moved. “Break. Now.”

You shove your stuff into your bag, following her out. The quad is alive with the buzz of students—laughter, conversations, a frisbee sailing somewhere in the distance. Yizhuo wanders over toward the basketball courts, where a small crowd has formed.

When the two of you finally make it past, she scoffs. "Of course, it's him. That little attention-seeker. Bet he's just showing off."

It takes you the first four words to figure out who she's talking about.

You spot Chenle easily—darting between players like he owns the court, the bounce of the ball synced perfectly with his steps. His bright blue jersey stands out, like a beacon daring anyone to challenge him. You watch him spin, dribble, and then launch the ball into the net with that effortless flick of the wrist that gets the crowd cheering.

Yizhuo snorts beside you, crossing her arms. “Typical. Full of himself.”

You can’t help but smile, even though you try to play it cool. “He’s good.”

“Yeah, but he’s also an annoying show-off.”

You shrug, shifting on your feet. “Maybe. But he makes it look good. I kind of get why people watch.”

Yizhuo raises an eyebrow. “Don’t get too soft on him now. You’re supposed to be focused.”

You huff out a breath, stealing a glance at Chenle again. His laugh is loud and easy, the kind that makes the whole court seem a little brighter. There's a lot about him that you didn't expect, and somehow, he just keeps catching you by surprise.

You turn your gaze back to the game, but something about the way the sunlight hits Chenle’s face makes you pause. His hair is tousled just enough to look effortless, and when he smiles—really smiles—it’s like the whole crowd fades out for a second.

You catch yourself watching the way his muscles tense as he dribbles, the way his eyes sharpen when he focuses on the basket. It’s not just the game. It’s him.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware that you’ve been staring a little too long. Yizhuo nudges you with a reluctant sigh. "Please don't tell me you think the rat is handsome."

Her words are so random that you laugh out loud, maybe a little louder than you intended. The noise catches Chenle’s attention. He looks around, eyebrows raised as if trying to figure out where it came from. Then his eyes settle on you.

A slow grin spreads across his face as he waves, calling out, “Hey! Watching the game or just here to make fun?”

You and Yizhuo exchange a quick glance before you wave back awkwardly. Chenle shrugs and turns back to the game.

But you notice something subtle. His next moves are a little sharper, a little more precise—not like he suddenly decided to play seriously, but like he’s enjoying the extra attention. There’s a flicker of something playful in his eyes whenever they flick back to where you sit.

Yizhuo watches him too and mutters, “Okay, what the fuck is he doing?”

You turn to face her, raising an eyebrow.

"Like he's clearly trying to impress you, or whatever. But why? He thinks you like someone else, doesn't he?" Yizhuo asks , eyes focused somewhere past the courts as she thinks.

"Unless…" She snaps her fingers before turning to you and gripping you by the shoulders. "Did you tell him the truth?"

"No," you argue, "why would I do that?"

Yizhuo sits back again. "Sorry, you wouldn't. That was a moment of weakness."

Shaking your head, you lean back with her and continue watching. After a few seconds of silence, she pipes up again.

"Then why in the world has he developed home-wrecking tendencies? Trying to flirt with a girl who's heart is technically taken."

You shrug, cheeks warming.

Yizhuo rolls her eyes and stands up, throwing her hands up. “Alright, I’m done. This is weird. Let’s bounce before he starts trying to throw in slam dunks or something.”

"He's going to cook for me this weekend, by the way." You inform her as the two of you leave the court, not before you throw a small wave at him.

Yizhuo stops in her tracks, jaw hanging slack in astonishment. "He's going to what?"

You shrug. "We were just talking about cooking and he said he was good and I didn't believe that. Think he took it as a sort of challenge."

"Oh my god. What the fuck. I'm going to tell him to back off."

"Hey!" You protest weakly, "let me make friends too."

Yizhuo shakes her head before smiling and looping her arm through yours. "Hmm honey, I don't think he wants to be your friend. But alright, he's not the worst person out there."

On Saturday morning, your phone buzzes with a series of texts.

Almost instantly, he replies.

Chenle (130)

hey 121

isn't the little devil out all afternoon today?

my mum said she's visiting home

You

yeah! i think her cousin is home.

You pause, considering it. The dorm kitchen is usually a hassle on the weekends, and your own room is much more calming. Your phone pings with another text before you can respond.

Chenle (130)

can i cook in your room then?

i mean i've already got the scallion oil ready in a jar lol

so really i only need to make the noodles but

Chenle (130)

i'd offer my room but

jisung cannot get his ass out of bed and he's clumsy and awkward

do you fw that energy?

You

poor him…

he's so sweet why are you mean to him

and yeah my room's fine. will clean up a little though, so let me know when you're coming around

You react with a thumbs-up and throw your phone onto your bed before staring at the mess that your room has become after Yizhuo spent the entire morning deciding on outfits.

Chenle (130)

in like half an hour or so?

You start picking things up slowly, trying not to overthink why your heart beats a bit faster at the thought of him walking through that door. It’s silly. You tell yourself it’s just noodles, just cooking. But there’s a strange warmth in your chest that you don’t bother naming.

Halfway through, you catch yourself smiling quietly at the floor, like you’re keeping a secret you don’t want anyone to find out about. It’s awkward and a little thrilling all at once.

Your phone buzzes, dragging you out of your thoughts.

Almost there. Hope you’re ready for the best noodles of your life.

You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks warming just a little. Then, the soft knock on your door breaks the silence.

“Coming!” you call out, before shuffling over to the door.

When you open it, you're met with Chenle's dazzling face (as he says it himself) and a hand held out with a glass jar of scallion oil.

You take it with a small smile, your fingers brushing his just long enough to notice but not enough to care too much. Chenle steps inside, surveying your room with that familiar cocky grin.

“Nice setup,” he says, nodding toward your cluttered desk. “Looks like someone’s been pretending to study.”

You shoot him a side-eye. “Pretending? I’m multitasking.”

He laughs and pulls out the portable stove and pot from his bag like a pro. Watching him unpack, you settle on the floor nearby, arms crossed, trying not to look too interested.

“Hey, don’t think I didn’t see you stealing glances,” Chenle says without looking up.

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Please. I’m here for the noodles, not the show.”

He flicks a glance your way, amused. “Sure, keep telling yourself that.”

Chenle sets the pot on the stove, the faint hiss of boiling water filling the quiet room. He moves with easy confidence, but you notice the brief flicker in his eyes when they meet yours—something softer, quieter, that he quickly hides behind a casual grin.

“So,” you say, folding your arms and leaning back against the bed, “how long have you been cooking like this?”

“Long enough,” he replies, stirring the noodles gently. “Used to watch my mum. She’s got this way of making simple stuff taste amazing.”

You hum thoughtfully. “Mums are always like that, aren't they?"

“Yeah, exactly.” He shrugs. “It’s all in the timing. Too long and they get soggy. Too quick and they’re hard.

You grin, clearly entertained. “And how much time did it take you to learn that, Mr. Zhong?"

He waves the chopsticks at you. "Almost none. I'm a pro."

The soft clatter of the chopsticks, the gentle bubbling of the water, the quiet comfort of the room—it all feels strangely calming.

“So,” you say after a moment, “do you always cook for people? Or is this just a special occasion?”

He pauses, glancing at you briefly before turning back to the noodles. “I don’t know. I guess... I like it. The cooking part, and maybe the hanging out part too.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Just maybe?”

Chenle laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe more than just maybe.”

You grin, leaning back on your hands. “I’m starting to think you might actually enjoy my company.”

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” he teases. “I enjoy a lot of things.”

But the smile he gives you feels softer, like it’s meant just for you. You don’t press it, just watch as he slides the noodles into a bowl, topping them with a generous drizzle of the scallion oil.

Chenle sets the bowl down in front of you, and you reach for your chopsticks, smacking your lips in anticipation. You wait for him to settle down in front of you with his own bowl.

“So, what’s the verdict?” he asks, eyes bright.

You take a bite, the warm noodles slipping easily between your chopsticks, the scallion oil fragrant and rich. “Not bad,” you say, “for someone who claims to be a pro.”

Chenle grins, watching you carefully. “Told you."

As the conversation flows—bits of teasing, shared stories about family dinners and awkward kitchen mishaps—Chenle’s gaze drifts to you, not just hearing your words but noticing the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, how easy it is to be here, like this, just talking and eating.

He thinks about how simple it feels, this rhythm between you two. No pressure, no pretence. But beneath that ease, a quiet ache presses at him.

You like someone else. He knows he’s not the one you want. And that knowledge stings, sharper than he lets on. Yet, despite that, he finds himself here. Choosing to be near you, drawn by something he doesn’t quite have the words for yet.

Chenle wipes his face lethargically with a towel, sweat dripping down onto the concrete ground as him and Jisung leave the courts, duffels hanging on their shoulders.

"Hey." Jisung nudges his elbow, nodding towards a bench near the quad. "Remember you were asking who Junghoon was? That's him."

Chenle follows his gaze and freezes. “Wait… what the hell is Yizhuo doing sitting practically on top of him?”

Jisung shrugs. "Beats me. I've seen them hanging out a lot, but I assumed that was how 121 and him met."

"Yeah, bullshit. She's sitting way too close for him to just be a friend." Chenle scowls.

"Hey, be glad. If they have something going on, that just means your chances with 121 increased."

Chenle laughs, but it’s tight, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "Shut up."

He watches as Junghoon leans in closer, Yizhuo laughing way too loud, her hand brushing against his arm in a way that makes Chenle’s stomach twist in pain for you. Do you know about this? Why would Yizhuo do this to you? He thought you guys were inseparable.

It’s dumb. He knows it’s dumb to care this much. But the heat rising in his chest says otherwise.

Jisung claps him on the shoulder. “Come on, man, time to hit the showers before you start inventing conspiracy theories.”

Chenle grumbles but follows, his mind buzzing with half-formed thoughts.

Shower steam and hot water usually help clear his head, but not tonight. When he steps out, he’s still chewing on the scene, replaying it like a bad song stuck in his brain.

Pulling on a hoodie, Chenle grabs his phone and calls you before putting it on speaker.

You pick up on the fourth ring. He hears a little shuffling before your voice comes through in a whisper. "Hey? What's up. Sorry, I'm in the library."

"Which one?" Chenle asks, dropping his phone onto the bed and already pulling on the first pair of socks he can find.

"Uhm, the one near the engineering department." You inform, albeit a little confused. "Why? Are you going to study as well?"

"Uh—" Chenle mutters from the corner of his room as he slips into his shoes, "yeah, kind of. Stay there, I'm coming soon."

You say goodbye quietly. Chenle pulls his hood over his head and begins the short walk over to the engineering department. The street lamps are beginning to switch on, and the cool air hits his face, sharp and clear, but it doesn’t clear the clutter in his mind.

He just cannot wrap his head around it all. Chenle's known Yizhuo like you would an annoying sibling, and if there's anything, she would never do that to you. But he's seen it with his own two eyes. Why would Yizhuo go for the guy you liked?

The library door swings open with a quiet creak as he slips inside. The familiar smell of old books and polished wood settles over him, and he spots you almost immediately—head bent low over a pile of notes, your hair falling in soft waves that catch the light just right.

He stops short, blinking. There’s something about the way you look right now—soft, tired, and completely unguarded—that catches him off guard. His chest tightens in a way he hasn’t expected, a strange ache that makes him want to reach out and brush that loose hair from your face.

Before he can overthink it, he clears his throat, making you look up. Your eyes meet his, and there’s a flicker of surprise before you break into a small, tired smile.

“Hey,” you mumble when he nears you. "What are you planning to work on?"

Just as he's about to answer, Yizhuo emerges from the shelf behind you two, balancing the three thickest books he's seen in his life in her hands before dropping it onto the table, beside you. She huffs out, blowing the baby hairs away from her face, and Chenle controls the urge to lash out at her then and there when he sees the way you smile at her antics, eyes softening in affection.

“Hey,” he replies, voice rougher than he means it to be. "Don't know. I'll see."

Chenle slides the chair out noisily and lowers himself beside you, his gaze flicking briefly to Yizhuo, who’s still bustling about, her energy loud and bright in contrast to the quiet library. She shoots him a grin and waves before retreating back toward the stacks, leaving him alone with you.

He watches you for a moment, then without really thinking, he slides his chair a little away and pulls yours toward him without much warning. You startle with a gasp, looking at him incredulously. "What the—"

"Can we talk?" His voice is low, barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, surprise flickering in your eyes, but you nod, pushing your notes aside and lean in close enough that he can smell the faint hint of your shampoo and feel the warmth radiating from you.

Chenle clears his throat, suddenly not knowing how to break the news to you. He glances around, making sure that Yizhuo isn't in the vicinity before talking.

"Don't freak out, but I saw Yizhuo with… Junghoon a little while ago." He studies your face carefully, and is slightly perplexed when you give away nothing. "They were being kinda touchy, I don't know. Not the way friends act."

"Yeah? Okay.” Your tone is casual, like it’s nothing important.

Chenle blinks, a bit thrown off by your reaction. “You’re not... bothered?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. Him and Yizhuo know each other and are friends. I don't really mind.”

He lets out a frustrated noise. "Listen, I know it's not my place and you probably believe her more than me, but I swear that the way they were acting was not appropriate. Aren't you bothered that your friend may be hitting on your crush?"

There’s a beat of silence between you two. Then something clicks in your mind, and your eyes widen just a little as you realise you’re supposed to care.

Chenle watches this shift with quiet surprise and much more confusion than he'd walked in with.

"It's okay," you wave him off, "it's nothing. Don't worry. She would never do that."

He watches with thinly veiled disbelief as you turn back to your textbook. Maybe you're just… much more open-minded than he thought you were. Maybe he's just reading too much into it—letting his feelings get the better of him because he's started to care more than he should

The next day, you find Chenle waiting for you outside your building when you walk out of class. He doesn't say anything, and only drags you—fingers wrapped gently around your wrist—to the same bench you sat at when you first met.

He sits you down, pays absolutely no regard to the confusion on your features and sits down next to you before removing the sunglasses he's wearing.

"I’ve been thinking,” he states confidently, “like… the entire night, actually.”

You glance up, brow raised, but he doesn’t waste time.

“The only thing that makes sense,” Chenle continues, “is that you lied. You came in place of Yizhuo.”

Your eyes flicker in surprise before he goes on. “Remember when I asked you about Junghoon? You didn’t have anything to say. If you liked someone, you’d probably mention him a bit more, right? But I’ve literally never heard you talk about him.”

"And in the short while that I've known you, it's become very obvious, if I think about it, that you are not the type to write love letters and cringey poems to someone. Like, that's Yizhuo's territory. Why didn't I think of her before?"

You open your mouth to protest, but he holds up his palm and continues anyway.

"And she was the one who spoke about him during the movie night. You just sat and nodded along!" He exhales with exasperation. "On top of that, you didn't even care when I told you about that entire ordeal yesterday. And I know that Yizhuo is one stupid girl, but she would never do that to a friend, no matter how much of a fucking devil she is."

Chenle's gaze sharpens in on you. "And you let me in your room, let me cook for you, and did not push me away when I lowkey flirted with you, so there's no way you like Junghoon. And you're the only one who would do the little devil's dirty work for her." He pauses, glancing away with annoyance, "What a coward, she is."

"Chenle—" you try to interrupt, in vain. "You've got it all—"

"So here's my final theory." He interrupts, placing his palm on your lips to stop you. You swallow, eyes widening in surprise. "Yizhuo likes Junghoon, wrote the letter when she was drunk and was stupid enough to get caught. She freaked out, asked you to go in her place, and you being the sweetheart that you are, agreed. And thus, you've been lying to me."

He watches you for a long moment, until you feel vulnerable enough to give up and nod under his gaze. With a triumphant fist pumping into the air, Chenle lets his palm drop from your face.

"I'm sorry," you mumble, looking away.

He turns to you immediately, heart sinking. "Hey, no. I mean, that was a dirty move, but I'm not upset. Don't worry. Just slightly confused and overall shocked that I didn't figure out sooner."

You nod, cheeks warming. "Yeah, I do not like the guy… Don't even know him that well."

Chenle bobs his head up and down, unable to stop the grin that stretches his lips. Your eyes narrow.

"Why do you care so much anyway?"

His smile drops a little before he brings a hand up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly. "Well, um." He looks away for a beat, then meets your gaze again, a little softer this time. "Isn't it kinda obvious that I'm like…into you?"

His honesty catches you off guard, and you look away, letting the wind brush your hair onto your face to hide the colour rising up your cheeks. "I don't know… I guess so."

"Okay, um. Well, I like you. And I was a little bummed because I thought you liked that guy or whatever, but clearly you don't. So can we…" Chenle trails off as he gets up from the bench to look at you.

"Start over?" You mumble.

"Yes, exactly." He grins, reaching a hand out.

You grab it and stand up along with him, and he lets it fall between the two of you. "This time, Yizhuo stays the fuck away from us."

You laugh softly at that, the tension breaking like a snapped rubber band.

“Deal,” you say, your smile returning, bright and a little mischievous. "But only if you promise not to blow up on her."

Chenle shrugs, clearly amused. “No promises. Do you really not agree with my nickname for her? It's perfect.”

"She's an angel to me," you quip cheerily, swinging his hand slightly. "Okay, okay, wait. Do we do it like the movies?"

Chenle clears his throat and lets your hand go. He brushes a hand through his hair and falls one step back before shoving his hand in your face.

"I'm Zhong Chenle. I'm a sport journalism major, I live in room number 130 and I'm like, kinda sorta into you."

You nod solemnly, biting back a laugh before shaking his hand and telling him your name. "Good to know. I agree with you."

Chenle quirks an eyebrow. “Well, that was surprisingly formal for two people who basically just admitted to crushing on each other.”

You grin, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Hey, gotta keep it professional. Can’t just spill feelings like that."

He laughs, then steps closer, lowering his voice a notch. “So does this mean I can actually take you out on a date that we don't spend pretending we're into other people?"

You smirk, folding your arms. “Depends. What are your negotiation skills like, Mr. Zhong?"

He pretends to think hard, tapping his chin exaggeratedly. “I’m pretty good, if I say so myself. Especially when the prize is dinner with you.”

You roll your eyes but your smile widens. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

Chenle’s grin deepens. “You won’t regret it.”

taglist: @yukisroom97 @fleumurrr @awktwurtle @hyperbolicheart @reiofsuns2001 @t-102 @evilsailorsenshi @dee-zennie @gyubookeries @bat-shark-repellant @jisungsleftcheek @neocitytime127 @markleesleftpinky @fae-renjun @luumiinaa @ridinhyuck @carelessshootanonymous @jungwonniehv127 @once4sunrise @bunnysoonie @joonsprettygf @fleumurr @struggling101 @finewinesixtynine @bettyschwallocksyee @cloudzzcoffee @undomielsql @haeivie @nishiimuraka

[callisrecords]

i need to get back to writing for my neos i miss them 🥹 sticking to a wip has been the hardest thing days tho 😪

also??? 127 days left before taeyong comes back ???

[callisrecords]

cali!!

cam&em announced a Collab of several authors writing f1 for seventeen, i thought I'd see you there.

hi anon and no haha! but i'm honored you thought of me <3 and i've seen some pretty cool sounding fics on there so I am excited !!

[callisrecords]

why are abba's songs so f1 (esp brocedes) coded like????

[callisrecords]

CHASING THE FRONT PT.3

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]

glossary taglist

a/n: one more completed and another step closer to finishing the series eeee!! thank you again to all the comments and everyone that has stuck around for this :D hope y'all like this and please do leave a comment/rb/ask with your thoughts!

SUMMER BREAK

Joshua leaves the house just before eight. One bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase at his feet. The sky outside is flat and grey, the kind that makes everything feel earlier—or even later than it actually is. His mother waves from the taxi.

This is his second flight in two days. The first one was straight from Hungary, surrounded by team personnel and crew, all still riding the high of a double podium. This one is quieter. No entourage, no itinerary that needs pre-clearing. Just his mother beside him in the backseat of the cab, chatting absently about her ‘sisters’ trip to Madeira, about how the hydrangeas were in full bloom and how the locals were kind and patient even when she couldn’t speak the language properly. It’s the kind of story he would’ve liked to hear in full if his mind wasn’t still somewhere else.

He watches as one familiar landmark bleeds into the next. He’d been looking forward to this part—the break and the stillness. A reset after a first half that had come in hot and fast and relentless. But now he just feels the inertia. His body is in perpetual motion even though the car has stopped.

His mother keeps the conversation going gently, asking about what time the sim schedule restarts next week and whether he’ll be back in Brackley before the others. He says yes to both, though he hasn’t really looked. He’s been meaning to. 

It’s not that Joshua can’t relax—in fact, he’s hoping that this trip to Greece will do just that. It’s just harder than he expected to be still. There’s a tension in him that hasn’t quite ebbed out yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the way his knee bounces under the terminal bench later, in how long he stares at his phone without unlocking it.

There’s nothing on it, anyway. No new messages. No follow-ups. You haven’t texted—not since before the race—and he hasn’t either. He doesn’t know what he would even say.

Not that it’s weird. You don’t talk that much outside of work, and it was just a long weekend. 

Still, every now and then, the memory drifts in and out of his head, even though he tries hard not to think about it. The clink of a glass, your arm brushing his as you reached past him at the bar. A glance held too long or not at all. 

He told himself that it was nothing when he woke up the next morning, so he does it again.

The boarding gate opens. He stands, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before following his mother toward the queue. No tracks, no engineers, no schedule to chase. A flight that doesn’t lead to anything. And maybe, a little more time to figure out how he’s supposed to feel when he sees you again.

You wake up later than usual, and it takes you a few minutes to remember that you don’t have somewhere to be right now.

Outside, it’s gloomy again—not cold, like you’d have preferred, but just heavy and humid, like the clouds are threatening to fall down on you. You shower, throw on something soft and oversized, and stare at the kettle, boiling water for tea that you never end up finishing while it's still hot. The apartment is silent. No emails, no alarms, no one asking where you are or when you’ll be back in the office. It’s not unpleasant, but because it’s something that occurs only once or twice in a year, the feeling is a bit unfamiliar every time.

The only sign of Doyoung is a text he sent twenty minutes ago, asking if you’re alive and that he’s going to be dropping by later this afternoon. He doesn’t live too far from you, and he gets bored fast when he doesn’t have a car to obsess over or data to look at.

You scroll through your phone on the sofa, not looking for anything in particular. A few messages from friends asking if you want to meet up tomorrow, now that you’re finally on your break. In the informal team group chat, there are a bunch of photos from the Hungary afterparty. Everyone is flushed and smiling in most of them. You stare at them longer than you mean to, before you remember that you’d decided to ignore everything that happened that night. You swipe out of the app.

The thought of seeing people sounds nice. Normal. You should say yes. Maybe go for drinks or just a lazy lunch in someone’s garden, music low and sleeves rolled up. You’ve been meaning to reply for days and keep forgetting, or maybe just avoiding. 

When Doyoung arrives, not later that day like he said—knocking twice before letting himself in with the key he borrowed weeks ago and never returned—you’re still lazing on the couch with a book that you’ve lost interest in. 

He doesn’t bother to greet you and instead just takes his shoes off by the door and drops his keys in the little ceramic tray you keep by the shoe cupboard, like it’s his own place.

“Hey,” he calls, wandering into the kitchen. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet,” you say. “Was going to make something later.”

He hums, opening the fridge and peering inside. “You have that oat milk I like.”

“You left it here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for being decent enough not to throw it out.”

You glance over as he pours himself a glass and drinks it straight, still standing. A wave of annoyance pulses through you—not serious, but the one that comes from watching someone help themselves like they live here.

“You know, you could sit down like a normal person.”

“I am normal,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just uptight for some reason.”

“You’re drinking oat milk like it’s wine.”

He waves you off, closing the fridge door before making his way to the living room and dropping onto the armchair across from you, limbs spread out like he’s trying to make himself as irritating as possible.“ Listen, I’m bored as fuck.”

“It’s been three days, Doyoung.” You sigh, turning back to your book. “Go bother someone else.”

“Come on, can we do something? What are we doing today?”

You glance up. “We?”

“Yeah. I’m bored and you’re free.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What if I had plans?”

He scoffs. “You don’t.”

You don’t. But still.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” you say. “Maybe grabbing coffee.”

“Great. Let’s do that. And then lunch.”

You close your laptop with a quiet sigh, not really protesting. The truth is, you don’t mind. It’s easier, sometimes, when he makes the decisions for both of you. You get to work on autopilot, which is rare and something you’ve learned to enjoy.

Doyoung stretches in his seat, mumbling. “Honestly, we should go somewhere.”

You give him a look. “We are…?”

“No, I mean, out of the country, maybe. On vacation. But soon.” He leans, pulling out his phone. “Somewhere chill. Like... the Alps. Or the Lake District. Or—what’s that place you always talk about? The one with the ridiculous elevation and no phone signal.”

You blink. “You hate the cold.”

“I hate being bored more.”

A laugh slips out of you, sure that he’s just saying anything right now. Doyoung is not one for impromptu trips, and especially not to cooler places. 

“You’re not serious,” you say.

“I could be,” he shrugs. “Everyone else is leaving. Even Joshua flew out yesterday.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers tense around the pages without meaning to. “Oh?”

“Yeah. His mum��s with him, I think. If I remember correctly, he’s going to Greece. Poor guy looked like he needed it.” Doyoung scrolls through something on his phone. “Anyway. Just think about it.”

You nod once, maybe twice, but you’re not really following anymore. You hadn’t really let yourself picture Joshua willingly. You’d assumed, vaguely, that he’d be around. At home, in Brackley or London. Somewhere still reachable.

You shake yourself out of it. Why does it even matter?

Doyoung stands and stretches again, already halfway to the door. “Come on. We’re having lunch. And I’m still serious about the trip. You’d probably like it more than I will.”

It’s too hot to be outside in the afternoons, so Joshua stays in, the windows open just enough to let the air move but not so wide that the cicadas become unbearable. His mother’s gone into town for the day—something about linen markets and local ceramics. He said he’d join and didn’t. She’s learnt not to push by now.

The villa is quiet and peaceful in a way—white walls, stone floors, ceiling fans running slowly. There’s a magazine open on his lap. He’s read the same paragraph twice and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said.

He doesn’t mind being alone. He never really has. But this solitude isn’t what he’s used to. There’s no buzz of an engine a few garages over. No casual knock on the hospitality room door. No hum of Minghao on the phone trying to schedule interviews. No Doyoung pulling him aside to watch something on his laptop, arms crossed like he already knows he’s right. No one comes around the corner with a coffee he didn’t ask for, but always drinks anyway.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on that background noise.

Joshua leans back in his chair, feet propped on the edge of the low table, the stone cool against his heels.  

He thinks of Doyoung first—because Doyoung is surprisingly impossible to forget even when he’s not around. Then Minghao, probably halfway through a documentary, and planning an itinerary for a trip he hasn’t booked yet.

And then, without meaning to, he thinks of you.

Maybe it’s the stillness that allows the images to push into his mind—things he didn’t even realise he was noticing. Like how you always check the time twice—once on your phone, then again on your watch, like you don’t trust either fully. How you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to speak too soon. How you write in a mix of capital and lowercase letters and only realise halfway through with a sigh. 

Images from that night make their way in too. 

Not in sequence, just scattered pieces, stitched together by how they felt rather than what exactly happened. The heat of the room, how the air had tasted vaguely like sugar and sweat and someone else’s perfume. The thud of music vibrating through the walls. The shape of you in the lights—your head tipped back mid-laugh, eyes glinting in a way he’d never seen before.

Joshua exhales, forcing you out of his mind before moving slightly in his chair. The magazine slides off his lap and onto the floor. He reaches down to pick it up and distantly thinks that his mum should be back by now—they should head out for lunch soon.

The sun has shifted higher. Somewhere down the road, a car door slams.

Joshua stays in his seat a little longer, the magazine closed in his hand, and doesn’t open it again.

You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this until you were already sitting down.

The place isn’t crowded, just tucked away enough that you’d never notice it unless someone told you about it. There’s shade from the small tree that grows through the middle of the entire building, light chatter from nearby tables, and the quiet clink of cutlery. Someone’s already halfway through a plate of pasta when you arrive, and the others make space like no time has passed at all.

“You’re late,” Isha says, nudging your arm as you slide into your seat.

“I’m not late. You’re just early.”

“What’s new?” She sighs, half-hugging you before turning back to the table. 

The others catch you up on what you’ve missed, which isn’t much. Someone’s flat flooded last month. Someone else almost got fired. Isha went on a date yesterday, which was so bad she considered faking an emergency at her workplace to leave. It’s nothing new, and does much to bring you a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

You haven’t seen them properly in weeks, and you don’t mean for it to happen. You really don’t. But it never feels like that long, until it is. You sip your water, lean back in your seat, and let their voices wrap around you.

“So,” Isha says, halfway through her drink—some mocktail that looks way too floral, “are you going to finally tell us what you’re doing for the break?”

“Doyoung wants to go to Switzerland.” You sigh, “We leave tomorrow.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice,” Ava says, tilting her head. “Chalets, cheese, snow.”

“In August.”

“Okay, but like… aesthetically.”

You shake your head, but the smile slips out anyway. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of going somewhere high up lately. Keeps talking about air quality and elevation like we’re training for something. He’s planned the entire trip, to be honest, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put hiking in the itinerary.”

Someone makes a joke about Doyoung in hiking gear, and you laugh. It’s easy. 

Later, as the bill is paid and chairs scrape softly back from the table, you feel a lightness that you hadn’t realised you’d been missing. After quick hugs and promises to catch up again soon, you step out into the street alone, your bag slung over one shoulder.

The afternoon sun hangs lower than usual, merciful on a good day. You make the short walk to your car. 

You’ll go home, finish packing up the last things, and tomorrow you’ll fly out. 

It’ll be a good change, you convince yourself as you start the car up.

The beach is mostly empty by now. A few lights from nearby villas blink gently in the distance, and the tide comes in slowly, smoothing out the sand. The air is cooler than it’s been all day, enough to wear long sleeves. Joshua’s rolled his up anyway, the cuffs loose around his elbows as he walks, shoes in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

His mother walks beside him, spooning the last of her gelato from a cup she refused to skip even after a full dinner. She offers once, and Joshua hesitates, thinking about it for a second before declining. She reaches the spoon up and into his mouth, and he eats it anyway.

She grins like she’s won something, then goes back to finishing what’s left.

“I forgot how nice it is here at night,” his mother says eventually, mostly to herself. “No traffic, no screens, no one chasing after you for autographs.”

Joshua hums, the sound low in his throat. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You’re a much better version of yourself when you’ve slept more than five hours and haven’t had caffeine pumped directly into your veins.”

“Not sure I like the implication that I’m insufferable otherwise.”

“Oh, it’s not an implication. It’s an observation.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “You’re so mean to me when I’m off duty.”

“I’m never mean,” she says, innocently. “Just honest.”

They walk a little further, the sand firm and cool beneath their feet. The stars are out properly now, not dulled by city lights or the paddock floodlights, and Joshua tips his head up to look at them for a moment.

“It’s been good to be here,” he says eventually.

His mother glances over with a sigh. “There’s always a but, no?”

He shrugs, kicking a little at the sand. “Nothing big. Just… trying to make sense of a few things.”

She lets the words hang between them and doesn't ask right away. She just listens, like she always does.

“You’ve been a little out of it lately,” she says finally. “Not just tonight. Since I picked you up at the airport.”

Joshua exhales like he’s trying to line up thoughts that keep running around in his head. “I don’t think it’s that serious,” he says. “Not really. Just something that’s… lingering.”

His mother tosses her empty gelato cup into a nearby bin as they pass. “That’s the thing about thoughts like that. They don’t knock, they just move in.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. I didn’t invite it.”

“Is it about how the season’s been going?” She asks slowly.

Joshua considers that for a moment, eyes on the dark horizon. The sea’s barely visible now, just a slow, steady sound against the shore.

“That’s part of it?” he says, sounding a little unsure. “But not all.”

“I keep thinking about something,” he adds. “That happened in Hungary.”

His mother doesn’t say anything.

“It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time,” he goes on. “I was…drunk. Just a moment. It passed. I didn’t overthink it then, and it didn’t feel strange right after. But now, I don’t know. It’s like it stuck to me.”

“And you don’t think it mattered?”

Joshua doesn’t know how to answer that. Maybe that is his question in the first place. Did it matter?  It sits with him now, quietly, like it's been waiting for the chance. He’s not sure what unsettles him more—the fact that he still thinks about it, or the fact that he doesn’t know how he feels. That there’s no instinct guiding him toward certainty. He tries to tell himself that it was something in the heat-of-the-moment, chalked up to adrenaline and celebration, but stops himself. The more he tries to ignore it—you, his feelings, whatever— the more it seems to reside at the back of his mind. 

Joshua comes to the realization, slowly but almost obviously, that he’s afraid, maybe. A little bit about what it means, but mostly about what the admission might do to everything else that he’s built this year.

Because what if he does like you?

Not in a passing, fleeting way, but in the way that asks something of him. In a way that won’t be easy to shelve into depths he won’t reach into again.

That makes things complicated in the one place he can’t afford complications.

It wouldn’t just affect you or him, but also Doyoung.

And that thought alone feels heavier than anything else.

Because Doyoung’s trusted him and taken him seriously. He's stood beside him in meetings and on podiums and in post-race silence. They've fought for the same points and adapted to each other’s presence—slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. The fact that you’re Doyoung’s sister, his manager, his closest person off-track—that is where the ground shifts.

Joshua knows what the lines are supposed to be. He’s tried to walk them carefully all year—or at least that’s what he thought. He knows how delicate the balance is and what it’s taken to earn it.

Joshua knows how quickly things shift when emotions get involved, how teams fracture, how focus slips—not even out of carelessness, but because people are people, and feelings don’t stay neatly tucked away. 

He’s not sure there’s a version of this where things go back to how they were.

And yet here he is, with salt dried at the edges of his sleeves and the words still echoing in his head: you don’t think it mattered?

“I think,” his mother begins, snapping him out of his thoughts, “that if you’re thinking this hard about it, then maybe it did.”

He glances at her. She gives a small smile, her lips stretching knowingly as she pats him on the shoulder. 

With an affectionate sigh, she looks in the direction of their villa. “Why don’t we head in now? I’m a bit tired today.”

Joshua nods, throwing an arm around her shoulder before steering them both in the right direction. 

Best case scenario, you won’t remember anything and it’ll all go back to how it was before.

You slip slightly on a loose patch of gravel and mutter a curse under your breath, reaching out blindly for something to hold onto. Doyoung’s hand appears instinctively at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says, more amused than concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You push a damp strand of hair off your forehead, frowning at the incline ahead. “It’s just so fucking steep.”

“That’s the point,” he grins.

You shoot him a flat look but say nothing, breath catching in your throat as you keep moving. The air is thinner up here—cooler too, but still not enough to keep sweat from sliding down the back of your neck. It’s quiet, except for the sound of your footsteps on gravel and the dull thud of your heart in your ears.

It’s been like this for most of the climb—sparse conversation and long stretches of silence that lets you be alone with your thoughts even if you don’t want to be.

You huff out a breath, trying to push your hair out your face without having to reach up with your hands—slightly irritated with yourself. You don’t want to think about anything to do with your brother’s stupid sport. Not here, not now, climbing this stupid hill with your brother—who can’t sit still in one place, curse his addiction to adrenaline, or whatever.

You glare at his back, dig your boots harder into the ground, and keep walking.

This situation that you’re in should be normal—honestly, it is normal. You’re not close, not really, and it was just one night. The kind that disappears into itself. A mistake. He’d been drinking. You had too.

You breathe in deeply, catching your breath as you reach a flatter stretch of the path. You don’t finish the thought.

Because the truth is, you don’t know if he remembers and maybe you don’t want to find out.

You shield your eyes from the sun with one hand, pausing to take in the view. The lake glints faintly below, a far-off silvery-blue ribbon that cuts between trees and rooftops. The wind stirs your shirt, cool against your spine.

“Hey,” Doyoung calls ahead, already rounding a bend. “Almost there.”

You nod absently and follow, boots crunching against dry earth.

It’ll be fine, you tell yourself. He probably doesn’t remember.

And even if he does—it’s not like he’s going to bring it up. So you won’t either.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and keep walking.

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ

The Brackley office always smells the same—citrus floor cleaner, clean-cut paper and roasted coffee. 

Joshua steps through the doors just after eight. He’s early, but definitely not the first. The receptionist behind the desk offers a half-wave, cheerfully greeting him with a question about how his break was. In the elevator ride up, one of the engineers steps in with a smile. 

“Good to be back, huh? It gets boring after a few days, doesn’t it?” 

Joshua agrees with a polite nod and bids him goodbye before leaving. 

It’s not loud yet, though. The office rests in some sort of liminal silence—before the teams fill out the building again, coming off flights, breaks, holidays. 

He walks the familiar route down the corridor, past framed photos and race posters that haven’t changed since he joined. The door to the driver’s suite creaks slightly when he opens it—he’s meant to get it oiled but always forgets once he leaves.

The room looks the same too, other than the fact that it’s been cleaned out. The whiteboard is no longer cluttered with strategy, data, or points from a random game of cards between him and Minghao. His closet door is locked—he’ll have to get the keys to that soon—and the sofa’s cushion covers seem to have been replaced with newer ones.

His phone buzzes once with a message from Minghao:

Back on UK time, will be there in an hour. My flight was delayed, sorry man. I’ve sent you your schedule so hang in there.

He smiles faintly, then goes to his email to check the schedule. It’s not until the end of the week that things begin to pick up properly. Today is just: internal briefings for the next few races, maybe a few upgrades. A sim block in the afternoon and a few factory visits littered over the weekend. 

He should be relaxed. This is the easy part. But his foot taps quietly against the carpet, and he can’t stop glancing toward the hallway outside.

You’ve been back less than three hours and already there’s a spreadsheet open on one half of your screen, a Teams chat on the other, and three people trying to flag you down for something that doesn’t need to be done today.

Classic first day back energy.

You’d meant to arrive on time, maybe even early, but your suitcase still isn’t fully unpacked and your hair wouldn’t sit right and then the coffee machine in the hallway decided it was going to make loud mechanical death sounds instead of actual coffee.

So you were late. Not enough for anyone to comment, but late enough for someone to notice and still move on.

The light comes in softly through the cafeteria windows, and there’s a vague in-between hum in the air: post-break stillness before the Zandvoort buildup.

You’ve barely looked up from your screen except to mumble responses to people in passing. It’s not on purpose, and you know you should’ve picked out a better place to sit than the cafeteria, but the office is still slightly empty, and you’d rather spend time in a place with more people right now.

You’re halfway through rereading a line in an email you’re pretty sure you’ve already responded to when someone slides into the seat opposite you.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, setting his paper cup down, filled to the brim with coffee that looks like it has way too much milk in it. 

You glance at your watch, and realise you have about five minutes of buffer before you need to go up into one of the meetings with your brother. He looks slightly on edge about it too, fingers fiddling with his nails, foot tapping impatiently on the tiles.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and slip it into your bag before eyeing him. “Can you finish your cup quickly so that you don’t go around spilling it everywhere? We need to go.”

He nods, rolling his eyes before trying to gulp down the contents of his cup like it isn’t hot enough to scorch his tongue. 

When he’s done, you both get up at the same time. He squashes the paper and dumps it into one of the trash cans that you pass. 

“You think this’ll be smooth?” he asks under his breath. “Most of the media stuff should already be sorted, no? Just some final clearances.”

You shrug. “They changed a couple brand obligations post-break and for next year, I think. New sponsor visibility clauses or something. I think they want us both aligned before the next few races kick in.”

There's nothing particularly difficult about meetings like this, just lots of slides and media language that makes your brain feel like it’s buffering. Still, the team likes everyone being present when possible—especially you, when it comes to anything that might affect Doyoung’s time, tone, or attention.

You scan your badge at the door and step in just behind him.

The room isn’t full yet, but the people who matter are already inside. A few people from the PR team, the head of partnerships, sponsor representatives. Minghao sits near the far end of the table, scrolling through something on his tablet. He looks up and gives you a small wave, mouth pressed into a tired smile. You return it instinctively, stepping aside so Doyoung can take one of the open chairs.

And then you see Joshua.

He’s already seated, posture straight but not stiff, fingers locked loosely in front of him on the table. There’s a light tan on his face and arms, the kind that comes from walking around in real sun, not just between paddocks and pit lanes. 

He looks up as the two of you enter.

You meet his gaze for half a second, just enough to register it before instinct takes over and you look away. You don’t catch the way his expression shifts, the way the corners of his mouth lift up like he’s about to offer a smile—a little awkward, a little unsure.

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder in greeting, saying something under his breath that makes Joshua huff a quiet laugh as your brother settles into the seat next to him. You pretend to focus on finding a seat, nodding once at the head of PR and then making your way toward the end of the table, where Minghao is sitting.

Minghao nudges a chair out with his foot as you approach. “Hey. How was the break?” He asks when you plop down next to him.

You shrug, setting your laptop bag down by the leg of the chair. “Good. Quiet. What about you?”

Minghao hums, passing you a printed deck. “Lucky you. I went home to China. Had to babysit my cousin’s kid for one afternoon and somehow still needed three days to recover. I just got back, actually. Jetlagged, if you can’t tell.”

You let out a quiet laugh, flipping open the first few pages. Sponsor slots. Campaign overview. Nothing new.

Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement—Joshua shifting in his seat, elbows resting lightly on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up, his eyes catch yours again.

You hold them for a second longer than last time and try to smile politely.

Then you blink, like it didn’t happen, and turn slightly toward Minghao instead. “Did they confirm the Thursday slot for the fan event?”

Minghao raises an eyebrow, like he saw what just happened and is choosing not to comment. “Yeah,” he replies, tapping the paper in front of you. “Right there. Around five.”

You nod slowly, pen in hand now, circling the time even though you’ve already memorized it.

The meeting begins properly not long after. The head of PR welcomes everyone back, and the screen clicks to life at the front of the room.

You keep your attention forward. Joshua doesn’t look again. 

When the meeting is over, people peel off in different directions, schedules splintering again into the usual chaos of prep and deadlines. Doyoung falls into step beside Minghao, which you find a little weird because you can’t imagine what the two possibly have in common. 

You’re already slowing your pace, figuring you’ll let them go ahead and duck off wherever they’re going.

But Joshua’s still behind you.

You glance once over your shoulder, enough to see him bid goodbye to whoever he was talking to outside the meeting room before catching up.

You hear the squeak of his shoes against the cleaned tiles as he jogs up to you guys. The four of you reach the corridor junction, Minghao saying something low to Doyoung, and they veer left together, deep into some conversation about media training or sponsor deliverables or whatever it is your brother is pretending to understand.

Which leaves you—again—with Joshua.

He glances sideways, cautious, then tries again with a small, uncertain smile. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” you say, a little too quickly. “You? Heard you were in Greece.”

He nods, almost like he’s surprised you knew. “Yeah, I went with my mum. It was nice.”

You nod too, and the silence folds back in. Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag. Neither of you seems able to meet the other’s eyes for too long, and when you do, the look is held for half a second too long before flickering away.

Joshua shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So, uh. You went somewhere too, right? Switzerland?”

“Yeah. With Doyoung.” You gesture vaguely, eyes flitting to where Doyoung stands in the distance, still talking to Joshua’s manager. “He wanted altitude and a change of scenery. I think I just needed the quiet.”

He hums—acknowledging, or maybe understanding. “Good timing for it,” he says. “We all needed to get out of our heads a little.”

You don’t reply to that. Not right away, because you think—maybe, just maybe—you know what he means by our heads. And you think he knows you know.

You nod faintly, not trusting yourself to say much more. Also shifting from one foot to the other, you adjust the strap on your shoulder, and that’s when it settles in—quietly, the slow sinking realization. The awkwardness that surrounds him, the way he’s not as talkative or laid-back as he usually is.

Oh.

Of course he remembers.

You don’t need him to say it. You don’t even need to look at him now to know it’s there. The memory’s lodged in your own head like grit under your nails, and suddenly it feels stupid to think it wouldn’t be in his.

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because this kind of thing only happens in films where two people wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t happen, only to make accidental eye contact in a hallway weeks later and remember everything all at once.

Except this isn’t a film, and you’re not holding a stack of papers you’ve just dropped in slow motion. You’re standing in the corridor of an F1 team's headquarters with your bag slipping off your shoulder, and a man—a driver, your brother’s teammate—beside you who very obviously remembers kissing you.

And whose expression now looks like someone trying to figure out whether you remember kissing him.

Which, tragically, you do. 

Joshua clears his throat.

It’s barely audible, just a soft scrape, like he meant to say something and then thought better of it. You glance at him, almost involuntarily, and immediately regret it because he’s already looking at you with a kind of cautious half-smile. Not flirty, not smug—just nervous.

And that’s when it clicks for him.

You see it. The small pause where his shoulders fall out of that practiced posture of his and his mouth parts like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words fast enough. Like he’s suddenly, absolutely sure that you remember—and worse, that you know he knows now too.

Well, fuck, you think.

“I should get going,” you say finally, not quite meeting his eye. “I’ve got a call in ten.”

He nods, slowly, like he’s still buffering. “Yeah. I’ve got—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, “—something. Somewhere.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but it lands awkwardly, like a gear shift in the wrong place. You both wince, just barely.

Joshua rubs the back of his neck like he’s debating saying more. You hope he doesn’t.

“Well,” you say, stepping back. Anything to break the tension. “Good luck with… whatever that something is.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “You too. The call.”

It’s painfully polite. You feel like you should salute or shake hands or send a follow-up email with bullet points recapping the awkwardness of this interaction.

Then you leave, this time for real, and neither of you looks back. But you’re almost certain—painfully certain—that he stands there for a few seconds longer than he needs to, just like you keep thinking about turning around even when you know you won’t.

AZERBAIJAN, BAKU CITY CIRCUIT

Friday, Post FP1 September 19th

If Joshua and you plan to pretend like nothing happened, he’s got to stop acting like something did. 

You’re standing outside the hospitality, arms loosely crossed, trying to focus on anything else—on your checklist for the afternoon, on the way the breeze keeps catching at the edge of the umbrella, even on the hum of voices from nearby engineers unpacking gear.

Joshua’s a few feet away, in conversation with one of the performance engineers, though he’s not really participating. He stands, his figure slightly strung up, in the white team shirt that’s been chosen for this weekend, sunglasses slid onto the top of his head. He’s nodding along, smiling faintly, but every so often, his gaze flickers away. Toward you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough.

And it’s infuriating. Because you’ve been good about this. You’ve been normal and professional. You’ve made it through two races already and managed to keep everything in check. Talk to him (casually) when you’ve had to, replied to messages, looped him into meetings if needed. Everything has been fine.

Except it hasn’t. Not really.

“You look like you want to throw something,” Doyoung points out around a mouth full of a half-eaten banana that he holds in his hand.

“Yeah, at you, maybe.” You shoot back, shoving his face away with a disgusted look.

“Your face is doing its thing… Who are you pissed with?”

“First of all, can you fucking chew and swallow before you open your mouth? Second, stop bothering me. I’m not in the mood for it, Doyoung.” The irritation in your voice catches both of you by surprise. You didn’t mean to sound that harsh, but Doyoung knows you and hence takes no offence.

“No, seriously.” He mutters, voice dropping lower. “Are you okay? I don’t think I did much to irritate you before this and it’s surely not Joshua or Minghao that you’re mad at… Something went wrong with the team?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, sorry, everything’s fine.”

Doyoung squints at you. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It’s just hot and I’m tired.”

It’s not a lie, technically. The sun has been relentless and the week’s been long already, even though it’s only a Friday. But Doyoung’s eyes narrow, which means he still doesn’t believe you but also knows better than to push it. He goes back to eating his banana, mercifully closing his mouth.

“Hey,” Joshua says, voice cutting across the lull in your conversation. You both turn as he approaches—you, reluctantly but your brother seems enthusiastic for some reason.

He’s got a bottle of water in one hand now, and his other hand lifts slightly in greeting, like he’s unsure whether to aim it at you, Doyoung, or both. He settles somewhere in between.

“Was looking for you,” he says to Doyoung, nodding at him. “You have a sec?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung replies with a shrug. “What’s up?”

You take that as your cue to leave, to shift a step back and check your phone or pretend to care about something else. Joshua stands straight, almost cautious and way too serious for three people who’ve supposedly gotten closer this year. It throws you off, and you try to hide your displeasure at the divide it has caused as you turn to your brother.

He used to slouch into moments like this. Hands tucked into his pockets, eyes soft with jokes, voice sounding like something easy and warm. Now he’s standing like he’s in a post-race debrief.

You try to ignore it. “I’ll give you two a moment,” you mumble.

“No, it’s fine,” Joshua says, too lightly, like he’s trying to dial the energy back. He offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not interrupting.”

The silence that follows says otherwise.

Doyoung, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the tension the same way you do and instead begins to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Joshua brings up set-ups, how his car wasn’t doing good at all during FP1, something about the rear feeling loose under throttle and the balance being completely off through Sector 2. 

Doyoung nods along, slipping into work mode easily. “I thought I felt that too in Turn 15. It’s better on heavier fuel, but I couldn’t get the rear to stay down. Felt twitchy all the way through the castle section.”

“I think our set-ups are pretty different though,” Joshua sighs, scrunching his nose. 

“We can go take a look later, if you want.” Your brother shrugs.

You stay quiet, gaze fixed somewhere just past them. It’s not like you don’t understand the conversation—you’ve picked up enough over the years to have a basic idea of what they mean—but your attention has splintered. Joshua is being careful. Not with what he’s saying about the car, but with you. The edges of his voice are smoothed down whenever you’re near, like he’s sanded away the parts of him that used to joke and tease and lean in close just to make a point.

He barely looks at you, but when he does, it’s never casual. It’s never just a glance. 

You hate how you’ve begun to care about this, but you chalk it up to the feeling of beginning to lose a friend instead.

Joshua leaves after that, bidding a quick goodbye over his shoulder. Doyoung turns to you slowly, the banana finally finished, his expression mildly suspicious.

“…Okay, now I think something’s weird.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That. Why was he so serious?”

“Was he?”

“He didn’t really talk to you. He didn’t say anything stupid and charming. I thought you two were getting along—” and maybe he understands the defensive look on your face, because he raises an eyebrow when you open your mouth to retort “—and before you deny it, I may act unbothered but obviously I’d notice if my sister and my teammate were becoming closer.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re reading into it too much. He just seems pretty out of it. FP1 was bad for him, clearly.”

Doyoung gives you a long, skeptical look. “Right,” he says slowly. “Bad FP1. So naturally, he forgets how to have a conversation with someone he’s been almost glued to since Silverstone.”

You don’t bother with a response, mostly because you don’t have one.

Instead, you adjust your bag again and wordlessly point ahead. Doyoung gets the hint and begins to walk back to the garage with you. The paddock heat sits thick around your shoulders, and your throat feels dry. There’s nothing in what Doyoung’s said that’s technically wrong—but you’re not exactly winning any awards for subtlety either. 

Your brother walks alongside you, quiet for a few moments, before he sighs softly. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says, voice gentler. “I just… noticed.”

You nod, not knowing what to say to that. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of coming clean to him. It’s hard to keep secrets with Doyoung, even more so when it has something to do with him. But you’re not sure just how much of an issue this will become professionally, so you zip your lips close and walk on.

When you finally reach the garage, you tell Doyoung that you’re heading back in for a meeting and that you won’t be seeing him again until FP2 is over.

“Just text or call me if it’s something urgent.” You sigh.

He nods, turning around to go in before stopping in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know if you guys fought or something. But try to get along, please. I can’t go and tell him this, obviously, so I’m telling you—not blaming you for anything, by the way. I’ll see you after. Stop drinking too much coffee and drink more water instead.”

Doyoung’s walking back in before you can reply. You watch his retreating back with a mix of annoyance and warmth.

—

You don’t go right after FP2. 

You wait long enough for the garage to settle, for the media duties to end, for the crew to peel off into meetings or debriefs or break rooms. Long enough that if someone asks, you can pretend it’s just a casual check-in.

You meant to leave it alone, to stay professional, keep your head down, and let the awkwardness smooth itself out eventually. 

But halfway through FP2 Minghao had turned to you, looking up from his screen without a warning and said: “You two have been weird recently.”

And it was like him, obviously—to be that observant, not accusatory or even that curious. You’d brushed it off with a shrug, pretending it didn’t rattle you more than it should’ve. Your brother noticing was one thing, others was another. You didn’t think that it had been that obvious, but clearly you were thinking wrong. Because if Minghao could tell, then who else had noticed? How long until Doyoung put two and two together? Until someone in the garage slipped up and connected dots that were never supposed to form in the first place?

You make the walk toward Joshua’s driver room with your jaw set. The hallway is mostly empty now, the hum of activity receding as the day wears on. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say, only that you have to say something. Because this pretending-it’s-fine thing? It’s not working.

You pause outside his door for a second, breathing in deeply before looking both ways into the corridor, hoping that no one else sees you before knocking, your knuckles rapping twice on his door. You don’t need more drama.

It takes a few seconds, long enough for you to consider turning around and pretending you were never here at all, but then the door clicks open.

Joshua stands there in a loose t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from a recent shower. His expression morphs—from something a little lazy and tired, to surprise. 

“Hey,” he says with a low voice, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

He steps aside without answering, motioning you in with a small tilt of his head. You slip past him, heart ticking faster than you want to admit, and stop just inside, arms crossing loosely.

Joshua closes the door behind you. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you say, turning to face him. “Not really.”

That catches him off guard, clearly not expecting you to be so honest. His brows pull together, and he steps a little closer, not quite enough to close the distance but enough for you to smell the fresh scent of his after-shave.

You sigh. “Minghao said something earlier. About us. Said we’ve been off.”

Joshua flinches—barely, but you catch it.

“And he’s right,” you continue. “We have been. And I’ve been ignoring it because I thought… maybe it would settle. But it’s not. You’re walking around like you’re scared to say the wrong thing to me, and I—I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Right,” Joshua says, after a long pause. “Yeah. I’m—.”

“And people are noticing,” you add, quieter. “Not just him. Doyoung’s said things too.”

Joshua exhales through his nose, dragging a hand up over his face, into his hair. “I’ve been trying,” he says. “I swear I’ve been trying to be normal.”

“I know, me too. But it’s not working, is it?”

Joshua moves to sit down on the edge of the small couch, elbows braced on his knees. His towel falls from around his neck and lands on the floor, but he doesn’t bother picking it up. 

“First of all, I’m sorry. Kissing you—” he grimaces, and you’re not sure how to feel about that “—was very out of line.”

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “It’s okay. I mean… I was drunk too. It’s not like you forced anything.”

Joshua presses his lips together, but doesn’t lift his gaze. “Still. I should’ve known better.”

You sit down, a little away from him, arms still crossed across your chest. “I’ve just been trying not to make it worse. I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“But it is,” he says, like he can’t help it. “It got weird anyway.”

You sigh, because yeah. It did. “And now everyone’s picking up on it.”

“Minghao, Doyoung…” he trails off, then glances at you. “I didn’t think we were being that obvious.”

You let out a small, hollow laugh. “We weren’t. But I guess not talking at all is a bit of a giveaway when we clearly used to. You’re being so dry and awkward and polite, and it’s not really like you, is it? Of course people are going to notice.”

Joshua looks away, his jaw tight. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By doing what?”

“By not making this worse,” he shoots back, almost sounding snappy but still his voice doesn’t rise. “By keeping it professional.”

You bristle at that. “Right, because professional is clearly what this has been.”

His eyes flicker to yours—guiltily, and for a second neither of you say anything.

“I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he says slowly, even a bit unsurely. “I’m not risking it. Not the seat, not the team’s trust. Not my working relationship with Doyoung.”

You nod. You understand, you really do, but the words hurt as they hit your chest anyway. “So that’s all this is. A cover up. Can we please do a better job at—”

“I didn’t say that.” Joshua interrupts.

“You meant it.” You snap back, looking away from him as you get up.

“What do you want me to say, then?” He exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “That I regret it? Or that I don’t?”

Joshua shakes his head, voice sharper now. “You’re his sister, his manager. You know what it would look like if something happened between us and it went wrong.”

Your throat tightens, and you stay silent.

“This is already hard enough. Doyoung is my biggest competition on track. We’re close in the standings, we’re pushing each other every weekend. You do realise how hard it would be if you’re in the middle of it as well.”

You flinch at the words, and he notices.

“I don’t mean that like it’s your fault,” he adds quickly. “It’s just… you’re not just someone I kissed at a party, okay? You’re his person. His family. You’re on his side of the garage, in his meetings, working with his engineers. And I know how this works. If something goes wrong, if this throws off the balance—we all feel it.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and just keeps going. “I’ve thought about this so much. About how it would work? About what it would mean to feel something for you and go wheel-to-wheel with your brother every other weekend?”

Your eyes flicker up at that, but he doesn’t notice.

“How are you supposed to be in my corner and his? He’s your family. And I’m the guy trying to beat him.”

It takes a second before you can speak again. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that? About what it means for me?”

Joshua finally looks over, and you will yourself to look him in the eyes as you continue.

“I know exactly what it would look like if anyone found out. It would look like I was choosing sides. Like I wasn’t capable of doing my job objectively. Like I wasn’t loyal to my brother—who, by the way, trusts me with everything.”

Your voice tightens, face hot with frustration and a feeling that’s growing too close to anger. “So no, Joshua, I didn’t take any of this lightly. I still don’t.”

He nods slowly, gaze unreadable now. “So we agree, then.”

You hesitate.

“We agree it can’t happen again,” he says, quieter. “That it was a mistake.”

You nod before adding: “And that we’ll be better and go back to what it was?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes find yours, and for the first time all evening, there’s something bare in them. Something that doesn’t hide behind restraint or exhaustion. But the look vanishes as quickly as you saw it, and leaves you wondering if you imagined it in the first place.

He nods. “Yeah. We’ll go back.”

You press your lips together, nod once more for good measure—like if you just agree hard enough, maybe it’ll become true. That things can be rewound and tucked neatly behind you without leaving a mark.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Good.” 

So you turn toward the door and walk out before either of you can say anything more. But your heart stays lodged somewhere behind you, somewhere in that room and maybe a little too close to the man you wish to forget the face of.

—

Sunday, Post Race September 21st

The door closes behind him, more harshly than he’d meant to shut it. 

He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off just yet. His cap is the first thing to go, fingers tugging it off absently before he sets it on the desk beside the team lanyard, both items placed a little too neatly, like muscle memory carrying him through the motions. The rest of the room remains untouched. Still and quiet. The overhead light stays off. He reaches instead for the smaller wall sconce by the bed and flicks it on, the glow warm and soft in a way that doesn’t quite match the mood he’s in.

He exhales, slowly.

There’s a kind of emptiness after a race like that—if you could even call it one, considering he was out for almost half of it. The result is too final, nothing left to fix or fight, not when the damage has already been done. He peels off the white team shirt and folds it once, more out of habit than care, placing it on the back of the armchair near the window. The shirt is wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar, and when he brushes his fingers against the fabric, they come away cool.

He’s not even exhausted yet, body running on leftover adrenaline that he knows is going to leave him so tired when it finally leaves. This time, unlike most, will be worse because he hasn’t actually done anything to go to sleep with a peaceful mind. He should maybe shower again and eat, but neither sound appealing right now. 

Joshua drags himself to the balcony, sliding the glass doors open and stepping into the warm Baku night. He absently thanks the team for booking a hotel away from the track. Every year, Williams would—for some reason—book a hotel that overlooked the track, and after a bad day, the reminder was always unnecessary.

He exhales, bracing his palms against the cold metal railing. His muscles ache faintly, but nothing sharp—nothing like the jolt through his neck when the car hit the wall. Nothing like the way he’d sat in the medical car afterward, helmet off, jaw tight, nodding at every word the doctor said while thinking about absolutely nothing except for the .

The DNF shouldn’t sting this badly. But he’d been doing okay today. Not great, not podium-bound, but good enough for a step below. Joshua tries not to think of the articles that are probably up by now. 

Mercedes falters again on the streets. Hong out early in Baku after a costly mistake. Good enough, or has the pressure of a big team finally caught up to Joshua Hong? Team tensions rising?

He hates the last one the most tonight—especially after the podium that his teammate made it onto, while he sat at P20. It was good points for the team, but with no contribution from him. Doyoung’s managed to get ahead of Joshua, and while he was aiming to beat his teammate by the end of the year, he knows that it’s easier said than done. 

It’s too quiet now and he can’t stop replaying it. Not just the crash—though that part loops relentlessly, the twitch of the wheel, the slide, the sickening hit. But what came before. What he was thinking about. 

Because although he’d never admit it to anyone, the crash happened because he wasn’t paying attention. His hands were on the wheel, eyes on the mirrors, yes. But his mind was somewhere else entirely. Still stuck in that small, stifling driver’s room with you. Still hearing the way his voice had cracked when he told you it was a mistake. 

He grips the rail tighter. This is exactly what he was worried about, and he’s ashamed of himself for it. Joshua has never let other things get to him when racing. It’s always the track, the car, his mirrors and the next turn in his head. Never people or feelings.

He should’ve handled it differently. All of it. The kiss, the aftermath, the conversation that somehow left him more confused than before. Because despite everything that was said—despite the professionalism, the agreement, the decision to move on—he can’t. Not really.

Joshua lifts a hand to his neck, shuddering slightly as goosebumps litter his arms despite the warm air. There’s too much noise in his head. Too many things unsaid, and too many things that shouldn’t be said at all. 

He should go inside, put a shirt on. What if the person next door decides to come to the balcony as well?

Then, to his luck, the door next to his opens.

He freezes but doesn’t turn. Maybe it’s a stranger. Maybe it’s just someone stepping out for air, like him and if he stays where he is—still enough, they won’t notice him.

There’s the faint sound of curtains ruffling in the breeze followed by a soft sigh.

And then your voice, quiet and disbelieving, like you were hoping for anything but this.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Joshua’s head turns toward you before he can stop himself. Your hand is still on the edge of your door, fingers curled around the handle like you hadn’t meant to step fully out. You're not in uniform or a team shirt anymore. You're with your hair down, comfy clothes, bare faced and looking tired.

You freeze when you see him, like you hadn’t considered this was possible either. Your eyes meet across the narrow stretch of the balconies, and for a second, neither of you move. You should go back inside. You both should. That would be the adult thing to do. The professional thing to do.

Joshua starts first. “Didn’t know you were next door.”

You blink, finally stepping out all the way and letting the door click shut behind you. “Neither did I.”

You keep your arms folded across your chest, not entirely out of discomfort but more as a barrier. Still shirtless, hair a little messy, his eyes flick away from yours only when you speak again.

“Well, what luck,” you mutter, voice lacking the humour you hoped it would have.

“Yeah.”

The air is balmy and just slightly humid, buzzing with the hum of traffic and hotel A/C units. It’s not awkward, not yet, but there’s a line that’s begging to not be crossed tonight. You both know what kind of week it’s been.

“How’s your neck?” you ask.

Joshua glances over, brow raising. “It’s alright.”

“You hit the barrier pretty hard.”

“I’ve had worse.”

You nod, but something about the way his fingers twitch against the railing tells you he’s still strung up about it, tight and immovable.

Involuntarily, your eyes fall onto his neck. It’s not like you expect to see if he has any pain and it’s a mistake, clearly—because now you’re noticing the faint sheen still clinging to his skin, the soft curve of his shoulder, and the way his back muscles shift tensely. There’s a pale scar across the top of his right shoulder blade—thin but jagged, and old if the rough stitch-work is an indicator of anything.

“What’s that from?” you ask before you can stop yourself, chin tilting toward the mark.

Joshua follows your gaze and lifts one hand absently to it, fingers grazing the scar like he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Karting crash when I was twelve. I didn’t brake fast enough going into one of the turns.”

“Late-breaking since you were a kid, huh?” You mutter under your breath, meant for yourself, but he hears it anyway and a small smile breaks out.

“My mentor, from back then, would stand near the corners and watch where the other kids braked. When it was my turn, he’d go a bit further up and tell me to brake there instead.” He scoffs, eyes trained somewhere on the skyline. “It was really hard at first, but I got used to it…clearly hasn’t left me since.”

The silence stretches, and uncomfortably so. You both stay like that—leaning on separate railings, caught in a suspended still where neither of you know what to say next. Conversations don’t seem to come easy anymore.

Eventually, it’s you who moves first. You push off the railings with a deep inhale. “I’m going to head in then. Good night, Joshua.”

He nods and responds softly, “Me too. Night.”

You slip back into your room, the door sliding shut behind you. The lights are low and your suitcase is half-unzipped near the bed, your phone somewhere on the desk where you tossed it earlier. 

Crossing over to the bed, you sit on the edge and let your head fall into your hands. 

You should have asked how he really was. Not just his neck, like that was the only part of him that could’ve taken a hit.

Because when the crash happened—when the camera cut to his car snapping sideways into the barrier, debris rising in a smoke of dust, and all radio silence—you hadn’t moved. Heart lodged somewhere in your throat, your fingers had curled against your palm so tight that you’d left indents. Someone on the engineering island had said, “He’s moving,” and you still hadn’t breathed until he climbed out, slow and stiff, but seemingly safe. 

And then you remembered you weren’t supposed to care like that. Not anymore. Not like before.

So when the media asked, when your brother asked, when the team exchanged glances and subtle reassurances, you said nothing. You told yourself you were just being professional. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Joshua had Minghao and the med team. He’d done this before and he would be fine.

Because there’s a boundary—one you hadn’t realised you were slowly crossing, one you’d thought meant that you could just be friends with your brother’s teammate. You wonder why this is the first time you’ve bothered to speak or get along with someone like that. Doyoung’s had other teammates before, and you’d always been civil.  Not warm or inviting but enough to keep a professional relationship. You didn’t go out of your way to build rapport. There was no reason to. The other driver wasn’t your responsibility. You weren’t part of his bubble. And besides, you’d always figured they had their own people, their own routines, their own version of someone like you.

So whatever friendliness you offered came in passing—neutral good luck, half-smiles in the garage.

You’ve always been good at keeping the line. Drawing it quietly, without anyone noticing.

But Joshua. He feels like the first time someone’s tried to pull you past it.

Not on purpose or all at once but slowly and subtly—in hotel hallways and garages and late nights at the paddock. In the way he lingered after briefings, how he asked about Doyoung but looked at you when he said it.

And you’d thought—maybe, maybe this could still be simple. Maybe you could toe that edge and call it friendship, just friendship. But even that feels like a stretch now. Because it really doesn’t feel simple anymore.

SINGAPORE, MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day October 2nd 

You spot them already seated when you walk in—Doyoung leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, a paper coffee cup balanced lazily in one hand. Joshua’s next to him, not quite opposite but angled inward, scrolling through something on a tablet with one elbow on the table.

You’d only meant to swing by, remind Doyoung about a schedule change, and tell him the briefing room time for the morning. But then he looks up and says, “Did you hear Seungcheol in the press conference?” like it’s the most important thing he’s said all day.

Joshua glances up too,

“No,” you say, “I missed it.”

Doyoung grins and nods to the chair across from him. “Sit. You’ll enjoy this one.”

You hesitate a second, glancing at your watch before sliding into the seat across from them.

Doyoung’s already talking. “So, he gets asked about the Ferrari rumors—you know, the Monza thing and just the entire season overall with talks of him leaving—and he gives the most carefully worded denial I’ve ever heard. Like... textbook media training. ‘Focused on the team,’ ‘we’ll talk when the time comes,’ all of that.”

You hum. “So it’s happening.”

“Obviously it’s happening.” He fiddles with a sugar packet between his hands. “He only talks like that when something’s already in motion.”

“It’s obviously not Red Bull that he’d move to.” Joshua adds, eyes trained on the table. “Haechan could literally win the championship this weekend and Seungcheol is not going to move to another team just to be number two… especially when they’re known for clearly prioritising one driver over the other. History speaks for itself.”

“And our contracts don’t end till two more years so that’s us off the list.” Doyoung muses. “McLaren… but they’ve invested in two young drivers. Doubt they’d give up on fresh talent this soon.”

“But they haven’t been doing great, to be honest.” Joshua points out, pushing around a drop of water on the table, still avoiding your gaze. But now it just looks like he’s concentrating, so you let it go. “Sure they’ve been getting closer, but their team needs a miracle for next year if they want to sign him.”

“He could look at the regulation changes in 2027 and join them though.” Your brother argues. 

“Wouldn’t it just be better for him to stay for one more year in Ferrari then?”

“It would.” Joshua agrees, glancing up at you. “I think Audi and Cadillac will be solid choices too though, honestly.”

He checks his phone, then straightens in his seat.

“I’ve got to head up,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “IWC. They want me to look excited about a wristwatch.”

You huff softly—not quite a laugh, but close.

Joshua tilts his head slightly, “Don’t worry, I’ll try to smile. Once. Maybe twice, if really needed.”

It’s a joke. Classic, dry, a little deadpan—the kind of thing he used to say all the time. But it lands wrong and feels practiced, almost. Like he’s trying to sound like before because you asked him to.

You give him a small smile anyway. “They’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” he says, almost smiling too. “Tough job.”

“Well, I’ll see you guys later.”

You nod, and Doyoung waves lazily beside you. When he’s gone, Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at his cup, turning it slightly between his fingers, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something at all.

“He likes you.”

You blink, almost choking on your own saliva. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it and only shrugs, gaze locked on the cup in his hands. “You heard me.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?” you ask, cautious.

“No.” Doyoung’s voice is light, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are sharp. “It’s not.”

You exhale, unsure whether to laugh. “Well. That’s not something people usually say at like…3 PM on a random thursday”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s almost four, actually”

You let out a quiet scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you didn’t deny it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Doyoung clocks it.

You cross your arms loosely. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He shrugs again. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just letting you know I see it.”

You stare at the table. A droplet of water is still trailing down the side of Joshua’s forgotten glass. 

“…You really think he likes me?” you ask, quieter now.

Doyoung doesn’t even blink. “I think he likes you,” he says. “I think he leaves slower when you’re around. I think he’s careful about what he says when you’re listening. And I think—” he pauses, like he’s debating how honest to be—”I think he tries not to, which kinda gives the whole thing away. Which also usually means you’re fucked.”

“And, what? You just figured that out, out of nowhere?” You snap back, slightly surprised and annoyed at the call out.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, then pauses. “But now I am.”

You look at him. “Why now?”

He hesitates just long enough for you to notice. 

“When someone starts to get close to your sister,” he says, “you start noticing things.”

It knocks the breath out of you more than you expect. Not in a bad way, but just—suddenly, this is real. Not just in your head. Not just a maybe. You look at him.

He softens, just a little. “I’m not mad,” he sighs. “If that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” you murmur.

“Good. I just wanted to know if I should be watching out for you or watching out for you.”

That makes you laugh, despite yourself. “And?”

“I’m still deciding,” he says, getting up and stretching. “But you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’ve been so subtle.”

Doyoung gives you a look over his shoulder as he begins to walk away. “You’re both embarrassing. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Doyoung.”

He pauses, turning around to face you again.

“I’m not… planning anything,” you declare, but by the way your voice comes out a little pathetically, it sounds unconvincing even to you.

He just stares at you—tired, affectionate, and knowing.

“Yeah?” Doyoung shakes his head. “Tell me how that goes.”

And with that, he walks off, leaving you alone with a table full of empty cups and a truth you can’t shove away anymore.

—

Saturday, Post FP3 October 4th

“Yes, I understand that. But we’ve already restructured the drivers’ schedule once to fit this in, and the engineering team made it clear they’re not shifting the debrief. We’re running out of room to be flexible.”

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop when he passes the half-shut door upstairs. He’s just heading toward his driver room, idly checking the time on his phone, when your voice draws him to a pause. It’s low and clipped—not angry, but too calm in a way that says everything’s going wrong.

“We’re—Yes, I’m aware Petronas is the title sponsor. That’s why I’m trying to get this done now. You need to meet us halfway. The drivers aren’t free after 3 PM on Tuesday, and they won’t be reshuffled again for something that’s changed three times already. The team has flights to catch and meetings that cannot be held off once we get home. We’re functioning on a really tight schedule here—”

Then there’s a longer silence, and when you speak again it’s just a resigned “Okay. Let me know by eight. Thanks.” The call ends, and he hears the soft click of your phone being set down.

Joshua knocks once, light against the frame. You just glance up and tense for a second like you’re bracing for something else to fix—but it’s him, and your expression softens immediately.

“Hi,” you say, voice lower than usual.

He doesn’t enter fully, just leans a little against the doorframe, watching you. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, “but is everything okay?”

You sigh, shaking your head before settling down onto one of the chairs in the room. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Are you alright?” Joshua asks, a little softer now.

You hesitate, then shrug. “Just stretched too thin. Everyone wants a different version of the schedule, and somehow it’s my fault none of them match.” 

Pausing, you glance at him once before you add: “Sorry. I’m not usually like that.”

“When things matter, it’s not a bad thing.” Joshua assures.

“How was practice?” You sigh, massaging your temple. 

“Not bad,” he answers, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t know if you’ve seen the results but Doyoung seems to be doing well. I think I’m still a little out of it but quali will be good, I assume. Just need to get food inside me to perform right now.”

In the haze of your exhaustion, you look confused for a second, glancing at the time before you realise that it’s Singapore that you’re in. The gentle furrow of your brows makes Joshua’s lips break out into a small smile—one he tries to stamp down slowly.

You scoff, “The things you guys do to beat the jetlag. What time did you even get up?”

“Around one in the afternoon,” he shrugs, “It was a bit early, I think. Overheard Chenle saying he got up at three.”

“And you’re staying up till, what? Two in the morning?”

“Bang on.” He shoots a thumbs up. “Doyoung and I literally have the tennis court booked at twelve.”

“Jeez,” You let out, a little incredulously, “But anyway, you should go eat. You literally just said you needed food to function.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him properly this time. “Joshua.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced, not entirely. But he nods and pushes off the doorframe a little. Your brother’s words echo in your mind. He likes you. You swallow and force a small smile. “Really. I just need to reset.”

Joshua lifts his hands in surrender “Alright,” he says but hesitates before continuing. “If you need something—if you want to not talk about logistics and PR nightmares for five minutes—I’ll be around.”

You nod. The offer won’t be taken, and you think he knows as well, but still you mutter a small “Thanks.”

—

Monday, Post Race October 6th

It’s sometime past 2 AM when you push through the glass doors leading to the rooftop pool. The air is thick with leftover humidity, cut only slightly by the breeze, and the city glows beneath the haze like it’s still awake and waiting. You aren’t even sure what you’re doing up here—you don’t feel like swimming, nor are you in appropriate clothing for it. You just needed a moment to breathe, probably.

The season is as good as done now, with the new world champion crowned. There’s not a lot to look forward to anymore except what next season will bring. So yes, while you’re happy that your brother won today’s race, there’s a sort of empty feeling in you—whether from the season, or from other things is something that you don’t want to unpack right now.

You spot him before he sees you.

Joshua sits at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, shirt sleeves pushed to his shoulders, hair wet and sticking in random directions, like he got out of the water, dressed and went back in without drying his hair.

For a second, you consider leaving. You should leave. The last time the two of you were alone after a race did not end well, and the thought makes your chest tighten as your steps falter.

But then he turns, almost like he senses you there, and his eyes find yours. Before you can stop yourself, you walk over, your footsteps quiet against the tile. There’s no music, no voices, no one else lingering around anymore.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding to the empty spot beside him.

You lower yourself down wordlessly, the concrete edge cool beneath your legs. Neither of you speak for a while. The water laps gently against the walls of the pool. 

“Not celebrating with Doyoung?” Joshua asks finally.

You shake your head, arms going back to brace yourself as you dip your legs into the water. “He’s asleep, actually.” 

“Deserved,” he huffs out with a smile, “he did great today.”

“He did. You did too.” You nod.

Joshua doesn’t respond immediately, but he glances at you, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, you holding Haechan back like that was really cool to watch.” You shrug, looking away and into the lights on the floor of the pool.

He laughs at that, the sound bright and easy. You stay quiet and listen. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him like that—genuine, unguarded, and not trying too hard to be anything but exactly who he is at this moment.

“I think that if he hadn’t won the championship today, he would’ve actually found me after the race and put up an argument.”

You scoff softly, lips curving as you know that it was completely possible. 

Your legs move idly in the water. You tilt your head back, eyes slipping shut for a second. The city hums in your ears, a feeling of heat and light and long weeks coming to a slow, inevitable end.

And then, without really meaning to, you speak, your voice honest in a way that feels overdue.

“I don’t know where we’re going with this.”

When you open your eyes, Joshua’s already looking at you. His lips slant in an awkward smile. “With what? The team?”

You exhale gingerly. “No. Not the team.” You answer, but you think that he already knows what you mean.

Joshua doesn’t answer right away. The smile fades, or maybe it never fully reached his eyes to begin with. He looks back at the pool, then down at his hands, fingers loosely threaded together in his lap. The silence stretches.

“I thought we weren’t going anywhere,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

You nod slowly, because yes, that was the point. It was the unspoken rule from the start—keep things simple, clean, professional. Friendly, maybe. Careful always.

But now, here you are, sitting next to him in the dark, your legs skimming the water, and your guard down without realising when it fell. None of it feels simple anymore.

“I didn’t think it’d get this far,” Joshua admits. “I wasn’t thinking much when we kissed, obviously… and I hoped that you didn’t even remember, but after that I thought that keeping a distance would just work somehow. And it did, for a while. I made myself believe I didn’t want more than that. But you make it easy to want more.”

He says it without expectation, without even really looking at you. His voice is steady, like he’s been holding the words for a long time and finally couldn’t anymore.

You’re still watching the pool, your reflection blurred and broken on the water’s surface. But his words cut through the stillness, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“I think…” You begin slowly, “the problem is that you make it too easy too.”

Joshua glances over, and for the first time tonight, you meet his gaze head-on. Neither of you looks away.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you continue. “I’ve always been careful. I know how this works—how quickly people talk, how easily things get misread, how much harder everything becomes when you blur the line between personal and professional. And I’d love to say that I tried to keep you out of that space, but you were already there, somehow.”

He doesn’t interrupt and just listens with that infuriating patience that makes it harder not to say everything you shouldn’t.

“I kept telling myself I was being stupid,” you go on. “That if I just stayed polite, stayed neutral, it would pass. That I could handle it. But you kept showing up. You remembered things and God—I don’t know. You cared? Did you? Well it felt like it. And it just got easier and easier.”

Joshua doesn’t dare to move, but you see his lips part, like words lay waiting behind them.

“And then Hungary happened. And I thought, maybe it could still be fine. Maybe I was overreacting, and if I just pulled back, you’d fall away from it too. I just didn’t expect it to hurt.” You exhale shakily, the admission catching somewhere in your throat.

“I don’t think we meant to end up here,” you murmur. “But here we are.”

“I was scared of what it would mean,” Joshua says finally. “That if I admitted it—to you, or to myself—it would ruin something. That we’d start pulling things apart just by acknowledging them. I think I thought that if I stayed quiet, I could keep everything intact. That we could still be okay if I didn’t make it real.”

You don’t answer right away. There’s too much pressure that has no release. You drop your gaze to the water again, the light scattering in waves beneath your legs. 

“But I think I’m past the point of pretending it’s not real,” he continues. “And the truth is… even if it’s risky—even if it complicates everything—I don’t want to go back to pretending you’re just part of the background.”

You let his words sit for a few moments before you speak again. “And what if—no, when the day comes for me to make a choice.” You press your palms against the edge of the pool, like bracing yourself against the weight of what you’re saying.

“Because you and I both know it’ll happen eventually. It won’t have to be dramatic, or maybe it will be. A moment where the team needs something from me, or Doyoung needs something from me, and you’ll be there too. And I won’t be able to give all of you what you want at the same time. And maybe you’ll say it’s fine, but I’ll see it on your face—that I didn’t choose you.”

You shake your head, your voice quiet but unwavering. “And the thing is… it’s not just that I’m scared of hurting you, myself or Doyoung. I’m scared of doing it again and again. Because I already have, in small ways. In ways you probably didn’t even let yourself admit. I could try and promise that I’ll try my hardest to stay neutral or try to support both of you as much as possible, but on the occasion that it’s not possible, would you be okay?”

“I did think about that,” he answers, finally. “That day in Baku, when I said all of this would get complicated. That there would be moments where I’d come second—or not at all. And the truth is, I kind of hated the idea of it. Not because I didn’t understand your role, but because I knew it would hurt. I knew it would make me question things that maybe wouldn’t be fair to question.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight ahead, like this is something he can only say if he doesn’t see the way you’re taking it in.

“But I think I was just hoping for the cleanest outcome. I could be a good teammate, be your friend, and protect myself before I got too involved.”  He pauses. “In the end, it just felt like I kept lying to myself.”

He turns to you now, and there’s something steadier in the way he holds your gaze.

“So yeah, I still know it won’t be easy. And maybe I’ll flinch sometimes. Maybe it’ll sting when I wish you’d say something or do something for me, and you can’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t understand. I do. And I won’t ask you to pick me every time. That’s not what I’m here for.”

There’s a pause, quiet except for the occasional ripple of the water behind your legs.

“If you’ll let me, then I’ll be here because I still want to be. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when I’m ahead, but even when it’s messy, even when I’m not first. But would you be alright with that? Having to deal with both of us.”

“I—” You begin, “Joshua what if this gets out? We’ll all have our work ethics and integrity questioned. And I don’t work directly for the team, so it probably wouldn’t be an HR issue, but what if this just doesn’t work?”

Joshua nods slowly, “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve thought about that too.”

Then he exhales, like the honesty takes something out of him. “And I don’t know. I don’t have a clean answer. Maybe people will talk. I can’t promise that they won’t. But I think what’s worse is pretending none of this is real just to avoid the risk.”

“I know what I’m asking. You’re already holding so many lines together, and I’m one more thread that could snap everything. I get it.” He swallows, voice softening. “But I keep thinking… maybe we’ll figure it out as we go. Maybe it’s not about having the answers right now—just about being willing to try.”

“Yes.” you say finally, voice a little louder than before, like you’re making a decision. “I think I would be okay with that. With having to deal with both of you.”

“Okay,” Joshua’s lips split into a grin, almost disbelieving—like he wasn’t letting himself hope. 

He shifts a little, brushing his hand over his shirt before holding it out toward you, palm open.

You glance at him, brow raised. “What’s that for?”

“A handshake,” he says, almost shyly now. “I don’t know. Just felt like… something. Like maybe we’re agreeing to something real this time.”

You stare at his hand for a second longer before sliding yours into it. His grip is warm and steady, his fingers slightly wrinkly from the water.

You squeeze once. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joshua smiles, thumb brushing the back of your hand as he flips your palms. “Maybe. But you shook on it.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, and neither do you. You watch your hands for a moment, the way his thumb keeps moving, slow and absent like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Your fingers are still loosely laced with his.

“We’re allowed to have good things.” You mutter, almost like a reminder to yourself.

“Yes,” Joshua agrees, and then continues—like he’s almost embarrassed by how much he means it. “Especially if it’s this.”

You, is what he really means. But he’ll save it. For another time, another day, when the water is not so still and when he’s sure you won’t flinch at the sound of it. 

USA, LAS VEGAS STRIP CIRCUIT

Wednesday, Media Day November 20th 

Doyoung doesn’t expect to see anyone in the hallway when he steps out of the elevator with a bottle of sparkling water and his keycard tucked into his palm. The floor is quiet—middle of the night quiet—and for a second, he thinks he might be imagining the silhouette standing in front of the door to your room.

But then Joshua straightens up and the overhead light hits his face.

“Oh,” Doyoung says, slowing to a stop. “It’s you.”

Joshua starts, suddenly looking like someone who’s been caught doing something he’s not sure he should’ve been doing. “Hey.”

Doyoung glances at the room number. Then at Joshua. Back at the room number, mentally cross checking if this is yours. “You lost or…?”

“No. Just…” Joshua rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sleepy.”

“Right,” Doyoung says. “So you came to this exact hallway. Outside my sister’s room.”

Joshua tries to look casual. “I was going for a walk.”

“Of course you were,” Doyoung replies, nodding like he’s indulging a toddler. “Nice long walk that conveniently ends at her door.”

Joshua smiles, faintly. “Unintentionally.”

“Sure.”

They pause, making both of them aware of how ridiculous this looks.

“I wasn’t gonna wake her,” Joshua adds, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I just… didn’t feel like being in my room.”

Doyoung uncaps his bottle and takes a sip. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna ask for a full explanation. You look guilty enough.”

Joshua groans under his breath. “I’m not guilty.”

“You’re standing in a hallway at 1 AM whispering outside a girl’s room like a teen in a drama. You want me to pretend I didn’t see this?”

“Well, why are you here?” Joshua shoots back weakly.

Doyoung blinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He stares, his expression a mix of exasperation and offence. “That’s my excuse.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up outside someone’s door like a loitering ghost.”

“You—I’m not loitering,” Joshua mutters. “I’m—”

“Thinking,” Doyoung offers, smirking as he leans against the opposite wall. “Deep thoughts. Spiritual reflection. Maybe trying to telepathically connect with her through the door.”

Joshua squints at him. “You’re very annoying at night.”

“I’m a delight at all hours,” Doyoung replies. “So? Are you going in or…?”

“I was about to knock,” he lies.

“Yeah?” Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because man, honestly, you look like you’ve been standing here with your hands in your pockets for at least a five whole minute. Very bold knocking technique.”

“I was… psyching myself up.”

“To knock…?”

Joshua sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really,” Doyoung says, and then, in a voice that’s more curious than teasing now: “You like her.”

Joshua hesitates before nodding once. “Yeah.”

Doyoung doesn’t say anything to that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncrosses his arms, and glances toward the door again.

“Well,” he says finally, “she’s probably awake.”

Joshua tilts his head. “You think?”

The words are still halfway to forming on Doyoung’s tongue when the door handle turns with a soft click. Both of them freeze as the door swings open just enough to reveal you on the other side, backlit by the warm yellow of your bedside lamp.

Your hair’s a little messy, face slightly puffy with sleep, or the lack of it. You blink at the two of them slowly, clearly thrown by the sight.

“What—” your gaze flickers between them, confused. “—the fuck are you guys doing?”

Joshua looks helpless. You’re still rubbing at your eyes when Doyoung shrugs, as if this entire thing isn’t weird at all.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, lifting his bottle like a toast. “Was going to check if you were up. Turns out I was late.”

You squint. “Late for what?”

Doyoung jerks his head toward Joshua. “He beat me here.”

Joshua shoots him a look. ��I wasn’t trying to—”

“Relax,” Doyoung cuts in. “I’m not your chaperone.”

You open your mouth to ask something—maybe to clarify whether this is weird for him, or whether you should explain anything at all—but Doyoung’s already backing away.

“I’m gonna head back,” he says. “You two can… talk, or whatever. Just don’t be annoying tomorrow.”

Then he turns and walks back toward the elevators without waiting for an answer.

You and Joshua are left blinking after him in disbelief. You glance at Joshua. He looks equally confused.

“Did he just—”

“Yep,” Joshua says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he did.”

You lean lightly against the doorframe, stunned for a second. “Wow. He really just trusted you. A man. Alone. With me. In a hotel room. In the middle of the night.”

“He is not reacting the way I expected him to, honestly.” He scoffs lightly as you push off the frame and step aside, wordlessly holding the door open. 

Joshua steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure this is allowed yet. His gaze flicks around the room, but he doesn’t move far—just stands near the entryway while you close the door behind him with a quiet click.

You pad back toward the bed, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your oversized shirt. The bedside lamp is on, casting a low golden glow across the room. Neither of you says anything right away.

You sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the pillow still indented where you’d been lying earlier. Joshua lingers for a second longer, then walks over and sinks down to the floor with a quiet exhale, settling with his back against the mattress, stretching his legs out in front of him, hands resting loosely in his lap.

“You really couldn’t sleep?” you ask after a beat, your voice soft with sleep.

He shakes his head. “No. You?”

“I was falling asleep.” You admit, making him look up at you and mouth a sorry.

You shake your head dismissively before leaning forward, arms draped over your knees. “What were you even going to say if I didn’t open the door?”

Joshua tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I would’ve just stood there like an idiot and gone back.”

You smile a little, glancing down at the crown of his head. “You were already standing there like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his grin is audible even if you can’t see it. “Thought I’d commit to the role.”

For a while, there’s only the hum of the AC and the city—still alive and bustling—outside the window, muffled by distance. Eventually, Joshua leans his head back gently, brushing against your knee without quite meaning to. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Vegas feels… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the closest thing I have to a home race, and everyone calls it that but it feels so foreign at the same time. Like I’m supposed to feel grounded here, but everything’s loud and shiny and… not really mine.”

You watch him as he speaks, the way his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek in the low light. His fingers toy with the seam of his sweatpants, picking at a loose thread absently.

You shift, pushing one leg off the bed and then the other, before easing yourself down onto the floor beside him. Your shoulder bumps his gently as you settle in, your back against the bed frame now too.

“I get that,” you murmur, knees pulled to your chest. “Sometimes places just don’t hold the memories people expect them to.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “Yeah.”

You’re both quiet again, until your head tips a little, coming to rest on his shoulder. Your voice is soft when you speak. “What were your last two races here like? With Williams.”

Joshua scoffs out a laugh. “Oh please, don’t make me remember.”

You smile against the fabric of his hoodie. “That bad?”

“Tragic,” he says, after a pause. “Just forgettable. Like I was here, but not really here. Finished P15 one year, retired the next. Spent more time in traffic getting out of the paddock than actually racing.”

“So nothing redeeming?”

Joshua tilts his head, just a little, enough for your hair to brush against his cheek. “This year has been the first time I’ve landed at a track and not felt like I wanted to skip to Monday.” 

He says it simply, like now that it’s over, it doesn’t hold much value anymore. But you’ve seen him, albeit from afar and wonder just how much his time at Williams taught him. 

You nod once. “Well. New team. New year.”

“New hotel hallway experiences,” he adds, and you laugh, warmth catching in your chest before you can stop it.

“God. That was so awkward.”

“Painfully.” Joshua agrees. “How do you think this weekend will be?”

“Honestly,” You begin, lifting your head up to look at him, “I’m not trying to put pressure on you two, but seeing how you guys do well in cold climate, I think it’ll be a nice one.”

Joshua huffs out a small laugh, turning his head to meet your eyes. “You sound like my performance engineer.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I’m just saying. I have data to back me up.”

“Oh yeah?” He nudges your knee lightly with his. “And what does the analysis say?”

“That one of you is due a win,” you reply, certain. “And don’t tell Doyoung I told you this, but secretly you’re the home hero, so I’ll root for you this weekend.”

Joshua’s expression changes—surprised first, then quietly pleased, like he’ll be running these words through his mind all weekend. “Secretly, huh?”

You nod, a smile pulling at your lips. “Very secretly.”

“Got it.” He leans in just slightly. “I’ll try not to let you down, then.”

—

Friday, Post Qualifying November 22nd

“First of all, congratulations to our top three qualifiers—we have Kim Doyoung on pole for Mercedes, Joshua Hong in P2, and Seungcheol Choi rounding out the top three for Ferrari.” The moderator announces as the cameras start rolling.

The lights in the press conference room are a little too harsh, the couch too white and a little hard tonight, for some reason. But Joshua’s too tired to care. His cap is pulled low, the Mercedes logo gleaming as the moderator leans into the mic. God knows how many people he’s had to speak to today—which is the worst part about Las Vegas. Talking to celebrities, sponsors and what not. He’s been congratulated and greeted by a bunch of people whose names he can’t remember when the only thing he wants to do is go home and fall asleep.

“Seungcheol,” the moderator begins, “you’re starting P3 tomorrow—Ferrari looked strong early on, but maybe lost a bit toward the end of Q3. Talk us through the lap.”

Seungcheol smiles, nodding. “Yeah, the session was tricky, but good. Cold track, not a lot of grip, so it was about timing and temperature more than outright pace at times. Still, P3 puts us in the fight. I’ll take it.”

The next name called is Joshua’s.

“Joshua—P2 for you. Solid lap, great pace from the team, but your teammate took pole at what many consider your home race. What’s the feeling right now?”

Joshua lifts the mic, fingers brushing against the fabric of his race suit. “It was a strong session for us, yeah,” he says. “I think the car’s been working really well here all weekend. Cold temperatures seem to suit us.”

He pauses for just a second—brief, almost imperceptible—and then continues, his gaze flicking across to Doyoung.

“Of course, Doyoung had a great lap in Q3. You always want pole, especially when the calendar says ‘home race’ next to your name. But honestly…” He exhales softly. “I’m proud of this one. Front row for the team. We’re in a good position tomorrow. And uh,” Joshua turns to Doyoung, “it’ll be close into turn one. So no worries, right now.”

His teammate only grins at him, shaking his head before turning back to the moderator. 

The press conference winds down a while later with the usual rush of camera shutters and low murmurs, a few closing remarks from the moderator before the drivers are finally released. Joshua stands, mic carefully set back on the couch, and follows Doyoung and Seungcheol out of the room.

He squints slightly under the hallway lights. His cap stays low on his forehead, shoulders rolling once to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in. Behind him, Doyoung is already making a joke about one of the questions, but Joshua barely registers it. His eyes find you first.

You’re standing just outside the media zone, back against the wall near a folding barrier, phone in hand. Minghao’s next to you, half-listening to something on his earpiece while scrolling absently. Neither of you is particularly animated, but Joshua sees the flicker of relief in your expression when you spot him.

“There they are,” Minghao says, glancing up. “The men of the hour.”

Doyoung only shakes his head, muttering something in a low voice to you before waving at Minghao and walking off toward one of the PR reps motioning for him.

You glance at him properly now, taking in the visible fatigue, the faint lines around his eyes.

“Long day?” you ask.

Joshua nods. “So long. I talked to one of the Kardashian sisters and I’m still not entirely sure which one she was.”

You laugh quietly, reaching out to adjust the brim of his cap before tugging it back into place. “You did good, though. Q2 lap was clean.”

His mouth twitches. “You saw that?”

“I always see.” You smile, then step back a little, hands slipping into the pockets of your jacket. “P2 isn’t bad.”

“Not when your brother’s P1,” he says, dryly.

“Please,” you roll your eyes. “He’s still going to complain about something. Might as well let him enjoy tonight.”

Joshua leans against the wall beside you, just enough to close the space. “You’ll still root for me tomorrow, though?”

You raise an eyebrow, voice low. “Oh, please. I’ll root for both of you, by the way. Didn’t I already say I would?”

“Yeah, but it sounds nicer hearing it here than through a closed hotel door.”

Your face reddens a little despite yourself. “You’re annoying.”

Minghao glances up then, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, Romeo, we’re heading out. You need to go to the media pen too, man.”

Joshua groans but straightens, pushing off the wall. “Got it.” 

He turns back to you, ignoring as Minghao tells him to hurry up. “I’ll see you later?” 

You nod, gesturing for him to leave before his manager comes and drags him out. 

By the time everything slows down again, you’re back inside the Mercedes hospitality unit, walking the quieter halls with a bottle of water in hand and the ache of the day beginning to settle in your shoulders. You don’t expect to find Doyoung still in his driver room, but the door’s half-open when you pass by. He’s there—freshly showered with a new shirt on, seated on the edge of the small couch with his elbows resting on his knees. When you enter, he glances up, slightly startled before you sit down next to him.

“Are you free for a second?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay, listen. I’m not trying to be difficult,” Doyoung says, voice quieter now, “but I’d feel kind of shitty if I didn’t at least ask.”

You glance over at him. “Ask what?”

He exhales. “You and Joshua. Is it… something?”

The way he says it isn’t accusatory, just tentative. Like he’s still sorting out how much he wants to know, or maybe how much he already does.

You consider lying for a moment—brushing it off, making it easier. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze and say, carefully, “Yeah. A bit more than something, probably.”

Doyoung nods, slowly. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s thinking hard. “How long?”

“Not long. But it’s not impulsive either,” you say. “We’ve been… figuring it out.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “And are you sure? That this isn’t just… adrenaline, or the fact that you’re around each other all the time?”

You hesitate. “I’ve asked myself that too. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels—” You pause, trying to find the right word. “—steady.”

Doyoung is quiet again. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t want this to mess up anything for him either, not now.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be happy,” he adds quickly. “I just—I know what this world is like. You and I have lived in it long enough. And I don’t want you to look back and wish you hadn’t let yourself care.”

You smile faintly. “I already care.”

Doyoung finally looks at you again, and the expression on his face softens just a bit. “Of course you do.”

There’s a beat of silence before he sighs again—less tense now—and bumps your arm lightly with his.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Just don’t tell me about the mushy stuff. And tell him if he ever uses this card against me, I’ll put him in the wall.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up easier than you expected. “Please don’t do that.”

Doyoung rubs his face, trying to look dramatic. “Whatever. He’s still insufferable when he’s smug, so if this makes him worse, it’s on you.”

You nudge his shoulder, making him hiss in mock-pain. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He shakes his head, but the tension in his posture has eased. “Just take care of each other. And, seriously, don’t make me regret being cool about this.”

“You won’t,” you say, with a quiet certainty that feels new. “I promise.”

—

Saturday, Post Race

November 23rd

The roar from the crowd is deafening.

Joshua’s not sure he’s ever heard anything like it before—this wall of noise, pulsing up from the streets of Vegas and ricocheting off every mirrored building like it was made to echo. The fireworks have already started, streaks of gold, silver and red bursting behind the podium

Doyoung claps him on the back. “You did it,” he shouts, grinning, eyes crinkling in the light. “Fucking Vegas, man! Won the home race after all, huh?”

Joshua only laughs—breathless and a little distracted by the way his eyes burn so bad. The trophy is solid in his hands, heavier than he expected. The champagne is already half-sprayed, sticky and cold across the front of his suit. 

He shifts his grip on the trophy absently, letting the weight settle into his palm. Confetti clings to the fabric of his race suit, stuck to his sleeves and shoulders, glittering in the podium lights. Behind him, fireworks keep going—sharp pops of sound that would’ve made him flinch if he wasn’t already fired up.

Joshua looks out toward the crowd again, taking in the blur of flags and flashlights, the sea of arms raised in celebration. It’s not quiet, not even close, but something in him is, finally. There’s a calmness in his chest that wasn’t there at the start of this weekend, the start of this season. With only two more races to go, he feels some sort of satisfaction—he’s leagues above where he’s been in the last few years, and it feels like ending the year on the right note. 

He holds the trophy up briefly when the camera swings toward him, letting the flash catch his profile. Then it’s all over just as quickly as it began—someone waves them down the stairs, staff wait with towels and headsets and a hundred things to do before the night ends.

Down in paddock, he’s handed off like a relay baton between mechanics and PR. A few high fives, someone shouting his name, one of the engineers tossing him his electrolytic drink bottle with a grin. He moves through it automatically.

Joshua turns the familiar corner near the team hospitality units, letting muscle memory guide him through the back halls of the hospitality. His driver room isn’t far now. Just a few more doors.

When he rounds the corner and looks up, you’re already there.

You’ve just stepped out from the room across the hall—Doyoung’s. The door clicks softly shut behind you as you turn and catch sight of him. Your lanyard swings around on your neck, sleeves pushed up, and hair a little tousled.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin, “they let you go already?”

“God, no.” Joshua exhales as he meets you halfway down the corridor. “I need to go and give a few more interviews, I think.”

“You smell like champagne,” you note, scrunching your nose playfully as you stop in front of him.

Joshua laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. It’s… everywhere.”

You glance down at the front of his suit, still damp and sticky in patches. He looks up again, and you’re already close enough that it doesn’t feel like a decision when you lift your arms to wrap around him. His arms settle around you just as easily, his cheek resting against the side of your head.

“You were great today,” you say into his shoulder, voice quiet now, meant only for him. “You really were.”

Joshua breathes in—slowly, like he wants to memorize the way this feels, how steady it is. “No bad for a supposed home race, no?”

“Not bad at all.” you agree, running a palm down the length of his back. “You should probably go shower while you can, Josh.”

He pulls away, almost reluctantly, to look at you. “I mean, I thought I would after I got back from those interviews. Doubt I’ve got much time now.”

“Joshua,” You laugh, throwing your head back. It makes him smile too, albeit a little confused as he waits for you to continue. “It’s Vegas, and you just won. You really think they’re letting you go back to the hotel room after this?”

His eyes widen slightly, like the thought is only just dawning on him. “Wait—are we going out?”

“The team seems to be in high spirits. They just made plans in the group chat. I think most teams are going to be out, honestly.”

Joshua groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God. I don’t even know if I have energy for this.”

“Me neither.” You agree with a nod, “But you should go shower.”

“And you won’t be able to wait, I’m assuming?” He asks with a soft sigh, fingers still wrapped around your wrists.

You purse your lips, thinking for a few seconds before shaking your head. “But I’ll be coming too, and I’ll find you there. Don’t worry.”

Joshua watches you for a moment longer, eyes skimming over your face. Then he exhales with a smile, and finally lets go of your wrists.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll find you too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you’re stepping back, already moving down the hall, the soft thud of your shoes fading into the post-race noises still running through the paddock. Joshua stands there for a second, watching you go, the corner of his mouth still lifted like he can’t quite help it.

Then he turns and disappears into his driver room, the door swinging shut behind him.

—

The music is relentless. 

Heavy bass shakes the floor, and the lights overhead spin too quickly, cycling between violet and champagne-gold like they can’t decide if the room should feel electric or expensive.

You’re pressed into a curved booth with a half-spilled drink in your hand and one of the girls from the pit crew complaining about her situationship in your ear. There are too many voices around you—half-shouting over the music, half-laughing through champagne, high on adrenaline and the sweetness of a 1-2 finish. You’re sure you’ve seen mechanics and team members of other teams as well. 

You spot him through the crowd before he sees you.

Joshua’s standing near the bar, flanked by his engineer and Minghao, nodding along to something someone’s saying. His shoulders are relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass he doesn’t seem all that interested in, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He looks good. Not just in the blurry, flattering way everyone does in club lighting—but good.

You think about texting him, but you don’t have to—he catches your eye almost instantly, like he’d had a feeling you were watching. And when he does, he grins before turning around to excuse himself, presumably.

He finds his way over without rushing, weaving through the crowd easily. One of the lighting rigs overhead flickers silver against his hair just as he approaches, and your breath hitches before you can stop it. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the Vegas haze. Or maybe it’s just him.

“Hi,” he says, tipping his head a little as he comes to a stop at your side.

You glance up at him, tilting your glass. “You took your time.”

“I was being polite,” he says with a grin. “Didn’t want to make it obvious I was trying to ditch Minghao.”

You snort. He’s already slipping into the booth before you can reply, sliding in next to you without hesitation. The seat is just barely big enough for three, but neither of you acknowledges that. His knee presses lightly against yours, and when he leans in to be heard, it’s close—cheek brushing the edge of your hair, the smell of him all citrus and aftershave and something sweeter underneath.

“Are you surviving this?” he murmurs.

“Barely,” you reply, lifting your glass and then setting it down again without drinking. “I’ve heard the words ‘tire deg’ and ‘pit lane penalty’ in at least three different conversations. They’re all talking about Ferrari, honestly. It’s getting boring.”

Joshua laughs, his breath warm against your ear, enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Poor Seungcheol,” he says, almost to himself. “He’s not even here to defend himself.”

You hum. “I don’t think he’d bother.”

His smile lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now. He doesn't move away, and you don’t either. The music swells, the lights strobe too bright for a beat, and someone down the booth knocks over a glass, sending a fizz of something sticky onto the table. Nobody flinches.

Joshua leans in again. “I was looking for you earlier.” 

Your breath catches, just slightly. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Minghao dragged me into a VIP lounge for five minutes and I kept checking the floor, hoping you’d show up.”

You tilt your head, eyes tracing the edge of his jaw. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I thought about it,” he admits, then pauses. “But I kind of like finding you on my own.”

The crowd’s pressed in tighter now, heat and laughter folding in from every angle. The booth’s too loud, too full—people shouting across each other, a camera flash going off near the bar.

You glance at him properly. “Hey,” you say, not quite smiling, “you wanna move somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah,” Joshua says, soft and certain. “Let’s go.”

You slide out, easing past someone who barely notices you leaving. Joshua’s close behind, a hand ghosting at your lower back without ever fully touching. He catches up when you pause near the glass railing, city lights swimming below. For a second you both just stand there, watching the strip blaze beneath you. Vegas doesn’t go quiet—not even from this high up—but something about the moment still feels removed from the noise.

“Too much?” he asks gently, leaning in.

You glance sideways at him. “Little bit.”

Joshua smiles. “Wanna go back downstairs?”

You nod.

The club sits on the roof of the hotel Mercedes has taken over for the weekend, so it’s only a short walk to the private elevator at the far end. A couple of people are headed that way too, but they’re distracted, tipsy, and mid-conversation. Nobody pays attention to you and Joshua slipping in behind them.

The elevator doors close with a hush. Someone presses a button for the 22nd floor, and Joshua reaches past to tap for 20. His floor. When the elevator dings, you step out first. The hallway is quieter than you expected, carpeted and cool, with no signs of the music upstairs bleeding through the walls. 

You step into the hallway first, heels muffled against the carpet, the air-conditioning crisp after the heat of the club. Joshua’s room is a few doors down. You don’t speak as you walk—just the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours, the low buzz of something shared but unspoken.

When he pushes the door open, you step in without hesitation. It’s dim inside—just the warm light from the hallway pooling in briefly before the door swings shut behind him with a quiet click.

He toes off his shoes by the wall, but you’re already drifting forward with a gasp. “Wait, your balcony overlooks the track?”

“Didn’t mention that?” he says, voice light as he walks over. “Guess I forgot.”

You cross the room toward the glass doors, pushing one open as a gust of cool air rushes in. The balcony is big—a small terrace with a couple of chairs, a low table, and a clear view of the street circuit below. The track is empty now, the floodlights are switched off, but the lights and signs from the buildings nearby illuminate it anyway. The lights of the Strip stretch out far beyond the last turn.

You step out, hands resting on the metal railing as you take it in. The silence is almost intimate compared to the chaos upstairs. Behind you, you hear Joshua move—his footsteps quiet against the carpet, then against the tile of the balcony. He stops next to you.

“It looks different when you’re driving,” he says after a moment, resting his forearms against the railing beside you. “All the lights just blur into one single line. It feels much smaller.”

You glance at him. “Smaller? That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I’m serious. The straights feel like nothing until someone’s coming up behind you with DRS.”

You grin. “Romantic.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “I’m just saying. It’s weird seeing it like this. Quiet. Like it’s just… a road.”

 “A very expensive, over-designed, LED-ridden road.”

“Exactly.”

The wind picks up faintly, tugging your hair. You tuck it behind your ear and glance sideways at him again. He’s already looking at you.

“You look pretty,” Joshua says, and this time, there’s a bit of a smile playing on his lips—lazy, knowing, like he enjoys the way it makes you blink in surprise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s a fact, like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly mean.

You lean your elbows on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the track. “Careful,” you say. “I might start thinking you’re into me.”

Joshua tilts his head, eyes still on you. “You say that like I haven’t made it obvious.”

You glance sideways. “You think you’ve been obvious?”

“I did follow you halfway across a club tonight,” he points out. “And left my own party.”

You shrug, teasing. “Maybe you were just bored.”

“Sure,” he says, inching closer. “That’s why I’m here. Because I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than standing on a balcony with you.”

You smile, a little crooked, and glance away. “You’re laying it on kind of thick, Joshua.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, well. I’m trying something new.”

“Flirting?”

“One could also call it being clear.”

That earns a look from you—brows raised, mouth parted slightly in surprise. But you don’t pull away. Joshua doesn’t break eye contact. His hand lifts casually to the railing behind you again, this time brushing yours on the way, the space between your bodies narrowing by the second. And when he tilts forward, halfway down to your face, gaze flicking to your lips—he hesitates.

“Is it working?” he asks quietly.

You consider the question, your gaze drifting from his eyes to the curve of his mouth, then back again. There’s a flicker of something warm in your chest, unspoken but insistent.

“Maybe,” you say, voice soft. “A little.”

“Well then,” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, “you think you’d let me kiss you?”

You nod, almost without thinking, chin tilting up a fraction. Joshua begins to lean in again, slower this time, one palm coming up to the back of your head when—

“Wait,” you murmur suddenly, hand rising instinctively to press flat against his chest.

He stills immediately. “What?” he asks, brows drawing together, not pulling away but not closing the gap either.

You hesitate, eyes flicking up to his. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

He blinks once, then lets a short laugh, more surprised than amused. “One. Barely finished it. Why?”

You’re quiet for a second, just long enough that his expression shifts to something a little worried. But you meet his gaze steadily.

“Because I think… Hungary was kind of an accident,” you say slowly, choosing each word. “I think maybe I let it happen because we were drunk. And I don’t really do that.”

Joshua’s lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you cut in, softer now, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“And I’d prefer if only my boyfriend would kiss me.”

There’s a pause as he registers your words, his face morphing with slight confusion before he finally realises.

Joshua tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving up into a grin that’s far too pleased for someone trying to play it cool. “And who could that be?”

You raise a brow, shrugging one shoulder, your voice just the slightest bit sly. “Well… you, if you asked.”

Joshua’s grin falters for half a second—just enough for sincerity to sneak in beneath it. His other hand slips into yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost sheepish.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head a little. “Then… Can I be your boyfriend?”

You stare at him for a second, something fluttering stupidly in your chest before laughing lightly, your free hand reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, you can be.”

His grin returns, softer now, touched with something quiet and sure, and he closes the distance.

Joshua’s mouth meets yours like a promise—firm, warm, and unhurried. You lean in instinctively, catching his lower lip between yours, your hand tightening around the front of his shirt. He kisses you again, this time deeper, and you can’t help the quiet sound that slips from your throat. It makes him smile into the kiss, makes him shift closer, lips parting more fully against yours.

Your fingers slip back up to his collar, anchoring yourself there as his hand drifts to your waist. The world narrows to just the press of his mouth, the slide of his lips against yours, the way he tastes faintly like citrus and something sweeter underneath.

Eventually, you break apart, slow and reluctant, breath mingling in the quiet space between. He doesn’t go far—just lets his forehead rest against yours, thumb brushing a soft line along your jaw.

“Okay,” he murmurs, a little dazed. “That was… worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, but it’s soft, real. “Yeah,” you say, eyes still half-lidded. “I think so too.”

Neither of you moves for a moment. Joshua’s eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he can finally afford to slow down.

“You know,” he says after a few seconds, “I’ve spent this whole season chasing something.”

You glance up. “And?”

Joshua smiles. Not the kind he puts on for cameras, but the gentler one you’ve started to recognize as just his.

“I think I might’ve found it.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and hold it. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

taglist : @blckorchidd @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @reiofsuns2001 @exomew @smiileflower @syluslittlecrows @teddybeartaetae @sojuxxi @cl41rsblog @stwrlightt @livelaughloveseventeen @duhduhdana @haesluvr @eisaspresso @https-seishu @illiadiaz @k4trinabluu @choco-scoups @imhereonlytoreadxoxo

[callisrecords]

CHASING THE FRONT PT.3

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]

glossary taglist

a/n: one more completed and another step closer to finishing the series eeee!! thank you again to all the comments and everyone that has stuck around for this :D hope y'all like this and please do leave a comment/rb/ask with your thoughts!

SUMMER BREAK

Joshua leaves the house just before eight. One bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase at his feet. The sky outside is flat and grey, the kind that makes everything feel earlier—or even later than it actually is. His mother waves from the taxi.

This is his second flight in two days. The first one was straight from Hungary, surrounded by team personnel and crew, all still riding the high of a double podium. This one is quieter. No entourage, no itinerary that needs pre-clearing. Just his mother beside him in the backseat of the cab, chatting absently about her ‘sisters’ trip to Madeira, about how the hydrangeas were in full bloom and how the locals were kind and patient even when she couldn’t speak the language properly. It’s the kind of story he would’ve liked to hear in full if his mind wasn’t still somewhere else.

He watches as one familiar landmark bleeds into the next. He’d been looking forward to this part—the break and the stillness. A reset after a first half that had come in hot and fast and relentless. But now he just feels the inertia. His body is in perpetual motion even though the car has stopped.

His mother keeps the conversation going gently, asking about what time the sim schedule restarts next week and whether he’ll be back in Brackley before the others. He says yes to both, though he hasn’t really looked. He’s been meaning to. 

It’s not that Joshua can’t relax—in fact, he’s hoping that this trip to Greece will do just that. It’s just harder than he expected to be still. There’s a tension in him that hasn’t quite ebbed out yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the way his knee bounces under the terminal bench later, in how long he stares at his phone without unlocking it.

There’s nothing on it, anyway. No new messages. No follow-ups. You haven’t texted—not since before the race—and he hasn’t either. He doesn’t know what he would even say.

Not that it’s weird. You don’t talk that much outside of work, and it was just a long weekend. 

Still, every now and then, the memory drifts in and out of his head, even though he tries hard not to think about it. The clink of a glass, your arm brushing his as you reached past him at the bar. A glance held too long or not at all. 

He told himself that it was nothing when he woke up the next morning, so he does it again.

The boarding gate opens. He stands, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before following his mother toward the queue. No tracks, no engineers, no schedule to chase. A flight that doesn’t lead to anything. And maybe, a little more time to figure out how he’s supposed to feel when he sees you again.

You wake up later than usual, and it takes you a few minutes to remember that you don’t have somewhere to be right now.

Outside, it’s gloomy again—not cold, like you’d have preferred, but just heavy and humid, like the clouds are threatening to fall down on you. You shower, throw on something soft and oversized, and stare at the kettle, boiling water for tea that you never end up finishing while it's still hot. The apartment is silent. No emails, no alarms, no one asking where you are or when you’ll be back in the office. It’s not unpleasant, but because it’s something that occurs only once or twice in a year, the feeling is a bit unfamiliar every time.

The only sign of Doyoung is a text he sent twenty minutes ago, asking if you’re alive and that he’s going to be dropping by later this afternoon. He doesn’t live too far from you, and he gets bored fast when he doesn’t have a car to obsess over or data to look at.

You scroll through your phone on the sofa, not looking for anything in particular. A few messages from friends asking if you want to meet up tomorrow, now that you’re finally on your break. In the informal team group chat, there are a bunch of photos from the Hungary afterparty. Everyone is flushed and smiling in most of them. You stare at them longer than you mean to, before you remember that you’d decided to ignore everything that happened that night. You swipe out of the app.

The thought of seeing people sounds nice. Normal. You should say yes. Maybe go for drinks or just a lazy lunch in someone’s garden, music low and sleeves rolled up. You’ve been meaning to reply for days and keep forgetting, or maybe just avoiding. 

When Doyoung arrives, not later that day like he said—knocking twice before letting himself in with the key he borrowed weeks ago and never returned—you’re still lazing on the couch with a book that you’ve lost interest in. 

He doesn’t bother to greet you and instead just takes his shoes off by the door and drops his keys in the little ceramic tray you keep by the shoe cupboard, like it’s his own place.

“Hey,” he calls, wandering into the kitchen. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet,” you say. “Was going to make something later.”

He hums, opening the fridge and peering inside. “You have that oat milk I like.”

“You left it here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for being decent enough not to throw it out.”

You glance over as he pours himself a glass and drinks it straight, still standing. A wave of annoyance pulses through you—not serious, but the one that comes from watching someone help themselves like they live here.

“You know, you could sit down like a normal person.”

“I am normal,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just uptight for some reason.”

“You’re drinking oat milk like it’s wine.”

He waves you off, closing the fridge door before making his way to the living room and dropping onto the armchair across from you, limbs spread out like he’s trying to make himself as irritating as possible.“ Listen, I’m bored as fuck.”

“It’s been three days, Doyoung.” You sigh, turning back to your book. “Go bother someone else.”

“Come on, can we do something? What are we doing today?”

You glance up. “We?”

“Yeah. I’m bored and you’re free.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What if I had plans?”

He scoffs. “You don’t.”

You don’t. But still.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” you say. “Maybe grabbing coffee.”

“Great. Let’s do that. And then lunch.”

You close your laptop with a quiet sigh, not really protesting. The truth is, you don’t mind. It’s easier, sometimes, when he makes the decisions for both of you. You get to work on autopilot, which is rare and something you’ve learned to enjoy.

Doyoung stretches in his seat, mumbling. “Honestly, we should go somewhere.”

You give him a look. “We are…?”

“No, I mean, out of the country, maybe. On vacation. But soon.” He leans, pulling out his phone. “Somewhere chill. Like... the Alps. Or the Lake District. Or—what’s that place you always talk about? The one with the ridiculous elevation and no phone signal.”

You blink. “You hate the cold.”

“I hate being bored more.”

A laugh slips out of you, sure that he’s just saying anything right now. Doyoung is not one for impromptu trips, and especially not to cooler places. 

“You’re not serious,” you say.

“I could be,” he shrugs. “Everyone else is leaving. Even Joshua flew out yesterday.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers tense around the pages without meaning to. “Oh?”

“Yeah. His mum’s with him, I think. If I remember correctly, he’s going to Greece. Poor guy looked like he needed it.” Doyoung scrolls through something on his phone. “Anyway. Just think about it.”

You nod once, maybe twice, but you’re not really following anymore. You hadn’t really let yourself picture Joshua willingly. You’d assumed, vaguely, that he’d be around. At home, in Brackley or London. Somewhere still reachable.

You shake yourself out of it. Why does it even matter?

Doyoung stands and stretches again, already halfway to the door. “Come on. We’re having lunch. And I’m still serious about the trip. You’d probably like it more than I will.”

It’s too hot to be outside in the afternoons, so Joshua stays in, the windows open just enough to let the air move but not so wide that the cicadas become unbearable. His mother’s gone into town for the day—something about linen markets and local ceramics. He said he’d join and didn’t. She’s learnt not to push by now.

The villa is quiet and peaceful in a way—white walls, stone floors, ceiling fans running slowly. There’s a magazine open on his lap. He’s read the same paragraph twice and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said.

He doesn’t mind being alone. He never really has. But this solitude isn’t what he’s used to. There’s no buzz of an engine a few garages over. No casual knock on the hospitality room door. No hum of Minghao on the phone trying to schedule interviews. No Doyoung pulling him aside to watch something on his laptop, arms crossed like he already knows he’s right. No one comes around the corner with a coffee he didn’t ask for, but always drinks anyway.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on that background noise.

Joshua leans back in his chair, feet propped on the edge of the low table, the stone cool against his heels.  

He thinks of Doyoung first—because Doyoung is surprisingly impossible to forget even when he’s not around. Then Minghao, probably halfway through a documentary, and planning an itinerary for a trip he hasn’t booked yet.

And then, without meaning to, he thinks of you.

Maybe it’s the stillness that allows the images to push into his mind—things he didn’t even realise he was noticing. Like how you always check the time twice—once on your phone, then again on your watch, like you don’t trust either fully. How you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to speak too soon. How you write in a mix of capital and lowercase letters and only realise halfway through with a sigh. 

Images from that night make their way in too. 

Not in sequence, just scattered pieces, stitched together by how they felt rather than what exactly happened. The heat of the room, how the air had tasted vaguely like sugar and sweat and someone else’s perfume. The thud of music vibrating through the walls. The shape of you in the lights—your head tipped back mid-laugh, eyes glinting in a way he’d never seen before.

Joshua exhales, forcing you out of his mind before moving slightly in his chair. The magazine slides off his lap and onto the floor. He reaches down to pick it up and distantly thinks that his mum should be back by now—they should head out for lunch soon.

The sun has shifted higher. Somewhere down the road, a car door slams.

Joshua stays in his seat a little longer, the magazine closed in his hand, and doesn’t open it again.

You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this until you were already sitting down.

The place isn’t crowded, just tucked away enough that you’d never notice it unless someone told you about it. There’s shade from the small tree that grows through the middle of the entire building, light chatter from nearby tables, and the quiet clink of cutlery. Someone’s already halfway through a plate of pasta when you arrive, and the others make space like no time has passed at all.

“You’re late,” Isha says, nudging your arm as you slide into your seat.

“I’m not late. You’re just early.”

“What’s new?” She sighs, half-hugging you before turning back to the table. 

The others catch you up on what you’ve missed, which isn’t much. Someone’s flat flooded last month. Someone else almost got fired. Isha went on a date yesterday, which was so bad she considered faking an emergency at her workplace to leave. It’s nothing new, and does much to bring you a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

You haven’t seen them properly in weeks, and you don’t mean for it to happen. You really don’t. But it never feels like that long, until it is. You sip your water, lean back in your seat, and let their voices wrap around you.

“So,” Isha says, halfway through her drink—some mocktail that looks way too floral, “are you going to finally tell us what you’re doing for the break?”

“Doyoung wants to go to Switzerland.” You sigh, “We leave tomorrow.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice,” Ava says, tilting her head. “Chalets, cheese, snow.”

“In August.”

“Okay, but like… aesthetically.”

You shake your head, but the smile slips out anyway. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of going somewhere high up lately. Keeps talking about air quality and elevation like we’re training for something. He’s planned the entire trip, to be honest, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put hiking in the itinerary.”

Someone makes a joke about Doyoung in hiking gear, and you laugh. It’s easy. 

Later, as the bill is paid and chairs scrape softly back from the table, you feel a lightness that you hadn’t realised you’d been missing. After quick hugs and promises to catch up again soon, you step out into the street alone, your bag slung over one shoulder.

The afternoon sun hangs lower than usual, merciful on a good day. You make the short walk to your car. 

You’ll go home, finish packing up the last things, and tomorrow you’ll fly out. 

It’ll be a good change, you convince yourself as you start the car up.

The beach is mostly empty by now. A few lights from nearby villas blink gently in the distance, and the tide comes in slowly, smoothing out the sand. The air is cooler than it’s been all day, enough to wear long sleeves. Joshua’s rolled his up anyway, the cuffs loose around his elbows as he walks, shoes in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

His mother walks beside him, spooning the last of her gelato from a cup she refused to skip even after a full dinner. She offers once, and Joshua hesitates, thinking about it for a second before declining. She reaches the spoon up and into his mouth, and he eats it anyway.

She grins like she’s won something, then goes back to finishing what’s left.

“I forgot how nice it is here at night,” his mother says eventually, mostly to herself. “No traffic, no screens, no one chasing after you for autographs.”

Joshua hums, the sound low in his throat. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You’re a much better version of yourself when you’ve slept more than five hours and haven’t had caffeine pumped directly into your veins.”

“Not sure I like the implication that I’m insufferable otherwise.”

“Oh, it’s not an implication. It’s an observation.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “You’re so mean to me when I’m off duty.”

“I’m never mean,” she says, innocently. “Just honest.”

They walk a little further, the sand firm and cool beneath their feet. The stars are out properly now, not dulled by city lights or the paddock floodlights, and Joshua tips his head up to look at them for a moment.

“It’s been good to be here,” he says eventually.

His mother glances over with a sigh. “There’s always a but, no?”

He shrugs, kicking a little at the sand. “Nothing big. Just… trying to make sense of a few things.”

She lets the words hang between them and doesn't ask right away. She just listens, like she always does.

“You’ve been a little out of it lately,” she says finally. “Not just tonight. Since I picked you up at the airport.”

Joshua exhales like he’s trying to line up thoughts that keep running around in his head. “I don’t think it’s that serious,” he says. “Not really. Just something that’s… lingering.”

His mother tosses her empty gelato cup into a nearby bin as they pass. “That’s the thing about thoughts like that. They don’t knock, they just move in.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. I didn’t invite it.”

“Is it about how the season’s been going?” She asks slowly.

Joshua considers that for a moment, eyes on the dark horizon. The sea’s barely visible now, just a slow, steady sound against the shore.

“That’s part of it?” he says, sounding a little unsure. “But not all.”

“I keep thinking about something,” he adds. “That happened in Hungary.”

His mother doesn’t say anything.

“It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time,” he goes on. “I was…drunk. Just a moment. It passed. I didn’t overthink it then, and it didn’t feel strange right after. But now, I don’t know. It’s like it stuck to me.”

“And you don’t think it mattered?”

Joshua doesn’t know how to answer that. Maybe that is his question in the first place. Did it matter?  It sits with him now, quietly, like it's been waiting for the chance. He’s not sure what unsettles him more—the fact that he still thinks about it, or the fact that he doesn’t know how he feels. That there’s no instinct guiding him toward certainty. He tries to tell himself that it was something in the heat-of-the-moment, chalked up to adrenaline and celebration, but stops himself. The more he tries to ignore it—you, his feelings, whatever— the more it seems to reside at the back of his mind. 

Joshua comes to the realization, slowly but almost obviously, that he’s afraid, maybe. A little bit about what it means, but mostly about what the admission might do to everything else that he’s built this year.

Because what if he does like you?

Not in a passing, fleeting way, but in the way that asks something of him. In a way that won’t be easy to shelve into depths he won’t reach into again.

That makes things complicated in the one place he can’t afford complications.

It wouldn’t just affect you or him, but also Doyoung.

And that thought alone feels heavier than anything else.

Because Doyoung’s trusted him and taken him seriously. He's stood beside him in meetings and on podiums and in post-race silence. They've fought for the same points and adapted to each other’s presence—slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. The fact that you’re Doyoung’s sister, his manager, his closest person off-track—that is where the ground shifts.

Joshua knows what the lines are supposed to be. He’s tried to walk them carefully all year—or at least that’s what he thought. He knows how delicate the balance is and what it’s taken to earn it.

Joshua knows how quickly things shift when emotions get involved, how teams fracture, how focus slips—not even out of carelessness, but because people are people, and feelings don’t stay neatly tucked away. 

He’s not sure there’s a version of this where things go back to how they were.

And yet here he is, with salt dried at the edges of his sleeves and the words still echoing in his head: you don’t think it mattered?

“I think,” his mother begins, snapping him out of his thoughts, “that if you’re thinking this hard about it, then maybe it did.”

He glances at her. She gives a small smile, her lips stretching knowingly as she pats him on the shoulder. 

With an affectionate sigh, she looks in the direction of their villa. “Why don’t we head in now? I’m a bit tired today.”

Joshua nods, throwing an arm around her shoulder before steering them both in the right direction. 

Best case scenario, you won’t remember anything and it’ll all go back to how it was before.

You slip slightly on a loose patch of gravel and mutter a curse under your breath, reaching out blindly for something to hold onto. Doyoung’s hand appears instinctively at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says, more amused than concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You push a damp strand of hair off your forehead, frowning at the incline ahead. “It’s just so fucking steep.”

“That’s the point,” he grins.

You shoot him a flat look but say nothing, breath catching in your throat as you keep moving. The air is thinner up here—cooler too, but still not enough to keep sweat from sliding down the back of your neck. It’s quiet, except for the sound of your footsteps on gravel and the dull thud of your heart in your ears.

It’s been like this for most of the climb—sparse conversation and long stretches of silence that lets you be alone with your thoughts even if you don’t want to be.

You huff out a breath, trying to push your hair out your face without having to reach up with your hands—slightly irritated with yourself. You don’t want to think about anything to do with your brother’s stupid sport. Not here, not now, climbing this stupid hill with your brother—who can’t sit still in one place, curse his addiction to adrenaline, or whatever.

You glare at his back, dig your boots harder into the ground, and keep walking.

This situation that you’re in should be normal—honestly, it is normal. You’re not close, not really, and it was just one night. The kind that disappears into itself. A mistake. He’d been drinking. You had too.

You breathe in deeply, catching your breath as you reach a flatter stretch of the path. You don’t finish the thought.

Because the truth is, you don’t know if he remembers and maybe you don’t want to find out.

You shield your eyes from the sun with one hand, pausing to take in the view. The lake glints faintly below, a far-off silvery-blue ribbon that cuts between trees and rooftops. The wind stirs your shirt, cool against your spine.

“Hey,” Doyoung calls ahead, already rounding a bend. “Almost there.”

You nod absently and follow, boots crunching against dry earth.

It’ll be fine, you tell yourself. He probably doesn’t remember.

And even if he does—it’s not like he’s going to bring it up. So you won’t either.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and keep walking.

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ

The Brackley office always smells the same—citrus floor cleaner, clean-cut paper and roasted coffee. 

Joshua steps through the doors just after eight. He’s early, but definitely not the first. The receptionist behind the desk offers a half-wave, cheerfully greeting him with a question about how his break was. In the elevator ride up, one of the engineers steps in with a smile. 

“Good to be back, huh? It gets boring after a few days, doesn’t it?” 

Joshua agrees with a polite nod and bids him goodbye before leaving. 

It’s not loud yet, though. The office rests in some sort of liminal silence—before the teams fill out the building again, coming off flights, breaks, holidays. 

He walks the familiar route down the corridor, past framed photos and race posters that haven’t changed since he joined. The door to the driver’s suite creaks slightly when he opens it—he’s meant to get it oiled but always forgets once he leaves.

The room looks the same too, other than the fact that it’s been cleaned out. The whiteboard is no longer cluttered with strategy, data, or points from a random game of cards between him and Minghao. His closet door is locked—he’ll have to get the keys to that soon—and the sofa’s cushion covers seem to have been replaced with newer ones.

His phone buzzes once with a message from Minghao:

Back on UK time, will be there in an hour. My flight was delayed, sorry man. I’ve sent you your schedule so hang in there.

He smiles faintly, then goes to his email to check the schedule. It’s not until the end of the week that things begin to pick up properly. Today is just: internal briefings for the next few races, maybe a few upgrades. A sim block in the afternoon and a few factory visits littered over the weekend. 

He should be relaxed. This is the easy part. But his foot taps quietly against the carpet, and he can’t stop glancing toward the hallway outside.

You’ve been back less than three hours and already there’s a spreadsheet open on one half of your screen, a Teams chat on the other, and three people trying to flag you down for something that doesn’t need to be done today.

Classic first day back energy.

You’d meant to arrive on time, maybe even early, but your suitcase still isn’t fully unpacked and your hair wouldn’t sit right and then the coffee machine in the hallway decided it was going to make loud mechanical death sounds instead of actual coffee.

So you were late. Not enough for anyone to comment, but late enough for someone to notice and still move on.

The light comes in softly through the cafeteria windows, and there’s a vague in-between hum in the air: post-break stillness before the Zandvoort buildup.

You’ve barely looked up from your screen except to mumble responses to people in passing. It’s not on purpose, and you know you should’ve picked out a better place to sit than the cafeteria, but the office is still slightly empty, and you’d rather spend time in a place with more people right now.

You’re halfway through rereading a line in an email you’re pretty sure you’ve already responded to when someone slides into the seat opposite you.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, setting his paper cup down, filled to the brim with coffee that looks like it has way too much milk in it. 

You glance at your watch, and realise you have about five minutes of buffer before you need to go up into one of the meetings with your brother. He looks slightly on edge about it too, fingers fiddling with his nails, foot tapping impatiently on the tiles.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and slip it into your bag before eyeing him. “Can you finish your cup quickly so that you don’t go around spilling it everywhere? We need to go.”

He nods, rolling his eyes before trying to gulp down the contents of his cup like it isn’t hot enough to scorch his tongue. 

When he’s done, you both get up at the same time. He squashes the paper and dumps it into one of the trash cans that you pass. 

“You think this’ll be smooth?” he asks under his breath. “Most of the media stuff should already be sorted, no? Just some final clearances.”

You shrug. “They changed a couple brand obligations post-break and for next year, I think. New sponsor visibility clauses or something. I think they want us both aligned before the next few races kick in.”

There's nothing particularly difficult about meetings like this, just lots of slides and media language that makes your brain feel like it’s buffering. Still, the team likes everyone being present when possible—especially you, when it comes to anything that might affect Doyoung’s time, tone, or attention.

You scan your badge at the door and step in just behind him.

The room isn’t full yet, but the people who matter are already inside. A few people from the PR team, the head of partnerships, sponsor representatives. Minghao sits near the far end of the table, scrolling through something on his tablet. He looks up and gives you a small wave, mouth pressed into a tired smile. You return it instinctively, stepping aside so Doyoung can take one of the open chairs.

And then you see Joshua.

He’s already seated, posture straight but not stiff, fingers locked loosely in front of him on the table. There’s a light tan on his face and arms, the kind that comes from walking around in real sun, not just between paddocks and pit lanes. 

He looks up as the two of you enter.

You meet his gaze for half a second, just enough to register it before instinct takes over and you look away. You don’t catch the way his expression shifts, the way the corners of his mouth lift up like he’s about to offer a smile—a little awkward, a little unsure.

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder in greeting, saying something under his breath that makes Joshua huff a quiet laugh as your brother settles into the seat next to him. You pretend to focus on finding a seat, nodding once at the head of PR and then making your way toward the end of the table, where Minghao is sitting.

Minghao nudges a chair out with his foot as you approach. “Hey. How was the break?” He asks when you plop down next to him.

You shrug, setting your laptop bag down by the leg of the chair. “Good. Quiet. What about you?”

Minghao hums, passing you a printed deck. “Lucky you. I went home to China. Had to babysit my cousin’s kid for one afternoon and somehow still needed three days to recover. I just got back, actually. Jetlagged, if you can’t tell.”

You let out a quiet laugh, flipping open the first few pages. Sponsor slots. Campaign overview. Nothing new.

Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement—Joshua shifting in his seat, elbows resting lightly on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up, his eyes catch yours again.

You hold them for a second longer than last time and try to smile politely.

Then you blink, like it didn’t happen, and turn slightly toward Minghao instead. “Did they confirm the Thursday slot for the fan event?”

Minghao raises an eyebrow, like he saw what just happened and is choosing not to comment. “Yeah,” he replies, tapping the paper in front of you. “Right there. Around five.”

You nod slowly, pen in hand now, circling the time even though you’ve already memorized it.

The meeting begins properly not long after. The head of PR welcomes everyone back, and the screen clicks to life at the front of the room.

You keep your attention forward. Joshua doesn’t look again. 

When the meeting is over, people peel off in different directions, schedules splintering again into the usual chaos of prep and deadlines. Doyoung falls into step beside Minghao, which you find a little weird because you can’t imagine what the two possibly have in common. 

You’re already slowing your pace, figuring you’ll let them go ahead and duck off wherever they’re going.

But Joshua’s still behind you.

You glance once over your shoulder, enough to see him bid goodbye to whoever he was talking to outside the meeting room before catching up.

You hear the squeak of his shoes against the cleaned tiles as he jogs up to you guys. The four of you reach the corridor junction, Minghao saying something low to Doyoung, and they veer left together, deep into some conversation about media training or sponsor deliverables or whatever it is your brother is pretending to understand.

Which leaves you—again—with Joshua.

He glances sideways, cautious, then tries again with a small, uncertain smile. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” you say, a little too quickly. “You? Heard you were in Greece.”

He nods, almost like he’s surprised you knew. “Yeah, I went with my mum. It was nice.”

You nod too, and the silence folds back in. Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag. Neither of you seems able to meet the other’s eyes for too long, and when you do, the look is held for half a second too long before flickering away.

Joshua shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So, uh. You went somewhere too, right? Switzerland?”

“Yeah. With Doyoung.” You gesture vaguely, eyes flitting to where Doyoung stands in the distance, still talking to Joshua’s manager. “He wanted altitude and a change of scenery. I think I just needed the quiet.”

He hums—acknowledging, or maybe understanding. “Good timing for it,” he says. “We all needed to get out of our heads a little.”

You don’t reply to that. Not right away, because you think—maybe, just maybe—you know what he means by our heads. And you think he knows you know.

You nod faintly, not trusting yourself to say much more. Also shifting from one foot to the other, you adjust the strap on your shoulder, and that’s when it settles in—quietly, the slow sinking realization. The awkwardness that surrounds him, the way he’s not as talkative or laid-back as he usually is.

Oh.

Of course he remembers.

You don’t need him to say it. You don’t even need to look at him now to know it’s there. The memory’s lodged in your own head like grit under your nails, and suddenly it feels stupid to think it wouldn’t be in his.

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because this kind of thing only happens in films where two people wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t happen, only to make accidental eye contact in a hallway weeks later and remember everything all at once.

Except this isn’t a film, and you’re not holding a stack of papers you’ve just dropped in slow motion. You’re standing in the corridor of an F1 team's headquarters with your bag slipping off your shoulder, and a man—a driver, your brother’s teammate—beside you who very obviously remembers kissing you.

And whose expression now looks like someone trying to figure out whether you remember kissing him.

Which, tragically, you do. 

Joshua clears his throat.

It’s barely audible, just a soft scrape, like he meant to say something and then thought better of it. You glance at him, almost involuntarily, and immediately regret it because he’s already looking at you with a kind of cautious half-smile. Not flirty, not smug—just nervous.

And that’s when it clicks for him.

You see it. The small pause where his shoulders fall out of that practiced posture of his and his mouth parts like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words fast enough. Like he’s suddenly, absolutely sure that you remember—and worse, that you know he knows now too.

Well, fuck, you think.

“I should get going,” you say finally, not quite meeting his eye. “I’ve got a call in ten.”

He nods, slowly, like he’s still buffering. “Yeah. I’ve got—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, “—something. Somewhere.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but it lands awkwardly, like a gear shift in the wrong place. You both wince, just barely.

Joshua rubs the back of his neck like he’s debating saying more. You hope he doesn’t.

“Well,” you say, stepping back. Anything to break the tension. “Good luck with… whatever that something is.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “You too. The call.”

It’s painfully polite. You feel like you should salute or shake hands or send a follow-up email with bullet points recapping the awkwardness of this interaction.

Then you leave, this time for real, and neither of you looks back. But you’re almost certain—painfully certain—that he stands there for a few seconds longer than he needs to, just like you keep thinking about turning around even when you know you won’t.

AZERBAIJAN, BAKU CITY CIRCUIT

Friday, Post FP1 September 19th

If Joshua and you plan to pretend like nothing happened, he’s got to stop acting like something did. 

You’re standing outside the hospitality, arms loosely crossed, trying to focus on anything else—on your checklist for the afternoon, on the way the breeze keeps catching at the edge of the umbrella, even on the hum of voices from nearby engineers unpacking gear.

Joshua’s a few feet away, in conversation with one of the performance engineers, though he’s not really participating. He stands, his figure slightly strung up, in the white team shirt that’s been chosen for this weekend, sunglasses slid onto the top of his head. He’s nodding along, smiling faintly, but every so often, his gaze flickers away. Toward you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough.

And it’s infuriating. Because you’ve been good about this. You’ve been normal and professional. You’ve made it through two races already and managed to keep everything in check. Talk to him (casually) when you’ve had to, replied to messages, looped him into meetings if needed. Everything has been fine.

Except it hasn’t. Not really.

“You look like you want to throw something,” Doyoung points out around a mouth full of a half-eaten banana that he holds in his hand.

“Yeah, at you, maybe.” You shoot back, shoving his face away with a disgusted look.

“Your face is doing its thing… Who are you pissed with?”

“First of all, can you fucking chew and swallow before you open your mouth? Second, stop bothering me. I’m not in the mood for it, Doyoung.” The irritation in your voice catches both of you by surprise. You didn’t mean to sound that harsh, but Doyoung knows you and hence takes no offence.

“No, seriously.” He mutters, voice dropping lower. “Are you okay? I don’t think I did much to irritate you before this and it’s surely not Joshua or Minghao that you’re mad at… Something went wrong with the team?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, sorry, everything’s fine.”

Doyoung squints at you. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It’s just hot and I’m tired.”

It’s not a lie, technically. The sun has been relentless and the week’s been long already, even though it’s only a Friday. But Doyoung’s eyes narrow, which means he still doesn’t believe you but also knows better than to push it. He goes back to eating his banana, mercifully closing his mouth.

“Hey,” Joshua says, voice cutting across the lull in your conversation. You both turn as he approaches—you, reluctantly but your brother seems enthusiastic for some reason.

He’s got a bottle of water in one hand now, and his other hand lifts slightly in greeting, like he’s unsure whether to aim it at you, Doyoung, or both. He settles somewhere in between.

“Was looking for you,” he says to Doyoung, nodding at him. “You have a sec?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung replies with a shrug. “What’s up?”

You take that as your cue to leave, to shift a step back and check your phone or pretend to care about something else. Joshua stands straight, almost cautious and way too serious for three people who’ve supposedly gotten closer this year. It throws you off, and you try to hide your displeasure at the divide it has caused as you turn to your brother.

He used to slouch into moments like this. Hands tucked into his pockets, eyes soft with jokes, voice sounding like something easy and warm. Now he’s standing like he’s in a post-race debrief.

You try to ignore it. “I’ll give you two a moment,” you mumble.

“No, it’s fine,” Joshua says, too lightly, like he’s trying to dial the energy back. He offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not interrupting.”

The silence that follows says otherwise.

Doyoung, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the tension the same way you do and instead begins to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Joshua brings up set-ups, how his car wasn’t doing good at all during FP1, something about the rear feeling loose under throttle and the balance being completely off through Sector 2. 

Doyoung nods along, slipping into work mode easily. “I thought I felt that too in Turn 15. It’s better on heavier fuel, but I couldn’t get the rear to stay down. Felt twitchy all the way through the castle section.”

“I think our set-ups are pretty different though,” Joshua sighs, scrunching his nose. 

“We can go take a look later, if you want.” Your brother shrugs.

You stay quiet, gaze fixed somewhere just past them. It’s not like you don’t understand the conversation—you’ve picked up enough over the years to have a basic idea of what they mean—but your attention has splintered. Joshua is being careful. Not with what he’s saying about the car, but with you. The edges of his voice are smoothed down whenever you’re near, like he’s sanded away the parts of him that used to joke and tease and lean in close just to make a point.

He barely looks at you, but when he does, it’s never casual. It’s never just a glance. 

You hate how you’ve begun to care about this, but you chalk it up to the feeling of beginning to lose a friend instead.

Joshua leaves after that, bidding a quick goodbye over his shoulder. Doyoung turns to you slowly, the banana finally finished, his expression mildly suspicious.

“…Okay, now I think something’s weird.”

You blink at him. “What?���

“That. Why was he so serious?”

“Was he?”

“He didn’t really talk to you. He didn’t say anything stupid and charming. I thought you two were getting along—” and maybe he understands the defensive look on your face, because he raises an eyebrow when you open your mouth to retort “—and before you deny it, I may act unbothered but obviously I’d notice if my sister and my teammate were becoming closer.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re reading into it too much. He just seems pretty out of it. FP1 was bad for him, clearly.”

Doyoung gives you a long, skeptical look. “Right,” he says slowly. “Bad FP1. So naturally, he forgets how to have a conversation with someone he’s been almost glued to since Silverstone.”

You don’t bother with a response, mostly because you don’t have one.

Instead, you adjust your bag again and wordlessly point ahead. Doyoung gets the hint and begins to walk back to the garage with you. The paddock heat sits thick around your shoulders, and your throat feels dry. There’s nothing in what Doyoung’s said that’s technically wrong—but you’re not exactly winning any awards for subtlety either. 

Your brother walks alongside you, quiet for a few moments, before he sighs softly. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says, voice gentler. “I just… noticed.”

You nod, not knowing what to say to that. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of coming clean to him. It’s hard to keep secrets with Doyoung, even more so when it has something to do with him. But you’re not sure just how much of an issue this will become professionally, so you zip your lips close and walk on.

When you finally reach the garage, you tell Doyoung that you’re heading back in for a meeting and that you won’t be seeing him again until FP2 is over.

“Just text or call me if it’s something urgent.” You sigh.

He nods, turning around to go in before stopping in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know if you guys fought or something. But try to get along, please. I can’t go and tell him this, obviously, so I’m telling you—not blaming you for anything, by the way. I’ll see you after. Stop drinking too much coffee and drink more water instead.”

Doyoung’s walking back in before you can reply. You watch his retreating back with a mix of annoyance and warmth.

—

You don’t go right after FP2. 

You wait long enough for the garage to settle, for the media duties to end, for the crew to peel off into meetings or debriefs or break rooms. Long enough that if someone asks, you can pretend it’s just a casual check-in.

You meant to leave it alone, to stay professional, keep your head down, and let the awkwardness smooth itself out eventually. 

But halfway through FP2 Minghao had turned to you, looking up from his screen without a warning and said: “You two have been weird recently.”

And it was like him, obviously—to be that observant, not accusatory or even that curious. You’d brushed it off with a shrug, pretending it didn’t rattle you more than it should’ve. Your brother noticing was one thing, others was another. You didn’t think that it had been that obvious, but clearly you were thinking wrong. Because if Minghao could tell, then who else had noticed? How long until Doyoung put two and two together? Until someone in the garage slipped up and connected dots that were never supposed to form in the first place?

You make the walk toward Joshua’s driver room with your jaw set. The hallway is mostly empty now, the hum of activity receding as the day wears on. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say, only that you have to say something. Because this pretending-it’s-fine thing? It’s not working.

You pause outside his door for a second, breathing in deeply before looking both ways into the corridor, hoping that no one else sees you before knocking, your knuckles rapping twice on his door. You don’t need more drama.

It takes a few seconds, long enough for you to consider turning around and pretending you were never here at all, but then the door clicks open.

Joshua stands there in a loose t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from a recent shower. His expression morphs—from something a little lazy and tired, to surprise. 

“Hey,” he says with a low voice, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

He steps aside without answering, motioning you in with a small tilt of his head. You slip past him, heart ticking faster than you want to admit, and stop just inside, arms crossing loosely.

Joshua closes the door behind you. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you say, turning to face him. “Not really.”

That catches him off guard, clearly not expecting you to be so honest. His brows pull together, and he steps a little closer, not quite enough to close the distance but enough for you to smell the fresh scent of his after-shave.

You sigh. “Minghao said something earlier. About us. Said we’ve been off.”

Joshua flinches—barely, but you catch it.

“And he’s right,” you continue. “We have been. And I’ve been ignoring it because I thought… maybe it would settle. But it’s not. You’re walking around like you’re scared to say the wrong thing to me, and I—I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Right,” Joshua says, after a long pause. “Yeah. I’m—.”

“And people are noticing,” you add, quieter. “Not just him. Doyoung’s said things too.”

Joshua exhales through his nose, dragging a hand up over his face, into his hair. “I’ve been trying,” he says. “I swear I’ve been trying to be normal.”

“I know, me too. But it’s not working, is it?”

Joshua moves to sit down on the edge of the small couch, elbows braced on his knees. His towel falls from around his neck and lands on the floor, but he doesn’t bother picking it up. 

“First of all, I’m sorry. Kissing you—” he grimaces, and you’re not sure how to feel about that “—was very out of line.”

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “It’s okay. I mean… I was drunk too. It’s not like you forced anything.”

Joshua presses his lips together, but doesn’t lift his gaze. “Still. I should’ve known better.”

You sit down, a little away from him, arms still crossed across your chest. “I’ve just been trying not to make it worse. I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“But it is,” he says, like he can’t help it. “It got weird anyway.”

You sigh, because yeah. It did. “And now everyone’s picking up on it.”

“Minghao, Doyoung…” he trails off, then glances at you. “I didn’t think we were being that obvious.”

You let out a small, hollow laugh. “We weren’t. But I guess not talking at all is a bit of a giveaway when we clearly used to. You’re being so dry and awkward and polite, and it’s not really like you, is it? Of course people are going to notice.”

Joshua looks away, his jaw tight. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By doing what?”

“By not making this worse,” he shoots back, almost sounding snappy but still his voice doesn’t rise. “By keeping it professional.”

You bristle at that. “Right, because professional is clearly what this has been.”

His eyes flicker to yours—guiltily, and for a second neither of you say anything.

“I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he says slowly, even a bit unsurely. “I’m not risking it. Not the seat, not the team’s trust. Not my working relationship with Doyoung.”

You nod. You understand, you really do, but the words hurt as they hit your chest anyway. “So that’s all this is. A cover up. Can we please do a better job at—”

“I didn’t say that.” Joshua interrupts.

“You meant it.” You snap back, looking away from him as you get up.

“What do you want me to say, then?” He exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “That I regret it? Or that I don’t?”

Joshua shakes his head, voice sharper now. “You’re his sister, his manager. You know what it would look like if something happened between us and it went wrong.”

Your throat tightens, and you stay silent.

“This is already hard enough. Doyoung is my biggest competition on track. We’re close in the standings, we’re pushing each other every weekend. You do realise how hard it would be if you’re in the middle of it as well.”

You flinch at the words, and he notices.

“I don’t mean that like it’s your fault,” he adds quickly. “It’s just… you’re not just someone I kissed at a party, okay? You’re his person. His family. You’re on his side of the garage, in his meetings, working with his engineers. And I know how this works. If something goes wrong, if this throws off the balance—we all feel it.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and just keeps going. “I’ve thought about this so much. About how it would work? About what it would mean to feel something for you and go wheel-to-wheel with your brother every other weekend?”

Your eyes flicker up at that, but he doesn’t notice.

“How are you supposed to be in my corner and his? He’s your family. And I’m the guy trying to beat him.”

It takes a second before you can speak again. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that? About what it means for me?”

Joshua finally looks over, and you will yourself to look him in the eyes as you continue.

“I know exactly what it would look like if anyone found out. It would look like I was choosing sides. Like I wasn’t capable of doing my job objectively. Like I wasn’t loyal to my brother—who, by the way, trusts me with everything.”

Your voice tightens, face hot with frustration and a feeling that’s growing too close to anger. “So no, Joshua, I didn’t take any of this lightly. I still don’t.”

He nods slowly, gaze unreadable now. “So we agree, then.”

You hesitate.

“We agree it can’t happen again,” he says, quieter. “That it was a mistake.”

You nod before adding: “And that we’ll be better and go back to what it was?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes find yours, and for the first time all evening, there’s something bare in them. Something that doesn’t hide behind restraint or exhaustion. But the look vanishes as quickly as you saw it, and leaves you wondering if you imagined it in the first place.

He nods. “Yeah. We’ll go back.”

You press your lips together, nod once more for good measure—like if you just agree hard enough, maybe it’ll become true. That things can be rewound and tucked neatly behind you without leaving a mark.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Good.” 

So you turn toward the door and walk out before either of you can say anything more. But your heart stays lodged somewhere behind you, somewhere in that room and maybe a little too close to the man you wish to forget the face of.

—

Sunday, Post Race September 21st

The door closes behind him, more harshly than he’d meant to shut it. 

He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off just yet. His cap is the first thing to go, fingers tugging it off absently before he sets it on the desk beside the team lanyard, both items placed a little too neatly, like muscle memory carrying him through the motions. The rest of the room remains untouched. Still and quiet. The overhead light stays off. He reaches instead for the smaller wall sconce by the bed and flicks it on, the glow warm and soft in a way that doesn’t quite match the mood he’s in.

He exhales, slowly.

There’s a kind of emptiness after a race like that—if you could even call it one, considering he was out for almost half of it. The result is too final, nothing left to fix or fight, not when the damage has already been done. He peels off the white team shirt and folds it once, more out of habit than care, placing it on the back of the armchair near the window. The shirt is wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar, and when he brushes his fingers against the fabric, they come away cool.

He’s not even exhausted yet, body running on leftover adrenaline that he knows is going to leave him so tired when it finally leaves. This time, unlike most, will be worse because he hasn’t actually done anything to go to sleep with a peaceful mind. He should maybe shower again and eat, but neither sound appealing right now. 

Joshua drags himself to the balcony, sliding the glass doors open and stepping into the warm Baku night. He absently thanks the team for booking a hotel away from the track. Every year, Williams would—for some reason—book a hotel that overlooked the track, and after a bad day, the reminder was always unnecessary.

He exhales, bracing his palms against the cold metal railing. His muscles ache faintly, but nothing sharp—nothing like the jolt through his neck when the car hit the wall. Nothing like the way he’d sat in the medical car afterward, helmet off, jaw tight, nodding at every word the doctor said while thinking about absolutely nothing except for the .

The DNF shouldn’t sting this badly. But he’d been doing okay today. Not great, not podium-bound, but good enough for a step below. Joshua tries not to think of the articles that are probably up by now. 

Mercedes falters again on the streets. Hong out early in Baku after a costly mistake. Good enough, or has the pressure of a big team finally caught up to Joshua Hong? Team tensions rising?

He hates the last one the most tonight—especially after the podium that his teammate made it onto, while he sat at P20. It was good points for the team, but with no contribution from him. Doyoung’s managed to get ahead of Joshua, and while he was aiming to beat his teammate by the end of the year, he knows that it’s easier said than done. 

It’s too quiet now and he can’t stop replaying it. Not just the crash—though that part loops relentlessly, the twitch of the wheel, the slide, the sickening hit. But what came before. What he was thinking about. 

Because although he’d never admit it to anyone, the crash happened because he wasn’t paying attention. His hands were on the wheel, eyes on the mirrors, yes. But his mind was somewhere else entirely. Still stuck in that small, stifling driver’s room with you. Still hearing the way his voice had cracked when he told you it was a mistake. 

He grips the rail tighter. This is exactly what he was worried about, and he’s ashamed of himself for it. Joshua has never let other things get to him when racing. It’s always the track, the car, his mirrors and the next turn in his head. Never people or feelings.

He should’ve handled it differently. All of it. The kiss, the aftermath, the conversation that somehow left him more confused than before. Because despite everything that was said—despite the professionalism, the agreement, the decision to move on—he can’t. Not really.

Joshua lifts a hand to his neck, shuddering slightly as goosebumps litter his arms despite the warm air. There’s too much noise in his head. Too many things unsaid, and too many things that shouldn’t be said at all. 

He should go inside, put a shirt on. What if the person next door decides to come to the balcony as well?

Then, to his luck, the door next to his opens.

He freezes but doesn’t turn. Maybe it’s a stranger. Maybe it’s just someone stepping out for air, like him and if he stays where he is—still enough, they won’t notice him.

There’s the faint sound of curtains ruffling in the breeze followed by a soft sigh.

And then your voice, quiet and disbelieving, like you were hoping for anything but this.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Joshua’s head turns toward you before he can stop himself. Your hand is still on the edge of your door, fingers curled around the handle like you hadn’t meant to step fully out. You're not in uniform or a team shirt anymore. You're with your hair down, comfy clothes, bare faced and looking tired.

You freeze when you see him, like you hadn’t considered this was possible either. Your eyes meet across the narrow stretch of the balconies, and for a second, neither of you move. You should go back inside. You both should. That would be the adult thing to do. The professional thing to do.

Joshua starts first. “Didn’t know you were next door.”

You blink, finally stepping out all the way and letting the door click shut behind you. “Neither did I.”

You keep your arms folded across your chest, not entirely out of discomfort but more as a barrier. Still shirtless, hair a little messy, his eyes flick away from yours only when you speak again.

“Well, what luck,” you mutter, voice lacking the humour you hoped it would have.

“Yeah.”

The air is balmy and just slightly humid, buzzing with the hum of traffic and hotel A/C units. It’s not awkward, not yet, but there’s a line that’s begging to not be crossed tonight. You both know what kind of week it’s been.

“How’s your neck?” you ask.

Joshua glances over, brow raising. “It’s alright.”

“You hit the barrier pretty hard.”

“I’ve had worse.”

You nod, but something about the way his fingers twitch against the railing tells you he’s still strung up about it, tight and immovable.

Involuntarily, your eyes fall onto his neck. It’s not like you expect to see if he has any pain and it’s a mistake, clearly—because now you’re noticing the faint sheen still clinging to his skin, the soft curve of his shoulder, and the way his back muscles shift tensely. There’s a pale scar across the top of his right shoulder blade—thin but jagged, and old if the rough stitch-work is an indicator of anything.

“What’s that from?” you ask before you can stop yourself, chin tilting toward the mark.

Joshua follows your gaze and lifts one hand absently to it, fingers grazing the scar like he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Karting crash when I was twelve. I didn’t brake fast enough going into one of the turns.”

“Late-breaking since you were a kid, huh?” You mutter under your breath, meant for yourself, but he hears it anyway and a small smile breaks out.

“My mentor, from back then, would stand near the corners and watch where the other kids braked. When it was my turn, he’d go a bit further up and tell me to brake there instead.” He scoffs, eyes trained somewhere on the skyline. “It was really hard at first, but I got used to it…clearly hasn’t left me since.”

The silence stretches, and uncomfortably so. You both stay like that—leaning on separate railings, caught in a suspended still where neither of you know what to say next. Conversations don’t seem to come easy anymore.

Eventually, it’s you who moves first. You push off the railings with a deep inhale. “I’m going to head in then. Good night, Joshua.”

He nods and responds softly, “Me too. Night.”

You slip back into your room, the door sliding shut behind you. The lights are low and your suitcase is half-unzipped near the bed, your phone somewhere on the desk where you tossed it earlier. 

Crossing over to the bed, you sit on the edge and let your head fall into your hands. 

You should have asked how he really was. Not just his neck, like that was the only part of him that could’ve taken a hit.

Because when the crash happened—when the camera cut to his car snapping sideways into the barrier, debris rising in a smoke of dust, and all radio silence—you hadn’t moved. Heart lodged somewhere in your throat, your fingers had curled against your palm so tight that you’d left indents. Someone on the engineering island had said, “He’s moving,” and you still hadn’t breathed until he climbed out, slow and stiff, but seemingly safe. 

And then you remembered you weren’t supposed to care like that. Not anymore. Not like before.

So when the media asked, when your brother asked, when the team exchanged glances and subtle reassurances, you said nothing. You told yourself you were just being professional. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Joshua had Minghao and the med team. He’d done this before and he would be fine.

Because there’s a boundary—one you hadn’t realised you were slowly crossing, one you’d thought meant that you could just be friends with your brother’s teammate. You wonder why this is the first time you’ve bothered to speak or get along with someone like that. Doyoung’s had other teammates before, and you’d always been civil.  Not warm or inviting but enough to keep a professional relationship. You didn’t go out of your way to build rapport. There was no reason to. The other driver wasn’t your responsibility. You weren’t part of his bubble. And besides, you’d always figured they had their own people, their own routines, their own version of someone like you.

So whatever friendliness you offered came in passing—neutral good luck, half-smiles in the garage.

You’ve always been good at keeping the line. Drawing it quietly, without anyone noticing.

But Joshua. He feels like the first time someone’s tried to pull you past it.

Not on purpose or all at once but slowly and subtly—in hotel hallways and garages and late nights at the paddock. In the way he lingered after briefings, how he asked about Doyoung but looked at you when he said it.

And you’d thought—maybe, maybe this could still be simple. Maybe you could toe that edge and call it friendship, just friendship. But even that feels like a stretch now. Because it really doesn’t feel simple anymore.

SINGAPORE, MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day October 2nd 

You spot them already seated when you walk in—Doyoung leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, a paper coffee cup balanced lazily in one hand. Joshua’s next to him, not quite opposite but angled inward, scrolling through something on a tablet with one elbow on the table.

You’d only meant to swing by, remind Doyoung about a schedule change, and tell him the briefing room time for the morning. But then he looks up and says, “Did you hear Seungcheol in the press conference?” like it’s the most important thing he’s said all day.

Joshua glances up too,

“No,” you say, “I missed it.”

Doyoung grins and nods to the chair across from him. “Sit. You’ll enjoy this one.”

You hesitate a second, glancing at your watch before sliding into the seat across from them.

Doyoung’s already talking. “So, he gets asked about the Ferrari rumors—you know, the Monza thing and just the entire season overall with talks of him leaving—and he gives the most carefully worded denial I’ve ever heard. Like... textbook media training. ‘Focused on the team,’ ‘we’ll talk when the time comes,’ all of that.”

You hum. “So it’s happening.”

“Obviously it’s happening.” He fiddles with a sugar packet between his hands. “He only talks like that when something’s already in motion.”

“It’s obviously not Red Bull that he’d move to.” Joshua adds, eyes trained on the table. “Haechan could literally win the championship this weekend and Seungcheol is not going to move to another team just to be number two… especially when they’re known for clearly prioritising one driver over the other. History speaks for itself.”

“And our contracts don’t end till two more years so that’s us off the list.” Doyoung muses. “McLaren… but they’ve invested in two young drivers. Doubt they’d give up on fresh talent this soon.”

“But they haven’t been doing great, to be honest.” Joshua points out, pushing around a drop of water on the table, still avoiding your gaze. But now it just looks like he’s concentrating, so you let it go. “Sure they’ve been getting closer, but their team needs a miracle for next year if they want to sign him.”

“He could look at the regulation changes in 2027 and join them though.” Your brother argues. 

“Wouldn’t it just be better for him to stay for one more year in Ferrari then?”

“It would.” Joshua agrees, glancing up at you. “I think Audi and Cadillac will be solid choices too though, honestly.”

He checks his phone, then straightens in his seat.

“I’ve got to head up,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “IWC. They want me to look excited about a wristwatch.”

You huff softly—not quite a laugh, but close.

Joshua tilts his head slightly, “Don’t worry, I’ll try to smile. Once. Maybe twice, if really needed.”

It’s a joke. Classic, dry, a little deadpan—the kind of thing he used to say all the time. But it lands wrong and feels practiced, almost. Like he’s trying to sound like before because you asked him to.

You give him a small smile anyway. “They’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” he says, almost smiling too. “Tough job.”

“Well, I’ll see you guys later.”

You nod, and Doyoung waves lazily beside you. When he’s gone, Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at his cup, turning it slightly between his fingers, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something at all.

“He likes you.”

You blink, almost choking on your own saliva. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it and only shrugs, gaze locked on the cup in his hands. “You heard me.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?” you ask, cautious.

“No.” Doyoung’s voice is light, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are sharp. “It’s not.”

You exhale, unsure whether to laugh. “Well. That’s not something people usually say at like…3 PM on a random thursday”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s almost four, actually”

You let out a quiet scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you didn’t deny it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Doyoung clocks it.

You cross your arms loosely. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He shrugs again. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just letting you know I see it.”

You stare at the table. A droplet of water is still trailing down the side of Joshua’s forgotten glass. 

“…You really think he likes me?” you ask, quieter now.

Doyoung doesn’t even blink. “I think he likes you,” he says. “I think he leaves slower when you’re around. I think he’s careful about what he says when you’re listening. And I think—” he pauses, like he’s debating how honest to be—”I think he tries not to, which kinda gives the whole thing away. Which also usually means you’re fucked.”

“And, what? You just figured that out, out of nowhere?” You snap back, slightly surprised and annoyed at the call out.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, then pauses. “But now I am.”

You look at him. “Why now?”

He hesitates just long enough for you to notice. 

“When someone starts to get close to your sister,” he says, “you start noticing things.”

It knocks the breath out of you more than you expect. Not in a bad way, but just—suddenly, this is real. Not just in your head. Not just a maybe. You look at him.

He softens, just a little. “I’m not mad,” he sighs. “If that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” you murmur.

“Good. I just wanted to know if I should be watching out for you or watching out for you.”

That makes you laugh, despite yourself. “And?”

“I’m still deciding,” he says, getting up and stretching. “But you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’ve been so subtle.”

Doyoung gives you a look over his shoulder as he begins to walk away. “You’re both embarrassing. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Doyoung.”

He pauses, turning around to face you again.

“I’m not… planning anything,” you declare, but by the way your voice comes out a little pathetically, it sounds unconvincing even to you.

He just stares at you—tired, affectionate, and knowing.

“Yeah?” Doyoung shakes his head. “Tell me how that goes.”

And with that, he walks off, leaving you alone with a table full of empty cups and a truth you can’t shove away anymore.

—

Saturday, Post FP3 October 4th

“Yes, I understand that. But we’ve already restructured the drivers’ schedule once to fit this in, and the engineering team made it clear they’re not shifting the debrief. We’re running out of room to be flexible.”

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop when he passes the half-shut door upstairs. He’s just heading toward his driver room, idly checking the time on his phone, when your voice draws him to a pause. It’s low and clipped—not angry, but too calm in a way that says everything’s going wrong.

“We’re—Yes, I’m aware Petronas is the title sponsor. That’s why I’m trying to get this done now. You need to meet us halfway. The drivers aren’t free after 3 PM on Tuesday, and they won’t be reshuffled again for something that’s changed three times already. The team has flights to catch and meetings that cannot be held off once we get home. We’re functioning on a really tight schedule here—”

Then there’s a longer silence, and when you speak again it’s just a resigned “Okay. Let me know by eight. Thanks.” The call ends, and he hears the soft click of your phone being set down.

Joshua knocks once, light against the frame. You just glance up and tense for a second like you’re bracing for something else to fix—but it’s him, and your expression softens immediately.

“Hi,” you say, voice lower than usual.

He doesn’t enter fully, just leans a little against the doorframe, watching you. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, “but is everything okay?”

You sigh, shaking your head before settling down onto one of the chairs in the room. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Are you alright?” Joshua asks, a little softer now.

You hesitate, then shrug. “Just stretched too thin. Everyone wants a different version of the schedule, and somehow it’s my fault none of them match.” 

Pausing, you glance at him once before you add: “Sorry. I’m not usually like that.”

“When things matter, it’s not a bad thing.” Joshua assures.

“How was practice?” You sigh, massaging your temple. 

“Not bad,” he answers, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t know if you’ve seen the results but Doyoung seems to be doing well. I think I’m still a little out of it but quali will be good, I assume. Just need to get food inside me to perform right now.”

In the haze of your exhaustion, you look confused for a second, glancing at the time before you realise that it’s Singapore that you’re in. The gentle furrow of your brows makes Joshua’s lips break out into a small smile—one he tries to stamp down slowly.

You scoff, “The things you guys do to beat the jetlag. What time did you even get up?”

“Around one in the afternoon,” he shrugs, “It was a bit early, I think. Overheard Chenle saying he got up at three.”

“And you’re staying up till, what? Two in the morning?”

“Bang on.” He shoots a thumbs up. “Doyoung and I literally have the tennis court booked at twelve.”

“Jeez,” You let out, a little incredulously, “But anyway, you should go eat. You literally just said you needed food to function.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him properly this time. “Joshua.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced, not entirely. But he nods and pushes off the doorframe a little. Your brother’s words echo in your mind. He likes you. You swallow and force a small smile. “Really. I just need to reset.”

Joshua lifts his hands in surrender “Alright,” he says but hesitates before continuing. “If you need something—if you want to not talk about logistics and PR nightmares for five minutes—I’ll be around.”

You nod. The offer won’t be taken, and you think he knows as well, but still you mutter a small “Thanks.”

—

Monday, Post Race October 6th

It’s sometime past 2 AM when you push through the glass doors leading to the rooftop pool. The air is thick with leftover humidity, cut only slightly by the breeze, and the city glows beneath the haze like it’s still awake and waiting. You aren’t even sure what you’re doing up here—you don’t feel like swimming, nor are you in appropriate clothing for it. You just needed a moment to breathe, probably.

The season is as good as done now, with the new world champion crowned. There’s not a lot to look forward to anymore except what next season will bring. So yes, while you’re happy that your brother won today’s race, there’s a sort of empty feeling in you—whether from the season, or from other things is something that you don’t want to unpack right now.

You spot him before he sees you.

Joshua sits at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, shirt sleeves pushed to his shoulders, hair wet and sticking in random directions, like he got out of the water, dressed and went back in without drying his hair.

For a second, you consider leaving. You should leave. The last time the two of you were alone after a race did not end well, and the thought makes your chest tighten as your steps falter.

But then he turns, almost like he senses you there, and his eyes find yours. Before you can stop yourself, you walk over, your footsteps quiet against the tile. There’s no music, no voices, no one else lingering around anymore.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding to the empty spot beside him.

You lower yourself down wordlessly, the concrete edge cool beneath your legs. Neither of you speak for a while. The water laps gently against the walls of the pool. 

“Not celebrating with Doyoung?” Joshua asks finally.

You shake your head, arms going back to brace yourself as you dip your legs into the water. “He’s asleep, actually.” 

“Deserved,” he huffs out with a smile, “he did great today.”

“He did. You did too.” You nod.

Joshua doesn’t respond immediately, but he glances at you, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, you holding Haechan back like that was really cool to watch.” You shrug, looking away and into the lights on the floor of the pool.

He laughs at that, the sound bright and easy. You stay quiet and listen. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him like that—genuine, unguarded, and not trying too hard to be anything but exactly who he is at this moment.

“I think that if he hadn’t won the championship today, he would’ve actually found me after the race and put up an argument.”

You scoff softly, lips curving as you know that it was completely possible. 

Your legs move idly in the water. You tilt your head back, eyes slipping shut for a second. The city hums in your ears, a feeling of heat and light and long weeks coming to a slow, inevitable end.

And then, without really meaning to, you speak, your voice honest in a way that feels overdue.

“I don’t know where we’re going with this.”

When you open your eyes, Joshua’s already looking at you. His lips slant in an awkward smile. “With what? The team?”

You exhale gingerly. “No. Not the team.” You answer, but you think that he already knows what you mean.

Joshua doesn’t answer right away. The smile fades, or maybe it never fully reached his eyes to begin with. He looks back at the pool, then down at his hands, fingers loosely threaded together in his lap. The silence stretches.

“I thought we weren’t going anywhere,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

You nod slowly, because yes, that was the point. It was the unspoken rule from the start—keep things simple, clean, professional. Friendly, maybe. Careful always.

But now, here you are, sitting next to him in the dark, your legs skimming the water, and your guard down without realising when it fell. None of it feels simple anymore.

“I didn’t think it’d get this far,” Joshua admits. “I wasn’t thinking much when we kissed, obviously… and I hoped that you didn’t even remember, but after that I thought that keeping a distance would just work somehow. And it did, for a while. I made myself believe I didn’t want more than that. But you make it easy to want more.”

He says it without expectation, without even really looking at you. His voice is steady, like he’s been holding the words for a long time and finally couldn’t anymore.

You’re still watching the pool, your reflection blurred and broken on the water’s surface. But his words cut through the stillness, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“I think…” You begin slowly, “the problem is that you make it too easy too.”

Joshua glances over, and for the first time tonight, you meet his gaze head-on. Neither of you looks away.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you continue. “I’ve always been careful. I know how this works—how quickly people talk, how easily things get misread, how much harder everything becomes when you blur the line between personal and professional. And I’d love to say that I tried to keep you out of that space, but you were already there, somehow.”

He doesn’t interrupt and just listens with that infuriating patience that makes it harder not to say everything you shouldn’t.

“I kept telling myself I was being stupid,” you go on. “That if I just stayed polite, stayed neutral, it would pass. That I could handle it. But you kept showing up. You remembered things and God—I don’t know. You cared? Did you? Well it felt like it. And it just got easier and easier.”

Joshua doesn’t dare to move, but you see his lips part, like words lay waiting behind them.

“And then Hungary happened. And I thought, maybe it could still be fine. Maybe I was overreacting, and if I just pulled back, you’d fall away from it too. I just didn’t expect it to hurt.” You exhale shakily, the admission catching somewhere in your throat.

“I don’t think we meant to end up here,” you murmur. “But here we are.”

“I was scared of what it would mean,” Joshua says finally. “That if I admitted it—to you, or to myself—it would ruin something. That we’d start pulling things apart just by acknowledging them. I think I thought that if I stayed quiet, I could keep everything intact. That we could still be okay if I didn’t make it real.”

You don’t answer right away. There’s too much pressure that has no release. You drop your gaze to the water again, the light scattering in waves beneath your legs. 

“But I think I’m past the point of pretending it’s not real,” he continues. “And the truth is… even if it’s risky—even if it complicates everything—I don’t want to go back to pretending you’re just part of the background.”

You let his words sit for a few moments before you speak again. “And what if—no, when the day comes for me to make a choice.” You press your palms against the edge of the pool, like bracing yourself against the weight of what you’re saying.

“Because you and I both know it’ll happen eventually. It won’t have to be dramatic, or maybe it will be. A moment where the team needs something from me, or Doyoung needs something from me, and you’ll be there too. And I won’t be able to give all of you what you want at the same time. And maybe you’ll say it’s fine, but I’ll see it on your face—that I didn’t choose you.”

You shake your head, your voice quiet but unwavering. “And the thing is… it’s not just that I’m scared of hurting you, myself or Doyoung. I’m scared of doing it again and again. Because I already have, in small ways. In ways you probably didn’t even let yourself admit. I could try and promise that I’ll try my hardest to stay neutral or try to support both of you as much as possible, but on the occasion that it’s not possible, would you be okay?”

“I did think about that,” he answers, finally. “That day in Baku, when I said all of this would get complicated. That there would be moments where I’d come second—or not at all. And the truth is, I kind of hated the idea of it. Not because I didn’t understand your role, but because I knew it would hurt. I knew it would make me question things that maybe wouldn’t be fair to question.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight ahead, like this is something he can only say if he doesn’t see the way you’re taking it in.

“But I think I was just hoping for the cleanest outcome. I could be a good teammate, be your friend, and protect myself before I got too involved.”  He pauses. “In the end, it just felt like I kept lying to myself.”

He turns to you now, and there’s something steadier in the way he holds your gaze.

“So yeah, I still know it won’t be easy. And maybe I’ll flinch sometimes. Maybe it’ll sting when I wish you’d say something or do something for me, and you can’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t understand. I do. And I won’t ask you to pick me every time. That’s not what I’m here for.”

There’s a pause, quiet except for the occasional ripple of the water behind your legs.

“If you’ll let me, then I’ll be here because I still want to be. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when I’m ahead, but even when it’s messy, even when I’m not first. But would you be alright with that? Having to deal with both of us.”

“I—” You begin, “Joshua what if this gets out? We’ll all have our work ethics and integrity questioned. And I don’t work directly for the team, so it probably wouldn’t be an HR issue, but what if this just doesn’t work?”

Joshua nods slowly, “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve thought about that too.”

Then he exhales, like the honesty takes something out of him. “And I don’t know. I don’t have a clean answer. Maybe people will talk. I can’t promise that they won’t. But I think what’s worse is pretending none of this is real just to avoid the risk.”

“I know what I’m asking. You’re already holding so many lines together, and I’m one more thread that could snap everything. I get it.” He swallows, voice softening. “But I keep thinking… maybe we’ll figure it out as we go. Maybe it’s not about having the answers right now—just about being willing to try.”

“Yes.” you say finally, voice a little louder than before, like you’re making a decision. “I think I would be okay with that. With having to deal with both of you.”

“Okay,” Joshua’s lips split into a grin, almost disbelieving—like he wasn’t letting himself hope. 

He shifts a little, brushing his hand over his shirt before holding it out toward you, palm open.

You glance at him, brow raised. “What’s that for?”

“A handshake,” he says, almost shyly now. “I don’t know. Just felt like… something. Like maybe we’re agreeing to something real this time.”

You stare at his hand for a second longer before sliding yours into it. His grip is warm and steady, his fingers slightly wrinkly from the water.

You squeeze once. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joshua smiles, thumb brushing the back of your hand as he flips your palms. “Maybe. But you shook on it.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, and neither do you. You watch your hands for a moment, the way his thumb keeps moving, slow and absent like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Your fingers are still loosely laced with his.

“We’re allowed to have good things.” You mutter, almost like a reminder to yourself.

“Yes,” Joshua agrees, and then continues—like he’s almost embarrassed by how much he means it. “Especially if it’s this.”

You, is what he really means. But he’ll save it. For another time, another day, when the water is not so still and when he’s sure you won’t flinch at the sound of it. 

USA, LAS VEGAS STRIP CIRCUIT

Wednesday, Media Day November 20th 

Doyoung doesn’t expect to see anyone in the hallway when he steps out of the elevator with a bottle of sparkling water and his keycard tucked into his palm. The floor is quiet—middle of the night quiet—and for a second, he thinks he might be imagining the silhouette standing in front of the door to your room.

But then Joshua straightens up and the overhead light hits his face.

“Oh,” Doyoung says, slowing to a stop. “It’s you.”

Joshua starts, suddenly looking like someone who’s been caught doing something he’s not sure he should’ve been doing. “Hey.”

Doyoung glances at the room number. Then at Joshua. Back at the room number, mentally cross checking if this is yours. “You lost or…?”

“No. Just…” Joshua rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sleepy.”

“Right,” Doyoung says. “So you came to this exact hallway. Outside my sister’s room.”

Joshua tries to look casual. “I was going for a walk.”

“Of course you were,” Doyoung replies, nodding like he’s indulging a toddler. “Nice long walk that conveniently ends at her door.”

Joshua smiles, faintly. “Unintentionally.”

“Sure.”

They pause, making both of them aware of how ridiculous this looks.

“I wasn’t gonna wake her,” Joshua adds, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I just… didn’t feel like being in my room.”

Doyoung uncaps his bottle and takes a sip. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna ask for a full explanation. You look guilty enough.”

Joshua groans under his breath. “I’m not guilty.”

“You’re standing in a hallway at 1 AM whispering outside a girl’s room like a teen in a drama. You want me to pretend I didn’t see this?”

“Well, why are you here?” Joshua shoots back weakly.

Doyoung blinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He stares, his expression a mix of exasperation and offence. “That’s my excuse.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up outside someone’s door like a loitering ghost.”

“You—I’m not loitering,” Joshua mutters. “I’m—”

“Thinking,” Doyoung offers, smirking as he leans against the opposite wall. “Deep thoughts. Spiritual reflection. Maybe trying to telepathically connect with her through the door.”

Joshua squints at him. “You’re very annoying at night.”

“I’m a delight at all hours,” Doyoung replies. “So? Are you going in or…?”

“I was about to knock,” he lies.

“Yeah?” Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because man, honestly, you look like you’ve been standing here with your hands in your pockets for at least a five whole minute. Very bold knocking technique.”

“I was… psyching myself up.”

“To knock…?”

Joshua sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really,” Doyoung says, and then, in a voice that’s more curious than teasing now: “You like her.”

Joshua hesitates before nodding once. “Yeah.”

Doyoung doesn’t say anything to that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncrosses his arms, and glances toward the door again.

“Well,” he says finally, “she’s probably awake.”

Joshua tilts his head. “You think?”

The words are still halfway to forming on Doyoung’s tongue when the door handle turns with a soft click. Both of them freeze as the door swings open just enough to reveal you on the other side, backlit by the warm yellow of your bedside lamp.

Your hair’s a little messy, face slightly puffy with sleep, or the lack of it. You blink at the two of them slowly, clearly thrown by the sight.

“What—” your gaze flickers between them, confused. “—the fuck are you guys doing?”

Joshua looks helpless. You’re still rubbing at your eyes when Doyoung shrugs, as if this entire thing isn’t weird at all.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, lifting his bottle like a toast. “Was going to check if you were up. Turns out I was late.”

You squint. “Late for what?”

Doyoung jerks his head toward Joshua. “He beat me here.”

Joshua shoots him a look. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Relax,” Doyoung cuts in. “I’m not your chaperone.”

You open your mouth to ask something—maybe to clarify whether this is weird for him, or whether you should explain anything at all—but Doyoung’s already backing away.

“I’m gonna head back,” he says. “You two can… talk, or whatever. Just don’t be annoying tomorrow.”

Then he turns and walks back toward the elevators without waiting for an answer.

You and Joshua are left blinking after him in disbelief. You glance at Joshua. He looks equally confused.

“Did he just—”

“Yep,” Joshua says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he did.”

You lean lightly against the doorframe, stunned for a second. “Wow. He really just trusted you. A man. Alone. With me. In a hotel room. In the middle of the night.”

“He is not reacting the way I expected him to, honestly.” He scoffs lightly as you push off the frame and step aside, wordlessly holding the door open. 

Joshua steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure this is allowed yet. His gaze flicks around the room, but he doesn’t move far—just stands near the entryway while you close the door behind him with a quiet click.

You pad back toward the bed, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your oversized shirt. The bedside lamp is on, casting a low golden glow across the room. Neither of you says anything right away.

You sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the pillow still indented where you’d been lying earlier. Joshua lingers for a second longer, then walks over and sinks down to the floor with a quiet exhale, settling with his back against the mattress, stretching his legs out in front of him, hands resting loosely in his lap.

“You really couldn’t sleep?” you ask after a beat, your voice soft with sleep.

He shakes his head. “No. You?”

“I was falling asleep.” You admit, making him look up at you and mouth a sorry.

You shake your head dismissively before leaning forward, arms draped over your knees. “What were you even going to say if I didn’t open the door?”

Joshua tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I would’ve just stood there like an idiot and gone back.”

You smile a little, glancing down at the crown of his head. “You were already standing there like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his grin is audible even if you can’t see it. “Thought I’d commit to the role.”

For a while, there’s only the hum of the AC and the city—still alive and bustling—outside the window, muffled by distance. Eventually, Joshua leans his head back gently, brushing against your knee without quite meaning to. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Vegas feels… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the closest thing I have to a home race, and everyone calls it that but it feels so foreign at the same time. Like I’m supposed to feel grounded here, but everything’s loud and shiny and… not really mine.”

You watch him as he speaks, the way his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek in the low light. His fingers toy with the seam of his sweatpants, picking at a loose thread absently.

You shift, pushing one leg off the bed and then the other, before easing yourself down onto the floor beside him. Your shoulder bumps his gently as you settle in, your back against the bed frame now too.

“I get that,” you murmur, knees pulled to your chest. “Sometimes places just don’t hold the memories people expect them to.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “Yeah.”

You’re both quiet again, until your head tips a little, coming to rest on his shoulder. Your voice is soft when you speak. “What were your last two races here like? With Williams.”

Joshua scoffs out a laugh. “Oh please, don’t make me remember.”

You smile against the fabric of his hoodie. “That bad?”

“Tragic,” he says, after a pause. “Just forgettable. Like I was here, but not really here. Finished P15 one year, retired the next. Spent more time in traffic getting out of the paddock than actually racing.”

“So nothing redeeming?”

Joshua tilts his head, just a little, enough for your hair to brush against his cheek. “This year has been the first time I’ve landed at a track and not felt like I wanted to skip to Monday.” 

He says it simply, like now that it’s over, it doesn’t hold much value anymore. But you’ve seen him, albeit from afar and wonder just how much his time at Williams taught him. 

You nod once. “Well. New team. New year.”

“New hotel hallway experiences,” he adds, and you laugh, warmth catching in your chest before you can stop it.

“God. That was so awkward.”

“Painfully.” Joshua agrees. “How do you think this weekend will be?”

“Honestly,” You begin, lifting your head up to look at him, “I’m not trying to put pressure on you two, but seeing how you guys do well in cold climate, I think it’ll be a nice one.”

Joshua huffs out a small laugh, turning his head to meet your eyes. “You sound like my performance engineer.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I’m just saying. I have data to back me up.”

“Oh yeah?” He nudges your knee lightly with his. “And what does the analysis say?”

“That one of you is due a win,” you reply, certain. “And don’t tell Doyoung I told you this, but secretly you’re the home hero, so I’ll root for you this weekend.”

Joshua’s expression changes—surprised first, then quietly pleased, like he’ll be running these words through his mind all weekend. “Secretly, huh?”

You nod, a smile pulling at your lips. “Very secretly.”

“Got it.” He leans in just slightly. “I’ll try not to let you down, then.”

—

Friday, Post Qualifying November 22nd

“First of all, congratulations to our top three qualifiers—we have Kim Doyoung on pole for Mercedes, Joshua Hong in P2, and Seungcheol Choi rounding out the top three for Ferrari.” The moderator announces as the cameras start rolling.

The lights in the press conference room are a little too harsh, the couch too white and a little hard tonight, for some reason. But Joshua’s too tired to care. His cap is pulled low, the Mercedes logo gleaming as the moderator leans into the mic. God knows how many people he’s had to speak to today—which is the worst part about Las Vegas. Talking to celebrities, sponsors and what not. He’s been congratulated and greeted by a bunch of people whose names he can’t remember when the only thing he wants to do is go home and fall asleep.

“Seungcheol,” the moderator begins, “you’re starting P3 tomorrow—Ferrari looked strong early on, but maybe lost a bit toward the end of Q3. Talk us through the lap.”

Seungcheol smiles, nodding. “Yeah, the session was tricky, but good. Cold track, not a lot of grip, so it was about timing and temperature more than outright pace at times. Still, P3 puts us in the fight. I’ll take it.”

The next name called is Joshua’s.

“Joshua—P2 for you. Solid lap, great pace from the team, but your teammate took pole at what many consider your home race. What’s the feeling right now?”

Joshua lifts the mic, fingers brushing against the fabric of his race suit. “It was a strong session for us, yeah,” he says. “I think the car’s been working really well here all weekend. Cold temperatures seem to suit us.”

He pauses for just a second—brief, almost imperceptible—and then continues, his gaze flicking across to Doyoung.

“Of course, Doyoung had a great lap in Q3. You always want pole, especially when the calendar says ‘home race’ next to your name. But honestly…” He exhales softly. “I’m proud of this one. Front row for the team. We’re in a good position tomorrow. And uh,” Joshua turns to Doyoung, “it’ll be close into turn one. So no worries, right now.”

His teammate only grins at him, shaking his head before turning back to the moderator. 

The press conference winds down a while later with the usual rush of camera shutters and low murmurs, a few closing remarks from the moderator before the drivers are finally released. Joshua stands, mic carefully set back on the couch, and follows Doyoung and Seungcheol out of the room.

He squints slightly under the hallway lights. His cap stays low on his forehead, shoulders rolling once to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in. Behind him, Doyoung is already making a joke about one of the questions, but Joshua barely registers it. His eyes find you first.

You’re standing just outside the media zone, back against the wall near a folding barrier, phone in hand. Minghao’s next to you, half-listening to something on his earpiece while scrolling absently. Neither of you is particularly animated, but Joshua sees the flicker of relief in your expression when you spot him.

“There they are,” Minghao says, glancing up. “The men of the hour.”

Doyoung only shakes his head, muttering something in a low voice to you before waving at Minghao and walking off toward one of the PR reps motioning for him.

You glance at him properly now, taking in the visible fatigue, the faint lines around his eyes.

“Long day?” you ask.

Joshua nods. “So long. I talked to one of the Kardashian sisters and I’m still not entirely sure which one she was.”

You laugh quietly, reaching out to adjust the brim of his cap before tugging it back into place. “You did good, though. Q2 lap was clean.”

His mouth twitches. “You saw that?”

“I always see.” You smile, then step back a little, hands slipping into the pockets of your jacket. “P2 isn’t bad.”

“Not when your brother’s P1,” he says, dryly.

“Please,” you roll your eyes. “He’s still going to complain about something. Might as well let him enjoy tonight.”

Joshua leans against the wall beside you, just enough to close the space. “You’ll still root for me tomorrow, though?”

You raise an eyebrow, voice low. “Oh, please. I’ll root for both of you, by the way. Didn’t I already say I would?”

“Yeah, but it sounds nicer hearing it here than through a closed hotel door.”

Your face reddens a little despite yourself. “You’re annoying.”

Minghao glances up then, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, Romeo, we’re heading out. You need to go to the media pen too, man.”

Joshua groans but straightens, pushing off the wall. “Got it.” 

He turns back to you, ignoring as Minghao tells him to hurry up. “I’ll see you later?” 

You nod, gesturing for him to leave before his manager comes and drags him out. 

By the time everything slows down again, you’re back inside the Mercedes hospitality unit, walking the quieter halls with a bottle of water in hand and the ache of the day beginning to settle in your shoulders. You don’t expect to find Doyoung still in his driver room, but the door’s half-open when you pass by. He’s there—freshly showered with a new shirt on, seated on the edge of the small couch with his elbows resting on his knees. When you enter, he glances up, slightly startled before you sit down next to him.

“Are you free for a second?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay, listen. I’m not trying to be difficult,” Doyoung says, voice quieter now, “but I’d feel kind of shitty if I didn’t at least ask.”

You glance over at him. “Ask what?”

He exhales. “You and Joshua. Is it… something?”

The way he says it isn’t accusatory, just tentative. Like he’s still sorting out how much he wants to know, or maybe how much he already does.

You consider lying for a moment—brushing it off, making it easier. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze and say, carefully, “Yeah. A bit more than something, probably.”

Doyoung nods, slowly. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s thinking hard. “How long?”

“Not long. But it’s not impulsive either,” you say. “We’ve been… figuring it out.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “And are you sure? That this isn’t just… adrenaline, or the fact that you’re around each other all the time?”

You hesitate. “I’ve asked myself that too. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels—” You pause, trying to find the right word. “—steady.”

Doyoung is quiet again. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t want this to mess up anything for him either, not now.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be happy,” he adds quickly. “I just—I know what this world is like. You and I have lived in it long enough. And I don’t want you to look back and wish you hadn’t let yourself care.”

You smile faintly. “I already care.”

Doyoung finally looks at you again, and the expression on his face softens just a bit. “Of course you do.”

There’s a beat of silence before he sighs again—less tense now—and bumps your arm lightly with his.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Just don’t tell me about the mushy stuff. And tell him if he ever uses this card against me, I’ll put him in the wall.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up easier than you expected. “Please don’t do that.”

Doyoung rubs his face, trying to look dramatic. “Whatever. He’s still insufferable when he’s smug, so if this makes him worse, it’s on you.”

You nudge his shoulder, making him hiss in mock-pain. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He shakes his head, but the tension in his posture has eased. “Just take care of each other. And, seriously, don’t make me regret being cool about this.”

“You won’t,” you say, with a quiet certainty that feels new. “I promise.”

—

Saturday, Post Race

November 23rd

The roar from the crowd is deafening.

Joshua’s not sure he’s ever heard anything like it before—this wall of noise, pulsing up from the streets of Vegas and ricocheting off every mirrored building like it was made to echo. The fireworks have already started, streaks of gold, silver and red bursting behind the podium

Doyoung claps him on the back. “You did it,” he shouts, grinning, eyes crinkling in the light. “Fucking Vegas, man! Won the home race after all, huh?”

Joshua only laughs—breathless and a little distracted by the way his eyes burn so bad. The trophy is solid in his hands, heavier than he expected. The champagne is already half-sprayed, sticky and cold across the front of his suit. 

He shifts his grip on the trophy absently, letting the weight settle into his palm. Confetti clings to the fabric of his race suit, stuck to his sleeves and shoulders, glittering in the podium lights. Behind him, fireworks keep going—sharp pops of sound that would’ve made him flinch if he wasn’t already fired up.

Joshua looks out toward the crowd again, taking in the blur of flags and flashlights, the sea of arms raised in celebration. It’s not quiet, not even close, but something in him is, finally. There’s a calmness in his chest that wasn’t there at the start of this weekend, the start of this season. With only two more races to go, he feels some sort of satisfaction—he’s leagues above where he’s been in the last few years, and it feels like ending the year on the right note. 

He holds the trophy up briefly when the camera swings toward him, letting the flash catch his profile. Then it’s all over just as quickly as it began—someone waves them down the stairs, staff wait with towels and headsets and a hundred things to do before the night ends.

Down in paddock, he’s handed off like a relay baton between mechanics and PR. A few high fives, someone shouting his name, one of the engineers tossing him his electrolytic drink bottle with a grin. He moves through it automatically.

Joshua turns the familiar corner near the team hospitality units, letting muscle memory guide him through the back halls of the hospitality. His driver room isn’t far now. Just a few more doors.

When he rounds the corner and looks up, you’re already there.

You’ve just stepped out from the room across the hall—Doyoung’s. The door clicks softly shut behind you as you turn and catch sight of him. Your lanyard swings around on your neck, sleeves pushed up, and hair a little tousled.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin, “they let you go already?”

“God, no.” Joshua exhales as he meets you halfway down the corridor. “I need to go and give a few more interviews, I think.”

“You smell like champagne,” you note, scrunching your nose playfully as you stop in front of him.

Joshua laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. It’s… everywhere.”

You glance down at the front of his suit, still damp and sticky in patches. He looks up again, and you’re already close enough that it doesn’t feel like a decision when you lift your arms to wrap around him. His arms settle around you just as easily, his cheek resting against the side of your head.

“You were great today,” you say into his shoulder, voice quiet now, meant only for him. “You really were.”

Joshua breathes in—slowly, like he wants to memorize the way this feels, how steady it is. “No bad for a supposed home race, no?”

“Not bad at all.” you agree, running a palm down the length of his back. “You should probably go shower while you can, Josh.”

He pulls away, almost reluctantly, to look at you. “I mean, I thought I would after I got back from those interviews. Doubt I’ve got much time now.”

“Joshua,” You laugh, throwing your head back. It makes him smile too, albeit a little confused as he waits for you to continue. “It’s Vegas, and you just won. You really think they’re letting you go back to the hotel room after this?”

His eyes widen slightly, like the thought is only just dawning on him. “Wait—are we going out?”

“The team seems to be in high spirits. They just made plans in the group chat. I think most teams are going to be out, honestly.”

Joshua groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God. I don’t even know if I have energy for this.”

“Me neither.” You agree with a nod, “But you should go shower.”

“And you won’t be able to wait, I’m assuming?” He asks with a soft sigh, fingers still wrapped around your wrists.

You purse your lips, thinking for a few seconds before shaking your head. “But I’ll be coming too, and I’ll find you there. Don’t worry.”

Joshua watches you for a moment longer, eyes skimming over your face. Then he exhales with a smile, and finally lets go of your wrists.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll find you too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you’re stepping back, already moving down the hall, the soft thud of your shoes fading into the post-race noises still running through the paddock. Joshua stands there for a second, watching you go, the corner of his mouth still lifted like he can’t quite help it.

Then he turns and disappears into his driver room, the door swinging shut behind him.

—

The music is relentless. 

Heavy bass shakes the floor, and the lights overhead spin too quickly, cycling between violet and champagne-gold like they can’t decide if the room should feel electric or expensive.

You’re pressed into a curved booth with a half-spilled drink in your hand and one of the girls from the pit crew complaining about her situationship in your ear. There are too many voices around you—half-shouting over the music, half-laughing through champagne, high on adrenaline and the sweetness of a 1-2 finish. You’re sure you’ve seen mechanics and team members of other teams as well. 

You spot him through the crowd before he sees you.

Joshua’s standing near the bar, flanked by his engineer and Minghao, nodding along to something someone’s saying. His shoulders are relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass he doesn’t seem all that interested in, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He looks good. Not just in the blurry, flattering way everyone does in club lighting—but good.

You think about texting him, but you don’t have to—he catches your eye almost instantly, like he’d had a feeling you were watching. And when he does, he grins before turning around to excuse himself, presumably.

He finds his way over without rushing, weaving through the crowd easily. One of the lighting rigs overhead flickers silver against his hair just as he approaches, and your breath hitches before you can stop it. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the Vegas haze. Or maybe it’s just him.

“Hi,” he says, tipping his head a little as he comes to a stop at your side.

You glance up at him, tilting your glass. “You took your time.”

“I was being polite,” he says with a grin. “Didn’t want to make it obvious I was trying to ditch Minghao.”

You snort. He’s already slipping into the booth before you can reply, sliding in next to you without hesitation. The seat is just barely big enough for three, but neither of you acknowledges that. His knee presses lightly against yours, and when he leans in to be heard, it’s close—cheek brushing the edge of your hair, the smell of him all citrus and aftershave and something sweeter underneath.

“Are you surviving this?” he murmurs.

“Barely,” you reply, lifting your glass and then setting it down again without drinking. “I’ve heard the words ‘tire deg’ and ‘pit lane penalty’ in at least three different conversations. They’re all talking about Ferrari, honestly. It’s getting boring.”

Joshua laughs, his breath warm against your ear, enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Poor Seungcheol,” he says, almost to himself. “He’s not even here to defend himself.”

You hum. “I don’t think he’d bother.”

His smile lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now. He doesn't move away, and you don’t either. The music swells, the lights strobe too bright for a beat, and someone down the booth knocks over a glass, sending a fizz of something sticky onto the table. Nobody flinches.

Joshua leans in again. “I was looking for you earlier.” 

Your breath catches, just slightly. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Minghao dragged me into a VIP lounge for five minutes and I kept checking the floor, hoping you’d show up.”

You tilt your head, eyes tracing the edge of his jaw. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I thought about it,” he admits, then pauses. “But I kind of like finding you on my own.”

The crowd’s pressed in tighter now, heat and laughter folding in from every angle. The booth’s too loud, too full—people shouting across each other, a camera flash going off near the bar.

You glance at him properly. “Hey,” you say, not quite smiling, “you wanna move somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah,” Joshua says, soft and certain. “Let’s go.”

You slide out, easing past someone who barely notices you leaving. Joshua’s close behind, a hand ghosting at your lower back without ever fully touching. He catches up when you pause near the glass railing, city lights swimming below. For a second you both just stand there, watching the strip blaze beneath you. Vegas doesn’t go quiet—not even from this high up—but something about the moment still feels removed from the noise.

“Too much?” he asks gently, leaning in.

You glance sideways at him. “Little bit.”

Joshua smiles. “Wanna go back downstairs?”

You nod.

The club sits on the roof of the hotel Mercedes has taken over for the weekend, so it’s only a short walk to the private elevator at the far end. A couple of people are headed that way too, but they’re distracted, tipsy, and mid-conversation. Nobody pays attention to you and Joshua slipping in behind them.

The elevator doors close with a hush. Someone presses a button for the 22nd floor, and Joshua reaches past to tap for 20. His floor. When the elevator dings, you step out first. The hallway is quieter than you expected, carpeted and cool, with no signs of the music upstairs bleeding through the walls. 

You step into the hallway first, heels muffled against the carpet, the air-conditioning crisp after the heat of the club. Joshua’s room is a few doors down. You don’t speak as you walk—just the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours, the low buzz of something shared but unspoken.

When he pushes the door open, you step in without hesitation. It’s dim inside—just the warm light from the hallway pooling in briefly before the door swings shut behind him with a quiet click.

He toes off his shoes by the wall, but you’re already drifting forward with a gasp. “Wait, your balcony overlooks the track?”

“Didn’t mention that?” he says, voice light as he walks over. “Guess I forgot.”

You cross the room toward the glass doors, pushing one open as a gust of cool air rushes in. The balcony is big—a small terrace with a couple of chairs, a low table, and a clear view of the street circuit below. The track is empty now, the floodlights are switched off, but the lights and signs from the buildings nearby illuminate it anyway. The lights of the Strip stretch out far beyond the last turn.

You step out, hands resting on the metal railing as you take it in. The silence is almost intimate compared to the chaos upstairs. Behind you, you hear Joshua move—his footsteps quiet against the carpet, then against the tile of the balcony. He stops next to you.

“It looks different when you’re driving,” he says after a moment, resting his forearms against the railing beside you. “All the lights just blur into one single line. It feels much smaller.”

You glance at him. “Smaller? That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I’m serious. The straights feel like nothing until someone’s coming up behind you with DRS.”

You grin. “Romantic.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “I’m just saying. It’s weird seeing it like this. Quiet. Like it’s just… a road.”

 “A very expensive, over-designed, LED-ridden road.”

“Exactly.”

The wind picks up faintly, tugging your hair. You tuck it behind your ear and glance sideways at him again. He’s already looking at you.

“You look pretty,” Joshua says, and this time, there’s a bit of a smile playing on his lips—lazy, knowing, like he enjoys the way it makes you blink in surprise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s a fact, like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly mean.

You lean your elbows on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the track. “Careful,” you say. “I might start thinking you’re into me.”

Joshua tilts his head, eyes still on you. “You say that like I haven’t made it obvious.”

You glance sideways. “You think you’ve been obvious?”

“I did follow you halfway across a club tonight,” he points out. “And left my own party.”

You shrug, teasing. “Maybe you were just bored.”

“Sure,” he says, inching closer. “That’s why I’m here. Because I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than standing on a balcony with you.”

You smile, a little crooked, and glance away. “You’re laying it on kind of thick, Joshua.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, well. I’m trying something new.”

“Flirting?”

“One could also call it being clear.”

That earns a look from you—brows raised, mouth parted slightly in surprise. But you don’t pull away. Joshua doesn’t break eye contact. His hand lifts casually to the railing behind you again, this time brushing yours on the way, the space between your bodies narrowing by the second. And when he tilts forward, halfway down to your face, gaze flicking to your lips—he hesitates.

“Is it working?” he asks quietly.

You consider the question, your gaze drifting from his eyes to the curve of his mouth, then back again. There’s a flicker of something warm in your chest, unspoken but insistent.

“Maybe,” you say, voice soft. “A little.”

“Well then,” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, “you think you’d let me kiss you?”

You nod, almost without thinking, chin tilting up a fraction. Joshua begins to lean in again, slower this time, one palm coming up to the back of your head when—

“Wait,” you murmur suddenly, hand rising instinctively to press flat against his chest.

He stills immediately. “What?” he asks, brows drawing together, not pulling away but not closing the gap either.

You hesitate, eyes flicking up to his. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

He blinks once, then lets a short laugh, more surprised than amused. “One. Barely finished it. Why?”

You’re quiet for a second, just long enough that his expression shifts to something a little worried. But you meet his gaze steadily.

“Because I think… Hungary was kind of an accident,” you say slowly, choosing each word. “I think maybe I let it happen because we were drunk. And I don’t really do that.”

Joshua’s lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you cut in, softer now, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“And I’d prefer if only my boyfriend would kiss me.”

There’s a pause as he registers your words, his face morphing with slight confusion before he finally realises.

Joshua tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving up into a grin that’s far too pleased for someone trying to play it cool. “And who could that be?”

You raise a brow, shrugging one shoulder, your voice just the slightest bit sly. “Well… you, if you asked.”

Joshua’s grin falters for half a second—just enough for sincerity to sneak in beneath it. His other hand slips into yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost sheepish.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head a little. “Then… Can I be your boyfriend?”

You stare at him for a second, something fluttering stupidly in your chest before laughing lightly, your free hand reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, you can be.”

His grin returns, softer now, touched with something quiet and sure, and he closes the distance.

Joshua’s mouth meets yours like a promise—firm, warm, and unhurried. You lean in instinctively, catching his lower lip between yours, your hand tightening around the front of his shirt. He kisses you again, this time deeper, and you can’t help the quiet sound that slips from your throat. It makes him smile into the kiss, makes him shift closer, lips parting more fully against yours.

Your fingers slip back up to his collar, anchoring yourself there as his hand drifts to your waist. The world narrows to just the press of his mouth, the slide of his lips against yours, the way he tastes faintly like citrus and something sweeter underneath.

Eventually, you break apart, slow and reluctant, breath mingling in the quiet space between. He doesn’t go far—just lets his forehead rest against yours, thumb brushing a soft line along your jaw.

“Okay,” he murmurs, a little dazed. “That was… worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, but it’s soft, real. “Yeah,” you say, eyes still half-lidded. “I think so too.”

Neither of you moves for a moment. Joshua’s eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he can finally afford to slow down.

“You know,” he says after a few seconds, “I’ve spent this whole season chasing something.”

You glance up. “And?”

Joshua smiles. Not the kind he puts on for cameras, but the gentler one you’ve started to recognize as just his.

“I think I might’ve found it.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and hold it. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

taglist : @blckorchidd @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @reiofsuns2001 @exomew @smiileflower @syluslittlecrows @teddybeartaetae @sojuxxi @cl41rsblog @stwrlightt @livelaughloveseventeen @duhduhdana @haesluvr @eisaspresso @https-seishu @illiadiaz @k4trinabluu @choco-scoups @imhereonlytoreadxoxo

[callisrecords]

CHASING THE FRONT PT.3

pairing: mercedes driver!joshua x fem!reader

genre: fluff, angst, f1au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. New team, new teammate, new standards to live up to. For Joshua, stepping into Mercedes is a test of everything he’s worked for. Competing against a world champion teammate, adapting to a new team dynamic, and finding his place in the spotlight, he’s under pressure like never before. But things start to get a little out of control when he keeps bumping into you, his teammate's sister...and manager.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, mentions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, slowburn (i cannot stress on this enough), quite f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 [21k] Part 2 [15k] Part 3 [21k]

glossary taglist

a/n: one more completed and another step closer to finishing the series eeee!! thank you again to all the comments and everyone that has stuck around for this :D hope y'all like this and please do leave a comment/rb/ask with your thoughts!

SUMMER BREAK

Joshua leaves the house just before eight. One bag slung over his shoulder and a suitcase at his feet. The sky outside is flat and grey, the kind that makes everything feel earlier—or even later than it actually is. His mother waves from the taxi.

This is his second flight in two days. The first one was straight from Hungary, surrounded by team personnel and crew, all still riding the high of a double podium. This one is quieter. No entourage, no itinerary that needs pre-clearing. Just his mother beside him in the backseat of the cab, chatting absently about her ‘sisters’ trip to Madeira, about how the hydrangeas were in full bloom and how the locals were kind and patient even when she couldn’t speak the language properly. It’s the kind of story he would’ve liked to hear in full if his mind wasn’t still somewhere else.

He watches as one familiar landmark bleeds into the next. He’d been looking forward to this part—the break and the stillness. A reset after a first half that had come in hot and fast and relentless. But now he just feels the inertia. His body is in perpetual motion even though the car has stopped.

His mother keeps the conversation going gently, asking about what time the sim schedule restarts next week and whether he’ll be back in Brackley before the others. He says yes to both, though he hasn’t really looked. He’s been meaning to. 

It’s not that Joshua can’t relax—in fact, he’s hoping that this trip to Greece will do just that. It’s just harder than he expected to be still. There’s a tension in him that hasn’t quite ebbed out yet. It lingers in his shoulders, in the way his knee bounces under the terminal bench later, in how long he stares at his phone without unlocking it.

There’s nothing on it, anyway. No new messages. No follow-ups. You haven’t texted—not since before the race—and he hasn’t either. He doesn’t know what he would even say.

Not that it’s weird. You don’t talk that much outside of work, and it was just a long weekend. 

Still, every now and then, the memory drifts in and out of his head, even though he tries hard not to think about it. The clink of a glass, your arm brushing his as you reached past him at the bar. A glance held too long or not at all. 

He told himself that it was nothing when he woke up the next morning, so he does it again.

The boarding gate opens. He stands, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before following his mother toward the queue. No tracks, no engineers, no schedule to chase. A flight that doesn’t lead to anything. And maybe, a little more time to figure out how he’s supposed to feel when he sees you again.

You wake up later than usual, and it takes you a few minutes to remember that you don’t have somewhere to be right now.

Outside, it’s gloomy again—not cold, like you’d have preferred, but just heavy and humid, like the clouds are threatening to fall down on you. You shower, throw on something soft and oversized, and stare at the kettle, boiling water for tea that you never end up finishing while it's still hot. The apartment is silent. No emails, no alarms, no one asking where you are or when you’ll be back in the office. It’s not unpleasant, but because it’s something that occurs only once or twice in a year, the feeling is a bit unfamiliar every time.

The only sign of Doyoung is a text he sent twenty minutes ago, asking if you’re alive and that he’s going to be dropping by later this afternoon. He doesn’t live too far from you, and he gets bored fast when he doesn’t have a car to obsess over or data to look at.

You scroll through your phone on the sofa, not looking for anything in particular. A few messages from friends asking if you want to meet up tomorrow, now that you’re finally on your break. In the informal team group chat, there are a bunch of photos from the Hungary afterparty. Everyone is flushed and smiling in most of them. You stare at them longer than you mean to, before you remember that you’d decided to ignore everything that happened that night. You swipe out of the app.

The thought of seeing people sounds nice. Normal. You should say yes. Maybe go for drinks or just a lazy lunch in someone’s garden, music low and sleeves rolled up. You’ve been meaning to reply for days and keep forgetting, or maybe just avoiding. 

When Doyoung arrives, not later that day like he said—knocking twice before letting himself in with the key he borrowed weeks ago and never returned—you’re still lazing on the couch with a book that you’ve lost interest in. 

He doesn’t bother to greet you and instead just takes his shoes off by the door and drops his keys in the little ceramic tray you keep by the shoe cupboard, like it’s his own place.

“Hey,” he calls, wandering into the kitchen. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet,” you say. “Was going to make something later.”

He hums, opening the fridge and peering inside. “You have that oat milk I like.”

“You left it here.”

“Yeah, well, thanks for being decent enough not to throw it out.”

You glance over as he pours himself a glass and drinks it straight, still standing. A wave of annoyance pulses through you—not serious, but the one that comes from watching someone help themselves like they live here.

“You know, you could sit down like a normal person.”

“I am normal,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re just uptight for some reason.”

“You’re drinking oat milk like it’s wine.”

He waves you off, closing the fridge door before making his way to the living room and dropping onto the armchair across from you, limbs spread out like he’s trying to make himself as irritating as possible.“ Listen, I’m bored as fuck.”

“It’s been three days, Doyoung.” You sigh, turning back to your book. “Go bother someone else.”

“Come on, can we do something? What are we doing today?”

You glance up. “We?”

“Yeah. I’m bored and you’re free.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What if I had plans?”

He scoffs. “You don’t.”

You don’t. But still.

“I was thinking of going for a walk,” you say. “Maybe grabbing coffee.”

“Great. Let’s do that. And then lunch.”

You close your laptop with a quiet sigh, not really protesting. The truth is, you don’t mind. It’s easier, sometimes, when he makes the decisions for both of you. You get to work on autopilot, which is rare and something you’ve learned to enjoy.

Doyoung stretches in his seat, mumbling. “Honestly, we should go somewhere.”

You give him a look. “We are…?”

“No, I mean, out of the country, maybe. On vacation. But soon.” He leans, pulling out his phone. “Somewhere chill. Like... the Alps. Or the Lake District. Or—what’s that place you always talk about? The one with the ridiculous elevation and no phone signal.”

You blink. “You hate the cold.”

“I hate being bored more.”

A laugh slips out of you, sure that he’s just saying anything right now. Doyoung is not one for impromptu trips, and especially not to cooler places. 

“You’re not serious,” you say.

“I could be,” he shrugs. “Everyone else is leaving. Even Joshua flew out yesterday.”

You don’t look up, but your fingers tense around the pages without meaning to. “Oh?”

“Yeah. His mum’s with him, I think. If I remember correctly, he’s going to Greece. Poor guy looked like he needed it.” Doyoung scrolls through something on his phone. “Anyway. Just think about it.”

You nod once, maybe twice, but you’re not really following anymore. You hadn’t really let yourself picture Joshua willingly. You’d assumed, vaguely, that he’d be around. At home, in Brackley or London. Somewhere still reachable.

You shake yourself out of it. Why does it even matter?

Doyoung stands and stretches again, already halfway to the door. “Come on. We’re having lunch. And I’m still serious about the trip. You’d probably like it more than I will.”

It’s too hot to be outside in the afternoons, so Joshua stays in, the windows open just enough to let the air move but not so wide that the cicadas become unbearable. His mother’s gone into town for the day—something about linen markets and local ceramics. He said he’d join and didn’t. She’s learnt not to push by now.

The villa is quiet and peaceful in a way—white walls, stone floors, ceiling fans running slowly. There’s a magazine open on his lap. He’s read the same paragraph twice and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said.

He doesn’t mind being alone. He never really has. But this solitude isn’t what he’s used to. There’s no buzz of an engine a few garages over. No casual knock on the hospitality room door. No hum of Minghao on the phone trying to schedule interviews. No Doyoung pulling him aside to watch something on his laptop, arms crossed like he already knows he’s right. No one comes around the corner with a coffee he didn’t ask for, but always drinks anyway.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d come to rely on that background noise.

Joshua leans back in his chair, feet propped on the edge of the low table, the stone cool against his heels.  

He thinks of Doyoung first—because Doyoung is surprisingly impossible to forget even when he’s not around. Then Minghao, probably halfway through a documentary, and planning an itinerary for a trip he hasn’t booked yet.

And then, without meaning to, he thinks of you.

Maybe it’s the stillness that allows the images to push into his mind—things he didn’t even realise he was noticing. Like how you always check the time twice—once on your phone, then again on your watch, like you don’t trust either fully. How you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re trying not to speak too soon. How you write in a mix of capital and lowercase letters and only realise halfway through with a sigh. 

Images from that night make their way in too. 

Not in sequence, just scattered pieces, stitched together by how they felt rather than what exactly happened. The heat of the room, how the air had tasted vaguely like sugar and sweat and someone else’s perfume. The thud of music vibrating through the walls. The shape of you in the lights—your head tipped back mid-laugh, eyes glinting in a way he’d never seen before.

Joshua exhales, forcing you out of his mind before moving slightly in his chair. The magazine slides off his lap and onto the floor. He reaches down to pick it up and distantly thinks that his mum should be back by now—they should head out for lunch soon.

The sun has shifted higher. Somewhere down the road, a car door slams.

Joshua stays in his seat a little longer, the magazine closed in his hand, and doesn’t open it again.

You didn’t realise how much you’d missed this until you were already sitting down.

The place isn’t crowded, just tucked away enough that you’d never notice it unless someone told you about it. There’s shade from the small tree that grows through the middle of the entire building, light chatter from nearby tables, and the quiet clink of cutlery. Someone’s already halfway through a plate of pasta when you arrive, and the others make space like no time has passed at all.

“You’re late,” Isha says, nudging your arm as you slide into your seat.

“I’m not late. You’re just early.”

“What’s new?” She sighs, half-hugging you before turning back to the table. 

The others catch you up on what you’ve missed, which isn’t much. Someone’s flat flooded last month. Someone else almost got fired. Isha went on a date yesterday, which was so bad she considered faking an emergency at her workplace to leave. It’s nothing new, and does much to bring you a feeling of familiarity and comfort.

You haven’t seen them properly in weeks, and you don’t mean for it to happen. You really don’t. But it never feels like that long, until it is. You sip your water, lean back in your seat, and let their voices wrap around you.

“So,” Isha says, halfway through her drink—some mocktail that looks way too floral, “are you going to finally tell us what you’re doing for the break?”

“Doyoung wants to go to Switzerland.” You sigh, “We leave tomorrow.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice,” Ava says, tilting her head. “Chalets, cheese, snow.”

“In August.”

“Okay, but like… aesthetically.”

You shake your head, but the smile slips out anyway. “He’s been obsessed with the idea of going somewhere high up lately. Keeps talking about air quality and elevation like we’re training for something. He’s planned the entire trip, to be honest, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s put hiking in the itinerary.”

Someone makes a joke about Doyoung in hiking gear, and you laugh. It’s easy. 

Later, as the bill is paid and chairs scrape softly back from the table, you feel a lightness that you hadn’t realised you’d been missing. After quick hugs and promises to catch up again soon, you step out into the street alone, your bag slung over one shoulder.

The afternoon sun hangs lower than usual, merciful on a good day. You make the short walk to your car. 

You’ll go home, finish packing up the last things, and tomorrow you’ll fly out. 

It’ll be a good change, you convince yourself as you start the car up.

The beach is mostly empty by now. A few lights from nearby villas blink gently in the distance, and the tide comes in slowly, smoothing out the sand. The air is cooler than it’s been all day, enough to wear long sleeves. Joshua’s rolled his up anyway, the cuffs loose around his elbows as he walks, shoes in one hand, the other tucked into his pocket.

His mother walks beside him, spooning the last of her gelato from a cup she refused to skip even after a full dinner. She offers once, and Joshua hesitates, thinking about it for a second before declining. She reaches the spoon up and into his mouth, and he eats it anyway.

She grins like she’s won something, then goes back to finishing what’s left.

“I forgot how nice it is here at night,” his mother says eventually, mostly to herself. “No traffic, no screens, no one chasing after you for autographs.”

Joshua hums, the sound low in his throat. “Don’t jinx it.”

“I’m just saying,” she says, nudging him lightly with her elbow. “You’re a much better version of yourself when you’ve slept more than five hours and haven’t had caffeine pumped directly into your veins.”

“Not sure I like the implication that I’m insufferable otherwise.”

“Oh, it’s not an implication. It’s an observation.”

He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond. “You’re so mean to me when I’m off duty.”

“I’m never mean,” she says, innocently. “Just honest.”

They walk a little further, the sand firm and cool beneath their feet. The stars are out properly now, not dulled by city lights or the paddock floodlights, and Joshua tips his head up to look at them for a moment.

“It’s been good to be here,” he says eventually.

His mother glances over with a sigh. “There’s always a but, no?”

He shrugs, kicking a little at the sand. “Nothing big. Just… trying to make sense of a few things.”

She lets the words hang between them and doesn't ask right away. She just listens, like she always does.

“You’ve been a little out of it lately,” she says finally. “Not just tonight. Since I picked you up at the airport.”

Joshua exhales like he’s trying to line up thoughts that keep running around in his head. “I don’t think it’s that serious,” he says. “Not really. Just something that’s… lingering.”

His mother tosses her empty gelato cup into a nearby bin as they pass. “That’s the thing about thoughts like that. They don’t knock, they just move in.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. I didn’t invite it.”

“Is it about how the season’s been going?” She asks slowly.

Joshua considers that for a moment, eyes on the dark horizon. The sea’s barely visible now, just a slow, steady sound against the shore.

“That’s part of it?” he says, sounding a little unsure. “But not all.”

“I keep thinking about something,” he adds. “That happened in Hungary.”

His mother doesn’t say anything.

“It didn’t seem like a big deal at the time,” he goes on. “I was…drunk. Just a moment. It passed. I didn’t overthink it then, and it didn’t feel strange right after. But now, I don’t know. It’s like it stuck to me.”

“And you don’t think it mattered?”

Joshua doesn’t know how to answer that. Maybe that is his question in the first place. Did it matter?  It sits with him now, quietly, like it's been waiting for the chance. He’s not sure what unsettles him more—the fact that he still thinks about it, or the fact that he doesn’t know how he feels. That there’s no instinct guiding him toward certainty. He tries to tell himself that it was something in the heat-of-the-moment, chalked up to adrenaline and celebration, but stops himself. The more he tries to ignore it—you, his feelings, whatever— the more it seems to reside at the back of his mind. 

Joshua comes to the realization, slowly but almost obviously, that he’s afraid, maybe. A little bit about what it means, but mostly about what the admission might do to everything else that he’s built this year.

Because what if he does like you?

Not in a passing, fleeting way, but in the way that asks something of him. In a way that won’t be easy to shelve into depths he won’t reach into again.

That makes things complicated in the one place he can’t afford complications.

It wouldn’t just affect you or him, but also Doyoung.

And that thought alone feels heavier than anything else.

Because Doyoung’s trusted him and taken him seriously. He's stood beside him in meetings and on podiums and in post-race silence. They've fought for the same points and adapted to each other’s presence—slowly, awkwardly, but honestly. The fact that you’re Doyoung’s sister, his manager, his closest person off-track—that is where the ground shifts.

Joshua knows what the lines are supposed to be. He’s tried to walk them carefully all year—or at least that’s what he thought. He knows how delicate the balance is and what it’s taken to earn it.

Joshua knows how quickly things shift when emotions get involved, how teams fracture, how focus slips—not even out of carelessness, but because people are people, and feelings don’t stay neatly tucked away. 

He’s not sure there’s a version of this where things go back to how they were.

And yet here he is, with salt dried at the edges of his sleeves and the words still echoing in his head: you don’t think it mattered?

“I think,” his mother begins, snapping him out of his thoughts, “that if you’re thinking this hard about it, then maybe it did.”

He glances at her. She gives a small smile, her lips stretching knowingly as she pats him on the shoulder. 

With an affectionate sigh, she looks in the direction of their villa. “Why don’t we head in now? I’m a bit tired today.”

Joshua nods, throwing an arm around her shoulder before steering them both in the right direction. 

Best case scenario, you won’t remember anything and it’ll all go back to how it was before.

You slip slightly on a loose patch of gravel and mutter a curse under your breath, reaching out blindly for something to hold onto. Doyoung’s hand appears instinctively at your elbow.

“Careful,” he says, more amused than concerned. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You push a damp strand of hair off your forehead, frowning at the incline ahead. “It’s just so fucking steep.”

“That’s the point,” he grins.

You shoot him a flat look but say nothing, breath catching in your throat as you keep moving. The air is thinner up here—cooler too, but still not enough to keep sweat from sliding down the back of your neck. It’s quiet, except for the sound of your footsteps on gravel and the dull thud of your heart in your ears.

It’s been like this for most of the climb—sparse conversation and long stretches of silence that lets you be alone with your thoughts even if you don’t want to be.

You huff out a breath, trying to push your hair out your face without having to reach up with your hands—slightly irritated with yourself. You don’t want to think about anything to do with your brother’s stupid sport. Not here, not now, climbing this stupid hill with your brother—who can’t sit still in one place, curse his addiction to adrenaline, or whatever.

You glare at his back, dig your boots harder into the ground, and keep walking.

This situation that you’re in should be normal—honestly, it is normal. You’re not close, not really, and it was just one night. The kind that disappears into itself. A mistake. He’d been drinking. You had too.

You breathe in deeply, catching your breath as you reach a flatter stretch of the path. You don’t finish the thought.

Because the truth is, you don’t know if he remembers and maybe you don’t want to find out.

You shield your eyes from the sun with one hand, pausing to take in the view. The lake glints faintly below, a far-off silvery-blue ribbon that cuts between trees and rooftops. The wind stirs your shirt, cool against your spine.

“Hey,” Doyoung calls ahead, already rounding a bend. “Almost there.”

You nod absently and follow, boots crunching against dry earth.

It’ll be fine, you tell yourself. He probably doesn’t remember.

And even if he does—it’s not like he’s going to bring it up. So you won’t either.

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth and keep walking.

Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 HQ

The Brackley office always smells the same—citrus floor cleaner, clean-cut paper and roasted coffee. 

Joshua steps through the doors just after eight. He’s early, but definitely not the first. The receptionist behind the desk offers a half-wave, cheerfully greeting him with a question about how his break was. In the elevator ride up, one of the engineers steps in with a smile. 

“Good to be back, huh? It gets boring after a few days, doesn’t it?” 

Joshua agrees with a polite nod and bids him goodbye before leaving. 

It’s not loud yet, though. The office rests in some sort of liminal silence—before the teams fill out the building again, coming off flights, breaks, holidays. 

He walks the familiar route down the corridor, past framed photos and race posters that haven’t changed since he joined. The door to the driver’s suite creaks slightly when he opens it—he’s meant to get it oiled but always forgets once he leaves.

The room looks the same too, other than the fact that it’s been cleaned out. The whiteboard is no longer cluttered with strategy, data, or points from a random game of cards between him and Minghao. His closet door is locked—he’ll have to get the keys to that soon—and the sofa’s cushion covers seem to have been replaced with newer ones.

His phone buzzes once with a message from Minghao:

Back on UK time, will be there in an hour. My flight was delayed, sorry man. I’ve sent you your schedule so hang in there.

He smiles faintly, then goes to his email to check the schedule. It’s not until the end of the week that things begin to pick up properly. Today is just: internal briefings for the next few races, maybe a few upgrades. A sim block in the afternoon and a few factory visits littered over the weekend. 

He should be relaxed. This is the easy part. But his foot taps quietly against the carpet, and he can’t stop glancing toward the hallway outside.

You’ve been back less than three hours and already there’s a spreadsheet open on one half of your screen, a Teams chat on the other, and three people trying to flag you down for something that doesn’t need to be done today.

Classic first day back energy.

You’d meant to arrive on time, maybe even early, but your suitcase still isn’t fully unpacked and your hair wouldn’t sit right and then the coffee machine in the hallway decided it was going to make loud mechanical death sounds instead of actual coffee.

So you were late. Not enough for anyone to comment, but late enough for someone to notice and still move on.

The light comes in softly through the cafeteria windows, and there’s a vague in-between hum in the air: post-break stillness before the Zandvoort buildup.

You’ve barely looked up from your screen except to mumble responses to people in passing. It’s not on purpose, and you know you should’ve picked out a better place to sit than the cafeteria, but the office is still slightly empty, and you’d rather spend time in a place with more people right now.

You’re halfway through rereading a line in an email you’re pretty sure you’ve already responded to when someone slides into the seat opposite you.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, setting his paper cup down, filled to the brim with coffee that looks like it has way too much milk in it. 

You glance at your watch, and realise you have about five minutes of buffer before you need to go up into one of the meetings with your brother. He looks slightly on edge about it too, fingers fiddling with his nails, foot tapping impatiently on the tiles.

With a sigh, you close your laptop and slip it into your bag before eyeing him. “Can you finish your cup quickly so that you don’t go around spilling it everywhere? We need to go.”

He nods, rolling his eyes before trying to gulp down the contents of his cup like it isn’t hot enough to scorch his tongue. 

When he’s done, you both get up at the same time. He squashes the paper and dumps it into one of the trash cans that you pass. 

“You think this’ll be smooth?” he asks under his breath. “Most of the media stuff should already be sorted, no? Just some final clearances.”

You shrug. “They changed a couple brand obligations post-break and for next year, I think. New sponsor visibility clauses or something. I think they want us both aligned before the next few races kick in.”

There's nothing particularly difficult about meetings like this, just lots of slides and media language that makes your brain feel like it’s buffering. Still, the team likes everyone being present when possible—especially you, when it comes to anything that might affect Doyoung’s time, tone, or attention.

You scan your badge at the door and step in just behind him.

The room isn’t full yet, but the people who matter are already inside. A few people from the PR team, the head of partnerships, sponsor representatives. Minghao sits near the far end of the table, scrolling through something on his tablet. He looks up and gives you a small wave, mouth pressed into a tired smile. You return it instinctively, stepping aside so Doyoung can take one of the open chairs.

And then you see Joshua.

He’s already seated, posture straight but not stiff, fingers locked loosely in front of him on the table. There’s a light tan on his face and arms, the kind that comes from walking around in real sun, not just between paddocks and pit lanes. 

He looks up as the two of you enter.

You meet his gaze for half a second, just enough to register it before instinct takes over and you look away. You don’t catch the way his expression shifts, the way the corners of his mouth lift up like he’s about to offer a smile—a little awkward, a little unsure.

Doyoung claps a hand on Joshua’s shoulder in greeting, saying something under his breath that makes Joshua huff a quiet laugh as your brother settles into the seat next to him. You pretend to focus on finding a seat, nodding once at the head of PR and then making your way toward the end of the table, where Minghao is sitting.

Minghao nudges a chair out with his foot as you approach. “Hey. How was the break?” He asks when you plop down next to him.

You shrug, setting your laptop bag down by the leg of the chair. “Good. Quiet. What about you?”

Minghao hums, passing you a printed deck. “Lucky you. I went home to China. Had to babysit my cousin’s kid for one afternoon and somehow still needed three days to recover. I just got back, actually. Jetlagged, if you can’t tell.”

You let out a quiet laugh, flipping open the first few pages. Sponsor slots. Campaign overview. Nothing new.

Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement—Joshua shifting in his seat, elbows resting lightly on the table. He doesn’t say anything, but when you glance up, his eyes catch yours again.

You hold them for a second longer than last time and try to smile politely.

Then you blink, like it didn’t happen, and turn slightly toward Minghao instead. “Did they confirm the Thursday slot for the fan event?”

Minghao raises an eyebrow, like he saw what just happened and is choosing not to comment. “Yeah,” he replies, tapping the paper in front of you. “Right there. Around five.”

You nod slowly, pen in hand now, circling the time even though you’ve already memorized it.

The meeting begins properly not long after. The head of PR welcomes everyone back, and the screen clicks to life at the front of the room.

You keep your attention forward. Joshua doesn’t look again. 

When the meeting is over, people peel off in different directions, schedules splintering again into the usual chaos of prep and deadlines. Doyoung falls into step beside Minghao, which you find a little weird because you can’t imagine what the two possibly have in common. 

You’re already slowing your pace, figuring you’ll let them go ahead and duck off wherever they’re going.

But Joshua’s still behind you.

You glance once over your shoulder, enough to see him bid goodbye to whoever he was talking to outside the meeting room before catching up.

You hear the squeak of his shoes against the cleaned tiles as he jogs up to you guys. The four of you reach the corridor junction, Minghao saying something low to Doyoung, and they veer left together, deep into some conversation about media training or sponsor deliverables or whatever it is your brother is pretending to understand.

Which leaves you—again—with Joshua.

He glances sideways, cautious, then tries again with a small, uncertain smile. “Hey,” he says, softer than usual. “How’ve you been?”

“Good,” you say, a little too quickly. “You? Heard you were in Greece.”

He nods, almost like he’s surprised you knew. “Yeah, I went with my mum. It was nice.”

You nod too, and the silence folds back in. Your fingers fidget with the strap of your bag. Neither of you seems able to meet the other’s eyes for too long, and when you do, the look is held for half a second too long before flickering away.

Joshua shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “So, uh. You went somewhere too, right? Switzerland?”

“Yeah. With Doyoung.” You gesture vaguely, eyes flitting to where Doyoung stands in the distance, still talking to Joshua’s manager. “He wanted altitude and a change of scenery. I think I just needed the quiet.”

He hums—acknowledging, or maybe understanding. “Good timing for it,” he says. “We all needed to get out of our heads a little.”

You don’t reply to that. Not right away, because you think—maybe, just maybe—you know what he means by our heads. And you think he knows you know.

You nod faintly, not trusting yourself to say much more. Also shifting from one foot to the other, you adjust the strap on your shoulder, and that’s when it settles in—quietly, the slow sinking realization. The awkwardness that surrounds him, the way he’s not as talkative or laid-back as he usually is.

Oh.

Of course he remembers.

You don’t need him to say it. You don’t even need to look at him now to know it’s there. The memory’s lodged in your own head like grit under your nails, and suddenly it feels stupid to think it wouldn’t be in his.

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny, exactly, but because this kind of thing only happens in films where two people wake up the next morning pretending it didn’t happen, only to make accidental eye contact in a hallway weeks later and remember everything all at once.

Except this isn’t a film, and you’re not holding a stack of papers you’ve just dropped in slow motion. You’re standing in the corridor of an F1 team's headquarters with your bag slipping off your shoulder, and a man—a driver, your brother’s teammate—beside you who very obviously remembers kissing you.

And whose expression now looks like someone trying to figure out whether you remember kissing him.

Which, tragically, you do. 

Joshua clears his throat.

It’s barely audible, just a soft scrape, like he meant to say something and then thought better of it. You glance at him, almost involuntarily, and immediately regret it because he’s already looking at you with a kind of cautious half-smile. Not flirty, not smug—just nervous.

And that’s when it clicks for him.

You see it. The small pause where his shoulders fall out of that practiced posture of his and his mouth parts like he’s about to speak but can’t find the words fast enough. Like he’s suddenly, absolutely sure that you remember—and worse, that you know he knows now too.

Well, fuck, you think.

“I should get going,” you say finally, not quite meeting his eye. “I’ve got a call in ten.”

He nods, slowly, like he’s still buffering. “Yeah. I’ve got—” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder, “—something. Somewhere.”

He says it like it’s a joke, but it lands awkwardly, like a gear shift in the wrong place. You both wince, just barely.

Joshua rubs the back of his neck like he’s debating saying more. You hope he doesn’t.

“Well,” you say, stepping back. Anything to break the tension. “Good luck with… whatever that something is.”

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching again. “You too. The call.”

It’s painfully polite. You feel like you should salute or shake hands or send a follow-up email with bullet points recapping the awkwardness of this interaction.

Then you leave, this time for real, and neither of you looks back. But you’re almost certain—painfully certain—that he stands there for a few seconds longer than he needs to, just like you keep thinking about turning around even when you know you won’t.

AZERBAIJAN, BAKU CITY CIRCUIT

Friday, Post FP1 September 19th

If Joshua and you plan to pretend like nothing happened, he’s got to stop acting like something did. 

You’re standing outside the hospitality, arms loosely crossed, trying to focus on anything else—on your checklist for the afternoon, on the way the breeze keeps catching at the edge of the umbrella, even on the hum of voices from nearby engineers unpacking gear.

Joshua’s a few feet away, in conversation with one of the performance engineers, though he’s not really participating. He stands, his figure slightly strung up, in the white team shirt that’s been chosen for this weekend, sunglasses slid onto the top of his head. He’s nodding along, smiling faintly, but every so often, his gaze flickers away. Toward you.

Not obviously. Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But enough.

And it’s infuriating. Because you’ve been good about this. You’ve been normal and professional. You’ve made it through two races already and managed to keep everything in check. Talk to him (casually) when you’ve had to, replied to messages, looped him into meetings if needed. Everything has been fine.

Except it hasn’t. Not really.

“You look like you want to throw something,” Doyoung points out around a mouth full of a half-eaten banana that he holds in his hand.

“Yeah, at you, maybe.” You shoot back, shoving his face away with a disgusted look.

“Your face is doing its thing… Who are you pissed with?”

“First of all, can you fucking chew and swallow before you open your mouth? Second, stop bothering me. I’m not in the mood for it, Doyoung.” The irritation in your voice catches both of you by surprise. You didn’t mean to sound that harsh, but Doyoung knows you and hence takes no offence.

“No, seriously.” He mutters, voice dropping lower. “Are you okay? I don’t think I did much to irritate you before this and it’s surely not Joshua or Minghao that you’re mad at… Something went wrong with the team?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, sorry, everything’s fine.”

Doyoung squints at you. “That didn’t sound convincing.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand over your face. “It’s just hot and I’m tired.”

It’s not a lie, technically. The sun has been relentless and the week’s been long already, even though it’s only a Friday. But Doyoung’s eyes narrow, which means he still doesn’t believe you but also knows better than to push it. He goes back to eating his banana, mercifully closing his mouth.

“Hey,” Joshua says, voice cutting across the lull in your conversation. You both turn as he approaches—you, reluctantly but your brother seems enthusiastic for some reason.

He’s got a bottle of water in one hand now, and his other hand lifts slightly in greeting, like he’s unsure whether to aim it at you, Doyoung, or both. He settles somewhere in between.

“Was looking for you,” he says to Doyoung, nodding at him. “You have a sec?”

“Yeah,” Doyoung replies with a shrug. “What’s up?”

You take that as your cue to leave, to shift a step back and check your phone or pretend to care about something else. Joshua stands straight, almost cautious and way too serious for three people who’ve supposedly gotten closer this year. It throws you off, and you try to hide your displeasure at the divide it has caused as you turn to your brother.

He used to slouch into moments like this. Hands tucked into his pockets, eyes soft with jokes, voice sounding like something easy and warm. Now he’s standing like he’s in a post-race debrief.

You try to ignore it. “I’ll give you two a moment,” you mumble.

“No, it’s fine,” Joshua says, too lightly, like he’s trying to dial the energy back. He offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not interrupting.”

The silence that follows says otherwise.

Doyoung, bless him, doesn’t seem to notice the tension the same way you do and instead begins to ask him what he wanted to talk about. Joshua brings up set-ups, how his car wasn’t doing good at all during FP1, something about the rear feeling loose under throttle and the balance being completely off through Sector 2. 

Doyoung nods along, slipping into work mode easily. “I thought I felt that too in Turn 15. It’s better on heavier fuel, but I couldn’t get the rear to stay down. Felt twitchy all the way through the castle section.”

“I think our set-ups are pretty different though,” Joshua sighs, scrunching his nose. 

“We can go take a look later, if you want.” Your brother shrugs.

You stay quiet, gaze fixed somewhere just past them. It’s not like you don’t understand the conversation—you’ve picked up enough over the years to have a basic idea of what they mean—but your attention has splintered. Joshua is being careful. Not with what he’s saying about the car, but with you. The edges of his voice are smoothed down whenever you’re near, like he’s sanded away the parts of him that used to joke and tease and lean in close just to make a point.

He barely looks at you, but when he does, it’s never casual. It’s never just a glance. 

You hate how you’ve begun to care about this, but you chalk it up to the feeling of beginning to lose a friend instead.

Joshua leaves after that, bidding a quick goodbye over his shoulder. Doyoung turns to you slowly, the banana finally finished, his expression mildly suspicious.

“…Okay, now I think something’s weird.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“That. Why was he so serious?”

“Was he?”

“He didn’t really talk to you. He didn’t say anything stupid and charming. I thought you two were getting along—” and maybe he understands the defensive look on your face, because he raises an eyebrow when you open your mouth to retort “—and before you deny it, I may act unbothered but obviously I’d notice if my sister and my teammate were becoming closer.”

You roll your eyes. “I think you’re reading into it too much. He just seems pretty out of it. FP1 was bad for him, clearly.”

Doyoung gives you a long, skeptical look. “Right,” he says slowly. “Bad FP1. So naturally, he forgets how to have a conversation with someone he’s been almost glued to since Silverstone.”

You don’t bother with a response, mostly because you don’t have one.

Instead, you adjust your bag again and wordlessly point ahead. Doyoung gets the hint and begins to walk back to the garage with you. The paddock heat sits thick around your shoulders, and your throat feels dry. There’s nothing in what Doyoung’s said that’s technically wrong—but you’re not exactly winning any awards for subtlety either. 

Your brother walks alongside you, quiet for a few moments, before he sighs softly. “I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says, voice gentler. “I just… noticed.”

You nod, not knowing what to say to that. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought of coming clean to him. It’s hard to keep secrets with Doyoung, even more so when it has something to do with him. But you’re not sure just how much of an issue this will become professionally, so you zip your lips close and walk on.

When you finally reach the garage, you tell Doyoung that you’re heading back in for a meeting and that you won’t be seeing him again until FP2 is over.

“Just text or call me if it’s something urgent.” You sigh.

He nods, turning around to go in before stopping in his tracks. “Listen, I don’t know if you guys fought or something. But try to get along, please. I can’t go and tell him this, obviously, so I’m telling you—not blaming you for anything, by the way. I’ll see you after. Stop drinking too much coffee and drink more water instead.”

Doyoung’s walking back in before you can reply. You watch his retreating back with a mix of annoyance and warmth.

—

You don’t go right after FP2. 

You wait long enough for the garage to settle, for the media duties to end, for the crew to peel off into meetings or debriefs or break rooms. Long enough that if someone asks, you can pretend it’s just a casual check-in.

You meant to leave it alone, to stay professional, keep your head down, and let the awkwardness smooth itself out eventually. 

But halfway through FP2 Minghao had turned to you, looking up from his screen without a warning and said: “You two have been weird recently.”

And it was like him, obviously—to be that observant, not accusatory or even that curious. You’d brushed it off with a shrug, pretending it didn’t rattle you more than it should’ve. Your brother noticing was one thing, others was another. You didn’t think that it had been that obvious, but clearly you were thinking wrong. Because if Minghao could tell, then who else had noticed? How long until Doyoung put two and two together? Until someone in the garage slipped up and connected dots that were never supposed to form in the first place?

You make the walk toward Joshua’s driver room with your jaw set. The hallway is mostly empty now, the hum of activity receding as the day wears on. You’re not even sure what you’re going to say, only that you have to say something. Because this pretending-it’s-fine thing? It’s not working.

You pause outside his door for a second, breathing in deeply before looking both ways into the corridor, hoping that no one else sees you before knocking, your knuckles rapping twice on his door. You don’t need more drama.

It takes a few seconds, long enough for you to consider turning around and pretending you were never here at all, but then the door clicks open.

Joshua stands there in a loose t-shirt and joggers, hair still damp from a recent shower. His expression morphs—from something a little lazy and tired, to surprise. 

“Hey,” he says with a low voice, like he wasn’t expecting anyone, least of all you.

“Can I come in?” you ask.

He steps aside without answering, motioning you in with a small tilt of his head. You slip past him, heart ticking faster than you want to admit, and stop just inside, arms crossing loosely.

Joshua closes the door behind you. “Everything okay?”

“No,” you say, turning to face him. “Not really.”

That catches him off guard, clearly not expecting you to be so honest. His brows pull together, and he steps a little closer, not quite enough to close the distance but enough for you to smell the fresh scent of his after-shave.

You sigh. “Minghao said something earlier. About us. Said we’ve been off.”

Joshua flinches—barely, but you catch it.

“And he’s right,” you continue. “We have been. And I’ve been ignoring it because I thought… maybe it would settle. But it’s not. You’re walking around like you’re scared to say the wrong thing to me, and I—I don’t know how to deal with that.”

“Right,” Joshua says, after a long pause. “Yeah. I’m—.”

“And people are noticing,” you add, quieter. “Not just him. Doyoung’s said things too.”

Joshua exhales through his nose, dragging a hand up over his face, into his hair. “I’ve been trying,” he says. “I swear I’ve been trying to be normal.”

“I know, me too. But it’s not working, is it?”

Joshua moves to sit down on the edge of the small couch, elbows braced on his knees. His towel falls from around his neck and lands on the floor, but he doesn’t bother picking it up. 

“First of all, I’m sorry. Kissing you—” he grimaces, and you’re not sure how to feel about that “—was very out of line.”

You shake your head, not quite looking at him. “It’s okay. I mean… I was drunk too. It’s not like you forced anything.”

Joshua presses his lips together, but doesn’t lift his gaze. “Still. I should’ve known better.”

You sit down, a little away from him, arms still crossed across your chest. “I’ve just been trying not to make it worse. I didn’t want it to be weird.”

“But it is,” he says, like he can’t help it. “It got weird anyway.”

You sigh, because yeah. It did. “And now everyone’s picking up on it.”

“Minghao, Doyoung…” he trails off, then glances at you. “I didn’t think we were being that obvious.”

You let out a small, hollow laugh. “We weren’t. But I guess not talking at all is a bit of a giveaway when we clearly used to. You’re being so dry and awkward and polite, and it’s not really like you, is it? Of course people are going to notice.”

Joshua looks away, his jaw tight. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“By doing what?”

“By not making this worse,” he shoots back, almost sounding snappy but still his voice doesn’t rise. “By keeping it professional.”

You bristle at that. “Right, because professional is clearly what this has been.”

His eyes flicker to yours—guiltily, and for a second neither of you say anything.

“I’ve worked too hard to get here,” he says slowly, even a bit unsurely. “I’m not risking it. Not the seat, not the team’s trust. Not my working relationship with Doyoung.”

You nod. You understand, you really do, but the words hurt as they hit your chest anyway. “So that’s all this is. A cover up. Can we please do a better job at—”

“I didn’t say that.” Joshua interrupts.

“You meant it.” You snap back, looking away from him as you get up.

“What do you want me to say, then?” He exhales harshly, running a hand through his hair. “That I regret it? Or that I don’t?”

Joshua shakes his head, voice sharper now. “You’re his sister, his manager. You know what it would look like if something happened between us and it went wrong.”

Your throat tightens, and you stay silent.

“This is already hard enough. Doyoung is my biggest competition on track. We’re close in the standings, we’re pushing each other every weekend. You do realise how hard it would be if you’re in the middle of it as well.”

You flinch at the words, and he notices.

“I don’t mean that like it’s your fault,” he adds quickly. “It’s just… you’re not just someone I kissed at a party, okay? You’re his person. His family. You’re on his side of the garage, in his meetings, working with his engineers. And I know how this works. If something goes wrong, if this throws off the balance—we all feel it.”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer and just keeps going. “I’ve thought about this so much. About how it would work? About what it would mean to feel something for you and go wheel-to-wheel with your brother every other weekend?”

Your eyes flicker up at that, but he doesn’t notice.

“How are you supposed to be in my corner and his? He’s your family. And I’m the guy trying to beat him.”

It takes a second before you can speak again. “You think I haven’t thought about all of that? About what it means for me?”

Joshua finally looks over, and you will yourself to look him in the eyes as you continue.

“I know exactly what it would look like if anyone found out. It would look like I was choosing sides. Like I wasn’t capable of doing my job objectively. Like I wasn’t loyal to my brother—who, by the way, trusts me with everything.”

Your voice tightens, face hot with frustration and a feeling that’s growing too close to anger. “So no, Joshua, I didn’t take any of this lightly. I still don’t.”

He nods slowly, gaze unreadable now. “So we agree, then.”

You hesitate.

“We agree it can’t happen again,” he says, quieter. “That it was a mistake.”

You nod before adding: “And that we’ll be better and go back to what it was?”

Joshua doesn’t answer right away.

His eyes find yours, and for the first time all evening, there’s something bare in them. Something that doesn’t hide behind restraint or exhaustion. But the look vanishes as quickly as you saw it, and leaves you wondering if you imagined it in the first place.

He nods. “Yeah. We’ll go back.”

You press your lips together, nod once more for good measure—like if you just agree hard enough, maybe it’ll become true. That things can be rewound and tucked neatly behind you without leaving a mark.

“Okay,” you murmur. “Good.” 

So you turn toward the door and walk out before either of you can say anything more. But your heart stays lodged somewhere behind you, somewhere in that room and maybe a little too close to the man you wish to forget the face of.

—

Sunday, Post Race September 21st

The door closes behind him, more harshly than he’d meant to shut it. 

He doesn’t bother taking his shoes off just yet. His cap is the first thing to go, fingers tugging it off absently before he sets it on the desk beside the team lanyard, both items placed a little too neatly, like muscle memory carrying him through the motions. The rest of the room remains untouched. Still and quiet. The overhead light stays off. He reaches instead for the smaller wall sconce by the bed and flicks it on, the glow warm and soft in a way that doesn’t quite match the mood he’s in.

He exhales, slowly.

There’s a kind of emptiness after a race like that—if you could even call it one, considering he was out for almost half of it. The result is too final, nothing left to fix or fight, not when the damage has already been done. He peels off the white team shirt and folds it once, more out of habit than care, placing it on the back of the armchair near the window. The shirt is wrinkled and slightly damp at the collar, and when he brushes his fingers against the fabric, they come away cool.

He’s not even exhausted yet, body running on leftover adrenaline that he knows is going to leave him so tired when it finally leaves. This time, unlike most, will be worse because he hasn’t actually done anything to go to sleep with a peaceful mind. He should maybe shower again and eat, but neither sound appealing right now. 

Joshua drags himself to the balcony, sliding the glass doors open and stepping into the warm Baku night. He absently thanks the team for booking a hotel away from the track. Every year, Williams would—for some reason—book a hotel that overlooked the track, and after a bad day, the reminder was always unnecessary.

He exhales, bracing his palms against the cold metal railing. His muscles ache faintly, but nothing sharp—nothing like the jolt through his neck when the car hit the wall. Nothing like the way he’d sat in the medical car afterward, helmet off, jaw tight, nodding at every word the doctor said while thinking about absolutely nothing except for the .

The DNF shouldn’t sting this badly. But he’d been doing okay today. Not great, not podium-bound, but good enough for a step below. Joshua tries not to think of the articles that are probably up by now. 

Mercedes falters again on the streets. Hong out early in Baku after a costly mistake. Good enough, or has the pressure of a big team finally caught up to Joshua Hong? Team tensions rising?

He hates the last one the most tonight—especially after the podium that his teammate made it onto, while he sat at P20. It was good points for the team, but with no contribution from him. Doyoung’s managed to get ahead of Joshua, and while he was aiming to beat his teammate by the end of the year, he knows that it’s easier said than done. 

It’s too quiet now and he can’t stop replaying it. Not just the crash—though that part loops relentlessly, the twitch of the wheel, the slide, the sickening hit. But what came before. What he was thinking about. 

Because although he’d never admit it to anyone, the crash happened because he wasn’t paying attention. His hands were on the wheel, eyes on the mirrors, yes. But his mind was somewhere else entirely. Still stuck in that small, stifling driver’s room with you. Still hearing the way his voice had cracked when he told you it was a mistake. 

He grips the rail tighter. This is exactly what he was worried about, and he’s ashamed of himself for it. Joshua has never let other things get to him when racing. It’s always the track, the car, his mirrors and the next turn in his head. Never people or feelings.

He should’ve handled it differently. All of it. The kiss, the aftermath, the conversation that somehow left him more confused than before. Because despite everything that was said—despite the professionalism, the agreement, the decision to move on—he can’t. Not really.

Joshua lifts a hand to his neck, shuddering slightly as goosebumps litter his arms despite the warm air. There’s too much noise in his head. Too many things unsaid, and too many things that shouldn’t be said at all. 

He should go inside, put a shirt on. What if the person next door decides to come to the balcony as well?

Then, to his luck, the door next to his opens.

He freezes but doesn’t turn. Maybe it’s a stranger. Maybe it’s just someone stepping out for air, like him and if he stays where he is—still enough, they won’t notice him.

There’s the faint sound of curtains ruffling in the breeze followed by a soft sigh.

And then your voice, quiet and disbelieving, like you were hoping for anything but this.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Joshua’s head turns toward you before he can stop himself. Your hand is still on the edge of your door, fingers curled around the handle like you hadn’t meant to step fully out. You're not in uniform or a team shirt anymore. You're with your hair down, comfy clothes, bare faced and looking tired.

You freeze when you see him, like you hadn’t considered this was possible either. Your eyes meet across the narrow stretch of the balconies, and for a second, neither of you move. You should go back inside. You both should. That would be the adult thing to do. The professional thing to do.

Joshua starts first. “Didn’t know you were next door.”

You blink, finally stepping out all the way and letting the door click shut behind you. “Neither did I.”

You keep your arms folded across your chest, not entirely out of discomfort but more as a barrier. Still shirtless, hair a little messy, his eyes flick away from yours only when you speak again.

“Well, what luck,” you mutter, voice lacking the humour you hoped it would have.

“Yeah.”

The air is balmy and just slightly humid, buzzing with the hum of traffic and hotel A/C units. It’s not awkward, not yet, but there’s a line that’s begging to not be crossed tonight. You both know what kind of week it’s been.

“How’s your neck?” you ask.

Joshua glances over, brow raising. “It’s alright.”

“You hit the barrier pretty hard.”

“I’ve had worse.”

You nod, but something about the way his fingers twitch against the railing tells you he’s still strung up about it, tight and immovable.

Involuntarily, your eyes fall onto his neck. It’s not like you expect to see if he has any pain and it’s a mistake, clearly—because now you’re noticing the faint sheen still clinging to his skin, the soft curve of his shoulder, and the way his back muscles shift tensely. There’s a pale scar across the top of his right shoulder blade—thin but jagged, and old if the rough stitch-work is an indicator of anything.

“What’s that from?” you ask before you can stop yourself, chin tilting toward the mark.

Joshua follows your gaze and lifts one hand absently to it, fingers grazing the scar like he hadn’t thought about it in years. “Karting crash when I was twelve. I didn’t brake fast enough going into one of the turns.”

“Late-breaking since you were a kid, huh?” You mutter under your breath, meant for yourself, but he hears it anyway and a small smile breaks out.

“My mentor, from back then, would stand near the corners and watch where the other kids braked. When it was my turn, he’d go a bit further up and tell me to brake there instead.” He scoffs, eyes trained somewhere on the skyline. “It was really hard at first, but I got used to it…clearly hasn’t left me since.”

The silence stretches, and uncomfortably so. You both stay like that—leaning on separate railings, caught in a suspended still where neither of you know what to say next. Conversations don’t seem to come easy anymore.

Eventually, it’s you who moves first. You push off the railings with a deep inhale. “I’m going to head in then. Good night, Joshua.”

He nods and responds softly, “Me too. Night.”

You slip back into your room, the door sliding shut behind you. The lights are low and your suitcase is half-unzipped near the bed, your phone somewhere on the desk where you tossed it earlier. 

Crossing over to the bed, you sit on the edge and let your head fall into your hands. 

You should have asked how he really was. Not just his neck, like that was the only part of him that could’ve taken a hit.

Because when the crash happened—when the camera cut to his car snapping sideways into the barrier, debris rising in a smoke of dust, and all radio silence—you hadn’t moved. Heart lodged somewhere in your throat, your fingers had curled against your palm so tight that you’d left indents. Someone on the engineering island had said, “He’s moving,” and you still hadn’t breathed until he climbed out, slow and stiff, but seemingly safe. 

And then you remembered you weren’t supposed to care like that. Not anymore. Not like before.

So when the media asked, when your brother asked, when the team exchanged glances and subtle reassurances, you said nothing. You told yourself you were just being professional. You told yourself it didn’t matter. Joshua had Minghao and the med team. He’d done this before and he would be fine.

Because there’s a boundary—one you hadn’t realised you were slowly crossing, one you’d thought meant that you could just be friends with your brother’s teammate. You wonder why this is the first time you’ve bothered to speak or get along with someone like that. Doyoung’s had other teammates before, and you’d always been civil.  Not warm or inviting but enough to keep a professional relationship. You didn’t go out of your way to build rapport. There was no reason to. The other driver wasn’t your responsibility. You weren’t part of his bubble. And besides, you’d always figured they had their own people, their own routines, their own version of someone like you.

So whatever friendliness you offered came in passing—neutral good luck, half-smiles in the garage.

You’ve always been good at keeping the line. Drawing it quietly, without anyone noticing.

But Joshua. He feels like the first time someone’s tried to pull you past it.

Not on purpose or all at once but slowly and subtly—in hotel hallways and garages and late nights at the paddock. In the way he lingered after briefings, how he asked about Doyoung but looked at you when he said it.

And you’d thought—maybe, maybe this could still be simple. Maybe you could toe that edge and call it friendship, just friendship. But even that feels like a stretch now. Because it really doesn’t feel simple anymore.

SINGAPORE, MARINA BAY STREET CIRCUIT

Thursday, Media Day October 2nd 

You spot them already seated when you walk in—Doyoung leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, a paper coffee cup balanced lazily in one hand. Joshua’s next to him, not quite opposite but angled inward, scrolling through something on a tablet with one elbow on the table.

You’d only meant to swing by, remind Doyoung about a schedule change, and tell him the briefing room time for the morning. But then he looks up and says, “Did you hear Seungcheol in the press conference?” like it’s the most important thing he’s said all day.

Joshua glances up too,

“No,” you say, “I missed it.”

Doyoung grins and nods to the chair across from him. “Sit. You’ll enjoy this one.”

You hesitate a second, glancing at your watch before sliding into the seat across from them.

Doyoung’s already talking. “So, he gets asked about the Ferrari rumors—you know, the Monza thing and just the entire season overall with talks of him leaving—and he gives the most carefully worded denial I’ve ever heard. Like... textbook media training. ‘Focused on the team,’ ‘we’ll talk when the time comes,’ all of that.”

You hum. “So it’s happening.”

“Obviously it’s happening.” He fiddles with a sugar packet between his hands. “He only talks like that when something’s already in motion.”

“It’s obviously not Red Bull that he’d move to.” Joshua adds, eyes trained on the table. “Haechan could literally win the championship this weekend and Seungcheol is not going to move to another team just to be number two… especially when they’re known for clearly prioritising one driver over the other. History speaks for itself.”

“And our contracts don’t end till two more years so that’s us off the list.” Doyoung muses. “McLaren… but they’ve invested in two young drivers. Doubt they’d give up on fresh talent this soon.”

“But they haven’t been doing great, to be honest.” Joshua points out, pushing around a drop of water on the table, still avoiding your gaze. But now it just looks like he’s concentrating, so you let it go. “Sure they’ve been getting closer, but their team needs a miracle for next year if they want to sign him.”

“He could look at the regulation changes in 2027 and join them though.” Your brother argues. 

“Wouldn’t it just be better for him to stay for one more year in Ferrari then?”

“It would.” Joshua agrees, glancing up at you. “I think Audi and Cadillac will be solid choices too though, honestly.”

He checks his phone, then straightens in his seat.

“I’ve got to head up,” he says, slipping it back into his pocket. “IWC. They want me to look excited about a wristwatch.”

You huff softly—not quite a laugh, but close.

Joshua tilts his head slightly, “Don’t worry, I’ll try to smile. Once. Maybe twice, if really needed.”

It’s a joke. Classic, dry, a little deadpan—the kind of thing he used to say all the time. But it lands wrong and feels practiced, almost. Like he’s trying to sound like before because you asked him to.

You give him a small smile anyway. “They’re asking a lot.”

“I know,” he says, almost smiling too. “Tough job.”

“Well, I’ll see you guys later.”

You nod, and Doyoung waves lazily beside you. When he’s gone, Doyoung doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks down at his cup, turning it slightly between his fingers, like he's thinking about whether or not to say something at all.

“He likes you.”

You blink, almost choking on your own saliva. “What?”

He doesn’t repeat it and only shrugs, gaze locked on the cup in his hands. “You heard me.”

“Is that supposed to be a question?” you ask, cautious.

“No.” Doyoung’s voice is light, but when he looks up at you, his eyes are sharp. “It’s not.”

You exhale, unsure whether to laugh. “Well. That’s not something people usually say at like…3 PM on a random thursday”

He tilts his head slightly. “It’s almost four, actually”

You let out a quiet scoff. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you didn’t deny it.”

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Doyoung clocks it.

You cross your arms loosely. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

He shrugs again. “You don’t have to say anything. I’m just letting you know I see it.”

You stare at the table. A droplet of water is still trailing down the side of Joshua’s forgotten glass. 

“…You really think he likes me?” you ask, quieter now.

Doyoung doesn’t even blink. “I think he likes you,” he says. “I think he leaves slower when you’re around. I think he’s careful about what he says when you’re listening. And I think—” he pauses, like he’s debating how honest to be—”I think he tries not to, which kinda gives the whole thing away. Which also usually means you’re fucked.”

“And, what? You just figured that out, out of nowhere?” You snap back, slightly surprised and annoyed at the call out.

“I wasn’t sure before,” he says, then pauses. “But now I am.”

You look at him. “Why now?”

He hesitates just long enough for you to notice. 

“When someone starts to get close to your sister,” he says, “you start noticing things.”

It knocks the breath out of you more than you expect. Not in a bad way, but just—suddenly, this is real. Not just in your head. Not just a maybe. You look at him.

He softens, just a little. “I’m not mad,” he sighs. “If that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I’m not scared,” you murmur.

“Good. I just wanted to know if I should be watching out for you or watching out for you.”

That makes you laugh, despite yourself. “And?”

“I’m still deciding,” he says, getting up and stretching. “But you’re not exactly subtle, you know.”

“I’ve been so subtle.”

Doyoung gives you a look over his shoulder as he begins to walk away. “You’re both embarrassing. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Doyoung.”

He pauses, turning around to face you again.

“I’m not… planning anything,” you declare, but by the way your voice comes out a little pathetically, it sounds unconvincing even to you.

He just stares at you—tired, affectionate, and knowing.

“Yeah?” Doyoung shakes his head. “Tell me how that goes.”

And with that, he walks off, leaving you alone with a table full of empty cups and a truth you can’t shove away anymore.

—

Saturday, Post FP3 October 4th

“Yes, I understand that. But we’ve already restructured the drivers’ schedule once to fit this in, and the engineering team made it clear they’re not shifting the debrief. We’re running out of room to be flexible.”

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop when he passes the half-shut door upstairs. He’s just heading toward his driver room, idly checking the time on his phone, when your voice draws him to a pause. It’s low and clipped—not angry, but too calm in a way that says everything’s going wrong.

“We’re—Yes, I’m aware Petronas is the title sponsor. That’s why I’m trying to get this done now. You need to meet us halfway. The drivers aren’t free after 3 PM on Tuesday, and they won’t be reshuffled again for something that’s changed three times already. The team has flights to catch and meetings that cannot be held off once we get home. We’re functioning on a really tight schedule here—”

Then there’s a longer silence, and when you speak again it’s just a resigned “Okay. Let me know by eight. Thanks.” The call ends, and he hears the soft click of your phone being set down.

Joshua knocks once, light against the frame. You just glance up and tense for a second like you’re bracing for something else to fix—but it’s him, and your expression softens immediately.

“Hi,” you say, voice lower than usual.

He doesn’t enter fully, just leans a little against the doorframe, watching you. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he murmurs, “but is everything okay?”

You sigh, shaking your head before settling down onto one of the chairs in the room. “Ask me again tomorrow.”

“Are you alright?” Joshua asks, a little softer now.

You hesitate, then shrug. “Just stretched too thin. Everyone wants a different version of the schedule, and somehow it’s my fault none of them match.” 

Pausing, you glance at him once before you add: “Sorry. I’m not usually like that.”

“When things matter, it’s not a bad thing.” Joshua assures.

“How was practice?” You sigh, massaging your temple. 

“Not bad,” he answers, leaning against the doorframe. “Don’t know if you’ve seen the results but Doyoung seems to be doing well. I think I’m still a little out of it but quali will be good, I assume. Just need to get food inside me to perform right now.”

In the haze of your exhaustion, you look confused for a second, glancing at the time before you realise that it’s Singapore that you’re in. The gentle furrow of your brows makes Joshua’s lips break out into a small smile—one he tries to stamp down slowly.

You scoff, “The things you guys do to beat the jetlag. What time did you even get up?”

“Around one in the afternoon,” he shrugs, “It was a bit early, I think. Overheard Chenle saying he got up at three.”

“And you’re staying up till, what? Two in the morning?”

“Bang on.” He shoots a thumbs up. “Doyoung and I literally have the tennis court booked at twelve.”

“Jeez,” You let out, a little incredulously, “But anyway, you should go eat. You literally just said you needed food to function.”

He doesn’t move.

You look at him properly this time. “Joshua.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m okay.”

He doesn’t look convinced, not entirely. But he nods and pushes off the doorframe a little. Your brother’s words echo in your mind. He likes you. You swallow and force a small smile. “Really. I just need to reset.”

Joshua lifts his hands in surrender “Alright,” he says but hesitates before continuing. “If you need something—if you want to not talk about logistics and PR nightmares for five minutes—I’ll be around.”

You nod. The offer won’t be taken, and you think he knows as well, but still you mutter a small “Thanks.”

—

Monday, Post Race October 6th

It’s sometime past 2 AM when you push through the glass doors leading to the rooftop pool. The air is thick with leftover humidity, cut only slightly by the breeze, and the city glows beneath the haze like it’s still awake and waiting. You aren’t even sure what you’re doing up here—you don’t feel like swimming, nor are you in appropriate clothing for it. You just needed a moment to breathe, probably.

The season is as good as done now, with the new world champion crowned. There’s not a lot to look forward to anymore except what next season will bring. So yes, while you’re happy that your brother won today’s race, there’s a sort of empty feeling in you—whether from the season, or from other things is something that you don’t want to unpack right now.

You spot him before he sees you.

Joshua sits at the edge of the pool with his feet in the water, shirt sleeves pushed to his shoulders, hair wet and sticking in random directions, like he got out of the water, dressed and went back in without drying his hair.

For a second, you consider leaving. You should leave. The last time the two of you were alone after a race did not end well, and the thought makes your chest tighten as your steps falter.

But then he turns, almost like he senses you there, and his eyes find yours. Before you can stop yourself, you walk over, your footsteps quiet against the tile. There’s no music, no voices, no one else lingering around anymore.

“You can sit,” he says, nodding to the empty spot beside him.

You lower yourself down wordlessly, the concrete edge cool beneath your legs. Neither of you speak for a while. The water laps gently against the walls of the pool. 

“Not celebrating with Doyoung?” Joshua asks finally.

You shake your head, arms going back to brace yourself as you dip your legs into the water. “He’s asleep, actually.” 

“Deserved,” he huffs out with a smile, “he did great today.”

“He did. You did too.” You nod.

Joshua doesn’t respond immediately, but he glances at you, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean, you holding Haechan back like that was really cool to watch.” You shrug, looking away and into the lights on the floor of the pool.

He laughs at that, the sound bright and easy. You stay quiet and listen. It’s been a while since you’ve heard him like that—genuine, unguarded, and not trying too hard to be anything but exactly who he is at this moment.

“I think that if he hadn’t won the championship today, he would’ve actually found me after the race and put up an argument.”

You scoff softly, lips curving as you know that it was completely possible. 

Your legs move idly in the water. You tilt your head back, eyes slipping shut for a second. The city hums in your ears, a feeling of heat and light and long weeks coming to a slow, inevitable end.

And then, without really meaning to, you speak, your voice honest in a way that feels overdue.

“I don’t know where we’re going with this.”

When you open your eyes, Joshua’s already looking at you. His lips slant in an awkward smile. “With what? The team?”

You exhale gingerly. “No. Not the team.” You answer, but you think that he already knows what you mean.

Joshua doesn’t answer right away. The smile fades, or maybe it never fully reached his eyes to begin with. He looks back at the pool, then down at his hands, fingers loosely threaded together in his lap. The silence stretches.

“I thought we weren’t going anywhere,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “That was the whole point, wasn’t it?”

You nod slowly, because yes, that was the point. It was the unspoken rule from the start—keep things simple, clean, professional. Friendly, maybe. Careful always.

But now, here you are, sitting next to him in the dark, your legs skimming the water, and your guard down without realising when it fell. None of it feels simple anymore.

“I didn’t think it’d get this far,” Joshua admits. “I wasn’t thinking much when we kissed, obviously… and I hoped that you didn’t even remember, but after that I thought that keeping a distance would just work somehow. And it did, for a while. I made myself believe I didn’t want more than that. But you make it easy to want more.”

He says it without expectation, without even really looking at you. His voice is steady, like he’s been holding the words for a long time and finally couldn’t anymore.

You’re still watching the pool, your reflection blurred and broken on the water’s surface. But his words cut through the stillness, and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

“I think…” You begin slowly, “the problem is that you make it too easy too.”

Joshua glances over, and for the first time tonight, you meet his gaze head-on. Neither of you looks away.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” you continue. “I’ve always been careful. I know how this works—how quickly people talk, how easily things get misread, how much harder everything becomes when you blur the line between personal and professional. And I’d love to say that I tried to keep you out of that space, but you were already there, somehow.”

He doesn’t interrupt and just listens with that infuriating patience that makes it harder not to say everything you shouldn’t.

“I kept telling myself I was being stupid,” you go on. “That if I just stayed polite, stayed neutral, it would pass. That I could handle it. But you kept showing up. You remembered things and God—I don’t know. You cared? Did you? Well it felt like it. And it just got easier and easier.”

Joshua doesn’t dare to move, but you see his lips part, like words lay waiting behind them.

“And then Hungary happened. And I thought, maybe it could still be fine. Maybe I was overreacting, and if I just pulled back, you’d fall away from it too. I just didn’t expect it to hurt.” You exhale shakily, the admission catching somewhere in your throat.

“I don’t think we meant to end up here,” you murmur. “But here we are.”

“I was scared of what it would mean,” Joshua says finally. “That if I admitted it—to you, or to myself—it would ruin something. That we’d start pulling things apart just by acknowledging them. I think I thought that if I stayed quiet, I could keep everything intact. That we could still be okay if I didn’t make it real.”

You don’t answer right away. There’s too much pressure that has no release. You drop your gaze to the water again, the light scattering in waves beneath your legs. 

“But I think I’m past the point of pretending it’s not real,” he continues. “And the truth is… even if it’s risky—even if it complicates everything—I don’t want to go back to pretending you’re just part of the background.”

You let his words sit for a few moments before you speak again. “And what if—no, when the day comes for me to make a choice.” You press your palms against the edge of the pool, like bracing yourself against the weight of what you’re saying.

“Because you and I both know it’ll happen eventually. It won’t have to be dramatic, or maybe it will be. A moment where the team needs something from me, or Doyoung needs something from me, and you’ll be there too. And I won’t be able to give all of you what you want at the same time. And maybe you’ll say it’s fine, but I’ll see it on your face—that I didn’t choose you.”

You shake your head, your voice quiet but unwavering. “And the thing is… it’s not just that I’m scared of hurting you, myself or Doyoung. I’m scared of doing it again and again. Because I already have, in small ways. In ways you probably didn’t even let yourself admit. I could try and promise that I’ll try my hardest to stay neutral or try to support both of you as much as possible, but on the occasion that it’s not possible, would you be okay?”

“I did think about that,” he answers, finally. “That day in Baku, when I said all of this would get complicated. That there would be moments where I’d come second—or not at all. And the truth is, I kind of hated the idea of it. Not because I didn’t understand your role, but because I knew it would hurt. I knew it would make me question things that maybe wouldn’t be fair to question.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking straight ahead, like this is something he can only say if he doesn’t see the way you’re taking it in.

“But I think I was just hoping for the cleanest outcome. I could be a good teammate, be your friend, and protect myself before I got too involved.”  He pauses. “In the end, it just felt like I kept lying to myself.”

He turns to you now, and there’s something steadier in the way he holds your gaze.

“So yeah, I still know it won’t be easy. And maybe I’ll flinch sometimes. Maybe it’ll sting when I wish you’d say something or do something for me, and you can’t. But that doesn’t mean I won’t understand. I do. And I won’t ask you to pick me every time. That’s not what I’m here for.”

There’s a pause, quiet except for the occasional ripple of the water behind your legs.

“If you’ll let me, then I’ll be here because I still want to be. Not just when it’s convenient. Not just when I’m ahead, but even when it’s messy, even when I’m not first. But would you be alright with that? Having to deal with both of us.”

“I—” You begin, “Joshua what if this gets out? We’ll all have our work ethics and integrity questioned. And I don’t work directly for the team, so it probably wouldn’t be an HR issue, but what if this just doesn’t work?”

Joshua nods slowly, “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve thought about that too.”

Then he exhales, like the honesty takes something out of him. “And I don’t know. I don’t have a clean answer. Maybe people will talk. I can’t promise that they won’t. But I think what’s worse is pretending none of this is real just to avoid the risk.”

“I know what I’m asking. You’re already holding so many lines together, and I’m one more thread that could snap everything. I get it.” He swallows, voice softening. “But I keep thinking… maybe we’ll figure it out as we go. Maybe it’s not about having the answers right now—just about being willing to try.”

“Yes.” you say finally, voice a little louder than before, like you’re making a decision. “I think I would be okay with that. With having to deal with both of you.”

“Okay,” Joshua’s lips split into a grin, almost disbelieving—like he wasn’t letting himself hope. 

He shifts a little, brushing his hand over his shirt before holding it out toward you, palm open.

You glance at him, brow raised. “What’s that for?”

“A handshake,” he says, almost shyly now. “I don’t know. Just felt like… something. Like maybe we’re agreeing to something real this time.”

You stare at his hand for a second longer before sliding yours into it. His grip is warm and steady, his fingers slightly wrinkly from the water.

You squeeze once. “You’re ridiculous.”

Joshua smiles, thumb brushing the back of your hand as he flips your palms. “Maybe. But you shook on it.”

He doesn’t let go immediately, and neither do you. You watch your hands for a moment, the way his thumb keeps moving, slow and absent like he doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. Your fingers are still loosely laced with his.

“We’re allowed to have good things.” You mutter, almost like a reminder to yourself.

“Yes,” Joshua agrees, and then continues—like he’s almost embarrassed by how much he means it. “Especially if it’s this.”

You, is what he really means. But he’ll save it. For another time, another day, when the water is not so still and when he’s sure you won’t flinch at the sound of it. 

USA, LAS VEGAS STRIP CIRCUIT

Wednesday, Media Day November 20th 

Doyoung doesn’t expect to see anyone in the hallway when he steps out of the elevator with a bottle of sparkling water and his keycard tucked into his palm. The floor is quiet—middle of the night quiet—and for a second, he thinks he might be imagining the silhouette standing in front of the door to your room.

But then Joshua straightens up and the overhead light hits his face.

“Oh,” Doyoung says, slowing to a stop. “It’s you.”

Joshua starts, suddenly looking like someone who’s been caught doing something he’s not sure he should’ve been doing. “Hey.”

Doyoung glances at the room number. Then at Joshua. Back at the room number, mentally cross checking if this is yours. “You lost or…?”

“No. Just…” Joshua rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t sleepy.”

“Right,” Doyoung says. “So you came to this exact hallway. Outside my sister’s room.”

Joshua tries to look casual. “I was going for a walk.”

“Of course you were,” Doyoung replies, nodding like he’s indulging a toddler. “Nice long walk that conveniently ends at her door.”

Joshua smiles, faintly. “Unintentionally.”

“Sure.”

They pause, making both of them aware of how ridiculous this looks.

“I wasn’t gonna wake her,” Joshua adds, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I just… didn’t feel like being in my room.”

Doyoung uncaps his bottle and takes a sip. “I mean, I wasn’t gonna ask for a full explanation. You look guilty enough.”

Joshua groans under his breath. “I’m not guilty.”

“You’re standing in a hallway at 1 AM whispering outside a girl’s room like a teen in a drama. You want me to pretend I didn’t see this?”

“Well, why are you here?” Joshua shoots back weakly.

Doyoung blinks. “I couldn’t sleep.”

He stares, his expression a mix of exasperation and offence. “That’s my excuse.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t end up outside someone’s door like a loitering ghost.”

“You—I’m not loitering,” Joshua mutters. “I’m—”

“Thinking,” Doyoung offers, smirking as he leans against the opposite wall. “Deep thoughts. Spiritual reflection. Maybe trying to telepathically connect with her through the door.”

Joshua squints at him. “You’re very annoying at night.”

“I’m a delight at all hours,” Doyoung replies. “So? Are you going in or…?”

“I was about to knock,” he lies.

“Yeah?” Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because man, honestly, you look like you’ve been standing here with your hands in your pockets for at least a five whole minute. Very bold knocking technique.”

“I was… psyching myself up.”

“To knock…?”

Joshua sighs. “It’s complicated.”

“Not really,” Doyoung says, and then, in a voice that’s more curious than teasing now: “You like her.”

Joshua hesitates before nodding once. “Yeah.”

Doyoung doesn’t say anything to that. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, uncrosses his arms, and glances toward the door again.

“Well,” he says finally, “she’s probably awake.”

Joshua tilts his head. “You think?”

The words are still halfway to forming on Doyoung’s tongue when the door handle turns with a soft click. Both of them freeze as the door swings open just enough to reveal you on the other side, backlit by the warm yellow of your bedside lamp.

Your hair’s a little messy, face slightly puffy with sleep, or the lack of it. You blink at the two of them slowly, clearly thrown by the sight.

“What—” your gaze flickers between them, confused. “—the fuck are you guys doing?”

Joshua looks helpless. You’re still rubbing at your eyes when Doyoung shrugs, as if this entire thing isn’t weird at all.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, lifting his bottle like a toast. “Was going to check if you were up. Turns out I was late.”

You squint. “Late for what?”

Doyoung jerks his head toward Joshua. “He beat me here.”

Joshua shoots him a look. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“Relax,” Doyoung cuts in. “I’m not your chaperone.”

You open your mouth to ask something—maybe to clarify whether this is weird for him, or whether you should explain anything at all—but Doyoung’s already backing away.

“I’m gonna head back,” he says. “You two can… talk, or whatever. Just don’t be annoying tomorrow.”

Then he turns and walks back toward the elevators without waiting for an answer.

You and Joshua are left blinking after him in disbelief. You glance at Joshua. He looks equally confused.

“Did he just—”

“Yep,” Joshua says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess he did.”

You lean lightly against the doorframe, stunned for a second. “Wow. He really just trusted you. A man. Alone. With me. In a hotel room. In the middle of the night.”

“He is not reacting the way I expected him to, honestly.” He scoffs lightly as you push off the frame and step aside, wordlessly holding the door open. 

Joshua steps in carefully, like he’s not entirely sure this is allowed yet. His gaze flicks around the room, but he doesn’t move far—just stands near the entryway while you close the door behind him with a quiet click.

You pad back toward the bed, tucking your hands into the sleeves of your oversized shirt. The bedside lamp is on, casting a low golden glow across the room. Neither of you says anything right away.

You sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the pillow still indented where you’d been lying earlier. Joshua lingers for a second longer, then walks over and sinks down to the floor with a quiet exhale, settling with his back against the mattress, stretching his legs out in front of him, hands resting loosely in his lap.

“You really couldn’t sleep?” you ask after a beat, your voice soft with sleep.

He shakes his head. “No. You?”

“I was falling asleep.” You admit, making him look up at you and mouth a sorry.

You shake your head dismissively before leaning forward, arms draped over your knees. “What were you even going to say if I didn’t open the door?”

Joshua tilts his head, thinking. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I would’ve just stood there like an idiot and gone back.”

You smile a little, glancing down at the crown of his head. “You were already standing there like an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he says, and his grin is audible even if you can’t see it. “Thought I’d commit to the role.”

For a while, there’s only the hum of the AC and the city—still alive and bustling—outside the window, muffled by distance. Eventually, Joshua leans his head back gently, brushing against your knee without quite meaning to. His voice is quieter when he speaks again.

“Vegas feels… weird.”

“Weird how?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s the closest thing I have to a home race, and everyone calls it that but it feels so foreign at the same time. Like I’m supposed to feel grounded here, but everything’s loud and shiny and… not really mine.”

You watch him as he speaks, the way his lashes cast faint shadows against his cheek in the low light. His fingers toy with the seam of his sweatpants, picking at a loose thread absently.

You shift, pushing one leg off the bed and then the other, before easing yourself down onto the floor beside him. Your shoulder bumps his gently as you settle in, your back against the bed frame now too.

“I get that,” you murmur, knees pulled to your chest. “Sometimes places just don’t hold the memories people expect them to.”

Joshua doesn’t say anything for a second. Then, he sighs. “Yeah.”

You’re both quiet again, until your head tips a little, coming to rest on his shoulder. Your voice is soft when you speak. “What were your last two races here like? With Williams.”

Joshua scoffs out a laugh. “Oh please, don’t make me remember.”

You smile against the fabric of his hoodie. “That bad?”

“Tragic,” he says, after a pause. “Just forgettable. Like I was here, but not really here. Finished P15 one year, retired the next. Spent more time in traffic getting out of the paddock than actually racing.”

“So nothing redeeming?”

Joshua tilts his head, just a little, enough for your hair to brush against his cheek. “This year has been the first time I’ve landed at a track and not felt like I wanted to skip to Monday.” 

He says it simply, like now that it’s over, it doesn’t hold much value anymore. But you’ve seen him, albeit from afar and wonder just how much his time at Williams taught him. 

You nod once. “Well. New team. New year.”

“New hotel hallway experiences,” he adds, and you laugh, warmth catching in your chest before you can stop it.

“God. That was so awkward.”

“Painfully.” Joshua agrees. “How do you think this weekend will be?”

“Honestly,” You begin, lifting your head up to look at him, “I’m not trying to put pressure on you two, but seeing how you guys do well in cold climate, I think it’ll be a nice one.”

Joshua huffs out a small laugh, turning his head to meet your eyes. “You sound like my performance engineer.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “I’m just saying. I have data to back me up.”

“Oh yeah?” He nudges your knee lightly with his. “And what does the analysis say?”

“That one of you is due a win,” you reply, certain. “And don’t tell Doyoung I told you this, but secretly you’re the home hero, so I’ll root for you this weekend.”

Joshua’s expression changes—surprised first, then quietly pleased, like he’ll be running these words through his mind all weekend. “Secretly, huh?”

You nod, a smile pulling at your lips. “Very secretly.”

“Got it.” He leans in just slightly. “I’ll try not to let you down, then.”

—

Friday, Post Qualifying November 22nd

“First of all, congratulations to our top three qualifiers—we have Kim Doyoung on pole for Mercedes, Joshua Hong in P2, and Seungcheol Choi rounding out the top three for Ferrari.” The moderator announces as the cameras start rolling.

The lights in the press conference room are a little too harsh, the couch too white and a little hard tonight, for some reason. But Joshua’s too tired to care. His cap is pulled low, the Mercedes logo gleaming as the moderator leans into the mic. God knows how many people he’s had to speak to today—which is the worst part about Las Vegas. Talking to celebrities, sponsors and what not. He’s been congratulated and greeted by a bunch of people whose names he can’t remember when the only thing he wants to do is go home and fall asleep.

“Seungcheol,” the moderator begins, “you’re starting P3 tomorrow—Ferrari looked strong early on, but maybe lost a bit toward the end of Q3. Talk us through the lap.”

Seungcheol smiles, nodding. “Yeah, the session was tricky, but good. Cold track, not a lot of grip, so it was about timing and temperature more than outright pace at times. Still, P3 puts us in the fight. I’ll take it.”

The next name called is Joshua’s.

“Joshua—P2 for you. Solid lap, great pace from the team, but your teammate took pole at what many consider your home race. What’s the feeling right now?”

Joshua lifts the mic, fingers brushing against the fabric of his race suit. “It was a strong session for us, yeah,” he says. “I think the car’s been working really well here all weekend. Cold temperatures seem to suit us.”

He pauses for just a second—brief, almost imperceptible—and then continues, his gaze flicking across to Doyoung.

“Of course, Doyoung had a great lap in Q3. You always want pole, especially when the calendar says ‘home race’ next to your name. But honestly…” He exhales softly. “I’m proud of this one. Front row for the team. We’re in a good position tomorrow. And uh,” Joshua turns to Doyoung, “it’ll be close into turn one. So no worries, right now.”

His teammate only grins at him, shaking his head before turning back to the moderator. 

The press conference winds down a while later with the usual rush of camera shutters and low murmurs, a few closing remarks from the moderator before the drivers are finally released. Joshua stands, mic carefully set back on the couch, and follows Doyoung and Seungcheol out of the room.

He squints slightly under the hallway lights. His cap stays low on his forehead, shoulders rolling once to shake off the stiffness that’s settled in. Behind him, Doyoung is already making a joke about one of the questions, but Joshua barely registers it. His eyes find you first.

You’re standing just outside the media zone, back against the wall near a folding barrier, phone in hand. Minghao’s next to you, half-listening to something on his earpiece while scrolling absently. Neither of you is particularly animated, but Joshua sees the flicker of relief in your expression when you spot him.

“There they are,” Minghao says, glancing up. “The men of the hour.”

Doyoung only shakes his head, muttering something in a low voice to you before waving at Minghao and walking off toward one of the PR reps motioning for him.

You glance at him properly now, taking in the visible fatigue, the faint lines around his eyes.

“Long day?” you ask.

Joshua nods. “So long. I talked to one of the Kardashian sisters and I’m still not entirely sure which one she was.”

You laugh quietly, reaching out to adjust the brim of his cap before tugging it back into place. “You did good, though. Q2 lap was clean.”

His mouth twitches. “You saw that?”

“I always see.” You smile, then step back a little, hands slipping into the pockets of your jacket. “P2 isn’t bad.”

“Not when your brother’s P1,” he says, dryly.

“Please,” you roll your eyes. “He’s still going to complain about something. Might as well let him enjoy tonight.”

Joshua leans against the wall beside you, just enough to close the space. “You’ll still root for me tomorrow, though?”

You raise an eyebrow, voice low. “Oh, please. I’ll root for both of you, by the way. Didn’t I already say I would?”

“Yeah, but it sounds nicer hearing it here than through a closed hotel door.”

Your face reddens a little despite yourself. “You’re annoying.”

Minghao glances up then, jerking his chin toward the hallway. “Alright, Romeo, we’re heading out. You need to go to the media pen too, man.”

Joshua groans but straightens, pushing off the wall. “Got it.” 

He turns back to you, ignoring as Minghao tells him to hurry up. “I’ll see you later?” 

You nod, gesturing for him to leave before his manager comes and drags him out. 

By the time everything slows down again, you’re back inside the Mercedes hospitality unit, walking the quieter halls with a bottle of water in hand and the ache of the day beginning to settle in your shoulders. You don’t expect to find Doyoung still in his driver room, but the door’s half-open when you pass by. He’s there—freshly showered with a new shirt on, seated on the edge of the small couch with his elbows resting on his knees. When you enter, he glances up, slightly startled before you sit down next to him.

“Are you free for a second?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Okay, listen. I’m not trying to be difficult,” Doyoung says, voice quieter now, “but I’d feel kind of shitty if I didn’t at least ask.”

You glance over at him. “Ask what?”

He exhales. “You and Joshua. Is it… something?”

The way he says it isn’t accusatory, just tentative. Like he’s still sorting out how much he wants to know, or maybe how much he already does.

You consider lying for a moment—brushing it off, making it easier. But you don’t. Instead, you meet his gaze and say, carefully, “Yeah. A bit more than something, probably.”

Doyoung nods, slowly. He doesn’t look angry, but he’s thinking hard. “How long?”

“Not long. But it’s not impulsive either,” you say. “We’ve been… figuring it out.”

He sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “And are you sure? That this isn’t just… adrenaline, or the fact that you’re around each other all the time?”

You hesitate. “I’ve asked myself that too. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels—” You pause, trying to find the right word. “—steady.”

Doyoung is quiet again. “I just… I don’t want you to get hurt. And I don’t want this to mess up anything for him either, not now.”

“I know.”

“I’m not saying you can’t be happy,” he adds quickly. “I just—I know what this world is like. You and I have lived in it long enough. And I don’t want you to look back and wish you hadn’t let yourself care.”

You smile faintly. “I already care.”

Doyoung finally looks at you again, and the expression on his face softens just a bit. “Of course you do.”

There’s a beat of silence before he sighs again—less tense now—and bumps your arm lightly with his.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Just don’t tell me about the mushy stuff. And tell him if he ever uses this card against me, I’ll put him in the wall.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up easier than you expected. “Please don’t do that.”

Doyoung rubs his face, trying to look dramatic. “Whatever. He’s still insufferable when he’s smug, so if this makes him worse, it’s on you.”

You nudge his shoulder, making him hiss in mock-pain. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

He shakes his head, but the tension in his posture has eased. “Just take care of each other. And, seriously, don’t make me regret being cool about this.”

“You won’t,” you say, with a quiet certainty that feels new. “I promise.”

—

Saturday, Post Race

November 23rd

The roar from the crowd is deafening.

Joshua’s not sure he’s ever heard anything like it before—this wall of noise, pulsing up from the streets of Vegas and ricocheting off every mirrored building like it was made to echo. The fireworks have already started, streaks of gold, silver and red bursting behind the podium

Doyoung claps him on the back. “You did it,” he shouts, grinning, eyes crinkling in the light. “Fucking Vegas, man! Won the home race after all, huh?”

Joshua only laughs—breathless and a little distracted by the way his eyes burn so bad. The trophy is solid in his hands, heavier than he expected. The champagne is already half-sprayed, sticky and cold across the front of his suit. 

He shifts his grip on the trophy absently, letting the weight settle into his palm. Confetti clings to the fabric of his race suit, stuck to his sleeves and shoulders, glittering in the podium lights. Behind him, fireworks keep going—sharp pops of sound that would’ve made him flinch if he wasn’t already fired up.

Joshua looks out toward the crowd again, taking in the blur of flags and flashlights, the sea of arms raised in celebration. It’s not quiet, not even close, but something in him is, finally. There’s a calmness in his chest that wasn’t there at the start of this weekend, the start of this season. With only two more races to go, he feels some sort of satisfaction—he’s leagues above where he’s been in the last few years, and it feels like ending the year on the right note. 

He holds the trophy up briefly when the camera swings toward him, letting the flash catch his profile. Then it’s all over just as quickly as it began—someone waves them down the stairs, staff wait with towels and headsets and a hundred things to do before the night ends.

Down in paddock, he’s handed off like a relay baton between mechanics and PR. A few high fives, someone shouting his name, one of the engineers tossing him his electrolytic drink bottle with a grin. He moves through it automatically.

Joshua turns the familiar corner near the team hospitality units, letting muscle memory guide him through the back halls of the hospitality. His driver room isn’t far now. Just a few more doors.

When he rounds the corner and looks up, you’re already there.

You’ve just stepped out from the room across the hall—Doyoung’s. The door clicks softly shut behind you as you turn and catch sight of him. Your lanyard swings around on your neck, sleeves pushed up, and hair a little tousled.

“Hey,” you greet with a grin, “they let you go already?”

“God, no.” Joshua exhales as he meets you halfway down the corridor. “I need to go and give a few more interviews, I think.”

“You smell like champagne,” you note, scrunching your nose playfully as you stop in front of him.

Joshua laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, sorry. It’s… everywhere.”

You glance down at the front of his suit, still damp and sticky in patches. He looks up again, and you’re already close enough that it doesn’t feel like a decision when you lift your arms to wrap around him. His arms settle around you just as easily, his cheek resting against the side of your head.

“You were great today,” you say into his shoulder, voice quiet now, meant only for him. “You really were.”

Joshua breathes in—slowly, like he wants to memorize the way this feels, how steady it is. “No bad for a supposed home race, no?”

“Not bad at all.” you agree, running a palm down the length of his back. “You should probably go shower while you can, Josh.”

He pulls away, almost reluctantly, to look at you. “I mean, I thought I would after I got back from those interviews. Doubt I’ve got much time now.”

“Joshua,” You laugh, throwing your head back. It makes him smile too, albeit a little confused as he waits for you to continue. “It’s Vegas, and you just won. You really think they’re letting you go back to the hotel room after this?”

His eyes widen slightly, like the thought is only just dawning on him. “Wait—are we going out?”

“The team seems to be in high spirits. They just made plans in the group chat. I think most teams are going to be out, honestly.”

Joshua groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God. I don’t even know if I have energy for this.”

“Me neither.” You agree with a nod, “But you should go shower.”

“And you won’t be able to wait, I’m assuming?” He asks with a soft sigh, fingers still wrapped around your wrists.

You purse your lips, thinking for a few seconds before shaking your head. “But I’ll be coming too, and I’ll find you there. Don’t worry.”

Joshua watches you for a moment longer, eyes skimming over your face. Then he exhales with a smile, and finally lets go of your wrists.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll find you too.”

You nod. “Okay.”

And then you’re stepping back, already moving down the hall, the soft thud of your shoes fading into the post-race noises still running through the paddock. Joshua stands there for a second, watching you go, the corner of his mouth still lifted like he can’t quite help it.

Then he turns and disappears into his driver room, the door swinging shut behind him.

—

The music is relentless. 

Heavy bass shakes the floor, and the lights overhead spin too quickly, cycling between violet and champagne-gold like they can’t decide if the room should feel electric or expensive.

You’re pressed into a curved booth with a half-spilled drink in your hand and one of the girls from the pit crew complaining about her situationship in your ear. There are too many voices around you—half-shouting over the music, half-laughing through champagne, high on adrenaline and the sweetness of a 1-2 finish. You’re sure you’ve seen mechanics and team members of other teams as well. 

You spot him through the crowd before he sees you.

Joshua’s standing near the bar, flanked by his engineer and Minghao, nodding along to something someone’s saying. His shoulders are relaxed, one hand wrapped around a glass he doesn’t seem all that interested in, the other shoved into the pocket of his jeans. He looks good. Not just in the blurry, flattering way everyone does in club lighting—but good.

You think about texting him, but you don’t have to—he catches your eye almost instantly, like he’d had a feeling you were watching. And when he does, he grins before turning around to excuse himself, presumably.

He finds his way over without rushing, weaving through the crowd easily. One of the lighting rigs overhead flickers silver against his hair just as he approaches, and your breath hitches before you can stop it. Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the Vegas haze. Or maybe it’s just him.

“Hi,” he says, tipping his head a little as he comes to a stop at your side.

You glance up at him, tilting your glass. “You took your time.”

“I was being polite,” he says with a grin. “Didn’t want to make it obvious I was trying to ditch Minghao.”

You snort. He’s already slipping into the booth before you can reply, sliding in next to you without hesitation. The seat is just barely big enough for three, but neither of you acknowledges that. His knee presses lightly against yours, and when he leans in to be heard, it’s close—cheek brushing the edge of your hair, the smell of him all citrus and aftershave and something sweeter underneath.

“Are you surviving this?” he murmurs.

“Barely,” you reply, lifting your glass and then setting it down again without drinking. “I’ve heard the words ‘tire deg’ and ‘pit lane penalty’ in at least three different conversations. They’re all talking about Ferrari, honestly. It’s getting boring.”

Joshua laughs, his breath warm against your ear, enough to send a shiver down your spine.

“Poor Seungcheol,” he says, almost to himself. “He’s not even here to defend himself.”

You hum. “I don’t think he’d bother.”

His smile lingers, but there’s something softer beneath it now. He doesn't move away, and you don’t either. The music swells, the lights strobe too bright for a beat, and someone down the booth knocks over a glass, sending a fizz of something sticky onto the table. Nobody flinches.

Joshua leans in again. “I was looking for you earlier.” 

Your breath catches, just slightly. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Minghao dragged me into a VIP lounge for five minutes and I kept checking the floor, hoping you’d show up.”

You tilt your head, eyes tracing the edge of his jaw. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I thought about it,” he admits, then pauses. “But I kind of like finding you on my own.”

The crowd’s pressed in tighter now, heat and laughter folding in from every angle. The booth’s too loud, too full—people shouting across each other, a camera flash going off near the bar.

You glance at him properly. “Hey,” you say, not quite smiling, “you wanna move somewhere quieter?”

“Yeah,” Joshua says, soft and certain. “Let’s go.”

You slide out, easing past someone who barely notices you leaving. Joshua’s close behind, a hand ghosting at your lower back without ever fully touching. He catches up when you pause near the glass railing, city lights swimming below. For a second you both just stand there, watching the strip blaze beneath you. Vegas doesn’t go quiet—not even from this high up—but something about the moment still feels removed from the noise.

“Too much?” he asks gently, leaning in.

You glance sideways at him. “Little bit.”

Joshua smiles. “Wanna go back downstairs?”

You nod.

The club sits on the roof of the hotel Mercedes has taken over for the weekend, so it’s only a short walk to the private elevator at the far end. A couple of people are headed that way too, but they’re distracted, tipsy, and mid-conversation. Nobody pays attention to you and Joshua slipping in behind them.

The elevator doors close with a hush. Someone presses a button for the 22nd floor, and Joshua reaches past to tap for 20. His floor. When the elevator dings, you step out first. The hallway is quieter than you expected, carpeted and cool, with no signs of the music upstairs bleeding through the walls. 

You step into the hallway first, heels muffled against the carpet, the air-conditioning crisp after the heat of the club. Joshua’s room is a few doors down. You don’t speak as you walk—just the occasional brush of his shoulder against yours, the low buzz of something shared but unspoken.

When he pushes the door open, you step in without hesitation. It’s dim inside—just the warm light from the hallway pooling in briefly before the door swings shut behind him with a quiet click.

He toes off his shoes by the wall, but you’re already drifting forward with a gasp. “Wait, your balcony overlooks the track?”

“Didn’t mention that?” he says, voice light as he walks over. “Guess I forgot.”

You cross the room toward the glass doors, pushing one open as a gust of cool air rushes in. The balcony is big—a small terrace with a couple of chairs, a low table, and a clear view of the street circuit below. The track is empty now, the floodlights are switched off, but the lights and signs from the buildings nearby illuminate it anyway. The lights of the Strip stretch out far beyond the last turn.

You step out, hands resting on the metal railing as you take it in. The silence is almost intimate compared to the chaos upstairs. Behind you, you hear Joshua move—his footsteps quiet against the carpet, then against the tile of the balcony. He stops next to you.

“It looks different when you’re driving,” he says after a moment, resting his forearms against the railing beside you. “All the lights just blur into one single line. It feels much smaller.”

You glance at him. “Smaller? That’s what you’re going with?”

He shrugs. “I’m serious. The straights feel like nothing until someone’s coming up behind you with DRS.”

You grin. “Romantic.”

Joshua huffs a laugh. “I’m just saying. It’s weird seeing it like this. Quiet. Like it’s just… a road.”

 “A very expensive, over-designed, LED-ridden road.”

“Exactly.”

The wind picks up faintly, tugging your hair. You tuck it behind your ear and glance sideways at him again. He’s already looking at you.

“You look pretty,” Joshua says, and this time, there’s a bit of a smile playing on his lips—lazy, knowing, like he enjoys the way it makes you blink in surprise.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s a fact, like there’s nothing else in the world he could possibly mean.

You lean your elbows on the railing again, gaze drifting out over the track. “Careful,” you say. “I might start thinking you’re into me.”

Joshua tilts his head, eyes still on you. “You say that like I haven’t made it obvious.”

You glance sideways. “You think you’ve been obvious?”

“I did follow you halfway across a club tonight,” he points out. “And left my own party.”

You shrug, teasing. “Maybe you were just bored.”

“Sure,” he says, inching closer. “That’s why I’m here. Because I couldn’t think of anything more exciting than standing on a balcony with you.”

You smile, a little crooked, and glance away. “You’re laying it on kind of thick, Joshua.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, well. I’m trying something new.”

“Flirting?”

“One could also call it being clear.”

That earns a look from you—brows raised, mouth parted slightly in surprise. But you don’t pull away. Joshua doesn’t break eye contact. His hand lifts casually to the railing behind you again, this time brushing yours on the way, the space between your bodies narrowing by the second. And when he tilts forward, halfway down to your face, gaze flicking to your lips—he hesitates.

“Is it working?” he asks quietly.

You consider the question, your gaze drifting from his eyes to the curve of his mouth, then back again. There’s a flicker of something warm in your chest, unspoken but insistent.

“Maybe,” you say, voice soft. “A little.”

“Well then,” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, “you think you’d let me kiss you?”

You nod, almost without thinking, chin tilting up a fraction. Joshua begins to lean in again, slower this time, one palm coming up to the back of your head when—

“Wait,” you murmur suddenly, hand rising instinctively to press flat against his chest.

He stills immediately. “What?” he asks, brows drawing together, not pulling away but not closing the gap either.

You hesitate, eyes flicking up to his. “How many drinks have you had tonight?”

He blinks once, then lets a short laugh, more surprised than amused. “One. Barely finished it. Why?”

You’re quiet for a second, just long enough that his expression shifts to something a little worried. But you meet his gaze steadily.

“Because I think… Hungary was kind of an accident,” you say slowly, choosing each word. “I think maybe I let it happen because we were drunk. And I don’t really do that.”

Joshua’s lips part slightly, like he’s about to speak, but you cut in, softer now, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“And I’d prefer if only my boyfriend would kiss me.”

There’s a pause as he registers your words, his face morphing with slight confusion before he finally realises.

Joshua tilts his head, the corners of his mouth curving up into a grin that’s far too pleased for someone trying to play it cool. “And who could that be?”

You raise a brow, shrugging one shoulder, your voice just the slightest bit sly. “Well… you, if you asked.”

Joshua’s grin falters for half a second—just enough for sincerity to sneak in beneath it. His other hand slips into yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. Almost sheepish.

“Okay,” he says, tilting his head a little. “Then… Can I be your boyfriend?”

You stare at him for a second, something fluttering stupidly in your chest before laughing lightly, your free hand reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt. “Yeah. Yeah, you can be.”

His grin returns, softer now, touched with something quiet and sure, and he closes the distance.

Joshua’s mouth meets yours like a promise—firm, warm, and unhurried. You lean in instinctively, catching his lower lip between yours, your hand tightening around the front of his shirt. He kisses you again, this time deeper, and you can’t help the quiet sound that slips from your throat. It makes him smile into the kiss, makes him shift closer, lips parting more fully against yours.

Your fingers slip back up to his collar, anchoring yourself there as his hand drifts to your waist. The world narrows to just the press of his mouth, the slide of his lips against yours, the way he tastes faintly like citrus and something sweeter underneath.

Eventually, you break apart, slow and reluctant, breath mingling in the quiet space between. He doesn’t go far—just lets his forehead rest against yours, thumb brushing a soft line along your jaw.

“Okay,” he murmurs, a little dazed. “That was… worth the wait.”

You huff a laugh, but it’s soft, real. “Yeah,” you say, eyes still half-lidded. “I think so too.”

Neither of you moves for a moment. Joshua’s eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he can finally afford to slow down.

“You know,” he says after a few seconds, “I’ve spent this whole season chasing something.”

You glance up. “And?”

Joshua smiles. Not the kind he puts on for cameras, but the gentler one you’ve started to recognize as just his.

“I think I might’ve found it.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand and hold it. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

taglist : @blckorchidd @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @reiofsuns2001 @exomew @smiileflower @syluslittlecrows @teddybeartaetae @sojuxxi @cl41rsblog @stwrlightt @livelaughloveseventeen @duhduhdana @haesluvr @eisaspresso @https-seishu @illiadiaz @k4trinabluu @choco-scoups @imhereonlytoreadxoxo

[callisrecords]

new theme and user so cunty i cried and twerked

lowkey expected nothing less from you 😁🫡

[callisrecords]

i’m more of a silent reader on tumblr but i had to let you know i loved every fic so far in beyond the grid ! even though im not an f1 fan i had such a great time reading the stories. literally was locked in waiting for each part to be released! has to be some of my favorite fics ive read this year!

awhhh thank you anon :(( I'm very happy to hear that people like it even without prior knowledge !! this was very sweet of you and don't hesitate to keep coming back 💗

[callisrecords]

CALLLIIIIIIII FUCKCKCKCKKKK YOUR THEME IS SO CUTEEEEEEEEEEE IM IN LOVEEEEEEEEE

it’s so creative i’m going to walk the plank

GRRR NOOO DONT WALK THE PLANK 😟you're too sexy for that ahahah pushes you back and puts the plank away

[callisrecords]

the blog update is super cute!! record store theme and business card on pinned post?? absolute genius

eeek thank you mia !! THE BUSINESS CARD yeahh I tried 🤓🙏 I'm glad it's obvious (??? is it? or are you just good at it LOL)

[callisrecords]

new theme is so cutieful im gonna eat u

screaming 🥹☝️ you're so cutieful I'm going to eat you up