mrsfancyferrari

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience PT2

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 2

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Taglist: @barcelonaloverf1life, @totallynotluluu, @rageshots, @greedyjudge2

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Part 1 - Part 3

Word count: 22.1k

MASTERLIST - F1

@lewishamilton

liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari, georgerussell63 and 2,026,295 others

lewishamilton

Finding the right words feels impossible, but here goes. Today, I married the woman of my dreams. Five years ago, I met someone who challenged me, inspired me, and loved me in a way I never thought possible. Today, that whirlwind turned into forever with Y/N.

Looking back, those five years feel like a blink, a beautiful blur of laughter, late-night talks, and building a life together. Looking forward, I see a future even brighter, filled with adventures, shared dreams, and a whole lot of love.

We're so excited to start this new chapter. We also ask for a little privacy as we enjoy our honeymoon. We'll be back soon, ready to share all our fashion with the world. For now, just know my heart is overflowing with happiness. ❤️ #JustMarried #HusbandAndWife

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21st January 2025

You stirred beneath the heavy veil of consciousness, the weight of the world—or perhaps just last night's drinks—pressing down on your eyelids. The room spun in a lazy waltz, the kind that only a hangover could compose.

The scent of champagne and roses lingered in the air, a bouquet that seemed both hauntingly familiar and eerily out of place. Your mouth was a desert, parched and sticky with the residue of a night that seemed to have occurred in a distant realm, a realm where you didn't belong.

You tried to swallow, but it was as if your throat had been coated in the same sticky sweetness that clung to the insides of the champagne flutes that danced before your eyes.

As your vision slowly cleared, you took in the opulent surroundings. The four-poster bed you lay in was draped in velvety fabrics, the color of a moonless night. Your head pounded in rhythm with the unanswered questions that filled your mind.

You were still dressed in the wedding gown from the night before, the silk and lace a stark contrast to the tangled mess of the bed sheets. The dress clung to you like a second skin, a reminder of the vows you had exchanged with a man whose name you couldn't quite place.

Sitting up, the world swam around you as you took in the grandeur of the room. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back to reveal floor-to-ceiling windows that allowed the early morning light to stream in, painting the polished hardwood floors and antique furniture in a soft, golden glow.

Your gaze fell upon the bedside table, and there it was: a framed picture of you and Lewis kissing at the altar. The sight sent a jolt of recognition through your body.

You were married. Married to Lewis, the man you had known for a few weeks, and married for the most unromantic of reasons—his engagement in Ferrari. The cold reality of the situation was starker than the champagne-induced haze that still clung to your mind.

Looking over to the couch, you found Lewis sleeping peacefully, his baggy clothes hugging his form in a way that suggested he had bothered to change after the reception.

The soft light played with the shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose.

His eyes were closed, and his breaths were deep and even, the picture of exhaustion. The couch, though plush and inviting, seemed too small to contain his long frame, his legs stretched out and hanging over the edge.

You felt a strange sense of protectiveness as you studied him, a feeling that was as unexpected as the wedding ring that adorned his finger.

The fabric of his shirt pulled taut against the muscles of his chest as he inhaled, and you couldn't help but admire the way his body moved with each breath, the way the shadows played across the contours of his abs and the broad expanse of his shoulders.

His hair was a wild mess, the usual coiffed perfection of a man groomed for the spotlight now a tumble of dark braids that fell onto his forehead.

The silence was a cocoon around you, a gentle hum of the air conditioner the only sound that pierced the quiet. You could almost feel the weight of his weariness, the toll of the past few weeks written in the lines etched into his face.

Yet, there was something about his vulnerability in sleep that was incredibly endearing, a stark contrast to the cool, calculated persona he donned in the public eye.

Moving closer, you whispered his name again, "Lewis," the syllables slipping off your tongue like a secret.

You watched as the muscles in his neck tightened, his head tilting towards the sound, seeking you without fully waking.

He replied, "Y/N," his voice thick with sleep, the use of your name a gentle caress in the early morning air. The pause that followed was like a heartbeat, a brief, tender silence that seemed to hold the weight of his concern.

"Did you sleep well?" he finally asked, his eyes fluttering open to reveal a gaze that searched yours with a warm sincerity. The question hung in the air, a soft inquiry into your well-being, one that seemed to hold more than just curiosity.

You nodded, your voice a croak that you hoped conveyed the truth of your restless slumber.

"I… I did," you murmured, your eyes flickering down to the ring on your finger, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that began to build in your cheeks.

He sat up, the movement fluid and graceful despite his apparent fatigue. His eyes searched your face, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in a knowing smile.

"I don't believe you," he said softly, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"But that's alright. I'm sure it'll take some time to get used to this." He gestured to the room, the grandiose space that was now, apparently, your shared domain.

You felt the heat in your cheeks intensify as he stood and stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his broad chest. The way his muscles moved beneath the fabric made your own body respond in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling.

He paused, his gaze lingering on the couch, before speaking again. "I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable," he said, his eyes meeting yours with a gentle warmth. "So, I slept out here."

There was a hint of vulnerability in his voice, a softness that seemed to echo the quiet of the room. "You've never been to my house right?"

You nodded, the haze of last night's events slowly lifting as the reality of your new life began to seep in.

The prospect of living with him, sharing a home, was as overwhelming as the grandeur of the suite. "No," you replied, your voice still a whisper. "I… I haven't."

He studied you for a moment, his gaze lingering on the wedding gown that clung to your body like a second skin. "Well, you have a lot of time to check it out," he said with a knowing smile. "Do you wanna get out of that dress?"

The question was innocent enough, but the way his eyes raked over you sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine.

You nodded, the movement feeling almost foreign in the face of the new intimacy that had been thrust upon you.

He pointed to a set of double doors across the room. "The bathroom is over there," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very core. "You can take a shower, and I'll find you something to wear. I'm sure my clothes will be a bit… oversized, but it'll be more comfortable than that gown."

The sound of scratching at the door made him stop mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he looked towards the noise. "One moment," he said, his voice a hushed whisper. "I'll be right back."

He padded across the floor, the soft thud of his bare feet echoing through the vastness of the room. The scratching grew more insistent, and you watched as he opened the door to reveal a large, fluffy dog, tail wagging furiously.

"Roscoe," he sighed, bending down to greet the animal with a gentle pat. "I guess it's time for breakfast."

The sight of Lewis interacting with his pet was oddly comforting. It was a glimpse into a side of him you hadn't seen yet, a side that was more domestic and less… Ferrari-driven.

Once he was out of the room, you took a deep breath and approached the double doors he had indicated. The bathroom was as grand as the rest of the suite, with marble floors and a bathtub that looked like it could comfortably fit four people.

You stepped into the shower, allowing the warm water to cascade over your body, the heat of it soothing your tense muscles and washing away the last vestiges of the wedding night.

The sensation of the water was like a gentle caress, waking your skin to life. You felt your body begin to relax, the tension from the past few weeks draining away.

Your thoughts wandered to Lewis, to the way his eyes had searched yours, the way his voice had been so tender when he offered to help you out of your dress.

Stepping out of the shower, you found a plush robe hanging on the back of the door, the fabric as soft as a whisper.

Wrapping it around yourself, you felt a sense of comfort that was as unexpected as the wedding itself. The mirror revealed your reflection, the glow of your skin standing out against the stark white fabric.

You padded back into the bedroom, the sound of Lewis's voice faint in the distance as he talked to someone—presumably about Roscoe's breakfast. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of curiosity about the conversation, about the life that you were now a part of.

As you approached the bed, the plush rug beneath your bare feet felt like a luxurious embrace. The mattress dipped slightly as you sat down, the memory foam molding to your form as if it had been waiting for you.

You reached for the phone on the nightstand, noticing the time. It was later than you usually woke up, but the events of the last twenty-four hours had thrown any semblance of routine out the window.

You picked up the device, the screen lighting up with a flurry of notifications. Congratulatory messages from friends and colleagues filled the screen, each one a reminder of the surreal turn your life had taken.

Your thumb hovered over the messages, the urge to scroll through them warring with the fear of what you might find. Instead, you set the phone back down, the digital world feeling suddenly intrusive.

Turning your gaze to the wardrobe, you took in the towering mahogany structure that dominated the space. The doors were open slightly, revealing a sea of clothes that were as unfamiliar to you as the man you had married.

You felt a sudden urge to explore, to understand this new life that had been thrust upon you.

With the softness of the robe brushing against your legs, you walked over to the wardrobe, the floor cool against your bare feet. The scent of leather and cologne filled the air, a masculine bouquet that was distinctly Lewis'.

You reached out, your fingers trailing over the fabric of his suits, feeling the luxurious textures beneath your touch. Each garment whispered a story of races won, deals closed, and a life lived in the fast lane.

Your finger stopped at a piece of clothing line +44, hanging neatly amidst the rows of designer labels.

You decided to wear that, the scent of his cologne still lingering on the fabric, a silent invitation to embrace the reality of your union. The shirt was a size too large, the fabric whispering against your skin as you pulled it over your head.

The matching trouser, however, was a different story. They hung low on your hips, the material snug in a way that accentuated the curves of your body.

You stepped into them, feeling the softness of the fabric against your bare legs. As you pulled them up, you had to tug at the waist, the tightness making you aware of every inch of your body.

Looking into the mirror, you saw a reflection that was both strange and fascinating. The oversized shirt swamped you, the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, but the trousers hugged your form in a way that made you feel… powerful.

Before you had a chance to ponder further, you heard a knock at the door. "Come in," you called out, your voice a mix of anticipation and nerves.

The handle turned, and Lewis stepped back into the room, his eyes immediately finding yours in the mirror.

He paused, his gaze lingering on your reflection, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, outlined by his clothes. His expression was inscrutable, but you could feel the heat of his stare, the way it seemed to sear into your very soul.

"You look… surprisingly good," he said finally, his voice thick with something you couldn't quite place—desire, perhaps?

You turned to face him, the oversized shirt brushing against your legs with every step. His eyes followed the movement, the corners of his lips quirking up into a smoldering smile.

"Thank you," you replied, feeling both self-conscious and oddly alluring in his attire.

Lewis walked closer, the intensity of his gaze sending a shiver down your spine. He reached out, his hand sliding along the fabric of the shirt, ghosting over your bare skin.

His touch was light, yet it seemed to leave a trail of fire in its wake, setting your body alight with need. He stopped at the hem, his fingers lingering just above the waistband of the trousers.

"I didn't expect to see you wearing my clothes," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "It's quite a look for you."

You felt the warmth of his palm as it rested on the small of your back, his thumb making small, lazy circles on the bare skin above your waistband.

Your breath hitched in your throat, the air thick with an unspoken tension. You turned to face him fully, the heat of his body mere inches away from yours, the scent of his cologne enveloping you like a warm embrace.

"Thank you," you murmured, the words barely audible as you tried to process the sudden intimacy of the moment.

You didn't speak more as Lewis looked over at you before looked at your hand and it didn't match his. "Where's your ring?" Lewis asked, his voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through your very core.

The question hung in the air, thick with the scent of his cologne, and you felt your heart skip a beat as your hand reflexively curled into a fist around the empty space where your wedding band should have been.

The reality of your situation crashed down upon you—his clothes on your body, his scent surrounding you, his hand on your skin—and you realized with a start that you had left your ring on the nightstand.

Lewis' gaze followed yours to the bedside table, where the ring sat, a gleaming symbol of your marriage, of the life you had built together, and of the boundaries you were so precariously close to crossing.

He strode over with purpose, the fabric of his shirt stretching taut over the muscles of his broad back as he moved. Your eyes remained fixed on the ring as he picked it up, the gold band winking in the soft lamplight.

He turned back to you, holding it out between his thumb and forefinger, a silent question in his eyes.

You felt your heart pound in your chest as he approached, the ring glinting in the soft light. With a tremor in your hand, you reached out to take it, but Lewis was quicker. He held your hand before slowly placing it back on your finger, his touch gentle yet firm.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent an electric current up your arm, and you felt the metal of the ring cool against your finger.

For a moment, you both just stood there, the silence stretching out like a tightrope between you. Then, Lewis' thumb brushed over the back of your hand, sending a shiver down your spine, and he leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours.

"I think we both know what we're feeling," he whispered, the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin. "But we don't have to act on it."

Just as he said this, Roscoe, his bulldog, trotted into the room, tail wagging with unbridled enthusiasm. He came over to you, jumping up to place his paws on your thighs, his wet nose nuzzling into the fabric of the shirt, seeking the familiar scent of his owner.

Lewis chuckled, the tension between you momentarily easing. He took a step back, allowing you to bend down and give the dog a gentle pat on the head. "Looks like someone's happy to see you," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

As you ruffled Roscoe's ears, the dog's enthusiasm washed over you, bringing with it a sense of comfort and familiarity that seemed to ground you in the whirlwind of emotions swirling around the room. The softness of the dog's fur contrasted with the hardness of the ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the line you had drawn.

Lewis watched the interaction with a knowing smile, his eyes warm with affection for his pet, yet tinged with something more. It was as if he could feel the magnetic pull between you, the same pull that had brought you to this point of temptation.

You knelt down to be at eye level with Roscoe, his droopy jowls framing a mouth that looked perpetually ready to give a sloppy kiss. "Hey buddy," you cooed, your voice soft and gentle. The dog's tail wagged harder, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

As you spoke to Roscoe, you felt the tension in your body begin to dissipate, his unconditional love a balm to your frazzled nerves. "You're such a good boy," you murmured, stroking his wrinkled forehead.

Roscoe's eyes closed in contentment, his tail thumping against the floorboards in a steady rhythm. The sound was comforting, a reminder of the simple joys in life that had nothing to do with the complex dance of desire and duty that you and Lewis were performing.

You spoke to Roscoe, your voice filled with genuine affection as you told him what a good boy he was, his panting breaths punctuating your words with a sweet, dog-like laughter.

Lewis watched the interaction with a soft smile, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he bent down beside you, his touch a silent declaration of his intentions.

"Are you ready to breakfast?" he asked, his voice a warm caress that seemed to resonate through the room, pulling you back to the present. The question was innocent enough, but the way he looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, told a different story.

You nodded, feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin as you stood, the shirt and trousers swimming around your form.

Roscoe's tail thumped a farewell as you followed Lewis out of the room, his touch lingering on your waist as he guided you through the hallway.

The kitchen was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, the aroma of cooked breakfast wafting through the air. You felt your stomach growl, the sight of the perfectly plated meal on the counter stealing your attention.

Greek yogurt with a vibrant array of berries and a drizzle of honey sat alongside a steaming plate of scrambled eggs, the vivid green of the spinach peeking through the creamy folds, all atop a bed of nutty brown rice.

Lewis's knowing smile grew as he watched you take in the spread. "I know your taste," he said, a hint of pride in his voice as he gestured to the stool beside the breakfast bar. "It's what you always have."

You couldn't help but be impressed, and a little thrilled, that he had not only remembered but had gone to the trouble of preparing your favorite meal.

It had been your go-to breakfast since college, a balanced blend of sweetness and sustenance that had seen you through countless early mornings. "How did you know?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

Lewis's smile grew a bit wider as he leaned against the counter. "In your folder," he said, his voice low and seductive, "it tells me everything about you."

You raised an eyebrow, taking a seat and looking up at him through your lashes. "A bit creepy, don't you think?" you teased, your voice a silky purr that belied the racing of your heart.

Lewis chuckled, the sound deep and rich, as he pulled out a chair and sat down beside you. "It's all part of the service," he said, his hand brushing against your thigh, sending a thrill up your spine. "When you marry a man like me, you get the full experience."

He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving yours, as he continued to speak. "Everything you like, everything you hate, all neatly cataloged and ready for me to cater to."

You couldn't help but feel a thrill at the idea of being so thoroughly known, even as a part of you rebelled at the thought of being reduced to a collection of preferences and habits.

But as he sat down in front of you, his legs spread wide, the fabric of his own pants straining against his powerful thighs, you realized that the line between knowing and owning had become increasingly blurred.

"Did you not receive a folder from me as well?" Lewis asked, settling into the chair across from you.

You felt a sudden warmth spread through you at the thought of him researching your preferences, but you couldn't help the playful smirk that curved your lips.

"Maybe I did," you replied coyly, taking a spoonful of the sweet, tart berries. "But I'm not one to read the manual."

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Is that so?" he said, leaning forward and taking a piece of toast from the rack. "Well, I suppose I'll just have to show you, then."

He took a bite, the crunch echoing in the quiet room. You watched, transfixed, as he chewed slowly, savoring the flavors. Your gaze drifted from his full lips to the muscles of his throat as he swallowed, and you felt an unexpected jolt of want.

You took a bite of your eggs, the warmth of the food spreading through your body, mingling with the heat that seemed to radiate from Lewis.

As you ate, you couldn't help but let your gaze wander around the room, eventually landing on the oversized calendar hanging on the living room wall.

It was a stark reminder of the passing days, the months laid out in a grid, filled with various appointments and reminders.

"What's that for?" you asked after finishing the eggs, pointing to a mysterious circle drawn in red ink on one of the dates.

Lewis looked up from his plate, his gaze following your finger to the calendar. "It's a calendar that has all of our planned dates," he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You took another sip of coffee, the warmth of the liquid doing little to quench the growing fire within you. "And how do you know when I'm free?" you repeated, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your agency works with mine since we're married," he said simply, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very bones. "They coordinate our schedules to ensure we spend quality time together."

You nodded, understanding the implications of his words. Your heart raced at the thought of the intimate moments that would be shared, the private dinners and the stolen glances in the boardroom.

Your eyes drifted back to the calendar, and you looked at the closest date with the red circle. "A shooting date? Really?" you asked, shocked but excited.

"Yeah," Lewis said with a grin that was as devilish as it was charming. "You said you're quite the sharpshooter, so I figured it was time I saw it for myself."

You felt your cheeks heat up at his teasing, but you couldn't help the smug smile that played on your lips. Growing up with two older brothers had made you a master at holding your own in any kind of competition, especially one that involved firearms.

"Is that so?" you replied, your voice filled with mock challenge.

Lewis's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Oh, you'll see," he said, his voice a dark promise. "But for now, let's focus on the task at hand."

The task at hand was indeed tantalizing. You watched as he took another bite of toast, his strong jaw working as he chewed.

"What are we focusing on?" you asked, your voice a silken thread that seemed to tie the two of you closer together.

Lewis's smile was predatory as he set down his cup. "Our marriage," he said, his eyes darkening with intent. "On our lives for this whole year."

The touch of the cold metal ring on your finger was a constant reminder of the deal you'd made, a symbol of the year of your life that was now irrevocably intertwined with his.

Lewis's eyes followed the movement of your hand as you reached for your coffee, the steam swirling around your fingers like a seductive dance.

"A year," he murmured, his voice a soft echo in the quiet of the kitchen. "It's a long time to pretend."

You took a sip, the liquid warming your throat as you met his gaze. "We're not pretending," you said, setting the cup down with a gentle click. "We're just…exploring."

Lewis leaned in closer, his eyes searching yours. "Is that what you call it?" His voice was a low murmur, the timbre of it sending shivers down your spine.

You swallowed, feeling the heat of his proximity, the way your skin seemed to sing under his gaze. "What would you call it?" you asked, your voice a barely-there whisper.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, a smoldering intensity that made you feel like you were the only woman in the world. "I'd call it…the most exciting year of our lives."

"I'll see you about that," you said, your voice a seductive purr that seemed to wrap itself around him.

The air between you crackled with an unspoken challenge, and Lewis's smile grew wicked. "Oh, I have no doubt," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of your bones.

After breakfast, it was time to take Roscoe for a walk, and you decided to accompany Lewis. You were already dressed, the shirt and trousers clinging to your curves in a way that had him watching you like a hawk.

The cool air outside was a stark contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen, and you both took a moment to appreciate the serene beauty of the morning. The sun had barely crested the horizon, casting long shadows across the dew-kissed lawn as you stepped out onto the porch.

Roscoe bounced around at your feet, his tail wagging in excitement as he recognized the signs of his favorite activity. You laughed, the sound like a melody to Lewis's ears, as you clipped on his leash and stepped off the porch.

The leather of the leash felt cool and smooth in your hand as you led Roscoe down the cobblestone path that wound through the meticulously manicured garden. The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced around the two of you as you moved.

Lewis walked alongside you, his long strides easily matching your shorter ones. He was dressed in a pair of gym shorts that hugged his muscular thighs and a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms, tanned and lightly dusted with fine hairs.

Roscoe led the way, his nose to the ground as he snuffled and explored, tail wagging with the joy of the familiar routine. The gentle tug of the leash was a comforting reminder of the simple joys in life, the kind that didn't come with the complications of marriage contracts and hidden agendas.

Your eyes strayed to Lewis's arms as they moved rhythmically with his stride, the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt an entrancing sight. The cool morning air nipped at your skin, but you felt anything but cold as the heat of his presence seemed to envelop you.

"So, what are your plans for the day?" he asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between you since the moment you stepped outside.

You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the fresh morning air. "I have a meeting with my design team," you replied, your eyes drifting to the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to paint the sky with streaks of gold and pink. "We're finalizing the collection for Milan Fashion Week."

Lewis nodded, his gaze never leaving your face. "Ah, the glamorous life of a model," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure you'll wow them all."

You shot him a sideways glance, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a smile. "It's more work than you think," you replied, your voice filled with a hint of challenge. "But maybe I'll save some of that wow factor for you."

Lewis's eyes lit up with interest. "Is that so?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "I'd love a private fashion show."

You felt a thrill at his words, a shiver of excitement that seemed to coil in your belly. "We'll see about that," you replied, the smile playing on your lips growing more pronounced.

The walk with Roscoe was a chance to breathe, to feel the earth beneath your feet and the wind in your hair. Yet, even amidst the tranquility of nature, the tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a living, pulsing entity that seemed to hum in the air.

As you approached the end of the garden path, the sun was fully risen, casting a warm glow over the landscape. The dew on the grass sparkled like a million diamonds scattered by a careless goddess.

"What about you?" you asked, turning to him, the question a soft invitation to delve into the depths of his thoughts.

Lewis's gaze was unreadable for a moment, the shadows playing across his face as the sun climbed higher. "I have a meeting with the board," he said finally. "They want to discuss the future of the Ferrari partnership."

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of Ferrari, the very reason for the arrangement that had brought you both together. You felt a strange sense of pride at the thought of him fighting for your future together, even if it was based on a lie.

"And what about us?" you asked, your voice a soft caress that seemed to hang in the air between you. "What does the future hold for us?"

Lewis stopped, his hand coming to rest on the small of your back as he turned to face you fully. "Us?" he echoed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning silence.

You nodded, unable to tear your gaze from his, the question hanging in the air like a delicate web of unspoken desires. "Our marriage," you clarified, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to carry on the gentle breeze.

Lewis's eyes searched yours, his hand on your back a brand that seemed to burn through the fabric of the shirt. "The future of our marriage," he began, his voice a velvet promise that seemed to wrap itself around your very soul, "is…complicated."

You felt the warmth of his palm through the thin cotton, the heat of his touch a stark contrast to the cool morning air. His thumb traced a lazy pattern against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation through your body.

"Complicated?" you echoed, your voice a soft, questioning murmur.

Lewis nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "We're both ambitious, driven people," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the early morning air. "But we're also married now, and that comes with expectations and responsibilities."

You felt the weight of his words, the gravity of the situation settling like a warm blanket over your shoulders. "I know," you murmured, your voice barely a breath. "But we can make it work."

Lewis's hand slid up to your waist, his grip firm yet gentle. "Can we?" he asked, his eyes searching yours, a challenge and a question all rolled into one.

You stepped closer, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the scent of him enveloping you. "We have to," you murmured, the words a declaration of intent that seemed to hang in the air like a promise.

Lewis's hand tightened around your waist, his gaze dropping to your mouth as if he were considering kissing you. "Do we?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that seemed to shake the very ground beneath you.

You stepped closer still, the heat of his body enveloping you like a warm embrace. "We can," you said, your voice a firm declaration that seemed to resonate in the air. "We'll make it work."

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a long moment, the tension between you tightening like a bowstring pulled to the breaking point.

But just as you thought you could lean in and capture his lips, Roscoe decided he had had enough of the seriousness. With a sudden burst of energy, the bulldog jumped up between you, knocking the air from your lungs as his paws thudded against your chest. You stumbled back with a surprised laugh, the spell of the moment broken.

Roscoe's tongue lolled out as he looked up at you both with innocent, expectant eyes. His tail wagged so hard it was a wonder it didn't come off.

"I guess he doesn't like us getting too serious," you said, your voice a little shaky with repressed desire.

Lewis chuckled, the sound a warm rumble that seemed to wrap around you like a blanket. He ruffled the dog's ears, his touch gentle despite the passion that had just been simmering between the two of you.

"Looks like he's not ready to share his humans just yet," he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement.

The sudden interruption was a welcome one, a reminder of the life you shared beyond the confines of your agreement. You couldn't help but laugh as you regained your balance, the feel of the cool air on your flushed cheeks a refreshing contrast to the heat that had been building in the kitchen.

Lewis chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at the dog. "I guess we'll have to save our serious discussions for another time," he said, his voice a velvet rumble that seemed to echo the frustration of your thwarted kiss.

Roscoe's interruption had brought with it a burst of laughter, the tension of the moment dissipating like mist in the sun. You couldn't help but lean down to give the dog a grateful pat, his fur a soft cushion under your hand. "You always know how to lighten the mood," you said, your voice filled with affection.

Lewis's smile was a thing of beauty, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched you with the dog. "He's got good timing," he said, his voice still thick with desire despite the sudden shift in dynamics.

You nodded, unable to disagree as you ruffled Roscoe's ears. "Maybe he's smarter than we give him credit for," you said with a chuckle, the sound doing little to hide the longing that still hummed in the air between you.

Lewis's eyes searched yours for a moment longer, the promise of what almost happened still lingering in the air. "Maybe," he conceded, his hand dropping to give Roscoe a firm pat on the back. "But for now, let's get you ready for your big day."

The walk back to the house was a little more subdued than the one out, the weight of your conversation a palpable presence between you. The sun had fully risen now, casting its golden fingers through the leaves of the trees that lined the path, painting the world in a warm glow.

As you reached the back door, Lewis leaned down to unclip the leash from Roscoe's collar, the dog bounding inside with a happy grumble. You stepped in after him, the coolness of the marble floor a stark contrast to the heat outside.

The scent of your combined cologne and the lingering aroma of breakfast filled the air, a heady mix that seemed to cling to your skin. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

26th January 2025

The crack of the gunshot echoed through the cavernous shooting range, a symphony of power and precision that seemed to resonate with every beat of your heart.

Lewis, his eyes wide with a mix of surprise and admiration, watched as the bullet you had just fired tore through the center of the target, leaving nothing but a gaping, flawless hole.

The smell of gunpowder and the metallic tang of fear filled the air, an intoxicating blend that made your blood pulse with excitement. It was your first date and it was a shooting range. America had gone through a strange way of bringing out the primal instincts in a girl, and you were eager to show Lewis just how wild you could be.

"You're a natural," he murmured, his British accent thick and alluring. His hand was tentatively placed on your lower back, guiding you to the next target.

His touch was a gentle whisper against your skin, a stark contrast to the deafening roar of the firearm in your hand. You smirked, taking a moment to appreciate the irony before turning to face him.

"It's all about control," you said, the words rolling off your tongue as smoothly as the trigger beneath your finger. "You have to know exactly when to let go, when to give in to the power."

Your eyes flickered down to his hand, and for a brief moment, the air between you was charged with something more than just the static of spent bullets.

You stepped away, loading another round. "My past, it's complicated. But shooting, it was something I picked up when I was in the military."

You took aim again, the gun feeling like an extension of your body. "I was in the special forces. We had to be ready for anything, anywhere." You spoke calmly, but the words were like bombs, dropping between you and shaking the foundation of what Lewis thought he knew about you.

The clang of the metal as the target flipped back to reveal the perfect shot was like a cymbal crash in the silence. You turned to him, the smoky haze of the range framing your face like a portrait of a warrior queen. "There's something about the concentration it takes, the way your entire being focuses on that one moment of truth. It's… liberating."

Lewis swallowed hard, the heat of desire burning a trail from his throat to his groin. He had never met anyone quite like you before, a blend of steel and silk that left him utterly captivated.

"It's like a dance," he murmured, stepping closer, his hand reaching for yours. "A dangerous one, but a dance nonetheless."

You grinned, the challenge in your eyes sparkling like the diamond ring on your finger, a stark reminder of the unorthodox arrangement that had brought you two together. "Why don't you try?"

You handed him the gun, your fingers lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary, watching as he took a deep breath and wrapped his hand around the grip. His palms were sweaty, his heart racing, and the smell of his cologne was a heady mix of sandalwood and something that was uniquely him.

Lewis took a step forward, his shoulders squared and his eyes focused on the target. He had never been one for violence, but there was something about the way you handled the weapon that made him want to try, to feel that same sense of power and control that you so clearly wielded.

He raised the gun, his arms steady as you whispered instructions into his ear, your breath tickling the sensitive skin at the base of his neck. The heat of your body against his back was a stark contrast to the cold steel of the firearm.

"Breathe," you coached, your voice low and soothing. "Find your center."

He missed. The bullet thudded into the wall beside the target, sending a shiver through the concrete. You stepped closer, your hand finding his as you corrected his grip.

Your body pressed against his, your curves fitting against his lines as if you were two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had finally found their place.

"It's okay," you whispered, your breath a gentle caress against his cheek. "Let me show you."

You guided his arms, placing your hands over his so that the gun was steady. Your fingers intertwined with his, and you felt the tremble of his pulse against your palm.

His chest was a wall of warmth against your back, and his breathing grew deeper, more erratic.

You leaned into him, your eyes locked onto the target. "Now," you instructed, your voice a siren's call, "just let it happen."

As you guided his hands, the world around you seemed to fall away. There were only the two of you, the gun, and the target that represented the obstacles in your lives.

Lewis took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of your body envelop him, the scent of your perfume an intoxicating cocktail of jasmine and danger.

He squeezed the trigger, and this time the shot rang true, the bullet tearing through the target's edge with a precision that left him dizzy. He turned to you, his eyes alight with a newfound excitement.

"Better?" you teased, your smile a knowing curve that made his stomach flip.

Lewis nodded, unable to find his voice. The feel of you against him was a heady rush, the heat of your body searing through the fabric of his shirt, making him acutely aware of every inch of skin that wasn't touching yours.

"Much," he managed to murmur, his voice a gravelly echo of its usual self-assured tone.

You stepped away, giving him a playful shove. "You're a quick learner," you said, the smoky allure of your voice making his knees feel weak.

Lewis stumbled slightly, his grip on the gun tightening, his eyes never leaving yours. He had never felt this alive, this… primal before. "It's all thanks to you," he replied, his voice a rumble that seemed to resonate in the very core of your being.

You took the gun from him, placing it back into the holster with a practiced ease that made his stomach clench. "Let's go," you said, your tone a soft command that sent a thrill down his spine. "We've got other things to shoot."

The next range was a clay pigeon shoot, the discs flying through the air like doomed birds. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the field.

You handed Lewis a shotgun, the weight of it surprising him. "It's all about timing and instinct," you explained, your eyes gleaming with a predatory light that made his pulse race.

He watched as you stepped up to the firing line, the grace in your movements belying the deadly weapon in your hands. The clay disc shot upwards, a blur against the deepening blue, and with a swift, fluid motion, you brought the gun up to your shoulder and fired.

The explosion of the disc into a million pieces was a silent symphony, and Lewis couldn't tear his eyes away from the fiery passion in your eyes as you did it again and again.

Finally, it was his turn. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, a wild, untamed beast demanding to be unleashed. You stood beside him, your hand on his shoulder as you whispered sweet nothings of guidance into his ear.

He took aim, the weight of the shotgun heavy but reassuring in his hands. The disc took flight, and he focused on the moment, the way you had taught him. The world around them slowed down to a crawl, and he pulled the trigger.

The disc shattered, and a roar of victory tore from his throat. You turned to him, your smile wide and genuine, and he could see the fire in your eyes.

The third range was a tactical simulation, a maze of walls and barriers with pop-up targets. The air was thick with anticipation, the scent of adrenaline mixing with the metallic tang of the gunpowder.

You were in your element, moving through the maze with the grace of a panther stalking its prey.

Lewis followed you, his heart hammering in his chest. You were a force of nature, a tempest that he was desperate to be swept up in.

As you rounded a corner, you paused, your hand signaling for him to wait. Your eyes locked on a target, you took a deep breath, and the gun in your hand spat fire.

The target fell, and you turned to him, your eyes gleaming with excitement. "Your turn," you whispered, a hint of challenge in your voice.

Lewis stepped into the maze, his eyes scanning the horizon for his prey. His heart was racing, but he felt a strange calm settle over him.

The target popped up, and he reacted on instinct, his body moving with a precision that surprised him. The gun roared, and the target fell. You were there, at his side, your hand on his arm, your eyes alight with something that was more than just pride.

You led him through the maze, your bodies moving in a silent dance of power and passion. Each shot he took brought him closer to you, until the last target fell and the world around them was still, save for the pounding of their hearts.

You turned to him, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "You did it," you murmured, your voice a seductive caress. "You're a natural."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a sense of accomplishment at the praise, his chest puffing out slightly.

"Thank you," he breathed, his eyes never leaving yours. "But it's all thanks to you, really." His hand reached out, tentatively brushing a strand of hair from your face. "You're the one who's been guiding me through this… wild ride."

The small restaurant by the shooting range was a cozy little retreat, the perfect place to let the adrenaline of the day melt away into something more intimate.

The dim lights and the soft murmur of the other diners created an ambiance that was both intimate and electrifying. As you sat down at a corner booth, Lewis's hand found its way to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the soft fabric of your trousers.

You didn't mind his touch; in fact, it was surprisingly comforting. The thrill of the day had left you both on edge, and the gentle pressure of his hand was a reminder that despite the chaos of your new lives, you had found something real in the midst of the façade.

You leaned into him, a small smile playing on your lips as you picked up the menu.

The paparazzi outside the restaurant didn't bother you. They had caught you both leaving the range, Lewis's arm wrapped protectively around your shoulders, the gun in your hand still smoking.

It was a picture that would be on every tabloid cover the next day, but for now, you were just two people enjoying a meal together.

As you peruse the menu, his thumb traced lazy circles on your waist, sending shivers down your spine.

The waiter approached, a knowing smile playing on his lips as he took your orders. He was used to serving high-profile clients, and the sight of Lewis's hand casually resting on your waist was not lost on him.

He nodded discreetly and retreated, leaving the two of you in the warm embrace of the dimly lit booth.

You reached for your wine glass, the coolness of the crystal a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. Lewis's eyes never left you. You took a sip, the rich notes of the Merlot dancing on your tongue as you watched him over the rim.

His fingers tightened slightly, pulling you closer, and you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck. "You're amazing," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent a thrill down your spine. "I had no idea you could shoot like that."

You set the glass down, your hand brushing against his as you did so. "It's all about control," you repeated, your voice a soft purr that sent his pulse racing.

Lewis didn't care anymore. He had a woman beside him, an angel at most. The restaurant's dim lighting cast a warm glow on your faces as you leaned in closer, the whispers of your conversation lost in the gentle clinking of silverware and the soft murmur of other diners.

His hand, which had been tentatively placed on your waist, grew bolder, sliding around to the small of your back, pulling you in until your thighs brushed against his.

You were the only one holding back.

"I didn't know you were such a good actor," you whispered into his ear, your breath hot and sweet with the scent of wine.

"I have my moments," he whispered back, his eyes gleaming with mischief as he leaned closer, the scent of his cologne swirling around you like a seductive mist.

As you sipped at your wine, your mind wandered to the Ferrari team. It was a topic that had been a constant in your conversations since the wedding happened.

Lewis's excitement was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to vibrate in the air between you. He talked about the future races, the cars, the camaraderie of the team with such passion that you couldn't help but be drawn into his world.

You nodded along, your eyes never leaving his face as he spoke of the thrill of speed, the roar of the engines, and the adrenaline rush that came with pushing the limits.

Your nods grew more enthusiastic as he described the sleek lines of the Ferraris, the way the sun kissed the red paint, making it gleam like the most tempting of fruits.

You could see the yearning in his eyes, the desperation to be a part of that elite group of drivers who ruled the asphalt with a fiery passion that consumed them.

"It's like nothing else," he said, his voice filled with a reverence that was almost religious. "The wind in your hair, the engine roaring beneath you… it's pure freedom."

You leaned closer, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. "I can see it in your eyes," you murmured, your voice thick with a desire that had nothing to do with the speed of the cars and everything to do with the passion that fueled his every word.

Lewis took a deep breath, his hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. "I'd hope so," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to resonate through your very soul.

You set your fork down, the clink of silver against porcelain seeming to echo through the restaurant. The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in the warm embrace of the candlelit booth.

You felt his breath on your skin, his scent mingling with the aroma of the food and wine, creating a heady cocktail that made you lightheaded with desire.

"Should we go home now?" you asked, your voice a soft, sultry purr that seemed to caress his very soul.

"Yes," he murmured, the word thick with need. "Let's go home."

The drive back to your shared secluded house was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

The drive back to your secluded hilltop villa was silent, punctuated only by the roar of Lewis’s Ferrari. He navigated the winding roads with practiced ease, the headlights cutting through the darkness, mirroring the way he had skillfully navigated your defenses.

You glanced at him, his profile sharp against the passing streetlights. He looked every inch the Formula 1 superstar, but you knew there was more to him than the public persona.

As you pulled into the driveway, you felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in your chest. The charade was one thing in the public eye, but back within these walls, the line between reality and performance blurred.

He turned to you, his eyes searching. "You okay?"

You offered a small, tight smile. "Just tired."

Inside, the villa was cool and quiet. You both moved with a practiced dance, the choreography of shared space and unspoken rules. You went to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of water, the clinking of the glass echoing in the stillness. Lewis leaned against the doorway, watching you.

"They really went crazy with the photos tonight," he said, his voice low. "Think it'll be a problem?"

You shrugged, taking a sip. "Doubt it. It's good publicity for Ferrari. Keeps the sponsors happy."

He pushed off the doorframe and walked towards you, his movements fluid and graceful. "Is that all this is to you, then? Publicity?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken emotions. You set down your glass, turning to face him. "What else would it be, Lewis? It's a contract. An agreement."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space. "Is it?" His voice was a soft challenge, his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Yes. It has to be."

But the look in his eyes, the way he stepped closer, the heat of his body against yours, made you question everything. You had promised yourself that you would keep this arrangement strictly professional, but the way he made you feel was anything but.

"If that's what you want," Lewis said softly, his gaze dropping to your mouth.

You felt your resolve wavering like a candle flame in the wind. Roscoe, his bulldog, lay sprawled on the floor.

The glass of water in your hand trembled slightly, the condensation slipping down the side and onto your fingertips.

The coolness of the glass was a stark contrast to the heat of your palm, a reminder of the passion that had been building between you and Lewis all evening.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. The words were trapped in your throat. You took another sip, the water a refreshing balm to your dry mouth, and you tried to ignore the way his eyes had darkened, the way his breathing had changed.

Lewis reached out, brushing a droplet of water from your chin with the pad of his thumb. "We don't have to pretend here," he whispered.

Your eyes searched his, looking for any hint of the playboy persona you had been warned about, but all you saw was sincerity and something that looked suspiciously like affection.

It had only been a few days since the wedding, a whirlwind of flashing cameras and forced smiles, but somehow, in this quiet kitchen, it felt like a lifetime.

You knew this year was going to be hard. A year of playing the part of the loving wife, of smiling for the cameras, of sharing a house with a man you had only just met.

You had to stand your ground, keep the emotions at bay. This was a marriage of convenience, nothing more. . . .

1st February 2025

The roar of your hairdryer fills the opulent bathroom of your Monaco apartment, a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach.

"Are you sure I have to come?" you ask, your voice slightly muffled by the roaring appliance. You stare at your reflection, meticulously smoothing a stray strand of burgundy hair.

The life of a top model is often glamorous, filled with photoshoots in exotic locations and VIP parties.

But this… this is different. This is Ferrari and this is with Lewis.

A familiar face pops around the doorframe, a mischievous glint in his brown eyes. "Yes, you have to," Lewis replies, leaning against the doorjamb.

He watches you with an amused expression, clearly enjoying your apprehension. "Think of it as a field trip. Besides," he adds with a wink, "they're dying to meet the infamous 'you'."

You roll your eyes, switching off the hairdryer. "Infamous how, exactly?" you retort, turning to face him.

He chuckles, pushing himself off the doorframe and walking towards you. "Infamously beautiful. Infamously talented. And, let's be honest, infamously… married to me."

"Don't remind me," you murmur, but there's a playful smile on your lips.

"Come on," he says, pulling away slightly. "We need to leave. The Prancing Horse awaits."

You take one last look in the mirror, adjusting the straps of your scarlet red dress. It's a bold choice, a deliberate nod to Ferrari's iconic color.

Lewis is wearing a red top and black trousers, a coordinated effort that makes you feel almost… like a real couple.

The drive to Maranello is a blur of rolling hills and picturesque Italian villages. As you approach the Ferrari factory, the air crackles with anticipation. This is hallowed ground for racing enthusiasts, a place where legends are born.

As you step out of the car, you are immediately engulfed by a wave of excitement. The air hums with the sounds of engines revving and the scent of gasoline and burning rubber.

You walk alongside Lewis, your heels clicking on the pristine asphalt. He holds your hand, his touch a reassuring anchor in the sea of unfamiliar faces.

The staff greet Lewis with enthusiasm, their faces lighting up as he shakes their hands and exchanges words of appreciation.

You try your best to smile and nod, feeling a bit like an imposter in this world of high-octane adrenaline and finely tuned machinery.

"And this is my wife, Y/N," Lewis announces with a pride that makes your heart flutter. "She's a model, and a very talented one at that."

The staff members turn their attention to you, their eyes widening with curiosity. You offer a polite smile, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries. You can feel their scrutiny, their silent assessment.

You are an outsider in their world, a glamorous anomaly in a culture obsessed with speed and precision.

The highlight of the tour is undoubtedly the unveiling of Lewis's new F1 car. It's a magnificent machine, a symphony of carbon fiber and aerodynamic curves. The vibrant red paint gleams under the bright lights, and the Ferrari logo stands proudly on its nose.

"Wow," you breathe, genuinely impressed. "It's… incredible."

"Want to see what it feels like?" Lewis asks with a grin.

Before you can answer, he's already gesturing for one of the mechanics to help you get in. You hesitate for a moment, unsure if you're really cut out for this. But the excitement in Lewis's eyes is infectious, and you find yourself climbing into the cockpit.

It's surprisingly cramped, the seat molded perfectly to the driver's body. You adjust the steering wheel, marveling at the array of buttons and switches. For a moment, you feel like you're about to launch into orbit.

"Careful now," Lewis says, chuckling as he watches you. "Don't press any of the wrong buttons."

You laugh, trying to imagine yourself racing around a track at 200 miles per hour. It's a far cry from your usual world of fashion shows and photo shoots.

But then, disaster strikes. You try to get out of the car, but your leg gets stuck. You wiggle and squirm, but to no avail. You're completely wedged in, unable to move.

"Having a little trouble?" Lewis teases, but you can see the concern in his eyes.

He steps closer, reaching into the cockpit to help you. His hands brush against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. He pulls gently, and with a final tug, you're free.

"Thanks," you murmur, trying to ignore the heat that has flooded your cheeks.

"Well, that was certainly… interesting," you say, trying to laugh it off.

"Don't worry," Lewis says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "It happens to the best of us. Besides," he whispers in your ear, "it was quite entertaining to watch."

You elbow him playfully, and he laughs, the sound rich and warm. You can feel his chest vibrate against your arm, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

The rest of the evening is a whirlwind of handshakes and photo ops, but through it all, Lewis keeps you close. His hand is a constant presence on the small of your back, guiding you through the throngs of people, his thumb tracing small, comforting circles.

You manage to sneak away during a lull in the festivities, slipping into the team's merchandise store. The walls are adorned with the Ferrari emblem, red and yellow, the color of passion and fire. You scan the racks, looking for something that will truly surprise him.

Your eyes fall on a sleek Ferrari shirt, tailored to perfection, and a matching hat with the iconic prancing horse logo. The fabric feels like a second skin, and you can't resist the urge to try it on. The shirt hugs your curves in all the right places.

You make your purchase, the thrill of the secret hiding behind your innocent smile. As you slip the shirt over your dress, the fabric clings to your curves. The hat sits atop your head, the perfect finishing touch to your impromptu disguise.

"Lewis," you call out, your voice a siren's call through the bustling crowd. "I found something."

He turns, his eyes scanning the room before landing on you. The sight of you in the Ferrari shirt and hat makes his heart stumble. You look like a forbidden fruit, a temptress in the heart of his empire.

"What do you think?" you ask, spinning in a playful circle, the fabric of the shirt gliding against your skin like a lover's caress.

Lewis's eyes darken, his smile growing more predatory. "I think," he muttered, stepping closer, "that you look absolutely stunning."

His hand slides down your arm, his fingers brushing the bare skin above the shirt's sleeve. The sensation sends a jolt of electricity through you, a current that lights up your entire body.

"Let's take a picture," a staff member says, a camera already in hand.

Lewis's gaze lingers on you, his eyes tracing the contours of your body in the tight Ferrari shirt.

He knows the picture will be for the press, but the idea of capturing this moment, this intimacy, feels more personal. He nods, his hand sliding down to yours, our fingers entwining.

The flash from the camera pierces the dim light of the merchandise store, freezing the moment in time. You lean into him, his arm snaking around your waist as you pose for the shot, the fabric of your dress riding up slightly. His hand feels like a brand, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

"Perfect," the staff member says, lowering the camera with a knowing smile. You both look at each other, the energy between you palpable.

You look at the picture that the staff member has just taken. In the frame, Lewis' hand is resting against the side of your butt, a gesture that seems innocent to anyone else but is loaded with a tension that makes your stomach flip.

The way his fingers curve slightly, as if he's holding onto something precious, sends a wave of heat through your body.

You force a laugh, hoping to diffuse the situation, but the way his thumb is ghosting small circles over your hip bone tells you that he's as aware of the intimacy as you are. The fabric of your dress clings to your skin, the heat of his hand branding you from the inside out.

"Well, that's definitely going to make the front page," you murmur, trying to keep your voice light. But your heart is racing, the anticipation of what's to come a delicious cocktail of excitement and nerves.

Lewis leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's make sure it's not the only thing they're talking about tomorrow," he whispers, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

The evening wears on, the air growing thick with the scent of ambition and desire. You find yourself drawn into conversations about engine specs and racing strategies, your interest piqued by the passion in the voices of those around you.

But it's Lewis's passion that truly captivates you. As he talks shop with the Ferrari engineers, you can't help but stare at his animated expressions, the way his eyes light up when he discusses his love for the sport. His enthusiasm is contagious, and you feel your own excitement building.

Later, you find yourself in a more private setting, meeting with Fred Vasseur, Ferrari's team principal. You've met him before, at various racing events to discuss the marriage, but this feels different. This is Ferrari territory, and you're here as Lewis's wife.

Fred greets you with a warm smile, shaking your hand and offering a compliment on your dress. "It's good to see you both," he says, his eyes twinkling. "You make a lovely couple."

You exchange glances with Lewis, a silent understanding passing between you. It's a game, a performance that Fred had set the two of you to do.

But sometimes, it's hard to tell where the performance ends and reality begins.

Fred leads you to his office, a spacious room filled with racing memorabilia and photographs of Ferrari legends. He offers you a glass of champagne, and you all sit down to chat.

The conversation revolves around racing, of course. Fred is clearly passionate about the sport, and he talks with enthusiasm about Lewis's potential with Ferrari. You listen politely, interjecting with the occasional question or comment.

But as the conversation progresses, you notice Fred's gaze lingering on you. He seems genuinely interested in you, not just as the woman he picked to be Lewis's wife, but as an individual.

"So, Y/N," he says, leaning forward slightly. "What do you think of all this? Are you enjoying the world of Formula 1 so far?"

You pause, considering your answer. "It's certainly… different," you say with a smile. "It's a lot more intense than I expected."

"It is," Fred agrees. "But it's also incredibly rewarding. It's a world of passion, dedication, and teamwork. And of course," he adds with a wink, "a little bit of glamour."

You laugh, feeling a sense of connection with Fred. He seems to understand the unique position you're in, the challenges and opportunities that come with being married to a Formula 1 superstar.

As the meeting draws to a close, Fred stands up and shakes your hand again. "It was a pleasure seeing you, Y/N," he says sincerely. "I hope you enjoy your time with us here at Ferrari."

"Thank you," you reply, returning his smile. "I'm sure I will."

As you leave the office, Lewis's hand finds yours, threading through your fingers. The connection feels natural, the warmth of his skin sending a comforting thrum through your body.

"You handled that well," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends a shiver down your spine. "Fred can be a bit intense."

You nod, sipping your champagne. "I'm getting used to it."

Lewis squeezes your hand, and the warmth of his touch sends a jolt through you, making you acutely aware of the delicate balance of power between you. "Good," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "Because there's a lot more to come."

You say goodbye to the crew with a mix of relief and apprehension. The evening had been a whirlwind of new experiences, and you can't help but feel a little overwhelmed.

The crew, a tight-knit group of mechanics and engineers, had treated you with respect, but you know that their loyalty was first and foremost to Lewis.

As you walk away from the bustling garage, the roar of engines fading into the background, you turn to him, your heart racing.

"Thank you for bringing me here," you say, your voice low and earnest. "It's not every day I get to be a part of something so… exhilarating."

Lewis's smile widens, his eyes gleaming with something that looks suspiciously like pride. "It's nothing," he says, playing it cool. "Just a little taste of the world I live in."

Lewis flashed a cheeky wink while opening the door of his stunning Ferrari for you, saying, "I look forward to seeing you shine on the runway."

You slid into the car, the leather seats hugging your body as he settled in beside you. The engine purred to life, the vibration resonating through you, a silent promise of the speed and power waiting to be unleashed.

As he drove, you felt his eyes on you, his gaze lingering on your legs, exposed by the slit in your dress.

"You know," he began, his voice a velvet caress, "you look absolutely stunning in that Ferrari gear."

The car's engine hummed beneath you, a symphony of power and precision, mirroring the way your heart was racing at his words. The leather seats seemed to mold to your body, holding you in a seductive embrace.

Lewis's hand was steady on the steering wheel, his knuckles white with the effort of not reaching out to touch you again. The tension in the air was palpable, a living, breathing entity that seemed to pulse with every beat of your heart.

You leaned back into the luxurious leather seat, the hum of the engine a constant reminder of the power beneath you. The fabric of the Ferrari shirt was a second skin, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of liberation, as if you had shed the layers of your old life and were being reborn into something new, something thrilling.

Lewis's gaze was a constant presence, his eyes devouring the way the shirt hugged your curves. You felt his desire like a physical force, a magnetic pull that was impossible to ignore. The car was a cocoon of heat and passion, the very essence of your arrangement distilled into this single moment.

Eleven more months. The thought sent a shiver down your spine. It was a prison sentence and a promise of freedom all rolled into one. You had signed up for this, for the glamour and the thrills, but what you hadn't counted on was the man beneath the racing suit. . . .

3rd Februrary 2025

The sun had barely kissed the horizon as you stirred from your slumber, the insistent buzz of your alarm clock piercing the quietude of your Italian house.

You groaned, rolling over to silence it, your hand brushing against the cool, empty space beside you.

Throwing off the silk sheets, you slid out of bed and padded over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a breathtaking view of the Mediterranean.

The early morning light painted the waves in shades of pink and gold, casting a warm glow over the city that never sleeps. But for you, the day had started hours ago, your internal clock set to the rigorous schedule of a top model.

You walked through the sprawling apartment, the marble floors cool under your bare feet, heading towards the sound of gentle snoring. Roscoe, Lewis's bulldog, was sprawled out on a plush doggy bed in the corner of the room, his broad chest rising and falling in time with his deep, contented breaths.

You couldn't help but smile as you leaned down to pet his velvety ears. His eyes flickered open, and he greeted you with a sleepy yawn before nuzzling into your hand.

Leaving the dog to his slumber, you tiptoed into the master suite, the sanctum where the man you were married to, for all intents and purposes, lay in peaceful repose.

You felt a strange thrill at the sight of him, his features relaxed and boyish in sleep. The reality of your arrangement had not diminished the allure of this elusive, enigmatic figure who had stumbled into your life.

Lewis lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, showcasing the tapestry of tattoos that adorned his bicep. The sheets had slipped down, revealing the contours of his chiseled chest, a sculpture of muscle and sinew that spoke of his dedication to his sport.

You felt a sudden urge to crawl back into bed with him but this was his space, his sanctuary, and you were merely an interloper in his world.

Instead, you retreated to the en suite bathroom where you began your meticulous skincare routine, the soft murmur of the faucet as you washed your face a comforting lullaby.

The feel of the cool water was a gentle caress against your skin, waking you up fully. You applied your serums and creams with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker, each movement calculated to maintain the flawless complexion that had made you a household name.

The gym called next, the allure of the treadmill and the weights beckoning with the promise of endurance and strength. You pushed your body, the burn in your muscles a reminder of the discipline required to stay at the top of your game.

As you worked out, you couldn't help but think of Lewis, his own rigorous routine that would start in a few hours.

The day stretched before you, a canvas of potential and uncertainty. You were here, in the heart of Ferrari's world, a world that was as foreign to you as a catwalk was to him.

Yet, there was an undeniable thrill in the challenge of navigating the uncharted waters of Formula 1.

After your workout, you slipped into your robe, the soft terry cloth a gentle embrace against your damp skin. You paused in front of the mirror, taking stock of your reflection.

The hairdryer's roar filled the bathroom as you aimed it at your curly hair, the hot air a comforting warmth that danced through the damp strands.

You applied a generous amount of volumizing mousse, working it into the roots with your fingertips, feeling the cool gel sizzle against your scalp.

Each twirl of the dryer's nozzle brought your curls to life, a wild halo of fiery passion that framed your face.

You heard a knock, the sound echoing through the tiles. "Y/N? Are you in there?" Lewis' voice was muffled by the barrier of the door, but the anticipation in his tone was unmistakable.

You turned off the hairdryer, the sudden silence deafening. "Just a minute," you called out, your heart skipping a beat.

You took a deep breath, letting the warmth of the robe envelop you as you tied the belt securely around your waist. Your hair cascaded over your shoulders in a fiery waterfall, each curl perfectly in place.

You felt a flutter of nervousness in your stomach as you prepared to face the day ahead, to face Lewis in his element, his world of speed and power.

With a final spritz of hairspray to hold the masterpiece in place, you stepped out of the bathroom, the plush rug underfoot a stark contrast to the cold marble.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, a domestic bliss that seemed almost incongruous with the adrenaline-fueled life you knew he led.

Lewis looked up from the stove, a spatula in hand, and your breath hitched at the sight of him. He was shirtless, his abs rippling with each movement, a testament to the countless hours he spent in the gym.

His eyes traveled up and down your body, a smoldering look that seemed to strip away the layers of the robe, leaving you feeling exposed and wanton.

"I'm making breakfast," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through your very bones. "Did you want the same, or anything different?"

You felt a flush creep up your neck as his eyes roved over you, taking in the way the robe clung to your body. The question hung in the air, heavy with innuendo.

"Surprise me," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady. The air in the kitchen seemed to crackle with tension as he set the spatula down and approached you.

Lewis stepped closer, the scent of him mixing with the tantalizing smells of breakfast. His hand reached for your chin, tilting it up to meet his gaze.

The touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to the power you knew he wielded on the racetrack. His thumb traced your bottom lip, sending a shiver through your core.

"You're going to love it," he promised, the corners of his mouth tipping up in a wicked smile.

You nodded, taking a step backward. "I'll get changed," you said, walking past Roscoe who was half-asleep on the plush carpet, his snores a gentle reminder of the quiet moments you two shared amidst the chaos of Lewis' world.

In the bedroom, you slipped off the robe, the cool air kissing your flushed skin. You reached into the closet, the hangers whispering as you searched for the perfect outfit to face the day.

Your clothes arrived the day after your wedding. You fingered the garments, each one a carefully chosen piece of the puzzle that would shape your new identity as a Ferrari wife.

The dresses were bold and elegant, the fabrics whispering of wealth and prestige, and the lingerie, a tantalizing promise of the intimate moments you'd share with Lewis.

But today, there was no need for the grandeur of haute couture. You chose a simple white tank top and a pair of distressed jeans, the fabric kissing your skin.

A pair of black sneakers completed the ensemble, their laces untied and loose, inviting the casual ease that the day demanded.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of fresh coffee grew stronger, the rich scent wrapping around you like a warm embrace. You found Lewis in the kitchen, his muscular back to you as he moved with an easy grace that seemed almost unreal for someone who pushed the limits of physics for a living.

He wore a pair of black sweatpants that clung to his thighs, leaving little to the imagination.

The breakfast spread on the table was a feast fit for a king, or perhaps a Formula 1 champion. The sun streamed in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow on the plates of crispy bacon, fluffy eggs, and golden toast.

There was a bowl of fresh berries, their vibrant colors popping against the pristine white of the porcelain, and a small mountain of whipped cream that looked like it had been piped there by an angel.

The sight of the food made your stomach rumble with hunger, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt for the calories you were about to indulge in.

But then again, you'd earned it, with the grueling workout and the emotional tightrope you'd been walking since you woke up.

Lewis turned to you, a plate of food in hand, the muscles in his arms flexing as he offered it with a flourish. "Here you go, gorgeous," he said, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Fuel for the day ahead."

You took the plate, the warmth of his hand lingering on yours. You took a seat at the breakfast nook, watching as he served himself and joined you. The way he moved, the confidence in every gesture, was intoxicating. You felt a sudden urge to reach out, to trace the taut muscles of his forearm, but you resisted.

The first bite of eggs was heavenly, the yolk running like liquid gold over the toast. You chewed thoughtfully, watching Lewis as he devoured his breakfast with a focus that was almost feral.

He looked up, catching you staring. "What?" he asked, a smear of ketchup on his bottom lip.

You leaned over, wiping it away with your thumb, your gaze lingering on his mouth. "Nothing," you said, your voice a soft purr.

"For someone who wants to keep it professional, you're very seductive," Lewis murmured, his eyes darkening.

You felt a blush creep up your neck as you sat across from him, the intimate setting of the breakfast nook suddenly feeling much smaller.

You took a sip of coffee, the heat of the liquid doing little to quell the fire that his words had ignited. "I'm just being me," you said with a shrug, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving yours. "And that's the problem," he said, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You make it very difficult for me to focus on anything else."

The room grew warm, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. You took a bite of toast, the crunch echoing in the silence. The butter melted on your tongue, a rich and decadent treat that seemed to mirror the situation unfolding before you.

Lewis' eyes remained locked on yours, the playful smirk on his face hinting at the thrill of the chase.

"You're only supposed to focus on me, you cheater," you teased, slapping his bare shoulder playfully.

He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your stomach flip. "And here I thought we were just having breakfast," he said, raising an eyebrow.

You felt your cheeks flush, the heat spreading down to your chest.

The way he said it, with that hint of challenge, made you want to prove him wrong. To show him that you were more than just a pretty face, that you could handle this world of fast cars and faster men.

"Is that so?" You replied, taking another sip of your coffee, feeling the liquid warmth slide down your throat. "Well, I suppose I'll have to be on my best behavior, then."

Lewis's smile grew wider, a playful spark in his eyes. "Best behavior doesn't suit you," he murmured, reaching across the table to take your hand.

You felt a sudden urge to lean in, to kiss the smugness from his lips, but you held back. This was a dance, a delicate ballet of power and passion, and you were determined not to trip over your own feet.

Roscoe's snores grew louder, the bass line to the symphony of your racing hearts. You watched as Lewis' thumb traced lazy circles on the back of your hand, the movement sending a cascade of sensations up your arm.

With a sudden jolt, Roscoe's eyes shot open, his sleepy gaze locking onto the two of you. He stretched, his stubby legs pushing against the plush rug, and let out a low, questioning whine.

The sound was like a pinprick to the balloon of intimacy that had filled the room, and you both laughed, the moment broken.

Lewis leaned down to rub Roscoe's belly, his muscles rippling with the movement. "Looks like someone's ready for breakfast," he said, his eyes never leaving yours.

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment as the spell was broken. But as you watched the dog wag his tail with excitement, you realized that maybe, just maybe, the interruption was for the best.

You had a day of pretending ahead of you, a day of smiles and nods and playing the part of the adoring wife. The last thing you needed was to get lost in the seductive pull of Lewis' gaze and forget where you stood.

Breakfast turned into a lesson in the art of flirting without crossing lines. You exchanged barbs and stories, each one a little more personal than the last.

The banter was easy, natural, and you found yourself laughing more than you had in weeks. It was a dance you hadn't practiced, but one that you were surprisingly good at.

As you watched Lewis feed Roscoe a piece of bacon, you couldn't help but feel a strange kinship with the dog. He took the food from your hand with a gentle nip, his eyes never leaving yours, as if to say, 'You're part of this now.'

You leaned back in your chair, your eyes on the dog as he gobbled up the treat. "I think he likes you more than me," you said with a laugh.

Lewis grinned, his eyes never leaving yours. "Well, I am the one feeding him the good stuff," he replied, popping a piece of toast into his mouth.

The conversation turned to the day ahead, the upcoming event of you going to the USA while Lewis was doing intense training. You felt your stomach tighten with nerves.

But Lewis seemed unfazed. He talked about the new car, the team, the strategy for the season, his words a symphony of passion and knowledge.

As you finished your coffee, you took a deep breath, the caffeine jolting you into action. "I should go call Sarah," you said, standing up. "Make sure she's not too upset I couldn't be at her event today."

Lewis nodded, his eyes darkening with understanding. "I'll take Roscoe for a walk," he said, scooping the dog into his arms. "We'll be back before you know it."

You watched them leave, the sight of Lewis' strong arms cradling the pup bringing a smile to your lips. The door closed, leaving you in the quiet embrace of the apartment.

You picked up your phone, scrolling through to find Sarah's number. The call connected, and her voice, so familiar and soothing, filled your ear.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep the wobble out of your voice. "I'm so sorry I couldn't be there."

"Don't worry about it," she replied, her tone understanding. "We've got it all under control. How's life with the speed demon?"

You sighed, leaning against the marble countertop. "It's… intense," you admitted. "But he's not all bad."

Sarah's laughter filled the line. "Intense? That's an understatement if I've ever heard one. Of course, I wouldn't be complaining if I had a hubby like him," she joked, her voice teasing.

You couldn't help but smile, thinking of the way Lewis's muscles had flexed as he held Roscoe. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."

"So, do you like him?" Sarah's question was as direct as a bullet, piercing through the veil of your thoughts.

You paused, the phone pressed to your ear, your gaze drifting over the opulent kitchen, the aroma of Lewis's cologne still lingering. "It's complicated," you said finally, the words sticky on your tongue.

Sarah's laugh was understanding. "Well, when isn't it? But seriously, Y/N, I can tell he's different from the others."

You swallowed, the lump in your throat suddenly large. "It's just… we have to keep it professional," you said, hearing the waver in your voice.

"Professional," she echoed, the word sounding almost foreign in the context of the undeniable chemistry you shared. "But do you like him?"

You stared at the phone, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

You liked Lewis, of course you did. You liked the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he laughed, the way his hands felt on your skin, the sound of his voice in the quiet moments when the world fell away.

But it was more than that, deeper than the superficial attraction that had drawn you to your previous flings. You liked the way he talked about his work, the passion that consumed him, the way his entire being seemed to come alive when he was behind the wheel.

You took a deep breath, the scent of Lewis' cologne still lingering in the air. "I do," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "But it's complicated."

Sarah was silent for a moment, and you could almost hear her mind racing on the other end of the line. "Okay," she said finally. "But remember, you're there for the experience. Don't let anyone tell you how to feel."

Her words echoed in your mind as you hung up the phone. You had agreed to this marriage for a year, a year of playing the role of the devoted wife, a year of navigating the treacherous waters of the Formula 1 world.

But what if the lines between reality and the role became blurred? What if the attraction you felt was more than just a spark, but a flame that threatened to consume you both?

You pushed the thoughts aside as Lewis and Roscoe returned from their walk. The dog was panting, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, and Lewis had a smudge of mud on his cheek.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sight of them a welcome reprieve from the tumult of your thoughts.

"Looks like you two had fun," you said, gesturing to the mud on Lewis's face.

He grinned, a boyish charm lighting up his features. "Roscoe found a puddle," he explained, wiping the smudge away.

But you couldn't resist. You stepped closer, taking the napkin from his hand. "Let me," you murmured, your voice a soft caress.

As you reached up to wipe the remaining smudge of mud, your hand brushed against his cheek, the stubble grazing your skin like sandpaper. His eyes searched yours, the heat in them unmistakable.

You felt your breath hitch in your throat as you gently dabbed at the mud, your heart racing like an engine at full throttle.

When you had finished, you stepped back, the napkin still clutched in your hand. The silence between you was charged, a live wire humming with unspoken desire.

Lewis' gaze dropped to your mouth, his pupils dilating with want. For a moment, you thought he would lean in, claim your lips in a fiery kiss that would set the world ablaze. But he held back, the line between professional and personal blurring like the horizon on a race track.

You took a step away, needing the space to breathe. "I should… get ready," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis nodded, the heat in his eyes not dissipating. "I'll be waiting for you," he said, his voice low and thick.

You retreated to the bedroom, your heart pounding in your chest.

The walls of the luxurious suite seemed to close in around you, the weight of the unspoken moment heavy on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of Lewis that lingered in the air, a tantalizing mix of sweat and cologne that seemed to cling to every surface.

The meeting for Milan Fashion Week 2025 was in a few hours, and you had to be prepared. You rummaged through your wardrobe, the fabric of your clothes whispering against your fingertips as you pulled out the outfits you had meticulously chosen.

Each piece was a deliberate statement, a declaration of your intent to conquer the fashion world. You slipped into a sleek black jumpsuit that hugged your body like a second skin, the material whispering sweet nothings of power and seduction as you zipped it up.

The low neckline was a silent challenge, the plunging back a promise of what lay beneath.

Lewis knocked on the door, his voice a gentle reminder of the world outside your cocoon of fabric and ambition. "Ready to go?" he called out, the anticipation in his tone palpable.

You took a deep breath, stepping into a pair of stiletto heels that made you feel like you could walk on air. "As ready as I'll ever be," you replied, your voice steady despite the storm of nerves raging in your chest.

He was waiting in the hallway, looking like a vision in his own right. His black Ferrari-emblazoned jacket and pants were a stark contrast to your all-black ensemble, the vibrant red of the logo standing out like a beacon of passion.

The sight of him made your heart stutter, a reminder of the electricity that sizzled between you.

"You look… wow," he breathed, his eyes drinking you in.

You couldn't help but blush under his scrutiny. "Thank you," you murmured, trying to keep the tremor of desire from your voice. "So do you."

He offered his arm, and you took it, feeling the warmth of his skin against your own. As you descended the stairs, the click of your heels echoed through the hallway, a seductive rhythm that seemed to sync with the pounding of your heart.

The drive to the meeting was a silent one, the tension in the car thick enough to slice through.

You glanced at Lewis, his eyes focused on the road, his jaw set in determination. You wondered if he was thinking about the race or about the way you looked in that jumpsuit.

When you arrived at the sleek Milanese building, a cacophony of flashbulbs and eager whispers greeted you. The paparazzi had caught wind of your presence, and they were like sharks in a feeding frenzy. You took a deep breath, ready to face the storm.

As you stepped out of the car, the cool Italian air kissed your skin, the fabric of your jumpsuit whispering sweet nothings of seduction and power.

You could feel Lewis's eyes on you, his gaze a warm embrace that made you feel invincible. You turned to him, a smile playing on your lips, ready to face the world together.

But as you leaned in to whisper a quick goodbye, his hand shot out, capturing your chin and tilting your face up to meet his. His eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging between you. And for a moment, you considered it.

But reality crashed in like a wave, and you stepped back, smoothing your hair with trembling hands. "I'll see you later," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis's hand fell away, his eyes lingering on your mouth before he nodded. "Good luck," he murmured, his voice husky with unspoken promise.

You turned away, the click of your heels echoing through the marble lobby as you made your way to the elevator. The doors slid open, and you stepped inside, the scent of his cologne still clinging to you.

As the elevator ascended, you couldn't help but think of the heat in his eyes, the way his hand had felt on your skin. You were married to him, but it was a marriage of convenience, a business deal with a very handsome and very tempting bonus.

The doors opened with a ding, and you stepped into the bustling office space, a stark contrast to the quiet tension of the car. The room was a flurry of activity, models and designers rushing to and fro, their voices a symphony of Italian and English.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the day ahead. You had a role to play, a performance to give. But as you walked into the conference room, the reality of the situation hit you like a sledgehammer.

You weren't just playing the part of the devoted wife; you were falling for the man who had bought you.

The meeting was a blur of fabric swatches and runway talk, but you couldn't focus. Your mind was a tumult of thoughts, racing like the engines of Lewis's beloved cars.

You nodded and smiled in all the right places, but your heart was elsewhere, tangled in the web of desire that had been spun between the two of you.

As the hours ticked by, you found yourself checking your phone, hoping for a message from him. Each time it buzzed, your pulse quickened, only to be dashed by another email about the upcoming fashion week.

"Y/N? Y/N!" A voice pierced through the din of the bustling office, and you looked up to find one of the staff members standing in front of you, his eyes wide and his hands slightly trembling. "Your husband is Sir Lewis Hamilton, am I correct?"

You nodded, still in a daze from the morning's events. The words seemed to echo in your head, a strange mantra that you hadn't quite come to terms with. "Yes, that's right," you finally managed to say.

The staff member's face lit up with excitement. "Oh, wow, I'm so sorry!" He exclaimed. "I didn't realize! I'm a huge fan!" He extended a hand for you to shake, and you couldn't help but feel a little thrill at the recognition.

It was strange, being married to someone so revered, so adored.

"Is it possible that Mr. Hamilton can attend Milan Fashion Week 2025?" He asked, his voice hopeful. "It would be such an honor for us to have him here."

You looked at the man, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "I'll have to check with his schedule," you said, your mind racing. The thought of Lewis in Milan, surrounded by the glitz and glamour of the fashion world, was an intriguing one. "But I'm sure he'd love to support me."

The room grew quieter as the implications of your words sank in. A whisper of excitement rippled through the air, and suddenly, the fashion week meeting had taken on a whole new dimension.

The idea of Lewis attending, not as a tag-along, but as a legitimate guest, a man of style and substance in his own right, was tantalizing.

The rest of the afternoon was a whirlwind of fittings and discussions about the upcoming show. The designers were eager to dress you, their eyes lighting up at the prospect of having a Ferrari-affiliated superstar in their lineup.

But it was the thought of Lewis by your side that truly electrified the atmosphere.

The whispers grew louder as the rumors spread. The models, usually so self-absorbed, couldn't help but throw glances your way, their curiosity piqued by the potential presence of the Formula 1 legend.

You felt a strange thrill at being the center of attention, a thrill that was only magnified by the knowledge that it was all because of him.

"Are you almost done darling?" The message from Lewis appeared on your phone, jolting you out of your reverie. You looked down at the screen, his words a gentle caress amidst the chaos.

The endearment was simple, but it sent a warm shiver down your spine, a stark reminder of the intimate moment you had shared earlier.

You typed back a quick response, your thumbs hovering over the keys as you debated how much of your tumultuous emotions to reveal.

"Almost," you replied, your voice in your mind echoing with the same heat that had been in his gaze.

After what felt like an eternity, the last fitting was done, and the final fabric swatches were tucked away. The room cleared out, leaving you standing in the empty space, the echo of stilettos on marble a distant memory.

You took a deep breath, the scent of fresh coffee wafting in from the adjoining lounge area, and made your way to the balcony. The city of Milan spread out before you, a tapestry of rooftops and cobblestone streets.

As you leaned against the railing, the cool metal pressing into your skin, your thoughts drifted back to Lewis. You had told him you were finished from work, the words slipping from your lips with a casualness that belied the racing of your heart.

But when his car appeared, a sleek Ferrari, the sun glinting off its metallic paint, your resolve crumbled like a cookie under the pressure of a vise.

You watched as the engine purr grew louder, the sound resonating through your very soul, and then there he was, emerging from the driver's seat with the grace of a panther.

His eyes scanned the area, searching for you, and when they finally found you, the intensity of his gaze was like a physical touch.

Your stomach did a little flip as he approached, his strides long and confident. He was dressed in a tailored suit, the fabric hugging his athletic frame in a way that made your mouth go dry.

As he drew closer, you felt a breeze that seemed to carry his scent with it, the intoxicating blend of his cologne and the faint hint of engine oil that clung to him like a second skin.

It was a scent that had grown surprisingly familiar, a scent that was becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

When he was a few feet away, he looked up, meeting your eyes with a smile that was both welcoming and challenging. The sight of him made you feel both vulnerable and powerful, like you were standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

You stepped forward, your heels clacking against the marble, each step bringing you closer to the man who had turned your world upside down.

His eyes raked over you, his gaze lingering on the neckline of your jumpsuit, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin. You felt his eyes like a physical caress, a silent promise of what was to come.

The moment between you was charged, the air thick with unspoken words and unanswered questions. You wanted to lean into him, to let the heat of his body envelop you, to kiss him until the world fell away. But you held back, the professional facade still clinging to you like a second skin.

"Ready to go?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

You nodded, trying to ignore the way your heart stuttered in your chest. "Yes," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

He offered his hand, and you took it, the warmth of his skin sending a shiver down your spine. As he led you to the car, you couldn't help but feel like you were being swept away by a tornado of passion and power.

Lewis opened the door for you with a flourish, his eyes never leaving yours as you slid into the low-slung seat. The smell of leather and luxury enveloped you, and you felt a strange sense of belonging.

You watched as he walked around the car, his movements fluid and precise, like a dance.

As he slid into the driver's seat, you noticed the way his fingers caressed the leather-wrapped steering wheel, a silent testament to his love for speed and power. The engine roared to life, the sound vibrating through you like a bass note from a symphony of desire.

"How was the meeting?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble in the quiet cabin.

You took a deep breath, trying to gather your thoughts. "It was… interesting," you finally managed. "They're all eager to have you at Milan Fashion Week."

He shot you a look, one eyebrow quirking. "Me?"

"Yes, you," you said with a small smile. "They want the full package."

The corner of his mouth turned up in a knowing smile, and you felt your stomach flip. The car pulled away from the curb, the engine purring like a contented cat as it ate up the asphalt.

As you sat there, the leather seats molding to your body, you felt the tension from earlier slowly dissipate. The city flew by in a blur of lights and sounds, but all you could focus on was the warmth of his hand resting on the gear stick, so close to yours.

You couldn't help but glance over at him, his focus on the road unwavering as he navigated the twisting streets of Milan with ease. The setting sun cast a golden halo around him, his profile sharp and defined. The muscles in his forearm flexed with each gear change, a silent symphony of power and control.

Your hand itched to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin again, but you resisted, unsure of the game you were playing.

When you both got home, you two went inside to see Roscoe still awake, his bulldog's eyes blinking lazily as he watched you enter. He thumped his tail on the floor, his plush bed a testament to the comforts of your Italian house.

Lewis chuckled, reaching down to ruffle the dog's fur. "Someone's been waiting up for us," he said, his voice a gentle caress.

You couldn't help the smile that bloomed on your lips at the sight of your husband interacting with the animal. It was moments like these that made you question the nature of your arrangement. The domesticity of it all was a stark contrast to the glitz and glamour of your respective careers.

Roscoe stretched, his joints popping as he climbed to his feet and ambled over to you, his nails clicking against the marble floor. You bent down to pet him, his warm breath and soft fur a balm to your frazzled nerves.

"Looks like he's happy to see you," Lewis said, his hand resting on the small of your back.

You straightened up, your eyes meeting his, and in that moment, the air between you crackled with tension.

The apartment was quiet, the only sounds the distant hum of the city and the occasional rumble of Roscoe's contented sighs.

Lewis stepped closer, his hand sliding around your waist. "You know," he murmured, "I've never done this before."

Your heart raced, his words a confession that took you by surprise. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper.

"Married life," he said, his eyes searching yours. "The whole pretending to be in love."

You swallowed hard, his honesty a knife that sliced through the armor you had so carefully constructed around your heart. "Neither have I," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Lewis's grin grew wider, a proud glint in his eye that sent your heart racing. "Well, I think we're doing a pretty good job of it, don't you?"

You couldn't argue with that. The way he looked at you, the way he touched you, the way he made you feel—it all seemed so genuine. Was it possible that the lines between pretend and reality had blurred?

"Maybe we're just really good actors," you said, trying to keep your voice light, but the tremor in your words gave you away.

Lewis's grin grew, the proud tilt of his head making your heart flutter. "Or maybe," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "we're just really good at being in love."

With a boldness that surprised even yourself, you reached up and cupped his bearded cheek, feeling the coarse hair against your palm. "Or maybe," you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, "you're just a good flirt."

Lewis's grin grew even wider, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Only for you," he whispered, and before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.

The kiss was gentle at first, a soft brush of his lips against yours, as if testing the waters. But when you didn't pull away, his grip on your waist tightened, and the kiss deepened.

His tongue slipped into your mouth, the taste of him a heady mix of coffee and something uniquely Lewis—a flavor that was becoming as addictive as the adrenaline rush of a race. . . .

6th February 2025

"Have a good flight, okay? Text me when you land," Lewis murmured into your hair, his arms tightening around you in a fierce embrace.

The airport was a cacophony of sounds—announcements, the hum of engines, the clatter of luggage wheels—but all you heard was the steady beat of his heart against your chest.

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the tumult of emotions swirling within you. "Yeah, I will. Make sure to train hard," you replied, trying to keep your voice light.

Lewis leaned back, his eyes searching yours, a hint of something unreadable flickering in their depths. "You know I always do," he said, his voice low and serious. "But I'll miss you."

The words hung in the air, a silent confession that seemed to resonate through every fiber of your being. You felt a sudden warmth in your chest, a strange mix of comfort and excitement.

"I'll miss Roscoe," you replied, the mention of his bulldog a gentle reminder of the domestic bliss that had become your reality.

"But you too as well," you grinned, the words slipping from your lips with surprising ease. The smile tugged at the corners of your mouth, a silent admission that the lines between friendship and something more were blurring.

The kiss you shared was swift and fiery, a silent promise of the passion that awaited you both when you'd reunite. The taste of him lingered on your lips as you made your way to the gate, the memory of his touch a warm brand against your skin. It was a kiss that had started as a playful gesture, a simple goodbye before the cameras could capture the intimate moment.

As you pulled away, you felt the chilly air of the terminal replace the warmth of his embrace, leaving you with an unexpected sense of loss. But there was no time for melancholy—you had a plane to catch.

Your heart raced as you handed your boarding pass to the attendant, the butterflies in your stomach doing somersaults. The kiss had been unexpected, a spark that had ignited a flame you hadn't known was there.

You found your seat on the first-class flight, the plush leather a stark contrast to the turmoil in your thoughts.

As the aircraft taxied down the runway, you couldn't help but steal glances out the window, watching as the world grew smaller and smaller, until it was just the two of you, a fleeting memory against the vastness of the sky.

The flight to New York was a blur of movies and overpriced champagne, your thoughts never straying far from the man you had left behind.

You played the kiss over and over in your mind, the feel of his lips against yours, the way his hand had cradled your cheek, the warmth of his breath on your skin.

As the plane touched down, the reality of your old life began to sink in. The bustling streets of Milan had been replaced by the towering skyscrapers and honking taxis of the Big Apple.

You felt a pang of longing for the quiet elegance of Italy, but also an excitement at the prospect of reconquering an old city.

You had hoped that your auntie was still alive and still living in the place as 20 years ago. It had been that long since you'd last seen her, a time when you were just a wide-eyed girl with dreams of modeling stardom.

The apartment was a tiny oasis in the concrete jungle, a place where you could escape to when the world felt too big and too scary. Now, as you hailed a taxi, you couldn't help but wonder if it had changed as much as you had.

The cab wove through the traffic, the neon lights of Times Square flashing by in a blur of color and sound. You watched the city pass by with a mix of nostalgia and detachment, the memories of your past like a distant echo.

When the taxi pulled up in front of the familiar brownstone, you felt a lump form in your throat. The building looked exactly the same—the ivy-covered bricks, the wrought-iron balconies, the scent of fresh baked bread from the bakery below.

You climbed out of the taxi, your legs feeling like jelly as you made your way to the front door. You hadn't told her you were coming, hadn't wanted to spoil the surprise.

The stairs creaked under your heels, each step taking you closer to a part of your life that had been buried under the glamour of Milan.

The door swung open at your knock, revealing the warm embrace of your auntie's living room, exactly as you remembered it. The floral wallpaper was a little more faded, the couch a bit more worn, but the love that filled the space remained unchanged.

A gasp escaped your auntie's lips as she took in your presence, her hand flying to her chest as she stumbled backward.

"Y/N, is that really you?" she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock. Time had etched lines around her eyes and mouth, but the warmth in her gaze was as potent as ever.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing through the apartment like a song from your childhood. "It's me, Auntie," you said, stepping into the room and wrapping your arms around her. Her scent of lavender and vanilla was as familiar as your own heartbeat.

The embrace was tight, a silent acknowledgment of the years that had passed, the moments shared and lost.

Her body felt fragile against yours, a stark contrast to the robust figure who had once held you when you cried and cheered you on as you strutted down the runway of life.

You stepped back, holding her at arm's length, taking in the woman who had been your rock, your confidante, your escape.

Her hair had turned from a vibrant auburn to a soft silver, but her eyes remained a fiery amber, the same color as your own. "You're so beautiful," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.

The words brought a warmth to your cheeks as you looked around the room, the memories flooding back like a tidal wave.

The piano where you had played your first notes, the bookshelves lined with the stories that had shaped your imagination, the dining table where you had shared countless meals and confessions.

You followed her into the kitchen, the walls lined with photographs of your modeling career, each frame a testament to the life you had built.

You felt a strange sense of pride and guilt as you studied the images, a stark reminder of the world you had left behind when you agreed to marry Lewis.

A pot of tea appeared on the table, the china cups clinking gently as she filled them. "So tell me, how's married life?" she asked, her voice light, but the question held a weight that made your stomach flutter.

You took a sip, letting the warmth of the tea chase away the chill of the city outside. "It's… different," you said, choosing your words carefully. "But good. Lewis is…" You paused, searching for the right word. "Interesting."

Your auntie's eyes twinkled with mischief as she leaned in closer. "And the bedroom, dear? Is that interesting too?"

You felt the heat creep up your neck as you set your cup down with a clatter. "Auntie," you chastised, but the smile on her face was infectious, and you couldn't help but laugh.

"I'm an old woman, not dead," she said with a wink. "Now, tell me about this kiss."

The memory of Lewis's lips against yours, the feel of his hands on your body, washed over you in a wave of desire. You felt your cheeks flush as you recounted the story, the words spilling out in a rush.

Her eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, my sweet girl," she said, patting your hand. "I knew you had it in you. You just needed the right person to bring it out."

"Your brother, though," she said solemnly, the mood in the room shifting like a cloud passing over the sun.

You stiffened, not wanting to hear about him today. The thought of your brother was a sour note in an otherwise sweet symphony. "What about him?" you asked, trying to keep the irritation out of your voice.

"Well, he's been asking about you," she said, her voice filled with an unspoken concern. "He's worried about you, with everything that's been happening."

"Everything that's been happening?" you repeated, feeling the tension coil in your stomach. "What does he know?"

Your auntie squeezed your hand, her eyes filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

"Your brother's been in some trouble," she began, her voice heavy with the weight of unspoken words. "He's gotten himself into debt with some unsavory characters. They're not the kind of people who accept 'no' for an answer."

You felt your chest tighten, the tea in your cup suddenly tasting bitter. "How bad is it?"

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Very. They've been to the house, asking for him. It's not safe for him here anymore."

You felt a coldness seep into your bones, the reality of the situation settling like a lead weight. "What do they want?"

Her eyes searched yours, a silent plea for understanding. "They want their money, and they're willing to do anything to get it."

You nodded, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Your brother had always been the reckless one, living life on the edge without a care for the consequences. And now, it seemed, those consequences had come calling.

You kept quiet, the words sticking in your throat like a mouthful of sand. You hated him for it, for being the reason your father and older brother weren't here to share in your success, weren't here to see the woman you'd become.

Their deaths had been a tragic accident, one that had been laid at your brother's feet. His need for speed, his arrogance behind the wheel, had cost them their lives. The guilt had driven him to the bottle, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

The anger you had held onto for so long bubbled to the surface, a molten river of rage that threatened to consume you. You had worked so hard to escape the shadow of your past, to build a life that was yours alone. And now he was threatening to bring it all crashing down.

You took a deep breath, the scent of your auntie's kitchen—floral and comforting—helping to center you. "I'll talk to him," you said finally, the words leaving a metallic taste in your mouth.

The look of relief on her face was worth the lie. You had no intention of getting involved with him again. You had moved on, had built a new life, and you weren't going to let him drag you back into his mess.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of forced smiles and small talk, the weight of the conversation hanging over you like a storm cloud.

As you lay in the guest room that night, the creaks of the old house echoing through the darkness, you couldn't help but think of Lewis.

His touch, his kiss, the way he had looked at you as if you were the only woman in the world—it was a stark contrast to the cold, empty bed you found yourself in now. You hated that you missed him, that you craved the warmth of his arms.

But you knew you couldn't let your guard down. Your brother had a way of worming his way into people's hearts, of making them believe in the best of him, even when the evidence pointed to the worst. You had been down that path before, had seen firsthand the destruction he could cause.

And so, as you drifted off to sleep, you made a promise to yourself. You would keep your distance, would protect the life you had built with Lewis, even if it meant keeping your true feelings hidden behind a mask of indifference.

The next morning, you woke to the sound of rain tapping against the window, the scent of the city mingling with the sweetness of your auntie's perfume.

You stretched, the silk sheets a decadent luxury after the roughness of the last few days.

The shower washed away the last traces of sleep, the hot water a balm against the tension that had taken up residence in your muscles. As you dressed, you felt the weight of the ring on your finger, a reminder of the world you had left behind.

You took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts away. You had a job to do, a performance to give. And you were a pro at pretending. You had been doing it your whole life.

As you descended the stairs, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted you, along with the sight of your auntie bustling around the kitchen. She looked up, her eyes filled with hope. "How about some breakfast before you go?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to tell her the truth. You were going to have to keep your distance from your brother, no matter how much she hoped for reconciliation.

You sat at the table, the chill of the marble countertop sending shivers up your spine as you sipped your coffee. The rain outside painted a picture of your emotions, a tumultuous dance of joy and fear, hope and regret.

You felt a strange sense of peace in the chaos, a reminder that no matter how much you tried to escape your past, it was always there, ready to pounce when you least expected it.

With a heavy heart, you said your goodbyes to your auntie, the weight of her words and the unspoken fear in her eyes following you like a shadow as you stepped out into the rain-soaked street.

The cemetery was a short cab ride away, the journey a silent pilgrimage through the city that had borne witness to so much of your pain. The rain had eased to a gentle mist by the time you arrived, the cobblestones of the pathway glistening under the soft light of the street lamps.

You found their graves easily, the twin headstones standing sentinel in the quiet of the night. Your father's name was etched in strong, proud letters, while your brother's was a stark reminder of a life cut too short.

The flowers you had brought with you, a bouquet of your father's favorite roses and your brother's beloved lilies, seemed almost vulgar in the face of the cold, unforgiving stone.

You knelt beside their graves, the damp earth seeping into the knees of your pants as you arranged the bouquet with trembling hands. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a soft mist that clung to your skin and hair like a whispered secret.

"I've done it," you murmured, the words carrying on the wind. "I've made it in Milan. I've become someone." You felt the coolness of the stone against your forehead as you leaned in, the scent of the damp earth a stark contrast to the sweetness of the roses.

The silence was absolute, the only sound the distant hum of the city and the rustle of leaves. It was a cocoon of solitude, a place where you could be honest without fear of judgment.

"I'm married, but it's not what you'd think," you whispered, the confession a release of the pent-up tension that had coiled in your chest since the moment you'd stepped off the plane.

As you talked, the words flowed from you like a river breaking through a dam, the story of your whirlwind romance and the arrangement that had brought you to this point. The way Lewis's eyes had sparkled when he'd seen you, the thrill of the racetrack, the kiss that had set your world on fire.

You felt the warmth of a hand on your shoulder, and you jerked upright, spinning around to find your younger brother standing behind you. His hair was wet with rain, his clothes rumpled, and his eyes were filled with a sadness that mirrored your own.

For a moment, you just stared at each other, the years of anger and hurt hanging in the air like a thick fog. "What are you doing here?" you finally managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

He looked down at his feet, his gaze shifting from the headstones to the flowers you had brought. "I heard you were back," he said softly. "I had to see for myself."

The sight of him, the reality of his presence, was like a slap in the face. You had hoped that the distance of time and the grandeur of Milan would have made you immune to his charms, but the pull was still there, a magnetic force that you hadn't anticipated.

"How did you find me?" you demanded, your voice shaking with a mix of anger and fear.

He shrugged, the movement of his shoulders sending a shiver down your spine. "It's not hard when you're a Ferrari wife," he said, the bitterness in his tone cutting deeper than any knife.

You stood, the earth sticking to your skin as you turned to face him fully. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside.

He looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a plea that you hadn't seen since you were children. "I need your help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They're after me, and they won't stop until they get what they want."

The gravity of his words hit you like a ton of bricks. You had come to the cemetery seeking peace, hoping to find closure in the one place where you had always felt safe. But instead, you were faced with the chaos of your past, the demons you had thought you had buried with your father and brother.

You felt the ring on your finger, the coldness of the metal a stark contrast to the warmth of your brother's hand. "What have you done?" you breathed, the question heavy with accusation.

He swallowed, the muscles in his throat bobbing with the effort. "I borrowed money," he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. "A lot of money. And I can't pay it back."

The world around you grew still, the sound of your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You knew the kind of people he was talking about, had heard the whispers and the threats that had haunted the edges of your childhood.

"How much?" you asked, your voice cold, the warmth of the kitchen and your auntie's words forgotten in the face of this new reality.

"Enough to get us both killed," he said, his eyes haunted.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had worked so hard to leave this world behind, to build a life that didn't involve the danger and the darkness that had claimed your family.

And now, here you were, knee-deep in it again.

You took a step back, the headstones at your back offering no comfort as the chilly mist of the night seeped into your bones. "Why are you telling me this now?" you demanded, your voice trembling.

Your brother's eyes searched yours, a desperate plea swimming in their depths. "Because I heard you married Lewis Hamilton for money," he said, the words hitting you like a sucker punch. "And I thought, maybe, just maybe, you could help me."

You felt the blood drain from your face, the coldness of the stone seeping through your clothes, through your skin, into your very soul.

The whispers of the cemetery seemed to amplify, a cacophony of judgment and accusation. "You don't get to visit Father and Gabriel," you screamed, your voice echoing through the quiet night, "without paying respect to them after what you did to them!"

The words hung in the air, a shrill rebuke that seemed to shake the very foundations of the earth.

Your chest heaved with the effort of keeping the tears at bay, the anger a living, breathing entity that threatened to consume you whole.

Elijah took a step back, the reality of his transgressions etched into the lines of his face. "I know," he said, his voice hoarse. "But I'm desperate, sis. They're going to kill me if I don't come up with the cash."

"Don't you dare drag Lewis into this," you spat, the words bitter on your tongue. "He has nothing to do with your mess."

Your brother's eyes widened, the desperation in them replaced with something akin to fear. "I just thought," he began, his voice trailing off as you advanced on him, the damp earth sticking to your shoes with each step.

"Thought what?" you demanded, your fists clenched at your sides. "That I would just hand over the life I've built for you to throw away?"

Elijah's eyes fell to the ground, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "I didn't mean it like that," he mumbled, the sound of his voice barely audible over the dampness of the night.

You stepped closer, the anger in your voice unwavering. "What part of 'you don't get to visit them' don't you understand?" you seethed, the words a hot knife slicing through the tension between you. "You think you can just waltz back into our lives and expect everything to be okay?"

He looked up, the rain mixing with the tears in his eyes. "I know I fucked up," he choked out, the weight of his confession hanging in the air like the mist that clung to the cemetery stones. "But I'm trying to make it right."

You felt the rage in your chest, a fiery beast that demanded to be heard. "By bringing that kind of shit into my marriage?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the quiet night. "Lewis is not a part of this, and you will not involve him."

The wind picked up, sending a shiver down your spine as the mist turned to a light rain. The droplets clung to your lashes, blurring your vision as the emotions of the past and present collided.

You took a deep breath, the scent of the rain and the fresh blooming lilies from your brother's grave grounding you in the moment. "I won't have you endangering Lewis," you said, your voice firm despite the tremble in your chest. "But I can't let you die."

With those words, you made a decision that would change the trajectory of your life once more. You reached into your bag, pulling out the envelope of cash that had been weighing heavily on your mind since your auntie had handed it to you.

You thrust it into his trembling hand. "Take it," you said, the finality in your tone leaving no room for argument. "But you promise me, on our father's and Gabriel's graves, that you will not go near Lewis."

Elijah's eyes widened, the desperation in them momentarily replaced with gratitude. He took the envelope, his hand clutching it as if it were a lifeline. "I promise," he murmured, the words a solemn oath that hung in the air.

The rain grew heavier, the drops now stinging your skin as you watched your brother turn and walk away, the envelope clutched to his chest.

You felt a strange sense of relief, the burden of his debt transferred from him to you, but the fear of what might happen if he broke his promise never leaving you.

As you turned to leave, the coldness of the night seeping into your bones, you couldn't help but feel the weight of your actions. You had made a deal with the devil, one that could cost you everything.

But you had also bought time, time to figure out how to keep Lewis safe from the storm that was your brother's life. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch Pt 2

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. PT 2

Song: House Of Balloons · The Weeknd

Part 1 - Part 3

Author’s note: This is very very long so grab your popcorn for this hour or longer chapter!🍿 This also made me want to cry so grab so tissus! 😭 The next chapter will probably be the last so I wanted to add as much backstory here so please enjoy! Please like, reblog and share this 🫶!!

Taglist: @finnishfrom1999, @sinofwriting, @scriptedinkbyxim, @unknownmystery22, @suns3treading, @4-ln4, @vyctorya, @lovebeinaprincessworld, @widow-cevans, @waywardpersonwerewolf, @freyathehuntress, @obxstiles, @tiffanyae123-blog, @uhcalli, @aileeincomplexity, @respondingtoshowerthoughts-blog, @donteventry-itdude, @leclrcg, @sabrinaselina55, @pandora108

Word count: 34.6k

MASTERLIST - F1

You’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.

“Thank you,” you said quietly to him as you two stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”

He blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."

He looked up at you, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."

Your heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming you, making your breath catch in your throat.

But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. You managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."

He, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched your hand.

His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."

You, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside you, acted on instinct. You leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.

Then, before he could react, you turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

He stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where your lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.

He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw you again after that day.

You ran all the way home, your lungs burning and your heart pounding. You burst through the front door, breathless and mortified.

“Dad, I’m home!” you called out, but the words caught in your throat. The house was a disaster.

Furniture was overturned, shards of glass littered the floor, and familiar objects were scattered haphazardly as if caught in a whirlwind. A wave of dread washed over you.

You followed the sound of ragged, labored breathing to your father’s room. He was on the floor, clutching his head in his hands, his body wracked with sobs.

“Dad!” you yelled, running to his side. You knelt beside him, your heart twisting with worry. “What happened? Are you okay?”

He looked up at you, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. He reached out and grasped your hand tightly, his grip desperate. “Oh, baby,” he muttered, his voice thick with tears. “You’re here. I thought… I thought I’d lost you too.”

“I’m okay, Dad. I’m right here,” you said, stroking his hair. “I’m so sorry. I went to my friend's party. I should have told you.”

He squeezed your hand again, his grip loosening slightly. “You know today is your mom’s angelversary,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

The word landed like a punch to the gut. You had been so caught up in your own emotions, so distracted by him, that you had almost forgotten.

“Yeah,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “I… I went to her favourite restaurant earlier today.” You forced a smile, hoping to reassure him.

He closed his eyes, a fresh wave of grief washing over him. “It’s just… It’s so hard without her. Everything reminds me of her.”

You wrapped your arms around him, holding him tight. “I know, Dad. It’s hard for me too. But we’ll get through it. We’ll get through it together.”

You helped him up and led him to the couch, cleaning up the mess as best you could. You made him a cup of tea, and sat beside him in silence, the weight of your shared grief hanging heavy in the air.

“I’m really sorry, Dad,” you said after a while. “I should have stayed home with you.”

He sighed, taking a sip of his tea. “It’s okay, baby. I just… I worry about you. I want you to be happy. Your mother would have wanted that too.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I just… sometimes it feels like I’m supposed to be sad all the time. Like I’m not allowed to be happy.”

He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face. “Don’t ever think that, sweetheart. Your mother wouldn’t want you to live your life in sadness. She would want you to laugh, to love, to experience all the joys that life has to offer. Just remember her, keep her memory alive in your heart, and let her love guide you.”

You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes. His words were a balm to your aching heart. The rest of the evening was spent in quiet companionship. You watched an old movie together, one that your mother had loved, and shared stories about her.

As the night wore on, a sense of peace settled over you, a reminder that even in the midst of grief, there was still love and hope. . . .

You jolt awake, your lungs burning as if you've run a marathon. The image of your father's face, etched with a pain that mirrored your own, hangs heavy in the air as the last vestiges of the dream recede. Was it a dream? Or a memory, dredged up from the deepest recesses of your heart?

The morning sun streams through your window, painting golden stripes across your crisp white sheets. You push yourself up, the cool air of your Monaco apartment a stark contrast to the stifling sorrow that still clings to you.

Your heart aches with a familiar, hollow throb. It's been thirteen years since your mother passed, but the wound still feels raw, as if it happened only yesterday.

You remember the dream vividly. The crowded street, the aroma of freshly baked bread, the laughter spilling from open doorways. You were standing in front of her favorite restaurant, Cantinetta Antinori, a place she’d dragged you to every time you visited Monaco.

You were mourning her, the grief a tangible entity that threatened to suffocate you. And then... there was a boy. A flicker of recognition dances at the edge of your awareness, but as you try to grasp it, it vanishes like smoke. You can recall the feeling of his presence, a comforting warmth that cut through the biting chill of your sorrow.

You remember a hand in your hand, a soft voice offering words of solace. But the face, the face remains stubbornly elusive, a blank canvas in the gallery of your memories.

Sighing, you throw back the covers and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your work doesn't start until the afternoon, leaving you with a few precious hours to yourself. An idea sparks, offering a sliver of comfort in the lingering gloom. You're in Monaco, after all. You can visit her.

A quick shower and a simple black dress later, you're heading out, the sun warm on your skin. The air is thick with the scent of the sea and blooming jasmine, a fragrance your mother adored. As you walk, your steps unconsciously lead you past Cantinetta Antinori.

The restaurant is already bustling with activity, waiters rushing between tables, their voices a lively hum against the backdrop of clinking glasses and cheerful chatter.

You pause, staring at the familiar facade. It's exactly as you remember it, the terracotta planters overflowing with vibrant geraniums, the awnings casting cool shadows on the sidewalk. The dream… it felt so real.

You close your eyes, willing the memory of the boy to surface. You remember him coming to you, the gentle pressure of his hand, the murmur of his voice, but the face, frustratingly, remains a blur.

Shaking your head, you continue your journey. You have a more important destination in mind.

The cemetery is located on a quiet hillside overlooking the sparkling Mediterranean Sea. The air here is still and peaceful, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the city below. You walk slowly, tracing the familiar path between rows of marble headstones, each a silent testament to a life lived.

Finally, you arrive at her grave. The simple white marble is adorned with a bouquet of freshly cut lilies, her favorite. You kneel, running your fingers over the smooth, cool stone.

"Hi, Mom," you whisper, the words catching in your throat. "It's me. I miss you."

The tears well up, hot and heavy, blurring your vision. You let them fall, allowing yourself to grieve, to remember. You tell her about your work, your travels, the little things that you know she would have loved to hear. You tell her about the dream, about the boy whose face you can't quite recall.

"He was kind, Mom," you say, her name laced with sadness. "He made me feel… less alone. I just wish I knew who he was."

You sit there for a long time, lost in your thoughts, the warmth of the sun slowly drying your tears. The world around you fades away, leaving only the quiet hum of the Mediterranean breeze and the weight of unspoken emotions.

Suddenly, your phone alarm blares, jolting you back to reality. You had set it so you wouldn't forget about work. Sighing, you wipe your eyes and stand up, brushing the dust from your dress.

“See you, Mom. I’ll come visit you soon,” you say, forcing a smile. You turn and walk back down the hill, leaving the lilies basking in the afternoon sun.

You work as Ferrari's Social Media Manager. It’s a demanding job, requiring long hours and constant travel. You are constantly on the go. You are often surrounded by the roaring engines and flashing cameras of the Formula 1 world.

As you walk into the Ferrari garage, a wave of familiar chaos washes over you. Mechanics are scurrying around, fine-tuning the cars. Engineers huddle around screens, analyzing data. The air is thick with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber.

You spot Charles across the garage, talking to his engineer. Even from this distance, you feel that familiar tug, that subtle tightening in your chest. You try to ignore it, focusing on the tasks ahead. A press release to finalize, Instagram stories to plan, a Tik Tok trend to research. Distraction, always distraction.

"Hey, you made it," a voice calls out. It's Carlos, Charles' teammate, a friendly, grounding presence in the often-frenetic environment.

"Hey Carlos," you reply, managing a genuine smile. "Just back. Anything urgent?"

"Just the usual circus," he says, gesturing around the garage with a grin. "Honestly, keeping up with the social media these days is more complicated than driving the car. You're doing a great job, though. The team appreciates it."

"Thanks, Carlos. I appreciate that," you say, relieved by the genuine warmth in his voice. "Anything I can do for you today?"

"Nah, just wanted to say hi. See you later," he says, before heading off to his side of the garage.

You check your phone, scrolling through the endless stream of notifications. Your boss, Marco, is already chasing you up.

"Where are you? We need to brief Charles and Carlos."

You sigh and type a quick reply: "On my way. Just got held up."

The Imola and Monaco races loomed large, casting long shadows over the entire team. For Charles, especially, these races were laden with significance. Imola, the hallowed ground of Ferrari's home, and Monaco, his birthright, his city, his pride.

You find Charles by the pit wall, now alone, staring out at the track. The Monaco sun glints off his dark hair, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. He looks pensive, almost troubled, a stark contrast to the usually jovial and charismatic driver the world sees.

He’s wearing his race suit, and you can tell he’s mentally preparing himself for the briefing, trying to block out the noise and focus.

"Charles?" you say, approaching cautiously. It’s always a delicate dance, gauging his mood before launching into work mode.

He turns, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. "Hey," he says, his voice lower than usual. The usual warmth behind his eyes seems dimmed.

"Marco wants us to brief you and Carlos. Are you ready?"

He nods slowly. "Yeah, just… thinking."

"About the race?" you ask, knowing it was a loaded question. The next two races were a constant topic of conversation, a pressure cooker bubbling with anxiety.

He sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "It's just… Monaco. It's always Monaco. The expectation… it's a lot."

You understand. You’ve seen the way the Monaco Grand Prix weighs on him, the hopes of an entire nation resting on his shoulders. "You've got this, Charles. You're a phenomenal driver. Just focus on the race, and let everything else fade away." It's a cliché, you know, but sometimes the simplest advice is the most effective.

He manages a small, grateful smile. "Thanks. I appreciate that."

The air crackles with an unspoken tension, a brief moment of vulnerability before the walls go back up. Charles Leclerc, the racing prodigy, the steely competitor, not the man burdened by expectation.

"Alright," you say, clapping your hands together. "Let's get this briefing done. Marco's already breathing down my neck."

Charles pushes himself away from the window, and the three of you join Carlos, who’s already seated at the conference table, meticulously reviewing a document. Marco launches into a whirlwind of instructions, his voice a rapid-fire staccato of media talking points, potential pitfalls, and calculated PR maneuvers.

The briefing is a blur. You watch Charles and Carlos, gauging their reactions, anticipating their needs. Charles is more subdued than usual, his attention occasionally drifting, while Carlos is his usual focused self, absorbing every detail with laser-like precision.

“Okay, so for the Sky Sports interview, Charles, they’ll likely ask about the upgrades to the car,” Marco says, pointing to a highlighted section on the document. “Keep it positive, highlight the increased downforce, the improved handling. Don’t dwell on the potential issues with tire degradation.”

Charles nods, but his gaze is distant. He’s running his thumb along the edge of the table, a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize.

Suddenly, Marco claps his hands together, a gleam in his eye. "Also, I want to congratulate Charles and Y/N for doing the 'Day in the Life of Charles Leclerc' video! It has gone very viral and the team wants to see more episodes."

Charles' head snaps up, a genuine smile finally gracing his features. "Really? People liked it?"

"Liked it? They loved it!" Marco exclaims. "The engagement rate was through the roof! It showed a side of you that fans don't usually see. The team wants you and Y/N to come up with more ideas. We might make it a series."

You smile, relieved to see Charles' spirits lifted. The "Day in the Life" video had been your brainchild, a conscious effort to humanize him, to show the world the person behind the helmet.

It had been surprisingly fun to film, showcasing his passion for music, his quirky sense of humor, and even his surprisingly competitive Mario Kart skills.

"We had a good time filming it," you say. "We have more ideas. We can come up with something for the next time we're in Monaco again."

Marco beams. "Excellent! Charles, schedule a meeting with Y/N to discuss the next episode. This is great publicity for you and the team."

"I will," Charles said, looking at you. His eyes linger for a moment longer than necessary, and a strange flutter dances in your stomach. It's probably just caffeine, you tell yourself.

The glow of your laptop screen illuminated the otherwise dim office, casting dancing shadows on the Ferrari paraphernalia that adorned the walls.

The pressure was on; the team needed engaging content, something that would resonate with fans and amplify the excitement of the race weekend.

You were so engrossed in the endless scroll of Instagram and TikTok, searching for inspiration, that you barely registered the sound of approaching footsteps.

They were soft, deliberate, but your mind, a whirlwind of hashtags and trending sounds, simply filtered them out. You were a machine, fueled by caffeine and the need to deliver. Then, it happened.

Two warm, strong hands settled on your shoulders, immediately kneading into the tense muscles.

You jumped, a startled yelp escaping your lips as you spun around in your chair. Standing behind you, a sheepish grin plastered across his face, was Charles Leclerc.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he said, his Monegasque accent thick and comforting. "You looked so… intense. Thought you could use a little relaxation."

You stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 superstar, Ferrari driver, and apparently, your personal masseuse. "Charles! You nearly gave me a heart attack. And what are you even doing here? Shouldn't you be… practicing?"

He shrugged, his broad shoulders rippling under his Ferrari team shirt. "Practice is done for the day. I was looking for Mattia, but he seems to have disappeared. Thought I'd say hello while I was here."

His eyes twinkled, a mischievous light dancing in them. "Besides, you looked stressed. Consider it a charitable act."

You rolled your eyes, trying to regain your composure. "Charitable act? More like a recipe for a lawsuit. I could have sued you for assault."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "I highly doubt that. Besides, I saw the knots in your shoulders. You've been hunched over that laptop for hours. Come on, let me finish what I started."

Before you could protest, his hands were back on your shoulders, his fingers expertly working out the tension that had accumulated throughout the day.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, yet firm enough to release the knots that plagued your muscles. You closed your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips. Despite your initial shock, it felt… good. Really good.

"Better?" he murmured, his voice close to your ear.

"Much," you admitted, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze. He was standing closer than necessary, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement.

A faint, pleasant scent – a mix of aftershave and something uniquely Charles – filled your nostrils.

"What do you think about the 'day in my life' videos? Do you really want to continue it?" you muttered, your voice betraying none of the inner chaos. You focused on your laptop screen, pretending to scrutinize a complex spreadsheet, anything to avoid eye contact.

"Of course," Charles replied, his voice closer now, maybe even...softer? "I liked your company, and so did Leo." Leo. His dog. Even the mention of a furry puppy was welcome.

You let out a shaky breath. "Right, Leo. He's adorable." You managed a weak smile, finally turning to face him. He was closer than he had been seconds ago, his blue eyes studying you with unnerving intensity.

"You're good with him," Charles said, a hint of something unreadable in his voice. "He usually doesn't warm up to strangers so quickly."

"He just likes belly rubs," you said, trying to deflect the conversation. "And I happen to be a professional belly rubber."

Charles chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. Damned soulmate biology. "A professional belly rubber, huh? That's quite the qualification."

"It gets me places," you retorted, a playful glint in your eyes. "Like access to the Ferrari hospitality suite. Although, I'm starting to think I should have stayed in the media center."

"Why?" Charles asked, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

"I'm… overwhelmed," you admitted, the truth slipping out before you could stop it. "It's a lot to take in, you know? The cars, the drivers, the pressure… It's all a bit much."

"It is," Charles agreed, his voice low and understanding. "But you seem to be handling it well. You're a natural."

You blushed, surprised by the compliment. "Thanks. I'm trying."

"Trying?" he teased. "You're more than just trying. You're killing it." He stepped back, finally giving you some breathing room. "Look, I should probably go find Mattia. He's probably hiding somewhere, trying to avoid the press."

"Probably," you agreed, relieved to see him moving away. "Thanks… for the massage. And for the… encouragement."

"Anytime," he said, a genuine smile gracing his lips. "And don't forget, if you're feeling overwhelmed, just come find me. I'm always happy to offer unsolicited massages and questionable advice."

He winked and turned to leave, the scent of his aftershave lingering in the air long after he was gone.

You slumped back in your chair, letting out a long, shaky breath. What was happening? You replayed the conversation in your head, searching for clues, for some explanation for the sheer chaos he unleashed within you.

It had to be stress. The pressure of the job. The lack of sleep. Anything but the soulmate thing.

The roar of the engines faded slightly as they entered the relative quiet of the Ferrari garage. Charles Leclerc, usually a picture of focused calm, was a whirlwind of nervous energy, his hands fidgeting with the brim of his Ferrari cap.

"Max, how can I ask her out?" he blurted, his voice laced with a desperation that surprised even him.

Max Verstappen, never one to mince words, raised a teasing eyebrow. "Who's 'her'? The interviewer with the killer smile you were batting your eyelashes at in that 'Day in the Life' video?"

Charles blushed, the red mirroring the famous color of his car. "Yeah, it's her. I just… I just found out she's my soulmate, but she said she doesn't believe in them." He ran a frustrated hand through his already disheveled hair.

Max stopped walking, his usually confident stride faltering. He knew the system, the undeniable truth that governed their world. Finding your soulmate was practically a given.

"She doesn't believe in soulmates?" Max repeated, carefully choosing his words. "That's… unexpected. Everyone believes in them. It's like saying you don't believe in gravity."

Charles sighed, the sound heavy with discouragement. "Yeah, she said that something bad happened to her family which made her not want to believe in them."

Max frowned, his easygoing demeanor replaced with a flicker of concern. "That's… rough. So, how did you find out she was your soulmate if she doesn't believe in them?"

"The… the feeling," Charles stammered, flustered. "The anxiety. It's nearly unbearable when I'm around her. And she… she flinches when I get too close. I think she feels it too, even if she denies it."

Max leaned against a toolbox, considering the situation. This was a problem. A unique, messy, Charles Leclerc-esque problem.

"Okay, so she's denying the undeniable. She's basically trying to ignore a Ferrari screaming past at 300 kilometers an hour. What's her name, by the way? We can't keep calling her 'the interviewer.'"

"Y/N," Charles said, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "Her name is Y/N L/N."

"Y/N L/N," Max repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "Right. So, here's the thing, Charles. You can't force someone to believe, especially if they have a good reason not to. You need to… to tread carefully. Show her, don't tell her."

"Show her what?" Charles asked, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "How do I show her something she doesn't want to see? I can’t exactly walk up to her and say “Hey, want to feel my existential dread?”

"Show her that you care. Show her that you're genuine. Find out what happened to her family. Understand her pain." Max paused, thinking. "And maybe… maybe start by just being a friend. A really good friend."

Charles looked skeptical. "Friend? But… the anxiety! It’s driving me crazy! I want the kiss. I want the… the peace."

Max chuckled. “Patience, Charles. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And trust me, a forced kiss is going to do the opposite of bring you peace. It’ll probably get you slapped.”

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Happily-Ever-After," Charles grumbled, kicking at a loose pebble on the cobblestone street. "You found your soulmate on the first try. Remember the blissful daze you were in for weeks?"

Max laughed, patting Charles on the shoulder. "I do. But even then, Kelly wasn't exactly thrilled about the whole 'preordained destiny' thing. She's a sculptor. She likes to be in control, to mold her own future. Took me a while to convince her I wasn't just some lovesick puppy led by the nose by the 'well-being' feeling."

Charles sighed, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. "This is different, though. Y/N… she’s practically built a fortress around herself. She doesn’t just not believe, she actively rejects the idea of soulmates. Claims it's a patriarchal construct designed to control women."

"And you're surprised?" Max raised an eyebrow.

"No, not surprised," Charles admitted. "But disappointed. I mean, I've been practically floating since I first saw her. It's like sunshine is perpetually radiating from her direction. I even started enjoying Thursdays press conference!"

"And she's experiencing… the opposite?" Max asked, his voice laced with concern.

Charles nodded miserably. "I saw her yesterday, working at the computers. She looked… tense. Like she was perpetually bracing herself for something. I even saw her flinch when I accidentally brushed against her arm."

"Okay, okay," Max said, trying to inject some optimism into the situation. "So, she's feeling the anxiety. That's… progress, of sorts. It confirms she's your soulmate, even if she doesn't want to be."

"Progress that's making her miserable and me desperate," Charles retorted. "What am I supposed to do, Max? Hover around her radiating sunshine until she cracks?"

Max shook his head. "Of course not. You listen to me, Charles. You respect her boundaries. You show her you're not just some guy trying to fulfill some cosmic destiny. You show her you actually care about her, about her, not just the feeling she's supposed to give you."

"But how?" Charles pleaded, his frustration bubbling over. "she hasn't spoken to me properly ever since the interview. just small talk."

Max took a deep breath and placed a hand on Charles' shoulder. "You start by talking to her. Not about soulmates, not about the anxiety or the yearning, but about her. About her dreams, her fears, her art. You listen to her, Charles. Really listen. And you show her that you're worth trusting, worth opening up to."

Charles nodded, taking in Max's words. "And if she never accepts it? If she never wants to be my soulmate?"

Max sighed, his face softening with understanding. "Then you respect her decision. You can't force someone to be your soulmate, Charles. It doesn't work that way. But you can still be there for her, still be her friend. And who knows? Maybe one day, she'll come around."

Charles nodded again, a new determination settling in his heart. "You're right. I can do this. I can be there for her, be her friend. And maybe, just maybe, she'll see that I'm worth more than just some preordained destiny."

Max smiled, clapping Charles on the back. "That's the spirit. Now, let's go get some ice cream. I know a great little place just around the corner."

As they walked, Charles couldn't help but feel a sense of hope. It wasn't the blind, blissful hope of a man who had just found his soulmate.

It was the steady, resilient hope of a man who was ready to fight for what he wanted, ready to show the woman he cared about that he was worth trusting.

And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough. . . .

The world functioned on a principle both beautiful and unnerving. Finding your soulmate wasn't a myth, a romantic ideal, but a tangible, almost scientific certainty.

You were thirteen, a whirlwind of awkward limbs and burgeoning emotions. You lived in a world where soulmates were a given, a fact of life as unremarkable as breathing.

You'd heard the stories, of course. The boys at school bragging about the sudden peace they felt around certain girls, their faces flushed with understanding.

The girls, like you, whispering about the inexplicable anxieties they'd begun to experience, the strange pull towards someone specific.

You hadn't felt anything yet. Not the blossoming peace, not the gnawing anxiety. Until him.

That night, the anxiety started. A dull ache in your chest, a restlessness that kept you tossing and turning. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there. And it was growing. You knew what it meant.

You remembered him mentioning he was racing go-karts. You heard whispers at school about a race happening today. An idea sparked in your mind, audacious and exhilarating.

"Dad?" you asked shyly, your voice barely a whisper as you stood in the doorway of his study.

He looked up from his phone, his expression softening when he saw you. "Hey, sweetie. What's up?"

"Can I go watch some go-karting race?" you blurted out, your cheeks flushing.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Go-karting? I didn't know you were into go-karting?"

You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, the lie forming on your lips. "One of my friends at school are racing, and I wanted to, you know, support them," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

He studied you for a moment, his eyes knowing. You knew he didn't believe you, but you also knew he wouldn't press. He probably thought it was a normal teenager crush. He wouldn’t think anything of it.

"Okay," he said finally, a small smile playing on his lips. "But don't go home late. And text me when you get there."

"Thank you!" you exclaimed, relief washing over you. You practically skipped out of the room.

You spent the next hour agonizing over what to wear. You wanted to look… good. You wanted to impress him. Finally, you settled on a light blue sundress, its delicate floral pattern making you feel almost grown-up. You even attempted to curl your hair, but the results were less than stellar.

As you made your way to the go-kart track, the anxiety intensified, a tangible weight in your chest. You felt a constant need to move, to run, to escape. But you pushed through it, driven by a strange compulsion, an undeniable pull.

The track was a cacophony of noise and energy. The roar of engines filled the air, mingling with the excited chatter of the crowd. You scanned the faces, your heart pounding in your chest.

You couldn't see him.

The track was a blur of color and motion, a chaotic dance of speed and adrenaline. Yet amidst the sea of faces, you couldn't find the one you sought. The anxiety grew, a serpent coiling tighter with every step, a silent scream echoing in your ears.

You felt a bead of sweat trace down your spine, your heart thumping a wild tattoo against your ribcage. Your eyes darted back and forth, searching the rows of spectators, the clusters of racers, the bustling pit crews. But he was nowhere to be found.

You approached the ticket booth, the cacophony of the race a symphony of unfulfilled longing in your ears. The cashier, an older woman with a knowing smile, took your money and handed you a ticket.

She must've seen the desperation in your eyes, the way they searched beyond the horizon of the track. But she said nothing, just waved you through with a gentle nod.

You stepped through the gate, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber mingling with the scent of popcorn and cotton candy.

Your eyes, wide and hopeful, searched every inch of the track. You felt the vibrations of the engines in the pit of your stomach, the thunderous rumble resonating with the anxiety that grew with every second he remained unseen.

You took a deep breath, the scent of exhaust and the sticky sweetness of spun sugar coating your tongue. You wandered aimlessly through the stands, the sound of squealing tires and revving engines a backdrop to your internal turmoil.

The racers, clad in their vibrant jumpsuits, were a blur of color and motion as they readied their go-karts. Each time you caught a glimpse of someone with his build, your heart skipped a beat, only to plummet when they turned and revealed an unfamiliar face.

You bit your lip, trying to quell the embarrassment that washed over you. You didn't even know his name, yet here you were, dressed to the nines for a boy you hadn't even shared a meal with.

You wove through the crowd, the anticipation a palpable force, a magnetic field pulling you toward the racers. You watched them, these young boys, so focused, so alive, and felt a strange kinship with their unbridled passion. You could almost taste the metal of their fear and excitement as you approached the starting line.

But he wasn’t among them.

The race began with a deafening roar, the go-karts sprang to life like mechanical beasts released from their cages. The crowd erupted in cheers, a wave of sound that crashed over you, leaving you feeling small and insignificant.

You didn't find him.

You felt the sinking realization that maybe you'd gotten it wrong, maybe he'd just been playing with your feelings, maybe he wasn't your soulmate at all. You swallowed the bitter pill of doubt and decided to stay. You'd wasted your money, and maybe, just maybe, he'd show up.

You picked a spot in the stands with a good view of the track, trying to ignore the twisting in your stomach. The engines screamed as the karts darted around the first corner, a blur of color and speed. You leaned forward, eyes narrowed, willing him to appear.

As the race unfolded, you couldn’t help but feel a little thrill at the excitement of it all. The wind in your hair, the smell of burning rubber, the roar of the crowd. It was a symphony of sensations that seemed to amplify your own emotions.

You found yourself leaning into the turns, your body mimicking the movements of the drivers, your heart pounding in your chest with every risk they took.

You watched as the racers sped by, their faces a mix of determination and joy, and you wondered what it would feel like to be behind the wheel, to have that kind of control over something so wild and unpredictable.

You felt a pang of envy, not just for their skill, but for their certainty. They knew where they were going, who they were racing against. You, on the other hand, were lost in a sea of faces, searching for the one that would make everything make sense.

And then, "Hi! I haven't seen you here before, what's your name?"

You jumped, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden voice beside you.

Turning, you saw her. She was younger than you, maybe eleven, with hair the color of spun gold that cascaded down her back. She had the kind of beauty that seemed to glow from within. Her eyes, a vibrant shade of blue, sparkled with innocence and curiosity.

She was dressed in a simple white sundress, her skin kissed by the sun, and she looked as out of place in the raucous crowd as a rose in a field of weeds.

"Um, I'm Y/N," you replied, your voice a little shakier than you'd have liked. "What's yours?"

The girl beamed, her smile as bright as the sun. "I'm Victoria!" she exclaimed. "Is this your first time here? It's so much fun, isn't it?"

You nodded, trying to ignore the thud of your heart, the way your palms had started to sweat. "Yeah, it's pretty cool," you said, forcing a smile.

Victoria's eyes lit up. "Do you have a favorite racer?" she asked, leaning in with the kind of conspiratorial excitement only a child could muster.

You felt the anxiety in your chest tighten, the weight of your secret heavy on your tongue. But instead of confessing your soulmate quest, you shrugged. "Not really. I'm just here to enjoy the race," you said, trying to keep your voice even.

"What about you?" you asked, fully turning to her.

"Well, I'm here with my family because my brother is racing here," Victoria said, her voice filled with pride. "It's his first big race!"

You felt a spark of something, a flicker of hope, as you watched her face light up with excitement. Perhaps, you thought, she could help you.

"Which one is your brother?" you inquired, leaning in closer.

Victoria pointed to the track, her eyes following a blue go-kart as it zipped by. "That one, number three hundred and one! He's so fast!"

You followed her gaze, your eyes narrowing as they fell upon the racer in question. He was indeed fast, his kart cutting through the air with a precision that seemed almost supernatural. His helmet was on, obscuring his face.

"I'm guessing your family is rich then?" you asked, your voice tinged with a hint of sadness.

Victoria's smile never wavered hers eyes never leaving the blue blur that was her brother. "Well, we're not like, super rich or anything," she said, her voice carrying the nonchalance of the truly privileged. "But my dad loves karts, so he got my brother into it. It's just a hobby that they bond over."

You nodded, feeling the sting of your own father's indifference. "That's cool," you murmured, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. You'd never had a hobby your father was interested in, let alone one that required such a substantial investment.

Victoria's eyes never left the track, her body leaning slightly as if willing her brother's kart to go faster. "What brings you to the races today?" she asked, her curiosity unflagging.

You took a deep breath. "I… I just wanted to check it out," you said, hoping she didn't hear the tremor in your voice. "My dad said I could come."

Victoria nodded, her eyes still glued to the race. "It's pretty amazing, isn't it?" she said, her voice filled with wonder. "My brother started when he was seven. He's so good, it's like he's part of the kart."

"That's cool," you murmured, tearing your gaze from the track to meet Victoria's bright eyes. "Umm, have you seen a brunette boy with, like, green eyes? Around my age?" you asked, trying to be as casual as possible.

Victoria's eyes scanned the crowd before returning to the race. "There's a lot of brunettes with green eyes," she said, a touch of amusement in her voice. "What's his name?"

You felt your cheeks heat up. You didn't even know his name. How pathetic was that? But you couldn't tell her the truth. You couldn't admit that you were here on a wild goose chase, driven by some inexplicable force that had taken root in your heart. "I don't know," you mumbled.

Victoria's smile was infectious. "Don't worry," she said, her eyes still on the race. "If he's as important as you make him sound, I'm sure you'll find him."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest, the anxiety momentarily abating. It was a strange feeling, sharing your secret with someone so young, someone who probably had no idea what it meant to be soulmates. But Victoria had a way about her that made you feel seen, understood.

"Thank you," you said, your voice a little stronger now. "I hope so."

Victoria turned her attention back to the race, her cheeks flushed with excitement. You watched the blue kart with new eyes, the way it weaved through the pack, the precision of its turns, the way the sunlight glinted off the chrome.

You found yourself cheering, a part of you willing the racer to victory, even though you didn't know him.

The race was a blur of color and sound, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline melding with the sweetness of cotton candy wafting from a nearby vendor.

You felt the vibrations of the engines in your chest, the way they threw themselves into the race, chasing the thrill of the chase. You leaned into the turns, mimicking their movements, feeling the wind in your hair, the rush of adrenaline in your veins.

"Come on, number three hundred and one!" Victoria screamed, her voice lost in the roar of the crowd. She bounced in her seat, her fists clenched, her entire being invested in the race.

You found yourself leaning in, your eyes glued to the blue kart as it zoomed around the track.

And then, it was over. The blue kart crossed the finish line first, the checkered flag waving in victory. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of cheers and applause, the sound washing over you like a warm summer rain.

Victoria was on her feet, jumping up and down, her golden hair a halo of pure elation. You felt a strange sense of pride, as though you'd known the racer all along.

"Come on! I'll introduce him to you," Victoria said, grabbing your hand and pulling you through the stands. Your heart raced, the anxiety now a fiery crescendo.

Her brother's victory lap was a whirlwind of color, the blue kart leaving a trail of confetti in its wake. The crowd surged forward as he pulled into the winner's circle, their faces a blur of excitement and congratulations.

You stumbled after Victoria, her energy a contagion that made your legs feel both weightless and trembling.

When you reached the barricade, the racer was already climbing out of his kart, pulling off his helmet to reveal a mess of sandy brown hair, matted with sweat and a pair of piercing blue eyes. His face was flushed, a grin so wide it could've split his cheeks.

But as you stared at him, you realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn't him. The eyes were wrong. They weren't the emerald green that you'd seen before.

They were a clear, cerulean blue that, while handsome, didn't spark the recognition in your soul. The disappointment hit you like a ton of bricks, crushing the hope that had been building in your chest.

Victoria didn't seem to notice your crestfallen expression. She was too busy squealing with excitement as her brother, the victorious racer, leaped over the barricade and into the arms of the two people who had been waiting for him.

You watched as he hugged a man with a proud smile, his strong arms encircling a broad chest.

The man's eyes, a mirror of Victoria's blue, shone with pride as he embraced his son. Then, the racer turned to a woman with hair as fiery as the setting sun, her eyes a soft brown.

She engulfed him in a warm, motherly embrace, her hands smoothing his sweaty hair as she whispered something into his ear.

As you observed the tender scene, a pang of longing shot through you, a visceral ache that made your chest tighten. You missed your mom, the way her hugs could make everything right, the way she'd always known when you were hurt, even when you didn't say a word.

You missed the way her eyes lit up when she saw you, the smell of her perfume that lingered on her clothes, the gentle strokes of her hand against your cheek when she kissed you goodnight.

The sudden realization that you hadn't felt that warmth in so long hit you like a sucker punch, leaving you gasping for air amidst the celebratory din of the racetrack.

"Come on!" Victoria said, tugging at your arm. Her touch was insistent, pulling you back to the present, back to the barricade that separated you from the racers.

You allowed yourself to be led, the thud of your heart a steady rhythm against the backdrop of the frenzied crowd.

The barricade was a flimsy structure of metal and plastic, but it felt like a towering fortress as you approached it. The anticipation was palpable, thickening the air around you, making every breath feel like a mouthful of honey.

"Oudere broer!" she called in Dutch, her voice clear and sweet as a bell. The racer's eyes snapped to hers, a smile breaking across his face like the dawn of a new day. He had the kind of smile that could make the sun jealous, that could warm the coldest of hearts.

His eyes searched the crowd and when his gaze landed on Victoria, and the smile grew, the light in his eyes becoming a warm embrace that seemed to envelop her from across the distance.

Victoria waved with both hands, her smile so wide it could've swallowed the whole track.

The racer, still basking in the afterglow of victory, broke away from his parents' embraces and sprinted towards you and Victoria. You felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation, your heart thudding in your chest like the bass of a dance track at a club.

He leaped over the barricade with the same ease he had the track, landing gracefully in front of you. Before you could react, he wrapped his arms around Victoria in a crushing hug that lifted her off the ground.

Her giggles were the sweetest sound, a symphony of happiness that filled the air. As he set her down, his eyes found yours. They searched your face, the smile still playing on his lips as if he knew a secret that no one else did.

"Broer, this is my friend Y/N!" Victoria exclaimed, her voice echoing in the stillness that had descended around you.

Max looked at you with the same piercing gaze that had captured the audience's attention during the race. His eyes searched yours. "Y/N," Victoria said again, her voice softer this time, "this is my brother Max."

Max extended his hand, his grip firm but not overwhelming, and you took it. The warmth of his skin sent a shiver down your spine. "Nice to meet you," he said.

"Hi," you finally managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper. Max's smile grew wider, the corners of his eyes crinkling with genuine warmth.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Y/N," Max said, his Dutch accent thick, rolling off his tongue like a fine wine. He had the kind of voice that could make you believe in fairy tales and happy endings, that could coax secrets from the most guarded of hearts.

You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry as a desert. You felt his eyes on you, the same blue as the sea on a clear day, the kind of blue that could drown you in their depths.

But they weren't the emerald green that haunted your dreams. You swallowed hard, trying to push the disappointment back down.

"It's great to meet you, Max," you said, trying to keep your voice from shaking. "Victoria's told me so much about you."

Max's grin widened, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. "All good things, I hope," he teased, ruffling Victoria's hair.

Her eyes rolled playfully. "Mostly," she giggled.

Max's eyes danced with amusement as he turned to you. "Well, I hope I live up to the hype," he said. You couldn't help but notice the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way his smile seemed to beckon you closer.

But you knew better than to get lost in it. This wasn't your soulmate.

"Do you live around here?" Max asked, his voice breaking the spell that had momentarily taken hold of you.

You blinked, the question bringing you back to reality. "Yeah, I do," you replied. "I'm just a few blocks away."

"That's nice," Max said, his eyes lighting up with curiosity. "We're from the Netherlands."

"Ah, the Netherlands," you mused, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "Home of the tulips and the windmills, right?"

Max chuckled, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yes, and so much more," he replied. "But tell me, what do you know about our country?"

You felt the heat creep into your cheeks, the sudden urge to impress him with your knowledge of his homeland. "Well, I know you guys are known for your bikes and your cheese," you said, trying to sound casual despite the racing of your heart.

Max chuckled, a rich, deep sound that resonated in your chest. "Ah, the stereotypes," he said with a wink. "But yes, we do love our bikes and our cheese."

Suddenly, Max's dad's voice boomed over the crowd, calling for him to talk with him. "Looks like duty calls," Max said, his smile never wavering. He leaned in closer. "I'll see you around?"

You nodded, feeling a peculiar mix of relief and regret. "Sure," you said, your voice sounding a little too casual even to your own ears.

But as you watched him turn away, the words you were going to argue back with vanished into the ether. You weren't quite ready for the conversation to end, but you knew better than to cling to something that wasn't meant for you.

"Bye, Y/N," Victoria called out, her eyes still glued to her brother.

You nodded, the heat in your cheeks dissipating as the moment passed. "See you later," you murmured, your gaze dropping to the ground as Max walked away.

And just like that, you were alone again, the cacophony of the racetrack fading into the background. You watched as the racers and their families dispersed, the crowd thinning until it was just you and your thoughts, standing by the now-deserted barricade. . . .

The Monaco Grand Prix, a gleaming crown jewel in the world of Formula One racing, loomed just a few days ahead, casting a taut shadow of anticipation over the pebbled streets of the opulent city-state.

The air vibrated with the electric hum of excitement, yet the tension was palpable, thick and suffocating as it coiled around the neck of its reigning champion, Charles Leclerc.

The young maestro of the track, whose name had been etched into the annals of Monaco's storied racing history the previous year with a victory that had seemed almost preordained, now found himself besieged by the weight of expectation.

His eyes, usually alight with the fiery determination of a man who owned the asphalt, were now clouded with doubt and the specter of unspoken pressure.

The Monaco Grand Prix was in a few days, and you could tell Charles was stressing. Who wouldn't be?

The Monegasque driver had won his home race the previous year in a nail-biting finish that had sent the crowds into a frenzy of national pride. This year, the stakes were higher than ever.

The anticipation of his adoring fans, the scrutiny of his peers, and the cold, unblinking gaze of his sponsors all bore down on him with the relentless force of gravity.

The very air around him seemed charged with the electricity of expectations, crackling and ready to ignite into a raging inferno of disappointment should he fail to conquer the treacherous streets once more.

Charles's fingers tapped a restless tattoo against the cool, polished surface of the conference table as he listened to his team's strategy debrief. His heart thudded in his chest, the rhythm echoing the engines that had carried him to victory twelve months prior.

He could almost feel the warm embrace of the podium, the kiss of the Monaco sun on his skin, the sweet taste of champagne spraying into the air as he claimed his rightful place again.

Yet, even as he nodded along to the engineers' meticulous plans and the strategists' calculated projections, a knot of anxiety tightened in his stomach.

It was a gnawing presence, like a second heart beating in the pit of his abdomen, a silent testament to the pressure that no one else seemed to see.

Charles's smile, once as radiant as the gleaming chrome of his Ferrari, had become a carefully constructed facade, a mask he wore to shield his turmoil from the prying eyes of the media and the unwavering gaze of his competitors.

Only in the quiet solitude of his luxurious suite did the true weight of his burden show, etched in the furrows of his brow and the tension that coiled in his jaw.

He knew that everyone around him believed in him, that they were all counting on him to repeat his historic victory. Yet, the very knowledge of their faith only served to amplify the pressure crushing him from within.

Each step he took towards the racetrack felt heavier than the last, as though the gravity of their hopes had become a tangible force, anchoring him to the earth.

And that’s why, even amidst the controlled chaos of race weekend, you could see it. The subtle tightening of his jaw as he signed autographs, the fleeting furrow in his brow as he spoke to engineers, the too-bright smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The pressure was there, a suffocating blanket of anxiety woven from the hopes of Tifosi, the relentless scrutiny of the media, and the internal drive that pushed him to the very edge.

No one else seemed to notice. To the casual observer, Charles was the epitome of composure, the charming Monegasque prince with the killer smile and the undeniable talent.

He was a master of masking, of projecting an image of unwavering confidence. But you saw the cracks, the hairline fractures beneath the polished surface.

You watched as he moved through the crowd, a whirlwind of handshakes and photo ops. He paused to speak to a group of children, his smile genuine, his eyes sparkling with warmth.

You knew how much he loved connecting with the fans, how much their support meant to him. But you also knew that each interaction, each expectation, added another layer to the weight he carried.

"Carlos," you called out, catching his attention. He excused himself from the adoring fans and strode over, the tension in his shoulders evident even through the tailored fabric of his team jacket. "Do you see any difference in Charles?"

Carlos, his teammate and confidant for the past four seasons, furrowed his brow. "Difference? What do you mean?" He studied you for a moment, searching for the source of your concern.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice so that only he could hear. "I don't know. It's just…his eyes. They don't have the same spark. And his smile, it's forced."

"No," Carlos murmured, his brown eyes searching yours with a sudden intensity. "You're imagining things. He's just focused."

But you weren't convinced. You had seen that look before, on the faces of other drivers who had crumbled under the weight of their own ambition.

The Monaco Grand Prix was a fickle lover, one that could elevate a racer to legendary status or cast them into oblivion in the blink of an eye. You felt a pang of concern, a gentle ache in the region of your heart that whispered the truth you didn't want to hear.

"Really?" You said, your voice a soft challenge to Carlos's assertion. "Am I imagining it?"

"Well, my girlfriend always knows when I'm under stress, even when I don't know myself," Carlos smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. "Maybe that's what you're experiencing."

"Me and Charles aren't… you know," you replied, trying to keep the blush from my cheeks. "Isn't Charles dating Alex?"

"Don't tell anyone but they broke up," Carlos whispered, his voice barely audible over the din of the bustling paddock. His eyes searched the throngs of people for any hint of eavesdroppers before continuing. "It's been a week now. It's all very hush-hush. He's not taking it well, though."

Your heart skipped a beat, the revelation hitting you like a surprise gear change in the middle of a hairpin turn. "What happened?" you breathed, leaning in closer.

Carlos sighed, his expression a blend of pity and understanding. "It's complicated. They weren't soulmates, you know? The connection everyone talked about, it was just… convenient. Two stars, shining bright together because it looked good on paper. But when it came down to it, they were just two people who didn't quite fit."

You nodded, feeling a strange empathy for Charles. You had always thought the concept of soulmates was a fairy tale, a romantic notion that people clung to in a desperate attempt to find meaning in a world that often felt random and cruel.

Yet, seeing the pain etched on his usually stoic features, you couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness for him.

"I guess it's tough," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "To have everyone expecting so much from you, and then to have your personal life fall apart right before the biggest race of the year."

Carlos nodded solemnly. "It's a mixtape of pressure and heartbreak. But he's a fighter. He'll push through it."

The words hung in the air, a silent plea for you to leave the subject alone. But you couldn't. The urge to help Charles, to offer some kind of comfort, was like a siren's call, impossible to ignore. "You should speak to him," Carlos said, his voice a gentle prod.

You took a deep breath, the scent of gasoline and burnt rubber from the nearby track mingling with the crisp sea breeze. "What good would that do?" you murmured.

Carlos's gaze grew earnest. "I'm telling you, he needs someone right now." He paused, his brown eyes holding yours. "And maybe that someone could be you."

You felt your cheeks warm at the suggestion. "Me?" you questioned, the doubt in your voice as thick as the Mediterranean air.

Carlos nodded, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "Sí, tú," he said in his rich, Spanish accent. "You're the only one who seems to see beyond the mask. Maybe you could help him find his way back to that spark."

The idea was ludicrous, of course. You were just a social media manager, not a therapist, not a love interest. But as you looked into Carlos's earnest eyes, you felt a strange stirring within you.

A curiosity, a yearning to understand the enigma that was Charles Leclerc. Perhaps it was the allure of the unattainable, or the challenge of peeling back the layers of a man who had mastered the art of concealment.

"I'll… I'll think about it," you murmured, the words slipping out before you had the chance to weigh them. The words hung in the air, a promise to yourself more than to Carlos.

The Monaco Grand Prix was a mere three days away, and the city was alive with the pulse of excitement and anticipation.

Yet, as you watched Charles navigate the sea of reporters and fans, you couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his stoic demeanor than mere focus.

You returned to the quiet sanctuary of the team's hospitality suite, where the faint scent of freshly baked croissants and strong espresso lingered in the air. As you sat down at your desk, you noticed a small plate of snacks had been placed before you, accompanied by a handwritten note.

'Eat up, I need your support soon! - from Leo and his owner'. The corner of your mouth curled upwards in a knowing smile.

Charles knew that you were missing his tiny dog, Leo, and the note was a clear attempt to lighten the mood. The little Dachshund had become a staple in the team's paddock, his fluffy golden fur a stark contrast to the gleaming machinery of the Formula One cars.

You had formed an unexpected bond with the creature, his unassuming presence a balm to your nerves during the intense race weekends.

With a sigh, you crunched into the croissant, the flaky layers shattering under your teeth, the warm butter and sweet jam a brief respite from the bitter taste of worry that had taken up residence in your mouth.

As you chewed, you couldn't help but think of the last time you'd seen Charles truly happy, the last time the stress hadn't painted shadows on the contours of his face.

It was a fleeting memory of being in Charles' house, where Leo had stolen the show by climbing into your lap, his tail wagging like a metronome as he soaked up the affection from you.

The dog had looked at Charles with pure, unbridled adoration, and for a brief moment, the weight of the world had lifted from the driver's shoulders, revealing the gentle, playful soul that lay beneath the stoic exterior. That was the Charles you wanted to help find again.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the city in a warm, amber glow as you made your way through the winding streets of Monaco. The buildings, a stunning array of white and pastel hues, stood tall and proud, their windows glinting like the jewels of a crown in the fading light.

As you approached the exit of the paddock, the cacophony of the day's activities grew fainter until it was nothing but a muffled echo in your ears.

The smells of burning rubber and gasoline slowly gave way to the sweet scent of blooming jasmine, a stark reminder of the stark contrast between the glitz and glamour of the Grand Prix and the quiet, almost sedate, elegance of the city itself.

You heard the yell, the sound cutting through the serene evening air like a knife. "Wait! Is that… the girl… um oh! Y/N right?" you spun around, the heels of your shoes clicking against the pavement as you searched for the source.

A young woman, her hair was blonde, waved frantically at you from the front of Max's garage. She was dressed in a simple yet stylish outfit that suggested she didn't belong in the high-stress world of Formula One.

Her eyes, a vivid shade of blue, shone with excitement and a hint of nervousness.

You took a step back, trying to place her. Her face was a canvas of familiarity, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it. It was like trying to remember the lyrics to a song that played on the edge of your consciousness.

You felt a strange pull, something in the way she moved, the tilt of her smile, that seemed to resonate with you on a deep, primal level.

The closer you got, the more you felt the gravity of her presence. She looked up as you approached, her eyes widening with recognition. "Oh my god, it's really you," she breathed, her voice a symphony of wonder and disbelief.

"I'm sorry," you replied, "but do I know you?" You tried to keep the tremor from your voice, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your heart race.

The woman took a step closer, her eyes searching yours with a gentle curiosity. "It was a long time ago," she said, her smile a soft curve of nostalgia. "But you came to watch a go karting in Monaco, and you were looking for a boy. You ended up just watching the race with me."

She was dressed in a simple white sundress, her skin kissed by the sun, and she looked as out of place in the raucous crowd as a rose in a field of weeds.

"Um, I'm Y/N," you replied, your voice a little shakier than you'd have liked. "What's yours?"

The girl beamed, her smile as bright as the sun. "I'm Victoria!" she exclaimed. "Is this your first time here? It's so much fun, isn't it?"

You nodded, trying to ignore the thud of your heart, the way your palms had started to sweat. "Yeah, it's pretty cool," you said, forcing a smile.

Her words struck a chord, a faint melody that echoed through the corridors of your memory. "Oh my god," you whispered, the realization dawning on you like a gentle sunrise.

"Victoria?" You reached out, your hand hovering in the air before it found hers.

Victoria's smile grew wider as she nodded, her eyes sparkling like the diamonds that adorned the neck of the necklace around her neck. "It's been so long," she said, her voice a soft caress. "How have you been?"

You felt a warmth spread through you, a warmth that seemed to melt away the anxiety that had been coiled in your stomach like a tightly wound spring. "I've been… okay," you lied, your eyes dropping to the floor.

Victoria stepped closer, her eyes searching yours with a gentle concern. "You can tell me," she said, her voice a whisper of understanding. "I can see that you've changed. You've grown so much from the last time I saw you."

"How have you been, Victoria?" you asked, your voice a mere whisper. You hadn't seen her since that fateful day at the go-kart track.

"Life's been a wild ride," she replied, her laughter a silver bell ringing through the air.

"Did you find the boy you were looking for?" Victoria asked, her tone teasing but her gaze earnest.

You felt your cheeks warm at the memory, a flush that spread down to your neck. "Well, I didn't exactly find him," you said, the words feeling foreign in your mouth.

Victoria's expression grew contemplative. "Really? What happened?" she asked, her voice a gentle coax.

You took a deep breath, the scent of the ocean breeze mixing with the lingering aroma of the day's race fuel. "I moved from Monaco," you said sadly, the words feeling like a confession. "And I never saw him again."

Victoria's smile faltered, her eyes softening with empathy. "Aw, I feel bad," she murmured, reaching out to squeeze your hand. The warmth of her touch sent a jolt through you, a current of something electric and alive.

"But hey," she said, her voice a gentle coax, "you're here now. And you're working with the Ferrari team, right? That's pretty amazing."

You nodded, the memory of the past swirling around you like the dust of a thousand forgotten moments. "Yeah, it's a dream come true," you replied, the words feeling hollow in the face of your current reality.

"But enough about me," you said, changing the subject with the deftness of a seasoned social media manager. "What are you doing here?"

Victoria's smile grew even brighter, if that was possible. "Oh, I'm just here to support my brother," she said, her voice bubbling with excitement.

The words hit you like a surprise pit stop during a crucial race. "Your brother?" you echoed, your mind racing.

"Yes," Victoria said, her eyes sparkling with pride. "You remember Max, right?"

Max Verstappen, the fiery Dutch prodigy whose name was etched into the annals of Formula One history alongside Charles' own. The two were rivals on the track, their fierce competition a thrilling dance of skill and strategy that had the world on the edge of their seats. And now, here you were, standing before the sister of one of the most talented drivers the sport had ever seen.

"Max is your brother?" you asked, your voice a mix of amazement and something else you couldn't quite put your finger on.

Victoria nodded, her blonde hair catching the last rays of the setting sun. "Yeah, he's been pretty busy lately," she said, her voice filled with a sisterly pride that was as genuine as the diamond studs in her ears.

You and Victoria found yourselves deeply engaged in conversation, exchanging stories and laughter. Victoria animatedly shared her thoughts about her husband, who is her soulmate, and her children, who she said brought her endless joy.

"You know, my husband is not just my partner; he really gets me. We have this amazing bond that I cherish every day," she said, her eyes sparkling with affection.

You nodded, feeling the warmth of her words, and replied, "That’s beautiful, Victoria. It’s incredible to have someone who understands you on that level. My job as Ferrari's social media manager keeps me quite busy, but I often think about how essential those personal connections are in life."

Her eyes searched yours, as if looking for something unspoken. Then, with a gentle tug on your arm, she leaned in and whispered, "And what about you, Y/N? Have you found your soulmate yet?"

The question hit you like a gearbox failure at the start of a race. You'd been so focused on the Monaco Grand Prix, on helping the team, on supporting Charles, that you hadn't given much thought to your own love life.

But now, with Victoria's words echoing in your mind, you couldn't help but feel the emptiness that had been there all along.

You took a deep breath, the salty tang of the ocean breeze mixing with the sweetness of the jasmine that perfumed the air. "I don't really believe in soulmates anymore," you said, your voice tinged with a sadness that surprised even you.

Victoria's gaze searched yours, her blue eyes filled with a knowing understanding. "Oh?" she said, her voice a gentle probe. "What changed your mind? I thought that boy that you were looking for was your soulmate?"

You felt a pang in your chest, the memory of that unrequited love a dull ache that had long ago been buried beneath the layers of your professional armor. "It's complicated," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

Victoria nodded, her eyes never leaving yours. "Love often is," she said, her voice a gentle caress. "But you know, sometimes fate has a way of bringing people back together."

Her words hung in the air like the scent of the jasmine that surrounded you, a faint hint of hope in an otherwise oppressive atmosphere.

You felt your chest tighten, the weight of your own expectations and the burden of your unspoken feelings for Charles pressing down on you like a leaden blanket.

"I'm not sure if I believe in fate anymore," you said, your voice barely carrying over the distant roar of the city coming to life around you. "Or love for that matter."

Victoria's eyes searched yours, filled with a gentle concern that seemed to cut through the years. "You know, Y/N," she began, her voice a soothing balm, "sometimes love is like a wild animal. You can't force it to appear, but when it does, it's impossible to ignore."

"I'll keep that in mind," you said, trying to keep your voice light, belying the turmoil within you. The words felt strange, a promise to consider something that had long been dismissed as a frivolous dream.

Before she could formulate a response, a shadow fell over the two of you. You turned to see a man emerge from the garage, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. His eyes, a piercing blue that mirrored Victoria's, darted from her to you and back again.

It was Max Verstappen.

You felt your heart flutter at the sight of the infamous Formula One driver, his lean frame and sharp features a stark contrast to his sister's gentle beauty.

He looked at you with a mischievous glint in his eye, the same glint that had made him a formidable opponent on the track.

Before you could say anything, Max sneaked up behind Victoria, his hands poised to tickle her. She shrieked, her eyes going wide as she whirled around, only to dissolve into laughter when she saw it was her brother. "Max, you asshole!" she exclaimed in Dutch, slapping his arm playfully.

Her cursing was a delightful surprise, the raw emotion in the foreign words a stark contrast to the refined setting. It was a reminder that beneath the glitz and glamour of Formula One, they were just siblings, sharing a bond that transcended the boundaries of language and fame.

Max's grin widened as he took in the sight of you, he turned his attention back to his sister. "Vic," he chuckled, using the nickname you hadn't heard in years, "who's your friend?"

Victoria rolled her eyes playfully. "This is Y/N," she said, her voice warm. "Remember her in one of your go karting races in Monaco?"

Max's eyes lit up with recognition. "Oh, right!" he exclaimed, his Dutch accent thick and rich. "You've grown up!" He reached out and enveloped you in a bear hug, his grip as strong and firm as the tires of his own Formula One car.

The sudden contact sent a shockwave through your body, a jolt of electricity that seemed to reawaken something long dormant. You felt the warmth of his skin, the steady beat of his heart against your chest, and for a moment, everything else fell away.

The stress of the race weekend, the pressure of supporting Charles, the doubt that had been festering within you—it all disappeared, replaced by the simple, unbridled joy of human connection.

Max's embrace was a warm cocoon, and you found yourself laughing into his shoulder, the sound muffled yet genuine. It was a laugh that came from a place deep within you, a place that had been buried under layers of professionalism and duty.

For a brief moment, you felt like the girl you had been all those years ago, the one who had dared to dream of love and happiness amidst the roar of racing engines.

When Max pulled away, his eyes searched yours, a question lingering unspoken. "It's good to see you again, Y/N," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate within your very core. "You look amazing."

"Thanks, Max," you murmured, trying to compose yourself. "It's been a while."

The Dutch driver's gaze was assessing, his eyes flicking over you like a mechanic checking for damage. "You've been busy," he said, nodding towards the Ferrari garage. "How's Charles holding up?"

"What does that mean?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could rein it in. Max's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and Victoria's gaze sharpened.

Max studied you, his expression unreadable. "You don't know?" he asked, the amusement in his voice as subtle as the shift in the wind before a storm.

"Know what?" you replied, your heart racing faster than the cars you've seen him and Charles race. You felt the heat of his gaze on you, as intense as the sun that baked the asphalt during the race.

Max leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Haven't you noticed the way he looks at you?" he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You felt a blush creep up your neck, the warmth of his breath on your cheek a stark contrast to the cool evening air. "What do you mean?" you managed, your voice a squeak.

Victoria's eyes danced with amusement as she nudged her brother. "Oh, come on, Max. You can't leave her hanging like that."

Max chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very foundation of the world around you. "I suppose I can't," he conceded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Charles has had his eye on you for quite some time, Y/N."

You felt your heart stumble, the beat erratic as you tried to process his words. "No," you said, the denial a reflex as automatic as a pit stop. "It's just professional. We're colleagues."

"If that's what you think," Max replied, his grin widening. His eyes, the same piercing blue as Victoria's, searched yours with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment, but the words had been said. The genie was out of the bottle, and there was no stuffing it back in. "What do you mean?" you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

Max's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, you know," he said, his voice low and suggestive. "The way he lights up when you're around. The way his eyes follow you, even when he thinks no one's watching."

Your mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle of Charles' behavior, looking for the clues that had been hidden in plain sight. "I… I had no idea," you stuttered, the words sticking in your throat like a mouthful of dry champagne.

Max's smile grew knowing. "Well, now you do," he said, his eyes holding yours. "And you'll find out soon," he added with a wink, his words a tantalizing promise that hung in the air like the scent of burning rubber on race day.

As you processed Max's revelation, you felt a swirl of emotions: confusion, excitement, and fear all jockeying for position in your racing heart.

The thought of Charles seeing you as more than just a social media manager was both thrilling and terrifying. You'd always admired him from afar, but the idea of being more was as overwhelming as the Monaco circuit's tightest turn.

"Thanks, Max," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "I appreciate you telling me."

"Don't mention it," Max said, his grin never leaving his face. "It's about time someone saw what's been right in front of them." He winked at you before sauntering away, leaving you and Victoria standing there, the air thick with unspoken questions.

Victoria's gaze remained on her brother's retreating form before finally turning back to you. "Well," she said, her voice lilting with amusement, "I think you've got some thinking to do."

You nodded, your mind racing with the implications of Max's words. The thought of Charles harboring feelings for you was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

The pressure of the race weekend seemed to have doubled, the weight of expectations now pressing down on you from both professional and personal fronts.

"I guess I'll see you around," Victoria said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She pulled out a phone from her designer handbag and handed it to you. "Why don't we both exchange numbers?"

You took the phone, feeling the cool, sleek surface against your fingertips. The gesture was casual, but the implications were anything but. With trembling hands, you tapped in your number, the touchscreen responding with a gentle vibration that seemed to echo through your entire body.

As you handed it back, the warmth from your skin remained, a tangible connection to the woman who had just turned your world upside down.

Victoria's smile was knowing, her eyes filled with the sparkle of shared secrets. "See you around, Y/N," she said, her voice lilting with the promise of more to come. "And who knows, maybe by the end of the weekend, you'll have a different view on soulmates."

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself, the air thick with the scent of the ocean and the distant throb of the city's heartbeat.

With a nod and a smile, you watched her walk away, the clack of her heels against the cobblestone a steady rhythm that seemed to echo the racing of your heart.

The revelation about Charles had been like a pit stop in the middle of a race—sudden, unexpected, and leaving you reeling.

You walked to the parking lot, the cobblestones of the historic Monaco streets echoing with the sound of your heels. The night air was cool against your flushed cheeks, the scent of the Mediterranean a faint whisper that seemed to carry with it the secrets of the city's storied past.

The garages and hotels loomed above you like the grandstands at the circuit, their lights casting a warm glow over the gleaming cars that lined the street. Each step felt like a beat in a crescendo, the anticipation building within you like the crescendo before a race's start.

As you slid into the driver's seat of your car, the leather embrace felt like a hug from an old friend, familiar and comforting. You started the engine, the purr a soothing balm to your racing thoughts.

The car's headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the narrow streets as you navigated the serpentine path to your apartment.

The road ahead was a blur, your eyes glazed over with the intensity of your thoughts about Charles.

Your foot pressed harder on the accelerator, the engine's growl a cathartic release for the tumult of emotions coursing through your veins.

The tires gripped the pavement like a lover's embrace, the car's responsive handling an extension of your own desires as you navigated the twists and turns of the Monaco streets.

The city's grandeur, usually a source of inspiration and awe, was now just a backdrop to the racing thoughts in your head. Each red light you stopped at was a heartbeat of anticipation, every green light a signal to press onward, to find the answers you so desperately sought.

As you approached your house, the lights were already on, casting a welcoming glow through the windows that beckoned you home.

You sighed, the sound a soft exhalation that seemed to carry with it the weight of the day's events.

Closing the door behind you, you kicked off your heels, the sudden release of pressure a small relief. The house, a charming Monegasque apartment with high ceilings and arched windows, was a sanctuary of calm amidst the city's vibrant chaos.

The scent of your favorite lavender candles filled the space, a gentle embrace that whispered of rest and reprieve.

You sighed deeply as you walked through the hallway, your feet sinking into the plush carpet. Each step was a silent acknowledgment of the day's events, the weight of the unspoken words and hidden glances you'd shared with Charles.

The living room was a symphony of soft light and shadows, the curtains fluttering gently in the breeze from the open windows. You could almost hear the distant murmur of the Mediterranean, the sound a soothing lullaby that seemed to cradle the city in its embrace. You tossed your keys onto the side table, the clink of metal against glass echoing through the room like the chiming of a grandfather clock, marking the passage of time and the moments that had brought you to this precipice.

You couldn't stop thinking of what Max had said, his words playing on a loop in your mind like a catchy tune that had wormed its way into your subconscious. The image of Charles' eyes, usually so focused, so intense, filled with something more than just professional admiration was like a siren's call, beckoning you into uncharted waters.

You made your way to the bedroom, the soft caress of the plush carpet underfoot a stark contrast to the cobblestone streets you had just left behind. The bed, a sanctuary of crisp white sheets and plush pillows, seemed to call to you like a lover's whisper, promising relief from the day's tumultuous emotions.

As you slipped out of your clothes, the fabric sliding over your skin like a whispered secret, your phone buzzed on the nightstand. The screen lit up, casting a soft blue glow that danced across the walls like the reflection of a distant disco ball. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw the sender's name: 'Charles Leclerc'.

The text was innocuous enough, but it was the timing that sent a shiver down your spine. 'Hello Y/N,' it read, 'I wanted to talk about the next 'day of my life' video. I was wondering if you were free next week?' Your thumb hovered over the screen, the anticipation of his reply almost too much to bear.

You took a deep breath, the scent of the lavender candles filling your lungs, and typed out your reply. 'Sure, Charles. I'll make time for you.' You hit send and held your breath, your heart pounding like a drum solo.

The response was almost immediate. 'Great. How about we start about Tuesday morning?' The words hung in the air, charged with a tension that was palpable, even through the digital ether.

You felt your stomach flip, a delicious mix of excitement and nerves. 'Sounds perfect,' you replied, trying to keep your cool. . . .

The roar of engines was a distant hum, a constant background noise to the Friday frenzy of the Formula 1 paddock. You tugged at the collar of your Ferrari polo, the heat pressing down on you even in the late afternoon. You just wanted the day to be over.

You wanted to be anywhere but here, surrounded by the swirling chaos of team personnel, journalists, and the ever-present, prying eyes of the fans. Especially, you wanted to avoid him.

Max chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very foundation of the world around you. "I suppose I can't," he conceded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Charles has had his eye on you for quite some time, Y/N."

You felt your heart stumble, the beat erratic as you tried to process his words. "No," you said, the denial a reflex as automatic as a pit stop. "It's just professional. We're colleagues."

You’d laughed it off then, chalking it up to Max's mischievous nature. But the seed of doubt, or maybe it was a seed of hope, had been planted. Now, every stolen glance, every playful jab, every seemingly innocent interaction with Charles Leclerc was replaying in your mind, scrutinized under a harsh, unforgiving light. You had been down this road before, and it had ended in disaster.

And now, Friday was here. The next day you had to face the music, or rather, face Charles. You were Ferrari's social media manager, and there was no avoiding him. Your job demanded you be in the thick of it, capturing content, coordinating with the drivers, and keeping the Ferrari faithful engaged.

You tightened your grip on your phone, your knuckles white as you navigated the crowded paddock. The Ferrari garage loomed ahead, a beacon of red amidst the sea of other team colors. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

"This is just work," you muttered under your breath. "Professionalism. You can do this."

But as you skirted past the McLaren garage, your eyes darted instinctively, searching for that familiar Monegasque face. You scolded yourself internally. This was exactly what you were trying to avoid.

You found refuge in the air-conditioned sanctum of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The cool air washed over you like a balm, soothing the sheen of sweat that had formed on your skin. You took a moment to breathe, to convince yourself that you could indeed manage this weekend without succumbing to the tumult of emotions that Max's words had stirred within you.

Maybe it was just the pressure of the job. The constant need to be on top of your game, to outshine the competition. Perhaps the tension between you and Charles was merely the product of high-stakes rivalry. You knew he was a fiercely competitive driver, and you were an equally driven professional. It was natural for sparks to fly in such a high-octane environment.

The anxiety grew, a knot in your stomach that tightened with every step. You could feel your breath quicken, your pulse racing as the anticipation of seeing him grew.

And then, amidst the cacophony of the paddock, you heard it—a bark, so sudden and unexpected that you jumped. Looking down, you saw a miniature golden dachshund, tail wagging frantically as it looked up at you with bright, eager eyes. The tension in your body dissipated like mist under the warmth of the sun.

You grinned immediately and kneeled down to Leo. The furry bundle of energy practically vibrated with excitement as it licked your hand, the wet warmth of its tongue a stark contrast to the dryness of your palm. You couldn't help but let out a chuckle as you ruffled the dog's fur, feeling the softness beneath your fingers. Leo was a celebrity in his own right, often seen in Charles' arms during post-race interviews or snoozing in the cockpit of his Ferrari.

As you played with Leo, you noticed the leash was taut, pulling in the direction of the Ferrari garage. Glancing over, you saw Arthur, Charles' brother, panting slightly, his hand gripping the leash tightly as he tried to keep up with the sprightly dog. A smile tugged at your lips; Arthur was a stark contrast to his brother, less poised and more laid-back, but equally as charming in his own way.

"Oh, hey Arthur," you called out, your voice carrying over the din of the paddock. "Leo is a bit hyper, isn't he?"

You stood up, the dachshund's little legs dangling over your forearms as he squirmed in delight, his pink tongue lolling out of his mouth as he panted with excitement. Arthur looked over, his eyes lighting up when he saw you, a look that was quickly replaced with a hint of surprise as he realized who was holding his brother's dog.

"No way!" Arthur exclaimed, his French accent thick and playful. "It's the woman that my brother loves so deeply! Elle est jolie!" [She is pretty]

"Merci pour le compliment, but I'm probably not the woman he loves," you said with a laugh that sounded forced even to your own ears. [Thank you for the compliment]

Arthur's eyebrows shot up. "Pas du tout? But I thought…" He trailed off, looking genuinely surprised. Then, with a cheeky smirk, he leaned closer. "You speak French?" [No way?]

"Yep," you replied, stroking Leo's head. "I was born in Monaco. My mother was a local, my father a British racing enthusiast. It was a bit of a love story, actually. They met during the Monaco Grand Prix."

The mention of Monaco seemed to spark something in Arthur's eyes. "Ah, a local girl," he said, his grin widening. "No wonder Charles is smitten."

You felt a flush creep up your neck, the heat not entirely from the sun anymore. "Smitten?" You repeated the word, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. "We're just colleagues."

Arthur's smirk grew. "Oui, oui, just colleagues," he echoed, his tone teasing. He leaned in closer, whispering conspiratorially, "But let me tell you, my brother does not get 'smitten' with just anyone. Trust me, I know."

You couldn't help the flutter of your heart at his words, but you pushed it down, forcing a laugh. "Well, I'm sure he's just being friendly. After all, we do work together."

Arthur chuckled, his eyes never leaving yours as he handed you a bottle of water. "Take it from me, Y/N. When it comes to love, my brother doesn't mess around. He's not one for casual flings or flirting just because he can. If he's showing an interest, it's because you've caught his eye in a way no other woman has."

The words hung in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

"Can you take care of Leo?" Arthur asked you, his eyes filled with hope and a hint of mischief. The dachshund looked up at you, his tail wagging in silent agreement.

"What?" You blinked, your heart skipping a beat. "Take care of Leo?"

Arthur nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oui. I have to run to my F2 training. It's the last session before qualifying, and I can't be distracted by this little rascal," he said, giving the dog a playful rub behind the ears. "Could you do me a favor and keep Leo out of trouble? I know Charles would be thrilled to see his furry companion in good hands."

You took the leash, your heart racing as the implications of Arthur's words swirled around you like a tornado. "Are you sure?" you asked, your voice a mix of confusion and hope.

"But of course!" Arthur said, clapping you on the shoulder. "Just don't let him pee on any million-dollar tires, yeah?"

You nodded, still in a daze as Arthur jogged off, leaving you with Leo's leash. The dachshund looked up at you, as if he knew he had just played a part in an important plot twist. The furry weight in your arms grounded you, bringing you back to reality with a jolt. You took a deep breath and headed towards the Ferrari garage, feeling the anxiety coil back around your chest.

As you approached the garage, the hustle and bustle grew more intense. Mechanics in their red jumpsuits swarmed around the gleaming cars like industrious ants, and the smell of burning rubber and gasoline permeated the air. The garage doors were open, the screech of tires from the track a constant reminder of the race that was to come. Your director, a stern Italian man with a silver streak in his hair, spotted you from across the garage, his eyes narrowing.

"Y/N!" he barked, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife. "Why do you have Leo?"

You blinked, your mind racing as you tried to formulate a response in Italian. "Oh, I'm just… keeping an eye on him," you replied, hoping your grasp of the language didn't falter under pressure. "Arthur had to go to his training, and he asked me to make sure Leo doesn't get into any trouble."

The director's gaze softened slightly as he nodded, his eyes flicking from you to the dog and back again. "Bene," he said. "Molto gentile. Ma non ti distragga, hai del lavoro da fare." [Good, very kind. But don't get distracted, you have work to do.]

You nodded, the Italian rolling off your tongue almost as easily as the French you'd spoken with Arthur. "Non sarò," you assured him, the words slipping out as if you had rehearsed them. "I won't let Leo distract me." [I won't be]

"Also Y/N, we need some shots of Carlos testing the new aero package. Can you get that done before FP1?"

"Of course," you replied.

You grabbed your camera and headed towards Carlos's side of the garage, grateful for the distraction. The task was straightforward, and you could lose yourself in the technical details, focusing on angles and lighting.

As you snapped away, capturing the sleek lines of the Ferrari with the new aero package, you felt a nudge against your leg. Looking down, you found Leo staring up at you with those big, pleading eyes. He had tagged along, his curiosity getting the better of him. Despite the chaos around you, his presence was a comforting constant, reminding you of simpler times, before the weight of expectations and desire had settled on your shoulders.

"Alright, little buddy," you murmured, bending down to scoop him up. "Let's go find Carlos."

The garage was a maze of machinery and people, all moving in a dance of precision and purpose. You wove through the throng, the leash in one hand and the camera in the other, feeling the tension in your arms as you balanced the two. The sound of a car roaring to life made your heart jump, the vibrations echoing through your chest.

Carlos emerged from the back of the garage, his helmet under his arm, his eyes hidden behind reflective sunglasses. He was a vision in red, his skin glistening with sweat, the Ferrari emblem stark against his chest. The moment he spotted you with Leo, his entire demeanor changed, the intensity of the track slipping away to reveal the warm, playful man beneath the racing suit.

"Hola, amigo," he greeted, his Spanish accent as rich as the leather of his gloves. "I wasn't expecting to see you with my little compañero here."

You couldn't help but smile at his affectionate tone. "Arthur had to go to training," you explained, holding Leo out so Carlos could take him. The dog wiggled with excitement, clearly thrilled to see his second favorite driver.

Carlos chuckled, taking Leo in his arms. "Ah, so you're the babysitter for the day."

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at his playful tone. "Looks like it," you said with a smile. "I've got to keep him out of trouble."

"And how are you going to do that?" Carlos asked, his grin widening as he ruffled Leo's fur.

You took a deep breath, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline suddenly more potent. "I figured I'd start with some content for Ferrari's TikTok," you suggested, holding up your phone. "We could do some quick clips of you explaining the new aero package. Maybe throw in some behind-the-scenes footage with Leo here as a special guest?"

Carlos' eyes lit up at the prospect, his smile growing wider. "I like it," he said, nodding. "Let's get to it."

The next few hours were a whirlwind of activity, with you directing Carlos through various shots and clips. You felt the thrum of excitement under your skin, the anticipation of creating something that would capture the imagination of millions of fans worldwide. You had him hold Leo, who seemed to relish the attention, as he spoke in a mix of English and Spanish about the intricacies of the new aero package.

Leo, the little star, remained obedient beside you, occasionally looking up with those expressive eyes that seemed to say, "I know you're using me for content, but I don't mind." His quiet presence was a comfort, a grounding force amidst the chaos of the paddock.

As you walked together, his little legs trotting to keep up with your longer stride, you noticed the way people's eyes lingered on the two of you. The whispers grew louder, the glances more pointed, and you felt a thrill at the realization that the bond you shared with Leo was being recognized.

The paddock was a blur of colors and sounds, but you remained focused on the task at hand. You directed Carlos through a series of candid shots, capturing the essence of Ferrari's spirit—passion, power, and precision.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm glow over the track, the idea for the perfect content piece struck you. "Hey Carlos, how about we do a little race?" You suggested, gesturing towards an empty stretch of asphalt. "You and Leo?"

Carlos' smile grew mischievous, understanding the compromise in your proposal. "Ah, so you want to see who's faster, huh? Me or the fastest dog in the paddock?"

You couldn't help but chuckle. "Exactly. It'll be a hit with the fans. Who wouldn't want to see a world-class F1 driver race a miniature dachshund?"

Carlos' eyes glinted with excitement. "Alright, you're on," he said, setting Leo down. The little dog looked up at him with an expression that was almost comically eager.

"Leo, sit," you instructed, holding up your hand, palm out. The dachshund obeyed, his tail wagging rapidly as he waited for the signal. You stepped back a few paces, giving them room to run. "Ready?"

Carlos nodded, crouching slightly, his body poised and athletic. "Ready," he echoed, a glint of amusement in his eyes.

You took a step back and raised your free hand. "Alright, Leo, stay!" You whispered, your voice firm but gentle. The dog's tiny body quivered with excitement as you counted down, "Tre, due, uno…"

On "zero," you brought your hand down with a dramatic flourish. "Go!"

Leo shot off like a rocket, his little legs moving in a blur of motion, a stark contrast to Carlos's graceful sprint. The crowd of mechanics and engineers around the garage stopped their work, turning to watch the impromptu race with smiles on their faces.

The tension that had been building in your chest all day was momentarily forgotten as you laughed, snapping pictures and recording the scene on your phone. The sound of their footsteps and the dog's excited yips filled the air, a delightful counterpoint to the ever-present drone of engines.

As you reached the makeshift finish line, you crouched down, arms outstretched. "Leo, come here, boy!" You called, your voice echoing through the open space. The dachshund's eyes were locked on yours, his determination to win evident in every stride.

You could feel the warmth of his excitement, the thump of his tiny heart against your palms as you waited for him to cross the line.

The crowd's laughter grew louder as Carlos closed the gap, his long strides eating up the distance between them. But Leo was a pro, weaving through legs and ducking under arms with the grace of a seasoned racer.

The moment he saw you, his tail wagged even faster, his eyes lighting up like the Ferrari's LED headlights.

You felt the warmth of his tiny body as he leaped into your arms, victory in his wagging tail and eager yips. The weight of him was a delightful surprise, a sudden reminder of the reality that existed outside of your racing thoughts. You hugged him tightly, his panting breaths a comforting reminder of the present. The world around you seemed to slow down, the noises of the paddock fading into the background as you focused on the feel of his fur against your skin, the rapid beat of his heart matching yours.

Leo licked your face enthusiastically, his tongue a wet streak across your cheek, bringing you back to the moment. The crowd around you erupted into cheers and applause, the lightness of the moment piercing the tension that had been building like a storm cloud over the day.

"Mon gagnant," you murmured, kissing the top of the dachshund's head, feeling the dampness of his fur and the warmth of his victory. His little body wiggled in your arms, tail still wagging as if he knew he was the star of the show. You couldn't help but feel a swell of affection for this tiny creature who had unwittingly become the center of your universe in the most unexpected way. [My winner]

You looked up to see Carlos approaching, his smile wide and genuine, the camaraderie of the moment shimmering in his eyes. "Looks like Leo's got the speed of a Ferrari," he said, chuckling.

"Or maybe you've got the speed of a dachshund," you quipped back, your heart still racing from the impromptu sprint.

Carlos chuckled, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, his grin never wavering. "But let's not tell Charles, yeah?"

The mention of Charles sent a jolt through your body, the memory of Arthur's words rekindling the fire of hope in your chest. You laughed, trying to keep the conversation light. "Your secret's safe with me," you promised, holding Leo closer.

As the cheers died down, the garage grew quieter, the hustle of work resuming around you. You looked into Leo's eyes, the reflection of the setting sun casting a warm glow across his fur. For a moment, you were lost in the depth of his gaze, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the little dog.

"Charles is finished from the free practice," Carlos said, his voice a gentle interruption to your thoughts. You nodded, your stomach flipping at the mention of his name.

"I need to finish my video with Dino," you blurted out, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as the sweat from your forehead. You hoped the urgency in your tone would be enough to convince him. Dino had been a last-minute addition to your content schedule, a perfect excuse to avoid the looming confrontation with Charles.

Carlos looked at you suspiciously. "Of course," he said. "I'll get back to the debrief. Good luck with Dino."

With a sigh of relief, you retreated to the quieter side of the garage where the team's hospitality room was. Dino was a F2 Ferrari driver. He was perfect for the light-hearted content you needed to keep your mind off the racing thoughts of Charles.

Entering the cool, dimly lit room, you spotted him lounging on a couch, a bottle of water in one hand, his phone in the other. The TV mounted on the wall played the highlights of the day's free practice sessions on a loop, the sound of engines a constant, almost comforting, murmur in the background.

Dino's eyes lit up when he saw you, his smile broad and welcoming. He was a young, Swedish-Bosnian driver with a boyish charm that made it easy to overlook the fact that he was a prodigy behind the wheel. "Ciao, Y/N!" he called out, waving his bottle of water at you. "How was your day?"

"Well, I've been taking care of this one," you said, holding Leo out as if presenting him to a king. The dachshund looked up at Dino, his tail thumping against your chest in a steady rhythm of excitement.

Dino's eyes widened in surprise. "Leo? What are you doing with him?"

You couldn't help the blush that crept up your cheeks. "Arthur had to go to training," you explained, feeling the weight of the dog in your arms. "He asked me to keep an eye on him."

Dino's eyes danced with amusement. "Ah, so you're the chosen one," he said, his voice teasing. "Charles must be pretty smitten if he's leaving his furry baby with you."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, the anxiety from earlier reasserting itself. "It's just for the day," you said, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. "I'm just helping out."

Dino nodded, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer before he set his bottle down. "Well, if you're looking for a break from babysitting duties, I could use some help with my social media," he offered, his grin mischievous. "I've got some great shots from today's practice that I need to post before I'm forgotten."

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "Alright," you agreed, setting Leo down on the floor. The dog immediately made a beeline for Dino, his tiny legs moving as fast as they could to get closer to the young driver. "But let's keep it professional, yeah?"

Dino chuckled, his eyes never leaving the dog. "Sure, if you say so," he said, patting the couch cushion next to him. "Come, Leo. Let's make some magic for the Gram."

You couldn't help but laugh at his antics, the tension in the room dissipating as you sat down beside him. The leather couch was cool against your skin, a welcome respite from the heat of the day. Leo clambered up, his little claws digging into the fabric as he settled in, his eyes shifting between you and Dino, as if deciding who was more interesting.

Dino handed you his phone, the screen filled with snapshots of his day on the track. Each image was a masterpiece of speed and power, the Ferrari a blur of red and white as it carved through the asphalt. You felt a strange kinship with the car, as if it mirrored the tumult of emotions you felt every time you thought of Charles.

You scrolled through the images, selecting the best ones for his Instagram story. You glanced at him, his eyes focused on the screen, the corners of his lips quirked in a knowing smile.

"This one," you said, tapping a particularly good shot. "You look like you're flying."

But before he could say anything, the door to the hospitality suite swung open, the cacophony of the paddock spilling in.

You looked up, your heart in your throat, to see Charles striding in, his gaze immediately finding yours. The air seemed to thicken with tension, the hum of the Formula 1 cars outside a distant echo of the racing of your pulse. He was a vision in his red and white Ferrari suit, his helmet tucked under his arm, his hair disheveled from the wind. His eyes searched yours, a question in their depths.

Dino sat back, the moment shattered by the sound of the door slamming shut. "Ah, the boss," he said, his tone light. "How was practice?"

You could feel Charles' gaze on you, a silent conversation passing between the two of you. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. "It was good," he said, his voice low and gruff. "We're making some good progress."

You nodded, trying to keep your voice steady. "I heard," you said, hoping the tremor didn't show. "I've been busy with Leo."

The mention of the dog brought a smile to his face, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. "Leo," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it. He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving the dachshund.

Leo looked up, his tail wagging, sensing the change in the air. He trotted over, his nails clicking on the floor, and jumped up to greet his owner. The contact was electric, the dog's wet nose pressing against Charles' hand, his tail wagging so hard it was a wonder it didn't fly off.

You watched, your heart in your throat, as Charles' eyes met yours, the question in them unspoken but clear. Was it possible? Could he feel it too?

"Thank you for looking after him," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice was a caress, a gentle touch that sent shivers down your spine. You nodded, unable to find the words to respond.

You handed over the leash, your fingers brushing against his, the contact sending a jolt through you like a bolt of lightning. It was a simple gesture, but it felt like the universe had aligned, bringing you together in this moment.

"You're welcome," you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible over the thunder of your heart.

Charles crouched down, his eyes on Leo, but you knew he was fully aware of you, of the way your chest rose and fell with every breath, of the way your eyes never left his profile.

With Leo now securely in his arms, Charles stood up, his eyes finding yours once more. "Could I have a word?" he asked, his voice low and gruff.

You nodded, unable to speak, your throat tight with anticipation. The air around you seemed to crackle with energy as you followed him out of the garage and into the cooler evening air. The paddock was alive with the sounds of final preparations for the weekend's qualifying, but all you heard was the thunder of your heart as it matched the beat of his footsteps.

The sun was setting now, casting a warm orange glow over everything, painting the Ferrari garage in a romantic light that seemed to highlight the tension between you.

He led you to a quiet spot beside the garage, out of view of the bustling paddock. Leo sat obediently at his feet, his gaze flicking between the two of you as if he knew something was happening.

"I'm sorry my brother left you with Leo like that," Charles said, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance. "He can be a bit… impulsive."

You felt the heat from his apology, his words like a gentle caress against your skin. "It's no problem," you assured him, your voice a soft whisper. "Leo's been keeping me company."

He nodded, his gaze lingering on the dog before shifting back to you. "Merci," he said, the French rolling off his tongue.

You felt your breath hitch, the way he said "thank you" in that language sending a warm shiver down your spine. The sun painted his features with a golden hue, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and the intense blue of his eyes. He was so close, his presence a magnetic force that made it difficult to think of anything else but the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne.

"I noticed you've been avoiding me," he said, his gaze never wavering.

The words hung in the air, heavy and charged. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks, the heat of the day suddenly nothing compared to the inferno of your blush. "I…" you began, but your voice trailed off, unable to form the words.

"It's okay," he said, his voice gentle. He reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch as soft as a feather. "I know you're busy."

But you knew that wasn't the whole truth. There was something more, a tension that stretched between you like a tightrope, threatening to snap with every step closer he took. You swallowed hard, the heat from his hand searing your skin, making it hard to focus. "I've just had a lot on my mind," you admitted, your eyes searching his, looking for any sign of understanding.

"Yeah," he said, his voice a rumble of empathy. "This job can get to you like that." He paused, his thumb brushing against the leather of the leash. "But you know you can talk to me, right?"

You felt your heart stumble, the words a balm to your soul. "I know," you murmured, your eyes never leaving his. "It's just… complicated."

He studied you, the intensity of his gaze making you feel both vulnerable and safe. "Is it the job?" he asked, his voice a soft caress.

You lied. You lied because the truth was too raw, too overwhelming to voice out loud. "It's nothing," you said, forcing a smile that felt like a lie painted on your face. "Just the usual pre-race jitters."

Charles chuckled, the sound rumbling through the quiet space around you, soothing and unnerving all at once. "I understand, I'm feeling it myself, Monaco is a very special place, isn't it?" he said, his eyes lighting up with a mischievous glint.

You nodded, the mention of your birthplace bringing a smile to your lips. "It is," you agreed, your heart swelling with a mix of pride and nostalgia. "The energy here is like nothing else."

The air between you grew heavier, the unspoken tension thick as molasses. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the pull of his presence. "I was thinking," he said, his voice low and earnest, "that maybe, since it's late and we haven't eaten, we could grab dinner together?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the maelstrom of emotions swirling within you. The thought of dinner with him was both terrifying and exhilarating. "Sure," you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

"Great," he said, his smile genuine, the tension in the air dissipating slightly. "I'll pick you up at 8?"

You nodded again, feeling like you were in a daze. "Where?" you managed to ask, your mind racing.

"I know a place," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Somewhere quiet, just the two of us."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, the warmth of his hand still lingering on your skin, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

You made your way back home, your mind racing. What did he mean? Was this just a friendly dinner between colleagues or something more?

You slipped into the bathroom, the cool tiles a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. You peeled off your Ferrari polo, the fabric sticking to your damp body. Looking in the mirror, you took stock of yourself—the flushed cheeks, the wildness of your hair. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

The shower was a blessed relief, the cool water cascading over you, washing away the sweat and doubt. You let it run over your shoulders, down your back, feeling the tension melt away.

You stepped out, wrapping yourself in a plush towel, the fabric rubbing against your sensitive skin, sending a shiver down your spine. You took your time getting ready, selecting a dress that hugged your curves just right, a soft red that matched the Ferrari. You applied your makeup with meticulous care, your eyes smoldering with the promise of the evening ahead.

The minutes ticked by, each one feeling like an eternity. You checked your phone, the time approaching with a speed that both thrilled and terrified you. And then, the buzz of a notification. It was a text from Charles, a simple message that sent your heart racing.

"I'm downstairs," it read.

You took a deep breath, trying to still the butterflies in your stomach. This was it. You grabbed your bag, slipped on your heels, and made your way down to your front door.

Charles looked up, his eyes locking on yours, and you felt your knees wobble. He was dressed in a tailored suit, the stark white of his shirt a stark contrast to the inky black of his jacket. His hair was slicked back, his jaw sharp, his eyes as blue as the Mediterranean. He was everything you had ever dreamed of and more.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice a velvet caress.

You nodded, the word "yes" lodged in your throat as you stepped out into the warm evening air. His eyes swept over you, and for a moment, everything else ceased to exist.

"You look beautiful," he murmured, his eyes lingering on your red dress, the color a perfect match to the Ferrari logo emblazoned on his chest. The words washed over you, a sweet balm to the anxiety that had been building all week. You felt your cheeks flush, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum in a symphony of desire.

You managed a small smile, the warmth of his gaze making you feel like the most precious jewel in Monaco. "Thank you," you whispered, the words barely audible. "This old thing?" You gestured to the dress, playing coy despite the heat building between you.

His smile grew, a hint of a dimple appearing in his cheek. "Not old," he said, taking a step closer. "Classic, like a Ferrari." His voice was a gentle purr, his accent wrapping around each word like a warm embrace. "It suits you perfectly."

You felt his breath on your neck, the scent of his cologne intoxicating. Your hand fluttered to the neckline of the dress, the fabric feeling almost too tight against your skin.

He offered his arm, and you took it, the muscle beneath the fabric of his jacket solid and reassuring. His hand closed over yours, the warmth of his skin searing into yours.

The drive to the restaurant was a blur of twisting streets and vibrant lights, the city coming alive around you. The Ferrari 488 Pista Spider you sat in was a masterpiece of engineering, a beast tamed only by his expert touch. The engine purred beneath you, the sound a symphony of power and precision that seemed to echo the thundering of your heart. You couldn't help but lean closer, the scent of leather and gasoline mingling with his cologne, a heady cocktail that made you dizzy with anticipation.

The car hugged the road like a lover, responding to every flick of his wrist, every subtle pressure of his foot on the pedals. The speed was exhilarating, the wind in your hair a caress that whispered sweet nothings into your ears. You watched him, the focus in his eyes, the set of his jaw, the way his hands danced over the steering wheel.

His driving was a metaphor for the way he approached life, with unbridled passion and unyielding determination. You felt your heart race in time with the engine, the thrill of the chase a living, breathing entity that surrounded you both.

As he pulled up to the curb outside Cantinetta Antinori, the car's engine purred to a gentle halt. You were shocked—not just by the sudden stillness that followed the symphony of speed, but by the realization that this was it.

The restaurant was a quaint little place, nestled in the heart of the city's old town. The ivy-covered walls whispered of history, the soft glow of the lights within beckoning you like a siren's call. You stepped out of the car, your heels clicking against the cobblestone street. The warm evening air kissed your skin, a stark contrast to the coolness of the Ferrari's leather interior.

As you approached the entrance, you felt a twinge of nostalgia. The last time you had been here was with your mom. She had loved this place, the way the candles flickered on the tables, casting shadows across the aged wine bottles that lined the walls.

She had loved the way the waiters spoke to her in hushed tones, the way the chef would come out and kiss her hand, promising her a meal she would never forget. She had loved the food—the rich, velvety pasta, the succulent meat that melted in your mouth, the wine that danced on your tongue like a fine symphony.

The memory of her laughter echoed through the empty streets as you followed Charles inside, the warmth of his hand on the small of your back a stark contrast to the coolness of the evening. The host, an elderly man with a twinkle in his eye, recognized you immediately, his face breaking into a wide smile.

"La figlia di Clara," he murmured, his voice filled with warmth and a hint of sorrow. "It has been too long." [Clara's daughter]

You nodded, the familiarity of the place both comforting and bittersweet. The walls were lined with photographs of the restaurant's storied past, including one of your mother, taken during a particularly memorable night. She was young, beautiful, and radiant—much like you.

The host led you to a table tucked away in a corner, the flickering candles casting a soft, intimate glow over the crisp white linen.

"Your mother had a special place here," he said, his eyes misty with remembrance. "We always knew when she was coming. The kitchen would buzz with excitement." He winked. "Chef still prepares her favorite dishes, hoping one day you would return."

The corner table was indeed special. It was as if your mother's spirit still lingered in the air, her love for this place a palpable presence that seemed to wrap around you like a warm embrace. The walls whispered stories of her laughter, her passion for life, and her fiery spirit that had captured the hearts of everyone she'd met. The scent of her favorite wine, a full-bodied Chianti Classico, lingered in the very fabric of the restaurant, a ghostly reminder of the countless celebrations she had shared here.

As you sat down, you couldn't help but feel a strange sense of comfort. The anticipation of the evening had been building all week, a crescendo of hope and doubt that had left you feeling both electrified and drained. Yet, as you looked into Charles' eyes, the anxiety melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through your veins like molten chocolate.

"Why did you pick here?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could even think.

Charles looked at you, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he took in your question. "It's a place with memories," he said, his voice a whisper of the ocean at night, a soft caress against the shore of your heart. "Memories of my go kart wins, of the excitement and the nerves. It's where I found my soulmate."

You blinked, his words sinking in like a warm embrace. "Your soulmate?" you echoed, your voice a tremble of hope.

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. "Yes," he said, his voice filled with a conviction that seemed to resonate through the very air around you. "The first time I saw her, I knew. It was like finding home after a lifetime of being lost at sea."

The waiter arrived, the clinking of glasses and silverware a distant melody to the symphony of emotion playing out between you. You ordered your mother's favorite dish, the scent of the Chianti already a familiar comfort as it was poured into your glass.

As you took a sip, you couldn't help but cast your mind back to the days when you were just a girl. You remembered a boy with bright blue eyes and a mischievous grin, one who had stolen your heart with a wink and a cheeky grin. You had met him right outside this very restaurant, his small hand in yours.

"It couldn't be him," you thought, the words echoing in your mind like a mantra.

As the candlelight played across his features, the shadows dancing in his eyes, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was all some kind of cosmic joke. You'd spent so long trying to keep your feelings in check, telling yourself it was just workplace attraction, that his flirtatious glances and lingering touches meant nothing.

But here you were, dressed up like a starlet, sipping on your mother's favorite wine, and listening to him talk about soulmates as if he were reading the script of your deepest desires. You took another sip, the velvety liquid coating your tongue with a warmth that spread down your throat.

It couldn't be him, could it? You had told yourself so many times that it was just a crush, a fleeting infatuation that would pass with time.

But as the evening stretched out before you, the candles casting a warm, golden glow on the antique furniture, you felt something shift within you.

"Oh, it's getting late," Charles said, glancing at his watch. His eyes met yours, a silent question hanging in the air.

The warmth of the candles had painted the restaurant's walls with a soft glow, the shadows playing across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the softness of his lips. The air was thick with unspoken tension, a palpable energy that seemed to hum with every beat of your heart.

His eyes searched yours, a silent question that seemed to hold the weight of the world. "Let me take you home."

You nodded, unable to find your voice, the anticipation in his gaze a mirror to the storm of emotions swirling within you. The night was a canvas painted with the soft glow of streetlights, each step you took with him feeling like a brushstroke towards an inevitable revelation.

As you approached the Ferrari, the sun had begun to set, casting an orange halo around the city. The light danced on the chrome of the car, setting the red paintwork alight with a fiery glow. The sight was breathtaking, a symphony of color that seemed to play in time with the erratic rhythm of your heart.

"Can we watch the sunset?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. The question was out before you could think better of it, a spontaneous plea for a moment of tranquility amidst the chaos of your racing thoughts.

He grinned, a knowing look in his eyes. "Of course," he said.

He led you to a short brick wall beside the restaurant, the warmth of the evening still lingering in the air. The cobblestone street was quiet now, the last vestiges of the day's activity giving way to the gentle whispers of the night. The wall was old, weathered by time and the caresses of countless passersby, but it offered a surprisingly comfortable perch.

The sunset painted the sky with strokes of red and gold, the colors bleeding into one another like a masterpiece coming to life before your eyes. The horizon was a canvas of fiery passion, the kind that could only be captured in the depths of one's soul.

It was here, on this very street, that you had met the boy with eyes so blue they could rival the Monaco sky. You had been no more than a girl then, your heart unblemished by the scars of experience, your soul an open book ready to be written on.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the very bricks beneath you.

You took a deep breath, the warmth of his presence enveloping you like a soft blanket. "Just how much has changed," you murmured. "And how little."

He nodded, his gaze never leaving yours. The sun dipped below the horizon, leaving a trail of molten lava in its wake. The air grew cooler, a gentle reminder that nightfall was approaching.

For what felt like an eternity, you sat there, the warmth of the brick wall seeping into your skin, his hand resting gently on your thigh. Each beat of your heart seemed to echo through the cobblestone street, a rhythm that only the two of you could hear.

Finally, as the last vestiges of daylight disappeared, he turned to you, his eyes searching yours. "Ready to go?"

You nodded, your voice a mere whisper as you stood. The Ferrari's engine roared to life, a living creature responding to its master's touch. The vibrations thrummed through your body as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your skin.

The city lights were a blur as he navigated the streets with an ease that spoke of a deep connection to this place.

When he finally pulled up to your apartment, the silence in the car was deafening. Your heart hammered in your chest, the anticipation a sweet agony that made you want to scream.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He turned to you, the blue of his eyes almost black in the dim light. "For what?"

"For tonight," you managed to say, the words sticking in your throat. "For… everything."

He leaned in, the scent of his cologne mingling with the leather of the car, making your head swim. His hand slid up to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze held yours, searching, questioning, as if he could read the tumult of emotions playing out behind your eyes.

"Good night, Y/N," he murmured, his breath a warm caress against your skin.

You felt your heart stutter in your chest, the simple words holding a gravity that seemed to pull you closer to him. The air in the car was thick with unspoken desire, the silence a symphony of unspoken promises.

"Good night," you whispered, your voice a mere breath against the coolness of the evening. The words hung in the air, a silent plea that seemed to resonate with the very fabric of the universe.

He leaned closer, his breath a soft gust of warmth that seemed to meld with the coolness of the night. The touch of his thumb against your cheek was like a butterfly's kiss, feather-light yet imbued with a strength that seemed to hold the very essence of life.

The moment stretched out, the air charged with potential as you stared into his eyes. The city lights painted shifting patterns on his face, highlighting the intensity of his gaze.

He waited, his hand still on your cheek, his thumb tracing gentle circles that sent sparks of pleasure through your body.

As you stepped out of the Ferrari, the cool evening air was a stark contrast to the heat of his touch. You felt the loss of his hand like a physical ache, a sudden coldness that made you shiver.

You watched as he waited for you to unlock your front door, the engine of the car purring gently, the headlights casting long shadows across the pavement. His eyes never left yours, the intensity in them making your heart race.

As you slipped inside and turned to wave goodbye, the Ferrari remained still, a silent sentinel watching over you. Only when the door was shut and the lock clicked into place did he finally drive off, the sound of the engine receding into the night like the fading notes of a love song. The house felt eerily quiet, the walls echoing with the ghosts of your mother's laughter and the whispers of your unspoken hopes.

You leaned against the door, heart racing, the warmth of his touch still a phantom caress on your cheek. The scent of him lingered in the air, a potent cocktail of adrenaline and desire that seemed to cling to your skin. Your hand trembled as you reached up to trace the path his thumb had taken, the memory of his gentle touch sending a shiver down your spine.

The house was a cocoon of shadows, the silence a stark contrast to the cacophony of the city outside. Each step you took echoed in the emptiness, the memories of your mother's laughter and the whispers of your unspoken hopes haunting every corner.

You found yourself in the living room, the moonlight spilling through the windows, casting a soft glow over the familiar furnishings. Your hand reached out, almost of its own accord, to trace the outline of a framed photograph on the mantel.

It was a picture of your mother and father, taken at their wedding. They looked so young, so in love. You remembered the story of how they'd met—how your mother had been a local beauty queen and your father a dashing British journalist who'd come to cover the Grand Prix. The way they looked at each other in that photo, it was as if they were the only two people in the world.

You felt a sudden rush of warmth, the kind that comes from a memory so potent it could melt the iciest of hearts. It was a reminder that love didn't always have to be complicated, didn't always have to come with the baggage of fear and doubt.

Sometimes it was as simple as finding the person who made your soul feel seen. . . . .

The Mediterranean sun beat down on your face as you stepped off the bus in Monaco. Saturday. Your day off. A rare treat you intended to savor.

The plan was simple: a lazy morning, followed by lunch with your father, and an afternoon spent wandering the charming streets of Monte Carlo. The air buzzed with the pre-race excitement of the Monaco Grand Prix, a feeling you usually avoided, its energy a painful reminder.

You walked the familiar path to your father’s apartment, the scent of salty air and blooming jasmine filling your lungs. Monaco always felt like a bittersweet symphony – breathtaking beauty layered with the echoes of a past you couldn't escape. You reached his door and knocked, the sound surprisingly loud in the otherwise still building.

He opened the door with a wide smile, pulling you into a hug. "There's my girl! Come in, come in. I've been waiting."

You stepped inside, the cool air a welcome contrast to the heat outside. "Something smells good," you said, sniffing the air.

"Just a little something I threw together," he replied, gesturing towards the kitchen. "So, tell me about your week. Anything exciting?"

You recounted the mundane details of your job at the paddock and the difficult camera shots. He listened intently, his eyes crinkling at the corners as you recounted a particularly funny fan. After catching up and sharing the meal that he prepared, he finally cleared his throat, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"So," he began, a pause hanging in the air, "I was thinking… I might like to go to the Grand Prix tomorrow."

Your heart skipped a beat. The Grand Prix? It was such a loaded phrase. You hadn't expected, in a million years, to hear those words come out of his mouth. You had carefully avoided the topic for years, knowing the painful memories it held for both of you.

Your mother had been a passionate Formula 1 fan, and the Monaco Grand Prix had been her absolute favorite. She had even worked for a racing team for a while. Her death had cast a long shadow over both your lives, turning the roar of engines into a painful reminder of what you had lost.

"Dad," you said softly, unsure of what to say. "Are you sure? It's been a while."

"Yes, I'm sure," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "I think… I think it's time. And," he added, a sly smile spreading across his face, "I have another reason to want to go."

Your confusion deepened. "Another reason?"

He chuckled, then turned and picked up his tablet from the coffee table. "Yes. I saw something on Facebook yesterday, something rather… interesting."

He tapped the screen a few times, then turned the tablet towards you. Your eyes widened in disbelief as a video began to play. It was you laughing. And next to you, beaming, was Charles Leclerc. Leo, his adorable dachshund, was happily ensconced in your arms.

The video was short, just a few minutes long, but it captured the pure joy of the moment. And then another video started playing. And another. And another. Ten different videos, all showing you and Charles, laughing, talking, clearly enjoying each other's company. They had been filmed from various angles, seemingly by different people, capturing snippets of your interaction.

Your cheeks flushed crimson. You hadn't even noticed anyone filming. Paparazzi were a common sight in Monaco, especially during Grand Prix week, but you had assumed they were focused on Charles, not you.

"Dad, where did you find these?" you stammered, mortified.

"Facebook, my dear," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "Apparently, some fan accounts have been very busy. You and Charles seem to be quite the sensation."

You groaned inwardly. This was a disaster.

"Dad, we're not together," you said, trying to keep your voice calm. "We just… talk sometimes. He's a nice guy."

"Really?" your father said, his voice laced with disappointment. "You two look together. You look… happy. And that dog seems to adore you."

He paused, studying your face. "I just… I haven't seen you this animated in a long time. You know, after your mother passed away, it was like a light went out in you. Now I am seeing that light slowly come back on."

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. He wasn’t wrong. You had been guarded, closed off, for so long. And Charles… he had a way of making you feel alive again, of reminding you what it was like to laugh without reservation. But a relationship with him? It was impossible. You were just a social media manager. He was a Formula 1 driver, a global icon. Your worlds were too different.

"Dad, it's complicated," you said, finally breaking the silence. "He's Charles Leclerc. I'm… me. It wouldn't work."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss it," he said gently. "Sometimes, the most unexpected connections are the most rewarding. Besides," he added with a wink, "I want to meet the man who makes my daughter smile like that. So that is why I want to go to the Grand Prix. I want to meet him."

You were silent for a moment, considering his words. Maybe he was right. Maybe you were being too cautious, too afraid to take a chance. And the idea of seeing Charles again, even if just for a brief moment, was undeniably appealing.

"Okay," you said, a small smile gracing your lips. "Okay, Dad. Let's go to the Grand Prix."

Your father's eyes lit up. "Really? You'll do it for me?"

You nodded, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread. The Grand Prix was a minefield of memories, but maybe facing them together would be the start of a new chapter. "I'll do it for us," you corrected, meeting his gaze.

Your father's smile grew wider, his eyes gleaming with a mix of pride and mischief. "Good," he said, patting your hand. "Now, let's not tell anyone. It'll be our little secret."

As you nodded in agreement, you couldn't help but feel a flutter of anticipation in your stomach. The thought of seeing Charles again after yesterday was intoxicating.

You had been so focused on keeping your distance that you hadn't realized how much you had missed the way his laughter made you feel. . . .

The scent of high-octane fuel and the low hum of meticulously engineered engines are your Sunday soundtrack. You arrive at the Ferrari paddock early, the red of the Prancing Horse emblazoned on your jacket a stark, proud contrast to the still-gray morning sky.

Today, you're at the helm of Ferrari's TikTok presence, tasked with capturing the electric energy of race day for millions of eager fans. You feel a pang of regret for missing Carlos’s stunning pole position yesterday, an absence dictated by a promised day with your father. But the apologies are done and you are ready!

The Maranello crew is already buzzing with activity, mechanics hunched over engines, engineers poring over data, and the air thick with focused intensity. You pull out your phone, the familiar weight a comfort in your hand. Your first task is a quick walk-around, filming snippets of the pre-race rituals: tire warming in the garage, some close ups on the drivers and the fans starting to flow.

The day is already starting to feel like it will be a good one for Ferrari.

Later in the morning, the paddock door swings open again, and you spot your father. He flashes you a warm smile, his VIP pass glinting in the sunlight. It's a rare treat for him, this access to the heart of the Ferrari machine. While you navigate the world of social media strategies and content calendars, he remains a devoted fan, his love for the sport pure and untainted by corporate considerations. You give him a quick hug, promising to check in later before diving back into your work.

As you're strategizing your next TikTok, a commotion catches your ear. Looking up, you see Charles Leclerc's family arriving, a vibrant group radiating warmth and support. There's Arthur, Charles's younger brother, whose easygoing charm you've come to appreciate during your time working with Ferrari. There's Pascale, Charles's mother, her presence a calming influence in the high-pressure environment. And then, you see him – Leo, Charles's beloved dachshund, trotting along with an air of unwavering confidence, as if he owns the entire paddock.

Out of simple courtesy for Arthur, who you have now developed a true friendship with, you break away from your task and approach the Leclerc clan. "Bonjour, everyone!" you say, smiling warmly. "It's lovely to see you all here."

Pascale gives you a gracious smile. "Ah, you must be Y/N. Charles has mentioned you. Thank you for all you do to support the team."

You feel a flush creep up your neck. "It's my pleasure. He's an incredible driver."

Arthur claps you on the shoulder. "Hey! Glad to see you. Ready for the race?"

"Absolutely," you reply, your gaze flickering towards him. "The energy here is incredible."

Leo, the dachshund, decides this is the perfect moment to investigate your shoes, sniffing inquisitively before settling down at your feet. You chuckle, bending down to give him a gentle pat.

Pascale notices your interaction with Leo and sighs softly. "Charles will be coming late," she says, her voice tinged with concern. "He's already hard on himself for not getting pole yesterday, so he's getting himself into quite a mood."

Her words hang in the air, painting a vivid picture of the young driver's intense self-critique. You can't help but empathize with Charles, understanding the pressure to perform at the highest level in the unforgiving world of Formula 1. "Ah, I see," you reply sympathetically. "Is there anything I can do to help lift the spirits?"

Pascale looks at you thoughtfully, her eyes searching yours. "Perhaps," she says after a moment.

The suggestion hangs between you, unspoken yet palpable. You know exactly who she means – her second son, the prodigy behind the wheel of the Ferrari.

"Speak to him, maybe," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "Sometimes, a kind word from someone who isn't family can make all the difference."

Her words resonate deep within you. You've felt the weight of expectations before, the pressure to perform beyond what seems humanly possible. You nod, understanding the gravity of the task she's entrusting you with.

"I'll do my best," you promise, straightening up from your squat. "Where can I find him?"

Arthur points towards a corner by the end of a corridor. "He's probably in his driver's room."

You nod and make your way there, feeling your heart thud in your chest like the bass of a dance track. The closer you get, the stronger the anxiety builds, like a coil winding tight. You're about to knock on the door when you hear the unmistakable sound of someone pacing inside. You take a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

"Who is it?" The voice is gruff, strained. You recognize it immediately as Charles'.

You swallow, the dryness in your throat a stark reminder of your own nerves. "It's me, Y/N."

The pacing stops, and the door swings open. Charles stands before you, his eyes shadowed, his usually impeccable hair a mess of unruly waves. He's wearing a Ferrari-branded jumpsuit, zipped to the neck, as if armoring himself against the world.

"Hey," he says, his voice a notch lower than usual. "What brings you here?"

You offer a small smile, stepping into the room. It's smaller than you expected, but it's filled with the scent of new leather and the faint smell of sweat, a testament to the intense focus and physical effort that happens here. "Your mother thought I could help… talk."

He nods, his jaw clenched. "I know I messed up yesterday. I could've had that pole." The regret in his voice is raw, visceral.

You close the door gently behind you and lean against it, crossing your arms. "You're only human, Charles. Everyone has off days."

He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes never leaving yours. "That's just it, isn't it?" he murmurs, his French accent thick with emotion. "They expect more of me than that. I expect more of me."

You feel the weight of his words, the pressure of his gaze. The room seems to shrink around you, the air charged with an energy that's part frustration, part anticipation. You step closer, the fabric of your jacket whispering against your skin. "You're already one of the best," you tell him, your voice softer now. "One slip doesn't change that."

He turns away, staring out the window. His reflection in the glass is stark, his profile a study in tension. You can almost see the cogs of his mind working, the fierce determination etched into every line of his face.

"I know," he says, his voice tight. "But I want more than that. I need more."

You sense his vulnerability, a stark contrast to the stoic exterior he presents to the world. You decide to take a risk, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder. His muscles are taut under your touch, like steel wires ready to snap.

"You're not just a driver," you murmur, your voice soothing. "You're a part of something much larger than yourself."

His eyes flicker to your hand on his shoulder before he sighs, his posture relaxing slightly. The touch seems to ground him, and you can almost feel the tension in the room dissipating.

"Thank you," he murmurs, turning to face you. His eyes lock onto yours, and you're lost in their depth, the blue of his irises as vibrant as the Ferrari logo on your chest. His gaze is intense, searching for something unspoken, something that only you seem to be able to provide.

You're in denial, you think to yourself. Denial that the connection you're feeling right now is anything more than a professional bond. But the way his eyes drink you in, the way your hand seems to fit perfectly on his shoulder – it's as if the universe itself is playing a trick on you, blurring the lines between friendship and desire.

As you stand there, the electricity crackling between you, you can't ignore the sudden awareness of your own body. Your heart thunders in your chest, echoing the engines outside. Your palm is slick with the heat of his skin, and you realize you're holding your breath, waiting for what comes next.

"You should get ready for the race," you mutter, the words slipping out like a defense mechanism.

But the moment stretches, thick with unspoken understanding. Your hand lingers on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin seeping into you like a balm for your own jangled nerves. He doesn't move away, and the silence is a symphony of unspoken truths.

You swallow, trying to dispel the dryness that has taken up residence in your mouth. "You're going to be amazing out there today," you say, your voice a whisper.

Charles seems to consider your words before nodding slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. "Thank you," he says, his voice a caress against your skin.

He takes a step closer, and you're suddenly aware of the heat radiating from his body, the proximity setting your own nerves alight. The room feels like it's spinning, the walls closing in around you as he leans down, his breath hot on your cheek.

Before you can react, he presses a gentle kiss to your cheek, a gesture that feels both comforting and electrifying. His lips are soft, a stark contrast to the steely resolve you know he'll show on the track.

"See you later," he mutters, his voice a mix of determination and something else, something that sends a shiver down your spine.

He pulls away, leaving you standing in the middle of the room, your hand still hovering where he was, your breath trapped in your chest.

You watch him go, his every step echoing in the small space, the door clicking shut behind him like a gunshot. You freeze, your heart racing, your mind reeling from the unexpected turn of events.

The kiss lingers on your skin like the fading warmth of the sun, leaving you with a feeling of longing that you can't quite understand.

The room feels stiflingly hot, the air thick with the scent of his cologne and the promise of something unspoken. You can still feel the ghost of his touch on your shoulder, a phantom presence that sends a shiver down your spine.

Your hand is trembling, so you clench it into a fist, willing yourself to get a grip. You can't let this get to you. You have a job to do, millions of fans waiting for content that will make their hearts race. But how can you focus on that when your own heart is racing for entirely different reasons?

You force yourself to take a deep breath, the sound of it echoing in the now-empty room. You can hear the muffled sounds of the paddock outside, the whirring of machines and the low murmur of voices.

You left the room, the door closing behind you with a soft click, the sound a stark reminder of the barrier now separating you from Charles. As you step into the corridor, the cool air slaps you in the face like a cold towel, jolting you back to reality.

The world outside is a whirlwind of activity, a stark contrast to the stillness you just left behind. You take a moment to compose yourself, smoothing your jacket and running a hand through your hair, trying to shake off the feeling of his lips on your skin.

You make your way back to Pascale, who's now standing by the paddock, her eyes scanning the crowd. You give her a thumbs up, hoping it conveys the success of your mission without revealing the tumult of emotions you're currently navigating.

Her eyes light up with relief, and she nods in understanding. She knows the weight of what you've just done, the delicate balance between personal and professional boundaries you've had to tread.

The race is about to begin, and the tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife. The roar of the engines crescendos, a symphony of power that makes the ground tremble beneath your feet.

You find yourself a spot with a good view, the camera in your hand feeling like an extension of your arm as you capture the moment. The drivers climb into their cars, their faces a mask of concentration, their eyes burning with the desire to win.

As Charles pulls on his helmet, you can't help but think of the kiss you shared, the way his eyes had searched yours, as if looking for something deeper. You shake your head, trying to focus on the task at hand, but the memory clings to you like a second skin, a warmth that you can't ignore.

The lights turn green, and the engines roar to life, a cacophony that sends a thrill down your spine. The cars screech away from the grid, a blur of color and speed that leaves you breathless. You film it all, the panning shots of the pack, the close-ups of the Ferrari's sleek body, the sound of rubber on asphalt a visceral symphony in your ears.

The race is tight, the tension palpable, as each driver fights for every inch of the track. You find yourself holding your breath with every turn, every overtake, every moment of precarious balance on the edge of control.

The Ferrari darts through the field, the crimson blur of Charles' car weaving through the pack like a dance of power and precision. Yet, your thoughts keep straying back to the driver's room, to the heat that had bloomed between you, to the way his eyes had searched yours.

As the laps tick down, the knot in your stomach tightens with every passing second. You're not just watching the race; you're living it through him.

Each gear change, each apex, every battle for position feels personal, as if you're strapped into the cockpit with him, feeling the G-forces press you into the seat, the vibrations of the engine resonating through your bones.

The tension reaches a crescendo as the final lap approaches. The Ferraris is in contention for the podium, and the energy of the paddock is palpable. You can almost taste the sweetness of victory in the air, a heady mix of sweat, exhaust fumes, and anticipation.

Your eyes are glued to the screen, your heart in your throat as Charles Leclerc battles for position. Every shift, every brake point, every inch gained or lost is a testament to his skill, his unyielding spirit.

You realize that your hand is clenched into a fist, your knuckles white with the effort of holding back your emotions.

As the second last lap starts, you can't help but glance around, expecting to see Pascale's proud gaze on her son, her nails digging into her palms in silent support. But she's not there.

The spot where she'd been standing, where her anxious energy had been a comforting presence, is empty. A cold dread trickles down your spine, and for a moment, the race is forgotten as you wonder where she's gone.

You get out of your station, the phone still recording the race in your shaky hand, and weave through the bustling paddock. Your eyes scan the faces around you, looking for any sign of Pascale.

As you move closer to the garage, the roar of the engines is a constant backdrop to the symphony of clicks and murmurs from the crew. The tension is palpable, a living entity that coils around everyone's throats.

And then, you spot Arthur and Lorenzo, two dots of humanity in a sea of red and white. They're leaning against the wall, their expressions taut with anxiety.

It's been a while since they've seen their mother, and you know this day holds a special significance for them, not just because of the race, but because of the woman who's the heart of their world.

You decide to take a chance, slipping away from the media frenzy to find her, thinking she might have stepped away to the bathroom to gather her thoughts. The paddock is a maze of corridors and stairwells, but you've learned to navigate it with ease over the years.

The sound of the cars' engines crescendos as you approach the track, the vibrations resonating through the concrete under your feet.

The heavy breathing grew louder as you approached one of the quieter rooms, the kind reserved for VIPs and their guests. You pause, your hand on the doorknob, your heart hammering in your chest.

You're not sure if you're ready for what you might find on the other side. But the concern for Pascale overpowers any hesitation. You push the door open, the hinges protesting with a soft squeak.

The room is dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the flickering lights outside that cast shadows across the floor. You can't see anyone at first, and for a brief moment, you wonder if you've made a mistake. And then, you hear it again – the heavy, rhythmic sound of breathing.

You then saw her. Pascale was panting against a table, grasping for some balance as her body quivered with the aftermath of something intense. Her eyes are closed, her chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

She's dressed in her usual elegant race-day attire, but the fabric is rumpled, the buttons of her blouse askew. Her hair is a mess of tangles, as if she's been running her hands through it in desperation.

For a moment, you're frozen, unsure if you should intrude. But the sound of her erratic breathing tugs at your heart, and you can't ignore the worry that coils around you. "Pascale?" you murmur, your voice barely carrying in the quiet space.

Her eyes fly open, and she jolts upright, her pupils dilated with shock. You can see the moment she recognizes you, the realization of her vulnerability crossing her face.

Pascale's cheeks flush a deep crimson, and she quickly straightens her blouse, smoothing her hair down. She looks at you with a mix of embarrassment and something else – something that makes your pulse spike.

"Y/N," she gasps, her voice a blend of surprise and something you can't quite place. "I'm fine, really. Just… a bit overwhelmed."

You step into the room, the door closing behind you with a gentle click that echoes in the stillness. The scent of her perfume, usually soothing, is now a reminder of the pain that comes with loss. You know that look in her eyes, the way they're glazed over with a mix of pleasure and sorrow – it's the look of a woman who has just experienced the intense, soul-wrenching climax that comes from a deep connection, a connection that is now forever severed by the cold hand of death.

Pascale's cheeks are flushed, her breathing erratic as she tries to compose herself. You've seen this before, with your father.

The sight of her, usually so poised, so in control, brings a rush of emotions to the surface. You remember the way your own father used to look when he thought no one was watching – lost, desperate, searching for the comfort that only your mother's touch could provide.

You cross the room to her, your steps slow and measured, the floor beneath you feeling like it's made of shifting sands. When you're close enough, you gently take her hand, feeling the tremble in her fingers. "Pascale," you whisper, your voice a balm for her frazzled nerves.

Her eyes find yours, a silent question in their depths. "Yes?" she asks, her voice a shaky breath.

"Your son won his home race again," you smile, the warmth in your voice a stark contrast to the shadows that had moments ago clouded her features.

You didn't know for sure but you heard screaming outside, a cacophony of passion and desire that seemed to echo the very essence of the race itself. You assumed it was just the usual post-race jitters, the kind that made even the most seasoned fans lose their heads. But as you looked at Pascale, the sound grew louder, more urgent, and you knew you had to do something.

"The race ended not too long ago," you said gently, trying to coax her back to reality. Her eyes searched yours, desperate for an anchor in the storm of emotion that had swept her away.

You knew she was thinking of her son, the pride and fear that must have been coursing through her as he pushed the boundaries of physics in that Ferrari.

Her reply is a whisper, a sigh of relief that's almost a sob. "Merci," she murmurs, her grip on your hand tightening for a brief second. "Merci beaucoup."

Her legs, you notice, are still trembling, a delicate tremor that seems to echo the vibrations of the engines that still resonate in the air outside. You don't need to ask what's happened – the evidence is written in the tension that still lingers in the air around her, the way her body clings to the edge of the table, as if it's the only thing keeping her upright.

Gently, you lead her to a chair, the plush leather a stark contrast to the cold steel of the table. She sinks into it, her eyes never leaving yours, as if you're the only thing keeping her grounded. The race outside, the roaring engines, the cheers of the crowd, they all seem to fade away as you sit with her, your knees almost touching.

You talk about the race, the way the Ferraris had danced around the track, the thrill of the overtakes, the heart-stopping moments when it seemed like the podium was just out of reach. Each word is chosen with care, a gentle thread to guide her back to reality, to the here and now.

As you speak, you see the tension in her face slowly ease, the lines around her eyes smoothing out, her breathing evening out. She nods, unable to focus fully on your words, her thoughts still tangled in the web of passion and grief that had consumed her. But your voice is a soothing balm, a comforting presence that anchors her to the present.

Her eyes are still glazed, but now it's with the realization of what she's missed. The race, the victory – all of it. You can see the regret in the way she bites her bottom lip, the way her hand clutches at the chair's armrest.

"Hervé?" she says staring into air, the name leaving her lips like a sigh, a question, a prayer.

Her hand is still in yours, the warmth of her skin a stark contrast to the cool leather of the chair. She looks lost, her gaze unfocused, as if she's searching for something only she can see.

"He would have been so proud," she whispers, her voice a mere breath. The mention of her late husband, Hervé, sends a pang of pain through you.

You've heard that widowed soulmates often imagine seeing their lost counterpart in moments of intense emotion, their spirits lingering like a phantom limb, reaching out to find their match in the mortal world. Looking at Pascale, you wonder if that's what's happening here. Her eyes are misty, searching the room as if he's standing right beside her, a silent spectator to her passionate release.

"Hervé," she murmurs again, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I can still feel him here."

You nod, understanding the weight of her words, the gravity of her loss. You lean closer, the scent of her perfume, a blend of jasmine and sandalwood, wrapping around you like a comforting embrace. "He's always with you, Pascale," you say softly. "In every victory, every cheer, every heartbeat that races with excitement for your son."

Her gaze locks onto yours, the depth of her pain mirrored in the dark pools of her eyes. "You know," she whispers, "what it's like to miss someone so much that it feels like they're right there beside you?"

You nod, the memory of your mother's passing still a fresh wound, the kind that never truly heals. "I do," you say, your voice cracking.

You watched your father go through the same dance of grief, his eyes glazed with the same desperate hope that Pascale's are now. He'd sit in his chair, a glass of whiskey in hand, and whisper to the empty space beside him, as if she were there, her gentle touch soothing his racing thoughts.

You pull out your phone and send a quick text to Arthur and Lorenzo, the words a silent lifeline thrown into the chaos of the paddock. 'Your mom's okay. She's in the VIP room near the Ferrari garage. She's just… overwhelmed by the race.' You leave out the part about her emotional episode, not wanting to betray her dignity.

It isn't long before you get a text from Arthur, his response a burst of relief. 'Thank you. Tell her we're coming.' You nod, knowing they'll want to be here for her.

You lean in closer, the weight of the moment heavy in the air. "He's a part of you," you say, your voice a soothing whisper. "And he lives on through your son, through his victories."

The words hang between you, a bridge spanning the chasm of her grief. You feel the warmth of her hand in yours, the gentle pulse of her life force, a silent acknowledgment of the truth you've spoken. For a moment, you're lost in the depth of her gaze, the intensity of her pain and love for her son and her husband mirrored in your own soul. You understand her, and she, in turn, sees the reflection of her own sorrow in your eyes.

"You're right," she murmurs, her voice a soft caress against the thundering engines outside. "He does live on in Charles."

Her hand in yours is a silent confession, an unspoken admission of the connection you both share. You feel a jolt of electricity as your skin touches hers, a current that sizzles through your veins and makes you acutely aware of every inch of your body.

The door to the VIP room opens, and the noise of the paddock floods in – the shouts of the mechanics, the roar of the crowd, the symphony of celebration and despair that follows every race. Arthur and Lorenzo enter, their faces etched with a mix of relief and concern. They rush to their mother, their eyes wide with questions.

Pascale looks up, a soft smile playing on her lips. "I'm okay," she says, her voice stronger than you've heard it since you found her. "The race was… intense."

Arthur and Lorenzo exchange a look that speaks volumes, a silent conversation that you can almost hear. They know their mother's strength, her unyielding spirit that has carried them through so much. They know the burden she bears, the weight of her love for their father and her fierce pride in their brother's success.

Their eyes flicker to the hand you still hold, and you realize with a start that you've been stroking her knuckles with your thumb.

"Maman, Charles won," Arthur says, breaking the silence that had settled over the room like a warm blanket.

Pascale's eyes, still glazed with the aftermath of her moment, refocus on her sons. "Mon fils," she murmurs, the words a soft caress that wraps around you as much as it does them. The term of endearment is not just for Arthur and Lorenzo, but for Charles as well, for all the boys who race with Ferrari's heart.

"He's in the cooldown room right now," Lorenzo says, his voice tight with pride. "I don't think Maman can make it to the podium ceremony, so could you please attend it?"

You've never been to the podium, never been the face of Ferrari in such a public way. "I don't think I should be the person that should represent you all," you murmur, confused by the sudden turn of events.

Lorenzo smiles gently, his eyes understanding. "You're more than capable, Y/N," he assures you. "You're a part of this family now."

The words resonate in your chest, a warmth spreading through you like a fine wine. You nod, the gravity of the request settling in your stomach like a lead weight. "Okay," you murmur, rising from the chair, Pascale's hand slipping from yours with a final, lingering touch.

Arthur's embrace is tight, his arms enveloping his mother in a protective cocoon of love and concern. His eyes, so much like Charles', look into yours, a silent plea. "I'm sorry but I want to take care of Maman so explain this to Charles?" he mouths, the words unspoken but clear as day.

You nod, understanding the unspoken message. "Of course," you murmur, your voice low so only he can hear. "I'll explain to him."

As you pull away from the couch, Pascale's eyes follow you, the weight of her gaze like a warm hand on your back. You give her a small smile, one that speaks of the shared moments you've just had, the connection that has grown between you in the quiet, intimate space of the VIP room.

Her hand lingers in yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary, the softness of her skin a stark contrast to the calloused grip of your own. The sensation sends a shiver down your spine, a delicate dance of nerves that you're all too aware of.

"See you soon, Pascale," you say, the words a promise that hangs in the air like the sweet scent of her perfume.

Her eyes hold yours for a moment longer than necessary, a silent goodbye that speaks volumes of the comfort you've provided. As you turn to leave the VIP room, her hand lingers in the space between you, as if reluctant to let you go.

The paddock is a whirlwind of activity, the Ferrari staff still ecstatic over Charles' win. The air is electric with excitement, the sound of cheers and laughter punctuating the rhythmic throb of the engines. You weave through the throngs of people, your heart racing with a mix of nerves and elation.

As you approach the podium area, you can't help but feel a sense of belonging, the same sense of kinship you felt in Pascale's arms. The Ferrari family is a tight-knit one, bound by passion and pain, by victory and defeat.

The podium looms before you, a gleaming monument to triumph. You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing pulse. You know you should've recorded the reaction of the win, the elation on the team's faces as they saw their car cross the line first. But in that moment, you had been lost in the maelstrom of Pascale's sorrow, her soulmate's phantom presence a silent spectator to the race.

Yet, you didn't regret that.

As you near the podium, the announcement that the podium ceremony is starting soon echoes through the paddock, the words a jolt of adrenaline through the already electrified air.

The Ferrari fans, a sea of red, are already chanting Charles's name, their voices a symphony of excitement that seems to vibrate through the very fabric of the track. They're eager to see their driver claim his rightful place on top, the gleaming chrome and gleaming eyes of his Ferrari reflecting their passion.

With your camera at the ready, you slip through the barriers, feeling the rush of importance, the thrill of being on the other side of the lens. You've captured countless moments for social media, but none quite so significant as this.

Lando Norris stands third on the podium. His eyes are a mix of elation and determination, the kind that says he's not content to stay in the shadows for long.

As the podium fills with cheers, Max Verstappen takes his second position. He's second today, a position that seems to fuel his competitive spirit rather than dampen it. You know he's already planning his comeback, his mind racing with strategies and tactics, a maelstrom of thoughts that only a true champion could contain.

And then it's Charles's turn. He steps onto the podium, his eyes searching the sea of red before finding yours.

The crowd erupts as he does, a wave of sound that crashes over the podium. In that moment, as he looks out into the crowd and you had eye contact somehow, you're not just a Ferrari social media manager. You're the woman who held his mother's hand through the storm of her grief, the silent witness to the legacy that fuels his drive. His eyes lock onto yours, and for a split second, the world seems to hold its breath.

You lift your phone, the camera lens capturing the scene before you – the gleaming chrome, the spray of champagne, the triumphant arch of Charles's back as he takes his victory. But it's the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way his smile seems to hold a hint of something more, that makes you pause. You record shyly, the intimate moment between you two a secret shared in the midst of a public spectacle.

As the anthem plays and the crowd sings along, you feel a strange sense of belonging. This is not your world – you're a digital storyteller, a documenter of moments for the masses – but here, in the heart of Ferrari, you're part of the tapestry of victory.

The music reaches its crescendo, and the champagne fountains fly, arcing through the air like liquid fireworks. You catch a glimpse of Charles, his eyes on you as he opens the bottle, the cork shooting off like a bullet.

He grins, the joy unbridled, as he aims the spray at you, the bubbly cascading over your phone, drenching your hair. You laugh, the sound lost in the cacophony, your heart racing in a delicious thrill of excitement and surprise.

Max and Lando join in the revelry, the three of them soaking each other in a dance of victory and camaraderie. The air is thick with the sweet scent of success, the bubbles popping against your skin like the kisses of a thousand eager fans. You capture it all, the laughter, the spray, the shimmering droplets that hang in the air like diamonds, suspended in time.

The world seems to be spinning around you as the champagne rains down. Your phone is a blur in your hand, but the images are seared into your mind – the glint of the podium lights on the chrome, the red of the Ferrari suits, the pure, unadulterated joy on the drivers' faces.

As the spraying subsides, the drivers turn to acknowledge the crowd, their arms raised in triumph. The applause is deafening, the sea of red a living, breathing entity that seems to pulse with the rhythm of their hearts. You're part of it all, the champagne sticking to your skin like a second layer of clothing, the taste of victory on your lips.

The podium is a blur of red, the champagne a fine mist that settles on everything it touches. You're soaked to the bone, but you don't care.

You lift your phone again, the screen wet with champagne, and record the final moments of the ceremony.

And when it's over, when the podium empties and the crowd starts to disperse, you stand there, the taste of victory still fresh on your lips.

You know you need to speak to Charles, to tell him about his mother, but you wait. You don't want to ruin his moment of triumph with the weight of what you've learned. The podium is still wet with champagne, the air still humming with the energy of the race.

You give him space, watching as he's whisked away by the PR team, his smile never faltering, his eyes never leaving yours.

As the media scrum around him thins, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation ahead. You know it won't be easy, but you owe it to Pascale, to Arthur, to the entire Leclerc family. You wait until the last journalist has finished peppering him with questions, until the last camera light has dimmed.

And then, as if drawn by an invisible thread, Charles breaks away from the entourage and strides straight towards you, his gaze intense and focused. The crowd seems to part for him, the energy shifting as he moves, as if he's a magnet pulling you into his orbit.

You feel the electricity of his presence before he's even within arm's length. His eyes, the same piercing blue as the Ferrari he just piloted to victory, lock onto yours, searching for something unspoken. You swallow hard, the weight of your conversation with his mother still heavy on your heart.

The driver's room is a sanctuary of solitude in the midst of the chaos. It's a small, sterile space, the walls adorned with the crimson and yellow of Ferrari's storied past.

You enter in front of Charles, your footsteps echoing in the silence. The door clicks shut with a finality that seems to muffle the outside world. Inside, the only sound is the soft whir of the air conditioning and the steady beat of your heart.

The room is smaller than you expected, a stark contrast to the grandeur of the podium. It's a personal space, filled with the scent of his cologne and the faint aroma of adrenaline. The walls are adorned with Ferrari memorabilia, a testament to his dedication to the sport. You can't help but feel a little like an intruder, stepping into his sanctum.

He stands before you, his eyes searching yours, a silent question hanging in the air. You take a deep breath, feeling the coolness of the air-conditioned room against your damp skin. The scent of champagne lingers on your clothes, a sweet reminder of the celebration outside. You want to reach out, to touch him, to offer him comfort, but you're not sure if it's appropriate.

And then, as if reading your mind, Charles takes the first step. He opens his arms and pulls you into a tight embrace, the fabric of your jackets sticking together. You can feel the heat of his body, the rapid beat of his heart against your chest. His arms are strong, a steel band that seems to hold the world at bay.

The hug is unexpected, a sudden burst of warmth in the cool room. You melt into it, letting the tension of the day seep out of you. The smell of his cologne fills your nose, a heady mix of musk and citrus that seems to encapsulate the essence of speed and power. His breath is warm against your ear, the gentle rumble of his voice vibrating through your body.

You want to stay here, nestled in his arms, but the words you need to say press against your lips like a dam ready to burst. You pull back, looking into his eyes, and you feel like crying. The weight of what you know, the burden of his mother's grief, is almost too much to bear. But you can't. You can't let him see the storm brewing within you.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice thick with concern, his eyes searching your face.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the words that won't shatter his world. "Your mother," you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. "She… she wasn't okay."

His eyes widen, the joy of the victory dissipating like mist in the sun. "What do you mean?"

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of his gaze, the gravity of your words. "She's… she's worried about you. The pressure, the expectations… it's all too much for her sometimes." You hesitate, feeling the ache in your chest as you speak. "Today, when she watched you race… she felt your father's absence so keenly. It was like reliving the day she lost him all over again."

The color drains from Charles' face, his eyes darkening with a sudden understanding. He releases you, stepping back as if you've just handed him a heavy burden. "I had no idea," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "I never meant to cause her pain."

You can see the wheels turning in his head, the guilt settling in like a fog. You want to reach out, to reassure him, but you know this is a moment he has to navigate on his own. You're the messenger, not the savior. "It's not your fault," you say, your voice gentle.

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "Is she okay now?" he asks, his voice a hoarse whisper.

"I think so," you reply, your heart aching for him. "Arthur and Lorenzo are with her now, and… and so was I."

He nods, his eyes never leaving yours. You can almost see the gears in his head turning, processing what you've just said. "Thank you," he murmurs, the words a quiet benediction. "For being there for her."

The room feels smaller, the air thick with unspoken emotions. You're acutely aware of the way his jumpsuit clings to his body, the dampness from the champagne outlining the muscles honed by countless hours of training and adrenaline.

"I'm just happy she's alright now," you say, your voice steady, but your eyes reveal the depth of your concern. "But it's clear the stress of today, of every race day, it's… it's taking a toll on her."

Charles runs a hand through his hair, the motion a silent echo of his tumultuous thoughts. The room feels smaller, as if the walls are closing in around you, a physical manifestation of the weight of his mother's pain.

"I'll… I'll talk to her," he says finally, his voice a rasp. "Make sure she knows I understand."

You nodded silent, the gravity of his words a pebble sinking into the vast ocean of your understanding. The unspoken promise in his gaze resonates within you, a silent symphony of hope and resolve.

"Is there anything else that happened?" he asked, his voice a whisper that seemed to echo through the silent room.

You hesitate, the gravity of what you're about to reveal pressing down on you like a leaden weight. "No, why?" you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

His gaze sharpens, a storm brewing in the depths of his eyes. "I know you well enough to know when something's wrong," he says, taking a step closer. "What is it?"

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat a stubborn presence. "It's just… the race," you reply, your voice a tremble.

He steps closer, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the coldness that's been seeping into your bones. His hand reaches out, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that's managed to escape down your cheek. "You're crying," he says softly, his eyes searching yours, the words a gentle observation rather than a question.

You didn't realize the depth of your own feelings, the way the Leclercs' pain had woven its way into the fabric of your heart. But as his thumb grazes your skin, the dam breaks.

"It's just the way Pascale reacted… it reminded me of my father," you murmur, your voice thick with emotion. "He lost my mother a long time ago, but sometimes it's like the pain is as fresh as if it were yesterday."

Charles' eyes narrow, the lines of his face tightening as he takes in your words. "How so?" he asks, his voice a soft rumble that seems to resonate through the very air between you.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the words to explain something that's so deeply personal, so deeply painful. "Every year," you begin, your voice a mere whisper, "on the anniversary of her death, my father… he just shuts down. It's like he's stuck in a loop, reliving every moment of that day." You feel the ache in your chest, the phantom pain of his loss as if it were your own. "The way she looked, the smell of her perfume, the sound of her laugh…"

You pause, the weight of the memory heavy on your shoulders. "It's like he's still searching for her, in every face, in every crowd. It's a… a haunting, really." You swallow hard, the lump in your throat a stark reminder of the tears you're fighting back.

Charles' hand drops to your shoulder, a gentle squeeze that feels like a lifeline. His eyes are soft with understanding, and for a moment, you're not the Ferrari social media wizard, not the confidante of racing royalty – you're just a daughter who misses her mother.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, the words a balm on your raw emotions.

You shake your head, the tears drying on your cheeks. "It's okay, it's one of the reasons why I don't want to find my soulmate," you muttered, the admission slipping out before you could think better of it.

Charles felt deeply wounded by that. He understood that you were his soulmate, and the reality that you expressed not wanting him caused him pain. You were reluctant to accept it, which was completely understandable given the circumstances that had happened to you.

"But it's not always like that," Charles said, his voice a gentle caress against your ears. "When you love your soulmate, it's like… it's like the world makes sense. Every color is brighter, every sound is sweeter, every moment is more intense."

You stare at him, the revelation of his feelings hitting you like a sucker punch to the gut. You want to argue, to tell him that love isn't all rainbows and unicorns, but the conviction in his voice, the passion in his eyes, it's like watching a poet recite the most heartfelt sonnet. You're torn between skepticism and a yearning you didn't know existed.

"I don't know if I can do that," you whisper, the words feeling like a betrayal to the walls you've so carefully constructed around your heart.

He nods sighing tiredly from the race, the weight of his own burden suddenly apparent. "I understand," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "But just… keep it in mind, okay?"

You nod, feeling the gravity of his words. You know he's right. You've seen the toll the sport takes on drivers and their families, the relentless pursuit of perfection that often comes at a cost. "I will," you murmur, feeling a strange mix of relief and sadness.

He leans in, his face hiding in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You can feel the tension in his body, the tightness of his muscles as he holds onto you like a lifeline. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, as if trying to absorb your strength.

For a moment, you stand there, frozen. The world outside the driver's room seems so far away, so insignificant compared to the raw emotion pulsing between the two of you.

And then, before you can think, before you can talk yourself out of it, you do it. You wrap your arms around him. The warmth of his body seeps into yours, the strength of his embrace a promise that you're not alone. You feel the tension in his shoulders, the way he holds onto you as if you're the only thing keeping him upright.

You breathe in the scent of him, a mix of sweat, adrenaline, and something uniquely Charles – a scent that has become as familiar as the sound of an engine roaring to life. Your heart races, not from the adrenaline of the race, but from the sudden realization of how much you've come to care for this man who's become so much more than just your driver.

"Did you watch the race?" he mutters, his voice muffled against your neck.

You nod, your breath hitching as his body presses closer to yours. "Every second," you whisper, the truth of your words a stark contrast to the lie you've just told. You watched everything except the ending.

His grip tightens for a brief moment, his breathing erratic against your skin. You can feel the tension in his body, the unspoken confession that he's just as torn as you are.

"I'm really proud of you," you murmur, the words slipping out unbidden. Your hand moves of its own accord, rubbing slow, soothing circles on his back. The motion is unconscious, a comforting gesture that seems as natural as breathing.

He stiffens for a moment, his body tightening against yours. Then, with a sigh that seems to come from the very depths of his soul, he relaxes. You can feel the tension in his shoulders give way, the knots of stress dissolving under your fingertips. His breathing evens out, and for a moment, it's as if you're the only two people in the world.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice a gentle rumble against your skin.

You nod, feeling the truth of your words resonate in the quiet space between you. His embrace feels like a sanctuary, a place where the chaos of the world outside can't touch you. But the reality of the situation crashes back in, the knowledge that you're hiding something from him like a stone in the pit of your stomach.

"You should go and check with your mother now," you murmur, not looking at him in the eyes. You don't want to see the hope, the longing, the unspoken question in his gaze.

"Yeah, I should," he agrees, his voice a soft rumble that seems to shiver down your spine. He releases you gently, and the sudden coldness of the room is a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. You watch as he pulls away, his movements stiff with the weight of his thoughts.

"Do you… do you want to see her too?" he asks, his voice tentative. "She's very fond of you, you know."

You blink, caught off guard. The conversation had taken a turn you weren't expecting. The idea of seeing Pascale again, of facing the woman who had entrusted you with her son's well-being, filled you with a strange mix of trepidation and anticipation.

"I-I'd love to," you stutter, your voice barely above a whisper. You're aware that your eyes are darting around the room, searching for a way out of the sudden intensity that's settled like a thick fog between you. "But, I should get back to work."

"Just for a few seconds," Charles asked, his voice a soft, coaxing caress. He takes your hand in his, the calluses from countless hours behind the wheel a stark contrast to the silkiness of his skin. His eyes hold yours, a silent plea that you can't refuse.

You nod, leading him through the corridor, the walls a blur of red and white as you pass the bustling Ferrari crew. The room you left Pascale, Arthur, and Lorenzo in is quieter now, the tension of their conversation a palpable presence in the air.

They look up as you enter, the unspoken understanding passing between you all. You realize that you're not just a Ferrari employee anymore – you're part of the Leclerc family's support system.

Pascale's eyes widen, noticing the way you and Charles stand together, your hands entwined. She reads the unspoken story in your postures, in the tension of your shoulders and the gentle curve of your smiles. "Merci, Y/N," she says, her voice filled with warmth. "You've brought my son back to me."

Arthur gives you a knowing wink, the corners of his mouth curving up in a teasing smile. "Looks like you've got the magic touch," he says, his voice low and playful.

You feel your cheeks burn as you pull away from Charles, the sudden absence of his hand leaving your skin feeling cold and exposed. You shoot Arthur a playful glare, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm not sure that's what Ferrari hired me for," you quip, your voice a mix of humor and nerves.

Pascale stands, her eyes shimmering with a mix of relief and something else, something you can't quite place.

"Maman," Charles says, his voice thick with emotion. He crosses the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms. She's smaller than you expected, delicate, but the way she holds onto him, you know she's the rock that keeps him steady.

Her eyes close, and you see the tension melt away from her face. She whispers something in French, the language a soft lullaby against his chest. He nods, the movement jerky, like he's trying not to give in to his own emotions. His hand rests on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. It's a gesture so intimate, so raw, that you feel like an intruder.

But Pascale opens her eyes and sees you there, watching. She gives you a small, knowing smile, and it feels like she's acknowledging something deeper, something that goes beyond the superficial. "Merci," she says, the word a benediction.

You nod, unsure of what to say. "It's nothing," you murmur, your voice thick with the weight of the moment.

"I won," Charles said, his voice bursting with happiness. In that moment, it was as if he had been taken back to his younger days, with the sweet innocence and happiness of childhood flooding back to him.

Pascale's eyes filled with tears as she looked into her son's eyes. She had seen so much of him grow into the man and the driver he was today, and she knew the depth of his passion for the sport. "I know, mon chéri," she whispered, her thumbs brushing away the sweat from his cheeks. "You made us all so proud."

The warmth of her touch seemed to seep into Charles' very soul, and he leaned into it, his own eyes misting over. The race had been a blur of speed and strategy, the cheers of the crowd a distant echo in his mind as he pushed the car to its limits. "Merci, maman," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

Her thumbs traced the lines of his jaw, a gentle touch that was both motherly and intimate. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to watch the full race," Pascale said, her voice filled with a mix of regret and concern.

You watched the tender scene unfold before you, feeling like you were intruding on a private moment. But as her eyes found yours, she offered a soft smile that seemed to say she understood your silent apology.

"It's okay," Charles said, his voice a soothing balm. "I'm happy that Y/N was able to help you." He looked at you, his gaze filled with an unspoken gratitude that sent a warm shiver down your spine.

You nodded, feeling the weight of the unspoken truth between you. "I'm happy to help," you said, the words coming out more naturally than you expected.

Pascale stepped aside, and you watched as Arthur and Lorenzo enveloped their mother in a group hug, their laughter and affection a stark contrast to the tension of the race. The sight of them, so close-knit, so openly loving, stirred something within you.

As the embrace broke, Pascale's gaze found yours, and she beckoned you over. You felt a sudden nervousness, as if you were being drawn into a secret circle of warmth and belonging. As you approached, she took your hand in hers, her grip firm yet gentle. "Merci," she said, her eyes never leaving yours. "Merci beaucoup."

The three brothers – Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo – stood around their mother, each with a hand on her shoulder, their heads bent together in a silent conversation of comfort and support. You couldn't understand the words they exchanged, but the intimacy of the moment was universal.

As you took in the scene, you felt an unexpected pang of longing.

You had never been particularly close to your own mother, her death leaving a void that you had filled with work and the roar of engines. Watching the Leclerc family, you couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to have a mother's touch, a mother's love that was unconditional and unyielding.

The way Pascale looked at her sons, it was a bond that seemed unbreakable, a bond that had survived the test of time and the crucible of high-stakes racing.

"I should go," you said finally, the words a joke that didn't quite land, your voice sounding hollow in the face of their palpable love. "I don't want to get fired for not doing my job."

Arthur's laughter bubbled up, a rich sound that seemed to fill the room. "Don't worry," he said, slapping his brother's back. "We won't tell anyone you've gone soft on us."

The teasing broke the tension, and you couldn't help but laugh along, the sound a little too forced, a little too bright. But it was enough to make Charles's cheeks color, his embarrassment a charming blush that softened the sharp angles of his face. "Oh, you're supposed to be interviewing me, right?" he said suddenly, his voice a little too loud.

You nodded, trying to keep your own face from flushing. "Yes," you said, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. "But I can do Carlos' interview first."

"No, i'll do it now," Charles said, jumping from the seat and walking towards you. His movements were swift and decisive, the same confidence that had carried him to victory today evident in his stride. You felt your breath catch in your throat as he stopped mere inches away, the heat of his body radiating against yours.

"Maman, je reviens bientôt," he said over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving yours. His words were a promise to Pascale that he would return soon, but the way he spoke them, the way he looked at you, it was as if he was saying something entirely different. [Mom, I'll be back soon]

You felt the warmth of his hand against your back, the gentle pressure guiding you out of the room. The corridor outside was a stark contrast to the cocoon of familial comfort you had just left behind.

As you walked away, the silence between you grew heavier, thick with unspoken words and the thud of your racing heart.

"So where's Leo?" you asked, your voice a breathless whisper as you stepped into the corridor, trying to break the tension with a mundane question.

Charles' eyes lit up with amusement, and he chuckled. "Why don't we focus on me today, huh?" he said, his voice a warm caress that sent shivers down your spine. "The race winner, not my dog."

You couldn't help but laugh at the lightness of his joke, the way it broke through the tension that had been building between you. It was a welcome relief, like a cool breeze on a sweltering summer day. You felt your body relax, the tautness of your muscles giving way to a gentle ease.

"Okay, Monaco's prince," you said, turning to face him with a smirk. "How does it feel to win in our home race?"

His grin grew wider, a boyish charm that never failed to disarm you. "It feels amazing," he said, his eyes alight with victory. "But it feels even better knowing that I did it for Ferrari, for you, for my family."

"For me?" you asked, your voice a soft caress.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yes, for you. Today shows it. Your support, your… everything. It means more than you could ever know." His thumb traced lazy circles on the back.

"Thank you," you murmured, feeling your throat tighten. "It's just what friends do for each other."

His hand stilled on your back, his thumb pressing into your skin.

"Friends," he murmured, his voice a caress that seemed to echo through the corridor. "Is that all we are?"

You swallowed hard, the words sticking in your throat like dry tinder. The way he was looking at you, with those piercing blue eyes, made it difficult to maintain the facade of professionalism.

"That's all we should be," you whispered back, your voice barely audible over the din of the paddock outside.

But the way your pulse was racing, the way your heart felt like it was trying to escape your chest, it was clear that you didn't truly believe what you had just said. The chemistry between you was undeniable, a current that had been building since the moment you first met, charged by every shared glance and casual touch.

He stepped closer, his hand sliding around your waist, his breath warm against your neck. "Is that all you want?" he asked, his voice a seductive murmur.

You felt a shiver run down your spine, his proximity making it difficult to think straight. "It's complicated," you whispered, the words a barely audible confession.

His eyes searched yours, the depths of his gaze making you feel as if he could see right through you. "Is it?" he asked, his voice a gentle probe. "Because I don't think it has to be."

You felt the heat of his body, the warmth of his hand on your waist, the rapid beat of his heart echoing yours. Your thoughts were a jumbled mess of racing engines and unspoken yearning. Before you could form a coherent response, the spell was broken by a sudden, unexpected sound.

"Y/N!"

Before you could say anything, you heard your name being called out from the other end of the corridor, pulling you out of the heated moment with Charles. It was your father, his VIP pass swinging from his neck as he waved enthusiastically.

You both froze, the electricity between you crackling in the sudden silence. The spell was broken, but the tension remained, thick and palpable. "Dad," you managed to call out, your voice sounding forced and unnatural.

Charles was the first to move, walking over to your father with an easy grace that belied the intensity of your shared moment. He extended his hand, his smile genuine. "Mr. L/N," he said, his French accent rolling over the syllables. "I'm Charles Leclerc. It's a pleasure to meet you."

You stared after him, the suddenness of his approach leaving you reeling. For a split second, you had forgotten that your father was here, his presence a stark reminder of the life outside the paddock that you had tried so hard to keep separate.

"Charles," your father said, his voice filled with a warmth that made you realize just how much he knew about you, how much he had seen in the brief moments you had allowed yourself to be truly happy. "I've always wanted to meet the man that makes my daughter laugh freely."

You watched as they shook hands, the gesture a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken understanding that had just passed between them. The way your father looked at Charles, the way his eyes searched his, it was as if he was saying, 'Thank you for making her smile'.

Your father's words hit you like a ton of bricks. You had never realized just how much of your life you had kept hidden from him, the walls you had built to protect yourself from the pain of his inevitable disapproval. But here he was, standing before you, accepting the man who had brought joy to your life without judgment.

The silence was unbearable, a heavy weight pressing down on your chest, making it difficult to breathe. You felt your cheeks burn, the blush spreading from your neck to your ears.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. L/N," Charles said, his gaze flickering to you before returning to your father. "Your daughter is quite remarkable."

Your heart skipped a beat at the sincerity in his voice. You had always been the one to hold back, afraid of letting anyone too close. But in that moment, you realized that you had let Charles in without even realizing it, and the thought was as thrilling as it was terrifying. . . .

Charles couldn't believe it. It all felt surreal, insignificant even, under the suffocating weight of the room.

"Papa, I signed a Formula One contract, aren't you happy?" he cried, the words choked, dissolving into a sob. He didn't care for the tears on his face, the way they blurred the edges of the sterile white room. He only cared that his papa wasn't smiling, wasn't brimming with the pride that Charles had craved since he first clambered into a go-kart.

His papa’s pale face said it all. The lines etched deeper with each passing day, the skin stretched thin over bone, the eyes clouded with a weariness that transcended mere exhaustion. His long illness wasn't stopping soon. The doctors had confirmed it last week; the words “palliative care” hung heavy in the air. They had to say their goodbyes to him.

Lorenzo stood by the window, his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on the manicured gardens outside. Too calm, Charles thought, a knot of resentment twisting in his gut. How could Lorenzo be so calm when their world was crumbling? Arthur, barely eleven, sat perched on a chair, swinging his legs, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. He was too young to truly grasp the finality of it all, too young to understand that his papa wouldn't be there to celebrate his next birthday.

Charles took it the worst. He was the middle child, the one his papa had pinned his hopes on, the one who had inherited his passion for speed, for the roar of engines, for the relentless pursuit of victory. He'd felt his papa's pride swell with every karting win, every promotion through the racing ranks. And now, just as he'd reached the pinnacle – the dream they had both chased – his papa was slipping away.

He knelt beside the bed, his hand swallowed by his papa’s frail one. The skin was papery, almost translucent, the veins a roadmap of a life winding down. He pressed his face against it, inhaling the familiar scent of his papa – a faint mixture of aftershave, motor oil, and something indefinably…him.

“Papa,” he lied, his voice cracking. “I did it. I made it to Formula One. For you.”

His papa's eyelids fluttered. He squeezed Charles's hand, a weak but unmistakable gesture. “Mon… fils…” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “My… son… I… am… proud…”

Tears streamed down Charles’s face, each one a burning ache in his chest. The words were a lifeline, a precious gift offered in the face of oblivion. He held onto them, clung to them, as fiercely as he held onto his papa’s hand.

Lorenzo finally stirred, moving to the other side of the bed. Arthur, sensing the shift in atmosphere, climbed down from his chair and shuffled closer, his small hand reaching out to touch his papa's arm.

They were a family, shattered but still whole, gathered at the bedside of a man who had given them everything. A man who had instilled in them the values of perseverance, passion, and the unwavering belief in the power of dreams.

Charles knew, deep down, that he would carry his papa with him, every lap, every corner, every race. He would hear his voice cheering him on, feel his presence in the roar of the engine. He would race for him, for the dream they had shared, for the legacy he would carry forward.

The Formula One contract felt different now. It wasn't just a document, a piece of paper. It was a promise. A promise to honor his papa, to make him proud, to live a life fueled by passion and driven by the unwavering pursuit of excellence. He would do it for himself, for his family, and most importantly, for the man whose hand he held, the man who was quietly slipping away, but whose spirit would forever burn bright within him.

The tears continued to fall, but now, amidst the grief, there was a glimmer of resolve, a spark of hope, a determination to make his papa’s memory a victory lap that would echo through the ages. . . . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey, I saw you done the reader speaks French but I was wondering if you could one with italian or something similar. My family on my mother's side is italian and I'm learning it again and I'm sometimes embarrassed by my lack of knowledge (spanish was easier for me) if this makes sense. If not that's okay, I love your writing.

Italian Lessons

Summary: You're trying to learn Italian again and what a better way to learn than to get your best friend's best friend to teach you.

Song: Earned It · The Weeknd

Author’s note: You are so relatable! I was born in Italy but as soon as I left, my Italian left with it 😭 I've been trying to learn it but I can't so I wish you the best! I wrote so much but Tumblr didn't let me fit it all so I had to shorten it! Unfortunately due to my exams being in less than a month, I won't post much. 😭 Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 34.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The scent of old leather and motor oil clung to Ollie’s car like a second skin, a familiar aroma that always grounded you. He swerved expertly through the London traffic, one hand drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel as a Formula 1 podcast droned from the speakers. He was talking, something about tire compounds and aerodynamic drag, but your mind was elsewhere, tangled in a knot of guilt and embarrassment.

"Earth to you! You’ve gone all quiet," Ollie chuckled, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. "Thinking about your impending Italian lesson?"

You sighed, leaning your head against the headrest. "Don't remind me. It's just… pathetic, isn't it? My own mother's language, and I can barely order a pizza."

Ollie, ever the comforting presence, reached over and squeezed your hand. "Hey, none of that nonsense. You're busy, you're successful, and you're finally doing something about it. That's all that matters. Besides," he added with a wink, "you know I think you're amazing, even if you only speak fluent English and sarcasm."

You managed a weak smile. Ollie always had a way of making you feel better. Years of friendship, countless late-night talks, and a shared history that stretched back to awkward teenage years had forged a bond unbreakable. He was family, the kind you chose, not just the kind you were born into. It was ironic, really, that he, an Englishman obsessed with speed and engines, knew more Italian phrases than you, the daughter of an Italian immigrant.

"It's just… Kimi," you muttered, the name feeling foreign on your tongue. Ollie’s best friend. An enigma wrapped in a charmingly gruff exterior.

"Kimi will be great!" Ollie declared, his voice radiating genuine enthusiasm. "He's a good guy, just a bit… quiet at first. But trust me, he's got a heart of gold hidden under that stoic exterior. And," he added with a knowing smirk, "he's fiercely proud of his heritage. He'll be thrilled you're making the effort."

You doubted that. You envisioned awkward silences, stumbling over conjugations, and Kimi's thinly veiled disappointment at your linguistic ineptitude. "What if I'm hopeless? What if I just embarrass myself?"

"You won't," Ollie said firmly. "And even if you do, so what? It's a learning process. Besides, Kimi's not judgmental. He's too busy being effortlessly cool to judge anyone."

You couldn't argue with that. Kimi did have an air of indifference that seemed to protect him from the world's criticisms. You'd always found it intriguing, that and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he did smile, which was a rare occurrence indeed.

Finally, the GPS announced, "You have arrived at your destination." You two pulled up to the paddock, a bustling hive of activity where Formula 1 cars were being meticulously prepped for the next race.

Ollie parked his sleek sports car with a flourish, the engine purring. You followed Ollie through the maze of garages.

In the Haas garage, the mechanics were a blur of movement as they worked tirelessly on the gleaming Formula 1 car. Ollie waved at them, calling out greetings in a mix of English and Italian that rolled off his tongue like a native.

He led you further into the garage, where the team was a blur of motion, focused intently on the gleaming Haas car. The sheer dedication and attention to detail were breathtaking.

"Right, let's get you acquainted with the place," Ollie said, clapping his hands together. “I’ll introduce you to Kimi after the race.”

“Kimi?” you asked, feeling a flicker of anticipation. This was it. The man who was going to help you reclaim your heritage. “So, he actually agreed to this?”

"Yep. He owes me a favor. Plus, he’s always up for a bit of a laugh."

You nodded, trying to absorb all the information. "Got it. And thank you, by the way. For all of this."

"Don't mention it," Ollie said, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he reached for his race suit. "It's the least I can do. I've always thought it was a shame you never learned Italian. Especially with your mom being so… expressive.”

That stung. He was right. It was a shame. And it was embarrassing. Your best friend, the one who’d grown up miles away from any Italian influence, knew more about your mother’s language than you did.

"Yeah, well," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Life happens."

"It does," Ollie agreed, his tone softening. He pulled the race suit on halfway, leaving the top part unzipped. "But it’s never too late to learn. Kimi's a great guy, and he's surprisingly patient. Just… try not to be intimidated by the accent. It can be a bit thick."

"Look, I gotta go brief with the team," Ollie said, his attention already shifting to the race ahead. "Just… enjoy the show. And try not to get run over."

With a final pat on the shoulder, he was gone, swallowed up by the organized chaos of the Haas garage. You were left standing there, feeling a strange mix of excitement, apprehension, and inadequacy. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The scent of gasoline and burnt rubber permeated the air as you meandered through the bustling F1 paddock, your eyes scanning the horizon of gleaming cars and tightly wound tension that only a Formula One race could muster. Your phone chirped with Duolingo's cheery encouragement, a stark contrast to the thunderous symphony of engines revving in the distance.

"Mi dispiace, non capisco," you murmured, feeling a twinge of pride as the app congratulated you with a cheerful "Ding!"

Before you could bask in the glow of your linguistic victory, a velvet voice caressed your ear, "It's actually 'mi dispiace, non capisco.'"

You whipped around, heart racing faster than the cars on the track, to find Kimi, Ollie's dashing Italian best friend, standing just an arm's length away.

"Thanks," you replied, trying to compose yourself, as your cheeks flushed with a warmth that had nothing to do with the sun beating down on the tarmac.

"I'm just trying to brush up on my Italian, you know, for when I get to Imola."

He grinned, his eyes dancing with a mischief that promised untold adventures. "Well, you're in luck," he said, his accent a siren's song that could make any language sound erotic. "I happen to be a native speaker."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound a little too high-pitched for your liking. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out," you replied, trying to match his cool demeanor.

"Well, then," Kimi said, his smile widening, "having a teacher will definitely help you a lot."

It was ironic, indeed, seeing as Kimi was the person Ollie had suggested to help you with your Italian.

The same Kimi who had a reputation for leaving hearts fluttering in his wake, the one who spoke Italian as if it were poetry caressed by the gods themselves. You felt a peculiar mix of excitement and nervousness at the thought of learning from him. His eyes, a deep brown that reminded you of freshly roasted espresso, bore into yours, and you couldn't help but wonder if he knew the effect he had on you.

Before you could respond, a sharp, authoritative voice blared over the loudspeakers, "All the drivers go to their pits."

Kimi's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer, his eyes darkening with what could only be described as a predatory interest. "See you later, bella donna," he winked, his words a seductive promise before disappearing into the maelstrom of the racing world.

Your heart skipped a beat as you watched him go, his lithe figure weaving through the chaos with an ease that could only come from years of navigating the fast lane.

The term of endearment hung in the air, a sweet whisper that seemed to caress your skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. You spent the qualifying session in the Haas garage with Ollie, nervously watching the timings and trying to decipher the technical jargon being thrown around.

During the race, you were a nervous wreck. You cheered for Ollie, of course, your loyalty unwavering. But your eyes kept darting to the silver Mercedes on the track, following Kimi's every move. The roar of the engines, the squeal of tires, the frantic pace of the race – it all faded into the background. All you could think about was the way he had looked at you, the sound of his voice, the playful glint in his eyes.

Ollie finished a respectable 5th, a solid result for Haas. Kimi, however, finished 4th, just shy of the podium. When the race ended, you waited impatiently for Ollie to finish his debriefing with the team, your leg bouncing with nervous energy.

Finally, Ollie emerged, grinning. "Not bad, eh?" he said, clapping you on the shoulder.

You managed a weak smile, your heart thumping. "Congratulations, Ollie," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ollie's eyes twinkled mischievously. "Ready to meet the Italian Stallion?" he teased, using his thumb and forefinger to mimic a mustache.

Your stomach somersaulted at the mention of Kimi's name. You nodded, trying to play it cool. "Yeah, sure. Lead the way."

As you followed Ollie through the bustling paddock, your thoughts raced. What would you say to Kimi? How would he react to seeing you again? The moment of truth came as you rounded the corner and spotted Kimi, surrounded by a group of team members and journalists.

A slow smile spread across his face, and for a moment, it was as if you were the only two people in the world. You felt a rush of heat, a shiver down your spine as he excused himself from his entourage and approached you, his strides purposeful and confident.

"Hey Kimi! Great race!" Ollie exclaimed, his arms open wide for a hug. Kimi embraced him warmly, their friendship palpable, and for a brief, painfully sweet second, you felt like a third wheel in your own fantasy.

But then, as if sensing your presence, Kimi pulled back and looked over Ollie's shoulder at you, the smile never leaving his face. "Thank you, Ollie," he said, his voice a velvety rumble that seemed to resonate through your body.

"Oh, this is…" Ollie started, turning to introduce you.

"Y/N," Kimi finished, grinning mischievously, his eyes twinkling with a knowing look. He extended a hand, and as you took it, a jolt of electricity seemed to pass between you, setting your pulse racing even more.

"So, you're the one," he said, his accent thick and alluring. "The one who's going to learn Italian from me?" His smile grew wider, and you felt your cheeks flush under his gaze.

"Yeah," you replied, trying to sound casual despite the thunderous beating of your heart. "I've always wanted to, and Ollie said you're the best teacher around."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Wait, you two know each other?" he asked, his eyes darting back and forth between you and Kimi.

You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. "Well, we met briefly before the race," you began, your voice steady despite the tumultuous emotions swirling inside you. "I was practicing my Italian, and Kimi couldn't help but offer a few corrections as he passed by."

Kimi chuckled, a rich, deep sound that made your insides quiver. "Your accent," he said, his eyes sparkling, "it is… unique." The way he drew out the word 'unique' made it sound like an endearment, a secret shared between the two of you.

"I know it's not perfect," you admitted, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, "but I'm eager to learn."

Kimi leaned closer, his gaze intense. "I can tell," he murmured, his voice a purr. "And I'm more than happy to help. Italian is a beautiful language, full of passion. It's something you must feel, not just speak."

Your eyes locked onto his. The way his full lips moved as he spoke made your own mouth go dry. You swallowed hard.

"When can we start?" you asked, your voice a breathy whisper.

Kimi's eyes held yours, the intensity in them making your knees weak. "As soon as you're ready," he replied, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. "But remember, I don't just teach Italian. I make you experience it."

Ollie looked back and forth between you two, the light of understanding dawning in his eyes. He winked at you and clapped Kimi on the back. "Well, I've got some celebrating to do," he said, backing away. "I'll leave you to it."

As he disappeared into the throng of people, you were left standing there, alone with the man who had occupied your thoughts all day. Your heart hammered in your chest as he took a step closer, his hand still resting on yours. "Come," he said, "we'll find a quieter place."

You were acutely aware of every movement he made – the way his fingers tightened around yours, the way his eyes searched your face, the way his chest rose and fell with every breath. You found yourselves in a secluded spot, a small area behind one of the hospitality tents.

"So, what's your schedule like?" Kimi asked, his eyes never leaving yours. His voice was low, the vibrations resonating through your entire body.

You swallowed hard, trying to focus on his question through the fog of desire that had enveloped you. "It's pretty open," you replied, your voice shaky. "I can work around yours."

"Good," he murmured, stepping even closer. You could feel the heat emanating from his body, the electricity between you growing stronger by the second. "Because I want to make sure we have plenty of time… to practice."

"I hope I'm not a bother," you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Kimi's smile grew, and his thumb stroked the inside of your wrist, sending shivers up your arm.

"Never, bella donna," he replied. "But do you have a boyfriend?"

You felt a thrill at the question. "No," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, as if looking for the truth within. "Good," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips before returning to your eyes.

"Why?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

He took a moment to answer, his thumb still tracing patterns on the sensitive skin of your wrist. "Uh, nothing," he replied, his voice low and gruff. "I wouldn't want to worry him if you're with me all the time."

The answer didn't quite satisfy you, but the way he said it made your stomach flip.

"So, how do you want this to go?" you managed to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kimi leaned in closer. "I was thinking," he said, his eyes dancing with a hint of mischief, "if I want you to truly experience this, we have to go on little adventures."

You blinked, surprised. "Like… dates?" The word slipped out before you could stop it, a nervous giggle following close behind.

He nodded, a wicked smile playing on his lips. "Si, like dates," he confirmed, his thumb now caressing your palm in a gentle, mesmerizing rhythm. "But not just any dates, bella. These will be… educational experiences. We will learn Italian, but we will also learn about passion, about feeling, about life."

Your heart skipped a beat. This was not what you had expected when you offered to help him practice English, but you found yourself nodding eagerly. "Okay," you breathed, your voice thick with desire.

Kimi stepped back, releasing your hand with a teasing smile. "Good," he said, his eyes lingering on your now-bare wrist, where his touch had left a trail of heat.

"But first," you managed to get out, your voice sounding more composed than you felt, "can I have your number?"

Kimi's eyes lit up, and he nodded. "Sure," he said, pulling out his phone. His fingers danced over the screen with a practiced ease that spoke of years of handling high-speed machinery.

He rattled off a string of digits, and you typed them into your phone, your own hands trembling slightly. You felt a strange sense of excitement, as if you had just received the winning lottery numbers.

"Got it," you said, trying to sound casual despite the racing of your heart.

Before Kimi could respond, a Mercedes staff member, dressed in the sleek, silver team gear, approached with an urgent look on his face. "Kimi," he called out, "we need you for the victory celebration."

Kimi turned to the staff member, his eyes briefly leaving yours. "Arrivederci bella donna," he said to you, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down your spine.

The paddock was a whirlwind of activity, team members hugging and congratulating each other, the sound of champagne corks popping in the background. You felt a pang of disappointment at being separated from him so soon, but also a thrill at the prospect of what was to come. As you made your way back to the Haas garage, you couldn't help but replay the moment in your mind. His touch, his voice, the way he looked at you – it was all so intoxicating.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of your phone. You looked down to see a text from an unknown number. "Looking forward to our first lesson," it read, with a winking emoji. You felt a warmth spread through your body, realizing it was from Kimi.

When you returned to the Haas garage, Ollie was busy signing autographs for a group of eager fans. His face lit up when he saw you, and he excused himself to come over.

"So, how was it?" he asked, curiosity etched across his features.

You couldn't help but smile at Ollie's question, your cheeks flushing as you recounted your encounter with Kimi. "It was…" you paused, searching for the right words, "intense."

Ollie raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Intense, huh? Did he give you a taste of that Italian charm?"

You nodded, still lost in the memory of Kimi's touch. "More than just a taste," you replied, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice.

Ollie chuckled, his eyes gleaming. "Looks like you're going to be busy," he said, giving you a knowing look. "Just don't let your schoolgirl crush get in the way of my friendship with him."

You rolled your eyes, feigning annoyance, but inside, you felt a thrill at his words. It was clear that he had noticed the chemistry between you and Kimi, and it was equally clear that he approved.

"Don't worry," you said, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice. "It's just a language exchange."

Ollie nodded, but his knowing smile said he wasn't fooled. "Uh-huh," he said, winking. "Just make sure to keep me updated on your… progress."

You rolled your eyes again, but couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. "Don't worry, I will," you teased back. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The dreary Monday afternoon hangs heavy around you, the grey light filtering through your window mirroring the dull ache in your shoulders. You’ve been staring at the same spreadsheet for hours, the numbers blurring into an indistinguishable mess. The silence is a thick blanket, stifling and uneventful. Then, the vibration.

Your phone, lying face-up on the desk, jumps, the sudden movement shattering the monotonous quiet like a sonnet erupting in the middle of a slumber party. You glance down, your eyes widening slightly at the name glowing in the dim light: Kimi.

The message reads: "Hello bella donna, are you free tomorrow?"

You take a slow, deliberate breath, trying to quell the sudden heat that’s rising in your cheeks. You type: "Sure, what are you planning?" You need to know, need to understand the intention behind this sudden, charming overture.

Kimi’s response is swift, almost instantaneous. "How about a little dinner in my favourite restaurant in Italian? I promise to make it fun and interactive."

The playful wink emoji that follows does nothing to dispel the heat that has begun to spread through your body, a delicious blend of excitement and apprehension. You haven’t seen Kimi in a few weeks, not since that awkward bumping into each other at the coffee shop.

You’ve replayed that encounter in your head countless times, analyzing the subtle nuances of his smile, the lingering touch of his hand as he’d helped you gather your scattered belongings. You force yourself to take another deep breath. This is just dinner. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But a small, traitorous part of you hopes it does.

"Sounds perfect," you text back, forcing your voice, even in text, to remain steady. You fail. The rapid pulse that has started to thrum in your neck betrays you.

He replies almost immediately: "Okay bella donna, I'll pick you up from your apartment tomorrow."

The finality of the statement, the directness of the invitation, sends another shiver of anticipation down your spine. You stare at the message, your mind already racing ahead, envisioning the evening, the restaurant, his face illuminated by candlelight.

The rest of Monday crawls by in a blur. You can’t focus on your work, your thoughts constantly drifting back to Kimi and the Italian dinner. You imagine practicing basic phrases, stumbling over pronunciations, and his warm laughter filling the space between you. Tuesday arrives with an almost cruel slowness. You spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready, agonizing over every detail.

What to wear? Something casual, but elegant? Something that says, "I’m comfortable and confident," but also, "I put in effort for you." You try on three different dresses, discarding each one with a frustrated sigh.

Finally, you settle on a simple black dress that skims your curves in a flattering way. You add a delicate silver necklace and a touch of mascara, enough to highlight your eyes without looking overly done.

As you wait, your stomach churning with nerves, you pace your apartment, rehearsing Italian phrases in your head. "Buonasera," you murmur to yourself. "Come stai?" "Il conto, per favore." You feel ridiculous, like you’re preparing for a stage performance.

The buzzer rings, sending a jolt of electricity through you. It's him. You take one last deep breath, smooth down your dress, and tell yourself to relax. It’s just dinner. Just a friendly, Italian-themed dinner. You open the door, and there he is. Kimi.

He looks even more handsome than you remember. His dark hair is neatly styled, and he’s wearing a fitted, dark blue shirt that makes his eyes seem even bluer. His smile is warm and genuine, and it reaches all the way to his eyes.

"Ciao, bella donna," he says, his voice a low rumble that sends another wave of butterflies fluttering through your stomach.

"Ciao, Kimi," you reply, your voice slightly breathy.

He offers you his arm, and you take it, your fingers tingling against his skin. As you walk down the stairs, you steal glances at him, trying to decipher the look in his eyes. Is it just friendliness, or is there something more?

The restaurant he’s chosen is tucked away on a quiet side street, a hidden gem with dimly lit interiors, checkered tablecloths, and the aroma of garlic and basil hanging in the air. Soft Italian music plays in the background, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. He pulls out your chair, and you thank him in Italian, stumbling slightly over the pronunciation of "grazie." He chuckles softly, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment.

"Don’t worry," he says, switching to English. "You’ll get there. I'm here to help you practice."

The evening unfolds like a dream. You order in Italian, with Kimi patiently correcting your mistakes and encouraging you to try new phrases. He tells you about his favorite dishes, describing them with such passion that you can almost taste the flavors. You try the osso buco, and it melts in your mouth, a symphony of savory flavors.

Throughout the evening, you catch him looking at you, his eyes lingering on your face, and you feel a warmth spreading through you, a feeling that goes beyond simple attraction. It’s a feeling of connection, of understanding, of being truly seen.

As the evening progresses, the conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and shared glances. The Italian phrases become less forced, more natural, as you relax into the moment. When the waiter brings the bill, Kimi insists on paying. You protest, but he just smiles and shakes his head.

"It’s my treat, bella donna," he says. "Besides, I promised you an interactive experience. The real fun starts now."

The real fun starts now. His words echo in your head, a promise that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. As you walk out of the restaurant, the cool night air kisses your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth you feel inside.

Kimi’s hand lingers at the small of your back, a gentle guide as you navigate the cobblestone streets. You lean into his touch, your heart fluttering like a captive bird in your chest. He opens the car door with the grace of a gentleman, and you slide into the passenger seat, the leather cool against your thighs.

As he slides into the driver's seat, his eyes lock onto yours for a moment too long, sending a bolt of electricity straight to your core. He starts the engine, the purr of the vehicle blending with the soft music playing through the speakers.

As he drives you back home, the city lights stream past the windows, painting a kaleidoscope of colors across your skin. His hand rests casually on the gear stick, but your eyes are drawn to his strong, capable fingers.

You wonder what it would be like to have those hands on you, exploring every inch of your body, speaking a language more potent than Italian. The drive back to your apartment is a delicious mix of tension and comfort. His cologne fills the car, a scent that is both new and familiar. The conversation is easy, a blend of shared stories and teasing banter that you hadn’t quite anticipated.

As you approach your apartment, you feel a strange mix of disappointment and excitement. Disappointment that the night is almost over, excitement for what might happen next. The tension in the car is palpable, thick with unspoken desires.

He parks the car and walks you to your door, his stride purposeful, yet filled with a gentle hesitancy. You feel the warmth of his hand as it grazes yours, and you wonder if he feels the same electricity that's been building all evening.

The silence between you is a symphony of unspoken words, the quiet punctuated by the distant sound of a couple arguing in a nearby apartment and the occasional rustle of leaves in the night breeze. It's a comforting silence, the kind that wraps around you like a warm blanket on a cold winter's eve.

As you stand in front of your door, the anticipation of what's to come hangs in the air, as tangible as the scent of your mingled perfumes. You fumble with your keys, your heart racing like a marathon runner approaching the finish line.

Kimi's eyes never leave yours, and you can see the question in them, the silent inquiry of whether this night will extend beyond the confines of friendship. Your hand shakes slightly as you insert the key into the lock, the metal cold against your skin.

The door clicks open, and you both hover in the threshold, the warm light of your apartment spilling out onto the darkened porch. He leans in, and for a moment, you think he's going to kiss you.

Instead, he whispers, "Grazie per la serata," his breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

You swallow hard, your eyes fluttering closed for a brief second. "It was… amazing," you manage to murmur.

Before you can say more, his hand reaches up, and he brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. His touch is gentle, almost tender, and it sends a bolt of desire through you that makes your knees feel wobbly.

"The pleasure was all mine," he says, his voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. "But the night doesn't have to end here."

You look up at him, the question in your eyes mirroring the one in his. The air is charged, and the silence stretches out like a tightrope, thrumming with potential.

"I had a wonderful time tonight," he says, his voice soft.

"Me too," you reply, your heart pounding in your chest.

He leans in closer, and you close your eyes, waiting for his kiss. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he whispers in your ear, "A presto, bella donna."

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing at your door, breathless and wanting.

You step inside, the contrast of the cool apartment air against your flushed skin making you shiver. The evening lingers on you, a seductive perfume that you can’t quite shake off. You walk to the bathroom, looking at your reflection in the mirror. Your eyes are bright, your cheeks flushed with more than just the cold.

Was it just the Italian, the romance of the language, or was there something more? You can’t shake the feeling that Kimi’s gaze had held a promise, a silent invitation that you hadn’t quite understood.

You decide to let it go, to enjoy the thrill of the unknown. After all, tomorrow is another day, another chance to learn, to explore, to feel. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You felt a buzz of excitement as you approached your apartment, the anticipation of what lay inside the package he had mentioned growing with each step. Once inside, you placed the package on the kitchen counter, the weight of it a tantalizing mystery.

The cardboard was a stark contrast to the sleek, black leather of the bag you had brought home with you, the letters of his name scrawled across the top in a familiar script that made your heart flutter.

You carefully sliced through the packing tape, the sound of it tearing a gentle crescendo in the otherwise quiet room. As the flaps fell open, you gasped. Before you lay a treasure trove of Mercedes merchandise, each piece more opulent than the last.

A leather-bound notebook, a pen with the company logo engraved on it, a scarf with the signature silver threads, and even a keychain with a miniature replica of the iconic car. But it was the small card nestled among the luxurious items that made your pulse race.

The card was simple, white with a single red rose embossed in the corner. You recognized Kimi's handwriting immediately, the way the letters curved and looped like a lover's embrace.

"To continue your lessons," it read, "with a touch of elegance." You couldn't help but wonder what kind of 'lessons' he had in mind, and whether they would be as exhilarating as the ones you'd experienced the night before.

Picking up the leather notebook, you opened it to find the pages filled with notes in Kimi's handwriting, each one detailing a different aspect of the Italian language.

The pages were also sprinkled with phrases that were anything but academic, reminders of the passionate moments you had shared, and a promise of more to come. You felt a warmth spread through your body, a phantom echo of his touch. You took the scarf, running the soft fabric through your fingers, feeling the gentle caress of the threads against your skin.

The keychain caught your eye, the silver glistening in the soft glow of the pendant light above the counter. It was the perfect size to attach to the diary you had bought to log your language progress.

The diary that now held secrets far more personal than conjugations and vocabulary. You couldn't wait to delve into the treasure trove of Italian delights that Kimi had so thoughtfully curated. The promise of future 'lessons' filled you with a giddy excitement that was both thrilling and a little overwhelming.

You slipped the keychain into your pocket, the cool metal a constant reminder of the passion that awaited you. You took a deep breath, inhaling the faint scent of leather and cologne that still lingered in the air from the package.

You sent Kimi a text, "What's the occasion?" you asked, curiosity piqued by the extravagant gift.

Kimi's response was swift and unabashed, "You look better in Mercedes than in Haas, wear this when you're coming to watch me in the Mercedes garage," accompanied by a winking emoji.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his audacity. "You're assuming I would switch from Ollie, who I've known my whole life, to you, who I've known for a week? How bold of you," you shot back.

Kimi's response was immediate. "Boldness is what makes life interesting, no?" he texted.

"It's definitely a persuasive argument," you replied, the smile on your face growing wider with every keystroke.

Kimi's response was as swift as it was seductive. "Persuasion is an art," he texted back, "but when the prize is as sweet as you, it's hardly a challenge."

You placed the notebook and keychain aside and picked up the phone, your thumbs dancing over the screen as you replied, "And what's the prize for passing these 'lessons'?"

Kimi's response was a masterclass in anticipation. "Ah, that would be telling," he teased. "I can't wait to see you in those clothes, bella donna," he replied, the Italian endearment rolling off his tongue like honey, sticky and sweet.

"I'll be sure to dress to impress, maestro," you replied, feeling a surge of playfulness in your tone.

Kimi's response was like a warm caress, his words wrapping around you like a silk scarf. "I have no doubt you'll leave me speechless, as always," he texted, his message sending a rush of heat through your veins.

You replied, "Bye for now," with a flirty wave emoji, your heart racing at the thought of seeing him again. You set the phone down and took a moment to revel in the feeling, the anticipation of what was to come a delicious ache. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The engine's roar echoed through the narrow streets of the bustling Chinese metropolis as Ollie's sleek Ferrari approached your apartment. Your heart raced in anticipation, not just for the exhilarating ride to the F1 paddock, but also for the secret thrill hidden beneath your clothes.

You had decided to wear the Mercedes merchandise today, a bold declaration of allegiance to the underdog team in a sea of Ferrari red. The tight-fitting T-shirt clung to your curves like a second skin.

"Hey Ollie," you greeted him, a playful smirk gracing your lips as you settled into the plush leather passenger seat.

Ollie looked over at you, a knowing glint in his eye. "Wow, really? You decided to switch to Mercedes that quick?" he quipped, revving the engine and pulling away from the curb. The car's vibrations thrummed through you, setting your blood pulsing in time with its powerful rhythm.

You shrugged, the fabric of the T-shirt sliding smoothly over your skin. "Just thought I'd try something different," you replied coyly, the wind from the open window teasing your hair and whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

Ollie chuckled. "I heard Kimi is quite the Casanova. What's it like learning Italian from him?" His question hung in the air, ripe with innuendo.

You felt your cheeks warm. "It's… educational," you replied, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Ollie's teasing smile grew wider. "I bet it is. Kimi's got that certain… charm, doesn't he?" He winked, his hand briefly caressing the gearstick before shifting up to third. The car leapt forward, pressing you back into the seat.

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in your body releasing like the hiss of a valve. "Sure," you teased back, your voice light and airy, "but it's all very professional. We're just friends, helping each other out."

Ollie's eyes flicked towards you, a knowing look playing across his features. "Just friends, huh?" He smirked, his gaze lingering on the way the Mercedes logo on your shirt. "Well, if you say so."

Ollie pulled into an empty spot in the Haas-reserved parking lot, the car purring to a gentle stop. The heat from the engine radiated into the confined space, a stark contrast to the coolness of the air conditioning.

"Looks like we're here," he announced, the smirk on his face unwavering.

You nodded, your pulse quickening as you took in the chaotic symphony of sounds and smells that filled the air: the high-pitched whine of engines being fired up, the metallic clang of tools, and the faint scent of burning rubber.

Ollie turned off the ignition, and the sudden silence was almost deafening. The tension between you was palpable, charged with an electricity that had nothing to do with the car's engine. You both stepped out into the sticky embrace of the early summer heat, the sun glinting off the chrome and carbon fiber monsters that surrounded you.

As you two walked into Haas, a murmur rippled through the team members and mechanics, their eyes drawn to the unmistakable logo emblazoned on your top. The whispers grew louder, a symphony of surprise and curiosity.

"Look, it's Ollie with a Mercedes fan," one engineer quipped, his laughter cutting through the air like a knife.

You felt your face redden as Ollie chuckled, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back to guide you through the throng of people.

"You can go see your boyfriend when he arrives," Ollie teased.

The words hit you like a splash of cold water, your heart skipping a beat as you realized he knew about your secret rendezvous with Kimi. You tried to keep your composure, but the blush spreading across your cheeks betrayed you.

"What are you talking about?" you retorted, feigning ignorance.

Ollie's grin grew wider, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, come on," he said. "I know that look. You're thinking about him, aren't you?"

You bit your lower lip. "What look?" you asked, your voice a little too high.

Ollie's eyes searched your face. "The one you get when you talk about Kimi. It's like you're melting from the inside out. Your pupils dilate, your cheeks flush, and your breath hitches ever so slightly."

"It's the same look you have right now."

"That's not true," you denied, the denial feeling weak even to your own ears. You busied yourself pretending to adjust the collar of his Haas polo to avoid his gaze.

Ollie didn't relent, saying, "Oh, it is. I've seen it. Remember last year's party when Kimi said 'Ciao bella' to you and you reminded me of that for a whole hour?"

Your cheeks grew hotter, and you felt a flutter in your stomach. You had hoped that incident would have been forgotten, but apparently, Ollie had a better memory than you gave him credit for. The way Kimi had looked at you that night, the way he had said those words, had left an indelible mark on your soul. It was a secret you had been carrying around for months, like a treasure you didn't know how to unlock.

"Well," you began, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice, "it was just a friendly greeting."

Ollie's eyes searched yours, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Friendly, huh?"

"And what about when he showed you those Italian phrases that are a little less… innocent?"

You had been captivated by his accent, the way his eyes danced with mischief as he leaned in, his breath hot against your neck. "They're just… phrases," you murmured, trying to sound nonchalant.

But before Ollie could respond, a familiar Italian accent pierced the air. "Hey guys!"

Your head swiveled around to see Kimi approaching, the sun glinting off his shiny helmet. The sight of him sent an involuntary smile stretching across your face, a smile that felt as intimate as a lover's caress.

You watched as Ollie's expression morphed into one of camaraderie as he stepped forward to greet his friend. The two of them slapped palms, a silent language of respect and friendship passing between them.

As they talked, you felt Kimi's gaze on you, a warmth that spread from the pit of your stomach to the tips of your fingers.

Finally, Ollie stepped aside, and Kimi was before you, his arms open wide for an embrace. As he wrapped you in his strong hold, his mouth brushed against your ear, and he whispered, "I knew Mercedes would suit you better," his breath sending shivers down your spine.

You hugged him back, your heart racing, feeling his muscular chest against yours, the scent of his cologne mingling with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline. You felt his hand slip down your back, resting for a second longer than necessary before pulling away, leaving a trail of heat on your skin.

"I see you've decided to show some love for the competition," he said, a teasing smile playing on his full lips.

You stepped back, trying to compose yourself. "It's just a shirt," you protested, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kimi's gaze dropped to the logo on your chest, and his smile grew wicked. "Is it?" He stepped closer again, his hand reaching out to trace the outline of the Mercedes emblem with his fingertips.

Ollie cleared his throat, and you snapped out of the spell. You stepped back, trying to regain some semblance of control.

"It's just for fun," you said, your voice sounding too high-pitched even to your own ears.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, the warmth in them unmistakable. He leaned in, whispering so only you could hear, "I'm sure it is."

Ollie's gaze flicked between the two of you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. He clapped Kimi on the back. "We've got a race to prep for," he said, the teasing note in his voice clear as crystal.

The two of them walked away, deep in conversation about setups and tire strategies, leaving you standing there, breathless and flustered.

As the day wore on, the paddock buzzed with activity. The air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and gasoline. You found yourself drawn to Kimi like a moth to a flame, unable to resist the gravitational pull of his charm. Every time you caught his eye, he'd give you a wink or a smile that made your heart flutter. It was a dance.

You watched from the garage as the cars rolled out for qualifying. The roar of the engines was a symphony, a crescendo of power and speed that made your blood sing. And there he was, Kimi, in his sleek silver Mercedes, looking every bit the god of the track that you had always imagined him to be.

He glanced up, catching your eye, and gave you a nod before climbing into the cockpit. He disappeared from view, leaving you with nothing but the sound of your own racing heart.

The hours passed in a blur of tire changes and strategy meetings. The air grew thick with the scent of sweat and grease, the tension in the garage almost tangible.

And when Kimi finally emerged, his helmet under his arm, his hair damp with sweat, you felt the world tilt on its axis.

He was fourth on the grid, a respectable position, but you knew he had the potential for so much more. You watched as he peeled off his racing suit, revealing the tight, sweat-soaked fabric of his fireproof underwear. Ollie, on the other hand, had managed to qualify in eleventh place.

As the final practice session concluded, you found yourself gravitating towards Ollie, who was surrounded by his engineers, discussing the data with a furrowed brow. You hovered at the edge of the group, trying to appear inconspicuous, but his eyes flickered up to meet yours, a question in his gaze.

You took a deep breath and stepped closer, the smell of the track clinging to him like a second scent. His eyes searched yours, and he gave you a smile that was so forced it looked like it was painted on.

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Ollie's smile was tight, his eyes unreadable. "Yeah, just a bit of work to do before tomorrow." He stepped closer, his arm brushing against yours.

"I'm sure you'll do great," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

Ollie nodded, but the smile he gave you was forced, a mere shadow of his usual charismatic grin. You couldn't help but notice the tightness in his jaw, the way his eyes searched yours for something unspoken. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Ollie," you began, reaching out to touch his arm.

He looked down at your hand, then back up at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. "You should go and celebrate with your boyfriend," he said, his voice low and gruff. "Don't worry about me. I've got work to do."

You felt a pang of guilt, the weight of his words like a stone in your stomach. "Ollie, I—"

But he cut you off with a firm shake of his head. "It's fine," he said, his voice softer now. "You two have fun. You deserve it."

The words hung in the air, a strange mix of sadness and resignation that tugged at your heartstrings. You didn't know what to say, so you just nodded, the weight of his gaze heavy on your shoulders as you turned and walked away.

You found yourself in front of the Mercedes garage, the door open just enough to reveal the gleaming silver car that was the object of so much of your desire. Kimi was there, surrounded by his own team, his eyes scanning the data screens with a focus that was both intense and mesmerizing.

You took a tentative step forward, unsure if you should join him or keep your distance. But before you could decide, he looked up, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.

"Ciao, bella donna," Kimi said, his voice like velvet, smooth and warm.

You felt the tension in the air thicken as you stepped into the garage, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading into the background. The light caught the droplets of sweat on his face, making them sparkle like diamonds against his olive skin. You swallowed hard, your throat dry. Kimi's team members looked up, a mix of curiosity and surprise etched on their faces. You had never ventured into their sacred space before.

"I just wanted to… congratulate you," you managed to say, your voice a mere whisper in the bustling garage.

Kimi's smile grew wider, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "Grazie, tesoro," he said, his Italian rolling over you like warm honey. He stepped away from his car, closing the space between you in a heartbeat.

His hand reached for yours, his grip firm and reassuring. "Come," he said, tugging you gently towards a quieter corner of the garage. The cacophony of the paddock faded away, leaving only the sound of your own breathing and the pounding of your heart.

You followed him, your body moving on autopilot, drawn to him like a magnet to steel. The air grew thick with anticipation, a silent understanding passing between you.

"I didn't expect to see you here," Kimi said, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he leaned against the wall of his garage. The shadows played over the contours of his face, casting him in a mysterious light that only served to enhance his allure.

You felt your pulse quicken, his words sending a rush of heat through your body. "I wanted to… I mean, I just thought I should… " You stumbled over your words, your cheeks flushing as you struggled to form a coherent sentence.

He leaned closer, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your hand. "Piano piano," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "Take it slow."

The words were a gentle command, a whispered promise that made your heart race. You knew what he meant.

"Your hand is shaking," he observed, his voice low and soothing. "Are you nervous?"

You nodded, the admission feeling like a confession. "A little," you whispered, your eyes dropping to the ground.

Kimi's grip on your hand tightened gently. "Don't be," he said, his voice a soothing balm. "You're safe with me."

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the world stopped spinning. His eyes were pools of warmth, inviting you to dive in and lose yourself in their depths. You took a deep breath, feeling your chest rise and fall with the rhythm of your racing heart.

"Kimi," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He tilted his head, a question in his gaze. "Yes, tesoro?"

You swallowed hard, the word feeling both intimate and terrifying on your tongue. "I've missed you," you confessed, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Kimi's expression softened, and he stepped closer, his thumb still stroking gentle circles on the back of your hand. "I've missed you too," he murmured, his breath fanning across your cheek.

You tried to deny the shiver that rippled through you, the way your body leaned into him without thought. "It's just been a few days," you protested, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Kimi's smile grew wicked. "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about you," he murmured, his thumb brushing the pulse point on your wrist.

"We're just friends," you whispered, the words feeling inadequate.

Kimi’s smile grew, a knowing glint in his eye. "Friends can miss each other," he said, his voice a soft caress that seemed to wrap around you.

"It's only been a week," you thought to yourself over and over again, trying to anchor yourself to reality. A week since you last saw him, a week since stolen glances and whispered conversations in the dead of night in a small restaurant.

You tried to deny it. "It's only been a week."

Kimi chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through you. "Time is a strange thing, isn't it? Sometimes it feels like forever, sometimes like a blink. This week felt like a lifetime.” He paused, his gaze intense. “A lifetime too long."

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of insincerity, but all you found was raw honesty. You could see the truth in his words, the same truth that resonated within you.

Kimi looked happy to be in your presence. The way his eyes lingered on yours, the soft smile that played on his lips, the gentle touch of his hand – it all spoke volumes.

It was a happiness that both thrilled and terrified you. You knew the risks, the complications, the potential for heartbreak.

"I shouldn't be here," you said, the words a contradiction of your own desires. "Someone could see us."

Kimi shrugged, his eyes still locked on yours. "Let them. I don't care."

"But... the press, your team…" You trailed off, unable to articulate the myriad of reasons why this was wrong, why it could never work.

"Let them talk," he said, his voice resolute. "The only opinions that matter are yours… and mine."

The warmth of his hand sent a jolt through your body, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that danced around you. You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach.

"Kimi," you muttered, the syllables sticking to your tongue like honey, sweet and thick with emotion.

He leaned in, his smile widening slightly, "I promise, I'm not going to rush you for an answer now." His words were a gentle caress, a soft whisper that tickled your senses. The air between you grew charged with anticipation, the kind that made your heart skip a beat.

You felt a warmth spread from your cheeks to the tips of your ears, and your eyes searched for a hint of teasing in his gaze. But all you saw was sincerity. "But we do need to go on our next date," he continued, his voice a smooth melody that seemed to resonate with the rhythm of your own heart.

"Now?" you asked, the word slipping out before you could stop it. The question hung in the air, filled with both excitement and doubt.

"Yes, now," he grinned, taking your hand firmly in his. His touch was surprisingly warm, a stark contrast to the cool metal of the garage door as it closed behind you with a gentle clank.

You felt your pulse quicken. "But what about your debriefing?" you asked, trying to keep the excitement out of your voice.

"I finished it quickly for you, bella," Kimi winked, his use of the endearment making your heart flutter.

You couldn't believe it. The race was the talk of the town, and he had managed to slip away unnoticed. "How?" you whispered, eyes wide with astonishment.

Kimi chuckled again, his grip on your hand tightening reassuringly. "I have my ways."

The private parking lot was dimly lit, the shadows playing tricks on the shiny exteriors of the luxury vehicles. His car, a sleek sports model in a deep shade of midnight blue, stood out like a beacon in the night. The cool metal of the car door was a relief under your fingertips as he opened it for you with a flourish.

You slid into the plush leather seat, the smell of new car and faint hint of his cologne enveloping you like a comforting embrace. The engine roared to life, the vibrations thrumming through your body as he revved it up. The headlights cut through the darkness as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

The wind in your hair was exhilarating, the city lights a blur as Kimi navigated the streets with the confidence of a seasoned racer. You couldn't help but let out a little laugh, the kind that comes from a mix of excitement and nerves.

He glanced over at you, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"Where are we even going?" you asked, the thrill of the unknown adding to the electricity in the air.

"Somewhere special," Kimi replied, his eyes flickering to the rearview mirror briefly before returning to the road.

The car's engine purring beneath you was the only sound in the quiet cab, the city's din fading as you ventured into the less-traveled streets. The anticipation grew with each passing moment, your heart racing faster than the speedometer.

Without warning, he pulled into the deserted parking lot of a quaint, old-fashioned cinema. The neon lights flickered, casting a soft glow that painted the pavement a warm shade of red. You felt your brows knit together in confusion, but before you could voice it, Kimi had brought the car to a gentle stop.

He was out of the car in a flash, rounding the hood to open your door. You took his hand, allowing him to help you out, the soles of your shoes clicking against the pavement.

As you looked around, the deserted cinema looked like a relic from another era, a stark contrast to the bustling world you had just left behind. Kimi led you inside, his stride long and confident. The lobby was empty, save for an Italian cashier with a knowing smile.

They exchanged a few words in their native tongue, and you felt a twinge of curiosity. The cashier handed over two tickets with a wink and a nod, and suddenly you realized that you weren't just any couple out for a movie.

The theater was empty, the vastness of the space swallowing up the sound of your footsteps. The screen was already lit up, the opening credits of "Mamma Mia" playing to an audience of two.

Kimi took your hand, leading you to the middle of the theater. The smell of buttered popcorn filled the air as you sat down, the plush seats seemingly made for moments like these.

"This used to be my favorite movie," Kimi murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I think it will help you learn Italian."

You looked at him, surprised. "Italian?"

"Yes," he nodded, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "It's a movie, but the lyrics are mostly in Italian. It's a classic romance, and the music... it's like a window into our soul."

The film started, the vibrant colors and catchy tunes of "Honey, Honey" playing out before you. Kimi leaned closer, pointing out phrases here and there, whispering translations in your ear. His breath was warm against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. 

As the story unfolded, so did his own, sharing anecdotes and childhood memories that wove themselves into the fabric of the movie.

You found yourself getting lost in the music, the emotions playing out on screen mirroring the tumultuous symphony within your own chest. His hand found its way to yours, fingers intertwining comfortably. You felt your heart swell with every word he whispered, every shared smile, every beat of the Italian love songs.

The plot grew more intense, the characters' passions colliding like the waves of the sea that surrounded the fictional Greek island. Kimi's eyes never left the screen, but his grip on your hand tightened during the emotional climaxes, as if the love stories of the film were echoing his own feelings.

As the movie went on, you began to recognize the phrases he had taught you, the words rolling off your tongue almost naturally. The romance of the film filled the air, and you found yourself leaning into him, his arm around your shoulder, protective and warm.

Then, the iconic duet "The Winner Takes It All" began to play. The female and male voices intertwined, a poignant expression of love and loss. 

Kimi started to sing the male part, his voice a little too deep for the high notes, but filled with passion nonetheless. You couldn't help but laugh at his earnest attempt, the sound echoing softly in the deserted theater.

He glanced at you, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "You think you can do better?" he challenged playfully.

Emboldened by his playful teasing, you opened your mouth and sang the female part. Your voice was soft at first, tentative, but grew stronger as you found your rhythm. The melody swelled, and despite the occasional off-key notes, your harmony with Kimi grew more beautiful with each line. You could feel his smile against your hair as you sang, his chest rumbling with his own laughter.

The song ended, the screen fading to black before the lights flickered back on. The theater remained empty, the silence a gentle cushion for the emotional intensity of the moment. You both took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of popcorn and the unspoken feelings that danced between you.

Kimi turned to face you, his eyes searching yours. "I didn't know you could sing," he said, his voice filled with wonder.

You blushed, feeling a bit self-conscious. "It's been a while," you admitted. "But I guess the right company brings it out of me."

He leaned in closer, his gaze intense. "I like bringing out the best in you," he whispered, his breath warm against your cheek. "I want to see more of it."

The movie continued, the plot unfolding with the sweetness of a blooming romance and the bitterness of misunderstandings. You found yourself lost in the story, the emotions of the characters resonating with the tumult in your own heart. 

As the film progressed, Kimi's hand slipped from yours to rest gently on your knee, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

The plot grew more complex, the characters' relationships tangling like the vines that adorned the Greek isle's landscape. You felt your chest tighten as you watched the heartbreaking scenes play out, the raw emotion on the screen mirrored in Kimi's eyes.

The film's grand finale approached, the music swelling with hope and longing. You watched as the characters faced their fears, confessed their love, and found their way back to each other.

As the final credits began to roll, the theater was bathed in the soft glow of the projector's light. You took a shaky breath, trying to ignore the butterflies that had started a frenzied dance in your stomach. "Kimi," you began, your voice barely a whisper.

He looked at you, his eyes searching yours, the question hanging in the air like a delicate thread. "That was beautiful," you continued, feeling the weight of the words on your tongue.

He nodded, his thumb still making circles on your knee. "I know," he grinned.

The theater was empty, the only sounds the distant hum of the projector and the beating of two hearts echoing through the vast space.

"Thank you," you murmured. "For this, for everything."

"It's nothing," he replied. "We're just getting started."

As you stepped out of the theater into the cool night air, you realized that it was really dark, leaving a quiet, peaceful calm in its wake. The stars twinkled above, a silent backdrop to the symphony of your racing thoughts. Kimi's hand found yours again, and you felt the promise in his grip.

The world around you was a blur as he led you to the car, the neon lights of the city reflecting in the puddles left by the rain. You slid into the passenger seat, your heart still racing from the emotional rollercoaster of the film and the intensity of the moment.

He started the car, the engine purring to life beneath you, and pulled out of the lot. The city lights danced in the side mirrors, a blur of color and movement as you left the past behind you. 

The future was unwritten, filled with possibilities and unknowns, but as you looked at Kimi, you knew that no matter what lay ahead, you had someone to navigate it with. The quiet between you was filled with unspoken words and the sweet anticipation of what was to come. The night was young, and the adventure was just beginning.

Kimi drove with the confidence of someone who knew the city like the back of his hand, the car's headlights slicing through the inky blackness of the night. The salty scent of the ocean grew stronger with each passing mile, hinting at the destination that lay ahead. 

Before you knew it, the asphalt under the tires gave way to the soft crunch of sand as he pulled into a hidden cove, the beach stretching out before you like a canvas of moonlit tranquility.

"Kimi..." you began, the question in your voice trailing off as he turned off the engine and opened your door. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore was the only music that played as you stepped out of the car.

"I wanted to give you a 'Mamma Mia' experience," he said, taking your hand and leading you down a winding path to the beach. 

The sand was cool between your toes, and the soft glow of string lights guided you to a picnic blanket laid out with a feast of Italian delights. The scent of garlic and herbs wafted through the air, mingling with the briny tang of the sea.

The picnic was set up with precision, a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket, surrounded by plates of bruschetta, cheese, and a selection of meats. 

The sight was like a scene from a movie, so perfect it was almost surreal. He had even brought a small speaker, playing the film's soundtrack at a low volume, the music a gentle serenade to the whispers of the night.

You couldn't help but smile as he pulled you into a dance, the sand shifting beneath your feet. His movements were fluid, his grip firm but gentle, guiding you through the motions with a grace that made your heart sing. 

As you danced under the stars, you felt a sense of belonging, a feeling that was as vast as the ocean that stretched out before you. His eyes never left yours, the intensity of his gaze making your knees wobble. 

You weren't just any girl at any beach; you were in the arms of the man who you were slowly falling for.

The music grew softer as the night deepened, the stars above seeming to hold their breath as the tension grew between you. Kimi leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you want to sit?" he asked, his voice low and filled with meaning.

Nods and nods, your heart racing faster than the waves that lapped at the shore. You sat on the picnic blanket, the warmth of the sand seeping through the fabric, a stark contrast to the cold glass of wine he handed you.

You took a sip, the taste rich and full, complementing the salty air. The sound of the ocean was a gentle lullaby, the rhythm of the waves matching the beating of your heart. Kimi sat beside you, close enough that your legs brushed against each other. 

"How did you like this date, eh?" Kimi asked, his eyes searching yours. The question was a simple one, yet it held a universe of meaning.

You looked around the moonlit cove, the gentle waves whispering secrets to the shore, and back at him. "It's... perfect," you managed to say, the word feeling inadequate for the emotions swirling inside you. 

The Italian music played softly in the background, a serenade to the stars above. Kimi's smile grew, his eyes lighting up like the fireflies that danced around the beach. "I'm glad," he said, his voice a warm caress in the salty breeze.

You took another sip of the wine, the flavors blossoming on your tongue. "I didn't expect... this," you admitted, gesturing to the picnic spread.

Kimi leaned closer, his eyes searching yours. "What did you expect?"

You set the wine glass down, the tremble in your hand barely noticeable. "I don't know," you replied, a small laugh escaping your lips. "But definitely not this."

The question hovered between you, a soft echo of the waves. Kimi leaned closer, his gaze intent. "But what did you think of it?"

You took a deep breath, the briny scent of the sea mingling with the aroma of the wine and food. "It's more than I could have ever imagined," you confessed, your voice barely audible over the gentle symphony of the night. "I didn't know dates could be like this."

Kimi's smile grew, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "And how have you been treated before?" he asked, his voice a gentle coax.

You thought back to the dates that felt like they were pulled from a cookie-cutter, the men who had tried but never quite hit the mark. "It's just... nobody has ever made me feel like I'm the only person in the world," you murmured, the words a soft confession. "It's like you see me, really see me."

Kimi's eyes searched yours, understanding flickering in their depths. "You are special," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "You deserve to be seen, to be appreciated." He reached out, his thumb brushing away a stray hair from your face.

The touch was electric, sending a shiver down your spine. "Thank you," you whispered, the words feeling like a prayer. You had never been treated with such care, such consideration. 

The men from your past had been shadows compared to the vibrant, living color of Kimi. They had taken you to dinner, bought you flowers, whispered sweet nothings, but they had never made you feel like you were the center of their universe.

As you talked under the stars, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of the sea and the promise of change. The picnic had been a feast for the senses, and as the music grew softer, so too did your heart, filling with a warmth that seemed to radiate from Kimi's very soul. 

You could feel the moment drawing to a close, the inevitability of reality trying to break through the magical bubble you had created.

"Let's get you home," Kimi said finally, his voice a gentle caress. You nodded, not quite ready to let the night end but knowing that it had to. 

You helped him gather the remnants of the picnic, the plates and glasses clinking together like a sweet melody. The sand clung to your clothes, a reminder of the enchanting world you had just shared.

He drove you home, the car's headlights cutting through the night like a beacon guiding you back to the safety of the familiar.

You watched the world go by, the streetlights casting a golden glow over the city's nocturnal landscape.

When you arrived at your house, the car came to a gentle stop. The engine ticked as it cooled, the only sound in the quiet night. Kimi walked you to the door, his hand in yours, the warmth of his skin grounding you in the moment. You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the anticipation of what was to come making it difficult to breathe.

"Good night, Y/N," Kimi said, his eyes searching yours. You leaned in, placing a soft kiss on his cheek, feeling the rough stubble against your lips.

"Good night, Kimi," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You watched as he stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours. You slid the key into the lock, the metal cold against your trembling hand. With one final look, you turned the knob, the door creaking open to reveal the warm embrace of your home.

You leaned against the door, the wood cool against your flushed cheek. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying the echoes of his words with it.

You slid down the door, the adrenaline from the night leaving your body in a rush. Your heart felt like it was racing in a marathon, each beat echoing the rhythm of the waves from the cove. 

The house was quiet, the only sound the ticking of the clock on the wall, a gentle reminder that the world didn't stop spinning just because you had found a moment of happiness. You stepped inside, the warm light of the foyer wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. 

As you closed the door, you felt a strange sense of both longing and contentment. The night had been perfect, a memory you would cherish, but now you were left with the bittersweet realization that it was over.

The door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the silent house. You leaned against it, the imprint of Kimi's hand still burned into your skin. The taste of him lingered on your lips, a sweet reminder of the promise that hung in the air. . . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Every weekend, without fail, he would whisk you away to a new Italian-inspired adventure. Museums, where the air had the scent of ancient oils and the hush of reverence, became your classroom. You'd stand before paintings of rolling landscapes, Kimi pointing at the vibrant hues and insisting you name them in Italian.

It was as if he were feeding you a piece of the language with every brushstroke you took in. The cobblestone streets of the city's Little Italy echoed with your tentative words as you stumbled through phrases that once danced so effortlessly from your tongue.

The restaurants were his grandest stage. He'd select the most authentic trattorias, where the chefs had names that rolled off the tongue like the perfect pasta al dente. You'd sit at a table set with a red-checkered cloth, the aroma of garlic and tomatoes teasing your senses.

Kimi would order for you in rapid-fire Italian, his eyes gleaming with excitement as you tried to decode his words. The servers, with their genuine smiles, seemed to understand the silent struggle of your rekindling romance with their mother tongue.

They'd nod encouragingly as you fumbled through your menu, eventually pointing at a dish with a name that sounded like poetry but was just spaghetti to your unpracticed ears.

As the weeks rolled by, you began to feel a strange kinship with the language, as if it were a long-lost friend you were slowly getting reacquainted with. The frustration of forgotten vocabulary and grammar rules slowly melted away, replaced by a warm nostalgia for the days when Italian was your secret garden of words.

You started to anticipate the weekends, the thrill of the challenge growing with every mouthwatering dish and every sculpture that told a story you could almost remember. It was as though Kimi had cast a spell on you, and the incantation was the melodic cadence of his Italian commands.

One particular evening, the stars aligned. You stepped into a dimly lit enoteca, the walls lined with bottles that gleamed like jewels in the soft light.

The hum of conversation was a soothing backdrop to the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter. Kimi had a twinkle in his eye as he handed you a glass of deep red wine and told you to order

You took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through you, and then took a deep breath. "Posso avere un piatto di bruschetta, per favore?" you asked, your voice stronger than it had been in what felt like an eternity.

The waiter nodded, a knowing smile playing at his lips, and disappeared into the kitchen. As you waited, the anticipation grew, not just for the food, but for the sense of triumph that was about to be yours.

The words had come so naturally, so confidently, that you could almost believe you had never lost them at all. It was as if you had just found a key to a door you didn't know was locked.

Kimi's smile grew wider as he heard your request. "Che bella voce!" he exclaimed, raising his glass to you in a silent toast. His voice was filled with pride and joy, and his eyes sparkled like the stars outside.

"You're doing it," he whispered, leaning closer across the table. "You're bringing it back to life."

The bruschetta arrived, a plate piled high with crispy slices of bread topped with a symphony of tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella. The waiter placed it down with a flourish, the scent of garlic and balsamic vinegar wafting towards you. As you took a bite, the flavors exploded on your taste buds, transporting you to a summer evening in a small Italian piazza.

Kimi's eyes never left yours, a gentle nod of approval etched into his expression. "Anche la tua pronuncia," he said, praising your pronunciation.

His voice was a warm embrace, a gentle nudge that encouraged you to keep going. You felt a blush creep up your neck, but it was a blush of pride, not embarrassment.

You took another bite of bruschetta, savoring the tangy sweetness of the tomatoes and the creaminess of the cheese.

As you chewed, you tried to think of the next thing to say, eager to keep the conversation flowing in Italian. Kimi watched you, his gaze filled with affectionate amusement, as you wrestled with the words.

"Grazie," you said finally, the word rolling off your tongue like a well-practiced aria. "E' deliziosa."

Kimi's eyes lit up like the candle on the table between you. "Non é solo il cibo," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Ma la lingua stessa. L'italiano é come la danza. Ha il suo ritmo, la sua grazia."

You nodded, understanding what he meant. Italian was indeed like a dance, one that you were slowly learning to perform again. You felt the rhythm of the language in the way the words flowed from his lips, and the elegance in the way he moved his hands as he spoke.

As the weeks turned into months, the lessons grew more intimate. It was no longer just about the words, but the emotions behind them.

Kimi would tell you stories of his childhood in Bologna, his voice painting vivid images of the bustling markets and the warmth of his nonna's kitchen.

You found yourself falling in love with him, not just for his passion for his culture, but for the way he shared it with you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

You were walking to Kimi's garage, the sun glaring down on the concrete, when you felt a gentle tug at your trousers. You looked down to see a shy girl, maybe eight or nine, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose and a shy smile playing on her lips. She looked up at you with big, hopeful eyes.

"Hey there, sweetie," you said, bending down to her level. "What's up?"

The girl clutched a small, colorful bracelet in her tiny hands. It was a simple thing, woven from bits of plastic and thread, but to her, it looked like the most precious treasure in the world. "Can you give this to your boyfriend?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Confusion wrinkled your brow. "My boyfriend?" You didn't have one, at least not that you knew of.

"Yeah," she said, nodding fervently, "the one with the big car. The fast one. He's nice to me."

It dawned on you then. Kimi. You chuckled and took the bracelet. "Kimi, huh?"

The girl's cheeks turned a shade of pink that matched the plastic flowers on the bracelet. "Please," she whispered, her eyes shimmering with hope. "It's for him."

You straightened up and nodded, tucking the bracelet into your pocket with a smile. "Alright, little one. I'll make sure Kimi gets it."

Her eyes lit up, and she beamed a grin that could've powered a city. "Thank you!" she exclaimed, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

With a chuckle, you then took the Mercedes hat that belonged to Kimi from your head and placed it on her head. It was a bit too big, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, she looked like she'd just been crowned royalty.

The hat sat atop her head like a cherry on a sundae, slightly askew, with the brim casting a shadow over her freckled nose.

Her eyes grew wide with excitement, and she giggled as she felt the fabric of the hat against her forehead. "Wow!" she exclaimed, "I feel like I can drive a car now!"

With that, she dashed off, the hat bobbing comically with every step she took. You watched her until she reached a woman standing a few feet away, who looked at you with a grateful smile.

The girl threw her arms around the woman's legs and whispered something into her ear, glancing back at you. The woman looked surprised for a moment, then her gaze softened, and she nodded, glancing in the direction of the garage. She whispered something back, and the girl beamed up at you before running off.

You chuckled and continued your journey to the garage, the warmth of the sun on your back. The girl's excitement had brightened your day, and you couldn't help but wonder what Kimi would think of the bracelet.

When you arrived at the garage, the sound of a revving engine and the smell of gasoline filled the air. You walked into the cluttered space, passing by a wall of tools and a rack of greasy car parts, and all you could see were mechanics in blue jumpsuits scattered around, working tirelessly on various vehicles.

You squinted through the dusty light, looking for Kimi. There was no sign of him anywhere. You felt the heat of the engines and heard the rhythmic clinking of metal on metal, but still, he was nowhere to be found.

Then, in the corner, you spotted a glimpse of a familiar face—Bono, Kimi's race engineer, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was hunched over a table with a sheaf of papers spread out in front of him.

He had a pencil in his hand, scribbling furiously, and he looked utterly engrossed in whatever calculations he was doing.

Finally, you caught sight of Kimi. He was standing next to Bono, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression equally frustrated. The two of them were so focused on the paperwork in front of them that they hadn't noticed you yet.

You took a moment to watch them, the tension in their postures speaking volumes about their current predicament. As you approached, the sound of your footsteps echoed through the garage, and Kimi looked up.

"Looks like you have a secret admirer," you said, tossing the bracelet to him.

He caught the bracelet you tossed, and his expression grew more serious as he studied it. "What's this?" he asked, fingering the plastic threads.

"It's from a little girl," you said. "She wanted you to have it."

Kimi's eyes softened, and he looked up at you, his smile widening. "Really?"

You nodded. "She said you're nice to her one day."

Bono looked up from his calculations, his curiosity piqued by the exchange. "Everything okay?"

Kimi held up the bracelet, his grin unshakeable. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's great."

The two of you shared a look, and you could see the weight of their earlier frustration lifting. For a brief moment, the garage didn't seem so chaotic, and the only thing that mattered was the simple act of kindness captured in the plastic flowers of that bracelet.

"Well, that's sweet," Kimi said, his eyes never leaving yours. "But why did she give it to you?"

You felt a blush creep up your neck. "Um, she thought… I was your girlfriend," you admitted, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

Kimi's smile grew even wider. He looked down at the bracelet again, then back at you, his eyes filled with amusement. "Did she now?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning hotter than the engine of one of the cars in the garage. "Yeah, she thought I was your girlfriend, so she asked me to give it to you."

Kimi's eyes glinted with mischief. "And what did you tell her?"

"I just said I'd give it to you," you replied, feeling more nervous by the second.

Kimi's gaze didn't waver. "But did you tell her anything else?"

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sudden dryness in your throat. "No, nothing else," you replied, hoping your voice didn't betray the lie.

Kimi's smile grew into a full-blown grin, and he took a step closer to you, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Are you sure?"

You felt your heart flutter as his proximity sent waves of heat through your body. "Positive," you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Well, if you're my girlfriend," he said, his voice low and teasing, "I suppose I should be giving you something, too."

With that, he took off one of his own bracelets. It was a sleek, black leather band with a silver charm that looked like a tiny car. "What are you doing?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

"Exchanging," he said, his eyes locked onto yours. He took your hand and slid his bracelet on your wrist. The warmth of his skin lingered on your skin, making you shiver. "Now, every time I wear this, I'll think of you."

The leather felt smooth and cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat that was building within you. You looked down at the charm, your heart racing as the reality of the situation sank in.

Kimi had never made a move like this before, and you weren't quite sure how to react.

You felt your breath catch in your throat as he fastened the bracelet around your wrist. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity through your body.

Your eyes remained fixed on his, the intensity of his gaze making it hard for you to look away.

Bono, who had been quietly observing the exchange, cleared his throat. "We have a revision to do, Kimi," he said, his voice cutting through the thick tension like a hot knife through butter.

Kimi's gaze didn't leave yours for a second, a silent question lingering in his eyes before he finally nodded. "Right," he murmured, his voice a bit gruff.

Bono cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Kimi," he prompted.

Kimi's eyes snapped away from yours, and he took a step back, breaking the spell. "Ah, yes," he said, his voice returning to its usual, business-like tone. "We do have a revision to do."

You watched as he turned to Bono, the bracelet on your wrist a constant reminder of the moment that had just passed between you. Bono gave you a knowing look before focusing back on his papers.

You felt a strange sense of calm while KImi was stressing over maths. Numbers danced in your head, equations unfolding like graceful dancers in a silent ballet. You knew calculus. You understood it in a way Kimi never would.

"I just… I don't get it," Kimi groaned, running a hand through his already messy hair. His brow was furrowed in frustration as he stared at a page filled with integrals, the nemesis of his academic existence.

"It's like trying to understand a language no one speaks," Kimi muttered, pushing the textbook away.

You stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt and into your palm. "Let me take a look," you offered, your voice soothing.

Kimi hesitated before handing over the book with a defeated sigh. You sat beside him, the scent of engine oil and sweat mingling with the faint aroma of his cologne—a surprisingly pleasant combination that you'd come to associate with the garage.

The pages of the book fell open, revealing the tangled web of formulas that had him so flustered.

"It's not that hard," you assured him, leaning closer so that your bodies touched. "It's just a matter of practice."

Kimi sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I know, but it's just not sticking."

"I could teach you if you wanted?" you offered tentatively, glancing at both Kimi and Bono.

Bono's eyes shot up from the paperwork he had been engrossed in, and a look of relief washed over his face. "Yes, please," he said, his voice a mix of hope and desperation. "Anything to get this little gremlin to understand calculus."

Kimi rolled his eyes playfully, but you could see the hint of gratitude in them. He leaned back in his chair, his muscular arms flexing as he did so, and gestured to the open textbook.

"Be my guest," he said with a smile, his gaze lingering on your hand that still rested on his shoulder.

Bono looked up from his paperwork, his expression a mix of hope and skepticism. "If you can get him to pass this class, I'll owe you one," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of challenge.

You took the textbook into your hands, feeling the weight of the responsibility, but also a thrill at the prospect of being able to help Kimi in a way that was uniquely yours. "Let's start with the basics," you suggested, turning to the first chapter.

As you delved into the world of derivatives and integrals, you found yourself enjoying the process of explaining concepts to him. His eyes would light up when he understood something, and the way his brows furrowed when he was concentrating was endearing.

You felt a strange sense of intimacy, not just because of your physical proximity, but because you were sharing a piece of yourself with him that you had never shared with anyone else.

Kimi's mind was sharp when it came to cars—he could dismantle and reassemble an engine faster than you could recite the alphabet. But math? It was his Achilles' heel.

You found yourself getting lost in his eyes as you explained the rules of calculus, the gentle slope of his cheekbones, and the way his bottom lip pouted slightly when he was confused. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The faint scent of fresh ink and paper filled the room as you meticulously scrutinized Kimi's Maths homework, the soft whispers of the words dancing in the air like an intimate serenade. The bracelet he had given you weeks ago jingled with every turn of the page, a delicate reminder of the secret bond you shared.

"That's my brother's favorite bracelet," said a sweet, unfamiliar voice, piercing the silence like a softly played note on a violin.

Looking up from the academic tapestry laid before you, your gaze fell upon the speaker. A girl, no older than thirteen, with a cascade of long brown hair that shimmered under the muted lamplight, and eyes so deep and rich they could have been pockets of pure, untouched chocolate, stared back at you.

Her smile was a mirror of Kimi's, but there was an innocence in it that made your heart flutter like a caged bird discovering an open window.

"Really?" you replied, your voice a cocktail of surprise and curiosity. "How do you know?"

The girl leaned in closer, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I've seen him wear it a hundred times," she confessed, her voice a gentle caress on the silence. "But he said he gave it to you."

Her revelation hung in the air, thick with the anticipation of an unspoken question. You felt your cheeks flush, the warmth spreading from your core like wildfire. The bracelet grew heavier on your wrist, a silent testament to the secret you'd been keeping from everyone, including yourself.

"Is... is that okay?" you stuttered, fidgeting with the delicate trinket. The girl's eyes searched yours, a mix of amusement and something you couldn't quite place. "I mean, I didn't know it was his favorite."

She giggled, a sound so pure it could have been the tinkling of wind chimes on a perfect summer evening. "Don't worry," she assured you, "I think he's happy you're wearing it. It looks good on you."

"I'm Maggie, by the way. Kimi's little sister."

"Oh, it's nice to finally meet you, Maggie," you managed to say, trying to compose yourself. "Your brother's been helping me with Italian."

Maggie's smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Ah, yes," she said, her voice a melodious symphony of knowing and innocence. "Kimi's always had a knack for languages. And for helping people, too."

You swallowed hard, the weight of her words sinking in. The bracelet grew warmer, a silent pulsation that seemed to echo the rhythm of your racing heart. "He's been amazing," you confessed, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice. "He's really patient with me."

Maggie nodded sagely, her smile unwavering. "He always has been," she said. "But I've noticed a different kind of spark in his eyes when he talks about you."

You felt a strange mix of excitement and trepidation coil in your stomach. "He talks about me?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

Maggie nodded, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "All the time," she said, her words a gentle tease. "He tells me how much you've been improving, how much he enjoys your company."

Your heart skipped a beat, the warmth from the bracelet spreading up your arm like a lover's caress. "Really?" you murmured, trying to keep the hope from bubbling over into your voice.

Maggie nodded emphatically, her youthful exuberance infectious. "Yeah!" she exclaimed, her cheeks dimpling. "He says you're the best student he's ever had."

You couldn't help the chuckle that bubbled up from your chest, a warm, velvety sound that seemed to resonate through the room. "I think I'm the only student he's ever had," you said, the words tumbling out with an ease that surprised even you.

Maggie's laughter joined yours, a sweet harmony that filled the air with the lightness of feathers dancing on a summer breeze. "You're probably right," she admitted, her eyes shining with affection for her brother.

Then, as if on cue, a shadow fell over the two of you, and a familiar, playful voice rang out, "Hey! That's mean from both of you! Especially you, sorellina!"

You turned to find Kimi standing beside you, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders. You looked up into his eyes, and the world around you melted away into a pool of molten chocolate, rich and deep.

"I've taught Ollie Italian too," Kimi added, a smug grin playing on his full lips.

Maggie rolled her eyes and playfully swiped at her brother. "Yeah, but you didn't give him a bracelet!"

Kimi's grip on your shoulders tightened slightly, his eyes dropping to the bracelet on your wrist. "It's just a little something," he said, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to resonate through your very being. "A small token of friendship."

"Kim told me you're Italian," Maggie asked, her curiosity piqued. "Is that true?"

You looked into her eager eyes, feeling the warmth of Kimi's hands on your shoulders, his presence a comforting embrace that seemed to bolster your courage. "Yes," you admitted, your voice a soft caress. "My mother's side of the family is from a small town outside of Verona."

Maggie's eyes widened with excitement. "Really?" she squealed, her voice a delightful trill. "That's so cool! Do you speak Italian fluently?"

You nodded, a warm smile playing on your lips as you felt Kimi's hands tense ever so slightly. "I used to," you admitted. "But it's been a while. That's why I've been asking Kimi for help."

Kimi's thumb stilled for a moment before resuming its gentle dance on your skin. "Well, it's definitely coming back to you," he said, his voice a soothing balm to the nerves that had suddenly taken up residence in your belly.

"It's all thanks to you," you replied, the words slipping out like a sigh of contentment. You felt a thrill rush through you as his eyes searched yours for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lingering on your mouth before dropping back to the bracelet.

The sudden, unexpected announcement crackled over the intercom, jolting you both out of the intimate moment. "Attention, all drivers," the disembodied voice called out, "please report to your designated garage immediately."

Kimi's eyes snapped to the clock on the wall, his expression a mix of surprise and excitement. "The race," he murmured, his thumbs ceasing their gentle exploration of your skin. "It's starting sooner than I thought."

"Can I watch with y/n?" Maggie's voice was a breath of fresh air, filled with excitement and innocent curiosity. The question hung in the air, a delicate thread connecting the three of you in a way you hadn't anticipated.

Kimi's eyes lit up with an idea, his grip on your shoulders loosening as he stepped away. "Why don't you?" he suggested, turning to face you with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "It'll be like a little reunion, and maybe she can even help me teach you some Italian."

You felt your heart race as you looked from Kimi to Maggie and back again, the warmth from their gazes a gentle embrace that seemed to melt away the barriers you had so carefully constructed around your feelings.

"I'd love that," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. "It'll be like a miniature Italian lesson."

Maggie's eyes lit up like stars in the night sky, and she clapped her hands together. "Yay!" she exclaimed, her youthful exuberance infectious.

Kimi leaned in to whisper into your ear, his warm breath sending a shiver down your spine. "Okay, I'll leave you two beauties to it," he said. "But remember, I expect full reports of your language lessons later."

His lips curled into a knowing smile as he pulled away, his eyes holding yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary. "And please, take care of each other."

With those words hanging in the air like a seductive promise, Kimi turned and strutted out of the room, his confidence a palpable force that seemed to electrify the very air around him, leaving you alone with his sister again.

Maggie's gaze followed him, her eyes filled with a mix of adoration and something else, something that looked suspiciously like mischief. "So," she said, turning to you with a knowing smile, "do you like my brother?"

The question hung in the air, a delicate thread of curiosity that seemed to tug at the fabric of the room itself. You felt your heart race, the warmth from Kimi's touch still lingering on your skin like a lover's brand.

"Kimi?" you asked, playing coy despite the heat that flooded your cheeks. "He's a good teacher," you managed, your voice a soft caress that seemed to resonate with the vibrations of your racing pulse.

Maggie's eyes danced with mirth as she sat down beside you, her youthful energy a stark contrast to the intensity that had filled the room moments ago. "I know," she said, her voice a gentle purr. "But do you like him?"

"Maggie," you began, choosing your words with the same care you would a delicate pastry at an Italian café, "Kimi is more than just a good teacher to me."

Her smile grew wider, her eyes gleaming with the excitement of an untold secret. "I knew it," she whispered, her voice a conspiratorial giggle that tickled your ear. "He talks about you all the time, you know. Like you're some kind of... I dunno, Italian goddess or something."

Your cheeks burned with a blush that could have rivaled the sunset over the Tuscan countryside. "He does?" you whispered back, your voice a tremulous note in the symphony of emotions that played within you.

Maggie nodded eagerly. "All the time," she said, her eyes sparkling like the stars in an Italian summer night. "He says you have a way of making him feel alive, like nothing he's ever felt before."

The words hung in the air, thick with the promise of something more. You felt your heart race, the thrill of his confession echoing in your very soul. "Really?" you murmured, the tremble in your voice belying the tumult of emotions within you.

Maggie nodded, her eyes shining with the excitement of a conspirator. "He says you make him feel like he's home when you're around," she revealed, her voice a whispered secret that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the room.

"And you know what?" she leaned closer, her breath a sweet scent of mint and youthful innocence, "I think he might have a crush on you."

The words hit you like a gentle gust of wind, sending a shiver of excitement down your spine. You felt your pulse quicken, the blood rushing through your veins like a river of liquid fire.

"Yeah," you said, trying to keep the excitement from your voice as you began to gather up the scattered pages of Kimi's homework. "Enough gossiping. We have to meet up with your parents to watch the race."

Maggie's smile grew even brighter, her eyes lighting up with the excitement of an impending adventure. "I know, I know," she said, bouncing to her feet with the grace of a gazelle.

Together, you walked to Kimi's garage, the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement a steady rhythm that seemed to sync with the beating of your heart.

As you approached the garage, you saw Kimi and Maggie's parents deep in conversation, their heads tilted towards one another as they spoke in hushed tones.

They were an elegant couple, evident in the sharpness of their features and the warmth of their skin. The mother, a svelte woman with hair as dark as a moonless night, looked up and noticed you first, her eyes lighting up with a smile that was as welcoming as a warm embrace.

"Ah, you must be the one Kimi's been speaking so fondly of," she said, her Italian accent wrapping around the words like a velvet ribbon.

Her voice was like the sound of a cappuccino machine in a quiet café, a comforting hum that seemed to resonate within your very being. She stepped forward, her arms opening to envelop you in a warm hug that smelled faintly of gardenias.

"It's so nice to finally meet you," she said, her accent a siren's call that seemed to weave a spell of comfort and belonging around you. You felt your muscles relax into the embrace, the warmth of her touch seeping into your very bones.

Kimi's father, a man built like a statue chiseled from the very marble that adorned the ancient Italian cities, looked up from his conversation with a proud smile. His eyes, so much like Kimi's, sparkled with the same mischief that you had come to know so well.

"Mamma, Papà, this is..." Maggie paused, a hint of shyness coloring her voice.

"Yes, yes," Kimi's mother interjected, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "We know who she is. Kimi has told us so much about you," she said, her smile reaching out to you like a warm hand. "We're so happy to finally meet the one who has stolen our son's heart."

You felt your own heart stutter in your chest at her words, the warmth of her embrace spreading through you like the first sip of a fine wine. "Signora," you began, your voice a soft crescendo of nerves and excitement, "I don't know what Kimi has been telling you..."

But she waved a hand, her smile a gentle dismissal of your modesty. "Ah, ah," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we know our son. He doesn't speak of just anyone like this."

Her words were a warm embrace that seemed to melt away your doubt, leaving you feeling both vulnerable and exhilarated.

Kimi's parents noticed your arrival, their conversation with themselves trailing off as they turned to face you. The love and pride in their gazes was unmistakable, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had grown between you and their son.

"Ciao," Kimi's father boomed, his deep voice a warm baritone that seemed to fill the garage. He stepped forward, extending a hand that was rough from years of working the cars. "I am Marco," he said, his grip firm and reassuring as you took his hand.

You felt a jolt of something unnameable as your skin met his, the heat of his touch a stark contrast to the cool metal of the garage. His handshake was firm but gentle, a silent promise that you were now a part of their world.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Antonelli," you replied, your voice a soft symphony of nerves and excitement.

Marco's eyes twinkled with mirth as he released your hand. "Call me Marco," he said, his voice a warm bass that seemed to resonate through the garage. "And this," he continued, turning to Kimi, "is the young lady you've been keeping from us?"

Kimi strolled over from his small meeting with Bono, his race engineer, his strides long and purposeful, his eyes lighting up as they landed on you. He was a vision in his fireproof suit, the fiery emblem of the Mercedes team blazing across his chest like a declaration of war.

"Ciao, bella," Kimi greeted, his Italian rolling off his tongue like a lover's caress. His eyes were a tempest of emotions, a mix of excitement for the race and something deeper, something that seemed to resonate in the very air between you.

Marco's smile grew wider as he stepped back, his gaze flicking from you to Kimi and back again, as if he could see the unspoken conversation passing between the two of you.

"We must go," he said, his voice a gentle nudge towards the reality that awaited outside the garage. "The race will begin soon."

Kimi's eyes remained on yours for a moment longer, a silent question lingering in the air. Then, with a nod that seemed to convey a world of unspoken answers, he turned to his father. "Yes, Papà," he said, his voice a rich timbre that seemed to resonate with the anticipation of the race.

He leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to his mother's cheek. "Ciao, Mamma," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'll make you proud today."

Her smile was like a warm embrace as she patted his cheek. "We know you will," she said, her voice filled with a love that seemed to echo through the garage.

You watched as the family shared a moment, feeling like an outsider peering in on a private dance.

Marco slapped his son's back, the sound echoing in the garage like a gunshot. "Vai avanti," he said, a mix of pride and urgency in his voice. "You're going to be late."

Kimi nodded, his eyes still locked on yours, the unspoken promise of something more burning in their depths. He took a step back, the heat of his gaze a palpable force that seemed to cling to your skin like a second skin.

"Vincere per me," you said, the words rolling off your tongue with surprising ease. It was a declaration of intent, a promise that you would win the race, not just for yourself, but for him.

Kimi grinned, his teeth flashing white against the tanned skin of his cheeks. "Of course, bella," he replied, the endearment slipping out as naturally as if you had been lovers for a lifetime.

The warmth of his smile seemed to fill the garage, casting a spell that made everything else fade into the background. His eyes searched yours, a silent conversation passing between you that spoke of desires and promises unspoken.

Kimi's movements were fluid as he slid into the cockpit of his sleek, silver Mercedes, his body melding with the machine as if they were one.

The sound of the engine roaring to life was like the crescendo of an orchestra, a symphony of power and passion that seemed to resonate through every atom of the air. You felt the vibrations in your chest, a thrumming beat that echoed the rhythm of your heart.

He flashed you one last smile, the kind that could make the sun jealous, and then he was gone, speeding away into the bowels of the circuit like a bullet released from a chamber.

You stood with Kimi's family the whole race, the tension in the air thick enough to cut with a knife. The grandstand was a sea of faces, a tapestry of colors, all united in their love for speed and the thrill of the chase.

Maggie's hand was a small, warm presence in yours, her excitement palpable, a heartwarming reminder of the innocence and purity that often accompanied youth.

As the checkered flag waved, the air was pierced by a roar that seemed to shake the very foundation of the grandstand.

"And for the first time, Kimi Antonelli reaches a podium position!" the commentator's voice boomed through the speakers, sending a wave of euphoria crashing over the crowd. The words echoed in your ears, a sweet symphony of triumph and vindication.

Kimi's parents erupted into cheers, their faces a canvas of unbridled joy as they leaped to their feet. Marco's deep baritone laughter rumbled through the air, his eyes shining with the pride of a man who had seen his son conquer the world.

His wife clutched her chest, her eyes brimming with tears of happiness as she watched her little boy, now a man, stand tall on the podium.

Maggie's hand in yours grew tighter, her nails digging into your palm as she bounced up and down with excitement. The vibrations of her energy seemed to resonate through your body, mingling with the thundering applause that filled the grandstand.

As the race concluded, the whole team, a blur of silver and black, sprinted towards the parc ferme, where Kimi's car would come to a majestic stop in front of the third-place podium.

The sound of their footsteps was a cacophony of victory, each step a declaration of their collective triumph. You watched, transfixed, as the mechanics and engineers, their faces a mix of exhaustion and elation, gathered around Kimi's car like bees to honey.

The car, a gleaming silver streak, pulled up to the sign, and the crowd's roar grew deafening as Kimi emerged, a modern-day gladiator stepping out of his metal chariot.

He raised his visor, revealing eyes that shone with the fierce light of a thousand suns. His helmet was plucked off, and his sweat-dampened hair stood on end, a testament to the battle he had just won.

The scent of victory, a heady mix of burning rubber and adrenaline, wafted over the team as they congregated around him. Kimi's eyes scanned the sea of faces, and the moment he spotted you and his family, a grin as wide as the Italian coastline split his face.

He was quick to spot you all, and with a bound fueled by the elation of his victory, he sprinted over, his heart hammering in his chest with excitement and love.

As he neared, the warmth of his presence washed over you, like a gentle Tuscan breeze that brought with it the promise of a summer's evening spent under the stars. His eyes danced from you to Maggie and back again, the love and pride in them a beacon that could guide ships lost at sea.

HIs father was the first to reach Kimi, his arms enveloping his son in a hug that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand unspoken words.

The fabric of Kimi's fireproof suit crunched as his father's embrace tightened, a silent declaration of the bond that had been forged over a lifetime of shared passions and dreams. You watched as Marco whispered something into Kimi's ear, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate with the very essence of pride.

Next was Kimi's mother, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stepped into the fold of their embrace. Her slender hands rested on Kimi's shoulders, her touch as gentle as the stroke of a feather, yet it seemed to hold him as firmly as any steel embrace.

As she pulled back, she reached for you, her eyes searching yours with a knowing look that seemed to speak of shared secrets and quiet understandings.

Then, it was Maggie's turn. She launched herself into Kimi's arms, her small frame enveloped by his broad chest. Her giggle was a sweet symphony that seemed to hold the very essence of joy.

His arms tightened around her, and you saw the softness in his gaze, a tenderness that was reserved only for those who held his heart.

As she stepped back, her eyes met yours, and she winked, a knowing glint in her gaze. You felt the heat of his stare on you.

And then, there you were, standing before him, the world around you a blur of color and sound. Your heart was a drum in your chest, the rhythm of it echoing the roar of the engines that had just fallen silent.

Kimi stepped away from his family, the warmth of their embrace lingering on him like the scent of their homemade pasta sauce. His eyes locked onto yours, the depth of his gaze a promise that had been simmering since the first time you'd met.

"Bella," he murmured, his voice a velvet caress that seemed to wrap around you like a warm blanket.

His arms encircled you, pulling you into a tight embrace that seemed to banish the rest of the world. You felt the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the scent of his sweat and adrenaline a potent aphrodisiac that made your knees weak.

Hiding your face in the crook of his neck, you inhaled deeply, allowing his scent to fill your lungs and your soul. It was a scent that was uniquely Kimi, a blend of engine oil, leather, and victory.

You didn't dare look up, fearful that the paparazzi lurking just outside the garage would capture the intimacy of this moment and twist it into some salacious headline.

You knew the price of fame, the way it could devour relationships, turning the purest of moments into the fodder for tabloid frenzies.

So, you held onto him, your eyes closed, your heart racing, as you silently prayed that the world would swirl on without noticing the two of you standing there, entangled in a dance of passion and friendship.

The scent of his neck was intoxicating, a blend of cologne and sweat that spoke of his fiery spirit and the intense physicality of the race. It was a scent that was uniquely his, a scent that had been burned into your memory the first time you had been this close to him.

You felt his heart hammering against your chest, a wild, untamed stallion galloping in time with yours.

"Hai vinto nel mio cuore," you murmured into his ear, the words a soft, secret whisper that seemed to resonate through his very soul.

His embrace tightened for a fraction of a second, the muscles in his arms flexing as he held you closer. It meant 'you won in my heart'.

The warmth of his body seemed to seep into yours, a gentle warmth that spread through you like honey on warm bread.

His chest was a wall of solid, unyielding muscle against which your soft curves melded like wax. You felt his heart, beating a staccato rhythm that matched the tempo of your own.

Kimi's chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibrations sending delightful shivers down your spine. "Only in your heart, bella?" He leaned back slightly, his eyes searching yours, a playful smile dancing across his lips.

"Well," you replied, the words slipping out with the ease of a warm summer breeze, "you've certainly won my respect and admiration today."

Kimi's smile grew, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that made you want to kiss them. "That's a start," he murmured, his voice a soft caress that seemed to stroke the very fabric of your being.

With a gentle nudge, he stepped back, allowing you to breathe. His eyes never left yours as he turned to his team, his voice a mix of gratitude and adrenaline.

The team responded with cheers and slaps on the back, their faces a kaleidoscope of nationalities and emotions, all bound together by the shared victory.

You watched as Kimi moved from one person to the next, his voice a crescendo of gratitude as he thanked each member of his team, his words a balm to their weary souls.

His touch was a gentle reassurance that they were all part of something greater than themselves, a symphony of precision and passion that had just played out on the track.

Each mechanic, engineer, and support staff member beamed under his praise, their eyes shining with the light of a thousand suns.

The garage was a maelstrom of activity around you, yet all you could focus on was the way Kimi's hands moved, the way his fingers danced as he spoke, the way his eyes crinkled with every genuine smile he offered.

The warmth of his skin was still imprinted on yours, and you felt a sudden, overwhelming need to touch him again. The bracelet on your wrist felt like a lifeline connecting you to him, a tangible symbol of the secret bond you shared. . . .

The next week arrived swiftly, bringing with it the Imola Grand Prix, a momentous occasion for him as it marked his first time racing on home soil. A wave of anticipation washed over him as he prepared for the event, fueled by the desire to perform well in front of his countrymen. He knew the pressure would be immense, but he was determined to channel that energy into a strong and memorable performance.

The roar of the crowd was a distant hum, a white noise Kimi barely registered. He was in the zone, a place where the world narrowed down to the vibration of the steering wheel in his hands, the precise pressure of his foot on the accelerator, and the dance between man and machine that defined his life.

He was in the lead. Again.

The words felt foreign, almost unbelievable. Kimi, leading a Grand Prix. It wasn't a common occurrence in his career, a fact that gnawed at him more than he let on. But today, the stars were aligning in a way that felt almost…surreal.

Max had crashed spectacularly with Hamilton, sending sparks and debris flying across the track. Lando was nursing some kind of brake issue, forced to bleed speed into every corner.

Oscar, usually a consistent threat, was struggling with pace, falling further and further behind. One by one, the obstacles had fallen away, leaving Kimi alone at the front.

“Mate, everything is going well, you can win this!” Bono’s voice crackled in his ear, a burst of static in the otherwise focused silence of the cockpit.

Kimi didn't respond. He didn't need the encouragement. He could feel it. The car was responding perfectly. The tires were holding. The gap was growing. He just wanted to finish the race. He just wanted to see you.

He pictured you, sitting nervously in the team garage, your fingers twisting a stray strand of hair around your finger. He knew how much this meant to you, how you'd believed in him even when he'd started to doubt himself.

Your unwavering faith was a constant source of strength, a gentle push in the back when he felt like the weight of the world was pressing down.

That first time you'd tried to learn Italian with Duolingo, you'd been adorably lost. The way your cheeks had flushed when you'd confidently pronounced 'ciao' as 'choa' had made him laugh until his sides hurt.

But it was the determination in your eyes as you'd looked at him for correction that had made him realize he had feelings for you. It was the spark of curiosity, the hunger to learn and grow that mirrored his own passion for racing.

You understood the pressure he was under, the relentless scrutiny, the constant demands of sponsors and team bosses.

You saw past the stoic facade to the man beneath, the man who loved to cook, who enjoyed long walks in the woods, who valued loyalty and honesty above all else.

And somewhere along the way, that understanding had blossomed into something more. A quiet, comfortable love that grounded him, that gave him a reason to keep pushing, even when the races were tough and the defeats were crushing.

Now, with the finish line in sight, that love was his driving force. He wanted to win this for you. To prove to you, and to himself, that he still had it in him. That he could still stand on that top step of the podium and feel the spray of champagne on his face.

Lap after lap, he maintained his lead, his focus unwavering. He ignored Bono’s constant updates, the times of the cars behind him, the changing wind conditions. It was all background noise. All that mattered was the track ahead, the next corner, the next braking point.

He pushed the car to its limits, knowing that a single mistake could cost him everything. He felt the tires begin to degrade, the car starting to slide slightly in the corners, but he held his nerve, adjusting his driving style to compensate.

He could see the checkered flag now, a blur of black and white in the distance. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in years. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles white, and pushed the accelerator to the floor.

The roar of the engine filled his ears as he crossed the finish line, the crowd erupting in a frenzy of cheers. He had done it. He had won.

He slowed the car down, pulling into the designated area, his heart pounding in his chest. The relief was overwhelming, a wave of emotion that threatened to spill over.

He unbuckled his harness, his hands shaking slightly, and climbed out of the cockpit.

The moment his feet hit the ground, the frenzy began. His team rushed towards him, yelling, pushing against the fence that held them up.

They were a sea of color, a blur of faces and hands reaching for him. He could see the raw excitement in their eyes, the unbridled joy that came from victory.

Kimi took a deep breath, the sweet scent of burnt rubber and gasoline mingling with the cool air. He felt the heat of the car behind him, a testament to the fierce battle he'd just fought. The fence groaned under the pressure of his ecstatic team, their voices a cacophony of congratulations and relief.

"Kimi, Kimi!" They chanted his name like a war cry, their faces flushed and eyes gleaming with excitement. He couldn't help but smile, a rare occurrence on the podium, as he approached the barricade.

Through the chaos of the celebration, his eyes searched for you. Finally, they found you, standing apart from the rest, your face a portrait of shock and disbelief. He could see your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, your eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.

He broke free from the crush of his team, his legs feeling like lead but propelled by the magnetic pull of your presence.

You looked so beautiful, your hair disheveled from the wind, your cheeks flushed with excitement. He couldn't help but feel a surge of pride as he approached you, the roar of the crowd a testament to his triumph.

His family, always his first priority, were right beside you. He saw his mother's eyes, filled with the kind of pride that could only come from a mother's love, and his father's firm nod, a silent acknowledgment of a job well done. Maggie, her face a mix of awe and admiration, ready to embrace him.

Kimi stepped through the barricade, the world around him fading into the background. His gaze remained locked on yours as he approached, his heart swelling with every step.

He threw his arms around his mother and father first, feeling the warm embrace of their love envelop him like a warm blanket. They had been there since the start, supporting him through every high and low, and their pride was palpable as they held him tight.

"You did it, son," his father whispered in his ear, his voice gruff with emotion.

Kimi pulled back, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked at his parents. The love and support reflected in their faces was the ultimate prize.

He hugged his mother tightly, her familiar scent of lavender and sunscreen bringing him comfort amidst the overwhelming chaos of the race. She kissed his cheek, her warmth seeping into his bones.

His father's embrace was firm, a silent nod of respect and understanding of the beast that was racing, and the battles that came with it.

Maggie was next, her arms wrapping around him with a fierceness that surprised him. Her perfume, a blend of vanilla and jasmine, filled his senses as she whispered congratulations into his ear.

The bond they shared was strong, unyielding, and had only grown stronger through the years. They had been through so much together, and her belief in him had never wavered.

He held her for a moment longer, feeling the tremble in her body as she fought back tears. The emotion of the moment was almost too much to handle, but he knew he had to keep it together. This was for them, for all the sacrifices they had made.

"Your girlfriend was cheering for you the whole time," Maggie muttered into his shoulder, her voice thick with emotion.

He whispered back to Maggie, "She's not my girlfriend yet," his voice low and filled with a hint of mischief.

Maggie pulled back, her eyes searching his, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yet?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Kimi couldn't help but chuckle, the sound lost in the din of the celebration. He knew what she was implying, but now was not the time to explore that particular avenue of thought.

He had to find you, to share this moment with you, to show you that you were his inspiration, the reason he had pushed so hard.

He broke away from the embrace, his gaze finding yours once again. The distance between them closed in a heartbeat, the electricity of the moment crackling in the air like a live wire. You were frozen in place, your eyes wide and unblinking, as if you couldn't quite believe what was happening.

You looked at him, your eyes brimming with joy, and before you could say a word, he pulled you into his arms. Your body melded into his, fitting perfectly as if it had been made to be there.

His heart raced as he felt your softness pressed against him, the warmth of your embrace a stark contrast to the harshness of the race.

Kimi's hands slid down your back, feeling the curve of your hips and the gentle give of your body beneath your clothes. His fingers found purchase in the fabric of your shirt, his palms feeling the heat of your skin, the tension of your muscles as you held onto him.

You buried your face into his neck, inhaling deeply the scent of his sweat and victory, a heady mix that sent shivers down your spine.

"Thank you," he murmured into your hair, the vibration of his voice sending a thrill through your body. "Thank you for believing in me."

You pulled back, your eyes searching his, looking for any trace of doubt. But all you found was the unbridled passion of a man who had conquered his demons and emerged victorious. "You did it," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He took a deep breath. "May I… can I kiss…"

Before he could finish the question, before doubt could solidify in his mind, you leaned forward. Your lips met his, a soft, hesitant pressure at first, then deepening as he responded.

The rain seemed to fade, the fairy lights blurred, and suddenly, the world was just the two of them, a connection forged in a stolen moment.

The sensations in Kimi's stomach were a swirl of butterflies, a tornado of excitement and anticipation. It was a feeling he knew well from racing, but this was different.

This was a victory of the heart, a win that didn't come with a podium or a trophy, but with the sweet taste of your mouth and the feel of your breath mingling with his own.

Your lips were like a soft pillow, welcoming and familiar, yet charged with an electricity that sent currents through his body. He felt your breath hitch as you deepened the kiss, your hands tentatively moving to his shoulders, then sliding up his neck to tangle in his hair.

It was as if you were trying to hold onto him, afraid that if you didn't, he would vanish into the ether of the moment.

Unfortunately, you pulled back, your eyes searching his with a sudden shyness that was as endearing as it was surprising. His heart skipped a beat as he watched the color rise in your cheeks, the way your gaze darted from his mouth to his eyes and back again.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, feeling a little out of breath, your heart racing from the intensity of the moment. "I shouldn't have—"

But Kimi silenced your protests with a gentle shake of his head. "No," he whispered, his voice a hoarse rumble against your ear. "You're exactly what I needed."

You hadn't meant to kiss him. It was an impulse, a reckless, beautiful mistake. Now, you just had to figure out what to do next.

"You should probably go to your interview," you murmured against his ear, your voice a soft caress as you tried to pull away. But his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

Kimi's grip was firm but gentle, his hands warm and reassuring on your back as he held you close. "I know," he whispered, his breath hot on your skin. "But I don't want to let you go."

"I promised we'll speak," you said, the words slipping out before you had a chance to think.

"Okay," Kimi grumbled, his arms reluctantly releasing you. His eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the air.

"Yes, we'll talk," you assured him, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions inside you. You stepped back, trying to regain some semblance of composure, the feel of his arms around you still lingering like a warm embrace.

Kimi nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, a promise in them that this was far from over.

He stepped back, allowing the press of his team to guide him towards the podium. The flash of cameras and the cacophony of voices grew louder as he approached, but all he could hear was the echo of your heartbeat in his ears.

The interview went by in a blur, questions about his strategy and the race's pivotal moments that felt almost trivial compared to the tumultuous symphony of emotions playing out between you and him.

Yet, he answered with the grace of a seasoned champion, his mind still reeling from your kiss.

Each word was a battle to focus, his eyes straying to the spot where he knew you were standing, holding onto Maggie for support.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind, a flurry of flashing lights and applause. As the Italian national anthem played, Kimi felt a strange disconnect, his thoughts racing to the conversation you had promised.

He watched as the trophy was hoisted high, the gleaming silver a stark contrast to the vivid colors of the setting sun. The weight of it in his hands was a reminder of what he had achieved, but it was your eyes that he sought, your approval that he craved.

He looked down at the sea of faces, a blend of sponsors, team members, and fans. And there you were, nestled among them, holding onto Maggie like a lifeline.

She looked up at him, her smile proud and knowing, giving him a subtle nod of encouragement. You were a vision, your hair a wild mane in the breeze, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears, and your grip on Maggie's hand a silent declaration of your own victory.

The Italian fans had gone wild. The air was thick with the scent of their excitement, a potent mix of sweat, passion, and victory.

They yelled and screamed, waving flags and banners, their voices a symphony of pride and jubilation. They were his countrymen, and their roars of approval were music to his ears.

Kimi looked out into the stands, his heart swelling with emotion. The tifosi, the Italian fans, were a force unto themselves. They were notorious for their unyielding support of their own, and tonight, they were in full voice.

He could see the undulating sea of red, white, and green, a tapestry of love and national pride that stretched as far as the eye could see.

The podium was a cacophony of noise as the champagne bottles were popped, the sound echoing through the air like a string of mini explosions.

The golden liquid arced through the sky, catching the last rays of the setting sun and casting a shimmering shower of light that bathed the podium in an ethereal glow.

The moment the podium interviews ended, Kimi was whisked away to the cooldown room, his body still humming with the high of victory.

He could feel the adrenaline slowly ebbing away, leaving in its wake a tremor in his hands that he hadn't noticed before. His heart was still racing, but it wasn't just from the race anymore.

It was the kiss, the promise in your eyes, and the unspoken words that hung in the air like an unresolved chord in a symphony.

The cooldown room was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy outside, a sanctum of white and chrome that gleamed under the harsh lights.

The air was cooler here, a welcome respite from the heat of the podium. He sat down, the chair a strange embrace after the tight confines of his race seat, and took a deep breath, trying to calm the tumult of his emotions.

In the corner, Charles and George, who had secured second and third place, were already watching the race highlights, their faces a mix of exhaustion and elation. They looked over at him as he entered, raising their bottles of water in silent salute.

The three of them sat down in front of the large screen, their eyes glued to the replay of the race that had just unfolded. They watched as Kimi's car sliced through the pack, a sleek and deadly predator hunting down its prey.

The commentators were gushing with praise for his driving, their voices rising and falling with the tension of the race.

Charles, his cheeks flushed with the exertion of his own battle for second place, leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Mate, that was incredible," he said, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You had the car dancing today."

George nodded in agreement, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Couldn't agree more. That overtake on Turn 3 was sheer poetry," he added, referring to Kimi's daring move that had secured his victory.

"Thanks, guys," he said, his voice a little rough. "Couldn't have done it without the team."

He took a swig of water, the cool liquid sliding down his dry throat. His eyes never left the screen, watching the replay of his victory lap, the car snaking through the track like a serpent celebrating its triumph.

The media scrum was a beast he knew all too well. It waited outside the cooldown room, a sea of eager faces, microphones, and cameras ready to devour every morsel of his triumph.

They would ask about his strategy, his thoughts on the race, and the inevitable questions about his future in the sport. But all he could think about was you.

As he stepped into the fray, the questions bombarded him from all sides, a cacophony of voices that seemed to blur together into a single, insistent drone. He felt a hand on his shoulder, guiding him towards the designated spot.

The team's PR manager, a tall, elegant woman with a no-nonsense air, whispered a few words of encouragement in his ear. He nodded, a forced smile plastered on his face, as he faced the barrage of questions with the practiced ease of a man who had done this countless times before.

"Kimi," a journalist from the front row shouted, waving a microphone in the air. "What does this victory mean to you?"

He took a deep breath, his eyes searching the crowd for any sign of you. "It means everything," he said, his voice steady despite the tumult of emotions still coursing through him. "But without my team behind me, it would have been impossible."

The questions kept coming, a relentless wave of inquiries about the race, the strategy, and his feelings on the podium. Yet, all he could think about was the taste of your lips, the way your body had felt against his, and the promise of what could be.

"Kimi, can you tell us about the final laps, when you knew you had it in the bag?" a journalist with a thick Italian accent called out, her voice eager to capture the drama of the moment.

He took a deep breath, the memory of the race still pulsing through his veins. "It was about the last ten laps when I knew I had a good shot at it," he replied, his eyes distant, lost in the replay of the moments that had led to his victory. "The car was perfect, and I just had to stay focused and keep pushing."

The questions kept coming, a relentless wave of words that he navigated with the skill of a linguist. Yet, his mind was elsewhere, replaying the sensation of your touch, the way your body had leaned into his during that spontaneous kiss.

It was like a secret shared only by the two of you amidst the chaos, a silent promise that echoed through his soul.

When Kimi was finally able to escape the media and the swarm of reporters, the first place he went was the family waiting area.

He walked down the corridor, the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline fading into the background as he approached.

His heart raced not from the adrenaline of the race, but from the anticipation of seeing you. His steps were quick, almost a jog, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of you.

The family waiting area was a stark contrast to the chaotic garage. It was a serene oasis of white leather couches and chrome accents, designed to give drivers and their loved ones a moment of peace before and after the race. The doors slid open, revealing a space bustling with energy, filled with his family.

But you weren't there.

The realization hit him like a blow to the gut. His eyes searched the room, desperate for a glimpse of your familiar form, the way you'd stand with your hands clasped tightly in front of you when you were nervous.

His heart sank as he saw only unfamiliar faces, a sea of congratulations that washed over him without touching the core of his being.

"Kimi!" His mother's voice broke through the haze, her arms open wide, her eyes shining with joy. He forced himself to move, to hug her, to accept the praise and love of his family, but his thoughts remained focused on you, the woman who had become the very air he breathed.

"Where's y/n?" he asked, his voice barely above a murmur, the question slipping out before he could catch it. His father's proud smile faltered for a moment, his gaze shifting to Maggie, who looked equally puzzled.

Maggie, ever the diplomat, stepped in, her eyes flicking towards the exit. "She said she had to go to the bathroom," she replied, her voice carefully neutral. Kimi's heart sank. Had he read the situation wrong? Was she upset? Or was she just overwhelmed?

He excused himself, the warm embrace of his family's congratulations feeling like a cocoon of well wishes that he was desperate to break free from.

His eyes searched the corridor, looking for any sign of your retreating form. The sound of his heart was the only thing he could hear above the din of the celebration, a thunderous rhythm that matched his steps as he moved away from the safety of the waiting area.

The hallways of the paddock were a blur, the faces of team members and officials passing by in a whirl of congratulations and handshakes.

He nodded and smiled, his mind racing, trying to piece together where you could have gone. The bathroom? Too obvious. To the garage to watch the podium from a distance? Perhaps.

But something in his gut told him you needed space, needed time to process the intensity of what had just happened between them.

He found it hard to believe that he had actually won. The victory felt surreal, as if it were a dream that could shatter at any moment. Yet, the kiss you had shared was very real.

The way your lips had moved against his, the gentle pressure of your hand on his neck, the softness of your skin under his touch—it was burned into his memory like the tire marks on the asphalt of Monza.

Kimi made his way through the garage, the sound of his boots echoing through the vast space. The team was busy dismantling cars and discussing strategy, but he barely noticed them.

His eyes scanned the area, looking for a flash of your hair, a glimpse of your smile. His heart thudded in his chest with each step, the anticipation growing with every passing moment.

Finally, he reached his driver's room. The door was slightly ajar, the dim light spilling into the corridor like an invitation. He pushed it open gently, his breath catching in his throat at the sight that greeted him.

There you were, curled up on the sofa, fast asleep. The softness of your features, the gentle rise and fall of your chest as you breathed, the peacefulness of your slumber—it was like a painting, a moment captured in time that he never wanted to forget.

You looked so vulnerable, so beautiful. The weight of the world had been lifted from your shoulders, and in your sleep, you were free from the worries of the day. Kimi's heart swelled with an emotion he couldn't quite name.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving your peaceful form. The scent of leather and oil was a familiar comfort, a stark contrast to the chaos of the podium. The air was cooler here, a gentle whisper that carried the faint scent of your perfume, a sweet and subtle floral note that made his stomach flutter.

As he approached, the shadows played across your face, highlighting the dark circles under your eyes.

He knew you hadn't slept well the night before, plagued by worries about your mother's reaction to your Italian lessons.

The quiet click of the door closing behind him was the only sound in the room. He approached you slowly, his steps measured and deliberate, not wanting to disturb your peaceful slumber.

As he got closer, he could see the worry etched into your features, the tension in your forehead, the tightness of your mouth.

He reached out, his hand hovering over your shoulder, the warmth of your body radiating through your shirt. He could feel the pulse of your heart beating in time with his own, a silent rhythm that connected them in a way that was more profound than any podium finish.

He brushed a lock of hair from your cheek, the softness of your skin sending a shiver down his spine.

Kimi took a deep breath, his senses filling with the sweet scent of your perfume. He knew he should leave you be, that you needed your rest, but the pull was too strong. He had to be near you, to feel the warmth of your breath against his skin.

He sat down on the edge of the sofa, his body aching from the race, the adrenaline that had fueled him now dissipating into a gentle hum of contentment. He watched you sleep, his mind racing with thoughts of the future, of what could be.

The gentle thrum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the room, a white noise that seemed to echo the rhythm of his thoughts. He knew he should be celebrating, reveling in the victory, but all he wanted was to hold you, to feel your heart beat against his chest.

With a silent sigh, he slid onto the couch, his body moving with a grace that belied his exhaustion. He eased himself down, the leather cool against his skin, the cushions molding to his frame as if they had been waiting for him all along. His eyes never left you, the curve of your body a siren's call that beckoned him closer.

The couch was big enough for the two of you, a silent invitation to share in this moment of triumph. He reached out, his hand brushing against the warmth of your shoulder.

The fabric of your shirt was soft under his touch, the heat of your skin seeping through, a silent promise of the warmth you offered.

Slowly, so as not to wake you, he slid closer, his body aligning with yours, his legs stretching out alongside yours. He leaned in, the scent of your hair filling his senses, a sweet, vanilla scent that was as intoxicating as the smell of victory.

The couch was a sanctuary, a place where the outside world couldn't reach them. He could feel the tension in your body, even in sleep, the weight of the world still pressing down on your shoulders.

His own muscles ached, a symphony of pain that was a reminder of the battle he had just fought and won.

He slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of your body a balm to his soul. He could feel your breath against his neck, the soft exhale a comforting lullaby that soothed the beast inside him. His eyes closed, and for the first time that day, Kimi allowed himself to relax, to let the tension bleed out of him.

He didn't know what would happen when you woke up, but for now, he was content to simply exist in this moment, the two of you entwined, the world outside forgotten. . . .

Your senses were a jumbled symphony as you gradually surfaced from the velvety depths of sleep. The scent of burnt rubber and the faint aroma of victory champagne lingered in the air, intertwined with the rich, earthy musk that was unmistakably Kimi.

His arms were a warm, comforting vice around you, his breathing steady and deep, as if he were lost in the most peaceful of dreams. You didn't dare move, fearing the spell might be broken, the reality of his embrace evaporating like mist under the glare of the morning sun.

Kimi's features were relaxed in slumber, the tension of the race and the weight of his historic victory seemingly forgotten as he lay beside you.

His dark lashes brushed against his flushed cheeks with every exhale, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest made your own heart stutter with an unfamiliar rhythm.

The soft light filtering through the hotel curtains cast a warm glow on his skin, highlighting the sheen of perspiration that still clung to him from the night's triumph and celebration. You studied the contours of his face, the way his full lips parted slightly, the stubble on his jaw that was just the right amount of rough.

His hair, usually meticulously styled, was a wild tangle of brown locks, sticking to his forehead in the most endearing way. The sight of him, so unguarded and vulnerable, made you feel an unyielding wave of tenderness and desire.

Your fingers itched to trace the line of his jaw, to feel the coarse stubble under your fingertips, but you held back, not wanting to disturb him.

The last time you had seen him, your mouth had been on his, tasting the sweetness of victory and the salt of his skin. Now, in the quiet aftermath of passion and glory, you felt a strange mix of emotions—elation at his success, awe at the depth of your connection, and a hint of fear that this moment might never come again.

But for now, you were content to simply be there, in the sanctuary of his arms, with the promise of the dawn just outside the window and the warmth of his love enveloping you like a blanket.

As the room slowly brightened, the whispers of daybreak painted shadows across Kimi's features, revealing the stark beauty of his profile.

His chest, a landscape of sculpted muscles and scars from past battles on the track, rose and fell with each breath, a silent symphony of life and vitality. The room was filled with a gentle hum of contentment, the only sound the soft rustle of fabric as his fingers flexed against your bare shoulder.

You hadn't been sleeping well for days, the excitement and nervousness of speaking to your mother in her native language in a few days. So, when he had been called away for his media duties, you had seen it as an opportunity to grab some much-needed rest.

As you stirred to consciousness, the unmistakable weight of his presence beside you sent a jolt of surprise through your body. You had not expected to find Kimi here, not after he had left earlier to face the barrage of questions and flashing lights.

Yet, here he was, his hand resting protectively on your waist, his leg thrown over yours in a possessive tangle that spoke of deep trust and comfort.

The heat from his body seeped into you, warming you from within, as your senses slowly sharpened to the world outside the cocoon of Kimi's drivers room.

Kimi then moved, his hand sliding down to the small of your back, his touch featherlight and electric. You held your breath, your heart hammering in anticipation, but his eyes remained closed, his breathing unchanged. His fingertips traced the curve of your hip, sending a shiver down your spine, as if he was unconsciously mapping the territory of your body.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, Kimi's eyes began to open. The thick lashes lifted, revealing the warm whiskey hue of his irises. 

For a moment, there was a dazzling clarity to his gaze, as if he were seeing you for the very first time. The room, the race, the victory—it all melted away as he took you in.

As he blinked away the last remnants of sleep, a lazy smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he whispered, "Good morning," his voice a smoky rumble that resonated through your core.

"I think it's the evening, Kimi," you joked quietly, a playful twinkle in your eye as you glanced at the clock, the digits blinking an indecipherable message.

Kimi's eyes snapped open, the smile on his lips deepening as he took in the sight of you. "Ah, evening," he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue with a hint of amusement.

"Were you looking for me before?" you asked, your voice a soft melody that seemed to resonate in the quiet air.

Kimi's smile grew more pronounced, his eyes finally focusing on you with a warmth that seemed to set your very soul alight. He took a moment to process your question, the gears of his thoughts whirring behind those mesmerizing eyes.

"Before what?" he responded, his voice still thick with the residue of sleep.

You couldn't help but chuckle at his groggy state, the sound a soft, musical note that danced in the air around you. "Before you came back to the room," you clarified, the memory of his earlier departure still lingering.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a flicker of understanding crossing his features as he pieced together the timeline of the night. "Ah," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through your very bones.

He leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours, the stubble of his cheek a delightful abrasion that sent a shiver down your spine. "I was," he admitted, his breath warm against your lips. "Couldn't stay away from you. You're like a gravitational pull, always drawing me back."

His words were simple, devoid of grand pronouncements or poetic metaphors, but their sincerity resonated deeply within you. Kimi wasn't one for empty words. When he said something, he meant it with every fiber of his being.

His eyes wandered onto your teal dress. "Did I ever say you look beautiful in this dress?" he asked, his gaze lingering on the way the fabric flowed around your curves.

You felt your cheeks warm at the memory of when he had first seen you in it. "You might have mentioned it," you replied with a coy smile, your heart skipping a beat.

Kimi's hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently caressing the skin just beneath your eye. "You always do," he said, his voice a gentle rumble that sent a delicious thrill down your spine.

The room was suffused with a warm glow, the light from the setting sun casting a soft halo around his head. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the rumpled couch, highlighting the contours of his bodysuit, the strong lines of his shoulders and chest. His eyes searched yours, a silent question in their depths.

"Does your family know that we're here?" you asked, your voice a whisper in the cocoon of quiet that surrounded you.

"Ah, i was looking for you so much that i forget to tell them i found you," Kimi replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

Your heart fluttered at his admission, his Italian accent wrapping around the words like a caress. You felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with the way he looked at you—like you were the prize he had been chasing all along, and not just the victory trophy.

"It's like 10pm now," you muttered, the reality of time slipping through your fingers like sand. The race had ended hours ago, yet it felt like mere moments since you had been lost in the whirlwind of his victory.

"Mamma mia," Kimi groaned, his hand still resting on your hip as he sat up with a stretch, his muscles rippling under the tight confines of his bodysuit.

You mirrored his movement, your own body protesting after hours of inactivity. You looked outside the window and realized the world had moved on without you, the inky blackness of night having descended outside. The only illumination came from the distant city lights that twinkled like stars scattered across the velvet sky.

"We've been asleep for hours," you murmured in disbelief, your voice a soft caress that seemed to float in the air.

Kimi's gaze never left yours as he nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a smile that was as warm as the afternoon sun in Sicily. "You needed it," he said, his thumb making lazy circles on your skin. "You've been so tense lately."

You couldn't deny it. The upcoming conversation with your mother had been weighing on your mind like a lead balloon. But here, in Kimi's arms, it all felt so far away, as if the world had stopped turning just for a brief moment to allow you this stolen slice of happiness.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice a soft sigh that seemed to melt into the air. "For everything."

Kimi's eyes searched yours, his thumb continuing its gentle dance on your skin. "What for?"

You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of his hand spreading through your body like wildfire. "For helping me learn Italian," you said, your voice a soft crescendo of emotion. "And for giving me back my confidence."

Kimi's smile grew more earnest, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He leaned in closer, his breath a warm whisper against your ear. "It was nothing," he murmured. "Your beauty and strength are all your own. I just helped you remember them."

His hand slipped away from your cheek, reaching for yours. But as you went to take it, you paused. "Flattery won't get you anywhere Antonelli," you said, your voice playful but firm as you picked up your bag, the warmth of his hand a sudden absence that sent a shiver down your spine.

Kimi's smile didn't falter, his eyes still holding yours as he leaned back against the couch cushions. "But it's not flattery," he protested, his accent thick and tantalizing. "It's the truth. You're like a fine wine, only getting better with time."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing in the room as you slung your bag over your shoulder. "Smooth, but still not going to work," you teased, taking a step away from the comfort of his touch. The coolness of the air was a stark contrast to the heat he emanated, and you felt the sudden urge to return to his embrace.

Kimi watched you with a knowing smile, his eyes never leaving yours as he sat up, stretching his long limbs like a cat rousing from a nap. "Ah, but you know I mean it," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate in the very marrow of your bones.

"Come on, don't you have a family to find?" you asked, trying to lighten the mood, a playful lilt in your voice.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a spark of mischief lighting up the whiskey hue. "Eh, they probably went home," he replied with a nonchalant shrug, the fabric of his bodysuit stretching with the movement. "They know I like to sleep after the race."

You couldn't help but chuckle, shaking your head at his incorrigible charm. "They're going to be worried about you," you pointed out, the playfulness in your tone belying the concern you felt for him.

Kimi's gaze never left yours as he slowly rose to his feet, the fabric of his bodysuit clinging to his form like a second skin. "They know I'm in good hands," he said, the words a gentle caress that sent a shiver down your spine.

"You think you can get what you want after winning one race?" you replied, a playful smirk dancing on your lips.

"I'd hope so," Kimi grinned, his teeth flashing white against the darkened room. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he took a step closer, closing the distance between you.

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls, as you grabbed his hands and pulled him up. His muscles, still warm from the race, bunched under your fingers as he stood, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the floor.

"Come on," you said, your voice a teasing purr that seemed to dance around the room. "Let's get your delusional ass back home."

Kimi's laughter rumbled in his chest, a rich, full sound that made your heart swell with affection. He allowed you to pull him to his feet, his fingers tightening around yours briefly before releasing. You felt the loss of his touch like a gust of cold wind, but the warmth of his smile was more than enough to keep you from shivering.

"Let me go get changed and then we can go," he said, his voice a smoky promise that had your heart racing. You watched as he disappeared into the en suite bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. The sound of running water and the rustle of clothing filled the silence, and you couldn't help but wonder what he was doing in there. The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

The ring of his phone pierced through the quiet, and you reached over to grab it from the nightstand, your heart skipping a beat when you saw it was his mom. "Kimi, your mom is calling," you called out, your voice echoing through the steamy bathroom.

Kimi's muffled response came through the shower curtain. "Can you answer it?" The urgency in his tone was palpable, his voice tinged with a hint of nerves that was foreign to the usually unflappable racer.

You picked up the phone, feeling the weight of his trust in your hand. The screen glowed with his mother's name, the very woman whose language you had been so meticulously preparing to conquer. The call to action was a stark reminder of the real world waiting outside the sanctuary of his arms.

"Ciao, Signora Antonelli," you greeted, your voice a soft melody that carried through the phone's speaker. The Italian words felt strange and yet oddly familiar, as if they had been coaxed from a dormant part of your soul.

Kimi's mother's voice was a flurry of warmth and concern. "Ah! Y/n! Non mi ero accorto che eri ancora con mio figlio," she exclaimed, a blend of surprise.

"Sorry," you murmured into the phone, your cheeks flushing. "Mi sono addormentato nella sua cabina di guida, non volevo trattenerlo. Ora sta facendo la doccia e sta tornando a casa."

Kimi's mother's laugh was warm and comforting, the sound wrapping around you like a blanket. "Non preoccuparti," she said, her words a soothing balm to your nerves. "Sono contenta che tu abbia riposato un po'. Kimi ha detto che sembri stanco in questi giorni."

You couldn't help but smile at her maternal concern, feeling a sudden kinship with her. "Lo ero," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could censor them. "Ma adesso mi sento meglio."

Her response was a delightful tapestry of Italian that you only partially understood, but the love in her tone was universal. "Ma lasciami indovinare, anche lui si è addormentato?" she asked, her voice a warm caress over the phone line.

The question hung in the air, a gentle tease wrapped in the velvet of her words. "Sí, siamo tutti e due un po' stanchi," you replied, hoping the truth wasn't too evident in your voice.

Kimi's mother's laughter spilled over the line, a rich, warm sound that made you feel as if she were in the room with you, sharing the moment. "Ah, che bello," she said, her voice a soothing balm to the nerves you hadn't realized you had. "Ma Kimi è sempre in movimento. Non so come fa a rimanere sveglio."

You chuckled, the sound a little too loud in the quiet room. "Lui ha una forza incredibile," you agreed, the words slipping from your tongue with surprising ease. It felt natural, speaking Italian to this woman who had given birth to the man you had come to love.

"Comunque, per favore, di' a Kimi di tornare subito a casa." she said, the warmth in her voice now tinged with urgency. "Dobbiamo ancora fare una festa in famiglia."

"Va bene signora Antonelli," you said, a smile playing on your lips.

The call ended with her final laugh, and you set the phone down, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment. You had managed to have a conversation with Kimi's mother without any major linguistic mishaps.

The bathroom door opened with a soft click, and a cloud of steam billowed out, carrying with it the scent of Kimi's spicy aftershave.

He emerged from the mist like a Greek god, his skin glistening with moisture, his hair slicked back from his face, showcasing the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones. The black tee clung to his still-damp torso like a second skin, tracing the contours of his chiseled abs and broad shoulders, while the dark trousers hugged the muscular curves of his legs.

Kimi looked like a man who had just conquered the world—and in a way, he had. The victory earlier in the day was etched in every line of his body, in the proud tilt of his chin, the way his eyes shone with an inner light that could outshine the neon of the Vegas strip outside.

He padded barefoot across the plush carpet, droplets of water clinging to his skin, shimmering like diamonds in the dim light of the hotel suite. The way the fabric of his black tee hugged his form was a delicious sight, revealing the play of muscles across his chest and the flat plane of his stomach. His dark trousers hung low on his hips, hinting at the V of his pelvis.

You watched him, unable to tear your eyes away, as he approached you, his movements liquid and predatory. The warmth of the shower had brought a flush to his cheeks, and his eyes, those whiskey-colored pools of passion, were fixed on you with an intensity that made your heart stumble in your chest.

"What did my mom say?" he asked, his voice a low, velvety rumble that seemed to resonate through the very air around you.

You took a deep breath, savoring the scent of his aftershave, a heady mix of spice and musk that was uniquely Kimi. "She said she's happy I've been helping you rest, but you should get back for your family celebration."

His gaze held yours, the warmth of his smile reaching out to you like a gentle caress. "And how was your conversation with her?" he asked, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to vibrate through your very bones.

You felt a sudden rush of emotion, the weight of his question more profound than you had anticipated. "It was... good," you replied, the words a whispered confession. "It felt good to talk to her in Italian."

Kimi's smile grew broader, his eyes lighting up with a proud spark. "You sounded amazing," he said, the sincerity in his voice making your cheeks flush with heat.

"Thank you, we should get going," you said, trying to keep the tremor from your voice.

Kimi nodded, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Grazie," he murmured, his voice a warm caress that sent a thrill down your spine. "You've been working so hard."

You looked up at Kimi, his damp hair still hanging in his eyes, and felt a surge of affection so intense it almost brought tears to your eyes. "Thanks to my teacher," you said, the words slipping out before you could think better of it.

The engineers and staff that had been working tirelessly around the car looked up as Kimi's smile grew wider, his eyes crinkling with mirth.

"Thank you, all of you," he called out, his Italian accent thick and warm as he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the vast, empty space of the garage. "Couldn't have done it without you."

The remaining engineers and staff looked up from their tasks, a mix of weariness and pride etched on their faces as they returned his smile. They had been Kimi's rock through the season, the unsung heroes behind the scenes who had made his victory possible.

"Ciao ragazzi," he said, his voice carrying a hint of the exhaustion that lurked just beneath the surface. Despite the fatigue, his eyes held a fiery determination, a promise that the celebration of this win would be one to remember.

With a nod to the remaining crew, Kimi led the way out of the garage and into the parking lot, his hand sliding into yours with a familiar ease that sent a jolt of electricity up your arm. The cool evening air was a stark contrast to the warmth of the garage, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The parking lot was a maze of shadows and reflections, the only light coming from the flickering streetlamps and the distant glow of the city beyond. Kimi's car sat in the corner, a beacon of luxury in the sea of concrete and metal.

The coolness of the night was a stark contrast to the warmth of Kimi's hand in yours as you approached the sleek, black sports car. His grip was firm, his thumb tracing circles on your skin in a gesture that was both reassuring and electrifying.

Kimi opened the passenger door with a flourish, his eyes never leaving yours. The motion was so smooth, so practiced, it was like watching a ballet dancer perform a perfect pirouette. You slid into the seat with a sigh, the leather cool against your bare legs. The scent of the car's interior was a heady mix of leather and his cologne, a scent that had come to symbolize safety and desire.

He moved around the car with the same grace, his movements fluid and economical, every gesture a silent symphony of intent. The door shut with a soft thunk, sealing you both inside. The engine roared to life with a purr that seemed to resonate through your very soul, the vibration a delicious promise of the power that lay just beneath your fingertips.

Kimi's hand slid from yours to the gear stick, his fingers wrapping around it with a confidence that made your stomach flip. He shifted into gear and the car surged forward, the tires biting into the asphalt as he navigated the winding path out of the circuit.

You watched his profile, the sharp lines of his jaw and the firm set of his mouth, the way his eyes never left the road. It was a stark contrast to the tender way he had held you in his arms just moments ago, the gentle caress of his thumb on your skin.

"Are you free tomorrow?" he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the quiet hum of the car's engine.

The question hung in the air, thick with implication, like the scent of his cologne that lingered in the enclosed space. You turned to look at him, his eyes focused on the road ahead, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the stubble of his jaw.

"Tomorrow?" you repeated, the word echoing in the quiet. It was a simple question, but the anticipation in his voice was palpable, a silent promise of something more than just a casual get-together.

"Yes," he said, his gaze never leaving the road ahead, but his hand tightening on the gear stick, a subtle hint of his excitement.

You felt the weight of his answer in the air, a silent promise that hung between you like a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. "What did you have in mind?" you asked, your voice a soft melody that seemed to dance around the edges of the car's cabin.

Kimi's smile grew more pronounced, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief as he finally turned to look at you, his gaze lingering on your face. "I want to show you something," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very fabric of the car. "It's a surprise."

"A surprise?" You couldn't help but echo his words, your heart racing with excitement. Kimi's surprises were always... unexpected.

"Mm-hmm," he hummed, his eyes flicking back to the road as he expertly maneuvered the car through the quiet streets. His smile grew, the kind that made your stomach flip-flop and your skin tingle with anticipation. "I think you'll like it."

Your heart raced at the thought of what could be in store for tomorrow. The way his eyes lit up, the excitement in his voice, it was infectious. "Kimi, you know I trust you," you murmured, leaning back into the seat, your eyes never leaving his profile.

He glanced over at you, his smile widening. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in your very core. "Because it's going to be something special."

The ride to your house was indeed quick, a blur of neon lights and darkened streets that seemed to fly by as Kimi's car ate up the asphalt beneath it. His driving was masterful, his hands firm on the wheel, his eyes never straying from the road ahead.

The leather seats hugged your body, the scent of his cologne mingling with the new car smell, creating a heady cocktail that intoxicated you further. You watched his profile, the way the passing streetlights played across the sharp planes of his face, casting him in an ever-changing palette of shadows and light. His jaw was set, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he navigated the maze of Italian streets.

The engine purred beneath you, a living entity that responded to his every touch. You could feel the power of the car, the beast that had carried him to victory, now carrying you both away from the chaos of the day's events. The tension in the air was palpable, a potent mix of exhaustion and desire that seemed to thicken with every passing mile.

As Kimi pulled up to the curb in front of your house, the car's headlights painted a warm, golden path across the cobblestone street, briefly illuminating the ivy that crawled up the ancient brick walls. The windows glowed with a soft light, casting a warm, welcoming beacon into the night.

Your heart fluttered as you realized the significance of the moment. This wasn't just a casual drop-off. This was Kimi bringing you home after the most incredible day of your life—his historic victory and the sweet promise of tomorrow's surprise.

The car's engine purred to a stop, the sudden silence echoing in the narrow Italian street. Kimi's hand slid from the gear stick to yours, his warmth seeping into your skin like a healing balm.

"Kimi," you whispered, the name a prayer on your lips as you turned to face him. "Thank you."

With a gentle nod, Kimi opened the car door for you, the cool night air rushing in to mingle with the warmth of the interior. He stepped out and came around to your side, his movements a silent poetry of masculine grace. The way he held the door open, his hand lingering on the frame, was a silent declaration of chivalry in a world that often forgot such things.

As you slid out of the car, the leather whispered against your skin, leaving an imprint of comfort that lingered like a ghostly embrace. Kimi's hand found the small of your back, guiding you up the cobblestone path to the heavy wooden door of your house. The warmth of his touch seemed to seep into your very bones, chasing away the last vestiges of the evening's chill.

He waited patiently as you fumbled with your keys, the tension between you growing as palpable as the scent of his victory still clinging to his skin.

Once the door swung open, you turned around to face him, his eyes burning into yours with a fierce intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. The warmth of his gaze seemed to melt the last of your resistance, leaving you feeling as vulnerable as a butterfly pinned to a board.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Kimi," you murmured, your voice a soft caress in the velvety silence of the night. The words hung in the air, a promise of more to come, a sweet agony that made your pulse race.

With a gentle tug, you drew him closer, your hand sliding up to cradle the strong line of his neck. His eyes searched yours, the whiskey warmth deepening as he leaned in, the anticipation a palpable force that seemed to electrify the very air between you.

Your pulse hammered in your ears as your lips met, the kiss a soft, lingering caress that spoke of unspoken truths and unbridled desire. The scent of his skin, a potent blend of sweat and victory, filled your senses, making you dizzy with longing.

Kimi's hand found the small of your back, pulling you closer, the heat of his body a warm embrace that seemed to chase away the last remnants of doubt and fear.

You melted into him, your body fitting against his as if it were made to do so, his muscular chest a wall of protection and desire that made your knees weak.

With a gentle nudge, you managed to pull away, smiling up at him through eyes glazed with desire. "I'll see you tomorrow," you whispered again, your voice a siren's call that seemed to echo in the night.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, his smile mirroring yours as he stepped back, allowing you the space to breathe. "I'll be counting the minutes," he murmured, his voice a warm caress that seemed to follow you as you stepped into the house.

The door closed behind you with a soft click, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night like a final note in a symphony. You leaned against the cool wood, your heart racing, the taste of him still lingering on your lips. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The remnants of yesterday still clung to you like the scent of champagne and burning rubber. Sleep had been a fleeting visitor, chased away by the racing thoughts that consumed you. Kimi's win, the roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, the taste of his lips…twice. It was all a dizzying, exhilarating blur. He had finally done it. He was on top of the podium, victorious. And you were there, right beside him. And then, the surprise. He hadn’t given you any details, just a mischievous glint in his eyes and a promise that you wouldn't be disappointed.

Four o'clock. He’d texted you the time with typical Kimi brevity. It was perfect, really. 2 PM felt like an eternity away, but it gave you ample time to prepare. You wanted to look…effortless, but also breathtaking. It was a ridiculous paradox, but you were determined to achieve it.

The shower was long and luxurious, the hot water washing away the last vestiges of sleep. You shaved your legs with extra care, smoothing on a fragrant body lotion afterwards. In the mirror, you saw a reflection that seemed brighter, more vibrant than usual. You were alive, truly alive, and it was all because of him.

Makeup came next. You opted for a natural look, a soft blush, a touch of mascara, and a hint of gloss on your lips, the same lips that Kimi had kissed, twice. You felt a shiver run down your spine at the memory.

Your hair was a bit more challenging. You finally decided on loose waves, pinning a few strands back to keep them out of your face. You felt a pang of insecurity as you stared at your reflection. Were you good enough for him? He was a world-class athlete, a champion, a veritable ice man to the world. What did he see in you?

You pushed the doubts away. He had kissed you, hadn't he? He had invited you to share in his victory. He wanted you, and that was all that mattered right now.

The dress you chose was a simple, elegant affair. Knee-length, in a shade of soft blue that complemented your eyes. It was comfortable, yet flattering, and you knew Kimi would appreciate its understated charm. You paired it with delicate silver sandals and a small clutch.

And then, the waiting began.

You paced the apartment, a whirlwind of nervous energy. You checked your watch every few minutes, the hands seeming to move with agonizing slowness. You tried to distract yourself by reading, but the words swam before your eyes. You tried listening to music, but every song seemed to be about love, loss, and longing, only amplifying your anxiety.

What could the surprise be? A romantic dinner? A weekend getaway? Could it be… something more? The thought sent a jolt of panic through you. Were you ready for something serious? You hadn't known Kimi for very long, but the connection between you felt undeniable, powerful.

You replayed the events of yesterday in your mind. The way he had looked when he crossed the finish line, the pure, unadulterated joy on his face. The way he had held you close during the celebrations, his hand warm against your back. The way he had looked at you, his eyes filled with…what? Affection? Desire? Something deeper, something you couldn't quite decipher.

You remembered the kisses. The first, spontaneous and charged with adrenaline, a celebration of his victory. The second, softer, more tender, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that were blossoming between you.

You were lost in these thoughts when a knock echoed through the apartment. Your heart leaped into your throat. This was it. You grabbed your bag, took a deep breath, and walked towards the door. Your hand trembled slightly as you reached for the handle. You opened the door, and there he was.

Kimi Antonelli, standing on your doorstep, looking impossibly handsome. He was wearing a suit, a dark, impeccably tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and lean physique. But it was the absence of a tie that struck you. It was a subtle detail, but it somehow made him seem more approachable, more… vulnerable.

He smiled, a rare and genuine smile that lit up his face. "You ready?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

You could only nod, your voice caught in your throat. He held out his hand, and you took it, your fingers interlacing with his. His touch sent a wave of warmth through you, instantly calming your nerves.

"Where are we going?" you managed to ask, as he led you down the hallway.

"It's a surprise," he repeated, his eyes twinkling. "But I promise, you'll like it."

You didn't press him further. You were content to be in his presence, to feel the warmth of his hand in yours. You followed him out of the building and into a waiting car.

The drive was a blur. You were too busy stealing glances at Kimi, admiring the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the way his jaw was set with determination. He seemed focused, almost…nervous? It was an unfamiliar expression on his face, and it intrigued you.

Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, you leaned back in your seat and began to ask questions. "Where are we going, Kimi?" you inquired, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced at you with a mischievous smile before returning his gaze to the road. "You'll see," he teased, his eyes never leaving the horizon.

The car's engine hummed soothingly, lulling you into a gentle doze. The city streets had given way to the open road, and the scenery outside the window was a blur of green and brown. You felt your eyelids growing heavy, and despite the excitement bubbling within you, the lack of sleep from the previous night began to take its toll.

Kimi noticed your struggle and reached over, placing a gentle hand on your thigh. "You okay?" he asked, his thumb rubbing small, comforting circles.

You startled awake. "I'm fine," you lied, hoping he hadn't noticed the dark circles under your eyes. The truth was, you hadn't slept well last night, your mind racing with thoughts of him. The gentle sway of the car and the warmth of the afternoon sun had conspired to lull you into a state of drowsiness.

Kimi's hand remained on your thigh, his touch a comforting constant. You felt the heat of his palm through the fabric of your dress and the steady rhythm of his thumb against your skin. It was a small gesture, but it filled you with a warmth that spread through your body, dispelling the lingering fatigue. You leaned into it, savoring the sensation.

As the drive continued, the gentle thrumming of the engine became a lullaby, and despite your best efforts, your eyes grew heavy. The scenery outside the tinted windows blurred into a mosaic of light and shadow. You blinked, fighting off the seductive pull of sleep, but the quiet, rhythmic journey was too much to resist.

Kimi's hand remained on your thigh, his thumb continuing its hypnotic dance. The warmth of his touch seeped through the fabric of your dress, creating a soothing contrast to the coolness of the car's air conditioning. Your eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment, until you couldn't hold them open any longer. You leaned your head against the headrest, allowing sleep to claim you.

You didn't know how much time had passed when you were jolted awake by the car coming to a stop. You blinked rapidly, the world coming into focus once again.

You looked around, and for a moment, you thought you had slipped into a dream. The scenery outside the window didn't look like the bustling city streets of Imola you were used to. It didn't even look like the countryside surrounding the Imola racetrack, where Kimi had claimed victory just yesterday. It looked like… Verona.

The cobblestone streets, the ancient buildings bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, the scent of blooming flowers mingling with the faint aroma of freshly baked bread. It was like stepping into a memory, a painting come to life.

You turned to Kimi in shock, your hand flying to your mouth. "Verona?" you whispered, the word barely audible.

He nodded, his smile growing wider. "Surprise," he murmured, his eyes alight with mischief. "I thought it was time for a change of scenery. Something… romantic."

The word hung in the air, heavy with implication, and your heart skipped a beat. Was he really taking you on a romantic getaway? The thought was both thrilling and terrifying. You had never been the type to indulge in fairy tales, but with Kimi, everything felt possible.

He opened the car door for you, and as you stepped out, the cobblestones beneath your feet felt alive with the history of the city. The warmth of the setting sun kissed your skin, and the air was alive with the sounds of a place untouched by the modern world. You took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the intoxicating blend of antiquity and passion that seemed to pulse through the very air of Verona.

With a gentle tug, Kimi led you down an ancient path, his hand firm yet reassuring in yours. "Trust me," he said, his voice a soft whisper that seemed to resonate within you. He reached into his pocket and produced a velvet blindfold. "You have to wear this. You don't get to spoil the surprise," he grinned, his eyes sparkling with excitement.

What could he possibly have planned? The soft velvet of the blindfold brushed against your cheeks as he secured it around your eyes, plunging you into a world of darkness. Your other senses heightened, you felt the warmth of his breath on your neck as he leaned in to whisper, "Are you ready?"

You nodded, your pulse quickening. The anticipation was exquisite, a thrill you hadn't felt since that first kiss on the podium. He guided you through the unfamiliar streets of Verona, the cobblestones cool against the soles of your sandals.

With each step, your hand tightened in his. You could feel the tension in his fingers, the unspoken promise of something extraordinary waiting just around the corner. The sounds of the city grew distant, replaced by the steady thump of your own heart and the comforting echo of your footsteps in tandem with his.

You walked for a while before you stopped, the sudden cessation of movement surprising you. The air grew thick with anticipation as he gently tugged at the blindfold. You felt the warmth of his breath on your neck as he whispered, "Okay, you can open your eyes now."

Slowly, you lifted the velvet shroud, blinking as the light flooded back in. Your eyes widened as they adjusted to the scene before you. You were standing in a courtyard, surrounded by lush greenery and the sweet scent of blooming roses.

Directly in front of you was a large, ornate sign, painted in a whimsical script that read, "Vuoi essere la mia ragazza?" You felt your cheeks flush at the translation: "Do you want to be my girlfriend?"

Kimi's nervous smile grew even more pronounced as he watched your reaction, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of your hand. The courtyard was lit with soft, twinkling lights strung from the branches of the trees overhead, casting a magical glow over the entire scene.

You took in the sight before you, the beauty of the moment sinking in. "Ever since I saw you trying so hard to study Italian," he began, his voice low and earnest, "I knew I had to help you, but I didn't know that I would fall in love with you that quickly." His words were like a caress, gentle yet firm, leaving no room for doubt or misunderstanding.

A warmth spread through your chest, filling you with a feeling of belonging that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You had studied Italian for so long, driven by an unexplainable fascination with the culture, the language, and the passion that seemed to pulse through every word. And now, here you were, standing in the heart of Verona, with the man who had unwittingly become the embodiment of that passion for you.

Kimi stepped closer, his hand still holding yours firmly. You could feel the calluses from his years of racing, a stark contrast to the velvety softness of your own skin. "I've watched you struggle with the pronunciation, the grammar," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I couldn't help but be drawn to your determination, your spirit."

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession. "But why me?" you asked, your voice barely audible. You felt like you were floating, suspended between reality and a dream.

"Your dedication, your passion," Kimi murmured, his thumb still tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. "It's inspiring. And the way you light up when you get something right… it's like watching the sun rise over the racetrack." His grip tightened, his eyes searching yours.

You felt your heart flutter in your chest, your breath catching in your throat. The way he talked about your Italian studies was as if he were recounting the plot of a romance novel, and you were the heroine whose perseverance had captured the heart of the stoic protagonist. It was a feeling so foreign, so intoxicating, that you could hardly believe it was real.

"Yes," you murmured, your voice trembling slightly. The word felt like a declaration, a confession, a surrender to the whirlwind that had become your life.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, looking for the truth in your response. "I know it's fast," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But sometimes, when you know, you just know."

You felt a warmth spread through you, a warmth that was more than just the sun on your skin. It was the warmth of his words, the warmth of his touch, the warmth of his love. You knew you were falling for him too, and it was happening at a speed that defied logic, but somehow, it felt right. "I know," you said, your voice soft and sure. "I feel it too."

The courtyard was a whirlwind of sensation around you. The scent of the roses filled your nose, their velvety petals brushing against your bare arms as you stepped closer to him. The cobblestones felt rough and ancient beneath your sandals, a stark contrast to the smoothness of the dress that clung to your damp skin. The air was thick with anticipation, with the promise of something new and thrilling.

Kimi's eyes searched yours, a silent question hanging in the space between you. You felt your heart hammer in your chest, the thud of it echoing in your ears like the purr of a finely-tuned engine. His hand was still wrapped around yours, a silent declaration of intent. You knew what he was asking, what he wanted from you. And in that moment, you realized that you wanted it too.

"Eh," he began again, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the very air around you, "Vuoi essere la mia ragazza?" It was a simple question, yet it held the weight of the world. Will you be my girlfriend? The Italian words rolled off his tongue, a soft caress that seemed to ignite a fire in your veins.

You felt your heart stutter, your breath hitch. The question hung in the air, a delicate balance between hope and fear. Kimi's gaze bore into you, his eyes a stormy sea of emotion. The nervousness that flickered in those depths was endearing, a stark contrast to the cool confidence he exuded on the racetrack.

Slowly, you nodded. "Yes," you breathed, the word escaping on a sigh that seemed to carry with it all the unspoken moments between you, the shared glances, the stolen touches, the whispers of attraction that had grown into something more substantial.

Kimi's expression softened, his eyes warming as he leaned in closer. The world around you grew quieter, the sounds of the city fading into a gentle hum that melded with the beating of your hearts. His lips met yours in a kiss that was tender yet insistent, a silent declaration of his intentions. The warmth of his breath mingled with your own, and the sensation sent a delicious shiver down your spine.

As your arms snaked around his neck, you felt his hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space between you. The fabric of his suit was smooth against your skin, a stark contrast to the roughened calluses of his palms. The buzzing warmth grew, enveloping you in a cocoon of sensation, making you feel as if you were floating.

His other hand found its way to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gentle caress. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the steady thump of his heart matching the rhythm of your own. His scent was intoxicating, a blend of leather, engine oil, and victory, and it wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

As the kiss deepened, you felt a sudden pop, and then, there was confetti. It rained down around you, a shower of color and light that made you jump back in surprise. You pulled away from Kimi, staring up at the confetti floating above your heads like a cloud of pure joy. He chuckled, a low, delighted sound that sent a shiver down your spine.

"There's another present," Kimi murmured, his eyes glinting with excitement.

Before you could react, he turned you around with a gentle touch on the shoulders. You blinked in surprise as your eyes fell upon a sight that made your heart swell. There, standing in the courtyard, were your parents. They looked as shocked as you felt, their eyes wide with delight and disbelief.

Your mother, her hair a fiery halo around her face, had her hand pressed to her heart, a single tear tracing its way down her cheek. Your father, stoic yet beaming, had his arms open wide, ready to envelop you in a bear hug that spoke volumes of his pride and love.

"Mamma, Papà," you managed to murmur, your voice thick with emotion. Kimi's grip on your waist was the only thing keeping you upright.

The confetti continued to fall around you, a whimsical touch to an already surreal moment. Your mother rushed over, her eyes sparkling with joy. She wrapped you in an embrace that was all too familiar, her warmth and the scent of her perfume grounding you in reality. "Oh, my darling," she whispered in your ear, her words tinged with a hint of an Italian accent she had never lost despite moving to the United States before you were born. "I knew this man was special the moment you talked about him. And now, he brings us to Verona."

Your father's hug was next, his strong arms lifting you off the ground. "You've made us so proud," he murmured in your hair. "And not just because you're with a Formula One driver." His laughter was contagious, and you felt a weight lift from your chest.

Kimi's hand remained on your waist, his touch a comforting reminder of the new reality you were navigating. As you pulled away from your parents, you couldn't help but feel a bit overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. You looked up at him, his brown eyes holding yours with a fierce intensity that made your heart race.

"How did you do this?" you asked, gesturing to the courtyard and the confetti that still danced in the air.

Kimi's smile was filled with the pride of a man who had just pulled off an impossible feat. "I have connections," he replied with a wink. His eyes searched yours, looking for the spark of wonder that you knew was reflected in your own. "And I wanted to make sure that when I asked you to be my girlfriend, it was a moment you would never forget."

The confetti continued to flutter around you, the gentle kiss of the breeze carrying the whisper of a thousand paper secrets. You reached up, plucking a piece from the air. It was a delicate pink square, with "Amore" written in flowing script. Love. The word seemed to encapsulate everything you felt in that moment.

"There's another surprise," Kimi grinned, his eyes glinting with excitement. Your heart raced. What could possibly top this? You looked around the courtyard, but nothing seemed out of place. The roses swayed gently in the breeze, the lights above you casting a warm glow on your skin.

"What could it be?" you asked, your voice a soft whisper that seemed to carry the weight of your anticipation.

"Only the best," Kimi assured you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I've booked a whole restaurant for you and your parents to catch up," he announced. "They've been dying to hear about your life, your work, your… everything."

The realization that your parents were here, in Verona, because of Kimi's thoughtfulness, brought a rush of emotion.

You felt your eyes well up with tears as you looked at the man standing before you, his hand still resting gently on your waist. The gesture was more than just a show of affection; it was a declaration of intent, a promise to support and cherish you. You knew then that this was no fleeting fling, no whirlwind romance destined to burn out as quickly as it had ignited. This was something real, something that could withstand the tests of time and distance.

As your parents approached, the reality of the situation sank in. Kimi had done all of this for you, had brought your worlds together in a way that was both beautifully romantic and utterly unexpected.

The restaurant was a hidden gem, tucked away down a narrow alleyway. The walls were a warm terracotta, adorned with ivy and fairy lights, giving it a cozy, intimate feel. The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, mingling with the soft murmur of Italian conversation and the clinking of glasses.

The meal that followed was a feast for the senses. Each dish was a testament to the rich tapestry of Italian cuisine, a symphony of flavors that danced on your tongue. You could feel the love and care that had been poured into each morsel, the tender embrace of a culture that reveled in the joy of food and the company of those you shared it with. The wine flowed freely, and your cheeks grew flushed as the warmth of it spread through your body.

Throughout dinner, you watched Kimi as he chatted with your parents, his Italian accent thickening with his enthusiasm. The way he spoke about his passion for racing, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his love for the sport—it was infectious. You felt a swell of pride in him, in his dedication and his success, and you knew that he was the kind of man who would never stop pushing himself to be better.

The conversation flowed easily, a tapestry of languages and laughter. Your mother spoke of her own youth in Italy, her eyes sparkling as she recounted tales of her rebellious days that made you blush. Your father spoke of his love for your mother, their bond still strong after all these years, and you found yourself looking at Kimi, wondering if that could be you someday.

Kimi reached across the table, his hand finding yours. He laced his fingers through yours, the touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. The intertwining of your hands felt natural, as if your hands had been searching for this connection since the moment you had first laid eyes on each other.

You took a deep breath, feeling a sudden urge to speak in the language that had brought you so much closer to him. "Mamma, Papà," you began, your voice a soft caress as you spoke in Italian, "Kimi mi ha portato qui per dirvi qualcosa di speciale."

Your parents' expressions shifted from surprise to astonishment, their eyes widening as they took in your words. You had never fully learned Italian in all those years. Yet here you were, speaking fluently in the language of love and passion, all because of the man beside you.

"Mamma, Papà, Kimi mi ha insegnato l'italiano," you continued, a blush spreading across your cheeks as you revealed the secret. Kimi's grip on your hand tightened slightly, his eyes filled with admiration.

Your mother's hand flew to her chest, her eyes wide with shock and delight. "Davvero?" she exclaimed, her voice filled with incredulity. "Ma come?"

Your father's smile grew wider, his eyes glistening with pride. "È vero," Kimi said, his own Italian smooth and confident. "Tua figlia ha lavorato duramente. Voleva farvi una sorpresa."

You felt a thrill of excitement at the way your parents' gazes darted between you and Kimi, their astonishment clear. It was a moment you had never dreamed of, a moment where the two halves of your world collided in a beautiful mess of love and passion.

"Sí, mamma," you continued, your Italian rolling off your tongue with surprising ease. "Kimi mi ha mostrato il vero amore per l'italiano. Mi ha insegnato parole, frasi, mi ha raccontato storie."

Your mother's eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she took in the transformation before her. Your father leaned back in his chair, his hand on his chin, a proud smile playing on his lips.

"Incredibile," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "You never cease to amaze us."

Your mother's grip on your hand tightened, her eyes brimming with tears of joy. "Che bella," she whispered, her voice filled with awe.

Kimi's thumb traced comforting circles on the back of your hand as you spoke, his eyes never leaving yours. The way he looked at you, with such admiration and love, made your heart swell in your chest. You had studied Italian for so long, but speaking it in front of your parents, with the man who had inspired you to finally master it, was a revelation.

Your mother's cheeks were flushed with emotion as she listened, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Mi dispiace," you said, switching to English. "I didn't mean to shock you. I just wanted to show you how much I've learned, and how much Kimi has helped me."

Your father leaned in, his gaze soft. "It's not every day you hear your daughter speaking Italian like a native," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "It's… incredible."

You felt a lump form in your throat, the weight of their happiness pressing against your chest. "Thank you," you whispered, squeezing Kimi's hand. "It's all because of him."

"That's a story to tell your kids," your mom teased, wiping away a tear with the edge of her napkin. "You found love by Italian lessons?"

You couldn't help but laugh at the irony of it all. The journey that had started with a simple curiosity about a language had led you to the love of your life.

As the evening grew later, the conversation grew quieter, more intimate. You found yourself leaning closer to Kimi, the warmth of his body a comforting presence. His thumb continued to stroke the back of your hand, sending waves of pleasure up your arm, and you felt a sudden urge to kiss him.

Before you could act on the impulse, he leaned over and pressed his lips to your cheek. The softness of his touch, the gentle brush of his stubble against your skin, made you giggle involuntarily.

The sensation of his kiss lingered on your cheek, a warm imprint of his affection. You felt your cheeks flush as you turned to look at him, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "What's so funny?" he asked, his voice a low purr that seemed to vibrate through you.

"It's just… I wasn't expecting that," you replied, your voice a soft giggle. The gesture was so tender, so unexpectedly sweet, that it had caught you off guard. Kimi's smile grew, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "But I'm not complaining," you added hastily, feeling the blush deepen.

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours. "You know," he began, his voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to echo through the emptying restaurant, "I've had a lot of amazing moments in my life. Winning races, standing on podiums, living my dreams. But nothing… nothing has ever made me feel like this."

His thumb stopped its lazy circles, his hand stilling in yours. "You," he continued, his eyes searching yours with a depth that made your heart flutter, "are the best surprise I've ever had."

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your cheeks burn. The room grew quiet around you, the whispers of the last diners fading into the background as you became lost in his gaze. Your eyes fell to your entwined hands, the stark contrast of your fair skin against his tanned, calloused fingers.

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the words that had been hovering just beyond your lips for what felt like an eternity. "I love you, Kimi," you finally said, the words tumbling out in a rush of air.

Kimi's smile grew even brighter, his eyes lighting up like the stars that had just begun to peek through the inky sky above. "And I love you," he responded, his voice a soft caress that seemed to envelop you in a warm embrace.

The words hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to resonate through every atom of the universe. The love that had sparked between you during those Italian lessons had grown into a fiery inferno, and you were both lost in its embrace.

Kimi leaned in, capturing your lips with his, the kiss a sweet symphony of passion and promise.

You melted into the warmth of his embrace, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease away. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space between you.

"I'm glad I took those Italian lessons from you," you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by his shirt.

Kimi's chuckle rumbled through him, his hand tightening around your waist. "They've served us both well," he said, his voice a velvety purr that sent shivers down your spine.

You leaned back into him, the scent of him enveloping you like a warm embrace. "More than you know," you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken desire.

The Italian language had become more than just a bridge between you—it was a secret language of love, a shared history that only the two of you could understand. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Marriage of Convenience

Summary: Lewis has to get married to you for a year for his engagement in Ferrari. Who knew how much he would get sucked into your life…. pt 1

Song: Heartless · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Hey guys! I saw some tiktok that was about tropes with F1 drivers and Lewis's one was marriage of convenience. It has stuck with me ever since! I'll be using some real results from the races so it will not always be updated every week! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 18.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lewis Hamilton, the illustrious Formula One champion, stood in the opulent office of his PR manager, the walls adorned with gleaming trophies and framed newspaper articles detailing his meteoric rise in the racing world.

The sun cast a warm glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the room in a hue of gold that matched the luxury that surrounded him.

Yet, the warmth did little to dispel the chill that had settled in his stomach at the mention of the words "marriage of convenience."

"But why now?" he pressed, his voice laced with a hint of desperation. "I've been single for years, and it's never been an issue."

His PR manager, a sharp-witted woman named Elena, leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled under her chin.

She wore a smile that was both empathetic and firm, as if she knew this was a battle she'd already won.

"Lewis, my dear," she began, her British accent crisp and professional, "the rumors have been swirling like a tornado around a trailer park. Your personal life is becoming a distraction, and your competitors are using it to their advantage. A whirlwind romance, a quick 'I do,' and voilà, you're the settled, mature, and dedicated racer that everyone adores."

Lewis sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. "Fine," he conceded with a begrudging nod. "But you're finding someone who understands this is all for show, right? No strings attached, no messy feelings."

Elena's smile grew wider, a knowing glint in her eye. "Leave that to me," she said. "I have the perfect candidate in mind."

"Her name is Y/N," Elena began, sliding a sleek manila folder across her desk. "She's a model and an influencer with a taste for fast cars and an even faster lifestyle."

She opened the folder to reveal a photograph of a breathtaking black woman with goddess braids that cascaded down her back like a midnight waterfall.

Her almond-shaped eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief, her full lips curving into a smile that could make the sternest of hearts flutter. "Y/N understands the business, and she's more than capable of playing her part. She's signed an NDA that would make Fort Knox look like a suggestion box."

Lewis studied the photo, his heart racing slightly at the thought of being married, even if it was just for show. He wasn't a stranger to beautiful women, but this was different—this was a strategic move, a chess piece in the grand game of his career.

He cleared his throat, trying to push aside the butterflies. "Alright, let's get this over with. When do I meet her?"

Elena's smile remained unwavering. "Tomorrow night, I've set up a dinner meeting at Le Château de Lumières. It's the most romantic spot in the city, perfect for a first date that'll look like it was plucked from a fairytale."

Lewis nodded, his throat suddenly dry. "Fine," he murmured, his eyes still lingering on the picture. "But what happens after the season ends?"

Elena leaned in closer, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "Then, my dear Lewis, we orchestrate a spectacularly tragic fallout. Something dramatic, but not scandalous—perhaps you're both too busy with your careers, or you realized you were better off as friends. The public will eat it up, and you'll be free to pursue whatever—or whoever—you wish afterward."

He nodded, trying to calm down the tornado of emotions swirling inside him. Marriage, even a fake one, was a concept he'd never truly considered.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on his shoulders, but he knew he had to trust Elena.

She had a knack for spinning his life into gold, and if this was what she deemed necessary for his career to continue shining, then he'd have to go along with it.

Elena slid the folder back to him with a knowing smirk. "You can have the file if you want to admire her more," she teased, her fingertips brushing against the glossy surface of the photo. "Her numbers are in it, of course."

Lewis grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before snatching it and walking out of the office, his mind racing with a mix of apprehension and intrigue.

The folder felt heavier than it should have, as if it contained the weight of his future rather than just a few pieces of paper and a photo.

He knew the drill—fake relationships had been part of his public persona before, but marriage was a whole new level of commitment, even if it was just for show.

"Remember to study her likes and hobbies, you might find something in common," Elena yelled from the office. He couldn't help but smirk at her enthusiasm—it was infectious. He knew she had his back, and that was all that mattered.

Back in his penthouse, Lewis found himself staring at the folder on his coffee table, Y/N's mesmerizing eyes peeking out from the photograph.

He decided to take Elena's advice, eager to find common ground with his soon-to-be fake wife. As he scanned through the pages detailing her life, he found himself genuinely intrigued.

Her love for fast cars, her charity work, and her penchant for extreme sports mirrored his own passions.

Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all.

With a sigh of resignation, he pulled out his phone and searched for her social media profiles. He told himself he was only interested in her fashion sense, but as he scrolled through her feed, he couldn't help but admire her beauty.

Each picture was a masterpiece of angles and lighting, showcasing not only her impeccable style but also the way she carried herself with an air of confidence and grace.

Her figure was a symphony of curves, each one highlighted by the designer garments she modeled. But he was a man of integrity, so he focused solely on her outfits, nodding in approval at her exquisite taste in luxury brands.

He noticed her love for racing reflected in some of her captions, with shots at various Formula One tracks around the globe. It was clear that she had an appreciation for the sport that went beyond the glamour.

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"Fans would definitely believe this," he murmured to himself, his thumb hovering over the screen.

They both shared a love for speed and the thrill of the chase—both on and off the track.

With a sigh, he set his phone aside and rolled onto his back, his thoughts racing faster than his cars ever could. The reality of the situation was setting in: he was about to embark on a season-long charade with a woman he had never even met. His stomach churned with a mix of anxiety and anticipation.

As he lay there, the sound of a bark pierced the silence, jolting him out of his contemplative haze. Quick footsteps approached, and before he could react, Roscoe's furry face poked into the doorway. The bulldog's eyes sparkled with curiosity, his tail wagging enthusiastically.

"Did you have a good nap, Roscoe?" Lewis asked, his voice thick with affection. The dog's response was a series of eager growls and sniffs as he trotted over to his dad, his paws thumping rhythmically against the hardwood floor.

Lewis chuckled and sat up, his six-pack abs rippling as he did so. He reached out and scratched behind Roscoe's ear, the dog's eyes closing in bliss. The simple act of bonding with his pet helped to ease the tension that had been building in his chest.

"Alright, buddy," he said, standing and stretching. The fabric of his sweatpants outlined the firm muscles of his thighs and the curve of his ass, evidence of countless hours spent in the gym and behind the wheel. "Tomorrow is a special day, so you better be on your best behavior. You're about to meet the woman who's going to be my fake wife and your fake mom for the season."

Roscoe cocked his head to the side, as if he understood the gravity of the situation. Lewis couldn't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all—his burly bulldog playing step-son to a supermodel for the sake of his image. He stood up and padded over to the windows, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet, the coolness a stark contrast to the warmth of the day outside.

He looked out over the bustling city, the setting sun casting a fiery glow across the horizon. It was a stark reminder of the race he'd run in the morning, the thrill of the wind in his face and the roar of the engine still echoing in his ears.

Tomorrow would be a different kind of race altogether—a race to win over the hearts of his fans, to keep the sponsors happy, and to maintain the facade of a perfect life. But as he felt the comforting weight of Roscoe's head on his leg, he realized that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so bad to have a partner in this charade.

"Come on, let's get you a treat," Lewis said, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through the room. He walked to the kitchen, the dog's nails clicking against the floor as he followed. The sleek chrome and marble surfaces gleamed under the pendant lights, a stark contrast to the warm, lived-in feel of the living room.

Lewis grabbed a treat from the jar on the counter and tossed it to Roscoe, who caught it with surprising grace for his bulk. "You're going to need to charm her, buddy. Maybe even more than you charm the judges at those dog shows."

The bulldog's eyes lit up, and he trotted over to his bed, the treat forgotten as he began to perform a series of clumsy, yet earnest tricks.

Lewis couldn't help but laugh as he watched Roscoe's antics. "I think she'll love you," he said, his voice filled with affection. "But let's not get ahead of ourselves. We're both just actors in this little play."

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"Y/N, repeat what you just said," your mother repeated, looking utterly perplexed, her perfectly manicured hand hovering over the delicate china teacup as if it were a lifeline to sanity.

"I signed a contract to 'marry' Lewis Hamilton for a year," you announced with the casual air of someone discussing a weekend getaway, a smug smile playing on your lips as you watched the shock ripple through her impeccably made-up visage.

"The Lewis Hamilton?" she queried, her eyes narrowing to slits as she tried to process the ludicrous information you'd just served up like a hot slice of gossip at a high society luncheon.

"Yes, Mother," you drawled, not bothering to look up from your phone as you swiped through the latest collection of designer shoes. "The very one who races cars and breaks hearts for a living. But don't worry, this is strictly business."

Her silence was palpable, thick enough to slice with a knife. You could almost see the cogs whirring in her head, trying to piece together this unexpected jigsaw puzzle of your life.

Finally, she found her voice, "Why on earth would you agree to such a… such a… frivolous arrangement?"

"To boost our engagement," you said, enunciating each word with the precision of a seasoned politician, raising your gaze to meet hers. "It's a win-win, really. His fanbase goes through the roof, and I get to live like a queen for a year. Plus, think of the networking opportunities!"

"But your reputation," she gasped, setting the teacup down with a clink that sounded like a death knell for your social standing.

You rolled your eyes, "Mother, it's all just for show. And it's not like we're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing. We're just going to pretend."

Her sigh was one of resignation, tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I just hope you know what you're getting into," she murmured, her eyes searching yours for a glimmer of doubt.

"Trust me, I've got it all figured out," you assured her, your voice a blend of confidence and nonchalance that would make any business mogul proud. "Now, if you wouldn't mind, I need to go pick out a wedding dress. The press will be all over this, and I can't disappoint them with a lackluster wardrobe."

Your mother's expression was a masterclass in poise under pressure. "Very well," she conceded. "Send me the pictures. I'll handle the social media side of things."

You leaned in to kiss her cheek, the scent of her expensive perfume lingering as you pulled away. "Thanks, Mother," you said with a wink. "I knew you'd understand."

As you sailed out of the room, her voice followed you like a soft breeze. "Just remember, darling," she called after you, "keep your emotions out of it. You're playing a role, nothing more."

Your heart thudded in your chest, a delicious mix of excitement and trepidation. You had signed up for a year of make-believe with the world's most desired man, and you had no intention of letting reality spoil the fantasy.

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The velvet leash grew taut as Lewis tugged it gently, urging the bulldog, Roscoe, to follow him through the dimly-lit corridor. The dog's jowls swayed with each reluctant step, a silent protest to the indignity of being tethered like a mere accessory.

Despite his displeasure, Roscoe's curiosity about the evening's events remained piqued. The whisper of fabric against fabric grew louder as they approached the private dining room, where the scent of fine cuisine wafted through the air.

"Come on, Roscoe, you have to meet her too," Lewis murmured, his voice a blend of excitement and nerves.

The restaurant's peculiar policy of leashing dogs seemed almost comical in the grand scheme of the evening, yet it was a small price to pay for the exclusivity of the venue.

The walls of the corridor were adorned with paintings of pastoral scenes, a stark contrast to the urban jungle outside.

Upon entering the room, a soft glow from the candles on the table cast a warm embrace around the figure of a woman who was more than just beautiful—she was an embodiment of elegance.

Her eyes sparkled like the diamond necklace that hung delicately around her neck, and her smile was as radiant as the polished silverware that lay before her.

As they drew closer, the air grew thick with anticipation, charged with the electricity of new beginnings and the thrill of the unknown.

Y/N's gaze fell upon the unusual duo—Lewis, the charming billionaire, and Roscoe, the leashed bulldog. Her eyes narrowed playfully as she took in the scene.

She knew that this was not a typical dinner date, and that was precisely what made it so alluring.

"Well, hello, Mr. Hamilton," she purred, her voice a velvet caress that seemed to resonate through the very air. "I'm surprised you didn't bring your entire zoo."

Lewis chuckled, his grip on the leash loosening as he felt the tension in the room dissipate.

"Ms. Y/N, I assure you, this is a very special occasion. Besides, I thought you'd appreciate the company of my best man here."

Her smile grew, a knowing twinkle in her eye. "Best man, huh?" she said, standing up with the grace of a gazelle. "I see you've got a sense of humor, Mr. Hamilton."

Roscoe, feeling the shift in the room, allowed his tail to wag slightly, his earlier annoyance forgotten as he caught the scent of her perfume.

It was a sweet, intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that seemed to speak of exotic lands and passionate nights.

"And who's this handsome boy?" she cooed, leaning down to address Roscoe. The bulldog, ever eager for affection, leaned into her touch, his eyes closing in pleasure.

"Ah, this is Roscoe," Lewis said with a touch of pride. "He's a bit of a diva, but I assure you, he's quite well-behaved when properly motivated."

Y/N reached out to stroke the dog's head, her fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary, feeling the softness of his fur and the warmth of his body.

"Well, it seems I've got quite the welcoming committee," she said, straightening up to her full height and extending a hand to Lewis.

Their fingers met in a firm, yet delicate handshake, sending a thrill up his spine. Her touch was cool and smooth, like the finest silk, and it sent a jolt through his body that he hadn't felt in years.

"Lewis, please," he said, his voice a whisper. "I think we can dispense with the formalities."

Her hand remained in his, the warmth from their palms mingling, creating a current that seemed to pulse through the very air that surrounded them.

Y/N's eyes searched his, looking for a hint of what was to come, a promise of the evening's delights.

"Very well, Y/N," he murmured, the sound of his voice a caress that seemed to stroke her very soul. "Shall we sit?"

The three of them moved to the table, the leather chairs creaking softly as they settled into them. The table was set with fine china, the crystal glasses casting rainbows of light across the crisp, white linen.

A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket, the promise of a celebration yet to unfold.

As they sat, Y/N couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu, as if she had been here before, with another man, under very different circumstances.

But this was no ordinary man, and this was certainly no ordinary dinner. The weight of the necklace grew heavier, a silent reminder of the deal she had struck.

The waiter, a young man with impeccable manners, approached with a silver tray laden with hors d'oeuvres. His eyes flickered briefly to the leash in Lewis's hand before he focused on the couple, his expression unchanged.

"Your usual, Mr. Hamilton?" he inquired.

"Yes, thank you, Freddie," Lewis replied, his gaze never leaving hers. "And for the lady?"

Y/N's eyes roved over the selection, her stomach fluttering with a mix of excitement and nerves. "Surprise me," she said with a smile.

The waiter nodded and deftly selected a few items before retreating, leaving them in the warm cocoon of the candlelit room.

The silence that followed was filled with the soft crackle of the candles and the distant clink of silverware on porcelain.

Lewis reached for the champagne bottle, his fingers sure and steady as he popped the cork with a flourish that sent a spray of bubbles into the air.

The sound was like a declaration of intent, a promise of the passion that was to come. He filled her glass, his eyes never leaving hers, and then his own.

"To new beginnings," he toasted, the crystal flutes clinking together like the ringing of wedding bells.

The bubbles danced in the golden liquid, a fizzy symphony of anticipation. Y/N took a sip, the cool liquid sliding down her throat with a tantalizing tickle that made her shiver.

She watched as Lewis did the same, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion, a gesture she found inexplicably erotic.

"So, do you know more about this… arrangement," he asked, the word 'arrangement' rolling off his tongue like a secret shared between lovers.

"Yes, I do," she spoke politely, setting her glass down with a soft click. "We're supposed to take our wedding photos next week Thursday, but it can be changed if you like."

Her words hung in the air, a silent invitation for him to take the reins, to assert his dominance in this game of pretense they were playing.

He leaned back in his chair, stroking Roscoe's head as he contemplated her words. "I trust you have everything under control, then?"

Y/N's smile grew, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of her lips. "I always do."

"Excellent," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through her very core. "But there's something I need to discuss with you before we proceed."

Y/N's eyebrow arched slightly, a question lingering in her eyes. "And what might that be?"

Lewis took a deep breath, his gaze flicking to the dog for a brief moment before returning to her. "Do you mind if my dad comes with me?" he said, his voice a soft rumble. "He said this was the 'only' time he was going to see his son get married."

Surprise flitted across Y/N's features, but she quickly schooled her expression back to neutral. "Of course," she said, her tone even. "I would be happy to include your father in our…arrangement."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, looking for any sign of hesitation or mockery. Finding none, he nodded slowly.

"Thank you," he murmured, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. "He's quite the character, but he means well."

Y/N's smile grew warmer, her eyes gleaming with understanding. "I'm sure he does," she said. "And I'm quite fond of characters myself."

"As long as my mother can come too," she said, her voice teasing.

Lewis's eyes widened, his grip on the champagne flute tightening for a brief second before he managed to compose himself.

"Your mother?" he repeated, his voice a mix of incredulity and amusement.

Y/N nodded, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Yes, my mother. She's quite the socialite, you know. She'll make sure the photos are absolutely perfect for the society pages."

Lewis's eyes searched hers, trying to discern if she was joking or if this was a genuine request. The thought of his stern, business-like father being a part of their staged nuptials was one thing, but the addition of her mother, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper wit, was another matter entirely.

"Your mother, you say?" he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. Y/N nodded, her smile unwavering, and took another sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving his.

The bubbles danced on her tongue, a fizzy counterpart to the dance of emotions playing out before her.

Lewis's mind raced, trying to imagine the woman who had raised the enigmatic Y/N, who had agreed to this unorthodox union for the sake of his own ambition.

He could almost hear the whispers of her reputation, the tales of her social triumphs and the occasional scandal that had graced the pages of high society magazines.

"I see," he said finally, his tone measured. "And what does your mother think of… our arrangement?"

Y/N's laughter was like a chime of fine crystal, delicate and alluring. "Mother is quite thrilled," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "She's always had a soft spot for a man who knows his worth and isn't afraid to show it."

Lewis couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. Her mother's presence would add an unexpected dynamic to the already complex situation. But he knew better than to argue with a woman who could navigate the treacherous waters of high society with such ease.

"Very well," he conceded, his smile forced but genuine. "The more the merrier, I suppose."

The tension between them eased as they delved into their meals, the succulent flavors of their dishes a delightful distraction from the unspoken tension.

Roscoe, seemingly aware of the shift, settled at Lewis's feet, his snoring a gentle bass line to their conversation.

"Your mother is quite…known," Lewis said, choosing his words carefully. "What should I expect?"

Y/N's gaze grew distant as she thought of her mother. "Expect the unexpected," she replied with a knowing smile. "But she has a heart of gold beneath that tough exterior."

They ate in silence for a few moments, the weight of the unspoken contract hanging heavy in the air.

Finally, Y/N cleared her throat. “We should probably talk about…appearances. What’s the plan for things like…races?”

Lewis leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away. "Right. Races. Well, the team and my management have a schedule in mind. They want us to be seen together at as many events as possible. It’s all about maximizing…visibility."

Y/N frowned slightly. “Visibility. Right. Well, my work is quite demanding, but I'll be able to attend at least 3 races at the start before my work starts again.”

Lewis seemed surprised. “Three? That’s…more than I expected, actually. Which races?”

“China, Japan, and Australia,” she replied. “I managed to clear my schedule for them. After that, it will be more difficult, but I can try to make a few here and there when I have more time.”

“Australia is a long way,” Lewis commented, more to himself than to her. “It’s a demanding circuit, and the jet lag is brutal.”

"I'm aware," Y/N said dryly. "I've traveled before."

He gave her a small, apologetic smile. “Of course. Sorry. It's just…it's a lot to ask you to be a part of this, especially knowing you have your own life and career.”

Y/N shrugged. "It is what it is. I agreed to it, didn't I?" she replied trying to stay formal.

Lewis nodded slowly. "Yes, you did. And I appreciate it. More than you know." He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that evening.

He saw a hint of apprehension in her eyes, but also a surprising strength. He wondered, fleetingly, what she really thought about all of this.

“So, Australia,” he continued, breaking the eye contact. “We’ll be traveling on different days, of course. Security and logistics are…complicated. But we’ll be staying at the same hotel. There will be a lot of press events, photo opportunities, things like that. My team will brief you on the details.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Of course. I wouldn't want to deviate from the pre-approved narrative."

Lewis smirked, a genuine smile reaching his eyes for the first time. “You catch on quick. Look, I know this is all…surreal. And probably incredibly annoying. But I promise, I’ll try to make it as…bearable as possible. And I’ll try to be as respectful of your time and your life as I can.”

“I appreciate that, Lewis,” Y/N said, her voice softening slightly. “I’m not expecting this to be a fairytale, but I do expect us to treat each other with respect. We’re both professionals, and we should act like it.”

“Agreed,” Lewis replied, extending his hand across the table. "To professionalism."

Y/N hesitated for a moment before taking his hand. The contact was brief, but a faint spark seemed to pass between them.

It was nothing dramatic, just a subtle shift, a momentary acknowledgment of the strange and uncertain journey they were about to embark on together.

Lewis, observing Y/N stroking Roscoe, his bulldog, said, "So, what about dates?"

Y/N stopped mid-stroke, fixing him with a sharp glare. "Dates? Lewis, we're in a contractual agreement. This isn't real."

"What? I heard married couples still go on dates and we're going to be married soon," he retorted, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Fine. What are your hobbies so we can link them to it without making it too obvious that we're reading from a script?"

"Well, I like golfing, surfing, playing the piano…" he started, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Boring," Y/N teased, more out of habit than malice. Lewis didn't seem offended, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Okay, okay. What about you then? Give me something good to work with."

"Easy. Archery, animal riding, shooting…" she said casually, continuing to pet Roscoe.

"Shooting?" he repeated, thinking it was a joke. "Like…guns?"

"Yeah, shooting. I am one of the best shooters in my family," Y/N said matter-of-factly. Lewis looked genuinely shocked. "Guns? Really? You don't seem like a…gun person."

"Appearances can be deceiving," Y/N replied with a cryptic smile. "It's a family tradition. We've been competing in shooting competitions for generations. It's quite exhilarating, actually."

Lewis shook his head, seemingly trying to reconcile the image of the elegant, equestrian beauty with a crack shot. "Well, that's…unexpected. Maybe we could arrange a 'date' at a shooting range. Show the world a different side of you. Spice things up a bit."

Y/N considered this, a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. “Perhaps. I haven’t been to the range in a while. I could certainly give you a lesson. Though I can’t promise you’ll be any good.”

Lewis laughed. "Challenge accepted. But you have to promise not to be too competitive. I'm a champion, you know."

"We'll see about that," Y/N said, a playful glint in her eyes.

The conversation drifted, covering details about their upcoming staged engagement party, the social media strategy, and the general rules of engagement (pun intended).

After an hour, they were both feeling the strain of the pretense. Roscoe, however, seemed to be thriving on the attention.

When they finally finished the catered lunch, Roscoe, true to form, woke up again, demanding belly rubs. It was time for Y/N to leave. Surprisingly, Lewis didn't want her to.

He found her sharp wit and unconventional hobbies intriguing.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asked, walking her to the grand entrance of the restaurant. The question felt surprisingly genuine, a departure from the carefully crafted facade.

"No, my friend is picking me up, thank you for the offer," she said.

They waited for a few minutes, a comfortable silence settling between them. The only sound was the gentle hum of the city in the distance. Then, a car pulled up and honked.

"That's her, I'll be going home now, bye Lewis," she said, her hand hovering for a moment before gently touching his arm.

The contact was brief, almost hesitant, but enough to send a strange flutter in his stomach. She then looked down, rubbing Roscoe's face, who was nestled in his arms. "Bye Roscoe, I'll see you soon,"

Then she walked down the opulent stairs, entered the waiting car, and with a final wave, she was gone, leaving Lewis standing alone in the doorway, Roscoe snoring softly in his arms.

That evening, Lewis found himself thinking about Y/N. He couldn’t deny she was interesting.

Far more interesting than the endless parade of socialites and models he usually surrounded himself with. . . .

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

The roar of the Ferrari engine faded, replaced by a dull hum in Lewis' ears. He should have been focused on the intricacies of the new aerodynamic package the mechanics were painstakingly explaining.

Instead, his mind was a runaway train, careening toward a single, looming destination: Y/N.

He was getting 'married' to Y/N. For a year. The absurdity of it all still felt surreal, even after weeks of negotiations, contracts, and carefully crafted press releases. It was a business arrangement, pure and simple.

A calculated maneuver orchestrated by his management team to boost engagement, fan interaction, and ultimately, his brand. A fake marriage.

He hadn't even argued. His career was his everything. He'd poured his life, his soul, into racing. If this…stunt, this temporary charade, helped solidify his position, then he'd play the part.

But that didn’t stop the unsettling flutter in his stomach.

He only half-heard the mechanic's concluding remarks, a jumble of downforce percentages and drag coefficients. He mumbled a thank you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and practically bolted from Maranello.

The image of Y/N in a wedding dress swam in his mind, a mirage both enticing and terrifying.

He gripped the steering wheel, pushing the car to its legal limit as he sped towards the Bridal Boutique. His own suit, a classic black tailored piece, was already sorted.

It had been his father’s, a detail that had felt strangely poignant amidst the manufactured romance.

Pulling up outside the boutique, he took a deep breath, trying to regulate his racing pulse. He stepped out of the car and headed inside, the tinkling of a bell announcing his arrival.

"Y/N's here," he announced to the receptionist, a woman with bright, friendly eyes. He felt a ridiculous need to justify his presence. "I'm…ah…Lewis Hamilton."

The receptionist's smile widened, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Ah, Mr. Hamilton! We've been expecting you. She's over there. You're a very lucky sir, she's very beautiful."

Lewis swallowed, feeling a lump form in his throat. He murmured a thank you and navigated through the maze of tulle and lace.

His gaze scanned the room, passing over blushing brides-to-be and their entourages, until he found her.

Y/N was standing on a raised platform, surrounded by fabric and mirrors. She was facing away from him, but even from this distance, he could see the curve of her neck, the way the light caught in her hair.

She was wearing a simple, elegant gown, ivory silk that cascaded to the floor.

The satin felt heavy against your skin, a stark contrast to the lightness you usually embraced. You stared at your reflection, a stranger in a sea of white lace and tulle. This wasn't you.

This wasn't the free-spirited, motorcycle-riding, target-shooting version of yourself that you carefully cultivated. This was… bridal.

And you were about to be a bride. For a year. To Lewis Hamilton, the racing prodigy whose reputation was as fast as his cars.

You swirled again, the dress billowing around you like a cloud. It was beautiful, objectively. Expensive, undoubtedly. But it felt like a costume, a character you were trying to embody but couldn't quite grasp.

Father would have loved it. Traditional, elegant, perfectly… safe. A sigh escaped your lips. Since when did you care about safe?

You had been trying on dresses for hours, each one more elaborate than the last. Each one failing to capture the essence of you. You knew Lewis was going to be late.

His team meetings always ran long, especially with the season going to be in full swing soon. He’d apologized profusely over the phone, his voice laced with a nervousness that mirrored your own.

You glanced at the clock on the wall. Still another hour to go. “Next!” you called out to the stylist, your voice echoing slightly in the opulent boutique.

You needed to get this over with before Lewis arrived. The thought of him seeing you in this parade of frills and lace sent a shiver down your spine.

Dress after dress, disappointment mounted. A mermaid gown that made you feel like you were suffocating. A ballgown that swallowed you whole. An A-line that was simply… boring. None of them felt right. None of them felt like you.

Standing before the mirror, you examined the latest contender – a strapless, heavily beaded monstrosity that sparkled under the chandelier light.

You looked like a disco ball. A very uncomfortable, very expensive disco ball.

“I can’t do this,” you muttered to yourself, the words barely audible. You had agreed to this arrangement – the fake marriage, the orchestrated photos, the carefully crafted narrative designed to boost Lewis’s public image.

You knew what you were signing up for. But seeing yourself in this getup, imagining walking down the aisle towards a man you barely knew, felt surreal.

He cleared his throat. "Y/N?"

You spun around, the heavy dress making the movement awkward. Lewis stood just inside the doorway, his shoulders filling the space.

The breath caught in his throat. The receptionist hadn't exaggerated. You were stunning. The dress, while beautiful, paled in comparison to your natural radiance. Your eyes, usually sparkling with playful mischief, were now tinged with a nervous apprehension that mirrored his own.

"Lewis," you said softly, your voice a low, melodic hum. "You made it."

He managed a weak smile. "Couldn't miss it. The… dress looks amazing on you."

"Thank you," you replied, your fingers nervously pleating the fabric. "Did… did you see your suit?"

"Yeah, it's… it's great. My father's. Which feels… I don't know, significant, somehow. Even though all of this..." He trailed off, gesturing awkwardly around the room.

"Is what it is," you finished for him, a hint of wry amusement in your voice. "A very public, very expensive, agreement."

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken anxieties and uncertainties. You both knew this wasn’t a real marriage.

It was a business transaction, a carefully calculated move to improve Lewis’s image and, let’s be honest, give your fledgling art career a boost. But standing here, in a bridal boutique, surrounded by the symbols of love and commitment, it felt… complicated.

"So," he said, trying to inject some levity into the situation, "are you ready to become Mrs. Hamilton for the next year?"

A small smile touched your lips. "As ready as I'll ever be. Just try not to crash the car on our wedding day, okay? Think of the engagement rates."

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "Wouldn’t dream of it. My driving is worth more than that." He paused, his gaze sweeping over you. "Is this the dress you're picking?"

You shook your head, the movement causing the beads to clatter softly. "I hate it. It doesn't represent me. It's… too much."

"Maybe your fiancé should pick one for you," one of your entourages said. You forgot they were even there. All this while they were sitting on the couch, probably bored out of their minds.

Lewis seemed surprised by the suggestion, but a playful glint appeared in his eyes. "Sure, I think I know your taste well." Before you could protest, he disappeared into the racks of dresses, a wide grin on his face.

"Don't pick something too girly!" you yelled after him, and you heard his laughter echo from behind a curtain.

You rolled your eyes and turned to your entourage, “I should have never let him do that.”

“But it’s too late now!”

Lewis emerged, holding a dress that was… surprisingly you. It was a sleek, ivory slip dress, with delicate lace detailing at the neckline and a subtle, almost imperceptible train. It was understated, elegant, and undeniably chic.

"Well?" he asked, holding it out. "Think this is more your style?"

You took the dress, running the silk through your fingers. "This is... perfect. How did you know?"

He shrugged, a self-deprecating smile on his face. "I've been paying attention. Besides, anything would be better than that monstrosity."

The fitting room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. You met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment passing between you. This was going to be a strange year, a year filled with pretense and performance.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a sliver of something real amidst the artifice.

"When I go change into this, why don't you go try on your father's suit?" you suggested, trying to break the unexpected tension.

Lewis's smile widened. "Good idea. I'll see you in a bit." He winked, and with that, he left the fitting room, leaving you alone with the dress and your increasingly complicated thoughts.

The ivory silk felt cool against your skin as you slipped the dress over your head. It fit perfectly, as if it had been made for you. You looked in the mirror, and for the first time since agreeing to this ridiculous scheme, you didn't feel like you were playing a part.

You felt… like yourself. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be a complete disaster.

"Lewis? Are you there?" you asked hesitantly from behind the curtain.

"Yep, just waiting for my future wife to be revealed," he joked.

"Okay," you said shyly, feeling a blush creep up your neck.

You could hear the rustle of fabric and a muttered, "Alright, here we go." Then, with a dramatic flourish, the curtains were drawn open, revealing Lewis in a impeccably tailored suit.

It was classic, understated, and undeniably him. In his hands, he held a bouquet of bright yellow and blue flowers.

He stood there, momentarily speechless, his eyes fixed on you. The air crackled with an unspoken energy, a palpable tension that both thrilled and terrified you.

"Wow," he finally breathed, his voice a low rumble. "You look… incredible."

You felt your heart skip a beat. "You don't look too bad yourself."

He grinned, handing you the flowers. "Yellow and blue. They're your favorites, right?"

You took the bouquet, inhaling their sweet fragrance. "They are. Thank you."

"Right, we'll leave you alone to suck up the moment," the main entourage, Monica, announced, herding the rest of the entourage out of the room.

The door clicked shut, leaving you and Lewis alone in the opulent room. The weight of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders.

You walked towards the plush velvet sofa and sat down, the voluminous dress swallowing you whole.

"Where's Roscoe?" you asked, referring to Lewis’s beloved bulldog. "I miss him." You’d met Roscoe several times during the contract negotiations and found the wrinkly pup to be far more endearing than his owner, at least initially.

"So you miss my dog but not me, your future husband, your future love of your life, your…" Lewis teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Okay, okay, I get it," you said, slapping his arm lightly. "I missed you too." It wasn't entirely a lie. During the days of rehearsals and media training leading up to this day, you'd found yourself strangely comfortable around him.

He was surprisingly down-to-earth, considering his fame and fortune.

He chuckled, the sound easing some of the tension in his shoulders. "So… do you need help getting out of that dress? I'm sure you're dying to take it off."

You laughed, a genuine, bright sound that surprised him. "Actually, I was kind of enjoying it. Makes me feel like a real princess, even for a few hours."

"Well, you certainly look like one," he said, a genuine compliment escaping his lips.

"Alright, enough flirting," you said, trying to regain your composure. "We have a fake marriage to attend."

"Right," he said, suddenly remembering the logistics of the whole thing. "The venue, the vows, the… first dance."

"Don't worry," you said, your eyes twinkling. "I've taken care of most of it. The venue is a beautiful church outside of Florence. The vows are… well, let's just say they're carefully worded. And the first dance? I'm thinking something slow and romantic. What do you say?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Slow and romantic? You think you can handle it, Mrs. Hamilton?"

You grinned, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Try me, Mr. Hamilton."

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I think… I think I might just enjoy that."

The drive to the church felt surreal. You were seated next to Lewis in the back of a sleek, black car, the Tuscan countryside whizzing by in a blur of vineyards and olive groves. You expected awkward silence, maybe a stilted conversation about the weather. Instead, Lewis surprised you.

"So," he began, turning to you with a genuine smile, "tell me, what do you actually know about Formula 1? Besides the fact that I'm supposedly good at it?"

You chuckled. "More than you probably think. I've been following the sport since I was a kid. My dad's a huge fan, and he practically raised me on a diet of qualifying laps and race strategy."

His eyes lit up. "Really? Most of the 'celebrity' guests I meet at the races barely know the difference between a pit stop and a penalty. It's… refreshing to actually talk to someone who gets it."

He launched into a detailed explanation of the upcoming season, his passion evident in every word. He spoke about the new regulations, the aerodynamic changes, the challenges they were facing with the car's performance.

"We're struggling with the downforce," he explained, his brow furrowed in concentration. "The simulations are promising, but we're not seeing the same results on the track. We're working on adjusting the suspension and the rear wing design to try and find that extra bit of grip."

You listened intently, nodding occasionally, asking informed questions. "Have you considered tweaking the differential settings? Maybe a more aggressive locking strategy could help with traction out of the corners?"

Lewis stopped mid-sentence, staring at you in surprise. "That's… actually a really good point. I hadn't thought of that. I'll bring it up with the engineers. You have to come to the factory in Maranello so you can get to know the team before the season starts."

"I'd like that," you admitted, a genuine smile spreading across your face.

This wasn't the superficial celebrity encounter you'd anticipated. He was treating you like an equal, someone whose opinion he valued. It was… disarming.

As the car pulled up to the church, a mix of nervousness and anticipation fluttered in your stomach. You were about to 'marry' a Formula 1 legend, a man you had met, for the sake of boosting his public image. The absurdity of the situation hit you full force.

The church was even more breathtaking in person. Nestled amongst rolling hills, its ancient stone walls seemed to whisper stories of centuries past.

There were some photographers strategically positioned, discreetly snapping aesthetic pictures of the venue. They were there to sell the illusion, to capture the romance that wasn't truly there.

Lewis left the car first, extending a hand to help you out. "Ready?" he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You took his hand, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. You smiled and walked towards the entrance of the church, the sound of hushed chatter growing louder with each step. Your palms were sweating, and your heart hammered against your ribs. You were anxious. Terribly anxious.

Lewis squeezed your hand reassuringly. "It's gonna be great, wifey," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes.

You nodded, trying to force a smile. "Just…don't call me that in public, okay?"

He chuckled. "Deal. And relax. Everyone here is in on it. It's just us, our friends and family."

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a small gathering of people. You saw a mixture of familiar faces – yours and Lewis's close friends, the ones trusted enough to keep the secret – and family. All their faces were directed to you.

You and Lewis were immediately engulfed in hugs and pats on the back. Some of your friends were teary-eyed, overcome with emotion, while others offered proud congratulations. The scene was chaotic, overwhelming, and strangely…supportive.

"You look beautiful, darling," one of your friends gushed, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. "I'm so happy for you both!"

You managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Sarah. Don't cry, you'll ruin your makeup."

Finally, you spotted your mom across the room, engaged in conversation with Lewis's father. Your mother was already crying, naturally. She always cried at weddings, even the fake ones. Seeing her emotional state made your own eyes start to sting.

"Mom!" you called out, gently extricating yourself from the throng of well-wishers.

Your mother turned and rushed towards you, engulfing you in a tight hug. "My baby is getting married!" she sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. "I'm so happy for you, sweetheart. He seems like such a wonderful man."

You glanced over at Lewis, who was smiling warmly at your mother. He could charm the birds out of the trees, you thought.

"He is, Mom," you said, deciding to play along. "He's wonderful."

She pulled back, holding you at arm's length, and examined your face. "Are you happy, darling? Really happy?"

You hesitated for a moment, the question hitting you with unexpected force. Were you happy? You were about to embark on a year-long sham marriage with a man you barely knew. Logically, the answer should be no. But as you looked at Lewis, standing there patiently, a curious feeling began to stir within you. Maybe, just maybe, there was more to this arrangement than met the eye.

"Yes, Mom," you said, surprising yourself with the conviction in your voice. "I'm happy."

Your mother squeezed your hand. "That's all that matters. Now, go get married!" She beamed, wiping away a stray tear with the back of her hand.

Just then, Anthony Hamilton approached, his face etched with a nervous concern that mirrored my own. He fidgeted with his tie, avoiding direct eye contact.

"Y/N, dear," he began, his voice a low rumble. "Are you… are you sure you want me to do this?" He gestured vaguely towards the makeshift altar. "It’s not too late to back out, you know. Lewis… he can be a handful."

My heart went out to him. He was a good man, Anthony, despite the pressures of his son's demanding career. He probably felt as uncomfortable with this whole charade as I did.

"Of course, Mr. Hamilton," I answered, offering him my most reassuring smile. "I feel like it would be the best option for everyone." For Lewis's career, for my future, for my mother's peace of mind.

His eyes welled up, and he nodded slowly, his voice thick with emotion. "Alright, alright. But promise me you'll look after him, eh? He needs someone solid in his corner."

"I promise," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was promising him or myself.

"Alright! Everyone go to your positions now!" the videographer yelled, his voice cutting through the emotional tension like a rusty knife. The sound of hushed conversations and shuffling feet filled the room as everyone scrambled to their assigned seats along the aisle.

Anthony, after taking a deep breath, offered me his elbow. I placed my hand there, the silk of my dress cool against his suit. We walked behind the large oak doors that led into the ballroom, hiding from the expectant gaze of the crowd. I could feel my pulse throbbing in my ears.

Suddenly, the opening bars of "Canon in D" filled the room, a classic choice for a deeply un-classic situation.

"Ready?" Anthony asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I took a deep breath, forcing a calmness I didn't feel. "Ready."

The doors swung open, and I started to walk. Slowly. Deliberately. Each step was calculated, designed to capture the perfect angle for the cameras. The faces of the guests blurred into a sea of expectant smiles and glittering jewels.

She could see her mother beaming in the front row, her eyes brimming with tears. Y/N hoped they were tears of joy, not disappointment that her daughter was entering into such a transactional union.

At the end of the aisle, Lewis stood waiting, looking impossibly handsome in his custom-tailored suit. He caught my eye, and for a brief, fleeting moment, I saw something flicker in his gaze – a vulnerability, perhaps, or just a raw, naked ambition.

We reached the altar, and Anthony squeezed my hand before stepping aside.

"You look lovely, Y/N," Lewis murmured, his voice low and smooth.

"Thank you, Lewis," she replied, keeping her voice equally neutral. "You don't look so bad yourself."

The officiant, a jovial man who looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, cleared his throat.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice echoing through the hall, "we are gathered here in the presence of God, family, and friends to witness a joyous occasion—the union of Lewis Hamilton and Y/N L/N in holy matrimony."

The ceremony was a blur of rehearsed lines and forced smiles. They exchanged vows that felt hollow and meaningless. They slipped rings onto each other's fingers, the cold metal a stark reminder of the contractual nature of their relationship.

Then came the moment she had been dreading.

"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant intoned.

Lewis turned to her, his eyes searching hers for a moment. Then, he leaned in and kissed her. It was a chaste, professionally executed kiss, designed to elicit cheers from the crowd and likes on Instagram.

But even so, you felt a strange flutter in her stomach, a sensation she quickly dismissed as the product of nerves and exhaustion.

It was all a blur from then on. Walking down the aisle with Lewis in hand, waving at the guests, mostly family and friends, throwing confetti over our heads.

The whirlwind of congratulations, the endless photos, the forced smiles that were starting to ache my cheeks.

Then, suddenly, we were in a room by ourselves, apparently, it's tradition for newly weds to stay in the same room right after the ceremony to soak up the moment.

The honeymoon suite was extravagant, all plush velvet and panoramic views. It felt absurd to be here, pretending, with 24-hour security just outside the door to ensure the “integrity” of our little charade.

My friends, bless their hearts, had noticed my tense demeanor and, with a knowing wink, had slipped two glasses of wine into my hands. "Relax a little, Y/N," Maya had whispered, "You look like you're about to explode."

I took a tentative sip. The wine was crisp and refreshing, a welcome distraction from the buzzing in my head. I was a lightweight, a fact I had conveniently neglected to mention to Lewis. He stood awkwardly by the panoramic window, his perfectly tailored suit looking even more impeccable against the velvet drapes.

He turned, his expression hesitant. "That kiss was... nice," he said, almost as an afterthought.

I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of my wine. "Well, I'm happy you enjoyed it because that's all you're getting from me today," I said, leaning back against a ridiculously ornate chaise lounge.

He frowned slightly. "We do have to kiss more during the first dance and the reception party."

The wine had officially loosened my inhibitions. A mischievous glint sparked in my eye. I found myself leaning forward, a dangerous smile playing on my lips. "Is that an order, Mr. Hamilton?"

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. "It's…a suggestion. A highly recommended suggestion."

I burst out laughing, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. He looked even more uncomfortable. "Alright, alright. A suggestion it is. But tell me, Lewis," I drawled, tilting my head, "how passionate are we talking? A quick peck for the cameras? A lingering lip-lock for the tabloids? Or perhaps a full-blown, movie-style makeout session to send your fans into a frenzy?"

He gaped at me, his usually composed facade cracking. "Y/N, are you…teasing me?"

"Maybe," I said, grinning. "Consider it a rehearsal. For the sake of public perception, of course. We have to be convincing, right? This isn't just about boosting your engagement numbers; it's about protecting your reputation."

He took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "Fine. Let's…rehearse." He approached me cautiously, like he was approaching a wild animal, his eyes locked on mine. "Just…remember it's all for show. This is purely professional."

"Of course," I whispered, the wine singing in my veins. "All for show. Completely professional." My heart, however, seemed to have missed the memo. It was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He placed his hands on my waist, his touch surprisingly gentle. He leaned in, his breath warm against my cheek, and I suddenly found myself struggling to remember my lines. "Ready?"

My voice caught in my throat. I managed a shaky nod, my heart suddenly pounding a rhythm that had nothing to do with wine and pretense. As his lips met mine, a strange sensation washed over me. 

 He hesitated, giving you a moment to back out, but you didn't. Instead, you raised a hand and rested it on the back of his neck, your fingers threading slightly into his short, dark hair.

It started slowly. A tentative brush of lips, a polite greeting. He tasted of mint and something else, something subtly powerful and undeniably Lewis. He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours. "Is this… believable?"

"Believable enough to fool millions?" you countered, your voice a husky whisper. "Probably not. Try again. Think longing, think desperation, think… you're about to lose the most important thing in your life."

Lewis frowned. "That's a bit dramatic, even for this."

"Welcome to acting, darling," you said, your smile widening. "Now, try again."

This time, he didn't hesitate. He leaned in, his lips claiming yours with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine. This wasn't the gentle, chaste kiss from before. This was raw, demanding, and surprisingly… good.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you found yourself responding without conscious thought. Your fingers tightened their grip on his neck, pulling him closer.

The kiss deepened, tongues dancing, breath mingling. It was a whirlwind of sensation, a delicious chaos that blurred the line between rehearsal and reality.

For a fleeting moment, you forgot this was all a performance, that you were just pawns in a PR game. You were just two people, caught in the heat of a kiss that felt anything but fake.

He finally broke away, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intense. "Okay," he said, his voice raspy. "That… that was better."

You were still trying to catch your breath. "Better indeed," you managed to say, your voice slightly breathless. "But was it believable? Or just…intense?"

Lewis looked away, running a hand through his braids. "It was…both. Maybe too intense."

"Too intense for a fake marriage?" you challenged, raising an eyebrow.

Before he could answer, I noticed the smear of red on his chin. "Oh, you've got my lipstick all over your mouth," I said, a mischievous glint in my eyes.

Before Lewis could touch his face, I held his hand, preventing him. "Leave it there, at least that will convince people that we were kissing," I said, letting go of him.

He stared at me, a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn't quite decipher flickering in his eyes. "You're… surprisingly good at this," he said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"That's my job," I replied, a smile playing on my lips. "But you're a quick learner, Lewis. I'll give you that."

The large hall was bedecked in a symphony of white roses and crystal chandeliers that cast a soft glow across the polished floor. The moment you and Lewis stepped in, the buzz of conversation hushed and all eyes turned to you.

The crowd erupted in applause, a wave of congratulations that made you blush despite the artifice of it all.

You took Lewis's offered arm, his grip firm and surprisingly comforting, as you both glided towards your sweetheart table at the center of the room.

The scent of his cologne mingled with the floral bouquets scattered around, creating a heady aroma that was at odds with the butterflies doing somersaults in your stomach.

Your hearts beat in sync with each step, echoing the rhythmic thump of the bass from the live band playing in the corner. The dress you wore was a vision of elegance, a stark contrast to the nervous energy thrumming through your body.

You felt like a moth drawn to a flame as you approached the table, the spotlights seemingly highlighting every imperfection, every lie. Yet, as you sat down, the plush chair enveloping you in a gentle embrace, the weight of the moment lifted slightly. You exhaled and offered him a tentative smile.

"Well, we've made it this far," you murmured under the guise of the applause.

"Barely," he quipped, a playful glint in his eye.

As the applause died down, a server appeared, filling your glasses with champagne. The cool liquid was a welcome relief against the dryness of your mouth.

You took a sip, feeling the bubbles tickle your nose. The room was alive with the sound of laughter and clinking glasses, a cacophony of happiness that seemed almost surreal.

"To us," Lewis said, raising his glass. His smile was perfect, a masterpiece of diplomacy. You mirrored the gesture.

You clinked glasses, the sound resonating in your ears like a toll of fate. "To the most convenient marriage of the year," you toasted, trying to keep your voice steady.

The liquid slid down your throat, a potent symbol of the agreement you'd made. You felt the warmth spread through your body, loosening the tension slightly.

The dress, a creation of satin and lace, whispered against your skin with every movement, a silent reminder of the part you had to play.

As the applause faded into the background, the first course of the meal was served. The table was an opulent display of gourmet delights, each dish more tempting than the last.

Lewis picked up a piece of hors d'oeuvre, a dollop of caviar perched atop a tiny cracker, and held it out to your lips.

"Open for me," he said, his voice low and playful.

You parted your lips and allowed him to feed you, the salty fish roe bursting on your tongue. The sensation was oddly intimate, and you watched his eyes darken as he observed your reaction.

The taste was decadent, a delightful assault on your senses that made you want to moan. You chewed slowly, savoring the richness.

You returned the favor, plucking a strawberry from the fruit platter with your fingers and bringing it to his mouth.

The fruit was ripe, the juice staining your fingertips and leaving a sweet trail across your skin. He took the berry with a smoldering look that sent a bolt of heat through your core.

You picked up a piece of chocolate-covered fruits, the dark chocolate shimmering with edible gold dust. You held it to his mouth, watching as he took it with a bite, the gold leaving a glittering trail on his bottom lip.

Leaning in, your heart racing, you couldn't help yourself. You licked the remnants of sweet chocolate from his lips, the taste a tantalizing mix of the rich confection and the salt of his mouth.

You blamed it on the alcohol, the way it loosened your inhibitions and made everything feel more daring, more alive. His eyes searched yours for a moment, and you realized with a start that he wasn't objecting.

The room spun slightly as you felt his hand come to rest on the small of your back, his thumb tracing lazy circles against the bare skin exposed by your dress.

"You're doing great," he whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your neck.

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand spreading like a brand across your skin. The champagne had done its work, the tension giving way to a pleasant buzz that made everything feel a little less forced.

You turned to face him, your eyes locking for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate through the room.

His gaze dropped to your lips, and for a heart-stopping second, you thought he might kiss you.

But instead, he leaned back, his expression unreadable.

The band struck up a tune, the sound of instruments swirling around you like a warm embrace. You felt a sudden pressure to perform, to be the bride everyone expected you to be.

Maya bustled over to your table. "Can you guys cut the cake now, or do you need more time for yourselves?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

The question was like a splash of cold water, reminding you of the façade you were maintaining. You laughed, a little too loudly, and nodded.

"We're ready," you said, standing up. Lewis's hand was at your elbow, guiding you through the crowd towards the grand, multi-tiered cake.

The cake was a masterpiece, a cascade of white fondant adorned with intricate lace detailing and delicate sugar roses.

You felt a strange sense of detachment as you both took the knife, your hands shaking slightly.

As you made the first slice, the sound of cameras clicking filled the air. The flashes were like stars in a night sky, blinding you to everything else.

But all you could see was Lewis's profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his hand held the knife with surprising tenderness.

He took a piece of cake and offered it to you, a silent question in his eyes. You took it, feeling the soft cake crumble against your teeth.

The sweetness was overwhelming, a metaphor for the situation you found yourself in.

You took a deep breath, willing yourself to be the poised and elegant wife Ferrari required.

The spotlight was on you, but it was the pressure of his hand against your back that kept you from crumbling like the dessert in your mouth.

"Move closer," you whispered, holding out a dainty slice of the heavenly cake to him. The scent of vanilla and buttercream filled the air as you brought it closer to his lips.

The moment was charged with a current that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

With a gentle nudge, you coaxed him to open his mouth. His full lips parted slightly, and you placed the cake on his tongue.

His eyes never left yours as you traced the outline of his mouth with your fingertips, catching the crumbs that clung to his perfect smile. The warmth of his breath danced across your fingertips, sending a shiver down your spine.

You watched as he closed his eyes, savoring the flavor. His Adam's apple bobbed with each swallow, and you felt a sudden urge to trace the path the cake took down his throat with your own mouth.

As the music grew louder and the flashes grew more insistent, Lewis leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.

"Dance with me?" His voice was a velvety rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. You nodded, and he took your hand, leading you to the dance floor.

The lights dimmed, casting the room in a romantic glow. A slow song began to play, a classic ballad about love and commitment. Ironic, you thought, given the circumstances.

Lewis placed his hand on your waist, and you reluctantly put yours on his shoulder. The fabric of his bespoke suit felt smooth beneath your fingers.

He pulled you closer, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. You avoided looking at him, focusing instead on the swirling patterns of the projected lights on the ceiling.

"Relax," he murmured, his breath tickling your ear. "It's just a dance."

But it wasn't just a dance. It was a performance, a charade, a carefully constructed illusion. Every step, every sway, every glance had to be perfect, believable.

You caught the eye of someone, notebook in hand, eagerly observing your every move. You forced a smile, hoping it looked genuine.

As the song continued, you found yourself slowly starting to relax. Lewis was a surprisingly graceful dancer, guiding you effortlessly across the floor.

The rhythm of the music, the warmth of his body, the soft lighting – it was all strangely seductive.

"You look beautiful," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the music.

You finally met his gaze, and you were surprised to see genuine warmth in his eyes. Was it possible? Could there be something more to this arrangement than just business?

"Thank you," you whispered, feeling a blush rise to your cheeks.

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. "You know, this isn't so bad."

"What isn't?" you asked, confused.

"This. Us. Pretending to be in love," he said, his eyes twinkling. "We're pretty good at it, don't you think?"

You laughed. "We are, aren't we?"

As the song ended, he leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours.

"You know what would make this even more believable?" he whispered.

Your heart skipped a beat. "What?"

"If we kissed," he murmured, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

You looked up at him, your pulse racing. The idea was ludicrous, of course. This was a marriage of convenience, a contractual agreement to help him secure his engagement at Ferrari.

Yet, as his eyes searched yours, you found yourself leaning into the moment, curious about the sensation of his lips on yours.

The music swelled around you as his hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. His other hand cupped your cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly across your skin.

You felt the electricity crackle in the air between you, and without another word, he closed the gap, pressing his mouth to yours.

His kiss was gentle at first, exploratory, as if he too was surprised by his own actions.

But the alcohol was really hitting the both of you, and with it, your inhibitions began to melt away like candle wax in the heat of desire.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, your body responding instinctively to his touch.

Lewis's hand slipped down from your waist to the curve of your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles through the fabric of your dress.

You held back, though, coming back to your senses. This wasn't what you had signed up for. You were supposed to be his beard, not his lover.

You stiffened in his arms, and he must have felt the shift in your demeanor because his hand stilled.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and thick with a hint of regret. "I didn't mean to cross a line."

You took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling against his firm embrace. "It's okay," you managed, even though your body was screaming for more. "We just need to remember what this is."

He nodded, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Right," he murmured, his grip loosening slightly. "A marriage of convenience."

The music had changed to something faster, a pounding bass that seemed to echo the beating of your heart. You stepped back, trying to compose yourself and smiled for the cameras.

"We should focus on the wedding," you said, your voice shakier than you would have liked.

Lewis's hand remained at your waist, his thumb continuing to stroke your skin in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern etched into his features.

You took another deep breath, willing your racing pulse to slow. "I'm fine," you lied, plastering a smile back onto your face. "We're just playing our parts, right?"

He nodded, his eyes lingering on your mouth. "Right."

The music changed again, the tempo quickening. The DJ announced that it was time for everyone to join in, and the floor flooded with guests eager to dance. The pressure of the moment was lifted as the spotlight shifted away from the two of you.

The crowd grew thick around you, a sea of bodies moving in a harmonious wave of color and sound. Lewis's hand remained at the small of your back, his fingers splayed possessively.

You felt a thrill of excitement as you realized that in this chaos, you could be anyone, do anything, and no one would question it.

And then, through the kaleidoscope of faces, you saw her. Your mother, standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching you with a knowing smile.

She had always had a knack for reading your expressions, and even from this distance, you could feel her approval. It was as if she knew the secret desires that had blossomed in the warmth of Lewis's embrace.

Her eyes sparkled with a mischief that told you she wasn't fooled by the pretense of your union.

You felt a sudden rush of heat, remembering the way Lewis's kiss had made your knees weak. You hoped she hadn't seen that.

"I'm going to talk to my mother," you murmured into Lewis's ear, your voice low and urgent.

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before you slipped away from the dance floor and made your way through the throngs of partygoers.

Your mother's smile grew wider as you approached, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you feel both cherished and exposed.

She knew you so well, and as you reached her side, you were acutely aware of the rapid beat of your heart, the warmth still lingering on your cheeks from Lewis's kiss.

"Having fun?" she asked, her voice a sweet symphony of teasing and concern.

"Mother, let's talk outside," you suggested, gesturing to the balcony, desperately needing a moment of respite from the pounding rhythms and probing gazes.

Her smile never wavered as she nodded in agreement, placing a hand on your forearm. "Lead the way, dear," she said, the warmth of her touch grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

The cool night air hit you like a breath of fresh oxygen as you stepped out onto the balcony, the sound of laughter and music muffled by the thick double doors.

The moon cast a silvery glow over the cityscape, painting the buildings in a soft, ethereal light. The distant sounds of traffic were a faint reminder of the world beyond the bubble of the penthouse suite where your lives had suddenly become a performance for the paparazzi.

Your mother looked stunning in a midnight-blue gown that accentuated her figure, her eyes dancing with curiosity. She took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving you.

"What's on your mind, darling?" she asked, her voice a gentle coo that could melt the coldest of hearts.

You leaned against the balcony railing, the cool metal a stark contrast to the heat still pulsing through your veins from Lewis's kiss.

"I just needed a break," you replied, hoping she wouldn't push further. The night air kissed your skin, sending goosebumps along your arms.

Your mother's eyes searched yours, a knowing glint shimmering in her gaze. "You seem…flustered," she said, her tone light but her words carrying the weight of a thousand unasked questions.

You took a deep breath, the cool air filling your lungs and calming your racing thoughts. "It's just…Lewis," you began, struggling to find the words.

"What about your fake husband?" your mother said, her voice dripping with playful accusation. She had always been perceptive, and she knew you better than anyone.

You felt a blush creeping up your neck, and you took a sip of the cool, bubbly champagne to buy yourself some time. "What do you mean?" you asked, feigning innocence.

Your mother raised an eyebrow, the gesture so familiar it was as if you were a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew. "I saw the way he was looking at you during the first dance," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "And the way you two were just…dancing."

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the pulsing heat between your legs, the phantom feeling of Lewis's hand on your hip. "It's all for the cameras," you protested, even though the words felt hollow.

Your mother's smile grew knowing, and she leaned closer, her perfume a faint whisper of gardenias in the night air. "Is that all it is?" she murmured, her eyes twinkling with the same mischief that had always made you squirm. "Or is there something more going on between you two?"

You took another deep breath, the coolness of the air doing little to ease the heat pooling in your belly. "Mother," you began, feeling the weight of her gaze on you, "I've only known him for less than a month."

Her smile softened, the playful glint in her eyes fading to a look of understanding. She leaned closer, her voice a warm, comforting whisper. "Sometimes, love doesn't care about time, darling. It just happens."

You stared out into the night, the city lights blurring as you replayed the last few minutes in your mind. The feel of his lips on yours, the gentle caress of his hands, the way your body had responded so instinctively.

Was it possible to develop feelings so quickly, so intensely, when the foundation of your relationship was nothing but a business deal?

The question lingered in the air as you watched Lewis mingle with the other guests, his charisma lighting up the room. His laugh was infectious, his smile captivating, and the way he moved through the space was like watching a panther – sleek, powerful, and utterly in control.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you contemplated your mother's words. Love? In a marriage of convenience? The very notion seemed absurd, and yet, you couldn't deny the undeniable pull you felt towards him.

The way your body had responded to his touch, the way your heart had skipped a beat when he looked at you – it was all too real, too potent to dismiss as mere infatuation.

"Just remember what you said three weeks ago, that 'it's all just for show. And it's not like you're actually going to be doing the whole marriage thing, that you're just going to pretend.'"

Her voice, usually a soothing balm, was sharp with an undercurrent of something you couldn’t quite place. "Don't break your own promise, but I wouldn't mind it. Lewis will take good care of you."

Her words hit you like a ton of bricks. Was she…encouraging you? But before you could respond, she had already turned away, leaving you alone with the night's whispers and the tumultuous dance of your thoughts.

You took another sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzling down your throat, and tried to convince yourself that it was just the alcohol playing tricks on you.

But deep down, you knew it was more than that.

Sighing, you set the champagne flute down on the railing and smoothed your hair back, trying to regain your composure. The chilly breeze whispered across your skin, sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.

With one last deep breath, you pushed away from the balcony and turned to face the warm embrace of the party once more.

As you stepped back into the penthouse suite, the heat and the music enveloped you like a lover's arms. The lights danced over the guests' faces, casting a spell of excitement and anticipation.

The DJ announced that it was time for the welcome toasts, and a hush fell over the room. You searched the crowd for Lewis, your heart skipping a beat when your eyes met his across the sea of bodies.

He offered you a smile, his own eyes a storm of emotions that mirrored your own.

Making your way to the makeshift stage, you took your place beside him. The spotlight was hot on your face, and you could feel the eyes of the guests on you, eagerly waiting for you to speak.

Lewis took your hand in his, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt of electricity up your arm.

You cleared your throat, the words of your toast already written but feeling so insignificant now. "Thank you all for joining us tonight," you began, your voice steady despite the tumult in your chest. "This is a very special occasion."

Lewis squeezed your hand, his thumb stroking the back of your palm in a silent message of support.

You glanced at him, his eyes locked onto yours, and felt a jolt of something primal, something that had nothing to do with the contract you'd signed.

"We're here to celebrate the beginning of a new chapter in our lives," you said, your eyes never leaving his. "One filled with adventure, success, and," you paused, feeling the weight of his gaze, "passion."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and Lewis stepped up to the microphone, his hand still wrapped around yours. "Thank you," he said, his voice a rich baritone that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

"To my beautiful wife," he turned to you, a smoldering look in his eyes that sent a delicious shiver down your spine, "Thank you for agreeing to this crazy adventure."

You leaned into the microphone, the warmth of his body against yours a potent cocktail of desire and nerves. "And to my dashing husband," you said, your voice a purr, "Thank you for making this marriage of convenience feel like anything but."

The crowd gasped, and a smattering of laughter filled the room, but you didn't care. You knew you were playing with fire, but the heat was too tempting to resist.

As you finished your toast, Lewis leaned down and whispered, "You're going to pay for that later." The words sent a shiver of anticipation through you, and you couldn't help but smile.

You took your cue, your voice steady despite the tumult of emotions raging inside you. "To our friends, our families, and Ferrari," you said, raising your glass, "Thank you for bringing us together."

The room erupted in cheers and applause, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of satisfaction at the success of your ruse.

But as you watched Lewis, the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, you knew that this marriage of convenience was about to take a very inconvenient turn.

"Now, it's time for the parent dances," the DJ announced, breaking the spell of the moment. You felt a knot in your stomach. You had lost your father years ago, and having your mother dance with Lewis was the closest thing you'd ever get to a traditional wedding dance with a parent.

"Mrs. L/N," Lewis said, extending his hand towards your mother with a charming smile. "May I have the honor of this dance?"

Her eyes sparkled with delight as she took his hand, the same hand that had sent shockwaves through your body just moments before. "Why, Mr. Hamilton, I'd be thrilled," she replied, allowing him to lead her onto the dance floor.

You watched as they swayed to the music, the connection between them palpable. The sight was bittersweet – a reminder of what you had lost and what you never had.

But as you observed them, the tension in your chest began to ease. If Lewis had to dance with someone, you were happy it was your mother.

She deserved this moment of joy and glamour, even if it was all an act.

As the song came to a close, Lewis guided your mother back to her seat and returned to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "Your turn," he murmured, extending his hand.

You nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken up residence in your stomach. This was your job, to make this marriage look believable, and part of that meant playing the role of a loving wife to a tee.

As the music changed to a slower tempo, Lewis' father, Anthony, made his way over to you, his smile warm and welcoming. He took your hand in his, his grip firm but gentle, and led you onto the dance floor.

"Thank you for being here, my dear," he said, pulling you closer into his embrace. You could feel the strength in his arms, a stark contrast to the softness of his voice.

His cologne, a rich blend of leather and sandalwood, wrapped around you, a comforting scent that reminded you of the safety and protection a father's arms could offer.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hamilton," you replied, your voice a soft whisper against his chest. You felt a strange comfort in his arms, a sense of belonging that you hadn't felt since your own father had passed away.

The music washed over you, a gentle symphony that seemed to be composed just for the two of you. You moved in sync with him, his steps guiding yours with a grace that could only come from years of experience.

His hand rested at the small of your back, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric of your dress and setting your skin alight.

You looked up at him, his eyes crinkling with kindness. "You know, you're quite the catch," he said, his voice a gentle rumble. "My son is a very lucky man."

You blushed, your heart fluttering at the compliment. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely audible over the music. "Lewis is… quite the catch himself."

Anthony chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Yes, he is," he agreed. "But I can see the way he looks at you. There's more to this than just a business deal."

You swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, you didn't know what was happening between you and Lewis. It was like you had stumbled into a fairy tale, except the prince was a billionaire race car driver, and the marriage was as fake as the smile you painted on every day.

"You don't have to tell me," he said, as if sensing your discomfort. "But just remember, love has a way of sneaking up on you when you least expect it."

His words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your chest. Was that what this was? Love? The very thought was terrifying, and yet, as you watched Lewis across the room, his eyes never leaving yours, you couldn't help but wonder if there was some truth to it.

The dance ended all too soon, and you found yourself back in the swirl of the party, the music and laughter a cacophony around you. You searched the room for Lewis, needing to be near him, to feel the reassurance of his presence.

Then, you heard a mic being tapped, and the volume of the room dropped like a curtain. You looked at the stage to see Maya and Miles with grins on their faces that could only mean one thing – they were about to give their speeches.

Your heart skipped a beat. You knew Maya all too well; she was the kind of friend who had a knack for speaking her mind, especially when it came to juicy secrets.

Miles took the mic first, his voice smooth and charming. "Ladies and gentlemen," he began, "I'd like to start by saying how honored I am to be standing here today, witnessing the union of two of the most amazing people I know."

"Now," he continued, "I know we're all here to celebrate the love between Lewis and his beautiful bride," he said, pausing for effect. "But what I'd like to remind everyone is that this isn't just a marriage – it's a partnership that's going to be taking the racing world by storm. And speaking of storms, I've got a little something for you two,"

Maya strutted up to the podium, the mic in one hand and a glint in her eye that had you on the edge of your seat. She tapped it, the sound echoing through the room, and announced,

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to share a little story about how our dashing couple met. It's not your average love at first sight tale, oh no."

You felt your face heat up as the room grew quieter, all eyes on Maya. Lewis's hand tightened around yours, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a silent message of reassurance. You could see the curiosity in his eyes, a hint of amusement playing on his lips.

Maya began, "Picture this: Two strangers, thrown together by fate, or should I say, by Ferrari. A billionaire playboy, and a girl with a heart of gold. They say opposites attract, but in this case, it was more like a collision of epic proportions!"

The audience chuckled, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of dread and excitement. You knew Maya had a wild imagination, and she wasn't one to shy away from spicing things up.

"They say love is a wild ride," she continued, her voice taking on a dramatic tone. "But let me tell you, when these two hit the track, it was nothing short of explosive! The chemistry was palpable, the tension could have fueled a race car!"

Your heart raced as she painted a vivid picture of your whirlwind romance, embellishing every detail and adding a steamy twist here and there. You shot her a glare, but she only winked back, reveling in the moment.

Miles took over, his deep voice a stark contrast to Maya's. "But what you don't know," he said, leaning into the mic, "is that there was a secret deal made, a deal that would change the course of their lives forever. A marriage of convenience, you say? Pish-posh!"

The crowd leaned in, eager to hear the juicy details. You held your breath, waiting for the inevitable revelation of your arrangement with Lewis. But instead, Miles spun a tale of a daring bet between the two friends, one that had led to a year of adventure and discovery.

"They said they'd keep it professional," Miles said with a wink. "But when love enters the race, all bets are off!"

You felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment. It wasn't the truth, but it was close enough to keep the secret intact. The crowd roared with laughter, and you couldn't help but laugh along, the tension in the room dissipating like mist on a warm morning.

As the applause died down, you leaned into Lewis, whispering, "Your friend is something else."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "He does have a way of keeping things interesting," he murmured, pulling you closer.

The rest of the reception was a blur of laughter, dancing, and whispered secrets. The speeches had been a wild ride, but somehow, you found yourself enjoying the thrill of it all.

The way Lewis looked at you, the way his hand never left your side – it was as if you had stumbled into a love story after all.

As the night went on, you were able to relax, a glass of champagne in hand, chatting with your friends who had flown in for the occasion. They were all buzzing with excitement, eager to hear every detail of your whirlwind romance with the infamous Lewis Hamilton.

You felt a thrill run down your spine every time they talked about your "true love," knowing that it was all just a well-orchestrated facade. But the way he made you feel, the way he looked at you – it was easy to get lost in the fantasy.

You took a sip of the bubbly liquid, the coolness of it spreading through your body like a gentle caress. The alcohol did its work, loosening your inhibitions and making you feel light, like you were floating on air.

The room was warm, a cozy cocoon of friendship and goodwill that enveloped you, making the weight of your deception feel a little less heavy.

Your friend Laura leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "So, what's it really like being married to a superstar?" she asked, her voice low and conspiratorial. You giggled, feeling a little tipsy and more than a little bit naughty.

"Well, it's not all fast cars and glamour," you said, your voice a purr. "But the perks aren't too shabby." You shared a knowing look with her, and she squealed, her hand flying to her mouth. You had always had a flair for the dramatic, and tonight was no exception.

As you talked, the room grew hazier, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfumes and cologne mingling with the aroma of fine wine and rich food.

The music was a sensual backdrop, the rhythm pulsing through the floorboards, inviting you to move. You felt the warmth of Lewis's hand on the small of your back as he joined your circle of friends, his presence a comforting warmth that seemed to drive the chill of doubt away.

"Let's dance," he whispered in your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine. You nodded, placing your hand in his, and allowed him to lead you into the throng of bodies, each swaying to the seductive rhythm.

His hand slid to your waist, his fingers ghosting over the smooth fabric of your dress, and you felt a thrill at the possessive way he held you, his other hand cradling yours.

The music was a slow, sultry number that seemed to resonate within the very core of your being. His thigh brushed against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

His touch was like a brand, leaving a trail of heat wherever it went. You looked into his eyes, and for a moment, you forgot about the cameras, the guests, the lie. It was just the two of you, lost in a dance that felt all too real.

The conversation with your friends was lively, their questions about married life to the legendary Lewis Hamilton met with your playful evasions and coy smiles. The champagne bubbled in your veins, making you feel more daring, more alive.

You caught Laura's eye, and she winked, a knowing smile playing on her lips. The tension between you and Lewis was palpable, a secret only the two of you shared, and it was intoxicating.

Suddenly, the music shifted to something softer, a classic love song that seemed to beckon for a more intimate moment.

You felt Lewis's hand tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, your bodies fitting together like two pieces of a puzzle you never knew you were meant to complete.

His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine as he whispered, "Let's take the family picture."

You nodded, allowing him to lead you off the dance floor and towards the small area designated for family photos. Your mother sat watching, her eyes filled with a warmth that seemed to say she knew more than she was letting on.

She patted the seat beside her, and you sat down, feeling a sudden vulnerability that the alcohol hadn't quite prepared you for.

Lewis's father, Anthony, took a seat. The sight was surreal, a makeshift family portrait that was as beautiful as it was unexpected. The photographer, a friend of the Hamiltons, approached with a professional smile. "Ready?" he asked, holding up the camera.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the erratic beating of your heart. Lewis sat beside you, his hand reaching for yours, and you felt a rush of affection that was as surprising as it was overwhelming.

The camera clicked, capturing the four of you in a moment of forced intimacy that somehow felt more genuine than you had anticipated.

The flash illuminated the room, freezing the scene in time – a snapshot of a life that wasn't quite real, but felt more right than anything you had ever known.

The picture was taken, and the moment passed, but the warmth lingered. You couldn't help but look at the image displayed on the camera's screen – the four of you, a small but significant representation of what could have been.

Your mother's smile was wide, her eyes sparkling with happiness, and you realized that maybe this wasn't just about the Ferrari deal. Maybe, just maybe, it was about creating a new kind of family, one born from necessity but blossoming into something more.

The photographer handed the camera to Lewis, who studied the picture with a thoughtful expression. "It's perfect," he murmured, his thumb brushing over the image of your joined hands.

"Yes," your mother agreed, her voice thick with emotion. "It's like looking at a real family."

The words hung in the air, and you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. This was supposed to be just a year of pretending, but the lines between reality and the role you were playing were beginning to blur.

As you looked into the camera lens, you realized that the love in your eyes for Lewis was no longer just an act.

It was a tangible thing, a living, breathing entity that had snuck into your heart without you even noticing. . . .

His eyes scanned the room, finally settling on her. Y/N. Even her name felt foreign on his tongue. She was surrounded by her friends, a vibrant group of women who punctuated her words with laughter. He watched her, a strange curiosity washing over him.

She seemed… lighter, more at ease than he’d ever seen her with him. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she smiled, a genuine, unburdened smile that never quite reached him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. His father, Anthony, stood beside him, a proud smile plastered on his face. "Son, I've gotten you and your wife a present."

Lewis braced himself. He knew his father’s “presents” usually came with strings attached.

Anthony gestured towards a nearby table. On it sat a framed picture. Lewis's breath caught in his throat. It was a photo from the ceremony, taken just as the priest declared them husband and wife.

In the picture, he was kissing Y/N. The angle made it look passionate, intimate. A lie meticulously crafted for public consumption.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Anthony beamed. “A perfect memento of your special day. I’ve already had copies made for all the papers.”

Lewis forced a smile. “Right. Perfect.”

He took the frame, the cold glass a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand. The kiss in the photograph was nothing more than a well-rehearsed move, a performance for the cameras. Yet, looking at it now, with the love in her eyes captured in that split second, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of something akin to regret.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice thick with something he couldn’t quite identify.

Anthony clapped him on the back, his eyes gleaming. "Remember, son, this is just the beginning. You two are going to be the golden couple of the racing world. A powerhouse team that can't be beat."

Lewis nodded, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach. He had agreed to this sham of a marriage for the sake of the Ferrari deal, for the sake of his career, but seeing the hope in his father's eyes made him feel like a fraud.

Anthony leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Now, I know this isn't the way you planned your wedding night," he began, "but I've got a little surprise for the two of you."

Lewis's heart skipped a beat, his mind racing with what his father could possibly mean.

"Dad," he began, his voice tight. "We've talked about this. It's just for show."

Anthony's smile never wavered. "Of course, of course," he said, patting Lewis's back. "But a little bit of authenticity goes a long way, doesn't it?" His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Besides, I've got a feeling that there's more to this arrangement than meets the eye."

Lewis felt a sudden heat rise to his cheeks. His father had always had a knack for reading him like a book, and it was clear he wasn't fooled by the façade. But before he could protest, Y/N's mother called Anthony over, her eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Goodbye son," his father said, his grip firm on Lewis's shoulder. "I hope you can enjoy this new chapter in your life."

The words echoed in Lewis's ears as he watched his father walk away, leaving him standing next to the framed photograph.

He glanced back at Y/N, her laughter filling the air like music. Her eyes caught his, and she offered a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was a smile for the cameras, a smile that said, “Everything is fine.”

But Lewis knew better. He could see the shadows that lurked beneath the surface, the doubt that she kept so well hidden.

He made his way over to her, the floor seeming to tilt beneath his feet. He had to admit, the champagne was hitting him harder than he'd expected.

The warmth of her hand in his was like a lifeline, grounding him in a reality that was quickly becoming more tangled than the vines that adorned the walls of the venue.

Their guests began to file out, their laughter and chatter fading like the last notes of a symphony. The grand ballroom grew quiet, the only sound the soft clink of crystal and the rustle of fabric as they moved together.

The first guest approached, an older woman with a cackle that could cut through glass. She leaned in, her breath hot with whiskey, and whispered in his ear, "A little something to keep you both warm on those cold nights, dear."

With a wink, she handed him a velvet box that was surprisingly heavy. He took it, feeling the weight of her assumption pressing down on his shoulders.

The next was a burly man, a sponsor for the racing team, who clapped him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. "Here you go, champ," he said, his meaty hand palming Lewis a bottle of cognac.

"Keep her happy, yeah?" The bottle was cold, the condensation already forming on the glass a stark contrast to the heat of his cheeks.

A procession of well-wishers followed, each with a gift more extravagant than the last. A set of silver cufflinks that weighed down his wrists, a leather-bound book of love sonnets that smelled faintly of cigars, and a sculpture of a Ferrari that was so intricately detailed it looked as if it could drive off the table at any moment.

Each time, the guest would lean in and whisper something about the marriage bed, their eyes glinting with knowing amusement, as if they were all in on a secret that was anything but secret.

The weight of the gifts grew heavier with each addition, until Lewis felt like he was carrying the weight of a thousand expectations. The room spun around him, the lights playing tricks on his vision as he tried to keep his smile in place.

Finally, the last guest had gone, the caterers had cleared away the last of the dishes, and the music had faded to a dull throb.

The only people left were their closest friends, the ones who had known them before the racing world had claimed them, before the Ferrari deal had turned their lives into a performance.

Lewis placed the last gift on the pile, his heart racing. He could feel the eyes of their friends on him, the same friends who had seen them through the ups and downs of their careers, who knew that this marriage was a sham.

He approached Y/N, who was still sipping on her champagne, surrounded by her giggling friends. The way they leaned into her, whispering sweet nothings, made him feel like an outsider in his own wedding. He took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions that surged within him.

As he drew closer, the scent of her perfume reached him, a delicate blend of jasmine and vanilla that had haunted his dreams for weeks. It was the same scent she'd worn on their first time meeting each other.

He wrapped his hand around her waist, feeling the smooth fabric of her dress give way to the warm, supple flesh beneath. Her breath caught in her throat, the sudden touch sending a tremor through her body that made him tighten his grip, if only to steady her.

Y/N looked up at him, her eyes wide and searching, and for a moment, Lewis wondered if she could feel the storm of doubt and desire that raged within him.

He leaned closer, the scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a seductive embrace.

Her breath hitched, the soft fabric of her dress whispering against his fingertips as he pulled her closer. He felt the warmth of her skin through the gossamer material, her body responding to his touch with a delicate shiver.

Their eyes locked, and in the silence of the emptying ballroom, the truth of their arrangement danced unspoken between them. The air grew thick with tension, the only sound the erratic beating of their hearts.

"Are you ready to go?" he muttered, the words barely escaping his lips.

The music had stopped, the laughter had faded, and the only sound left was the erratic thumping of their hearts. The question hung in the air, a silent plea for a connection that went beyond the script they'd been given.

Y/N's eyes searched his, a mix of confusion and something else, something he hadn't anticipated. Her cheeks were flushed, not from the heat of the room but from the potent cocktail of emotions that swirled within her.

The champagne had done its work, loosening her inhibitions and leaving her vulnerable to the storm that brewed in her chest.

"Tired?" she murmured, her breath warm against his neck. The word was a question and an invitation, a gentle challenge to his intentions.

Her pulse quickened, a silent rhythm that matched the tempo of his own heartbeat, echoing through the sensitive skin of his neck.

Lewis nodded, the simple gesture loaded with a world of meaning. His eyes never leaving hers, he felt a strange thrill at the thought of her submission, her willingness to follow him into the unknown.

He wasn't tired in the traditional sense; he was weary of the charade, the endless masquerade that had become their lives.

"Let me say bye to my friends," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. The words seemed to hang in the air, a declaration of intent that sent a shiver down his spine. The room swirled around them, the faces of the remaining guests a blur of pastel colors and forced smiles.

He nodded, his hand still clutching hers, the heat of their connection a stark contrast to the cool air conditioning. The tension between them was palpable, a living thing that seemed to pulse in time with their racing pulses.

Y/N turned to her friends, her smile a practiced mask that didn't quite reach her eyes. She whispered her goodbyes, each word a silent promise that she'd return to them, unchanged by the whims of fate that had brought her to this moment.

The women hugged her tightly, a few whispering words of advice or congratulations that she barely heard over the roar of blood in her ears.

As she moved from one friend to the next, her mind swirled with the gravity of the situation. The warmth of their embraces was a stark contrast to the icy grip of doubt that had taken hold of her heart. Each goodbye felt like a final farewell, a symbolic cutting of ties to the life she knew.

When she finally turned back to him, her eyes searched his for reassurance. The intensity of his gaze made her knees wobble, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"I'm ready," she murmured, the words a soft caress against his skin.

Their friends had formed a corridor, cheering and showering them with the remaining confetti as they walked hand in hand towards the exit.

Each step felt like a leap into the abyss, the weight of their decision pressing down on their shoulders. Yet, with every footfall, the tension grew more electric, the anticipation more potent.

The confetti fluttered around them like a blizzard of colorful secrets, whispering sweet nothings of passion and promise.

Each piece that stuck to their skin was a silent testament to the excitement of the night to come. The cheers grew louder, the claps more insistent, as if the very air was urging them onward.

Y/N felt a strange mix of exhilaration and fear. The confetti stuck to her lashes, her hair, the fabric of her dress, a glittering reminder of the happiness they were expected to embody.

His grip on her hand was firm, grounding her in the present, as the cacophony of their friends' celebration grew dimmer with every step.

As they passed the threshold, the confetti cascading down like a glittering waterfall at their backs, the weight of their decision settled over them.

The cool evening air kissed their flushed faces, a stark contrast to the heated passion that awaited them. The world outside the ballroom felt alien, a place where their roles could be shed like the very confetti that clung to their clothes.

Their eyes met, a silent promise exchanged, and the cheers of their friends faded into the distance. The night was theirs, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires without the judgmental eyes of society watching over them.

He led her to the limo, the driver holding the door open with a knowing smile.

The cool leather of the seat was a stark contrast to the heat that emanated from their bodies, their hearts beating in unison like a primal drum.

As the car pulled away from the curb, the city lights danced across their faces, casting shadows that played upon their features like lovers' whispers.

The confetti that clung to them fluttered in the breeze from the open window, a gentle reminder of the world they'd left behind.

Y/N leaned back into the plush seat, her eyes closing for a brief moment as she allowed herself to be enveloped by the sensation of the cool leather against her skin. She was tired, but it wasn't the physical exhaustion of the wedding that weighed her down.

"Wake me up when we get there," she muttered, the words slipping out of her mouth like a soft sigh.

Lewis chuckled lowly, his eyes never leaving the road ahead.

"I don't think that's going to be an issue," he murmured, his voice a velvety rumble that sent shivers down her spine.

The idea of staying at his house had been a fleeting thought, a secret fantasy that had danced at the edge of their consciousness since the moment they'd met.

The car's smooth ride seemed to mimic the rhythm of his breath, deep and steady. The scent of her perfume filled the space around them, an intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla that had become as familiar to him as his own heartbeat.

Lewis hummed but discarded that thought immediately. He wasn't going to wake her up.

The gentle vibrations of the car's engine lulled her into a deep, peaceful sleep, her head resting against his shoulder. Her soft, even breaths brushed against his neck, sending waves of warmth through his body.

He felt a primal need to protect her, to shield her from the world outside, even if just for this one night. His eyes remained on the road, but his mind was lost in the sweetness of her presence.

When the limo arrived at his house, he thanked the driver with a nod and a tip that conveyed the depth of his gratitude.

The engine's purr grew quieter as the car came to a stop, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The headlights cast an ethereal glow across the manicured lawn, illuminating a path that led to his front door.

He turned to her, the soft curve of her cheek still pressed against his shoulder, her lashes fluttering with the beginnings of a dream. Gently, he lifted her into his arms, cradling her like a precious treasure that had been entrusted to him.

Her eyes remained closed, but a faint smile played upon her lips as if she knew she was safe, protected in the cocoon of his embrace.

The cool night air kissed her skin as he carried her up the stone steps to the grand entrance of his house. The weight of her was comforting, grounding him in a way that his vast wealth and power never had.

The door swung open, revealing a warm, inviting foyer that was a stark contrast to the cold, impersonal hotel suite they had just left behind.

Inside, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted from the kitchen, a welcome greeting that seemed to have been orchestrated by some invisible hand.

He kicked off his shoes, the sound echoing through the hallway, and carried her to the living room. The crackling fireplace cast flickering shadows across the floor, dancing over the polished hardwood like a living tapestry.

Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in her surroundings with a sleepy smile. "This isn't the hotel," she murmured, her voice a soft purr that seemed to resonate with the warmth of the room.

He chuckled, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. "No, it's not. This is my home," he said, his voice thick with the promise of what the night would hold.

He lowered her onto his plush bed, her legs draped over his as he sat beside her, one hand never leaving her waist.

Her eyes searched his, the sleepiness replaced by a spark of excitement. She knew this was a pivotal moment, one that would change their dynamic forever. "What are we doing?" she whispered, her heart racing.

With a knowing smile, he leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath mingling with hers. "Whatever you want," he replied, his voice a seductive whisper that seemed to coil around her like a lover's embrace.

He kissed her again, more insistent this time, his hand sliding up her side to cradle her neck, his thumb tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

Her breath hitched, and she leaned into him, her body responding instinctively to the heat of his touch. The weight of his hand on her neck sent a shiver down her spine, and she could feel her skin prickling with anticipation.

His thumb traced the outline of her ear, sending a cascade of sensations through her, making her squirm with pleasure.

He deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring the soft recesses of her mouth, tasting the sweetness that was uniquely hers.

Her hands found his shoulders, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as if to hold onto him, to never let go. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Heavy Love

Summary: Carlos got a surgery of his appendix but that doesn't stop him from treating his girl how he usually does

Song: Heavy Love - Odetari

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 4.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The fluorescent lights of the hospital room hummed, a sterile symphony that did little to soothe the anxiety churning in your stomach.

Carlos lay in the bed, pale but smiling, a testament to the surgery that had sliced through his appendix just days ago. You sat beside him, a vigil, your hand hovering just above his, afraid to touch too hard.

"You okay, babe?" he asked, his voice a little weaker than usual, but with that familiar teasing glint in his eyes.

"Yeah, just... thinking," you replied, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Thinking about how much better you're going to feel when you're fully recovered."

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made you wince internally. "You think I don't feel good now? I've got you here, fussing over me like a mother hen. What could be better?"

You shot him a playful glare. "Don't get cute. You nearly died. A burst appendix is not a joke, Carlos."

"I know, I know," he conceded, his smile softening. He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours. "But I'm here, thanks to you. You got me to the hospital in time."

You squeezed his hand gently, relief washing over you. "I was so scared."

The days that followed were a blur of cautious optimism and tireless care. You transformed into his personal nurse, meticulously following the doctor's instructions, making sure he took his medication, and preparing bland, easily digestible meals.

You read to him, watched movies with him, and kept him company during the endless hours of boredom.

But a strange tension had settled between you, a quiet distance born out of your fear. You were so acutely aware of his fragile state, of the stitches holding his abdomen together, that you hesitated to be the same way you were before.

Intimacy, once a natural and joyous part of your relationship, now felt like walking on eggshells.

He noticed, of course. Carlos always noticed.

"You're being weird," he said one evening as you were settling him in for the night.

"Weird how?" you asked, avoiding his gaze as you adjusted his pillows.

"Like you're afraid to breathe too loud in case I shatter," he chuckled.

"Don't be silly," you mumbled, fiddling with the remote control.

"Come on, be honest. You're acting like I'm made of glass. I appreciate the care, I really do. But you're treating me like I'm some delicate porcelain doll."

You finally met his eyes, your own filled with a mixture of worry and guilt. "I just… I don't want to hurt you. You're still recovering. What if I accidentally put pressure on your stitches, or something?"

He sighed, reaching for your hand again. "You're not going to hurt me. I know you're being careful."

"But…" you started to protest.

"But nothing," he interrupted gently. "I miss you. I miss us. And I'm not talking about running a marathon or anything. I just miss being close."

Your heart ached at his words. You missed it too, more than you could say. You missed the way he would pull you into his arms, the warmth of his body against yours, the feeling of being completely and utterly safe.

But the fear was a powerful force, a constant reminder of his recent brush with mortality.

"I don't know, Carlos," you whispered, tears welling up in your eyes. "I'm just so afraid of doing something wrong."

He pulled you closer, his arm carefully encircling your waist. "Hey," he murmured, his voice soothing. "Look at me. I know you're scared. But I'm okay. I promise. And I trust you. I trust you to be careful."

He leaned in and kissed you softly, a chaste, lingering kiss that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn't the passionate, all-consuming kisses you were used to, but it was enough to remind you of the deep connection you shared.

"Please," he whispered against your lips. "Don't let this surgery change everything between us."

Over the next few weeks, you started to relax, to trust yourself and trust Carlos. You still took precautions, of course. You avoided strenuous activities and made sure he didn't overexert himself. But you also allowed yourselves to rediscover the intimacy you had lost.

Slowly, tentatively, you began to rebuild the bridge that fear had threatened to destroy. You started with simple things – cuddling on the couch while watching movies, holding hands during walks, sharing gentle kisses.

You talked, really talked, about your fears and anxieties, and about the importance of physical touch in your relationship.

One evening, as you were preparing dinner, Carlos came up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist. You stiffened slightly, your muscles tensing in anticipation.

"Relax," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "I just want to hold you."

You leaned back against him, letting his warmth seep into you. "Are you sure you're okay?" you asked, your voice still laced with concern.

He chuckled. "I'm fine. You're not going to break me by standing here."

You closed your eyes, breathing in his familiar scent. "I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too," he replied, squeezing you tighter. "More than a functioning appendix can ever express."

You laughed, the sound lighter and more joyful than it had been in weeks.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked.

You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached your eyes. "You don't have to ask."

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, passionate kiss that deepened with each passing moment. You ran your fingers through his hair, relishing the feel of his body against yours.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, he looked at you with a hopeful expression. "Can we…?" he started, then hesitated. "Can we be… closer?"

You knew what he was asking. The fear was still there, lurking in the back of your mind, but it was no longer as overwhelming as it had been. You trusted him, and you trusted yourself.

"Yes," you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest. "But we take it slow, okay? And if anything hurts, you tell me immediately."

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with joy. "Deal."

"Wait until after dinner though," you muttered, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. "I don't want to get distracted and burn the food."

Carlos pouted, his eyes drifting to the tray of hospital cuisine that had been delivered earlier. "But I hate this hospital food," he begged.

"Nope, you have to eat," you said firmly, placing a hand on his cheek. "Do it for me." You tried to make it sound like a playful dare, but the underlying concern was clear.

He groaned, his eyes drifting to the tray of hospital food that looked as appealing as a soggy cardboard box. "Come on," he whined. "You know how much I hate this stuff."

"I do," you said, your voice laced with amusement. "But it's part of the deal. You want to get better, right?"

With a dramatic sigh, he picked up his plastic fork and poked at the lifeless pile of food on his tray. "Fine," he grumbled, taking a tiny bite. "But you're going to pay for this later."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension between you momentarily easing. "How about I make you a deal?" you suggested. "If you eat all of this, I'll give you a little something extra to make it worth your while."

His eyes lit up. "What kind of extra?"

You leaned closer, your breath tickling his ear. "The kind of extra that involves me, you, and a lot of gentle touches."

He swallowed hard, the food suddenly seeming a bit more palatable. "Deal," he said, attacking the meal with renewed enthusiasm.

Each bite he took was a silent declaration of his love and desire for you, his stomach grumbling in protest but his resolve unwavering. You watched him with a smile, feeling a thrill of excitement building in your core.

As he worked his way through the meal, you couldn't help but let your mind wander to the promise you had made. Your body grew warm with anticipation, and you felt the familiar ache between your legs.

You had missed this, the thrill of the chase, the delicious buildup to something so much more satisfying than any meal could ever be.

When the last bite was gone, he looked at you expectantly. "Well?"

You took a deep breath, your hand shaking slightly as you reached for the tray. "Alright, you win," you said, setting it aside. "But only because you ate all your food."

He grinned mischievously. "I'm not just playing for fun, you know," he murmured, his hand sliding down to your waist, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip.

You felt your cheeks flush as you turned to face him. "What do you mean?"

Carlos' grin grew wider, his eyes darkening with desire. "I mean, I've missed feeling your body against mine, your breath on my skin, your touch driving me wild."

His hand moved to your cheek, his thumb tracing your jawline. "I want you, all of you. But we're going to take it slow, just like you said."

Your heart raced as he leaned in, capturing your lips in a soft, tentative kiss. His movements were cautious, as if he was afraid to startle you or cause him any pain.

You melted into him, the gentle pressure of his mouth on yours sending waves of need crashing through your body. Your hands found his shoulders, holding him close, as you deepened the kiss.

"Carlos," you murmured against his mouth, your voice filled with a desperation that had been building for weeks.

He pulled back slightly, searching your eyes for any signs of doubt. "Are you sure?"

You nodded, your pulse pounding in your throat. "Yes. I need this. We need this."

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. "Okay, then. But…" he paused, his brow furrowing slightly. "We have to be careful. I don't want to rip my stitches."

You chuckled, relief flooding through you. "Believe me, I'm acutely aware of your stitches. We'll take it very, very slow."

He nodded, his eyes still filled with that hopeful look that made you want to do anything for him.

You moved closer, placing a soft kiss on the tip of his nose before trailing your lips down to the corner of his mouth, feeling the stubble of his unshaven cheek against your skin.

His eyes fluttered closed, a contented sigh escaping his lips as you continued to explore his face with gentle pecks.

"I've missed this," he whispered, his hand moving to the small of your back, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

You nodded, feeling the same longing. "Me too."

Taking his hand in yours, you led him to the bedroom, the dim light of the hallway casting shadows that danced across the wall. The room was filled with the faint scent of his cologne, a comforting reminder of the life you shared before the surgery.

You helped him onto the bed, his weight shifting the mattress beneath you as he settled in, wincing slightly at the movement.

You took a moment to admire him, his strong frame now marred by the surgery scar that snaked under the bandages across his abdomen.

The sight of it brought back the fear of that night, the helplessness you felt as you watched the doctor's face grow grim with the news of his condition. But here he was, alive and with you, and that was all that mattered.

"Lay down," you instructed softly, your voice a gentle command that made him comply without question.

The bedroom was a sanctuary, a place where you had shared countless moments of passion before the surgery. Now, it was a battleground of nerves and anticipation. You approached him with the grace of a gazelle, each step measured and careful.

"I'm okay," he reassured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the air. "Really."

You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the last few weeks slowly lifting from your shoulders. You straddled his legs, his hands coming up to rest gently on your thighs.

The fabric of your pajamas was the only barrier between his skin and yours, a barrier that was suddenly unbearable.

"Can I take these off?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"If you promise to be gentle," he said with a hint of a smirk.

You nodded, your fingers trembling slightly as you began to peel back the bandages. The stark white of the gauze was a stark contrast to the tanned skin of his stomach.

You took a moment to examine the neat line of his incision, the skin around it slightly pink and tender. You kissed it softly, feeling the warmth of his body under your lips.

"Careful," he warned, his eyes half-closed with pleasure.

You nodded, taking in the sight of his body before you. You had seen him naked countless times before, but this was different. There was a newfound respect, a newfound gentleness in the way you regarded his body now.

Each scar, each imperfection, was a testament to his strength and the life you had together.

You began to kiss him again, starting at his forehead, moving down to his cheeks, his neck, his collarbone. Each kiss was a declaration of your love and your care, a promise to be gentle, to cherish him.

Your mouth found the pulse at the base of his neck, his heartbeat a steady rhythm that matched yours. You felt his breathing quicken, his body responding to your touch.

He reached up, his hand cupping the back of your head as he guided your mouth back to his. His kisses grew more insistent, his tongue sliding against yours, a silent plea for more.

You felt your body come alive, the ache between your legs growing more intense.

As you kissed him, you felt his hand slide under the fabric of your shirt, his fingertips brushing against the bare skin of your back. He groaned, the sound resonating through your body like a physical caress.

It was a sound that had always made you melt, a sound that had always meant he wanted more, needed more, and now it was back, a sweet reminder of the passion you shared.

You pulled away for a moment, looking into his eyes. "Are you okay?" you asked, the question almost redundant as the desire in his gaze was answer enough.

He groaned, not from pain but from pure need. "More than okay," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Encouraged by his response, you allowed his hands to roam, feeling the warmth of his palms as they glided over your skin.

They traced the contours of your body, exploring every curve and dip with a reverence that made you feel cherished, desired despite his weakened state. His thumbs grazed the sensitive skin of your ribcage, sending shivers up your spine.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours.

You blushed, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "You make me feel like it," you whispered.

As your kisses grew more fervent, you became acutely aware of your weight, the softness of your body that you had always loved, and sometimes loathed. You shifted slightly, trying to balance yourself so that you weren't putting too much pressure on his stitches.

The thought of causing him pain was unbearable, so you carefully placed your hands on his chest, using your arms to hold yourself up as you kissed him.

"Put all your weight on me," Carlos murmured, his eyes open and searching yours for any sign of hesitation.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling the heat of his body beneath you. The urge to give in was strong, but the fear of causing him pain held you back. "I don't want to hurt you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Trust me, I've got you," he said, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. "I can handle it."

You took a deep breath and did as he asked, feeling the softness of your flesh pressing against the firmness of his abdomen. The sensation was strange at first, a mix of fear and excitement.

But as he kissed you harder, as his hands roamed over your back and his hips began to move slightly beneath you, the fear melted away, leaving only desire.

You felt the heat of his skin, the steady throb of his heart against your palms. His breaths grew quicker, his chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

The sensation was exquisite, a gentle reminder of the passion that had always burned between you. You could feel his erection growing, pressing against your center, but you held back, not wanting to push him too far, too fast.

"We can stop," you whispered, your voice laced with concern.

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours. "No, please don't stop." His voice was thick with need, the words a desperate plea.

You leaned back slightly, breaking the kiss to remove your shirt, revealing your braless breasts to the cool air of the room. His eyes followed the movement, dark with desire.

You watched as his hand hovered over the fabric of your pajama pants, his knuckles brushing against the swollen bud of your clit. You gasped, the sensation sending shockwaves through your body.

"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice a strained whisper.

You nodded, unable to form coherent words as his hand slipped under the waistband, his fingers finding your slick heat. He stroked you gently, his movements tentative and careful, as if he was worried that even the slightest touch would shatter you.

But as he grew more confident, his touch grew bolder, his thumb circling your clit as his fingers delved deeper.

Your hips began to rock against his hand, the pleasure building with each stroke. You moaned into his neck, your teeth grazing his skin, leaving a trail of kisses along his collarbone.

His breaths grew shallower, his hand moving faster as he matched the rhythm of your movements.

"You're so wet," he murmured, his voice filled with amazement and hunger. "You're always so wet for me."

You felt your cheeks flush with heat at his words. "It's just… you make me feel so… alive."

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your chest. "Good to know I still have that effect on you."

You leaned down to kiss him again, your tongues dancing together as your bodies grew more in sync. His other hand found your breast, his thumb brushing against the tightened peak of your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure through your body.

As you reached down to undo the button of his pants, he stopped you, his hand covering yours. "Let me," he said, his voice strained with effort.

With trembling hands, he managed to open his fly, the sound of the zipper echoing in the quiet room. His erection sprang free, a testament to his desire.

You felt your own need growing, a warm ache that spread from your core to every part of your body. You reached out tentatively, wrapping your hand around his length, feeling the pulse of his blood beneath your fingertips.

"Careful," he warned, his voice tight with arousal.

You nodded, stroking him slowly, savoring the velvety feel of his skin against your palm. His eyes fell closed, his head tilting back into the pillow as he let out a low groan.

You watched him, memorizing the way his chest rose and fell, the way his abs tensed with each breath. You felt a strange mix of tenderness and hunger, a desire to both protect and claim him.

The sight of his scar, a stark reminder of his vulnerability, only served to fuel your passion.

As you worked your hand up and down his shaft, you leaned in to kiss him again, feeling his hips shift beneath you, urging you closer. The kiss grew deeper, his tongue sliding against yours in a silent demand for more.

Your body responded, arching into him, seeking the contact that you had been denied for so long.

"I need you," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You nodded, understanding the desperation in his words. You leaned back, sliding off his pants and boxers, exposing him fully to the cool air. His cock stood at attention, a silent plea for your touch.

You kissed your way down his body, your mouth worshipping every inch of his skin. Your breasts brushed against his thighs as you moved, sending waves of sensation through you.

Positioning yourself above him, you hovered, your pussy mere inches from his erection. His hands tightened on your thighs, urging you closer.

You paused, looking down at him, his eyes full of need. The weight of his gaze was almost too much to bear, but the fear was still there, whispering in the back of your mind.

"I'm okay," he assured you, his voice strained with want. "I need you, baby. I need to feel you."

You took a deep breath and allowed yourself to sink down, feeling the tip of his cock press against your opening. The sensation was electric, sending a jolt through your body.

You hesitated, waiting for any sign of pain from him. When he only moaned in pleasure, you began to lower yourself, inch by delicious inch.

His cock slid into you, filling you completely. You bit your bottom lip to stifle a moan, feeling a mix of pleasure and relief. It had been too long since you had felt this connection, too long since you had been this intimate.

His eyes never left yours, his expression one of pure adoration.

"Oh, Carlos," you murmured, his name a prayer on your lips.

He groaned, his hips lifting slightly to meet yours. You began to move, the rhythm slow and steady. Each movement was a declaration of your love, a gentle dance that you both knew so well.

You could feel his cock stretching you, the sensation of fullness that you had missed for weeks. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve and valley with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.

You leaned back, sitting up straight as you rode him. The new angle allowed you to take him deeper, the feeling of him inside you making you dizzy with pleasure.

Your breasts bounced with each movement, the tips tightening with every stroke. His eyes never left you, drinking in the sight of your body, his hands moving to cup your breasts, his thumbs playing with your nipples.

The friction grew, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. The ache between your legs grew stronger, your body begging for release. You leaned back further, placing your hands on his thighs for support.

The new angle allowed you to grind against him, the pressure building with every move. You watched his face, the way his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth gritted with each thrust.

"Mi amor," he whispered, the Spanish endearment rolling off his tongue like a warm caress. His hand slid down to the small of your back, guiding you, urging you to move in a way that brought him the most pleasure.

You felt a warmth spread through your body, a gentle wave of passion that grew stronger with every beat of his heart. You knew he was holding back, trying not to let the pain of his recent surgery overwhelm him.

But you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed with each movement. It was a dance you knew well, a delicate balance of pleasure and pain.

Leaning forward, you kissed him again, your mouths moving in a silent conversation of love and lust. His hands found their way to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he urged you faster.

Your breasts pressed against his chest, the friction of your bodies setting your nerves alight. The room felt like it was spinning, the only anchor the warmth of his cock inside you.

"Más," he murmured, the word a plea that sent your body into overdrive. You picked up the pace, your hips moving in a rhythm that was as natural as breathing.

His breath grew ragged, his grip on your hips tightening as you rode him. His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours. "Te amo," he said, the words a declaration that sent a shiver down your spine. "I love you."

You felt the orgasm build, a coil of pleasure that grew tighter with each stroke. You whispered the words back, the English translation feeling inadequate next to the Spanish. But you knew he understood, knew that your love was as deep and vast as the ocean.

His eyes searched yours, the depths of his love and desire reflecting in their dark pools. You felt his muscles tense beneath you, his cock swell even further inside you.

You knew he was close, could feel the tremor in his hands, the way his hips jerked with each movement.

"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice tight with restraint.

You nodded, feeling the same urgency building within you. Your walls tightened around him, the sensation of his impending release sending you hurtling towards your own climax. His eyes never left yours, the connection between you palpable.

You felt the muscles in his abdomen contract, a silent promise of the pleasure to come.

With a final, deep thrust, you felt him release inside you, his warmth filling you completely. Your own orgasm crashed over you, waves of pleasure that made your vision blur and your body quiver.

You collapsed onto him, your chest heaving as you both fought to catch your breath. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly as if he never wanted to let go.

The feel of his heart hammering against your cheek was a sweet symphony that only the two of you could understand.

"I love you," you murmured into his neck, feeling the sticky sweat on his skin.

"Te amo," he replied, his voice hoarse.

You remained still for a moment, basking in the afterglow, the fear of his fragility forgotten in the face of the overwhelming love you felt. But as your breathing slowed, the reality of his condition began to creep back in.

You lifted yourself off of him, careful not to cause any discomfort.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, your voice filled with concern.

He winced slightly as you moved, his hand coming to rest on the bandage across his stomach. "I'm okay," he assured you. "A little sore, but nothing I can't handle."

You kissed the spot gently, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric. "Thank you," you whispered. "For letting me… for being so patient."

He chuckled, the sound a little strained. "What can I say, I'm a trooper."

You couldn't help but laugh, the tension in the room dissipating like mist in the morning sun. "Yes, you are," you said, your eyes sparkling with affection.

The days that followed were a gentle reawakening of your love, a rediscovery of the passion that had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. Each touch was a declaration of your care and desire, each kiss a promise that you would always be there for him.

One morning, you awoke to the feeling of his hand on your hip, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your skin. You rolled over to face him, his eyes already open, watching you with a soft smile.

"Morning," he murmured, leaning in to kiss you.

You returned the kiss, feeling the warmth of his breath on your cheek. "Morning," you murmured back.

He shifted, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, pulling you closer. "Ready for round two?" he asked, his voice filled with mischief.

You raised an eyebrow, smiling despite yourself. "You're not going to let me have a break?" you said, feigning exasperation.

Carlos' grin widened, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "What? You don't want to?"

You playfully slapped his chest, unable to resist the flirty banter. "You're insatiable," you said, your voice filled with affection.

He chuckled, his grip tightening on your ass. "Only when it comes to you."

You felt a warm blush creep up your cheeks. "Well, if you promise to be gentle…"

"Always," he assured you, his voice a low, seductive rumble. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Sweet Pain

Summary: lando just took his wisdom tooth out and you, his best friend, was assigned to take care of him at home

Song: Heavy Love · Odetari

Author’s note: Sorry I haven't posted in a while! School sucks! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Lando groaned as the anesthesia began to wear off, his cheek bulging with the wad of gauze the oral surgeon had so gently packed into his mouth.

The world swam around him, a haze of pain and confusion as he tried to sit up in the chair. You, his steadfast best friend, gripped his shoulders firmly but gently, keeping him in place.

"Take it easy, buddy," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm to his raw nerves. "You just had your wisdom tooth pulled. You need to rest."

He nodded, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain shooting through his jaw. The room felt unnaturally bright, the fluorescent lights glaring down on him like an accusation.

You reached over and flipped the switch, casting the room into a more comfortable dimness. The shadows danced around the edges of the room, whispering of the comfort that waited for him at home.

"I've got you," you promised, your hand warm and steady on his shoulder. "I'll take care of you."

The words were a lifeline in the storm, and Lando clung to them like a drowning man. He'd never felt so vulnerable before, so utterly reliant on someone else for his well-being.

But there was something reassuring about it, too. Something that made the ache in his mouth seem a little less sharp.

As you led him out of the office, the cool evening air hit him like a slap, sending a shiver down his spine. The painkillers were kicking in, wrapping him in a fuzzy blanket of numbness.

He leaned into you, his head heavy and lolling. Your arms were strong around him, guiding him to the car with a gentle but firm grip.

In the car, the engine purred to life, and the smooth leather seats cradled him like a lover's embrace. He watched the world pass by in a blur, the neon lights of the city fading into the background as the pain grew more distant.

You chatted to him, keeping his mind off the discomfort, your voice a comforting hum that washed over him like a warm bath.

By the time you pulled up to his apartment, he was almost dozing. The stairs up to his door were a challenge, each step sending a jolt through his jaw.

You took the keys from his trembling hand and unlocked the door, guiding him inside with the ease of a shepherd leading a lamb to safety.

The living room was a haven of soft cushions and warm blankets, the TV casting a soft glow across the room. You helped him to the couch, propping his head up with a pillow, and handed him a glass of water with a straw.

"Thanks," he mumbled, his voice muffled by the gauze.

"No problem," you said, settling in beside him. "Now, let's get you comfortable."

You began to remove the gauze, your movements slow and precise. As the pressure lifted from his mouth, Lando felt the blood begin to pulse in his cheek, the pain starting to throb anew.

But your touch was surprisingly gentle, and he found himself leaning into your hand, craving the contact.

You paused, looking into his eyes, and for a moment, the pain was forgotten.

"You're going to be okay," you whispered, and in that moment, Lando believed it. He believed in you, in the strength of your care for him, in the promise of comfort that you offered.

With a final tug, the gauze was free, and you handed him a fresh piece. "Keep biting down on this for a little while," you instructed, your voice a soft purr that made his skin tingle. "It'll help with the bleeding."

Lando nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. The silence between you was charged, crackling with an energy that made the air feel thick and heavy.

"Is there anything else you need?" you asked, your hand hovering over his shoulder. "Anything at all?"

He swallowed, his mouth dry. "Could you stay with me?"

You nodded without a second thought. "Of course."

And with that, the two of you settled in for the night. You grabbed the remote and started flipping through the channels, looking for something mindless to watch that would help pass the time and keep Lando's mind off the pain.

The TV's blue light reflected off the surface of the glass of water, casting a serene glow over the room that seemed to belie the current situation.

Lando took a sip through the straw, the cold liquid feeling like a lifeline to normalcy. He watched the images on the screen swirl and dance, the painkillers playing tricks with his vision.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he felt his head lolling to the side. You caught him, gently placing it back on the pillow with a chuckle.

"You're really out of it," you said, your voice a warm rumble that vibrated through his body.

He managed a weak smile. "Yeah. Thanks for… everything."

You nodded, the corner of your mouth tilting up in a soft smile. "It's what friends are for."

The pain began to ebb and flow, a constant throb that was only slightly lessened by the medication.

Each pulse seemed to echo through his body, a reminder of the invasive procedure he'd just undergone. But you were there, a constant presence at his side, and that made it easier to bear.

As the night stretched on, the TV's background noise became a lullaby, lulling Lando into a fitful sleep. His dreams were a strange tapestry of pain and comfort, the sensation of your hand on his shoulder a grounding force that kept the darker moments at bay.

Whenever he stirred, you were there, pressing a cool cloth to his cheek or offering him more water, your ministrations a gentle reminder that he wasn't alone.

When he finally woke up, the room was bathed in the soft light of dawn. The pain was a dull throb now, a persistent but distant memory of the night before.

You were still there, sprawled out on the couch, one arm thrown over your eyes to block out the early morning glow.

Lando shifted, the movement sending a jolt through his jaw. You stirred, sitting up with a start. "You okay?"

He nodded, his mouth feeling dry and uncomfortable. You took the water from the side table and held it to his lips, allowing him to sip through the straw. The coolness soothed his throat, and he felt a wash of gratitude for your thoughtfulness.

"I'm fine," he croaked. "Just… thirsty."

You nodded, understanding, and took the glass back. "Why don't you try to get some more sleep?"

He didn't argue, sinking back into the pillows with a sigh. As you tucked the blanket around him, the warmth of your hand on his shoulder lingered, a reminder of the care you'd shown him throughout the long, strange night.

You sat back down, your body heat radiating towards him. He couldn't help but shiver again, the chill from outside still clinging to his bones.

Without thinking, he tried to cuddle up closer to you, seeking the warmth of your presence. His cheek found its way to your chest, and he nuzzled into the fabric of your shirt, inhaling the faint scent of your skin.

You stiffened for a moment, surprised by his sudden proximity, but then your arm automatically curled around him, pulling him closer. "You cold?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

Lando nodded, his eyes still closed. The pain was a distant throb now, a dull ache that was easy to ignore when wrapped in your warmth. "A little," he mumbled into your shirt.

You leaned into the embrace, the weight of his head on your chest feeling surprisingly natural. The fabric of your shirt grew damp with his breath, and you felt the steady beat of his heart against your ribs.

The room was quiet except for the soft murmur of the TV and the occasional sound of someone walking in the hallway outside.

The warmth of your body seeped into his, chasing away the last of the cold that had settled in his bones. He felt your chest rise and fall with each breath, a rhythm that was both comforting and slightly hypnotic.

His hand, which had been resting on the arm of the couch, found its way to your waist, his fingers curling into the soft fabric of your sweatpants. The sensation of your skin under his palm sent a thrill through him, a feeling that was new and surprisingly intimate.

You didn't pull away, instead allowing his hand to rest there, your own hand coming up to gently stroke his hair. The pain in his jaw was still present, but it was muted now, a distant throb that was easy to ignore when he was nestled against you.

The scent of your skin filled his nose, a mix of sweat and the faint hint of cologne that was uniquely yours.

With his cheek pressed to your chest, Lando could hear the steady beat of your heart, a sound that seemed to resonate with his own. It was a strange sensation, feeling so connected to someone else while being in so much pain.

But there was something about your presence that made everything feel right, that made the world seem a little less overwhelming.

You shifted slightly, adjusting your position to accommodate his weight. He felt the muscles in your arms tighten around him, and the pressure of your hand on his shoulder increased just a fraction.

It was a comforting gesture, one that told him without words that he was safe, that you weren't going anywhere.

His eyes fluttered open to find yours looking down at him, a mix of concern and curiosity in their depths. "Better?" you asked, your voice a gentle rumble that seemed to vibrate through his very soul.

He nodded, his throat tight with unspoken emotion. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Much better."

The silence between them grew heavier, the air thick with unspoken words and unacknowledged desires. The line between friendship and something more was blurring, a line that had never been crossed before but suddenly felt tantalizingly close.

The TV flickered in the background, the images on the screen changing with the passing minutes but the storyline lost to them both. Their focus was on each other, the warmth of your bodies melding together, the steady throb of your heart beneath his ear.

Lando's gaze drifted to your lips, the way they moved as you breathed, the softness that begged to be kissed. He swallowed hard, his heart racing with anticipation.

The pain in his jaw was a distant memory, replaced by the ache in his chest that grew stronger with every passing second.

He knew he should fight against it, that he should push himself away from you and retreat to the safety of his bedroom. But the comfort of your embrace was too tempting, the warmth of your body too inviting.

Instead, he nuzzled closer, his cheek pressing against the steady beat of your heart.

"Lando," you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of concern and something else, something deeper. He didn't know what it was, but it made his stomach flutter.

He knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss you, to feel the softness of your lips against his, to explore the warmth of your mouth and lose himself in the sensation of your body against his.

But he also knew that he shouldn't. The painkillers were clouding his judgment, making him feel things he might not feel otherwise.

"Let's just go to sleep," he muttered, his voice thick with need and confusion.

You studied him, the soft light of dawn playing across his features, making him look almost ethereal. You could see the war within him, the desire and the doubt battling it out behind his eyes.

"Are you sure that's all you want?" you asked, your voice a caress.

He nodded, his eyes sliding shut again. "It's just the anesthesia," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your skin. "It's making me feel… weird."

But you knew it wasn't just the anesthesia. There was something else there, something that had been simmering between the two of you for months, maybe even years.

With a sigh, you leaned in, your hand cupping his cheek gently. You could feel the stubble of his jaw, the softness of his skin beneath your fingertips.

Your thumb traced the line of his jaw, the touch feather-light, as you tilted his face up to meet yours. Your eyes searched his, looking for any sign that he didn't want this, that it was all just the drugs talking.

But what you found was something else entirely. A spark of need, of want, that mirrored your own. So you leaned in, closing the space between your lips, and kissed him.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as if you were both testing the waters. But it quickly grew in intensity, his hands coming up to cradle your face, pulling you closer.

The taste of him was intoxicating, a blend of mint and something uniquely Lando that made your heart race.

You felt his body tense, his grip on you tightening, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away. But then he relaxed, melting into the kiss, his mouth opening to invite you in deeper.

Your tongue danced with his, exploring the warm cavern of his mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses.

The pain in his jaw was forgotten, lost in the haze of sensation that washed over him. The only thing that mattered was the feel of your lips against his, the way your body fit against his.

He moaned softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.

You broke the kiss, pulling back slightly to look at him. "Are you okay?" you asked, the concern clear in your eyes.

He nodded, a sleepy smile playing on his lips. "Yeah," he murmured, his voice still thick with lust. "It's just the anesthesia."

But it wasn't just the anesthesia. The pull between you was as potent as ever, a force that had been simmering just beneath the surface for what felt like an eternity.

His hand found its way to your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the soft fabric of your shirt, his eyes fluttering shut as he reveled in the feeling of your body against his.

Lando harbored profound emotions for you, emotions that ran deeper than mere friendship. However, he struggled to articulate these feelings, caught in a web of uncertainty and fear.

The bond you shared as his closest friend made it all the more complicated; he worried that revealing his true feelings might jeopardize the special connection you both enjoyed.

Each time he considered opening up, he hesitated, torn between the desire to share his heart and the fear of losing the friendship that meant the world to him.

The softness of your touch, the warmth of your embrace, it was all too much for Lando to resist. His body was alive with sensation, a symphony of pleasure that washed over him, drowning out the pain of his surgery.

You seemed to sense his internal struggle, your hands moving to gently stroke his hair, your touch as tender as a lover's caress.

"It's okay," you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to."

But Lando found himself leaning into you, his body responding despite his muddled thoughts. His hand slid up from your waist, tracing the curve of your chest before it came to rest on the back of your neck, his thumb circling the sensitive skin there.

The painkillers had turned him into a creature of pure instinct, and all his instincts were telling him to get closer to you, to bury himself in your warmth and let the world outside fade away.

You felt the shift in his body, the way his muscles tensed and then relaxed, the way his breath grew ragged and needy. You knew he was still groggy from the anesthesia, that he might not fully understand what was happening between you.

But the way he was looking at you, the way his hand was moving, it was clear that he wanted this, that he needed it.

"Lando," you murmured, your voice a soft caress against the shell of his ear. "We should wait for the anesthesia to run out."

He pulled back slightly, the haze of desire clearing from his eyes. "Why?" he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and want.

You sighed, your hand coming to rest on his cheek. "Because," you began, "I don't want this to be about the drugs. If we're going to do this, I want you to be fully aware of what's happening."

Lando's eyes searched yours, the fog of painkillers slowly lifting as he digested your words. He knew you were right; he didn't want to act on impulse, didn't want to risk confusing physical need with something deeper.

But the ache in his chest was unbearable, a yearning that was only growing stronger with every passing second.

"Okay," he murmured, his hand sliding down to yours, the connection between you palpable.

You watched as his eyes grew heavy with the weight of his pain and the sedative, his breathing slowing as he succumbed to sleep once more.

As you lay there, listening to the steady rhythm of his breaths, you felt a pang of regret for what could have been. But you knew it was for the best.

Lando's vulnerability was a gift, and you didn't want to take advantage of it in his compromised state. Instead, you focused on the warmth of his hand in yours, the comfort of his presence beside you.

The sun had fully risen by the time you felt him stir again. The room was bathed in the soft glow of morning light, the pain in his jaw now a high throb. He blinked slowly, his gaze finding yours.

The haze of the anesthesia was gone, and in its place was a clarity that was almost unsettling.

"How are you feeling?" you asked, your voice tentative.

He took stock of his body, the pain now a familiar companion. "Better," he said finally, his voice a rough whisper. "The anesthesia's wearing off."

You nodded, your heart racing as you realized the implications of his words. The moment of truth had arrived, and you weren't sure you were ready for it.

But as you looked into his eyes, you saw something that made you hold your breath.

"The pain's not so bad," he continued, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "But I could still use some more of that… comfort."

You felt your stomach flip, the anticipation building in your chest. You leaned in, your heart pounding in your ears. This time, there was no hesitation, no doubt.

Your lips met his in a kiss that was both gentle and urgent, a promise of what was to come.

The pain in his mouth was a dull throb now, a distant memory compared to the fire that was igniting between the two of you. His arms tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, his need for you overriding any lingering concerns about his tooth.

The taste of mint from his breath mingled with the sweetness of the painkillers, a heady cocktail that only served to enhance the moment.

You were careful, so very careful, as you deepened the kiss. Your hands hovered near his face, ready to pull back at the slightest twinge of pain.

But Lando's response was all the encouragement you needed, his moan of pleasure vibrating through his chest and into yours, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. The pressure of his mouth grew stronger, more insistent, and you gave in to the urge to explore him further.

Your fingers traced the line of his jaw, feeling the slight bump where the tooth had once been. It was tender, and you knew he was likely to be sensitive there for days, maybe weeks.

So, you kissed him with a gentle thoroughness, your tongue delving into the depths of his mouth in a dance that was both fierce and tender. Each brush against the sensitive spot sent a bolt of electricity through his body, making him arch into you.

Lando's hand slid up to cradle the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin beneath your hairline. The touch was a silent declaration, a promise that he was all in, that he trusted you implicitly.

His other hand found the hem of your shirt, his fingertips skimming the warm flesh of your stomach before sliding up to trace the contours of your chest.

You moaned into the kiss, the sensation of his touch sending a delicious shiver down your spine. You broke away briefly to whisper, "Lando, we can't."

But the words held no real conviction. You knew what the doctor had said about no strenuous activity or risk of infection, but the desire pooling between your legs was too strong to ignore.

Lando's eyes searched yours, his gaze heavy with a need that mirrored your own. "I know," he murmured, his voice thick with painkillers and lust. "But I need you."

You bit your lip, torn between the desire that was clawing at you and the knowledge of what the doctor had advised.

But as you felt his hand slide under your shirt, the warmth of his skin against yours, the decision was made for you. The world narrowed to the two of you, the couch a sanctuary of soft cushions and whispered promises.

"Lando, we can't," you murmured, even as your own body betrayed you, leaning into his touch. But the words hung in the air, unconvincing even to your own ears.

The connection between you had always been palpable, but now it was a living, breathing force that could no longer be denied.

He pulled away slightly, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation. The silence was deafening, the air between you charged with the unspoken understanding that this was a line you were about to cross, a line that could change everything.

"I know," he murmured, his voice a warm rumble that sent a shiver down your spine. "But I need you." His hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lower lip.

You took a deep, shaky breath, the weight of his gaze on you like a physical touch. The doctor's words echoed in your mind, a fading reminder of the outside world.

But the desire in Lando's eyes was too intense, too real to ignore. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his once more, feeling the heat of his breath mingle with your own.

As your kiss grew deeper, your hand found its way under his shirt, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool fabric. His muscles twitched under your touch, and you could feel the tension coiled in his body, a tension that mirrored your own.

You knew you were playing with fire, but the flames were too tempting to resist.

Lando's hand slid up your spine, his fingers leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch was gentle but firm, a silent plea for more. You obliged, your own hands exploring the contours of his body, learning the landscape of his desire.

Each stroke sent a jolt through your veins, a reminder of the passion that had been smoldering just beneath the surface for so long.

You pulled away, panting, your cheeks flushed with arousal. "Lando, we really can't," you whispered, the words feeling like a betrayal even as you said them. "We need to be careful."

He nodded, his eyes dark with need. "I know," he murmured. "But can't we just… for a little while?" His voice was rough, the painkillers still thick in his throat, making his words sound like a seductive growl.

You hesitated, the doctor's words echoing in your mind. But the heat in Lando's gaze was undeniable, the way he leaned into your touch like a starving man seeking sustenance. With a sigh that was part resignation and part anticipation, you whispered, "Okay."

You leaned in to kiss him again, this time with a gentleness that seemed to belie the passion that thrummed between you. Your kisses were soft and tender, a gentle exploration that focused solely on the art of healing.

You avoided the area of his mouth where the wisdom tooth had been, instead tracing the curve of his jaw, the corner of his lips, the softness of his cheek. Each touch was a silent promise, a gentle reminder that you were there for him, that you would take care of him.

Lando sighed into the kisses, his eyes fluttering closed as he reveled in the sensation. The pain in his mouth was a distant memory, replaced by the warmth of your affection.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as he urged you closer, seeking more. But you held firm, keeping the contact light and careful.

"Just kisses until you're healed," you murmured against his skin, your voice a soft, reassuring purr.

He nodded, the understanding clear in his eyes. For now, this was enough. The kisses grew in frequency but not in intensity, a sweet, soothing balm that seemed to seep into his very bones.

He felt his body relax into the cushions, the pain in his jaw fading into the background as the warmth of your attentions consumed him.

The TV flickered on, the sound low and inconsequential. You didn't need the distraction anymore; the only thing that mattered was the man in your arms, the feel of his breath against your skin, the way his heart hammered against your chest.

Lando's hand slid down from the back of your neck, tracing a path down your spine that left you shivering with delight. His fingertips grazed the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, and you couldn't help the low moan that escaped your lips.

"Does that feel good?" he murmured, his voice a dark promise that sent a thrill down your spine.

"Yes," you breathed, your eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into his touch. His kisses grew bolder, moving from your neck to nibble at your earlobe.

Each little bite sent a shiver through you, making your toes curl with pleasure.

You felt his breath against the sensitive skin of your throat, his mouth tracing a path of heat along your neck. His teeth grazed the pulse point, and you couldn't help but arch into the touch, your body begging for more.

Your hand slid down to grip his shoulder, your nails digging in just enough to let him know you were there, that you were feeling every delicious second of this.

His breath was warm and sweet against your skin, and you could feel his own desire, his own need, building with every touch.

"I want you," he murmured, his voice thick with passion. The words were a declaration, a promise that seemed to resonate in the very air around you.

You leaned back, pulling him with you, your legs entwining with his. The couch was too small, the world too big. All that existed was the two of you, the warmth of your bodies, the softness of your sighs.

His mouth found yours again, the kiss a symphony of tongues and teeth and passion. You could taste the mint of his pain relief, the sweetness of his breath.

His hand slid down to rest on your hip, his fingers flexing in a silent demand. You shifted, moving closer, the fabric of your clothes the only barrier between you.

You knew you had to be careful, had to be mindful of his pain. So you kissed him with a gentle fierceness, your hand sliding up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw.

The moan that ripped from his throat was raw and primal, the sound of a man lost in passion. You felt it vibrate through your entire body, setting every nerve ending on fire. The need to touch him, to feel him, was overwhelming.

You slid your hand down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. His skin was hot, fevered, and you knew that even though you were trying to be gentle, the desire between you was too strong to be denied.

With a growl that was half pain, half pleasure, Lando rolled you onto your back, his body covering yours. He kissed you with a hunger that was both terrifying and exhilarating, his hips rolling against yours in a slow, sensual dance that had your body responding in kind.

You felt the warmth of his length, the promise of what was to come, and you couldn't help the moan that spilled from your lips. This was new, this was different, and it was everything you never knew you needed.

But as he ground against you, you felt the ache in his jaw, the tightness in his muscles. "Lando," you whispered, pushing him back gently. "We need to stop."

He nodded, his eyes dark with regret. The fog of desire cleared just enough for the reality of his situation to return. "Yeah," he murmured. "But… we can still…?"

You nodded, smiling despite the heaviness in your chest. "As long as it doesn't hurt you," you said, your voice a soft purr of reassurance. "I'm here."

He leaned in again, his mouth finding the tender spot just behind your ear. His teeth grazed your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Thank you," he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. "For taking care of me."

You nodded, your throat tight with unspoken emotions. "Always," you murmured, your hand sliding down to rest on his chest. The steady beat of his heart was a comfort, a reminder that even in this moment of passion, you were still friends, still looking out for each other.

Lando's hand slid down to cover yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. His eyes searched yours, the question hanging in the air.

You knew what he was asking, the unspoken inquiry that had been building between you for what felt like an eternity.

"We can still… cuddle," you offered, your voice a soft whisper. It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it was all you could give him right now.

The pain in his mouth was a stark reminder of the limitations of his body, and you didn't want to cause him any more discomfort.

He nodded, a hint of disappointment in his eyes, but he didn't argue. He knew the rules, knew that he needed to rest and heal.

But the desire that burned between you was palpable, a living, breathing thing that seemed to pulse with every beat of your hearts.

You settled back into the cushions, your body curving into his. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of you, lost in the warmth and comfort of each other's embrace.

The TV played on, the low murmur of the news a stark contrast to the intimacy that had filled the room. But even as you lay there, listening to the dull throb of pain in his jaw, you knew that this moment was something special.

The line between friendship and desire had blurred, and you weren't sure if it would ever be the same again.

His hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing against your cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, a gentle caress that seemed to whisper of all the things he wanted to do but couldn't.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice a rough whisper that sent a shiver through your body.

You felt the heat of his gaze, the intensity of his stare, and you knew that even though you'd agreed to stop, it was going to be difficult to resist.

"And you're so stubborn," you replied, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating against your back. "Guess that's why we're friends," he said, his voice filled with affection.

You nodded, snuggling closer, your cheek pressed to the warmth of his chest. The fabric of his shirt was soft against your skin, the scent of him surrounding you.

"Friends who can't keep their hands off each other when one of them is in pain," you teased.

His chest rumbled with laughter, the vibrations sending a delicious shiver down your spine. "Friends with benefits," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You rolled your eyes, even though the idea didn't sound entirely unappealing. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves," you said, trying to keep the smile from your voice.

But the way his hand tightened around you, the way his breath hitched slightly, told you that maybe, just maybe, the idea was more tempting than you'd let on.

For now, though, you were content to lie there, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath you, his breath in your ear. The pain in his jaw was a constant throb, but in your arms, it was as if he'd found a temporary reprieve.

Your hand slid down to rest on his stomach, feeling the muscles tighten in response. You knew he was still aroused, that the desire between you hadn't disappeared just because you'd agreed to be careful.

But for now, this was enough. The gentle touches, the whispered words, the comfort of being close.

As the hours passed, the room grew brighter with the light of day, the pain in Lando's jaw a constant companion. But even as he winced with every movement, his eyes never left yours.

The connection you'd forged in the quiet of the early morning was still there, a bond that had grown stronger with every shared glance and every gentle caress. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

My Husband

Summary: when you accidently called Oscar your husband, you didn't think it would affect him that much

Song: Haunted · Beyoncé

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 2.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The quaint little bakery was a warm embrace of aromatic comfort, the scent of fresh bread and sugar-coated pastries dancing in the air as the bell above the door chimed, announcing the presence of a customer.

You stepped inside, the chilly autumn breeze kissing your cheeks before you shut the door. Oscar, your devoted boyfriend, followed closely, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the words you had just spoken had branded themselves into his soul.

You approached the counter, where Mrs. Petunia, the plump, grandmotherly figure who had known you since childhood, was carefully arranging a tray of her famous Tim Tams.

She looked up and beamed at you, her kind eyes twinkling with recognition. "Ah, my dear, what can I get for you today?"

Without missing a beat, you replied, "Oh, Mrs. Petunia, me and my husband love Tim Tams. Could we have a dozen, please?"

The words slipped out of your mouth as easily as honey off a spoon, and yet, they seemed to hang in the air, thick and potent, charged with an unspoken electricity.

Oscar's eyes grew wide, and a blush bloomed on his cheeks that would have put a summer sunset to shame. His heart skipped a beat, and his throat tightened with a mix of shock and excitement.

You hadn't meant to say it, but there it was, hanging between the two of you like a ripe fruit, begging to be plucked and tasted.

Mrs. Petunia looked from you to Oscar and back again, her gaze lingering on his flustered expression before she winked mischievously.

"Of course, dear," she said, her voice a gentle purr. "Congratulations to you both. I'll have your Tim Tams ready in a jiffy."

The silence that followed was a symphony of unspoken desires and unanswered questions. The air grew thick with tension as Oscar's hand found yours, his grip firm yet trembling.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn't help but feel the sudden urgency of his touch.

As the baker's hands moved deftly behind the counter, wrapping your sweet treats in a paper bag with a flourish, Oscar leaned in, his breath a whisper of heat against your ear.

"Did you mean it?" he asked, his voice a mix of hope and apprehension. "Did you really mean to call me your husband?"

You turned to face him, the warmth from his body seeping into yours, and took a moment to study his features. The way his eyes searched yours for an answer, the way his Adam's apple bobbed with a hard swallow, it was all so… intoxicating.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin, and let the moment linger before finally speaking.

"It… it just slipped out," you murmured, trying to downplay the significance of your words. But even as you said them, you felt a thrill in your chest, a spark of something new and deliciously tempting.

Oscar's grip on your hand tightened, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your palm. "But do you?" he pressed, his voice low and earnest. "Do you… see me as your husband?" His eyes searched yours, a silent plea for honesty that you found impossible to resist.

Before you could answer, Mrs. Petunia shuffled back to the counter with your order, her knowing smile as sweet as the sugary confection she placed in the bag.

"Here you go, lovebirds," she said, her eyes twinkling. "And just for the newlyweds," she added with a wink, "a little something extra." She slipped a small, heart-shaped cookie into the bag, and you felt Oscar's pulse quicken against your fingertips.

The weight of the moment pressed down on you, thick and heavy as the scent of freshly baked bread. His question hung in the air, a silent echo of the words you hadn't meant to say. Yet, as you looked into his eyes, you realized that you didn't want to take them back.

The thought of him as your husband, a partner in every sense of the word, filled you with a warmth that spread from your core to your fingertips.

"Thank you, Mrs. Petunia," you said, your voice a bit shaky as you took the bag of Tim Tams from her outstretched hand. The touch of the paper bag against your skin was a sudden reminder of the real world, and you forced a smile as you slid the question to the back of your mind.

The idea of a future with Oscar was both thrilling and terrifying, and you weren't quite ready to tackle it in the middle of a bustling bakery.

You turned to leave, eager to escape the intensity of Oscar's gaze, but he held fast to your hand, refusing to let you pull away. "We need to talk," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. "But not here."

With a nod of understanding, you allowed him to lead you out the door and into the cool, crisp air. The wind played with your hair as you walked in silence, the crackle of leaves underfoot a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of emotions in your chest.

The thought of the impromptu family gathering at the restaurant was a welcome one; it meant you had more time to figure out what you truly felt about the prospect of marriage.

When you arrived at the cozy Italian restaurant, the warmth from within enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce mingled with the laughter of those already gathered, and the sight of your friends and family was a much-needed distraction.

You slipped into the role of the happy couple with Oscar by your side, his hand resting gently on the small of your back as you greeted everyone with pecks on the cheek and warm hugs.

Throughout dinner, the question remained unspoken, a silent third wheel to your conversations. You felt Oscar's eyes on you, the question lingering in the air like the scent of fresh bread from the bakery.

Yet, with every shared laugh and knowing glance, the idea grew more and more appealing. The way your family and friends interacted with the two of you, as if you were already a married couple, filled you with a sense of belonging and love that was undeniable.

As the evening grew late and the last of your relatives said their goodbyes, the tension between you and Oscar grew palpable. The warmth from his hand on your lower back had long ago seeped through your clothes, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake.

With each farewell, the reality of what you had said in the bakery grew heavier, a delicious weight that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Finally, it was just the two of you, the night air a crisp reminder of the world outside your bubble of uncertainty. The walk to his car was a silent dance of anticipation, your hearts beating in time with every step you took closer to the truth.

The cool metal of the car door handle was a stark contrast to the heat of your skin as you climbed inside, the leather seats a promise of the comfort and security you had found in each other's arms so many times before.

Oscar started the engine, and the low purr filled the car, a gentle hum that seemed to vibrate through your very core. As he pulled away from the curb, the headlights painted a yellow path on the dark road ahead, leading you to the house you shared, the place where so many of your memories had been made.

You watched the streetlights flicker past, their light casting shadows across Oscar's features that highlighted the strong line of his jaw and the intensity in his gaze as he focused on the road.

The journey to the house was a blur of unspoken confessions and unanswered questions, the vibrations of the car a rhythmic serenade that seemed to underscore the urgency of the moment.

His hand found yours again, fingers intertwining as if to hold onto the very essence of your being. The touch sent waves of sensation through your body, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken bond that had grown stronger with every shared look and whispered promise.

When you finally pulled into the driveway, the house was bathed in a soft glow, welcoming you home with open arms.

The door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing through the stillness like a gunshot, shattering the last vestiges of your ability to ignore the conversation that needed to be had.

But Oscar didn't give you the chance to retreat into the safety of mundane small talk or the comfort of the couch. He dropped his bags with a thud that reverberated through the floorboards, and in the blink of an eye, he was on you.

His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, his body a wall of heat and need that made your knees wobble.

His mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, his breath hot and demanding as he whispered, "Tell me the truth. Did you mean it?"

You gasped as his teeth grazed your earlobe, the sensation sending a shiver down your spine. Your heart was a wild animal, caged and desperate to break free, hammering against your ribs in a frantic rhythm.

Your breathing grew shallow, every intake of breath a silent admission of the desire that had been simmering just below the surface all evening.

He turned you to face him, his hands sliding up to cradle your cheeks. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, and you leaned into his touch, your eyes fluttering closed as you felt the warmth of his palms against your skin.

"Look at me," he demanded softly, and you obeyed, opening your eyes to find his gaze searing into yours. "Do you see me as your husband?"

The word hung in the air, a declaration of love and commitment that made your heart ache. You searched his eyes, the depths of his soul laid bare for you to see, and you knew that you didn't need to say the words aloud.

Your body was already speaking for you, your pulse racing, your breath catching in your throat.

With a groan, Oscar leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was both fierce and tender. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting and exploring as if he hadn't kissed you a thousand times before.

Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, your body arching towards his as if drawn by a magnetic force. His hands slid down to the small of your back, pressing you against him, the evidence of his arousal a stark reminder of the passion that burned between you.

The kiss grew deeper, more urgent, as the tension that had been building all evening finally snapped. Your hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his muscles beneath his shirt, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against your palm.

His own hands found their way to the hem of your dress, inching it upward until he could feel the warmth of your skin, the softness of your thighs.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours as you both panted, trying to catch your breath. "I need to hear you say it," he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Do you see a future with me?"

You nodded, the words caught in your throat, the weight of the moment too much to bear. "Yes," you finally managed to croak out, the word a declaration, a promise, a surrender all rolled into one.

And with that, Oscar's control snapped. He swept you off your feet, carrying you with ease up the stairs and into the bedroom that had been the stage for so many of your passionate encounters.

The room was a blur as he laid you on the bed, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses down your neck, his hands working to free you from the confines of your dress.

As the fabric slid away, revealing the soft curves of your body, he whispered, "I can't wait to be your husband," the words a fervent promise that seemed to resonate within your very soul.

His eyes devoured every inch of your exposed skin, the hunger in them making you feel like the most desired woman in the world.

You reached up to trace his jawline, feeling the stubble that had grown over the course of the day. Your touch was tender, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of what was happening between you.

"Oscar," you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips.

He hovered over you, his eyes searching yours as if looking for the tiniest semblance of doubt. Finding none, he claimed your mouth again, his kiss a declaration of his love and intentions.

Oscar's hands trailed down your body, his fingertips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He reached the hem of your dress, his touch gentle yet insistent as he began to peel it off.

The fabric whispered against your skin, the coolness of the room a stark contrast to the heat of his gaze.

As you lay before him, bare and exposed, he leaned in and murmured into your ear, his breath a hot caress that sent shivers down your spine.

"I won't apologize for marking you up," he said, the words a dark promise that sent a thrill of excitement coursing through your veins. "Everyone should know you're going to be married to me."

His teeth grazed the sensitive lobe, eliciting a gasp that was swallowed by the fabric of the pillow beneath your head. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

JUST READ LOSE MY MIND, CHASE ATLANTIC INSPIRED???? FOAMING AT THE MOUTH FUCK YESS, WE NEED MORE CHASE ATLANTIC APPRECIATION

Don't Stop

Summary: MV1 + "The problem is, if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

Song: Church · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: @dozyisdead thank you for your comment and your wish is my command! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engines was a symphony to some, an unbearable cacophony to others. For you, it was a constant hum, a background track to a life lived in the shadow of Formula 1.

Your father, a team principal with a fiery temper and an even fierier competitive spirit, had instilled in you a love for the sport, albeit one laced with a very specific kind of hatred.

That hatred was reserved for one man: Jos Verstappen. And consequently, for his son, Max.

The feud between your father and Jos was legendary, a well-documented saga of on-track collisions, boardroom betrayals, and accusations flung like grenades across the paddock. It was an old wound, festering and never allowed to heal.

You’d grown up hearing stories of Jos’s ruthlessness, his aggression, and the way he supposedly cheated your father out of a championship win years ago. You were raised to believe that the Verstappen name was synonymous with treachery and malice.

So, logically, you were supposed to hate Max Verstappen. It was expected.

But logic, as you were increasingly discovering, had a way of malfunctioning around the young Dutch driver.

You worked as a data analyst for your father's team, a role that kept you close to the action but slightly removed from the blatant animosity.

You excelled at your job, your sharp mind able to dissect telemetry readings and identify fractions of a second that could make the difference between victory and defeat.

It was during a pre-season testing session in Barcelona that Max first entered your orbit in a truly disconcerting way.

You were hunched over your laptop in the garage, the air thick with the smell of gasoline and burning rubber, when you felt a presence beside you.

"Looking busy," a voice drawled, laced with a Dutch accent that sent a shiver down your spine.

You looked up, your heart skipping a beat despite your best efforts to control it. Max Verstappen. He was leaning against the workbench, his eyes – those intensely blue eyes that seemed to see right through you – fixed on your face.

He was even more striking in person than on television.

"Just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"I've heard you're good at it," he said, pushing off the workbench and taking a step closer. "Your father keeps a tight ship."

"He expects the best," you retorted, your defenses instantly up.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through the air. "And you wouldn't want to disappoint him, would you?"

The unspoken question hung in the air, loaded with the weight of your fathers' rivalry. You met his gaze, refusing to back down. "No," you said firmly. "I wouldn't."

He smiled then, a genuine smile that transformed his face and made him look almost… vulnerable. "Good. Because I have a feeling you're capable of a lot more than just crunching numbers."

That was the beginning.

Over the next few months, their paths kept crossing. Brief encounters in the paddock, shared glances across crowded press conferences, and even the occasional, accidental bumping into in hotel lobbies.

Each interaction chipped away at your carefully constructed wall of animosity. You found yourself noticing the way he focused on the track, the quick wit he displayed in interviews, and the surprising kindness he showed to his mechanics.

He was… charming. Dangerous charming.

And he knew it.

He started seeking you out. A quick word in the hospitality tents, a shared elevator ride, a casual inquiry about your work. He was persistent, but never pushy. He was subtle, but undeniably present.

You tried to deny it, to rationalize it, to attribute it to simple curiosity or a harmless flirtation. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were drawn to him.

The tension between you grew thicker with each passing race weekend. It crackled in the air whenever you were near each other, a silent electricity that threatened to ignite into something explosive.

The Italian Grand Prix in Monza was the breaking point.

You were in the team's garage after a frustrating qualifying session, your father's angry voice echoing in the air. Max had just secured pole position, a fact that only added fuel to your father's fire.

You were trying to focus on the data, but your mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

He found you in the back of the garage, away from the noise and chaos. He leaned against a stack of tires, his expression serious.

"You look troubled," he said softly, his eyes searching yours.

"Just a bad day at the office," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze.

"More than that," he insisted, taking a step closer. "I can see it in your eyes."

You finally looked up at him, your heart pounding in your chest. "What do you want, Max?"

He hesitated for a moment, his gaze dropping to your lips. When he looked back up, his eyes were filled with a raw intensity that made your breath catch in your throat.

"I want you to stop pretending," he said, his voice low and husky. "I want you to stop acting like you don't feel it too."

"Feel what?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

He closed the distance between you, his hand gently reaching out to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. "This," he said, his voice barely audible. "This connection, this… pull."

You stood frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the electricity crackling between you.

"You know it's there," he continued, his gaze locked on yours. "You've known it for weeks."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "My father…" you began, but he cut you off.

"I don't care about your father," he said fiercely. "Or mine. This is about us."

He took another step closer, and you could feel the warmth of his breath on your skin. Your mind was screaming at you to run, to push him away, to remind yourself of the years of hatred and animosity.

But your body betrayed you, remaining rooted to the spot, yearning for something you knew you shouldn't want.

He lowered his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "The problem is," he murmured, his voice laced with a dangerous promise, "if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

The world seemed to shrink, the roar of the engines fading into a distant hum. All that existed was him, his eyes, his touch, the intoxicating possibility of something forbidden.

You wanted him. God, you wanted him more than you'd ever admitted to yourself.

But the weight of your father's expectations, the years of ingrained animosity, the potential fallout… it was all too much.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, and forced yourself to step back.

"Don't," you whispered, your voice trembling. "Just… don't."

He stared at you, his expression a mixture of frustration and disappointment. He hadn’t expected you to deny him.

"Why not?" he asked, his voice tight.

"Because it's wrong," you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. "Because it would destroy everything."

He shook his head, his eyes filled with a sadness that pierced your heart. "You're choosing him over me?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't.

He took a step back, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I understand," he said, his voice flat. "You made your choice."

He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the back of the garage, the weight of your decision crushing you.

The next few weeks were torturous. You avoided Max at all costs, burying yourself in your work, trying to convince yourself that you'd done the right thing.

But every time you saw him on the track, every time you heard his voice, every time you caught his eye, the memory of that moment in Monza would come flooding back, a painful reminder of what you had denied yourself.

He, in turn, became distant. Acknowledging you with a curt nod whenever your paths crossed, his blue eyes now devoid of the warmth you had briefly glimpsed. He became the Max Verstappen the world knew - the ruthless, focused driver, untouchable and unapproachable.

It was as if he was deliberately burying the flicker of vulnerability you had witnessed, replacing it with an impenetrable wall.

One evening, after a particularly grueling race, your father called you into his office. He looked tired, the lines on his face etched deeper than usual.

"I know about you and Verstappen," he said, his voice heavy.

Your heart sank. "I don't know what you're talking about."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. "Don't play coy with me. I've seen the way he looks at you. And the way you look at him."

You remained silent, refusing to confirm or deny anything.

"I won't allow it," he said, his voice hardening. "I won't have you fraternizing with the enemy."

"He's not the enemy," you argued, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Your father slammed his fist on the desk, making you jump. "He is the enemy! He's a Verstappen! Don't you understand what that means?"

You looked at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "Yes, I understand. I understand that you're letting a decades-old grudge dictate my life."

"I'm protecting you," he insisted, his voice softening slightly. "He'll only break your heart."

"And you won't?" you countered, the words laced with a pain you had kept hidden for years.

He looked at you, his expression softening, and you knew you had struck a nerve. He knew that, in his own way, he had already broken your heart, countless times.

You stood up, your body trembling with a mixture of anger and grief. "I can't do this anymore," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't live my life according to your rules."

You turned and walked out of his office, leaving him sitting alone in the silence.

You knew you couldn't stay. You couldn't continue to live a life dictated by other people's hatred.

That night, you packed a bag and left.

You didn't know where you were going, or what you were going to do. All you knew was that you needed to escape, to find a place where you could be free from the weight of your father's expectations and the shadow of the Verstappen rivalry.

You drove for hours, until you reached a small coastal town, far away from the noise and glamour of Formula 1. You found a cheap motel and checked in, collapsing onto the bed, exhaustion finally claiming you.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of the ocean. You walked down to the beach, the cool sand between your toes, the salty air filling your lungs. You sat down on a rock, watching the waves crash against the shore, and finally allowed yourself to cry.

You cried for your father, for the years of missed opportunities and unspoken words. You cried for Max, for the connection you had denied, for the love you had let slip away. And you cried for yourself, for the life you had been living, a life that wasn't truly your own.

As the sun began to set, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. You didn't know what the future held, but you knew that you were finally free.

A few days later, while you were having coffee at a small cafe, you saw a familiar figure walking down the street.

Max.

Your heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here? How had he found you?

He saw you too, his eyes widening in surprise. He hesitated for a moment, then walked towards you, his expression unreadable.

"What are you doing here?" you asked, your voice trembling slightly.

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I needed a break," he said, his gaze fixed on the ground. "And I thought I might find you here."

You stared at him, your mind racing. "Why?"

He looked up then, his blue eyes meeting yours. "Because," he said softly, "I couldn't let you go."

A denial trembled on your lips. This is a mistake. It can't work. The feud, your father, everything stands in our way. But the words wouldn't come. Your heart, traitorous thing that it was, soared at his words, desperate to believe in the impossible.

"Max…" you began, but he cut you off, stepping closer, his presence filling the small space between you.

"Don't," he pleaded, his voice raw. "Don't tell me it's a bad idea. Don't tell me we can't. Just… just let me be here. With you."

The intensity in his eyes was almost overwhelming. You looked away, breaking the connection, needing to gather your thoughts, to reign in the emotions that threatened to consume you.

"You shouldn't have come," you said, the words sounding harsher than you intended. "It's not… it's complicated."

He sighed, running a hand through his already tousled hair. "I know it's complicated. I'm not stupid. But I don't care about complicated. I care about you."

He pulled out a chair and sat down, his gaze unwavering. The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. You knew you should tell him to leave, to go back to his life, to the expectations and pressures that defined him.

But you couldn’t. The yearning in his eyes, the vulnerability he showed, mirrored the longing that had been buried deep within you for so long.

"My father knows," you blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush. "He knows about… us. And he’s not happy."

Max's jaw tightened. "I figured as much." A muscle twitched in his cheek. "Does he know how long 'us' has been going on?"

You looked down at your hands. "He doesn’t know there is an 'us'."

He chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "Right. Well, that's what you're afraid of. And that's the least of your worries. I'm sure he threatened you. He knows my father as well as anyone, and he'll have made it clear that he wants nothing to do with us."

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "He… he said I couldn't see you. He called you the enemy."

"And you listened?" There was a challenge in his voice, a flicker of the competitive fire that burned so brightly on the track.

You finally looked up, meeting his intense gaze. "No," you said, your voice stronger this time. "I didn't. That's why I'm here."

A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features. The weariness seemed to lift, replaced by a glimmer of hope. "Good," he said, his voice softer now. "Because I don't think I could have handled it if you had."

He’d sought you out, finding you holed up in this anonymous corner of a city far removed from the glitz and glamour of Monaco. A city where you hoped to disappear, to catch your breath after the fallout.

But Max, with his unwavering determination, had a knack for finding you.

“This is crazy, you know,” you said, the small smile on your lips trembling slightly. It was crazy. Everything about this was insane. The clandestine meetings, the stolen moments, the constant fear of discovery. And now, the open defiance of your father’s wishes.

“What’s crazy is you living by yourself this whole time,” Max replied, his voice serious, devoid of the playful banter that usually characterized your interactions.

“Yeah, I’ve been living in a small hotel, a big change from Monaco, right?” you joked, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. But Max remained unsmiling, his focus unwavering.

“Has anyone tried to do something to you?” he asked, a furrow appearing between his brows. The intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. The concern was real.

“Nope, nothing I couldn’t take care of before,” you answered, offering a reassuring smile. “You’re overprotective for someone who is supposed to be my enemy,” you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

“I’m serious,” he said, his voice low, insistent. “This whole situation… your father… it’s not safe. You shouldn’t be alone.”

You sighed, stirring your lukewarm latte with unnecessary force. “I know, I know. But what choice do I have? Staying in Monaco was… unbearable.”

The unspoken words hung heavy between you – the suffocating atmosphere, the judgmental eyes, the constant reminders of the chasm between your world and Max’s. Or, more accurately, between your fathers' worlds.

Silence descended, a pregnant pause filled with unspoken anxieties and desires. Then, Max broke it, his voice a quiet rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

“You could stay with me.”

The words hung in the air, simple yet earth-shattering. You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. Stay with him? Live with him? It was a leap of faith so profound, so reckless, it took your breath away.

“Max…” you began, but he cut you off, his eyes pleading.

“Think about it. You wouldn’t be alone. You'd be safe. And… and I want you to be with me.”

The raw honesty in his voice was disarming, stripping away the layers of cynicism and doubt you had so carefully constructed. The thought of waking up beside him, of sharing your life with him, was a siren song you couldn't ignore.

You swirled the dregs of your latte, avoiding Max’s intense gaze. He’d sought you out, finding you holed up in this anonymous corner of a city far removed from the glitz and glamour of Monaco.

A city where you hoped to disappear, to catch your breath after the fallout. But Max, with his unwavering determination, had a knack for finding you.

"This is crazy, you know," you said, the small smile on your lips trembling slightly.

It was crazy. Everything about this was insane. The clandestine meetings, the stolen moments, the constant fear of discovery. And now, the open defiance of your father’s wishes.

"What’s crazy is you living by yourself this whole time," Max replied, his voice serious, devoid of the playful banter that usually characterized your interactions.

"Yeah, I’ve been living in a small hotel, a big change from Monaco, right?" you joked, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. But Max remained unsmiling, his focus unwavering.

"Has anyone tried to do something to you?" he asked, a furrow appearing between his brows. The intensity in his eyes made your heart skip a beat. The concern was real.

"Nope, nothing I couldn’t take care of before," you answered, offering a reassuring smile. "You’re overprotective for someone who is supposed to be my enemy," you teased, trying to lighten the mood.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice low, insistent. "This whole situation… your father… it’s not safe. You shouldn’t be alone."

You sighed, stirring your lukewarm latte with unnecessary force. "I know, I know. But what choice do I have? Staying in Monaco was… unbearable."

The unspoken words hung heavy between you – the suffocating atmosphere, the judgmental eyes, the constant reminders of the chasm between your world and Max’s. Or, more accurately, between your fathers' worlds.

Silence descended, a pregnant pause filled with unspoken anxieties and desires. Then, Max broke it, his voice a quiet rumble that sent shivers down your spine.

"You could stay with me."

The words hung in the air, simple yet earth-shattering. You stared at him, your breath caught in your throat. Stay with him? Live with him? It was a leap of faith so profound, so reckless, it took your breath away.

"Max…" you began, but he cut you off, his eyes pleading.

"Think about it. You wouldn’t be alone. You'd be safe. And… and I want you to be with me."

The raw honesty in his voice was disarming, stripping away the layers of cynicism and doubt you had so carefully constructed. The thought of waking up beside him, of sharing your life with him, was a siren song you couldn't ignore.

"You don't have to answer now but can we get a meal, I'm starving after driving so long," Max said, breaking the heavy silence.

"I have food in my hotel, if you want," you replied, the offer escaping before you could fully register it. It was a small, hesitant step, a tiny crack in the wall you’d built around yourself.

Max's face softened, a glimmer of hope flickering in his eyes. "Really? Are you sure? I don't want to impose."

"It's just leftovers," you said, trying to downplay the significance. "But it's better than this coffee shop. And cheaper."

He chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Alright, lead the way. But I'm buying dessert later."

The walk back to your hotel was short, the silence less oppressive than it had been at the cafe. You found yourself stealing glances at

Max, noticing the way the afternoon sun caught the golden flecks in his eyes, the slight stubble that shadowed his jaw, the easy confidence in his stride. He was a force of nature, a whirlwind of energy and passion, and you were inexplicably drawn to him, even though every instinct screamed that it was a terrible idea.

Your hotel room was small and functional, a far cry from the opulent suites you were accustomed to.

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you opened the door, revealing the cramped space with its generic furniture and slightly musty smell.

"It's not much," you mumbled, gesturing vaguely around the room.

Max shrugged, unfazed. "It's a place to sleep. I've stayed in worse." He surveyed the room with genuine curiosity, his eyes lingering on the small framed photo on the bedside table – a picture of you and your mother, taken years ago on a sun-drenched summer day.

You busied yourself in the tiny kitchenette, pulling out the containers of leftover pasta from the fridge. "It's just pasta, nothing fancy," you said, your voice muffled.

"Pasta's perfect," Max replied, leaning against the doorway, watching you. "Especially when someone makes it for me."

You felt your cheeks flush again. "I didn't make it. I ordered it from a restaurant."

He laughed, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Details, details. The point is, you're sharing it with me."

As you ate, the conversation flowed more easily. You talked about everything and nothing – the weather, the city, the ridiculousness of the reality TV show playing on the small television.

You avoided the topic of your fathers, of the racing world, of the complicated web of politics and rivalries that had brought you both to this point.

After you finished eating, you started clearing the dishes, but Max stopped you, gently taking the plates from your hands. "Let me do that," he said. "You relax."

You watched him as he washed the dishes in the tiny sink, the water splashing and the sound echoing in the small room. There was something surprisingly domestic about the scene, something that felt both comforting and unsettling.

When he was done, he turned to you, drying his hands on a dish towel. The air in the room suddenly felt thick, charged with an unspoken tension.

"So," he said, his voice low, "about that offer…"

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. "Max, I don't know. It's… a lot to consider."

"I know it is," he said, taking a step closer, his eyes searching yours. "But I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was the right thing. For both of us."

You closed your eyes, trying to block out the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. Fear, doubt, longing, hope – they all battled for dominance.

"My father would kill me," you whispered, the words barely audible.

"He won't have to know," Max said, his voice soft. "We can keep it our secret. For as long as we need to."

The idea was tempting, dangerously so. A secret life, hidden away from the prying eyes of the world, where you could be with Max without fear of judgment or reprisal.

But the thought of deceiving your father, of living a lie, weighed heavily on you. "I don't know if I can do that," you said, opening your eyes and meeting his gaze.

Max's expression was unreadable. "Then what do you want to do?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You didn't know. You wanted to run away, to escape the suffocating pressure of your life. You wanted to be with Max, to explore the connection that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

But you were afraid. Afraid of the consequences, afraid of the pain, afraid of the inevitable heartbreak that seemed to follow you everywhere.

You stepped back, putting some distance between you. "I need time to think," you said, your voice trembling.

Max nodded slowly, his eyes filled with understanding. "I know. Just… don't take too long. I don't want to lose you."

He took another step closer, closing the gap between you. You could feel his breath on your face, see the flecks of gold in his eyes, smell the faint scent of his cologne.

"The problem is," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "if I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

The air crackled with electricity. You knew he was right. One kiss, one touch, and you'd be lost. You'd surrender to the desire that had been building between you for months, and there would be no turning back.

You closed your eyes again, bracing yourself for the inevitable. But instead of kissing you, Max stepped back, his face etched with a mixture of longing and restraint.

"I should go," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'll let you think."

He turned and walked towards the door, leaving you standing alone in the small hotel room, your heart pounding, your mind reeling, and your body aching for a touch that you knew you couldn't afford to have.

The scent of him lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the choice you had to make, of the path you had to choose, and of the dangerous, irresistible man who was waiting for you on the other side.

You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that your life would never be the same again. . . .

The sudden buzz of the hotel room door jolted you from your introspection, the muffled sound piercing the quietude that had settled over the space like a warm, velvet shroud.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart fluttering like a caged bird at the thought of seeing Max again. Two days had felt like an eternity, and you hadn't been able to shake the feeling that something was amiss. The buzz grew more insistent, and you realized you'd been holding your breath.

With a soft exhale, you approached the door, peeking through the peephole to confirm your suspicion. There he was, Max Verstappen, his frame slightly hunched as if he were carrying an invisible burden.

You swung the door open, the cool metal handle smooth against your palm, and took in the sight of him. Your eyes widened in alarm. Max looked as if he had been through a storm, his usually impeccable hair disheveled and his clothes rumpled, but it was the bruise blossoming on his left cheek that truly concerned you.

"Max! What happened!" you exclaimed, reaching for him, your voice a symphony of worry and relief. He stumbled forward, his eyes hazed with pain, and you caught him before he could collapse, the weight of his body a comforting presence that sent a rush of adrenaline through your veins.

With gentle insistence, you guided him to the plush couch that dominated the room, the soft fabric whispering against his skin as he sank into the cushions. He winced slightly, and you couldn't help but notice the way his muscles tensed beneath his shirt.

"Nothing happened," he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the air, thick with unshed emotion.

But the tremor in his words was a telltale sign of his distress, and you knew better than to take his dismissal at face value.

"Max," you said firmly, kneeling in front of him and placing your hands on his knees. The fabric of his trousers was rough against your palms, grounding you in the reality of the moment.

You searched his eyes, willing him to open up to you. "You can tell me." His gaze flicked to the floor, a silent confession of his vulnerability.

"My father…" he began, his voice cracking. "He hit me after I told him I was coming to see you today." The words hung between you, heavy with the unspoken implications of his actions and the price he'd paid for you two.

Your chest tightened with a mix of anger and fear for Max, but you pushed the feelings aside, focusing instead on the warmth of his body so near to yours.

"Why?" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. His eyes met yours, the turmoil in his eyes a tempest that you desperately wanted to soothe.

"He doesn't approve," Max said, his jaw clenching. "But that's never stopped me before." A hint of defiance flashed in his eyes, and you felt a spark of admiration for his courage.

The silence stretched, a taut bowstring drawn between you both. The air grew thick with unspoken desire, and the space between you seemed to shrink until it was nothing more than a whisper.

You wanted to reach out, to trace the line of his jaw, to brush the hair from his forehead, to tell him everything would be alright. But you couldn't find the courage.

"I'll go get a first aid kit," you muttered, breaking the spell and standing abruptly.

You practically fled to the bathroom, grabbing the familiar box from under the sink. Your hands trembled as you opened it, the sterile scent of antiseptic doing little to calm your nerves.

You took a deep breath, trying to regain control, and walked back into the living room.

You returned with the familiar red and white box, the scent of antiseptic and sterile gauze a stark contrast to the intoxicating aroma of Max's aftershave that still lingered in the air.

He was lying back just as you'd left him, legs splayed slightly, a picture of vulnerable masculinity. A wave of protectiveness washed over you, eclipsing the earlier anxiety.

You walked between his legs, a move that felt both intimate and practical, and gently tapped his shoulder. "Max, wake up," you murmured, your voice soft.

He stirred, his eyes fluttering open, heavy-lidded and unfocused for a moment. He sat up slowly, wincing almost imperceptibly, and instinctively placed his hand on the side of your leg, a light, possessive touch.

"Yes, schat?" he asked gently, his voice thick with sleep and something else you couldn't quite decipher.

The word, Dutch for "treasure," sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to ignore the way your skin prickled under his touch, focusing instead on the task at hand. "I've got the first aid kit. Let's take a look, okay?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes meeting yours, searching, questioning. "It's nothing, really. Just… a bit sore."

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Let me be the judge of that." You knelt before him, opening the kit and carefully laying out the contents: antiseptic wipes, bandages, gauze pads, and pain relievers.

"Where are the worst spots?" you asked, your voice professional, though your heart hammered against your ribs.

He hesitated, then unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt, revealing a faint bruise blossoming on his chest. You gasped softly, your fingers tracing the edges of the discoloration.

"He didn't hold back, did he?" you whispered, your voice laced with anger.

Max shrugged, trying to downplay the severity of the situation. "It's fine. I've had worse."

"That's not the point," you retorted, your voice sharper than you intended. You softened your tone, looking back up at him. "Let me clean it up. And then we can talk."

He sighed, relenting. "Alright."

You carefully cleaned the bruise with an antiseptic wipe, watching his face for any sign of pain. He remained stoic, his gaze fixed on your hands as they moved with gentle precision. The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken emotions.

Once you finished cleaning the bruise, you applied a thin layer of antiseptic cream and covered it with a bandage. "There," you said, stepping back to admire your work. "That should help."

Max looked down at the bandage, then back up at you. "Thank you," he said softly.

You met his gaze, and the air crackled with tension. You knew you couldn't ignore the elephant in the room any longer. "Why, Max? Why do you keep coming here, knowing what it costs you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because I want to," he said simply. "Because being with you… it's worth it."

"But is it really?" you pressed, your voice laced with doubt. "Is it worth the pain, the conflict, the disapproval of your family?"

He reached out and took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours. His touch was warm, grounding, reassuring. "Yes," he said firmly. "It is. Because you make me happy. You make me feel… alive. And I don't want to give that up."

His words resonated with a raw honesty that tugged at your heart. You wanted to believe him, wanted to believe that your connection was strong enough to withstand the forces pulling you apart.

"I worry about you, Max," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want you to get hurt because of me."

He squeezed your hand, his eyes filled with concern. "I know. But I can handle it. I'm a racing driver, remember? I'm used to taking risks."

You managed a weak smile. "That's not exactly reassuring."

He chuckled softly, the sound a welcome relief in the tense atmosphere. He pulled you closer, his gaze fixed on your lips. The air grew thick with anticipation.

It was a dangerous game you were playing, one that threatened to consume you both.

"I… I don't think we should see each other," you muttered, your hand instinctively reaching up to play with the soft strands of hair at the nape of his neck.

The words felt like shards of glass in your mouth, each syllable a betrayal of your own desires.

"And why is that, schat?" he slowly smiled, his Dutch accent thickening with playful provocation. He rubbed the side of your thighs, the simple gesture sending shivers down your spine.

"Because you're getting hurt because of me," you replied, knowing it was a weak argument, but all you could manage.

"For you? I'll do anything," Max said, moving closer, his breath ghosting across your lips.

He was so close, you could see the flecks of the ocean in his blue eyes, the tiny scar above his left eyebrow, a memento from his karting days.

You knew you should pull away, end this before it went any further, but you were frozen, caught in his magnetic pull.

He raised his head, his lips hovering just above yours. "I wasn't joking," he whispered, his voice husky and low. "If I kissed you, I don't think I'd be able to stop."

Your heart hammered against your ribs, threatening to break free. The world seemed to narrow, focusing only on him, on the anticipation that was building inside you. You knew he was right.

One kiss, and you'd be lost, spiraling further into this forbidden love affair.

"Maybe that's the problem," you whispered back, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, his eyes searching yours. "What is?"

"That I don't want you to stop," you admitted, the truth spilling out like a confession.

A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, heart-stopping smile that made you forget all the reasons why this shouldn't be happening. He lowered his head and finally, his lips met yours.

The kiss was electric, a jolt of pure energy that coursed through your veins. It was possessive, demanding, and utterly intoxicating.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, surrendering to the moment, to the overwhelming desire that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long.

Time seemed to dissolve as the kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more desperate. He tasted of rain and adrenaline, of the forbidden thrill that defined your relationship. You ran your fingers through his hair, savoring the feel of it against your skin.

He pulled away slightly, gasping for air, his eyes dark with passion. "See?" he murmured, his voice raspy. "Told you."

You laughed breathlessly, the sound filled with a mixture of joy and apprehension. "You're impossible," you said, shaking your head.

"Maybe," he conceded, his eyes twinkling. "But you love it."

You couldn't deny it. You loved the danger, the excitement, the feeling of being completely alive when you were with him. But you also feared it. The consequences of your actions loomed large, threatening to crash down on you both.

"What are we going to do, Max?" you asked, the question heavy with uncertainty.

He sighed, his expression turning serious. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm not giving you up. Not without a fight."

He pulled you close again, burying his face in your hair. "Tonight," he murmured, "forget everything else. Just be with me."

You knew it was a temporary solution, a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. But in that moment, with his arms wrapped around you, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, your love was strong enough to overcome the obstacles in its path.

The roar of the Formula 1 engines rumbled in the distance, a constant reminder of the world he belonged to, the world that was waiting for him.

He needed to leave, to go and fight, to drive the best race of his life.

You pulled away and looked in his eyes. “Go. Win. I’ll be watching.”

He smiles, a genuine smile that reaches his eyes. “For you, I will.”

He kissed you once more, a quick but passionate kiss before turning and disappearing into the night. As you closed the door, you leaned against it, your heart pounding in your chest.

You knew this couldn't last forever.

But for tonight, you would allow yourself to dream, to believe in the impossible, and to hope that somehow, against all odds, your love story would have a happy ending. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Lose my Mind

Summary: “The way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.”

Song: SWIM · Chase Atlantic

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! Also please follow for more! 🫶

Word count: 2.7k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, pressing against you both as you navigated the throng outside the Mann's Chinese Theatre.

Flashbulbs popped like distant fireworks, momentarily blinding, and the excited chatter of reporters and fans alike created a chaotic symphony. You clung to Charles' arm, the tailored fabric of his suit a reassuring anchor in the storm.

He was devastatingly handsome tonight. The dark suit sculpted to his lean frame, a crisp white shirt peeking from beneath, the way his hair was styled just so... It was all conspiring to make your heart pound a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

This was the premiere of Gladiator, a film he'd been anticipating for years, and you were thrilled to share this moment with him. But beneath the shared excitement, a different kind of thrill thrummed within you, a raw, undeniable desire that threatened to consume you whole.

You'd always found Charles attractive, of course. That was a given. But seeing him amidst this swirling vortex of Hollywood glamour, bathed in the adoring light of the paparazzi, somehow amplified everything.

He wasn’t just your boyfriend; he was a star, a magnet, and you, lucky you, were the one holding his hand.

He turned to you, his smile warm and genuine, cutting through the noise. “Alright, you holding up okay?”

“Perfect,” you managed, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just trying to avoid getting trampled.”

He chuckled, his hand tightening on yours. “Don’t worry, I won’t let that happen.” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “You look incredible tonight, by the way. That dress is… wow.”

The simple compliment sent a wave of heat washing over you. You’d chosen the crimson silk gown specifically because you knew he liked it.

It clung to your curves in all the right places, a subtle declaration of your own desire. “Thank you,” you murmured, suddenly feeling acutely aware of the weight of his gaze.

Inside the theatre, the atmosphere was only marginally less intense. You were ushered to your seats, a pair of plush velvet chairs near the middle of the auditorium.

Charles greeted a few acquaintances, his charm effortless as he exchanged pleasantries.

You watched him, your eyes tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead. You couldn’t help it. He was captivating.

As the lights dimmed and the opening credits rolled, you tried to focus on the film. But your attention kept drifting back to Charles.

You could feel his presence beside you, the subtle shift of his weight as he moved, the faint scent of his cologne. It was a constant, tantalizing distraction.

You glanced at him again, this time catching him staring back at you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something deeper, something that made your pulse quicken. You looked away quickly, your cheeks burning.

The film was epic, a sweeping tale of betrayal, courage, and redemption. The action sequences were brutal, the emotional moments raw and powerful.

But even as you were drawn into the story, you were acutely aware of Charles’ hand resting on your thigh, a casual yet deliberate gesture that sent shivers down your spine.

The tension between you two was building, a silent, electric current that crackled in the air. You knew he felt it too.

The evidence was in the way he kept glancing at you, the way his hand subtly tightened on your leg, the way his breath hitched almost imperceptibly when your eyes met.

During a particularly intense scene, you felt his fingers begin to gently massage your thigh. It was a small, innocent touch, but it sent a jolt of pure sensation through you.

You sucked in a breath, your body responding instantly, instinctively.

He must have felt it, because he leaned in close again, his voice a low murmur that only you could hear. “Enjoying the movie?”

You swallowed hard, trying to regain your composure. “Yes,” you managed, your voice barely a whisper. “It’s… intense.”

“Intense,” he echoed, his eyes fixed on yours. “That’s one word for it.” His gaze lingered on your lips, and you felt your own parting slightly in anticipation.

After the movie ended, the applause was deafening. People rose to their feet, cheering and clapping, their faces flushed with excitement. You and Charles joined in, but your attention remained focused on each other.

As you made your way out of the theatre, he kept his arm around your waist, guiding you through the crowd. The press was waiting outside, eager to capture the reactions of the stars.

Charles stopped to answer a few questions, his smile still in place, his demeanor effortlessly charming.

You stood beside him, trying to look composed, but inside you were a mess of conflicting emotions. You wanted to be alone with him, to shed the pretense of the evening and give in to the desire that was consuming you. But you also knew that wasn't possible, not here, not now.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you were able to escape the throng and slip into the waiting car. Charles closed the door behind you, shutting out the noise and the lights, creating a small, private sanctuary.

He turned to you, his expression serious. “You were very quiet during the movie,” he said, his voice low.

You hesitated, unsure of how to answer. “I… I was enjoying it,” you stammered. “But I was also… distracted.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Distracted, huh? By what?”

You took a deep breath, deciding to be honest. “By you,” you admitted. “You looked… incredible tonight.”

His smile widened, and he reached out to gently cup your face in his hands. “And you looked absolutely breathtaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Me neither,” you confessed, your voice barely audible.

He leaned in closer, his lips hovering just above yours. “Do you know,” he whispered, “the way your eyes get darker when you get aroused, is making me lose my mind.”

Your breath hitched. He had noticed. He had seen past the façade, recognized the desire that you were trying so hard to conceal.

“Charles,” you breathed, your voice trembling.

He kissed you then, a slow, tender kiss that sent a wave of pure pleasure through you. It was a kiss that spoke of longing, of desire, of a connection that ran deeper than words.

When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless. He looked at you, his eyes dark and intense. “What do you want to do?” he asked, his voice husky.

The possibilities swirled through your mind, a dizzying array of choices. You could go home with him, surrender to the desire that had been building all night. You could prolong the anticipation, savor the tension, and see where the night took you.

You looked into his eyes, searching for an answer. You saw desire there, yes, but also something else, something deeper. Respect. Understanding. A willingness to let you choose.

”I…” you started, unsure of what to say. You needed to think, to process everything that had happened, to decide what you truly wanted.

The limousine pulled up to your apartment building. Charles looked at you expectantly. The moment of truth had arrived.

You took a deep breath, a small smile playing on your lips. “Let’s go upstairs,” you said, your voice filled with a newfound confidence. “And we can talk.”

The elevator ride to your apartment was agonizingly slow, each second stretching out like a taut wire. You could feel the heat radiating from Charles' body as he stood behind you, his hands resting lightly on your hips. His breath was warm against your neck, sending delicious little tingles down your spine.

"I've missed this," he murmured, his voice a gentle rumble that seemed to resonate through every inch of you.

As the elevator doors finally slid open, you led him down the hallway, your heels clicking against the tiles. The anticipation grew with every step, until you could feel it as a palpable force, a heady cocktail of desire and nerves.

Once inside your apartment, you turned to face him, your heart hammering in your chest. "You know what I've been thinking about?" you asked, your voice a little breathless.

"I might have an idea," he said with a smirk, his eyes dancing with mischief.

You stepped closer, pressing your body against his. "I want you to make me feel alive," you whispered, your voice a soft caress against his cheek.

His smile grew wider, his eyes darkening. "Is that all?"

"No," you said, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I want you to make me forget everything else. Just for tonight."

He didn't need further prompting. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, his mouth descending to claim yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a kiss that spoke of two years of pent-up passion, of late-night fantasies and stolen moments.

As his tongue slipped between your parted lips, you felt your knees go weak. His hands began to explore, gliding over your curves with a confidence that was as thrilling as it was terrifying.

You could feel his desire, hard and insistent against your thigh, and a pulse of need bloomed between your legs.

You broke the kiss, gasping for air, and he took the opportunity to trail kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin. "Take off your dress," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.

You complied, letting the fabric pool at your feet. His eyes raked over you, taking in the sight of your lace lingerie and the way your body reacted to his touch.

His gaze was like a physical caress, making you feel exposed and vulnerable, yet somehow more powerful than you had ever felt before.

You reached for the buttons of his tuxedo, your fingers fumbling with the tiny teeth. He stepped back, allowing you to admire the way the material parted, revealing his broad chest and the flat plane of his stomach.

He shrugged off the jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and then helped you with the rest, until he was standing before you in nothing but his boxer briefs.

You stepped closer again, running your hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the thud of his heart beneath your palms. His hands found the clasp of your bra, and with a deft twist, it fell away, leaving your breasts bare to his hungry gaze.

He bent down to kiss one, then the other, his tongue swirling around your nipples until they were tight and aching.

You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. His hands moved to your hips, sliding the fabric of your underwear down until it joined your discarded clothing.

Now you were both naked, standing in the dimly lit apartment, your bodies pressed together as if trying to become one.

He picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, and carried you to the bedroom. The journey was short but seemed to last an eternity, every step sending a new wave of sensation crashing through you.

He laid you down on the bed, the softness of the comforter a stark contrast to the urgent need that pulsed between you.

The months without sex had been a torturous dance of self-control and frustration, dictated by the relentless pace of his Formula 1 career.

The endless travel, the training, the pressure to perform had kept him away from you, leaving only stolen glances and passionate whispers over the phone to sustain the flame of your desire.

Now, with his racing suit a memory and the scent of his cologne filling the room, you were acutely aware of every inch of skin that had been denied for so long. His kisses grew more urgent, his hands more insistent, and you couldn’t help but arch into him, desperate to feel the weight of him above you.

He slid his hand down your stomach, teasing the dampness between your thighs, and you bit your lip to hold back a whimper. His touch was like a brand, marking you as his once again, and you felt your body responding, eager and willing.

As he positioned himself between your legs, you felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. The months of abstinence had made you both ravenous for each other, and the anticipation was almost too much to bear.

With a gentle nudge, he entered you, filling the emptiness that had haunted you for too long.

You gasped, your nails digging into his back as he began to move, slowly at first, as if reacquainting himself with the rhythm that was so familiar yet so long lost.

Each stroke was like a promise, a reminder of the connection that had been denied by the unforgiving calendar of F1. Your bodies melded together, moving as one, the friction creating a delicious heat that threatened to consume you both.

You met his gaze, the intensity of his eyes reflecting the depth of your need. "I love you," you murmured, the words a whispered benediction that seemed to unlock something within him.

He responded with a deep, guttural groan, his movements becoming more forceful, his hips driving into you with a passion that was almost violent in its intensity.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with the desperate sounds of pleasure that you couldn’t hold back.

The orgasm built within you, a crescendo of sensation that started in your core and radiated outward, making your toes curl and your vision swim. When it crashed over you, it was like nothing you had ever experienced before, a wave of pleasure that seemed to go on forever.

As you lay there, panting and spent, his body still joined with yours, you felt a tear slip down your cheek. It was a release of emotion that had been dammed up for too long, a testament to the power of this moment.

He kissed it away, his lips tender against your skin. "I love you too," he whispered. "And I promise, it won't be another few months before I make you feel like this again."

In that moment, the world outside your bedroom ceased to exist.

The only thing that mattered was the love and passion that bound you together, the promise of a future filled with moments just like this one. . . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Distract You

Summary: FC43 + "Let me distract you."

Song: The Boy Is Mine · Brandy & Monica

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The fluorescent light of your desk lamp hummed, a monotonous soundtrack to the chaos of papers spread before you. The looming university exam felt like a monstrous wave about to crash over you, threatening to drag you under the weight of differential equations and historical dates.

You chewed on the end of your pen, the taste of plastic doing little to soothe the gnawing anxiety in your stomach. Another practice problem stared back at you, mocking your inability to solve it for the tenth time.

You were determined, bordering on stubborn. This exam was everything. Good grades meant a scholarship, the scholarship meant a future, and you were not about to compromise.

Sleep was a luxury, socializing a distant memory, and food something hastily scarfed down between chapters.

A soft knock echoed through your small apartment. You ignored it, willing the person to go away. But the knocking persisted, growing more insistent.

"Just a minute!" you snapped, your voice tight with frustration. You reluctantly pushed back your chair, the screech against the wooden floor grating on your already frayed nerves.

You yanked the door open to find Franco standing there, a goofy grin plastered on his face. He was Argentinian, a whirlwind of warmth and chaotic energy who had somehow become your best friend.

He was sunshine on legs, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside you.

"Hola, estrella!" he greeted you, his accent thick and comforting. "Mind if I intrude on your scholarly pursuits?"

"Franco, I told you, I'm studying," you said, your voice sharper than you intended. "I really can't afford any distractions right now."

His smile faltered slightly, but he quickly recovered. He held up a brown paper bag. "I come bearing gifts! Alfajores and Argentine coffee. Figured you could use a little… fueling up."

You hesitated. The aroma of the sweet cookies and rich coffee was undeniably tempting. Your stomach rumbled in protest against the constant diet of instant noodles and stale crackers.

"Franco…" you started, then sighed. "I really shouldn't. Every minute counts."

"Every minute of staring at these dusty books is making you crazy," he countered, his eyes twinkling. "Come on, let's take a break. Just fifteen minutes. For your sanity, if not for me."

He edged his way past you, placing the bag on your cluttered desk. He surveyed the scene with a concerned frown. "Dios mio, this looks like a battlefield. You haven't slept, have you?"

"Sleep is for the weak," you mumbled, turning back to your desk.

He chuckled. "Says the woman who’s about to faint from exhaustion. Look, I get it. You’re stressed. But burning yourself out isn’t going to help. Let me distract you."

You wanted to argue, to shove him out the door and bury yourself back in your books. But the truth was, you were teetering on the edge of a breakdown. The pressure was suffocating, and Franco, with his easy laughter and genuine concern, was a welcome lifeline.

"Fifteen minutes," you conceded, pointing a finger at him. "And then you leave. No arguments."

"Deal!" He clapped his hands together, his enthusiasm infectious. He poured you a cup of coffee, the dark liquid steaming in the dim light. He unwrapped an alfajor, the sweet dulce de leche oozing from between the two delicate cookies.

You took a tentative sip of the coffee, the rich flavor instantly melting away some of the tension in your shoulders. You bit into the alfajor, the sweetness a comforting balm to your frayed nerves.

"Okay," you said, your voice slightly softer. "You have my attention. Distract me."

Franco grinned, settling onto the edge of your bed. "So, tell me about this exam. What's got you so freaked out?"

You hesitated, then found yourself pouring out your anxieties, explaining the importance of the scholarship, the pressure to succeed, the fear of failing.

Franco listened patiently, nodding occasionally, his eyes filled with understanding.

"You're putting too much pressure on yourself," he said gently when you finally ran out of steam. "You're smart, you're dedicated. You'll do fine."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered. "You're an f1 driver. You don't have to worry about things like scholarships and GPAs."

"That's true," he conceded. "But I have my own stresses, you know? Driving fast, not crashing… it's not always a picnic." He paused, then a mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.

"But that’s not the point! The point is, you need to relax. Come on, tell me something fun. What’s been making you laugh lately?"

You thought for a moment. It was hard to remember the last time you had truly laughed, but you forced yourself to think. "Okay, well, Mrs. Peterson in accounting tripped over a box in the hallway the other day and landed in a pile of paperwork. It was… kind of funny."

Franco chuckled. "See? There's still joy in the world! Now, tell me something else. Something…spicier."

You blushed, suddenly aware of how close he was sitting. You'd known Franco for years, but lately, something had shifted. The comfortable friendship was tinged with a new awareness, a fluttering in your stomach whenever he was near.

You had feelings for him, ridiculous, inconvenient feelings that you had been desperately trying to ignore.

"Um… I don't know," you stammered, suddenly flustered.

He raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Oh, come on. There must be something. A cute guy in your history class? A scandalous rumor about the dean?"

You bit your lip, your heart pounding in your chest. "There's… someone," you admitted softly. "But it's complicated."

"Complicated how?" he asked, his voice suddenly serious.

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "He's… a friend. A really good friend. And I don't want to ruin our friendship."

"Ah," Franco said softly. "I see."

An awkward silence hung in the air, broken only by the ticking of the clock. You knew you had to say something, to break the tension.

"Okay, time's up," you said, standing abruptly. "Fifteen minutes is over. Back to the books."

Franco stood as well, his expression unreadable. He picked up the empty coffee cup and the paper bag. "Alright. But promise me you'll take a real break tonight. Watch a movie, listen to music, something. Don't let this exam consume you."

"I promise," you lied, knowing full well you would probably be studying until dawn.

He walked towards the door, then paused, turning back to you. "Estrella," he said, his voice low. "Don't be afraid to take a chance. Sometimes, the best things in life are worth risking a little discomfort for."

He left, leaving you standing in your messy apartment, your head spinning. His words echoed in your mind, a confusing mix of encouragement and… something else.

You tried to focus on your studies, but Franco's face kept flashing in your mind. You replayed the conversation, analyzing every word, every gesture.

Was he hinting at something? Was he aware of your feelings? Or were you just reading too much into everything?

Hours passed, filled with more equations and historical dates, but your concentration was shot. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were missing something, that you were so focused on the future that you were ignoring the present.

The present, which included a certain Argentinian with a captivating smile and a heart of gold.

Finally, exhaustion won. You pushed back from your desk, your eyes burning, your head throbbing. You knew you couldn't study anymore, not tonight.

You grabbed your phone and scrolled through your contacts, your finger hovering over Franco's name.

What would you say? What could you say?

You took a deep breath and typed a simple message: "Movie tonight?"

The reply came almost instantly: "Pick you up in ten?"

A smile spread across your face. Maybe, just maybe, Franco was right. Maybe it was time to take a chance. Maybe, just maybe, something beautiful could bloom from the chaos of your life.

Maybe a little distraction was exactly what you needed, not just from your studies, but from the fear that had been holding you back for so long.

And as you waited for him, you realized that the biggest exam you were facing wasn't the one in your textbooks, but the one in your heart.

What had possessed you to ask him to the movies? You were a sleep-deprived, stressed-out student, and he… he was Franco. Argentinian, effortlessly cool, and possessed of a smile that could melt glaciers. What could he possibly see in you?

You splashed some water on your face, trying to look at least marginally more alive.

Ten minutes later, a gentle knock echoed through the apartment. You smoothed down your hair, took another deep breath, and opened the door.

Franco stood there, his smile even brighter than before. He was wearing a worn leather jacket and a simple white t-shirt that somehow looked impossibly stylish on him.

He had a small bouquet of vibrant sunflowers in his hand. “Ready for some movie magic, Estrella?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Ready.”

He led you downstairs and into his new charming, vintage car. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something indefinably him. As he drove, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him.

The streetlights cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the curve of his jaw and the sparkle in his eyes.

“So,” you said, trying to sound casual, “what are we seeing?”

“Ah, that’s a surprise,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye. “But I promise you, it’s something you’ll enjoy.”

He pulled up to a small, independent cinema that you had never noticed before. The marquee was advertising a classic Argentinian film, "El Secreto de Sus Ojos."

“Franco,” you said, surprised, “this is… perfect.”

He grinned. “I thought you might like it. It's a bit of home, for me. And maybe a chance for you to see a little bit of my world.”

Inside, the cinema was cozy and dimly lit, smelling faintly of popcorn and old velvet. You settled into the worn seats, the anticipation buzzing between you. As the opening credits rolled, Franco leaned close and whispered, "Get ready. This is a masterpiece."

And it was. The movie was captivating, a complex and emotional story of love, loss, and justice set against the backdrop of Argentina's turbulent past.

You found yourself completely absorbed, forgetting about your exams and your anxieties. The subtitles flew by, but you barely noticed, caught in the raw emotion and the stunning visuals.

You glanced at Franco. He was completely engrossed, his face illuminated by the flickering light of the screen. A small smile played on his lips as he watched, a nostalgic warmth radiating from him.

You felt a connection to him, a sense of understanding that went beyond friendship. But the week of sleepless nights and caffeine pills caught up with you, and your eyelids started to droop.

The rhythmic dialogue, the soft darkness of the cinema, it was all too much. You found yourself drifting off, your head instinctively tilting towards Franco's shoulder.

The last thing you remembered was the comforting solidity of his presence beside you before you succumbed to sleep.

You woke up slowly, disoriented. The movie was still playing, but the credits were rolling. The theater was mostly empty, the only other occupants a couple huddled in the back row.

You blinked, trying to shake off the grogginess. Franco's hand was on your shoulder, rubbing it slowly and gently. His coat was draped over you.

He was whispering something in Spanish, his voice low and laced with concern.

"... Mi vida, tienes que cuidarte. Te amo demasiado para que te tires por la borda."

"What?" you muttered, your voice thick with sleep.

Franco froze. His hand stilled on your shoulder. His eyes widened slightly, a flicker of panic crossing his face. He seemed to realize that you were awake and had heard him.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the final strains of the movie's score.

"What did you say?" you asked again, your heart pounding in your chest.

He cleared his throat, his gaze darting away from yours. "I… I was just saying you should take care of yourself. You look tired. The exams… they are hard. You have to rest."

His explanation sounded rushed, unconvincing. You knew he was hiding something. The words he had spoken in Spanish, the tenderness in his voice, the look on his face – it all pointed to something more than just concern.

"No," you said, shaking your head. "Before that. You said something else. In Spanish."

He sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "It was nothing. Just… worry."

"Franco," you said, your voice soft but firm. "Tell me."

He looked at you, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of vulnerability and something else you couldn't quite decipher. He hesitated, then seemed to make a decision.

"Okay," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I said… 'My life, you better take care of yourself, I love you too much for you to throw yourself away.'"

The words hung in the air, electric and undeniable. Your breath caught in your throat. You stared at him, your mind reeling.

"You… you love me?" you managed to stammer.

He looked down, his cheeks flushed, the color contrasting starkly with his olive skin. He picked at a loose thread on his jeans. "Yes," he said, his voice low, almost ashamed. "It's stupid, I know. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Stupid? Why stupid?" you asked, bewildered. A thousand questions swirled in your head, but that one felt the most pressing.

He finally looked up at you again, his eyes filled with a raw honesty that made your stomach flip. "Because… because nothing can come of it, right? You're you. You're… magnificent. And I'm just… me."

You frowned. "Franco, that's ridiculous. You're amazing."

"Yeah, amazing at fixing your broken laptop and translating confusing Spanish homework," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Not exactly boyfriend material."

"That's not true!" you protested, the words bursting out of you before you could even think. "You're kind, you're funny, you're incredibly smart… and you're always there for me. That’s more than I can say for most people."

He looked at you, searching your face for any sign of insincerity. "But... we're friends. Best friends. I didn't want to ruin that."

"And you thought blurting out a declaration of undying love in a near-empty movie theater was the best way to preserve our friendship?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to inject some levity into the situation.

He winced. "Okay, maybe the timing wasn't ideal." He paused, then added, "And maybe... maybe I hoped you felt something too. It just kind of… slipped out."

You looked away, your own emotions a tangled knot in your chest. You had always valued Franco’s friendship, relied on it even.

He was your rock in a sea of uncertainty, the one person who always understood you, who always knew how to make you laugh, even when you felt like crying.

But romance? Had you ever considered him in that way?

A memory surfaced, unbidden: a late-night study session in his tiny apartment, the air thick with the smell of coffee and burnt toast. You were huddled together on his worn couch, poring over textbooks, his arm brushing against yours.

You had felt a spark then, a fleeting awareness of him as something more than just a friend. But you had dismissed it, chalking it up to stress and sleep deprivation.

"I... I don't know what to say," you finally admitted, the honesty feeling like a weight lifted from your shoulders. "I'm just… surprised. I never thought…"

"I know," he said softly, interrupting you. "And that's okay. You don't have to say anything. Just… forget I said anything, if that's what you want. We can just go back to being friends."

The thought of going back to how things were, pretending this hadn't happened, felt unbearable. You didn't want to lose his friendship, but the idea of ignoring this newfound truth, of burying your own feelings, felt even worse.

"That's the thing, Franco," you said, turning back to him, your voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think I can just forget it."

He looked at you, hope flickering in his eyes. "So… you're saying… maybe…" He trailed off, afraid to voice his expectations.

You took a deep breath. "I'm saying that you're not just my friend, Franco. You're… you're important to me. And maybe, just maybe, there could be something more."

You hesitated, then admitted the truth that had been slowly dawning on you. "I think… I think I might love you, too."

His eyes widened, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Really? You mean it?"

You nodded, a nervous smile mirroring his. "Really."

He reached out and took your hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "I've been in love with you for years," he confessed, his voice thick with emotion. "Ever since you helped me move into my first apartment and accidentally dropped that box of mate all over the floor."

You laughed, remembering the incident vividly. "I was so embarrassed! You just laughed and made me a cup."

"How could I not? You looked so horrified," he said, squeezing your hand. "That's when I knew. You're clumsy, and a little bit chaotic, but you have the biggest heart of anyone I know."

"And you're stubborn, and you always think you're right, but you're the most loyal and supportive person in the world," you countered, playfully nudging his shoulder.

A comfortable silence fell between you, filled only with the unspoken emotions that had finally found their way to the surface. The theater emptied around you, the cleaning crew beginning to sweep the aisles, but you didn't notice.

You were lost in each other's gaze, the world outside fading away.

"So… what now?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Franco grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Now? Now, I think we need a proper Argentinian date. Empanadas, dulce de leche, maybe even some tango lessons."

"Tango lessons? That's a little ambitious, don't you think?" you teased.

"Only if you don't trust my lead," he retorted, winking. "Besides, I'm sure I can convince my abuela to give us a few private lessons. She's a tango queen."

"Okay, okay, you've convinced me," you said, laughing. "But if I step on your toes, don't say I didn't warn you."

He stood up, pulling you up with him. "Come on," he said, his hand still holding yours. "Let's get out of here. I know a place that makes the best empanadas in the city."

As you walked out of the theater, hand in hand, the city lights seemed to shine a little brighter, the air felt a little warmer.

The world, which had always felt familiar and comfortable with Franco by your side, now felt vibrant and full of possibilities. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

My Darling

Summary: Out of all the things George says over the years, there's one word that still makes you blush.

Song: Earned It · The Weeknd

Author’s note: THANK YOU FOR THE 1K FOLLOWERS!! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 6.3k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the engine vibrates through your chest, a familiar feeling that settles you even amidst the pre-race jitters. The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final race of the season. Another year you’ve spent on the edge of your seat, watching George chase his dream.

You adjust your headset, the noise-cancelling mufflers doing little to completely silence the cacophony of the paddock. He's starting P3 today. A good position. A position where anything can happen.

You've known George Russell since you were awkward teenagers, navigating the minefield of secondary school. He was the lanky, perpetually energetic kid obsessed with karting, and you were the quiet one, buried in books and content to observe from the sidelines.

He dragged you into his world, fuelled by passion and the unwavering belief that he was destined for greatness. He was right, of course.

Now, standing in the Mercedes garage, surrounded by a whirlwind of mechanics and engineers, you feel a surge of pride, so potent it almost makes you dizzy. He’s come so far.

Your focus snaps back as George's voice crackles through your headset. "…and then, darling, I told Toto that the balance felt a little off in turn 7. We made some adjustments, and it's feeling much better now."

Darling.

That single word, so casually dropped, still manages to send a jolt of electricity through you. It always has. It's a habit of his, a comfortable term of endearment he seems to bestow on everyone from his mother to the team's catering staff. But when he says it to you, it feels different. Warmer. More intimate.

You swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. "Good to hear. Just focus on the start, George. You've got this." You manage to say, hoping your voice doesn't betray your inner turmoil.

"Always do, darling. Always do." He chuckles, and the sound sends another shiver down your spine. "See you after the race."

The line goes dead, and you let out a shaky breath. You hate this. Hated the way one simple word could throw you off balance.

You grab your clipboard, feigning interest in the tyre strategy, desperately trying to regain your composure.

The race unfolds in a blur of adrenaline and anxiety. You watch, heart hammering against your ribs, as George battles for position, expertly navigating the tight corners and high-speed straights.

Every overtake, every defensive move, sends a wave of relief or panic washing over you. He finishes second. A great result.

Later, after the post-race interviews and the podium celebrations, you find him in the cool-down room, towelling off his sweaty hair. He looks exhausted but exhilarated, his eyes shining with hard-earned triumph.

"You were amazing out there," you say, offering him a water bottle.

He takes a long swig, the muscles in his throat working. "Thanks. Felt good. Could have been better, but I'll take it." He grins, and the weariness seems to melt away. "So, darling, what did you think of that move on Leclerc in turn 6?"

There it is again. That word.

You feel your cheeks flush. "It was… impressive. Very aggressive."

He laughs. "Had to be! He wasn't going to give me the position otherwise. Besides," he adds, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I knew you were watching. Had to put on a show."

Your heart skips a beat. "Oh, really?" You try to sound nonchalant, but your voice wavers slightly.

"Of course! Always got to impress my biggest fan." He playfully nudges your shoulder. "So, fancy grabbing some dinner? Celebratory Nando’s?"

Nando’s it is. You and George have had a tradition to go to Nando’s after every single race since he started in F1.

The restaurant is buzzing with energy, filled with fans buzzing about the race. You and George manage to find a relatively quiet booth in a corner, and settle in.

"So," George says, after you've both ordered your food, "what did you really think about the race?"

You tell him honestly, praising his overtaking skills, gently pointing out a couple of areas where he could have been smoother. He listens intently, nodding occasionally, absorbing your feedback. He values your opinion, always has.

Even after all his success, he still trusts your judgement.

"You know," he says, leaning back in his seat, "I really appreciate you being here, at all the races, darling. It means a lot."

The word hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken meaning. You look down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of the napkin.

"I wouldn't miss it," you say softly. "Seeing you achieve your dreams… it's incredible."

He reaches across the table and takes your hand, his touch warm and comforting. "You've been there since the beginning. Through all the karting races, the Formula 4 championships, everything. You've always believed in me, even when I doubted myself."

You meet his gaze, your heart swelling with emotions you've kept buried for far too long. "I always will, George."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the clatter of plates and the murmur of conversations around you. Then, George speaks again, his voice thoughtful.

"You know, I don't think I tell you enough how much I appreciate you, darling. You're not just a friend, you're… you're family."

Family. The word echoes in your mind, a bittersweet melody. You cherish your friendship with George, but you long for something more. Something deeper.

"I feel the same way," you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

The food arrives, momentarily interrupting the conversation. You both dig in, the familiar taste of peri-peri chicken a welcome distraction. But the unspoken feelings still linger in the air, a tangible presence between you.

At the end of the meal, George drives you home. As he turns to you before you get out of the car, he says, “I had a great time, darling. We should do it again.”

As the years pass, George's career continues to soar. He wins races, challenges for championships, becomes a household name. Your life, too, evolves.

You pursue your own dreams, excel in your chosen field, building a successful career. But through it all, your friendship with George remains a constant, a source of unwavering support and affection.

And still, he calls you "darling."

He doesn’t realize the effect he has on you. How your heart skips a beat when he says it, how your palms get clammy, how you have to consciously fight the urge to blurt out something ridiculously embarrassing. He uses it with everyone, you tell yourself.

It's just a friendly term of endearment. But still, you can't help but feel a little different when he says it to you. Special, even.

One evening, years after that Abu Dhabi race, you're at George's house, helping him pack for the summer break. He's sprawled on the bed, surrounded by a mountain of clothes, looking utterly overwhelmed.

"I have no idea what to take," he groans, running a hand through his hair. "It's supposed to be relaxing, but I always end up overpacking."

You laugh, shaking your head. "Leave it to me. I'm a master packer."

You start sorting through the clothes, folding shirts and neatly arranging them in his suitcase. George watches you, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"You know," he says, after a few minutes of comfortable silence, "you're the only person who can make packing look effortless."

"Years of practice," you reply, without looking up.

"Speaking of years," he continues, his voice taking on a more serious tone, "we've known each other for a really long time, haven't we, darling?"

There it is again. That word. But tonight, it feels different. Heavier. More deliberate.

You finally meet his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest. "We have," you say softly.

He held your gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. You could see the gears turning in his head, something shifting behind those hazel eyes. You braced yourself, wondering if he was finally going to say something, anything, to acknowledge the undercurrent that buzzed between you.

But then, he blinked, and the moment was gone. He chuckled, a light, disarming sound. "It's crazy, isn't it? All those years of school, all the races we've been to, all the… well, everything. Time flies when you're having fun, I guess."

Relief and disappointment warred within you. He wasn’t going to confess anything. He wasn't going to say anything at all. He was just going to keep calling you “darling,” completely unaware of the effect it had on you.

You forced a smile, trying to match his lighthearted tone. "It does. And we've definitely had a lot of… everything."

He nodded, leaning back against the headboard. "Remember that time in Monaco, when you accidentally dumped a bucket of ice water on Toto?"

You groaned. "Don't remind me. I thought I was going to be banned from Formula 1 for life."

He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that filled the room. "You were lucky he has a sense of humor. Anyway, back to the packing. What do you think? Three pairs of swim trunks or four?"

The tension had dissipated, replaced by the comfortable familiarity that had defined your friendship for so long. You sighed inwardly. The moment had passed, and with it, any hope of clarity.

You turned back to the suitcase, picking up a pair of bright blue swim trunks. "Three is plenty, darling. Unless you're planning on entering a speed-swimming competition."

He grinned, completely oblivious. “You never know!”

The rest of the evening passed in a comfortable blur of folded clothes, shared memories, and lighthearted banter. You told him about your upcoming photography exhibition, he regaled you with stories of his disastrous attempt at learning to surf, and the word "darling" continued to slip from his lips with casual ease, each utterance a tiny pinprick of longing.

Later, as you were leaving, George walked you to the door. He paused, his hand resting on your arm. "Thanks for doing this," he said, his eyes meeting yours. "I really appreciate it. You always know how to make things easier."

"Anytime," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just promise me you won't spend the entire vacation glued to your phone."

He chuckled. "I'll try my best, darling."

He hugged you goodbye, a brief, friendly embrace that left you wanting more. As you walked down the driveway, you could feel his gaze on your back.

You resisted the urge to turn around, knowing that seeing him standing there, bathed in the warm glow of the porch light, would only make your heart ache more.

You knew, with a certainty that settled heavy in your stomach, that George wasn't going to say anything. He was comfortable with the way things were, with your comfortable friendship, with the casual affection he expressed so freely.

And you, you were destined to remain on the periphery of his life, forever blushing at a word he didn't even realize held so much power.

As you drove away, you whispered to yourself, “Goodbye, darling.” It tasted of longing and unrequited hope. You knew that the word would continue to haunt you, a constant reminder of a love that could never be. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

Maybe the quiet ache of longing was better than the risk of shattering the fragile balance of your friendship. . . .

꘎♡━━━━━♡꘎

The Ibizan sun beat down on George, but he barely registered it. He lay sprawled on a white sun lounger, the epitome of relaxation, yet a million miles away in his head.

His family buzzed around him; his father tinkering with the pool filter, his sister Cara splashing in the shimmering water with her children tossing a frisbee. Normally, he would be right in the thick of it, teasing his nieces, engaging in some competitive sports.

But not today. Today, he was lost in the past.

He clutched his phone, the screen replaying a grainy video. It was eight years old, a relic from a simpler time. A time before roaring engines, screaming fans, and the relentless pressure of Formula 1. A time when his biggest concern was acing his Physics exam and impressing a certain girl with sparkling eyes and a mischievous grin.

That girl was Y/N.

The video, a chaotic mess of shaky camera work and teenage exuberance, documented a day in their 'exciting' secondary school life. Y/N, the mastermind behind the whole thing, had insisted on capturing their mundane reality for posterity.

He remembered protesting at the time, embarrassed by the prospect of immortalising their awkwardness. Now, he was grateful.

On the screen, a younger version of himself, all gangly limbs and nervous energy, fumbled with his tie as he walked alongside Y/N. Her laughter, bright and infectious, echoed from the phone's speakers, cutting through the gentle lapping of the pool water. She was narrating, her voice brimming with youthful enthusiasm.

"Good morning, world! It's Y/N, and this is 'A Day in the Life of Two Utterly Average Teenagers'. Prepare for thrills, spills, and questionable fashion choices!"

The video cut to a shaky shot of the school gates, then to a montage of their lessons. George cringed as he watched himself struggle to solve a quadratic equation, Y/N whispering the answer beside him with a playful smirk. There was a clip of them sharing chips at lunchtime, fighting over the last one. Another of them huddled over textbooks in the library, Y/N’s hand resting lightly on his arm as she explained a complex concept. He could almost feel the warmth of her touch, the faint scent of her lavender perfume that always lingered in the air around her.

The video was utterly pointless, utterly ridiculous, and utterly captivating. It was a window into a time when life was uncomplicated, when happiness resided in shared glances and whispered jokes. It was a reminder of the deep connection he shared with Y/N, a connection that had only deepened with time.

He was supposed to be sharing this holiday with her. They had planned it for months, a much-needed escape from the relentless F1 calendar. But then, a last-minute work commitment had forced her to cancel. An important project, she had explained apologetically, her voice laced with disappointment. He had understood, of course, but it didn't make her absence any easier to bear.

He was so engrossed in the video, reliving those cherished memories, that he didn’t notice someone sitting beside him until they spoke.

"Where's Y/N? I haven't seen her in a while," his mother, Alison, asked, her voice laced with concern.

George jumped, startled, nearly dropping his phone. He looked up at his mother, her eyes filled with gentle curiosity. “Oh, hi Mum. She… she couldn’t make it. Work stuff.”

Alison's brow furrowed. "That's a shame. I was looking forward to seeing her. She's practically family at this point."

George smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. "She is, Mum. She really is."

He paused the video, the image of a laughing Y/N frozen on the screen. "I miss her, you know?" he confessed, the vulnerability surprising even himself. "I miss just… being around her. Being normal."

Alison reached out and squeezed his hand. "I know, darling. It's hard when life pulls you in different directions. But you two have something special. Don't let anything break that."

He nodded, his throat tight. "I won't." He knew she was right. Their connection was strong, forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unwavering support. It had weathered long distances, demanding careers, and the constant pressures of his public life. He wouldn't let it falter now.

"Show me the video," Alison said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "Let's see what you two were like back in the day."

George hesitated for a moment, then handed her the phone. As they watched the video together, he found himself explaining the context, reliving the stories behind each clip. His mother laughed at their teenage antics, her face softening with fondness. He realised, with a surge of gratitude, that his family understood his relationship with you. They saw something special in it, something he had been too afraid to acknowledge.

After the video ended, Alison handed the phone back to him. "She's a good one, George. Don't take her for granted."

"I won't, Mum. I promise," he'd replied, a little too quickly.

Then came the bombshell. “Try and ask her out soon,” she added, her eyes twinkling.

“What!” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He hadn’t expected that. He thought his mum would be more cautious, tell him to take things slow. This was the opposite of that.

“Oh, come on! Everyone can see it, George. Except maybe you, in your state of blissful denial.” His sister, Cara, perched beside him on the sun lounger, her eyes knowing. "She's practically perfect for you, you know. Smart, funny, loves dogs… what's not to like?"

The rest of the holiday passed in a blur of sun, sea, and a constant internal debate. You were always on his mind.

He found himself reaching for his phone to text you, only to stop himself, unsure of what to say. He didn't want to jeopardize their friendship with clumsy advances. Rejection scared him, especially from you.

He glanced at the group of sunbathers by the pool, families laughing and couples holding hands. It made him feel a pang of loneliness, a longing for something more than just friendship with you.

Finally, on the last day of the holiday, he decided he couldn't put it off any longer. He needed to talk to you. At least, send a message. He typed and deleted several texts, each one sounding more ridiculous than the last.

“Hey Y/N, just thinking of you. Hope you’re having a good week!” - Too generic.

“Missing you! Greece is great, but it would be better with you.” - Way too forward.

“Fancy grabbing a coffee when I get back?” - Too casual.

He groaned and threw his phone onto the sun lounger. He was overthinking it. Terribly.

Later that evening, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, George found himself alone on the beach. The gentle lapping of the waves was the only sound that broke the silence. He picked up a smooth, white stone and skimmed it across the water.

"Overthinking it, are we?"

George jumped, startled, and turned to see his sister, Cara, walking towards him, a knowing smile on her face.

"How did you…?" he began.

"Oh, please. I know you better than you know yourself," she said, sitting down beside him on the sand. "Look, George, I know you're scared. You don't want to ruin the friendship you have with Y/N. But sometimes, you have to take risks. Life's too short to wonder 'what if?'"

He sighed. "It's just… what if she doesn't feel the same way? What if I make things awkward? What if…?"

"What if she does?" Cara interrupted. "What if she's been waiting for you to make a move? You won't know unless you try. And honestly, the way she looks at you? It's pretty obvious to everyone but you."

Cara’s words hung in the air, a stark challenge to his own self-doubt. He knew she was right. He couldn't let fear dictate his actions. He had to be brave.

When George returned home, he went straight to his apartment and after some thought, he texted you.

He replayed their text exchange in his head, his palms sweating.

George: Hey darling, how are you doing? Hope work isn't too crazy.

Y/N: Hey George! Glad you're back from your holidays. I'm good, swamped with work as always, but surviving. How was Ibiza?

George: It was nice, but glad to be home. Actually, I was wondering if you were free sometime this week? I’d love to hear all about what you’ve been working on.

Y/N: I might be. What did you have in mind?

George: There’s this new italian place I've been wanting to try.

Y/N: Dinner? You’re asking me on date, George?

That text had sent his heart into overdrive.

George: Only if you want it to be.

The agonizing minutes of waiting, the wave of relief when she finally responded.

Y/N: I’d like that very much.

He knew he had to confess. He couldn’t just dance around the issue any longer, teasing himself and her. He had to lay it all on the line after dinner.

Now, as he waited for the time to pick her up, he felt a nervous energy he hadn't experienced since his first F1 race. He checked his reflection one last time, smoothing down his hair.

He was wearing a crisp, dark blue shirt, tailored to fit perfectly, and dark jeans.

Smart casual, he hoped. . . .

The hum of the hair dryer vibrates in your hand, a dull counterpoint to the frantic drum solo your heart is currently playing. George asked you to dinner. Just dinner. A friendly dinner. To discuss work and his upcoming holiday.

You repeat the mantra in your head like a lifeline, trying to quell the butterflies that have taken up residence in your stomach.

The dryer clicks off, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. A strand of hair stubbornly refuses to cooperate, twisting into a rogue curl despite your best efforts.

You sigh. This is ridiculous. It's just dinner. With George. Your best friend. Right?

Your gaze drifts towards the two dresses laid out on your bed, each a stark contrast to the other, each holding a different promise. The first, a little black dress, is a classic. Short, sleek, and undeniably alluring.

It hugs your curves in all the right places, the low-cut neckline hinting at just enough skin to be intriguing without being overtly provocative. You imagine yourself in it, feeling confident and sophisticated, ready to take on the world.

Or at least, ready to face George.

Then there's the blue dress. Long, flowing, and ethereal. The color is a vibrant cerulean, mirroring the summer sky, and the fabric shimmers with a subtle, almost otherworldly glow.

It's elegant and understated, the kind of dress that makes you feel like you could float away on a gentle breeze. It hides more than it reveals, whispering of secrets and untold stories.

You pace between the two dresses, your mind a battlefield of conflicting desires. The black dress screams confidence, but is it trying too hard?

Would George think you're trying to send a message that isn't there? The blue dress, on the other hand, feels more like you. Honest. Authentic. But is it too… casual?

After what feels like an eternity, you make your decision. The blue dress. It feels right. It feels like you. And tonight, you need to be yourself.

You slip into the dress, the cool fabric cascading down your body like liquid silk. You smooth it over your hips, feeling a sense of calm settle over you. A light touch of mascara, a swipe of your favorite lip gloss, and you're ready.

The doorbell rings, and your heart leaps into your throat. You take a deep breath, trying to regain your composure, and walk towards the door.

When you open it, George is standing there, looking impossibly handsome in a tailored crisp, dark blue shirt and dark jeans. His blue eyes widen slightly as he takes you in, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face.

"Wow darling," he says softly, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "You look… amazing."

You blush, feeling your cheeks flush with heat. "Thanks," you manage to stammer, your voice betraying your nervousness. "You look pretty good yourself."

He grins, that familiar, boyish grin that still makes your heart skip a beat after all these years. "Shall we?" he asks, extending his arm.

You slip your arm through his, and together, you step out into the warm evening air.

He leads you to his car, a sleek, dark Mercedes that screams money and success. He opens the passenger door for you with a flourish. "After you darling," he says, a playful glint in his eyes.

As you slide into the buttery leather seat, the scent of his cologne – a subtle blend of spice and citrus – fills your senses. You buckle your seatbelt, acutely aware of his presence beside you.

“So,” he says, pulling away from the curb. “Italian tonight? Heard they make a mean carbonara.”

“Italian’s perfect,” you reply, relieved that the awkwardness seems to be dissipating. “I’m starving.”

The drive is comfortable, punctuated by easy conversation. You catch up on his whirlwind month – the adrenaline-fueled races, the sun-drenched beaches of his holiday. He listens intently as you recount your own, significantly less glamorous, experiences at work.

“It’s nice to just… talk,” he says, his voice softer than usual. He glances at you briefly, a fleeting smile playing on his lips. “It feels like it’s been forever.”

“It has,” you agree, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “A month is a lifetime in George Russell time.”

He chuckles. “Tell me about it. Sometimes I feel like I’m living five different lives at once.”

The restaurant is tucked away on a quiet street, a charming establishment with twinkling fairy lights and the comforting aroma of garlic and herbs. George leads you to a table tucked in a cozy corner, away from the main bustle of the dining room.

“Table for two, Signore Russell?” the waiter asks, his eyes lighting up with recognition.

“That’s right,” George replies, flashing him a charming smile. “And this lovely lady is… Y/N.”

You smile at the waiter, feeling a surge of affection for George. He always remembers to introduce you, no matter how famous he gets.

As you settle into your seats, you have the familiar sensation of being utterly at ease in George's presence. You've known each other since you were both gangly teenagers with braces and questionable fashion choices.

You've seen him at his best and his worst – celebrating victories, nursing broken hearts, struggling through exam stress. He's seen you through equally tumultuous times.

The conversation flows effortlessly as you peruse the menu. You reminisce about old times – the disastrous school play where George forgot his lines, the time you accidentally set his hair on fire during a chemistry experiment, the countless late-night study sessions fuelled by copious amounts of sugary snacks.

“Remember Mr. Henderson’s history class?” you ask, laughing. “He used to fall asleep mid-sentence.”

George shakes his head, grinning. “And we’d draw moustaches on his notes. Good times, darling, good times.”

That word again. Darling. It still has the same effect on you.

As the waiter takes your order, George leans forward, his expression becoming more serious. “So, how are you, really?” he asks, his blue eyes searching yours. “How’s everything going?”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure how much to reveal. “I’m… okay,” you say cautiously. “Work’s been hectic, but nothing I can’t handle.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “And personally?”

You sigh. “Honestly, it’s been a little lonely. I miss having you around.”

His gaze softens. “I miss you too,” he says, his voice low and sincere. “More than you know.”

As your meals arrived, the waiter offered a bottle of Chianti. George raised an eyebrow at you in question, and you nodded, deciding to throw caution to the wind. The wine was rich and smooth, loosening your tongue and easing the tension that still lingered beneath the surface.

"Remember that time we tried to sneak into that over-18s club?" you asked, swirling the wine in your glass.

George laughed. "And got caught immediately! Your fake ID was so bad, it said you were born in 1888."

"Hey, it was worth a shot," you retorted, grinning. "Besides, we ended up having more fun at that dodgy karaoke bar. Your rendition of 'Bohemian Rhapsody' was truly unforgettable."

The laughter flowed freely, punctuated by shared memories and inside jokes. You talked about everything and nothing, the years melting away as you rediscovered the easy camaraderie that had always defined your friendship.

"It's just… it's hard, isn't it?” you said, the smile fading slightly. “Watching you achieve all your dreams, knowing that you're living the life you always wanted. I'm happy for you, I truly am, but it also makes me question my own choices."

George reached across the table and took your hand, his touch sending a familiar shiver down your spine. "Don't," he said softly. "Don't ever think that your life is any less important or fulfilling than mine. We all have different paths to follow, different things that make us happy."

He paused, his gaze intense. "And, to be honest, sometimes I envy you. You have a sense of normalcy, a stability that I often crave. The racing world is… insane. It's all-consuming. Sometimes I wish I could just escape it all and live a normal life, like you."

You laughed, incredulous. "You? Want to be normal? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe it," he said, squeezing your hand. "And you know what else? All this success, all the trophies and champagne… they mean nothing if I can't share them with the people I care about."

The rest of the meal passed in a comfortable haze of wine, conversation, and shared history. As the waiter cleared the table, George suggested a walk. You readily agreed.

As you stepped out onto the bustling city street, the cool air sent a shiver down your spine. The night was alive with the hum of traffic and the murmur of conversations spilling from open doorways.

Neon signs cast a colourful glow on the wet pavement, reflecting in the puddles like scattered jewels.

"Do we know where we're going, or are we just wandering?" you asked, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

George simply grinned, that familiar, charming grin that had always made your stomach flutter a little. "Don't worry, trust me."

Trust George? You always had. You'd known him since the awkward days of secondary school, a lifetime ago. He was a constant, a familiar comfort in your life. You started walking, falling into step beside him.

The conversation flowed easily, as it always did between you. He talked about the upcoming Formula 1 season, the pressure, the anticipation, the relentless training. He spoke of the new car, the tweaks, the improvements they were hoping for. His passion was infectious, even to someone like you, who only understood the basics of motorsport.

Then, you found yourself venting about your own work. Another day, another unreasonable client, another project that felt soul-crushingly pointless. "Honestly, George," you sighed, "I think I'm going to lose my mind if I have to write another article about the top ten cat breeds for apartment living. My creative soul is dying a slow and painful death."

He chuckled, squeezing your hand gently. "You know, you could always quit. You're talented, you could do anything you want. Write that novel you've been talking about for years. Open that quirky little bookstore you always dreamed of. Life's too short to be writing about Persian fluffballs."

You laughed, shaking your head. "Easy for you to say, Mr. Multi-Millionaire Racing Driver. Someone has to pay the bills."

"Hey," he protested playfully, "I'd happily support you. Think of it as an investment in the arts."

"Very generous," you teased. "Maybe I should just marry you for your money."

He stopped walking, turning to face you, his expression suddenly serious. "Don't say that, even as a joke." He paused, then added softly, "I wouldn't want you to marry me for the wrong reasons."

The intensity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. You quickly looked away, a sudden wave of nervousness washing over you. "I was just kidding, obviously."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and resumed walking. The comfortable rhythm of your conversation was slightly disrupted, replaced by a strange, unspoken tension. You both walked in silence for a little bit.

After some time, you noticed that the sounds of the city were fading, replaced by the gentle roar of the ocean. The air smelled of salt and seaweed.

"Where are we going?" you asked, curiosity piqued.

He just smiled mysteriously. "Almost there."

Finally, he stopped. You were standing on a deserted stretch of beach, the waves crashing softly against the shore. In the distance, you could see the faint glow of the city lights reflecting on the water. And then you saw them.

Balloons. Dozens of them, bobbing gently in the night breeze. They were inflated with helium, their strings tied to small weights that kept them from floating away. And emblazoned across the balloons, in large, cheerful letters, were the words: "WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You must have stumbled upon someone else's surprise, you thought. It was a sweet gesture, incredibly romantic. You started to turn to George, ready to apologize for intruding on someone's special moment.

"George, I think someone is asking some…" The words died in your throat as you saw what he was holding. A bouquet of your favorite flowers, lilies and roses, their delicate petals illuminated by the faint moonlight.

Your hand flew to your mouth, stifling a gasp. What? This couldn't be…

George looked incredibly nervous, his usually confident demeanor replaced by a vulnerability you'd rarely seen. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clutching the flowers tightly.

He took a deep breath and began to speak, his voice slightly shaky. "Darling," he said, and the sound of that single word sent a shiver down your spine. Out of all the things George had said to you over the years, there was something about "darling" that was uniquely special. It felt warm, intimate, and utterly disarming.

"Darling, from the moment I was paired with you in year nine to do that disastrous science experiment," he continued, a small smile playing on his lips, "I knew you were going to be a special person in my life. I just didn't know how special until a few months ago. Will you be my special person and be my girlfriend?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision. You couldn't believe this was happening. You and George? After all these years? It felt like something out of a movie, too perfect to be real.

"Yes, George," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

Relief washed over his face, and the biggest grin you'd ever seen spread across his features. He carefully placed the bouquet on the sand, then stepped towards you, his eyes shining with happiness.

He reached out, cupping your face in his hands. "Really? Yes?"

You nodded, unable to speak. The tears were flowing freely now, but they were tears of joy, of disbelief, of pure, unadulterated happiness.

He lowered his head and gently kissed you. It was a soft, sweet kiss, filled with tenderness and affection. It was a kiss you had dreamed about countless times, a kiss you never thought would actually happen.

When he pulled away, he was grinning from ear to ear. "I can't believe it," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "You actually said yes."

"Of course, I said yes," you replied, laughing through your tears. "What took you so long?"

He chuckled, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I was terrified," he admitted. "I didn't want to ruin our friendship. You're one of the most important people in my life, and I couldn't bear the thought of losing you."

You hugged him tighter, burying your face in his shoulder. "You could never lose me, George. I've been secretly in love with you since that disastrous science experiment in year nine."

He laughed, squeezing you even closer. "So, all this time…"

"All this time," you confirmed, pulling back to look at him. "Now, about those balloons…"

The rest of the night was a blur of laughter, whispered confessions, and stolen kisses under the moonlight. You walked along the beach, hand in hand, talking about the future, about your hopes and dreams, about all the possibilities that lay ahead.

Later, as you sat wrapped in his arms, watching the sunrise paint the sky in hues of pink and orange, you finally found the courage to tease him.

"You had me scared for a second there," you laughed softly, nuzzling into his chest.

"Why?" George asked worriedly, his arms tightening around you.

"Your speech sounded like a proposal," you said, your voice light and teasing.

George grinned, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Well, you're going to be a fiancée soon enough."

You gasped, playfully shoving him. "George! Don't even joke about that!"

He laughed, pulling you closer. "I'm not joking, darling. I know we've only just started dating, but I know what I want. And I want to spend the rest of my life with you."

Your heart fluttered. "You're crazy," you whispered, but there was no denying the warmth spreading through you.

"Crazy about you," he corrected, kissing your forehead. "Now, tell me, what kind of ring do you like? Just so I have an idea," he winked at you

You playfully roll your eyes, burying your face in his shoulder. "You're getting ahead of yourself."

"Am I?" George playfully nips at your ear. "Maybe. But a guy can dream, can't he?"

The first rays of sunlight kiss your skin, a soft warmth that mirrors the feeling in your heart. You are finally with George, the man you have loved for so long.

And as you look up at him, at the love shining in his eyes, you know that this is just the beginning of your beautiful life together. . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

A Lover's Touch

Summary: In a world of where soulmates can be found easily, Charles was struggling a lot to find his one. PT 1

Song: After Hours · The Weeknd

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Part 2 - Part 3

Word count: 12.9k

MASTERLIST - F1

Charles sighed, another wave of that dull, persistent ache washing over him. It was the kind of feeling you attributed to a long day, an early morning, anything but the truth: a hollow space where his soulmate should be.

In this world, finding your soulmate was practically a given. A man simply had to pay attention to the pervasive sense of well-being that blossomed the closer he got, like basking in the sun after a long winter. Women, on the other hand, experienced the opposite. A gnawing anxiety, a yearning that intensified with proximity, only to be extinguished by the kiss that confirmed the connection.

Charles had always envied the ease with which others navigated this aspect of life. He'd seen friends practically vibrate with happiness as they zeroed in on their matches, their faces glowing with a newfound understanding.

He’d witnessed public displays of affection, the relief on the woman’s face palpable as the kiss settled the tremor in her soul. But for Charles, nothing. Just the ever-present, low-grade ache.

He was currently seeing Alexandra, a vibrant artist with paint-stained fingers and a laugh that could fill a room. He liked her. A lot. They shared a passion for old movies, bad puns, and late-night talks fueled by cheap wine.

But there was no soul-deep connection, no magnetic pull, no burgeoning sense of peace. And, crucially, no agonizing need emanating from Alexandra.

They had been upfront with each other from the beginning. A pragmatic agreement born from a realistic understanding of their world.

“If one of us finds their soulmate,” Alexandra had said, swirling the wine in her glass, “we break up. No hard feelings. Friends, maybe? If that’s not too weird?”

Charles had agreed, the thought of losing her already a small pang in his chest. The potential for a real connection, even if not the connection, felt too valuable to pass up.

He was at Alexandra's apartment now, ostensibly to help her hang a new series of paintings. The walls were already a riot of color, abstract swirls and bold strokes that somehow managed to create a sense of harmony.

She was humming softly as she fiddled with a level, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Looking at her, bathed in the afternoon light streaming through the window, Charles felt a surge of affection. He appreciated her easy smile, her quirky sense of humor, the way she always seemed to see the best in him.

But still, the ache persisted. Proof, if he needed it, that she wasn’t the one.

He handed her a hammer. "So," he said, trying to sound casual, "how are you feeling? Any, you know… existential dread?"

Alexandra snorted, a smudge of paint adorning her cheek. "Existential dread is kind of my default setting, Charles. So, no. Nothing specific." She hammered a nail into the wall with practiced ease.

He felt a pang of guilt. He was testing her, probing for signs, hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe… But he knew it was futile.

Over the next few weeks, Charles found himself increasingly preoccupied with the idea of soulmates. He started paying closer attention to the people around him, subtly observing couples, searching for that telltale glow of contentment on the men's faces, the relieved serenity settling on the women's.

He noticed that happy couples were everywhere.

Everyone had found their soulmate somehow, except him. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles clenched his jaw, the familiar sting of frustration pricking at his temples. "Carlos, you better stop asking that question," he warned, his voice tight. He hated this. Hated the constant reminder of his perceived failure.

Charles grimaced, shoving a forkful of carbonara around his plate. "Carlos, you know the answer to that. Lay off, will you?"

Carlos just grinned, a smug, infuriatingly happy expression plastered across his face. "Just checking in, mate. You've been at this for years. How many 'almosts' are we up to now? Thirty? Forty?"

He gestured across the Ferrari cafeteria with his fork towards Rebecca, his soulmate, who was engrossed in a conversation with a mechanic.

They looked sickeningly content.

Charles felt a familiar pang of envy. In this world, finding your soulmate was supposed to be easy. A biological compass, really. For men, the joy, the sheer rightness of being near your soulmate was unmistakable, a balm to the soul.

The further away they were, the heavier the weight of longing became.

It was a system that supposedly guaranteed happiness. Supposedly.

He hadn't felt that blissful uplift even once. He'd chased fleeting moments of "almost" – a slight lift in mood, a subtle easing of his constant, low-level yearning – only to be disappointed.

A waitress at a local trattoria, a tourist sketching the Duomo, a woman he’d helped carry groceries – all dead ends.

"It's not exactly something you can force, Carlos," Charles sighed, pushing his plate away, the carbonara suddenly tasting like ashes. "It'll happen when it happens."

Before Carlos could launch into another unsolicited pep talk, the cafeteria doors swung open, letting in a gust of warm air and a whirlwind of nervous energy.

A woman stood there, slightly breathless, your cheeks flushed with a nervous energy that radiated across the room. You were… striking.

Charles immediately felt… lighter. The persistent, low-level hum of anxiety that usually buzzed beneath his skin seemed to quieten.

He felt a sense of ease he hadn't experienced in years.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," you said, your voice laced with a genuine apology. "Traffic was a nightmare. I'm… I'm the new social media manager."

You swiped a hand across your forehead, a gesture that only amplified Charles's initial assessment: you were flustered, stressed, but undeniably composed.

For Charles, the world seemed to narrow to just you. The slight tremor in your voice, the way you clutched your bag, the subtle shift in your posture as you addressed the room – it was all acutely, intensely noticeable.

He felt a strange, almost protective urge to reassure you.

But he didn't say anything. Maybe it wasn't you. Maybe it was just a coincidence, a fleeting surge of positive energy unconnected to anything real.

He looked around the room, searching for any sign that anyone else was experiencing a similar shift. Carlos was grinning like an idiot, but that was just Carlos being Carlos.

No one else seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

“Well, welcome!” Carlos boomed, his voice cutting through Charles's internal debate. “I’m Carlos, and this brooding gentleman over here is Charles.”

You turned your attention to Charles, and your eyes met his. He felt a jolt, a small electric shock that ran right through him. Your eyes were captivating, filled with a weariness that tugged at something inside him.

He forced himself to maintain eye contact, searching, hoping for any sign, any flicker of recognition on your face that mirrored the growing certainty within him.

But all he saw was polite curiosity.

"Nice to meet you both," you said, offering a tentative smile. "I'm… Y/N."

"Welcome to the team, Y/N," Carlos said, his smile widening. "We're happy to have you."

You took a seat at the desk opposite Charles, and as you settled in, arranging your papers and fiddling with your laptop, he continued to observe you. The feeling of well-being hadn't dissipated.

If anything, it had intensified. It was like a low, comforting buzz that resonated throughout his entire being.

He stole glances at you throughout the morning, carefully monitoring his own reactions. He felt energized, focused, almost… happy.

This was it. This had to be it.

He'd heard stories, of course, of the almost instantaneous connection, the overwhelming sense of rightness. But he'd dismissed them as romantic exaggerations.

He was a Formula 1 driver, not a fairytale prince.

Yet, here you were.

"So," you began, clearing your throat, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation building behind your eyes. It was a familiar feeling, one that always intensified around... well, around the right person. "Let's talk strategy. We need to ramp up engagement, create compelling content, and showcase the human side of the team."

Carlos, ever the professional, jumped right in. "I was thinking we could do more behind-the-scenes videos. Show the fans what a day in the life of a driver is really like."

"Excellent idea, Carlos," you said, scribbling down notes. "We can also highlight your training regimes, your collaborations with engineers, and your interactions with the team."

You turned to Charles, expecting him to contribute. But he just sat there, staring at you, a strange, almost dazed, expression on his face. The comfortable buzz he felt was almost intoxicating, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

"Charles?" you prompted, the prickling behind your eyes intensifying. You felt a slight pressure building in your temples, a familiar ache that threatened to blossom into a full-blown headache.

"Uh... yes," he stammered, snapping back to reality. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."

You forced a smile, the muscles in your face strained. You needed to get through this meeting. “Thinking about what it's like to be Charles Leclerc?" you asked, trying to keep your voice light and conversational, masking the desperation clawing at your throat.

"Yeah! I think it would be a good idea for the fans, you know? A day in the life, that kind of thing," he commented, radiating an enthusiasm that only amplified your suffering. "You think it would work?"

"Definitely," you managed, the word feeling like a shard of glass caught in your throat. "It's all about connecting with the fans, showing them the human side of the drivers. We could film you training, doing media obligations, even grabbing a coffee." You rattled off the ideas, desperate to keep the conversation flowing.

You continued outlining the PR activities planned for the season, the endless interviews, sponsor events, and social media appearances.

Your voice was steady, your demeanor professional, but inside, you felt like you were teetering on the edge of a cliff. The other members of the Ferrari PR team, seasoned professionals, seemed oblivious to your internal struggle.

"So," you said, finally reaching the end of your presentation, the word "finally" wanting to burst out of you. "That's the general overview. We can discuss specific schedules and logistics later."

Charles and Carlos shook their heads.

"Okay, great," you said, gathering your notes. "Then, Charles, which time are you free?" you asked, trying to maintain eye contact but failing miserably.

You were feeling faint, the edges of your vision blurring. "For the 'Day in the Life' video, I mean."

Charles was distracted, fiddling with the Ferrari cap in his hands. "Um, I'm free next Tuesday, I think?" he said, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

"Good," you said, pushing through the fog in your brain. "I'll come over with a cameraman to record the day in your life, is that okay?"

"Sure," he grinned, his hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement.

You managed a weak smile in return before gathering your things and making a hasty retreat from the hospitality room. The air outside felt marginally better, but the pounding in your head refused to subside.

You had a brief meeting with the other social media managers and editors, running through the ideas you'd presented to the drivers and outlining the content calendar for the next few weeks.

You felt like an imposter, trying to project an image of competence and enthusiasm while battling a pain that threatened to overwhelm you.

It was a dull, persistent ache, a hollow pit in your stomach that resonated with an inexplicable longing. It was the Soulmate Sickness, as your grandmother used to call it, with a dramatic sigh and a knowing look. Every woman in the world knew what that meant: your soulmate was nearby.

The closer they were, the more intensely you felt the ache. It was a cruel irony of fate: men felt blissful contentment when near their soulmate, a sense of completeness and belonging; for women, it was an agonizing reminder of the connection, a pull toward someone they wouldn't truly be at peace with until that kiss.

You knew the stories. Women driven mad by the constant ache, unable to function, their lives consumed by the desperate need to find, and then kiss, their soulmate.

And now, here you were, feeling the first tendrils of that very despair wrap around your heart on your first day at your dream job.

Lunch was a torturous affair. The Ferrari hospitality room was a vibrant, bustling place, teeming with engineers, mechanics, team managers, even the drivers themselves. Every single person felt like a potential source of your pain.

You picked at your pasta, forcing down each bite as the ache amplified, a constant, throbbing reminder of the unknown man who was probably enjoying the greatest day of his life.

You told yourself it was just nerves from the new job. The pressure of living up to expectations. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn’t just butterflies. This was something far more profound, far more insistent.

You were close to him. Very close. Whoever he is.

You leaned back in the seat, closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, trying to regain control. The ache lessened, but it was still there, a dull background hum that buzzed beneath your skin.

You must have found your soulmate, you thought, the idea settling in your stomach like a lead weight.

here was no other explanation for it. And that terrified you.

It could literally be anyone in the Ferrari hospitality room. An engineer with grease under his nails, a stern-faced strategist, a camera-shy photographer, or even… Don’t even go there.

You didn’t need this right now. You were just starting your first day at your dream job. A job you’d worked years for, poured your heart and soul into. You couldn't let some primal, biological imperative derail your career before it even began.

“Okay,” you whispered to yourself, starting the engine. “Okay. You can do this. You’re strong. You’re capable. You’re going to ignore this feeling. You’re going to focus on your work. You’re not going to let some random guy you haven’t even met ruin everything.”

Easier said than done, of course. . . . .

Charles felt it the moment you walked out the glass doors of the Ferrari factory. A dull ache, a low thrum of dissatisfaction that had been a background noise in his life, suddenly amplified, blossomed into a full-blown longing.

It was a feeling he instantly recognized, a feeling every man in their world was intimately familiar with.

The closer you were to your soulmate, the better you felt. The farther, the worse.

And this… this was the worst he’d ever felt.

He’d only met you a few hours ago.

He'd found you intelligent, quick-witted, and surprisingly unfazed by his fame. He hadn’t thought much beyond that. Hadn’t needed to. He'd always assumed his soulmate would be… obvious.

A grand, sweeping feeling, not a dull ache that exploded into unbearable yearning the second you left his sight.

Now, driving home through the winding streets of Italy, all he could think about was you. Your smile, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the intelligent questions you'd peppered him with.

The longing intensified with every mile he put between them. The confirmation was undeniable.

He practically threw open the door to his apartment, the silence amplifying the hollow feeling in his chest. He needed to figure this out. He needed to figure out you.

He spent the bulk of the next few hours running through other possibilities, but it all kept centering on you. He felt an energy and inspiration around her that he didn't feel with anyone else. As his thoughts grew chaotic, he realized he needed to talk to someone.

Someone who knew him, who understood him, and who wouldn’t dismiss this as some fleeting infatuation. He needed to talk to his mother.

He grabbed his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found her name. He took a deep breath and pressed the call button.

“Hi, maman,” he said, when she answered, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Charles! Mon chéri, how are you? It’s been too long.” Her voice was warm and full of genuine affection.

“I’m good, maman, busy, as always. But I wanted to ask you something. It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated? Is this about a girl other than Alexandra, Charles?” There was a knowing amusement in her voice.

He hesitated. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Look, you know about soulmates, right? About the feeling men get when they’re close to theirs?”

“Of course, I know. Why? Have you… found the one?” Her voice was laced with anticipation.

“I think so. But it’s… intense. I barely know her, but the feeling is overwhelming. It's all I'm constantly thinking about. Have I ever mentioned her? Her name is Y/N, she's new to the social media team.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction.

There was a pause. “Someone from your work, Charles? How long has she been working there?”

“I think today was here first time. And no, I've never mentioned her to you. I didn't think anything of it before."

"And you're sure? You truly feel the ache and longing? It is not just a passing infatuation?"

"Maman, I'm sure. I can barely function."

His mother sighed softly. "I see. Well, mon chéri, I don't know her either so I won't know much. This is uncharted territory for me. But you know the rules. You know what women experience with their soulmates."

Charles groaned. "Don't remind me. The poor girls--having to deal with the pain until they get rid of it with a kiss? And if she is my soulmate and I'm just making assumptions, I'll look like a complete idiot."

"That is a risk you will have to take, mon chéri. But if it is truly meant to be, it will all work out. Perhaps you should take a chance? Is she single? And do you even know if she's interested?"

Those were good questions that Charles didn't know the answer to. "I haven't got a clue."

"Then you must find out, Charles. Do not let fear hold you back. This could be the most important thing you ever do."

He knew she was right. He couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. He had to find out if you felt it too. He had to know if he was right.

"Okay, maman," he said, a newfound determination entering his voice. "I'll do it. I'll talk to her. I'll find out."

"That's my boy," she said, her voice full of pride. "I have faith in you, Charles. Now tell me more about this (Y/N)..."

They talked for another hour, his mother peppering him with questions about you, your personality, your work ethic, your smile.

He described you as best he could, trying to convey the spark he felt whenever you were near.

The sterile white of the break room seemed to press in on you, mirroring the suffocating feeling in your chest. You clutched your phone, the cool plastic a small comfort against your trembling hand.

"Dad, I think I found my soulmate," you whispered into the receiver, the words heavy with a sadness that threatened to consume you.

"Really, baby? Why do you sound sad then? Do you not like them?" His voice, warm and familiar, crackled through the speaker, a stark contrast to the icy fear gripping your heart.

"I don't even know who they are," you muttered, staring blankly at the faded motivational poster on the wall. “I was just working, it was my first day, and I just… felt it. This horrible, gnawing ache. It’s constant, Dad. Like a phantom limb screaming for connection. I’m terrified."

A pause stretched between you, thick with unspoken memories. "Is it because of what happened to Mum?" he finally asked, his voice laced with a cautious tenderness.

"Yeah," you managed, the single syllable choked with emotion. The ache in your chest intensified, a physical manifestation of the dread that had been your constant companion since your mother-

"Look, sweetheart," your dad continued, pulling you back from the abyss of memory, "I know this is hard. But you can't let what happened to Mum. This is your soulmate. Maybe… maybe things will be different. You owe it to yourself to find out."

You knew he was right, logically. But the knot of fear in your stomach refused to loosen. "I don't know, Dad. What if… what if it's like what happened to Mum? What if it makes me miserable?"

"Then you walk away. You're strong, Y/N. You're smart. You can handle anything life throws at you. Just… don't let fear paralyze you."

His words, as always, offered a sliver of hope. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. "Okay," you said, the word barely audible. "Okay, I'll… I'll try."

"That's my girl. Now, tell me about this job. How was your first day?" He deftly steered the conversation away from the soulmate dilemma, a tactic you were grateful for.

You spent the next few minutes recounting the whirlwind of activity that defined your first day as a social media manager for Scuderia Ferrari.

You’d always been passionate about racing, and landing this job was a dream come true. The adrenaline-fueled atmosphere of the paddock, the roar of the engines, the sheer dedication of the team – it was intoxicating.

Your responsibilities included managing their social media presence, creating engaging content, and interacting with fans. It was a demanding role, but one you were eager to excel at.

As you spoke, you deliberately pushed the unsettling ache to the back of your mind. You focused on the thrill of the job, on the excitement of being a part of something so iconic.

“It was insane, Dad. Honestly, I felt like I was dropped into a beehive. But everyone was so welcoming. And the cars… they're even more beautiful in person."

By the time you hung up, the edge of panic had dulled. The ache was still there, a constant reminder, but you felt a renewed sense of resolve. You would face this, whatever it was.

You wouldn't let fear control you. . . .

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

The heat of the Jeddah Corniche Circuit presses against you, even in the relative cool of the Ferrari garage. You lift your camera, framing Carlos as he adjusts his racing gloves.

“Looking good, Carlos! Give us a little intensity for the fans.” He throws you a practiced, smoldering glare. Perfect.

Your job is straightforward: capture the behind-the-scenes energy, the pre-race jitters, the quiet moments of focus before the storm.

You’re Ferrari’s social media manager, tasked with humanizing the drivers, making them relatable, building that connection with the tifosi. You love it, most days.

You pan the camera towards Charles' side of the garage. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, stretching his neck, a tiny, nervous habit you've noticed over watching him on the TV. “Charles, a word for the fans? Pre-race thoughts?”

He stops, turns, and that devastatingly charming smile flashes across his face. “Just focused, ready to give it my all for the team. Forza Ferrari!” He winks at the camera, and your stomach does a little flip. Annoying.

You’ve felt it more and more often lately, especially around Charles. That…ache. A dull, persistent anxiety that settles in your chest, a yearning that tugs at the edges of your awareness.

And it's happening with Charles Leclerc.

You lower the camera, forcing a professional smile. “Thanks, Charles. Good luck out there.”

“See you after the race,” he says, the words laced with a casual warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

He gives you a fleeting glance, something almost…knowing in his eyes, before turning and heading towards his car, disappearing into the controlled chaos of the pit lane.

You flush, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. This can’t be happening. You know Charles has a girlfriend. You’ve seen the pictures splashed across the internet, the Instagram stories.

It's a glamorous, very public relationship. And the rules are clear, etched into the very fabric of your society: your soulmate is someone available, someone unencumbered.

You can't steal someone else's. It's just not done.

The starting grid is announced over the loudspeakers, and the garage erupts in a flurry of activity. You busy yourself with filming the mechanics' final checks, the engineers hunched over telemetry screens, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your chest.

You’ve always taken the soulmate phenomenon for granted. It’s just a fact of life. Everyone experiences it, this biological imperative designed to ensure connection, stability, the continuation of society.

You’ve felt the faintest twinges before, in passing, around men you’ve met briefly. Dismissible, almost forgettable. But this…this is different. This is a constant, throbbing ache that threatens to consume you, particularly around Charles.

You meticulously avoid thinking about it, focusing instead on your work. You rule out the possibility entirely.

Charles is taken. End of story.

You even make a mental list of all the other eligible men in the paddock, mechanics, engineers, even other drivers – anyone but Charles.

The race begins, a blur of roaring engines and screeching tires. The giant screens in the garage display every angle, every overtake, every heart-stopping moment. You film the reactions of the team, the collective held breath as Charles and Carlos battle for position.

The final laps are agonizing. Charles is leading, but Max is closing in. The tension in the garage is palpable. You find yourself gripping your camera so tightly your knuckles turn white.

Then, it happens. Charles crosses the finish line. Victory.

The garage explodes in cheers, shouts, and high-fives. You film it all, the raw, unadulterated joy of the team, the shared sense of accomplishment. The crowd is ecstatic.

Charles, still helmeted and dripping with sweat, is guided into parc fermé. You film him climbing out of the car, pumping his fist in the air, soaking in the adulation. He looks…triumphant. Magnificent.

You jostled for position, aiming your camera, capturing his big smile as he hugged his race engineer and the rest of the team. He moved with an exhilarating energy, a palpable buzz of adrenaline that rippled outwards.

He was a magnet, and you found yourself drawn closer, your professional detachment wavering.

And then, he saw you.

His smile widened, somehow becoming even brighter. Before you could think, could prepare, he was striding towards you, his arms outstretched. The awareness hit you like a physical blow.

The gnawing anxiety, the sharp, almost unbearable yearning that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface for weeks, now flared into an inferno.

The closer you were to your match, the more intense the yearning became. And right now, the intensity was almost unbearable.

He pulled you into a tight hug. Your phone, trapped between the two of you, emitted a muffled squeak as it was squished against his chest.

His smell, a heady mix of sweat, gasoline, and something uniquely Charles, filled your senses. It was intoxicating, addicting.

He was feeling it too. The way he squeezed you, the pure, unadulterated joy radiating off him in waves. He was basking, thriving, feeling the best he'd ever felt.

It was confirmation. Undeniable, irrefutable confirmation.

He was your soulmate. But how was that possible? He already had a girlfriend.

Your head swam. The crowd roared, but it sounded distant, muffled. The ache intensified, threatening to overwhelm you. You felt like you were going to faint.

He let go, and your legs momentarily forgot their job. You stumbled, your balance completely gone.

Charles reacted instantly. He reached out, his hand gripping your arm, effectively blocking you from the view of the nearest camera. His grip was firm, supportive. He pulled you closer, shielding you from the prying eyes.

"Sorry," you mumbled, finding your footing. Your voice was shaky. You needed to get out of here, to process this, to… to breathe. The feeling was too much.

He searched your face, his brow furrowed with concern. "Are you alright? You went a bit pale there."

You plastered on your most professional smile, even though your insides were screaming. "Just a bit overwhelmed. It's… it's a big win."

He didn't seem entirely convinced, but he let it go. "You were filming everything?"

You nodded, holding up your phone. "Got some great shots. The team's going to love it." You forced yourself to meet his gaze, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Congratulations, Charles. You deserved this."

His smile returned, genuine and warm. It sent another jolt through you, tightening the knot in your stomach. "Thank you. And thank you for everything. You do an amazing job."

"It's my job," you said, the words sounding hollow even to your own ears.

"Exactly," he said, his eyes twinkling. "And you're very good at it."

He turned back to the crowd, basking in the cheers, signing autographs, and accepting congratulations. You took the opportunity to slip away, unnoticed, swallowed by the throng of red-clad fans.

You needed to escape.

You found refuge in the relative quiet of the Ferrari hospitality suite. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and the murmur of conversation were a welcome change from the sensory overload of the garage.

You found a quiet corner and sank into a plush armchair, your phone still clutched in your hand.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. This was a disaster. A beautiful, glorious, terrifying disaster.

Your mind raced. What did this mean? What were you supposed to do? Did you tell him? Did you pretend you didn't know? How could you possibly continue to work alongside him, to maintain even a semblance of professionalism, with this knowledge hanging between you?

Your phone buzzed. It was a text from your boss.

"Amazing content! The fans are going wild! Get some shots of the podium ceremony and then meet me in the strategy room. We need to plan the social media blitz for the next 24 hours."

Right. Back to reality. Back to work.

You took another deep breath, forcing yourself to focus. You could deal with this. You had to.

You grabbed your phone and headed back into the fray.

The podium ceremony was a whirlwind of confetti, champagne, and roaring cheers. You filmed it all, capturing Charles's triumphant grin as he hoisted the trophy high above his head.

You interviewed team members, capturing their jubilant reactions. You worked on autopilot, pushing down the anxiety, ignoring the ache.

Later, in the strategy room, you sat around a large table with your boss and several other team members, brainstorming ideas for social media posts, videos, and live streams. You contributed your suggestions, focusing on data, engagement, and trend analysis.

You were a machine, efficient and effective.

You glanced at your phone. A notification from Instagram. Charles had posted a photo of himself on the podium, holding the trophy. The caption read: "Forza Ferrari! Grazie Mille!"

You quickly liked the post. You had to. It was your job.

As you worked late into the night, crafting social media posts and scheduling content, you couldn't shake the feeling that your life had irrevocably changed.

You were no longer just a social media manager. You were… something more.

“Dad, I think I’m broken,” you mutter into your phone, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why is that, baby?” your father replies, his tone tinged with concern and curiosity, a familiar warmth that reassures you even now.

You sit up, grappling with the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you. “I think Charles Leclerc is my soulmate,” you explain, your heart thudding heavily in your chest, “but he already has a girlfriend.”

“So?” he asks, as if trying to sift through the fog of your anguish.

“What do you mean, 'so?' He already loves someone else,” your voice rises slightly, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You’ve dated other people who weren’t your soulmate, didn’t you?”

“Well…” You fall silent, realizing he has a point, but it’s not just about dating. You’ve been aware of the perfect connection that exists out there—an electrifying touch that ignites the air around you as you near your true soulmate, a sensation that you’ve yet to experience despite countless suitors.

“But this feels different, Dad,” you finally manage to articulate, your voice cracking. “I’ve felt it—this allure, this pull whenever I'm near him. It’s like I’m supposed to be drawn in, but I can’t get close enough. And now he’s with someone else.”

Your father exhales softly, and for a moment, you think he's contemplating your plight. “Sweetheart, sometimes soulmates have their own timing. Life isn’t always a clear path. It can twist and turn in ways that feel frustrating.”

You groan, flopping back down onto your bed, the familiar nagging feeling in your chest intensifying. “But it’s not fair. I don’t want to wait. What if he’s never free?”

You hear him sigh. “You’ll find your way, darling. None of this is broken. You’re simply allowed to feel.”

But feeling is exhausting. With a grumble, you hang up the phone and toss it to the side.

You pull the covers up around your shoulders, your mind spiraling into thoughts that latch onto one another like tangled threads. . . .

In a world where finding your soulmate was practically a given, it felt ludicrous to deny the truth that lingered like an uninvited guest in the back of your mind. You had tried everything to resist.

The tingling sensation of well-being that blossomed in Charles’s presence was undeniable. Every crease in his smile felt like warmth on a cold winter day, and yet every time you were near him, you felt a gnawing anxiety that scratched away at your insides, waiting for that inevitable kiss that would confirm what you both already knew.

But you avoided Charles at work—until that dreaded Tuesday arrived.

As the clock ticked toward your call time, dread clawed at your stomach. You were tasked with interviewing Charles for a video segment about his recent successes in racing, a seemingly innocent job that had broader implications—one of which was unveiling the truth of your connection.

The whole ordeal left you on edge, not just because of the content of the interview but because of the man you were supposed to be interviewing.

You arrived at his house in Monaco early, fidgeting nervously with the equipment, tapping your foot against the polished floor.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" your cameraman, Mark, asked, sensing your anxiety as he set up the camera. "It's just a video. You could probably wing it."

"You don’t understand," you said, crossing your arms tightly. “It’s not just about the interview.”

As if the universe had conspired to gift you a moment of reprieve, you heard a distraction—a small bark followed by the sound of paws padding against the floor.

You took a deep breath, prepping yourself for whatever awaited you beyond the door.

“Alright, let’s do this,” you whispered to yourself, trying to muster confidence.

You knocked, and after a heartbeat, the door swung open. There stood Charles, his tousled hair glowing softly in the morning light. Cradled in his arms was Leo, who seemed just as excited to see you.

“Hey there, superstar!” Charles greeted, his eyes sparkling with warmth as he shifted Leo to his side. The dog wagged his tail furiously, seeming to sense the tension in the air. “You made it early!”

“Yeah, um…” you fumbled your words, trying to navigate the delightful familiarity of his presence. “I figured it would be good to start on time.”

“Of course!” Charles stepped aside, allowing you into his immaculate home. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the air, and as you entered, you could feel that familiar sense of well-being swelling inside you.

It was infuriating how easily it came.

Leo plopped himself at your feet, looking up at you with expectant eyes. “He likes you,” Charles commented, chuckling as Leo nudged your shoe with his nose.

“Who wouldn’t? He’s a sweetheart,” you replied, squatting down to scratch behind the dog’s ears, trying to mask the flutter of emotions that rose within you. “You’re the lucky one, huh, Leo?”

Charles laughed, a rich sound that sent butterflies tumbling through your stomach. “He’s definitely the lucky one in this household. Come on, let’s get the cameras rolling before I lose my nerve in front of you.”

He led the way into a cozy living room adorned with art and memorabilia from his racing career.

As you settled in, you realized that despite your intentions, you could feel that gnawing anxiety creeping in. It was as if every question you planned to ask was swiftly brushed aside by the rush of feelings that accompanied Charles’s presence.

With Mark now behind the camera, you cleared your throat. “Uh, so, how does it feel to be one of the top drivers in the world?”

Charles shifted in his seat, looking relaxed but attentive. “Honestly? It feels unreal every time I put on that helmet. The roar of the engine, the thrill of the race—it’s like this exhilarating dance with danger. But, you know, having my family and a strong support system means the world.”

The sincerity in his voice stroked against your heartstrings. “That’s incredible. Speaking of support, who do you think has had the biggest impact on your career?”

He shrugged, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Aside from Leo?” he teased. “Honestly, it’s you. Your support during last week was amazing.”

Your heart stuttered, and you choked on the words that caught in your throat. “Me?”

“Of course! Whenever you’re around, things just feel easier. I can’t quite explain it,” he said softly, leaning forward as if he was letting you in on a profound secret.

The air crackled between you, and suddenly, the interview felt less like a professional exchange and more like an uncharted territory. You knew you had to breach the elephant in the room, but unease held you back.

“Charles, I—”

Just then, Leo sprang up and knocked over the camera, causing a flurry of laughter to erupt as Mark jumped up to steady it. “Leo! Not now!”

You glanced back at Charles, heat flaring up your cheeks. “Why must you distract us like that?”

Charles grinned, a twinkle in his eye. “I think he senses the chemistry.”

You shot him a skeptical look, but there was no denying the truth in his words. As the camera slowly righted itself, Charles turned serious for a moment.

“Maybe he’s trying to help,” Charles replied, gesturing toward Leo, who had taken residence in your lap, wagging his tail like a flag of friendship.

“Right, because if there’s one thing a dog knows, it’s romance,” you quipped, eliciting a chuckle from Charles that warmed you from the inside out.

“Well, he definitely knows love,” Charles said, a softness returning to his tone as he reached out to scratch Leo behind the ears.

The gesture was so tender, so effortlessly intimate, that you felt a familiar gnawing in your chest, the yearning that intensified with each stolen glance at him.

After a moment, you resumed the interview, Leo settling in your lap like a warm blanket. “What inspired your latest project, Charles? Is it something personal?”

Charles leaned back, a thoughtful expression clouding his features. “Honestly? It’s more than just art for me. It’s about connection. I want people to feel understood. When I see someone looking at my work and they smile, or their eyes light up, it makes everything worth it.”

You nodded, engrossed in his words, but all the while, the underlying tension was like a thread unspooled, weaving a fabric of dubious comfort.

“That’s admirable,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “But do you think art can replace human connection?”

His gaze sharpened, the levity of a moment ago dissipating into something contemplative. “I think art can enhance it,” he replied. “But at the end of the day, it’s about the people in our lives. The ones we cherish. The connections we nurture.”

A hint of unease slithered through you at his answer. The thought of deep connections—those that sparked a sense of well-being—made your heart race, but the yearning you felt, a subtle gnawing anxiety, was just beneath the surface, waiting to be acknowledged.

You shifted your gaze, avoiding the intensity of his eyes.

“So what else does Charles Leclerc do in a day?” you asked, trying to redirect the conversation.

Charles's expression lightened as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I hope you brought your running shoes because I have to take Leo for a walk,” he said, glancing at his dog, who perked up at the mention of his favorite word.

Leo barked, his tail wagging furiously against your lap.

You looked at Mark, the cameraman, who was observing the interaction with a knowing smile. “You up for some running?” you asked him, half-joking, half-earnest.

“Sure,” he replied, his enthusiasm infectious.

Charles rose from his chair, and Leo leapt to the floor, ready for action. “Let’s hit the trail then! I know a great path nearby that winds through the park.”

The late afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting a golden hue over the park where Charles and you had decided to take Leo for his much-needed walk.

The vibrant greens of the grass contrasted with the vibrant colors of the flowers that had begun to bloom, a perfect backdrop for the evening. Leo bounded ahead, his tail a blur as he explored the scents of the world around him.

Charles chuckled as he watched Leo dart after a butterfly. “He’s like a kid, isn’t he? Full of energy and wonder.”

You smiled, glancing at the exuberant dog. “He definitely knows how to enjoy life. It’s contagious, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Charles agreed, turning his attention back to you. His eyes sparkled with a warmth that sent that familiar sense of well-being blooming in your chest, an unmistakable sign of his connection to you.

Mark, the cameraman, adjusted his camera, capturing the scene. “This is great! The light is perfect here. Just keep talking; I’ll get some candid shots.”

“Sure thing,” you said, trying to focus on the conversation and not on the persistent sensation of gnawing anxiety that accompanied you whenever you got closer to someone like Charles.

“So,” you began, trying to shake off the nervous energy, “do you take Leo on walks like this often?”

“Whenever I can,” Charles said, his smile widening. “He’s my little buddy. It’s good for both of us. You know how it is—work can get hectic, but he reminds me to take a break and enjoy the simple things.”

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his sentiment wash over you. “I get that. Sometimes I feel like I’m so caught up in deadlines and projects that I forget to take a moment to breathe.”

“Hey, we should do this more often then. Get out, walk, enjoy nature,” he suggested, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

“Sounds like a plan! I could use some fresh air,” you said, a little lighter now.

As Leo darted back to your feet, his wet nose nudging against your leg, you bent down to give him a scratch behind the ears. “Hey there, buddy! How’s my favorite dog?”

Leo responded with a happy bark, and you looked up to see Charles watching you, his gaze soft and appreciative.

“You’re great with him,” he said. “It’s nice to see.”

“Thanks! I just love animals. They have a way of making everything feel less complicated, don’t you think?”

Charles nodded thoughtfully. “Totally. They don’t judge or overthink things. They just love.”

You felt a twinge of vulnerability, the familiar yearning in your chest growing more intense as you met his gaze. “And what about people? Do you think we overthink love too much?”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging lightly. “But it’s hard not to, especially when you know what it feels like to find your soulmate.”

“Right,” you said, your voice softer. The weight of his words settled over you, a mixture of warmth and anxiety. “But what if it’s not as simple as it seems? What if we’re all just…lost?”

Charles moved closer, his expression earnest. “You’re not lost. You just need to follow your instincts. Pay attention to what makes you feel good. That’s the key.”

“Easier said than done,” you replied with a teasing smirk, but inside, the knot of anxiety twisted tighter.

Mark was busy adjusting his lens, trying to catch the candid moments. “You two are great! Just keep being yourselves. The chemistry is palpable!”

You felt a rush of warmth at the compliment but also an echo of that gnawing feeling, the sense that something was waiting, just out of reach.

“Hey, how about a little race?” Charles suggested, glancing down at Leo, who was now eyeing a distant squirrel.

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure you can keep up?”

“Bring it on!” he grinned, playfully nudging you. “I’ll give you a head start.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Okay, fine. Let me know when you’re ready.”

As he counted down, you took off, your heart pounding not just from the run, but from the thrill of the moment. You could hear Leo’s paws thumping behind you, the sound of Charles’s laughter ringing in your ears.

You didn’t want to think about the anxiety, the longing, or what it might mean. You just wanted to feel free, even if just for a moment.

You reached the far end of the open field, glancing back over your shoulder to see Charles and Leo closing the gap.

Charles had an effortless grace to his stride, and even as you stood there catching your breath, you felt that familiar warmth radiating from him.

Charles caught up to you, his chest heaving with laughter. “You’re faster than I expected!”

You grinned, your chest rising and falling. “You underestimated me!”

His eyes sparkled, and for a moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift. “I did! You’re like a gazelle out here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “A gazelle? Really?”

“Okay, maybe more like a clumsy gazelle,” he corrected, grinning as he bent over to pet Leo, who had finally returned, panting with excitement.

“Hey, no need to insult me!” you laughed, and the familiar warmth of his presence wrapped around you, banishing the anxious thoughts—if only for a moment.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

“Guys, come back so we can wrap up the interview!” Mark, the cameraman, calls from a nearby bench, his voice echoing slightly as it carries through the trees.

You glance back at Charles, who has a boyish grin plastered on his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. His exuberance is infectious, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to forget the gnawing anxiety that usually accompanies your moments with him.

“You ready?” Charles asks, his breath coming in light pants as he straightens up, brushing stray leaves from his shirt.

You nod, the sunlight dancing in your chestnut hair as you brush your fingers through it. “Let’s go finish this.”

But as you start to walk, the gnawing anxiety returns, creeping in slowly like a shadow. The closer you get to him, the more palpable it becomes, a reminder of the connection you cannot seal. It’s a force you can’t escape.

For him, it’s a sense of peace, a warmth that envelops him, but for you, it’s an unbearable longing that only seems to worsen. 

You carry Leo in your arms, feeling the comforting weight of his playful exuberance. He wriggles, trying to escape your hold to chase after a butterfly.

“Alright, alright, little buddy,” you say, gently setting him down. He takes off, bounding with enthusiasm.

“Seems like Leo has no problem being carefree,” Charles muses, watching the puppy chase the flitting insect.

“Yeah, if only we could take a page from his book,” you say lightly, but your heart feels heavy. 

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment.

You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

You glance back at Mark, who is fiddling with the camera, waiting for the two of you to return. You sigh, pushing the tumultuous thoughts away, if only for a moment. You want to savor the little things—Charles’s laughter, Leo’s exuberance, the way the sun filters through the trees.

As you walk back toward the bench, Leo frolics in the grass, tumbling and rolling as if to illustrate pure joy. Charles kneels beside him, scratching his ears, and you feel an unshakeable pang in your heart.

“Alright, you two, let’s wrap this up!” Mark calls, gesturing for you to take your places.

As you settle down beside Charles, you can’t help but feel the weight of your feelings bearing down. You catch his eye, and there’s something electric between you. 

“So, coming to the end of this interview, do you think you’ll win the championship this year?” you ask, your voice a mixture of professionalism and underlying affection.

“I’m confident that me and Ferrari can achieve big things this year,” Charles replies, his expression earnest, his eyes sparkling with hope.

“That’s what we like to hear,” you respond, letting the moment linger just a second longer than necessary. Your heart races, and not just from the anticipation of the race season ahead.

There’s an unspoken rhythm between you, pulsing in the air like a melody only you two can hear.

You ask more questions, the interview flowing smoothly. Charles speaks with passion about his dreams and aspirations, his love for the sport evident in every word. But all the while, you feel the gnawing anxiety that accompanies your every interaction.

You want to close that distance, to extinguish that yearning, and the idea of a kiss hangs in the air like a tantalizing promise.

“Okay, that’s a wrap! This has been ‘A Day in Charles Leclerc’s Life.’ I hope you guys enjoyed the video and enjoyed me beating him in a race,” you say, your voice light and teasing.

“No way! I gave you a head start,” Charles shoots back, laughter bubbling in his chest.

“There’s no proof,” you shrug, a playful smile spreading across your face.

“Okay, okay,” he concedes, shaking his head with a smirk. “But one day, I’ll challenge you to a real race. And I won’t let you get away with a head start.”

“Is that a promise?” you counter, your heart racing for reasons beyond the thrill of competition.

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that wraps around you. “It’s a promise. But let’s not forget—every time we race, you have to hold my hand as we get started. You know, for luck.”

You both laugh, the sound filling the spacious area, weaving through the barking of Leo, enjoying his carefree afternoon. Mark flashes a thumbs-up, signaling the end of the scene.

 You grinned, a surge of pride warming you.

“Leo, it's time to go home!” you called, your voice laced with playful exasperation.

The miniature dachshund, a furry, low-slung missile, ignored you completely. He zipped across the grass, your ID lanyard dangling precariously from his mouth like a hard-won trophy.

Charles was doubled over, his laughter echoing through the spacious park, a sound that made your heart skip a beat.

“He really likes your lanyard, I think,” Charles chuckled, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“He likes anything he can chew on,” you retorted, but your voice was light, your frustration dissolving in the warmth of his amusement. You resumed your pursuit. “Leo! Come back here, you little menace!”

The chase continued, a comical dance of wills. Leo, fueled by mischief, weaved between trees and benches, the lanyard flapping like a tiny, rebellious flag.

You were gaining on him when he veered sharply, heading straight… for Charles’ legs.

Charles yelped, a surprised sound that only made you laugh harder. Leo, triumphant, dropped the lanyard at his feet and sat, panting, tail wagging furiously.

“Traitor!” you declared, feigning offense. You scooped up the lanyard and clipped it back onto your shirt. “He’s clearly playing favorites.”

Charles knelt, scratching Leo behind the ears. “He has good taste, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes met yours, a mischievous glint in their depths.

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. “I… suppose so.” You busied yourself with putting the lanyard away, avoiding his gaze. “We should probably get going. Mark’s almost packed up.”

Mark was indeed packing up, efficiently dismantling the equipment, blissfully unaware of the turmoil raging within you. The relief of leaving this park, this proximity, was almost palpable.

The walk back to the car was a pleasant one, objectively speaking. The air was cool and crisp, the scent of freshly cut grass lingering in the breeze.

Charles walked beside you, Leo trotting happily at his heels. It should have been idyllic. Instead, it felt like walking a tightrope strung precariously high above a chasm of suppressed emotions.

“I really enjoyed today,” Charles said, his voice soft, breaking the comfortable silence. “It was… relaxing.”

You forced a smile. "I'm happy I was able to make you comfortable," you said, the words feeling hollow even to your own ears. Comfortable for him, maybe.

He stopped walking, turning to face you. His expression was unreadable, a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn't quite decipher. "You know," he began, tilting his head slightly. "Most interviewers just ask questions. You actually listened."

You swallowed, the anxiety tightening its grip. "That’s… kind of the point of an interview," you managed, trying to laugh it off. "Besides, it's your life. It’s fascinating."

"Is it?" He stepped closer, and the internal hum escalated into a full-blown alarm. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drummer urging you to flee. "Or are you just being polite?"

You averted your gaze, focusing on a distant tree. "I wouldn't waste my time if I wasn't genuinely interested," you mumbled.

Charles chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

Your head snapped up, your eyes meeting his. The amusement was gone, replaced by an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I… I don’t know what you mean.”

Before he can respond, Mark’s voice cuts through the tension. “Y/N! Am I still giving you a ride home?”

“Uh, oh yeah…” You falter mid-sentence as a wave of panic washes over you. The realization hits you like a cold shower, drawing your attention away from Charles and back to the alarming truth.

Your bag—your essential items, including your keys—are still at Charles’ house. “Shit,” you mutter.

“Um, you can go without me,” you say, mortified now, as a flush of embarrassment floods your system. You can’t even look at Charles. “I left my bag in Charles’ house.”

A flicker of something crosses Charles’ face that you can’t quite decipher—concern? Amusement?

“Okay, see you tomorrow,” Mark calls as he turns on the ignition in his car and pulls away, leaving you alone with Charles.

Now that the silence has settled around you like a thick blanket, you feel the gnawing uncertainty of your emotions wrapping tighter.

Your conflicting instincts tempt you to stay, to dive deeper into the maddening connection of your fate and his, while another part of you urges you to run—run far, far away from this simmering tension and the anxiety that burns you from within.

“You’re okay with walking there, right?” Charles asks, his brow slightly furrowed, eyes searching yours for affirmation.

“Yep,” you manage to reply, though the word barely escapes your lips.

As you walk, Leo, Charles's loyal dog, bounds between you, a bright streak of fur and happiness that somehow lightens the weight pressing on your heart.

You steal a glance at him, noting his handsome features, the way the light catches his dark hair, and the tension in the air thickens—a familiar feeling that both excites and scares you.

The awkward silence envelops you both, filled with unspoken words and parallel thoughts. You’re lost in your own mind, analyzing what Charles meant earlier, wondering if he sensed the connection your heart insists is there.

You catch a glimpse of frustration flickering in Charles's eyes; he’s wrestling with an internal battle of asking if you feel the same, if you both belong to this invisible thread of destiny.

Before long, you arrive at his house—a cozy, unassuming space that feels utterly alive with its charm. Charles opens the door, gesturing for you to enter first while he carries Leo in his arms.

The familiar scent of cedarwood and freshly brewed coffee envelops you as you step inside.

“Just grab your bag and let’s get out of here,” you say to yourself, trying to mask the heaviness that clings to your heart.

But as you move towards the living room, Charles’s voice halts you, a note of sadness threaded through his tone. “Could you please stay for a while? Leo really likes you.” Leo barks in enthusiastic agreement, his tail wagging furiously.

Your resolve begins to soften at the sight of Charles's hopeful expression, the way his eyes shine with an almost childlike earnestness.

You look down at Leo, wagging his tail expectantly, and your heart sinks a little further. “Okay,” you finally say, a reluctant smile breaking through the anxiety.

You both settle onto the plush sofa, Leo scrambling onto your lap, his warm presence comforting against the storm of emotions inside you.

As you play with Leo, tossing a soft toy for him to chase, Charles watches you with an intensity you can hardly bear. His admiration for you lingers in the air, and you can’t ignore the flutter in your chest.

“Leo thinks you’re the best,” he says, a gentle laugh escaping his lips. “I think he has good taste.”

You chuckle, trying to mask the heat rising to your cheeks. “If Leo approves, then there must be something good about me.”

“I do think you're wonderful,” he comments, and for a moment, the world around you fades. His sincerity wraps around you, igniting that undeniable pull between you both.

“Thank you, Charles,” you muttered, your cheeks flushing, betraying the wall you had built around your heart. If Leo had any say in the matter, he certainly seemed to be steering you in Charles’s direction.

Leo decided he was ready for some action again, leaping from your lap to chase after the soft toy you had tossed across the room. The joy on his face was immeasurable, a reminder of life’s simplest pleasures.

You wondered if it was too late to change the subject before you allowed yourself to drown in the depths of connection that was blooming—an uncharted territory you feared to venture into.

“May I take a picture of you and Leo for my ‘Cute Leo’ folder?” Charles asked, his eyes sparkling like the stars. Before you could respond, he pulled out his phone, and you found yourself nodding, an odd mixture of excitement and dread flipping your stomach.

The click of the camera sounded as you smiled down at Leo in your arms, your affection for the dog pouring out in earnest.

“Perfect,” he m, glancing at the screen before a look of longing crossed his features. You caught a glimpse of the image—your face beaming with love and happiness, a stark contrast to the inner turmoil festering inside you.

“What do you think about soulmates?” Charles asked suddenly, breaking the momentary silence, the question landing heavily between you like an anchor.

You froze, your heart pounding as you looked up into those earnest eyes. “What do you mean?” you asked, trying to read his expression, warm curiosity mingling with something deeper.

“Like, just your opinion on them,” he rambled, the casualness of his tone masking the weight of the subject. “Do you think you have one? I’m curious.”

You hesitated, the words wrapping around memories you had tried to suppress. “Well, I think everyone has a soulmate, but for me, I don’t think I want to meet mine,” you said slowly, drifting your gaze to Leo, who was now engrossed in an imaginary chase.

“Why?” Charles’s question was soft yet insistent, a kind invite for you to unfold the truth. You could feel the warmth emanating from him; it was a stark contrast to the chill that had purposefully wrapped itself around your heart.

You took a deep breath. “An accident happened in my family. It changed my thoughts about soulmates. I believe they come with too much trouble and pain,” you explained, the words flowing out before you could even think them through. In that moment, you realized you were baring a part of yourself that you rarely shared, but perhaps the weight of your thoughts would be understood—especially if he might be your soulmate.

Charles’s expression fell, and you felt your heart splinter as he absorbed your words. Did he not understand the implication behind them? Did he not know that you believed the tether between you was fraught with risk?

“I see,” he said quietly, but the shift in his demeanor was palpable—the distance grew between you, as if an ocean had poured in to separate your worlds.

“Your thoughts are different, of course,” you attempted to lighten the mood, forcing a strained grin. “You’ve already found your soulmate, right?”

He nodded, but the agreement held a quiet hesitance that did not escape you.

“… with Alex.”

His heart sank as he grappled with the realization. “You think Alex is his soulmate?”

He froze, his eyes wide with realization, as if the universe had just collapsed around him.

Did you—could you—really believe that Alex was truly his soulmate?

Before he could muster a response, your phone rang, jolting you both from the oppressive silence. You glanced down at the screen to see your dad’s name flashing.

“Oh! I forgot I was getting dinner with my dad! I have to go, sorry,” you said hurriedly, shoving your phone back in your pocket, the weight of the conversation still lingering in the air.

“Do you need me to drive you there?” Charles asked, glancing at you with sincerity.

“It’s not necessary; it’s just Cantinetta Antinori,” you replied, adopting a nonchalant tone that didn’t quite mask the tightness in your chest.

“Right. No problem,” he murmured, but you caught the muted disappointment in his voice, a low tremor that tugged at your insides. It felt like a tether unraveling, and you hated it.

You stood up from the couch, leaving Leo behind as you tossed your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks for letting me play with Leo a little. See you tomorrow, Charles.”

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said, his tone infused with an aching bittersweetness as he followed you to the door and opened it.

You hesitated for a moment, caught by the sight of him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets.

You could feel his gaze lingering on you, and you walked away, fighting the urge to turn back and reassure him, to do anything to stop that look of muted disappointment from settling in his features.

“Right, Leo, let’s go visit Maman,” he sighed, trying to infuse a sense of normalcy into the moment, the dog wagging its tail in response.

Charles shrugged off his coat, the familiar scent of lavender and simmering herbs enveloping him. “Maman! I’m home,” he called out, his voice echoing slightly in the cozy, book-lined hallway.

A moment later, a woman with kind eyes and a flour-dusted apron emerged from the kitchen. “Charles! You’re back early. Did the interview go well?” Pascale pulled him into a warm embrace.

“It was… great,” Charles said, carefully avoiding her gaze.

“Great, eh? That’s good. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Why don’t you relax?” Pascale patted his cheek. "I'm making your favorite."

He managed a smile. “Sounds wonderful, Maman.”

Pascale then looked at Leo, his dog, a golden retriever, on the floor. "How have you been?"

Leo barked happily, running around her feet. Pascale laughed, stooping to pet Leo before returning to the kitchen. Charles followed, leaning against the counter, his mind replaying the events of the afternoon.

"So, what are you thinking about? Y/N?" Pascale suddenly asked, startling him.

He jumped. “Um, yeah, I told you she interviewed me, right Maman?”

“Yeah, you should be happy then,” she said with a knowing look in her eye.

“I was, and I still am. She’s amazing, beautiful, and funny but…” he paused, a shadow falling over his face.

“But?” Pascale asked, her curiosity piqued.

“I asked her about soulmates, and she said something about having an accident in her family which made her not want to find her soulmate. She also thinks that Alex is my soulmate, but I couldn't say anything because she had to meet her dad at some restaurant,” he ranted, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

Pascale looked at her son with sympathy. "Okay, fils, breathe. Now, I'm curious, do you have a picture of her?"

“Um… yes, I do,” he said, fumbling for his phone. He pulled it out and showed his mother the picture he’d taken of Y/N holding Leo in her arms earlier that day. She had an easy smile and her eyes sparkled.

Pascale smiled as she looked at it. "She is very pretty. She looks familiar, but from where?" She handed the phone back. "What restaurant was she going to?"

“She said Cantinetta Antinori,” he replied.

Pascale’s brow furrowed. "I've been there a few times." She paused, a distant look in her eyes. 

Charles, seizing on this new thread of conversation, asked, “How do you get a soulmate again?” He needed a refresher, a grounding in the established reality that you seemed determined to ignore.

Maybe if he understood the mechanics better, he could understand her resistance. He knew the theory, of course, but hearing it again, reaffirmed, might help.

Pascale considered his question carefully. "You meet them around the age of 12-13," she said slowly, her gaze drifting off as she mentally scanned her memories, searching for any significant event or interaction from that period. 

"You have an instant connection with the person, at least that's how it was with me and your father," Pascale smiled, thinking about her late husband.

Charles thought about any girls he had met at that time. Was it anyone in school or any girls who were in karting? He had always been passionate about racing, and it was through this hobby that he had met many of his closest friends. But as he went through the list of girls he had known, none of them seemed to fit the bill.

"What if you don't meet them at that age?" Charles asked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What if you don't feel that instant connection?"

Pascale shook her head. "It's not always instant, Charles. Sometimes it takes time for the connection to develop. And sometimes people meet their soulmates later in life. It's not a hard and fast rule."

Charles nodded, taking in this new information. He had always thought that finding his soulmate would be a simple, straightforward process. But now he was beginning to understand that it was more complicated than he had initially thought.

"How do you know when you've found them?" Charles asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pascale smiled, her eyes softening with affection. "You just know," she said, her voice filled with certainty. "It's like a feeling of completeness, of wholeness. It's like you've found a piece of yourself that you didn't even know was missing."

He smiled too, thinking about her. "Well, it definitely feels like that," he admitted, a blush creeping up his neck.

"Oh maman! The food!" he exclaimed, jolted back to reality by the pungent smell of burning garlic.

He leaped up, rescuing the pan just as Pascale shrieked in mock horror. "Charles! You scared me! And look at what you almost made me do to dinner." She chuckled, waving a wooden spoon at him playfully.

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, Maman. Lost in thought."

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

Charles, still buzzing from his go-karting victory, walked along the familiar street towards home. The plastic trophy, a symbol of his triumph, felt warm against his palm.

His family had promised a celebratory barbeque, and the aroma of grilling burgers already tickled his senses.

He was twelve years old, practically a teenager, and life felt good.

As he passed Cantinetta Antinori, the scent of garlic and simmering tomatoes usually a comforting aroma, was overridden by something else: the unmistakable sound of crying.

It was a soft, muffled sound, but persistent enough to slice through the celebratory bubble he'd been inhabiting. Charles, usually one to avoid emotional entanglements, found himself drawn towards the source.

Behind the restaurant, tucked between the brick wall and a overflowing dumpster, sat a girl. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with long, dark hair that obscured her face. Her shoulders shook with each sob.

Even from a distance, Charles could tell she was pretty, the kind of pretty that made him feel a strange flutter in his chest he couldn't quite decipher.

Ignoring the nagging voice in his head that urged him to keep walking, to focus on the promised party, Charles approached cautiously.

The stories his older brother, Lorenzo, told about girls – complicated, dramatic stories – flashed through his mind. But he couldn't just leave her there.

"Hey," he said, his voice a little higher than usual, "are you okay?"

The girl froze, her sobs abruptly cut short. Her head snapped up, and she blinked at him, her eyes red and swollen. She frantically wiped at her cheeks with the back of her hand, smearing the remnants of her tears.

"Um, I'm okay," she mumbled, her voice thick with emotion.

The lie hung in the air between them. Charles wasn't stupid. "You don't sound okay," he countered gently, edging closer. "Is something wrong?"

She hesitated, her gaze flickering between Charles and the ground. He noticed she was wearing a simple blue dress. He also felt a… something. A strange pull, like a gentle current tugging him closer.

It was faint, barely noticeable, but definitely there. It was a warm, comforting feeling, like wrapping himself in his favorite blanket on a cold day. 

"It's nothing," she insisted, but her voice cracked on the last word. More tears welled up in her eyes.

Charles, emboldened by the strange comfort that emanated from her, sat down beside her on the cracked pavement. He kept a respectful distance, unsure of how close was too close.

"Everyone cries sometimes," he said, trying to sound wise beyond his years. "It doesn't mean it's nothing."

She finally met his gaze, her dark eyes filled with a vulnerability that tugged at his heart. "It's my mom," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "She passed away."

Charles's own breath hitched. He didn't know what to say. He'd never experienced anything like that. He just sat there, silent, feeling utterly helpless.

"It was really sudden," she continued, the tears flowing freely now. "She was fine one day, and then…she just didn't wake up."

Charles reached out and awkwardly patted her arm. "I'm really sorry," he said, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears.

"I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything feels…wrong."

"I can't imagine," Charles said, wishing he could offer her more than just empty words. 

Then, an idea sparked in his mind. He held up his tarnished trophy, a shy, hopeful smile gracing his face. "My family are celebrating my win. Do you want to come and celebrate with me?"

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering within their depths. "Are you sure?" she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

Charles smiled, a genuine, bright smile that chased away some of the shadows in his own heart. "It's okay, it's my party! Come on," he said, standing up.

He held out his hand to her. She hesitated for a moment, then wiped her tears and took his hand. He pulled her up gently.

"Well, we have to be quick, my brothers might finish all the food," he said, grabbing her hand and starting to run, a playful grin on his face.

She stumbled a little at first, but soon matched his pace, a faint smile finally gracing her lips.

The aroma of barbeque hit them long before they reached the house. The air thrummed with laughter and music. A string of brightly colored lights crisscrossed the backyard, illuminating a scene of chaotic celebration.

Charles' family was large and boisterous, a whirlwind of hugs, loud conversation, and the constant clinking of glasses. 

"Hi, Maman!" Charles called out, not letting go of her hand.

Pascale, his mother, a woman built like a sturdy oak tree with a smile as warm as summer sunshine, turned towards them. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in her, still clinging to Charles' hand.

A knowing smile spread across her face.

"Charles! Congratulations, mon chéri!" She engulfed him in a bone-crushing hug, then turned her attention to her.

"And who is this lovely young lady? A friend from school?" Pascale's eyes were knowing.

Charles' eyes widened in embarrassment. He hadn't even properly learned her name! He'd been so caught up in the simple, radiating joy that had bloomed within him ever since she'd agreed to come to his party – a joy so potent it felt like sunshine warming his bones.

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What's your name?"

"Y/N L/N," she whispered back, her voice barely audible above the party noise.

"This is Y/N, Maman. She's celebrating with us!" Charles beamed, squeezing her hand reassuringly. The feeling of rightness was almost intoxicating for him.

Y/N offered a small, hesitant smile. "Hello, Madame." The gnawing anxiety felt almost unbearable, a constant flutter in her chest like a trapped bird.

And yet, underneath, something felt… safe when she was with Charles. It was a faint, unfamiliar sensation, easily drowned out by the anxiety, but it was there.

“Please, call me Pascale,” his mother’s smile never faltered. “Come, come, you must be starving! Let me get you something to eat.” She steered them towards the barbeque, where Charles's father, Hervé, was presiding over a veritable mountain of grilled meats.

The rest of the evening was a dizzying swirl of faces and food for Y/N. Charles, radiating an effortless confidence he'd never possessed before, introduced her to his boisterous brothers, Arthur and Lorenzo.

“So, Charles, finally found a girl who can tolerate your driving?” Arthur teased, ruffling his younger brother's hair.

“Yeah, she must have a strong stomach!” Lorenzo chimed in, winking at Y/N.

Charles flushed with embarrassment. He was too busy beaming at Y/N to notice the heat creeping up his neck. "Leave her alone," he mumbled, but there was no real heat in his voice. He was just too happy.

Y/N managed a weak smile. She felt like she was walking through a dream. The anxiety never truly left her – it was a persistent hum beneath the surface – but it was tempered by the genuine warmth and acceptance she felt from Charles's family. They didn’t treat her like an outsider, but welcomed her into their midst with open arms.

Charles, for his part, never left her side. He kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out funny anecdotes about his family, explaining the rules of karting, and generally just making sure she felt comfortable. The warm, happy feeling never left him, growing stronger with each passing moment.

As the evening drew to a close, and the last of the fairy lights began to flicker, Y/N felt a sharp pang of sadness. The thought of going back to her quiet, often lonely, existence was almost unbearable.

She’d never experienced anything like this before – a feeling of belonging, of being seen, of being… important.

“Thank you,” she said quietly to Charles as they stood by the gate, the last of the guests drifting away. “For inviting me. For everything.”

Charles blushed, kicking at a loose pebble on the ground. He was suddenly shy, the carefree confidence of earlier replaced by a nervous energy. "It was nothing. I had fun."

He looked up at her, his eyes earnest and a little vulnerable. "We should do it again sometime."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat. The anxiety spiked again, almost overwhelming her, making her breath catch in her throat.

But beneath it, that faint sense of safety flickered, growing a little stronger. She managed a small, hesitant smile. "Maybe."

Charles, feeling braver than he had ever felt before, reached out and gently touched her hand.

His entire body thrummed with contentment, a feeling so pure and untainted that it made his head spin. "I hope so."

Y/N, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swirling inside her, acted on instinct. She leaned forward and quickly pressed a kiss to his cheek, the briefest, lightest touch.

Then, before he could react, she turned and ran, disappearing into the night.

Charles stood there, stunned, his cheek burning where her lips had touched. The simple joy was now charged with something else, something electric and confusing and intensely exciting.

He touched his cheek, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Though he never saw her again after that day. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

24 Hours Without You

Summary: A dare from Lando led to Oscar not having any contact from you for 24 hours. Well he tried to.

Song: Love Drought · Beyoncé

Author’s note: Happy Valentines day to all couples and all singles (like me 🥲), either I hope you have a good day! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The lights of the McLaren production studio flickered with anticipation, the hum of laughter from the crew blending into the casual camaraderie surrounding Oscar Piastri and Lando Norris.

The two drivers, known not only for their prowess on the Formula 1 tracks but also for their undeniable charisma off of it, sat on plush bean bags before a camera.

Today’s content was light-hearted—an episode of "Truth or Dare," where playful banter was the currency of the moment.

In the midst of the gleeful chaos, Lando held up a hand, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Truth or dare?” he shot at Oscar, who had his fingers nervously tapping on the surface of his knee.

Oscar, who had been bracing for this exact moment, hesitated. He’d opted for “truth” in virtually every previous round, hoping to avoid anything too embarrassing.

But the staff behind the camera were practically pleading with him to choose “dare”—for the sake of content, of course.

“Dare,” he finally relented, a playful smirk hiding the anxiety bubbling beneath the surface. He expected something innocuous, maybe a challenge to show off an embarrassing childhood photograph or to tweet an old picture of himself wearing an awkward haircut.

But Lando’s grin widened unnaturally as he clapped his hands together. “I dare you to spend 24 hours away from your girlfriend and document it to show the fans how needy you are for her!”

Oscar blinked. “Wait, what?” It was more of a stutter than a question.

Lando, brimming with enthusiasm, leaned into the camera with an exaggerated expression. “You heard me! No calls, no texts, and definitely no see-you-later kisses! We want to see how long it takes for you to break.”

Oscar felt his cheeks flush. This wasn’t just some off-the-cuff banter in the drivers' room. This was being filmed. This was going to be on YouTube. This was going to be everywhere.

He glanced around, hoping for a lifeline from even a vaguely sympathetic face from his engineer. He found none. They were all either strategically avoiding eye contact or subtly smirking.

"What if I say no?" Oscar asked, the words laced with a desperate hope that this whole thing was a joke, a prank that had gone too far.

He’d already planned on going to your house later that day for a quiet movie night and homemade pasta, a tradition they’d started a few years after they’d started dating.

The thought of not seeing you, not hearing your voice, for an unknown amount of time… it felt like a physical ache.

Lando’s grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eye. “Then you have to let me pass in the next 3 races if you're in the lead,” he said, the words dripping with smug confidence.

He knew Oscar was fiercely competitive. He knew this would sting.

Oscar groaned, running a hand through his already tousled hair. “Why are you so against me, mate?” He couldn't fathom Lando's sudden, intense interest in his love life, or rather, in trying to sabotage it.

"I just want to show the world how much of a simp you are," Lando replied, his tone teasing, but with an underlying edge that Oscar couldn’t quite decipher.

“Is this even allowed?” Oscar asked, appealing to the staff, hoping someone would intervene, would point out the absurdity of the situation. This had to be a breach of some sort of code of conduct, right?

"Of course, it is!" Lando declared, throwing his arms wide. "It's content! Think of the views!"

Oscar knew, deep down, that the team probably did see it as ‘content.’

In the cutthroat world of Formula 1, where every millisecond and every marketing opportunity mattered, this ridiculous challenge probably seemed like a stroke of genius.

He looked back at Lando, his friend's face alight with mischievous glee. He looked at the cameras, the expectant faces of the crew.

He looked at the faces of the team, already calculating potential audience engagement.

“Fine,” he said, the word feeling like a lead weight in his mouth. “But you owe me big time for this, Lando.”

Lando whooped, jumping off the toolbox and slapping Oscar on the back. “That’s the spirit! Challenge accepted! And don’t worry, the world will thank me for this entertainment!”

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a familiar gesture when frustration gnawed at him. He fished his phone out of his pocket, the bright screen momentarily blinding in the dim light of the hallway.

There they were, a string of messages from you, each one a little more frantic than the last.

“Hey, everything okay? You’ve been quiet all day.”

“Oscar? You haven’t even seen my meme! It’s hilarious, you HAVE to see it.”

“Seriously, starting to worry. Call me when you get a chance.”

And finally, a more plaintive, “I miss you. Hope you’re okay.”

He cursed under his breath, a sharp, involuntary sound. Lando. It was always Lando. This stupid dare, this ridiculous game, had ripped a hole in his day, a hole that was shaped exactly like you.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket, the cool glass a constant reminder of the connection he was deliberately severing.

“See you guys,” he mumbled to the departing camera crew, offering a weak wave.

He then turned to Lando, delivered a playful, but firm, punch to his shoulder, and escaped to the sanctuary of his apartment.

He knew, logically, that it was just 24 hours. A single day. But the thought of willingly ignoring you felt like a betrayal, a small chink in the fortress of their relationship.

He cherished your texts, your calls, the small everyday interactions that stitched together the tapestry of their lives. Being without them, even for a fleeting moment, felt… wrong.

He threw himself onto the couch, intending to relax, maybe watch some mindless TV. But your voice echoed in his head, replaying snippets of conversations, silly jokes, and whispered sweet nothings.

He closed his eyes, trying to conjure your face, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed, the soft curve of your smile. He needed to hear your voice, desperately.

He got up, restless, and paced the small apartment. He considered calling Lando, admitting defeat, throwing in the towel. But pride, that stubborn, annoying companion, held him back.

He’d made a commitment, however foolish, and he intended to see it through.

Sleep evaded him. He tossed and turned, the silence amplifying the absence of your goodnight text, your usual, comforting presence. He got up, made himself a cup of tea, and stared out the window at the twinkling city lights.

Each light, he imagined, represented a connection, a conversation, a life unfolding. And he was deliberately cutting himself off from one of the most important ones.

Finally, exhaustion claimed him, but it was a restless, fractured sleep, filled with snippets of dreams where he was chasing you through crowded streets, always just out of reach.

The next morning dawned gray and overcast, mirroring his mood. He dragged himself out of bed, the weight of fatigue heavy on his shoulders.

Today was qualifying, a crucial part of the race weekend, and he needed to be sharp, focused. This was not the condition that he wants to be in.

He arrived at the track, the buzz of activity usually energizing, today felt like a dull hum. He went through the motions, the familiar routines a small comfort in the unsettling void.

Lando found him in the McLaren garage, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. “Hey mate, have you given up yet?” he asked, slapping Oscar’s shoulder a little too hard.

Oscar winced, both from the physical blow and the reminder of the dare. “Nope,” he mumbled, the word devoid of any real conviction. He was tired, irritable, and more than anything, he missed you.

The thought of the next few hours stretching out before him, devoid of your presence, felt unbearable.

“Don’t worry, Osc,” Lando teased, oblivious to the genuine discomfort he was causing. “Just a few hours left. Think of the gloating rights!”

Oscar just glared at him, the playful banter lost on his weary mind. He wanted to tell Lando how much this stupid dare was affecting him, how much he relied on your support, your laughter, your simple, unwavering belief in him.

But he couldn’t bring himself to articulate it. It felt too vulnerable, too personal.

The day dragged on, each minute a tiny eternity. He went through the qualifying rounds, his performance adequate, but lacking the spark he usually possessed.

He could feel the absence of your encouragement, the subtle confidence boost he always got from knowing you were watching, cheering him on.

Between sessions, he retreated to his driver’s room, fighting the urge to reach for his phone. He scrolled through news articles, read through performance data, anything to distract himself from the aching void that was growing larger with each passing second.

Then, during the buildup to Q3, he was sat in the car and ready to go when his engineer, Tom, spoke over the radio. "Okay Oscar, you're up next, are you ready?"

Oscar gripped the wheel a little tighter, trying to focus on the task at hand. "Yeah I'm ready, is there any changes?"

Tom paused for moment and Oscar thought he hadn't head him. "No changes, but your girlfriend wanted me to pass on a message, she said good luck and she misses you, now go show them what you are capable of."

Oscar's heart skipped a beat. He didn't know you had talked to his engineer, but the small gesture warmed him from the inside.

It was exactly the kind of thing you would do, finding a way to break through his self-imposed barrier without directly contacting him.

The message worked. Oscar's spirits lifted and he felt a fresh surge of determination coursing through him.

He took off onto the track and delivered a blistering lap, securing a strong position on the starting grid.

He should be celebrating with the team, analysing telemetry, strategizing for tomorrow's race. But all he could think about was you. All because of Lando's stupid dare.

The qualifying result helped, but it didn't fill the void. After the debrief, he couldn't take it anymore. He muttered a quick goodbye to the team, ignoring their puzzled looks, and practically sprinted to his car.

He drove to your house, his hands clenched on the steering wheel, his heart pounding in his chest.

He parked the car, took a deep breath, and walked up to your front door. He had a key, a privilege he still cherished. He unlocked the door and let himself in.

“Hello?” he heard you say from inside, his footsteps louder than usual in the silence of the house.

He couldn’t speak. He stood frozen in the hallway, suddenly feeling ashamed and foolish.

How could he have ignored you because of a stupid dare?

He’d prioritized a silly game over your feelings, over his own need to be with you. The reality of his actions hit him like a punch to the gut.

You appeared in the doorway, your eyes widening in surprise. You were wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, your hair pulled back in a messy bun. He’d never seen you look more beautiful.

“Oscar? What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice a mixture of surprise and something he couldn’t quite decipher. He swallowed hard but found the words stuck somewhere deep in his throat.

“I…um…” He was fumbling, just like the first time he’d ever tried to ask you out. He felt like he was letting a ridiculous dare take precedence over something–over someone–he truly cared about.

"You weren't answering my messages, I thought I did something wrong," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he blurted out, finally finding his voice. “It’s just… it was a stupid dare. From Lando. He dared me not to contact you for 24 hours.”

He cringed at the sound of his own explanation. It sounded pathetic, even to him.

He could practically see the disbelief forming in your eyes, the flicker of hurt morphing into something colder, something more distant.

He’d hoped to mitigate the damage, but he suspected he’d only made things worse. The dare, the explanation, the whole situation… it all felt utterly ridiculous and deeply, deeply wrong.

The silence descended again, thick and heavy with unspoken emotions. Then, you muttered, the words barely audible, “Am I just a dare to you?” The question hit him like a physical blow, a sharp, searing pain that ripped through his chest.

The accusation, even whispered, was devastating. It was the very antithesis of everything he felt, everything he wanted you to believe.

The thought that you could even consider him capable of such callousness was unbearable. He had to convince you, he had to erase any doubt that lingered in your mind, or he risked losing you forever.

“No!” It burst from him, a desperate plea laced with raw emotion, desperation threading his tone. "I love you more than that," he continued, his voice cracking with the intensity of his feelings.

He reached out, instinctively wanting to touch you, to reassure you, but hesitated, unsure if you'd welcome the gesture.

You paused, your gaze intense, scanning his face for any sign of deception. He met your eyes, unflinchingly, letting his own reflect the truth of his words.

He knew he had to be an open book, to let you see the regret, the love, the sheer desperation that consumed him. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you scrutinized him, searching for any flicker of falsehood.

Each passing second felt like an eternity, the silence amplifying the pounding of his heart in his ears. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the tension in your shoulders eased slightly.

"Well then, why?" you asked, your voice softer now, but still tinged with hurt. The question hung in the air, demanding an explanation, a justification for his inexplicable actions.

It was a reasonable question, one he knew he deserved. But the truth was, he didn’t have a good answer.

He shuffled his feet, avoiding your gaze. The usually confident Oscar Piastri, the Formula 1 sensation, looked like a scolded puppy.

"I… I don't know why I agreed to it, but I knew I regretted it as soon as I said yes. I couldn't concentrate at all today or sleep without your voice. The only reason I didn't crash out of tiredness was because of your message that Tom gave me," he ranted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

He was scared. You could see it in the way his hands trembled slightly, the way his eyes darted around the room, anywhere but at you. This was the only real relationship he'd ever been in, the only one that felt… right.

He loved you, a dizzying, heart-wrenching, terrifying kind of love that had taken root ever since he saw you in that crowded lecture hall, your face illuminated by the glow of your laptop screen.

"I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you, I promise," he pleaded, his voice cracking slightly. He waited for you to speak, to yell, to do anything. But you didn't. He panicked more.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy. You could see the desperation etched on his face, the genuine remorse in his eyes. It was hard being mad at him, especially knowing how much he hated being apart from you.

Finally, you sighed, a weary sound that seemed to deflate him even further. You pushed aside your anger, the petty hurt that had been bubbling beneath the surface for the past day.

You knew how easily Lando could goad him into things, how Oscar, despite his steely determination on the track, could be surprisingly susceptible to peer pressure.

You moved forward, closing the distance between you. He flinched slightly, bracing himself for… what, you didn't know.

Instead, you went on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne – something uniquely Oscar.

You missed it, even though you were with him just two days ago.

Oscar froze, his breath catching in his throat. He gradually relaxed, melting into your embrace, his own arms wrapping tightly around your waist. He missed you too. More than you knew.

"You're lucky Lando told me about it and bribed me with pictures of you looking depressed to not get mad at you," you muttered into his shoulder, your voice muffled.

He chuckled weakly, a sound that vibrated against you. "He what?"

"He’s been sending me pictures all day," you said, pulling back slightly to look up at him. "Apparently, you kept staring at your phone with this forlorn expression. Lando said it was hilarious, but also that he felt bad for you."

Oscar groaned, burying his face in your hair. "I'm going to kill him."

"He did say he'd run if he saw you coming," you said with a small smile. "And, you know, it worked. I was going to give you the silent treatment for a week."

He pulled back, his eyes wide with mock horror. "A week? That’s cruel and unusual punishment!"

"You deserve it," you retorted, but the threat lacked teeth. "Now, tell me everything. How awful was it? Did you actually cry?"

He grinned, the familiar mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "I did not cry. I may have considered it, though."

You laughed, relieved that the tension had dissipated. "So, what exactly did Lando dare you to do?"

"He said I couldn't contact you in any way, shape, or form for twenty-four hours. No calls, no texts, no social media. Nothing," Oscar explained. "He said it would be a 'fun challenge' and that I needed to 'toughen up' or something ridiculous like that."

"And you agreed?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He grimaced. "I don't know what I was thinking. I think I wanted to prove I could do it, that I wasn't… overly reliant on you."

"And how did that work out for you?" you teased.

He sighed dramatically. "Terribly. Absolutely terribly. I spent the entire day pacing around, checking my phone every five minutes. I couldn't focus on anything. Even driving felt more dangerous than usual."

"That's because you were thinking about me," you said, a smug smile playing on your lips.

"Of course I was," he said, cupping your face in his hands. "You're all I ever think about."

You blushed, but your heart swelled at his words. "So, lesson learned?"

"Lesson learned," he confirmed, leaning in to kiss you. "I'm never agreeing to anything Lando says ever again."

The kiss was soft, tender, and filled with the unspoken relief of being together again. When you finally pulled away, you rested your forehead against his.

"You know," you said, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "Lando also dared me to ignore you for the next twenty-four hours. But he didn't bribe me with pictures of you looking miserable."

Oscar’s eyes widened. "You wouldn’t!"

You just smiled, a silent promise of playful revenge hanging in the air. He knew you wouldn’t actually follow through, not completely.

But the thought of it, the tiny seed of uncertainty, was enough to make him cling to you even tighter.

"Don’t you dare," he whispered, burying his face in your hair again. "Please. I can’t handle another day like today."

You laughed, a warm, happy sound that echoed through the room. He was an idiot, a lovable, racing-obsessed idiot, and you wouldn't trade him for the world.

"Okay, okay," you relented. "I'll spare you… this time. But you owe me big time. And you're buying me dinner. Somewhere expensive."

"Anything," he said, pulling back to look at you, his eyes filled with genuine affection. "Anything for you."

And you knew he meant it. The dare had been stupid, a momentary lapse in judgment fueled by Lando’s mischievous influence. But it had also served as a reminder, a stark glimpse of what life would be like without each other. And neither of you wanted to ever experience that again.

You were connected, intertwined, and the thought of being apart, even for a day, was unbearable.

He pulled you closer, his arms wrapped securely around you. The storm had passed, leaving behind a quiet calm. And in the comfort of his embrace, you knew that everything was going to be okay.

As long as you had each other, you could face anything. Even Lando’s ridiculous dares. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey I hope you've having an amazing day/evening/night. This is my first time requesting something😅, and I was wondering if you could possibility write something like what you did with my type but the reader having natural auburn curly hair, with freckles thinking that she's not his type or something along those lines.

Gold in Snow

Summary: you and lando are in a relationship but you're reserving hate comments about you being a ginger, with freckles because the fans don't think you're his type

Song: Golden Hour · JVKE

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 5.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Another podium finish for Lando, another shower of champagne soaking his expensive suit. You watched from the relative calm of the garage, a small smile playing on your lips.

He looked genuinely happy, and that, more than anything, made the constant noise and pressure of Formula 1 palatable.

You’d been dating Lando Norris for almost a year now. A year of stolen moments, whispered secrets in hotel rooms, and navigating the chaotic whirlwind that was his life. A year of pure bliss…mostly.

The “mostly” came in the form of comment sections. Forums. Twitter threads dedicated to dissecting every pixel of your existence and comparing it to the accepted prototype of a WAG – Wives and Girlfriends – in the F1 world.

You were… different.

They’d say it with a thinly veiled, almost clinical detachment, but the message was always the same: you didn’t fit. You were too… ginger. Too freckled. Too… you.

The ginger part bothered them the most. Lando was a global superstar, practically sculpted from marble, with a smile that could melt glaciers. He was everything they wanted him to be: conventionally attractive, charming, and effortlessly cool.

And you? You were… well, very, very pale. Your hair was a fiery halo, and your skin was dotted with a constellation of freckles that bloomed fiercer in the summer sun.

“He likes the exotic look,” one comment had sniped. “She’s probably got a killer tan when she’s not hiding in the shade.”

You’d chuckled then, a hollow sound that didn’t quite reach your heart. Exotic? You’d spent your life battling sunburns and jokes about having no soul.

And killer tan? Honey, you burned so fast, lifeguards would start applying sunscreen just by looking at you.

You tried to ignore it. Lando certainly seemed to. He showered you with affection, praised your quick wit and sharp mind, and constantly reminded you how beautiful he found you, flaws and all.

But the insidious comments burrowed under your skin, planting seeds of doubt that you desperately tried to weed out.

You saw him heading towards the garage now, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His eyes found yours, and that signature Lando grin spread across his face. Your heart did that familiar little flip.

“Hey!” he said, pulling you into a hug. He smelled of champagne and victory. “Did you see that last overtake? Unbelievable!”

You laughed, burying your face in his still-damp fire suit. “Yes, I saw it. You were amazing, as always. Just try not to spray me next time, okay?”

He pulled back, his brow furrowed. “You okay? You seem… quiet.”

You forced a smile. “Just tired. It’s been a long weekend.”

He didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. “Well, we’re flying back tomorrow morning. We can just chill in the hotel tonight. Order some room service, maybe watch a movie?”

“Sounds perfect,” you said, meaning it. Just the two of you, away from the cameras and the judgment.

That night, as you lay in his arms in the dimly lit hotel room, the familiar ache in your chest returned. You couldn't shake the feeling that you were somehow… undeserving.

“Lando?” you whispered, the sound barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning.

“Hmm?” He nuzzled into your hair.

“Do you… do you ever read the comments? About us?”

He stiffened slightly. “I try not to. You know how toxic that can be.”

“But you do read them, right? Sometimes?”

He sighed, a heavy sound that vibrated against your chest. “Okay, yeah, sometimes. But I don’t pay any attention to them. They’re just… noise.”

“Noise that says I’m not good enough for you.” The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

He pulled back, his eyes searching yours in the dimness. “What? That’s ridiculous. Who says that?”

“Everyone. Online, anyway. They don’t think I’m your type. They think I’m… too ginger. Too freckled. Too… plain.”

He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheekbones. “Hey. Look at me. You are absolutely stunning. Inside and out. You are intelligent, funny, kind, and you have the most beautiful smile in the world. And yes,” he added with a mischievous grin, “I also happen to think your hair is gorgeous, and your freckles are like little constellations scattered across your skin. They’re unique, just like you.”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes. “But they say…”

“They say a lot of things. People are always going to have opinions. But their opinions don’t matter. Only mine does. And I think you are perfect.”

He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that chased away the doubts, at least for a moment.

But even as you melted into him, a small, insidious voice whispered in the back of your mind: He’s just saying that. He has to say that.

The knot in your stomach tightened with each passing day, each new photo plastered across social media. You and Lando, laughing at a restaurant, holding hands at the airport, just being normal.

What shouldn't have been a cause for concern, was. It should have been a happy bubble of romance, but it was quickly becoming a breeding ground for anxiety, a place where your insecurities festered and grew.

Because under each picture, nestled amongst the supportive comments and heart emojis, they lurked. The whispers, the not-so-subtle digs.

"He could do so much better." "She's not even his type." "Another generic influencer." And the worst of it? "Ginger + Freckles = No."

You knew it was irrational. Lando loved you. He told you every day, showed you in a million little ways, from the way he held your hand to the way he looked at you with genuine adoration.

But the internet had a way of burrowing into your brain, planting seeds of doubt that blossomed into thorny vines. You found yourself scrutinizing your reflection, picking apart every freckle, every strand of your fiery hair.

Was it too much? Was it enough? Were you enough?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Lando's voice startled you, pulling you back from the precipice of your spiral. He was standing in the doorway of your shared flat, his racing helmet tucked under his arm, a familiar mischievous grin playing on his lips.

"Just thinking about this weekend," you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. "Excited for the snow."

"Me too! Max and Steve are already counting down the hours. You're coming to the slopes tomorrow, right?"

You hesitated. "I… I have something I need to do in the morning. I'll meet you guys up there later, okay?"

Lando frowned, his blue eyes searching yours. "Everything alright, love? You seem a bit off."

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a smile. "Just… a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious. I'll explain later. Promise."

He didn't look convinced, but he knew better than to push. "Alright. Just text me when you're on your way. Drive safe.”

He kissed your forehead, the warmth of his touch a brief comfort against the chill that had settled within you and left.

The next morning, the drive to the snow mountains felt endless. Each mile was another step closer to the potential storm brewing in your head.

You told yourself you were being ridiculous, that you were letting faceless strangers dictate your feelings. But the seed of doubt had been planted, watered, and was now taking root.

When you finally arrived at the ski resort, the crisp mountain air did little to soothe your nerves. You walked into the reception area, the scent of pine and hot chocolate thick in the air.

"Name?" the receptionist asked, her eyes glued to the computer screen.

"It's… uh… Y/L/N, party of Lando Norris."

The receptionist's fingers clicked across the keyboard, and she looked up, a polite professional smile gracing her lips. "Ah, yes. Mr. Norris's party. You're all set. Here's your lift pass. Your equipment rental is just through those doors. Have a wonderful day."

You collected your ski boots and poles from the rental shop, the familiar weight grounding you slightly. You'd been skiing since you were a kid, practically born on the slopes.

It was one of the few places you felt truly free, truly yourself.

You strapped on your skis and headed towards the main lift, scanning the crowd for a flash of Lando's familiar McLaren Racing beanie or the boisterous laughter of Max and Steve.

The lift carried you higher and higher, the view expanding to reveal a breathtaking panorama of snow-covered peaks and pristine valleys.

For a moment, the internet, the comments, the doubts, all faded away. You breathed in the crisp air, feeling the thrill of anticipation course through you.

As you reached the top, you spotted them. Lando, grinning and waving, Max, already carving down the slope with reckless abandon, and Steve, carefully navigating the beginner trail.

You took a deep breath, pushed off, and let gravity do its work. The wind whipped through your hair, the sun glinted off the snow, and for the first time that day, you felt a genuine smile spread across your face.

You were good. Really good. You weaved and turned, carving graceful arcs in the powder, your ginger hair a vibrant streak against the white landscape. You glided past other skiers, feeling the rush of adrenaline as you navigated the slopes with practiced ease.

You found yourself on a black diamond run, moguls stretching out before you like frozen waves. This was where you belonged, where you felt alive. You took a deep breath and launched yourself into the challenge, navigating the bumps and dips with precision and skill.

Suddenly, you heard a whoop of excitement and a familiar voice. "Wow, check out the ginger ninja!"

You glanced over your shoulder and saw a couple of guys, clearly impressed by your skiing skills.

You grinned, threw them a wink, and continued your descent, the compliment a small spark of warmth against the doubt that still lingered.

The crisp mountain air bit at Lando’s cheeks, painting them a matching shade to the gaudy orange ski suit Max insisted he wear. He shifted his weight from one ski boot to the other, impatience radiating off him in visible waves.

He’d been waiting at the base of the slope for what felt like an eternity. Max was already halfway up the mountain for his third run. Steve was content to nurse a lukewarm hot chocolate and offer unsolicited advice on Lando’s form, despite the fact Lando hadn't even put his skis on yet.

"She's taking her time," Steve commented, taking another careful sip. "Probably intimidated by the black runs."

Lando rolled his eyes, though fondness softened the gesture. He knew you weren't intimidated by anything. This was more than likely your first time on the slopes, so you were probably taking it easy.

You were a natural athlete, thriving on competition, but you’d also confessed, with a sheepish grin, that skiing looked deceptively easy on TV.

He was about to tell Steve as much when Steve suddenly straightened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Oh, there's your girl!"

Lando spun around, instantly forgetting the cold, the wait, and Steve’s irritating commentary. He searched the throng of skiers snaking down the slope, his heart doing a little skip. And then he saw you.

You moved with a surprising grace, your skis carving effortless arcs in the snow. Sunlight caught in your fiery red hair, turning it into a cascade of glittering copper. Each freckle seemed to dance on your skin, illuminated by the mountain sun.

He knew, objectively, that you were beautiful. He saw it every day. But seeing you now, flushed with exertion and radiant with joy, took his breath away.

He froze, utterly captivated, as you approached. You navigated the final stretch with smooth confidence. “Show off,” he muttered under his breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You slowed to a stop, kicking up a spray of snow just inches from his boots.

"Hey!" you exclaimed, laughing. You pushed your goggles up onto your forehead, revealing eyes the color of warm honey. "Sorry! How long have you been waiting?"

Your cheeks were rosy, your breath misting in the cold air. Lando stared, speechless.

"Baby? What's wrong?" you asked, your brow furrowing with concern. You reached out, your ungloved hand gently touching his cheek. The cold stung, but he barely noticed.

He swallowed, his voice a low rasp. "You're beautiful."

The words were a whisper, almost lost in the wind. He hadn’t meant to say it so abruptly, so…exposed. But the sight of you, framed by the snow-covered peaks, had rendered him incapable of coherent thought.

Your eyes widened slightly, and a blush bloomed on your cheeks, a delicate counterpoint to the healthy glow of the mountain air. "Lando," you said softly, "you okay? Are you coming down with something?"

He blinked, shaking himself slightly. "No, I'm fine. More than fine, actually. You just…you look incredible."

Steve coughed pointedly beside him. Max, having apparently teleported from the top of the mountain, snickered. Lando shot them both a warning glare. They knew how self-conscious you were, especially around his racing colleagues.

The comments section of his social media had been a cesspool ever since you two became public. Hateful words about your appearance, thinly veiled as concerned opinions that you weren’t “his type,” were a constant, ugly background noise.

He knew it bothered you, even though you tried to brush it off with a laugh and a casual, "Haters gonna hate." But he saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes when you thought no one was looking.

He hated those comments, hated the people who wrote them, and hated that they had the power to make you feel anything less than extraordinary.

He took your hand, lacing his fingers through yours. "Ignore them," he said, his voice firm, his gaze locked on yours.

You looked confused. "Ignore who? Max and Steve?"

"Everyone," he said, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. "Anyone who makes you feel like you're anything less than perfect. Because you are. Perfect. Just the way you are."

The blush on your cheeks deepened, and you ducked your head slightly, a shy smile playing on your lips. "You're sweet," you mumbled. "But I know I'm not everyone's cup of tea."

"Good," Lando said fiercely. "You're mine. And that's all that matters." He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead, ignoring Max's exaggerated gagging noises.

He pulled back and met your gaze, his expression serious. "Listen to me. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you're not beautiful, or that you're not good enough, or that you don't belong. Because they're wrong. They’re absolutely, unequivocally wrong. You’re amazing, inside and out. You’re kind, you’re funny, you’re fiercely intelligent, and yes, you’re unbelievably beautiful. And I’m the luckiest guy in the world to have you."

A tear, born of emotion and the biting wind, escaped your eye. "You're going to make me cry," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.

"Good," Lando said, wiping the tear away with his thumb. "Let them see you cry. Let them see how real and how beautiful you are. Don't hide anything. Don't let anyone dim your light."

He knew his words were bold, maybe even a little cheesy, but he meant every single one of them. He wanted you to know, deep down, that he saw you, truly saw you, and that nothing anyone said would ever change that.

Max, surprisingly, had stopped snickering. He clapped Lando on the shoulder. "Alright, mate, enough with the declarations of love. Let's hit the slopes. Before I get frostbite."

Steve nodded in agreement. “He’s right, Lando. You can gush later. Right now, let’s see if your girl’s got what it takes.” He winked at you. “No pressure.”

You smiled, the tension easing from your shoulders. "Pressure is my middle name," she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Let's go."

Lando grinned, relieved to see the familiar spark back in your eyes. He squeezed your hand one last time before letting go.

He watched as you adjusted your goggles and clicked your poles into the snow. He felt a surge of pride watching you. He knew the comments would still be there, lurking in the shadows of the internet, waiting to pounce.

But he also knew that you were strong. You were resilient. And you had him.

He grabbed his own skis, a newfound confidence coursing through him. He would protect you, always. But more than that, he would celebrate you, every freckle, every fiery strand of hair, every brilliant facet of your being.

As you pushed off, gracefully navigating the gentle slope, Lando felt a lightness in his heart that had nothing to do with the altitude. He knew, without a doubt, that their love story was just beginning, and he couldn't wait to see where it would take them.

He followed you down the slope, his orange ski suit a beacon against the white snow. He caught up to you easily, skiing alongside you, matching your pace.

"So," he said, grinning mischievously. "Think you can keep up with me, ginger?"

You laughed, a bright, joyful sound that echoed through the mountains. "Try me, Papaya boy."

And with that, you kicked it up a notch, leaving Lando in your snowy wake.

He laughed, his heart soaring.

He pushed off, determined to catch up, knowing that even if he never did, he would be perfectly content just to chase you, forever. . . .

The papaya coloured dress hung on you, a vibrant splash of sunshine in the sterile white bathroom. It was Lando’s favourite colour, or so he claimed. He said it reminded him of McLaren, of speed, of… you.

But all you could see in the mirror was a canvas of imperfections.

Your reflection stared back, a stranger dissected and judged. The fiery red hair, usually a source of pride, now felt like a neon sign screaming "OUT OF PLACE."

The constellation of freckles scattered across your nose and cheeks, tiny sun-kissed stars Lando often traced with his fingertip, seemed like blemishes, flaws magnified under the harsh bathroom light.

The original plan, a simple elegance of no-makeup and loose waves, lay discarded. You'd envisioned a carefree evening, a confident entrance with Lando by your side.

Now, the thought of facing the public, the prying eyes, the inevitable whispers, felt like climbing a mountain of anxiety.

Social media had been a minefield lately. Ever since your relationship with Lando Norris became public, the comment sections had become a breeding ground for toxicity. Most were overwhelmingly supportive, celebrating your love.

But a persistent undercurrent of negativity gnawed at your confidence. The "fans," or rather, the internet trolls masquerading as them, were relentless.

“She’s not his type.”

“He could do so much better.”

“Ginger? Really? He's lowering his standards.”

The worst were the comments picking apart your appearance. The freckles, the hair, the perceived lack of "glamour." They painted you as an anomaly, someone who didn't belong in Lando's world. It was absurd, of course.

Lando loved you for you. He told you every day. But the insidious nature of online hate was that it seeped in, whispering doubts in your ear when you were most vulnerable.

Tonight, facing a McLaren party filled with glamorous personalities and industry insiders, the doubts had reached a crescendo. You grabbed a tissue from the dispenser, dabbing at the corners of your eyes, fighting back the overwhelming urge to cry.

The reflection in the mirror blurred, the colours swam, and the vibrant papaya felt like a mocking reminder of everything you weren't.

That’s when you heard the familiar click of the front door.

“Y/n?” Lando’s voice echoed through the house, a warm, comforting sound that momentarily cut through the anxiety clouding your mind.

Panic seized you. You couldn't let him see you like this, a mess of insecurities and mascara-smeared cheeks. You needed to compose yourself, to build up a façade of confidence before facing him.

Quickly, you turned the small lock on the bathroom door. The click was loud in the sudden silence.

“Y/n?” he called again, his voice closer now. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, just… just getting ready,” you managed, trying to inject a lightness into your tone that felt utterly fake. Your voice wavered, betraying your true state. “I’ll be out in a second.”

You heard him pause outside the door. “You sure? You sound… different.”

He knew you too well. He always did. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears away. “Just a bit of a headache. Nothing serious.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken concern. You could almost feel his presence on the other side of the door.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice softening. “But don’t rush. I’m happy to wait. Do you want me to get you some water?”

His thoughtfulness, his unwavering care, only made the guilt swell inside you. He was so genuine, so supportive, and here you were, hiding from him, consumed by the petty insecurities fueled by strangers on the internet.

“No, I’m fine,” you insisted, a little too quickly. “Just… give me a few more minutes, okay?”

“Alright,” he said, a hint of reluctance in his voice. You heard him move away from the door. “I’ll be in the living room.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning against the cool porcelain of the sink. This couldn’t go on. You couldn't let these hateful comments dictate your life, dictate your relationship.

Lando deserved better. You deserved better.

Taking a deep breath, you turned on the cold tap, splashing water on your face. You grabbed a towel and gently patted your skin dry, removing the remnants of your almost-attempted makeup.

You looked at yourself again, really looked.

The fiery hair, the freckles, the flaws… they were all part of you. They were what made you unique, what made you you. And Lando loved you for it. He saw beauty where others saw imperfections.

He saw strength where others saw vulnerability. Why were you letting the opinions of anonymous strangers outweigh the love and adoration of the man you adored?

You let out a shaky sigh, a weight lifting from your shoulders. It wasn't a complete cure, the insecurities wouldn't vanish overnight, but it was a start.

With newfound resolve, you took another look at the papaya dress. It shimmered under the light, a vibrant symbol of sunshine and joy. You smoothed the fabric down, a small smile gracing your lips.

You unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out.

Lando was standing in the living room, fiddling with his phone. He looked up as you entered, his face immediately lighting up. He was wearing a simple dark suit, impeccably tailored, but it was the genuine warmth in his eyes that truly caught your attention.

He took a step towards you, his gaze sweeping over you from head to toe. The smile widened.

“Wow,” he breathed, his voice laced with admiration. “You look absolutely stunning.”

You blushed, the compliment genuine and heartfelt. “Thank you.”

He closed the distance between you, cupping your face in his hands. His thumbs gently stroked your cheeks, tracing the familiar pattern of your freckles.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft with concern. “You seemed a bit… off earlier.”

You hesitated, the urge to brush it off still lingering. But you knew you couldn't hide from him. He deserved the truth.

“I… I saw some comments online,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “About… about me. About not being ‘your type.’”

His expression darkened, his eyes hardening with anger. “Don’t you dare listen to those people, Y/n,” he said fiercely, his grip on your face tightening slightly.

“They don’t know anything. My ‘type’ is someone who is kind, intelligent, funny, and beautiful, inside and out. Someone who makes me laugh every single day. Someone who challenges me and supports me, even when I’m being an idiot. That’s you, Y/n. That's always been you."

He paused, his gaze searching yours, making sure you understood the sincerity of his words.

"And as for the… the physical stuff," he continued, his voice softening again. "Your hair is the most beautiful shade of red I've ever seen. Your freckles are like little constellations, guiding me through the darkness. And that little dimple you get when you smile? Drives me absolutely crazy."

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t ever let anyone make you feel like you’re not good enough, Y/n. Because to me, you are perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, but this time, they were tears of relief, of gratitude, of love.

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. “I love you, Lando,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his jacket.

He held you tight, his arms a comforting embrace. “I love you too, Y/n. More than you know.”

After a long moment, you pulled back, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You took a deep breath, feeling a surge of confidence wash over you.

Lando was right. You couldn't let the negativity of others define you. You had his love, his support, and that was all that mattered.

You looked at him, a genuine smile gracing your lips. "Ready to go to this party?"

He grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Absolutely. And just so you know, I'm planning on spending the entire night showing you off to everyone. They need to see how lucky I am."

He took your hand in his, his fingers interlacing with yours. As you walked out the door together, you knew, with absolute certainty, that you were exactly where you were supposed to be. And that, you realised, was all that truly mattered.

The haters could say what they wanted. You had Lando, you had your love, and that was more than enough. The papaya dress suddenly felt like armour, not a target.

You were ready to face the world, hand in hand, imperfections and all. . . .

The party was exactly what you expected: loud music, flashing lights, and a sea of familiar faces from the F1 world – drivers, team principals, engineers, and their partners.

The sheer volume of people made your anxiety prickle, but Lando kept a firm grip on your hand, navigating you through the crowd.

He introduced you to what felt like a hundred people, his arm possessively around your waist, his smile beaming. You tried to focus on the conversations, to be witty and engaging, but the whispers seemed to follow you, phantom echoes of the comments haunting your mind.

“Lando’s with her?”

“She’s… different.”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

You squeezed Lando’s hand tighter, trying to ground yourself. He seemed oblivious to the undercurrents, his attention solely focused on you.

“Having fun?” he asked, his voice barely audible above the music.

You forced a smile. “Yeah, it’s… great.”

He looked at you, his eyes searching. He knew you better than anyone, and he could see the forced cheerfulness masking your discomfort.

“Hey,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “If you want to leave, we can. We don’t have to stay here.”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I’m fine. I want to be here. With you.”

He smiled, relieved. "Okay, but seriously, if you change your mind, just say the word."

Just then, a tall, lanky figure approached, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Lando! Mate, good to see you.”

“Oscar!” Lando clapped him on the back. “Good to see you too. Oscar, this is my girlfriend, Y/N. Y/N, this is Oscar Piastri.”

Oscar offered you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Y/N. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

You shook his hand, trying to gauge his expression. Was there judgment there? Pity? You couldn’t tell. “Likewise, Oscar. Congratulations on your season so far.”

“Thanks,” he said, his smile genuine. "It's been... interesting, to say the least." He paused, then gestured to a woman standing beside him. "And this is my girlfriend, Lily."

Lily stepped forward, her smile warm and inviting. She had kind eyes and a simple elegance that immediately put you at ease. "It's lovely to meet you, Y/N. Lando talks about you all the time."

You blushed, glancing at Lando, who just winked. "All good things, I hope?"

Lily laughed. "Of course! He's completely smitten."

The four of you fell into easy conversation, discussing the season, the pressures of being in the spotlight, and the challenges of maintaining relationships in such a demanding environment.

You found yourself relaxing, the tension slowly draining away. Lily was refreshingly down-to-earth, and Oscar, despite his reserved demeanour, had a dry wit that you found endearing.

As the conversation flowed, you noticed Lily subtly steer the topic towards your interests, asking about your work, your hobbies, and your passions.

She seemed genuinely interested in getting to know you, not just as Lando’s girlfriend, but as an individual.

“So, Y/N” Lily said, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, “Lando tells me you’re a writer? That’s fascinating! What kind of writing do you do?”

“I dabble in a bit of everything,” you replied, feeling your confidence grow. “Short stories, poetry, some freelance journalism. It depends on what sparks my interest, really.”

“That’s amazing,” she gushed. “I’ve always admired people who can write. It’s such a powerful way to express yourself.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “It is. I’m useless at it. Give me a steering wheel any day.”

Laughter bubbled up from your chest, your earlier anxieties fading into the background. You were having a genuine, enjoyable conversation, with people who seemed to genuinely care about you.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the noise. “Lando, darling! There you are!”

A woman, dripping in diamonds and designer clothes, glided towards you, her eyes scanning you from head to toe with blatant disapproval. You recognized her as the wife of a prominent team principal, a woman known for her sharp tongue and even sharper judgment.

Lando’s smile faltered slightly as he turned to face her. “Genevieve, good to see you.”

She completely ignored Oscar and Lily, her gaze fixed on you. “And who is this, Lando? A new… acquaintance?”

You felt your cheeks flush, the familiar knot of anxiety tightening in your stomach. You knew what was coming.

Lando’s arm tightened around your waist. “This is my girlfriend, Y/N.”

The woman’s eyebrows shot up. “This is your girlfriend? How… interesting.” Her tone dripped with condescension. “Well, congratulations, darling. I’m sure you’re very happy.”

She turned back to Lando, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lando, darling, you really could do so much better. Don't you want to think about your image?”

You felt your heart sink. This was it. The moment of truth. You braced yourself for the inevitable onslaught of negativity.

But then, something unexpected happened. Lando’s eyes flashed with anger, and his grip on your waist tightened protectively.

“I’m perfectly happy, thank you,” he said, his voice cold and firm. “And Y/N is more than enough. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we were in the middle of a conversation.”

He turned his back on the woman, effectively dismissing her. He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, still reeling from the encounter. “Yeah,” you mumbled. "I'm okay

Lily stepped forward, her expression fierce. “Honestly, some people are just ridiculous,” she said, her voice laced with scorn. “Don’t let her get to you, Y/N. She’s just jealous.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “She’s got nothing better to do than spread negativity. Ignore her.”

Lando squeezed your hand. “They’re right. Don’t let her ruin your night.”

You looked at them, at Lando, at Lily, at Oscar. You saw genuine support, genuine kindness, genuine acceptance. And suddenly, the weight on your chest lifted. The comments, the whispers, the judgment – they didn’t matter.

You had people who loved you, who supported you, who valued you for who you were, not for who the internet thought you should be.

You took a deep breath, straightened your shoulders, and smiled. “You know what? You’re right. I’m not going to let her ruin my night.”

Lando grinned, relieved. “That’s the spirit. Now, how about we get out of here and go somewhere more… private?” He winked suggestively.

Lily laughed. “Sounds like a plan. Oscar, you’re driving, right? I’ve had one too many cocktails.”

As you walked away, hand in hand with Lando, you glanced back at Lily and Oscar, a warm feeling of gratitude washing over you. You had found unexpected allies, people who saw past the surface and appreciated you for who you were.

You were still an outsider, still a ginger with freckles, still not “his type” according to the internet. But tonight, surrounded by love and support, you didn’t care. You had Lando, you had friends, and you had the courage to be yourself.

And that, you realised, was more than enough. The papaya dress no longer felt like armour, but a symbol of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering commitment to being true to yourself.

You were you and you were happy. . . .

landonorris

liked by carlossainz55, alexandrasaintmleux, yourusername and 867,879 others

landonorris

Happy anniversary to my beautiful girl. Two years. Two years of laughter, adventures, and learning to love you more fiercely every single day. I know the internet can be a dark place, especially for someone as radiant as you. Don't listen to anyone who talks about you bad, especially those whispering nonsense about "types." They see a snapshot; I see the whole damn masterpiece.

Your fiery hair is sunshine on a cloudy day, each freckle a tiny star mapping out the constellation of my heart. They don't see the intelligence that sparkles in your eyes, the quick wit that keeps me on my toes, or the unwavering kindness you show to everyone you meet. They don’t see you. You are everything I could ever want, and more than I ever deserve. So, happy anniversary, my love. Let's keep painting our world with joy, ignoring the noise, and celebrating the beautiful, unique you. I love you more than words can say. ❤️

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[mrsfancyferrari]

A Second Chance?

Summary: you came to Love Island to find true love after your ex left your life in chaos. you didn't think you would find it so easy.... episode 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x you (Ex!George )

Song: Came Here For Love · Sigala

Taglist: @npcmia

Author’s note: Sorry it took so long to release. I got into binge watching Love Island too much but now i'm ready! Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 11.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

Love Island: Madrid - Episode 1

(Opening Theme Music and B-Roll of the stunning villa, the Spanish city below, and the glistening pool. Upbeat Spanish-inspired pop music plays.)

Voiceover (Laura, a bubbly and charismatic presenter): Welcome to Love Island! Get ready for sun, sand, and sizzling romances, because this season, we're trading the shores of Spain for the enchanting energy of Madrid! Ten gorgeous singles are about to enter the villa, with one goal in mind: finding love… and maybe a little fame along the way. Let's meet them!

The camera focuses on you, the sun glinting off the strategically placed glitter on your cheekbones. “Hey, Love Island!” you chirp, flashing a practiced smile. “I’m Y/N, I’m 26, and I’m a marine biologist. I spend my days rescuing sea turtles, which, let’s be real, is way more fulfilling than my dating life has been lately.”

You pause, allowing the producers a moment to capture your self-deprecating charm. “I’m here for sun, fun, and hopefully, someone who doesn’t think my passion for plankton is a total turn-off.” You wink. “I'm looking for someone who's adventurous, funny and appreciates a good sunset. Bonus points if they can tell the difference between a starfish and a sea urchin. Seriously, it’s concerning how many people can’t.”

The humid Spanish air clung to you like a second skin, a stark contrast to the emotional chill that had been your constant companion for the past few months.

Your life had been a carefully constructed Jenga tower, meticulously built with your ex.

Then, seemingly overnight, he’d yanked a vital piece, sending the whole thing crashing down in a mess of broken promises and shattered trust.

Your friends, bless their chaotic hearts, had decided enough was enough. "Sunshine, sea, and a whole bunch of hot singles," they'd declared, practically dragging you onto the Love Island application.

And now, here you were.

Your hand, surprisingly steady, clasped Hannah's. You’d met in the holding area just before your entrance; a whirlwind of nervous laughter and shared anxieties.

She was a breath of fresh air, bubbly and confident, and her bright blue dress was a perfect match for the nervous energy crackling between you two.

You, on the other hand, felt both vulnerable and exhilarated in your red dress – a defiant statement of confidence you wasn't entirely sure you possessed. The fabric felt like a shield, giving you the courage to take this absurd leap.

As the heavy villa doors swung open, a wave of noise washed over you two. Shouts of welcome, whistles, and a medley of nervous conversations.

It was a sensory overload, a kaleidoscope of tanned skin, flashing smiles, and the undeniable scent of sun-kissed skin and expensive cologne.

"Ready for this?" Hannah whispered, her blue eyes sparkling with an infectious mixture of apprehension and excitement.

You took a deep breath, the salty air filling your lungs. "As I'll ever be," you replied, a genuine smile finally breaking through the tension.

You two walked, hand in hand, through the sprawling garden, the vibrant colours of the villa almost as blinding as the flashing cameras. The other female islanders, a mix of familiar faces from the promotional videos and intriguing strangers, watched our entrance with undisguised curiosity.

You felt a flutter of nerves, a prickle of anticipation, like the moment before a roller coaster plunges down the first drop. This was it.

You'd traded your mundane life of lukewarm coffee and endless scrolling for a summer of sun, strategy, and – maybe, just maybe – love.

You two reached the designated spot, a small podium by the pool, where the host, the ever-charming and impossibly beautiful Maya, stood with her signature bright smile. She turned to you two, her eyes twinkling under the relentless Spanish sun.

“Welcome, ladies! You must be the gorgeous Hannah and…?” She prompted, her voice smooth and confident.

"I'm Y/N," You replied, your voice a little shaky but steadier than you’d imagined.

“Y/N and Hannah, welcome to Love Island!” Maya beamed. "How are you both feeling entering the villa?"

Hannah, always the natural, stepped forward. “Absolutely buzzing! A little nervous, maybe, but mostly excited to meet everyone and see what this experience has in store for us.”

You nodded in agreement, feeling grateful for her easy confidence. "Yeah, I’m with Hannah. It's definitely a bit surreal, but I’m ready for anything.” you offered a quick smile, trying to convey the mixture of trepidation and hope that was swirling within you.

Maya chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. "Well, that's the spirit! Now, Y/N, I hear you’ve had a bit of a rough time lately. Is that why your friends signed you up for this adventure?”

She leaned in conspiratorially, and for a moment you forgot the cameras were there.

You took a breath, trying to find the right words. You didn't want a pity party, but you also weren't going to deny your recent heartbreak.

“Yeah, something like that. My ex basically turned my life upside down, and I realized I needed a fresh start – a whole new perspective. My friends, in their wonderfully meddling way, thought this might be the solution.” you offered a wry smile, hoping to convey both your humor and your sincere desire for change.

Maya nodded with understanding, her gaze softening. "Well, I hope this is the start of something amazing for you, Y/N. And Hannah, are you here to stir up some drama or find the man of your dreams?” She directed the question to Hannah with a playful wink.

Hannah laughed, a bright, melodic sound. “A little of both, I think! I’m always up for fun, but ultimately, I’m really here hoping to find someone special."

“Well, ladies, you’ve come to the right place.” Maya concluded. “Now that we've introduced all of the girls, let's bring out the boys!”

She gave you another dazzling smile before stepping aside to watch the chaos unfold.

The first boy stepped out, and you recognised him from somewhere but where? – Max. He had this intense gaze and a subtly charming smile that sent a little tremor down your spine.

He was taller than you'd imagined, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his fitted white t-shirt. His dark hair was neatly styled, falling just so across his forehead, and his eyes, a deep blue, seemed to scan the line of girls with a quiet confidence.

He was sculpted, his jawline sharp and defined, his arms hinting at a strength honed in some gym somewhere. He exuded a controlled energy, a quiet magnetism that was undeniably appealing.

He walked with an easy confidence that you found utterly captivating. Okay, Y/N, breathe, you told yourself, trying to ignore the sudden heat rising to your cheeks.

Then came Lando, all smiles and playful energy, followed by Oscar, who seemed a bit more reserved but had this undeniable magnetism. Charles was next, with his quiet confidence and sharp gaze, and finally, Alex, who was all smooth charm.

The boys lined up, and you found yourself drawn back to Max. There was something about his energy that held your attention. His eyes scanned over the group, and when they met yours for a brief second, your heart skipped a beat.

"Alright, boys, time to make your first impressions." Maya's voice cut into the charged atmosphere. "Take a moment, and then step forward to the girl you'd like to get to know better for 5 minutes."

The boys started to move, and you felt your stomach flip. Lando went to Mimi, his easy laughter echoing as he introduced himself. Oscar chose Emilia, their conversation already looking relaxed.

Charles, surprisingly, went for Hannah, his quieter demeanour contrasting with her vibrancy. Alex, ever the charismatic one, chose to talk to you.

"Hey, Y/N," he began, his smile charming, "I'm Alex. You seem a little nervous, but I think you're really beautiful."

You forced a smile, trying to focus on him. "Thanks, Alex. You’re very sweet.”

He launched into a conversation about himself, and while you nodded along politely, your gaze kept drifting to Max, who was still standing there, a slight frown on his handsome face as he watched Alex talk to you. You couldn’t help but wonder which girl he would choose.

Finally, Alex finished, giving you another charming smile and a wink, moving back to the line. You watched, your heart pounding, as Max took a breath and finally stepped forward.

He wasn’t smiling, his expression serious as he came to a halt in front of you.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver through you. “I’m Max. I, uh… I wanted to talk to you first.”

Your breath hitched. “Hi Max,” you managed to get out, your voice a little breathless.

“You looked a little… uncomfortable, with Alex. I wanted to make sure you were okay.” He met your gaze directly, and it felt like he was seeing right through you.

You couldn’t help the blush that warmed your cheeks. “I’m fine, thank you. He… he’s very chatty,” you said, and Max’s lips curled upwards in a small, almost imperceptible smile.

“Yeah, I noticed. So, why Love Island? Why take such a big leap?” He seemed genuinely curious, and the question felt personal, like he was trying to understand you better.

You paused, taking a breath to collect your thoughts. “It’s a long story, but… I was in a bad place. My ex… he wasn’t good for me, and it left me completely lost. Love Island seemed like the most extreme way to try and find myself again, and maybe even find something real.”

Max nodded slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “That takes courage, Y/N. I respect that.” His eyes were intense, and there was a sudden intimacy in the space between you that made your heart beat even faster.

“So what about you?” you asked, trying to distract yourself from the magnetic pull he seemed to have on you. “Why Love Island?”

He shrugged, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I’m tired of the games, of surface-level connections. I’m looking for something real too, and… I don’t know, I think there’s something about this place that screams ‘genuine chaos’.”

You laughed, a genuine, light sound that had been absent for so long. “Well, you might have come to the right place.”

You looked at him again, and your smile turned soft. “I’m glad you did.”

His eyes held yours for a moment, before finally he looked away, a slight blush highlighting his cheekbones. “Me too, Y/N. Me too.”

The moment was broken by Maya's voice, sharp and clear over the villa speakers. “Okay, time! Girls, would you please go and stand back into your positions, and the boys, come sit with me,” she instructed, her voice carrying the familiar, slightly mocking tone of a seasoned host.

You stood beside Hannah, her blonde hair a stark contrast to your own. Your heart pounded as you watched the boys take their places on the sun-drenched sofas opposite you.

You stole a glance at Max, and you think you saw him do the same. He looked away quickly.

“So boys,” Maya announced, her smile bright and dazzling, “do you like our lovely pick of girls?” Her question was a casual one, but the tension in the air was palpable.

You could feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on you, judging, assessing, searching for a connection.

You tried to keep your face neutral, despite the nervous butterflies fluttering in your stomach and the intensity of the situation. Your eyes scanned the boys, settling on Max.

He was relaxed, his fingers tapping absently on his knee. The easy confidence from earlier had returned and you found yourself wondering if he was as comfortable as he looked.

Maya went first to a guy named Lando. He was new, arriving with Max so you didn't know him much. Lando said he was into Mimi. He smiled brightly at her.

“And what about you, Max?” Maya asked, her voice playful. “Has anyone caught your eye?"

Max shifted in his seat and you found yourself holding your breath. You knew you were drawn to him, but you had no idea if he felt the same.

He looked up, his dark eyes meeting yours across the garden. A slow smile spread across his face, and for a moment, it felt like there was no one else in the villa.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and husky. “There’s definitely someone I’d like to get to know better.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Could he possibly be talking about you?

"Care to share, or should we all keep guessing?" Maya teased, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.

Max glanced your way again, his smile widening slightly. "I think I'll keep you all guessing for now," he said, his eyes sparkling with mischief. He didn't say it outright, but his gaze lingered a little longer each time he looked at you, sending a jolt of electricity through you.

The rest of the conversation faded into a background hum as you replayed Max’s words in your mind. “Someone I’d like to get to know better.” Were you reading too much into it? Was he just being polite? Your mind raced and your stomach flipped.

After what felt like an eternity, Maya announced it was up to the boys to pick who they wanted to couple up with. You tried to remain calm, despite the frantic rhythm your heart was beating at.

This was it, the moment of truth and your first real sign if your feelings would be reciprocated or trampled on once again.

Lando picked Mimi, Charles picked Elisha, Oscar picked Hannah. It was now Alex and Max’s go. You kept finding yourself staring at Max and he did the same.

It was Alex's time to pick a girl and you thought he would pick Em, so you zoned out for a second.

“I’m going to pick Y/N to couple up with,” Alex said confidently. Dread filled your stomach and you looked at Max.

He looked disappointed, you couldn’t believe it. But you didn't know what about. You hoped he was going to pick you if he had the chance.

You plastered a fake smile and walked over to Alex, giving him a quick hug before standing beside him. His hand respectfully rested on your arm, rubbing it for assurance.

You couldn't bring yourself to look at Max.

Max had to pick Em, and they did the same thing.

“The coupling is now sorted! These are the first couples of Love Island 2025,” Maya yelled, a booming sound over the villa's speakers.

You sat down beside Alex, trying to act like you’d just won the lottery, when all you wanted to do was cry. It felt like a cruel jest, the universe teasing you with a glimmer of hope only to snatch it away.

You knew that things could change, it was day one after all, but the small flame of hope you'd had for Max had been extinguished before it had even begun.

“Hey, you okay?” Alex murmured, his voice soft, pulling you from your thoughts.

You hadn’t realised you were deep in your head.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a smile. “Just a bit overwhelmed. It’s a lot to take in.” You didn't want to tell him you were thinking about another man that had just coupled up with someone else.

“I know, it is,” he agreed, his eyes holding a genuine warmth. “But we’ll get through it. We’ll have fun, I promise.”

His words were reassuring, but they didn’t quell the disappointment that gnawed at you.

"I'm going to leave you now but I'll be back tomorrow night for more news," Maya said with a grin, her voice cutting through the air again. "Adventure the new villa, find your main connection and most importantly, enjoy yourself!"

With a wave, she disappeared, leaving you and the other Islanders to navigate the uncharted waters of this manufactured paradise.

A buzz of conversation erupted around you. Couples were huddled together, whispering, giggling, and getting to know each other. You were talking to Alex, a polite conversation filled with surface-level questions, and the occasional awkward silence.

He was kind, attentive, and clearly trying to make you feel comfortable. The pang of 'he's not Max' hit you again, but you pushed it away. You had to make this work, had to try.

It was day one, things could still change.

But deep down, a small voice whispered that Max had never looked at you like he looked at Em, and that reality hurt more than you wanted to admit.

“Girls! Let’s go explore the villa!” Hannah suddenly announced, jumping up from the sofa, her infectious enthusiasm momentarily distracting you from your thoughts.

“Yes! Let’s do it,” Mimi chirped, adding her eagerness to the mix.

You glanced at Alex, gave him a small smile, “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He smiled back, a hopeful glimmer in his eyes, “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll be around.”

You joined Hannah, Mimi, and the other girls, your heels clacking on the cool tile as you explored the villa’s sprawling grounds. The pool sparkled under the Mediterranean sun, the vibrant greens of the lush landscaping contrasted beautifully with the stark white walls.

It was paradise, yet you felt strangely detached, your mind still haunted by Max's nonchalant glances in another direction. You walked alongside Hannah and found a secluded spot under a canopy of vibrant bougainvillea.

The other girls were giggling and joking by the pool, leaving the two of you to have a more personal conversation.

"So how is he?" Hannah asked, her gaze direct, but kind.

You knew immediately who she meant. "He's...fine," you answered, trying to sound nonchalant. "He's nice."

Hannah raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on her lips, "Just 'nice'? Come on, girl, you looked like you were about to melt into the floor during the coupling."

You sighed, glancing at the colorful flowers around you, your eyes avoiding her direct gaze.

You hesitated, your mind flashing back to that moment, the hope that had blossomed in your chest as you walked out, only to be crushed as you saw Max’s attention was elsewhere. “It’s just… it’s obvious he’s not interested, is it?”

"And?" Hannah prompted, her voice gentle. "So what? This is Love Island, not 'The Max Show'. It’s been what, two hours? You've got a whole summer ahead of you, and you’ve got Alex! Stop wasting time fixating on the one person who is not giving you attention."

You turned to face her, a conflicted look on your face. "I know, you’re right. It's pathetic, and unfair on Alex... and probably Max too to be honest, I don’t even know him."

“Exactly! And Alex… he looks at you like he’s just won the lottery, even if you’re sitting there looking like you've just been told your dog died! Don't you see that?” she teased, nudging your arm playfully.

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Okay, okay, I get it. Max is off limits. Move on. Be open to Alex. Got it.”

"That's the spirit! Now, tell me all about Alex. What's he like?" Hannah pressed, eyes sparkling with mischief.

You thought for a moment, trying to focus on the good qualities you had noticed. "He's very sweet, really polite, and he's got these amazing eyes, kind of warm and inviting," you confessed, a surprising touch of honesty creeping into your voice. "And he seems genuine, like he’s actually listening when you talk.”

Hannah grinned. “See? Sounds like a catch. Maybe, just maybe, this whole coupling thing wasn't so bad after all, eh?"

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Maybe… maybe you’re right.”

You took a sip of your water, the cool liquid doing little to quench the heat of the villa.

Just as you were starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be a little less complicated, your phone buzzed, a sharp chime cutting through the relaxed chatter.

Your heart leaped. You knew that sound. “I've got a text!” you yelled, your voice a little too loud, a little too full of nervous energy.

Every head in the villa turned, eyes widening with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The usual lounging immediately morphed into a scramble as everyone gathered around you.

You cleared your throat, holding your phone up for all to see. “Islanders,” you read, your voice a little shaky, “to spice up the energy, gather around the fire pit and do dare or dare.”

A chorus of excited squeals erupted from the girls, while the guys exchanged knowing smirks. You rolled your eyes, a smile playing on your lips. This was going to be interesting, you thought.

The energy around the fire pit was palpable. The setting sun cast long shadows, making the whole scene feel a little dramatic.

As everyone settled in, another notification chimed, this time on Hannah's phone. She grabbed it, her eyes widening as she read.

“Okay, this just got interesting,” she announced, a smirk spreading across her face. “You will have a device that will measure your heartbeat during these dares.

A collective gasp filled the air. Oh, this was going to be really interesting.

You felt your own heart begin to hammer against your ribs. The stakes had just been raised, higher than you expected.

Was your heart playing this game with you? You felt a mix of dread and anticipation. You glanced at Alex, who was looking at you with a shy smile.

The first dare had rolled around quickly. Lando, a gentle giant with a heart of gold, had to do a silly dance for the best-looking girl. Predictably, he’d chosen Mimi. Her face had flushed pink as he'd awkwardly swayed, and the monitor had shown a slight increase in his heart rate, little more than a brisk walk. You watched with a mixture of amusement and a surprising pang of jealousy.

Then came Oscar’s turn. He had to share a pocky stick with Hannah, slowly, suggestively, until their lips met. Then, when nothing was left, they were to engage in a passionate kiss, the kind you saw in rom-coms but rarely in real life.

Both their heart rates had spiked, the little monitors lighting up like tiny fireworks. The air crackled with a strange mix of tension and excitement. The game was getting serious.

Next, Elisha, with her fiery personality, had to French kiss the person sitting opposite her. That was Alex. You watched as his eyes met with Elisha's, and then her lips. You could practically feel her heart pounding in her chest.

And just like that, it was your turn. You swallowed, trying to appear cool, calm, and collected, the kind of girl who thrived in this kind of high-stakes environment. The notification chimed out on your phone.

You tapped the screen, your breath catching in your throat as you read the words: "Seduce the player to your right."

Your eyes darted to your left, then right, landing on Max. Max, with his chiseled jawline, piercing blue eyes, and the kind of effortless charm that could melt glaciers.

Your heart thumped against your ribs, the device registering a slight tremor in your pulse. You felt a sudden heat rise to your cheeks, a mix of panic and a strangely thrilling anticipation.

"Well," you joked, your voice a little breathier than you intended. "This is awkward."

Max leaned back in his lounger, his eyes twinkling. "Awkward? I think it's interesting. I'm intrigued to see how you're going to try and seduce me."

He raised an eyebrow, a challenge in his gaze, and you couldn't help but laugh. This was a game, after all. A very public, very strange game, but a game nonetheless.

You couldn't leave because you were being boring on TV, that was certain.

A mischievous thought struck you. You stood up, walked the few steps to his lounger, and without uttering another word, sat down on his lap. The breath hitched in his throat and his eyes widened slightly.

You leaned forward, your hand coming to rest lightly on his chest, and kissed him. It wasn't a soft, shy kiss. It was bold, confident, full of the energy you were trying so hard to project.

He was surprise, yes, but he responded with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine.

His hands came to your waist, holding you securely, and for a brief, dizzying moment, you forgot the cameras and the challenges, the other islanders, everything.

It was just you and Max, caught in a whirlwind of unexpected heat.

When you broke apart, you could see the pulse beating rapidly in his neck. His breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. Your heart thrummed a wild little rhythm against your ribs.

You pulled back, a grin spreading across your face, feeling a surge of satisfaction mixed with something else you couldn't quite name.

You stood and sat back down on the sofa, smoothing down your dress as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.

“That’s how I seduce you,” you teased, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice, hoping the camera didn't catch the flush on your cheeks.

You caught the flicker in his eyes, a mix of amusement and something much more profound.

He was definitely affected and that was...intriguing.

Max was speechless for a beat, his fingers drumming absently on his lap as he replayed the kiss in his mind. "Well," he said finally, a chuckle escaping his lips, "I can't say I've ever been seduced quite like that before."

You laughed, a genuine laugh this time. "I aim to please."

The game continued, dares thrown around like confetti, but you couldn’t shake the residue of that kiss. You noticed it too – the way

Max's heartbeat never quite reached the frantic speed it did with you, even when he kissed Em, his current partner. It was a small detail, a silent acknowledgment that something had shifted, and you found yourself replaying the moment over and over in your head.

When the game finally came to a close, Lando bounced up from his spot, his usual exuberance bubbling over. “Guys! It’s our turn to explore the villa!”

Everyone laughed at Lando’s slight mockery of Hannah’s catchphrase. The boys, a chattering, energetic pack, headed off to investigate the vast space, splitting into smaller groups almost immediately.

You made your way back to Hannah, sinking onto a smaller sofa tucked away in a quiet corner.

“So, how do you feel now?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with teasing curiosity.

“I feel… confused,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. You'd kissed most of the boys during the challenge, but only Alex, your current partner, and Max, had left you feeling this…stirred.

“Well, it’s only day one, but let me tell you something, that kiss you had with Max was hot!” Hannah commented, letting out a low whistle. “Seriously, the way you held his face, that little smirk you had afterwards… pure fire.”

“Really?” you asked, a blush creeping up your neck.

“Really! You looked so comfortable on his lap, do you do that often?” Hannah teased, nudging you playfully.

“God, no!” you laughed, “That was pure dare energy. I don’t usually… initiate that forwardly.”

You knew you were blushing, could feel the heat staining your cheeks. The image of Max, his eyes wide and surprised, flashed in your mind.

You’d enjoyed that moment, the power of it, the way it had seemed to unravel him.

“Well, maybe you should start,” Hannah said with a wink and a grin. “I saw the way he looked at you after, girl. He was captivated. And let’s be honest, Alex is…” she trailed off, searching for the right word, “...sweet, but maybe a little bland?”

You knew what she meant. Alex was lovely, kind, and had the kindest eyes, but he lacked the edge, the raw energy that seemed to radiate off Max.

“He’s just… safe,” you admitted softly.

“Exactly!” Hannah exclaimed, throwing her arm around you in solidarity. "You need a little danger in your life, a little spark. And let’s face it, you and Max? Sparks were absolutely flying.”

You bit your lip, trying to ignore the butterflies that had now chosen to throw a rave in your stomach. “But I’m coupled with Alex,” you reminded her, the reality of your situation settling in like a lead weight.

“So? Day one, baby! Anything can happen. This is Love Island, not a retirement home.” Hannah giggled, “Besides, you have a type, which is Max. So, clearly the universe is trying to tell you something.”

You laughed, shaking your head at Hannah’s dramatic pronouncements, but her words lingered. You knew she was right, at least partly

You were attracted to Max, that was undeniable.

But the fact that you were coupled with Alex, that you were building something, however slowly, with him, made everything a lot complicated. . . .

The villa was a sensory overload. Sunlight glinted off the turquoise pool, music pulsed from unseen speakers, and the air crackled with the nervous energy of the assembled singles.

Max Verstappen, usually so composed, felt a knot tighten in his stomach. This was nothing like the roar of an engine, the precision of a racecar, the familiar comfort of the paddock. This was… different.

Terrifyingly different. He’d been thrust into this gaudy world of swimwear, spray tans, and manufactured drama less than four hours ago, and already he felt like he was drowning.

He’d barely had time to register names and faces, let alone personalities. Yet, here he was, trailing behind a group heading towards the bedrooms, his heart thudding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He wanted to see the infamous bedroom, the one plastered across countless episodes of the show. He'd watched them religiously, a strange, almost guilty curiosity pulling him in, but being here in person was a different beast.

And so did someone else.

He felt a presence beside him and turned to see a man with a charmingly crooked smile and eyes that seemed to hold a mischievous glint.

“Hey mate, I’m Charles Leclerc, I’m from Monaco, you?” Charles said, extending a hand as they crossed the threshold into the bedroom.

It was exactly like the show, all vibrant colours and strategically placed mirrors.

Max shook his hand, the contact surprisingly firm. “I’m Max Verstappen, I’m from the Netherlands,” he replied, keeping his tone short and his gaze focused.

He was trying to remain guarded, the layers he'd built over years making it difficult to relax and be open like everyone else was doing.

“Nice,” Charles said, plopping down on the edge of a bed, the mattress squeaking in protest. “I’ve been there once before,” he added, a reflective smile playing on his lips.

“So, why are you here?”

Max blinked, his mind momentarily blank. “What?” he asked, caught off guard.

Charles chuckled, his shoulders rising and falling with the movement. “Like, why you’re at Love Island? Like, I’m here because I don’t want to be single anymore. What about you?”

Max stiffened. The truth hung heavy in his throat: He wasn't here for love, not really.

“Same,” Max lied, forcing a nonchalant shrug and a casual tone. “Feeling a bit lonely these days.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

It wasn’t the first time he lied, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

Charles beamed, his face lighting up with genuine warmth. “I have a feeling that we’re going to be best friends,” he declared, his voice full of conviction.

Max raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. “Really?” He was used to caution, to guarded interactions, especially after years spent in the intense world of Formula One.

This easy camaraderie felt strange, almost foreign.

“Yeah, I can tell,” Charles said, his smile widening. “We both seem to be a bit lost, in a good way, though,” he winked.

Max found himself returning the smile, a small, genuine smile that surprised even him. Maybe, just maybe, this whole ordeal wouldn’t be as unbearable as he’d anticipated.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, he wouldn’t have to go through the charade of finding someone, and maybe, he could actually pretend to enjoy the experience a little.

He'd been forced into the deep end, but he could use this time to get to know people.

"So do you like any of the girls?"

“Umm,” Max froze, the question catching him off guard. He hadn't been consciously analyzing his feelings, but his gaze instinctively darted around the expansive bedroom, taking in the half-empty suitcases and scattered clothes.

It was just him and Charles in the room, thankfully, though he knew the microphones hung heavy in the air, ready to capture every whisper.

He was supposed to be here to find love, wasn’t he? The problem was, he’d already found it, or rather, it found him.

He looked back at Charles, a blush creeping up his neck. “I like Y/N,” he said shyly, like the microphone wasn't going to pick up every word he said, like the cameras weren’t trained on them, like the whole country wasn’t watching.

Charles grinned, a knowing look lighting up his eyes. "I knew it!"

"How?" Max asked, genuinely confused. He’d thought he’d been keeping it under wraps, playing it cool.

"You looked so crushed after Alex picked her," Charles teased, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You looked so love-sick when she left your lap after that kiss you two shared... should I go on?"

"No, don't," Max muttered, rubbing his face with his hand, as if he could erase the evidence of his blatant infatuation. He wasn't good at hiding his emotions, not when they were this intense.

His dad would kill him for this kind of openness, for showing any sort of weakness.

Thank goodness he's not here, he thought, a grimace crossing his lips at the thought.

It was one thing to be watched by the world, quite another to face his father’s wrath.

"It's not too obvious, right?" Max asked, a note of panic creeping into his voice. He had a strategic image to maintain, a reputation for being focused and unshakeable, not a lovesick puppy.

Charles chuckled, slapping Max on the back. "Mate, you’re about as subtle as a pin drop. But hey,” he added, his tone turning surprisingly earnest, “that's not a bad thing. It shows you care."

Max sighed, running a hand through his already messy hair. “But it’s…it’s embarrassing.”

Charles said, his tone light, “having feelings aren't embarrassing, and I think Y/N likes you too, don't you think? I see the way she looks at you.”

Max’s heart skipped a beat at that. He wanted to believe it, desperately. “She… she kissed me,” he said quietly, the memory a tangible warmth in his chest.

“But then she went with Alex.” He felt the familiar sting of rejection, amplified by the public nature of it all.

“It’s Love Island, mate,” Charles said with a shrug. “People get kissed, people get picked, but it doesn’t mean it’s the end of the road. It’s still early days.”

He paused, looking Max directly in the eye. “You need to fight for her. Don't let Alex win her over.”

“Easy for you to say, you’re not the one making a fool of yourself on national television,” Max retorted, surprised by the edge in his voice.

Charles raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. But seriously, Max, you’re a Formula One driver, you deal with pressure all the time. This is just another kind of race, right? You got to figure out the track and push pedal to the metal.”

Max stared blankly at him for a moment, before a slow smile stretched across his face. “Okay, I get your point, but you’re never calling this the race again.”

“Deal,” Charles grinned. . . .

The turquoise water of the Love Island pool shimmered under the relentless Spanish sun, a stark contrast to the drowsy haze that still clung to Mimi’s mind.

She’d only been here for four hours, yet it felt like a lifetime. A whirlwind of introductions, forced mingling, and a truly ridiculous number of dares had left her feeling incredibly drained.

She’d sought refuge by the pool, the rhythmic lapping of water against the infinity edge a soothing balm to her frazzled nerves. Her nap had been short, but sweet, until a tap on her shoulder jolted her back to reality.

Opening her eyes, she found Lando grinning down at her. His dark hair was tousled, as if he’d run his hands through it too many times, and his hazel eyes sparkled with mischief.

Mimi couldn’t help but grin back. There was something undeniably magnetic about him, a playful energy that was both endearing and a little bit nerve-wracking.

“Hey sleepyhead,” he said, easing down onto the edge of her deckchair, his hip brushing against hers. “You tired after kissing all of the guys here?”

His voice was laced with teasing, a light, playful tone that made Mimi’s cheeks flush a little.

She punched him lightly on the arm, a small giggle escaping her lips. “It’s not my fault I got all the dares,” she protested, though a smile played on her lips. It had been quite the spectacle.

She’d kissed three guys for various ridiculous dares.

Lando feigned a dramatic pout, his lower lip jutting out slightly. “Yeah, but I didn’t get a kiss.” He looked genuinely sad, or at least, he was a very convincing actor.

Mimi raised an eyebrow, a sly look creeping onto her face. “Do you want one?” she asked, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

Lando nodded immediately, his grin widening to reveal a flash of white teeth. “Absolutely.”

He looked at her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

Mimi leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then come and get it,” she said, the words laced with a playful allure.

He didn't hesitate. He stood, his long limbs moving with a fluid grace, and walked over to her. He knelt by the side of her deckchair, his chest almost parallel with her face, and his hands softly cradled her face.

His touch was gentle, feather-light, and it sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine. He tilted her chin up, his gaze locked on hers, his eyes filled with an emotion she couldn't quite decipher.

The air crackled with a palpable tension, a silent question hanging between them. It felt as if the rest of the villa had faded into a muted background, the laughter and chatter reduced to a distant hum.

There was only her and Lando, the sun beating down on them, the scent of sunscreen and chlorine filling the air.

"Can I kiss you?" The question was barely audible, a mere breath of sound.

Mimi's heart pounded in her chest. This wasn't a dare, this wasn't a game. This was something else entirely. It felt raw, real, and slightly terrifying.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. "Yes," she managed to whisper, her voice husky with emotion.

He closed the distance, his lips meeting hers in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn't the explosive, passionate kiss she'd shared during a dare, but it was more profound, more intimate.

It was a kiss that spoke of curiosity, of potential, of a connection that had sparked in the space of only four hours.

Their lips moved together slowly, a silent exploration, a silent conversation between two people thrown together in the most ridiculous of circumstances.

When they finally parted, they were both breathless, their eyes locked together with a mix of surprise and something that looked dangerously like hope.

"Wow," Lando said, his voice thick with emotion.

Mimi nodded, unable to find the words to express the way she felt. It was just a kiss, and it was nothing like she’d imagined. It was better. It felt like the start of something.

"So, is this a new dare?" A teasing voice broke through the bubble they’d created, their faces breaking apart.

It was Em standing by the edge of the pool, a mischievous grin on her lips.

Lando rolled his eyes playfully, pulling back. “No dares, EM,” he said. “Just taking a moment.”

“A very cute moment, might I add,” Em winked before sauntering away, leaving Mimi and Lando alone again.

Mimi couldn't help but giggle. The moment was gone, broken. But the feeling lingered, a warm glow in her chest.

Lando turned back to her, a smile playing on his lips. “This is going to be an interesting couple of weeks, isn't it?” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

Mimi laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that echoed across the pool. “You have no idea,” she said, leaning back on her deckchair, her eyes meeting his with a newfound sense of expectation.

She didn't know what the future held, but for the first time since arriving on Love Island, she felt a sense of excitement… a sense that maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous circus could lead to something real. . . .

The air crackled with anticipation. Tonight was the first proper dinner on Love Island, and after a day of awkward ice-breakers and forced flirting under the Spanish sun, the girls were buzzing as you all prepped in the dressing room.

"So, are you guys happy with your couples right now?" Mimi asked, her voice bright, as she expertly winged her eyeliner in the mirror.

"I'm happy with Oscar," Hannah said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. A chorus of "Ooooohs" and playful shoves erupted from the group.

"Look at you, whipped already!" Elisha teased, tossing a hairbrush at Hannah.

"Shut up! He's just... nice," Hannah said, blushing furiously.

"Nice isn't exactly the Love Island vibe, hun," Em said, winking. "Unless you're secretly plotting his downfall for the £50k…"

Mimi, now applying a generous layer of lip gloss, chimed in. "Me and Lando shared a small kiss," she announced, earning a loud cheer from the girls.

"Details, details!" Elisha demanded. "Was it a full-on snog? Did he use tongue? Was there… chemistry?"

Mimi giggled. "It was just a little one. But he's got something about him, you know? Confidence, for days."

"What about you, Y/N?" Em asked, turning to you. "How are things with Alex?"

You forced a smile, carefully avoiding eye contact with the mirror as you applied mascara. "Yeah, good! Alex is... great. We had a really good chat this afternoon, you know, getting to know each other."

Liar.

The truth was, Alex was perfectly pleasant. He was good-looking in a boy-next-door kind of way, with a genuine smile and a surprisingly witty sense of humour. But there wasn’t a spark. Not even a flicker.

Your eyes, however, kept wandering towards Max. He had this brooding intensity about him, a quiet confidence that screamed "trouble" in the best possible way.

And, more importantly, the few times your eyes had met, you felt that jolt, the one that said this could be something…

"A 'good chat' isn't exactly setting the villa on fire, is it?" Em pressed, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"What else is there to do on day one?" you countered, trying to sound nonchalant. "We've got plenty of time to build something."

"Build something… like a friendship?" Elisha snickered.

You shot her a warning look. "We'll see. I'm keeping my options open."

The girls seemed to buy it, thankfully dropping the subject. But your conscience wasn't so easily fooled. You hated lying, especially to your new friends.

But revealing your true feelings for Max would be a recipe for disaster.

Em was already coupled with him, and despite her playful ribbing, she seemed genuinely interested. Stirring the pot on day one would make you look like a desperate drama queen.

So, you kept your mouth shut, swallowed your feelings, and plastered on a fake smile.

The sun bleeds orange and pink across the perfectly sculpted landscape, turning the infinity pool into a shimmering mirror reflecting the impossibly blue sky. 

The sound of cheering rips through the air. It's the boys, of course, already pumped up on whatever combination of protein shakes and manufactured enthusiasm they've been consuming.

You tighten your grip on Elisha’s hand, the slick feel of her fake tan against your skin a surprisingly grounding sensation. Six girls, descending the stairs, a carefully curated mix of sun-kissed skin, perfectly highlighted cheekbones, and strategically placed assets.

The producers want the slow-motion montage, the dramatic reveal, the palpable tension. What they get is six girls desperately trying not to face-plant in six-inch heels.

You take a deep breath, focusing on the next step, then the next. You can feel the burn in your calves already. Elisha whispers, “Smile! We’re on camera!” You plaster a smile onto your face, praying it looks more genuine than forced.

Finally, you reach the bottom. The cheers crescendo, the bass of the music throbs in your chest, and the boys surge forward to greet their partners.

Lando scoops Mimi into a hug, spinning her around. Elisha leaps into Charles’s arms, their laughter echoing across the lawn. Oscar pulls Hannah close, whispering something in her ear that makes her blush.

Max embraces Em, their connection radiating even from this distance.

Then, there’s Alex.

He’s…fine. Perfectly pleasant. Brown hair neatly styled, teeth blindingly white, arms outstretched. He’s the guy your mother would love. Stable. Reliable. And about as exciting as beige wallpaper.

You plaster on your brightest, most convincing smile. The one that says, "I'm thrilled to be coupled with you!"

The one that hides the tiny voice inside your head screaming, "Wrong Max!"

You step into Alex's embrace, his arms wrapping around you. He smells of generic cologne and something vaguely…linen-y.

“Hey,” he says, his voice a comfortable baritone. “You look amazing.”

“Hey,” you echo, squeezing him a little tighter than necessary, hoping to project an enthusiasm you don't feel. “You too.”

He pulls back, his eyes searching yours. “Ready for dinner?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “I'm really hungry.”

You weren't. You really weren't.

Now, standing in line for the 'aesthetical Instagram-worthy' dinner hall, you feel a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach.

You can feel Max’s eyes on you, burning a hole in the back of your head. You refuse to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus all your attention on Alex. He's...nice. 

"So," Alex says, his voice a little too loud in the suddenly hushed atmosphere. "First impressions? What do we think of the Love Island dining experience?"

You force a smile. "It's...striking. Definitely lives up to the hype." You glance around. Fairy lights twinkle in the twilight, draped across the bougainvillea-covered pergola. The tables are set with crisp white linens and gleaming silverware. It's utterly picture-perfect.

"Striking is one word for it," Alex chuckles. "I'm more concerned with the food. Hopefully, it tastes as good as it looks."

You nod, trying to appear engaged. But your attention keeps drifting back to Max. He's saying something to Em, but his eyes are fixed on you. A flicker of something you can't decipher – frustration? Regret? – flashes across his face before he quickly schools his expression.

Em, bless her heart, seems completely oblivious. She's completely engrossed in whatever Max is saying, her face alight with adoration.

He, on the other hand, looks distinctly bored. He gives her the barest of smiles, the kind that doesn't reach his eyes.

The line shuffles forward. You take a deep breath and tell yourself to focus. You're here to find love, or at least, the idea of love. You're here for the experience, the sun, the fun… the Instagram followers.

You definitely shouldn't be here obsessing over the guy who's currently paired with someone else, no matter how electrifying his presence is.

"You okay?" Alex asks, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Yeah, fine," you say, a little too quickly. "Just...a bit overwhelmed, I guess. It's all a lot to take in."

He places a reassuring hand on your arm. "I get it. It's a pressure cooker. Just remember to be yourself. That's all anyone can ask for."

Be yourself. The words ring hollow. The problem is, 'yourself' is currently battling an internal tug-of-war between playing it safe with the nice guy and succumbing to the undeniable pull of the bad boy.

And, you know, pretending to be someone else entirely for the sake of the cameras.

Finally, you reach the entrance to the dining hall. A hostess greets you with a dazzling smile and leads you and Alex to your assigned table. It's positioned strategically to give you a perfect view of… yep, you guessed it, Max and Em.

As you sit down, you subtly angled your body away from Max, towards Alex. "So, tell me about yourself, Alex," you say, trying to sound genuinely interested. "What do you do back home?"

He launches into a description of his life as a personal trainer, his passion for fitness, his dreams of opening his own gym. You nod and smile, asking appropriate questions, but your mind is elsewhere.

You catch Max’s gaze again. This time, he doesn't look away. He holds your stare, his expression unreadable.

Dinner arrives. A beautifully plated sea bass with roasted vegetables. It looks delicious, but you have no appetite. You pick at your food, making small talk with Alex, while eavesdropping on the conversations around you.

"…honestly, I think he's playing a game," you hear Mimi whisper to Lando, her eyes darting towards Oscar.

"…I'm just not feeling a spark," Elisha confides in Charles, sounding surprisingly glum.

You wonder if anyone here is actually being genuine. Or are you all just performers, vying for attention, manipulating emotions, and playing to the cameras?

"What about you?" Alex asks, pulling you back to the present. "What are you hoping to get out of this experience?"

You hesitate. The truth? The truth is, you don't really know. You came here because your friends dared you to. Because you were bored with your life. Because you secretly hoped to find something – or someone – that would ignite a spark within you.

"I'm… open to anything," you say, choosing your words carefully. "I'm looking for a connection, someone who makes me laugh, someone I can be myself with."

"And am I making you laugh?" Alex teases, a playful glint in his eye.

You force another smile. "You're definitely funny."

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Good. Because I'm definitely interested in getting to know you better."

You feel a wave of panic wash over you. This is it. This is the moment you're supposed to reciprocate, to flirt back, to signal your interest.

But you can't. Your gaze drifts back to Max, who is now staring intently at his plate, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

You swallow hard. "I'm… I'm glad to hear that, Alex." You try to sound enthusiastic, but your voice comes out flat.

The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of forced conversation and stolen glances. You avoid Max's gaze as much as possible, but you can feel his presence like a magnetic force, pulling you towards him.

You find yourself analyzing every interaction, every gesture, searching for hidden meanings, for some sign that he feels the same way.

"Since everyone is so hesitant, I'll start it. Alex, can I pull you for a chat?" Elisha says suddenly, standing up with a determined glint in her eye.

You love Elisha for this. For cutting through the artificial pleasantries and getting straight to the point. For being brave enough to risk rejection, or worse, boredom. You watch them leave, a wave of relief washing over you.

The conversational pressure, the suffocating intensity of the group setting, momentarily lifts. Now, you can finally relax, breathe and maybe think about what you should do. You wonder if you should call Max for a chat.

"Y/N," you hear someone say, a low, husky voice that sends a shiver down your spine. You turn around to see Max, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Can I speak to you for a minute?" he asks smoothly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

You blink, caught completely off guard. After a moment, you recover quickly, attempting to appear nonchalant. "Okay, sure."

You stand up and follow Max to one of the sofas nestled in a secluded corner of the garden.

As you walk, you try to calm your racing heart, reminding yourself that this is just a conversation, nothing more. But deep down, you know that this is anything but ordinary.

When you two sit down, you are finally able to analyze Max's clothes. It was a simple, almost careless look, a plain white t-shirt – probably expensive – paired with dark denim jeans.

He looked effortless, like he'd just thrown it on, but you knew better. Every detail was carefully considered, designed to project an image of relaxed confidence.

"So," Max begins, leaning back against the cushions and crossing his arms. "How are you finding it so far? The Love Island experience, I mean."

You take a deep breath, trying to collect your thoughts. "It's...intense," you admit, choosing your words carefully. "Definitely more intense than I expected."

"Yeah, it can be a bit overwhelming," he agrees, his eyes never leaving yours. "Everyone's trying to figure out where they stand, who they connect with. It's like a game of chess, but with emotions."

"And a lot more strategically placed bikinis," you add, earning a chuckle from him.

"True, very true. So, have you found anyone you connect with yet? Anyone you fancy?" he asks, the question hanging in the air between you.

This is it. The moment of truth. You could tell him the truth, admit your attraction, risk everything. Or you could play it safe, protect yourself from potential heartbreak, and settle for the comfortable mediocrity of your current pairing. You open your mouth to speak, but the words catch in your throat.

"Well," you start, forcing a casual tone. "Alex is...nice. He's a good guy, and we get along well enough."

A flicker of something passes across Max’s face – disappointment? relief? – but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

"Nice is good," he says neutrally. "But is it enough? Is it sparky enough to survive the recoupling?"

The recoupling. The looming threat that hangs over every islander, the ultimate test of compatibility, the brutal reminder that this is, after all, a game.

"I don't know," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "I honestly don't know what I'm doing. I've been here for six hours, and I already feel like I'm drowning."

Max leans forward, his expression softening. "Hey, it's okay. Everyone feels like that at first. Just be yourself, follow your instincts, and don't be afraid to take risks."

"Easy for you to say," you retort, a hint of bitterness creeping into your voice. "You're coupled up with Em, and you seem perfectly happy."

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands before looking back up at you. "Looks can be deceiving," he says quietly. "Em is great, don't get me wrong. But we're not exactly…soulmates."

Your heart skips a beat. Is he implying what you think he’s implying?

Before he could respond, a high-pitched shriek cut through the tension. “I’ve got a text!” Em, tanned and toned, was practically vibrating with excitement. The whole villa seemed to collectively hold its breath.

Max immediately helped you from the sofa, his hand lingering on your arm for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. The brief contact sent a jolt of electricity through you.

He guided you both back to the group, where Em, having dramatically uncapped her phone, began to read in her best influencer voice, “Islanders, tomorrow there’s going to be something new in the villa…or someone! Be ready to test the connections you just made! #NewArrival #TestYourLove”

The girls gasped, a chorus of nervous energy filling the air. You could see the gears turning in their heads, alliances forming and dissolving in a matter of seconds.

You, however, were still reeling from Max's earlier cryptic comment. The text only added another layer of complexity to the already overwhelming situation.

You push your way through the throng of girls, the air thick with hairspray and the scent of coconut tanning lotion. You find Hannah propped against a pillar, nervously chewing on her lip gloss applicator.

“Imagine it’s a new guy?” you ask, trying to inject a casual tone into your voice.

Hannah’s eyes dart over to where Oscar was speaking to Lando. “I think I like my couple,” she says, fiddling with the strap of her bikini. “Oscar’s…sweet.”

You suppress a smile. Sweet might be one word for it. You’d go with ‘nonchalant.’

The rest of the evening is a blur of speculation, strategy, and forced smiles. Everyone talks about the text, analyzing its implications from every possible angle.

The producers orchestrated this chaos perfectly.

Later, as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the girls gather in the dressing room, the air buzzing with a renewed sense of camaraderie.

“Party in the U.S.A.” blares from someone’s phone as they take off their makeup, revealing the slightly less glamorous reality that lies beneath the layers of foundation and bronzer.

Hannah and Elisha are having a twerk-off by the mirror, their laughter echoing through the room.

The rest cheer them on, a momentary escape from the pressure cooker that Love Island has become. You find yourself caught up in the energy, laughing along with them.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the villa, the guys are engaged in their own pre-bedtime rituals.

You can hear snippets of their conversation drifting through the open windows: talk of muscles, abs, and the merits of different protein powders.

Unbeknownst to you, Max decides to confide in Lando, a surfer with perpetually windswept hair. He trusts Lando to keep a secret.

“Mate, I think I like… Y/N,” Max says, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair.

Lando, who’s meticulously applying beard oil in front of the mirror, quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, I knew it,” he says, a smug grin spreading across his face.

Max is shocked. “How?”

Lando shrugs, touching his hair again. “The way you look at her, man. It’s obvious. Plus, she’s, like, totally your type. Smart, funny, doesn’t take herself too seriously.”

Max gulps. He hadn’t realized he was being so transparent. “But I’m coupled with Emily…” he mumbles, the sentence trailing off into the humid night air.

“Yeah, well, Emily is…Emily,” Lando says diplomatically, clearly implying that Emily, while undeniably gorgeous, might not be the intellectual sparring partner Max secretly craves.

“Look, mate, don’t do anything rash. Just…see where things go.”

As you watch everyone around you pairing off and heading to their shared beds, you feel a twinge of anxiety in your chest. You've only been on the Love Island for eight hours, but it feels like a lifetime since you've been in a healthy, loving relationship.

You broke up with your ex a few months ago, and while you've been on a few dates since then, nothing has stuck.

But now, here you are, in a villa full of beautiful people, and you've somehow found yourself coupled up with Alex. He's sweet, kind, and understanding - everything your ex wasn't.

But you can't shake the feeling of awkwardness that comes with physical intimacy after being out of the game for so long.

As you both get ready for bed, you can feel Alex trying to make you feel comfortable. He gives you a gentle kiss on the cheek as you climb into bed together.

"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice soft and concerned.

You nod, trying to put on a brave face. "Yeah, I'm just...not used to this yet," you admit.

Alex smiles gently and takes your hand in his. "It's okay," he says. "We can take things at your pace. I want you to feel safe and comfortable with me."

You squeeze his hand, grateful for his understanding. "Thanks, Alex. I appreciate that."

He snuggles down into his pillow, turning to face you. “Just relax. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

You mimic his actions, pulling your own pillow closer. As you close your eyes, a wave of exhaustion washes over you. The day’s events, the constant scrutiny, the pressure to perform – it’s all taking its toll.

But sleep doesn't come easily. Your mind races, replaying conversations, analyzing interactions, second-guessing every word and gesture.

The villa's hum is a constant reminder that you're not alone, that everyone is watching, judging, hoping.

Tossing and turning, you finally crack open your eyes. You’re staring directly at…Max.

His face is close, too close, the faint light filtering through the villa windows painting his features in soft strokes. His dark hair is a mess, artfully disheveled, like he just rolled out of bed after a particularly good dream.

Or maybe a bad one, judging by the slight furrow in his brow.

He must be warm, because even in the dim light, you can see the sheen of a healthy glow on his skin.

He’s shirtless.

A landscape of toned muscle and subtle shadows. Your eyes trace the line of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulder, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. A faint trail of hair leads down to where his torso disappears beneath the sheet.

You can see the faintest hint of definition in his abs, the subtle indentations that speak of workouts and natural athleticism. His chest is firm, not overly muscular but with perfectly defined pecs.

You could spend the whole day counting the individual pectoral muscles, the striations and curves highlighted by the soft villa light.

Max, with his mischievous grin, and eyes that crinkle at the corners. Max, who is coupled up with Em. Max, whose bed is situated right next to yours, separated only by a narrow space.

A space that feels infinitely wider now, under the cover of darkness.

He’s staring at you, a playful glint in his eyes. It makes you feel strangely exposed, yet also…seen. Alex is asleep beside you, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm, oblivious to the silent drama unfolding inches away.

You feel a flicker of guilt, quickly stifled by a surge of unexpected excitement. This isn't how the first night in Love Island is supposed to go.

You're supposed to be getting to know Alex, or at least faking it well enough until a better option presents itself. Not exchanging secret glances with one of the villa's heartthrobs.

You smile, a small, tentative curve of your lips. It feels ridiculously shy, like you’re a teenager again, caught staring at your crush across the school cafeteria.

Max mirrors your smile, then mouths something across the space. “Good night,” he forms the words carefully, then adds a final word you can’t quite decipher. It sounds like "Schat,".

You didn't know what it meant, maybe it was something you called a friend in his language?

You mirror him, mouthing back, "Good night,” feeling a surge of childish glee. The absurdity of the situation – lying in bed next to a sleeping stranger, communicating silently with another stranger in the dark – makes you giggle. Internally, of course.

You can’t risk waking Alex, or worse, Em. God, imagining Em's wrath makes you shiver.

Before you can attempt to decipher the mystery word, a loud clap echoes through the room.

"Lights out!" Hannah's voice booms, followed by curtains closing. Darkness descends, enveloping the room in silence.

You close your eyes, the image of Max’s smiling face burned into your memory.

What was that word he mouthed? And why did it make your heart beat a little faster?

The rest of the night passes in a fitful haze. You alternate between trying to rationalize your attraction to Max – he’s just a friendly face, a distraction from the pressure of being with Alex – and berating yourself for even considering it.

You’re coupled up with a perfectly nice guy. You should be focusing on building a connection with him, not fantasizing about the guy in the next bed. . . .

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Next Time On Love Island....

"Sorry boys," they mouthed to the boys at the back as they kissed the girls with zero shame. Their hand cupped the back of your neck. you couldn't see who i was. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

His Feast

Summary: LH44 + slow feasting on you

Song: Pipe · Christina Aguilera

Author’s note: Thanks @urfriendlywriter for the prompt idea. Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 3.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The way you moved had become a carefully choreographed dance, a soft sway designed to conceal more than it revealed. Every morning, the ritual started with the oversized t-shirt, the one that swallowed your frame whole, a deliberate shield against prying eyes - and the eyes you felt most drawn to, those of Lewis.

You hadn’t always been like this, a creature of shadows and loose fabric. There was a time, not so long ago, when you’d pranced around in shorts and tank tops, comfortable in the skin you inhabited.

But somewhere along the line, a whisper of doubt, a chorus of insecurities, had grown into a deafening roar in your mind.

Lewis, with his infuriatingly open affection, only heightened your shame. He’d always been vocal about his appreciation for your body, for the curves and the dips that you were now so desperate to hide.

He’d trace the line of your collarbone with a soft finger and say, “You’re stunning, you know that?” His words, once music to your ears, now felt like a spotlight, exposing every supposed flaw.

You tried to deflect his compliments, to change the subject with a nervous laugh, but his gaze always held a knowing tenderness that made your heart flutter and your cheeks flush.

You’d started avoiding mirrors, your reflection now a source of painful scrutiny. The gym had become a prison, each session a grueling exercise in self-loathing.

You’d catch Lewis watching you sometimes, his expression a mix of concern and confusion, and you’d quickly turn away, ashamed of your attempts to shrink, to disappear.

You knew you were being ridiculous, but the voice in your head was relentless, painting you as flawed, as something less than beautiful.

One evening, you were getting ready for a quiet night in. You pulled on an old, baggy sweatshirt, the one that Lewis had jokingly called your ‘hibernation tent.’

He was in the kitchen, humming softly as he prepared dinner. When he came into the bedroom, he paused, his smile faltering.

“You okay, love?” he asked, his voice gentle.

“Yeah, why?” you replied, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweatshirt.

“Just…you’ve been wearing this a lot lately," he said, his eyes lingering on the oversized fabric. "And the jeans, even when it’s warm. Everything seems so…covered.”

You felt your chest tighten. You wanted to lie, to tell him you were just cold, but his gaze was too understanding, too perceptive.

“I’m just…comfortable,” you mumbled, looking away.

He stepped closer, his hand lightly touching your arm. “You look comfortable, sure, but you don’t seem comfortable. Are you…are you hiding from me?”

His question pierced you like a shard of glass. You couldn't hold it in anymore. “I’m not as beautiful as you say I am," you blurted out, the words tumbling from your lips. "I... I see things in the mirror, things I don’t like. Things that you think aren’t there, but they are.”

His forehead furrowed, his touch becoming firmer, yet softer. "What things?" he asked, his voice a low rumble. "Tell me.”

You hesitated, the shame rising like a tide. “My…my tummy, the way my thighs look, my arms…everything.” You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill.

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. When you opened your eyes, he was still looking at you, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your throat ache. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, shame washing over you in waves. “I’m sorry," you said, your voice cracking. "I know it’s silly but…”

He stepped forward, pulling you gently into his arms. “Don’t you ever,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your hair, “Don’t you ever apologize for feeling something. And please, never call what you feel, silly.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest, the tears finally escaping. “I just want to be the person you see,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his shirt.

He held you tight, his hand stroking your back. “I see you, love,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I see all of you. And all of you is beautiful. It’s not just what’s on the surface, though that is stunning obviously, it’s also the way you laugh, the way you care, the heart that you have. That’s what makes you beautiful. Do you trust me?”

His question hung in the air. You looked up at him, your eyes red and swollen. “Yes,” you said, your voice barely audible. “I do.”

He smiled, and it was the kind of smile that made your heart ache in the best possible way. "Okay then," he said, taking your hands. "Let’s do something about this.”

The room was a symphony of shadows and candlelight as Lewis guided you to the bed, the soft glow playing over his chiseled features, painting a picture of raw masculine beauty that made your knees wobble.

The air was thick with anticipation, charged with the electricity of a thousand unspoken words. You felt the heat of his gaze as he took in your form, the hunger in his eyes making you quiver with a need so deep it was almost painful.

"Take off your clothes," he said, his voice a gentle command that resonated through you like a bass note from a distant cello.

His eyes never left yours as you fumbled with the buttons of your blouse, the fabric sliding away to reveal the swells of your breasts.

He watched you with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey, his pupils dilating as your vulnerability laid bare before him.

The fabric of your skirt whispered against your legs as it fell to the floor, leaving you in nothing but your lacy underwear. He took in the sight of you, his breath hitching slightly as he traced the edge of your panties with the tip of his finger.

"Do you know how much I love watching you undress for me?" he murmured, his voice a soft caress that made your stomach flip.

You nodded, feeling a blush creep up your neck. His touch was like a brand, leaving trails of fire in its wake as he gently eased down your panties, revealing the dampness between your thighs.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your skin, and whispered, "I want to show you just how much I crave you."

And then he did. His mouth found the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder, his teeth grazing the soft skin as he kissed you.

His hands roamed your body with a confidence that made you feel like the most precious treasure in the world, each caress a declaration of his love for your every curve and dip.

His thumb slid between your folds, teasing your clit, as he whispered sweet nothings about your beauty into your ear.

You moaned as he slid a finger inside you, his movements slow and deliberate, drawing out the pleasure until you were begging for more.

He added another, filling you up as his thumb continued to dance over your swollen bud. The feeling was almost too much, a delicious agony that made you arch your back, desperate for relief.

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice a gruff whisper. You met his gaze, his eyes dark with lust and something else, something deeper.

Something that made your heart stutter in your chest. "See what you do to me," he said, gesturing to the bulge in his pants.

You couldn't help the smug smile that curved your lips. You knew you affected him, knew that he wanted you as much as you wanted him. But seeing it laid bare like this was intoxicating.

He took your hand and placed it on his hardness, his eyes never leaving yours as you squeezed gently.

"Take off your bra," he said, his voice hoarse. You complied, the fabric falling away to expose your breasts to the cool air. He cupped them in his hands, his thumbs teasing your nipples into hard peaks.

His mouth followed the trail his hands had set, kissing and nibbling his way down your body, leaving a path of fire in his wake.

When his mouth reached your breasts, you thought you might die from the pleasure. His tongue flicked and swirled around your nipples as his hands kneaded and squeezed, the sensation sending bolts of pleasure straight to your core.

"You're so responsive," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "I could play with these all night."

Your body was a canvas, and he was the artist, painting strokes of pleasure that had you writhing beneath him. You felt the tension coiling tighter and tighter, your orgasm building like a storm at sea, ready to crash over you at any moment.

"Lewis," you breathed, your voice a plea.

He pulled away, a wicked glint in his eye. "Not yet, baby," he said, his voice low and husky. "There's so much more I want to show you."

And with that, he stood and began to strip away his own clothes, his body revealed inch by glorious inch. You watched, transfixed, as he shed the last of his garments, his erection standing proud and thick, a testament to his desire for you.

"Are you ready?" Lewis murmured, his gaze never leaving yours.

You nodded, your eyes wide with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. The weight of his question was palpable, and you could feel your heart pounding in your chest.

This was the moment you had been waiting for, the moment where you would let go of your fears and insecurities, and let him love you completely.

"Good," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the very air. He stepped closer to you, his naked body a sculpture of desire in the flickering candlelight.

The heat of him washed over you, making your skin prickle with goosebumps, and you could feel the tension in the room ratchet up a notch.

With a gentle touch, he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "I'm going to show you just how much you mean to me," he murmured. "How much I love every inch of you."

His mouth met yours in a kiss that was at once tender and fierce, a promise of the passion to come. His tongue slid against yours, teasing and tasting, as his hands slid down to grip your hips.

He stepped closer, the length of him pressing against your stomach as he lifted you onto the bed, never breaking the kiss.

You felt the softness of the sheets beneath you, a stark contrast to the hardness of his body above. His weight was a comfort, a reassurance that he was here, that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Look at me," he said again, pulling away slightly so he could gaze into your eyes. "I need you to see me, to know that this is real."

You nodded again, unable to find the words to express what you felt. He positioned himself between your legs, his hands sliding over your thighs as he bent his head to kiss you again, his tongue tracing the line of your jaw before moving lower, to the hollow of your throat.

His kisses grew more urgent, his teeth grazing your skin as his hands roamed further, one hand finding its way back to your breast while the other slid down to cup you between the legs.

You gasped as he began to rub you in slow, firm circles, the pressure building as your body responded to his touch.

The first wave of pleasure hit you like a tidal wave, crashing over you and leaving you gasping for air. You clutched at the sheets, your body arching off the bed as Lewis watched you with hooded eyes, his own desire evident in the tightness of his jaw and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He whispered sweet, filthy things into your ear, his voice a dark symphony that sent shivers down your spine. His mouth moved to your neck, his teeth scraping gently against your skin as his fingers danced over your clit.

You felt his cock nudging against your entrance, the blunt tip probing gently as he kissed a line of fire down to your chest.

"I'm going to make love to you now," he murmured, his voice a velvet promise. "I'm going to show you just how beautiful you are, how much I crave you."

You nodded, unable to form coherent words, your body already singing with pleasure. And then he was inside you, filling you up in one slow, deep stroke that had you crying out his name.

His eyes never left yours as he began to move, his hips rocking into you with a steady rhythm that had you seeing stars.

The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain as he stretched and filled you, his every movement a declaration of his love for your body.

You could feel your walls clench around him, desperate to hold him in, never let him go.

You watched as he took his own pleasure, his eyes dark with passion, his jaw tight as he fought for control. And when he finally let go, when he came with a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, you felt a sense of accomplishment, of belonging, that was unlike anything you had ever experienced.

He collapsed onto you, his weight a comfort as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice muffled. "All of you. And I'm never letting go."

And in that moment, you knew it was true. You had found your home, in the arms of the man who had just shown you that love was more than just a feeling; it was an act of worship, a celebration of the beauty that lay within.

"I'm yours," you whispered back, your voice trembling with the intensity of the emotions that surged through you.

Lewis pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours for any hint of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he kissed you again, this time with a tenderness that made you feel like the most cherished person in the world.

His cock, still hard within you, throbbed with the beat of his heart, and you felt a renewed sense of connection, of unity.

"I want you to come again," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cradle your face. "I want to feel you shatter for me, baby."

With gentle coaxing, he began to move again, his strokes long and deep, his eyes never leaving yours. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body, and you could feel your orgasm building once more, a crescendo that threatened to overwhelm you.

Your breath grew ragged as you chased the peak, your nails digging into his back, leaving marks that would serve as a testament to the passion that had consumed you.

His own breath was hot and uneven against your neck, his body tense with the effort of holding back, of waiting for you to reach that perfect moment.

And when it came, it was like nothing you had ever felt before. It was a symphony of sensations, a maelstrom of pleasure that tore through you, leaving you shaking and gasping beneath him.

His name was a litany on your lips, a chant that matched the rhythm of his hips, the pounding of your heart.

As the last vestiges of your climax faded away, he kissed you softly, his movements slowing to a gentle rock as he allowed you to come down from the high.

His arms tightened around you, and you knew that in this moment, you were where you belonged.

He rolled to the side, taking you with him so that you lay entwined, his cock still buried within you. "I love you," he whispered, the words a soft benediction against your ear.

You turned your head to look at him. "I love you too, Lewis."

He kissed you again, a chaste peck that held more promise than any grand gesture could ever convey. "Now, let me show you just how much."

And with that, he began to move again, his touch tender, his kisses reverent. This time, there was no rush, no urgency. Just the two of you, lost in the sweetness of each other's embrace, exploring the depths of the love that had brought you to this place.

The night stretched out before you, a tapestry of passion and pleasure, and you knew that no matter what the future held, you would always have this moment, this perfect union of bodies and souls.

"Look at me," he said again, his voice a gentle coax. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, the intensity of his gaze making you quiver.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "So perfect. And all mine."

Your insecurities were a distant memory as you felt the warmth of his love surrounding you, a cocoon of acceptance and desire that made you feel more alive than you had ever been.

And as he brought you to the brink once more, and pushed you over the edge into oblivion, you knew that you had been reborn, not just as a lover, but as a woman who had finally learned to embrace her beauty, her passion, and the love that she had been so desperately seeking. . . .

[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey author,

I really appreciate your work and have a Lando fiction request for you. Here's the idea:

Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship. He has flings with girls, but nothing serious. On the other hand, the Reader has been in love with Lando for the past one to two years but thinks he doesn't like her that way, which is why she doesn't propose. Lando doesn't propose because he thinks she deserves better than him.

Lando is very protective of the Reader, and the Reader is equally protective of Lando. Whenever his mental health is in ruins, she is always there for him.

The Reader knows about all of Lando's flings. Lando gets into these flings to try and get the Reader out of his mind. However, the Reader thinks Lando isn't interested in her romantically and believes he isn't relationship material. She's scared of getting her heart broken and ruining their friendship because she thinks Lando is never serious. She knows he sleeps around and is protective of him in a way that she advises him to be smart about who he sleeps with and to stay out of the headlines for anything other than racing.

The story starts after the Brazil race, where Lando had a tough time and went without sleep for 24-48 hours. When he returns from São Paulo, he finds the Reader already there, ready to comfort him after a bad race.

That's the plot I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

First Choice

Summary: LN4 + Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship. He has flings with girls, but nothing serious.

Song: 505 · Arctic Monkeys

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 7.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The scent of burnt toast hangs heavy in the air, a familiar morning aroma in your shared apartment. You sigh, pulling the offending pieces from the toaster.

Lando, ever the picture of chaotic energy even at this early hour, is perched on the kitchen counter, his legs swinging, a half-eaten banana in hand. He grins at you, that lopsided grin that still makes your stomach flip after all these years.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice still raspy with sleep.

"Morning, burnt-toast aficionado," you reply, placing the sad, charred remains in the bin. "Honestly, Lando, you'd think after living together for five years you'd have mastered the art of toasting bread."

He shrugs, taking another bite of the banana. "Where's the fun in that? Plus, you always make the good stuff anyway." He watches you move around the kitchen, preparing your usual breakfast – a bowl of yogurt with berries and granola.

You feel his eyes on you, a familiar warmth settling in your chest. It's a warmth you’ve learned to ignore, to file away in the ‘best friend’ folder in your heart. You glance at him, your eyes meeting for a fleeting moment.

He quickly looks away, pretending to be engrossed in the peeling of his banana.

You’ve known Lando since you were babies, practically grew up in each other's pockets. There wasn't a significant moment in your lives that didn't involve the other. You've seen each other at your absolute best and, often, your absolute worst.

You've held his hand through heartbreaks, celebrated his victories with boisterous cheers, and held him when the weight of the world threatened to crush him.

He's been your constant, your anchor, the most important person in your life.

The problem, the elephant in your cozy, shared kitchen, is that your feelings for him have evolved. In the last year or so, things changed. The comfortable fondness morphed into something deeper, something more intense, and scarily complex.

You are in love with Lando. It's a truth you've kept fiercely guarded, a secret tucked away like a precious, fragile gem. You can't let him know. He deserves someone who’s not… well, who’s not you.

Someone prettier, smarter, someone not-so-hopelessly-in-love with their best friend.

And he, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart, continues to be just Lando. Carefree, charming, and infuriatingly handsome as he sits there, swinging his legs, a messy mop of hair falling across his forehead.

He’s had his share of flings, a string of fleeting affairs that seemed to come and go with the changing seasons. They never lasted, never meant anything, you knew that.

You've always attributed to his inability to settle down on the fact that he isn't ready for commitment, or that he simply doesn't want one. But the truth is, those relationships hurt you.

They always left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Big day today, right?” Lando says, interrupting your thoughts. He’s referring to a photography exhibition you’ve spent months working on.

His tone is light, but you recognize the undercurrent of concern. He always feels your anxiety, even when you try to hide it.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, a little. But I’m excited too.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” he says, his eyes meeting yours again, this time holding a seriousness that makes your heart skip a beat. “You always are.”

Your exhibition is a success. The gallery is crowded with people, murmuring appreciative comments as they wander past your photographs. You see Lando weaving through the crowd, his eyes always finding you, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.

He’s the first to congratulate you, pulling you into a tight hug, his scent of citrus and something uniquely ‘Lando’ engulfing you.

“I told you,” he whispers in your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You absolutely smashed it.”

Later that evening, after everyone’s gone, and the gallery is silent, you find yourself sitting on a small bench outside, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stuffy interior.

You’re exhausted but exhilarated, a potent mix of emotions swirling inside you.

Lando sits beside you, silent for a moment, just observing you. You can feel him, the weight of him beside you, a comforting presence in the quiet night. You lean your head on his shoulder, a familiar habit you haven’t thought too much about until now.

As if on cue he puts his arm around you. For a moment, you let yourself indulge in the warmth of his touch.

“You know,” Lando begins, his voice soft, almost hesitant, “I’ve… I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. You know what he means. He means as a friend.

You pull away slightly, forcing a casual tone. “We’ve known each other since diapers, Lando. That’s hardly a surprise.”

He’s quiet again, the silence stretched taut between you. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, even in the dim light.

“No,” he says finally, his voice low. “That’s not… that’s not what I mean.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the vulnerability in his eyes, a vulnerability you’ve only ever seen when his inner demons are creeping to the surface.

He’s looking at you like he’s about to reveal a secret, a terrifying, life-altering truth.

“I’m… I’m a mess, you know?” he continues, his fingers playing with the loose thread on his jacket. “I’m chaotic, I’m impulsive, I’m… I’m not good enough for anyone, especially not…” he stops, his gaze dropping to his hands.

The statement stings, you know exactly what he’s implying. You are not just anyone.

“Lando,” you say, placing a hand on his arm, “Stop it. Don't say that about yourself. You’re amazing. You’re brilliant, and funny, and kind.”

He looks up, his eyes locking with yours. “But you… You’re everything good. You’re sunshine, you’re calm, you’re everything I’m not. You deserve someone… someone better than me.”

The truth hits you like a punch to the gut. That’s why. That’s why he hasn’t let himself fall in love, not truly, not completely. He’s always been convinced you deserve someone ‘better’, and he’s deemed himself unworthy.

The irony of it all isn't lost on you. Here you are, convinced he doesn't love you, and he's doing the very same thing.

"You idiot," you whisper, a tear escaping from your eye.

He looks at you, surprised by your immediate reaction. His protective instincts are triggered. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

You shake your head, your heart aching. “You’re so, so wrong, Lando. So incredibly, completely wrong.”

He flinches at your tone as if you've slapped him, the confusion on his face mirroring what you feel inside.

“I… I’m in love with you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I have been for a long time. And I don’t care if you’re a mess, or chaotic, or impulsive. I love all of it, all of you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s a silence filled with shock, disbelief, and a tentative hope. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Lando reaches up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. A gentle, hesitant touch. “You… you’re in love with me?”

You nod, unable to speak, your eyes filled with tears.

He closes his eyes for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. When he opens them again, his eyes hold a vulnerability that you’ve never seen before.

“I… I think I’m in love with you too. Have been… for years,” he confesses. “I just thought… I thought you deserved someone better.”

You laugh, a choked, tearful laugh. You reach out and cup his face in your hands. "Lando, you are the only person I've ever wanted. You are the best, for me, and for me only."

He leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

“More than anything,” you whisper, closing the gap between you.

His lips meet yours, a soft, tentative kiss that quickly deepens into something more. It’s a kiss that speaks of years of unspoken feelings, of shared history, of a love that’s finally found its voice.

And as you hold each other under the cool night sky, you know that you're not just best friends any more. You're a love story finally being written, and you can't wait to see where it leads.

Unfortunately it leads to you waking up in your bed with no one laying beside you and the feeling of embarrassment stuck in your mind as you screamed into your pillow. . . .

The scent of old books and rain hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to Lando. He sat nestled in the corner of the worn armchair, fingers tracing the spine of a well-loved copy of The Little Prince.

Outside, the storm raged, mirroring the tempest brewing within him. He’d spent the better part of the day wrestling with the same old question, the one that always seemed to circle back to her: you.

He knew it was pathetic, really. He was a grown man, a Formula One driver, someone who faced death-defying speeds with a cool head, yet the thought of you sent his heart into a ridiculous, flustered flutter.

He’d been in love with you for… well, for a very long time, really. Since he was probably sixteen, when you’d morphed from the goofy, pigtail-wearing kid he’d built Lego castles with, into… you.

He'd never quite understood how you did it. How you could make his chest ache with a tenderness so profound it felt like a physical weight. It was a constant, low hum in his life, always there, a melody only he could hear.

He remembered the first time he felt it, a silly school dance, the scent of your strawberry hair spray and the way your hand had lingered on his arm, and that was it. He was a goner.

The girls he had flings with now, they were distractions, bright and shiny things that filled a void, but they never held the depth of feeling he had for you. They were beautiful, interesting even, but they were never you.

He'd tried, he really had, to foster something real, to move past this ridiculous, teenage crush. It never worked. The comparisons were automatic, the longing, a sharp pang that never went away.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane. Dark circles under his eyes, a weary set to his jaw. He was tired of the charade, tired of pretending that something, anything, else could ever come close.

He knew, deep down, that he was probably the biggest idiot on the planet. Here he was, pining after the girl who had been the constant in his life since he could barely walk, all because he thought he wasn't good enough for you.

He ran a hand through his hair, the memory of your laughter echoing in his mind. It was the most beautiful sound, that infectious, uninhibited joy that could light up a room.

He’d always loved making your laugh. He could face a hoard of angry fans, a high-speed curve, anything really, but that radiant smile was his true weakness.

He knew you were there for him, always. When the pressure of the season crushed him, when the disappointment of a bad race left him feeling hollowed out, you’d always appeared, like a calming balm to his battered soul.

A cup of tea brewed just the way he liked, a quiet presence, an empathetic ear. You knew him, understood him in a way no one else ever had, and it terrified him.

He’d seen the way you looked at him sometimes, a vulnerability that mirrored his own, and it sent a jolt of hope, a tiny flicker of something that resembled courage.

The rain outside intensified, and the room seemed to grow darker.

Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door. "Lando?" your voice was gentle, laced with concern, and it sent a shiver through him, not of fear, but of anticipation.

He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, come in."

The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. You were wrapped in a thick, fuzzy robe, your hair slightly damp from the rain.

You looked… beautiful. You always did.

"You okay? I saw the lights on; thought I’d check."

"Yeah, just… thinking," he mumbled, his cheeks heating up despite his best efforts. He knew you could see right through him.

You walked towards the armchair, your steps light and graceful. You perched on the edge of the sofa across from him, your eyes fixed on his face. "Thinking about what?"

The simple question sent a wave of panic through him. He couldn't tell you, not now. Not after all this time. “Just… the race. And the… season is stressful.”

You nodded, your gaze softened. “It is. But you always handle it so well. You’re incredibly resilient, Lando, you know that, right?”

He looked down at the book, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering. “Sometimes… it doesn't feel like it."

You reached out, your hand covering his on the book. Your touch sent a jolt through him, a spark of something he couldn’t quite define. He finally looked up at you, into those warm eyes.

“Lando,” you began, your voice barely a whisper, “you’re… you're the bravest person I know.”

He wanted to tell you, right then, how you made him feel. How, just your presence was enough to calm the storm inside him. How, he wanted nothing more than to spend his life with you, to wake up every morning next to your smile.

But, the fear, the old fear that had nestled deep inside him, stopped him. Could he really risk this friendship? Could he really trust himself to make you happy?

“I… appreciate that,” he managed to say, his voice rough.

“Lando…” you hesitated, your eyes searching his. He felt like you could see right into his soul, and the thought alone was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“I know you don’t always… talk about things, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. The irony was almost comical. You were practically begging him to open up, and here he was, silent, consumed by his own self-doubt.

"I have always felt… very safe with you Y/N. You have a way of making things better." he said, not really looking at you.

You smiled tentatively, a small, shy smile that made his heart clench. “So you’re not… you’re not just saying the race is bothering you?”

He hesitated again. He wanted to tell you. Really, truly wanted to. But the words seemed to get caught in his throat.

Instead, he shook his head, the lie thick on his tongue. “No, it’s the race. Just thinking too much.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed your face, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. You took your hand from his, and stood up. He hated that distance.

“Okay,” you said, your voice flat. “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

He watched as you turned and walked towards the door, his chest aching with the words he couldn't say. “Wait,” he blurted, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it.

You turned back, your eyes questioning.

He looked up at you, really looked at you, and saw the same hesitant vulnerability he’d seen before. The same love that he knew was there, but that they both refused to acknowledge.

"Will you… will you stay? Here, a little longer?” He didn’t know why he said it, but he felt a pull, an urge, like a man lost at sea finally seeing land.

You hesitated, a small smile playing on your lips. "Okay, Lando."

The next few moments passed in comfortable silence. You sat back down, this time a little closer. He wanted to take your hand, to lean closer, to kiss you, but he didn't.

He was scared that if he did, you would back away, that he would finally lose the only constant in his life. As you two sat, the rain continued to drum against the windows, a soft melody that seemed to mirror the quiet hope that was slowly blooming in his heart.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he would be brave enough. Maybe, one day, he would finally tell you. . . .

The hum of the city, once a soundtrack to your life, now felt like a constant, irritating buzz. It was a far cry from the roar of the engines, the electric atmosphere of the paddock, and the shared thrill of a race weekend.

It had been three months since you last stepped foot on a racetrack. Three months since you’d last seen Lando in person, his smile brighter than any spotlight, his laughter a melody you’d carried in your heart since childhood.

You’d told him, of course, that work was piling up, that deadlines loomed like hungry wolves. A convenient lie. The truth was a knot of jealousy and longing coiled tight in your chest.

Seeing him with a different woman each weekend, a new face plastered on his Instagram, was a slow, agonizing torture. You'd tried.

You really had tried to convince yourself it was just how he was, how he’d always been. Casual. Light. A whirlwind of fleeting affections.

“You okay?” your friend, Maya, asked, her voice pulling you back to your chaotic apartment.

Papers littered the coffee table, a half-eaten sandwich lay forgotten on a plate, and a half-drunk mug of tea sat growing cold. You’d been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to organize your life.

“Just… work, you know?” you mumbled, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You knew Maya saw through you. She had for years.

She’d been the one to hold your hand when you’d burst into tears after seeing Lando with that model at the Monaco Grand Prix party, the one with the impossibly high cheekbones and even more impossibly long legs.

“It’s Lando, isn’t it?” she probed gently, picking up your tea and heading to the kitchen to reheat it.

You sighed, the air escaping your lungs like a deflated balloon. “He… he has a new girlfriend,” you admitted, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “She’s a… a dancer, I think? From Milan.”

Maya came back, handing you the steaming mug. “And that bothers you,” she stated, not questioning.

“Of course it bothers me,” you snapped, immediately regretting your tone. “It… it always does. It’s so stupid, I know. We’re just friends. He’s just… Lando.”

“But you’re not just friends, are you?” Maya’s voice was soft, kind. “You’re Lando and you. You two are… a constellation.”

You closed your eyes, the image of Lando’s laughing face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the familiar way he’d nudge your shoulder when he thought you were being too serious, flashing across your mind. You felt a familiar pang of longing.

"He'd never... look at me like that," you whispered, the truth finally, painfully, out in the open. "He’s never serious. He jumps from girl to girl. I tell him he needs to be careful, but he never listens. He thinks life is this big party, and... I can’t keep getting hurt by it."

"And you think your heart is safer here, far away from him?" Maya asked.

"Yes," you said firmly. "It has to be."

The phone on the table buzzed, Lando's name flashing across the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, a familiar mix of dread and longing washing over you. You picked it up, a rehearsed calmness masking the turmoil within.

“Hey, Lando,” you said, your voice surprisingly even.

“Hey, you,” his voice, usually bright and cheerful, was laced with weariness. “How’s work?”

“Overwhelming,” you replied, keeping your tone light. “How was the race?”

“Frustrating, honestly,” he sighed. “The car was… not cooperating. And I… I’ve just been feeling… off.”

And there it was. The vulnerability you knew so well. The undercurrent of despair that only you, it seemed, could sense beneath the surface. The Lando behind the smiles and the social media posts.

Your Lando.

“Are you okay?” you asked, the work-related excuses falling away.

“Not really,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been missing you at the track. It’s… different without you there.”

Your heart squeezed. You wanted nothing more than to be by his side, to offer the quiet solace he seemed to need. But the fear, the jealousy, held you back.

“I miss being there too,” you admitted, the lie slipping out effortlessly. “But this work is relentless.”

“Yeah,” he said, deflated. “I get it. Look, I just… wanted to hear your voice. You always know how to make me feel better.”

“Anytime,” you replied softly. “Just… try to get some rest tonight, okay? And be careful, Lando.”

“I will,” he promised. “You too.”

The call ended, leaving you staring at the phone, your heart a tangled mess of longing and regret. You knew your absence was making things harder for him.

Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to return to the races, to witness the casual intimacy he shared with other women, to have your heart broken all over again.

You tried dating. It was a disaster. Every conversation with a potential suitor felt flat, every joke fell short. They weren't Lando, and that was a truth you couldn't escape.

You went on awkward dates, tried to force connections, but your mind always, always, circled back to the same person.

You missed his quick wit, his infectious laugh, his unwavering faith in you. You missed him. . . .

The hum of the television fills your Monaco apartment, the familiar roar of Formula One engines a stark contrast to the quiet elegance that surrounds you. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a half-eaten bowl of pasta forgotten on the coffee table.

Today is the Brazilian Grand Prix, and even though you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t, you’re glued to the screen, your eyes fixed on the familiar orange and papaya of Lando’s McLaren.

On the screen, you watch as he chats with Oscar, a polite smile plastered on his face. It’s the kind of smile he wears for the cameras, the fans, the world, but you know the truth behind it.

You’ve seen it too many times, that little tightening around his eyes, the subtle dip of his lip. It's a mask he uses to navigate the demanding world of Formula One, a shield he utilizes to protect a heart that you’ve seen be both incredibly kind and extraordinarily fragile.

The race starts, and your heart pounds along with the pulsing rhythm of the engines. You watch, your knuckles white as you clutch the throw pillow, as Lando battles his way through the pack. He’s aggressive, pushing the limits, but it’s not enough.

The chequered flag falls, and the screen flashes tenth place. A wave of disappointment washes over you, not just for Lando, but for yourself too.

You crave to be there, to pull him into a comforting embrace, to murmur words of encouragement that will soothe away the frustration that you know is eating him up inside.

Instead, you watch silently as he gives a series of interviews, the forced smile never faltering. Your chest aches, and you can almost feel the weight of his disappointment. You glance at the clock.

It was still early in the day, but you were feeling the pull of sleep. The television screen morphs into a blurry kaleidoscope of colours and sounds.

You switch off the TV and head to bed, an unwanted weight firmly placed within your chest.

The fluorescent lights of the Sao Paulo hotel room hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the turmoil brewing within Lando. The race had been a disaster, a slow, agonizing descent from the potential of the starting grid to a disappointing tenth place.

But the race itself wasn't the real problem. The undercurrent of fatigue, the gnawing anxiety that had kept him awake for the past two days, was the true enemy.

He hadn't slept properly since the qualifying session, his mind a relentless hamster wheel of "what ifs" and self-criticisms. All he wanted was a clear head, a moment of peace, and the one person who could always provide both.

All he wanted was the comforting weight of a blanket, a soothing voice, the familiar scent of her. He wanted her, you, more than he wanted a win, more than anything.

He knew, of course, that you weren’t coming to races anymore. “Work,” you’d said, a little too quickly, a little too vaguely.

He’d tried to understand, had told himself it was for the best, that you deserved a career as vibrant as yours, but a part of him, the anxious, insecure part, couldn’t help but feel abandoned.

Especially now, on nights like these.

He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name. The urge to call was a physical ache. He wanted to hear your voice, to see your face, to feel the comforting weight of your presence. But he stopped himself.

You were probably working, buried in whatever project you were passionate about this week. It was your standard excuse for not travelling to races anymore, a vague reference to your ‘work’ that he never pressed

He missed those eyes, even when they were filled with that unspoken emotion.

He tossed the phone onto the nightstand, the plastic clattering against the wood. He pushed himself up, the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Maybe a shower would help.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, the hot water a temporary balm against his frayed nerves. As the steam swirled around him, his thoughts circled back to you, to your quiet strength, to the way you always seemed to know how to navigate the labyrinth of his mind.

He knew you would have known how to fix this awful feeling, much better than any team strategies or a strong cup of coffee.

He finished his shower, a towel pulled loosely around his waist. He stood before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him – eyes red, skin pale, a hollow echo of his usual self.

He hated looking at himself in this state. He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm.

He needed sleep, desperately, but the thought of entering that restless abyss again was far more daunting than facing a race.

He hadn't wanted to add to your plate, but he couldn't shake the sense that there was more to it.

Had he done something wrong? Had his focus on racing somehow pushed you away? These thoughts circled his mind like vultures.

A deep ache settled in his chest. He desperately wanted to see you, to hug you, to bury his face in your hair and forget the disappointments of the day. The need to feel your warmth, your presence, was a physical thing.

He reached for his phone, his finger hovering over your contact. He could call, he could text, he could just hear voice.

But no. You were probably working, busy, most likely. He dropped the phone back down onto the bedside table. He couldn't, wouldn't, interrupt you. He had that part to respect.

Sighing, he turned away from the mirror and clambered back into bed, hoping against hope that sleep would finally claim him.

The next few days were a blur of travel, media obligations, and frustrating debriefs. Lando went through the motions, his head filled with the echoes of the disastrous race and your absence.

He found himself constantly glancing at his phone, willing a message from you to appear, but the screen remained stubbornly dark.

Finally, the team returned to McLaren's headquarters in Woking. Lando, still reeling from the Brazil defeat, was looking forward to a familiar place.

He'd hoped that getting back to the usual routine would somehow steady him. As he walked into the familiar corridors of the tech centre, he knew that he needed a distraction.

“Hey, Lando, you okay?” Daniel’s voice broke through his thoughts. Daniel was his teammate, and a good one at that. He always knew when things were a bit off.

Lando forced a smile, “Yeah mate, just tired.”

Daniel didn’t look convinced. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Want to grab a coffee?”

“Sure, why not?” Lando agreed, wanting to get his mind off of everything.

They made their way to the cafeteria, Lando’s mind wandering back to the one person he wished he was with. He couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing, if you were even thinking of him.

He couldn't seem to shake this restless feeling, a void where your presence so obviously used to be.

After a rather silent coffee at the usual corner of the cafeteria, Daniel, clearly not in the mood to let this go, turned to Lando, his voice serious. “Lando, what’s really going on? You’re not yourself.”

Lando hesitated, his gaze fixed on the swirling foam in his cup. “It’s nothing, really.” He could feel his throat clench. He knew he couldn’t keep putting this off.

Daniel raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge in his eyes. “Nothing? You look like you’re about to implode, mate. Come on, spill it.”

Lando sighed, knowing he couldn't keep up the façade any longer. “It’s just… I miss her, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice barely above a whisper.

Understanding flickered across Daniel’s face. “Ah, that’s it, is it? And you haven’t spoken to her?”

Lando shook his head. “She’s been busy with work, I guess. I don’t want to bother her.”

“Bother her? Lando, you literally look like a kicked puppy. You should try talking to her, sometimes you need to let people know you need them.” Daniel’s voice was gentle, understanding.

Lando knew Daniel was right, but the fear of being rejected, of confirming that you were pulling away, held him back. “Maybe,” he conceded, though his heart was already pounding at the thought of reaching out.

He would wait until he gets back to Monaco tomorrow to say anything.

The plane landed, and Lando dragged himself off, the familiar sun of Monaco a stark contrast to the overcast skies of Brazil. He made his way through the airport, his thoughts a tangled mess.

He needed to sleep, desperately. He needed to clear his head. He needed to... he didn’t know. He just felt utterly lost.

He reached his apartment, fumbling with the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, the sound echoing in the silence of his home – a silence that was immediately shattered.

“What… what are you doing here?” he stammered, his voice thick with surprise. His bag slipped from his numb fingers, landing with a dull thud on the floor.

You were standing in the middle of his living room, holding a duster, a small smile curving your lips. The sight of you, here, in his space, was so unexpected, so achingly welcome, that he felt his breath hitch in his chest.

“Um, I wanted to see you, so I waited here and cleaned the place,” you said, your voice nervous. You looked as if you expected him to be angry, as if your presence was an intrusion. “I… I hope you don’t mind.”

Lando couldn’t speak. He just stared at you, the exhaustion, the weight of the past 24 hours, the sheer loneliness he had been battling, all suddenly dissolving.

He’d been so caught up in his own turmoil, that he had forgotten the sheer comfort, the utter peace, your presence brought him.

You walked towards him, a worried frown creasing your forehead. Your hands cupped his face, your touch sending a jolt of warmth through him. “I saw you, Lando. I saw how much you were hurting, even with those forced smiles. I know you, you idiot.”

You pulled him into a hug, and he finally allowed himself to be held, to feel your warmth, your comfort, and your unwavering support.

It was like coming home after a long and arduous journey. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your familiar scent.

“I thought you were working,” he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. He finally released the emotions that he'd bottled up. The race, the stress, the loneliness, all of it poured out.

“I am,” you said, pulling away slightly to look at him with genuine concern in your eyes. “But your mental health is my priority, you know that. And I had a few days off,” you added with a gentle smile.

He finally looked at you properly. It wasn't just the physical space that had grown from the time spent apart. It was the emotional distance he’d created, the wall he’d put up that felt so fragile now, now that you were here with him.

“Do you… do you hate the fact that I’m like this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, the vulnerability raw and exposed.

He had never wanted to be a burden to you, and the thought of being a disappointment was a knife to his chest.

You cupped his face again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. Your gaze was unwavering, filled with an intense love that made his chest ache. “Never. You hear me? Never. This is who you are, the good and the not-so-good. And if you have a bad day, I am going to be here for you. Always.”

He felt tears prickling his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had you now, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t deserve your unwavering support, your unconditional love, and yet, here you were.

He grabbed your face with both hands, his fingers threading into your hair. He finally did the one thing he had wanted to do from the moment he saw you. He kissed you.

It wasn’t a frantic, desperate kiss. Instead, it was a kiss filled with gratitude, with relief, and with a love so profound that it was a grounding force against the turbulence of his life. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the chaos, he was loved, and he was not alone.

His kiss, so full of emotion, shocked you. Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. You kissed him back, the soft pressure of your lips a balm to his weary soul.

You knew that he had been hurting, that he had been doubting himself, and you just wanted to show him that you were there, always.

That you loved him, with all his faults, and all his glories.

"Can I have one more hug?" Lando muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours for any sign of disapproval.

"Aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..." you said, your voice as soft as a feather. You opened your arms, and he moved towards you, his body almost trembling.

He buried his face in your neck, breathing in your familiar scent that grounded him again. He was already barely holding it together as he's getting his face held but then he feels that reassuring rub on his back and he just couldn’t.

The tears he had been fighting finally broke through, hot and heavy against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he muttered against your neck, his voice thick with emotion, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.

“It’s okay, baby, just let it all out. I’ve got you, I promise.” you said, your hand gently rubbing circles on his back in a comforting manner.

He hesitantly placed his hands on your waist and when he didn't get a complaint, he wrapped his whole hand around you, his grip tightening as he sought the warmth of your body against his.

He stood there for what felt like a lifetime, his tears soaking into your shirt, but you didn't move, didn't complain.

Instead, your arms tightened around him, holding him close, letting him know that you would always be there for him.

When he had finally cried himself out, the torrent of emotion slowly ebbing, he pulled back slightly, his eyes red and puffy, but a glimmer of peace had returned to them. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the last of the tears.

"Better?" you asked softly, your voice full of concern. He nodded, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Thank you” he said, his voice raspy, "For being here, for… for everything.”

"Of course, Lando, I'll always be here," you responded, your voice filled with love. "You don't have to thank me for loving you, it’s like breathing for me."

He looked at you, a love so profound filled his eyes, “I know. I just… I don’t know what I did to deserve you”.

You smiled, pulling him close again, “You just have to be you, that’s all I’ll ever need.” You kissed him again, a soft, tender kiss that spoke of love and promise, “Do you want to go to sleep?” you asked when you broke apart.

He nodded, his eyes closing briefly as he inhaled the faint scent of your perfume. “Can I… can I hold your hand?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper, like a child seeking reassurance after a nightmare.

You smiled at him, your heart aching with a tenderness that always surprised you. "Of course."

You grabbed his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, feeling the immediate comfort of his hand enveloping yours. It was a perfect fit, two halves finally finding their place.

He shifted again, discarding his hoodie with a tired sigh, revealing the soft, slightly sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. It was a move so familiar, so intimately Lando.

Your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the silky strands between your fingers. He snuggled into you, his head resting on your chest, and you obliged, your fingers gently threading through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.

You felt the tension begin to ease, his body becoming less rigid, and his breathing softening.

The silence that settled over the room was comfortable, a shared space where words weren’t necessary. You continued to run your fingers through his hair, the motion a silent lullaby. You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face relaxed in slumber, and your heart ached with a love so profound it threatened to spill over.

You noticed the faint tremble in his fingers now that they were no longer intertwined with yours and gently covered them with your hand.

Then, almost so quiet you thought you might have imagined it, he spoke. “You know, all those flings… they were all to distract me from the fact I couldn’t have you,” he admitted silently, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart fluttered, a thousand butterflies suddenly taking flight within your chest. You paused, your fingers still tangled in his hair, your hand still cradling his. You looked down at him, his eyes still closed, his face relaxed.

Did he mean that? You wondered, your mind racing.

You found that you couldn't contain yourself. You looked down at his face, so peaceful in his sleep, and you whispered, "Lando?"

“Mmmh?” He murmured, barely opening his eyes.

"Did you mean that?"

He opened his eyes fully and looked up at you, "Mean what?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

Your heart was thumping in your chest so hard you thought he might hear it, "What you... what you said about the flings," you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He stared at you for a moment, a slow realization creeping into his eyes. He looked almost embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a pale pink.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing gently, before speaking. "Yeah," he said quietly, his gaze returning to your face. "I did. They… they never meant anything. They were just… distractions."

He closed his eyes again, his breath catching slightly. "I was a mess," he continued, his voice softer now. "I knew how I felt about you, always. But I didn’t think… I didn't think you would ever want me back. I thought I had ruined it, ruined us."

You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “You never ruined us, Lando,” you reassured him, your voice gentle, your heart overflowing with love and relief. “You could never ruin us.”

Years. Years of pining and longing, of a love that was so powerful it had been a constant ache within you. To hear him finally admit it, to know he felt the same way, it was almost too much to bear.

You had always loved him, ever since you were kids. You had always been there for him.

He opened his eyes again, and in their depths was a vulnerability that took your breath away. “Really?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Even now? Even after everything?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with love. “Always, Lando. Always,” you whispered, leaning down and placing another soft kiss on his forehead.

You continued running your fingers through his hair, and he snuggled deeper into your chest, his hand finding yours again, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours.

The storm outside had finally passed, and the first slivers of dawn were beginning to paint the sky a pale, delicate pink. You sat there in the quiet room, surrounded by the soft glow of the city lights, and took in the moment, savouring the silence, the comfort, the quiet understanding that existed between you. It was you, and it was him, finally together. Finally home.

You continued to massage his scalp, the gentle, repetitive motions lulling him deeper into sleep. You watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, feeling a sense of peace that you had not felt in a long time.

You knew that there would be challenges ahead, you knew there would be more storms to weather, but for now, all that mattered was that you were here, together, under the soft city lights, your hands entwined, your hearts finally at peace.

You closed your eyes, a soft smile gracing your lips. This is all I could ever want. To be his first choice. you thought, falling asleep by his side. . . .