#scoups f1 au

[junrenjun]

but even after this, you're still everything to me

choi seungcheol x reader, formula 1 au

genre: heavy angst

wc: 5.5k

warnings: fem reader, enemies to lovers, misogyny, death threats

a/n: another request by @straykidsstanforeverandever. lot's of heavy f1 jargon and such in this. if you aren't super in tune with f1, there may some references you don't understand. read with caution. title is a lyric from the grudge by olivia rodrigo.

Imola has always been one of your least favorite tracks to drive. And after today, you never want to come near it again. Maybe you’ll fake an illness when the time comes around next season. It would be nice to let the development drivers get some real racing time and you wouldn’t have to drive this cursed track again. 

A voice in your ears distracts you from the little pity party you’ve started in your brain. “Are you okay y/n?” 

Your race engineer’s question reminds you that your radio is being publicized on live television right this moment. Sighing, you quickly respond, “yeah Will, I’m fine. Today’s just not my day.”

The answer is half-hearted, but the man knows better than to question you right now, when you’re being recorded. He settles with, “okay, red flags are out for you. You can hop out of the car when you’re ready.”

You don’t think you’ll ever be ready. But life is tough and Formula 1 is tougher, so you undo your belts and pull yourself out of the car. You take a minute to inspect your blown out tire, before taking your helmet off. Marshals surround you, asking if you are alright, but you brush them off. You just want to be back in your driver’s room already. 

The journey back to the paddock is a painful one, both mentally and physically. Your knee is throbbing from where it hit against the side of the car on impact. You pray the cameras don’t pick up your limp. It takes all of your energy not to cry when you see the pitying expressions of the rest of the McLaren crew. Another potential win out the window, just like that. 

The rest of the race passes by in a flash. Between going to medical as per your trainer’s request (the cameras did in fact pick up the limp) and changing out of your race suit, you only catch the last three laps. One of the Mercedes cars wins by practically a mile. And it’s fucking Choi Seungcheol of all people. 

You have half a thought to turn the TV in your driver’s room off the second he crosses the finish line, but you don’t. You’re itching to hear whatever dumb thing he says in his interview today. The man is a walking PR nightmare. 

Sure enough, the camera is chasing after him the second he steps out of the car. After a few second water break, he turns to the interviewer, who asks him, “Great win today Seungcheol. You worked your way up from 5th to 1st within a few laps today. How does that feel?”

“It feels great. I mean I couldn’t have done it without y/n’s tire of course…”

You turn the TV off, cutting him off the second he mentions your name. Slumping back even more on the couch, you throw an arm over your eyes and let out a frustrated sigh. Whatever possessed you to choose a male dominated sport?

You’re thrown out of your thoughts once again by a voice from your doorway. “At least it was kind of a compliment, eh?”

When you peek out from under your arm, Oscar is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. You remove your arm from your face, scooting farther down the couch and patting the spot next to you. The Aussie moves to join you. 

After a few moments of silence you turn to face him. “You made it back to the paddock pretty fast.”

It’s his turn to groan this time. “I retired 7 laps from the end. Engine failure. I was in 3rd.”

You hum, wistfully. Then turn to look out the window. “Bad day to be Papaya, I guess. Think we can convince Jungwon and Pato to take our places at Imola next season? I think I have PTSD from this track now.”

Oscar simply snorts in response. For the small amount of time remaining before you have to face the nightmare that is media duty, you simply enjoy sulking together. 

A little less than a week later, you’re standing on one of your all-time favorite tracks: Monaco. Your mood now is starkly different than it was at Imola. You’re practically bouncing on your heels waiting for FP1 preparations. Jungwon is by your side, instructed by your team principal to “learn from the best,” since he’ll be driving here for F2. 

The kid is clearly a little nervous, but he’s endearing and a pretty decent driver, so you don’t mind. You’ve already gone over the track layout with him, giving him tips for certain corners and telling him where he can make up extra time. There’s not much feedback left to give until you see him drive in person, so you resort to small talk.

As you both walk up and down the pit lane, Seungcheol saunters up to you. You resist the urge to walk away, trying to keep a good display of sportsmanship in front of your junior driver. The Mercedes driver however, clearly does not care, because he says, “is this your replacement after the Imola incident y/n?”

Jungwon, bless his soul, looks mortified. It takes everything in you to not fire a sarcastic remark back. You’re both saved from the awkwardness by Oscar though, who steps in between you and Seungcheol. He clears his throat and tells you, “Andrea is looking for you. I’ll take Jungwon for now.”

You know Andrea is most likely not looking for you. You saw him ten minutes ago when you left the garage. Thank god for Oscar’s ability for thinking on the spot. Now you have some personal time to cool off before free practice.

Both Jungwon and Oscar watch as you jog back to the garage. The Aussie lets out a relieved sigh once you are back safely. He turns to make sure Seungcheol has walked away. Thankfully, he has. 

The younger driver looks at the other quizzically. “I didn’t really realize the rivalry was actually real. I thought it was an act for the cameras.”

Pushing around a stray rock with the toe of his shoe, Oscar sighs again. “Would you believe me if I said they were teammates once?”

Jungwon’s jaw practically unhinges from his face with how far it drops. The kid is probably too young to know them in any capacity other than their rivalry. “But they hate each other…” he muses aloud.

Oscar urges the kid to keep moving along the track with a hand on his back. “Yeah, well they used to not hate each other. They were F2 teammates. It’s none of my business to tell you everything that went down but something happened that year. By the end of the championship they wouldn’t even speak to each other.” 

Jungwon nods in response, but doesn’t say anything. It’s clear that Oscar won’t give up much information, so he drops the subject. But every once in a while, his mind turns back to it. What could’ve been so bad that you guys couldn’t even talk to each other as teammates? If it was some sort of on-track collision he’s sure it would’ve been talked about in the media constantly. Now he’s really going to have to find out. 

And there’s no one better to consult than his own teammate, Lee Chan, who happens to be in the Mercedes Junior Driver Programme.

“You want me to do what?” he asks incredulously. “He’s my mentor, I’m not going to bring that up. Are you dumb?”

“Dude, aren't you curious too?” Jungwon questions.

Chan rolls his eyes at his teammate. “Yeah I’m curious but not curious enough to risk my spot in this program just to ask Choi Seungcheol why he has rivalry with y/n.” 

“You don’t even have to ask him directly,” Jungwon tells him. “I asked Oscar about it, not y/n. Maybe you can ask George or Jeonghan about it.”

Chan throws his hands up in exasperation. “Oh even better, not only do I involve two of the biggest names in Formula 1, I involve one of their trainers and their teammates. What a genius idea!”

Jungwon covers Chan’s mouth as quickly as he can. They’re still in the paddock after all. “Dude keep it down.” 

The man just stares back at the McLaren junior driver, who sighs and says, “listen, I’ll try my best to get something out of y/n too. It’s not just you doing something.”

“Yeah that’s so motivating Jungwon,” Chan says sarcastically.

“Okay, okay,” he finally lets up. “I’ll pay for all of your afterparty drinks this weekend if you figure something out.”

This is motivating enough for Chan apparently, because he reaches his hand out for Jungwon to shake. They come to an agreement and part ways, heading back to their respective hospitalities.

Chan watches in the Mercedes garage as you set the fastest lap at the very end of Q3. He knows Seungcheol is going to be pissed when he gets back. Not only did you qualify P1, but he only qualified P6. His temper is much worse when he’s mad at both himself and someone else. 

Following Chan’s prediction to a tee, Seungcheol steps out the car practically fuming. He tosses his helmet at Jeonghan, who, as his trainer, is quite used to his behavior at this point and catches it. He marches right up to Toto, who is watching a replay of your final lap, and says, “she should’ve had a track limit violation at the chicane.”

Toto turns to him, surprisingly calm, and simply tells him, “She didn’t cut the corner enough to incur a limit violation.”

This is not the answer he wanted to hear, so he turns on his heel to stomp off to his driver’s room. Toto shouts at him from over his shoulder. “Take Chan with you. If you’re going to overanalyze every single mistake you made, at least someone should learn from it.”

Seungcheol whips his head back around to look at Chan, who nervously gulps. He wants to be mad at the kid, but he can’t find a reason to when he’s practically shaking like a leaf. Clearly he didn’t want to be thrown into this situation either. “C’mon,” he mutters and gestures at the junior driver to follow him. 

Back in his driver’s room, he unzips his suit, tying the arms around his waist before plopping down on the couch. When he looks up, the kid is still hovering by the door. Grabbing his iPad from the table, Seungcheol gestures for him to come sit down.

But Chan hesitates. “I can leave you alone, you know? I won’t tell Toto.” 

Seungcheol just rolls his eyes and gestures to the couch again. “C’mon kid. As much as I hate him right now, he’s right. You might as well learn from this and you’re already here.”

Chan makes his way to the couch rather cautiously and sits as far away as possible from the man, who is scrolling through the footage from qualifying. Without even looking over at him, Seungcheol says, “you can sit closer. I’m not going to bite.”

Not wanting to make him mad, Chan scoots a few inches closer. When he looks over at the iPad again, Seungcheol’s fingers are hovering over a video. He hasn’t clicked on it yet. He just sits there and stares at it. When Chan looks a little closer, he can make out your car in the thumbnail. 

Seungcheol clears his throat, looking away for a second. And then he turns back to Chan and says, “is it…uh okay if we watch y/n’s lap first?”

The question kind of stuns him. He was expecting Seungcheol to avoid any reminder of you at all costs. Scared that his voice will betray him, he just nods.

Seungcheol clicks on the video and they watch. The video is on mute and there’s no commentary from either of them. Just silence. As the lap ends, he pauses the video and whispers, “that was a good lap.”

Chan is even more surprised now. He was expecting a frustrated sigh or any sort of mean comment. But he doesn’t get any of that. Now, Chan’s scared that it’s a setup. That he’s trying to get him to agree just to berate him for it. He doesn’t know what to say.

Seungcheol senses that he’s not going to say anything and takes it upon himself to start the conversation. “She’s always been good at Monaco. Even since the first time she drove the track.”

This has really piqued Chan’s interest. Since her first time? Seungcheol was there the first time she drove Monaco? That had to be what? F2?

And then it dawns on him. Jungwon said something about them being teammates in F2. Hoping that the information is public knowledge (it should be, practically their whole racing lives are on Wikipedia) Chan decides to ask about it. “Was that when you were teammates?” He cringes the second the words come out of his mouth. Jungwon owes him big time.

While Chan was expecting him to look angry, Seungcheol just looks at the iPad dejectedly. “Yeah. At Prema. Do you…know about that whole thing?” he asks the boy.

Jackpot. Seungcheol willingly talking about it? He’d never thought this would happen. Then Chan remembers he actually has to respond to him. “Uhm, no I don’t think so. Jungwon said you guys were more…amicable back then.”

“Jungwon’s your teammate at MP?” he asks Chan, who nods in response. Then, Seunghcheol throws a curveball at him. “You’re not attracted to him right?”

Chan sputters at the question. “What? What does this have to do with anything?” When he looks Seungcheol in the eyes he’s dead serious. So he humors him. “No, I’m not attracted to Jungwon. I’m not even gay.”

Seungcheol just nods. “Okay, good. I mean good that you’re not attracted to him. There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”

This is getting weirder by the second. Chan gives him a questioning look. Why the personal questions?

Exasperatedly, Seungcheol sighs and says, “I don’t want to tell you this if it’s too relatable. I don’t want to scare you and make you not pursue a relationship because of something that happened to me.”

Chan is finally starting to put the pieces together. Then the light bulb goes off and he shoots out of his seat. “You and y/n were together?” he practically shouts.

The older driver drags him back down to his seat and shoves a hand over his mouth. “Be quiet, would you?” Then he releases Chan and slumps back against the couch. “I wouldn’t call it together. We weren’t dating, we knew that F1 would ultimately cause heartbreak for the both of us. We were just messing around. But we were exclusive, I guess.”

Chan doesn’t say anything. He just nods and waits for him to continue. “It was stupid and we both knew it. Especially y/n. She knew that if we got caught, it would affect her career more than mine. Even if we both knew that she was a better driver than I was. This sport isn’t kind to women.”

Seungcheol looks like he might cry. It’s so different from the Seungcheol that Chan witnessed 15 minutes ago in the garage. He doesn’t know what to do. He frowns and lets the man finish his story. 

“Y/n was a part of the Red Bull Junior Team at the time. She had been promised an F1 seat within 3 years if she won the championship. I was in the Mercedes Academy at the time too. So we attended a lot of F1 events together. And I was stupid enough to drag her to makeout in a hidden corner of the paddock at one of them.”

He paused, like the next part of the story would pain him to say. “A member of the press caught us. We both knew we were so screwed. He could easily out us right that second or even use it to blackmail us. Luckily Angelo from Prema was there with us that weekend and helped us negotiate with the man. Turns out this press guy is a big fucking misogynist because the final deal was that he wouldn’t out us if he could tell Christian Horner about our relationship. Said he ‘didn’t want no bitches in Formula 1.’ Prick.”

“Christian kicked her out of the junior program when he found out. He’s also a misogynist. I’m glad she didn’t end up there. He told her that he prefers people who win championships through dedication, not those who sleep to the top. But instead of being mad at him or the press guy, she was mad at me. She told me that I ruined her career. That she would never get into Formula 1 because of me. So she never spoke to me again unless it was at work.”

Chan looks at him skeptically. “But her career turned out fine.”

Seungcheol just shrugs. “Exactly.”

Chan is even more confused now. Understandably, you were upset by this whole situation. But why is Seungcheol a dick to you now? “But the whole rivalry? You seem to have started the hostility in that. Not her.”

The man sighs. “Her career turned out fine, Chan. But she continued to be mad at me.”

It’s starting to click in his brain. “So you’re mad at her because she never forgave you?” Chan asks. 

All Seungcheol says is, “bingo.”

They’re interrupted by Jeonghan knocking on the door and letting the F1 driver know that he’s due in a few minutes for media duties. Seungcheol leaves Chan on his couch without another word. 

“You’re buying my drinks in Barcelona too,” Chan tells Jungwon the second he opens his hotel room door.

Jungwon gapes at him. “What? We only agreed to the afterparty,” he says as the boys walk further into the room, away from prying eyes and ears. 

“Yeah well that was if I got you any information. I got you the whole fucking story, dude.” Jungwon’s eyes are as wide as saucers and he immediately starts asking about it. Chan recounts Seungcheol’s monologue to the best of his abilities. 

“Holy shit, dude,” Jungwon says once he’s finished, flopping down on his bed. “It’s like the opposite of enemies to lovers.”

Chan rolls his eyes at his teammate. “It’s sad, Jungwon. Y/n lost her future job and Seungcheol at the same time. And now they can’t even be civil with each other because they’re holding grudges.”

Jungwon mulls over his words for a minute. “Maybe I’ll ask y/n about it when she’s drunk tomorrow.”

“How do you even know she’s going to be drunk tomorrow, Won?” Chan asks his teammate.

He turns to flash a cheshire grin at Chan before plainly stating, “she’s either going to podium and drink to celebrate, or she’s going to do bad and drink to mourn.”

Chan rolls his eyes once again. “Speaking of which, I’m going to bed. No matter how well I do tomorrow, you’re paying for my drinks.” He drags himself out of Jungwon’s room and down the hall to his own.

You and Oscar are sitting at a table in the far back of the club, away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the afterparty. Mingyu from Ferrari, his trainer Jungkook, Mark from Red Bull, and Chenle from Aston Martin are also gathered around. You’re enjoying the light conversation, basking in the high of your win.

Mark catches your attention after a minute of you spacing out, pointing toward the closest bar. “Isn’t that your little shadow, y/n?” When you look over you see Jungwon conversing with a blonde kid around his age. 

“Yeah,” you muse. “Kind of recognize the kid he’s talking to too. Can’t put a finger on his name though.” 

“That’s his teammate from F2. Lee Chan I think,” Oscar pipes up from across the table. “The kid with the otter helmet.”

A collective “ohhh,” leaves everyone at the table. “I’m going to get another drink,” you tell them. “Might bring the kids back with me.”

Mingyu snickers at you as you leave. “You can’t adopt them all, y/n!” he shouts as you leave. You flip him off behind your back. 

Approaching the bar, you order another drink for yourself and saunter over to where Jungwon is standing. “Hi Wonie,” you say, catching him by surprise as you ruffle his hair a bit. You turn to acknowledge his teammate too. “Hi Chan.”

Chan points back at himself like he’s surprised you know his name. “Is your name not Chan? Oh fuck I’m too drunk for this.” you berate yourself out loud. 

“Uh no ma’am, my name is Chan. Just surprised you know me, that’s all.” he says. 

You giggle a little bit. “Don’t call me ma’am, it makes me feel old. You’re the kid with the otter helmet, right?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, before correcting himself. “No, I mean, yes. Yes, I’m the kid with the otter helmet.” You can hear Jungwon cackling at his friend behind you. 

You smile at him again before turning back to Jungwon. “Well I’m heading back to sit with those four dumbasses,” you say, pointing back to your table where Jungkook and Mingyu are arguing over something on Mark’s phone. “You two wanna keep me company so I don’t have to deal with them by myself the entire night?”

Jungwon lights up at the question. “Of course!” he practically shouts, and drags a begrudging Chan by the arm to follow you.

When you reach the table, you pat the empty seat next to you, gesturing for Jungwon to sit. Chan grabs the chair next to Mingyu, who messes with his hair and murmurs something about, “the otter kid.”

Jungwon seizes his opportunity ten minutes later, when Mingyu and Oscar are engrossed in a conversation with Chan, Jungkook has gone to the bathroom, and Mark and Chenle are on a video call with Mark’s boyfriend.

“I’m surprised you’re okay with Chan being here,” he says to you as quietly as possible, while still trying to be louder than the music. 

Your eyebrows scrunch at the comment, clearly confused. “Why?” you ask him.

You follow his eyes as they search around the crowd. They land on Seungcheol. Still facing your rival, he says, “Chan is a Merc Junior. Seungcheol is his mentor.”

Letting your eyes wander back to Jungwon, you steel your face into something more serious. “Jungwon, just because Chan is being mentored by a driver I hate doesn’t change my opinion of him.”

“You really hate him?” Jungwon asks. “I understand you guys don’t like each other for whatever reason, but hate is a strong word, right?”

You sigh at him. “Hate is in fact a strong word Jungwon,” is all you say and you leave it at that.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, he decides to push his luck again. “...Chan said you guys used to be really close. When you were in F2 like us.” 

“Yeah,” is all you say in response. The conversation is just barely hanging on by a thread.

“I don’t want me and Chan to end up like that.” It’s kind of a low blow, he thinks, especially when you’re a little drunk, but it works. You turn to him with sad eyes and reach out to rub his hand comfortingly. 

You whisper so lowly, Jungwon can barely hear it. “You won’t end up like us, Wonie. I promise.”

The near tears in your eyes have him getting emotional too. All signs are showing that Seungcheol’s story is likely true. One last test to find out. “Why not?” he asks.

The tears are getting closer to spilling over and you turn your head to blink them away. While you’re still facing away, you mumble, “your relationship isn’t like ours. At least I hope it’s not.”

Hook. Line. Sinker. Jungwon’s got it now. Seungcheol was definitely telling the truth. He feels a little guilty about prying it out of you like that, but you seem to have sobered up with the conversation. Oscar’s voice breaks both of you out of your little bubble. “Y/n, everyone is going to head back to the hotel soon. You ready?”

You nod vigorously at the man, probably to hide the fact that there are tears in your eyes. You hop off your chair, grabbing your bag and your phone. Then, you lean down to ruffle Jungwon’s hair a bit. “Goodnight Wonie. You and Chan be safe tonight please.”

After bidding everyone else goodbye in the lobby, you and Oscar take the elevator up to your floors. Oscar’s room is one floor beneath yours, so he says goodnight with a comforting hug and a congratulations on the win. As you ride the elevator up once more, you think back to your conversation with Jungwon. Next time you see Seungcheol, you need to tell him to keep his mouth shut.

The elevator doors open and you turn to head to your room. You see a familiar flash of blonde hair round the corner. What convenient timing. You pick up your pace and grab his sleeve, and he whips around with a deadly look in his eyes. It only slightly softens when he realizes it’s you. You shoot him an equally deadly look back. “You want to tell me why my mentee was asking me questions about our relationship?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” is all he says. You roll your eyes.

“Don’t play stupid Cheol. You know Jungwon and Chan are teammates. What did you tell Chan?” As much as he wants to hate you right now, his heart can’t help but skip a beat when you call him Cheol. It’s been so long since you’ve called him that. 

“I didn’t tell Chan anything. Why would I tell him about anything other than racing?” he counters back.

It’s not believable enough for you, so you push. “Jungwon said something about Chan knowing we were close in F2.” 

Seungcheol, tired and wanting to just go to bed, tries to pull his sleeve out of your grip, but you relent. “You can look that up on the Internet y/n. Would you please let me go to bed?”

“No Seungcheol. This concerns both of us. He was asking all the right questions. If you told Chan about us, there’s no guarantee he keeps it to himself. He clearly already told Jungwon.”

He finally frees his sleeve from your grasp. “Can we at least take this somewhere private?” he whispers. You nod and he pulls you down the hall. He’s taking you to his room, you realize and the thought makes you sick.

Once safely inside of his room, he turns back to you with a fire in his eyes. “You wouldn’t have to worry about any of this if you forgave me.” It’s not the words you were expecting to hear, but they also don’t surprise you. 

You try your best to compose yourself. “You ruined my career Seungcheol. Of course I never forgave you.”

He throws his hands up in exasperation. “I clearly did not ruin your career. Look at yourself right now. You’re getting paid more than me. You’re way ahead of me in the championship. Your career is perfectly fine.” This comment starts what is basically a slightly hushed screaming match. 

“I had to fight my way in and got lucky with McLaren. I had a guaranteed seat at RB and you know that.” 

“You know it’s for the best that you didn’t end up there.” 

“That doesn’t make it okay!”

“What was I supposed to do, y/n. I couldn’t have stopped that press guy, I couldn’t have stopped Christian from releasing you, I couldn’t have controlled any of this. But you were the one that stopped talking to me. Just because we cut things off doesn’t mean I had to deal with radio silence for the next year.”

You pause, thinking over what you’re about to tell him. “I had to.”

He crosses his arms and he straightens his posture. “Bullshit.”

“I had to because of the press guy,” you tell him, urgently. 

“We took care of him, y/n,” he deadpans at you. He’s getting uncomfortable with the conversation now. He can’t sit still. 

Tears well in your eyes at the thought of releasing your biggest secret to the man you once loved. “He’s your fucking superfan Seungcheol. He’s been following you since your karting days, like a creep. That’s why he found us in the paddock that day. He was following you. And when he saw us together he took it as an opportunity. He saw me as a threat to your career. He didn’t just get rid of my Red Bull seat. He threatened me for months after through phone calls and emails, saying that if he ever saw me talking to you, he would end my career for good this time.” 

The tears in your eyes have finally spilled. Seungcheol’s heart breaks, both at your words and at the sight of you crying. After a minute of gaping at the revelation, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you. He rests his chin on top of your head as he lets you sob into his chest. 

“He,” you stutter, “he told me that if I didn’t let you win the F2 championship, he would kill me. That’s why I crashed at Baku and didn’t podium the rest of the year.” You rest your head back against his chest and sob again, harder this time.

Seungcheol reaches up to slowly stroke the back of your head, trying to calm you down. “I’m sorry, y/n. I’m so, so sorry.”

He already knew everything was his fault, but this makes it so much worse. People were threatening to kill you because of him? Suddenly, it dawns on him. How much of an absolute dickhead he’s been. For years he’s been pretending to hate you, throwing mean comments at you, picking fights with you, all while you were trying to protect yourself. “Why did you play along?” he asks.

You don’t look up. Instead, you just let out a questioning hum into his chest.

“The rivalry,” he says. “Why did you play along with it if you didn’t really hate me?”

“It’s good for publicity” you joke. There’s the y/n he knows and loves. Loves. He hasn’t thought about you like that in a long time. Now that he knows the truth, he wants you back in his life so bad. But he knows he doesn’t deserve it. 

“Is the guy still threatening you? Is that why you played along?”

You shake your head. “No. I was trying to negotiate for a bodyguard in my McLaren rookie contract and Andrea asked why. I didn’t want to tell him, but I had to. It would’ve gotten out eventually I think, had Andrea not had him arrested.”

“But why y/n? I’m still trying to understand why you didn’t tell me this. Why did you make it seem like you hated me too?”

You finally look up at him again, brave enough to make eye contact once more. “I thought it was too late to tell you. I had already lied to you, ignored you. That’s not the best way to come back into someone’s life.”

“It was for your own safety. I would’ve understood that,” he tells you softly. Your eyes are bloodshot and the area underneath them is puffy. His heart aches. This is all because of him. 

You shake your head again. “I didn’t think like that at the time. And you had already brought the rivalry into the media. Of course I would be mad at you when you were talking shit about me to the press.”

It’s not a guilt trip on purpose, but it still hits him where it hurts. “Ok, y/n. I get it. I’m a dick.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to say,” you mumble, helplessly.

Silence overtakes you both. Despite the circumstances, it’s not an uncomfortable one. Just two people mulling over their thoughts. Eventually, he breaks it with a whisper of “I miss you.” 

You whisper back an “I miss you too.” It’s real and genuine. You don’t say it because you feel like you have to. You say it because you want to. You hope he can pick up on that. 

He does. His forehead comes to rest against yours as his hand strokes your cheek. His eyes flick to your lips and you hold your breath. As his lips find yours, you feel years of tension release. A stray tear runs down your face and he brushes it away with his thumb. He pulls away.

“Do you,” he breathes out, “do you want to try again?” All you can do is nod in response. 

[kflixnet]

New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

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

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

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

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k (out on 20th april)

glossary taglist

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

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t your team anymore.

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

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

He isn’t the future anymore.

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

And then there’s Jaehyun.

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

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

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

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

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

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

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

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

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

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

“Box, box.”

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

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

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

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

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

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

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

He can’t listen.

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

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

The gap isn’t closing.

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

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

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

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

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

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

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

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

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

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

It’s worse than before.

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

Fucking Monaco.

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

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

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

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

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

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

P3 is all he has left.

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

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

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

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

Haechan stands in the center.

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

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

And that’s when it sinks in.

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

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

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

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

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

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

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

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

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

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

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

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

HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so he thinks.

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

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

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

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

But he knows better.

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

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

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

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

“You look well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

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

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

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol stills.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

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

But he isn’t.

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

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

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

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

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

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

It’s been happening all season.

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

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

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

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

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

Mingyu.

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

Mingyu probably saw this.

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

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

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

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

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

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

Outside, Monza is alive.

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

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

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

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

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

At Ferrari’s home race.

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

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

But they’re waiting.

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

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

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

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

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

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

Right. Of course they are.

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

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

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

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

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

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

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

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

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

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

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

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

Purple again.

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

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

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

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

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

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

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

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

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

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

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

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

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

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

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

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

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

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

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

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

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

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

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

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

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

And Jaehyun.

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

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

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

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

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

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

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

There it is.

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

He’s done playing smart.

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

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

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

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

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

Too late.

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

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks.

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

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

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

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

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, movement.

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

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

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

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

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

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

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

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

This shouldn’t have happened.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

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

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

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

Then his phone vibrates.

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

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

It’s you.

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

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

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

The call connects.

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

“Yeah?”

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

“Hey,” you say quietly.

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

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

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

They don’t know yet.

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

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

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

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

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

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

Then, finally—

“What?”

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

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

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

“I know.”

A pause.

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

“I’ve made up my mind.”

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

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

“This isn’t just about this season.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

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

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

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

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

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

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

The weight of that truth settles between them.

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

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

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

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

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

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

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

He’s tired.

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

“I already have.”

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

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

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

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

“You’re really sure about this?”

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

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

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

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

Your history too.

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

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

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

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

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

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

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

It doesn’t make it any easier.

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

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

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

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

But not this year. Not anymore.

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

They all knew this was coming.

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

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

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

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

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

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

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

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

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

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

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

You stop reading after that sentence.

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

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

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

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

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

You understand.

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

The thought makes your stomach twist.

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

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

She’s right. You know she’s right.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol nods.

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

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

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

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

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

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

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

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

“In 2018.” 

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

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

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

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

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol looks at him.

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

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

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

And now, he’s stepping away.

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

Seungcheol looks up, surprised. 

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

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

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

“Good to know.”

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

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

“Home.”

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

[junrenjun]

but even after this, you're still everything to me / TEASER

choi seungcheol x reader, formula 1 au

genre: heavy angst

wc: tbd (5k+)

warnings: fem reader, enemies to lovers

a/n: another request by @straykidsstanforeverandever. lot's of heavy f1 jargon and such in this. if you aren't super in tune with f1, there may some references you don't understand. read with caution. title is a lyric from the grudge by olivia rodrigo. comment or send an ask to be tagged when it comes out.

“I’m surprised you’re okay with Chan being here,” he says to you as quietly as possible, while still trying to be louder than the music. 

Your eyebrows scrunch at the comment, clearly confused. “Why?” you ask him.

You follow his eyes as they search around the crowd. They land on Seungcheol. Still facing your rival, he says, “Chan is a Merc Junior. Seungcheol is his mentor.”

Letting your eyes wander back to Jungwon, you steel your face into something more serious. “Jungwon, just because Chan is being mentored by a driver I hate doesn’t change my opinion of him.”

“You really hate him?” Jungwon asks. “I understand you guys don’t like each other for whatever reason, but hate is a strong word, right?”

You sigh at him. “Hate is in fact a strong word Jungwon,” is all you say and you leave it at that.

After a minute of uncomfortable silence, he decides to push his luck again. “...Chan said you guys used to be really close. When you were in F2 like us.” 

“Yeah,” is all you say in response. The conversation is just barely hanging on by a thread.

“I don’t want me and Chan to end up like that.” It’s kind of a low blow, he thinks, especially when you’re a little drunk, but it works. You turn to him with sad eyes and reach out to rub his hand comfortingly. 

You whisper so lowly, Jungwon can barely hear it. “You won’t end up like us, Wonie. I promise.”

The near tears in your eyes have him getting emotional too. All signs are showing that Seungcheol’s story is likely true. One last test to find out. “Why not?” he asks.

The tears are getting closer to spilling over and you turn your head to blink them away. While you’re still facing away, you mumble, “your relationship isn’t like ours. At least I hope it’s not.”

[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID PT.1

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

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

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

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

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

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

MONACO, CIRCUIT DE MONACO

Saturday, Post qualifying May 24th

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

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

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

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

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

This isn’t your team anymore.

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

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

He isn’t the future anymore.

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

And then there’s Jaehyun.

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

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

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

It wasn’t always like this.

And it shouldn’t be like this now.

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

No.

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

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

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

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

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

But for some reason, he doesn’t move.

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

But it isn’t. Not to Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

—

Sunday, Race Day May 25th

“We need to push now, Seungcheol.”

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

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

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

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

“Box, box.”

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

It’s slow.

Too fucking slow.

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

His hands grip the wheel so tight his knuckles burn.

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

Jaehyun and Haechan.

Of course.

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

He can’t listen.

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

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

The gap isn’t closing.

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol is stuck.

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Two seconds."

Two seconds might as well be twenty.

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

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

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

"Seungcheol, we need to manage the tires."

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

They want him to manage.

They want him to hold the position.

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

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

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

It’s worse than before.

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

Fucking Monaco.

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

"Gap to Jaehyun?"

"Four seconds."

Four seconds. Before the stop, it was two.

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

And now, he has another problem.

The Red Bull in his mirrors.

Jeno.

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

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

P3 is all he has left.

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

—

The champagne is cold when it hits his suit.

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

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

Haechan stands in the center.

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

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

And that’s when it sinks in.

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

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

A podium at Monaco is supposed to mean everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the question he’s dreaded is asked.

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

He expects it, but the words still land heavy.

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

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

It’s the right answer. The expected one.

"And Haechan?"

Seungcheol nods one, shoulders tight and strung up.

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

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

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

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

HOME

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so he thinks.

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

His name.

Right next to yours.

For a moment, all he can do is stare.

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

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

But he knows better.

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

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

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

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

“You look well.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His brows furrow slightly. “For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jihoon scoffs. “More like infamous.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungkwan waves him off. “Details.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Thursday, Media Day September 4th

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens.

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

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

“We’re still analyzing the data.”

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol stills.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales slowly, running his tongue over his teeth.

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

But he isn’t.

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

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

And suddenly, it all makes sense.

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

That Ferrari isn’t betting on him anymore.

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

It’s been happening all season.

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

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

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

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

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

Jaehyun doesn’t have to ask twice.

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

And Seungcheol is tired of feeling like he does.

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

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

Mingyu.

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

Mingyu probably saw this.

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

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

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

And now, here he is.

The same team. The same treatment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Saturday, Qualifying

September 6th

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

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

Outside, Monza is alive.

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

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

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

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

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

At Ferrari’s home race.

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

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

But they’re waiting.

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

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

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

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

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

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

Right. Of course they are.

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

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

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

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

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

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

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

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

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

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

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

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

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

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

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

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

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

Purple again.

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

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

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

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

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

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

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

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

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

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

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

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

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

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

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

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

He needs that win.

—

Sunday, Race Day

September 7th

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

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

He hears Jaehyun before he sees him.

“You always drink coffee before a race?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seungcheol gives him a look.

Jaehyun exhales. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

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

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

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

Seungcheol hums. “Guess so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A clean race.

Sure.

That depends on who refuses to back down first.

—

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

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

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

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

You snort. "That’s optimistic."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

And Jaehyun.

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

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

It doesn’t matter.

At least, that’s what he tells himself.

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

“Jaehyun is the car behind.”

Not quite an order. Not yet.

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

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

There it is.

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

He’s done playing smart.

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

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

Jaehyun dives. Seungcheol defends.

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

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

Too late.

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

For a heartbeat, there is only silence.

And then, impact.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks.

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

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

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

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

“I’m here,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, finally, movement.

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

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

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

He turns and walks away without looking back.

—

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

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

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

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

This shouldn’t have happened.

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

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

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

Seungcheol exhales, a bitter scoff slipping past his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His thoughts are interrupted by rapid knocks on his door.

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

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

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

Then his phone vibrates.

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

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

It’s you.

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

His finger hovers over the screen.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out.

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

The call connects.

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

“Yeah?”

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

“Hey,” you say quietly.

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

“What’s up?”

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

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

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

“Yes, I’m fine.” 

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

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

There’s a soft scoff on the other end, the kind that isn’t amused at all.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol mutters. “They’re worried enough to call?”

You press your lips together, glancing back inside where Seungho stands at the door, a quizzical expression on his face as he tries to ask you what’s going on. “You know they are.”

Another pause. “Well, tell them they don’t have to be. I’m as good as I can be.”

You turn your back to his brother, throwing your head back in slight frustration, “Cheol, come on. They probably don’t want to bother you by calling right now.”

He doesn’t respond to that. The silence stretches again, and reality settles back in.

You kick at some of the pebbles on the ground, fingers tightening around your phone, “I wasn’t going to call either.”

“I figured. Wasn’t going to pick up either.”

You debate whether to say more, whether to ask the things you actually want to. Is Ferrari blaming you? Did Jaehyun say anything? Are you okay in ways that matter?

But you don’t. Instead, you sigh, voice quieter now. “I don’t know why I called.”

Seungcheol hums, a little absentminded, but not dismissive. “Guess you were hoping I wouldn’t pick up.”

You breathe out. “Maybe.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

You almost smile. Almost.

There’s something about the way he says it, like he knows neither of you really mean it, like he doesn’t mind that you called, even if he won’t say it outright.

You take a slow breath. “You should rest. I’ll let you go.” You hope someone reminds him to eat properly tonight. Hope someone eases his mind and tells him not to worry too much. That one loss here doesn’t mean the end of the world. 

He hesitates for just a second. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

You hesitate too, Can’t you just say it to him yourself? 

But it’s not your place anymore. So you don’t.

“Goodnight, Cheol.”

BRAZIL, AUTÓDROMO DE INTERLAGOS

Friday, Post FP2 November 7th

Seungcheol sits at the end of the long table, hands clasped loosely in front of him. Across from him, Ferrari’s team principal flips through his tablet, running over last-minute adjustments. His race engineer and senior management sit alongside him, unaware of why Seungcheol has called this meeting.

They don’t know yet.

Seungcheol exhales slowly, gaze drifting across the room, over the familiar red embroidered logos, the crest of the prancing horse he’s carried on his chest for the last six years.

The team he helped bring back to the top.

The team he’s about to leave.

The team principal finally looks up. “Alright, let’s go over—”

“I’m leaving.”

Silence.

At first, the reaction is mild, just confusion, like they’ve misheard.

The team principal’s fingers pause over his screen. His race engineer shifts slightly, exchanging a glance with the others.

Then, finally—

“What?”

Seungcheol leans back in his chair, voice even. “I won’t be re-signing with Ferrari.”

The words settle, the weight of them pressing into the room. His engineers stare at him, a mixture of shock and confusion on their faces

One of the executives clears his throat. “We haven’t even begun contract negotiations yet.”

“I know.”

A pause.

The team principal exhales, setting his tablet down, eyes narrowing slightly. His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it now. “Seungcheol, this doesn’t have to be a rushed decision. We can—”

“I’ve made up my mind.”

That’s when it truly sinks in. The initial surprise fades, shifting into something heavier, something closer to disbelief.

His race engineer straightens in his seat. “Look, if this is about the way this season has gone, if you’re frustrated, if you’re unhappy with how things have been handled, we can fix it. We can go into next year with a fresh start-”

“This isn’t just about this season.”

Seungcheol exhales, running a hand over his face. He knew they’d try to talk him out of it. Knew they wouldn’t just let him go without a fight.

So for a moment, just a moment, he lets himself be honest.

“You know…” he starts, voice quieter now, almost reflective. “Seven years ago, you called me to this very meeting room in Brazil.”

If everyone in the room wasn’t already still, they are now.

His team principal doesn’t react immediately, but Seungcheol knows he remembers.

“I was still at Alfa Romeo,” he continues. “I was still quite young and new, still figuring out the sport, still proving I belonged here. And you sat me down, and you told me that you saw talent in me and if I came to Ferrari, we’d bring this team back to the top. That you’d help me become a world champion.”

He lets the words linger, lets them sink in. His throat feels tight.

“And you did.”

The words aren’t empty. He means them.

Seungcheol looks around the room, at the men who have dictated his future for the past seven years. The ones who once fought for him. The ones who celebrated with him. The ones who, somewhere along the way, stopped prioritizing him the way they used to.

He takes a slow breath. “I’ll always be grateful for that.” He says, and for the first time, it hits him that he’s done with this team. That with what he’s said, they’re not his anymore. Seungcheol can’t help the feeling of mourning that overcomes him in this moment. “No matter how things have turned out, I won’t forget what we’ve achieved together.”

He isn’t sure if they expect him to say more. Maybe they expect him to be bitter, to bring up the choices they made this season, to throw blame in every direction.

But Seungcheol has nothing left to prove.

“Ferrari gave me everything,” he admits, voice steadier now. “You gave me my first real shot. You gave me my first win, my first championship. You gave me a team that I could fight for.”

He leans back, exhaling. “I’ve given you everything I had in return.”

The weight of that truth settles between them.

His voice drops slightly. “That’s what makes this so hard.”

There’s a flicker of doubt in the team principal’s gaze.

“Is this about another team?” he finally asks. “We haven’t heard anything yet, but if you’ve been approached, we should discuss it. We can match whatever offer they’re giving you.”

Seungcheol shakes his head slowly, the corner of his lips lifting in irony. They think this is about negotiation. About money, about leverage. They don’t realize it yet.

“There is no other offer.”

A flicker of uncertainty passes through the room.

The team principal frowns. “What do you mean?”

Seungcheol presses his fingertips against the table, grounding himself. This is it. If you say it, it’s real now.

“I mean, I’m not going anywhere else.” He’s surprised with how steady his voice is. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

The silence that follows is different now. They don’t know what to say, don’t want to realize what he means

His engineer’s brows furrow. “Cheol…” He hesitates, voice dipping lower, more personal. “You’re not just leaving Ferrari, are you?”

The team principal exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Seungcheol, you’re thirty. This is not the time to retire. You’re at the peak of your career. You don’t just—”

“I’m not retiring. But I know what I want.”

It’s the first time his voice hardens.

His pulse thrums against his ears. He doesn’t need them to understand. He doesn’t need permission.

But for the first time, he lets himself admit it.

He’s tired.

“You don’t have to decide this now,” the team principal tries again, but there’s something more fragile in his voice this time. “Take the off-season. Step back. Think about it properly.”

“I already have.”

And the finality with which he says it shuts them up. There’s no convincing him because he’s already gone. He’s been gone for a while now, but it’s real and true today.

Seungcheol pushes his chair back, rising to his feet. The Ferrari crest catches his eye on the team principal’s polo, the same one he’s worn for the last six years. Once, it felt like armor. Now, it just feels like something he’s outgrown.

No one stops him as he moves toward the door.

But just before he reaches it, his race engineer speaks again, voice quiet.

“You’re really sure about this?”

Seungcheol’s hand grips the doorknob tight. It’s a last-ditch effort, a peace offering, another chance to take it all back and go back to the team he’s called his home for almost his entire career.

He nods, slow at first but his expression is sure when he turns around for the last time. “Yes, I am.”

When he closes the door behind himself, Seungcheol hopes that no one walks out to talk to him now. The finality of his decision settles down on him, light on his shoulders but still heavy on his mind. 

These hallways that he’s walked for so long, this team that he’s been leaning on for so long. He wonders how just a few words can change how he feels. His footsteps echo against the floor, the polished tiles reflecting the dim overhead lights. He knows every corner of this building by heart. The walls lined with photographs, framed moments of glory, the history of Ferrari captured in still images.

Your history too.

His fingers brush absently against the edge of one as he passes, a photo from their first constructors’ championship together. The entire team, arms raised, champagne spraying in the air. His younger self is at the center, a Ferrari flag draped over his shoulders, eyes bright with something fierce.

Hope.

Determination.

Belief.

He stops walking.

The picture right next to it is worse.

His first drivers’ championship.

He remembers that night, the way his race engineer had pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, the way his mechanics had lifted him onto their shoulders, the way he had looked at his car and thought—this is home now.

Now, he stands here, staring at that same version of himself, and wonders if he would even recognize him anymore.

Would that Seungcheol understand why he’s leaving? Would he be disappointed?

He breaths in deeply, tilting his head back.

This is what he wanted. This is what he chose.

It doesn’t make it any easier.

He forces himself to keep moving, the weight in his chest growing heavier with every step. The hallway stretches ahead of him, but for the first time in years, he’s not sure where he’s going.

Tomorrow’s race, for now. That’s where he’ll go. Let the season end before we figure it all out.

But tomorrow comes and Seungcheol knows this feeling of losing will stick to him for the rest of his life.

He hears the Red Bull team celebrating their Constructors’ win outside their garage. The cheers, the fireworks, the champagne. He’s been there before. Knows what if feels like to win this, to fight for something bigger than himself and come out victorious.

But not this year. Not anymore.

He glances around the garage. No one is talking. The mechanics keep their heads down, clearing equipment, avoiding each other’s eyes. The pit wall stares at the monitors like they can will the result into changing. His race engineer exhales sharply beside him, but doesn’t say a word.

They all knew this was coming.

Maybe that’s what stings the most. Not the loss itself but the inevitability of it.

He should be angry. He used to get angry.

But now, as he watches Red Bull celebrate on the screen, as he sees Haechan and Jeno lifted up on their mechanics’ shoulders, champagne bottles held high in the air, as he sees Jaehyun sitting in his chair, staring at the ground, shoulders stiff with disappointment, he just feels…exhausted.

The ‘what-if’s’ cloud his mind, momentarily. What if they’d backed him up like they used to. What if they’d all worked harder on the car, what if Seungcheol hadn’t been feeling like he was past his prime.

But a part of him knows, and he’s sick of shutting it down, so he lets the thought flow through him. This was bound to happen. This was always how it would’ve ended.

Seokmin hands his phone back to him, wordlessly, as they walk up to their hospitality. Seungcheol thinks Seokmin has known, maybe even before he’d made the decision. It’s easy to break the news to someone who is the least surprised by it. All Seokmin had done was clap him on the back once and wish him all the best. Seungcheol knows he’ll be there if he ever comes back and that is enough.

UNITED ARAB EMIRATES, YAS MARINA CIRCUIT

Sunday, Race Day December 7th

Ferrari’s lion walks away — Choi Seungcheol announces exit from the Italian team.

“Ferrari and Choi Seungcheol will part ways at the end of the 2025 Formula 1 season, bringing an end to a six-year partnership that delivered four driver’s championships, five constructors’ titles, and a legacy that has cemented him as one of the most successful drivers in the team’s history.

The announcement, made ahead of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, has sent shockwaves through the paddock. While speculation around Seungcheol’s future had been growing in recent weeks, many expected Ferrari to push for a contract renewal. Instead, the 30-year-old has confirmed that he will not be re-signing with the team.

What remains unclear is what comes next. Unlike most high-profile exits, Seungcheol’s departure has not been linked to a move elsewhere. Ferrari has not commented on whether they attempted to retain him, nor has Seungcheol confirmed if he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.”

You stop reading after that sentence.

Your eyes hover over the words, rereading the title once, twice, three times before you yell after your mom, asking her to come down immediately. Just as she walks down the stairs, your front door opens, Seungcheol’s mother walking in with an exasperated look on her face, hands gripping her phone tightly.

“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you didn’t know about this either.” She laughs out in disbelief.

You shake your head, still processing the words you just read as your mother asks her what’s wrong before snatching your phone from you. 

Seungcheol’s mother exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “That boy,” she mutters, shaking her head. “Not a single word. Not to me, not to his father or his brother. We find out through the damn news?”

The frustration in her voice is clear, but you can also hear the hurt seep through.

You understand.

You sit down at the table, glancing at the article again. Seungcheol has not commented on whether he plans to continue in Formula 1 beyond this season.

The thought makes your stomach twist.

Your mother sighs, rubbing her temples. “He has a race today, no? How come they announced it today? Did you try calling him?”

“Do you think he’d pick up?” Seungcheol’s mother clicks her tongue. “He’s probably acting like it’s just another race weekend. I don’t need to try to know that his phone is switched off.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

You can already picture it. Seungcheol walking through the paddock, head down, sunglasses on, pretending the world isn’t speculating about his future, pretending like he hasn’t just changed the course of his career with one decision.

Pretending like he hasn’t kept the people who have known him the longest in the dark.

But the one thing you can’t wrap your head around is—

“Why would he do this?” His mother sighs, heading to your kitchen to grab a glass of water, “He loves his team. Dreamt of driving for them since he was a kid. What went wrong?”

—

When the fireworks are over and the celebrations cease, Seungcheol comes down to the Ferrari garage, one last time.

The mechanics are mostly quiet as they pack up, with the season over and no more races to prepare for, there’s not much to talk about either. For a moment, Seungcheol is unsure of what he’d say to them. If there’s anything to be said, in the first place. He knows the news was broken to them before the articles came out, so that there would be no surprise and no disbelief during the race itself.

Seungcheol’s finished P2 here today. It isn’t a win, but he’s a little glad that he’s on the podium for his last race with the team.

 When Seungcheol steps inside, a few heads turn. Some of the younger mechanics glance at him hesitantly, like they don’t know if they should say something. But the ones who have been here long enough, the ones who have known him since the beginning, they know this is goodbye.

One of them straightens from where he’s kneeling by the tire blankets, wiping his hands on his overalls before walking over. 

“You’re really doing this, huh?” The mechanic’s voice is rough with fatigue, but affectionate still.

Seungcheol exhales, lips tilting into something almost like a smile. “Yeah.”

There’s a beat of silence before the mechanic lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn. Going to feel weird without you around here, kid.”

Seungcheol nods.

One by one, the others start to gather. A few hesitant at first, but then more of them, his mechanics, his engineers, people who have been here since his first win in red. They’ve been through everything with him.

He mumbles simple words. Thank you, I couldn’t have done this without you, I’ll miss you all. They clap him on the back, exchange knowing looks, make a few dry jokes to lighten the mood. But there is an undeniable sadness in the air, the loss of a prized one, the loss of a team.

Eventually, his race engineer finds him.

Seungcheol knows that this moment would come, but when he meets the man’s eyes, he feels bare and stripped down in front of him.

For years, he’s been the voice in his ear, guiding him through every lap, every race. The man who’s saved his life a hundred times, talked him out of bad decisions, made him the best ones. The man he’s trusted almost his entire career.

And now, there’s nothing left to say.

Still, his engineer sighs, shaking his head. “Feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol lets out an awkward laugh. “A little.”

There’s a pause before his engineer speaks again, quieter this time. “I’m sorry.”

Seungcheol blinks, caught off guard. “For what?”

“For how this year went. For how they treated you.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “You deserved better.”

Seungcheol swallows. Hearing it out loud makes it even more real. “It is what it is. I don’t blame you.”

His engineer scoffs. “Bullshit.”

He stares at Seungcheol before speaking again, “Do you remember Austria?”

“You’ve got to be more specific than that. Which year?”

“In 2018.” 

As soon as he hears that, Seungcheol can’t help but laugh out loud, nodding his head.

“On the last few laps, you ignored my call to box for fresh tyres because, and I quote: ‘I can make it till the end.’”

Seungcheol smiles, “And then the rain hit.”

“And then the rain hit,” His engineer repeats, shaking his head, “And I spent the next five laps yelling at you to come in before you crashed into the barriers.”

He tilts his head, “But I didn’t.”

His engineer sighs, crossing his arms. “No. You didn’t. Somehow, through sheer luck or divine intervention, you kept it on track and won the damn race.”

Seungcheol remembers that day. The panic in his voice, the way his tires felt like they’d give out any second. The sheer adrenaline coursing through him as he dragged his car to the finish line.

He shakes his head, looking down at his shoes, “You were so pissed at me afterwards. I remember.”

“I was,” his engineer agrees. “But I was also secretly proud as hell.”

His engineer exhales. “That’s what made you special, you know.”

Seungcheol looks at him.

“You always knew where the limit was,” his engineer continues. “You always trusted yourself to find a way.”

Seungcheol swallows.

Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He’s spent his whole career pushing the limits. Trusting himself when no one else would. Fighting for what he believed in.

And now, he’s stepping away.

“I hope we meet again, on track.” His voice is soft now, “Doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to be with them.”

Seungcheol looks up, surprised. 

“But if you come back, and if you still want me droning in your ear. I’ll come.”

He doesn’t respond right away. This is a promise. It’s the most heartwarming thing anyone here has ever said to him. 

But finally, his lips twitch in the closest thing he’s had to a real grin all season.

“Good to know.”

“So what now, Seungcheol? Where will you go?”

Seungcheol knows the answer now. It’s quite simple.

“Home.”

tags: @znzlii @yawnozone @archivistworld @minjiech @the-vena-cava @kookiedesi @starshuas @exomew @reiofsuns2001 @fancypeacepersona @angelarin @blckorchidd

[kflixnet]

New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic teaser!

OFF THE GRID [TEASER]

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy, miscommunication

teaser w/c: 1.3k fic w/c: 46.5k . Part 1

glossary

a/n: While it is not required to read Lights Out to understand what's going on here, the first half of this fic runs parallel to it. I personally had fun writing the parallels, oh you know, the downfall of one, rise of another. If you've read lights out though, you probably know how this weekend ends, but shush! LMAO. This one's run longer than I expected it to, so it'll be divided into three parts. Again, the glossary helps, so do read it! you can sign up for the taglist here !

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Saturday, Qualifying

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about this place. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend.

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour. 

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans. 

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once. 

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself. 

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID PT.3

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series: Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up. 

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi

[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID [TEASER]

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series. Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy, miscommunication

teaser w/c: 1.3k fic w/c: 46.5k . Part 1

glossary

a/n: While it is not required to read Lights Out to understand what's going on here, the first half of this fic runs parallel to it. I personally had fun writing the parallels, oh you know, the downfall of one, rise of another. If you've read lights out though, you probably know how this weekend ends, but shush! LMAO. This one's run longer than I expected it to, so it'll be divided into three parts. Again, the glossary helps, so do read it! you can sign up for the taglist here !

ITALY, AUTODROMO NAZIONALE MONZA

Saturday, Qualifying

The roar of the Tifosi is deafening, even from inside the garage.

Seungcheol sits in his cockpit, helmet still on, hands resting lightly on the wheel as the mechanics swarm around his car, making final adjustments. The session clock is still running, but for now, he’s stationary—P3 on the leaderboard, a tenth ahead of Jaehyun.

Outside, Monza is alive.

The Tifosi are everywhere, packed into every inch of the grandstands, a sea of red that stretches as far as the eye can see. Flags whip through the air, massive banners draped across the stands, their messages bold and impossible to miss. Monza is one of the circuits where the grandstands are sold out even during qualifying. There’s something different about this place. Something that doesn’t exist at any other circuit, something even the best drivers struggle to explain. It’s not just the speed, the history, the track itself. It’s this. The weight of expectation. The way Ferrari doesn’t just belong to the team—it belongs to the people. To the thousands in the stands who live for this weekend.

Usually, Monza is Seungcheol’s favourite track. He’s set impressive records here before and the energy of the crowd is always motivating.

Even through the layers of his helmet, his balaclava, and the deafening sounds of the other cars on the track, he hears them chant his name.

At least they haven’t given up on me.

His fingers tighten slightly around the wheel.

He sits in P3 for now. Ahead of Jaehyun, but still behind a Red Bull. A Red Bull on pole.

At Ferrari’s home race.

It’s an insult to their team, a disgrace on their part.

His gaze flickers across the garage, past the blur of engineers watching the monitors, past the mechanics murmuring updates to one another. No one looks at him. Not directly. Not long enough for it to mean anything.

But they’re waiting.

They won’t say it, won’t dare to speak it aloud but he knows what they need from him.

They need him to take back Monza.

They need him to put Ferrari back where it belongs.

Like always. Funny that they need me, now that their new star driver can’t manage to fucking qualify above P5 when it actually matters.

His race engineer's voice cuts through his earpiece, slightly more alert now.

“Track is clear. Sending you out now.”

Seungcheol scoffs, a humorless laugh against the inside of his helmet.

Right. Of course they are.

He presses the clutch paddle, lets the engine roar back to life, and rolls out onto the pit lane.

The television flickers, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the dimly lit living room. You keep the volume as low as possible. Your parents are sleeping, and you wouldn’t want to wake them up because of the commentary at this ungodly hour. 

You hadn’t planned on watching qualifying. It had been a long day and the last thing you needed was to be up at one in the morning, wet hair dripping onto your t-shirt after a bath, on the edge of your seat as you watched your ex-boyfriend qualify for his team’s home race.

You should be asleep, but instead, you sit curled into the corner of your couch, staring at the leaderboard on the screen.

P3 – Choi Seungcheol.

The commentators have been talking about him all session. About how this weekend is crucial, about how Ferrari needs a strong result at their home race. About how Jaehyun is only P5 and how Seungcheol is the only Ferrari in a position to fight for pole.

The pressure is unbearable even from here, thousands of miles away. You can only imagine what it must feel like there, in the cockpit, in that worrying little head of Seungcheol’s.

The camera cuts to the Ferrari garage, to Seungcheol sitting in his car, helmet on, hands loose on the steering wheel as he waits.

Your stomach twists as his engineer’s voice crackles through the radio.

"Track is clear. Sending you out now."

Seungcheol doesn’t respond. Just shifts into gear, rolling out of the garage onto the pit lane.

The commentators barely take a breath before launching into his out-lap analysis.

"This is it, folks. One final shot for Ferrari’s Choi Seungcheol. He’s currently sitting in P3, but can he challenge for pole?"

"He’s had a tough session so far, struggling with the car’s balance, but he’s pulled off magic laps before. Let’s see what he can do."

You exhale slowly, pressing your knuckles against your lips as the camera follows him through the out-lap. He’s weaving aggressively, warming up his tires, testing every movement.

And then, finally—

"Choi Seungcheol begins his final lap."

The screen shows his car flying into a long, sweeping curve, and something tugs at your memory.

"It’s trickier than it looks," Seungcheol had once told you. It was late, the two of you sitting in the dim glow of his kitchen after Monza in 2023. "It’s easy to take it flat-out, but if you misjudge the line by even half a meter, you’re screwed on the exit."

Your breath catches slightly as you watch him now, the Ferrari holding steady, perfectly placed, just like he described.

The timing screen flashes, indicating a purple sector.

The commentators react instantly.

"He’s improving! Seungcheol is on a great lap. Can he challenge for pole?"

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket draped over your legs.

The car flies through the next sector, fast and on the edge. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing. It’s pure instinct, the kind that only comes after years of knowing exactly where the limit is.

Purple again.

"He's still gaining! This could be huge for Ferrari!"

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath.

The final corner looms. The moment of truth.

"It’s deceptive," he'd said, "the Parabolica. The biggest mistake is to brake early. If you do, you lose all your momentum. You have to trust the car. Trust yourself."

His Ferrari dives in so late you think for a second that he’s overdone it. But who are you kidding? It's Seungcheol. Seungcheol who would never settle for anything less than a front row at Monza. He knows what he's doing.

As he crosses the finish line, the leaderboard updates.

P2.

The commentators erupt—a front row start for Ferrari. The camera cuts to the grandstands, where thousands of fans in red are screaming his name.

You exhale.

Not pole.

But at least he’s ahead of Jaehyun.

The screen flickers back to the garage. Seungcheol removes his helmet slowly, setting it down beside him. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t react to the pats on his back. His expression is unreadable.

Seungcheol is disappointed. Yes, he's out-qualified Jaehyun. But a Red Bull still sits on pole. Another at P3. His teammate's stuck at P5.

He mentally scoffs, A championship contender, that boy.

It's been a hard weekend for Ferrari this year. The Red Bulls have been fast all weekend. All season, but this weekend matters the most and Seungcheol has a chance. To prove to the team, to prove to himself and to win for the fans. 

He watches as Jaehyun gets out of his cockpit, looking thoroughly frustrated for once. 

Good, Seungcheol thinks. He's not going to be able to fight for the championship always, but if Ferrari has any chance of challenging for the constructors then Jaehyun needs to start doing better. Needs to start being harder on himself. 

As his PR manager approaches him, Seungcheol thinks about what this year's driver’s championship winner would mean. If it’s going to be Haechan, which seems to be the most probable case, then that would mean the downfall of Ferrari again. If Jaehyun won against the odds, it would mean that Seungcheol lost to a teammate for the first time in his career.

Ferrari is going to start asking him to play the team game soon. He's not going to have the choice to deny that. He just hopes it doesn't start tomorrow.

He needs that win.

[hhaechansmoless]

OFF THE GRID PT.2

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist a/n: please don't hesitate to comment / reblog / leave an ask w your thoughts !! hope y'all like this too <3

HOME

You walk down to your driveway, car keys jangling around your finger. Across the street, you see Seungkwan nearly colliding with his own front door as he stumbles outside, yelling a rushed goodbye over his shoulder. His bag is half open, a half-eaten apple in one hand, keys barely hanging onto his fingers. It’s a mess, but a familiar one.

You scoff, shaking your head before calling out to him. “Hey! Why are you still here? Didn’t you say you had an early meeting today?”

He grumbles before biting into his apple. He takes a minute to swallow it while he throws his bag in the back seat of his car before he turns to you. 

“Do you really have to shove it in my face? I’m already late, stop bothering me!”

“You look like you’ll crash into the next tree you see,” You roll your eyes, “Do you need me to drop you off?”

Seungkwan shakes his head and is about to say something when a car pulls into the driveway next to yours. You turn towards it, getting ready to wish Seungcheol’s dad a good morning. Seungkwan probably waits for him to get out of the car too, seeing that he hasn’t driven off yet and stands next to his opened door.

“Good morning, uncle!” Both of you greet him at the same time, making him chuckle. He waves at the two of you before looking back into his car’s window.

“How come you were out driving so early?” You ask him as you wipe some of the snow left on your windscreen wiper. He lets out a sigh, tapping the roof of the car before turning to you.

“Had to pick a certain someone up from the airport.”

The car door opens, and Seungcheol steps out, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. His hair is a little messy, like he’s just woken up or spent too long resting against the window. He adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, blinking against the cold morning air. For a second, he pauses, glancing around the neighborhood like he’s reacquainting himself with it.

“What the actual fuck.” Seungkwan huffs out in disbelief, making Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He turns towards the voice to see the younger boy standing, one leg inside his car and one out, jaw hanging down. His gaze shifts towards you who’s equally surprised yet a little better at hiding it.

“I really need to get to work because I am criminally late for that meeting but I will talk to you later, Cheol.” He blinks before shutting the door.

Seungcheol’s dad pushes him towards you as Seungkwan turns his car on and drives off, not before yelling a warning for Seungcheol to fucking stay or I’ll find you. Seungcheol stumbles a little before coming to a stop in front of you.

You don’t know what to say to him, honestly. It hasn’t been long since the news of him leaving was announced, and right now as you look at him, it’s the only thing on your head. But you doubt he’d want you to ask about that, so you settle for something else.

“How come you’re here?”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, it’s my house. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

You roll your eyes, “Gee, thanks. Thought it was mine.”

“It should be,” His dad huffs as he pulls out a suitcase from the boot, “You’re here more than him. It’s like you’re our child.”

Seungcheol scoffs, scooting over to his dad to take the bags from his hand, “I’ll keep them myself.”

His dad gives him a look but lets go of the suitcase, clapping a hand over Seungcheol’s shoulder before heading inside. The front door swings shut behind him, leaving just the two of you standing there in the cold.

Seungcheol shifts one of his bag higher up his shoulder, eyes flicking toward you before he exhales, watching the cloud of his breath disappear into the air. “You’re up early.”

“No I’m not,” You raise your eyebrows, “I usually have work around this time.”

“I know that,” He rolls his eyes, “I was just trying to make conversation, but whatever, I guess.”

“Why are you back so soon?” You ask, kicking snow at his suitcase. It makes him hiss in annoyance. You try to hide the way your lips curve up.

“I don’t have much to do, so I thought I’d grace this town with my presence.”

“Sure.” You hum, “Well, I’m off.” 

Seungcheol almost stops you. Do you want me to drive you there? The words sit on his tongue, ready to jump out any moment. But he holds it in.

Instead, he watches as you step toward your car, keys twirling around your finger. You don’t hesitate, don’t turn back, just reach for the door handle like this is nothing, like he hasn’t been gone, like this isn’t the first time you’ve stood in front of each other in months.

You pull the door open and pause, just for a moment. “I’ll see you later, Cheol.”

And then you’re gone, leaving him standing there, hands tightening around the handle of his suitcase. He stands there for a second too long, the cold air creeping into his jacket, before finally turning toward the house.

The front door creaks when he pushes it open. It always has. The house smells the same too,faint traces of his mother’s morning tea, the sharp bite of the winter air sneaking in through the open window. Nothing’s changed.

His dad is already in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge like he has something more important to do than acknowledge his son who just came home. His mom isn’t here, probably out running errands. Seungcheol’s brother, nowhere in sight.

Fine. He drags his suitcase over the tiles, the wheels thudding over the uneven floorboards. He should take it upstairs, put everything away, but instead, he stops at the couch.

The blanket draped over the armrest isn’t any of theirs. The corner of the right armrest, dented from years of picking at it, welcomes him, and before he can think too much about the person who owns this spot, he sighs, dropping his bag beside the couch before collapsing onto it, leaning his head back against the cushions. For a second, he closes his eyes. He knows he won’t sleep, but God, that flight was exhausting.

His dad clears his throat, finally speaking, “You hungry?”

It’s a simple question, but Seungcheol can sense the hesitation in it. The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet, and honestly, he doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. So he ignores it.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You ate on the flight?”

“Yeah,” He breathes out, kicking his legs up onto the sofa, “Was shit, but I’m full anyways.”

His dad hums in response, “Mum’s next door. Went to give something, but she’ll be back in a few minutes. You can go freshen up.”

Seungcheol nods and then realizes that his dad’s probably not looking his way right now, “Fine. I’ll go in a second.”

He leans back against the couch. The blanket still smells faintly of you.

—

Seungcheol spends most of the day drifting between the couch and his room, ignoring the unopened suitcase by the door, ignoring his phone, ignoring the weight of being home again.

It’s only when the sun has set, the house quieter than before, that there’s a knock at his door, soft, but firm, before it creaks open.

His mom steps inside, hands on her hips. "Are you planning to hide in here all night?"

He mumbles, rolling onto his side. "Not hiding."

"Mhm." She doesn’t sound convinced.

She takes a few steps in, eyeing the room. It looks almost exactly the same as when he left it. Same shelves, same framed photos, same forgotten belongings that no one had the heart to pack away. But there are little changes, things he wouldn’t have noticed before. A new lamp on the nightstand. An extra blanket folded at the foot of his bed.

"You should’ve told me you were coming.”

He lets out a quiet breath, turning his head toward her. "Didn’t think I needed to send out a press release."

She scoffs. "Maybe not, but at least let your mother know before you already arrive at the airport.” She studies him for a second, tilting her head. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Here we go," he groans, running a hand down his face.

"I’m serious, Cheol!" She moves to sit at the edge of his bed, reaching out to brush his hair back like she used to when he was younger. "You’ve lost weight."

"I haven’t," he grumbles, but she’s already pinching his cheek like he’s sixteen again.

"See? You’re all skin and bones. Do they not feed you? Must I argue with Seokmin to give you a diet that doesn’t consist of eating nothing"

"Not this again," he mumbles, trying to pull away, “Ma, I eat what I’m supposed to eat. I’m an athlete, come on. I’m fit.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. "You get a little older and suddenly think you don’t need your mom fussing over you anymore. Unbelievable."

"Yes, well, I’m thirty and-"

"You need to eat properly, sleep more, and stop frowning so much. Look at those dark circles-"

Seungcheol groans, flopping back onto his bed. "Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll eat. I’ll sleep. Happy?"

His mom chuckles, patting his leg. "I’ll be happy when you actually do it."

He grumbles before turning away from her, making her pinch his side. Seungcheol protests with a loud yelp, but if feels nice to be here, to have someone fawning over him. He’s missed this comfort.

She sighs, softer this time. "It’s good to have you home."

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah," he says, even though he’s not sure if he means it.

Before she can pick something else to tease him about, a faint flicker of light flashes against the wall.

Then another.

His mom glances toward the window, then back at him, lips twitching. "Looks like someone’s waiting for you."

Seungcheol groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning toward the window. He already knows what he’s going to see.

"Of course they are," he mutters.

She chuckles, standing up. "Some things never change."

"They should," he mumbles, but he still gets up anyway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket as he heads for the door.

His mom follows him out into the hallway, watching as he makes his way downstairs. "Be nice to them, Cheol."

He pauses on the last step, glancing back at her. "I am nice."

She raises an eyebrow.

He scoffs. "I can be nice."

She snorts, waving him off. "Hurry up before they blind the whole street. And ask them if they want to come over for dinner!"

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he opens the front door, stepping out onto his porch.

“Look. It’s the king. The lion. He’s decided to grace us with his presence.” Seungkwan announces. Seungcheol sees you trying to suppress the laugh bubbling through your throat and rolls his eyes as he crosses the road, hands in his pocket, stepping onto Seungkwan’s lawn.

Seungkwan gasps dramatically, “Wow. My timing was so perfect. I literally mowed the lawn yesterday, so now Your Highness, thou can place thy sacred feet on it.”

“How about my sacred feet kick you in the face.” Seungcheol hisses, kicking his foot up. Seungkwan dodges, but it makes him laugh anyways.

You shake your head, lips twitching as you glance away, while Seungcheol just exhales, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "You done?"

"Not even close," Seungkwan says, tossing his flashlight into the air before catching it again. "I mean, I get it. Who wouldn’t want to trade this boring town for the glitz and glamour of Monaco, Milan, Maranello-" His tone turns pointed on the last word, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

Seungcheol shifts, rocking back on his heels. "It’s not like I haven’t been back."

Seungkwan scoffs. "Oh, yeah, the wedding. A whole weekend of your presence. How generous."

“Oh yes, I should’ve skipped the race that I was supposed to drive in and spend time with you, since you missed me so much.”

The latter rolls his eyes, “Okay. What about the last winter break?”

Seungcheol stills at that. His glance flickers over to you, but you’ve already been looking away, hands stuffed in your jacket’s pockets as you stare at the floor, silently kicking Seungkwan’s shoes.

“Come on. Can you stop battering me already? My mum’s invited the two of you for dinner. Where’s Jihoon?” He clears his throat, frowning at Seungkwan.

You pipe up at his mention, “He’s on a business trip, probably coming back in a day or two.”

Seungkwan nods before punching Seungcheol’s shoulder playfully, “You said your mum’s invited us to dinner? I’m free.” He looks at you.

You stare back at him, glaring daggers before looking at Seungcheol, a little unsure. You’ve never hesitated to hang around at his parents’ house despite the history between you two, because you’ve known them your whole lives and because they’d convinced you that breaking up with their son did not make you any less of the daughter they never had. But with Seungcheol there, it’s different. He might not want you to be around. You’d understand.

Instead, he simply shrugs, “Are you just going to stand here? Don’t think you’re very busy either.”

You nod, making Seungkwan loop his arm into yours before he drags you across the road. You hear the little laugh Seungcheol lets out as he jogs up behind you two.

“Just so you know, I was here last night too.” Seungkwan sticks his tongue out, “Pretending to ask you was just an act. At this point, the rest of us are more familiar faces here than you are.”

“I don’t return for one year and suddenly all traces of me have apparently been erased.”

“Hell yeah, you’re quite replaceable, you know?”

Seungkwan says it playfully. He doesn’t mean it, Seungcheol knows he doesn’t. But it still hits a sore spot. His grip on the house keys slackens, just for a second, unnoticeable to anyone but him.

“Have you come home just to sit in your room all day and laze around?” Seungho asks as he leans against Seungcheol's opened door. 

“Leave me alone.” Seungcheol sighs, facing away from him, eyes glued to his phone.

“Man, you're going to fucking rot in here. Get out.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t even look up from his phone. “I am out.”

Seungho scoffs from the doorway. “Right. Sitting in a dark room all day like some washed-up, retired athlete totally counts.”

Seungcheol finally turns his head, glaring. “You’re so encouraging.”

His brother doesn’t even blink. “Not my job to encourage you. Just here to remind you that you look like shit.”

Seungcheol sighs, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him. “And you’re doing a great job. Can I rot in peace now?”

Seungho doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes studying him.

"You know," he says after a moment, voice quieter now, "Mom and Dad are actually worried."

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing his face. “They don’t need to be.”

“Well, they are.” Seungho tilts his head. “And so am I. I literally came here as soon as I got off work.”

Seungcheol looks up at him then, eyebrows furrowed. Seungho isn’t usually like this. He’s blunt, sure. Always has been. But he doesn’t usually say things like that.

Seungho sighs, running a hand over his face. “Look, I get it. This is a lot. But you’re acting like your entire life just…ended. Like there’s nothing left.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw, looking away.

Seungho doesn’t stop. “You’ve barely left your room. You won’t even talk to anyone. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want to disappear.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose. "Well, good news, I already did.”

Seungho scoffs. “You think locking yourself in here is going to help?”

Seungcheol presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders tense. “I don’t know. I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Seungho clicks his tongue, staring at him for a second. Then, finally, he mutters something and pushes off the doorframe. Seungcheol hears his footsteps down the stairs and closes his eyes again, sinking deeper into his pillow.

The palm of your hands burn from the heat as you place the paper bag down on the kitchen counter. Seungcheol’s mom peeps into it, shaking her head with a smile.

“Mum said she made too much. She saw Seungho’s car in the driveway and thought she’ll send some over since both the boys are here,” You giggle as she ruffles your hair.

“Well, she always makes too much, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t tell her I told you this, but I’m pretty sure your kids were just an excuse,” You lean in closer, “She definitely made more because she knows it’s your favourite.”

It makes her laugh out loud, clapping your shoulder affectionately before she takes the boxes out, blowing at the tips of her fingers after setting it down. As she moves around the kitchen, you notice the small sigh she lets out, a quiet, tired thing, like something’s been sitting on her chest all day.

You tilt your head. “You okay, Auntie?”

She pauses, before plastering a smile back on her face. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

You don’t buy it.

“Come on,” you say, leaning against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

She huffs out a laugh, but then, instead of brushing it off, she glances toward the staircase, voice softening.

“It’s Seungcheol.”

Your breath stills for a moment.

“He’s barely left his room since he got back,” she continues, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Won’t go out, won’t talk to anyone, just sits up there all day doing God knows what.”

You swallow. “…He’s been like that the whole time?”

She nods, lips pressing together. “His dad and Seungho have tried, but you know how he is.” A pause. Then, gently, “Maybe he just needs the right person to talk to him.”

You stare at her, a pleading look on your face. You knew this was going to happen. You knew the moment you stepped into this house that his mom would ask you this. And still, hearing it makes you want to run right back out.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as she walks around to stand next to you, both hands on your shoulders, “Auntie, please, no-”

“Honey, he’ll listen to you. You don’t have to talk to him too much. Just try to bring him out. Please?” She pouts, tilting her head at you.

You look away from her, knowing that if you don’t, you’ll end up agreeing. It’s futile anyway because it’s like you’ve already agreed by just coming here.

“He might not even want to talk to me,” You argue weakly.

“Oh!” She waves, dismissing the thought, “You’re still his best friend. He’ll still care about what you say.”

There’s every reason to say no. It’s going to be awkward, difficult, and messy. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to him. It was easiest at the wedding because you didn’t think you’d have to be around him for more than a few hours. It was easier that night because Seungkwan was there to fill in the gaps between you two. What will you do now?

But there’s another part of you, the part that has known Seungcheol your whole life, that has spent years learning every stubborn, impossible part of him, that knows he won’t come out of this on his own.

And so, after a long pause, you nod.

"Alright," you murmur. "I’ll try."

She squeezes your hand in thanks, offering a small, grateful smile before turning back to the food.

You push off the counter, inhaling deeply as you make your way toward the stairs.

This is going to be a mistake.

But you climb the steps anyway.

The hallway is quiet. His door is shut. You lift your hand to knock, and pause. What if he really doesn’t want to see you? What if he tells you to leave?

You shake the thought away and finally knock.

"Cheol?"

Silence.

You wait for a few more seconds before gently pushing the door open.

He’s lying on his bed, blanket pulled over his head, face turned away.

"Your mom told me to come up," you say, stepping inside. "She wanted me to check if you’re still alive."

Seungcheol voice comes out muffled. "Unfortunately."

You don’t laugh. You don’t even roll your eyes. Instead, you cross your arms.

"Come on. Get up."

He groans. "Not now."

"Yes, now."

"Why?"

You reach for the switchboard to turn on the lights. "Because if you don’t, your mom is going to start guilt tripping me instead."

Seungcheol peeks at you from under his arm. “Sucks for you, then.”

You don’t move. "Seungcheol."

He knows that tone.

And yet, he still tries. “Just let me-”

"No." Your voice is firmer now, something final in it. "You’ve been sitting in here for days. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But you need to move. I don’t care if we just sit outside. We’re leaving."

He exhales, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally sitting up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Where are we even supposed to go?"

You tilt your head. "Just put on your clothes and come out.”

Somehow, that works.

He groans as he stands, reaching for the jacket in reach. He doesn’t feel like going out. But he also doesn’t feel like fighting you.

You turn away from him, pulling out your phone to send a message to Seungkwan and Jihoon. 

“I’m going back home to find my scarf,” You tell him, still typing away on your screen, “It’ll take just a minute so wait outside.”

Seungcheol sighs, “Just take one of mine.” 

You whip your head towards him, eyes narrowing, to which he replies. “I don’t want to be out any longer than needed.”

You hesitate for a second, still holding your phone, before slipping it into your pocket.

“Fine,” you mutter, stepping past him.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just sighs as you brush past his shoulder and into his room.

The room feels lived in but distant, like someone occupying a space they don’t expect to stay in for long. A jacket is draped carelessly over the chair in the corner, his suitcase still half-zipped by the door. On the desk, a set of keys, a crumpled receipt, and an old water bottle sit untouched, like he came back, but never really settled in. 

You shake your head, hoping he notices and cleans up. You haven’t been in this room since… Since after you two broke up. 

Your eyes drift toward the chair in the corner, the one you used to curl up in whenever you came over and he was too busy doing something else.

It’s stupid, how comfortable this still feels. Like no time has passed. Like everything is still the same.

You push the thought away and head for his closet, fingers brushing over the hanging jackets before grabbing the first scarf you see. It’s only when you pull it around your neck that you realize that it was yours. Memories flicker, piecing themselves together. A winter evening, a half-hearted argument, him tugging the scarf from around your neck with some teasing remark before stuffing it into his jacket.

"You’re always forgetting your stuff anyway," he’d said, grinning as he walked ahead.

But you never got it back. You don’t even remember when you stopped looking for it.

Yet, somehow, he had it all along.

Seungcheol is already leaning against the banister, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. When he glances up, his gaze stays on your for a few seconds, like he knows exactly what you just realized.

The cold nips at your skin the second you step outside.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets as he follows you down the steps. 

For a while, neither of you say anything. Your footsteps crunch softly against the thin layer of snow coating the pavement, the air crisp and quiet.

Eventually, Seungcheol sighs. "So where are we actually going?"

"Nowhere far," you say simply.

He doesn’t push, just breathes out, tilting his head back slightly as he walks beside you. The silence between you is less heavy than before, but not quite comfortable either.

When the playground finally comes into view, you hear the soft creak of the swings in the distance, the last few kids of the evening still chasing each other across the grass. The sky is turning shades of deep blue, the early winter sunset settling over the town.

Seungcheol slows his steps, eyes narrowing.

"Seriously?"

You step onto the curb, turning to face him. "You got a better idea?"

He looks at the park, then at you, then back at the park again before scoffing.

“…God, we really are just lingering at this point, huh?”

You snort, brushing snow off a wooden bench before plopping down. "Just sit down."

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head. "This is pathetic. We’re like jobless thirty year olds who look like we’re avoiding our real world responsibilities.."

“Speak for yourself, I have a job,” You frown as he sits down next to you.

Seungcheol huffs after a few seconds of silence, “Why are you here? I mean, this must be uncomfortable. I’ll let my mom know that-”

“That what?” You interrupt him, but he flinches in a way that makes you think you came out snappier than you meant to.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs defensively, “We broke up, but we’re here now pretending like nothing happened.”

“Well, you quit your job and the one thing you’ve spent your entire life doing and we’re here pretending like that didn’t happen either,” You snap now, “What do you want me to do Cheol? Ignore you and pretend like you haven’t been my best friend for my entire life?”

“Can we not do this now?” He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just thought—”

You tilt your head, voice quieter now. “Oh, so you’re okay with talking about our breakup, but not something that’s literally changed the course of your life?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening.

You don’t push.

Because you could. You could press him, ask him why he won’t talk about it, why he can sit here and acknowledge that you left him but won’t say a word about how he left racing. But you don’t.

Instead, you sigh, rolling your shoulders back. “Alright, fine. No more talking about feelings. You want to discuss the economy instead?”

He scoffs, his expression caught between amusement and frustration. “Shut up.”

You shrug. “You don’t want to talk about anything real, so I figured we’d pivot to stocks or whatever.”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head as he leans back against the bench. “I hate you.”

You hum, “You can avoid stuff, but lying is a new low.”

And before Seungcheol can respond, a voice cuts in.

“Are you guys seriously arguing at a children’s playground?”

The two of you turn to see Seungkwan and Jihoon standing behind you, the younger with his hands on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed.

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Seungkwan.”

Jihoon sighs, already tired. “Can we go now?”

Seungcheol blinks, shifting where he sits. “Go where?”

Seungkwan raises a dramatic eyebrow. “To the supermarket.”

Seungcheol stares at him. Then at Jihoon. Then back at Seungkwan.

“…Why?”

Jihoon exhales sharply. “Because I just got back home and my fridge is literally empty.”

Seungcheol’s expression barely changes. “And that’s my problem because…?”

Seungkwan smacks the back of his head.

"Ow—"

"Because we’re functioning adults who need food to survive, and you need some fresh air and some normalcy in your life, dumbass.”

Seungcheol glares, rubbing the spot where he got hit. "You say that like you function."

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. "How dare you."

Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God, just get up before I starve to death.”

—

It starts the second you step inside.

Seungkwan grabs your arm, Jihoon immediately makes a beeline for the produce section, and Seungcheol ends up pushing the shopping cart.

He stares down at it, hands gripping the handle. “Why am I the one doing this?”

Seungkwan breezes past him, dropping in a family-sized bag of chips. “Because you’re the tallest. Cart-pushing is a tall person’s job.”

Seungcheol squints. “That’s literally not how that works.”

Jihoon, standing by the vegetables, doesn’t even look up. “It does now.”

You snicker as you step past Seungcheol, tossing a pack of instant noodles into the cart.

His eyes flick to you, unimpressed. “And you’re contributing to my suffering.”

“I don’t make the rules,” you hum.

Seungkwan immediately points. “Yes, you do.”

You wave him off, reaching for something on the shelf. Seungcheol watches as—without thinking— you pick up a box of his favorite cereal and toss it into the cart.

Then, like your brain just registered what you did, your hand twitches slightly.

You don’t take it out.

Seungcheol exhales, looking away before he can think too much about it. “Jihoon, hurry up, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

Jihoon doesn’t appreciate that comment as he inspects the head of lettuce that he’s holding

“It’s called being an adult, Seungcheol.” He puts the lettuce back, reaching for another one. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Seungcheol scowls. “You say that like I don’t literally pay taxes—”

Jihoon holds up a finger, “You’ve been living in Monaco recently, man. Don’t know about that.”

Seungkwan grabs the cart and dramatically swerves it away. “Okay! We’re splitting up. Jihoon, you get your boring groceries. Cheol, you stay here and mope. We-” He gestures between you and himself. “-are getting snacks.”

Seungcheol watches as Seungkwan drags you away, leaving him with Jihoon, who is now very aggressively examining a bell pepper.

“I hate my life,” Seungcheol mutters, rolling the cart forward.

Jihoon hums. “Yeah? You think this bell pepper cares?”

Seungcheol sighs, rolling the cart forward as Jihoon picks up another vegetable.

“You’re seriously overthinking this,” Seungcheol mutters, watching as Jihoon turns a tomato over in his hand, eyes narrowed in intense concentration.

Jihoon doesn’t respond immediately. He places the tomato back, fingers tapping against the cart’s handle as he walks a little further down the aisle. “And you’re seriously underthinking everything.”

Seungcheol furrows his eyebrows. “Is this about the groceries, or is this about something else?��

Jihoon hums, inspecting a bag of onions before dropping them into the cart. “You tell me.”

Seungcheol grips the handle of the cart a little tighter, jaw tightening. “If this is your way of saying I should start talking about things, you should know by now that it’s not gonna happen in the middle of a supermarket in the fucking vegetable aisle.”

Jihoon finally turns to look at him. “When is it gonna happen, then?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer.

Jihoon sighs, pushing his sleeves up. “Look, I’m not gonna sit here and lecture you like some after school special. But I know you, Cheol. And you know me. So let’s skip the part where you act like you’re fine, and I pretend to believe you.”

Seungcheol rolls the cart forward, not meeting Jihoon’s eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

Jihoon laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. Not that deep.” He gestures vaguely. “You’re just home, doing nothing, avoiding everyone, and pretending like leaving Ferrari and your career was just some casual decision you made overnight.”

Seungcheol’s grip on the cart tightens. “You know it wasn’t.”

Jihoon watches him for a second, then sighs. “I’m not trying to piss you off.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol mutters, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

Jihoon doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he picks up a bunch of bananas, inspecting them for a second before tossing them into the cart.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Jihoon says, voice a little quieter now. “But don’t expect people to pretend it’s not happening, either.”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head back.

For a second, he just stares at the ceiling. At the blinding, stark white, boring supermarket lights, at nothing in particular.

Then, finally, he mutters, “I don’t expect anything.”

Jihoon watches him for a moment longer, then shrugs. “Good.”

And just like that, he grabs the cart and starts pushing it forward like the conversation never happened.

Seungcheol lingers for a second before following him without another word.

When he gets the message from Seokmin, Seungcheol tries hard. He tries really, really hard to not care. To just swipe away the notification, to switch his phone off and go outside. But Seungcheol’s own mind is his jail, his actions his chains, and he unlocks his phone to open Twitter. He still follows the Ferrari account, thinks it might be too harsh to unfollow them already, so the tweet is the first thing on his time line.

“Welcoming in a new era of Scuderia Ferrari, we are glad to announce that Kim Jungwoo will be driving with us in 2025!”

Attached to it is a visualiser of Jungwoo—who was previously a reserve driver for Mercedes— donning the Ferrari suit.

Seungcheol doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at his screen when a follow up message from Seokmin pops up. He clicks on it by mistake and is instantly hit with a bunch of messages asking how he is. How does he reply to this news? If he said he didn’t care, Seokmin would see right through him. If he admitted to being surprised, it would be too honest. So instead, Seungcheol leaves him on read.

He gets up, shoving his phone into his hoodie’s pocket. He should probably go out for some air. It’s a Sunday morning, and even though it’s still December, the sun shines a little brighter today, and the cold bites a little less. It’s pleasant. Maybe he’ll just catch some sunlight outside in his backyard. 

Seungcheol walks out of the back door, still lost in his thoughts.

The red suit, the new ‘era’. Even though he chose this, it stings. It feels like they’re erasing his presence. The rational part of his mind reminds him that this announcement has actually come late. That any other team would’ve found a replacement as soon as they could’ve. That Seungcheol leaving actually did leave them stranded for a while. 

Jungwoo. Jungwoo. Why would they replace him with… Jungwoo? 

It’s not like he’s a bad driver, Seungcheol reminds himself. His talent was being wasted as a reserve.

It’s just that Jungwoo wouldn’t have been the first person he thought of. He feels a little bad for thinking that the man wouldn’t have been Ferrari’s first choice either. But Jungwoo has always been a nice guy to be around. The team will have it a little easier this year without two drivers constantly fighting each other on track, all the time.

A muffled thud against his chest makes Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He looks down, seeing the white remnants of snow before looking up again. His first thought is Seungkwan, but the boy’s house is too far for him to aim so accurately. His eyes slowly move towards your backyard, separated only by a picket fence.

“What are you thinking so hard about, man?” You squint at him, “Not a very common sight.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol greets before bending down. It makes you yell in defence.

“Don’t! Please!” You squeal, running away from the fence, “Cheol, I have a cold.”

“Oh come on,” He rolls his eyes, “Excuses.”

“No, seriously.” You nod, stepping closer to show him, “My nose is red, see! From all the blowing.”

“Really?” Seungcheol asks, walking over to you.

You nod again, sticking your face over the fence so that he can see.

He bends down to your level, leaning in to observe. And then he gasps.

Seungcheol doesn’t usually gasp, you realize. Not unironically, anyway. But you’re too slow to move away before he drops a small snowball onto your face.

You stumble behind, spluttering to get the snow off your nose and mouth. You hear Seungcheol laugh, bright and loud and for a second you have half the heart to deck him in the face. But it hits you that you haven’t heard him laugh like this in ages, so you hold it in and splutter a little more.

But just as soon as he realizes it, he stops, drawing his lips back into a straight line.

You narrow your eyes at him, “What was that?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly frowning again?”

He shakes his head, telling you to let it go but you don’t. “Come on, just tell me, it’s not going to kill you.”

Seungcheol stalls for a second. He could tell you. You’d understand, and it isn’t something that he’s very, very deeply upset by. He knows he’ll get over it in some time. So before he can second-guess himself, he opens his mouth.

“It’s nothing really,” He shrugs, shifting weight from one foot to another, “Ferrari’s getting Kim Jungwoo to drive for them from next year.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, an understanding expression flashing over your face. He waits, wondering if you’ll say something else. When you don’t, he speaks again.

“Did you already see the news?”

“Nah,” you purse your lips, kicking the snow around absentmindedly, “After it was announced that you were leaving, I kind of unfollowed them on all my social media. Not much reason to know what’s going on with them anymore, is there?”

Seungcheol hates that what you said makes him smile. It’s good to know that the only reason you kept up with the team was him. He tries to keep a blank face. “Huh.”

You snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even followed them in the first place. They’re so unserious.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She shrugs, leaning against the fence. “Come on, you know what I mean. Always making the worst strategy calls, acting like they have their shit together, and then screwing you over, like, five laps into the race.”

He shakes his head, “That’s not-”

“Ok. Explain Brazil 2024, then.”

It makes him groan, hand coming up to cover his face, “Can we not talk about that. God.”

“Like? Who the hell puts intermediates on a drying track? God, imagine spending years dealing with that.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "Yeah, imagine."

And somehow, just like that, he finds himself slipping into it, this old, familiar rhythm. Complaining about Ferrari like it's just another bad joke between them. It’s easy.

Too easy.

"Honestly, I should’ve known they were hopeless when they let you sit in the pit box for ten minutes at Silverstone with no tires ready," you muse, shaking your head. "Like. Be so fucking for real."

Seungcheol is about to laugh when he realises.

His ex is standing here, bitching about his old team the way best friends complain about their friend’s shitty ex.

And the irony of it fucking knocks the wind out of him.

He pushes the thought away before glancing at you again. “Have you always disliked Ferrari? I thought you liked them.”

You scoff, shaking your head, “No, not really. I just had a favourite driver.”

And fuck.

That shouldn’t get to him, but it does.

Without thinking, he mumbles, “Yeah? Don’t have one anymore, do you?”

You still, gaze flying up to his face. “It depends. Are you going back?”

Seungcheol holds your stare for a few seconds before looking away, bringing his hand up to brush his nose. He pretends to sniffle, to fill the silence. But you wait. It’s about time he answers anyways. It’s been more than two weeks. None of you know what’s going on with him.

“Cheol.” Your tone sounds a bit stern now, and it makes his turn further away from you, “Cheol, look at me.”

He begrudgingly faces you, glancing at your face for a second before looking down at his shoes.

“Are you going back?”

He doesn’t reply instantly. You didn’t expect him to anyway, but when he does, it only confirms what you’ve been suspecting all along. 

“No,” He sighs, “Not for this season, no.”

“Okay,” You nod, “You’re just taking a break. Not retiring.”

He nods too, swallowing hard before looking up at the sky, “Sun’s out today. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

You roll your eyes, “Just say you want me gone.”

Seungcheol shrugs, “Assume whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” You hum, turning around, towards your house to leave when you remember. “Did Seungkwan tell you, by the way?”

“What?” He’s looking at you.

“He was wondering if we’d like to visit this rooftop bar on New Year’s Eve. I think it’s opened recently.”

His shoulders drop visibly. He’s trying to put on the exhausted act, you know. 

“I don’t know, I don’t feel like celebrating anything right now and-”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I should’ve phrased this better.” you interrupt him, “He’s already reserved a table for the four of us and wanted me to inform you.”

Seungcheol scoffs, “Then why’d you say it like that?”

“Just wanted to make it seem like you had the option to decline, sorry.” You yell over your shoulder as you skip up to your porch. “Guess I’ll see you day after, then.”

The door swings shut behind you.

Seungcheol exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets as he kicks lightly at the snow.

“Guess so.”

The bar is warm, buzzing with life. On second thought, coming here in the midst of winter was probably not the best decision, but the heat from the alcohol and the many radiators around the place make up for the cold. The low hum of conversation weaves through the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. The four of you have been here for a while now, tucked into a corner booth, half-empty plates in front of you and the remnants of shared appetizers pushed to the side.

Seungkwan, already three drinks deep, leans back against the booth with a dramatic sigh. "Man, I love this place. Good food, good company—" He points a fry at Jihoon. "Except for you."

Jihoon, unbothered, spears a piece of chicken with his fork. "Good."

You snicker into your glass. "Couldn’t even make it ten minutes into the meal before fighting, huh?"

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head as he pushes his sleeves up. "It was inevitable."

Seungkwan groans. "Oh my God, listen, I’m just saying, I don’t understand why you’re like this. We’re here to have a good time, and you’re sitting there like a- like a-" He waves his hands, searching for the right words.

Jihoon deadpans, "Like a what, Seungkwan?"

"A fun-hating, emotionally repressed, grumpy old man."

Jihoon hums, chewing. "And yet, here you are, still inviting me places."

Seungkwan gasps. "Because I pity you."

Seungcheol, who has been stirring the ice in his glass with his straw, shakes his head. "You two have issues."

Seungkwan scoffs when you nod along, “Hey, you two have issues too!”

It makes you snap at him playfully, “At least we’re still amicable about it!”

Seungkwan continues, “Okay, then. Only ‘Mr. I won’t fucking talk about my emotions’ does.”

Seungcheol stiffens. He recovers quickly, taking a slow sip of his drink, but you catch it.

Jihoon does too. "Seungkwan."

"What?" Seungkwan blinks, setting his drink down. "I’m just saying-" He stops when Jihoon elbows him under the table. His lips purse, eyes darting to you, then back to Seungcheol. "Fine. New topic."

You exhale, trying to ease the sudden tension. "Yeah, let’s maybe talk about literally anything else."

Seungkwan, still slightly flustered, snaps his fingers. "Okay. Resolutions. Everyone, go."

Jihoon rolls his eyes. "I’m not doing this."

Seungkwan ignores him. "I’ll start. I am manifesting a rich, hot, emotionally available woman into my life. Preferably earning like seven figures. I can be her house-husband if she wants."

Seungcheol snorts. "Good luck with that."

"Don’t be jealous just because my standards are higher than yours."

Jihoon hums, “I know you mean to insult him, but don’t you think it’s more insulting to her?” He waves his fork in your direction, “I mean, they literally dated for what, like three years? And they’d been crushing on each other for literally half their lives.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. "You guys are literally bullying me at my first social event in weeks."

Seungkwan pats his shoulder. "Welcome back, buddy."

You smile, watching them banter. This feels normal. Almost like it used to be before everything changed. Before Seungcheol’s entire world flipped upside down. Before yours did too.

You glance at him. He isn’t saying anything, just stirring his drink again, gaze slightly distant.

"Cheol?"

He looks up.

You tilt your head. "Resolutions?"

He holds your stare for a second before he exhales, leaning back into his seat. "I don’t know," he mutters. "Haven’t thought about it."

Seungkwan clicks his tongue. "Think your next career should be in PR, honestly."

Seungcheol shrugs. "Don’t have anything I want to manifest into my life, I guess."

Jihoon, still picking at his food, speaks without looking up. "Or maybe you just don’t know what you want yet."

Seungcheol stills.

No one says anything for a moment.

You watch him carefully. He’s good at hiding things, good at pretending he’s unbothered, but you know him better than that.

The silence stretches, too long, too heavy.

So you break it.

"Well, I’ve got a resolution for you."

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You nod, leaning forward. "Go outside more. See the sun. Maybe even touch some grass."

Jihoon hides a smirk behind his drink.

Seungkwan points. "Ohhh, she got you there."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but exhales, his shoulders easing up. "Wow, thanks. Really helpful."

"Anytime." You grin.

Jihoon, now slightly more invested, sighs. "Fine. If we’re actually doing this-" He sets his fork down. "I guess my resolution is to sleep more."

Seungkwan stares. "That’s your resolution? That’s so boring."

"It’s realistic."

Seungcheol hums, tilting his glass slightly. "Yeah. Maybe I’ll add that one to my list too."

Seungkwan gives him a look. "Right. Because you totally need more excuses to lie in bed all day." He turns to you.

“What about you, my favourite person in the room?”

You hum, rolling your glass between your fingers as you think. "I guess… just figuring things out."

Seungkwan tilts his head. "Figuring what out?"

You hesitate. "Life. What I want from it."

For a second, no one speaks. Jihoon glances at you briefly, then looks away. Seungkwan, for all his dramatics, stays quiet, watching you with something like understanding.

Seungcheol’s gaze lingers the longest.

It’s not an obvious thing, not something anyone else would catch. But you feel it. The weight of his stare. The way his fingers drum against his glass, like he’s stopping himself from saying something.

Finally, Seungkwan exhales, breaking the moment before it stretches too long. "Damn. That was deep."

You snort, shaking your head. "You asked."

Seungcheol lets out a quiet breath, tipping his glass slightly before setting it down. "Figuring things out, huh?"

You glance at him, but his expression is unreadable.

Jihoon shifts in his seat, crossing his arms. "Makes sense. We’re not exactly eighteen anymore."

"Thank God for that," Seungkwan mutters, before perking up suddenly. "Oh! Speaking of—what’s the first thing you guys wanna do next year? Like, the second it turns midnight?"

You tilt your head. "I don’t know?"

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, and something about it settles warm in your chest.

Seungkwan dramatically shakes his head. "Boring. Jihoon?"

Jihoon shrugs. "Go home."

Seungkwan glares. "Why do I even ask you guys things?"

Before anyone can reply, the TV volume rises slightly, and the sound of the New Year’s Eve broadcast pulls your attention. One minute.

The countdown hums in the air, anticipation bubbling in the spaces between laughter and half-finished drinks. From up here, the city stretches endlessly, a thousand tiny lights flickering.

Ten. Seungkwan wobbles slightly, the telltale sign of one too many cocktails. He grabs your arm, eyes twinkling.

Nine. "Guys," he slurs, "New Year’s tradition. Come here."

Eight. Jihoon exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "Whatever it is, don’t."

Seven. "You didn’t even let me finish!"

Six. "No," Jihoon repeats.

Five. Seungkwan is already moving, ignoring Jihoon completely. He leans in and smacks a kiss onto your cheek, holding your face in both hands as you laugh and return the favor.

Four. Then, Seungcheol’s name slips past Seungkwan’s lips.

Three. Seungcheol finally looks over, his gaze breaking away from the skyline. You see the exact moment he realizes what’s about to happen.

Two. "Don’t you fucking-"

One. Seungkwan grabs him by the shoulders, dramatically pressing a sloppy, exaggerated kiss to his cheek. Seungcheol jerks back like he’s been physically attacked, wiping his face aggressively.

Zero. Jihoon tries to escape, but he’s not fast enough. Seungkwan catches him by the collar and yanks him back in, completing the set. Jihoon lets out a noise that’s half a groan, half a plea for mercy.

Fireworks explode in the sky, casting everything in bursts of color, reflecting off glass, off city windows, off Seungcheol’s skin.

And when you turn back toward him, he’s already looking at you.

Something heavy settles in your chest.

Because this…this moment, this night, this space between you. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

New Year’s Eve used to mean something different. It used to mean his hand finding yours before the countdown even finished, his smiling lips pressing against yours, just as the first firework lit the sky.

It used to mean you and him, always.

And now, it means this.

Seungcheol swallows. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, his gaze flickering lower for a second too long, too telling.

For a moment, you wonder.

If things were different, if things hadn’t changed, he would’ve been kissing you instead.

And God, wouldn’t everything be so much easier?.

The world feels softer around the edges, your pulse too loud in your ears, and you wonder if he hears it too.

Seungcheol exhales, blinking like he’s trying to shake something off. And then just like that, the moment passes.

Seungkwan sighs dramatically, swaying where he stands. “God, I love you guys.” He throws his arms around both you and Seungcheol, completely ruining the moment.

Jihoon, still rubbing his cheek aggressively, mutters, “I hate all of you.”

You don’t laugh.

Instead, you break the silence first. “Happy New Year, Cheol.”

Seungcheol looks at you again. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, something you can’t name. Something you don’t dare to. But it’s the new year, girl. You better start figuring your life out.

He exhales. “Yeah,” he murmurs. "Happy New Year."

The driveway is full of movement. Suitcases rolling, car doors slamming, voices overlapping as their parents double check everything for the tenth time. Seungho leans against the car—the designated driver for the airport run— arms crossed, looking thoroughly unbothered by the chaos.

“Are we done?” he calls, watching the four parents shuffle through their bags. “Or do you want to unpack and repack one more time just to be sure?”

His mother slaps his hand playfully, still making him flinch as she walks past him.

You drag the last suitcase down from your house, stumbling over the lawn, onto Seungcheol’s driveway where your parents wait. But before you can lift it into the car, Seungcheol steps in. “Just leave it here,” he says, nodding toward the side. “I’ll keep it.”

You blink. “Why?”

Seungcheol jerks his chin toward the trunk. “There’s no space left. Just leave it, I’ll figure it out.”

You glance at the car’s boot, suitcases jammed together in a precarious puzzle. He’s right. Trying to squeeze in another bag would probably end with someone’s luggage flying out on the highway.

Before you can respond, he’s already reaching for another suitcase, lifting it effortlessly into place. His arms flex under his t-shirt, veins prominent along his forearms as he shifts the weight. You look away before your gaze can linger.

When everything is put in and all the last checks are done, Seungcheol’s dad walks up to him, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Take care of things while we’re gone, yeah?”

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Your mom’s voice comes out muffled as she keeps her handbag inside the car, “Take care of each other, okay?”

His mom nods, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And try not to fight.”

It’s such a simple remark, one that could easily be brushed off as something parents would say to any two people left alone for a while. But the way they say it, the way their voices dip just slightly. You don’t really like it. Feels like they’re intentionally teasing the two of you.

You open your mouth to protest, but Seungho honks the horn impatiently. “Do you guys want me to book another flight for tomorrow, or are we leaving now?”

Your mom reminds you to throw out the milk tomorrow as she gets into the car and closes the door shut. Last minute reminders and goodbyes are thrown at the two of you before the car finally pulls out of the driveway.

You watch your dad wave from the window, making you smile as you wave back. You stand with Seungcheol in silence until you see the car disappear around a turn.

He sighs, a fond expression on his face before he turns to you, “Well. I’m still shocked with the fact that no one’s sent in a noise complaint about us by now.”

“They’re used to it, I guess,” You snort. “Hey, remember the last time they left us alone?”

Seungcheol lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “How could I forget? You almost burned the kitchen down.”

You scoff. “Excuse me? We almost burned the kitchen down.”

He gives you a pointed look. “You put an entire metal pot in the microwave.”

“And you watched me do it,” you fire back.

Seungcheol groans, rubbing his temples. “I was a little distracted, alright?”

You huff out in disbelief. “By what?”

“I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt-” Seungcheol clamps his lips shut as soon as the words escape him, his mouth running faster than his brain.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Why would you say that, you buffoon?

You blink at him, an awkward sound leaving your mouth. He looks like he’s about to strangle himself to death any time now, so you try to push down the colour rising to your cheeks and decide to take him out of his misery.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t come off as dismissive as you intend for it to. If anything, it almost sounds like you’re agreeing with him.

Seungcheol notices too. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved.

The awkwardness settles heavy in the space between you, which Seungcheol should’ve definitely not opened up.

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Uh. Anyway.”

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly.

Seconds pass, then a few more.

And then, deciding this is definitely getting too weird, you spin on your heel. “I’m going inside.”

“Good call,” Seungcheol mutters, dragging a hand down his face as you walk off.

Great. Fantastic. Just what he needed to begin the three weeks without your parents.

—

You step into your room and shut the door behind you, exhaling sharply.

What the fuck was that?

You press your hands to your face, as if somehow, somehow, that will help erase the last five minutes from existence. But your brain is already working against you, replaying the moment in crystal clear detail.

I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt—

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. Why would he say that? No. Actually, why would he say it like that? Like it was just a casual, normal fact? Like it was something that could be thrown into the conversation without completely derailing your entire sense of self?

And then—oh, because it wasn’t already bad enough—you had to go and agree with him.

You groan again, louder this time, flopping onto your bed before immediately sitting up again. No, you can’t sit still. You need to move, shake this weird, unbearable feeling out of your body.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is fine. It’s just Seungcheol. You’ve said worse in front of him, he’s said worse in front of you. It is not a big deal.

Except it feels like a big deal. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite ignore the way your skin feels a little too warm, or how your mind keeps circling back to the fact that, for just a second, he looked like he was waiting for you to say something else.

You take a deep breath, fanning your face with your hands, and march toward the window to pull the curtains closed.

And that’s when you see him.

Standing in his own room, directly across from yours, also mid-freakout.

Seungcheol’s hands are in his hair, mouth moving like he’s talking to himself. He paces around his room and then, as he turns, his eyes land on you.

Both of you freeze.

The silence stretches. Neither of you move.

Then, at the same time, you both panic.

Seungcheol immediately grabs his phone and stares at it like it holds the meaning of life, screen dark and completely off. You, on the other hand, take the only logical course of action. You very slowly reach for the curtains and pull them shut.

Nope. Not dealing with this.

Behind the fabric, you stand there for a moment, gripping the edges so tightly that you think you might pull the curtains down. Outside, you hear a muffled “Fuck.”

Yeah. Exactly.

Your hands are still gripping the curtains when your phone buzzes.

You don’t even need to check to know who it is.

Seungcheol: you saw nothing. [16:25]

A disbelieving scoff escapes you before you can stop it. Like hell you saw nothing.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to respond or pretend you’re already asleep. But then, another buzz.

Seungcheol: You… didn’t right? You looked just as surprised. [16:25]

You roll your eyes and push the curtains open just enough to peek out. Seungcheol is still in his room, still looking thoroughly distressed, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his jaw. When he sees you looking, his eyes widen comically.

You narrow your eyes and type back.

You: Oh I saw EVERYTHING. [16:26]

Across the window, Seungcheol visibly groans. Your phone vibrates again.

Seungcheol: okay but honestly what the fuck was that. [16:26]

“You were the one that said it, idiot.” You call out to him, an edge of irritation in your voice as you whip the curtains open completely.

Seungcheol has the audacity to open his windows as he scoffs, “Well, you replied to that in a very weird way.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you have nothing to say, really. You could’ve ignored him, or just thrown a weird look, or called him an idiot. But no. Your stupid mind went Yeah, well, whatever.

You glare at him through the window. “Maybe I was just too stunned to think straight.”

Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. And I wasn’t thinking. There. Done.”

“Like you ever do, come on,” You throw your hands up in the air, “Really, what was the need to even say that in the first place?”

Seungcheol looks offended as he points at you, “You were the one who fucking put that metal pot in there. You were also the one who was getting handsy, not me!”

You let out a strangled sound, nearly slamming your hands against the windowsill. “You probably enjoyed it then, shut up! That was three years ago, Cheol.”

“And yet, here we are!” He waves between the two of you. “Still dealing with the consequences!”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Seungcheol stares back, just as fired up.

Then, at the same time, you both inhale deeply before breathing out.

“three weeks,” you mutter. “three weeks without our parents.”

Seungcheol nods, looking grim. “We might not survive.”

Another pause. Then, without another word, you both shut your windows.

Two days in and Seungcheol hasn’t bumped into you, thankfully. To be fair, he hasn’t actually stepped out of the house, so there’s not many ways to see you. Unless, of course, through your windows. But your curtains haven’t opened up since that day and while it makes him cringe at himself everytime he sees the soft blue fabric through your window, it also amuses him. Your room must be a little depressing by now, with not much sunlight or air coming inside. He wonders how long you can go.

Right now, Seungcheol’s dragged himself off the couch and into the kitchen to cook something up for dinner. After digging a little into one of the cabinets, he settles on a pack of rigatoni. Shrugging to himself as he sets the pasta aside, Seungcheol moves around the kitchen, pulling out the rest of the ingredients. A can of tomatoes, a head of garlic, some olive oil. He checks the fridge next, grabbing a wedge of parmesan and a pack of butter, setting them onto the counter in a neat row.

If there’s anything he’s learnt from spending all those months in Maranello for Ferrari, it’s how to cook Italian food. In the beginning, Seungcheol remembers thinking how much of a hassle it was to go to Italy all the time. Most of the other teams had their bases in England, which meant that for most drivers, home and work weren’t too far apart. But for him, every return to Ferrari meant another flight to Maranello, another stretch of weeks spent in a place that never quite felt like home.

But food was easy. Food was routine. It was something he could rely on, even when everything else felt uncertain. Late nights at the factory meant post-midnight plates of pasta, thrown together with whatever was left in the kitchen. Pre-season training meant strict meals, but the off-season? That meant sitting down for a proper dinner, watching as the mechanics argued over which trattoria had the best carbonara. Somewhere along the way, he’d started paying attention.

So now, as he stands in his kitchen, setting up to cook, he almost functions on autopilot. He pulls out the ingredients one by one, the process easy, familiar. Olive oil first, then garlic, then tomatoes. The butter sits on the counter to soften while he grates the parmesan directly onto a plate, the fine shavings piling up neatly.

The water on the stove is boiling now, but before he reaches for the pasta, he moves to the counter where he usually keeps the basil. His hand goes straight for the small ceramic pot near the spice rack, expecting to pluck a few leaves from the bunch.

But when he looks inside, it’s empty.

He frowns. Checks around the counter, glancing near the sink, even peeking inside the paper bag of groceries he never put away. Nothing.

He could do without it. The sauce would still turn out fine. But knowing it was supposed to be there would bother him the entire time. He glances at the clock. 10:15 PM. It’s not too late, but late enough that he feels lazy to drive over to the grocery store.

Just make it without basil, He tries to convince himself, sighing as he walks back to the stove. It’s fine. The sauce will be fine.

And yet, for some reason, his body refuses to continue. He knows exactly how this will go. He’ll finish cooking, plate it up, sit down, and take one bite before getting annoyed at himself for skipping the basil.

Seungcheol’s fingers tap against the counter, slightly restless. He could just finish cooking. He should.

Or, a small part of his mind pipes up. Or you could just shoot her a text and ask if she had some.

Seungcheol shakes his head, huffing out a small laugh. No way.

Not like we have another choice. Unless you want to go buy some.

He stares at the stove for another long second, arms crossed over his chest. The water keeps boiling, steam rising steadily, like it’s waiting for him to make up his mind.

It’s just basil.

Seungcheol huffs, dragging a hand down his face before finally pulling his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovers over your contact name, debating.

Then, before he can overthink it, he types out a message and presses send, locking his phone and setting it face down on the counter.

And then he waits.

You see the message immediately, blinking as the words register in your head. Basil? Out of all the things he could’ve texted you for.

For a second, you debate leaving him on read. Your bed is comfortable and you were probably only a few minutes away from falling asleep. But you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed before sluggishly moving to your kitchen.

When he opens the door after two knocks, you’re standing there, hand stuffed into your hoodie pocket, eyes flicking toward the ground like you’re not sure why you’re here either. In your free hand, a small bunch of basil.

"You owe me," you mutter, holding it out.

Seungcheol huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he takes it. "Yeah, yeah. Come inside before you freeze."

You hesitate for a second—just a second—but then you step past him, kicking your shoes off at the entrance as he closes the door behind you.

The kitchen is warm, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air.. You lean against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching as Seungcheol moves around like this is second nature to him.

It’s easy to fall into this, watching him cook, letting the quiet stretch between you. The way he moves, the unhurried rhythm of it all, is strangely familiar. Like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last.

You watch as he picks up the basil, rolling a few leaves between his fingers before tearing them over the pan. His movements are steady, practiced.

“Well,” you say eventually, tilting your head, “guess your time in Ferrari was fruitful after all.”

Seungcheol huffs, raising an eyebrow as he stirs the sauce. “Yeah?”

“At least you learned how to cook.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. Spent years fighting for championships, but I guess this is my real achievement.”

You smile a little. “It’s not nothing.”

He hums. His voice is a little softer when he agrees, “No, it’s not, I suppose.”

You watch the steam rise from the pot, twisting into the air, before speaking again. “You know… you used to be really bad at this.”

Seungcheol lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were,” you insist, amused. “You didn’t measure anything. You used to dump in way too much garlic and just hope for the best.”

He presses his lips together, looking down at the counter like he’s holding back a grin. “And you used to complain the whole time.”

“I had to,” you say, “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have learned. But to be fair, I wasn’t that great either.”

Seungcheol glances at you then, gaze undeniably soft. But instead of saying anything, he just shakes his head, stirring the sauce like this conversation isn’t stirring something else up entirely.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the counter. “I used to think about it, you know.”

“Think about what?”

You shake your head, letting out a small laugh. “Who’d do the cooking.”

He pauses, glancing at you again.

You shrug, “We were both pretty bad at it back then. I used to wonder if we’d ever get better or if we’d just end up eating terrible food forever.”

Seungcheol blinks at you before scoffing, shaking his head. “Wow. That’s what you were worried about?”

You laugh lightly. “I mean, it was a real concern.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “And? What did you decide?”

“I figured one of us would have to learn eventually,” you say, flicking a stray basil leaf across the counter. “Guess I was right.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce one last time before lowering the heat.

“Well,” he mutters, “you still haven’t seen how it tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way his fingers drum quietly against the counter, the way his jaw tenses like he’s debating something.

Then, finally, he sighs. “I wouldn’t make you bring me something and then just make you leave without tasting it.”

You shift against the counter, watching as he reaches for a pair of plates. A pair.

“Alright,” you say lightly. “Don’t screw it up, then.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head as he grabs the ladle.

“No promises.”

Seungcheol twirls his fork slowly through his pasta, gaze flicking toward you between bites. “So,” he says after a moment, “what’s everyone else been up to?”

You glance up. “Everyone?”

He nods, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. I know what Seungkwan and Jihoon are up to, but what about the others? It’s been a while.”

You pause, thinking. “Well… Hyerin got fired.”

Seungcheol stops, fork mid-air, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Fired?”

“Mhm,” you hum, spearing a piece of pasta. “She got into an argument with a customer and called him an dumbfuck or something.”

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn’t,” you say, smiling faintly. “But what should surprise you is that the customer just so happened to be the owner's brother.”

His fork clinks softly against his plate. He blinks at you once, then exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” you murmur, shaking your head. “She had no idea who he was, and by the time she found out, it was too late. He complained, and she was fired the next day.”

Seungcheol huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly. “I bet she doesn’t regret it.”

You shrug. “Not even a little. She said she hated the job anyway. She works at a bookstore now, says it’s peaceful.”

“Figures.” He takes another slow bite, chewing as he watches you. “Didn’t she always hate dealing with people?”

You nod in agreement, twirling your fork absently as you think. For a moment, it’s almost easy to forget how much time has passed.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the counter. “What about Daehwan?”

Your lips press together. “Still an idiot.”

His mouth twitches. “That bad?”

You sigh, setting your fork down. “Worse, actually. You remember how he used to do those ridiculous stunts?”

Seungcheol nods, “Hard to forget.”

“Well, now he does them online. He started filming them, and somehow, he has an actual following.”

Seungcheol walks over to his fridge, pulling out a drink. You notice how he slides your favourite one towards you. “…Are you telling me Daehwan is famous?”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, rubbing your temple. “Last month, he tried to skateboard down the town’s library’s stairs, and the video got over a million views.”

Seungcheol stares at you for a moment before shaking his head, laughing quietly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me.” You take another bite, shaking your head as you chew. “And, of course, he hasn’t changed at all. Still does everything last minute, still never thinks things through. I swear, one of these days, he’s going to get himself seriously hurt.”

Seungcheol hums. “He’s lucky, though.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

A faint smile plays on his lips, but there’s something thoughtful in the way he exhales. “Not everyone gets to stay the same.”

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your fork.

Seungcheol doesn’t elaborate. He just shakes his head slightly, reaching for his drink. “Anyway,” he says, voice lighter now, “who else?”

You let out a slow breath, deciding to let it go. “Jiwon’s engaged.”

That gets his attention. His brows raise slightly as he sets his glass back down. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You nod. “Her fiancé proposed in Jeju. On a boat.”

Seungcheol scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Of course he did.”

You smile. “She called me after and talked for forty-five minutes about how seasick she got.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds like her.”

You push a piece of bell pepper to the edge of your plate, barely paying attention as you continue talking. Seungcheol absentmindedly reaches over with his fork and takes it.

You pause mid-sentence, watching as he eats it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, your brain stutters. Because it is.

Because he’s done this before, so many times that it’s instinctive now, something he probably doesn’t even think about. He never liked bell peppers much either, but back when you were together, he always ate the ones you picked out, saying it was “a waste to leave them.”

When you go back home to your room, climbing under your covers, you see the faint light from Seungcheol’s room fall onto your wall. 

What were you thinking, really? Pretending like everything would be fine if you just acted like you always did in front of him. You’d been his best friend before his girlfriend, yes. But you realize now that it doesn’t make anything easier. Pretending you could sit across from him, talk to him, let him be a part of your life again without it meaning anything. You’d hoped and convinced yourself—in the fifteen minute car ride to work, the day he came back—that it would be easy. None of this is, you know now. Maybe you've always known.

Maybe he had made it easier for you by not coming back last winter, even if he didn’t intend to do it. There’s no part of your life he wasn’t in. No part of you that wasn’t shaped, in some way, by him.

And now he’s here again, living across from you, eating across from you, seeing you almost every day like this is normal. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, exhaling shakily. You were supposed to be okay. 

You left him. You were supposed to be okay. You told yourself you did the right thing, that there was no other choice, that this was what needed to happen. So why does it still feel like you lost something?

He did have a point. You didn’t have to act like everything was fine. That whatever happened between you two didn’t exist. Maybe you really should have ignored him. Maybe that would make this easier. But Seungcheol remembers. You remember. It’s only been a little over a year. Did you just need more time away from each other? Maybe if he’d never come back, then you’d finally have enough time to forget him.

You had convinced yourself that distance was enough. That if you just stayed away long enough, if he stayed away long enough, the weight of him would eventually fade. But he’ll never truly leave you and you know it. Because the moment he sits across from you, the moment he speaks to you like nothing’s changed, the moment he reaches across the table and takes something off your plate like he always used to, it’ll all come back. The familiarity, the ache, the unbearable knowing that he still fits into your life in ways you thought you’d outgrown.

Your body betrays you, months of restraint splintering apart as a sob slips past your lips before you can stop it. You press a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Your shoulders shake beneath the weight of it, your lungs constrict, and for the first time since he came back, you let yourself break.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing to you.

You don’t think he knows that with every little thing he does, he’s unraveling everything you’ve spent the past year trying to stitch back together.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. It’s not like you can suddenly ignore him and start acting different now.

Maybe tomorrow, it’ll hurt less.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll be able to look at him and feel nothing.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll finally believe it.

tagging: @sojuxxi @fancypeacepersona @stupendouschildnerd @reiofsuns2001 @archivistworld @teddybeartaetae @selenethings @angelarin @gyuguys @starshuas @coupsma @the-vena-cava @smiileflower @minjiech @luxmoonlight @kookiedesi @znzlii @syluslittlecrows @blckorchidd @yawnozone @exomew @ceruissleeping

[tick-tam]

Oh the way it had me in a chokehold. Since haechan's part was based on races and all I didn't expect this to be so midlife crisis, angsty and all about feelings. This has three parts yet it still doesn't feel enough. The division is actually perfect. The way this leaned into tension(the avoidance), the way the things creep up😌. As an f1 fan I loved how you described the way cheol felt as a second priority. Like I am always fascinated how the driver's feel.

The way this is not only about the relation but also how the driver's feel. The midlife crisis we didn't know we needed. Also the RING it gave me such a whiplash. Like there was a ring. Oowoowowow.

OFF THE GRID PT.3

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series: Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k

glossary taglist

a/n: the final installment!!! writing this fic out of all the ones I have in my series was probably the easiest and at the same time the trickiest to deal with. not just because it's an e2l but just also because of the f1 bits of it. while it's always challenging to write the race scenes, purely because most of the time i'm just spewing words and hoping they make sense while also trying to make sure that the stuff happening is stuff that actually happens, the most fun part was to put forth how one may feel shunted in their own team and what that does to a person. it’s lonely and quiet in the worst ways and sometimes you start to believe it’s your fault. that maybe you were always meant to be on the outside. writing that part felt very real and if you’ve ever felt like that, i hope this story sits with you a little. i love this one a lot and i hope you do too! please don't hesitate to reblog/comment/send an ask with your thoughts!

HOME

The cold air bites at your skin, but you barely feel it.

You sit on the porch steps, phone pressed tightly to your ear, listening to the monotonous ring of a call that you already know isn’t going to go through. It’s the fourth time you’ve tried the number your dad gave you. The fourth time it’s gone straight to voicemail.

You press the heel of your free palm to your eyes, rubbing at them. Great. Just great.

A pipe leak. In the middle of winter. Water pooling under the sink, seeping through the cabinets, creeping toward the floor faster than you know how to handle. And now, the only plumber you know isn’t even picking up. 

Really, your luck must be fucking terrible. How could this happen exactly when your parents weren’t at home?

Your head pulses with another wave of pain as you weigh your options. Do you try fixing it yourself? Do you just shut off the main water supply and deal with it later? Do you-

No.

You’re not calling Seungcheol.

You refuse. You won’t.

You grip your phone tighter, swallowing hard, trying to think. You can figure this out. You have to.

But then to your luck, or rather, the lack of it you hear the sound of tires rolling over, a door opening and slamming shut, paper bags rustling.

And before you even have to look up, you know.

Seungcheol.

You curse internally, willing him to keep walking, to go inside, to not notice the way you’re sitting here, hunched over, stress radiating from every inch of your body.

But of course, he does.

“Hey,” he calls out casually at first.

You don’t answer right away. You keep your gaze on the phone screen, like if you just focus hard enough, the plumber will just magically call you back.

But Seungcheol isn’t an idiot. And he knows you well enough to tell when something’s wrong.

The porch creaks under his weight as he steps closer. “What’s going on?”

You sigh, finally glancing up. He’s standing at the foot of the steps, a grocery bag in one hand, the other stuffed in his jacket pocket. His hair is still slightly damp from the snow, and the cold has left a faint pink tint across his skin.

You look away quickly. Not the time.

“Nothing,” you mutter, voice tight.

Seungcheol doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head slightly, glancing at the phone in your hands, to the way your grip is a little too tense.

You see the exact moment he puts the pieces together.

“…Something’s broken.”

It’s not a question.

You let out a sharp breath, rubbing your temple. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out.”

Seungcheol exhales, setting the grocery bag down on the step. “What is it?”

You hesitate. If you tell him, he’s going to fix it.

But the alternative is letting the house flood while you sit outside, pretending you don’t need help.

You purse your lips, debating. Then, finally you answer. "Pipe’s leaking under the sink."

Seungcheol’s brows lift slightly. “Bad?”

“Water’s spreading. That bad enough?”

He glances toward the house. “Did you shut off the valve?”

Your throat dries up. You should have. You know that. You know enough to do that. But you were so fucking stressed, so caught up in trying to call the plumber, that you didn’t even think about it.

Seungcheol immediately clocks your hesitation.

His expression almost morphs into amusement. “Come on.”

You shake your head immediately. "No."

Seungcheol gives you a flat look. “You want to let it keep leaking?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Really?” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. "With what tools?"

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Okay. Fine. Maybe you don’t have a plan.

But that doesn’t mean you need him.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, hand reaching down to loop through yours and pull you up. "Just let me do it, alright? It’ll take ten minutes."

You hesitate for a second too long, brain switching off at the way he effortlessly manages to lift you up. No, you willingly stood up. You shake your head

A moment of hesitation is all that he needs.

With a small shake of his head, Seungcheol picks up his grocery bag and walks past you, shoulder just barely grazing yours as he makes his way inside.

You hover near the kitchen island, arms crossed, watching as Seungcheol shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over a chair before crouching down in front of the sink.

The water hasn’t fully spread to the floor yet, but it’s bad enough, a slow but steady trickle pooling at the base of the cabinet, seeping into the wood.

Seungcheol clicks his tongue. "You should've shut the valve off earlier."

You bristle. "I was trying to call someone."

He doesn’t argue, just sighs loudly before rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, forearms flexing slightly as he moves.

“Where’s your wrench?” he asks, already reaching under the sink.

You blink. Right. Tools.

Your mind scrambles for an answer, but it comes up empty. You have no idea. Your dad always handled these things before. 

“I-” You hesitate, shifting on your feet.

Before you can figure out what to say, Seungcheol just sighs. Then, without looking up, he mutters 

“Still in the laundry room?”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even wait for your answer. He just pushes himself up and walks off, heading straight down the hall, like he already knows exactly where to go.

And the worst part is that he’s right.

You swallow, fingers tightening around your arms as you listen to the sound of him opening the cabinet, rummaging through old tool boxes like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Like he still remembers where everything is.

When he comes back, wrench in hand, you don’t say anything.

And neither does he.

He just crouches back down, one arm reaching under the sink, the other bracing himself against the cabinet. His shirt rides up slightly at the hem as he shifts into position, and you immediately snap your gaze to the ceiling.

A few minutes later, when he's almost done,  Seungcheol's phone rings from where he threw it onto the kitchen island. Your eyes flicker to the screen before you look away just as quickly, not catching the name.

“Who is it?” Seungcheol's voice comes out muffled from below.

“Uh, wait,” You mumble before shifting over to see the caller's name. It makes you stop, hand frozen in air for a few seconds before you shake yourself out of it. “It's someone from Aston Martin. Do you want me to bring it over to you?” You observe him as you reply, eyes sharp.

You can see Seungcheol stop for a moment too, like a kid caught stealing candy before he resumes, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, just leave it.”

No.

No, it's been way too long to let this slide again.

You fold your arms tightly over your chest, jaw tight. “Seungcheol.”

His name comes out sounding sharp from your mouth, maybe a little more than you intended, but still, stern.

Slowly, he exhales. Then, bracing a hand against the cabinet, he pushes himself up. Straightens. Stretches his shoulders. But he doesn’t look at you.

Your fingers curl against your sleeves. “What is going on with you?”

He sighs before running a hand through his hair, still refusing to meet your gaze. “It’s nothing. I don't know why they're calling either.”

“Are you done with the leak?” You point at it, already moving past him to the cabinet above the stove where you keep your kettle.

He nods, albeit a little confused before he checks, washing his hands after the water doesn't leak again.

“Okay, good.” You mutter as you start it up, preparing to make tea. This conversation is something that's been avoided for way too long. “Because you're going to sit down, drink this tea and fucking explain what you've been doing in this past one year.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you interject before he can, “Don’t you think we deserve to know what’s going on?”

Seungcheol exhales, shoulders rising before he lets them fall. He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to say no, like he wants to leave, like he doesn’t owe you this conversation.

But you’re not letting him.

Not this time.

So you turn toward him, crossing your arms, eyebrows raised in challenge. "Well?"

Seungcheol sighs, rubbing his temple. But after a moment, he drags a chair back and sits.

He leans back against it, arms crossed, gaze dropping to the counter. "What do you want me to say?"

You huff, setting the cups down harder than necessary. "How about the truth?"

Seungcheol scoffs under his breath, shaking his head. "It's not that simple."

"It never is," you agree.

The silence that follows is thick, heavy, frustrating. The only sound is the quiet hum of the kettle as steam starts to rise.

You glance at him, but he’s still looking at the counter, fingers tapping lightly against his arm. Like he’s debating. Like he’s deciding how much to say.

When Seungcheol finally begins to talk, his voice is the quietest you’ve heard it in a while.

“Where do I even start? I guess it began last season itself, after I won the world championship. After COTA, I didn’t have much to fight for, other than the constructors. The team started the orders in Mexico and back then it didn’t feel like I was losing out on anything. I’d already made enough points and they wanted to make sure Jaehyun ended up P2 in the driver’s standings to help with the constructors. So I agreed.”

You nod. You remember the second half of the season in 2024. It wasn’t unlike Seungcheol to go a little easier on his teammate once he’d won, so you hadn’t thought anything was off either.

“And then into winter break,” Seungcheol continues, “One of the reasons I didn’t come back home was, yes, because it would be really awkward with us, but the team had kept me really busy too. I’d done so many tests and runs for them that you’d expect the car to come out in a way that suited my driving style a little more.”

“It wasn’t entirely off,” Seungcheol shrugs as you pour a little honey into his cup, “Just, it was quite obvious that Jaehyun was more comfortable in there than I was. Felt like the work I’d done was useless, almost. Pre-season testing too. They were a lot more proactive when it came to Jaehyun’s feedback, but I just assumed it was because he was relatively newer to the team and that they’d have to learn his preferences a little more because they already knew most of mine.”

You settle down into the chair beside him, a soft hum leaving your lips as you listen.

“And you know, for the first few races it felt like things were back to normal in the team itself. I was still qualifying better, still the first one to bring the fight. Yeah, Red Bull were insanely quick and we were—from the start—second to them, but it felt alright inside. So I let it go, thinking I was just being paranoid.”

"And then?" you prompt gently.

Seungcheol exhales, the sound barely audible over the quiet clink of your teaspoon against the ceramic rim of your cup. His fingers drum the outside of the mug.

“And then the calls started,” he says, shaking his head. “Nothing major at first. Just small things. Strategy tweaks that didn’t make sense but weren’t outright sabotage. Early pit stops that put me in traffic. Tire compounds I hadn’t preferred. I wasn’t the only one noticing it either—my race engineer, the mechanics, even some of the guys in the factory. But no one wanted to say it outright.”

Your brows furrow. “But you knew.”

Seungcheol’s lips twitch, not in amusement, but in resignation. “I had a feeling. But when you’re fighting at the front, you can’t afford to doubt. You just drive.”

You nod, thinking back to those early races. From the outside, nothing had seemed blatantly wrong. Ferrari was still Ferrari with their fast cars, quick pit stops, a strong driver lineup. And Seungcheol was still the one leading the charge. If anything, it had looked like he was comfortably holding onto his position as the team’s priority.

But now that he says it, you remember. The radio messages that had sounded just a little too forced. The hesitation before the pit wall gave him the go ahead on certain strategies. And then later, when Jaehyun’s results started coming together, how the dynamic had shifted ever so slightly.

“Monaco,” you murmur, realization settling in.

Seungcheol shakes his head. “No. Miami. By Monaco, I already knew. But it was Miami where the doubts started.”

You know what he means. That race had been his to win. Fastest all weekend, pole secured by two tenths, an aggressive but clean first stint. And yet, somehow, Jaehyun had come out ahead after the pit cycle. The team had called it an unfortunate timing issue, but Seungcheol had looked more confused than upset in the post-race interviews. Like he wasn’t sure how it had slipped through his fingers.

He rubs a hand over his face, leaning back into the chair. “That’s when I started realizing it wasn’t just paranoia.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug. “But you still let it go.”

Seungcheol lets out a short, humorless laugh. “What else could I do?” His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable. “I drove for them, remember? They made the calls.”

“I wasn’t okay. After Monza, when you called,” He tries to sound slightly nonchalant. But you know. 

“That’s why I called,” You sigh, “Were there more problems because of that crash? Between you two?”

Seungcheol almost laughs, “You know, throughout this entire season, I don’t think we’ve actually ever argued about all this stuff. The next race weekend was shit. Both of us were absolutely blasted by the team. But most of this isn't his fault. I mean, the crash probably was, but it happens. It's not like I’ve never crashed into a teammate before. ” He admits. You can see that it takes a lot out of him to say that.

You understand. It would be so much easier to blame someone else, someone newer instead of the people who’ve been around you for so long.

“He’d be fucking stupid if he kicked and yelled and made everyone stop to treat us both the same.”

Sighing, you contemplate reaching a hand out to comfort him. Seungcheol sits with his shoulders slumped and head down, fingers fiddling with the cup in a restless way. But you stop yourself. You're listening to him to understand and to clear up things, that's it.

“So you made the decision to leave Ferrari,” You say, humming for him to continue.

“After Monza, I kind of knew, but it was Singapore where I made my decision.”

You remember that race. The tension, the buildup. The entire grid waiting to see if Haechan would clinch the title.

“It wasn’t like some big revelation,” he continues. “I think I’d already been telling myself for weeks that it was over. But that night, it just… solidified.”

His fingers tap lightly against his arm, like he’s still turning the memory over in his head. “They pitted me early. Said it was to put pressure on Red Bull, to force Haechan into an earlier stop. But I knew what it was. It was about Jaehyun. Making sure he didn’t lose time, making sure he had the advantage when it counted. That was my job now.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “And then Haechan crossed the line, took his title, and I was standing in that media pen, listening to everyone talk about the championship fight and the future, and I realized I wasn’t part of that anymore. Not with Ferrari.”

“So I told my manager that night. Told him I wasn’t going to re-sign.”

It’s said so simply, so quietly, but you remember twenty two year old Seungcheol when he got his first Formula 1 seat. You remember twenty three year old Seungcheol when he got the Ferrari offer, his biggest dream coming true. You remember seventeen year old Seungcheol, arguing with his school teachers that, yes, racing is what he wants to do. Not school. “I’m serious about this. You can just watch, I’ll get there.”

It must have been one of the hardest decisions he’s ever made. 

But there’s just one more thing you don’t understand.

“But if not with Ferrari,” You begin cautiously, softly, “You could’ve done it with any other team. They’d be scrambling to sign you. Why’d you leave the entire thing, Cheol?”

Seungcheol slowly shake his head. “It wasn’t just about Ferrari.”

His fingers begin to drum lightly on the counter again. “I thought about signing somewhere else. It would’ve been easy—hell, my manager already had teams lined up before I even told him I wasn’t re-signing. But after Singapore… I just didn’t know if I wanted to anymore.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “Why?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. His fingers tighten around his mug, his shoulders tensing slightly. But then he sighs, the weight of it heavy.

“Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure if I still had it in me.”

His voice is quieter now, but there’s no hesitation. No bitterness. Just quiet exhaustion.

“I always knew what I was fighting for. Even in my worst seasons, even when everything felt like shit, I still wanted to be in the car. I still wanted to be in the fight. But after Singapore, I wasn’t sure if I did.” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “Not because I don’t love it. Not because I don’t think I can still win. But because I didn’t know if I could give myself to it the way I always have.”

“You know, for years, I thought that as long as I kept pushing, as long as I proved myself over and over again, everything else would fall into place. That it would always be enough. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like it was.”

You don’t say anything.

Because what do you even say to someone who’s spent their entire life chasing something only to realize they don’t know if they still want to chase it anymore?

Seungcheol leans back slightly, glancing down at his mug. “I needed time,” he says simply. “To figure it out.”

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He’s not looking at you, eyes still on the mug in his hands, fingers tracing the rim like he’s still lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

Then, quietly, you say, “That makes sense.”

Seungcheol glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to say that.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat. “I mean… you’ve never really stopped, have you?” You tilt your head. “Since we were kids, it’s always been about the next thing. The next race, the next win, the next goal. You never let yourself slow down. Maybe—” you pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe it’s okay that you needed to.”

His fingers still against the mug. He doesn’t say anything, but something in his expression softens, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to figure it out, Cheol,” you say, quieter now. “Even if it takes time.”

For the first time since he started talking, he really looks at you. Like he’s trying to figure out if you actually mean it.

And when he doesn’t find doubt in your face, when all he sees is quiet understanding, something inside him loosens.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear that.

It’s stupid, maybe. He’s had months to sit with this, to justify his decision to himself, to convince himself that taking a step back wasn’t weakness. That it didn’t make him any less of a driver. Any less of himself.

But it’s different, hearing it from you.

Hearing someone else say it—you say it—makes it feel real.

He exhales again, deeper this time, like something heavy has finally slipped off his shoulders. The tension in his posture eases just a little.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice lighter than before. “Maybe it is.”

And for the first time in a while, he almost feels like he can breathe.

You shut your laptop with a quiet sigh, leaning back into your chair to give yourself a moment before you start packing up to go home. You stretch your fingers out, rolling your wrist absentmindedly, the stiffness a reminder of how long you’ve been working.

At least you’re leaving earlier than usual today. It’s rare, but you’d wrapped up the project that had been eating up most of your time this past month—sent the final files off, double-checked every detail, and even managed to get your inbox down to something manageable. It’s a relief, a quiet kind that sits at the back of your mind, knowing that for once, you won’t have to think about work the second you step out of the office.

You take your time packing up, sliding your laptop into your bag a little more carefully than usual, making sure everything’s in place before zipping it up. The usual rush to leave isn’t there tonight; instead, you pull on your coat at a slower pace, looping your scarf around your neck as your phone vibrates on your desk.

A quick glance at the screen shows a text from Seungkwan in the group chat.

Seungkwan: jihoon and cheol are you guys free my manager just asked to sit through another client call and it’s going to take at least 45 more mins can ya’ll go pick her up i promised to but i can’t rn [16:48]

Jihoon: yeah sure [16:50]

Seungcheol: i can [16:50]

Seungcheol: oh nvm u can go then [16:51]

Jihoon: no actually i can’t  my meeting got extended too Seungcheol? [16:58]

Seungcheol: omw [17:00]

You shake your head slightly as you scroll through the chat. You could’ve taken the bus ride home, but Seungkwan had sent his car for servicing and had driven the two of you to work in your car today. He’d have fussed about it if you took the bus and, honestly, you didn’t mind the ride back. At least it’d be warmer.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and make your way out of the office. Most of people in your team are still at their desks, wrapped up in whatever they need to finish before they can call it a night, but you get a few nods and murmured goodbyes as you pass. The elevator ride down is uneventful, and by the time you step outside, the sky is a dark shade of blue with streaks of fading orange and pink clinging onto the horizon.

You don’t have to wait long before a sleek black car rolls up to the curb, headlights cutting through the dimming evening. You spot Seunghceol through the windshield before he even pulls to a full stop, one hand on the wheel, the other resting against the gear shift, fingers drumming idly. His hair falls slightly over his forehead, and he’s got that same relaxed-but-not-really posture you know so well.

The door unlocks with a quiet click, and you pull it open, slipping inside.

"Hey," you greet, settling into the passenger seat.

Seungcheol glances at you briefly before looking back at the road. "Hey. Seatbelt."

You roll your eyes but comply, the buckle clicking into place as he merges back into traffic. It’s only when you hit a red light that Seungcheol speaks again, eyes flitting over to you.

"You finished your project, right?"

You blink, turning to look at him. "How’d you know?"

He shrugs, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. "You only leave early when you finish something big."

You press your lips together, caught off guard. He’s not wrong.

"Yeah," you say after a moment. "Finally. Feels kind of weird not having it hanging over my head anymore."

Seungcheol hums, driving forward as the light turns green. "Bet that’s nice."

"It is," you admit, nodding as you slump back into your seat. "Kind of don’t know what to do with myself now, though."

He glances at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. "Is that why you let me pick you up instead of just taking the bus? Needed something to fill the time?"

You scoff, nudging his arm lightly. "Shut up."

His chuckle is soft, barely audible over the low hum of the car, but you hear it anyway.

“Can we stop at a convenience store, by the way?” Seungcheol clears his throat after a few minutes of silence.

You hum in response. “Sure, you’re driving anyways.”

He nods, taking the next right turn without another word. The neon glow of the store comes into view a few minutes later, its sign flickering slightly against the darkening sky. He pulls into an empty parking spot, shifting the car into park before turning to you.

“You want anything?”

You shake your head, already reaching for your phone. “I’m good.”

Seungcheol doesn’t press, just unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out. You watch as he stretches—arms over his head, a quick shake of his shoulders—before heading inside.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol returns, a plastic bag in hand. He slides into the driver’s seat, the faint rustling of wrappers filling the car as he rummages through it. Without a word, he pulls out a bag of chips and hands it over, like it’s second nature.

You blink, looking down at the bag in your lap, then back at him.

You narrow your eyes at him as you open the bag, pulling out a chip and popping it into your mouth. “What if I didn’t want this today?”

Seungcheol hums, setting his drink down before shifting the car into reverse. “Then you’d tell me to go back inside.”

You make a face, annoyed that he knows you too well, but let it slide. Instead, as he pulls out of the parking lot, you reach into the bag again—this time, holding a chip out toward him.

Seungcheol glances at it briefly before flicking his eyes back to the road. “What?”

“You want one?”

He hesitates—just for a second. And that’s when it hits you.

Your hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, you almost pull back. But then, Seungcheol leans in just slightly, just enough.

And without a word, he takes the chip from your hand.

Neither of you say anything after that.

—

The evening is loud, the kind of easy chaos that comes with Jihoon, Seungkwan, and Seungcheol crammed into your living room, half-watching something on TV while bickering over absolutely nothing.

Seungkwan had claimed his usual spot on the couch, legs kicked up onto the coffee table despite your protests. Jihoon sat on the floor, leaning against the armrest, scrolling through his phone but still chiming in whenever Seungkwan said something particularly stupid. 

It’s normal. Stupid jokes, Seungkwan laughing too loud, Jihoon threatening to leave but never actually moving. And for a while, you let yourself fall into it, let the noise drown out the things you don’t want to think about.

But then, Jihoon stands, stretching his arms overhead. “I should go,” he says, stuffing his phone into his pocket. “Early morning tomorrow.”

Seungkwan groans dramatically but stands up too, stretching in sync with him. “Yeah, yeah. I should head out too.”

After Jihoon and Seungkwan leave, you linger by the door for a moment, listening to their voices fade as they walk down the street. When you turn back, Seungcheol is still there, getting off the couch to walk into your kitchen.

You hesitate, then exhale, shaking your head as you make your way back to the couch. The house feels different now—quieter, heavier.

You sink into your usual spot, pulling your legs up beneath you, reaching absently for the TV remote even though you’re not really paying attention. But after a few moments of silence, you can’t hold it in anymore.

“Is it just me, or do I keep running into you everywhere?” You scoff, finally turning to face him. 

Seungcheol stands behind your kitchen counter, filling a glass of water before he stops at your words. He searches your face for any signs of playfulness, but finds none. Your eyebrows are knitted, a slight scowl on your lips and your words come out sharp and almost irritated.

“What?” He asks, a little confused, “I mean, I am living next to your house. Would be weird if you didn’t see me around.”

"You know that's not what I mean." You cross your arms, getting off the sofa.

“Well, for starters. Everyone was here today, so you kind of invited me over.” Seungcheol shrugs. “I was going to leave anyway, sheesh.”

"Yeah, this time," you say. "But what about the rest? It’s like things are just happening again, like nothing’s changed. You keep showing up, and it’s not just at work or around the neighborhood, it’s—" You pause, shaking your head before scoffing. "God, I don’t know. It’s confusing."

Seungcheol only watches you, setting his cup down with an unreadable expression. 

So you continue.

“It’s been over a year, Seungcheol. And then you come back and suddenly we’re going back to whatever this was. As if that entire period of our lives didn’t even exist. We didn’t talk to each other, Cheol. Didn’t talk, didn’t check in, didn’t even pretend that we existed and now—” You huff out, shoulders dropping, “Don’t you think this is strange? That we can just pretend like nothing happened and fall back into line like this?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer right away. He looks at you, fingers tapping idly against the counter. Then, finally, he says, "Maybe it’s not that strange."

You groan, running a hand through your hair. It seems to tick him off a little because he speaks up again.

“You were the one that said that we were best friends, and that you wouldn’t stop treating me like that because we broke up,” Seungcheol says, voice firm. “You told me that none of it would change, that we’d figure it out. And now you’re acting like it’s weird that I’m here, like I’m some stranger you keep running into instead of the person who—” He stops himself, shaking his head before he can say too much. His fingers tighten against the counter. “I’m not pretending nothing happened. But I’m not the one who changed their mind.”

“Fuck, I know!” You exclaim, a little louder than before, “God, I know and I’m sorry, okay? I thought it would be fine. I thought I could handle it but it’s not, Cheol. It’s not.” Swallowing, you hesitate. “It’s just hard, okay? Seeing you, talking to you and being around you like this just reminds me of everything and I don’t know how to act like it doesn’t hurt.”

You look up at him to gauge his reaction, but the way his jaw tightens just makes you feel worse.

“You think it wasn’t hard for me? That it still isn’t?” His voice is low, but his eyes are bright, anger slipping into them. “The difference is, I didn’t choose this. I didn’t wake up one day and decide we shouldn’t be together anymore.” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “That was you.”

You throw your head back, eyes scrunching in frustration before you snap back, “Do you really think I didn’t think it over? That I didn’t even try or want this to work? I wanted it to. But it always felt like I was waiting for you, Seungcheol. Waiting for the next race to end, waiting for your next flight home, waiting for a moment that never lasted long enough before you had to leave again." You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "And I know it wasn’t your fault—I never blamed you for any of it. But you have to see how unfair it was, too. I was the one adjusting, always making room in my life whenever you had the chance to come back, and when you left again, I was the one picking up the pieces."

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. "You think I didn’t try? That I didn’t want more time with you?" His voice rises slightly, rough around the edges. "I missed things too, you know. I missed birthdays, I missed stupid little inside jokes, I missed you. But I tried. I called every chance I got, I stayed up even when I was dead tired just to hear your voice, I—" He cuts himself off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I know it wasn’t enough. But it wasn’t like I didn’t care."

"I know you cared, Seungcheol," you say, voice quieter now but strained nonetheless. "But caring wasn’t the problem. It was never just about missing each other—it was about how impossible it felt to keep up. You were gone all the time. I couldn’t call you whenever I needed to, I couldn’t just show up when things got hard. And you—you were so busy, and I didn’t want to be just another thing on your list to worry about."

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shaking his head. "That’s not fair," he mutters. "You were never just some obligation to me."

"But that’s what it felt like!" The words leave you before you can stop them, your voice cracking and your chest heaving. "Not because of you, not because of anything you did, but because of the way things were. I felt like I was trying to hold on to something that was slipping away no matter how much we wanted it to stay."

Seungcheol’s eyes darken, frustration clear in the way his fingers ball into fists at his sides. “So what, then? We just give up because it was hard?” His voice is louder now, the calm he’s tried to hold onto starting to slip away. “You think I didn’t feel like I was losing you too? You think I didn’t sit there in hotel rooms on the other side of the world, wishing I could be home with you instead?”

“Well, you weren’t home, Seungcheol!” you shoot back, eyes stinging. “And I couldn’t keep waiting for something that wasn’t going to change! I had to live my life too, I had to stop putting everything on hold for a relationship that—” You stop yourself, swallowing hard, willing your voice not to break. “That wasn’t going to work no matter how much we wanted it to.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “That’s bullshit,” he mutters. “You didn’t even let me try. You made the choice for both of us.”

 “Are you serious right now? You did try, Seungcheol. We both did! But you were never going to have a life where you could just stay, and I never wanted you to give that up for me. I just—I wanted to feel like I wasn’t the only one adjusting, like I wasn’t always the one left waiting.”

His whole body goes rigid, and when he speaks next, Seungcheol’s voice is clear but scalding.

“Well, I quit,” he says, the words sharp and deliberate. His eyes bore into yours, daring you to look away. “So are you happy now?”

It hits you like a slap to the face—sharp, stinging, and almost disorienting. You blink at him, air knocked out of your lungs, stunned, mouth opening slightly but finding nothing to say.

Because this isn’t what you wanted. Not like this. Not for you. Not because of you.

But Seungcheol is still looking at you, chest rising and falling, waiting for you to say… say what? What do you even say to that?

“That is not what I said, and you know it.” Your voice is quiet but fierce when you finally reply, unyielding.

Seungcheol scoffs, running a hand over his face, but he doesn’t respond.

You shake your head, throat tightening. “I don’t want to talk to you like this.”

He laughs dryly, shaking his head as he looks away. "Right. Of course, you don’t."

You clench your jaw. "Don’t do that."

"Do what?" His gaze snaps back to yours, frustration smeared across his features. "You get to throw all of this at me, tell me how impossible it was, how you couldn’t keep up. And then the second I react, you decide you don’t want to talk anymore?"

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. "Because you’re twisting my words, Seungcheol! I never wanted you to quit. I never wanted you to throw everything away for me.” You breathe in, feeling the tears fill your eyes as Seungcheol’s figure starts swimming in your vision. You look away, quickly wiping them and willing your voice to come out calm before you continue.

“I only ever wanted to be equal, Cheol. Just equal.”

His brows furrow, the sharp edges of his anger dulling into something heavier and blunt. His lips part like he wants to argue, to fight back, but nothing comes out. Instead, his shoulders drop just slightly, like the weight of everything between you is finally settling in.

"I would’ve done more," he says finally, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it. "If you had told me, I would’ve done more."

You sigh, feeling all the fight and adrenaline draining out of you, leaving only exhaustion and regret. “I know. But I didn’t want to have to ask.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “For not talking to you about it properly before. For not giving us a real chance to figure it out together.”

Seungcheol stands still for a few beats, looking unsure. Then, he grabs the glass he’d left full on the counter before turning around to dump it in the sink. The sound of water slinking down the drain fills the heavy atmosphere between you, and for a moment, it feels like neither of you knows what to say next.

His back is to you, shoulders rising and falling with a slow breath, and when he finally speaks, his voice is dull and subdued.

“I should go,” he murmurs, like he’s saying it more to himself than to you. Seungcheol sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shaking his head, almost like he’s trying to shake off everything this conversation has brought up.

You don’t know what else to say, so you swallow hard and nod, even though he can’t see you. When he pushes himself out of the kitchen, you step aside. He walks slowly, almost like he doesn’t know how to act around you anymore. It’s not surprising. You’ve never felt this exhausted and on-edge around him either.

A muted, confused voice in your head, tells you to stop him before he goes. This isn’t done. Even if it is, you don’t feel like it is anyway. With the way Seungcheol hesitates, you can tell he doesn’t either. 

But you ignore it, for now. 

Seungcheol walks out of your door, closing it softly behind him. You think it’d be a little easier if he’d slammed it instead.

—

Seungcheol remembers being sixteen, sprawled next to Jihoon on the floor of your room. He can hear your dad watching the news on the TV, the loud and clear voice of the anchor cutting through the house.

“Seven-time Formula 1 world champion Lewis Hamilton has announced his retirement from the sport, shocking fans and experts alike. The Mercedes driver, widely regarded as one of the greatest of all time, confirmed in a press conference earlier today that this season would be his last."

Seungcheol barely pays attention. He’s freaked out over it already and so he idly flips through one of your textbooks, while Jihoon hums to himself, distracted with his guitar. Meanwhile, you sit straight next to him on the floor, biting on your lower lip in concentration as you try to tackle the integration worksheet your class was handed today. You twirl a yellow mechanical pencil between your fingers as you scan the page in front of you, brows furrowed. The dim yellow glow of your lamp casts soft shadows on your face, and Seungcheol finds himself staring without meaning to.

It’s nothing new—you studying, the three of you lazing around in your room, wasting away a slow evening together. But something about this moment feels different.

Your hair slips over your shoulder as you reach for another page, and for some reason, he can’t stop staring.

It’s not like he hasn’t looked at you before. You’ve been best friends since you were kids, growing up side by side, running through the same streets, bickering over stupid things only to make up a few hours later. You’ve always been there, always been you.

But right now, in this quiet moment, you look—

Pretty.

The thought creeps in so naturally that it startles him. His grip tightens on the textbook.

It’s not like he’s never thought about it before. He’s not blind. But this is different. Because it’s not just pretty, it’s you. And it feels important. Like something’s cracked open, like something’s about to change.

He quickly tears his gaze away, back to the textbook in his lap, but he doesn’t see a single word. His heartbeat is suddenly too loud in his ears, his skin warm under the collar of his hoodie.

Jihoon groans again, shoving his guitar aside. “I give up. This song is cursed.”

Seungcheol almost laughs, almost lets himself be pulled back into the moment. But then he glances at you one more time, catching the way you tuck your knee to your chest, biting your lip as you concentrate.

And just like that, he knows.

Knows that something is different now. Knows that, no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to unknow it.

Seungcheol remembers finally, finally telling you that he likes you. He does it on a call, early morning on a Friday in Australia. Not ideal, not how he pictured it, but the words are there, pressing against his throat, demanding to be let out.

You look so soft on the screen, eyes half-lidded from sleep, cheek pressed into your pillow. It’s late where you are, but you still picked up when he called, even though you had work in the morning. The thought makes something warm settle in his chest, until he realizes he’s been staring at you too long, silent for too long, and you’re blinking at him now, confused.

"Cheol?" your voice comes through the speaker, quiet and a little groggy.

He sighs, shaking his head softly. He should wait. He should do this in person. But waiting has never been his strong suit, and the thought of another day, another week, another month of keeping this to himself—

"I like you."

The words fall out before he can stop them, before he can overthink them.

You blink slowly, drowsiness slipping away. “You what?”

He huffs out a little nervously.

"Say it again." You stare back at him with wide eyes, your head raised to get a better view.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I like you.”

Your breath catches. He sees it, sees the way you bite your lip like you’re trying not to smile, like you knew but needed to hear it anyway.

“You’re insane,” you say, but your voice is barely above a whisper, “Come back home, Cheol.”

Seungcheol grins, relief rushing through him. He laughs, a little breathless. “I will.”

“No,” you shake your head, firmer this time. “Come home soon.”

When Seungcheol comes back to you on Monday, you’re already waiting. 

You stand near the arrivals exit, arms crossed, watching the steady stream of passengers trickle out. You spot him before he sees you—hood up, suitcase rolling behind him, duffel slung over one shoulder.

And then his gaze lifts, finds yours, and stops.

Surprise flickers across his face followed by something softer, closer to relief. He lets out a quiet laugh as he stops in front of you.

“You look exhausted,” you say, voice calm, but your fingers twitch where they rest against your arm.

His lips tilt, but you can see it now—the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion clinging to his shoulders. Still, his eyes don’t leave yours, like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

“Didn’t think you’d be here,” he murmurs.

You shrug, glancing away for a second. “Didn’t think you’d tell me you like me over the phone.”

He laughs, softer this time. The duffel slips from his shoulder, forgotten, as he takes half a step closer. Close enough that the warmth of him seeps into the space between you, close enough that you feel the weight of his gaze settle over you.

“Missed me that much?” he teases, the corner of his mouth tugging up.

You scoff. “You wish.” But your voice lacks bite, and he sees the way you shift from one foot to the other, like you’re holding yourself back.

So he doesn’t.

Seungcheol reaches for you, one hand cupping the side of your face, the other sliding around your waist, pulling you into him. And before you can react, before you can even breathe, he kisses you.

It’s not cautious. Not nervous. Not testing the waters. It’s sure, like he’s known this is where he’s meant to be all along.

Your fingers tighten against the fabric of his hoodie, exhaling against his lips like you’ve been waiting for this too. Like all the late-night calls, the moments of hesitation, the unspoken truths were leading to this.

When he pulls back, just slightly, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

Your heart stumbles, and for once, you don’t pretend to fight the smile that tugs at your lips. “Took you long enough,” you whisper.

He laughs, soft and warm, before kissing you again.

Seungcheol remembers the countless races that you’ve flown in for, without him even asking. The paddock is still buzzing when he finally steps into his motorhome, his race suit unzipped to his waist, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. The adrenaline from qualifying still lingers in his veins, a familiar and electrifying hum of energy that usually takes hours to fade.

He breathes in deeply, reaching up to brush his hair out of his eyes. P3. Not bad. Not what he wanted, but not bad. Tomorrow would be the real fight.

But when he finally looks around, Seungcheol’s eyes land on you before anything else.

You’re sat on the small couch in the corner of his motorhome, one leg tucked under the other, scrolling through something on your phone. His jacket is draped over your shoulders, the red standing out starkly against your skin. Your hair is tied up loosely, like you’d done it without much thought, and there’s a half-empty water bottle on the table in front of you.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks, momentarily stunned. He calls out your name, making you perk up as you notice him.

“You flew in?” he asks, still slightly breathless.

Your lips curl up, “Yes, as you can see.”

He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s right in front of you. “You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Cheol.” You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head playfully. “You’re supposed to like it.”

He lets out a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course I do.”

You grin, setting your phone down. “P3’s not bad.”

Seungcheol hums, rubbing a hand over his nape as he exhales. “Not bad. Could’ve been better.”

“It’s always ‘could’ve been better’ with you,” you tease, nudging his knee lightly with your foot. “You’re still starting from the second row. That’s a win in my books.”

He glances at you again, still not entirely believing that you’re actually here.

“How long have you been here?”

“Landed this afternoon and came straight to the track.”

Seungcheol’s brows furrow slightly. “And you’ve just been… waiting here?”

You shrug. “I wanted to see you.”

Something about the way you say it, so simple and matter-of-fact, makes his throat dry up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps forward, reaching for your wrist, fingers wrapping around it gently before tugging you up onto your feet. You let him pull you in without resistance, your hands naturally finding their place against his sides.

And then he hugs you.

It’s steady and comforting—the kind of embrace that feels less like holding on and more like coming home. His arms wrap around you with quiet certainty, like this is where you’ve always belonged. He feels the way your body relaxes against his, the tension melting away, and it makes him hug you a little tighter. You breathe out softly, the sound barely audible.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

Your arms tighten around him. “I know. Me too.”

Seungcheol thinks he remembers when it all started to go wrong too.

He remembers staring at the screen, waiting.

The call rings once, twice, three times before it cuts to voicemail. Again.

He sighs before locking his phone. It’s past 2 AM where you are, but he’d hoped—just maybe—you’d still be awake. It’s been getting really hard to deal with the timezones, especially with all the new tracks on the calendar and more added races. He hasn’t been home in over two months.

His eyes droop with exhaustion as he types out a quick message. Call me when you wake up. Miss you.

You don’t get to reply until the next day.

By then, he’s already on track, already somewhere else.

Seungcheol remembers that the first thing he does after winning is look for you.

His team is cheering, his engineers clapping him on the back, cameras flashing in his face. But none of it matters until he sees you.

But he doesn’t.

His phone buzzes in his race suit pocket. He pulls it out, fingers clumsy from the adrenaline. A message from you.

I don’t know when you’ll see this but can’t make it today Cheol. I’m so sorry. I love you.Congrats on the win!!!

He exhales slowly, staring at the words.

You’d told him just last week that things were piling up at work. That you were barely getting enough sleep, that you’d skipped lunch twice because there was too much to do.

He’d told you to take care of yourself, his voice soft but firm. And you had laughed it off. But now, reading your message, the unease settles back in.

He wants to call. Wants to hear your voice, wants to check if you’ve eaten, if you’re resting like you should be. But there are cameras on him and a team waiting to celebrate.

So instead, he just types out a reply.

Love you too. Get some rest, yeah?

Then, he puts his phone away, and forces himself to smile.

Seungcheol remembers the last time he came back home before it all ended. March of 2024. You’re in his arms, holding on tighter than usual, your fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie.

“You’ll be back soon, right?” Your voice is quiet against his chest.

“Of course,” he says, pressing his lips to your hair. “Two weeks.”

You nod, sighing against his shoulder. “Okay.”

He should’ve kissed you longer. Should’ve told you he’d make it work, somehow. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ one more time.

Because two weeks turns into a month. A month turns into two and in the way that things go—

Seungcheol remembers the day you broke up with him too. He doubts he’ll ever forget it.

He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. His race suit is gone, replaced by a plain t-shirt and joggers, but he still looks tired. Not from the race but from everything else.

You stand near the window, arms crossed, staring at the city lights outside. You don’t know how long the two of you have been sitting in silence, but it feels like forever. Like neither of you wants to be the first to say it.

But eventually, you do.

“Cheol, I don’t think this is working.”

Seungcheol inhales sharply, looking down at his hands. He nods once, slow, like he’s known this was coming but still hoped it wouldn’t. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

That should make it easier, but it doesn’t. It only makes your chest feel heavier.

“I love you,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “I love you so much.”

Your throat tightens. “I love you too.”

But the lack of love had never been the problem. Maybe the distance would’ve been easier if it were.

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Is there…” He swallows, voice hoarse. “Is there anything I can do?”

You should say no. Should shake your head and leave before you change your mind. But your breath hitches, your body betraying you before your mind can catch up.

Because even now, even after everything you don’t want to leave. Maybe you never have.

And maybe Seungcheol sees it, or maybe he’s just desperate, but then he says, so quietly, his voice cracking.

“Stay.”

It’s one word. Small. Fragile. But it’s a plea that sends your heart leaping for one last time before it falls flat again.

You should walk away. You know that. But your feet won’t move. And when Seungcheol shifts slightly, when he finally reaches for you, his fingers wrapping around your wrist, you don’t pull away.

“Just tonight,” you whisper, almost like you’re convincing yourself.

Seungcheol nods slowly. “Just tonight.”

So you stay.

You let him pull you toward the bed, let him press his forehead against yours, let yourself sink into the warmth of his arms, into the quiet safety of him.

Seungcheol tries to memorise you in the last few hours that he gets. He doesn’t know if you’re pretending to be asleep or if you actually are, but he needs to remember the way you feel in his arms, the way your body curls against his like it’s instinct, like it’s habit. He presses his palm against the small of your back, feeling the steady rise and fall of your breathing, trying to sync his with yours. His fingers brush lightly over your shoulder, tracing absent patterns into your skin, committing the warmth of you to memory.

Your hair spills across the pillow, a few strands tickling his chin, and he doesn’t dare to move them away. He doesn’t want to disturb anything, doesn’t want to break the illusion that this is just another night. That when morning comes, you’ll still be here.

Seungcheol knows that in a few hours, he’ll wake up, and you won’t be here. That he’ll turn over in bed, reach for you out of habit, and find nothing but empty space.

Now, Seungcheol sits at the desk in his room. The house is quiet—too quiet. The kind that settles over you like a weighted blanket that you don’t want on you. He thinks about knocking on your door. Thinks about standing outside your house like an idiot, waiting for you to let him in. Thinks about calling you, but what would he even say?

I love you. I never stopped. I don’t know how to fix this, but I want to.

Instead, he breathes in, slow and deep, massaging his temple like he can will away the headache that is forming. He knows sleep won’t come easy tonight.

The next day, when Jihoon calls you, asking if you’ll come with him to your old school, you have half the mind to refuse. You’re still exhausted, maybe not ready to face people yet. But Jihoon doesn’t usually ask for favours and maybe a little contradictingly, you don’t want to be alone with your thoughts right now. 

So you say yes.

The sun’s begun to shine a little brighter these days, so when you walk out, locking your door behind you, the cold doesn’t bite too hard. 

Jihoon’s car is already parked by the curb, Seungkwan in the passenger seat, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you approach, breaking into a grin.

“Well, look who decided to be social.”

You roll your eyes, pulling open the door and slipping into the back seat. “Jihoon made it sound urgent.”

Jihoon, hands on the wheel, scoffs. “You make it sound like I’m forcing you to come. You could’ve said no.”

You hum, settling into your seat. “Could’ve.”

But Jihoon doesn’t start the car. Instead, he just drums his fingers against the wheel, glancing at Seungkwan, who is still scrolling through his phone like they’re waiting for something. Or someone.

You frown. “Hello? Can we go?”

Seungkwan barely looks up. “Do you want to leave Cheol here then?”

Your stomach dips before you can stop it. “What?” You shift forwards in your seat, grabbing onto Jihoon’s headrest. “You didn’t say he was coming.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jihoon asks, a little perplexed.

“Did he not say anything to you?”

The boys go quiet for a good three seconds before Seungkwan turns in his seat to face you.

“Don’t lie. Did you two fight? Come on, you’re not kids anymore!” He nags, an exasperated look on his face, “What did you fight over, hmm? Him rattling around all the washed utensils? Did he spoil that stupid book you’ve been reading? Or was it—” Before Seungkwan can continue, the door on your left opens, making all three of you look that way. 

Seungcheol slides into the seat next to you, pulling the door shut behind him with a quiet click. He huffs, brushing his hair back before glancing around—first at Jihoon, then at Seungkwan, and finally at you.

And then he pauses.

Just for a second, his eyes widen slightly, like he wasn’t expecting to see you here. Like it hadn’t occurred to him that, of course, you would be here. His lips part as if to say something, but then he presses them together, looking away slowly.

“Morning,” he says, voice a little careful.

“Morning,” Seungkwan and Jihoon reply in unison.

You hesitate for a split second, but you don’t want Seungkwan and Jihoon to start poking their noses in right now, so you mumble out a small greeting too.

Jihoon exhales, twisting the key in the ignition. “Alright. Now we can go.”

The drive isn’t long, but the silence stretching between you and Seungcheol affects the two sitting up front and you know it too. Seungkwan—usually never quiet during car rides—sits a little slumped, eyes trained on the scenery outside the window. Jihoon doesn’t talk much anyways, but this early in the morning, he usually has a complaint about not picking up coffee that doesn’t come out either.

You don’t know if Seungcheol looks at you through the ten minute drive. You’re too on-edge, too awkward to even turn in his way. 

When Jihoon finally pulls up to the school, parking in the visitor’s lot, Seungkwan stretches his arms over his head. “Alright, children. Let’s go relive our glory days.”

“Glory days?” Jihoon snorts, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You mean the years you spent crying over exams and losing bets?”

Seungkwan whines in response as he gets out of the car. Jihoon sighs, shaking his head before continuing.

“I’m going to be in 11C. Think it’ll take maybe an hour? Ya’ll go do whatever, I guess.”

Jihoon leaves without much more to say, disappearing down the hall with a lazy wave of his hand. You watch him go, resisting the urge to call him back when you realize that leaves only three of you.

You turn to Seungkwan with a silent plea, hoping he’d pick up on it. He does. But he just doesn’t care.

“I think I’ll go look for Ms. Kang,” he announces, stretching his arms out. “Haven’t seen her in ages. She always liked me the best.”

“She liked you because you were a teacher’s pet,” you point out.

Seungkwan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “I was charming.”

You shoot him a look, unimpressed, but he only grins before waving over his shoulder. You don’t have time to reply before he’s gone, leaving you standing in the middle of the hall, painfully aware of the fact that there’s only one person left beside you.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

The school is quieter than you remember, the halls emptier now that classes are in session. Sunlight filters in through the old glass windows, casting a warm glow on the polished floors, on the familiar blue doors, on Seungcheol as he sighs softly beside you.

You steal a glance at him. He looks at home here, in a way that makes your heart ache a little.

“I didn’t think I’d ever come back here,” he murmurs, almost like he’s speaking to himself.

You nod, fingers unconsciously picking at your nails. “Me neither.”

He hums, before taking a slow step forward. “Guess we might as well look around.”

And then he’s walking ahead, and you find yourself following without a word.

The school’s gym is exactly how you remember it—high ceilings with fluorescent lights that cast a slightly harsh glow, the faint scent of sweat and polished wood lingering in the air. The basketball court is lined with scuff marks from years of games, sneakers squeaking against the surface. The walls are still adorned with the same faded banners, boasting school mottos in bold, challenging letters. The chatter and yells of students already in there make you feel sixteen again.

You watch as Seungcheol quietly makes his way to the top of the bleachers, away from all the noise. For a moment, you stand still. You don’t know what this means. But you can’t just stand here near the entrance like some weirdo, so you walk up the stairs too, before sitting down at a respectable distance from him. When you do, Seungcheol glances over at you.

Your breath catches at the way you can still see the seventeen-year-old Seungcheol in him. The way he leans back slightly, palms on his knees, eyes trained on the court in thoughtfulness. You remember when Seungcheol told you he’d found a seat in Formula 2. 

Tearing your gaze away from him, you look around. The two of you were probably sitting only a few seats to the left when he broke the news. The memory comes back to you so clearly, like it’s been waiting for the right moment to resurface. You can almost hear the way his voice had wavered just slightly when he said it out loud for the first time, the way your heart had lurched in your chest. 

You remember the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sports uniform. It had been the last step before the dream he’d spent his entire life chasing. And when the realization had fully settled in, you had grinned, throwing yourself at him in excitement.

Now, thirteen years later, you turn back to the Seungcheol in front of you. All the mistakes, all the dreams, all the unfinished businesses lay in the space between you two.

You shift behind, your fingers pressing against the cool concrete of the bleachers.

Seungcheol had always wanted this. This life, this dream, the career he chased relentlessly since you were kids. He was the boy who never stopped moving forward, never once looked back—not because he didn’t care, but because the only way to reach the top was to keep climbing.

And yet, here he is, sitting beside you in a school gym, watching a bunch of kids play basketball like he has nowhere else to be.

The thought unsettles you.

You want to ask. Want to say, And what now, Seungcheol? Where do you go from here?

But you don’t.

Instead, you clear your throat, leaning back into the seat like it’ll smooth over the tension from last night’s argument.

Seungcheol drums his fingers against his knee, his gaze steady on the court below. “Feels smaller now,” he murmurs, almost absentmindedly.

You hum, glancing around the gym. “Well, you were always made for bigger things.”

You don’t mean for it to sound like a reminder of everything that’s already happened, but maybe it is. Maybe it always will be. Seungcheol doesn’t respond right away, just breathes out slowly, his fingers curling into his palm.

When he speaks again, his voice is quiet. “I got an offer from Aston Martin,” He says, finally looking up at you. “For 2027. I don’t think I’ll take it.”

You can’t do anything but nod, slowly. It’s not relief, not exactly. Because you know him. You know how much he loves this, how racing is such a big part of him. And if there’s one thing about Seungcheol, it’s that he doesn’t just walk away from the things he loves that easily.

When you don’t say anything, he turns away before muttering, “Do you ever think about how it would’ve been if I never left? If I never started racing in the first place?”

You pause, taken aback. “No.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small, bitter smile on his lips when he glances at you, “No? Really?”

“No,” You assert again, “Because you were always going to leave. You were made for something bigger than all this—this mediocrity and this small-town life. This was never going to be enough for you and I’ve always known that, Cheol. Everyone does.”

Seungcheol looks like he wants to retort, but you continue speaking.

“And I never wanted it to be enough for you. Racing, that adrenaline, that feeling of winning—that is your sun, Seungcheol. You will forever revolve around it.  I can’t take that away from you and I have never wanted to.” You emphasize, looking into his eyes and hoping, pleading that he understands what you mean, “But I can’t leave with you either. I can’t live my life on flights and airports just to be with you, Seungcheol. My work, my life is equally as important to me. I have always, always loved you, but I can’t live like that.”

Seungcheol shakes his head, his voice coming out with an edge of desperation when he speaks. “I never wanted you to do any of that. I never wanted you to give up anything for me.”

“How else was it supposed to work, Cheol?” You let out softly, “It wasn’t like you were in a position where you could just get up and come on a whim either.”

He doesn’t reply, but you see the way his figure slumps slightly. You hate all the exhaustion that you’ve been feeling around each other lately. What are you even doing this for? You force yourself to think about what you want from this, from him.

Even though you don’t dare to admit it, you know. It’s always been the same answer. You want him. And it’s stupid. It’s so, so stupid. You’re the one who decided that it wasn’t going to work.

But what if it had? 

The thought lingers in your head. But there’s no point in thinking about that now. Even if Seungcheol still loves you, even if you decide to try again, what reassurance do the two of you have that it won’t end in the same way? 

You don’t even think about Seungcheol rejecting Aston’s offer. You know that it’s only him trying to convince himself. He will agree to it and you want him to. But what will it mean for the two of you?

—

Seungcheol doesn’t realize how much time has passed until he unlocks his phone to listen to a different playlist. His sleeves are rolled up, hands slightly dusty, and the room smells like old cardboard boxes.

He’d only planned to put away the clothes piled up on the chair in the corner of his room, but one thing leads to another and now he sits cross-legged on the floor of his room, with his closet half-emptied out. The floor is littered with old clothes, forgotten magazines and other things that he once thought he might need again.

Seungcheol grunts as he gets up, his numb legs making him stumble a little as he walks over to the last drawer in his closet. Just clean out this one and we’ll be done, he thinks, sliding it open and reaching in.

There’s a bunch of ticket stubs from concerts, two used passports, filled to the brim with stamps, worn because of years of constant travelling, and a bunch of receipts and paper clippings that Seungcheol should probably throw away. There’s one of his first career wins, some from his championships and some from his debut. He smiles with slight fondness before letting them drop onto the trash pile on the floor. Noticing one more, he tries to pull it out from the depths of the drawer only to realize that there’s something on top of it.

Seungcheol shoves his hand in further, but when his fingers touch the box, he freezes.

He knows what it is before he even pulls it out. He knows because he never threw it away. Never even considered it. Just stuffed it into the back of the drawer and left it there, like hiding it could make it mean any less.

His hand tightens around the edges of the box as he slowly walks back to the edge of his bed. The velvet is slightly worn now, its shine being dimmed by time and neglect, but it still feels just as heavy as it did the first time he held it. He knows he probably shouldn’t, but Seungcheol flips it open anyways.

The ring is exactly how he left it. Silver, simple, but deliberate. Something he picked out after months of indecision, after staring at a dozen options and thinking, No, not that one. Not yet. Until he found this—the one he could picture on your hand, the one that felt right.

Seungcheol runs his thumb over the navy blue, velvet lining.

It’s been over a year since he’d meant to give it to you. He had meant to ask. He’d meant for so many things to happen that never did.

Seungcheol had a plan. A future. A moment he thought would belong to you two for the rest of your lives. Now, he just sits, staring at something that never got the chance to be what it was supposed to be. 

He closes the box shut quickly, setting it onto his bed and shaking his head like it’ll push away the image of your hand with the ring on.

Seungcheol swallows hard. He doesn’t know how long he sits there, staring at it, caught between regret and mourning before his gaze finally shifts to the notebook on his desk.

For the first time in a long time, there’s no hesitation in his movements as he gets up from his bed with the box in hand and walks over to the desk. He keeps it, right next to his laptop, before grabbing the first pen he sees.

Hey. So.

I should’ve said this a long time ago. But I didn’t, and I’m sorry for that.

And I don’t know if it makes any difference now, if any of this still matters and if you’ll even finish reading this letter. Maybe you’ll see my handwriting on this, sigh and put it away. Wouldn’t be surprised if you threw it away, either.But if you’re still here and reading this, then I need you to know something.

I found the ring today. While cleaning my closet, I found it buried under old ticket stubs and some rubbish paper, stuffed into the back of my closet, untouched for over a year. I don’t know why I kept it. I don’t know why I never got rid of it. 

I had this entire plan to ask you once the season was over, during the winter break in 2024. I thought about it for months. Where I’d do it, what I’d say, whether you’d laugh at me for being so nervous. I had imagined a hundred different versions of it in my head—sometimes in a place that meant something to us, sometimes when you least expected it, sometimes in the middle of some ordinary moment, because you always made the ordinary feel like more. But well, by the time we reached December, we weren’t the same anymore.

I’m sorry if hearing this makes you uncomfortable, but when I found it today, it still felt like it belonged to you.

It’s strange, the things you think you’ve moved past, the things you tell yourself you’ve let go of. You move forward, you keep busy, you fill your days with schedules and noise and people who don’t look at you the way you used to. You convince yourself that you’re okay. That it’s just life. That this is how things were meant to be.

And then you find something like this—something small, something tangible, something that holds the weight of everything you never said—and it knocks the air out of you.

I used to think that no matter how many flights I had to take, no matter how many nights we spent apart, no matter how much we had to bend to fit into each other’s lives, we would make it. That as long as we loved each other, we could find a way.

But you knew better, didn’t you?

You always saw things more clearly than I did. You knew that love alone wasn’t going to be enough to hold us together, not when I kept asking you to meet me in the middle without realizing my middle was always shifting. Not when I couldn’t give you the things you needed and I swear—it was not because I didn’t want to, but because I didn’t know how to.

I should have told you that I never let you go without a fight because I wanted to. I walked away because I thought it was the only way we’d both get what we deserved. You always told me I never knew how to slow down. I used to laugh it off, but maybe you were right. Maybe I only realized it too late.

You deserved someone who could put you first. Someone who wouldn’t spend half the year in different countries, someone who didn’t come home exhausted and drained, someone who wasn’t constantly pushing you to adjust to his life without knowing how to meet you halfway.

And I don’t even know what I deserved. But I know what I wanted. I know what I still want.

You.

It’s always been you.

And I know that isn’t fair. It isn’t fair for me to say this now, after all this time, after we tried and tried and still fell apart anyway. But the truth is, I never stopped trying. Even when I convinced myself I had. Even when I told myself I was doing the right thing by staying away. So forgive me for being selfish.

I think about you more than I should. I think about you when I land in a city I know you’d love, when I hear a song that reminds me of you, when I open my phone and my first instinct is still to tell you something before I remember I can’t.

So here’s what I need you to know—what I should have told you then, what I should have promised you when I still had the chance.I won’t ask you to adjust to me anymore. I won’t ask you to bend, to compromise, to give up parts of your life just to fit into mine. I won’t expect you to be the one making all the sacrifices, the one who has to keep up with the way my life moves. If we try again—if you let me have this chance—I promise I will learn how to meet you where you are.

And if you’ve reached here, but still don’t think this is worth it, I won’t try to change your mind. I won’t ask you for something you don’t want to give. But if there’s still a part of you that trusts me, that thinks this could work, then tell me. I won’t ask for anything more than that. Because I don’t want to let this slip away without knowing if there’s still something left to hold on to.

I can’t promise that things will be perfect, that we won’t have to figure things out as we go. But I can promise that I’ll try. That I won’t let the things that pulled us apart be the same things that keep us from trying again. I don’t know where this leaves us. But if there’s something still left here, I want to figure it out with you.

Lastly, I did not write this letter because I was too scared or not sincere enough to say this to your face. I wrote it because I needed to get it right, because if I tried to say all of this out loud, I don’t know if it would come out the way I wanted it to. Maybe I’d fumble my words, maybe I’d get caught up in everything I’m feeling and forget half of what I need to say. But this is everything, exactly as I mean it.

I’m sorry, I love you.

Seungcheol.

You read the letter once, twice, thrice, sitting down on the floor of your room. 

The first time, it doesn’t fully sink in. The second time, your eyes catch on certain words—the ring, I never stopped trying, I love you. By the third, you realize your fingers are gripping the pages too tightly, creasing the paper in places you shouldn’t.

You inhale, slow and shaky.

You should have expected this—you don’t know why, but you should have. Seungcheol was never the kind of person to leave things half-finished. He always had something to say, always had one more thing left in him, and now, even after everything, even after all this time, he’s still here. Still reaching for you in the only way he knows how.

The truth is—you believe him.

You believe that every word on this page is real, that he isn’t saying this just to pull you back into something fleeting. You believe that when he says he’ll meet you where you are, he means it. That when he asks if there’s still something left to hold on to, he’s not asking out of desperation—he’s asking because he’s ready to try.

And you trust him. 

The thought doesn’t surprise you much. You always have. Even when things fell apart, even when you told yourself it was better this way, even when you tried to move forward without looking back.

But now?

Now, he’s standing at the other end of the bridge, waiting. And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re the only one crossing it.

Your hands tremble slightly as you fold the letter along its creases. You stare at it for a little longer as if the words might change. As if you haven’t already memorized them.

But nothing changes. And deep down, you know—you don’t need to read it again. You already have your answer.

You inhale sharply, then push yourself up from the floor, legs stiff from sitting too long. Your head feels heavy, maybe from the lack of sleep, or from the toll this has been taking on you. But as you grab your keys from the kitchen counter downstairs, you realize you feel lighter than you have in a very, very long time. You’re sick of being uncertain, of hesitating.

So you open the door, step outside, and let yourself believe.

—

Seungcheol hears the knock, quiet but firm.

It’s late—too late for visitors. Still, he moves.

When he opens the door, he doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s you and for a moment, he’s surprised that you’re already here.

You stand there, breathing a little hard, arms wrapped around yourself like you only just realized how cold it is. No jacket, no hoodie, nothing but the clothes you must’ve been wearing at home. Like you didn’t even think before coming here.

And in your hand, his letter.

Neither of you speak.

Your fingers press into the paper, grip just tight enough to crumple it. The porch light flickers slightly, your eyes flitting to it quickly, before they settle back on him.

Seungcheol holds his breath and steps aside wordlessy to let you in.

You step inside without a word, the warmth of his house settling over you the moment the door clicks shut behind you. It should be a relief after the bite of the cold, but it isn’t—it barely registers.

Because Seungcheol is right there.

Close enough that you can hear his breathing, see the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He doesn’t say anything—not yet. He just watches you, gaze flickering from your face to the letter still clutched in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you move.

The silence isn’t unfamiliar. You’ve had silences like this before, the kind that stretched between phone calls, between airports, between too many things left unsaid. But this one is different. This one is hopeful—you can sense it.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the letter before you finally hold it out to him.

“I read it,” you say, your voice quieter than you expected.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing as he glances at the paper, then back at you.

He doesn’t ask what you think or demand an answer. He just waits. It’s something new, this patience of his, and it makes your heart twist in your chest. Your fingers finally let the letter slip from your grasp, setting it down beside you without looking away from him.

"You meant all of it?" Your voice is quieter than you expect, calmer than you feel.

Seungcheol swallows, his throat bobbing slightly. “Yeah,” he says, “I meant all of it.”

You nod, shifting slightly on your feet. The warmth of his house is pressing into your skin now, but it’s not the heat from the room that’s making your heart spike—it’s him. It always has been. It’s the way he’s looking at you, careful but so open, like he’s letting you see everything without saying a single word.

And the truth is, you already know.

You’ve always known.

The realization settles over you, sinks its teeth into your skin, and for once, you let it.

You step forward, closing the space between the two of you, hesitating only for a split second before reaching for him, locking your hands behind his back. It’s instinct more than anything else, something your body remembers even if your heart has spent so long pretending to forget.

Seungcheol stiffens—you can feel it. But before you can pull away, his arms come up to encircle your waist, warm and familiar. 

You don’t know how long you stay like that, but it’s long enough for the tension to slip from your body, for his hand to smooth over the curve of your back, for the ache in your chest to settle into something more subdued. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, his breath fanning against the side of your face as he holds you like he’s afraid to let go.

And then, slowly, carefully, you pull back just enough to look at him.

His arms stay where they are, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s afraid to let go.

His gaze flickers down, just briefly, before finding yours again.

You lean in first, but Seungcheol’s quick to meet you down, half-way.

He reacts immediately, like he’d been waiting for this—for you. His hands tighten on your waist, his breath stuttering for just a moment before he kisses you back, like he’s trying to make up for every second he lost.

His fingers slide up to cup your face, tilting your head just right, pulling you closer. You let him, let yourself get lost in it, in him, in the way he still kisses you like he knows you, like he’s never forgotten what you like, what makes you sigh against his lips, what makes you grip onto him just a little tighter.

And then, slowly, the urgency fades.

His thumb brushes against your cheek, your fingers relax where they’ve been fisted in his shirt, and for a moment, all you can hear is the quiet sound of your breathing mixing in the space between you.

When you finally pull back, it isn’t all at once. Your lips part, but your foreheads stay pressed together, noses barely grazing. Seungcheol exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself.

Your fingers loosen where they’d been clutching his shirt, but instead of pulling away completely, his hand finds yours. You let his fingers slip and tighten between yours, a small, relieved sigh leaving your lips.

Eventually, Seungcheol leans back slightly, but he doesn’t let go.

He exhales, then nods toward the couch. “C’mere.”

You glance at it before looking at him again. He probably sees a sliver of hesitation, but it’s not because you don’t want to. Rather because it feels surreal, too easy after everything. But then his fingers squeeze yours, just barely, and it’s enough.

So you go.

You settle beside him, not pressed together, not too far apart—just close enough. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and absentminded, like it’s second nature. It is, you suppose. It’s surprisingly easy to slip back into old habits after trying so long to ignore and forget them.

“You’re freezing,” Seungcheol murmurs after a beat, squeezing your hand lightly.

You hum, shifting a little to get comfortable. “I kind of didn’t think too much after I read the letter and just, well, came.”

Your gaze flickers to the coffee table, where a motorsport magazine sits at the top of a messy stack. The cover is creased, the pages slightly bent from being flipped through too often.

“You’ve been keeping up?” you ask.

Seungcheol follows your gaze before sighing, almost guiltily. “I tried not to.” He pauses before slowly wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t really work.”

You know how it feels. You never stopped watching his races either, even when you tried so hard to convince yourself that it was possible.

“Have you decided yet?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what you mean. He breathes in deeply, tilting his head back against the couch.

“I told myself I wouldn’t take it.” Seungcheol says it with a sense of fake surety. He may believe it now. 

But sometimes you know him better than he knows himself. You know that Seungcheol has always had that fire in him. The burn to win, to be bigger, better. That ambition that you once respected, still do, but the same one that’s torn the two of you apart. The worst thing is that it is not something that can be dampened out. You can see it in his eyes, even now. His body is on a break, but you know that Aston offer has been running in his mind. Once you get addicted to that adrenaline, to that feeling of being the fastest person in the world, you can’t ever let it go. And Seungcheol isn’t anywhere close to being done. You know it.

And it hurts. Just a little, because you know he is about to leave again. Even before he’s made his decision, you know. But you have always loved Seungcheol and racing has been a part of his life almost as long as you have. You cannot take that away from him. You won’t. He belongs there, on track, in a car, fighting for his dreams and proving his worth.

You can only hope that he belongs here too, beside you on his couch, fingers running through your hair as he hums an old song under his breath.

But it’s about time you take that leap of faith again, and something tells you that you won’t fall down and scrape your knees this time.

The first time Seungkwan notices that something’s off, it’s on the late night coffee run that he drags the two of you to. 

Initially, he’d only meant to call you since you’re the only one who’d even come. So it surprises him to see Seungcheol behind you when you open your front door. Seungkwan doesn’t think much of it. Maybe he’s just here to give you something, or help you with something. Maybe there was a bug in your room and you yelled for him to come over and kill it. You do that sometimes. 

What other logical explanation would you have for him to be in your house past 10?

So thus, Mister Muscle ends up coming with you two, too.

In the convenience store, the cashier barely raises his head to look up at you guys, the glass door swinging shut behind you. Seungkwan heads straight for the coffee dispenser, mind running through all the tasks that he needs to complete before this week ends. File that report, write an email regarding missing documents from the 5th floor. Ask for an increase in vacation days. He needs to fix that printer tomorrow morning.

He notices you and Seungcheol move in sync without a word, making your way to the refrigerated drinks. He doesn’t follow immediately, and only watches for a few seconds as you pick out different drinks.

The store’s window seats are empty, so you slide into one, Seungkwan and Seungcheol taking the spots beside you. The glass reflects the neon signs outside, a soft glow spilling onto the counter in front of you.

Seungkwan tears open a protein bar, already mid-rant about something, while you set your drink down with a quiet thud, a mildly disgusted expression on your face.

Without a word, you reach for Seungcheol’s bottle instead.

You take it from his hand, twist the cap, and drink.

Seungcheol doesn’t react. Like it’s nothing, he just picks up your iced tea and takes a sip, barely glancing your way.

Seungkwan stops mid-chew.

Since when did you two start getting along so well? 

As the two of you look at him, expecting him to continue his rant, he convinces himself that it’s for the better anyway. At least some things are coming back to normal.

The second time, Seungkwan’s too sleepy to care at first.

He breathes out as he steps outside, barely awake, iced coffee in his hands but not doing much yet. His morning routine is automatic—walk out, wave to you, go to work. No thinking required.

But today, when he looks up toward your driveway, Seungcheol is there.

Seungkwan blinks, rubbing his eyes like maybe he’s still dreaming. But no, you’re definitely there, your metal water bottle in hand, listening to Seungcheol say something with that too-casual, too-familiar ease.

Seungkwan slows his steps.

You shift your bag higher up your shoulder. Seungcheol tilts his head slightly. 

Maybe Seungkwan’s still sleepy and bleary eyed, because for a second he swears he sees Seungcheol lean down to you. He also thinks you don’t move away either.

What was that?

And then it’s gone.

By the time Seungkwan gets close enough, you’re stepping back, tucking your keys into your pocket, like nothing just happened.

Seungcheol shakes his head, stretches his arms overhead like he’s just waking up, and steps away from the car when you finally notice him.

Seungkwan thinks you wave a little over-enthusiastically at 8 in the morning. Maybe you just slept well.

The third time, it’s at Jihoon’s house, just a casual hangout. The man had been isolating himself in his studio all week, and Seungkwan had thought that it was about time he came out of his hibernation.

Seungkwan sits cross-legged on the floor, next to the coffee table, searching for movies to play tonight. But when he looks up at you, his eyes narrow in on the way you and Seungcheol sit, way too close to each other when there’s so much space around you two.

It’s not even the way your legs bump every few minutes, or the quiet conversations you have that seem just a little too easy for two people who supposedly haven’t been together in a year.

Seungkwan finally begins to understand when he catches Seungcheol reaching for your hand. It’s so casual and normal that he doesn’t even think anything of it at first. It’s only when you glance up at him, after he fixes the bracelet on your hand that’s about to fall off, that he realizes.

It’s not a surprised glance, not a startled reaction, just a look that lingers. Like this isn’t the first time, like it won’t be the last.

And then, you smile.

It’s small, just barely there, but undeniably fond. Soft around the edges in a way that doesn’t belong to people still figuring things out.

And Seungcheol smiles back.

Seungkwan’s jaw drops slightly before he forces himself to tear his gaze away, feeling like he’s intruded on something very personal to them. He turns to look at Jihoon beside him, who only shakes his head, a small grin on his face.

“You knew?” Seungkwan asks, incredulously.

Jihoon doesn’t even look at him. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out. Maybe you’re just a little dense.”

Seungkwan glares at him before turning his attention to you.

“Are you two back together again?”

“Yeah.” The answer comes out instantly, almost nonchalantly too. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just the simple truth, spoken like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Seungkwan blinks.

Jihoon huffs out a quiet laugh beside him, shaking his head like he saw this coming from a mile away.

He’s spent weeks piecing things together—watching, observing, feeling like he’s uncovering the fact that you two are starting to act lovey-dovey again—only to find out that you two have actually been back together this whole damn time?

He sighs sharply, rolling his eyes at the couple before turning to Jihoon again.

“So this is why you didn’t tell me.” Seungkwan swats his shoulder, “Pay up.”

Jihoon only sighs loudly, reaching into his pocket to pull out a neatly folded bill before wordlessly handing it over.

Seungkwan snatches it and shoves it into his own pocket.

“Thank you,” he says, voice smug.

You blink. “Wait—what?”

Seungkwan hums, crossing his arms pettily before leaning back into the sofa. “We bet on how long it would take you two to get back together.”

Your mouth falls open. “You bet on us?”

“Of course we did,” Jihoon mutters.

Seungcheol tilts his head, amused. “How long did you say?”

“Three months,” Jihoon answers.

Seungkwan scoffs, smug. “I said two.”

You fold your arms. “Wow. Love the faith you guys had in us.”

Jihoon shrugs. “You’re both kind of predictable.”

—

The house is quiet, the kitchen warm with the scent of food as you move around it together. It’s late, but neither of you are in a hurry.

Seungcheol stands behind you, arms locked at your waist. His breath on your neck makes you squirm a little, a small laugh leaving your lips. You twist in his grip, just enough to face him, and suddenly, you’re close.

Too close—the kind where your noses brush, soft and fleeting, as he tilts his head slightly.

Your breath catches for half a second, but Seungcheol just smiles, his arms pulling you in a little more. “What?” he murmurs, voice low, teasing.

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, nudging your nose against his in retaliation. “Can you just let me grab the plates in peace?”

He laughs—a warm, hearty sound—his forehead pressing lightly against yours. “I don’t really think you mind.”

Your fingers find their way around his neck before you even think about it, elbows resting lightly against his shoulders. Seungcheol hums and for a second, you think he’s about to kiss you when—

The front door unlocks.

Your stomach drops. Seungcheol’s arms fall away instantly, the warmth of his touch lingering even as you take a hurried step back.

“Oh.”

Your mom stands in the doorway, suitcase in hand, her brows lifting slightly as she takes in the sight of you both.

“Oh,” you echo, your voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Your dad steps in behind her, glancing up just in time to see the two of you standing too close, looking entirely too guilty. He blinks, his gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol, expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, he nods. “Huh.”

Seungcheol clears his throat, visibly struggling for words, one hand awkwardly scratching the back of his neck while the other hangs uselessly at his side.

You, on the other hand, want the earth to swallow you whole.

“Welcome back!” you blurt out, voice strained. “You’re early!”

Your mom eyes you suspiciously before turning to Seungcheol. “Yes, well, we caught an early flight. Didn’t realize you’d be here too, sweetheart.”

Seungcheol, to his credit, doesn’t completely crumble under pressure. He musters up a sheepish smile. “Just—uh—helping out.”

Your mom’s expression softens almost immediately, her eyes flickering between the two of you before she exhales, a small, knowing smile forming on her lips.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs, setting her suitcase down. “It’s good to see you both like this again.”

Your breath catches slightly, throat tightening at the gentle relief in her voice. Beside you, Seungcheol shifts, his shoulders relaxing,

Your father doesn’t say much. He only claps Seungcheol on the shoulder as he moves past you two with the suitcases. But as he walks ahead, his voice drifts back to you, muttering under his breath.

“Who was it that said two months? Was it Jihoon or Seungkwan? Gotta pay them now, damn it…”

Seungcheol freezes. You blink.

What?

Your mom sighs, following after him like this is a normal conversation. “You can just be happy for them, you know.”

“I am happy,” your dad grumbles. “I just thought I had more time before I had to hand over the money. Those silly boys roped me into their bet.”

Seungcheol presses his lips together, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“Why has everyone been betting on us?” You exclaim, throwing your hands up as you turn to your father.

“Because it’s only ever been a matter of time when it comes to you two,” He sighs, shaking his head at the two of you as he disappears into his room.

You gape at his exiting figure, before dragging a palm over your face. “This is fucking insane.”

Seungcheol almost snorts, stepping away when you try to swat him.

Seungcheol is stretched out on the couch, one arm tucked behind his head, the other holding his phone at an angle. You’re sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, skimming through something on your laptop, barely paying attention to anything beyond the soft hum of the heater and the occasional click of your keyboard.

It isn’t until the familiar sound of engines fills the quiet that you glance up.

His phone screen reflects off his face, but from this angle, you can’t see what he’s watching.

“Has testing begun?” You question, standing up to walk over to him.

Seungcheol grunts a little as he pushes himself up to make space for you, holding his phone out so that you can see too. He nods as you sit beside him, leaning into you as his eyes stay fixed on the screen.

You watch him, a little carefully. Seungcheol’s brows are furrowed in concentration and his eyes flick across, analyzing, checking. His fingers tighten around his phone slightly, his jaw set in focus. Every so often, his thumb taps idly against the side of the device, a habit he’s never really shaken. His eyes flicker across the screen, sharp and intent, following the cars as if he’s trying to place himself back in the cockpit.

You hum softly, resting your chin against your knee. “You’re still keeping up with everything?”

Seungcheol exhales through his nose, finally leaning back against the couch. “Not really,” he says, but the way he doesn’t look at you makes it feel like a lie.

You don’t push, just let the moment pass as another driver’s onboard appears on screen.

“That car looks good,” he mutters, nodding toward one of them on screen. “Stable through the high-speed corners, barely any correction on exit.”

You blink, glancing at the timing bar. “Williams?”

He scoffs. “Yeah. But you can’t trust anything yet.”

“Sandbagging?” you guess.

“Mhm.” Seungcheol nods. “The bigger teams always run heavy in testing, low power mode. You won’t know their real pace until the first race.”

You glance back at the screen, watching as another car rolls into frame—this time, a deep green, with a small rake of aero sensors still attached to the side.

You hesitate for only a second before saying, “What do you think about them?”

Seungcheol doesn’t react immediately. He watches for a few more seconds, his expression unreadable, before he breathes in deeply.

“You never know,” he murmurs. “It’s just testing.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Neither do you.

Instead, you think of the meeting you had yesterday, the offer sitting in your inbox—marked as important.

—

You don’t expect to see Seungcheol outside at 8 A.M. when you close your front door behind you and make your way to the driveway to go to work.

But there he is—standing by his driveway, shaking out his damp hair, dressed in a hoodie unzipped over a sweat-soaked shirt. There’s a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his gym shoes still on, like he just got back.

Your fingers pause over your keys. It’s early. Not too early for you, but early enough that he shouldn’t be up unless he had somewhere to be.

Seungcheol spots you almost immediately. His face shifts into something easy, something warm, as he steps closer.

“Morning,” he says, his voice still a little rough from the cold air.

You glance at him. “You’ve been out?”

He hums, nodding as he adjusts the strap of his bag. “Yeah. Gym.”

Your brows furrow slightly. “At this hour?”

Seungcheol grins, leaning in to press a quick, fleeting kiss to your lips before you can say anything else. But when he pulls back, you’re still looking at him, eyes narrowed.

“How long have you been up?”

He sighs like he already knows what’s coming, before tilting his head slightly. “Four?”

Your stare sharpens. “Seungcheol.”

He laughs, stepping back slightly, like he knows he’s caught. “What? I couldn’t sleep.”

You cross your arms, watching as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, fingers tapping absently against his duffel bag. He doesn’t look tired, but he doesn’t look at ease either. His body is still holding onto that restlessness that he hasn’t figured out how to shake.

“You’re working out a lot,” you say finally, voice careful.

Seungcheol shrugs. “It’s just habit.”

You watch the way his gaze shifts slightly, the way his shoulders tense.

And maybe you shouldn’t say it—at least, not yet. But the words slip out anyway.

“You aren’t used to not prepping hard around this time, are you?”

For the first time, his expression falters just slightly.

It’s quick—so quick that if you weren’t watching him this closely, you might have missed it. But it’s there. That brief flicker of something in his eyes, something unsure, something lost.

He exhales, looking away for half a second. “Yeah.”

You nod, watching him straighten up.

“But not this year,” you murmur.

Seungcheol tries brushing it off like it’s nothing. “Nope.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, carefully, you tilt your head. “And you’re okay with that?”

He doesn’t reply right away. It gives you the answer you needed. 

Deciding to put him out of his misery, you pipe up again, “Do you have any plans today?”

He laughs a little at that, “Yep. Busy schedule. I need to rot in bed, get out of my room, roam around the kitchen and go back in again until my girlfriend decides to come back home.”

You smile softly, before stepping closer, reaching up to fix a stray strand of hair sticking to his forehead. He stills for half a second before leaning into the touch, eyes flickering down to yours.

“I’ll see you when I get back, Cheol. I have something to talk to you about.” You admit as you step back.

He nods slowly, before motioning for you to get into your car. “Sure, I’ll see you then. Have fun at work!”

You shake your head as you shut the car door, putting on a sour expression. It makes him laugh, so you guess that’s half the mission accomplished for today.

—

You’re sitting cross-legged on your bed when Seungcheol walks in, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans against the doorframe, watching you with a smile.

“You never knock,” you mutter without looking up.

“You never lock your door,” he counters, stepping inside like he belongs there.

You huff out a small breath, shaking your head as he settles onto the bed beside you. He stretches his legs out, arms propped behind him, fingers tapping lightly against your blankets. He’s comfortable, always is when he’s here, but there’s something knowing in his gaze, like he’s been waiting for you to speak first.

Seungcheol tilts his head. “You look like you’re overthinking.”

You press your lips together before sighing. “Maybe.”

He hums. “Want to tell me what’s up, or should I start guessing?”

You hesitate, picking absently at a loose thread on your sleeve. No point in dragging it out.

“I got a job offer,” you say.

His brows lift slightly. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s in the UK.”

Seungcheol doesn’t react right away. His fingers still against the bed, but there’s no visible surprise—just a slow, careful inhale as he absorbs it.

“That’s big,” he says after a moment. His voice is steady, even. “A good one?”

You nod again. “Better position, bigger projects.”

He watches you for a second longer. “And?”

You sigh, leaning back against the headboard. “And… I don’t know.”

Seungcheol adjusts his position so he’s facing you fully now. “You don’t know what?”

“If I should take it,” you admit.

He tilts his head. “Do you want to?”

You hesitate, the words catching somewhere in your throat. Because it’s not that simple, is it?

Seungcheol must notice because he doesn’t say anything right away—just waits, gaze unwavering.

“It’s not just moving—it’s starting over. A new city, a new routine. Everything changes.” You pause. “Including us.”

Something flickers in his expression, but it’s gone too fast for you to catch.

Instead, he exhales, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

You blink at him. “You’re not going to tell me I’m overthinking?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “No. I mean, you are overthinking, but it’s a big decision. You should take your time.”

You purse your lips. “And what if I don’t know what the right choice is?”

Seungcheol tilts his head, considering. “Then you think about what scares you more—taking it, or not taking it.”

His words sink in slowly.

You chew on your lip. “What if both scare me?”

He smiles, just slightly. “Then you take the one that moves you forward.”

For a moment, you just look at him.

“You always make things sound so easy.”

Seungcheol sighs, lips quirking. “That’s because it is.”

You shake your head, but there’s a warmth in your chest, the feeling of being sure and unsure at the same time.

After a few moments of silence, carefully, you say, “It’s funny, though.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What is?”

“How things happen at the right time,” you murmur, eyes flickering to his. “Me getting this now. And you with the—” You cut yourself off, shrugging slightly.

“The what?” Seungcheol asks, casually. Too casually.

You sigh, slumping down onto the bed, beside him. “Come on, Cheol. Aston Martin. They're based there too. How long are you going to make them wait?”

He runs a hand through his hair, “This isn’t the same thing.”

“Is it not?” You hum, waiting, still patient.

“No. This is different. You got an actual offer.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what did Aston give you? A suggestion?”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

Seungcheol shuts his eyes close, breathing in deep. You know he doesn’t want to have this conversation now, but it hurts you to see him like this.

So you mutter, a little softer now, “How long are you going to pretend like you aren’t thinking about it?”

His gaze flicks to you at that, caught.

Seungcheol looks away. “It’s not about thinking about it. It’s about—” He stops, running a hand over his face. “It’s about if I even should.”

You’re not too surprised, but hearing it from him takes you aback for a second. Still, you don’t waver. “And what’s stopping you?”

“I don’t know,” He mumbles, quietly.

“Then try and figure it out, Cheol.” You say, still looking at him.

Seungcheol keeps quiet for a long minute before he sighs, a little reluctant. “What if I come back and I’m not good enough anymore?”

You shift closer, reaching out ,your hand settling over his. “Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t look up immediately, but he doesn’t pull away either.

“You know what I think?” you murmur.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly. “What?”

You squeeze his hand. “I think if you didn’t believe you could still do it, you wouldn’t be struggling with this so much.”

Seungcheol’s breathing comes out slower this time.

“You’ve been restless, working out like you’re still in pre-season,” you continue. “You follow testing, you analyze race strategy even when you pretend you’re just watching for fun.” You pause. “You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you to go back. But the only person who can make that choice is you.”

His jaw tightens slightly, like he knows you’re right but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I’m not saying it’ll be easy,” you add. “But I know you, Seungcheol. And you don’t walk away from things unless you know you’re done. And you know that you aren’t done with this. Are you?”

Finally, he looks at you.

Seungcheol’s throat bobs as he swallows. His fingers curl into the blankets, and when he finally exhales, it’s slow. Careful.

“No,” he says quietly.

You nod, like you knew this answer was coming. Because you did.

His fingers tighten around yours.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “I think I’ve always known.”

You smile, just slightly. “So what’s stopping you?”

Seungcheol exhales, but this time, he doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow, thoughtful. His gaze flickers downward. And when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter—more hesitant than before.

“…What about us?”

Your breath catches slightly, because you hadn’t expected him to ask that first.

He lifts his gaze back to yours, eyes searching. “If I do this,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be gone all the time again. I’ll be at the factory, traveling for races, testing. If I go back… I don’t want things to fall apart again.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Because he’s right.

If he does this, it’ll be different from before—but in some ways, it’ll be the same. He’ll be just as busy, maybe even more. And after everything you’ve been through, he’s scared that history will repeat itself.

You inhale slowly, squeezing his hand. “You’re thinking too far ahead,”

Seungcheol huffs out a quiet laugh. “Someone has to.”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always assume the worst?”

“I’m trying to be realistic.”

You pause, then gently, “Then be realistic about this, too. I don’t think we’re the same people we were back then, Cheol.”

His expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“We already lost each other once,” you continue. “We know what it feels like. And I don’t think either of us wants to go through that again.”

Seungcheol swallows. “No,” he says quietly. “We don’t.”

You nod, voice softer now. “Then we won’t.”

Seungcheol exhales slowly, then sits up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. For a moment, he just presses his palms against his knees, staring at the floor like he’s letting it all settle in. Then, with a slow breath, he nods.

You watch as he reaches for his phone, turning it over in his hands. His fingers hover over the screen for a second before he glances at you, something steadier in his gaze now.

“I should probably stop putting this off.”

You nod, lips curling slightly. “Yeah.”

He exhales, tapping at the screen, and just before he brings the phone to his ear, he glances at you one last time.

And this time, there’s no hesitation.

BAHRAIN, PRE-SEASON TESTING, DAY-1

February 25th, 2027

“CHOI SEUNGCHEOL RETURNS TO FORMULA 1 WITH ASTON MARTIN—SET TO WORK WITH ADRIAN NEWEY.”

After months of speculation, four-time world champion Seungcheol Choi is officially returning to Formula 1 with Aston Martin, marking one of the most highly anticipated comebacks in the sport’s recent history.

The Korean driver, who departed with Ferrari and stepped away from F1 following the 2025 season, will be rejoining the grid just as Aston Martin embarks on a new era of technical leadership under Adrian Newey. With Newey’s expertise in car development and Choi’s proven track record, expectations are already high for the team’s future.

“I’m excited for this next chapter,” Choi said in a statement. “Aston Martin has shown incredible ambition, and with Adrian on board, I have no doubt that we can build something special.”

His return raises questions about the competitive landscape of F1 moving forward, with Aston Martin aiming to challenge the front-runners in 2027. With pre-season testing in Bahrain starting today, all eyes will be on Choi as he steps back into the cockpit for the first time in over a year.

The Bahraini air is dry as usual, the morning sun bright across the paddock as the first day of testing begins. The garages are alive with movement—engineers making final checks, mechanics making last minute changes, cameras capturing every detail.

And at the center of it all, Seungcheol stands in Aston Martin’s green.

The suit fits like it always has. The gloves slide on without hesitation. When he pulls the balaclava over his head, it feels like no time has passed at all.

But it has.

He knows it. Everyone here knows it.

He breathes slowly as he steps toward the AMR27, sleek under the artificial lights of the garage. 

Seokmin crouches beside him, grinning like he’s been waiting for this day just as much as Seungcheol has.

“Well,” Seokmin says, knocking on his helmet lightly. “You look good in green.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head. “Better than red?”

Seokmin hums, pretending to think about it. “The red was iconic. Give it some time.”

Seungcheol laughs, the sound being muffled by his helmet.

A familiar voice crackles through his earpiece.

“Alright, Cheol, let’s get you out there.”

Seungcheol glances at his steering wheel, a small smile pulling at his lips. He knew this was happening, but still—it feels surreal to hear his old Ferrari race engineer, still here, still speaking to him over the radio. Adjusting to a new team has been challenging, but this makes it a little bit easier.

And then, his gaze shifts past the mechanics, past the flashing screens, toward the edge of the garage to where you’re standing—arms crossed, standing just outside the blur of engineers, watching him like you always have.

This is right.

This is where he’s supposed to be.

You tilt your head slightly, smiling just enough for him to catch it. It’s small, barely there, but he knows what it means.

Seungcheol lifts a gloved hand, throwing you a thumbs up. It makes you smile a little wider.

Seungcheol rolls the car out of the garage and into the end of the pit lane, engine idling as he waits for the session to go green.

To his left, the Red Bull pulls up.

Seungcheol glances over just as Haechan does the same. Two time world champion now. Let’s see if we can keep up.

Without hesitation, Haechan lifts a hand and gives him a small wave.

Simple and casual. A ‘Welcome back.’

The light flicks green.

Seungcheol exhales, nods once and pulls out onto the track.

tagging: @sojuxxi @the-vena-cava @cl41rsblog @coupsma @stupendouschildnerd @selenethings @yawnozone @syluslittlecrows @angelarin @ceruissleeping @smiileflower @minjiech @stwrlightt @archivistworld @livelaughloveseventeen @exomew @starshuas @fancypeacepersona @znzlii @gyuguys @luxmoonlight @reiofsuns2001 @blckorchidd @teddybeartaetae @ddeulgiabs-blog @kookiedesi

[kflixnet]

New to KFLIXNET: Check out our member Calli's fic!

OFF THE GRID PT.2

pairing: f1driver!scoups x ex!femreader

genre: angst, romance, exes to lovers au, childhood bestfriends / neighbours au

description: Part of the Beyond The Grid series Four-time world champion Choi Seungcheol has spent years at the top with Ferrari, but as the 2025 season drags on, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s not quite where he used to be. The competition is catching up, his team isn't what it used to be, and for the first time, he’s starting to wonder if he’s past his prime. By the time the season winds down, he finds himself back in his hometown, which isn't quite the same either. But the hardest race was never on track, and sooner or later, he’ll have to figure out what comes next.

warnings: strong language, stressful situations, descriptions of car crashes and physical exhaustion, f1 heavy

w/c: Part 1 - 14k Part 2 - 13k Part 3 - 19.5k (out on 20th april)

glossary taglist a/n: please don't hesitate to comment / reblog / leave an ask w your thoughts !! hope y'all like this too <3

HOME

You walk down to your driveway, car keys jangling around your finger. Across the street, you see Seungkwan nearly colliding with his own front door as he stumbles outside, yelling a rushed goodbye over his shoulder. His bag is half open, a half-eaten apple in one hand, keys barely hanging onto his fingers. It’s a mess, but a familiar one.

You scoff, shaking your head before calling out to him. “Hey! Why are you still here? Didn’t you say you had an early meeting today?”

He grumbles before biting into his apple. He takes a minute to swallow it while he throws his bag in the back seat of his car before he turns to you. 

“Do you really have to shove it in my face? I’m already late, stop bothering me!”

“You look like you’ll crash into the next tree you see,” You roll your eyes, “Do you need me to drop you off?”

Seungkwan shakes his head and is about to say something when a car pulls into the driveway next to yours. You turn towards it, getting ready to wish Seungcheol’s dad a good morning. Seungkwan probably waits for him to get out of the car too, seeing that he hasn’t driven off yet and stands next to his opened door.

“Good morning, uncle!” Both of you greet him at the same time, making him chuckle. He waves at the two of you before looking back into his car’s window.

“How come you were out driving so early?” You ask him as you wipe some of the snow left on your windscreen wiper. He lets out a sigh, tapping the roof of the car before turning to you.

“Had to pick a certain someone up from the airport.”

The car door opens, and Seungcheol steps out, stretching his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. His hair is a little messy, like he’s just woken up or spent too long resting against the window. He adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, blinking against the cold morning air. For a second, he pauses, glancing around the neighborhood like he’s reacquainting himself with it.

“What the actual fuck.” Seungkwan huffs out in disbelief, making Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He turns towards the voice to see the younger boy standing, one leg inside his car and one out, jaw hanging down. His gaze shifts towards you who’s equally surprised yet a little better at hiding it.

“I really need to get to work because I am criminally late for that meeting but I will talk to you later, Cheol.” He blinks before shutting the door.

Seungcheol’s dad pushes him towards you as Seungkwan turns his car on and drives off, not before yelling a warning for Seungcheol to fucking stay or I’ll find you. Seungcheol stumbles a little before coming to a stop in front of you.

You don’t know what to say to him, honestly. It hasn’t been long since the news of him leaving was announced, and right now as you look at him, it’s the only thing on your head. But you doubt he’d want you to ask about that, so you settle for something else.

“How come you’re here?”

He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, it’s my house. Why wouldn’t I be here?”

You roll your eyes, “Gee, thanks. Thought it was mine.”

“It should be,” His dad huffs as he pulls out a suitcase from the boot, “You’re here more than him. It’s like you’re our child.”

Seungcheol scoffs, scooting over to his dad to take the bags from his hand, “I’ll keep them myself.”

His dad gives him a look but lets go of the suitcase, clapping a hand over Seungcheol’s shoulder before heading inside. The front door swings shut behind him, leaving just the two of you standing there in the cold.

Seungcheol shifts one of his bag higher up his shoulder, eyes flicking toward you before he exhales, watching the cloud of his breath disappear into the air. “You’re up early.”

“No I’m not,” You raise your eyebrows, “I usually have work around this time.”

“I know that,” He rolls his eyes, “I was just trying to make conversation, but whatever, I guess.”

“Why are you back so soon?” You ask, kicking snow at his suitcase. It makes him hiss in annoyance. You try to hide the way your lips curve up.

“I don’t have much to do, so I thought I’d grace this town with my presence.”

“Sure.” You hum, “Well, I’m off.” 

Seungcheol almost stops you. Do you want me to drive you there? The words sit on his tongue, ready to jump out any moment. But he holds it in.

Instead, he watches as you step toward your car, keys twirling around your finger. You don’t hesitate, don’t turn back, just reach for the door handle like this is nothing, like he hasn’t been gone, like this isn’t the first time you’ve stood in front of each other in months.

You pull the door open and pause, just for a moment. “I’ll see you later, Cheol.”

And then you’re gone, leaving him standing there, hands tightening around the handle of his suitcase. He stands there for a second too long, the cold air creeping into his jacket, before finally turning toward the house.

The front door creaks when he pushes it open. It always has. The house smells the same too,faint traces of his mother’s morning tea, the sharp bite of the winter air sneaking in through the open window. Nothing’s changed.

His dad is already in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge like he has something more important to do than acknowledge his son who just came home. His mom isn’t here, probably out running errands. Seungcheol’s brother, nowhere in sight.

Fine. He drags his suitcase over the tiles, the wheels thudding over the uneven floorboards. He should take it upstairs, put everything away, but instead, he stops at the couch.

The blanket draped over the armrest isn’t any of theirs. The corner of the right armrest, dented from years of picking at it, welcomes him, and before he can think too much about the person who owns this spot, he sighs, dropping his bag beside the couch before collapsing onto it, leaning his head back against the cushions. For a second, he closes his eyes. He knows he won’t sleep, but God, that flight was exhausting.

His dad clears his throat, finally speaking, “You hungry?”

It’s a simple question, but Seungcheol can sense the hesitation in it. The elephant in the room hasn’t been addressed yet, and honestly, he doesn’t feel like talking about it right now. So he ignores it.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“You ate on the flight?”

“Yeah,” He breathes out, kicking his legs up onto the sofa, “Was shit, but I’m full anyways.”

His dad hums in response, “Mum’s next door. Went to give something, but she’ll be back in a few minutes. You can go freshen up.”

Seungcheol nods and then realizes that his dad’s probably not looking his way right now, “Fine. I’ll go in a second.”

He leans back against the couch. The blanket still smells faintly of you.

—

Seungcheol spends most of the day drifting between the couch and his room, ignoring the unopened suitcase by the door, ignoring his phone, ignoring the weight of being home again.

It’s only when the sun has set, the house quieter than before, that there’s a knock at his door, soft, but firm, before it creaks open.

His mom steps inside, hands on her hips. "Are you planning to hide in here all night?"

He mumbles, rolling onto his side. "Not hiding."

"Mhm." She doesn’t sound convinced.

She takes a few steps in, eyeing the room. It looks almost exactly the same as when he left it. Same shelves, same framed photos, same forgotten belongings that no one had the heart to pack away. But there are little changes, things he wouldn’t have noticed before. A new lamp on the nightstand. An extra blanket folded at the foot of his bed.

"You should’ve told me you were coming.”

He lets out a quiet breath, turning his head toward her. "Didn’t think I needed to send out a press release."

She scoffs. "Maybe not, but at least let your mother know before you already arrive at the airport.” She studies him for a second, tilting her head. "Have you been eating properly?"

"Here we go," he groans, running a hand down his face.

"I’m serious, Cheol!" She moves to sit at the edge of his bed, reaching out to brush his hair back like she used to when he was younger. "You’ve lost weight."

"I haven’t," he grumbles, but she’s already pinching his cheek like he’s sixteen again.

"See? You’re all skin and bones. Do they not feed you? Must I argue with Seokmin to give you a diet that doesn’t consist of eating nothing"

"Not this again," he mumbles, trying to pull away, “Ma, I eat what I’m supposed to eat. I’m an athlete, come on. I’m fit.”

She exhales dramatically, shaking her head. "You get a little older and suddenly think you don’t need your mom fussing over you anymore. Unbelievable."

"Yes, well, I’m thirty and-"

"You need to eat properly, sleep more, and stop frowning so much. Look at those dark circles-"

Seungcheol groans, flopping back onto his bed. "Okay, okay, I get it! I’ll eat. I’ll sleep. Happy?"

His mom chuckles, patting his leg. "I’ll be happy when you actually do it."

He grumbles before turning away from her, making her pinch his side. Seungcheol protests with a loud yelp, but if feels nice to be here, to have someone fawning over him. He’s missed this comfort.

She sighs, softer this time. "It’s good to have you home."

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah," he says, even though he’s not sure if he means it.

Before she can pick something else to tease him about, a faint flicker of light flashes against the wall.

Then another.

His mom glances toward the window, then back at him, lips twitching. "Looks like someone’s waiting for you."

Seungcheol groans, rubbing a hand over his face before turning toward the window. He already knows what he’s going to see.

"Of course they are," he mutters.

She chuckles, standing up. "Some things never change."

"They should," he mumbles, but he still gets up anyway, shoving his hands into his hoodie pocket as he heads for the door.

His mom follows him out into the hallway, watching as he makes his way downstairs. "Be nice to them, Cheol."

He pauses on the last step, glancing back at her. "I am nice."

She raises an eyebrow.

He scoffs. "I can be nice."

She snorts, waving him off. "Hurry up before they blind the whole street. And ask them if they want to come over for dinner!"

Seungcheol shakes his head, a small smile on his face as he opens the front door, stepping out onto his porch.

“Look. It’s the king. The lion. He’s decided to grace us with his presence.” Seungkwan announces. Seungcheol sees you trying to suppress the laugh bubbling through your throat and rolls his eyes as he crosses the road, hands in his pocket, stepping onto Seungkwan’s lawn.

Seungkwan gasps dramatically, “Wow. My timing was so perfect. I literally mowed the lawn yesterday, so now Your Highness, thou can place thy sacred feet on it.”

“How about my sacred feet kick you in the face.” Seungcheol hisses, kicking his foot up. Seungkwan dodges, but it makes him laugh anyways.

You shake your head, lips twitching as you glance away, while Seungcheol just exhales, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "You done?"

"Not even close," Seungkwan says, tossing his flashlight into the air before catching it again. "I mean, I get it. Who wouldn’t want to trade this boring town for the glitz and glamour of Monaco, Milan, Maranello-" His tone turns pointed on the last word, eyebrows raising ever so slightly.

Seungcheol shifts, rocking back on his heels. "It’s not like I haven’t been back."

Seungkwan scoffs. "Oh, yeah, the wedding. A whole weekend of your presence. How generous."

“Oh yes, I should’ve skipped the race that I was supposed to drive in and spend time with you, since you missed me so much.”

The latter rolls his eyes, “Okay. What about the last winter break?”

Seungcheol stills at that. His glance flickers over to you, but you’ve already been looking away, hands stuffed in your jacket’s pockets as you stare at the floor, silently kicking Seungkwan’s shoes.

“Come on. Can you stop battering me already? My mum’s invited the two of you for dinner. Where’s Jihoon?” He clears his throat, frowning at Seungkwan.

You pipe up at his mention, “He’s on a business trip, probably coming back in a day or two.”

Seungkwan nods before punching Seungcheol’s shoulder playfully, “You said your mum’s invited us to dinner? I’m free.” He looks at you.

You stare back at him, glaring daggers before looking at Seungcheol, a little unsure. You’ve never hesitated to hang around at his parents’ house despite the history between you two, because you’ve known them your whole lives and because they’d convinced you that breaking up with their son did not make you any less of the daughter they never had. But with Seungcheol there, it’s different. He might not want you to be around. You’d understand.

Instead, he simply shrugs, “Are you just going to stand here? Don’t think you’re very busy either.”

You nod, making Seungkwan loop his arm into yours before he drags you across the road. You hear the little laugh Seungcheol lets out as he jogs up behind you two.

“Just so you know, I was here last night too.” Seungkwan sticks his tongue out, “Pretending to ask you was just an act. At this point, the rest of us are more familiar faces here than you are.”

“I don’t return for one year and suddenly all traces of me have apparently been erased.”

“Hell yeah, you’re quite replaceable, you know?”

Seungkwan says it playfully. He doesn’t mean it, Seungcheol knows he doesn’t. But it still hits a sore spot. His grip on the house keys slackens, just for a second, unnoticeable to anyone but him.

“Have you come home just to sit in your room all day and laze around?” Seungho asks as he leans against Seungcheol's opened door. 

“Leave me alone.” Seungcheol sighs, facing away from him, eyes glued to his phone.

“Man, you're going to fucking rot in here. Get out.” 

Seungcheol doesn’t even look up from his phone. “I am out.”

Seungho scoffs from the doorway. “Right. Sitting in a dark room all day like some washed-up, retired athlete totally counts.”

Seungcheol finally turns his head, glaring. “You’re so encouraging.”

His brother doesn’t even blink. “Not my job to encourage you. Just here to remind you that you look like shit.”

Seungcheol sighs, tossing his phone onto the bed beside him. “And you’re doing a great job. Can I rot in peace now?”

Seungho doesn’t respond right away. He just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes studying him.

"You know," he says after a moment, voice quieter now, "Mom and Dad are actually worried."

Seungcheol exhales, rubbing his face. “They don’t need to be.”

“Well, they are.” Seungho tilts his head. “And so am I. I literally came here as soon as I got off work.”

Seungcheol looks up at him then, eyebrows furrowed. Seungho isn’t usually like this. He’s blunt, sure. Always has been. But he doesn’t usually say things like that.

Seungho sighs, running a hand over his face. “Look, I get it. This is a lot. But you’re acting like your entire life just…ended. Like there’s nothing left.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw, looking away.

Seungho doesn’t stop. “You’ve barely left your room. You won’t even talk to anyone. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you want to disappear.”

Seungcheol exhales sharply through his nose. "Well, good news, I already did.”

Seungho scoffs. “You think locking yourself in here is going to help?”

Seungcheol presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, shoulders tense. “I don’t know. I just—” He cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

Seungho clicks his tongue, staring at him for a second. Then, finally, he mutters something and pushes off the doorframe. Seungcheol hears his footsteps down the stairs and closes his eyes again, sinking deeper into his pillow.

The palm of your hands burn from the heat as you place the paper bag down on the kitchen counter. Seungcheol’s mom peeps into it, shaking her head with a smile.

“Mum said she made too much. She saw Seungho’s car in the driveway and thought she’ll send some over since both the boys are here,” You giggle as she ruffles your hair.

“Well, she always makes too much, doesn’t she?”

“Don’t tell her I told you this, but I’m pretty sure your kids were just an excuse,” You lean in closer, “She definitely made more because she knows it’s your favourite.”

It makes her laugh out loud, clapping your shoulder affectionately before she takes the boxes out, blowing at the tips of her fingers after setting it down. As she moves around the kitchen, you notice the small sigh she lets out, a quiet, tired thing, like something’s been sitting on her chest all day.

You tilt your head. “You okay, Auntie?”

She pauses, before plastering a smile back on her face. “Oh, it’s nothing.”

You don’t buy it.

“Come on,” you say, leaning against the counter. “What’s wrong?”

She huffs out a laugh, but then, instead of brushing it off, she glances toward the staircase, voice softening.

“It’s Seungcheol.”

Your breath stills for a moment.

“He’s barely left his room since he got back,” she continues, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Won’t go out, won’t talk to anyone, just sits up there all day doing God knows what.”

You swallow. “…He’s been like that the whole time?”

She nods, lips pressing together. “His dad and Seungho have tried, but you know how he is.” A pause. Then, gently, “Maybe he just needs the right person to talk to him.”

You stare at her, a pleading look on your face. You knew this was going to happen. You knew the moment you stepped into this house that his mom would ask you this. And still, hearing it makes you want to run right back out.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as she walks around to stand next to you, both hands on your shoulders, “Auntie, please, no-”

“Honey, he’ll listen to you. You don’t have to talk to him too much. Just try to bring him out. Please?” She pouts, tilting her head at you.

You look away from her, knowing that if you don’t, you’ll end up agreeing. It’s futile anyway because it’s like you’ve already agreed by just coming here.

“He might not even want to talk to me,” You argue weakly.

“Oh!” She waves, dismissing the thought, “You’re still his best friend. He’ll still care about what you say.”

There’s every reason to say no. It’s going to be awkward, difficult, and messy. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to him. It was easiest at the wedding because you didn’t think you’d have to be around him for more than a few hours. It was easier that night because Seungkwan was there to fill in the gaps between you two. What will you do now?

But there’s another part of you, the part that has known Seungcheol your whole life, that has spent years learning every stubborn, impossible part of him, that knows he won’t come out of this on his own.

And so, after a long pause, you nod.

"Alright," you murmur. "I’ll try."

She squeezes your hand in thanks, offering a small, grateful smile before turning back to the food.

You push off the counter, inhaling deeply as you make your way toward the stairs.

This is going to be a mistake.

But you climb the steps anyway.

The hallway is quiet. His door is shut. You lift your hand to knock, and pause. What if he really doesn’t want to see you? What if he tells you to leave?

You shake the thought away and finally knock.

"Cheol?"

Silence.

You wait for a few more seconds before gently pushing the door open.

He’s lying on his bed, blanket pulled over his head, face turned away.

"Your mom told me to come up," you say, stepping inside. "She wanted me to check if you’re still alive."

Seungcheol voice comes out muffled. "Unfortunately."

You don’t laugh. You don’t even roll your eyes. Instead, you cross your arms.

"Come on. Get up."

He groans. "Not now."

"Yes, now."

"Why?"

You reach for the switchboard to turn on the lights. "Because if you don’t, your mom is going to start guilt tripping me instead."

Seungcheol peeks at you from under his arm. “Sucks for you, then.”

You don’t move. "Seungcheol."

He knows that tone.

And yet, he still tries. “Just let me-”

"No." Your voice is firmer now, something final in it. "You’ve been sitting in here for days. If you don’t want to talk, fine. But you need to move. I don’t care if we just sit outside. We’re leaving."

He exhales, staring at the ceiling for a moment before finally sitting up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Where are we even supposed to go?"

You tilt your head. "Just put on your clothes and come out.”

Somehow, that works.

He groans as he stands, reaching for the jacket in reach. He doesn’t feel like going out. But he also doesn’t feel like fighting you.

You turn away from him, pulling out your phone to send a message to Seungkwan and Jihoon. 

“I’m going back home to find my scarf,” You tell him, still typing away on your screen, “It’ll take just a minute so wait outside.”

Seungcheol sighs, “Just take one of mine.” 

You whip your head towards him, eyes narrowing, to which he replies. “I don’t want to be out any longer than needed.”

You hesitate for a second, still holding your phone, before slipping it into your pocket.

“Fine,” you mutter, stepping past him.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything, just sighs as you brush past his shoulder and into his room.

The room feels lived in but distant, like someone occupying a space they don’t expect to stay in for long. A jacket is draped carelessly over the chair in the corner, his suitcase still half-zipped by the door. On the desk, a set of keys, a crumpled receipt, and an old water bottle sit untouched, like he came back, but never really settled in. 

You shake your head, hoping he notices and cleans up. You haven’t been in this room since… Since after you two broke up. 

Your eyes drift toward the chair in the corner, the one you used to curl up in whenever you came over and he was too busy doing something else.

It’s stupid, how comfortable this still feels. Like no time has passed. Like everything is still the same.

You push the thought away and head for his closet, fingers brushing over the hanging jackets before grabbing the first scarf you see. It’s only when you pull it around your neck that you realize that it was yours. Memories flicker, piecing themselves together. A winter evening, a half-hearted argument, him tugging the scarf from around your neck with some teasing remark before stuffing it into his jacket.

"You’re always forgetting your stuff anyway," he’d said, grinning as he walked ahead.

But you never got it back. You don’t even remember when you stopped looking for it.

Yet, somehow, he had it all along.

Seungcheol is already leaning against the banister, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket. When he glances up, his gaze stays on your for a few seconds, like he knows exactly what you just realized.

The cold nips at your skin the second you step outside.

Seungcheol exhales sharply, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets as he follows you down the steps. 

For a while, neither of you say anything. Your footsteps crunch softly against the thin layer of snow coating the pavement, the air crisp and quiet.

Eventually, Seungcheol sighs. "So where are we actually going?"

"Nowhere far," you say simply.

He doesn’t push, just breathes out, tilting his head back slightly as he walks beside you. The silence between you is less heavy than before, but not quite comfortable either.

When the playground finally comes into view, you hear the soft creak of the swings in the distance, the last few kids of the evening still chasing each other across the grass. The sky is turning shades of deep blue, the early winter sunset settling over the town.

Seungcheol slows his steps, eyes narrowing.

"Seriously?"

You step onto the curb, turning to face him. "You got a better idea?"

He looks at the park, then at you, then back at the park again before scoffing.

“…God, we really are just lingering at this point, huh?”

You snort, brushing snow off a wooden bench before plopping down. "Just sit down."

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head. "This is pathetic. We’re like jobless thirty year olds who look like we’re avoiding our real world responsibilities.."

“Speak for yourself, I have a job,” You frown as he sits down next to you.

Seungcheol huffs after a few seconds of silence, “Why are you here? I mean, this must be uncomfortable. I’ll let my mom know that-”

“That what?” You interrupt him, but he flinches in a way that makes you think you came out snappier than you meant to.

“I don’t know,” He shrugs defensively, “We broke up, but we’re here now pretending like nothing happened.”

“Well, you quit your job and the one thing you’ve spent your entire life doing and we’re here pretending like that didn’t happen either,” You snap now, “What do you want me to do Cheol? Ignore you and pretend like you haven’t been my best friend for my entire life?”

“Can we not do this now?” He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. “I just thought—”

You tilt your head, voice quieter now. “Oh, so you’re okay with talking about our breakup, but not something that’s literally changed the course of your life?”

Seungcheol shakes his head. “That’s not-” He stops himself, jaw tightening.

You don’t push.

Because you could. You could press him, ask him why he won’t talk about it, why he can sit here and acknowledge that you left him but won’t say a word about how he left racing. But you don’t.

Instead, you sigh, rolling your shoulders back. “Alright, fine. No more talking about feelings. You want to discuss the economy instead?”

He scoffs, his expression caught between amusement and frustration. “Shut up.”

You shrug. “You don’t want to talk about anything real, so I figured we’d pivot to stocks or whatever.”

Seungcheol huffs, shaking his head as he leans back against the bench. “I hate you.”

You hum, “You can avoid stuff, but lying is a new low.”

And before Seungcheol can respond, a voice cuts in.

“Are you guys seriously arguing at a children’s playground?”

The two of you turn to see Seungkwan and Jihoon standing behind you, the younger with his hands on his hips, thoroughly unimpressed.

You groan, rubbing your temples. “Seungkwan.”

Jihoon sighs, already tired. “Can we go now?”

Seungcheol blinks, shifting where he sits. “Go where?”

Seungkwan raises a dramatic eyebrow. “To the supermarket.”

Seungcheol stares at him. Then at Jihoon. Then back at Seungkwan.

“…Why?”

Jihoon exhales sharply. “Because I just got back home and my fridge is literally empty.”

Seungcheol’s expression barely changes. “And that’s my problem because…?”

Seungkwan smacks the back of his head.

"Ow—"

"Because we’re functioning adults who need food to survive, and you need some fresh air and some normalcy in your life, dumbass.”

Seungcheol glares, rubbing the spot where he got hit. "You say that like you function."

Seungkwan gasps dramatically. "How dare you."

Jihoon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh my God, just get up before I starve to death.”

—

It starts the second you step inside.

Seungkwan grabs your arm, Jihoon immediately makes a beeline for the produce section, and Seungcheol ends up pushing the shopping cart.

He stares down at it, hands gripping the handle. “Why am I the one doing this?”

Seungkwan breezes past him, dropping in a family-sized bag of chips. “Because you’re the tallest. Cart-pushing is a tall person’s job.”

Seungcheol squints. “That’s literally not how that works.”

Jihoon, standing by the vegetables, doesn’t even look up. “It does now.”

You snicker as you step past Seungcheol, tossing a pack of instant noodles into the cart.

His eyes flick to you, unimpressed. “And you’re contributing to my suffering.”

“I don’t make the rules,” you hum.

Seungkwan immediately points. “Yes, you do.”

You wave him off, reaching for something on the shelf. Seungcheol watches as—without thinking— you pick up a box of his favorite cereal and toss it into the cart.

Then, like your brain just registered what you did, your hand twitches slightly.

You don’t take it out.

Seungcheol exhales, looking away before he can think too much about it. “Jihoon, hurry up, you’re taking this way too seriously.”

Jihoon doesn’t appreciate that comment as he inspects the head of lettuce that he’s holding

“It’s called being an adult, Seungcheol.” He puts the lettuce back, reaching for another one. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”

Seungcheol scowls. “You say that like I don’t literally pay taxes—”

Jihoon holds up a finger, “You’ve been living in Monaco recently, man. Don’t know about that.”

Seungkwan grabs the cart and dramatically swerves it away. “Okay! We’re splitting up. Jihoon, you get your boring groceries. Cheol, you stay here and mope. We-” He gestures between you and himself. “-are getting snacks.”

Seungcheol watches as Seungkwan drags you away, leaving him with Jihoon, who is now very aggressively examining a bell pepper.

“I hate my life,” Seungcheol mutters, rolling the cart forward.

Jihoon hums. “Yeah? You think this bell pepper cares?”

Seungcheol sighs, rolling the cart forward as Jihoon picks up another vegetable.

“You’re seriously overthinking this,” Seungcheol mutters, watching as Jihoon turns a tomato over in his hand, eyes narrowed in intense concentration.

Jihoon doesn’t respond immediately. He places the tomato back, fingers tapping against the cart’s handle as he walks a little further down the aisle. “And you’re seriously underthinking everything.”

Seungcheol furrows his eyebrows. “Is this about the groceries, or is this about something else?”

Jihoon hums, inspecting a bag of onions before dropping them into the cart. “You tell me.”

Seungcheol grips the handle of the cart a little tighter, jaw tightening. “If this is your way of saying I should start talking about things, you should know by now that it’s not gonna happen in the middle of a supermarket in the fucking vegetable aisle.”

Jihoon finally turns to look at him. “When is it gonna happen, then?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer.

Jihoon sighs, pushing his sleeves up. “Look, I’m not gonna sit here and lecture you like some after school special. But I know you, Cheol. And you know me. So let’s skip the part where you act like you’re fine, and I pretend to believe you.”

Seungcheol rolls the cart forward, not meeting Jihoon’s eyes. “It’s not that deep.”

Jihoon laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. Not that deep.” He gestures vaguely. “You’re just home, doing nothing, avoiding everyone, and pretending like leaving Ferrari and your career was just some casual decision you made overnight.”

Seungcheol’s grip on the cart tightens. “You know it wasn’t.”

Jihoon watches him for a second, then sighs. “I’m not trying to piss you off.”

“You’re not,” Seungcheol mutters, but he doesn’t sound convincing.

Jihoon doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he picks up a bunch of bananas, inspecting them for a second before tossing them into the cart.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Jihoon says, voice a little quieter now. “But don’t expect people to pretend it’s not happening, either.”

Seungcheol exhales, tilting his head back.

For a second, he just stares at the ceiling. At the blinding, stark white, boring supermarket lights, at nothing in particular.

Then, finally, he mutters, “I don’t expect anything.”

Jihoon watches him for a moment longer, then shrugs. “Good.”

And just like that, he grabs the cart and starts pushing it forward like the conversation never happened.

Seungcheol lingers for a second before following him without another word.

When he gets the message from Seokmin, Seungcheol tries hard. He tries really, really hard to not care. To just swipe away the notification, to switch his phone off and go outside. But Seungcheol’s own mind is his jail, his actions his chains, and he unlocks his phone to open Twitter. He still follows the Ferrari account, thinks it might be too harsh to unfollow them already, so the tweet is the first thing on his time line.

“Welcoming in a new era of Scuderia Ferrari, we are glad to announce that Kim Jungwoo will be driving with us in 2025!”

Attached to it is a visualiser of Jungwoo—who was previously a reserve driver for Mercedes— donning the Ferrari suit.

Seungcheol doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at his screen when a follow up message from Seokmin pops up. He clicks on it by mistake and is instantly hit with a bunch of messages asking how he is. How does he reply to this news? If he said he didn’t care, Seokmin would see right through him. If he admitted to being surprised, it would be too honest. So instead, Seungcheol leaves him on read.

He gets up, shoving his phone into his hoodie’s pocket. He should probably go out for some air. It’s a Sunday morning, and even though it’s still December, the sun shines a little brighter today, and the cold bites a little less. It’s pleasant. Maybe he’ll just catch some sunlight outside in his backyard. 

Seungcheol walks out of the back door, still lost in his thoughts.

The red suit, the new ‘era’. Even though he chose this, it stings. It feels like they’re erasing his presence. The rational part of his mind reminds him that this announcement has actually come late. That any other team would’ve found a replacement as soon as they could’ve. That Seungcheol leaving actually did leave them stranded for a while. 

Jungwoo. Jungwoo. Why would they replace him with… Jungwoo? 

It’s not like he’s a bad driver, Seungcheol reminds himself. His talent was being wasted as a reserve.

It’s just that Jungwoo wouldn’t have been the first person he thought of. He feels a little bad for thinking that the man wouldn’t have been Ferrari’s first choice either. But Jungwoo has always been a nice guy to be around. The team will have it a little easier this year without two drivers constantly fighting each other on track, all the time.

A muffled thud against his chest makes Seungcheol snap out of his daze. He looks down, seeing the white remnants of snow before looking up again. His first thought is Seungkwan, but the boy’s house is too far for him to aim so accurately. His eyes slowly move towards your backyard, separated only by a picket fence.

“What are you thinking so hard about, man?” You squint at him, “Not a very common sight.”

“Hey,” Seungcheol greets before bending down. It makes you yell in defence.

“Don’t! Please!” You squeal, running away from the fence, “Cheol, I have a cold.”

“Oh come on,” He rolls his eyes, “Excuses.”

“No, seriously.” You nod, stepping closer to show him, “My nose is red, see! From all the blowing.”

“Really?” Seungcheol asks, walking over to you.

You nod again, sticking your face over the fence so that he can see.

He bends down to your level, leaning in to observe. And then he gasps.

Seungcheol doesn’t usually gasp, you realize. Not unironically, anyway. But you’re too slow to move away before he drops a small snowball onto your face.

You stumble behind, spluttering to get the snow off your nose and mouth. You hear Seungcheol laugh, bright and loud and for a second you have half the heart to deck him in the face. But it hits you that you haven’t heard him laugh like this in ages, so you hold it in and splutter a little more.

But just as soon as he realizes it, he stops, drawing his lips back into a straight line.

You narrow your eyes at him, “What was that?”

“What?”

“Why are you suddenly frowning again?”

He shakes his head, telling you to let it go but you don’t. “Come on, just tell me, it’s not going to kill you.”

Seungcheol stalls for a second. He could tell you. You’d understand, and it isn’t something that he’s very, very deeply upset by. He knows he’ll get over it in some time. So before he can second-guess himself, he opens his mouth.

“It’s nothing really,” He shrugs, shifting weight from one foot to another, “Ferrari’s getting Kim Jungwoo to drive for them from next year.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, an understanding expression flashing over your face. He waits, wondering if you’ll say something else. When you don’t, he speaks again.

“Did you already see the news?”

“Nah,” you purse your lips, kicking the snow around absentmindedly, “After it was announced that you were leaving, I kind of unfollowed them on all my social media. Not much reason to know what’s going on with them anymore, is there?”

Seungcheol hates that what you said makes him smile. It’s good to know that the only reason you kept up with the team was him. He tries to keep a blank face. “Huh.”

You snort. “Honestly, I don’t know why I even followed them in the first place. They’re so unserious.”

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

She shrugs, leaning against the fence. “Come on, you know what I mean. Always making the worst strategy calls, acting like they have their shit together, and then screwing you over, like, five laps into the race.”

He shakes his head, “That’s not-”

“Ok. Explain Brazil 2024, then.”

It makes him groan, hand coming up to cover his face, “Can we not talk about that. God.”

“Like? Who the hell puts intermediates on a drying track? God, imagine spending years dealing with that.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes. "Yeah, imagine."

And somehow, just like that, he finds himself slipping into it, this old, familiar rhythm. Complaining about Ferrari like it's just another bad joke between them. It’s easy.

Too easy.

"Honestly, I should’ve known they were hopeless when they let you sit in the pit box for ten minutes at Silverstone with no tires ready," you muse, shaking your head. "Like. Be so fucking for real."

Seungcheol is about to laugh when he realises.

His ex is standing here, bitching about his old team the way best friends complain about their friend’s shitty ex.

And the irony of it fucking knocks the wind out of him.

He pushes the thought away before glancing at you again. “Have you always disliked Ferrari? I thought you liked them.”

You scoff, shaking your head, “No, not really. I just had a favourite driver.”

And fuck.

That shouldn’t get to him, but it does.

Without thinking, he mumbles, “Yeah? Don’t have one anymore, do you?”

You still, gaze flying up to his face. “It depends. Are you going back?”

Seungcheol holds your stare for a few seconds before looking away, bringing his hand up to brush his nose. He pretends to sniffle, to fill the silence. But you wait. It’s about time he answers anyways. It’s been more than two weeks. None of you know what’s going on with him.

“Cheol.” Your tone sounds a bit stern now, and it makes his turn further away from you, “Cheol, look at me.”

He begrudgingly faces you, glancing at your face for a second before looking down at his shoes.

“Are you going back?”

He doesn’t reply instantly. You didn’t expect him to anyway, but when he does, it only confirms what you’ve been suspecting all along. 

“No,” He sighs, “Not for this season, no.”

“Okay,” You nod, “You’re just taking a break. Not retiring.”

He nods too, swallowing hard before looking up at the sky, “Sun’s out today. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

You roll your eyes, “Just say you want me gone.”

Seungcheol shrugs, “Assume whatever you want.”

“Alright then,” You hum, turning around, towards your house to leave when you remember. “Did Seungkwan tell you, by the way?”

“What?” He’s looking at you.

“He was wondering if we’d like to visit this rooftop bar on New Year’s Eve. I think it’s opened recently.”

His shoulders drop visibly. He’s trying to put on the exhausted act, you know. 

“I don’t know, I don’t feel like celebrating anything right now and-”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I should’ve phrased this better.” you interrupt him, “He’s already reserved a table for the four of us and wanted me to inform you.”

Seungcheol scoffs, “Then why’d you say it like that?”

“Just wanted to make it seem like you had the option to decline, sorry.” You yell over your shoulder as you skip up to your porch. “Guess I’ll see you day after, then.”

The door swings shut behind you.

Seungcheol exhales, shoving his hands into his pockets as he kicks lightly at the snow.

“Guess so.”

The bar is warm, buzzing with life. On second thought, coming here in the midst of winter was probably not the best decision, but the heat from the alcohol and the many radiators around the place make up for the cold. The low hum of conversation weaves through the clinking of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter from a nearby table. The four of you have been here for a while now, tucked into a corner booth, half-empty plates in front of you and the remnants of shared appetizers pushed to the side.

Seungkwan, already three drinks deep, leans back against the booth with a dramatic sigh. "Man, I love this place. Good food, good company—" He points a fry at Jihoon. "Except for you."

Jihoon, unbothered, spears a piece of chicken with his fork. "Good."

You snicker into your glass. "Couldn’t even make it ten minutes into the meal before fighting, huh?"

Seungcheol exhales, shaking his head as he pushes his sleeves up. "It was inevitable."

Seungkwan groans. "Oh my God, listen, I’m just saying, I don’t understand why you’re like this. We’re here to have a good time, and you’re sitting there like a- like a-" He waves his hands, searching for the right words.

Jihoon deadpans, "Like a what, Seungkwan?"

"A fun-hating, emotionally repressed, grumpy old man."

Jihoon hums, chewing. "And yet, here you are, still inviting me places."

Seungkwan gasps. "Because I pity you."

Seungcheol, who has been stirring the ice in his glass with his straw, shakes his head. "You two have issues."

Seungkwan scoffs when you nod along, “Hey, you two have issues too!”

It makes you snap at him playfully, “At least we’re still amicable about it!”

Seungkwan continues, “Okay, then. Only ‘Mr. I won’t fucking talk about my emotions’ does.”

Seungcheol stiffens. He recovers quickly, taking a slow sip of his drink, but you catch it.

Jihoon does too. "Seungkwan."

"What?" Seungkwan blinks, setting his drink down. "I’m just saying-" He stops when Jihoon elbows him under the table. His lips purse, eyes darting to you, then back to Seungcheol. "Fine. New topic."

You exhale, trying to ease the sudden tension. "Yeah, let’s maybe talk about literally anything else."

Seungkwan, still slightly flustered, snaps his fingers. "Okay. Resolutions. Everyone, go."

Jihoon rolls his eyes. "I’m not doing this."

Seungkwan ignores him. "I’ll start. I am manifesting a rich, hot, emotionally available woman into my life. Preferably earning like seven figures. I can be her house-husband if she wants."

Seungcheol snorts. "Good luck with that."

"Don’t be jealous just because my standards are higher than yours."

Jihoon hums, “I know you mean to insult him, but don’t you think it’s more insulting to her?” He waves his fork in your direction, “I mean, they literally dated for what, like three years? And they’d been crushing on each other for literally half their lives.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. "You guys are literally bullying me at my first social event in weeks."

Seungkwan pats his shoulder. "Welcome back, buddy."

You smile, watching them banter. This feels normal. Almost like it used to be before everything changed. Before Seungcheol’s entire world flipped upside down. Before yours did too.

You glance at him. He isn’t saying anything, just stirring his drink again, gaze slightly distant.

"Cheol?"

He looks up.

You tilt your head. "Resolutions?"

He holds your stare for a second before he exhales, leaning back into his seat. "I don’t know," he mutters. "Haven’t thought about it."

Seungkwan clicks his tongue. "Think your next career should be in PR, honestly."

Seungcheol shrugs. "Don’t have anything I want to manifest into my life, I guess."

Jihoon, still picking at his food, speaks without looking up. "Or maybe you just don’t know what you want yet."

Seungcheol stills.

No one says anything for a moment.

You watch him carefully. He’s good at hiding things, good at pretending he’s unbothered, but you know him better than that.

The silence stretches, too long, too heavy.

So you break it.

"Well, I’ve got a resolution for you."

Seungcheol raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

You nod, leaning forward. "Go outside more. See the sun. Maybe even touch some grass."

Jihoon hides a smirk behind his drink.

Seungkwan points. "Ohhh, she got you there."

Seungcheol rolls his eyes but exhales, his shoulders easing up. "Wow, thanks. Really helpful."

"Anytime." You grin.

Jihoon, now slightly more invested, sighs. "Fine. If we’re actually doing this-" He sets his fork down. "I guess my resolution is to sleep more."

Seungkwan stares. "That’s your resolution? That’s so boring."

"It’s realistic."

Seungcheol hums, tilting his glass slightly. "Yeah. Maybe I’ll add that one to my list too."

Seungkwan gives him a look. "Right. Because you totally need more excuses to lie in bed all day." He turns to you.

“What about you, my favourite person in the room?”

You hum, rolling your glass between your fingers as you think. "I guess… just figuring things out."

Seungkwan tilts his head. "Figuring what out?"

You hesitate. "Life. What I want from it."

For a second, no one speaks. Jihoon glances at you briefly, then looks away. Seungkwan, for all his dramatics, stays quiet, watching you with something like understanding.

Seungcheol’s gaze lingers the longest.

It’s not an obvious thing, not something anyone else would catch. But you feel it. The weight of his stare. The way his fingers drum against his glass, like he’s stopping himself from saying something.

Finally, Seungkwan exhales, breaking the moment before it stretches too long. "Damn. That was deep."

You snort, shaking your head. "You asked."

Seungcheol lets out a quiet breath, tipping his glass slightly before setting it down. "Figuring things out, huh?"

You glance at him, but his expression is unreadable.

Jihoon shifts in his seat, crossing his arms. "Makes sense. We’re not exactly eighteen anymore."

"Thank God for that," Seungkwan mutters, before perking up suddenly. "Oh! Speaking of—what’s the first thing you guys wanna do next year? Like, the second it turns midnight?"

You tilt your head. "I don’t know?"

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, and something about it settles warm in your chest.

Seungkwan dramatically shakes his head. "Boring. Jihoon?"

Jihoon shrugs. "Go home."

Seungkwan glares. "Why do I even ask you guys things?"

Before anyone can reply, the TV volume rises slightly, and the sound of the New Year’s Eve broadcast pulls your attention. One minute.

The countdown hums in the air, anticipation bubbling in the spaces between laughter and half-finished drinks. From up here, the city stretches endlessly, a thousand tiny lights flickering.

Ten. Seungkwan wobbles slightly, the telltale sign of one too many cocktails. He grabs your arm, eyes twinkling.

Nine. "Guys," he slurs, "New Year’s tradition. Come here."

Eight. Jihoon exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "Whatever it is, don’t."

Seven. "You didn’t even let me finish!"

Six. "No," Jihoon repeats.

Five. Seungkwan is already moving, ignoring Jihoon completely. He leans in and smacks a kiss onto your cheek, holding your face in both hands as you laugh and return the favor.

Four. Then, Seungcheol’s name slips past Seungkwan’s lips.

Three. Seungcheol finally looks over, his gaze breaking away from the skyline. You see the exact moment he realizes what’s about to happen.

Two. "Don’t you fucking-"

One. Seungkwan grabs him by the shoulders, dramatically pressing a sloppy, exaggerated kiss to his cheek. Seungcheol jerks back like he’s been physically attacked, wiping his face aggressively.

Zero. Jihoon tries to escape, but he’s not fast enough. Seungkwan catches him by the collar and yanks him back in, completing the set. Jihoon lets out a noise that’s half a groan, half a plea for mercy.

Fireworks explode in the sky, casting everything in bursts of color, reflecting off glass, off city windows, off Seungcheol’s skin.

And when you turn back toward him, he’s already looking at you.

Something heavy settles in your chest.

Because this…this moment, this night, this space between you. It’s familiar. Too familiar.

New Year’s Eve used to mean something different. It used to mean his hand finding yours before the countdown even finished, his smiling lips pressing against yours, just as the first firework lit the sky.

It used to mean you and him, always.

And now, it means this.

Seungcheol swallows. His fingers twitch slightly at his sides, his gaze flickering lower for a second too long, too telling.

For a moment, you wonder.

If things were different, if things hadn’t changed, he would’ve been kissing you instead.

And God, wouldn’t everything be so much easier?.

The world feels softer around the edges, your pulse too loud in your ears, and you wonder if he hears it too.

Seungcheol exhales, blinking like he’s trying to shake something off. And then just like that, the moment passes.

Seungkwan sighs dramatically, swaying where he stands. “God, I love you guys.” He throws his arms around both you and Seungcheol, completely ruining the moment.

Jihoon, still rubbing his cheek aggressively, mutters, “I hate all of you.”

You don’t laugh.

Instead, you break the silence first. “Happy New Year, Cheol.”

Seungcheol looks at you again. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes, something you can’t name. Something you don’t dare to. But it’s the new year, girl. You better start figuring your life out.

He exhales. “Yeah,” he murmurs. "Happy New Year."

The driveway is full of movement. Suitcases rolling, car doors slamming, voices overlapping as their parents double check everything for the tenth time. Seungho leans against the car—the designated driver for the airport run— arms crossed, looking thoroughly unbothered by the chaos.

“Are we done?” he calls, watching the four parents shuffle through their bags. “Or do you want to unpack and repack one more time just to be sure?”

His mother slaps his hand playfully, still making him flinch as she walks past him.

You drag the last suitcase down from your house, stumbling over the lawn, onto Seungcheol’s driveway where your parents wait. But before you can lift it into the car, Seungcheol steps in. “Just leave it here,” he says, nodding toward the side. “I’ll keep it.”

You blink. “Why?”

Seungcheol jerks his chin toward the trunk. “There’s no space left. Just leave it, I’ll figure it out.”

You glance at the car’s boot, suitcases jammed together in a precarious puzzle. He’s right. Trying to squeeze in another bag would probably end with someone’s luggage flying out on the highway.

Before you can respond, he’s already reaching for another suitcase, lifting it effortlessly into place. His arms flex under his t-shirt, veins prominent along his forearms as he shifts the weight. You look away before your gaze can linger.

When everything is put in and all the last checks are done, Seungcheol’s dad walks up to him, clapping a hand over his shoulder. “Take care of things while we’re gone, yeah?”

He nods, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Your mom’s voice comes out muffled as she keeps her handbag inside the car, “Take care of each other, okay?”

His mom nods, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And try not to fight.”

It’s such a simple remark, one that could easily be brushed off as something parents would say to any two people left alone for a while. But the way they say it, the way their voices dip just slightly. You don’t really like it. Feels like they’re intentionally teasing the two of you.

You open your mouth to protest, but Seungho honks the horn impatiently. “Do you guys want me to book another flight for tomorrow, or are we leaving now?”

Your mom reminds you to throw out the milk tomorrow as she gets into the car and closes the door shut. Last minute reminders and goodbyes are thrown at the two of you before the car finally pulls out of the driveway.

You watch your dad wave from the window, making you smile as you wave back. You stand with Seungcheol in silence until you see the car disappear around a turn.

He sighs, a fond expression on his face before he turns to you, “Well. I’m still shocked with the fact that no one’s sent in a noise complaint about us by now.”

“They’re used to it, I guess,” You snort. “Hey, remember the last time they left us alone?”

Seungcheol lets out a short laugh, shaking his head. “How could I forget? You almost burned the kitchen down.”

You scoff. “Excuse me? We almost burned the kitchen down.”

He gives you a pointed look. “You put an entire metal pot in the microwave.”

“And you watched me do it,” you fire back.

Seungcheol groans, rubbing his temples. “I was a little distracted, alright?”

You huff out in disbelief. “By what?”

“I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt-” Seungcheol clamps his lips shut as soon as the words escape him, his mouth running faster than his brain.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Why would you say that, you buffoon?

You blink at him, an awkward sound leaving your mouth. He looks like he’s about to strangle himself to death any time now, so you try to push down the colour rising to your cheeks and decide to take him out of his misery.

“Yeah, well, whatever,” You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t come off as dismissive as you intend for it to. If anything, it almost sounds like you’re agreeing with him.

Seungcheol notices too. His eyes flicker, like he’s not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved.

The awkwardness settles heavy in the space between you, which Seungcheol should’ve definitely not opened up.

He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Uh. Anyway.”

“Yeah.” You nod, a little too quickly.

Seconds pass, then a few more.

And then, deciding this is definitely getting too weird, you spin on your heel. “I’m going inside.”

“Good call,” Seungcheol mutters, dragging a hand down his face as you walk off.

Great. Fantastic. Just what he needed to begin the three weeks without your parents.

—

You step into your room and shut the door behind you, exhaling sharply.

What the fuck was that?

You press your hands to your face, as if somehow, somehow, that will help erase the last five minutes from existence. But your brain is already working against you, replaying the moment in crystal clear detail.

I don’t know? You were the one with your hands up my shirt—

You groan, dragging your palms down your face. Why would he say that? No. Actually, why would he say it like that? Like it was just a casual, normal fact? Like it was something that could be thrown into the conversation without completely derailing your entire sense of self?

And then—oh, because it wasn’t already bad enough—you had to go and agree with him.

You groan again, louder this time, flopping onto your bed before immediately sitting up again. No, you can’t sit still. You need to move, shake this weird, unbearable feeling out of your body.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. This is fine. It’s just Seungcheol. You’ve said worse in front of him, he’s said worse in front of you. It is not a big deal.

Except it feels like a big deal. And no matter how hard you try, you can’t quite ignore the way your skin feels a little too warm, or how your mind keeps circling back to the fact that, for just a second, he looked like he was waiting for you to say something else.

You take a deep breath, fanning your face with your hands, and march toward the window to pull the curtains closed.

And that’s when you see him.

Standing in his own room, directly across from yours, also mid-freakout.

Seungcheol’s hands are in his hair, mouth moving like he’s talking to himself. He paces around his room and then, as he turns, his eyes land on you.

Both of you freeze.

The silence stretches. Neither of you move.

Then, at the same time, you both panic.

Seungcheol immediately grabs his phone and stares at it like it holds the meaning of life, screen dark and completely off. You, on the other hand, take the only logical course of action. You very slowly reach for the curtains and pull them shut.

Nope. Not dealing with this.

Behind the fabric, you stand there for a moment, gripping the edges so tightly that you think you might pull the curtains down. Outside, you hear a muffled “Fuck.”

Yeah. Exactly.

Your hands are still gripping the curtains when your phone buzzes.

You don’t even need to check to know who it is.

Seungcheol: you saw nothing. [16:25]

A disbelieving scoff escapes you before you can stop it. Like hell you saw nothing.

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, debating whether to respond or pretend you’re already asleep. But then, another buzz.

Seungcheol: You… didn’t right? You looked just as surprised. [16:25]

You roll your eyes and push the curtains open just enough to peek out. Seungcheol is still in his room, still looking thoroughly distressed, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing at his jaw. When he sees you looking, his eyes widen comically.

You narrow your eyes and type back.

You: Oh I saw EVERYTHING. [16:26]

Across the window, Seungcheol visibly groans. Your phone vibrates again.

Seungcheol: okay but honestly what the fuck was that. [16:26]

“You were the one that said it, idiot.” You call out to him, an edge of irritation in your voice as you whip the curtains open completely.

Seungcheol has the audacity to open his windows as he scoffs, “Well, you replied to that in a very weird way.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you have nothing to say, really. You could’ve ignored him, or just thrown a weird look, or called him an idiot. But no. Your stupid mind went Yeah, well, whatever.

You glare at him through the window. “Maybe I was just too stunned to think straight.”

Seungcheol runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah. And I wasn’t thinking. There. Done.”

“Like you ever do, come on,” You throw your hands up in the air, “Really, what was the need to even say that in the first place?”

Seungcheol looks offended as he points at you, “You were the one who fucking put that metal pot in there. You were also the one who was getting handsy, not me!”

You let out a strangled sound, nearly slamming your hands against the windowsill. “You probably enjoyed it then, shut up! That was three years ago, Cheol.”

“And yet, here we are!” He waves between the two of you. “Still dealing with the consequences!”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Seungcheol stares back, just as fired up.

Then, at the same time, you both inhale deeply before breathing out.

“three weeks,” you mutter. “three weeks without our parents.”

Seungcheol nods, looking grim. “We might not survive.”

Another pause. Then, without another word, you both shut your windows.

Two days in and Seungcheol hasn’t bumped into you, thankfully. To be fair, he hasn’t actually stepped out of the house, so there’s not many ways to see you. Unless, of course, through your windows. But your curtains haven’t opened up since that day and while it makes him cringe at himself everytime he sees the soft blue fabric through your window, it also amuses him. Your room must be a little depressing by now, with not much sunlight or air coming inside. He wonders how long you can go.

Right now, Seungcheol’s dragged himself off the couch and into the kitchen to cook something up for dinner. After digging a little into one of the cabinets, he settles on a pack of rigatoni. Shrugging to himself as he sets the pasta aside, Seungcheol moves around the kitchen, pulling out the rest of the ingredients. A can of tomatoes, a head of garlic, some olive oil. He checks the fridge next, grabbing a wedge of parmesan and a pack of butter, setting them onto the counter in a neat row.

If there’s anything he’s learnt from spending all those months in Maranello for Ferrari, it’s how to cook Italian food. In the beginning, Seungcheol remembers thinking how much of a hassle it was to go to Italy all the time. Most of the other teams had their bases in England, which meant that for most drivers, home and work weren’t too far apart. But for him, every return to Ferrari meant another flight to Maranello, another stretch of weeks spent in a place that never quite felt like home.

But food was easy. Food was routine. It was something he could rely on, even when everything else felt uncertain. Late nights at the factory meant post-midnight plates of pasta, thrown together with whatever was left in the kitchen. Pre-season training meant strict meals, but the off-season? That meant sitting down for a proper dinner, watching as the mechanics argued over which trattoria had the best carbonara. Somewhere along the way, he’d started paying attention.

So now, as he stands in his kitchen, setting up to cook, he almost functions on autopilot. He pulls out the ingredients one by one, the process easy, familiar. Olive oil first, then garlic, then tomatoes. The butter sits on the counter to soften while he grates the parmesan directly onto a plate, the fine shavings piling up neatly.

The water on the stove is boiling now, but before he reaches for the pasta, he moves to the counter where he usually keeps the basil. His hand goes straight for the small ceramic pot near the spice rack, expecting to pluck a few leaves from the bunch.

But when he looks inside, it’s empty.

He frowns. Checks around the counter, glancing near the sink, even peeking inside the paper bag of groceries he never put away. Nothing.

He could do without it. The sauce would still turn out fine. But knowing it was supposed to be there would bother him the entire time. He glances at the clock. 10:15 PM. It’s not too late, but late enough that he feels lazy to drive over to the grocery store.

Just make it without basil, He tries to convince himself, sighing as he walks back to the stove. It’s fine. The sauce will be fine.

And yet, for some reason, his body refuses to continue. He knows exactly how this will go. He’ll finish cooking, plate it up, sit down, and take one bite before getting annoyed at himself for skipping the basil.

Seungcheol’s fingers tap against the counter, slightly restless. He could just finish cooking. He should.

Or, a small part of his mind pipes up. Or you could just shoot her a text and ask if she had some.

Seungcheol shakes his head, huffing out a small laugh. No way.

Not like we have another choice. Unless you want to go buy some.

He stares at the stove for another long second, arms crossed over his chest. The water keeps boiling, steam rising steadily, like it’s waiting for him to make up his mind.

It’s just basil.

Seungcheol huffs, dragging a hand down his face before finally pulling his phone out of his pocket. His thumb hovers over your contact name, debating.

Then, before he can overthink it, he types out a message and presses send, locking his phone and setting it face down on the counter.

And then he waits.

You see the message immediately, blinking as the words register in your head. Basil? Out of all the things he could’ve texted you for.

For a second, you debate leaving him on read. Your bed is comfortable and you were probably only a few minutes away from falling asleep. But you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed before sluggishly moving to your kitchen.

When he opens the door after two knocks, you’re standing there, hand stuffed into your hoodie pocket, eyes flicking toward the ground like you’re not sure why you’re here either. In your free hand, a small bunch of basil.

"You owe me," you mutter, holding it out.

Seungcheol huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he takes it. "Yeah, yeah. Come inside before you freeze."

You hesitate for a second—just a second—but then you step past him, kicking your shoes off at the entrance as he closes the door behind you.

The kitchen is warm, the scent of garlic and tomatoes filling the air.. You lean against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching as Seungcheol moves around like this is second nature to him.

It’s easy to fall into this, watching him cook, letting the quiet stretch between you. The way he moves, the unhurried rhythm of it all, is strangely familiar. Like this isn’t the first time. Like it won’t be the last.

You watch as he picks up the basil, rolling a few leaves between his fingers before tearing them over the pan. His movements are steady, practiced.

“Well,” you say eventually, tilting your head, “guess your time in Ferrari was fruitful after all.”

Seungcheol huffs, raising an eyebrow as he stirs the sauce. “Yeah?”

“At least you learned how to cook.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Right. Spent years fighting for championships, but I guess this is my real achievement.”

You smile a little. “It’s not nothing.”

He hums. His voice is a little softer when he agrees, “No, it’s not, I suppose.”

You watch the steam rise from the pot, twisting into the air, before speaking again. “You know… you used to be really bad at this.”

Seungcheol lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“You were,” you insist, amused. “You didn’t measure anything. You used to dump in way too much garlic and just hope for the best.”

He presses his lips together, looking down at the counter like he’s holding back a grin. “And you used to complain the whole time.”

“I had to,” you say, “Otherwise, you wouldn’t have learned. But to be fair, I wasn’t that great either.”

Seungcheol glances at you then, gaze undeniably soft. But instead of saying anything, he just shakes his head, stirring the sauce like this conversation isn’t stirring something else up entirely.

You exhale, tapping your fingers against the counter. “I used to think about it, you know.”

“Think about what?”

You shake your head, letting out a small laugh. “Who’d do the cooking.”

He pauses, glancing at you again.

You shrug, “We were both pretty bad at it back then. I used to wonder if we’d ever get better or if we’d just end up eating terrible food forever.”

Seungcheol blinks at you before scoffing, shaking his head. “Wow. That’s what you were worried about?”

You laugh lightly. “I mean, it was a real concern.”

He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “And? What did you decide?”

“I figured one of us would have to learn eventually,” you say, flicking a stray basil leaf across the counter. “Guess I was right.”

Seungcheol rolls his eyes, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He turns back to the stove, stirring the sauce one last time before lowering the heat.

“Well,” he mutters, “you still haven’t seen how it tastes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that an invitation?”

He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the way his fingers drum quietly against the counter, the way his jaw tenses like he’s debating something.

Then, finally, he sighs. “I wouldn’t make you bring me something and then just make you leave without tasting it.”

You shift against the counter, watching as he reaches for a pair of plates. A pair.

“Alright,” you say lightly. “Don’t screw it up, then.”

Seungcheol snorts, shaking his head as he grabs the ladle.

“No promises.”

Seungcheol twirls his fork slowly through his pasta, gaze flicking toward you between bites. “So,” he says after a moment, “what’s everyone else been up to?”

You glance up. “Everyone?”

He nods, leaning back slightly. “Yeah. I know what Seungkwan and Jihoon are up to, but what about the others? It’s been a while.”

You pause, thinking. “Well… Hyerin got fired.”

Seungcheol stops, fork mid-air, eyebrows lifting slightly. “Fired?”

“Mhm,” you hum, spearing a piece of pasta. “She got into an argument with a customer and called him an dumbfuck or something.”

Seungcheol lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It shouldn’t,” you say, smiling faintly. “But what should surprise you is that the customer just so happened to be the owner's brother.”

His fork clinks softly against his plate. He blinks at you once, then exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish,” you murmur, shaking your head. “She had no idea who he was, and by the time she found out, it was too late. He complained, and she was fired the next day.”

Seungcheol huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly. “I bet she doesn’t regret it.”

You shrug. “Not even a little. She said she hated the job anyway. She works at a bookstore now, says it’s peaceful.”

“Figures.” He takes another slow bite, chewing as he watches you. “Didn’t she always hate dealing with people?”

You nod in agreement, twirling your fork absently as you think. For a moment, it’s almost easy to forget how much time has passed.

Seungcheol leans forward slightly, resting his elbow on the counter. “What about Daehwan?”

Your lips press together. “Still an idiot.”

His mouth twitches. “That bad?”

You sigh, setting your fork down. “Worse, actually. You remember how he used to do those ridiculous stunts?”

Seungcheol nods, “Hard to forget.”

“Well, now he does them online. He started filming them, and somehow, he has an actual following.”

Seungcheol walks over to his fridge, pulling out a drink. You notice how he slides your favourite one towards you. “…Are you telling me Daehwan is famous?”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, rubbing your temple. “Last month, he tried to skateboard down the town’s library’s stairs, and the video got over a million views.”

Seungcheol stares at you for a moment before shaking his head, laughing quietly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me.” You take another bite, shaking your head as you chew. “And, of course, he hasn’t changed at all. Still does everything last minute, still never thinks things through. I swear, one of these days, he’s going to get himself seriously hurt.”

Seungcheol hums. “He’s lucky, though.”

You tilt your head. “What?”

A faint smile plays on his lips, but there’s something thoughtful in the way he exhales. “Not everyone gets to stay the same.”

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around your fork.

Seungcheol doesn’t elaborate. He just shakes his head slightly, reaching for his drink. “Anyway,” he says, voice lighter now, “who else?”

You let out a slow breath, deciding to let it go. “Jiwon’s engaged.”

That gets his attention. His brows raise slightly as he sets his glass back down. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You nod. “Her fiancé proposed in Jeju. On a boat.”

Seungcheol scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “Of course he did.”

You smile. “She called me after and talked for forty-five minutes about how seasick she got.”

Seungcheol huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sounds like her.”

You push a piece of bell pepper to the edge of your plate, barely paying attention as you continue talking. Seungcheol absentmindedly reaches over with his fork and takes it.

You pause mid-sentence, watching as he eats it like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

For a second, your brain stutters. Because it is.

Because he’s done this before, so many times that it’s instinctive now, something he probably doesn’t even think about. He never liked bell peppers much either, but back when you were together, he always ate the ones you picked out, saying it was “a waste to leave them.”

When you go back home to your room, climbing under your covers, you see the faint light from Seungcheol’s room fall onto your wall. 

What were you thinking, really? Pretending like everything would be fine if you just acted like you always did in front of him. You’d been his best friend before his girlfriend, yes. But you realize now that it doesn’t make anything easier. Pretending you could sit across from him, talk to him, let him be a part of your life again without it meaning anything. You’d hoped and convinced yourself—in the fifteen minute car ride to work, the day he came back—that it would be easy. None of this is, you know now. Maybe you've always known.

Maybe he had made it easier for you by not coming back last winter, even if he didn’t intend to do it. There’s no part of your life he wasn’t in. No part of you that wasn’t shaped, in some way, by him.

And now he’s here again, living across from you, eating across from you, seeing you almost every day like this is normal. You press the heel of your palm against your eyes, exhaling shakily. You were supposed to be okay. 

You left him. You were supposed to be okay. You told yourself you did the right thing, that there was no other choice, that this was what needed to happen. So why does it still feel like you lost something?

He did have a point. You didn’t have to act like everything was fine. That whatever happened between you two didn’t exist. Maybe you really should have ignored him. Maybe that would make this easier. But Seungcheol remembers. You remember. It’s only been a little over a year. Did you just need more time away from each other? Maybe if he’d never come back, then you’d finally have enough time to forget him.

You had convinced yourself that distance was enough. That if you just stayed away long enough, if he stayed away long enough, the weight of him would eventually fade. But he’ll never truly leave you and you know it. Because the moment he sits across from you, the moment he speaks to you like nothing’s changed, the moment he reaches across the table and takes something off your plate like he always used to, it’ll all come back. The familiarity, the ache, the unbearable knowing that he still fits into your life in ways you thought you’d outgrown.

Your body betrays you, months of restraint splintering apart as a sob slips past your lips before you can stop it. You press a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Your shoulders shake beneath the weight of it, your lungs constrict, and for the first time since he came back, you let yourself break.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing to you.

You don’t think he knows that with every little thing he does, he’s unraveling everything you’ve spent the past year trying to stitch back together.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily. It’s not like you can suddenly ignore him and start acting different now.

Maybe tomorrow, it’ll hurt less.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll be able to look at him and feel nothing.

Maybe tomorrow, you’ll finally believe it.

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